Galactic Bounty

by William C. Dietz

  "Welcome aboard the Far Trader, gentlepersons." His beaklike nose rose and fell as he spoke, his voice emanating from the translator at his throat. "Captain Fagan will receive you in the lounge if you'll step this way?"

  Together they followed him through a maze of corridors and up a ladder to the next deck. Along the way they kept a sharp lookout for other crew members. They saw only one. A fragile-looking woman with gray wispy hair busily tending a hydroponics tank. As they passed Sara shot her in the back with a stun gun. The woman hardly made a sound as she crumpled to the deck. Sara never even broke stride. McCade shook his head in amazement as he followed the oblivious Finthian down another short passageway.

  Moments later they entered the ship's lounge where they were greeted by the sallow Captain Fagan. Seated next to him was a three hundred pound sauroid whose smile, if that is what it was, revealed an enormous array of wicked-looking teeth.

  "Welcome aboard our humble ship, Excellencies. This is my first officer, Mr. Slith. How may we serve you?"

  "By keeping the amount of time we have to spend on this tub to a minimum," McCade replied arrogantly. "So let's get on with it. I'll need a printout of your cargo manifest and a crew list. Oh yeah, and a fax of your log for the last seventy-two standard hours too."

  "Immediately, Your Excellency," Captain Fagan sniveled as he punched McCade's requests into the keyboard at his side. Seconds later a printer began to whir as a sheet of plastic emerged from a slot.

  Sara walked over and ripped off the sheet. She handed it to McCade with such a show of deference that he struggled not to laugh. With what he hoped was an arrogant sneer, McCade accepted the print-out and skimmed over it. Counting the captain, he saw that the Far Trader carried a crew of five. Sara had accounted for one on the way in, there were three present in the lounge, so there was another loose somewhere on the ship, a Cellite with the unlikely name of Sunshine.

  McCade motioned to Amos and the big marine stepped to his side. "Check this out," he said, pointing to the Cellite's name on the crew list.

  "Right away, boss," Amos said, and disappeared into the corridor.

  Captain Fagan's features seemed to tighten. So you have something to hide, McCade thought. Not too surprising really.

  "Is there a problem, Excellency? I assure you if there is, it was purely accidental. In all my years of trading with the Brotherhood I've never . . ."

  "Stow it," McCade said. "It's just routine. Say, didn't you mention some Terran whiskey?"

  "I did, Your Excellency," Fagan gurgled happily, reaching for the bottle at his elbow.

  McCade flexed the muscles in his forearm and felt the spring-loaded holster deliver the small stunner into his hand. He brought it up and shot Fagan between the eyes. The little captain crashed to the deck, taking the bottle of whiskey and some glasses with him. McCade heard the thump of another body hitting the deck behind him and knew without looking that Sara had taken care of the Finthian Bird Man.

  McCade swung left until the giant sauroid filled the sight. He pulled the trigger and waited for the alien to slump to the deck. Instead the giant creature stood with surprising ease and smiled, although on second thought McCade felt sure it wasn't a smile. He pulled the trigger again, as did Sara, who was also aiming her stunner at the scaled first officer.

  "Uh-oh," McCade said. "I think he's got some kind of natural shielding against stunners."

  "Brilliant," Sara said through gritted teeth, the knuckles of her right hand white where her fingers gripped the stun gun.

  A strange electronic squawking sound came from the sauroid and for the first time McCade noticed the small box strapped to the alien's throat about where the human larynx is.

  "Prepare to die, interloper!"

  With that the huge creature produced a power knife and launched itself straight at McCade.

  Nine

  McCade jumped back. As he did, Sara threw herself between him and the charging alien. The sauroid batted her aside without apparent effort. She crashed into a bulkhead and then fell to the deck. The huge creature kept on coming, but Sara had slowed it just enough to give McCade a chance. He drew the slug gun and fired twice. The heavy slugs hit Slith square in the chest and the impact rocked him backward. However, to McCade's astonishment, the alien recovered and charged again, roaring his rage through the translator—although it really didn't require translation.

  The slugs hadn't penetrated the sauroid's armored skin, but they'd made him a bit more cautious. As he neared McCade, the Far Trader's first officer slowed and began to circle. McCade was very conscious of the power knife which hummed in Slith's scaled hand. He knew it wasn't a knife in the conventional sense. Oh, it could cut all right! In fact its sealed energy beam could cut through durasteel as though it was warm butter. With amazing speed McCade's massive opponent lashed out. He heard the knife sizzle past his left ear as he desperately back-pedaled to get out of the way. McCade swore under his breath. He'd watched the alien's eyes, expecting them to telegraph the next move, and they hadn't. So he switched his attention to the knife, which wove back and forth in an almost hypnotic pattern.

  McCade moved left, and then right, catching Slith off balance and placing Fagan's unconscious body between them. He felt the edge of the table pressing him from behind. He had nowhere to go. He had to get the knife. He knew that. He'd hunted fugitives of all races. They almost always armed themselves with weapons effective against their own kind. It was a natural tendency. McCade had done it himself in choosing the slug gun. So he had to get the knife.

  Slith lunged toward him again. McCade was ready and leaped aside. The power knife made a buzzing sound as it sliced through the table top a fraction of a second later.

  Then came the break McCade was waiting for. The sauroid put a huge foot on the whiskey bottle and it rolled out from under him. That plus his forward momentum brought him down. As the alien's right hand hit the floor McCade jumped on it with both feet. The knife popped free. Grabbing for it, McCade turned too late. He felt his feet go out from under him as his opponent hit them with the sweep of one powerful arm. As he hit the deck McCade saw that Slith had regained his feet and was already diving toward him. Instinctively he threw up his hands in a puny attempt to fend off the three hundred pounds of armored flesh falling toward him.

  The knife was still clutched in his right hand. It sizzled as it slid smoothly into the Sauroid's chest. Then the alien's incredible weight hit him, forcing the air from his chest in one explosive breath. Blackness tried to drag him under. Desperately he tried to suck in air and push the dead weight off at the same time. Finally the scaled body rolled off. For a moment he just lay there, chest heaving as he gratefully sucked in air and waited for the darkness to clear from his sight. He staggered to his feet just as Van Doren burst through the hatch, slug gun in hand.

  "Jeez, boss . . . you're always having fun while I'm gone."

  "Yeah, well, the next lizard we run into is all yours, Amos."

  Across the lounge, Sara stood and dusted herself off.

  "You okay?" McCade asked.

  "A little shaky," she answered slowly. "I'll bet I feel better than he does though." She indicated the dead alien.

  "Thanks," McCade said. "What you did took a lot of guts."

  She accepted the compliment without comment, but she looked pleased. "Now what?" she asked.

  "Now we off-load the captain and his stalwart crew to the other ship," McCade said. "Amos, how'd it go with Sunshine?"

  "Sleeping like a baby, boss."

  "Okay, let's get to work."

  It took the better part of an hour to get Far Trader's crew through the lock and safely tucked into bunks aboard the other ship. It took all three of them, plus a power pallet from the cargo hold to move Slith. Without ceremony he went out an ejection port into eternal orbit around the Rock.

  Then they were ready. McCade sent a coded radio command, and the pirate ship took off for Alice. Its manual controls were locked off and would remain so until t
he proper code was entered by Colonel Larkin on Alice. If the ship hung together long enough to get there.

  As McCade nosed the Far Trader down toward the Rock, he blew cigar smoke at the com screen and waited for the inevitable challenge. He didn't have long to wait. The com screen swirled to life with the likeness of an attractive but bored-looking young woman.

  "Vessel, registration number and code please."

  McCade's blood ran cold. The first two questions were easy—but the third was a real lulu. Evidently Fagan had been provided with a verbal code as well as the one-time-only electronic pass recorded into the ship's hull. As he gave the ship's name and registration number, his mind raced. Would Fagan have provided the code or the pirates? If the pirates had he might as well forget it. There were billions of possibilities. But Fagan might have been asked to provide the code. And he seemed like a simple sort who'd go for something uncomplicated, something he couldn't forget. His eyes desperately ransacked the control room, searching for anything that might provide a clue. Far Trader's control room was almost military in its spartan orderliness. There was no sign of the personal bric-a-brac common to most control rooms he'd seen. Then his eyes came to rest on the stylized likeness of Sol mounted high above the controls almost on the overhead.

  Suddenly he remembered the tiny golden disc Fagan had worn around his neck. He was a member of the Solarian Church. Evidently a devout one.

  The face on the screen no longer appeared bored. Now it was tense, with formerly soft lips pulled into a tight smile. "Far Trader, this is your final warning. State your code or be fired on."

  "From Ra flows life," McCade said, intoning the traditional Solarian greeting. To his enormous relief, the tension drained from the woman's face, leaving only annoyance.

  "Next time don't screw around so long," she said sternly. "Put it down on the light side outer ring of port twelve. Await an escort and ground transportation on grounding. Welcome to the Rock." With that the com screen snapped abruptly to black.

  McCade forced his muscles to relax and reached up to wipe away the sweat that coated his forehead.

  "I'll never know how you pulled that off," Sara said in amazement over the intercom.

  "It was either dumb luck or Ra really is with us," McCade said, looking up at the golden disc.

  Four standard hours later they sat on the ground awaiting the promised escort and transportation. Everything he'd seen in braking orbit and descent had reinforced the Rock's reputation for impregnability. They'd managed to get on the Rock, but as it was for so many others before them, the problem would be getting off again.

  McCade used the time while they waited to look around. On one side black rock stretched away to the horizon. On the other, ships stood in orderly rows like a crop waiting to be harvested. As he swept the powerful lens over the forest of ships, McCade was amazed by the sheer scale of what he saw. There were all kinds: freighters, converted military ships, alien craft of all shapes and sizes, plus some small and very expensive-looking speedsters.

  They were surrounded by bustling activity. Crawlers came and went, snaking between the ships with trains of loaded power pallets bobbing along behind. Cranes lifted mysterious crates in and out of dark holds. Vendors moved to and fro, hawking everything from food to spare parts. Aliens from a hundred worlds made a swirl of color against the drab rock as they hurried about on their various errands.

  At regular intervals black towers stood, their broad bases forcing traffic to ebb and flow around them. At the top of each hundred-foot structure a bulbous turret bristled with antennas and weapons. Behind one-way armored glass, McCade imagined pirate sentries carefully monitoring the activity below.

  He turned away from the scope and buzzed Van Doren on the intercom. "Amos, in our role as smugglers, it occurs to me we should know what we're smuggling. Take a look in the hold, and let me know what you find. I'll be surprised if it's the ten thousand eternafiber blankets mentioned on the cargo manifest."

  "Right, boss . . . Back in a jiffy."

  Turning back to the scope, McCade swept it over the spaceport again. This time he scanned the ships a mile or two away. Suddenly he swore out loud and jerked the scope back a bit. He wasn't mistaken. There she sat just as pretty as the day he'd first seen her. Pegasus. For a moment he just sat there, tracing her lines and running his eyes over her for signs of damage. There weren't any.

  Thoughtfully, he turned away from the scope, rummaged through his pockets for a cigar butt, and then lit it with short angry puffs. So Laurie made it home. Therefore Bridger was here too. At least they were in the right place. Bridger had apparently been sick when they took him off Weller's World. Too sick to talk? Sick enough to die? There was no easy way to find out. So they'd do it the hard way.

  Sara's head appeared in the control room hatch. "I think we've got company, Sam."

  He nodded as a soft tone announced someone at the main entry port. A glance at the main security monitor revealed a man accompanied by an autoguard. The man was smiling and had the look of a prosperous, middle-aged business executive. His one-piece suit was expensive and beautifully cut.

  By contrast, his companion was a masterpiece of forbidding intimidation. For psychological reasons its creators had granted it a vaguely human appearance. If something six and a half feet tall with a ball turret for a head and energy weapons for arms could be called human. By making it slightly larger than most men, and ugly to boot, the machine's designers had ensured that those who could be scared off, would be. But for those who were not so easily impressed, the autoguard possessed a more than adequate ability to defend itself. Capable of taking on and defeating a section of Imperial marines, such machines were incredibly expensive. However they were also impossible to bribe or blackmail, which accounted for their popularity among the Empire's rich and powerful.

  Violence is definitely out, McCade thought as the entry port cycled open. As he stepped out, the visitor introduced himself.

  "Joseph Sipila, Longshoreman's Union, at your service, gentlebeing," the pirate said, grinning broadly, "and welcome to the Rock." His handshake was warm and firm. McCade found himself liking the man against his own better judgment.

  Glancing at his wrist term Sipila said, "Captain Fagan perhaps?"

  Inwardly McCade heaved a sigh of relief. There had been the chance that Sipila and Fagan were old friends or something. McCade had a story ready just in case, but was glad he wouldn't have to use it.

  McCade nodded eagerly, adopting something of Fagan's servile manner. "Yes, Excellency, my crew and I are at your disposal."

  "Disposal? Fido here handles my disposals, don't you, Fido?" the other man said cheerfully. With that he laughed uproariously and slapped the autoguard on the back.

  "Quite so, I'm sure," McCade said, forcing a chuckle of appreciation.

  "Well, enough of that," Sipila said. "We can't stand here jawing all day long . . .. No profit in that, is there, Fagan? Goodness no. Now let's see what you've got for us . . .."

  "Here's the sample you asked for, boss," Van Doren said smoothly, appearing as if by magic at McCade's elbow and placing an electronic component of some sort in his hands. Wordlessly McCade handed it over to Sipila, who accepted it with obvious pleasure.

  "A guidance module for the Dragon air to ground missile! Good work, Fagan. These are on the Brotherhood's priority list. Should bring a nice price in the market. Anything else? No? All right then, have your crew off-load onto those power pallets over there, and a crawler will be along to tow 'em for you. You can ride to market in the crawler or call for a limo and an escort."

  "I'm sure the crawler will be fine, Excellency," McCade whined. "There's no need to bother anyone else on our account."

  "Fine then. I'll be off. Don't do anything I wouldn't do!" Grinning and slapping McCade's back, Sipila took his hulking companion and disappeared in the direction of another ship.

  McCade felt the tension drain out of his muscles as he turned to the other two and in his best Faganlike
manner said, "Well you heard him! Turn to! We haven't got all day." It was best to assume everything they said and did outside the ship was being monitored by the men high above in the black towers.

  In spite of Far Trader's automatic cargo-handling equipment, it took time and sweat to pull the six tons of electronic components out of her hold and load them aboard the waiting pallets. When they'd finished, all three went back aboard to freshen up and talk privately. McCade took a long, satisfying pull at the whiskey and soda in his hand, mentally toasting Slith as he did so. The whiskey was from the very same bottle the unfortunate first officer had tripped on.

  "So what'll we do when we get the stuff to market?" Sara asked, taking a sip of the drink in her hand.

  McCade shrugged. "Beats me. Play it by ear, I guess. But I can tell you this much, we came to the right place."

  Briefly he told them about spotting Pegasus. Then all three were silent for a moment. Van Doren's expression was sour as he thought about Laurie's theft of Pegasus and his failure to prevent it. Sara took nervous little sips of her drink as she imagined coming face to face with her father. And McCade felt his cheek begin to twitch as he thought about the odds against ever getting off the planet.

  So when the crawler arrived, all three were relieved to be doing something. As it moved smoothly into motion, McCade glanced out the rear window to see the power pallets bob and sway in their wake. Each floated easily on its cushion of air in spite of the load heaped on it. The driver was a taciturn man of vaguely oriental descent. His most eloquent phrases were grunts of various tonalities. The identaplaque above his head identified him as one Marvin Wong, a teamster in good standing.

  The view that flowed by was fascinating. The Rock wasn't all weapons and grim fortifications. Pleasant-looking housing complexes came and went in a series of domes, along with elaborate recreational facilities. Here and there scrubby-looking trees struggled to survive in the imported soil. Children played around them as adults looked on approvingly, smiling and talking among themselves. On the surface it made a cheerful and innocent scene, but somehow McCade found it disturbing. None of it had been earned. It had been taken. Taken from planets like Alice and people like Sara. While these children laughed and played, others on Alice cried over shallow graves carved out of the permafrost with hand blasters. He looked over at Sara, but her eyes remained locked on the back of the driver's head.