The Castle in Cassiopeia

by Mike Resnick

  “My mission was a success,” said Pretorius. “Until,” he added with a bitter smile, “perhaps fifty days ago.”

  “I like guessing games as well as the next eight-hundred-year-old madam, Nathan, but why don’t you tell me what the hell you’re talking about?”

  “Your information was good,” said Pretorius. “We got to Michkag’s headquarters and took him back into the Democracy with us.”

  She frowned. “You took him? Why didn’t you kill him?”

  “I have no idea why Cooper and the others didn’t kill him when we got him back home,” said Pretorius. “I certainly would have.”

  “I’m confused, Nathan,” she said, irritation creeping into her voice. “Why would you kill him there, but not in Orion?”

  “Because we didn’t want anyone to know he was dead.”

  “I’m still confused.”

  “We didn’t want anyone to know he was dead because we had managed to clone him from a skin scraping we got some years back. The clone was raised in the Democracy, trained in the Democracy, and pointed toward one goal: to replace the real Michkag and subtly weaken his empire until they were finally willing to make peace with the rest of the galaxy.”

  Madam Methuselah considered what she’d been told for a long minute, then nodded her head. “I see,” she said at last. “Yes, you couldn’t possibly kill him where anyone might find out. They’d just anoint a new leader and nothing would change. But to replace him with your puppet, a clone who was loyal to you . . . I call that goddamned brilliant.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And of course the clone remained true to his breeding and not his training, or you wouldn’t be here.”

  Pretorius nodded. “He decided he liked running an empire more than he liked being responsible and loyal to us.”

  “Well, that explains it,” she said.

  “It?” said Irish, her first contribution to the conversation.

  Madam Methuselah turned to her and nodded. “He’s gone, of course. He must have known that if he disobeyed a few orders, or won a couple of battles he was supposed to lose, that the Democracy would figure he’d turned, and once they figured that, then Orion was the most dangerous place in the galaxy for him to be.”

  “So do you know where he is?” asked Pretorius.

  Madam Methuselah shook her head. “To be honest, I didn’t know for sure that he was alive until you just told me the situation. I know he’s not in Orion any longer, but he could have been assassinated by one of his underlings.”

  Pretorius shook his head. “He takes a lot of killing.”

  “If he’s still alive, and it seems that he is, then my guess is that he’s totally out of the Coalition’s territory.”

  “That’s almost a fifth of the galaxy!” said Pretorius.

  “And the Democracy controls a quarter of the galaxy,” she answered. “Do you realize how much galaxy is left for the taking, Nathan?”

  “There are other political entities, other kingdoms,” said Pretorius, frowning.

  “Could any of them withstand an attack by the Coalition?”

  “No,” he admitted. “But they couldn’t withstand the Democracy either.”

  “Oh?” said Madam Methuselah, arching an eyebrow in mock amusement. “And do you plan on absorbing the rest of the galaxy any time soon?”

  “Of course not.”

  “That’s probably why he didn’t have, or won’t have, much trouble establishing himself there. Remember: he’s not seeking a war of conquest. That would spread his forces too thin. He’s offering a smaller, weaker kingdom a chance to join the Coalition and by doing so become a part of a political and military entity that will soon be unrivaled in the galaxy, even by the Democracy.”

  “It makes sense,” agreed Irish.

  “And you’ve no idea where to begin looking for him?” asked Pretorius.

  “Until a few minutes ago, I thought he was probably dead,” agreed Madam Methuselah. “I know this breaks most of the laws of science and statistics, but I’ve been breaking them for centuries. I plan on living at least another five hundred years, and I do not want to live in a universe ruled by Michkag or his clone, or where my remaining customers are all Kaboris like Michkag.” She stared long and hard at Pretorius for a few seconds. “By tomorrow I will have gotten word to all my sources to drop whatever they’re doing and concentrate on pinpointing Michkag.”

  “Thank you, Madam Methuselah,” said Pretorius.

  She stood up. “I never take sides, Nathan, you know that—but I’m on your side on this one.”

  “And I deeply appreciate it.”

  “You’ll be leaving now,” she said. “Keep in touch with me daily, so I can let you know of any information that comes in.”

  Pretorius frowned in thought for a moment. “I could use another favor, too,” he said. “I should have thought of it before we even set out on this mission.”

  “What is it?”

  “A ship and a pilot.”

  She frowned. “Don’t you have a ship here?”

  He nodded. “Yes, and we’ll be boarding it and leaving momentarily. What I need now is a ship that can take Proto back to headquarters.”

  “Why?” asked Proto and Madam Methuselah in unison.

  “We don’t even know what sector of the galaxy Michkag’s in, let alone what world. I don’t know what it may take to assassinate or capture him. I’ve got a team member—” he pointed to Proto “—who can look so much like him that Michkag’s own mother couldn’t tell them apart . . . until he opens his mouth. I should have thought of this sooner, but we’ve got a turncoat Kabori back in the Democracy, a scientist named Djibmet who actually got the skin fragment that we got Michkag’s DNA from and spent a few years of his life training the clone. I want him to teach Proto to speak in Kabori, in case he has to impersonate Michkag somewhere up the road.”

  “Not gonna work,” said Madam Methuselah. “He can look like Michkag, but unless he’s hiding a Kabori’s jaw structure in that sluglike body, he’ll never be able to pronounce the words properly. One or two sentences and he’ll give himself away.”

  “You’re sure?” asked Pretorius.

  “Proto, become Michkag for a minute.”

  Proto did as she said.

  “Now pronounce these five common Kabori words,” she said, uttering them.

  He tried.

  “You see?” she said, turning to Pretorius. “I’ve got an accent. He’s got a speech impediment.”

  “Oh, well, it was a thought,” said Pretorius. “And this saves him a trip back to headquarters.” He got to his feet, signaling Irish to do the same. He frowned. “I just wish I knew where to start.”

  “I think I can help you,” said Madam Methuselah.

  “Oh?”

  “If you don’t mind traveling with a notorious thief and smuggler.”

  A small smile crept across Pretorius’s face. “I’ve traveled with worse.”

  “I doubt it,” she said, returning his smile. “His name is Apollo; he’s wanted in the Coalition, the Democracy, and three other galactic conglomerations. If anything out of the ordinary is happening anywhere, he’s the man who can get you to wherever the clone doesn’t want you to go.”

  “Sounds good to me,” said Pretorius.

  “He’ll want to meet you alone first,” said Madam Methuselah. “An awful lot of worlds have put prices on his head, and he won’t want to be surrounded by your crew until he knows he can trust you and you can control them.”

  “Not a problem. Have him contact me and name the time and place.”

  “I should warn you,” she added. “He’s not cheap.”

  “You get what you pay for,” replied Pretorius. “No one ever said the galaxy would be cheap in terms of blood or treasure.”

  And with that, he, Irish, and Proto left the room, picked up their companions, and returned to their ship.

  4

  “So where to now?” asked Pandora, who was sitting at the shi
p’s control panel.

  “Nowhere in particular,” replied Pretorius.

  “Makes sense,” said Snake. “I always knew we should look nowhere in particular.”

  “He’ll contact us,” said Pretorius.

  “Michkag?” said Snake. “I hardly think so.”

  “No, Apollo.”

  “Who the hell is Apollo?” demanded Snake.

  “You’ll like him,” said Pretorius, allowing himself the luxury of an amused smile. “He’s broken even more laws than you have.”

  “Impossible!” scoffed Snake.

  “I’ll admit it’s hard to believe,” said Pretorius.

  “I hate to interrupt,” said Pandora, “but I’d like the coordinates to Nowhere in Particular. I would hate to take us to Elsewhere by mistake.”

  “Find the least populated area—that’s the least populated by planets, not by inhabitants—within a dozen light years, then create a small orbit of maybe half a light year or so, and just stick to it until I know where I’m meeting Apollo.”

  Pandora shrugged and began manipulating the controls. “You’re the boss.”

  “It’s comforting that someone remembers that,” replied Pretorius.

  “Do you know anything about this Apollo, other than the fact that Snake is already jealous of him?” asked Proto.

  Snake picked up a cushion and hurled it at what appeared to be Proto’s midsection in his nondescript human guise. Of course it went right through the image and bounced off the back of his chair.

  “Thank you,” said Proto. “But I didn’t really need another cushion.”

  “Next time I’ll stomp on your foot,” she growled. “I guarantee you’ll feel that.”

  They traveled in silence for a few moments. Then Pandora turned away from the panel to face her companions.

  “I just ran a check on Apollo,” she announced.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be piloting the ship?” said Snake.

  “It’s been on automatic for the past five minutes,” said Pandora. She turned to Pretorius. “Your soon-to-be-friend Apollo is a very interesting man, Nate.”

  “So I’ve been told,” he answered. “But only in broad, general terms. I assume you’ve got some specifics.”

  She nodded her head. “Some. And I imagine for every one I’ve got, there are two or three that nobody knows about yet. Well, nobody who’s still alive, anyway.”

  “Okay, lay it on us,” said Pretorius.

  “He’s wanted for murder on seven planets,” said Pandora. “That’s not one murder.”

  “Seven,” said Snake.

  Pandora shook her head. “Eleven.”

  “Guy’s got a temper,” said Snake.

  “Interesting thing, though,” continued Pandora. “Every victim—five men, two women, and four non-humans—had records longer than his.”

  “A falling-out among thieves?” suggested Proto.

  Pretorius grimaced. “One falling-out I could buy,” he said. “Maybe two. But eleven?”

  “A telling point,” said Irish.

  “Okay,” said Pretorius. “What else have you got?”

  “Suspected of espionage on three worlds,” said Pandora, checking her screen for the statistics. “Robbed banks on at least four worlds. Poaching.”

  “Poaching?” said Pretorius, frowning.

  “Very rare dragonlike creature from the jungle on Matera VI. Some part of it is worth a small fortune, though I’m not clear whether it’s an eyeball, which looks in the illustration like a goddamned diamond, or the tusks, which dwarf just about anything I’ve ever seen illustrated.”

  “What else?” asked Pretorius.

  “About two dozen disturbing the peace convictions on frontier worlds.”

  “And you know how hard it is to get charged with disturbing the peace on one of those planets,” said Snake.

  “Sounds like a real charmer,” said Pretorius. “Anything else?”

  Pandora smiled. “Yes, one more thing.”

  “Must be really interesting to amuse you that much.”

  “Two Medals of Courage from the Democracy,” she replied. “That’s the highest single honor the Democracy can bestow on anyone in or out of the military.”

  “And which was he?” asked Pretorius. “In or out?”

  “Once each.”

  “Sounds like he’s fit for just about anything,” said Pretorius.

  “Except maybe crocheting,” said Snake with a smile.

  “I don’t know,” said Proto. “Give a man like that a crochet needle and there’s no telling what he might do with it.”

  “Point taken,” said Pretorius, repressing a smile. “Snake, you see him with crocheting equipment, you report it to me immediately.”

  “You don’t seem especially worried about a man with those credentials,” noted Pandora.

  “Madam Methuselah vouches for him,” answered Pretorius. “She’s never steered me wrong.”

  “I hate to think our fate depends on the word of an eight-hundred-year-old hooker,” said Snake.

  “Unlike the word of a contortionist thief that I have to bail out every year or so?” said Pretorius with a smile. “I’ll bet good money she’s never been convicted of anything.”

  “Oops!” said Pandora. “Incoming.”

  “Holo,” ordered Pretorius.

  A few seconds later the image of a tall burly man with a thick beard and flaming red hair appeared on the middle of the desk. He wore two burners, a screecher, a pistol of indeterminate properties, and there was a wicked-looking knife stuck in one of his boots.

  “Pretorius?” he said in a deep, hoarse voice.

  “Nate,” said Pretorius, holding up a hand.

  The man nodded. “Figures, given what’s traveling with you. I’m Apollo. Merilee said you wanted to talk to me.”

  “Merilee?” repeated Pretorius. “So that’s her name?”

  Apollo shrugged. “Beats me. But I wasn’t going to keep calling her Madam Methuselah, so I decided Merilee fit her.”

  Pretorius grinned. “I wish I’d thought of that a few years back.”

  “So what can I do for you?” asked Apollo.

  “I suppose saying ‘Help us save the galaxy’ is a little trite,” answered Pretorius. “How about ‘Help us save the Democracy and work up from there’?”

  “I’ve never saved a galaxy, or even just the Democracy, before. What’s the job entail, and what does it pay?”

  “How soon can—?” began Pretorius.

  “Just a minute,” said Apollo, holding up a hand. “My mistake.”

  “Your mistake?” said Pretorius, puzzled.

  “I’m sure you’re talking from a military ship, but I’m in a kind of sleazy hotel, and there’s no guarantee that we can keep this conversation confidential.”

  “Not a problem,” said Pretorius. “I’ll be happy to meet you at a location of your choosing.”

  “Okay,” said Apollo. “There’s a world not too far from me, Prateep II. I’m sure it’s in your star charts.”

  “I need more than just a world’s name to locate you,” said Pretorius.

  “Marumbu,” was the reply. “City on the equator, named after the man who mapped the planet and settled there. I’ll be at a bar called the Crippled Worm.”

  Pretorius frowned. “The Crippled Worm?”

  “Yeah,” said Apollo. “Ain’t you ever seen a crippled worm?”

  “No.”

  Apollo chuckled. “Nobody else has either. On the other hand, I’ll bet there’s not another joint called the Crippled Worm anywhere in the galaxy.”

  “You’re probably right,” said Pretorius.

  “Come armed,” continued Apollo. “This planet’s right in the middle of No Man’s Land—or it would be if they called the damned area No Man’s Land. Got a lot of critters from the Sett Empire and the Coalition, and some of ’em take exception to anyone that looks like they come from the Democracy.”

  “Got it,” said Pretorius.

>   “What’s your favorite drink?”

  “Anything wet.”

  Apollo threw back his head and laughed. “By God, I like you already!”

  “That’s a comfort, given your muscles and your weaponry,” said Pretorius.

  “The weapons are just to make me feel safe.”

  “Right—and the muscles come from digging in your garden.”

  “So how soon can you be there?”

  Pretorius looked at Pandora, who held up two fingers. “Two days,” he answered.

  “Okay, I’ll have a five or six-hour head start on the alcohol,” said Apollo. “And Nate?”

  “Yeah?”

  “One more thing.”

  “What is it?” asked Pretorius.

  “If your ship is flying with any insignia, lose it before you land.”

  Pretorius smiled. “We lost it before we took off.”

  Apollo smiled again. “Good! I hate dealing with amateurs!”

  5

  Prateep II wasn’t much of a planet, a dusty little backwater with three Tradertowns and a few unimpressive farms. Marumbu was an even less impressive settlement, housing three cheap boarding houses, a drug den, a pair of bars, and a restaurant that had been serving the same single item every day for more than a decade.

  By the time Pandora set the ship down in what passed for a spaceport a mile out of town, Proto and Irish had already used the computer to learn the basics of the Kabori language. Pretorius opened the hatch, climbed down to the ground, and decided that walking into town was probably less dangerous than riding in the beat-up vehicle that was provided.

  It wasn’t hard to spot the Crippled Worm, since it had a bright pink ten-meter-long facsimile of its name at the front edge of its roof. He studied it for a moment, for no logical reason that he could discern but simply because it seemed truly unique on such a commonplace world, and then entered.

  There were a pair of Beldonians at the end of the bar nearest the door, then a Malator, a trio of purple-skinned beings of a race that was unfamiliar to him, and finally a huge, heavily muscled, thick-bearded, redheaded man. Pretorius walked right up to him.

  “You Nate?” he asked, studying Pretorius.

  “Yes.”