by James Axler
"Cease that immediately!" the baron shouted, knocking away their weapons. "How can we torture a dead man?"
The sec men backed off the bloody man, and galvanized by sheer terror, Wof unexpectedly broke loose and charged wildly for the nearby cliff. The river below was full of rocks and rapids, if the fall didn't chill him. But anything was better than torture. He had never harmed a soul. How could this be happening to him?
Leaves and branches tore at his clothes as he sprinted in blind panic, and Wof nearly reached the cliff when he abruptly jerked to a halt and painfully hit the ground. In horror, he saw the chain shackled around his ankle. A slave's chain.
"No!" he howled, wildly slamming the chain with a rock, digging in his heels to still try to escape.
Walking slowly, the sec men gathered around, rough hands grabbing from every direction, and Wof was hauled back down the winding trail to the ville. The wooden gate in the bamboo wall was wide open, crackling torches lining the street. The center of the ville was full of people, most of whom he knew, friends, enemies, neighbors and kin. The area was brightly lit by alcohol lanterns held by strange sec men, and in the middle of them was a granite column, some sort of predark memorial for fallen men in some distant war. It was a totem of great power and the pride of the poor ville. Ancient words had been carved into the stone, but they were too faint to read even by daylight. The column was also the ville execution site.
Weeping for mercy, Wof was hoisted by his wrists and armpits until he was suspended off the ground. Then more chains were added until he was stretched as taut as ship rigging and completely unable to move in any direction.
"Please," he whimpered. "Oh please…"
Smoking a green cigar, Lieutenant Brandon walked to the prisoner and ground out the red glowing end in his right eye. Wof shrieked pitifully.
"Gag this fool," the sec chief ordered.
Grim-faced guards forced a thick wad of leather into Wof's mouth and wrapped lengths of leather straps around his head to keep it in place.
Sucking air through his nose, Wof tried to speak, to plead for clemency, but the leather wad blocked any attempt to make noise.
"I must thank you for reporting this crime," Brandon said to the local baron.
"Anything for my great friend, Lord Baron Kinnison," Somers said, trying to make the words sound sincere.
The crowd waited, hanging on every word spoken by the sec man, their lives hanging in the balance of the casual conversation. In the crowd, a baby began to cry and was forcibly hushed.
"I can see the loyalty in your face," Brandon lied, "so I have decided there will be no punishment on this ville for the acts of one man."
Women began to cry with relief and men allowed themselves to breathe once more. They would be allowed to live.
"However, for a crime this great," Brandon continued, lifting a pair of pliers from a table, "I feel it only proper that the punishment should be done by your own people."
"Of course," Somers replied, unable to meet the pleading eyes of his cousin lashed to the stone column. "My idea exactly. Sergeant, strip the prisoner."
Wof raged against the chains, but could hardly move as the burly sec man cut away every item of clothing until the man was nude.
"Castrate him," Brandon said, licking his lips, a tremor of excitement in his voice.
The sergeant cupped the prisoner's genitals and lowered the knife. "I'll do it quick, my friend," he whispered.
Thanking the man in his heart, even while cursing his name, Wof closed his eyes and braced for the coming torments. Maybe he would go insane. Yes! He'd seen it happen before. Prisoners singing songs and laughing while they were being taken apart like a blaster for cleaning.
The knife began to cut, white-hot pain shooting through his groin, when unexpectedly Brandon called a halt to the gory proceedings.
"Trying to escape again, eh?" the lieutenant commented, lifting a curved blade in the lantern light.
"We need to remove the eyelids so he can see everything that happens."
Some of his men walked to a table into the clearing, carried it forward and placed it before Brandon. It was filled with little knives and a mound of leather pouches.
"But work like that is no job for a sec man," the officer continued, "so we shall pay the reward of one full ounce of black powder for an act of torture."
The people in the crowd whispered among themselves in shock, and even the baron was perplexed. Why such a high price for a simple chilling? It made no sense.
Clumsily an old man stomped forward, a chunk of intricately carved wood strapped to the stump of his left leg. He paused before the table, then dared to look at the tall officer. Brandon gave a nod, and the old man chose a knife. Going to the column, he grabbed Wof's right eyelid with a thumb and forefinger, then began to cut away the tender flesh.
Rivulets of crimson trickled down Wof's anguished face as he thrashed against the bounds, his face twisted feral from the pain. It was over in a moment, and the old man placed the tiny piece of flesh between the knives and mound of pouches.
"Clean job, well done," Brandon complimented him, passing over a leather sack.
Suspiciously the one-legged man opened the pouch to check inside, then flashed a toothless grin. This would keep him warm and fed for a month!
"Can I do another?" he asked hopefully, hugging the precious ammo.
Brandon stared at the wizened oldster, then burst into laughter. "What a greedy little bastard! Stand aside and let others show their loyalty. If none steps forward, you may do so again. Often as you like."
"Thank you, sir," he gushed, bobbing his head like a parrot. "Hail to the lord baron!"
"Enough," Brandon said, waving him away. "Who's next?"
Suddenly Somers understood what was happening and glowered in suppressed fury. The bastard was stealing his people away right in front of him! His mind whirled with some way to turn this to his advantage and failed. That fat bastard on Maturo had won another battle without firing a shot. Curse him to hell.
Avarice on his features, a teenager forced his way from the crowd, and a reeking fisherman was next. Then more, even some of the local baron's own troops. The pile of flesh grew one bloody gobbet at a time, and soon every hand in the ville was smeared with fresh blood.
Brandon was pleased. Tortured by his own kin. Now the locals would never trust one another again, and would watch for any signs of research or science. This island would offer no more trouble to the lord baron for years.
Finally the ragged body on the stone column went limp, and gore ceased to flow from the endless cuts. A single eye stared from the skinless face, and what remained more resembled a decaying carcass than anything born human.
"Satisfied?" Baron Somers asked gruffly.
"Not quite," Brandon said, placing aside a cup of wine. "There is the still the matter of his workshop."
Somers grunted. "We'll burn it, of course."
"No need," said the officer, raising a fist high overhead, then opening it twice.
Immediately there were flashes from the PT boats moored at the dock, and moments later a flurry of screaming objects trailing fire whooshed by overhead, their contrails bathing the ville in bloodred light Moving almost faster than vision could follow, the Firebirds zigzagged over the jungle, climbing toward the cleft in the hill. Then they separated, one going directly for the predark bungalow, the other for the disguised garage.
The double explosions shook the landscape, merging into a huge fireball that rose on a glowing mushroom cloud into the sky. The people of the ville cowered at the sight, even the baron looking ill at ease, his sec men shuffling their feet nervously. Armed with blaster and knives, this was something beyond their comprehension. Many heard tales of what a Firebird could do, but the sight of that mushroom cloud, the ancient symbol of skydark, was more intimidating than any beating or verbal threat.
Watching their reactions, Brandon raised his hand again, and two more rockets streaked by to finish the job of
removing the secret workshop from the face of the island. As the concussions faded away, the top of the hill was sliding down over the wound, and the tress were burning for dozens of yards in every direction.
"Now I'm satisfied," Brandon said smugly, then turned to address the baron directly. "However, I expect no more unpleasantness, or else I will be forced to return and use… extreme measures of justice."
"Fair Steven," Somers said, managing to smile, forcing his hands to stay at his sides and away from his blasters. That any man could talk to him in such a way, inside his own ville, was maddening, intolerable. Yet he had no choice but to obey. He was bound to life even as Wof had been shackled to the stone.
"Anything for my good friend Baron Kinnison," he added in feigned politeness.
"That is Lord Baron Kinnison!" the lieutenant snapped. "And don't you forget it again!"
A furious sec man standing next to the baron started forward, and Somers held him back with a gesture. With those triple-damn boats in the cove, the Maturo sec man was untouchable. "Yes, of course," Somers spoke coldly. "Lord Baron Kinnison."
Glancing at the corpse, Brandon saw it was now covered with a black coat of crawling flies. "Burn that," he ordered, then turned and walked casually from the ville.
Moving quickly, his sec men claimed the few remaining bags of black powder, folded the card table and followed quickly after their chief. Behind them, Baron Somers started calling for wood, and a pile began to build around Wof's tattered remains.
Wary of the dark shadows in the bushes, Brandon strolled back to the dock, a hand always on his blaster. Never trust others was his first rule of survival.
Reaching the piles of stones that served as a dock, the lieutenant noted that the green lantern hanging from the tide pylon had been extinguished. Good.
PT 264 was rocking in the waves, tugging against the mooring lines, wisps of smoke rising from the flue as the crew in the hold stoked the boiler as a preparation to departing. On the stone dock, Thor stood with his Weatherby resting on a shoulder, closely watching a slim girl kneeling on the hard stones, hands folded, head bowed, her long hair falling down to hide her face.
"That the one?" Brandon asked, stopping a few feet away. The rest of the sec men moved around him to haul the table and other items aboard the boat.
"Think so," the sergeant answered. "Ain't said a word yet."
The lieutenant went to the slave and nudged her with his boot. "Stand," he commanded.
The female rose like dawn, and the officer saw that her eyes were as green as the summer sea, her face a flawless pearl. Beautiful seemed inadequate a word, and he had trouble speaking for a few moments.
"You set the lantern, girl?" he asked, much more polite than was usual.
She nodded vigorously, pointing at the lantern then herself.
"How did you know a green light was the way to signal us there was a traitor in the ville?"
Timidly she lifted her skirts until it was obvious there was nothing under the thin clothing.
"A gaudy slut, eh? Yeah, we make sure they all know that. Teach them one at a time."
The slave violently shook her head.
"Okay, used to be." The man smiled benignly. "Why ain't you talking? Somebody cut out your tongue?"
She touched her throat and gestured outward, her hands falling by her sides.
Oh, a simp. She never had been able to talk.
"Well, you did us a favor," Brandon said, snapping his fingers, "and the lord baron always pays his debts."
Thor placed a heavy leather bag in the officer's hand, and he passed it over to the girl.
"Two pounds of powder, one blaster, with bullet mold, ten rounds, two flints," he recited. "You find anybody else doing science, and I'll pay the same again."
Incredibly she offered him the bag back and touched the brand on her bare satiny shoulder.
"Your freedom?" He laughed scornfully. "Have to do more than find a traitor for that, girl!"
As if waiting for those words, the slave pressed her warm body against the officer and cupped his face to passionately kiss him, her small hands teasingly moving across his body, invoking responses the man had never felt before with a willing partner. The sergeant chuckled softly at the sight, but never turned away, his grip firm on the loaded longblaster.
Minutes passed, and when the couple was forced to break apart for air, she nuzzled his cheek, her forked tongue encircling his ear, flickering inside and out.
Gasping at the sight, Thor worked the bolt on his weapon and aimed it in her direction. Equally shocked, Brandon grabbed the woman by the arms and pushed her away for a better view. Wantonly, she writhed to be against him again. He squeezed until she stopped moving, then looked hard into her eyes. There was no doubt that she was a mutie, but unlike anything he had ever encountered before. He felt drunk with lust. The urge to take her right there in front of the troops almost drove him mad.
"Okay, freedom," Brandon huskily agreed. "Come with us to Cold Harbor ville and right afterward I'll—"
At the name of the ville the slave fought to get loose of his grip, terror distorting her features. Her nails raked across his face, leaving bloody furrows.
"Bitch!" he cursed and threw her to the dock. The girl fell to the deck, kneeling before the sec man in a fetal position.
"Stupid, slut! I would have set you free!" Brandon spit furiously, touching his cheek. "Didn't I just prove we pay our debts? How dare you strike a sec man of the lord baron!"
Cowering in submission, she started to crawl away, and he planted a boot on her back, crushing her to the stones.
"Oh no, you're mine now. You'll go where I go, and obey my every order, or die ten times worse than your last owner! Get me?"
Dumbly she nodded, cowering behind her supple hands.
"Get on the boat," Brandon snapped. "And you'll show me what that fancy tongue of yours can really do tonight in my bunk. Then the rest of the crew, too, if it amuses me!"
Limping, the girl awkwardly climbed onto the PT boat, the laughing sailors roughly shoving her out of the way as they loosened the mooring lines and got ready to leave. Sec men of the lord baron rarely stayed on shore. The risk of getting aced in a night-creep by the locals was too great.
Cowering in the corner of the angled wheelhouse, the slave watched carefully as the norms got their wood-burning vessel under way and started steaming away from shore.
Receding into the distance, a conflagration raged freely on the jungle hillside, while a much smaller blaze licked fiery tongues skyward from the middle of the ville.
"Finally I'm going home," she whispered softly, luxuriating in speaking again. "And the lord baron will pay."
A passing sec man snapped his head toward her, and she opened her dress to display her golden breasts. He smirked and went back to coiling the ropes, already thinking of what he'd do to the mutie if he got the chance.
For a moment there, the sailor could have sworn she said something, but that was impossible. Muties were too dumb for talk. It had to have been the wind. Yeah, that was it. Just the wind. Dumb slut.
GROWING DARKNESS covered the calm sea, broken only by the faint silvery moonlight and the dim yellow light of fish-oil lanterns on the sinking ship. The Delta Blue had quickly and quietly gone to her grave, the cold sea consuming the wild blaze raging over the shattered pirate ship. Slowly sinking, the victorious Constellation was alone in the middle of the ocean, surrounded by a bobbing corona of wreckage and bodies.
Knowing their valiant ship was doomed, the crew had blocked the holes in her hull with the sacks of dried fish to slow the rushing water, then chopped holes in the opposite side of the ship to make her sink level and buy them precious minutes to gather supplies. Unfortunately it was soon discovered that most of the lifeboats used to build the barricade had been badly damaged in the firelight. Lolling belly up, the skiffs were half-submerged already. A fight had ensued over one of the intact lifeboats, and fresh blood swirled in the deepening water.
"Where the hell is he?" J.B. demanded, squinting into the growing darkness.
"Shoulda gone with," Jak stated, frowning.
"He's taking way too long," Ryan said, placing aside his Steyr and drawing his hand cannon. "Must be trouble. Give me a lantern, I'll go find him."
"No, wait. There he is!" Krysty cried in obvious relief, pointing into the murky gloom.
At first only a vague shape, Dean suddenly came into view, sloshing through the ankle-deep water covering the deck. A canvas pack over his shoulder, the youth paused, then carefully skirted the invisible hole in the unseen deck.
"Found it," Dean said, tossing his backpack of ammo into the lifeboat. "Give me another minute and I'll grab some more food from the galley."
"No time. Get in," his father said, grabbing the boy by the collar and bodily hauling him into the lifeboat. "Got to make some distance or we'll get caught in the undertow when the Connie goes under."
"I could do it," Dean said rebelliously, taking a seat at the stern and straightening his clothes.
Tolerantly Ryan looked at his son. Stubborn as a Shen mule. Pure Cawdor. "Want to steer?" he asked.
"Sure," the boy replied eagerly.
The Deathlands warrior released the wooden tiller that controlled the hinged rudder. "Head due south. I'm standing guard."
Snuggling into position, Dean tucked the tiller under his armpit, holding on with both hands.