The Prison in Antares (2 page)

“There was one on Altair III that took me a whole week,” she answered with a grimace. “Do you need just me, or are there others?”

“The Dead Enders.”

“Who the hell are they?” asked Snake. “They sound like a bad music group.”

“I've heard some of 'em sing in the shower, and that's exactly what they sound like.”

“So really, who are they?”

“You're part of them,” said Pretorius. “They're our crew from the last mission.”

“Talk about a mismatched crew!” she said, snorting in derision. Then she shrugged. “What the hell. We all came through it alive. And it'll be nice to see Pandora and Circe again.”

“I'm glad you approve,” said Pretorius sardonically.

“Is the critter back too?”

He frowned. “The critter?”

“The alien.”

“Yeah, him, and also Felix Ortega.”

“So we got a muscleman and a shape-changer.”

Pretorius chuckled. “Close, but no cigar.”

“I don't smoke anyway.”

“Felix is more machine than man these days. He can lift a ton and break down any door anyone can build, but he's not doing it with muscles.”

“Comes to the same thing,” said Snake.

“Better,” replied Pretorius. “Muscles get tired. Felix never does.”

They reached the main office of the prison. Pretorius had to stop to sign a pair of documents, and then they were outside, walking between rows of towering angular buildings toward the hotel where the rest of the team was waiting for them.

“Just out of curiosity,” he asked, turning to her, “how did they catch you this time?”

“Bad luck,” answered Snake. “I managed to wriggle all the way up to the third floor of the Worsell Planetary Bank”—she pointed to it, three blocks away—“and suddenly some asshole up on four or five got cold and turned on the heat. Fucking vent must have hit sixty degrees Celsius before I could get out of it.”

“So you got warm,” said Pretorius. “That doesn't explain why—”

“I punched a hole in the ceiling and jumped down,” said Snake with a bitter smile. “How the hell was I supposed to know that Old Man Worsell would be screwing one of his assistants on the desk right below me?” She shook her head, as if to rid it of the image. “Still, I got within fifty meters of the back exit before security showed up.”

“Just as well,” said Pretorius.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Pretorius smiled. “I don't think even General Cooper's clout could have got you out if you'd actually stolen whatever it was you were there to steal.”

“Idiot!” she muttered. “If I'd stolen it, I'd be five parsecs from here, lolling on a beach.”

“You're not the beach type,” replied Pretorius. “You might well have been five parsecs away, but you'd just be pulling off another heist there.”

She considered his comment, then shrugged. “Probably,” she admitted.

“Well, you can help pull off a heist for your government and maybe even get your record expunged for it.”

She came to an abrupt stop.
“Maybe?”

“All right,” he replied. “Definitely.”

“Damned straight,” she said. “What are we stealing?”

“Let's keep walking. I don't feel like explaining it twice.”

She pointed to a tavern. “Want to stop for a drink first?”

“Yes, I do,” said Pretorius, continuing to walk past the tavern.

“Well, then?” said Snake, tugging at his arm.

“First I'll do what I
have
to do,” he answered. “Later I'll tend to what I
want.
”

“I'll bet you were a fun guy before the military ruined you,” muttered Snake, falling into step beside him.

3

“Hi, Nate,” said the half-man half-machine who still answered to the name of Felix Ortega. “We were betting on whether or not the Snake would escape before you paid her bail.”

“How are
you
feeling, Nate?” asked Toni Levi, who operated under the name Pandora.

“Fine,” said Pretorius, entering the elegant suite that boasted an exquisite display of alien art.

“No, you're not,” said a blonde woman of such un
earthly beauty that he still wasn't sure whether she was a human, a mutant, or an alien.

“I'm fine enough, Circe,” said Pretorius firmly. He looked around. “Where's Proto?”

A brown cushion suddenly seemed to morph into a nondescript middle-aged man. “Right here, Nate.”

“Try to keep looking like this while I'm here,” said Pretorius. “It makes it easier to talk to you.”

“Right, Nate.”

“So what's going on?” asked Ortega. “It's been a month, and suddenly we've all been ordered to come to this suite.”

“It seems the government was so happy with our last job that it's come up with another one for us,” answered Pretorius. He was about to say more when there was a knock at the door. “Enter,” he said, and the door irised to allow a slender young woman with flaming red hair into the suite.

“Hello,” she said nervously. “General Cooper told me to come over and report to a Colonel Pretorius. Would that be you?”

Pretorius nodded. “Did he say why?” he asked.

“No,” was the answer. “I got the distinct impression that you would be informing me of my assignment.”

Pretorius cast a quick glance as Circe, who nodded her head almost imperceptibly.

“Okay,” he said. “Have you got a name?”

“Iris Fitzhugh.”

“Rank?”

She frowned. “I'm not in the service, sir.”

Snake grinned. “What does he have on you?”

“I beg your pardon?” said the young woman, turning to face Snake.

“Don't worry about it,” said Pretorius. “We're glad you're here. Probably.”

“Probably, sir?”

“Depends on what your special talent is, Red.”

“How did you know?”

“Know what?” asked Pretorius.

“Everyone calls me Red.”

“I can't imagine why,” said Pretorius, which precipitated a peal of laughter from the others. “Okay, Red, why are you here?”

“I told you, sir: General Cooper ordered—”

“I'm not ‘sir,'” Pretorius interrupted her. “And what I want to know is
why
he ordered you to come here.”

She frowned. “I have no idea, sir.”

“Nate.”

“I have no idea, Nate.”

“Well, we'll figure it out,” said Pretorius. “Have a seat, and welcome to the Dead Enders.”

“Who the hell are the Dead Enders?” asked Ortega.

“You are not impressing the lady with your intellect,” said Pretorius. “Red, this is Felix. He can crush a grape with just his thumb and his forefinger.” She smiled. “He can do the same to a bowling ball with the same fingers. But sometimes his brain is a little muscle-bound.”

“I'm pleased to meet you,” said the woman.

“I'm glad someone around here is,” muttered Felix.

“This mini-person here is Snake,” continued Pretorius. “A fine acrobat, a contortionist without peer, and a thief without scruples.”

“I disagree,” said Snake.

“You have a peer, or you have a scruple?” asked Pretorius.

“With calling her Red. Name like that, you ought to call her Irish.”

“
Are
there any Irish anymore?”

“What difference does that make?” replied Snake pugnaciously.

Pretorius turned to the woman. “Which do you prefer?”

“No one's ever called me Irish before. I
like
it.”

“You've made a friend for life,” he said, smiling at Snake. “Moving on, this is Toni Levi.”

“Antoinette,” Pandora corrected him.

“Right. But around here, she's Pandora.”

“What a fascinating name!” said Irish. “May I ask what—?”

“What it means?” Pretorius finished her sentence. “She's our computer guru. There's no box of electronic secrets she can't open. Or at least, we haven't found one so far.” He walked over to the blonde, who seemed to possess an otherworldly beauty. “And this is Circe.”

“A Greek goddess?”

“Greek's as good a guess as any,” said Pretorius. “No one knows where she comes from, and I'll give plenty of ten-to-one that she doesn't tell you either.”

“What about the goddess part?” persisted Irish.

“Well, she's closer to that than to being Greek,” acknowledged Pretorius. “She's our lie detector.”

Irish stared at her intently. “A telepath?” she asked at last.

“An empath,” said Circe.

“Comes to pretty much the same thing,” said Pretorius.

“Not really,” answered Circe. “Telepaths don't feel your anguish when you're terrified and scrambling for an answer.”

“That's amazing!” said Irish. “On the other hand, I don't know if I'd care to have that particular ability.”

“It can be more of a curse than a blessing,” answered Circe.

“Yeah, I can see that,” said Irish.

“Well, that's the team,” said Pretorius.

They turned at the sound of a man clearing his throat. Pretorius turned and faced Proto.

“Forgive me,” he said. “Here's our most recent member. His name, which I don't think anyone can spell, and which I'm sure I'll mispronounce, is Gzychurlyx.”

Irish tried to form the word.

“We call him Proto,” continued Pretorius.

“Proto?”

“For protoplasm.”

She stared at Proto, frowning. “Protoplasm?” she repeated.

“Proto, show her what you really look like,” said Pretorius, and suddenly the middle-aged man vanished, to be replaced by a shapeless lump of brown fur, perhaps six inches high and two feet in diameter.

Irish gasped and stepped back. “A shape-changer!” she exclaimed.

“Not quite,” said Pretorius with an amused smile. He turned to Proto. “As you were.”

The lump of fur was instantly replaced by the middle-aged man.

“He
is
a shape-changer!” insisted Irish.

Pretorius shook his head. “He's . . . I don't know . . . I guess you'd call him an image-caster. If you walk over and touch his shoulder or shake his hand, you'll find there's nothing there.” She frowned and continued to stare at the alien. “Proto can make any being of any race we've discovered so far think that he's what he appears to be—and he can appear to be anything from a tiny insect to something that dwarfs the dinosaurs on Procyon VI. But those are all projected images. He's exactly what you saw: a little furry alien.”

Irish frowned. “Machines don't think.”

“I do believe you've figured it out,” said Pretorius with a smile of approval.

“He can fool any living creature, but he can't fool a camera or an ID machine or any kind of scanner,” she said.

“Right. Fortunately he remembers that, because it's awfully easy for the rest of us to forget it.”

“I'm pleased to meet you all,” said Irish. Another frown. “It makes me wonder what I'm doing here. I have no unique talent, not inborn like Circe or Proto, not acquired like Pandora.”

“Oh, we'll figure it out soon enough,” said Pretorius. “Cooper is a pain in the ass, but he's not a dumb pain in the ass. If he sent you here, he had a valid reason.”

“How long have the Dead Enders been a unit?” asked Irish.

“We've been a unit for two months, maybe a little less,” answered Pretorius. “We've had a name for about twenty hours—and we've had an assignment for maybe an hour and a half.”

“I don't suppose you'd care to share with us?” said Ortega.

“I'd rather spend a couple of more minutes surrounded by happy faces,” said Pretorius.

“
That
bad?” asked Pandora.

Pretorius shrugged. “Compared to what?”

“How about: compared to kidnapping the enemy's best general and replacing him with a clone?”

“You guys did that?” asked Irish.

“Barely,” said Pretorius.

“Wow!” she said. “I'm in with experts!”

“Lucky experts,” said Snake.

“Very lucky,” added Ortega.

“But you pulled it off!” enthused Irish. Suddenly she frowned. “How many members of your team did you lose?”

“None,” said Pandora. She jerked a thumb in Pretorius's direction. “Thanks to the genius here.”

“None?”
repeated Irish. “Suddenly I feel better. Awestruck, but better.”

“Dumb luck,” said Snake.

Circe shook her head. “We made our own luck. Or at least, Nathan did.”

“Enough,” said Pretorius. “I'm too old to blush.”

“Fine,” said Snake. “That's history anyway. What are we all here for this time?”

“Anyone here ever hear of Edgar Nmumba?”

He was greeted by a roomful of blank expressions.

“Left wing on the local murderball team?” suggested Snake sardonically.

“No such luck,” said Pretorius. “Let me try another question. Has anyone here ever heard of the Q bomb?”

“Of course we have,” said Ortega.

“We're not delivering a goddamned Q bomb?” demanded Snake. “I mean, we've got a space force to do that!”

“No, we're not going to deliver one. As far as I know, we don't have a single Q bomb in our arsenal.”

“Then we're going to steal one from the Transkei Coalition!” said Snake.

“Snake, do you want to tell them what we're here for, or may I?” said Pretorius with a slight edge of anger in his voice that immediately caught her attention. She pressed her lips together and sat perfectly still.

“Okay,” said Pandora. “Who
is
Edgar Nmumba?”

“He's a scientist,” answered Pretorius. “More to the point, he's the genius who's created a defense against the Q bomb.”