“They don’t have to buy it!” Marten said, outraged. “Woe to them! You have rushed for profit into Balaam’s error.”
“Come again,” said Nadia. She glanced at Omi, but he looked as confused as she did. Then she became suspicious. “Are you saying you don’t want the dream dust?”
Omi shook his head and turned away.
“You really don’t want the dust,” Nadia said in surprise. “Then what do you want? Why are you even here?”
“Listen to me,” Marten said. “We’re going in and taking the dust.”
She laughed. “No, I don’t think you can take it. So that means I’m out of here.” She turned to go.
Marten put his projac under her chin.
She looked deep into his eyes, and smiled. “No, you can’t shoot me either.”
“I can,” Omi said softly.
“Yes,” she said after a moment. “I believe you could. But would he let you?”
Marten exhaled sharply. “Nadia, I’m desperate. I don’t like making a profit out of other people’s misery—in fact, I won’t. But I’ll kill to stay alive.”
“And to make staying alive worth it,” Omi added.
Marten nodded.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Nadia.
“Never mind,” Marten said.
“Let me get this straight,” she said. “I’m supposed to help you rob the monitors. From that moment on, I’m on the run. But none of this is to make any credits. No, it’s to do…” She lifted her eyebrows.
Marten wished he could keep his mouth shut when it counted. But whatever else happened, he had to have a vacc suit.
Omi said, “We’re undercover operatives who watch the monitors.”
She frowned. “That doesn’t make sense. You wouldn’t have needed the barcode eraser from Hansen.”
“Wrong,” Omi said. “We had to make it look as if—”
“If you two want my help you’ll have to tell me what’s really going on. No more smoke,” she said.
Omi glared at Marten, slicing one of his fingers across his muscled throat.
Marten said, “Look—”
“Were they really going to kill me?” she asked.
“Maybe,” Marten said, “maybe just beat you up or just talk to you sternly.”
“But you didn’t hear Hansen order my death?” she asked.
“I didn’t. No.”
Omi groaned, shaking his head.
“Look,” Marten told him. “If we have someone on the outside helping us we can finish faster.”
“Finish what faster?” she asked.
“Let me ask you a question,” Marten said. “Do you want to live here?”
“In the Sun Works Factory?” she asked.
“No,” Marten said, “in the Inner Planets.”
“You mean if I could leave to somewhere else, would I?” she asked.
“Yes.”
She considered it. “I’ve never thought about it before.”
“We want to leave,” Marten said.
She laughed.
“I’m serious.”
She frowned. “How could you leave? Not by high-jacking a shuttle.”
Marten glanced at Omi before saying, “I have a way. It’s dangerous. I won’t deny that. You could come if you wanted, or you could stay. Either way I’ll help you to help us.”
“How can you help me?” she asked.
“By giving you lots of money, for one thing.”
“But I’d have the monitors hunting for me,” she said. “What’s to keep me from going to Hansen and baring all in order to get back into his good graces?”
“Well…” Marten said, trying to think of something.
“If we get caught,” Omi said, “we’ll talk and bring everyone down with us. The Highborn hate dream dust. Your only hope is that we don’t get caught.”
“Or that the monitors kill you,” she said.
Marten grinned. “That won’t be so easy for them.”
“No,” she said, “I suppose not.” She thought about it while chewing her lower lip. “There is the possibility that Dalt and Methlen were dragging me to that corridor to have me killed, right?”
“Who?” asked Marten.
“Dalt and Methlen,” she said. “The monitors you two took out.”
“I’d say without a doubt they were going to kill you,” Omi said.
She heaved a mournful sigh. “Either way it’s dangerous. But…” She eyed Marten. He smiled. She smiled back, before frowning and looking away. “I don’t really trust Hansen. I keep getting the feeling they plan on covering their tracks soon.”
“You’ll help us?” Marten asked.
“At least to hit this place,” she said.
“We’d better hurry,” Omi said.
“One thing,” Marten said.
“What?”
“Do they have any vacc suits there?”
She shrugged. “Two or three are usually lying around. Why?”
“I’ll tell you after we’re done,” Marten said.
Nadia was nervous.
Stay calm, stay calm
, she told herself. Fortunately, she remembered the code-knock. She wore her cap low so they wouldn’t see the fear in her eyes or that her face was pale. The door opened and Omi and Marten followed her in.
Their projacs hissed. Men and women standing at tables chopping and packaging dust fell. One monitor to the side wore body-armor. Omi shot him in the face. Marten bounded across the room, diving as a man popped up over a heavy box.
“Hey!” shouted Omi.
The monitor swiveled a las-rifle at the Korean shock trooper. Marten rolled around the box and pumped shots into the man’s side.
Then silence filled the large room, what was a former engineer tool shed. Marten and Omi checked every corner, then every person and that they were out. The man Omi shot in the face was dead.
“You switched clips,” Nadia whispered, staring at the corpse.
“No,” Omi said, kneeling beside him. “A sliver went through his eye and must have lodged in his brain.”
Marten overturned boxes. Then he shouted and showed Omi a vacc suit.
“Is it good?” asked Omi.
Marten checked it. “It’s good.” He laughed and turned to Nadia. “Help us stuff dust into these suits.”
She continued to stare at the dead man, a monitor, wondering what that meant for her future.
“Help us,” Omi said, who already grabbed baggies and shoved them down a vacc suit.
They worked in silence, until two suits were full. They lifted the suits and put them in a box marked as sealant. Marten rolled out a trolley and hefted the box onto it. “Let’s go,” he said.
“I don’t get it,” she said, bewildered at their speed and professionalism. “If you’re not going to sell the dream dust, why take it? Why not burn it?”
“I want them to think we hit for the dust,” Marten said. “Now do you notice this box?”
She nodded.
“You’re going to make sure it ends up at Dock 10, Bay EE. Think you can do that?”
“What if someone opens it?” she asked.
“That’s my worry.”
“What if I take the dust?” she said.
“Then Omi comes hunting for you.”
Nadia studied the muscle-bound Korean, and told Marten, “He would never be able to find me.”
“Hansen could,” Marten said.
“He can anyway,” she said.
“Maybe not,” Marten said. “I know of a few hideaways I bet no one else does. You could go there.”
“Then I lose my job,” she said.
Marten went to a table and scooped up handfuls of plastic credits, shoving them into a sack. He brought her the sack. “Do you think you can last on those awhile?”
“Why don’t you come with me?” she said, hefting the sack, liking its weight.
“Not yet,” Marten said.
“These won’t last me forever,” she said.
“But for several weeks it should.”
“You can get us out of the Sun Works Factory in several weeks?”
“Are you a gambler?” he asked.
She stared at him. “I listened to Hansen’s recruitment speech. So I guess I am.”
“I can get us out of here in several weeks,” Marten said. “At least now I can, and with your help.”
She peered at the box on the trolley. Finally, she thought she understood. “You want the vacc suits. None of this is about dream dust.” She squinted. Could she trust him? He looked trustworthy. But what did that mean? She reexamined the dead monitor, and all those lying in drugged sleep. In a fight, she’d never seen anything like these two. “I’ll give you the three weeks,” she whispered. “But if you’re wrong…”
“I’m not wrong,” Marten said. He pushed the trolley toward the door and Omi followed.
They left Nadia and reentered the Pleasure Palace, Level 49.
“Our luck can’t hold,” Omi said.
“We’re not using luck,” Marten said. “Speed and surprise, and savagery, those are our tools. The only luck we had was running into Hansen. Everything else we’ve taken.”
Marten studied the crowds, the costumes, and the gaiety, the drunkenness and drugged hyperactivity. Women laughed as men pawed them. Musicians danced as they piped a merry tune or strummed guitars. Comedians with senso-masks acted out plays and scenes on various corners. Jugglers juggled holocubes imaged to look like naked women or flickering suns or black holes that swirled with ultimate destruction. Over it, festive lights sparkled with colors.
It was strange walking in the Pleasure Palace, knowing that around them were thousands of miles of empty corridors, holding bays and ore bins. For a moment, Marten felt surreal. With an effort of will, he shook off the feeling.
“Take off your jacket,” Marten said, as he shrugged off his and slung it over his arm. He eyed Omi and shook his head. “Follow me.”
In the distance rose the main spire. Smade’s Tavern was on the other side of it. That meant… Marten turned in a circle and finally noticed the square lift building. People poured out of it while others staggered in or had friends carry them through the archways. The Pleasure Palace never stopped, although different shifts came and went. Marten saw unobtrusive janitors sweeping up, polishing and hauling litter. He stepped behind a large man in a flowing robe as a janitor glanced his way.
“Over here,” he told Omi, pulling him by the arm. Janitor seemed like a perfect disguise for a monitor. “Hey,” he said, “this is just what we need.” He darted into a costume shop.
“We gotta find the others,” Omi said. “We don’t have time for shopping.”
A slim man in an ancient-style toga greeted them with raised hands. He wore a wreath around his head and glitter about his dark eyes. “Ah, and how may I help you gentlemen today?”
“We’d like something… baggy,” Marten said.
“Baggy?” asked the man.
Marten glanced about. “Like that.”
“Ah, splendid indeed, sir. Pirates on the High Seas. Rogues and ruffians!” The salesman led them to the mannequin of a Black Beard-type pirate. “I suggest complete sets, sir. Let the pirate persona overwhelm and invest you. Here we are. Hat, shirt, breeches and boots, and accessories, too. An eye-patch would be perfect for you, sir,” he told Omi. “And cutlasses all around and imitation wheel-lock pistols, I’m sure. And—”
“We’ll take the hats,” Marten said, “and these shirts.” He pursed his lips. “Do you have tote bags?”
“Indeed, sir. But I suggest lockers. Why carry around your old clothes when you can safely store your belongings in our—”
“Three tote bags,” Marten said. Then his eyes lit as he scanned another rack. “Throw in two red kerchiefs, yes, like those over there, and add a tube of glitter like you’re wearing.”
“A fine start, sir. Now—”
“Do you have a changing room?” asked Marten.
“Certainly.”
“What’s all this cost?”
“A trifling sum, I assure you, sir. Enough so that this jacket here and a brace of pistols for your partner—”
“No, this is good,” Marten said. “Tally it please while we change.”
“Very well, sir,” said the salesman, a bit crestfallen.
Marten and Omi entered the dressing rooms and came out wearing the silky red shirts with billowing sleeves and floppy black pirate hats. Their shock trooper jackets and shirts were stuffed in the tote bags hidden and slung around their torsos. Each of them kept his projac tucked in the waist of his pants. The kerchiefs, tube of glitter and other needed items Marten carried in a third tote bag.
“Twenty-six credits, sir,” the man said at the counter.
Marten paid the sum with stolen plastic chips, and Omi and he sauntered onto the street.
“Flimsy disguises,” grumbled Omi.
“But better than strutting around in here-I-am shock trooper jackets.”
They started checking card rooms and game pits as they searched for Lance and Vip. They choked on narcotic stimstick smoke in Billy the Kid’s Card Room. Men and women sat hunched around Western Period wooden tables. Many drank. Others popped pills. The lights were dim and the constant sound of shuffling cards and “draw, hit me,” tinkling chips and scraping chairs as angry people left and eager gamblers took their place filled the place, and as the pounding piano provided backdrop noise. Sharper’s Place was quieter and more serious. Red stimstick smoke drifted lazily in the dim lighting. Men and women inhaled their narcotic cigarettes to life and examined their cards close to their vests. Roulette wheels spun and several black jack tables did brisk business.