McCade's Bounty (17 page)

Davison pushed the button at one end of the stylus and watched the lethal-looking tip vanish inside the barrel.

"Thanks, Captain, I'll keep him in mind. Don't get wasted tonight. We'll be up at 0500 trying to turn this herd of dirt technicians into an army."

McCade grinned. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." McCade let himself out as another potential recruit stepped in.

The back door gave access to a hall, where a bored-looking trooper ascertained that McCade had been accepted, and directed him to an office down the hall.

Once in the office a civilian clerk asked McCade dozens of questions and dutifully typed the bounty hunter's lies into his computer.

And then, because McCade was an officer, a lance corporal took him down two floors into a warehouse area. It was filled with row after row of tables, each heaped high with different kinds of gear, each manned by a uniformed trooper. A long line of recruits was shuffling its way through the tables stuffing gear into camo-covered duffel bags.

With the lance corporal leading the way McCade was allowed to practically zip through the line cutting an hour-long process down to fifteen minutes.

The newbies looked resentful and the pros looked bored. Officers took care of each other. Always had and always would.

After that it was a few steps outside to a waiting command car, a bumpy ride to a well-lit camp, and total collapse on a folding camp bed. It felt heavenly. He was asleep in seconds.

The next few days were extremely busy. Everyone worked long hours. The goal of putting the entire brigade together within a month had seemed impossible at first but was actually starting to happen. In spite of Davison's comments to the contrary, most of their recruits were
not
fresh off the farm and had some sort of previous military experience. As a matter of fact most were fairly well trained.

That, plus a masterful job of organization by their XO, a legendary merc named Colonel Mary Surillo, had made the impossible seem increasingly likely.

The brigade was coming together in a huge field outside HiHo's main city of Ness. Thanks to the season, and a stretch of especially good weather, conditions were as good as they could be.

Just as he'd hoped, McCade was given command of a special ops team with Phil as his senior noncom. The team consisted of twenty-six men and women, all with recon or equivalent experience, which was good because McCade had none at all.

Interceptor pilots don't spend much time snooping and pooping dirtside, but like Phil, McCade did belong to Alice's militia and had picked up the basic infantry tactics in the process. So the trick was to hide his lack of knowledge behind a seemingly taciturn exterior and rely on his junior noncoms to structure most of the team's training.

Unfortunately
their
idea of a good time was to run the perimeter of the base yelling "One, two, three, four, I love the Marine Corps," while carrying an unarmed surface-to-air missile on their shoulders. Or like today, running over every hill in sight, dressed in class II combat gear.

Although McCade had considered himself to be in fairly good shape at the onset of training, he now knew differently. His lungs were on fire, his heart was trying to beat its way out of his chest, and it felt as if someone had filled his legs with solid lead. This in spite of the fact that the troops around him looked fresh as a daisy. Still under the pretext of giving
them
a break. McCade ordered a halt.

They stopped just below the summit of a sizable hill. Even McCade knew better than to do that at the top of the hill where they'd be outlined against the sky. The team scattered before Phil could yell, "One grenade would get you all!" and settled in smaller groups.

Trying to hide his desperate need for more oxygen, McCade turned his back on them and used a pair of mini-glasses to scan the valley below.

Seen from a distance the camp consisted of orderly looking streets, each crossing the others at right angles, and lined with identical pop-up shelters. The shelters were inflatable and capable of housing a full platoon of troops.

Spotted here and there were vehicle parks, supply dumps, landing pads, training areas, com trailers, and other less identifiable installations.

And surrounding the whole thing was a computer-designed perimeter. It took into account the lay of the land, the distance between it and the hills, the areas of deepest shadow, indigenous life forms, the consistency of the soil, and much, much more.

As a result the perimeter seemed to jig and jag in what looked like random patterns but weren't. Every foot of the perimeter was not just guarded, but guarded with the weapons and personnel perfect for that particular spot, making it damned hard to penetrate.

Very professional, very high tech, and very strange. A computer-designed perimeter was something McCade would expect from the Imperial Marines, but not from a mercenary outfit thrown together by a pirate.

McCade moved his glasses across the camp. He saw rows of brand-new armored personnel carriers, hover tanks, missile launchers, supply trucks, and a lot of snappy-looking troopers.

Now that he thought about it, McCade realized that it wasn't just the computer-designed perimeter,
everything
was top-of-the-line brand-new. The camp and everything in it looked like something a child would set up on the floor of their bedroom. It was too damned perfect.

Not only that but most merc outfits were specialists, ground pounders say, or tankers. Hardly any of them had the resources to assemble a miniature army with everything from infantry all the way up to heavy armor.

McCade lowered his glasses. Why? Why had Pong spent so much money on a picture-perfect army? And speaking of Pong, where was the bastard anyway, and when would he take command? Soon. It had to be soon.

McCade found a half-smoked cigar in an outside pocket of his body armor. He sucked it into life and blew smoke out toward the valley below. He thought about Molly and whispered to himself, "Hang in there, honey. I'm getting closer."

Mustapha Pong was frustrated. The planet Salazar was the last place in the universe that he wanted to be. Especially given his many business deals, his army forming up on HiHo, and the war brewing on Drang.

Of course that was the problem, the war on Drang, and the question of who would win it. Because the 56,827 wanted a full-scale, human-fought war, and because they wanted Pong to accept a personal role, it was important to stack the deck as much as he could.

Pong looked out the window. It was winter. Snow fell steadily from a lead-gray sky, swirling through the aircar's headlights, to cover the city of Segundo with a cloak of white. It was beautiful.

Pong longed for the cold kiss of a snowflake on his cheek, the bite of frigid air, and the wonderful silence that snow brings with it.

Then, after a brisk walk in the snow, a glorious retreat into the yellow warmth of a good cafe. The kind he stood outside of as a child, peering in through steam-fogged windows, marveling at the wonderful things that people ate.

"And unless you pay attention that's exactly where you will be," the Mel-cetian reminded him tartly, "on the outside looking in."

"And so what?" Pong asked resentfully. "As long as there's blood in my body, what do you care?"

"My, my," the mind slug replied sarcastically, "touchy aren't we? But let's discuss that. You made a lot of promises to the 56,827. In essence you promised them the entire human race. How will they react should you deliver something less? How much blood will you give me then?"

The Melcetian was right. There was a lot at stake and this was no time to make mistakes. Pong forced himself to concentrate.

Thing were heating up on Drang. For years now a combine of large corporations had been gathering power, buying off as many elected representatives as they could, and working to counter the rest with an army of paid lobbyists. Now, things were coming to a head and everyone knew it.

The combine officials were determined to fight rather than surrender what was left of the government. So, with hostilities about to begin, and both sides looking for an advantage, Pong found himself in the perfect situation.

In order to satisfy the 56,827's desire to witness a war, he was offering a brand-new, first-rate army at a bargain basement price. Both the world government and the combine wanted his help in the worst way.

And after careful consideration of both alternatives, Pong had decided in favor of the world government. The combine was strong, but according to Pong's intelligence the government was just a little bit stronger, and more likely to win.

In a few short minutes the aircar would land, Pong would meet with representatives from Drang's government, and the deal would be done.

Shortly thereafter he would make the short hop from Salazar to Drang, take command of his brand-new army, and win the ensuring war. Then, with backing from the 56,827, the boy from the slums of Desus II would turn the Empire on its head.

"Ah, such dreams," the mind slug said acidly. "And should they come true, what then? The new Emperor will be a slave to the 56,827, that's what."

"Perhaps," Mustapha Pong thought back, "or perhaps it will be the other way around."

"Ah," the Melcetian said amusedly. "Even more delusions of grandeur."

But even as the alien formulated the thought it also injected a chemical reward into Pong's bloodstream. The mind slug knew that the resulting physical pleasure would reinforce the human's ambition and encourage him to act on it.

Suddenly Pong felt warm and happy. He turned to look at Molly. He'd given her a red ball. She was playing with it and staring out the window.

Molly had been quiet, almost taciturn since their visit to the alien ship, and Pong was sorry that he'd taken her along. 47,721 scared her, that was clear, but there was something more as well. Something she refused to talk about. The ball, made from emergency hull sealer, had been by way of an apology.

Pong turned back to the window. This time there would be nothing more frightening than some government bureaucrats to deal with, and if the meeting went quickly, maybe they could sneak away for a walk through the snow. Maybe they'd stumble across a toy store and Pong could buy Molly something nicer than a ball made of sealant.

Up ahead a fancifully sculpted high-rise towered over all the rest. It was covered with black glass and surrounded by an invisible force field. Just part of the elaborate security measures required by both sides.

The pilot murmured something into her mic and the force field went down long enough for the aircar to slip inside and settle toward the carefully cleared roof.

The aircar touched with a gentle thump and a hatch slid open. A blast of cold air entered and brought a few snowflakes with it. Molly moved her finger under one and urged it to land. The snowflake shied away and fell toward a leather-covered seat. The snow reminded her of Alice.

Pong had to bend over to make his way out of the car. It was a single step to the ground. The fur-lined coat was custom-tailored to accommodate both Pong and the mind slug. The coat felt good as Pong pulled it close around him.

Raz and three of Pong's best security people took up positions around him. Raz wore the top half of some black body armor as a concession to both the situation and the weather. Like the others he was heavily armed.

Pong turned to help Molly out of the aircar. She looked cute in the brown hat and matching fur coat. She smiled briefly and it warmed Pong's heart. He subvocalized.

"Is everything clear?"

"We swept it twice, boss," Raz replied. "It's clean as a whistle."

Pong nodded. "Good. Let's get this over with."

With Molly at his side and guards all around him, Pong marched through a dusting of snow to the roof-top lobby. Doors swished aside and a uniformed security guard snapped to attention. Pong waved a hand in acknowledgment before coming to a halt in front of an open lift tube.

Raz and a tough-looking woman stepped aboard, waved detectors through the air like wizards casting a spell, and nodded their permission.

Pong stepped aboard and turned around. The doors closed and the platform started to descend. The inside walls were alive with vid-art. Color swirled. Abstract shapes appeared, melted, and merged to become something else.

Pong didn't like it. He preferred art that had substance and definition. Something you could count on.

The platform came to a smooth stop and the doors hissed open. The security guards got off, detectors scanning, weapons ready to fire.

A tall man with a long solemn face waited patiently for the security team to complete its inspection. He wore a formal-looking robe with gold trim and a high collar. The man bowed as Pong stepped out of the lift tube.

"Citizen Pong. We are honored. My name is Ethan Mordu, Drang's envoy to Salazar, and host of today's meeting. I apologize for our rather wintry weather."

Pong delivered a small bow. "The honor is mine. As for your weather, I find it quite refreshing."

Mordu smiled and looked down at Molly. "What a pretty little girl. Your daughter perhaps?"

Pong placed a possessive hand on Molly's shoulder. "No, though I'd be proud if she were. Molly, this is Envoy Mordu."

Thanks to her mother's position on the planetary council Molly had been to any number of formal occasions and knew the drill. She gave a slight curtsey, the kind reserved for minor diplomats, and considered throwing herself on Mordu's mercy.

Molly wondered what he'd do. Nothing probably, and that plus the L-band cinched tight around her head cautioned silence.

The two men made small talk as they walked down the wide shiny hall. The walls were paneled with a light-colored native wood. They glistened with wax.

Molly liked the way her heels made a clicking sound on the hardwood floors and tried a couple of surreptitious variations. Nobody seemed to notice.

Then the clicking sounds disappeared as they passed through large double doors and entered a large, well-carpeted room. Two well-dressed women and a man stood to greet them. Except for a circular table, and some comfortable-looking chairs, the room was otherwise empty.