"Sooo woozy... Can't seem to... keep..." His eyes closed slowly, like he was falling asleep.
■ ■ ■
Paul, Mike and Maria, using the Sweet Susie like a Trojan Horse, were to gain entry to the cargo bay of the cruiser and prevent any remaining members of the pirate crew from leaving and re-enforcing the soldiers already outside on the landing pad. "Kill 'em, or keep 'em busy," is all Jack had said.
Predictably, as soon as the fighting had started in the Princess' bay, the cargo workers abandoned their chores in the cruiser's bay and attempted to obtain arms to attend the battle. They never made it to the ramps. About a third of them lay dead in their own cargo bay, their bodies ventilated by the .50 cal. guns of the Sweet Susie. The survivors sat quietly on the floor, their empty hands resting in their laps. These men were not soldiers or warriors like others in the crew, they simply worked on a ship that happened to be owned by a pirate. For them, there was no shame in surrender. In fact, it was greatly preferred to death. Maria remained in the upper turret, while Paul and Mike climbed out on the wings of the B25 to increase their field of vision and prevent a sneak attack. They chambered rounds into their M1s and waited.
"Sounds like murder out there, Pappy..."
Paul nodded solemnly, "Yeah." He was all too aware of the shouts and cries in his headset. Making sense of them was totally impossible. He longed to participate, to contribute what he could, to be able to see with his own eyes what progress, if any, was being made. This sitting was pure anguish.
■ ■ ■
"Pappy!" Mike pointed over the nose of the plane.
Paul spun around as a group of armed pirates poured out of a service lift descending from an upper level. Mike was already firing. Paul dropped to one knee and aimed, dropping the leading soldier with his first shot. The pirates spread out, finding what cover they could and returned fire, hot magenta streaks of energy, knocking Mike off the port wing. Paul began instinct firing, the empty brass shell casings bouncing across the wing and cascading to the deck below. "You Ok, kid?"
"Fine..." Mike gritted his teeth and worked his way to the landing gear, "just fine." Resting his shoulder against the landing gear to steady his carbine, he returned the pirates' fire. "Die, you filthy sons of bitches, die!" The pain across his ribs burned like a hot poker. He dared not look at his injury. Instead, he blinked away the tears of pain and concentrated on the anger, the fury which rose within him. The effect of the .30 cal. rounds striking their destinations so fascinated him, Mike almost forgot the agony burning in his side.
The intensity and accuracy of the gunfire produced by Mike and Pappy surprised the pirates, who could find no reliable protection through which the M1's rounds could not pass. Completely obscured from sight, pirates were dropping like flies, their lives stolen by weapons they would consider not only ancient but totally inferior, as well.
■ ■ ■
A pirate, the fight brought to him in his own cargo bay, huddled low behind the stacked containers and crates stolen from the Princess Hedonist. "Ragnaar...!" He called.
"Over here, my brother!" came the reply over the din.
Deeter looked to his left and saw an energy weapon firing blindly over the tops of the crates. Ragnaar was not the only one who had adopted this posture. "Ragnaar, what do we do..." He looked at the lifeless bodies of his shipmates laying about him. "These Humans fight without fear, and their weapons... so accurate!"
"True, my brother! They fight like the demons of Hellion possess their very souls!" Ragnaar fired blindly from cover, shredding the starboard wingtip of the Sweet Susie. "I swear I killed the one who fell from the wing, but still he fights!" Ragnaar was, although not human, a man. And as men went, he was on the rather large size. Herculean to be a little more precise. And although he had the confidence of a Cerulian Lion, he was not used to seeing someone he thought to be a corpse, up and fighting.
Deeter had no desire to die, but he decided if he was to die, it would not be hiding like a coward in his own ship. "I say we move against them! It is our only chance for victory!"
"I agree. Let us not waste another second on talk!" Ragnaar removed and checked the energy clip which powered his rifle. Finding it low, he replaced it with a fresh one. "I am ready!" The soldiers passed the word on a rallying advance.
■ ■ ■
Mike leaned against the port landing gear of the B25 and tried to inhale deeply to ease the pain in his ribs. The searing pain came and went, making him woozy and affecting both his balance and vision. There seemed to be a minor lull, which gave the pilots time for quick introspection.
"You Ok, kid?"
Mike evened his breathing. "Still here Pappy, think we got `em all?" His voice was pained.
"Don't know, kid. How's your ammo?"
Mike pulled the clip from his carbine and examined it, "Oh, about twenty rounds or so. How `bout you?"
Paul was checking his own. "That's all you've got? I've got almost two full mags left!" His voice became fatherly, "Look, take it..." he never finished the sentence.
Deeter, Ragnoss and the remaining pirates, executed their plan, storming the B25 and showering it with bright magenta, streaks of fire. Encouraged by the shouts of their crew mates, Maria's prisoners rose and turned toward the plane. Quick on the trigger, the harsh vibrating bark of Maria's twin .50 cal. guns changed their minds.
One arm wrapped around the strut of the landing gear to keep from toppling, Mike fought to focus as he fired, being careful to conserve ammunition. Paul was forced to flatten himself prone against the starboard wing, close to the fuselage to avoid the vicious wave of energy pulses.
Paul fired fiercely at his now limited field of vision. Having lost the advantage of height, Paul tried to drop to the floor to keep Mike from being overrun but the intensity of the pirate's attack kept him confined. Maria could not help. Her prisoners, prone on the deck, watched and waited for the chance to escape if her gun turret turned away.
Mike heard the familiar poing of the last spent shell casing leaving the M1s magazine. His stomach fell. He let go of the strut and dropped to the deck. "I'm done, Pappy..."
Paul felt sick inside, "Hold on, kid." He prepared to drop to the floor to protect his friend. The B25 shuddered violently and lurched, listing to the port side. Paul knew they would try to overrun Mike's undefended position and if he couldn't retrieve his friend quickly, there would be no hope. Paul tried calling his wingman on the com, but there was no answer. Paul fired rapidly and emptied his clip, trying to beat the attackers into retreat.
The pirates, their number diminished, but their fervor strong, closed on the plane. Paul rammed his last clip into the carbine and prepared to die. "If they get me, darlin', gun `em all... every single one..." His southern accent seemed to be stronger under stress.
Maria looked over her shoulder, she couldn't see him. She couldn't believe it was going to end like this. "Ok, Pappy." She desperately tried to call Jack on her com unit for help, but got nothing.
Paul took a deep breath and rolled off the wing. He hit the deck in a crouch and rolled backwards uncontrolled. It saved his life, the pirates couldn't hit him. He scurried to the starboard landing gear amidst a brutal slew of pirate fire and rubbed his swelling left ankle. Mike's motionless form lay almost ten feet from the blackened port landing gear, its tire shredded and flat.
The pirates were so close, Paul could see their faces. He chose his targets carefully, gritting his teeth to remain calm, fighting the urge to run and preserve life and limb. He twice killed pirate soldiers trying to flank him, but as his ammunition dwindled, he realized his luck was going with it... “I'd give my left nut for an M249 right about now,” he breathed. “Or a nice big M60...”
Bursts of gunfire erupted behind him, coming from
the cargo ramps, and Paul snuggled down beside the wheel of the Sweet Susie's gear. Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, Paul said a short prayer. "Well, so much for Lady Luck..." Blazing magenta streaks, whizzed by him from behind, striking crates forward of the plane. That was unnerving enough, but it was the war cry, a long, deep, roaring howl, which made his blood run cold. "Christ Almighty! What the hell was that..?"
"Just us, Commander..." The husky, breathless, female voice in Paul's headset sounded familiar, even through the static and disturbance. He couldn't quite discern who it was, but who gave a shit, help was help. Paul shifted his position to venture a quick peek. "Stay where you are Paul, we don't want to hit you." Another familiar but indiscernible female voice.
Raulya, Myomerr and a contingent of about fifteen of the Princess's security officers, had appeared inside on the loading ramps and raced across the cruiser's cargo deck toward the Sweet Susie, firing as they ran. Some had carbines, some had energy rifles confiscated from the pirates. Paul could not remember seeing a sweeter sight, he could almost hear the bugles and imagine them on horseback as cavalry officers. Shooting from the hip as they ran at close to full stride, Paul was amazed at their remarkable accuracy. He kept his head down just the same.
As they passed through the thirty-plus prisoners, several foolishly rose to confront the officers. Snarling, Raulya and Myomerr slashed and hacked with the butts of their weapons, viciously repelling the crewmen without slowing or breaking stride. Excited by the sound of breaking bone and the smell of blood, the two Ketarians howled their savage war cry as they advanced, firing relentlessly at the retreating pirate soldiers.
Completely unnerved by Paul's sudden reinforcements and their fearless, ruthless, counter attack, the pirates' offensive crumbled. They laid down their weapons and surrendered after losing well over half their men in the attack against the Sweet Susie.
■ ■ ■
Ragnaar sat with his back against the storage crates where he had found Deeter lying in a pool of blood. He cradled the lifeless body of his friend in hulking arms, but with a tenderness his generous size didn't belay. He spoke softly to the fallen soldier. "You died well, my brother. We can all be proud..." He pinched the bridge of his nose to block the tears he had never shed for other lost comrades. "They must truly be the demons of Hellion," he continued, "for we have lost..." He thought briefly, but decided no others could have beaten them. He shook his head, "No, no one else could have done this. I fear for my soul, my friend." He was a pirate, but he was not a man without beliefs. "So as long as you're there, put in a favorable word for me with the good Lords of Heavenite..."
Pappy, accompanied by Maria, knelt next to his wingman. Together, they grimaced as they looked at the young pilot's charred tunic, fused to the skin all along the right side of his torso. Pappy leaned close to listen for a heartbeat, though he hadn't much hope. Realizing something was jabbing him in the stomach, Paul looked down to see the muzzle of a Beretta 9mm pushing against him. It was firmly held in Mike's right hand, his index finger on the trigger.
"Izat you, Pappy...?" Mike's voice was soft but steady. One eye opened weakly, trying to see through the haze of a mild concussion.
Paul grinned widely. "Yeah, it's me, kid..."
"Me too," added Maria, with tears in her eyes.
"Oh good," Mike's hand dropped to the deck, still holding the Beretta. "Didn't think I could pull the trigger anyway..."
"You did good, kid."
"Really?" Paul nodded. "Thanks." Mike smiled weakly, his speech was slow and a bit slurred. "Could only play possum after that tire went boom. Figured to blow the nuts off the first guy who came to finish me..."
Paul put his hand on Mike's shoulder, "You did just fine. Now shut your yap and relax. The medics are on their way."
Maria's pendant, the Teardrop Crystal of Rhomm, had slipped from the neckline of her tunic and swayed gently above Mike Warren's pained form as she leaned over him. It looked almost fluid, like a fresh drop of rain clinging to the gold chain around her neck. Mike, fixing his eyes on it, had a sudden desire for water. "Christ, I'm thirsty." He swallowed dryly. "Got anything to drink?"
There was, of course, nothing available. And as Paul and Maria looked at each other in silent search of an answer Paul's eyes widened. Maria raised one eyebrow. "What...?"
Paul pointed to the pendant which had begun weeping moisture in slow, steady, sparkling drops. "It's leaking..."
Maria looked. "It's not leaking," she said in astonishment, "it's weeping!"
"Weeping, leaking," said Paul. "What the hell's the difference? It's dribbling all over the place!"
Mike could feel the drops hitting his neck. "Get some in my mouth why doncha..." he mumbled.
Paul was getting impatient, "Where the HELL are those medics? The kid's having a hard time breathing..." He unbuttoned his wingman's tunic to make him more comfortable.
Maria touched the wet crystal to her tongue before Paul could object and smacked her lips in contemplation. "That was pretty stupid," said Paul crisply, "What if it's poisonous?"
Maria smiled coyly and making a face, stuck out her tongue. Woman's intuition told her it wasn't, but she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of admitting he could be right. Something told her the crystal was sympathetically reading her needs somehow and was trying to provide for that need, although she had no idea how that could be possible... After all, it was just a crystal. Wasn't it?
The crystal's moisture was cool and smooth. It slickly coated Maria's mouth like a light oil, but it had a wondrous sweet-tart flavor that made her mouth water. She smiled at Paul, her mouth tingling from top to bottom. Paul raised one eyebrow, "Well?"
"Yeah," rasped Mike, "well?"
Maria held the crystal over Mike's mouth, "It's safe."
The droplets splashed across Mike's outstretched tongue and Maria wiped the crystal across his lips. "Mmmmmmm," grinned Mike, closing his eyes. "That's great." Suddenly he inhaled sharply and deeply, his eyes open wide and his body rigid, back arched.
“Jesus!" shouted Paul as he grabbed Mike by the shoulders to hold him down.
"I, I, I don't understand..." stammered Maria, stunned.
But it passed as quickly as it came. The young pilot's body relaxed and his breathing became regular and with greater ease. He closed his eyes and appeared to slip into a comfortable state of sleep.
Paul scratched his head. "What the hell... lemme see that." He touched the crystal and sucked the wetness off his finger. Smacking his lips speculatively, he was pleased by the initial sensations. He was very suddenly aware of a strange sensation sweeping across his body. It took his breath away momentarily, but was pleasing just the same. It wasn't long though, before he realized the ankle he'd injured tumbling off the wing of the B25, no longer pained him. Paul came to the realization that this must have been what Mike felt. It must contain some kind of drug, and since Maria had no injuries, she had not felt the same sensations over her body, just the initial reaction. Paul shook his head. He felt no pain and was no longer thirsty, "Amazing..." It was all he could think of to say.
The messenger trotted to a stop under the wing of the Sweet Susie. "Need to let you know sir," he puffed, "all wounded have to be moved out to the Princess's landing pad near the flight tower."
"Why so far?" asked Paul.
The young messenger shrugged. "Dunno' sir, it's just where they're moving everybody." He turned to leave.
"Hey!" shouted Maria, "why couldn't they tell us that over the com half an hour ago?!"
"Some of the comlinks are damaged," he explained. "About a third of the grid is off line. You must be in a dead spot." He trotted off in the direction he came.
"Shit," muttered Paul, "I can't carry him, my ankle's too weak."
>
Ragnaar dropped to one knee and gently laid the lifeless body of his best friend in the row with the rest of his fallen comrades, near the port side of the B25. "I will carry him..." he said over his shoulder, without turning around.
Paul turned and eyed him suspiciously. "How do I know I can trust you?"
Ragnaar rose and unfolded his six and a half foot herculean frame. "The battle is over," he said, gazing at the row of casualties spread before him. He motioned to the bodies with a wave of his hand. "The dead are gone..." he added, turning to meet Paul's gaze, "and it is time to tend to the needs of the living."
"You hurt him and I'll kill you," said Maria, matter-of-factly.
"I don't doubt it," said the pirate casually, meeting her gaze, "but like I said, the battle is over. Besides, I don't kill helpless men."
"That's not what I've heard," growled Maria sarcastically.
Ragnaar ignoring the comment, walked past her over to where Mike lay, and knelt beside him. Placing one hand on Mike's chest and the other on his forehead, Ragnaar closed his eyes. "He is your best friend..."
"Yes," confirmed Paul.
"I understand your concern," said the pirate, gently smoothing Mike's hair, "but he has the heart of a Cerulian Lion. He will not die."
"And, just how do you know that?" asked Maria venomously.
Ragnaar smiled. "Because, Miss Arroyo, there are some things I just know..." Without looking up into her stunned face, Ragnaar gently scooped Mike's limp body up off the deck with little apparent effort and cradled him carefully. "Ready, Commander? I believe your friend is in need of some attention."
The men exchanged smiles. It wasn't often Paul saw Maria at a loss for words. He had a feeling Ragnaar knew that too. The odd trio walked toward the ramps in silence, Maria trailing behind and Paul hobbling like mad to keep up with the pirate's long, easy strides.
Wings of Steele - Destination Unknown (Book 1) Page 24
