“We’ll go down on the night side, where there’s less turbulence. Then since there’s a charge of piracy hanging over us in Olam, we’ll divide everything between ourselves and split up. That’s our plan, Captain, and it makes no difference whether we take you alive or dead.”
“If you imagine I’ll give up this enterprise now, you don’t know me,” Zhorga said. He wasted no more time in words, but launched himself at Sparge, ignoring the gun that was pointed at his chest. So sudden was the attack that Sparge failed to fire, and Zhorga knocked the muzzle of the pistol aside.
Blades clashed and rang as the two hacked at one another. It was exaggerated, awkward swordplay. Chary of moving their feet for fear of losing control over their bodies, they swung grotesquely this way and that, while Sparge’s followers edged nervously forward, looking for an opening.
To avoid being surrounded, Zhorga backed himself against the rail, near the wall of the air balloon. It was then that Sparge found a moment in which to aim his flintlock, and he fired.
The shot, deafening in the enclosed space, was both clumsy and stupid. The ball missed Zhorga and punctured the air balloon behind him. The balloon began to deflate with a shrill whistling noise, but Zhorga, as if unaware of it, grinned and pressed a fresh assault.
Everything had happened so fast that neither Clabert nor Rachad had so far been able to react. But now, without thinking, Rachad plunged past the three with axes, dodged Sparge and Zhorga, and threw himself toward the puncture.
It was about the size of a fingernail, and as he got closer the evacuating air became like a miniature whirlwind. He slapped his hand over the hole. Air pressure immediately clamped his palm to the slick material, and he could feel the hole sucking at his skin like a ravenous little mouth.
“A patch, bosun, a patch!” he yelled desperately. He closed his eyes, frightened by the grunting of men and the clanging of steel behind him. He guessed that the balloon had already lost a fair amount of air, for he felt dizzy and short of breath.
Then the clashing stopped. A hand fell on his shoulder.
He opened his eyes. It was Clabert, with a patch. The bosun helped him to force his hand sidewise of the puncture, substituting the square of adhesive. It flew to the hole, sticking itself down and sealing the puncture.
Sparge lay on the deck. Blood oozed from a wound in his neck and flowed down into his suit. The other three mutineers cowered against the starboard rail, weapons hanging in limp gloves.
Zhorga spoke. “All right, Boogle. Who organized this charade?”
Boogle rolled his eyes. He was a stooped, cadaverous figure and he looked even more deathly in the light of the sails. “Sparge and Boxmeld mostly, Captain,” he muttered, then broke into a spluttering rush of words. “We don’t want to die in space, Captain. The Queen isn’t built for this kind of thing. Mars is too far away… Let’s go home.”
Clabert grunted with disgust. “Just look at it.”
“They’ve got a touch of panic, all right,” Zhorga agreed. “I’ve quenched mutinies before. We’d better go down below and stamp on this one.”
“What about these three?”
“Take their helmets off them and leave them here.”
The would-be mutineers put up no resistance as they were disarmed. Zhorga found powder and shot in a pouch on Sparge’s belt and loaded the flintlock, handing it to Clabert together with Sparge’s saber.
He handed Rachad an axe. “Hold this for show, lad, but if it comes to a fight—best stay out of the way.”
Rachad nodded. Little else was said—Zhorga seemed completely in command, completely confident. They suited up, then carried the additional helmets and weapons through the sphincter, stowing them in a locker on the open deck.
With the loping steps they were already used to, Zhorga led the way to the air-shed, a double-doored cubicle erected on the maindeck which acted as an airlock and gave access to below decks. One by one they passed through it, pulling themselves hand over hand down the companionway beneath until they were standing in the short corridor that led to the common messdeck. Here they removed their helmets and placed them on the companionway steps. A murmur of voices came from the end of the passageway, where a glimmer of lamplight outlined the frame of a door.
Zhorga beckoned. Lead boots thudded quietly on timber as they crept to the end of the corridor. Then Zhorga pushed open the door, and without a pause stepped through.
Faces turned, and froze to see Zhorga’s bearded visage. Zhorga glowered around him, taking in the long compartment with bunks down both sides and a board table down the middle. A barrel of powdered air threw off a faint smoke which dissipated quickly into breathable phlogiston. He had known there were not many weapons aboard; as he glanced here and there he saw axes, knives, a couple of swords—and one more flintlock, lying on the table in front of Boxmeld, who was regarding him with a calculating eye.
Zhorga pointed his cutlass at him. “Sparge got what he deserved, Boxmeld—and the same is in store for you, unless you give yourself up and take whatever punishment I mete out.”
Standing to the rear, Rachad wondered if Zhorga’s apparent confidence was not misplaced. What if the whole crew were ready to rally behind Boxmeld? How could Zhorga possibly cope?
Boxmeld clearly had the same thought. He came to his feet with an unpleasant smile and turned, addressing the others. “Well, do you want to follow our good captain into eternity, boys? Do you want to die out here, where no one will even find our bodies? Of course you don’t—so get them!”
As he snapped out the last words he snatched up his pistol. But Clabert was too quick for him; his shot took Boxmeld in the throat, and the renegade fell slowly back with the blast still resounding on the air.
His death was hardly noticed by those who attempted to rush the newcomers. Zhorga and Clabert found themselves shoulder to shoulder, facing a dozen angry and determined men. Rachad, heeding Zhorga’s earlier advice, dodged back into the passageway, and peered between the straining bodies to try to see what was happening.
Zhorga realized that few of his crewmen had stomach enough to fight. Even so, the odds were heavily against himself and Clabert, encumbered as they were in their spacesuits. He slashed and swiped, ripping cloth and spilling a spray of blood, at the same time taking a nick in the cheek.
Momentarily the mutineers drew back from the ferocious blades. “Give up!” a voice cried hoarsely. “You haven’t got a chance!”
At that moment a loud pounding noise came from the far end of the messdeck. A door that led to a storeroom burst open. Through it piled four men whose faces Zhorga had noticed were missing from the gathering—those same diehards who had already saved the ship when she had been caught in the hurricane.
Yelling wildly, the four raced the length of the mess-deck, shoving aside any who stood in their way and grabbing up chairs to attack the renegades from the rear. For a while the scene resembled a tavern brawl. In the confusion Zhorga managed to disarm one of the swordsmen facing him, snatching up the weapon and tossing it to his new fillies.
Axes and knives were no match for three skillfully wielded swords, and suddenly the fight did not seem so uneven. Even so, more blood was spilled before the mutineers lost heart, threw down their weapons and backed grudgingly against the bunks. Three were dead; four others lay injured.
Zhorga called for Salwees, a sailor who doubled as barber and amateur surgeon. While the wounds were being dressed he turned to Bruge, one of those who had come bursting in from the storeroom.
“Thanks for your intervention,” he said. “I was wondering where you were.”
“We couldn’t get loose straight away,” Bruge replied. He grinned crookedly. “They took us by surprise, you know. But you needn’t worry about us—we’re with you, all the way.”