Galactic Bounty

by William C. Dietz

  "You, my dear, are another matter. I suspect they'll find other uses for you. Ugly by conventional human standards, it's true . . . but on Lakor there is a market for everything, even ugliness. I'm sure someone would find your disfigurement exciting. How wonderfully twisted, don't you agree?"

  The scar across Sara's face was white against her flushed skin. Both McCade and Van Doren were already in motion when a hand flamer materialized in the Il Ronn's three-fingered hand. They jerked to a halt. Reez shook his head in pretended amazement.

  "My what an emotional race! You have already served me well, although unintentionally, and as a reward I offer you the opportunity to continue in that service. Who knows? After the fall of your empire, we will need cooperative human administrators. Such a role could be yours. So the choice is between comfortable service to me . . . and the slave markets of Lakor. Which will it be?"

  To his surprise McCade found himself giving the alien's proposal serious consideration. After all, it wasn't his fault Laurie had turned out to be a double agent and everything had gone to hell. But two things kept getting in the way. First, he felt sure that if he agreed to serve the Il Ronn, he'd be forced to act against the Empire. True, he had no reason to love the Empire, but he did care about his own kind. Second, he couldn't help remembering the Treel. Life as a servant to the Il Ronn didn't seem all that attractive. In fact it just amounted to a choice between one kind of slavery and another.

  Reez stood waiting, contempt and arrogance surrounding him like a cloak. McCade tried to look into the alien's eyes, but found only darkness. Mixed feelings of revulsion and fear made his pulse pound, and he found it took all his strength to speak.

  "I can't speak for my companions," McCade said, "but personally I'd prefer the slave market of Lakor to your company any day."

  With that he spat into the sand between the alien's hoofs and thereby sealed his fate. His action was a wanton waste of water and to a people for whom water had religious significance, it was a deadly insult. It implied that the commander's father should have showered his sperm on the desert, rather than use it to fertilize his egg-mother.

  For a long moment, Commander Reez stood perfectly still . . . and McCade was afraid he'd gone too far. He'd known that the same action by another Il Ronn would have provoked a death duel. But he'd allowed both his fear and courage to control him long enough to hit back the only way he could.

  When Reez spoke, his voice was as cold as death. "So be it." He turned to Sara and Van Doren. As one they spat into the sand before him.

  The Il Ronnian officer regained his composure with effort, but his voice was like the icy distance of space itself. "I will not grant you the swift death you obviously seek. Instead, you will die slowly, as befits your kind, working, as animals should, for the profit of their betters. A fate for which your entire race is woefully overdue."

  The air buzzed and shimmered as the alien departed. Seconds later their guards appeared, and this time they were far from gentle. Commander Reez had evidently made his displeasure known.

  They were shoved, kicked, and pushed back through the labyrinth of tubes and passageways before being literally thrown into some kind of detention cell. A superficial examination of the cell revealed that no effort had been spared to make it both primitive and uncomfortable. For an Il Ronn that is. The cell had been cooled to a temperature which felt just about right to McCade. Gone too was the intensely bright lighting favored by the aliens. The dimmer, warmer light was quite a relief to human eyes.

  Nonetheless the cell was still far from comfortable. There was no furniture, no sign of sanitary facilities, and no source of the Il Ronnian's precious water.

  Glancing around the bare, seamless walls, McCade searched for some signs of the sensors, which he knew to be there. He couldn't see them, but that wasn't surprising. Knowing that all conversation would be monitored, by unspoken agreement all three remained silent. If Van Doren was worried, there was no sign of it in his cheerful thumbs up. Sara managed a smile and a conspiratorial wink. McCade smiled back and closed his eyes. Suddenly he was very tired. He resisted the impulse only briefly before, realizing there was nothing he could do, he let himself drift off to sleep.

  He awoke to find the other two already up. A quick inventory revealed that he was sore, hungry and scared. Then the acceleration began. They were smashed down against the metal floor with tremendous force. That lasted for a few seconds, which seemed like hours. Then without warning the acceleration and gravity disappeared. Shortly after that the cell began to tumble. Since there were no hand holds or ways to strap themselves down, they tumbled with it. They were all experienced at weightlessness and quickly adjusted to it. But not before collecting some bumps and bruises from the unpadded cell.

  As he glided from one surface to another in response to the cell's tumbling movement, McCade tried to figure out what was happening. He couldn't believe the gigantic Il Ronnian warship was out of control and tumbling end-over-end through space. But if it wasn't, then they were no longer aboard. Suddenly the acceleration made sense. The cell wasn't part of the ship and never had been. It was probably a cargo module that had been modified to include breathable atmosphere. It was probably equipped with a microcomputer and some retro-tubes as well. Reez had simply swung by Lakor and unceremoniously blasted their module down toward the planet, having warned someone on the surface of some incoming merchandise.

  It was quick, simple, and efficient. But it was also uncomfortable and dangerous, McCade thought as the module tumbled again, throwing him toward the opposite bulkhead. A fact which Commander Reez had no doubt considered. McCade executed a somersault and hit the bulkhead feet first, legs properly flexed, and then pushed off toward what had once been the deck.

  Meanwhile Van Doren and Sara were likewise occupied. The marine demonstrated surprising grace and agility for a man his size. However his moves were nothing compared to Sara's. She had managed to transform the situation into an aerial ballet. In fact, she was apparently enjoying herself. Watching her, McCade remembered her as she'd been years before. Young, beautiful, and completely untouchable. Separated from him by an entire obstacle course of social and financial barriers. Junior officers weren't welcome in the quarters of mighty captains. Particularly those who couldn't even afford the null-G ballet lessons Sara had taken for granted. And now here they were. Trapped in a cargo module hurtling down toward some unseen world. A world on which they would all be just so much meat for sale.

  Her movements were lithe and precise. Each flowed seamlessly into the next as though planned and rehearsed for months. Her face was lit with a beautiful smile which somehow made the terrible scar disappear. Watching her made him feel good. And that surprised and confused him. It scared him too . . . because it made him realize how much he would miss her if they were separated. Somehow, without his realizing it, she'd become both friend and ally without the years of association it usually took to produce either relationship.

  His thoughts were interrupted by the realization that gravity had begun to return. As it did McCade felt himself gradually grow heavier and heavier. They had evidently entered Lakor's atmosphere. Unfortunately the module was still tumbling end-over-end. What had been almost a game was now deadly serious. With added weight it became much harder to avoid hitting the metal bulkheads. On top of that, McCade knew he was getting tired. He had begun to sweat. With each movement, the next grew harder to perform. He saw the other two were also having difficulty—Van Doren more than Sara.

  The sensation of weight continued to increase. McCade's reactions slowed accordingly. He started to make mistakes. Each time he made a mistake he paid a price in pain. Finally both he and Van Doren lost control. They crashed into the surfaces and into each other, making it increasingly difficult for Sara to maneuver around them. Reez could not have administered a more efficient beating if he'd been there in person.

  Sara fared slightly better. She watched with concern as the two men were inexorably beaten, knowing there was
nothing she could do to help them. Only her training and perfect conditioning had saved her so far. But she too was beginning to tire.

  McCade watched with a strange sort of dispassionate interest as the gray metal surface came up to meet him. Somehow he couldn't summon even the slightest response from his leaden arms and legs. He could do no more than note the impact as his body slammed into the bulkhead and his head bounced off hard metal. A tremendous wave of pain rolled through his body and threatened to pull him under. One more, he thought. One more should do it. Then I won't feel anything anymore. The prospect seemed wonderful.

  Then the module stopped tumbling. It seemed as if Reez had known the precise moment at which they'd be unable to take anymore, and had programmed the module's tiny computer to fire the retros at just that moment. McCade knew that was impossible. Nevertheless, he cursed Reez in a dozen languages as the module slammed down through layer after layer of atmosphere, bucking and shaking as though it would come apart at any moment. Each time it shook, another wave or pain rolled through him until one finally carried him with it, down into a dark abyss.

  Twelve

  McCade wasn't sure which was better—being conscious or unconscious. Both had advantages. Being conscious was good because you knew what was going on. For example, he was vaguely aware of the impact as the cargo module splashed down, presumably in a large body of water. Then he felt rough hands jerk him out of the module and throw him down into the stinking bilge of an ancient hovercraft. With a stuttering roar, they had then bounced off across the water toward an unknown destination.

  At that point the delicious darkness of unconsciousness beckoned. And who was he to refuse? True, you didn't know what was going on, but that had its good points too. For one thing, you didn't feel it when a short squat Lakorian kicked you in the ribs a couple of times just for the fun of it.

  Unfortunately, toward the end of the ride, McCade came to and found he had to stay that way. Waves of filthy bilge water kept slapping him in the face. Cautiously he looked around, moving only his eyes. No point in letting them know he was awake. Directly in front of him he saw two Lakorian ankles. Each was as big around as his thigh. They seemed to end in broad, webbed feet, but he wasn't sure, since the swirling bilge water allowed only glimpses of them.

  Beyond the Lakorian who was serving as helmsman, McCade could see Sara. She was tied hand and foot. Suddenly he realized he couldn't feel his own arms and legs. Sure enough they were tied too—very tightly. His circulation had evidently been cut off for some time. Just then the Lakorian helmsman stepped forward slightly, allowing McCade to see Sara more clearly. She seemed to be watching some activity behind him. He couldn't tell what it was. More Lakorians probably.

  After a moment she glanced his way. A look of concern clouded her features. He caught her eye and did his best to smile. It hurt. After a look of relieved surprise, she nodded in reply. Allowing his head to move naturally with the movement of the hovercraft, he managed to look farther to the right. He could just barely make out Van Doren's boots. As McCade watched, they moved as the marine tried to find a more comfortable position. His legs were tightly tied at the ankles. At least we're alive, McCade thought grimly. But for how long?

  Hours passed before they made landfall. If you can call a swamp "land," McCade thought sourly. The hovercraft stopped at the top of a mud ramp. Two stumpy Lakorians hoisted McCade and Sara over their shoulders, climbed out of the hovercraft, and then sloshed across an open space ankle deep in mud. It took two of them to lift and carry Van Doren. Head down over a Lakorian shoulder, McCade couldn't see much of their surroundings. It seemed like mostly mud and lush green tropical foliage. It started to rain.

  Unfortunately the rain seemed to have no effect whatsoever on the rancid body odor of the Lakorian carrying him. In fact, if anything, it seemed to make it worse. McCade noticed from his vantage point only inches away from the alien's skin that it was exuding an oily substance. Whatever the substance was, it was making the water run off the creature's greenish skin, and it smelled terrible.

  With casual violence the Lakorian threw McCade into the back of a huge trailer. He hit the floor and slid on the layer of filth which covered it, before hitting a number of other occupants. They snarled and screeched and grunted their objections in a variety of tongues. One large, bearlike being cuffed him back in the direction of the door, where he collided with Van Doren on the way down. The heavy metal door slammed shut as the vehicle jerked into spasmodic motion.

  McCade rolled up against Sara. After considerable fumbling, they managed to untie each other. Then while Sara was working on Van Doren's bonds, McCade stumbled to his feet. His arms and legs ached with returning circulation and bruises. Trying for balance, McCade swayed over to the open bars, which provided warm, fetid air, dim, dappled light, and barely managed to hold up a shabby roof. It was raining harder now, and the water made a drumming sound as it pounded down on the metal over their heads.

  Peering out between the bars, McCade saw they were being towed by a large tractor type vehicle with an enclosed cab. It was equipped with huge balloon tires that seemed designed to float the vehicle when necessary. Looking at the passing terrain, McCade got the feeling it would be necessary quite often in fact.

  The landscape was an unending procession of lakes, pools, rivers, and puddles, separated by islands of lush plant life. About half the vegetation was green, the rest was black and rotting. Immense tree trunks reached up through the tangled growth toward the sun. Vines and parasitic plants draped themselves around the huge trees, adding to the verdant maze.

  Here and there animal life was visible too. Large, bovine creatures on six legs browsed on huge piles of weeds they pulled from the bottom of shallow lakes. Above them small, spindly figures skittered and screeched at the passage of tractor and trailer. Once some unseen marine presence threw a casual tentacle into the trailer as if reaching for an hors d'oeuvre. However, after the bearlike alien grabbed it and bit off a four-foot length of rubbery flesh, the remaining stump was withdrawn with considerable haste. The bear spit out a mouthful of tentacle with an expression of distaste and returned to its taciturn silence.

  For the first time McCade really looked at his fellow prisoners. Evidently the slave markets of Lakor didn't play favorites, because they were definitely a mixed lot. Besides the bearlike creature, there were a couple of bedraggled Finthians, their plummage covered with muck, a single Cellite, eyestalks drooping dejectedly, and a complete Seph grouping. McCade remembered having read somewhere that the Seph were trisexual. It took a grouping of three to reproduce. They were huddled together in a furry mass that occupied one corner.

  "An unlikely group, aren't we," Sara said, her smile almost obscured by the dirt on her face. In spite of the dirt, he found her smile appealing and bent over to kiss her. Her lips were soft and met his with a pleasant pressure which he returned, with interest.

  "Excuse me, boss . . . but I think you better see this," Van Doren said.

  "It better be good," McCade said, smiling at Sara before turning to the bars.

  "Good it probably ain't," Van Doren replied sourly, spitting through the bars. "Not on this pus ball. You gotta wonder why anyone comes here. And what's more, why are those folks out there runnin' around in the rain?" He pointed out through the bars.

  At first McCade couldn't see a thing. Then after allowing his eyes to adjust, he began to detect shadowy figures moving swiftly through the foliage. They seemed to be carrying long, thin objects. They could have been sticks. They could also be weapons. The three of them continued to watch the shadowy forms for some time. Even on foot and moving through dense undergrowth, the unknown figures seemed to have no difficulty keeping up with the slow-moving vehicle. Sometimes they would disappear. But a few minutes later they would be back, moving through the rain like ghosts.

  If the Lakorians in the tractor's cab were aware of the watchers, they gave no sign. Both tractor and trailer continued their ungainly progress through the rain f
orest, lurching from one pond to the next. Gradually night began to fall. As dusk deepened into the blackness of night, the tractor driver flicked on powerful floodlights to push back the dark. Meanwhile a variety of nocturnal animal and plant life had switched on luminescent lights of their own. The net effect hurt McCade's eyes. The watchers could no longer be seen, but somehow he knew they were still there. Watching and waiting.

  After a while McCade, lying beside Sara on the filthy floor, fell into a fitful sleep. It seemed perfectly natural to put one arm around her, and she snuggled up to his chest. She too fell asleep, stirring only occasionally and waking him from his confused dreams. Then all hell broke loose.

  An aerial flare went off, lighting up the entire area. Somewhere an automatic projectile weapon began to stutter, and tracers arced in toward the cab. Instinctively all the prisoners hit the deck. But none of the fire seemed directed toward the trailer. Energy beams flicked out from the tractor to rake the underbrush. In spite of the rain, the vegetation immediately caught fire as though doused with liquid fuel. Evidently some of the plants exuded an extremely volatile sap. At times McCade thought he saw figures darting back and forth behind the flames. As far as he could tell, the incoming fire wasn't making much of an impression on the tractor. It had evidently been armored against just such attacks. He also noticed that the watchers continued to direct all their fire against the tractor and not the trailer. Whether this was calculated to spare the prisoners, or simply in recognition of their impotence, he couldn't tell. But he couldn't help feeling that any enemies of the Lakorians were friends of his.

  A hidden speaker somewhere in the trailer squawked to life. This was followed by some kind of speech in a language McCade didn't know. No sooner had it ended than it started over in Standard. "We are under attack by criminal elements. Do not be frightened. You will not be harmed. Remain calm. The perpetrators of this unlawful attack will soon be destroyed."