Julian May - Rampart Worlds 3 - Sagittarius Whorl

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SAGITTARIUS

WHORL

An Adventure of the

Rampart Worlds

A Del Rey* Book

THE BALLANTINE PUBLISHING GROUP

NEW YORK

By Published by Ballantine Books:

The Saga of Pliocene Exile

The Many-Colored Land

The Golden Tore

The Nonborn King

The Adversary

A PLIOCENE COMPANION

Intervention

The Surveillance

The Metaconcert

The Galactic Milieu Trilogy

Jack the Bodiless

Diamond Mask

Magnificat /

BLACK TRILLIUM (With Marion Zimmer Bradley and Andre Norton)

BLOOD TRILLIUM

SKY TRILLIUM

The Rampart Worlds Trilogy

Orion Arm

Perseus Spur

Sagittarius Whorl

Books published by The Ballantine Publishing Group are available at quantity

discounts on bulk purchases for premium, educational, fund-raising, and special sales

use. For details, please call 1-800-733-3000.

Sale of this book without a front cover may be unauthorized. If this book is coverless, it may have been reported to the

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A Del Rey® Book

Published by The Ballantine Publishing Group

The Ballantine Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by

Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

Del Rey is a registered trademark and the Del Rey colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

www.randomhouse.com/delrey/

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 00-110291

ISBN 0-345-39518-2

Manufactured in the United States of America

First Edition: January 2001

10 987654321

Chapter 1

Behold a comatose human guy in a dystasis tank, hooked to a psychotronic apparatus

that plays the same lovely dream over and over and over. He is being genetically

engineered.

That much he knows, because he's been in one of the damned vats before—sometime,

somewhere. The details are a mystery. He drifts in the glass coffin of bubbly oxygen-

charged goo, too stoned by the drugs and REMory dream-programming to react

rationally during his brief interludes of semiconsciousness.

The wakeful bits, when he manages to force open his eyes and peer myopically

through the perfluorocarbon liquid, are fuzzy and surreal and punctuated by stabs of fear

and helpless anger. During them, the floater recalls one vivid short-term memory

snippet...

He sits in a smoke-filled bar in a hollow asteroid in the distant Sagittarius Whorl, and

the Haluk smiles at him as his consciousness starts to drain away. He remembers his

despairing certainty, in the final instant before oblivion, that the aliens are probably going

to subject him to something outrageously weird this time around, having failed to finish

him off during their previous assaults and batteries.

He squirms in the dystasis tank, making a futile attempt to swim up, push off the lid,

and break free. But his limbs and trunk are firmly clamped in an upright frame. Only his

head, gripped less tightly, is able to move a little.

He remembers a few more things.

He can swim. He can cook. He can pilot a starship. He can ride a horse.

He's a disgrace. He's a lawyer. He's a scuba diver. He's a zillionaire.

He was a cop. He was a suicidal drunk. He was a political gadfly. He was ... doing

something that got him in deepest shit.

When he finishes wrenching his head around uselessly, he sees another transparent-

walled container next to his own. Inside it another body is dimly visible in reddish womb-

light, a companion in dystasis. Straining, he tries to get a better view of the other person,

but finds it impossible.

His mouth opens in a silent roar of frustration. With his lungs and the rest of his

respiratory tract full of liquid, his vocal cords are as impotent as those of an unborn baby.

The dystasis monitoring equipment detects his frantic muscle contractions and the

hormonal flood that indicates an agitated mental state.

Naughty, naughty! His struggles are disrupting the genetic engineering procedure. The

apparatus programs deeper anesthesia. He plummets back into slumber mode and the

umpteenth dream replay begins.

He's always with his wife, whose name he can't recall any more than he can remember

his own. There is background music—Scott Hamilton playing " 'Round Midnight" on a

tenor saxophone. The bedroom is very large and of a rustic southwestern ranch style, with

a high-beamed ceiling and walls of whitewashed adobe, adorned with antique Native

American weavings and artwork featuring elegantly lewd pastel flower shapes. Double-

glazed sliding doors with parted curtains reveal that it's night and snowing hard outside.

The sound of the blizzard wind occasionally breaks through cascades of gentle jazz.

White drifts are piling up outside on the patio.

He and his wife, young newlyweds, sit side by side on a shearling rug before a blazing

fire. They're naked, propped happily against each other, sipping Roederer Cristal while

they watch the dancing flames. Her hair is ash-blond, rippling after being released from

its braided chignon, and reaches halfway down her back. Her eyes are the color of deep

ocean waters beyond the reef. She is striking rather than pretty, and her features in repose

are solemn until he caresses her and makes her smile.

Time to make love again.

And again and again, as the psychotronic machine endlessly loops his most exquisite

memory to facilitate the dystasis procedure.

The poor happy schmuck in the tank is me.

Drifting and dreaming.

——

Tap tap tap.

Someone spoke, an alien voice filtered through a translator device. "How interesting.

It looks as though he is waking up."

Someone else: "This is the template individual, Servant of Servants. The original. The

transformed human subject is recovering in another room, attended by one's technicians.

We will interview him shortly, just as soon as he is lucid."

"Let's see if this creature recognizes one."

Tap tap tap.

I slowly opened my eyes. The room outside was dimly lit, as always, with most of the

illumination coming from a bank of alien equipment some distance away. The dark floor

was intricately veined with a glowing red web that converged on my tank and the one

beside mine, which was now empty.

Three Haluk stood looking at me, two males and a female, all wearing translator

pendants. The tallest of the aliens knocked on the glass wall to get my attention as though

I were a sulky specimen in an aquarium.

Tap tap tap. "Wah! Can you hear one, Earth life-form?"

Of course I could. My ears worked just fine while submerged in the oxygenated glop,

and he must have known it.

He pursed his lips in the racial smile-equivalent and twiddled his four-fingered hand in

mock playfulness. "Do you recall this one's identity?"

With difficulty, I focused my eyes and concentrated.

Well, sure. The last time I'd seen him, he was wearing a conservative human-style

business suit of dark green with faint white pinstripes, tailored to set off his wasp waist

and accessorized by a scarlet foulard scarf and a diamond stickpin. He was now attired in

exotic haberdashery appropriate to his high station: bronze-purple robes with glittering

jeweled trim, an elaborate spiked diadem of platinum, and a matching necklace inset with

large fossil cabochons. But that ugly blue face was unmistakable, and so were the oddly

beautiful eyes with their sardonic, hyperintelligent glint.

The perfluorocarbon bath had rendered me mute, but I snarl-mouthed: You friggin'

xeno bastard! Damned right I know you. You 're the Servant of the Servants of Luk, the

head honcho of the Sovereign Haluk Confederation.

"Bravo," he said dryly. The Haluk aren't telepathic, but my response had evidently

been clear enough. "Please accept the profound gratitude of this one and of the Council of

Nine. Thanks to you"—he nodded toward the tenantless second tank—"and to the

turncoat rascal with whom you shared your vital substance, one has high hopes of an

accelerated schedule for our Grand Design."

Suddenly, a surprisingly concrete recollection popped into my skull. The alien leader

and I had had a nasty confrontation a couple of years ago outside the Assembly Chamber

of the Commonwealth of Human Worlds in Toronto. At the invitation of Liberal Party

members sympathetic to Reversionist principles, I had finally testified about... something

important having to do with the Haluk and their trade treaty with humanity. My speech

had really pissed off the Servant of Servants and the members of his alien entourage, as

well as a sizable percentage of the Assembly Delegates.

But what had I said? And who the hell was I?

I hadn't a clue.

The Servant said, "Feeling all right, are you? Archiator Malotuwak assures one that

you came through the human-to-human genetic exchange in fine fettle. Unfortunately, we

can't let you out of the dystasis tank just yet. We require a second demiclone."

Demiclone?... What the hell are you talking about, huckleberry balls?

"Take one's advice, human. Cooperate willingly when you're called upon later for

tutorial duties. Extracting the pertinent information by means of psychotronic

interrogation machines is so uncomfortable. Who knows? If you do well, one might even

allow you to live. Common laborers are always in demand on our newly colonized

planets."

Screw you. With a magnum drill press!

The second male Haluk spoke up. Short and stocky, he wore a plain mustard-colored

smock tightly cinched about his slender middle and carried an elaborate Macrodur mag-

slate of the type favored by hotshot human scientists. "He's becoming excited, Servant of

Servants. This is not a good thing for a dystasis subject. It could delay initiation of the

second demiclone procedure. One will program a calming medication for him."

He prodded the slate and a warm woozy feeling began to seep into my body, dulling

anxiety and slowing my thoughts. I fought the desire to relapse into sleep.

Demiclone! I should know what that meant. I did know. It was a highly illegal genetic

engineering procedure. The Haluk had stolen some of my DNA and used it to—to—

To duplicate me. To morph some other guy into a replica of my precious person. I

mouthed helpless obscenities. The Servant of Servants had already lost interest in me and

turned his attention to the Haluk woman standing beside him.

She was elderly, her skin faded to the color of wellwashed denim, and she wore robes

of glistening black with a hood that nearly concealed her mane of pale hair. A very

important-looking polished fossil on a long chain hung about her neck.

"Is it certain, Archiator Malotuwak," she inquired of Mustard Smock, "that the newly

created duplicate of this individual retains his own mentality? It would be disastrous to

the Servant's Grand Design if the demiclone were to be ... contaminated, as it were, by

the mind-set of this template life-form."

"That is quite impossible, Council Locutor Ru Kamik. Only the physical aspect of the

demiclone has been altered." A grimace of distaste. "That other human's mind—such as it

is—remains his own. One might mention that he was most uncooperative during the

preliminary procedures, insulting one's assistants and behaving in an arrogant and

offensive manner."

The Servant of Servants uttered the grotesque laugh of his species, which sounded like

a miniature poodle choking to death. "Fortunately for us, the rascal's usefulness to the

Sovereign Haluk Confederation does not require a congenial disposition."

"Yes," the Locutor said. "However, his usefulness does require that his true identity

not be detected. One was somewhat disconcerted to learn that the demiclone is not, after

all, an essentially perfect replica of this original."

"True enough," Mustard Smock conceded. "The restricted time frame we were

allowed precluded optimal DNA transfer. It was necessary to use an abbreviated genetic

engineering procedure. One made this quite clear to the Servant of Servants and to the

demiclone subject himself at the outset. Even using the most advanced human equipment

and techniques, along with broad-spectrum PD32:C2 transferase agents, four weeks in

the dystasis tank is inadequate for complete chromosomal transformation, given the

relatively large amount of intron material in the human genome. Introns are more difficult

to exchange than exons—"

The Servant of Servants interrupted, addressing the female. "Nobody's going to test

him, Ru Kamik. They'll have no reason to doubt his identity. He will be carefully

coached in his role."

"Nevertheless," said the Locutor firmly, "please explain to this one the circumstances

under which the demicloned person might be differentiated from the original subject by

expert investigators of the Commonwealth of Human Worlds."

The Haluk scientist made the gesture signifying self-abasement. "You'll forgive if one

gets a bit technical, Great Lady?"

The Locutor steepled her four-fingered hands in a gesture of condescending assent.

"Continue. One is by no means completely ignorant of genetics."

"As you may know, not all of the DNA within body cells acts as a blueprint for life

processes. Those segments that are active are often called exons. They trigger protein

production—build the body and keep it in operation. The other DNA segments, those

with no known function, are called introns. The noncoding introns are intermingled with

the exons. In the human genome, about ninety percent of the DNA is noncoding. By

comparison, we Haluk have a smaller percentage of introns, even though our total

number of exons is close to the human complement."

"I understand."

"Because one was commanded to perform this procedure in the shortest possible time,

one transferred only the exon DNA and about one-tenth of the introns from the donor to

the recipient. As a consequence, even though the recipient exhibits the physical

characteristics of the template as perfectly as an identical twin, he nevertheless retains a

large part of his original intron DNA—the genetic material that seems redundant."

"And this can be detected by forensic analysis?"

"Readily, Council Locutor. Most of the genetic variation among human individuals is

in the introns. Even a rough comparison of the demiclone's DNA with that of the original

will reveal the fake. If one had only been allowed more time—"

"It was not practical," the Servant of Servants said dismissively. "And one must

repeat: the chance of the demiclone undergoing DNA testing during his mission are

vanishingly small."

The Locutor spoke in a neutral tone to the Servant of Servants. "Certain members of

the Council of Nine have very grave misgivings about this stratagem. Using the human

demiclone, that is, rather than one of our own race."

"Their doubts are groundless, Ru Kamik," the leader insisted. "The revised Grand

Design is going to succeed! Almighty Luk will shower his beneficence upon us and

shatter the spines of the human despots."

"There is still great danger," she said softly. "And this one is not speaking only of the

possibility that the turncoat agent's identity may be detected. He himself is a traitor to his

race and perhaps not entirely sane. One has seen his personality analysis—"

"Yes, yes, curse it for a wad of odoriferous lepido nose wax! One knows all about that.

But the scheme he proposed is brilliant. If it succeeds, our grand expansion strategy will

be accomplished in years, rather than centuries or even millennia."

"If the scheme succeeds."

"Wah! Would you have us abandon our great hopes, crawl back to the cluster,

embrace our fatal allomorphic heritage, and go down to extinction as we exhaust the

balance of our dwindling resources? Or shall we continue to submit to humanity's tyranny

here in the Milky Way? ... No! This one has promised the people that all will be freed

from allomorphy—that our children will live on new, uncrowded worlds. If the Grand

Design succeeds, this goal will be achieved peacefully. If it fails, we will use force to

seize the planets we require from the loathsome humans. Curse their arrogance up a

necrotic copulatory orifice!"

"Be tranquil, Servant of Servants," Ru Kamik advised. "This one has a duty to

examine contingencies. Even unpleasant ones. Why would it not be possible to use a

Haluk demiclone rather than the disguised turncoat to fulfill the Grand Design?"

"The scheme was conceived by him," the Servant pointed out, simmering down a bit.

"And he alone is in a unique position to carry off the deception—at least in its initial

stages. No Haluk demiclone would be able to worm his way into the confidence of the

Frost family and Rampart Concern quite so readily, or so quickly, as the rogue human

life-form. Once he is well-established, however, the situation changes. Taking his place, a

trained Haluk demiclone will be able to maneuver freely, inserting other demiclones into

positions of power and influence. Humanity will find itself in thrall to us before it realizes

its peril."

"But how can we be certain that the turncoat will not fly out of control?"

"One has made the personal decision that the risk is acceptable. One is aware of the

individual's limitations, and they have been factored into the operational equation. He

will be carefully monitored by our other demiclone operatives in the Earth capital city.

The rogue's personal agenda, vengeful and perfidious though it may be from the point of

view of his own race, coincides with ours. At least for the time being."

"As you say, Servant of Servants." She lowered her head so that her eyes were

momentarily concealed by the hood of her black garment.

"Don't worry, Ru Kamik," the Servant reassured her. "As soon as possible, the

wretched human creature will be replaced by one whose loyalty is above suspicion. Our

own esteemed agent, Ru Balakalak, will carry the mission to its successful completion.

Meanwhile, the turncoat will have laid the groundwork for the coup. Needless to say, the

rogue human knows nothing of our intention to eliminate him when his services are no

longer required."

She made a noncommittal gesture and turned to address the scientist. "Is it true, then,

Archiator Malotuwak, that the more lengthy demiclone procedure performed upon Ru

Balakalak will create a totally undetectable duplicate?"

Mustard Smock hesitated. "That is the theory, Great Lady, according to the

reassurances of the late Scientist Milik, who introduced the genetic procedure to us. Of

course, there exists no validation. So far as we know, no Haluk-human demiclone has

ever been subjected to DNA analysis by the Commonwealth Criminal Investigation

Department."

"Milik!" huffed the Lady in Black. "Can one rely upon her word? She was a flaming

idealist and an egregious fool, claiming she was ready to die if it would advance the

cause of interspecific friendship."

"Milik was a selfless benefactor of our race," said the Servant with dangerous

emphasis. "A martyr canonized by the Priesthood of Luk."

"But one that we in the Council of Nine did not fully trust—no more than you did,

Servant of Servants. In truth, she was another human turncoat of unstable temperament

and cloudy motivation ... and one who may have secretly meddled with our racial

heritage, if certain rumors are to be given credence. This one has recently heard that some

of Milik's work on the eradication of allomorphism has come under scrutiny."

"Nonsense," retorted the Servant of Servants. "Those rumors are quite devoid of truth.

It's ridiculous to think that Milik would have tinkered maliciously with the trait-

eradication treatment. Or lied about the flawlessness of the demiclone procedure." "As

you say," the Locutor murmured. There was a brief silence. Then she asked, "When will

the second demiclone be ready?"

"Ru Balakalak is preparing to enter the dystasis tank immediately. As I understand it,

the unabbreviated procedure takes about twenty-six weeks. Is that correct, Archiator?"

"Approximately," said Mustard Smock. "In interspecific DNA exchange, there is a

necessary preliminary operation, a sort of inoculation of the human template individual to

preclude rejection of exotic DNA by the nonhuman recipient. This is followed by the

phase during which the actual gene transfer and bodily transformation of the recipient is

accomplished."

"Twenty-six weeks is a long time to wait," said the Locutor.

The Servant said, "Additional time will be required to tutor Ru Balakalak in details of

the mission once he emerges from dystasis. It is estimated that he will be ready after

thirty weeks."

"Thirty!"

"Meanwhile, one will keep the Council of Nine fully informed concerning operations

on Earth. Needless to say, one expects that you, Ru Kamik, will be zealous in supporting

the revised Grand Design."

She lowered her head again. "As you say, Servant of Servants."

"Excellent." He turned to the scientist. "And now one believes it is time for this one

and the Council Locutor to interview the human demiclone."

"He awaits in the recovery room," Archiator Malotuwak said. "Please follow this one."

The three Haluk went away and I was left suspended in dopey horror, boggled by the

technobabble and at a loss to understand the kind of espionage my duplicate was about to

undertake. Questions swirled in my brain like terrified bait minnows in a bucket.

Who was the human traitor who now wore my face, who had hatched some ploy that

was deemed vital to the Haluk Grand Design?

Whatever the hell that was.

How could a demiclone of me help put the Commonwealth of Human Worlds in thrall

to an alien race?

Dammit—who am I, anyway?

A disgrace. A former cop. A diver. A zillionaire. Aside from the useless fragments of

memory, my drugged brain had no answers.

So after a while I slept again and dreamed of falling snow, the roaring fire, the

champagne, and my nameless wife's loving arms. Dreamed over and over again, to the

accompaniment of Scott Hamilton's ancient, peerless saxophone.

At long last the dreaming stopped.

——

I realized instantly that my situation had changed. Some instinct warned me not to

open my eyes and not to move. I had sense enough to obey.

I was out of the tank, breathing ambient air, lying on my back on a firm, slightly

inclined surface, head cradled in a comfortable pillow. Warm and dry, not hurting—and

surprisingly alert, even though I still had no notion of my identity or what had happened

to me.

Alien voices were speaking and I felt gentle pokes and prods in different parts of my

anatomy. Two Haluk individuals who called each other Miruviak and Avilik were right

beside me, performing some sort of physical examination. The suffixes of their names

indicated that one was male and one female. They were not wearing translators. My

knowledge of the Haluk language is imperfect and I could understand only part of their

conversation, which seemed to refer to my condition. I was apparently in satisfactory

shape, and after a few minutes they covered me to the chin with a soft blanket and moved

off, still talking.

I heard one of them say: "The blah blah authority figure is soul-glowing about the

blah of the dystasis blah blah."

I understood that to mean that a Haluk VIP, perhaps my old chum the Servant of

Servants of Luk, was happy about the results of some sort of dystasis procedure.

"Dystasis" was the same word in English and Halukese because a human had illegally

introduced it to the aliens.

The remarks that followed were spoken some distance away, couched in medical

jargon almost totally incomprehensible to me. I risked cracking open my eyelids.

1 could see most of the room. It was at least six meters square and looked like an

accommodation in a superior Haluk hotel catering to humans, situated on one of their

long-settled colonial planets. With the human-Haluk rapprochement in place in the

Perseus Spur, I'd once stayed in a similar place.

Good. You remembered that. Now try to remember something essential—like who you

are!

The furnishings, except for scattered pieces of mysterious technical apparatus with

blinking telltales, were an eclectic mix of alien and Earth designs. On my right, where the

wall was completely shrouded in opaque draperies, were exotic chairs, a low table, stands

holding Haluk bioluminescent lamps with quaint shades, and an elaborate human-style

infomedia credenza. To the left, in an open-plan adjacent room, was a wet bar—no booze

visible—and a compact kitchen, also human in design. An alcove held a tall case full of

e-books and slates, plus a collection of anonymous small cabinets constructed of exotic

materials. The head of my bed was against one wall. Another bed stood on the opposite

side of the room, flanked by an open bathroom door with a human-type sink visible. A

second door in that wall was closed.

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