Shadowboxer (22 page)
A red light flashed on the bridge control board. “Gods almighty, it’s over! We’re done for, matey!” shouted the captain, his dark face contorting with effort as he fought the stubborn wheel.
The Manhunter slapped into his wet hand as Delphia turned to look at him. “What are you talking about, man!”
“The stabilizers are gone! We’re helpless at the mercy of the storm!”
Delphia’s jaw dropped. “We’re helpless?”
Her body motionless as a statue, Silver’s fingers raced over the old controls of the bridge console as if she was playing a silent piano.
* * *
Tightening its grip about the ship as another wave battered the little craft, the snake went motionless and a snarling Thumbs attacked with a vengeance. But the deck underfoot was slick with the rain, and once more he nearly lost his balance and went into the roiling sea, only the nylon rope keeping him secured.
Lightning illuminated the world as Thumbs charged and rammed his blades through the scales and deep into the soft flesh underneath. The noise of the storm was eclipsed by the scream from the serpent as Thumbs twisted his arm about and yanked, pulling out a plug of flesh larger than a soybeef roast. The whole ship shook as the beast trembled from the wound. Another fiery dart lanced by, but the serpent batted it with its neck, and the missile hit the hoist near the cargo hatch. The detonation blew a dozen sailors to fiery pieces.
Blood gushing from the hole in its torso, the sea serpent swung its gigantic head toward Thumbs, jaw wide, rows of fangs exposed, its open gullet filling his universe.
“Scrag you, worm!” screamed Thumbs, rearing back his arm for another slash when a scintillating rod of destruction
sliced through the deafening storm. A burning rainbow rod
of blinding intensity that vaporized the tips of his blades and struck the beast just behind the flared fins on its thick neck. Deck metal crunched, as the snake screamed in shock and pain, a fountain of pale blood gushing from the gaping wound.
Thumbs staggered in shock, staring at the slagged tips of the cyberware jutting less then five millimeters from his forearm. His blades were gone above the wrist, his skin red and blistered from the passing of the deadly beam.
“My blades!” he screamed in shock and rage. “My fragging blades!” He switched off his reflexes with a quick flick of his tongue.
Its scales rattling, the snake’s squeal of anguish climbed higher and higher. The leeches swarmed over its thrashing form, trying to stanch the pumping wound with their own bodies. The energy beam struck again, but only vaporized leeches as countless more coated the serpent as a living shield.
Firing his Mossberg, a trembling Thumbs fell against the chain railing. Delphia holstered his own weapon and was just grabbing a bloody Crusader chattergun from a corpse when Moonfeather pushed him aside and walked boldly out into the storm. As if on cue, the winds died sharply and the waves ceased crashing so violently across the bow of the battered ship.
As the rain noticeably slowed, twice more shimmering stilettos of energy stabbed at the beast, killing only leeches. Stumbling over the bodies and wreckage, Moonfeather charged insanely at the snake. Bounding onto the twisted ruins of the cargo crane, she took a deep breath and jumped.
She hit the snake’s body hard, gasping at the impact. Frantically grabbing the sharp scales with her bare hands, she forced herself to concentrate. Out of her hands came a bolt of electricity that she focused directly into the pulsating hole. Instantly, the reptilian flesh turned yellow and large blisters full of virulent white puss began to form. The sea beast doubled over in agony, jaw agape, its eyes fully dilated in unbearable pain.
“What the . . . she’s insane!” screamed Captain Villiers. “We all are!” shouted Delphia, the muzzle of his appropriated weapon searching for an opportunity to shoot.
At the console, Silver smiled.
* * *
Releasing the scales, Moonfeather dropped to the littered deck and rolled away from the writhing snake, seeking protective cover underneath a smashed storage locker. The moment she was clear, the last Amsterdam rocketed from the ship’s battery, slamming directly into the open mouth of the heaving beast. A strident fireball removed its head completely, hot gobbets of flesh and shrapnel peppering the surviving crew members in a gloriously grisly spray. The whole tremendous length of the serpent shuddered so hard it seemed as if the ship had run aground.
Once more the laser stabbed through the quieting storm, slicing the serpent off at the prow. In limp pieces, the metabeast slid off the
Esmeralda
into the choppy sea, the leeches now wildly burrowing into the dying body of their former host.
Struggling to his feet, Thumbs smiled wearily. “Just like on the streets,” he said. “Get stupid, get dead. Nice to know some things never change.”
“A-men,” said Moonfeather weakly. Thumbs shuffled over to the wreckage as the thinning gray clouds overhead gloriously parted and sweet sunlight bathed the battleground.
* * *
“Alert,” said the voice of Silver over the PA, and the searing ray appeared again, dimmer in the spreading areas of sunlight. At the console, Silver recoiled as if physically struck. Shaking uncontrollably, she started to sway and Delphia rushed over to catch the woman before she fell.
“You okay?” he asked, setting her in the navigator’s chair. Silver’s trembling hand reached for her temple, and Delphia gently eased the cable out. As it came free, she stopped shaking and went limp.
“Whoever that weapon belongs to must have thought we still had some missiles.”
Captain Villiers strode onto the promenade and raised Zeist trinoculars to his face, sweeping the ocean.
“Cap’n, waddaya see?” called out a troll bosun, bloody and battered, a broken axe in hand.
“Black shape in the water at a klick!” Villiers adjusted the focus. “A raft, no, it’s a sub! Got a lot of radio antennas .. He lowered the trinoculars. “Antennas, my hoop, those are gun batteries!”
“An escort?” asked a hopeful sailor, holding a busted arm
close to his chest.
“Aztlan?” asked another from the bloody crowd.
“Fragging drek, no,” said Villiers, stuffing the trinoculars into their holster on the promenade. “Those’re pirates, and they’re coming our way!”
The beam stabbed in from the distance again, neatly taking off the
Esmeralda
's radio array and radar.
“That, my friends, is definitely a laser,” stated Delphia. Silver was in shock. “But that’s impossible in such a large-scale weapon.”
“I guess someone made one possible and decided to bestow it on a gang of pirates.”
“Red alert!” boomed an ensign, touching his throat as the PA system repeated his words throughout the ship. “All hands prepare to repel boarders!” Resembling badly risen zombies, the crew shuffled out to different locations, kicking dead leeches overboard and picking up dropped weapons.
“Laser guns,” said Silver, still shaken. “What the frag next, two-headed moon men?”
Near total darkness and a drekload of acoustical padding completely surrounded the bodies of Silver, Thumbs, Delphia, and Moonfeather. They were stuffed into a packing crate along with weapons, air canisters, food, medkits, halogen gas tanks, a hydraulic jack, and other assorted equipment. And it was jammed into this crate that they planned to get themselves aboard the pirate ship. Cargo was, after all, what the pirates were after.
“Why did the pirates save the Emmy from the snake?” whispered Silver, stuffed between Thumbs and the side of the crate. “Because they wanted the ship intact?”
“Probably,” muttered Thumbs, endlessly rubbing his right forearm.
“But they’ve got a submarine. Why not just recover the cargo from the sea bottom?” asked Moonfeather softly. “Or is the pressure too great?”
“Squash you flatter than a pancake,” Delphia said.
“I don’t like hiding,” grumbled Silver petulantly.
“You’d enjoy getting sold into white slavery even less,” said Moonfeather. “It’s better to geek yourself than be taken alive for the leatherlovers.”
“So we kill with impunity,” said Delphia calmly. “Lone Star may be corrupt and bastards, but they’re essentially police officers. Pirates, on the other hand, are fair game.”
“Natch.”
“Thumbs, is that your foot in my hip or a rifle stock?” grunted Moonfeather, shifting about.
Fingers the size of dinner sausages checked. “Air tank. I’ll gladly trade ya for the nice ammo box up my ass.”
“Boxes have sharp corners. I’ll stay with the smooth round tank, thank you.”
A mountainous leather shrug. “Hey, never hurts to ask.”
“Ssssh!” hissed Silver, placing an ear to the soft material lining the inside of the crate. “Listen. Can you hear?”
An assortment of muffled sounds followed.
“No gunfire or explosions,” offered Thumbs.
“Hai,” agreed Delphia. “With us gone, the rest of the crew has probably surrendered. I hear that’s what most of them do when boarded by pirates.”
“Feel kinda bad about not fighting,” rumbled on Thumbs, scratching his chin on his knees. The whole team had gone to get Delphia and Silver immediately after Moonfeather finished off the sea serpent, and they’d headed directly for the hold. The whole point of signing on with the cargo ships was so that sooner or later they’d run into some pirates, and they’d held this plan in readiness.
Moonfeather breathed. “Our contract says we fight until reasonably unable to save the cargo, the ship, or the crew. The crew coming last.”
He gave a low snarl. “Naturally. Typical corp drek. Even if El Segundo Lines was only a local company. Eh, gunsel?” Delphia disagreed. “No, it is a logical clause. Nobody but a fool would agree to fight to the death over something they don’t care about.”
“Talk on the Matrix says most pirates will leave the crew alive if they don’t fight too hard,” said Silver. “If you ruthlessly kill every crew, the next group would fight to their freaking deaths against you. Leave ’em alive—”
An interruption from outside, a heavy thump and an odd ratcheting noise. “Maybe even slip them some nuyen. And the next time, nobody fights—”
“Quiet,” Delphia hissed. The noises were louder now. Though the sounds were muffled by the thick walls of their packing crate, the four could almost hear conversations. Something, or somebody banged on the side of their crate,
followed by an odd mechanical noise, which stopped, then
came again. Moonfeather questioningly tapped Delphia on the shoulder and he shrugged. A rumbling crash sounded from overhead along with the clatter of heavy chains.
“It’s working!” whispered Silver in barely controlled excitement, “Welcome to the pirate express, when you positively, absolutely, have to get on their ship overnight.” Delphia gingerly rechecked the clip in his Manhunter. Moonfeather closed her eyes and crossed her arms.
The clatter stopped for a moment. Abruptly the crate moved, halted, moved again. Then it rotated about in a circle and there came the muffled noises of creaking ropes and winches chugging. Bouncing like child’s pinata, they went up, up, up, and paused. For a while they swung back and forth.
Silver ran a fingertip along the hair-thin edge of their escape hatch. Not a glimmer of outside light showed around the trap door in the side of the crate. The seal was perfect. Shouts came, more chains, and they began to descend. More ropes and chains. Next a steady rumbling noise, then silence.
“Are we in the submarine?” asked Thumbs as softly as he could.
“Moonfeather?” asked Delphia, shaking her.
Roused from her nap, Moonfeather yawned. “What? Are we there?”
“Please go and see.”
Mumbling an affirmative, she took a deep breath and went very still.
* * *
Moonfeather stepped out of her meat body and floated amid the equipment inside the jam-packed crate. Invisible to ordinary vision, she drifted past the material boundaries of the container and emerged into a much larger area.
The floor was perforated like a grill, the walls sloped in curves, and the ceiling was an array of panels held in place by plastic togs. All of the crates from the
Esmeralda
marked as military chips and machine parts on the manifest were here, but none of the barrels of crude oil. Several boxes had been levered open, the plastifoam strewn about as the pirates took inventory of the booty. Only the runners’ crate was untouched.
Amused, Moonfeather ran an astral digit along the huge fluorescent label: “Experimental chips. Danger. Halogen gas refrigerant packing. Do not open for inspection unless in Class Four sterile laboratory conditions.” She knew experimental chips would be worth a fortune on the black market,
especially to the Mafia, tongs, or yakuza, who were always
desperate to get their hands on state-of-the-art booty.
“And the dumb gleebs bought it,” Moonfeather smirked in satisfaction.
Curses and laughter in the outside corridor caught her attention, and she moved through the bulkheads to see a good-looking adolescent male in a flimsy robe being hauled along in chains, the nude woman chained to him meekly following. So they did take slaves.
Then she spied a familiar box full of cans on a shelf. Jamaican Mountain Blue fine ground, her coffee! All of it! The utter and complete bastards. The pirates would pay for that transgression. She drifted about a bit, looked here and there, making a few mental notes. When satisfied, she returned to the crate and stepped back in, slipping into her meat body as if donning some comfortable old clothes.