McCade's Bounty (11 page)

Where a human face would have eyes it had shallow depressions, and where there should be a nose, the thing had a bump. The black background gave it a dramatic look.

This was a new development. Whatever it was hadn't been there during Maggie's previous visit.

Her first impulse was to classify the thing as a robot, an intermediate step between the functional-looking machines used for most tasks and the more humanoid forms favored for domestic applications. But as Maggie was about to learn, this machine was different.

The machine's silvery face was motionless as it spoke, and its voice was neutral, sounding neither male nor female.

"Greetings, and welcome to Nexus. I am a remote, one of four hundred and sixty-three remotes scattered around the habitat, and the direct embodiment of the intelligence known as Nexus.

"I was created to answer your questions, to solve your problems, to make your visit to Nexus as pleasant and productive as possible. Please approach me whenever you need help.

"Before venturing forth, please listen to and memorize my laws: First, no one shall contemplate or take any action that could harm, damage, or incapacitate Nexus, its employees, remotes, or other representatives.

"Secondly," the remote continued, "no one shall possess or use projectile weapons while visiting Nexus."

"Kinda understandable," Rico observed. "Don't mess with the boss . . . and don't punch any unauthorized holes in the habitat."

"Violation of my laws," the remote added, "is punishable by death. Have a nice visit."

"Thanks, ol' sport," Rico said sarcastically, "let the fun begin."

The picture faded to black and the lock cycled open. Clever, Maggie thought to herself. You step into the lock, and presto! A captive audience.

"Come on," Rico said, "let's see the sights."

As Rico stepped out of the lock Maggie heard a tone, and a soft voice that said, "You are leaving lock seventy-seven. Please retain that number for future reference. Should you forget the number, or need other assistance, please approach a remote and ask. I will be happy to help. Have a nice visit."

Maggie floated out of the lock and spun the hover box around. A huge super-graphic of the number seventy-seven covered the entire area around the lock. It should be visible from quite a distance away. Had that been there during her last visit? Maggie couldn't remember.

Rico touched her arm. "Come on, chief . . . the kids, remember? We're supposed ta find out if they're here."

Maggie nodded and whirred along beside him. The hall was huge, and seemed to run straight ahead for a long way, before taking a gentle curve to the right.

The habitat was enormous. And that raised questions larger than the origins of Nexus itself. Who constructed the habitat for Nexus? And why? There was no way to tell.

Except for a path that wound its way down the center of the hall, the corridor was crammed with a bewildering array of cargo modules, vending stands, miscellaneous equipment, and just plain junk.

Moving in and around these objects were humans, robots, aliens, auto loaders, pet animals, silvery remotes, power pallets, cyborgs, androids, and things Maggie wasn't sure of. This at least was as it had been during her previous visit.

Although there were formal venues for selling certain kinds of merchandise, they were in heavy demand and cost a lot to rent.

So the halls functioned as staging areas, and as secondary markets, since many of the merchants had offerings too modest to justify a presentation room.

Maggie looked at Rico striding along at her side. He was uncharacteristically silent. She knew why, or thought she did, and forced herself to make conversation.

"So tell me, Rico . . . why us? Why didn't Sam do this himself?"

Rico came to a sudden stop and turned on her. He looked angry. "Listen here, Maggie . . . I'm gettin' real tired of your crap. I don't know what Sam has up his sleeve. He'll tell us when he's good 'n' ready. Till then I suggest you keep a coupla things in mind.

"First, there ain't ten people on the whole rim that's as savvy as Sam is.

You can take all the cheap shots you want, but if we find those kids, it'll be Sam that gets it done.

"Second, I don't know what your problem is, but you better back off, or by God I'll arrange ta leave your crotchety ass right here on Nexus!"

Maggie felt a variety of emotions. The first was anger. How dare Rico speak to her that way? Leave
her
would he? Not very damn likely! She'd leave him . . . and Sam too . . . there were plenty of berths for a good engineer.

Next came a more rational response. One that recognized Rico's pain, and, more than that, recognized the same old pattern.

In place after place, ship after ship, Maggie had made herself obnoxious and been fired.

That way Maggie never got involved, never came to care, never got hurt. It began with the explosion, with the loss of her legs, and the deaths of her entire crew. But when would it end? A year from now? Two?

Maggie cleared her throat and looked away. "I have a big mouth sometimes. Sorry, Rico."

Rico searched Maggie's face, saw she was sincere, and shrugged. "The truth is that ya have a big mouth
all
the time . . . but what the hell . . . so do I. Shake."

Maggie's hand disappeared into Rico's giant paw and she smiled.

Mustapha Pong was lost somewhere between the past and present.

He sat as he always did under the vast canopy of stars projected on the overhead. The compartment was circular and, except for the pool of light that surrounded Pong, completely dark.

There had been a time many years before when the cabin would've been filled to overflowing with loot, the tangible symbol of his success, the living out of boyhood dreams.

Back then Pong had favored chests brimming over with gold jewelry, ingots of platinum stacked in the corner, slave girls who responded to a snap from his fingers. Raw, open manifestations of power.

But he'd been young and immature then. Raw clay still finding its final shape.

The compartment was different now. Open, nearly empty, boasting little more than a dais at its center, and the custom-designed power lounger that served Pong as both chair and bed.

The cabin was a symbol of what Mustapha Pong wanted to be. Open, centered, at one with the cosmos. A force great enough to move planets, to redefine the course of sentient history, to leave a mark so deep it would still be visible after a million years had come and gone.

The thing on his shoulder stirred and injected a mild stimulant into Pong's bloodstream. As usual the mind slug's thoughts were caustic and mocking.

"Bestir yourself, human, there is work to do, and you are lost in your own ambition."

His reverie broken, and annoyed at the alien's criticism, Pong punched a request for coffee into the arm of his chair. There was a whirring sound and a cup of coffee appeared at Pong's fingertips. The mind slug hated caffeine, and drinking it would serve both as a punishment and a reminder. Pong was in charge . . . and it would stay that way.

Now back to the problem at hand. Pong sipped his coffee. The problem was the one he always faced. How to overcome resistance and work his will on the universe around him.

The larger problem was necessarily subdivided into a series of tasks. Move ships over there, raid that particular planet, invest the profit in certain companies, buy more information, bribe . . .

The Melcetian interrupted. "You are drifting again, O conqueror of the universe. Focus on the problem at hand . . . and drink something else."

Pong frowned and tried to focus. The 56,827 were never satisfied. Now they wanted a full-scale planetary war to observe. A global conflict on a reasonably high-tech world, say level four or five, that would serve to demonstrate the latest in human tactics. Tactics they must overcome in order to enslave the human race.

Pong had laughed the first time they said that, and nearly lost his life.

But that was back before he knew them, when he'd responded to a mysterious but profitable summons, and agreed to function as their sole human ally. Now Pong knew the aliens could do what they claimed.

Not even he knew where the 56,827's homeworld was, but Pong had been to some of the planets they'd enslaved, seen those the aliens had destroyed. Black airless rocks burned clean of the life that had dared to defy them.

But relentless though they were, the 56,827 were cautious as well, carefully studying each race prior to attacking it. That explained their desire for a war, and more than that, their insistence that Pong participate in it. They would see a blade and test it prior to striking a blow.

Pong took another sip of coffee. Drang was the obvious choice since there was a war brewing there anyway . . . but which side should he take? That of the world government? Or that of the corporate combine that hoped to overthrow it? Both had advantages and disadvantages.

"Sir?"

Pong looked up and wondered how long they'd been there, standing on the edge of darkness, waiting for him to respond.

There was Raz, an ugly-looking female guard, and a little girl. The girl was a slave, one of those they'd taken on Alice, a skinny little thing with a mop of curly brown-black hair.

The girl looked familiar, but Pong couldn't place her. A trivial problem most likely . . . but important to the crew. It never seemed to end. If the 56,827 weren't after something, then his crew was.

"Yes, Raz, what is it?"

Raz kept it brief knowing Pong's distaste for unnecessary detail. "Thanks to a tip from another slave, this female was found making unauthorized use of the damage-control computer console located in station S-4."

Pong frowned. "So? Why bring her to me? Can't you people handle anything by yourselves?"

Boots had started to tremble but Raz was unaffected. "There is more, sir. The slave wrote a conversion program that allowed her access to the ship's navcomp via the damage-control console."

Pong sat straight up in his chair. "Really? How interesting. I didn't know such a thing was possible. Let me see her."

Boots gave Molly a shove and she stumbled into the light. The girl looked very familiar, but Pong still couldn't place her.

The mind slug made a tiny secretion and the memory came flooding back. Pong found himself standing in the launch bay, looking down at the girl's ulcerated arms, listening to her arguments. It was all there. The smell of her unwashed body, the echo of a tool hitting the deck, everything.

It took a fraction of a second for the entire conversation to flash through Pong's mind. He smiled.

"So, we meet again. Tell me, child, what's your name?"

Molly felt her lower lip start to quiver and fought for control. "Molly McCade, sir."

Adrenaline surged through Pong's body. It was strong, too strong, and the mind slug worked to buffer it. Pong was jubilant.

McCade! Could it be? Could this be Sam McCade's daughter?"

He worked to hide his excitement.

"Molly McCade . . . a pretty name . . . a familiar name. Is your father named Sam by any chance?"

Something, Molly wasn't sure what, told her there was danger here. But what kind? And was it real? After all, her father knew a lot of strange sentients, and considered many to be friends. Could this man be one? If so, she should tell him the truth; besides Lia would if she didn't. "Yes, sir, my father is named Sam. Do you know him?"

Pong shook his head, and the mind slug shivered a thousand rainbows. "No, child, although I once spoke with him over a com link. Tell me, was your father dirtside when the ships attacked?"

Molly squinted upward into the light. The man looked nice enough, but she was frightened of the thing on his shoulder. Molly wanted to say that had her father had been home, the attack might have gone differently, but she resisted the temptation. It wasn't true for one thing, and might make the man mad for another. "No, he wasn't."

Pong slumped back in his chair. So, it was just as he'd feared. McCade was alive. How unfortunate. Hatred welled up from deep inside. Hatred for McCade, for the damage he'd done, for the loss of irreplaceable time. The one thing no one, not even Pong, had enough of.

But hatred would get him nowhere. He must think, he must plan, he must put petty problems aside and focus on Drang.

Raz was waiting, and so was the ugly guard. They didn't care about Drang, they wanted him to pass judgment, to punish the girl in a way that would make their jobs easier.

The problem was that Pong
liked
Molly McCade. It was strange but true. He liked her intelligence, her courage, and her unwillingness to bend.

He'd known a little boy like her once, a boy who grew up hungry in the ghettos of Desus II, a boy named Mustapha Pong.

Besides . . . the girl was Sam McCade's daughter, and there was something delicious about having her under his control.

Pong gestured to Raz. "Who's in charge of the slaves?"

Raz looked at a terrified Boots and back again. "She is, sir. The slaves call her Boots."

Pong nodded. "Give Boots some brig time. Maybe she'll be a little more zealous when she gets out."

Boots flushed red and tried to say something, but a glance from Raz shut her up. He didn't say anything but she got the message just the same. "You may think
this
is bad but it could've been a lot worse."

Pong ignored the byplay. "As for the girl, she'll remain here, where I can keep an eye on her."

He looked down at Molly and smiled. "I could use someone to run errands. Tell the security officer to give her an L-band."

Raz nodded curtly, took Boots by the arm, and marched her to the hatch. It hissed open and closed.

Molly was alone with Mustapha Pong.

An auto loader beeped and Maggie hurried to get out of its way. The markets ran in cycles, and with the fourth cycle about to begin, there was a lot of coming and going.

"You've been here before," Rico said, "where do we go? Where's the slave market?"

Maggie shook her head doubtfully. "Sorry, Rico. Nexus has changed. It's bigger and more complicated than when I was here. Maybe we should ask a remote."