Galactic Bounty

by William C. Dietz

  As soon as it was over it began again. This time it sounded like the warbling speech of the Finthians.

  It was obviously prerecorded, and McCade found that interesting. For one thing it meant that such attacks were probably very common. Why else would they prepare an announcement? It also implied some kind of organized resistance to the present planetary government. By whom? he wondered. For what reason? There weren't any obvious answers. Meanwhile the battle raged on. Neither side seemed to be making much of a dent in the other. The tractor continued to lumber forward, pulling the trailer along behind. However the watchers seemed able to keep pace without apparent difficulty, and both sides continued a desultory exchange of fire.

  Finally, as if bored with the whole affair, the Lakorians opened up with an automatic flechette gun. Heretofore they hadn't used it, probably due to the extremely expensive ammunition it consumed. It sprayed thousands of explosive flechettes per second into the undergrowth. The countless tiny explosions combined to create a continuous roaring that sounded like a giant beast gone mad. Incoming fire dwindled to almost nothing right away. Whether the attackers had been decimated by the flechette gun, or had simply withdrawn when it opened up, McCade couldn't tell.

  For a while they waited, expecting the attack to begin anew. But it didn't. One by one they dropped off again into exhausted sleep. Even the occasional roar of night feeders, disturbed by the passage of tractor and trailer, failed to wake them.

  It was daylight when McCade opened his eyes. The rain had stopped, allowing occasional shafts of sunlight to penetrate the forest canopy and splash through the bars onto the huddled prisoners. Outside, a light mist ebbed and flowed along the contours of the ground.

  Before long they began to pass occasional dwellings. Without exception, they were built on pilings, and were therefore immune to the comings and goings of the water below them. Most were circular and had domed roofs. The roofs were hinged in some fashion, allowing certain sections to be folded open. Quite a few were exercising that option, apparently to take advantage of the sun.

  Gradually the tractor and trailer bounced and jolted onto increasingly busy thoroughfares, and it wasn't long before they entered a good-sized town. McCade noticed that even clearly commercial buildings never exceeded three or four stories. The water-soaked ground probably wouldn't support more weight than that, he thought. Of course, it could be a shortage of appropriate technology too. He remembered reading that buildings higher than three stories weren't common on Terra either, until after the invention of the elevator. Everywhere he looked he saw a strange juxtaposition of current technology and primitive culture. As far as McCade could tell there were no public utilities as such. If a homeowner wanted power, they could buy their own small fusion plant, otherwise forget it. That seemed to suggest a weak or nonexistent central government. Maybe the slave traders were in control. That would explain a lot.

  All-terrain vehicles were popular, though. It was a rare dwelling that didn't boast a late-model vehicle sitting out front, often right next to the rotting wooden boat it had replaced. By the same token, the streets seemed more accidental than planned. It seemed as if they had been superimposed over and around an extensive canal system. The canals had evidently fallen into disuse. They were choked with water weed, and were apparently regarded as nuisances by Lakorian drivers. Equipped as they were with all-terrain vehicles, they tended to regard any ground not actually occupied by a house or tree as part of the road.

  McCade wondered what would happen to the Lakorian economy if the slave trade suddenly disappeared. Most of the off-world income would disappear along with it. All-terrain vehicles would run out of imported fuel and be left to rust by owners who couldn't afford to import it privately. And, McCade thought to himself, a lot of folks would suddenly start repairing their boats.

  The tractor-trailer twisted and turned endlessly through narrow and often obstructed streets before finally jerking to a halt in front of a raw-looking stockade. "Uh-oh, boss," Van Doren said. "This looks like home sweet home."

  "Home maybe," Sara replied, holding her nose, "but sweet it isn't."

  McCade silently agreed. An unbelievable stench surrounded the stockade. The reason was obvious. An open ditch followed the perimeter of the wall, creating an informal moat. The moat was filled to overflowing with rain water and the sewage generated by thousands of slaves, past and present. The stockade itself had been constructed using the time-honored system of digging a trench, standing logs upright shoulder to shoulder, and then filling in around the bottom with dirt. As the tractor drew near, a gate made of rude-looking planks swung open to admit it and then squealed closed as the vehicles lumbered clear.

  The tractor ground to a halt in the large open space dominating the center of the stockade. The passage of vehicles and thousands of feet had turned the dirt there to mud. In the exact center of the open space stood a wooden platform. Its surface had been worn smooth by constant use and bore ominous-looking stains. A striped awning had been rigged over it to keep off the rain, granting it a sort of false gaiety. McCade didn't need a tour guide to explain the platform's purpose. It was empty now, but would be in use as soon as the slave auctions began. Beyond the platform was a swirling mass of flesh, feather and scale—citizens of a hundred worlds— talking, laughing, bickering, and fighting. Passing the time as they waited for the next round of buying and selling to begin.

  For the first time since landing, McCade began to feel afraid. Up to now he'd assured himself that some sort of chance to escape would present itself and he'd be ready. But it hadn't and now it looked as though it never would. There was a screech of rusty metal as a Lakorian guard opened the gate on their trailer. With a series of grunts, kicks, and unintelligible commands, he forced them out. They stood in a bedraggled huddle ankle deep in the muck of the compound. McCade tried to get his bearings and spot weak points in the stockade. He hadn't found any when the sorting began.

  Three stumpy Lakorian guards waded into their midst and started pushing and shoving. With expertise born of much practice, they roughly grouped their prisoners according to race. No sooner had that been accomplished than they stepped in and began sorting by sex. As a squat guard grabbed Sara and jerked her away, McCade jumped on its back and tried for a choke hold. He might just as well have tried to choke an oak tree. A second guard peeled him off without much effort and smashed him down into the muck with a single blow from some sort of cudgel. McCade picked himself up just in time to see Sara disappear into one of the low slave pens which lined the inside of the stockade wall. His head buzzed from the blow, and his stomach knotted up in fear and anger. He had tensed for a hopeless run toward the slave pens when he felt a firm grip on his arm.

  It was Van Doren. "Whoa, boss. Not now. We'll get our chance later."

  At first McCade was ready to throw Van Doren's hand off and go anyway. But after a second he calmed down enough to realize the marine was right. There wasn't any point to it. Even if he outran the closest guards, he couldn't outrun the energy weapons he'd seen mounted at regular intervals along the top of the stockade.

  He nodded and felt Van Doren's hand fall away. The Lakorian guards were leading one of the Finthians, evidently a hen, away toward the pens. They had also taken one of the three Sephs. Evidently one qualified as a female and the other two as males. The two males were obviously distraught and uttered pitiful squealing noises. The single Cellite meanwhile stood in dejected misery. Next to him the bearlike alien remained impassive. McCade could detect no sign of fear or dejection in the shaggy brute's stance. He noted with interest that large brown eyes, black nose, and large rounded ears were taking everything in. It stood at least seven feet tall and probably weighed three hundred pounds. A powerful friend indeed if some kind of alliance could be forged.

  Then it was their turn. The remaining Finthian, along with the two Sephs and the dispirited Cellite, were herded off in one direction, while McCade, Van Doren and the bear were taken in another. After sloshing across
the compound, they were shoved into a pen, and an iron door slammed closed behind them.

  It was dim inside the pen, lit only by one old chem strip and what little sunlight managed to find its way in through cracks and holes. The dirt floor was relatively dry and slanted toward a ditch at the back of the cell, thereby encouraging runoff. The ditch contained a sluggish flow of water, and judging from the smell, served as part of the open sewer system.

  A few informal kicks quickly testified to the soundness of Lakorian construction techniques. So much for knocking the wall down. McCade found a spigot, from which he managed to coax a trickle of water. After slaking their thirst and scraping off what dirt they could, McCade and Van Doren plopped down and leaned against a wall.

  "I don't suppose either one of you fellow homosaps has a dope stick secreted about your persons?" The voice was a rumbling basso and originated from their shaggy cell mate. The most surprising thing was that he spoke perfect, unaccented Terran.

  "Sorry," McCade replied, patting his pockets. "Don't use 'em much. I might have a partly smoked cigar though."

  "Any port in a storm, my granddaddy always said," the big creature replied as McCade handed him a half-smoked cigar.

  Having found a shorter butt for himself, McCade lit up and leaned over to light the other's as well. Van Doren watched the ritual suspiciously as though sure their furry companion was up to no good. When both had their cigars drawing satisfactorily, the bear said conversationally, "You know, we're in a lot of trouble."

  "Really?" McCade asked with a raised eyebrow. "You mean this isn't the Lunar Hilton?"

  "Go ahead . . . kid around," the other said, gesturing with his cigar. "But don't blame me when you're sweating your ass off in some mine."

  "I won't," McCade said with a smile. "But while we're on the subject of you, who are you anyway? Did I understand you to say 'fellow homosaps' earlier? No offense, but most humans come with a lot less hair."

  "No offense taken," the bear said calmly. "I'm aware of my hirsuteness. But that's what you've got to expect if you're an Iceworld Variant. By the way, the name's Phil. Sorry about the little love tap I gave you in the trailer. It was just a reflex action."

  McCade had heard of Variants but never met one. That wasn't too surprising since he knew they were damned expensive. Variants started out as normal humans. But after extensive biosculpting, something doctors on Terra specialized in, they ended up suited to one particular and usually exotic environment. In Phil's case, he'd been sculpted for work on the Iceworlds. Considering that Alice fell three classifications short of Iceworld status, McCade shuddered to imagine what such worlds were like.

  "How come you didn't tell us this in the trailer?" Van Doren growled.

  "I was waiting to see what kind of folks you were," Phil replied amiably. "Frankly I don't always choose to associate with fellow homosaps. But when you jumped that guard in the compound, I knew you were my kind of folks."

  "This must be a little tropical for you, isn't it?" McCade asked.

  Phil nodded in agreement as he blew a long column of smoke into the humid air. "Frankly it's hotter than an Il Ronnian steam bath."

  "Somehow they knew you were human, because they put you in here with us," McCade mused.

  "Hey, boss," Van Doren said. "If he's a human Variant, then he's probably augmented too." The marine continued to regard Phil with suspicion.

  "Good point. Phil?" McCade said evenly. "How about it?"

  "Sure," Phil replied with the wave of a hairy paw. "I'm augmented. All the usual stuff. Back-up infrared vision, amplified muscle response, razor-sharp, durasteel claws, the whole ball of wax. Doesn't do me much good against energy weapons though."

  "Nonetheless," McCade said, "it can't hurt. How did you wind up here anyway, Phil?"

  Phil shrugged eloquently. "I'm a research biologist indentured to United Biomed. Me and Mac. He was my partner. Anyway, we were outbound to our station on Frio IV with a load of supplies. That's when the pirate jumped us." Phil took a long, final drag from the cigar before stubbing it out.

  "We didn't stand a chance," he said soberly. "When they came aboard they gunned Mac just for the hell of it. Called him a freak." Phil shook his huge head, and his lips peeled back to bare the durasteel teeth that ran the length of his short snout. "God help 'em if I ever catch 'em," he said through a growl.

  McCade nodded his understanding. "Tough break, Phil . . .. Pretty much the same as what happened to us." He waved his cigar butt vaguely.

  "Yeah, sure," Phil said as one round ear twitched. He obviously didn't believe a word of it.

  All three were silent for a while. McCade found he couldn't stop thinking about Sara. He tried to force thoughts of her out of his mind so that he could think, plan, find some means of escape. But it didn't work.

  Time passed and when the door to their cell finally screeched open, McCade found himself face-to-face with Brother Mungo.

  Thirteen

  The door clanged shut. McCade stared at Mungo with disbelief. It couldn't be. He'd seen Laurie slice Mungo's head off. He'd seen her carry it around. And later he'd seen the Treel deliver it to the Il Ronn. Nonetheless Mungo sat across from him, head firmly seated on his shoulders, eyes on the dirt floor.

  "Boss . . ." Van Doren broke the silence.

  "Yeah, I know, Amos," McCade answered wearily. "It's our old friend the Treel again. Well, what brings Your Supreme Softness to our humble abode? Slumming?"

  Mungo's hooded eyes came up to meet his. McCade forced himself to remember that it wasn't really Mungo. It wasn't even the Treel impersonating Mungo. The sadness in those eyes was the Treel's. Speaking with Mungo's deep, melodious voice, the Treel made no attempt to hide his identity.

  "As usual, you jest, rigid one. Nonetheless I shall answer your question. The great Yareel has seen fit to frown upon me. A great sadness is upon me. My suffering is beyond all knowing. I am not here of my own free will."

  "Wait a minute. This guy's a Treel?" Phil interrupted.

  McCade nodded.

  "No kidding!" Phil exclaimed. "I remember coming across them in exobiology . . . but a real one. Damn! They're really rare."

  "This one isn't," McCade replied. "Every time we turn around we trip over him."

  "Why's he wearing the chemlock?" Phil asked.

  "Chemlock?" McCade looked, but didn't see anything unusual about Mungo's appearance.

  "Yeah," Phil insisted. "Right there behind his left ear. See it. The little black box."

  McCade moved closer to take advantage of what little light there was. The Treel ignored him. It was almost invisible against Mungo's black skin, but sure enough, there was a small container tucked behind the man's left ear.

  "That's a chemlock," Phil explained. "It's feeding tiny amounts of chemicals into his bloodstream. If you try to take it out . . . boom! A charge goes off and so does his head. Somebody thought it up as a way to medicate psychopaths while allowing them back into society. Never seemed to catch on though . . .. People didn't like having them around. Afraid they'd blow up without warning, I guess."

  "Let's see if it really works, boss," Van Doren said cheerfully.

  "Why, Amos! I'm ashamed of you. It wouldn't be fair for Mungo to lose his head twice in a row, now would it?" McCade said sternly.

  "As usual, I will ignore your jibes, rigid ones. Essentially you are correct. The little container dispenses chemicals which affect my metabolism and prevent me from changing appearance. A small gift from Sept Commander Reez. He thought forcing me to appear human on a permanent basis was quite amusing." The Treel shrugged. "It's all I deserved for trusting a rigid one."

  "So why the falling out?" McCade asked, settling down again by Van Doren.

  The Treel paused for a moment as though gathering its thoughts. There was pain in its eyes. "You were taken away. It was hot and uncomfortable in my native form, so I assumed the guise of an Il Ronnian officer. I was escorted to the ship's recreational area and told to wait while they took Mungo's b
rain to a lab for pumping.

  "After a while, I grew bored and decided to take a look around. There was a library just off the lounge. The auto-attendant ignored me, so I entered, hoping for a glimpse of my native planet. I selected the appropriate survey tape and plugged it into a holo player."

  Watching Mungo's eyes, McCade saw the Treel's pain turn to despair.

  "I turned it on. I looked, and looked again. There was nothing. Where my planet had once circled the 'Light of Yareel,' there was only the blackness of space."

  The Treel looked at each of them in turn, his eyes searching their faces. Making sure they understood the significance of what he'd said. Looking for something. Compassion? Understanding? McCade couldn't tell.

  "They destroyed it a year ago while I attended your Academy as Cadet Votava. They blew it up. My world, shattered into a new asteroid belt. Shattered too was the future of my race." With that his eyes fell, and he began to chant in his native tongue. The chant had an eerie quality that sent a shiver up McCade's spine. It was filled with sadness and loneliness.

  In spite of Cadet Votava, Laurie and all the others the Treel had killed, McCade felt sorry for the strange alien. In a way the Treel was as much a victim as those he'd killed. After a few minutes, the chanting stopped, to be replaced by an uncomfortable silence. McCade broke it with a single word.

  "Why?"

  The Treel looked up through Mungo's pain-filled eyes. "I asked their computer that very question. The answer was to quell a rebellion against Il Ronnian authority. As I explained to you once before, the Il Ronn have long held our planet hostage against the good behavior of agents like myself."

  A look of pride suffused Mungo's face. "But apparently my brethren at home were not as easily intimidated as I. They rose up and fought as only Treel can. Imagine fighting a race which can endlessly shift forms. One moment vicious carnivore, the next your commanding officer, and then perhaps you yourself. We have never been a large race, but nonetheless the Il Ronn lost every battle. Remember that they also had to fight the endless variety of dangerous life forms that populated my planet. In the end, they had to destroy the planet or lose face. Something they cannot stand. So now I and a few like me are all that's left."