Deathlands 118: Blood Red Tide (3 page)

“They’re young, light and tight, and this ship is short of top men.” Miles nodded at a mutie who looked like a six-foot, shaved gibbon with bright pink skin and golden eyes. “Mr. Movies, I want Whitey and Softboy here able in the rigging ASAP.”

Movies put a pink knuckle to his brow and spoke in a soft voice that sounded like it was unused to human speech. “Aye, Commander Miles.”

Manrape looked at Ricky with open lust. “What is your name?”

Ryan gave Ricky credit for scowling at Manrape as if he were shit he had scraped off his shoe. “Ricky.”

Manrape closed his eyes. “Ricky Softboy, young, light and tight...”

Ricky made a Puerto Rican hand gesture that had been ancient in Doc’s time.
“Mama bicho!”

The crew laughed at Ricky’s bravado. Manrape smiled beatifically. “Oh, my soft Rickito.”

“Manrape wants a new wife!” someone called from the rigging. The catcalls resumed.

“Ship’s business!” Miles thundered. The increasingly horrible suggestions and bets died down. The commander ran an appreciative eye over Krysty. “And her, Mr. Ryan?”

“She’s mine,” Ryan stated.

Sweet Marie called out lustily. “We’ll see how long that lasts, Cyclops!”

The crew whooped.

“Write Red into the log and rate her lubber, powder monkey, gopher and the like, until proved otherwise or signed.”

Forgiven scratched in the log. “Aye.”

The commander weighed and measured Doc and found him wanting. The knockout drug, the beating and the rude awakening had left the time-trawled man staring at his shoes. “And this?”

“Doc is—”

“Doc?” Miles perked up. “He’s a whitecoat?”

Ryan sought for anything that could save his friend. “No, but he’s educated. He’s—”

A thatch-headed young man shouted happily, “He’s just a fucking old stick!”

“Shut up, Wipe!” Miles snapped. Wipe flinched and stood at attention. Miles sighed at Forgiven. “Old Stick, rate him lubber, let him pull a rope until he proves himself ordinary seaman or breaks.” Doc seemed completely oblivious to his sentencing.

Forgiven made a derisive noise and a note. “Aye.”

The commander gave Ryan a smile that held not an ounce of warmth. “And you, Mr. Ryan, word is you can pull a rope, heave harpoon and lance and fight a boarding action.”

Ryan knew what was coming. He was the leader of a group of the shanghaied aboard a ship in dire straits. He was mostly likely to be worked until broken or made an example of. “I can.”

“Rate One-Eye lubber, until proved otherwise or signed.”

“Aye.”

“Mr. Manrape! I don’t want any of the new fish together in number on deck until proved otherwise or signed. Let them mess together but separate their hammocks. Clap Red, Whitey and Softboy in irons until the next watch. Put Ryan to work now.”

Manrape sneered openly at Doc. “And this one?”

Commander Miles laughed. “Put Old Stick to work immediately. Let Mr. Ryan have him as a comfort.”

* * *

R
YAN WORKED LIKE
a slave.
The knockout drug and the beating did him no favors as he hauled on ropes to bring fresh spars and sails aloft. Small boats brought casks of water, and by the crew’s grumbling, far too little bush meat from the forest. Ryan staggered beneath their weight to bring them down into the dark depths of the hold.

Their complaints and worry about the food situation were nearly constant. Ryan was treated like a pariah, a pressed man and probably rebellious if given any chance. No one talked to him except to scream about how he was doing his every task wrong. Crewmen laughed when he threw up or fell, but some gave him grunts or nods as he rose again and again and returned to his tasks. If there was any solace in the situation, it was that every other member of the crew was working just as hard as he was. The ship had been in a battle and barely escaped. The urgency among officers and crew to get the vessel seaworthy and under sails again was palpable.

Doc was not doing as well.

The knockout drug had addled him. He had been put to work picking apart torn rope and rigging for caulking material. Doc was spending more time talking to the rope scraps than picking them. Manrape stalked the decks with a knotted rope end of his own and it fell upon Doc again and again. The old man whimpered and looked to be spiraling into a genuine episode. Ryan tottered beneath two wooden kegs roped to his shoulders. The ships bell clanged the hour and the commander called out, “Miss Loral!”

A lanky, grinning, raven-haired beauty in officer’s blue produced a pewter whistle on a chain from her ample cleavage and piped the change of watch. The crew put away its equipment and gear and began filing down the hatch. Miss Loral looked at Miles, who shook his head.

Miss Loral shook her head at Ryan. “Not you, Ryan! Watch on watch! And you, Old Stick!”

Ryan had already worked straight through two four-hour watches, and now it would be twelve hours without rest. He was handed hard bread at intervals, and he was given as much water as the rest of the crew, but Ryan could see his sentence written on the wall. They were going to break him and destroy Doc. The new watch filed up. Ryan hadn’t seen J.B. or Mildred, but he saw Krysty, Jak and Ricky with each change of watch and they shot him increasingly concerned looks. Jak and Ricky filed by. Jak hesitated, but Miss Loral’s voice cracked like a whip. “Into the tops, Whitey!”

Jak was without his Colt Python and his smorgasbord of knives. He knew he would only get Ryan and himself punished if he tried anything. He frowned and moved toward the port rigging. Ricky shot Ryan a grin and tossed a piece of salted mystery meat the size of a deck of cards between two buckets by Ryan’s feet.

Ricky shot Ryan a wink.

Manrape appeared out of nowhere behind Ricky. He grabbed the youth by the back of the neck and lifted him off the deck with one hand, caressing his buttocks with the other. “Aiding and succoring a man sentenced to watch on watch, Ricky Softboy?”

Ricky cursed and flailed in the titan’s grip.

Ryan stepped forward despite the kegs strapped to his back.

Doc’s voice thundered across the deck. “Cursed pederast!” The entire deck stared as Doc rounded on Manrape. The old man drew himself up to his full height and his eyes flashed with imminent violence. “Should you wish to compulse young Ricardo into the role of catamite, then you shall be forced to come through me!”

Manrape dropped Ricky and turned.

“Doc!” Ryan shouted. “No!”

Doc produced a marlinspike with the same oil-on-glass speed he could draw his sword from his cane when properly motivated. The crew barely had time to gasp as Doc lunged for Manrape’s heart. Manrape slapped the marlinespike out of Doc’s hand as if he was swatting a fly, and his backhand tossed Doc to the deck. For a moment, silence reigned.

Commander Miles’s familiar roar broke the silence. “What in the last megaton that boiled the seas is going on?”

Manrape sighed happily. “Old Stick, unsigned, attempted murder of the bos’n with a marlinspike.”

Miles glared down at Doc in terrible judgment. All fight had gone out of the old man, and he twitched and mewled on the deck. The marlinspike lay damningly beside his hand. Miles’s eyes filled with rage. “Witnessed?”

More than a dozen men chorused. “Aye!”

“Clap Old Stick in irons! Take him to the captain for judgment!” Miles shook his head. He already knew the sentence. “String a rope, and prepare to pipe all hands on deck to witness the mighty hand of the
Glory’s
creed and code.”

“Can’t you see he’s damaged!” Ryan shouted. “The drug you gave him stuped him!”

Shocked silence fell across the deck. Ryan expected a second rope to be rigged beside Doc’s. It was Manrape who spoke. “Perhaps One-Eye is right, Commander. Why bother the captain? We have a cure for those who are drunk or addled on duty.”

“We know the creed. We hold the code,” Miles intoned. “Mr. Manrape does not press his injury and begs mercy.” Miles jerked his head toward the starboard rigging. “Ship’s punishment, then! Seize Old Stick into the shrouds. See if that clears his head. Failing that, let the gulls have him as an example to those who might be likewise tempted.”

Crewmen seized Doc and carried him over their heads to the starboard rail, laughing. Ryan took a step forward. A huge, raw, red hand slammed onto his shoulder. “Best case, you hang right up there next to him in the shrouds. Worst case, you hang alone from the yardarm.”

Ryan tensed with frustrated rage as the crewmen lashed Doc spread-eagled in the shrouds ten feet above the deck and facing inward. “Mr. Hardstone!” Miles called.

The big red-headed man removed his hand from Ryan’s shoulder and snapped to attention. “Aye, Commander!”

“You have empty seats at your table. One-Eye will mess with you and your mates.”

“Aye, sir!”

“The captain says until he is proved otherwise or signed, One-Eye is your responsibility.”

Ryan was starting to have a very bad feeling about being proved otherwise.

Hardstone gave Ryan a none-too-pleased look. “Aye, sir.”

“Mr. Manrape!”

“Aye!”

“Let Mr. Ryan stand another watch for his insolence.”

“Aye.”

Miles turned on his heel and returned to the quarterdeck.

Manrape stroked his chin. “Mr. Forgiven!”

The purser looked up from counting a pallet of green bananas. “Aye, bos’n?”

“Would you gaze on the ship’s dictionary for me when you have a moment?”

“Aye. And what would you know?”

Manrape looked up at Doc. “The meaning of the words pederast and catamite.”

Chapter Three

Krysty staggered into the fo’c’sle. The hammocks had been stowed and tables hung from the ceiling above as the watch got ready to mess. They were at anchor so lanterns were lit. Commander Miles had considered Krysty unfit for most duties aboard ship, and she was half convinced he was right.

That had not stopped Krysty from being assigned to run up into the rigging to bring the top men water several dozen times; running messages between decks; scrubbing the decks and heads; taking nails, rope, twine and supplies to the repair crews; being speeded along with a rope end when it was perceived she wasn’t moving fast enough; and enduring more sexual innuendo and gropings in passing than she had been subjected to her entire life in the Deathlands.

Sweet Marie called out from her mess table. “Over here, girlie!” Krysty looked that way. Sweet Marie sat with J.B., Jak, Mildred and Ricky. Two crewmen sat with them, the pink mutie, Mr. Movies, who seemed to rule the rigging, and a huge sagging, bull of a man. “You mess with us!”

Krysty sat down to the sound of whistles and hoots “Flame on flame!” someone called.

“I’d pay hard jack to see that!” a crewman replied.

Krysty stared the big woman in the face amid the jeering. “I’ll chill you.”

Sweet Marie threw back her head and laughed. “Oh, I’m not one to force myself on anyone, but when your man is corruption down in the Old Place and you’re all alone, you’ll remember your Sweet Marie when every shark comes circling.”

Krysty reserved comment.

A small, pretty, dark-haired and olive-skinned woman made her way over to the table. Krysty saw that her eyes were milk-white without pupils. She made soft clicking sounds as she unerringly wove through the crowd and clutter. Crewmen called out to her. “Gypsyfair! When you gonna mess with us?”

The woman called back in bemused disgust. “Shut up! I’m walking belowdecks!”

Gypsyfair sat down and turned her milk-white gaze on Krysty. “Nice to meet you, Red. Too many norms and not enough muties on this ship if you ask me.”

Krysty tried to hide her surprise. The blind mutant grinned. “Your hair don’t move normal, girl.”

Sweet Marie’s mass visibly sagged. “Red’s mutie?”

“Yeah?” Krysty bristled. “So?”

Gypsyfair laughed. “Now I’ve seen Sweet Marie eat things that would choke a stickie and ask for seconds, but eat a mutie girl? She just won’t do it.”

Despite all her innuendo Sweet Marie turned beet red.

Krysty blinked at the giantess. “But, I thought you were...”

“I ain’t mutie!” Sweet Marie snarled. “I’m just big-boned!”

Krysty thought of several retorts but kept them to herself. She nodded at the mutant top-man acrobat. “Mr. Movies.”

He nodded. His voice was a soft chirp. “Hello.”

Sweet Marie nodded at the man mountain beside her. “This is Gallondrunk.” Krysty noted the puckered scar just above his left temple.

Gallondrunk stared at Krysty for long seconds. “Pretty.”

Sweet Marie sighed. “He’s never been the same since he took that bullet to the brain off Scoshia.”

Movies suddenly became agitated. “Bastard bluenoses!”

Sweet Marie shrugged. “Bonesaw got the bullet out, but Gallondrunk’ll never reef, hand or steer again. Still, he’s the strongest man on the ship, and he’s a chilling machine with that walrus lance he cherishes.” She patted the giant on the shoulder tenderly. “Even worse chiller than he was before. Got the gift of emptiness, don’t you, darling?”

Gallondrunk spent long moments processing the question. “I like to help. I like to give ’em the iron.”

He turned his gaze on Krysty again. She realized the giant was staring more at her hair than her. “Pretty.”

Another crewman came over bearing a steaming bucket. He was one of the handsomest men Krysty had ever seen. He had long black hair, a luxurious black mustache and hazel eyes. He put the heavy bucket onto the table and twirled his mustache. He had some sort of very thick accent. “And you must be Miss Krysty.”

Sweet Marie made a disgusted noise. “Speaking of circling sharks, this is Goulash.”

Goulash rolled his eyes. “Gulyas.”

“Whatever, he may be the worst sailor aboard other than you, girlie, but he’s a dead shot with a blaster and our best hunter and scout ashore.”

Goulash ladled beans and three lumps of bushmeat onto Krysty’s wooden platter. She stared hard at the mystery meat. “What is it?”

Goulash blew a lock of black hair off his brow and pointed his ladle in turn. “That is monkey. That is sloth.” He pointed last at a small mass of twisted bones and gristle. “That is mutie...something.”