Deathlands 118: Blood Red Tide

by James Axler

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The Captain’s Cabin

  “We go back!” Miss Loral’s fist crashed on top of the chart table. She spilled tears of fury. “We go back now! We get the captain and burn their ville to the ground!”

  “E kokua!” Koa thundered. “To the rescue!”

  Mr. Forgiven wept openly. “They took our good captain, and we took their lovely parting gifts and weighed anchor!”

  Ryan took the cold guanaco steak off his eye and tried to glance around the assembly. They were mostly a tearing smear in his remaining eye that he could barely open. Techman Rood bristled with rage. Ryan was again surprised to note Koa’s presence at a captain’s cabin conference, and again he suspected there was more to the Hawaiian than he knew.

  J.B. looked at Ryan. The companions were not ones to leave anyone behind, and the Armorer was spoiling for a fight. Mildred hung on his arm. Commander Miles’s half-healed wounds clearly pained him. Losing his captain pained him more. His jaw set with terrible certainty.

  “Their shore guns will blow the Glory out of the water. If we send a cutting out party, they’ll never get past the ville, much less into Laird’s fortress.” Miles bowed his head in anger and shame. “We just have to swallow this. The Glory has swallowed worse in the past. If we take vengeance, it comes after the Horn and after the Sabbaths.”

  Ryan admired Miss Loral’s sentiment. Like Commander Miles, he didn’t relish sailing into the teeth of Stanley’s coastal blasters or trying to take on a ville of several thousand souls.

  “Coward,” Miss Loral grated.

  Miles’s knuckles went white. “My first loyalty is to this ship and her crew. As acting captain, until confirmed or challenged, First Mate, should I find myself in similar circumstances, I will expect you to take command and sail on. Are you challenging?”

  Miss Loral looked like she just might.

  Ryan reached into his jacket and pulled out the sealed envelope. “Before we went ashore, the captain gave me this.”

  Something akin to both fear and relief passed across the commander’s face. “If those are the captain’s last orders, obey them.”

  Ryan tore open the oilpaper packet. It held two smaller envelopes. He had to pull his eye open to read it. One was addressed to RYAN. The other to ACTING CAPTAIN. Ryan handed the latter letter to Commander Miles, who stared at it. The two men opened their orders. Ryan found another, smaller yet again envelope. It was addressed READ BY THE LIGHT OF THE BINNACLE.

  “Commander,” Ryan asked. “I—”

  “You have my permission to go to the quarter deck.” Miles crumpled his note in his fist. “And I will abide by your decision.” He turned stiffly and stared out the stern windows. “Whatever that may mean...”

  Ryan felt his hackles rising. It was a well-established belief aboard the Glory that Captain Oracle had powers, and that they were both a blessing and curse to him. Ryan left the captain’s cabin and went to the gangway mostly by feel. In the darkness of the fo’c’sle, Strawmaker quietly strummed his guitar in sad, minor chord progressions that echoed the feeling aboard ship. Gallondrunk sobbed like a baby while Sweet Marie comforted him. Ryan emerged on deck. The wind blew bitterly cold and moaned through the rigging. The ship was at anchor, and Manrape stood watch at the wheel wrapped in a pair of dead gauchos’ capes. He raised an eyebrow at an able seamen entering onto the quarterdeck. Ryan held up Oracle’s last envelope. “Captain’s last orders.”

  Manrape didn’t seem surprised. Ryan went to the binnacle and pulled his swollen eye open.

  The skeleton hand hung half-closed and apparently dormant in whatever fluid filled the glass dome. A pair of covered lanterns lit the magnetic compass, the ship’s master hourglass, clock and the helmsman’s chart. Ryan cracked the wax seal on the envelope and wondered if there would be yet another packet nested inside. He pulled out a note written on a scrap of yellowed, predark paper that consisted of two sentences in simple block script.

  RYAN, THIS WAS FORESEEN. YOU WILL EITHER SAVE ME OR YOU WON’T. ORACLE

  Ryan looked up from the note. He snarled in revulsion, and his ship’s knife came free. The skeletal hand was pointing at him. He suppressed the urge to take the Longbow blaster from the binnacle case, empty the last remaining rounds into the glass globe and the hand it contained and kick whatever shattered remains were left into the Cape for the Kelpers to deal with. He smelled Krysty before he saw her. Ryan sheathed his knife.

  He was grateful for the backup. but he shook his head. “You aren’t even rated ordinary seaman. You can’t be on the quarterdeck without an officer’s permission.”

  “Nuke that,” Krysty replied. “I walked right past Manrape, and he didn’t say anything.”

  “Well, while you’re here,” Ryan said, lifting his chin at the binnacle. “What do you make of that?”

  Krysty stared at the hand in loathing. “I feel it every time it moves.”

  Ryan’s jaw set. Krysty wasn’t a doomie, but she felt things. Sometimes she was almost prescient, and when things got strange her feelings spiked.

  “So,” Ryan asked, “Oracle’s psionic? He’s moving it? Some other power is moving it?”

  “There are many other movers in this broken world. Some are terrible beyond words. My mother told me skydark birthed things and opened doors. She said some of the bad things are as old as time and loved what happened. Thrived on the fall. Got stronger. At least that’s what she believed. I— Gaia!”

  Krysty pulled her knife as the hand slowly turned and pointed at Stanleyville like an undead compass needle suspended in blood. “I hate that thing!” She glared at the binnacle. “I hate it! And I hate what it’s going to make you do.”

  “No.” Ryan took a long breath and let it out. “That hand won’t make me do anything. I have a choice to make.”

  “And?”

  “And I’m going to save the captain.”

  “You’ll die,” Miles announced.

  “Mebbe,” Ryan conceded. “Sometimes one man can do more than an entire ship’s company, and I’m not taking Stanleyville. I’m taking the captain out of it. This is a rescue.”

  “It’s not that I doubt you, Ryan, but I have to think of the safety of the ship.”

  Even Miss Loral was against it. “They had at least three motorboats that I saw. They’ll be patrolling and expecting trouble.”

  “That’s why you get me in as close a possible and I swim the rest of the way.”

  “Swim?” Miles was appalled. “In this water? In winter? At night?”

  “Skillet found plas-wrap in the bunker’s kitchen. I’ll grease up, wrap myself in it, then grease the outside. I spoke to Hardstone about our row in. He said the current isn’t bad and the tide will be on my side.”

  Ryan squinted at the first mate through his swollen eye. “Is he wrong?”

  Loral grimaced. “Good swimmer can swim mebbe a mile, two miles per hour, and that’s on a sunny day in the Caribbean. To avoid the harbor patrol, we’ll have to drop you off at least a mile from shore. You’ll be slowing down and going numb with every stroke. You think you can make that in an hour without freezing, much less dragging spare clothes and a blaster?”

  “I’ll just be taking my knife. When I get ashore, I’ll find clothes. If I need a blaster, I expect I can find one of those too.”

  Miles slowly shook his head. “You’ve got balls, Mr. Ryan. I grant you that. But you can barely see out of that eye.”

  “Miss Mildred will cut me.”

  Mildred exploded. “Jesus Christ, Ryan!”

  “The freezing cold water will take care of the rest.”

  Miles appraised Ryan yet again and turned to his techman. “Mr. Rood, what are the Kelpers saying?”

  “There’s shortwave radio traffic. The patrol boats are talking to each other and the fortress. They’re patrolling. They know the Glory’s a fighting ship, and they’re waiting for our response. Plus they got horsemen patrolling the coastline for outlier insertions. They also
sent out more of Doc’s Caesar cipher. They radioed Dorian that they have the captain. Dorian is coming. He’s sailing on his engines and will take the captain and effect repairs in Stanleyville. Laird’s rolling out the red carpet.”

  “Commander?” Ryan locked his one-eyed gaze with Miles. “Now or not at all. I’m volunteering. Give me twenty-four hours.”

  Commander Miles closed his eyes and broke his word. “We sail on.”

  Miss Loral’s voice went dead. “Miles, when you’re fit? I challenge.”

  The entire tonnage of the Glory crashed down across Commander Miles’s shoulders. “Accepted, Miss Loral. Dirks at a dawn of your choosing.”

  The acting captain suddenly rose to his full height. “Until then you will get your gaudy-skank ass to the quarterdeck! Take the con, and chart us a course around the horn. Dorian Sabbath is nearly on us under power. We drive into the Horn’s Westerlies in winter. Under sail. Tack upon tack. I cannot spare a moment, much less a day! Now unless one of you rad-blasted bastards can give me one reason to stay on, I—”

  “Commander!” Hardstone called out from his guard position outside the door. “A crewman seeks permission to address the acting captain!”

  Miles sagged in exhaustion and pain. “Well who, rad blast you?”

  “Subaqueous Specialist Squid!”

  The cabin went silent for a moment.

  Miles squared himself. “Send him in.”

  Mr. Squid entered doing his disturbing gait of walking erect on the tips of his seven arms. The arm the orcas had bitten off was already a foot long and growing longer by the day. “Commander Miles?”

  “Yes, Mr. Squid?”

  “I overheard this conversation.”

  Miles rubbed his temples. “And?”

  “And for a short period of time I am capable of swimming at speeds of up to twenty-five miles per hour.”

  Commander Miles blinked.

  “Pulling Ryan and not exhausting myself,” Mr. Squid continued, “I should be able to maintain a speed of ten miles per hour to shore. I have just dipped an arm into the ocean. Here in the protected waters of the Cape the ocean surface temperature is currently slightly above 1 degree Centigrade. If this greasing provides Mr. Ryan with any protection, I should be able to deliver him to shore within ten minutes and in reasonable physical condition. From there I will scale Lord Laird’s wall much like I would do the side of a ship and carry Mr. Ryan up with me.”

  Commander Miles and Miss Loral stared at each other.

  “Coastal infiltration was one of my species’ original design parameters,” Mr. Squid concluded.

  “But, dear Squid?” Doc asked.

  “Yes, Doc?”

  “What shall this sub-Antarctic swim, lesson to mention the trek to the fortress, do to you?”

  “It will very likely kill me. Mr. Ryan must assume that I may be dead or useless by the time we reach the fortification. He may have to make his own ingress.”

  “Oh, dear...”

  “You volunteering for this?” Ryan asked.

  “I am. I attacked this ship. Captain Oracle spared me. I have signed the book. Captain Oracle is my commanding officer. I believe that your plan, Mr. Ryan, augmented by my abilities provides the highest percentage chance of extracting the captain alive.”

  Ryan was once again reminded not to assign human emotions to nonhumanoids, but Mr. Squid was clearly loyal to Doc, and now he seemed to be loyal to Captain Oracle. Ryan was also reminded that Mr. Squid was the descendant of genetically modified organic weapons. Loyalty to his teammates and his mission seemed to be hardwired into him.

  “Speaking of extracting,” Miles said, “I assume you intend to steal a boat to get back.”

  “Ideally,” Ryan agreed, “and assuming I can get out of range of the coastal blasters, then the Glory will own any pursuit the Kelpers can mount.”

  Miles considered the plan. “Have you done this before?”

  “Not quite like this, but I’ve pulled people out of hostile villes a time or two.”

  “Very well. Miss Loral, make ready the whale boat. Manrape will command. Have him fuel and affix the outboard motor and rig a half-barrel athwart to transport Mr. Squid. Mr. J.B., affix our machine blaster to the mount in the bow. You’re manning it.”

  Koa shot up his hand. “Permission to row!”

  “Permission granted, Mr. Koa. Hardstone, Sweet Marie and Atlast to the oars as well. Blasters issued to all. Issue Mr. Ryan whatever he thinks he may need for the mission.”

  Ryan considered the crewmen being assigned. “You’re putting a lot of your eggs in one basket, Commander.”

  “You have twenty-four hours, Mr. Ryan. If you’re not back by then, the Glory goes in, blasters blazing. We either take our captain back, or we go out in a blaze of glory.”

  The captain’s cabin got very quiet.

  Miles checked his chron. “Mr. Ryan, I suggest you go the galley and requisition grease from Skillet.”

  He turned to Mildred. “Miss Mildred, cut Mr. Ryan’s eye.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Ryan slid into the frigid waters. It wasn’t quite a fist to the jaw, but he knew it was freezing. In a reverse way it was like holding a hot coal with a glove that was too thin. It hadn’t quite burned through the material yet, but he could feel it. Krysty and Mildred had greased him up, wrapped him like a mummy in plastic wrap, greased him again, wrapped him again and then greased the outside. Ryan was wearing the equivalent of a very fragile dry suit. Mildred had cut him to relieve the swelling around his eye, packed the wound and iced it. For the moment Ryan could see.

  Manrape’s teeth were barely visible as he smiled. “Mr. Ryan?”

  “Bos’n?”

  “If you can’t rescue the captain, you and Mr. Squid, break as many things as you can. We’ll be coming.” The rest of the boat crew grunted in approval.

  “Rescue,” Ryan agreed. “Or revenge.”

  “Mr. Ryan in the water at 0130, Mr. Hardstone. Make a note of it.”

  “Aye, Bos’n.”

  Mr. Squid ran one of his arms underneath Ryan’s armpits with his toothed suckers facing out to not damage Ryan’s wrappings. The cephalopod sank into the frigid water up to its eyes and immediately began jetting toward shore. Forgiven had issued Ryan a pair of ancient, cracked swim fins and they had jury-rigged the too-small swim aids to Ryan’s feet.

  Ryan kicked.

  He was facing backward and didn’t want to upset Squid’s propulsive pulses by squirming around in his grip. “Squid, I know you’re using your speaker for jet propulsion. If you’re all right give me one squeeze with your towing arm for yes and two for no.” Squid’s arm contracted once. “Does the kicking help?” Squid’s arm contracted once. Ryan kicked harder. It was just about the only thing keeping the aching, burning cold out of his bones and it was a losing, rear guard action. With Squid as a living Diver Propulsion Vehicle, Ryan had considered bringing along some equipment. In the end he’d just taken his ship’s knife. The quicker they got out of the water, the better a chance he had to survive the swim. The terrible inverse of that equation was the sooner they got out of the water, the quicker Squid started dying.

  Ryan heard the burbling of a motor at low throttle, and a pale yellow searchlight slashed through the darkness. Squid rolled over and blew water out of his siphon to speak. “Hold your breath.” Squid submerged, and Ryan’s exposed lips, nose and eyelid began burning off. Squid’s arm squeezed Ryan once in question. Ryan squeezed it back once to signal he was all right. Squid descended into the icy, inky black but kept pulsing for shore and Ryan kept kicking. A pale yellow glow broke the stygian dark above and the ghost of the patrol boat’s wake passed overhead. Squid rose upward and broke the surface. Ryan struggled not to gasp. Squid rolled and contracted his arm to allow Ryan to see the shore. Ryan decided the original plan was still best. He could see activity on shore, but the docks of the fishing boats and the low warehouses around them were abandoned. “Head for the fishing fleet.”
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  Squid rolled and pulsed faster. Ryan kicked, but he could feel his legs going numb and slowing. The lights of the ville grew brighter, and he could hear the vague noises of people shouting orders and the clatter of the shore patrol’s hooves. Squid rose and his limbs stiffened and moved. Ryan felt his fins scraping sand. He kicked them off, and Squid released him. Ryan slogged up out of the surf and shuddered. The water had been better. The wind chill of Westerlies cut through him exactly like a knife going through plastic wrap. He shook so badly it took determined effort not to drop his knife. Squid bobbed in the surf.

  Ryan’s teeth chattered. “Squid, are you going to be all right?”

  “I am momentarily fatigued. The fatigue toxins will rise to fatal levels once the landward journey begins and I cannot rehydrate.”

  Ryan shook like a century-old whitehair as he climbed the jumble of the sea wall. He felt a tentacle hit the seat of his plastic and firmly shove him to the top. Ryan crouched. The nearest building was a long, low warehouse. A pair of umiaks lay up on rails beneath open boathouses. Light seeped out from the heavily shuttered window of the attached cottage and smoke rose from the chimney.

  Ryan hugged himself and peered through a crack in the shutters. A small peat fire burned in the fireplace and a black iron kettle hung over it. The furniture was simply a table and two chairs made of bone and leather and a rope bed in the corner. The door seemed to be made of heavy, layered leather. It was latched but not barred. He moved to the door and slid his knife between the door and the jamb, then lifted the latch. Heat washed over him as he slipped inside. Squid followed and seemingly disappeared against the dressed black stone of the walls as Ryan closed the door behind him.

  The curtain to a small antechamber pushed back and a very large, very old man walked out hitching up his homespun trousers. He spied Ryan by the door. “Rads, thunder and fall out!” The old man staggered backward clutching his chest. “Oh, no, no, no...”

  Ryan’s knife gleamed dully in the firelight. “Quiet.”

  The old man stopped back-peddling as he bumped into the table. “You’re not a sea-mutie?”