Time Castaways (16 page)

Chapter Fourteen

Darkness slowly descended, then the full moon rose, bathing the island with its clean, silvery illumination. The surface of the bay was calm, the gentle waves lapping listlessly against the thick wooden pylons of the dock. There were no cicadas to disturb the stillness, no owls, wolves or winged muties. After the kraken attack a few days earlier, everything had fled the area, leaving the ville by the bay in unaccustomed peace and quiet.

The docks were deserted that time of night, the fishing done for the day. A score of heavily patched nets hung from racks to dry, the barge poles and oars stashed safely away in wicker lockers, the ropes neatly coiled, hawsers and wooden pulleys swaying from raised hoists.

Extending along the entire waterfront of Northpoint, the dockyard was full of different size boats, each expertly moored to stone cleats with thick hemp ropes—small birch-bark canoes, rowboats covered with elaborate symbols of protection, a few crude barges used for hauling lumber across the wide bay and, of course, the Warhammer.

Several times the size of even a cargo barge, the
mighty Warhammer dominated the dockyard. The freshly scrubbed gunwale gleamed, and there were lovingly tended rows of predark car tires lashed to the painted hull to prevent it from becoming damaged by rubbing against the reinforced pylons.

Carved deep into the hull was the proud name of the vaunted warship, and the delicately carved female figurehead at the bow strongly resembled the local baron. Proudly bare-breasted, Brenda Wainwright defiantly faced outward, brandishing a lightning bolt and a blaster, as if ready to challenge the world. The sec men appreciated the likeness, but kept any and all comments to themselves. The baron could stroll stark naked through the ville if she wished, but anyone stupid enough to mention the event out loud was doomed.

The hull was studded with thick planks of dense wooden armor, the sides bristling with long spears. Even the mooring lines sparkled in the dim moonlight from the shards of glass woven into the tough fibers. Plus, strategically placed around the deck, were large canvas mounds, one at the front, and two at the back, the material lashed down tight as protection from even the fiercest storm. A large metal smokestack rose from the middle of the Warhammer, cutting through the end of a small wheelhouse. However, there was nobody inside to stand a turn at the circular helm at the moment, and the spacious glass windows looked across the shimmering waves of the bay with unseeing eyes.

Edging the dockyard, the wall of the nearby ville inadvertently blocked some of the moonlight at this hour, a thin slice of darkness masking the base of the mas
sive barrier. Standing like black giants, the guard towers rose over the slumbering ville, the sec men inside huddling close to their only source of heat, a small oil lantern.

On the boardwalk of the dock, overlooking the Warhammer, a sec man was sitting on a small keg, puffing contentedly on a cig of dried seaweed, mixed with a little wolfweed smuggled in from the outer islands. The zoomer was strictly forbidden, but since the baron also smoked the stuff, the punishment was only having the cig confiscated, so he really didn’t care. Besides, a man needed something to keep his mind sharp during the long and boring night.

Muffled voices could be heard from inside Northpoint: drunken laughter, a badly played piano, a woman crying and the low, monotonous work song of a trusted slave.

Sighing dejectedly at the music, the sec man concentrated on his smoking. Wearing a long coat of thick fur, he was armed with a crossbow, a half-arrow already notched into place, ready for instant use. Mostly, he aced the rats trying to climb the mooring line and get onboard the Warhammer to raid the stores of fish oil. The smell attracted them the way horse sweat did a flapjack. There was a small wicker basket near his fur-lined boots already partially filled with the little corpses, a testament to both his marksmanship and their unrelenting determination.

More important, there was a small whistle hanging from a cord around his left wrist. There hadn’t been any trouble with the Hillies or outlanders for several
months, which meant it was just about time for them to try to sneak into the ville to see what could be jacked. Just like the rats, the damn fools always got aced, but at least it gave the sec men something to do to pass the time.

Just then, there was a scratching noise near the mooring line, and the sec man instantly rose with the crossbow at the ready. But as he started forward, he heard a subdued cough from the darkness, and he gasped, the weapon falling from his limp fingers. A ghostly pale hand caught the crossbow before it hit the dock, and a pair of strong arms grabbed the dying man to haul him back to the keg. Sitting the corpse on top, Ryan lashed the warm body into place with some rope. Then slipped back into the night to join Jak in the gloom under the dock.

Creeping along the mossy beams supporting the boardwalk, the two companions approached the Warhammer, the slosh of the waves masking the sound of their combat boots. Ready and waiting, Doc already had a loose plank prepared, retrieved from a dry dock only a hundred paces away near the trees. Working together, the three men eased it upward from the blackness to rest on the gunwale of the warship. It settled into place with a thump, and they tensely waited for any reactions from additional guards onboard. No baron would ever trust a single sec man with a treasure like the Warhammer. Sure enough, a few minutes later they heard the sound of steps from inside the wheelhouse, and a door opened, exposing a grumpy sec man armed with a spear and carrying a lantern.

“Fragging rats,” he muttered, shuffling along, the lantern held low and the spear raised high to strike.

Without a pause, Jak threw a leaf-bladed knife, which pierced the man’s heart. Doc darted out to grab the spear and the lantern.

Sighing into eternity, the sec man seemed to deflate, easing slowly to the deck before becoming still. While Jak stood guard, Ryan took the body and lowered it over the gunwale. Krysty and J.B. took the corpse and dragged it under the dock and out of sight.

Moving stealthily, the rest of the companions gathered on the aft deck of the boat, then separated to start a fast recce. Several more sec men were found inside the craft, one of them asleep in a bunk, while another was making a pot of what smelled like fish stew in the small galley. Using his sword, Doc cut the throat of the sleeping man, and Jak dispatched the other.

Finished with the wheelhouse, the companions proceeded down the stairs and into the hold. This part of the vessel clearly belonged to the baron. Everything on the boat was elaborately carved, mostly scenes of the lady baron defeating giant muties, and standing triumphant on top of a mound of her fallen enemies. Mildred had to smile at the classic propaganda. Even in a land where nobody could read, the government still found a way to feed the people a steady diet of bullshit.

At the bow was a large room with a feather bed and a well-stocked liquor cabinet, plus a small assortment of crossbows and knives. Knowing that barons always kept a blaster nearby, J.B. searched the headboard of the bed, and sure enough found a sliding panel. Attached to
the side was a predark rat trap that nearly took off his finger, but J.B. escaped intact, and nestled inside the hidey-hole were two loaded flintlock pistols and, wonders of wonders, a fully functional 9 mm MAC 10 machine blaster in excellent shape. There was even a spare magazine!

Warily inspecting the weapon, J.B. scowled in disgust. The stupe bitch had left both of the magazines fully loaded, and who knew how long they had been waiting here. Most likely, the springs in the magazines would be weak by now, and the rapidfire would jam after only a few rounds. However, the brass seemed in fine condition. Experimentally, J.B. cut open a round to make sure it was packed with gunpowder, and was delightfully surprised to find that it held predark propellant, the good stuff. Happily, the Armorer extracted all of the 9 mm rounds, and split the windfall with Ryan to use in his SIG-Sauer, while Doc got the black powder for his LeMat.

Going down to the engine room, the companions found the fuel bunkers fully stocked with dried wood, along with dozens of small kegs full of what smelled like rancid fish oil.

Easily filling half of the hold was a colossal steam engine, the boiler patently recovered from a factory, or apartment house, that still used steam heating radiators. Looking over the machinery, Ryan nodded in grudging approval. The conversion was actually very bastard clever. Junk parts from a hundred machines combined to make a functioning engine for the warship. Ryan’s opinion of Baron Wainwright went up a few notches. Whatever else the woman might be, she was no fool.

Laying a hand on the iron side of the boiler, Krysty found it ice cold, and, checking the firebox underneath, she saw that it was spotlessly clean.

“This’ll take hours to get hot and build up enough pressure,” Krysty whispered.

“Then you better get busy,” Ryan ordered, holstering his blaster. “Liana, get back to the galley and burn the stew, that should help disguise any smoke coming from the furnace.”

With a nod, the woman turned and dashed up the stairs.

“I’ll start chopping wood,” Doc announced, tucking away the LeMat and pulling an ax from a chopping block. He was pleasantly surprised to find it was from before skydark, the head made of steel. Carefully testing the edge on a thumb, the scholar drew blood. Excellent, it was razor-sharp.

“Make pieces small,” Jak suggested, rolling a keg of fish oil closer to the boiler. “That make burn faster.”

Taking the kindling, Jak dipped it into the reeking oil, then tossed the damp pieces into the firebox.

Going to a porthole, Ryan swung back the louvered hatch and looked outside. There was no visible movement from the nearby ville, either along the top of the wall or in the guard towers. But he knew that could change at a moment’s notice.

“How soon till we’re mobile?” Mildred asked anxiously. She knew a fair amount of computers, but steam engines were from long before her day.

“Couple of hours at least,” J.B. replied, running his hands over the complex array of levers and pres
sure gauges. “This is like no steam engine I’ve ever seen before.”

At the news, Ryan tried not to scowl. Hours. He had hoped they could get under way a lot faster than that. Now, it was a race against time. Man versus machine.

“All right, we better get ready to defend this tub,” the one-eyed man announced. “Mildred, help Doc and Jak get that boiler started. Krysty, stand guard by the porthole. If anybody comes this way, ace them with a crossbow, then let us know.”

“No problem,” she stated, holstering her blaster and swinging around the bulky weapon. She knew there had been a reason Ryan said to bring one along. Sniper duty.

Expertly, Krysty tested the drawstring before working the pump to notch a half-arrow. She knew the range wasn’t very good, so she would have to let them get close before taking them out. Taking a position at the porthole, the woman remembered something about an ancient sec chief telling his troops not to shoot until they could see the white of the enemy’s eyes. It was good advice.

“I’ll go see if there are any maps of the bay in the tub,” J.B. declared, tilting back his fedora. “It’s a bastard maze out there, and if we hit a sandbar, we’ll never live long enough to get free again.”

“That right,” Jak stated, sliding off his jacket and hanging it from a convenient wooden stud that seemed to have been made for just that purpose. The teenager flexed his arms, the hard muscles rippling under his alabaster skin.

“Will you be conducting a reconnaissance of the ville, my dear Ryan?” Doc asked, doing the same to his frock coat.

“Hell, no,” Ryan said, looking upward as if he could see through the wooden planks to the main deck. “I’m going to see what’s hidden under those canvas sheets.”

DAWN WAS JUST STARTING to lighten the sky when a man-size door opened in the seawall of Northpoint ville and out walked a sec man wrapped in a heavy bearskin coat. There was a bamboo fishing pole resting on a shoulder, and he was carrying a wicker basket full of freshly baked bread, delicious wisps of steam rising from the small brown loafs.

Whistling an ancient tune, the sec man ambled toward the sleeping guard sitting on the barrel at the end of the dock.

“Hey, wake up, shithead!” he called out in a friendly manner. “Better not let the baron catch you snoozing on post, or she’ll have your balls for breakfast.”

But his voice faded away at the sight of the still man covered with dozens of the tiny blue crabs, their pinchers snipping at his clothing and pale skin. There was a large puddle of dried blood a few feet away on the boards, and a rope lashed around the throat of the sec man holding the corpse tightly to the wooden pylon.

Dropping everything, the sec man reached for the whistle lashed to his wrist and there was a blur of motion from the nearby Warhammer. Throwing back his head, the man clawed at the arrow in his throat, the shaft neatly pinning his mouth closed. Hot blood filled his
mouth, dribbling from his lips and clogging his throat. Staggering from the pain, he tried to head for the ville, but tripped over the fishing pole and tumbled off the dock into the bay.

The cold revived him for a moment, and the sec man tried to reach the nearby ladder, when another arrow hit him in the back, the impact driving his face against a pylon. Vaguely, he heard a sharp crack of bone breaking, and then nothing more ever again.