Shadowboxer (19 page)
“Try this,” said Silver, tapping him on the shoulder.
Thumbs look down and accepted the steaming mug.
“I asked Moonfeather to make it double strength this dose,” she said. “Maybe that’ll do the trick.”
Thumbs nodded and swallowed the herbal brew. Remarkably, in a few ticks his stomach stopped doing the cha-cha-cha. “Better,” he said around a tongue like shag carpet. He repeated the word, “Better.”
“Another?” she asked.
Thumbs gave her an expression of total agreement and started to stumble off. Taking hold of a hairy arm larger than her leg, Silver turned him about. “Engine room is down there, galley this way. We’re on deck five, not two.”
“What the frag are we doing out here?” Thumbs demanded, trying to ignore his throbbing horns. “I’m a street troll, not fragging Popeye the sailor guy. El trains and alleys are my turf.”
“Hey, chummer, this was your idea, remember.” She was holding open a heavy hatch in the causeway for him.
Yeah, yeah, he’d have to take the fall for this brilliant twig. The files Silver had uploaded from Atlantic Security showed that they were definitely hunting pirates for the Gunderson Corp. The files had also offered up lots of rumors about fields of sunken ships and secret cities inside mountains. But you could take all the hard data, carve it in granite, stuff it up your nose, and never be aware that anything was there.
With one notable exception. They’d learned the meaning of the word IronHell. According to the AtSec files it was a special code word for the headquarters of one of the bigger pirate groups preying on ships in this part of the Atlantic. The location was apparently well-hidden even by shadow standards. Atlantic Security had no idea where or who they were. Half the time IronHell seemed to refer to the organization and the other half to its secret base of operations. Whoopdie-fragging-do. Thumbs was not impressed.
However, unlike Queen O’Malley and her ilk in the waters around California Free State or the Black Mariha gang operating in the coastal waters of the Mediterranean, these Caribbean brigands were well-organized, heavily armed, and none had ever been taken alive. Not one. Ever. Delphia considered that a significant fact. Silver thought it was unnatural. Moonfeather said it was a lie to cover AtSec incompetence. Thumbs’ personal opinion was that the slags had simply never been captured by a meanhoop Slammer with access to handcuffs and a cheese grater.
Apparently, there was a nifty little bomb surgically implanted inside their brains. Not just inside the skin and bone of the head—lots of folks had com units, decoders, and all sorts of drek stuff in there. No, this device was deep inside the living brain. If the pirate was captured alive by enemy forces, even unconscious, his head would explode, making interrogation what you might call difficult. Neither
deckers nor mages had been able to circumvent the security
device. X-rays and CAT scans set the thing off instantly.
Once the wearer was dead, he or she always went boom. It was obviously the IronHell pirates who’d tried to ambush the team in Dorsey Park. Whoever built those headbombs knew what they were doing. Thumbs didn’t think even Aztechnology and Fuchi could have done better.
From other data in the files, they learned that Atlantic Security had investigated every isle and cove from Bermuda to the equator. But IronHell remained elusive. The pirates ruthlessly sank search parties almost as soon as the vessels left dock, proving they had plenty of chummers on the inside feeding them info. Cargo ships were sometimes hit, sometimes not. But they seemed to specialize in hitting military craft, sending them straight to Davy. Rumor had them working with new experimental equipment, nova-hot stuff that had never seen the light of day. Sailors called it the return of Atlantis, but then again, Thumbs knew sailors spent too much time in the sun and not enough time on land.
Outside the old hull, he could hear the wind and waves getting rough again, but Thumbs felt his stomach accept the condition without qualm. Thank Ghu. And half their job was done. They knew what IronHell was. Delphia had called the Johnson and left him a telecom message. Now all that remained was finding something the Gunderson Corporation, Atlantic Security, Lone Star, and every independent shipping line operating in this ocean couldn’t locate. Where the frag IronHell was.
The team had decided they needed to go straight to the source if they were ever going to find the truth. They began to hang out at the dockside hiring halls, and had landed work as security. This was their third trip in as many weeks, but they hadn’t seen a whisker of anything vaguely pirate. The
Esmeralda
's cargo had seemed plenty hot enough, but maybe they’d get luckier on their next trip.
* * *
Silver found the others sitting in a corner of the galley picking at their food. Delphia was in the usual natty suit with tie and soft brim hat, while Moonfeather was in a cut-off jumpsuit that hugged every curve tightly.
Sullen sailors, mostly grizzled norms and tattooed orks, sat at other, more distant tables, talking in low voices about what sailors always have since time immemorial: how much they hated their jobs, and then, once they got to shore how soon they could get back out to sea again.
“You’d think El Segundo Lines would feed their security personnel better than this swill,” said Delphia, removing the napkin from his shirt collar and placing it over the food on his plate like a death shroud. “Bah. Swill is a compliment.”
“I’m sure they do,” said Moonfeather, gnawing on a strip of baco-flav soyjerky. “But don’t forget, Handsome, we’re lowly mercs. Neither corp nor captain give two dreks about us till the hammer falls. The crew thinks ballast is more important than us.”
“The laborer is worthy of his pay,” said Delphia, wiping his hands and moustache clean on a pocket handkerchief.
“Bulldrek. Why do you think there’s only the four of us for a ship this size? The only reason we’re-here is to help keep the insurance premiums low, that’s all.” She stopped her attempts to consume the undamaged strip of soymeat in her grip. “Maybe I’ll sew some of this into the lining of my duster as armor.”
Delphia gave a dry laugh. “Good idea. Ought to stop a nine-millimeter easy, but I don’t think anything short of a missile could breach the pancakes.”
“Broke a tooth on a waffle.”
“
Hai,
the pay is pitiful, and the food wretched.” Delphia shoved the plate of fish stew aside. “Three miserable weeks at sea and no sign of pirates. The
Esmeralda
’s haul should have attracted their attention by now.” He glanced out a nearby porthole. The weather had been growing steadily worse ever since the freighter had departed the coastal waters of Africa and begun steaming for Rio de Janiero, then back home.
Home
? he thought, taking a sip of his kaf. And since when had Miami become home to him?
“Who knows what they’re looking for these days,” Moonfeather said, studying his face. “Nuyen for your thoughts.”
Delphia shook his head. “Almost tastes like the real thing. Incredible.”
“Should. It is.”
He paused, the deliciously fragrant brown liquid moving back and forth from the motion of the ship. “Beg pardon?”
“It’s from the private stock I brought on board.” Moonfeather gestured behind her. “I bribe what they laughingly
call the cook on this floating grease lump with a cup a day to
make it special just for you and I.”
Turning about, Moonfeather stared across the room and shook a wrist, her bracelets jingling softly. In the galley, the fat ork in a stained apron and ridiculous hat stopped smearing soylard on a sizzling grill already thick with it to look up abruptly and smile innocently toward her. “I also threatened to turn him into a toad if he crossed me.”
Delphia took another sip, watching her closely. “None for Silver or Thumbs?”
“Frag ’em,” she purred leaning closer, nearly popping out of the tiger-stripe leotard under her jumpsuit, her cascade of curly red hair framing a lustful grin.
“And how can a simple sprawl shaman afford real coffee?” he inquired softly. Enjoying the view.
Her smile vanished. “Stole it.”
“O-hio,” greeted Silver, sliding into place between them. “Figured out how to cut the soup yet?”
Moving as if made of glass, Thumbs eased himself down into the fourth chair, making the cheap steel creak ominously. “This place never have a troll on board before?” he griped. “Hey, shaman. Thanks for the herbal stuff. It helped a lot.”
“Null perspiration,” said Moonfeather, flipping curls off one shoulder. “Catch a bullet for me in a brawl and we’re even.”
“Ha! I’d rather bed a rabid swamp gator.”
“Granite.”
A tick. Two ticks. “Catch a bullet where?”
“Anyway, we were just talking about the ...” Silver tapped her head meaningfully. “You know, and we’re wondering if there’s any way to know who’s got one before it goes off?”
Thumbs nudged Moonfeather. “Can’t you look astrally inside their heads to see if they got one?”
“Possibly. The problem is if they’re only adding and not replacing.”
“How about some kind of truth spell?” probed Delphia. She snorted. “If we take one alive and I can mind proble him, sure. But that won’t make the bomb not go off or disarm it or even give us any info. The power of the spell might just make his head pop, and personally I don’t want to be that close when one does.”
His stomach rumbling, Thumbs looked at Silver. “So much for secretly hypnotizing a pirate to get him to spill the chips.” Then he looked over at Delphia’s covered plate and pointed. “You gonna eat that?”
“The fish stew?” Delphia recoiled askance. “No. Please. Help yourself. Enjoy.”
“Thanx.” Thumbs removed the napkin with a flourish and starting making serious inroads into the greasy concoction.
“I see your appetite is back,” said Silver dryly.
“Yar,” he mumbled, mouth full of seaweed and bones. “Starved.”
“It’s part metacrab.”
“Hey, axe da cook,” slurped Thumbs. “I dunno wats in it.”
The ship pitched and a heavy wave crashed over a porthole, throwing the window open and water streaming in to flood the deck. Cursing and grumbling, sailors rushed to force the porthole closed. As the salt water rushed to the walls and down the causeway stairs, the deck inadvertently became clean in several areas.
“It’s painted blue,” said Moonfeather in wonder.
Then an alarm sounded down the corridor, to be repeated all over the ship in echoing repetition. “Red alert,” warbled the decrepit PA system. “Storm at force five levels. Repeat. Force five levels. All hands to battle stations.”
Scrambling in every direction, the crew tossed aside beers and card games to grab weapons from wooden wall lockers and rush up the causeway for the higher decks.
“Time to earn your ride, lubbers,” said First Officer O’Shanassey, a grizzled woman with missing teeth and no direct knowledge of soap. She thrust a large canvas bag at them.
Thumbs dropped his spoon and spread the salt-stiff canvas wide. “Jesus, Buddha, and Zeus!” he swallowed. “It’s fulla grenades!”
“Are we to slay the storm for you, madam?” asked Delphia emotionlessly, sipping his coffee.
“We didn’t hire ya for ballast,” O’Shanassey snorted. “Well, maybe the troll.”
“Stuff it, breeder,” he rumbled dangerously, pineapple in hand.
“Scare me later, stud,” said the norm, working a tobacco wad. “We got real probs. Sonar’s going crazy. Big storms like these occasionally drive them from the depths into the higher regions. And then all fragging hell breaks loose. We gotta be prepared, just in case.”
“In case of what?” asked Silver pointedly.
“Pirates?” asked Moonfeather excitedly, twisting an onyx ring about her index finger.
“Ha! We should be so lucky,” said O’Shanassey, flinching from another crashing wave. “Don’tcha know what a storm can bring up in these shallows?”
“Shallows?” scoffed Delphia. “The ocean is over a thousand meters deep out here. More in some areas.”
Silver lifted a grenade from the bag, inspecting it. “Gods, UCAS military, high-explosive, anti-personnel.”
“Worth a fortune on the streets,” confirmed O’Shanassey. “So don’t lose one overboard. Or it’s ya hoop.”
A bellow sounded outside, overwhelming the fury of the squall. The noise seemed to summon thunder, and the storm increased in power to near deafening proportions.
“What the motherfragging heck was that?” asked Thumbs, cyberblades poking out from his forearm as he raced over to the nearest porthole.
“Don’t go near the ports,” warned O’Shanassey, taking a step after him. “They can see yaz outline and likes to bite da glass.”
“Who?” asked Delphia, tensing his hand as he rose. Smooth and silent, the Manhunter was back in its accustomed spot.
Another roar, louder than before, and accompanied by the sound of machine-gun fire and dull explosions from the aft and starboard.
“Snakes,” replied the sailor, making the sign of the cross as fresh sweat stained her dirty uniform. “Big’uns.”
Ignoring the howling storm and noisy commotion outside his plush cabin, Attila relaxed in the softly vibrating leather chair, allowing the mechanical massage to augment the one he was receiving in the flesh. He was naked save for an untied silk dressing gown, which dangled loosely off his wiry frame. Attila was sipping champagne from a crystal goblet and smoking a fine Havana cigar, the picture of contentment. Kneeling between his open thighs was a young Angola girl, bound with the chains of her slave auction. Her long black hair visually, but not audibly, hid the fact that she too was engaged in an act very similar to smoking.