by Mike Resnick
“First they have to know you’re here,” said Snake.
“They will find me.”
She shook her head. “They won’t even come looking for you.”
Michkag considered what she had said, then shook his head as if to clear it, and frowned. “Did you come here just to speak non-sense to me?”
“No,” said Snake. “I came here to gloat after he”—she jerked her thumb in Pretorius’s direction—“lays the news on you.”
Michkag turned to Pretorius and stared at him for a long moment.
“Well?” he said at last.
“No one’s looking for you because they’re perfectly happy with the Michkag they have,” said Pretorius.
“What are you talking about?” growled Michkag. “I am Michkag.”
Pretorius shook his head. “You’re a Michkag. The clone we replaced you with is still running things for the Coalition.”
“Then why are you . . . ?” began Michkag. Then, suddenly, he froze, and after a few seconds the equivalent of a smile gradually played across his lips. “You no longer control him.”
“That’s right.”
“Then he is a true clone. He carries my genes and my thoughts.”
“Not for long,” said Pretorius.
Michkag uttered a harsh laugh. “You can’t lie to me! You have no idea how to combat him, and you have come to me for advice.” He paused. “You will die of old age, or torture—or preferably a painful and disfiguring disease—before I tell you anything useful.”
“You haven’t heard my offer yet,” said Pretorius.
“You’re going to sneak me back into Orion and pull off the same switch that got me here in the first place?” said Michkag contemptuously.
“No, you’re too dangerous ever to be allowed loose again.”
“Then what can you possibly offer?”
“You’ve spent more than a year in this one small cell,” replied Pretorius. “We’ll never set you free, but if you’ll agree to help us I can arrange for you to be transferred to a heavily guarded villa on a few acres of ground. Except for the guards you’ll be the only one on the whole planet, and no ship will land except to bring replacement guards, but it’ll be a hell of a lot more pleasant way to spend the rest of your life than being cooped up here.”
Pretorius couldn’t read Michkag’s expression, but he could tell from Snake’s face and demeanor that she thought they were wasting their time.
“Well?” he said after a couple of minutes had passed.
“I shall borrow an expression I have heard from Men on those occasions when I have been in their company.”
Michkag fell silent for another thirty seconds.
“I’m still waiting for your answer.”
Michkag walked across his small cell until he was just a few inches from the force field, and looked Pretorius full in the eye.
“Go to hell,” he said.
2
The Dead Enders were comfortably sprawled on the leather furniture of the elegant penthouse suite of the plain-looking building that housed the military’s headquarters.
“And then he told the boss to go to hell!” said Snake with an amused laugh. “But of course, once we’re back in the Orion Cluster we’re gonna wish we were in hell instead.”
“I’ve never been to Orion,” said a young redheaded woman. “Can it really be that bad?”
“Worse,” said Snake.
“We may not even go there,” said Pretorius. “Our information is that the Michkag clone knows we’re onto him, and he’s left Orion well behind him.”
“But why?” asked Irish, the redhead. “He’s surrounded by his military there.”
“I can tell you why,” said Pandora, a middle-aged woman, the team’s computer expert.
“Please,” said Irish.
“If we could find out he’s a clone, and of course we could, there’s every likelihood some of his lieutenants could find it out too. And a few of them have to think that this isn’t the Michkag they swore their allegiance to, that this one was working for the Democracy until a year and a half ago, and who knows where his loyalties lie?”
Snake shook her head. “If he made them even stronger, produced even more victories for them, why would anyone believe that?”
Pretorius couldn’t suppress a chuckle. “Snake, you’ve got a prison record as long as your arm. How many times have you fed the police or the courts, all of whom are aware of your history, some bullshit story and gotten off scot-free—and how many times were you jailed for the same story? We can’t be sure what they’ll believe, especially once they know it’s not the Michkag who recruited them.”
Snake shrugged. “Okay, point taken.”
“Anyway, we’ll try Orion first, or at least check it out,” continued Pretorius, “but my guess is that he’s elsewhere.”
“Where?” asked Irish.
“It’s a big galaxy,” answered Pretorius. “Half the job is finding him.”
“And the other half is killing or capturing him when he’s surrounded by maybe fifty thousand warships,” added Pandora.
“Against four of us,” said Snake.
“More than that,” said Pretorius.
“We already lost Felix and Circe on that mission to Antares,” said Snake irritably. “Who the hell is left?”
“You’re about to lean on him,” said Pretorius with a smile.
“Proto?” she said, jumping back from the cushion that was next to her.
“Gzychurlyx at your service,” replied the cushion.
“If you want to be at our service,” said Pretorius, “use a name we can all pronounce.”
“If it’s up to me to choose, why did you name me Proto?”
“It’s short for protoplasm, and that’s the closest word I could come on the spur of the moment to imply that you’re a shape-changer.”
“I’m not, you know.”
“Okay, a shape-projector,” said Pretorius. “Big difference.” “There certainly is,” said Proto. “They always shoot a few feet too high.”
“So we’re a man, three women, and a footstool or whatever the hell he chooses to look like tomorrow,” said Snake. “And Michkag’s got what, eighty billion soldiers in uniform and God knows how many lurking in bars and drug dens and planetary capitols.” She turned to Pretorius. “I sure admire your notion of fair odds, Nate.”
“We captured the real Michkag and put this one in his place with just about the same crew,” replied Pretorius.
“And we rescued Edgar Nmumba from that prison in Antares with the same crew that’s sitting here right now,” added Pandora. “And one of us”—she jerked a thumb toward Irish—“was a neophyte on her first assignment.”
“Oh, we’re good,” replied Snake. “Real good. Maybe the best there ever was. But why do we always have to face odds of three or four billion to one?”
“Because we’re good,” said Pandora with a smile. “Maybe the best there ever was.”
“So what’s our first step?” asked Irish.
“We took it this afternoon,” answered Pretorius. “I visited the original Michkag, and brought Snake along with me to see if she could spot any inconsistencies that I missed.”
“And did she?”
“Nope,” said Snake. “Probably the first time in his life he went five whole minutes without lying.”
“So now we have to figure out where the clone is and how to get to him.”
“Same thing we did with the real one,” said Pandora.
“This’ll be harder,” said Pretorius.
“Why? They’re the same guy, at least genetically.”
“The first one had never been threatened or captured. This one knows that we were able to get to the best-protected being in the galaxy and actually kidnap him. He’ll be even better protected—and he knows who we are and what we look and sound like.”
Pandora frowned and emitted a sigh. “Yeah, well, there is that.”
“So where do we look for h
im?” asked Irish.
“We don’t,” said Pretorius. “Or at least, not without some help. It’s a big galaxy; he could be anywhere. My guess is that he doesn’t have such a large army with him that it’ll stand out on a small undeveloped world or system. So first we have to pinpoint his location, and then we’ll dope out what it takes to get to him.”
“Well, it’s got to be easier than last time,” said Proto. “This time all we have to do is kill him, not capture and secretly replace him.”
“I don’t know about that,” replied Pandora. “Last time he thought he was untouchable, that his fortress was impregnable. This time he knows better.”
“You make it sound like we’re after the same Michkag,” said Proto.
“It a way we are,” responded Pandora. “Physically identical, in charge of the same military machine, probably no brighter or dumber than the last one. Doubtless attacks problems and enemies in the same way as the original.”
“So I repeat,” said Irish. “Where do we start?”
Snake and Pandora both smiled. “Where we always do.”
Irish frowned. “Where is that?”
“You’ve been on a mission with us, so you should know,” said Pandora.
“One mission,” said Irish. “So I don’t know what’s routine yet. Where do we begin our search?”
“At the boss’s favorite whorehouse,” replied Snake.
3
They were three days reaching McPherson’s World, most of it spent traversing the Fitzgibbon Wormhole. They emerged in the Neutral Zone, populated with ships from the Democracy, the Coalition, and half a dozen other planetary or military conglomerations. They homed in on the Tradertown of McPherson and set the ship down in a spaceport that seemed larger than the little town needed but which was ninety percent full. By the time they climbed down the stairs to the ground, Proto had assumed the shape of a totally nondescript human male, and they soon were walking across the flat dusty surface to the largest building in town, one that appeared to any outsider to be a very large, very plain, white frame farmhouse.
“I almost hate to ask how you discovered this place,” said Irish.
“It’s got a sterling reputation,” replied Pretorius with a grin.
“I can imagine!” replied Irish.
Pretorius chuckled. “Yeah, it’s got a pretty fair reputation for that, too. But two-thirds of the clientele aren’t here for sex—or, at least, not only for sex. If it’s happening anywhere in the galaxy, Madam Methuselah will know about it if anyone does. She doesn’t play sides, and she doesn’t allow any confrontations on her property.”
“Her property?” repeated Irish. “You mean the house and the surrounding yard?”
“I mean the whole planet,” answered Pretorius.
“Oh, come on!” said Irish. “No one owns a planet!”
“She does,” said Pandora.
“She’s had enough time to populate it with people she wants as neighbors, living in houses she designed, on property she defined,” added Snake.
“I saw her last time,” protested Irish. “She can’t be thirty years old! Maybe thirty-five at the outside. She hasn’t had time to do all that!”
Pretorius chuckled. “She’s about eight hundred years old.”
“I don’t believe it!”
“One thing McPherson has besides a whorehouse is a weekly newspaper,” said Pretorius. “The files go back six or seven centuries. And there are holos of her in almost every issue, looking exactly the way she looks today.”
“What’s her secret?” asked Irish.
“Beats me,” said Pretorius.
“But if she sold it, she could buy half the goddamned galaxy instead one grubby little world in the Neutral Zone,” added Snake.
And grubby it was, eighty percent dirt and the rest dust. Almost all the water was underground, or at least out of sight. The town consisted of the spaceport (which in truth was simply a landing field, with no customs to pass through), a pair of boarding houses, 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.
“Here we are,” said Snake, pointing to a frame building that was clearly the largest structure in the town, but seemed unexceptional in all other respects.
“I can’t get over how famous a grubby little whorehouse on an even grubbier little planet is,” said Irish, shaking her head.
“It’s not that little,” said Pandora. “There must be seventy or eighty rooms beneath ground level, as well as all the ones you’ll be aware of once you enter.”
“And, as you know from last time,” added Pretorius, “about two-thirds of her clientele have more important business here than the exchanging of bodily fluids.”
They climbed the three faux wooden stairs to the large veranda. The door sensed their presence and slid into a wall, and then they were inside. Females of more than a dozen races lounged in the main rooms, and another thirty or forty were probably busy working at the moment. The walls were covered with erotic paintings, holographs, and etchings from dozens of worlds, which meant most of them should have been turnoffs to ninety percent of the clientele, but somehow they were almost all erotic. Just ahead of them was a huge, elegant bar made of an alien hardwood that constantly fluctuated in color from a brilliant gold to a deep, rich mahogany.
“There she is,” whispered Pandora, staring at a beautiful blonde woman who was standing at the bar, speaking to one of the alien bartenders.
Pretorius briefly studied his crew.
“Okay,” he said. “Irish, come with me. The rest of you, try to make yourselves inconspicuous, which I realize is a tall order in a whorehouse. And if some man or alien approaches you, talk to him, see where he’s from, and find out if the Coalition’s made any inroads on his system. Proto, I’d tell you to go to the bar and have a drink, but why show everyone that you’re maybe eighteen inches tall when you’re not projecting this image. No sense losing the elements of secrecy and surprise in case we ever need them around here.” Pretorius lowered his head in thought for a few second. “You come with Irish and me.”
“Whatever you say, Nathan,” replied the image of the well-built six-foot-tall man.
Pretorius turned back to Snake. “I know you,” he said. “Any man lays a hand on you, you’re as likely to cut it off as step away. You make a commotion while I’m talking to Madam Methuselah and I’ll leave you here.”
While Snake was coming up with a reply, Pretorius caught Madam Methuselah’s eye. She smiled at him and pointed toward the narrow corridor that led to her office, and he began walking, followed by Irish and Proto. Once there, they found themselves in a room that was even more lavishly furnished than the one atop military headquarters.
“Welcome back, Nathan,” said the stunning blonde with the ancient eyes. “You’ve been well, I trust.”
He shrugged. “I’m here, anyway.”
“I’ll take that as a positive,” she replied. She turned to Irish. “I remember you from last time. I hope Nathan is treating you well.”
“No complaints,” said Irish.
“Except for getting shot at and starved and—” added Pretorius with a smile.
“You travel with Nathan, you have to expect these little inconveniences,” she said with a smile. “I don’t recognize your other friend.”
“Who’s your favorite murderball player?” asked Pretorius.
“Jaboxtin Tchakyan of the Bellarma race,” replied Madam Methuselah. “Why?”
“Proto?” said Pretorius.
Instantly Proto became the perfect image of Jaboxtin Tchakyan, right down to the well-worn golden boots that were his trademark.
“Well, I’ll be damned!” exclaimed Madam Methuselah. “You know, not much impresses me after all these centuries in this business and location, but your
friend certainly does! That’s just remarkable!”
“Surely you’ve had shape-changers before,” said Pretorius.
“Yes, but they’re usually limited. If you’re a boy, you can become a girl. If you’re a Teelarben, you may become a Jaxtil. But to not only change who you are, but to perfectly change into someone I had suggested, someone you’ve probably never met before, that is truly unique!”
“Shake his hand,” suggested Pretorius.
She walked over to Proto and extended her hand. It passed right through his hand, arm, and body.
“Is he there at all?” she asked, stepping back.
“Oh, yes,” Pretorius assured her. “Show her, Proto.”
Proto let her see him as he really was, then reverted to human form.
“That’s remarkable!” she exclaimed. “Where do you come from?”
“Elsewhere,” answered Proto.
“What the hell kind of answer is that?” demanded Madam Methuselah.
“An essential one,” explained Proto. “As you see, my race can’t reach anything that’s two feet above the ground, and has no fingers for firing a weapon—so when one of us leaves our home planet, we are sworn to secrecy.”
“And now to business,” said Pretorius.
“All right,” she said, walking back to her desk with obvious reluctance and sitting down on the luxurious chair that immediate changed its shape to accommodate her as comfortably as possible.
“Can you keep a secret?”
“You say that once more, Nathan, and you can march right out of here and never come back,” said Madam Methuselah.
“No offense intended,” said Pretorius.
“All right,” she said. “Now what secret do you wish to confide in me.”
“One I hope you know already.”
She merely stared at him curiously.
“About a year and a half ago you helped my team by pin-pointing where we could find Michkag.”
“I know,” she answered. “I wish things had turned out more favorably.”
“They turned out just fine—that time.”
She frowned. “What am I not understanding, Nathan? You went to Orion to eliminate Michkag. He was there until perhaps fifty days ago, so clearly your mission failed.”