"There she is," Rico said proudly. "The Lady Alice. Ain't she somethun'?"
McCade had never seen a more decrepit-looking ship. She was a pre-Empire freighter. Her hull was pitted and scarred by a thousand re-entries. One of her landing jacks was leaking black hydraulic fluid, and she had a list to port.
"Yeah," McCade replied dryly. "They don't make 'em like that anymore."
But Rico was oblivious to such sarcasm. As they climbed aboard, McCade began to understand why. On closer inspection he saw that, contrary to outward appearances, the Lady Alice was in perfect shape. Outmoded systems had been replaced with new. The ship's interior was spotless, and glistened with fresh paint. As they passed a weapons blister, McCade noticed the brand new energy cannon mounted in it. For some reason, Rico wanted the Lady Alice to look like she was on her last leg. Interesting, McCade thought, I wonder why?
Six
Rico invited McCade and Van Doren to strap into the crew positions just aft of the pilot's seat. He offered no explanation for the ship's lack of a crew. Not that a crew was absolutely necessary, of course.
Thirty minutes later they had cleared the atmosphere and were in deep space. Rico unbuckled himself and swiveled his chair around to face them. He had a friendly grin on his face and a very unfriendly-looking stun gun in his huge right hand. His grin slipped into a frown, however, as he looked down the barrels of the slug guns held by both McCade and Van Doren.
"Uh-oh . . ." Rico said. "I've got a feelin' you're ahead o' me, sport. Would ya believe I was just kiddin'? No? I was afraid o' that." He dropped the stun gun.
McCade couldn't help laughing. The man's incredible effrontery was somehow disarming.
"No hard feelings, Rico . . .. But why?"
Rico shrugged. His smile disappeared. "Figure it out for yourself. I don't have nothin' ta say."
"Maybe I could change his mind, boss," Van Doren growled.
"Somehow I doubt it, but thanks anyway, Amos," McCade replied. Turning to Rico, he said, "I've got a hunch you didn't just happen to be in the drunk tank when I was. You arranged to be there." He paused and regarded the other man thoughtfully. "The frontier worlds have been organizing, haven't they? And somehow you got wind of this Bridger thing and dealt yourselves in."
Rico's face remained impassive, but McCade would have sworn he saw a flash of confirmation deep in the other man's eyes.
"Okay," McCade said. "I'll take a last try. You were taking us somewhere. Somebody wants to ask us some questions. Well, what if I told you that's fine with me? In fact, that I want to go?"
And why not, McCade thought. I don't know where they took Bridger . . . but I'll bet you've got a pretty good idea.
Rico looked thoughtful for a moment and then nodded. "That's right, ol' friend . . . but we ain't goin' there while you're pointin' them slug throwers my way."
McCade slid his gun into its holster and motioned for Van Doren to do likewise. The marine hesitated for a moment, glancing back and forth between McCade and Rico. Finally he holstered his weapon, but with obvious reluctance.
In spite of himself McCade's hand strayed toward his own gun as Rico bent over to retrieve his. A broad grin creased Rico's face as he tucked the stunner away into a shoulder holster.
"Don't worry. No more surprises. Shake?"
Rico offered McCade a hairy paw. McCade accepted. But when Rico and Van Doren shook hands, he noticed that eyes locked and shoulders tensed. Muscles bunched and writhed in massive forearms. After a moment both men sat down, apparently satisfied. When they looked his way, McCade was blowing smoke rings toward the overhead, evidently oblivious to the whole thing.
It was a three-day trip to Alice. Most of it was spent in normal space, with only a short hyperspace jump in the middle. At first McCade spent his time trying to pump Rico for information. He soon found that was a waste of time. The other man steadfastly refused to answer questions, saying, "That's not for me to say. Them that's waitin' is all great talkers. Me, I'm more a doer."
So McCade quit trying, but Rico's silence tended to confirm his theories. For one thing it suggested a strong centralized organization, rather than a loose collection of individuals acting on their own. And organization implied specialization and discipline. Both hallmarks of government. Something the frontier worlds were not supposed to have. Either petition the Emperor for admission to the Empire or forget it. That was the law. McCade wondered if Swanson-Pierce knew about Laurie's defection, or that the frontier worlds were organizing. Somehow he doubted it. There seemed to be a great deal that Naval Intelligence wasn't aware of.
If Rico was close-mouthed about his people and their aims, he was just the opposite on the subject of Alice. McCade had never met anyone so in love with a planet. And from Rico's description he couldn't figure out why. Evidently a good portion of the planet's surface was in the last stages of an ice age. Giant glaciers dominated both poles and stretched icy fingers north and south. A narrow temperate zone girdled the equator.
Naturally the first settlers built their homes in the temperate zone. But they quickly realized their mistake. The area just above and below the equator was volcanically active. Two enormous continental plates met there. As they collided, mountains were upthrust, lava flowed, and frequent seismic activity destroyed surface structures as quickly as they could be built. So the settlers retreated south and settled where the glaciers met the temperate zone. This area had its hazards too, primarily the incredible cold, but it was still preferable to the volcanic region. According to Rico, the land had a wild, frozen beauty. What's more, it was rich in minerals and there was plenty of it. A man could carve a future out of land like that— limited only by his own courage and imagination. Fusion power plants, land crawlers, energy weapons, and automedics might come in handy too, McCade thought to himself.
In spite of Rico's endless anecdotes about the planet's frigid surface, McCade wasn't ready for the cold that embraced them as they left the ship. It searched out the tiny gaps in their clothing and entered, driven by the relentless wind. It cut through the parka Rico lent him and chilled him to the bone. Rico himself seemed unaffected, smiling through a beard quickly frosted with ice. Not as amazing as it seemed since the big man was wearing a powered heatsuit.
To his relief they scrambled quickly into a heated crawler, which jerked into motion, toward the distant hills. Looking out through scratched plastic, McCade watched with surprise as the Lady Alice sank slowly into the ground. Then he realized the ship had landed on an elevator, which was lowering it into an underground hangar.
Seeing his interest, Rico said, "Winter storms. Cold enough ta freeze the balls off a icecat. Sixty kilometer winds. Other possibilities too," he added vaguely. "Summer now so no sweat."
Terrific. Sweat's gonna be the least of my problems, McCade thought. He looked at Van Doren, and they both shook their heads in amazement. As they drew away from the spaceport, McCade began to notice carefully camouflaged weapons emplacements. Without exception they were aimed at the sky. He didn't like the implications. Then he began to see blackened craters, burned out domes and wrecked crawlers. Smoke still poured out of what had obviously been some kind of tracking station.
He turned to question Rico, but the big man was in whispered conversation with the driver, a handsome woman in her late forties. When he leaned back, Rico's face was black with anger. McCade started to ask him what had happened, but then thought better of it. So they rode on in silence. McCade and Van Doren watched the passage of frozen scenery, while Rico sat slumped, deep within his own thoughts.
After what seemed like an hour, but was probably less, the crawler approached a snow-covered hill. It looked no different from twenty others they'd passed, but just when it seemed certain that they would crash into the hillside, an armored door as white as the snow around it slid aside, revealing a lighted tunnel. As the crawler entered, the door slid closed behind them. The noise of their passage bounced off the walls, then, without warning, the tunnel opened up into a larg
e chamber.
McCade saw rows of parked crawlers, power sleds and snowmobiles. They looked like they'd seen hard use. In one corner mechanics swarmed over an armed crawler that evidently had been hit by an energy weapon. He couldn't tell if they were repairing it or stripping it for parts. In either case they were obviously in a hurry.
Moments later they pulled up to a loading dock. As they stepped out, McCade and Van Doren found themselves looking into the business ends of four weapons held by some very steady hands.
"Put 'em away, ya bozos!" Rico said, stepping between the four men and McCade. "Can't ya see they're comin' peaceable? Sides which they could probably eat ya for breakfast." As the men sheepishly holstered their weapons, Rico turned to McCade. "Sorry 'bout that. How's they ta know ya'd come quiet?"
"It's okay, Rico," McCade said, glancing at Van Doren. The big marine looked doubtful, but dropped his hand from the butt of his slug gun.
"These spaceheads'll take ya ta your quarters, if'n they don't get lost along the way," Rico said with a derisive snort. "After ya've had a chance ta clean up I s'pose the bigwigs'll talk your ear off. See ya later!" With a jaunty wave, the big man lumbered off.
With two ahead and two behind, McCade and Van Doren followed the guards through a maze of corridors. Some were nicely finished and others still showed signs of recent construction. Eventually they were shown into adjoining cubicles. They were clean, but spartan. McCade lay down on the hard mattress, planning to think.
It seemed only moments later when an insistent knocking woke him. Glancing at his wrist term he saw that over five hours had passed. As he swung his feet onto the floor, the door opened and a man stepped in. He was tall and slender, dressed in frontier fashion. His movements were smooth and quick. The bones in his face were prominent but well-formed, granting him predatory good looks. His eyes were like cold chips of black stone through which McCade could see nothing. McCade didn't like him . . . and somehow knew the feeling was mutual.
"The Council wishes to see you," the man said. His expression made it clear that attendance wasn't optional.
"Good," McCade replied. "And I'd like to see them. Just give me a moment to clean up." McCade started for the tiny bathroom.
Suddenly the man was in his way. He's damn fast, McCade noted to himself.
"The Council wants to see you now," the man said. Before McCade could reply, he heard the unmistakable metallic sound of a slug gun going to full cock. Looking toward the sound he saw Van Doren aiming his massive handgun at the man's head. "Maybe you'd like to meet your maker— now," the marine said calmly.
The man paled and tensed his body. For a moment McCade thought he might challenge Van Doren's reflexes. Then, with a visible effort, the man forced himself to back down. He's no coward, McCade thought. There was implacable hatred in the eyes staring back at him.
"It's okay, Amos," McCade said, forcing a smile. "I'm sorry. I'm afraid Amos takes his duties as my bodyguard too seriously."
The other man nodded his head in a short, jerky motion, turned on his heel, and left the room, slamming the door behind him.
"You should've let me blow his head off, boss. That one'll be trouble later . . . you mark my words," Van Doren said.
"You're probably right, Amos," McCade said wearily. "But I'm afraid the Council might become annoyed if we blew their envoy's head off. I do appreciate your desire to be efficient however." Van Doren shrugged his shoulders and returned to his cubicle.
A few minutes later McCade entered the hall freshly showered and shaved. He felt better because of it, plus it wouldn't hurt to make a good impression on the Council. Whoever they were. Van Doren was right behind him.
The tall man was waiting impatiently. "You come with me," he said, pointing to McCade, "and you stay," indicating Van Doren. McCade noticed that the man had strapped on a gun of his own. His right hand hovered over its well-worn grip.
Van Doren's hand was inches from the butt of his own gun when McCade said, "Let it be, Amos. They've got all the cards right now, so let's play it their way." He tossed the marine a mock salute as he followed the tall man down the hall.
It was a short journey. A few minutes later they were ushered past a heavily guarded door and into a large circular room. It was dominated by a semicircular table of some highly polished native wood. Behind it sat four people. For some reason he wasn't surprised to see that Rico was one of them. The big man nodded in his direction and winked one of his tiny eyes.
Then McCade's attention was drawn to the woman on Rico's right. She was beautiful. Or had been. A terrible white scar slashed across her softly rounded face from high on the left side of her forehead down across her right cheek. Nonetheless, it was her large hazel eyes that dominated her face. They regarded McCade with cold curiosity.
"Welcome, Citizen McCade," she said. "Rico has told us a great deal about you. Please allow me to introduce the rest of us. On my far right is Professor Wendel. He heads our scientific team."
The professor was an elderly man who wore his thick white hair in a neat ponytail behind his head. His bright blue eyes twinkled as he inclined his head toward McCade in greeting.
"On my immediate right is Col. Frank Larkin," the woman continued. "The colonel is in charge of our armed forces."
McCade judged Larkin to be in his middle fifties, but he could have been older. His head was shaved in the tradition of the elite Imperial Star Guard—the special marine brigade responsible for the personal safety of the Emperor. His hard eyes inspected McCade as though on parade, and his nod granted nothing more than recognition.
"And of course you've met Rico, our Master at Arms," she said, "and Vern Premo, our comptroller." She indicated the tall man who now lounged against one wall. He was staring past McCade toward the woman with open avarice in his eyes.
"I'm Sara Bridger," she said coldly. "Chief Political Officer for the Council. I understand that you want to kill my father."
Confusion filled McCade's thoughts and emotions. It couldn't be. Sara Bridger had been captured by pirates and was probably dead by now. Yet he knew it was true. Without the scar she would be the same woman he'd admired aboard the old Imperial. Older but still beautiful. The tiny lines around her eyes and mouth added character, while taking nothing from her beauty. A beauty transcending even the scar.
"Well?" she said, unconsciously tracing the scar with a fingertip.
"I have no desire to kill your father," McCade replied evenly. "However, he is a fugitive from Imperial justice."
"You speak of 'Imperial justice.' Where is it?" she asked bitterly. "Why does the navy allow the pirates and the Il Ronn to slaughter our people? Where was Imperial justice when the pirates came yesterday, raping and burning? Last night we buried fourteen of our friends. Some were only children. Their only crime was trying to defend their homes. Was that just?"
Her eyes burned with hatred and her cheeks were flushed, serving to emphasize the whiteness of the scar. McCade realized she was close to exhaustion.
"I'm sorry," he said simply.
With visible effort she brought herself under control. "What crimes has my father committed?" she asked, steel lying just under the soft surface of her words.
"Desertion . . . and possibly other crimes I'm not free to divulge," McCade answered.
"You'll tell her whatever she wants to know!" The angry voice was Premo's. No longer lounging against the wall, he was standing, his body rigid with anger as he clenched and unclenched his fists at his side.
"That'll be enough o' that," Rico said levelly, "or would ya care ta take ol' Rico on?" For the first time McCade saw caution in Premo's eyes.
Sara Bridger broke the uncomfortable silence that followed. "Rico's right, McCade." She aimed a critical glance at Premo.
"You'll not be forced to speak." Her expression hardened. "But you must understand that, until Rico's arrival a few hours ago, I thought my father was living happily on Terra. Now I learn he's being hunted like an animal throughout the Empire. Hunted
by men like you. Men who kill for money!" Disgust and revulsion played across her features.
McCade felt his hands start to shake as he remembered the marines who'd died and the bodies he'd found aboard the Leviathan. The muscle in his left cheek twitched uncontrollably as he spoke. "Your father has already murdered innocent people. It's quite likely he intends to murder more. If I have to kill him to stop that, I will. And you're right, I'm doing it for money. But you know what? In your father's case, I'd do it for free."
The blood drained from Sara Bridger's face, leaving it as white as the scar that bisected it. Hatred burned in her beautiful eyes. Without a word she rose and left the room.
"For that you'll die!" Premo spit the words out one at a time. McCade spun toward him, his hand over his gun and the promise of eternity in his wintry gray eyes.
Somewhere a klaxon went off. Everyone froze as a calm male voice came over the PA system. "This is a class three attack, including light armor and infantry. All active and reserve personnel report to your units immediately. All noncombatants report to your class three duty stations."
Everyone bolted for the nearest door. Premo's look promised another meeting as he turned on his heel and marched out.
When McCade turned back, the other Council members had already left, with the exception of Rico. He was lighting a cigar while regarding McCade with a raised eyebrow.
"Seems like you don't make friends too easy, ol' sport," he said, rising from his chair. "Wanna come with me'n take your antisocial tendencies out on some pirates? Sounds like they're at it again. Two attacks in two days is a little much. It's gettin' outta hand." Without looking to see if McCade followed, he turned and went out the rear door the other Council members had used.
McCade had to stretch to match the other man's gigantic strides. "What's Premo's problem anyway?"
Rico shrugged. "Who knows? Premo's Premo. I know it's hard ta believe . . . but in some ways he ain't bad. Jus' keep in mind that when it comes ta Sara, he's crazier'n a Tobarian Zerk monkey."
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