When Galapharma pulled out of the Perseus Spur, the Haluk got their expansionist hopes up again—only to have them dashed by the coming of Rampart.
"But I don't see how this meshes with their new interest in genetic engineering," I said, "much less Bronson Elgar's claim that Gala and the Haluk are now allied for purposes of mutual benefit."
"Maybe," Mimo suggested, "the aliens have made a deal to use human biotechnology to modify the biota of T- and S-class worlds back in their own star cluster. They could theoretically gain thousands of new worlds to conquer after turning vicious and yucky ex-genome critters benign or tasty with the help of our superior science. As a payoff, the Haluk might open all their worlds to trade with humanity. Gala could get Most Favored Concern status."
It still didn't make sense. "Then why didn't the Haluk make their deal with Rampart, rather than going secretly through the Gala middlemen?"
"Maybe Galapharma offered them something that Rampart doesn't have," Matt said, "or wouldn't sell, even if the price was right."
"Like the Perseus Spur itself?" I said satirically.
A silence, of the variety called pregnant, fell over the table.
"Oh, come on!" I scoffed. "Not even Gala would be that crazy. The Concerns don't own the Commonwealth yet! They can't make a treaty with a sovereign alien race. Besides, Gala's top execs have been kicking themselves ever since Rampart moved in and proved that the Spur could be economically viable. That's what their takeover bid is all about. They want Perseus."
"Galapharma owns thousands of worlds in the Orion and Sagittarius sectors," Matt said. "It doesn't need all of the habitable Spur planets."
"No," Mimo agreed. "Only the ones with the most valuable resources."
"There are 3,016 human-compatible worlds in Zone 23," Matt said. "Sixty-four of them have sizable Rampart colonies. Another two hundred or so are sparsely settled freesoil, former Gala outposts with exploitable commodities, potentially annexable by us. The rest are Rampart-dedicated under ICS mandate, but presently uninhabited by humans. Perhaps Galapharma has offered all of those worlds to the Haluk."
Mimo lit a Romeo y Julieta Fabulosa. It smelled like spice and cedar. "Gala could do it quite legally, you know—after acquiring Rampart. The Assembly would have no reason to disapprove if it was convinced that such a move would open vast new markets in the Haluk Cluster, as well as in populous Haluk Spur colonies. The aliens would gain not only Lebens-raum but also a tremendous scientific leg up as they traded raw materials for human high technology."
"It might be the answer," I conceded. "But it still doesn't explain why the aliens would try to steal PD32:C2 and kidnap human scientists who know how to use it. Why take the risk if Gala is selling them its expertise?"
Ivor Jenkins had finished reading Karl's report and put it down on the table. He had listened to our discussion, frowning judiciously. Suddenly he said: "Perhaps the Haluk aren't really interested in the modification of planetary biota at all. What if the genome the aliens want to modify is their own?"
"Caracoles!" Mimo whispered. "Imagine how much progress humanity would have made if we were forced to spend nearly half of every four-hundred-day year in a state of hardshell hibernation as the Haluk do!"
"Estivation is the proper term for dormancy during a hot, dry season," Ivor corrected him.
Mimo shrugged. "No importa. It's still a hell of a way to live."
"The Assembly has persistently forbidden any major tinkering with human genes," Matt said. "I hardly think it would accede lightly to significant genetic alteration of another sapient species—even by that species itself. There'd be lengthy debate over the potential consequences. Approval might be doubtful."
"Damn straight," I said, "given the track record of the Haluk. If their physiology became as efficient as ours, the balance of power in the galaxy might eventually be knocked into a cocked hat. Fifty years down the line they might decide it's their manifest destiny to expand into the Orion Arm."
Matt's expression was grave. "Would Galapharma even consider that possibility? Or would its executives only think about the marketplace?"
"Bolster the old bottom line!" I proclaimed cynically. "That's all any of the Hundred Concerns care about. And I don't think Rampart's all that much better—"
Brrap! Brrap! Brrap!
A skull-piercing ship's alarm went off. I nearly jumped out of my skin and Mimo bit right through his expensive cigar. He leaped to his feet and raced into the corridor leading to the bridge. I was right on his heels. Every loudspeaker in the ship broadcast the steely tones of the computer's warning:
Interception alert. Interception alert. Vessel on closing course. Tentative ID Haluk. Estimated time of arrival within photon weapon range, five minutes thirty seconds.
Chapter 13
Seated in the command seat, Mimo turned off the alarm and calmly said, "Navigator, program random evasive action." Then: "Computer, explain tentative identification of approaching vessel. Is it Haluk or isn't it?"
Ultraluminal drive trace is modified Haluk, said the computer. Conformation does not equate with any known Haluk starship.
"Show me!" Mimo demanded.
The bandit was still too far away to pick up on full visual scan, so the main viewer produced a silhouette with dimensional indications, pseudovelocity, and subspace vector. Gripping the back of Mimo's seat in frozen astonishment, I whispered, "Hell's bells. No wonder it was able to sneak up onus!"
The icon indicated that the damned thing was moving at an impossible sixty-three ross. It was another dagger-pierced doojigger with knobs on, very similar to the colossal alien starship that had come to the rescue of Bronson Elgar, but only about two hundred meters long.
Our computer made the laconic observation: Approaching vessel matching evasive maneuvers and continuing to close. Estimated time of interception within photon weapon range, four minutes fifteen seconds.
Mimo told it, "Power up weapon system."
"This can't be," I blithered. "The only ships that fast are Bodascon experimental jobs—not even in production yet!"
From behind me, Matt Gregoire said, "Tell it to the bandit.
And may I strongly suggest that you sit down and get out of the captain's way."
Mimo said urgently. "You, too, Matt... Ivor. Everyone be seated. Hurry!"
I relinquished my hold on Mimo's seat back and flopped into the copilot chair. There is never any sensation of movement in an inertialess vehicle; but to my shocked surprise, I heard Mimo give the order: "Full crash-harness deployment on bridge."
My seat glommed onto me with various liquicell appendages, rendering me incapable of movement except for my eyeballs and my mouth. I swore luridly.
Estimated time of interception, three minutes.
Mimo gave calm commands. "Enter defensive program: on my mark, erect maximum defensive shields. Enter navigation program: on same mark, exit hyperspace. Simultaneous with emergence into normal space-time continuum, override sublight drive inertial dampening sequence. Do not—repeat do not—start SLD engines or program default vector upon exit from hyperspace. Do—repeat do—initiate default program five hundred milliseconds after exit."
At that, even the computer lost its cool. Danger! Danger! This maneuver is not recommended! Conservation of galactic angular momentum will—
"Cancel warning," Mimo broke in. "Enter weapon system program: target pursuing starship. Maintain target lock through hyperspatial transition. At earliest enabling point, fire six homing AM torpedoes at target exit coordinates. Computer, now state residual time to interception and begin countdown."
Time to interception one minute fourteen seconds... thirteen ... twelve...
I knew what Mimo intended to do. It might save us—but it was equally likely to kill us.
Scan instrumentation on the Haluk bandit would give adequate notice of our intent to drop to sublight velocity. They'd "-How. The aliens might even be expecting the maneuver, a classic tactic for a starship eluding a swifter ULD pu
rsuer. They'd also be confident that our vessel would reenter the normal space-time continuum following the same virtual course it had maintained in hyperspace, SLD engines and inertial dampening field generators kicking in automatically to compensate for galactic angular momentum.
In effect, the Haluk expected us to "hit the ground running" along the same course we'd followed going faster than light. It was the sensible thing to do. Only after full inertial dampening had taken place, a couple of seconds later, would they expect us to commence the sublight jinking and swerving that might provide a means of escape.
Hot on our tail, firing their photon cannons as they followed us into the normal continuum, the aliens expected to nail us during our brief window of damper vulnerability.
Unless, like T.S. Eliot's elusive cat Macavity, we weren't there, where they expected us to be—courtesy of the conservation of galactic angular momentum.
Angular momentum is obscure but not mysterious. Its effects are manifest in the rolling wheel, the umbrella twirled on its stick, the carousel with its spinning painted horses. Close to the axis of the thing that rotates, the movement around and around is relatively slow. Out at the edge, the movement is much swifter. Mud clings to the hub of a wheel; but out at the rim, it loses its grip and is flung away. Raindrops are easily spun off the umbrella's edge. The horses at the outside of the merry-go-round go faster than those nearer the center.
And in our spiraling Milky Way Galaxy, the stars and other celestial objects out at the edge—in the Perseus Spur, for example—whirl around the galactic hub at a very brisk clip indeed: well over a million kilometers an hour.
So does a starship at what is simplistically termed "full stop." Even though it seems motionless relative to the dust particles and bits of interstellar debris around it, it nevertheless maintains the angular velocity of the whirling starry carousel. It obeys the constrictions of celestial mechanics and "conserves" galactic angular momentum.
Horrible things happen to a starship dropping out of hyper-space when, for some dire reason, it fails to execute the iner-tial dampening program. The ship's abrupt burden of angular velocity is instantly converted to tangential velocity. Like a clot of mud flung from a spinning bicycle wheel, the ship flies off to hell and gone in a more or less straight line. To our pursuer, Plomazo would seem to roar away in a totally unexpected direction ... unless it broke into pieces first. Even though some inertial negation remains, the maneuver wrenches a starship's frame brutally and tosses unsecured occupants about like sparrows in a hurricane. If ship and crew survive, they have a brief tactical advantage against a pursuing enemy.
Mimo had allowed us half a second.
Ten seconds to interception... nine... eight.. .
Just before the countdown reached one, he said, "Mark."
During that excruciating hyperspatial crossover, Plomazo screamed like a tortured animal, stressed to the brink of annihilation. We four humans lost consciousness even though our crash-harnesses generated small bubbles of enveloping force that saved us from being excessively mashed and bashed. The ship's computer, safe inside its own independent force-field, carried out the skipper's instructions.
Five hundred milliseconds winked by. Default reentry sequencing kicked in. The uncontrolled tumbling and mortal vibration moderated, ceased, and the ship's agonized cry faded.
It all took place too quickly for human brains to process. My heart beat, my blood circulated, I breathed, made small stupid noises, and realized that we had at least survived the maneuver. My blinded eyes regained normal vision, but there was nothing much to see. The bridge seemed undamaged. Still in the clutches of the crash-harness, I heard the nearly inaudible sounds of normal sublight starship operation, overlaid by the moans of my companions.
With the ship's defensive shields still at maximum, the main viewscreen remained blank. The helm console indicated full stop default. We were secure again on the galactic merry-go-round, quietly adrift. Angular momentum ruled, imperceptible to us.
Mimo said, "Cancel bridge crash-harness deployment. Lower defensive shields."
Why not? Either we'd won or we'd lost. Let's find out.
The viewscreen revealed a scene of sinister beauty. Dozens of faint concentric rainbow shells, onionskin layers of ethereal color, were expanding from a dark center and fading away against the starry dark. While Plomozo had staggered on its wild reentry tangent, the ship's computer faithfully followed orders, compensated for the chaotic movement as best it could, and sent a shotgun spread of homing antimatter torpedoes toward our pursuer. At least one of them must have found its quarry. The Haluk ship had vanished utterly in a burst of gamma radiation.
—
The damage to Plomozo was minimal except in the kitchen and dining salon, where unsecured cooking gear, tableware, and foodstuffs had created a spectacular mess that gave new meaning to the term "galley west." Ivor, who claimed that he felt no aftereffects from our ordeal, insisted on going aft to restore the culinary facilities. Matt asked me very politely to accompany her to the ship's lounge in order to "review the overall situation." Mimo stayed on the bridge to program the repair robots and reestablish our course to Cravat.
I'd already had an emergency fix from the medicuff armlet, but the aftermath of sheer terror called for additional aid and comfort. The refreshment unit menu listed grapefruit mar-garitas, so I called up a pitcherful and filled tall glasses for both of us. I drained mine almost without taking a breath. No salt. I hate salt with margaritas.
Our ultraluminal entry flash filled the lounge with white light for an instant. We were on our way again. I plopped down into one of the sofas arranged in front of the observation port. Matt seated herself with more dignity and sipped her drink in silence, staring at the racing stars. Minutes passed. She began casting stern, meaningful looks in my direction.
I knew what she wanted me to say.
I wasn't going to.
Finally she abandoned tact and professional courtesy and came out with it. "Helly, we can't continue with your original plan of action. This attack by the Haluk means that we'll have to notify Commonwealth authorities immediately."
I said, "No."
"But it's the only sensible course! Now that we have proof that the aliens are involved in the conspiracy against Rampart—"
"We don't have anything of the sort. Plomazo's computer can produce data proving that we were chased by an unknown ship that might or might not have been Haluk. The fact is, our bandit never actually identified himself or even indicated his intent. All he did was approach us at humongous pseudovee on an interception course. And Captain Guillermo Bermudez, Rampart hireling and suspected dealer in contraband goods, blasted him out of the ether without so much as a howdy-do."
"But... both you and Mimo knew the ship was Haluk— and hostile! You can testify that it had the same configuration as the large vessel responsible for marooning you on the comet."
"I was a Throwaway then. My earlier evidence is inadmissible. And Mimo's would be uncorroborated and automatically suspect because of his shady background. Even if we could prove the bandit's identity, we couldn't demonstrate hostile intent. The Commonwealth isn't at war with the Haluk. Officially, we're in a state of armistice, with both sides pledged to nonaggression."
She abandoned that angle. "You know that someone inside Rampart must have told those aliens to come after us."
"Probably."
"Then you must realize that it's lunacy to mount a search operation on Cravat without a decent-sized task force to back us up."
"Not necessarily."
"At least let me call in Zone Patrol! I can tell them that information received leads me to believe that Eve is being forcibly detained on Cravat. ZP can have a heavy cruiser there in less than fourteen hours. Meanwhile, we can monitor the planet and make certain that no suspicious ships enter or leave."
"No. We're not notifying the patrol until I'm ready—until we find evidence that no one can ignore or explain away. I told you before: we're
conducting this operation my way. If you don't want to participate in the ground expedition, then stay in orbit with Mimo, watching for bad guys. Ivor and I can manage."
"Damn you, Asahel Frost! You're as pigheaded as your father."
I gave her my best smile, then poured another margarita.
She sat there, glaring at me, but after a moment her face softened and she asked a surprising question. "What kind of a name is Asahel, anyway?"
"Biblical. My mother told me he was one of King David's warriors. Fast on his feet. The name's been in the Frost family for five generations. Nobody seems to know why. I've always wondered whether the other Asahels hated the tag as much as I do."
She laughed quietly. "Try living with a name like Matilde."
"Is it French?"
"Originally." For the first time she seemed to lower the barrier she'd erected against me when we met in the Rampart boardroom. "My parents came from Martinique, in the Caribbean."
"I've heard those islands are very beautiful."
She shrugged. "I wouldn't know. I've never been to Earth."
That was a surprise. Rampart's leave policy was exceptionally generous. "Where did your parents settle?"
"Loredan. I was born there. They had a little mom-and-pop trading post on one of the lutetium-producing islands. 1 was sixteen, away at boarding school on the mainland, when a pirate attack on the mine escalated into a firestorm that destroyed the entire settlement. My parents died."
"I'm sorry, Matt. Were the pirates Qastt?"
"Human. A Rampart Fleet Security cruiser blew them out of the sky. And after that... it seems rather like a cliche, I suppose, but when it came time to make Career Track selection, I chose Fleet."
Before I could draw her out further, Mimo came bursting into the lounge. A broad grin lit up his face as he spotted the frosty pitcher.