Galactic Bounty (16 page)

"You never thought about going home?" McCade asked.

"Oh at first I did. But every time I thought about it, I imagined coming face to face with my father. What would I say? Tell him he'd murdered my mother along with hundreds of other people? No. It seemed pointless. Eventually I came to think of him as dead. And it worked—until you came along." She sighed. "You saved my life that day, Sam, and I'll always admire you for what you did, but maybe it would have been better if you'd followed my father's orders. If you had, I wouldn't have Premo's blood on my hands." She held her hands up and turned them over as if actually seeing blood on them. She stood and then shuddered before half walking and half running from the room.

McCade also stood, intending to follow, to tell her how glad he was that he'd saved her life, but stopped as the intercom buzzed.

"Weapons platform comin' up, boss . . .. We oughta know if we're gonna pass inspection any minute now." Van Doren's voice was cheerful. McCade wondered if the big marine was really unaffected by the possibility of death, or just couldn't imagine that it could happen to him.

"I'll be right there," McCade said over his shoulder as he stepped out of the control room and slid down the ladder to the level below.

Van Doren sat before the computer's master keyboard. As McCade approached, the marine touched a sequence of keys with surprisingly nimble fingers and then sat back to watch the screen.

"Any moment now we'll get the incoming pulse. It should register clear as a bell on our sensors. If the code's still working the pulse will read it. If not it's taps . . .."

"Thanks, Amos. It's always nice to know I can count on you for a cheerful word in times of crisis."

Van Doren grinned in response, his eyes peering at the screen from beneath bushy brows. The seconds ticked away with maddening slowness. There was a noise behind him and McCade turned to see Sara enter. "I thought I should be here for the big moment," she said with a wan smile. Somehow it seemed natural to put his arm around her.

When the pulse came a moment later it seemed anticlimactic.

"Brotherhood Vessel 4690
Zebra
cleared for planetfall" flashed on the screen and then faded away.

McCade let his breath out slowly, only then realizing he'd been holding it in. The arm he'd put around Sara suddenly felt awkward and out of place. He allowed it to fall and moved to Van Doren's side as he said, "Let's see if Rico's still with us."

Van Doren punched a couple of keys and a screen came to life above him. It was adjusted to maximum magnification. At its farthest edge a green light blinked on and off. Rico was still there, shadowing them in the
Lady Alice.
Before long he'd have to stop and lie doggo. Otherwise the weapons platforms would blast him. If challenged he would claim a mechanical failure which would soon be repaired. The neglected appearance of his ship would support his story. Rico would wait for six rotations. If they hadn't made it off the Rock by then, he'd rejoin the Council and together they'd figure out what to do next. The unspoken understanding was that McCade, Sara, and Van Doren would be presumed dead.

"All right," McCade said, "it's time for phase two. Activate all the screens, Amos, and crank the sensors up to max. We'll see who else is in the neighborhood."

The marine pressed a series of keys. One by one the entire bank of screens in front of him came to life. Now they could see all the ships in their vicinity out to the range of their detectors.

There was a lot of activity. Which would be good for Rico, McCade mused. Hopefully he'd be able to lose himself in all the comings and goings. Screen by screen McCade eyed the possibilities. Pirate ships of all shapes and sizes swarmed around the planet like bees around a hive. Their radio traffic poured from the speaker over McCade's head. For the most part it was open and unscrambled, with only occasional bursts of code— an indication of how secure they feel, McCade thought. From the snatches of conversation, he began to build an interesting montage of activity.

Some of the ships were damaged from distant encounters with the Il Ronn. Others had been victorious and were making planetfall loaded with loot. Then there were the outward bound ships, hungry and on the prowl. Those they wanted to avoid at all costs. There were other ships too. Possessors of special one-time passes which enabled them to pass the weapons platforms untouched, but which had to be reactivated in order for them to leave. They were the smugglers, for the most part. Traders in stolen and illicit goods. Disliked by everyone, even the pirates, but used by all. They made their dark living buying loot the pirates didn't need or want, and then selling it on frontier worlds at below market prices, sometimes to those from whom it had been stolen to begin with.

And McCade knew that among the merchandise they bought and sold were sentient beings. Thinking and feeling creatures like Sara and her mother, snatched from merchant vessels or native planets to live out short lives on some jungle plantation or deep in a mine. But those were the lucky ones. There were special customers for beautiful young women. Customers with desires so dark and twisted no sane woman would willingly comply with them. McCade shivered involuntarily, forcing his mind back to the ships which filled the screens.

It took money to buy the kind of ships the smugglers needed. McCade knew that all too often it was supplied by the so-called legitimate merchants on planets like Weller's World. All without interference from the Imperial Navy. Just another payment on the price of peace. In any case, McCade thought grimly, very soon one of the smugglers would be out of business. They'd known from the start it would be suicide to try and land the pirate ship. By now it was overdue and probably listed as missing in action. If it suddenly showed up, there'd be pirates swarming all over it in seconds. No, it would be much better to arrive in the guise of smugglers.

"Let's pick a small one," Sara said, scanning the screen.

"That's for sure!" McCade replied fervently. Even with the element of surprise operating in their favor, they'd be hard-pressed to take on a crew of five or six.

"How 'bout this one, boss?" Van Doren indicated his choice with an electronic arrow.

"Looks like a small freighter," Sara said approvingly.

"Okay. Let's take a look," McCade said as he headed for the control room. As he dropped into the pilot's position he saw the two ready lights for the port and starboard weapons blisters pop on one after the other. Van Doren and Sara were in their places.

Gingerly he took control of the ship away from the computer. He'd had very little time with her controls and didn't know all her quirks yet. He locked onto the blinking light still marked with an arrow and sent the ship toward it in a long graceful curve. Carefully he examined nearby traffic, looking for anything suspicious. But as far as he could tell, nobody was interested in their activities. As they closed with their target, it became apparent that the two ships would meet in a relatively empty area. That suited McCade just fine.

"This one looks like a keeper," McCade said into the intercom. "I'm about to say hello, so stand by . . .."

With that he opened the standard ship to ship channel, audio only, and hailed the other vessel. "This is Brotherhood Patrol Ship 4690
Zebra.
Heave to and prepare to be boarded."

The reply lit up the com screen to his right. The freighter's captain sent both sound and pix. His face was narrow and his skin bore an unhealthy pallor. A forced smile revealed rows of uneven yellow teeth through which his voice issued forth as a servile whine. A tiny gold disc hung at his throat. "Of course, of course. Always happy to oblige the Brotherhood. Is Your Excellency looking for anything in particular? I have an excellent bottle of Terran whiskey aboard," he added slyly.

"Just a routine inspection," McCade replied with what he hoped was the right mixture of boredom and authority. "Can't be too careful you know. Come to think of it, I am a bit parched . . .. I'll be over shortly."

The weasellike face nodded knowingly. "It'll be a pleasure to serve Your Excellency." With that the com screen faded to black.

McCade wiped the light sheen of perspiration from his forehead and heaved a sigh of relief. It had worked. The two ships were now in visual contact. The freighter was half the size of the pirate vessel. To McCade's surprise it was relatively new and appeared to be well maintained. A measure of the profits to be made, McCade thought sourly. "Contact in about two minutes," McCade said into the intercom. "Stand by."

When the ships were a few hundred feet apart, McCade triggered the tractor beams, which locked the two vessels together. Through a series of gentle adjustments, he brought the two ships together with an almost imperceptible bump. They were touching lock to lock.

McCade ran through a mental check list as he stood and glanced around the control room. Everything seemed in order. He touched the key placing all major systems on stand-by, and headed for the lock where Sara and Van Doren were waiting. They had already pressurized the space between the two locks. McCade checked his slug gun, and the stunner hidden up his right sleeve in a spring-loaded holster. The other two smiled their readiness. McCade nodded and activated the inner hatch. With a sigh the lock cycled open, and as they stepped through he felt the familiar tug from the muscle in his left cheek.

As they entered the other ship, they were greeted by a Finthian Bird Man. He seemed to be molting. Large patches of his golden feathers were missing, revealing sections of greenish skin. His saucerlike eyes regarded them gravely.

"Welcome aboard the
Far Trader,
gentlepersons." His beaklike nose rose and fell as he spoke, his voice emanating from the translator at his throat. "Captain Fagan will receive you in the lounge if you'll step this way?"

Together they followed him through a maze of corridors and up a ladder to the next deck. Along the way they kept a sharp lookout for other crew members. They saw only one. A fragile-looking woman with gray wispy hair busily tending a hydroponics tank. As they passed Sara shot her in the back with a stun gun. The woman hardly made a sound as she crumpled to the deck. Sara never even broke stride. McCade shook his head in amazement as he followed the oblivious Finthian down another short passageway.

Moments later they entered the ship's lounge where they were greeted by the sallow Captain Fagan. Seated next to him was a three hundred pound sauroid whose smile, if that is what it was, revealed an enormous array of wicked-looking teeth.

"Welcome aboard our humble ship, Excellencies. This is my first officer, Mr. Slith. How may we serve you?"

"By keeping the amount of time we have to spend on this tub to a minimum," McCade replied arrogantly. "So let's get on with it. I'll need a printout of your cargo manifest and a crew list. Oh yeah, and a fax of your log for the last seventy-two standard hours too."

"Immediately, Your Excellency," Captain Fagan sniveled as he punched McCade's requests into the keyboard at his side. Seconds later a printer began to whir as a sheet of plastic emerged from a slot.

Sara walked over and ripped off the sheet. She handed it to McCade with such a show of deference that he struggled not to laugh. With what he hoped was an arrogant sneer, McCade accepted the print-out and skimmed over it. Counting the captain, he saw that the
Far Trader
carried a crew of five. Sara had accounted for one on the way in, there were three present in the lounge, so there was another loose somewhere on the ship, a Cellite with the unlikely name of Sunshine.

McCade motioned to Amos and the big marine stepped to his side. "Check this out," he said, pointing to the Cellite's name on the crew list.

"Right away, boss," Amos said, and disappeared into the corridor.

Captain Fagan's features seemed to tighten. So you have something to hide, McCade thought. Not too surprising really.

"Is there a problem, Excellency? I assure you if there is, it was purely accidental. In all my years of trading with the Brotherhood I've never . . ."

"Stow it," McCade said. "It's just routine. Say, didn't you mention some Terran whiskey?"

"I did, Your Excellency," Fagan gurgled happily, reaching for the bottle at his elbow.

McCade flexed the muscles in his forearm and felt the spring-loaded holster deliver the small stunner into his hand. He brought it up and shot Fagan between the eyes. The little captain crashed to the deck, taking the bottle of whiskey and some glasses with him. McCade heard the thump of another body hitting the deck behind him and knew without looking that Sara had taken care of the Finthian Bird Man.

McCade swung left until the giant sauroid filled the sight. He pulled the trigger and waited for the alien to slump to the deck. Instead the giant creature stood with surprising ease and smiled, although on second thought McCade felt sure it wasn't a smile. He pulled the trigger again, as did Sara, who was also aiming her stunner at the scaled first officer.

"Uh-oh," McCade said. "I think he's got some kind of natural shielding against stunners."

"Brilliant," Sara said through gritted teeth, the knuckles of her right hand white where her fingers gripped the stun gun.

A strange electronic squawking sound came from the sauroid and for the first time McCade noticed the small box strapped to the alien's throat about where the human larynx is.

"Prepare to die, interloper!"

With that the huge creature produced a power knife and launched itself straight at McCade.

McCade jumped back. As he did, Sara threw herself between him and the charging alien. The sauroid batted her aside without apparent effort. She crashed into a bulkhead and then fell to the deck. The huge creature kept on coming, but Sara had slowed it just enough to give McCade a chance. He drew the slug gun and fired twice. The heavy slugs hit Slith square in the chest and the impact rocked him backward. However, to McCade's astonishment, the alien recovered and charged again, roaring his rage through the translator—although it really didn't require translation.