The Prison in Antares (3 page)

“A defense?” continued Pandora. “What kind of defense?”

“I don't know the technical details—nobody but Nmumba does—but I know it works. It detects them, it negates them, and it stops them from doing damage, which as you know can be devastating.”

“It really works?” asked Circe.

“It has so far.”

“I almost hate to ask the next question,” she said.

“I don't blame you,” said Pandora. She turned to Pretorius. “Okay, lay it on us.”

“The Transkei Coalition has captured him,” replied Pretorius. “He's got half a dozen mind blocks, put there by our best psychiatrists, but sooner or later they're going to break through, learn what he knows, and find a way to circumvent it.” He paused while they assimilated the magnitude of the situation. “Those bombs take out close to a billion Men every time one makes it through our defenses. We have to get to Nmumba before they find a way past those blocks.”

“And?” asked Snake, frowning.

“We rescue him and bring him back before they get what they want.”

“There's got to be more to our orders than that,” persisted Snake.

Pretorius nodded. “If we can't bring him back, we kill him.”

“Makes sense,” said Snake.

“Maybe it does, maybe it doesn't,” said Pandora.

All eyes turned to her.

“How will we know if he's broken by the time we get there?”

Pretorius grimaced. “I don't know,” he admitted. Suddenly he turned to Irish. “But I'll bet someone here does.”

Irish nodded her head. “That's my specialty,” she replied. “I've been working with posthypnotic suggestions and blocks for the past five years.”

“Isn't that what Circe does?” asked Ortega.

Circe shook her head. “I read emotions, not thoughts. If he doesn't know he's been tinkered with, if he thinks he's giving us true answers to the questions we'll be asking him, I won't know if he's been fed a bunch of phony answers because
he
won't know.”

“Then we
do
need you, Irish,” said Pandora.

“Welcome to the team,” added Proto.

“I just hope you're as good as Wilbur Cooper thinks you are,” said Snake.

“
You
hope so?” said Irish seriously. “Believe me,
I
hope so even more.” She looked around the room. “I've always thought I was pretty good at my profession—” she grimaced “—but having literally billions of lives depending on it . . . well, I find it unnerving.”

“Cooper knows what's at stake,” said Pretorius. “You wouldn't be here if you didn't have what it takes.”

“I hope you're right, sir,” said Irish.

“There are no sirs or ma'ams here. I'm Nate, you're Irish.”

“Yes, Nate.”

“I mean it,” he continued. “We're going to be out of uniform, infiltrating enemy territory. One ‘sir' could give us away.”

She nodded. “Got it.”

“We haven't got much time to waste,” continued Pretorius. “I'll have at least a preliminary plan worked out by morning. We'll meet in this room an hour after sunrise, go directly to the spaceport, and take off. I'll make sure a ship is waiting.” He turned to Irish. “The others know the procedure. Leave behind anything military you may possess—insignia, weaponry, anything that could possibly identify you as a member of the Democracy's armed services. We'll all be supplied with IDs, clothing, weaponry, whatever's needed, once we're aboard the ship.”

“Yes, sir,” said Irish.

Pretorius frowned. “What?” he said harshly.

“Yes, Nate,” she said.

4

The ship was totally nondescript. A bridge, a galley, eight cabins, minimal armaments, no military insignia, a few scars from space debris, and a pair of lifeboats, each capable of holding four passengers.

The interior looked every bit as old and worn, but it had a few special features. Inside the shell of an old, decrepit computer was a new, state-of-the-art machine. The medical supplies contained nothing but bandages, painkillers, and antiseptics, but in the galley, inside a container labeled “candy,” were a number of powerful medications that Irish felt they might need if indeed Nmumba was still alive and they succeeded in getting him onto the ship.

A military vehicle transported Pretorius and his crew from the hotel to the ship, waited until they had carried their minimal luggage aboard, and left.

“Proto, check the galley,” ordered Pretorius. “Make sure we've got something you can metabolize.”

“Right,” said the alien.

“Irish, make sure we've got enough medications, and that they're the right ones.”

“Yes, Nate.”

“Pandora . . .”

“I selected it myself,” she replied, indicating the computer. “It's exactly what we need.”

“Make sure it's still there under all that camouflage and still functioning.”

“Nate, our side is the Good Guys,” said Pandora.

“You think Snake's the only Good Guy who collects what doesn't belong to her?” replied Pretorius. “Check it out.”

“Yes, Nate.”

He assigned minor duties to the others, and half an hour later they were ready to depart.

“Maybe now you really ought to confide in us,” suggested Snake. “Where is the prison, how are we going to break in and then break back out, and what other little tidbits would you like to share with us?”

“First we have to pinpoint which world he's on,” replied Pretorius. “So far all we know is that he's in the Antares Sector. Antares itself has three populated worlds, two of them terraformed, and the Sector has another fourteen. I'm going to assume he's on a planet that's orbiting Antares. They've got a hell of a garrison on Three, strong enough to patrol the whole system. The other two planets are Two and Six. Pandora will monitor all traffic and messages going to and from the system and see if we can get a fix on where they've stashed him. Even using the Bastei and McGruder Wormholes, it'll take us four, maybe five days to get there, and that's assuming we aren't stopped and don't have to divert.” He turned to the alien member of the team. “Proto, did you study the holos I gave you?”

“Yes, Nate.”

“Okay, show us what an Antarean looks like.”

The middle-aged man morphed into an orange-skinned tripodal alien with remarkable swiftness.

“Note the ears,” Pretorius said. “And the oval shape of the foot.” He paused. “Any questions yet?”

His crew was silent.

“Okay,” he continued. “Now let's see a native of Six.”

“Aren't they the same?” asked Ortega.

“They're the same basic stock, but this is an Antarean whose progenitors have been living on Six for seventeen or eighteen generations,” said Pretorius as Proto morphed again. “Note the elongated feet, and the much larger, cup-shaped ears. Is anyone likely to mistake a native of Three for an inhabitant of Six?”

There was a general shaking of heads.

“Okay, Proto, let's see a Two.”

The alien morphed again.

“Ears and feet the same as Three, as you can see,” noted Pretorius. “But the eyes are much smaller, which makes sense when you're that much closer to the sun, and the limbs, though jointed in the same places, are far leaner, due to the much lighter gravity. Are there any questions?”

Again, he was met by silence.

“Okay. Proto is at your disposal for the duration of the trip. Any time he's not eating or sleeping, he'll become any of the three prototypes you just saw until there is no doubt in your mind that you can identify each at first glance.”

“Is there some reason why this is necessary?” asked Irish. “I mean, are we anticipating different reactions from different races?”

“Beats the hell out of me,” answered Pretorius. “And since I don't know and you don't know, it makes sense to be prepared for any eventuality, even if the odds are that they'll all view us as the enemy, that they all have many of the same strengths and weaknesses, and that they probably even speak the same language. But learning how to spot them seems a better use of our time than playing cards, wouldn't you agree?”

“I'm sorry,” said Irish, staring at the deck.

“Don't apologize. You've been working in a hospital. Now you're going to be working in a totally hostile environment, a war zone, and it makes sense that you prepare for it differently.”

She nodded her head. “Yes, it does.”

“Now, Pandora will be getting us a thorough readout on the worlds in question, the three circling Antares, and the other fourteen. We'll know the climate, the length of the days and nights, atmosphere, gravity, and any dangers the planets—as opposed to the planetary populations—offer to us. Any questions yet?”

“Yeah,” said Ortega. “If they've moved him to a non-oxygen world, how do we get him out? We'll look mighty suspicious carrying an extra spacesuit with us.”

Snake laughed aloud, and all eyes turned to her.

“You want to tell him, Snake?” said Pretorius.

“Felix, how do you think they got him to wherever they're keeping him in the first place, if it's not an oxygen world?”

“Damn, I feel dumb!” muttered Ortega.

Snake seemed about to agree with him, and Pretorius quickly spoke again. “All right,” he said. “It would be nice if we could pinpoint where Nmumba's at and approach that world directly, but the likelihood is that even an unmarked ship like this isn't going to be allowed to approach without a reason, so I want a couple of you who aren't doing anything else—Snake and Irish—to find the closest worlds to Antares where we
can
land without getting blown out of the sky or arrested the second we touch down.”

“Right,” said Irish, and Snake nodded.

“Can't we just do it like we did with the Michkag job?” asked Ortega. “Sneak in aboard a supply ship?”

“It's possible,” answered Pretorius, “but until we know where he is and what else is there, we can't count on it. Remember: when we had to sneak in and set up shop on Petrus IV during the Michkag mission, there was a garrison there that housed more than ten thousand soldiers, and supply ships came and went regularly. Now, maybe we'll find the same situation here . . . but maybe Nmumba's in a totally isolated place—an iceberg, a mountain, a cavern—with just a handful of guards, someplace that gets visited maybe twice a year by a very small supply ship.”

“Okay, okay,” said Ortega. “I'm sorry I asked.”

“I'll be monitoring all communications from Antares and the nearby planets,” offered Pandora. “If anyone lets drop where they're keeping him, rest assured we'll know.”

“All right,” said Pretorius. “We've got four or five days to pinpoint his location and fine-tune any plans we come up with. We might as well get going.”

He nodded to Pandora, who ordered the ship to take off. It took them four minutes to emerge from the stratosphere, and then they switched to light speeds on their way to the Bastei Wormhole.

“Amazing things, these wormholes,” mused Circe aloud. “When you hear the term ‘light speed' you think nothing's beyond your reach—and then you realize that even at light speed you can travel for a thousand centuries and still not leave the galaxy. I wonder where we'd be if it weren't for these shortcuts.”

“Back in the Spiral Arm and not at war with anybody,” offered Ortega.

Circe shook her head. “I don't think so. Men have always found someone to fight with, even if only other Men.”

“Sometimes I'd settle for that,” said Snake.

“If they find a way to unlock Nmumba's brain and put it to work for them,” said Pretorius, “you just may get your wish.”

5

They were two days into their voyage, and in the space between their chosen wormholes. Pandora still hadn't been able to determine which of Antares's planets Nmumba was on, or even
if
he was on one.

“It's not enough to pinpoint a planet that can support human life,” she explained to Pretorius. “Some have military garrisons, some don't. More to the point, they don't have to keep him on an oxygen world. I mean, hell, how many non-oxygen worlds have
you
been on? If they're only supplying him with oxygen and acceptable gravity in the one area they're keeping him, that makes it that much harder for him to escape, or for anyone to rescue him.”

“I know,” said Pretorius. “But start with the assumption that he's in the Antares system.” He frowned. “You wonder how
any
life ever evolved there. The damned star is fifteen or twenty times the size of the sun.”

“Antares Three is farther out than Jupiter is from the sun,” answered Pandora. “Probably warmer than our tropics, too.”

“Whoopie,” muttered Snake.

“And you've been monitoring all their transmissions, and there's been no mention of Nmumba?” said Pretorius.

“That's right, Nate,” replied Pandora. “But it's only been two days, and he's hardly a threat. They may not mention him until he breaks.”

“Or dies,” added Ortega.

“Not good enough,” said Pretorius. “This isn't like the Michkag mission, where the only important thing was to get him into place totally unnoticed, even if it took an extra month. Nmumba could break any day. We can't waste too much time finding out where they've stashed him.” He paused. “We're still in the Neutral Zone, right?”

“That's right.”

“Okay. Take us to McPherson's World.”

“It's a day out of the way,” replied Pandora. “There are no wormholes or other shortcuts.”

“It's worth it,” replied Pretorius.

She shrugged. “You're the boss.”

“What's on McPherson's World?” asked Irish.

“Nate's favorite whorehouse,” said Snake with a grin.