Galactic Bounty (23 page)

"Good it probably ain't," Van Doren replied sourly, spitting through the bars. "Not on this pus ball. You gotta wonder why anyone comes here. And what's more, why are those folks out there runnin' around in the rain?" He pointed out through the bars.

At first McCade couldn't see a thing. Then after allowing his eyes to adjust, he began to detect shadowy figures moving swiftly through the foliage. They seemed to be carrying long, thin objects. They could have been sticks. They could also be weapons. The three of them continued to watch the shadowy forms for some time. Even on foot and moving through dense undergrowth, the unknown figures seemed to have no difficulty keeping up with the slow-moving vehicle. Sometimes they would disappear. But a few minutes later they would be back, moving through the rain like ghosts.

If the Lakorians in the tractor's cab were aware of the watchers, they gave no sign. Both tractor and trailer continued their ungainly progress through the rain forest, lurching from one pond to the next. Gradually night began to fall. As dusk deepened into the blackness of night, the tractor driver flicked on powerful floodlights to push back the dark. Meanwhile a variety of nocturnal animal and plant life had switched on luminescent lights of their own. The net effect hurt McCade's eyes. The watchers could no longer be seen, but somehow he knew they were still there. Watching and waiting.

After a while McCade, lying beside Sara on the filthy floor, fell into a fitful sleep. It seemed perfectly natural to put one arm around her, and she snuggled up to his chest. She too fell asleep, stirring only occasionally and waking him from his confused dreams. Then all hell broke loose.

An aerial flare went off, lighting up the entire area. Somewhere an automatic projectile weapon began to stutter, and tracers arced in toward the cab. Instinctively all the prisoners hit the deck. But none of the fire seemed directed toward the trailer. Energy beams flicked out from the tractor to rake the underbrush. In spite of the rain, the vegetation immediately caught fire as though doused with liquid fuel. Evidently some of the plants exuded an extremely volatile sap. At times McCade thought he saw figures darting back and forth behind the flames. As far as he could tell, the incoming fire wasn't making much of an impression on the tractor. It had evidently been armored against just such attacks. He also noticed that the watchers continued to direct all their fire against the tractor and not the trailer. Whether this was calculated to spare the prisoners, or simply in recognition of their impotence, he couldn't tell. But he couldn't help feeling that any enemies of the Lakorians were friends of his.

A hidden speaker somewhere in the trailer squawked to life. This was followed by some kind of speech in a language McCade didn't know. No sooner had it ended than it started over in Standard. "We are under attack by criminal elements. Do not be frightened. You will not be harmed. Remain calm. The perpetrators of this unlawful attack will soon be destroyed."

As soon as it was over it began again. This time it sounded like the warbling speech of the Finthians.

It was obviously prerecorded, and McCade found that interesting. For one thing it meant that such attacks were probably very common. Why else would they prepare an announcement? It also implied some kind of organized resistance to the present planetary government. By whom? he wondered. For what reason? There weren't any obvious answers. Meanwhile the battle raged on. Neither side seemed to be making much of a dent in the other. The tractor continued to lumber forward, pulling the trailer along behind. However the watchers seemed able to keep pace without apparent difficulty, and both sides continued a desultory exchange of fire.

Finally, as if bored with the whole affair, the Lakorians opened up with an automatic flechette gun. Heretofore they hadn't used it, probably due to the extremely expensive ammunition it consumed. It sprayed thousands of explosive flechettes per second into the undergrowth. The countless tiny explosions combined to create a continuous roaring that sounded like a giant beast gone mad. Incoming fire dwindled to almost nothing right away. Whether the attackers had been decimated by the flechette gun, or had simply withdrawn when it opened up, McCade couldn't tell.

For a while they waited, expecting the attack to begin anew. But it didn't. One by one they dropped off again into exhausted sleep. Even the occasional roar of night feeders, disturbed by the passage of tractor and trailer, failed to wake them.

It was daylight when McCade opened his eyes. The rain had stopped, allowing occasional shafts of sunlight to penetrate the forest canopy and splash through the bars onto the huddled prisoners. Outside, a light mist ebbed and flowed along the contours of the ground.

Before long they began to pass occasional dwellings. Without exception, they were built on pilings, and were therefore immune to the comings and goings of the water below them. Most were circular and had domed roofs. The roofs were hinged in some fashion, allowing certain sections to be folded open. Quite a few were exercising that option, apparently to take advantage of the sun.

Gradually the tractor and trailer bounced and jolted onto increasingly busy thoroughfares, and it wasn't long before they entered a good-sized town. McCade noticed that even clearly commercial buildings never exceeded three or four stories. The water-soaked ground probably wouldn't support more weight than that, he thought. Of course, it could be a shortage of appropriate technology too. He remembered reading that buildings higher than three stories weren't common on Terra either, until after the invention of the elevator. Everywhere he looked he saw a strange juxtaposition of current technology and primitive culture. As far as McCade could tell there were no public utilities as such. If a homeowner wanted power, they could buy their own small fusion plant, otherwise forget it. That seemed to suggest a weak or nonexistent central government. Maybe the slave traders were in control. That would explain a lot.

All-terrain vehicles were popular, though. It was a rare dwelling that didn't boast a late-model vehicle sitting out front, often right next to the rotting wooden boat it had replaced. By the same token, the streets seemed more accidental than planned. It seemed as if they had been superimposed over and around an extensive canal system. The canals had evidently fallen into disuse. They were choked with water weed, and were apparently regarded as nuisances by Lakorian drivers. Equipped as they were with all-terrain vehicles,
they
tended to regard any ground not actually occupied by a house or tree as part of the road.

McCade wondered what would happen to the Lakorian economy if the slave trade suddenly disappeared. Most of the off-world income would disappear along with it. All-terrain vehicles would run out of imported fuel and be left to rust by owners who couldn't afford to import it privately. And, McCade thought to himself, a lot of folks would suddenly start repairing their boats.

The tractor-trailer twisted and turned endlessly through narrow and often obstructed streets before finally jerking to a halt in front of a raw-looking stockade. "Uh-oh, boss," Van Doren said. "This looks like home sweet home."

"Home maybe," Sara replied, holding her nose, "but sweet it isn't."

McCade silently agreed. An unbelievable stench surrounded the stockade. The reason was obvious. An open ditch followed the perimeter of the wall, creating an informal moat. The moat was filled to overflowing with rain water and the sewage generated by thousands of slaves, past and present. The stockade itself had been constructed using the time-honored system of digging a trench, standing logs upright shoulder to shoulder, and then filling in around the bottom with dirt. As the tractor drew near, a gate made of rude-looking planks swung open to admit it and then squealed closed as the vehicles lumbered clear.

The tractor ground to a halt in the large open space dominating the center of the stockade. The passage of vehicles and thousands of feet had turned the dirt there to mud. In the exact center of the open space stood a wooden platform. Its surface had been worn smooth by constant use and bore ominous-looking stains. A striped awning had been rigged over it to keep off the rain, granting it a sort of false gaiety. McCade didn't need a tour guide to explain the platform's purpose. It was empty now, but would be in use as soon as the slave auctions began. Beyond the platform was a swirling mass of flesh, feather and scale—citizens of a hundred worlds— talking, laughing, bickering, and fighting. Passing the time as they waited for the next round of buying and selling to begin.

For the first time since landing, McCade began to feel afraid. Up to now he'd assured himself that some sort of chance to escape would present itself and he'd be ready. But it hadn't and now it looked as though it never would. There was a screech of rusty metal as a Lakorian guard opened the gate on their trailer. With a series of grunts, kicks, and unintelligible commands, he forced them out. They stood in a bedraggled huddle ankle deep in the muck of the compound. McCade tried to get his bearings and spot weak points in the stockade. He hadn't found any when the sorting began.

Three stumpy Lakorian guards waded into their midst and started pushing and shoving. With expertise born of much practice, they roughly grouped their prisoners according to race. No sooner had that been accomplished than they stepped in and began sorting by sex. As a squat guard grabbed Sara and jerked her away, McCade jumped on its back and tried for a choke hold. He might just as well have tried to choke an oak tree. A second guard peeled him off without much effort and smashed him down into the muck with a single blow from some sort of cudgel. McCade picked himself up just in time to see Sara disappear into one of the low slave pens which lined the inside of the stockade wall. His head buzzed from the blow, and his stomach knotted up in fear and anger. He had tensed for a hopeless run toward the slave pens when he felt a firm grip on his arm.

It was Van Doren. "Whoa, boss. Not now. We'll get our chance later."

At first McCade was ready to throw Van Doren's hand off and go anyway. But after a second he calmed down enough to realize the marine was right. There wasn't any point to it. Even if he outran the closest guards, he couldn't outrun the energy weapons he'd seen mounted at regular intervals along the top of the stockade.

He nodded and felt Van Doren's hand fall away. The Lakorian guards were leading one of the Finthians, evidently a hen, away toward the pens. They had also taken one of the three Sephs. Evidently one qualified as a female and the other two as males. The two males were obviously distraught and uttered pitiful squealing noises. The single Cellite meanwhile stood in dejected misery. Next to him the bearlike alien remained impassive. McCade could detect no sign of fear or dejection in the shaggy brute's stance. He noted with interest that large brown eyes, black nose, and large rounded ears were taking everything in. It stood at least seven feet tall and probably weighed three hundred pounds. A powerful friend indeed if some kind of alliance could be forged.

Then it was their turn. The remaining Finthian, along with the two Sephs and the dispirited Cellite, were herded off in one direction, while McCade, Van Doren and the bear were taken in another. After sloshing across the compound, they were shoved into a pen, and an iron door slammed closed behind them.

It was dim inside the pen, lit only by one old chem strip and what little sunlight managed to find its way in through cracks and holes. The dirt floor was relatively dry and slanted toward a ditch at the back of the cell, thereby encouraging runoff. The ditch contained a sluggish flow of water, and judging from the smell, served as part of the open sewer system.

A few informal kicks quickly testified to the soundness of Lakorian construction techniques. So much for knocking the wall down. McCade found a spigot, from which he managed to coax a trickle of water. After slaking their thirst and scraping off what dirt they could, McCade and Van Doren plopped down and leaned against a wall.

"I don't suppose either one of you fellow homosaps has a dope stick secreted about your persons?" The voice was a rumbling basso and originated from their shaggy cell mate. The most surprising thing was that he spoke perfect, unaccented Terran.

"Sorry," McCade replied, patting his pockets. "Don't use 'em much. I might have a partly smoked cigar though."

"Any port in a storm, my granddaddy always said," the big creature replied as McCade handed him a half-smoked cigar.

Having found a shorter butt for himself, McCade lit up and leaned over to light the other's as well. Van Doren watched the ritual suspiciously as though sure their furry companion was up to no good. When both had their cigars drawing satisfactorily, the bear said conversationally, "You know, we're in a lot of trouble."

"Really?" McCade asked with a raised eyebrow. "You mean this isn't the Lunar Hilton?"

"Go ahead . . . kid around," the other said, gesturing with his cigar. "But don't blame me when you're sweating your ass off in some mine."

"I won't," McCade said with a smile. "But while we're on the subject of you, who are you anyway? Did I understand you to say 'fellow homosaps' earlier? No offense, but most humans come with a lot less hair."

"No offense taken," the bear said calmly. "I'm aware of my hirsuteness. But that's what you've got to expect if you're an Iceworld Variant. By the way, the name's Phil. Sorry about the little love tap I gave you in the trailer. It was just a reflex action."

McCade had heard of Variants but never met one. That wasn't too surprising since he knew they were damned expensive. Variants started out as normal humans. But after extensive biosculpting, something doctors on Terra specialized in, they ended up suited to one particular and usually exotic environment. In Phil's case, he'd been sculpted for work on the Iceworlds. Considering that Alice fell three classifications short of Iceworld status, McCade shuddered to imagine what such worlds were like.

"How come you didn't tell us this in the trailer?" Van Doren growled.

"I was waiting to see what kind of folks you were," Phil replied amiably. "Frankly I don't always choose to associate with fellow homosaps. But when you jumped that guard in the compound, I knew you were my kind of folks."