McCade's Bounty

by William C. Dietz

  Fifteen minutes passed while the shuttle touched down inside the otherwise empty hangar, the outer door slid closed, and a breathable atmosphere was pumped into the bay.

  Freed from her seat, Molly passed the time in the shuttle's control compartment, asking the pilot questions and playing with the vessel's external cameras.

  The pilot, a humanoid-shaped cyborg, didn't like Molly messing around with the controls but was afraid to object. Like the rest of Pong's crew, the cyborg didn't understand her leader's relationship with Molly, and had no desire to test it.

  Oblivious to these concerns, Molly activated a vid cam located halfway down the shuttle's port side, and moved it around using a small joystick. It was fun to track the robots as they scurried hither and yon, fueling the shuttle and getting in each other's way.

  Molly turned a knob that caused the vid cam to zoom in and out. As the robots became larger and smaller Molly noticed something strange. Many of the robots were extremely dissimilar. Startlingly so.

  Take the matter of locomotion for example. Some of the robot's walked, while others hopped, rolled, and crawled. Why so many variations? It was as though the robots had been created by different designers with wildly different ideas of how they should look and function.

  As Molly watched the robots she remembered Daddy saying that mechanical artifacts vary tremendously from race to race due to environmental, physical, and cultural differences.

  For example, human house bots tend to look humanoid, while their Finthian equivalents have a distinctly birdlike quality. Given that, which one of these machines looked like the 56,827?

  Molly looked from robot to robot but still couldn't find many similarities. Of course form follows function where utility bots are concerned . . . so that might explain it.

  Mustapha Pong interrupted her thoughts. "What are you thinking?"

  Molly pointed at the screen. "The robots look different from each other. Were all of them designed by 56,827?"

  Pong was startled. This girl never ceased to amaze him. Without realizing what she'd done, Molly had put her finger on the aliens' greatest secret, and their one weakness.

  The truth was that the 56,827 hadn't built any of the robots, or the ship either for that matter, and were frightened of more technologically advanced races.

  The ship was a good example. Pong knew that the 56,827 had forced another more sophisticated race to build and arm it.

  Ah, but there was one thing the aliens did very well indeed, and that was fight. Pound for pound, tooth for tooth, they were among the most vicious carnivores in the known universe.

  And even more importantly the 56,827 had the will to win, the absolute ruthlessness it takes to eradicate an entire race, and do so without compunction. That was the quality Pong found absent in so many humans and admired in his secret allies.

  But none of this could be shared with Molly so Pong ignored her question and glanced at his wrist term instead.

  "Come on, Molly, our host awaits."

  Molly slid off the copilot's chair. The Melcetian mind slug quivered and color rippled across its surface.

  Molly positioned herself on the opposite side of Pong's body.

  "Our host? One of the 56,827?"

  The pirate nodded. "Number 47,721 to be exact. You will be one of the few humans privileged to meet a member of the 56,827."

  Pong almost added " . . . and survive," but decided not to.

  They went alone, just Pong and Molly, down a ramp and into the bay. There was a lock set into the left side of the bay, and from the height of the controls, Molly judged the aliens were at least a foot taller than Phil.

  The door whirred open, then closed. Pong whistled tunelessly while they waited. The pirate seemed preoccupied so Molly passed the time counting the number of rivets in a section of bulkhead.

  Then the inner hatch slid open and Molly gave a gasp of surprise. Where she should be looking at a utilitarian corridor, or at most a reception area, there were rolling grasslands giving way to a distant forest. And where there should be gray metal, nearly invisible behind duct work, conduit, and pipe, there was a dim lavender sky. Everything looked dark and murky.

  Pong smiled at her consternation. "Amazing, isn't it? A clever combination of carefully regulated biosphere and electronic trickery. As you can see the 56,827 are rather fond of their home planet and take a likeness of it wherever they go."

  Molly nodded wordlessly and followed as Pong stepped out onto a dirt path and followed it up a slight rise toward a stand of strange-looking trees. Or was it "tree" singular?

  Whichever it was had grown in a circle, with hard vertical trunks forming an outer stockade, and rich purple foliage hanging down into the center. They looked dark and foreboding.

  They were about ten feet away from the grove when something stepped out from between the tree trunks and turned their way. Molly grabbed Pong's arm. She'd met three or four different types of aliens nose to snout, beak, or whatever, and seen holos of many more.

  Over and over Molly's parents had told her that regardless of how strange another race might look to human eyes, regardless of how they sounded or smelled, what mattered was the way they behaved. Were they truthful? Ethical, by their own standards at least? Compassionate? These were the measuring sticks Molly had been taught to use.

  But try as she might Molly couldn't suppress the overwhelming fear that burbled up from some primeval well deep inside her. This thing reeked of such raw unrepentant evil that it made her blood run cold.

  Number 47,721 stood about seven and a half feet tall. Its head consisted of two distinct parts. A cigar-shaped section with eyes mounted at either end and, set at right angles to that, a pair of lethal-looking jaws. They parted slightly to show rows of teeth. A long rope of salivalike mucus dribbled out.

  The alien had narrow shoulders, heavily muscled arms, and ivory, almost-translucent skin. 47,721's torso curved backward slightly, reminding Molly of the Terran insects she'd seen on study tapes, and was balanced on a pair of powerful legs. Each of its feet had three toes, each toe ending in a two-inch claw, each claw razor-sharp.

  Pong gave Molly's hand a reassuring squeeze. "Greetings, 47,721. This numberless one comes seeking an audience."

  Molly gulped as the alien looked her way. Now she saw that its eyes were huge, multifaceted, and probably much better at collecting light than hers. Molly noticed the translator hung around its neck. It spoke standard like a machine, free of accent, and without intonation. "I hereby grant the audience you seek. Is this one of the juveniles?"

  Pong frowned as if hearing an undertone he didn't like. "Yes, this is a juvenile, but not one of those we discussed. This one belongs to me."

  Molly looked upward at Pong. Juvenile? Discussed? Belongs to me? What were they talking about anyway?

  Mucus drooped down from the alien's jaws. Its voice dropped an octave. "Careful, numberless one. Nothing belongs to you save that which the 56,827 grant you. But enough of this. We have much to discuss. Leave the juvenile here. It will be safe enough as long as it stays near the trees."

  Pong turned to Molly. "Stay here, child. 47,721 and I have business to discuss. Do as he says and stay near the trees. I'll be gone for an hour or so."

  Molly nodded silently. Much better to stay here alone than go with the alien. It was even worse than Pong's mind slug.

  Pong gave her a nervous smile and turned to 47,721. "The numberless one is ready."

  The alien made an inarticulate grunting sound and turned toward the path. Moments later alien and human alike had disappeared around the side of a small hill.

  Molly just stood there for a moment, staring after them, half hoping that Pong would reappear. When he didn't she walked a few yards away from the trees and sat down in the grass. It smelled good.

  It was silent at first. But bit by bit sound returned as tiny insects buzzed around Molly's head and a breeze rustled its way through the grass.

  Had the sun been brighter, it would have been enj
oyable, sitting there on what seemed like solid ground after countless days aboard ship, feeling the sunlight on her face.

  But the strange twilight that surrounded Molly made her shiver instead and wish that she'd brought a cloak.

  Still, Molly started to feel bored after a while, and stood up in order to look around.

  Surely she could explore the immediate area without running into anything dangerous. Though somewhat dark the countryside was peaceful and quiet.

  Molly saw a pile of boulders downhill and to the left. There were holes in them, big round openings that looked perfectly symmetrical and might be fun to crawl through.

  Molly made her way down the slight incline and was about fifty feet away from the jumble of boulders when a voice said, "Are you old enough to speak?"

  Molly looked around. She saw nothing but gently waving grass, the boulders, and forest beyond. "Yes, I'm old enough. Who are you? Where are you?"

  "Right here," the voice said, and a triangular-shaped head appeared followed by a skeletal-looking body. It stood erect, but looked more sauroid than human. It wore a complicated-looking vest with a multitude of pockets. Busy hands fluttered this way and that as if searching for something to do. The creature's leathery skin was the same color as the grass and made it hard to see. "My name is Jareth."

  Now Molly remembered 47,721's warning and took a step backward. "I thought I was alone."

  The creature snorted softly. "Not very damned likely. This ship is too small. You were headed for the rocks. That's a bad place to go."

  "Why?"

  "You see the holes?"

  "Sure, they look innocent enough."

  "Throw something toward one."

  Molly bent over, picked up a loose stone, and threw it toward the boulders. Something black flashed out, snatched the rock from midair, and disappeared back into its hole.

  Molly swallowed hard and took a couple more steps backward. "What was that?"

  "Something bad," the creature said noncommittally.

  "You speak standard."

  The creature took a few steps forward. It made a sign with its left hand. In the same way that 47,721 seemed evil, this alien felt nice. Molly stood her ground.

  "Yes, we runners are good at languages, and I met one of your kind before . . . bigger though and even more frightened. I learned your type of sound talk from him."

  Molly thought about that. A grown-up even more scared than she was. It seemed hard to believe. "Where is he now?"

  The creature swayed back and forth. "Death came. The you-thing ran. Death found it."

  "Death?" Molly looked around. If black things were hiding in the rocks, then what else was lurking around?

  "Yes, that is what we call them."

  "We?"

  "Runners. Those that look as I do."

  "So you don't like them?"

  Jareth blinked. "Who?"

  Molly forced herself to be patient. "Them. Death."

  "Not very damned likely," the runner replied. "Would you?"

  "Would I what?" Molly asked, grinning when she realized she was doing it too.

  "Like death, if it ate you," the alien said.

  Something cold and hard tumbled into Molly's stomach. "They eat you?"

  Jareth swayed back and forth for a moment before cocking its head to one side. "Yes, that is what we are here for. That, and repairing the ship. We built it, you know."

  Suddenly Molly understood or thought she did. The spacecraft was a true biosphere and contained its own ecosystem. An ecosystem in which the 56,827 fed on the runners and used them to maintain the ship as well. "That's horrible!"

  "Yes," the alien said calmly, "it is."

  There was silence for a moment. Molly broke it. "So death ate the one like me?"

  "Yes," Jareth replied. "Only the hard-supporting things were left. Do you want them?"

  Molly shuddered. "No, it wouldn't do any good."

  "No," the runner echoed, "it wouldn't do any good."

  "Molly!"

  Molly turned and looked toward the trees. Pong was there, looking in her direction, hands cupped around his mouth. The thing called "death" stood beside him.

  Molly turned back but the runner was gone.

  Seventeen

  McCade lit the latest in a long series of cigars and let his eyes drift along the line.

  Phil stood three people back, talking with a down-at-the-heels roid rat, but McCade passed over him. It might or might not pay to have an open friendship. Time would tell.

  The line stretched the length of the hall, wound its way down three flights of rickety wooden stairs, and out into the poorly lit street. The vid ads said, "All you can eat and a hundred credits a day." There were plenty of takers.

  McCade shifted his weight from one foot to the other and stared at a graffiti-covered wall. Like most of the real estate bordering HiHo's spaceport, this building was waiting for a really heavy-duty lift-off to shake it down.

  He was tired. Very tired. Things had moved along rather quickly after the interview with Nexus. The boys were freed and just as McCade feared, they knew nothing about the girls.

  But the stories the boys told about life on a pirate ship made McCade's blood run cold. Had Molly been through the same sort of thing? Was she going through it now? Or was she dead? Some of the boys hadn't made it. Pitiful little bundles ejected out of a utility lock as if they were so much garbage.

  Looking at the boys' emaciated and sometimes scarred bodies, McCade saw Molly in his mind's eye.

  So as he hugged the boys, and did his best to answer their questions, McCade was close to tears. Pong had caused all this pain, all this misery, and Pong would pay.

  But in order to punish the pirate he'd have to find him and that's where Captain Lorina Dep-Smith came in.

  She was reluctant to talk at first, but after five minutes of private conversation with Phil, she became suddenly voluble.

  In talking to Dep-Smith it became quickly apparent that she was little more than a hired hand, useful for running errands to places like Nexus, but not privy to Pong's long-range plans.

  She did possess one piece of useful information however, something Pong could hardly deny her, and that was her next destination.

  After leaving Nexus, Dep-Smith was headed for a planet called HiHo, where she'd load elements of a mercenary army and receive further instructions. She didn't know where the army was headed, or why, but she knew Pong would be in command.

  So after giving the matter some thought and discussing it with his crew, McCade came up with what he hoped was a workable plan. Since they didn't have enough money left to send the boys home on a chartered ship, they'd cram them aboard the Void Runner. Rico was still recovering from his wound, but was healthy enough to act as pilot, and Maggie would handle everything else.

  Meanwhile, McCade and Phil would sign aboard Dep-Smith's ship as replacements for the crew that Rico and Maggie had killed, and work their way to HiHo. Once dirtside the pair would join Pong's newly formed army and look for an opportunity to snatch him. Their plan had a lot of potential flaws, but it was better than nothing.

  One of the potential flaws surfaced right away. Though appropriately threatened, and simultaneously bribed, they couldn't trust Dep-Smith further than they could throw an Envo Beast.

  Once aboard her ship, and en route to HiHo, they were almost entirely at her mercy. The ship carried a crew of twelve, which meant they were outnumbered six to one if it came to blows, and given Dep-Smith's smoldering resentment, the battle could come at any time.

  So, between Dep-Smith's efforts to make sure that they got all the ship's most unpleasant jobs, and the fact that they were cooped up with ten sociopaths, the two of them got very little sleep. Regardless of the shifts they were assigned, one was awake at all times, blaster in hand, waiting for the attack that never came.

  McCade yawned. A wooden door slammed open and a burly man with the look of a professional noncom stepped outside. There were no badges of rank on
his brand-new camos and he didn't need any. The man had "sergeant" written all over him. In spite of the fact that they were only five feet away from each other, the noncom yelled "Next!" as if McCade were at the other end of the hall.

  Having spent hours waiting to hear that word, McCade wasted little time stepping inside. The door slammed closed behind him. McCade found himself standing in front of a large med scanner. It came close to filling the room.