But that was later. McCade would eventually learn that many others had worn the bracelet after the great Ilwik’s death, giving it knowledge of recent times, knowledge it had passed along to him.
In the great Ilwik’s day the Il Ronnian people had only recently graduated from a hunting-gathering society organized along tribal lines to a slightly more sophisticated social structure, incorporating some rudimentary specialization, but still dependent on subsistence farming.
Among the areas of emerging specialization were farming, metal working, and the priesthood. So it was that the great Ilwik shunned worldly ways and chose to live in a cave that the holy fluid had carved from solid rock eons before.
By late afternoon each day the sun would disappear beyond the rim of the canyon, throwing dark shadows into the valley below. As the heat gradually died away, he’d come forth to meditate, and as their first work came to an end, his brethren would join him. They would arrive by ones and twos, find seats, and wait to receive what he had to give.
Sometimes he spoke, telling them what he knew, and sometimes he remained silent, losing himself in the cosmic flow, inviting them to feel that which can’t be said.
And then as the sun began to set, and second work began, they would seek his blessing. Sometimes a blessing was his to give, and he would heal the sick, and sometimes his touch brought only comfort. Either way his brethren gave thanks, paid him honor, and left the gifts of life.
In the fourth dream they killed him. Jealous of his powers his fellow Ilwiks denounced him and presided over his death. They stripped the flesh from his body inch by bloody inch, chanting their empty prayers and capturing his tears in a vial of beautiful crystal. Over and over they ordered him to recant his teachings, and over and over he refused.
So when death finally came it was a release, a gift from God that he gladly accepted. It was from that death that McCade had come, his body drenched with sweat, nerves still tingling from the pain.
Were the dreams true? Was he reliving the actual experiences of an Il Ronnian messiah? It seemed hard to believe, but the dreams were too real, too vivid, to be easily dismissed.
And what about the bracelet? Was it the same one the Il Ronnian teacher had worn? Perhaps so, because the Il Ronn had sent the bracelet and instructed that it be worn.
They’d neglected to mention that once he put the bracelet on, it wouldn’t come off. He tried everything short of a cutting torch, and no matter what he did, the bracelet wouldn’t budge.
Logic told him the bracelet was an artifact, an ancient device left behind by the same race who had extracted crystals from the mines of Molaria and left enigmatic ruins on a dozen other planets. If so, it might be some sort of recording device, capable of storing memories and transferring them to someone else. Perhaps the messiah had picked the bracelet up, worn it, and in so doing unknowingly recorded his life for others to share.
That would explain the dreams, but it wouldn’t explain their content. Why those particular dreams in that particular order? Surely an ancient machine would transfer memories serially, or even randomly, but this one did neither. There were huge chunks of time missing between the dreams, yet each dream did an excellent job of summarizing a period in the Ilwik’s life, and taken together they told his entire life story. Surely that was no accident.
McCade had even wondered if the bracelet was alive, a sentient being of some kind, with its own hidden motives. While he’d never heard of such a life form, it could still exist. After all, he’d encountered a Treel once and seen it take the shape of a woman. But Naval Intelligence had run the bracelet through every test known to man and pronounced it inert.
Of course, what did they know? They were safe and sound on Terra, while he ran around Il Ronnian space with a bracelet that wouldn’t come off, and someone else’s memories doing a tap dance in his head. Assholes.
McCade stood, took two pain tabs, and stepped into the fresher. The hot shower felt good. He blew himself dry and headed for the tiny lounge. He didn’t bother to dress since there was no one else on board.
As McCade plopped into a chair he felt something poke him in the right buttock. Reaching down between the cushions, he pulled out one of Molly’s toys. A model of Pegasus that Phil had made for her.
The toy had a slim, fast look like the ship herself. A onetime navy scout converted to a yacht. He placed it on a shelf and felt a magnet lock it into place.
He wondered where Sara and Molly were, and what they were doing. Swanson-Pierce had promised to take them home, so maybe they were on Alice by now, preparing for another hard winter. He didn’t love Alice the way Sara did, but she lived there and that made it home.
And that’s why he’d find the Vial of Tears and return it to the Il Ronn. Not for the Empire, not for Swanson-Pierce, but for Sara. For his family. Because if he didn’t, the Il Ronnians would come looking for it, and the first battles would be fought out along the rim, over and around planets like his.
And according to Swanson-Pierce, the Il Ronn stood a good chance of winning. Years of budget cutbacks had weakened the Empire’s navy, and it would take time to gather what ships there were and shape them into a cohesive force.
So it was his job to find the vial and get it back. And barring that, he’d use up as much time as possible, time the Empire would use to prepare.
Getting the vial back from the pirates would be hard enough, but the Il Ronnians had imposed some conditions as well.
Only one human would be allowed to search for the vial, and first that human must pass the initiations of the Ilwig, or warrior-priest. None other could be allowed to find and touch the sacred relic. It was a frustrating waste of time, but, like it or not, one he’d have to accept.
That was the bad news. The good news was his bounty, the price the Imperial Government had agreed to pay for his services.
The truth was that he’d have done it for free, but they didn’t know that, and he felt honor bound to gouge them if he could. It was his form of revenge, his way of getting back at them for the court martial and the years of hardship that followed.
That’s why he’d specified five million credits, more money than he could spend, but the exact price of the new hospital Sara wanted. For years the citizens of Alice had been in need of a good medical facility and now they’d have it.
He lit a cigar and activated a viewscreen. What he saw was a computer simulation of what the stars would look like if he and Pegasus were travelling in normal space. Real or not they were pretty, glittering like diamonds thrown on black velvet, each one an unfathomable mystery.
Four
Hundreds of red, yellow, and green eyes stared out at McCade from their electronic lairs. He blew smoke at them and waited for something to happen. Pegasus was about to make a hyperspace jump, and as usual, there was little for him to do but wait. Pegasus would leave hyperspace in a few moments at the precise point specified by the Il Ronnians.
While routine in toward the center of the human empire, hyperspace jumps were a little more exciting when you were deep inside Il Ronnian space and dependent on their coordinates. What if they’d given him the coordinates for a sun? Or a planet? He’d be dead, that’s what.
But why bother? There’re lots of easier ways to kill a single human.
Nonetheless there was a rock in his gut as the ship’s computer made the shift to normal space. The viewscreens shimmered as they switched from simulated to actual input. He felt slightly nauseated but the sensation quickly passed.
Suddenly a host of proximity alarms went off. Someone was waiting for him. A lot of someones. It looked like half the Il Ronnian fleet had turned out to greet him. Battleships, cruisers, destroyers, and hundreds of interceptors all swarmed around his tiny ship.
The Il Ronn had been afraid that the treacherous humans might send an entire fleet instead of a single ship. And McCade couldn’t blame them. After all, why trust the same folks who ripped you off in the first place?
The dulcet
tones of the ship’s computer suddenly flooded the control room. It had analyzed the situation and given itself permission to speak.“Due to this ship’s current tactical situation, the chances of a successful engagement are zero. Under these conditions any decision to engage will nullify the hull warranty and the manufacturer’s responsibility to honor it. If you prefer suicide to surrender, I will dump the ship’s atmosphere.”
“Gee thanks,” McCade replied dryly. “But in this case I think I’ll surrender. Now shut up.”
Clearly disappointed, the computer snapped, “Have it your way,” and returned to its regular duties.
The com set chimed and McCade flicked it on. “Sam McCade.”
As the com set came to life McCade found himself face to face with an Il Ronnian naval officer. Although he’d dealt with Il Ronnians before, including a rather unpleasant naval commander named Reez, it was still a shock.
Like all Il Ronnians this one looked like the traditional human image of the “Devil.” The alien’s eyes were almost invisible under a craggy brow, long pointy ears lay flat against his head, and his leathery skin had a slightly reddish hue. He even had a long tail with a triangular appendage on the end. And McCade knew that down below the range of the vid pickup, there would be two cloven hooves. Everything in fact except horns.
The similarity between Il Ronnian physiology and the traditional Judeo-Christian image of evil had long been a matter for academic debate. Some scholars thought the Il Ronnians’ devillike appearance could account for the instant enmity that had sprung up between the two races at first contact. They suggested that after a thousand years of negative conditioning humans weren’t capable of liking a race that resembled the devil.
This argument was very popular with those who opposed war with the Il Ronn.
Meanwhile, other scholars disagreed. They maintained that ancient depictions of the devil were based on early visits to Earth by Il Ronnian explorers. Explorers so brutal that their very appearance had come to symbolize evil.
They pointed out that the Il Ronnians had a stardrive long before man, were known to use brutal tactics on less advanced races, and were evil.
As a result this second group of scholars felt war was inevitable, and felt the human race might as well get it over with.
Whatever the truth of the matter this Il Ronnian seemed no friendlier than the others McCade had met. His tail twitched back and forth behind his head and he wore a thin-lipped scowl. He spoke flawless Standard like most Il Ronnians of his rank. “I am Star Sept Sector Commander Ceel. You will kill your drives and allow us to take you aboard.”
McCade tried for a nonchalant smile. “Valet parking, how thoughtful.”
Ceel’s scowl deepened and the com set dumped to black.
McCade smiled as he killed his drives. Tractor beams lashed out shortly thereafter to lock Pegasus in a powerful embrace and pull her toward a huge battleship.
The ship was miles long and roughly triangular in shape. Designed for travel in deep space, it had none of the aerodynamic smoothness common to smaller ships. An endless array of weapons blisters, solar collectors, cooling fins, and communications antennas covered almost every square inch of the ship’s hull. Pegasus seemed like a toy as she was pulled into an enormous launching bay and gently lowered into an empty berth.
The outer hatch closed and a thin atmosphere was pumped into the launching bay. This was a sign of his importance, although McCade didn’t realize it.
The bay was kept unpressurized most of the time for the convenience of the shuttles and interceptors that constantly came and went. But when important visitors came aboard it was customary to pressurize the bay, saving them the discomfort of wearing space armor.
Of course, outside of his space armor McCade would be more vulnerable, and that too could have played a part in their decision.
A soft chime told him someone was at the main lock. Punching up a surveillance camera, he saw that an entire squad of Il Ronnian Sand Sept troopers stood waiting outside. They were heavily armed.
He activated the intercom. “Hi, guys. Are twelve enough? Maybe you’d better send for reinforcements...I’m real grumpy today.”
Either the troopers didn’t understand him or chose to ignore him, because their stony expressions remained unchanged.
Knowing what to expect, McCade changed into summer-weight trousers and a short-sleeved mesh shirt. Just for the fun of it he strapped on his sidearm as well. It didn’t mean much since he was outnumbered a thousand to one, but he was used to wearing one, and the weight of it made him feel better.
He took one last look around to make sure all the ship’s systems were powered down, grabbed a fistful of cigars, and headed for the lock.
He cycled through, stepped out onto a set of rollaway stairs, and grinned. Twelve pairs of eyes went to his handgun and back to his face. To his surprise they made no attempt to take it away.
An Eighth Sept Commander stepped forward, cleared his throat nervously, and said, “Star Sept Sector Commander Ceel bids you welcome.Please follow me.”
McCade did as he was told. His honor guard, with the emphasis on guard, followed along behind. As they marched their steel-capped hooves crashed to the deck in perfect cadence.
They cycled through one of the many locks providing access to the interior of the ship. After the pleasant coolness of the launching bay, it was like stepping into the center of a blast furnace.
Having been on an Il Ronnian ship once before, McCade had prepared himself for the heat but was still surprised by the intensity of it. The Il Ronnians liked to keep their ships warm like the desert planet they came from, and that’s why McCade had worn the lightweight clothing, and was soon soaked with his own sweat in spite of it.
The ship was so huge that it took a full fifteen minutes to reach their destination. They marched down sandy brown corridors, rode up lift tubes large enough to accommodate a quarter sept, and rode the rest of the way in a pneumatic tube system.
Wherever McCade went members of the ship’s crew stopped to stare. Many had never seen a human before, and those who had were still surprised to see one inside an Il Ronnian warship.
And while McCade had dealt with many alien cultures over the years, he couldn’t remember a time when he’d been so completely immersed in one without so much as a single human face to keep him company. It made him feel like a freak, a curiosity led about on a leash, and he didn’t like it.
Unlike humans who constantly sought ways to create open spaces in their ships, the Il Ronn preferred the coziness of their traditional underground dwellings, and built their spacecraft accordingly.
So the approach to Sector Commander Ceel’s quarters was small and narrow, suddenly opening up into a circular space similar to an underground cave.
As McCade followed the Il Ronnian officer through the passageway, he realized it would force intruders to attack one at a time, giving the defenders one hell of an advantage. A sensible precaution that had found its way from caves to spaceships. As he stepped inside the air crackled around him.
A sensurround gave McCade the impression that he was standing in the middle of a desert. It stretched away in every direction, reddish streaks hinting at a time when the Il Ronnians’ skin color had served as protective coloration, finally blending into a purplish sky on the far horizon. Some very real sand crunched under McCade’s boots and added to the overall reality of the scene.
He wondered what happened to the sand during zero G maneuvers. Did they vacuum it up or something? There was no way to tell.
Ten Il Ronnians sat in a semicircle before him. They seemed to be sitting on a bench of native stone but appearances were probably deceiving.
In their view the Il Ronnians outranked him, so in keeping with custom, they remained seated. Sector Commander Ceel was the first to speak.
“Welcome, Sam McCade. I see you come before us armed.”
McCade tilted his head backward, exposing the major veins in his neck. “A wa
rrior is always armed in defense of his people. My life is yours.”
It was a calculated move, a traditional saying straight from the messiah’s memories, and it got the desired effect. Ceel was caught entirely off guard, as were most of the other Il Ronnians. They looked at one another in amazement. A polite human? Unheard of!
But one Il Ronnian wore the red cloak of the warrior-priest rather than the purple of the Star Sept. And he was not impressed. “Yes, your life is ours, human, and to keep it you need more than a passing knowledge of Il Ronnian custom.”
The warrior-priest gestured toward the single rock facing the semicircle of Il Ronnians. “Take a seat.”
McCade did as he was told. Real or not, the rock was damned hard and slightly pointy. He was in no danger of falling asleep.
The priest spoke again. “I am Teeb the interrogator. Understand from the start that I oppose your admittance to the honored ranks of the Ilwik. But I must bend before the wishes of my peace-loving brethren and will give you every chance. Every chance that time allows. Unfortunately we must accelerate your testing due to the urgent need for action. Under normal circumstances testing takes place over a period of ten year cycles.”
Teeb paused as though giving McCade time to absorb what he’d said. “There are two levels of testing, an initial phase in which we will determine your worthiness, and if you qualify, a second phase in which you will undergo the three trials of the Ilwik, or warrior-priest. The first phase will start in a moment. You noticed our battle fleet as you came out of hyperspace?”
McCade nodded. “Yes, holy one. It was hard to miss.”
Teeb’s tail appeared over his head, the pointy appendage shading him from the sun. “Good. The fleet is here for two reasons. The first is to defend against treachery, something we expect from your kind, and the second is to launch a surprise attack against the human empire should you fail the first tests. Shall we begin?”
Five
McCade tried to remain calm. It wasn’t easy. A test? So soon? What if he failed? He imagined a thousand Il Ronnian vessels flashing out of hyperspace, blasting their way through a scattering of navy ships to destroy planet after planet. Thousands, maybe millions, would die, all because he’d failed some stupid test.
McCade on the Run (Sam McCade Omnibus) Page 3
