Galactic Bounty (18 page)

Before long the crawler entered a huge dome. It was by far the largest structure McCade had ever seen. Larger than even the Imperial Coliseum, which covered what had once been the city of Detroit. There was an open space at its center dominated by a graceful column soaring hundreds of feet into the air. McCade sensed what whoever occupied the top of that column dominated the activity within the entire structure. Around the perimeter of the dome, broad terraces gently climbed toward the roof. The uppermost levels were sufficiently high that people could be seen flitting between them in air scooters.

Moments later, with a grunt of farewell, the driver discharged them in front of a lift tube. He handed McCade a rectangle of highly polished metal, and then without further ado, engaged the crawler's drive and headed toward a tunnel leading underground.

As they stepped into the lift tube, McCade examined the metal card. He'd never seen anything like it. He supposed it was similar to a universal credit card. But unlike a credit card, its surface was absolutely smooth. Therefore it seemed likely that whatever information it contained was recorded in its molecular structure, similar to the system the pirates used to identify their ships. McCade's thoughts were interrupted as the platform stopped on its own. Somewhere a computer monitored all arrivals and delivered them to whatever level happened to be the least crowded at the moment.

As they stepped out, McCade was again struck by the sheer size of everything. Ahead the broad terrace swept off into the distance. Beings of all races moved across its surface. He noticed they tended to stand, sit, or squat in small clumps around gray, boxlike structures. Among them moved the swaggering members of the Brotherhood's planetary police organization. Something about the way everyone hurried to get out of their way made it clear they were not public servants.

Occasionally someone failed to see them coming, or was too slow in moving out of the way, and received a careless shove or touch of the nerve stick to hurry them along. McCade made a mental note to stay as far away from them as possible.

Toward the outer edge of the terrace, an endless row of shops sold food, clothing, and recreation to the milling multitude. The variety required to satisfy the needs of so many races boggled the mind. They give you money for your goods and a place to spend it, McCade thought with grim amusement.

As they approached one of the gray, boxlike structures, McCade saw it was a combination computer terminal and com unit, not unlike those used in large maximarkets on Terra. A woman could be seen on the com screen, but there wasn't any audio. Then McCade noticed the earphones, which could be adjusted to fit a wide range of auditory organs. He picked up a set and put them on. As he did so the woman vanished and was replaced by a menu of possible races. He touched the word "Human" and watched as the woman faded back in, speaking perfect Standard. McCade knew that if he'd touched "Finthian," he'd be listening to the warbling voice of a Finthian hen.

He listened as the current transaction came to a close. One of the thousands of anonymous merchants surrounding him had just purchased five hundred all-terrain vehicles taken in a raid on a frontier world called Lucky Strike. Now he'd sell them to some other frontier planet desperate for manufactured goods. McCade glanced up at Sara. She had donned a headset and her furious expression made her feelings clear.

He slid the metal rectangle into the slot provided for that purpose. A list of those ahead of him in line flashed on the screen, along with an estimated waiting time. He decided there was plenty of time to get something to eat.

The restaurant Sara chose turned out to be excellent. Instead of the typical autochef, it employed actual cooks who clearly knew their business. After a series of exquisite courses, McCade sipped a final cup of real Terran coffee while Van Doren polished his plate with a piece of roll. During the meal Sara had entertained them with a number of fictional but hilarious accounts of her love life for the benefit of electronic eavesdroppers. At least McCade hoped they were fictional.

Glancing at his wrist term he saw it was almost time for their transaction. They paid the exorbitant bill by sliding the shiny metal card into the restaurant's cashcomp. Somewhere, much to McCade's enjoyment, a computer debited Fagan's account accordingly. Then they returned to the market.

"Next, gentlebeings, is lot 76940-A. Ten thousand guidance control modules for the Dragon air to ground missile. Since this lot is on the Brotherhood's priority list, open bidding is suspended. The Brotherhood offers the owner five thousand credits per module."

A tidy five million credits! McCade was amazed. No wonder merchants of every race flocked here.

"Accept or deny," the man droned.

McCade pushed the "accept" button. He wondered what would've happened if he'd pushed "deny." He had a feeling it wouldn't be altogether pleasant.

"Transaction complete," the man announced.

The metallic card popped out of the console. McCade removed his earphones and picked it up. He held a fortune in his hand. They could buy another cargo, load it on the
Far Trader
and lift. It's what Fagan would do. But I'm not Fagan, he thought, meeting Sara's gaze, and besides, maybe there're things worth more.

Her eyes widened and her face paled until her scar almost disappeared. McCade whirled to find himself staring down the tubes of a dozen blasters held by men in full armor. They stood in a semicircle with Laurie at its center. For the second time he searched her eyes for sorrow and found none.

After being disarmed, they were herded through a maze of hallways, corridors, tunnels, and lift tubes that always headed down. The farther they went, the fewer people they encountered. Those they did pass ignored them. McCade decided prisoners must be a fairly common sight on the Rock. He remembered stories he'd heard about pirate prisoners winding up as slaves and shuddered.

Meanwhile the hallways and corridors through which they passed had grown darker and shabbier. Eventually lift tubes gave way to endless stairs leading down. McCade noticed it was getting warmer and more humid. Even the walls were sweating. Soon water dripped, gurgled, and slid off every surface, turning his clothes to wet rags which clung to his skin and rubbed it raw. What he had first noticed as a vibration in the soles of his boots had become recognizable as the throbbing beat of heavy machinery located somewhere nearby.

He glanced over his shoulder to see how the others were doing and got a hard shove for his trouble. A soaked Van Doren and Sara were right behind him, but there was no sign of Laurie.

The stairs finally ended in a dark area of indeterminate size. McCade decided it was probably large, since their footsteps echoed as if off distant walls. Widely spaced pools of light marked a path through the dark. Somebody rammed something hard between his shoulder blades to hurry him along. On the edge of his vision, light and dark met in gloomy twilight and he could just barely make out endless rows of old-fashioned bars. Then he realized this section dated back to the time when the entire complex had been a prison. Since then they had quite naturally renovated the upper levels first, leaving the deepest areas for detention cells and heavy equipment.

The floor suddenly shelved upward, causing him to stumble and almost fall. Strong hands pulled him back up and roughly shoved him on. Then they rounded a corner and were ordered to halt. Dark forms moved to his right, accompanied by the squeal of unoiled hinges. He was unceremoniously propelled forward. Metal clanged behind him. He turned to see the bulky shadows move off into the dark.

Not far away machinery beat out a massive rhythm that made his head hurt. He thought he heard the sound of two more cell doors closing, but they were too far off for him to be sure. He tried yelling, but there was no reply. If Sara and Amos were anywhere nearby, they evidently couldn't hear him over the machinery.

Strangely enough, other than weapons, they hadn't taken his personal possessions. If his lighter had been a miniature blaster, they would have been sorry. Unfortunately, it was only a lighter. He used it to examine his cell. Except for a plastic bench set against one wall, and some pathetic grafitti left by previous tenants, the cell was bare. McCade lit a cigar and sat down on the bench. He flinched as his back came into contact with the damp wall, and then decided to ignore it. He tried to think meaningful thoughts, but they refused to come. Eventually he lay down on the bench and drifted into an uneasy sleep.

He awoke to the clang of metal as his cell door was opened.

"If you'd be kind enough to step this way?"

He was surprised by his jailer's civil tone. As he stood to go, he realized that his back hurt from sleeping on the hard bench. He stepped out of the cell and a grav light suddenly came to life. It sat bobbing in the slight air current above and behind the jailer's head.

"I'll give you a moment to get used to the light," the jailer continued in a congenial manner.

As the light gradually increased, McCade suddenly recognized the smooth countenance of Marvin Wong, the formerly taciturn driver who'd brought them in from the spaceport. So they knew the moment we landed, McCade thought to himself. He made a note to himself to find out how.

Aloud he said, "Your vocabulary has certainly improved since we last met."

Wong smiled his agreement. "Yes, Captain Fagan, or should I say Citizen McCade? All is not always what it seems. Now if you would please follow me." Wong turned and set off without even checking to see if McCade was following along behind.

For his part McCade saw little advantage in doing anything else. He had little doubt that others waited in the darkness should he try to run. Besides, things had taken an interesting turn. Wong set a brisk pace. The grav light bobbed along between them, its ghostly glow casting enormous shadows as they moved. Empty cells were visible on both sides, but McCade saw no sign of Sara or Amos. Maybe they had already been taken wherever he was headed.

They were moving upward. At first the floor sloped. Then they climbed what seemed like endless flights of metal stairs, finally emerging into a corridor replete with normal lighting and carpet. The air flowing from a nearby vent was dry and warm, but McCade's skin was still chilled under his damp clothes.

As they marched down the corridor McCade noticed doors which interrupted its length at regular intervals. After passing quite a few, they stopped in front of one. It looked like all the rest to McCade.

Wong rapped on it three times before turning to McCade. "Go on in . . . they're waiting for you." With that he turned and headed up the hall with the now darkened grav light following faithfully along behind.

McCade watched him go with detached amusement. Why were they so relaxed now, when earlier they'd felt it necessary to throw him into a cell right out of the Dark Ages? Maybe they were trying to soften him up. Well, he decided, there's only one way to find out.

He plastered a confident grin on his face and palmed the door. It slid aside to admit him. The room was brightly lit and dominated by a long conference table. An inscrutable black man dressed in dazzling white was seated at the head of it. His eyes were hooded like a hawk's and utterly devoid of emotion. On his left sat a wizened humanoid who looked like a gnome, and on his right was Laurie, a quizzical smile touching her lips.

"Please be seated, Citizen McCade." The black man had a deep, melodious voice, which added to his presence.

"Don't mind if I do," McCade said, as he plopped into the nearest chair and immediately swung his filthy boots up onto the polished surface of the conference table. "Much more comfortable than some of your other furniture," McCade ventured, patting his pockets for a cigar.

The black man watched him with patient amusement as McCade located a half-smoked butt and lit it. As soon as it was going, the black man spoke again. "My name is Brother Mungo. On my left is Brother Urbus, and I believe you know Sister Lowe."

"I once thought I did," McCade said, inclining his head in Laurie's direction.

"Your feelings concerning Sister Lowe's execution of her duties do not concern me, Citizen McCade," Mungo said dispassionately. "Although it may interest you to know this conversation wouldn't be taking place if it were not for her intercession. Brother Urbus and I favored feeding your mass to the main reactor—a couple of microseconds of power is, after all, better than nothing . . . which is what I think you're worth. However Sister Lowe pointed out how the Emperor's minions forced you to do their bidding, and that you've been useful, albeit unknowingly so. With that in mind, we've decided to be lenient." Mungo smiled tolerantly.

"What? No hot irons, no deep probes?" McCade asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Whatever for?" Mungo said gently. "It's painfully obvious that we know more about Bridger's discovery than you do. Oh, I suppose we could wring a few pitiful details about Alice out of you, or Miss Bridger for that matter, but what's the point? Soon we will command the War World and the pathetic defenses of Alice will no longer be of interest. In fact, as it turns out we really don't need Miss Bridger either. Too bad we wasted all that effort trying to capture her." He shrugged. "That's the way it goes."

McCade fought the mixture of anger and despair that threatened to overwhelm him. Mungo's manner was insulting. Even worse was the fact that everything he said was true. McCade didn't know anything they didn't. They held all the cards. McCade blew a stream of smoke toward his boots and produced what he hoped was a nonchalant smile.

"You're quite right, of course. Can't win 'em all, I always say. By the way, just as a point of professional interest, how did you locate us so quickly?"

"Thanks to Sister Lowe, that was easy," Mungo answered with obvious relish. "She hid a tracer in the handle of your sidearm before you left Terra."

McCade's mind flashed back to her arrival on
Pegasus
to see his duffel bag flying from Laurie's hand to land in his lap. He remembered pulling the slug gun out and noticing it had been cleaned and oiled—and bugged, he thought bitterly. The moment they had landed, the tiny tracer had triggered an audible alarm and lit up a visual display somewhere. From then on Laurie had known exactly where they were every moment. How they must have laughed while he carried out his transparent impersonation of Captain Fagan!