Ben Bova - The Rock Rats

“Good.”

“By the way, let me offer my congratulations.”

He couldn’t help breaking into a smile. “About Amanda? Thank you.”

They passed a little bench of lunar stone. Verwoerd asked, “Now that you’ll be able to make a baby the old-fashioned way, do you still want me to go to term?”

“Of course I do,” he snapped. “That’s my son you’re talking about.”

“Your clone.”

“I wouldn’t have you abort him. I can have more than one child.”

“But this one,” she patted her stomach lightly, “carries your genes and nobody else’s.”

“Damned right.”

“He won’t be exactly like you, you know,” Verwoerd said, a teasing smile playing across her lips. “Genetically, he’ll be identical, but he’ll be affected by the enzymes of my body and—”

“I know all that,” Humphries interrupted.

“I’m sure you do.”

He glared at her. “You’re downright sassy today, aren’t you?”

“And why shouldn’t I be, Martin? I’m carrying your child. You’re going to reward me very handsomely for that, aren’t you?”

“If the boy is healthy when he’s born.”

“No, I don’t want to wait until then. I want my payoff now. I want a seat on the board of directors. I’ve earned it. And I’ll be a lot better at it than most of those fossils.”

Power, Humphries thought. She’s after power. Aloud, he asked, “Is that all?”

“I want money, too. I want a lot of money, Martin. I know you can afford it.”

He stopped walking and planted his fists on his hips. “Since when do you call me by my given name?”

She smiled saucily. “I’m taking a very large risk for this fetus of yours. I think that works out to a first-name relationship, don’t you?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Very well then, we’ll keep everything strictly on a business level, Mister Humphries. I want ten million a year, for life.”

“Ten mil—” He barked out a bitter laugh. “You’re dreaming. I could get a hundred women to do what you’re doing and it wouldn’t cost me a fraction of that.”

Verwoerd began walking along the brick path again, slowly. Humphries had no choice but to follow her.

“Yes, I’m sure you could buy a surrogate mother for your clone on the cheap. But I’m worth ten million. Even more, in fact.”

“Are you?” he asked sullenly, realizing now where she was heading.

“I know a lot about you, about what you’ve done in the Belt. I’ve been a faithful employee, Mister Humphries, And I’ve kept my mouth shut. But continued silence will cost you ten million per year. You can set up a trust fund; I’ll handle the details for you.”

Strangely, Humphries felt no anger. He almost admired her audacity. “So it’s come to this,” he said.

“Yes, it has.”

With a slow, disappointed shake of his head, Humphries said, “I was afraid you’d get delusions of grandeur. This isn’t the first time an employee of mine had tried to extort money from me.”

“Don’t you think I’m worth ten mil per year?” she asked, rank impudence on her smiling lips.

Before he could think of an appropriate reply, Verwoerd added, “And don’t think you can conveniently get rid of me. I’m not going to have an accident, Martin. I have a very good insurance policy against accidents of all kinds.”

Then it dawned on him. “So that’s why you’re rushing Harbin back here.”

She nodded. “Dorik’s my insurance policy. If you attempt any violence against me, he’ll kill you. He’s good at it. Ask Grigor; Grigor’s terrified of him.”

“Is he?”

“Yes. And for good reason. You should be terrified of him, too, if you think you can get rid of me. It’s cheaper to pay the ten million, Martin. That covers both of us, Dorik and me together.”

“A real bargain,” Humphries growled.

It was maddening. All day long Lars Fuchs paced his one-room apartment like a caged tiger, to the door, turn around, to the far wall where the wallscreen stood blank and mute. Again and again: the door, then past the bed where he and Amanda had slept together, made love together…

He wanted to scream. He wanted to pound the walls, smash down the flimsy door and run through the dusty tunnels until someone shot him down and put an end to it all.

He recalled the phrase the Americans used: cruel and unusual punishment. To be put under house arrest, to be locked in the room that had for so many years been his home, to know that his wife was millions of kilometers away and preparing to marry the man who had ruined his life—better to be dead, better to be out of this endless torture.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror over the bureau and saw a man he hardly recognized, clothes wrinkled and sweat-stained, hair unkempt, jowly face unshaved. He stopped pacing and stared at the image in the mirror: a man steeped in self-pity, wallowing in defeat.

No, he said to himself. I won’t let it end this way. They’ve taken everything from me, but they won’t take my self-respect. No one can do that except I myself.

He tore off his sweaty clothes and stepped into the shower. When the spray turned on automatically, he thought about his water allotment, but then he decided, To hell with it; a condemned man has the right to a decent wash. But as the steamy mist enveloped him he thought of the times when he and Amanda had squeezed into the narrow stall together. It took all his strength to keep from crying.

Freshly dressed and shaved, he asked the phone to call George Ambrose. Less than a quarter-hour later, Big George rapped once on his door and slid it back.

“Hullo, Lars,” the big Aussie said, looking slightly shamefaced. “You wanted to see me?”

Fuchs saw that an armed guard stood out in the tunnel; even with his breathing mask on he recognized the guard as Oscar Jimenez.

“Step in, by all means,” Fuchs said, trying to sound brave. “I welcome a break in the monotony.”

George slid the door shut again and stood uneasily by it. “I di’n’t think how the hours must drag for you, havin’ to stay in here.”

“The only communication I’ve had from outside was a notice from Humphries’s lawyers that Amanda is suing for a divorce.”

“Aw, cripes, Lars,” George said, crestfallen, “I’m sorry about that.”

“I didn’t contest it,” Fuchs went on, almost enjoying the obvious guilt on George’s bearded face. “What difference does it make? I’m going to be executed soon, am I not?”

George’s expression turned even gloomier. “Well, we’re settin’ up a trial for you. You’re gonna need to have somebody to act as your defense counsel.”

“I don’t want a trial.” Fuchs was surprised to hear himself say it.

“Neither do I, mate, but we’ve gotta have it.”

“You don’t understand, George. I waive my right to a trial… as long as my crew is exonerated and allowed to go free. I take full responsibility for everything.”

“Let your crew go?” George scratched at his beard thoughtfully.

“I gave the orders. They didn’t know that my orders would kill the people on Vesta.”

“You take full responsibility?”

“Absolutely.”

“And you admit you killed the construction team on Vesta? Deliberately?”

“I’d do it again,” Fuchs said fervently, “if the same situation arose.”

George blew out a huge breath. “Guess we won’t need a trial, then.”

“You’ll let my crew go free?”

“I’ll hafta run it past the rest of the council, but, yeah, I don’t see any point in holdin’ them if you’re willing to take all the blame.”

“I take all the blame,” Fuchs said.