"Oh, shit," Cy said to himself as he struggled back into his housing and secured it. He hated to use up precious time, but he didn't want to fight the snake bare-assed naked either. The moment his housing was back in place, he activated his anti-grav unit, and whizzed back to the next intersection. He needed time to think.
Cy's mind was racing through the possibilities. Apparently the snake wasn't equipped with lasers or projectile weapons. The fact that he was still alive seemed proof of that. So the damned thing was designed to work in close, and since he had no defenses to speak of, it would be critical to keep the snake at a distance. But how? He could keep running, but eventually he'd make a mistake, or just run out of power, and the damn thing would have him. The snake had been designed to operate in the ducts and he hadn't. But wait a minute!
Outside
the ducts the electronic reptile couldn't touch him. Not while he had power for his anti-grav unit anyway, and thanks to the crawlies, he had power to burn. Cy zipped farther down the duct until he found a grille. The room beyond the grille was dark, and Cy couldn't hear any movement or conversation. With luck it would be vacant.
The scraping of metal on metal was closer now. Working quickly he reached through the grille with two articulated arms, undid the screws holding it in place, and pushed it aside. Turning to face the snake, Cy slid a section of his housing aside to reveal a high-intensity light. He flicked it on, and damned near scared himself to death. The snake was even closer than he'd thought, its bulbous head bristling with sensors, acid jets, and power drills, its brightly scaled metal body gathering itself for an attack.
McCade was dimly aware of being scooped up by one of the enormous Cellite bodyguards, and carried like a baby down a series of hallways and corridors, before being unceremoniously dumped into a small room. He heard the door slam, and the sound of retreating footsteps. He ordered his body to get up, and swore silently when it failed to respond. He understood the problem. It had to do with dispersal. Somehow he was everywhere, and in order to accomplish things, he had to be somewhere. He'd have to gather himself in and focus his energies. Easier said than done he concluded glumly. Nonetheless he had to try. Bit by bit he gathered himself together, and as he did, he became increasingly aware of his surroundings. The cold metal deck under his cheek, the reek of strong disinfectant, the glaring light of the room's single chem strip. Eventually, in what he considered a heroic expenditure of energy, McCade managed to roll over. From there it was a simple matter to crouch, and then stand. It only took an hour.
His whole body ached and throbbed from countless bruises. A careful inventory revealed a deep cut on his face where Joyo's boot had hit him, two black eyes, a broken tooth, two broken fingers on his left hand, and a sprained right ankle. His eyes were almost swollen shut, but from what he could see, the room was entirely bare. Naturally. Cells rarely come with a lot of furniture.
Hobbling toward a corner, McCade used his good hand to pat his pockets, searching for a surviving cigar butt. He found nothing but crumbs. The bastards had taken everything: his money, cigars, lighter, and, needless to say, his gun. Slowly he lowered himself to the floor and closed his eyes. He'd had better days.
As the snake struck, Cy propelled himself sideways, and through the open vent. The robosnake followed its target, launching itself into the darkened room, and then falling like a rock. There was a loud scream as the heavy metal snake fell across the large bed. Somewhat confused, but nonetheless determined, the snake sensed a spherical source of heat and attacked. The woman continued to scream as her husband managed to flick on the lights. To his utter amazement a six-foot-long metal snake was draped across his wife and seemed intent on destroying the globular com set located on their bedside stand. Being a retired general, the man had fairly good nerves, and the presence of mind to retrieve his handgun and blow the snake's head off. Much to his surprise this did nothing to stop the snake's determined attack. Denied its primary sensors, but still possessed of its limited intelligence, the robosnake reevaluated the situation, and mistakenly decided the rather large mass of warm tissue lying under it had been the source of the attack. Quickly wrapping itself around the lump of offending tissue, the snake began to squeeze. Unable to shoot at the snake's midsection for fear of hitting his wife, and no longer calm, the General blazed away at the only available target, the snake's tail. He got two solid hits and the snake went limp. His wife continued to scream as he tried to operate the destroyed com set, and neither of them noticed as two articulated arms finished screwing the air-conditioning grille back in place, and then disappeared.
Cy zipped through the ducts racing for the computer center. Once security found the robosnake, all hell was going to break loose. The fact that the grille was screwed shut might confuse things for a while, but not for long. Moments later he was peering out of a vent into a large, brightly lit room full of humming computers. There were two people in sight. From their tool belts Cy deduced they were repair techs rather than programmers. Good, he'd give them something to repair.
Seconds later he was at the far end of the computer center undoing a grille. Spying a likely printer, he squirted himself over, and started pulling a plastic print fax out of its box. Looping it around and around the printer he built quite a pile. Then, extruding a tiny arc welder, he lit the pile of plastic. Though not highly flammable, the stuff did manage to burn, giving off clouds of horrible-smelling smoke. Cy had no more than ducked back into the duct when the automatic alarms went off.
Both repair techs were up and running for the other end of the room seconds after the alarm went off. So, they failed to see the grille over their table swing open, and a metallic ball squirt out, heading for the control console. Cy extruded two articulated arms, both of which ended in three-fingered hands. As he hovered over the control board his fingers moved with blinding speed, first entering the access code which he'd seen and memorized while working for Joyo, and then setting up the program he wanted the computer to run. It was a large computer, but since it was early morning cycle on Joyo's Roid, largely unused at the moment. It ran Cy's program in forty-three seconds, and spit out three feet of print fax from the nearest printer when it was finished. Cy didn't take the time to look at it. He just rolled it up and clamped it to his side. Then working quickly, he dumped the program he'd set up, and cleared out. If they really checked, they'd find about a minute of unauthorized computer use, but since they had no reason to check, chances were they wouldn't.
As soon as the grille was screwed shut, he took off down the duct at high speed, before suddenly coming to an abrupt stop. What the hell was he doing? He didn't know where Sam was, and he could run into a crawlie anytime. Mentally gritting teeth he no longer had, he undid half his housing, and pushed it ahead of him as he moved through the maze of ducts at a more moderate pace.
A quick check of Sam's room found nothing. Literally nothing. Even his carryall was gone. Had he checked out? Not likely . . . no, this looked like Joyo's work.
Grimly Cy headed for the Silk Road. Along the way another crawlie attacked and fried itself. Cy didn't even pause. Finally he drifted silently along the duct which ran around the circumference of the silk-lined brothel. Each time he came to a grille he took a look. There were lots of people, doing some fairly amazing things, but none of them was Sam.
Damn! Sam could be anywhere. Cy racked his brain trying to think of some way to locate his friend. Nothing came. But chances were, if he waited by Joyo's office long enough, he'd hear something that would tell him what he needed to know. So he scooted over there and settled down to wait.
Cy awoke with a jerk. He heard voices. One he immediately recognized as Joyo's; the other, softer voice belonged to Silk. Extending a vid pickup, Cy peeked through the grille. Joyo was behind the desk, seated in his high-backed leather chair, speaking to Silk who was just out of sight.
" . . . The man's nothing more than another two-bit chiseler. We'll turn his absurd lifeboat into scrap, and send him to Worm. As usual Torb's complaining about a shortage of slaves. I swear the ugly bastard uses them up like there's an endless supply."
"Maybe that's because you raise his production quota four times a year," Silk replied softly.
Cy couldn't see Joyo's face, but he sensed the scowl on it when he replied. "Don't lay that crap on me, lady. I don't see you turning down the flow of credits coming in from Worm."
"Granted," she said placatingly. "And I want that flow to continue. Which is why I wonder if we're doing the right thing. This Sam Lane smells like trouble. What about his lifeboat, for example? A lifeboat implies a larger ship. Where is it? Who's on it? There's too many unanswered questions." Her voice was so soft Cy had difficulty hearing it. He cranked up the gain on his audio pickups.
Joyo shrugged. "Maybe, but my people on Terra weren't able to come up with anything, except that there's no Sam Lane matching his description. Now we could take his retinals, cut a voiceprint, map his dentition, and send the whole mess to the Earth Central mainframe. Chances are it could tell us who he is, what he does, and the kind of cereal he likes for breakfast. But that could create as many problems as it solves. Asking Earth Central mainframe for information cuts both ways. You get it, but you also provide it. So, if he's wanted we could have bounty hunters all over the place, or if he's got powerful friends, they might give us trouble, or what, God forbid, if he's a pirate? That kind of trouble we don't need. No, a call to Rad and his lifeboat disappears, then a little trip to Worm, and the problem's solved."
Silk moved into sight and sat on Joyo's lap. She smiled. "Well, you're the boss . . . boss."
McCade heard the grille squeak open and looked up through bleary eyes. As Cy squirted himself into the room he tried to speak but only produced a croaking noise.
"Great Sol, Sam, are you all right? Ooops, stupid question, of course you aren't." Cy spun around helplessly, looking for some way to help.
McCade cleared his throat. "I'll be okay, Cy . . . just need some R & R, that's all. How'd it go? But before you answer . . . check to see if this cell's bugged. If it is . . . you better haul ass."
"Nah, it ain't bugged," Cy replied loftily. "I checked before I came in. As for how it went, I've got some good news and some bad news."
"Give me the good news first," McCade croaked, trying to find a more comfortable position against the hard wall.
"I got into Joyo's computer," Cy said proudly, "and here's what it coughed up." Cy unclipped the roll of print fax, and used an articulated arm to hand it to McCade.
As McCade accepted it he did his best to grin. It hurt. "You're quite a guy, Cy . . . nobody else could have done it."
Cy felt a pleasurable warmth inside at the praise, and a renewed determination to help Sam any way he could.
McCade unrolled the print-out, and scanned it through his blurred vision. His eyes were so swollen he could hardly get them open, plus his two broken fingers kept getting in the way. The computer had used the matrix of information supplied by Cy to search for men who'd played Destiny and matched Alexander's general description. McCade's heart sank as a quick scan failed to turn up a perfect match. Maybe Lady Linnea had tricked him, or maybe Alexander really was dead, or maybe a hundred different possibilities.
Nonetheless he turned his attention to those who most closely matched the prince's description. One caught his eye time after time. A man calling himself Idono H. Farigo. He'd arrived about the right time, played Destiny, and lost. The only trouble was that Joyo's computer placed him at only a ninety percent match for Alexander's physical description. Examining the detailed analysis which followed Farigo's summary, McCade noticed some interesting facts. First, Farigo's race and age matched Alexander's perfectly. Second, both men were exactly six feet one inch in height, and both weighed 178 pounds. And third, they both had blue eyes. However, where Alexander had light brown hair, Farigo's was black, and though both had even features, Farigo's were rougher and less refined.
As McCade leaned back to think, he ignored the pain of his various injuries, and wished he had a cigar. Forcing his mind, to the task at hand, he considered the facts. On second thought, maybe a ninety percent match was pretty good. Especially when the two men were a one hundred percent perfect match in everything but facial appearance. And from years of bounty hunting, McCade knew how unimportant facial characteristics could be in tracking someone down. Given enough credits, a new face was as close as the nearest biosculptor, and the prince certainly had enough credits. What if he'd visited a biosculptor before coming to Joyo's Roid? And from what Lady Linnea had told him, it would be just like the prince to roughen, rather than refine his features. That way he'd have a face more in keeping with the common herd. Then, disguised as Farigo, he'd arrived on Joyo's Roid, played Destiny, lost as he'd no doubt hoped he would, and been sent to some miserable planet as a slave. It all made a crazy sort of sense . . . but what if he was wrong?
"Can I see that?" Cy asked, hovering in front of McCade.
McCade nodded and handed over the print-out. "As a matter of fact you can keep it. Otherwise I'd have a hell of a time explaining where I got it."
Cy bobbed in agreement. "Did you find anything?"
"I think so," McCade replied doubtfully. "Take a look at that Farigo guy. He seems like my best bet, but if I'm wrong I could waste a lot of time and energy on him."
Cy found Farigo's name on the print-out, and sounded it out, "I-do-no-H-Far-I-go . . . that's a weird name."
McCade sat up straight, and then wished he hadn't. Everything hurt. "Well, I'll be damned . . . at least the bastard has a sense of humor. How much you want to bet the 'H' stands for 'how.' 'I don't know how far I go.' That's got to be him. Thanks, Cy, now I'm sure Alexander and Farigo are the same man. You've been a big help. OK . . . you said there was some bad news . . . I guess I'm as ready for it as I'll ever be."