Galactic Bounty (9 page)

"Both your suggestions are tempting, Amos," McCade replied with a smile. "But the first would take too long, and the second would leave us with a lot of unanswered questions, not to mention some unhappy owners. No, I'm gonna have to board her."

"We're going to board her!" Laurie said.

"Right, boss," Van Doren added, eyes gleaming with anticipation. McCade sighed, and shook his head in mock exasperation.

Half an hour later McCade swung open the hatch to
Leviathan's
lock.

He paused for a moment, giving thanks that nothing had blown up, and then entered.

Back aboard
Pegasus,
Van Doren sat stoically in his gun blister, eyes searching, finger on the trigger. Below him Laurie fumed at the ship's controls. Neither was happy. But in McCade's judgment anything else would be stupid. If there was trouble it wouldn't help if they all got killed. This way they could come to his rescue if required. Besides, it was a one-person job. Or at least that's what he'd told Laurie. Deep down, a part of him wondered if he was grandstanding. Trying to make up for his failure to think of the hyperspace shift. Pushing those thoughts aside, he opened the inner hatch. What he saw was not pretty. Three bodies lay sprawled in a jumbled pile before him.

The first thing he noticed was that none of them were wearing armor. So the module had been pressurized when they'd come aboard. He checked for atmosphere and then opened his visor. A quick and unpleasant inspection revealed that none of the bodies were those of Bridger or Votava. There were two men and a woman. All three were dressed in coveralls bearing the logo of the Meteor Tug Company. They'd all been shot at close range with a small caliber slug gun. As far as he could tell they'd been unarmed. They hadn't been killed, they'd been executed. The coldness of it turned his stomach. Bridger was no longer a rational being. Any sympathy McCade had ever felt for the two fugitives was replaced by a hard knot of burning anger that settled in his stomach and wouldn't go away.

McCade allowed himself to fall back into a fold-down seat. He couldn't take his eyes off the bodies. Why? It didn't make sense. He tried to imagine how it had happened. The tug routinely coming alongside. The crew wondering aloud about the missing cargo pods. The slight hiss of escaping pressure as the locks made contact and then opened. A murmur of conversation as the crew entered, expecting to find an empty module. Instead, what? A confrontation? Probably. Followed by three cold-blooded killings. There was no doubt about who had done it. Then what? Bridger and Votava had used the tug to place the torpedoes and then headed for Weller's World. A planetary tug couldn't take them much farther anyway.

McCade fastened his armor, found a cigar butt, and lit it. The smoke helped to disguise the fetid air. His thoughts drifted back to the cockpit of his Interceptor. The image of a pirate ship sharp and clear in the old-fashioned weapon sight, his thumb on the firing stud, and two voices fighting to command him. The first a woman's voice, a pirate, pleading with him to spare her ship, swearing she had only women and children aboard. The second voice was Bridger's, hoarse from hours of shouted commands, ordering him over and over again to fire.

The cigar butt burned his fingers. He dropped it and crushed it under his boot. He began to search the tiny cabin. Bridger and Votava had lived in the tiny space for almost two months. At some point the overloaded recycler had broken down and trash had started to pile up on the deck. Discarded clothing, rotting food and other less identifiable debris were all mixed together into an unpleasant history of their confinement.

As McCade sorted through it in random fashion, he began to notice scraps of writing. Sometimes it was on common note paper, but more often than not it was on other things, the margins of pages torn out of operational manuals, on the backs of napkins, disposable plates—literally anything. For the most part the writing was incoherent, and as far as McCade could tell, meaningless. The more passages he found the more they seemed to him to be the ravings of a lunatic. McCade was familiar with Bridger's handwriting, having seen it on his own commission as a lieutenant and his final court martial, as well as several more recent documents. It was Bridger's handwriting all right. But the mind controlling it was far from normal. Bridger was either physically ill or in the process of losing his mind.

McCade paused to read the scribbling in the margin of a sheet bearing the title, "CARGO MODULE SURVIVAL KIT INVENTORY N4689." Carefully written into the margin on the left-hand side was "Inventory. Inventory. Inventory. I'll show them inventory! Marvelous inventory! Glorious inventory! Inventory sufficient to wipe out once and for all the devil's servants. Inventory too long on the shelf. Inventory I shall use to cleanse the heavens!"

It didn't make any sense, and yet it did. McCade was reminded of the metal plate. Once again he felt sure Bridger had cracked the secret hidden there. And in doing so he'd obtained weapons of some kind. "Inventory sufficient to wipe out once and for all the devil's servants," he'd said. That sounded pretty lethal. Of course if the man was operating on about half power, then he could be hallucinating too. He searched for another fifteen minutes. He found lots of additional scribbles, but nothing that made sense. Finally he gave up.

When he called
Pegasus
on his suit radio Laurie's anxious voice made him feel guilty for not calling earlier. He explained the situation, sealed his suit and started for the lock. Then something caught his eye. Bending over he picked up a handful of photographs from the litter on the deck. They'd been partially obscured by an outflung arm. Holding the pictures under an overhead light, he quickly scanned them. All were human. Outside of that he couldn't find any special commonality. Men, women, young, old, civilian, military . . . there were all kinds of people. Why would Bridger and Votava have what seemed like a random assortment of photos aboard?

Getting down on his hands and knees he searched the deck for any he might have missed. Then he noticed a corner of something sticking out of a clenched fist. Gritting his teeth he pried open the cold, stiff fingers. He removed a crumpled photograph and smoothed it out. To his surprise Laurie's familiar brown eyes stared back at him. A chill ran down his spine. What in space was her photo doing here clutched in a dead man's hand? Was he trying to communicate something? If so, what? Laurie certainly hadn't been present when he died. It didn't make sense. But then these days, what did?

He stared at the picture for a long time. Finally he stood and tucked it away. He'd decided not to show it to her right away. For some reason he couldn't quite put his finger on, he felt guilty about that decision. He sealed his suit and entered the lock. Moments later he stepped out into the starry void.

Even though it was more than a klick away, he could make out every detail of the sprawling complex through the powerful lens. The scope was a military model mounted on a tripod. Just one of the "extras" he'd conned Laurie out of back on Earth. Not that it'd done them much good so far. McCade leaned back for a moment to rest his eyes.

They'd been watching the Il Ronn legation for two days now. So far there'd been no sign of Bridger or Votava. In fact there'd been no signs of life at all. If it hadn't been for the comings and goings of the occasional hover limo, he would have concluded that the place was deserted. Considering the on-again, off-again state of hostilities between the human and Il Ronn empires, he was surprised the aliens were even allowed to have legations on human worlds. But it seemed both sides allowed the other a limited diplomatic presence on certain worlds. If nothing else, it made mutual spying more convenient and comfortable.

That was part of what he'd learned at Naval Headquarters shortly after landing on Weller's World. To McCade's surprise, Naval Headquarters was located in a slightly dilapidated dome bordering the spaceport. Usually the Imperial Government went in for more imposing edifices. But even here the inside was brightly painted and efficient. After a short wait in a pleasant reception area, they had been shown into the commanding officer's spartan office. The officer who rose to greet them was a lieutenant. He introduced himself as John Paul Jones. Named after the ancient naval hero, McCade supposed. The fact that such a junior officer was in command showed McCade how thin the navy was stretched along the frontier.

But even if the lieutenant was short on rank, he still managed to be intimidating. His skin was a shiny black. Intelligence gleamed in his dark eyes. He carried himself gun barrel straight, with a belligerent thrust to his chin as though daring someone to hit it. He was in a position of considerable power out here, and he knew it.

Laurie identified herself and briefly explained their mission. She also identified the fugitives, but didn't indicate why they were being sought. Jones didn't ask. Like every other officer along the frontier, he'd received instructions to watch for Bridger and Votava. If he had questions about why, he kept them to himself.

He dealt with their situation quickly and efficiently. A team was sent up to sort out the mess aboard the remains of the
Leviathan,
and a search was simultaneously launched for the tug. It didn't take his people long to find it. Since Bridger and Votava hadn't dared land at the spaceport, or bring something as large as the tug itself down through the atmosphere for a landing in the wilds, they'd left it in orbit. The tug's lifeboat was missing.

"Chances are they brought it down somewhere in the back country," Lieutenant Jones said. "The farms out there are hundreds of klicks apart and the chances of being seen are just about nil. Then it'd just be a matter of walking and hitchhiking into a town. Logansport's the biggest."

They did their best to pump Jones about local conditions. But outside of giving them some very basic information about the planet and the Il Ronn legation, he was not very communicative. He had barely enough personnel and resources to cope with his regular duties and wanted no part of whatever these two were up to. So they thanked him and followed the directions on the map he'd provided. The Il Ronn legation was located just outside Logansport. They figured that to make contact with the Il Ronn, Bridger would have to go there sooner or later. It was thin, but they didn't have anything better to go on.

So they had put the legation under surveillance, but so far they hadn't seen much. The Il Ronn didn't enjoy the planet's climate and stayed cloistered within their bio-conditioned complex most of the time.

For the hundredth time that day McCade swept the powerful lens over the whitewashed building. All windows were still barred and shuttered. Plus there were other more effective but less visible security measures in effect. Van Doren had attempted a recon the night before. He'd never seen so many sensors. He'd been able to get within a hundred feet of the complex but no farther without risking almost certain discovery. The Il Ronn certainly liked their privacy. And for all he knew, Bridger and Votava might already be in there, having been whisked in right under his nose in a privacy-screened limo.

It was frustrating, and he hoped Laurie was having better luck. He hadn't seen her since the day before. She'd suggested that he and Van Doren man the surveillance post while she tried to contact the local intelligence network. McCade had agreed. They could use all the help they could get. In the meantime, McCade and Van Doren were each doing fourteen hours on and fourteen off. The days on Weller's World were a little longer than Terra's. It wasn't that bad, as stakeouts go. During his years as a bounty hunter McCade had been through much worse.

In fact, after weeks on the ship, it felt good to be dirtside again. A cool breeze relieved the afternoon heat and rustled the slightly bluish foliage that formed a protective canopy overhead. Weller's World was actually quite pleasant. Blessed with broad temperate zones above and below its equator, it was basically an agricultural planet. Rural enterprises of all sorts flourished. Genetically modified Terran crops and animals had been crossed with native flora and fauna to produce hybrids. Over time, some of the hybrids had proved to be quite valuable. Especially those that could be used in the manufacture of pharmaceuticals. The export of hybrid agricultural products provided farmers with cash crops. They spent the money on the machinery required on their labor poor world. Since the machinery was manufactured on planets nearer the Empire's center, Weller's World also made a good market. Gradually the planet had become something of a local trade center too. Being located at the far end of the Empire's trade routes has numerous disadvantages . . . but it has some good points too. For one thing the settlers on the frontier worlds in that sector had started bringing their exportable goods to market on Weller's World. Better prices were available deeper into the Empire, but first you had to get there. At the very least, getting there would cost more. Plus there was the ever-present danger of running into pirates. No, it was better to keep the trip as short as possible. Besides, the people on Weller's World were a rough and ready bunch among whom the frontiersmen felt more comfortable.

So every day one or two beaten up old ships, pre-Empire, some of them, would lower themselves wearily onto the scarred surface of the spaceport. From their dank holds a wild assortment of strange and exotic goods issued forth to be sold at daily auction. With a show of reluctance well-dressed local merchants bought goods for a pittance, which they'd later sell for a small fortune farther into the Empire. But the profit didn't end there. The frontiersmen were eager to spend their credits on electronics, tools, chemicals, vehicles, weapons, and more. Such things meant the difference between life and death on their planets. And before they left there'd usually be one night on the town, a wild, uproarious night, to be remembered and exaggerated later. A night of profit for a legion of saloon keepers, drug dealers, and prostitutes. Yes, the merchants of Weller's World were doing very well. Plus there were whispers of darker transactions. Of mysterious ships landing in the bush. Of cargos sold, only to reappear in the market a few days later. There was little doubt that some local merchants had strong ties to the pirates. Very profitable ties at that.