by M S Murdock
Minutes later, the flivver and its pursuers came out of the cavern’s gloom and into the brilliance of the planet’s bright side. The dazzling landscape of Mercury lay ahead.
The cavern debauched onto a wide, flat plain. It was like an enormous lunar crater, and scattered randomly across it were boulders and rock fragments, ranging from gravel to steep-sided bronze colored behemoths the height of buildings.
Kemal saw at once that Duernie was running an obstacle course in which she dodged around some rocks and rode over others. It required great judgment to be able, in an instant, to decide at fifty kilometers an hour what rock formations the flivver could handle and what formations would overturn it. Kernel faced backward, ready with the stennis gun. Seven Vitessan vehicles, lined abreast in a hundred meter band behind the flivver, still gained. Kemal fought with the gun, trying to bring its range finders to train on the wildly turning vehicles. Then two of the pursuers were gone by their own bad luck, one smashing into a whale-sized escarpment, the other riding onto a rising ridge of rock that capsized it.
The five remaining vehicles began firing. Kemal assumed that their optical sights were set for intra-cavern warfare, because the shots whirled harmlessly away. A harpooner missile was a more serious problem, though. It arced into the sky behind the flivver and locked onto its heat signature.
There was no way to shake it.
“Hold this thing steady!” Kemal shouted. Duernie reduced speed and straightened course. Kemal was able to sight and get off two quick shots, both of which went wide. The missile grew behind him. Kemal then remembered that he hadn’t allowed for refraction, made the calculation in his head, and fired again. He scored a direct hit, blowing away the missile’s nose cone.
Another pursuer broke through a salt crust and plunged twenty meters down. The Vitessan pursuers, cave dwellers, were new learning the hazards of surface travel the hard way. There were four left.
In the heat of battle, Kemal had ignored how hot the flivver’s cabin had become. He was barely able to breathe. Then he realized that Duernie was shouting at him, her words muffled by the roar of the flivver’s engine. He understood, however: Button up your faceplate and go to full refrigeration and rich oxygen. He clapped his faceplate into place, and Duernie did likewise. Peering ahead, over her shoulder, Kemal could make out a dark line cutting at an angle across the horizon. They were racing for the terminator!
There were a few moments’ relief as the refrigerated air pumped through his armor’s circulation system. But it began heating up almost immediately. Faint wisps of smoke floated up from the suit’s motors, and insulation started to burn.
Then they were across the line into the terminator’s dim twilight and moderate temperatures. Duernie turned to the right so as not to run out of the temperate zone, which was no more than a dozen or so kilometers wide at that point. The pursuers filed behind each other as Duernie completed her turn. The lead vehicle was fast, a low-slung scout vehicle with a bazooka mounted on the front.
Kemal could no longer fire the stennis. The intense heat had shorted out the gun’s sighting mechanism. The scout vehicle came racing up on the flivver’s left. In a tanker’s gesture he’d learned in school, Kemal slapped Duernie’s left shoulder. She saw the scout moving beside her and turned left into the vehicle’s path. It turned away from her and encountered a long ridge that lifted its right wheels into the air.
Kemal slapped again. Duernie turned again and managed to nudge the scout over onto its side.
They had an increasing lead over the remaining three vehicles. Duernie drove her flivver hard, flying with four fat wheels in the air over a ridge, came down the other side-and skidded to a stop.
There, in a line across their path, were five armored ground cars painted in the yellow, black, and gold of the House of Gavilan.
Behind those was a low, domelike building with more vehicles parked behind it. The cars from Vitesse drove over the ridge and stopped.
The flivver was caught between the armor of Vitesse and that of Mercury Prime. Low but unclimbable cliffs blocked the sides.
“What now?” Duernie asked.
“I think it’s time I had a talk with them,” Kemal said.
He entered the domed structure, followed by Duernie. The interior was like a field camp. Gordon Gavilan sat in the only comfortable chair. Dalton, on a stool beside him and dressed in full battle armor, smirked unpleasantly. Armed guards stood behind them, weapons at the ready.
“Welcome, Nephew,” Gordon said, once more jovial. “How nice of you to drop by our little outpost. Guards! Stools for my nephew and his driver.”
Kemal mentally kicked himself for allowing the Vitessan pursuers to corral the flivver into what might possibly be “a slaughterhouse.” He accepted a stool and sat. Duernie remained standing by the door.
“You neglected to tell me, Uncle,” Kemal said boldly, “that I was the hereditary representative of the Dancers.” “My boy, I had my reasons. And remember, I paid in advance.” “What is he talking about?” Duernie asked.
“He said he’d release my father’s inheritance to me as soon as I signed the treaty. There was no time to tell you,” Kemal told her.
“Exactly my situation,” Gordon said. “Real politics, my boy, is the art of the expedient. Your father never understood that. He was an idealist. I loved him, Kemal, and I was desolate at his death, but he was not practical. And to rule, you must be practical. I tried to remedy that in you. I sent you to the John Carter Military School to give you an education and to instill in you the discipline that Ossip never had.” “We weren’t taught at John Carter to sign away people’s rights!” “Weren’t you told to obey the orders of your superior officers?”
"Of course, but you-”
“I am the head of a ruling family. You are my brother’s son. I support you and educate you and take you into our inner councils. How can a ruling family operate, except by obedience to the orders of its head?”
“If they are lawful orders!”
“And what is unlawful about demanding your signature on my treaty? Unless, of course, I am not the head of the family. Are you the head, Kemal?”
“Of course not,” Kemal said. “Nor do I care to be,” “That’s nice.” Gordon’s grin showed he would not have accepted any other answer. “Then I am head of the family. Just as I had suspected. Eh, Dalton?”
“That’s what I suspected, too,” Dalton said, with his own unpleasant smirk.
“Kemal,” Gordon said, “I know that it is a little difficult for you. The woman would be quite attractive if she could stop scowling. No doubt you had good dallianoe with her. Or wish you had, eh? Never mind. Let me assuage your conscience about the Dancers and their spurious claims. They are a disorganized scum that came to Mercury from many worlds to work in the mines of Kallag. They began to develop self-sufficiency upon the planet and thought that gave them the right to call themselves free. But all they are is a weak mob that, by luck, struck it rich along the terminator. They have no fixed abodes and no property except their vehicles. They have no territory, since the surface of Mercury is the property of us all.”
“Yes,” Kemal said. “But they actually live on the surface.” “That is an unimportant detail. Kemal, you can see it our way, can’t you?” “The only thing I can see,” Kemal said, “is that I am their representative, and you need my signature on that treaty.” “A formality, nothing more,” Gordon said.
“Oh, then it would make no difference if I didn’t sign it?” Kemal asked, calling his uncle’s bluff.
Gordon looked suddenly cross. “It would make a great deal of difference. The Dancers have had the gall to petition the Free Corps and other organizations such as NEO, Earth’s motley group of terrorists, for pity’s sake. If their hereditary representative does not sign, there could be questions, perhaps even outside interference. We don’t want that here. I’ll have my own way in any event, but I prefer to take the easier way. As a Gavilan, you can understand that, can’t you,
Kemal?”
“Perfectly,” said the prince.
“Good fellow!” Gordon turned to his son. “Dalton, give me the treaty.”
“I have it right here,” Dalton said, taking a folded plastic envelope, identical to the one Kemal had brought to Vitesse, out of his pouch.
“What about Kallag’s representative?” Dalton asked. “He has to sign, too, I believe. Might that be him arriving now.”
Gordon also heard the heavy rumble of approaching vehicles. “I expect it is. Sign for us now, Kemal, and let’s get our part over with. Then we’ll get the Kallag signature and be on our way back to Mercury Prime, 3 hot shower, and a decent meal.”
“Yeah, right,” said Kemal dourly.
“Glad you see it our way, Nephew,” said Gordon, confident in the day’s outcome. “Your father’s estate comes to a considerable sum. It is yours immediately upon our return. You have my word on it, the word of a Sun King of Mercury. Here, use my stylus.” “There’s just one thing,” Kemal said. “What’s that, dear boy?”
“If I sign that thing, how the hell do you expect to get out of here alive?”
Gordon’s face fell as he looked at Kemal, then he went to the window. Outside he could see the vehicles from Vitesse, drawn up in a ring. Behind them, forming a greater ring, with guns trained, was a large collection of vehicles. They were worn but well-working machines, all different sizes and shapes. They had in common, however, the fact that they were all armed and looked exceedingly dangerous.
“How did you know it was the Dancers?” Gordon asked.
“I inferred it from the sound of the engines. They’re much smoother than Vitessan vehicles. The Dancers have more at stake in their vehicles’ upkeep, and they seem very good at it. You have to give them that.”
“My fleet will be here shortly and will bomb that mob out of existence.”
“I doubt that,” Kemal said, “as long as you are in the middle of the bombing zone.”
Gordon grunted. “True enough. So what do you propose?”
“Duernie,” Kemal said, “is the flivver ready?"
“Of course,” she said.
“Then let’s go. Kill anyone who tries to stop us. You have a weapon handy, I assume?”
“Always.”
He saw that she had a small but efficient-looking laser pistol in her hand. He hacked to the door, and Duernie followed him, watching Gordon and his guards.
“Kernel," Gordon said, “don’t be stupid about this. Mercury is a cooperative venture. We can’t let these people hog all the wealth from the surface.”
“You and the arcologies have wealth enough,” Kemal said. “Let the Dancers keep what they risked their lives to get. Good-bye, Uncle.”
“This isn’t the end of it, Kemal.”
“I suppose not,” he said, knowing that he’d have to watch his back for the rest of his-or Gordon’s-life.
Kemal went out the door and slammed it shut behind him. He and Duernie got into the flivver. Soon they were well past the perimeter, with the open plains of Mercury ahead of them.
“You are going to live with us?” Duernie asked. Kemal nodded. “For a while, at least. But I’ll need a vehicle.”
“There are several spares that Amos Herder keeps,” Duernie told him. “I suppose you could buy one. Or perhaps he would give you one for your service to the Dancers.” She hesitated. “Or you could save yourself the expense and ride with me.” Kemal looked at her. She wasn’t exactly smiling, but she definitely wasn’t frowning.
Epilogue
Kemal Gavilan stayed with the Dancers for several Earth years, leading them to develop a strong internal political council, and renewing the optimism and unity they had enjoyed during his father’s reign.
His economic and social strategy included strengthening ties with other oppressed political and ethnic groups. Although he loved the Dancers-they were the first “family” he had ever known, and he wanted more than anything to help them maintain their growth-he was not truly one of them. His personal goal had always been to participate in some global cause, one that would benefit the Dancers and all of the solar system’s inhabitants.
It was natural then, with his aspirations, political connections, and innate piloting abilities developed during his time with the Dancers, that he would one day meet his counterpart in the New Earth Organization, a fiery redhead named Wilma Deering. Soon after, NEO had its newest recruit. But that’s another story. . . .
TRIPLE CROSS Abigail Irvine
I told you to give her some pittance and send her away."
"She doesn’t seem to want any money.”
“Well, what does the little beggar want? Trading bonds? Precious gems? Hand-me-down clothes?!"
Ardala Valmar’s voice rose shrilly. It was too early in the morning for such displeasure. It was 7:00 A.M., system standard time.
Ardala sat at a small ivory table in her great circular bedroom, sharply stabbing with her fork at a serving of deveined shrimp and a saucer of fruit sections. She paused to chew and swallow, then swiveled in her chair. The tempestuous Martian beauty lowered her violet eyes and glowered meaningfully at Tanny, her genetically ordained appointment secretary.
“Tanny was unruffled. He was used to his mistress’s moods and was coded to be master of them all. He lowered his own eyes-which behind sexy owl-rims were, according to his particular design, transparent and milky white-an eerie contrast to the bluish tint of his skin tone-and adopted a suitably meek expression.”
“I don’t think she wants anything, per se,” emphasized Tanny. “She has journeyed all the way from Earth, just to tell you something ‘of utmost importance,’ and she won’t tell me or anybody else what could possibly be so ‘utmost.’ However, I think she is quite legitimate. She has been here for six days, staying, out of pocketbook I might add, at a dreadful transient shelter on the outskirts of the ninth circumference.”
Tanny sniffed, appropriately, to indicate contempt for the lower levels of Mars’s Pavonis Elevator, where the terraformers, subspecies, and other societal dregs dwelled. Tanny, of course, resided on the second most upper strata of the mega-habitat, in relatively comfy quarters that were part of the luxurious warren of offices and private living space assigned to ' a privileged member of the RAM hierarchy. Tanny bunked with his “replica." Hatch who was his identical twin and also Ardala’s security captain.
Only the top level of the Space elevator complex was considered desirable. Only Russo-American Mercantile (a.k.a. RAM) board members, and of course the great Simund Holzerhein himself, were permitted access to or living arrangements on the top level. Though most others would be quite satisfied with the splendor of the second most strata, and happy to avoid the intrigue and treachery of upper executive urbania, Tanny knew that. Ardala welcomed the challenge and had ambitions to rise even higher. To rise, perhaps, to succeed even Simund Holzerhein.
“She requests only ten minutes of your important time,” added Tanny hopefully.”
In a kind of huff, Ardala got up to change. Her blue robe slid to the ground, revealing bare, pointed breasts and the pale chalky skin that Was all the rage among the Martian elite. She was nearly six feet tall, with jet black hair that streamed to her shoulders. She stood with her back to 'Tanny, who waited diligently at his small Secretarial cubby across the room, and) opened the door of her wardrobe cabinet.
Ardala’s bedroom was filled with glass globes, crystal pendants, shiny art objects, reflectors, and a multitude of mirrors. There were decorative hand-mirrors on every surface, beveled mirrors inlaid tastefully into the walls, full-length mirrors on the cabinets, and an end-to-end prismatic mirror on the ceiling.
Though the furniture was all ivory, the walls were an alloy of silver and steel. The effect was at once blinding and beautiful, bright and cold and intimidating. This was the only room in her maze of living space in which Ardala Valmar permitted her personal aesthetics to reign.
The ivory was in fact relatively inexpensive and could be p
urchased from domestic mastodon breeders on Earth. The mirrors ran the gamut from flashy baubles she had picked up on her interplanetary jaunts, to silver-edged antiquities extorted as hush payment in trade for some piece of dirty information. The silver-steel alloy was of course priceless and could not be obtained on the open market. By law, its use and ownership was restricted to the RAM elite.
As Ardala stood there, momentarily, pondering which of her many outfits to drape herself in on that morning, she stole a glance over her shoulder. She caught Tanny covertly eyeing her long, tall, gorgeous, naked body from across the room. Good.
Tanny was one of the new “cross-breed” of gennies. Apart from the bluish tint of his skin and the opaque eyes, he looked quite normal-as in, handsome to die for. He had a blonde buzz cut and always dressed the same-a white synthsuit, set off by gleaming black boots-except daily he varied his eyeglasses. It was a kind of affectation; as being a gennie, his vision was not only normal, but supranormal.
His replicate, Hatch, looked and dressed precisely the same-except that he too chose different spectacles every day-different from the day before, and different from Tanny’s. It was an unspoken one. Upmanship between them. Otherwise Ardala’s two chief subordinates were incredibly bonded. One of the side benefits of their experimental gene-coding was a virtual “twin-telepathy” between them, so that they acted as one on behalf of Ardala’s best interests.
Now, Ardala changed quickly into a form-fitting, hooded, natural fiber, alabaster jumpsuit. The zipper plunged tantalizingly. Her thin, braided-rope waist belt was a fiery crimson hue. Ardala did not feel ostentatious, so she limited her adornments to a shoulder brooch and faux-jeweled wristlet. Admittingly, she studied her reflection in the cabinet mirror.
Though it was garb for an ordinary business day as far as Ardala was concerned, the jumpsuit had the usual internal circuitry and microcomputers of “smart” clothes-Just in case. No weaponry; Ardala was well protected by a crack contingent of Desert Runners, on round-the-clock bodyguard. And she always had the poison, secreted beneath her fingernails-just in case.
