When Matt and I were led in and announced by Guido Cabrini, there were three distinct groups of people waiting, conversing in subdued voices and munching from plates of tidbits. The Rampart contingent included Simon, Eve—in another Merry Widow disguise, veil and all—Dan, Zed, and old Gunter Eckert, Rampart's Chief Financial Officer.
Not quite mingling with them were the governmental representatives—three people from the Interstellar Commerce Secretariat and four from the Office of the Chief Prosecutor of the Commonwealth Judicial Tribunal. I recognized only two of them: Undersecretary Vernon Kildare of ICS, one of the few among my former superiors in the Enforcement Division who had not believed me guilty of the trumped-up charges; and Special Prosecutor Hildegarde Lambert, indefatigable nemesis of corporate villains, known in the halls of justice as Broom-Hilda in celebration of her sweeping Wiccan style.
Matt and I acquired cups of coffee and plates of fancy edibles. Cabrini went around reciting the names and titles of the bureaucrats for our benefit and we nodded and smiled a lot. Then the executive assistant withdrew from the room and Simon took charge.
My father had eschewed his customary ranchman's outfit for an archaic linen ice-cream suit complete with a vest, a black string tie, and a striped shirt with French cuffs. He looked almost like Mark Twain without a mustache. His green eyes were aglitter and he broadcast vibes of barely repressed glee.
"Ladies and gentlemen, let's all sit down any whichaway at the big round table. Bring your vittles and drinks along. We all know why we're here, so let's cut to the chase and do what's necessary. Hilda—maybe you'll sit beside me. Asa— you, too, on the other side."
Well, well. I gave Matt an ironic look and went to do my parent's bidding. Eve waggled fingers in greeting and Gunter smiled. My brother Dan, looking strained and even more colorless than usual, gave me a curt nod. Zed seemed to be in a state of shock, staring blindly out the windows, refusing to meet anyone's eye or respond to attempts at conversation.
Many of the government lawyers stared at me with frank curiosity. Cosmopolitan Toronto did not harbor too many birds of my exotic species. I presumed everyone present knew of my checkered background.
Hildegarde Lambert said, "You've been a long time rehabilitating, Asa, but I'm happy to see you back. Especially under such novel circumstances."
I said, "Thank you, ma'am" in my best bashful cowpoke style.
Undersecretary Kildare murmured, "Is this blockbuster your doing?"
"I didn't start the fight, Vern. But I may help to finish it."
Simon scowled me into silence. He didn't bother to rise, but plunged right into his presentation.
"The terminals in front of each one of you will furnish a running summary of my introduction. You may also consult them ad lib for background, specifics of evidence, or whatever other sort of data strikes your fancy." He swept the gathering with a slit-eyed look of raw triumph. I noticed that he'd dropped his folksy western drawl and reverted to Standard English. "Everybody ready? This meeting is to announce that Rampart Interstellar Corporation is filing suit against Galapharma Amalgamated Concern. It's our contention that Galapharma conspired to damage and devalue Rampart for the purpose of forcing its stakeholders to accept an unsolicited and hostile acquisition bid. Among other torts, we allege industrial espionage, sabotage of equipment, theft and subsequent malicious use of data, extortion, subornation of Rampart employees, and incitement of Rampart-World Indigenous Sapients to riot with the express purpose of causing injury to Starcorp installations. You can read all the subsidiary stuff later. In our suit, pursuant to Statute 129 of the Interstellar Commerce Code, we are demanding as redress the maximum damages set by law—that is, all assets tangible and intangible of Galapharma Amalgamated Concern, as shall be ascertained by a Receiver appointed by the Commonwealth Judiciary Tribunal."
A pause. A deep breath. The blazing Frost grin, accompanied by a heartfelt "Whew!" Then he leaned his elbows on the table and folded his hands under his chin. "That's the bare bones of it. The boring legalities are in the computer. What I'm going to do now is tell you the meat of the story."
His tale of corporate iniquity took less than half an hour and held them spellbound every minute. He was funny, profane, and full of fiery indignation, a hard-charging smalltime operator on the verge of crossing over into the Big Time being cut off at the knees by an unscrupulous and soulless business rival.
He touched only briefly on important criminal aspects of the conspiracy—my frameup and the attempts on my life, the murder of Yaoshuang Qiu and the others, Eve's kidnapping, Gala's treaty violations—saying that he'd leave those matters in the able hands of the Judiciary.
Now and then he'd ask a question of me or Matt Gregoire or Eve, to which we gave brief answers. He told his audience about Gala's prime motivation for the scheme—its desire to control the Perseus Spur and open up a vast new market for human products among the Haluk. He and Eve explained the use of PD32:C2 in eradicating Haluk allomorphism.
Nothing was said about the demiclone scheme, nor was there any suggestion that the Haluk might pose a threat to the human hegemony in the Milky Way.
Simon gave a highly edited account of the retrieval of Oliver Schneider by "motivated bounty hunters," provoking cynical chuckles and at least one catcall of "Atta boy, Asa!" from an anonymous suit.
Then my father wound up his presentation. "The crucial deposition of Schneider, together with certain other important evidentiary material supplied by him, forms the core of our suit against Galapharma. My son Asahel and his associates, together with Rampart Vice President Matilde Gregoire, risked their lives to bring this material witness to Earth. He's here today, along with his attorney, to petition for immunity in exchange for his testimony. Rampart is willing to grant his request, since he has fully cooperated with his interrogators, and Special Prosecutor Hildegarde Lambert has also graciously concurred."
The door opened and Ollie came in, unshackled, flanked by Jaswinder Singh and trailed by the two security guards. There was a small commotion, during which holocams and other recording equipment were set up by the junior suits, following Dan's instructions. As Rampart's Chief Legal Officer, my older brother supervised the small ceremony that followed, in which Eve and Broom-Hilda declared that Ollie would get off scot-free if he repeated his testimony freely in open court, skewering Gala sixty ways from Sunday.
And that was that. It was 1400 hours. The lawyers from the Prosecutor's Office took away their data to prepare the indictment. The ICS officials withdrew to weigh the criminal aspects of the case; later they would make recommendations to the Tribunal. In the Commonwealth of Human Worlds, civil law violations applicable to corporations took precedence over mere criminal proceedings.
Oliver Schneider and Jaswinder Singh returned to the executive lounge to await the arrival of CCID marshals, who would take the precious prisoner off to a country-club pokey, guarding him en route like a ton of transactinide treasure.
When all of the non-Rampart people were gone, Simon stamped the floor with his boot, punched the air with his fist, and hollered, "Yee-Aaw!"
Gunter, Eve, Matt, and I roared with relieved laughter.
"We're gonna eat 'em up!" Simon exulted. "Peel that slimeball Drummond like a catfish and fry him up for supper! Asa—did Zed tell you about Macrodur?"
I shot a glance at my cousin, who was standing somberly with both hands thrust into his pants pockets, his face blank as a hardboiled egg. "No, he didn't."
"They've accepted our prospectus," my brother Dan said in a completely neutral tone. "Eve had your friend Beatrice Mangan provide Macrodur with a copy of the Tokyo research confirming eradication of the allomorphic trait in the body through substitution of human DNA. It was enough to convince Adam Stanislawski."
"Ain't that a sockdolager?" yipped Simon.
I turned to my sister. "Congratulations, Evie." I lifted the veil of her cartwheel hat and kissed her blue alien cheek.
"We still have to vote down the takeov
er and send Drum-mond packing," she said. "The other members of the board are waiting at the Sky Ranch."
"We'll do it, and then we'll have the biggest party on God's green earth!" Simon declared. He seized Matt Gregoire by her upper arms and whirled her around. In their white suits they made an oddly consonant pair. "How's about it, gal? You're coming down to Arizona with us—right? And where's the rest of Asa's gang? Karl and the Mexican smuggler and the rest of'em?"
"Settling in at the King Edward Hotel." Matt extricated herself gently. "And so will I—at least for the next few days." She smiled at me, then continued more gravely. "There'll be plenty of time for parrying after the Rampart board takes care of necessary business. And after the Frost family unwinds. Perhaps Citizen Cabrini can call me a taxi."
Dan said, "Certainly. I'll speak to him." He used his pocket phone. "It'll be at the porte-cochere in a few minutes."
Matt squeezed my hand. "I hope you'll throw a barbecue when I visit the ranch. I've always been curious about them. And I'd like to see cactuses and tumbling tumbleweeds."
"Cactus, yes. Tumbleweeds are pests that were eradicated from the ranch before I was born. But maybe we can find some on the Navajo Reservation. They have neat rock formations up there, too."
"I'll look forward to it." She went out.
I turned to the others. "I presume we have an armed hopper to take us to the ranch. It'd be a sorry thing if we were ambushed by Drummond's hoodlums this late in the game."
"It's waiting on the roof pad," Dan said.
"There are a few things I must pick up in my office before we leave," Eve said, dashing for the door. "I won't be five minutes."
When she had gone, Cousin Zed ambled off toward the conference room John. "I'm going to take a leak."
Gunter Eckert hesitated a moment, then smiled sheepishly. "Oh, hell. Guess I'll follow Zed's example. That was a pretty exciting meeting."
Simon said, "I'm gonna have me a shot of rye to celebrate." He opened the nearest liquor cabinet. "How about you boys?"
Dan hesitated, looking around the suddenly emptied room. Then he smiled and reached inside his jacket. "Nothing for me, thanks .. . and nothing for you two, either."
He pulled out an Ivanov stun-pistol and aimed it at my face.
Simon dropped the rye decanter. It smashed, and the smell of fine Canadian whiskey stung our nostrils. "Holy fucking shit! Dan, have you lost your mind?"
"Not him," I said. "Not Daniel Scott Frost, Esquire. His mind's tracking on ultraluminal drive."
"To the pad elevator!" he commanded. "Fast—before the others get back."
"What is this?" Simon whispered in disbelief.
"He's a Galapharma stooge," I said. "Probably from the beginning."
"You knew?" Dan seemed genuinely surprised. "How?"
"Your little visit to Cravat was the only thing that gave you away. When I first arrived there, hunting for Eve, Bob Bas-combe the Port Traffic Manager momentarily mistook me for you. Called me by your name and said, 'Welcome back.' Later, I checked with his widow and she told me you'd made a hush-hush visit and gone off by yourself—supposedly on a hunting trip. Your Cravat excursion wasn't in any of Rampart's executive flight logs, hence it wasn't just an innocent jaunt. You went to check out the Haluk installation, right?"
"Of course," he said coolly.
"Was it your idea to demiclone Eve?"
"The clone would have been my puppet if she became CEO. I knew Simon and the board would never consider me for the top slot. Not good, gray Dan—even though I was the best possible choice."
"Haw!" Simon barked in derision. "In your dreams! Even Zed's got more moxie than you, Danny-boy!"
My brother smiled. "My dream is about to come true— thanks to Alistair Drummond. He's agreed to put me in charge of the Rampart Division of Galapharma."
Simon said, "Sweet suffering Christ! Then he's a bigger wackadoo than I thought."
"That's enough!" Dan said viciously. "Get into the elevator, you old fool—or I'll give you a three-dart shot right now."
A lethal stun-chemical dose for humans.
"Come on, Pop," I said.
Simon was still spluttering. I took his arm and led him across the big room. Dan followed, not too closely, keeping the pistol close to his own body. Smart. He opened the elevator doors, herded us inside the spacious car, took a position in the right front corner and touched the control panel. We ascended.
"I didn't think you'd make your move until we got to the ranch," I remarked. "Figured there'd be too many witnesses here. Stupid me. Wile E. Coyote wins a round."
The doors opened into a bubble-shelter on the very summit of Rampart Tower. A ten-seater Garrison-Laguna hopper-craft, armored and discreetly armed, waited on the pad outside: secure transport for nervous upper management.
"You drive, Roadrunner." Dan slipped right into our childhood nicknames without missing a beat. "Pop sits beside you and I'm behind, ready to give him a triple if you screw up."
"Gotcha," I said. We boarded the luxurious machine. I said, "Where to? Gala-schlonga Tower over yonder? Or do you plan to kick us out of the aircraft over Lake Ontario?"
"Nothing so crude. Your deaths wouldn't bring about the appropriate outcome. My intention is to keep you alive in a safe place until Gala and Rampart are well and truly married and the civil litigation has been quashed. Your conditions of confinement will be either comfortable or odious. The choice is yours. If you give me your proxies so that I can vote your stakes at the board meeting—"
"Stick your head up your ass," Simon told his oldest son, "and eat a turd sandwich."
Dan was undismayed. "You may change your mind when I show you the alternative." To me: "Get us out of here now. Request a low-altitude nonexpress vector to Mississauga."
I complied. We lifted off the pad and soared into the northwest at a sedate velocity under the guidance of Toronto Air Traffic Control.
"Where are we going?" I asked. "Some hideaway up in the North Woods?"
"Not nearly so far," Dan said. "Tell the navigator to take us to the Blue Disenfranchised Persons Reserve."
Chapter 16
We landed in a gated hopper park and made our way on foot through a narrow, filthy lane to the turpirudinous enterprises lining Peel Road. On that bright summer afternoon the sidewalks of the Blue Strip were nearly deserted, as Dan had doubtless anticipated. Most of the few cars cruising the streets had registration tags from distant places: tourists from the boondocks window-shopping the X-rated attractions.
"Why the hell have you brought us to this friggin' sin-bin?" Simon demanded wrathfully.
"For some attitude adjustment," Dan said. "Then I'm going to ask you again for your proxies."
"Ask till you turn blue, you two-faced snake in the grass! You underhanded young weasel! Shoot me dead in the goddamn street. Go ahead! Kill me like you killed your poor mother, you cunt-lappin' polecat. See what it gets you."
"Keep walking," my brother said.
Simon and I proceeded together, attracting no attention in spite of his tirade. Dan followed a good two meters behind with the Ivanov tucked in the pocket of his charcoal silk sport jacket. He had warned us that the weapon was still set to the three-dart lethal mode. Disposal of our bodies would pose no problem in Coventry.
At the end of the block was a large building with a facade that gleamed as fluidly black as the tar pits of the Dagasatt Bitumen Desert. Its sign said silver scybalum. A few well-dressed idlers stood on the sidewalk in front of the establishment, staring into the front window and laughing.
"This is the place," Dan said. "Before we go in, I'd like to call your attention to the exhibit in the display window."
"Alien critter," my father growled, not bothering to hide his disgust, "Criminal exploitation, I'd call it."
Dan said, "You're wrong, Pop .. . Asa, tell him what that thing is. Or was."
"It's not a genuine alien, Simon. It's a human genen transform. A prison inmate who's been morphed with dystasis therapy
. God only knows why the poor devil ended up like this. Perhaps he got on the wrong side of a convict kingpin and this was his punishment. This dive features performances by counterfeit aliens. You can probably purchase their sexual services as well."
Simon's eyes were goggling. "But—how can the authorities allow—"
"The prisoners inside Coventry Blue are lifer Throw-aways," I explained. "Every one has been convicted of some major corporate felony. They have no rights. And this particular DPR has been under the control of the inmates for over thirty years, with the tacit permission of the authorities."
"That's disgusting!"
Dan laughed. "Nonsense. It makes for a more effective deterrent. And a source of innocent merriment for the capital citizenry. Anything goes inside Coventry Blue! Whatever depraved amusement your imagination can conceive is available, at a price. You'd be shocked to know how many corporate and government notables are regular visitors."
Two gigantic doormen, dressed as antique comic-book astronauts, flung wide the double doors when Dan spoke to them in a low voice. We were obviously expected. The three of us entered a lobby tricked out like a set from a 1930s movie serial. A bevy of muscular transvestites in provocative "sci-fi" costumes converged on us. Their melon-sized breasts were bare, with nipples saucily painted to match their different colored outfits. They wore bejeweled open helmets crowned with droll little faux antennas.
"Welcome! Bienvenida! Konichi wa.'Allo!"
Simon muttered, "Great blazing balls o' fire."
"We are your hostesses—the Bitch Gals from Outer Space! The Silver Scybalum will be your passport to erotic delights beyond human comprehension! The fee is only two kay. For each of you, of course."
Dan stopped them in their mincing tracks. "Can it, girls. We have an appointment with King Farley. My name is Daniel Frost."