The Prison in Antares Read Free

sir.”
    â€œNate.”
    â€œI have no idea, Nate.”
    â€œWell, we’ll figure it out,” said Pretorius. “Have a seat, and welcome to the Dead Enders.”
    â€œWho the hell are the Dead Enders?” asked Ortega.
    â€œYou 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.”
    â€œI’m pleased to meet you,” said the woman.
    â€œI’m glad someone around here is,” muttered Felix.
    â€œThis mini-person here is Snake,” continued Pretorius. “A fine acrobat, a contortionist without peer, and a thief without scruples.”
    â€œI disagree,” said Snake.
    â€œYou have a peer, or you have a scruple?” asked Pretorius.
    â€œWith calling her Red. Name like that, you ought to call her Irish.”
    â€œ Are there any Irish anymore?”
    â€œWhat difference does that make?” replied Snake pugnaciously.
    Pretorius turned to the woman. “Which do you prefer?”
    â€œNo one’s ever called me Irish before. I like it.”
    â€œYou’ve made a friend for life,” he said, smiling at Snake. “Moving on, this is Toni Levi.”
    â€œAntoinette,” Pandora corrected him.
    â€œRight. But around here, she’s Pandora.”
    â€œWhat a fascinating name!” said Irish. “May I ask what—?”
    â€œWhat 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.”
    â€œA Greek goddess?”
    â€œGreek’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.”
    â€œWhat about the goddess part?” persisted Irish.
    â€œWell, 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.
    â€œAn empath,” said Circe.
    â€œComes to pretty much the same thing,” said Pretorius.
    â€œNot really,” answered Circe. “Telepaths don’t feel your anguish when you’re terrified and scrambling for an answer.”
    â€œThat’s amazing!” said Irish. “On the other hand, I don’t know if I’d care to have that particular ability.”
    â€œIt can be more of a curse than a blessing,” answered Circe.
    â€œYeah, I can see that,” said Irish.
    â€œWell, that’s the team,” said Pretorius.
    They turned at the sound of a man clearing his throat. Pretorius turned and faced Proto.
    â€œForgive 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.
    â€œWe call him Proto,” continued Pretorius.
    â€œProto?”
    â€œFor protoplasm.”
    She stared at Proto, frowning. “Protoplasm?” she repeated.
    â€œProto, 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.
    â€œNot 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.
    â€œHe is a shape-changer!” insisted Irish.
    Pretorius shook his head. “He’s