The Fortress in Orion (3 page)

When it was done, he leaned back again and shook his head. “Nine of them dead,” he said. “That's hard to believe. These were the best.”

“I can produce copies of the death certificates if necessary,” offered the computer.

“Definitely not necessary,” said Pretorius. He closed his eyes, lost in thought, for another long moment. “Okay,” he said at last. “I'm off to bed. You've done your job. Tomorrow I'll start doing mine.”

3A

Pretorius walked down the midway, past the barkers, the hucksters, the hints of sinful pleasures within the old-fashioned canvas tents. There were strippers of both human sexes and three other sexes that had very little in common with humanity. There were half a hundred games of skill and even more games of chance. There were trained animals from a dozen exotic worlds, their number of limbs differing wildly.

There were grifters, pickpockets, hookers, everything you'd expect to find in a carnival except a freak show. With over two hundred known sentient races in the galaxy and hundreds more presumed out there somewhere, one entity's freak was another's lifemate.

“Kill a Pizo!” cried a barker, holding up some wicked-looking spears. “Three throws for fifty credits!”

Pretorius grinned and continued walking. He'd seen Pizos in action. They looked reasonably normal: humanoid bipeds with two eyes, two ears, a purple tint to their skins, and totally without hair, down, feathers, or any other natural covering—and they could absorb just about anything from a dagger to a bullet to a laser blast with absolutely no ill effects.

“You sure you want to walk away, fella?” said the human barker, grabbing his arm. “For you, we'll make it four throws.”

“Keep your spears,” said Pretorius. “I'll pay you fifty credits if you'll let me feed him a candy bar.”

“Get outta here!” snarled the barker.

Pretorius grinned. Not much killed Pizos, but contact with chocolate or sugar did it instantly.

He continued walking, looking at the various signs, and finally he saw the one he'd been searching for:
The Galaxy's Strongest Creature
.

And in smaller type, just beneath it:
Is he Man, Alien or Machine?

Pretorius paid his admission and entered the tent. Only eight other spectators were there, two humans, four Robalians, and two whose races he couldn't identify.

Standing on a makeshift stage was a man, or rather, thought Pretorius, what was left of a man. He wore only a loincloth. His head was bald, and his eyes seemed to be entirely pupil and iris, with no white showing. He had gleaming metal prosthetic arms, heavy prosthetic legs made of a heavier metal, and his left ear was also artificial.

“Okay, Samson,” said a voice over a speaker system, “show 'em what you can do.”

The man walked up to a pair of metal weights, each emblazed with “500 pounds,” inserted his artificial hands into grips at the top of each, and lifted them until both arms were extended straight out from his body. There was mild applause, and he lowered the weights to the ground.

“Now,” continued the voice, “if any member of the audience can lift even one of those weights, the management will refund double your money to every member of the audience.”

One of the Robalians climbed up onto the stage, tried to lift a weight, grunting ferociously, and gave up after about half a minute.

The mostly prosthetic strongman offered four more demonstrations of his prowess, and then the show was over, and the audience walked out.

All except Pretorius.

“Not bad, Felix,” he said. “Not bad at all.”

The strongman peered into the darkness. “I'm Sampson,” he said.

“You're Felix Ortega, and you're wasting yourself here,” said Pretorius.

The strongman peered more intently, then straightened up. “Nathan,” he said. “What the hell are you doing here? Have you come to gloat?”

“I've come to offer you work,” replied Pretorius. “
Real
work, not this bullshit stuff.”

“I
got
this way from what you call real work,” replied Ortega. “And then,” he added bitterly, “when it was over, the military wouldn't take me back. They gave me a bunch of money and medals and basically told me to go away. I think it made them uncomfortable to look at me.”

“Nonsense,” said Pretorius. “You're as good as new. Better, even. Could the old Felix Ortega lift a thousand pounds? And what do those eyes see? Infrared, telescopic?”

“Both, plus microscopic, and I can also see well into the ultraviolet spectrum.”

“Then what's the problem?”

“The problem is that I'm not a man anymore,” said Ortega. “I'm a goddamned machine.”

Pretorius shook his head. “You're an
enhanced
man, and the military was crazy to let you go. What's in your head and in your heart is still Felix Ortega. The rest is just improvements.”

“Easy for you to say,” replied Ortega.

“You want a list of every body part I've had replaced?”

Ortega stared at him for a moment. “No.”

“So do you want to hear my deal?”

“I don't know,” said Ortega. “Why me?”

“Because with your enhancements, that's four or five normal men and women I don't have to take.”

“Normal men,” repeated Ortega bitterly.

“That's right,” said Pretorius. “And thanks to science, you're a superior man. Maybe even a superman.”

“I'd rather not be.”

“I'd rather be happily married, working at a desk, going home every night, and looking forward to being a grandfather,” replied Pretorius. “But there's a war on, and if we do our job, maybe some other poor bastard can enjoy those simple pleasures a few years from now.”

“How long will this take?” asked Ortega.

Pretorius grinned. “The sales pitch or the assignment?”

“The assignment.”

“Three months at the outside. If we haven't accomplished it by then, we're dead.”

Ortega was silent for a long moment, then finally nodded his head. “I'll do it.”

“Good!” said Pretorius. “I'm glad to have you aboard.”

“You didn't ask my price.”

Pretorius stared at him. “Well?” he said at last.

“When it's over, if we're still alive, I want a body and a pair of eyes that'll pass for normal.”

3B

Pretorius walked down the long line of cells. Finally the officer who was leading him came to a halt.

“I'm sorry, sir,” she said, “but I'll have to frisk you first.”

“I turned over my weapon at the front desk.”

“Even so, sir,” she said apologetically. “You have no idea how dangerous this prisoner is.”

Yes, I do
, thought Pretorius, as he extended his arms out and stood for the frisk.

“You're sure you wouldn't rather communicate with her via holographic video?”

“I'm sure.”

The officer gave him a
Well, you've been warned
shrug, proceeded another fifteen feet, and faced the prisoner in the cell.

“Stand back,” she said harshly and waited until her order had been obeyed. Then she drew her burner, held it on the prisoner, and ordered the cell door to slide open. Pretorius stepped through, and the door immediately closed behind him.

“Hello, Snake,” he said.

The inmate, a slender woman barely five feet tall, with her hair clipped as short as his, walked over and gave him a hug.

“Hi, Nathan!” she said. “It's good to see you again. Did you make my bail?”

He shook his head. “There's no bail, Snake. You were convicted, remember?”

She frowned. “If you're not here to spring me, use my real name.”

He smiled. “Snake
is
your real name. Sally Kowalski is just the name the government knows you by.” He looked around the small cell. “You're the best—or at least you were. There was almost no space you couldn't slither through, no locked room you couldn't break into or out of. How the hell did you ever wind up here?”

“I trusted a man.”

He shook his head. “You should have known what scumbags they can be.”

“All except you, Nathan.”

“How come you haven't broken out of here?”

“See the sink and the toilet?” she said, gesturing toward a corner. “No metal. Same with the bars, front and back. I don't even have a hairpin.” She grimaced. “And the cell's electrified, Damned hard to short it out with no metal.” She pointed to a camera that was mounted in the ceiling just outside her barred door. “Watch.” She walked across the call. The camera swiveled and followed her every move.

“So they've finally build a Snake-proof jail,” said Pretorius.

“Oh, I'll find a way out,” she said. “It's just taking a little time.”

He shrugged. “Well, if that's the way you want to get out . . .”

“You got a better way?” she asked, suddenly alert.

“It's a possibility,” he said. He looked around the small cell. “I don't know how you keep in shape in a place like this.”

“Watch,” she said, twisting her body in ways he would have sworn no human could bend. “Satisfied?”

“You're still the best contortionist I ever saw,” he said.

“Don't need a whole lot of room to stay limber,” she replied. “Though I probably can't run a four-minute mile these days.”

“Could you ever?”

She grinned. “It depended on who was after me.”

Pretorius laughed aloud. “Damn, I've missed you, Snake!”

“Enough to spring me from durance vile?”

“That's what I'm here to talk about.” He paused and pulled a small metallic cube out of his pocket. “Activate.” The cube suddenly glowed with power. “Okay, no one can monitor us now.”

“You mean spy on us.”

“Comes to the same damned thing in these surroundings.”

“Okay.” She smiled at him. “Who do you want killed?”

“Maybe no one.”

“Robbed?”

“Try not to get ahead of me,” said Pretorius.

“Okay,” she said. “But every minute you drag this out is another minute I'm stuck in this goddamned cell.”

“You ever hear of General Michkag?”

“Who hasn't?”

“What would you say if I told you I was putting together a team to kill or kidnap him and put a double in his place?”

“You know better than that, Nathan,” she said. “They'll spot him in ten seconds.”

He shook his head. “Not this one, Snake. He's a clone.”

“How the hell did they pull that off?”

“I'll tell you all about it if we can come to an agreement,” said Pretorius. “I ran all the factors through the computer. It says it's a suicide mission. It gives us a six percent chance of surviving.” He paused. “But it gives us a ten percent chance of pulling off the replacement
before
we're killed. How do you feel about ten-to-one odds against?”

“Sounds generous,” she said.

“Probably is,” agreed Pretorius.

“You think there's a better-guarded person in the whole damned galaxy?”

Pretorius shook his head. “I doubt it.”

“I hope they're paying you a lot for this,” said Snake. “Because right off the bat, you need to buy a computer that can dope out the odds better.”

He laughed. “So . . . you want in?”

“I want
out
,” she replied. “Of here.”

“Okay.”

“Does this job pay anything?” she asked. “I mean, besides the cost of my funeral?”

“Not much,” said Pretorius. “But before the mission starts I can get your entire record expunged.”

She laughed. “Fat lot of good having a clean record'll do when they bury us in . . . ?”

“Somewhere in Orion.”

“Right,” she said. “You found anyone else with a death wish besides you and me?”

“Felix Ortega.”

“Never heard of him.”

“You'll meet him soon enough.”

“May I make a suggestion?” she asked.

“I'm listening.”

“Get Toni Levi to join us.”

“I'm way ahead of you,” said Pretorius. “I'm having dinner with her tonight.”

3C

Toni Levi, who hated her nose, her eye color, and the name Antoinette, sat across the table from Pretorius. She'd had two cosmetic surgeries, had spent countless hours in a local gym, and was on her third hair color—and was still disappointed with her appearance, and the fact that most people didn't find her ugly but indeed quite ordinary did nothing to alter her opinion.

“That was an excellent dinner, Nate,” she said as a robotic waiter took the empty plates from the table. “I've always loved Belargian shellfish, and this is a great wine.”

“I'm glad you liked it.”

“Are you going to tell me why we're here, or would you rather wait for dessert?”

“I may have a big job for you,” said Pretorius.

She laughed aloud. “Of course you do, Nate,” she said. “When's the last time either of us worked on a
little
job?”

“Point taken,” said Pretorius, pulling out the security cube and activating it. “It won't pay that well, it'll take three months out of your life, and the odds are that you won't survive it.”

“You really know how to charm a girl,” she said with a smile.

“If it'll make you feel any better, the Snake's coming along.”

“Sally Kowalski? I like her.” She paused. “I hate the nickname you've given her, though.”

“She gets into places even a snake can't penetrate.”

“It's even worse than what you call me.”

“Pandora?” said Pretorius. “But it fits. There isn't a computer or lockbox or anything else that you can't open.”

She laughed. “So far,” she replied. “But I don't like it anyway.”