The Pirate Kings

by Alex Scarrow

  He looked up at the giant. ‘James … look, I’m sorry but –’

  ‘Ah can work for you, mister. Pay me half as much as all them others. I work real hard.’

  Liam didn’t doubt that. More to the point, the man looked utterly terrifying. Put a cutlass in each of his ham-shank fists and, as soon as the crew of some hapless Spanish merchant ship caught a glimpse of him, there’d be no need for a fight. Another notion occurred to him. Not that Liam had the time or any particular inclination right then to get involved in what was right and what was wrong. After all, if right and wrong was his guiding compass, then he’d have changed the way history goes a dozen times over already. But – he studied the man’s face silently – wasn’t Liam also in a similar situation? A product? Someone’s genetically engineered property. And now just as much a piece of property on the run from them as this man standing before him.

  Liam looked around the tavern; this giant was the last man in the queue. The flurry of interest that had stirred as he and Tom had set up their ‘recruitment stall’ had moved on to other things. It looked like a fight was brewing between two men on the other side of the tavern. Drunken voices were raised and others had gathered round, egging them on. All the same, against that growing noise, Liam lowered his voice slightly.

  ‘We take you on and there’s some kind of trouble? I’d say you assured me that you were free. That you lied to us. Is that clear?’

  ‘They’d hang you for sure for lying ’bout that,’ added Tom. ‘You understand that, man?’

  ‘Ah’m free,’ James said again firmly. ‘Tha’s all I gots to say.’

  Liam studied his face intently. A firm resolve was etched there. An acceptance that the risk of hanging was more than a fair price for the chance to escape a lifetime of slavery.

  ‘Well, all right, then. You said you’ve got another name? We should probably use that.’

  The man nodded. ‘I was born Kwami. Kwami Okembo.’

  Liam wasn’t going to bother asking whether the man could read. Instead, he read out the terms and conditions of the ship’s charter, while in the background the fight finally began. The gathered crowd tightened round the scrap and voices united in a rhythmic chanting. By the time he’d finished reading aloud the Pandora’s rules on behaviour and conduct and Kwami had made his mark – a large clumsy X – at the bottom of the document, the fight was over and one of the men quite dead.

  Liam offered his hand. ‘Welcome aboard, Kwami. The Pandora is the third ship along on the north docks. The schooner. I suggest you get yourself over there and stay aboard and out of sight until we’re ready to set sail.’

  Kwami enveloped Liam’s hand in one giant fist and shook it violently. ‘Thank you, Mister Liam! Thank you, Mister Liam!’

  ‘That’s all right. Uh … but one small thing, Kwami. Now you’re crew, you should call me either sir or co-skipper. All right?’

  ‘Co-skipper?’ He frowned. ‘Ain’t heard of that word before.’

  Liam shrugged. ‘It’s sort of a new thing. We do things slightly differently aboard the Pandora.’

  Chapter 37

  1667, east of Port Royal, Jamaica

  The men – almost the entire crew – were crowded round the cannon, packed in and hunkered down in the low-ceilinged space of the gun deck. Gunny pushed the dry rammer down inside the cannon’s barrel, gave it several twists to ensure it was clean inside, then pulled it out.

  One of his gun crew passed him a measured amount of powder in a charger and he eased it into the open muzzle, careful not to spill any on the deck. He then used another clean rammer to push it down the barrel and gave it several firm punches of the ramrod to compact it at the end.

  Liam looked round at the expectant faces of the crew. Rashim had told them all they were going to witness an experiment with a different-shaped cannonball. The men had yet to clap eyes on it so far. Sitting on the deck, covered by a yard of greasy tarpaulin, were three test moulds, and the German gunsmith, Schwarzmann, was standing guard over it, glaring at the crew and daring them even to try lifting the tarpaulin to get a peek beneath.

  Gunny was now carefully ramming down a fistful of wadding against the charge of powder.

  Liam wondered what the men would make of the odd, bullet-like shape. He winked at Rashim who returned an anxious half-smile, keen to get on with the test firing, to see if his design was going to work.

  Gunny now quickly swabbed the inside of the barrel, clearing out any excess wadding and powder. ‘Awl right. We’re ready for the shot now, Skipper.’

  Rashim turned to Schwarzmann. ‘I believe it’s time to reveal your handiwork.’

  The German squatted down and grasped a corner of the tarpaulin; the crew all leaned forward, those further back straining to get a look. Liam noted Kwami’s hulking silhouette right at the back, bobbing and leaning one way then the other to catch a glimpse.

  ‘Thiss, gentlemen,’ Schwarzmann announced with some pomp and ceremony, ‘this iss the future of naval warfare.’ With a theatrical flourish, he whipped the tarpaulin aside.

  A gasp rippled across the gun deck as the men tried to make sense of the three stubby, dark shapes sitting on the deck: lead cones about a foot high ending with a pointed tip. The base of each was flat and they reminded Liam of modern-day artillery shells, except for the fact that each sported three slight fins. Not perfectly straight, they slanted up the side of the cylinder as if they’d been applied carelessly, or knocked and bent in transit.

  With a grunt of effort, the gunsmith picked one of the cannonballs up and handed it to Gunny.

  ‘Uh … which way does it go in the cannon, sir?’

  Schwarzmann rolled his eyes and sighed. ‘Flat end in first.’

  The gunner eased it into the muzzle, the men all holding their breath with growing excitement as he carefully rammed it down the chamber until it was pushed firmly against the cushion of wadding at the bottom.

  ‘Why does it have them fish-like fins on it, Skipper?’ asked one of the men in the crowd.

  ‘To make the projectile spin around its longitudinal axis,’ replied Rashim. ‘You may have noticed the fins are not straight. They are angled slightly; this is to create an aerodynamic profile that will stimulate a rotational force on it.’ He shrugged slightly. ‘In theory.’

  Liam suspected not a single man there had understood a word Rashim had just said, but he noticed one or two of them nodding thoughtfully.

  ‘The shot is loaded now, sir,’ said Gunny.

  The Pandora rocked gently in the sheltered cove. They were just a dozen miles eastward around the coast from Port Royal; they’d followed the coastline until they had come across this deserted and sheltered inlet. Now, floating on the calm turquoise water yards away was a pinnace with a small mast, bobbing patiently, waiting to be obliterated.

  ‘When you’re ready, Gunny,’ said Rashim, ‘take your best shot.’

  ‘Aye, sir.’ He moved round the back of the cannon and retrieved a smouldering length of tarred rope. He cupped it in his hands and blew on it until the tip glowed a dull orange. He waved the men back from the rear of the cannon. Not that he needed to: they were all very well aware of the cannon’s recoil length – just under a yard. He hunkered down beside the touch hole and squinted down the length of the cannon’s barrel, out through the gun port at their distant target bobbing gently on the water, judging the subtle movement of the ship, gauging the rhythm of it.

  ‘Have a care!’ he called out and, as one, every man on the gun deck clapped their hands over their ears as he pressed the smouldering fuse to the touch hole.

  A spark, a momentary hiss, then the cannon boomed, lurching backwards, and spurted out a six-foot tongue of flame. Rashim, Schwarzmann and several of the men quickly leaned out of the neighbouring gun ports to watch the arc of the projectile. But all they were rewarded with were a number of geysers of water erupting across the space between the Pandora and their target. Schwarzmann cursed under his breath.

  ‘What ha
ppened?’ someone called out.

  ‘It … uh … it appears that one disintegrated,’ replied Rashim. He looked pointedly at the gunsmith.

  ‘Vell, that one I made vith bigger fins,’ he said with a shrug. ‘I vas experimenting vith sizes.’

  ‘Let’s try another one.’

  Gunny nodded and set about swabbing the cannon and loading the next one. Again, the men held their breath as he hunkered down, fuse poised above the touch hole, and waited to get a feel of the gently swaying rhythm of the ship.

  ‘Have a care!’ He touched the fuse. Again, the hiss followed by the deafening whump of the cannon as it leaped backwards across the gun deck.

  Liam this time was already crouched beside a gun port and caught a glimpse of the dark projectile hurtling across the water. A half-second later the pinnace seemed to explode amid a shower of splinters and jagged planks. A cheer erupted across the gun deck, almost as deafening as the cannon had been a second earlier.

  ‘Bullseye!’ someone shouted.

  Liam could see the projectile had carved the vessel in two. Both ends of the boat bobbed independently and began to sink, surrounded by a soup of floating wooden shards.

  ‘Beggar me! God ’elp me, straight an’ true as an arrow!’ Gunny looked round at Rashim, at the rest of the crew. ‘Ain’t never seen a ball travel that way!’

  Schwarzmann nodded smugly. ‘This, of course, iss vhat I expected.’

  Rashim stroked his chin as he gazed out at the sinking ruins of the pinnace. ‘There was most definitely spin. I saw spin on it.’ He squinted out at the shoreline several hundred yards away. Emerging from the swaying fronds of palm trees were the crumbling remains of a church spire, or perhaps it might have been the ruins of a Spanish watchtower.

  ‘Gunny, why not try for that?’ he said.

  ‘Our cannon don’t ’ave the range for that, Skipper. Be lucky to make the beach at this distance.’

  Rashim glanced at Schwarzmann. He shrugged a why not?

  ‘Let’s have a go anyway,’ said Rashim. ‘See how far the shot will go.’

  Once again the gunner went about cleaning and loading the cannon with the last of the three test projectiles and again a stillness settled on the men as they held their breath and waited. Gunny narrowed his eyes as he stared intently down the length of the barrel. ‘It’ll not reach the building for sure,’ he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

  ‘Have a care!’ He touched down the smoking fuse.

  The cannon boomed again, filling the gun deck with coils of blue smoke, and the men once again rushed to crowd the gun ports. Liam, still perched where he was, caught the blur of the shot racing over the floating debris of the pinnace, a straight line of flight that began to dip slightly right at the end as the power of the shot waned.

  The ruins of the building exploded in a cloud of dust; its crumbling tower toppled forward and crashed down on to the beach. Above the palm trees, the sky was suddenly filled with birds of all colours taking flight.

  The men on the gun deck roared like spectators at a town square execution.

  ‘Good God!’ gasped Schwarzmann.

  Gunny, leaning beside Liam, sharing the same gun port, stared with his mouth slung open and catching the swirling smoke. He shook his head slowly. ‘But that ain’t possible. It surely ain’t!’

  ‘What range would you say that is?’ called out Rashim above the raucous noise of the crew. ‘Four … five hundred yards?’

  ‘More.’ Gunny rocked back on his haunches. ‘More, sir. I’d say closer to eight hundred yards.’

  ‘Iss incredible,’ said Schwarzmann. He got to his feet and came to stand beside Rashim. He spoke in a lowered voice. ‘Vith enough of these, Captain Anwar, your ship vould be … almost … ’

  ‘Invincible?’

  Schwarzmann shrugged. ‘Ja. Perhaps.’

  ‘We’ll need to discuss your fee, Mr Schwarzmann. And how many of these projectiles you will be able to make for us.’

  Liam got to his feet and joined them, grinning. He slapped Rashim on the back. ‘Jay-zus, fella, that shot carved through the building like a hot knife through butter!’

  ‘My fee?’ said Schwarzmann. ‘Perhaps ve should talk business upstairs, outside?’

  Rashim nodded and led the way as the three of them ducked their way beneath timbers towards the ladder well. They climbed the steps and emerged into the sunlight and the cooling, teasing breath of a fresh breeze across the deck. A merciful change from the fetid heat down on the gun deck.

  ‘I am curious, gentlemen,’ said the German, dabbing at his forehead with the corner of his shirt cuff. ‘Vhat are the plans you have?’

  ‘Our plans?’ Liam shrugged. ‘The governor has licensed us as privateers. So, we plan to make some money, of course.’

  ‘A lot of money,’ added Rashim.

  Liam nodded and smiled. ‘And to make this ship of ours, Pandora, a legend in the Caribbean. To make it a legend known on every sea by every sailor.’ He glanced sideways at Rashim. ‘That’s right, isn’t it?’

  Rashim nodded.

  ‘Mr Schwarzmann, sir … ’ continued Liam, ‘we want to be sure that, centuries from now, the name Pandora is as known to every boy who dreams of pirates and swashbuckling buccaneers as … Blackbeard or … Long John Silver!’

  Neither name seemed to mean a thing to the German. Of course they didn’t. Nonetheless, Schwarzmann nodded slowly, appreciating the sentiment. He looked at them with the slightest hint of begrudging respect. ‘You both, I think, vill achieve something like that.’

  ‘So, then,’ said Rashim, ‘your fee …? We should discuss –’

  ‘I think, gentlemen, my fee vill not be a payment upfront, but instead a share of vhat plunder you manage to bring into Port Royal. A percentage.’

  ‘A percentage?’ Rashim looked at Liam. ‘What do you think?’

  Liam pursed his lips. ‘We don’t have a lot of money left right now. It makes sense.’ He turned to Schwarzmann. ‘If you’re prepared to trust us, that is?’

  Schwarzmann curled his lip. ‘I trust no one. But iss like this – you don’t pay me vhat ve agree on, then I stop making your veird shape cannonballs. Simple.’

  Rashim nodded; they had an agreement of sorts. He offered a hand to him. ‘Then let’s discuss that percentage.’

  Chapter 38

  1889, London

  ‘So much for Liam and his, “The three of us need to hold fast together. To stay a proper team”,’ Sal whispered. Weren’t those his exact words? Wasn’t that exactly what he’d said to her out in that windswept playground, when they were hanging round that abandoned school back in Harcourt, Ohio?

  Now, it seemed, the first chance he had to cut free, skip off and do his own thing, that’s exactly what he’d gone and done. She picked up her pen.

  So now I guess the choices left for me and Maddy to make are not whether we carry on as a team, but where we want to live the rest of our lives. And who knows how long that is? Maybe I’m going to age-up like Liam will do and be an old woman before my time. Maybe I’ll live hundreds of years. Who knows what our bodies were designed to endure?

  I know one thing, though. I don’t want to stay here. This dungeon isn’t a home. And I guess if I’d known what I was back in New York, that archway wouldn’t have felt like home either. It’s a cage really. A prison.

  She looked up from her diary. Maddy was fast asleep on one of their improvised beds, snoring, as she generally did. She usually slept well. The support units were sitting together on a pair of crates, bolt upright, but kind of ‘asleep’ in the way they often were, going into a trance, during which their computer minds could quietly get on with overdue housekeeping: compressing, sharing, archiving data. Sal wanted someone to talk to.

  She turned to her left, towards a flat top Maddy had been using as a coffee table. ‘Hey, SpongeBubba? You awake or are you charged down?’

  SpongeBubba’s squat-box frame turned round towards her. ‘Hey, Sal!’ The mug wobbled
on his flat head, spilling cold dregs. Sal took it off and put it on the floor.

  ‘I’m Ay-Oh-kay today!’

  Too goofy-stupid for her to stomach right now. ‘Must be great feeling happy-clappy all the time.’

  SpongeBubba’s eyes rolled. ‘I’m a lab unit. I’m programmed by skippa to appear happy. I have no conceptual understanding of “happy”, though.’

  ‘I’m beginning to feel the same. Hey, SpongeBubba?’

  ‘Yup!’

  ‘If Rashim’s gone for good, what does that mean for you?’

  The unit stuck out a plastic bottom lip. ‘No more skippa?’

  ‘Yes. If you knew he was gone for good, or dead even, would that change your programming?’

  ‘No, Sal. Not unless it was changed for me. My AI can be returned to the factory setting.’ He looked up at her reproachfully. ‘But then I’d be a boring old standard lab unit again.’

  ‘No more squeaky voice. That might be an improvement!’

  ‘I would not be SpongeBubba any more.’

  Sal remembered Rashim saying he’d customized this unit to look like an old cartoon character from the beginning of the century. She vaguely remembered the cartoons too. ‘SpongeBubba’ wasn’t quite the right name. Damned if she could remember what that stupid cubic yellow sea creature was really called.

  ‘But you’re not the real SpongeBubba. You’re just an imitation of it.’

  ‘I know.’ He offered her a goofy grin. ‘But I’m different from all the other lab units. And that makes me special!’

  ‘SpongeBubba, if you could live any place, any time in the world … where would you choose to go?’

  He frowned. ‘I would choose where skippa needs me to be.’

  Stupid question to ask a lab-bot, Sal decided.

  ‘But skippa did once show me a Western movie. I like cowboys and Indians. They’re neeeat!’

  She smiled at the unit. It couldn’t know how to ‘like’ anything. But it was obviously programmed, ‘hacked’ by Rashim, to appear to like things. Cute. Almost endearing actually.