6.

Much of Greater Sydney burned out of control. The rest was shambles. Millions wandered the tunnels and ruined levels. Millions more hovered on the brink of dehydration, ready to join the hundreds of thousands of dead. To rebuild Sydney would take months. The Highborn presently fought a cunning campaign to save what they had.

First, they accessed the city’s backup computers. Then they declared a general amnesty. Surviving police and SU bureaucrats could keep their old jobs, provided they came to Highborn Mobile HQ in the next two days and declared themselves. Most did, thankfully. It was so much easier to plug trained personnel back into their old jobs than to train someone else who had no idea how to lead. The returning police officers were immediately put in charge of the clean-up crews: which consisted of any able-bodied person healthy enough to work. The former ward, block and hall leaders found themselves given a day’s stiff indoctrination, and then set in charge of fabrication and housing. Superintendents and all former SU secretaries ran the new government under Highborn dictates. “Excellence brings rewards,” was the first basic slogan, “Life goes on,” the second.

The Highborn divided Sydney’s populace into three categories. Category one, the highest ranked, was all Free Earth Corps (FEC) volunteers, munitions workers and deep-core personnel. Category two was police, housing, clean up and transport. Category three was everyone else. Rations and chits were given accordingly.

After several days, a semblance of order settled over Greater Sydney. That’s when Marten slipped out of the temporary FEC barracks. It happened after the Highborn took Ah Chen. They’d found out she was deep-core. The new rulers only had a few of those and they desperately needed to keep the deep-core mine running.

“You’ll be shot,” said Stick, after Marten told them he was leaving.

“I’ve got to find her,” Marten said.

“Why?” asked Turbo.

“They didn’t ask her if she wanted to go,” Marten said angrily. “They just took her.”

“So?” asked Turbo. “What can you do about it?”

“That’s what I’m going to find out,” Marten said.

Omi held out his hand. “Luck.”

Marten solemnly shook the ex-gunman’s hand. After that, Stick and Turbo shook his hand.

“Stay alive,” said Stick.

Marten nodded, and then he turned and walked out of the barracks. It had been as easy as that. The Highborn had posted all the names of the FEC volunteers. They had warned the volunteers that if any of them were caught outside the barracks they would be shot. But Marten had a plan. It was tested two hours later when a police sweep caught him in the middle of a rubble-strewn street, four levels down from the barracks.

“Name?” growled a heavyset, sweating cop. He had a shock rod on his belt, but no stunner or needler. Those had been deposited in Highborn vaults. Two other cops waited behind the older, bald man. They had large plastic shields, batons and wore riot helmets and grim scowls. Dust and sweat slicked their faces. Their uniforms smelled like smoke.

Marten hesitated.

“Give me your name,” repeated the heavyset cop as he wiped his sleeve across his forehead. The main air-conditioners worked at ten percent power. From level ten down, the air was stale and much too warm.

“I’m in maintenance,” Marten said, and he tried to stroll away.

The two cops with the plastic shields stepped in his path, one of them shoving him back.

The sweating, heavyset cop scowled and took out a rag to mop his face. “Are you a troublemaker?”

Marten shook his head.

“Then give us your name,” said the cop who’d pushed him with his shield.

Hoping this worked—it had better—Marten gave then a fictitious name, from one of his mother’s forged passports from the Sun-Works Factory. The Highborn had downloaded Sydney’s computers and those computers had been linked throughout the Inner Planets.

The older, sweating cop stuffed his rag in his back pocket and unhooked a hand computer, punching the fictitious name into the database. He squinted at Marten as it processed.

Realizing suddenly that this might not work, Marten sidled near the cop who had pushed him. His heart beat faster as he tensed.

The unit beeped and the sweating cop examined it. “This is odd. It says you work in food processing, not maintenance.”

Marten went limp. The old names still held.

The other cop said, “You’re a liar. They should send you to the slime pits for that.”

“Quiet!” snapped the heavy, sweating cop. “That’s… that’s old-style talk.”

The other cop suddenly looked scared.

The heavier cop faced Marten. “Maybe later they’ll put you in maintenance. For now head east two blocks until you reach Work Gang Twenty-seven. Tell the foreman Sergeant Jones sent you. And don’t skip out, boy. Otherwise it’s the firing squad for you.”

Marten walked briskly east. But once out of their sight, he turned north. If he were picked up again, he’d have to use a different forged name.

Yet for all his vigilance, another police sweep picked him up two levels down. He used another fake name—he only had two more—and this time couldn’t get out of clean up. So for the next few hours he loaded broken concrete and plasteel onto a lifter. It was hard, sweaty work, done under the watchful eye of a former block leader. At the end of the shift, they received a ration of water and a crust of algae bread.

Marten sat with a group of other tired men. They either sprawled on the ground or sat on broken concrete blocks, guzzling the water and chewing the week-old bread.

“Back to work!” said the foreman, clapping his hands to show that he wanted them to move quickly.

Marten rose. Nothing had changed. These men were still ready to bleat to whoever was in charge. The only ones who seemed willing to fight… were the slum dwellers, he realized in surprise. Maybe he would be better off rejoining Turbo, Stick and Omi.

No. He wanted to see Ah Chen again and hunt for Molly. So he worked along the fringe of the group, and then a little farther away yet. The former block leader glared at him, his moist eyes shining. Then the foreman stamped elsewhere. Marten edged a little farther from that spot, checked and saw that no one watched. He strode away briskly.

“Halt!” shouted a cop, who stepped from behind a standing half wall.

Marten broke into a sprint.

“Stop!” roared the cop, and others gave chase.

Marten found it difficult to breathe in the stale, hot air. He was glad the police didn’t have any stunners or needlers.

Gasping, he stopped a level later, his throat and chest aching because of the polluted air. How in the world was he going to find Ah Chen or Molly like this?