by Mark Wandrey
The Japanese were crazy for the stuff. At five credits a kilo wholesale, a Valais bluefin could bring 2,500 credits delivered to Earth. Per fish. It was damned near as profitable as killing aliens. Almost. Enough, though, that small, long-range, solar-powered schooners worked as scouts, searching constantly within the range of the fishing fleets, hoping to find tuna schools. They got a bounty based on the size of the catch. Murdock loved entrepreneurs.
The next trip out, one of the scouts came alongside the Shell Game II. Captain Orlan brought them supplies occasionally, allowing them to stay at sea longer. The schooner named Furry had a crew of just five, a family affair. The mother, Brandi Hinson, was the official captain, and she came aboard. After she’d spoken with Captain Orlan, he got to meet her.
“So you’re the merc who wants to be a fisherman?” she asked, making Murdock laugh.
“I’m retired,” he said, “and it seemed like a good retirement plan.”
She looked at his fish guts–strewn apron and shook her head. “You guys make millions, why aren’t you living it up like the other retired mercs here?”
“Others?” he said, caught off guard. “I didn’t know there were any.”
“Sure, they’re mostly on the little island of Calmway. They renamed it Tahiti, and the planetary service refused to make it official. It’s a stalemate.”
“I’ll have to go out there and check it out,” he said, half to himself. “I didn’t plan well for my retirement.”
“Blew it all on hookers and booze?” Captain Hinson’s green eyes twinkled mischievously. He liked this woman; she’d have made a good merc. She was built like a merc, too, short and stocky, with strong arms. Looking over at her boat, her whole family looked the same.
“No, I died and didn’t get any of my death benefit money.”
“That sucks,” she said. He nodded. There didn’t seem to be an adult male aboard who might be her husband. The other four crew were all teenagers or preteens.
“Husband ashore?” he asked.
“Killed by pirates six months ago,” she said, scowling.
“Fucking pirates again.” She gave him a curious look, and he pointed at the damage still not completely repaired on Shell Game II. She gave an ‘I see’ look in reply. “When did they get more violent?”
“Oh, on abouts a year ago, they started sinking smaller fishing boats. A few months after, they became more common. That was when I lost my Dave.”
“Did they sink the original Shell Game around then?”
“Same week,” she said. “Dave and Theodore were friends.”
“Theodor?”
“Theodor Dresdin, Sheela’s husband.”
Murdock nodded again; he hadn’t known his name. “Any idea where these pirates base out of?”
“Has to be a small island.” she said, “Only problem is, the planetary government won’t help us find them with satellites.” Murdock gave a grunting laugh. He knew the government was complicit in some way. One rat at a time. “They say it’s a waste of resources. A couple captains paid a ship to make some scans. They couldn’t find a thing. Doesn’t make sense. They’re growing, too. A month ago there were four, but the last time we saw them there were five.”
“All small boats, right?”
“Yeah, no more than twenty-five meters. Hydrogen fuel-cell powered is my guess. Fast little bastards—a lot faster than anything we have. It’s just going to get worse and worse. They’re never going to stop.”
“Never say never,” Murdock said. “You hear about all those thugs got themselves dead in Atlantis?”
“Yeah, we did. Government tried to say it was some gang turf war or some shit.”
“What do you think?”
“I think it’s whale shit.” They both laughed. “If it was another gang, why hasn’t this gang started making trouble? Besides, the first bunch never extorted nothing or robbed meaningfully. We all know what they were trying to do. Someone came along and undid them, that’s all.” She looked at him, her eyes narrowing. “Couldn’t be some retired merc, could it?”
“Good sailing, Captain Hinson.”
Late afternoon, as they were just sailing to pick up a line of crab pots prior to heading back to port, they got a call from Furry. They’d spotted a massive school of tuna just 120 kilometers away. The entire fleet dropped what they were doing and sailed toward the find. Murdock smiled and went below to get ready.
* * * * *
Chapter Ten
Where the workers on Shell Game II were in constant motion before, they ramped up to an insane speed after getting the call. Considerable work was necessary to get the ship ready for the coming tuna catch, and they didn’t have any time to lose. The tuna schools were known to move quickly.
Murdock didn’t have as much to do as the others, only being responsible for bait and stowage. He watched what went on around the deck and processed the tiny fish they’d use to catch the tuna. Each ship kept a tank with such fish alive at all times; the tuna were worth that much.
After four hours of high-speed sailing, they reached the Furry’s position and set about casting lines from as many hands who could be spared as possible. On a planet with more technology at their disposal, the ship would have dozens of automated rods controlled by robotic sensors. On Valais, Human muscles and reflexes sufficed.
“There’s a trick to it!” one of the deckhands explained after pulling in his second tuna. Murdock had lost his three times now. “When you feel a bite, first set the hook, then start pulling them in. Once you know you have ’em, turn the line over to the winch.”
As Murdock learned the process, he split his attention between the task at hand and the seas around the ship. Once he’d rebaited his line and cast again, he hooked a fish and managed to hand the line over to the winch. The fish he pulled in was huge.
“Good job!” the deck hand nearest him said and slapped Murdock on the back.
Once the fish was pulled up the slide onto the rear deck, Murdock glanced up to see Captain Orlan standing on the bridge’s starboard wing. He had a pair of computerized binoculars to his eyes and was focused out to sea. Murdock turned and looked in the same direction. Five tiny points were slowly getting bigger. The pirates had arrived.
Murdock racked his pole and climbed the ladder to the bridge. Captain Orlan put the binoculars down and looked over as Murdock approached.
“Our friends are here,” the captain said.
“Some friends,” Murdock said. “What’re your intentions?”
“We’ll all fish as long as we can and then run for it.”
“Can I suggest an alternative?”
“I’m always open to alternatives,” the captain said, looking at him, “even from a deckhand.”
“Move toward them.”
“Are you crazy? If the fleet moved over there, the pirates would attack.”
“Not the fleet, captain, just you.”
Captain Orlan had been about to lift the binoculars back to his eyes when Murdock spoke. He jerked her head around to glare at the retired merc. “You’re not crazy, you’re a loon.”
“Perhaps this loon is offering you a solution to your problem.”
“Talk, I’m listening.” Murdock pulled a new cigar out and lit it, his eyes sparkling with interest as he laid out his plan. The entire time the captain could only shake his head in amazement.
* * *
Shell Game II moved east, which happened to be in the direction of the approaching craft. Instead of splitting up as usual, all five craft made directly for them. Aside from turning side on to the approaching ships, Shell Game II took no further action. The pirates sensed an easy target and raced directly toward the ship. Had they been a little more observant, they might have noticed the fishing ship was no longer actively fishing.
The pirate boats were relatively simple models. Just over ten meters long, they were a rakish design with dual outriggers, allowing them to act as hydrofoils. An enclosed cockpit was forward with an open de
ck aft. In each boat, a single crew-served laser was mounted in the open area, which also held a number of armed men.
The lead pirate closed to less than 500 meters before anyone noticed the decks of Shell Game II were empty. Had they considered the possible implications, the entire squadron might have turned tail and fled. Instead, the first two ships began to slow, with plans to board. The sudden appearance of a single man on deck wasn’t surprising; the fact that he was wearing combat armor and armed with a laser rifle was. The cigar clenched in his teeth was mostly smoked down, and had gone out an hour ago. He hadn’t noticed.
Murdock used the laser rifle on single shot, utilizing its holographic sight to aim and kill both men in the cockpit of the closest boat. A pair of men in the back of the other close boat had the wherewithal to fire conventional rifles at him; one even scored a hit. The bullets whanged harmlessly off his shoulder armor.
Switching to automatic, Murdock swept the rear section of the now pilotless boat, raking fire back and forth. He’d been hit several more times before he was sure nobody was alive on the boat. Just as he finished, a laser shot him through the left forearm.
“Fuck!” he said with a growl and dropped below the gunwale. The steel railing flashed red in several places, evidence of the lasers firing at him. He did a quick assessment of his wound. A through-and-through about ten centimeters above his wrist, the pain was intense. The beam wasn’t powerful enough to breach the thick hull plating, but it was obviously enough for his light combat armor. They’d never quite managed to make combat armor as effective against energy weapons as it was against ballistics.
He didn’t have a lot of time. His hands shook as he stuffed the cold cigar in a pocket and snatched the nearly empty medkit he’d kept since dealing with the street thugs. He pulled off his glove, set the device for internal injury, and stabbed it against his palm. The pain as the machines worked was, as always, exquisite. “Fuck, shit, hell, damn it!” he yelled as the microscopic devices did their job. It wasn’t a dangerous enough wound to necessitate the nanites, but he needed both arms.
When the pain had passed, and the injury was mostly healed, he let the laser rifle drop and grabbed the next weapon. Not only had he brought a big duffle bag on the first day he’d worked aboard Shell Game II, he’d brought one most days. Each time it had something different. One day part of the combat armor, another the laser rifle, then more armor.
Murdock popped up just high enough that he could rest the rocket launcher on the gunwale. He’d removed it from his CASPer and brought it aboard in pieces, along with several rockets. The mechanism was designed to be used in various ways, one of which was static defense. It weighed sixty-five kilograms and took two hands to manhandle it, which was why he’d needed his wounded arm healed.
He locked on the second boat, the one he hadn’t fired on, and the one which had hit him with their laser. The gunner was clearly visible, sweeping the deck looking for Murdock. When he saw him, the man’s eyes went wide in shock. Murdock twisted the rocket’s tail and it roared away in a flash. A split second later the boat went up in a ball of flame and a titanic explosion.
“Payback’s a bitch!” Murdock roared and laughed as he dropped back down and grabbed another rocket from the pile at his feet. Bullets fell on his ship like a hailstorm, raining all along the sides, superstructure, and fishing gear. Glass shattered in the pilot house and rained down on the deck. “Oh, that got their attention,” he said as the rocket locked into place. He crawled a few meters down the deck to a notch in the gunwale where ropes could be attached. He grunted as he swung the launcher up again.
A boat was racing toward him, men clinging all over it and blazing away at his ship. “Idiots,” he growled as the launcher acquired the target. If they’d stayed back and been patient, the laser was a real threat to him. Racing in like they were, the rear-mounted gun couldn’t target him. A couple rounds bounced off the reinforced alloy launcher, and one off his helmet. It rocked his head back and just pissed him off more. He mashed the fire button and the rocket screamed away. The weapon went right into the cockpit, and the boat was gone in another huge blast of debris and fire.
“That’s three,” he said and dropped back down. Another rocket slid into the launcher, and he could now hear racing engines. Racing away, not toward him. They were finally calling it quits. Only Murdock wasn’t in the mood to let them quit. In fact, he didn’t dare. He brought the launcher up a third time and found the boats. One was going east, the other west. First smart thing they’d done. Lasers turned the gunwale by him bright red. Make that two smart things.
The boat to the west was disappearing behind the stern of Shell Game II and wasn’t an easy target, so he fired at the other one. The instant the rocket left the tube, Murdock moved to drop back down, bracing his right hand on the gunwale as he lowered the launcher with his left. The laser from the westward ship neatly took off his right pinky finger and nipped his ring finger.
Murdock and the launcher hit the deck at the same time as the fourth boat exploded. He looked up in confusion. He’d felt a flash of white-hot pain, not as bad as the left forearm injury, then he’d lost his grip. He held up the hand and gawked in surprise.
“You motherfuckers!” he screamed. It transitioned into a roar as the true pain finally hit. He’d neglected to put the glove back on, not that it would have helped against a fifty-kilowatt chemical laser. The remainder of his right hand shook from the shock as he slid the glove awkwardly back on. He grabbed some duct tape with his left and wrapped it around his entire hand. The wound wasn’t bleeding badly, and the strong tape wrap helped deaden the pain. Now he regretted emptying the medkit. Oh boy, did he.
The boat the shot had come from, the last one, was full astern now and running for everything it was worth. It would be out of range in less than a minute. The pain was making his head swim as he struggled to reload the weapon with half a missing hand.
“Sir, let me.”
Murdock looked over; it was one of the deckhands. Specifically the one who’d been laughing as he puked.
“Get back below, kid,” he snarled at the boy, who couldn’t be more than twenty.
“Show me how!” the kid said, holding the rocket.
Murdock spat a curse and pointed with a good finger. “Flip that up. Good, now line up the yellow stripe on the rocket housing with the yellow stripe on the launcher. Yes, that one. Ram it in.” The rocket rebounded back out. “No, I said ram it in, like you never had that pussy ever before!” The kid laughed, and Murdock realized stupidly he was a she. She shoved harder and the rocket pod locked in with a snap.
Murdock tried to pick up the launcher, but his right arm screamed agony. He almost dropped it on the optics, and that wouldn’t do. The deck hand grabbed it from him and began manhandling—or rather womanhandling—it into a carrying position. While she didn’t know how it was supposed to be carried, clearly she was strong enough.
“Where?” she grunted the question.
“Fantail,” he said and stumbled toward it. As he staggered up the steps and reached the aft gunwale, he fell to his knees. The last boat was 900 meters and climbing onto its hydrofoils. Almost out of range. The deckhand was trying to figure out the launcher. “Sit it there,” he said and pointed at the rail, “I can fire it.”
She did as he instructed. “Like this?”
“Yes,” he said, “and stay away from the back end.” He glanced up at her. No hearing protection. Fuck. “Sorry,” he said and moved the optics onto the boat; the crosshairs flashed red.
“For what?” she asked, and he mashed the firing stud.
The rocket exploded from the launcher, blowing off the expendable pod with a roar. She screamed and threw her hands over her ears. The computer-controlled hearing protectors Murdock wore dampened the sound automatically. With the pirate boat now a kilometer away, Murdock could see the bright plume of the rocket streaking away from him, like a dot dancing back and forth; it didn’t look like it was moving. Then the boat
disappeared in a rolling ball of flame.
“Eat that, asshole,” Murdock said, and let the rocket launcher fall to the deck. Oh, shit, did his hand hurt. “I need a beer.”
He felt a hand slapping his face and opened his eyes, not realizing he’d blacked out. Captain Orlan was kneeling next to him as one of the ship’s crew gave first aid. They’d unwrapped his hand, and the last of the all-too-familiar wash of pain was just fading.
“I didn’t expect you to have any nanites,” he said, and fished the partly smoked cigar out. To his surprise, Orlan lit it for him.
“Just because we colonies are less advanced doesn’t mean we don’t use high-tech stuff,” Orland said. “Those little bots have saved more than a few fishermen over the years.” He grunted and looked at the dispenser in the medic’s hand before shaking his head. “You know what that just cost?” He looked at the bullet-pocked, laser-burned superstructure of his boat. “Not to mention the damage to this boat?”
“You can bill me,” Murdock said.
“No, I suspect you’ll be billing us.”
“I’m retired,” Murdock said.
“Bullshit,” the captain replied and laughed. “The other captains have all agreed to fix my ship and pay you for getting rid of the pirates.”
“I didn’t ask for no pay,” Murdock complained. “I did it because pirates, particularly pirates who prey on their fellow humans, are the worst scum there is.”
“We know you didn’t ask, so shut up and take our money.”
“Okay, fine. But it ain’t done yet.” Feeling better after the second nanite therapy, he got up and looked over the side. The first pirate boat was still sitting there, though two of the Shell Game II crew were now onboard looking over the carnage he’d wrought.
“What do you mean? You killed everyone on that boat and blew up the other four!”
“I mean they have a base somewhere.”