Galactic Bounty (3 page)

"Not your fault, sir," the section leader said. "You did your part." With a motion of his head he indicated the assassin McCade had killed.

"So did you, Section," McCade replied soberly. "I owe you one."

The marine shook his head. "No sir, that's what they pay me for . . .. But damn . . . level three . . . I can't believe it."

The marine's words still echoed in McCade's ears as he moved among the other wounded, doing what he could to help. A few minutes later he was brushed aside as the medics arrived, followed closely by a ground car loaded with marines.

"Level three . . ." McCade said to himself. Level three meant assassins could kill not only their intended target, but any bystanders who happened to get in the way as well, all without fear of official reprisal. It was legal, of course. Legal but expensive. First you bought a license from the government. A nice source of revenue for the empire, by the way. Then you hired a member of the Assassin's Guild. Both were expensive. A level-three license, plus three Guild assassins would cost a small fortune. To have the hit carried out on a naval base would cost several more small fortunes. He'd never even heard of such an attempt before. But chances were, it was all legal and aboveboard. Otherwise, Guild assassins would never have gotten involved.

Of course every now and then there was someone stupid enough, or greedy enough, to try and cut both the government and the Guild out. Cadien was a good example. But for every Cadien there was a McCade. A bounty hunter willing to track a man across the empire for a fraction of what an effective Imperial police force would cost. And if McCade hadn't caught up with Cadien, the Guild eventually would have. They took illegal assassinations very seriously indeed. Particularly ones which offended the Emperor personally. Not only did such acts rob them of revenue, they gave assassins a bad name, and the Guild was already quite aware of its negative public image. The public rated assassins even below bounty hunters. What if assassination was made illegal? The very thought must send their blood pressure soaring, McCade thought sourly. Assuming, of course, they had blood in their veins.

Anyway, the section leader was right . . .. Someone did want him awfully bad. It wasn't a pleasant thought. McCade returned the section leader's wave as the marine was loaded into a ground vehicle that promptly disappeared in the direction of the base hospital.

"Citizen McCade?" The voice belonged to a tall, serious-looking marine captain.

"That depends," McCade replied. "Who are you?"

"My name is Captain Rhodes," the officer replied levelly. "My men and I are here to protect you." There was something superior about his expression and condescending in his tone. He put out an open hand for the energy weapon still tucked under McCade's arm.

McCade ignored the hand by taking a long slow look around. The marine was forced to do likewise. The wounded were still being loaded into ambulances. Reynolds was being zipped into a black body bag, and robot repair units were starting to arrive. McCade turned back to the captain without saying a word. He didn't have to. The message was clear. In spite of a valiant effort to protect him, his previous bodyguards had nearly failed. The marine flushed a dark red. McCade handed him the weapon and allowed himself to be ushered aboard an open ground car. He noticed they weren't taking any chances now. The marines surrounding him were heavily armed and the car mounted twin automatic weapons.

As the car eased into motion, McCade said, "Do I get to know where we're going?"

"Captain Swanson-Pierce has requested your presence," Captain Rhodes answered stiffly, as though unable to understand why anyone would request McCade for anything.

McCade turned away from the resentful marine and looked out the side of the speeding vehicle. The faces that passed by merged into a blur, along with his thoughts. He remembered the screams of those caught in the cross fire. Strangers had been hurt or killed because of him. Why? It made no sense. Of course he'd made enemies as a bounty hunter. But most of them were dead, or sentenced to a prison planet for life, if you could call that life. Friends or relatives were always a possibility. But why now? And why in the middle of an Imperial Navy base? It didn't make sense . . . unless of course it was somehow connected with the Bridger thing.

McCade put those thoughts aside as the vehicle left the confinement of the building and emerged into bright sunshine. Lush green grass, still slightly moist from the rain programmed to fall at exactly 0500 every morning, reached out to touch a bright blue sky. The air smelled fresh and clean. Pollution and crowding were things of the past. At least on Terra they were. For hundreds of years, Earth had exported her problems, including both heavy industry and excess population. As a result, much of Terra's surface was dedicated to vast forests and parks. Cities were designed for beauty as well as function. Even naval bases had been made easy on the eye, so that visitors from off-planet couldn't imagine the crowded, polluted misery of a thousand years before. In the distance, the neat symmetry of a spaceport could be seen shimmering in the early heat, surrounded by concentric rings of navy ships. Thunder rolled as the slender needle shape of a destroyer rose toward the sky.

The ground car stopped in front of a black building which soared a thousand feet upward. The building bore no sign announcing its purpose. There was a momentary wait as Captain Rhodes issued orders to his men. McCade used it to read a small gold plaque set into the permacrete at his feet. It read:

The first to see, The first to hear, The first to know, The first to die.

The motto of Naval Intelligence. Those who worked within were the Emperor's eyes and ears. From here they wove an invisible web between the stars. A network of information that touched every planet held by man . . . and quite a few that weren't.

As McCade and Rhodes approached the building its black surface grew blacker. Evidently the entire building was protected by a force field. The area directly in front of them shimmered and disappeared, leaving an opening just large enough for them to pass through.

Inside, both men were invisibly but thoroughly scanned by hidden security sensors as they waited by a lift tube. The captain's sidearm was detected immediately, its serial number checked against the one issued to him, his entire personnel file quickly reviewed, all in a fraction of a second. McCade was identified by his retinal patterns and also checked. A moment later computer approval flashed back, allowing the lift tube doors to open. They stepped aboard the waiting platform, and it moved smoothly upward. McCade followed the marine off at level eighty-six. They went a few steps down a gleaming corridor and into a roomy reception area, where they were greeted by a very attractive lieutenant, who looked stunning in navy black and, from her slightly amused expression, knew it.

"Citizen McCade reporting as ordered," Captain Rhodes said.

McCade winked at the lieutenant, and to his surprise she winked back. She nodded to the marine and murmured into a wrist mic before turning away to tap something into the terminal on her desk.

"Sam, you've been at it again. You really must stop shooting people in public places . . .. It's so messy." Swanson-Pierce had appeared in a doorway. He also wore an amused expression and another perfectly tailored uniform. "Come on in," he said, turning and disappearing back into his office.

As McCade entered he noticed the office was quite luxurious, resembling more the working quarters of a successful businessman than the spartan day cabin of a naval officer. After dropping into a chair facing Swanson-Pierce's highly polished rosewood desk, McCade reached to pluck a cigar from an open humidor, and settled back. Puffing it alight, he watched Swanson-Pierce through the smoke. "Speaking of shooting people in public places, Walt . . . you wouldn't happen to know why I'm suddenly so unpopular, would you?" McCade allowed some white ash to drift down toward the plush carpet.

Swanson-Pierce laughed. "Why Sam, considering your vast wealth of personal charm, I must admit I'm surprised. Old, ah, clients perhaps?"

McCade regarded the naval officer soberly and shook his head. "I don't think so. It takes a big bankroll to swing a level three . . . especially in the middle of a naval base. If I'd offended somebody with that kind of clout, I'd remember. No, I think it's something else, maybe connected to this Bridger thing."

Swanson-Pierce nodded in agreement. "Our people are looking into that possibility at this very moment. It's too bad all three assassins were killed. It would have been interesting to talk with one of them." He frowned at McCade disapprovingly.

"Yeah, that was too bad. I'll keep it in mind next time," McCade replied dryly.

Swanson-Pierce shook his head in mock concern. "Sam, what'll I do with you?"

"Let me go?" McCade asked hopefully.

"That hardly seems wise right now, does it, Sam?" the other man said, his brow furrowed in apparent concern. "What with all those nasty types looking for you? Not to mention your regrettable financial situation. No, I think not. And besides . . . you did agree to undertake this little chore for Admiral Keaton."

"Yeah," McCade said. "Let's talk about that little chore." He tapped his cigar, sending an avalanche of ash toward the expensive carpet. "First, I didn't 'agree' to take this Bridger thing on. I was forced, as you very well know. Second, I think it's about time you told me what this is all about. Since when does the navy need a bounty hunter to find their officers? Especially dead or alive. Come to think of it . . . why bother? Is there a shortage of war heroes or something?"

Swanson-Pierce frowned as he watched the last of the cigar ash on its journey toward the carpet. "For one thing, Captain Bridger is AWOL, but you're right, if that were the only concern, we wouldn't need you. Needless to say we don't normally send bounty hunters after errant naval officers. But this is a special case." Swanson-Pierce touched a series of buttons in the armrest of his chair. The room lights dimmed as a section of wall to McCade's right slid aside to reveal a holo tank. Color swirled and coalesced into the face and upper torso of Captain Ian Bridger.

As the sound came up it was apparent Bridger was lecturing a class at the Naval Academy. He was every inch the naval officer. He stood ramrod straight. His rugged features radiated confidence. The Imperial Battle Star hung gleaming at his throat. Rows of decorations crossed his barrel chest. And when he spoke, his voice carried the authority born of years in command, and the confidence of a man who has lived what he's teaching. In spite of himself, McCade had to admit the lecture was good. Bridger's thoughts were well organized, and delivered in a clear, distinct manner. He gave frequent examples, and skillfully extracted an occasional laugh from his audience.

As he described the Battle of Hell, however, his commentary became increasingly heated. He grew more and more agitated. His pupils dilated.

His eyes took on a strange look. A vein in his neck began to throb. He called the pirates "vermin and filth in the eyes of God." He described in gruesome detail how a pirate cruiser had blasted an Imperial lifeboat out of existence. A reaction shot of the audience showed hundreds of shining eyes. They believed every word.

Picture and sound dissolved together as the room lights came up. Swanson-Pierce swiveled his chair toward McCade, and regarded him through steepled fingers. "What you just saw was a routine audit taken a few days before Bridger disappeared . . . about six weeks ago."

"Practically yesterday," McCade said, blowing a perfect smoke ring.

"Bridger gave himself a four-week head start by taking a month's leave," the other man replied defensively. "And unfortunately it was a week after that before his disappearance was taken seriously."

McCade raised an eyebrow quizzically. Swanson-Pierce responded angrily.

"Damn it man . . . we don't check captains in and out like children at a boarding school."

"What makes you so sure he took off of his own volition?" McCade asked. "How do you know he wasn't abducted or murdered?"

"We don't," Swanson-Pierce answered, frowning down at the surface of his desk. "But we've received no ransom demand and his body hasn't turned up anywhere." His eyes came up to meet McCade's. "So we're forced to assume he's disappeared voluntarily . . . and we've got to act on that assumption." McCade nodded and the other man continued. "As you saw in the holo, Bridger still feels a pathological hatred for pirates, which is hardly surprising. What happened to his wife and daughter is common knowledge. The liner
Mars
found drifting, its drive sabotaged by the crew, stripped of cargo, lifeboats still in place, but no crew or passengers aboard, except for the bodies, of course."

Swanson-Pierce fell silent for a moment, possibly thinking about the fate of those passengers and crew who had survived. It was said the pirates were always short of women. And then there was slavery. And Bridger's daughter had been very pretty, even beautiful. Both Swanson-Pierce and McCade had admired her from afar during her frequent visits to the
Imperial.

Swanson-Pierce resumed his narrative. "And there's Bridger's career. It didn't prosper after the Battle of Hell, and I imagine that too fed his hatred of the pirates."

The naval officer stood and began to pace back and forth.

"After you, ah, left the
Imperial,
we, along with the rest of Keaton's fleet, chased the pirates as far as the frontier. Then they split up and took off in all directions. Rather than divide his forces, Keaton decided discretion was the better part of valor, and we returned to base. Chances are the Il Ronn got quite a few of the pirates in any case."

McCade knew the other man was right. Of all the alien species Man had encountered, the Il Ronn were the most dangerous. Not because they were the most intelligent or advanced. There were many alien races more advanced than either Man or the Il Ronn. But because the Il Ronn were the most like Man, they were a constant threat. They too had built a stellar empire at the expense of less aggressive races. They too had almost unlimited ambitions. Now only a thinning band of unexplored frontier worlds provided a buffer between the two empires. Fortunately the races had physiological differences which were expressed in a desire for radically different kinds of real estate.