As the cart rattled to a halt in a small courtyard, a dozen men surrounded the iron cage with blasters in their hands. Most were muzzleloading flintlocks, but a few were predark revolvers, and one tall bald man with small ears carried a Thompson machine gun. Ryan marked him as the sec chief.
Burly men walked forward with wrenches and released the chains only after a lot of grunting and a few bleeding knuckles. J.B. reasoned this wasn’t standard procedure for prisoners, and wondered what made them special, and how the info could be used to their advantage.
As the door swung aside on squealing hinges, the companions exited one at a time, the pirates keeping them covered with several blasters. Each had the ropes on his feet cut away, but they were lashed together again by chains around their necks. In single file, the companions marched along the brick street, unable to do more than study their surroundings.
The fortress rising before them sported iron grilles on the windows and a massive double door thick enough to stop any blaster round. Inside, the floor was smooth marble, predark lighting fixtures adorning the high ceilings, the walls decorated with faded pictures and recently added gun racks. Doc reasoned this abode was formerly a museum for the tourists visiting the paradise of the Marshall Islands.
“Stop searching for a way out,” a bearded man snarled, and lashed Ryan across the back with a strap. “If the baron didn’t want you alive, I’d flay you till your bones dropped out for such insolence!”
So the pirate baron really did want them alive, eh? Good. Spinning, Ryan slammed the toe of his boot into the man’s gut with all of his strength, the tip hitting just below the lip of the rib cage. Going livid, the pirate staggered backward and dropped his whip, then toppled over.
“Stop your gaffing,” a sailor snorted, nudging the big man with a longblaster.
There was no response.
“Pete?” the sailor asked faintly, kneeling by the fallen man to check for a wound. “Nuke me, hegot no breath. Lieutenant Pawter, the fucking outlander aced him!”
“Aced him with a kick,” the tall man with the machine gun said, working the bolt on the ancient blaster. “Most impressive.”
“Pete was me mate, you modderfucker!” another snarled, cocking back the hammer on a flintlock and pointing the blaster.
“Belay that!” Pawter ordered, and the rest stopped advancing toward the prisoners.
The lieutenant then shifted the aim of his rapidfire toward the chained men. “Nobody goes near Blackie anymore. That bastard is dangerous. Keep your blasters on him at all times. Next move he makes, wound the boy and castrate him on the spot.”
Saying nothing, Ryan locked eyes with the lieutenant, and they exchanged a private conversation. Then Ryan eased his stance and started walking along the corridor.
“Yes, very dangerous I see,” Pawter said, keeping a clear field of fire between himself and the outland-ers. “Mebbe you are exactly what we need.”
“Try that move again, One-eye,” the first sailor snarled, drawing a second blaster, this one with a dozen tiny barrels like a honeycomb, “and this pepperbox will show your guts the ground.”
Ryan ignored the guard, keeping his attention on the lieutenant. It wasn’t only that rapidfire that made him the most deadly enemy in sight.
Marching along some branching corridor and up a grand flight of stairs, the guards stopped the prisoners before an ornate door covered with delicate carvings and intact human hides, the skin perfectly tanned and complete in every detail from the scalp to the genitalia. Doc muttered something in Latin and received a slap to the head that made the man reel.
“No talking,” the sailor grunted, raising a hand to deal another blow.
Doc raised himself to his full height and glared defiantly at the other man when Pawter spoke.
“Boss said alive,” the lieutenant reminded, the barrel of the Thompson shifting away from the prisoners to point at the angry sailor.
The man noticed the action and lowered his hand, stepping away. “You’re mine, prick,” he muttered threateningly.
Uncaring, the big guards at the door watched the events, but did nothing. Both were armed with big-bore revolvers, the ammo loops in their police gun belts full of fat rounds. The men were scraped clean and smelted faintly of perfume, their clothing sharply pressed and meticulously clean.