Imperial Bounty (14 page)

Cy felt happy and sad at the same time. He'd been able to help, but it wasn't going to do any good. "They're sending you to a slave planet called Worm," Cy replied sadly. "And they don't plan on you coming back."

To Cy's amazement, McCade broke into gales of laughter, grimacing at the pain it caused him, and pointing at the print-out clutched in Cy's metal fingers. Cy aimed a vid pickup at Farigo's entry, and there under "disposition," it said, "Manual labor, ten years, the planet Worm."

In some ways, McCade actually enjoyed the trip to Worm. While his quarters aboard Joyo's supply ship were something less than luxurious, the chow wasn't bad, and the ship's engineer was also a damned fine medic. She was middle-aged, homely, and gruff. Though far from sweet, even as a baby, hopeful parents had blessed her with the somewhat unlikely name of Candy. But McCade liked her nonetheless. And not just because she patched him up, and brought his food each day. Behind Candy's rough facade there was a quick mind, and a sharp wit. Plus she'd knocked around the Empire even more than he had, and when properly coaxed, knew how to spin a good yarn. So, over time, he'd come to view her as more friend than jailer, and suspected that, deep down, she felt the same way about him. Of course both knew the trip would soon end, and with it, their friendship. So McCade continued to act out his role as miserable prisoner, while Candy did her best to play the heartless jailer. Then they were in orbit around Worm, and Candy was giving him one last examination.

"Flex your fingers," she said curtly. McCade obeyed, flexing all his fingers. They worked perfectly, including the two which Joyo's bodyguard had broken. The ship had been in transit for about three standard weeks, having come out of hyperspace just the cycle before, and the passage of time, plus the attentions of the ship's automedic, had healed his fractured bones. Now only the faintest shadow marked where his black eyes had once been, and Candy had closed the cut on his face so skillfully the scar was almost invisible. She grunted her approval.

"You're healthy as a horse. Might even last a month or so down there." McCade would've sworn he saw a trace of sadness in her eyes.

As the hatch clanged shut and locked behind her, McCade leaned back to stare at the overhead. He hoped her sadness was unnecessary. By now Cy should have delivered his message to Rico and Phil. If so, they'd soon drop out of hyperspace, and take up position a few lights out. Meanwhile he'd go dirtside. There he'd find the prince, signal his friends, and escape. Nice and simple. Sure, there were a few problems to iron out, like what if Cy hadn't delivered his message, or what if he couldn't figure out a way to signal Rico and Phil? But these were mere details, he told himself, in all other respects the plan was perfect. Then why was he so worried?

A few hours later McCade had been transferred to the freighter's shuttle, and was trying to cooperate as Candy ordered him to move this way and that. First she secured his nerve shackles. If he strained against them they'd deliver a powerful shock to his nervous system. Like most bounty hunters he'd used them on fugitives once or twice, so he knew what they could do, and had no desire to experience it himself. Especially since he wanted to go where they were taking him.

Once the nerve shackles were secure, Candy strapped him into the acceleration couch. As she double-checked his harness, she glanced forward to make sure the pilot and copilot weren't looking, and shoved a flat rectangle into the waistband of his pants. It felt cold against his back. "Cigars," she said gruffly. "Don't know why you insist on smoking the damned things. Go easy on 'em. You'll see why."

A few minutes later the pilot goosed the power, and nosed the shuttle down toward the surface of Worm. It was a smooth trip. After a flawless landing the copilot came back to release his harness, and lead him to the lock. She was young, badly in need of a bath, and amused by his condition. The inner and outer doors cycled open in turn, and McCade stepped out into hard yellow light. The heat hit him like a sledgehammer.

Seeing his reaction, the copilot grinned and said, "Welcome to Worm." Once the lock had closed behind them, she touched his nerve shackles with a small black wand, and they fell away. "Go ahead," she said. "You can run but you can't hide." Then she broke into peals of laughter as she strode off toward the distant complex. As he followed, McCade saw what she meant. Except for the shabby dome up ahead, the terrain was flat, only occasionally broken by spires of jagged rock. Heat waves shimmered in the distance, and he was already sweating like a pig. The copilot was right. You could run . . . but there was no place to hide.

A few more steps and he realized he was short of breath. Worm's atmosphere was low on oxygen. Plus, each step stirred up a small cloud of dust, and that made it even harder to get enough air. The copilot turned to hurry him up. Now he noticed the small canister she wore on the back of her belt, and the single tube leading up and over her left shoulder fed a nostril plug. No wonder she was so peppy. She was using supplemental oxygen. McCade offered her an ancient gesture which she returned with a smile.

By the time they reached the dome, McCade was out of breath, and very tired. The approach was littered with huge pieces of scrap metal, worn-out machinery, and other less identifiable junk. A well worn track wove its way between the larger obstacles and disappeared under a huge pair of sliding doors. Judging from the patterns they'd left behind, McCade guessed the vehicles were fairly large, and equipped with tracks. A smaller personnel entry whirred open at their approach, releasing a blast of cool air.

McCade followed the copilot inside, and heard the door close behind him. He saw sudden movement out of the corner of his eye, but moved way too late. A massive fist hit the side of his head and he fell like a rock. From his position on the ground, he decided someone was going to pay. And that meant getting up. Slowly, painfully, McCade made it to his knees and was about to stand when a huge boot kicked him in the side. The blow rolled him over so that he landed on his back.

He found himself looking up at one of the ugliest human beings he'd ever seen. Fire had twisted the man's features into a mass of ridged scar tissue. An intricate tattoo decorated his bald head, a gleaming ruby replaced his right eye, and his left ear sported an earring made of bone. At first McCade couldn't figure out why the bone looked so familiar, until he realized it was really three bones wired together, all of which had once been part of a human finger. A quick glance at the big man's hands confirmed an intuitive guess. The little finger on his left hand was missing. "Well, scum . . . what the hell are you staring at?"

Raising himself on one elbow, McCade shook his head tentatively to make sure it was still connected, and said, "Beats the hell out of me . . . but whatever it is . . . I like it."

The man threw back his head and roared out his laughter, then he reached down to offer McCade a hand. McCade took it, and was effortlessly jerked to his feet. The big man looked him up and down as though inspecting a side of beef. "Well, you've got balls—even if you won't be needin' 'em—and I like that. Name's Torb. Do what you're told and you'll live. Go against me and you're dead. It's as simple as that. Hey, Whitey, fresh meat . . . come'n get it." With that Torb put a massive arm around the copilot, and together they marched off toward a distant door.

Meanwhile a skinny man, with a shock of white hair, had appeared at McCade's side. In spite of his white hair he wasn't more than twenty-five. He had pale skin, pink eyes, and a very nasty smile. "Gotcha, Torb. Come on, meat, I haven't got all day." Whitey gave him a shove, and when McCade started to turn produced a nerve lash. "Come on, meat, you wanta taste of this?" For a long moment Whitey looked into hard gray eyes, and suddenly wished he was somewhere else. This was one of the crazy ones, the kind that didn't care, the kind that would take a nerve lash just to get their hands on you. "Move it." He did his best to sound hard, but even as the other man obeyed, Whitey knew he'd lost.

Now that he was inside the dome McCade found the air was cool and rich with oxygen. Overhead, the dome's armored plastic was so scratched from the abrasive action of wind and sand that it did little more than admit a hazy half light. Large crawlers were parked here and there in haphazard fashion, scarred flanks and worn tracks suggesting hard use, energy cannon hinting at hidden dangers. Except for the huge double doors somewhere behind him, the circumference of the dome was taken up by what he supposed were enclosed sleeping quarters, office space, and maintenance shops. As they walked along, McCade felt the box of cigars dig into his skin, and wondered why he hadn't been searched. They probably assumed there wouldn't be much point. He'd been a prisoner aboard the freighter, hadn't he? As he approached the far side of the dome, a door slid open to admit them, and then closed behind them, as they moved down a dimly lit hall. It ended in front of a lift tube. McCade looked at Whitey and lifted an eyebrow.

The guard threw him a metal disk on a plastic loop. "Put it around your neck if you wanta eat." McCade caught it and did as he was told. "Now, meat, into the tube." McCade obeyed, turning to see Whitey aim a remote control unit in his direction. The door whined shut on Whitey's nasty smile. "Sleep tight, meat. I'll see you in the morning."

There was a short drop before the doors hissed open. McCade stepped out into a huge underground cavern. Smoke filled the air, occasional lights cast deep shadows, and hundreds of men moved aimlessly this way and that, talking, gambling, or just killing time. The loud hum of their conversation suddenly stopped as the doors of the lift tube closed behind him.

"How many came with you?" The voice was strident, demanding. McCade scanned the faces nearby, searching for the one which went with the voice. With the exception of the occasional black or brown face, they were pale, like the grubs which inhabit the under surface of things, an army of zombies risen from the dead. Then he found two bright glowing eyes, which locked with his, and McCade knew he had the right man. His face was drawn and haggard, his clothes little more than rags.

"None," McCade replied. "I came alone."

"Shit." The other man turned away, and the hum of conversation returned to its previous level.

"We were hoping for more. The more men we've got, the easier it is to meet Torb's next quota." This voice came from slightly behind and to the right. McCade turned to find a wrinkled-up prune of a man, grinning a toothless smile. Bright little eyes regarded him with amusement. "They call me Spigot."

McCade accepted the little man's extended hand and found a grip as hard as durasteel. "Glad to meet you, Spigot, I'm Sam Lane." It seemed wise to stick with the name he'd arrived under. "How long have you been on this dirtball?"

Spigot's eyes seemed to go slightly out of focus as he thought back. "That's a tough one, Sam. It's hard to keep track . . . about twelve local years, I reckon . . . give or take one or two."

McCade nodded. "Then you're the man I'm looking for. I need someone who can give me the straight scoop, you know, who to look out for, how to avoid the worst work, that kind of stuff."

"You've been locked up before," Spigot observed slyly.

"A time or two," McCade agreed wryly. "But nothing like this." As he looked around he noticed a number of men eyeing him in a speculative fashion. They all wanted something. It might be his boots, his body, or just a new fund of dirty jokes, but each was a survivor, and saw McCade as something to be used.

"Let's find a place where we can sit and talk," McCade suggested.

Spigot grinned. "Make you nervous, do they? Sure, why not. But I'm no different. A man's gotta live, and what you want's worth something."

McCade felt the box of cigars pressing against his back. God bless Candy . . . properly used the cigars could make a big difference. "Damned right, Spigot, and pay I shall. How 'bout the next meal?" McCade saw no reason to let anyone know about his cigars until he'd found a good place to hide them. Otherwise they'd jump him the minute he fell asleep. Besides, he felt sure he could pass up one chance at whatever slop they were serving, without missing much.

Spigot pretended to consider McCade's proposal, finally nodding his agreement. "Normally I'd insist on two meals, but you seem like a regular guy, and there's no reason to take advantage."

McCade smiled. "Thanks, Spigot, I appreciate that." He'd obviously overpaid. Nonetheless a little goodwill wouldn't hurt.

"Think nothing of it," Spigot said generously. "Follow me. I know a place where we can talk without those bone pickers staring at us." With that the little man moved off, his oversized rags swirling around his knobby knees, his feet moving among the litter of rocks with a sureness born of long experience.

As they wound their way between small clumps of men, McCade saw hard faces, and tough leathery bodies from which all but the essential juices had been evaporated out. These were the survivors. The ones, who'd arrived with nothing, and still managed to live, not because they hoped to escape, but because they didn't know how to give up. Did one of those faces belong to Prince Alexander? Did he have the strength and the guts to survive in a place like this? McCade tried to find the face described on Joyo's print-out but failed. It was a big cavern. And life here could change the way a man looked. Finding the prince might take a while.

Now they'd left the open cavern far behind. Spigot led him around a rock pillar, and through a small opening in the rock, before climbing up and out of sight. McCade followed, and soon found himself sitting on a rock ledge overlooking the distant cavern, protected from observation by a low rock wall. "This is it," Spigot said proudly. "Home sweet home. I've never showed it to anyone else."

For some strange reason McCade believed him. A bundle of rags in one corner had the look of a crude bed, and a litter of empty meal paks and other junk testified to extended use. "Thanks, Spigot, I won't show it to anyone without asking you first."