Imperial Bounty

by William C. Dietz

  Looking at Claudia, he saw her grin savagely as the center member of the Zombies' ground squad dismounted, and took a step forward. "Ladies and gentlemen, citizens of the Empire, fellow sentients, the Zombies salute you. Let it be ours to live, and theirs to die!"

  The crowd went berserk, almost drowning out the announcer as he said, "Let the games begin!"

  The contest was short and brutal. These were professional killers, their skills honed to razor sharpness by months of relentless battle, interested in one thing, and one thing only, killing the members of the opposing team as quickly and efficiently as possible. And they were very good. Those who weren't had died long ago.

  Both teams employed some common strategies. Because both teams had to traverse at least half the length of the field before the fight could begin, naturally the air teams came into contact first. Nonetheless, it was the ground teams which got off the first shots. As their heavy tricycles roared toward center field, both sides launched heat-seeking missiles. First blood went to the Rippers, as a Zombie bike blew up in an orange-red ball, and hurled hot shrapnel in every direction.

  Meanwhile a Zombie missile homed in on some poorly shielded hot-water pipes and blew up. The initial explosion didn't kill anyone, but the resulting steam and scalding hot water badly burned those sitting nearby.

  Now, as robo repair units and medics hurried to help, there were two sources of excitement for the bloodthirsty crowd.

  The air teams made contact slightly north of Claudia's villa, soaring and swooping as each tried to outmaneuver the other, their terse comments flooding the PA system. The jumpers arrived second, and the ground team showed up last. Now, with all members present, a pattern began to emerge.

  Rockets expended, the ground teams dismounted to fight it out toe to toe, three Rippers against the two remaining Zombies. Meanwhile, both squads of jumpers concentrated on the opposing team's air squad, trying to take them out of action as quickly as possible. Energy weapons flared, chemical weapons boomed, blades flashed, and at least one mini-missile exploded, turning a Ripper into red mist.

  Suddenly a battle axe flashed, slicing through green body armor to bury itself in a Ripper. As her scream filled the air, McCade knew it was the woman who'd spoken for the green team, and felt a lump rise to block his throat. As she fell, the fortunes of the Green Rippers seemed to fall with her. Two members of their aerial squad tumbled out of the air, one after the other. Then they lost a jumper. The two remaining green jumpers did their best to assist the remaining airborne Ripper, but it was too late. Moments later, he too died, the jumpers followed, and then the remaining members of the green ground squad. The battle was over. The Zombies had won.

  The crowd cheered, and the medics arrived to sort out the wounded from the dead. McCade felt empty inside, watching with sick fascination as a medic put a foot on the woman's body, and pried the bloody battle axe loose.

  "So," Claudia said casually, picking up where they'd left off, "what's it going to be . . . death for you . . . or for my brother?" He noticed the excitement of the battle still colored Claudia's cheeks, and her breathing was quick and shallow.

  McCade pulled out a cigar and lit it without asking permission. Once he had it going, he inhaled deeply. The smoke came out with his next words. "I'm not a hired killer."

  Claudia sneered. "A fine point, I would think. Frankly, the difference between a bounty hunter and a hired killer escapes me. Nonetheless I suppose that's your final word?"

  "I'm afraid so," McCade agreed calmly.

  "Then good-bye, McCade." With that she stood and brought the stylus-shaped microphone up to her mouth. A robocam had appeared to hover in front of her. Thousands of Claudias filled thousands of holo tanks as the audience turned their attention to her. "Ladies and gentlemen, citizens of the Empire, and my fellow sentients, I, Princess Claudia, bring you a special treat." She paused, turning to point a quivering finger at McCade. "The legal assassination of the infamous bounty hunter, Sam McCade!"

  Six

  "Holy Sol!" The announcer swore to himself as he swung his feet down off the console. This was going to be something special! He grinned in anticipation as his fingers flew over the keyboard. A hundred feet under the surface of the playing field, he was all alone in the control room, except for a variety of robotechs which kept things running. While he tended to be messy, the robotechs were relentlessly tidy, and more than made up for his sloppiness. The control area gleamed, polished surfaces reflecting the muted glow of a thousand indicator lights, cool air whispering through the ducts overhead. He sat on a raised dais, in front of a huge console, watching the thirty monitors mounted above it. Each had a different shot, and represented a different robocam. And the robocams were the least of his minions. There were also the computers and a small army of specialized robots to do his bidding. With their help he ran the enormous facility all by himself. And a boring job it was. After you've seen a few thousand combats they all start to look the same. Nonetheless, he prided himself on his ability to manipulate the crowd's emotions. He could have delegated the task of announcing to a computer, but didn't because it felt good to make the crowd roar with approval, or groan with disgust. It was in fact the only redeeming aspect of his job.

  He sighed, shifted position, and ignored the hiss of pneumatics as his large power chair tried to adjust to his small frame. In spite of his deep, resonant voice, the announcer was a little man, and as unlike the warriors who battled above as night is from day. He had beady brown eyes, shoulder-length hair, and skin the color of white chalk. As usual he was dressed in a robe and sandals. By personal choice he lived under the playing field, and rarely ventured out. Years before he and society had mutually rejected each other, and neither had come to regret the decision.

  Quickly scanning the monitors, he saw the robocams had dutifully responded to his commands, and positioned themselves to give him good shots of the action. He cut from the shot of Princess Claudia, to a wide shot with the Red Zombies in the foreground and the audience beyond. He knew the princess wouldn't appreciate a televised exit. She really had it in for this McCade guy. Whatever the reason, it must be something big. He might be a bit isolated, but he knew major league politics when they slapped him in the face. After all, it's not every day the princess personally fingers somebody for the assassins. Yeah, he had a special feeling about this one, and knew the audience did too. The excitement was almost palpable. He activated the wireless mike at his throat. "Come on . . . let's show the princess some appreciation!"

  The roar of the crowd filled the coliseum as a squad of marines led by Major Tellor rushed in to surround Princess Claudia and escort her off the terrace. As she left, Claudia didn't even glance at the men she'd condemned to death. That was already part of the past, and her mind was on the future. Her future, the way she wanted it to be.

  As the princess and her escort disappeared through durasteel doors, Major Tellor turned and shouted, "Good riddance, asshole!" Then he was gone.

  No sooner had the Major spoken than a voice McCade recognized as that of the taxi-driving assassin filled the arena. "Get ready to die, McCade!"

  "Doesn't anybody like you?" Phil asked calmly as he checked the action on his submachine gun, and then tucked it back into its shoulder holster.

  "It's his breath," Rico interjected as he made sure the safety on his grenade launcher was in the off position. "Sam's breath would kill an Il Ronnian Sand Sept Trooper at thirty paces."

  "I'm forced to disagree," Phil replied thoughtfully, sighting down the length of his energy rifle. "The truth is he's ugly. Uglier'n a swamp beast headed south. Sorry, Sam, but somebody had to tell you."

  McCade's reply was forever lost, as the word "assassin" began to flash on and off across each Zombies' chest, and a cheer went up from the crowd. The formal warning had begun. Assassins must also reveal red clothing, but since the Zombies were already dressed in red, that rule had been fulfilled. It occurred to McCade that a 3-D team comprised of professional assassins was
hardly fair to the other teams. But, he reflected as he checked the load on his handgun, what else is new. Now he understood why they'd been allowed to keep their weapons, so that the assassination would be completely legal.

  It was the taxi driver who delivered the formal warning. "Attention! A level-three licensed assassination will be carried out on Citizen Sam McCade five seconds from now!"

  The announcer cut from the tight shot of the assassin, to a tight shot of McCade. The bounty hunter exhaled a tight stream of cigar smoke, flicked the butt over the edge of the terrace, and said something to the shaggy variant on his right. Damn! If there was only some way to mic them. Oh, well, it would still be good. Of course with, let's see, eight Zombies left, the three of them probably wouldn't last long. But on the other hand, none of them looked scared, and from all appearances they knew how to handle their weapons, and that was a good sign. Maybe they had a chance after all. Holy Sol—what if they won—that would really give the crowd something to cheer about! The underdogs come from behind and all that. Attendance would soar, and bigger crowds were more fun to manipulate. The announcer began to hope.

  "There's not much the ground team can do to us off the top . . . since we're up here . . . and they're down there," McCade observed. "Nonetheless, when they get into range, Rico can work them over with the grenade launcher. Phil, I'm afraid you're the only one who can deal with their aerial squad, and I'll try to keep the jumpers busy. Questions?"

  "Yeah," Phil replied, "what's a nice variant like me doing in a place like this?"

  "Talkin' too damn much," Rico said with a grin. "Here they come."

  Naturally the aerial team arrived first. They opened fire at long range, liberally spraying the terrace with lead and coherent energy. Ducking down behind the low wall which ran the length of the terrace, McCade forced himself to wait. Rico did likewise. Neither had weapons appropriate to the situation. Phil however was another story. Resting his energy rifle on the top of the wall, he fired with scientific precision. Meanwhile, the Zombie air team twisted and turned trying to throw off his aim. And it would have worked on anyone but a variant. But Phil had gone into full augmentation, and his enhanced vision, combined with perfect coordination, cost two Zombies their lives.

  He killed the first by carefully punching an energy beam through his reflective visor. The pulse of coherent energy burned a perfect hole through the man's head, while simultaneously pushing his brains ahead of it. So as the energy beam emerged from the back of his helmet a jet of blood and brains came with it. Meanwhile, his belt continued to keep his body aloft and propel it forward. Seconds later it crashed into the side of the tower and slowly cartwheeled to the ground below.

  Phil's second kill was less elegant than the first, but equally effective. He aimed for the woman's chest, but as if sensing his intention, she suddenly tried for more altitude. As a result his shot hit her anti-grav belt and destroyed its power pak. She fell like a rock, and her scream followed her down to the hard surface of the playing field.

  As the second member of the aerial squad died, the volume of incoming fire fell off, and McCade stuck his head up to take a look around. The jumpers were damned near on top of them. Scrambling to his feet, he realized they intended to jump over him and land on the inside of the terrace. Then with the jumpers behind, and the remaining member of the air team in front, they'd be caught in a cross fire. He jumped to the top of the wall and yelled, "Clear the terrace!"

  Following his own advice, McCade leaped out and away from the terrace. As he fell toward the playing field far below, there was a sickening moment when he thought he'd misjudged the distance, but then the robocam was there, floating below him, and as he hit, he threw his arms around it and held on.

  As luck would have it, the announcer had activated that particular camera just before McCade jumped from the terrace, so the whole crowd lived the moment with him. The announcer swore happily as he fought to keep the robocam from crashing. What a shot! The crowd watched as McCade struggled to obtain a one-armed grip, finally managed to do so, and then pulled his handgun. Suddenly the crowd began to cheer. Deep underground, the announcer grinned. Their sympathies had shifted.

  McCade felt the robocam slowly sinking, and heard a grinding noise from inside it as the announcer pushed its drive to the edge of burnout. Then he saw that the jumpers had landed on the terrace, and one was now bouncing out toward him. But the Zombie had jumped too hard and was coming almost straight down. As he went past, McCade fired four times, and saw all four slugs hit their mark. The jumper continued on down to crash into the ground.

  Meanwhile, the two remaining members of the Zombie ground team had taken up positions below McCade, and were firing upward. McCade almost lost his grip as two slugs hit him and were deflected by his body armor. Any closer and they'd have gone right through. Then he felt the robocam jerk as a slug hit it. It was sinking even faster now, and trailing gray smoke. In a few seconds he'd land right in their laps.

  Suddenly there was a loud cracking sound, and a Zombie disappeared in a red-orange ball of flame. Rico had managed to scramble down to the next terrace, and bring the grenade launcher into play. But now McCade was so low the big man couldn't fire again. If he did, the flying shrapnel might kill both friend and foe.

  McCade twisted around, trying to bring his gun to bear on the man below, but found he was unable to do so. He watched helplessly as the Zombie took off his helmet and threw it down. It was the taxi driver. Grinning a sadistic grin, the assassin raised a minilauncher, and took careful aim. He squeezed the trigger, and then watched with amazement as another robocam swooped in front of the tiny missile, and disappeared in a flash of light. The small explosion peppered McCade with tiny pieces of plastic and metal, but none of it penetrated his body armor.

  "That's one for me, you bastards!" the announcer shouted gleefully as he banged his fist on the console. "This is my show . . . and it's gonna end my way!"

  McCade let go of the robocam and jumped. His feet hit the assassin right in the chest, and threw him over backward. Falling backward himself, McCade hit the surface of the playing field hard, and had the wind knocked out of him. His mind ordered his body to get up, but nothing happened. All his effort seemed centered on sucking precious oxygen into his lungs. Not so the assassin. Shaken but not hurt, he staggered to his feet, and pulled a sidearm. McCade felt the oxygen hit his lungs and the energy flow through his body at the same time. He rolled right just as the Zombie pumped two large caliber slugs into the ground where he'd been. Coming up on one knee McCade fired three times, the first shot taking the assassin in his right knee, the second in his chest, and the last between his eyes. As he toppled and fell a tremendous cheer went up from the now-partisan crowd.

  McCade looked up as he heard a string of shots from above. A jumper tumbled end over end to crash onto a distant terrace, and Rico uttered a defiant battle cry. Then McCade's heart fell as the big man's scream of victory ended in a grunt, and he crumpled to the ground. The last of the aerial assassins had nailed him from above.

  With a growl of rage, Phil leaped thirty feet straight up, and wrapped the flying assassin in a bear hug. Locked together, they began to drop as Phil's additional weight overloaded the anti-grav belt. As they fell, Phil slowly closed the circle of his arms. The assassin listened helplessly as his armor started to creak and groan. Then with a sort of morbid fascination, he heard loud cracking noises as it began to break, followed by the snapping of his own bones. Mercifully he lost consciousness before he hit the playing field and Phil landed on top of him.

  By the time McCade arrived, Phil was already starting to get up, the assassin's body having cushioned his fall. "Thought I'd drop in and give you a hand," the big variant growled.

  The last Zombie was a jumper and he moved as though his heart wasn't in it. He jumped from a high terrace, and McCade picked him off with a single shot. After his body hit the field there was total silence for a moment, followed by wild unrestrained applause as the entire au
dience came to its feet. Not only had the underdog won, he'd done it in spectacular fashion, and they loved it.

  McCade wasted no time basking in their applause. Rico was down. He couldn't tell if the big man was dead or wounded, but either way, that was his first priority. And his second priority would be getting the hell out of there, before Claudia could arrange another attempt on their lives. To his surprise a robocam bumped into his arm and the unmistakable voice of the announcer issued forth. "Your friend is only wounded. He'll be okay. My robots have him in an automedic right now. Is there somewhere you'd like to go?"

  "The spaceport," McCade replied gratefully. "We've got a ship there."

  "Gotcha," the announcer replied. "Do exactly as I say and you'll reach the spaceport without further trouble. After that, you're on your own."