Free Hide and seek by Paul Preuss

Supersonic aircraft must be wedge shaped, and even with swing-wings forward they stall easily in the thin atmosphere, despite the low gravity. So runways are narrow lines across the red sands, thirty kilometers long and aligned with the prevailing winds, with ranks of barrier nets across their ends.
    Farther from the blurred runway Sparta could resolve a plain of shifting dunes stretching to the base of distant bluffs. The banded bluffs were steep and high and everywhere in shadow, except to the east, where only their tops were in sunlight; their line stretched across the horizon, glowing vibrant gold at their ragged crests, deepening to royal purple in the open shadows below. At this longitude evening was approaching, and the twilight sky was a peculiar shade of burnt orange in which pale stars were already twinkling.
    Minutes passed, until at last the shuttle perceptibly slowed its headlong rush, finally braking to a smooth stop well before it needed a barrier, letting its pointed snout droop toward the ground. Its wings, carbon black when cool, still glowed orange in the Martian twilight.
    A ground tractor fetched the shuttle from the runway and towed it slowly toward a distant cluster of low buildings. The freshening breeze blew wisps of pink sand across the taxiway. Except for blue runway lights and the distant green gleam of the passenger terminal, there was no hint of life in the dusty expanse. Then Sparta caught sight of figures moving across the sand, people wearing brown pressure suits, hunched against the wind. She had no idea what their business was, but in their postures she read the cold, and she shivered.
    Inside the terminal the air was warm. She stepped lightly from the docking tube; she weighed no more than forty pounds, and here she was strong enough to lift a desk or jump all the way across the little terminal building, which was no bigger than an ordinary magneplane station on Earth.
    The building was oddly charming: it was a long barrel vault of green glass, improbably arched, its interior surface cast in intricately slick and watery designs, its streamlined outer surface polished by the wind. Iron-rich green glass was a favored building material on Mars, and low gravity permitted virtuoso feats of architecture. Unlike brick, which needs water for its manufacture (much less cement, which needs quantities of fossil sea creatures as well), glass requires only sand and solar energy. Even a little thickness of glass screened the ubiquitous ultraviolet radiation that impinged on the Martian surface. Thus an entire Martian style had arisen, an oddly light and delicate style for a frontier culture.
    Sparta did not linger to admire the terminal building’s miniature glass cathedral. She stayed just long enough to watch Blake and his big, boisterous new friend Rostov walk off in the direction of the shuttleport hive. They’d climbed aboard the Mars Cricket showing every sign of intoxication; while the Russian was belting out a soldier’s colorful drinking song, Blake had been imitating a balalaika–or so his thrummy-drumm-drumm noises were intended, as he’d loudly announced to the passengers.
Most unlike Blake. He wasn’t a drinking man.
    Shortly after she’d spotted them at the Nevski Garden, datalink access had identified Rostov and provided her with his resume. Yevgeny Rostov was a high-level operative in the Interplanetary Socialist Workers Party, currently the business manager of the Pipeline Workers Guild, Mars local 776. Sparta wondered how Blake had managed to make such an interesting connection in so short a time.
Unless Rostov, not Blake, had made the connection . . .
    Given that Blake’s cover had made him out to be virtually indigent, the shuttleport hive was the only place for him. Sparta, traveling expenses paid, had a reservation at the Mars Interplanetary Hotel. She grinned. Too bad for Blake, but he was the one who’d wanted to work underground.
    Among the two dozen shuttle passengers