Escape to Neso

Chapter 2

Chapter 2Madsen rubbed the back of his head where the knot pulsed. He could’ve sworn that he could hear Sartre laughing in the cockpit above him, but the metal that separated these compartments made him doubt himself. His elbow rested on the bag of foam chips; his hands were still bound tight with the ties. Sartre was wrong about stealing the beryllium. Sort of, anyway. He did win big in Martian poker on Europa 11, not enough to wipe away all his debts, but enough to collect the beryllium as collateral. He was supposed to return it to Qidan and get ten thousand iron credits in exchange, but he figured the beryllium was better, and he knew what to do with it. It was definitely needed elsewhere.

Madsen had certainly gotten lucky on Europa 11. He didn’t have a bad hand. And as soon he won, he came upon the shady alley meeting with Sartre and someone from Tarazen. Of course, he didn’t know that the old guy talking to Sartre was from Tarazen until he caught part of their conversation.

They had no idea that Madsen was there, of course. If they had, things may have turned out different.

Sartre was tall. That was the first tip off. Most Terrans were tall, but everyone born on Luna, and Mars was his height or shorter. Only Terrans were two meters or more in height. Secondly, Sartre wore a black quilted interplanetary space suit that was form fitting. In the gambling district, where people made a point to wear flashy clothes, Sartre stood out. Finally, Sartre wearing a helmet to hide his voice or face was suspicious.

Madsen had remained in the shadows and caught parts of the conversation between Sartre and the other man who was average in height. Sartre spoke perfect Terran English. No colonial mishmash speak with Chinese, Russian, or Japanese words mixed in the way everyone spoke on Mars. The way Madsen was raised.

Madsen’s curiosity had piqued when Sartre mentioned he was headed to Enceladus 2. Madsen thought that Sartre could pass by Phoebe, his brother’s and his adopted home. With a little luck, he would then be able to transfer from Enceladus 2 to Phoebe.

After the alleyway conversation ended, Sartre had accepted a small thin metallic case, and then Sartre slowly threaded back through the alley. Sartre kept the small case close to him as it were the last thing in the universe.

Madsen was barely able to keep up with Sartre because of the heavy bag he carried, especially with Sartre’s long strides. When Sartre finally arrived at the docks, Madsen was panting, and he barely had time to wipe the perspiration off his forehead, when Sartre’s ship hummed, and its doors opened. Sartre’s loading bay was small, and as Madsen had moved closer, Sartre opened a small locker, and slid the small case and locked it. Since Sartre’s ship was at the end of the docks, far away from other ships, Madsen didn’t have to worry about anyone from the casino surprising him and snatching back the collateral he had in his possession.

Madsen hesitated about sneaking into Sartre’s ship. But after Madsen inched closer to the ramp, Sartre removed his helmet. Sartre’s long hair fell on his shoulders, and as Sartre turned to check a couple of things, Madsen then caught a glimpse of Sartre’s profile. Sartre’s androgynous features, high nose, and strong squarish jaw stopped Madsen in his tracks. Sartre probably wasn’t even thirty in human-looking years. Madsen’s heart had raced. He’d been told that enhanced humans, what others had derogatorily called clones, were beautiful. And in this light, Sartre was the most beautiful muzhchina he had ever seen. So, it is true, he said under his breath, what they said about the enhs.

He’d seen pictures as a child of what fourth-generation clones looked like. All the fourth-generation clones looked the same because of the mass production needs of the Mars colony. But if Sartre was a clone, he wasn’t fourth generation. He didn’t match any of the archival photos. Madsen wished his brother was with him. His brother read about the enhs as a kid and was always so excited about reading picture books about them when they were younger.

Sartre had to be a second-generation enh born on Luna. Maybe a third generation born on Mars, he mused.

He couldn’t be from the first generation, right before the Great War. None of the original clones existed after a puritanical purge on Terra when the clones were the subject of strife between secularists and a religious group, the Wazahaid. Many of those terrorists were later tried on Terra, but not until after they blew up the only two main labs which produced the original clones, killing the first generation and their creator-scientists in the process.

Madsen pondered all this while waiting and deciding to stowaway on the enh’s ship.

Splinter groups on Luna, and later Mars continued the Wazahaid war on the colony settlements against the second and third generation clones and the labs that created them. By the time that Madsen was born clones hadn’t been seen for decades, and their existence only existed in picture books, and rare books on discs.

Madsen felt almost compelled to hide in the ship. Between his curiosity about the enhanced human, and the heavy beryllium he carried, how could he have been so lucky today, to win at Martian poker, to come upon the most interesting meeting, and having caught wind of a living, breathing enh before his eyes?

Once Sartre headed further away from the landing bay, Madsen made his move, slowly and quietly entering the ship. He checked out the small locker where Sartre had placed the case, but since it was locked, he couldn’t find out what was so valuable.

Tarazen’s labs had helped create the green oasis of trees, and other plants on different city-stations, and in the subterranean communities on Luna and Mars. They became the largest private company specializing in sustainable biospheres after humans on Terra went underground to escape the crippling and damaging effects of radiation.

Now, Madsen worried if he had made the right decision.

He was locked in a compartment barely larger than portable toilets they had on Mars.

The ship moved slightly, and Madsen braced himself for another trick by Sartre, but the whirring of engines relaxed Madsen. The methane converters came online, and the ship moved forward faster. Madsen edged closer to check out the light through the small slit window. Swirling storms on the giant gas planet, Jupiter, mesmerized him for a moment. Solar sails extended out from the ship as Opis tipped at an angle to catch the solar rays.

Madsen had to admire Sartre. This was a two-person ship, but Sartre operated it seemingly with ease. When the ship moved slightly again, Madsen’s hand brushed on a stabby object. A lower locker in the supply room opened from the ship’s movement, and its door latch had a very sharp edge. Madsen smiled to himself. He could easily cut off the ties by using the latch.

He moved the back of his hands to the metallic latch to explore it further, then Madsen hesitated. If he took the ties off and somehow got out and walked out of the locked compartment there was no way he could do anything against Sartre. For one Sartre was stronger, and by the way he was yanked out of the compartment earlier, much faster. He knew pound for pound, he couldn’t match any enh, much less Sartre.

Madsen pondered his predicament and resigned himself to remain as is. But as soon as he relaxed, and leaned against the foam stuff bag, a key turned, the door opened, and Sartre entered the compartment.