The Prison in Antares (16 page)

“Sounds good to me,” said Ortega.

“I've eaten,” said Proto, who had his own needs and his own food supply, “but I'll join you.”

“Me, too,” said Irish, walking toward the galley.

“I'll join you later,” said Snake.

“You're not hungry?” asked Irish.

“Starved,” replied Snake.

“Well, then?”

“Got to do my exercises,” explained Snake. “No one's asked me for any of my specialties yet, but when they do—and Nate
always
does—I've got to be in shape.”

“May I watch?” asked Irish.

Pretorius chuckled. “I hope you have a high tolerance for boredom.”

Snake smiled. “What he means,” she explained, “is that these aren't push-ups or leg lifts or anything that's the least bit interesting to watch. I'm not an athlete. Well, not primarily. I'm a contortionist. I fit in, and move through, places that no one else can fit in or move through.” She pointed to a box against a wall. “My first exercise is to get into that thing and stay there for fifteen minutes.” She chuckled. “Not exactly the kind of thing I can charge admission for.”

“Okay,” said Irish. “I admire anyone who can do that, but I think I'll eat with the rest.”

“I'll be there in another forty-five minutes,” promised Snake. “I know, I know—you'll all be done eating by then. But what the hell, the chairs are comfortable, and you have nothing else to do, so you can stick around and talk to me while I'm eating.”

“That presupposes that anyone wants to talk to you,” said Pretorius with a smile.

“I love you too,” said Snake, walking over to the box. “And the whole time I'm in there, I'll be thinking of ways to torture you.”

“More ways than you've already thought of?” he asked.

“You make me feel creative,” she said, opening the box, and folding herself into it.

“Amazing!” said Irish.

“You think
that's
amazing, you should see her in action,” said Ortega.

“Isn't that what I'm seeing now?”

Pretorius smiled. “It's more like
in
action.”

Pandora walked over and joined them. “We're in totally uninhabited territory,” she said, “and we're heading to neutral territory, so I don't see any reason not to put the ship on automatic and grab a meal.”

“Long as you're back at the controls before we hit the wormhole,” said Pretorius.

“I'll be there,” she said. “That's Standard Operating Procedure. But to tell you the truth, I don't know why. Once we're inside a wormhole I can't maneuver, can't turn around or change directions, can't break out through what passes for a wall, so why bother?”

“Beats me,” admitted Pretorius. “But I think until we learn more about them than that they go from here to there, we'd better follow the procedure.”

“Well, they
are
useful,” said Pandora. “From what I've read, there was a time, when we were just moving out into space, people were sure that achieving light speeds was the answer to exploring the galaxy.” She smiled. “That was before they figured out that if you doubled our average life span, we could still explore about a tenth of one percent of the galaxy at light speeds.”

“Thank God for wormholes,” said Ortega.

“We needed a lot more than wormholes,” added Pretorius, “but they were a vital first step. I wonder how many we blundered into before we developed the technology to spot and chart them?”

“A few hundred, I'd guess,” said Pandora.

“I do remember reading or hearing that we'd colonized about forty worlds before we learned to spot and use the wormholes,” offered Irish.

“Just think,” said Pretorius. “Without them, we could be back on Earth beating the hell out of each other instead of fighting creatures who smell colors and excrete bricks.”

“Do I detect a note of cynicism?” said Pandora with a smile.

“Part cynicism, part regret,” said Pretorius. “I'd have been in the military either way. And there are days I think it might be nice to face off against creatures that aren't out of your childhood nightmares.”

“Oh, come on, Nate,” said Pandora. “Most of them aren't.”

“True,” he admitted. “But enough of them are.”

They fell silent then, perhaps considering what Pretorius had said. Ten minutes later Snake burst out of her box, stretched for a few seconds, and walked into the galley.

“Damn, that's tiring work!” she said. “Too bad we didn't stop by Earth when we had the chance. I could eat a horse—or a small dinosaur!”

22

They emerged without incident, and within three minutes Pandora was able to locate their position within the Albion Cluster.

“Closest populated planets?” asked Pretorius.

“Brysk V, Tchemni II, and Moltoi,” she replied. “We can reach any of them within a day.”

“I assume it won't come as a revelation when I admit that I've never heard of any of them,” he said, and Snake chuckled at his remark. “Any of them habitable by Men?”

“All three,” she answered. “I thought that was what you meant.”

“None of them allied with the Democracy or the Coalition?”

“No, none of them.”

“Any of 'em got a population of one hundred million or more?” asked Pretorius.

“Moltoi has close to three billion.”

“Humanoid?”

Pandora studied the computer, then shrugged. “Mildly.”

“How about the other two worlds?”

“Brysk V is an agricultural world, colonized by a race known as the Kapcrodi. Less than fifty thousand population.”

“And the other?”

“Tchemni II has a native population of five million. They have some agriculture, some mining, some relatively unsophisticated industry.”

“Okay, get us to Moltoi,” said Pretorius. “And show us what a native of the world looks like.”

“We'll be there in nine hours and six minutes, ship's time. Two wormholes. And now for a resident.”

She manipulated the computer, and a moment later an inhabitant of Moltoi was cast on the screen.

“Average height, five feet three inches. Average weight, one hundred twelve pounds. Legs are jointed as hocks, not knees, and it locomotes on all four limbs, though it stands upright.”

“Damned inefficient,” remarked Irish.

“Efficient enough to dominate this world and colonize half a dozen others,” replied Pandora.

“If this is a male, just how small are the females?” asked Snake.

Pandora checked her computer, then looked up with a curious frown. “There
are
no females.”

“What?” demanded Snake.

“And this character,” continued Pandora, indicating the figure on the screen, “isn't actually a male.”

“So they only have one sex?” asked Ortega.

“You haven't been paying attention, Felix,” said Pretorius. “They don't
have
sexes.”

“So how do they make little Moltois?” continued Ortega.

“As near as I can tell, they reproduce by a form of budding,” answered Pandora.

“What fun is that?” said Ortega.

“Have a baby and then tell me about it,” said Snake.

“You say they've colonized other worlds,” said Pretorius. “I assume they're not at war with anyone?”

“Not at the moment,” said Pandora.

“So we should be able to contact them and land without incident?”

“I assume so,” replied Pandora. “Still, you never know.”

“Okay,” he said. “Now have the computer see if it can find out who they trade with, and especially if they have any treaties or reciprocal agreements with any of the Coalition worlds.”

This time it took the computer almost five minutes.

“They trade with eighteen Coalition worlds,” announced Pandora. “And I assume your next question is: Do they trade with any of the Antares planets? And the answer is yes, they trade with the third one—the big one.”

“Good,” said Pretorius. He smiled. “Actually, my next question was going to be: Do they trade with any Democracy worlds?”

She manipulated the computer again, then looked up. “Twenty-six of them. Including—” she frowned—“Earth.”

“Clearly they don't use the same wormhole,” replied Pretorius with a smile. “Mighty few triceratops were known as interstellar traders.”

“This is serious, Nate,” said Pandora. “If someone wants to go to war with Earth, someone who knew the coordinates and effects of that wormhole, they could destroy all life on the planet before anyone had evolved to stop them.”

“Forget about it,” said Pretorius. “We've got to concentrate on Antares and Nmumba.”

“But—” began Pandora.

Pretorius smiled at her. “Think it through,” he said. “If at any time between now and the goddamned heat death of the Universe someone goes back ninety million years ago and wipes out all life on Earth, what's the logical outcome?”

“Oh, of course!” she said, laughing.

“Well,
I
don't get it,” complained Ortega.

“Felix,” said Pandora, “if they wiped out all life ninety million years ago,
we
wouldn't be here talking about it.”

“Sonuvabitch!” he muttered as the logic of it struck home.

“All right,” said Pretorius. “Pandora, make contact with Moltoi, explain that we're from the Democracy despite having leased a Coalition vessel on a neutral world, and that we'd like to land and see what they've got to sell or trade.”

“They're going to want to know what world we're from, maybe even what financial entity we're associated with.”

“Might as well say Deluros VIII,” answered Pretorius. “It's our capital world, so of course they'll have heard of it.”

“And about the additional information?”

A smile spread across Pretorius's face. “Tell 'em we work for Cooper Enterprises, and if they need any contact information, give 'em General Cooper's private ID.”

“You're sure?”

“Why should he sleep the sleep of the innocent when we're out here risking our necks for him? Yeah, I'm sure.”

“I
like
that idea!” said Snake enthusiastically. “And no matter how much it pisses him off, he'll go along with it.”

“It'll also drive him crazy wondering what we're doing in the Albion Cluster,” added Ortega.

“Anyway,” concluded Pretorius, “handle it that way. I recommend that the rest of you get some food and rest before we land.”

“Surely you're not expecting any trouble on Moltoi,” said Irish.

“No, I'm not,” said Pretorius. “But . . .”

“But?” she repeated.

“But in my experience, that's exactly when you run into it.”

23

They landed at a regional spaceport on Moltoi without incident, spent fifteen minutes clearing Customs with Proto registering under his true name and race (and appearance), rented rooms at a guesthouse for bipedal humanoids, and met in the lobby after unloading their minimal luggage. Proto had once again assumed the form of a middle-aged man, and since they had just landed and been cleared, no one considered him anything out of the ordinary.

“Okay,” said Pretorius. “Our first duty is to get a different ship, one the Coalition won't be looking for. We'd like to buy it, but we'll steal it if we have to.”

“Should we be discussing it right here in the lobby?” asked Irish, looking around at the multitude of different species, including some armed, uniformed Moltois.

“Just keep your t-packs turned off,” replied Pretorius. “I doubt that we've got any Terran speakers in the vicinity. If you see someone concentrating on some device that
might
be a t-pack, then we'll find a different place to talk.”

“I'm sorry,” she said. “I'm new at this.”

“You're doing fine,” said Snake, patting Irish on the shoulder.

“Yes, you are,” Pretorius confirmed.

“So what kind of ship do we want?” asked Proto.

“We'd much rather have a Coalition ship than one that's local to the Albion Cluster,” answered Pretorius. “And we definitely don't want an Antarean ship. We don't know all their codes. That's probably forgivable in most Coalition members—they've got a
lot
of worlds—but not in a ship that's registered to any of the Antares planets.”

“So how do we choose a ship?”

Pretorius looked at each member of his team in turn. “I think,” he said at last, “that we'll send the two of you who look least like Men to scout out the spaceport and see what's there. Proto, you've had a chance to study the Moltois; you can appear as one.” He turned to Ortega. “Felix . . .”

“I'm a Man, damn it!” growled Ortega.

“You're a Man on a mission and will do whatever's required to accomplish it,” said Pretorius. “I know one of those arms extends a few extra feet of impenetrable metal. When you get to the spaceport, lengthen it. One of your eyes is artificial. Can you make it glow, or seem to spin inside your head?”

“No,” said Ortega. “But I can do
this.
” And suddenly an eight-inch telescope extended from his right eye socket.

“Good,” said Pretorius approvingly. “I won't ask you about each of your enhancements. Just put as many on display as you can when you get to the spaceport.”

“All right,” replied Ortega. “But can I ask what this is all about? We're just scouting out ships.”

“We'd like to buy or rent one,” answered Pretorius, “but if we have to steal one, it'll make the next few days much easier if they're not looking for Men.”

“Okay,” said Ortega with a shrug. He turned to Proto. “Let's go. The sooner we find what we're looking for, the sooner both of us can stop feeling like freaks.”