William C. Dietz - Imperial Bounty

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Imperial Bounty

William C. Dietz

1988

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

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Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-one

Twenty-two

Prologue

McCADE WAS HUNTING an icecat. Or maybe the icecat was hunting him. It wasn't clear which, but

it didn't matter much, since he was in deep trouble either way. First, because he didn't know much about

hunting icecats, and second, because icecats knew a lot about hunting people. Which wasn't too

surprising since they'd been at it for fifty years. That's how long humans had been on the iceworld called

Alice. The process of natural evolution had molded icecats into killers, and to them, humans were targets

just like everything else.

Naturally the colonists had fought back, but it wasn't easy. Icecats can move with amazing speed, and

never give up. Their name comes from a vague resemblance to Terran cats. Unlike Terran felines

however, icecats have heat-sensitive membranes located in the center of their foreheads. Operating like

infrared scanners, these membranes allow them to lock onto radiated heat, and follow it even through a

raging blizzard if necessary. They also have excellent vision, good hearing, and lots of teeth. All of which

explains why icecats are normally hunted by well-armed groups instead of individuals. "Not that I planned

it this way," McCade said to himself.

It had all begun when a roaming icecat attacked a small herd of variant caribou about twenty miles to the

south. In a matter of minutes the rampaging beast had almost wiped them out. By the time Lane Conners

arrived, there were bodies everywhere. And when Conners attempted to defend a wounded animal, the

icecat jumped him too. He had used his pocket com to call for help. Moments later his wife, Liz, hit the

big red panic button just inside the door of their pre-fab dome and raced to his side. A general distress

call went out, and as luck would have it, McCade was closest.

McCade was returning home from a series of routine law and order visits to the small mining settlements

which dotted Alice when the alarm came in. It had been a long trip. But on Alice you don't ignore a

distress call. Not if you want anyone to show up when it's your ass on the line. Amazingly enough the

rancher was still conscious when the medics arrived. As they loaded him into the chopper he grabbed

McCade's arm. "Get the sonovabitch for me, Sam. Otherwise he'll be back... and next time it might be

Liz or one of the boys."

McCade saw such agony in the rancher's eyes that like a fool he agreed, ready to say anything to get

Lane into the helicopter and on his way. So as the med evac chopper disappeared into the southern sky,

McCade got into his air-car and took off toward the north. What looked stupid now had seemed

reasonable back then. Rather than wait for help, or take the time to put together a pack, he'd decided to

follow the icecat's tracks north hoping for a quick, easy kill. He should've known better. When it comes

to icecats ... there's no such thing as a quick, easy kill.

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So he'd dropped his aircar into a clearing, and set out on foot, trying to get ahead of the beast and

ambush it. But so far all he'd seen was ice, snow, and the low, twisted evergreens which passed for trees

on Alice. "Where the hell are you anyway?" he asked in frustration, but there was no answer except the

crunching sound of his own footsteps as he walked through the ice and snow. Around him the shadows

grew longer and darker, creating a thousand hiding places, any of which might conceal an icecat.

As evening approached it brought with it a frigid breeze, supercooled by glaciers a hundred miles to the

north, and sharp as a knife against the small area of unprotected skin at his throat. Walking cautiously he

reached down to turn up the internal temperature of his heatsuit. Eventually he'd run out of power for it.

Maybe he'd freeze to death while waiting for an icecat to kill him. The thought struck him as funny

somehow, so why wasn't he laughing? "You're losing it, Sam old boy," he said to himself. "Pull yourself

together. You've been in worse spots."

And it was true. In his days as a professional bounty hunter he'd come close to death many times. But

somehow those encounters were different. He'd been in control, always the hunter, never the hunted.

Here that was reversed; the icecat was in control. It could fight or disappear, and whichever it chose,

there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it.

Suddenly he stopped, his eyes riveted to the snow in front of him. The icecat was close. There was no

mistaking the huge plate-sized paw prints which overlaid the cross-hatched pattern of his own boots. The

sonovabitch was following him! And had been for some time. Together they'd made a large figure eight.

With a sinking feeling McCade realized how far he'd come. The aircar was miles away.

He glanced over his shoulder one more time, and started up a nearby slope, instinctively seeking higher

ground. Perhaps he could find a better vantage point toward the top. Eventually his path was blocked by

the sheer face of a cliff. Locating a small crevice which would protect his back, he forced his way in, and

did his best to make himself comfortable.

During his climb, the already dim sun had sunk farther in the overcast sky, making it even colder.

McCade reached down to turn up the gain on his heatsuit, and then thought better of it. Even on its

present setting the power pak wouldn't get him through the night. He did his best to settle down and

concentrate on the task at hand. "All right you flea-bitten sonovabitch... I'm ready when you are... come

and get it."

Another hour passed. He scanned the area below for the umpteenth time. Even under his visor's high

mag setting, there wasn't much to see. He was about to give up when he saw something move out of the

corner of his eye. Or had he? Maybe it was just a trick of evening's half light. No, there it was again, a

shadow among shadows, a momentary blur only half seen.

Then he had it, a long low body, winter white giving way to summer gray, almost invisible against the

volcanic rock. A strong neck supported a large triangular head, with two fan-shaped ears that twitched

slightly as they sampled the evening breeze. Huge eyes moved this way and that, each independently

scanning the area for any signs of danger. If they looked his way would they see him? And what about

the animal's ability to sense radiated heat? Could it detect him?

McCade felt a lead weight drop into his gut as the beast's hideous head swiveled toward him and

stopped. How good was his heat shielding? Maybe there was some leakage that the icecat could detect.

The icecat snarled, the thin lips of its false mouth pulled back to reveal razor-sharp teeth. The sound

echoed back and forth off the cliffs.

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The last echo of the icecat's snarl was still dying away when the animal vanished into the shadows.

McCade thought about all those teeth and shuddered. The ones he'd seen were bad enough, but he

knew there were still others located in its abdomen. Icecats have two mouths. A false mouth used for

breathing and killing, and a real mouth, exclusively devoted to eating. Having made a kill, icecats

immediately drape themselves over the body to keep it from freezing, thus bringing their real mouths into

contact with the carcass. By sliding this way and that, icecats can efficiently strip a man-sized carcass in

minutes, all the while keeping their false mouths and sensory organs available for defense. It is, the

biologists like to point out, a very efficient adaptation to conditions on Alice. McCade didn't doubt it, but

had no desire to take part in the process himself.

Nonetheless he stood up. To hell with waiting. If he didn't move soon he'd freeze to death. So if the

icecat wouldn't come to him... he'd go to it. He felt the muscle in his left cheek twitch as he shifted the

comforting weight of the slug thrower from one arm to the other. The weapon had a rotary magazine

filled with alternating hollow point slugs and shot shells. As the planet's only police officer, it was just one

of the many weapons McCade carried in his aircar. Properly handled it could take out a squad of

Imperial Marines. Unfortunately, he thought, icecats are tougher than marines, and probably smarter.

Carefully he eased his way out of the rocky crevice. There wasn't much cover as he moved downslope,

but he used what there was, pausing every now and then behind outcroppings of rock to check his

surroundings. He was almost at the bottom when he spotted the icecat making its way across the

opposite slope, pausing every now and then to scan ahead for radiated heat, or sniffing the breeze for a

foreign scent.

Apparently satisfied with its surroundings, the beast moved off toward a patch of bare rock, attracted

perhaps by the glow of radiated heat surrounding it. A few more yards and McCade would be close

enough. He flicked the weapon's safety to the off position and moved forward.

Later he wasn't sure what warned him, whether it was an almost imperceptible sound, a tiny disturbance

in the air, or some sixth sense, but whatever it was caused him to step right, and saved his life.

The second icecat hit him a glancing blow as it went past, knocking him down, and jarring the weapon

out of his hands. Fighting its own inertia, the big animal scrambled to turn around, while McCade clawed

desperately for his sidearm. He felt the slug gun come free just as the icecat leaped. The gun roared four

times before the huge body landed on him, driving all breath from his body and plunging him into

suffocating darkness.

Pushing up with all his might, he fought desperately to get his breath, almost gagging on the animal's

stench. In spite of his efforts the icecat's muscular body didn't give an inch. Instead it squirmed, and slid

this way and that, trying to bring its real mouth into contact with his flesh. The intervening heatsuit was the

only thing between him and all those teeth. In a few seconds those teeth would make contact with the

wire mesh of the suit's heating elements, eat through those, and go to work on him. Wire mesh! It gave

him an idea.

He pushed up as hard as he could with his left hand, and managed to slide his right down until he found

the heat-suit's controls. Fingers fumbling, he accidently turned the knob to the right, before realizing his

mistake and turning it to the left. He prayed there was enough juice left in the power pak to do some

good. A second later the icecat's teeth came through the suit's tough outer fabric and made contact with

the inner wire mesh. As the power pak's full output hit the icecat's nervous system, the cat convulsed and

jerked away.

Momentarily freed, McCade quickly rolled left, and landed on the auto-slug thrower he'd lost earlier. As

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he picked it up he saw the icecat was already back on its feet, shaking its head like a dazed prizefighter,

and preparing to attack again. The weapon in his hands seemed to weigh a ton. With a strange sense of

detachment he watched the icecat shift its weight, gather itself, and leap into the air. Meanwhile the barrel

of his weapon continued its slow journey upward. Some distant part of his mind noticed the animal was

bleeding profusely from six or seven bullet wounds, and wondered if anything could kill it. Finally the slug

thrower completed its upward arc and he touched the trigger. The icecat seemed to run into an invisible

wall. It crumpled in midair, and for a moment it was enveloped in a pink mist, as blood and flesh sprayed

out behind it. Then it landed with an audible thud, and slid the last couple of feet, until its head almost

touched the barrel of his gun.

For a moment he just sat there, too shocked to move. Finally he struggled to his feet, unable to take his

eyes off the icecat's huge body, shaking like a leaf. Then he heard the other icecat roar and, whirling,

heard the sound of his weapon merge with his own screams. The animal was already in the air, his slugs

stitching a bloody line across its chest, when his weapon clicked empty. Closing his eyes McCade waited

for the inevitable impact. Instead there was just a dull thump followed by silence.

Opening his eyes, he saw the second icecat was also dead, lying only a few feet from the first. Suddenly

his legs gave way and dumped him on the ground. He did his best to throw up, but failed. When the dry

heaves finally stopped, he leaned back, and took a look around. It was almost completely dark. He

shivered. A quick check confirmed that his suit's power pak was completely exhausted. Well, he couldn't

complain about that since it had saved his life. Of course, what good was that if he froze to death?

"You're losing it again," he told himself, "cut the crap and do something useful." Shivering, he tried to

think. The aircar was miles away, and he wasn't sure he could find it in the dark. So he should stay put

and build a fire. With what? He knew from previous experience the low scrubby vegetation didn't burn

worth a damn. Still, he had to do something. Trying to stand, he reached out to steady himself, and his

hand encountered something warm. The body of the first icecat.

Of course! Given their bulk the dead icecats would take a while to freeze. Maybe even all night. That

gave him an idea. It wasn't pleasant, but it might save his life.

Taking a deep breath, he drew his power knife, flicked on the blade, and went to work. Twenty

back-breaking minutes later, he'd finished, and was curled up inside the icecat's warm abdominal cavity.

Outside, large piles of entrails lay where he'd thrown them, steaming as they released their warmth into

the cold night air, twitching as smaller nocturnal animals gathered to share the unexpected feast.

Eventually larger animals would arrive, and start in on the main carcass, but by then it would be morning,

and they'd be welcome to it. That was the theory anyway. By now he was so tired he didn't care if it

worked or not. Sleep was all that mattered. Doing his best to ignore where he was, and the stench that

went with it, McCade curled up even tighter and drifted off to sleep.

One

THE OUTER LAYERS of the icecat's body had frozen during the night. Now he was trapped. Panic

began to crowd in around his thoughts but he pushed it back, swallowing the bile which rose to fill his

mouth, forcing himself to think rather than feel. Gritting his teeth, McCade slid one hand down to the

cargo pocket on his right thigh, fumbled for a moment, and then retrieved the power knife. Moving

carefully so he wouldn't drop it, he brought the knife up in front of him, flicked it on, and heard the

reassuring hum as its sealed energy beam came to life. It sliced effortlessly through frozen flesh and bone.

Moments later he was crawling out of the animal's carcass onto the snow and ice.

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He stood slowly, stretching cramped muscles as he looked around. Nothing. The ship he'd heard must

have landed some distance away.

Taking his helmet off, McCade strolled over to the other carcass and sat down. It was hard as rock, and

somewhat ragged, since small animals had been nibbling on it during the night.

Grinning, he fumbled around inside his heatsuit for a moment, found a broken cigar, and lit the longer half

with his lighter. He took a long satisfying drag. As he blew a thin streamer of smoke toward the sky, the

sun suddenly broke through the clouds, and he felt its warmth touch his cheek. He smiled. It felt good to

be alive.

A few moments later a familiar figure rounded an outcropping of rock and headed his way. McCade

waved and the other man waved back. Rico moved easily for a big man. And he was big. His extra-large

heatsuit bulged over his muscles and his enormous strides quickly ate up the distance between them.

He looked at McCade and shook his head in pretended amazement. "Well, sport, I guess I've seen it all

now." Rico's tiny eyes twinkled merrily as he spoke. "First ya catch an icecat and rip him apart with your

bare hands. Then, just for the fun of it, ya ambush a second one and kill him too. No offense, Sam, but at

this rate we're gonna run outta icecats in a week or so, and then what'll we do for fun?" Rico shook his

head again in mock concern.

McCade grinned as he stood up and extinguished the cigar butt under the heel of his boot. "Very funny,

Rico. Now cut the comedy and give me a hand. I lost a couple of slug throwers around here

somewhere... and certain members of the Council are notoriously tight with a credit."

Rico laughed. "Tight ain't the word for it," he agreed. "Downright stingy's more like it. But as long as

your wife's headin' the Council we'll be runnin' a tight ship. Hell, you're lucky Sara ain't countin' your

ammo."

"Don't give her any ideas, Rico, or I'll be throwing rocks at icecats from now on."

"Speakin' o' which, Sam, how the hell'd ya manage ta get into this mess anyhow?"

While they searched for the weapons, McCade told him the whole story. "All things considered, I was

incredibly stupid," he finished.

"True," Rico said with a big grin.

McCade laughed. "Up yours, Rico."

Rico poked an icecat carcass with the toe of one boot. "All jokin' aside, you're damn lucky to be alive,

ol' sport," he said soberly. "Looks like a mated pair. Well, come on... we've got places ta go an people

ta see."

"Bullshit," McCade replied as they crunched through the ice and snow. "I'm going home. First Sara's

gonna chew me out for being so stupid, and then I'm going to bed."

"Well, you're right about Sara chewing ya out, but ya ain't going ta bed, not yet anyway," Rico answered

with a grin.

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"Why not?"

"You'll see," Rico said mysteriously, and steadfastly refused to say more until they reached the clearing

where McCade had left his aircar. As they broke into the open space, McCade saw one whole end of

the clearing had been scorched all the way down to the permafrost, and sitting in the middle of the burned

area was a small ship. Not just any ship, but a captain's gig, the kind that belongs to an Imperial Cruiser.

It had fast lines and a flawless paint job.

"What the hell is that doing here?" McCade demanded.

"Your old friend what's-his-name sent it. The one with two last names."

"Swanson-Pierce? You mean he's here?"

Rico nodded and pointed one index finger upward. "He's got a cruiser, a tin can, and two DEs up there,

and wants ta see ya."

McCade scowled and turned toward his aircar. "Whatever he wants can wait. By now Sara's worried

and I need some sleep."

Rico shrugged. "Suit yourself, ol' sport, but Sara's up there too."

McCade sighed. Swanson-Pierce could mean only one thing, trouble. And as usual he'd managed to set

up things his way. By getting Sara aboard he'd made sure McCade would come to him, plus they'd meet

on his turf, and he'd set the agenda. It was all vintage Swanson-Pierce.

They were met just inside the lock by a solicitous young officer who introduced himself as Ensign Peel.

He had a soft, friendly face and a firm handshake. Peel showed them into a small cabin just aft of the

control room and disappeared forward to assume his duties as copilot.

As they strapped themselves into acceleration couches, McCade took a look around. Someone had

lavished a great deal of attention on the ship's interior. The bulkheads and acceleration couches were

covered in carefully muted fabrics and, here and there, the polished glow of ornamental brass and exotic

wood caught and held his eye. The whole merged to convey a sense of restrained elegance. It all

screamed - no, murmured - Swanson-Pierce.

McCade felt himself pushed down into his seat as the ship roared upward. The pilot knew her business

and cleared atmosphere only a quarter rotation away from the large Imperial cruiser orbiting Alice.

McCade watched the overhead screens as they approached and the vessel grew even larger.

She was one of the new Jupiter Class ships. Miles long, she was a tracery of gun platforms, missile

tubes, laser mounts, and other less identifiable installations. She had none of the streamlined beauty

common to ships designed for atmospheric use, but what she lacked in grace, she made up for in raw

power. In minutes she could lay waste to all but the most heavily fortified cities. Beyond her McCade

saw a glint of reflected sunlight marking the location of an escort.

Ahead a small rectangle of light appeared as a hatch slid open to admit them. As their pilot skillfully

matched velocity with the larger craft and slipped into the launching bay, McCade felt like a minnow

being swallowed by a whale. Inside were rows of neatly parked Interceptors, their sleek deadly shapes

reminiscent of bullets waiting to be fired.

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As always, four were on condition red: tubes hot, weapons armed, ready for launch. McCade knew

how it felt. You were proud to slide into the cramped cockpit because Interceptor pilots were the elite.

The cream of the Academy. And you were scared, not of the enemy, but of yourself. You'd rather die

than screw up.

Then one day the waiting was over. Wing after wing of Interceptors blasted out to give and receive

death over the planet Hell. Entire fleets maneuvered through complex computer-generated patterns

probing for strength and weakness. But for you the battle was much more personal. It was you against

them. Your skill, your reflexes, your ship against them.

Finally the moment came, and with it a strangely silent explosion as a pirate ship blossomed into a

miniature sun. You scanned your screens searching for the next target. There it was. A large ship just

ahead. You felt the groove, the almost magical connection between you and it, and knew you couldn't

miss. Relying on muscle memory, and years of training, you lined it up and prepared to fire. Suddenly a

voice breaks your concentration.

"Please, in the name of whatever gods you worship, I implore you, please don't fire. My ship is unarmed.

I have only women, children, and old men aboard... please listen to me."

And listen you did. You believed her. But a second voice comes over your headset. The voice of your

commanding officer, Captain lan Bridgar, hoarse from hours of shouting orders, tense with hatred for the

pirates who took his wife and daughter. "Fire, Lieutenant! That's an order! She's lying. Fire, damn you!"

But you didn't fire. Instead you watched the pirate ship slide out of sight, taking with it your career,

identity, and honor. For you have disobeyed a direct order from your commanding officer and his word

is law.

McCade's thoughts were interrupted as the pilot's voice came over the intercom. "Welcome aboard

Victory, gentlemen, Ensign Peel will act as your guide."

There was lots of traffic in the corridor as the third watch went off duty and the first came on. The two

colonists attracted a good deal of attention as they walked along. Especially McCade. His

blood-smeared heatsuit, two-day stubble, and hard eyes were difficult to miss.

Ignoring the stares, they followed Ensign Peel through a maze of corridors and passageways. Eventually,

they moved into officer territory, passing a spacious wardroom, and arriving in front of a large open

hatch. A pair of marine guards snapped to attention and presented arms. Peel saluted in reply and

announced his party. "I have the honor to present Council Member Fredrico Jose Romero, and Citizen

Sam McCade."

Suddenly a shapely female figure in a blue one-piece ship-suit burst through the hatch and threw herself

into McCade's arms. She proceeded to kiss him, hug him, and scold him all at once. "Going after an

icecat all by yourself... you are the most hopeless man I've ever met ... are you all right... is this your

blood... how could you..."

McCade covered her lips with his, and marveled for the millionth time that this wonderful armful could

be the daughter of the same man who'd court-martialed him. There was silence for a moment as she

melted against him, before suddenly pulling away. "Oh, no, you don't, Sam McCade. You're not getting

off that easy, not until you admit you were stupid."

He looked down into large hazel eyes set above a straight, determined mouth. A terrible white scar

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slashed down across the soft roundness of her face. She'd been aboard the liner Mars when it was

attacked and boarded by pirates. As they burst through the main lock Sara had been there, fighting

shoulder to shoulder with the ship's crew. Coolly she had aimed and fired, killing at least two, before a

boarding pike had knocked her unconscious, and left her scarred for life.

In a way the disfigurement had saved her. Instead of selling her as a slave, the pirates had held her for

ransom. Ironically she and her mother ended up aboard the very ship which McCade had refused to

destroy during the Battle of Hell. In a desperate attempt to save her damaged vessel, the pirate captain

had made a random hyperspace jump but it was too late. Knowing the drives were going to blow, the

captain ordered those who could to abandon ship. Sara and her mother were among those shoved into a

crowded life raft and launched into the darkness of space.

Minutes later the larger vessel exploded, leaving them alone and far from any civilized world. Being a

step below a lifeboat, the raft had no drive of its own, so for weeks they drifted aimlessly in space. One

by one they began to die. Her heart broken by her husband's insane ravings, Sara's mother was among

the first to go. More time passed, until only Sara and two others survived. Finally rescued by a tramp

freighter, Sara had made her way to Alice, and never looked back.

Then McCade had shown up, searching for her father, determined to kill him if necessary rather than

allow the secret of the War World to fall into II Ronnian hands. Mutual dislike slowly gave way to wary

cooperation, friendship, and then love. So McCade saw past the scar, seeing only the love and concern

in her eyes. She was still waiting. "I was stupid," he said, grinning.

Suddenly she was back in his arms, planting kisses all over his face, and fussing over his appearance.

Then she leaned back and wrinkled her nose. "Great Sol, what's that odor?"

Meanwhile, the two marine guards did their best to ignore the whole thing and failed. Both were losing

the battle to keep a straight face. Flushing slightly, McCade gently disentangled himself and followed her

into the large cabin. It reflected the same elegant taste he'd seen inside the gig, which wasn't too

surprising, since both belonged to the same man, Walter Swanson-Pierce.

As Walt moved out from behind his rosewood desk to shake hands with Rico, McCade saw the naval

officer was at his perfectionistic best. Body trim and fit, uniform just so, graying hair carefully combed,

calculated smile firmly in place.

Then it was McCade's turn, and as they shook, McCade noticed the thick gold stripe on the naval

officer's space-black sleeve. He grinned. "So it's Rear Admiral now. Congratulations, Walt. Rear

Admiral - a rank that describes you perfectly. A reward for cleaning out all the War World's little secrets,

I assume."

Swanson-Pierce chose to ignore the dig. Instead, he looked McCade carefully up and down, eyes

lingering here and there, as though counting each bloodstain. "Why thanks, Sam, I suppose you're right.

I'm sure the successful disposition of that problem did play a part in my promotion. Nice of you to help.

Meanwhile, I see you've managed to maintain your usual standard of sartorial elegance - no, that's not

quite true - actually, you look even worse than usual."

Rico and Sara looked at each other and shrugged. They'd seen it all before. They'd have to wait it out.

They dropped into chairs, Rico grinning in anticipation, Sara frowning in disapproval.

"So," McCade said, also dropping into a chair, and swinging his filthy boots up onto the polished surface

of the officer's desk. "What brings the mighty Imperial Navy to this comer of the frontier? Slumming?"

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As he moved around behind his desk Swanson-Pierce did his best to avoid seeing McCade's boots.

"No," he answered evenly, "actually we're on our way somewhere else." He gestured vaguely. "I thought

it would be nice to visit old friends."

McCade snorted in disbelief. "Get serious, Walt. You haven't got any friends. Nobody's got that strong

a stomach." Ignoring Sara's look of disapproval, he took out a bent cigar, and talked around it as he

puffed it alight. "Besides, you wouldn't go ten feet out of your way to visit your own mother."

Swanson-Pierce shook his head in mock concern. "Well, I see life on Alice has done nothing to improve

your temperament, Sam. Sad, very sad. I don't know how you stand it, Sara. You deserve better. But,"

he said airily, "I will admit there's a matter of business I'd like to discuss."

McCade swung his feet down and stood up. "Come on, Sara. We don't need whatever this is. Nice

seeing you, Walt. Don't trip on any pirates as you leave."

But to his surprise Sara remained seated. And a stubborn look had come over her face. He knew that

look and groaned inwardly. "I think you should hear what he has to say, Sam," she said. "Then, if you still

feel the same way, we'll leave together."

McCade knew when he was beat. He fell back into his chair, knocking a large lump of ash off his cigar.

Swanson-Pierce watched in horrified fascination as it fell and then exploded against the rich carpeting. He

winced as McCade automatically placed a boot over the ashes and rubbed them in.

"OK," McCade said. "So what's this all about?"

Swanson-Pierce looked up from the stained carpet and forced a smile. "Admiral Keaton and I want you

to find someone for us."

McCade shook his head. "Forget it. I gave up bounty hunting."

"Even if you could prevent a war?"

"War, hell." Ten to one that was just more of Walt's bullshit. The old patriotic approach. Well, it

wouldn't work this time. McCade was tired of chasing fugitives from planet to planet, tired of living the

way they lived, alone and afraid. Besides, Sara didn't want him to. She detested bounty hunters. But why

hadn't she objected? Because she believed whatever Walt was selling. He looked over and found her

face a purposeful blank. She was trying her best not to sway him any more than she had already.

Meanwhile Swanson-Pierce was grinning, aware of McCade's inner conflict, and enjoying it.

"All right," McCade said reluctantly, "I'll consider it. Who's the mark?"

Swanson-Pierce took his time, leaning back in his chair, obviously savoring the moment. "We want you

to find the Emperor."

McCade's eyebrows shot up in surprise, but before he could ask the obvious questions, an emergency

klaxon went off. The ship was under attack.

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ImperialBounty WilliamC.Dietz1988 PrologueOneTwoThreeFourFiveSixSevenEightNineTenElevenTwelveThirteenFourteenFifteenGeneratedbyABCAmberLITConverter,http://www.processtext.com/abclit.htmlSixteenSeventeenEighteenNineteenTwentyTwenty-oneTwenty-twoPrologueMcCADEWASHUNTINGanicecat.Ormaybetheicecatwas...

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William C. Dietz - Imperial Bounty.pdf

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William C. Dietz - Imperial Bounty

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