Galactic Bounty (2 page)

He awoke with the sun in his eyes. The wall in front of him had become transparent. Outside, the huge naval base sprawled to the horizon. In a way, it symbolized the entire planet. As the center of a vast empire, Terra was almost entirely dedicated to the various branches of government, the military, scientific research, and of course the pleasures of those so engaged. He sat up and swung his feet over the side of the bed. He felt better. His arm was still a little stiff, but the pain had almost disappeared. There were clothes draped over the chair. Moving gingerly he stood and shuffled over to them. His worn leathers had disappeared and been replaced by a new set in navy black, without insignia of course. Everything fit perfectly. Except the memories. Those belonged to someone else, someone younger. Someone who'd believed what they taught him.

The door slid open. McCade accepted its unspoken invitation and stepped outside. Two Imperial marines stood waiting in the corridor. Both snapped to attention. McCade smiled. The hand of steel within the velvet glove. Just Walt's way of letting him know where he stood.

The larger of the two marines wore the chevrons of a section leader and the confidence of a professional. Bright brown eyes looked straight ahead from under bushy brows. When he spoke, his lips barely moved. "Will you accompany us, sir?"

McCade almost laughed. As if he had a choice. He nodded, and together they moved off. One marine fell in ahead and the other behind. Down corridors, through halls, along autowalks and, on one occasion, two hundred feet straight up a vertical shaft using some kind of new anti-grav field. He was impressed. He hadn't been to Terra for years and had forgotten what it was like. Everywhere, he saw purposeful activity and new technology—little things, many of them, but still new.

In spite of the empire's vast size, Terra was still the principal source of new technology. That fact had helped her remain at the center of human endeavor instead of being relegated to its past. In 3,112 years of recorded history, man had inhabited hundreds of worlds. Many had never seen Terra and never would. But for the most part all still thought of Terra as home.

By the time they arrived in front of huge, ornate doors, McCade was tired. They'd come a long way and his arm had started to ache. As they approached, two more marines snapped to attention. They seemed to come in pairs, like bookends. To McCade's surprise they opened the heavy doors by hand to let him pass. Their deference indicated the status of whoever he was about to meet. Or the ego, he reflected sourly.

As he entered, he noticed that the room was simply but elegantly furnished. A long walk across plush carpet carried him to a large desk. The chair behind it stood empty. The top of the desk was bare. But deep in its black surface a star map could be seen, accurate in every detail. He recognized many systems and planets. Imperial stars were colored silver, and, in spite of the empire's size, they were few against the immense backdrop of space. Between them tiny red sparks flew, which McCade supposed were navy ships, continually striving to bind the empire together.

"Impressive isn't it?" Surprised, McCade looked up into amused blue eyes. The sound of the man's entry had evidently been lost in the thick carpet. His white hair suggested age, but his movements retained the quick precision of youth. His face was round and unlined, yet there was a profound weariness in his eyes. His simple white robe bore no mark of rank. He needed none. The feeling of power surrounding the man was almost palpable. His smile seemed genuine and McCade found himself responding in kind. "Please be seated, Citizen McCade," the man continued. "I'm Admiral Keaton."

The floor behind McCade extruded a formless-looking chair. As McCade sat down, the chair quickly molded itself to the shape of his body. He'd never seen one like it. He was amazed.

Admiral Keaton! The man was a legend. He'd helped build the Imperial Navy under the first emperor. Then he'd shaped it, molded it, and used it to further expand the empire. Later he'd commanded the fleet that defeated the pirates near the planet Hell. McCade knew because he'd been there, aboard the
Imperial.

"First allow me to apologize for the considerable inconvenience we've put you through, though, as you'll see, this is a matter of grave concern to the Empire." The Admiral's tone was that of one equal addressing another on a problem of mutual concern. In spite of his distaste for the military, McCade couldn't help feeling complimented. "I'm aware, of course," Keaton continued smoothly, "that your separation from the navy wasn't entirely voluntary."

"A court martial rarely is . . .. Voluntary, I mean," McCade replied dryly. He remembered the cold empty feeling as he entered the enormous wardroom of the
Imperial
Facing him from behind the semicircular table were nine senior naval officers. One for each planet in Terra's system. Each had commanded a ship in the Battle of Hell. Their verdict was unanimous. Guilty. McCade could still see the grim satisfaction deep in the eyes of his commanding officer, Captain Bridger. He felt the familiar surge of anger and hatred sweep over him and pushed it back as he'd done a thousand times before.

Admiral Keaton nodded knowingly. "For what it's worth . . . I would have favored a less severe punishment than dishonorable discharge. I think we both realize that Captain Bridger's personal feelings may have colored his judgment. However you did choose to disobey a direct order. As I recall, you admitted that. And once Captain Bridger brought formal charges, the Court had little choice." Keaton paused, regarding McCade with a thoughtful expression before going on. "Of course, no one but the Emperor can change such a verdict after the fact."

McCade's thoughts churned. Had he just heard a veiled hint? If so, at what? His commission reinstated for services rendered? If so, why the heavy-handed approach from good old Walt? Surely the Admiral must be aware of the kind of leverage Walt had used to get him here. Of course he was. The carrot and the stick. He was being expertly conned. He didn't know what was coming—but he felt sure it would be a real lulu.

"I'll get to the point," Keaton said. "There's an important service you could render. Though I realize you may feel little loyalty to the Empire . . . I think you know it's necessary. The alternative is anarchy."

McCade didn't know if he believed that or not, but he certainly knew the theory. The Academy instructors had hammered it home day after day. It was the basic tenent underlying the Emperor's rule. There had been a confederation once. But there were too many stars, too many systems. Each had a point of view, special needs and special problems. Each saw itself as the center of the human universe. An entire planet had been set aside as a capital. It was populated with millions of representatives sent to vote on behalf of thousands of worlds. But the democratic process constantly broke down into endless bickering and squabbling. Nothing effective was accomplished because decisions always called for sacrifice by one or more special interest groups. Eventually a coalition of systems seceded from the Confederation. A bloody civil war followed. Finally after years of conflict a strong and brilliant leader emerged. He amassed a great armada and used it to conquer all the planets then held by man. His supporters proclaimed him emperor . . . and the Empire was born. His rule proved reasonable and consistent, preferable to the profitless anarchy of war. Eventually, most became willing subjects. However a stubborn few fled to the Empire's frontiers. There they eked out a marginal existence on uncharted worlds, or raided the Empire's commerce as pirates. Now the first emperor's son ruled, and little had changed.

Admiral Keaton paused as though gathering his thoughts. "We can also offer what we think is generous compensation for your services."

McCade would've sworn there was a glint of humor deep in the Admiral's eyes. "In addition to helping you resolve your legal difficulties, we are prepared to offer you a first-class ship. I believe such a vessel is central to your future plans." Admiral Keaton allowed himself an amused smile.

Blast them! McCade thought. They were leading him around like a child. He knew it, they knew it, and right now there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it. Forcing an even tone and sardonic grin, McCade said, "You're too generous, Admiral. You offer to pay me what's already mine, and throw in the ship I could have bought with it to boot. Terrific. It's a great deal. But before I agree . . . I'd like to know what's involved. So let's skip the bull and get on with it. What do you want? And why me?"

For a second McCade saw anger flicker in the other man's eyes and wondered if he'd pushed Keaton too far. But then the anger vanished to be replaced by a grim smile.

"All right, maybe I deserved that, McCade . . .. So, as you put it, I'll skip the bull. As for what we want, well, you did the Empire a service when you tracked Cadien down. We want you to find another fugitive for us and bring him back." The Admiral paused for a moment and said, "Failing that, we want you to kill him."

McCade experienced a sinking feeling. Whatever the game was, it obviously involved high stakes.

Keaton looked at him appraisingly. "As for why we picked you, well, you have quite a reputation in your, ah, chosen profession. I'm told your peers hold you in very high esteem. What's more important, however, is that you know the fugitive, how he thinks, what makes him tick. And that may well give you an edge in finding him. And last but not least . . . you just happened to be in the right place at the right time."

"Or the wrong place at the wrong time," McCade replied sourly. "Who am I supposed to find?"

"Captain Ian Bridger," Keaton replied grimly. "Ironic, isn't it?"

Totally insane is more like it, McCade thought. Find Bridger and bring him back dead or alive. Deep down he knew a part of him would enjoy tracking Bridger down. And they knew it, and were counting on it. But what had Bridger done? Whatever it was must be big.

"I'm already starting to feel underpaid," McCade said. "I want the bounty for Cadien, plus the ship, plus let's say, half a million for Bridger." He was as much interested in Keaton's reaction as in getting what he'd asked for.

The Admiral smiled crookedly. "The offer stands as is. If you succeed, we'll consider a bonus. Otherwise, I suggest you prepare for a long stay while the Claims Board gets organized and then considers your case."

For a moment McCade just sat there, wishing he could see some way out, but finding each possible door closed to him. With a sigh he said, "All right, you've got a deal. What exactly did Bridger do?"

"Swanson-Pierce will fill you in," Keaton replied, his face remote now, already considering the next item on his agenda for the day. "Good hunting, McCade." And with that, the Admiral shimmered and disappeared, leaving only an empty chair.

Suddenly McCade realized Keaton had never been there at all. Some kind of holo? If so, it was the best he'd ever seen. Thoughtfully he got up and made his way across the plush carpet to the massive double doors. They opened on silent hinges, and as he stepped out of the room, the four marines snapped to attention.

"Ready sir?" asked the section leader who'd brought him.

McCade nodded. "Yes, thanks, Section."

Together the three men started down the corridor. McCade noticed it was busier now. Glancing at his wrist term, he saw it was almost noon. People were heading for lunch. Moments later, as McCade and the marines rounded a corner into a crowded hallway, the assassins made their move.

There were three assassins, one ahead, one to each side. They were positioned to place McCade and his two escorts in a deadly cross fire. In keeping with Imperial law, they threw off their cloaks to reveal bright red jump suits. The word "assassin" flashed on and off in lights across each man's chest. The one in the middle delivered the formal warning.

"Attention! A level-three, licensed assassination will be carried out on Citizen Sam McCade five seconds from now." His amplified voice boomed down the corridor. People scattered and dived for cover in every direction. The lead assassin drew his blaster.

McCade dived for the floor and rolled right. Blaster fire splashed the floor where he'd just been. A wave of heat rolled over him, filling his nostrils with the stench of burned plastic. He looked up to see the lead assassin hurled backward by a blast from the section leader's energy weapon. Then McCade was hit from the side as the body of the second marine fell on him. There was a hole the size of a dinner plate burned through the man's chest. McCade rolled out from under the body, grabbing the marine's energy weapon as he did so. He fired as soon as his finger found the stud. Swinging left he punched a line of incandescent holes into the far wall before coming to bear on the lefthand assassin. As soon as the assassin filled his sights, McCade held the stud down. Pieces of the man flew in every direction.

McCade swung his weapon right, searching for another target. None remained. The assassins were dead. The section leader had killed two before being hit himself. McCade moved quickly to the marine's side. To his relief he saw the man was still alive. A blaster beam had grazed his right thigh. Fortunately it had cauterized the wound on its way by, so there wasn't any bleeding. McCade was something of an expert on wounds and had the scars to prove it. It looked like a stint in an automedic would make the leg as good as new.

The marine grinned at McCade through gritted teeth. "Glad you made it, sir . . .. For a moment there I thought we were all goners. Level three, for god's sake . . .. They must want you awful bad . . .. Woulda' been my ass if they'd got you though . . .. How's Reynolds?"

Slowly McCade became aware of the pandemonium around them. People caught in the cross fire screaming, others yelling commands, the smell of burned flesh, and the distant sound of approaching sirens. Good, someone had called the medics. McCade glanced at the other marine's crumpled form and then back to the section leader. "I'm afraid he didn't make it, Section."

The marine nodded unhappily.

"I'm sorry," McCade said, knowing it wouldn't help.