The Prison in Antares (19 page)

The two of them walked through the main section of the building to the corridor that led to Madam Methuselah's office, and a moment later were standing inside it.

“I made absolutely certain this time, Nate,” she said by way of greeting. “He's in the prison.”

“Okay,” replied Pretorius. “I figured that was what you'd find.”

“I apologize again,” she said. “I checked to see the last time I gave false information that I believed was true.” A self-deprecating smile spread across her face. “It's been a
long
time.”

“I'll bet it has,” said Pretorius. “Well, we'll be on our way. We've still got our work cut out for us.”

He and Irish turned and approached the door, which irised to allow them through. Just before he left the room he turned to face Madam Methuselah. “
How
long a time?” he asked.

She sighed deeply. “One hundred and twenty-seven years,” she replied.

26

“Okay,” said Pretorius as the ship took off from McPherson's World, “it's time to do some serious thinking. Why did they dig down two miles to begin with? Surely it wasn't just to create a jail that only holds one man. Hell, it has to have taken them long enough to dig that far down, whenever that was, they couldn't have known they'd have their hands on Nmumba when it was done.”

“What difference does it make?” said Ortega. “We know he's there—at least we think we know it—and all that matters is that we've got to go down and pull him out.”

Pretorius merely stared at him until he fidgeted uncomfortably, then spoke again. “If all they built was a theoretically impregnable jail, there's only one entrance and one exit. But if they decided to put the jail there because the space was available and wasn't being used for anything else at the time, that could make a huge difference in how we access it and, assuming we live long enough, how we escape from it.”

“Well, if they had some reason to go two miles deep, there would have to be something there that they need,” said Pandora. “Something
rare
.
”

“Why rare?” asked Snake.

“Because most things are far more easily obtained,” answered Pandora. “It takes a lot of work and a lot of money to dig two miles deep, and to make sure the area at the bottom has breathable air and acceptable temperatures.”

“Does anyone want to argue that?” asked Pretorius. “No? Okay, then—I want each of you to tie into Pandora's computer and see if you can come up with what their original reason for burrowing so deep might have been.”

“And if we find it, what then?” asked Snake.

“First let's find it,” said Pretorius. “Then we'll worry about it.”

And within an hour, they
had
found it—or, more precisely, Irish had.

“I've got something very interesting here,” she announced.

“Yeah?”

She nodded her head. “Have you ever heard of Mistalidorium?” she asked.

Nobody had.

“It's the one hundred and twenty-fifth element,” she replied. “It's only known to occur in Nature on three worlds—and one of them is Antares Six.”

“Mistalidorium?” repeated Pretorius. “What does it do?”

“It cures a cancer-like condition that plagues the inhabitants on Antares Three. That's probably why anyone was on Six to begin with: to mine it. From what I can find, it's exceptionally rare, occurs only in tiny quantities, takes all kinds of lab work to isolate it, and—” she smiled “—it occurs at a planetary depth of two to three miles.”

“Son of a bitch!” said Pretorius happily. “If it's that rare and that vital, there
has
to be more than one shaft leading down to it.”

“Make sense,” agreed Pandora.

“So . . . is the jail connected to any of the other areas?” continued Pretorius. “I think it would almost have to be. You'd need a means of emergency evacuation if the shaft collapsed or filled with poisonous gas or fluids, and if the few areas at that depth are connected, it has to make distributing supplies a little easier.”

“But we don't know that,” said Pandora. “And we've dealt with enough alien societies to know that being logical has nothing to do with being true.”

“Also,” added Proto, “we're going to be seen. We may convince them that we're a repair crew or delivering foodstuffs or medications or whatever . . .
once
. . . but if there's no connection, we're going to have a very hard time convincing them twice.”

“I know,” said Pretorius. “We'll keep trying to find some other means in ingress as long as I think we can wait, and then, if we haven't found it, we go in the front door.”

“Which they probably have covered six ways to Sunday,” said Snake. “It was hard enough to rescue the ringer, and they
wanted
us to rescue him.”

Pretorius shot her a smile that was half grim and half amused. “Did I ever say it was going to be easy?” he asked. He turned to Pandora. “I assume this isn't the only world where they mine this stuff?”

“No,” she answered. “There seem to be half a dozen of them spread throughout the known galaxy.”

“Any others in Coalition territory?”

“Let me check,” she said, putting the question to her computer. “Yes, one. It's also mined on Beshar, the ninth planet orbiting a very large red star named Zhantagor.”

“Well, that's a start,” said Pretorius. “Have the machine tell us whatever it can about who mines it, how it's mined, what kind of special equipment they need, what particular dangers may be involved, everything it can find out. And,” he added, “it wouldn't hurt to find out how and where they mine it on Antares Six.”

“We already know they mine it here,” said Snake.

“Yeah,” replied Pretorius, “but we'd like to know
where
they mine it. It won't do us any good if it's at either pole, or just in one location halfway around the planet.” He paused. “But I keep thinking that subway wasn't built just to endlessly transport a prisoner, or even a group of them, and if I'm right, then the only thing that seems to make any sense is that it connects with some kind of mining operation.”

“But it's only half a mile deep,” noted Snake, “and from what Pandora says, the mine for this Mistalidorium shit is two miles deep.”

“That's why we need to find out more about it,” said Irish. “Maybe they have to process it, rid it of some harmful element, do
something
before they bring it to the surface. Maybe they dig at two miles, but their lab is at half a mile. Easier to build it and access it if it's not all the way down.”

“She's right, of course,” said Pretorius. “It's worth waiting an extra few hours, or even a day or two, if we can find some connection, or definitely prove there isn't one.”

“It's a pain in the ass,” muttered Snake.

“True,” he agreed.

“Well, then?” she asked hopefully.

“It's even more of a pain if they break him and you're one of the billion or so people standing under the next Q bomb,” said Pretorius.

27

It was two hours later that Pandora looked up from the computer, frowning.

“Uh . . . we have a little problem,” she announced.

“They don't mine it anywhere else on the damned planet?” asked Pretorius.

“Oh,
that
—I haven't been able to find out yet.”

“Then what's the problem?”

“We're going to need another ship.”

“Why?” said Pretorius. “We bought it, we've got receipts, ownership papers, everything.”

“They've just declared that the entire Antares system is off-limits to all nonmilitary personnel, except for legal residents.”

“Shit!” he muttered. “I knew it would happen, but I didn't think it'd be this soon.”

“You knew
what
would happen?” asked Snake.

“They must have figured we'd rush the phony Nmumba back to Deluros and turn him over to the authorities by now,” answered Pretorius.

“So?”

“So if Irish hadn't killed him, that bomb inside him would be exploding right about now, theoretically killing off a lot of the service's top brass—and they had to assume the second that happened we'd know it wasn't Nmumba and would be coming back for him, or to dump a few of our biggest bombs on the Antares system, especially on the heavily populated one, Antares Three.”

“So do we find a way to drop a smart bomb down the shaft, assuming that it
is
a shaft?” asked Snake.

Pretorius shook his head. “No.”

“It's the easiest way,” she insisted. “And it's part of our job description: save him if we can, kill him if we can't.”

“First we have to find out if they broke him,” said Pretorius.

“What real difference does it make?” she persisted. “Either they got what they want or they didn't. Either way, it makes sense to kill 'em all.”

“Snake, I do believe you are the bloodthirstiest human being I've ever met.”

“You didn't answer me,” she noted.

“We can't kill him before we know if our defense against the Q bomb is still viable, or if they've found a way to negate it,” said Pretorius.

“What if he's already dead when we get there?”

“Then we have to assume they got what they want, and get word back to Deluros VIII.”

There was a momentary silence.

“So we can't approach Antares even in this neutral ship?” said Ortega.

“Right.”

“And we have to have a military ship.”

Pretorius nodded his head.

“And you think six of us are going to steal a battleship or a destroyer?” continued Ortega.

“Of course not,” replied Pretorius. “Not all military ships have crews of hundreds or thousands, especially here in the Neutral Zone, where they're not at war with anyone. There'll be a handful of small ships—survey ships, ships carrying medical supplies, ships with half a dozen peaceful functions. We'll just have to find one and appropriate it.”

“You say that as if it's the easiest thing in the universe,” noted Snake.

“No,” he agreed. “But if you've got anyone you care for who's targeted by a Q bomb, it's the most important thing in
our
little universe.”

Snake sighed deeply. “Point taken.”

“You care about someone?” said Ortega, surprised.

“Oh, shut up,” she said, glaring at him.

Pretorius turned to Pandora. “Start monitoring all the messages you can and see if you can spot us a reasonably small, reasonably close military ship.”

“I'm good for another hour or two,” she replied, “but then I've got to get some sleep.”

“What kind of program are you using?” asked Irish.

“Commisky 738-B,” replied Pandora.

Irish smiled. “I can work just about every Commisky program.”

“You're an endless source of surprises, Irish,” remarked Pretorius. “You killed a bad guy, and now you can find a ship carrying more of them.”

“Only if it's out there and sending signals,” she replied.

“Fine,” said Pandora. “You want to use my ID or your own?”

“Better to keep yours a secret,” she said. “Just program ‘Irish' in for me.”

“Are you sure?” asked Pandora. “Wouldn't you like something not instantly identified with you, just in case?”

Irish shook her head. “I wasn't Irish until I joined the Dead Enders, and I'm sure I'll never be Irish again once I leave.”

“You come up with one or two more hidden talents and we may never let you leave,” said Pretorius.

She turned to face him and return his smile, only to find out that he wasn't smiling at all.

“Okay,” he said, getting to his feet. “I'm going to try to find something mildly edible in the kitchen. Pandora, go grab some sleep. Irish, remember that whatever ship you pinpoint for us, we're almost certainly going to have to take it away from its crew, so try to find us one that doesn't hold more than ten or twelve of the enemy.”

“Right,” she replied.

“And if you can find a medical ship, so much the better,” he added. “I have a feeling that one of them can access areas where we'd have to fight our way in on a regular ship.”

“I'll do what I can,” said Irish.

“I'm sure you will,” said Pretorius. “You haven't disappointed us yet.”

“To hell with eating,” said Pandora, walking off to her cabin. “I think what I really need is some sleep.”

“If the food doesn't get much better, maybe I'll join you,” said Ortega, heading toward the galley.

“The hell you will,” said Pandora.

“I meant I'll go to sleep,” he said. “In my cabin. Alone.”

“Stick to that,” commented Pretorius, “and she just might let you live.”

He ordered his meal, picked it up, and carried it to one of the two tables. Ortega joined him a moment later.

“Do you get the feeling,” said Ortega, “that no matter what they say about breaking codes and assimilating alien cultures and all that other crap, the thing we do most often is steal goddamned ships?”

“Sometimes it feels that way,” admitted Pretorius. “But my last three assignments had me and my team deep in enemy territory, where the quickest way to commit suicide would have been to be aboard a Democracy ship.”

“Still . . .” muttered Ortega.

“Just be glad if that's the most difficult thing we have to do,” said Pretorius. “I've been shot at, stabbed, bitten, and had my goddamned foot blown off three times—the real one once, the artificial replacement twice. You were on the last mission. Do you really think stealing a ship, even one with a military crew, is harder than replacing the enemy's most powerful and best-guarded general with a clone that we created?”