Drifter's War Page 5

  He saw mile after mile of fields, all tended by fantastically shaped agrobots, and supervised by beefy-looking humanoids. They had coarse features, heavy musculature, and looked remarkably alike. They wore heavy clothing as if the air was cold.

  Then the fields were gone, replaced by widely spaced villas, and tantalizing glimpses of tall spindly aliens that came and went in carefully sealed ground cars.

  After that came the city, an absolute maze of walls, buildings, plazas, dead-ends, courtyards, and streets. Now there were more humanoids, similar to those Cy had seen before, but different too. These were slender things, shorter than the more muscle-bound variety, but just as identical. Like their heavy beefier cousins these humanoids were dressed in warm clothing.

  Once again the cyborg saw the beetlelike ground cars that zipped to and fro and spied on the leggy-looking builders as they made their rounds.

  Twice he zoomed in, trying to see what should have been their faces, but was stymied both times. The builders, if that was what they were, wore some sort of portable privacy screens that turned their features into a blur. It was frustrating but consistent with a race that had left no pictures of themselves behind.

  Then the city was gone, giving way to more villas and the fields beyond.

  Cy released the image. "Thank you. I am finished."

  "WANT? WANT? WANT?"

  "Nothing, thank you."

  "WANT?! WANT?! WANT?!" The words were more insistent now, as if the computer wanted another answer and wasn't getting it.

  Cy began to worry. What the hell was going on? He prepared to withdraw his pincer.

  "Nothing. I don't need anything else. I wish to terminate this contact."

  "NO! NO! NO!" Each word was like a sledgehammer. Cy became angry.

  "Yes! Yes! Yes!"

  "YES! YES! YES!" the computer echoed obediently. "ACCUMULATORS CHARGING. DEPARTURE 9 X 9 AND COUNTING."

  Cy jerked his pincer out of the interface. The computer disappeared from his mind.

  "9 X 9 and counting?" What the hell did that mean? Nine days? Nine hours? Nine seconds? Great Sol, what had he done? Cy searched the room for help. There was none to be had. Somewhere, deep in the bowels of the ship, something started to whine.

  6

  The fog lay over the sea like a soft gray blanket. It was early, so early that the sun was an almost unseen presence, its light filtered by a thick layer of clouds.

  The man who stood on the stern of the hovercraft was average in almost every way. Freeson had graduated fiftieth out of a class of ninety-eight at the Coast Guard Academy, had been rated "Acceptable" during his most recent performance review, and was neither old nor especially young.

  In fact, the only thing to distinguish Freeson from hundreds of other male Coast Guard officers was an enormous nose that had earned him the lifelong nickname "Honker," and the fact that he was the one who had spotted the skimmer.

  Both vessels were located near the mouth of the Istaba estuary, a long, narrow passageway that led inland, and terminated at the city of Norton.

  The hovercraft rocked from side to side as swells rolled in off the ocean. Freeson spread his feet farther apart in order to compensate for the additional movement and tried to hold his binoculars steady. A gust of wind came along and snatched the fog away from the pleasure craft's rigging. The skimmer looked like a wounded bird, one wing dragging in the water, as it crept toward safety. There was no sign of life on the other vessel. Still asleep probably.

  Freeson lowered the binoculars, licked dry lips, and brought the glasses up again. Every port from Ontoon to Dowling was under surveillance. Only two days' worth of storms had prevented the authorities from catching up with the skimmer earlier. Spy sats can't locate what they can't "see" and the combination of bad weather and the skimmer's composite hull had rendered it damned near invisible.

  The fact that Lando had sailed into Freeson's search sector was pure luck, but luck the officer could use, since he was in need of some visible success. The kind of success that would put the word "Outstanding" on his next appraisal and pave the way toward lieutenant commander.

  Freeson lowered the binoculars. Yes, this was a lucky day indeed. He looked toward the bow. Weapons Tech First Class Shimaku sat hunched behind the twin-fifties. She was faceless behind the reflective visor. One word from him and she'd turn the skimmer into floating scrap. The idea was safe, and therefore tempting, but there was the little girl to consider.

  Freeson had a daughter of his own and the thought of Shimaku's heavy-caliber slugs ripping through her body made him shudder. No, they'd do it the old-fashioned way, stop and board. Just like the stories he'd read as a kid. If the girl got in the way, well, he'd cross that bridge when he came to it.

  Freeson checked to make sure that the boarding party was in place, nodded to the petty officer in charge, and turned toward Power Tech Third Class Miller. "Let's go."

  Miller nodded. He was a slim young man with thick blond hair. A ready smile hid his otherwise disrespectful thoughts. "Yes, sir, Lieutenant Honker, sir. Whatever you say, sir."

  A pair of powerful engines roared into life, the vessel rose on a cushion of air and skimmed across the surface of the estuary. A seabird flapped its wings, broke free from the surface of the water, and lumbered into the air.

  Freeson watched the skimmer. He half expected to see it turn, speed up, and try to run. It didn't. Good. Still waking up. This would be easier than he'd thought. He turned toward Miller.

  "Put us alongside."

  "Aye, aye, sir."

  Miller spun the wheel and brought the hovercraft in next to the skimmer in a long gentle curve. He killed power at just the right moment, and allowed the patrol boat to coast for a moment and bump into the yacht's port side. The hovercraft bounced away and both vessels drifted apart.

  Metal clattered on composite as Freeson's crew tossed grappling hooks across and pulled them tight. Hulls touched for the second time, and the boarding party jumped across, protected to some extent by Shimaku and her twin-fifties. Their combat boots left scuff marks on the skimmer's pristine deck.

  Freeson felt a sense of disappointment. It didn't take a genius to figure out that no one was aboard. All that reward money down the tubes. It didn't seem fair. The reports came in one at a time.

  "Nothing forward, sir!"

  "Nothing below, sir!"

  "Nothing aft, sir!"

  Freeson gave a nod of acknowledgment, gauged the movement of the boats, and jumped across. His landing was reasonably graceful, for which he gave silent thanks. A boatswain's mate stepped aside and allowed the Coast Guard officer to step down into the cockpit.

  Freeson looked around. There was a scattering of empty meal paks, some crumpled clothes, and a pair of unmade bunks. They confirmed what he already knew. The fugitive had been aboard but left. The question was where? He addressed himself to no one in particular.

  "Is the NAVCOMP on?"

  "I certainly am," the machine answered cheerfully, "and welcome aboard, sir. It's a bit nippy out there. Would you be wantin' some nice hot coffee?"

  Freeson shook his head impatiently. "No, that won't be necessary. Tell me, was there a man and a little girl aboard?"

  "No," the NAVCOMP replied matter-of-factly. "How 'bout some breakfast? Nothing like some bacon and eggs to get your day off to a good start."

  Freeson frowned and stepped up to the controls. Blunt fingers tapped a series of keys. An auto log appeared on the screen in front of him. There they were, departure times, headings, fuel consumption, weather notations, and more for the Nadia's maiden voyage, and every trip thereafter. Outings that invariably listed Nathan Izzo as skipper and various women as crew.

  Freeson shook his head sadly. Some guys had all the luck. Now to look at the last few days. His fingers flew over the keys. The screen flickered, dipped to black, and came up loaded with random junk. Keys clicked as the Coast Guard officer hit them again. The screen shimmered but remained as it was.

  Damn!
Like the NAVCOMP the log had been wiped clean as a whistle. Conscious of the boarding party's curious stares Freeson made his way up to the skimmer's deck and looked around. The fog had started to burn off. It would be a long, long day. A day of tedious explanations, boring reports, and endless repetition. Once again luck had passed him by.

  "Hold on!"

  Melissa did as she was told and grabbed the ropes that ran down both sides of the inflatable raft.

  Lando faced her, paddle poised above the water, and waited to dig in. The trick was to catch a wave just so, ride it toward shore, and reach the beach without flipping over.

  Lando sensed that it was time, looked over his shoulder to make sure, and paddled for shore. The wave slid under the raft, raised it up, and carried it toward the beach.

  There was a moment of pure undiluted pleasure as the wind pressed against his face, spray flew up around the raft's bow, and Melissa screamed with excitement.

  But pleasure turned to fear as Lando felt the bow drop, saw Melissa fall backward out of the raft, and found himself tumbling head over heels into the surf. A current pulled the smuggler down, bounced him off a sandy bottom, and jerked him back up. Lando yelled the moment that his head broke through the surface of the water.

  "Melissa! Melissa! Can you hear me?"

  A faint "yes" came from off to the right, and Lando was just about to swim in that direction when another wave broke over him and dragged him toward the beach.

  Fighting like a mad man, Lando struggled forward, clawed his way up the steeply shelving beach, and rolled over. His breath came in gulps. He looked right and left. Melissa. Where the hell was Melissa?

  Then he saw it, over to the left, a flash of red as her life jacket was pulled under.

  Jumping to his feet, Lando ran down the beach, angled out into the water, and dived toward the spot where he'd last seen her. His hands found her first. Slick fabric, a tangle of hair, and a wad of soggy clothing.

  The smuggler grabbed the little girl under the armpits, pulled her up onto the beach, and fell backward into the sand. Melissa coughed, spit out some water, and fought to catch her breath.

  "Melissa? Are you okay?"

  Melissa smiled weakly. "Yes, I think so, but I lost Ralph."

  Lando gave her a hug. "I'm sorry."

  Melissa forced a smile. "That's okay. Ralph's a good swimmer. He'll make it."

  Lando started to say something about buying her a new Ralph, caught himself, and nodded instead. "Right."

  Lando got up, helped Melissa to her feet, and unbuckled her life jacket.

  "Throw it into the surf."

  "Why?"

  Lando pointed toward the south. "Do you see the raft?"

  Melissa nodded. "Sure, it's upside down."

  Lando nodded. "Exactly. Looks like an accident, doesn't it?"

  Melissa's face lit up. "I get it! They'll think we drowned!"

  Lando shrugged. "We can hope anyway. Throw the jacket in and let's go."

  Melissa threw the jacket as far as she could. The surf brought it back and dumped it at her feet.

  Lando laughed and told her to leave it where it was. They walked hand in hand, careful to stay at the edge of the water, where the surf would erase their footprints. The mist had burned off and their clothes began to dry.

  They had gone the better part of a mile before an ancient lava flow crept down across the beach to point a long black finger at the sea. The rock was difficult to walk on but made a nice hard highway on which their footprints wouldn't show. They were almost to the tree line when Lando caught the flash of reflected light.

  He looked again and saw blue sea, brown beach, and, right there, something low and slow just above it. An air car! Searching for them!

  Lando grabbed Melissa's arm. "They're here! Come on!" It was only fifty feet to the jungle but it felt like a mile. They plunged into the foliage and felt it close behind them. Lando turned to peer out.

  The air car hummed as it moved down the beach. It was an open affair with an energy cannon mounted in the bow and racks of heat-seeking missiles to either side.

  Both of the occupants were peering over the sides and looking down at the beach. One pointed in the direction of the raft and yelled something that Lando couldn't understand.

  The air car banked in that direction and lost altitude. Good. The raft would keep them busy while Lando and Melissa put some distance between themselves and the beach.

  It was a struggle to work their way through the undergrowth. Vines tore at their faces, moss-covered logs angled up to block their way, and leaves crowded in from every side.

  They found a game trail eventually, and while it ran parallel to the beach, the going was so much easier that Lando couldn't resist using it. He went first with Melissa behind.

  The jungle was both pleasant and scary at the same time. The sun came down through the canopy in gold streamers, bathing some plants in its magic glow, leaving others in almost total darkness. The air was sweet, heavy with humidity, and thick with insects. Finally, after two or three miles of twisting, turning trail, they came to a dirt road. It was a one-lane affair, cut through the area by parties unknown, already blurred by a blanket of green. Another year, two at the most, and it would disappear.

  The road crossed the path at right angles and headed inland. To use it meant walking in the open, but to stay on the path meant going in the wrong direction.

  Time was critical. Lando chose the road. He motioned to Melissa. "Come on, Mel, the road is just what we need. We'll make better time now."

  Melissa looked doubtful. "I don't know, Pik, I'm getting kind of tired. Can we stop and rest for a while?"

  Lando looked at Melissa and realized his mistake. If the jungle path had been difficult for him, it had been twice as hard for her. Melissa's hair was a tangled mess, there were cuts and scratches all over her face and arms, and her clothes were crusty with dried salt. Not only that, but her face was flushed with exertion, and she was breathing hard. Sweat covered her forehead.

  Lando nodded. "You bet. We'll take five. Come on… let's get off the road."

  Melissa followed Lando into the jungle. They collapsed beneath a huge tree. Vines had wound themselves around the massive trunk and disappeared upward.

  Five minutes turned into ten and Lando realized that he was tired too. The warm air, the drone of the insects, all conspired to close his eyes. He thought about Della, wondered where she was, and what she was doing. He was asleep seconds later.

  "Copy that, Roller One. I'm 4.2 miles up access road N-89. Nothing so far."

  Lando came awake with a start. Melissa sat up, started to speak, but stopped when he put a finger to his lips.

  There was a squawk followed by a jumble of words.

  The voice sounded like it was only feet away. "I copy, Roller One. Follow N-89 to the beach and return. Over and out."

  Lando moved quickly, trying to remain silent, but eager to see. He stopped and peered out through the foliage. The trooper wore a planetary guard uniform, light body armor, and a commo helmet.

  Beyond him, grounded in the center of the road, was a Personal Combat Vehicle. Though little more than an armored antigrav sled, the PCV was transportation. The platform would do thirty or forty miles per hour and save them days of walking.

  Lando felt his heart skip a beat as the trooper turned and walked straight toward him. Had the soldier seen something? No, his blast rifle remained where it was, slung over his shoulder and hard to reach.

  The trooper stopped, unzipped his pants, and prepared to urinate. Lando grinned. Not quite as good as catching someone with their pants down, but almost as effective. The slug gun had been lost in the surf but the missile launcher was still strapped to his arm. Lando crashed through the bushes. "Hold it right there!"

  The trooper didn't want to "hold it right there." He did his best to zip his pants and back up at the same time. He tripped and fell backward onto his blast rifle.

  Lando couldn't see the trooper's face th
rough the visor's reflective surface but he could imagine what it would look like. Surprise, mixed with embarrassment, and a good deal of fear. He pointed the missile launcher at the soldier's chest.

  "Stand up. Leave the blast rifle where it is."

  The trooper obeyed. "Wha…"

  Was the helmet radio on or off? Lando made a cutting motion across his throat.

  "Quiet! One more sound and you're dead."

  The soldier nodded nervously. Lando moved forward. "Good. Now, stick your arms out straight." The trooper obeyed. Lando freed the blast rifle, released the safety, and backed away.

  "Excellent. Now, take the helmet off."

  The soldier released the chin strap and removed the helmet. He was young, no more than eighteen or nineteen, and very frightened. He had farm-boy cheeks and big round eyes.

  Melissa's voice came from the jungle.

  "Pik? Are you okay?"

  "I'm fine," Lando yelled back. "Stay where you are. I'll call for you in a minute."

  The smuggler made a jabbing motion with the blast rifle.

  "Strip." The trooper removed his armor. His uniform followed. The boots came last.

  Lando pointed toward the far side of the road. "Step over there."

  The soldier refused to move, his eyes bright and lower lip trembling. Lando shook his head.

  "You shouldn't believe everything you hear on the vidcasts. I haven't murdered anyone in weeks. I'll tie you up. In an hour, maybe two, you'll get loose and find your way home. Outside of some bug bites, and a good deal of ribbing from your friends, you'll be fine."

  Somewhat reassured, the soldier crossed the road and started into the jungle.

  "That's far enough," Lando said. "I'll leave you in plain sight in case one of your friends happens along. Hug that tree."

  The trooper looked to see which tree Lando was referring to, wrapped his arms around it, and looked over his shoulder.

  Lando gave him a reassuring smile. "Good. Now clasp your hands."

  Lando used his belt and strips torn from his own shirt to tie the soldier's hands and bind his feet. He made the knots tight enough to hold for a while, but loose enough to allow for circulation and an eventual escape.