Savage Armada

by James Axler

  They waited as she rushed across the deck to rejoin the companions. "It just occurred to me," she said, breathing normally as if the one-hundred-foot dash had been nothing. "If that short circuit ran through the whole building, it might have blown the comps!"

  "Don't know much about comps, but we have to hope for the best. Mebbe it just affected the fuses. And there usually is a full replacement set underneath the console. The comps will be fine."

  Krysty exhaled in relief.

  Standing motionless at the gunwale, J.B. didn't join the conversation, concentrating on his work. Carefully aligning the half mirror of the minisextant, he tried to focus on the tropical sun hidden in the roiling storm clouds overhead.

  "Got that location down yet?" Ryan asked as the green island vanished into the distance.

  Lowering the predark device, J.B. nodded and used a pencil stub to carefully write some figures on a small scrap of paper that he slipped into the sweat-band of his fedora. "Shot the sun twice, just to make sure," he said confidently. "I could find this place in a hurricane."

  "Hope so," Ryan said, rocking gently to the rhythm of the swell. "That trail we cut is already growing back. Stay away too long, and we'll have to level the whole bastard jungle to find it again."

  "Accurate to a hundred feet," J.B. boasted, patting the sextant. "I'll get us back. No prob."

  "Good."

  Gazing into the ocean, Doc muttered softly, "It is odd how often I encounter this ship in my travels."

  "What mean?" Jak asked, puzzled, a loose strand of white hair moving across his scarred face. Annoyed, the teen tucked it behind an ear. "Been here before?"

  "Oh, yes, indeed, my friend. Emily and I once took a summer vacation on this very ship," Doc whispered, lost in memory. "Or was that when Ryan and I escaped from that burning redoubt?"

  Ryan snapped his head toward the man. They had never escaped from any redoubt in a windjammer, just the two of them. Doc had to have slipped into his madness again.

  "Sure is warm," Ryan said in forced casualness.

  "Cold, so cold…" Doc muttered, hugging himself. Then he shook like a dog coming in from the rain. "Actually, my dear Ryan, it is rather warm. But from the angle of the sun at its azimuth, I would estimate it is summer here at the equator. Do you not agree?"

  Curling a lip, Ryan muttered something in assent and turned away. Fireblast! It was damn near impossible to get any accurate info from Doc when he kept weaving the past, present and future in the same sentence. Then the Deathlands warrior gave a shrug and dismissed the matter. Doc would eventually snap out of it.

  "Better check those cannons now," J.B. said, hoisting his munitions bag.

  "Let's go," Ryan said, and they headed for the nearest hatchway leading belowdecks.

  Far across the damaged deck, Captain Jones climbed down from the quarterdeck and addressed the waiting group of nervous women.

  "All right, ladies, the captain is dead, so I'm in charge now," Jones said, jerking a thumb. "The starboard barrel has the ship's articles. Cut a finger, put a thumbprint on a clean page and you're crew. Get me? Now move smartly. There's a lot to do."

  Several of the women were obviously confused, as there were barrels on either side of the short man.

  "It's a test," a tall woman said, a split lip slurring her speech. "Port has four letters, same as the word left."

  "So starboard is right," another said, her battered face brightening in understanding. "That's easy!"

  Captain Jones merely harrumphed as the women went to the correct barrel and helped each other cut fingers and seal their prints in the massive tome.

  "Done," the tall woman said, closing the volume. "What next, skipper?"

  Skipper, eh? "Now get outta those clothes," Jones said, and saw the terror fill their eyes. "Blood of the sea, ya stupid bitches! Think I had you mark the book for a laugh? Ya idiots! Should chop ya into chum and feed you to the fish! I meant go to the aft quarters and put on some pants! Can't climb rigging in a skirt, can ya? Huh? And trim that long hair, or tie it off! Get that caught in a pulley, and it'll come out by the roots."

  Jones touched a bald spot at the back of his head. "Hurts like a mutie's kiss, too," he stated with a half smile.

  "Captain, sir, where is the a…where do we go?" a busty teenager asked, a barely closed wound crossing a face that had once been beautiful. She would carry the scar for life with no way to ever hide it from sight. She had bitten a slaver when he forced himself into her mouth. She drew blood, but hadn't removed his cock. The furious man had slashed her face and tied her to the table to take his revenge. But in the fighting she had found the man and castrated him. He died screaming, and long after he was chilled she had continued stabbing and cutting, all the while muttering curses.

  "Down this hatch, and all the way in the back," the tall woman explained again, pointing a hand. "There will be a storage room there for pieces of canvas to patch the sails. Thank you for the privacy, Captain."

  Jones merely grunted and studied the big blonde. Her knuckles were raw from a fistfight, a tooth was missing where her lip was split and bruises bloomed everywhere she showed skin. It had to have taken six of them to haul her to the table, he bet.

  "And stop at the table. Each take a knife and blaster from the quartermaster!" Jones added hastily. "No swab goes unarmed on the Connie!"

  "We get weapons?" a brunette asked nasally, her pert nose smashed flat from a dying slaver's club.

  The big blonde started for the table. "Don't be stupe, girl. We're crew now. Step lively there!"

  His arm in a sling, the skinny sailor behind the table started to talk about the pieces on display, but caught a head shake from the captain and stood there mutely as they looked over the blasters. A plump redhead stared at the collection in awe, then grabbed a blaster at random and walked away with it hugged to her ample chest. The blonde went next, passing over several shiny flintlocks to choose an older weapon, massive and thick, almost Parkerized by age. "You!" Jones snapped. "Got a name?"

  "Abagail," she replied, cocking back the hammer and dry firing the blaster. The heavy hammer slammed down, the piece of flint scraping the steel spur and spraying sparks into the pan where the black powder should have been.

  "Why'd ya choose that one?" he asked more politely.

  "The rest have been repaired," she said knowingly. "This is the only reliable piece. But then, these are the leftovers. Your real crew took the choice blasters first. Which is fair. How do you know we wouldn't shoot off a tit, and then faint?"

  The quartermaster roared in laughter, while the short captain walked closer to the woman and removed the leather bag of shot and powder tied to his belt.

  "Best we got," Jones stated, tossing it over. She made the catch with one hand. "Know what a bosun is?"

  She nodded.

  "Good, 'cause you're in charge of these newbies. One of them falls off the ship and drowns, gets tangled in the rigging and hangs, it's your fault. Get me?"

  "Aye, aye, sir."

  "So take charge, bosun."

  Abagail stepped behind the table and waved the next girl over.

  "Let me see your hands," she commanded. "Bah, too small. Take this pocket blaster. Gonna have to make your own bullets. Know how to do that?"

  "Yes, ma'am," she answered. "I did that for my brother, a sec man."

  "Good enough. Then show the others who don't. Next!"

  In a few minutes, the women were armed and trundling down the starboard that led into the ship's interior. The quartermaster put the last few blasters into a wooden box, each separated by a layer of cloth, and carried his burden back to the ship's armory.

  "Hey, bosun!" he said, lifting the heavy box with ease, the muscles rippling on his thick arms.

  "Yeah?" Abagail demanded, braced for a reprimand. In the ville, she had been little more than a gift for the baron. Things could be a lot different out here.

  "Good job." He grinned and started across the rolling deck with the swagger all seafarer
s affect to maintain their balance on a moving ship.

  "That it was," Jones muttered in frank approval. "Wife of a sec man? Sister, mebbe?"

  "Close enough," she replied, busy with her weapon. Locking the pan cover in place to protect the powder in her loaded blaster, she tucked the hogleg of iron and wood into the ropes around her waist serving as a belt. "My father built the wall for Baron Langford."

  The captain raised an eyebrow. "Old Stony? You're his spawn? Then you should know blasters. He was the best gunsmith Cold Harbor ever had."

  "So they say," Abagail said, not impressed. She had heard it all before many times.

  "Better be telling the truth. Lie to me and you'll get ten lashes," he stated coldly, taking her lack of reaction the wrong way. "Just like any other member of the crew. Remember that!"

  "Fair enough, Captain," Abagail replied, standing proudly. "And if anybody bothers my girls, I'll blow their balls off." In a smooth move, she drew the blaster and pointed it between his legs.

  The short man stared at the towering blonde. "Threatening the captain?"

  "Sure," she said, cocking back the hammer.

  His face underwent a variety of expressions, then Jones burst into laughter. "You're kin of Stone," Jones said. "You'll do fine. Should have taken ya on as crew years ago."

  Easing down the hammer, Abagail tucked away the blaster and openly regarded the burly officer. Then without a word, she turned and started toward the hatch after the women. For some reason, Abagail caught herself putting a bit more hip movement into her walk than usual.

  "Aye, mighty fine," Jones added very softly.

  Just then, an anguished cry sounded from the nearby sick bay, and a pale sweaty man stumbled into view, holding a wet cloth to his shoulder.

  "Let's see it!" another sailor demanded.

  Gulping air, the first exposed the fresh wound.

  "Nuke me," the other gushed. "Looks like a bullet wound! Nobody could ever tell ya got branded there. It's all lopsided, and four times too big."

  "That was the idea," Mildred stated from the open doorway, a leather apron covering her from neck to knees. "Come on," she demanded, waving the red-hot poker in her hand. "You're the last. Doesn't hurt as bad as it looks."

  "Oh`, yes, it does," the second man muttered out of the side of his mouth. "But better than steel around your ankles."

  "Aye, that's a fact," the last sailor agreed. Removing his shirt, the burly man swallowed hard and walked into the sick bay as if heading for the gallows.

  Jones flinched in memory of the healer covering his bleeding scar with finely ground black powder and setting it afire. The pain drove him to his knees, but the blistered scar now perfectly resembled an old war wound. The brand of a slave was gone forever.

  ON THE WINDBLOWN CREST of a sandy atoll, two men stayed low in the middle of a clump of dying bushes. Once a week they dragged more shrubbery to the top of the atoll, and even watered it from canteens, but the shrubs wouldn't take root in the bare sand and grow. This was the best spot in a hundred miles, but they needed the coverage to do their job.

  "Hey, looky there," the older man muttered, adjusting the focus on his broken half of a binoc.

  "Where?" the other asked, squinting at the calm sea.

  "East by nor'east, boy. Here, look!" he said excitedly, offering the broken optical to the other.

  The young man scanned for a while, then beamed a wide smile. "Well, fuck me twice," he cackled in astonishment. "It's the Constellation!. Been missing for a month. What do you think?"

  "She's damaged," the older man agreed. "And that's green wood on the starboard side."

  "She's been damaged and repaired."

  "Aye."

  He swept the decks of the distant vessel. For an unnerving moment, a woman with red hair seemed to stare right back at him, but then she turned and continued to talk with some big stud with only one eyeball. "Not many crew showing. Must have been a bad fight."

  "Riding low, too. Hold is full of something."

  "Ain't listing from water in the bilge," he stated knowingly. "Heading south for home port."

  Softly, sheet lighting flashed and rumbled in the stormy sky overhead.

  "Then she's coming back from visiting the lord baron."

  The older man stood, not caring if the crew of the damaged ship saw him now. "Aye, coming back from Maturo ville with a full load of black powder. What else can you trade for there?"

  The young man licked dry lips. "Enough ammo for a fleet of ships! Let's take her."

  "Aye, lad, we will. Let's go." Kicking the dying bushes aside, the older man started down the sloped side of the mushroom-shaped atoll, sliding down the sand on the seat of his patched pants, until dropping off the edge into the sea. The other man splashed into the water right behind, and the two began their short swim to the tropical island only a hundred feet away.

  Hidden in the cool shadows of the pines and palm trees, big men armed with flintlock blasters stood abruptly at the sight of the two swimmers and rushed to meet the sentries on the smooth sands of the golden beach. Helping the swimmers onto land, the guards escorted them through the woods and into a large clearing.

  A dozen more men sat around a pool of spring water, sharpening weapons, smoking green cigs or whittling on bits of wood. A bound man was hanging upside down from a tree branch, while two pirates took turns punching the moaning captive. Another slave knelt by a campfire, feeding it twigs in a steady procession so that the fire remained even and didn't burn the seafood stew in the bubbling cook pot. His hands trembled with hunger, but he didn't eat until offered the dregs in the pot by his masters.

  "Captain Draco, a ship!" the older pirate shouted, stumbling across the encampment. "A ship, sir!"

  Situated under a piece of canvas stretched between some trees in the manner of a crude tent, lay a large man with his boots removed. A nearly empty bottle of shine rested on the grass nearby, and a sword protruded from the ground within easy reach.

  "A ripe fat one!" the other sentry added eagerly, stopping before the captain.

  Slowly opening his eyes, the captain sleepily raised his head. He was tall and heavily muscled, his rugged face a network of scars, a dead-white, marled eye staring blindly at the world. His clothes were badly stained with sweat, but were without patches. A huge revolver, not a flintlock, was tucked into a gun belt draped across his chest so that the holster rode directly before his heart.

  "You two again? This better not be another trawler," the captain growled menacingly. "We already have enough dried fish to last a month."

  "No, sir! Large ship, no escorts," the younger man panted, dripping water. "Looks to be the Constellation."

  "The Cold Harbor ship?" Draco asked, his interest increasing. Quickly he sat up and pulled on his boots. "Aye, sir! Fore an' aft rigging, yellow stripe, ten cannons side, gotta be her, skipper. And she's damaged, running heavy in the water."

  "Sinking?" a lieutenant demanded, striding closer. The big man carried a rusty iron fire ax in his right hand as if it belonged there, the green-wood handle wrapped with strips of leather for a sure grip. Matching flintlocks rode in a wide belt. His face was heavily pockmarked by old acne scars, and long greasy hair twisted into a thick ponytail dangled down his back. His soaked clothing sticking to his skinny form, the young sentry violently shook his head. "No, sir. Must be cargo."

  Standing, the captain buckled a belt about his waist made of only ammo pouches. "Heading north or south?" he snapped.

  "South, sir," the old sentry replied smartly. The two men exchanged looks. Could it be? The Constellation, damaged and heavy with cargo, coming back from the lord baron at Maturo ville. The fat bitch had to have a full hold of black powder. As rich a prize as they had ever heard.

  "Enough powder to last a lifetime," Lieutenant Giles murmured eagerly, twirling the ax by its handle. The wide blade was rusty and deeply nicked, but the dire weapon still moved as if it were a living part of the man.

  "Powder enough to buy us
another ship," Captain Draco agreed, checking his blasters. "Good work, lads. Stay here and watch the camp. You've earned a rest. Lieutenant, call the crew."

  "Aye, aye, skipper. Heads up, scum!" the big man bellowed, brandishing the ax. "We've got a rich ship to raid before the sun sets!"

  "Fresh clothes!" one man cried in delight.

  "Ammo!" another added grimly.

  "More slaves!" Another grinned lustfully.

  "To the Delta Blue!" Draco shouted, then headed into the woods away from the ocean.

  Shouting in unison, the motley crew of pirates swarmed through the trees and onto the beach of a small lagoon. A rumbling waterfall fed the small expanse, mixing freshwater with salt, a deadly combination to everything aquatic except for a few plants and the all pervasive crabs. The shoreline was hard-packed clay, and floating into the swirling waters was a long sleek ship, three masts rising from her sloped hull, and a double row of cannons bristling along her patchwork hull. With every battle came repairs, unpainted green wood mixing with seasoned timbers taken from the very enemy vessel that caused the damage. The beaten and battered pirate ship looked as if it were about to fall apart and sink at any minute. But the Delta Blue was the second-deadliest ship in the entire pirate armada. Only the Langolier was faster and carried more cannon. Even the lord baron's men went out of their way to avoid her oversize thirty-pound cannons.

  Captain Draco walked among the men streaming up the gangplank that led to his vessel. A grandfather had rescued the clipper ship from a predark museum and had lovingly rebuilt it by hand, using tools found in another section of the museum. It had taken him and a host of others almost a year to complete the job, and nearly another to knock down the wall and drag the vessel the six miles to the ocean. But it gave him a way off the stinking island and into the freedom of the ocean. Only to discover that he was trapped in the archipelago chain, the currents and the sea muties refusing anybody exodus to the North American continent. One jungle prison exchanged for another. It drove the man insane, and he slit his own throat. But his wife took command, then her sons, and the Draco family lived on.

  Within minutes, the anchor was lifted on a rattling chain, and then first sail rose into the rigging. The sleek vessel caught the gentle breeze and started to ease out of the lagoon and into the salty sea, going faster and faster as the second sail was raised, and finally the mainsail, billowing as it shoved the vessel onward with remarkable speed.