McCade's Bounty

by William C. Dietz

  Beyond it the town was long and narrow, crushed between hill and river, with its most important buildings toward the center. Of these the inn was the largest, an impressive log structure with a stable on the ground floor and living quarters above that.

  McCade watched approvingly as dark shadows flitted across the road to merge with the blackness beyond.

  A domesticated animal squealed in protest as its litter mates shoved it up against a wall. McCade's heart pounded in his chest but nothing happened.

  Now it was his turn to cross the road. The big black duffel bag seemed to weigh a thousand pounds as he slipped and slid the last few feet down the hill and sprinted across the road. McCade's boots made squishing sounds and his pack swayed back and forth as he ran. Then he was across and slipping between two of the many hovels that fronted the road.

  "Over here." The voice belonged to Ven and came from his left. McCade moved with care trying to avoid the considerable garbage strewn between the huts.

  Thick fingers reached out to grab his arm and pull him into the shadows. The smell of Lakorian body odor was extremely strong. Ven whispered in his ear.

  "There are two guards just ahead, sire. I'll take the left, you take the right."

  McCade nodded, realized the Lakorian couldn't see him, and whispered, "Understood. You're left, I'm right."

  Ven faded into the darkness as McCade moved forward. There . . . about fifty feet away . . . something moved against the darker background of a building. A sentry.

  McCade left his slug gun in its holster and pulled a knife. Silence was critical. One shot, one yell, and they'd lose the advantage of surprise.

  Hugging a long, low wall McCade eased his way closer. Bit by bit the smell of Lakorian body odor grew stronger and stronger. There he was, a low blocky shadow with an energy weapon slung over his shoulder. Just a little bit closer . . .

  The sentry gave a sudden snort, as if something really putrid had assailed his nostrils, and swung in McCade's direction. As he did so the guard reached for his weapon.

  Damn! Either the body odor thing cut both ways . . . or the sentry had unusually good night vision.

  Knowing that he'd never be able to close the distance in time, and knowing that if he didn't some sort of sound was inevitable, McCade did the only thing he could.

  He brought his arm all the way back, jerked it forward, and let go of the knife. McCade wasn't that good with knives, but he practiced every now and then, and hoped for the best.

  There was a gurgle followed by the thump of a body hitting the ground. Not bad! Tiptoeing up to the body McCade was startled to find Ven already there.

  Pulling a knife out of the sentry's throat the Lakorian grinned, wiped it on the tough's coat, and slid the weapon into his boot. He gestured to one side. "Your knife is over there, sire . . . sticking in the wall."

  McCade looked, and sure enough, his knife had missed the sentry and embedded itself in a log wall. Light gleamed off the blade. Even though McCade couldn't see the Lakorian's face, he knew the alien was smiling. Ven would tell the story for many years to come. Assuming he survived, that is.

  McCade returned the knife to its sheath and moved inward toward the inn. There should be at least one more cordon of guards, would be if he were Bulo.

  Pausing to scoop up a rain-slippery rock, McCade rubbed it against his pants leg, and found a comfortable grip.

  Determined not to repeat his sorry performance with the knife, McCade tiptoed forward, thankful for his rubber-soled boots. Maybe he'd smell this sentry as well.

  But this sentry was sloppy and hit an empty vak bottle with his foot. It made a clinking sound as it rolled away.

  Three quick steps and McCade was there, blindsiding the guard with the rock and easing him to the ground. A quick check assured him the sentry was still alive. Good. The less bloodshed the better.

  McCade heard a low whistle and knew the rest of the sentries had been accounted for too.

  With Ven close behind, McCade slid along the side of the inn's stable searching for the rear entrance. He hadn't gone more than two or three yards when he heard a hissing scream. The entire wall shook as heavy bodies moved back and forth just beyond the log enclosure.

  The reptiles! These were hunting mounts, trained for use in the jungle, and attuned to the slightest disturbance. Something, a slight noise, or the scent of alien flesh, had disturbed them. Another animal screamed, and another, until there was a cacophony of sound.

  McCade swore and activated his mic. "Okay, team. So much for the subtle approach, go in and get the sucker!"

  The words were hardly out of McCade's mouth when Phil kicked the door in, body blocked a surprised guard, and took the stairs two at a time. He had the flamethrower on his back and a machine pistol in his right paw.

  Rico grabbed the now-unconscious sentry and dragged him outside, while Ven, two of his troopers, and McCade followed Phil up the stairs.

  The inn had its own fusion plant, so lights started to come on, and there was a lot of confused shouting.

  A heavily carved wooden door splintered under the force of Phil's boot and banged off an inner wall. He disappeared inside, closely followed by Ven and the troopers.

  There were shouts of outrage, followed by the sound of breaking furniture, and the roar of Phil's voice. McCade had just arrived at the top of the stairs when the variant emerged and bowed formally.

  "Greetings, sire. Baron Bulo is awake and receiving guests. Please excuse the broken furniture. The palace is undergoing repairs."

  McCade grinned. "Thank you, squire. Excuse me while I hasten within. The royal yacht will arrive at any minute . . . and we mustn't be late."

  McCade stepped through the door into a small vestibule, from there into a hallway, and from there into a richly appointed bedroom. Ven and his troopers were there pointing their weapons toward the center of the room.

  Lakorians of all classes favor canopied beds because they provide excellent protection against leaky roofs and Bulo was no exception. In addition to the canopy his bed was hung with richly embroidered curtains and piled high with pillows.

  Bulo occupied the center of the bed, with a presumably comely maiden to either side, and a princely frown on his not-so-noble brow. He looked like a weaker, dissipated version of Lif, especially when dressed in lavender jammies.

  "Who are you? And how dare you break into my quarters! Guards! Guards! Kill these intruders and feed them to my mounts!"

  McCade shook his head sadly, found a cigar, and stuck it in the corner of his mouth."'Feed them to my mounts'? Is that any way to treat guests? Well, I'm sure your brother will teach you better manners. In the meantime, get your royal ass out of bed. You're coming with us."

  Bulo crossed his arms. His expression was defiant. "I am not! Run while you can, human. In seconds, minutes at the most, my guards will kill you and your traitorous assistants."

  There was a loud pop to McCade's left. He turned to see fingers of yellow flame climbing up an embroidered curtain toward the canopy.

  Phil waved the nozzle of his flamethrower. Smoke drifted away. "Oops. Sorry about that. My mistake."

  Bulo looked at the flames. His eyes grew big. "You wouldn't dare!"

  The two females looked at Bulo, looked at the fire, and rolled out of bed. They were gone three seconds later.

  McCade walked over, held his cigar in the flames, and puffed. Once the cigar was lit he blew a long streamer of smoke toward the ceiling.

  "Oh, yes, he would. There's nothing Phil loves better than fresh meat roasted over an open fire."

  Bulo looked at the variant, saw a mouth full of gleaming durasteel teeth, and turned a lighter shade of green. He was careful to stay away from Phil as he rolled out of bed. "Where are you taking me?"

  "For a reunion with your brother," McCade replied. "Come on, let's go."

  As they left the room the canopy burst into flames.

  Phil led the way, with McCade right behind, and Ven, Bulo, and two troopers bring
ing up the rear.

  They were halfway down the stairs when the front door crashed open and Rico dived in. An energy weapon stitched a line of diagonal holes through the door barely missing Phil's sizable feet.

  There was a mad scramble to reach the bottom of the stairs and line up along the walls.

  Rico stood by sliding himself up a wall. He shoved another power pak into the receiver of his blast rifle. "Time ta haul ya all."

  McCade nodded. "Casualties?"

  "One trooper dead . . . one missing, presumed dead."

  "Damn." McCade had hoped to pull it off without any more casualties. "Any sight of the hovercraft?"

  "Nope. Just a lot of bozos with more weapons than brains."

  "See?" Bulo demanded shrilly. "My bodyguards are everywhere. Surrender while you still have a chance!"

  There was a loud whump as Bulo's entire bedroom was engulfed by flames.

  McCade shook his head in disgust. "Sergeant Ven . . . if his supreme effluence says anything more, gag him."

  Ven grinned wickedly and slid the muzzle of his blast rifle into Bulo's left ear. The dead troopers had been friends of his.

  McCade pulled his handgun and looked around. Everyone was here. No need to use his mic. "All right, everyone . . . head for the pier. Plan one is still operational. Okay, Phil, light 'em up."

  Phil sent a long funnel of flame out the door to intimidate attackers and ruin their night sight. Then he released the trigger, shifted the pistol grip to his left paw, and kicked the door open. Phil fired three round bursts from his machine pistol as he headed toward the river.

  Ven and the troopers went next, pushing Bulo along in front of them as a shield, firing around him.

  Then came McCade and Rico, firing their weapons for effect, zigzagging toward the river.

  Energy beams whined overhead, bullets threw up geysers of mud behind their heels, and a heat-seeking missile hit the inn with a loud boom. Rico was right. Bulo's rowdies had more weapons than brains.

  McCade heard a roar of sound off to the right. Here came the hovercraft! Right on time and lit up like a Christmas tree! Against all instructions the captain had the vessel's interior and exterior lights turned on.

  The hovercraft made a wonderful target. Unable to resist all of Bulo's retainers shifted their fire to the oncoming vessel. A heat-seeking missile hit the rear deck and blew up.

  The explosion did very little structural damage, but did sever some control cables and caused both engines to race out of control.

  The captain did the only thing he could and shut down both of his engines. Thanks to the swift current he was able to steer toward the middle of the channel. Mercifully the lights went out when the engines stopped.

  Although the hovercraft wasn't able to pick them up, it did provide a much-needed diversion, and the entire group made it to the pier unharmed.

  By now the hoverboat's captain had mustered a somewhat ineffectual damage-control party. They made dark silhouettes against the flames as they aimed an intermittent stream of water at the base of the fire.

  McCade shook his head in disgust, removed the cigar from his mouth, and flicked it into the river.

  "All right, everybody . . . so much for plan A. It looks like we're gonna get our feet wet."

  "But I can't swim!" Bulo wailed. "I'll drown!"

  "That would be nice," McCade said agreeably. "But if you shut up, and do exactly what Sergeant Ven says, maybe you won't."

  "Company's coming!" Rico yelled, and sent a stutter of blue energy toward town. Two of the troopers took cover nearby and added their fire to his.

  McCade shrugged his way out from under the black duffel. "Give me a hand, Phil . . . this thing's awkward as hell." Together they laid the bag out with the seal upward.

  Rico yelled something incoherent and bullets screamed overhead.

  Fingers fumbling, heart pounding, McCade broke the seal, found the T-shaped yellow handle, gave it a single turn to the right, and pulled.

  The results were quite dramatic. There was a loud whooshing sound, followed by a series of pops as various air chambers filled, and a final hiss as the now-inflated raft vented a bit of excess air.

  "All right," McCade yelled, "massed fire to keep their heads down, then grab the raft and jump together!"

  Rico and the two troopers backed toward the river firing as they came.

  Phil hit a quick release, dumped the flamethrower, and set it to explode sixty seconds later.

  McCade unloaded his slug gun in the general direction of town and got a grip on the boat.

  Ven handcuffed himself to Bulo and flinched as a stray bullet whapped through the raft right next to his leg.

  "Grab on!" McCade ordered, and the moment they had, he yelled, "Run!"

  With bullets zinging around them, and energy beams slicing the night into geometric shapes, they galloped to the end of the pier and jumped.

  Then they learned a painful lesson. A well-inflated raft won't sink after a twenty-foot fall, but those hanging on to it will. The force of the fall, plus their own weight, ripped hands loose and pushed them toward the bottom.

  The water was cold. McCade kicked toward the surface, unable to see through the blackness, groping for the raft.

  Ven got a pleasant surprise meanwhile as Bulo demonstrated a sudden mastery of underwater swimming and towed him toward the surface.

  Rico felt a trooper struggling nearby, grabbed his harness, and dragged him upward.

  Phil struggled against the weight of his remaining equipment and water-logged fur, considered going into full augmentation, and decided not to. He would be completely exhausted afterward and that might be just as fatal as drowning. Slowly but surely, forcing himself to stay calm, he kicked his way upward until his head broke the surface.

  Most of Phil's attention was centered on the vital process of sucking air into his oxygen-starved lungs, but a distant part of his mind was still able to register a ball of red-orange flame and the thump of a sizable explosion.

  The flamethrower had exploded right on schedule taking twelve of Bulo's retainers and most of the pier with it.

  McCade was the first one into the raft. As a side current pulled them out and away from shore, he helped others into the raft and urged them to hurry up.

  Given the raft's low profile, and its dark color, the boat was almost impossible to see. That didn't bother Bulo's surviving retainers however, they were still firing, hoping for a lucky hit. The fact that they might hit Bulo hadn't occurred to them or just didn't matter.

  "Welcome aboard, your wetness," McCade said as he helped Ven, then Bulo, over the side.

  The Lakorian noble ignored him as he collapsed in the bottom of the boat.

  McCade looked for the hovercraft. It had drifted downriver and out of sight.

  Phil was the last one aboard, and as he fell gasping into the bottom of the boat, McCade realized there was a problem. The raft was sinking.

  The raft had a number of self-contained air chambers so it wouldn't sink completely, but it looked as if they were in for a long wet ride.

  McCade didn't say anything. He didn't have to. The boat told its own story as it sank deeper in the water and began to flood.

  One by one they were dumped into the river and forced to find a spot around the raft's sides. Although they couldn't ride in it, the boat did provide flotation and something to cling to.

  They talked at first, still high on adrenaline, or the Lakorian equivalent. But as time passed the obvious things were soon said and gave way to periods of silence. These grew longer and longer until conversation stopped entirely and was replaced by swishing, gurgling rhythms of the river. It had a lulling, soothing effect, and McCade drifted in and out of sleep.

  Eventually he dreamed that he was far, far away, on a planet where it never snowed and never rained, where Sara and Molly were sunny and full of happiness.

  Then a terrible night fell over the land. Molly disappeared into darkness. McCade searched for her, flailing arou
nd in the blackness, grabbing squirmy things and throwing them away.

  Then a wavelet came and slapped him in the face.

  The others were yelling, pointing downriver where the hovercraft was grounded on a sandbar, celebrating their good fortune.

  But not McCade. His thoughts were farther downriver, in the slave markets that dotted the coast, with the little girl who might be waiting there.

  It took the better part of a day for the hovercraft's crew to complete temporary repairs, and two more to reach the town of Riversplit. It was there that they said good-bye to Ven and his surviving troopers, gave Bulo into the custody of Lif's troops, and met up with Murd.