Hide and Seek

by Paul Preuss

  He meant not to have the falling cable trigger his bomb while he was clinging to the building next to it. Which meant he must cut to within a few strands of wire, which would wear through in the time it took him to escape but in less time than it took anyone responding to the malfunction to appear on the scene.

  This cut had to be precise. He used his black knife. Three strands of bare wire glistened in the night.

  Then he half slid, half fell down the wall of the shed. It wasn’t an elegant dismount, but he knew the ground now, knew where to duck and jump. Any half-decent starlight security camera would have witnessed his odd solo ballet, out there among the shadows of the trucks and crummies.

  * * *

  A single red light lit up on the board.

  “He is here!” Yevgeny shouted. “Where is that sector? Send guards there now.”

  “Calm down, Yev, they’re already scramblin’. He’s not inside yet, not by a long shot. We’ll get the guy while he’s still climbin’ through the fence.”

  On the monitoring videoplates, the figures of two armed guards ran in the improbably long strides of one-third gravity toward the salient of the perimeter fence.

  “Coulda told you he’d try to get in through there,” the security director said.

  “Yes? How could you have told me that?” Yevgeny roared.

  “Oh, instinct, I guess you’d call it.” The fat man lolled back in his chair and grinned. “Yeah, instinct. Plus my years of exper . . .”

  One of the video monitors went dark at that moment, and simultaneously the night sky outside the windows turned a brilliant white orange. The security chief was so relaxed that when he tried to straighten up, his sudden movement caused him to fall backward out of his chair. Yevgeny dived for his pressure-suit bag as the double-plate windows bulged inward.

  The shock wave and tremor almost shattered the building’s pressure lock, but it held. So did the windows, luckily for the security chief and Yevgeny Rostov.

  A brilliant ball of orange rose like a Japanese lantern into the night sky over the motor pool. A fountain of white flame spewed after it, a steady torch burning brighter than the gas burn-off that once lit the Texas oilfields.

  Blake sat in the shelter of one of the big hydrogen tanks that was emptying its contents to fuel the spectacle.

  Good show. Jolly good. He just couldn’t keep himself from grinning.

  Sirens are useless in the atmosphere of Mars; the call went out through the commlinks and alarm circuits.

  None of the guests in the Mars Interplanetary Hotel could hear the alarms or see the display, invisible from the hotel, so none were disturbed by the incident–none but one.

  Sparta woke, listening . . .

  She heard the frantic song in the wires, the tremor of footsteps and the rumble of vehicle treads. She heard voices through the walls: An accident at the shuttleport, a big fire, something blew up . . .

  She groaned. That Blake.

  Dammit, if he was tearing up the neighborhood again, he was on his own. This time she wasn’t lifting a finger to protect him from the law.

  PART THREE

  ACROSS THE FREEZING

  SANDS

  VIII

  Half buried in drifting dust, the Terraforming Project’s hangar at the shuttleport was almost invisible against the sea of dunes beyond. The wind slithered over it as if over a huge airfoil, tugging the groundbound building gently skyward.

  Inside, the hangar was an immense vault of steel covering an expanse of glass tile. So gentle was the curve of the arch that the roof seemed low, yet in the center its slender, unsupported steel beams stretched thirty meters above the floor. Through panels of green glass in the roof the morning sun penetrated the interior gloom with diffuse shafts of light.

  A dozen huge and spidery black marsplanes were clustered on the floor, like a nest of daddy longlegs. Khalid and Sparta crossed the floor toward the nearest.

  “This is how we get around. These are a bit like the bush planes of 20th-century Alaska.” Khalid’s voice was thin over the commlink. Their pressure suits were sealed; the wide hangar doors were closed but not sealed against the Martian atmosphere.

  “We live on a small planet, half the diameter of Earth, but it’s not as small as it might seem. Oceans take up three quarters of Earth’s surface, so Mars has virtually the same land area.” He ducked under a narrow black wing as long as a football field; the wingtips drooped to rest on the hangar floor. The plane’s slender tail fins, mounted on delicate booms, reached almost to the ceiling behind it. “Try to imagine Asia, Africa, Europe, the Americas, Australia, Antarctica, the major islands, all as one continent, all as one cold, dry, dusty desert–and in all this desert there are only five roads. Even to call them roads is a courtesy.”

  Sparta contemplated the marsplane whose wings now shadowed them and thought that it didn’t look at all like one of the old bush planes of Earth. It was graceful. Not graceful like a dart, as a spaceplane or supersonic shuttle was graceful, but graceful like a sea bird. The wings had narrow chords and were bent a little forward, then swept gently back, with a thick foil designed for maximum lift at minimum velocity. It was a craft made for soaring.

  Khalid opened the bubble hatch of the small fuselage, which was slung beneath and forward of the long wings. “We need wings this long to get lift in the thin atmosphere, but with carbon fiber it’s easy to build giants. Material strength here is effectively two and a half times what it would be on Earth.”

  At Khalid’s direction Sparta settled herself into the aft seat and pulled the harness over her pressure suit. “I see wings and tail booms and this little pod I’m sitting in, but what does this thing use for engines?” she asked.

  “Weather.” He bent to inspect her harness. “Plus RATO bottles to get us up if local wind conditions aren’t favorable. Once aloft, we’re a glider.”

  “Just a glider?”

  “Yes, just a glider.”

  She thought she’d said it coolly enough, but from his chuckle, he’d caught her apprehension.

  “The first explorers powered unmanned planes something like these using microwave beams: the antennas were in the wings, and onboard electric motors turned big propellors.” He finished checking her harness. His approving glance told her she’d done it right the first time. “The microwave system wasn’t efficient–the beams were sometimes blocked by dust, for one thing–and in the long run it proved unnecessary. Once there were enough satellites in orbit, the whole weather system became the engine for a fleet of planes.”

  He went forward and climbed up into the pilot’s seat. “These days, satellites communicate directly with the plane’s flight-control computers. The plane always knows exactly where it is and the best way to get where it wants to go.” He buckled his harness and tightened its straps. “We never fly in a straight line, not for long, but there’s no danger of getting lost or stranded.”

  “There is no such thing as ‘no danger,’ Dr. Sayeed.”

  “Dust storms can be a problem, as I indicated yesterday. Especially if they come up fast and grow too wide to go around and too high to climb over.” He pulled the canopy down over them. “It doesn’t happen often, but these planes are designed for that contingency. When it does happen we land and dig in.”

  “You said the storm season is approaching?”

  He turned to look at her over the high back of his seat, his hand resting on a canopy latch. “Still time to get out,” he said.

  “Even if I wanted to, Dr. Sayeed, I’m far too interested to back out now.”

  He nodded and snapped the latches shut. He turned his attention to the controls. The marsplane had a small console-mounted joystick but no pedals, for the plane had no ailerons, flaps, rudders, or elevators; subtle movements of the stick were sufficient to flex the wings and tails in a sophisticated version of the wing-warping technique invented by the Wright brothers.

  Manual control was in fact only an override mechanism. Once the marsplane had a des
tination entered into its computer it was happy to fly there by itself. If the pilot preferred eye-beam mode, the marsplane’s computer would readily accommodate–one could steer simply by looking where one wanted to go.

  A cluster of graphic screens displayed instrument summaries, but the pilot’s principal aid was a false-color holographic projection of the atmosphere. The hologram was constructed from onboard and satellite weather data, and as Khalid now demonstrated by switching on the projector, it completely surrounded them. No matter which way they looked, the atmosphere outside the plane seemed as tangible as multicolored smoke. Even here inside the hangar, small eddies were visible as intricate pastel spirals.

  “Tower, this is TP Five,” Khalid said. “We’re ready for rollout.”

  “Roger, Five,” said the tower’s disembodied voice. “You’ve got good weather, prevailing winds light steady at thirty knots out of the east-northeast. We’ll open the doors and hook you to the catapult.”

  Sparta looked around curiously from her high perch in the clear canopy. Pressure-suited ground crew appeared out of the hangar’s gloom, one coming to the nose and two moving to opposite sides of the plane. They took hold of the distant wingtips–the ends of the wings were so far away that they dwindled to pencil points from her point of view–and lifted them from the floor. The ground crew began walking the plane toward the hangar doors. Only a belly wheel beneath the fuselage was touching the tile.

  It seemed incongruous that three tiny humans could manhandle such an enormous contraption, but on Mars the whole plane, passengers and all, weighed about half what an antique Volkswagen weighed on Earth.

  Meanwhile the inner hangar doors were rolling back. The hangar was equipped with a primitive kind of airlock, not an airlock so much as a windlock; the space between the wide inner and outer doors was just enough to accommodate the craft’s short fore-to-aft length. When the marsplane had been rolled into the area, the inner doors rolled shut behind it, protecting the planes inside from the gusty wind.

  The outer doors slowly opened, unveiling the morning landscape of the shuttleport, the wide, wind-carved valley with its flanking cliffs. The great glider shuddered and creaked as the “light breeze” tried to lift it. Seen from the cockpit, thick pink garlands of atmosphere, coiled like the clouds of Jupiter, writhed in the computer’s holographic projection. The ground crew threw their diminutive weight on the wings. Sparta sensed the constant, instantaneous adjustments of the control surfaces which kept the plane, little more than a big ungainly kite, from flipping sideways and smashing to bits.

  One of the ground crew fastened the hook and cable of a gas catapult to a hardpoint on the bottom of the fuselage; in the catapult launch system Sparta recognized more technology borrowed from the Wright brothers. Khalid commlinked the controller–“Ready”–and then turned to look over his shoulder at Sparta. “Here we go.”

  The acceleration was gentle and quick. As the catapult drew the craft down the short track into the wind, the plane’s agile wings and tail fins kept it pointed true until it was free of the ground. Then, suddenly, they were skimming the dunes.

  Khalid quickly found an updraft over a lightcolored patch of dunes in the middle of the valley. They began to ascend in a wide spiral, rising rapidly enough to feel it in the pits of their stomachs.

  “The satellite net reports there’s a steady northeasterly windstream at seven thousand meters,” he said. “That’s enough to give us clearance if we find ourselves heading down the Valles.”

  As the huge plane wheeled and banked, Sparta peered out of its bubble canopy, fascinated. Through the false holographic atmosphere she could see a faulted, cratered landscape falling away beneath her, a crisply intricate topography of tawny buttes and golden sands. A haze of frozen fog hung in the depths of the canyons of the Labyrinth. Overhead, the sky was rosy pink, streaked with wisps of ice-crystal cloud.

  Off to the west the Labyrinth of Night was filling with the morning’s orange light. Far to the east, the Valles Marineris widened and deepened as it dwindled toward the distant horizon. At its deepest the system of canyons descended to astonishing depths, with a vertical drop of six kilometers from plateau to valley floor, but from above true perspective was lost, and the land seemed to flatten as the plane swiftly mounted to catch the jetstream.

  Morning on Mars . . .

  * * *

  “Checking in. The name’s Mycroft.”

  “What the hell do you want?”

  “New hire. Grade seven mechanic.”

  The phonelinks chortled continuously in rhythm with the constant hissing of the airlock, as busy men and women passed in and out of the dispatch office.

  “Look, bud, you can see we’re kinda occupied around here.”

  “Yevgeny Rostov said I was to be here by eight-thirty today and they’d put me on a crummy to the pipeline head.”

  “Rostov?” The fat clerk’s manners improved at the mention of Yevgeny’s name. “Who’d you say you was?”

  “My name’s Mycroft. Don’t mind telling you I’m glad to get this job. God knows I been lookin.’ Up on the station they . . .”

  “Can it, pal. I get all the soap opera I want on the viddie.” The clerk tapped a greasy keyboard and consulted a flatscreen on which, days or weeks ago, someone had spilled coffee. “Yeah, Mycroft, you’re on the manifest. Says you’re a grade eight.” The computer excreted a yellow cardboard hard copy. “Here’s your job ticket.” He handed it to Blake. “But you’re outta luck, Mycroft. No crummy today.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because they all friggin’ blew up, that’s why.” The lardslick clerk showed his rotten teeth and broke into squeaky giggles.

  “They what?”

  “Little industrial accident–that’s what they’re callin’ it. All the personnel carriers are indefinitely outta commission. Doesn’t mean you don’t have a job at the line head, Mycroft. Just means you gotta get there on your own.”

  “When’s the next trip?”

  “Depends how long it takes to get new crummies down here. You happen to know the slow-freighter time from Earth these days?”

  Blake stared at him. “Slow freighter . . . ? Oh, I see what you mean . . .”

  “Maybe you can talk some trucker into givin’ you a ride. But them drivers usually want plenty. Whaddya got to offer?”

  Blake shook his head and turned away, dejected.

  But when, entering the airlock, he paused to seal his helmet, he allowed himself a private smile.

  The marsplane found the jet stream and raced northeastward, in the direction of distant Cydonia. Khalid’s remarks were as neutral as a tour guide’s. “Lunae Lacus–the so called Lake of the Moon–is a depression north of here where the atmospheric pressure is high enough for water–should it ever get above freezing–to stay liquid. That’s one reason it’s been designated ground zero for Project Waterfall. Our route will skirt the Candor region. If the winds aloft hold steady, we’ll be paralleling the truck route from Labyrinth City north to the pipeline head.”

  “Are we going all the way to the Lacus?”

  “No, we’re resurveying an area just ahead of the pipeline. We could easily reach Lunae Lacus within a sol if we wanted to–our ground speed right now is over five hundred kilometers per hour–but if we went that far, with present weather conditions we’d probably have to circle the entire planet to get back.”

  “How far’s the pipeline?”

  “About three thousand kilometers.”

  “So we could get there in sixhours at this speed.”

  “At this altitude, yes. But when we drop to make the sensor runs we’ll lose ground speed. We’ll spend most of our time on this trip working our way back, moving across the wind at low altitude. Could be two or three days. We’ve got plenty of time to talk.” He laughed. “Maybe Candor will inspire us.”

  She laughed dryly. “If Candor inspires you, Dr. Sayeed, then tell me why you really wanted me with you on this flight.”

 
“So that we could talk,” he replied instantly. “Talk openly. The hotel is a sieve of information. Name any group or individual with an interest in your investigation, and you can bet they have a recording of our luncheon conversation.”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me if you had made your own recording,” she said. Sparta herself recorded everything that interested her in her memory; she needed no machinery to do it for her. “And this plane’s black boxis recording what we say now. Why should either of us be concerned?”

  “I want to warn you.”

  “Of what?”

  “I think someone is trying to kill you.”

  There was no hint of melodrama or insincerity in his voice, but her flesh tingled. “Who and why?”

  “I don’t know who. I hear things.”

  “From whom?”

  “Nothing specific, and perhaps I’m reading in meaning where none exists. Prott has made some remarks . . .”

  “What remarks?”

  “To the effect that he hopes you watch your back.”

  “You think he wants to kill me?”

  “No . . . I don’t think so. I don’t know. As for the why, now that I’ve met you I would guess that it has something to do with your identity.” He turned to look at her over his shoulder. “Your holos didn’t give you away, but as soon as I saw you yesterday, Linda . . .”

  “You mustn’t call me that,” she said.

  “If you prefer–”

  “The record of this portion of the flight will be destroyed,” she said. It was an order.

  “Fine. But it isn’t only me. I doubt that any of us who were in SPARTA could fail to recognize you.”

  For a moment she said nothing. She remembered that Blake too had recognized her easily, that day in Manhattan–from a city block away. Had SPARTA formed a bond among its members that neither Sparta’s cosmetic surgery nor her acting could disguise?

  “Are you transmitting now?”