Galactic Bounty (8 page)

A veil fell over her eyes as she replied. "Oh nothing special . . .. I never knew my parents . . .. They were killed in some kind of accident out near the frontier. So I spent a lot of time in various kinds of schools and academies. I did well, and managed to enter the Academy . . .. End of story."

McCade didn't believe it. Oh, what she'd said was probably true enough, but he felt sure she was leaving a lot out. Why? There was no way to tell.

Laurie sniffed the air dramatically, her eyes flashing once more. "Smells good! Wait till you see what Amos made for dinner! Who'd of thought a stuffy old marine could cook?"

"Lucky for us he's an expert with the ship's weapons too," McCade replied dryly.

"Phooey," she said. "I'm an expert with the weapons . . .. What we needed was a cook!" She made a face and disappeared toward the lounge.

McCade smiled after her. Swanson-Pierce had insisted she come. She'd volunteered, probably at Swanson-Pierce's request, and the medics had given their approval, also at the naval officer's request no doubt. In any case she'd been sent along to keep an eye on him. McCade had given in with a tremendous show of reluctance.

The main control monitor buzzed softly. He looked up to see that they would emerge from hyperspace in six standard hours. He punched the "acknowledge" button and began a routine scan of the major system readouts. Of course the ship's computer did the same thing thousands of times a second, but it made him feel better. And once in a while over the years he'd even found something wrong.

They'd been in hyperspace for three weeks. During that time they'd traversed a distance it would've taken pre-empire ships years to cross. That hadn't stopped the early colonists, though. They'd risen from Terra and disappeared into the blackness of space. Some won through to habitable planets. Many didn't. In time the colonized worlds broke free of Earth and formed their own governments. The Confederation followed. Some said it was the lack of hyperdrive, as much as constant bickering, which caused the Confederation to disintegrate. It takes speedy communication to hold a stellar government together. And since no one had managed to punch a com beam through interstellar distances, ships remained the fastest form of communication.

It was certainly true that the rise of the first emperor occurred about the time a workable hyperdrive was discovered. In fact most historians agreed that the first emperor couldn't have won without it. Even though they were vastly outnumbered at the start, hyperdrive enabled his ships to travel vast distances in a fraction of the time required by the Confederates, a tactical advantage he exploited brilliantly. Even so, he'd been forced to amass a great fleet, and fight battle after battle. The empire he'd built was founded on hyperdrive and the blood of those who didn't have it.

McCade's thoughts were interrupted as the intercom buzzed, followed by Van Doren's basso saying, "Chow's on, sir . . .. I mean boss."

"Thanks, Amos." McCade grinned. Van Doren was supposed to be his bodyguard, not an Imperial marine. But old habits die hard and Van Doren was still having trouble ridding himself of his military mannerisms. McCade had asked Swanson-Pierce to restore the marine's former rank, and the naval officer had agreed—but only if McCade would take the man along on detached duty. All the marines who'd been in the fight with Bridger's men were being reassigned far from Terra's inquisitive press— except for the two buried with full honors, McCade thought soberly.

For his part Van Doren was eager to go along. He wanted to be there when they caught up with Bridger. But by way of an added incentive he'd been told that otherwise his next duty station would be on a planet called Swamp. A small detachment of marines was stationed there to protect resident scientists from their specimens.

After an excellent meal of smoked Fola on a bed of steamed Zuma, with chocolate torte for dessert, courtesy of the ship's stasis locker, the three of them relaxed over coffee in the lounge. McCade rolled rich cigar smoke off his tongue filling the air with an evil-looking blue haze.

"Remind me to renew my anticancer treatments," Laurie said, wrinkling her nose in disgust and turning the lounge's air scrubber up a notch.

"If there
are
twelve torpedoes waiting at the nav beacon," McCade replied, "there isn't much chance we'll die of cancer."

She stuck out her tongue at him but knew he was right. They'd gone through
Leviathan's
cargo manifest together before launch. Besides explosives, energy weapons and space armor, the huge ship carried five hundred Interceptor-class torpedoes bound for the Naval Arms Depot on Weller's World. After the giant hulk was caught and towed back to Earth orbit, a quick inventory revealed that twelve of the torpedoes were missing.

McCade considered the torpedoes as he sipped his coffee. Each needle-shaped black hull would be ten feet long. Aboard would be a very sophisticated minicomputer, an array of sensors, and a tidy little nuclear warhead. Usually they were carried and launched by Interceptors, small one-person fighters like the one tucked away in the bay where
Pegasus
normally carried her lifeboat. Trading the lifeboat for the Interceptor was a calculated risk. The lifeboat could save their lives in case of trouble, but so could the fighter; it all depended on which way things went.

To make matters worse, before they had left, naval armorers had confirmed that an expert could rig the torpedoes for an ambush. It had been done once or twice before. Was Bridger an expert? No one knew for sure— but they'd have to assume he was. He'd certainly had access to the necessary information.

If Bridger laid an ambush, the nav beacon would be the logical place to do it. Though technically a ship equipped with hyperdrive could enter and depart hyperspace anywhere, doing so entailed an element of risk. What if you happened to pick an exit point right in the middle of a large asteroid, for example? No one ever lived to report such incidents, of course, but there was little doubt they occasionally happened. As a result, a far-flung network of nav beacons had been established along the Empire's main trade routes. Each emitted its own distinctive code while entering and exiting hyperspace at one minute intervals. That way the beacon could be located by ships traveling in either normal space or hyperspace.

So while scouts and prospectors took pride in playing cosmic roulette and rarely had the luxury of using nav beacons, ships using established lanes always did. Therefore Bridger could expect his pursuit to emerge from hyperspace soon after he did and in proximity to the nav beacon. They'd considered sending an unmanned drone through first, but naval experts had agreed the torpedoes' sensors were too sophisticated to fall for such a ploy. And when McCade had suggested a destroyer, Swanson-Pierce had laughed, saying the Empire couldn't spare warships to chase after torpedoes which might or might not be there.

Van Doren spoke as if he'd read McCade's mind. "With all due respect, boss, you shouldn't worry so much." He patted the bulkhead next to him. "She's sound as an Imperial credit, not to mention that I've checked her personally, and when the time comes she'll show 'em a thing or two!" It was a long speech for the big marine. He leaned back, eyes bright under bushy brows, lips curved in a smile which held little humor. McCade smiled and nodded, wishing he shared the marine's confidence.

A few hours later McCade was reclining in the pilot's seat wearing full armor. Laurie occupied the copilot's position beside him, her face hidden by her visor. He wondered what she was thinking. Did she feel she should be sitting in the pilot's position? It had been a long time since he had taken a ship into combat. But damn it,
Pegasus
was his ship. He wouldn't always have Laurie to lean on. At least that's what he was telling himself.

Behind and slightly above them, Van Doren sat enclosed in a gun blister. Without sufficient crew to fully man the ship's secondary armament, most of it had been slaved to his position. Of course if there was an ambush, most of the battle would be fought by the ship's computer using the main armament. No human eye and brain could track tiny targets traveling at thousands of miles an hour. Not unless they got very close. Then the secondary armament would be their last chance.

"Do you think it'll work?" Laurie asked, her voice unnaturally casual.

"Sure I do," McCade lied.

After all, it could work, he thought. They had programmed the ship's computer to overshoot the nav beacon slightly. If there were torpedoes waiting, hopefully they'd be aimed at the next exit area immediately around the beacon. It would take the torpedoes a moment to detect
Pegasus
outside that area, recompute attack trajectories, and launch. That moment would be their edge.

McCade's eyes were locked on the main control monitor as the final seconds ticked away. At its center the nav beacon was represented by a white light. It appeared and disappeared as it jumped in and out of hyperspace. Then there was the second of disorientation and nausea he always felt during a hyperspace shift, followed by subtle changes in the viewscreens as the computer switched from simulated to actual images.

Now they were in normal space . . . and for a moment . . . so was the nav beacon. Close by, a yellow light blinked, probably
Leviathan's
power-control module. Around it appeared a globe of red dots. Each represented a torpedo. Just inside the perimeter of the globe, almost touching a red dot, was a green light symbolizing
Pegasus.
Their plan hadn't worked. They were practically sitting on a torpedo. The torpedo vanished in a flash of intense white light before McCade could utter a sound. Van Doren's battle cry was still ringing in his ears when it was replaced by a calm but unfamiliar female voice.

"This ship is under attack. Please prepare for high-stress evasive action. The bar and all recreational facilities are closed."

McCade would have laughed, but a crushing weight was suddenly added to his chest.
Pegasus
accelerated and began to execute a series of intricate evasive maneuvers. Through blurred vision he saw the remaining red dots reorient themselves and begin inexorably to close on
Pegasus.
McCade felt a slight jolt as the ship launched torpedoes of its own. To his satisfaction he watched two red dots disappear in explosions so bright the ship's sensors were forced to dampen down or bum out. But a third red dot was closing fast.

"Enemy target now leaving primary defensive zone sector four-eight.

Engage with secondaries," the calm computer voice said. "Due to immediate defensive energy requirements, there will be no hot water for showers until two standard hours after termination of engagement."

"I've got it," McCade said as he struggled to clear his vision and concentrate.

As his hand closed around the control grip for the bow energy cannon, he heard a double "Roger" from Laurie and Van Doren. The control worked much like the stick in an atmosphere flier. As he squeezed it, a target monitor came to life in front of him. When he rotated the handle to the right the target grid moved right on the screen. McCade lined up on the growing red dot. His thumb pressed the button at the top of the handle and pulses of blue light raced out to meet the torpedo. The powerful defensive screens of the
Pegasus
flared to the edge of burnout and then held. As McCade's eyes returned to the main control monitor, he counted five red dots still hurtling toward them. Apparently either
Pegasus
or Van Doren had nailed two more. But it wasn't enough. One or more torpedoes would almost certainly get through.

"Prepare for emergency damage control," the pleasant voice said. "Due to this vessel's current tactical situation, it seems advisable that both passengers and crew seek alternate transportation as soon as possible." McCade gritted his teeth and promised himself that if he survived, the computer wouldn't. Now he knew why the ship's previous owner had restricted the computer's use of voice simulation.

"Sam! There's a chance. Hit it now!" Laurie pointed at the bright red cover located in the very center of the control console.

McCade understood immediately. Without hesitation he flipped up the cover and hit the switch it protected. This time the disorientation and nausea of the hyperspace shift was a welcome relief. The moment the shift was complete, he hit the computer override switch again, felt his stomach lurch, and watched as the screen adjusted back to normal space. Their forward motion had carried them away from the nav beacon. The light created by the five torpedoes' mutual annihilation was just starting to fade behind them. McCade felt a muscle in his left cheek begin to twitch as he thought about the odds against surviving both the torpedoes and two random hyperspace shifts.

Laurie had removed her helmet. Sweat matted her dark hair. Her face was frozen in a silly grin. "We made it," she said.

"Thanks to you," he answered simply. Her eyes registered pleasure at the compliment. Suddenly he felt old. It'd been a long time since he'd been a hot young Interceptor pilot. He should've thought of a hyperspace shift himself.

"We're a good team, that's all," Laurie said. "Isn't that right, Amos?"

"Damned right," the big man answered, lowering his bulk from the gun blister. "I told ya she wouldn't let us down, didn't I, boss?"

"The bar is now open," the computer said.

McCade laughed. "You were right, Amos, she's a great ship."

A few minutes later they had swung around and were positioned near
Leviathan's
power-control module. It looked like an oversized tin can. A few random cargo pods were still connected to it where the explosive fittings had failed to detonate. To all appearances it was deserted. Repeated attempts to make radio contact brought no reply.

"Well," McCade said grimly, "it looks like we're gonna have to do it the hard way."

Laurie looked concerned. "I don't think that's a good idea, Sam. They might have rigged her to blow the moment someone goes aboard."

"Right, boss," Van Doren added. "Why not get some swabbies up here and let them check her out. They've got the gear for this sorta thing. Or, better yet, let's just put a torp in 'er."