“Mr. Silva?” asked a hesitant voice. It was Abel Cook. “May I accompany you, sir? That is, if you’re going to see Lieutenant Tucker and . . . the princess, I would like to join you. To say good evening.”
Silva belched at him. “Sure, I guess. What about Mr. Bradford, though? You’re kinda his caretaker now, ain’t ya? He’ll be skunked in half an hour with all the booze down here—Captain Reddy would have a fit! Bradford’s liable to puke on Adar or dance nekkid in the searchlight!”
“I’ll come right back, I promise!”
“Hmm. You better keep yer grabbers to yourself! I seen how you look at her. You go to gropin’ at Her Highness, me and Larry’ll eat you!”
“No, sir, Mr. Silva! Never . . . ! I—”
“Oh, come on. If they went for a cold one, maybe they’re at the Screw. Neither one’s much for booze, but Pepper keeps some juice an’ such.”
They didn’t find them at the Busted Screw; nor were they at the Fem Box, as the female bachelor officers’ quarters was called.
“Say,” said Dennis, “I wonder where they’re at?” He wasn’t really worried, but he was growing a little annoyed—and anxious. “Maybe they went to see Sister Audry? She ain’t half bad for a gospel shark. Has some brains. Ever’body knows I’m as pious a critter as there is, but if you go jabberin’ religion at folks all the time, without a break, pretty soon they’ll tune you out—like a worn bearing. That, or they’ll get sick o’ hearin’ it squeal and replace it with a new one.”
“What did you say?” asked Lawrence, and Silva laughed.
The party had wound down considerably by the time they realized Sandra and Rebecca weren’t at the little hut Sister Audry kept near the fishers’ wharf. But Sister Audry wasn’t there either. “Now, this is startin’ to stink,” said Silva. “Only place left they might be is
Big Sal
, in the dry dock, seein’ Selass. She and Miss Tucker are pals.” He shook his head. “Or maybe they’re back where we started, oglin’ the ship some more. I doubt it, though. It
is
gettin’ late. Way too late for Miss Tucker to be sendin’ love letters to the skipper at the wireless shack.
Must
be at
Big Sal
!”
Unconsciously picking up their pace, the man, boy, and Tagranesi headed back toward the shipyard. They met a few revelers on the way, but Baalkpan was a weary city. There were so many wildly different projects under way, employing such a large percentage of the populace, even the all-night bazaar that had once been the center of Baalkpan social life had shrunk to a mere shadow of its former size. Those not actively engaged in the war effort still had to labor: fishing and doing the chores of everyday life for more mouths with fewer hands. Others hunted, as they’d done that day. In any event, what had once been a city that never slept shut down almost entirely after dark these days. Even something as grand as bringing
Walker
back to life couldn’t keep most from their bedding too long.
All that remained of the party at the dock were oil lamps and a few sozzled mounds lying on the planks.
Walker
’s blower still rumbled, but there was no light aboard. There was clearly still a lot of electrical work yet to accomplish, and besides the spare bulbs they’d stored ashore before the battle, few of those aboard the ship had survived the fight and subsequent submergence. Still, even darkened, she was alive. Silva noted as they passed her that a wisp of smoke rose from the number four stack and stars shimmered in the heat plume above it. He grinned.
Big Sal
wasn’t much farther, the once distinctive outline changed forever by the alterations under way. She was still lit and work continued aboard her. Keje was pushing her people relentlessly to finish the job so his Home might have water beneath her again. Silva knew the dry dock gave Keje the willies.
Big Sal
had often been flooded down for a variety of reasons, and she was built in something
like
a dry dock, but she wasn’t ever
supposed
to be completely dry again. For her to be totally divorced from her natural element as she now was struck Keje and most of his people as an unnatural thing, worse even than the perverse changes their Home was undergoing.
“Least there’ll be somebody there we can ask,” Silva muttered. They were crossing the old, smooth ramp once used by the PBY to get her out of the water. There were several other ramps here and there, but this had been the one closest to the shipyard.
Almost across, Lawrence stopped and his head jerked toward the water. “Dennis!” he hissed, using Silva’s first name. Usually he tried to say, “Mr. Silva,” but it came out mangled. The others noticed the sudden difference and recognized the significance. They stopped.
“What’s up, Larry?” Silva asked quietly.
“At the ’ater’s edge, there is acti’ity—and the scent o’ the ladies!”
Silva’s heart pounded in his chest. He’d been using his big gun as a kind of walking stick, and he slowly brought it up, peering hard into the darkness. There was no moon and almost no light, but suddenly he
could
see something outlined against the gentle gray wave tops that lapped at the ramp. “Those Imperial sons o’ bitches!” he seethed. “They’re
swipin
’ the gals!” He looked quickly around. Apparently, they hadn’t yet been seen.
“ ’Kay,” he hissed. “Abel, you stay put. If there’s a ruckus, run like hell, screamin’ your head off!”
“But—”
“Shut up. Larry, see if you can ease down the left side o’ the ramp. I’ll try to creep up on ’em from this side, close to the edge. We gotta see what’s what before we raise the alarm. Don’t want anybody panickin’! That said, if either of us sees a chance, we’ll kill our way in to the girls. You move, I move, and vicey versey. Got it?”
Lawrence jerked a nod.
Abel was terrified, and a little indignant he’d been left out, but he was also chilled by how quickly and easily the jovial giant and servile, companionable Tagranesi became focused, single-minded killers. He stepped slowly back as the others all but disappeared in the darkness.
Silva began to hear muffled whispers as he drew near. Slowly, eight—no, nine—human shapes resolved themselves, gathered onshore near a longboat. The white paint of the boat had been darkened. Three of the shapes stood a little apart, huddled together, while two others apparently watched over them.
That’s gotta be them
, Silva thought.
One’s shorter than the others
. He wondered who the third one was.
Must be Sister Audry. She wasn’t home neither
.
Weird.
He paused and took a silent breath
. Them devils are actin’ impatient. I wonder what they’re waitin’ for? They musta had the girls for a while. Why not just scram?
Being a single-shot muzzle loader, Silva’s big gun wouldn’t be much use. Now, if the two guards would line up . . . Wait! One was moving away, fumbling with his trousers. With a wicked grin and a slow, fluid motion, Dennis slung the rifle and crept up on the man beginning to relieve himself. Dennis knew the human eye, like any predator’s, keyed on motion, but it was always amazing how much movement one could get away with if the motion was slow and smooth.
The pissing man never had a chance.
From behind him, like driving his knuckles into his hand, Silva brought his left palm down on the top left side of the man’s head and drove his right fist into the hinge of his jaw. There was a loud crunch, like a slick boot sliding on gravel, when the pointed part of the man’s jaw crashed into his brain, but there was no other sound. “Sorry, sir,” he hissed aloud, like an underling apologizing for making a noise.
“Silence, fool!” came the hoped-for muffled order.
Dennis eased the dead man to the ground, then slowly pulled his Pattern 1917 cutlass from its sheath. Like his giant rifled musket and his 1911 Colt, he never went anywhere without it. Trying to imitate the pissing man’s stride, he moved back toward the prisoners. He had maybe a couple of seconds at best before he was discovered. For one thing, he was much taller than his victim.
A dark form fluttered in the corner of his good eye and he saw Lawrence pounce on the man farthest from him. In the same instant that Lawrence dug his hind claws into the man’s chest, clamped his jaws on his throat, and launched himself backward into the darkness, Silva drove the cutlass into the ill-defined torso of the other guard. Both emitted hideous, wrenching screams. He yanked Sandra’s gag down under her chin. “Surprise!” he said. “It’s me!”
“Our feet first!” Sandra gasped. “It’s Billingsly! He’s trying to take the princess!”
“I figgered that!” Silva said, hacking at the ropes that bound their feet with just enough slack to walk or stand. A musket fired and a jet of blinding flame flashed from the boat. “Ow!” he said. The ball had grazed his hip. In the darkness, it could just as easily have hit one of the girls.
“Stop them!” someone bellowed. “They mustn’t escape!” A pistol flared with a loud
ker-thump!
“Help! Help!” screamed Abel’s voice. “The Imperials are attacking! They are taking the princess! Help!”
Lawrence killed another man and a musket flashed in his direction.
With their feet free, Silva started working on their hands.
“No time!” Sandra shouted. “We’re tied together too! We can’t run like this!”
“Got to!” Silva replied. “Go!” He unslung his rifle and pointed it at the boat. With a mighty roar that anyone in the city who saw or heard it would recognize, he hoped he’d scuttled Billingsly’s escape. Another musket fired from near the top of the ramp. Not the cavalry then, Silva realized. None of the new Springfield muskets had been issued yet. Must be the ones these others were waiting for! He heard Abel scream again, in pain this time. He dropped his rifle and pulled the Colt, flipping the safety with his thumb. “Get down, boy!” he roared, and emptied the magazine in the direction of the shot. “Run!” he shouted at the three ladies. “Run like hell that way!” He spun back toward the boat.
Evidently, he’d miscounted. Other men must have been
in
the boat as well, because there still seemed to be as many enemies as he and Lawrence had started with. He had only the cutlass now. “C’mon, Larry!” he thundered. “Kill ’em all! No pris’ners!”
Gilbert Yeager awoke from a happy, muzzy dream of happy, muzzy steam coursing joyfully through clean, tight pipes and leaping energetically at polished turbine blades. Something was booming somewhere and somebody had definitely stepped on him. Silly, rude bastards! Couldn’t they tell he was asleep? Now somebody was shaking him, trying to get him off the miraculously cool pipe where he was listening to the glorious song of steam. “Whatcha fagarattin’ ta da boomin’ slip!” he demanded indignantly. He sat up, realizing he was still on the warm, damp dock where he’d apparently passed out. He blinked in the darkness. A bright flash not far away lit sparklers in his eyes. “Ahhhg!”
“Somebody’s tryin’ to swipe the princess!” Tabby said beside him. She was still shaking his head.
“So? Lemme alone!”
“No! We must do something! There is a fight, and Si’vaa and Larry are outnumbered! The princess and Minister Tucker, at least, are in danger!”
Gilbert blinked again. “Well, why the hell didn’t you wake me up, goddamn it?” He leaped to his feet with a board in his hand, swayed, then brandished the piece of wood. “Death to whoever the hell it is we’re fixin’ ta kill!” he screeched. A probably errant pistol ball struck the board and slapped it into his face. He went down as though poleaxed. “I’m
keeled
!” he wailed through busted lips. “I knew it! Just a matter o’ time!”
“You ain’t killed!” Tabby shouted, trying to drag him to his feet. “But you are drink too much!” She dropped his arm. “Me too,” she admitted. Leaving Gilbert where he lay, she ran toward
Walker
, trilling a cry of alarm.
There was much alarm already. Weary as Baalkpan was, most of her sentries were alert. Those who could be. A coast defense gun, situated to protect the shipyard, lit the night with a mighty roar. Another went off and a red alarm rocket screeched into the sky. Bronze pipe-gongs began sounding throughout the city. Spanky McFarlane ran past a still-babbling Gilbert dressed only in his hat and skivvies. There was a .45 in each hand. Mallory and Rodriguez wore only their skivvies, but they both had ’03 Springfields. Keje rushed to the scene with half a dozen armed ’Cats. Blindingly,
Walker
’s searchlight flared down on the scene like an angered God. The tableau it revealed was stunning not only in its unexpectedness, but in the magnitude of the implications and the scope of the slaughter.
Commander Billingsly stood behind all three females, who were still tied together, and held a long-barreled pistol pressed painfully under Princess Rebecca’s jaw. Another man with blood on his face held a cutlass across the throats of Sandra Tucker and Sister Audry. Five other men still stood, although all seemed wounded to some degree, but there were at least a dozen bodies scattered on the old seaplane ramp. One of them was Dennis Silva.
Silva, at least, didn’t seem dead, but he was covered with blood and just sitting on the ground at the women’s feet. Lawrence was there too, equally bloody, but apparently uninjured. He was supporting Silva and looking intently at the princess.
“Drop your weapons!” Billingsly demanded.
“Eat shit!” Spanky growled back. “Clearly you don’t know who you’re monkeyin’ around with!”
“I admit to some uncertainty in that regard,” Billingsly admitted. “Your man here, the big one, is not dead. I must say both his arrival and his courage came as a significant surprise. It is a shame you force me to kill him.” Billingsly nodded at one of his remaining men, who pointed a pistol at Silva’s apparently senseless head.
“Ronson, Ben,” Spanky said quietly. “You got enough light on your sights?”
“Yeah.”
Both Springfields spoke almost as one and the henchman’s head geysered up and backward in what appeared an almost neon spray under the harsh light.