The Fortress in Orion (7 page)

“They'll report what they've seen,” said Ortega.

Pretorius shook his head. “What have they seen?” he replied. “Pandora, go over to their ship and make sure the controls are responsive to us, or at least that you can make them responsive. Ditto the weaponry. Ortega, go first, just in case they left someone behind.”

He nodded and walked to the airlock, then crossed over to the other ship, followed by Pandora.

The Beldorian that Snake had tripped began groaning and tried to sit up.

“Whack him on the head with the butt of his weapon,” ordered Pretorius. “We're no match for him physically. If he gets up I'll have to kill him.”

She took the weapon from the floor where it lay next to him and cracked him across the front of his skull as he was getting to his feet. He dropped back down without a sound.

Ortega returned a few minutes later. “Pandora says there's no problem with the ship or the weaponry. And since she suspects you're planning on moving us there, she also says that the galley is capable of creating food we can metabolize.”

“Sounds tasty,” said Pretorius, making a face. “Okay, drag the three unconscious ones into three cabins, pack up any of our effects, and lock them in. Then escort this last one to another cabin and do the same. Have Snake lend a hand.”

Ortega lifted an unconscious pirate as if he were a baby, slung him over his shoulder, and deposited him in a cabin, then repeated the process twice more. The fourth Beldorian walked to his indicated cabin on his own power.

“Okay,” said Pretorius. “Felix, move the luggage and whatever else you pulled out of the cabins to the other ship. Snake, get Circe, Djibmet, and the clone, and have them gather their gear and go to the pirate ship.”

“What about you?” asked Snake.

“I'll be along in a few minutes.”

Pretorius went to the control panel, where he jettisoned most of the fuel. Then he set the locks on the cabin doors for forty-eight hours. Finally he permanently limited the radio range to three light-years.

Then, satisfied that his prisoners could survive but couldn't cause him any trouble, he entered his new ship, cast his former one adrift, and began planning his next move.

7

“Nice ship,” said Pretorius, looking around the interior. “Certainly roomier, more modern galley, better weaponry. And what looks to be a big cargo hold—big enough for our stuff and their booty, with room left over—at least, judging from the outside.” He turned to Pandora. “How's the navigational computer?”

“Seems to be fine,” she replied. “Even the chairs are more comfortable.”

“This thing is Beldorian registry, right?” asked Pretorius.

“That's correct,” answered Pandora.

“How hard will it be to change it?”

“I can do it,” she replied. “But why bother? We'll reach Petrus before anyone finds our ship. Well, our
former
ship.”

“I'm not worried about them,” he said. “They're pirates, and the likelihood is that they'll lie their heads off if anyone in authority comes across them.”

“Well, then?”

“The fact that they were still free until a few minutes ago implies they were
successful
pirates,” answered Pretorius. “That implies that someone—or more likely, a bunch of someones, has a grudge against them and is looking for this ship.”

“Ah!” she said with a smile. “Okay, what registry do you want?”

“Something neutral,” suggested Snake.

Pretorius shook his head. “Not
too
neutral. We don't know which neutral planets they've pacified in the past month or two. See who's not in the Coalition but has a most-favored planet trading status with them.”

Pandora fed the data into her one of her computers. “Moreno II,” she said. “It seems perfect. A former human colony world, broke away centuries ago when we were still the Republic, hasn't had any contact with the Democracy since it was formed, and exchanged ambassadors with the Coalition.” She smiled. “It gives us an excuse for looking like Men.”

“Sounds good,” said Pretorius. “Okay, give us a Moreno II registry.”

“What name would you like?”

“Something unexceptional and unmemorable.”

“How about
Goodwill
?” suggested Ortega.

Pretorius made a face. “My God, that's awful.”

“But it is unexceptional,” noted Circe.

“And unthreatening,” added Snake.

Pretorius sighed deeply. “Goodwill it is.” He turned to Djibmet and Michkag. “Have you inspected the galley? Does it meet your needs?”

“It'll be fine,” said Djibmet.

“Good. I'd hate to have to go out and steal another ship.”

“The navigational computer would like your input,” announced Pandora. “Where do you wish to go?”

“Let's finish inspecting this ship first,” replied Pretorius. “Maybe it'll tell us.”

“I don't follow you,” said Circe, frowning.

“It's a pirate ship. They have to have
some
booty locked away somewhere. Let's make sure it's not perishable or set to explode if we don't hit it with the right code every hour or day or whatever.”

“There are only two secured areas,” announced Snake. “One of the cabins and the panel leading to the cargo hold.”

“I can batter the door down,” offered Ortega.

“I don't doubt it,” replied Pretorius. “But let's proceed on the assumption that they knew whoever took over the ship could batter it down, and took precautions against that eventuality. Pandora, check it out.”

“I already did. It's not a computer lock.”

“All right,” said Pretorius. “Snake, do your thing.”

“I'll have to improvise,” she said heading off to the galley. “The fucking government confiscated my tool kit.”

She spent a few minutes examining various eating and cutting implements, walked to the cabin in question with a few of them in her hand, began cursing under her breath when her first few efforts were unsuccessful, and then uttered a victory bellow that seemed like it couldn't have come from such a small body when the door finally slid into the wall.

“Okay,” said Pretorius, walking over. “Let's have a look.”

The treasure, such as it was, was sorted into jewelry, currency not recognized by the Coalition, art, weaponry, and a few miscellaneous items.

“Not the most successful pirates I ever saw,” muttered Ortega.

“Who knows?” said Circe. “Maybe they cashed in a month ago, and this is all from the last few weeks.”

“All right,” said Pretorius, standing in the doorway, hands on hips. “I hate to do this to the artwork, but we're going to have to jettison it, as well as any weapons that might be registered and any jewelry that is so unique that it can be identified. Keep the cash until Pandora finds some worlds where we can use it, keep any unregistered weapons that seem to be in working order, and keep any jewelry that's not unique and is small enough to be carried in a pocket or pouch until we need to use it as a bribe.”

“I'll take care of it,” said Snake.

“Felix, help her with the heavy stuff,” said Pretorius. He gave Circe a look that said
And you let me know if anyone pockets anything
, and returned to the bridge.

Within two hours they'd jettisoned anything that could identify them as a pirate ship, found that the galley could make edible but not very appetizing food, and began discussing their options.

“We have to kill a few weeks,” said Pretorius. “We might as well not approach the Petrus system before we have to.”

“Why not?” asked Ortega as they sat in the galley, trying not to think of their favorite dishes.

“Because if anyone stops and inspects us, they're going to find our Michkag, and even if we convinced them he's the real thing, that'd only last until the true Michkag shows up. Remember, we're not here just to insert our Michkag, but to kill or kidnap the best-protected being in the Coalition.”

“Besides,” added Pandora, “we're Men, and we're at war with the Coalition. Even if they didn't know about our Michkag, they'd have no reason not to blow us out of the ether.”

“Then how
do
we expect to approach Petrus, let alone land on it and make the switch?” asked Djibmet.

“I'm working on it,” said Pretorius.

“Is that the only answer we're to be given?” demanded Djibmet.

“I could tell you the thirty-four approaches I'm considering and let you pick holes in each of them,” answered Pretorius, “but I'd rather wait until I had one that was foolproof.”

“He's the best,” added Snake, “or they'd never trust him with this mission. Once it works, the damned war'll be over in a year, our Michkag will make peace, and the combination of the Democracy and the Coalition will be all but invulnerable.”

At least I'm traveling with an optimist
, thought Pretorius wryly.

Circe couldn't read his thought, but she had no problem reading his reaction and smiled.

He sighed.
Yeah, I know. The only thing worse is for
nobody
to believe in this thousand-to-one scheme
.

“So do we just cool our heels here in No Man's Land for a month?” asked Pandora.

“We'll keep busy,” replied Pretorius. “It'll give our Michkag another month to prepare for his impersonation. It'll give you time to monitor more of their messages. It'll give all of us time to probe for weaknesses. Also, in a few days I'll adjust the ship's gravity and atmosphere to match that of Petrus IV.”

“There's a couple of pretty powerful pulse weapons that we didn't jettison,” said Ortega. “We might start practicing with them, and maybe even hunt up some more on some of these worlds out here.”

“Waste of time,” said Pretorius.

“Oh?”

“We're going to be five Men and an imposter on a planet that, for the duration we're there, will be the most heavily guarded world in the Coalition. If there are less than half a million uniformed Kabori there I'd be surprised. Short of slipping a Q-bomb into a molar and blowing the whole world to smithereens—and nine out of ten Q bombs never detonate—just how much difference do you think heavy artillery will make?”

Ortega's prosthetic face contorted into a hideous grimace.

“I just hate it when you lay it out like that,” he growled. “I like to think we have a chance of succeeding in this damned enterprise.”

“We do,” replied Pretorius. “But not by outshooting the bad guys.” He saw Djibmet offer the Kabori equivalent of a frown. “Excuse me,” he continued. “I misspoke. We won't do it by outshooting the temporary enemy.”

The Kabori inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment.

“So we just float here for a month and hope no one will spot or question us?” said Snake.

“Not exactly,” answered Pretorius. “As we learn more about their defenses, we'll gradually get closer to them. We'll stop on the occasional planet where we might pick up something useful.”

“Useful?” asked Circe.

“Information, for the most part.”

“For the most part?” persisted Snake. “What else?”

Pretorius shrugged. “You never know.”

“I know you are good at your trade,” began Djibmet.

“The best,” said Snake.

“The best,” said Djibmet. “Therefore, I cannot believe that you have as little planned as you say. Are you—what is the expression?—are you holding out on us for some reason?”

Pretorius smiled. “As a matter of fact I am.”

“Do you distrust us?”

“No. At various times my life will be in each of your hands. If I distrusted any of you, I wouldn't have accepted the assignment or solicited the aid of those assembled here.”

“Then why are you unwilling to confide in us?”

“Because our next port of call is not going to meet with universal approval aboard this ship,” answered Pretorius.

“Oh?” said Snake.

“Where are we headed?” asked Pandora.

“I'd like to know too,” said Circe.

Pretorius took a deep breath and exhaled it slowly. “We're going to McPherson's World.”

“There's only one thing on McPherson's World,” said Pandora.

“A Tradertown?” suggested Ortega.

“A Tradertown with the most notorious whorehouse on this side of the galaxy!” snapped Pandora.

Circe closed her eyes and concentrated. “He's not kidding,” she said, frowning.

“A whorehouse!” repeated Snake angrily. “The most important mission in the history of the Democracy, and he's stopping off at a whorehouse!”

Pretorius stared at Djibmet. “You had to ask,” he said at last.

8

The Tradertown was named for McPherson, as was the world, though no one quite remembered who he was or why he'd stopped there long enough to give the world his name. It was rumored that he'd found gold or fissionable materials there, but a couple of survey teams, three centuries apart, concluded that there was nothing worthwhile on the planet. It had some underground water (which had to be purified) and some sunny days (and one had to protect against the strong ultraviolet rays of its yellow-orange sun). There was enough vegetation to keep a few thousand herbivores alive, and enough predators to keep their herds from increasing, but most species stayed far away from the Tradertown.

McPherson—the town, not the planet—consisted of a landing field, a boardinghouse, a message-forwarding station, a spare parts shop for the more popular types of smaller spaceships, a general store that sold everything from dry goods to medicine to antique weaponry, and then there was Madam Methuselah's, which had a fame far out of proportion to both its size and clientele.

From the outside it looked like a run-of-the-mill boardinghouse, with absolutely nothing special about it. The interior gave lie to that. The walls were covered with exotic and erotic art from half a hundred worlds; there was a huge, elegant bar, a trio of smaller drug dens—each accommodating a number of different races—and perhaps fifty elegant rooms, most of them hidden unobtrusively below ground level.