Galactic Bounty (10 page)

There was a rustling behind him and McCade turned, slug gun half out of its holster, to see Van Doren worming his way into the small clearing.

"It's just me, boss," Van Doren said in a stage whisper.

"Sounded like a whole brigade," McCade said, grinning.

"You're just jealous of my manly proportions," the marine replied, rising to his full height within the protective screen of vegetation. "Anything new?"

"Nothing," McCade answered, indicating the legation. "But I figure we should see some action soon."

"I sure hope so," Van Doren said. "'Cause sittin' here all night ain't my idea of a good time."

McCade yawned. "Speaking of which I'm heading back to town for some shut-eye. Have a good one."

McCade returned the marine's wave and crawled out through the bluish foliage to the nearby farm road. Hidden in the bushes where Van Doren had left it was an old-fashioned electro-cycle. He wheeled it up onto the reddish dirt road, climbed aboard and whirred off toward Logansport.

He awoke panting. His heart was racing. The room felt hot and muggy. His sweat had soaked the sheet under him. The dream had seemed so real. He'd been running through the streets of Logansport. Somewhere ahead of him was Bridger. Behind him a torpedo followed. The closer he got to Bridger, the closer the torpedo got to him. From somewhere up ahead, Bridger's insane laughter floated back to him. It grew louder and louder until it filled the streets, and the people on the sidewalks began to laugh too.

There was a slight noise from the right. He froze—straining to see and hear. His right hand crept by inches toward the butt of the needle gun under his pillow. The cool metal felt reassuring in his hand. There was the scrape of a shoe on the rough wood flooring. A figure moved slowly into the path of the moonlight streaming in through his window. Both moons were full tonight. The face that moved into their combined light was Laurie's. He watched, mesmerized, as she slowly and deliberately brought a handweapon up and aimed it at his chest.

McCade's hand flashed forward. He emptied the needle gun's magazine into her chest. She made a strangled sound and collapsed to the floor. McCade rolled out of bed, hitting a chair, which went over with a crash. Scrambling to his feet he snatched the slug gun from the dresser and aimed it into the pool of darkness where she'd fallen. Then he reached over and hit the lights.

A seething pool of greenish protoplasm met his eyes. There was no sign of Laurie beyond pieces of her clothing, which were mixed in with the strange green substance. The door banged open and Laurie burst in, a small sleeve gun in her hand. She aimed it at the mess on the floor. "I heard a noise! What is it?" she asked, nose wrinkled in distaste.

McCade regarded her with a raised eyebrow. "Believe it or not . . . it looked exactly like you until a moment ago. No offense," he added dryly.

"What's it doing here?" Laurie asked.

McCade shrugged. "Beats me . . . I woke up as you—I mean it—was about to equip me with a second navel." He nudged the fallen gun with his toe.

"You are both cretins of the first order," a hoarse rasping voice said. It came from the pool of matter on the floor. It had changed. Now McCade saw that a small, ovoid shape had resolved itself from the surrounding protoplasm. It spoke through a small round aperture in its glistening surface. "You've killed me," the voice said pitifully. "Even now I'm dying a slow, painful death. How sad. How degrading to die at the hands of bipedal tool users."

McCade and Laurie glanced at each other in amazement. "Better you than me, friend," McCade replied calmly. "What the hell are you anyway?"

The ovoid seemed to shudder and convulse slightly. Its outline blurred, and for a fraction of a second McCade saw his own face. Then the ovoid reverted to its former appearance, though slightly smaller, as if the effort had somehow diminished it.

"A Treel," Laurie said.

"Finally, a glimmer of primitive intelligence," the hoarse voice said. "You see before you a sight few are privileged to witness. A Treel in the full magnificence of his natural state. Even though I am mortally wounded, notice the incredible beauty of my body."

"I'll admit I've never seen anything like it," McCade said. "Who sent you? Why did you try to kill me?"

For a moment he thought the Treel wasn't going to respond. Then it shivered, blurred, and he found himself looking at Cadet Squadron Leader Votava.

As the alien jerked, evidently suffering another convulsion, Votava faded into green protoplasm. Suddenly lots of things made sense. He'd heard of Treels, but never seen one before. Few had. Treels spent most of their time looking like something else. That's how they managed to survive.

Their native planet swarmed with deadly life forms. Treels could imitate them all, from a rough likeness right down to the last biological detail if they wished to. That could include internal organs, voice print, fingerprints, the whole ball of wax. But evidently McCade's darts had wounded this one so badly it couldn't sustain an impersonation for more than a few moments.

"We are the only perfect race . . . for in us the great Yareel saw fit to demonstrate the unity of all life." With that the alien began an eerie chant in his own tongue.

A host of thoughts crowded each other, fighting for dominance in McCade's mind. A Treel. As he'd just seen, a Treel could impersonate any living thing which didn't exceed its own mass. But the Treel had to model its impersonations on something. The photos he'd found aboard the
Leviathan.
Photos the Treel had used to perfect his imitations. He remembered the photo of Laurie he'd found clutched in the dead man's hand. So the man had tried to identify his killer. But it hadn't been Laurie. She'd been aboard
Pegasus
with him. No, for some reason the Treel had chosen to look like Laurie when the tug's crew came aboard. Why? So they wouldn't recognize Votava from the fax sheets Naval Intelligence had sent out. It made sense. How long had the Treel posed as Votava, McCade wondered. Days? Months? Years? Yes, years probably. He remembered the discrepancy between the psych profiles before she left Mars, and after she entered the Academy. Somewhere between Mars and Terra the Treel had murdered the real Votava and taken her place. Then in the role of Votava, the Treel could have gone to work on Bridger. Feeding his anger and hate. And then when he'd learned the secret of the metal plate, urged him to use his new knowledge. Anger buried McCade's other emotions. A cold-blooded killer that could take on the appearance of anyone it chose. The perfect assassin. Suddenly another piece of the puzzle dropped into place.

Turning to Laurie, McCade said, "Now we know how the bomb was placed on that autocart." And why I found your picture aboard the
Leviathan,
he thought to himself. "It was no sweat for the Treel to place the bomb while impersonating someone who belonged in the building, someone like you." Laurie looked puzzled for a moment, and then nodded her head in understanding.

"That's right, Sam," the Treel said in a perfect imitation of Laurie's voice. "You aren't as stupid as you look."

"Why?" Laurie said. "Why have you done these things?"

The Treel made a hoarse coughing sound. A distorted likeness of Votava's face came and went. The Treel rasped, "My native planet lies just inside the Il Ronn Empire."

"They threatened you?" Laurie asked. The Treel's protoplasm convulsed into a shaky likeness of a stern-looking Il Ronn before again collapsing into a shapeless mass. A dry racking cough issued forth and for a fleeting moment McCade felt sorry for the strange being.

"Yes, primate, you speak truly," the Treel croaked. "While great of intelligence and beautiful to look upon, my race is few in number. Were it otherwise, we too would rule a great empire! But that is not the destiny Yareel granted us. We seldom mate, and then only on our native world. The Il Ronn have threatened to destroy our planet if we fail to serve them. The inevitable result would be the extinction of my race."

"I'm sorry," Laurie said. "We oppose the Il Ronn. Perhaps we could help."

"You're too late," came the hoarse reply. "Soon the man you call Bridger will lead the Il Ronn to the War World and then, invincible, they shall prevail throughout the galaxy."

"Bridger . . . where is he?" Laurie asked urgently, cutting McCade off.

She was answered by a hoarse sobbing which McCade supposed might be laughter. "It worked twice! We used the same trick twice!" The Treel chortled.

"You mean he's here? Right here in the hotel?" McCade asked.

The alien's laughter turned to hoarse coughing. "Yes . . . here. Like me he lies ill unto death. But soon they will come and take him. They will extract the information they require. Then woe unto man." Once again the eerie chant began.

McCade opened his mouth to ask what the War World is, exactly, but never got the chance. Instead Laurie turned, aimed her needle gun and fired. He felt the sting as the dart went into his thigh. A wave of nausea rolled over him. Drugs . . . she'd used drugs. He felt betrayed. He searched for sorrow in her eyes as he sank into dark oblivion, but found none.

He surfaced briefly at times before again sinking back into unconsciousness. During those moments he gathered distant impressions. First of being carried by rough hands and then of being thrown into some kind of vehicle, followed by a long jolting ride. Later he thought he remembered a snatch of conversation.

"I say let's waste 'im, I don't fancy cartin' 'im all over town."

"No, damn it. She said ta put him in parkin' orbit for a while . . . gently like. Ya mark me, lad, she'll put ya ta the local an' I mean smart like . . .."

Somehow listening was more effort than McCade could bear, and he slipped back into the restful darkness.

He awoke with a splitting headache. The simple action of turning his head sent a lance of pain through his neck. His left thigh hurt too, where the dart had penetrated muscle and then dissolved. He was lying on a cold stone floor. High on the wall across from him a dim street light cast its feeble glow through a barred window. Other prisoners surrounded him. Some lay on the floor, as he did. Others slept in makeshift beds. In a far corner a man quietly wept. The smell of vomit and urine was overpowering. Water dripped steadily from the ceiling and fell a drop at a time into the puddle beside his head.

With tremendous effort he tried to sit up. He was rewarded with an explosion of pain forcing him back against the cold damp floor. He lay there a long time, thinking. Obviously Laurie worked for someone besides Naval Intelligence, and had for a long time. The question was who? The Il Ronn? No, that didn't make sense. The Treel disguised as Votava had acted as their agent. So who was left? The pirates, that's who.

Suddenly the assassins made sense. They'd bothered him from the start. Bridger and Votava—strike that—the Treel hadn't sent them. They'd used mercenaries. No, someone else sent the assassins. Someone who knew the naval base and could help them get in. Someone who could tell them where McCade would be and when. Someone like Laurie. But why? He might never learn Laurie's personal motives, but those of her employers were obvious. The pirates had found out somehow about Bridger's breakthrough.

He remembered his computer research into Bridger's activities and his conclusion that Bridger had broken the secret of his "Directory." In spite of the computer's assurances that no one else had asked for the same information, obviously they had. Laurie must have done the same research and had reached the same conclusions. At that point either she or her superiors decided that the last thing they wanted was for McCade to catch Bridger and turn him and his secret over to Naval Intelligence. They wanted Bridger and the knowledge locked away in his head just as the Il Ronn obviously did. So, Laurie hired assassins to kill McCade, while her fellow pirates no doubt launched an intensive effort to find Bridger themselves.

But the assassins failed. So Laurie decided to use him instead of killing him. Let him lead her to Bridger. And that's exactly what he'd done. Suddenly he wanted to get his hands on her, to hurt her, to punish her for his own stupid vulnerability. And yet he knew that given the chance he still wouldn't do any of those things.

So far things hadn't gone well. McCade smiled grimly to himself in the darkness. But the Treel had added one small scrap of information to his limited hoard. What had he said? Something about Bridger leading the Il Ronn to the "War World." The name was certainly ominous, and bore some rather obvious possibilities.

Had Bridger's "Directory" somehow given him the location of an entire world? One developed by the Builders and dedicated to war? If so, and if the weapons on such a world were still intact, the implications could be enormous. There was little doubt that the Builders had possessed a science and technology superior to anything yet developed by either humans or Il Ronn. Logically therefore the weapons developed by such a race would be truly awesome. Whoever found them first might well have the means to control all of explored space. Whatever it was, the Treel had learned of it, probably as a result of Bridger's demented ravings, and had by now communicated that knowledge to the Il Ronn.

The whole thing scared the hell out of him. If such power existed, who should control it? The human empire? The Il Ronn empire? The pirates? The more he thought about it, the less he liked any of the possibilities. Gradually the light from the window grew brighter, and his fellow prisoners began to stir. He managed to sit up.

"Got a light?" came a voice from behind him.

Automatically his hand went to his lighter and to his surprise it was there.

As though reading his mind the voice said, "If it ain't lethal, they let ya keep it."

Turning, McCade confronted a bear of a man who dwarfed the rickety chair on which he sat. McCade lit the man's cigar, and then searched his pockets for one of his own.

"Here, sport, try one o' mine," the man said, offering McCade an expensive, imported cigar still sealed in its own metal tube.

"Thanks," McCade said, looking the man over as he unsealed the cigar and carefully rotated it over the flame from his lighter. The man had a head of unruly black hair, with a beard to match. His eyes were small and bright, tucked deeply into creased flesh. His teeth flashed white when he smiled, something he did a lot. He was dressed frontier style. A dark woolen shirt was covered by a leather vest. His pants were made of a black synthetic that looked very tough. He wore lace-up boots. McCade noticed an empty knife sheath sticking out of the right one.