Hide and Seek

by Paul Preuss

  On the radio mast of Phobos base a working dish was still mounted, aimed at a place in the sky where Earth had been half a century ago. Sparta pulled herself effortlessly up the tall mast and twisted the dish into a new alignment, pointing it in the general direction of the nearest of the synchronous communications satellites orbiting Mars. Anything approximating line of sight would do. The old dish’s beam wasn’t that tight.

  She bounded down to the hut at the base of the mast. She pushed open the unsealed hatch and entered the empty, airless building.

  She closed the hatch behind her and turned on her helmet lamp. She saw the interior exactly as the Soviet and American explorers had left it–or at least as the monument’s administrators wanted visitors to believe they had left it.

  The garbage had been cleared away. A couple of stained coffee bulbs were prudently wired to the table. Checkpads were fastened to a desktop by eternally effective Velcro tabs, their ballpoint-ink entries still legible. A big plastic-covered map of Mars was bolted to the wall.

  But here was the prize: a radio in pristine condition, mounted above the bench. A check of its power meter indicated that, after half a century, hordes of electrons still swarmed through its superconducting capacitors. Sparta had been prepared to sacrifice suit power if she had to, but it seemed that wouldn’t be necessary.

  The tool kit from the Mars Cricket yielded up what she needed to improvise connectors so she could plug her suitcomm into the antique amplifier. She hesitated a moment before sending her message. Once she started broadcasting, she would be as visible to Doradus as Doradus had been visible to her–more so, for her message would be picked up by communication satellites and rebroadcast, and to hear her Doradus wouldn’t even have to be in line of sight.

  Still, the cumbersome freighter would take its time crawling around the moon toward her. Even its SADs would take precious seconds to arrive on target. Sparta could call for help and still make her escape.

  “Mars Station Board of Space Control, this is a Code Red emergency. Officer in trouble at Phobos Base. Requiring immediate assistance. Repeat, officer in trouble at Phobos Base. Require any available units to render immediate assistance. Mars Station Board of Space Control, this is a Code Red . . .”

  She was startled by the voice that crackled in her ears: Inspector Troy, this is Lieutenant Fisher, Mars Station Board of Space Control. We are here to render assistance. Give us your position, please.

  Her earlier message had been received after all. “About time,” she said. “Where are you?”

  Station-keeping, approximately above the sub-Mars point.

  “Do you see Doradus?”

  As we came in, Doradus was proceeding under full power to high-orbit injection. They do not respond to queries.

  “Order Doradus impounded, triple-A priority.”

  Wilco, Inspector.

  “I’ll meet you at Phobos Base. I want you to come alone.”

  Say again.

  “I want one officer on the surface, Lieutenant. One only.”

  We’ll do what you say, Inspector . . .

  She keyed off abruptly and left the radio hut, slamming the hatch behind her. She skimmed like a gliding bird down the smooth black inner walls of Stickney, alighting on the rim of a smaller, younger crater deep inside. She hooked herself into the makeshift foxhole with gloved hands, turned, and fixed her macrozoom eye on the shining structure she had just vacated.

  Perhaps Doradus really was fleeing, maintaining communications silence. She could not see it from her position. Perhaps the Board of Space Control really was coming to the rescue, in the person of this Lieutenant Fisher. But Sparta knew the roster of the Mars Station unit. Yes, there was a Fisher based at Mars Station, but she was a clerk.

  She waited to see whether a man or a missile would keep the rendezvous at Phobos Base.

  Blake had been spinning helplessly for four minutes when the Kestrel’s hatch opened and a spacesuited figure emerged. The orange man was wearing a high-pressure suit with a full maneuvering unit. He was carrying something Blake didn’t recognize, but it looked like a gun. He aimed himself toward the limb of Phobos and jetted away. The hatch closed automatically behind him.

  Blake’s oxygen gauge glowed red for “empty.”

  The sun was behind the spacesuited figure as it swept over the edge of Stickney under full maneuvering jets and homed on the radio shed at Phobos Base. Sparta watched as “Fisher” landed expertly outside the shed, opened its hatch, and disappeared inside. A few seconds later the hatch opened and he reemerged.

  He was half a kilometer away, but to her eye he might be standing half a meter away. She could not see his face through his reflective visor, but she knew he was no member of the Space Board. He was holding a laser rifle.

  Troy–or should I call you Linda?–I’m sure you can see me. And I know you have the plaque. If you give it to me now, I may still have time to save Blake Redfield’s life.

  His voice in her helmet made her scalp crawl, but she said nothing. Let the orange man come to her.

  How long can you wait, Linda? My oxygen tanks are full. You’ve been up here for hours. I’ll find you eventually–when you’re dead–so why not give up now and save Blake? The poor fellow is adrift in space without a maneuvering unit, without a friend in sight, with no pressure in his tanks.

  Let him come to her . . .

  Oh, I understand–you think perhaps this is just a clever fiction. But remember? You yourself demanded that the No ble Water Works put its executive spaceplane at the disposal of Mr. Redfield. You should have inquired who the pilot was–not that the name would have meant anything to you– and of course, I was happy to oblige you. You can see the Kestrel just about now, I think, if you are more or less where I suspect you are. It should be rising in the east.

  The bright dart of a spaceplane had indeed crept into view above the eastern crater rim. When Sparta looked closer, she could see a tiny white dot hovering beside it, almost lost in the starry background.

  Blake and I came to understand each other rather well during our flight. I assure you that he is pining for my re turn.

  “Here I am,” said Sparta. She straightened slowly, keeping her boots in touch with the ground. Her lower body was protected by the rim of the small crate. Let the orange man come to her . . .

  Ah . . . show me the plaque, dear.

  “As soon as you have it, you’ll kill me.”

  I’m afraid you’re right. I deeply regret I haven’t managed to do the job properly before now.

  “Why should I believe that you’ll save Blake?”

  Because I don’t kill for amusement, Linda. I will save him if I can. I cannot guarantee that it isn’t already too late.

  Very slowly she reached into her thigh pocket and pulled out the plaque. Its unmarred surface glittered in the bright sun, a shining star against the coal-black slopes of Stickney.

  Thank you, dear. He raised his rifle quickly, smoothly, and took aim. His gloved finger squeezed the trigger as–

  –a lance of light speared him.

  With deadly precision Sparta had directed the plaque’s reflection straight into his eyes. She saw him flinch and spin away. While the filtered sun was not bright enough to blind him through his visor–not for more than a moment or two–his vision must be full of dancing corruscations.

  She hated what she did next, for Sparta would risk her own life rather than kill another person–but she had no right to sacrifice Blake to her desperate ideals. She raised the shotgun at her side and sited it with inhuman accuracy at the confused man above her. The explosion drove her back against the crater wall. The shot pattern sped toward its target with no drag and insignificant deflection.

  But he’d been quick. As he’d jerked himself away from the painful brightness of the mirror he’d dived for the ground. Sparta’s blast tore a ragged hole through the venerable aluminum of the Phobos Base radio hut behind where his helmet had been. By the time she’d recovered her balance and j
acked a second shell into the gun, he was out of sight.

  His suitcomm still reached her. A brave try, Linda. Between the two of us we would have an interesting contest. But we are not the only two people involved.

  Black spots were dancing in front of Blake’s eyes. The aching pressure to open his mouth and gasp for air was becoming unbearable. He knew that if he did so, there would be no air to breathe. He also knew–although it took extreme effort to persuade himself of this truth–that the blood’s dissolved oxygen lasts many minutes beyond the brain’s conviction that one is suffocating.

  The modern spacesuit is the product of over a century of development, and one of the earliest improvements was the perfection of the interchangeable life-support unit. Unlike the spacesuits of the 1980s and ’90s, the tanks on pressure suits and deep-space suits could readily be traded in vacuum.

  Blake’s tank was empty, so he’d taken it off.

  He held his breath while he spun slowly in space. He let himself spin once, then again, counting as precisely as he could: “One, one thousand, two, one thousand, three, one thousand . . .” If anoxia overcame him the counting would amount to nothing, but at the moment he still trusted his reason. He was feeling anything but euphoric.

  When his back was to the spaceplane, he hurled the pack away from him as hard as he could. It massed a fraction of what he and the rest of the suit massed together, and it tumbled away fast. He moved backward more slowly–but just as inevitably.

  He grinned. Good ol’ Isaac Newton.

  By the time he reached the Kestrel he was turned half toward it. There were no handholds on the streamlined surface of the spaceplane, but he caught the leading edge of its swing wing and held on for his life. The recessed handle of the airlock was just beyond his grasp, but by now this was all starting to seem like fun. Blake giggled. He wished he didn’t feel so damn good. That meant he was going to die real soon. What a gas . . . !

  He let go and floated toward the handle. He got hold of it. Now what?

  Oh, yeah. Twist it, you nut.

  He twisted it. The hatch sprang open in his face so hard he broke into more paroxysms of giggles. Somehow a strap on his sleeve got caught in the handle. It saved his life; the opening hatch would have pushed him off to Phobos.

  He climbed into the airlock and slapped drunkenly at the buttons on the wall. The hatch closed behind him. Air spewed into the airlock.

  None of it reached him inside his suit. The world had narrowed to a tiny point of light before he remembered to unlatch his helmet.

  Calling the pilot of the Kestrel. This is Blake Redfield calling the pilot of the Noble spaceplane. This is going out over all channels, Red. I’m talking to you, but every ship in Mars space is hearing what I’m telling you. Everybody in that freighter is hearing what I’m telling you. Everybody in Mars Station Traffic Control is hearing what I’m telling you. I’m sitting in the lefthand seat of your plane, Red, and you’d better hope somebody comes to take you off that rock, be cause I’m not letting you back inside.

  Sparta recognized his voice before the first sentence had left his mouth. “Blake, hear me. Blake, this is Ellen. Hear me.”

  Ellen!

  “Take immediate evasive action. You are a target. Take immediate evasive action. Do you read me? Do you understand? You must take . . .”

  She saw the rockets of the spaceplane burst into blue flame. He’d understood enough to act on her warning. She waited in agony as the Kestrel wheeled in the sky . . . waiting for the incoming torpedo from Doradus.

  Within the last few seconds Doradus itself had risen in the east, within easy range of the Kestrel.

  A burst of scrambled communication came over her commlink. And at that moment she saw the orange man rise from his hiding place and begin to run–run along the north rim of Stickney in astonishing strides, one, two, three–a hundred meters, two hundred at a leap–then stretch like a longjumper and soar right off the surface of the moon. The gas jets of his maneuvering unit puffed and augmented his takeoff. His white-suited figure dwindled in the direction of Doradus.

  She held him in her sights. The shotgun blast, unhindered by atmosphere, undeflected by strong gravity, would have intercepted him at any point on his trajectory. The pattern would have spread and spread; perhaps only one massive pellet would have impacted his helmet. That would have been enough.

  She lowered the gun.

  Almost before the Doradus’s airlock hatch had closed behind him, there was a sudden blast of steering jets and the pirate ship’s main drive burst forth in the fury and splendor of fusion exhaust. In seconds Doradus was shrinking sunward, free of Phobos at last. Sparta wondered if the ship’s commander were thankful to leave, even in defeat, this miserable lump of rock that had so annoyingly balked him of what should have been easy prey.

  Meanwhile the Kestrel was spinning like a top.

  “Blake, try to get control of that thing and park it long enough for me to come up and get aboard.”

  I’m trying, Ellen, I’m trying.

  A female voice broke into the suitcomm channel. Inspector Troy. Inspector Troy. This is Inspector Sharansky, Board of Space Control. We are responding to your request for assistance. Please advise. Inspector Troy . . .

  “This is Troy.”

  Troy? Is you?

  “Is me. Sharansky, I’ve got one thing to say to you.”

  Go ahead, please.

  “Great timing.”

  XX

  The channels in the metal were different from each other but all the same height and width and depth. They ran in straight lines. There were three dozen different kinds of them, but they repeated themselves in various sequences until the total number of them, etched in the metal, was a thousand and more. . . .

  Sparta caught herself drifting and made an effort to concentrate. Less than a meter in front her, overhead spotlights focused their beams on the shining Martian plaque, which rested on a velvet cushion under a dome of laser-cut Xanthian crystal, glittering as if it had never been disturbed, never even been touched.

  Sparta and Lieutenant Polanyi stood alone in the empty room. The members of the official delegation which had restored the relic to its shrine, local dignitaries all–the mayor had gotten a fast liner back from his leadership conference in order to preside–had finally drunk the last bottle of champagne and made their separate ways home.

  “As soon as we get out of here we can set the alarms.”

  She nodded. “Sorry for the delay, Lieutenant. In all the excitement I never stopped to look at the thing. An odd relic.”

  “That’s true enough. Can’t scratch it, but something busted it once. Must have been quite a crunch.”

  Sparta glanced at the young Space Board officer. “What do you know of its lore?”

  “The ‘lore’ is mostly made up by the tour operators, I think.” He was as bored as he sounded; he recited the facts as if reading from a file. “No one ever found out where it came from–somewhere near the north pole; that’s all anyone knows. The man who found it hid it, told no one the circumstances of its discovery–it was found in his effects after his death. There were rumors of a hoard of alien objects, but in ten years nothing else has ever come to light. The brochures call the thing the ‘Soul of Mars.’ Poetic name for a broken plate.”

  She contemplated the etched surface of the plaque. “Do you really think it came from Mars?” she asked. “Do you think it was made on Mars?”

  “I’m no expert in these matters, Inspector.” Polanyi didn’t bother to hide his impatience.

  “I don’t think it’s from here,” she said.

  “Oh? What makes you think not?”

  “Just a feeling I get,” she said. “Well, thanks for indulging me. Let’s set the alarms so you can go home.”

  A scream of self-destructing synthekords on the sound system maintained the requisite noise level in the Park-Your-Pain, even as the hoarse yells of conversation fell silent around the four newcomers, who opened their faceplates
and pushed into the crowd.

  “Don’t worry. With me, you are safe.” Yevgeny Rostov threw a massive paw around Sparta’s shoulders and crushed her to his side. Behind him, Blake and Lydia Zeromski pressed close together in his wake.

  Yevgeny glared at the other patrons as he moved toward the bar. “Not all cops are tools of capitalist imperialists,” he shouted. “This is brave woman. She brought back Martian plaque. All are comrades here.”

  The people in the bar peered curiously at Sparta for long seconds; Blake too got his share of odd glances, but he was used to the place by now. Everybody gradually lost interest and resumed yelling at each other over the music.

  “So, Mike, you are not fink after all? Another cop!” The four new friends reached the sanctuary of the stainless steel bar. “I buy you beer anyway.” Yevgeny released his hold on Sparta and walloped Blake on the shoulder hard enough to send him staggering.

  The bartender didn’t bother to ask what anybody wanted; he poured Yevgeny’s regular for them all. Four foaming mugs of black, bitter bock appeared on the bartop.

  “Lydia, we toast to getting these people off our planet as soon as possible.”

  Sparta raised her mug gingerly. Blake was more enthusiastic. “Thanks, comrade,” he shouted. “To the next shuttle out of here.”

  Four mugs collided with enough force to slop foam.

  “But do me a favor, Yevgeny,” Blake yelled. “Don’t think of me as a cop. This is just a hobby.”

  Sparta laughed. “You said it. Amateur night on Mars.”

  “You blow up truck yards for a hobby?” Lydia shouted, loud enough to be heard above the rocket scream of the synthekords.

  Blake’s eyes widened with innocence. Blow up what? he mouthed, voiceless.

  “I forgot,” Lydia yelled at him, eyeing Sparta. “We shouldn’t talk about it where somebody might be listening.”

  “I’ll second that!” Blake shouted back. “To local 776 of the Pipeline Workers Guild, long may it live and prosper!”

  He was greeted with cheers from everyone within a meter’s distance–a half a dozen or so, the only ones who could hear him.