Empire Of Man 3 - March to the Stars (21 page)

Then he leapt outward in Cord's wake.

* * *

The Lemmar with the sword snarled at Pedi and brought his weapon flashing down . . . only to be flung violently backwards by the enormous, leaf-bladed spear which suddenly split his chest.

Pedi didn't know where the fellow, frankly dangling, above her came from, but he was the best sight she'd ever seen in her life. Even from this angle.

The guy was old and naked as a slith, without even a harness, much less a bardouche, but he wielded his huge spear with a deft touch that reminded her of her father's personal armsman back home. That old armsman had seen more battles than she'd seen breakfasts, and could whip any three young bucks while simultaneously drinking a cup of wine. And it looked like this fellow was cut from the same cloth.

Nor was he by himself, although she'd never seen anything weirder than the creature beside him. It looked like a two-sren-tall vern. It had only two arms, long yellowish head tendrils, similar in color to her own horns, dangling down its back and gathered together with a leather band, and a most peculiar pistol in either hand. Right behind the two of them came another odd creature that looked like a cross between a sorn and an atul. It was longer than she was tall, about knee-high on the old guy with the spear, equipped with a most impressive set of fangs, and striped in red and black. The . . . striped thing hit the deck, took one look around, and charged into the pirates with a keening snarl.

Definitely the oddest threesome she'd ever seen, she thought with an oddly detached calm.

The older fellow took out two more of the pirates with his spear—another thrust to the chest, and the second with a really economical throat slash that was a pleasure to watch—and the striped creature dragged another down with jaws that took the pirate's head neatly off. But the rest of the Lemmar had formed up to charge, and they'd attracted at least another dozen of their fellows to assist them. The fresh cluster of assailants caught the attention of the red-and-black whatever-it-was, and the creature looked up from its initial victim to lunge forward in a counter-charge . . . just as the maybe-vern cocked his pistols.

Pedi considered pointing out that there was no way two pistols, especially pistols as puny as those, were going to stop two dozen pirates. Fortunately, he opened fire before she could. Her father had told her often enough to observe before she opened her mouth, and he turned out to have been right once more as the pistols spat shot after shot. They were accurate, too, as was the shooter. Each round hit one of the pirates just below the armoring horn prominence in a thundering cascade of explosions. After a few moments, all that was left was a drifting pall of gunsmoke and dead pirates with shattered, brain-leaking skulls.

Beauty.

* * *

Captain Pahner nodded in approval as the Diaspran infantry swept across to the enemy ship. Fain was no officer to let the enemy get the upper hand, and the young captain had thrown his assegai troops across the instant the vessels touched, even before Pahner could pass the order, then followed up with his rifles in an evolution so smooth it was like silk. Effective subordinates were a treasure, and Krindi Fain was as good as any the Marine had met since Bistem Kar.

Everything rikky-tik, he thought.

In days to come, Armand Pahner would reflect upon the premature nature of that thought. He would ponder it, as a sinner pondered the inexplicable actions of an irritated deity. He would wonder if perhaps, by allowing himself to think it, he had angered the God of Perversity, and Murphy, who is His Prophet. It was the only offense he could think of that might have explained what happened next.

Even as he allowed himself to enjoy Fain's success, something flickered at the corner of his eye, and he turned his head just in time to see Roger take a flying leap off of the ratlines, catch the hanging end of a severed Lemmar shroud, and go swinging through the air like some golden-haired ape to land square-footed on the enemy deck.

Pahner just . . . looked for a moment. He was that shocked. The prince, with Dogzard right on his heels, had landed next to his asi . . . in exactly the right spot to draw the last remaining formed group of pirates like a magnet. There was no way in hell for Pahner to support them, either. Even if he told the sharpshooters to cover the noble idiot, the Lemmar would be on the pair before the snipers could understand the order and redirect their fire.

Cord took down one of the group, which appeared to be intent on slaughtering the captives who'd been chained to the deck. Dogzard dragged down a second pirate, and the shaman dispatched another pair with ruthless efficiency as Roger drew both pistols, and then the prince opened fire. The revolvers—considerably smaller than the monsters Rastar favored, but still firing a twelve-millimeter round with a recoil sufficient to dislocate many humans' wrists—were double-action. Roger's rate of fire was far slower than he could have managed with his off-world bead pistol, but it was impressive, nonetheless. Especially to pirates from a culture that had never been exposed to the concept of repeating firearms at all. The deck of the Lemmar ship was already heavily obscured by the gunsmoke from the Diaspran rifles and Hooker's final broadside, but visibility abruptly deteriorated still further under the clouds of smoke pouring from His Highness's pistols.

It was fortunate that, once again, good subordinates were coming to Pahner's rescue, as at least two of the sharpshooters began engaging the group attacking the prince on their own. The captain could hardly see what was going on aboard the other ship, but it was also obvious that Fain had spotted the action and ordered his assegai troops to advance. The Diasprans were going to have to be somewhat cautious, though, since they were advancing more or less directly into Roger's fire.

The deck of the Lemmar ship had been cleared, but there seemed to still be plenty of the pirates below decks. Some of them were attempting to fight their way up through the hatches, while others were defending still other hatches Diasprans were trying to fight their way down through. With, of course, Roger squarely in the middle of it all.

Whatever had happened to the now fully obscured prince, Pahner somehow doubted that Roger was dead. Whatever severely overworked deity had dedicated his full time and effort to keeping the young blockhead alive would undoubtedly have seen to that. On the other hand, what might happen to Roger when one Armand Pahner got his hands on him was a different matter.

He'd promised he wasn't going to do this sort of . . . shit anymore.

* * *

A sudden, ringing silence filled Pedi's ears, and she realized she was on a deck clear of (living) pirates, still chained, lying on her back, and looking up at this old fellow . . . dangling . . . above her. And while the sight had been welcome, in one way, the angle could have been better. Not to mention the fact that her neck and shoulders hurt like hell.

“Ahem,” she said as sweetly as she possibly could under the circumstances. “I don't suppose you could be convinced to take these chains off me?”

“Roooggger!” 

The prince closed one reloaded revolver cylinder and turned around as Despreaux came clambering over the side of the ship.

“God dammit, Roger! When are you going to learn?”

“Your Highness,” Captain Fain said, striding across the deck. “That was most thoughtless of you. We were well on our way to clearing the ship, and you jumped directly into our line of fire.”

“I know, Captain Fain,” Roger said, switching his toot to Diaspran. “But—”

“ROOOGGGER!” Armand Pahner strode out of the clearing gunsmoke. “What in the hell was that, Your Highness? We had the damned battle well in hand!”

A babble of Mardukan broke out behind Roger as he turned towards the Marine captain with a harassed expression. Denat had made his own, slower way to the deck and was engaged in a full throated harangue of his uncle. From the tone of the shaman's attempted responses—not to mention the irate set of his lower arms—Cord was about to start hollering back like a howler monkey.

Which was remarkably similar to the way he felt, the prince thought. Then he drew a deep breath and keyed the amplifier on his helmet.

“Everyone shut the hell up!”

The sudden silence was as abrupt as it was total, and Roger snorted in satisfaction. Then he turned the amplifier off and continued in a more normal tone.

“I will answer everyone's questions as soon as I have mine answered.”

He turned to Cord and fixed the old shaman with a baleful look.

“Cord, what in the hell were you thinking?”

“They were killing the prisoners,” the shaman answered in his best Imperial. His accent did . . . interesting things to it, but he'd spent many a long evening during the endless journey working on mastering the Empire of Man's universal tongue. He'd needed to, so that he could debate the way the Empire ought to be organized in long, evening discussions with Eleanora O'Casey. As a result, his basic grasp of the language was actually very good, despite his accent, considering that he lacked the advantage the humans' toots conferred upon them. It was also much better than his Diaspran, and Cord knew Fain would be able to follow at least some of the conversation if they all used that language.

“That's it? The whole explanation?” Roger asked, propping his hands on his hips. “We were clearing the whole ship, Cord. Most of those pirates were going to be overrun by Krindi's troops in no more than a few minutes. The usual pattern is, first, kill the enemy; then save the prisoners. Not the other way around!”

“They were killing them at that time, Your Highness,” the asi pointed out in a tone of massive restraint. “The deaths would have been accomplished before even Captain Fain's soldiers could have stopped it. I could not, in good conscience, permit that to happen.”

Pahner drew a deep breath and turned to stare up at the towering Mardukan.

“Hold on. You mean, you went first?”

“Yes, he did,” Roger said with immense, overstrained patience. “I just followed him. And that's another thing,” he continued, turning back to Cord. “What about me? Huh? You're supposed to cover my back. I depend on you to cover my back, for God's sake!”

“You were safe on the other ship,” Cord said. “How was I to know you would follow me?”

“Of course I was going to follow you, you old idiot!” Roger shouted. “Cord— Arrrgh!”

“They were killing the prisoners,” Cord repeated, gesturing at the one chained at his feet. “I. Could. Not. Let. That. Happen. As I am bonded to you for saving my life, so I am bound to save others. It is the only honorable thing to do.”

“So, you were following Cord?” Despreaux asked. “I want to be clear about this.”

“Yes,” Roger said distinctly. “I was following Cord. It was not Prince Roger being a suicidal idiot. Or, rather, it was not Prince Roger on his own being a suicidal idiot.”

“I was not being suicidal,” Cord interjected. “As you yourself just pointed out, Captain Fain's group would have soon cleared the deck. All I needed to do was to hold off the pirates for a short time.”

Roger grabbed his ponytail and yanked at it in frustration.

“Captain Pahner, do you want to handle this?”

“Shaman Cord,” the captain said, very formally, “this was not a good decision on your part. It's not our job to endanger Roger unnecessarily.”

“Captain Pahner,” the shaman replied, just as formally, “I am Prince Roger's asi. He is not mine. It is not his duty to preserve my life, and he was in no danger of direct attack when I left his side. Moreover, the fact that I am asi does not absolve me from the responsibilities of every Warrior of the Way. Indeed, as one who is asi—whose own life was saved by one under no obligation to do so—I am bound by the Way to extend that same generosity to others. Symmetry demands it . . . which means that it was clearly my responsibility to prevent the slaughter of innocents. But it was not Prince Roger's responsibility to join me when I acted.”

Pahner opened his mouth. Then he closed it again while he thought about it for a moment and, finally, shrugged.

“You know, Your Highness, he's got a point. Several of them, in fact.” He thought about it a bit longer, and as he did, a faintly evil smile creased his face.

“What?” Roger asked angrily.

“Ah, well, Your Highness,” the captain sounded suspiciously like a man who was trying not to chuckle, “I was just wondering how you feel with the shoe on the other foot for once.”

Roger began a hot retort, then stopped abruptly. He glowered at the captain, then looked around as Despreaux began to laugh. Finally, he smiled.

“Ahhh, pock you all,” he said with a chuckle of his own. “Yeah, okay. I get the point.” He shook his head, then took a look around the deck. “So, now that that's out of the way, does anyone know what the situation is?”

“It appears to be mostly under control,” Captain Fain said . . . just as two Mardukans—a Diaspran infantry private and one of the pirates—burst upward out of one of the hatches. They fell to the deck, rolling over and over, with the Lemmar using all four arms to push a knife at the private's neck while the private tried to push it back with his true-hands and flailed at the heavier pirate with both false-hands.

Roger and his companions watched the two of them roll across the deck, too surprised by their sudden eruption to do anything else. But Erkum Pol, as always following Fain like an oversized shadow, reacted with all of his wonted efficiency. He reached down with two enormously long arms, jerked the pirate up by his horns, head-butted him, and then let him go.

The pirate dropped like a rock, and the private waved a hand at Pol in thanks.

“As I was saying,” Fain continued. “More or less under control. The Lemmar are fighting . . . very hard. None have surrendered, although a few—” he gestured behind him at Pol's victim “—have been rendered unconscious.”

“I'm not sure that one's going to survive,” Roger observed. “Maybe Erkum should have used a plank.”

“Be that as it may,” Fain said. “We have the ship.”

“And these three surviving prisoners,” Roger mused. He hooked one thumb into his gunbelt and drummed on the leather with his fingers while his free hand gestured at the female at Cord's feet. “Watch this one. She's a tough little thing.”