Ahead of PT 264, several large sailing ships floated a hundred yards from the docks, prizes won in battle with the renegades to the south. Now the booty served both as items to be sold to villes that needed to increase their fleets, and as physical protection for the vulnerable dockyards.
Maneuvering through the picket line of vessels, the wooden giants became lost in the billowing exhaust plumes of the squat PT boat. Now the vast green expanse of Maturo Island filled his view, and Brandon reached over to tug on a thick rope, giving two short blasts on the shrill steam whistle to inform the shoreline Firebird batteries they were approaching. Standard regs from the baron. Nobody approached without notice, or else they were blown from the water before reaching the dock. The man was insane, but no fool. Many had tried to take Maturo Island, but none ever reached the shore, much less the Castle Kinnison. “Home.” The pilot smiled. “Pay attention to that buoy, and do your job,” the lieutenant snapped irritably.
“Aye, sir!” the pilot replied, hiding his annoyance.
The bastard never seemed to relax or enjoy anything.
Leaning forward, the pilot shouted into a bamboo tube going down into the deck. “Engine room, give me back spin. Half speed.”
“Back at half, aye, sir!” a muffled voice shouted back.
There was some heavy mechanical clunks from belowdecks, and then the FT boat noticeably slowed as the propellers began to spin counterclockwise, killing their momentum.
With practiced ease, the deadly warship coasted to the pier and came to an easy halt alongside the concrete and greenwood dock.
“All stop,” Brandon ordered, rising from his chair. As the crew of PT 264 hurried about, tossing mooring lines to the dockside crew, Brandon hopped off the metal boat and strode quickly along the workers. The nets were neatly folded, a few old slaves repairing rips, and the smell of fish guts was thick in the air, as it should be. If the baron depended entirely upon the villes for food, the sec men of Maturo Island would soon find themselves starved into submission and chained with the rest of the slaves, to toil in the nitrate mines until they died of the white cough. Brandon would rather eat his blaster than let that happen. Fifteen more PT boats were docked at the piers, with six more out on patrol. Every boat was similarly armed with machine guns and torpedo tubes, but only the 264 also sported a rank of Firebirds.
“Morning, sir! How goes the pirate hunt, sir?” a sec man asked as the frowning officer walked by.
With a snarl, Brandon backhanded the sec man. “Never ask me the baron’s business!” he barked, and marched away.
“Son of a bitch,” the sec man muttered, rising to his feet. He rubbed his hand across his mouth, and it came away streaked with red. “Guess the pirate won this trip.”
“Bad for us,” a corporal answered, a hand resting on the shoulder strap of his M-16. “Now Old Iron Ass will make us parade and shit so he won’t feel bad.”
“We need a new sec chief,” the first man growled softly, touching the fishbone dagger sheathed on his belt.
“Just let me know if you decide to challenge the man,” the corporal said. “I could use your boots.”
“Fuck you, too,” he grumbled sullenly.
“Yeah, pal. Any time.”
The crowd of workers, sec men and slaves parting before him, Brandon reached dry land and stood for a moment, savoring the feeling of it not moving under his boots. He hated the sea, but that was part of the job. So be it.
With a toothless grin, a hunchback slave harnessed to a rickshaw bowed before the officer, inviting him to climb on the wheeled cart. Needing the exercise, Brandon pushed aside the old woman and strode through the warehouses and cannon bunkers, enjoying the feeling of stretching his legs.
He glanced toward the distant green hills, seeing the dark areas of burned earth where some stupe bastard had made a mistake and a storehouse of black powder had exploded, leveling hundreds of trees and chilling dozens of slaves and sec men. But much more importantly, the fatal mistakes reduced their supply of ammo. Lead was salvaged from the predark ruins—lots of it there—and slaves made more slaves all by themselves. But flash was a major problem. There was only one major source of that, and it didn’t belong to Kinnison.