Several times he almost panicked and looked for a nonexistent hiding place, when repair craft and patrol boats speared down toward him.
Then he realized…all they were worrying about was the sudden expensive explosion kilometers away in Exotics. If they even spotted him, one man in a worksuit wouldn't be connected with the destruction.
Not yet, anyway.
He held out as long as he could—until his suit's air supply began to rasp in his ears, and he could hear the regulator gurgle at him—then went to the first hatchway he saw. Sten guessed it was for routine maintenance.
He fumbled with its catches, and suddenly the hatch slid smoothly open. He crawled in the tiny lock chamber, closed the outer door, and hit the cycle button.
The inner door creaked open—at least there was air on the other side to carry noise—and Sten stepped out.
A long, deserted corridor stretched away before and behind him. Dust was thick on the walkway, and several of the overheads were burnt out. Sten slumped down against a bulkhead. He was free. He was home.
He considered those two thoughts. And smiled. His smile became laughter.
Free. Until they caught him. Home? On Vulcan? But he laughed, as Hite had taught him. It seemed like the right thing to do.
CHAPTER TEN
THORESEN HURRIED OFF the gravsled toward the shuttle. A few more minutes and he would be off Prime World and heading back to Vulcan. He was still nervous about the Emperor and half believed that at any second he would be arrested.
The Baron tensed as several guardsmen walked around a corner. But they were deep in conversation and were obviously not after him. He relaxed.
A certain wild part of him almost wished for a confrontation. Thoresen was not used to bowing to other men. He didn't like the feeling of terror. He walked past the soldiers, thinking that he could take them. Instantly. His mind fingered the possibilities. He would rip the throat out of the first one. The second would die as he broke his nose and drove the cartilage into the brain. The third—he shook off the feeling. He was breathing easier as he started up the loading ramp.
A little later, he was on the shuttle and heading for the liner orbiting around Prime World. Settling back—really relaxing for the first time since he left Vulcan—Thoresen thought over his meeting with the Emperor.
There were several possibilities: (a) The Emperor was senile. Unlikely. (b) The man was really trying to soothe a few aides. Nonsense. It wasn't his style, (c) The Emperor knew about Bravo Project. Wrong. Thoresen was alive, wasn't he? (d) The Emperor suspected something was up but couldn't prove it. Hence the meeting to feel Thoresen out and issue a subtle warning. Now, that was more probable.
All right. What would be the Emperor's next move? That was easy. He'd tighten the investigation. Send more spies to Vulcan.
The Baron smiled to himself, feeling much better about the situation. He closed his eyes to take a brief nap. Just before he fell asleep he made a note to himself. He'd order Security to clear with him the credentials of all off-worlders. He looked forward to interviewing a few spies personally.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
STEN HAD BEEN on the run for about a month when he met the girl. She was about fifteen and dressed in a shapeless, grimy black coverall. Her face and hands were smeared with grease. And she came within a hair of killing him. Her name was Bet. Sten thought she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
Sten had made it that far by hiding in the ventilation ducts that warrened Vulcan. They varied in size from twenty-meter-wide central ductways to shoulder-wide tubes to individual rooms. The ducts were caked with the grease of years and periodically blocked by huge filter screens. Sten used a small powerdriver he had stolen from a warehouse to get through the screens.
The ventilation ducts went everywhere, giving him quick access to food warehouses and empty apartments when he needed to forage. The only real danger he ever encountered was when he chanced on work parties servicing the filter screens. But they were easy to avoid. He had also heard strange scrabbling and scratching noises which he figured were groups of Delinqs. So far, he had steered clear of them, pretty sure of his reception.
The only thing he feared were the periodic extermination raids mounted by the Company against the Delinqs. From what he had heard back in his Mig days, the few survivors were guaranteed brainburn.
Still, he lived fairly well, and in fact had gained a kilo or two since his escape. He was just getting slightly bored and more than a little picky about his meals when he made a real find.
The hydroponics farm was a glistening green world that stretched out of sight into the mists. Towering purple ferns could be seen and row upon row of every conceivable plant, some in flower, some drooping with ripe vegetables and fruit. Sten had never seen anything like it before except at the vid library.
No humans were about. Only agricultural bots—the lowest form—tending and harvesting the plants. Sten dropped through the duct and landed on the ground. It was soft and green. Sten looked down at his feet. So that's what grass looks like.
He walked through the rows smelling—fresh air? Flowers? Soil? He picked a handful of what he thought might be grapes. Nibbled on them, his face lighting up at the fresh taste. Sten took off his shirt and started stuffing it until the seams nearly split.
A soft footfall. Sten whirled, his knife flashing out. Then he hesitated. It was a girl.
She carried a Sociopatrolman's stun rod, tied to a half-meter-long fiber rod. She hadn't spotted him yet and Sten started to slide back into a row of plants. Then he hesitated. She didn't behave like a Mig or a Tech. She had to be a Delinq.
Sten suddenly remembered one of his father's phrases: "The enemy of my enemy is my friend." He stepped from behind a huge fern into full view.
The girl saw him, froze, then flipped the stun rod on and drew back her arm, ready to hurl the improvised spear at Sten. "Wait."
The girl stopped. Still ready to throw. No fear at all. Her eyes widened as his knife hand flickered and the blade disappeared from view. He held out his hands, palms up.
"You on the run?" Sten nodded. "From where?"
"Exotic Section."
The stun rod came up. "Liar! Nobody's ever—"
"I blew out an area. Came across the outside in a suit. I've been living in the ducts." The girl frowned.
"We heard there was an accident. But that's impossible." Sten waited.
"You've got the muscles that come from lifting. And those scars on your legs…You're a runaway."
"Then what am I doing here?"
The girl smiled humorlessly. "Who knows? Trying to infiltrate us. Just weird. Maybe a real runner." Sten shrugged.
"Hold your hands out again," the girl ordered. "Palms up."
Sten did as she asked. The girl inspected Sten's calloused and work-torn hands and looked closely at the grime-encrusted ragged nails.
"You could've faked that. Strip."
"What?" Sten managed.
"Take off your clothes. If you're an infiltrator, you'll have a soft body like a socioslime." Sten hesitated.
"This stun rod," the girl said evenly, "is power-jumped. It puts out about two hundred percent more force than it should for about two seconds. Then it burns out. But by then whoever it hits is ready for recycling."
Sten fingered the fastener, then stepped out of the suit The girl walked completely around him, then stood, considering for a moment, in front of him. The girl smiled slightly. "It's a very good body." Then her smile vanished.