Shadowboxer (33 page)
Briskly, the officer pocketed the computer and started on his way, the wind tugging on his cap but not succeeding in removing it.
“Hoi! Everything ready, Lieutenant?” Emile asked loudly over the growing easterly winds. According to readouts from the Gunderson Corporation’s meteorological satellite, another severe storm was brewing up northward and would be coming this way in short order. Once underwater, he would be safe from the ravages of the hurricane, but the
Conquistador
would bear the full brunt of the tempest as it stayed to lower him to the underwater city nearly two full klicks below the surface.
Emile sincerely hoped the ship did not capsize while he was
still linked to it. Grand hissed in agreement, his bushy tail lashing about.
“Aye, sir!” called out the officer. “The
Cousteau
is ready whenever you are, sir!”
Gathering the plastic shoulder bag and vine-covered wooden staff at his boots, Emile stolidly crossed the freshly painted deck. An ork ensign held open the outer hatch of the bathysphere for him, the inner hatch already swung out of the way. Stooping, Emile entered the metal ball.
Once inside and upright again, he was surprised to see that the interior of the
Cousteau
was pleasantly upholstered, with velvet walls, plush rugs, and a curved bank of cushioned seats from which seat belts dangled loosely. Off to the side opposite the seats was a stack of crates lashed to the hull with elastic straps. Another hatch was in the center of the floor, the lid locked with a wheel-shaped mechanism. A brief inspection of the equipment crates showed that they were secure and that his personal seals had not been disturbed.
“Any last requests, sir?” asked a lieutenant, one mirror-polished shoe resting halfway on the rim of the hatch.
“Such as?” asked Emile, tugging a strap tightly around his shoulder bag to hold it in place.
The norm shrugged. “Food, medical supplies, narcotics, weapons, bookchips, simsense chips, spare clothes . . . Mr. Harvin himself authorized carte blanche, sir. Whatever the Connie carries is yours.”
“Thank you,” Emile said, jabbing his staff into the flooring. The vine-covered rod of wood stayed there. “But I appear to have all that I require.” Leaping off his shoulder, Grand landed on a seat and yipped.
“I stand corrected,” Emile turned to face the norm. “Is there perhaps any more hardtack?”
Watching Grand with distrust, the lieutenant said, “Ah, not up here, sir. I can get more from ship stores.” Outside the sky was rapidly darkening, and soft thunder sounded.
“We shall do without,” Emile decided. Grand yipped again. “Silence,” he said softly, and the ferret went motionless. After a tick, Grand chased his own tail until he was a
small ball of fur, head and tail indistinguishable.
“As you say, sir.” The lieutenant saluted. “The trip should take approximately six hours, adjusting for current drift. You do have the authorization codes?”
“Naturally,” Emile said, swinging the inner door slowly shut.
“Good voyage, sir!” the lieutenant called through the closing crack, moving his foot just in time.
Emile spun the wheel to dog the hatch shut, then slid the lock in place. Taking a seat near Grand, he clicked on the straps of his safety belt, then reached up to a concealed control panel and turned on the external microphones.
“Stinking elf bastard,” he heard the lieutenant say. “Hope a fragging leviathan eats him on the way down.” Then much louder. “Ready at the ball!”
“Ready, sir!”
“Undog the clamps!” Metallic thumps came from four sides of the sphere. “Stabilizers on full! Release the lines! Power on! Pressure on! Drop the soap, boys!”
Emile felt the sphere lift smoothly into the air and gently swing toward the left. His aerial view of the
Conquistador
was of the deck lined with sailors standing in clusters between the banks of depth charges regularly dotting the gunwale. The middle of the vessel resembled a porcupine, its array of cannons and gun turrets pointing every which way. Personally, he found it difficult to believe that any pirate ship could survive even a brief confrontation with a technological terror such as the
Conquistador
.
The immersion into the water was flawless, and only the rocking of entering the water itself marred the descent. As the ball dipped into the ocean and the waves washed over its tiny windows, green lights flooded the bathysphere, quickly darkening to stygian blackness. The only sounds came from the soft whine of the heater, the gentle hum of the pressure/ depth gauge, and the reassuring thumps of the air regenerator. With nothing to do but wait, Emile settled in his seat and closed his eyes. His regular sleep schedule had been seriously thrown akilter because of this trip, and a short nap would be most appreciated. As he drifted off to sleep, Grand hissed in warning and once more the nightmares began. But more sharp, more vivid. Almost as if they were real.
Tail abristle, Grand screamed as Emile jerked awake, his jaw working as he tried to clear his throat and breath. Air .. . there was no air! His lungs were laboring, but nothing was happening. It was as if the bathysphere had been pumped clear and he was in vacuum. No air! Gasping and choking,
he fumbled with the control panel set overhead, unable to
believe the dials showing that the sphere was full of good air at proper pressure and that oxygen and carbon dioxide levels were normal. The feeder lines from the surface must be clogged!
With the blood pounding in his ears, Emile couldn’t hear if the regenerator was working or not, and no visible parts were moving to show its operation. Escape filled his mind. Yes, that was it! He must reach the surface! Clawing off his seat belt, he staggered to the hatch. In mindless terror he began to beat weakly on the wheel, trying to escape from the underwater coffin. Grand raced before him and stood defiant before the hatch, hissing at his master, but Emile swatted the ferret aside. All thoughts were gone except for the burning need to breath in cool sweet air one last time. A single breath, a spoonful, a sip of air .. . oh, spirits, please ... please ... !
* * *
Ducking under a red-hot pipe, and dodging around an array of steaming vats festooned with hissing hoses, Delphia rounded the corner of a thumping machine with numerous dials and readouts to find himself in a dead end before a massive freezer. Easing open the insulated door, he peeked inside and saw only darkness, the section of floor lit by the light behind him thick with dust and cobwebs. As he turned, the others arrived.
“Any sign of pursuit?” asked Delphia, closing, but not shutting the door.
Last in line, Moonfeather shook her head inside her helmet. “We’re clear. If anybody was after us, we lost ’em on the pipe.”
“Excellent.” Walking into the freezer, Delphia popped the seals on his waist, and bent over to lower the top half of the Jym suit to the floor as quietly as possible. “Let’s ditch these suits in here,” he said.
“Sounds good.” Thumbs popped his helmet and vigorously began scratching his nose. “Ah! Been wanting to do that for hours.”
“Doesn’t look like anybody has used this place for years,” noted Moonfeather, joining them in the dim interior of the big box. “We can always reclaim the suits if we need to.
These things must be worth a fortune.”
“My idea exactly,” said Delphia, stepping out of the lower half of the armor.
“Hey, where’s Boomer?” asked Silver, glancing about.
“Drek! We must have lost him in the gutting machine,” said Thumbs, checking outside the freezer. “No sign of him. Should we go back?”
“Frag that,” muttered Moonfeather, stepping out of her suit and then shaking out her red hair. She checked the charge on the stun baton and stuffed it into a belt around her waist. “I don’t think he knows where IronHell is, and he sure as drek doesn’t know what this place is, so who needs him?”
“And if he’s caught?” demanded Silver, standing alongside her suit, carefully freeing her Fuchi from its nest of wires. “Then his head explodes,” Moonfeather said.
“With reservations, I concur,” said Delphia thoughtfully, unlimbering the Predator from the leg of his Jym. “He was only an asset aboard the submarine. If he was still with us, we would be forced to terminate him ourselves.”
“Then it’s good he’s not here.”
“Wherever here is,” observed Silver, shouldering her bulky bag.
“That blimp breeder thought we were pirates,” said Thumbs slowly. “So this place can’t be IronHell.”
“Indubitably,” agreed Delphia. “And from the foreman’s severely antagonistic response, we may infer that the inhabitants of this bubblecity are not on good terms with the seagoing palliards.”
With her Remington pump-action in hand, Moonfeather draped the partially loaded bandolier of shells over her chest. “However, the local gov might know where IronHell is,” she offered.
“Get me to a jack or a telecom and I’ll download the whole fragging city grid,” said Silver confidently, checking the clip in her Seco. “I’ve got programs that can strip a grid to the bare boards.”
Delphia tested the VPR2 and his Manhunter. Slip-slap. “That will take time. Which would require privacy. Even if we can find something, our credsticks are probably useless down here.”
“This is terra incognito,” agreed Moonfeather, jingling a bracelet.
“So don’t leave anything behind,” said Thumbs, cradling his Mossberg in the crook of a tattooed arm. “We might need it.”
“Natch.”
“Done and done.”
Weapons at the ready, the four moved quietly through the deserted processing machinery, keeping a careful watch out for guards or vidcams as they headed for the first door marked Exit. It had a retinal scanner, but Silver and her Fuchi busted through that in a few ticks with a UniBlink program and they were gone.
Stopping behind a big vibrating reactor with lots of pipes, Boomer caught his breath and waited to see if anybody was behind him. After a few ticks, he decided it was safe and broke the seal on his helmet. Almost instantly he regretted the act. The air in the food processing plant was hideous, thick with the stink of decaying flesh and rotting guts. Davy, it was worse than a bilge full of ripe corpses!
Breathing in tiny sniffs, he forced himself to acclimatize to the stench and soon was out of the Jym suit. His clothes stuck to his skin with dried sweat, but he luxuriated in a good stretch, savoring the freedom of movement.
That stopped as a fusillade of bullets sprayed the wall above him, punching a line of holes in the metal. “Go static!” boomed a norm in a guard uniform. The guard came closer, boots and badge polished bright. “And keep ’em raised.”
Slowly, Boomer lowered his arms, forcing himself to stay calm, think icy, and breathe regularly. Be calm, goddammit!
“I said raise ya hands, gleeb, or get cacked,” growled the guard, the multiple barrels of his tripistol spinning in readiness.
“You will lower that gun and speak politely to me. I am a pirate rigger,” said Boomer, displaying his hands, but not raising them in the surrender act. “From the submarine
Manta
, and I will speak with your sector chief immediately.”
“Yeah?” sneered the guard in contempt, “Or what?”
Trying to feel in control of the situation, Boomer smiled genially. “Or else the next thing you see will be an armor-piercing torpedo the size of a school bus coming through that freaking dome outside.”
Chewing air, the guard hesitated, clearly unsure of what to do next. “If this is a trick . . .” he started.
Boomer cut him off. “Get on the blower, tin star, and let me speak with your boss, now!”
Never lowering the barrels of his weapon, the guard took a handset from his belt and lifted it. “Hey, Central! Ya hear me? Well, I got me another Streeter claiming to be a pirate. What’s this month’s code phrase?” He listened and nodded. “Gotcha. Hold on.”
“Okay, gleeb,” he said in low tones. “Tell me what he just said, and if ya get one word wrong, I’ll blow your stinking head off.”
His temples starting to throb, Boomer breathed deeply, forcing himself to be calm. I am not in danger of capture, he mentally told himself again and again. I am in charge. This man will obey me. There is no danger of capture. No danger.
“Well?” shouted the guard impatiently, thrusting the tribarrel closer. “Tell me!”
“Many are the leaves fallen,” spoke Boomer softly, “but few the trees which stand the winter.”
His face going ashen, the guard released the trigger of his weapon, the triple barrels slowing to a stop. “Sorry, sir,” he said, hurriedly holstering the gun. “But I had to check, ya know? Some chummers fake being pirates to try ’n avoid going beyond the wall.”
“Hope you zap ’em,” said Boomer, feeling the tension in his head ease.
“Yes, sir. Always have. We got a treaty, you guys and us, and Old Dome keeps its side.” It obviously hurt, but the guard managed to force a friendly grin. “Anything ya need . . . sir?”
“Yar,” snapped Boomer. “I want clean rags and an escort to the next food shipment to be picked up by IronHell.”
“Absolutely, sir,” growled the guard.
“And have a crew bring along the Jym.”
“No prob. My pleasure, sir. Happy to do it.” The guard checked the watch on his pinkie. “If we hurry, maybe we can get you on today’s shipment. It leaves in less than an hour.”
