McCade's Bounty

by William C. Dietz

  The sergeant appeared at McCade's elbow. He wore his hair high and tight, had bushy eyebrows, and the beadiest eyes McCade had ever seen.

  "Lose the stogie, and listen up. You will take five steps forward, enter the med scanner, and follow its directions. Having done so, you will take six additional steps forward and assume a brace. Major Mike Davison will ask you some questions. You will answer them honestly, completely, and with the respect due an officer. Do you understand?"

  McCade dropped the cigar into a spittoon and heard a hiss as it hit the water. "Yeah, Sarge, I understand. Five plus six, and a brace. Major Davison. Straight scoop and no bull."

  The sergeant gave a slight nod, as if acknowledging someone he knew, and jerked a thumb toward the scanner. "Good. Hit it."

  McCade took five steps forward. The med scanner came to life and closed in around him. It was like standing in a small closet. It was completely dark outside of the single red light located directly over his head.

  "Stand completely still."

  McCade obeyed the machine's orders and felt a number of artificially warmed pads make contact with his body. The bounty hunter was completely immobilized once they were in place.

  A minute passed. Waves of white light rippled up and down as the machine scanned his body in layers, starting with McCade's skin and working its way through all of his internal organs.

  There was a whirring sound as the pads were withdrawn.

  "Place your hands in the lighted receptacles."

  McCade saw a pair of lighted slots appear in front of him. He did as he was told. His hands slid into a warm jellylike substance that held them firmly in place.

  McCade flinched as needles drew blood from both of his index fingers.

  "You will feel a pinprick in each index finger," the machine said belatedly, "stand by."

  McCade swore softly and withdrew his hands.

  The red light went out and the machine parted in front of him. There was a doorway ahead and a rickety old desk just beyond that. A porta comp sat on top of the desk and a man in crisp camos lounged behind it. He looked up at McCade's approach.

  Major Davison had black hair, even features, and a neatly trimmed beard. The latter marked him as a merc since anything more than a neatly trimmed stash was forbidden to Imperial officers. Like his noncom, Davison wore brand-new camos.

  Remembering the sergeant's instructions McCade took six steps forward, popped to attention, and rapped out his name. Or in this case the name he chose to be known by. "Sir, Blake, Roland, reporting as ordered, sir."

  Davison was silent for a moment, looking McCade over, tapping his lips with a silver stylus.

  The whole thing took McCade back to his days at the Terran Naval Academy, and his frequent visits to the cadet captain's office. Like then he was careful to keep his eyes focused on a spot one foot over Davison's head.

  "So," Major Davison said softly, "a vet. Good. We need experienced people. We've got enough plow boys out there to start an award-winning farm. But experienced at what? Give me your last outfit, slot in the TO, and rank at separation."

  "Yes, sir. Imperial navy, sir, special ops, lieutenant commander."

  That was false of course, but McCade had known a Roland Blake in his navy days, and he might be a lieutenant commander by now.

  Davison's eyebrows shot upward. "Special ops? Lieutenant commander? Explain."

  McCade kept his eyes on the dirty green wall. He had a story prepared for this situation, a story that was partly his, and partly that of an officer he'd heard about. "I refused a direct order and was court-martialed, sir."

  The officer leaned backward in his chair. "And the order was?"

  "We were retrieving a recon team, sir. I was in command. If the indigs spotted the team and engaged, I had orders to lift without them."

  "And you ignored those orders." Yes, sir.

  "And the recon team?"

  "Killed in action, sir."

  "And the consequences of your decision?"

  "Substantial damage to my ship, sir."

  "So you were wrong?"

  "No, sir."

  Davison smiled. "You'd do the same stupid thing all over again?"

  "Yes, sir."

  Davison nodded thoughtfully. "You interest me, Blake. I like officers who are loyal to their people, but I won't stand for disobedience."

  Davison's hand jerked forward and the silver stylus flashed by McCade's head to stick quivering in the wall beyond. The bounty hunter remained motionless.

  The merc smiled. "Sorry about that . . . but you'd be surprised how many of the vets who come through that door have lost their nerve." Davison leaned forward slightly.

  "I'm going to ask you three questions. If you are what you claim to be, you'll know the answers."

  McCade felt his heart beat a little faster. Davison was no dummy. It was clear that he'd been an Imperial officer himself. Would McCade know the answers?

  Davison looked thoughtful. "Who commands Naval Intelligence?"

  McCade came close to laughing. Finally, his old enemy and sometimes friend would do him some good! "Admiral Walter Swanson-Pierce."

  The merc smiled. "Good. The second question. What is the motto inscribed on the plaque in front of headquarters on Terra?"

  McCade's throat felt dry. "Headquarters," meant headquarters for Naval Intelligence, and the fact that he knew the answer was pure luck.

  "The first to see, The first to hear, The first to know, The first to die."

  Davison nodded. "Excellent. Here's the last one. Everyone who works special ops is given a life-long code name . . . what is yours?"

  McCade swallowed hard. A life-long code name? He'd never heard of that, but NI had lots of secrets, and code names were the sort of nonsense they loved. Still . . . McCade took a chance.

  "Sir, I have no life-long code name."

  "I'm glad to hear it," Davison said cheerfully, "because as far as I know, no one else in NI does either. At ease, Blake, and welcome to the brigade." Davison got up from behind the desk.

  "Sorry I can't give you something equivalent to your last rank, but I do have a slot for a captain, and who knows? If a sufficient number of people die you might move up!"

  McCade shook Davison's hand, replied that captain was just fine, and started toward the back door. He stopped and turned around. "One question, sir . . . is there a chance that you'll assign me to something like special ops?"

  Davison pulled the stylus from the wall and wiped plaster off the needle-sharp tip. "It's too early to say for sure, but the idea had crossed my mind."

  McCade gave mental thanks. The plan was working. An assignment to special ops would keep him out of the trenches, give him more freedom of movement, and a better chance to get at Pong.

  "Yes, sir, I'd like that, sir. There was a variant in line behind me. He's big and looks like a Terran bear. Ex-recon if I'm not mistaken, sir. If you decide to create a special ops team, he'd make a good officer or senior noncom."

  Davison pushed the button at one end of the stylus and watched the lethal-looking tip vanish inside the barrel.

  "Thanks, Captain, I'll keep him in mind. Don't get wasted tonight. We'll be up at 0500 trying to turn this herd of dirt technicians into an army."

  McCade grinned. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." McCade let himself out as another potential recruit stepped in.

  The back door gave access to a hall, where a bored-looking trooper ascertained that McCade had been accepted, and directed him to an office down the hall.

  Once in the office a civilian clerk asked McCade dozens of questions and dutifully typed the bounty hunter's lies into his computer.

  And then, because McCade was an officer, a lance corporal took him down two floors into a warehouse area. It was filled with row after row of tables, each heaped high with different kinds of gear, each manned by a uniformed trooper. A long line of recruits was shuffling its way through the tables stuffing gear into camo-covered duffel bags.

  With the lan
ce corporal leading the way McCade was allowed to practically zip through the line cutting an hour-long process down to fifteen minutes.

  The newbies looked resentful and the pros looked bored. Officers took care of each other. Always had and always would.

  After that it was a few steps outside to a waiting command car, a bumpy ride to a well-lit camp, and total collapse on a folding camp bed. It felt heavenly. He was asleep in seconds.

  The next few days were extremely busy. Everyone worked long hours. The goal of putting the entire brigade together within a month had seemed impossible at first but was actually starting to happen. In spite of Davison's comments to the contrary, most of their recruits were not fresh off the farm and had some sort of previous military experience. As a matter of fact most were fairly well trained.

  That, plus a masterful job of organization by their XO, a legendary merc named Colonel Mary Surillo, had made the impossible seem increasingly likely.

  The brigade was coming together in a huge field outside HiHo's main city of Ness. Thanks to the season, and a stretch of especially good weather, conditions were as good as they could be.

  Just as he'd hoped, McCade was given command of a special ops team with Phil as his senior noncom. The team consisted of twenty-six men and women, all with recon or equivalent experience, which was good because McCade had none at all.

  Interceptor pilots don't spend much time snooping and pooping dirtside, but like Phil, McCade did belong to Alice's militia and had picked up the basic infantry tactics in the process. So the trick was to hide his lack of knowledge behind a seemingly taciturn exterior and rely on his junior noncoms to structure most of the team's training.

  Unfortunately their idea of a good time was to run the perimeter of the base yelling "One, two, three, four, I love the Marine Corps," while carrying an unarmed surface-to-air missile on their shoulders. Or like today, running over every hill in sight, dressed in class II combat gear.

  Although McCade had considered himself to be in fairly good shape at the onset of training, he now knew differently. His lungs were on fire, his heart was trying to beat its way out of his chest, and it felt as if someone had filled his legs with solid lead. This in spite of the fact that the troops around him looked fresh as a daisy. Still under the pretext of giving them a break. McCade ordered a halt.

  They stopped just below the summit of a sizable hill. Even McCade knew better than to do that at the top of the hill where they'd be outlined against the sky. The team scattered before Phil could yell, "One grenade would get you all!" and settled in smaller groups.

  Trying to hide his desperate need for more oxygen, McCade turned his back on them and used a pair of mini-glasses to scan the valley below.

  Seen from a distance the camp consisted of orderly looking streets, each crossing the others at right angles, and lined with identical pop-up shelters. The shelters were inflatable and capable of housing a full platoon of troops.

  Spotted here and there were vehicle parks, supply dumps, landing pads, training areas, com trailers, and other less identifiable installations.

  And surrounding the whole thing was a computer-designed perimeter. It took into account the lay of the land, the distance between it and the hills, the areas of deepest shadow, indigenous life forms, the consistency of the soil, and much, much more.

  As a result the perimeter seemed to jig and jag in what looked like random patterns but weren't. Every foot of the perimeter was not just guarded, but guarded with the weapons and personnel perfect for that particular spot, making it damned hard to penetrate.

  Very professional, very high tech, and very strange. A computer-designed perimeter was something McCade would expect from the Imperial Marines, but not from a mercenary outfit thrown together by a pirate.

  McCade moved his glasses across the camp. He saw rows of brand-new armored personnel carriers, hover tanks, missile launchers, supply trucks, and a lot of snappy-looking troopers.

  Now that he thought about it, McCade realized that it wasn't just the computer-designed perimeter, everything was top-of-the-line brand-new. The camp and everything in it looked like something a child would set up on the floor of their bedroom. It was too damned perfect.

  Not only that but most merc outfits were specialists, ground pounders say, or tankers. Hardly any of them had the resources to assemble a miniature army with everything from infantry all the way up to heavy armor.

  McCade lowered his glasses. Why? Why had Pong spent so much money on a picture-perfect army? And speaking of Pong, where was the bastard anyway, and when would he take command? Soon. It had to be soon.

  McCade found a half-smoked cigar in an outside pocket of his body armor. He sucked it into life and blew smoke out toward the valley below. He thought about Molly and whispered to himself, "Hang in there, honey. I'm getting closer."

  Eighteen

  Mustapha Pong was frustrated. The planet Salazar was the last place in the universe that he wanted to be. Especially given his many business deals, his army forming up on HiHo, and the war brewing on Drang.

  Of course that was the problem, the war on Drang, and the question of who would win it. Because the 56,827 wanted a full-scale, human-fought war, and because they wanted Pong to accept a personal role, it was important to stack the deck as much as he could.

  Pong looked out the window. It was winter. Snow fell steadily from a lead-gray sky, swirling through the aircar's headlights, to cover the city of Segundo with a cloak of white. It was beautiful.

  Pong longed for the cold kiss of a snowflake on his cheek, the bite of frigid air, and the wonderful silence that snow brings with it.

  Then, after a brisk walk in the snow, a glorious retreat into the yellow warmth of a good cafe. The kind he stood outside of as a child, peering in through steam-fogged windows, marveling at the wonderful things that people ate.

  "And unless you pay attention that's exactly where you will be," the Mel-cetian reminded him tartly, "on the outside looking in."

  "And so what?" Pong asked resentfully. "As long as there's blood in my body, what do you care?"

  "My, my," the mind slug replied sarcastically, "touchy aren't we? But let's discuss that. You made a lot of promises to the 56,827. In essence you promised them the entire human race. How will they react should you deliver something less? How much blood will you give me then?"

  The Melcetian was right. There was a lot at stake and this was no time to make mistakes. Pong forced himself to concentrate.

  Thing were heating up on Drang. For years now a combine of large corporations had been gathering power, buying off as many elected representatives as they could, and working to counter the rest with an army of paid lobbyists. Now, things were coming to a head and everyone knew it.

  The combine officials were determined to fight rather than surrender what was left of the government. So, with hostilities about to begin, and both sides looking for an advantage, Pong found himself in the perfect situation.

  In order to satisfy the 56,827's desire to witness a war, he was offering a brand-new, first-rate army at a bargain basement price. Both the world government and the combine wanted his help in the worst way.

  And after careful consideration of both alternatives, Pong had decided in favor of the world government. The combine was strong, but according to Pong's intelligence the government was just a little bit stronger, and more likely to win.

  In a few short minutes the aircar would land, Pong would meet with representatives from Drang's government, and the deal would be done.

  Shortly thereafter he would make the short hop from Salazar to Drang, take command of his brand-new army, and win the ensuring war. Then, with backing from the 56,827, the boy from the slums of Desus II would turn the Empire on its head.

  "Ah, such dreams," the mind slug said acidly. "And should they come true, what then? The new Emperor will be a slave to the 56,827, that's what."

  "Perhaps," Mustapha Pong thought back, "or perhaps it will be the other way arou
nd."

  "Ah," the Melcetian said amusedly. "Even more delusions of grandeur."

  But even as the alien formulated the thought it also injected a chemical reward into Pong's bloodstream. The mind slug knew that the resulting physical pleasure would reinforce the human's ambition and encourage him to act on it.

  Suddenly Pong felt warm and happy. He turned to look at Molly. He'd given her a red ball. She was playing with it and staring out the window.

  Molly had been quiet, almost taciturn since their visit to the alien ship, and Pong was sorry that he'd taken her along. 47,721 scared her, that was clear, but there was something more as well. Something she refused to talk about. The ball, made from emergency hull sealer, had been by way of an apology.