Savage Armada - Deathlands 53 Page 16

  "Until now," Bachman corrected sternly, a hand going for the whip on his belt.

  Not a fool, Giles nodded vigorously. "Aye, skipper. But we got to make them pay," he said, staggering again. Then he started coughing, and the pirate spit bile on the deck.

  "Know where they harbor?" a sailor asked.

  "Cold," Giles slurred, dropping the gourd. As it rolled away, he went slowly went to the deck and lay slumped into a heap. A few moments later, he started to snore.

  Bachman put a finger on the man's throat. There was a pulse, weak, but steady.

  "Exhaustion and exposure," the captain declared. "Smoky, haul our brother to my cabin. Wash him off, get some fresh clothes and a blaster, but no ammo."

  "Aye, skipper." He grinned. "Comfortable, but helpless."

  Red Blade turned to another pirate. "Cookie, get him food. All he wants, a woman, too, if he says he can handle one when he wakes."

  "Done." He saluted and started for the closest hatchway.

  "Everybody to your posts!" Bachman shouted. "Man the rigging and watch for any other survivors! No work for a day to the swab that finds another!"

  Whooping in delight, the pirates swarmed into the ropes above, eagerly scanning the surface for any more wreckage or people. When the officers were alone, they spoke low and quickly.

  "What do ya think?" Red Blade asked eagerly. "Sounds legit to me. Outlanders with rapidfires!"

  "It isn't impossible," Bachman said hesitantly, pulling out his lens and polishing it on a sleeve. "Sure as shit didn't sound like a drunkard's boast. And if they knew a way in, by Davey's bones they might just know the way out."

  "Touch of a knife up their arse will make them talk," Red Blade said, cracking a toothy grin. "Makes anybody talk."

  "For a while," the captain agreed, still polishing the clean lens. "And we know where they can be found. Cold must mean Cold Harbor ville."

  "Baron Langford." The pirate chief scowled hatefully, touching his scar. "His ma gave me this. Be happy to do the son the same. But not gonna use a dull blade and only get half the job done."

  Bachman tucked the lens away. "You've been there? How good are their defensives?"

  "Too good. Island got cliffs on every side. Only way to reach land is the main harbor. Ville has stone walls and lots of cannon."

  "And their gunners are good shots, so I hear from others who have tried to raid the island," the captain mused. "Tried and failed."

  "Aye, sir. Must be a dozen ships lying at the bottom of that harbor," Red Blade agreed. "Almost as many as Maturo Island itself! One of them is me old ship, the Manatee."

  "A good vessel, and a smart captain," Bachman said, removing his hat and mopping the sweat off his face with the damp handkerchief. It was lace, and he swore he could still smell lilac flowers, a token from the chilled slut who had made a child into a man and taught him the truth of the world. Trust nobody.

  His tanned skin brown as dirt, Red Blade stood directly in the streaming sunlight completely unaffected, as if he were carved from cool stone.

  "We can't risk a direct assault," Bachman said, tucking the cloth up a sleeve, "unless we get another ship to ride in first and draw their fire. Some newbie who doesn't know any better and only wants to split the booty."

  "Aye." Red Blade grinned. "The Amsterdam, maybe, or the Cortez."

  "No, not those," Bachman muttered. "But at least one more ship. Maybe a lot more."

  ONE HUNDRED MILES AWAY, three lifeboats floated along under the blistering sun with oars out of the water, no movement, no sounds. Hungry seagulls circled the drifting boats, watching the motionless human forms lying inside the wooden shells. Nuzzling close to the skiffs, a shark swam alongside, patiently waiting for more food.

  Slumped over at the tiller, Doc held the hot wooden handle, a damp handkerchief draped over his head as protection. Scooping his hand into ocean for just a moment, he dribbled some more water on the cloth and waited for his shift to end. The rest of the companions lay on the bottom of the boat sheltered by the shadows of the jackets. The other two lifeboats were pretty much the same, one man at the tiller, while the rest sought shade from the blistering sun. Rowing was done only at night.

  Only yesterday, they had all grabbed an oar as the oceanic river carried them directly toward Forbidden Island. They managed to break out of the current just in time, and then Ryan and J.B.'s rad counters loudly indicated why the landmass was considered taboo. Twenty miles away, the Geigers started clicking, and quickly rose to an almost steady burr. Without the advance warning, they would have sailed into a harbor ringed with green glass, the vaporized shadows of battleships cast on the half-melted rock of a tall mountain range. Twin volcanoes towered above everything, wisps of steam rising from the truncated peaks, the southern face lined with the flowing red river of molten lava working its way into the sea. There was a strong stink of sulfur. The chemical was often referred to as brimstone in his time, but apparently now it was called flash.

  The ruins of a predark city rose behind the glowing harbor. The wealth of the ancient world was just waiting to be taken, protected by the deadly, invisible field of hard radiation. Figures could be seen moving among the ruins, and he wished the muties well to their cornucopia of technology.

  Dipping a hand into the water again, Doc jerked as he felt a brief contact with something rough, and knew he had just brushed against a shark. Gasping for breath, he waited for his heart to slow to normal again. The creature was still tracking them after two days! Its dorsal fin and body had several bullet holes from their blasters, but the creature had suffered no deleterious effects from the sudden infusion of subsonic lead. Mildred said the creatures had been on the endangered species list in her time. The scholar had absolutely no idea how the adamantine killers could be in danger from anybody.

  Her bearskin coat made into a tent with his sword-stick, Krysty muttered something and rolled over just as Doc caught a whiff of living plants in the wind.

  Shading his face, he looked about and saw an island on the horizon coming ever closer. A huge waterfall was visible even from this distance, falling from the slopes of cool misty mountains that rose majestically over the jungle landscape. Formidable cliffs rose straight from the ocean, but to the north side there seemed to be a beach. Then the sharp greasy aroma of frying fish arrived.

  He tried to speak, but could only croak. Grabbing a canteen, he unscrewed the top and drank deeply of the tepid water for the first time in days.

  "Land ho!" Doc shouted. "Land!"

  Everybody shook themselves awake and struggled out from their impromptu shelters to blink at the blinding daylight.

  "Trouble?" Ryan demanded, holding back a yawn, but with a blaster at the ready.

  "On your left," Doc said, gesturing, keeping a hold of the tiller. "Behold an island as green as Walden Pond!"

  "Smell fish," Jak said, rubbing his tousled hair.

  Holstering his piece, Ryan checked his lapel. The rad counter was silent. "Clean," he announced.

  "Same here," J.B. agreed, doffing his fedora. "Dry land, at last!"

  "Is that it?" Krysty asked, her red hair flexing in anticipation. "Is that Cold Harbor?"

  "Yes," Abagail answered, exhaling in relief. "We're home."

  In the second lifeboat, Jones smiled widely, causing his dry lips to crack. "Beautiful!" he croaked, then shouted. "Ahoy, Cold Harbor!" His words disappeared over the surface, and there was no response from the distant ville.

  "Too far," he grunted, then spit on his hands and flexed the palms. "Okay, slip to port! We gotta break out of the river or head straight for Chang Island and Butcher Ratak!"

  "Heave to, ya swabs!" a sailor ordered, taking an oar. "Put your backs into it, unless ya wanna visit the cannie baron!"

  Taking a seat with the other companions, Ryan and Mildred held their oars still, as Doc leaned hard into the tiller and the rest stroked deep and fast. The skiff sluggishly fought free from the underwater river once more and slowed as it reached calm sea
.

  Doggedly the shark left the warm currents of the river and followed after the boats, its fin cutting the water as it circled eagerly, searching for more of the soft red food to fall into its massive jaws.

  An hour passed of steady rowing, the sun draining their strength and blistering exposed skin. A westerly breeze made the waves crest toward the skiffs so that it seemed as if the boats were traveling backward. But the green island came ever closer, and soon Ryan could see the defensive wall around the ville. Ten or more feet high, made of red brick, with several holes in the side. Probably for cannons. A lot of them.

  The smells of food and green plants soon masked the tang of the salty sea, and now they could see people moving on the shore and docks, sec men running along the top of the wall. There were several dugout canoes and a battered trawler at the dock, but Ryan was pleased to observe that there was nothing like the Constellation or the Delta Blue.

  The choppy water became suddenly smooth as they neared the island, and Ryan noted they were passing over an undersea reef of bright pink coral, with natural breakers. The boats shot through without any trouble, but the persistent shark skirted away from the deadly sharp coral, swimming ruthlessly back and forth on the other side. Waiting, ever waiting.

  "Baron Langford is gonna shit when he hears about the Constellation," a sailor said, the muscles in his bare back coiling as he stroked the oars.

  "Screw him," Jones replied. "If he hadn't been in such a rush for us to come back, we would have waited out the storm that damaged the Connie."

  "Gonna tell him that?"

  "Hell, no!"

  In the companions' skiff, the rowing became slow and the boat eased behind the others rushing for the shore.

  "Don't like this," J.B. said, pausing in the work.

  Ryan grunted. "The dock is clear," he agreed. "Almost as if they were preparing for a fight."

  Mildred glanced ahead at Jones, beaming with delight and waving at the ville. "Something's wrong," she agreed, and slipped an arm through the strap of her med kit to keep it close.

  Suddenly there was a puff of gray smoke from the brick wall, and a moment later a geyser shot into the air near the front lifeboat. Then the boom of a cannon rolled over the surface of the harbor.

  "Ambush!" Jak cursed, drawing his Colt Python.

  "Wait," Ryan commanded, slipping the oars out of the water. "Mebbe it's just a warning shot. They're traveling with outlanders."

  "Yeah, us." The teen frowned, but slid the blaster away. Made sense.

  Furious, Jones stood and shook a fist. "What in hell are you doing?" he bellowed. "I'm Jones of the Constellation!"

  A crackle of longblasters sounded from the wall.

  "Wh-why are they shooting?" a girl demanded, sounding more angry than frightened. "Don't they know it's us?"

  "The sec men know," Krysty said softly, stopping rowing completely. Briefly she checked her weapon. Loaded and oiled. The salt air was tough on steel, and J.B. made sure everybody used extra lub on their weapons.

  Now a line of blasters from the ville shot cannonballs, impacting into the water on every side of the three skiffs.

  "Getting our range," Ryan warned, grabbing his backpack. He glanced at the breakers, a good ten minutes of rowing distance and well within the range of those huge cannons. Fireblast!

  "Captain?" Abagail asked anxiously.

  "Fuck this," Jones said reluctantly, then sat down and started pushing the oars to slow the progress of the skiff. "Head back to the sea!"

  Quickly, people reversed their seating and started stroking for their lives when the lead lifeboat exploded into pieces, wood and bodies flying everywhere. On the shore came a faint cheering.

  "Jones!" Abagail screamed, covering her face.

  More smoke puffed from the ville, and a cannonball hit only feet away from the bow of the companions' boat, the water spout going ten feet high, completely hiding them.

  "Everybody overboard!" Ryan shouted, dropping his backpack and diving straight over the side.

  He hit the water in a clean dive and cool silence engulfed the man as he kicked for the depths. The water was clear and barely stung his eye. He guessed that was from the freshwater of the big fall mixing with the ocean, diluting the salt. The sunlight streamed down to the bottom, and he could actually see the sandy floor of the harbor some thirty or so feet away. There were a lot of wrecked ships scattered about, schools of brightly colored fish darting about in the nautical graveyard. Ryan leveled off at about ten feet above the derelict ships, and checked for the others.

  His friends were close behind, Mildred swimming awkwardly hauling her med kit, Krysty swimming in spurts, her waterlogged coat lagging behind like a boneless corpse. Doc was fumbling in the water with both hands at something, then watched as his sword-stick disappeared into the amassed wreck below.

  Feeling his heart beat in his chest, Ryan pointed a finger, then jerked a thumb. Dean and Jak swam by as the women dropped their excess weight and also headed directly for shore. Nobody needed to be told the only safe location from the cannons was at the base of the ville wall where the black-powder blasters couldn't aim. Once on shore, the matter would be more in favor of the companions.

  Hissing a trail of bubbles, a cannonball shot through the group, and they faintly heard a muffled crackling of wood. Dean glanced back to see the wood and dark objects descend from the surface, blood spreading out from the limbs and torsos of the dead. The loss of the girls hit him harder than the death of Jones for some reason, but then the strain in his lungs urged him onward and he continued kicking to reach land.

  Then he caught a flash of gold amid the broken spars and ghostly rigging. Drawing a knife, the boy relaxed when he saw the gleaming bones of a skeleton half covered with barnacles grinning blindly from the tilted crow's nest of a sunken vessel. A gold tooth reflecting the sunlight from above. Dean marked the location in his mind and rejoined the others, concentrating on staying calm and conserving his supply of air. Surface now, and the ville sec men might see them in the clear water and be waiting for them on shore with blasterfire.

  An eerie peace enveloped the laboring group, the only sounds coming from the movements of their arms and legs. Each was alone in the world of his or her private thoughts as schools of tiny fish darted about without logic. The fields of broken ships abruptly stopped once the companions reached the shallows. With burning lungs, they immediately angled for the shadows underneath the wooden dock. From there they could sneak onto the shore. But as the land rose, visibility dangerously increased to the point that they feared being spotted by armed sec men who had just aced their own incoming people. Waving gently in the currents, lacy fronds of seaweed reached for them from the seabed, the long tendrils of the plants the exact same color of the cigs the sailors smoked, but the companions steered well clear of the entangling plants.

  Sloping gently to shore, the shoals were covered with wide fields of oysters, their shells splayed open wide to catch the droppings of passing fish. Only a small section of the oysters were protectively closed against an invading starfish. Using its massively thick five arms, the bright yellow starfish was slowly forcing the dusky shells apart despite the desperate struggles of the mollusk inside. Once the shell opened, the oyster would be helpless and the starfish would feed. It was a contest of raw brute strength that the starfish almost always won.

  Soon the ancient concrete pillars supporting the dock came into view, more barnacles peppering the cracked columns, their tiny beards waving invitingly back and forth. Wasting vital moments going around a thick clump of seaweed, Ryan swam into the shadows and knifed eagerly upward. Upon reaching the surface, he covered his mouth, and took only tiny sips of air through his nose so he wouldn't gasp loudly and announce their presence. The others rose in the strips of darkness and followed his example.

  Minutes passed before they dared to breathe normally. While the companions checked their weapons, Mildred hopefully studied the harbor, but couldn't spot any of the others
in the skiffs. They appeared to be the only ones who made it to shore alive.

  Krysty and Jak drew their weapons, water trickling from the cylinders of the revolvers. The tough blasters would even fire underwater, but it wasn't recommended for long life. Ryan, Dean and Mildred eased their blasters out of the water and patiently waited for them to dry. Unfortunately, Doc's black-powder handcannon had been rendered useless the moment he entered the water. That would have to be laboriously cleaned and dried before reloading was possible.

  Blinking water from his bare eyes, J.B. eased back the bolt on the Uzi. Nothing stopped the resilient Israeli machine gun, but the thirty rounds in the clip was it for ammo. The rest was in his munitions bags at the bottom of the harbor. Along with a lot of other vital supplies.

  Standing in the chest-deep water, the companions waited a good hour before the gates to the ville opened and footsteps could be heard crunching in the loose sand.

  "Any sign of them?" a gruff voice asked.

  There was a snort. "Course not. Jimmy's the best gunner in a hundred islands."

  "Still got to check."

  "Aye, that we do."

  Now the footsteps approached and stomped overhead, causing a patter of dirt to fall from the weathered planks. With the loss of his sword, Doc drew a knife and Ryan shook his head. The scholar nodded and reversed the blade in his grip so that it was pommel first. No chilling; he wanted prisoners first.

  "Frank, Arnold," a voice above said, "go walk the beach to the point to see if anybody got out and tried for the jungle."

  "Their bad luck if they did," a man stated.

  "Aye. Billy, check under the dock."

  There was the sound of clothing rustling, and a yellow stream arched off the dock into the water. The companions forced themselves not to move.

  "Just warming it up first," a man replied, laughing.

  "Stop fucking around. The baron might be watching us."

  "Yeah, yeah, well, fuck his highness and the bitch who bore him."