The Fortress in Orion (12 page)

“Shit!” growled Snake. “That's a million credits we'll never see again.”

It took another hour for Pandora to return, but they were carefully monitoring all broadcasts and reports, and the body hadn't yet been discovered by the time they were out of the system.

They were still congratulating themselves on their narrow escape a day later when Pandora picked up a news item and flashed it on the holographic screen. It was the image of Snake, Pretorius, Circe, and Proto in his true form, all entering the bank, and a voice that the computer translated into Terran announced that these four beings were wanted for robbery and murder.

“Damn!” muttered Pretorius. “I forgot that Proto's image wouldn't fool the camera. Now they know what we're traveling with.”

13

The entire team was assembled on the bridge, considering their options.

“We're probably going to have to steal another ship,” said Pretorius. “They have to know which one took off after the killing.”

“And they've got three phony IDs on file,” added Pandora. She turned to Proto. “Did they get yours, too?”

In his human guise, Proto shook his head. “No, no one asked for one.”

“Figures,” said Pandora. “Visiting Kabori on a world that probably doesn't see a dozen Kabori a year. Okay, then, three more IDs.”

“We'd probably better not set down on another world until we reach Petrus, either,” added Circe.

Pretorius turned to her. “Why not?”

“They'll know we're traveling with
him
,” she said, indicating Proto. “And you can't fool their security systems.”

Pretorius shook his head. “What that means is that
he
can't leave the ship, not that we can't.”

“They have holos of three of us,” she persisted.

“Then we'll use makeup, or wigs, or whatever it takes to change our appearance, plus new IDs, of course.”

“That'll work,” said Snake.

“I can't help wondering, though,” continued Circe. “If we blew it on a little backwater world like that one, what are our chances when we get to Petrus.”

Pretorius resisted the urge to point out that they were never very good and instead said, “Not much worse than before. If we can find a way to sneak Proto past a security system, I'd say they're exactly the same as before.”

“I admire your optimism,” said Snake dubiously.

“No one said that it would be easy,” responded Pretorius. “Just that it's possible.” He turned to Proto. “I want you to keep learning the Kabori language, on the assumption that we
will
find a way to get you past a security system. Djibmet, keep working with him.”

“I will,” answered Djibmet. “And Michkag has learned everything I have to teach him. We'll keep going over it, but until we get there and see if anything's changed, he's as ready as I can make him.”

“Okay. I just hope he doesn't get stage fright.”

“I am Michkag,” said the clone with a certain arrogance. “Nothing frightens me.”

“Very good,” said Pretorius.

“Thank you,” said the clone. He paused for a moment. “I will not thank you or extend any small courtesies to any of you in the future. I must totally
become
Michkag if this is to work.”

“I approve,” said Pretorius.

“Well,” said Pandora, “we have enough food and water to complete the mission and make it back home before we run out . . . but of course, that means nothing if we change ships again.”

“We'll just have to find a way to transfer the food, water, and perhaps the fuel as well,” said Pretorius. “Now, as for a ship, we're within the Coalition's territory, so that makes being approached by another pirate highly unlikely. That means we're going to have to land where there are other ships and appropriate one.”

“I think they call that a spaceport,” said Snake sardonically.

“Sometimes,” agreed Pretorius. “But sometimes it's an agricultural world, where the farms are so vast that each landowner—I hesitate to call them farmers in the traditional sense—has a small landing field area for his own ships. And of course, there are probably half a dozen shipbuilding worlds between here and Petrus.”

“They'll have more security than we can handle,” said Ortega.

“Probably,” agreed Pretorius. “I'm just pointing out that we have more options than spaceports. And of course, if we can get to a larger world, one with orbiting hangars, that makes our job even easier.” He turned to Pandora. “See what you can do about new IDs, and then start checking out likely ports where we can dump this ship and borrow a new one.”

“You know,” said Circe thoughtfully, “maybe we don't have to borrow one at all.”

“Oh?”

“We've got the equivalent of a few million credits. We could just
buy
one and have it registered to Felix's or Pandora's ID, or one of our new ones.”

“That's not a bad idea,” said Pretorius. “We ought to pick up something this size for well under a million. Then instead of hoping no one finds this ship, backtracks to Brastos III and anywhere else we may have been spotted, and figures out where we're headed, we transfer everything to the new, legit ship and crash this one into some uninhabited and uninhabitable world or moon.” He paused, then smiled at Snake in amusement. “Don't look so downtrodden. You were never going to keep the money anyway.”

“All right,” said Pandora. “Just about every world that does any commerce at all will have ships for sale, either new or used. I'll start checking them out once I finish with the IDs, and hopefully I can find one that's properly small and off the beaten track.”

“Okay,” said Pretorius. “Any questions or observations?”

Nobody spoke up.

“Then go about your duties if you have any and grab some rest if you haven't. I'd suggest that you help Pandora, but no one can work those little machines but her.”

The meeting broke up, and Pretorius walked over to the galley to grab a snack and a container of what passed for coffee. The galley responded instantly to his request, his artificial eggs tasted real and were cooked properly, and his
faux
coffee was indistinguishable from the equally
faux
coffee he'd become addicted to back on Deluros VIII.

Ortega soon joined him. “Hope you don't mind a little company,” he said, “but the simple truth is that I can't stand to watch our Kabori eat, and I'm afraid to even think of what Proto eats.”

Pretorius chuckled. “And they thought provincialism would end when we left the solar system.”

“What is that you're drinking?” asked Ortega.

“Beats me. I pretend it's coffee, and then it doesn't taste quite so terrible.”

“Yeah, I do pretty much the same with all the food on this ship.”

Pretorius sat at a table, and Ortega joined him. They ate in silence for a few minutes, and finally Ortega spoke up.

“Just what are the odds of our pulling this off, do you think?”

“If everything goes smoothly, and as planned, there shouldn't be much of a problem,” answered Pretorius.

“You ever had a mission where everything went smoothly and as planned?”

“Don't ask.”

“I thought not,” said Ortega. “Why not just have a goddamned all-out war and be done with it?”

“Why sacrifice tens of millions when they can sacrifice
us
?” replied Pretorius with a smile. “Besides, we've been
having
an all-out war, and after twenty-three years it's a stalemate.”

“You're ruining my digestion,” complained Ortega.

“Blame it on the food and don't worry about the mission,” said Pretorius.

“I know: worrying won't help.”

“You got it.”

They finished eating, and since there are no days or nights aboard a small ship in space, Ortega went off to sleep, while Pretorius returned to the bridge to see how Pandora was doing on crafting new IDs.

“Got one,” she said. “I'll have the other two in two or three hours. But let's not blow these. As we get close to the center of things, it's going to be harder to come up with IDs and passports that'll clear customs, let alone get us to wherever we're going on Petrus IV.”

“While you're at it, get three or four for Proto, one as each of the more populous races in the Coalition.”

“Whatever ID we give him, and however he appears, the security cameras and scanners will know his real appearance.”

“Do it anyway,” said Pretorius.

“You have something in mind?”

“Nothing spectacular. But if we can craft an alien dummy to fit over him until we're past security, then he can shed it and take on the appearance.”

“You think a dummy can get past security on a world like Petrus IV?” she said dubiously.

“Not with what we know now,” answered Pretorius. “But we have a month to learn. Besides, it'll only take you a few hours, and we've got the time to spare.”

“Okay, but I'll need Proto to show me what he'll look like in each identity.”

“Where is he?”

She checked another tiny computer. “Asleep.”

“When he wakes up, have him impersonate the races, take your holographs or whatever you need, and work from that.”

“We can't capture his image directly. I'll have to describe it in detail and have the computer come up with as close a set of approximations as possible.” She stared at him for a long moment.

“Even if this works, can you trust him to carry out a believable impersonation?”

“He's been doing it all his life. Have you ever run into another member of his race?”

“No.”

“What are the odds that he's the only one?”

She smiled. “Okay, so we've probably all been fooled by him or his brethren.”

“It's clearly a survival trait,” said Pretorius. “The fact that he's still alive means he's mastered it.”

“Point taken,” she replied.

“Okay, I won't bother you any further. Get to work on the IDs.”

“Right,” she said, turning back to the largest of her computers.

Pretorius decided to take a nap. When he was younger he was too restless to relax when on a mission, but years of experience had taught him that once the mission reached a certain point there would be no relaxing until it was over, no matter how many hours or days or even weeks that it took, and he knew he had to grab his sleep while he could.

He was awakened by a warning siren that rang throughout the ship. He'd kept his clothes on, so he had only to slip into his boots, and then he was out of his cabin and heading to the bridge.

“What's the problem?” he demanded.

“We've been hailed by a small military ship,” answered Pandora, throwing an image of it onto a holoscreen.

“Kabori?”

“I think so.”

“What do they want?”

She shrugged. “They haven't said. It might be just routine, or it might be that they've put two and two together and figured out this is the ship that took off from Brastos III an hour after the bank president was killed.”

The others were now on the bridge and had heard what Pandora had said.

“What kind of armaments do they carry?” asked Ortega.

“Yeah,” added Snake. “Do we fight or run?”

“Neither,” said Pretorius.

“We just sit here and wait to be boarded?” demanded Snake.

“They've already had time to identify us,” answered Pretorius. “If we shoot, the whole navy will know. And if we run from a navy ship, the whole navy will be after us.”

“So what
do
we do?” asked Ortega.

“Hide.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” demanded Snake.

“Snake, Pandora, Felix, Circe, go to your cabins.” Pretorius turned to the Michkag clone. “You, too. You're the last thing we want anyone to see out here.”

The clone and the four humans reluctantly followed his orders.

“Proto,” he said, “become a Kabori. The same identity you showed me the last time I asked you.”

Proto instantly projected the asked-for illusion.

Pretorius turned to Djibmet. “They won't bring a security system, or even a camera, onboard, but he still doesn't know the language enough to convince anyone he's Kabori, so you're going to have to do the talking.”

“Me?” said Djibmet nervously.

Pretorius nodded. “If anyone asks, you found this ship abandoned on Questos II, that little world we passed last night, and you and your mute friend are bringing it back home to . . . to whatever planet you want to claim as home.”

“I don't know . . .” said the Kabori.

“It'll work,” said Pretorius. “They're looking for three Men and a lump, not two Kabori. Hell, it may even save us the need of stealing another ship. Let them come aboard, be friendly, be surprised but thrilled that you found such a nice ship sitting deserted on that little dirtball.”

“I'll try,” said Djibmet.

“You can do it.” Pretorius turned to Proto. “Not a word, not a sound. You were born mute, or you lost your voice to a disease, whatever Djibmet says. You're not afraid of them. After all, they're your own race. If they need a loyalty salute or anything, just be guided by Djibmet and do what he does.”

“Right,” said Proto.

“That's your last word until they've come and gone.”

Proto nodded his agreement.

“They'll be here in another ninety seconds,” announced Pandora's voice over the speaker system.

“Okay,” said Pretorius. “I'm outta here. Good luck.”

He considered going to his cabin, then changed his mind and joined Pandora in hers, where her machines allowed him to see and hear what was happening on the bridge.

“Hail the ship!” said a voice in Kabori, which Pandora's computer translated into Terran. “Name and registration, please.”