Savage Armada Page 13

  Even as the crew of the Constellation got back on its feet, a dozen grappling hooks sailed into the air and landed on the deck, scraping back to the gunwales, catching on planks and bodies along the way. One sailor shrieked as the hooks ripped into his body, pinning him to the gunwale. Jak threw a knife and cut the rope, freeing the man, but the sailor stayed moaning on the deck, the iron hook deeply embedded into his chest. Another hook got caught on the canvas and ripped it free, exposing the hole in the deck.

  Timbers creaked in protest as slaves in chains operated winches that tightened the lines drawing the two vessels closer until their gunwales touched.

  "Charge!" a pirate bellowed, jumping from his ship onto the deck of the Constellation. He landed in a crouch, knife and blaster at the ready.

  From behind, the wounded sailor pinned by the grappling hook stabbed the invader in the calf with his knife. Crying out in pain, the pirate turned and kicked the hook. The sailor started to convulse and abruptly died.

  Shouting a war cry, the coldhearts swarmed onto the battered vessel, waving swords and handblasters, as the pirates in the rigging swung across to land on the spars of the Connie.

  Ryan spent half a clip at the enemies above, then was forced to deal with the men charging along the deck. Krysty shot one pirate in the face and kicked another between the legs. A coldheart caught Jak reloading and triumphantly grabbed the teenager by the collar, then shrieked as his hand came away minus fingers, the hidden razors now gleaming with fresh blood. Jak gestured and a knife appeared in his hand. He slashed the cringing man across the throat, then fired the Colt Python wildly into the oncoming mob.

  Coldhearts dropped on them from above, and Mildred cleared a path with four fast rounds from the shotgun, the stainless-steel flechettes tearing the invaders apart. A dozen pirates fell, tripping those behind, and the companions went around the hole in the deck, retreating to the barricade.

  In retaliation, the invaders quickly formed a ragged line and triggered their flintlocks, most of the blasters discharging, the miniballs hitting the barricade with hard slaps. As Ryan and the others climbed over the pile of furniture and assorted wreckage, Jones and Daniels gave cover by firing all four of their hand cannons, the dense clouds of acrid smoke making it temporarily impossible for anybody to see a target.

  One pirate inadvertently found the hole in the deck, and he shouted all the way down to the gun deck and abruptly stopped making noise.

  As the rest of the invaders reached the barricade, the companions fell back and the women rose to thrust their crude spears into the enemy. Bearded faces registered shock as the knives found flesh, then brutally twisted sideways, opening the wounds, and blood spurted everywhere. With only his ear missing, one pirate grabbed the spear wielded by Abagail and raised an ax high overhead. Snarling in rage, Jones placed the muzzle of his last blaster against the man's face and shot the coldheart from behind. The second man fell with his chest blown open, but the first man dropped the ax, his hair now in flames from the muzzle-blast. The heavy blade hit the deck, going inches into the hard wood. Ignoring the burning man, Abagail stabbed out again and again with her spear, as Jones pulled the ax free and started chopping at any arm bearing a tattoo.

  "Down!" Ryan commanded, and the crew hastily got out of the way.

  The companions cut loose with all of their weapons in a single volley, clearing the barricade and driving the pirates back.

  In the brief pause, the crew of the Constellation snatched blasters from the dead and dying, hastily reloaded and sent the stolen lead right back to the pirates. For one glorious moment, the deck of the ship was clear of invaders, but on the Delta Blue, a second wave was forming, the chained slaves held in front as human shields.

  "What do we do?" a girl asked, blood streaked across her face.

  "It's them or us," Abagail answered resolutely, cutting an ammo pouch off a supine pirate. He moaned softly, and she stabbed him in the chest until he stopped.

  "What the fuck is taking so long?" Jones demanded, tucking a loaded blaster into his belt and starting on the next.

  "Any sec now," Ryan muttered, aiming the SIG-Sauer, but not firing yet, as the haggard slaves began to stiffly climb over the gunwale dragging their heavy chains.

  ON THE GUN DECK, the pirate painfully stood, his right arm hanging at an unnatural angle. Grunting at the pain, he glanced around and was relieved to find this deck of the ship empty. Not a soul was in sight, the line of cannons unattended.

  He sighed in relief, and then the middle cannon thunderously erupted, lifting off the tracks even as it sent the hot iron out the gunport. Propelled by the block of C-4, the double load of shot smashed through the hull of the Delta Blue and punched out the other side of the vessel.

  Split lengthwise, the broken cannon slammed into the pirate standing agog on the gun deck, crushing him flat. Then the second cannon stridently exploded, its lead balls going down into the belly of the enemy ship, punching through the deck and into the powder magazine. Instantly the black powder detonated from the crushing impact, sending flame and shrapnel everywhere. The last cannon spoke deafeningly, the massive wad of iron chains spinning through the wounded ship, cracking timbers and making the thick wooden column of the main mast wobble as it started to break loose.

  A hundred feet behind the last cannon on the port side of the Constellation, J.B., Doc and Dean lay sprawled on the deck from the triple concussion, fingers feebly twitching, faces slack and pale.

  On the Delta Blue a pirate in the crow's nest howled as the damaged mast loudly cracked in two and hurtled downward, taking the rigging with it.

  In the middle of shouting orders, Captain Draco glanced upward at the terrible noise and disappeared in the avalanche of ropes and broken spars. Top-heavy, the mast tipped over the side of the ship and slipped into the choppy water, dragging everything along behind. Still attached by a hundred ropes, the bow mast broke free of its predark stanchions and swept across the deck, smashing into pirates and slaves alike. Planks ripping apart, the deck collapsed and the aft mast toppled over, heading for the quarterdeck.

  As the mast descended, Giles brandished a defiant fist, then exploded as the tower of wood squashed him flat and crashed onto the wheel, driving the captain's cabin in the ship, the aft windows spraying outward like a sparkling shotgun blast. Rolling over the deck, the mast followed the others and dragged even more into the cold depths, bringing death to the sailors and blessed freedom to the chained slaves.

  On the Constellation, the boarding party of wounded pirates turned to stare at the vessel. The side of the ship caved inward, flailing men spilling into the churning sea. Sunlight was visible from the other side of the enemy ship. The craft was holed all the way through, and burning out of control.

  Bright lights came from within the dying ship as the fallen lanterns set fire to the wood and orange flames licked upward from every hatch and port. The flames increased to a roaring inferno, and the crew of the Constellation cheered as something inside the pirate vessel detonated again, spreading the conflagration even more.

  "Cut those mooring lines!" Jones bellowed, racing for the gunwale with his ax. "Get her away from us!"

  But it was too late. A larger explosion shook the Delta Blue, blowing corpses and cannon out both sides, then the whole world seemed to shake as the main powder magazine ignited and she blew apart into kindling, wreckage rising on a column of smoke and fire into the air.

  "Hit the deck!" Jones roared, diving for wood, and the Constellation violently shuddered from the arrival of the heavy shrapnel.

  An anchor plowed into the bow, ripping away most of the forecastle, and O'Malley was blown overboard with a splintered plank driven completely through his chest.

  "She's…gone," a pirate whispered, staring at the flotsam sinking into the churning ocean. The surface was littered with bits and pieces, most of them sinking as they became waterlogged.

  "We're trapped," another snarled, raising his blaster.

  "Then
we take this ship!" a bald pirate shouted, and the desperate men charged the wounded defenders.

  Lying on the deck, Ryan emptied his blaster at the pirates, chilling two more before they were past him and charging the others. They clearly wanted no part of the raven-haired man with the battle-scarred face and a working blaster.

  The two groups converged, each choosing a person to fight. A single blaster roared, and then it was swords, axes and knives in total bloody chaos, the individual screams and curses mixing into the muted roar of mob warfare.

  Weapon in hand, Ryan couldn't find anybody to chill. The people were so well mixed the Deathlands warrior would only ace the sailors he'd promised to protect. Then he noticed a movement out of the corner of his good eye, and saw a chance.

  "Crew of the Connie.'" he bellowed. "Hit the deck!"

  The private name of the ship caught their attention, then sailors and girls reluctantly did as ordered. The pirates stood above the supine crew, confused by the sudden halt to the battle.

  "Ya surrendering?" a burly man asked.

  In reply, J.B. triggered the Uzi from a hatchway. On full-auto, the stuttering stream of 9 mm Parabellum rounds tore through the stationary men, mowing them down. Slapping in his last clip, Ryan started to fire, and the rest of the companions cut loose with their weapons. Then thunder was heard above the crackle of gunfire, and Doc appeared at a hatchway recklessly fanning the LeMat, the barrage of .44 mini-halls slamming through one pirate and chilling the one behind him. Then Dean was at his side, the sleek Browning steadily banging.

  Caught in the withering cross fire, the pirates were slaughtered and soon the last man fell, bleeding from a dozen wounds. An odd peace reigned over the bedraggled vessel, the crackling of the burning pirate ship the only sound.

  "Any more?" a girl asked, struggling to her feet. There was a blistered wound on her thigh from a blaster that missed, a bad slash across her bare shoulder, but the ax in her grip was smeared with red blood and pinkish brains.

  "We beat them," a sailor said in disbelief. Then he shouted, "We beat them!"

  Standing amid the score of dead, the rest of the survivors raggedly cheered.

  "Outlanders did," Abagail retorted weakly. "Took ya long enough."

  Ryan started to hotly reply when he was cut off by the captain.

  "Shut the fuck up, everybody," Jones commanded, holding his side. With every breath, he could feel the broken bones grind against each other. "Somebody go check the starboard hull!"

  As he was the closest, Ryan went to the railing and glanced over the side. Then cursed. There were several large holes in the side of the ship below the waterline, the waves flowing into the hold, barrels and wicker baskets floating out in a yellowish cloud.

  "We've been damaged," he reported, now noticing that the deck was listing slightly, spent brass and other small loose items starting to slide across the planks.

  Favoring a leg, Jones hobbled over to the railing and studied the damage. "Can't patch that," he announced bitterly. "The ribs of the Connie are busted clean through. Bastard shrapnel from the explosion. Must have been hit by one of their cannons, maybe a couple. Nuking hell!"

  "Orders, sir?" Daniels asked after a few moments. He had waited for O'Malley to ask, but then recalled that he was pilot and chief of the crew now.

  Silently Captain Jones looked over the valiant craft, every plank, every rope known to him. There wasn't an inch of the vessel he hadn't stood watch on, helped repair or scrubbed clean.

  "Abandon ship," he said softly.

  Chapter Eleven

  The sky was slowly turning purple with the approach of night, the ever present storm clouds thinning enough to allow the moon and stars to shine upon the small tropical island.

  At the lee of a wide smooth beach was a crude dock of tree trunks and piles of stone. Beyond was a ramshackle ville, its protective wall live bamboo woven with tree vines. A living barrier with lovely blossoms on the outside, hell flowers that spit deadly spores and pulsed with acid-based sap.

  The thick smell of fish stew wafted from the bamboo huts, mixing with the reek of animal dung in the dirt streets. The houses were of bamboo with thatched roofs, looking exactly the same as they had for a thousand years.

  Lard torches crackled before the wood barracks of the sec men and the small gaudy house. The smooth clean light of alcohol lanterns shone brightly through the glass windows of Baron Somers's brick fortress, the predark police station now his armed bunker inside the walls of Namu ville. But it had been a long time since there had been any fighting in the poor fishing ville. Only a hundred people lived in the squalor, with less than a dozen slaves. There was nothing to attract pirates or raiders from another ville. The lord baron chilled the seagoing coldhearts at every chance, but didn't really care if one ville attacked another. The strongest should live, the weak die. That was his law, and none openly dared to disagree.

  High on a hill overlooking the dirt ville was a natural cleft in the side of the mountain. The ground was bare, the red clay resisting even the jungle. A rickety predark house was slowly collapsing under the weight of age, the windows long gone, the interior a death trap of rotting floorboards and tiny hell flowers growing in the corners and cracks.

  Water flowed freely from a crack in the granite face of the hillside, splashing along a gully in the dirt, past a cold cook fire and then down into the jungle below. The area was densely ringed with pungi sticks, the sharpened bamboo rising a full yard in height, offering a stubborn defense against the big cats that prowled the jungle, mutie snakes and the much more dangerous men from the ville.

  Across the cleft was a squat predark structure with one side door and an odd wall that could be lifted by two strong men. The ancient two-car garage was artfully covered with vines in layers so thick it was almost invisible amid the lush greenery of the jungle edging the clearing.

  Soft sounds came from the building, a grinding, some cursing and finally a muffled roar.

  "Yes, sulfur is part of black powder," a man cried in delight, backing away from his worktable and waving at the expanding cloud of bitter smoke. "By Socrates, I'll discover the formula yet!"

  Walking over to a pool table, the felt removed to make clothing ages ago, Wof Nikon wiped a grimy arm across his forehead and threw some water on his face from the slightly cracked bowl of a birdbath, managing to sluice off most of the black residue from his body. Next the man gargled with a brew in a coconut shell that was freshwater and seawater mixed with lime juice. It helped cut the taste of the acrid smoke.

  Sitting quietly in the corner was a woman of indeterminate age, her feet bare, and her full breasts nearly spilling from the tight confines of a tattered dress, a cascade of long hair masking her features. Her small hands were busy with a fish-bone needle and a short piece of thread, trying to patch a rip in a badly stained shirt.

  "You!" Wof barked in command.

  The young woman hastily placed aside her needlework and ran to the rock stove and began striking flint to steel to start the dinner fire. An old pot rested in the rusty grill of the stove, assorted fish bits and some fruits mixed together in water.

  "Over here," he ordered gruffly.

  Leaving the stove, she fell to her knees before him, her head bowed in submission.

  "Rise and strip."

  Silently the slave did as she was told, untying the knotted shoulder straps. Her thin clothing fell in a whisper to the cracked concrete floor. The girl stood with head bowed, hands folded, waiting for the next command.

  Moving closer, Wof ran cruel hands over her breasts, pinching the tender nipples hard, then slapping her firm buttocks. Breathing heavily, the man opened his pants and placed her warm hands on his cock.

  "Service me," he said throatily, already hard with anticipation. "Every inch, girl. Front and back."

  Going to her knees, the girl fought back a wave of nausea from what she had to do. But being here was her choice, even if it was a form of hell she had never known existed.

>   Tenderly stroking his thighs, she cupped his manhood gently and began to use her tongue and full lips to arouse her master.

  Minutes ticked away, and Wof was drenched in sweat, savagely thrusting his hips at her when the side door to the garage burst open and armed sec men rushed inside.

  Startled for a moment, Wof tried to grab his flintlock pistols on the worktable. But now the slave adamantly refused to let him go, her hands and teeth holding the man in the warm, moist trap of her bruised mouth.

  "Dirty traitor!" a sec man growled, and slammed the wooden stock of a longblaster into the man's chest.

  Ribs cracked from the blow, and Wof staggered away from the kneeling young woman and fell backward over a low stool.

  "What is this?" he demanded, scrambling to his feet and drawing up his pants. "I ain't done nothing. Leave me alone!"

  "Shut the fuck up," a sec man growled, brandishing a flintlock. More sec men grabbed both of Wofs arms and twisted them cruelly behind his back until he was helpless in their grip.

  "Baron, spare me!" he cried out, trembling in fear.

  "Silence," Baron Somers said calmly, going to the worktable and inspecting the items on display. The crude instruments were mostly carved wood and bone, only some small items made of metal or plastic. There were lots of powders and oils in jars and bottles, but nothing he could identify. However, the mere fact it was a chem workshop of some kind was enough. More than enough, actually.

  "So it's true," Somers stated grimly. "You've violated the lord baron's law by trying to make black powder."

  Wofs eyes rolled about in terror. "But I was only—"

  "Silence!" Baron Somers commanded, slapping the man across the face. "Drag this scum to the ville."

  Brutally grabbing his hair, the sec men departed with their prisoner, leaving the door wide open and the naked slave sitting patiently on the cold concrete.

  All the way down the hill, Wof fought every inch of the way. He kicked at the boots of the sec men and snapped at their hands. They tried to put shackles on him and by sheer luck, Wof managed to butt one sec man in the stomach with his forehead. The man doubled over in pain, and the rest of the sec men began to savagely beat Wof with blasters and fists.