Galactic Bounty (12 page)

He turned to question Rico, but the big man was in whispered conversation with the driver, a handsome woman in her late forties. When he leaned back, Rico's face was black with anger. McCade started to ask him what had happened, but then thought better of it. So they rode on in silence. McCade and Van Doren watched the passage of frozen scenery, while Rico sat slumped, deep within his own thoughts.

After what seemed like an hour, but was probably less, the crawler approached a snow-covered hill. It looked no different from twenty others they'd passed, but just when it seemed certain that they would crash into the hillside, an armored door as white as the snow around it slid aside, revealing a lighted tunnel. As the crawler entered, the door slid closed behind them. The noise of their passage bounced off the walls, then, without warning, the tunnel opened up into a large chamber.

McCade saw rows of parked crawlers, power sleds and snowmobiles. They looked like they'd seen hard use. In one corner mechanics swarmed over an armed crawler that evidently had been hit by an energy weapon. He couldn't tell if they were repairing it or stripping it for parts. In either case they were obviously in a hurry.

Moments later they pulled up to a loading dock. As they stepped out, McCade and Van Doren found themselves looking into the business ends of four weapons held by some very steady hands.

"Put 'em away, ya bozos!" Rico said, stepping between the four men and McCade. "Can't ya see they're comin' peaceable? Sides which they could probably eat ya for breakfast." As the men sheepishly holstered their weapons, Rico turned to McCade. "Sorry 'bout that. How's they ta know ya'd come quiet?"

"It's okay, Rico," McCade said, glancing at Van Doren. The big marine looked doubtful, but dropped his hand from the butt of his slug gun.

"These spaceheads'll take ya ta your quarters, if'n they don't get lost along the way," Rico said with a derisive snort. "After ya've had a chance ta clean up I s'pose the bigwigs'll talk your ear off. See ya later!" With a jaunty wave, the big man lumbered off.

With two ahead and two behind, McCade and Van Doren followed the guards through a maze of corridors. Some were nicely finished and others still showed signs of recent construction. Eventually they were shown into adjoining cubicles. They were clean, but spartan. McCade lay down on the hard mattress, planning to think.

It seemed only moments later when an insistent knocking woke him. Glancing at his wrist term he saw that over five hours had passed. As he swung his feet onto the floor, the door opened and a man stepped in. He was tall and slender, dressed in frontier fashion. His movements were smooth and quick. The bones in his face were prominent but well-formed, granting him predatory good looks. His eyes were like cold chips of black stone through which McCade could see nothing. McCade didn't like him . . . and somehow knew the feeling was mutual.

"The Council wishes to see you," the man said. His expression made it clear that attendance wasn't optional.

"Good," McCade replied. "And I'd like to see them. Just give me a moment to clean up." McCade started for the tiny bathroom.

Suddenly the man was in his way. He's damn fast, McCade noted to himself.

"The Council wants to see you
now
,"
the man said. Before McCade could reply, he heard the unmistakable metallic sound of a slug gun going to full cock. Looking toward the sound he saw Van Doren aiming his massive handgun at the man's head. "Maybe you'd like to meet your
maker
— now," the marine said calmly.

The man paled and tensed his body. For a moment McCade thought he might challenge Van Doren's reflexes. Then, with a visible effort, the man forced himself to back down. He's no coward, McCade thought. There was implacable hatred in the eyes staring back at him.

"It's okay, Amos," McCade said, forcing a smile. "I'm sorry. I'm afraid Amos takes his duties as my bodyguard too seriously."

The other man nodded his head in a short, jerky motion, turned on his heel, and left the room, slamming the door behind him.

"You should've let me blow his head off, boss. That one'll be trouble later . . . you mark my words," Van Doren said.

"You're probably right, Amos," McCade said wearily. "But I'm afraid the Council might become annoyed if we blew their envoy's head off. I do appreciate your desire to be efficient however." Van Doren shrugged his shoulders and returned to his cubicle.

A few minutes later McCade entered the hall freshly showered and shaved. He felt better because of it, plus it wouldn't hurt to make a good impression on the Council. Whoever they were. Van Doren was right behind him.

The tall man was waiting impatiently. "You come with me," he said, pointing to McCade, "and you stay," indicating Van Doren. McCade noticed that the man had strapped on a gun of his own. His right hand hovered over its well-worn grip.

Van Doren's hand was inches from the butt of his own gun when McCade said, "Let it be, Amos. They've got all the cards right now, so let's play it their way." He tossed the marine a mock salute as he followed the tall man down the hall.

It was a short journey. A few minutes later they were ushered past a heavily guarded door and into a large circular room. It was dominated by a semicircular table of some highly polished native wood. Behind it sat four people. For some reason he wasn't surprised to see that Rico was one of them. The big man nodded in his direction and winked one of his tiny eyes.

Then McCade's attention was drawn to the woman on Rico's right. She was beautiful. Or had been. A terrible white scar slashed across her softly rounded face from high on the left side of her forehead down across her right cheek. Nonetheless, it was her large hazel eyes that dominated her face. They regarded McCade with cold curiosity.

"Welcome, Citizen McCade," she said. "Rico has told us a great deal about you. Please allow me to introduce the rest of us. On my far right is Professor Wendel. He heads our scientific team."

The professor was an elderly man who wore his thick white hair in a neat ponytail behind his head. His bright blue eyes twinkled as he inclined his head toward McCade in greeting.

"On my immediate right is Col. Frank Larkin," the woman continued. "The colonel is in charge of our armed forces."

McCade judged Larkin to be in his middle fifties, but he could have been older. His head was shaved in the tradition of the elite Imperial Star Guard—the special marine brigade responsible for the personal safety of the Emperor. His hard eyes inspected McCade as though on parade, and his nod granted nothing more than recognition.

"And of course you've met Rico, our Master at Arms," she said, "and Vern Premo, our comptroller." She indicated the tall man who now lounged against one wall. He was staring past McCade toward the woman with open avarice in his eyes.

"I'm Sara Bridger," she said coldly. "Chief Political Officer for the Council. I understand that you want to kill my father."

Confusion filled McCade's thoughts and emotions. It couldn't be. Sara Bridger had been captured by pirates and was probably dead by now. Yet he knew it was true. Without the scar she would be the same woman he'd admired aboard the old
Imperial.
Older but still beautiful. The tiny lines around her eyes and mouth added character, while taking nothing from her beauty. A beauty transcending even the scar.

"Well?" she said, unconsciously tracing the scar with a fingertip.

"I have no desire to kill your father," McCade replied evenly. "However, he is a fugitive from Imperial justice."

"You speak of 'Imperial justice.' Where is it?" she asked bitterly. "Why does the navy allow the pirates and the Il Ronn to slaughter our people? Where was Imperial justice when the pirates came yesterday, raping and burning? Last night we buried fourteen of our friends. Some were only children. Their only crime was trying to defend their homes. Was that just?"

Her eyes burned with hatred and her cheeks were flushed, serving to emphasize the whiteness of the scar. McCade realized she was close to exhaustion.

"I'm sorry," he said simply.

With visible effort she brought herself under control. "What crimes has my father committed?" she asked, steel lying just under the soft surface of her words.

"Desertion . . . and possibly other crimes I'm not free to divulge," McCade answered.

"You'll tell her whatever she wants to know!" The angry voice was Premo's. No longer lounging against the wall, he was standing, his body rigid with anger as he clenched and unclenched his fists at his side.

"That'll be enough o' that," Rico said levelly, "or would ya care ta take ol' Rico on?" For the first time McCade saw caution in Premo's eyes.

Sara Bridger broke the uncomfortable silence that followed. "Rico's right, McCade." She aimed a critical glance at Premo.

"You'll not be forced to speak." Her expression hardened. "But you must understand that, until Rico's arrival a few hours ago, I thought my father was living happily on Terra. Now I learn he's being hunted like an animal throughout the Empire. Hunted by men like you. Men who kill for money!" Disgust and revulsion played across her features.

McCade felt his hands start to shake as he remembered the marines who'd died and the bodies he'd found aboard the
Leviathan.
The muscle in his left cheek twitched uncontrollably as he spoke. "Your father has already murdered innocent people. It's quite likely he intends to murder more. If I have to kill him to stop that, I will. And you're right, I'm doing it for money. But you know what? In your father's case, I'd do it for free."

The blood drained from Sara Bridger's face, leaving it as white as the scar that bisected it. Hatred burned in her beautiful eyes. Without a word she rose and left the room.

"For that you'll die!" Premo spit the words out one at a time. McCade spun toward him, his hand over his gun and the promise of eternity in his wintry gray eyes.

Somewhere a klaxon went off. Everyone froze as a calm male voice came over the PA system. "This is a class three attack, including light armor and infantry. All active and reserve personnel report to your units immediately. All noncombatants report to your class three duty stations."

Everyone bolted for the nearest door. Premo's look promised another meeting as he turned on his heel and marched out.

When McCade turned back, the other Council members had already left, with the exception of Rico. He was lighting a cigar while regarding McCade with a raised eyebrow.

"Seems like you don't make friends too easy, ol' sport," he said, rising from his chair. "Wanna come with me'n take your antisocial tendencies out on some pirates? Sounds like they're at it again. Two attacks in two days is a little much. It's gettin' outta hand." Without looking to see if McCade followed, he turned and went out the rear door the other Council members had used.

McCade had to stretch to match the other man's gigantic strides. "What's Premo's problem anyway?"

Rico shrugged. "Who knows? Premo's Premo. I know it's hard ta believe . . . but in some ways he ain't bad. Jus' keep in mind that when it comes ta Sara, he's crazier'n a Tobarian Zerk monkey."

"I've got a feeling he's going to remind me," McCade said dryly.

"Here we are," Rico said as they turned a corner. Rico led McCade into a lift tube. Moments later they emerged into a smaller version of the chamber he'd seen before. This one had only four crawlers in it, and there was room for two more. As they got closer McCade noticed all four were armed. They hadn't been designed for combat, so they didn't have turrets. That meant the energy cannon mounted toward the front of each vehicle could only be aimed forward. A large caliber slug thrower had been installed in a blister at the rear of each crawler to deal with threats from behind. A smaller caliber automatic weapon was mounted in a blister on top of the massive machine.

"Had six o' these ta start with . . . but the pirates pared my section down ta four in the last six months," Rico said as they approached the lead crawler. He inspected its tracks and patted the machine's scarred flanks lovingly as they walked around it.

Up close the crawler towered over the two men. Intended to withstand the rigors of planetary exploration, the crawlers had been built to take lots of punishment. So with the addition of some extra armor plating and weapons blisters they made respectable heavy tanks. Just how respectable McCade was about to find out.

As they rounded the front end of the crawler, McCade saw a slim figure in overalls and a helmet straighten from inspecting a huge bogey wheel and turn to toss Rico an informal salute. "Unit Two ready for action, sir," she said. "Chuck and Sparks are aboard."

"Thanks, Paula," Rico answered as he scrambled up the rungs leading to the top hatch. "Meet Sam McCade . . .. Is Yamana still sick?"

Paula nodded toward McCade and replied dryly, "He only broke his leg last week, Rico."

"Well, ya can't 'spect me ta remember everything, damn it," Rico said, pausing at the top. "Sam here'll take Yama's place in the tail position . . .. That okay?"

McCade indicated it was. A few minutes later with help from Paula, he had strapped himself into the tailgunner's position and the crawler got under way. His weapon was an electrically driven, multibarreled slug thrower. A descendant of the ancient Gatling gun. Each of the six barrels fired hundreds of armor-piercing shells a second. It could be elevated for aircraft or depressed for surface action. McCade wondered which to expect.

Cold white light flooded his blister as the crawler emerged from its camouflaged hiding place and rumbled out across ice and rock. He watched as the other three crawlers spread out to take up positions on either side of Rico's unit. A dispassionate voice broke the steady static on his earphones. "Command to section Charlie Four . . . we have six unidentified armored units approaching your sector . . . range one klick . . . bearing one-two-oh. Have fun."

"Roger," Rico replied. "Let's go get 'em, Charlie Four."

The crawler's speed increased with a commensurate increase in the amount of vibration. McCade felt like it would shake his teeth out. He noted that, as usual, the muscle in his left cheek had begun to twitch, and it felt as though someone had poured cold lead into his stomach. He wished he was manning the energy cannon so he could see where they were going . . . and what was coming. Not knowing was the worst part. But Rico had quite understandably put him in the least critical position. A voice he'd never heard before broke radio silence with, "Unit three has visual contact with four unknowns, range approximately 750 meters bearing one-two-oh. Request permission to fire primary."