Clearing the outer door, Zolan leaned against the
buffer, tightened his bootstrap with one gloved
hand, the other pressed against the wall to steady
himself. Seconds later, he pulled away, shook his
leg to settle the boot for comfort, and caught up
with Brad.
Grasping Brad's elbow activated the secure to-suit
circuit. Myra, Hodak, Adari and Kumiko crowded
in close and energized a camouflaging mix of
artificial jive and loud laughs on the nature of
the terrain, the location of the Transit Strip, the
tank town's appearance in the distance, whatever
served as a barrier to electronic penetration.
"The clerk passed the word about us," Zolan said.
"Gave full descriptions and said to notify someone
called 'Scarf'. By the way, he did a lot more than
check our weapons while we stood at the counter.
We were scanned down to our bones. He's sending
the file to his control, including the main portal's
lock combination on the Raven. He'll have a lifter
ready for someone who's to arrive soon. Looks
like they're going to search the ship."
"Fine," Brad nodded. "Nothing there to cause
us a problem. Pass the word as we move along.
No changes in plans until some contacts develop.
Then we'll regroup and go on from there."
Boarding a robo-taxi that had just discharged
suited figures at a nearby mooring tower, the
Sentinels lined up along the taxi's portal. Zolan
consulted a placard on the instrument panel and
punched in the coordinates for Air Lock 22. As
the flitter rose and headed toward the dome Brad
thought back as he weighed their chances.
The processes of intense physical training and
weapons drills, the concentrated telepathic loading
of Plutonian political history and its government's
despotic apparatus had been cleared from their
consciousness; the substance remained. Nor were
they aware of any new or altered neuro-muscular
capabilities or functions. They knew they had a job
to do, and what the job was. They were on their own:
no mercy from one side, no help from the other.
More than three-score sleeps had passed since
their choreographed escape; only the events flashed
through his mind; why they happened did not.
The Raven, on a lengthy umbilical-catwalk, had
been tethered to the Guardian Station, ostensibly
for maintenance after a servicing round of
nearby communications boosters. The ship was
skeleton-staffed. Brad and his companions had
been secretly transferred beforehand to a cubicle
adjacent access to the catwalk.
At Brad's signal, the Sentinels moved quickly.
Hodak, acting as clumsily as he could, slammed
and locked the passageway safety doors with the
loudest noises he could generate, broadcasting the
unusual activity to all within hearing range and for
electronic sensor pickup.
They had lurched and stumbled noisily along the
catwalk, Adari suppressing giggles. As the last
of the six cleared in through the Raven's air
lock, Hodak had hit "Emergency," on appropriate
switches and the ship-to-station servicing lines went
through quick-disconnect. Portals closed and locked.
Within seconds, Brad was on the bridge and his crew
at rehearsed departure stations. The caretaker
officer and his two aides stepped aside, silent,
businesslike. They were Ram's men.
Adari hit the tether-disconnect. Disengaged, the
catwalk coiled in toward the station as the ship
edged away. Signaling Hodak for minimal repulse and
acceleration to increase the drift, Brad ordered all
hands immediately into accelo-nets. He increased
thrusters to 'low' and, following a moment's pause
into 'intermediate'. As soon as he sensed they
could handle the acceleration he stepped the thrust
up to successive levels.
The old tub creaked, pitched, rolled and yawed;
lights flickered and dimmed; systems slipped
into yellow or borderline red on half a dozen
indicators, all recorded on the ship's log. The
Raven all but flapped wings, and true to her
name, took off. To the hundreds who watched
from the station's portholes, the escape was
real. The cover might hold.
The alarms went out from the Guardian Station to
Sector Space Guard, and from there to a patroller
conveniently distant.
Messages spunneled throughout the sector and
to Earth and Luna: "Escape of dangerous felons,",
"Sabotage of station surveillance system,",
"Station 15 unable to respond in time," or
"Immediate pursuit and capture essential" with
abundant 'Expedites' and 'ASAPs' scattered
throughout the text.
The scenario was exquisite. The word was out,
and within hours, had spread system-wide.
##
A couple of million kay out, Ram's men boarded
a well-stocked lifeboat and headed back to a
prearranged pick-up. The Raven settled into
outbound, Brad aware of an opportunity to merge
with traffic at a not too distant spunnel gate.
##
Brad brought his mind back to the present as
the flitter settled on the landing pad near air lock
22. Entering the pressure compartment and attaining
atmospheric balance the Sentinels removed their
suits and sealed them in wall lockers. The switch
of weapons and holsters to clips on their inner
coveralls completed, they strolled out of the
storage room and mingled with a throng of citizen
commuters. Moments later they were on a moving
transit strip on their way to beautiful downtown
Coldfield.
The strip cut across and through narrow streets
and alleys lined with huts fused from the gray
detritus of the planet.
Occasionally, a mall or square appeared along the
transit route, lined with workshops, playgrounds,
and colorful private houses or apartment complexes.
Occasionally, they passed a dwarf tree or a
flowering shrub in an earth-filled container.
Running and leaping alongside the moving strip as
it passed slowly through stations, hawkers waved
and shouted at the commuters and passers-by,
inviting them to examine and purchase the novelties
and artefacts they waved about or in nearby open
air stalls. From above, lighted globes, strung close
beneath the dome, cast a harsh, grotesque glare
across the city.
People swarmed, and a raucous clamor shrilled along
the tightly packed streets and alleys. Men, women
and children in all shapes and sizes: tall, short,
stocky, slender, organic, bionic, robotic, and
combinations thereof. Hairstyles ranged from
totally shaved skulls to elaborate hair-puffs, and
garments from dreary, simple shifts to flamboyant,
complex robes that twisted, circled, and knotted
around their wearers.
This was Planet Pluto post-secession: a mixture of
migrants from across the system. The tank town
took them all, for itself or for Slingshot, or both.
Those who stayed procreated, natural or clone,
according to their customs or inclinations. The
effect was a mixture of breeds whose interactions
had brought out a bewildering patchwork of hybrid
cults, philosophies and arts. Behavior ran the
gamut; newcomers accepted or were overwhelmed.
Kumiko pointed ahead. The Condor loomed,
a sprawling, multi-storied, down-at-the heels
apartment-hotel, its surface colors akin to the
low, drab rise on which it stood.
Disembarking the strip, the companions assembled,
slipped into an alley and entered a portal into the
crowded lobby. Joining the laughing, chattering
throng, they squeezed their way to the desk robot,
and registered as a group. Individual identicards
ejected from an aperture, assigning them to a small
apartment with sleeping cubicles off a common room.
The communal lavatory and electronic bio-shower
were down the hall.
Entering the apartment and tossing their gear into
a corner, they kept up a running chatter. Hodak's
main concern was where their next meal was coming
from.
"Gotta find jobs or we don't eat," he barked as he
hoisted his pack on to a sleep pad and tore at its
flaps.
Kumiko and Adari opened and slammed cabinets,
checked housekeeping supplies and "ooh-ed" and
"ah-ed" each discovery. Myra and Brad stomped
into a sleeping cubicle and heaved the sleeping
pads first one way, then the other.
"Look in the corners," Hodak bawled across the
narrow hall, "that's where the little buggers build
their nests."
Myra shrieked and drew her sidearm as Brad stepped
back. She set the ray-spread to conic and ran the
beam from one end of the pad to the other, into
the corners and along the walls. They inspected
the results, laughed loudly, and went on to the next
cubicle to repeat their exuberant performance.
Zolan strolled from one room to the next,
sharing the action with his noisy friends,
meanwhile scanning the walls, ceiling, floor,
lighting fixtures, visi-screens and cabinets.
He rounded toward Brad and brushed against
him. His fingers pressed their message. The
others, watching, drew the correct conclusion.
The rooms were bugged, sight and sound.