Savage Armada

by James Axler

  Everybody moved with a purpose.

  Staying alert, the two men headed for the quarterdeck, using as cover one of the low turnstiles that rotated to lift the heavy anchor chains. Going to the door of the cabin, Ryan covered the teen as he stayed flat against the wall and pushed at the door. It swung open on oily hinges.

  Diving inside, Ryan hit the floor and saw that the room was empty. The bed was a blood-stained mess, the table smashed, the honeycomb of holes that formed the chart locker empty. Every map was gone.

  Exiting the cabin, Jak assumed guard, while Ryan walked past the companionway that led to the top of the quarterdeck. As he passed, a shot rang out, and Ryan jerked aside, hearing the whine of the passing bullet. He hit the deck and rolled to safety away from the steps.

  Masked by the shadow of the mainsail, Jak tilted his head and gave Ryan a nod. He had expected an ambush, yet that was no flintlock, but a predark revolver. Rushing the man between reloads wouldn't work this time.

  "Wanna try again, slave!" a man shouted in laughter. "Lots more where that came from. Ya got any more a dem bombs?"

  "Don't need any more," Ryan shouted. "You're the last man alive."

  Another shot and more laughter. "Bullshit! Every stud in the ville is with their baron! Ya couldn't have chilled sixty this fast. Ain't possible!"

  "Then call for help, Baron. Go ahead, do it!"

  A minute passed with only the sounds of the sea and the creaking ship.

  "Shitfire. Okay, let's cut a deal!" the man shouted from the quarterdeck. There was a motion near the companionway and a revolver hit the wood planks, skittering along to drop down the hole in the deck.

  "I'm unarmed," the baron shouted. "But move slow, or we all go ta hell!"

  In the shadows, Jak asked a silent question, and Ryan grimaced. Unfortunately it didn't sound like bravado. The local baron had seized a fully armed gunship, and taken its crew prisoner, so he was no fool. The man had something in his favor, and Ryan could guess what it was.

  The tip of the SIG-Sauer blaster leading the way, Ryan proceeded up the stairs until reaching the top deck. Standing behind the wheel was a big man, bleeding profusely from the cheek, his jawline stitched with tiny splinters. He was dressed in rolltop boots marred by fire, torn pants and a gore-stained shirt. An empty bandolier was draped across his chest, a MAC-10 machine pistol hanging over a shoulder. One hairy-knuckled hand was lashed to the tiller, the other held a sputtering torch held above an open barrel full of dark grainy material.

  "This is black powder," he said. "Got a fuse in its belly leading down to the powder room. One touch of this torch, and the ocean gets a new hole in it. Follow?"

  "Understood," Ryan said, lowering his blaster, but not holstering the piece. "You got a name?"

  "Baron Tucholka. You?"

  "Ryan. Looks like we got a standoff here. You don't want us to leave, and we can't let you stay."

  "Fuck that," the baron snarled, as a wave broke over the bow of the ship. "Get off my ship!"

  "No," Ryan said, and swung the SIG-Sauer toward the man.

  Another wave hit the ship as Tucholka lowered the torch toward the open keg. "I'll give ya to three to drop the blaster," the baron snarled. "Then I'll—"

  Ryan fired before the man could finish the threat. The pitch torch flew from his grip and hit the gunwale, going over the side. But some of the burning resin had been knocked loose by the impact of the bullet, and glowing sparks floated toward the black powder. Backing away in terror, Tucholka fought to free his bound hand, and Ryan could only stare as the burning pitch fell through the air, tumbling and turning.

  Chapter Six

  The first glowing droplet of pitch winked out before landing in the explosives, but the second hit the edge of the keg and teetered. Ryan fired, and blew away a fist-sized chunk of the keg, which skittered across the deck for yards.

  Ryan felt his muscles relax as the danger passed. If that had gone inside, there wouldn't have been enough remaining of the whole ship to stuff into a spent brass casing.

  Bound to the wheel, Tucholka was still tearing at the rope around his wrist. Ryan stood and leveled the pistol at the fat man.

  "No, wait!" he cried. "I know something important about this boat!"

  "Ship," Ryan corrected, and fired again.

  The body slumped over the wheel, the weight dragging the spoked rim clockwise. Obediently the Constellation started heading to the right, straight for the breakers.

  "Fireblast!" he cursed, and grabbed the huge mechanism with both hands, fighting to correct their course backward. The ship didn't respond, and they continued straight on for the deadly pink coral. The irregular surface glistened in the salty spray like a wall of daggers.

  Suddenly Jak was alongside Ryan and slashed with a knife. The dead baron slipped from the cut ropes and rolled over the side, splashing into the briny deep.

  "Take the left side," Ryan grunted, and the two men struggled to try to regain control of the mammoth runaway. The wheel moved as if the baron were still attached; every direction they pushed in, pushed right back.

  "We're fighting the sails!" Ryan cursed, his boots slipping on the blood. "Not going to make it!"

  "Idea!" Jak growled. Reaching out with a leg, he hooked the top of the black-powder barrel and dragged it close. Shoving it under the grips, the wooden handhold jammed tight on the weakened wood, and the teenager let go his grip.

  "Get the others," he panted, and jumped down the companionway, landing heavily on the deck below.

  "Hey," Krysty hailed from a hatchway in the damaged deck. "Nobody else on board. She's all clear."

  "Gonna crash," Jak barked. "Help Ryan at wheel!"

  The redhead glanced at Ryan holding on to the giant wheel, and hurried forward without saying a word.

  "What can we do?" J.B. asked, tucking his glasses into a pocket for safekeeping.

  "Dunno," Jak said, his hands clenching and unclenching helplessly at his sides. "Only room for two at wheel."

  Above them was a labyrinthine maze of ropes and pulleys going in every possible direction.

  "Pull the wrong one and we hit the breakers!"

  "Know that!"

  Mildred went to the gunwale and held the railing while she tried to see where they were headed with the spray blurring her vision. "Son of a bitch!" she shouted. "That coral will rip the guts out of this ship."

  "We'll sink like a rock."

  "Drop the sail!" Dean shouted, going to the port gunwale. He released the ropes around a belaying pin. The twisted hemp shot away free, disappearing into the complex rigging.

  Jak drew a knife. "Come on."

  "Don't!" Dean ordered, pulling another pin. It took both hands, but the boy managed the task. A small sail at the distant front of the ship sagged, but didn't drop. "We'll need them to get off the island! Just set them loose, and drop the big sail!"

  Jak joined Dean, J.B. and Mildred going to the other side of the huge vessel. As fast as possible, they pulled out the belaying pins and untied knots. At first nothing happened; the ship stayed true on its course for the breakers. Another sail loosened in its stays, then sagged and finally fell to the deck in a loud rush of salt-stiff canvas. Mildred dived for the deck as the jib boom disengaged and swept across the deck. She heard it swoosh overhead and then slam into the quarterdeck, knocking away the companionway, the smashed wood shotgunning overboard.

  The waves fought every turn, and Ryan found he could only alter their direction in tiny increments. Ryan and Krysty didn't seem to notice their near extermination, all of their concentration on the stubborn wheel and the approaching coral.

  Knuckles white from the strain, the man and woman fought side by side to overcome the wind and the tide. Then in a deafening rustle, the main sail collapsed, nearly smashing Jak under its awesome weight.

  "Thank Gaia!" Krysty shouted, as the strain noticeably lessened.

  Ryan didn't waste any breath on words. He stayed at his position, fighting to steer the lumbering gian
t back toward the lagoon and calm waters. Slowly, ever so slowly, the Constellation moved past the coral outcropping. However, once they cleared the array of breakers, the pull of the evening tide eased, the whitecaps stopped cresting and the ship now slowly obeyed them like a well-trained plow horse.

  "Got no anchor!" Krysty reminded.

  "Sandbar!" Ryan shot back. "Hold on!"

  Everybody grabbed something solid, and the ship shuddered as its bow plowed into the underwater ridge of sand. There was a moment or two of rocking back and forth, the stays and jib creaking loudly, then the ship went still in its earthen berth.

  Releasing the wheel, Ryan flexed his hands, trying to get some feeling back into his fingers. He had once killed a cougar by grabbing its front legs and pulling them apart to break its chest wide open, and that had been easier than this.

  "Anybody hurt?" Krysty shouted over the quarterdeck railing.

  "Alive and undamaged," Mildred shouted back, rubbing a sore shoulder.

  "Speak for yourself," Dean said sullenly, inspecting his chafed hands. The skin was gone from his palms in spots, the flesh raw and oozing.

  Jak took a glance. "Not chill ya," he decided.

  "Yeah, I know," the boy snapped irritably. "But it stings."

  J.B. glanced at the towering pile of canvas forming a gray mountain on the deck. Had to be a ton, maybe two of the material. Anybody caught underneath it would have been squashed flat.

  "Could have been worse," he said, pulling out his glasses and checking them for damage.

  Tying off the wheel so the rudder wouldn't get damaged from the random slapping waves, Ryan went to the railing. Krysty stood there like a queen of the sea, her wild red hair blowing in the breeze.

  "Company coming," she said bluntly.

  Hawking to clear his throat, Ryan spit over the side and studied the beach. There was no sign of any live slavers. The sailors were scavenging among dead, taking boots and blasters, occasionally kicking a corpse. However, at the creek, Doc and some of the better-dressed sailors were climbing into an outrigger and setting into the surf. All of them were heavily armed.

  "Doc doesn't look like a hostage," J.B. said, wiping his face and tucking on his glasses.

  "He's not," Ryan said. "And that buys us some leverage. Jak, let them on board. Everybody else, stay close. We need to show a united front. We're a crew, just like them."

  "Gotcha," Krysty said, and jumped down the main deck, only bending her knees slightly to absorb the impact.

  "Leverage for what?" Mildred asked. "What are we bargaining for?"

  Ryan said nothing, but checked the clip in his blaster to make sure it was fully loaded. In a few minutes, the outrigger full of sailors reached the side of the Constellation where there was a gap in the gunwale.

  "Ahoy!" a short man at the front of the boat called out. "We're coming aboard!"

  "That you, Adam?" Ryan shouted down from the deck, arms crossed, hands dangling near the SIG-Sauer.

  Doc raised an eyebrow in puzzlement, then remembered their old code. If one of the companions was with strangers, calling him "Adam" was asking if it was a trap. Answer the name, and the companions would cut loose with every weapon they had, hopefully catching the enemy off guard. Any name with a B meant leave immediately, and so on. It was something they had cooked up on board the Leviathan, sadly destroyed some time ago.

  "Clear as crystal, Charlie!" he shouted back though cupped hands.

  Ryan nodded at the all-clear code. Good. Maybe they could cut a deal with these sailors yet. He really didn't want to chill them and take the ship, but that was his only other option.

  Going to the hole, Jak kicked over a coiled rope ladder that appeared to be for just such a purpose. The first of the sailors climbed on board with ease and surveyed the destruction with a dour expression.

  "Any of them alive?" the sailor demanded. He was a short man, with a barrel chest and arms like a gorilla. The handles of knives jutted from each rolltop boot, and two pistols rested in his wide leather belt. His shirt had a bloody bullet hole in the chest, obviously taken off a fallen comrade.

  "Alive? Not anymore," Ryan replied gruffly. "How about ashore?"

  The man grinned. "As you say, Blackie, not anymore."

  "Ryan," the Deathlands warrior stated coldly.

  "Bosun Jones," the little man replied. "Bosun Jackson Carter Jones, commander of the Constellation."

  "A bosun in charge of this goliath?" Mildred asked suspiciously.

  As more sailors climbed aboard, Jones frowned. "Guess I bloody well have to be. All the officers are dead. I'm the only rank left."

  Just then, Doc rose into view, his ebony swordstick stuck into his belt. "By the Three Kennedys, that was brilliant! Dropping the sails and ramming the bar. Ingenious!"

  Ryan merely grunted, knowing the question could tell the man way too much about them. Dangerous.

  "Why didn't you just drop anchor?" Jones asked.

  "They shot it loose," Ryan replied. "Or didn't you see that?"

  "Yeah, I saw. So what about the sea anchor?"

  The ship had two? Ryan lied, "Jammed."

  "Is it now?" a burly sailor demanded, his nose broken, a bare sword in his three-fingered grip.

  "You have my permission to go see for yourself," Ryan said calmly.

  "Permission?" Jones roared. "This is my ship, lubber, and I give the orders around here." He stabbed himself in the chest with a thumb. "Me and only me!"

  As the rest of the crew came on board, they formed a surly mob behind Captain Jones. Their brands still leaking blood, they looked exhausted, but grimly ready to back any play of the small commander.

  "Was your ship," Ryan stated, resting a hand on his blaster. "It's ours now."

  The companions drew their weapons just as the sailors did the same. For a few moments, nobody breathed for fear of starting the point-blank shooting. Ryan prepared to move fast. At this range, the .75-caliber miniballs would literally blow him in two. Heart or head shots were too chancy. He'd have to hit the blasters themselves as the bosun drew.

  "Jus' give the word, Cap," a tall man growled.

  "Belay that," Jones snapped, and the men eased their stance. But callused hands were never far from their assortment of weapons.

  "You set us free on the beach," the captain muttered, "so we owe you our lives. Then ya saved the Connie from the slavers, so we owe you half the cargo. Put them together, and much as I hate to say it, you want to stake a claim on the Connie I have to agree, on my oath I do."

  "Bosun!" a sailor shouted in shock. "Ya giving away the Connie?"

  Jones turned on the taller man, and he backed away. "That's 'captain' to you, O'Malley. And if I say die, you say how-often-sir, natch?"

  "Yeah, I understand, Captain," the man mumbled, lowering his gaze.

  Turning, the short man scowled darkly at the companions, then spoke to Ryan directly. "Say she's your ship. What's the deal? We work as crew or get marooned?"

  "No," Ryan said, cutting the air with his hand. "We came here by accident and only want to leave."

  "Soon as possible," J.B. added bluntly.

  Captain Jones snorted. "Ship broken, eh? Waddaya need, wood, canvas, rope? Got plenty of that. Take what ya want."

  "We need shine," Ryan said, resting a boot on a layered fold of canvas. "Couple of gallons of wine would do, even beer, or some copper pipe to make our own. Get us that, and the Connie is yours."

  The sailors murmured among themselves while Jones chewed over the amazing request, his face going through a variety of expressions.

  "Any alcohol or juice in the lanterns?" Dean asked, gesturing at a hanging lamp.

  "Juice in a lamp, boy? Don't be daft. It's fish oil," Jones said as if it were obvious. "Smells bad down below, but gives good light. Got lots, if that's any help."

  Jak shook his head. "No way."

  "Shine to fix a ship," Jones said, cracking his knuckles. "Black dust, we've got nothing like that on board. Drunk sailors fall overboa
rd. Now the ville had plenty, that's what they gave us to celebrate finishing the work. We drank every drop and woke up in chains. More fools we for trusting villagers. If ya don't walk wood, then ya ain't worth spit, as Captain Fallon used ta say. God rest him."

  After a moment, Jones continued. "Now Lord Baron Kinnison has got lots of predark machines, some of them even work. He'd have that copper ya need. But I can't take no man there. Oh, I thought about it. There's a powerful reward for outlanders. But once he knows ya got rapidfires, he'll skin ya alive to find out where they come from! And I can't risk the lives of any man who saved my crew. That's the first thing I'm paying you back. Your lives."

  "Mebbe we could reason with him," Krysty asked. "Cut a deal."

  "With the lord bastard?" A sailor laughed, then abruptly stopped to grasp his ribs. "Better chance of arguing cold to fire," he finished, wheezing for breath.

  Mildred knew the man had broken ribs, possibly a punctured lung from the sound of his breathing. But she could do nothing until some sort of treaty had been negotiated. Politics was always getting in the way of medicine.

  "No, can't take ya there," Jones went on, crossing his arms, displaying a wealth of crude tattoos. "Got plenty of shine at our home port, Cold Harbor ville. Shine so strong it'll knock the stink off a mutie. Probably make your other eye fall out."

  Instantly Ryan felt the red anger well from within, the unbridled urge to chill everybody. But then he saw the sailor holding back a grin, and forced himself to be calm. Fireblast, the runt had been testing him! In spite of himself, Ryan was starting to like the man. He was hard and direct. Somebody they could trust, for a while, at least.

  "If that's what melted you down to this size, pee-wee," Ryan shot back, "then it'll do."

  Jones sputtered in rage while the other sailors burst into laughter. The short captain grabbed the curved butt of a flintlock, paused, slowly took his hand away and reluctantly cracked a grin. "Okay, Ryan, you want shine, then by God, I'll drown ya in it! We'll take ya to our home port, pack the hold with the oldest shine, best in town, steal it from the gaudy house if needs be and take ya back here. Then you're on your own and we're quits. Fair Steven to the nine. Agreed?"