by James Axler
“How far to the next island?” Glassman shouted over the crash of the waves and the roar of the steam engine.
The man at the wheel started to reply when the aft engine cut loose with a long, loud blast of its steam whistle to equalize pressure. Some of the oldsters said that back in the predark days, there was something called a relief switch that could keep a boiler from exploding from too much pressure. But that tech was lost, and the whistle was sounded regularly to keep the machine functioning.
“About fifty miles,” Campbell replied. “Say, another hour, sir.”
“Thank you, Sergeant,” Glassman replied, suddenly reaching out to grab hold of the dashboard as the boat lurched. Alongside the pilot was an empty chair, bolted to the deck and his to use whenever he wished. But it seemed using it was something only a landlubber would do and would greatly decrease his authority over the crew. Swallowing hard, the man fought the roiling sensation in his gut and tried to rock to the motion of the vessel as it skimmed rapidly over the choppy waters. He had to be the baron’s sec man in every possible way if his wife and children were to stay this side of the soil.
So far, the crew of PT 312 had visited a dozen islands, leaving messages with the local barons about the reward for the capture of the outlander Ryan and his crew of murdering coldhearts. A dozen out of a thousand. This journey to all of the major islands was going to take weeks, if not months to complete. Some of the larger islands like Namorik and Alinglapala supported numerous villes. Most were on the beach, and each of the barons agreed to send runners to the inland villes with the news. On the crescent-moon-shaped Oma atoll, Glassman had found two villes on opposite points of the landmass at war with each other. The healer had his crew use the big .50-caliber machine gun to chill a score of people fighting on the beach. The combat paused, and he relayed the message to the barons and departed, leaving them to their battle. Lord Baron Kinnison didn’t give a spent brass if the villes fought with each other, or much of anything else—as long as they obeyed.
Unfortunately, the last baron visited had slyly suggested cleaning up some slaves and pretending they were the strangers to turn them in for the reward. Glassman agreed to the plan, sailed away from the docks and had the crew blow the entire ville apart with a barrage of Firebirds from the main missile pod. Dozens, maybe hundreds were aced on his command. The healer felt the deaths inside his guts like hot stones. But there had been no choice. It was either chill strangers or be dragged back to the dungeon of the baron to watch his family skinned alive.
“Captain!” a sec man called out from the port cannon. “The waves are cresting white!”
“Is that important?” Glassman responded.
The sailor stole a glance at the others on the deck of PT 312 before answering. “Ah, yes, sir,” he replied, trying to mask a surly smile. “Means a storm is coming! Maybe we should find a cove to anchor in, just in case.”
A storm? Glassman glanced at the sky. The heavy clouds rumbled with sheet lightning as always. He recalled less than a week of clear blue in his whole life. Some of the oldsters said the clear days were coming less often, as if the atmosphere was becoming more polluted with toxic chems and rads. But that was impossible. Sheer nonsense.
“What’s your opinion, Sarge?” Glassman asked the pilot.
Campbell looked out of the corner of his eyes. “I know of a small atoll only a few miles to the nor-west, Cap’n,” the pilot replied, trimming their speed. “Good harbor, no villes, though.”
Which meant no more blood to be spilled, for a while at least.
“Take us there,” Glassman ordered. “Best speed.” Then releasing the stanchion, he climbed into the empty chair. Ah, better. He was tired of standing, and if he was supposed to be the goddamn captain then he could do whatever he wanted. Including sitting down.
“Aye, sir,” Campbell replied, then leaned sideways to shout down a bamboo tube sticking out of the deck. “Engine room! Skipper wants all she’s got! We’re racing a storm!”
“Aye, aye, sir!” a muffled voice replied, and the speed of the boat increased noticeably.
The healer looked hard at the sergeant. That was the first time he had been called the skipper of the vessel. Briefly, he wondered if by taking the chair he had just passed some sort of test.
“Okay, swabs, batten down the hatches!” a bosun called out from amidships, his wet shirt clinging to his muscular chest. “Or do ya wanna swim home!”
Glassman watched as the crew hustled into action, lashing down loose items of equipment, tightening ropes and covering the machine guns and torpedoes with old plastic sheeting that was heavily patched.
Just then, the speeding craft gently rose and fell as something colossal disturbed the water directly under the petey and continued onward, heading directly for the brewing storm on the horizon. The pilot went pale, the crew whispered curses and Glassman felt clammy, his heart pounding in his chest. They had just sailed past death itself, a sea mutie.
With an effort of will, the captain put the event out of his mind and concentrated on the work at hand. There was nothing to be afraid of; death was just part of life in the Cific. And often a welcome release.
PAUSING, Krysty pointed with the barrel of her weapon. Only a few yards away, the form of a woman was sprawled on the filthy soil. Feebly, she raised a hand, struggling to accomplish the action as if her limb weighed a million pounds.
“Here…” the ghostly voice whispered once more. “R-Ryan.”
It was a woman, dressed in rags, her body covered with dark discolored bruises. Her arms were skeleton thin, her cheeks sunken and sallow. On her arm was the brand of a slave.
“Who the hell are you?” Ryan asked, scowling, his blaster pointing directly at her heart.
“I w-was on…” she gasped, “S-Spider Island.”
Ryan’s scowl deepened, but he moved aside the blaster. There was no way a local slave could know that. Quickly, he dragged the dead man off her legs as Krysty knelt on the ground and opened her canteen to trickle some of the tepid water into the woman’s mouth. She drank it greedily and sighed in relief.
“Been so long…” she croaked, then broke into a ragged cough. “You’re really here. Not another dream…”
“We’re real,” Krysty said softly, trying to brush aside the tangles of hair covering the woman’s face. But the hair was stuck to her skin in spots from the dried residue of sickness.
“You were on the Constellation, right?” Krysty asked, drawing a blade. Cutting a relatively clean shirt off a dead man, she splashed some more water from her canteen onto the rag and mopped the woman’s face clean. The smell from the dead around them was terrible. Most were lying in dried pools of their own vomit and feces.
Blinking to focus her eyes, the woman nodded. “I was…one of the slaves who refused to join the crew.”
When her face was clear of filth, Krysty could see the woman was actually a girl about Dean’s age. Once she might have been pretty, but the enduring scars of privation had shrunk her features into a gnarled visage. She looked a hundred seasons old, Gaia help her. Food and rest might make her strong again, but nothing would remove these scars of hunger.
“Part of the crew, eh?” Ryan demanded, glancing around them. There was no other movement in sight, nor anybody else who looked familiar. But then, the corpses were all so thin and emaciated, the Trader himself could be ten feet away and Ryan would never know it.
“What was wrong? Didn’t like the deal I offered, eh?” Ryan said smoothly, studying her reaction.
Licking cracked lips, the girl frowned. “Wasn’t you. Old man, silver hair…”
Good enough. Kneeling in the muck, Ryan slid his powerful arms under her frail body and lifted the girl. She weighed next to nothing. His ammo pouch felt heavier.
“What are you doing?” she demanded, her eyes unnaturally large in her sunken face.
“Taking you with us,” he said. “Gave you my word back on that island, and it’s still good.”
“Thank you…”
“Shut up,” Ryan said with surprising gentleness. “Go to sleep.”
“Ann,” she croaked, closing her eyes. “My name is Ann.”
“Go to sleep, Ann,” he repeated. “You’re safe now. My word.”
“Safe,” she said, the word becoming a whimper, and a tear rolled down her cheek. Then she touched his face with a trembling hand. “I know where it is, the machine you want.”
Startled, Ryan stared at the women hard and started to speak, but she went limp, fallen unconscious. The strain of talking had to have been too much for her in that weakened condition.
Inhaling deeply, Ryan sharply whistled three long times. Three short whistles replied, and soon the rest of the companions came running up, weapons out, looking for trouble.
“By the Three Kennedys, what a stench in this area,” Doc rumbled, holding his embroidered swallow-eyed handkerchief to his nose. Not even the pig pit of his slave days smelled as bad as this ville. Never before had he prayed for acid rain before, but it was just what this hellhole needed to wash it clean.
“Good Lord, is she alive?” Mildred asked, and went straight to the girl in Ryan’s arms. She felt for a pulse in the wrist, then tried again on the neck.
“Aced?” Jak asked, looking over her shoulder.
“Alive,” the physician stated. “But just barely. Let’s get her out of here.”
“Located the baron’s box at the other end of the ville,” J.B. said, wrinkling his nose. “Or mebbe it’d be better if we got her out of here, get some fresh air.”
“We can make camp outside the wall,” Dean suggested. “Digging a fire pit is easy in sand.”
“Too cold on the beach with the wind,” Mildred said. “Warmth is the important thing right now.”
“This way,” J.B. said, starting across the compound.
“Hate to leave the gate unguarded,” Doc rumbled, glancing that way. “Visigoths and rapscallions abound in these islands.”
“You mean coldhearts?” Dean asked.
Doc smiled. “Indeed, my young friend. That is exactly what I mean. Men with cold hearts.”
“Leave it,” Ryan said, shaking his head to dispel the returning clouds of flies. “There’s nothing here anybody would want.”
“’Cept us,” Jak stated.
After J.B. passed around some more fuel, the flies departed again. Crossing the open center of the ville, the companions found the baron’s box at the opposite end of the ville away from the gate. Iron bars covered the windows, and a crude wooden door leaned against the open doorway. Bamboo racks of crude spears stood in place, ready to repel invaders. A rusty bed frame stood upright in the ground, a damaged fishing net spread over it for repairs. Only a few yards away was a brick well, standing right next to a bamboo hut that clearly was a public latrine.
“Idiots,” Mildred muttered under her breath.
Watching the empty windows lining the two layers of steel boxes, Krysty felt her hair fan outward when a cough sounded from somewhere, echoes disguising the distance and direction.
“More folks dying,” Ryan said, scanning his good eye over the curved wall of identical containers.
“Poor bastards,” Doc said, but he kept a hand resting on the grip of the LeMat in its holster.
Going to a window, Jak waited for J.B. to cover the door with his Uzi, then he tossed a stone into the box. It hit something wooden, then rattled around on the metal floor. After waiting a moment, the teenager chanced a look inside.
“Clear,” he reported.
Doc and Dean pulled the heavy door aside, and Ryan walked into the box, careful not to hit Ann’s head on the badly cut doorway. Inside, there were tables made from wooden spools for holding coils of cables, and chairs of bamboo tied together with vines. Most of the knots were already frayed and unraveling. A ratty bed with rags sticking out of the mattress stood in a corner, and there was a stone fireplace with stacks of seasoned wood. Inside was an empty aluminum pot sitting on a triangle of bricks. One of the tables was stacked with pieces of blasters, flintlocks and predark revolvers, mixed together. Lying in alabaster clamshells was a collection of tools—worn hammers, blunt chisels, twisted screwdrivers and the like. Everything was smeared with fatty grease to keep away rust, and bunches of dried herbs hung from the metal wall to keep flies off the protective lard.
There was no sign of the baron, or any sec men.
“Set her here,” Mildred directed, going to the only bed.
Ryan placed the girl on the dirty mattress and looked around for a blanket of some kind to cover her. Nothing was in sight. Without comment, Doc slid off his frock coat and placed it over the still girl.
“Would have thought steel boxes would make for a good home,” J.B. said, pushing back his hat. “Obviously not.” There was no second floor, or another door to use for escape. Probably too tough to cut the plate steel.
Dean took a seat on one of the tables, the old wood creaking under his weight. “Think that dozer moved the boxes to make the wall?” he asked.
“No, they used slaves,” his father replied bluntly, lifting a set of shackles from the tool bench. “I’ll bet there’s a lot of flesh and blood crushed between these layers of steel.”
“Get a fire going,” Mildred ordered, pulling a chair close to the bed. “We need more heat in here, and make some bouillon. No coffee or tea. She needs salt.”
Jak went to the fireplace and got busy. Doc dropped his backpack and began to rummage around for MRE packs.
“Can you save her?” Ryan asked, leaning against the wall. “She knows something about the gateway.”
Mildred shrugged. In a proper hospital with a full medical staff, there would be no problem. Ann was warm, and cleaner. She had received clean water, and broth was coming. Antibiotics was what she needed now. Spreading the canvas flap of her med kit, Mildred took out a plastic sandwich box, popped the top and removed a plastic film canister, the kind photographers kept undeveloped rolls of film in. Burping the top, Mildred opened the canister and removed a folded foil board. Military antibiotics, the good stuff. She hadn’t seen better in years. However, even under ideal conditions the medicine would stay potent for ten years. Mildred could only hope there was a little life left after a full century.
Using a thumb, she pressed five of the tablets out of their bubbles and tucked the rest away. Knowing the stuff would taste as bitter as hell, Mildred crushed the tablets and mixed them with a full pack of sugar from a MRE pack. Adding some water, she swirled the mixture around and poured it down the throat of her patient. Ann murmured in response and made a face.
“Sour,” Ann said, smacking her lips.
“Okay, what happened on Spider Island?” Ryan asked, kneeling so they were face to face.
“Lieutenant Brandon had his sec men raid our ville,” Ann whispered, new strength in her voice. “He was looking for you.” She broke into a ragged cough.
Ryan frowned. Fireblast! He hadn’t considered that possibility. After blowing the bridge, the sec men did a recce on both islands and tortured the escaped slaves for any info they had on the companions. The women knew nothing, but that wouldn’t have stopped Brandon.
“Brandon. This was a big man, dark hair, lots of scars,” Ryan asked.
She nodded. “Th-that’s him. W-wanted you bad.”
“We aced a lot of his troops,” Ryan explained briefly.
Ann almost smiled. “Good.”
The water in the pot was boiling now, and Jak added a couple of envelopes of brown powder. Soon the tantalizing aroma of beef soup filled the cramped quarters. A cup was brought over, and Mildred spoon-fed the girl tiny sips. The broth seemed to bring her back to life, and soon she was gulping down the brew.
“Not too much,” Mildred warned, taking away the cup. “Your stomach isn’t used to anything yet. Give it a while.”
Ann nodded obediently, but constantly gazed at the tin cup with open avarice.
“How did you get away from Brandon?” Krysty
asked.
Feebly, the girl showed her scarred wrists. “Bit through my ropes, jumped into the ocean and swam away. They fired a few shots, but I kept swimming. Anything was better than being tortured by them. Half the other girls were already aced. Some ocean current caught me, and I was dragged here.”
“Just like it did us,” Dean commented.
A great rustling noise sounded from outside the box, and J.B. went to the window for a look. All of the birds were taking wing, swarming into the sky and flying away. Bad.
“Be right back,” he said, and slipped out the doorway.
Doc and Jak placed the wooden board back over the entrance, and Ryan gestured for the girl to continue.
“The ville was mostly dead when I washed ashore. Bodies everywhere. I tried to help and got…taken by some of the men. Thought it would cure them.” Ann shifted the frock coat to hide the bruises on her thighs. “Then I got sick, too, and they tossed me in the hole.”
“Bastards,” Mildred growled. “Hope they died hard.”
“What about the machine they found,” Ryan said, returning to the original topic. “Did they take it with them?”
“He, Brandon, suspected you wanted it for something,” Ann replied slowly, as if afraid to speak. “So he had the sec men smash it to pieces.”
“Fuck!” Ryan cursed, rocking back on his heels. The gateway was destroyed.
“We’re trapped,” Krysty said in a hollow voice.
“No, we’re not,” Ryan said, worrying a fist into the palm of his other hand. “Remember that map in the lighthouse.”
“Those weird symbols?” Mildred scoffed. “Could mean anything.”
“Mebbe so. But it’s our best chance for leaving,” Ryan shot back. “Our destination may have changed, but the plan is the same. We find a ville, buy a ride on a ship and leave. Only now we’re going to Forbidden Island.”
“Well, our rad counters will help us avoid the blast craters there,” Doc mused aloud, pursing his lips. “But we shall need to locate another ville. There are no vessels for hire here.”
