“Take off your jacket,” Marten said, as he shrugged off his and slung it over his arm. He eyed Omi and shook his head. “Follow me.”
In the distance rose the main spire. Smade’s Tavern was on the other side of it. That meant… Marten turned in a circle and finally noticed the square lift building. People poured out of it while others staggered in or had friends carry them through the archways. The Pleasure Palace never stopped, although different shifts came and went. Marten saw unobtrusive janitors sweeping up, polishing and hauling litter. He stepped behind a large man in a flowing robe as a janitor glanced his way.
“Over here,” he told Omi, pulling him by the arm. Janitor seemed like a perfect disguise for a monitor. “Hey,” he said, “this is just what we need.” He darted into a costume shop.
“We gotta find the others,” Omi said. “We don’t have time for shopping.”
A slim man in an ancient-style toga greeted them with raised hands. He wore a wreath around his head and glitter about his dark eyes. “Ah, and how may I help you gentlemen today?”
“We’d like something… baggy,” Marten said.
“Baggy?” asked the man.
Marten glanced about. “Like that.”
“Ah, splendid indeed, sir. Pirates on the High Seas. Rogues and ruffians!” The salesman led them to the mannequin of a Black Beard-type pirate. “I suggest complete sets, sir. Let the pirate persona overwhelm and invest you. Here we are. Hat, shirt, breeches and boots, and accessories, too. An eye-patch would be perfect for you, sir,” he told Omi. “And cutlasses all around and imitation wheel-lock pistols, I’m sure. And—”
“We’ll take the hats,” Marten said, “and these shirts.” He pursed his lips. “Do you have tote bags?”
“Indeed, sir. But I suggest lockers. Why carry around your old clothes when you can safely store your belongings in our—”
“Three tote bags,” Marten said. Then his eyes lit as he scanned another rack. “Throw in two red kerchiefs, yes, like those over there, and add a tube of glitter like you’re wearing.”
“A fine start, sir. Now—”
“Do you have a changing room?” asked Marten.
“Certainly.”
“What’s all this cost?”
“A trifling sum, I assure you, sir. Enough so that this jacket here and a brace of pistols for your partner —”
“No, this is good,” Marten said. “Tally it please while we change.”
“Very well, sir,” said the salesman, a bit crestfallen.
Marten and Omi entered the dressing rooms and came out wearing the silky red shirts with billowing sleeves and floppy black pirate hats. Their shock trooper jackets and shirts were stuffed in the tote bags hidden and slung around their torsos. Each of them kept his projac tucked in the waist of his pants. The kerchiefs, tube of glitter and other needed items Marten carried in a third tote bag.
“Twenty-six credits, sir,” the man said at the counter.
Marten paid the sum with stolen plastic chips, and Omi and he sauntered onto the street.
“Flimsy disguises,” grumbled Omi.
“But better than strutting around in here-I-am shock trooper jackets.”
They started checking card rooms and game pits as they searched for Lance and Vip. They choked on narcotic stimstick smoke in Billy the Kid’s Card Room. Men and women sat hunched around Western Period wooden tables. Many drank. Others popped pills. The lights were dim and the constant sound of shuffling cards and “draw, hit me,” tinkling chips and scraping chairs as angry people left and eager gamblers took their place filled the place, and as the pounding piano provided backdrop noise. Sharper’s Place was quieter and more serious. Red stimstick smoke drifted lazily in the dim lighting. Men and women inhaled their narcotic cigarettes to life and examined their cards close to their vests. Roulette wheels spun and several black jack tables did brisk business.
“Aye, matey,” said a drunken masked man to Omi.
Later Marten chopped a thief’s wrist as he tried to rifle credits.
As they stepped outside, Omi spat. “I’m sick of those places, and I’m starting to feel lightheaded.”
They marched into Razor’s Den, one of the fish tank places. Bloodthirsty, cheering bettors surrounded the nearest octagonal-shaped pool. The pond had been sunken into the floor and contained tiny pens along the sides. Each contained a six-inch, colorful fish that seemed to be three-quarters teeth. They swam in furious circles, lashing their tail fins, which had been stamped with a tiny colored tag. As the throng cheered lustily, others crouched and studied the little monsters. People argued, or shoved credits into a slot and ripped out the paper ticket vomited in return. Finally, the first match ended. Then the doors in the little cages opened and out darted the fighting fish into the main tank. A furious, twisting battle engaged, those teeth biting, tearing and devouring similar fish. In a few moments, only one survived, and the winning bettors rushed to the pay-desk to collect.
“That’s what we are,” Omi said. “Little fish fighting for our masters.”
The comment startled Marten. He didn’t expect something like that from Omi. He nodded though, and they continued the search.
As they exited Razor’s Den Marten heard a new sound, one he’d been dreading. He put his finger in his ear and stood very still.
“What is it?” Omi asked.
Marten held up a hand for silence. Then he swallowed audibly. “It just got worse,” he said.
Omi waited.
“I planted my listening device on Hansen.”
“When?”
“When I put him to sleep on the toilet seat. But someone just shot him with wake-up stims. Shhh.” Marten shut his eyes, listening. “Hansen has ordered a hunt.”
“For us?”
“Let’s go.”
They half-ran into Galaxy Gold and then out, rushed through Sly Man’s Pit and finally found Lance and Vip in the Barracuda Barn. A large shark tank had been built into the south wall. Three-meter monsters fought, made savage through electrodes implanted within their tiny brains. People cheered so loudly that Marten had to shout in Lance’s ear. Lance gave him a wondering look. Marten motioned him and Vip toward the door.
“Here, put these on,” Marten said, opening the tote bag and handing each a red kerchief. “And take off your jackets.”
“Whatever for?” asked Lance.
“For a disguise,” Marten said.
Vip fingered Omi’s red silk shirt. “That must have cost.”
“You’re right,” said Lance. To Marten: “Where did you get the money?”
Marten glanced both ways and lifted his shirt to show them the projac tucked in his waistband.
“Are you insane?” asked Lance. “No wonder the monitors are after you.”
“What?” Vip said. “They are? How come, Marten? What did you do?”
“It’s a long story,” Marten said.
“This doesn’t make sense,” said Lance.
“Maybe not,” Marten said. “But the monitors will kill us now.”
“Whoa,” said Lance. “Slow down. They’ll do what? Kill you? Is that what you said?”
“There’s no time to explain,” Marten said.
“I don’t want to get killed,” Vip said.
“You won’t,” Omi said. He patted his waist.
“You have a weapon too?” said Lance.
Marten put a finger in his ear, adjusting the tiny receiver. He cursed quietly and removed the receiver, a little black speck on the tip of his index finger.
“Hansen find it?” Omi asked.
Marten nodded.
Lance grabbed him by the arm. “Guns, bugs and credits, did the Training Master put you up to this?”
Omi snorted.
