Hi, again! Thank you for taking the time to read. I appreciate it. Responses and edits are on their way, promise. =)

50

Mars, a few minutes later, down in a half-sunken flare shelter-

John stood there waiting; arms folded, breath roughly pent. Mars-Net would agree or not, and International Rescue would have to proceed from there. Lightning-swift fragments of possible schemes… a horde of 'what ifs'… flashed through his mind like tumbling 4-D Tetris blocks; plans C and D, getting ready to form.

Meanwhile, Maintenance-2 sat perfectly still and erect, turned somehow inward, yet arguing fiercely. John could sense it. A long, tense moment passed in this way, before life returned to the clone's beach-glass eyes. Looking at John again, he said,

"There is partial acceptance, John Tracy. The colonists and their genome bank may remove to your vessel, along with the central component of Mars-Net, but some of your people must stay behind in their place. Those reduced earlier by Maintenance-3 and -1…"

"And me," John cut in, surprised by the gut-clenching strength of his own emotions. Alan. His short-lived clone could only mean Alan and Caleb, who'd been "reduced" down to molecules, back at the shattered lab on Earth. Restored to life to be used as hostages, maybe… and how could John not be there, too; taking whatever came next? His brother might need him.

Maintenance-2 hesitated, once again seeming to pull deep inside of himself; interpreting John's motives for something that just didn't get it. Then, his focus returned, and the clone spoke aloud, saying,

"This offer is acceptable, John Tracy. I will now conduct you below, so that the colonists may learn what is next to be done. Follow me, please."

Yeah. They couldn't move fast enough to suit the wary young astronaut, who'd have crawled through hell backward, if it meant reaching Alan. Helmets locked back into place and life-support on, they departed the low, thick-walled shelter and headed outside.

Seven hundred long years had done terrible things to Mars. Coming this close to their sun had stripped away most of the Red Planet's atmosphere. The sky overhead wasn't pink anymore, but tan by the surface, fading nearly to black, high above. It was a view impaled by a searing sun and three gargantuan pillars of glittering metal. No… scratch that. Much more like the ground and volcano had bent at ninety degrees, then continued on up out of sight; growing faint and pale in the distance. Engine C, the farthest of all, resembled a blaze of girders, nanites and cables, surging to meet that huge star.

The ground beneath these titans trembled and sagged from the strain of supporting them. Thin air meant almost no sound, but John could imagine a troubled, Atlas-like groan from below.

"We built that," he whispered, almost forgetting to breathe. "We did it."

Maintenance-2 just kept walking, seeming immune to raw, human wonder. Moving swiftly, he led John out and down to a flat metal rectangle set in the side of a crumbling butte. Five minutes' walk, maybe five and a half.

At the clone's gloved touch, the grey steel panel dilated open, revealing a hidden airlock. They hurried within, once John got a message to Brains, Lee and Max, up in the gleaming high splinter of Thunderbird 7. They weren't happy to learn his intentions, but he knew what he was doing, and time was too short for arguments.

Once inside, there followed the usual thump, whirr and hiss of airlock-fill and decontamination. About a twelve-minute process, no matter whose world you were on. After that, a boarded lift plunged them far from the surface, beyond the reach of hard radiation and damaging chemicals.

The way was long. About halfway down, John glanced over at Maintenance-2 and asked,

"You repair all of this, by yourself?"

The organic construct nodded once, saying,

"This passage is not much used, except by this unit… me… when work has ended, and I am no longer required. Then, under guise of inspection, I am able to seek out the sun and stars. Seeing them… it is something like freedom, I think."

John grunted assent.

"I get that," he said. "When I was little, after I finished up with the horses and barn, I used to climb out on the roof just to stare up and dream about space flight. Back then, I wanted to fly, more than anything."

The lift had begun to slow down, its shrill whirring noise growing steadily deeper. Asked Maintenance-2 (whose space suit was literally part of him; like, molded right on),

"Is it all you imagined, flying in space and touching the stars?"

John thought back to the wild rush and surge, the sheer joy, of his first solo launch, back in his days with the Space Corps. Almost laughed at the slightly embarrassing memory.

"Yes, it is… but you'll have to find out for yourself. Which one's your favourite?" he then asked, changing the subject. "Star, I mean." (Because every astronomer has that one favourite light in the sky. Call it a personal touchstone or guidepost.)

His clone managed something close to a smile. At least, one side of his plastic-smooth face seemed to stretch.

"It is red, in a pattern of stars that looks like a striding man. He tumbles through the night sky in different places, but always, I can find the red star."

"Betelgeuse," said John. "Means 'Armpit of the Mighty One', in a language that nobody speaks, anymore. WorldGov renamed it 'Clarity'."

"They have names?" his clone blurted, as their lift hissed to a gentle stop. A wavering beep sounded, but no voice spoke up announcing the end of their ride. Instead, the door spiraled open.

"Yeah," said John, picking up the thread of their conversation. Everything interested Maintenance-2, who'd only had tech stuff to learn about. "Or letters and numbers, if they're too far away to matter… but I've been naming those, too. Stuff from old stories, music and videos, mostly." He'd never told that to anyone else, before… and, dammit, there had to be some way to help the guy out of this nightmare.

Maintenance-2 led John through the doors and into a smoothly machined stone tunnel. Overhead panels provided a pale, bloodless light. The air here was close and stale, smelling of oil and very hot metal.

"The incinerator," his clone explained, indicating the back of a massive furnace. "It is here that the colonists are reduced to components, once they have reached maturity. Then, their substance is recycled, forming the next generation."

"Do they… do they have any idea what's going to happen, once they grow up?" John asked, troubled by the thought of uncounted murders right here on Mars, his first posting.

Maintenance-2 shook his perfectly molded red head.

"No," he replied, in a voice that John had to lean close, to hear. "There is no point in trying to speak of it. Mars-Net will only shut down my brain function and have me reduced. I did make the attempt, once. We all have, Maintenance-1 and -3, as well as this unit. That is how we know."

A grim situation. John would have said more, made suggestions, but they'd come to the end of the long stone passage, which terminated at another steel portal.

"Through here lies the colonists' public space, John Tracy. Their garden, courtyard, classrooms, food hall and dormitories. Normally, they would be going to dinner, now, but Mars-Net has summoned them all to the meeting place. I have not been allowed here until after they sleep… but now I am instructed to guide you within."

He looked nervous, this clone of John who'd lived thousands of brief yearning lives. Well, the astronaut was accustomed to calming folks down until help could arrive.

"Lead the way," he instructed. "I've got your six."

To his brothers, that would simply have meant: Carry on. I'm watching your back. But Maintenance-2 took it differently; like someone had tossed him a rope in deep water. A tether or jetpack, in space. He stared for a moment, then nodded.

"Your well-being shall matter to me, as well. Now, say nothing unless commanded to speak, and follow me closely."

The door cycled open at his double's swift touch, revealing the back of a wide stone dais. Beyond that, John could see an ocean of young, upturned faces; silent, respectful, wide-eyed and waiting. Just kids, hundreds of them; blent to one race and colour by ages of cloning.

Glancing aside, John noticed that Maintenance-2 seemed even shyer than he was, in crowd situations; sort of hunched up and twitchy. John felt like a protective big brother, again. He would have offered encouragement, except that a sudden holographic cylinder flashed into being, bluish and sparking with age. A figure took shape inside of that swirling column of light. Someone John very much knew.