Imperial Bounty

by William C. Dietz

  As soon as the grille was screwed shut, he took off down the duct at high speed, before suddenly coming to an abrupt stop. What the hell was he doing? He didn't know where Sam was, and he could run into a crawlie anytime. Mentally gritting teeth he no longer had, he undid half his housing, and pushed it ahead of him as he moved through the maze of ducts at a more moderate pace.

  A quick check of Sam's room found nothing. Literally nothing. Even his carryall was gone. Had he checked out? Not likely . . . no, this looked like Joyo's work.

  Grimly Cy headed for the Silk Road. Along the way another crawlie attacked and fried itself. Cy didn't even pause. Finally he drifted silently along the duct which ran around the circumference of the silk-lined brothel. Each time he came to a grille he took a look. There were lots of people, doing some fairly amazing things, but none of them was Sam.

  Damn! Sam could be anywhere. Cy racked his brain trying to think of some way to locate his friend. Nothing came. But chances were, if he waited by Joyo's office long enough, he'd hear something that would tell him what he needed to know. So he scooted over there and settled down to wait.

  Cy awoke with a jerk. He heard voices. One he immediately recognized as Joyo's; the other, softer voice belonged to Silk. Extending a vid pickup, Cy peeked through the grille. Joyo was behind the desk, seated in his high-backed leather chair, speaking to Silk who was just out of sight.

  " . . . The man's nothing more than another two-bit chiseler. We'll turn his absurd lifeboat into scrap, and send him to Worm. As usual Torb's complaining about a shortage of slaves. I swear the ugly bastard uses them up like there's an endless supply."

  "Maybe that's because you raise his production quota four times a year," Silk replied softly.

  Cy couldn't see Joyo's face, but he sensed the scowl on it when he replied. "Don't lay that crap on me, lady. I don't see you turning down the flow of credits coming in from Worm."

  "Granted," she said placatingly. "And I want that flow to continue. Which is why I wonder if we're doing the right thing. This Sam Lane smells like trouble. What about his lifeboat, for example? A lifeboat implies a larger ship. Where is it? Who's on it? There's too many unanswered questions." Her voice was so soft Cy had difficulty hearing it. He cranked up the gain on his audio pickups.

  Joyo shrugged. "Maybe, but my people on Terra weren't able to come up with anything, except that there's no Sam Lane matching his description. Now we could take his retinals, cut a voiceprint, map his dentition, and send the whole mess to the Earth Central mainframe. Chances are it could tell us who he is, what he does, and the kind of cereal he likes for breakfast. But that could create as many problems as it solves. Asking Earth Central mainframe for information cuts both ways. You get it, but you also provide it. So, if he's wanted we could have bounty hunters all over the place, or if he's got powerful friends, they might give us trouble, or what, God forbid, if he's a pirate? That kind of trouble we don't need. No, a call to Rad and his lifeboat disappears, then a little trip to Worm, and the problem's solved."

  Silk moved into sight and sat on Joyo's lap. She smiled. "Well, you're the boss . . . boss."

  McCade heard the grille squeak open and looked up through bleary eyes. As Cy squirted himself into the room he tried to speak but only produced a croaking noise.

  "Great Sol, Sam, are you all right? Ooops, stupid question, of course you aren't." Cy spun around helplessly, looking for some way to help.

  McCade cleared his throat. "I'll be okay, Cy . . . just need some R & R, that's all. How'd it go? But before you answer . . . check to see if this cell's bugged. If it is . . . you better haul ass."

  "Nah, it ain't bugged," Cy replied loftily. "I checked before I came in. As for how it went, I've got some good news and some bad news."

  "Give me the good news first," McCade croaked, trying to find a more comfortable position against the hard wall.

  "I got into Joyo's computer," Cy said proudly, "and here's what it coughed up." Cy unclipped the roll of print fax, and used an articulated arm to hand it to McCade.

  As McCade accepted it he did his best to grin. It hurt. "You're quite a guy, Cy . . . nobody else could have done it."

  Cy felt a pleasurable warmth inside at the praise, and a renewed determination to help Sam any way he could.

  McCade unrolled the print-out, and scanned it through his blurred vision. His eyes were so swollen he could hardly get them open, plus his two broken fingers kept getting in the way. The computer had used the matrix of information supplied by Cy to search for men who'd played Destiny and matched Alexander's general description. McCade's heart sank as a quick scan failed to turn up a perfect match. Maybe Lady Linnea had tricked him, or maybe Alexander really was dead, or maybe a hundred different possibilities.

  Nonetheless he turned his attention to those who most closely matched the prince's description. One caught his eye time after time. A man calling himself Idono H. Farigo. He'd arrived about the right time, played Destiny, and lost. The only trouble was that Joyo's computer placed him at only a ninety percent match for Alexander's physical description. Examining the detailed analysis which followed Farigo's summary, McCade noticed some interesting facts. First, Farigo's race and age matched Alexander's perfectly. Second, both men were exactly six feet one inch in height, and both weighed 178 pounds. And third, they both had blue eyes. However, where Alexander had light brown hair, Farigo's was black, and though both had even features, Farigo's were rougher and less refined.

  As McCade leaned back to think, he ignored the pain of his various injuries, and wished he had a cigar. Forcing his mind, to the task at hand, he considered the facts. On second thought, maybe a ninety percent match was pretty good. Especially when the two men were a one hundred percent perfect match in everything but facial appearance. And from years of bounty hunting, McCade knew how unimportant facial characteristics could be in tracking someone down. Given enough credits, a new face was as close as the nearest biosculptor, and the prince certainly had enough credits. What if he'd visited a biosculptor before coming to Joyo's Roid? And from what Lady Linnea had told him, it would be just like the prince to roughen, rather than refine his features. That way he'd have a face more in keeping with the common herd. Then, disguised as Farigo, he'd arrived on Joyo's Roid, played Destiny, lost as he'd no doubt hoped he would, and been sent to some miserable planet as a slave. It all made a crazy sort of sense . . . but what if he was wrong?

  "Can I see that?" Cy asked, hovering in front of McCade.

  McCade nodded and handed over the print-out. "As a matter of fact you can keep it. Otherwise I'd have a hell of a time explaining where I got it."

  Cy bobbed in agreement. "Did you find anything?"

  "I think so," McCade replied doubtfully. "Take a look at that Farigo guy. He seems like my best bet, but if I'm wrong I could waste a lot of time and energy on him."

  Cy found Farigo's name on the print-out, and sounded it out, "I-do-no-H-Far-I-go . . . that's a weird name."

  McCade sat up straight, and then wished he hadn't. Everything hurt. "Well, I'll be damned . . . at least the bastard has a sense of humor. How much you want to bet the 'H' stands for 'how.' 'I don't know how far I go.' That's got to be him. Thanks, Cy, now I'm sure Alexander and Farigo are the same man. You've been a big help. OK . . . you said there was some bad news . . . I guess I'm as ready for it as I'll ever be."

  Cy felt happy and sad at the same time. He'd been able to help, but it wasn't going to do any good. "They're sending you to a slave planet called Worm," Cy replied sadly. "And they don't plan on you coming back."

  To Cy's amazement, McCade broke into gales of laughter, grimacing at the pain it caused him, and pointing at the print-out clutched in Cy's metal fingers. Cy aimed a vid pickup at Farigo's entry, and there under "disposition," it said, "Manual labor, ten years, the planet Worm."

  Ten

  In some ways, McCade actually enjoyed the trip to Worm. While his quarters aboard Joyo's supply ship were something less than luxurio
us, the chow wasn't bad, and the ship's engineer was also a damned fine medic. She was middle-aged, homely, and gruff. Though far from sweet, even as a baby, hopeful parents had blessed her with the somewhat unlikely name of Candy. But McCade liked her nonetheless. And not just because she patched him up, and brought his food each day. Behind Candy's rough facade there was a quick mind, and a sharp wit. Plus she'd knocked around the Empire even more than he had, and when properly coaxed, knew how to spin a good yarn. So, over time, he'd come to view her as more friend than jailer, and suspected that, deep down, she felt the same way about him. Of course both knew the trip would soon end, and with it, their friendship. So McCade continued to act out his role as miserable prisoner, while Candy did her best to play the heartless jailer. Then they were in orbit around Worm, and Candy was giving him one last examination.

  "Flex your fingers," she said curtly. McCade obeyed, flexing all his fingers. They worked perfectly, including the two which Joyo's bodyguard had broken. The ship had been in transit for about three standard weeks, having come out of hyperspace just the cycle before, and the passage of time, plus the attentions of the ship's automedic, had healed his fractured bones. Now only the faintest shadow marked where his black eyes had once been, and Candy had closed the cut on his face so skillfully the scar was almost invisible. She grunted her approval.

  "You're healthy as a horse. Might even last a month or so down there." McCade would've sworn he saw a trace of sadness in her eyes.

  As the hatch clanged shut and locked behind her, McCade leaned back to stare at the overhead. He hoped her sadness was unnecessary. By now Cy should have delivered his message to Rico and Phil. If so, they'd soon drop out of hyperspace, and take up position a few lights out. Meanwhile he'd go dirtside. There he'd find the prince, signal his friends, and escape. Nice and simple. Sure, there were a few problems to iron out, like what if Cy hadn't delivered his message, or what if he couldn't figure out a way to signal Rico and Phil? But these were mere details, he told himself, in all other respects the plan was perfect. Then why was he so worried?

  A few hours later McCade had been transferred to the freighter's shuttle, and was trying to cooperate as Candy ordered him to move this way and that. First she secured his nerve shackles. If he strained against them they'd deliver a powerful shock to his nervous system. Like most bounty hunters he'd used them on fugitives once or twice, so he knew what they could do, and had no desire to experience it himself. Especially since he wanted to go where they were taking him.

  Once the nerve shackles were secure, Candy strapped him into the acceleration couch. As she double-checked his harness, she glanced forward to make sure the pilot and copilot weren't looking, and shoved a flat rectangle into the waistband of his pants. It felt cold against his back. "Cigars," she said gruffly. "Don't know why you insist on smoking the damned things. Go easy on 'em. You'll see why."

  A few minutes later the pilot goosed the power, and nosed the shuttle down toward the surface of Worm. It was a smooth trip. After a flawless landing the copilot came back to release his harness, and lead him to the lock. She was young, badly in need of a bath, and amused by his condition. The inner and outer doors cycled open in turn, and McCade stepped out into hard yellow light. The heat hit him like a sledgehammer.

  Seeing his reaction, the copilot grinned and said, "Welcome to Worm." Once the lock had closed behind them, she touched his nerve shackles with a small black wand, and they fell away. "Go ahead," she said. "You can run but you can't hide." Then she broke into peals of laughter as she strode off toward the distant complex. As he followed, McCade saw what she meant. Except for the shabby dome up ahead, the terrain was flat, only occasionally broken by spires of jagged rock. Heat waves shimmered in the distance, and he was already sweating like a pig. The copilot was right. You could run . . . but there was no place to hide.

  A few more steps and he realized he was short of breath. Worm's atmosphere was low on oxygen. Plus, each step stirred up a small cloud of dust, and that made it even harder to get enough air. The copilot turned to hurry him up. Now he noticed the small canister she wore on the back of her belt, and the single tube leading up and over her left shoulder fed a nostril plug. No wonder she was so peppy. She was using supplemental oxygen. McCade offered her an ancient gesture which she returned with a smile.

  By the time they reached the dome, McCade was out of breath, and very tired. The approach was littered with huge pieces of scrap metal, worn-out machinery, and other less identifiable junk. A well worn track wove its way between the larger obstacles and disappeared under a huge pair of sliding doors. Judging from the patterns they'd left behind, McCade guessed the vehicles were fairly large, and equipped with tracks. A smaller personnel entry whirred open at their approach, releasing a blast of cool air.

  McCade followed the copilot inside, and heard the door close behind him. He saw sudden movement out of the corner of his eye, but moved way too late. A massive fist hit the side of his head and he fell like a rock. From his position on the ground, he decided someone was going to pay. And that meant getting up. Slowly, painfully, McCade made it to his knees and was about to stand when a huge boot kicked him in the side. The blow rolled him over so that he landed on his back.

  He found himself looking up at one of the ugliest human beings he'd ever seen. Fire had twisted the man's features into a mass of ridged scar tissue. An intricate tattoo decorated his bald head, a gleaming ruby replaced his right eye, and his left ear sported an earring made of bone. At first McCade couldn't figure out why the bone looked so familiar, until he realized it was really three bones wired together, all of which had once been part of a human finger. A quick glance at the big man's hands confirmed an intuitive guess. The little finger on his left hand was missing. "Well, scum . . . what the hell are you staring at?"

  Raising himself on one elbow, McCade shook his head tentatively to make sure it was still connected, and said, "Beats the hell out of me . . . but whatever it is . . . I like it."

  The man threw back his head and roared out his laughter, then he reached down to offer McCade a hand. McCade took it, and was effortlessly jerked to his feet. The big man looked him up and down as though inspecting a side of beef. "Well, you've got balls—even if you won't be needin' 'em—and I like that. Name's Torb. Do what you're told and you'll live. Go against me and you're dead. It's as simple as that. Hey, Whitey, fresh meat . . . come'n get it." With that Torb put a massive arm around the copilot, and together they marched off toward a distant door.

  Meanwhile a skinny man, with a shock of white hair, had appeared at McCade's side. In spite of his white hair he wasn't more than twenty-five. He had pale skin, pink eyes, and a very nasty smile. "Gotcha, Torb. Come on, meat, I haven't got all day." Whitey gave him a shove, and when McCade started to turn produced a nerve lash. "Come on, meat, you wanta taste of this?" For a long moment Whitey looked into hard gray eyes, and suddenly wished he was somewhere else. This was one of the crazy ones, the kind that didn't care, the kind that would take a nerve lash just to get their hands on you. "Move it." He did his best to sound hard, but even as the other man obeyed, Whitey knew he'd lost.

  Now that he was inside the dome McCade found the air was cool and rich with oxygen. Overhead, the dome's armored plastic was so scratched from the abrasive action of wind and sand that it did little more than admit a hazy half light. Large crawlers were parked here and there in haphazard fashion, scarred flanks and worn tracks suggesting hard use, energy cannon hinting at hidden dangers. Except for the huge double doors somewhere behind him, the circumference of the dome was taken up by what he supposed were enclosed sleeping quarters, office space, and maintenance shops. As they walked along, McCade felt the box of cigars dig into his skin, and wondered why he hadn't been searched. They probably assumed there wouldn't be much point. He'd been a prisoner aboard the freighter, hadn't he? As he approached the far side of the dome, a door slid open to admit them, and then closed behind them, as they moved down a dimly lit hall. It
ended in front of a lift tube. McCade looked at Whitey and lifted an eyebrow.

  The guard threw him a metal disk on a plastic loop. "Put it around your neck if you wanta eat." McCade caught it and did as he was told. "Now, meat, into the tube." McCade obeyed, turning to see Whitey aim a remote control unit in his direction. The door whined shut on Whitey's nasty smile. "Sleep tight, meat. I'll see you in the morning."

  There was a short drop before the doors hissed open. McCade stepped out into a huge underground cavern. Smoke filled the air, occasional lights cast deep shadows, and hundreds of men moved aimlessly this way and that, talking, gambling, or just killing time. The loud hum of their conversation suddenly stopped as the doors of the lift tube closed behind him.

  "How many came with you?" The voice was strident, demanding. McCade scanned the faces nearby, searching for the one which went with the voice. With the exception of the occasional black or brown face, they were pale, like the grubs which inhabit the under surface of things, an army of zombies risen from the dead. Then he found two bright glowing eyes, which locked with his, and McCade knew he had the right man. His face was drawn and haggard, his clothes little more than rags.