By doing this, by finding treasonous action, you will break the Training Master for me and gain your revenge. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Highborn.” Hansen wondered if this was a trap. Was this the moment he should spill the information about the dream dust? Could he put it all on Bock’s shoulders? Then he could tell the Praetor about Marten Kluge and give the Highborn the traitorous action he apparently craved. Hansen opened his mouth.
“That is all. You may go.”
Hansen hesitated. Then it registered he’d been dismissed. That meant the Praetor didn’t know about the dust. That meant that he, Heydrich Hansen, had control of it. He spun on his heels and marched out the room. He didn’t realize it, but his stomach no longer cramped or hurt.
Now he would have his revenge on Marten Kluge and then… Ha! Then Kang would die screaming, pleading for life.
“We’ll see who is the maggot,” whispered Hansen, hurrying to his new office and wondering where Bock had stashed his hidden credits.
19.
Two days later an exhausted Marten Kluge slipped from barracks to work on the repair pod. He’d lost several pounds and the skin under his eyes sagged and had an unhealthy tinge. He had a rattle in his throat whenever he breathed too deeply. No, matter. Work until you drop, sleep in the grave. If they gelded him, he’d rue every second he’d rested.
While wearing the bulky vacc suit he took out the old fuse box and installed one rebuilt by his mother over five years ago. He checked and double-checked the wiring of the flight panel. Sweat forever dripped into his eyes, stinging them, making him blink. He made mistakes and had to go over procedures he should have gotten right the first time. Everything seemed to take twice as long as it should, and Nadia kept getting in the way. He’d point there. She’d go there and watch him. Then he’d float beside her, bump into her and point outside. Finally, she tapped his shoulder and signaled that she was returning to the hab. He gave her the okay signal, and it seemed that she whirled around a bit too suddenly. He shrugged. He didn’t have time to keep her happy.
He double-checked fuel. Luckily, the pod still had propellant in the tanks. With the extra Nadia had brought each day, the tanks were a third full. That wasn’t great, but at least he had some.
Then came the moment Marten feared. Everything checked, so he carefully put away each tool and secured the kit to his belt. He settled into the pilot seat. The controls for the three outer arms—the clamp, laser-welder and riveter—were to his left. The flight dials and switches were to his right. A glance around showed him the shadowy inner side of the habitat, with lights shining from observation decks. Cratered Mercury dominated his right. The background stars where dulled by the thousands of spacecrafts’ running lights and exhaust plumes. He studied the flight board. His gloved index finger hovered over the ignition switch. If the pod didn’t work… He crossed his fingers, said a prayer and flipped the switch. The little repair pod shuddered, quivered and then the hydrogen burner purred into life.
Marten sagged into the cramped pilot’s seat. If it hadn’t worked—maybe then he wouldn’t have to slip out the barracks anymore and he could rest. Rest and sleep and rest and… he shook his head, poked outside the pod and made a thumb’s up sign to Nadia, who watched from the observation dome.
Several minutes later she space-walked outside and detached the anchor from the hab and clamped it to the pod.
He squeezed over and she wedged beside him.
They clinked helmets together.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Let’s go.”
They didn’t have radios or comlinks, but they could speak by shouting and letting the metal of their helmets carry the sound waves.
Marten engaged and the thrusters spewed a fine spray of hydrogen particles. Below them in a subjective sense, the Sun Works Factory’s inner skin passed underneath the pod. Their pod had no running lights, although their tracker worked.
It was a gamble, but better than being gelded.
He glanced at Nadia as she pressed against him. This was much better than being gelded! He squeezed her arm. She faced him and he imagined her smiling. It made him smile. Then he concentrated on flying.
The kilometers went by. He checked the fuel. He slowed and read huge numbers painted on the habitat skin and dared take them into an area that four and half years ago he’d never flown in for security reasons. He had realized several days ago that he couldn’t build a ship like his parents. It was either this or highjack a shuttle, which would be desperation indeed.
He braked, slowed and stopped. They secured the pod with the anchor and floated onto the habitat, switching on their magnetic boots. His heart thudded as they clanged across the surface. So many memories… his eyes turned watery. Clang. Clang. Clang.
Marten stopped at an ordinary looking hatch. By careful observation, one could see the welded lines of a much bigger opening. This hatch was akin to a portal in a castle gate. As soon as he pressed the 4, it all came back. 4- 8-8-2-A-1-1-2-3. He felt the hatch shudder. If someone had punched in the wrong code, well, he was certain that his Dad’s rigging would still kill the unwary or overcurious, if it was still operative.
The hatch swung open. Marten couldn’t breath. He didn’t dare believe that, that… He grabbed the float rail and drew himself into a dark shaft, with Nadia behind him. Here. He reached for a flashlight that long ago… yes. His heart pounded harder as he wrapped his hand around the flashlight. He turned and groped for Nadia’s hand, clenching it tightly. Then he turned on the flashlight and washed the beam into the darkness. His eyes boggled. It was going to work. They really could get off the Sun Works Factory.
A huge shape made out of stealth material sat before him. He blinked and remembered the countless hours his Dad and he had worked to make the ultra-stealth pod. And here it was. PHC had never found it. It had no fuel, however. But…
Nadia clinked her helmet against his.
“Is that it?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“That means we can escape?”
“As soon as we fill her with hydrogen.”
The flood of emotions became too much and Marten began laughing and whooping in delight and shedding tears in remembrance of his parents.
20.
“Chief Monitor,” said a young woman in a dark, secret policeman’s uniform.
Hansen looked up from behind his messy desk. There were a thousand details to this job and finding Bock’s hidden wealth had taken all his extra time. He’d had no idea that Bock was so secretive. He scratched his cheek. The woman before him, ah, by her shoulder tabs she was a class three operative. She was pretty in a slattern sort of way. No doubt, she had once been Sydney slum-trash just like him. She held onto photos and grinned as if she had something important.
“Yes,” he said.
She slid a photo onto the litter of papers.
He peered at—he smiled. There was Marten Kluge as he hurried down a utility corridor. Marten wore a white maintenance uniform. Well, well, well. He reached for the photo, but the woman placed a second one on top of
