Galactic Bounty

by William C. Dietz

  For what seemed like an eternity but was only a fraction of a second, cold gray eyes locked with bright brown ones. Then McCade said, "Okay, Rico, say your piece, but make it damned quick."

  Rico spoke earnestly as McCade listened. When the bearded man was through, McCade chuckled and said, "I'll probably be sorry, but that's just crazy enough to work. Let's give it a try. Rico, get Ven up here while I get ready."

  A few minutes later he was wearing full armor and strapped into the harness of the sleek little Interceptor. He'd completely forgotten about it until Rico reminded him. It seemed like years since he'd asked Laurie to substitute it for the ship's boat, and been surprised when she'd agreed. Rico had stumbled across it during the hyperspace shift from Lakor. Looking for something to do, he'd decided to pull a maintenance check on the ship's lifeboat. Opening the lifeboat bay, he'd been surprised to find the deadly shape of a Navy Interceptor in place of the tubby little lifeboat he'd expected. McCade listened to the intercom channel on his headset as Rico and Ven got ready. He used the time to run through the Interceptor's pre-flight program. Everything checked out, just as Rico said it would.

  "All right, Sam, stand by," Rico said over the intercom. "Remember, after Ven does his bit, we'll wait till the last second before givin' ya the go, so be ready, and don't waste any time."

  "Yes, Mother," McCade said sweetly. He was answered with a snort of derision. Moments later the deception began as Ven called the Il Ronnian ship.

  "This is Captain Ven commanding His Majesty's yacht, Lakor Avenger. Please respond." McCade almost laughed out loud at the name Zorta had bestowed on the small ship.

  McCade couldn't see the video but could easily imagine the stern countenance of Commander Reez as he appeared on the com screen.

  "Captain Ven, as you can see we are presently involved in an action with an Imperial Navy ship. What do you want?"

  With a masterful blend of timidity and dogged determination, Ven replied: "With all due respect and my apologies for the inconvenience, sire, but His Majesty left very strict standing orders which I disobey at my peril. In the case of a naval engagement, it is His Majesty's wish to assume personal command of this ship that he might lend personal assistance to our noble allies, the Il Ronn."

  McCade knew Reez wouldn't believe a word of it, and he wasn't meant to. It was exactly the kind of order the real Zorta might have left to ensure his escape from potentially dangerous circumstances.

  Commander Reez allowed himself an audible snort of disbelief as he replied, "I assure you, captain, that the King is in absolutely no danger. We have already destroyed one Imperial ship, disabled a second, and the third will soon follow. However if you must, I suppose you must. Stand by."

  McCade fidgeted in the small cockpit, checking his instruments for a third time.

  "Uh-oh," Rico said.

  "What's going on?" McCade demanded. He felt isolated. The muscle in his left cheek twitched.

  "They just launched about ten of their Interceptors," Rico replied evenly, "which means we're in deep trouble."

  "I'd say they're a bit shorthanded myself, boss," Van Doren's voice interjected. "All secondary weapons positions are closed up and ready."

  "Royal yacht Lakor Avenger" came a different Il Ronnian voice. "Permission to come alongside granted. Please dock at lock four just aft of our port solar panels. We are standing by."

  So far so good, McCade thought. The plan was working. Reez had decided to be magnanimous. And why not? He was winning and could therefore afford to humor Zorta and his staff. Besides, he still needed the King and his troops to hold the War World while he went for reinforcements. Something that no doubt seemed even more important now that the Imperial Navy had also located the War World.

  "Thank you, my lord," Ven replied humbly. "We are on our way."

  "Understood," the Il Ronnian snapped and was gone.

  McCade felt Pegasus bank and begin a smooth turn to intercept the Il Ronnian ship. "Stand by . . .," Rico said. "Hold, hold, hold . . . all right, he's let his screen down, we're inside, the screen's up behind us, hold, hold, all right go! Good luck, sport!"

  With that the bay doors opened and the Interceptor was ejected into space and immediately left behind as Pegasus continued her arc toward the warship's lock.

  McCade ignited his engine, felt it cut in, and banked down toward the bow of the Il Ronnian vessel. Suddenly a hard Il Ronnian voice flooded McCade's headset.

  "Attention Royal yacht. Our sensors have detected an unauthorized launch of a power vessel now closing with our ship. It has five seconds to alter course or be destroyed."

  "Uh-oh," Rico said. "Looks like they're on to ya, sport. We'll pull off as many as we can! Looks like there's five fighters comin' your way."

  "Roger," McCade said grimly. "Here goes nothing!"

  Below, the surface of the huge ship raced by. Like all of its kind, the Il Ronnian vessel had not been designed to pass through planetary atmospheres. Therefore no attempt had been made to streamline its hull. Vents, pipes, weapons platforms, turrets, launch tubes, and much more formed a metal maze across the surface of the ship's hull, adding to the sense of speed as he raced toward the bow.

  Ahead, five dots filled his target screen, and as he watched they resolved into the form of Il Ronnian fighters. Without conscious thought, his fingers followed the deeply memprinted pattern learned years before, activating weapons systems and checking for system malfunctions. As the range closed, his hand tightened on the control stick, and his thumb was poised over the trigger of his two energy cannon. The Il Ronnian fighters fired first, and quickly regretted doing so, as their heat-seeking missiles sorted out the closest and most intense heat source around, and went for it. Unfortunately for them, the closest intense heat source was their mother ship. A series of explosions along the surface of the huge vessel marked where their missiles hit.

  The Il Ronnian pilots were aghast at what they had done. In a way, their mistake was quite natural. They had been trained to fight outside the mother ship's defensive screens, where a misdirected missile could explode harmlessly against the powerful defensive fields that surrounded the vessel during battle.

  While their attention was still on the destruction created by their own missiles, McCade opened fire. Two of the fighters exploded, while the third, still shocked by what he'd done, and scared by the sudden destruction of the other two, dodged into a bank of cooling fins and blew up. That left two Il Ronnian fighters still out there, and unfortunately they showed every sign of being very very good. Unlike their brethren, they had realized the potential problems missiles might cause, and like McCade, were relying on energy cannon. Fortunately they missed on the first pass. One moment they were there, growing large in his target screen, and then they flashed by and were gone.

  Instinctively McCade dove his Interceptor down until it was just barely skimming over the surface of the large ship. His muscles were tight, and his eyes narrowed in concentration as he searched for and found his target. He knew he had only seconds before the two fighters, and maybe more, would be on his tail again, and this time they might not miss. It was just ahead. A raised area, just behind the bow, crowned with a thicket of sensors and other gear. In the center of the area was an open platform on which the Il Ronnians could land the skeletal maintenance craft used to perform repairs on the ship. That was where he planned to land. If he succeeded, he'd be sitting right on top of the control room, which contained the ship's computer, navigational instruments, and of course Reez himself.

  "Watch out behind you, sport! There's two of them on your tail!"

  Rico's warning was punctuated by bursts of blue light as the two Il Ronnian fighters tried to nail him. Doing his best to ignore them, McCade brought the little ship into line with the landing platform, waited as long as he dared, and then killed power. He'd waited too long. The Interceptor was moving too fast. He was overshooting the platform. Desperately he hit both his retros and the tractor beams. The beams were very light, but the
y made the difference. As the beams locked on to the larger vessel, he felt himself jerked down to meet it.

  He hit with a crash and the screech of tortured metal, carving a violent path through the forest of sensors and antennas as he did so. As the noise died away, he glanced around, surprised to be alive and unhurt. The Interceptor had come to rest half on and half off the platform. Not one of his better landings, he decided, but what the hell, you can't win 'em all.

  Swiveling his head, he looked up through the cracked canopy searching for signs of the two fighters. One after another they flashed by before swooping off to return and fly by once more. McCade slumped back into his seat with a satisfied grin. Not a damn thing they could do. If they shot at him they'd hit their own ship's control center too. As he chinned the transmit switch in his helmet, he noticed the cockpit pressure had fallen to zero. Evidently the Interceptor had been holed in the crash. His suit tanks were good for two hours. Hopefully that would be enough.

  "Okay, Rico. I'm in position."

  "Glad to hear it," Rico said with a chuckle. "For a minute there it looked like you were gonna land in the control room instead of on it."

  McCade responded with a rude noise. Rico laughed, and then adopted a more serious tone as he said, "This is Fredrico Jose Romero, Council member of the Independent World Alice, and presently in command of the ship you know as the Lakor Avenger. I call upon Commander Reez to surrender his ship and all personnel aboard. Failure ta do so will result in the immediate destruction o' your ship. Before you reply, Commander . . . remember there's an Imperial Interceptor armed with two nuclear torpedoes sittin' over your head. The pilot is prepared ta activate a timer which will allow him time ta escape before the torpedoes completely destroy your ship. Ya have one minute to respond."

  McCade waited nervously for the Il Ronnian response. He was all too aware that there was no timer which would allow him to escape before the torpedoes detonated. The only way he could use them was to program them to explode on contact, and then fire them the ten or twelve feet that separated his launch tubes from the Il Ronnian hull. He'd win, but he wouldn't be around for the victory party. He wondered if he could do it. Finally, Commander Reez broke the silence.

  "This is Star Sept Commander Reez. My officers and I accept your offer of surrender, rigid ones. We will power down and await further orders. Out."

  Eighteen

  As McCade stepped down onto the surface of the War World, it felt strange. He wasn't sure why. Everything seemed normal enough. A light breeze brushed his cheek, carrying with it the sweet scent of distant flowers. The warm dry air tasted good after the fetid atmosphere of the ship. But a pervasive silence cloaked everything. There were no birds chirping or insects buzzing, and as far as the eye could see, there was no movement, and aside from the destroyer slumped some distance away, no sign of life. He jumped at the sudden pinging noise as the ship's tubes started to cool. Feeling foolish, he turned to see the last of the slaves disembark under Phil's watchful eye and mill around looking curiously at their surroundings.

  "Well, Phil, if we aren't back in an hour or so, you and the girls capture that destroyer and hold it against our safe return."

  Phil laughed and waved a hairy paw in reply.

  If the navy ensign was amused, he gave no sign of it. Ensign Peller was from the destroyer. They had grounded on the taciturn orders of the destroyer's captain, who sent them the chubby young officer as a guide, probably on the theory that Peller was the most expendable man aboard. After all, with a crippled ship to repair, the captain wasn't going to send anyone useful. And Peller certainly wasn't useful, at least to them. So far all of McCade's questions had been answered with "I don't have that information, sir," or, "I'm sorry, sir, I really wouldn't know."

  As far as McCade could tell, the young officer's mind was as blank as his face.

  "This way, sir," Peller said with carefully modulated politeness, and led them toward a distant structure.

  McCade was struck again by the unreality of their surroundings. The unnatural symmetry of the landscape, the ensign's featureless face, and the timelessness that seemed to be part of the very air they breathed.

  "It just ain't right, boss," Van Doren whispered from behind.

  McCade understood the marine's reluctance to raise his voice. The silence was oppressive. He felt Sara's hand slip into his. As they walked hand in hand across the slick surface of the huge spaceport, they were awed by their own visions of what it had once been like. From its size, hundreds of ships must have grounded at once. The planet's name suggested huge war fleets, yet their surroundings held none of the grim oppressiveness common to the military installations they knew.

  Come to think of it, where were the weapons emplacements, fortifications, and other military paraphernalia which should be all over the place? Why call it the "War World" if it had nothing to do with war? The silent gantries and clusters of support equipment lining the edge of the spaceport gave no answers.

  "Where're we headed?" Rico asked with forced casualness. McCade turned and shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine, Rico. Mr. Peller here says our presence has been requested. He didn't say by who."

  If the young officer heard McCade's comment he gave no sign. Eventually they approached a massive arch of shiny red stone. Centered under the arch, a high wide door stood open in silent invitation, the darkness beyond it providing no hint of what might lie in wait, but its huge size suggesting a heavy flow of traffic. As they neared it, McCade saw it was flanked by metal plates set into the stone.

  Each was covered with writing in a language he hadn't seen before. Or had he? He stopped and dredged his memory for a connection. Then it came. Bridger's plate. The one he called the "Directory." The plate in front of him and the inscriptions which covered it looked exactly like the one Bridger had found on his artifact world.

  The rest of the group had followed Peller through the door and were waiting inside for McCade to catch up. As he hurried toward them, he considered the implications of what he'd just discovered. In retrospect, Bridger's discovery was truly amazing. He'd been right all along. His metal tablet had been a directory.

  A directory to various artifact worlds, complete with coordinates. A simple road map for a long-vanished race. Driven by his hatred and deepening insanity, Bridger had picked the one that seemed to meet his need. The War World. Joining the others, McCade shook his head to Sara's silent question. He didn't want to share his thoughts with Ensign Peller. The game was not over, and he couldn't tell yet where the advantage lay.

  They followed Peller down a short hall which suddenly widened into a huge chamber that once could have been a lobby. Rows of parked ground cars, tractors, and power pallets of Imperial manufacture filled most of it. McCade found that intriguing, since it suggested the navy had been in residence for some time. Long enough to need ground transportation and to have had it shipped in. He was reminded of the freighter still in orbit above.

  After climbing into an open staff car, they rode in silence through the enormous corridors and halls, all of which shared the same dim, artificial light. It had a warm glow, suggesting a preference for orange or red light. Occasionally they passed giant halls filled with seats never intended to accommodate a human body. McCade noticed they were narrower than human equivalents, with higher backs and longer seats, suggesting tall, thin beings with long, spindly legs.

  There were hundreds of side rooms, both large and small. From glimpses of these chambers, McCade saw that while a few were filled with unidentifiable objects, most were bare, though it appeared they hadn't always been that way. Empty pedestals, display cases, and shelves spoke of things no longer there.

  The ground car turned a corner to enter a large, circular room. In it a huge, three-dimensional star map dominated all else, suspended somehow in midair, glittering as billions of miniature stars and planets wheeled through intricate paths, acting out a dance as old as time itself. While probably intended to merely reflect the natural movements of
suns and planets, it managed to be much more, a work of art, a living sculpture. Circular seating surrounded it and reached up into darkness on every side.

  As they climbed out of the car, their eyes were drawn to the map and its stately movements. Where had they gone, those who conceived and created this? What had happened to a race capable of such learning, architects of an entire planet, creators of such beauty?

  "Beautiful, isn't it?" Swanson-Pierce said, stepping out of the shadows, into the light. His eyes too were locked on the beauty that swirled above. "I thought you'd like to see this." Tearing his eyes away from the map and turning to McCade and his people, Swanson-Pierce said, "Well, Sam, I see you've managed to indulge your weakness for dramatic violence once again."

  "Lucky for you I did, Walt," McCade replied, hiding his surprise behind a cigar. "Otherwise you would have wound up as the best-dressed specimen in some Il Ronnian exobiology lab."

  "I must admit we weren't expecting company, at least not so soon," the naval officer replied, strolling toward them. "But I will take this opportunity to thank both you and your companions. Hello, Section Leader Van Doren. Good to see you. Council Member Romero. You've played a critical role in all this. Thank you. And this must be none other than Sara Bridger. We were introduced many years ago, Council Member, but I doubt you remember that. I was pleased to learn of your survival."

  Sara extended her hand. "Of course I remember. You've done well, Captain. I remember my father saying you were a very promising young officer."

  Taking her hand, Swanson-Pierce executed a formal half-bow. "You are too kind, madam. I had great respect for your father and his death saddened me."

  "Thank you," Sara said simply, "but it had to be."

  "Yes," Swanson-Pierce replied. "It had to be. Come, you may find the seating none too comfortable, but it's all we have. I'm sorry I can't at the moment offer refreshments."

  "Which brings us to a very interesting question," McCade said, shifting in his seat and examining a cigar with care. "How did you find out her father was dead? Or that she was alive for that matter?"