For a long moment there was silence in the bar, interrupted only by the groaning of a wounded man, and the whimpering of a female bystander. Then, as though coming out of a trance, the room gradually came back to life. Rico and Phil gave Mara some first aid, simultaneously chewing her out for scaring them half to death. Phil breathed a sigh of relief when he found the slug had only creased her side.
Meanwhile McCade methodically searched the room. Others' eyes met his, but saw only death, and slipped away to look at something else. Satisfied that the immediate danger was past, McCade felt the adrenaline start to ebb away, and cursed the twitching in his check.
Thirty minutes later the bodies had been hauled away, and the worst of the gore had been mopped up. At Mara's insistence they took seats at a circular table, and waited while a nervous old man placed drinks in front of them.
McCade watched Mara as he slowly rotated a cigar over his lighter. "Maybe you'd better tell us what this is all about."
She shook her head regretfully. "I'm really sorry you got caught in the middle of it. I didn't think they'd make a move this soon. The three in the center were Wind Riders; the rest were just local muscle, waiting for the next caravan out, and eager to make an easy credit."
"Who are these Wind Riders?" McCade asked.
"Basically they're bandits. The name stems from the powered hang gliders they use to attack settlers."
"Wait a minute," McCade interjected with a wave of his cigar, "I thought atmospheric flight was supposed to be impossible here."
"Dangerous and inefficient, yes," Mara replied, "but not impossible. Although long-distance point-to-point flight is so difficult, it's just about impossible. However, that still leaves localized flight outside the storm zones, or on the edge of them, and that's what the Wind Riders specialize in. They use ultra-light aircraft to make aerial attacks on Nuag caravans or settlements. They take great pride in their skill, and rightfully so, because they're very good at it."
McCade sighed. Great. Now in addition to Claudia, they had a bunch of flying bandits to contend with. He tapped his cigar in the general direction of the floor, and said, "OK, the Wind Riders are in the robbery business, but why are they so fond of you in particular?"
Mara shrugged, and then winced slightly as the motion pulled on her wound. "It's not me so much as it is the Walkers. As a group we oppose the Wind Riders, and encourage the settlers to do likewise. So, when I'm not running supply convoys in from Deadeye, I spend a lot of time helping the locals fortify their homes, and organize commandos."
Phil nodded proudly. "That would piss 'em off all right. No wonder they tried to take you out." Then he turned to McCade with an expression which seemed to say, "So there. You were wrong. The woman's a saint."
"Excuse me, noble ones . . ." The shaky voice belonged to the old man who had served them earlier. He'd watched the fight from the safety of a dark corner, and now he was scared, positive that the people sitting at this table must be even worse than the Wind Riders. His rheumy eyes darted this way and that, like frightened animals trying to escape a trap. "Is one of you noble gentlemen named Sam McCade?"
"Yup," Rico answered, waving his drink in McCade's general direction. "Sam's the ugly one."
Terrified that McCade might resent Rico's joke and take it out on him, the old man began to shake. "I . . . have a message for you . . . you, sir. It . . . It just came in from Deadeye. They picked it up from a ship . . . ship in orbit."
"Once in a while Deadeye can use high-speed transmission to squirt something through during a moment of calm," Mara explained. "They never know exactly when that moment will come, so they record the message, and if it's important enough, broadcast it for days at a time." She turned to the old man. "Take it easy, old one, we won't hurt you. What was the message?"
Relief washed over the old man's face as he fumbled a piece of fax out of his pocket, and read it in a quavering voice. "'An open message to the citizens of Wind World, from Her Royal Highness, Princess Claudia, Empress pro tem of the human empire. Greetings. It is my unpleasant duty to inform you that a fugitive from Imperial justice has taken shelter among you. Do not believe his lies. Aid him at your peril. He is guilty of murder, treason, and flight from Imperial justice. His name is Sam McCade. I will pay fifty thousand credits for his body—dead or alive—no questions asked.'"
Seventeen
The tiny grains of sand flew across the plain like miniature bullets. They stung McCade's cheeks and hands and splattered against his goggles. Sand was everywhere. It had worked its way past the seals of his windsuit, sifted through his underclothes, and was gradually filling his boots. For hours he'd labored in a windblown hell, where everything was gray-brown, and nothing came easily.
Standing only three feet tall, the wall represented hours of back-breaking work, and didn't deserve the title "fort." But a fort it would have to be when the Wind Riders attacked, as Mara assured them they would. At Mara's insistence they had left the questionable hospitality of Thirty Mile Inn, and resumed their journey. Before long the Wind Riders would hear of Claudia's offer and come after them. The opportunity to get Mara, plus the bounty for McCade, would make it irresistible.
Meanwhile, the fugitives decided to make as much progress as possible. It wasn't easy to convince the Nuags to move at night, and they didn't move fast, but every mile would put them that much closer to their goal and safety. So they left the inn hoping to reach the protection of the next way station before dawn.
They hadn't even come close. A storm came up slowing the Nuags to a crawl. All through the long hours of the night, the Nuags struggled against the wind. Even with their streamlined bodies and phenomenal strength, the big animals were unable to do more than about two miles an hour.
Finally, with dawn only hours away, Mara ordered a halt, pointing out that when the storm cleared, they'd be sitting ducks. And due to the Nuags' predictability, the bandits would know exactly where to find them. They'd simply cruise along the appropriate Nuag path from Deadeye to Chimehome, and bingo, there they'd be, easy targets.
Soon the air would become warmer, creating thermals, and helping the Wind Riders into the air. Shortly thereafter the bandits would locate their prey.
Suddenly Phil appeared at McCade's side, touching his arm, and pointing to the right. Turning, he saw Mara as a black silhouette against the gray dawn. Beneath her feet was the rounded shape of a Nuag. Most of the sound was whipped away by the wind, so McCade heard only a dull thump as she fired Rico's heavy slug gun. The animal's legs collapsed and the poor beast slumped to the ground. It was the last. In spite of his distaste for the animals, McCade couldn't help but feel sorry for them, and for Mara. Tears had streamed down her face as she killed the first two. The Wind Riders would have killed them anyway, and by positioning them evenly around the perimeter of their makeshift fort, she'd at least put their bodies to good use.
The bandits made it a practice to kill Nuags first. Doing so prevented any possibility of escape, immobilized their loot, and demoralized their opponents all in one easy step. Besides, they couldn't carry the animals on their ultra-light aircraft. Even if they could, the Nuags refused to deviate from their ancestral paths and were therefore useless to the bandits.
McCade slumped down in the shelter of the stone wall. By connecting the three Nuags it created a large triangle. Its main purpose was to provide cover for anyone moving between the three strongpoints, and for use in the case of a ground attack. According to Mara, the Wind Riders often ran short on fuel, forcing them to land and attack on foot.
Reaching inside his windsuit, McCade found a cigar, and used the protection of the rock wall to light it. Moments later Mara and Phil joined him.
"You might as well grab some shut-eye, Sam. They won't be coming until the storm's over, so jump in the nearest gondola and get some rest.
There's enough juice left in the storage cells to keep it warm for a while. Rico volunteered to take the first watch."
"How 'bout you two?"
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Mara smiled while Phil tried to look innocent. "We're going to talk for a while . . . and then we'll get some sleep too."
McCade nodded and got to his feet. More power to them. Grab a little happiness when you can. Maybe Mara was reacting to Pollard's death . . . and maybe not. Either way it was none of his business.
A few minutes later he'd managed to pry up a section of Nuag shell and was stretched out in a nice warm gondola under several tons of dead Nuag. It seemed sleeping under dead bodies was getting to be a habit. Sara wouldn't approve. As he drifted off to sleep, he held a picture of her in his mind, and wondered if he'd ever see her again.
He tried to lose himself in total darkness, but found he couldn't. A jumbled montage of thoughts and pictures floated by. A strange face kept inserting itself between them. This had happened once before, but he couldn't remember why, or when. It was a woman's face, pleasant, but somehow concerned. She felt good. Like peace and warmth and comfort. He liked her. She was talking, but he couldn't make out what she was saying.
"I can't hear you," he shouted, his words echoing endlessly back.
She frowned. Her lips moved once more, and this time there was sound, but it was slow and distorted, like a tape playing at half speed.
"Faster," he shouted. "I can't understand you!"
"How's this?" she asked, her voice soft and melodic.
"Much better," McCade sighed, feeling the tension flow away.
"Good," she replied. "By the way, I know the answer to your question."
"I'm glad," McCade said happily. "What was the question?"
"You wondered if you'd ever see her again," the woman replied patiently.
"I did? Oh, yes, I did." McCade thought of Sara and suddenly a lump of fear filled his gut. What if the answer was no?
"Shall I tell you what I see in the flux?" the woman asked.
"Thanks, but no thanks," McCade replied. "I couldn't stand it if the answer was no."
"Very wise," the woman said, nodding her agreement. "Now there is something you must remember when you awake."
"Something I must remember," McCade agreed stupidly.
"Yes," she said. "There will be a fight."
"A fight," McCade agreed.
"Do not kill the blue one."
"No," McCade said, "I won't kill the blue one . . .. What blue one?"
But she was gone, leaving only darkness in her place. "What blue one?" McCade demanded, feeling silly when he realized he was sitting upright inside the gondola talking to himself.
Having people messing around with your dreams can be a bit unnerving, and having dealt with Walker, scratch that, Pollard, he felt sure that someone new had just gone for a stroll through his head. He shrugged and glanced at his wrist term. It was time to relieve Rico. He opened the door to the gondola and crawled out into the morning light.
Jubal stepped out of the shabby dome and finished zipping up his bulky flight suit. It seemed to get tighter every time he put it on. He wasn't tall, and he'd always been beefy, only now some of the beef was turning to lard. "Still," he assured himself, "there's plenty of muscle under the fat, and my reactions are still good."
He closed the final zipper and sniffed the morning breeze. It smelled like easy pickings. Thanks to Princess Claudia, there was a rich prize out there, just waiting to be claimed. Having the Emperor's daughter drop in out of nowhere was a bit weird, but the timing couldn't have been better. The strategy meeting the night before had almost turned into a disaster. He'd barely gaveled the meeting to order when word arrived from Thirty Mile Inn that the bitch Mara had not only escaped, she'd completely wiped out the team he'd sent to kill her as well. Damned embarrassing, and potentially dangerous, when there were scumbags like Yako around just waiting for a sign of weakness. Oh, how that scrawny little runt would like to take over leadership of the Wind Riders! And he might too—if there were any more disasters like the Thirty Mile Inn episode. Stupid buggers.
As Jubal strolled between the low domes, skirting the junk and piles of garbage, a big smile creased his puffy, unshaven face. Children scurried to get out of his way, their parents shouted greetings, and he lifted a noble hand in reply. "Maybe we aren't rich," he told himself, "but we're a damned sight better off than most of the dirt-scratching settlers." Yes, all things considered, the Wind Riders had prospered under his leadership. Under his predecessor, ol' one-eyed Pete, they'd been living in caves. He grinned wolfishly. It was too bad the way ol' Pete just disappeared like that. He wouldn't let the same thing happen to him.
As Jubal approached the flight line, Yako was already sitting in the seat of his tiny aircraft, running a pre-flight check. Where Jubal was beefy, Yako was wire-thin, having both a body and a personality like a ferret. As Jubal approached, Yako watched him out of the corner of his eye, while pretending to check out the twin energy weapons mounted on either side of the cockpit.
"Good morning, Yako," Jubal said cheerfully as he passed. "Should be a good day for you youngsters to gain some experience."
Yako knew the older man was needling him, and it made him mad, but he managed to swallow his pride and smile. "Good morning, Jubal. I hope you're right."
The other man waved nonchalantly and continued on his way.
Good luck on getting your fat ass off the ground, Yako thought after him.
Two-faced bastard, Jubal thought to himself as he nodded to his ground crew and heaved himself into the seat. There was a provision for a rear seat, but at the moment the space was occupied by a reserve fuel tank. Like all their aircraft, Jubal's was little more than an alloy frame partially covered with thin duraplast. The cockpit was completely open. Above it, the wing itself was surprisingly long, and mounted a tiny engine. The engine was used primarily for gaining altitude and for flying against the prevailing wind. When possible the engine was shut off, and the plane was flown like a glider, explaining its considerable wingspan, and the lightweight construction.
Unlike many of the Wind Riders Jubal found no joy in gliding. Given the choice he would have used his engine constantly. Unfortunately that wasn't possible. Since the Wind World didn't have any oil reserves, all petrochemicals had to be imported, and that made gasoline a very valuable commodity indeed. Outside of expensive anti-grav technology, gasoline engines were the only thing light enough to do the job.
Having completed his perfunctory pre-flight check, Jubal used a thick finger to stab the starter button, and smiled his satisfaction as the engine stuttered into life. Just one of the many benefits of leadership. His plane always got the best maintenance. Glancing to the left and right, he saw all five members of his wing were ready. They were older men like him, veterans of many raids, and getting a bit long of tooth. Nonetheless he preferred them to the greenies in Yako's wing. At least you knew what they'd do when the poop hit the fan. They weren't in any particular formation. He didn't go in for all that precision crap like Yako and his flying fruitcakes. "Get your ass in the air and the job done." That was Jubal's motto.
Yako watched Jubal's wing stagger into the air with open contempt. The whole bunch of them should be in a museum somewhere. They'd simply been at it too long. Gone were the days of easy pickings. Thanks to the Walkers the settlers had started to fight back. Hell, they'd started using surface to air missiles for God's sake! When was Jubal going to wake up and see that the old ways weren't good enough anymore? When the wind stops blowing, that's when.
Glancing right and left, Yako saw his own wing was ready to go. There were three ultra lights to either side, each perfectly aligned with his own, each awaiting his command. His pilots were young, eager, and impatient to make their mark. Yako chinned over to his wing frequency. "All right, let's show the old farts how to do it right."
All seven pilots revved their tiny engines, the sounds merging into a single high-pitched scream. "Hold . . . hold . . . get ready . . . now!" As each pilot released their brakes, the tiny planes surged forward, springing into the air a few feet later.
Suddenly Jubal
's cheerful voice crackled over Yako's headset. "Tally ho! Last one there's a Nuag's rear end!"
Sure, now that you've got a five-minute head start, Yako thought to himself, putting his plane into a climbing turn. The old clown was obviously in a good mood. And why not? The miserable bastard was about to wiggle out of the trap he'd put himself in. Assuming things went well, they'd punch Mara's ticket, and pick up a nice little bonus from Princess Claudia in the bargain. A success like that could keep Jubal in the driver's seat for some time to come. It was a depressing thought.
The distant planes sounded like angry insects. Even standing on top of a dead Nuag, McCade still couldn't see them yet. Nonetheless, he checked the energy rifle Mara had given him. The power Pak registered a full charge, plus he had a pak in reserve. Wind Worlders favored energy weapons because they were equally effective in all kinds of weather. Heavy winds can play hell with a projectile, but they don't affect an energy beam in the least. Phil and Rico had energy rifles too and were dug in near the other Nuags. Between the three of them they hoped to catch the Wind Riders in a cross fire.
Imperial Bounty Page 20
