Galactic Bounty (7 page)

There was a burst of static over his suit radio followed by a male voice which could only be Bridger. "Naval vessel MTC four-niner-two. Cut your tractor beam and depart at once. Make no further attempt to board this ship. I repeat . . . depart at once. This vessel will shift into hyperspace ten standard minutes from now. Repeat . . . ten standard minutes and counting. End of transmission."

McCade swore under his breath and struggled even harder with the lock mechanism. Laurie appeared at his elbow. She held a ship cracker cradled in her arms. It was intended for rescue work on damaged ships and could cut through almost anything. The ship cracker wasn't heavy in zero gravity, but it was bulky and awkward. Normally operated by a crew of three, it took both of them to hold and aim it. As Laurie pulled the trigger, a ruby red lance of energy leapt from the device's nozzle and bit into the ship's durasteel hull.

McCade began to sweat. He felt his recycling unit shift into a higher speed. He could just barely make out Laurie's face through her darkened visor. Sweat rolled off her face and her teeth were bared in a grimace. A dark comma of hair had fallen across the whiteness of her forehead. McCade thought she looked beautiful.

Moments later the beam cut through the lock's mechanism and the hatch swung open. There was no rush of atmosphere into space. The tunnel had been depressurized. McCade wondered why. He didn't like the possibilities. Motioning Laurie to stay back, he entered the tunnel. It stretched off into the distance, ending in another hatch which provided access to the power-control module. The tunnel was evenly lit and empty. The walls covered with a maze of pipes and electrical conduit. It looked too easy— too inviting. McCade took a few cautious steps forward, gesturing to Laurie for radio silence. Bridger could easily monitor their suit radios. McCade pulled his blaster and began to move swiftly down the tunnel. He noticed the weapon had none of his slug gun's comforting weight. He'd have to compensate for that.

He soon reached a junction where two smaller maintenance shafts joined the main tunnel from the left and right. Cautiously he peered into each. Both were dark beyond the first twenty feet. He signaled Laurie, and together they hurried forward. McCade figured they had five minutes at most before the ship hurled itself into hyperspace, taking them with it.

A figure dressed in space armor dropped from the ceiling. Apparently he'd been hiding in a vertical maintenance shaft. He fired his blaster before his feet hit the deck. That was a mistake. His bolt went wide. Smoke and electrical sparks poured out of a section of pipe and conduit to McCade's right. McCade fired his blaster in reply. A white-hot hole appeared where the man's chest had been. He was slammed back against the tunnel wall.

"Behind us, Sam!" Her voice was shrill. Instinctively he dropped to the deck, and sensed more than saw the energy beam that passed over his head. Scrambling on all fours he turned to see Laurie go down. Beyond her lay a headless figure in space armor. Next to the body knelt another man who had a blaster centered on McCade's chest. McCade began to bring his own blaster up knowing he'd never make it. As he waited to die, some remote part of his brain reproached him for not checking the side tunnels more carefully. If he'd only had more time . . .. Then the man's left side disappeared as Laurie blasted him from the deck. McCade moved quickly to her side. She seemed so small, even in bulky space armor. Behind the visor her face was terribly white and drawn. A quick check revealed no sign of a wound, and her armor seemed intact.

"Laurie?" he said.

Her eyes blinked open, and she managed a weak smile. Wordlessly he picked her up as gently as he could and started down the tunnel toward the lock. He'd taken only a few steps when a tremendous jolt threw them both to the deck. The lights went out, and a moment of total darkness passed before dim emergency lights flickered on. McCade knew he should get up but couldn't find the energy. The half-healed wound in his left arm began to throb. The pain cleared his head. He felt the deck move erratically under him. Then he understood. Bridger had detonated the explosive, emergency fittings connecting the power-control module to the cargo pods—and disappeared into hyperspace. Evidently he didn't want to take the boarding party with him—especially since they were winning.

The force of the power-control module's departure, plus the loss of its mass, put the remaining part of the ship into an erratic spin and tumble. As he struggled to his feet McCade wondered if the cargo pods would hold together. Awkwardly he gathered Laurie's inert form into his arms and started toward the lock. He'd taken only a few steps when the emergency lights flickered off and the artificial gravity disappeared. Somewhere an emergency generator had failed. Naturally the main field generators had vanished into hyperspace along with the power-control module. After a brief moment of dizziness, McCade managed to shift his grip on Laurie to use only one hand, so he could use the other to activate his helmet light. He pushed off the nearest bulkhead in the direction of a handhold. As he moved from handhold to handhold, he quickly decided weightlessness was an advantage rather than a problem. By towing Laurie behind him he could make fairly good time.

Occasionally, forward motion stalled as the hull tumbled, and they were thrown into the nearest bulkhead. McCade worried that the violent motion of the ship might break the light tractor beam securing the troop carrier to the hull. If it did it would be one helluva walk home. Which reminded him of the marines. Their air would be running low. He tried to move even faster. Finally he made it to the lock. To his relief the troop carrier was still there. He paused, calculated, hoped for the best, and jumped. They damn near soared right by the smaller ship before he managed to grab an antenna with his free hand and haul them in.

He strapped Laurie into the copilot's seat, slid behind the controls, and plugged his suit into the ship. Fresh oxygen squirted into his helmet, and there was a burst of static as the radio came on, followed by an exchange of conversation between Van Doren and a navy shuttle. The marines were being picked up. He started the engines, cut the tractor beam, and plunged recklessly down into the atmosphere.

McCade sat staring at the green wall, wondering why hospital walls were always green. "Of all the colors you could program a wall to be, why choose bile green? Ah! There's the connection," he mused wryly. "It's obvious, once you put your mind to it."

Wearily he swung his feet over onto the floor. He made an ancient gesture of derision toward the nearest scanner. Only Walt would put surveillance sensors in a hospital room. He stood slowly, and then shuffled over to the wash basin in one corner. He splashed cold water on his face and looked up into the bloodshot eyes which stared balefully back from the metal mirror. He watched in the mirror as the door behind him slid open. He wasn't surprised to see Swanson-Pierce. The other man's right arm was in a cast and sling. Somehow he made it appear dashing and elegant.

"Well, Sam old boy, you've been at it again, haven't you?" Swanson-Pierce said, settling himself into one of the room's two ugly chairs. "Bodies everywhere." He shook his head sadly. "Unauthorized use of a naval vessel, not to mention half a dozen Imperial marines, illegal boarding of a merchant ship, and a re-entry that broke every regulation in the book. It's quite a list. I've spent the entire morning trying to sort the whole thing out. God help us if the press gets hold of it."

"Blow it out your tubes, Walt," McCade said angrily, walking painfully over and sitting on the edge of the bed. He remembered the frantic plunge through the atmosphere, way too fast for the shields to shed enough heat, the emergency landing, confusion, and arrest. But nothing about Laurie. Trying to appear casual, McCade asked, "How's Laurie?"

Swanson-Pierce raised an eyebrow and replied, "The lieutenant is fine . . . no thanks to you. I left her moments ago in the base hospital. Evidently she suffered a mild concussion. She says someone bounced her helmet off a bulkhead." There was curiosity in the naval officer's look which McCade chose to ignore.

"I'm glad she's okay," McCade said. "She's a good kid . . .. She did all right up there." He remembered looking into the blaster and waiting to die. He fumbled through his pockets for a cigar. "And the marines?"

"One dead, four wounded, and one of those probably won't make it," the other man replied soberly, his eyes on the deck.

McCade winced. One dead and maybe another. For nothing. Bridger had escaped. His searching fingers found a cigar butt which he lit with a trembling hand. He sucked smoke deep into his lungs and blew it toward the deck. "And Van Doren?"

Swanson-Pierce's expression changed to amusement as he said, "Corporal Van Doren is fine." He paused for effect. "His Captain's Mast adjourned about half an hour ago. It seems he pleaded guilty to drunkenness on duty, issuance of illegal orders, theft of a navy vessel, illegal dueling, and interference with a merchant ship. All things considered, I think he got off easy, don't you?"

"You really think the press'll buy that?" McCade asked.

Swanson-Pierce shrugged. "They have so far. It's preferable to censorship, which always makes people even more interested."

McCade stared wordlessly into the naval officer's gaze, his thoughts still on the marine who had died and the other who probably would.

After a moment Swanson-Pierce said, "Don't do it, Sam. It won't help. These things just happen sometimes, that's all. Besides, we've gained quite a bit actually. It's true they got away . . . but at least we know they haven't made contact with the Il Ronn. So we've got a chance." He paused. "You'll be interested to know your marine friends took a prisoner." He watched McCade expectantly.

The silence stretched out. Finally McCade gave in. "And what did you learn from that prisoner?" McCade asked through gritted teeth.

"I thought you'd never ask," the other man replied with evident satisfaction. "It seems he, along with his stalwart companion, were all port-trash of one kind or another. Ex-mercenaries, beached spacemen, laid-off miners and the like. I'm sure you know the type." His expression made it clear that he thought McCade probably knew the type intimately.

McCade ignored it. "Then they weren't assassins," he said thoughtfully.

"Exactly," Swanson-Pierce replied smugly. "Apparently Bridger hired an ex-mercenary named Iverson, who then recruited the rest. Unfortunately Iverson met an untimely end recently while operating an energy cannon. Clever idea that. Anyway it may interest you to know Iverson made the bomb which concluded our luncheon in such a dramatic fashion." He made a microscopic adjustment to his sling.

McCade frowned thoughtfully. "So let's see, these . . . what did you call them? Port-trash? They infiltrate Naval Intelligence Headquarters, plant a bomb on exactly the right autocart, and then make their escape. All without your fancy hardware and highly trained spooks noticing anything suspicious. I don't know, Walt . . .. It's not the kind of report I'd want to file." He shook his head in mock concern.

Swanson-Pierce recrossed elegantly clad legs nervously. "Well, ah, yes, naturally we're quite concerned. Unfortunately our prisoner doesn't know how the bomb was placed or detonated. He swore, however, that he helped Iverson put it together. We have our best investigators on the problem."

"Terrific," McCade said, crushing the cigar butt under his heel. "If Bridger knew, he'd be terrified. While they're at it maybe they can find out where everybody's getting little items like energy cannon, high explosives, and navy-issue space armor."

Swanson-Pierce coughed and looked slightly embarrassed as he studied the gleaming toe of his right boot. "Actually I think we know the answer to that one. Our prisoner says they all came out of the
Leviathan's
cargo. Evidently part of a shipment for the marine detachment on Weller's World."

McCade shook his head in disgust. "Well tell me this . . .. If Iverson's men worked for Bridger . . . who sent the assassins? And why?" Both men stared at each other and silence filled the room.

Swanson-Pierce broke the silence. "You'll know when we do." He paused as he turned to leave. "They say you'll be discharged in the morning. I trust you've got everything you need?"

McCade nodded silently.

"Well, good hunting then." When the other man didn't answer, Swanson-Pierce slipped out of the room closing the door behind him.

McCade sat in the darkened control room staring at the viewscreen. Around him,
Pegasus
hummed and vibrated gently. The air was cool and dry, carrying the faint aroma of cooking. He watched, fascinated, as constellations wheeled slowly along their eternal paths and stars shimmered across the unimaginable distances of space. Of course they weren't real. As long as the ship remained in hyperspace, normal space wasn't visible. These were computer simulations. But they looked real, and he never tired of their beauty. The flickering light of the screen brought back memories of boyhood campfires when the dancing flames had captured his eyes and set his mind free to roam a sky full of mysterious stars. Now the stars no longer seemed mysterious. Just beautiful points of light, none of which were home.

"Hi, Sam!" Laurie dropped into the seat next to him. He turned, and the brightness of her smile washed away his somber thoughts. Her hair had fallen across her brow again and her eyes flashed as she shook it back into place. "Why so serious?" she asked.

He smiled. "Just remembering how things were when I was a boy."

"And how were they?" she asked, drawing her knees up under her chin, regarding him seriously.

McCade shrugged. "Pretty good actually. I spent my early years on Dorca III, and then my parents were transferred to Terra, and naturally I went with them. They were electrical engineers. They must have been good, because they both taught at the Imperial Academy of Arts and Sciences. Dad died a few years ago of a heart attack, and Mom went a year later. I wasn't surprised. She wanted to be with him." He stared at the viewscreen for a moment before speaking again. "I don't think they were very pleased about the way I turned out." He looked across at Laurie. "How 'bout you?"