The Fortress in Orion (4 page)

“It fits,” he said, holding up the cube. “Remember this?”

“Remember it?” she replied. “Hell, I created it.”

“All the more reason for calling you Pandora. I can't give you a name in some code that only you and three computers in the whole galaxy can speak.”

“Even so.”

“Settle for it. It's better than Sexpot.”

“And those are the only two nicknames you know?”

He smiled. “The only two that are left and that fit you.”

“I'm almost flattered,” she replied. “Okay, what's this mission that you thought was worth the most expensive dinner in town?”

“Even been to Orion?”

“Not many people have—and even less have returned to tell about it.”

“Aren't you even a little curious about it?”

“Of course I am,” she answered, “but I think General Michkag might have a little something to say about it.”

“Oh, I doubt it,” said Pretorius with a smile.

She studied his face for a moment. “Okay, what do you know that I don't know?”

“Not a hell of a lot, according to your resume.”

“Cut the bullshit, Nate,” she said irritably. “What do you know about Michkag that I don't know?”

“He's going to be traveling with us.”

She stared at him. “You don't
look
crazy, but that's as crazy a thing as I've ever heard you say.”

“We've got a clone—not a look-alike, not an android, but a living, breathing clone of Michkag.”

“Great,” she said. “So now there are
two
genocidal geniuses with the same DNA.”

Pretorius shook his head. “We grew this one up from his DNA, and we've got a turncoat Kabori who used to work for Michkag and is teaching the clone his mannerisms, his choice of words and phrases, the way he carries himself, everything.” He paused. “I've seen him, Pandora. He really exists.”

“Okay, he really exists,” she said. “Now, I suppose you could put him on video and have him surrender. That might fool some of his troops. Or you might shoot him in cold blood—always assuming these Kabori bastards
have
any blood—and ruin the morale of his troops and countrymen, or country
things
, or whatever the hell they are. But no, that's not half dangerous enough for Nate Pretorius.” She looked him full in the eye. “You're putting together a suicide mission to replace the real Michkag with the clone.”

“Well, it's a mission, anyway,” acknowledged Pretorius. “And with the right team, it might not be a suicide mission.”

“Hold on,” she said, reaching for one of the seven miniaturized computers she wore attached to her belt and tapping in a code with her forefinger. A moment later a response flashed briefly on the screen. “I just put the proposition to the Master Computer on Deluros VIII,” she continued. “You know what it says the odds of any member of your team living through it are?”

“Six percent.”

“Close,” replied Pandora. “Seven percent.”

Pretorius smiled. “Damn! I'm doing something right!”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“It was six percent before you and Snake joined the team.”

“I haven't joined anything, Nate.”

“But you will,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because no one's ever broken into Michkag's personal computer, and no one's ever deciphered their secret codes—and you can't resist that kind of challenge.”

“You think not?” she said pugnaciously.

He shot her a confident smile. “I think not.”

“You're a fool,” she said. “You never asked why I retired from the service two years ago.”

He shrugged. “I figured you had your reasons.”

“I did,” she said, nodding her head. “I
do
. Close to a billion reasons as of last month.” She lowered her voice. “Since I quit, I've robbed seven of the enemy's biggest banks, and now you want me to actually go to Orion and kidnap or kill their most powerful and best-protected general?”

“Yes.”

“You know the odds against it?”

He smiled. “You just told me.”

“Well, you're crazy.”

“I've been called worse.”

She stared at him. “Do I look crazy to you?”

“No.”

“Well, there you have it.”

“Okay,” said Pretorius. “If you're still talking to me, I'll order dessert.”

She nodded her assent; he signaled to the robotic waiter, ordered two soufflés, and turned back to her.

“By the way,” she said, “if no one's broken their code, how do you know what planet to go to and when?”

He smiled. “We've broken their partners' code.”

“Ah,” she said. “Of course.”

“So who do you recommend? Tomas Sanchez?”

She shook her head. “Not good enough, not for something like this.”

“Benny Scaparelli?

“No.”

“Well, when you think of someone, let me know.”

“It may take some time,” replied Pandora.

“You know how to reach me.”

They finished their desserts, Pretorius signed for them, and they got up to leave.

“I'll take you home,” he offered as they stepped outside.

“Not necessary.”

“Well, I'm sorry we couldn't work together one more time,” he said, “but at least it was nice to see you again.”

He began walking away when she called out: “Nate!” He waited until his smile had vanished before he turned to face her.

“Yes?” he said.

“What day are we leaving and where do we all meet?”

3D

Deluros VIII, the capital world of the race of Man, was the home to basically a single city that had spread over every inch of dry land and burrowed under most of the oceans as well. It was said that it housed some eight billion bureaucrats who were charged with administrating the Democracy's thousand-plus worlds and pursuing the ongoing war against the Transkei Coalition.

Pretorius parked his ship in an orbiting hangar and took a shuttle to the surface. Even though Deluros VIII was considered a fascinating city-world, he always felt claustrophobic. The Customs hall was large and crowded, but his military uniform and rank got him into a special line, his passport was okayed, his retina read, his fingerprint and DNA matched against his profile in the Master Computer, and he was passed through in only twenty minutes.

He went to a transport station, fed the address he sought into a computer, and was instantly given three different routes to his destination: the fastest, the least expensive, and the most scenically beautiful.

What the hell is scenically beautiful about a goddamned tunnel?
he wondered, and he decided to find out.

He bought passage on an airsled, took an airlift down some twelve levels, found a sled with his name in glowing letters, sat down, waited for the harness to embrace him and the door to shut and lock, and then he leaned back and smiled. The airsled took off so smoothly he was sure he wouldn't have known it if his eyes had been closed, and it began skimming above the floor of the broad tunnel.

Suddenly it began slowing down, and then tunnel became brighter up ahead—and suddenly the metal walls were replaced by glass, the lighting got even brighter, and he was slowly passing huge fish, larger and far more colorful than whales, on both sides. He stared at them in rapt fascination and was annoyed when the reversion from glass to metal indicated the end of his ride.

“You may exit now, Colonel Pretorius,” said a mechanical voice.

“There's no station,” he said.

“Just exit, please. You are expected.”

His harness disappeared, the door vanished, and he stepped out of the airsled. He thought he'd be standing on the tunnel floor, but instead he found himself on a narrow beltway that carried him to an airshaft, where he quickly rose to ground level and walked out of what appeared to be a small kiosk, identical in every way to dozens of other kiosks that were scattered around the street and the slidewalks.

He had wondered how he'd know where to change slidewalks, but the airsled had let him off within fifty yards of the address he sought, and that section of the slidewalk on which he was standing came to a halt opposite the entrance. He got off, walked into the building, looked for a directory, couldn't find one, and at the nearest airlift simply uttered the name of the person he was there to see.

He was gently lifted some forty stories on a cushion of air and stepped off at the door to a large office.

“Who are you here to see?” asked a disembodied voice.

“Circe,” he replied.

“Have you an appointment?”

“No.”

“I'm sorry, sir, but—”

“Send him in,” said a feminine voice.

The door irised and Pretorius stepped through. A narrow beltway transported him past a dozen offices until he came to a large glass-enclosed office that theoretically overlooked the city but actually just looked at other skyscrapers.

A beautiful, exotic blonde woman—so beautiful and so exotic he doubted that she was quite human—sat at a desk.

“Have a seat, Colonel,” she said, and a chair instantly moved across the room to him. He sat down, and it promptly carried him forward until he was positioned across her desk, staring into her pale blue eyes. “The retina scanner has already identified you, or you would not have been allowed access to this floor, but I would nonetheless like to know your name.”

“Nathan Pretorius,” he replied.

“And you are here for . . . ?” She let the question linger in the air.

“Why don't you tell me?” he said.

She stared at him and frowned. “Just what do you think I am, Colonel Pretorius?”

“I really don't know,” he answered truthfully. “I suspect you're not entirely human.” He paused. “But I've been told what you can
do
.”

“You have doubtless been misinformed,” said Circe. “I am an investment counselor.”

“I'm sure you're that, too,” said Pretorius. “But I ran a thorough check on you before I made the trip here to see you. I know you have gone under the names of Cybele, Vacuna, and Epona before you started calling yourself Circe; a friend named Felix Ortega worked at the same carnival as you when you were calling yourself Saunders; I know you copped a plea on Sarazan II, where you promised to leave the system and never return in exchange for no jail time; and I know that you're no more a financial advisor than I am. My guess is that you're vetting the customers to see which ones actually have cash to invest and which are just looking for market tips.”

“You're thorough, Colonel,” she said. “I'll give you that.”

“Call me Nathan.”

“Let's keep it formal until I know what you want of me.”

“Don't you know already?”

“I'm not a mind reader, Colonel,” said Circe. “I read emotions—but if you spoke to Ortega, you know that.”

“And what do my emotions tell you?” he asked.

“That you're very tense, that you want me to agree to something, and that you're not thrilled with your surroundings, though I can't tell if that is just this building or extends to the whole planet.”

“The planet.”

“And of course, since you're in the military, you want me for something.” Suddenly she smiled. “And the second I said that, your emotions intensified.”

He withdrew the small security cube from a pocket and activated it. “I'm putting together a very special team. I think you'd be a valuable addition.” He returned her smile. “You might even live through it.”

“Now you're lying.”

“Well, I
hope
we both live through it.”

“What does it concern?”

“Assassinating five highly placed traitors in the Democracy's government.”

“That's a lie,” she said promptly.

He smiled again. “Yes, it is.”

“Why are you wasting my time telling me lies?”

“Because I wanted to make sure you could spot them.”

Suddenly she looked interested. “Proceed, Colonel.”

“We've developed a clone of General Michkag,” said Pretorius. “Not a surgically altered being, not an android, not a turncoat Kabori who looks like him, but an actual clone.”

“Interesting,” she said, leaning forward.

“The team I'm putting together has been charged with the task of kidnapping or secretly killing the real Michkag and substituting the clone in his place. And before we leave the poor bastard behind, I need to be sure that no one suspects that he's not the real Michkag. That's where you come in.”

“You're going to need me for a lot more than that,” she replied. “Just where is the switch to be made? Certainly not his home planet.”

Pretorius shook his head. “In Orion.”

“Where in Orion?”

“On Petrus IV.”

“We'll be lucky to get halfway there,” said Circe.

“We?”

She grinned an almost human grin. “This is the craziest idea I've ever heard. There's no way we'll live through it or even come close to accomplishing anything.”

“That's too bad,” said Pretorius, “I'd have loved to have you on the team.”

“Oh, I'm coming,” she said. “The Kabori killed the only three people I have ever loved.” Suddenly she smiled. “Besides what audacity! I'd rather die doing that than expire of boredom here at my desk.”

“Good!” said Pretorius. “The rest of my team is a few light-years from here. How soon can you be ready to leave?”

“Give me five minutes to clean off my desk and cancel all my appointments.”

“Five minutes?” he said, surprised.

“What the hell,” she said with a not-quite-human shrug. “Make it four, Nathan.”

4

Pretorius gathered his team at a small government facility on Torvill IV, at the edge of the Democracy's territory. From the outside it looked like a small, rundown boardinghouse and even had a “No Vacancy” sign posted, but the interior was something completely different: half a dozen security systems, armed robotic guards, luxurious private rooms, an excellent kitchen/dining area, and a large meeting room equipped with every imaginable video and sound system.