Here in this very street Chief Monitor Bock had spoken with Training Master Lycon. Hansen had talked to a monitor who had witnessed everything. He had warned Bock against bringing the charges to the Training Master. Highborn were notoriously touchy about their areas of authority. Stubborn Bock, outraged at how the shock troopers had stolen from him and killed one of his top operatives in the cutting room, Bock had claimed he had them. Shootings in public, assaulting policemen Bock had ranted. Well, Bock was dead, slain by the Training Master. It was amazing really. The files said that Lycon was a paragon of Highborn virtue. Yet he had killed the Chief Monitor in order to protect Marten Kluge and his allies. It was very strange and unusual. Despite his warning to Bock, Hansen still couldn’t fathom it.
And now he’d been summoned to see the Praetor.
Hansen mopped his face and dared touch his stomach. Pain flared. He groaned. The Praetor—why did the lord of the Sun Works Factory want to speak with him?
He popped another painkiller, straightened his uniform and hurried down the street.
Had the Training Master known about the dust? Is that why he’d killed Bock? Hansen dreaded the pain booth and even more, he dreaded the, the… He groaned. He didn’t even want to envision the punishment worse than the pain booth, no, not for a moment. The Highborn were unbelievably cruel and savage. Oh, why had he ever agreed to help Bock make and sell dream dust? They had money, lots and lots of money, that’s true. They were almost millionaires now—well, Bock had been a near millionaire—but that was meaningless before the wrath of the Highborn.
“Why, Bock?” whispered Hansen. “Why tell the Training Master?”
He swallowed, straightened his uniform once more and knocked on the Praetor’s door.
A stern-eyed woman with ponderous breasts ushered him down a hall where others strode this way and that. She brought him to a steel chair and told him to sit. He did, and he fidgeted, sweated and gritted his teeth whenever a cramp came.
“Monitor?”
Hansen almost yelped in terror. Instead, he sat straighter and nodded.
“This way, please,” said a husky, uniformed man.
Hansen followed him down another plain hall. The man pointed at an open office door. Hansen peered in, gulped and tiptoed into a spartan room. The huge Praetor in his stiff uniform, with his back to him, sat behind a mammoth desk with a model of a Doom Star the only thing on it. The dull blue walls were bare. Nothing hung on them, no paintings, mementos or plaques, nothing. The Praetor spoke softly into a wall-phone. It sounded like the rumblings of a tiger. Suddenly, the huge Praetor turned and stared at him with those eerie pink eyes. The eyes tightened, and menace, a near hysterical rage barely held under control swept into the room.
Hansen was horrified to realize that he stared at the Praetor. He immediately looked at the floor, at his feet. He almost apologized, but then he would have spoken first, a taboo breaking of the worst sort. The Praetor’s presence, his vitality and excellence seemed to expand and roll against him. Hansen felt smaller and smaller, and his knees quaked and the worst cramp of all roiled in his gut.
“Monitor Hansen.”
“Yes, Highborn.”
“You have heard of Chief Monitor Bock’s death?”
“Yes, Highborn.” Hansen oozed sweat and fear.
The Praetor paused. “Are you ill, Monitor? You sway and your pulse races. I detect abnormal fear.”
“I’ll be fine, Highborn. May, may I speak?”
“Speak.”
“I’m awed to be here, Highborn. I truly am not worthy. Perhaps that is the ‘abnormal fear’ you sense.”
“Hmm. Perhaps. Training Master Lycon slew the Chief Monitor.”
Hansen remained silent, as he hadn’t been directly addressed.
“Did you know the Chief Monitor well?”
“Yes, Highborn,” Hansen whispered.
“Speak up, preman.”
“Yes, Highborn,” Hansen almost shouted.
“Would you like to avenge his death?”
Hansen looked up in surprise. The Praetor stared strangely at him. Hansen dropped his gaze and peered at the spotless floor.
“When I ask a question, preman, I want an answer.”
“Highborn, I-I would never dream of doing anything against one of the Master Race.”
“Have you ever seen the Training Master?”
“No, Highborn.”
“He is not a true Highborn. He is an original, a beta.”
Hansen said nothing. He didn’t understand what was going on.
“A beta slew my Chief Monitor. Now I lack. I have studied the files and I find that Chief Monitor Bock relied heavily upon you. You will be the new Chief Monitor.”
“Thank you, Highborn,” Hansen said, his mind racing.
“Your first order of business will be to watch the shock troops. I want you to find anything out of the ordinary. 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.