Jones merely grunted and studied the big blonde. Her knuckles were raw from a fistfight, a tooth was missing where her lip was split and bruises bloomed everywhere she showed skin. It had to have taken six of them to haul her to the table, he bet.
“And stop at the table. Each take a knife and blaster from the quartermaster!” Jones added hastily. “No swab goes unarmed on the Connie!”
“We get weapons?” a brunette asked nasally, her pert nose smashed flat from a dying slaver’s club.
The big blonde started for the table. “Don’t be stupe, girl. We’re crew now. Step lively there!”
His arm in a sling, the skinny sailor behind the table started to talk about the pieces on display, but caught a head shake from the captain and stood there mutely as they looked over the blasters. A plump redhead stared at the collection in awe, then grabbed a blaster at random and walked away with it hugged to her ample chest. The blonde went next, passing over several shiny flintlocks to choose an older weapon, massive and thick, almost Parkerized by age. “You!” Jones snapped. “Got a name?”
“Abagail,” she replied, cocking back the hammer and dry firing the blaster. The heavy hammer slammed down, the piece of flint scraping the steel spur and spraying sparks into the pan where the black powder should have been.
“Why’d ya choose that one?” he asked more politely.
“The rest have been repaired,” she said knowingly. “This is the only reliable piece. But then, these are the leftovers. Your real crew took the choice blasters first. Which is fair. How do you know we wouldn’t shoot off a tit, and then faint?”
The quartermaster roared in laughter, while the short captain walked closer to the woman and removed the leather bag of shot and powder tied to his belt.
“Best we got,” Jones stated, tossing it over. She made the catch with one hand. “Know what a bosun is?”
She nodded.
“Good, ’cause you’re in charge of these newbies. One of them falls off the ship and drowns, gets tangled in the rigging and hangs, it’s your fault. Get me?”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“So take charge, bosun.”
Abagail stepped behind the table and waved the next girl over.
“Let me see your hands,” she commanded. “Bah, too small. Take this pocket blaster. Gonna have to make your own bullets. Know how to do that?”
“Yes, ma’am,” she answered. “I did that for my brother, a sec man.”
“Good enough. Then show the others who don’t. Next!”
In a few minutes, the women were armed and trundling down the starboard that led into the ship’s interior. The quartermaster put the last few blasters into a wooden box, each separated by a layer of cloth, and carried his burden back to the ship’s armory.
“Hey, bosun!” he said, lifting the heavy box with ease, the muscles rippling on his thick arms.
“Yeah?” Abagail demanded, braced for a reprimand. In the ville, she had been little more than a gift for the baron. Things could be a lot different out here.
“Good job.” He grinned and started across the rolling deck with the swagger all seafarers affect to maintain their balance on a moving ship.
“That it was,” Jones muttered in frank approval. “Wife of a sec man? Sister, mebbe?”
“Close enough,” she replied, busy with her weapon. Locking the pan cover in place to protect the powder in her loaded blaster, she tucked the hogleg of iron and wood into the ropes around her waist serving as a belt. “My father built the wall for Baron Langford.”
The captain raised an eyebrow. “Old Stony? You’re his spawn? Then you should know blasters. He was the best gunsmith Cold Harbor ever had.”
“So they say,” Abagail said, not impressed. She had heard it all before many times.
“Better be telling the truth. Lie to me and you’ll get ten lashes,” he stated coldly, taking her lack of reaction the wrong way. “Just like any other member of the crew. Remember that!”
“Fair enough, Captain,” Abagail replied, standing proudly. “And if anybody bothers my girls, I’ll blow their balls off.” In a smooth move, she drew the blaster and pointed it between his legs.