Starfall

by neetha Napew

  But now wasn't the time. Not with Krysty in the shape she was in.

  "How do you release the water?" Ryan asked.

  "Same way we close down the other end of the cistern— use explosives. After all these years, we know where to place them."

  Ryan filed that bit of knowledge away.

  "Got something else to show you," Donovan said, "if you're not too tired."

  "What? I've got a feeling morning's going to come bas­tard early if we're going to get at those pirates."

  "You're right. But I think this is going to interest you. Since you've heard of the Totality Concept, I'm certain you've also learned they left redoubts scattered around Deathlands."

  Ryan looked at the man.

  "We found one here," Donovan said. "Want to go look?"

  IT TOOK Ryan and Donovan almost half an hour to trek back farther upstream along the mountain ridge. By that time, he'd worked off most of the small amount of supper he'd eaten back at the campsite. Seeing Krysty sick as she was had left him without an appetite, but it was making up for lost time now.

  "Hungry?" Donovan asked, offering a cloth-wrapped bar.

  "What's that?"

  "Trail-mix bar. Kind of like an old-style journeycake, only this has a lot of raisins, nuts and dried fruits in it. Standard Foundation issue, along with self-heats and ring-pulls. Too much work to chew to put any fat on you, but they keep your energy up."

  Ryan took the bar, unwrapping it and smelling it. Sat­isfied with the odor, his stomach growling in sudden antic­ipation, he took a bite and began the unexpectedly long task of chewing. It was good, but as Donovan said, it took real work to get it down.

  Only a few minutes farther on, they arrived at the redoubt.

  The massive steel door was inset in the rock face, shel­tered and partially hidden by a low-hanging shelf. Huge boulders and brush around it served to further mask the door's presence.

  Judging from the brush and the loose rock in front of the entranceway, it had never been opened. Ryan experienced the familiar excitement thrilling through him when he thought about what might be on the other side of the huge door.

  "Been inside?" he asked.

  Donovan shook his head. "Only redoubts I've ever seen were blown open or wrecked during a quake. Looted so long ago nothing worth anything was left behind."

  Ryan stepped toward the door, wary for any traps that might have been left behind. The Totality Concept staff sometimes left wicked traps behind; other times it was frus­trated looters. Satisfied nothing was there, he flipped open the cover on the keypad.

  "Keypad's active," Donovan said, "but nobody's ever found a way in."

  Ryan punched the proper key sequence. The keypad lights went from red to amber to green. An instant later, the door slid sideways.

  "Son of a bitch!" Donovan exclaimed. "How the fuck did you do that?"

  "Got lucky." He adjusted the lantern he carried, turning up the illumination. Taking the SIG-Sauer blaster in his free hand, he walked into the redoubt.

  Donovan followed him.

  THE REDOUBT WAS small compared to many of those Ryan had seen. There were two rooms. One held a mat-trans unit with bright blue armaglass sporting dark green diagonal stripes.

  "Is that a gateway?" Donovan asked, pointing at the mat-trans unit.

  "What do you know about them?" Ryan asked.

  "Read about them in some of the materials at the Foun­dation. Supposed to transport something or someone from one place to another by a light beam bouncing off a satellite or something. Does it?"

  Ryan only gave the man a small smile.

  The second room held more promise, turning out to be a small but complete armory. He played the lantern light over the weapons, grinning as he realized J.B. was going to have the time of his life.

  "Fuck me!" Donovan exploded, holding his own lantern up and moving closer.

  "Ready to go into the pirate-chilling business?" Ryan asked.

  "LOVER."

  Ryan turned his head tiredly and gazed at Krysty. She was huddled under her blankets, her skin as pale as death. "Yeah."

  "I don't remember you coming to bed last night. Mebbe I missed it."

  "Didn't get there," Ryan said. He squatted near her, drinking coffee sub from a ceramic mug Donovan had given him.

  "What's going on? I thought I heard power tools ear­lier."

  "You did," Ryan assured her. "We've been busy." He gestured out toward the six boats he and J.B. had worked on with volunteers from the dam builders. They'd mounted a .50-caliber machine gun from the redoubt on each boat. The arsenal still contained another six, as well as rifles and handblasters that were being passed out to the Heimdall Foundation people. Ryan had easily let the weapons go, after restocking their own ammo needs, because the com­panions couldn't take them.

  He had, however, locked the redoubt door behind them. The mat-trans unit still offered a back door out of the area—after Krysty was taken care of properly.

  Krysty forced herself up to one elbow and surveyed the dock. "What's going on, lover?"

  Ryan told her about the agreement to help recover the satellite section from the pirates.

  "Shouldn't have done that," Krysty objected, her face going crimson as her hair. "You're trying to take on too much weight to take care of me."

  "Has to be done to close the deal."

  "That's not much of a deal, lover."

  Ryan turned his single eye on the beautiful redhead. "I'd make a deal with the devil himself if I had to."

  RYAN RODE WITH Donovan in the lead powerboat, feeling the engines throb through the entire craft and the slap of the river against the hull. Eight other men occupied the boat with them, all of them armed and scanning the river. The early morning sun rose to their right, burning through the thin layer of fog that lay over the water and reduced visi­bility.

  "Reports we've had lately are that Barbarossa has put up a campsite here." Donovan laid a forefinger on the handmade map he held.

  The map was well made, and seemed to cover the river's current course, more or less. In the powerboats, the trip back to the river from the cistern took only a couple hours.

  On the map, the river cut a lazy S downstream and north of their present position. The pirate base was located on the second hump of the S.

  "Are you sure they're still there?" Ryan asked.

  "No." Donovan folded the map and put it away. "This is just my best guess."

  LITTLE MORE than an hour later, Donovan's information and guess, however, proved correct.

  Ryan lay on his belly, his binocs to his eye as he sur­veyed the pirate camp. J.B. and Donovan lay on either side of him, field glasses to their eyes, as well.

  Dean and Jak stayed behind them with three other men that Ryan had designated as the land-based attack team. Doc and Mildred had stayed at the base to care for Krysty. Ryan hadn't liked splitting their forces, but Krysty couldn't make the trip and he wasn't going to leave her there alone.

  The pirate base showed none of the semipermanency of the Foundation base. Few tents stood along the riverbank, leaving men sleeping out on the open ground wrapped in thick woolen blankets or in tattered sleeping bags. They clustered around low-burning campfires, few of which showed any signs of being cared for during the night.

  "Sleeping deep," J.B. observed.

  "Local hootch," Donovan replied. "Got a small ville called Snockers farther downstream that has a potato-whiskey still set up. Most folks working this river find something Snockers can use and trade for the whiskey. Snockers has overland traders set up to trade farther in-country. To them, Barbarossa and his filth are just another customer."

  Ryan didn't comment as he raked the binocs across the riverbank. The land tumbled down out of the mountains, remaining rough and broken all the way to the water's edge. It also provided a lot of cover in the form of brush and tall grasses, which Ryan had counted on after studying the shoreline. He'd left their boat a half mile back, cutting across the land and keeping the
river in sight to mark their bearings.

  More than two dozen water bikes floated in the harbor area the pirates had chosen, tethered by ropes, chains or leather thongs to boats, rocks, trees and small anchors. Nearly four dozen bigger boats, all of them in deteriorating condition, also bobbed in the water. Together, they consti­tuted an impressive armada.

  And Ryan's plan called for direct action, his six boats against the numbers before him.

  Scanning the boats, Ryan saw that only a few of them had mounted weapons. The machine guns they'd raided from the redoubt held more firepower than most of the pi­rate craft. The biggest boat in the group was a sixty-foot powerboat that had faded Montana Lake Patrol insignia on it coupled with State Police running along the bow.

  The sixty-footer sported a black flag with a white skull and crossbones that looked handmade. It drooped now in the light breeze, hardly unfurled at all. The sixty-footer was the only craft big enough to hold the recovered space-station section, according to Donovan. A tarp covered a lump taller than Ryan and nearly twice a long. The weight caused the sixty-footer to sink lower in the water than she was supposed to.

  Ryan couldn't help wondering how the heavy load was going to affect the sixty-footer's performance. Speed re­mained a big part of their survival plan.

  "Got them outgunned when it comes to quality of fire­power," J.B. commented quietly.

  "But there's no getting around the numbers," Ryan said. "They'll chase us. And with that load—"

  "Well," the Armorer said, cleaning his glasses on his shirttail, "that's what we're planning for. If we get enough of a head start, it'll be enough."

  "It'll have to be," Ryan said. He looked at Donovan. "Unless you want to back off on this."

  The Foundation man shook his head. "This isn't the risk­iest thing I've ever done. If we didn't have the blasters, I'd back us off. But that space station piece is too damn im­portant to just go away. And I'll still line our boat pilots up against theirs anytime."

  "Guess you're going to be doing just that." Ryan put the binocs away. "Time to get about it." He turned to Jak and Dean and the three men with them. "We go in quiet. No blasters used until they use them first." He eyed the three Foundation men. "You understand me?"

  They nodded.

  "You pull a blaster before they do, mebbe risk getting the rest of us chilled, I'll punch your ticket for the last train to the coast myself."

  "They understand," Donovan said defensively. He'd picked the men in the party himself, vouching for their skill and their nerve.

  "I mean what I say," Ryan growled. "Me, Jak and J.B.'ll go first. I count five guards that are up and moving. We'll go in, take care of those. The rest of you get down to the riverbank. Wilcox, you get on that sixty-footer, make sure you can get the engines started when we need them. Otherwise, we're all dead meat. Dean, you're with him. Cover fire. But only after all hell's broke loose."

  Dean nodded.

  "When we get to the river," Ryan went on, "the rest of you put as many boats out of commission as you can. Quiet. Slash the gas lines, put river mud in the tanks, cut the electrical wires or any other thing that comes to mind. The fewer of them we have chasing us, the better off we're going to be. Don't know how fast that big boat can go, but those water bikes will for damn sure be faster."

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Ryan led the way into the brush, Jak and J.B. at his heels. Leaving the SIG-Sauer leathered, he drew the panga, the steel glistening in his hand. He stopped, chest flat to the forest floor less than three feet from a man sitting guard on a toppled tree covered in orange fungus.

  The guard was dressed in worn clothing like most of Barbarossa's group. He carried a single-shot 12-gauge that sat across his knees as he sucked on a sugar stick.

  Ryan came out of the brush as soundless as a big cat stalking game. Reaching around the man, he drew the panga across his victim's throat. Warm blood doused his hand, and the man thrashed in his grip, kicking out his life in seconds. Ryan kicked sand over the spilled blood and left the corpse propped up in a sitting position with the shotgun.

  Pulling back into the brush, Ryan located his next target. A woman stepped into the tree line carrying a lever-action .30-30. She was thin and slatternly, black hair cut short around her face.

  Ryan almost lost her in the thick trees for a moment, but she wasn't moving quietly. The sound of her footsteps gave her away. He didn't know how many of the pirates were women, but a good number of them were. Donovan had mentioned Barbarossa hadn't been too selective in choosing the people who followed him.

  But they were all dangerous.

  And all it took at the moment to be deadly was a single scream.

  Trailing the woman, Ryan watched her select a tree, then kick the brush. Satisfied that nothing crawled, slithered or crept through the nearby brush, the woman lowered her trousers and squatted.

  Pale flesh gleamed against the dusty black leathers she wore. She rested her head on her crossed arms atop her knees, gazing up at the treetops as she pissed.

  Ryan closed on her. He struck while she was still squat­ted, clapping his hands on her head and twisting it vi­ciously. Her skull separated from her spinal cord with a single, definite pop.

  He kept her in a squatted position so her dying reflexes wouldn't kick the brush and make noise. When she was still, he shoved her forward. She fell facedown in a heap.

  Ryan glanced over his shoulder and saw the Armorer tucking a corpse into the brush less than a dozen feet away. They moved back toward the camp.

  Sunlight started to streak the tops of the trees around them, showing signs of invading the campsite.

  Another guard walked a perimeter, obviously restless and not too pleased with his assignment. Heavy lidded and young, he looked as if he'd rather have been asleep. Ryan reached out from the tree line, grabbed him by his long hair, twisting him as he pulled him into the brush.

  His free hand wrapped around the hilt of the panga, Ryan slashed the heavy blade at the man's throat. The sharp edge cleaved through cleanly, for a moment exposing the white bone of the spine at the back of the man's throat. Then blood wept into the cut Ryan dragged the body farther into the trees, almost fin­ishing decapitating the dead man in the process. He felt tense as he returned to the camp, automatically locking on to the female guard closest to his position.

  She sat at a campfire, picking at a piece of meat she warmed at the end of a stick. Two women and three men slept at her feet, coiled tightly in their blankets. Vomit strings hung from one man's mouth as he snored.

  Ryan closed on the woman and slipped the panga be­tween her third and fourth ribs, not stopping until he pierced her heart. She gave a few spasmodic jerks and died in his arms.

  For good measure, Ryan slit the throats of the five pirates around the campfire, holding them down while he was un­seen.

  Then a shot rang out, a single blast mat echoed within the enclosed space of the campsite.

  "Fireblast!" Ryan swore, glancing out into the make­shift harbor. The Foundation men had managed to put down a few of the pirates' boats, but there were still many left. He sheathed the panga and slipped the Steyr off his shoul­der. For close work, the rifle also made a good blunt in­strument.

  The pirates came awake sluggishly, showing the effects of a night spent with the home brew.

  Breaking into a run, Ryan spotted Jak and J.B. sprinting for the pirate flagship. Blasterfire started slowly at first, then gained in intensity.

  Ryan fired the rifle dry, picking his targets more or less as they were presented. Almost to the water when the as­sault rifle fired dry, he slung it over his shoulder and drew the SIG-Sauer.

  "Got you now, you stupe bastard!" a pirate yelled, step­ping out from behind a tree in front of Ryan. He brought up a sawed-off double-barreled shotgun.

  Pivoting, Ryan threw himself to the right in a long dive, aiming himself at an A-shaped tent. The shotgun exploded behind him, and a couple pellets struck him in the leg, knocking him off
balance.

  The tent collapsed when he hit, coming loose from the thin support poles that gave way instantly. Ryan went down in the canvas, flailing for balance, the wound in his shoul­der tearing open again. The whine of outboard motors and diesels sounded out in the harbor. The escape plan was to get the hell out of the area as soon as possible. No one figured on waiting.

  Ryan rolled, lost for a moment in the canvas. Someone inside the tent surged up against him, trying to get out from under. Still in motion, unable to get free of the canvas, Ryan turned his attention to the shotgun-toting pirate. The SIG-Sauer came up in line with his eye, and he squeezed off three rounds into his adversary's chest.

  The pirate managed to pull off his second round, but the spread dug into the ground, throwing up a blinding cloud of mud. The 9 mm hollowpoints drilled through the pirate's chest, tearing huge chunks of flesh out his back. He stum­bled back, squatting with a surprised look on his face.

  The man trapped inside the tent brought up his weapon, cursing. "Fuck you!" he screamed. "Get off me!"

  Still struggling himself, Ryan spotted the shape of the man's head through the canvas. He pressed the blaster's muzzle against the head shape and pulled the trigger twice. Blood blew through the holes the bullets made in the tent, throwing a sheet of crimson and gray across the canvas.

  Ryan pushed himself into a run as the dead man kicked out his life, already shrouded in the tent.

  Ahead J.B. ran through the water toward the pirate flag­ship, keeping his knees and the M-4000 scattergun clear. Dean pulled himself over the bow, attracting the attention of the gunner on the flying deck. The pirate turned, bringing his rifle into target acquisition. Dean fired without hesita­tion, a double-tap burst the way his father and J.B. had taught him.

  The pirate slid sideways as the rounds hammered the center part of his body.

  Dean slid up the side of the bow and onto the flagship's deck as the corpse toppled into the water. By then Jak was up the side, rolling over in a wet rush of flying water.

  Ryan lost them then, turning his attention to his own problems. The ground became spongy underfoot, slowing him. Unable to reload the Steyr, he had to depend on the SIG-Sauer. When the blaster ran dry, he used it like a club and drew the panga.