Bounty Hunted

by Ian Cannon

  The trio thundered onto the second level and right into a massive firefight. All three of their faces spilled shock to see Toggin in the center of it spuming a full circumference of roaring flame like a big burning wheel. He screamed, “Bite the floor, kiddos!” as he spun toward them and bore out a column of fire overhead, his face turned up in a wild-eyed rictus, the sheer charge of combat spiking his Denubrian blood.

  Tubs, Sindra and Vekter hit the floor feeling the immense heat of Toggin’s flame throwers seer the very air. Bad guys got blasted off their feet and over the railing, some being thrown against the perimeter walls in flames.

  From behind, another energy net blossomed from a wand as it carried across the gaming floor and enwrapped Toggin. His body clenched up beneath it and he screamed an electrified—gekgekgekgek. His flames receded back to his palms as he hit his knees convulsing against the net.

  There was no time. Tubs had to get to the liaisons. Vekter’s boomerangs sang out reaming through the air and clipping invaders as they blazed past, knocking them off their feet.

  “Go!” Vekter yelled from behind. “We’ll follow!”

  They were on the run quickly, Vekter recalling his boomerangs in mid-streak. They hit the stairs with Vekter and Tubs covering their front, Sindra scoping their back. As one of the unmarked combatants hustled down the stairs toward them, the guy found himself in an unexpected hail of blaser fire. Other soldiers followed exchanging a furious volley up and down through the stairwell. Sindra spun around and fired away giving the team another angle, catching their attackers in a thatchwork of bolts. They tumbled down shooting sparks from plasma scores in their armor. The trio stepped over them quickly attempting to study their enemy in haste, search for insignias, affiliation marks—anything!—but their uniforms were unmarked. Everything was black on black. This invasion group was a big mystery.

  There was no time to waste on investigating the dead. That’d have to happen later.

  Tubs took the lead and they hit the third-floor landing hearing more blaster exchanges come nearer. To the right behind a curved service bar, a single patron ducked low sending shots fifty feet across the space at a group of these invaders. They were covering the stairway to the top floor—the executive level. Tubs spied the situation in a rush. He knew immediately the enemy was retreating above. They’d obvisouly gotten what they had come for and were making a hasty exit.

  Tubs clenched his powerful jaws together and began shedding blasts across the space. He dove left where the balcony architecture curved away from the angle of fire giving him cover. Vekter and Sindra both leapt into action. She hit the deck and fired like mad from the prone position. He leapt into the air with a spin, committed a full-bodied catapult maneuver sending both boomerangs across the space whirling in a blinding arc and streaking dead-on toward the opposing gunners. They jolted back as the plasma-bladed weapons scissored across them, and they dropped. The boomerangs returned with a sharp hum. Vekter caught them and slapped them each to his hips.

  A moment of silence fell between the three of them in which they looked each other in the eyes. Above, they could hear the combat fading away. Whoever these bucketheads were, they were mounting their escape. Time was of the essence.

  Footsteps pounded from behind, down in the stairwell. The invaders from the lower levels had regained the momentum … and they were on their way. Here came the ambush.

  Vekter and Sindra looked each other in the eyes, both sharing a storm of emotion—desperation, urgency and determination. Their communication was silent, but quick. He knew her mind. She knew his. Together, they looked at Tubs and yelled—“Go!”

  Tubs nodded quick and dashed for the stairs at the far end. Vekter and Sindra turned to face their oncoming enemy. They approached like a storm, flooding onto the third-floor level and fanning out, weapons drawn and howling away. Both Sindra and Vekter, standing shoulder-to-shoulder, backpedaled unleashing their weapons with manic abandon. Sindra dropped the lead guy with a perfect, zero-target strike, then the second and third, sneering crazily through clenched teeth. Vekter’s boomerangs cut the air like lasers, pirouetting through the enemy and dropping anyone they touched.

  But the storm was too great.

  A stun blast spun Sindra around on her feet. Her gun dropped from her hand. Another one slammed her in the back. She fell to her knees as a third one pounded her to the floor, face-first.

  Vekter took one in the chest lifting him airborn. Before he slammed to the ground, others rained down on him leaving him unconscious on the floor, defeated and in enemy hands.

  But their sacrifice had bought Tubs the time he needed to scurry up onto the top level. He paused at the landing with his rifle raised to his chin scanning back and forth. The place was in tatters. Smoke rose from strike points along the walls. Tables had been knocked over. Shattered glass was everywhere. People lay scattered around, Guilders and infiltrators alike. But the action had moved on. This place was empty.

  He moved quickly toward the rear where a half staircase led up into the private suites and big, opulent observation rooms. There were hard voices yelling commands, a storm of boots thudding across the floor, people being herded. But there were no sounds of combat. No rifle blasts. Security had been suppressed. They were probably all dead, or unconcscious. Tubs girded himself. He was the last of the Guilder’s Mix guardsman left to thwart this enemy. He took a big breath, closed his eyes to sense direction and distance, then charged up the stairs.

  He blew into the upper observation room with its long window overlooking the club and began firing, eyes closed, sensing enemy targets. A triple tap to the left exploded one of these bucketheads in the chest. Another immediate flurry to the right blew another off his feet, then one more sharply-sensed volley took out a third guard. He opened his eyes seeing he’d spilled the raiders who’d been left in charge of guarding the main group’s rear.

  A high-pitched voice swollen with panic rang from down the corridor. It was Sympto. He screamed, “Tub’Num! Tubs … here … here!”

  Tubs raced for the corridor and glimpsed the invaders hustling their hostages down the hall. They were exiting through the far airlock. Tubs knew immediately—it was a shuttle. A prisoner barge! They were taking them.

  Blaster strikes came his way forcing him behind a bulkhead. They blasted against the steel wall fanning sparks across the corridor. He fired strikes in return, then bolted for the next bulkhead in shoot-and-scoot style. More gunfire came at him pelting heated flecks of steel all around him and singing the air. He growled, returned fire and rushed for the next bulkhead, but something stopped him, froze him cold.

  A figure stood before him down the hall. He’d moved front and center and stood with a serene wickedness. The blasting stopped, bringing Tubs to a halt stairing at this new foe—a tall, imposing creature wearing a waist cape and sash with matching shoulder armor and metallic boots, all blood-red, laid atop a diamond black undercoating. He wore a malignant grin under a reflective chromium skull cap and held a six-foot lance at his side firmly in his grip, despite the sword sheathed across his back and the blaster at his hip. This was clearly the infiltrators’ leader and he spilled a wicked intention.

  He flicked a switch and the spear lit up with plasma light at one end and he spun it with cool acumen taking on a combatant’s pose. From behind him, Sympto sreamed, “Tubs … help us, Tubs!” The team had hustled their captives to the airlock bound in energy cuffs and were about to make their exit.

  No time.

  A devoted fury shot through Tubs and he charged with a deep Tremusian battle cry blasting away. The figure ducked the onslaught to the right, then the left, whirling his spear in blinding perfection slicing the very bolts as they screamed at him. He sprang forward with another slice severing Tubs’ blaster in half in a blossoming hail of sparks that sent Tubs stammering backward. He had no choice but to egress down the hall committing a series of bobs and weaves of his own. The lance slathered more spark from the walls and ceiling backing Tu
bs all the way into the observation deck. The assailant powered the spear down, spun it into its holder, whipped his sidearm up and blasted away. The shot pounded Tubs in the chest and threw him into the observation window erupting its entire length into sprinklets. He felt the hands of gravity begin to take him down and he began his final plummet to the bottom of Guilder’s Mix unable to shake the crushing thought that he’d failed. He failed the liaisons. He failed his security team. He failed the Guild … hearing Sympto’s final screams for help fade away and away.

  Sympto could feel hands clenching around the back of his neck as they—whoever they were—hustled him through the airlock, down an entryway and into a holding cell. He landed on his stomach with a—umph! There were other Guilders all around him being thrown into the cell, hands cuffed behind backs. He attempted to roll over and assess the situation through his horror, but all he could manage was to back against the nearest wall whimpering punily. He knew he was going to die. They were all going to die. How had this happened? Who were these people? What did they want?

  The unruly commotion of the moment was punctuated by the growing, rhythmic pounding of heavy footsteps. They came nearer and nearer with a sinister intention. The leader stormed into the cell with his shoulder armor and cape plastered against the corridor’s back lighting, the man’s perfectly round head creating the symmetry of power. The other guards in the cell stood aside. The man stepped forward sharking across their captives with slow, cool eyes … and stopped at Sympto. A tiny grin etched one corner of his lips and he thundered forward. His hands wrenched Sympto up by the scruff bringing him to his feet and slamming him against the wall.

  “Please please no no please please no no!” Sympto heard himself wail out. The man slammed him a second time knocking the air out of his lungs and shutting him up.

  After a tense pause he said through a calm, powerful voice, “You’re the one they call Sympto.”

  “Huh?”

  Slam! “You’re the liaison here.”

  “Yes yes!”

  Sympto felt the man’s gloved hands tighten their grip around the scruff of his neck. He said, “You know Benjar and Tawnia Dash.”

  Sympto blinked, thought about lying very quickly, then just as quickly reconsidered. “Yes. Know them. Yes.”

  His voice sharpened as he said, “Where is Benjar and Tawnia Dash?”

  Sympto’s brain spun. His eyes danced and blinked. He hadn’t seen nor heard from the Dashes in—what—four months, universal? He struggled to answer the question, but … but … “I not know,” he squealed.

  Slam!

  The man roared, “Where is Benjar and Tawnia Dash?”

  Sympto wilted unable to answer, yet too afraid to lie. Thick tears rose up from his eyes and began to dribble down his face. The man wheeled him toward the exit and addressed his guards, “Take this one to the waiting room. Put him in agony cuffs. Sire will want a word with him when we return.”

  Sympto was dragged away with only a single hope burning inside his reeling mind: Oh the gods, let Tawny and Ben magically appear from … wherever they are!

  Four

  “They’re moving him, Boss,” REX’s voice came over Tawny’s mol comm.

  A shot of excitement coursed through her, mixed with anxiety. She responded, “It’s about time. How long do these things take?”

  “Don’t know. But if they get him to Anchora Sublatis …”

  She completed his thought, “We’ll have to rely on the courts to get him out. No thanks.” She was already on the move, collecting her stuff. She had been offered accommodations along the Lantra District by the Onadon state—an endless swath of housing along Monz Sarcona’s southern face. Everything was congested here, stone-carved domiciles stacked vertically on top of each other, all crammed together creating a dizzying sea of architectural madness that climbed up the mountain. She’d kept her entire roster of belongings packed for this very moment. Leaving her apartment unit at a moment’s notice was what she’d prepared for during her entire stay on Sarcon. Getting the hells out of crazyland was her forte.

  She flung her duffle over a shoulder, strapped on her blaster belt and headed for the door. But something stopped her.

  Red dots on her local security field.

  There were people outside her door, in the alley. She squinted at the tablet screen stitched into her sleeve. She’d placed tactical motion detector coins for three hundred feet up and down the street—on walls, poles, building fronts, patios. There were a dozen of them, each triangulated with the others. She waited. It wasn’t uncommon for the signal coins to register pedestrians. But these signals were different. They were coming from multiple angles. They’d be arriving at her front stoup at exactly the same time. It was a flanking maneuver. They were surrounding her. These were Cabal agents. The Confederation was on its way to her. She didn’t have to guess their intentions.

  “REX,” she said. “I’m going to have to improvise. Stay on me.”

  “I’m tracking you, Boss.”

  She slunk back toward the rear patio where the nighttime view was endless. There were a million nooks and crannies, crevices, outcroppings and overhangs to hide in. Shadows were everywhere. Hiding would be easy. But there was no time to hide. She would have to flee. And that would not be so easy.

  Her small rear balcony overlooked the vastness of the valley canyon below and the ranges of mountain buildings across the chasm. There were a million nighttime lights over there. She shot a glance into her security screen. They were here. Time to go and …

  She froze again. There were two more. She could see them—tiny lights moving at her from the deep, dark chasm. They screamed at her wearing flight packs, coming quick. She whipped her gun up. Too late.

  A boom sounded off like a cannon. A handheld mortar that fired net canisters.

  She ducked behind her balcony rail as the projectile flew overhead and opened, dispensing its net. It missed but tangled her feet. She got back up as one of the fliers came in like a boulder and tackled her. They smashed back into the apartment through the sliding door in a sea of bursting glass droplets. Her gun slid away. Growling, Tawny wrapped the netting around the guy’s helmeted head and jumped to her feet.

  The second guy came in, righted, landed on his feet on her balcony, stun wand in hand. “Tawny Dash of Group Zero, Raylon, you’ve been sighted for incarceration by the United Confederation Front for the crimes of—"

  She screeched, hurling the first guy’s canister mortar at him in a wild spin. He grunted, fending off the object with his arms. She belly dove for her gun, snagged it, turned, pointed it at him. The guy boosted away—gone.

  Her door started banging. They weren’t knocking. They were ramming.

  She ripped the netting off her feet and sprang up as the door hammered open. They came in. She charged the first one, wrapped him up, used her momentum to swing around and kick the second one in the face. They all wore light security armor—chest plating, helmets. Her blows would do nothing to damage them, just slow them down.

  The first guy struggled against her. They both crashed over the small service bar into the kitchen. She reeled him backward, landed on top bringing a kitchen drawer down with her. Knives clattered down as the other guys moved in. She came up, handfuls of blades, and started dispensing them like a Bakka dealer flipping cards. The first guy ducked. The second guy dove. The third guy whipped a stun blaster at her. She smashed headlong into the entryway wall and spun fully around holding up the vanity mirror there. The blast went off, electric blue slicing the dim light. It bounced off the reflective surface, shattering it into shards, bucking Tawny to the floor and returning the shot back to its owner. The guy gave a muffled scream and fell twitching and jigging.

  One down.

  On the floor, a pair of arms suddenly wrapped her up. It was the first flight-suit guy. She snarled kicking the wall and sliding both of them across the floor. He still held her at bay as he got to his feet, ripping her up with him. The other security guy
s recovered, all of them starting to encroach. Tawny smashed Flight-Suit’s foot with a scream, spun around and wrenched the flight toggle at his hip. The gas packs opened full with a big boom and they both rocketed through the room feet off the floor, fast and hard, bowling the other security guys over. They slammed through the rear opening and over the balcony, purely out of control. Two of the security guys hit the balcony rail and flipped over, started screaming as gravity took them. It would be a long fall for them.

  Two more, out of comish.

  Tawny let go of Flight-Suit Guy and sprawled across her balcony, sending him blasting off into the night and spinning out of control. She shook her head, got up. There were still three guys capable of carrying on.

  Time to run.

  She leapt off her balcony to the left, grabbed the neighboring roofline, squirreled to her feet and kept running. A glance over her shoulder showed them following. It made her grin.

  Good luck, boys.

  She dropped down onto an adjoining balcony splashing leisure furniture out of her way, swung up on the rail and dropped to a long retaining wall. To one side was a dozen congested homesteads, to the other was that mountain drop into endless darkness. She ran along it hearing the other guys scurry after her. They grunted and mumbled in the night, taking chase. She heard a foot slip, then someone back there rasp desperately for a hold, then a scream that faded and faded.