The Fortress in Orion (25 page)

“You awake?” she whispered.

“Yeah.”

“The
Moonbeam
—that's a cargo ship—docks here late afternoon tomorrow.”

“Here?” he repeated. “You mean the fortress?”

“No, I mean this tower,” she replied with a smile. “While everyone was sleeping or eating, I finally managed to find out the names of the towers.”

“Which one is this?”

“You couldn't pronounce it. But it jibes with the floor plans.”

“Then we're in business.”

“If you actually make the switch and get back up here intact and we can take control of the ship and they don't blow us out of the sky.”

He sighed deeply. “Yeah, always assuming that.”

28

The ships started arriving the next morning, dozens of them, then hundreds.

“He sure likes to make a splash,” noted Ortega.

“Got to be ego,” agreed Snake. “This is a secure planet, deep in their stronghold. There might be one assassin lurking, but he's come prepared for a huge invasion—or a lot of publicity.”

By noon cargo ships had docked at two of the other towers.

“Any way to tell if we're next?” asked Pretorius.

Pandora shook her head. “I know that the
Moonbeam
is landing at our tower, but there's no way to be sure which lands next. They have a dozen warships directing traffic up there. It seems to be on schedule, so I'd say it's still docking in midafternoon.”

“Real crew or robot crew?”

She checked her computers. “Robot. They're programmed to load and unload, and the flight pattern is controlled from . . .” She peered at the screen. “From Galladra VI. I would guess that's the corporate headquarters or the equivalent.”

“Good. You'll be able to tap into their programming, order them to keep our existence secret, and do what we tell them to do.”

“Within reason,” she replied. “I can't, for example, order them to fire on the military. They'll have certain inviolate commands embedded in them.”

“They won't have any weaponry anyway,” said Pretorius. “The
Wayfarer
didn't.”

She shook her head. “You're not following me. I'm not worried about them blowing up a city. You wouldn't have them do it even if the ship had the capacity to do so. We're going to be trying to escape, not get into a shooting contest.”

“Okay, what am I missing?”

“I think there's a real likelihood that they'll instantly obey any orders our prisoner gives them. Not knowing who he is would be like not knowing who Hitler or Conrad Bland were during
their
eras.”

“We can find out easy enough,” suggested Ortega. “Just have Proto appear as Michkag when they land and see if they listen to him.”

“They're machines with sensors, not eyes,” replied Pretorius. “They'll see a lump on the ground.”

“Damn!” said Ortega. “I forgot.”

“Maybe it's about time you laid out your plan for us,” said Circe.

“Those are not very big rooms down on the third level,” said Pretorius, “and there are seven of us that have to move covertly, even if Djibmet approaches the rooms openly.” He paused. “I think it would be counterproductive for all of us to go down there together. We'll just get in each other's way—and more to the point, we'll attract too much attention along the way.”

“Just how the hell do you propose to get down there
without
attracting attention?” demanded Snake.

Pretorius walked over to three containers and pointed at each in turn: “Michkag, Circe, me.”

“No way you're leaving me behind!” snapped Snake.

“I'm going too,” added Ortega. “I've been rebuilt for the kind of trouble you're going to be facing.”

“It'll attract too much attention,” replied Pretorius. “We're not going to fight him, so I don't need all your built-in weaponry, Felix. And we're not entering stealthily, so I don't need your skills to get in or out, Snake. You've gotten us this far, and we'll need you on the way home, but seven crates would attract too damned much attention.”

“And three won't?” demanded Snake.

“One won't.”

“Even
I
couldn't fit three of me in one container.”

“We'll have a robot take 'em down one at a time, so no one ever sees three large crates going down the corridor at once,” said Pretorius. “I'll be in the first, so that if Michkag shows up before we're all there, I'll disable him.”

“He outweighs you by a hundred pounds,” said Ortega.

“His size won't help him against
this
,” said Pretorius, holding up a small, thin box.

“What is it?”

“Something that'll knock him out for a day and a night,” answered Pretorius. “And I've got nine more if we need them.”

“Why
her
and not me?” demanded Snake, pointing at Circe.

“Because she has an essential talent that no one else here has. She's an empath.”

“So what?”

“We're not here just to kidnap or kill
their
Michkag. We're here to replace him with
ours
. The whole purpose of this operation is to put an ally at the head of the Coalition. He looks the part. He'll pass any DNA or retina or any other physical test they can devise. But with all due respect to him, the only member of his race he's ever been in contact with is Djibmet. We
hope
he's got the other Michkag's inflections and mannerisms down pat—after all, he's been studying holos of him for a long time now—but until we know that his closest associates accept him, we can't leave him behind without any protection. As I say, our entire purpose is to replace the current Michkag with ours. It's a matter of no importance to me, and not even much to the Democracy, whether their Michkag dies or returns to Deluros as a prisoner. The important thing is that our Michkag can convince them he's the Michkag they've been following, and if there are any immediate doubts the only member of our party who will know is Circe.”

“So what you're saying is that you plan to
stay
in his rooms until he speaks to some subordinates and she can vouch that they're buying it?”

“She tells me she has to be in proximity, that she can't do it off a hidden video or sensor,” answered Pretorius.

“That's correct,” said Circe.

“How long do we give you before we mount a rescue operation?” asked Snake.

“I don't believe you've been listening at all,” replied Pretorius with a grimace. “Djibmet will have his microcamera with him. You can watch whatever he's transmitting. But if we get into trouble, your job is to get the hell out of here and get word to General Cooper that the switch didn't work, that the Michkag in charge is the one who's always been in charge.”

“He'll figure that out soon enough,” said Ortega.

Pretorius shook his head. “Michkag didn't get where he is by being stupid. If this thing falls apart, he's bright enough to pretend it worked, send a message of condolence to Cooper that his troops killed us before he could call them off, and offer to meet with him.”

“I hadn't thought of that,” said Ortega.

You're a hell of a killer
, thought Pretorius,
probably the best we've got here. But we could fill a few dozen encyclopedias with things you haven't thought of
.

“All right!” growled Snake. “You're the boss.”

“I'm glad someone remembers that,” said Pretorius. He turned to Michkag. “Now, on the assumption that Michkag lands about the same time as the
Moonbeam
, or probably even earlier, we can assume his personal effects will be in one of his rooms by the time we get down there. The first thing we've got to do is get you one of his spare uniforms. Once we make the switch, check and make sure you're wearing every insignia he's got. I don't suppose they hand out duplicate sets of medals here, any more than they do in the Democracy's military, so once we subdue him, remember to appropriate all his medals and anything else that's not on the uniform you'll be wearing.”

Michkag nodded his agreement.

Suddenly there was a huge cheer from beyond the fortress, and they looked out various windows.

“There he is!” said Djibmet, pointing to the original Michkag, who was walking up to the fortress at the head of a column of his troops.

“He's not going to look so cocky this time tomorrow,” said Snake.

“Look at those medals,” said Circe. “He must work out in the gym just to be able to carry them all.”

Pretorius turned to the clone. “What do you think?”

“It's like looking at myself in a mirror, only my reflection's acting independently of me.”

“Okay,” said Pretorius. “Let's give it maybe two hours. Then . . .”

“Isn't that awfully soon?” asked Circe. “He won't be going to sleep for another eight or ten hours.”

“I just want to grab something from storage here—any small thing—and sent Djibmet, or even a robot, down to Michkag's room with it. That way we'll know that you've got the right security code for it and we can get into it whenever we want, and also it may give us an opportunity to swipe a uniform for our Michkag.”

“There won't be any problem opening the door,” Pandora replied.

“I hope not. But they may be putting him in those rooms precisely because the locks are more complex.”

She manipulated her computer for a moment, then looked up with a smile. “I've locked it and unlocked it. Not a problem.”

“Good,” said Pretorius. “There's no sense drawing any attention to Djibmet—I don't want anyone seeing him go in there twice in one day and start asking questions—so you'll program one of the robots to do it.”

“Just take some trivial gift down, steal a uniform if it can find it, and come back up?”

“With the uniform in whatever container it carries down there. For all I give a damn, it can throw the gift into the atomizer.”

“All right,” she said. “I can do that.”

A little more than two hours later, when Michkag was addressing an enormous crowd from a long, ornate balcony on the second level, a robot made its unobtrusive way down to the third floor, carrying a small, artfully wrapped container. It went to Zab 42, fed in the proper code, and entered the room as the door slid open and then shut behind it.

It unwrapped the package, found the trash atomizer in the bathroom, emptied its contents into it, walked to a closet, opened it, and found that it was empty. It stood still, awaiting Pandora's instructions, received them, walked through to Zab 43, opened the closet in that room, appropriated a military uniform, picked up a pair of boots from the floor of the closet, closed the door, and carefully folded the uniform, placing it into the box. Only one boot would fit. It loaded it, then waited for more instructions.

“Go to the bathroom,” ordered Pandora.

The robot did as ordered.

“Pick up a towel.”

The robot picked up a towel.

“I see a number of cleansing lotions on a shelf. No, to your right. Choose the one that is the least translucent and pour two ounces on the towel. Now rub the towel against itself, smearing the stain. Good. Now wrap it around the boot, so that it looks like a cylinder.”

The robot made three attempts, but finally got the shape she wanted.

“Good. Now leave the room through the door at Zab 42, walk to the same airlift you used to get there, and bring what you are carrying to me in the tower's storage area where you were given the package. If anyone questions you, the box contains something that an officer—you don't know his name—is shipping out on the
Moonbeam
. And the towel is dirty, and you have been ordered to dispose of it.”

The robot was back in the tower's storage area in four minutes, without being stopped or questioned along the way. Pretorius took the uniform and boots from it and handed them to Michkag.

“One thing we can he sure of,” he said with a smile. “They'll fit.”

“It will look naked without the medals,” said Djibmet.

“With luck, no one will see it without the medals,” answered Pretorius. “Except maybe the guy we're borrowing the medals
from
.”

29

Then it was just a matter of waiting, the part of a mission that Pretorius hated the most. He tried to take a nap, wasn't sleepy, and soon found that he wasn't hungry or thirsty either. He wasn't even nervous, just annoyed that all the preparations were done and that he still had to wait a few hours.

Michkag tried on the uniform. “How do I look?” he asked.

“Like you belong in it,” said Pandora.

“Like the leader of the Coalition,” chimed in Circe.

“Like someone stole your medals,” said Snake.

“We'll get them before anyone sees him,” said Pretorius.

“Are you sure you don't want me to accompany you?” asked Djibmet.

Pretorius shook his head. “Too dangerous. If someone sees you and remembers that you were wandering around before, looking for your room and your missing officer, and now you
still
don't know where you're quartered . . .”

“I see,” said Djibmet, who actually looked relieved. “I hadn't considered that.” He paused, then added reluctantly: “I'm in my officer's uniform. I could wear it and accompany you.”

“To what purpose?” replied Pretorius. “Hell, I wish I didn't have to have Circe along, that it was just me and Michkag, but we have to know if they're buying it without question.”

“I hadn't asked,” said Djibmet, “but how will she know? I assume she'll overhear, if that's the word, their thoughts or reactions, and once she's satisfied the two of you plus their Michkag will be carted up here in the containers. But how will our Michkag know when the time comes?”