Imperial Bounty

by William C. Dietz

  "What?" Walker asked innocently, his cool green eyes laughing merrily.

  McCade looked around, wondering if his fellow prisoners were paying any attention to this somewhat bizarre conversation, but all the others were busy talking among themselves. "You know, appearing in someone's head like that. What is it, telepathy?"

  Walker shook his head. "Nope. Physical bodies aren't everything, Sam. There's lots of other ways to get around." He gestured vaguely. "If you read Terran religious history you'll find all sorts of theories. Some of 'em are even true." He laughed.

  "So you won't tell?"

  Walker shrugged. "I can't. Not in the amount of time we've got anyway. But it's not magic, it's a skill, something you learn. Some people are better at that sort of stuff than others. I'm among the worst."

  McCade lifted one eyebrow, and started to reply, but the crawler jerked to a halt and the guard said, "All right, worm meat, hit the ramp. This ain't no excursion bus." She ignored the prisoners' rude gestures, and motioned with her riot gun. The men obeyed.

  As McCade stood, Walker said, "I'll catch up with you later."

  "Terrific," McCade said dryly. "Be sure to bring your body."

  "If you insist," Walker countered, and vanished into the crowd as the men surged forward and down the ramp.

  As McCade emerged, he was almost blinded by the hot white glare from the powerful floodlights mounted on each crawler. Gradually his eyes began to adjust, and before long he could make out the other crawlers a short distance away, and the men which surrounded them.

  A few hundred yards to the north, there was a low hill with an ominous-looking hole in its side. McCade didn't need a road map to know where they were going. The hole practically screamed, "I'm dangerous, don't come in here." So naturally that's where they'd have to go.

  The land surrounding the hill faded off into soft darkness, interrupted here and there by rocky spires of denser black. After a brief moment of confusion, the guards herded the men into a single line, and then watched impassively as they shuffled by a large open box. "That's the tool line," Spigot said, appearing at his elbow. "Go ahead and I'll meet you at the other end."

  McCade followed the little man's suggestion. The line moved quickly, and a few minutes later a bored-looking guard handed him a tool, before ordering him to move along. McCade examined it as he left the other end of the line. It was a durasteel rod, about two inches thick, and four feet long. One end was pointed for use as a pry bar, and the other was flattened out and bent at a right angle, kind of like a pickax. It had seen hard use and showed it. Which made sense, because you had to shift a lot of rock, and then break through the solidified goo the male worms used for a sealer, before you could get at the eggs. Or at least that's what he'd heard. Not something you'd want to do with your bare hands. He tried swinging the tool around. Not a bad weapon in a pinch, which explained why they were collected at the end of each shift. Torb didn't want the prisoners digging their way out of the dome's underground prison, or taking a swing at the guards.

  "All right, meat, this ain't no damned picnic. Get your butts down there and find some eggs. Torb's offering five extra meal paks per egg, so keep your eyes open." The voice belonged to the same female guard who had been on the crawler. She wore her hair in a short crewcut, and her face was thin and bony. "If you don't," she cautioned, "you're all going on short rations. We're behind quota."

  Her speech was met with mixed jeers and grumbling. One voice said, "Yeah? So what else is new?" Another said, "If you're so hot for worm eggs, then get your skinny ass down there and find 'em yourself." But in spite of their brave talk, no one wanted to charge the guard's riot gun, so slowly but surely they shuffled their way toward the dark mouth of the cave.

  The path was quite worn, suggesting that they'd been coming here for quite some time. McCade wondered how long it took to exhaust a particular area. Or did the worms lay eggs so fast it didn't make any difference? But if that were true the eggs would be easier to find. Well, it made little difference to him. He was looking for something else, and making damn little progress. He'd spotted a couple of possibilities, but deep down in his gut he knew they weren't Alexander. No, so far his only lead was Walker. The man was strange, but apparently quite real, and seemed to know all about McCade's mission. How and why? McCade swiveled his head right and left, but Walker was nowhere to be seen. He'd promised to catch up. How would he manage that down in the tunnels? But that thought, and all others vanished as they entered the dark opening in the hillside.

  It was cold inside and McCade shivered. A slight breeze blew from somewhere up ahead, hinting at other openings, and bringing with it the smell of things long dead. McCade was one of the few who still hadn't turned on his headlamp. Now he did so, adding still another bobbing blob of light to the hundreds which already splashed the tunnel walls. Some of the men were grimly silent, others engaged in forced banter. "Sure hope we don't walk right up a worm's rear end," someone said. "Hell, you are a worm's rear end," another voice replied. "Nah, I've seen a worm's rear end, and it's better-lookin' than Frank is," a different voice said. There was general laughter which quickly died away as they entered a dimly lit open area. Countless tunnels branched off from all sides. The cavern apparently served the worms as a hub, much as the large subterranean vault under Torb's dome once had. Tilting his head back, McCade's light was quickly lost in the darkness above.

  "All right, meat, listen up. I'm only gonna give it to you once." McCade recognized Whitey's voice right away. By standing on a small rock, he could see over the men in front of him, and sure enough there was Whitey, seated at some sort of makeshift console, peering into a portable terminal. The wash of light from the VDT gave Whitey's skin a sickly green appearance. The neanderthal, plus a mean-looking black man in worn leathers, stood to either side of him, their riot guns resting in the crook of their arms. "All right. Mendez, tunnel four. Riker, tunnel two. Mugabe, tunnel twenty . . ."

  As Whitey read off their names and tunnel assignments, the men reluctantly trudged off, presumably heading for their particular tunnels. McCade had no idea how they knew which tunnel was which. "McCade, tunnel thirty-four."

  "Just follow me, Sam." It was Spigot. He had a water container in each hand but no tool. McCade followed, as Spigot wound his way around piles of fallen rock and pools of water, to the far side of the cavern. As they approached the dark mouth of a tunnel, McCade saw there was a small sign over the entrance, and sure enough, it read "34."

  "They're numbered one through one hundred and forty-six, starting back where the entrance meets the cavern, and moving from left to right," Spigot explained.

  He stepped into the tunnel, and motioned for McCade to follow. As McCade stepped inside, the walls seemed to close in on him, and suddenly he could feel the tons of rock pressing down on him. The passageway was barely six feet tall, and in places he had to stoop to pass. He knew it shouldn't bother him, after all he'd spent months at a time in some very small ships, but that was different somehow. Outside there had been the vast emptiness of space, not ton after ton of solid rock, and while that shouldn't make a difference, it did. Taking a deep breath, he forced the fear into the back of his mind, and followed Spigot's bobbing light.

  Suddenly he slipped and almost fell down. Tilting his head forward to throw some light on the tunnel's floor he saw some sort of glistening substance. "Hey, Spigot, what's this stuff?" he asked, pointing down.

  Spigot turned to see what McCade was referring to. "Worm slime," he answered matter-of-factly. "Some say they use it to lubricate their way through the tunnels." He smiled a toothless smile. "Others say it's how they shit. Personally I figure it don't make much difference."

  McCade nodded at Spigot's obvious wisdom, and they moved farther into the stygian blackness. Every now and then, Spigot would stop to explain a fine point of egg hunting, or tunnel survival. Once he pointed out a small hollowed-out space just off the tunnel, and declared that a prisoner named Hagiwara had found two prime eggs i
n it. Scooping up what looked like crumbled rock, he held it out for McCade's inspection. It had a slightly reddish hue. "That's what you look for, Sam. It's what their sealer looks like when it's all dried out. As you can see it's a different color than most of this rock."

  And about ten minutes later, Spigot stopped again, to point out the side tunnel in which Samms had died. McCade shuddered as Spigot described Samms' death, how the worm had taken him feet first, and how he'd screamed forever.

  "But," Spigot added cheerfully, "don't let it worry you, Sam. It actually improves your odds some. I can't remember the last time we lost two in a row in the same tunnel. Anyway, this is where I leave you. Gotta make my rounds. It's all virgin territory from here out. Keep an eye out for color changes in the rock and watch for worms. There's a buzzer built into your headlamp. When you hear it, head back." And with that the little man was gone.

  The next four hours were very strange. McCade had decided to approach the situation systematically. For the first four hours he would examine the right wall, and then he'd turn around, and spend the next four hours on the left wall. That should put him back at his starting point with only an hour or so left to kill. As he moved cautiously down the tunnel, there was an eerie silence, broken only by the sound of his own footsteps and the occasional dripping of water. Every now and then, he came to intersections where other worm tunnels crossed his, or passageways had been carved out of solid rock by a thousand years of running water. He ignored them. One tunnel was plenty, without adding the additional hazards of more. More than once he slipped in the worm slime, and almost fell. Twice, he spotted reddish places in the tunnel wall, and attacked them with his tool. But all he found was solid rock. Apparently there was some reddish rock around. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of darkness, the four hours were up. He had just turned around, and started back up the tunnel, when he heard someone call his name and saw a distant light. It bobbed closer and closer, until it was only feet away, casting long shadows down across Walker's face. He smiled.

  "We've got to stop meeting like this."

  McCade laughed in spite of himself. Then he said, "I suppose you used some more of whatever it is you do to find me."

  Walker grinned and shook his head. "Nope. It seemed a lot simpler just to peek in Whitey's holo tank. There you were, checking out tunnel number thirty four, just like an old pro. Whitey was very impressed."

  Of course. McCade wondered why he hadn't thought of it earlier. They'd be able to track all the prisoners via the beacons built into their headlamps. That way if someone decided to take a nap, or tried to take off, they'd know about it. Although there'd be damn little chance of that, since anyone who tried to escape would run out of oxygen a few hours later.

  Walker looked around, selected a likely looking boulder, and sat down. He reached into an inner pocket and pulled something out. He handed it to McCade as he said, "I understand you like these things, so here's a little present."

  As McCade accepted it he saw it was a cigar. "It may be a bit stale," Walker said apologetically. "I don't smoke. My predecessor did though, and left it behind."

  McCade thanked him, and eyed the other man thoughtfully as he puffed the cigar into life and took a seat opposite Walker. "Your predecessor?"

  "Yes," Walker answered. "We keep a one-man station on Worm. That's how we found out about the prince."

  McCade felt his pulse quicken as he blew out a thin stream of gray smoke. Maybe he was about to get somewhere. "No offense, but it would really help if you could start at the beginning. First of all, who's we?"

  Walker looked surprised. "You mean you don't know? I'm sorry, I guess I just assumed you did. I'm a Walker of The Way. That's why they call me Walker. Have you ever heard of us?"

  McCade shook his head.

  "Well, that's not too surprising," Walker said. "We avoid publicity. Simply stated we're a loosely knit group of sentients who follow The Way."

  "It's a religion then," McCade suggested.

  "No, not in the conventional sense," Walker replied. "For example, The Way isn't written down anywhere, it's discovered through the process of living and therefore accessible to all. We have no rites, no layers of priesthood to separate us from the truth, and we don't attempt to proselytize. In fact, we don't interfere with those around us unless asked, and even then there are severe limits on what we can do. That's why Torb and his guards tolerate me. Besides, I suspect he thinks I'm a useful figure, sort of a priest, or father confessor figure for the men. Frankly, I've encouraged them to view me that way . . . even though our organization doesn't have priests."

  McCade shrugged. "Sounds good to me . . . although I've got enough problems in the here and now, without worrying about the hereafter. You said you maintain a station on Worm? Whatever for? Especially if you're not trying to convert the prisoners."

  Walker smiled. "There was a need. I told you earlier that others have abilities far beyond my own. Well, some of them can read what they call the flux, which is simply the ebb and flow of cause and effect. I won't attempt to describe how they do it, because I don't understand it myself, but basically it amounts to a heightened form of meditation. Somehow they momentarily step out of their bodies and can see the complex patterns and relationships which flow out of all that we do. By studying these patterns they can predict trends and probabilities as to what may come. And sometimes, not often, but sometimes, we can use that knowledge for the greater good."

  McCade tapped the ash off his cigar, and resisted the temptation to ask how they knew what the "greater good" was. Historically mankind had used religion, and the concept of "the greater good," to perform unspeakable acts of cruelty and barbarism on each other, usually because their leaders got their own personal "good" all mixed up with everyone else's.

  Unaware of McCade's skepticism, Walker continued to speak. "Many years ago, one such read the flux, and discovered that Worm would eventually become a significant place in human events. So a call went out for volunteers to sit on Worm and wait. Each had the same orders. 'Watch, wait, help to whatever extent you can, but do nothing to change the status quo.'" Walker smiled. "That last order was necessary, for slavery offends all of us, and the temptation to interfere had been very strong. But to do so would change the flux, and that might erase our chance to accomplish an even greater good, so we have obeyed. And it's good that we did, because during my predecessor's stay the prince arrived, and suddenly we understood. Eventually the emperor would die, and if Alexander was allowed to die on Worm, his sister would inherit the throne. And given her beliefs, Claudia might start a war which could swallow all sentient life in this part of the universe."

  There was silence for a moment, and then McCade cleared his throat. "How did your predecessor know Alexander's true identity? He didn't announce it, did he?"

  Walker laughed. "No, he didn't. He arrived calling himself Idono H. Farigo, like 'I don't know how far I go.' Get it?"

  "Yeah, I've got it," McCade acknowledged dryly. "The prince is a thousand laughs. Then I suppose he did his 'I'm just one of the guys routine.'"

  Walker shrugged philosophically. "Alexander was determined to live through the experience without recourse to either his father's power or position. But his actions quickly separated him from the rest—just as yours did—and my predecessor gradually learned the truth."

  "Well," McCade said, watching his cigar smoke curl up through the light of Walker's lamp, "if it's any comfort, Naval Intelligence agrees with the conclusions of your flux readers. But since Naval Intelligence is usually wrong, that doesn't mean much. Nonetheless, just to be on the safe side, we might as well grab the prince and get out of here."

  Walker only smiled.

  McCade said, "Uh-oh, I've got a feeling I'm not going to like this."

  Walker looked at him sympathetically. "The prince has been gone for some time I'm afraid."

  McCade groaned. "Then why are you still here?"

  "That's simple," Walker responded earnestly. "I've b
een waiting for you."

  "Come on," McCade insisted. "I'll give you people credit for predicting something important would happen here on Worm, your presence seems to prove it, but there's no way you could've known I was coming."

  Walker smiled patiently. "Not you personally. I was waiting for someone like you. No offense, but if it wasn't you it would've been someone else. Just as the flux predicted Alexander's coming, it also foretold your arrival. That's how I know the Emperor is dead. Only his death would force those who oppose Claudia to find out if the prince is still alive, and if he is, to place him on the throne. You were picked for the mission, and the trail led you here."

  The way Walker put it, everything sounded so simple, and lacking any other way to explain the man's presence and knowledge, McCade was forced to believe him. At least until a better explanation came along.

  "So where is he?" McCade asked.

  "On a planet called the Wind World," Walker replied. "My organization has a monastery there. Alexander spent a great deal of time talking with my predecessor and, after a good deal of soul searching, asked permission to go there and study. His request was approved."