J.B. and Jak were riding on the rotor-ship in the middle of the convoy. In the urgent calm following news of the Black Gang Ryan had dispatched Mildred and Krysty to the Snowy Egret. They couldn’t object; they were leading the way, after all. The fact that they were running for safety didn’t matter. If safety existed on this planet in this century, their best efforts hadn’t turned it up so far.
Of course the fact was the Finagle’s First Law was closest to the pursuing foe, and the most likely to be able to intercept enemies going after her two sisters. The risk was overwhelmingly greater here. But the two women never said a word to show they realized they were being protected.
While the six companions had talked among themselves amidships of the New Hope, the Tech-nomads had a lookout mounted atop the mast of the rotating sail sixty or seventy feet over their heads. Along with all their fancy detector gear, radar and lasers and who knew what, the thing the Tech-nomads relied on most to keep their convoy safe was a keen pair of basic-issue human eyeballs and a good pair of binoculars.
And the lookout had seen something that made him lose his mind in buckets: the Black Gang pirate fleet, standing right over the horizon, dead between them and their goal. But that was where their ways diverged from the old days, at least as they were portrayed in the storybooks it had been Ryan’s privilege, as a baron’s son, to read growing up in Front Royal. Instead of cupping hands over his bearded mouth and hollering “Sail ho!,” he quietly but frantically conveyed the word to squadron boss Long Tom via the Tech-nomad commo system. Which Ryan knew entailed headsets that basically passed for fanciful and not very large items of jewelry.
“We seem to find ourselves caught between Scylla and Charybdis,” Doc said. He stood in the bow with his foot up on a bollard, gazing toward the nearest enemy craft. With his unassisted eye Ryan could see the railings were crowded with scrubby-looking pirates.
“Care to translate that into English for me, Doc?” he asked, as he shouldered his Steyr. He had to adjust his scope to its greatest magnification. The lead ship was a yacht not unlike the Snowy Egret. The pirates were running right into the teeth of a rising wind blown before the storm out of the southwest. The masts were bare. Like the Egret, it was using some kind of engine.
“Scylla and Charybdis were a many-headed monster and a giant whirlpool that mythology claimed guarded the Strait of Messina,” the professor explained. “The great heroes Odysseus and Jason were both forced to pass between them in their respective epics. The phrase, ‘between a rock and a hard place’ conveys much the same import.”
“Or ‘between hammer and firing pin,’” Ryan grunted, his good eye pressed to the eyepiece of his scope.
“Indeed. Are you seeing anything of interest, my dear Ryan?”
“No good news,” Ryan said, reluctantly lowering the rifle. “They’re still over a thousand yards off. If we were both standing still, on a surface that stood still, I’d probably take the shot.”
He stood scowling toward the approaching fleet. The waves were nasty, at least by the standards of a man who spent most of his life with his boot soles planted firmly on dry land: ten to twelve feet high and breaking higher, with the wind ripping pennons of foams from their tips. Despite that the pirates were pulling boats alongside the bigger vessels that had them under tow and loading crewmen bristling with arms off all varieties into them.
“Whoever’s in charge of that boat’s keeping inside the cabin,” Ryan said, “although when the taints get a little closer I’ll put a couple through their windscreen on general principles.”
“Do you think the commodore of yon pirate fleet rides the leading vessel?”
“Not a chance. Black Mask is supposed to be a smart operator, and he’s brushed up against the Tech-nomads before. He knows they got some nasty tricks up their sleeves.”
“But don’t men of the class you so colorfully describe as ‘coldhearts’ usually consent to obey only a commander who leads from the front?”
“Depends,” Ryan said. Something was happening on the bow of that nearest ship. He didn’t like it and started to raise the rifle again. “If he’s got some bully-boys to whip the troops on, he doesn’t have to expose his own precious carcass, any more than any other baron. Plus I reckon he makes plentiful use of Sergeant Jolt and Sergeant Shine to keep the boys leaning forward. Shit!”
“What do you see that so displeases you, my dear Ryan?”
His answer was loud and brief. The SSG roared and bucked its steel-plated butt against Ryan’s shoulder. The heavy copper-jacketed 7.62 mm slug it launched at a thousand yards a second streaked invisibly toward its target.
And as Ryan feared, the motion of the boat beneath him, or the one his target rode, threw off his shot—the windage wasn’t much consideration with the gale blowing from almost right behind him. A pirate standing next to the crew of three or four who were busy setting up a heavy machine gun on some kind of mounting in the bow jerked as a dark spray appeared from his black-clad right upper arm. He grabbed himself and fell.
The machine gun belched yellow flame as big as a land wag. It was bright as the sun in the gloom of the rising storm. A line of water spurts higher than Ryan’s head shot up astern of Finagle, cutting dead cross its wake.
“Shit,” Ryan said again as he cranked the bolt. The multiple thunder of the burst buffeted his eardrums. “Big-ass machine gun.”
He aimed hastily, fired again. But even for a primo marksman with finely tuned tools a thousand-yard shot was near impossible. Especially under conditions like these. Ryan missed his target, the huge bearded man in the black bandanna who stood behind the .50-caliber Browning hanging on to its spade grips. Grimly the one-eyed man worked the bolt yet again and drew breath for another desperate long shot.
“Ryan,” Doc said with quiet intensity.
A savage command not to disturb him at a moment like this flashed through Ryan’s brain. But something at a deeper level than his conscious mind made him break his fierce blue eye away from the eyepiece of his telescopic sight and look left.
Lines of fire lanced away from the Snowy Egret on a rising course as bright against the lead-hued sky. Their trails formed a fiery rainbow of afterimage on Ryan’s pupils as they arced down to strike the lead pirate ship and the sea around it.
Orange fire billowed from the pirate yacht. It rolled forward across the bow, enveloping the heavy machine gun and its crew. Blazing men danced on deck or threw themselves over the water. Hell glows of muted orange from within the waves showed even the ocean provided little shelter from the hideous flesh-consuming flames.
“Nape rockets?” Ryan said in wonder.
“Indeed, it is as you said, my dear Ryan,” Doc said. “The Tech-nomads tend to pack a mighty sting.”
A burst of machine-gun fire from another pirate craft raked Finagle’s stern. A woman’s scream was cut off, and a man began to moan in a voice that sounded as if it was being crushed out of him by giant boulders.
A sudden curtain of dirty brown smoke appeared in front of Ryan’s and Doc’s eyes, cutting off all view of the pirate fleet.
“RYAN!” KRYSTY clutched at Egret’s rail as brown smoke enveloped Finagle’s First Law. The little squadron was staggered so that the middle ship, the New Hope, was out of line upwind of Egret. Before the smoke she’d had a clear view of the trail ship.
Isis laughed. She stood on the rail beside the two women. BARs awaited them in closed boxes, waterproofed against the ceaseless spray that soaked their clothes and made their hair hang like seaweed, dripping clammily down their backs.
Mildred glared at her. “They’re your friends on that burning ship, too,” she declared.
“The Finagle isn’t burning,” Isis said. “That’s a smoke screen.”