Outland (14 page)

There was one frantic moment when Spota entered one accessway interchange and failed to appear on the other side. It took O'Niel several minutes of hectic manipulation before visual contact was re-established. Spota was now strolling down access corridor Twenty-seven. That was fairly close to the Security section.

Close enough, O'Niel suddenly decided. He was fed up with watching screens.

Grabbing the stubby riot gun from the rack behind his desk he tore out of the office, ignoring the startled salute of the deputy on station.

Spota continued on his way toward the locker room, blithely unaware he was now being tracked by something less tenuous than a video monitor. O'Niel had already assumed that was his intended destination and where most of the exchanges were likely to have taken place.

Of course, if Spota was fast enough, he'd be able to dump whatever he was holding into one of the disposal johns and face the Marshal with clean hands and dirty smile.

At the moment there was nothing to induce Spota to take such reckless action, nothing to hint that today would be any different from the smooth routine of the previous day or previous weeks. The man continued deliberately on his way, only occasionally pausing to smile at a passing acquaintance or customer.

O'Niel nearly knocked down the woman who was walking in the middle of his accessway. He was running full speed now, faster than he'd pursued the racket ball. The woman yelled after him but he didn't hear her curse, having already rounded the next corner.

Spota reached the hatchway leading to the mens' locker room, opened it, and walked inside. He made his way past the video stations, past the lockers, past men dressing and undressing, past the oxygen fillup station where the next shift was finishing topping off prior to going Outside.

O'Niel reached the hatchway half a minute late.

Spota's progress through the room was slow, impeded by men coming off work who were in the process of removing their bulky atmosphere suits. He didn't shove or push but took his time working a path through them.

The hatchway slid aside with maddening slowness, though its reaction time was no slower than usual. It only seemed that way to O'Niel. He charged into the locker room, hesitated, searched the aisles anxiously. A few of the men looked up curiously from the noisy video screens, their eyes going wide at the sight of the riot gun.

Spota was nowhere to be seen.

Those workers who noticed the gun threw questions at O'Niel. Ignoring them, he ran the length of the locker room, peering intently down each aisle in hopes of catching a glimpse of his quarry.

In the congested aisles it was difficult to tell one man from another. If Spota had planned his arrival for maximum concealment he couldn't have chosen a better time than shift changeover.

Easy, O'Niel admonished himself, take it easy. They have no idea anyone knows anything about their operation. There's no reason for Spota to suspect and take evasive action. Unless Montone talked. He doubted that. The sergeant wasn't a doer.

Spota turned a corner and started down an other aisle. O'Niel saw him just as he disappeared behind another row of lockers. The Marshal meandered through the busy workers, still ignoring questions, not caring who he bumped out of the way.

A few of the miners elbowed aside turned to protest but most of them shut up when they saw the Marshal's bars on O'Niel's collar. The more pugnacious shut up when they got a glimpse of the riot gun.

A younger worker far down the aisle had opened his locker and was stowing his work gear. He did it indifferently, not caring where the sometimes sensitive electronic components were placed. Most of his attention was devoted not to undressing but to the men up-aisle from his locker. He was evidently expecting someone.

That someone was Spota. A flicker of recognition passed between the two. The younger man continued undressing, his movements becoming even more casual. His thoughts were not on his work.

O'Niel was breathing hard, only half the length of the aisle behind Spota now and gaining on him with every step. His gaze lifted, went beyond his immediate quarry to the worker undressing at the locker. He saw how the man's eyes were searching up-aisle, saw the desire flaming behind them. It was a look the Marshal had encountered before, in the faces of people who purchase certain substances. The worker was about to buy something, and he was going to buy it from Spota.

That still confident individual was barely a step away from his waiting customer when O'Niel bumped into a man who happened to be crossing the middle of the aisle.

"Hey, buddy, why dontcha look where the hell you're . . . oh, sorry, Marshal I did know it was . . ."

O'Niel tried to quiet the man but it was already too late. The commotion caused Spota and his customer both to look up the aisle. They recognized the Marshal immediately.

Spota lunged forward, throwing his customer aside, slamming him hard against the metal wall of lockers. O'Niel cursed once and charged after him.

The dealer had lost any vestige of composure and was like a wild man, banging his way down the aisle without a care for who or what he bounced off in the process. O'Niel would have shouted at him to stop save he couldn't spare the wind. He muscled his way in pursuit, trying to catch up to his man without maiming any of the puzzled bystanders in the process.

Spota had no particular place to run. At the moment his sole concern was getting away from the Marshal. O'Niel knew that if the man did so there were plenty of places for him to hide within the mine complex. A clever associate would then have no trouble getting him shipped safely off the moon no matter how thoroughly O'Niel would try to check all out bound cargo.

Then it would be back, not as far as square one, but a lot further than he wanted to be. It had taken O'Niel days of patient surveillance to bring him this close to an actual exchange, to a point where he knew his man could be caught with the goods on him. He'd be damned if he were going to start all over again.

Besides, the opposition would know now that he knew what was going on. Discreet surveillance would be ten times as difficult, and he didn't want to risk that.

And there were other things to worry about. Montone's concerns were no doubt justified. O'Niel had no intention of giving the opposition a chance to regroup.

He couldn't let Spota get away.

Noise and confusion shadowed both running men. Voices rose and fell in the locker room; uncertain, worried, puzzled, frightened. Only rumor moved faster than Spota and the Marshal.

The dealer jumped onto a bench dividing an aisle, grabbing an open locker door and pulling himself up. Keeping low, he started making his way across the vast chamber by leaping from one row of lockers to the next, thereby avoiding the congestion below.

O'Niel followed, grunting with the effort as he pulled himself upward. By the time he stood atop the lockers Spota was nearly halfway across the room. The Marshal hurried after him. Spota's agility was already taking a toll.

Once O'Niel tripped and would have split his face neatly on the unyielding metal if he hadn't caught himself in time. Regaining his footing, he grimly jumped to the next aisle in line.

Spota threw himself from the last row of lockers, tore into an access corridor beyond the locker room. His eyes blazed with a mixture of fear and rage. He ran like a caged animal recently escaped.

He'd nearly reached the end of the corridor when O'Niel appeared at the other end. Clawing open the hatchway, Spota disappeared beyond without trying to close it behind him. O'Niel muttered to himself. If Spota had spent a minute trying to close the hatch, the riot gun could have cut his legs out from under him.

Leaving the hatchway unsealed after use was violation enough to haul the man in on, but O'Niel had other charges in mind. He hurried onward.

His mouth was working hard as he swallowed air. The lightweight corridor tube swayed under his weight. Only a man experienced in deep-space work could keep his balance in that jiggling passageway. Support ribs flashed by like highway signposts.

Where the hell is the bastard headed, the Marshal thought worriedly? Does he even know? They were close to the main cafeteria now, but that would be crowded as always. It was a likely, familiar place for someone to run to, but the crowd inside would make escape difficult and ditching the polydyeuth almost impossible. Spota was running wild, but not blindly.

The other corridor beyond the hatchway led to the liquid storage dome. O'Niel turned up it, praying he'd guessed right. As he entered the open hatch at the far end he had the satisfaction of seeing Spota racing along the thin inspection catwalk twenty feet above the first tank. He didn't slow to congratulate himself.

He didn't want to use the riot gun unless he was forced to. He wanted Spota in condition to chat. In any case, some of the liquids stored in the dome were chemical catalysts, others acids and volatiles used in the mine. Not a good place to throw shells around, even at a low-velocity setting.

Maybe Spota knew that also, because he showed no fear of the gun haunting his back as he started down the ladder descending the first tank.

O'Niel was now on the overhead catwalk, watching as his quarry jumped from one series of steps to the next. He hurried over the side onto the ladder.

Spota now started up the metal rungs mounting Tank Two, taking the steps several at a time in the reduced artificial gravity. By the time O'Niel reached the base of the first tank, Spota was already on the second catwalk, increasing the gap between them.

But he was running out of options. O'Niel forced himself up the stairs to the second catwalk, running as fast as he could. Starting down the second flight of rungs on the far side, Spota headed for the ground-level hatchway. O'Niel followed, almost stumbling and falling from the landing atop the tank to the floor below.

Another accessway, this one leading upward. Another hatch, then a second. Spota was not thinking anymore or he would have considered hiding somewhere. But he could only flee madly. If only he could get a full corridor ahead, get out of O'Niel's sight.

He looked back over his shoulder, gasping for air as he worked the hatchcover at the corridor's end. It opened . . . and there was O'Niel just entering the far end behind him, silent and implacable as ever. With an inarticulate cry, Spota plunged through the opening and into the bustling cafeteria, unmindful of anyone or anything that got in his way. Anger had been left behind and panic drove him now. Trays and food went flying as he bowled over a cutter, then a crane operator.

O'Niel entered the rear cafeteria portal. As he'd expected and hoped, the repeated collisions had slowed the fleeing dealer down. There was no time to stand there watching. He rushed into the dining area. He could hardly breathe. His throat was raw and his heart pounding as he stumbled red-faced in pursuit.

But Spota was tiring, too. His agility had enabled him to increase his lead over the Marshal in the open corridors and storage dome. In the packed confines of the cafeteria it was the bulkier O'Niel who had the advantage.

He hurled himself into the crowd waiting in line for food, flailing with arms and elbows. One man went down with blood pouring from his mouth, reaching angrily for his assailant. Spota was already halfway down the queue.

O'Niel was too angry and tired to smile. He was used to working his way through crowds, and knew he had gained on his quarry.

Spota glanced over a shoulder, saw the expressionless Marshal coming closer with every step. The cafeteria exit was packed with off-shift workers arriving for lunch. He looked frantically to his left, then right. There was a doorway. Anywhere unblocked, his brain shouted at him!

He vaulted the food service counter with everyone trying to get out of his way. One unlucky cafeteria server wasn't so fortunate and had the tray of steaming food she'd been carrying thrown at her head.

O'Niel leaped the counter, avoiding the injured worker lying on the ground holding her face. There was nowhere for Spota to go now except through the double metal doors into the kitchen.

Spota stumbled past the rows of microwaves, the steam tables, and cauldrons of ready-mix food. He could hear O'Niel's footsteps now.

Too late, he realized he'd closed himself in. The far end of the kitchen was coming up toward him, a maze of tubes, wiring and piping decorating the wall beyond. He wheeled around. O'Niel was nearly on top of him.

A vat of boiling water simmered nearby, awaiting the next crate of frozen vegetable soy. Groping inside his shirt, Spota's fingers seized the vial of red liquid taped there. He threw it into the vat.

O'Niel never hesitated. He'd come too far, worked too hard for this moment to hesitate. He shoved his hand into the water, his teeth clenching around a dull groan of pain. His fingers felt the vial, closed around it. As he pulled it out he saw that the plastic had been warped but not melted. The red fluid inside still sloshed freely, uncontaminated by outside agents.

It gave Spota the seconds he needed to grab the long butcher knife and bring it down toward O'Niel's arm. The Marshal threw himself aside and the blade slammed into the metal rim of the vat.

Holding the riot gun by the barrel he swung it at Spota, who'd raised the knife to take an other stab at his tormentor. The stock caught him on the shoulder, deflecting his thrust so that the point of the knife barely pierced O'Niel's forearm. Blood instantly started to seep through the shirt.

They were close enough to grapple. O'Niel tried to get a lock around Spota's neck, but the man was as wiry as a cat. He kept lashing out with legs and knife. It was all O'Niel could do just to keep from being cut again.

This won't do, he thought exhaustedly. He brought his knee up and Spota doubled over. O'Niel rolled to this left. Spota lurched to his feet and started toward him again, waving the knife.

The riot gun went off four times in rapid succession, shattering lights, plastic utensils, and packages of food. In the confines of the kitchen the quadruple thunder was deafening.

Spota froze, the knife still ready to stab. The four blasts had struck in a circle around him, but he was untouched. The gun, however, was now pointed significantly at his forehead. The four blasts had come so quickly they'd seemed to be echoes of one.