by Mike Resnick
There were no convenient wormholes, and the trip took four days at light speeds. Once in the Tiroga system they announced their presence, got landing clearance and coordinates, and set the ship down in a spaceport on the outskirts of the largest town, which fell somewhat short of being a full-fledged city.
“All right,” said Pretorius, when they were set to disembark. “Pandora, see if you can monitor any messages to or from Petrus or Orion. Snake, hang around the spaceport here, see if you can spot a likely Coalition ship that we can appropriate and then wait for Pandora to make sure it hasn’t got some state-of-the-art security system. Circe, it’s a mundane job, but someone’s got to lay in supplies. See if you can pick up any political gossip along the way.”
“What about me?” asked Ortega.
Pretorius stared at him, frowning. “Of all of us, Felix, you’re the one people are most likely to remember. We sure as hell can’t have you doing anything covert here. Let me think.” He lowered his head for a moment. “Okay, you hunt up a ship for us. Snake, we used up most of the booty, and we can’t keep hoping to find unsuspicious pawnbrokers. We need some currency that’s good within the borders of the Coalition. Steal some.”
Snake smiled happily. “Good! I was going to be bored to tears looking at ships all day.”
“Just try not to get bored to tears in some Tiroga jail cell,” responded Pretorius. “Pandora’s made up passports and IDs for all of us. They’ll get you through customs, but we don’t know how they’ll hold up under a close examination, even out here in No Man’s Land, so try not to get into any trouble.”
Pandora spent the next few minutes passing out the passport and ID chips, after which the three women left the ship.
Pretorius turned to Djibmet and Michkag. “Same as last time. You”—he indicated Djibmet—“can go into town if you want. But you”—he nodded to the clone—“can’t be seen. In fact, once we decide which ship to steal, we’ll still have to wait until dark, just to make sure no one walking to or from their ships can spot you.”
“I understand,” said the clone.
“I think this time I will go into town for an hour or two,” said Djibmet.
“Up to you.” He handed the Kabori his false ID. “Be back before dark.”
Djibmet left the ship, and Proto approached Pretorius. “You seem to have forgotten about me. Surely I can be of some use to you.”
“I haven’t forgotten,” answered Pretorius. “You’ll be coming with me.”
“In this guise?” he asked, indicating his human features.
“For the moment.”
“Might I ask what our mission is?”
“Passports and IDs.”
“But Pandora made them already,” said Proto.
“Pandora made up a bunch of phony passports that list us as citizens of various neutral worlds, and which probably can’t stand a close inspection. You and I are going to steal some valid IDs from members of the Coalition. They change them every few months, and we’ve no idea what kind of coding the current ones possess. But this is the last non-Coalition world we figure to touch down on, and the closer we get to Petrus, the more rigorously they’re going to inspect IDs.”
“Won’t the people we steal them from just report them missing?”
“Of course,” answered Pretorius. “But we’re not duplicating them. Pandora just needs to know what the current codes look like so she can copy them. We may kill some Kabori along the way—in fact, we almost certainly will have to—and we may very well appropriate their passports and IDs, but we don’t want to kill anyone, especially a Kabori, on a neutral world.”
Proto nodded his head. “Makes sense.”
“I’m glad you approve,” said Pretorius, but his sarcasm was lost on his companion. “Let’s get started.”
As with the last world, a vehicle soon pulled up alongside the ship, waited for them to enter, and offered them a choice of half a dozen locations.
“Center of town,” said Pretorius.
“The geographic center, the population center, or—?” began the vehicle.
“Middle of the biggest business district,” Pretorius interrupted it.
“This will take approximately six minutes,” announced the vehicle. “Would you like me to point out the sights of interest as we proceed?”
“No.”
“Would either of you like something to drink?” it continued. “I can supply libations for the following races . . .”
“Not necessary,” said Pretorius.
He almost felt the vehicle was sulking the rest of the trip, but it finally let them off at mid-block in the major business section of the town.
“Thank you,” he said.
The vehicle sped off without an acknowledgment.
“What now?” asked Proto.
“Now we wander around a bit, go into a couple of stores and bars, maybe a drug den or two, and get a feel of the place and the clientele.”
“I thought we were just looking for Kabori.”
Pretorius shook his head. “Outside of Djibmet and the clone, only you can pass as Kabori, and that ends the second you open your mouth. No, we’re looking for any citizens of the Coalition.”
“There are no Men,” noted Proto.
“But there are a number of humanoids. We don’t need to look like them, we almost certainly won’t be presenting IDs in person, but we’ll travel more freely within Coalition space if we can identify ourselves as some minor humanoid race rather than as Kabori. It’ll explain the non-Kabori ship, any accent if we make verbal contact, and any minor variation in IDs.”
“Variation?” asked Proto, frowning.
“Ideally we’d like to present ourselves as being from a very minor planet, one that’s part of the Coalition but so remote that if they’re changing IDs every week or two, we could be a few days behind.”
Proto looked dubious. “I don’t know . . .”
“Neither do I,” admitted Pretorius. “But if a team of eight is going to overthrow a government that controls eight thousand worlds, the first thing to do is proceed with confidence.”
Proto smiled.
“What’s so funny?”
“You’re making that prison cell look mighty comfortable.”
Pretorius chuckled. “We could return you.”
Proto paused and considered it. “Let’s see how today goes first,” he finally replied.
Pretorius couldn’t tell if he was joking or not, decided not to bother figuring it out, and entered a clothing store with Proto just a step behind him. He went directly to the section for humanoids and decided that what he and the women were wearing wouldn’t necessarily identify them as members of the Democracy—there were quite a few million Men on the thousands of neutral planets, and many of them had occasional business inside the Coalition. He studied a number of humanoid customers but was simply unable to tell which ones might be from within the Coalition.
He went back outside, looked around, and spotted what he wanted.
“I think,” he said softly, “that if we can’t find a fight, we’re going to have to start one.”
“I don’t understand,” replied Proto.
“I can’t tell by looking at them who’s in the Coalition and who isn’t. I mean, the Coalition isn’t all Kabori, just as the Democracy isn’t all Men. There are a number of races that have spread their seed; some are from neutral worlds, some from Coalition worlds. There’s simply no way to tell by looking at them.”
“What does this have to do with fighting?”
“We’re going to go into that bar there,” he said, pointing across the street, “and I’m going to get drunk and start cursing the Kabori and Michkag and the Coalition, and you’re going to defend them, and we’re going to get into a fight, and I’m going to be winning, and when someone comes to your defense, we’ll have a pretty good idea that he’s from the Coalition.”
“It won’t work,” said Proto.
“Oh?”
“You’r
e forgetting. I look like a Man, and I can look like any other race, but I am just projecting an image. If you aim a punch at my jaw, it will go clear through the image, perhaps three feet above the top of my head.”
“Shit!” muttered Pretorius. “You look so real, I keep forgetting.” He paused. “There’s no sense getting into a fight with one of these bozos for real. I could get myself killed, or he could have enough friends that win, lose, or draw we can’t get him alone long enough to remove his ID. We’ll need a totally different plan. I’ve got to remember what you can and can’t do.”
He lowered his head in thought for a moment, looked up, blinked twice, and suddenly a huge grin spread across his face.
“I’m an idiot,” he said.
“You have an idea?”
“Yeah. I just said it myself. We have to concentrate on what you can do.”
“I don’t follow you.”
“We go to the bar. Wait until half a dozen humanoids are using their IDs to pay for their drinks. They’ll be lying on the bar waiting for the bartender to pick them up and run them through his machine, or he’ll have just returned them, and because they plan to order more they won’t put them away.” Pretorius smiled again. “Then you do your thing.”
“My thing?”
“You stand twenty feet away, where everyone will be able to see you, and then you roar and project an image of some fire-breathing monster twenty feet high.”
Suddenly Proto returned the smile. “Yes, I can do that.”
“They’ll be startled and probably scared shitless, and while they’re staring at you I’ll pick up a few IDs, passports, anything else that’s lying on the bar. And the beauty of it is that it’s just an image. If they shoot for your heart or where they think your heart is, they’ll be ten or fifteen feet above you. And once you see me walk away from the bar, kill the image, and while they’re looking for it, take this identity, or become whatever race seems to be most popular in the bar, and just walk out after me.”
Proto considered it. “You know,” he said at last, “I think it’ll work.”
“It will,” agreed Pretorius. “And if a true shape-changer tried it, he’d be shot dead in two seconds.”
They entered the bar. There were tables and chairs to accommodate a dozen races, and liquor for even more. It wasn’t very crowded, and half the clientele were Kabori, so Pretorius nursed his drink while Proto pretended to nurse his, and within half an hour the place was crowded, and most of the clientele was human or humanoid.
“Now?” whispered Proto.
“Wait another minute,” said Pretorius, studying the bar. When enough customers were in mid-transaction he nodded his head; Proto walked about twenty feet away, stood in front of a wall with holos of Michkag’s and of the bartenders’ home worlds—and suddenly, in place of the man who had wandered over, there was a twenty-five-foot monster that looked very similar to illustrations of mythical Chinese dragons Pretorius had seen on disks as a child.
There were shouts of surprise, some of terror, and three or four customers drew their burners and screechers and turned them on the dragon’s image, which only made it roar in rage.
Pretorius moved quickly, picked up five sets of ID, and walked quickly out the door. A moment later Proto joined him, and they could still hear cries of “Where did it go?” and “What was it?” as they walked down the block and crossed the street at the corner.
“Did you get what we need?” asked Proto.
“I think so,” said Pretorius, patting his vest pocket. “I hope so. Pandora will let me know. I don’t think that stunt works too many times in the same place.”
They went back to the ship, where Ortega and the two Kabori were waiting for them.
“I found a ship,” announced Ortega. “Just about perfect. Let’s just hope they don’t come back for it before we’re ready to leave.”
“You’re sure it’s from a Coalition world?”
“It’s got the Coalition’s emblem emblazoned all the hell over it,” replied Ortega. “Looks like it fits ten, maybe twelve.”
“Any armaments?”
“Just the usual,” came the answer. “It’s not really equipped for battle.”
“That’ll do,” replied Pretorius. “We don’t want to get into a shooting match with Michkag’s fleet.”
Circe was the next to arrive, ordering her vehicle to use its extensions and deposit all the food and medicines she’d purchased into the ship’s hold.
“Seems a waste, since we’re just going to be moving it again,” she said. “But the alternative was to order the vehicle to remain here, and that would attract too much attention.”
Pandora arrived an hour later. When Snake didn’t show up, they ate dinner without her. After another few hours, Pretorius got to his feet.
“She must have been caught,” he said. “I’d better check the local jails and see if I can buy her out or if we’ll have to break her out.”
“Don’t bother,” said Circe.
He turned to her. “Why not?”
“She’s on her way.”
“You’re sure?”
Circe nodded. “And she’s furious as hell. I could read that emotion from miles away.”
“But she’s all right?”
“I don’t detect any pain, just anger.”
Pretorius opened the hatch, they waited another two minutes, and finally Snake climbed up the stairs, a bag over her shoulder.
“You okay?” asked Pretorius.
“There’s a department store I want to blow up!” she snapped.
“What happened?”
“I figured they were taking in more than any other store in the area, so I stayed in the restroom until closing, then cracked the lock on their business office, jimmied the safe, and pulled out wads of cash—Coalition cash.”
“So why are you so late and so mad?”
“I was just about to leave when four employees unlocked the door, pulled up chairs around the desk, and began playing cards. I knew if they saw me they’d report it, and there was no way I could make it back to the ship, so I hid. They couldn’t have bet the equivalent of fifty credits between them, but they acted like guilty kids getting away with something because no one knew they were there. I was hiding in a fucking file drawer for five fucking hours until they left!”
“Damned good thing you’re a contortionist,” said Ortega.
“Well, I am one very pissed-off contortionist, let me tell you!”
“How much did you come away with?” asked Pandora.
“How the hell should I know? I had to hide before I could count it.”
“Felix,” said Pretorius, pointing to the sack, “do the honors.”
Ortega knelt down and reached into it. “There’s a lot here,” he said. “Hope it’s not all low denomination.”
It wasn’t. When they were through counting and recounting, Pretorius got to his feet.
“Okay, grab your gear and let’s go steal a ship. We’ve got to be off the planet before that store opens up in the morning, because there’s no way the authorities’ll let anything take off once they find out that we robbed them of the equivalent of seven million credits.”
“I should have swiped another million for my trouble,” muttered Snake.
12
“So what’s our name?” asked Snake as they took off in the new ship.
“It translates as Victor,” replied Pandora, “which is an odd name for a ship with so few armaments.”
“What race does it belong to?”
“Us, now,” said Pretorius.
“I mean, who built it?” said Snake.
“A race that called itself the Dreen,” said Pandora.
“Called itself?”
“They’ve been extinct for about twenty years, according to my computer,” answered Pandora. “Evidently the Kabori pacified them a little too vigorously.”
Djibmet looked upset but said nothing.
“So who was the most recent owner?”
“A Torqual,” said Pretorius. He shook his head in wonderment. “Must have spent every voyage bent damned near in half.” He tapped the hull above him. “It feels kind of cramped to me, and I never saw a Torqual less than maybe nine feet tall.” He turned to Pandora. “Have you checked out the IDs and passports?”
She nodded. “Three are good. I destroyed the other two.”
“How can they be good?” demanded Ortega. “They didn’t belong to Men.”
“Let me correct that,” said Pandora. “They’ll be good when I’m done with them—and they’ll let me make three more, which will cover the five Men and Proto. Djibmet’s got his own, which is still valid. And if our Michkag needs one, then we’re on the wrong mission.”
“Sounds good,” said Pretorius. “How long will you need on them?”
“Creating them will take maybe an hour apiece. The trick is creating three more identities that won’t set off any alarms. That’ll be maybe a day if we’re lucky, two or three if we’re not.”
He nodded. “Okay. Circe, you and Felix can start monitoring any news items within, say, a hundred light-years. We need to know if there’s any change in the political situation. And we especially need to know if anyone thinks stealing the ship was anything more than a simple act of theft.”
“We might even find out if they’ve stumbled on the pirates yet,” said Ortega.
“Makes no difference,” replied Pretorius. “They don’t know anything about us, we took anything that could possibly be identified out of the ship, and we’re well clear of No Man’s Land.”
“Okay, that’s what they’re doing,” said Snake. “What do you want me to do?”
“I think our next port of call will be Brastos III,” answered Pretorius. “It’s a small mining world, oxygen atmosphere, seems well out of things. We’ll stop there, ostensibly to refuel, but actually to see if the real Michkag has left for Petrus yet, and if we’re real lucky to pick up a humanoid military uniform or two. Even if it doesn’t bear any fruit, we still don’t want to get to Petrus too soon. We might be able to hide there for a few days. I wouldn’t want to try it for, say, two weeks.”
“So what do I do?” persisted Snake.
“Open an account at the biggest bank on Brastos III and transfer about a third of your loot there.”