He shook his head ruefully, and Terra disappeared behind a cloud of smoke as he puffed a new cigar into life. He tapped a few keys on the control console. Pegasus picked up speed, and started down toward the planet below. Somewhere down there he'd find Alexander's trail. It was more than two years cold, but he'd find it. Just as he'd found so many others over the years.
Bounty hunters were a strange breed. Hated by fugitives, disliked by planetary police, and romanticized by the public, they lived a strange twilight existence between two worlds. Heroes one moment, villains the next, bounty hunters soon learned to trust no one but themselves. They lived to run up their score, both for the financial rewards involved, and for their own egos. In so doing they performed an important function.
Like every other human society the Empire generated its share of criminals, sociopaths, and perverts. While most planets had some form of police force, there was no interplanetary agency for law enforcement. Oh, it had been suggested often enough, but ultimately no one wanted to pay for it. The last thing people wanted was more taxes. Besides, the planets valued what independence they had, and weren't eager to create still another Imperial agency to start mucking around in their affairs. So, bounty hunters were just another expression of the Emperor's pragmatism. If it works, leave it alone. And it certainly worked.
Bounty hunters could access a current list of interplanetary fugitives on any public terminal. Listed were their names, aliases, histories, habitual weapons, and, most important of all, the size of the reward offered for their capture or death. Sometimes the reward was conditional, specifying a particular fugitive must be brought in alive, but that was rare. Normally dead was just fine. Having picked a particular fugitive, the bounty hunter would punch the person's name and ID number into the terminal, and request a hunting license for that particular individual. This was an important step, since capturing or killing a fugitive without a license was considered a public service, and produced nothing more than a thank you letter.
McCade grinned to himself. It had happened to him once. And he'd sworn it would never happen again. Which is why he'd spent a lot of time and energy convincing Swanson-Pierce to offer a little extra motivation in the form of a reward. A sort of Imperial bounty.
Public service was well and good, but there was retirement to think about and besides, there was always the chance somebody might blow his ass off. Deep down, however, he knew the idea of giving Walt something for free just plain grated on his nerves. So, one million credits seemed like a nice round number. Sara resisted at first, until McCade suggested that perhaps Swanson-Pierce should throw in a class "A" fusion reactor for Alice as well, and then she'd jumped on the bandwagon with a vengeance. A class "A" reactor would provide enough power for the planet's needs well into the future. Walt never knew what hit him. Sara quickly had him wrapped around her little finger. In fact, Walt was damned lucky to get off that easy. McCade smiled at the thought.
"You're grinnin' like a roid miner on his way out of a pleasure dome," Rico observed, dropping into the copilot's chair.
"Well, there she is, Rico," McCade replied, waving his cigar butt at the main viewscreen. Terra more than filled the screen now as McCade slipped them into a descending orbit. "Trouble."
Rico shrugged philosophically. "I dunno, ol' sport. Seems ta me we've got 'em outnumbered. Wait till they get a load o' Phil."
Suddenly a rigidly calm female voice flooded the intercom. "Alert. Alert. My scanners indicate a dangerous carnivore is aboard and about to enter the control area. I recommend immediate use of class 'A' hand weapons."
"I thought you said you'd have that damned computer fixed," Phil growled as he stepped into the control room. The voice was a deep basso and emanated from a shaggy, bearlike form which had just appeared from the ship's lounge. Phil was a human variant, biosculpted for life on iceworlds like Alice. He was a highly trained biologist . . . although he didn't look it . . . since very few scientists are seven feet tall and weigh three hundred pounds. Clad only in a plaid kilt of his own design, Phil made an imposing figure. He had large rounded ears, a short snout, and a shiny black nose. But Phil also had other less obvious attributes. Among them were infrared vision, amplified muscle response, and razor-sharp durasteel claws. For short periods of time he could go into full augmentation making him the biological equivalent of a killing machine. Which accounted for his presence. The search for Alexander was likely to get rough, and since the other two had rescued him from the slave pens of Lakor, and paid off his indenture, he figured he owed them one.
"Sorry about the computer, Phil. I just haven't had time yet to get it fixed, but I will."
Phil sat down and lit a dope stick. "I hope so. A rude computer can turn into a dead computer real easy." He looked up at the main screen. "Well, there she is, the planet named dirt."
"Yup," McCade said, glancing over his shoulder. "Fortunately it's winter where we're going, but it's still going to be a bit warm for you."
Phil growled deep in his throat. "Maybe I'll luck out and run into a blizzard."
Pegasus bucked a little as she hit a layer of colder air, and McCade gently forced her nose back down. "Damned little chance of that, Phil. This isn't Alice, you know. Weather programmers don't go in for blizzards. It generates too many hysterical com calls. Hell, you'll be lucky if it rains."
"Yeah, I know," Phil agreed regretfully, "but a guy can hope."
No one answered, and all were silent for a moment as Terra rose to meet them. The vast blueness of the Atlantic Ocean rolled by, quickly followed by the neat symmetry of the coastal cities, and then the dark green of the interior. Eventually the huge forests gave way to the endless interlocking circles of irrigated roboculture. Wherever he looked, McCade saw a carefully maintained balance between man and nature. He knew that when they left the ship, they'd find only clean air, and pure water. Pollution and crowding were things of the past. The damage had been repaired, and where nature seemed flawed, man had put it right. So what if the forests tended to have square corners, and the mountains seemed unusually symmetrical, a clean, safe environment was well worth it. Or that was the theory anyway. In McCade's opinion the whole thing seemed too structured, too tidy. It reminded him of something Walt would put together. Besides, he knew the problems of crowding and pollution hadn't really been solved. They'd simply been exported. Heavy industry and excess population had been shipped to other less fortunate planets, in order to make way for the neat parks and beautiful cities which now graced Terra.
His thoughts were interrupted as they neared Main Port, better known to spacers as "The Glory Hole," the biggest civilian spaceport on the North American continent. It now covered the area which had once been designated as "Chicago." For hours now the ship's computer had been in communication with Imperial Ground Control. Initial identification, clearance, and navigational data had all been handled by the two computers. Now as they neared the spaceport, a series of approach parameters flashed on his com screen, and McCade's hands danced over the controls. Responsive as always, Pegasus wound her way through the thickening air traffic, and then lowered herself into her assigned berth.
Once the ship's engines were shut down and secured, McCade took a moment to sweep his scanners across the surrounding area. A wide assortment of ground vehicles hurried to and fro on various errands, ships lifted and landed, but no one seemed particularly interested in Pegasus. Good. He liked it that way, even though he knew it didn't mean much. By now, Claudia, and anyone else who cared, knew they had landed. He'd considered arriving incognito, but rejected it. In spite of Terra's defenses, McCade felt sure it could be done. But there just wasn't enough time. A really effective cover would take weeks, maybe months, to establish and use. Besides, according to Walt, there was only one person who might know where to start the search. And she was apparently one of Claudia's best friends. So why bother to arrive in secret, and then be forced to come out into the open?
Therefore, McCade had decided on the direct approach. Land,
find Lady Linnea as quickly as possible, and depend on Rico and Phil to cover his back. That's why they planned to check into a hotel. Although they might be safer aboard the ship, it would be very easy to watch, and that would make it hard to slip away undetected. Hopefully the crowds and activity of a large hotel would help to cover his movements. If they were fast enough maybe they could pull it off without any trouble. "And maybe we'll run into some flying cows too," McCade muttered to himself as he strapped on his handgun, and settled its familiar weight low on his left thigh. He'd put on a new set of black leathers in honor of the occasion, and they creaked as he moved.
Rico and Phil were already in the main lock when he arrived. Both were heavily armed. Phil wore a shoulder holster with a small submachine gun nestled in it and carried an energy rifle over his shoulder. Rico wore a sidearm and cradled a grenade launcher in his arms as well. Not that anyone would notice. The societal price for legalized assassination and interstellar bounty hunters is an armed population.
They left the ship together, hopping aboard one of the articulated shuttles which wound its way from ship to ship, finally stopping at the main terminal. There they joined the throng of fellow spacers, mostly human, but well sprinkled with aliens as well. It was quite a mob. Among them were the crisply uniformed officers of a deep-space liner, a bird-like-Finthian merchant-prince, complete with entourage, a hard-looking freighter captain with two of her crew, and a somewhat shabby Zordian diplomat, his oral tentacles weaving a complicated thought into universal sign language. McCade couldn't tell if the tall woman striding along beside him understood or not. Also present, but less conspicuous, were other bounty hunters. He even recognized some of them. But whether he knew them or not, a practiced eye easily picked them out of the crowd. For one thing, they were alone. Most bounty hunters made damned poor team players. And for another, their eyes were constantly on the move, sweeping the crowd for memprinted faces, like a beachcomber checking to see what the tides brought in.
Gradually the crowd was funneled through a series of robo booths. As McCade stepped inside, hidden scanners searched his body for signs of contagious disease, his retinal and dental patterns were cross-checked with his stated identity, his weapons were analyzed for illegal technology, and an officious-sounding computer simulation demanded to know what cargo he'd brought to Imperial Earth. McCade indicated he had no cargo to declare, agreed to obey all the laws, customs, and edicts of Imperial authority. And promised he'd have a good day—something he wasn't sure of, but hoped would come true.
Because his variant status had slowed his identity check, Phil was the last one out of the booths. First his retinal patterns and dentition were considerably different than those he'd been born with. His biosculpting had been done right there on Terra, and after a little digging, the computer had found his records. Then the computer noticed he'd been indentured to United Biomed as a biologist. He was supposed to be on Frio IV working off his debt. So, what was he doing on Terra? After some hurried consultation with United Biomed's mainframe, the computer learned his indenture had been purchased six standard months before by the government of a planet called Alice. Not long thereafter Phil's certificate of indenture had been used to light one of McCade's cigars, and there'd been one hell of a party. Phil was growling as he emerged, swearing at those who had programmed the customs booth, and threatening them with immediate dismemberment.
Once outside the terminal there was a swirl of activity as a variety of vehicles fought for a position at the curb. There were shiny new hover limos, stately sedans, and more than a few beat-up old taxis. As McCade stepped up to the curb a particularly decrepit-looking ground car of ancient lineage slipped between a limo and another taxi with only an inch to spare, and then screeched to a halt right in front of them. The driver leapt out, and ignored the outraged horns and invective of his fellow drivers, to race around and open a rear door for them.
"Taxi, sirs?" The young man's insouciant grin and obvious eagerness were hard to resist. He had light brown hair, an average sort of face, and wore a disposable gray coverall. The words "Maxi Taxi" were imprinted over a pocket crammed with pens, pencils, a comb, and a cheap pair of sunglasses. McCade normally used the less expensive autocabs, but it was Walt's money, so what the hell. He nodded and preceded the other two into the back of the car. It smelled of the disinfectant robo cleaners sprayed on everything. Given Rico's and Phil's bulk, it was a bit crowded, but not uncomfortable. Moments later the car jerked into motion and they were off.
"Where to?" the driver inquired as he smoothly inserted the ungainly vehicle into the flow of traffic, and accelerated away from the terminal.
"The Main Port Hilton," McCade replied.
"Yes, sir!" their driver said enthusiastically, and the car picked up even more speed.
Suddenly McCade felt vaguely uneasy. He couldn't put his finger on it, but there was something familiar about the taxi driver. Like most bounty hunters, McCade had trained himself to remember faces, and he was increasingly sure he'd seen the one reflected in the rearview mirror before. Surreptitiously he reached down to try the door handle. It was locked. And even if it wasn't . . . by now the car was moving too fast to jump. Glancing up at the mirror, McCade's eyes met the driver's, and the young man grinned. Only there was no humor in the man's smile. Or was it his imagination? Maybe he was just jumpy knowing the Guild was after him. The Guild! Then he had it, but a moment too late. Just as he remembered where he'd seen the driver's face before, the car swerved into an alley and came to a screeching halt. The driver whirled and McCade found himself looking down the business end of a needle gun.
"Welcome to the Glory Hole, stupid," the driver said, all traces of boyish charm suddenly gone.
"I assume he's addressing you, Sam," Phil said calmly, measuring the distance between himself and the gun.
"Shut up, fur face," the driver grated, shifting the gun an inch toward Phil. "Go ahead and try it. I could use a fur rug for my living room."
"Relax, Phil," McCade cautioned. "I don't think our friend here plans to kill us. At least not at the moment. For one thing he's trapped us, and for another he hasn't delivered a warning. So if he takes us out . . . the Guild will be forced to hunt him down themselves." McCade was referring to the fact that while assassination was legal, certain ground rules had been established to give the intended victim a fighting chance. After all, those who made the rules knew that unless specifically exempted by the Emperor, they could become targets themselves. According to the rules, intended victims couldn't be tricked into an enclosed area, or other physical trap. Assassins were supposed to reveal identifying clothing just prior to an attempt, deliver an audible warning, and allow their intended target five seconds to react. And the Guild was committed to hunting down and killing any assassin who broke the rules. Not because they were concerned with fair play, but because if they didn't, assassination might become illegal.
The driver nodded his agreement. "That's right, shitheads. Mr. big-deal bounty hunter knows the rules. But don't push me or I might break 'em and take my chances."
Right then Rico belched, causing the needle gun to jerk his way. Rico covered his mouth in mock embarrassment. "Excuse me, ol' sport. I didn't mean ta scare ya like that."
McCade noticed the flush that started around the young man's neck and worked its way up across his face. There was hatred in the eyes which met McCade's, and he was holding the needle gun so tightly his fingers had turned white. He spoke through gritted teeth. "Real cute, asshole. But just remember you're all dead meat. Especially you, McCade. I want you to know that, think about it, sweat it through your pores, and piss it into your pants. Just remember, when they make your breakfast, I'll be in the kitchen; when you walk on the street, I'll be in the crowd, and when you go to sleep, I'll be in your dreams. And then, when I'm good and ready, I'm gonna kill you, just like you killed my brother Deke."
It all came rushing back. There were three assassins. Spread out to place McCade and his two escorts in a
cross fire. He remembered how the middle one's amplified voice had echoed off the walls of the corridor. "Attention! A level-three licensed assassination will be carried out on Citizen Sam McCade five seconds from now." He remembered diving and rolling, snatching up a fallen weapon and swinging it left until the sight was filled by an assassin. A slightly older version of the driver. He remembered the incandescent holes his weapon punched through the wall before it came to bear and tore the man into pieces of bloody flesh. "Your brother did his best to kill me," McCade said flatly.
But they were wasted words. The driver was so centered on his own hate and need for revenge that he didn't even hear. "Just remember my face, shithead—cause it's the last thing you're ever gonna see." And with that the assassin opened the door and was gone.
Four
McCade opened the door of the speeding hover car and jumped. The ground came up fast, and slammed into his left shoulder. He rolled, crashing through the low bushes and down into the bottom of a drainage ditch. He gritted his teeth against the pain and forced himself to remain motionless. It was pitch-black and damned cold. A few seconds later a second hover car roared past showering him with blown gravel and dirt. "Talk about adding insult to injury," McCade mumbled to himself. But at least they'd fallen for it. Painfully he rolled over, made it to his knees, and then his feet. Now the second car's taillights were tiny red eyes way down the road. One, then the other, winked out as the car took a curve.
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