by Nick Travers
Chapter 48
“We’re taking her in, Lieutenant,” I warn Borker, with my best growl.
“No we’re not, Pup, and we never were.” He hasn’t called me that in a while, and it still stings. “She’s had every opportunity to turn back, but she refused. Now she knows her mother is alive, she is too dangerous to return to New Frisco. Of course, I wouldn’t have taken the chance—I would have disposed of her long ago, but she wanted otherwise.”
I must have misheard what Borker said. “Did you say Eve Swift is alive?”
“Of course. What do you think this whole chase is about?”
I am still struggling to process this incredible revelation. “Does my father know she’s alive?”
“Better for him that he doesn’t know.”
Not only did Borker know Eve Swift was alive, but he seems to be in some sort of debate with her about the fate of her daughter. Suddenly, I remember the note I found in Borker’s cabin. “Your fate will be her fate.” How could I possibly have believed it came from my own father? Clearly that was a warning from Eve Swift.
If Nina is dangerous because she knows her mother’s secret, and it is better for my father if he doesn’t know, what sort of danger am I? Somehow I have to persuade Borker to toe the line. “Our orders—”
“Your orders no longer apply, Pup.” He smiles so smugly I want to punch his lights out.
“That’s mutiny, lieutenant.”
“Certainly is.”
Now he has gone too far. This is it. This is the final standoff that I have been dreading all along. Well, I’m not backing down and I’m pretty sure now that I can trust my crew. “Arrest Lieutenant Borker,” I instruct. “Hold him in the brig.”
Instead of compliance I am faced with a wall of pistols and I realize how few of my original crew are on deck: two, to be precise. Plus me.
Somehow, Borker has delegated the majority of my original crew onto other ships in the fleet—mainly the ones left behind, too damaged to continue. With a sinking gut, I remember distant conversations, about how the other ships needed the expertise of our crew for repairs; for navigation, for cooking, for weapons training. Like a klutz, taking pride in the flattery lavished on my crew, I agreed to these reasonable requests. Borker has out maneuvered me. Again.
How can I possibly protect Nina from him now?
Borker blesses me with his triumphant grin—the one I hate so much. “Hand over your weapons, please.” The three of us reach slowly for our holstered pistols. The mutiny is complete.
“Reavers.”
We are interrupted by running feet and urgent voices. Something metallic thuds into the hull and splinters blast across the deck, forcing the crew to dive for cover.
“They are upon us!” Borker yells.
Automatically, I bellow orders. “All hands make ready to repel borders! Fire a flare to alert our other ships! Arm the prisoners—we need all the help we can get.”
“Belay that last order!” Borker has his pistol sticking up my left nostril. “She stays put.” His breath stinks. “She ain’t slipping away again. And when this is over, Pup, we continue where we left off.” He thrusts my pistol back into my hand and shoves me roughly to the side rail. “Now, get over there and kill me some Reavers. You there,” he bawls at someone else, “get up top and defend the blimp—we don’t want them taking out our gas bags, do we.”
I have no idea what Borker expects me to do with a pistol at this range. As I approach the rail, I see a constable slumped to the deck, a bullet in his left shoulder, and a look of surprise on his face. “Captain?” Suddenly, we are all on the same side again.
I prop the constable up against the rail. “Here.” I press his right hand to his left shoulder. “Keep plenty of pressure here to stop the bleeding—the medic should be along soon.” Except, I don’t even know if we have any medics on board any more. Then I slide my pistol into the constable’s free hand. “Watch my back and see what you can do with this.” I take the constable’s compression rifle, complete with bayonet, and slip his bandoleer of compression bullets over my head.
I know my strengths. I am a crack shot with a rifle. I shove the muzzle over the rail, slap a new bullet into the breach, slam it closed, and ram home the bullet. I aim at a Reaver on the deck opposite, and gently squeeze the trigger. The compressed air canister, attached to the bullet, rips open and the bullet blasts out of the rifle towards the enemy. I don’t bother to confirm my hit. I snap open the breach, dodge the expelled bullet case, and grab another bullet. Repeat. And repeat. And repeat.
I concentrate on taking down as many Reavers as I can, but there are so many of them. I know that when the other ships in our small fleet catch up, they will help clear the Shonti Bloom of any boarders. In the meantime, I aim to reduce the number of Reavers before they board.
I also target the exposed ship’s wheel on the open Reaver deck. If I can make it difficult for the Reavers to steer, or even damage the steering rig, we might just break free. Of course, they are targeting our steering too. Whenever I lack a target, I randomly shoot into the Reaver’s blimp—I might just get lucky and hit something vital.
I ignore what is happening behind me as Reavers crash onto the deck and hand-to-hand fights begin. The constable at my feet occasionally fires off my pistol, then stops completely. I glance down to see his lifeless eyes staring up at me from the deck. Damn.
Suddenly, a hand grabs me from behind and hauls me towards a hatch and down the steps into the gloom of the below deck. I twist out of the grip ready to jab my assailant with the bayonet, only to find it is Borker dragging me out of trouble as the Reavers finally take the flight deck.
“This way laddie. Can’t leave you to the Reavers, can we?”
I know he’s saving my life, but I still resent him for it—yet another leaver he can pull, if we survive.
“Blast.” Borker spits as we crowd into the narrow corridor, which leads to the cabins and lower decks. Now we are trapped.
“Everyone take cover,” Borker instructs, “and shoot any Reavers who try to come through that hatch.”
The remaining constables take shelter in whatever doorways they can find. All their weapons point up the steps towards the flight deck. The first Reaver through the hatch will die in a hail of bullets; the same is probably true of us if we try to rush the flight deck. Stalemate. Except the Reavers control the ship and can deal with us at their leisure.
Borker barges his way down the corridor towards the lower ship’s wheel and swarms up a ladder at the end which is attached to the wall. “They may have taken the ship,” he snarls, “but there is one thing they’re not taking.”
Belatedly, I realize Borker is undoing the bolts on a tiny trapdoor in the ceiling. A trapdoor that leads to the map room above and is used to communicate with the helmsman on the lower ship’s wheel when the weather is too rough to use the deck wheel. Borker throws open the hatch and points his pistol through the gap. Over Borker’s shoulder, I can just see the callow youth, Trent, lowering Nina to sit on a bench. She has her flight jacket done up tight, as if she is about to go somewhere, but her are eyes closed.
Trent half turns towards us as he steadies Nina, startled by the sudden appearance of Borker. “She banged her head,” he says by way of explanation. Then his eyes bulge as he spots Borker’s pistol. “Noooo.”
Everything switches into slow motion: My stomach cramps—I know what Borker intends, but I am too far away to stop him. Even so, I still hurl myself at the ladder. And in the map room, Trent launches himself at Borker too. Then I lose sight of everything except Borker’s head filling the hatch.
Borker’s pistol steadies. His finger applies pressure to the trigger. Then he gently squeezes. “To save us all,” he shouts.
Bang.
The crack of his compression pistol is deafening in the confined space of the corridor.
I grab Borker and haul him down the ladder. Desperately, I leap up the rungs of the ladder and shove my head through the
communication hatch.
Trent is lying on the ground holding his head. Borker has hit Trent instead of Nina. I heave a sigh of relief, but it is short lived.
“Don’t shoot,” Trent cries, lifting his hands away from his head.
Then I see Nina slumped over on the bench, her auburn hair in disarray. A neat dark hole drilled in her forehead. Her eyes open, staring lifelessly at the ceiling.
“Nina.” Trent shouts, and throws himself at her prone body.
“Nina.” I whisper, but Trent is already covering her with a sheet. He looks down at my face sticking through the floor, tears streaming down his face and shakes his head. No hope.
I want to reach for her hand, to feel for a pulse, but Borker grabs me from behind. “It had to be done, lad,” he says, almost gently. “She knew too much. She was too dangerous. This is for the good of all.”
“Is she…?” I whisper to Trent. “Is she…?” But I saw for myself those lifeless eyes. There is no hope.
Nina swift is dead.
