Shadowboxer (20 page)
A frantic knock came at the cabin door, and then the portal slammed open, a frightened engineer from below decks too fragging busy to be either shocked, or titillated, by the carnal scene.
“Sea serpents attacking the ship!” he cried, tossing a chatter-gun and a belt of mixed ammo on the carpeted deck. “All passengers to the foredeck to help defend the Emmy!”
The slave slowed her ministrations. But Attila only chuckled and refilled his glass. “Nothing to do with us, little flower,” he sighed, drawing the smoke of the pungent cigar deep into his lungs and then letting it out slowly. “I paid for a first class cabin, and that means they fight for me. Not vice versa.” He lowered the goblet, offering her a sip of cool wine, then pushed her head back to its earlier position. “Continue.” Meekly, the girl did as commanded, her chains rattling as she shifted to a more comfortable position.
Ah, life was good. The credsticks he’d stolen from the deaders at the old ork’s doss had carried a small fortune in them. A fortune! As expected, the Overtown stickshyster offered him only a tenth of the nuyen shown. So Wesley displayed a few of the handguns he’d also acquired while a trusted gutterchum waddled in hoisting the Vindicator minicannon. Suddenly, the price was raised to half.
After paying off his
omae,
Wesley bought toff rags and split for Africa. Leaving town was a necessary move, and Africa was the most faraway place he knew. In Casablanca, he officially became Attila Abelovzsky, a Hungarian arms dealer, and managed to auction off the rest of the weapons, including the Vindicator, to some paramilitary suits in the Congo really hungry for top-string bangbangs. Oddly, the data chips he’d found around the apartment brought an even greater price from an Arab sheik than all the guns combined. Weird.
Now Attila was rolling in wealth, a fragging mil in the Cayman Island banks, eighty-five kay on his personal stick, and a confirmed chip dealer. He knew a good thing when he found it. Smuggling guns was crudcreds compared to boosting industrial chips. Some serious nuyen spread about on the streets of Addis Ababa gave him names to contact in Angola. A deal was quickly cut with some slaves, surprisingly easy too, and here he was sailing to Brazil in style, the little lovely at his feet carrying his next million surgically implanted inside her collapsed left lung. After the stolen Chinese chips were extracted in Rio, he’d sell her to the local snuff jockeys, then see what Seattle had to offer in way of fun and biz. That was the place to be these days. Yar, life was almost too fragging wonderful to believe. And he was supposed to worry about some snake? Ha!
* * *
Howls, screams, and explosions sounded constantly above the growing noise of the storm. Who was attacking, and more importantly, who was winning, was completely unknown. Privately, the female servicing the boy fumed in rage over the cowardice of the idiot. If the situation was so bad topside that they were recruiting the fragging passengers, then their own lives might depend on one extra gun in the fight! Of all the buyers at the auction, why did she have
the bad luck to be bought by this motherless gleeb?
Not soon enough would they be off this bucket and then she’d be able to cut this fool’s throat, establishing herself in society as a woman of means with a mountain of nuyen from the hot chips tucked inside her. A fine dinner, a good wine, a massage, a lot of the kinky sex he liked so much and afterward the exhausted boy would fall asleep without setting the security system on her collar and never awaken again. It was how she’d gotten out of jail, and what better way to escape the death sentence and the magistrates than to be smuggled off the island using somebody else’s nuyen and connections?
However, her slave masquerade must continue until they were once more ashore. With a girlish giggle, Ruby the Razor pretended lusty enthusiasm, consoling herself by imagining what she would do to the naked flesh of her master when she was free. Oh, yes, what she and her lovely, lovely straight razor would do.
* * *
Stopping at their cabin only long enough to grab their personal weapons, Silver and the others charged up the main causeway to the forecastle and burst into the bridge room of the lurching cargo ship. In dripping poncho and hat, Captain Villiers was lashed to the wheel, shouting details of their location and situation into a standard black crashbox, his shoes anchored to the deck with stout steel clips. Silver recognized it as the deadman pose. With a shock, she realized he didn’t expect to succeed. Or even survive.
Industrial wipers struggled uselessly to clear the rain off the Armorlite windows of the bridge. The storm raged unabated outside, lightning flashing as waves crashed over the ship, covering the deck with foamy brine. And writhing about in the maelstrom was a dark shape barely visible through the heavy downpour, a sinuous length of muscles and scales thicker than a tree. Howling in fury, the beast coiled about madly, crushing crew members, passengers, and splintering a lifeboat as if it was made of balsa wood, not duraplas. The gunfire never stopped for a moment.
“Rock and roll,” breathed Thumbs, sucking a tusk while checking the clip in the Mossberg CMDT, which he’d adopted ever since the shoot-out at Scott Gordon’s doss.
“Been to Chicago lately?”
“Yar.”
Something crashed into the bridge, rattling the whole structure and damaging a window, causing a spray of sparks to erupt from a console as the cold ocean water gushed in through the thin cracks. With a cry, Lieutenant O’Shanassey rushed over to the main control board just as a petty officer grabbed a mike from the console.
“Main guns, firefirefire!” shouted the bosun, and from above them a barrage of fiery darts lanced out past the colossus coiled around the bow of the struggling ship.
“Get away from there!” cursed O’Shanassey, cuffing the man aside. “It’s aim, lock, fire, you fragging gleeb!” She pointed furiously at the control board. “Look! Half our missiles gone and no hits!” Snapping open the flap on her belt holster, the lieutenant pulled a handgun into view and laid a finger on the trigger. At the slight pressure, a moving red spot appeared on the bosun’s face from the laser clipped under the big barrel. “Outside!”
His face went white, eyes darting to the howling thing on the foredeck. For a tick the storm parted, exposing the creature’s tremendous head, diamond-shaped eyes, yellowed fangs, and the bloody legs of somebody jutting from its hellish mouth. “But, sir, I—”
The safety clicked off. “Outside or die here!”
Whimpering, the bosun forced open the side door and rushed out into the melee, the driving rain hiding him completely from view in a heartbeat. The metal door slammed shut behind him, and continued to bang until Moonfeather dogged it shut.
Streams of burning tracers dotted the darkness, highlighting the ocean beast as the phosphorus smashed against its scale hide and failed to penetrate.
“We’re armed against pirates,” shouted Villiers over the storm. “The Emmy doesn’t stand a chance against that!”
A shrieking ork sailor stumbled past the wheelhouse, something black attached to his back. Another of the crew spun about fast and hosed the dying ork with tracers and bullets, tearing him and the black lump to bloody pieces.
“What the frag are those?” demanded Silver, checking the clip on her Seco.
“Leeches!” shouted Captain Villiers.
“They live on the snakes in the depths! Or on sharks! Anything with blood. Up here, us!”
Delphia frowned deeply. Manhunter in hand. “Apparently
a meta-version of
macrobdella valdriana
. But the size! Never seen one larger than a meter before. These are giants!” Moonfeather gestured at the open hatchway. Her hands glowed with power, and one of the enormous leeches crawling through the opening suddenly burst into flames, then was instantly washed away by a frothing wave. “At least they’re killable,” she said. “Unlike big daddy out there.”
Moonfeather yanked some magnesium rounds from the bandolier across her chest and began ramming shells into the pump-action Remington. She hefted the weapon onto a shoulder, but then did nothing more. She simply stood and watched the fierce struggle amid the violent storm, her eyes like slits.
“This ain’t no time to get mystical!” yelled Thumbs. “Go throw a lightning bolt or a death spell or a mana dart the size of a telephone pole, but geek that crit!”
Moonfeather seemed not to hear, but remained standing there, one red fingernail pressed against her full lips, deep in thought or reverie.
“Frag this!” With blinding speed, Thumbs opened a storage locker and retrieved a length of thick rope. “Tie me!” he shouted, tossing the loose end to Delphia.
Delphia wound the rope around the middle of the big troll and knotted the end tightly. Then Thumbs lurched out the hatchway, struggling through the raging bombardment of water to reach the railing and tie a second rope about a stanchion to anchor himself. His boots constantly threatened to slip underfoot, and his clothes were soaked in mere ticks.
“Moonfeather?” said Silver. No response. Even when a horde of leeches started for the bound troll at the starboard gunwale.
“Delphia, cover fire!” Silver screamed, her Seco firing away. Assuming a combat stance, Delphia unlimbered his Japanese-made SCK 100 submachine gun and cut loose with short, controlled bursts.
The noise seemed to rouse Moonfeather suddenly. She ripped open the bag of grenades and rushed over to the port hatch. Speaking to each grenade first, she began tossing them fast as she could, underhand, overhand, and sideways. The spheres and pineapples flew toward the monstrous serpent, the blasts illuminating the night but barely damaging the creature.
“Aim!” shouted Lieutenant O’Shanassey into a mike above the howling of the storm. “Lock!” But the final command never came as a leech smashed through the weakened windshield and landed full on her face. O’Shanassey fell back into the bridge, clawing wildly at her head.
From his position at the wheel, Captain Villiers drew a Colt and blew the First Officer’s brains out. In mindless feeding frenzy, the leech didn’t stop sucking the juices of the decapitated corpse until Villiers fired again, and again, puncturing its slick, rubbery skin. Black ichor poured out thickly as the dying thing continued feeding, human red tinting the ebony blood in pumping swirls.
* * *
“Captain on the com,” announced an unshaven Lieutenant, saluting smartly as the commander of the pirate submarine
Manta
stepped through the aft hatchway of the submarine. The rumpled crew at their posts merely grunted at the announcement and continued working, the rainbow of lights from the controls giving the cramped room of the military killing machine an almost holiday feel.
“Carry on,” growled Captain, moving past the effete nancyboy in annoyance. Bloody hoopkisser. His First was a deserter from the UCAS Navy, and still followed regulations meaningless to a pirate boat. Who cared about such drek? As long as the crew instantly obeyed his every command, Captain didn’t give a frag if they washed or stood straight. Damn idjit. At least the gleeb had stopped shaving every day. It was a waste of good hot water.
When Captain first joined the IronHell pirate group, he found it disturbing that most of the crew were called by their jobs when on board: gunner, engineer, cook, rigger, etcetera.
“Have we found them yet, Number One?” he asked, taking his chair—not original equipment, which he considered foolish of the old submariners. Why should the commander stand?
But the vessel was very old, an
Acoola
Class Red Star from before the Awakening. The original crew had disappeared from within the locked sub during a mana storm in the dreaded Triangle some twenty years ago. It had only recently been found intact by a Gunderson oil survey probe his Bermuda contacts had followed out to sea. After locating the sub, his contacts had notified him and he’d notified IronHell of the vessel’s location, as usual. Nuyen changed hands as it always did in such scavenger activities, enough nuyen to make those contacts his for life.
Within a month, the wreck was upgraded and renamed
Manta
. Her liquid crystal display on the rusty conning tower converted from the innocuous serial number of a bogus oceanographic institute to a blazing skull-n-crossbones at the flip of a switch. Startled the drek out of people.
Eventually, his prize was given a choice assignment—hit a merchant class ship for the contraband it held and try out the newest piece of IronHell tech, some sort of laser gun. If all went well, he might be able to split from IronHell and form his own band. Maybe even own a piece of the Caribbean. But the Captain was no fool. He knew dreams never came cheap.
“Aye, aye, sir. Radar contact is confirmed.” Lieutenant passed over a handcomp with a datachip already in the slot. “Here’s the manifest and purser’s list.”
Captain pressed the search pad, then skimmed the info it presented, interested only in passengers. They already knew this was a rich ship, a ripe plum. A cornucopia of Italian machine parts made from valuable ceramic composites. On top of that were the Asian chips: simsense prototypes, military Hunter/Killers, biochips, and more. Not to mention the secret stuff being smuggled in from the labs of Angola. Oh, yes. This fruit cart would never reach home port.
No passengers worth ransom or good-looking enough for the white slave market, however. Merely the standard crew of malcontents and some gutter mercs. Nothing to worry about. No mages on board. Good. The last thing you want on a sub is a mage. Can’t control those mana freaks.