Alien Bounty

by William C. Dietz

  "And I'm warmer too," McCade replied. "Thanks for the timely court appearance. You made one helluva character witness."

  "It was my pleasure," Swanson-Pierce replied solemnly, and McCade knew he was telling the truth. The two of them went way back and the relationship was anything but friendly. Finding McCade naked in the middle of a courtroom was a dream come true, an incident Swanson-Pierce would hold over his head for years to come.

  A new belt and holster hung from the arm of his chair. McCade pulled the Molg-Sader recoilless from its oiled leather and aimed at the screen. "And there's all the goodies you've been handing out. I guess I should thank you for those as well."

  The naval officer lifted a single eyebrow and smiled.

  As McCade lowered the gun he knew the bastard was up to something. The VIP cabin, the cigars, the new handgun, it was all part of an effort to soften him up. Make him willing to do something. The question was what.

  McCade forced a smile. "How's Rico? I assume he's the one who told you where I was."

  The naval officer nodded. "Rico's just fine. As usual he's down in the officer's mess eating. Just a moment. I have a surprise for you."

  Swanson-Pierce stepped out and Sara stepped in. She held Molly in her arms. Both were smiling.

  Sara was beautiful. A softly rounded face, large hazel eyes, and full red lips. He no longer saw the scar that slashed down across her face. Like the battle that had caused it, the scar was part of the past.

  Both were satisfied to simply take each other in for a moment. Then Molly waved her chubby arms, kicked her legs, and said, "Gaaa!"

  Sara laughed, McCade grinned, and Molly gurgled.

  Swanson-Pierce stepped into the picture and smiled. "We sent a destroyer to get Sara, and a good thing too. She was getting ready to come after you. Why don't you join us? Your robo steward will show you the way."

  McCade stared at the screen for a full minute after it had faded to black. It was wonderful to see his family again, but why all the hospitality?

  Yes, he had some friends in high places, including the Emperor himself. After the second Emperor's death Princess Claudia had tried to usurp her brother's place, and would have, if McCade hadn't tracked Alexander down and helped him to assume the throne.

  Knowing that, Rico had used his friend's relationship with the Emperor to summon help. Allright fine, but why the VIP treatment? And why bring his family from Alice?

  Well, there was no point in putting off the inevitable, and besides, Sara was waiting. With Slider out front to lead the way, McCade took to the ship's busy corridors.

  McCade's leathers were those of an officer, and even though he wore no badges of rank, he was on the receiving end of more than a few salutes. It brought back memories of a younger time when he'd worn lieutenant's bars and the wings of an interceptor pilot. Of a time when he'd blasted out to fight the pirates off the planet Hell.

  They'd called themselves rebels back then, the stubborn remnants of a larger force that had been all but wiped out during a protracted civil war. Refusing the first Emperor's rule, they had forced one last battle and McCade had been there.

  He could see the pirate ship locked in the electronic cross hairs of his sight, feel the firing stud under his thumb, and hear the pirate's desperate voice. "Please, in the name of whatever gods you worship, I implore you, don't fire! My ship is unarmed. I have only women, children, and old men aboard . . . Please listen to me!"

  McCade could hear the second voice as well, Captain Ian Bridger's voice as he screamed: "Fire, Lieutenant! That's an order! She's lying. Fire, damn you!"

  But McCade had refused. And in doing so he ended his naval career and wound up as a bounty hunter.

  An interstellar police force would cost a great deal of money, so interplanetary law enforcement was carried out by bounty hunters, men and women who pursued fugitives for a price. They were a strange breed hated by those they sought and feared by those they served. The perfect profession for a cashiered naval officer in need of funds.

  So when Ian Bridger uncovered the existence of an artifact planet called the "War World," and decided to give its secrets to the alien II Ronn, Admiral Keaton had asked McCade to track him down. McCade met Bridger's daughter Sara in the process, fell in love, and settled on Alice.

  Slider arrived at a busy intersection, tried to stop, and slid into a burly chief petty officer. The CPO lost his balance, his omnipresent coffee cup, and a considerable amount of his dignity as he hit the deck.

  The chief scrambled to his feet, kicked Slider in the rear power port, and stalked off down the corridor.

  McCade helped the robot back onto its rollers. "Don't tell me, let me guess. This is why they call you Slider."

  Slider nodded his torso miserably. "I'm afraid so. It's very disconcerting. RoboTech Hu can't find the problem."

  "Well, it could be worse," McCade said. "At least they think you're worth fixing."

  Slider was silent for a moment and then seemed to brighten up. "That is good, isn't it?"

  McCade nodded. "It sure beats a future in the spare parts business."

  From there it was a short walk to Swanson-Pierce's day cabin. A pair of marines stood guarding the door. They snapped to attention as McCade approached, and waved him inside. He was surrounded by people the moment he stepped through the hatch.

  Rico was there, slapping him on the back and saying, "Good ta see ya, ol' sport."

  Sara was in his arms seconds later, her eyes large with concern, the clean smell of her filling his nostrils. "Are you all right? You look so skinny."

  As their lips met McCade felt two little arms wrap themselves around his right leg. Looking down, he saw two bright eyes, a mop of brown hair, and a big grin. "Da?"

  McCade scooped Molly up into a three-way hug, kissed her, and laughed as she grabbed his nose.

  Glancing toward Swanson-Pierce, he saw something completely unexpected. A look of envy. It reminded him that there was a man under that uniform, a man who'd never been married, and had only his career to keep him warm at night.

  He shook the feeling off. When Swanson-Pierce wanted something he'd use anything to get it, including McCade's sympathy if he knew it existed.

  Swanson-Pierce smiled and gestured toward some comfortable-looking furniture. "Have a seat, Sam . . . I rarely get a visit from friends . . . so this was too good to pass up."

  "It's hard to visit with something you don't have," McCade mumbled under his breath.

  Swanson-Pierce ignored it, Rico grinned, and Sara gave him a sharp look as they took their seats.

  There was a wall-sized viewscreen behind the naval officer. Molaria was a brown ball marbled with white clouds and streaked with blue. It hung in the middle of the viewscreen like a painting in a frame.

  The naval officer saw McCade's look and pointed a thumb over his right shoulder. "Things have changed since you left. A marine division went dirt-side two rotations ago. They've taken control of the government, the armed forces, and the judicial system."

  Swanson-Pierce smiled. "Judge Borga is looking for Nerlinium Crystals in the deeps, his so-called jury has been dismissed, and we're sorting out the people in the pits. We've known about Molaria for some time. Your situation gave us a good excuse to move in and clean things up."

  McCade felt a strange sense of pride. Since taking the throne, Alexander had launched a concerted effort to clean up some of the worst planetary governments. The effort was long overdue, and while McCade couldn't take credit for that, he'd certainly helped make it possible.

  "How is Alex anyway?"

  The naval officer winced. No one else would dare refer to the prince as "Alex," but it wouldn't do any good to complain, since McCade had permission from the Emperor himself.

  "Just fine. As you know he and Lady Linnea are married now, and she's expecting. They both send their best."

  McCade nodded. "They're good people. Maybe there's hope for us yet."

  Swanson-Pierce was strangely quiet as he reach
ed inside his jacket and brought out a sealed envelope. Wordlessly he handed the envelope to McCade.

  The envelope bore the Imperial crest, Alexander's seal, and McCade's name. He opened the envelope and, with Sara looking over his shoulder, read the contents.

  Dear Sam,

  I was sorry to hear about your problems on Molaria, but Walter will sort it out and probably rub you the wrong way in the process. Please forgive him. He acts in my behalf, and pompous though he may be, Walter is doing a great deal to hold the Empire together. And God knows the Empire is all that stands between us and final darkness.

  We need time, Sam, time to make it stronger, and time to make it better. I know you have no love for empires, ours or theirs, but consider the alternatives. Entire worlds burned down to bare rock, billions of lives lost, and a future filled with tyranny. So if Walter asks for a favor, listen, and if you wont do it for him, then please do it for me.

  Regardless of what you decide, anything within my power is yours, and that includes my friendship.

  Alex

  A host of thoughts swirled through McCade's mind as he tucked the note into its envelope. So there was more to his rescue than an Imperial favor.

  Alexander had a problem, a problem he hoped McCade could solve, a problem that threatened the Empire.

  McCade felt mixed emotions. Resentment toward another intrusion into his life, fear of what the task might entail, and yes, like it or not, a rising sense of excitement.

  Swanson-Pierce tried to hide his curiosity as McCade lit the envelope and turned a cigar over the resulting flame.

  When the cigar was drawing to his satisfaction, McCade dropped the remains of the envelope into an ashtray and allowed the flame to burn itself out. Molly made a dash for the ashtray and McCade picked her up. "Alex says you have a problem."

  The naval officer nodded and flicked an invisible piece of lint off his sleeve. "I suppose you could call it 'a problem' though that might understate things a bit. You'll recall our policy regarding the pirates?"

  Sara spoke for him. Her voice was grim. "You bet we do. We think of it every time they attack, every time they steal our supplies, and every time they kill more of our friends."

  As head of Alice's planetary council Sara had strong feelings about the pirates. Although the rebel forces had been defeated in the Battle of Hell, some had escaped and taken to piracy along the rim. Alice and the rest of the rim worlds were the constant victims of their raids.

  However, the pirates had one redeeming virtue, and that was their antipathy toward the Il Ronn, something the Imperial Government used to its advantage.

  Mankind had encountered many alien races among the stars but only the Il Ronn had an empire to rival their own. The Il Ronn were an ancient race, much older than mankind, and were already traveling between the stars when humans had lived in caves. Had they shared mankind's impetuous nature, they might have rolled over Terra and kept right on going.

  But theirs was a slow and methodical culture based on consensus and dedicated to predictable outcomes. So while their empire grew, it did so in a slow and conservative manner.

  Humans by contrast moved ahead in great spurts, leaping from caves into space in a geological twinkling of an eye, before spreading outward to settle hundreds of star systems. Unfortunately, however, huge gains were often lost through internal dissension and laziness.

  The net result was two empires of roughly equal size, each eager to better itself, and to do so at the other's expense.

  So both sides staged occasional raids but stopped short of all-out war. A war which neither side was sure it could win.

  And that's where the pirates came in. Living as they did out along the rim, the pirates helped keep the Il Ronnians in check. That meant a smaller navy, lower taxes, and happy citizens. It also meant eternal victimization for the rim worlds.

  Year after year the colonists struggled to make a living, and then, just when it seemed they'd made some headway, the pirates would come to take it all away.

  It made them angry and that's why Sara's eyes burned with hatred, her hands gripped the armrest of her chair, and Molly looked up with concern. The pirate raids were something every rim worlder agreed on.

  Swanson-Pierce held up a hand in protest. "I agree, believe me. If I had my way, we'd clean out the pirates and live with the higher taxes. But things aren't that simple. If Alexander raises taxes his sister Claudia will use them to build political support for herself, and that could lead to civil war."

  "So we're damned if we do, and damned if we don't," Rico added philosophically, lighting a cigar of his own.

  The naval officer shrugged. "I'm afraid so. But our present problem is even worse. The pirates staged a major raid into Il Ronnian territory not long ago. Apparently they caught the Il Ronnians napping because they managed to loot a small city and escaped with minimal losses."

  Swanson-Pierce paused for a moment, looking at each of them in turn, adding weight to his next words. "And among their loot was an Il Ronnian religious relic. A relic so precious that our pointy-tailed friends are preparing a holy war to get it back."

  The cabin was silent for a moment until Molly saw her mother's expression and started to cry.

  Three

  McCade awoke in a cold sweat. He was surprised to be alive. The dream had been so real, so intense, that reality paled by comparison. Pegasus hummed around him, her systems running smoothly, somewhere toward the end of her long hyperspace jump.

  McCade swung his feet over the side of his bunk and held his head in both hands. It hurt. This was the fourth bracelet-induced dream. God help him if there was a fifth.

  In the first dream he'd been an Ilwid, an uninitiated male, living with his sept in a series of underground caverns. As such he'd learned many things, including a respect for his elders, the importance of hard work, and the value of water.

  In the second dream he was an Ilwig, a warrior candidate undergoing the rites of malehood, spending twenty day cycles in the desert alone. During his wanderings he'd killed an Ikk, watered himself with its blood, and stumbled across a sacred chamber.

  Everyone knew about the sacred chambers the old ones had left behind, but few were lucky enough to see one, much less bear the eternal honor of finding one. Once, the chamber had been filled with wonders, but all had crumbled to dust by the time he found it, all that is except the bracelet.

  It was still intact, its single blue-green stone glowing with internal light, its smooth metal warm to the touch.

  He knew the bracelet was something special from the moment he slipped it on. A tremendous peace rose to fill his spirit, strange new ideas filled his mind, and his body trembled with excitement.

  Through the bracelet he learned that he was the chosen one, that he must lead a life of flawless purity, and that one day his teachings would spread to the stars above.

  In the third dream he was an Ilwik, a revered teacher, sought out and honored for his wisdom.

  McCade also learned that while almost all Il Ronnian males advance to Il-wig, perhaps one in a thousand goes on to become an Ilwik, or warrior-priest, and of these only a handful are called "great."

  He learned that the Ilwik were the leaders of Il Ronnian society. The most senior Ilwik sit on the Council of One Thousand that governs the Il Ronnian homeworld and the empire as well.

  The lesser Ilwik run local governments, perform scientific research, teach at universities, lead the armed forces, and perform a hundred other important tasks.

  But that was later. McCade would eventually learn that many others had worn the bracelet after the great Ilwik's death, giving it knowledge of recent times, knowledge it had passed along to him.

  In the great Ilwik's day the Il Ronnian people had only recently graduated from a hunting-gathering society organized along tribal lines to a slightly more sophisticated social structure, incorporating some rudimentary specialization, but still dependent on subsistence farming.

  Among the areas of emerging specia
lization were farming, metal working, and the priesthood. So it was that the great Ilwik shunned worldly ways and chose to live in a cave that the holy fluid had carved from solid rock eons before.

  By late afternoon each day the sun would disappear beyond the rim of the canyon, throwing dark shadows into the valley below. As the heat gradually died away, he'd come forth to meditate, and as their first work came to an end, his brethren would join him. They would arrive by ones and twos, find seats, and wait to receive what he had to give.

  Sometimes he spoke, telling them what he knew, and sometimes he remained silent, losing himself in the cosmic flow, inviting them to feel that which can't be said.

  And then as the sun began to set, and second work began, they would seek his blessing. Sometimes a blessing was his to give, and he would heal the sick, and sometimes his touch brought only comfort. Either way his brethren gave thanks, paid him honor, and left the gifts of life.

  In the fourth dream they killed him. Jealous of his powers his fellow Ilwiks denounced him and presided over his death. They stripped the flesh from his body inch by bloody inch, chanting their empty prayers and capturing his tears in a vial of beautiful crystal. Over and over they ordered him to recant his teachings, and over and over he refused.

  So when death finally came it was a release, a gift from God that he gladly accepted. It was from that death that McCade had come, his body drenched with sweat, nerves still tingling from the pain.

  Were the dreams true? Was he reliving the actual experiences of an Il Ronnian messiah? It seemed hard to believe, but the dreams were too real, too vivid, to be easily dismissed.

  And what about the bracelet? Was it the same one the Il Ronnian teacher had worn? Perhaps so, because the Il Ronn had sent the bracelet and instructed that it be worn.