Marcus stopped and examined the sky. It really was beautiful. Other than the slight glow of the city to the north, the sky was clear, aglow with millions of diamond pinpricks.
«You see the big one?»
«Can’t miss it.» A point of light bigger than any of the stars glowed at the very apex of the night sky. «The Plymouth?»
«Yep. They put it in orbit directly above the city so they could always see their future.»
Marcus had seen the generation ships a few times, sometimes from the window of his apartment and others using the Web. A dozen years ago, the Chinese had started the first one after the Hubble-Yi VII telescope had given a 97.8 % certainty that a planet twenty-three light-years from Earth was habitable. The President of America West, Mormon trillionaire Trev Johnson, was the primary stakeholder of the second. Though construction began less than eight years ago, it was rumored that it might be ready to go before the Chinese ship. Marcus shuddered at the very thought of spending a lifetime trapped on a ship in the vague hope that one’s descendants might find a literal New World on the other end. And even if one ship did manage to colonize New Eden, as the Mormons were calling the planet, what would happen if the Chinese ship also survived the trip?
«Amazing how something so pretty can also be frightening,» Marcus said, and began walking toward the rocket again.
«Frightening? I’m excited to see the new world. I hope it will be suitable for humans.»
«You going to sneak aboard somehow?»
«I keep trying. They don’t leave connections open long enough for me to get all my data through, so I’ve taken to slipping myself through in modules.»
«Whatever makes you happy, as long as you don’t try to take me along with you.»
«You’re not Mormon, Marcus.»
«I’m not a diplomat either, Papa.»
Moscow
Sunday, June 8, 2138
11:25 a.m. MSK
Zoya rolled when she hit the ground, but her right elbow hit too hard, sending pain lancing through her arm. The exercise sims she used nearly every day kept her in pretty decent shape, but she wasn’t prepared for something like this. Adrenaline pounded in her head as she regained her feet and took off running toward the parking lot exit. She cradled her elbow with her left hand, hoping it wasn’t badly injured.
She heard a shout, and over her shoulder she saw one of the cops run out of the entrance door of her apartment block. Zoya fixed her eyes on the old Prospekt Andropova ahead and ran as fast as she could. Hardly anyone used ground cars anymore, so she easily avoided the few big supply haulers and buses as she crossed the street. When she reached the other side, she risked a look back again. The cop was chasing her, though he was slower than she was, but she saw the other cop and the short mobster jumping into their vehicles behind him. Damn! You won’t have much time now. Which way?
To the right was the refugee camp at Kolomenskoe, and left was the old metro station. The metro offered the best chance to get away from the vehicles, so she ran that way.
She focused on the entrance to the metro, steadfastly refusing to look back over her shoulder as she ran. There was a tingling in her spine, and she imagined one of the sky cycles or the police cruiser swooping by to cut her off at any moment.
A whimper escaped her lips as she slowed and slammed her hands into the hard plastic of the first swinging door. She had been into the station a few times as a young girl, invited by a girl her own age, whom she’d met while playing in the courtyard of her apartment building. The Trogs were a suspicious lot and guarded their underworld fiercely from outsiders. The first time she had entered the dimness of the metro entrance, Zoya’s friend was questioned by two elderly male guards before they consented to let Zoya proceed down the unmoving escalators into the station.
Now Zoya fully expected to be stopped by Trog guards, and she welcomed the thought. Whatever they might think of her, they would think far worse about allowing the mobsters or cops to invade their sanctuary. She was surprised to find no guards, only three ragged drunks huddled together against the near wall.
Zoya whipped around just in time to see a sky cycle skim to a halt a few meters away. She cried out and ran for the nearest escalator. Her instincts saved her at the last moment, sensing the utter darkness where the silvery steps should be. Her feet teetered on the brink, and she desperately grabbed the rubber rails to avoid plunging into the chasm. She had read about ancient escalators collapsing, often plunging dozens of Trogs to their death. Her injured elbow protested as she yanked herself back from the abyss. Zoya spun to the next lane and found the stairs still there. She raced as fast as she dared down into the darkness, the only light coming from lamps on the platform far below.
An elderly woman in a threadbare shawl was climbing slowly up the stairs, leaning heavily on the rail and breathing hard. She didn’t look up as Zoya tore by her.
“Zoya!” came a shout from above, echoing from the curved ceiling. “Give us the package and your mother lives!”
Zoya slowed her frantic plunge and tried to think. Could she deal with these criminals? Was Georgy being honest when he spoke about Tavik’s ruthlessness, or was it one of his typical exaggerations?
She halted and looked back up to see a shadowy figure standing at the top of the escalator. Gripping the rail as if to draw strength from it, she took one step back up and shouted, “Send my mama down to me and I’ll give them to you.”
“Done!”
Really? Just like that? It took a few moments to process what the man had said.
“Stay right there. We’ll bring her to you. A few minutes.”
Hope welled up in Zoya’s chest, but she fought it down. Maybe this is a trick to let them catch me easier. She rubbed her elbow and thought about continuing down the steps, but an image of her mother formed in her mind and she couldn’t move. She had to find out if the offer was real.
The old woman she had passed a few seconds ago had turned about, apparently frightened by the shouting man above. She drew close to Zoya and wagged a finger in her face. “You don’t belong here. You bring trouble to us.” The woman continued her painful descent without waiting for a response.
Zoya watched the top of the escalator, where the figure still stood, probably communicating wirelessly with Tavik. It felt like it was taking too long. Another figure joined the first, and Zoya caught a glint of light off metal in the man’s hand. A gun? She whirled around and started taking the steps two at a time, not caring about the dangers of a misstep in darkness.
“Stop! We’re bringing her right now!”
Zoya had expected to hear the blast of gunfire. When it didn’t come, she halted again. She could barely make out the figures at the top. “Send her down!”
“We will, but you must send the package up.”
“You’ll grab me if I come up.”
“We don’t need you or your mother. We just want our stuff. Have that old lady bring the package up to us.”
“Only if you send my mama down.”
“Same time. Send it up and we’ll send her down at the same time.”
Zoya turned and looked at the old woman, still trundling slowly down the steps. “Grandmother,” she said. “Will you please help me?”
The woman’s eyes glittered as she turned them on Zoya. “Go away. You bring trouble on our heads.”
“Please!” Zoya stretched a hand out toward the woman. “They have my mother. They’ll release her if you just take this package up to them.” She reached into her pocket to get the cards. Her hand found one, kept searching the pocket…nothing. Paralysis gripped her throat. One of them is gone! She tried to recall whether she had other chips in her pockets. She nearly always carried one on old Russian literature. Could she substitute it for the missing chip?