Ryan cautiously stuck his head above the coaming, scanning the deck, seeing that the battle — such as it was — seemed nearly over. The evidence of a short and bitter firefight was all around him.
He counted nine bodies — two still moving — crumpled in the coiling mist. As he looked on, he saw a slim boy with a mane of stark-white hair, bound from left to right, holding a gun that looked too big for him.
"Jak!"
"Ryan?"
"Here."
The teenager appeared alongside the hatch, kneeling on the deck. There was a bruise on the boy's left cheek, and his camouflage jacket was torn across the shoulders. But he was grinning like a hunting wolf, eyes glowing like lasered rubies.
"You well?"
Ryan nodded. "You all here? Krysty? Nobody been hurt?"
"Far's I know. Donfil's up front. J.B. an' Lori chilled his sec guards."
"Got my blasters with you?"
"OnPhoenix."
"What?"
Jak gestured with his thumb to the whaling ship that was moored alongside them. "That's Phoenixthere. Stole it. Captain's okay. Said he'd help if we chilled bitch-woman."
J.B. spotted them and darted along the deck. His mini-Uzi was in his right hand, and the fedora was pushed to the back of his head. His glasses were rimmed with tiny beads of condensation.
He nodded to Ryan. There wasn't any need for anything more. They'd known each other too long for wasted words.
"Ship's taken," he said. "None of us hurt. Some chilled. Rest gone into the room up the bow there. Like living quarters."
"Fo'c'sle," said Ryan.
"How's that?"
"It's called the fo'c'sle."
"Sure. That's where they are. Can't get out under our feet, can they?"
Ryan shook his head. "No. There's no way out. Once we get everything safe we can offer them terms. I'm sure they'll accept once they know we got the queen bee of the bastard hive."
"Where is she?" Jak asked.
Ryan jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Down there with an Astra .44 and a lot of real bad temper."
"Best we move some," J.B. suggested.
They crept quickly through the fog, just a few yards, to take shelter behind the bulk of the mizzenmast, close to the stern.
Krysty's figure loomed out of the mist, holding Ryan's SIG-Sauer P-226, her long red hair cascading behind her like a torrent of purest fire.
"Hi, lover," she said, showing no surprise at finding Ryan crouched behind the mast. "Want your own blaster?"
"Yeah. Be good to have something. I feel kind of undressed."
"We got everything on the Phoenix. Donfil's stuff, too."
He leaned across and kissed her quickly and gently on the cheek, feeling how cold her skin was. "Good to see you, lover," he whispered.
"You, too," she replied with a hint of a catch in her voice.
"Who's minding the store up front?"
"Lori. She's got your Heckler & Koch. Blown away four of the crew with it already. Don't think they'll try and rush her."
"Seen a short guy? Fluffy white hair and a charming smile? Quiet-spoken. Looks like everyone's favorite uncle?"
"Yeah," Jak said. "I seen him, Ryan. Was going blast him. Patted me on head and wished luck. Went down hatch."
"That's Cyrus Ogg. First mate. After the woman, he's the one we want. Watch for him."
The Salvationwas quiet now, only the gentle lapping of the sea under her stem breaking the fog-muffled stillness. Still snug behind the mizzen, the reunited friends heard boots on the deck and the creaking of knee joints.
"Upon my soul, Ryan, my dear chum. I am so delighted once again to renew our acquaintance."
They shook hands. Doc had his Le Mat strapped to his belt, and he carried his sword stick in his right fist.
"These rogues have taken to their lair. Dear Lori guards them and will vent her spleen upon any that attempts escape." Adding, a little ruefully, "And it must be said, my dear fellow, that the child has been exhibiting a touch more spleen toward my good self than is tolerable. But let that pass."
"Need a hand?" shouted the white-haired man from the quarterdeck of the other ship. "We can make out little through this murk."
"We have the Salvation, Captain!" Krysty answered. "A few minutes more and we can take the rest of the crew prisoner. But they aren't a threat anymore."
"What of Captain Pyra Quadde? Where be she?"
"In her cabin," Ryan replied, "awash with blood and corpses."
"Is she injured? Or chilled? Or held close as a prisoner?"
The note of caution was unmistakable. It reminded Ryan of the time the Trader had wiped out a small ville of cutthroats in a wooded valley near the wide Mississippi. Their leader had been a giant, more than eight feet tall, and blind in one eye. He'd so terrified the locals that they wouldn't even come and look at his dead body. In the end they'd used some of their valuable gas from the store wag and burned the baron's massive corpse.
It was the same with Pyra Quadde.
The same terror that would only end when she, too, was safely chilled.
Chapter Thirty-One
When they searched the Salvationthey discovered that one of the whaleboats was missing. Cyrus Ogg was no longer on board the ship. Nor was Pyra Quadde.
"Slipped the cable and away in the fog," Deacon concluded. "Be damned to it! There's scant hope of picking her up by the dawn. The mist clears but slowly."
"Which way will she have gone?" Ryan asked. "To shore?"
"Aye."
"Can the two of them handle the boat on their own?" Donfil asked.
"On such a sea!" Deacon laughed bitterly. "My eight-year-old nephew and his pet rabbit could scull to the shore in such a calm."
"Can we man the other boats and go after her? We've got enough men, surely?" Krysty suggested.
"No, mistress," Deacon said. "Pyra Quadde's cunning as a butter keg of polecats. She'll wriggle, twist and hide and, save us all, come grinning back to Claggartville."
"Are we near the... old redoubt?" J.B. asked cautiously.
"The fortress? Aye. By true reckoning we lie off that lee shore, no more than a couple of miles. If that."
"To row in that far? She could land safely, could she?"
"Neither she nor Cyrus were wounded? No? Then by now they are probably safe and snug. Beached the boat and beginning to strike inland for the old coast blacktop. She could be home before us and have her reception waiting. We can have little hope of the wind rising 'ere noon on the morrow."
Ryan sucked at a back tooth. "I guess your helping us won't make the slut love you. Mebbe we should come back to the ville with you and face her down?"
Deacon sighed. "Bad business. I dearly wish that ye had not chosen the Phoenixas the agent of your relief."
"Price you pay for being the Good Samaritan, Captain," Doc observed.
"I recall nothing in the Good Book, Doctor, about the Good Samaritan finding his help enforced with a large-bore blaster pressed to his temples."
"Ah, yes. Point taken, Captain," the old man muttered.
"But what do we do now?" Donfil asked, now in his own clothes, eyes hidden once more behind his mirrored sunglasses.
J.B. was reloading his Steyr AUG pistol with rounds dug from the capacious pockets of his coat. "We got the crew quiet. Put the chills over the side. And that's brought us a fair crop of sharks to the feeding. I say we take a boat and pull for shore. Make for the redoubt and then go from there. Just like we usually do."