Petro and Crescent were shoved by the guards into a room inside the tug maintenance shed and the hatch locked behind them. Crescent immediately started looking for a way out. She lifted a grate from the wall and studied the duct behind it. “Too small,” she concluded. She tried the lever on the hatch. “It’s an old-fashioned mechanical lock too. Even if I hadn’t left my gillie in the fuser, we’d be stuck.”
Petro looked at her, then sat down on the floor and leaned his back against the wall. “Yep, too bad all around. Why don’t we plan your wedding while we’re stuck here?”
“My wedding? Are you crazy?”
“Yes, but that’s beside the point. Is this going to be a small affair or are you going to invite thousands of people?”
“I don’t know thousands of people.”
“OK, a small affair. Civil or religious?”
“Both Absalom and I are members of the Appalachian Church of the Resurrection.”
“OK, we import an App preacher. Oh, wait, why not have the wedding in Endless Dust? The Apps are great cooks and they love a party! It’s perfect.”
“Well, I suppose that would be all right even though we aren’t planning on living there. I was hoping Absalom would become an associate with the Lunar Rescue Company.”
“Sounds good to me. You want to wear a fancy white wedding dress, the veil, the complete works?”
“No.”
“Yes, you do. I can see it in your face.”
“My face doesn’t register emotion. It’s a lack of facial muscles.”
“Yeah, well, I can see it in your eyes.” Petro studied her. “You know, maybe if you worked on your hair . . .”
Crescent touched her locks. “My hair’s too coarse to do anything but cut it.”
“I’m not so sure of that. You know, your face is really quite intriguing. Yes, your skin’s a little gray, but have you ever thought about powder and rouge? And lipstick? Why, a girl can fix herself up with the right application of paint. How’re your legs?”
“Hairy and thick as tree trunks.”
“A little toning and a good razor can take care of that. I have also always admired your good posture.”
“Thank you. The Trainers made certain we squared our shoulders and held our heads high . . .” Crescent came up short. “Wait a minute! Why are you giving me makeup tips and not figuring a way out of here?”
“Oh, I already have. I’m an excellent lock picker, and the one on that hatch isn’t a serious lock. They’re designed to lock up petty thieves, not smart fellows like me. I’ve just been cooling my jets until the guards leave. They don’t look like dedicated troops.” He peered through the viewport in the hatch. “Yep, just as I thought, there’s nobody there. All I need to break us out of here is a tool. Got anything hidden in your boot?”
Crescent reached to her ankle and took out a stubby but deadly looking knife. “Like this?”
“Perfect, but why didn’t you use it on a guard?”
“I didn’t think murder was necessarily a good thing to add to all the other charges against us.”
“Good point. Hand it over, sister!”
Crescent handed over the knife and Petro went to work on the lock. Within seconds there was a click and the hatch swung open. Petro poked his head out, looked left and right, then said, “Let’s go.”
They went. Along the way, they saw someone coming. Hiding behind some equipment, they recognized the man who was hurrying along. “Crater,” Petro hissed. “Over here.”
Crater joined them. “What happened?”
“Guards locked us up for nearly five minutes before I broke us out, but they could be coming back. Only thing to do is steal the tug again. It still have the fuser attached?”
“It does,” Crater said.
“Then let’s boogie!”
The three made a run to the Angie Johnston and climbed inside. Petro settled into the left seat of the cockpit, Crater in the right. Crescent strapped into the jump seat behind them.
“Here we go,” Petro said.
“An equatorial orbit would probably be best,” Crater said.
Petro looked at him and shook his head. “Crater, Crater, Crater. We can’t go into space yet. The fuser doesn’t have a full tank of hydrogen and it doesn’t have any weapons. We’ve got to get some of both.”
Crater allowed a short sigh. “Where do we go for that?”
“Before I was cashiered out of the service, I helped disarm the fusers. Their missiles are locked in a depot on the farside. Liquid hydrogen is stored there too.”
“All right, then fire up this tin can and let’s go raid ourselves a depot.”
Crater handed Crescent a pouch. “Here. I brought you your gillie.”
Crescent took it. “How’d you keep your gillie from fighting with it?”
“I don’t know. They seem to be napping. Gillies are weird.”
“They’re not the only thing weird in this lashup,” Crescent grumbled.
Crater frowned at her. “What’s wrong now?”
“Nothing,” Crescent lied. “Petro, why are we still sitting here?”
“The tug’s software is locked up.”
Crescent tickled her gillie out of its pouch. “Gillie, can you get this tug moving?”
Her gillie yawned and stretched, although it had neither mouth or backbone. Done.
“Hey!” Petro cheered. “The puter is up!”
Crater’s gillie crawled out of Crater’s pocket. What’s happening? What are you doing, Awful Thing?
Saving us, Superior One.
Crater’s gillie looked at the bright panel and the countdown clock. Well done, it said. It briefly pondered Crater. Why didn’t you ask me to do that?
“Sorry. I guess I wasn’t thinking.”
Crescent had to use all of her willpower to keep from thoroughly agreeing out loud with Crater’s assessment while Petro blasted the tug off the ground, spun it around, and headed for the farside of the moon.