best possible egg cells for me to inseminate. We’re going to clone me. My son will be as close to me as modern biological science can make him.”
“Human cloning is outlawed,” Verwoerd murmured.
“In most nations on Earth,” Humphries conceded. “But even on Earth there are places where a man of means can have himself cloned. And here in Selene, well—why not?”
Another little Martin Humphries, Verwoerd thought. But she said nothing.
“The cloning procedure is still a bit dicey,” he went on, as casually as a man discussing the stock market, “but my people should be able to produce some viable fertilized eggs and get a few women to carry them.”
“Then why do you want me?”
He waved a hand. “You’re a very good physical specimen; you ought to make a good home for my clone. Besides, it’s rather poetic, don’t you think? You won’t have sex with me, but you’ll bear my son. That boy-toy of yours isn’t the only one with a poetic soul.”
“I see,” Verwoerd said, feeling slightly numbed by his cheerful arrogance.
“What I need is several wombs to carry the zygotes to term. I’ve decided you’d be perfect for the job. Young, healthy, and all that.”
“Me.”
“I’ve gone through your medical records and your family history,” Humphries said. “You might say that I know you inside out.”
She was not amused.
“You carry my son to term,” he said, his smile fading, his tone more commanding. “You’ll get a very sizable bonus. I’ll even transfer a couple more of my asteroids to your Bandung Associates.”
The pit of her stomach went hollow.
“Did you think you could embezzle three very profitable asteroids from me without my finding out about it?” Humphries asked, grinning with satisfaction.
Verwoerd knew it was hopeless. She felt glad that she had Dorik on her side.
CHAPTER 37
As they pulled up their convoy of four minitractors to the entrance of the Helvetia warehouse, Harbin saw that there were only two people on duty there, and one of them was a woman, gray-haired and grandmotherly, but with a hard, scowling face. She was stocky, stumpy, built like a weight-lifter.
“What do you guys want?” she demanded as Harbin got down from the lead tractor.
“Don’t give us a hard time, grandmother,” he said gently. “Just relax and do what you’re told.”
A face-to-face job like this was far different from shooting up spacecraft in the dark emptiness of the Belt. That was like a game; this was blood. Be still, he commanded silently. Don’t make me kill you. But he felt the old rage building up inside him: the manic fury that led to death.
“What are you doing here?” the woman repeated truculently. “Who the hell are you assholes?”
Working hard to keep his inner rage under control, Harbin waved his undisciplined team into the Helvetia warehouse. They all wore breathing masks, nothing unusual in the dusty tunnels of Ceres. They also wore formfitting shower caps that had been ferried in all the way from Earth; with the caps on, no one could see a man’s hair color or style. Harbin also made certain none of his crew had any name tags or other identification on themselves. If Tracy Buchanan had taken that simple precaution he would undoubtedly still be alive now, Harbin thought.
“What’s this goddam parade of tractors for?” the woman demanded.
She was wearing a breathing mask, too. So was the skinny kid standing a few paces down the shadowy aisle of tall shelves.
“We’re here to empty out your warehouse,” Santorini said, strutting up to her.
“What the hell do you mean?” the woman asked angrily, reaching for the phone console.
Santorini swatted her to the floor with a backhand smack. The kid back in the stacks threw up his hands in the universal sign of surrender.
“Come on,” Santorini said, waving to the rest of them.
Harbin nodded his approval. They started to move in. The kid stood absolutely still, frozen in terror from the look on his ashen face. Santorini kicked him in the stomach so hard he bounced off the shelving and collapsed groaning to the floor.
“How’s that for martial arts?” Santorini shouted over his shoulder as the others revved up the minitractors and trundled into the warehouse, raising billows of black dust.
Swaggering little snot, Harbin thought, looking at the woman Santorini had knocked down. Her lip was bloody, but the look in her eyes proclaimed pure malevolent fury. She struggled to her feet, then lurched toward the phone console.
Harbin grabbed her by one shoulder. “Be careful, grandmother. You could get hurt.”
The woman growled and swung her free fist into Harbin’s temple. The blow surprised more than hurt him, but it triggered his inner anger.
“Stop it,” he snarled, shaking her.
She aimed a kick at his groin. Harbin twisted sideways to catch it on his hip but it still hurt. Without thinking he slid the electro-dagger out of its sheath on his wrist and slit her throat.
The old woman gurgled blood and collapsed to the floor like a sack of wet cement.
Fuchs’s black mood of frustration and anger deepened into an even darker pit of raging fury as he and Nodon boarded the Astro Corporation ship
“I’ll be back at the Belt as soon’s me arm grows back,” George had promised several times, over many beers.
Pancho had bought all their rounds, drinking with them in gloomy comradeship.
Now, with a thundering headache and a towering hatred boiling inside him, Fuchs faced the four-day journey back to Ceres with the exasperation of a caged jungle beast.
When the message came in from Amanda he nearly went berserk.
He was in his privacy compartment, a cubicle barely large enough to hold a narrow cot, trying to sleep. Each time he closed his eyes, though, he saw Martin Humphries sneering at him. And why not? Fuchs raged at himself. He has gotten away with murder. And piracy. No one can stop him; no one will even stand up to him except me, and I’m powerless: a pitiful, impotent, useless fool.
For hours he tossed on the cot, clad only in a pair of shorts, sweating, his hair matted, his jaw stubbled with a two-day growth of beard. Stop this fruitless nonsense! he raged at himself. It’s useless to pound your head against a wall. Think! Prepare! If you want revenge on Humphries you must out-think him, you must make plans that are crystal clear, a strategy that will crush him once and for all. But each time he tried to think clearly, logically, his anger rose like a tide of red-hot lava, overwhelming him.
The phone buzzed. Fuchs sat up on the cot and told the computer to open the incoming message.
Amanda’s face filled the screen on the bulkhead at the foot of the cot. She looked tense, even though she tried to smile.
“Hello, dear,” she said, brushing at a stray lock of hair that had fallen across her forehead. “I’m fine, but they’ve looted the warehouse.”
“What? Looted?”
She couldn’t hear or see him, of course. She had sent the message a good fifteen minutes earlier.
“They killed Inga. Out of pure bloodthirsty spite, from what Oscar told me. You remember him, Oscar Jiminez. He’s the young boy I hired to help handle the stock.”
She’s terrified, Fuchs realized, watching the lines of strain on her face, listening to her ramble on.
“They came in during the night shift, when only Inga and Oscar were there, about nine or ten of them, according to Oscar. They beat him and slit Inga’s throat. The man who did it laughed about it. Then they emptied the warehouse. Every box, every carton, every bit of stock we had. It’s all gone. All of it.”
