Jack McDevitt - Eternity Road

The ship’s master confronted them. He was a short, ugly thug, five and a half feet of belly, jowls, and beard. He had a limp and a missing ear and a scar across his throat where somebody’d opened him up. A pistol was jammed into his belt. “Welcome to the Peacemaker,” he said. “Ship of the line of the Ki of Hauberg.” He tipped his hat at the name. “I’m Captain Trevor. And who might you be?”

“We’re travelers,” said Quait. “From the Mississippi League.”

“Mississippi?” He frowned, shook his head, and looked around. His crewmen, gathered in a circle, signaled their ignorance. “Never heard of it,” he said. “Not that it matters.” He came forward, put his fist under Avila’s chin, lifted it, and appraised her. He grunted approval, then inserted his hand into Chaka’s hair and forced her head back. “They’ve both got good teeth,” he said.

“Not for long,” came a shout.

Quait stiffened, but a muzzle pressed into his back and a soft voice in the rear warned him not to move. “Won’t do no good,” the voice said. “You’ll just be dead.”

He turned to look at the speaker. He was small, furtive, grinning. “This is a treat for us,” he said.

“What’ll happen to them?” asked Quait.

“Before or after?” He cackled. His eyes slid back to the women. “If they’re good, they’ll go on the block at Port Tiara. They should bring a decent price. So’ll you. If you behave.”

“Let’s see what they’ve got, Captain,” somebody said.

Others took up the cry. Trevor looked momentarily uncertain, but the crewmen must have been familiar with the routine because they were already laughing and forming a space. “What can I do?” the master asked no one in particular. He leered at Chaka. “You. Give us a show.”

Chaka made a move at him, but he was surprisingly quick for a man of such ungainly appearance. He seized her wrist, twisted it violenlly, and forced her to the deck. “We got a good one here, boys,” he said. “I like women who can’t be pushed.” He nodded to someone in back. Quait’s hands were seized, pulled behind him and lied, and he was lifted to the rail. “Have it your way, bitch,” said Trevor.

He dragged her to her feet by her hair and turned her to face Quait.

“No,” she screamed. “What do you want?”

Laughter all around. “I’m sure you can guess. Right, boys?”

Avila stepped forward and looked down at Trevor. “Captain,” she said, “she’s frightened. She’s young. Why not let me warm everybody up?”

When Trevor hesitated, Avila put a finger on his chest and whispered something to him. The crew laughed and the captain nodded.

To Quait’s relief, they lowered him from the rail; but they did not untie his hands.

Several crewmen had been working on the raft, handing up their baggage. One piece fell inio the water. When they were finished, they climbed back on deck and cut the Reluctant loose

The master stood with his back to the prow. Quait counted fourteen others: ten forming the circle, the two guards who watched him and Flojian at the rear of the group, one at the ship’s wheel, and one beside the main mast (which was affixed atop the master’s sea cabin and thereby provided a fine view of the proceedings). All had guns.

Avila laughed and joked her way around the perimeter, teasing with her eyes, her body, her smile.

Flojian had gone pale. Quait, recovering from the jolt of fear that had come when he’d expected to be pitched overboard, was shocked at her performance. Where had she learned that?

Cheers broke out.

She stopped before a three-hundred-pounder in a black vest and pantaloons, and stretched languorously.

More yells of approval.

Flojian struggled to get free, and was clubbed to his knees. The man with the club was small, ill-smelling, and rat-faced. He raised his weapon and was about to bring it down across Flojian’s face when Quait pushed into it and succeeded in taking the blow on his shoulder. They were both dragged back to their feet.

Flojian looked dazed.

Now Avila’s fingers moved down the front of her jacket releasing clasps while her audience urged her on. She removed the garment with an exaggerated motion, held it out toward one of the pirates, and then snatched it back when he grabbed for it. Casually, she threw it to Flojian.

He caught it, dropped it, and bent to pick it up. He got a kick for his trouble and stumbled forward. This time they held Quait tightly and wouldn’t let him help.

Avila strode into the middle of the circle, and pulled her blouse clear of her belt.

The look on Flojian’s face was a mixture of rage and despair. But Quait thought he knew what had just happened. He tried to catch Flojian’s eye, but was unable to do so. He couldn’t make himself heard over the noise and so he look the only action he could. He reached out and kicked him.

The rat-faced man laughed but Flojian looked back at his tormenter, assuming he had delivered the blow. Now Quait got his attention. He formed the word “pocket” with his lips.

“What?”

Avila was releasing more snaps. The wind got under her blouse, sucked at it, pulled it away from her; and finally she drew it off and lobbed it toward one of the pirates. She stood now in boots, black trousers, and a white halter.

She moved back close to Trevor, wet her lips, and spread her arms invitingly. Trevor watched her, hypnotized, saw her hands go behind the halter, saw the halter come free. “Yeah,” roared Trevor, “that’s good.”

Flojian finally understood. He reached into the pocket of Avila’s jacket and came out with something concealed in his palm.

Trevor limped forward, ripped away the halter, and took the woman in his arms, crushing her and burying his face against her neck.

Chaka was on Quait’s left. Five men stood on the right side of the circle, between Flojian and Trevor. Quait never really saw what happened, but these five abruptly sagged and collapsed. Bedlam followed. A shot rang out. Chaka broke free and scrambled clear, giving Flojian a free field of fire. The master’s face had gone slack and Avila was trying to disengage from him.

Flojian was pointing the wedge to the left now, and three more went down. Quait knocked over the rat-faced man, but was shoved hard by his own guard. Another shot was fired. The pirates were looking around, weapons in hand, trying to find a target. Chaka succeeded in pushing one overboard, but was then decked by the helmsman.

The master was on his knees, folding up, blood running down his shirt. Avila whirled away from him with his pistol, and killed the one atop the sea cabin. But then, to Quait’s horror, the remaining pirates concentrated their fire on

She shuddered in a hail of bullets and went down as Flojian leaped forward, screaming no no no, and swept the deck clear of combatants.

She was dead before they got to her, blood welling from a dozen wounds.

Flojian wanted to kill them all.

There was, in Quait’s mind, sufficient justification. But he could not bring himself to execute twelve helpless men. (Two, including the captain, had died of gunshot wounds; and the one Chaka had thrown overboard was missing.) Chaka was repelled by the notion and pointed out that Avila would not have allowed it. Flojian reluctantly backed off.

They settled on a more symbolic vengeance.

Using the crew as a workforce, they dumped the ship’s guns into the river. Flojian then struck her colors, put them with the baggage, and ran the Peacemaker aground. The wheel was removed and the hulk was burned.

The companions discovered Shay’s familiar markings a quarter mile downriver. Six of their horses showed up, including Bali, Lightfoot, Piper, and, to their surprise, Mista. They loaded the ship’s wheel on the stallion. The crew were left bound by the seashore. Flojian tossed them a dull knife as he rode away.