Imperial Bounty

by William C. Dietz

  "I did like you told me, and they're waiting for you, Sam," Spigot said, nodding toward the lift tube.

  "Thanks, Spigot," McCade replied. "You've been a big help. See you in . . . how many hours does it take this crudball to rotate anyway?"

  "About twenty."

  "OK, see you in twenty hours then." With that McCade walked over, and presented himself to Whitey. Taking no chances, the albino had armed himself with an ugly-looking riot gun, and his nasty smile made it clear he'd love an excuse to use it.

  "So, meat, it didn't take you long to get your ass in trouble, did it? Well, get in, Torb wants to see you." McCade noticed that in spite of Whitey's tough talk, both he and the hulking neanderthal he'd brought with him kept their distance. Apparently anyone who could take out Animal deserved a certain amount of respect. McCade grinned as he stepped into the tube.

  "You know, Whitey, it doesn't seem possible, but I'd swear you're even uglier now than you were six hours ago. What is it . . . some sort of makeup?"

  The neanderthal took a moment to process this, and then broke into deep grunting laughter. Whitey scowled at him and said, "Shut up, stupid. That goes for you too, meat. You're in enough trouble as it is."

  McCade smiled, and they finished the ride in silence. When the door hissed open, Whitey motioned McCade out first. Together they marched across the center of the dome toward a door on the far side. Now it was dark outside and therefore cooler inside. When they reached the door Whitey gave a nod of approval, so McCade palmed it, and stepped through when it slid open.

  He found himself in a surprisingly nice office. Though not fancy, it was clean and well furnished. Torb dominated the room. He was seated behind a large metal desk, his huge boots propped up on its bare surface. From what McCade could see he was surprisingly calm. Or at least that's the way it seemed, though with all that scar tissue it was hard to tell. Torb's ruby eye remained motionless, reflecting light, while his good eye looked McCade up and down. A full minute passed before he spoke.

  "So, Animal's dead. Well, you certainly didn't waste any time." He paused reflectively, like a judge considering the merits of a difficult case. "On the one hand that really pisses me off, cause we're always short of meat, but on the other hand I kinda like it, cause that's the way I'd do it myself. My guess is you outsmarted him, which sure as hell didn't take much, and now you're king o' the heap." Suddenly Torb's single eye locked onto McCade like a tractor beam. "Well, that's just fine . . . but you'd better remember that it's my heap that you're king of . . . and when I say 'shit,' you'd better ask 'how high.' Do you hear me, meat?"

  McCade nodded. "Loud and clear."

  Torb nodded and seemed to relax a bit. "Good. You might be interested to know that the Animal and me had us a little understanding. He ran things down there, and I ran 'em up here. And between the two of us, we never let the meat get outta line. I ain't got time for riots and that kinda crap. So you run it the same way, and you can pick up where Animal left off. You know what this is?" Torb threw a rectangle of plastic on the top of his desk. McCade picked it up and looked at it.

  "It's an account card drawn on Terra's Imperial Bank," McCade said, handing the card back.

  Torb nodded approvingly. "That's right, meat. And there's about thirty thousand credits stashed in there that used to belong to Animal. You keep 'em in line and it's yours. Plus a tenth of one percent of what they find. That's how Animal made his. So whadaya say?"

  "I'd say you can count on a very cooperative labor force," McCade answered with a grin.

  Torb got up, came around to the other side of his desk, and brought his face within an inch of McCade's. Besides being ugly he had very bad breath. McCade struggled not to back away, and only barely succeeded. "Good," Torb said. "Now I'm gonna have Whitey take you outside and leave you for one rotation. And while you're out there . . . suckin' what little air there is . . . sweatin' . . . and wishin' to God you were dead, remember this: hit 'em, kick 'em, but don't ever kill 'em. You got it?"

  "I've got it," McCade answered, willing to agree to anything that would put some distance between him and Torb's breath.

  "Take him away," Torb told Whitey, and minutes later McCade was being marched out of the dome.

  So when the big tracked carriers rumbled out into the night, Spigot and all the rest crowded over to see where McCade had been staked out. Whitey had an eye for the dramatic, and had therefore chosen a slight rise, and even rigged a battery-powered light to ensure a good view. Although his ankles and wrists were chained to deeply driven stakes, McCade managed to wave one hand, and a cheer went up from the carriers. For the moment he was their hero.

  As the crawlers disappeared over a rise, and the sound of their engines slowly dwindled away to nothing, McCade set to work testing his chains, and the stakes they were connected to. They didn't budge an inch. But his efforts used a lot of oxygen, and all of McCade's attention was soon focused on the simple act of breathing, and the searing pain which went with it.

  It took half an hour to get rid of the pain, and achieve some sort of equilibrium. He found that by remaining absolutely motionless, and breathing slow deep breaths, he could just barely take in enough oxygen. After that, it wasn't too unpleasant. The night was cool, but not cold, and he even managed a few short naps. Twice he was awakened by a small animal that scurried over him, dashing this way and that in search of food.

  And the crew woke him a third time, as they returned from the tunnels, and yelled their encouragement.

  Once again McCade waved a hand, and again they cheered, though less enthusiastically now that they were tired. And no matter how hard they tried to forget, many of them couldn't rid themselves of Samms' screams. Somehow a male worm had sensed him, and trapped him against a rockfall. The debris had completely blocked the tunnel, and Samms died trying to remove tons of fallen rock with his bare hands. Those working nearby tunnels had been forced to listen to his screams for a full five minutes. The worm had slowly ingested him, feet first, chewing carefully, savoring each milligram of calcium.

  Not long after the crawlers had disappeared into the dome, Worm's sun poked its orange-yellow head over the far horizon, spearing McCade with its first rays. It was still cool at first, but as time passed he began to sweat, and before long trickles of precious moisture were vanishing into the dirt around him. One by one, the hours slowly dragged by, the sun doing its best to burn its way through the thin tissue of his eyelids, while he turned this way and that trying to escape. But there was no escape. Whichever way he turned the sun was there, anticipating his every move, trying to beat him into submission.

  Eventually he began to slip in and out of consciousness. Pieces of his life seemed to come and go, an endless parade of old friends, enemies, and jumbled events. McCade allowed himself to drift with the flow, preferring it to reality, and hoping that when he came to, the torture would be over. Eventually he began to enjoy the visions, and became annoyed when a strange face appeared. It was a man's face, young and rather pleasant. But he'd never seen it before, and tried to get rid of it, preferring instead the jumbled flow of familiar people and places which had preceded it. But in spite of his efforts the face always came back. Cool green eyes regarded him with amusement, as though aware of his efforts, yet not offended by them.

  Frustrated, McCade decided on direct confrontation. "OK, who the hell are you and what are you doing in my hallucinations? I don't remember meeting anyone like you."

  The face smiled. "I'm the one they call Walker, and you're quite correct, we've never met."

  "OK," McCade responded, doing his best to sound reasonable, "then why now? I'm kind of busy at the moment, and no offense, but you aren't as entertaining as some of my other hallucinations."

  Walker laughed. "Sorry about that, but I thought that perhaps I could help, and besides, what makes you think I'm a hallucination?"

  McCade considered that for a moment. It was hard to think without becoming conscious, and he wanted to avoid that at all costs. Per
haps if he humored this hallucination it would go away and be replaced by something more interesting, like naked women for example. McCade tried to grin. "Well, if you're not a hallucination, then you're damned stupid to be hanging around out here in the sun. Hey, if you want to help, how about some O2 and water?"

  Walker shook his head sadly. "Sorry, Sam, I wish I could, but that's not the kind of help I can offer."

  "Terrific," McCade replied sarcastically. "So what kind of help can you offer?"

  The other man grinned. "I thought you'd never ask. I can help you find the one you're looking for."

  Suddenly McCade was completely conscious. The sun still seared his face, but now it was past its zenith, and already dipping toward the west. In a few hours it would set, and the torture would be over. McCade forced himself to look around. He saw nothing but hot emptiness. He felt strangely disappointed. Walker had seemed very real somehow, but apparently he was just another hallucination. Not that hallucinations were bad. In fact they beat the hell out of reality. He tried to slip into the half-conscious state he'd been in before, but found he couldn't.

  So he just lay there, sweating out the minutes and hours until the sun finally set and twinkling stars filled the sky. As he watched them pop out one after another, he wondered if Rico and Phil were out there somewhere, drinking his booze, and breathing his nice clean oxygen. Silly question. Of course they were. The bastards.

  By the time Whitey and the neanderthal came to release him, McCade was somehow floating above the pain and discomfort. It seemed as though he was a sponge which had absorbed all the pain and discomfort it could hold, and was therefore impervious to more. He even managed a grin and a croaked greeting. "Well, if it isn't Snow White and one of the seven dwarfs. It's amazing what crawls out at night."

  Much to his amazement they didn't even hit him. They just looked at each other and shook their heads in amazement. First Whitey lifted his head and gave him a tiny sip of water. It was cold and tasted better than the finest wine. Then the neanderthal put a mask over his face, and his grateful lungs sucked in pure sweet oxygen. First it seemed to revive him, then it seemed to let him go, dropping him into a deep dreamless sleep.

  "Wake up, Sam. Damnit, we gotta eat and go to work." Slowly McCade swam up out of comfortable darkness to feel a body which ached all over, and see a toothless grin which could only belong to Spigot. The little man waved a warm meal pak under his nose, and McCade felt an answering growl from his stomach.

  Slowly he sat up, accepted the meal pak, and then leaned against a rock. He dimly remembered coming to, for short periods of time, someone holding water to his parched lips, and then more blissful sleep.

  "Welcome back, boss," a voice said. "We missed ya." Now he saw there was a whole circle of faces beyond Spigot's. There was general laughter and someone said, "Let him eat. The poor bastard's about to meet the worms . . . and they like 'em fat and sassy." There was more laughter, and the crowd moved away.

  McCade peeled the cover of the meal pak back, and dug in. For once the bland stuff actually tasted good. Between mouthfuls McCade said, "Thanks, Spigot, I owe you. How long was I out?"

  "A full rotation," the little man answered, "and that's all Torb allows. That's why I had to wake you up."

  McCade nodded. "And I certainly wouldn't want to disappoint old Torb. Did you know that bastard and Animal were working together to keep you guys in line?"

  Spigot shrugged. "I didn't know, but it doesn't surprise me. Did he offer you the same deal?"

  McCade finished off the meal pak and threw it toward a pile of empties. "Yup, one tenth of one percent of whatever you guys find."

  Spigot gave a low whistle. "You'd better keep that under your hat, Sam, the guys wouldn't like it."

  "I will for the moment," McCade agreed. "And then we'll see what the future brings. Meanwhile, Spigot old friend, an excellent meal like that calls for a good smoke. Do you indulge?"

  "I used to, Sam," Spigot said piously, "but my stay on Worm has cured me of the nasty habit."

  "Ah," McCade said understandingly. "Well, it happens that I have a secret stash of cigars, and if you'd be so kind as to go get one for me, I would be happy to help you reinitiate the disgusting habit."

  Spigot's eyes lit up. "Really? I swear I won't tell anyone where they are."

  "And I believe you," McCade assured him. The little man listened carefully as McCade explained where the cigars were hidden, and then scurried away to get them. A few minutes later he was back, cigars in hand. Together they puffed the cigars into life, and then settled back to enjoy them. They were still smoking when the klaxon sounded again, and the men gathered in front of the lift tube.

  There were quite a few envious looks as Spigot strutted importantly back and forth, emitting puffs of smoke like a runaway steam locomotive. But no one laughed when he got dizzy and almost fell down. Spigot was under McCade's protection, and therefore immune to the ribbing he'd once accepted as a matter of course. McCade didn't care for the dictatorial aspects of the situation, but he knew they were a natural outgrowth of the conditions the men lived under, and just might come in handy. So he did his best to play the part, waving his cigar expansively, and cracking jokes until the lift tube hissed open.

  It took a number of trips for the lift to transport all of them to the surface. Once there, they stood in a sullen mob, each thinking about what lay ahead, each dealing with it in their own way. McCade did his best to scan their faces, and while there were a few possibles, none provided a perfect match with Alexander's latest looks.

  Then the carriers coughed into life, and the guards herded them aboard. McCade crushed his cigar butt under a boot, and then followed the crowd as they moved up a ramp, and into one of the big tracked vehicles. Inside there were hard bench seats, one along each side, and one down the middle. McCade took a seat on the right side, and a moment later Spigot plopped down beside him. The little man had two five-gallon water containers with him. Each was equipped with a spigot and a cup on a string. "It's why they call me Spigot," the little man whispered cheerfully. "I bring the water. And that means I don't have to explore any tunnels by myself."

  "Good thinking, Spigot," McCade said. And it was. Somehow he'd managed to stay alive for twelve years under appalling conditions.

  McCade's thoughts were interrupted as two more prisoners appeared, each carrying a box. One passed out oxygen canisters with nostril plugs, while the other handed out headlamps. McCade watched the others as they hooked the oxygen canister to the back of their belts, and brought the small plastic hose up and over one shoulder. He did the same. "Don't turn on your O2 till we're outside," Spigot advised. "You want all the margin you can get."

  McCade nodded his agreement, and pulled the headlamp's elastic band down over his head. "Test it," Spigot suggested. "If the bastards forget to recharge one, you're shit out of luck."

  McCade switched it on and off and found that it worked perfectly.

  "Good," Spigot said approvingly. "Now whatever you do . . . don't lose it. There's a locater beacon built into the light. That way they can find you if you get lost or trapped by a rockfall."

  "Now that's a cheerful thought," McCade said. "I notice the only way to get rid of the beacon is to throw away the light."

  Spigot gave him a toothless grin. "You're catching on, Sam."

  A few moments later, the vehicle jerked into motion, and headed outside. As the doors of the dome slid shut behind them, the men activated their oxygen canisters, and slipped in their nostril plugs. McCade did likewise. After a full rotation outside without it, the trickle of O2 was quite comforting.

  The crawler turned this way and that, following a twisted course between the huge spires of dark rock which punched their way up through the planet's skin. But they hadn't gone far when the vehicle suddenly slowed and came to a halt. The men all looked at the guard, but she pressed on her earplug for a second, and then shook her head. The ramp went down with a whine of hydraulics and then came right back up. A
man came with it. McCade couldn't see what he looked like in the dim half light of the vehicle's interior, but whoever he was, he belonged somehow, because everyone greeted him as he moved down the aisle. Except the guards. They seemed to ignore him. So the man wasn't part of Torb's organization. Then why had they stopped for him?

  McCade watched with interest as he felt the crawler jerk into motion, and the man continued to move up the aisle, stopping every now and then to talk with one of the men. Finally he dropped onto the center seat across from McCade, and a slash of light fell across his face. Their eyes made contact, and suddenly McCade found himself looking at a hallucination. The man smiled and stuck out his hand. "You remember me, I hope? The name's Walker. It's good to see you again, Sam."

  Twelve

  McCade shook Walker's extended hand. The other man had a firm grip, kind of surprising in a hallucination, but then McCade had very little experience in such matters. "And it's good to see you too," McCade said wryly, "or at least I assume it is. How do you do that?"