Retreating to the center of the cage, the companions rode through the bumps as the cart rolled up a short flight of stone steps and onto an older street made of cobblestones, the granite pegs worn smooth by the passage of the years.

Suddenly a mob of children shrieked in delight at the arrival of the cage and started pelting the prisoners with stones. The men moved quickly into a huddle to protect their faces, and grunted with the impact of every hard-thrown rock. The driver allowed it for a while, then whipped the brats away.

As the men released one another, they could now observe that this was a much nicer section of the ville. The houses were bigger, and many had glass in their window frames. There were no more farmers selling in the street, and the men and women slowly walking by were dressed in fine clothes with no patches, boots polished, faces well fed. Only the men wore the wide leather belts of a sailor, but both sexes carried blasters on their hips. Often they had liveried servants carrying parcels, or holding umbrellas to keep the sun off their fancy masters.

"Officers quarters," Ryan said.

The horses whinnied as the driver took them up an inclined road, to crest onto a higher level. Here the road was made of redbrick, and the cart wheeled past a yard-tall stone wall lined with heavy cannons, mounds of cannonballs and bags of powder placed close nearby. The gunners stared at the passing prisoners, laughing and making crude comments. Each man wore a wide leather belt with a short sword thrust through. Many were barefoot, with rags tied about their heads to keep the wind from blowing hair into eyes. No lacy dandies here-these were fighting men, the defenders of the ville.

Rubbing a rock bruise on his shoulder, Ryan guessed it was these guards who fired cannons at the Pegasus when it arrived. He looked them over carefully, but saw no signs of recent scratches on their faces. Maybe Krysty, Jak and Mildred slipped free and were safe in the jungle. But there was no way of telling without giving away their presence on the island fortress. He would have to play this very carefully, or they'd all go under the yoke.

More buildings moved past the companions, sturdy structures of brick and concrete, most with sandbags lining the roofs as protection from incoming cannonballs. No children were in sight here, no peddlers, or dogs, and Ryan knew they had reached the heart of the ville. The baron's fortress.

As the cart rattled to a halt in a small courtyard, a dozen men surrounded the iron cage with blasters in their hands. Most were muzzleloading flintlocks, but a few were predark revolvers, and one tall bald man with small ears carried a Thompson machine gun. Ryan marked him as the sec chief.

Burly men walked forward with wrenches and released the chains only after a lot of grunting and a few bleeding knuckles. J.B. reasoned this wasn't standard procedure for prisoners, and wondered what made them special, and how the info could be used to their advantage.

As the door swung aside on squealing hinges, the companions exited one at a time, the pirates keeping them covered with several blasters. Each had the ropes on his feet cut away, but they were lashed together again by chains around their necks. In single file, the companions marched along the brick street, unable to do more than study their surroundings.

The fortress rising before them sported iron grilles on the windows and a massive double door thick enough to stop any blaster round. Inside, the floor was smooth marble, predark lighting fixtures adorning the high ceilings, the walls decorated with faded pictures and recently added gun racks. Doc reasoned this abode was formerly a museum for the tourists visiting the paradise of the Marshall Islands.

"Stop searching for a way out," a bearded man snarled, and lashed Ryan across the back with a strap. "If the baron didn't want you alive, I'd flay you till your bones dropped out for such insolence!"

So the pirate baron really did want them alive, eh? Good. Spinning, Ryan slammed the toe of his boot into the man's gut with all of his strength, the tip hitting just below the lip of the rib cage. Going livid, the pirate staggered backward and dropped his whip, then toppled over.

"Stop your gaffing," a sailor snorted, nudging the big man with a longblaster.

There was no response.

"Pete?" the sailor asked faintly, kneeling by the fallen man to check for a wound. "Nuke me, hegot no breath. Lieutenant Pawter, the fucking outlander aced him!"

"Aced him with a kick," the tall man with the machine gun said, working the bolt on the ancient blaster. "Most impressive."

"Pete was me mate, you modderfucker!" another snarled, cocking back the hammer on a flintlock and pointing the blaster.

"Belay that!" Pawter ordered, and the rest stopped advancing toward the prisoners.

The lieutenant then shifted the aim of his rapidfire toward the chained men. "Nobody goes near Blackie anymore. That bastard is dangerous. Keep your blasters on him at all times. Next move he makes, wound the boy and castrate him on the spot."

Saying nothing, Ryan locked eyes with the lieutenant, and they exchanged a private conversation. Then Ryan eased his stance and started walking along the corridor.

"Yes, very dangerous I see," Pawter said, keeping a clear field of fire between himself and the outland-ers. "Mebbe you are exactly what we need."

"Try that move again, One-eye," the first sailor snarled, drawing a second blaster, this one with a dozen tiny barrels like a honeycomb, "and this pepperbox will show your guts the ground."

Ryan ignored the guard, keeping his attention on the lieutenant. It wasn't only that rapidfire that made him the most deadly enemy in sight.

Marching along some branching corridor and up a grand flight of stairs, the guards stopped the prisoners before an ornate door covered with delicate carvings and intact human hides, the skin perfectly tanned and complete in every detail from the scalp to the genitalia. Doc muttered something in Latin and received a slap to the head that made the man reel.

"No talking," the sailor grunted, raising a hand to deal another blow.

Doc raised himself to his full height and glared defiantly at the other man when Pawter spoke.

"Boss said alive," the lieutenant reminded, the barrel of the Thompson shifting away from the prisoners to point at the angry sailor.

The man noticed the action and lowered his hand, stepping away. "You're mine, prick," he muttered threateningly.

Uncaring, the big guards at the door watched the events, but did nothing. Both were armed with big-bore revolvers, the ammo loops in their police gun belts full of fat rounds. The men were scraped clean and smelted faintly of perfume, their clothing sharply pressed and meticulously clean.

Almost as if they were women, Ryan noted mentally, suppressing an expression of disgust.

Stepping close so nobody else could see, Pawter gave the guards some kind of a complicated hand signal. They responded, then drew their blasters and pushed back the heavy doors, admitting the prisoners into the next room. The barrels of their blasters never wavered from the passing outlanders.

A short antechamber led past what resembled a ticket booth and then opened into an auditorium filled with rows of chairs. At the far end was a stage with a single huge chair on a raised dais. An older man was sitting in the simple throne while a group of frowning men studied the wreckage of the Pegasus . A long table nearby held their backpacks and weapons laid out on display.

Shuffling his boots along the ratty carpet, Ryan almost smiled at the sight, but again withheld comment.

"Yes, I can have my girls patch these bags," a young man said, fingering the cloth of the weather balloons. "But what do we fill them with?"

"We'll ask them," Baron Withers said, rising from his throne.

The man stood big and broad, at first looking fat to the newcomers, but under closer inspection there was only hard muscle showing. Long curly hair was braided into a ponytail and tucked inside his pants, and every inch of exposed skin was a dark brown, but whether naturally or from decades under the tropical sun, there was no way of knowing. The baron wore military fatigues, clean but rumpled as if put on in a hurry. Matching revolvers were tucked into his wide leather belt, the hands turned inward for a cross draw, and an Uzi submachine gun hung over one shoulder. J.B. didn't recognize it as his blaster. Same make and model, but then Millie had told him that the Uzi was one of the most popular rapidfires before skydark. Only made sense he'd encounter another someday.

As the guards moved away from the prisoners, Pawter kept them covered with the rapidfire.

"This them?" the baron demanded, walking to the edge of the stage.

"Bruised, but alive," the lieutenant replied.

"Thought we'd lose at least one," Withers said, almost sounding disappointed. "Okay, who are you and what are you doing on my island?"

"You the baron here?" Ryan asked.

Frowning, Baron Withers pointed at Dean. "Him," he ordered.

With a roundhouse swing, a guard punched Dean in the side of the head and the boy dropped. He held his face in both hands, blood dribbling onto the floor.

Barely controlling his rage, Ryan wasn't surprised at the results, although Dean was strong for his age, he was still a boy, not a man yet.

"You were talking to me," Ryan said gruffly, taking a step forward.

"Then answer my bastard questions," Withers replied, glowering at him. "And the next time you answer a question with a question, Andrew will remove an ear."

A guard drew a wicked knife, the curved blade deeply serrated, made for sawing through bone. "Aye, sir." He grinned, displaying broken teeth.

"I know the formula for black powder," J.B. stated loud and clear.

The guards chuckled at the announcement, and Withers broke into a laugh. Their reactions startled the companions, the formula had been an ace in the hole. Black powder was the backbone of the lord baron's wealth and power. Nobody alive knew what it was made of.

"Do you now?" the baron stated. "How nice. Well, so do I. Forced it from one of the lord baron's barrel boys four seasons ago. That won't buy you anything here, outlander."

"Name's Ryan," he stated. "That's Doc, J.B. and Dean."

"Better," Withers muttered. "Now tell me about your flying machine."

"I think it's broken!" Dean drawled through bleeding lips as he climbed back to his feet.

A snarling guard rushed forward, but Ryan blocked the man's way with his body.

"Harm another one of us and you're dead in the water," he stated. "This isn't something simple like black powder. You'll never get the air wag to fly again without our help."

Ryan turned to face the baron. "Our willing help," he added gruffly. "Or else the blast will level this bastard island."

It was obviously a lie, but how much was bullshit, how much the truth? Buying time, Withers filled a brass mug from a crystal decanter. He slurped the homemade beer, trickles running down his cheeks, then slammed down the brass shell and beamed a smile.

"Fair enough. We'll cut a deal. Pawter, remove their chains."

"My lord?" the lieutenant asked askance.

"Do it!" Withers commanded. Then softly added, "After all, we have their three friends, and at the first lie" He drew a thumb along his neck while making a guttural noise.

Ryan felt hope flare deep inside and tried his best not to show any emotion. They were alive!

The chains around their necks were removed, but the ropes around their hands stayed in place. Ryan didn't mind. It was the metal that had been holding them back. Now they could make a move.

"So tell us," a fat, bearded man on stage demanded gruffly. "What are these bags filled with?"

Rubbing his chafed neck, Ryan scowled. "You want that here?" he said to the baron. "With all these ears present?"

"Stop stalling," Withers growled. "These are my private council. What I know, so do they. Now start talking."

"Doc invented it," Ryan said.

A sailor scowled. "The old man did?"

"Indeed I did, sir. And I will elucidate, if I may," Doc rumbled in his best schoolroom manner, and started up the stairs leading to the stage.

"Talk English," Withers demanded, swinging the Uzi around to lay it on his lap. "Last chance, old man."

"But of course, your noble highness."

The baron roared with laughter. "Highness, that's a good one. I may keep you around, old-timer."

Which meant the rest would be killed as soon as the secret of the balloon was revealed. Doc had a terrible flashback to being captured by Cort Strasser, who tortured him horribly every day. The old man shook his head. Never again would that happen. Doe would rather die than suffer such ignoble torment once more.

"Do you have any chalk?" he asked. "I need to draw a picture."

"Chalk?" the baron said as a question. The other men on stage shrugged in ignorance.

"It is a soft white stone used to make pictures," Doc explained to their blank faces. "No chalk, eh? Never mind, I can use a knife and scratch a picture on the floor."

The old man went to his knees and ran hands along the veneer of the old wood. "Yes, this will do nicely."

"No knives," Pawter said.

"But I need something," Doc complained, looking helplessly at the baron, then at the table full of their equipment.

"My cane," he said gesturing at the table laden with their belongings. "That has a steel tip. I can use my cane. Surely that is not a danger, and I need something."

"I can go outside and get a sharp piece of coral," Pawter suggested.

Doc felt his bowels run cold. That damn man would ruin everything.

"Give him the stick," the baron directed impatiently. "Let's get this going."

A sailor took the stick and, holding it by the shaft, offered it to the scholar. "Here, now get writing!"

Casually, Doc seized the lion's head of the stick, gave it a twist and stepped away with bare steel in his hand. Before anybody could react to the sight, Doc lunged forward and slipped the point through the neck of the guard before him. The man tried to yell, but only gargled from the red blood pouring out of his destroyed throat.

Doc swung around and Ryan was already on the stage, his hands as far apart as the ropes would allow. The razor-sharp steel sword sliced easily through the plastic, and Ryan slammed both of his fists into the faces of onrushing sec men, teeth and bones breaking from the powerful blows. As they crumbled, Ryan grabbed a blaster from the fallen man and fired a round at the baron, who was fumbling with the Uzi. The miniball impacted into the wood of his throne, missing his head by the thickness of a hair. But the startled pirate dropped the rapidfire to the stage floor.

"Chill them!" Baron Withers roared, drawing both revolvers from his belt, when the spent blaster arrived, hitting him hard in the throat. Withers dropped his weapons and clawed at his neck, fighting for air from his crushed windpipe.

"Save the baron!" Pawter shouted, leading a rush of guards.

Knowing this was their only chance, J.B. threw himself to the floor and rolled into their path. Two dodged out of the way, but two more tripped over the Armorer and went sprawling. Punching one in the groin, J.B. buried his teeth into the other guard's throat, ripping free a ragged gobbet of flesh, veins and ligaments stretching horribly from the ghastly wound.

A sec man was drawing a bead on his father, so Dean spun and kicked the guard directly in the stomach. The man doubled over coughing, but didn't drop his blaster, so the boy slammed a knee into his face, crashing the nose in a bloody spray. Then Dean wrapped his tied hands around the man's throat and tried to throw him over a shoulder. The sec man jerked from the attempt, his neck making a loud snapping sound, and then he crumpled to the floor with a broken neck.

Grabbing his blaster, Dean fired at Pawter just as he reached the throne, blowing off the back of the lieutenant's head. As the corpse toppled, the boy rushed forward for the Thompson still held in the twitching fingers. But another guard got there first and started fiddling with the rapidfire, trying to make it work.

Dodging incoming lead, Doc abandoned killing strikes and stabbed his sword stick among the sec men, wounding as many as possible. A shot was fired that tugged on his coat, death avoided only because he was constantly in motion. But he had expected as much. Black powder was rare and valuable in these islands, which meant that target practice was virtually nil, and thus not many were marksmen with a blaster.

Reaching the throne, Ryan grabbed the twin Webley .44 revolvers from the retching baron and blasted a path to the weapons table. But a dying man bumped into it, knocking the backpacks and weapons everywhere. Tossing away the spent revolvers, Ryan grabbed the first thing in sight and turned to fire the Uzi at an onrushing guard. He was gambling all of their lives on the belief that the sailors might have pulled the clip, but wouldn't think of working the bolt to eject the round in the chamber. The Uzi roared, and the shrieking man clutched his mined face, eyes and teeth flowing between his blood-smeared fingers.

Spinning away, Ryan dodged a thrown knife and grabbed a clip for the rapidfire. Slamming it in, he jerked the bolt and cut loose, the stuttering machine pistol spraying copper-jacketed 9 mm rounds into the startled sailors. A round hit the table alongside him, spraying out splinters, and he winced as several stabbed into his bruised leg. Those damn rocks had done more damage than he first thought.

Ignoring the minor pain, Ryan thumbed the selector switch to auto and rode the rapidfire into tight groupings, the barrage of hot lead knocking down the sailors. The bolt kicked back when the clip was spent, and Ryan went around the table to grab the LeMat. Remembering Doc's lectures on the oddball blaster, he clicked back the hammer before pulling the trigger and unleashed thunder, the last sailor slammed off the floor as he rushed up the aisle for the exit The slug hit him in the back, blood splashing onto the wood in front. But incredibly, the sailor still fumbled with the latch. Holding down the trigger, Ryan fanned the hammer and put a barrage of miniballs into the man before he finally surrendered and slid to the floor in a crumbled heap.

Tough son of a bitch, Ryan growled, tossing Doc the LeMat and taking the Steyr and SIG-Sauer.

Good work Doc, J.B. said as the old man cut away his ropes.

Violence is the last resort of the thinking man, Doc said in a singsong voice that meant he was quoting somebody. But only a fool refuses to face the fact when it becomes the option for life.

Dean limped to the table. Ryan cut the boys ropes, he briefly inspected his face, which was already turning purple, but it was only a bruise.

You okay? Ryan asked.

Been better, He mumbled through puffy lips. Give me a blaster.

Just then the doors slammed open and the guards rushed into the throne room waving blasters. Taking cover behind the rows of chairs, J.B. mowed them down with the Thompson. The ancient blaster chattered a stream of .45 rounds at the startled men, tearing them apart.

As the last man fell, J.B. and Doc raced to close the doors and dropped a heavy locking bar into place, only moments before something heavy hit the doors from the other side.

Reinforcements are here! J.B. announced as he and Doc started piling benches, chairs and anything else they could find in front of the double doors as a barricade .

This will hold for awhile, Doc stated, busy hands already purging the spent chambers of his weapon. But I fear not for long.

Riffling the still living baron for spare ammo, he found several shells for the Webleys and reloaded the blasters. Roughly hauling the baron off the battered throne, Ryan fired a round right next to the man's ear, the muzzle-flash washing over the appendage. Writhing in pain, Withers gurgled incomprehensibly, clutching the blistered flesh.

"Where's your escape route?" Ryan demanded as the main doors thudded again across the auditorium. There was no response, so he shook the man hard. "Show me!"

Weakly, Withers pointed, still unable to properly breathe, much less talk with his ruined throat. Ruthlessly, Ryan dragged the dying man along to show the way. He didn't like torture, but it was the baron's life or their own. No contest. Desperately, Ryan wanted to ask about Krysty and the others, but since Withers couldn't speak, there was no point.

A heavy red curtain covered the wall behind the throne, and hidden under a second tapestry was a small door made of old steel, pieces of metal bolted into place for additional armor.

"Found it!" Ryan announced when Withers got loose with a burst of strength and managed to pull a derringer from his shirt. The baron shoved the tiny blaster into the outlander's face, just as Ryan triggered both Webleys at point-blank range. The double blast literally blew the man in two, his face a rictus of shock as the derringer harmlessly discharged toward the ceiling.

Shoving the warm body aside, J.B. rummaged in his munitions bag and got busy with his lock picks on the door, while Ryan stood guard, Dean and Doc dragging over the table and the throne for protection. Minutes ticked by and the main door remained quiet, which only meant that the pirates were trying something new.

"Got it," J.B. said, and Ryan leveled the twin Webley blasters while the door opened.

The brick room beyond was small and dark, lacking even a window. Doc flicked a match into life on the wall and the tiny flame revealed an arsenal of Masters flintlocks, revolvers, longblasters, shotguns, pepperboxes and a dozen huge barrels of black powder. There were even a few cases of grens.

As they filled their pockets with ammo, Ryan paused for a moment at the sight of a bolt-action long-blaster, a Weatherby .460 Nitro Express. The bullets looked even bigger than the man-stoppers used by a Barrett 1A. He debated the matter for a precious moment, then grabbed the Weatherby and passed it to Dean.

"Try this," his father suggested. "We'll need the extra firepower."

Without a word, Dean slid the longblaster over a shoulder and raided the boxes for the bulky ammo. The balance of the heavy Weatherby was odd, but the boy was sure he could handle the recoil.

"This must be the treasure trove of the pirates," J.B. said, keeping a watch out the door. "Stuff they got off all the ships they raided and sank."

"Take the grens," Ryan directed, stuffing his pockets. "Then find a fuse. We'll need a diversion to help us get out of here and find the others."

"No prob," J.B. said, leaving the door to rip the top off a wooden crate to reach the HE grens packed in soft straw.

"Old friend, I fear to offer the suggestion," Doc rumbled hesitantly, accepting a few of the checkered globes. "But the others may already be across the River Styx. In the arms of Morpheus eternal, as they say."

Grimly, Ryan worked the bolt on the Steyr, slamming in a fresh rotary clip. "Mebbe," he admitted. "But I'll need to see their dead bodies before leaving."

There was a small explosion near the double doors, and through the swirling gray smoke charged a swarm of men who began to climb over the smashed barricade with sharp knives held in their teeth.

"Let's go," Ryan ordered, and walked from the armory firing at every step.

 

Chapter Seven

 

 

 A chill took Krysty, and she instantly awoke to find herself stark naked and strapped spread-eagled on a hard bed.

The room was large and well lit, golden sunlight streaming in through the open windows. Old faded decorative paper with flowers and grapes covered the walls, the ceiling a rough stucco popular with rich civvies for some unknown reason. Nude centerfolds from girlie mags had been pasted into picture frames here and there. A large armoire with hinged doors stood near a small table with a wash basin, a stoppered jug of water and several bottles of homemade shine. The only door in sight was closed and bolted shut.

Krysty tested the ropes holding her to the posts of the canopied bed and found them much too strong to break. Sniffing, the woman realized the sheets were old and used, reeking faintly of rancid sweat.

Across the room, Mildred was also stripped naked, and tied up in a heavy wooden chair. The physician seemed unharmed.

"Awake, at last," a silky voice purred. "Good. I much prefer it when my sluts know what's happening to them."

In a shadowy corner of the bedroom, a short woman rose from a wingback chair and padded over to the companions. The newcomer was beautiful; there was no denying that. Wavy ebony hair hung down to her trim waist, and firm breasts pushed against the front of her flower-print dress, making the fabric gape between the taut buttons. Her face was oval, with a pointed chin, her arms and long legs smooth and evenly tanned.

"Where are we?" Krysty asked softly, glancing at the closed door. "No, tell me later. Cut us free and we'll help you escape."

The young woman laughed in an easy manner.

"I don't want to escape," she said, going over to the bed and sitting on the mattress. "I'm the madam here and run this gaudy house, and you're my new sluts."

"Never," Mildred spit, straggling against her bounds, but the ropes were good, and the chair seemed to be nailed to the floor. Almost as if it were built in place for just the purpose of holding an unwilling woman helpless.

"I will attend to you later," the madam said in a voice of stone.

Turning back to Krysty, the woman reached out to cup the redhead's left breast and gently squeeze, savoring the delicious flesh. Krysty recoiled from the unnatural contact, which only made the madam chuckle.

"Don't like it, eh?" the madam purred. "Get used to it, bitch. We service both men and women here. A lot of men will ride your peach before the fuzz wears off. An' I will earn a lot of gold and blasters before I toss you to the drunken sailors on a ship to be their barrel girl. Know what that is, red? Let me tell you."

Crawling over the naked woman, the madam whispered horrid and obscene things into her ear.

Suddenly, there came the sound of water hitting the floor, and the madam looked over a shoulder and smiled at Mildred, strapped to her chair in a puddle of urine.

"Wet yourself in fear?" The madam chuckled, climbing off Krysty onto the floor, not caring where her knees stabbed into the prisoner. "And we haven't even kissed hello."

"Fucking psycho!" Mildred spit. "Perverted freak!"

"You may call me Sophie," the mutie said, grinning and walking closer. "And soon that mouth will be pleasuring me, one way or the other."

Sophie grabbed Mildred by the hair and pulled her head back. The physician grunted from the pain, but still managed to spit at the woman.

"Fight, yes, that's good. Struggle all you want," Sophie said, licking the bound woman along her cheek, then stepping back and brutally slapping her face with two resounding cracks.

Her nails raked down Mildred's spine, leaving bloody furrows.

Unable to help her friend, Krysty thrashed about in the bed, frantic to get loose. Slamming back and forth in the chair, Mildred tried to avoid the touch of her tormentor. Finally, the madam walked away, and tiny droplets of blood trickled down Mildred's back to mix with the fluid on the dirty floor.

Weeping uncontrollably, Mildred started banging her head on the chair, her shoulders shaking with shame and rage.

"Now the fun begins," Sophie announced, laughing happily, fumbling in the closet to extract a set of long leather whips.

"Now, which slut to tame first?" Sophie said thoughtfully, chewing a fingernail. "Red, or shorty, both look so nice. Oh, I cannot wait to hear your screams for mercy. Speak up, who'd like to taste the lash first?"

"E-eat sh-shit, bitch," Mildred taunted, her splayed fingers clawing the air.

Sophie contorted her features into a hideous scowl and strode toward the helpless physician. "Get ready, my pretty," she growled, clawed hands reaching out for her prisoner.

Unexpectedly, Mildred screamed in defiance, and her hands came free from the broken arm of the chair, which she had been working on all this time. Sophie stepped back, and Mildred expertly swung her arm about to drive the splintery end of a dowel directly into the kidney of the woman.

Gasping in shock, Sophie fell to the floor, blood gushing from the wound. Snarling in anger, Mildred leaned over and beat the mutie on the temple with the solid chair arm, the skull bone audibly cracking.

Throwing away the makeshift club, Mildred went to work on the rest of the knots. When the last rope yielded, the doctor rose from the chair and shuffled over to Krysty. At the bedside table, the physician poured some water on her hands from a ceramic mug to clean away the filth, then smashed the jug and used the sharp shards to cut her friend loose.

"How?" Krysty began to ask, her hair flexing wildly on the stained pillows.

"I pissed on the plastic rope to make it slippery," she explained, finishing one arm and starting on the other. "Got one hand free while she was amusing herself, then broke off the arm of the chair when I was banging my head. Come on, let's find our stuff."

"And where the others are," Krysty said, walking to the closet where the madam had stored her whips.

Inside hung a collection of sexual devices the likes of which Krysty could only guess about. It also held their clothes, and knives, but not their backpacks or blasters. Dressing quickly, they searched the bedroom and found a stash of flintlocks and pouches of black powder in a bottom drawer of the mahogany armoire.

"Have to make do," Mildred grumbled unhappily, hefting the muzzleloader and checking the spring that drove the flint onto the flash pan. "Damnation, this piece of crap is going to misfire half the time. The flint is as blunt as a baron's wit."

"New flints," Krysty said, and brought over a cardboard box of the sharpened stones.

The women easily repaired the blasters, and armed themselves with as many as they could comfortably carry two in their belts, one in each boot and one at the small of their backs. Fully armed, they listened at the door and heard only the sounds of muttering voices and soft cries of pleasure.

Going to the window, they looked at the ville belowwinding cobblestoned streets, red tile roofs and swimming pools now used to store drinking water.

"This was a resort hotel once," Mildred declared, a blaster in hand as she peeked out the shutters. "I know the chain."

"Appears to be a pirate base now," Krysty added.

"Maybe their main base?"

"Could be. But if it is, then Ryan and the others will be with the baron."

"There," Mildred said. "That fancy place on the hill. It's got to be the baron's mansion."

"Quiet," Krysty whispered, leaning into the ocean wind.

Mildred tried to hear what had caught her attention, but could only discern some faint cheering. Glancing around, the crowd noises seemed to be coming from a crumbling sports arena with raised bleachers and a grandstand.

"Is it Ryan?" Mildred asked, knowing that J.B. would be with him. The men were brothers in everything but name.

"No, it's Jak." Krysty frowned. "I can faintly hear something about the albino outlander going up against Big Mike."

There sounded a large roar from the crowd.

"Local fans like the idea," Mildred said, furrowing her brow, knowing that arena fights were never fair and always deadly. All of the companions had fought their share.

Looking down, she saw the ground was only two stories below. An easy climb, even as sore as the women were. She ached in places that had never ached before, and her back felt stiff from the drying blood of those scratches. Mildred only hoped the abrasions didn't go septic. Her med kit wasn't in the room.

"We've got to try to help him," Mildred said, closing the shutters. Going to a side window, she found that one overlooked an alleyway. Perfect.

"Better hide our trail first," Krysty advised.

Going back inside, Mildred saw the madam try to rise from the crimson-stained floor and collapsed back down, the floorboards shaking from the impact.

"Might get some folks checking on her soon," Krysty said.

"Get that jug of shine," Mildred stated, taking the armoire and shoving it in front of the door. The cabinet wasn't that heavy, but it should buy them some time.

Already, Krysty was pouring the shine on the floor and walls. Mildred yanked the dirty sheets off the bed and ripped them into long strips, which she then knotted into a crude rope. Meanwhile, Krysty poured all of the excess black powder on the floor and removed the corks from the unused bottles of shine and placed them carefully on top of the loose powder. Tying one end of the rope to a bedpost, Mildred tossed the other end out the window and started climbing down into the alley.

Close behind her, Krysty placed a closed bottle of shine on the window ledge and shimmied down next. Reaching the ground, she lit the rope with her butane lighter and it promptly caught, the flames licking up the rope to reach the sealed bottle of homebrew. After only a few moments, it burst apart, sending pieces of glass and burning shine everywhere. There was a brief pause before there was a whoosh, and blue flames began to lick out the open window. Mildred nodded. Good enough.

Moving quickly, the women darted down the alleyway, trying to keep out of sight as they headed for the arena. But turning a corner, Krysty and Mildred found themselves facing a squad of sec men lounging against a wall and smoking hand-rolled green cigars.

"And who the fuck are you two, strangers?" the sergeant demanded, glaring suspiciously over his smoldering stogie.

 

ONLY A FEW BLOCKS away, the line of chained slaves moved through a short dark tunnel toward death, step by grueling step. For Jak, the throbbing of his sprained ankle was worse than ever since the pirates had removed the bandage to see if it was hiding a weapon.

The curved walls of the concrete passageway were battered and in disrepair, water stains edged with black mildew and greenish-blue molds, with tiny yellow flowers. One of the slaves before him plucked a flower and sniffed its delicate perfume. Poor bastard. If he survived these contests, or whatever they were heading for, he'd be sorry he touched that flower. It was wart rot, nasty stuff Jak had encountered in the bayou. The mold consumed human flesh, invading your entire body until the victim fell to the ground and burst apart, a loose flap of crumbling skin jammed full of greenish-blue mold. As the line shuffled past a particularly dense patch, Jak held his breath, then breathed through his shirt. Hopefully, that would be enough.

"Next!" a gruff voice called out, and the line of old men, blind teenagers and crippled children surged forward once more.

One of the first things Jak noticed was there were no women in the group. But then, old, blind or cripple, the pirates had a use for any woman.

Chained at the neck and ankles, hands tied, there was little Jak could do about escaping until it was his turn at the head of the line. His blaster and knives were gone, and while he had something in his boot, it would take forever to get it out with tied hands. No, that old trick of the Trader would be of no use to the teenager this day. He wondered if it would be single combat with an armed opponent or a simple execution? But he didn't hear any blasterfire, so the entertainment was most likely not a firing squad. That was both good and bad.

There was a commotion ahead of him, the crowd roared in approval and the line moved again. Stepping forward, Jak moved from the shadows into the sunlight. Blinking against the brightness, he could see it was high noon, and the predark arena was mostly in ruins, whole sections reduced to piles of broken concrete and twisted steel. Teams of slaves were working in the rubble, effecting slow repairs. But the rest of the place was packed with dozens, maybe even hundreds of people spread across the levels seated at tables, waving bottles of shine, eating snacks, drunkenly cheering and making bets with the local jack.

A lot of the folks in better clothes were spooning a purple powder to their faces, and Jak recognized it even at this distance as jolt.

An old word that Doc used occasionally came unbidden to his mind decadent. The teenager nodded to himself. Yeah, a bunch of feeb druggies getting their jollies watching folks get snuffed. Ever since his wife and child had passed away, Jak had prepared himself for the day when he also would go into the great blackness. Krysty talked about the spirit of the world, Mildred of the human soul. Jak only believed in honor and a warrior's dignity. If he was going on the last train west, he would make it something the freaking pirates would remember for years.

"Next! that same voice called out.

Jak shuffled forward, and through the crowd of armed guards he could catch a peek at the arena below. The playing field had been divided into four unequal areas by stout brick walls topped with iron spikes, the churned soil in each puddled with red blood. In the first was a pack of wild boars stomping a headless corpse, their tusks ripping out huge gouts of flesh with every strike. In the next a huge lionlike cat was mauling a youth with its claws until the screaming ceased, then the beast tossed away the body with a head shake. In the third pit were stickies, hooting insanely as the crowd actually tossed handfuls of jolt into the air, and laughed as the drug drifted down onto the humanoid muties. The fourth contained only bones, with something moving below the soil out of sight, only the disturbances on top of the ground marking its passage. The teen nodded. Fair enough. If he had any say in his destination, Jak certainly knew which of these he'd choose. No question about that.

"Next!" the voice called.

"Here, motherfucker," Jak snarled, and held out his wrists.

"Ah, a mutie!" A pirate chuckled as a slave undid the albino teen's neck chains, then released his wrists.

Jak rubbed his wrists while the lead restraints were removed. He walked through the crowd of guards and looked over the crowd. The people laughed at the albino, and bets were placed, handfuls of live ammo exchanged across the grandstand.

"Nice jacket. Give it to me," another grunted, holding out a tiny knife, the blade no more than three inches, "and I'll give you this knife."

Jak considered it. "Fair deal," he said, and slid off his leather jacket, then slapped it across the face of the guard.

The sec man screamed, the razor blades and bits of barbed wire sown into the collar and lapels ripping apart his flesh and removing an eye. Jak tossed the jacket at the nearest guards, and they recoiled from the garment, unsure of exactly what had just happened. Spinning, Jak kneed another in the groin and took his blaster, firing over the falling body at the next sec man. The flame from the muzzle covered the man's head, the miniball exploding his skull, sending a grisly rain over the closest attendees.

The teen grabbed a chair and turned to find a score of blasters pointing his way. He hesitated for a moment, then lowered the chair, his bid for freedom gone.

"Tough little bastard, ain't ya?" a pirate roared, and slapped the teenager across the face.

Jak filled his mouth with bloody saliva and spit it back at the sec man.

"Lord Baron Kinnison says hello," he said, sneering, hoping they might think he had the same disease as the dying master of the islands.

It seemed to work, because the sec men moved farther away, their hands no longer quite so steady with their blasters.

"Chill him!" the bleeding man on the floor cried, his face horribly disfigured. "Set him on fire! Give him to the worms!"

"Aye," the big sec man muttered. "It's been long enough for them to be hungry again. We'll toss him to the worms."

The word was relayed across the grandstand, and the viewers shifted their seats for a better view of the fourth arena.

"Like worms," Jak snarled. "Eat them for breakfast."

The sailors laughed at the show of bravado, and Jak shifted his plans. Maybe he could earn their respect and get enlisted. That would give him the chance to help his friends. If they were still alive.

"That buys you a drink," a sec man said with a chuckle, passing over a greasy bottle.

Jak took a sniff and forced himself to recoil. "What is?" he demanded. "Horse piss?"

The big sec man lost his grin and shoved a blaster into the teenager's side. "Shut up and drink," he ordered, obviously angered that the gesture had been rebuked. "And for every drop you miss, off comes a toe. Eh? How's that, gimp?"

"Fair," Jak told him, taking a long swig. Then sprayed the bitter brew into the pirate's eyes.

Momentarily blinded, the sec man fired his blaster, but Jak had already moved, the .44 miniball slamming into the guard behind the teenager. Clutching his chest, the startled man stumbled backward and fell into the nearest pit.

Kicking another man in the knee, Jak felt the bone break. As a guard rushed forward, the teenager smashed the bottle over his head and stole the guard's knife. With half their number aced in a few moments, the remaining guards scrambled for distance to safely use their blasters. Meanwhile, the crowd roared its approval as Jak buried the broken end of the bottle into the face of a bearded pirate, twisting the shards in deep. The mutilated sailor howled in agony, falling to his knees on the suddenly bloody floor. With lightning-fast hands, Jak grabbed his blaster and a second blade, then started for the tunnel, the only escape route available.

But the guards were already rushing toward him with raised chairs as shields. Shifting plans, Jak fired the blaster, catching the slave with the keys in the belly. The man slumped over in pain, the keys clattering as they fell to the ground. The line of slaves stared in wonder at the sight, then dived upon the keys, insanely fighting among themselves to get loose first.

A guard rushed Jak with an ax. The teen blocked the strike with the spent blaster and grabbed a fresh weapon from his attacker. Then the others swarmed over him, and the teenager was forced off the grandstand and fell into a pit himself.

The crowd redoubled its yells of delight as the wild boars raced upon the sprawled teenager, blood from their last chill dripping off their razor-sharp tusks.

 

Chapter Eight

 

 

 The trembling slaves stood in a bunch on the deck of the PT boat, staring in open horror at the island only a hundred feet away. Most were people dragged from the hovels outside Cascade, beaten and chained as slaves, then herded onto crude rafts of lashed timbers and hauled behind the four petey boats across miles of ocean until reaching this horrid destination. Forbidden Island. To many the words were synonymous with hell.

"You first," Mitchum ordered, grabbing a skinny man by the shoulder and shoving him off the boat. The man hit the water splashing and yelling.

"Swim for shore, idiot!" a sec man shouted angrily at the floundering man. "And when you hit the beach, walk straight."

"But I'll die!" he replied, kicking madly to stay afloat. "The air is poison! Muties everywhere!"

"Convince him otherwise," Glassman ordered from the wheelhouse of the boat.

"Aye, sir." Campbell lowered his longblaster and fired. The slave shouted as the miniball punched into the water near his chest, the tiny geyser splashing onto his face.

"Swim or die," the navvy ordered, another sailor passing him a loaded blaster.

The chained crowd whimpered and muttered among themselves as they watched the man dog paddle for the nearby shore. The waves were gentle along that section of the beach, and if there were any riptides that far from the deadly whirlpool, none seized the man and hauled him underwater.

Mitchum scowled from the vessel's bobbing wheel-house. The crew had dropped anchor, but it did little to smooth the rough waves. Hopefully, it was merely the advance notice of a coming storm, and not the herald of a Deeper arriving.

After delivering its load of people, the petey had swung away from the rest of the boats and assumed a defensive position in the deep waters off the landmass. The pirates couldn't fail to see their arrival, and once they figured out what was going on, they would hit the navvies with everything they had. Against that eventuality, Glassman had given the sec chief a pre-dark revolver from the captain's armory a .357 Magnum Ruger Redhawk. As a precaution, he tied the blaster to his belt, so it couldn't fall overboard. The blaster weighed a lot, but he had been assured that it hit harder than a .44 flintlock. Mitchum was eagerly looking forward to seeing if that were true.

Battling to stay on the surface, the slave stared at the beach he was heading for. Big rocks that looked like molten glass studded the beach, and the trees beyond were oddly stunted, their trunks twisted and gnarled as if in pain. He flinched as something brushed against him under the water, and he rushed forward to gratefully touch the sloping sand of the shallow shoals, the sand squishing between his bare toes.

Rising timidly from the sea, the man eyed the nearby bushes and wondered for a moment if the sailor could accurately shoot that far, when a blaster sounded and a glass rock on the beach exploded into shards, one of the pieces scoring a bloody scratch along his ribs.

"Keep moving," a voice shouted. "We'll tell you when to stop!"

Swallowing hard, the slave began to shuffle forward, moving around a gaping hole in the ground that seemed to be filled with small pieces of the glasslike rocks, the air about it hazy with a greenish hue. Almost immediately, a wave of weakness flowed through his body, and the slave shivered with unexpected cold. It was becoming hard to focus his vision, he felt dizzy, the taste of metal filled his mouth and every step was becoming more tedious, his legs wobbly as if they were melting. Sweat poured down his face as his teeth chattered, and a ragged cough took his chest. Wiping his mouth, the man saw flecks of blood on his hand. Suddenly, it was impossible to breathe, his lungs laboring to draw in the smallest sip of air. His teeth began to ache, and blood poured from his nose. He coughed again, and his teeth fell to the ground, along with a sprinkling of his hair. What was happening to him? Unable to think clearly, he turned and started back for the ocean, thinking in a wild delirium that he would be okay again if he could just get back on the petey.

The waves washed over his feet, the salt stinging like acid, when there came a puff from the boats moored offshore and something hit him very hard in the chest. The pain became a warm numbness, and he fell backward into a black pit without a bottom.

"Was that necessary?" Campbell asked, lowering his longblaster.

"Yes," Glassman said, reloading the flintlock. "If the slaves know that we'll ace them when it gets too bad, then they won't dash about madly and ruin the chart."

"Makes sense, sir," the sailor reluctantly agreed.

"You're next," a navvy ordered, grabbing a young woman by the arm and shoving her into the water.

Far away, Mitchum eagerly watched as she swam to shore, then walked along the beach, about fifty feet to the left of the corpse sprawled in the sand. She made it a lot farther before collapsing, fighting to breathe.

"Starting to look good," Mitchum said with a cold smile. This was a good idea. Use the slaves to walk along the rad-hot beach and find the pirate's safe passage to the interior. He had thought it a long shot at best, but that damn plan seemed to be working. Soon, they could land the Hummers and drive into the jungle after the outlanders.

"Sir?" the pilot asked from the till.

"Nothing," Mitchum scowled. "Pay attention to your job."

"Aye, aye, sir," the pilot answered sheepishly.

Leveling his weapon, Campbell fired and the girl on the beach jerked once, then went still. Grabbing another slave, a navvy tossed the teenaged boy into the ocean.

"Go fifty feet to the left of the girl," Glassman ordered.

Splashing about, the youngster nodded, then pulled in a lungful of air and dived out of sight.

"Fucking bastard." The sergeant sighed and gestured at the crew. In oft practiced ease, the armed men went to both sides of the foredeck and aimed their blasters. In the mob of slaves, an old woman began to cry. After a few minutes, the teen bobbed into sight about sixty feet behind the PT boat. The sec men opened fire in a rough volley, the barrage of miniballs tearing into the boy, blood spurting high into the air as one round smacked him right in the heart. Gurgling horribly, he sank from sight, leaving a crimson wake that slowly thinned away.

"Damn fine shooting there, Donovan," Glassman said with a smile. "Been practicing?"

"In my spare time, aye, skipper." The navvy grinned, preening with the praise. "A sailor that can't shoot, ain't nothing but ballast to his shipmates."

"Damn right," Campbell said. "Skip, we need a new bosun."

"You're it, Donovan," the captain said with a wave. "Consider that longblaster yours to keep."

"Yes, sir!" the man said, grinning from ear to ear.

Just then a sharp whistling cut the air, and Donovan's head disappeared. A split second later, something slammed into the water beyond the boat as a rumbling boom echoed from the mountains of the jungle island.

"Cannonfire!" Campbell cursed, rushing to the anchor and yanking the release lever. Instantly, the chain slipped free from its ratchet and snaked into the drink.

Set loose, the boat began to move with the choppy waves, and two more cannonballs slammed hard into the ocean exactly where the craft had been only seconds ago.

"They found us!" a navvy shouted in warning, firing his flintlock longblaster at the distant mountainside bunkers. As if in response, a series of white smoke rings silently shot out from the trees on the mountainside, the twenty-pound lead balls arriving long before the sounds of the discharge could reach the sea.

"Start the engines!" Mitchum commanded, brandishing his revolver. "Get us the fuck out of range!"

"Too late!" the pilot cried as the cannonballs slammed into the water amid the peteys, a round crashing into a floating raft packed with slaves.

Timbers and human arms flew skyward from the strike, the mortally wounded slaves shrieking for a few moments as they tried to swim away, but the heavy chains linked to their ankles dragged the helpless people down and out of sight. The bloody water bubbled madly from their submerged death screams.

Even as the vessel spattered into life, black smoke blowing from its short flue, Glassman bitterly lamented the terrible loss of human life. That was the last of the slaves. Now he had less than a dozen slaves to find the safe path through the rad craters. After that, he'd have to use his men. What a waste.

The hidden mountain cannons blew more smoke, the balls whistling past the moving ships to hit only water. Then the first of the Firebirds launched from PT 181 with a muffled roar and a cloud of gray exhaust fanes. The rocket streaked toward the dense greenery, spiraling once in the air as the tiny pilots in the warheads had been taught by Kinnison to confuse enemy gunners, and then it angled sharply to the left and shot into the trees. Almost immediately there was a tremendous explosion, bodies and cannons carried skyward on a column of flame from the combined detonation of the Firebird and their ample store of black powder.

On the sea, the navvies cheered as a second rocket was set off, this one heading deep into the valley only to be caught by an updraft and slammed directly into the granite bridge. In slow majesty, the arch began to break apart, cracks spreading along its length until pieces began to fall off. Then, in crashing thunder swallowed up by the distance, the bridge shattered and crumbled into the jungle, tiny geysers of muddy water forming as the mammoth stones plummeted into the shallow river.

"That'll put fear into their bones!" Glassman sneered in triumph. "Ready another Bird!"

"Aye, sir!"

"Incoming, nine o'clock!" a sailor shouted, pointing to their left.

Jerking his head about, Campbell growled in anger and raced to operate the big .50 cal as three tall pirate ships crested into view from around the quay of the islands, a row of smoke rings appearing along their sides as the pirates cut loose a fall broadside of their heavy ship cannons. The lead hit everywhere around the boats, but did no damage, the range simply too great for an accurate strike.

But the sergeant knew that had been no warning shot. The pirates had tried for a fast ace and failed, that was all. Now the sailing ships raised every yard of canvas available to their masts and started charging forward at their best speed. Closing in for the chill. The windjammers were huge, more than ten times the size of the PT boats, and even at three to four, the odds were heavily in their favor.

"Orders, sir?" Campbell asked, turning to his captain.

"Prepare more Birds, fast," Glassman snapped, then drew his blaster and started firing.

Campbell spun about to see a slave going overboard and another dashing forward to grab the .50 cal, swinging it across the deck. The crew dived for cover, but nothing happened as the slave wildly yanked on levers and pulled the trigger out of sequence.

Moving from behind the smokestack, a navvy rushed forward and slashed out with a machete, the blade cleaving the slave from shoulder to waist. Ropy guts slithered onto the deck as the dying man tried ineffectively one last time to operate the big fifty, but the complex double safety was just beyond his comprehension.

The navvy pushed the corpse over the side and corrected the settings on the .50 cal, firing a short burst at the sky to make sure. Then he swung the massive weapon to cover the rest of the slaves and they cowered in fear.

"Clear the deck!" Glassman ordered, rising from behind his chair. "Ace the lot of them!"

Screaming, the slaves begged to stay on the boat. But the fifty cut loose, the heavy slugs slamming their tattered bodies past the gunwale and over the side. The slaughter was done in less than a minute, but the rebellion had bought the pirates precious time, and now cannonballs were hitting the ocean around the peteys from two directions.

"Ahoy, the 94!" Glassman shouted, then cupped hands to his mouth, as the spray of a near miss rained down on his craft. "We'll handle the mountains! You hit those fucking jammers, and send them to Davey!"

But the guard boat was already in motion, the hull of PT 94 shuddering as the gears of their trannies were thrown into reverse. The steam engine bucked in response as the propellers abruptly changed rotation, and forced the craft to awkwardly turn until the bow was pointing straight at the approaching windjammers.

"Full speed ahead!" Mitchum cried, a rope lashed to the captain's chair, held tight in his hand.

The pilot relayed the order via the speaking tube to the engine room belowdecks. In a gush of smoke, the steam engine surged with power. The petey rapidly accelerated to attack speed, the water foaming white as the bow of the nimble craft sliced across the rough water.

"Ready all tubes!" Mitchum shouted, the wind blowing against him so hard he was forced to sit in the captain's chair to keep from falling over. This was his first taste of a sea battle, and an almost sexual thrill was coursing through the sec man.

Behind them, the other three peteys were sending off salvos of Firebirds at the mountain bunkers, but not one rocket was aimed at the pirate windjammers. They were Mitchum's concern, do or die. Good, that was the way he liked it, to be his own master, answering to none.

"Ready all!" a navvy replied, scampering along the slick deck as if the vehicle were standing still.

"Give us the word, Skip!" another shouted.

Skip, eh? So he had finally been accepted by the sailors. For some reason that pleased him greatly.

"Give them hell, boys!" he bellowed, raising a clenched fist.

Switches were thrown, nuke batteries sparked brightly and the boat lurched as the wide tube on the left side of the deck threw out a blunt-nosed cylinder, its aft propeller spinning in a blur. The torpedo bit the water and skimmed away, steadily building speed. Then the right torp was launched and the two sped away. Operated by tiny alcohol engines, the predark machines shot through the salty waves moving ever faster until they were literally flying from one wave crest to the next.

Breaking formation, the sailing ships began to move away from one another in an effort to lessen the danger from the incoming torps. Then the surface of the ocean was peppered with cloth bags of shrapnel from the cannons on the foredeck as the pirates tried to stop the incoming weapons.

While the petey crew hastily reloaded both tubes, Mitchum nervously watched the torps head for the enemy vessels. Lacking the guidance systems of the tiny muties inside the weapons, this was purely a matter of aim and timing. Too soon and they would pass harmlessly in front of the shipstoo late and they go behind.

"Ready all!" a sailor called, his hand on the firing lever.

"Wait for it," Mitchum commanded, grabbing the windshield of the low-slung wheelhouse. The wakes of the torpedoes were lost amid the rough waves, and it was impossible to see exactly where they were located.

Suddenly, the ocean jumped a hundred feet in front of the first pirate vessel, the water rising high in a steamy geyser. The pirates cheered the hit. Then the second windjammer broke apart as a strident fireball formed amidships, timbers flying everywhere as the sea poured in through the gaping hole in the hull. Immediately, the craft began to list and the crew started leaping off the deck, fighting the breakers and the waves in an effort to reach the shore.

Turning away from their sinking sister, the other windjammers brought their main guns to bear on the lone PT boat, firing salvo after salvo. A round shot across the deck, the wind of its passing knocking down sailors. Another clipped the smokestack, the glancing blow leaving a crimping dent and causing the steel flue to ring deafeningly, flakes of paint shaking off the vibrating metal.

"Full stop!" Mitchum shouted, and the anchor was dropped as the aft propellers were disengaged. Then as the boat slowed its progress, the sec chief quickly added, "Release the fish!"

The last two torpedoes were launched, both traveling for the first sailing ship. Both of the vessels opened fire with their cannons to smash the machines, the black smoke of the rapid discharges covering the sea battle like winter fog.

"Now, while they can't see, launch the Firebirds!" Mitchum commanded.

"How many, Skip?" a sailor asked, lifting a torch of greasy rags and lighting it from an alcohol lantern kept burning for just that purpose.

"All of them!"

Startled, the navvy blinked, then smiled. "Aye, aye, sir!"

Shouting a battle cry, the gun crew rushed to the pod, locked it into position and lit the line of fuses before backing away. Even as an explosion came from the other side of the smoke barrier, the rockets began streaking away to disappear into the gloom.

Surrounded by the acrid cloud, Mitchum could only hear explosions, and the sounds of splintering wood.

Cannons roared almost without stopping, then more explosions. An unnerving silence covered the sea, broken wily by the sound of the waves lapping against the aluminum hull of the modified PT boat.

Mitchum rushed to the stern of the boat, his new blaster in hand and ready. His crew assumed firing positions along the gunwale, a shirtless sailor covered with tattoos manning the .50 cal. The four torpedoes and six Firebirds were all that had been allotted to the lord baron's gunboat. Instead of saving each weapon for a point-blank chill as he had been told to do, Mitchum instead gambled on a two-step barrage of high explosives. If it worked, the island would be defenseless once the mountain bunkers were taken out, and they could do that with sec men on foot if necessary. Then landing the Hummers with their .30-cal machine guns would be easy. But if even one windjammer sailed through the thinning smoke, the peteys would have only handcannons and longblasters to defend themselves from the thundering black-powder cannons, and that meant retreating to Cascade. Days would be lost rearming the craftsvaluable time the pirates could use amassing ships and digging in for the next attack.

"There she is!" a navvy cried out, as the bow of a windjammer sailed out of the swirling fumes.

Yet even as they started shooting, the rest of the vessel came quietly into view. The hull was on fire, the mast gone, the deadly cannons tumbling from the broken hull to splash into the water. There was no sign of the second sailing ship.

"She's dead!" the bosun cried, firing a burst from the fifty in celebration.

"Belay that mutie shit!" Mitchum ordered, holstering his piece. "Pilot, get us some distance before her magazine of powder blows!"

"Aye, sir!" the man answered and shouted directions down the speaking tube.

The steam whistle keened once to balance the boiler pressure as the petey swung about and headed back to the others.

Returning to the landing area, Mitchum grunted in approval as his pilot expertly eased PT 94 alongside Glassman's boat. Most of the Firebirds were gone, and the windshield of the vessel was missing, the deck littered with glittering shards, but it seemed otherwise intact

"Well?" the captain demanded, glancing up from a conversation with the pilot.

"Aced the lot of them," Mitchum gloated, then jerked his chin at the distant mountains. "What about the bunkers?"

"Nothing from them since our last flight," Glassman said, rubbing his arm. A piece of glass from the smashed windshield had gone through his upper arm. The wound was minor, but hurt like a son of a bitch every time he moved. Easing his hand into a pocket, he forced the arm to relax and the pain diminished. We're out of slaves," Mitchum said with meaning.

Releasing his arm, Glassman glared hatefully at the shore and its invisible barrier.

"Yeah," he muttered. "I know."

Legs splayed to stay properly balanced on the gently pitching deck, Mitchum crossed his arms and studied the rocky beach. Blue crabs covered the corpses sprawled on the sand, sharp pincers ripping the flesh from their bones. There was a glowing rad crater to the left of the shallow river, the body of the chilled girl about a hundred feet to the right of the waterway. If there was a safe trail into the valley, he would guess it'd be just to the right of the river.

"Only one way to find out," Mitchum said aloud. He was so close to Ryan, there was no way he'd stop now. Not even to save his own life. "Pilot, head for shore and drop me off."

"Sir?" the pilot gasped, releasing the till. "You can't do that. You're the captain! Send a mate, or the barrel girl we got in the bilge."

Damn, he'd forgotten all about her. "Get the slut," Mitchum commanded.

In short order, the woman was dragged to the deck and the colonel explained the situation. She was to swim to the shore at just that spot, or they'd bloody her up and drag her alive behind the petey until sharks arrivedthen they would cut her loose.

Nodding dumbly, the bruised woman jumped into the water and swam to the shore. Rising from the gentle waves, she slowly walked along the right bank of the shallow river with her wet rags billowing in the wind. Twice she stumbled, the sharp coral in the sand cutting her feet. Each instance, she dared to glance backward and saw the longblasters tracking her every move. With little choice in the matter, she continued onward until reaching the bushes. She had done it! Walked past the beach! Then she darted into the greenery just as a flintlock spoke. The miniball ripped away a handful of green leaves, but she was already gone.

"She made it!" a navvy cried, and more took up the cheer.

"All boats, land the Hummers!" Glassman shouted, sliding a longblaster over a shoulder and taking the binocs.

"Pilot, the boat is yours until I return. Stay a hundred feet offshore, and if any pirate ships arrive, you haul ass and come back at moonrise. We'll swim out to meet you. Got that?"

"Aye, Skipper," the man said, then trying to curry favor added, "Wish I was going with you!"

Strapping an extra ammo belt around his waist, Glassman glanced at the navvy. "Then you're an idiot," the captain said simply, and walked to the aft of the boat straightening his weapons.

With only some minor maneuvering, the PT boats sidled up the shore and reached the shallows. The wind was blowing their black exhaust into the trees, but Mitchum heard no coughing from hidden snipers as a result. Good.

Lowering anchors, each craft then dropped a heavy sheet-iron tailgate onto the shore. Releasing the chains holding the Hummers in place, the sec man started the war wags, while the navvies tossed in bags of ammo, grens and the small portable Firebirds. Wary of the lolling deck, the sailors drove the Hummers down the inclined metal into the shoals and then successfully onto the beach. The navvies and sec men followed next, and soon the lord baron's men were assembled on the rocky beach.

As the PT boats raised anchors and moved away, a flurry of blasterfire crackled from the mountainside. The gunnery mates of the peteys promptly responded with their .50 cals, the stuttering machine guns sending a hellstorm of flying lead at the unseen defenders.

"The pirates are ready for us," Mitchum stated, taking the passanger seat in the front of a wag. A box of grens was on the floor between his legs, the loaded revolver in his grip, the other hand holding a small hand ax to repel boarders.

"Nuke them," Glassman grunted, doing approximately the same. He knew this was going to be a bloody fight, but the prize waiting in victory was worth any risk. A ville of his own! "Okay, lads, let's get the bastards!"

"No prisoners!" Campbell added, waving a long-blaster.

With their engines revving, the armored war wags rumbled into the jungle, smashing the plants out of the way.

"Death to the pirates!" a sec man yelled, then sat back in his seat with an arrow through his neck.

Without any hesitation, the rest of the men cut loose with their weapons, blasters ablaze in every direction, ruthlessly chilling anything that dared to move.

 

"PIRATES?" Lord Baron Kinnison said, glancing up from his breakfast,

 

"Yes, my lord," the chief of the palace guards said with a salute. "Captain Glassman has found the home ville of the pirates and wishes reinforcements immediately."

"Does he now?" Kinnison muttered, narrowing his eyes to mere slits. Clean white layers of bandages covered his humongous body; the disease oozing from his sores had not yet seeped through the new cloth wrapped around him this very morning. Over the bandages, Kinnison was wearing a loose caftan of predark cotton, woven sandals and two gun belts.

Caught just once without a weapon handy, his empire had nearly toppled. Such would never happen again.

The dining hall was empty except for the baron, his elite cadre of guards, sec men who had remained loyal to the baron during the revolution, and the chancellor. The polished cherrywood table gleamed in the candlelight from the chandelier and the alcohol lanterns in wall niches, and heaping mounds of food filled the long expanse, platters of steamed crabs, savory fried fish, fresh young squid, bowls of clams, pitchers of beer and loaves of steaming fresh bread. As a platter was emptied, pretty young serving girls appeared to replace it with another, broiled chimpanzee replacing the crab, hot buttered ears of corn in place of the chilled clams. There was enough food to feed a ville, even though it was only for the handful of men and their obese leader.

Chained to the wall opposite the feasting people was a very skinny man, his clothes hanging loosely from his emaciated frame. The vile traitor hadn't been fed anything but thin broth for a week, and madness was starting to appear in his fevered eyes. Under threat of castration, the prisoner was forced to watch the baron and his cohorts consume huge meals three times a day. Formerly a sec man for the lord baron, the starving wretch was the last of the rebels who had tried to seize the baron's throne. As the very last alive, Kinnison was doing his best to prolong the man's death for as long as possible.

Studying the messenger, Chancellor Rochar Langford wiped his mouth on a cloth napkin, the only one at the table, and placed there solely for his use. The others made do with hands and sleeves. A small goatee was growing on his chin, but the second in command of the island fortress was still clean shaved from his navy days, when lice was a very real problem. Small scars marked his youthful face, and a gold earring hung from the stubby remains of his left lobe, the rest removed in a bar fight on a distant island ville. With his short-sleeved shirt, the tattoos on the forearms were visible to all, a striped tiger on the left and a green dragon on the right. It was something he had copied from a predark poster found in the ruins of a crumbling city. He had instantly liked the effect and had it copied, a process that meant months of pain, but was well worth the inconvenience.

Langford still wore the woven canvas gun belt given to him by his first captain as a reward, but the flintlock was now replaced with a huge autofire called a Desert Eagle.

"They plan to attack an entire island with only six boats?" the chancellor asked pointedly.

The chief guard checked the message once more. "Four, sir. At least, that is what this message says," he reported, squinting to see the tiny lettering. The words were badly spelled, the paper old and badly wrinkled from being tied around the leg of a falcon. But there was no doubt about the contents. The pirates had been found. Incredible.

Popping the leg of a kiwi bird into his mouth, Kinnison sucked the meat off the bone and chewed thoughtfully for a few minutes before swallowing.

"Good for him," Kinnison said, picking his teeth with a thumbnail. "However, the question is whether we should commit more peteys as backup."

"Yes!" the sec chief stated, thumping the table with a fist. "Destroy the pirates and we will rule the Thousand Islands unopposed forever?"

"I will rule, you mean," Kinnison muttered in a dangerous tone.

Hastily, the pale sec man corrected his statement.

"Lord Chancellor, what is the minimum number of vessels needed to protect Mature Island from attack?" the baron demanded, refilling his mug from a clay pitcher. No glass was allowed on the dining-room table, nor any mirrors in the hallway. The baron never wanted to be reminded how hideous he was from the black rot consuming his acres of flesh.

"None, sir," Langford replied instantly. "Our batteries of Firebirds can repel any attacking force. With your return to power, we are invulnerable."

"From outsiders," Kinnison stated softly, draining a cup of beer.

The others grew sweaty at the words, but Langford ignored the reproach. "My lord, we could send messenger falcons to the rest of the fleet hunting pirates and have them converge on Forbidden Island. That would give Glassman over fifty peteys and four windjammers to assist his invasion. Leaving us twenty more as reserves in the harbor, plus the Firebird batteries."

"Reasonable," Kinnison said, nibbling an ear of corn. "Lieutenant Kirkton, send the falcons at once. Include one for Glassman, telling him his family has been removed from the dungeon and have their own home in the ville. No harm will come to the kin of the man who found the pirates' lair."

"Of course, my lord." The sec chief grinned in amusement. "And meanwhile I will" He left the sentence hanging, wailing for instructions.

"And meanwhile, you will do as your lord commands!" Langford bellowed, outraged at the implied discourtesy. "Release the woman and child from the dungeon and give them a good house, lots of foods, clean clothes and a couple of slaves."

"Yes, Lord Chancellor," Kirkton hastened to say, knowing the wrath of the young man was only marginally less terrible than the old baron's.

Spearing a potato with a fork, Kinnison growled in agreement. He didn't care for the idea, but if he didn't keep his oath to Glassman, then nobody would ever believe his offers of rewards again. Ruling was a balancing act between the carrot and the stick. If a ruler lost either one, he was doomed.

As the sec chief and the messenger departed to their assignments, Langford refilled his mug of springwater and took a sip. "My lord, do you think the outlanders are pirates?" he asked.

"No," Kinnison replied, savagely biting off chunks of a suckling baby pig, the rich gravy flowing between his pudgy fingers. "I don't know what they are, but no pirate carried their kind of blasters. Or built a flying machine."

The sec men at the table shivered again at the notion, and tried to force the image from their minds of air wags and falling bombs. The quartermaster of the palace looked as if he would be physically ill, then rushed from the room with a hand covering his mouth.

Openly, Kinnison scowled in scorn at the public show of weakness, but privately he agreed wholeheartedly. Death from abovethe words brought visions of skydark, and that was enough to break the spirit of any sane man.

Just then a serving girl hurried into the dining hall and whispered something to one of the sec men in charge of the black-powder mills. The man gave her a small pouch of powder in return and noisily cleared his throat, then did it again.

"Lord Chancellor" he began.

Puzzled, Langford stared at the man, then his face brightened in remembrance. Ah, she had arrived at last. Excellent.

"Since your health is on the mend, milord," the chancellor said, standing at the table with an unreadable expression, "I have found a special gift for you. Which I am sure you will enjoy."

"Really," Kinnison said noncommittally, a hand creeping under the table to finger the trigger of the shotgun hidden there. After the revolt, the baron trusted nobody and nothing fully. Nor would he ever again. There was an old phrase that his father had once used"Fool me once, shame on me. Fool me twice, die screaming, motherfucker." Wise words, indeed.

Langford clapped his hands, and the doors were opened by armed men, who stood aside to let a fish-erwoman from the ville walk into the room. The woman was old but not aged, thirty, maybe forty years of age, with a scattering of gray in her thick blond hair. She walked with strength, and a full womanly figure moved tantalizingly beneath her loose dress. Her clothing was worn and patched, but very clean, with no loose threads or ragged hems.

"Who is this?" Kinmson asked the men at the table. "Some new slut for me to bed? A small gift, indeed."

The woman stopped approaching at those words and smiled in amusement at the fat baron. "I will be the mother of your heir," she said simply.

Kinnison waited, but there was no more coming.

"You?" the baron scoffed. "I can mount ten women a day if it pleases me. Each more beautiful than you. Why should I mount you instead of throwing you to my dogs?"

Sipping his water, Langford waited, letting the woman speak for herself. In this matter, she needed no assistance.

"My name is Deirdra, and my brother stole a blaster," she replied, hands on her hips. "You lashed him for a day, then gave him your disease as a punishment. Fair enough, I suppose. But I tended to him for months before he finally died."

"Yes, I recall the incident," Kinnison said "And you do resemble him, somewhat. So what do you wish? A quick death from a firing squad, or a supply of jolt to ease the terrible pain?"

Deirdra held out an arm. "Examine my skin."

The sec men in the room were alert as he waved her closer, and began to closely look at her face and arms. At first in contempt, but then in wonder. In growing astonishment, he lifted her skirt to see underneath; the condition of her feet would tell the truth. But she was wearing nothing underneath the loose dress and Kinnison saw every inch of the firm, clean body. Her lean legs showed no stretch marks, her belly flat without wrinkled folds of loose skin.

"I am a virgin," she admitted, not ashamed or proud, but merely stating a fact.

"And immune," Kinnison whispered, ripping the thin cloth. Then he turned on the other nobles. this some sort of a trick?"

"Never, my lord!" Langford cried.

"Try me," Deirdra said, taking a small knife from the table and cutting her forearm. She passed the baron the blade, handle first. "Do the same and smear your blood on my wound. Nothing will happen."

As if moving in a dream, Kinnison started to cut his arm, then dropped the knife.

"Everybody out," he commanded harshly. "Including you, Lord Chancellor."

Sensing his urgency, the men and serving girls quietly withdrew. Once the baron was alone with the woman, he stood and slid out a chair for her in unaccustomed courtesy. Nodding in thanks, Deirdra sat and turned to face him directly, with no evasion or sideway glances. A person was simply looking at him of her own free will. Kinnison could scarcely believe it was happening. His last reserves against her beauty crumpled at the simple action, and he leaned forward eagerly.

"What are your terms?" the baron asked, his heart pounding.

"I become the baroness," Deirdra stated, her hands folded primly in her lap. "But if the first child is sick or not a boy, then you may chill me."

He furrowed his brow. "That's all?"

"That is enough. "

"Done," Kinnison said, extending a bandaged hand.

She shook it without flinching and began to remove her dress. "Shall we start?"

Do it right here?" Kinnison asked amused, and hocked. He wasn't used to aggressive females. Normally, they wept and screamed, and often had to be raped while tied to chairs or even unconscious.

"The sooner we begin, the sooner I am with your your child," she responded, dropping the old dress to the floor.

Deirdra looked magnificent in the candlelight, her smooth skin glowing with health. With a dry mouth, Kinnison shuffled to his feet and began removing his own clothing, wiping the grease from his fingers on the material. Let the navy battle the pirates; which ever side won he didn't care anymore. This amazing woman was the answer to his prayers. Soon he would have a son, an heir! And his reign would continue. For Lord Baron Kinnison, the war with the outlanders was already over, and he was the absolute winner.

During the sweaty coupling on the tabletop, the fat man didn't once notice the flick of a forked tongue between the lush lips of the mutie female, even when she did it again in the most unusual of places.

 

Chapter Nine

 

 

 Falling through the air, Jak angled the descent to protect his sprained ankle and landed heavily on his shoulders, the blow knocking the breath from his lungs.

Panting, he frantically rolled toward the wall and just barely avoided the rush from a small boar, its tusks so new the bone extended straight out from its jaw like slim daggers.

Scrambling over a corpse, Jak threw himself at the wall and drew the blaster, choosing a target, then he quickly shifted aim, and then again. Where was the big bastard?

Ah, there he was. A huge boarno, a big sow, twice the size of the other hogs, her shiny black coat streaked with white from old scars, one ear half chewed off. But the monstrous animal radiated an aura of power. She was the baron of her brood, the absolute master.

Aiming the unfamiliar weapon, Jak fired, and the .44 miniball slammed into her side, knocking the big sow back, but not over. She squealed at the wound, sniffing at it with a twitching nose. Then she swung her head toward the albino and pawed the bloody mud, preparing to charge. With no reloads, Jak dropped the blaster and grabbed the headless corpse from the sticky ground. Holding it as a shield, he backed into the corner of the pit and drew one of his stolen knives.

The crowd shouted something unintelligible, and gold coins rained into the pit. A reward for being clever?

Snorting loudly, the big sow rushed at Jak, her tusks slashing open the legs of the corpse. Pulling free, the animal seemed confused at the lack of reaction from the victim and lurched forward again, only to stop halfway, as if trying to lure out the cornered two-leg. Then she did it once too often, and Jak slashed her across the snout, splitting both nostrils wide open.

The sow keened in shock and dashed madly about, slamming into her brethren and bouncing off the brick wall, the loss of smell affecting her more than blindness to a human. While the sow attacked a smaller boar, Jak rummaged through the filthy pockets of the chilled pirate, tossing aside the gold coins and cigs, but keeping the matches and a third knife.

Testing the blade on a thumb, Jak found the edge dull, the balance barely acceptable, but it would serve. Choosing a target, he stepped from the wall and threw hard. In the grandstand, a laughing dandy waving a bottle went still as the blade took him in the belly. Gushing blood, the man dropped his bottle and, stumbling about, fell into the pit. He landed only ten yards away, but the boars converged on the body, stomping the flesh under their sharp hooves and goring it with their pointed tusks. Behind his shield, Jak had eyes only for the predark revolver in the gun belt of the aced pirate. The loops were full of ammo, maybe even enough for the teenager to blast his way out of the pit. Across the muddy field was a small wooden gate in the wall, painted to resemble bricks. That had to be how they let the boars into the pit. Which meant that was how he could get out. If only he could reach that blaster! Knife in hand, Jak started warily creeping forward, but the smaller boars drove him back into the corner, the flesh dangling off the legs of the corpse until the bones showed from within.

Angry noise came from the attendees, and most retreated from the pit, fearful of another attack by the prisoner. Then several voices demanded the immediate use of blasters. Knowing he stood no chance against those, Jak charged the boars, plowing through the smaller beasts until reaching the aced pirate. Ignoring the throbbing pain in his ankle, Jak heaved the headless corpse onto the tusks of the big sow, the obstruction keeping her busy for a moment while he dug in the mud for the blaster.

A movement to his left made the teen dodge and the small boar just missed goring his stomach. Cocking the hammer of the muddy weapon, Jak aimed and fired. The .357 Magnum blaster roared and the tiny male went motionless, then flopped to the ground, every breath squirting out a crimson arch.

The noise of the blaster clearly scared the animals, and they moved away from the Cajun warrior as Jak fumbled with the gun belt of the pirate and finally dragged it free. Draping it over a shoulder, he watched with dismay as several rounds fell into the thick mud, but he kept creeping along the wall toward the gate.

A guard shouted a warning about his plan, and now flintlocks did discharge, the miniballs ricocheting off the brick wall around the teen. Pumping a round at the boars to keep them at bay, Jak fired twice more, and a guard slumped out of sight, his arm gone from the elbow down.

Jak cracked the cylinder and dumped the spent shells. Keeping on the move, he reloaded a single round and aced another officer in the grandstand, starting a riot in the attendees. Removing the spent cartridge, he fully loaded the blaster and stuffed the two spare shells into his pants pocket. Turning for the gate, the albino teen cursed and flung himself sideways, the big sow only slamming into his sprained ankle, the impact sending lightning bolts of agony along his leg.

Landing in a heap, the teenager turned over and fired the .357 at point-blank range directly into the face of the wounded sow, the hollowpoint rounds tearing off a cheek and blowing away an eye. Her face dripping with blood, the animal shook her head, trying to remove the fluid, and threw herself at the hated norm. Waiting until the last second, Jak spun out of the way and buried a knife into the back of her neck, snapping the spine. Carried on by sheer momentum, the beast continued to walk several yards, then gently lay down and rolled onto her side as if going to sleep.

Limping to the gate, Jak aced two more boars, the rest moving away from the pale killer, a few of the smaller animals going to the dead sow and nudging her with their snouts as if trying to awaken her. Seizing the moment of freedom, Jak inspected the gate, trying to figure out which side held the hinges. He pumped two rounds into the left, blowing out huge gouts of wood, then did the same to the opposite side. Nothing happened. Bracing himself, Jak swung his good foot and kicked the portal. The weakened wood cracked, but neither side yielded.

Muttering curses, the teen thumbed in his last two rounds, then crouched low and used them both at the line of guards forming along the grandstand. Blasters boomed, throwing hot lead at the teen, but two of the pirates were already sagging, blood spreading across their chests from the deadly Magnum weapon.

Out of ammo again, Jak raced across the field and threw himself at the damaged gate. He felt the portal give a little, but still he didn't break through. Through the separating pieces of wood, he could see the heavy locking bar on the inside, keeping the barrier in place. There was no way he could get through without explosives or an ax.

Suddenly, a bell began to ring, and the pirates above lowered their longblasters, their faces twisted in surprise. The dim noise continued, and the guards turned and ran. In the grandstand, the attendees moved as if their clothes were on fire, dropping bottles and knocking over tables as they dashed from the grandstands shouting at one another.

Standing amid the carnage, Jak stared as the arena quickly emptied of people. In minutes he was alone with the boars. Dragging his bad leg, Jak grabbed the dead sow by her front legs and hauled the body to the base of the wall. The boars moved out of his way as the teenager gathered the chilled pirates, placing their bodies on the sow. Awkwardly climbing on top of the pile, Jak found the top of the pit was still beyond his reach. Stabbing his knife into the concrete between the bricks, he tried pulling himself higher, his fingertips brushing along the rough rim when a pair of different colored hands grabbed his wrist and hoisted the young man over the top.

"You okay?" Mildred asked, crouching alongside the panting teen, checking for wounds. But thankfully, none of the caked blood covering the filthy clothes seemed to be his.

"Been better," Jak admitted, stiffly standing and limping to a nearby table full of toasted sweetmeats and sliced fruit and other delicacies. Grabbing a fresh bottle of shine, the teen pulled the cork with his teeth and liberally poured the alcohol over his face and clothes, washing away most of the crud.

"Know where the others are?" Krysty added, watching the empty grandstands, a flintlock held in each hand.

Somewhere in the background, the warning bell never stopped ringing, and now the sounds of long-blasters and cannons were added to the shouting of the pirates.

"Not seen," he muttered, smoothing back his wet hair. "What's happening ville?"

"We're not sure," Mildred answered, "But from the amount of cannons firing, I'd say a war just started."

"Good," he grunted. "Need blaster."

Krysty handed over one of the handcannons taken from the dead guards in the alleyway. Jak checked the weapon, then grunted in satisfaction as he tucked it into his damp belt.

"Stink," he muttered, wrinkling his nose, "Need bath bad."

"So do we all, my friend," Krysty stated,

"Can you walk?" Mildred asked, observing how he stood.

The youth tried a few steps, then frowned deeply. "No," he answered honestly.

"Sit," the physician commanded, gently shoving him into a chair. Untying the laces of his boot, she spread on the last drops of analgesic cream from her med kit, then rewrapped the bandage tight. He winced, but said nothing.

Mildred knew the ankle had to be agony. The flesh was swollen, with new bruises compounding the sprain, but none of those were life threatening. A tight bandage would hurt a lot but support the weakened ankle, allowing him to walk, and fight. That was enough for now. Later, if there was a later, she'd do more.

Washing off the reeking boot with more shine, she slid it gently on his foot and he did the laces. Good enough. Mildred knew about the material hidden inside the boots of the men, but there was no present need for the wads of C-4 plastique.

"Okay, let's get going," Krysty said, putting her shoulder under the arm of the teen and helping him to stand.

"Where first?" Jak said, testing his weight on the foot. The pain was much less, and he nodded at the physician.

"Slave quarters," Mildred replied. "Then the baron's fortress. They'll be at one or the other."

"This way," Jak said, heading along the rows of seats and finally into the dark tunnel. "Don't touch walls!"

"No problem," Krysty answered, staring at the deadly yellow flowers growing in such abundance. Did the pirates not know, or not care about the fungi thriving in their ville?

Proceeding to the end of the tunnel, they found an iron gate blocking the exit, the door held in place with a chain and heavy padlock. Waiting for the sounds of battle to peak, Krysty blew off the lock with her muzzle loader and cast away the chain.

Stepping into the street, the three crouched low as a squad of armed men ran by the arena, closely followed by a horse-drawn cart packed with straw and carrying a ship's cannon. As the wag rattled around a corner, a lone man scurried into view, his arms full of smoked joints of meat. Leaning against the iron grille, Jak flipped his arm and the man across the street cried out, clutching the knife sticking out of his thigh.

"Don't chill me!" he pleaded, crawling away on the seat of his pants, a hand raised to ward off the expected blow.

From his ragged clothing and demeanor, Krysty could tell he was no sailor or guard. His hands were rough, the knuckles swollen and she made a guess.

"Carpenter," the redhead stated, aiming her blaster.

"Ship's c-carpenter," he stammered, inching away. "Look, that meat is mine. A gift from a friend. I'm no thief!"

Not a good one, anyway. "Talk fast," Krysty ordered, cocking her piece. "Where is the baron's house?"

Badly frightened, the man pointed with a shaky finger. "Two blocks over and up a flight of stairs. Big place, lots of guards."

The two women exchanged glances. That description matched the fortress they had seen on the low hill from the window of the gaudy house.

Stiffly bending, Jak shoved the man's head against the side of the brick house, knocking him unconscious. Yanking off the knotted rope the carpenter was using as a belt, the teen gave it to Mildred, who tied a tourniquet around the man's leg. When she was done, he retrieved the blade. The Cajun had no objections to chilling an enemy, but the terrified worker was no threat to the companions. Even in the Deathlands, there were lines that couldn't be crossed if a man considered himself a man, and not a coldheart. The differences were small, but to the companions extremely important.

Just then, the sound of marching boots filled the street and the companions slipped into a tavern to hide. More troops passed by, the sailors loading their longblasters on the run. Clothing was disheveled, faces stubbly with beard, and it was painfully clear the men had been roused from their sleep.

"The battle must be going bad," Krysty said, peeking out the wooden shutters covering the windows, "if they're calling in the reserve troops already."

"Firebirds against cannons isn't a fight," Mildred stated, watching from the front door. "That's just a slaughter."

Jak could only mumble in agreement, his mouth stuffed with food from the abandoned plates on the score of deserted tables.

As the sailors hurried out of sight, the companions followed in their wake, heading toward the baron's fortress. Everywhere, people were running about in panic, and several homes had been broken into and looted, clothing and such scattered in the cobblestone streets.

Smoke was rising from something burning in the distance. Cannons roared as Firebirds streaked across the sky, flintlocks discharging continuously. Half a dozen times, the companions were forced to hide rather than engage the squads of armed pirates, the sailors only seeming to travel in groups of ten or more. Then they found several chilled officers partially buried under the bricks and timbers of exploded buildings, the mashed gun racks and beds in the wreckage indicating this had been a barracks. Unfortunately, the longblasters of the officers were bent and useless, but their pepper boxes and shotguns were undamaged. The companions took the weapons, and the next group of sailors was ruthlessly cut to ribbons by the triple shotgun blasts, then the bleeding bodies looted of all the ammo they could carry.

Locating the flight of stairs, the women and teenager slowed and proceeded carefully up the hill. Cresting the ridge, they found a low stone wall dotted with cannons. Warily, they crept forward, the reloaded shotguns sweeping for targets. Even if most of the guards had gone to defend the ville, some would always stay at their posts. Fanatics and fools were the essential backbone of any baron's regime.

"There it is!" Mildred cried out when the fortress came into sight. A sandbag wall surrounded the structure on the ground, the rooftop foamy with coils of barbed wire. Beyond the fortress rose the escarpment of the towering mesa, the ruins on top lost in the haze of sheer distance.

Oddly, no guards were in sight, and that made the companions suspicious enough to drop and take cover. Had everybody gone to the ville walls, or were folks already fleeing the ville to escape into the deadly jungle? Rad craters dotted the island, and without a rad counter, any journey through the dense foliage would end quickly in screaming agony.

Jak covered the women as they moved from the wall of cannons toward the front door of the somber fortress, when without warning, a strident explosion ripped the structure apart, tongues of flame extending from every window and doorway. The concussion brutally slammed the companions to the paved street, and as they watched with ringing ears, a growing fireball lifted the building and split it apart, throwing the broken debris and flaming corpses far and wide across the turbulent sky.

"Mother Gaia, no," Krysty whispered, staring in horror at the wide expanse of smoky destruction.

Suddenly, a machine gun stuttered from behind, and the three spun in time to see the missing men gun down a group of pirates taking aim at them from behind the low wall. Krysty and Mildred burst into grins as Ryan and the others joined them, brief smiles playing across their dirty faces.

"Glad to see you alive, lover," Ryan said, taking the redhead in his arms. They fiercely hugged, savoring the sheer existence of each other, then reluctantly parted.

"Same here," Krysty replied, her animated hair relaxing around her shoulders.

"Here, compliments of Baron Withers," he said, passing over her gun belt, blaster and a heavy box of ammo.

"Thanks," she said, tossing away the flintlock pistol and quickly checking the load in her revolver.

Meanwhile, Mildred pulled J.B. close and nearly suffocated the wiry man with a long fierce kiss.

"You okay?" he asked in concern over the unusual display. The woman was normally much more reserved. Something was wrong.

"Tell you later," she replied softly, accepting her ZKR target pistol and a full box of live rounds.

Gratefully, Dean dropped his load of backpacks to the road, and they all took their bundles of possessions without checking the contents. There was no time for that now. Even with his ankle throbbing, Jak felt better with the pack in place. He always seemed slightly off balance with the backpack missing.

"What happened to the fort?" Krysty asked.

"Thought we could use a diversion," J.B. explained, shifting his grip on the heavy rapidfire. "After the alarm sounded, the guards rushed out to man the walls, so we raided the armory and lit a couple of fuses."

"Chaos is the shield of the lost," Doc rumbled, passing out grens. Each companion got four of the AP charges, and shoved them away into pockets and backpacks.

Just then, a crackle of blasterfire peppered the stone wall, and J.B. answered with a barrage of lead from the Thompson, the rounds punching a line of holes along the side of a house. Then Doc emptied his Webley, and a pirate appeared in a second-floor window to fall to his death.

"Nice shot," Dean complimented him.

"A necessity," Doc rumbled, cracking open the top of the Webley and flipping it over to pour out the shells. Tossing them away, the spent brass musically rang on the cobblestoned street as he started thumbing in fresh bullets. As much as the old man hated to admit it, the Webley was a better blaster in every way to the LeMat. More accurate, loaded faster, lighter, less recoil, hit harder, everything. Perhaps his adamantine decision to keep the ancient weapon was due for some serious thought.

Through the scope of the Steyr, Ryan swept the ville below them, checking the combat encircling the wall. Hummers raked the defenders with machine guns, the pirates replying with flintlocks, cannons and crossbows. But every time the sailors formed a group to concentrate their weapons fire, the sec men launched a Firebird and dozens of sailors were aced.

"Glassman and Mitchum," Krysty said, scowling at the faraway combat. Then she noticed the granite bridge was gone, and past the valley PT boats patrolled in the shallows off the beach.

"This is no recce or raid," she stated, "but a full invasion."

"With enough weapons to get the job done," Ryan agreed grimly, lowering the Steyr. "They came to get us, and found the pirates instead."

"Prob think we pirates," Jak stated, checking his Colt Python. The revolver was in fine shape, clean and oiled. The cartridges looked old, but there was no sign of corrosion. And for the first time in months, he had a full complement of ammo.

"Most definitely, my friend," Mildred said, frowning. "I think the sec men want the pirates first, but we're definitely number two on their hit list."

"I do not know who to root for," Doc muttered. "Glassman or the pirates."

"Doesn't matter," Krysty said unhappily. "Both sides want us aced."

"Better take this, Millie," J.B. said, easing the tension on the arming bolt and passing over the bulky Thompson. "I can't operate it and my Uzi at the same time."

She bolstered her revolver. "Chambered for .22 rounds?" the physician asked, accepting the heavy rapidfire. She was surprised by its weight. The thing had to be ten pounds, maybe more.

"Nope, .45APC," he replied, and began pulling rectangular ammo clips from his munitions bag.

"Can't imagine we'll need this to get out of here," she said, stuffing the extra clips into her pockets.

"Madam, we are going to require a blessed miracle," Doc said in a deadly serious tone.

Just then a Firebird launched from the Hummers, and arched over the wall to streak directly toward the companions.

"Incoming!" Ryan shouted, both of the Webley revolvers blazing away.

 

Chapter Ten

 

 

 The companions cut loose as the rocket did a lazy spiral over the tumultuous pirate ville. Then it angled sharply and dived almost straight down to disappear behind a brick building. There immediately followed a tremendous explosion.

"Wasn't after us," Ryan said, lowering his blasters. A warm draft from the detonation washing over the companions, carrying the smell of sulfur and roasted flesh.

"Next time it will be," Krysty stated, watching the mushroom-shaped cloud rise into the sky. Any hot explosion could cause a similar cloud, but the shape still disturbed her slightly.

Across the settlement, the blasterfire continued unabated from the wall, but the cannons were sounding more sporadically. Probably running low on black powder. The nameless ville had been there for decades and never been attacked. The locals simply weren't prepared for a major battle against sec men armed with rapidfires and in war wags.

Screaming and pointing at the cloud, a group of terrified people ran out of the alleyway, clutching their meager possessions. The companions let them pass unmolested until some armed pirates ran into view. Both J.B. and Mildred dropped into a firing stance, and the Uzi and Thompson chattered briefly, mowing the men down.

Something slammed into the stone wall in front of them, and Dean spotted a sec man on a rooftop hastily reloading his longblaster. The boy raised the Weatherby, braced for the recoil and fired. The crack of the Nitro Express made heads turn across the ville, and it was a full second before the sniper flipped over backward. Without expression, Dean worked the bolt, levering in a fresh cartridge. At short range the massive rounds went straight through a man like a rock through glass, with about the same results.

Just then, a rickety cart loaded with barrels of black powder rattled by on the cobblestoned street, the driver cursing and whipping the sweaty horses. Dean raised the Weatherby, but Ryan stopped him from firing.

"We want the pirates to have the ammo," he explained. "The longer they fight with the sec men, the fewer can come after us."

"Gotcha," he replied, easing the pressure on the hair trigger.

"Mayhap it would be appropriate to terminate our visit," Doc rumbled, discharging the LeMat, then the Webley at pirates coming their way. One man dived for cover with a badly wounded arm, while the other went flat and stayed there.

"The mesa is only twenty miles or so to the west," Mildred suggested, fighting to clear a jammed round. Over near the arena, she noted that plumes of smoke were rising from a two-story building with wooden shutters. Good.

Pulling out his scope, J.B. swept the entire ville.

"There's a gate in the western wall," he said, collapsing the brass telescope. "Only a few guards."

"Horse cart came from over there," Krysty said, making a gesture with her smoking revolver.

Choosing his target, Ryan chilled an officer on the wall, but ignored the troopers. The more confusion in the ranks, the longer the battle would last.

"Okay, let's grab some transport," Ryan said, deliberately not looking at Jak. "Twenty miles is a long way to run."

Firing one blaster, then the other, the albino teen said nothing, but seemed vastly relieved.

"Let's go," the Deathlands warrior shouted over the growing din, and the companions took off at a run into a side street.

 

STRIDING ALONG the wide top of the limestone wall that sealed off the valley, Peter Tongamorlena shouted orders to the sailors under his command. The air tasted of black-powder fumes, and aced pirates lay everywhere, pools of their blood making the limestone slippery to walk on. Most he knew by name, shipmates and fellow officers, but every corpse built a rage for revenge against the invaders. How the fuck had the lord baron's sec men gotten past the rad craters alive? Nobody else had succeeded in getting off the beach in the past fifty years!

 

"Keeping firing!" Tongamorlena bellowed, discharging his blaster at the racing Hummers darting about in the jungle. Incredibly, he scored a hit, but the .44 miniball only ricocheted off the armored side of the military wag. The lord baron's sec men answered with a burst from their giant rapidfire blaster, the spray of .50 caliber slugs raking the wall and its handful of defenders.

Designed to withstand bombardments from rogue ships in the bay, the stout limestone blocks were holding against the Firebirds and grens. But the steel-plated front gate was beginning to weaken, the cold iron hinges sagging under the weight of the door. Rocks on the brick barbicon had been dropped to hinder the advance of the Hummers. And the tactic worked, but only for a while. The grens of the sec men were slowly clearing a path for the deadly war wags.

As Tongamorlena quickly reloaded, the pirates struck back with flintlocks and crossbows, the wounded reloading for the healthy. Then the few remaining cannons roared in a ragged volley, sending a hellstorm of seashells and rocks into the jungle. More than once a hidden sec man screamed and fell to the ground horribly mutilated from the razor-sharp barrage. But there always seemed to be more, and nothing stopped the Hummers. Even the tires seemed resistant to lead and arrows.

Behind him, chaos filled the streets of the ville, buildings burning out of control and the civilians looting like hungry jackals. The triple-damn cowards. There only seemed to be a couple of those PT boats in the bay, and the pirates outnumbered the attackers twenty to one. But those accursed Firebirds made the difference, even when they missed. The fallout from the explosions threw flaming wreckage about and spread the damage across HomePort ville.

Taking a pepper box from an arm without a body, Tongamorlena tracked the passage of a Hummer and squeezed the trigger. The forty-five tiny chambers of the honeycomb barrel simultaneously fired, the swarm of iron needles spraying the military wag. A sec man cried out, his face a bloody ruin.

In response, a sec man stepped from the bushes holding a fat tube and launched a Firebird. The rocket streaked past the limestone so low that its fiery exhaust washed over several men, igniting their clothes and hair. Shrieking, the pirates slapped at their crackling bodies, one going over the side, and the other dashing madly about until aced by one of his own men.

"Cannons, fire!" Tongamorlena roared, limping along the top of the barrier.

"Sir, we can't!" a dirty-faced ensign growled. A red-stained rag was wrapped around his neck, one eye partially closed from a cluster of burn blisters. "The metal is too fuckin' hot. The powder will blow if we try a reload."

"Then wash them with water first!" Tongamorlena bellowed.

The man spread his arms in reply, indicating the dozen empty buckets scattered on the wall.

Scorch! They were going to lose the ville because of water?

"We got any Firebirds?" Tongamorlena demanded.

The gunner scowled. "We've stolen dozens over the years," he answered, "but they won't launch at Kinnison's troops. Got no fucking idea why, but they just won't do it. It's like the bastard things were alive!"

A fifty chattered, and both men ducked for a moment.

"Okay, then launch them at the sky. When the rockets run out of powder, they'll rain down on the attackers from above."

"Yeah, might work," the gunner said grudgingly. "But the wind could shift to our side of the wall and"

"Obey!" Tongamorlena raged, brandishing the spent pepper box.

The gunner saluted and limped away, shouting orders. He only got a few yards before a .50 cal cut the man in two.

Bellowing in anger, Tongamorlena aimed and pulled the trigger on the pepper box before remembering it was empty. Scorch! It was the only weapon they had that was harming the sec men, and it took half an hour to reload! With a hundred of these, Kinnison's troops would be feeding the fish by now. But there were only about twenty in the whole ville, and each had been used already.

Furious, the officer tossed the useless blaster away, and grabbed a flintlock and ammo bag from a headless man. As much as the officer hated to admit such a thing, it was starting to appear that they were going to lose this battle. Best be prepared for street fighting. Although with Baron Withers's fortress gone, he had no idea where the pirates could retreat to for a last stand. Maybe the slave quarters, or the armory? No, that was also gone.

Going to the edge of the wall, Tongamorlena whistled for attention. "Barricade the door!" he shouted.

"Aye, aye, sir!" the overseer yelled, then turned to crack a knotted bullwhip at his workers. "You heard the man! Get moving!"

Shoulders hunched against the expected lash of the bullwhip, the line of chained slaves began hoisting wreckage from the collapsed houses and piling it against the door to reinforce the portal.

But they had only a few pieces in place when somebody on the wall shouted a warning and a strident explosion ripped the massive doors off the weakened hinges. The ton of metal fell to the cobblestones, smashing the slaves and the overseer into crimson pulp. A Firebird flew through the black and gray clouds to strike a pair of cannons set behind a sandbag wall. The rocket hit a man and detonated, the blast setting off the bags of black powder. The resulting explosion sent the cannons in every direction.

A Hummer rolled into view through the breach in the wall, its .50-caliber blaster steadily firing to finish the task. The military wag bumped over the horizontal door and the human remains trapped underneath, ending their cries of pain.

"No prisoners!" Mitchum screamed, driving the Hummer through a crowd of startled pirates, the armored fenders smashing the bodies aside.

The long barrels of flintlocks extended from the open windows of nearby buildings, and miniballs slammed into the wags, bouncing harmlessly off the body armor. The .50 calibers spoke, the heavy slugs chewing a path of destruction along the facade of the buildings, and the sniper ceased.

"Find me the outlanders!" Glassman shouted, shooting a wounded man in the back as he ran away.

"Ace everybody else!" Mitchum corrected, pulling out his blaster and pointing it at the captain. This was the perfect chance to permanently settle the matter of who was in charge.

But Glassman had been expecting the sec man to try a judas strike, and already had his blaster out. The two men fired in unison, the smoky discharges of the black-powder weapons temporarily masking the results of the conflict.

 

WHEN THE ALARM BELL stopped ringing, Ensign Raynor feared the worst and got ready, laying out a line of clips from his predark blaster for easy access.

 

Even before the sec men arrived, he had been standing alone to guard the rear gate of HomePort. Only made sense. It was twenty miles to Deadman's Cliff, and nobody had ever been known to get more than halfway there before getting aced.

A movement in the bushes caught his attention, and Raynor blindly fired his weapon. The motion ceased, but that meant nothing and he stayed alert. The Hunters were tricky. Only the guard of the western gate was allowed to carry a bolt-action blaster, and never had to account for how much ammo he used on a shift. Baron Withers encouraged random shots to try to put some fear into the horrid muties. They were the reason the wall around the ville had been built in the first place. Sure, the Hunters normally stayed in the trees and merely watched the norms, but occasionally they ventured close and stole a horse, sometimes a whole family.

Even from here, the ensign could see pieces of the predark ruins on top of the mesa, and he licked his lips thinking about the loot that waited up there for the first man to reach the city. But the few who tried were never seen again. However, the Hunters would sometimes toss the gnawed bones over the wall, almost as if trying to give the pirates a warning. The mesa was forbidden territory, although the oldsters of the ville whispered that none of the monsters had ever been seen climbing the cliff, almost as if there was something up there that frightened them. Raynor shuddered at the thought, unable to imagine what in nuking hell could frighten a Hunter.

The strident detonations of the Firebirds seemed to become louder, and many structures were burning out of control. But the ensign refused to leave his post until relieved from duty by the sergeant of the guard, or the enemy came and chilled him. He'd given the baron his oath, and a man meant less than a slave if he didn't keep his word.

Just then, a rattling horse cart rolled out of an alleyway, a large canvas mound covering whatever was in the rear. Holding the reins was an oldster with silver hair, wrapped in a horse blanket as if bitterly cold. Instantly, the ensign suspected looters and worked the bolt on his M-1 longblaster.

"Keep moving," Raynor said, aiming the weapon. "Can't use this gate."

"But sir, I've got orders from the baron to haul these blasters outside," the old man whimpered, cowering slightly. "We're losing the battle, and I must get these blasters to our snipers."

"Snipers would have their own blasters," the ensign said with scorn. "Nobody leaves."

The old man rubbed his face. "I have a bag of gold," he stated.

The guard snorted a laugh. "Only we use gold," he snapped. "Kinnison uses black powder for jack. Now get going before I have you keelhauled for disobeying a direct order!"

"But"

"I wouldn't open the gate for anyone other than the baron himself," Raynor said, then fired a round that went wide of the canvas mound. "Now move!"

"As you say," the old man said in a sad tone. "Well, I tried. Goodbye, young man."

Puzzled, Raynor scowled at the expression and a sharp cough sounded from under the tarpaulin. Searing pain took his chest, to be replaced with a numbing cold and then absolute blackness that reached forever.

"Krysty, get the gate," Ryan said, throwing off the canvas sheet with his blaster.

The redhead clambered from the cart and rushed over to the imposing portal. Grabbing the heavy bar, she tried to shove it aside, then had to use rocks to hammer the rusted metal bolts out of their positions. Even then, the gate itself proved to be rusted shut. This exit hadn't been used in years.

"No more games," J.B. said, the Uzi held by his side as he watched the ville streets. "That was a damn waste of time."

Wrapping the reins around a hitch on the buckboard, Doc snorted in reply. "Attempting to not take a life is never a waste of time," he rumbled, buckling on his gun belt and stepping down to the ground.

"For once we agree," Mildred said. "Just wish the path to righteousness wasn't so well paved with land mines."

"Again, madam, we agree."

Trying not to grunt aloud, Jak took the old man's place at the reins, resting his hurt ankle on his folded camou jacket.

"Hey, lend a hand," Krysty grunted, throwing her weight against the door to no results.

J.B. stayed on guard while the rest of the companions joined the woman at her task. The gate required the combined strength of everybody to be slowly forced aside, and after Jak drove the cart through, they forced it shut again to confuse the trail. The bolts were still undone on the other side, the sentry aced, but hopefully nobody would notice for a while. Whichever side won the battle, the survivors would certainly come after them for payback.

Past the gate was an open field separating the wall from the jungle, stubbly grass and flowering weeds dotting the land showing it had been cleared by hand. But not for farming. There were no furrows or even irrigation ditches. Just flat open soil.

"A clear field of fire," Ryan stated, laying the Steyr across his lap as the cart rolled forward. "They expected to get attacked from this direction."

"Attacked by whom?" Mildred said, then added softly. "Or should I ask, attacked by what?"

"Neutral pronoun, dear lady," Doc stated, his hands busy reloading the LeMat. He had a lot more charges for the ancient revolver than he did bullets for the British-made Webley.

Nearly lost in the weeds was an old path of rain-washed ruts, the wheel gullies pitted with loose stones and potholes.

"Pirates don't use this much," Dean observed, studying the primitive road.

"Which raises an interesting question," Krysty said thoughtfully. "If they rule this island, why seal off the door that leads to the ruins? It's an easy climb."

"Nothin' there?" Jak suggested, shaking the reins.

"Mebbe," Ryan answered pensively, his fingers tripping the checkered grip of the powerful Webley. The front gate of the ville had been armed like a predark tank, but the back gate was merely locked with a lone sentry standing guard. More like they were trying to keep folks in the ville, rather than keeping an enemy outside. Strange.

"Watch for muties," he warned, feeling the hair on the back of his neck stiffen and raise. He'd felt the same thing a hundred times in the Deathlands and was hardly ever wrong.

In silent agreement, the others checked their weapons and turned their backs toward one another so they could watch the jungle better. Rambling along the crude road, the cart bucked and bounced as it entered the cool shadows of the overhanging branches. Thick vines hung in clusters, each heavily dotted with different-colored flowers. Fruit festooned every branch, the grass littered with rotting peels and chewed cores. A tiny squirrel leaped from a palm tree ripe with coconuts, the limp body of a baby tarantula in its mouth. Birds were singing in every tree, a python hissed at the passing cart and swarms of insects parted before the horse cart and its occupants, closing behind them. The companions began to feel as if they were riding a boat floating through a serene green lake of tall rushes.

Then the berry-laden leaves of a tall bush abruptly parted and something inhuman leaped out to dart across the road. Flinging itself airborne, the thing landed on the horse and grabbed hold of the reins. Caught by surprise, the horse whinnied at the attack and reared on its hind legs, trying to buck off the animal. Still holding on to the reins, the mutie reached out to start throttling the mare with its second pair of arms.

The humanoid creature resembled a silverback gorilla, the largest and most powerful simian species in the predark world. Only this animal was a deep chestnut brown, and its elongated fingers were tipped with tiny black talons.

In unison, Jak and Ryan fired their blasters, the heavy slugs slamming into the huge beast less than a yard away. The mutie gorilla roared at the impacts, but only small trickles of blood were oozing from the deep wounds.

Standing, Dean swung up the Weatherby, but his father was in the way, still firing the Webley. Pounding its chest, the mutie released the trembling horse and reached for the norms. Stoically, they kept firing, but even at point-blank range their blasters were doing almost no damage.

"Try this!" J.B. shouted, squeezing between the men and triggering the shotgun. The pirate armory hadn't possessed any flechette rounds, but the double-aught buckshot blew off an arm.

Howling in pain, pale fluid squirting from the ghastly wound, the mutie abandoned the horse to dive at the companions. Dean, Doc, Ryan and J.B. fired again while it was in midair, the triple blast throwing it to the dirt road.

"Giddyap!" Jak shouted, yanking the reins, and the wild-eyed horse started galloping away at top speed.

Behind them, the gorilla rose and started giving chase in a peculiar loping sprint. Aiming for its belly, Dean tried a shot, but the moving cart made him miss. Going to the rear of the cart, Krysty pulled the pin on a gren and dropped the charge rather than throwing it. The metallic sphere bounced twice, then violently erupted between the cart and the mutie, throwing up a cloud of leaves and loose dirt. Covered with fresh wounds, and still losing blood from its missing arm, the creature fell, but still alive, it started crawling after the companions.

"Here!" Dean said, holding out his longblaster lengthwise.

Krysty grabbed the hot barrel, Mildred braced the Thompson on the stable platform of the rifle and pounded the giant mutie with a spray of .45 rounds. The barrage tore the creature apart and it finally dropped.

"Bastard mutie," Jak cursed, glancing briefly over a shoulder, then turning back to pay attention to the road. Tree stumps and large rocks threatened to smash the rattling cart apart. An instant too slow in a turn and they'd crash. But the teenager refused to reduce their speed and drove on, whipping the horse to go faster.

Miles flew beneath the shaking wheels, and another of the mutie gorillas attacked the cart as it slowed to splash through a shallow creek. Ready this time, Ryan fired a thundering round from the Webley directly into its snarling mouth, blowing out the back of its head. Dripping brains, the creature fell limply across the horse and almost got tangled in the reins before slipping off to the ground. The cart nearly toppled over as its wooden wheels jounced over the bulky corpse.

"Now we know why they had the gate locked!" Krysty said, firing her Samp;W .38 at something unseen in the shadows of the jungle.

"Tropical paradise my ass," Mildred muttered, yanking out the exhausted clip and slamming a fresh mag into the Thompson.

Tense hours passed as the cart raced through the lush greenery. A carpet of vines nearly stopped them at one point, and the companions had to get down and push the cart over the obstruction. A fallen tree completely blocked the road at a curve. J.B. and Mildred sprayed the tree and bushes with their rapidfires, while Ryan set a gren and blew the decomposing log apart. The panting horse reared at the explosion and tried to turn away, but Jak forced it onward through the blast crater. But over the next few miles the mare wasn't running as quickly as before, and the teenager worried he had pushed the elderly horse too hard.

"My dear Jak, why are we slowing?" Doc asked in concern.

"Not me. Horse is," Jak replied curtly, shaking the reins. "Giddyap!"

In spite of the desperate urging, the old animal began to trot instead of run, and soon even that slowed to a walk. Jak lifted the whip, then put it down. The mare was wheezing for breath, white foam dripping from her mouth. No amount of pain would restore the strength of lost youth.

"Cover me," Mildred said, hopping from the cart with her med kit. Water was what the poor thing needed, and God help her, she'd give the mare a massive dose of the jolt she stole in the arena. That would get her moving again, but the rush would wear off quickly and kill the beast. She had no choice. They needed the mare to haul them out of the jungle and to the cliff.

The companions maintained random fire into the greenery as the horse greedily accepted the water from her palm. Then she tried to give it the jolt and the horse refused, her nostrils flaring in disgust at the smell of the toxic chem.

"Okay, girl," she said in a soothing tone, dumping the powder out of her hand. "Can't really blame you."

"She take it?" Ryan asked, watching the trees.

"No. Just drive. We'll be okay."

Jak walked the horse for a mile to let her rest, then broke her into a trot. As long as the cart was rolling, they should be okay.

Minutes later, the overhead branches thinned and they could see the rising cliff only a hundred yards away.

"We made it!" Dean shouted in relief, pointing with his longblaster.

Startled by the cry, the horse started to gallop toward the tall cliff, when two gorillas hit the mare from either side. Burying their teeth into her neck, the creatures tore loose gouts of dark flesh, hot blood pumping from the wounds to wash their inhuman faces. With no reason to hold back, J.B. sprayed all of the animals with the Uzi until they fell as a group, friend and foes entangled forever in death.

"Looks like we walk from here," J.B. said, slapping in a fresh clip.

"Krysty, help Jak," Ryan directed, handing the woman one of his blasters. Her .38 would do nothing against these jungle behemoths.

The redhead accepted the Webley and a handful of ammo, then assisted Jak down from the cart. She grabbed him about the waist and they started moving, their blasters cocked and ready.

"Take our packs?" Dean asked, jumping to the grass.

A hooded cobra rose to hiss at him, and Doc blew it away with the shotgun charge of the LeMat.

"Just take the MRE packs and ammo," his father directed. "We need speed."

He nodded. "Yes, Dad."

Dumping his backpack, J.B. pulled the pin on a gren and snugly tucked it over the pile of packs. The first person, or thing, that lifted the packs would have its face removed by eight ounces of high-grade military plastique. That ought to slow down even these four-armed monsters.

Roars came from the jungle around them. Mildred put a few bursts from the Thompson into the forest, the leaves shaking under the chattering fury. A gorilla darted into sight, and she concentrated the rapidfire on the mutie until the clip was spent. Swaying, the ape dropped to the ground.

"Bullshit!" Ryan growled, and pumped a few rounds from the Webley into the creature.

Growling and slavering, the gorilla stood and rushed the norms, fresh blood on its massive chest.

"Knavery, eh?" Doc growled, discharging the LeMat and the Webley together. The double roar thundered in the trees, the reports bouncing off the stone wall to sound like a hundred blasters.

Rocking slightly, the hunting ape patted at the gaping wound in its belly, pale blood welling with every breath. Finally, the brutish head lolled and it lay down as if going to sleep.

Snapping the reloaded Webley shut, Ryan triggered the blaster and blew off a chunk of its hairy skull, pinkish-gray brains pouring out like warm grease.

"Head shots only," he ordered. "These bastards know how to play possum."

"Incoming!" Dean shouted, firing.

Snarling wildly, a dozen of the great apes charged out of the forest. Slamming their knuckles onto the ground, the muties swung their torsos forward, then grabbed the soil with stubby toes to swing their arms again. Even as he pumped hot lead into their faces, Ryan couldn't understand how they got any speed that way, but the beasts moved with amazing velocity across the open roadway.

J.B. emptied the Uzi once more, and the rest of the companions fired head shots into the wounded muties. They had a system now that worked, but used a lot of irreplaceable ammo.

Sprinting down the dirt road, more gorillas came from the jungle and were aced. But the next wave didn't charge at the humans, but stayed just out of range, and only charged when the companions turned their backs to leave.

"Fireblast!" Ryan cursed, stopping in the road and turning. "I'll hold them until you reach the cliff! Then cover me!"

"Done!" J.B. answered, and took off at a run.

As the others departed, the gorillas paused in confusion, then charged in a group. Shooting as fast as he could pull the trigger, Ryan emptied the Webley. Four of the gorillas fell with blood spraying from their faces, but the fifth took a round smack in the chest and didn't even pause.

Cursing the miss, Ryan threw a gren, and the ape caught the sphere to sniff at it suspiciously. The blast reduced it to a smoking stain, and Ryan took off after the others, fumbling to open the top of the revolver and thumb in fresh rounds.

Reaching the rock wall, J.B. turned and waited until Ryan was in sight, then emptied a clip in one stuttering volley into the forest behind the man. The 9 mm rounds ripped apart the leaves, and six gorillas fell wounded or dying. But they started after the companions again, crawling along the ground with their four arms, heading straight for the Armorer, their tiny red eyes staring hatefully at him. The sight chilled his blood, and J.B. had to force himself to stay and reload the Uzi, instead of starting up the cliff face.

"Get going!" Ryan ordered, dropping the Webley and drawing the SIG-Sauer. He hadn't wanted to use the silenced blaster because it had less of a punch than the booming revolver, but he was out of ammo for the big-bore top-loader. Krysty had the last of the .44 rounds, and she was completely out of reach.

J.B. started to object, when a hail of lead hit the ground around the gorillas as they crossed the little stream. Craning his neck, the man saw the others clinging precariously from the rock face, firing their blasters with one hand. Then there came the telltale thunderous boom of Doc's LeMat, and a wounded male stepped backward to fall over, showing the back of its head missing.

"Climb!" the old man shouted, sounding like Zeus on Mount Olympus.

Ryan swept the field with his SIG-Sauer, putting a round into each of the remaining six apes, then turned and threw himself at the rock wall. Both hands grabbing hold of a horizontal crack, the Deathlands warrior pulled himself up until his boots found purchase on the rough surface, and he extended his arms to find another crack.

Clawing for cracks, J.B. followed a few feet away from his old friend. Cold logic dictated that everybody climb alone in case they lost their grip and fell. They had no ropes, or pitons, only bare hands. There was no way to help each other now, except for not colliding into someone on the way down.

Dean and Doc were already ten feet off the ground, moving faster than expected, and Mildred was scaling the rocks as if she had done it her whole life.

As Jak slowly struggled along the crevices, Krysty snagged an outcropping on the side of the mesa and pulled herself higher. Ryan and J.B. followed, pausing when they reached a small ledge to shoot at the hunting apes below. More than half of the muties were sprawled on the ground, but the rest continued on, uncaring of the deadly lead flying past their stubby heads.

Checking below, Ryan cursed as he saw the huge apes pawing at the rock wall, leaning close to sniff the mesa, then tap it with their massive fingers. The bastard things were still trying to follow the group.

One gorilla reached up with an incredible long arm and pawed the rocks, pulling itself off the ground with the one hand. Their flexible toes worked as auxiliary hands that fondled the rocks to find any purchase, and the beast moved higher on the wall. Grunting among themselves, the rest tried to follow the first and soon the six were hot in pursuit, and moving faster than any of the companions.

A particularly large ape roared at the tiny humans, and Ryan tried to target the big male, but the angle of the sheer cliff prohibited that now. Reluctantly, he bolstered his piece and proceeded skyward once more.

"Still after us," Ryan warned the others.

"Fuck that," Jak said, and fired twice at the creatures with his .357 Magnum blaster.

The apes flinched at the noise of the weapon, and one round ricocheted off the wall, spraying out rock chips and dust. The other creased the hairy shoulder of the bull male, and the beast sounded very human as it cried out from the pain of the wound. Then it locked its gaze on Jak, and the teenager saw the murderous intent in its face. He aimed again, and the mutie moved just as he fired, the round missing completely.

Unable to load without falling, Jak bolstered the piece and concentrated on his climbing once more. But not able to use the hurt leg, his speed was pitiful, and the ape gained on the teenager with nightmarish speed.

There was a cry from Mildred, and J.B. saw her flail as the root in her hand came free from the wall, loose pebbles sprinkling downward. Instinctively, J.B. reached out a hand to help her, but she was yards away. He watched in horror as the physician struggled not to fall, then cheered as she stabbed a knife into the cliff and used that as an anchor to move to a more secure area.

Tense minutes passed as the companions did nothing but concentrate on their individual tasks. Fingers dug painfully into the smallest of openings, and boots slipped constantly as they tried to dig in for a purchase that would hold their weight, if only for a scant few seconds.

Pausing to catch his breath, Ryan shot at the hunting apes and scored a wound. The beast was still scaling the cliff, but much slower. Encouraged by this, J.B. pulled a jagged piece of cliff loose and let it drop at another gorilla. The stone fell straight for the mutie's face, but the creature reached out with an enormous hand and caught it, then lobbed the stone right back. J.B. barely had time to swing out of the way before the limestone slammed into the mesa where he had just been, exploding into powdery shrapnel.

"Son of a bitch is fast," he muttered, paying closer attention to his climbing and wisely deciding to not try that again.

Then a shout of surprise sounded from above and Dean fell away from the cliff, the end of a thick root grasped in his hands.