Galleon

by CJ Williams

  He stood on the waist behind the quarterdeck stairs and peered over the railing. The yachts were still a good thousand feet away. Within the range of automatic weapons, but not close enough for them to shoot accurately. Of course, with that many guns, all they needed was to put enough lead in the air. They’d already done enough damage by taking out the radios. Gus stepped into view, trying to scan all the boats at once.

  One bright spot was that the tiny armada was composed of business yachts and not military vessels. The Necker Craft model was rated for up to eight passengers and crew. If the yachts were carrying six or seven combatants each, there was little chance that Alyssa’s small crew could fight off a force that size.

  The boats slowed to a stop several hundred feet off the starboard bow. Gus had to even the odds. The accuracy of Alyssa’s cannons was good when a ship the same size was about twenty feet away. Beyond that, it was pure luck to hit anything.

  If he could get them in a little closer, it would give Hawkins’s cannoneers the best possible shot. How to proceed? Bravado? Or reason?

  “Hello!” Gus shouted at the nearest yacht. Three men stood in the open hatchway. “You must be Bullock. Perhaps you are looking for some first aid kits?”

  “Captain,” Alyssa’s voice said from the deck speaker.

  “What?”

  “We are in space. Your voice will not carry to those ships.”

  Gus felt like an idiot. He had totally not thought of that.

  Alyssa continued, “Would you like me to transmit your question to the lead ship?”

  “Do it!” Gus said.

  “Also, Captain. As you know the autopilot systems for the star drive and sails are off-line.”

  “I know, Alyssa! What’s your point?”

  “My gravity drives are fully functional and can provide steering. I can aim your cannons with accuracy. Please instruct Gun Captain Hawkins to only fire on my command.”

  “I can’t at the moment,” Gus said. “You tell him!”

  *.*.*.*

  Bullock leaned forward, gripping the rail of the hatchway. The man on the galleon was either brave or foolish, standing there like he was on a Sunday cruise. Not that it made any difference.

  The pilot’s voice came over the intercom. “Boss! I just got a transmission from that sailboat.”

  “Play it back here!”

  The old man’s voice filled the cargo bay. “Hello! You must be Bullock. Perhaps you are looking for some first aid kits?”

  Bullock sputtered at the man’s audacity.

  “You’re dead, mister,” Bullock called.

  “You want me to transmit that, boss?” the pilot asked

  “Yes, you moron! Transmit everything I say!”

  “Message sent,” the pilot said. “I’ll keep relaying.”

  “I’m dead?” Gus replied and laughed derisively. “As I recall, it was your people that died last time we met. I see you brought plenty more to bury in space. Did you tell your new crew how the others died in a vacuum? The guy named Carey lived three days before he froze to death. That boat finally burned up on reentry.”

  Bullock screamed in rage, and he emptied a magazine into the side of the ship. The men beside him followed his lead. As soon as Bullock raised his weapon, Gus disappeared behind the stairs.

  When the bullets stopped, Gus stepped out and taunted him again. “I’ve already called for help. Your best chance is to leave now. The navy will arrive any second. If you’re smart, you’ll get while you can.

  “I love it when they get cocky,” Bullock said. “It only takes one round, and it’s all over.” He emptied a new magazine, forcing Gus to duck once more.

  The old man seemed to come to the same conclusion. “Enough,” his voice said over the intercom. “What do you want?”

  “You know what I want,” Bullock responded. “You better pray you still have it.”

  “That stuff is not what you think. It’s a cooking spice, not the star drive material. I can prove it to you if you come aboard by yourself. Or if you’ll stay where you are, I’ll throw one to you.”

  The old man had to be an idiot to come up with such a ridiculous story. Was he willing to die to keep the stuff for himself? Bullock would see to it. But it would not be a quick death.

  *.*.*.*

  Gus was running out of ideas. He heard a “psst,” behind him. Esther pushed Bullock’s medical container onto the deck from the door to the officers’ quarters. Gus grabbed the handle and hoisted it onto his shoulder.

  “I’ve got your stuff here!” he shouted at Bullock.

  A voice behind Gus came from the companionway to the gun deck. Jackson stood on the steps out of view from the pirates. “All guns ready, Captain, port and starboard,” he said.

  “Alyssa,” Gus said. “Be ready to fire on my command. I’m going to bring them in a little closer first.”

  “Understood. Waiting for your order.”

  Gus stepped toward the railing once again with the medical box. “Here it is!” he shouted at the pirate. “You can have it all if you swear to leave us alone.”

  Bullock laughed in the hatchway. He made a low remark to the man next to him, who snarked nasally.

  Gus mumbled to himself, “I’m not going to guess what that comment was.” He flipped open the catches on the box and upended the contents over the railing. “Waste of a lot of good meals,” he said.

  A stream of light-brown spice bars floated away from the hull, tumbling in all directions. They swirled up and around; a few drifted up onto the deck, but most floated gently outward like fall-colored leaves in a cold breeze.

  Gus tossed the empty container over the side then snatched up one of the muskets. He raised it to his shoulder, sighted quickly along its ancient barrel, and squeezed the trigger.

  The flash from the priming pan filled his eyes with sparks and smoke, and the rifle kicked like a mule. Without hesitating, Gus raised the second musket and fired.

  *.*.*.*

  “You bastard,” Bullock screamed when Gus dumped the container. The man was insane! Who throws away ten fortunes just like that? Then he saw Gus aiming a rifle and instinctively stepped aside. One of the men behind him grunted. It was Julio. He fell back bleeding from an ugly chest wound. Another shot splattered against the hatch rail and sent bullet fragments into the interior. Several of his guys started cursing.

  Bullock said, “Pilot, tell the other ships to move forward and gather up those ingots. We’ll provide cover fire to keep that bastard’s head down.”

  His frustration was uncannily familiar. It was the same as what he’d felt while watching Carey’s encounter with the old man. Nothing had gone right.

  Bullock fired off a stream of bullets at Gus, but the man had already stepped back out of sight. “Tell everyone to get moving!” he shouted. “If we lose that stuff we lose everything! I’ll pay a thousand dollars for each bar!”

  Rudy pulled Bullock away from the hatchway, saying, “Watch it, boss. You lean out any further, you’re going to kill yourself.”

  “All right,” Bullock said, forcing himself to calm down. He shrugged off Rudy’s grip and stepped back into the bay. “Take over. Keep his head down. But don’t kill him. I’ll do that myself.”

  “You got it, boss,” Rudy said, as he began to calmly plink away at the Alyssa.

  Bullock added, “But stay out of the line of those cannons.”

  *.*.*.*

  Gus congratulated himself. Two shots, two hits; and at almost a thousand feet, no less! An old smoothbore musket wouldn’t even shoot a hundred yards on a planet, but empty space was a different story.

  “Jackson!” he shouted into the stairway.

  “Sir,” Jackson responded.

  “Hold on the gun ports and standby the starboard cannons to fire on my command.”

  “Aye, sir. Hawkins!” Jackson relayed the instruction, followed by the faint echo of Hawkins passing the order to the gun crews.

  The enemy yachts moved toward Alyssa, maneu
vering back and forth while the bandits leaned out to scoop up spice bars like monkeys grabbing through bars for peanuts. Bullock’s yacht stayed well back. As the rest closed to within fifty yards, Gus decided it was probably the best range he’d get.

  “Alyssa, can you adjust our line of fire?”

  “Yes, Captain, if you give me the helm.”

  “You have control. Take out those yachts close to us. Fire when ready.”

  “Coming about.”

  Gus slid down the steps to the gun deck. The stern drifted gently to port, and the deck rolled slightly so that the closest yacht was directly abeam their mainmast.

  Alyssa’s voice filled the air. “Open all starboard gun ports!”

  Jackson shouted at his men. “Do it, lads! Gun ports open now!”

  Eight pairs of hands yanked on the ropes, and the starboard ports swung up in unison.

  Through the open ports, the bandits were a rough-looking lot; dirty faces and unwashed shirts from being crowded for too long on small yachts not meant for extended voyages. One or two even sported droopy mustaches, adding to their piratical caricature.

  “Make ready to fire!” Alyssa thundered.

  Every man on the gun deck pulled on the breeches until the carriages slammed tightly against the bulwark.

  “Ready!” Jackson confirmed.

  The pirates ignored the galleon while they scooped up the floating contraband. Their machine guns were slung over stooped shoulders, and others lay on the floor inside the hatches, put aside for later use.

  Able Seaman Lucas propped himself between two of the massive iron bombards, checking and rechecking his feet, making sure he wouldn’t be crushed when the giant guns recoiled.

  Across from him, Martinez flashed a nervous grin, his face etched with both fear and anticipation. The ship rolled slightly to starboard. The gun line was now aimed directly at the pirate yachts.

  Alyssa’s voice boomed across the deck. “FIRE!”

  The four enormous cannons discharged simultaneously, sending steel, flame, and death toward the pirates. The recoil knocked Lucas off his feet as twenty tons of iron slammed against the breeches with locomotive force. Smoke filled the gun deck. Goddard screamed at Lucas to move so he could ram the swab down the barrel and douse the remaining sparks.

  Fifty yards away the cannonballs ripped through the business yachts’ flimsy metal hulls, shattering everything in their path and flinging shards of hot metal throughout the interiors.

  The low-end commercial yachts were never intended for combat. They were not designed with hardened interiors or reinforced bulkheads. Neither did they feature multiple redundant control systems. Shrapnel penetrated every compartment, including their ad hoc ammunition storage lockers. Secondaries were instantaneous, and the vessels exploded, sending men and material spiraling into space.

  “Reload!” Alyssa shouted.

  The men in one yacht half-heartedly tried to pull some of their fellows into their cargo bay. A noble but useless endeavor; those comrades were already dead.

  Gus calculated Bullock’s losses. Three boats and their crews gone, six remaining; easily another fifty men out there to deal with. But the odds were a little better; they were down to about twice his own force. But the pirates were still armed with automatic weapons. Time to keep them off balance while he had the chance.

  “Jackson!” he shouted.

  “Sir!”

  “Man the forward guns. Let’s see if we can repeat.”

  Gus examined the remaining boats. The yachts began pulling away from their burning wingmen, but in an attempt to move clear of the cannons, one of the pilots managed to poke his prow into the cargo bay of another. The pair were temporarily jammed together.

  “Alyssa! Target those two boats!”

  “Acknowledged.”

  Alyssa maneuvered to line up the three smaller guns on the conjoined yachts. “Make ready the culverins!” she said.

  The forward guns were already filled with chain shot. Gus hoped three barrels of the oversized buckshot would do some damage.

  After the men responded to Alyssa’s preparatory commands, she called out, “Fire!”

  The two disabled yachts did not explode in the same spectacular fashion, but flame and atmosphere vented from their hulls, which meant they were out of commission. Gus clinched his fist in victory. Five down.

  If the first volley stunned the pirates into a catatonic shock, the second brought them back to life. Automatic weapons let loose from all four of the remaining cargo hatches.

  “Close the starboard gun ports!” Gus shouted, as machine gun fire raked back and forth along the hull. Sparks danced like little embers off every bullet impact, and he worried about the gunpowder.

  He got a glimpse of the remaining yachts strung out in single file, racing around to the port side. Could they actually be so stupid? Were the idiots actually going to give him a chance to fire another broadside?

  Gus shouted at Hawkins as he charged up the stairs back to the waist. “Man the port guns!”

  “Sir!”

  On the main deck, Gus watched one of the yachts round the bow and disappear under the bowsprit, muzzle flashes sparking in and out through the rigging. He crouched and crept over to the port gunwale. They were coming around Alyssa’s figurehead one after the other in close trail.

  He leaned forward, chancing a better look at the remaining opponents, but a volley of lead kicked up small sparks near his cheek.

  “Alyssa! Tell Jackson to fire portside guns as they go by!”

  “Acknowledged.”

  The command echoed from below, and Gus hurried back down the steps. He needed more muskets. After this volley, the cannons would be of little use. Reloading would take too long if the pirates decided to board.

  The gun deck was a battle scene from ancient wars. Goddard lay on the deck, blood pouring from a bullet wound in his chest. The doc knelt over him with her medical bag, trying to stuff a piece of gauze into the hole. Hawkins directed the fire as Jackson peered out of the aft-most gun port, estimating speed and distances of the attacking craft. Bullets ricocheted into the open gun ports every few seconds. Gus flinched as a slug whined off the nearby bulkhead.

  Two of the big guns fired in sequence, filling the deck with even more smoke. Martinez picked up the wet swab lying next to Goddard and rammed it down one of the barrels. Mercer and Gillespie levered a freshly loaded cannon back to the port wall, ready to fire when given the command.

  A scream of pain filtered through the haze. Kovis rocked back from the forward gun port, blood streaming from a head wound.

  Jackson pointed to the middle cannon and shouted, “Fire!”

  Seigler yanked on the lanyard, setting off yet another detonation, and then danced out of the way as the adjacent weapon discharged on Jackson’s next command of “Fire!”

  Hawkins noticed Gus for the first time. “Sir?”

  Gus hollered over his shoulder, “Carry on, Mister Hawkins!” He sped back up the stairs, two freshly loaded muskets in his arms.

  A hoarse, “Aye aye, sir,” rattled in his wake.

  The men were giving a good account of themselves, but it was a losing battle at this rate. The gun deck would become a bullet trap if the pirates figured it out and concentrated their fire on the gun ports. He glanced over both rails, counting the circling yachts. There were still three of them left. Hawkins had connected with the fourth, and it was floating away in pieces.

  The enemy completed a full circuit around the Alyssa, then congregated in front of the bow away from the cannon fire. They had figured out that danger. Gus had a premonition of what was coming. They would try to board.

  Gus shouted down the stairs, “Mr. Jackson! All hands on deck with muskets. Fix bayonets and prepare to repel boarders.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Footsteps thundered up the stairs, and a dozen men rushed out, instinctively bending low, seeking shelter along the gunwale. The yachts were moving in close, preparing for their assa
ult. Jackson appeared and crouched next to Gus.

  “Here.” Jackson handed Gus a twenty-four-inch dagger, the hilt accentuated by a double ring of iron.

  Gus took the bayonet and fitted it snugly over the end of his musket. He set the ancient rifle aside and picked up another to use for his first shot. Both men ducked as a hail of lead crashed into the gunwale along the port side.

  Gus muttered, “Here they come.” He moved toward the port gunwale to take aim at the approaching yachts. He pointed at two men crouched by the forecastle. “Seigler, Gillespie, get back over to the starboard side. Watch they don’t send a boat around to our backside.”

  The two men nodded their understanding and positioned themselves to watch both sides and provide supporting fire where needed.

  Gus wanted to give a lot more advice to the men; explain what they needed to do to fight off the pirates. He wanted to tell Kyoko and Hannah to stay clear. He wanted…

  And then the pirates were there.

  Three yachts came smoking up along the port beam with at least fifteen machine guns raking Alyssa with fire. The sailors crouched behind the gunwale, mast, and stairs, hunkering down away from the firestorm of bullets that splattered against the ship. Two heavy thumps echoed through the hull as yachts banged against the side.

  The pirates cursed at each other as their pilots tried to raft up evenly to the galleon. Alyssa rocked the boat side to side, making the task more difficult.

  Six of Gus’s sailors sprang from cover and pointed their muskets over the rail. The popping retorts from the antique rifles sounded comically ineffective compared to the automatic weapons that replied. Wilson took too long trying to line up a shot and jerked back, screaming in pain from the bullets that stitched across his shoulder. His musket fired wild, and he dropped it over the side. He fell to the deck, and two shipmates scrambled from their hiding places to pull him to safety.

  The first group of raiders came over the rail, pumping fire, to be met by the sailors returning a volley en masse. The first row of pirates fell to the deck shot full of holes, but the second echelon was right behind them.

  Without conscious thought, Gus leveled the two-foot bayonet at the tip of his musket and rushed forward, shouting at the top of his lungs. Around him, the rest of the sailors sprang to his side, and collectively they skewered the second group of pirates before they could get off a shot.