The only other thing going for him was Torb's sloppy housekeeping. The junkyard of rusting metal surrounding the dome would provide his crawlers with some cover. Lacking heavy weapons, or specialized explosives, he figured the main door was his best bet. It should be the weakest point in the dome's structure. For a moment he considered calling for Torb's surrender, but quickly rejected the idea as a waste of time. Torb had both time and oxygen to burn. He'd never surrender in a situation like that.
McCade picked up the mic and keyed it open. He smiled as he imagined Torb listening inside the dome. "All right, men, let's do it by the numbers. Remember the signals we agreed on, remember your individual missions, and remember what an asshole Torb is. All right, let's go!"
As his crawlers jerked into sudden motion, McCade grabbed the twin grips of his energy cannon, and waited for the range to close. His job was to engage the left weapons emplacement. Meanwhile the second crawler would attack the door, and the third would tackle the right weapons emplacement. His head hit the side of the turret, as his driver made a hard right, and then a left, starting the evasive maneuvers they'd agreed upon. Ignoring the pain McCade concentrated on his target. Meanwhile the range was closing . . . closing . . . closing. At the precise moment when McCade squeezed his triggers, pulses of blue light also stuttered out from the weapons emplacements, trying to lock onto the swerving crawlers and destroy them.
As far as McCade could tell, both emplacements were firing independently of each other. Good. Tied together under computer control, Torb's weapons would be even more lethal.
Meanwhile, the third crawler, with Hawkins in command, had taken refuge behind a pile of rusty plating, and was doing battle with the right emplacement, while Fesker led crawler two against the doors. The metal was already glowing cherry-red under the determined assault of his energy weapon, but his machine was terribly exposed, and would soon draw fire from both emplacements. McCade doubled his efforts to hit the left emplacement, swearing when it suddenly ignored him, and went for Fesker. Seconds later the other emplacement did likewise. Torb was finally exercising some fire control.
As he glanced from one emplacement to the other, something kept bothering McCade, but he couldn't figure out what. Then he had it. Torb's forces couldn't depress their weapons any farther than they already were! Because they were intended for anti-aircraft use, their mounts limited how far down the barrels could be depressed. So, if Fesker moved in even closer, they wouldn't be able to hit him.
McCade keyed his mic on, and brought it up to his lips, just as Fesker's crawler took a combined hit. Flames poured out of the engine compartment as the driver spun the big machine around and ran for the shelter of a junked fuel tank. McCade and Hawkins provided covering fire as men poured out of the damaged machine and ran for cover. Most had escaped by the time the crawler blew up a few seconds later.
Then, much to McCade's surprise, both weapons emplacements fell suddenly silent, and Torb's voice crackled over his radio. "Sam Lane, you out there?"
McCade keyed his mic open. "I'm here, Torb, what's for lunch? We thought we'd join you."
"You can't win, Lane," Torb said reasonably, "you're running out of oxygen . . . and there's no way you're gonna break into the dome to get more. Give it up. I promise you won't be punished. We'll just chalk it up to experience . . . and then go back to the way things were."
McCade squinted against the glare, and smiled grimly. "Screw you, Torb."
There was a moment of silence, and there was fury in Torb's voice when he answered. "Then you're dead, Lane. Good-bye."
Suddenly both emplacements opened up with renewed fury, and McCade wondered if Torb was right . . . maybe they were dead.
Inside the dome's com center, Walker conscientiously powered the equipment down, and returned all major systems to standby. Things were going fairly well. He had managed to reach McCade's friends aboard
Pegasus,
and they were on the way, ETA, about six hours. He had also programmed and activated one of the three message torps his organization kept in parking orbit around Worm. Within minutes it would break out of orbit, accelerate away from Worm, and go hyper. Eventually it would emerge near the Wind World, and play back its coded message. Then his superiors would know the Emperor was dead, and that McCade was on the way. He sighed. He'd also done his best to send the message in another way, but had apparently failed, since there'd been no acknowledgment. It seemed as though he'd never get the hang of that stuff. But at least the torp, would get through. Now there was only one problem left to solve.
Walker stood, and turned out the lights as he left the room. He knew that outside the dome the battle still raged, and unless McCade won, the prince wouldn't take the throne, and a terrible war could result. And it didn't take a genius to see that McCade was going to lose. He wondered if the flux readers had known it would end up like this, although it didn't matter much. He knew what to do, but it scared him. What if his brothers and sisters were wrong? What if there was no life after death? He shrugged. Then that's just the way it goes, he decided.
Torb's guards ignored Walker as he strolled across the center of the dome. Most of their attention was directed outside, and besides, everyone knows a Walker doesn't take sides. As Walker approached the dome's huge doors, he was praying in a tongue no longer heard on Terra, and hoping that his action would be in concert with the flux. He was only feet from the control box when a guard shouted, "Hey, you! Walker! Get away from those doors!"
The guard was fast, but Walker was just a little faster, diving for the box, touching the controls just as the bullets hit him. Even as the slugs tore him apart, Walker held the button down, smiling because he'd fooled the silly bastards, and was far, far away.
McCade gritted his teeth, and ordered his crawler forward. With Fesker's rig out of action, someone had to tackle the doors, even though it seemed hopeless.
McCade was thrown in one direction, and then another, as his driver, Freak, did his best to avoid the flashing blue beams that stuttered out from Torb's weapons. Hawkins tried to provide covering fire, but Torb's gunners ignored him, throwing everything they had at the crawler racing toward them.
Then their port engine took a direct hit, and McCade was half blinded by the flash, and almost deafened by the loud explosion. An energy beam sliced through the right track, and the crawler slewed left as Freak dumped power and thumbed the intercom. "OK, people, this is the end of the line. Please pay the driver as you disembark. All gratuities will be appreciated."
As men tumbled out of the crawler and ran for cover, McCade did his best to cover them, but here and there they jerked and fell, as a hail of lead and lethal energy tossed them about like so many rag dolls. He felt sick. Now they were well and truly screwed. The whole thing was a complete disaster. It was time to surrender and save as many lives as he could. He was reaching for his mic when the radio squawked into life, and Hawkins said, "Damn! Look at that, boss! They're opening the doors!"
McCade looked, and sure enough, the huge double doors were slowly sliding upward. He couldn't be sure, but it looked like there was some kind of a fight going on inside the dome. It didn't make sense, but what the hell, some chance was better than none. He keyed his mic and said, "Go, Hawkins! Get the hell in there and secure the dome!"
Hawkins didn't reply. He didn't have to. His crawler spewed gravel, and threw up a cloud of dust as it swept around a big pile of empty cargo pods and roared toward the dome. McCade swore under his breath as he saw the doors reverse direction and start downward. Whatever the problem was, Torb's men had it under control, but could they close the doors in time? Hawkins was close, closer, through! The doors closed behind him.
Once inside the dome Torb's guards didn't stand a chance. Hawkins had a field day, grinning as he cut down the running guards, using the crawler to grind them into paste.
Ten minutes later the battle was over, and ten hours later, McCade was ready to lift off Worm. The dome had been secured, Torb and his guards were safely locked into their own underground prison, and the dead had been buried.
One grave stood above all the rest. It was located on top of the little hill where McCade had been tortured, and where the man with the cool green eyes had invaded his dreams. Walker was dead, and McCade didn't know how to mark his grave, or say good-bye. So he gave up, figuring that if Walker was still around, then he knew how McCade felt, and if he wasn't, then it didn't matter.
Turning, he walked down the slope, and headed for
Pegasus.
Her slender shape was a black silhouette against the last rays of the setting sun. Off to the right the glow of cargo lights revealed a small crowd. Some of the men had come to say good-bye. As he headed their way, he thought how good it would feel to leave Worm's eternal heat for the cool darkness of space. He threw the shovel toward the nearest pile of junk and quickened his pace.
A cheer went up as he approached. As McCade tried to quiet the crowd, Phil's shaggy form materialized beside him. The big variant shook his head in disbelief. "It's obvious they don't know you the way we do," he growled.
McCade laughed. "Unlike you, these men appreciate my finer qualities."
"And what finer qualities might those be, ol' sport?" Rico asked, appearing on his other side. "I'll bet the list ain't very long."
But before McCade could answer the crowd grew silent. Fesker stepped forward with Spigot and Hawkins by his side. Clearing his throat importantly, Fesker said, "Well, boss, with you liftin' an all, me and the boys thought we oughta come and say good-bye."
"I'm glad you did," McCade replied solemnly. "I've never served with a finer group of slaves."
They all laughed, shouted friendly insults, and congratulated each other on their wit. Fesker waited until they'd quieted down, and then cleared his throat once more. "As you know, boss, we found Torb's stash of Fire Eggs, and we figure to share and share alike. Well, the way we see it, if it wasn't for you we'd still be slaves. So we all voted, and everyone agreed to give you this."
With that, Spigot hopped forward on a single crutch, and proudly handed McCade a small package.
As the men looked on expectantly, McCade carefully unwrapped the package to reveal a glorious Fire Egg. The very last rays of the sun hit the egg, exploding within to create a ruby red blaze of fire, shot through with iridescent sparks of blue and green. It was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
Rico gave a low whistle. "Now that's some play pretty."
McCade looked up from the fiery egg to the waiting crowd. "Thanks, men, this means a lot. I won't forget you."
They laughed and joked, but as they waved and turned to go, he could see that they were pleased.
Spigot remained after the rest had gone. He grinned his toothless grin. "Thanks, Sam." He glanced at
Pegasus
and back, clearly curious, but too polite to ask. "It's been good knowing you."
"And you too, Spigot," McCade replied. "What's your real name anyway?"
Spigot blushed, looked over his shoulder to make sure the others couldn't hear, and then spoke in a secretive whisper. "You promise not to tell anyone?"
McCade nodded his agreement.
"Alfonso Esteverra Maxwell-Smith."
"It's a good name," McCade said solemnly. Spigot grinned his thanks, they shook hands, and the little man hopped off to catch up with the rest of the group. Occasionally one or two paused to look back and wave.
McCade waved back, and then, with Rico and Phil at his side, he turned and walked toward
Pegasus.
"So what're they gonna do now?" Rico inquired.
McCade grinned. "Well, about half of them plan to stay awhile, and teach Torb and his guards how to find Fire Eggs."
Phil made a deep rumbling noise which was actually laughter. "And the rest?"
McCade shrugged. "They're happy with the Fire Eggs they've got, and plan to take over the next supply ship Joyo sends out. There should be one in a couple of weeks." The thought reminded him of Candy. Fesker had promised to watch out for her, and make sure she didn't get hurt.
A few minutes later, the lock had cycled closed behind them, and McCade was taking one last look at the Fire Egg, before locking the ship's safe. The jewel's internal fire lit up the inside of the armored durasteel box. It was probably worth more than the ship itself. For one brief moment, he considered quitting, hanging it up. After all, why keep going, keep risking it all, when he had enough for the rest of his days right here in front of him? As quickly as the thought came, it disappeared, pushed aside by Sara's trusting eyes, and Walker's bullet-ridden body.
Turning to Rico, McCade said, "Let's take a look at those coordinates Walker fed you."
Rico's large fingers flew over the keyboard with surprising delicacy, and while most of the computer continued its pre-flight check, a small sub-processor turned its attention to this new request. A second later the words "Wind World" appeared on the master screen, followed by a long list of numbers. McCade grinned. There it was, the end of the search. The numbers were coordinates for the Wind World, and the Wind World was where they'd find the prince.
"There they are," Rico said, pointing a stubby finger at the screen. "Just like your friend sent 'em."
"Speaking o' your friends," Rico continued, "that Cy's quite a character.
McCade laughed. "Yeah, he's definitely one of a kind. Obviously he made it or you wouldn't be here."
Rico nodded. "There we were playin' cards, killin' time, 'n' waitin' for you to get tired o' the bright lights and come back, when suddenly the chime for the main lock goes off. You shoulda seen Phil, he damn near had a heart attack; I mean, who the hell could it be? None o' the detectors had gone off. He didn't pack enough mass or velocity. So we looked at the vid pickup for the main lock, and there's this metal ball floatin' there, and it comes over the ship-ta-ship freq and says, 'Hello, could I borrow a cup of DC?'"