Galactic Bounty

by William C. Dietz

  Swanson-Pierce frowned as he watched the last of the cigar ash on its journey toward the carpet. "For one thing, Captain Bridger is AWOL, but you're right, if that were the only concern, we wouldn't need you. Needless to say we don't normally send bounty hunters after errant naval officers. But this is a special case." Swanson-Pierce touched a series of buttons in the armrest of his chair. The room lights dimmed as a section of wall to McCade's right slid aside to reveal a holo tank. Color swirled and coalesced into the face and upper torso of Captain Ian Bridger.

  As the sound came up it was apparent Bridger was lecturing a class at the Naval Academy. He was every inch the naval officer. He stood ramrod straight. His rugged features radiated confidence. The Imperial Battle Star hung gleaming at his throat. Rows of decorations crossed his barrel chest. And when he spoke, his voice carried the authority born of years in command, and the confidence of a man who has lived what he's teaching. In spite of himself, McCade had to admit the lecture was good. Bridger's thoughts were well organized, and delivered in a clear, distinct manner. He gave frequent examples, and skillfully extracted an occasional laugh from his audience.

  As he described the Battle of Hell, however, his commentary became increasingly heated. He grew more and more agitated. His pupils dilated.

  His eyes took on a strange look. A vein in his neck began to throb. He called the pirates "vermin and filth in the eyes of God." He described in gruesome detail how a pirate cruiser had blasted an Imperial lifeboat out of existence. A reaction shot of the audience showed hundreds of shining eyes. They believed every word.

  Picture and sound dissolved together as the room lights came up. Swanson-Pierce swiveled his chair toward McCade, and regarded him through steepled fingers. "What you just saw was a routine audit taken a few days before Bridger disappeared . . . about six weeks ago."

  "Practically yesterday," McCade said, blowing a perfect smoke ring.

  "Bridger gave himself a four-week head start by taking a month's leave," the other man replied defensively. "And unfortunately it was a week after that before his disappearance was taken seriously."

  McCade raised an eyebrow quizzically. Swanson-Pierce responded angrily.

  "Damn it man . . . we don't check captains in and out like children at a boarding school."

  "What makes you so sure he took off of his own volition?" McCade asked. "How do you know he wasn't abducted or murdered?"

  "We don't," Swanson-Pierce answered, frowning down at the surface of his desk. "But we've received no ransom demand and his body hasn't turned up anywhere." His eyes came up to meet McCade's. "So we're forced to assume he's disappeared voluntarily . . . and we've got to act on that assumption." McCade nodded and the other man continued. "As you saw in the holo, Bridger still feels a pathological hatred for pirates, which is hardly surprising. What happened to his wife and daughter is common knowledge. The liner Mars found drifting, its drive sabotaged by the crew, stripped of cargo, lifeboats still in place, but no crew or passengers aboard, except for the bodies, of course."

  Swanson-Pierce fell silent for a moment, possibly thinking about the fate of those passengers and crew who had survived. It was said the pirates were always short of women. And then there was slavery. And Bridger's daughter had been very pretty, even beautiful. Both Swanson-Pierce and McCade had admired her from afar during her frequent visits to the Imperial.

  Swanson-Pierce resumed his narrative. "And there's Bridger's career. It didn't prosper after the Battle of Hell, and I imagine that too fed his hatred of the pirates."

  The naval officer stood and began to pace back and forth.

  "After you, ah, left the Imperial, we, along with the rest of Keaton's fleet, chased the pirates as far as the frontier. Then they split up and took off in all directions. Rather than divide his forces, Keaton decided discretion was the better part of valor, and we returned to base. Chances are the Il Ronn got quite a few of the pirates in any case."

  McCade knew the other man was right. Of all the alien species Man had encountered, the Il Ronn were the most dangerous. Not because they were the most intelligent or advanced. There were many alien races more advanced than either Man or the Il Ronn. But because the Il Ronn were the most like Man, they were a constant threat. They too had built a stellar empire at the expense of less aggressive races. They too had almost unlimited ambitions. Now only a thinning band of unexplored frontier worlds provided a buffer between the two empires. Fortunately the races had physiological differences which were expressed in a desire for radically different kinds of real estate.

  The Il Ronn preferred the hot dry planets avoided by Man and shunned the wet worlds humans liked, in spite of the fact that water held tremendous religious significance for them. Occasionally, however, both would desire a single planet regardless of climate, usually due to its unique mineral wealth. When that happened, conflict usually followed. But so far one or the other had always backed down short of all-out war. Nonetheless the Il Ronn considered any ships straying into their sector fair game, and both Imperial and pirate craft alike frequently disappeared along the frontier.

  Swanson-Pierce continued. "As you can imagine, we returned to a hero's welcome. There were medals and promotions all around."

  "I trust you weren't left out," McCade said dryly.

  "No I wasn't," the other man replied evenly. "However, Bridger was.

  Oh, he received the Imperial Star all right. It isn't every day a commander personally leads a boarding party, and then wounded, returns to command his ship for the rest of the battle. Usually such a man could expect automatic promotion to admiral. But not Bridger. Nothing was ever said officially of course, but it was whispered that Bridger was too unstable, too fixated on pirates, for promotion." Swanson Pierce stopped pacing long enough to remove an invisible piece of lint from the left sleeve of his immaculate uniform before dropping into his chair.

  "About the same time, Bridger became more and more outspoken about his religious beliefs. Apparently he told anyone who would listen that the pirates were the 'spawn of the devil.' A view which became increasingly unpopular as it became obvious that killing pirates was counterproductive. So Bridger was appointed to the Academy, there to serve out his days in academic obscurity. And that's what he did . . . until six weeks ago . . . when he disappeared."

  McCade stubbed out his cigar in a small porcelain candy dish which sat just inches from an ashtray. Swanson-Pierce winced. "Since when does the navy consider killing pirates to be counterproductive?" McCade asked.

  Swanson-Pierce allowed himself an amused smile. "Sam, you never cease to amaze me. In some ways you're incredibly naive. Haven't you ever wondered why we didn't just wipe them out? We could, you know, or at least we think we could. Anyway, in the period right after the Battle of Hell, we tried to patrol the frontier worlds. Our ships were constantly ambushed by both pirate and Il Ronn raiders. So we sent more ships. But it didn't do any good. In that kind of conflict a fleet simply makes a bigger target." Swanson-Pierce paused dramatically. "Then Admiral Keaton had a brilliant idea."

  "I'm surprised his staff was able to recognize one," McCade said innocently.

  Frowning, Swanson-Pierce continued. "Keaton's idea was to pull all our ships out, except for occasional scouts, and let the pirates and Il Ronn go to it. Hopefully they'd keep each other in check. That's exactly what we did, and it works very well. So now we try not to kill too many pirates. We just keep them confined to the frontier. Someday we might even have to step in and save them . . . if it ever looks like the Il Ronn are getting the upper hand. In the meantime the pirates are holding their own quite nicely. So as you can see, it wouldn't do to have someone like Bridger running around killing pirates."

  McCade shook his head in disgust. "And the settlers, and merchant ships the pirates take just inside the frontier . . . what about them?"

  There was silence for a moment as the naval officer stared off into space. When he answered his face was devoid of all expression. "Everything has a price
, Sam . . .. Including peace. Imagine the cost of a navy large enough to do the job alone. Taxes would be astronomical . . .." He left the thought unfinished as his eyes slid away to the star map decorating one wall.

  "Bridger's out there somewhere right now. Among other things he's a highly trained naval officer, a combat veteran, an expert in strategy and tactics, and quite knowledgeable about our current defensive capabilities." Swanson-Pierce met McCade's eyes. "Think about it, Sam . . .. What if he offered that experience and knowledge to the Il Ronn, in return for their assistance in destroying the pirates, something they've got to do anyway in order to defeat us?"

  "I don't believe it," McCade replied. "Bridger may be a few planets short of a full system, and god knows he's a total bastard, but he's no traitor."

  "Basically I agree," Swanson-Pierce said. "But try to see it from his point of view. The Empire has two enemies. The pirates and the Il Ronn. Of the two he believes the pirates are the worse. So if he can use the Il Ronn to destroy them . . . he's halved the enemy . . . performed a great service for the Empire . . . and satisfied his own desire for revenge."

  "What you're saying," McCade said thoughtfully, "is that the Il Ronn might allow themselves to be used . . . and in doing so . . . learn enough from Bridger to give them an edge in a war with the Empire."

  "Exactly," Swanson-Pierce replied. He paused for a moment as though considering his next words carefully. "And there's one other small item to consider."

  "Uh-oh," McCade said. "I've got a feeling I'm not going to like this."

  Swanson-Pierce shook his head. "It's nothing really, but I suppose it could have a bearing, so I'll mention it just in case. Since Bridger's disappearance our people have gone through his personal affairs with a fine-tooth comb."

  "God knows they've had plenty of time to do it," McCade interjected sweetly.

  "And," the naval officer continued, pointedly ignoring McCade's jibe, "they inform me Bridger may have stumbled onto something. He was forever poking around the artifact planets while on leave, publishing articles on his pet archeological theories, and boring everybody to death at the officers' club. Anyway there's the possibility that he's come up with something of military value . . . and is planning to hand it over to the Il Ronn in order to gain their cooperation."

  "Is that possible?" McCade asked, one eyebrow raised.

  The other man shrugged. "Anything's possible, I guess. But people have been messing about with those planets for years and never discovered anything useful in the military sense. It's probably a good idea to remember the man's a bit eccentric, to say the least. Anyway, I'll get you access to what information we've got, and you can decide for yourself if it means something."

  Both men were silent for a moment. McCade tried to sort out his feelings. On the one side was the Empire's cynical balancing of forces and the ruthless sacrifice of innocent lives. On the other was a single renegade officer whose desire for revenge might touch off an interstellar conflict that would destroy billions of lives. The whole thing was sick.

  McCade's thoughts were interrupted as an autocart rolled into the room on silent treads. "I took the liberty of ordering a late lunch for both of us," Swanson-Pierce said.

  As the cart rolled up to the naval officer's desk and began disgorging dishes of food, McCade said, "All right, I'm convinced. But how am I supposed to succeed where your spooks and gumshoes haven't?"

  "Well," the other man replied mildly, helping himself to a cup of fragrant New Indian tea, "it's true we haven't found Bridger yet, but I remain confident we will. You are by way of, ah, insurance. A weapon, if you will, that happened to be in the right place at the right time. Besides, from what I hear, you're reasonably good at what you do." Swanson-Pierce blew steam off the surface of the dark blue tea with evident satisfaction. Looking up, he said, "Actually our people have learned quite a bit. It occurred to Admiral Keaton that their knowledge, combined with your rather gruesome talents, might very well lead to success. Quite frankly your, ah, profession should provide a perfect cover, allowing you to pursue paths of investigation not open to our personnel." Swanson-Pierce sipped his tea delicately, gazing at McCade with an innocent expression.

  "And of course if I happen to get killed, it's no great loss . . . and nobody's likely to complain," McCade said, selecting three of the four sandwiches on the autocart.

  "Well, yes, there is that of course," Swanson-Pierce replied serenely. "Though I suspect any number of creditors would grieve your passing." He picked up the remaining sandwich and examined it critically prior to taking a tentative bite. The Lor Beast had been cooked rare the way he liked it, and had traveled well from Asta II.

  With his free hand he punched a button in the armrest of his chair, and once again the holo tank swirled into life. This time it displayed the likeness of a young woman dressed in the uniform of a cadet squadron leader. She was cute, rather than pretty. Short black hair cut in the style approved by the Academy framed an elfin face. Brown eyes regarded the camera with indifference.

  "I give up . . .. Who is she?" McCade asked, his mouth full of the second sandwich.

  "Cadet Squadron Leader Marsha Votava," Swanson-Pierce answered. "When Bridger left, he evidently took her with him."

  "She left of her own accord?" McCade asked, studying the face that stared back at him from the holo.

  Swanson-Pierce nodded. "It would seem so. There's no sign of violence in her quarters. Six weeks haven't turned up her body, or for that matter, any information about her whereabouts."

  McCade finished the last sandwich and washed it down with coffee. "A love affair then?" he asked.

  "Perhaps . . .," the other man replied, placing his empty dishes on the cart, "but we're not sure. It could also be hero worship."

  Swanson-Pierce touched the "dismiss" button on the autocart. As it trundled toward the door, it blew up with a deafening roar.

  Three

  The force of the explosion hurled both men to the floor. McCade found himself sprawled across the wreckage of an antique oriental table. He staggered to his feet. His ears were ringing, and he was bleeding from numerous small cuts. Otherwise he seemed to be in one piece. Across the office Swanson-Pierce pushed some fallen ceiling panels off his legs and, using his scarred rosewood desk for support, stood up. His right arm hung limply by his side.

  The office was a smoking ruin. McCade noticed that the areas nearest the cart had suffered the most damage, especially the ceiling. Apparently the top of the cart had blown off first, directing the blast upward and probably saving their lives.

  A squad of marines burst in through the blackened doorway, weapons at the ready. Finding no current threat, the squad leader motioned, and men dressed in fire-fighting gear entered to spray foam over the smouldering debris.

  A muscle in McCade's left cheek began to twitch as he made his way over to Swanson-Pierce. The naval officer was bent over, sorting through the rubble at his feet. He straightened up with a smile on his face and a fistful of cigars in his left hand.

  "Might as well salvage something," he said, clenching a cigar between his teeth. "Here, Sam, help yourself."

  "Don't mind if I do," McCade replied, taking most of the cigars, and puffing one alight. "How's your arm?"

  Swanson-Pierce glanced down ruefully. "It doesn't hurt yet . . . but I suppose it's going to." He looked thoughtfully at the blackened autocart. "It wasn't assassins this time."

  "Nope," McCade agreed, adding a stream of cigar smoke to the already polluted atmosphere. "This one was unlicensed all the way. No official warning of any kind."

  "How fortunate you ate our lunch so quickly," Swanson-Pierce said dryly. "Otherwise it would have blown up right next to us."

  "A good point, Walt. You should have a word with the chef. His idea of dessert leaves something to be desired," McCade replied.

  Just then a doctor and two medics appeared and took charge. McCade's cuts were quickly disinfected and covered with nuskin. Swanson-Pierce was helped onto a power s
tretcher. The pretty lieutenant McCade had met earlier materialized at the naval officer's side, and they spoke in low tones. McCade did his best to eavesdrop but couldn't make out more than a word or two. As the medics began to guide the stretcher through the door, Swanson-Pierce said, "Lieutenant Lowe here will take care of everything, Sam. Don't give her too hard a time, and good hunting!"

  Lieutenant Lowe was very efficient. Swanson-Pierce was barely out of sight when she went to work. Questions were asked and answered. Forms prepared and signed. Calls were made, demanding or pleading, whichever would get the fastest results, so that by evening McCade found himself standing on the blast-proof surface of the spaceport looking up at the long, graceful lines of his ship. She was beautiful.

  He resisted the temptation to call up her registry on his wrist term. He knew it by heart. Her name was Pegasus. Three hundred and fifty feet long, she'd begun her career as a navy scout. Decommissioned during the budget cutbacks a few years ago, she'd been purchased by a wealthy businessman for use as a yacht. He'd lavished considerable love and money on her. Unfortunately during a routine customs inspection, officials had found a small quantity of yirl hidden aboard. Rumor had it the illegal substance was planted there by rival merchants, but whatever the truth of the matter, the businessman was sent to a prison planet, and Pegasus was returned to the navy. Now she was McCade's. According to official records, he'd made a down payment of five hundred thousand credits for her. Money supposedly paid him for killing Cadien. The same records indicated that a final payment of twenty-five thousand credits was due in six Terran months. Just Walt's little way of keeping a handle on him.

  McCade smiled crookedly as he walked up the ramp and palmed the panel next to the entry port. The lock cycled open and then closed behind him. Inside he paused for a moment as the inner hatch opened, allowing him to enter the ship.

  An hour later he sat relaxing in the small lounge just aft of the ship's four cabins. He'd toured her from bow to stern and liked what he'd found. She was strong, fast, and well armed. Thanks to her previous owner, she was also quite comfortable. Just the kind of ship a successful bounty hunter would choose. Plus, he'd requested additional equipment from Lieutenant Lowe, and was pleased to see she'd granted about half of it. He'd been kidding about the swimming pool anyway. He reached over and punched a request into the ship's well-stocked bar. As he settled back with a drink in one hand and a cigar in the other, McCade asked the ship's computer for an update on the first assassination attempt.