McCade's Bounty (23 page)

Once off the landing pad Davison ushered them into an open combat car. The vinyl seats were hot as hell. Phil looked terribly uncomfortable, panting heavily, his fur matted with sweat.

A private sat behind pintle-mounted twin-fifties, looking bored and doing her nails. She didn't even glance their way. The driver was a cheerful-looking corporal. He had bright brown eyes, black skin, and a gold earring in his right ear.

"Welcome aboard, sirs. Where to?"

"The O club and step on it," Davison replied.

McCade was thrown backward as the car spun away, spraying a nearby work party with sand and reinforcing all the negative images they already had regarding officers.

The corporal liked to drive combat cars, and saw each errand as an opportunity to hone his skills. As a result the trip from the helicopter pad to the O club was transformed into a high-speed sprint through an imaginary combat situation, with piles of camo-netted cargo modules standing in for tanks, and rows of inflatable tents representing troop carriers. This made the trip fast but somewhat terrifying as well. McCade was thankful when the car skidded to a stop in front of a large tent. A steady stream of officers was coming and going through the front entrance.

Davison thanked the corporal, turned his face away to avoid the inevitable spray of sand, and waited for the combat car to clear the area. He turned to Phil.

"Here . . . pin these tabs to your armor. I put you in for lieutenant and we'll assume it's been approved. Can't have sergeants in the O club . . . might contaminate the beer or something."

Phil laughed, did as Davison requested, and followed the major inside. It was soothingly dark, redolent of smoke and beer, and filled with the low mumble of conversation. There were thirty or forty folding tables, about half of them filled.

Davison led them to the bar, bought a round of beers, and watched as they chugged them down. Phil chased his with a full pitcher. When it was gone the variant wiped his muzzle with the back of a furry hand, belched, and said, "Thank you, sir, that hit the spot."

With their thirst quenched, Davison sent them to the rear of the building where they stripped down and entered the male showers. There was no such thing as cold water, but it felt wonderful to stand in a steady stream of tepid water, and let it wash away days' worth of desert grime.

McCade soaped and rinsed three times before he felt really clean.

Phil, always given to singing in the shower, did so, his prodigious baritone filling the area with sound. At least one officer thought about asking Phil to stop, but caught a glimpse of the variant's bulk, and decided to let it go. A few minutes later they had the showers to themselves.

Finally, two bars of soap and many gallons later, they emerged much refreshed and ready for the new uniforms that Davison had waiting. Phil's was an extra large, triple X, and barely fit.

Davison nodded approvingly when they joined him at the bar. "Better . . . much better . . . and just in time too." The major glanced at his wrist term.

"We're due to appear in front of the general at 1730. The general's not much for handing out medals and that sort of thing, but he's got the combine to consider, and Marsha Harrington is real pleased about the way you took care of her father. So the heroes are about to receive their just due, along with some other fortunates who had the good sense to save a combine factory. We're off."

It was a shock stepping out of the air-conditioned O club into the late afternoon heat. Fortunately for them the HQ bunker was a short distance away. It was more than a bunker actually, being a fairly good-sized freighter, which had been landed in a specially prepared ravine and buried under tons of rock and sand. The result was a hardened command post that was nearly invulnerable to attack.

The entrance was inside a small tent some fifty yards from the command post itself. It was heavily guarded. All three were subjected to an identity check and asked to surrender their weapons prior to admission.

Up to this point McCade had been looking forward to a confrontation with Pong, unsure of exactly how things would go, but determined to make something happen. Now, stripped of his weapons and surrounded by Pong's personal troops, that seemed suicidal. But thanks to the fact that Pong had never seen him before, he could accept the medal and leave. After that he'd get together with Phil and make a new plan.

Somewhat comforted by this analysis McCade turned his attention to following Major Davison through the underground tunnel. The walls were made of fused sand and chem strips lighted the way. The exaggerated zigzag of the tunnel was no accident. Each corner represented a place where defenders could take cover while their attackers were forced into the open. It was very professional.

There was another identity check once they reached the ships's lock, followed by a pat down, and a trip through a standard metal detector.

Phil's durasteel teeth and claws set the detector off right away and caused quite a stir. Finally, after much arguing and explaining by Major Davison, they were allowed to pass.

A junior rating led them through the freighter's interior to a specially modified cargo hold. Half the space was filled with banks of com gear and people, most of whom were milling around a centrally located tac tank. It shimmered and swirled with distant battle.

Folding chairs had been set up in the other half of the hold and most of them were already filled. The occupants looked tired and extremely bored.

"A bunch of ground pounders," Davison whispered, "you know, the ones who saved the factory."

McCade nodded and took one of the few empty seats. Phil sat beside him.

Five or ten minutes passed during which nothing seemed to happen. Then a hatch hissed open and a man stepped through. A rather pleasant-looking man with a Melcetian mind slug riding on his shoulder. The alien rippled with reflected light.

McCade felt adrenaline pour into his system. His heart beat like a trip-hammer.

Mustapha Pong! The man who had stolen his daughter, wounded his wife, and murdered his friends. Where's Molly? What have you done with her? McCade wanted to scream it, and was half an inch out of his chair when Phil touched his arm.

"Not now, Sam, Not here. We'll get our chance, but not now."

The voice was calm, logical, correct. McCade fell back into his chair and looked around. Had anyone noticed? No, not as far as he could tell anyway.

The room had grown quieter, whether from Pong's presence or actual orders, McCade couldn't tell. A stern-looking woman in perfect body armor nodded to Pong and turned toward the small audience. She had heavy black eyebrows, a predatory nose, and a stern mouth. The woman cleared her throat.

"Hello, I'm Colonel Mary Surillo. It's my pleasure to welcome you to brigade HQ. Being mercs, we don't give out a lot of medals, but when we do they really mean something. Each one of the medals given out today comes with a cash award."

The ground pounders gave a cheer and Surillo nodded approvingly. "That's right . . . the stuff we fight for. Here to present your awards, and to congratulate you on behalf of the combine, is General Mustapha Pong."

Surillo nodded toward Pong and took a step backward.

Pong produced a smile, stepped forward, and let the mind slug feed him what he needed to know. "Thank you, Colonel, it's a pleasure to be here. As I give your names please stand up. First I'd like to recognize Major Elroy, Lieutenant Deng, Private Hoskins . . ."

Pong's voice became a dull drone as he listed the ground pounders, their sterling service on behalf of the combine, and their various rewards.

McCade watched the pirate's face, wondering how such evil could lurk behind those banal features, and wishing he could do something about it right then.

McCade felt a nudge from Phil and realized that their turn had come. The ground ponders had taken their seats, and Pong was about to speak.

"And that brings us to our next set of winners. Captain Roland Blake and Second Lieutenant Frederick Lambert, please stand."

McCade stood, as did Phil, and Pong had just launched into a description of what they'd done when a loud squawk came from the other side of the room.

McCade looked just in time to see Captain Lorina DepSmith step out of the crowd, belly jiggling, and point a pudgy finger in his direction. Her voice cut through the noise like a knife through soft butter. "Roland Blake my foot! That's Sam McCade!"

Molly huddled in one corner of Mustapha Pong's vast cabin, half asleep, half awake. She was fantasizing about home, reliving a wonderful afternoon when she, Mommy, and Daddy had gone up to Uncle Rico's summer place for a picnic. Everything was cozy and warm inside the cabin, while outside the snow fell thick and heavy, covering the world with a layer of white frosting.

There had been a big blazing fire, lots of good food, and the pleasant drone of her parents' voices. There was nothing exciting about the trip, nothing special, just the warm fullness of being cared for and loved.

Molly remembered how it felt to have Daddy throw her into the air, while Mommy cautioned him to be careful and smiled from the other side of the room. Oh, what she wouldn't give to be back there, reliving that moment, feeling strong arms around her.

A tear trickled down Molly's cheek and she wiped it away as the hatch hissed open. There were loud footsteps as someone walked into the center of the room and stood in the cone of light that bathed Pong's chair. A knot formed in Molly's stomach when she saw who it was. Boots! What was she doing here? Molly cowered in the corner and hoped the woman would go away.

Boots laughed, a horrible cackling sound, full of hate and satisfaction. "So! Hiding in the corner, eh? Get out here!"

Molly did as she was told, wondering what was going on and wishing Pong would appear. He didn't.

Two quick steps and Boots had her by an ear, pulling Molly along, towing her through the hatch and down the corridor. It hurt, and just to emphasize that fact, Boots gave her ear an extra jerk every once in a while.

Molly bit her lip, determined not to cry, and looked around for help. Crew members passed them in both directions. Where was Pong? Raz? Surely they'd help her. But no one came to her rescue or even looked especially interested. Slaves, even ones favored by Mustapha Pong, were still slaves.

Bit by bit it became clear that they were headed for the launch bay, and sure enough, when Boots came to a halt it was outside robo lock four.

The hangar had been depressurized so that shuttles could come and go freely, but a limited number of accordianlike robo locks allowed direct access to high-priority vessels, and it seemed Molly was destined for one of those.

Aha! Molly felt suddenly better. Pong had sent for her. Boots would put her aboard his shuttle, and that would be that.

But that hope was snatched away when the rest of the girls were herded into the area, all nineteen of them, with Lia leading the way. The older girl had a sneer on her face.

"Well, look who's here! Little Miss Privileged. What's the matter, Molly, did Pong get tired of wiping your nose?"

Molly ignored her and did her best to figure out what was going on. It wasn't just her. They were taking
all
of the girls off ship. Why?

Boots counted noses. "Well, that should be the lot of them."

"Yup," the other crew member agreed, checking his porta comp, "let's get 'em on board. Chow's in twenty minutes. We wouldn't want to be late."

Boots shoved Molly toward the lock. "Get moving, brat . . . it seems Pong came to his senses. We're well rid of you."

Molly stumbled, caught herself, and stepped into the lock. She felt an emptiness inside. Pong had sent her away. It shouldn't matter, but it did.

Molly knew Pong was a horrible man, knew he was capable of destroying entire planets to get what he wanted, and liked him anyway. She shouldn't but she did. He'd been kind to her, or as kind as he knew how to be, and seemed to like her. That's why Molly felt betrayed. What had she done to displease him? Why was Pong sending her away?

A tremendous wave of self-pity rolled over Molly as she groped her way through the dimly lit tube. It wasn't fair! Why her? Why?

The question found no answer as Molly knew it wouldn't. She saw a dimly lit lock up ahead. The light had a lavender hue. It reminded Molly of something she couldn't quite put her finger on.

She entered the lock along with Boots and five other girls. There wasn't room for more. Much to Molly's relief Lia was back toward the end of the line.

Boots hummed as the lock cycled through, and was so pleased with the occasion that she allowed Molly to slip by untouched.

It was dim inside the shuttle and it took Molly's eyes a moment to adjust.

Then Molly's heart jumped into her throat. She saw dirt where the deck should be, vegetation to either side, and a lavender sky overhead. The shuttle was a smaller version of the moon-sized ship! The ship that belonged to the horrible aliens!

Molly whirled and headed for the lock. She shouted, "Run! Run!" but it did no good. The other girls stayed right where they were; Boots cuffed her on the side of the head and kicked her as she went down.

Molly struggled as Boots dragged her toward the shuttle's stern, doing her best to tell others what was waiting for them, screaming with frustration when they ignored her.

An openhanded slap sent Molly reeling as the rest of the girls poured into the small compartment and a metal gate slammed into place. Boots stood on the other side of the gate and grinned. Molly grabbed the bars and shook them.

"Let us out . . . please let us out . . . they plan to kill us!"

But Boots laughed and disappeared into the near darkness of the corridor. Hands pulled Molly away from the bars and held her while Lia moved in front of her.

"Now listen, and listen good. You're going to shut up and do as you're told! We're tired of being abused while you sit around playing princess. From now on you'll do what
we
say when
we
say to do it. Understand?"