It's incredible what miracles low gravity can work on a worn stripper's body. The stripper in question was currently suspended upside down from a water filled tube. The clear glass tube ran up to the ceiling, blending seamlessly into it. Pale pink bubbles rose within the tube, gliding upward as the stripper slid longingly downward-her legs locked around the glass pipe. With only her legs holding her to the pole, she slid down, her back pressed against the tube, her hands squeezing her breasts together. Her tongue darted out sensuously, to the roaring approval of the crowd, and she finally touched down with a roll.

Martin hardly noticed. His gray eyes were looking right at her while she spun on the floor, her legs spread wildly, but they were looking beyond her and her act. He sat in the back corner, as far from the main stage as possible-far from the light and the front door.

He thought that there must be some kind of subliminal message mixed with the heavy bass that was pouring from the speakers that surrounded the room-the bass beat that she was currently gyrating her body in rhythm to. Or, maybe it was in the musky scent that was obviously being pumped into the room. It could even have been in the half-finished scotch that sat before him. Wherever it was, Martin couldn't help but notice with sour amusement that even without watching the act unfold before him, he was experiencing an incredible sense of arousal.

Normally, this wouldn't be considered a bad thing. Martin was around the age where this would be a welcome development. Today it was simply a distraction. He'd come here, of all places, to try and think-to replay the events of the last couple of hours over and over. What he needed most was time, because once they found him, things were going to happen very fast. He needed to figure how to play this one out before that happened, and he hoped that this was the last place they'd look for him. Martin glanced over nervously as the front door swung open. It wasn't them. Shaking his head, he reached forward with a shaky hand and downed the rest of his scotch. He felt it burn on the way down, but he didn't care. This wasn't going to work.

"I can't believe my luck," he mumbled to himself, resting his head against the back of the booth and closing his eyes.

The casino had been mobbed. The screaming and ringing of the slots filled the room, bombarding you as you entered, making it difficult to think when you first walked in. The floors, all marble, were made to look like a more modernist pyramid. Your eyes were unwittingly drawn up the massive pillars that lined the floor, forcing you to take in the entire spectacle. Everything was designed to draw you in, to suck you into the point where rationality was lost after only a few of the stiff drinks that were provided-free of charge, of course. All was made to hold your attention, keep you in a constant state of wonder, so that the furthest thing from your mind was how much money you were losing-until it was too late. Of course, by then, they had drawn what they wanted out of you. The drinks were no longer free. And for the first time, the cracks in the façade were visible.

The Lunar Luxor had always been a heavily frequented casino, but in the last week, its patronage had more than doubled. It happened to be its tenth anniversary, and the owners had decided to throw a party. In three days, the Lunar Luxor would actually pass over the original Luxor in Las Vegas as the moon's orbit brought it directly over the city. It wasn't an exact pass, but it was close enough for the Luxor's to claim that it was. As part of this promotion, both Luxors would turn the floodlights at the tip of each pyramid on high to give the illusion that the light was actually touching when they passed. Of course, this was pretty much physically impossible, but this is what makes it Vegas. The promotion was cheesy, over extravagant, completely unnecessary, and it was working brilliantly. Every table and slot room was active with large crowds of people waiting for some hapless gambler to finally run out of money so that they could grab their seat and hope to do what their predecessor had been unable to do.

Martin was just one of the crowd, weaving his way across the floor towards the cashier. He took his time, casually walking with his hands in the pockets of his Armani suit, admiring the increased number of beautiful women throughout the casino. He recognized several of them as local cons, drawn like vultures to the tourist boom, using their looks to try and turn some of the winners into losers by the end of the night. Most, however, were tourists themselves, hanging over their boyfriend's shoulder, or hanging with a group of friends. There was something about the glow of a woman who was winning-the look of sheer greed in her eyes-that Martin always loved.

"Can I help you?" asked a polite cashier, who was dressed in a modernist white Egyptian robe with woven gold trimmings. Her line was currently free.

Martin ignored her, waiting for the person ahead of him to finish. As always, he heard the soft murmurs of the crowd around him, excited at the novelty of dealing with actual cash. All of the casinos claimed they used the cash in an effort to maintain the authenticity of the old time casinos. What better feeling than handing over your chips and receiving a large pile of real money? It certainly seemed more impressive than a mere swipe of a plastic card to credit your bank account. However, anyone who knew Vegas, knew that it had nothing to do with authenticity. Electronic transfers made it incredibly difficult to skim from the profits. Old habits die hard with the mob.

"Sir?" she continued. "This line is available."

Martin looked over and smiled kindly. "That's very nice. Thank you."

He didn't move.

Shaking her head slowly, Martin caught the curses she mumbled under her breath. The Vegas charm only went so far. Martin stepped forward to the counter as the man ahead of him left, head bent, counting his money. Martin pulled out a single thousand-dollar bill and slid it across the counter to the cashier. The cashier took the money without even looking up.

"Can I please have one black and the rest in reds," Martin queried.

The cashier looked up suddenly, gazing at Martin for a moment. Martin simply grinned at the man.

"Are you sure, sir? We can give it to you in larger denominations," the cashier replied, his hand shaking slightly as he held the bill.

Martin nodded. "You're right. Just give me the black and cash for the rest."

To Martin's surprise, the man winked as he answered. "Yes, sir." He said it with too much enthusiasm.

His fist hanging at his side, Martin cracked each knuckle individually with his thumb, trying to suppress the wrinkle of anger that was building inside. He would have to tell Mr. Musunuri never to use this one again. All of this cloak and dagger was bad enough, but to be forced to do it with incompetents was a bit too much.

Maybe sensing the sudden coldness from Martin, or perhaps realizing the error of his ways, the cashier quickly became more professional as he slid the pile of hundreds across the counter. A single black chip rested on top.

"Good luck, sir."

Martin took the pile and smiled wryly. "Thank you."

He knew where he had to go. He'd practiced the route several times with Mr. Musunuri, late at night, when only the truly desperate and drunk were still hunched over their cards.

Turning, he made his way towards the Power Slots, a small row of slot machines that took a hundred dollars or more at a time. The jackpot, if ever hit, was astronomical. Even though Martin would only win a small amount, the fact that is was hundred dollar chips pouring from the machine would draw plenty of attention-and attention is exactly what Mr. Musunuri wanted. Martin was uncomfortable with the whole thing. He just found it hard to believe that there wasn't an easier way to hand over an information chip then this. The secret code was to get the special black chip, which was to be put into the special slot machine, which will cause the special pot to be won, and inside that special pot was the information chip, which had been deposited only an hour before. But as with all mob operatives, Mr. Musunuri and his staff were under constant surveillance. The feds had mini cams on each and every one of them. Naturally, they felt a simple handoff would be too risky. So, they had devised this scheme: to allow Martin to win the chip, and then hand it over to a supposedly random cashier with his winnings. Mr. Musunuri had his chip, and Martin conveniently had his payment-all under the watchful noses of the federal officers. Within the complexity, there seemed to be a level of simplicity that put Martin at unease. It was just too smooth.

On cue, someone left the slot machine in visible disgust as Martin approached it. The man did a good job of showing the lack of money in his hands as walked away.

"Good luck with that one," he mumbled as Martin took his seat. "Thanks," he responded and sat down.

Fighting the urge to glance around, he placed the chip into the machine and pulled the long silver lever downward. The five wheels spun quickly, their holographic images flashing by in a blur. Martin sat and watched as the first wheel stopped on the cherry. The second landed on another cherry. Martin straightened on the stool, surprised by his own reactions. Even rigged, it was exciting to win. The third landed on a joker. Quickly, the fourth settled on an orange. Finally, the fifth wheel landed on the seven. The machine exploded into a ball of sirens and buzzers.

"Three cherries!" the slot machine cried out in the excited tone of a woman with a deep, sultry voice. This was followed a flood of black chips pouring from the machine's silver mouth.

Martin smiled widely, not even having to fake it, as the money poured out. Within seconds, a small mob had surrounded him. Some patted him on the back, congratulating him; others murmured to themselves, asking why it couldn't have been them. There were even the disgruntled moans of those who claimed to have been at the same seat only minutes earlier. The flood became a trickle as the last few chips fell out and filled the little tray at the bottom of the slot. Grinning broadly and thanking everyone for their congratulations, Martin turned away and leaned over to get one of the large plastic cups that were stacked beside him.

That's when the seagull struck. It swooped down instantly from out in the crowd and headed right toward Martin. Then the gull's little fingers suddenly scooped into the tray. Chips spew across the floor, flowing from the gull's hands as he pulled back, turning to run. Martin spun around on the stool just in time to see that the gull was actually a young boy. Then the lad was swallowed up by the surrounding crowd. Martin launched to his feet, ready to give chase, but hesitated. Over half his winnings were still in the tray. But where was the chip? Martin turned and looked at the tray, which was now only three-quarters full. Then he looked back to the crowd where the kid had dashed through. Where was the chip? The crowd looked at him intently, awaiting his decision, their own greed blatantly apparent across their faces. Martin, shook his head at this incredible turn of luck, sighed, and did what any self-respecting gambler would have done. He sat back down and played the odds.

Martin had always found the term "Seagulls" a bit ironic. He'd never been to the original Vegas, the origin of the term, but he assumed there were few, if any, actual seagulls in the middle of the desert. He'd always felt that vultures would be a more appropriate tag. Maybe whoever coined the phrase wanted to capture the aggressiveness of the seagull-launching in and stealing scraps from live targets-as opposed to the vulture, which eagerly waits for its prey to die before striking.

Whatever the origin, seagulls were generally nothing more than an annoyance to the casinos. They were mostly kids, usually runaways or part of a gypsy band that work together. Occasionally, a few of the bolder ones would actually stroke out at a table game, going for someone's stack when he was looking away or too drunk to notice. But generally, slots were the target of choice. Martin always thought of it as an extremely easy score, and a wonder that it doesn't happen more than it does. In its simplest form, the scam is to wander the slot areas, usually the higher denominator slots like the Power Slots, and wait. They simply wait until they hear the roar of an excited crowd circling a particular slot. From there, it's a speed game. The kid grabs as much money as he can and bolts through the crowd and out of the casino. Generally, anyone who actually leaves the rest of their winnings behind and gives chase isn't quick enough to catch them-senior citizens being the most common target. The only real risk is that someone in the crowd grabs them, or security manages to get them at the door. It's a beautiful, very basic score. Martin had just been the latest victim.

The sudden scent of perfume engulfing him alerted Martin to her presence. He opened his eyes casually and was greeted by a scantly clad stripper standing before him. A wry smile spread across her lips as she made eye contact and swung a leg over his, straddling his lap.

"Pleasant dreams?" she asked coyly, already beginning a sensual dance for him.

Martin shrugged and glanced behind her quickly to see who else had slipped in while he had been lost in his memories of the day's events.

Lowering herself so that she was now resting on his knees, her smile broadened. "I can make them real," she said, her voice barely a whisper.

He smiled crookedly and shook his head slowly. But before turning her away outright, his smile grew wider. The only way to survive this, is to roll with it, he thought to himself as the final realization of his situation set in. Still leaning comfortably back in the leather couch, Martin raised a hand and motioned with one finger for her to come closer.

"Maybe you can," he mumbled softly.

Nearly purring now, she slid across his lap, bringing her mouth over his ear. Her warm breath blew across it as she breathed. "How do you like it, sugar?"

He instructed her just as quietly in return. To her credit, there was only a moment's hesitation after hearing his proposition before she began. Martin closed his eyes again as a broad grin stretched across his face. He appeared to be lost in the flurry of brushes and caresses that were now assaulting him. But in reality, he sat listening intently for the footsteps that were certainly going to arrive. Waiting patiently, his hand gripped the revolver in his right coat pocket. He just hoped that when they did come, that they were reasonable, realizing that it had been completely beyond his control. All he needed was a chance to make this right. If they refuse to listen, then I'll just have to make do with what I have, he thought calmly to himself as his free hand gripped the stripper's thigh even tighter.

It was only a matter of time.

He knew he had been found when the fingers that were roaming across his chest suddenly ceased moving. The fact that he was still alive meant nothing. They never killed anyone without the victim knowing first who was delivering the final blow. The mob had developed a perverse sense of the afterlife. Martin's course of action depended heavily on who was now standing at his left side.

Stroking the hilt of his gun, he opened his eyes casually, his head rolling to his left. Tension that he hadn't even known he had immediately ebbed from his shoulders and neck as he stared up into the dark eyes of Mr. Musunuri's personal bodyguard. The fact that they had not sent an assassin meant they needed him alive, at least for the short term, not that Russell wasn't completely capable of killing him himself.

Martin had always seemed at a loss for words to describe Russell. "Immense" seemed to sum it up the best, but it never seemed to give Russell the justice that he deserved. In a place where bulk could be added by the dollar, the fact that he worked religiously to create and maintain the hulking mass of his body spoke volumes for his drive and dedication. Russell's mere presence seemed to demand respect, and Martin gave it without hesitation. "Russell," Martin greeted with a slight nod.

Russell motioned with a slight tilt of his head for the stripper to leave. His dark massive neck bulged from the simple act. The stripper slid off Martin's legs quickly and hurried to the bar. Martin resisted the urge to watch her as she sped off. Instead, he straightened up in his seat. Smiling, his white teeth, glowing eerily from the black light, contrasted heavily with his dark skin.

"Mr. Musunuri has requested your presence back at the Luxor," Russell stated quietly.

Martin ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek and nodded. Rising slowly, he pushed his gun further into his coat pocket. He waited for Russell to lead the way, casually glancing over at the bar where his stripper was staring at him anxiously. Allowing himself another small smile, he followed Russell to the front desk, where he trued up his bill before being led to the Luxor. Even Russell's eyebrows raised a bit at the excessive tip: five hundred dollars, topped with a single black chip. "She that good?" Russell asked over his shoulder.

Martin shrugged and answered softly, "Feeling a bit fatalistic today, Russell."

Russell nodded knowingly and continued the rest of the way in silence.

"Hello Martin."

Martin gazed over to where Mr. Musunuri was sitting at the opposite side of a cluttered oak desk. He was a fairly large man with the dark complexion of an Indian, but was dwarfed by the immensity of Russell, who had just taken his place beside him. Musunuri was the business side of the casino, the partner that the mob trusted to run the entire operation. His sole mission was to make as much clean profit as possible to allow them more maneuverability to hide their activities. To do this, he had to remain clean himself, which meant he very rarely became directly involved. When he did, he always wore the same badly hidden look of distaste. It was a shame, because Martin actually liked him. His friends knew him simply as Moose, and if you had the pleasure to deal on a personal level with him, it was hard to meet someone with a better sense of humor.

"Mr. Musunuri, I can explain."

Musunuri's raised hand cut Martin off before he could continue. "There is no need Martin. We have watched the tapes repeatedly, and I think it is fairly obvious what occurred."

Martin turned his attention to the rest of the room and saw Whitey and Corgan sitting at a small round table. Whitey smiled at him from behind those magnifiers he wore attached to his glasses. The red iris' magnified a hundred fold and twitched eerily across the albino's pale face.

"W-w-we watched the entire t-t-thing, Ma-ma-martin," Whitey stuttered, his grin widening, making him look like an even greater idiot.

Martin ignored him and glanced over at Corgan, who was packing a palm-sized pipe with a particularly dark weed. As usual, he was dressed in his WWI bomber outfit, complete with the leather jacket and parachute pants. His goggles rested on the table. He'd spent a small fortune to get the antique attire augmented with the proper accessories. Not surprisingly, his pipe was shaped like an old fighter plane.

"Have a seat, Martin."

Martin nodded and took a seat against the back wall, then turned back to Musunuri.

"Sir, give me two days and I can get this thing back. It was only a kid; he probably has no idea what he stole."

"I agree." Musunuri motioned to Whitey, but not before glancing distastefully at Corgan, who was lighting the propeller of his pipe plane and placing his lips against its tail; his finger covered the cockpit briefly than let go as he inhaled. "Show Martin the visuals."

Whitey nodded and rolled his chair across the room and in front of a small computer terminal. His head jerked sporadically as his hands danced across the keyboard. A screen over the table came alive, and Martin found himself watching the scene as the kid scooped up the chips all over again. The screen froze just as he was beginning to lunge from the seat and the kid had just entered the crowd. It zoomed into the kid's face, then revolved nearly ninety degrees until the kid's face took up the entire screen. Even Corgan looked up casually from his pipe and squinted at the face on the wall.

"Gentlemen, meet Charlie Noan." Musunuri began loudly. "Fourteen year-old male, both parents deceased. No known living relatives. No known friends. Homeless. Arrested at ages nine, twelve, and thirteen-all for petty theft. Wanted in at least three other casinos for the same thing. Usually works the slots, waiting for a big payout. Occasionally, probably when he's more desperate, he'll hit the tables."

"Any idea where he crashes?" Martin asked, glancing over at Whitey.

Musunuri answered for him. "We already checked. He crashes up in the belt. We have a confirmed visual of him entering the last elevator of the day. . .only forty-five minutes after he robbed you."

The screen suddenly changed to a scene of the kid standing motionless before the massive elevator entrance. He was holding a small satchel that he hadn't had with him in the casino.

"What's in the bag?" Corgan sputtered as he fought to keep the smoke within his throat as he spoke.

Whitey giggled loudly. "Th-th-these are only p-p-pictures. M-m-maybe you sh-should ask th-th-the comp-puter."

Corgan blew out the smoke quickly and stared menacingly at Whitey. Whitey's smile faded from his pale face. He turned around and busied himself with the terminal. Corgan, satisfied, took another slow, deliberate hit from the plane.

Martin looked over at Musunuri. "Alright, I can take the next lift up there and get it back. Should take less then a day, now that we know who he is and where he is. As long as you put someone to watch the lift to make sure he doesn't come back down, he has nowhere to go."

"That's how we figure it. You and Corgan will be taking the six am lift up. Whitey's already tapped the security camera for the lift, so we'll know if he tries to come down."

Martin didn't like the idea of having Corgan accompanying him. The biggest reason was because he didn't know if Corgan was meant to be his backup or his assassin once the job was done. "Mr. Musunuri, I am confident I can do this alone."

"I'm sure you can, Martin. However, you have no visual augments; Corgan does. We want this recorded to make sure all goes right this time."

Realizing there was no changing this, Martin stood slowly. "I'll get it back, Mr. Musunuri." Over his shoulder, he added, "Corgan, I'll see you outside the lift at five forty-five."

"Corgan will be accompanying you, Martin." Mr. Musunuri said calmly.

Martin turned quickly to Musunuri. The man sat still, staring seriously at Martin. Russell straightened at his side. Martin kept eye contact for a moment longer, then nodded slightly.

"Get your shit and let's go, Corgan." Martin spat as he moved toward the door.

"All set," Corgan answered quietly and slowly rose from his chair.

Leaning over, Corgan grabbed his goggles and a case that had been resting beside his chair. Martin eyed it momentarily, knowing that it contained his infamous high-powered auto-rifle. Corgan smiled at Martin as he strolled past and out of the room. "Where to boss?" he asked Martin, sarcastically.

"Food," Martin replied curtly, then closed the door behind them. Corgan nodded appreciatively, "I can handle that, man."

"I bet you can," Martin mumbled to himself as the made their way from the building.

"Let's hit a buffet, man. All the little chickie tourists are there."

Martin glanced over, and for the first time, smiled at Corgan. "If it's women you want, I know the perfect spot."

Corgan squinted at him suspiciously, but thenshrugged.

"Alright, man, lead on. But this better be good"

Martin nodded. "Trust me."

Smirking, Corgan replied, "Just this once."

Martin flexed his neck, allowing it to roll a bit to each side, while he tried to rid himself of the tension that had been building for the last few hours. He was getting snappy, allowing Corgan's drug use and petty attitude to wear on him more than it ever had.

Back at the strip joint, Corgan had openly smoked two more pipes, one of which had required his stripper's involvement to smoke. When they had left, Corgan had exclaimed loudly at the tip Martin had left for his show. Martin had turned and stared into Corgan's bloodshot eyes, saw how stoned he was, and had to fight the urge to kill him on the spot. Instead, he had turned and left without a word, cracking his fingers one by one as he made his way through the crowd with Corgan in tow.

As they weaved their way towards the elevator, Martin tried to regain his composure. It wasn't the drug use that was bothering him. Martin had witnessed first hand the augments that Corgan had and knew it would take less than three seconds for his body to flush out the affects of the marijuana. He also suspected that Corgan's deliberate, painfully slow pace was part of his act. Without knowing him, one would never take him seriously. Even knowing him as well as he did, Martin had trouble remembering that he was the cold-blooded assassin that he was. More than a handful had learned the consequences of not taking him seriously. Martin had no intention of being the next one on that list.

He rolled his neck again as they stood on queue for the lift to the belt. Forgetting Corgan for the moment, he tried to relax, tried to convince himself that he was in control of this. After all, wasn't that the reason for the tightness in his neck? Corgan was not to blame for the hand that felt like it was trying to push out from the inside of his skull. No, the tide that was carrying him was to blame for the stiffness in his shoulders. Martin, in control for so long, had grown spoiled with his ability to dictate his own direction. This is what he used to refer to as "the edge" in his early days. This was his drug for many nights, months and years. And like most addicts who quit their drug, his body was welcoming it back, but his mind was having second thoughts.

With closed eyes and the subconscious realization that he would need his mind and body in synch before he stepped foot on the belt, Martin sighed softly and surrendered his mind to what his body craved so badly.

The wait for the lift was longer than usual due to a long string of people pouring out of the car that had just arrived. Martin assumed they were all here for the Luxor event that was set for that evening. He scanned the crowd carefully, hoping to catch a glimpse of the kid so he wouldn't even have to go up to the belt. He'd been up there three times and hadn't enjoyed any of the visits.

The belt was the shantytown of Lunar Vegas. It was actually a collection of antique transport ships that had originally been used during the colonization of the moon. The original transports were only fitted with enough fuel to do a one way trip from Earth. Once they reached their destination, they were left in a low geo-synchronous orbit with the colony they were supporting. The original idea had been for them to act as a cheap asteroid shield, but the laser technology that came later had left them with no practical use. They had hung there, unused, for generations.

In an effort to provide housing for the poor and homeless, and to get them out of sight of the tourists, the town had come up with a plan to use the belt as housing. They built three massive elevators that connected to the three largest transports, then shipped the homeless up there. For the most part, the belt remained strictly for the homeless and petty thieves. They lived mostly in the old loading docks of the ships, leaving most of the structure unoccupied.

"Smile for Whitey," Corgan chuckled and motioned with his middle finger to the security camera they were passing.

Martin looked into the camera briefly, feeling somewhat eerie, knowing that Whitey was watching them with those magnifiers of his. He shook it off quickly, knowing that they would be watching everything from Corgan's goggles once they got to the belt. He turned from the camera and proceeded through the security gate. He watched the monitors to the x-rays with a small feeling of satisfaction when it failed to pick up the gun he had in his belt. Not bothering to wait if Corgan would make it through, since Whitey would make sure of it, he made his way to the entrance to the lift.

The main chamber of the lift was nothing spectacular. It was a large windowless square room, lined with rows of green plush chairs. There were two sets of rows, ten deep each, and they faced each other. Both times he had taken the ride, Martin had felt like he was in an old-fashioned movie theatre and the other side of rows had been the attraction he was supposed to watch. And like most of the old movies, he found himself disappointed in the film compared to the price of admission.

A pretty blonde woman escorted him courteously but efficiently to his seat in the front row. Upon sitting, the chair immediately buckled him in. A soft automated voice apologized for the delay and informed him that the lift would be departing shortly. Corgan was seated directly across from him. Seeming to be a bit too much of a coincidence, he wondered if Whitey had been behind it, and if he was, whether it had been a cruel joke or a deliberate move of Mr. Musunuri's. Surely they trusted him enough that he didn't need to be monitored in a lift that would be hurtling upwards into the thin atmosphere of the moon. With this preying upon his mind, he examined Corgan's face for any clue, hoping he might know. Corgan grinned mischievously with raised eyebrows. A small pale tablet, most likely acid, if Martin knew Corgan, was brought quickly to his lips, where it disappeared with the grin. Martin resisted the urge to shake his head and instead closed his eyes, awaiting departure.

The lift off was smooth, as usual. Martin opened his eyes after a few moments and looked down at his feet. The dark floor was now growing lighter; finally it turned translucent, allowing the passengers to see Vegas grow smaller below them. Martin always felt like he was the one remaining prone and the city was retreating from him. He glanced over at the Luxor. Massive spotlights now surrounded the glass point of the hotel, all of them pointed into the sky, ready for the ceremonial meeting of the lights. A quick glance at Corgan confirmed that it had been acid he had slipped into his mouth. Corgan's head was between his legs, his face as close to the glass as his body could physically allow. A thin line of drool covered the rest of the distance, forming the beginning of a small pool on the clear floor.

"It's a shame those goggles can't capture the hallucinations he's seeing," Martin mumbled to himself, then closed his eyes once more, pretending to go to sleep for the remainder of the trip.

Roughly fifteen minutes later, the lift began to slow, then finally came to a gentle stop. Martin opened his eyes in time to see Corgan wipe the drool from his mouth with the back of his hand. Corgan blinked rapidly and straightened, glancing around the cabin. Both of them stood and exited the lift, following the group of degenerates and yuppies into the waiting area. Martin didn't need to access the map on his handheld to know which way it was to the residents' quarters. The group was split completely by class: the poorer group was down the left access tunnel; the better-dressed group awaited the next lift to the observation levels.

Without speaking, Martin and Corgan made their way down the featureless tunnel, trailing behind the group. The halls lacked any attempt at aesthetic pleasure: smooth metal walls, broken only by the glowing white orbs that were spaced every twenty feet, and grilled air ducts were all that graced the walls. The group ahead trudged on slowly, a smaller group falling a bit further behind as they passed around a small bottle of some alcohol. Martin continued at his casual pace, gaining on the group that was trailing. When they were nearly to the group, one of the members turned and gazed at them with no attempt to hide his suspicion. The rest of the group came to a halt and turned to face them.

Martin smiled and pulled out a small picture of the kid they were pursuing. "We were wondering if one of you might know who this boy is," he said, his hand held out awaiting one of them to take the picture.

They stared at him, not making a move to take the picture. The one who had originally turned spoke. "Why you looking for him?"

His smile not wavering, Martin continued to hold out the picture. "We're from the Circus Circus Casino. He applied for a job and we needed some more papers before we could process it. He wrote that he lived up here."

The man squinted and looked at the picture quickly, without taking it from Martin's hand. "Don't know him."

Martin's smile grew wider. "How about the rest of you? It would be a shame if we can't get the poor kid this job."

The others shook their heads. Martin nodded. "Well, thank you for your time then." As the group turned and began to leave, Martin called after them, "If you do see him, please let him know." It went unacknowledged.

"They're lying." Corgan hissed as he stared after the group walking away.

"I know. The one who talked knows him." The pair fell back in step behind the group of men.

After one more bend, the hallway suddenly opened into a massive chamber: the living quarters. The room, its ceiling hundreds of feet above, had once been a cargo bay for the supply ships. Martin couldn't even see where the chamber ended; it seemed to stretch forever.

To maximize the open space available, the bay had been converted into a kind of beehive network of homes. Hexagonal entrances stacked upon each other rose to the ceiling. Small platform elevators were scattered throughout the walls, taking residents to the higher homes. Ladders were used for the lower four or five levels. The rest of the chamber had been converted into bizarre stands and tents, which formed crude aisles that covered the distance of the chamber. Cries for wares and food could be heard over the buzz of activity as the merchants competed to sell their goods to the residents.

Martin scanned the crowd intently, hoping to catch a glimpse of the kid. The group they had followed had scattered, each heading toward separate parts of the hive or the market. He and Corgan continued to follow the one who had spoken first. He was heading straight toward one of the ladders. Stopping at the foot of one of the ladders, he turned and faced Martin and Corgan, inspecting them, trying to decide his next course of action. The pair halted, returning his gaze coldly without speaking. The man sighed and looked away, then climbed skillfully up the ladder. They remained below watching as he reached his third level home and disappeared behind the faded black curtain covering his doorway.

Corgan adjusted the case that was slung to his back and moved to the ladder. "Cover me," he said simply, then trudged up the ladder.

Martin nodded as Corgan ducked slowly and slipped behind the curtain. He wished he were sitting back at the Lunar with Whitey, able to see the view. The realization hit him that for the first time in a day, he wasn't the center of attention. Not that it mattered though. Corgan might find him. . .

Suddenly, his thoughts were interrupted: there was the kid, standing in plain view only a hundred feet away. Martin was so stunned by the sheer odds of this event ever occurring that he stood still, his mouth gaping. Apparently, the kid suffered no such shock, or perhaps he just handled it better. Martin felt the déjà vu as he watched the back of the kid pushing his way into the crowd and disappearing.

"Shit!" Martin hissed and bolted after the kid as he yelled over his shoulder. "Corgan! He's here! Running!"

Not bothering to see if Corgan heard or cared, Martin slammed his way into the same crowd, catching a glimpse of the boy as he dodged under a table full of dead poultry. Martin sprinted on, swinging around the table through the protesting shoppers. He heard a single gunshot behind him and a wave of surprised murmurs from the crowd. Nearly everyone stopped their transactions and turned towards the fading echo of the shot.

"Idiot!" Martin mumbled as he continued to pursue the kid, who was now weaving quickly around the prone shoppers. A more violent wave of whispers spread over the crowd, and without looking, Martin knew that Corgan had just stepped out from behind the curtain. An outsider killed one of their own.

"He could turn this whole crowd on us," Martin grumbled, then turned his attention back to the kid, who was now out of the thickest part of the crowd and sprinting away.

"Damn!" Martin cursed and leveled a pedestrian in his path with a swift elbow to the nose. He leapt over the body as it crumbled backwards in a sprawl of packages.

Directly in his path and gaining quickly was yet another merchant's table. The kid had slid gracefully under it, narrowly missing the merchant himself. He quickly rose to his feet and continued on as if nothing had been in his way. Martin, not possessing the dexterity or the body to duplicate the feat, vaulted onto and over the booth. Upon landing on the table, his footing gave way as foot slipped on whatever was being sold. He launched off the table awkwardly, clipping the merchant's shoulder before crashing to the floor.

His shin exploded with pain as he pushed off the floor and resumed chasing after the fleeing kid. Wincing, he ran out of the market place into a narrow hallway. Knowing that the kid was safely in front of him for the moment, Martin took the opportunity to look quickly over his shoulder as he sped on. Corgan was still back in the market place, negotiating his way through the crowd, but taking the easiest route instead of the most direct, as Martin had.

Martin turned back in time to see his prey make a sudden left into a side passage. Martin followed, turning the corner at full speed. Then he shouted in surprise. The passage was not a passage, but a balcony. Martin was unable to slow down quick enough, so threw his hands out to absorb the brunt of his collision with the railing. He hit the railing hard, his body leaning over it from the waist up, but had slowed his momentum enough to prevent himself from pitching over. Down below, the kid was picking himself off the floor. He looked up at where Martin was staring at him, astonished, then sped off down the hall, but not before giving Martin the finger over his shoulder. Martin smacked the railing in frustration and turned to see Corgan jogging towards him. "He jumped!"

Corgan slowed slightly and peeked over the railing before jogging on. "Then go after him. I'll try to cut him off at the next landing."

Martin stared after Corgan for a moment, boring small holes into the back of his skull. "Son of a bitch," he muttered, then began climbing over the railing.

Swinging over, he lowered himself quickly, gripping on to the lowest part of the railing and then letting go. The drop was only about six feet, but there was no way to land gingerly on his sore shin. Martin cried out and fell over backwards from the crouching position he had landed in. Gripping his shin, he cursed through his clenched teeth. The initial explosion of pain had already begun to subside to a throbbing ache. Not wanting the kid to get an even greater lead, Martin rolled onto his side and pulled himself slowly off the floor, favoring his good leg. With a slow limping jog, he recommenced his pursuit.

Martin reached the first intersection without another glimpse of the kid. "Shit," he muttered, coming to a stop and looking down the hallways to both his left and his right.

Nothing. He remained still, listening intently. Vaguely, he heard the sound of distant footsteps down the left corridor. Gambling that the footsteps belonged to the kid and not some other resident, he bolted down the corridor, ignoring the quite reasonable protests of his shin.

After taking the first bend at full speed, Martin came upon an extremely long, wide corridor with no exits save the one on each end. The kid was ahead of him, with a sizable lead, still running but not looking to see if Martin was following. The passageway was designed almost like a tunnel, connecting the cargo bay areas to the rest of the ship. At one point, heavy machinery would have traveled this to provide supplies to the crew from the cargo bay. Martin continued on, looking up quickly to see a set of catwalks lining the tunnel, but saw no sign of Corgan.

"Could he actually be ahead of us?" he mused as he stormed after the fleeing child, gaining ground slowly in the confined space-too slowly, he decided.

The kid was close to reaching the exit to the corridor, and Martin feared that the other half of the ship might provide too many hiding opportunities. Hoping it might stop or slow the kid down, Martin came to a sudden halt and raised his gun, taking quick aim. He fired two shots in rapid succession, both blasts passing harmlessly over the kid's head. They were, however, close enough to scare him as Martin had hoped. The kid lunged to the floor, holding his hands over the back of his head. By the time the kid pulled himself together enough to risk a look back over his shoulder, Martin had already closed more than half of the distance.

His eyes widening in fear, the kid scrambled desperately to his feet, but struggled to accelerate from his crouch on the slick floor. Before he could gain full speed, Martin was on him, tackling him from behind. Both bodies crashed to the floor. The child, taking the most of the blow, grunted heavily as they both slid out of the corridor into a large antechamber on the other side.

Responding faster than Martin had thought possible, the kid whirled beneath him and swung at his face. Still, he was not fast enough. Martin caught his wrist easily and twisted, forcing the child's face to contort in pain as a low yelp escaped his lips. Martin rose quickly, but kept hold of the boy's wrist. In a meager attempt to relieve the pain, the kid followed, rising to his knees and crying out in protest.

"Shut up," Martin spat, then eased up slightly on the pressure. Through wincing eyes, the kid looked up at him; they were threatening to tear. "What do you want?" he asked shakily.

Martin frowned, suddenly realizing how little he enjoyed this. "Listen to me care. . ."

He never finished. The quick explosions of controlled gunfire suddenly broke out, blasts raining into the chamber, the nearest one melting the floor only three inches to the left of where he and the kid stood. With no hesitation, Martin lunged to the left in a staggering hunched run. With no conscience thought, his gun was aimed back down the corridor where the fire was coming from. Squeezing the trigger as he ran, he emptied the blaster clip, not expecting to hit anything, but hoping it would buy him some time to get out of the corridor's mouth.

It did. He slammed his back against the wall beside the corridor's entrance, the empty clip already clattering uselessly as his feet. As he replaced his clip, he watched helplessly as the kid disappeared down a hallway opposite of the side he had run to.

Hissing a quick curse, he turned his attention back to the problem as hand. He brought his heavy breathing under control and listened carefully to the silence that had broken out after the firefight. There was nothing at first, then he heard the soft sound of metal grating. Squinting, trying to concentrate on the slow, rhythmic sound, Martin realized he'd heard it before. Several times in fact, and all at the same slow deliberate pace. Biting his lower lip and the tirade of obscenities, Martin whirled off the wall to face into the corridor. After a moment's hesitation to pinpoint the sound's exact location, Martin raised the gun to point midway at the left catwalk-then waited. He waited for Corgan to finish the slow dismantling of his auto-rifle. The grating sound stopped, and a few seconds later, Corgan's blonde hair appeared as he rose from the floor of the catwalk. Martin resisted the urge that was ripping through his blood and fired two shots, not at his head, but directly above it. Corgan's head pulled back as a shower of melted wall cascaded down upon him.

"The son of a bitch even flinches slowly!" Martin thought furiously as Corgan turned slowly to face him, raising his hands over his head.

Martin lowered the gun ever so slightly, the target now aimed squarely between Corgan's eyes. With only the crosshair hindering his sight, Martin stared into the set of goggles that Corgan was watching him through-the same set he was sure Moose and Whitey were also peering through, waiting tensely to see if he would pull the trigger. For a brief moment, Martin tried to picture what it must be like for Whitey to be watching Martin through Corgan's enhanced goggles, then through the magnifiers that screened and enhanced the image for Whitey's damaged eyes. He wondered vaguely if he'd even recognize himself through Whitey's mechanical view of the world.

It didn't matter. They were watching. As long as they were, he knew he really had no other course of action. Corgan's silence, even with the gun aimed at him, seemed to indicate that he understood Martin's position as well. However, he was smart enough not to tempt Martin by doing something foolish, like smiling. He played his part calmly and quietly, staring back at Martin, waiting for him to come to the obvious conclusion. Suddenly feeling awkward by the situation, as if he was acting like a misbehaved child, Martin calmly asked, "What were you thinking?"

A shrug was his response.

"I had the kid. You just let him get away."

"I wasn't aiming for you. Was trying to flush the kid out."

If Martin didn't know better, he would have assumed that Corgan was still on the drugs.

"I had him. You let him get away," Martin added, speaking now more to his audience than to Corgan.

No reply.

Martin shook his head. "Just get down here. We need to follow him again."

Corgan nodded silently and continued across the catwalk, disappearing from Martin's sight.

After what felt like an eternity, Corgan made his way down from the upper level. Martin mumbled something to the affect of "Taking his sweet time." He received no response. They proceeded after the kid, moving slowly, being careful not to pass any potential hiding spots without checking them. The last thing they needed was to pass the kid and have him double back behind them. From some maps that they were able to download from the handheld, it became quickly apparent that they are heading into a less occupied part of the ship. Martin cursed himself silently for not having the foresight to have brought a portable oxygen mask. Some parts of these ships had deteriorated enough to have lost their life support.

Within five minutes, they came to a part of the ship where the power had apparently gone down, proving the maps to be reliable. The hallway ahead was shrouded in darkness. The air had a slight stale taste to it, but it was otherwise safe. After a brief discussion, in which Martin had to remind Corgan that he was the one with the night vision, Corgan reluctantly took the lead into the corridor. The going was tedious, both of them wielding their weapons and Corgan hissing out directions for Martin to follow in the darkness.

Martin's eyes gradually grew accustomed to the dark, allowing him to see vague shapes as he came upon them, but he still relied heavily on Corgan's persistent instructions. He made a conscience effort to memorize the path that he was being led down. If for some reason Corgan left him, he didn't want to be stranded in the dark.

"There's a large room ahead," Corgan whispered. "I think something's in it, but I'm not sure."

Martin squinted, straining to see ahead. He wasn't sure if it was his eyes deceiving him, but the room ahead actually seemed a bit lighter. As they got closer, he saw that it truly was lighter. The room must have been some sort of observation room. One full wall was glass, but it had been refracted to keep the light out. Apparently, over the years, some of the tint had decayed and fallen off. Some of the larger patches were fifteen feet across and about six feet tall. From these holes, the lights of Vegas seeped into the room, allowing Martin to see a bit more, but not much.

Corgan stalked forward, his rifle pointed out. Martin could see him pointing into one of the opposite corners but was unable to make out what he was pointing to. He aimed his gun in the same direction, just to be sure.

"Come out slowly!" Corgan suddenly shouted.

Martin listened, but heard no movement. He stared into the corner, looking more for any slight movement than for a particular object.

"You have three seconds to come out from there," Corgan said calmly.

Oddly, there was a flash of light out of the corner of Martin's eye.

"One. . ."

He turned slowly to the gap in the tint. A beam of intense light was cutting across the sky outside. He stared at it dumbly, trying to figure out how it could be originating from Vegas. It made no sense.

"Two. . ."

Corgan was turning now too. The room was getting brighter; the beam was actually sweeping towards the ship at a sickening speed. Then it suddenly dawned on Martin: the festival. This was actually coming from the Luxor, the beam stretching across the sky ceremoniously reaching for its sister on Earth. He turned to Corgan.

Looking back, Martin would remember it as one of the only times he saw Corgan move quickly. He dropped the rifle and reached up with both hands as the beam struck the ship, drowning the room with its white light.

Corgan's howl confirmed that he hadn't reached his goggles quickly enough. Squinting in the brilliant light, Martin could only see Corgan's dark silhouette pitching backwards as he cried out, clawing at his eyes. There were small streams of smoke coming from Corgan's face. Martin had time to realize the irony that if Corgan would have opted for the more conventional and cheaper implants, he would have been able to turn off the night vision with a mere utterance of a command word. When the light was gone, Corgan thumped to the floor, groaning softly.

Martin blinked several times and waited until his eyes became adjusted to the dark again. Small red spots danced across his vision. Able to see now, Martin watched silently while Corgan rolled slightly on the ground, clutching his eyes and whimpering. M artin pointed his gun down the hallway and fired a random shot as he stepped forward. The scent of smoke and burnt flesh grew stronger as he stood over Corgan's fallen body. He fired another shot, this one over Corgan. Corgan's whimpering intensified a bit, maybe realizing what was about to happen. A low protest was all he managed to get out coherently. Martin smiled slightly, waiting patiently as he played this out.

The goggles were, without a doubt, burnt out. The smoke wasn't only coming from Corgan's melted eyes, but also from the goggles themselves. All that Whitey and Moose had left was an audio link.

Martin's smile grew wider as he imagined them both leaning closer to the dark monitor, listening intently, wondering who was firing the shots over the din of Corgan's groans. Now pursing his lips, he lowered the gun and fired twice into Corgan's face, being certain to put both blasts through the goggles. The echoes faded down the halls and then there was silence. He fired one more shot into the goggles to make sure, then retreated from the body. The transmission was now dead. They would wait, probably watching the camera on the bottom of the lift for a few days, but then they would assume that both he and Corgan had been killed. They might even send someone up to try to piece together what happened, but by then, Martin planned to be off the Moon. There were other ways than the lift to get back to Vegas, and once he was back, he would leave as quickly as he could.

He looked briefly over his shoulder in the direction of the soft weeping-a child's weeping. Without hesitation, he walked away, back in the direction he had come. Placing his gun back into its holster, Martin pulled the single black information chip from his shirt pocket where it had rested since they had departed from the strip club earlier that morning. With a crooked smile, he brought it to his lips and kissed it gently. It still carried the sweet scent of the stripper's perfume. Nodding his head, he returned it to the pocket and began retracing his steps into the darkness.

Copyright 2000 Harry Raden

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