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  Ryan struck like a snake. The ring rasped around his spear point and stuck. Atlast yanked the cord and pulled the ring free. “You think you can do that again and—”

  Ryan lunged and lanced the ring again. “Again!” Atlast shouted. “Again!” Ryan lunged and lunged and lunged at the glittering target as he went into his battle zone. On his sixtieth thrust the twine holding the ring parted. Ryan stepped back, chest heaving with the brass ring halfway down his spearhead. Atlast stared at the string in his hand and shook his head. “Sixty thrusts, fifty-five scores.”

  Ryan wiped sweat from his brow. “Fifty-six.”

  Onetongue was giddy. “That really thine’th, Ryan!”

  Wipe was happy beyond words. “Eee!” Strangely enough, pike technique was one of the few things that Wipe actually excelled at.

  Ryan shrugged at the praise. He lowered his pike and removed the severely battered ring. Onetongue happily handed Ryan a bit of leather cord to hang it on. “You’re a Phalanx’th man now!”

  Ryan tied the bit of leather around the ring, walked over to Krysty and put it around her neck. She gave a rare blush and her hair stirred around Ryan’s fingers.

  Oracle called out from the quarterdeck. “Mr. Forgiven!”

  “Aye, Captain?” the purser replied.

  “A tot of something for the Phalanx.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  “Let Miss Red have a taste with her man.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  “You heard the captain!” Atlast bawled. “Phalanx! Rack pikes! Then report to the rum barrel at your ease!”

  The Phalanx racks were around the main mast. Most of them stopped just short of running to get in line at the barrel. Crewmen watched Ryan in envy of his drink and his drinking companion. Skillet appeared and assisted the purser. A tot of something appeared to be a stoop of a small beer, a shot of cane liquor, the squeezings of half a lime and a dusting of spices Ryan couldn’t name. He took his stoop and Krysty’s hand. They walked to the forecastle to take the breeze off the prow and enjoy the rare bit of rest. Ryan sipped the concoction. “Not bad.”

  Krysty drank. “I like it!”

  Ryan knew his woman well. “You’re sad.”

  Krysty reached under her bulky jersey and pulled her battered boots from under her belt. The long-serving blue leather cowboy boots with the falcon design were in poor condition. The soles, which had been repaired countless times, were holed in two places each.

  She heaved a sigh. “Ryan?”

  The one-eyed man stared at the sad, faded blue leather. “They served you long and hard.”

  “I asked Gypsyfair to fix them.”

  “And?”

  “She asked how I’d pay.”

  Ryan considered the image and raised an involuntary eyebrow. Krysty rammed an elbow into his ribs hard enough to make him wince. “They aren’t ship’s issue or ship compliant. Manrape said if he saw them scraping his decks, he’d take it out on you.”

  Ryan took a long breath. “Take the silver off them before you throw them overboard.”

  “I already did.” Krysty gave the boots one last look, then flung them into the sea. She felt as if she was abandoning a trusted old friend.

  “What do you hear about the duel?” Ryan asked to distract her.

  “Ships all rad buzzed about it.”

  Ryan’s drink turned bitter on his lips. He scowled into the ocean’s vastness. It heaved a beautiful, dark green as the Glory sliced through it. “And if that wasn’t Doc’s most stupe idea yet, I don’t know what is.”

  Krysty lifted her head. “You’re just jealous.”

  “Of what?”

  “You want a piece of Manrape. You’d rather it was you rowing to the beach and seeing who comes back. I can see it in your eye. So can the crew. So can Manrape.”

  Ryan considered what he owed the bosun. “I won’t deny it.”

  “Lover, if you lay a hand on him, or kill him outside the creed and code, it’s not just you who’s going to suffer.”

  “I know. The duel’s on. The question is, what’s the fallout? If Ricky loses, it’s going to be bastard bad.”

  “I know.”

  Krysty looked down into the sea. Her boots were gone. Ryan put a hand on her nape and slowly massaged. Krysty sighed and bowed her head beneath his caresses. Her titian tresses responded and moved silkily around his caressing hand. They were on opposite watches, and nearly all the time they’d spent together since being shanghaied had been stolen moments they could count on the fingers of one hand. Ryan changed the subject.

  “How are you holding up?”

  Krysty sighed. “I’m about as useful as bird shit on a pump handle aboard this ship. All the women on board have specialties. Gyspyfair can find things in that special way of hers. Sweet Marie is twice as strong as most men aboard. Miss Loral came to the Glory a stone-cold chiller who already knew everything there was to know about sailing. All of the women aboard can do something.”

  Ryan began kneading Krysty’s neck and shoulders. She stopped just short of sagging against the rail beneath his fingers. Ryan spoke low. “I’m going to get you off this ship.”

  “We’re in the South Lantic, heading south. Where’re we hopping off?”

  Ryan knew what Krysty was getting at. They just didn’t have a lot of choices at the moment, and strangely enough, this ship was one of the safer places they had been in a while. The air was clean, and what few stretches had spiked his rad counter at all they swiftly left in their wake. Food for the moment was three squares and had markedly improved in taste since Boiler and Skillet had been ousted from the med. Truth was, the companions had been in far worse situations and had served as sec for far worse folk. Worse still, these folk, for the moment, were their shipmates. Ryan had sweated like a slave beside them and this day had joined the Phalanx. He genuinely liked some of his shipmates and respected most of them. Night creeping them to escape sat wrong with Ryan.

  “I’ve spoken with Doc, and he’s spoken with J.B. and Jak. If Ricky’s duel goes wrong tomorrow, and fireblast , I can’t see it going right, we have a plan. It isn’t a good one.”

  “What if it goes right?”

  Ryan shrugged. “Then we serve the ship until we figure a way off it.”

  “Then I need to find a niche to fill, and fast.”

  Ryan leaned forward and smiled into Krysty’s hair. “I know a niche I want to fill, and I want to take my time.”

  Krysty grinned up at Ryan. “Well, rumor is when there’s humping to be done on this ship, you sneak down into the orlop and do it among the cable tiers.”

  “Orlop and cable tiers.” Ryan quirked an eyebrow. “And who’s been telling you about that?”

  “I’m ship’s gofer. I had to learn the ship fast, and I get a lot of invitations.” Krysty gave him a sidelong glance. “You might try learning too.”

  Ryan stared down at his naked torso and the fading whorls of bruising that fists, starter ropes and tootched suckers had pounded into his flesh. “Baby, I’ve been learning the hard way.”

  “It’s three days until Sunday.”

  “And?”

  “Sunday’s the day when there’s class. Training men to be officers and specialists. This ship has lost plenty.”

  “Officer? Ryan snorted.

  “You already know how to read and write. You can read a map and use a sextant and the tech and blasters on this ship are kid’s stuff to you. You whaled. You can learn. Lover, you’re liked aboard this ship. Half the crew will bend over backward to help you.”

  “If it goes bad with Ricky, they’ll never trust me.”

  “Then learn everything you can anyway. It’ll be useful when we take the ship.”

  “When we take the ship?”

  “When we tak
e the Glory or blow her up and take the whaleboat. That’s your plan isn’t it?”

  “Pretty much,” Ryan admitted.

  “Then you make me a promise.”

  “What?”

  “You leave Manrape alone.”

  Ryan’s fists clenched.

  Krysty put her hands on his chest and locked her emerald gaze with his chilling blue. “When the time comes, give me the signal. I’ll call on the Earth Mother, and Gaia willing, I’ll rip that bastard limb from limb. Then I’ll go straight for Oracle. You leave the super muties to me. You need to deal with the blastermen in the tops, the crew, blowing the powder room and getting the whaleboat in the water. Oh, and then getting me in the whaleboat. I won’t be in too good a shape.”

  Ryan wasn’t sure if Manrape was mutie or simply peak human, but he was pretty sure the bosun wasn’t ready for Krysty with a bad Gaia rising. Oracle, however, had survived being hanged. The crew spoke in awe of his battle prowess. The captain had harvested Mr. Squid’s brethren like he was picking fruit, and Ryan didn’t want that silver-clawed, orange-furred horror Oracle had for a right hand anywhere near Krysty’s flesh.

  “I’ll leave Manrape alone for now. I’ll let you know if I change my mind. If there’s time.”

  Krysty ignored the caveat. “And you’ll apply to Commander Miles for training?”

  Ryan grunted in the affirmative. He knew his reluctance was a front. He was an avid learner, and the chance to learn the running of a full-rigged ship, as well as delve into the Glory’s history from skydark to now, was very hard to resist. “Some ship schooling couldn’t hurt anything.”

  Krysty sighed. “So everything hinges on Ricky.”

  Ryan watched the late afternoon sun start to sink toward the ocean. “Ricky’s got a big day ahead of him.”

  Chapter Nine

  Ricky shook like a leaf. He sat at the prow of the whaleboat and watched the isolated bit of land come closer with each dip of the oars. The coconut palms came right down to the beach. He realized they were very likely to become his burial ground in the next few moments. The youth looked down and found his knuckles turning white around the gunwales. He felt infinite relief that Doc and J.B. sat behind him and mostly screened him from Manrape. Ricky could feel the golden titan’s eyes boring into his back.

  The bosun sat aft with the ship’s techman/tinker, Mr. Rood. The Glory had a two-way radio, and working in the tops Ricky had seen the long wire antenna snaking up the mainmast into the crow’s nest. Manrape’s other second was the bosun’s mate, Mr. DontGo. DontGo was nearly as physically impressive as Manrape, but he had long black hair and tribal tattooing taking up the majority of his arms and legs. Ricky had heard the man was a Native Americanfrom the Florida region and that he and Manrape were as thick as thieves. Miss Loral sat at the stern with the steering oar. Between the two dueling parties sat Movies; two lanky, Indonesian, drooping mustachioed brothers named Yerbua and Nirutam; and a sailor named Koa from Hawaii plying the oars. In addition to rowing, they were to serve as neutral witnesses, and each had a blaster tucked in his belt.

  All too quickly the whaleboat hissed against the sand. The rowers jumped out to pull the boat out of the surf.

  “All ashore!” Miss Loral called. “Mr. Yerbua, Mr. Nirutam, if you please.”

  Ricky’s joints felt like rubber as he clambered out of the boat. The two Indonesians took a chest and a small folding table ashore. Miss Loral was the ranking officer and arbiter of the duel. She wore a large, wickedly curved dirk on her hip and took an AK with the stock folded and slung it over her shoulder. Yerbua set up the table just under the shade of the palms. Nirutam opened the chest and took out a calabash and a nested set of coconut-shell cups.

  “All parties gather,” Miss Loral ordered. They formed with the principals and their seconds across from each other with Miss Loral and the witnesses in between. The first mate nodded at Nirutam. “A tot all around, if you please.”

  Nirutam dutifully poured an exact eighth of a pint into each cup. Miss Loral raised her cup. “There is no such thing as a friendly duel, but this is not a feud and let it not become so. Let us drink to fellowship, shipmates, luck to both principals and the settling of this affair.” The principals, seconds and witnesses toasted and drank. Ricky hurled his back in one gulp. Doc smacked his lips. “Oh, dear! Good strong arrack. One hundred proof at the very least.”

  Mr. Rood grinned over his cup. Besides running the radio, fixing any tech that came along or stripping it for salvage or saleable parts, he also ran the ship’s still. “One hundred and fifty.”

  “A most potent potation, Mr. Rood. Truly you are a master of all trades.”

  The assemblage nodded its appreciation.

  Ricky felt the liquor burning his throat and expanding like a fireball in his stomach. To his chagrin he had hurled up his breakfast of manioc and pigeon peas over the rail. He had not slept a wink all night. The double-distilled palm wine detonated in his empty belly like a bomb. Ricky suddenly tasted it a second time around his tonsils. He clapped his hand over his mouth and staggered away from the assembly to the surf. The young man burned with shame as the arrack came back up his throat and spewed into the spume. He fell to his knees as heaves racked him. As a postapocalyptic Puerto Rican, he had been raised on rum, as well as maize, manioc and banana beers. It was not the arrack that had unmanned him. Stink sweat squeezed out his pores as he vomited, and he and everyone else on the beach knew that what racked him was pure, cold fear.

  The usual catcalls and jeers would have been better than the embarrassed silence.

  Manrape’s voice was worse. All leering and sneering was gone as he broke the silence. His voice was genuinely solicitous and all the more horrible for its fatherly tone. “Ricky, stop this before someone gets hurt. Stop this now, and I will be gentle with you.”

  Ricky’s guts heaved at the suggestion, but nothing came but ragged coughs and cramps.

  Doc’s voice came steady and clear. “Mr. Manrape, you have not yet taken your paces, turned and stood opposed to my principal upon the field of honor. Upon the dawn of my first duel I vomited before the rise of the sun, yet I strode forth and prevailed. Young Ricky stands upon the cusp of his fate. I pray, give him a moment to gird his loins for battle.”

  Manrape’s voice came from some sociopathic dais of pleasure. “Doc?”

  “Good Bosun?”

  “Every time you speak, my heart glows.”

  “Then I implore you, I—”

  “I withdraw to the Field of Honor. Will you finish your cup with me?”

  “I will, indeed.”

  J.B. put a hand on Ricky’s shoulder. “You have to get up. You have to put the blaster in your hand. Now or not at all.” Ricky shook like a leaf. J.B.’s face went grim and he spoke quietly. “I’ve got two .357s concealed. You say the word, and we start shooting. Doc has his swordstick, and he knows the plan. I’m going to start with Miss Loral and grab that AK.”

  Ricky didn’t care for the idea of shooting his shipmates one bit. “Then what?”

  “Then nothing. We fight. If we win here, we try and take the ship. Jak blows the powder room. Krysty calls on Gaia and takes on Oracle and Ryan goes rad fire on everyone else. We take the whaleboat and make our way back to the Gulf of the Deathlands. Doc stole a chart. We can make our way from there.”

  “We’ll all die.”

  “We’ll most likely lose,” J.B. conceded. “But we’re all agreed. You just aren’t going into the trees with Manrape today.”

  Ricky had shaken with shame and fear, but now it was guilt that set him to trembling. “No.”

  “No?”

  “This is my fight. I called it. Now I’m going to finish it. One way or the other.”

  J.B. stared at Ricky appraisingly. “You just might.”

  He helped Ricky up and
called out, “We’re ready!”

  “Doc,” Miss Loral ordered, “load the blasters.”

  The principals, seconds and witnesses watched in fascination as Doc precisely loaded ball and powder down the barrels and primed the pans. He held the weapons out handle first to Manrape. “The choice is yours, Bosun.”

  Manrape removed his shirt. “So as not to get blood on it.” He flexed his gladiator physique and took the pistol in Doc’s right hand. Doc handed Ricky the other. The weapon felt heavy as a brick.

  “Mr. Rood, Mr. J.B.,” Miss Loral ordered, “pace it off, if you please.”

  Rood and J.B. drew their ship’s knives and met beneath the palms. They stuck their marlinspikes in the sand where they stood, then turned their backs to each other, took the agreed-upon ten long paces and stuck their knives in the sand to mark it. Miss Loral looked at the principals. “Are you satisfied?”

  “Aye.” Manrape nodded.

  Ricky had to swallow hard to find his voice. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Then take your positions.”

  Ricky and Manrape walked to the marlinspikes. Ricky was grateful that Manrape didn’t say anything. The bronze titan seemed to glow from within. The high drama was clearly to his taste.

  “Turn!” Miss Loral ordered. Ricky and Manrape turned their backs to each other. Ricky raised his blaster to point skyward.

  “Seconds, take your positions!” The seconds walked out to the ship’s knives of their respective principals and then stepped back the agreed six paces. “Bos’n Manrape, Ricky, are you ready?”

  “Aye,” Manrape answered.

  Ricky found his voice. “Ready.”

  “Advance!”

  Sand crunched as Ricky took the long walk to J.B.’s knife. He stopped beside it and stared at the worn wooden hilt, but it had no last epiphany for him. Neither did the sand, sky or sea. All Ricky could feel was nausea, a suddenly overwhelming urge to vomit again and naked terror.