Bounty Hunted Page 6

  There were just patrons sitting all around him. Nalda’s notion had been subtle. They hadn’t seen a thing. He speared a look deeper toward the front entryway. His eyes bulged under his goggles. Those people at the door—those weren’t patrons. They were …

  He spun around shifting his chair with him.

  … they were security personel. He looked harder. No! They were soldiers. They wore black on black uniforms with light-body armor like phantoms huddled in shadow. This was some sort of militia. And there was Nerkum standing there with them. The Maltauri turned and pointed … directly at Rogan.

  He got to his feet as the phantom soldiers directed their gaze to him. They had weapons. Big weapons. They approached. Not like patrons hunting for a spot at a table. Not like people in a social environment. They approached fast, full of intention. They were on a mission. And now they knew he saw them.

  Rogan’s heart dropped. This had all been a ruse. Shrax. Nerkum. The waitress. It was a cruel ploy. He had to go.

  Now!

  He bolted for the rear exit like a bull in a delicate Lexin boutique shop turning over his table and blasting through patrons. The troopers took off after him. He squeeled in a panicky high note. This was suddenly a foot chase.

  He hit the rear exit and onto the raised decking. The cool Molta-Danoran sea breeze struck him as he launched over the railing with full abandon and crashed down to the sandy shore. He needed to get to his ship Gadget across the bay on the next islet. It was his only way.

  Rogan was up in a fishtail of sand looking over his shoulder. His pursuers appeared, halting at the railing. They saw him and moved speedily to follow. He whined a terrified note and picked up speed glancing toward the street. The mag-lev rail that would take him back to his ship was just beginning to skiff forward. He could see it through the buildings. It spurned his urgency. Catching it was paramount. He didn’t know who they were or what they wanted … and he had no intentions of finding out.

  The beach inclined up a long ramp that met the street a hundred meters ahead. People mulled around smoking their bizarre tobaccos and murmuring to each other as he blew past them making them jerk back and follow him down the beach. He shot a look behind, frantic. They were still on him. Rogan grunted frightfully with his eyes following that mag-lev. It was picking up speed. He closed the distance pumping his feet like mad. He came up over the track darting parallel, timing his flight in a frenzied, split-second fury, and launched himself into the air with a wild-weird scream. He came down spread eagle with a tremendous thud feeling his inertia take on the train’s motion. He slid across the car rasping for a hold. He came to a stop, rolled over and scanned the night for his pursuers. They were still back there on the land slowing to a stop. They missed! It made him fall lax against the train in relief as the wind began to pound at him with the train’s growing velocity. It zipped over the ocean water deepening the night. Rogan started laughing. Thank you, Nalda. Thank you thank you thank you! She had warned him. She saved him. Maybe she was in love with him as much as he was in love with …

  That’s when he saw it.

  And went completely cold.

  Lights in the sky shot high over the bay, streaking across the dark. They were vessels of some sort. He rolled over firing his gaze toward that distant islet where Gadget was parked. They were going to cut him off, get there first.

  “No no no no.”

  As the islet approached, Gadget became clearer. It stood like a big monolith two-toning the night with its forward operations rig towering over the big, square transport fuselage. Its garish landing limbs angled around it like the legs of a huge squatting bug. The utility cranes at its top were tucked away showing its spinner cannon.

  Those lights in the sky hovered high over the beach as if searching for his vessel. Maybe they didn’t know which one was Rogan’s.

  Rogan pounded the train with a fist screaming, “Hurry, hurry!”

  The train began to slow as the islet approached preparing to pull into its disembarkation hub. He didn’t wait for it to stop. He got to his feet in a running start and sailed off the train. He plummeted thirty feet and splashed down into the gentle surf. Popping up and gasping for air he windmilled toward land, splashing in a frenzy and shooting his gaze toward those lights. He grinned in his panic. He was going to beat them to Gadget.

  He plodded up the shore in a hurry screaming, “Gadget, Gadget, open rear bay!” The vessel hissed dual streamers of steam, and the big bay ramp lowered to the sand.

  WHAM—something pounded the beach with enough force to knock him down. He plowed desperately through the sand and back to his feet looking back. What he saw made him gasp in terror.

  A manotaur! Fifty feet of giant robotic bipedal machinery laden with cannons and blasters, its huge head and glowing red eyes staring down at him. Rogan opened his mouth and screamed a blood-curdling wail of terror. Manotaurs were a Cabal security instrument. Whoever this was, they had some ties with the Cabal. And they weren’t messing around.

  Rogan bellowed, “Gadget, Gadget, fire up the engines!” Big engine warmers boosted, and riser lights shuttered on cutting the night. He was up the ramp in a boot stomping flurry screaming, “Exteriors!” He hauled down the lower causeway, up a flight of steel steps, screaming “interiors!” and onto a landing, turning the corner, screaming, “flight control!” He went up another flight, down the catwalk, screaming, “Nav and gunnery support!” hitting another flight, screaming, “Defensive measures!” and grumbling the whole way, “too many stairs, too many stairs!” He exploded into his cockpit overlooking the beach and flew through a quick series of switches and buttons. He didn’t bother strapping in for retro take off. He jerked on the departing rod and the whole assembly lifted off the beach in a sand blasting cloud. He watched the ground drop away and wheeled the entire ship over preparing to slam the main thrusters.

  Detection klaxons screamed. He looked over with his face going palid with terror. A tremendous bang rocked him out of his seat. Sparks flew across his control panel. He felt the entire ship lurch sideways as an explosion shuddered across the entire thing. He fired a glance back into the chasm of his ship to see a ball of fire rip through its steel guts. Another jolt pounded him across the flight bay, and he landed with a bruising thud. Wind blasted through the cockpit threshold blinding him with heat, and he knew exactly what had happened. A rocket shot ripped the entire cargo hold away from his forward control facility. He was looking at open sky back there. Gimbal thrusters sputtered. Flight systems failed. His gaze went back through the viewport. The ground approached.

  “NYOOO!” he screamed.

  And Gadget slammed back to the beach.

  The whole thing whined and popped as its spine broke, and the towering contraption leaned over, broke its zenith of gravity and swung down in a final act of death. He got bucked to the side as his viewport exploded into pebbles, and the entire cockpit buckled.

  Everything settled. Rogan had to catch his breath, pop his ears. He forced himself into a sitting position looking around. He felt a tremendous pang of loss strike him and he whimpered, “Gadget?” His ship was dead. Tears accumulated. This was his home. His friend. And it was gone.

  The world seemed muted. Only the night and the soft whispering of the beach issued through the open viewport. No manotaur.

  No—it’s out there somewhere.

  Next, he felt a rare sense of anger flush through him. The night turned red.

  Spurned by new ferocity, he wormed his way out through the busted viewport and onto the sand. He got up, looked behind. There it was.

  Manotaur.

  “Oh yeah, you little girk scrum!” he screamed. “Oh yeah?”

  He scurried around the tonnage of his vessel having to climb up its twisted, iron skeleton, over the crane platform, which was now canted at a sixty degree angle, and to the big, powerful top cannon. The manotaur seemed to watch him, humored by his futile notion. He reached the bulbous, squared body of the gun and slammed down on its l
ock lever with a boot. It gave, unlocking. Heaving his weight into it and struggling against the lean of gravity, he swiveled the thing around until the eight-foot barrel faced the manotaur. The giant droid seemed to understand this. It activated its arm limb and reached down at him, but too late. Grinning with a manic, mind-gone glee Rogan stomped the manual execute lever and the whole thing went—BOOM!

  The shot struck the manotaur at close range exploding its chest open in a big starburst of flame, shooting debris in all directions. Contrails of burning junk hurled across the sky. The jolt threw Rogan off his feet and he felt himself flounder back toward the sand. He landed with an—umph! Breathless and full of anguish, he blinked and looked up. The manotaur teetered like a lever on a broken fulcrum, then toppled in an arc. It crashed down throwing a sheet of disrupted sand in the air and quaking the entire beach.

  Rogan sat up in disbelief, struggling to catch his breath. He inhaled and let loose a bail of triumph, “Haaaa!”

  And then something big came down from behind. It shook him to his core. He turned around. Another manotaur. Its cannon-studded arms angled down at him, armory swiveling and clicking, preparing to blast him into oblivion. Then another manotaur came down flanking the first. A moment passed. There was only silence. No instruction. No declaration. Just nothing.

  Rogan screamed, “What do you want!”

  A lander platform followed. It swiveled around blasting sand in a circumference and landing at the manotaur’s feet. A gate opened and more troopers fanned onto the beach, all black on black. They surrounded Rogan, guns drawn and holding him at bay. He looked on horrified as the final member of the lander party stepped down from his ride, waist cape ruffling in the wind like dark wings. He stood momentarily staring him down from twenty feet away. The man’s scalp was covered in a silvery cap glinting starlight, his shoulder armor and gauntlets shimmering red in the night. He stabbed a spear into the sand and marched forward making Rogan crawl backward. The man reached him, wrenched him to his feet and backed him up against Gadget’s giant carcass. Two troopers moved forward flanking him.

  The man’s dark eyes glided over Rogan, observing and reading. He finally said with a deep, sinister drawl, “Remove his visor.”

  One of the soldiers reached over and ripped the bug lense visor off Rogan’s head revealing his egg-like eyeballs gawking horribly forward.

  The leader flinched back unable to contain his shock and cried, “Oh, uh—put them back on!”

  The soldier slapped the visor back over his head.

  The leader cleared his throat and returned to his previous, sinister composure. “You are the one called Rogan.”

  Rogan feigned stupidity. “Who? I don’t know him.”

  WHAP—a punch across the face.

  Rogan straightened and said, “Oh, you said Rogan. Yeah that—that’s me.”

  “You know Benjar and Tawnia Dash.”

  Rogan said, “Who? I don’t know them.”

  WHAP!

  “Oh, you said Benjar and Tawnia Dash. Yeah, I—I know them.”

  “Where are they?” the man demanded.

  Rogan thought momentarily. “I don’t know.”

  WHAP!

  Rogan said, “Oh, you said where are they. I, uh, they’re, uh …” he squinched his face preparing for another strike and said punily, “I still don’t know.”

  The man pulled a long, angry breath and murmured, “Put him in agony cuffs. Get him on board. Sire’s going to want to talk with this one when we return.”

  They jerked Rogan toward the lander leaving him looking back in the night. His Gadget was dead, and he feared he was, too, wondering where in the solar twin system Tawny and Ben were. He hadn’t seen nor heard from them in—what—four months, universal? This was so bad.

  Six

  They put Ben in a mold sustainment pod, a big glass tube filled with clear, pinkish gelatin designed to sustain his life in conscious suspension. He could see and hear but couldn’t respond. He couldn’t even breathe. The gel performed the oxygenation process for him, absorbing the oxygen needed through his tissues. There, he remained encased inside the solid liquid occasionally blinking. It had become clear to the Sarconan security force that cuffs, shackles and traditional restraints weren’t enough to secure him.

  He entered the court building with his suspension tank resting on a platform. Mechanical arachnid legs brought the whole thing jarringly forward. It came to a cantankerous stop next to Tawny standing before the dais of Prime Arbiter Milak. The sight of him made her gasp. She looked at him searching for signs of motion, signs of life. His eyes blinked, looked down at her making her jerk back. Her hands were cuffed at her waist. And there they stood side-by-side—shoulder to glass tube.

  Milak began the proceedings with a swing of his gavel and said, “We convene to continue stating qualms and grievances concerning court study number one-B-one-A-zero-zero-one …”

  A huge sound thundered from the front of the court arena. All eyes went to the huge entryway as the steel door swung open on its hydro-arms. Tawny spun around as the spider legs of her husband’s platform articulated the stasis pod around. A formal entourage stood silhouetted by the Sarconan sun, an entire column of traditionally garbed religious people, each dressed in similar, gray robing, tight across the chests and flowing gracefully at the feet. They each bore the V-and-cross of the N’hana Tribe.

  From the forward benches, Allenon and his own team gleamed proudly forward. Their highest brethren had come.

  The lead member of the assembled column led them forward making a grand show. At the column’s rear, they carried a royal carriage of Sarc-wood framing and red and gold embroidery. It swayed gently with their motion housing the tiny form of their N’halo dressed in the highest ceremonial garb of her people, the highest of highs.

  Sireela.

  Tawny smiled, tears coming to her eyes immediately. Their stare matched as the column proceeded by, Sireela showing the tinniest recognition, her little lips curving into a knowing grin. They placed her before Milak’s dais and she dismounted. Her robing was simple but formal, relenting to little strap boots as she planted her feet on the floor.

  Milak blinked, nodded his head in surprise as the crowd murmured and grumbled their surprise. They were in the presence of Sarconan divinity. The column leader addressed Milak with a bold voice, “Prime Arbiter of Sarcon Ultima, we have come to bring the wishes of N’halo of the N’hana Tribe. Would you hear the request of the high prophecy?”

  Milak’s face went white. He said, “Ab–yes—absolutely. Please, proceed.”

  Sireela nodded to her man dismissing him and flapped the sleeve over her arm showing her hand. She pointed back at Tawny. “I have come to free that lady right there,” then switching to Ben, “and that man in that glass thingy.”

  Insulted to his core, Monk Montral stood and cried, “On who’s authority?”

  Sireela turned to him, said, “I don’t have any of that stuff.”

  Montral snickered ridiculously. “Then why should we of the N’hana Dark release the accused?”

  “’Cause I’m not a boy,” she said.

  “No, you are not.”

  “You think N’halo will be a boy, right?”

  Montral put his chin high and declared, “N’halo will come as a man.”

  “But I’m just a little girl.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “Then I’m not N’halo?”

  “No, you are not.”

  “Then who am I?”

  “You are no one.”

  “Then who are they?” She pointed back to Tawny and Ben.

  Montral started to answer but froze with his mouth half-opened. He looked back at his entourage, each member shuffling looks back and forth. Benjar Dash was a blasphemer. He had declared the wrong prophet. But did that make him illegal, or just insane?

  Or perhaps …

  That’s what the Nu’mata inclined by criminal—insane.

  In any case, Benjar Dash had bro
ken no law.

  Montral finally addressed the answer quietly, defeated, “They are … no one.”

  “Are you gonna keep ‘em?” she asked in her child’s voice.

  Montral looked down to the floor, said, “No.”

  Tawny showed disbelief. Sireela had defeated Monk Montral’s case, simple as that. She’d seen the girl face impossibility before … and win. Revealing the undeniable truth, as grotesque as it seemed to some, was her great power.

  One down.

  Most Reverend Allenon made his way to the floor and approached Sireela shrinking as he did, until he took a knee before her, head down. She touched his shoulder and he looked into her. “You are the N’halo, little one,” he said.

  “I just want them to go free and be happy,” she said.

  Allenon gestured toward Tawny and said, “She is deliverer. She is free.” Then, gesturing to Benjar in his tank, “He is the one called criminal. It is revealed so in Nu’mata, our most sacred text, N’halo. You must understand that.”

  “But it doesn’t say he is—A— crinimal. Only—called— crinimal.”

  Allenon gave her a loving, sympathetic smile, and said, “Dear little one, the text is true.”

  “But why? He didn’t do anything bad. He just brought a little girl home.”

  “Allenon,” came the thick, soft voice of the column lead. Allenon turned. The man said, “N’halo is right. We’ve referenced the Nu’mata on her request. It makes no suggestion on the treatment or capture of the one called criminal. His name is Benjar Dash. In the old tongue, the word for thief is benjo-dat. Perhaps there is confusion in the translation. Perhaps the Nu’mata has pointed this man out by name—Benjo-Dat—not by title.”

  Allenon’s eyes glistened, jaw went slack. He whispered, “By name?”

  “In deed, my friend.”

  “We were wrong?”

  “No. We merely misinterpreted.”

  “Then the Nu’mata is truly prophetic.”

  “Yes,” the man said. “It is.”