Third Moon Chemicals Page 2

  “And if it did?”

  Henk shrugged again.

  Sal shook his head, stood up, and turned toward the door. “I have a meeting to chair. Where are the kids now?” he asked.

  “You think I’d tell you?”

  “Your sister is married to my cousin. If she won’t tell me, somebody else will,” Sal said. “Where are they?”

  “The youngest ones I sent home. I’ve got the rest down at the fish plant.”

  “The fish plant?”

  “We don’t have a jail, Sal. Where else would I put them?”

  “You can’t leave them there. GG security will be here sometime, possibly on the next train. They’ll take them.”

  “Take them? Won’t you stop them?”

  “Officially, I have five shotguns and ten revolvers in the council armory. They’ll send fifty.”

  “I could probably find a hundred people with shotguns in town.”

  “So then they’ll send two hundred, with Gauss rifles.”

  Another ‘pop’ sounded, and they looked back at the burning station.

  “So you’re going to let them go?”

  “Have you heard from your second cousin—whatshisname—the one who took that contract in landing?”

  “Nizeen? Yes, but what does that have to do with these kids?”

  “How’s his new job—the orbital one?”

  “He complains, but he was always a wimp. He gets paid for a change.”

  “That guy who set up that contract, can you call him?”

  “Why?”

  “Those kids can’t hide here. GG will find them. They need to leave. To disappear. Fast. Now, I have to go into a teleconference with Don Ortega and haggle about how much a company store and its goods are worth. And find somebody who wants to buy some food.”

  Chapter 3

  “I hear they’re all going to stop passenger service to the end stations,” the thin man said as he waited across the street from the monorail station. He wore utilitarian office clothes: gray pants, white shirt, long charcoal jacket, with Galactic Growing sub-contractor colors.

  The second man was taller than him. He wore a blue trench-coat-style jacket, buttoned up to the collar, without flashes. He turned to look at the thin man, but didn’t say anything.

  “The magnets on the cars are starting to wear out. Oxidizing or something chemical. So they all want to reduce the load on the trains and take them apart for parts. They will still let cargo down,” the thin man said. He pulled an apple out of a pocket and took a bite of it.

  The tall man didn’t respond.

  “How long does the air in a sealed container last?” asked the thin man, chewing on his apple.

  “What?”

  “It’s not the oxygen, right? It’s the buildup of CO2 that kills you, I think.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “Aren’t you in the Militia?” the thin man asked.

  “Yes,” said the tall man. He turned to face the station door as the train halted.

  “So, you know about spaceships and air and oxygen. How long till ya run out of air in a space cutter?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I thought you Militia guys all went out and did orbital inspections and rescued lost ships, and stuff like that.”

  “Not me. I work in water scheduling.”

  “You schedule water? How do you schedule water?”

  “We pump H and water into the orbital shuttles. They use it for fuel and reaction mass after they are boosted off the mass driver. We want them to arrive in orbit with just enough to dock.”

  “Don’t the computers do that?”

  “Yes. But I handle other things as well.” The Militia man removed his comm from his pocket and checked the time, then resumed watching the station.

  “Right. The recruits. You have the tickets?”

  “All of them. You have the money?”

  “One hundred credits for each ticket. Will there be any problems with these ‘recruits’ not showing up at the recruiting depot?”

  “Some recruits sign up and then chicken out at the last minute. It happens.”

  The thin man stopped eating his apple. “Chicken out?”

  “Don’t show up,” the Militia man said.

  “I’ve never seen a chicken, except in vids. What’s a chicken have to do with showing up?”

  “No idea. Just an Old Empire expression. It means that they don’t show up. But nobody cares.”

  “Good,” the thin man said. He went back to eating his apple.

  “What are they going to do?” the Militia man asked.

  “Work in one of the stations. And you never answered my question.”

  “What question?”

  “About that talk of shutting down the monorail.”

  “I don’t know anything about that. The Militia doesn’t have any ground-side presence other than the launcher. Ground operations are you guys and your corporate buddies.”

  “Not my buddies. I just work for Don Ortega. For GG. Food for the masses.”

  “I’ve eaten your trays,” said the Militia man. He grimaced. “They taste horrible. Why is everything potatoes?”

  “Best caloric density per hectare,” the thin man said.

  “What in the Emperor’s name is caloric density?”

  “If you plant a hectare of wheat, your yield should be, I don’t know … eight million calories’ worth of food. With potatoes you get sixteen million calories or thereabouts. If calories are all you are worried about, potatoes are your best bet. Potatoes are efficient. And they even have all the essential amino acids. Just mix in some insect-generated protein and you have the perfect food.”

  The Militia man gave him a puzzled look. The thin man smiled and shrugged. “I took a year at the university. Agricultural science.”

  “But why just potatoes? Why not a little variety?” the Militia man asked.

  “The corps who built the colony wanted lots of cheap food for passing ships. For rice and wheat, you need seeds, special harvesting gear, more people, and for rice, lots of water for irrigation. We’re not set up for it. Potatoes are easy to plant and harvest. Harvest is easy to mechanize. They tolerate the cold temperatures and the rain. We’d have to remodel the operation if we decided to use rice or wheat. Irrigation. Fertilizers.”

  “I get bored of potatoes,” said the Militia man.

  “I hear you. At the university, they have a test farm. They grow all sorts of stuff, for research. I had rye bread once when I was studying there. It was the best food I ever tasted. I wanted to plant it on the ranch, but the family nixed it. ‘Not enough market,’ they said. ‘We can barely feed the workers we have. We need to get rid of some of them.’”

  “Get rid of them?”

  “We released ‘em and sent them to Landing. They can get jobs in orbit. Or something.”

  A train finally appeared, and the two watched it slide silently into the station.

  “How will you get your workers to Landing without the monorail, if it all goes to cargo?” the Militia man said, watching the station door.

  “We treat ‘em like food trays. Put the workers in a cargo container. Seal them in. They’ll go directly to the launch pad for orbital jobs.”

  “It’s 5 g’s during liftoff. People will get crushed. And even if you put food in there, there isn’t a bathroom.”

  “Not my problem. They put in temporary nets or something. They want the work, give ‘em work.”

  “Do you tell them the conditions?”

  “Feel free to tell them yourself, if you think it’s important.”

  A stream of people began exiting the station and proceeded down the connecting streets. Many had packages under their arms. Probably food. Many city dwellers took a day trip to the country to buy black-market food trays. A group of about twelve young men had stopped outside the station’s entrance and huddled around a man in office garb. They were dressed as farm workers—gray coveralls, green bo
ots, heavy jackets, and gloves. The office-garbed man curtly addressed them. Some of them stood still, and others leaned against the station wall. They all seemed tired, but most looked around with interest. Moments later, a booming noise filled the square. They all stood up, trying to locate where the sound was coming from. One of them yelled as a shuttle rocketed overhead. The nose of the shuttle began to glow red as the air compressed in front of it heated up.

  The tall Militia man hadn’t bothered to look up at the sonic boom. “Not exactly sophisticated city people, are they?” he said.

  The thin man shrugged and sauntered across the square to speak to his colleague. They conferred for a moment, and the thin man returned.

  “Thirteen one-way tickets, one two-way,” he said, producing five large credit tokens.

  “Wait one,” the Militia man said. He checked the credit tokens one after the other. “This one is GG credits. We need inter-company ones.”

  “I don’t have any,” the thin man said. “That’s all I was given.”

  The Militia man shrugged and extended his hand with the credit tokens. “Sorry. No can do.”

  They stared at each other for a moment, then the thin man reached into a pocket and produced a different token. “One-third inter-company, the rest GG.”

  “OK. But you are buying round-trip tickets for everybody.”

  The thin man shrugged. “Fine, here,” he said, offering him a different token.

  The Militia man collected the token and examined it. “I’ll have to call this one in. Stand by.” He put the new token in his comm and punched some buttons, then waited. It took almost thirty seconds before his comm beeped and flashed green.

  “Close enough for government work.” He reached into his pocket for a different token and inserted it into his comm. Then he punched a few settings and handed it back.

  The thin man checked it and nodded. “Pleasure doing business with you. See ya in a month.” He turned and walked away.

  “Wait,” said the Militia man. He had opened his trench coat, revealing his Militia captain’s uniform and the revolver tucked away in the holster by his belt. His hand was on the revolver. “You have some numbers for me.”

  “I almost forgot to give them to ya.”

  “Forgetting would be bad.”

  “What if I give ya the wrong numbers by mistake?”

  “That would be worse than forgetting.”

  The thin man smiled. “Says you. Here’s your numbers.” He checked his comm and read off a string of six different eight-digit numbers. The Militia man typed them into his own comm and read them back.

  “That’s it. Free trades,” said the thin man.

  “The Emperor will return,” said the Militia man, turning and walking away.

  “So will spring. Every thirty days.” The thin GG man strode toward the station and the group of young men. He handed the ticket token to the office man, then he disappeared inside the monorail station. The escort turned and spoke to his crew. It was loud enough to be heard across the square. “Guess what, everybody—now you get to go into space! Here’s what is going to happen.”

  The Militia man straightened his uniform as he walked back toward the shuttle dock. There was a group of youths lounging on a street corner ahead.

  “Need directions to the shuttle, sir? A guide, perhaps?” said one.

  He didn’t make eye contact but did glance at their collars. Mostly mixed dark and light green, but at least one girl had yellow collar flashes. Not good. He carried on.

  “Help looking for something, sir? Want to buy something to relax you?” another youth said.

  “He’s Militia,” said a woman’s voice behind him. He glanced down and cursed. He had forgotten to close his jacket. His captain’s uniform was visible. He heard a general stirring but didn’t look back or change his pace. He needed to get off the main street.

  To his right were actual buildings made of concrete. He angled across and ducked underneath an arcade separated from the street by a line of pillars. He kept his tread steady but turned into the first street.

  As soon as he rounded the corner, he broke into a run. He swerved left off the regular route toward the shuttle station, and pounded down an alley between two blank-faced warehouses into a service alley.

  “Come on! Let’s get him,” echoed behind him.

  At the end of the alley, he turned left and followed four black pipes that ran along the ground. After another block, another four merged in from the right, and the whole mess intersected a mass of valves and wheels on a larger pipe. He climbed up an inspection ladder until he was almost two meters off the ground, and boosted himself onto the top of the largest pipe then began to run along it.

  “He’s on the steam pipes. Get him.” The words sounded behind him.

  “Run around the side and catch him before he’s through the berm. We’ll never catch him in the shanties!” shouted a different voice.

  He emerged from the buildings and could now see a field of containers. The pipe ran along the top of them and into the distance.

  A shape ran in from the side, between two containers with stick figures painted on them. Schoolchildren scattered as she ran to the pipe and began to climb it. The Militia man maintained his pace and kicked her as he ran by. She dropped to the ground with a yelp.

  He continued sprinting along the pipe and passed an earthen berm that marked the end of the regular town. Past the berm, he hopped off the pipe and onto the top of a container. He cut left and jumped from one container to another, then to another—but landed on a blue awning instead.

  He rolled off the awning and crashed onto a table, knocking over a frothy beer. He kept rolling and hit a bench, then flopped onto the ground. A waiter with a tray of beer stood frozen. Other patrons stared at him.

  He rolled to his feet and ducked left before anybody could do anything. He ran under a blue tarp between two containers and knocked over a pile of used clothes. Shouts sounded behind him, but he ignored them.

  Around the next corner was a pile of steel beams. He ran up to the top of the pile and down the far side. He ducked around another corner and ran down a long row of crushed and cracked containers. A campus of buildings rose up behind a metal fence at the far end of the road, along with a steam plant and a very large fusion power plant. Large cables ran out the side of the building and into buried conduits. Even larger cables ran to the monorail switching yard that stretched next to the building.

  He slowed down and began to walk, breathing heavily. Almost there.

  A young man and a young woman stepped around the corner of a battered container several meters ahead of him. They wore standard corporate coveralls, except there were no corporate color flashes on the collar and breast. He had a wooden club of some sort, while she had something else in her hands.

  “Hey, mister,” the man said. “You ran away before we could negotiate a passage fee.” He brandished his club threateningly, and the women extended her weapon.

  “The Emperor’s scrotum,” the Militia man said. “Is that a sword?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” the man said. “Makes no difference to your passage fee. I’m thinking … a hundred credits? Payable now.”

  “Where in the Eternal Empire’s name did you get a sword?” the Militia man asked the woman.

  “Technically, it’s not a sword,” the woman said. She swung it from side to side.

  “What?” the Militia man said.

  “Only one side is sharpened. Swords have both sides sharpened, and swords are longer,” she said.

  Both men stared at her. The Militia man raised his eyebrows.

  “It’s a cutlass. An Imperial Marine boarding cutlass,” she said. They still didn’t say anything. “What? I looked it up on the net. They used it on ships. Works in all atmospheres and in a vacuum. Very low maintenance. Wouldn’t damage the hull or equipment. Just people.”

  Her companion shook his head. “Thanks for the history lesson, Pak. Now, how about you empty your p
ockets there, buddy.”

  “Sure,” said the Militia man. He reached under his jacket, drew the revolver and pointed it at the woman. “Let’s start with this. I call this a gun, but I guess you’d call it a shipboard officer’s revolver. Uses chemical propulsion to fire a bullet. Works in all atmospheres and in a vacuum. Low maintenance, won’t damage hull or equipment. Just people.” He swiveled the gun to point at the man. “You two look like people to me.”

  They stepped back and the weapons wavered, but then the man raised his club.

  “There’s two of us. You can’t shoot us both,” he said. He started to edge forward.

  “Maybe not, but by the Emperor’s royal anus I can surely shoot you first. And I don’t think your friend there can finish the job by herself.”

  The two wavered again. “Pak, run and get the others,” the man said.

  “Blaze, he’ll shoot you as soon as I go.”

  “Not true,” the Militia man said. “I don’t need to wait for you to leave to shoot him. I can do it anytime. I can shoot him and be gone before you get back with your friends.”

  “Blaze, let’s go. We can’t do it,” she said.

  “Stop your whining, girl. Don’t tell me what to do,” the man said. He began to advance.

  The Militia man pulled the hammer back with a click. “This isn’t a game, kids. We’re not on the net here. If I shoot you, it’s real.”

  The man looked at the gun, wavered, then shrugged. “Guess it’s your lucky day, mister. We don’t need no more money today, so we’ll let you go, rather than call our friends.”

  “Yeah,” the woman said.

  They retreated back down the alley. Before disappearing, the man turned around and extended his middle finger. The Militia man followed their progress with the gun still aimed at them, and when they were out of sight, he slowly walked forward, pointing the gun down the alley they had escaped to. He couldn’t see anybody.

  “Well,” he said, and lowered the gun. His hands were trembling. He changed his grip and flipped the cylinder out of the revolver. It was empty. “Well,” he said again, then loaded the gun and returned it to his holster.