by CJ Williams
“Not yet. Nineteen is attempting contact on his standard emergency frequencies.”
A wide entry hatch slid open on the fuselage of the yacht. Four rough looking men stood in the doorway. Their mercenary appearance gave Kyoko a sudden chill. Then she saw what they were carrying.
“Are those guns?” Kyoko asked in alarm.
“This may be a pirate vessel,” Alyssa said. “If so, Captain Gus is in danger. I will attempt to hack their AI.”
“Get us out of here!” Kyoko said. “Quickly!”
“I cannot. Captain Gus is not wearing a safety harness. If I attempt to escape, he could be thrown off the ship. It appears they want to board us. I am adjusting gravity in the deck plates.”
Kyoko ran onto the quarterdeck to shout a warning just as one of the men jumped from the yacht onto Alyssa’s main deck. He stumbled in the suddenly changing gravity but then Gus, unaware of any danger, helped the man back to his feet.
Once he straightened up, the pirate shoved Gus away roughly. Unprepared for the assault, Gus sprawled backward on the deck. The assailant pulled a pistol from his waistband.
Even as Gus was falling Kyoko leaped onto the quarterdeck’s front rail and launched herself at the intruder. Before he could raise his gun, her feet caught him square in the chest, throwing him backward over the side rail. His scream of anger was cut short when he tumbled clear of Alyssa’s atmosphere.
Kyoko landed upright in time to greet three more of the men disembarking from the yacht, all of them with murderous expressions. The first of them to hit the deck also stumbled in the variable gravity and Kyoko gave him a sharp kick to the jaw, spinning him around and putting him on his belly. The second man landed standing straight up and faced Gus, who had gotten back onto his feet, but this time he held one of the six-foot capstan poles in his grip.
The man feinted toward Gus and then pivoted to Kyoko. She spun away from him, dropping into a crouch. She continued her spin and threw out her right leg in a low sweep that took out his ankles. The second he hit the deck Gus brought the end of the handspike down on the man’s face like an ax.
The harsh crack of a pistol shot ricocheted off one of the winches. Kyoko crouched behind the capstan, looking frantically for the shooter. More men came pouring out of the yacht onto the deck. She attacked the man closest with a jump kick, and he tumbled over the side rail. Another grabbed her collar from behind and slung her toward the main hatch. She slammed into the hatch guard and rolled over it, grabbing at the edge to keep from plummeting all the way down to the hold. Instead, she landed on the gun deck next to one of the cannon carriages.
A high-pitched shriek of fury above meant Hannah had joined the battle against the intruders. Through the open gun port, Kyoko saw a man standing in the yacht’s open hatch firing a pistol. He saw her face and shot in her direction. The bullets sent sparks ricocheting off the gun port’s framing, leaving the antenna cable dangling.
“Communication systems off-line,” Alyssa’s voice announced from the gun deck’s speaker.
*.*.*.*
On the Studio 37 backdrop screen, the scene froze, showing Gus fighting hopelessly against several men on Alyssa’s deck. In the image’s background, a man stood in the yacht’s open hatchway firing a huge pistol. A dozen horizontal lines etched across the screen, and it dissolved into gray static.
Camera One zoomed out to show Russell’s angry face. “Kent,” he said out loud to the program’s set director. “We can’t keep showing this kind of thing to our audience. I’m not sure what you clowns in the control room are doing, but you need to stop.” He looked over at his co-host.
“I agree,” Cassie said. “Once again, Russ and I apologize for broadcasting those graphic images without warning. I know we did this once before, but there’s no excuse for it this time.”
Russell pulled the earpiece out of his ear. “Just shut up, Kent,” he said sternly. “Sorry, folks. I’m having a little disagreement with our soon-to-be-former newscast director. He’s trying to make excuses but frankly, I’m not in the mood to listen.”
“You’re never in the mood to listen,” Cassie muttered.
“Not to excuses, that’s true. But this is still live TV, and I’d like to hear our guest’s thoughts about what we inappropriately just broadcast to our morning viewers.”
Arnold Hoffman, an opinion writer for the Times and a regular guest on the show, gave his patented Look of Concern. “This is a very sad day, I’m afraid,” Hoffman said in a deep, gravelly voice. He tended to speak with the up and down rhythm of a small-town preacher. “As we could clearly see, Grandfather Gus was outnumbered by armed men whom I would call pirates, for it was terribly obvious that murder was their intent. I predict we have just seen the last transmission from those three intrepid survivors that have come to mean so much to so many across this small blue planet that we live on.”
Russell mentally shook his head. He should have known better than to throw that question to Hoffman. The man considered himself to be the final word on just about every topic under the sun and frequently espoused dire prophecies. Sadly, he was often correct. But that’s not what Russell wanted for his morning viewers. They had just watched the Grandfather counter tick over to 774 days.
“That might be the case,” Russell said. “But I prefer to think Grandfather Gus will find a way to win. He always does. I’ll make a prediction of my own that by this time tomorrow, we’ll have a new video from him explaining it was all a misunderstanding or something. We have to have faith, right, Cassie?”
Cassie tried to give him a smile, but it was clear that she thought Hoffman was correct. “I agree, but Kent, could you back up that video just to before it faded out? I thought I saw a name on the yacht.”
The backdrop re-illuminated with the chaotic scene.
“I didn’t notice that,” Russell said. “Where is it?”
“Right there,” Cassie said, pointing. “On the bow. Kent, can you zoom in on that?” The image expanded to show the boobs. “Not that, please. The words.”
The imaged slid sideways, and Cassie read the name out loud. “Chicks Digit? What’s that mean?”
Russell shook his head. “I think the name is Chicks Dig It. Good name for a pirate ship. My question is, who owns that yacht? Someone, please call law enforcement and pass this information along.”
*.*.*.*
Carey put the autopilot on Position Hold and hurried down the short corridor to the cargo bay. The old man on the sailboat was making his crew look like idiots. Carey’s number two man, Lewis Combs, was standing in the hatch taking potshots but not hitting anything. The senior citizen danced back and forth while braining his guys with an oversized fence post.
“For Christ’s sake,” Carey yelled at Lewis. “Quit shooting at everything. I don’t want that boat full of holes. Get over there and take that guy out!”
“All right, boss.” Lewis nodded at Patrick, and they jumped across to the galleon’s main deck.
If Lewis couldn’t take the guy out, Patrick would put a stop to this farce. He was a skilled fighter with a knife, especially effective in close.
On the lower deck, through one of the open gun ports, Carey saw the blonde moving around one of those old cannons. She put something into the mouth of the big black iron muzzle. What was she up to? Those cannons couldn’t be real, could they?
*.*.*.*
Gus swung his handspike back and forth like a band leader’s baton, connecting with as much human flesh as possible. One of the pirates got a grip on it and shoved. Gus retreated and then fell backward, pulling the man down. Gus brought his feet up into his midsection and pushed, flipping the guy up and over the opposite railing. Regrettably, the pirate had a better grip and took the handspike with him.
Another bandit jumped aboard. Gus bounced to his feet and charged, but the man was enormous. He pushed Gus backward easily.
“Kill him, Lewis,” someone called from the yacht.
Lewis set himself in a boxer’s cro
uch and threw two quick jabs, but Gus skipped sideways, untouched.
The huge pirate paused and looked Gus up and down, snorting dismissively at the senior citizen facing him. “Tell you what, old timer,” Lewis said. “I’ll spot you one punch. Come on.” He put his hands on his hips and leaned forward slightly. “Give it your best shot.”
Gus, who had spent almost two years lifting tens of thousands of pounds of metal ingots, literally pumping iron in the truest sense, didn’t hesitate. He darted forward, putting his shoulder behind a straight cross for the man’s jaw.
Lewis’s eyes widened as though he had not actually expected such an aged opponent to take him up on the offer. He ducked, but his slow reflexes were just enough to line up his nose with Gus’s fist.
The human nose is surprisingly fragile, susceptible to breaking with less than ten pounds of pressure, and Gus delivered far more than that. He totally pulverized the septum in Lewis’s handsome proboscis.
The blow jammed the broken maxilla, lacrimal, and frontal bones around his eyes back into his tear ducts, opening them up, temporarily blinding his vision and unleashing copious amounts of blood and tears. Lewis roared with pain, and Gus followed through with a bull rush, shoving the disoriented pirate over the railing.
A cry of pain drew Gus’s attention across the deck in time to see Hannah beating the crap out of a smaller man holding a huge knife. She had a winch handle in each hand and twirled them like a pair of nunchakus, connecting with the guy’s hands, shoulders, and face. He tried weakly to counter her attack, and she jumped high over his thrust, bringing the heavy end of the handle down savagely on top of his skull. Blood sprayed into Hannah’s face, and she shrieked in terror. She dropped her unconventional weapons and ran screaming down the steps to the gun deck, leaving the unfortunate Patrick to die all by himself.
*.*.*.*
Kyoko grabbed a powder bag and rammed it down the barrel, followed quickly by a cannonball. Hannah had told her more than once how this worked. She ought to pull on the breeches to move the cannon right up to the port, but there wasn’t time. What was next? The brass pick. She jammed it down the vent hole several times, feeling it puncture the power bag. Next was the primer. The gunner’s chest had a dozen of them mixed in with some lanyards. She put a primer in the vent hole and slipped the lanyard’s hook through the ring on the primer.
It was ready to go. She’d only get one shot at this. She stood behind the cannon, aiming the shot, but the yacht had drifted out of the line of fire.
“Alyssa!” Kyoko shouted. “Move us sideways a little, so I can take a shot at their ship.”
“Acknowledged,” Alyssa said. “But please do not stand behind the cannon when you fire.”
“Oh, yeah,” Kyoko said, and moved to the side.
The galleon pivoted until the barrel was pointed right at the man in the hatch. Kyoko yanked hard on the lanyard.
*.*.*.*
Carey divided his attention between the ongoing battle on the main deck and the blonde scrambling around below. Lewis had acted like an idiot, and the old man made him pay for it. And that other girl took Patrick out like it was nothing. This was insane.
“Nunez!” Carey shouted. “Get the rest of the guys and arm up. I don’t care how you do it, I want you to take this guy out!”
He lost sight of the blonde in the square porthole. What if that was a real cannon? Could it cause any damage to a modern spacecraft? It seemed unlikely, but there was no reason to take any chances.
“Hey, Eddie!” he called. “Move us back a little way.”
“What?” Eddie responded loudly.
The galleon swiveled just enough to line up the big muzzle directly toward the hatch he was standing in.
“Eddie!” Carey screamed, stepping back from the door.
“What!”
An enormous plume of yellow fire erupted from the cannon, discharging a thirty-two-pound ball of solid steel at over a thousand feet per second.
The cannonball missed the hatch opening. Instead, it ripped through the hull, hurling metal fragments everywhere. It continued through the flimsy interior walls until it reached the drive generators in the center of the ship. The main generator shattered and flung bearings and spinning power shafts off in every direction.
One of the bearings shattered the ship’s structural spine, allowing the fuselage to flex slightly, which ripped the hull’s skin apart along the opposite side. The artificial gravity shut down and debris began escaping from large openings in the fuselage.
The devastation astonished Carey, but his attention was mainly focused on the slender piece of metal that stuck out of the middle of his expensive jacket. He instinctively tugged on the long splinter, and a gut-wrenching pain exploded in his abdomen. Blood began seeping through his shirt.
Carey stumbled up the passageway, careening off one side wall and then the other. He just made it into the cockpit before the door slammed closed and hull breach warnings began hooting. He collapsed into the captain’s seat and cradled the splinter, wondering what to do. “Get us out of here,” he gasped.
Eddie’s fingers flew over the appropriate controls. The display panels lit up, but the ship didn’t move.
“Call for help,” Carey said. “Let the boss know we got a problem. And find me the medical kit.”
Eddie connected with Bullock on Wheelers Bright and talked rapidly, trying to explain what was going on. He only got out a couple of sentences before the overhead lights blinked off, leaving the cockpit in darkness but for the dim glow of the nearby sun. “Sorry, boss,” Eddie said. “I’m not sure he got all that.”
“Find the med kit,” Carey whispered weakly. “And turn on the heat. It’s getting cold in here.”
*.*.*.*
The recoil threw the cannon violently back from the gun port. Without the natural friction of the breech blocks to take some of the force, the ringbolts at the end of the ropes took the full weight all at once. Unfortunately, the ancient metal on the left side, yanked on too many times in too many centuries, gave way under the strain and shattered into a dozen fragments.
One of the slivers sliced a deep cut across Kyoko’s side. The ringbolt on the other side of the carriage held fast, so the momentum of the kickback yanked the cannon sideways as it trundled backward.
The spinning barrel caught Kyoko in the ribs and tossed her like a bag of sawdust against the aft bulkhead. The carriage swung completely around and tipped over on its side. The cannon rolled free and came to rest pointed toward the opposite hull. Kyoko lay on the deck and bled silently, not moving.
13 – Consequences
“Death never takes the wise man by surprise,
He is always ready to go.”
(Jean de La Fontaine, “La Mort et le Mourant”)
Gus flinched when the cannon fired. He looked for the girls but he had lost track of who was on deck. The last he saw of Hannah was her hightailing it down to the gun deck. The yacht suddenly erupted in fire and smoke, and a secondary explosion inside the pirate’s vessel sent shrapnel flying everywhere. He ducked behind the rail. The small vessel split in half, and the two remaining hulks drifted away spewing debris. Big white crates with Red Cross markings tumbled free of the wreckage.
Gus surveyed the deck. Three pirates lay dead, and two others moaned in pain. Gus dragged the dead men to the side rail and heaved them overboard. One man who was tangled in the ratlines groaned. Gus climbed onto the shrouds next to him.
“Hey, man,” the man mumbled painfully. “Help me out. I think she broke my jaw.”
“I got you,” Gus said sympathetically. “Lean back a little and put your foot there on the rope.” The pirate got his feet under him, although still wobbly. “Now step down onto the rail,” Gus instructed.
The pirate allowed Gus to guide him off the ratlines. “Thanks, buddy,” the former assailant said. “I owe you one.”
“Don’t mention it,” Gus said, bracing himself. He drew back and used his elbow to deliver a hard blow
to the man’s throat. The pirate grunted and let go of the rope. Gus gave him an extra shove, sending him tumbling backward into the cosmos.
The last man had struggled to all fours and leaned against the mainmast. Gus dragged the pirate over to the starboard rail and hoisted him up like a sack of potatoes. The man let out a stream of obscenities before Gus pitched him overboard.
Hannah began screaming for him from the gun deck.
Now what, Gus wondered, and hurried below. Once he reached the gun deck, it was clear what happened. The cannon lay on its side with Kyoko in a ragged heap near the bulkhead. She had an ugly cut on her ribcage with blood running down her body onto the floor. The blonde hair on the back of her head was dark red and matted where she had banged her skull against the wall. She appeared not to be breathing. He knelt down to check her pulse, and a tiny sigh escaped her lips. At least she was alive.
Hannah jabbered frantically in German, not really helping the situation. Gus grabbed her by the shoulders. “Listen to me!” he barked. “I saw some first aid kits drifting from that yacht. Kyoko needs that medicine. Go tell Alyssa to maneuver close enough for you to reach them!”
Hannah nodded and raced up the stairs.
Gus gently picked up Kyoko and carried her to the infirmary. He cut off her sweater to determine the damage to her ribcage. She was so skinny he could see her individual ribs. He traced them lightly with his fingertips, careful not to apply pressure. Although horribly bruised, they appeared more or less intact. He suspected that a couple of them had to be fractured, but at least she wasn’t coughing up blood.
He cleaned the deep cut, and it started bleeding again. He would have to stitch it up somehow.
Alyssa spoke up. “Hannah reports that the containers are filled with contraband. There are no medical supplies.”
Gus swore loudly. “Tell her to bring me a bottle of her moonshine. I need some disinfectant.” He found some thread and one of the ancient curved needles from the medical cabinet. Suturing someone would be a first in his experience.
“Miss Schubert is retrieving the liquor,” Alyssa said. “However, I should inform you that I was able to penetrate the yacht’s AI during the battle. There may be useful medical supplies on the planet below.”