{"id":6151,"date":"2026-01-04T12:59:06","date_gmt":"2026-01-04T12:59:06","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/vampire-earth-03-tale-of-the-thunderbolt-knight-e-e\/"},"modified":"2026-01-04T12:59:06","modified_gmt":"2026-01-04T12:59:06","slug":"vampire-earth-03-tale-of-the-thunderbolt-knight-e-e","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/vampire-earth-03-tale-of-the-thunderbolt-knight-e-e\/","title":{"rendered":"Vampire Earth 03 – Tale Of The Thunderbolt – Knight, E.E"},"content":{"rendered":"
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\nTALE OF THE THUNDERBOLT<\/span>
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\nTHE VAMPIRE EARTH 3<\/span>
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\nE.E. KNIGHT <\/span>
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\nPossessed of an unnatural and legendary hunger, the Reapers have come to Earth to establish a New Order built on harvesting of enslaved human souls. They rule the planet. I thrive on the scent of fear. And if it is night, as sure as darkness, they will come. It’s the forty-eighth year of the Kurian Order. The alien, vampiric Kur and their avatars, the Reapers, control most of Earth-their new feeding ground. Humanity is scattered and survives only at their new masters’ whims.<\/span>
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\nBut the Resistance is attempting to reclaim Earth. David Valentine, member of the elite Cat spy force, is in enemy uniform aboard the aging gunboat Thunderbolt. Whispers have reached him of the discovery of a long-lost weapon in the Caribbean-the first glimmer of hope for humanity to finally defeat the Reapers. Control of the ship lies in the hands of a tyrannical captain, and nothing short of full-scale mutiny can win it back. With only a few loyal sailors at his side, Valentine embarks on a terrifying journey through the deadly waters of the Gulf, searching for the weapon that will guarantee that this year- the forty-eighth year of the Kurian Order’s domination of Earth-will be the Kurians’ last….<\/span>
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\nGlossary<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

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\nAspirants: Teenagers, often sons and daughters of those in a particular caste, who travel with the Hunters and perform assorted camp functions.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nBears: Hunters and the most fearsome of the Lifeweavers’ human weapons; warriors who go into a battle-fury resembling that of the berserks of old. The Bears are proud to take on anything the Kurians can design.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nCats: Trained by the Lifeweavers, these Hunters act as spies, saboteurs, and assassins in the Kurian Zone. Some work in disguises; others work openly.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nDau’wa: “Forward-thinkers”; the minority of Lifeweavers (mostly concentrated on the planet Kur), who used vital aura to become immortal, i.e., vampires.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nDau’weem: “Backwards-thinkers”; the majority of Life-weavers, who eschewed use of vital aura to become immortal.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nGolden Ones: A Grog variant, more verbal and organized than the more common Gray Ones. Fawn-colored fur on their shoulders blends to white on their bellies.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nGray Ones: The most common kind of Grog, an apish humanoid with thick plates of gray skin. Marginally intelligent, though quick to adapt to human tools and weapons.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nGrogs: Any of the multitude of creations the Kurians have designed or enhanced to help subjugate man. The term grog is in general use for introduced life-forms, but properly belongs just to the humanoid variants. Grogs come in many shapes and sizes; some are intelligent enough to use weapons.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nHunters: Human beings who have been enhanced by the techno-magic of the Lifeweavers to cope with the spawn of Kur.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nInterworld Tree: An ancient network of portals between the stars, the doors of which allow instantaneous transportation across the light-years.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nKur: One of the nine planets of the Interworld Tree. A great storehouse of touchstones was found here; it was a center of Lifeweaver science and learning. Later it became a renegade world when the Kurian Lifeweavers began to use vital aura to extend their lives, touching off a civil war that has spilled over to Earth.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nKurians: Lifeweavers from the planet Kur who learned how to indefinitely lengthen their lives by absorbing vital aura. They are the true vampires of the New Order.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nlifesign: Energy given off by any living thing in proportion to its size and sentience. The Reapers use it, in addition to their normal senses, to track their human prey.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nLifeweavers: The ancient race who discovered the old Pre-Entity Gates between the Nine Worlds.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nPre-Entities: The Old Ones, a vampiric race that died out long before man walked the Earth. From their knowledge, the Kur learned how to become vampires by living off of vital aura.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nQuislings: Humans who assist the Kurians in running the New Order.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nRavies: A virus the Kurians distributed to break up the social order of man, allowing them to take over more easily.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nReapers: The Praetorian Guard of the New Order, they are in fact avatars animated by their Master Vampire. They permit the reclusive Kurians to interact with humans and others, and more important, absorb the vital aura through a psychic connection with the avatar without physical risk. Reapers live off the blood of the victim, while the aura sustains the Master Kurian. Also known colloquially as Capos, Governors, Hoods, Rigs, Skulls, Scowls, Tongue-Tong, Creeps, Hooded Ones, and Vampires.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nTouchstones: Record-keeping technology used by the Pre-Entities and discovered by the Lifeweavers. Touchstones hold anything from knowledge to memories; the data is accessible by a sentient being’s touch. This can be dangerous for less-developed minds, such as humans’.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nvital aura: An energy field created by a living creature. Sadly, humans are rich in it.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nWolves: The most numerous caste of the Hunters. Their patrols watch the no-man’s-land between the Kurian Zone and the Free Territories, and they also act as guerrilla fighters, couriers, and scouts.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

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\nFrom the east to the west blow the trumpet to arms! Through the land let the sound of it flee; Let the far and the near all unite, with a cheer, In defense of our Liberty Tree.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

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\n\u2014Thomas Paine, “The Liberty Tree”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

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\nThey sailed away for a year and a day To the land where the bong-tree grows.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

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\n\u2014Edward Lear, The Owl and the Pussy-Cat<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

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\nChapter One<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

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\nNew Orleans, January, the forty-eighth year of the Kurian Order: Formerly glorious in its decay, under the New Order the city transformed from an aging beauty into a waterlogged corpse. Much of the Big Easy rots under a meter of Mississippi River water\u2014save for the old city’s heart, now protected by two layers of dikes. The rococo facades of the French Quarter, once browning into a fine patina, fall to pieces in quiet, unmounted. The stately homes of the two great antebellum periods, pre-1861 and pre-2022, have vanished under a carpet of lush kudzu or riverside saw grass. As if the flooding and years of neglect were not enough punishment, New Orleans suffered a major hurricane in 2028: a titanic storm that rose from the Gulf like a city-smashing monster in a Japanese movie. No FEMA, no insurance companies showed up afterwards to clean and repair the storm-battered city. What was destroyed stayed destroyed; the inhabitants found it easier to shift to still-standing buildings than to rebuild.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nBut the mouth of the Mississippi is too important, even to the reduced traffic of the Kurian Order, to be given up entirely to nature. The metropolis, both the section behind the dike and the Venice-like portions of the flooded districts, still support a melange of denizens from all across the Gulf of Mexico and the Caribbean. Counting those living among the lakes, bayous, and in the Mississippi estuary, New Orleans boasts a population of over two million\u2014a total that few other cities known to the Old World can match. The rich harvests of seafood, fish and game of the swamps, and mile after mile of rice plantations feed the masses concentrated at the sodden bend in the river.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe Kurian Order encourages fecund populations. A Kurian lord must breed his polls to supply him with enough vital aura, for only in feeding on the energy created by the death throes of a sentient being can he revitalize his immortal lich. The Masters of New Orleans have no regrets about its silenced music, its smothered culture, its reduced cuisine, or its broken history. Healthy, mating herds of humans, kept from escape and from the clutches of rapacious competing Kur, are the only form of wealth that matters.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nFor the human race, living to see another year is now the paramount pursuit in a city once known for its sensual diversions.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThough the Easy Street was only a waterfront dive, it was his waterfront dive, so Martin Clive took pride in every squeaky stool and chipped mug of his saloon. From grid shielded-electric lights to sawdust-covered floor, he loved every brick of it.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nHis customers, on the other hand, he could take or leave.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nNot that he didn’t need them. Clive’s herd of cash-bearing cows, properly milked, provided for him. Clive surveyed the noisy, smelly Thursday-night crowd as the winter rains poured down outside. Safe behind the badge sewn to the money vest he seldom took off\u2014-even to sleep\u2014and in the ownership of the biggest bar on the dockyard district of the dike-hugging waterfront, he passed his time and occupied his mind in sizing up the men as they talked, smoked, and drank. The few women in his bar were there on business, not for pleasure.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nClive perfected a three-step practice of evaluating customers over the years, now so ingrained that he did it unconsciously. Separating the “payers” from the “bums” came first. Knowing who had the cash for a night’s drink and who didn’t had been second nature to Clive since before he acquired the establishment. Distinguishing “gents” from “trouble” was yet another specialty. As he aged, and passed the responsibility of serving out drinks and rousting the “bums” and “trouble” to younger, stronger men, he took up a third valuation: that of predicting the remaining life span of his customers.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nClive looked at a bent longshoreman, hook over his shoulder and a pewter mug of cheap beer at his lips. The man had drunk, smoked, and wheezed out a few hours in the Easy Street six nights a week for the past ten years. Clive had watched him age under grueling physical labor, rotgut alcohol, and bad diet. If the longshoreman could stay in the good books of his crew chief, meaning handing over kickbacks out of his wages, he could probably spin out as many as ten more years if he stayed out of the hold. Sitting two seats down from him, a merchant sailor drank plain coffee, sixty if he was a day, dye rubbed into his hair to darken it in an effort to look younger. Soon no captain would hire him on, no matter how sober and upstanding a character he might be. He was due for the last dance within a year or two. On the next stool, a boy kept an affectionate eye on the aged sailor, perhaps a relative, perhaps just a shipmate. The boy did not drink either, and with hard work and a clean nose could expect to live another fifty years as long as he kept indoors after nightfall.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nOver at a warm corner table, a young officer drank with three of his men. The officer was a welcome combination of “payer” and “gent,” to the point where Clive bothered to name him. The officer was “the Major” to Clive, and the Major always ordered a good bottle and never complained about the cheap whiskey substituted inside. That made him a fine payer. The Major and his men rarely caused trouble; therefore, they qualified for genthood. They wore the mottled green uniform of the Carbineers, one of the horsed troops of paramilitary Cossacks who kept civil order and patrolled the streets of New Orleans.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nMaybe in other city establishments the Major threw his weight around, took food and drink without paying, and had his uniform silence objections. But not in the Easy Street. Clive had friends at the top of the city’s food chain.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nClive learned in his youth that if you were in good with Kur, you could thumb your nose at the Port Authority, the Transport Office, even the police and militia. With Kurian patronage, he bid for ownership of the moribund Easy Street. A whiff of anything going on in the bar that Kur wouldn’t like, and he picked up the phone. Clive wore his third ten-year badge on his chest, not due to expire for six more years, and he was certain of acquiring another. The badge put him off-limits to the Kurians’ aura-hungry Hoods\u2014 well, mostly\u2014and brought him peace of mind that muzzled any protest from his conscience.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe inner door of the entry vestibule opened, and Clive heard the wind and splatter of the rain pouring down outside in the moment before his doorman swung the outer portal shut. Clive liked the rain. It drove customers indoors and flushed the filth from the city’s gutters.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nA stranger stood silhouetted in the door.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe man didn’t remove his raincoat. Clive took a closer look. A coat could conceal any number of unpleasant accoutrements. The Easy Street’s owner relaxed when he caught a glimpse of uniform under the coat’s heavy lapels. The flash of navy blue and brass buttons revealed the stranger as a Coastal Marine. From the fit of the coat and the good though mud-splattered boots Clive judged the man a payer. But something about his face made Clive reserve judgment on whether this man would be trouble or not.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe marine was tall and lean, but not remarkably so in either aspect. Clive put him in his mid-twenties: he had the narrow, crinkle-edged eyelids of a man with a lot of outdoor mileage, and the bronze skin of someone with a hefty dose of Indian blood. The stranger walked with a trace of stiffness in his left leg, not a false limb but perhaps an old injury. He was good-looking in a clean-shaven, sharp-jawed way, judging from the looks exchanged by a pair of whores keeping each other company at the end of the bar. Shining black hair hung in wet tangles, a ropy opal mane thrown back over his collar. A thin white scar traced his right cheek from the outer corner of his dark eye to his chin like the path of a milky tear.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nWith a moment to get a good look as the marine moved, Clive judged the man to be wearing a pistol at his hip, then the capped tang of some kind of knife appeared as the entrant turned. Clive knew how to spot weapons, long coat or no.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe new customer glanced around the room. His gaze flicked from the massive fireplace at the west end, big enough for a barbecue, to the game tables at the east.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe marine froze. Clive followed his gaze. Before he could determine whom he had recognized, the scarred stranger approached the bar nonchalantly. Clive guessed he had recognized the Major, for the table in the corner had gone quiet. Probably some old quarrel over a girl, or a smuggling deal gone bad. The Coastal Marines, with their mobility and lack of supervision, were notorious black-marketeers on the coast stretching from Galveston to the Florida Floods. Intrigued, Clive looked across the bar to the Major’s table. The gents had their heads together. Clive’s nose, after years of smelling the various aromas of a saloon\u2014tobacco, liquor, sweat, urine, sawdust, and vomit (usually in that order)\u2014 was not as straight as it once had been, but he smelled trouble.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n‘Tea and rum, if you’ve got either,” David Valentine said, dripping from head to foot on the sawdust-sprinkled floor. His coat trapped the wet of his shirt better than it kept the rain out.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Got both, Coastie.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“The hotter, the better,” he said, pulling his hand through his slick hair again to get it out of his eyes. The gesture gave him a chance to look at the corner table. A silent mental alarm had tripped a switch in his nervous system, warming weight around, took food and drink without paying, and had his uniform silence objections. But not in the Easy Street. Clive had friends at the top of the city’s food chain.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nClive learned in his youth that if you were in good with Kur, you could thumb your nose at the Port Authority, the Transport Office, even the police and militia. With Kurian patronage, he bid for ownership of the moribund Easy Street. A whiff of anything going on in the bar that Kur wouldn’t like, and he picked up the phone. Clive wore his third ten-year badge on his chest, not due to expire for six more years, and he was certain of acquiring another. The badge put him off-limits to the Kurians’ aura-hungry Hoods\u2014 well, mostly\u2014and brought him peace of mind that muzzled any protest from his conscience.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe inner door of the entry vestibule opened, and Clive heard the wind and splatter of the rain pouring down outside in the moment before his doorman swung the outer portal shut. Clive liked the rain. It drove customers indoors and flushed the filth from the city’s gutters.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nA stranger stood silhouetted in the door.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe man didn’t remove his raincoat. Clive took a closer look. A coat could conceal any number of unpleasant accoutrements. The Easy Street’s owner relaxed when he caught a glimpse of uniform under the coat’s heavy lapels. The flash of navy blue and brass buttons revealed the stranger as a Coastal Marine. From the fit of the coat and the good though mud-splattered boots Clive judged the man a payer. But something about his face made Clive reserve judgment on whether this man would be trouble or not.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe marine was tall and lean, but not remarkably so in either aspect. Clive put him in his mid-twenties: he had the narrow, crinkle-edged eyelids of a man with a lot of outdoor mileage, and the bronze skin of someone with a hefty dose of Indian blood. The stranger walked with a trace of stiffness in his left leg, not a false limb but perhaps an old injury. He was good-looking in a clean-shaven, sharp-jawed way, judging from the looks exchanged by a pair of whores keeping each other company at the end of the bar. Shining black hair hung in wet tangles, a ropy opal mane thrown back over his collar. A thin white scar traced his right cheek from the outer corner of his dark eye to his chin like the path of a milky tear.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nWith a moment to get a good look as the marine moved, Clive judged the man to be wearing a pistol at his hip, then the capped tang of some kind of knife appeared as the entrant turned. Clive knew how to spot weapons, long coat or no.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe new customer glanced around the room. His gaze flicked from the massive fireplace at the west end, big enough for a barbecue, to the game tables at the east.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe marine froze. Clive followed his gaze. Before he could determine whom he had recognized, the scarred stranger approached the bar nonchalantly. Clive guessed he had recognized the Major, for the table in the corner had gone quiet. Probably some old quarrel over a girl, or a smuggling deal gone bad. The Coastal Marines, with their mobility and lack of supervision, were notorious black-marketeers on the coast stretching from Galveston to the Florida Floods. Intrigued, Clive looked across the bar to the Major’s table. The gents had their heads together. Clive’s nose, after years of smelling the various aromas of a saloon\u2014tobacco, liquor, sweat, urine, sawdust, and vomit (usually in that order)\u2014 was not as straight as it once had been, but he smelled trouble.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Tea and rum, if you’ve got either,” David Valentine said, dripping from head to foot on the sawdust-sprinkled floor. His coat trapped the wet of his shirt better than it kept the rain out.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Got both, Coastie.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“The hotter, the better,” he said, pulling his hand through his slick hair again to get it out of his eyes. The gesture gave him a chance to look at the corner table. A silent mental alarm had tripped a switch in his nervous system, warming him better than any fire. Details stood out: florid printing on the bar bottle labels, the meshed ranks of gray hair on the barman’s arms, a blemish on a prostitute’s neck, footsteps muffled by the sawdust scattered on the floor, the rancid smell out of a spittoon.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe officer leaned across the corner table to speak to his men. Valentine trembled as his mind raced.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“You cold, Marine?” a whore asked, brushing a wet lock of hair behind his ear. Gold lame and blond hair covered what little skin she didn’t have on display. “I got a way\u2014”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nShe’d been attracted by the uniform. Ironic, because its thick, high-quality fabric and solid brass buttons repulsed him every time he put it on. Whenever he looked at himself in a mirror, he saw the Enemy looking back out of his own eyes.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Some other time, perhaps.” Valentine turned away from her.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nHis conscience hammered at him until his eyes shone wet with more than rain. Fool! Lazy, irresponsible fool! Over a year’s worth of preparation, service to the Kurian Order under a false name, all turned to shit and flushed. Just because he’d been tired and felt like coming in out of the weather.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine racked his brain for the name, picturing the hawkish face in the hammock that summer in the Yazoo Delta during his training in Free Territory. Lewand Alistar, a freshly invoked Wolf six years ago and posted missing, presumed dead. So the Reapers hadn’t killed him after all. Perhaps he had been captured and turned; perhaps he had been planted in Southern Command as a spy who saw his chance to get away clean. Whatever put him in a Carbineer’s uniform in New Orleans was immaterial. The fact remained that mutual recognition occurred.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine remembered Alistar as a quick-witted, active comrade. A hot mug of spiked tea arrived, and Alistar chose that moment to rise and take up his coat. Valentine blew into the steaming crockery. Alistar’s companions shifted their chairs around. They pretended to watch the barmaids and hookers, but all three heads were pointed at Valentine.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine heard Alistar move behind him. He readied himself to turn and fight, should the footsteps approach. But the Quisling left the Easy Street in a hurry. Typical of Alistar\u2014not heroic but smart. No wonder he wore a major’s cluster in the Kurian Zone.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine needed to get out of the bar, too, without being impeded by Alistar’s comrades, who he guessed had been ordered to keep him from leaving. He reached into his pocket, wadded a ball of money in his hand. He raised his mug in a come-hither toast to the whore who had approached him.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Interested in a little fun and a lot of money?” he asked, his rough voice low.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Always,” she said, smiling at him with a decent, if tobacco stained, set of teeth behind compound layers of lipstick. “My name’s Agri. Like as in agreeable to anything.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine thrust the money into her shirt, pretending to feel her up. “Glad to hear it. There’s a hundred and then some, Agri. Which girl here rubs you the wrong way?”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Huh?” she said.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Quick, or a man. Who don’t you like here?”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nShe dropped the attitude at the quiet urgency in his voice. “Umm, there’s Star,” the woman said, leaning out to look around Valentine’s wide shoulder. “The head of hair with gold earrings. She’s always breaking in and screwing my work up.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nHe followed her gaze. “Which one is she, in the pink?” he asked, spotting a prostitute with a mass of wavy hair framing her face like a lion’s mane. “Okay, I’m going to go talk to her. I want you to start a fight, fast.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“And that’s all I gotta do?”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Make as big a scene as you can. Yes, that’s all.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Shit, Marine, I’d do that for free.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine turned away from her and moved to the darker woman in a hot pink half-top. “I’ve heard you’re quite a woman,” Valentine said, raising an eyebrow suggestively. The whore cocked her head and smiled welcomingly.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“That’s my up, you bitch!” his paid prostitute shrieked.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nNoisy, even better, Valentine thought.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nStar reacted with a speed that would have done credit to many of Valentine’s former comrades in the Wolves. She planted herself, lowered her hips, and spread her arms.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe two women fell to the floor, fighting bobcats spitting and hissing at each other. A ring of hooting barflies formed around the combatants. Valentine backed through the crowd, snatched a hat off of an unattended table, and moved out the door before any of Alistar’s soldiers had a chance to push through the crowd to guard the exit.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe conditions could hardly be worse for tracking a smart man in the crowded\u2014and dangerous, thanks to prowling Reapers\u2014city with a two-minute head start. Night, rain, and the rickshaw-cluttered streets all conspired to hide his quarry. Visibility nil\u2014the big bosses never bothered much with public lighting. Most men would not have had a chance.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nDavid Valentine was not most men. He was a Cat, one of the select specimens of humanity called Hunters trained by the Lifeweavers to fight against the abominations of their vampiric brethren, the Kur. The Kur controlled most of the planet, and the regions that remained outside their grasp, like Valentine’s adopted home in the Ozarks and Ouachitas, owed much of their freedom to the sacrifices of the Hunters.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe Hunters, outnumbered and weak compared with the Reapers and the other creations of the Kur, relied on enhanced senses, physical ability, and tight mental discipline. The last was of paramount importance. The Reapers, the Praetorian Guard of Kur, tracked human prey by reading lifesign, psychic auras sent out by sentient beings.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine needed to wash the fear from his mind. At the moment he was alone among enemies, surrounded by thousands who could gain a ten-year badge protecting themselves from the Reapers by pointing him out as an enemy of the New Order. And somewhere in the rainy darkness, a man whom he knew to be no fool was hurrying to ring the alarm bell.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nAlistar would not just run to the nearest phone. He had no idea if Valentine was working alone, or with others who might have picked up a surreptitious signal and followed him out of the bar. Valentine remembered him as a man who liked to be in command. It was possible that he would get a posse of his own Carbineers together, to better take the credit for his coup in capturing or killing one of Southern Command’s “terrorists.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe barracks of the Carbineers would mean a long walk, too much time wasted. But Valentine knew from months of working the port that a contingent of them guarded then-supply warehouse by the docks. Some of Alistar’s men would be there.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nIt was only a guess, but as good a guess as he could make. Valentine ducked through an alleyway and broke into a sprint down a road parallel to the one Alistar probably took. Even if he had guessed wrong, the farther he got from the Easy Street, the better.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nHe loosened his coat to run. If anyone saw him, pounding down the center of the near-empty street, splashing through puddles, they might mistake him in the wet and darkness for a Reaper. His sprint did not end at the hundred-yard mark; he called on his reserves, and they answered, propelling him through the night with legs and lungs of flame. Astonishingly, at least to anyone who did not know what a Hunter was capable of, his speed increased.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe warehouse he sought was in an old, brick-paved part of town. Garbage lay in heaps on every corner, and better than half the buildings were fire-gutted shells. Empty, glass-less windows gaped out at the street like skulls’ eyes when they were not boarded up.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nOne closed-up window wore a freshly spray-painted skull with a heart around it. According to the graffiti of New<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nOrleans’s streets, someone just lost a loved one to the Reapers within.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nAny of the empty buildings around might contain a prowling Reaper. This was one of the districts of the city where it wasn’t considered healthy to be out after dark, even for a man in uniform. He relaxed his mind, let his vision blur, tried to feel for the cold, hard spot on his mind the Reapers sometimes made.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nSometimes. He prayed his psychic antennae were working tonight.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nHe pulled up at a noisome alley, partially blocked at one end by a stripped car turned on its side. Its gutters served as the local populace’s latrine, judging from the smell. Hand tapping at his pistol butt, Valentine cut down the alley and back to the main thoroughfare. Alistar was a former Wolf, and there was every possibility of him scenting Valentine before seeing him without some kind of masking odor.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nA thunk and a metallic clatter sounded from one of the broken windows, hitting him like a shot. He spun, crouching against the half-expected leap as he drew his revolver. His keen ears picked up the sound of the skittering, scrambling claws of a fleeing rat within.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine edged sideways down the alley, gaze flicking from paneless window to window until his heart slowed again.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nHe paused in a deep well of darkness under a fire escape, reholstered his gun, and drew a stiletto from his boot, nerving himself for what he had to do. Killing in battle, with bullets cracking the air all around and explosions numbing his senses was one thing. Premeditated murder of a fleeing opponent required an entirely different side of his persona. It was a version of himself who had killed helpless men in their Control Tanks in Omaha; blown a bound policeman’s head off with a shotgun in Wisconsin; and knifed lonely, frightened sentries on isolated bridges. Cold-blooded need provoked those killings, but his sense of exultation in the deeds bothered his conscience more than the acts themselves did.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine heard footsteps over the steady patter of rain, coming from the direction he expected Alistar. Two people hove into view in the middle of the street, walking together under some kind of tarpaulin sheltering both from the weather. Not his quarry then, but\u2014<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nOne was definitely pulling the other along. The insistent guide was about the right size and sex. Clever. Trusting his hunch, Valentine collected himself for a leap. As he crouched, the analytical side of his brain appreciated the irony of Alistar using a woman as camouflage, paralleling his own subterfuge in the bar. The tarpaulin provided just the right touch of shape-concealing cover. He probably grabbed her out of a doorway, tucking himself under the improvised umbrella with her and ordering her to accompany him. Alistar had always been cool in a crisis.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nAs they passed, not seeing him in the rain and dark, Valentine leapt. His standing broad jump covered five meters, ending in a body blow that caught Alistar in the small of the back. The two tumbled down, the man ensnared in the wet canvas.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe girl screamed out her fright, and Valentine heard her stumble and right herself. He paid no attention, concentrating on getting his knife to the Quisling’s throat. The man struggled in the folds of the tarry material like a netted fish.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nHe straddled Alistar, pinning his chest and arms with the full force of his body weight and muscle as he cut open the tarp. The stiletto dug into his former comrade’s neck, eliciting a squeal. “Dave, no! Wait!”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine paused, not moving the knife either farther in or back. He had not been called Dave since his days as a recruit.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Not what you think,” Alistar said as his face drained to white. “You think I wanted this? You remember how it was, we got separated…. The Reapers were after us. One got me, picked me up. They took me all the way back to Mississippi. After questioning, it was join ’em or die. Never really joined though, never really joined. That’s why I ended up in this rear-area pisser, didn’t want to fight against y’all. You have to believe me. I met a girl, got married. We’ve talked about running\u2014every chance we get alone, we discuss it. Lois wants out.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“You could have contacted me in the bar, then. Quietly. What did you run for?”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“I\u2014I got scared.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Looked to me like you were running for help.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“I didn’t tell the guys you were with Southern Command. I said we fought over a job. You threatened you’d kill me if you ever got the chance. I ducked out to go get my wife, I was going to have her go in there and talk to you. Make you see our way. Lois’s honest\u2014you can tell just by talking to her. I knew you could always read people, Dave. You’d be able to get us out.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine listened with Lifeweaver-sensitized ears for anyone approaching to investigate. He let Alistar speak.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“We can be ready in an hour. Hide out wherever you tell us. I dunno why you’re here, but maybe you need some advice about how to get away.” Alistar paused. “Or not. Any way you want it. Just trust me\u2014give me a chance to prove it.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine put himself in Alistar’s shoes. The summer of his eighteenth year, had their roles been reversed, could he honestly say he would not have followed Alistar’s path, given a choice of death or grudging service? But how grudging? He wore a major’s cluster, after all. Perhaps he wore other insignia.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nHe shifted the knife and used his right hand to pull open Alistar’s raincoat. On his old comrade’s breast was a row of little silver studs, projecting out of the green uniform over a shining five-year badge. Valentine knew that each stud represented five confirmed kills of enemies bearing arms, and the badge probably gained through turning over friends, neighbors, or comrades to the Reapers.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nAlistar read his fate in Valentine’s eyes and opened his mouth to scream for help. Valentine shot his hand up to Al-istar’s throat, crushing cartilage and blood vessels in a granite grip. A sound like a candy wrapper crinkling and an airy wheeze was all that came out of the Quisling’s collapsing throat.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Would’ve let you go another time,” Valentine said, fighting his friend’s final paroxysm. “But what I’m here to do is just too damn important.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine got up off the corpse. Emptying his mind, quieting his thoughts with the aura-hiding discipline of the Lifeweavers had a succoring side effect: it kept him from thinking about what he had just done. He carried the corpse off to the stinking alley and went to work with quick, precise motions. Using his knife, he tore a ragged hole just below Alistar’s Adam’s apple, then picked up the twitching body and held it inverted. The warmth of the draining corpse nauseated him. He watched the blood mix with the rain on the cracked and filthy pavement, and stood shivering from wet cold and nerves.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nBetween the injury and the confused girl’s story of a flying assailant out of the shadows, assuming she was brave enough to go to the Authorities, there was a chance that whoever found Alistar’s body would conclude a prowling Reaper had taken him, draining him of blood with its syringelike tongue.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine had seen enough Hood-drained bodies to mimic the injury and disposal of the corpse. He stuffed Alistar in a debris-filled window well. The Reapers usually concealed their kills so as not to disturb their human herds. But an investigation blaming the death on a Reaper feeding was too slender a thread on which to hang the success of his mission.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nIt would have to start tonight.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u00a0<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nChapter Two<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u00a0<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe City Center of New Orleans: No matter what his or her status in the Kurian order, a human has to consider the risks before going abroad after dark, even at the busy city nexus of road and rail lines. At night, the vital aura of any sentient being shines bright and clear to the senses of a Reaper, drawing it and the Appetite that sees through the avatar’s eyes. The Reaper, tall, thin, and cloaked, grabs its victim in a bruising grip and buries its long tongue in the food’s neck. Sharp teeth keep its hold while the tongue searches out the wildly beating heart.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe “last dance,” as the locals call it, leaves the victim emptied of blood. The rich fluid is absorbed into the Reaper’s rudimentary digestive system, and life aura is transferred to the Kurian Lord animating the Reaper. The Kurian is a puppet-master working the million synaptic strings of the Reaper’s nervous system. Rumor has it that the pain and fear of a victim enhances the Kurian’s appreciation of aura. Reapers have been known to stalk and play with their food, even dragging it away to the Master’s refuge for a cleaner “connection”. for the draining transfer. What torments might be added, flavoring the aura like seasoning on a meal, do not make for pleasant speculation.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine’s night began with a call on the Station Rooms. Too comfortable to be called a prison, and too regimented to be called a hotel, the Station Rooms housed wives and families of the men at sea. In Imperial Roman tradition, the families of the men serving the Coastal Patrol remained under watchful house arrest until the sailors’ return. The freedom from the Reapers provided by naval service required some kind of guarantee that the men would fulfill their duties, and with their usual efficiency, Kur settled on hostage-taking. While it was well-fed, curtained hostage-taking, the implicit threat remained no matter how bourgeois the surroundings.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nWith the grisly scene in the alley playing over and over in his head, Valentine wanted nothing more than a few hours’ sleep, perhaps with a stiff drink to help him calm down. He could obliterate it all in the arms of a woman easily enough, but whores weren’t to his taste even if he’d had the time. He had been up since well before dawn, making his way by boat and foot to the rendezvous at the outskirts of the city. Once again, the dozen Wolves had not shown, making them nine days overdue. He’d lingered as long as he dared among waterlogged ruins under the old water tower, its rust-scoured letters leaving only the vaguely menacing block capitals orwoe still legible on its sides. Once back in the city, he’d bought an okra-and-rice dish from an open-air diner, not trusting meat that had flies buzzing around it in winter. It began to rain, and on his wet and weary journey back to the ship he’d decided to stop for a drink at a strategically placed waterfront bar his marines spoke well of: the Easy Street.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nNow, chances were that the hunt was on and he was the game afoot. He would have to put into effect the plan he had been considering since the Wolves had turned forty-eight hours overdue. Phony repairs to the ship could only be stretched out so long, no matter how imaginative the chief engineer was in his delaying tactics. The captain had shown symptoms of apoplexy at being told the Thunderbolt would be laid up another few days, waiting for parts. Further postponements might mean a change of personnel in the form of a new chief engineer, which would be more fatal to the mission than the nonarrival of the Wolves.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine’s thoughts kept returning to details of his encounter with Alistar. The gleam of the wedding ring on the dead man’s hand\u2014how much of the story about his wife was real? Valentine wished he could meet the woman, and in an overwrought fantasy imagined the two of them having a conversation in private, where he could confess his regrets about her husband’s death and the bitter choices, tonight and six years ago, that had necessitated it.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe rain slackened as Valentine approached the Station Rooms. The name came from the proximity of the building to the train station, an odd location for mostly naval dependents. As he neared the entrance, he walked loosely, mimicking the purposeful stagger of a man full of drink.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nA sentry stood just inside the barred doors, rather than at his usual post on the first step. The rain had driven him into a minor dereliction of duty, but the Station Rooms contained nothing of value, and what security there was concentrated on keeping the Coastal Patrol families indoors at night.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine rapped on the glass between the added-on bars, a relaxed smile on his face. “Hey Ed, open up, eh?”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe sentry, whose nameplate read hinks, p, shrugged and spread his hands helplessly. “It isn’t Ed, Mr. Rowan, sir, it’s Perry.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine raised his eyebrows. “Ed sick? He always has the duty Friday nights.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“He does, but this is Thursday, sir.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Look, Perry, let me in, will you? I want to see my wife.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Mr. Rowan, sir, you know the rules. Overnight visits have to be okayed beforehand.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Coursh I know that,” Valentine said, “but I don’t want to shtay overnight. Jusht an hour or two. You know. Ship’s ready for shea, parts came in, and we leave in the morning. Have a heart\u2014it’s a three-month out.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Mr. Rowan sir, you’re listed as active duty. You should be at your ship tonight, not ashore.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Have a heart,” Valentine repeated. “Jush don’t log me. You don’t catch the shit for letting someone in, and I don’t catch the shit for vishiting.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Be a little difficult for me to explain when you leave.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine summoned a belch. “You’ve got the midnight to four, right? I’ll be out by three. Not logged in, not logged out.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Sorry, sir, what if you get delayed?”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Look, call Mrs. Rowan. She’ll promise you I’ll be out by three. You know her\u2014if she made the promise to you, she’d see to it I got out in time. It’s a three-month out, for chrissakes.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“What about the desk?”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“I’ll bullshit my way past. I’ve got an understanding with Turnip. Thesh captain’s bars are good for more than just a spot at the front of a ration line, eh?”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Sir, maybe that’s the way they do things up in the Great Lakes, but not here.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine held his breath, forcing his face to color and his tone to harden. “Do they stand their watches indoors here?”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nHinks blanched. “Aww, Mr. Rowan sir, have a\u2014”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Heart?” Valentine finished.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe guard looked inside the Station Rooms. “Okay, Mr. Rowan, three a.m. You’re not here by three-oh-five, I’m phoning up. Okay? Mr. Turner isn’t at the desk anyway. Reading in the John again. You wanna report someone, you should start with him.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Forget about it, Ed, errr\u2014Perry. You’re a good egg. I’ll bring you back a bottle of rum or something, how’sh that?”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Just be out by the time my shift ends, or I’m perishable.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Hey,” Valentine slurred, “I promished, right? Just a quick visit, and we ain’t spending it talking.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe guard opened the door. “Mrs. Rowan’s some lady, sir. I hope I get some rank and get a chance to take my pick.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“That’s the shpirit, Perry,” Valentine said, coming in out of the rain and wiping his hair back. “One way to move up is to do favors for higher ranks. Maybe I can get you into the Coastal Marines. Quick advancement. Dishipline isn’t too hard, if you do your job.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe sentry shook his head. “Like my outfit just fine, sir.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nGoing ashore and attacking a blockhouse full of outlaws ain’t my idea of a career.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nDavid Valentine waited for the sentry to unlock the inner door, and moved across the stained carpet to the stairs. The night manager’s desk was empty, as Hinks predicted. Most of the lights were off, and the remaining elevator that still worked was always shut down at night when the hotel closed up to conserve electricity. Valentine smelled soap and heard splashing water coming from the basement: someone was doing laundry in one of the slop tubs there.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nHe climbed to the top floor, remembering the intolerable heat of their arrival that summer, the last in a series of moves as he performed his duties as a Quisling Officer. His real home lay in the hill country of Arkansas, Missouri, and Eastern Oklahoma, on free soil, though since being recruited as a Cat, he’d hardly spent six consecutive months there. For the past year, he’d been dragging Duvalier all around the Gulf Coast, worming through the Kurian Order, obtaining a commission and a promotion under a dead man’s name and background provided for him by Southern Command\u2014it made him feel like a maggot in a corpse.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThough the Station Rooms predated climate control and therefore had fair-size windows, the bars prevented residents from escaping to the fire escape to nap out the heat. The bars and windows were the only part of the Station Rooms inspected and kept in prime condition. Elsewhere the paint was peeling, the walls were dimpled, and the plumbing fixtures were maintained in a condition that shifted back and forth between inoperative and barely functioning.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine reached the chipped wooden door to “Mrs. Rowan’s” apartment. He knocked softly, using a three-and-two rap to identify himself, three soft and two loud. The sole lightbulb in the hallway faded for a moment and then brightened; New Orleans’s patchwork power system was having its usual nighttime irregularities.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe door opened, revealing an attractively angular face under short red hair sticking out in all directions.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“You’re out late,” Alessa Duvalier said, still half-asleep. She wore an oversize yellow T-shirt of tentlike proportions, which was coming apart at the shoulder seams. “What is it?”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nHe ducked inside and flicked off the light. To his Cat-eyes, the room remained lit and as detailed as ever. There was just the usual color-shift that came with low-light vision.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“I was recognized.” He used old American Sign Language to convey this information as he said for the benefit of the microphones: “Baby, we’re out tomorrow. Last chance for ninety nights.” They’d found a bug when they’d first moved to the Station Rooms months ago, and asked for a different room\u2014complaining, with justification, about bedbugs. Management moved them to the stifling top floor, and a Coastal Marine widow, Mrs. Kineen, took an empty room next to them the same day.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nDuvalier woke up fast. “Somebody made you? How?” she signed.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nHe flopped down on the bed as soon as he got his coat off. He let out an occasional moan as he told her, spelling out some of the words with his fingers. They’d had training in sign language before setting out from the Ozark Free Territory, and though they practiced, Valentine’s usually quick-acting brain faltered after the long day and the encounter with Alistar.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe woman who’d taught him to be a Cat sat in her chair, folded herself up so her chin rested on her left knee, and rocked the bed with her right leg so the headboard banged the wall they shared with Mrs. Kineen.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe room smelled of cloves and walnuts. Duvalier had picked up intestinal parasites in her travels, perhaps as long ago as their trek into the Great Plains Gulag when she first recruited him three years ago, and was dosing herself again in an effort to flush them.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“This week has been nothing but bad news,” she signed, interrupting the tale when he began to describe his disposal of the corpse. “Laundry-room intelligence says there’s been a lot of new faces in town. Troops moving in. Some say a push into the Tex-Mex borders; others say it’s Southern Command’s turn again. I know the train station’s been busy. Lots of cars taking on supplies coming in from the Gulf Coast and moving west. This didn’t turn into such a dull assignment after all. I’ve been able to watch the station and pick up a little.” She peeked out the window. “Hope you can get going soon. Southern Command needs to know details.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“I don’t think the Wolves are going to show,” he decided. “I’m going to have to go with it and improvise. Figure out a way to oust Captain Saunders and get control of the Thunderbolt\u2014”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nShe let out a yelp, faintly orgiastic, and winked at her partner.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“You’ll improvise yourself right onto the Grog gibbet,” she signed. Valentine never tired of admiring her quick, dexterous fingers. They were the first thing he’d noticed on her when she bandaged his former captain on Little Timber Hill. “Who will help you?”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“The crew.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Quislings?” She added the question mark with her sharp eyebrows.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“They wouldn’t be in the Coastal Patrol if they didn’t like being away from the influence of Kur.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“All the more reason for Kurians to pick the men for loyalty. Remember what you had to do to get your commission down here, and then the promotion to captain.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Don’t remind me,” Valentine signed. Elaborate fake papers showing his service record in the Great Lakes took him only so far. For the past year, Valentine had put his manifest talents to the service of Kur, assembling a good record in a rear area before being offered a promotion in exchange for “more active duty.” He had seen men shot, hanged, or given over to the Reapers without batting an eye. And more.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nHe’d learned the reason for the elaborate groundwork only a few months ago, once he had received his commission on the Thunderbolt. Ahn-Kha appeared afterwards, bearing his detailed orders. In twenty-four hours, he memorized the instructions, based plans on the objective, and destroyed the letters, maps, and drawings. Since then, he concentrated on making friends in the crew and learning all he could about the Caribbean, and particularly Haiti.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“So are you ever going to tell me?” Duvalier asked. “Once you’re at sea, it couldn’t hurt for me to know.” She stopped the headboard-thumping with her leg, waited a moment, then started again with renewed vigor.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“You know better. If you were really in on it, I’d have your opinion every step of the way. But I can’t risk the Kuri-ans finding out if it goes amiss.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nAmiss. The word was a kind of shorthand between them. A euphemism for “capture, torture, and death.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nShe climbed on to the bed next to him, lay close so she could breathe in his ear. “We’re good together, Valentine. Hope they haven’t tasked you with a one-way trip. Some things shouldn’t even be tried. Like turning that crew. We should blow and get out of here. The mission is down the drain, and Mountain Home needs to know about this buildup.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Taking the ship’s not the half of it,” he whispered back, feeling his skin tingle at her scent. “Or I should say that’s not your half of it.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nShe rubbed her hand through his damp hair. “David, I know I had the easy part this time. Maybe old Ryu thought I needed a rest. I got to look around, safe behind my ID, then disappear after you ship out. But now my stomach’s hurting, and you have that never-say-die look like in the Dunes. You didn’t come up here for a good-bye.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine smiled in the darkness. “No. I have to ask you a favor. It would make my job easier if you could get some of the other wives and families out.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nShe quit toying with his cowlick.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe room waited in silent darkness. His sensitive ears could not even pick up the sound of her breathing. “How many families?” she finally whispered.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“As many as you can. Make contact with the pipeline, and have them help guide you all out.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nShe sat up, pulled her knees up to her chest, and thought before she started signing again. “Val, that involves getting about a hundred people out of New Orleans. On my own. I’ve no gear, no weapons but a skinning knife. Lots of kids, so I need transport for everyone and food to last us out of the KZ. It can’t be done.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine signed back: “Of course it can’t be done. Since it can’t be done, I don’t think the Kur will be expecting it.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“No one expects me to step off a thirty-story building either. But if I do it and give everyone a big, effing surprise, that doesn’t mean much when I hit.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“The only way I have a chance with the men is if they think there’s hope for their families.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Valentine, full abort. Set all this back up somewhere else. Mexico. There’s got to be plenty of transport\u2014”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“And blow a year’s worth of work. It’s the ideal ship. Who’d ‘ave ever thought I’d get assigned to a gunboat? I figured we’d have to settle for a troop trawler full of men. If we get her, there’s hardly a ship in the Carib that can say boo to us, plus she’s seaworthy in case of bad weather. She’s not some coast hugger.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Good arguments in favor of a bad idea.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Didn’t you say you had made friends among the women? That a lot of them were discontented?”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Who wouldn’t be?” she signed back. “We get out of this building only twice a week when you’re away, and even then it’s to a fenced-in market. I’m sick of this place, too. If it weren’t for the danger to some of the people I’ve met here, I’d torch it as soon as you’re out of the harbor and vanish. They’d think I maybe … Whoa there …”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine could almost feel her brain revving up. “You know, if you got everyone out and rigged some kind of explosion …” he suggested.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Don’t have the tools to collapse the building,” she signed, “but this is an old structure. Set a fire somewhere hard to put out but not immediately dangerous, the authorities evacuate everyone, and I have someone from the pipeline who knows just where to be, and when. Maybe they would have a few people around to make sure we don’t wander off, but they wouldn’t expect an organized breakout. I can handle them.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Be careful who you tell,” Valentine advised. “I’d just let a couple of trustworthy people know. Wait until the absolute last minute to spread the word.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Who taught who this game, Val? I was keeping myself alive in the KZ while you were still running with the Wolves, if you recall.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Keep yourself alive. The Cause needs you. So can I count on you? Think about it while I sleep.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“I’ll do it\u2014if I can get the pipeline to open. You can tell your men that. Guarantees aren’t my style. I like to bug out if things get hairy. I think you’re headed for a noose, or maybe a long drag through the ocean back to the nearest port. Getting a mutiny started won’t be easy. I’ve never heard of that being done before.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“All the more reason for it to work, they won’t be expecting\u2014”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nShe cut him off with a forceful thrust of her hand. “Oh God, don’t start on that again!” she said, this time aloud. Then they smiled at each other. What would Mrs. Kineen make of that?<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine dreamt of the Ozarks. A fall breeze rustling a million leaves all around, cool streams running in the morning, the sounds of fish splashing as they jumped\u2014<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nHe felt Duvalier shaking him by the shoulder. The hour’s rest was not nearly enough, but it would have to do. “Last chance, Valentine,” she signed after handing him his coat. “Full abort, plenty of reason to justify it. I don’t like the feel of this, not at all.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nHis doubts had also rested, and returned refreshed. No! Ignore them! “I’m not happy about it either. But if you knew more, you could see that I don’t have a choice. This could turn the tide.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“You and your coulds.” She hugged him, nuzzling her chin against his chest. Duvalier was seldom affectionate toward him, their bond exhibited more through ribbing than rubbing. Though he was attracted to her, she had a wall around her he couldn’t break. Sometimes she lowered the drawbridge. Tonight was one of those moments.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“I grew up in Kansas,” she whispered in his ear. “I don’t know tides, except that they’re caused by the moon. Oh, and a king tried to do something about them once but couldn’t. In the end, the tide always wins. It’s too strong.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nHe turned the risks over in his mind, then unholstered and tossed his heavy .44 service pistol on the bed along with the spare ammunition he carried. He’d hide the loss somehow. “No,” Valentine signed, after buttoning his coat. “It’s not too strong. The tide wins because it doesn’t give up.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe look of relief on Perry’s face made Valentine forget the gruesome events of the night. For a moment.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“See, Perry, I told you so,” Valentine said, pointing to the clock. Its plain face indicated 2:40.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“You’re a man of your word, sir. Thank you.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“No, Perry, thank you,” Valentine said, smiling and waiting for the outer door to open. “I’ll see you in three months.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“I hope so, Mr. Rowan. Word has it my unit’s going to rotate out. They’re saying West Texas, which is fine by me. I’ve had it with the humidity around here. I got mold allergies something terrible.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Mobilizing for something big?” Valentine asked nonchalantly, looking out at the rain.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Like I’d know. ‘You’ll find out when you get there,’ is what we get told.” The guard drained a cup of cold coffee.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Enjoy the sun. I’ve got to get back to the ship before the captain gets up.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Me savvy.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine plodded into the rainy night, his hands thrust deep into his coat pockets. He had a good hour’s walk ahead of him. The Thunderbolt sat moored well to the east in New Orleans’s expansive but underused dikeside riverfront. High seas trade was not something the Kurians encouraged. They seemed so uncomfortable with oceans that Valentine wondered if Kur itself was not arid. Most of their sea traffic was made up of barges and tugs, hugging the coast as they moved from port to port in the shallow waters of the Gulf of Mexico.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nFear brought him out of his thoughts. A cold tingle ran down his spine…. There was a Reaper somewhere behind him in the fog.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine stepped faster, shutting down everything in his mind except the animal reflexes required to keep moving, a fish swimming quietly and straight to avoid the prowling shark.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nAnd he’d given his gun away to Duvalier. All he could fight with was the short service knife at his belt. Not enough steel to bite through a Reaper’s neck\u2014his sword was back at Ryu’s hall with his other possessions.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe street was empty, almost unlighted. Doors and windows all around were buttoned up for the night.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nHe felt the cold spot growing as it came up behind. Its booted feet clipped along in the drizzle somewhere behind. He tore off his raincoat. Perhaps it would hesitate to attack a uniform.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nA massive figure appeared out of the mist ahead of him.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nAhn-Kha! Thank you, God.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nSolid as the Thunderbolt’s icebreaking prow, ugly as commandment-breaking sin, and the closest thing he had in the world to a brother, the Grog waddled down the street.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nHe heard the footsteps following halt as the Reaper read the newcomer’s lifesign.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nAhn-Kha carried a great boat hook across his shoulder and wore a brown Grog Labor Brigade sash across his chest.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nLike a bull gorilla, he used his arms as well as his legs in his slow, deliberate stride. Rain matted his fawn-colored fur and dripped from flexible, batlike ears. Ahn-Kha bore a face like some stony nightmare leering off a cathedral at travelers below, but his steady eyes, black-flecked with irises the color of a healthy acorn, could only be called “gentle.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine clasped hands with Ahn-Kha. “Careful,” he breathed, gesturing behind with his chin.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nHe heard the Reaper approach, and Ahn-Kha straightened to his full eight-feet-plus, planting the boat hook solidly before him like a pikeman.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine met the yellow-eyed gaze, touched the side of his hand to his eyebrow, and lowered his head, the usual salute to a representative of the Kurian Order.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe Reaper responded by throwing its hood back over its scraggly-haired scalp and striding off into the night.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine didn’t relax until the cold spot on his consciousness faded. The Reaper probably could have killed the both of them, but perhaps the Kurian animating it was more risk-averse than most, and didn’t wish to damage his living tool for the extraction of vital aura.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nAhn-Kha put the boat hook over his shoulder again.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nIn the three years since Valentine had met Ahn-Kha, he had learned to rely on him for thought as well as thews. Years ago, Ahn-Kha’s people, the Golden Ones, had been brought with the other species, labeled alike by much of mankind with the epithet Grog, across worlds to help the Kurians with the conquest of humanity. But even the Golden Ones had been betrayed by Kur when they were no longer useful. Thanks to the pair’s chance meeting, the Golden Ones were again thriving along the west bank of the Missouri River around Omaha.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“My David,” Ahn-Kha rumbled, his bass voice sounding as if it echoed from a deep cave. “I began to worry when you did not arrive by the time we darkened the ship. I feared something might have happened to you, and I made for the<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nStation Rooms. Is all well?” The Grog did a neat turn on one of his hamhock fists and walked beside Valentine.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Yes and no, old horse. Someone recognized me tonight, in a bar. He’s dead, but unless his men were born stupid and got worse, they’ll be looking for me. We’re going to have to set off with the dawn, before the Kurians can organize a manhunt.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“What about the men? Have they arrived?”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“No. We may have to go with the crew we have.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“And the captain and the executive officer? Perhaps you plan to have them both meet with accident?”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“I’m going to try to turn the crew.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nAhn-Kha snorted. “Maybe a few brave hearts will try. Not enough, my David, not enough.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“I’m going to promise them a new life with their families, if we can make it back to the Ozarks. Duvalier is going to get their wives and kids out.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“If she can manage that, the fates themselves fight on her side. But without the promised Wolves, I do not see how we win the ship.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“When we’re at sea, I’ll try Lieutenant Post first.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“The man’s a drunk, my David, or he would be in command of the marines instead of you.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Yes.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“How will you explain their absence to the captain? You told him the Coastal Marines were supplying a team of scouts, showed him fake orders.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“We’ll use your Grogs. I’ll tell him your laborers can perform the job. Besides, the men like having a few Grogs around to do the dirty work. Will they do what you say?”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“They’re Gray Ones\u2014brutes. They obey me; it is easier than thinking. On paper, they are a combat-ready team, but I’ve never seen them shoot. When they are done working the ship, they were supposed to be moved inland. But a request from the Coastal Marines would outweigh such a trifle. The Kurians have many to take their place.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Better get them ready as soon as we reach the Thunderbolt. I’ll have a word with the Chief, and we’ll be under way by dawn. The radio is going to break down, as well. We can’t be too careful.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe Thunderbolt, tied up to the dock, did not live up to her name. She looked like the swaybacked old icebreaker that she was, new coat of paint and polished fittings or no. Her 230-foot length had a high prow, a deep well deck, and her castle amidships. Just below the bridge in the bow was the five-inch gun, her main armament. On the other side of the castle, a twenty-millimeter Oerlikon looked like an avant-garde sculpture under its protective cover. Valentine’s marines were responsible for it and the four 7.62-millimeter machine guns in action. They lay ready to be placed in the mounts on either side of the ship, more or less at the corners of the upper deck of the square main cabin.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nAs she was now configured, she carried four commissioned officers and seven warrant officers, supervising divisions of forty-five Coastal Patrol crewmen and thirty-four Coastal Marines. Usually she patrolled with a higher proportion of CP, fewer marines, and more space for all concerned, but she had been modified to carry troops this trip. The captain had made no secret of their mission. A nest of “pirates and terrorists” on the island of Jamaica had been bold enough to trouble the continental coast. The Thunderbolt and crew was to “capture, scuttle, or burn” the pirates’ ships and destroy their base. The gunboat had little to fear in return: she could stand off and sink the pirates in their harbor or on the sea, for the sail-driven brigands had no gun to match the five-inch cannon, and nothing short of naval gunfire, mines, or torpedoes could penetrate the icebreaker’s hull.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nWhatever her hoped-for glories, the Thunderbolt looked dismal enough in the predawn gloom as she waited in her berth. A light burned at the entry port at the end of the gangway, and a glow from the bridge revealed the outline of the officer of the watch.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine and Ahn-Kha walked up the gangplank.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nA duty officer came to attention. “Mr. Rowan, sir,” the CP said with just enough briskness to prove that he had not been sleeping. The man did not acknowledge Ahn-Kha.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine looked forward and aft. Ahn-Kha’s labor team lay in a snoring heap at the stern. Frowning, he turned on Ahn-Kha.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“If your gang is going to sleep like that on deck, you might as well get them some bedding,” he said. “You have permission to get it out of ship’s stores.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Sir, thank you, sir,” Ahn-Kha said, giving a quick bow.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe duty snorted. “Hope they wash it afterwards. We got enough bugs already.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nFor’ard, Valentine saw the red glow of a cigarette. The Chief sat on a stool, his legs up on the rail and an ankle comfortably cradled in a machine-gun mount, watching the rain fall. In a complement of more than eighty, Valentine’s confidants consisted of the Grog next to him and the Chief by the rail. He moved forward. Obviously the Chief was waiting for him to return.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Good evening, Captain Rowan,” the Chief murmured as Valentine approached. The Cat paused and rested his elbows on the rail, looking out at the drizzle. Chief Engineer Land-berg, like Valentine, had a strong dash of Native American blood in him, giving his title an ethnic twist which he bore with good humor. Though not a tall man, he had a wide wrestler’s torso supported by pillarlike legs. Unlike his body, his face was soft and rounded, a textbook example of the kind of face described as “apple-cheeked.” The Chief had been an informer for Southern Command since his youth, but until this run limited his service to simple intelligence-gathering.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe rain had washed the air clean of the usual fetid river odors. All Valentine could smell was the vaguely metallic tang of the ship, new paint, and the Chief’s burning tobacco.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“What’s the matter, Chief, can’t sleep?” Valentine looked back over his shoulder. The sentry probably couldn’t hear them over the weather, but no sense taking chances.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“No, the sound of rain on this biscuit tin keeps me awake sometimes, so I just come up and watch it fall.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“How’s that fuel pump coming? I’d really like to get under way. The men are getting anxious.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nLandburg looked up, swallowed. Valentine gave him a nod.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“They are, huh?”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe engineer pinched his lower lip between thumb and forefinger when overhauling a problem. He would pull out his lower lip then release it so it hit his upper Up and teeth with a tiny plip. “Well, I reckon good news shouldn’t wait”\u2014plip. “I got sick of waiting on the part, so I found something I could modify with just a little machining. I’ll try it out right now, if you want”\u2014plip\u2014”and we can let the captain know if it works. These delays have been driving the old man nuts.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Good work, Chief.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine exhaled tiredly and left the Chief to finish his tobacco and thoughts. He was committed now. By this time tomorrow, he would be at sea, with only Ahn-Kha and the Chief set against the captain and crew, backed up by the Kurian system that controlled them. Were it not for the rocksteady support of Ahn-Kha, as imperturbable as a mountain, and the Chief’s wily aid, his quest would have foundered long ago.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nHe climbed one of the metal staircases running up the castle side to the bridge and asked the watch officer to call him at dawn, and retired to his shared cabin. Originally only he and the captain were given their own cabins, but after he saw the crowded conditions on board, he invited Lieutenant Post to share his cabin. Post got quietly drunk each night, duty or no, and Valentine felt for him after hearing some of the gibes hurled with casual viciousness by the other wardroom members.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nHe looked down at Post, a sleeping ruin of what must once have been a physical archetype of a man. His six-three frame didn’t fit on the bed, from his salt-and-pepper hair to rarely washed feet, breathing in the restless, shallow sleep of alcoholic oblivion. As usual, he hadn’t bothered to undress before turning in, and would attend to his duties tomorrow in a wrinkled uniform, permanent stains marking the armpits and back. Post ignored even the captain’s comments about his appearance, but in some fit of contrariness shaved each morning after Valentine had once privately mentioned over coffee that he would have a terrible time keeping his marines clean shaved if his lieutenant sprouted three days’ worth of stubble.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine sat on his untouched cot and began to remove his shoes. Above him, a railed shelf held his meager collection of books. Father Max’s gilt-edged Bible\u2014the old Northern Minnesota priest had raised him after his family’s murder, and died of pneumonia while he was training Foxtrot Company. The Padre had willed the aged tome to him. It had arrived while he and Duvalier were seeking the Twisted Cross on the Great Plains. Next to the Bible were his battered old Livy histories, brought down when he first joined up with the Cause eight years ago. He owned copies of Clausewitz’s On War and a Chinese Army translation of Sun Tzu, volumes he’d had to study at the military college in Pine Bluff, Arkansas, as he’d been studying for his commission. His American Civil War histories were next: Sam Wafkins’s Company Aytch and Frisch’s Lincoln: Leadership to Liberty. Then came his little collection of fiction. Water-ship Down, its yellowed pages stitched together and ironically rebound in rabbit skin\u2014given to him as a welcome-home gift by the craftsman, a Wolf named Gonzalez who’d survived their ill-fated courier mission to Lake Michigan in 2065. Next to it, and in much better shape, was a recent hardcover of the complete set of the Sherlock Holmes stories. Then there was his latest acquisition, a copy of Gone with the Wind bought at a New Orleans bookstore. He’d seen his fellow infiltrator Duvalier reading it last year while he was undergoing Coastal Marine training in Biloxi, Mississippi. Shocked to find her so deep into such a brick of a book, he’d made some comment about the four-color cover. “Ever read it?” she asked. When he admitted that he hadn’t, she told him not to offer an opinion out of ignorance. Sensing a challenge when he heard one, he sat down with it his first free day, intending to mock it and her\u2014but within twenty minutes was so captivated that he went out and treated himself to a bottle of cognac to enjoy with the epic.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe rest of the shelf held mostly unread Kurian propaganda and service bulletins.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThere was a quiet knock at the door.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Naturally,” Valentine said to himself and two hundred pounds of alcoholic stupor a leg’s length away. He rose and opened the door.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nA twelve-year-old boy in a uniform two sizes too big for him stood in the corridor. The crew called him and his twin brother Peaone and Peatwo, being identical twins sent to sea in the care of their uncle, one of the petty officers. The captain, sick of not being able to tell them apart, flipped a coin and had all the hair shaved from Peaone’s young head. Under a messy shock of sun-white hair, Peatwo looked up at Valentine with piercing blue eyes.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Sir, the captain’s passing the word for you, Mr. Rowan. He wants to see you in his cabin.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n‘Tell the captain I’m coming.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Aye aye, sir,” Peatwo said, turning and moving six feet up the passageway toward the captain’s door. The captain was not the sort of man to just knock on the wall or come himself.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine retied his boots, wishing he had had just five minutes out of them. He walked the short distance to the captain’s cabin. He smoothed out his uniform unconsciously and knocked.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Come,” a sharp voice answered.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nCaptain Saunders fancied himself a species of tough old seahawk, but to Valentine, he seemed more like a rather aged rooster. The heavy wattles hanging under his chin were hardly hawklike, and the full head of gray hair that was the captain’s pride and joy was brushed up into a bantam’s pompadour. Perhaps something hawkish flickered in the stare of his hard hazel eyes, between which a beak of a nose matching that of the mightiest of eagles, if not a toucan, arched out in its Roman majesty.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“You passed the word for me, sir?” Valentine asked. The captain was in one of his work-all-night fits, and Valentine tried his best to look alert.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Ahh, Captain Rowan. Are the marines ready to go to sea?”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Of course, sir.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Good. You’ll be glad to know we’ll be leaving in the morning\u2014the fuel pump is repaired. I had to light a fire under the Chief, but if properly motivated, the man can work wonders.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine blanked his expression. He looked around at the small day cabin. The captain sat behind a massive desk that must have been brought in sections, then reassembled. It dwarfed the other chairs in the room. A few pictures, all of Captain Saunders in various stages of his career or of ships he had officered, decorated the walls. “Glad to hear it, sir. The waiting has been hard.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“It’s finally over. Keen to get to sea, I hope? Ready for the smell of burning sail?”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“At your order, sir. One thing though, sir. I still haven’t had any luck finding a reliable team of rangers. Something must be going on inland. I’ve tried through channels and I’ve tried out of channels, but all I can find are kids or old men,” he said, more than half-telling the truth for once. “The Grog labor team is a combat squad on paper. I’d like to just keep them, sir.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“What about quartering them? We’re crowded enough\u2014 the men won’t share with Grogs.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“We can rig some kind of shelter in the well deck, sir. Tents would do.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nCaptain Saunders thought for a moment. “Very well, they can eat the leftovers. Stretch the stores. I understand Grogs aren’t too particular. Put that foreman of theirs in charge of squaring them away. I’d like to depart at dawn, and you’ll be welcome on the bridge at six a.m. We’ll take her out right after breakfast.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nClose to two hours of sleep! Valentine sagged in relief. “Thank you, sir.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“One thing, though, Captain Rowan. I’d like you and the exec to do a final weapons inventory. You’ll do your marines and the small arms locker, and he’ll cover the heavy weapons. Wouldn’t want to reach Jamaica and find your men’s rifles had been left dockside by accident. ‘For the want of a nail,’ am I right?”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Yes, sir.” Valentine said, the prospect of sleep evaporating like a desert mirage. “Speaking of small arms, I had to give over my revolver for barter for some parts the Chief needed. I’ll need a new pistol from the ship’s arms.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Rowan, you have to learn to throw your weight a little more. Greasing palms with your sidearms … Still, if it helped get us to sea, I’m grateful. Anyway, get that inventory done. That was item one, business. Item two is pleasure: I’d like your company at dinner tonight. A tradition of mine, to celebrate the beginning of what we all hope will be a successful cruise. Mr. Post is invited, too, of course. Number One uniforms, please. That will encourage your lieutenant to clean himself up.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” Valentine said.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“That’s all for now. See to your men, Rowan.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Aye aye, sir.” <\/span>
\nValentine shut the cabin door softly behind him and began his day’s work.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nHe hardly noticed the ship pulling away from the dock and moving downriver, so busy was he with final preparations. The executive officer, Lieutenant Worthington, started on the heavy weapons inventory then begged off as the engines were turned over to attend to duties on the bridge.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine, who had little to do with the actual handling of the ship, was glad to be rid of him and offered to finish Wor-thington’s part of the barely begun job. The exec, though two years older than he, had not seen much action and assumed Valentine to be a man of vast experience, to be a captain of marines in his mid-twenties. He had the annoying habit of wanting particulars of the various real\u2014and faked\u2014incidents in Valentine’s “Captain Rowan” dossier. Valentine did not wish to discuss the faked events out of fear of slipping up on some detail, and the memories of the real incidents seen from the sidelines in the service of Kur troubled him too much to want to talk about them for the entertainment of a callow fellow officer.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nInventory and inspection done, he just had time to change into his best uniform before dinner.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nNaturally, the dinner began with a toast over the cloth-covered folding table that had been set up for the meal. Worthington raised his glass of wine, an import brought all the way from Western Mexico. The captain and exec sat opposite each other, stiff in their crisp black uniforms, the captain’s solid-gold buttons engraved with illuminati eye-and-anchor. Valentine and Post in their brass-buttoned navy blue filled the other places on the square table.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“The Thunderbolt, Queen of the Gulf,” Worthington intoned as they raised their glasses. Saunders sipped with a connoisseur’s thoughtful appreciation; Post drained his glass in a single motion; Worthington barely tasted his. Valentine took a welcome mouthful, grateful just to be off his feet.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe wine hit him hard, and he fought to keep from falling asleep in his soup. A winter salad followed. The captain and the exec did most of the talking, discussing the pilot’s navigation of the treacherous, shifting sandbars at the mouth of the Mississippi and the balance of the stores on the ship. Valentine was content to eat his main course, a fresh filet of Texas beef smothered in onions and mushrooms, in exhausted silence. Post, who had been encouraged by Valentine to mend his best uniform and press it to celebrate the freedom of being at sea and away from the humid air of New Orleans, finished the bottle and started on another of less illustrious vintage.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Captain Rowan?” Captain Saunders’s voice broke in through the mists of Valentine’s fatigue.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Sir?” Valentine asked, looking to his left at the captain.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Lieutenant Worthington asked you a question. About the Grogs?”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“My apologies, Lieutenant,” Valentine said, bringing himself back to the dinner with an effort. “I’m not myself tonight. What was the question?”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Seasickness, Captain Rowan?” Worthington asked, a smile that was half sneer creeping across his face. “We’re still on the river.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Probably.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“I just wanted your opinion on Uncle’s Grogs,” the exec continued. “We were really hoping for some rangers for the inshore scouting work.” The men on the ship called Ahn-Kha “Uncle,” and Ahn-Kha was too well mannered among their enemies to correct them. In the Ozark Free Territory, he would have flattened someone who could not be bothered to learn to pronounce his name correctly.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Uncle says that they are combat trained. I’ll vouch for his word.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“It’s your responsibility, of course,” Captain Saunders said.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nBy now Valentine knew that the phrase was Saunders-speak meaning that if the Grogs failed in some way, the blame would be passed to Valentine.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“I’m sure we can keep them busy on the ship,” the exec said. “I’ve never had any experience with Grogs in combat. I’ve heard they leave something to be desired.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Properly armed and with a decent leader, I’ll put them up against anyone,” Valentine said. “I’ve seen them in action, once they sink their teeth into a fight, the only way to stop them is to kill them.” He did not add to the speech that his experience mostly came from fighting against the Gray Ones, rather than with them.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“But as scouts, Rowan, as scouts?” the exec asked.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Like dogs who can shoot guns. Fine marksmen. Good eyes and ears. Not a whole lot smarter than a dog, though. Decision making isn’t their forte; they’ll come back and hoot at you to let you know they’ve found something. Uncle can make more sense out of their tongue than I can.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Very well, Captain Rowan,” Saunders said. “That settles my mind, knowing you are confident in the matter. I’m sure they’ll be an asset.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe rest of the evening passed in the captain telling stories to his captive audience. Valentine leaned back in his chair, keeping his eyes open while his brain turned itself off. He shifted his gaze to Post, who had restricted his conversation to a few polite phrases during dinner. His lieutenant remained silent, failing to murmur appreciatively at Saunders’s yarns. Post finished the second bottle of wine before turning to the brandy.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u00a0<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nChapter Three<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u00a0<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe Caribbean: An empty, brilliant blue sky is mirrored by an equally blue sea. The gunboat has left the rainy gloom of New Orleans behind her, pushing her hardened prow southeast into the Gulf under the power of her eleven-foot propeller at a steady ten knots. Diesel-electric engines provide the motive force for the propeller, giving her a throbbing, piston-driven heartbeat and sending sky-staining wisps of black carbon into the air from the central smokestack. Below the exhaust she leaves behind a trail of churned water over a mile long, flanked by the low waves of her wake.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe gray ship with her bleached white decks flies no flag, letting her armored bulk identify her, leaving the mouth of the Mississippi coasters and fishing ships scattered, parting like an antelope herd with a lion trotting through. The smaller boats fear an inspection shakedown or impressment of valuable crew. But once in the Gulf proper, only a two-mast schooner approached, and even that turned tail and put the wind to her quarter before binoculars and telescopes allowed positive identification.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe Kurian Masters of the Earth are not a sea-minded race. They avoid blue water and leave its security and commerce to their Quislings. There are few armed vessels anymore. The old navies of the world have been broken up for scrap and spare parts. The great tankers, merchant ships, and passenger vessels now lie in their last moorings, giant rolling stones come to barnacle-encrusted rest as the world fell apart. A few have been put to other uses: agricultural workers in what is left of Florida after the Great Wave that washed across it in 2022 go home from oyster beds, crab farms, and orange groves each night to cruise ships, living in cramped squalor under the last vestiges of the vessels’ glitzy luxury of\u00a0 <\/span>former days.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nAs the sea is out of reach of the Kurians and their Reapers, a loose Confederation of the Waves exists, nomadic oceangoing caravans of anything from a\u00a0 <\/span>few sailing ships to hundreds, visiting land only in the most unoccupied areas for supplies. But the sea is a cruel provider. She takes her toll in lives, as well, probably more than the same number of people would suffer under the Kur. Some of these bands have turned pirate, raiding rather than trading for necessities the sea and isolated coastline cannot provide. When their depredations become too troublesome, an armed ship is sent to deal with the menace. While they have little use for it, the Kurians won’t let a trifling thing like the sea stand between them and vengeance.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nIt was the third day out, and life on the plodding Thunderbolt had already turned into routine. The first light of dawn saw the Grogs hosing down and cleaning the decks. They devoured their morning fare with work-sharpened appetite. The cook, his mate, and the officers’ steward then cleaned up the kitchen and prepared the meals for everyone else. The men tolerated the presence of the Grogs on the ship, especially since they took on so many of the petty labors, but drew the line at eating with them, or indeed sharing the same space. Grogs in tight quarters smell (even to noses not sharpened by the Lifeweavers) like a kennelful of mating ferrets, so they lived on deck in shelters rigged to the bulkheads of the forward well deck.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nWith their routine duties and weapons drill done, Ahn-Kha gave them leisure to fish. The rod-and-reel obsession began when a pair of flying fish broke the surface, leaving furrows in the calm ocean in their dash away from the ship.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe Grogs hooted until Ahn-Kha reported that his team wanted to know if the “sea chickens” were good to eat and how they could catch them. Both Valentine and Ahn-Kha were strangers to deep-sea fishing, so he asked around the crew until one old bluewater man, less fastidious than the rest as to who he associated with, descended to the “Grog deck” to teach them how to use the ship’s store of fishing poles and reels. Afterwards, the Grogs spent every spare moment fashioning lures, rods, and reels. Valentine prevailed on the captain to slow the ship to a crawl for an hour a day, when the garbage would be dumped overboard and the Grogs, wild with excitement foreign to human fishermen, pulled in all they could catch. It was just as well, for Grog appetites could tax the ship’s stores on the three-month patrol.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine’s particular responsibility was the Coastal Marines. The Coastal Patrols looked on the marines as only one rung above the Grogs on the evolutionary ladder, and a short rung at that: gun-toting, useless ballast for most of the trip. Valentine put the rivalry to good use, organizing physical contests between them. Races around the deck, arm-wrestling matches, and boxing contests occurred each night, giving the two sides a chance to scream their lungs out supporting their contestant and abusing the opponent. Not all the diversions were physical; singing and musical entertainment were often a spontaneous part of the after-dinner leisure hours. As Valentine stood next to the Oerlikon on the aft gun deck, listening to the music produced by an improvising group of players and singers, he almost forgot these men were technically his sworn enemies. Under different circumstances, he might have been ordered to sneak aboard the ship and plant a bomb that would blow musician, wrestler, and fishing instructor to bloody shreds. All the while, a long line of stormclouds on his mental horizon, came the worries about what he had to do and how to go about doing it.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine felt for the sailors. The captain believed him- self an expert disciplinarian, when in fact his rules verged on pointless sadism. He had an elaborate system of uncomfortable punishments for the last man out of his bunk on a watch, the last man on deck for inspection, the last man in line at mess call. Since physics required someone to be last, Valentine thought the practice cruel: spending a watch-on-watch at the top of the old communications tower without food or water for being shoved out of the way coming up a hatchway improved no one. Of course, the captain’s distemper was exacerbated by the ship’s radio breaking down after leaving port. Valentine pointed out that their orders demanded radio silence until the pirates were dealt with, so the loss of communications made no difference, but Saunders just grumbled out his familiar “want of a nail” liturgy again.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe executive officer was even worse. Wishing to emulate his captain, thereby showing himself fit for command, Worthington out-Heroded Herod in his punishments.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine and Post kept their marines busy, and as far from the eyes of Saunders and Worthington as the ship would allow.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine felt nervous, bottled up. If he’d been on land, he would have quartered logs and chopped kindling, but there was no firewood to cut on a gunboat at sea. After they grabbed a quick dinner with the marines, they returned to the cabin and undressed. Valentine picked up one of his lieutenant’s bottles and sniffed the mouth. It smelled like rubbing alcohol stored in an old boot. “Will, why do you do that to yourself?”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe two officers kept to first names when out of uniform.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“I’m still trying to figure out why you don’t.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine marked the tiny blue veins crisscrossing Post’s nose and forehead. “Maybe I want to live a few more years. The way you’re going, your liver will abandon ship or you’ll get drummed out. Either way, you’ll be finished.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Hear hear,” Post agreed, refilling his glass, his thick features under the salt-and-pepper hair taking on a red flush. “I figure you for the type to step into the shower, close the curtain, and blow your brains out with your service revolver. The system’s rotten, and you know it same as I.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nPost either trusted Valentine or did not care about being turned in. Either way, from their first days sharing a cabin, they began to tentatively express to each other unorthodox opinions about their Kurian masters. But neither had yet expressed it so directly.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Did you lose someone, Will?”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“I was married once, yeah. Close to six years ago now. That’s why I tried so hard for officer\u2014it helped us get better housing. But it all went wrong.” He took another gulp. “Not worth talking about. You’re lucky, your wife gives you someone to live for. Not sure I even want to live for me anymore.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine nerved himself for the plunge. “She’s not my wife, Will. The license is forged.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nPost looked up at him. “Yeah? What, you pretending for some reason? Might as well get married, that way you don’t need false documents to get your allotments. If it goes wrong, just toss her, plenty other officers have done it, hasn’t hurt their careers one bit.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine opened the door briefly to check the corridor. He shut the door to their cabin again and sat down on the bed opposite Post. “Will, everything about me is faked. Her, my commission and service record from up north, even the name ‘Rowan’s not my own. My name is David Valentine.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nPost turned over in his bunk, lying on his side. He put the bottle on the floor between them and took another sip from his glass. “Okay, you’ve got a false name. I don’t get it. What is it then, an escape attempt?” Post asked, also lowering his voice. “Damn elaborate one. You’d better pick the right island\u2014go to the wrong one, and the residents will eat you alive. I mean that literally.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“I need the Thunderbolt, and I’m going to take it,” Valentine said. He let the words sink in for a moment. Post’s face rippled from blank astonishment to incredulity, then back again to astonishment as the idea took hold.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“The original plan was to try with a small group of men I would bring on board,” he continued. “That didn’t work out, so I’m going to make do with what’s already on the ship. The Chief is on our side, and so is Ahn-Kha, the Grog foreman.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Our side? Whose side is that?” Post finally asked, his liquor-lubricated train of thought finally leaving the platform.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Southern Command. I work for one of the Freeholds, the one in the Ozarks and Ouachitas. And I’d like you to join us, if you’ll risk it.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nPost reached for the bottle and took a drink, ignoring his glass. “The sun’s gone to your head, Dave. What are you going to try to do, turn the crew? They didn’t get, this job by being unreliable. Plus they have families back home to think about.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“The families will be taken care of,” Valentine countered. “It’s in the works right now. In a few more days, they’ll be on their way out of the KZ. One of our Cats is on the inside.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Cats?”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine’s hypersensitive ears searched the adjoining rooms and corridor. Someone moved through the passageway, and he paused before continuing in his low monotone. “It’s a nickname, I guess. It’s a long story, but the Kur and the Grogs aren’t the only ones here from Elsewhere. Earth is part of a larger war, and other worlds are involved. The Kurians are what you might call a faction of a people called the Lifeweavers.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Their society split thousands and thousands of years ago when the Lifeweavers on a planet called Kur discovered how to become immortal through… I call it vampirism. They’ve been at war ever since. Way back then, the Kurians came here, and the Lifeweavers picked some people to hunt the things brought over from Kur. They explained to the primitive men that they were placing the spirit of Wolves or Bears or Lions or what have you into the warriors they chose. I still don’t know what they do exactly or how. All I can compare it to is turning on something inside you, like a light going on once you close the circuit. There was a hiatus lasting about six thousand years when the Lifeweavers won and Kur’s transportation network got closed down. We turned into a civilization in the gap. Then they came back, and the Lifeweavers appeared again to help us.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine looked at Post. He wondered if his lieutenant thought him a lunatic, or simply an imaginative liar.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“I’ve heard rumors,” Post finally whispered. “Weird stuff about men who can become invisible, or breathe water, or wrestle a Reaper to the ground. Is that what you can do?”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“None of those,” Valentine said, smiling. “I can see and hear better, and they did something to quicken my reflexes. But that doesn’t help me with this, at least now. The best hearing in the world isn’t going to help me take this ship. But you could.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine felt relieved for some reason. Something had felt wrong in keeping up the pretense in front of Post. Having a man he instinctively liked believing him a tool of the Kurians grated.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“I’m not the only discontented one, just the only one that shows it. But you tell most of the men what you just told me, they’ll claim they’re in with you and two minutes later go straight to the captain. Claim the Terrorist Bounty. It’s big enough to live on for years, if you catch a real one.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Post, in the KZ the ‘rest of your life’ is whatever the Kurian in charge wants it to be. In the Ozarks, you’re not livestock, you’re an individual. Part of a community. It’s not Old World, at least not in material terms. But the old beliefs are there. Life has value.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Some community,” Post said thickly, his rotgut kicking in. “I’ve heard you folks are so hungry that when winter comes, you live off the dead.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThis was not the first time Valentine had heard that grisly rumor. He was happy to gainsay it rather than cite invented facts to support it. “Not true. I will say we don’t eat as well as a lot of folks in the KZ, but then we’re not being fattened for the slaughter, either. I’m offering you a way out of all this, Will. A real escape\u2014not like the bottle you’re using now. More, a chance to fight back. You’ll be with men and women working to smash the system.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nPost picked up the nearly empty bottle and looked at the mouth in a sidelong way, as if it were playing some kind of tune only he could hear. He shut his eyes and opened them again, staring straight at Valentine.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nHe stood up, a little unsteadily, and extended his hand. “It ain’t going to work, Dave. But maybe you won’t die alone.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThey shook on it.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nA long moment passed, and Post sat back down in his bunk. He wiped his face, turning the gesture into a long, thoughtful pull at his chin.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine slipped back into his pants and shoes and left the cabin for a moment, passed the word for the officer’s steward to bring some sandwiches to his cabin. He stepped out onto the afterdeck, felt the engines through the rail. The Grogs were hurrying to finish up their duties, looking forward to an evening’s rest, and off-duty marines and sailors lounged around the deck, playing games of card and dice, or sitting absorbed in wood carving, reading, or just talking. He smelled the men’s dinners below, the sea air, and the oily smell of the diesels.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nWhen he returned to the cabin, Post had his footlocker open and was unwrapping a burnished steel pistol from a terry-cloth rag. A matching gun lay on his bed.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“I wasn’t planning on moving this minute,” Valentine said, shutting the door behind him.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Hope not. I’m too drunk to shoot straight. Thought you might want something to replace that .44 wheelgun you lost. Some mementos of my bright and shining youth.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nHe handed an automatic to Valentine. Its straightforward lines and large, businesslike grip made it instantly identifiable. “A Colt 1911 model?”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“One of the variants. Got a .45 shell that should stop just about anyone, good and permanent. Bought this pair fresh out of Officers’ Training.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine tested the slide. The weapon was in fine condition.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Take one, Dave. It shoots faster than that revolver ever could.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Happy to,” Valentine said. Post also presented him with magazines of freshly loaded ammunition for the weapon. “Are the bullets reliable?”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Better than most,” Post said. “Not service issue\u2014they come from a gunsmith in the old town. He’s a good man, as long as you treat him right. I heard that a major went out one time, threw his weight around to get a free gun, and damned if his pistol didn’t misfire just when he needed it.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe sandwiches arrived, accompanied by a gumbo soup made of the scraps of the fresh meats brought out of New Orleans. They pulled out a mini-desk between their bunks and ate in thoughtful silence, mopping up the remnants of the soup with the ship’s fresh bread. For the first time since Valentine started eating with Post, his lieutenant did not wash down his meal with half the contents of one of the iodine-colored bottles.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Can you tell me what you need the ship for?” Post asked.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine had committed himself, and if he could trust Post with his life, he could trust him with the few details that he knew. Ahn-Kha would take over if he were killed, but if by chance both of them\u2014<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“I’m to find a stash of old weapons. I don’t know what kind. Then I’m supposed to get them back, either going through Galveston or farther south by Mexico. That’s the reason for the armed ship: it’s supposed to help at the island, and then make sure nothing can challenge us on the way back. There’s a man in Southern Texas who’ll take it from there.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Why don’t they tell you what it is?”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“I think the danger is that if the Kurians found out about it, they’d either take it themselves or destroy it.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine heard someone in the passageway outside, and held up his hand for silence.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Where is it?” Post asked after Valentine had dropped his hand.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Haiti.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Haiti?” Post choked. “Jesus, I figured it was the old naval base at Guantanamo. Sir, Haiti’s hell’s own greenhouse. It’s pretty fuckin’ big, and I’ve never heard of anyone getting inland out of range of the ship’s guns and coming back to tell about it.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“I know roughly where on the island I’m supposed to go. There’s some kind of traitor in the Kurian organization there who’ll teach us about it. I know it will be bulky\u2014that’s why we need a ship and so many men for the job.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“There’s an awful lot of ifs in your plan, if you don’t mind me saying, sir.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“I know.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“I’m not asking you to follow me inland. I was counting on you to run things on the ship until I return.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Sir, you want a weapon, think about this ship. She’s well armored, carries a good-size gun, and you could put enough men on her to shut down water traffic from Louisiana to Florida.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Any other time you’d be right, Will. But they tell me that whatever is waiting on Haiti is something that could really change the equation between us and the Kurians. Don’t you think the risk is worth a chance to make a difference?”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Some difference. Seems to me, the difference will be the one between being alive and being dead. Not that I really care,” he added. To his credit, Valentine thought, he did not sound convinced of the last.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nFrom that dinner on, Valentine did not see Post take another drink. His lieutenant suffered unvoiced agonies in silence, driving himself to keep up an appearance of stability in front of others, only to flee to the head or the cabin when the shaking in his hands got to be too much for him. Valentine never asked him to quit drinking; in fact, with the mental strain he was more than a little tempted to try the contents of the squared-off bottles himself after retiring at night. Valentine found a growing new respect for Post that replaced his previous feelings of pity. He admired his lieutenant for keeping the pretense of normality despite the torrents of sweat pouring out of him and God-knew-what other torments to his body.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe next evening Valentine arranged for a meeting in the arms locker with the Chief, Post, Ahn-Kha, and himself, purportedly to determine which weapons Ahn-Kha’s Grogs would carry in their duties. The captain had suggested a brace of dusty shotguns, captured in some action long ago and forgotten. After viewing the weapons in question, Valentine asked that the Chief take a look at them and see if the ship’s machine shop could bring them back to usability. Thus the conspirators were able to get a half-hour or so of privacy within the ship for a meeting of their group. Squeezing Ahn-Kha’s bulk into the room proved to be only the first difficulty in a long line of challenges before them.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“We should make landfall off Jamaica tomorrow afternoon or early evening,” Valentine began. “The captain plans to head straight into the harbor they are thought to use the next morning. God knows what might happen in the fight, so I think we have to move before then.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“How about we go into action and rig a shell to blow in the bridge during the fight?” the Chief suggested. “The crew will think the pirates just got a lucky shot, and Mr. Rowan assumes command. Looks legit.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Who knows what damage the explosion would do?” Post asked, sweat running from his hairline under the hot work-lamp. The marine was balling his hands into fists and rubbing them against his thighs under the weapon-strewn table.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Maybe we go aground. So much for the Thunderbolt. I doubt the pirates would fix her up and take her to Haiti to oblige us.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Yes, and we might not get both. The exec will probably be at the main armament. I think it’s better if we do it before. Offer the men an alternative to the fight,” Valentine said. “Freedom. That’s a powerful persuader.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Cut off the head, and the body will be yours,” Ahn-Kha said, quoting a Grog proverb from his place, squeezed between the rifle racks filling up one whole end of the room. “We have much of the head of the ship here. We remove the captain and Worthington. Then we let the petty officers know who is in charge. They will do as they are told.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Ahn-Kha is right as far as the captain and exec go,” Valentine agreed. “But I want to give everyone else a real choice. We assemble the crew and give each man the option: join us, or be put off the ship in a boat with food, water, even weapons. They can take their chances on Jamaica or try to sail for the coast. All they have to do is go north\u2014they’ll hit Kurian territory soon enough.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Will you tell them why you need the ship?” the Chief asked.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Can’t risk it until the captain and the exec disappear with the crew that want to follow them. I have no idea how long we would be on Haiti. The last thing we need is him trying to hunt us down.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nPost shook his head. “You’ll lose half of them. Maybe more. We might not be left with enough to keep this bucket moving.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“I think a lot of them signed on for sea service to get away from the Reapers. You can tell by their talk, their interests. They’re free spirits, not conscripts.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThey hashed out the rest of the plan while working on the shotguns. They decided they would let a few subordinates they felt could be trusted know about the plan at the last minute. Post felt that he knew two marines well enough to say they would follow him, and the Chief insisted that his engine-room crew would sign on to a man. Ahn-Kha said the Grogs would do as he ordered; few of the humans on board could even make themselves understood to the creatures beyond simple instructions.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThey would take the ship in the dark after making landfall at Jamaica. The captain planned, as soon as he got his bearings, to move east along Jamaica’s north coast and arrive at the pirate bay with the dawn. Around midnight, Ahn-Kha would go below and guard the arms locker with his Grogs, also controlling the nearby hatches to the engine room and generator room. The Chief would kill the power when this was accomplished. Post and the marines he hoped to recruit would go to the small store of “ready arms” on deck, and mount machine guns fore and aft covering the main decks from the gun platforms. It would be Valentine’s job to take the bridge,” doing whatever was necessary to keep Captain Saunders and Worthington from issuing any orders. With that accomplished, Valentine would assemble all hands on the deck and offer them their choice.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThere was some dispute over what to do with the captain and the executive officer.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“You’ll probably have to kill them, sir,” Post predicted.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“I’d rather not. I’ll get a pair of handcuffs on them and toss them in the motor launch. Or the lifeboat, depending on how many of the crew decide to go with them.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“It will come to killing,” Ahn-Kha said. “They will turn the crew against you, if they can.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Handcuffs and gags, then. I don’t want their blood on our hands unless it is a matter of us or them.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine spent the next day lost in his duties, so much so that he did not go up on deck as they caught their first sight of the blue Jamaican coast. In preparation for the next morning’s activities, which he hoped would never be carried out, he and his NCOs attached reflective tape to the backs of their green-and-black camouflage battle-dress. Someone joked that Irish, a Coastal Marine corporal in their complement, should form his into the shape of a bull’s-eye, sincehe’d managed to get himself shot four times in the course of his duties, and even Post laughed. At the midday meal, Ahn-Kha and the marines held an informal meeting in the crew’s mess, where they went over the destruction the Thunderbolt was to visit on the pirates. Saunders hoped to reach the harbor before midnight.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nHis imagination continued to get the better of him as the afternoon wore on. It seemed the entire ship crackled with electricity, so tense were the men and their officers in anticipation of the fight tomorrow.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“I hope the Chief is doing better than I am,” Post reported, joining Valentine at sunset at the ship’s starboard rail. They watched the thickly forested slopes of Jamaica slide by like a rolling backdrop in a stage play. Post still trembled, and his shirt was soaked with sweat, but his face seemed more animated and his eyes brighter. “I tried sounding out a few of the men, but I chickened out at the last moment. I just couldn’t bring myself to say what we’re planning, the moment didn’t seem right. I kept thinking about a Hood at my throat, got so as I could almost feel teeth. About all I was able to do was warn them to be ready for anything. Sorry, Dave.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine shrugged. ‘Too late to worry. I talked to Ahn-Kha and the Chief\u2014we’re going to switch the time to twenty-two hundred. The men are supposed to be assembled an hour later, ready to climb into the boats for the landing. That way Ahn-Kha leading his Grogs to the arms locker won’t seem so unusual\u2014they’re supposed to go ashore first anyway.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThey forced themselves to act normally at dinner with the men. Valentine sat with one group he called his “deadeyes,” the four best marksmen in the culled company. Post ate with the noncommissioned officers at the other long table in the galley. Though he had no appetite, Valentine forced himself to eat mouthful after mouthful of the traditional preaction steak and eggs. The beef was stringy and tough, but even the Thunderbolt’s indifferent cook’s mate could not ruin the eggs. Valentine forced himself to have seconds on the latter, washing it down with glassfuls of faintly orange-tasting sweetened water that he guessed to be some concoction trying to pass as orange juice. He joked with the men, listening to service stories and telling a few of his own, like me time a supply officer fed an entire harem of young women in the loft of a marine warehouse, which grew into a thriving bordello over the years. When caught by a visiting inspector, he argued that pimping a whorehouse fell under his duties, since one of his official responsibilities was listed on bis duty sheet as “recreation procurement officer.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nWith dinner finished, the marines broke off to leave the galley to the sailors, and Valentine retired to his shared cabin.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nHe looked around the close, bare room. A single locker held all his clothes, and a footlocker, the rest of his belongings. He spent an hour in a long shower and shave, and changed into his heavy cotton battle-dress. The combat fatigues, acquired from a tailor in Mobile when he first entered the Coastal Marines, were a tiger-stripe mix of black and dark green, spotted here and there with blotches of dark gray. Heavy pockets hung like saddlebags from the side of each thigh on the pants, but the short officers’ tunic held only insignia and an expanding map pocket and a pencil-holder on one sleeve. He unlocked his chest and began to take out his equipment. He laced up his boots, traditional black service models, the leather softened and oiled by a year’s wear and care. His final wardrobe item was a nylon equipment vest with heavy bullet-stopping pads slipped into the liner and compass, flares, first-aid kit, matches, and whistle distributed amongst the pockets. Post’s .45 pistol went to his hip holster. He sank a machete into the sheath strapped across his back hanging over two canteens. Finally, he extracted the one item he brought out of the Ozarks, his old Soviet Russian PPD model submachine gun with the drum clip. It was a heavy-barreled, formidable-looking gun, restored by an old friend and given to him the summer he became a Cat three years ago.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nSlinging the gun and drawing comfort from its familiar weight, he made a slow circuit of the Thunderbolt’s central superstructure. Ahn-Kha had the Grogs gathered on the well deck, talking to them. The Golden One looked up at Valentine and cocked his ears up and forward, giving his broad head the momentary aspect of a bull: his friend’s equivalent of a thumbs-up. The gesture went to Valentine’s nerves like a fast-acting sedative. He looked out at the nearly empty aft decks and turned the last corner on the rectangular walkway. Post stood at the foot of one of the stairways going up to the bridge deck, idling next to the arms locker holding the machine gun for the forward mount.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine squeezed past and gave him a nod. “Ready?” Valentine asked.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Getting there. Sure makes you feel alive, doesn’t it. Like the whole world’s been turned up. Sounds, smells, everything. I never noticed all the waves before. A million of them\u2014”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Just take it easy, Will. Wait for me to go up the stairs\u2014 then get the gun. You checked it, right?”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Yes, it’s fine.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Just a few minutes longer. Ahn-Kha’s still talking to his team. They haven’t gone below yet.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nPost gripped the rail, the tendons in his forearms rising up under his tan skin. “You know why my wife lit out, Rowan\u2014er, Dave?”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“I might be able to guess. The system?”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“The system,” Post said. “She and I had a difference of opinion about it. She left. I eventually came round to her side, but only after her stuff had two years’ worth of dust on it.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nPost looked out at the ocean and the sinking moon. Valentine thought he saw the man’s lower lip tremble.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine leaned over, knocked his shoulder against Post’s. “One way or another, you’ll be clear of it soon.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“First, got to get rid of this shit,” Post said, tearing off his tunic. Buttons flew, clattering to the deck and falling with barely audible plops into the ocean. Post stood in his stained undershirt for a moment, as if coming to a decision. He wadded up his uniform coat and fed it to the all-consuming sea.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“If I’m going to buy it, I don’t want to go in their colors.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“I’ll get you a different one when we get back to free soil, if you’d like,” Valentine said. “Just try to live to claim it. I hope the exec doesn’t come down those stairs and see you like that. He might have a few questions about your tunic.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“I’ll pick him up and send him to look for it. He’s a bottom-feeder if there ever was one.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Could you do me a favor, Dave? If I don’t make it, maybe you can look up Gail in the Free Territory. She would have headed that way\u2014it’s an easier trip than going across Texas. She’s probably using her maiden name, Gail Stark. Tell her… just tell her about this.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Can do, Will.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Thanks, sir.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“See you at lights out.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Good luck, Dave,” Post said, offering his hand.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine shook it and went forward to look down at the well deck. It was empty. Ahn-Kha and his Grogs were already on their way to the arms locker and engine room. A nervous thrill sparked up his spine, bristling the hair at the back of his neck.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nHe chambered the first round in his gun and lightly ascended the stairs to the open deck just behind the wheel-house. As his head broke the level of the upper deck, he listened with “hard ears” to voices from the bridge.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“And when is this supposed to happen?” the captain said from somewhere on the bridge.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Early in the morning, sir. The ship’s power will be cut off, and that’s when they’ll take the ship,” Valentine heard a high-pitched voice say.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“It makes no sense,” Worthington’s voice exclaimed.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“They will be ashore by then, Grogs and marines, and Rowan will be with them.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Can’t argue it, there’s something afoot, that’s for certain,” Saunders said. “Damn, there always was something about Rowan I didn’t like. Haven’t I said so time and again, Lieutenant?”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nWorthington changed the subject. “I’ve already alerted the master-at-arms,” he said. “I didn’t know which marines to trust. Dortmund is bringing an armed guard up now, and he’s\u2014”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine’s worries cleared, as they always did when planning gave way to doing. All his questions were gone: it had become a matter of killing everyone on the bridge, and somehow holding the wheelhouse and upper deck through the coming confusion. The moon had disappeared below the horizon, leaving the ship lit only by the stars and its few running lights.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Halt!” Valentine heard a voice boom from the bottom of the staircase. “Unsling your weapon, sir, and don’t touch anything but the sling.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nHe turned to see Dortmund, three sailors lined up behind him, pistols pointed up at him. While he had been concentrating on the bridge, Dortmund had reached the bottom of the stairs without Valentine noticing. Valentine thanked God that Dortmund hadn’t shot first and questioned later. He obeyed the instructions, going so far as to crouch to put the gun on the stair below his feet, and readied himself for a leap\u2014<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u2014when the loud, deadly rattle of a machine gun roared from behind the sailors, filling the night with noise. Dortmund’s men fell forward, jerking spasmodically as if swept off their feet by an electrified broom. The hard plinking sound of bullets ricocheting off metal stairs and walls punctuated the sound of the slugs tearing through flesh, a noise that reminded some part of Valentine’s mind of eggs thrown against a wall. The four-petal blossom of the machine-gun’s muzzle flare lit Post’s snarling features as he fired the support weapon from his hip, using a thick leather strap to help him wield it.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nOne sailor went overboard with a cry; the others fell at the bottom of the stairs.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine retrieved his own gun before they hit the deck. Blood had been shed, and his hopes of a simple seizure of the ship were cut down as brutally as Dortmund and his henchmen. He peeked over the edge of the deck above, only to be met by a burst of bullets that zipped out to sea past his ear. Worthington was no fool; he had armed himself before going to the captain. Valentine had to get down to Ahn-Kha and his Grogs, so he would at least have a nucleus of armed men to command.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe lights died, and Valentine felt a change in the ship’s motion. The Chief had level-headedly proceeded with the plan upon hearing the firing above.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine backed down the stairs and joined Post, where his lieutenant covered the starboard side walkway from the base of the stairs.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“What the hell happened?” Post said. “Where did Dortmund come from?”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“One of the ship’s boys overheard something and went to the exec. We’ve got to get to the Grogs.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe ship’s public-address system squealed into static-filled life. “All hands, all hands, this is the captain speaking . . . .”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine grabbed Post by the arm and pulled him into the stairwell leading into the bowels of the ship, almost jerking him out of his shoes with the force of his movement. Two shots rang out from the top of the stairway, cutting the air where they stood seconds ago, as Saunders’s voice continued.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“… Captain Rowan of the Marines, Lieutenant Post, the Grogs, and an unknown number of others are attempting to mutiny. They are to be shot on sight. All hands to the aft deck, all hands to the aft deck.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Make a hole, damn it! Make a hole!” Valentine barked, exiting the stairway with Post in tow, waving his submachine gun to accentuate the threat as they pushed back sailors popping like magical rabbits into the narrow passageway. Somewhere around the T-junction corner ahead he heard Ahn-Kha’s bellow, barking out orders in the Grog patois. The captain’s voice continued to issue orders over the PA, including one to the dead Dortmund to report to the Oerlikon. An emergency light bathed the corridor in harsh shadows. Valentine turned a corner and caught sight of a knot of Grogs standing behind a small, bright spotlight pointed down the corridor. He shielded his eyes.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Ahn-Kha, it’s me and Post! Cut that light for a second.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe two men hustled toward the improvised barricade.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nA pistol fired from the darkness behind them, and Post grunted. He sagged against Valentine, who turned and fired up the passageway. Ahn-Kha leapt forward with apish agility, blocked the floodlight with his bulk, and put his mammoth arm around Post’s chest. The machine-gun clattered to the steel floor, but Post gripped the strap as Ahn-Kha dragged him backwards. Valentine backed down the corridor, but whoever fired stayed safely around the corner of the intersection at the end of the hall.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nHe reached the Grogs outside the arms locker. Ahn-Kha had improvised a barricade of mattresses and a wooden door, which the muscular Grogs still worked to construct as they shifted a beam to let them pass. Ahn-Kha carried Post into the arms locker and gently stretched him out onto the floor. Valentine knelt beside his lieutenant, who had blood staining the undershirt across his chest.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nPost groaned and coughed. “I can taste blood,” he said.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine found the wound, high enough on his chest to nearly be at the shoulder. He grabbed a first-aid kit off the wall and found a compress within. He applied the dressing to the softly pulsing hole. Noticing blood on the floor, he gently lifted Post and found another hole opposite.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Good news, Will. It went straight through.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Watch … out. The captain’ll have the marines on you in a minute.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Most of them won’t be armed. All they’ll have are whatever guns are scattered in the ship.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Stern. He’ll send men down the hatches.” Post was pale with pain, but still thinking clearly enough. His bravery gave Valentine heart.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“We’ve blocked everything off,” Ahn-Kha said from the doorway. “The Chief is welding the access hatches shut.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nA Grog hooted and fired toward the T-intersection forward. The shotgun blast sounded like a grenade explosion in the confined area of the metal passageway.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThey heard a clatter around the shadowed corner of the T-intersection facing the barricade. Ahn-Kha knelt behind the mattress-shielded door, the pump-action in his hands looking like a child’s toy.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Mr. Rowan?” a voice called down the hall. “It’s Partridge. I’ve got Went and Torres with me. What’s happening, sir?”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine exchanged a look with Ahn-Kha, and mouthed the word marines. “I don’t have time for the whole story, Party. But everything the captain said over the intercom is true. Post is with me. We are trying to take the ship.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“What’re you talking to him for?” a voice said from around the right-hand corner of the intersection.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Shut up, See-Pee. It’s our officer,” Valentine heard Torres growl.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“You planning on going into the Blue, sir?” Partridge continued, ignoring the byplay.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Something like that. It’s a life away from the Reapers to any man who comes with me.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“You move, and I’ll shoot you down,” the unknown voice from the right side of the T-intersection threatened.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Hey, what’re\u2014,” Partridge began, but the sound of shots cut him off. Valentine heard four shots in rapid succession, and the three marines appeared in the corridor, Torres and Went holding the wounded Partridge between them.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThey squinted in the glare of the spotlight, holding up their free hands. Torres had a revolver in his, and Went a rifle.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Bastards! You killed Delano!” someone yelled from around the corner as the marines approached the barricade.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nAhn-Kha plucked the wounded man over and bore him into the arms locker, and put him down next to Post. Valentine helped the other two. Torres followed Partridge, who had blood already soaking through the right side of his uniform.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“We’re with you, Mr. Rowan,” Went, one of Valentine’s deadeyes, said once they were safely behind the mattresses again. “When we heard the announcement, Party, he said, ‘Who’d you rather take orders from, Saunders or Mr. Rowan?’ I grabbed my match rifle, and Torres got Corporal Grant’s pistol, and came to see what was happening. That bastard Delano fired first, sir, and we shot back. Everything’s dark and confused. I heard firing forward. I think everyone’s shooting at each other.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“I’m glad you’re here, Went. I want to be straight with you. This is not going as I planned. It’s us, the Grogs, and the Chief and a few of his men. We’re outnumbered about eight to one.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe corners of Went’s mouth twitched back into something that, if not a smile, was at least a wry grimace. “Leastways the guns are here.” He peered over the edge of the barricade. “They won’t take me alive. I’m not going to get delivered in handcuffs to some Hood.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe hatch to the generator room at the bottom level of the ship opened, and the Chief’s face looked up at the assembled Grogs and men. “Tight as a drum, they’re going to have to blow a big hole in the ship to get at us from down here. Captain’s going to have an interesting time commanding the ship without engines.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Good work, Chief,” Valentine said.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine heard a commotion down the hall and sought out the location with hard ears. The captain was speaking to someone, demanding a report. Saunders did not care for the answers, he began to yell. “That’s all? And you let men join them?”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“They shot Delano, sir, and he had the only gun right then.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“You’ve got a wrench in your hands\u2014you should have bashed some skulls in with it. Out of my sight!”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nAfter a moment, Valentine heard Saunders’s voice raised again, this time projecting from somewhere along the starboard-side corridor.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“The attempt on the ship has failed, Rowan. You know it, and I’m sure it’s starting to dawn on those deluded enough to follow you.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“We’re ready to wreck the engines, Captain, if we come to believe that,” Valentine called back.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“You’re a dead man, Rowan, and so’s your pet drunk. But I’m offering an amnesty to whoever turns you in. I’ll hush all this up. Like it never happened, long as they frog-march you and Post out.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine looked over his shoulder; Torres and Went were both looking at him. He read doubt in their expressions, but whether it was doubt in him or doubt in the captain’s promise he could not say. He slowly placed his gun on the floor, butt end pointed at the marines. ‘Takers?” Valentine asked softly.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nWent blanched, but Torres just smiled and shook his head. Partridge groaned something from his position on the floor of the arms locker.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“What was that?” Valentine asked Torres, who knelt beside the wounded man.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“‘Tell Captain Saunders to go fuck himself,'” Torres repeated for the wounded man.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine picked up his gun. “We put it to a vote, Captain, and it’s unanimous: Go fuck yourself.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“You’ll all bleed, you renegade bastards,” the captain swore.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Tell me, sir,” Valentine shouted back. “What happened to the last captain that failed in a mission because of a mutiny? I heard Kurians ordered\u2014”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“By Kur, Rowan, I’ll make it so hot for you, you’ll wish you were in hell. I’ll keelhaul you. You’ll beg me to let you die, renegade!”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nTorres disappeared into the arms locker and returned, scooting up toward Valentine with something in his hand. Valentine recognized the can-shaped object as one of the ship’s grenades. “Play much pool, Mr. Rowan?” Torres asked, putting two fingers into the ring atop the explosive.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Not my game, Torres,” Valentine whispered back.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Can I try a two-bumper shot?”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Be my guest.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nTorres pulled the pin and listened for the hiss. Valentine saw a thin wisp of smoke appear from the central fixture that held the fuse. The marine stood and, with a left-handed sidearm throw, sent the grenade spinning down the corridor, whirling like a gyroscope toward the voice of the captain. Valentine kept his head up long enough to see it bounce off the bullet-marked wall at the crossbar of the T-intersection and heard it hit again somewhere in the corridor corner leading to the starboard passageway.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThere was just enough time before the explosion for cries of “Grenade!” and “Look out!” to be heard, before an orange flash lit up the corridor.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nAs the ringing noise faded from their ears, Valentine felt the sweat running down the skin over his spine.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“About time for the captain to try something really stupid,” Valentine predicted grimly, hearing voices yell back and forth from both sides of the intersection. He hated the thought of what was coming.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe captain obliged him. The loyal sailors and marines of the Thunderbolt tried to take the barricade with a rush. One of the machine guns from the upper deck appeared around the portside corner and began firing blindly toward the barricade. Valentine and Torres knelt behind the mattress-reinforced door, while the others took cover in rooms off the main passageway. Valentine heard the bullets hitting the door with a chunking sound, but the mattresses slowed down even the large-caliber shells enough so they failed to do more than dig into the solid wood.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nWhen the gun’s belt ran out, the corridor filled with screaming attackers trying to rush the barricade under the cover of a few pistols in the front ranks. The spotlight lit them up with unearthly clarity, ghostly faces white and straining. Ahn-Kha lifted the machine gun Post had dragged with him, and firing from his shoulder swept the corridor, cutting down the attackers running at them two abreast. Valentine added short bursts from his own gun. They flung the men down into bloody heaps well before the hopeless attack reached the barricade. A pair of men dodged into the dark laundry room, only to be hurled out again by shotgun blasts from Ahn-Kha’s Grogs waiting within.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe charge was bloody but brief, and when it was over, Valentine counted eleven dead and wounded heaped in the corridor, lying in a thin lake of spilled blood under spattered walls. Only their blood penetrated the barricade, seeping in under the mattresses and door, until its odor overwhelmed even the cordite in the air.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine sank to his knees, reloading. “Last thing I wanted. This is not what I wanted,” he heard himself saying over and over again, waltzing on the edge of hysteria.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nAhn-Kha placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Steady now, my David,” the huge Grog said. “Better them than us.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nA figure arose from the bloody heap in the corridor, pushed up by an arm and his one good leg. The marine tried to take a step back toward the intersection when he slipped on the slick red liquid pooled on the floor, falling full on his injured leg with an agonized scream.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Would you help Cal before he bleeds to death?” Valentine shouted down the corridor.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“You won’t shoot?”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“No, for God’s sake. Get him, would you?” Torres added.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe tacit truce allowed a pair of sailors to pull the wounded men away around the corridor. Ahn-Kha placed a new belt in his machine gun, closing the receiver with a determined slam.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Partridge died,” Went reported. “Sorry, Mr. Rowan. And I think Mr. Post is in shock.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine crawled into the locker and felt Post’s pulse. It was weak but steady, his breathing shallow.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nA half-familiar burning smell tickled Valentine’s nostrils. He looked up at the ceiling, where smoke began to flow from an air-supply vent. He moved to the hatch to the engine room. “Chief, looks like they’re burning something in the ventilators, can you do anything about it?”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Yeah, I noticed,” the Chief called back. “I’m turning off the fans now. The access to the smokestack is welded shut\u2014 otherwise, I could shunt it out of there. It’ll get smoky, especially if they burn something in the stairways, too.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“How about reversing the fans?”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“We’d have to rewire them. We’re just going to have to cough for a while, I think.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe squawk box crackled to life. “Last chance, men,” the captain’s voice gloated. “We’ve got some fires going in the ventilators, and we’ll be dropping bits of fender tire on for good measure. It’s going to get unpleasant down there in a few minutes, if not lethal. Anyone who comes to their senses will get mercy. Too much has happened for it to get covered up now, but I’ll do what I can.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Why can’t you shut him up, Chief?” Went yelled as Torres solemnly laid his tunic over Partridge’s head.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“It’s on an emergency battery up on the bridge. I could cut the wires, I suppose\u2014”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nAhn-Kha wrinkled his nose. “Disgusting.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine began to cough at the harsh smell of burning rubber filling the room, causing his eyes to water.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Try this,” the Chief said, passing Valentine a damp rag.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine imitated the Chief and his men by tying the cloth over his mouth and nose. He did not notice a difference.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nEyes watering in the noxious burning-rubber smell, Valentine tried to come up with a plan. If all else failed, it was his duty to at least deprive the Kurians of the Thunderbolt. He could have the Chief open the scuttle to the ocean, and let the sea take the ship and his mission with her. Perhaps he and Ahn-Kha could even survive the swim to the Jamaican shore….<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nSomething hit the side of the ship with a resounding thump. A slight sideways motion rocked the Thunderbolt, barely enough to make a man unsteady on his feet. Had they run aground, or drifted into a reef? A second later, Valentine heard firing from above.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine looked up at Ahn-Kha. The Grog’s hornlike ears were twisting this way and that, listening to the confused clamour from above. Valentine recognized the sound of voices shouting, almost cheering together, intermixed with the gunfire. He and Ahn-Kha exchanged questioning looks.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“It has to be the pirates,” Valentine said.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Aww, shit, just what we need,” Went said, his voice sounding strangely pitched owing to a set of improvised noseplugs.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine hopped up to join Ahn-Kha. “You’re exactly right, Went. It is just what we need. Men!” Valentine said, raising his voice and calling down to the Chief and his men below. “Let’s make some noise. Yell for help, everyone!”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThey all looked at him for a moment, uncomprehending. Valentine took a choking breath. “Heeeeelp!” he howled down the corridor.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nTorres and Went began shouting, as well as the Chief and his men in the engine room. Valentine yelled until he saw spots in front of his eyes, taking unpleasantly deep breaths of smoke-tainted air. Ahn-Kha outdid all the men, bellowing loudly enough to rattle cups in the galley. Ahn-Kha’s Grogs joined in, beating metal tools against the pipes and walls, adding a metallic clamor to their combined voices.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nHe held up a hand for silence. “Kill the spotlight,” he ordered. Torres turned the switch at the back of the lamp, incautiously putting his hand on the light’s housing and burning himself. Torres swore.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Quiet there,” Valentine said, listening to footsteps in the corridor. Two sailors came around one end of the intersection, a marine from the other, holding their hands up.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Don’t shoot Captain Rowan!” the marine, a corporal named Hurst, begged.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Mr. Rowan, we’re giving up to you here,” a CP petty officer added.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Okay, come forward. Keep your hands in view, men,” Valentine said, nauseated from the burnt-tire smell. “What’s happened up top?”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Dunno for sure, sir,” Hurst reported. “The exec had me watching the engine-room escape hatch, in case y’all came up that way. All of a sudden we got small-caliber fire. Sweeping bad, sir. There was a ship alongside, and a boat, too, come up in the dark while everyone was busy. Nilovitch got hit, couldn’t do anything for him, so we came below. Had to jump over the smoke fire they had going, heard a lot of shouting and shooting behind me. Figured it was a good chance to throw in with y’all. Then we saw these two,” he said, gesturing to the Thunderbolt sailors.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“My David,” Ahn-Kha said, but Valentine was already reacting. Lights appeared from the T-intersection.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Get over here, men,” Valentine said, and he and Went helped them get over the barricade as Ahn-Kha pointed the machine gun down the passageway.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“In there,” Valentine ordered, indicating the hallway behind the barricade leading to the aft storage lockers. “Torres, keep an eye on them.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nHe heard voices coming from the two joining corridors. “Musta been back here,” one of the voices said. A few shots still sounded from forward.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Hello?” Valentine called down the hall. “If you’re looking for the people yelling for help, you found them.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe voices hushed. Valentine hardened his ears, searching where his eyes could not go.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Mebbe a trap,” someone muttered around the corner.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“If it is, you can tell the commodore you avenged me. Quiet now, I need to listen,” a female voice said. “Hello back,” the unknown woman added, a bit more loudly. “This ship is in the hands of the Commodore’s Flotilla, of Jayport, Jamaica. I offer you a chance of surrender with fair treatment. Why were you calling for help?”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe owner of the voice stepped around the corner, and all that Valentine could make out in the smoke and darkness was that she was a tall woman. An equally tall man joined her, and at a motion from her hand he opened a kerosene lantern and held it up, revealing the two of them. They both wore loose cotton shirts, cut as pullovers with deep V-necks, dark culottes topped with a sash and gunbelts, and boat sandals. She had dark hair pulled back from her face and handsome, large-eyed features showing Latin blood in her golden complexion. The man behind her was ebony-hued, eyes narrowed suspiciously as he searched the men on the barricade, a revolver in his other hand.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine thought it best to match her and hopped over the barricade, though he took care to land on his good leg. “Ahn-Kha, tell your pair in the laundry not to fire. It’s over.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nAhn-Kha barked something out, answered by grunts from the darkness of the laundry room. Valentine moved forward to meet the two at the intersection. She looked at the bodies, and Valentine saw her reading the story in the carnage.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Surrender might not be the right word, but we won’t trouble you.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“You in a position to cause trouble?”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Not if you play fair by us. My name is Valentine, out of Southern Command in the Ozarks. God knows how I could prove it to you, though. Our plan was to take the ship, but”\u2014Valentine indicated the barricade behind him\u2014”it went rather wrong. Help us, and you’ll have my thanks, and my word that we will not harm you or the Thunderbolt further.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“You are a long way from Mountain Home, Valentine,” she said, showing a better knowledge of his land than he would have guessed. “My name is Carrasca, First Leftenant of the Rigel.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“What’s happened to the rest of my crew?” Valentine asked.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“A few were killed. Someone from the bridge fired a machine gun into us, and more were shot off the superstructure, but most surrendered. I see your men are better armed than the rest.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“We had the arms locker and engine room, about the only thing that went right tonight. You picked a good time to board.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Lucky for both of us. Can you clear out that mess in the corridor? I need to send men down to watch the engine room.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Nobody is going to sink her,” Valentine said.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“It is my responsibility to make sure of that. I’m sure you can understand.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine stepped aside as more of the Rigel’s men entered, nodding to Ahn-Kha. The Grog gripped the door of the barricade and lifted it aside. Carrasca gave orders, briefly and to the point. Valentine admired the way her men were in control, even in the confusion of a fight. Whoever these pirates were, they had a discipline different from, and superior to, the fear-inspired one that dominated the Thunderbolt.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe defenders from the barricade huddled in a silent little group in the arms locker, like children unsure of a new teacher.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine decided a gesture was in order, if nothing else to preempt the orders that would soon be issued from their captors. “Can we get the fans on, Chief? Our friends here put the fires out. Let’s get some air down here. Turn the power back on, and start the engines, if you please.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe Chief pushed his stunned men into their positions. “Sir, tell these islanders not to keep pointing their guns around, will you? The fingers on all these triggers are making me nervous.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nCarrasca leaned over the hatch. “Bierd, have your men watch their weapons.” She turned back to Valentine. “I’m sorry, but for the safety of your men, you’ll be put under guard. Could you bring your men up on deck?”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe diesels coughed into life, and Valentine felt the roll of the ship change as the propellers began to bite.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“C’mon, men, up on deck. I’ve had enough of this air. Let’s get these bodies up, too.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe sailors, marines, and Grogs started the grisly work of clearing up the corpses. Valentine picked past the remains of a burning pile of tires and rags, following Carrasca to the stairs.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe intercom buzzed to life again. “Congratulations, men,” a deep voice with a singsong musical intonation announced. ‘Thees is Captain Utari. D’ ship is ours. Fair shares all round.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nAs the pirates cheered, Valentine felt the rudder turn the Thunderbolt’s vital tonnage toward Jamaica.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u00a0<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nChapter Four<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n\u00a0<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nJayport, Jamaica. February: Like Malta in the Mediterranean or Singapore on the Krai Peninsula, Jamaica is the key to the waterways around her. Dwarfed by larger neighbors\u2014Cuba to the north and Haiti to the west\u2014the mountainous little island of blinding white sand and lush green hills sits like a tollboth in the center of a network of water routes around her. North is the passage between Cuba and Haiti leading to the coast of Florida and the Bahamas, west is the Yucatan channel off the coast of Mexico, and to the south is the Latin America coast. Far to the east lay tiny island chains and cays that mark the boundary like a lattice curtain between the Caribbean and the Atlantic proper.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nIn the days of the great buccaneers Morgan, Blackbeard, and Captain Kidd, the legendary pirates of the Caribbean pillaged French and Spanish possessions in the New World, spending their loot in the sinful dens that the seventeenth-century Babylon, Port Royal, boasted. The latter-day freebooters of Jamaica are after no such glittering wealth. Their desired booty is limited to food, medical supplies, technology, and shipbuilding materials.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe latest ruler of Jamaica rests near the old center of Kingston around the great southern bay. But the Kurian’s realm extends only to the foothills of the Blue Mountains. These peaks, named for their color as seen from the sea, give the island its serrated spine that resembles a sea serpent resting in the Caribbean. Outside the Kurian’s land, isolated coastal communities live in the primitive conditions of the Arawaka Indians Columbus discovered, building huts of thick grasses and banana leaves, or of mud and thatch. A few are lucky or powerful enough to control one of the pre-2022 buildings still standing after the titanic wave that washed across the Caribbean, followed by foundation-shattering quakes and roof-ripping hurricanes.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nIn Montego Bay, a bloody-handed sea lord rules with a brutality that would curl Morgan’s mustache, and among the central mountains, an unnamed band of killers, thought to be the remnants of some drug kingpin’s gang, leave piles of severed heads along the jungle trails to warn trespassers away. But for the most part, the Jamaicans are a gentle people, taking the bounty nature sewed in the rich volcanic soil of the island and the surrounding sea and sharing what little they have with the generosity of people who have known hunger and misfortune between periods of plenty.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nOne bay to the north, however, is an exception to the rule in a number of ways. The pre-2022 buildings are in as good a repair as local materials can make them-though one wave-gutted, multistory hotel stands untouched in its beachfront location-and hundreds of white bungalows of wood and thatch show the best example of what can be created out of clay, leaves, and coconut coir. Two thick palisades of wood run for miles from the high hills to the west to a great oval bulge along the flatter ground south and east, bordered by fields of rice and corn with the jungle cut back from the walls.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nSailing ships now dot a broad concrete pier that at one time berthed cruise ships. At the end of the pier is a gray-and-rust ship, a relic of the Old World dominating the center of the bay like a castle’s keep. She sits separated by thirty feet of water crossed by a floating bridge leading to a portal in her hull big enough to drive a truck into. She is a strange sort of ship, four decks of superstructure crowded over the bow, and perhaps a hundred yards of what used to be flight deck broken only by the housing for the ship’s offset stack. At the top of her aerial stack, a white flag with a<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nred cross alternately ripples and droops in the shifting noontime air.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nFarther out in the shallow waters of the bay, on a calm day it is easy to see the outlines of sunken shipping, now encrusted with coral, forming an underwater, unbuoyed wall guarding the seaward approaches to the dock. At the south end of the great concrete pier, a gate stands beneath a guard tower, allowing passage of landward trade, as well.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThis is Jayport, refuge of the Commodore’s Flotilla. Its history, a story too long to be recounted here, goes back to the last days of 2022, when two ships of the Royal Navy and a liner full of refugees came here and established the floating hospital. But this flotsam and jetsam of the world-that-was eventually formed an alliance with a band of island mariners. Now their combined children roam the Caribbean from the Texas coast to Grenada, raiding off the Kurian Order just as their English forebears plagued the Spanish Main and French Colonies.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nStanding on the Thunderbolt’s bridge, David Valentine watched as they approached the Jayport harbor. The ship threaded her way through the reefs, unmarked save for two points where the surf splashed up against the coral obstructions projecting just past the surface. A fishing trawler led the way, like a pilotfish swimming before the gray bulk of a shark, and behind came the graceful pyramid of wood and canvas, the three-masted clipper Rigel. She had shortened sail to keep position behind the plodding gunboat.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine squinted his eyes against the glare of the sun. The light refracted off the armored glass of the bridge, glittering with spiderwebs of cracks from the bullets of last night’s fight. Carrasca, the officer in charge of the prize crew, watched the Thunderbolt’s progress from the wing projecting out of the bridge deck over the ship’s side, her black hair now untied and fluttering in the landward breeze like a pennant. She watched the course of the Thunderbolt as carefully as if she did not have a guide through the reefs<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nprotecting the port. The pirate at the wheel wore a sleeveless, cut-at-the-knees jumpsuit, his thick legs planted wide on the deck. The helmsman looked as if he spent time fighting tiller ropes, rather than the hydraulic rudder of the Thunderbolt.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“This reef is a bastard,” the helmsman commented to Valentine. “The gap likes to silt up-many’s the time I’ve heard a scrape going over it.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine moved outside the enclosed wheelhouse and joined Carrasca on the starboard side. He looked down at the forward Grog deck, where the other surviving “loyal” hands of the Thunderbolt sat in an apathetic bunch under guard. They remained under the supervision of the chief petty officer, a frog-faced toady of the captain named Gilbert. The captain had never been found, dead or alive, and Worthing-ton had been killed with the crew trying to load the main gun just below the bridge.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine could still see the wine stain of his former wardroom mate’s blood on the wooden planking. Somewhere to the rear, Ahn-Kha and the men who joined Valentine’s fruitless attempt to take the ship were already scrubbing the decks clean after laying out the corpses in a neat row. By tradition they should be sewn up in their bedding, but the cloth was too valuable to waste in such a fashion. The fourteen men who had died last night would leave the world as naked as they came into it.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Nice breeze,” Valentine commented, watching Car-rasca’s wind-whipped hair. Had he reached out his arm, he could just have touched the longest strands.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“We call it the Doctor. It usually blows all day. Then there’s the night wind off the island, it’s called the Undertaker. It doesn’t smell as good, but it’ll keep you cool.” Valentine enjoyed hearing her speak. There was something of the music of a Caribbean accent mixed with Hispanic pronunciation.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Pretty view,” Valentine said, applying it both to the woman and the island, though he kept his eyes on the bay.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nHe was used to the coastlines of North America: flat expanses of beach, wood, and marsh. On Jamaica, the hills rose right out of the ocean like a green wall.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Yes. You’ll want a hat. The sun is strong, even this time of year.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“What’s that big ship in the center?”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“She’s the hospital. Once was the Royal Fleet Auxiliary Argus. She’s been here my whole life; I was born in her. So were a lot of the men you see around here.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“How many people do you have?”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“A census isn’t one of our priorities. There are the townspeople and plantation families proper. I’d guess around seven hundred or so. Then there are the ships’ crews. You could add in the folks inland and along the coast, fishermen, and a few free spirits who come in with a hold full of grain or pork when it suits them. Oh, and the rum distillery. You might say that they’re allies of ours, even if their product goes out on Kurian ships, as well. Maybe six thousand people could call Jay home.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Jay? Does that refer to Commodore Jensen?”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nShe looked away from the ship’s bow for the first time. “You’ve heard of him?”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“He’s not the most popular man up north. They’re starting to take Jayport seriously in the KZ.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“KZ?”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Kurian Zone. My former employers.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Ahh, I see. We call it Vampire Earth.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine smiled, his first unforced smile in days. “Lurid.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Saying the name is inaccurate?”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“I wish. Our maps show this island as Kurian controlled-Vampire Earth.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Most of Jamaica is theirs-or his. We call him the Specter.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Friendly terms?”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nHer mouth writhed. “No. We’re no lackeys of his. As<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nlong as we don’t bother him, he leaves us alone. Better for us.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Better for the Specter, too.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nShe crossed her arms, and looked him up and down. “Just like …” The sentiment trailed off. “Would you like to meet Commodore Jensen? I suppose he’ll have to decide what to do with you and your men, in the end.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“I’d be grateful if you could arrange a meeting, if you think you can.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nHer lips parted, revealing white teeth as she smiled. “I’m sure of it. I’m his granddaughter.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe ships docked and began to disembark wounded. Valentine said a quick good-bye to Post as attendants carried him and the other injured off and placed them on wheeled litters. The attendants then pushed the litters toward the hospital ship, which in proximity dwarfed even the bulky Thunderbolt.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThen the Jamaican soldiers, then prisoners, and finally sailors came down the gangway Valentine had last climbed a week ago in New Orleans.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine, with nothing to do but wait, watched Jayport’s inhabitants. They were for the most part black-skinned, long-limbed, and healthy looking. A messenger boy received a hollow wooden tube from an officer on the Rigel and sprinted off toward the shore like a runner in a relay race. He wondered which building held whatever passed for government headquarters among the low, whitewashed buildings clustered around the bay. Fishing shacks and a few hung nets dotted the beach.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine felt the odd sensation of standing on a firm surface after days at sea. Some of the Grogs sat down hard, holding their heads in their hands at the motionless feel of terra firma. He enjoyed the brassy sunshine-the climatic changes still echoing from the cataclysm of 2022 that cut the amount of sunlight north of the tropics were not so noticeable in the central Caribbean. Farther down the dock, the<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“loyal” hands of the Thunderbolt squatted on the bare concrete surface, slapping at flies hardy enough to venture out this far from shore. Some glared in his direction, some looked to him plaintively, but most just contemplated their surroundings with a fatalism bred by a lifetime in the KZ.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nDockside idlers examined the Thunderbolt from behind a rope line that divided the captured ship’s part of the dock from the landward extension, where a few armed men in white T-shirts and khaki shorts that looked more like school uniforms than police kept locals and new arrivals apart. Men bearing platters of fruit followed by graceful women with tall wooden tumblers of water were allowed past the line, and they began distributing the island’s bounty to Valentine’s men and prisoners alike.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Enjoy, mon, enjoy!” said one, handing out bananas and halves of coconuts.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“No worries, mon! Spring water for now, maybe some rum later,” added a woman, her voice bringing out the ca-denced phrases more as if she were singing than speaking. She exchanged a few words and a smile with a dockhand, but Valentine could make no more out of it than he could Ahn-Kha’s Grog patois.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nOne man leaned toward a guard’s ear, pointed at Valentine, and spoke. A few others craned their necks, and Valentine wondered what sort of dockside rumors were already floating around about the fight on the Thunderbolt.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine tasted his first fresh banana-he’d had banana bread and a pudding mix in New Orleans, and there was no comparison-and followed it with the meat and milk of a coconut. He strolled over to Ahn-Kha and the Grogs, who were learning to peel their fruit before eating it in imitation of the humans. A knot of the Chief’s men crammed down the colorful fruit with Went and Torres.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“What do they have in mind for us, my David?” Ahn-Kha asked, scooping meat from his coconut shell with his strong, flexible lips.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“We’re safe for now. It seems they give the royal treat-<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nment to prisoners. They’ll try to recruit the captain’s men, I suppose. They don’t know which category we’re in. We’re not under guard, but I don’t think those men at the rope gate will let us just wander into town.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“They left you your weapons. They locked the rest back up in the small-arms room. They are either very trusting or very confident,” Ahn-Kha mused.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Either suits me, for now. We’re lucky to be alive, old horse.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Your race needs to learn to greet every day with those thoughts.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“There’s something kind of old-fashionedly formal about the way they’ve handled us. It’s like we’ve stepped back three hundred years or so. Like letting me keep my guns: a captured officer used to be allowed to retain his sidearms in the days when wars were fought by gentlemen against other gentlemen. I’m half expecting an invitation to dinner, rather than an interrogation.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe invitation to dinner arrived two hours later, waking him from a shaded nap. Like humans, Grogs laugh to indicate amusement, so when a barefoot sprout of a boy in ragged white ducks and a straw hat arrived with a note from the commodore requesting Valentine’s presence at the Governor’s House for dinner, Ahn-Kha laughed loudly enough to send the flies fleeing in alarm. Carrasca arrived shortly thereafter with an escort, announcing that they were to be moved to more comfortable quarters. They formed up behind her, and the procession of visitors walked the pier toward town.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe wide pier reminded Valentine of an etching of London Bridge he’d seen long ago in a book. Crowded with buildings at the landward end, so much so that it resembled a narrow street for the last hundred yards before it reached the shore, the walkway was where goods from land and sea traded owners. Two-story buildings, making up in floors what they lacked in width and depth, overhung both the<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nstreet to the inside and the water to the outside, creating a shaded corridor leading toward the town proper. Carrasca explained that the twentieth-century dock was one of the best-built foundations in the bay, an important consideration on an earthquake-prone island. Valentine’s men and their baggage were placed in a series of rooms above a clothing-reclamation shop, next to an empty storage room that would accommodate Ahn-Kha’s Grogs. The prisoners from the Thunderbolt were placed alongside the dock in a permanently moored ship, where Carrasca assured him they would be well looked after. Valentine asked to see the wounded who’d been taken to the hospital ship, and Carrasca wrote him a note that would get him on board. He and his men were free to move about the pier as they wished.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“But you might not want to be too visible,” she warned. “A lot of characters come into port. We’re sure we get spies sent by the Kurians now and then. Once a small fishing ship blew itself up at the pier-perhaps you noticed the big patched-up crack. We depend on trade too much to deny access to the pier to strangers. But even men such as you whom we assume to be friends are not allowed in town, and are searched before going on board the Argus.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nOf all the choices Valentine had faced in the last twenty-four hours, the most unexpected was deciding what to wear to dinner at the Governor’s House. With the message he had in mind to say to the commodore, he preferred looking like an ally rather than a castaway. Going in his full Coastal Marines uniform would be inappropriate-he no more represented the Kurian Order than the Zulu nation. Lacking anything else presentable, he wore his tailored uniform trousers and good boots, topping it with a simple white shirt. He washed and combed out his thick black hair and drew it back into a tight pigtail. Torres completed the ensemble with the loan of a short black jacket and a strange combination of sash and cummerbund, an item common to what passed for aristocracy in his native part of Texas. Valentine’s long arms<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\ndangled from the sleeves of the jacket, but he at least looked properly dressed.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nOne of the ubiquitous messenger boys-this one had shoes on his feet-arrived at the rooms to escort him off the dock as the sun went down. The breeze had reversed itself with the cooling of the land. What had Carrasca called it? The Undertaker. It smelled of the decay on the seashore rather than the clean ocean.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe boy led him past another watchman’s post on the dock and into the first of Jayport’s streets. An open carriage rocked back and forth on a heavily patched turnaround at the base of the pier; a single horse shifted impatiently in the traces before an elderly driver. The old man’s white hair and whiskers framed a round black face; he gave Valentine a look more like that of a suspicious police officer rather than a taxi driver.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nCarrasca waited for him in the carriage, wearing a neat blue uniform tunic with her hair in a tight bun at the back of her head. Oddly, the uniform made her even more feminine, thanks to her wide, dark eyes and portrait-perfect face. The thought crossed his mind that perhaps Carrasca-or the commodore-wanted to make as good an impression on him, mirroring his own efforts in securing proper attire.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine assumed the attitude of one who took her presence there, in a cushioned and polished carriage, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Good evening, Lieutenant,” he said with a perfunctory bow that seemed to suit the occasion. “Does this mean you are doing me the honor of being my escort to dinner tonight?”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Thank you, Mr. Valentine. My duties on your former ship were such that I could be spared for an evening.” She opened the tiny door to the carriage, and Valentine primly took the seat opposite her. The corner of her mouth flickered up, and he answered with a raised eyebrow that dissolved their playacting pretenses. She giggled and he snorted.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe driver called out a low “move on,” and the carriage lurched into motion as the horse started off at a brisk walk, iron-rimmed tires squealing on the mix of cobblestone and tar.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Actually, Valentine, your presence is a bit of a coup for me. For a people whose ships travel a thousand miles in every direction, you’d be surprised how cut off we feel out here. We get shortwave contact sometimes, but it’s usually passive-we’ve been burned a couple times by talking over the radio. The only people we really trust now are the Dutchmen to the south.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nHe could smell her now, a mixture of soap, a coconut-scented lotion, and a hint of perfume blending with the warmer female scent escaping out the collar of her uniform. The animal in him wanted to tear open the tunic, pull her head aside, and let his lips explore her neck, his hands those round, high breasts beneath….<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nMadness. He regained control of his thoughts, crated up his lust, nailed it down, and padlocked urges too long sublimated.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Please call me David. We’re both off duty, aren’t we?”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nHer pupils narrowed for a second, then widened again. “Maybe. You may call me Malia, if you like.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine liked. “Gladly, Malia. So the commodore wants an interview?”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“He’s always eager for news from the north. The people we pick up know less about the real story than we do.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“I might disappoint him,” Valentine said. “I’ve been … I suppose you’d call it ‘undercover’ for about a year. My only current information is what the Kur are up to on the Coast between Florida and Texas. I’m sure it will be useful to him, but if he needs current news about events farther in than that, I’ll be a dry well. Since I’m part of your triumph tonight, maybe you can tell me more about how you managed your ambush so well.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nShe shrugged. “I had little to do with it. Your captain’s mission wasn’t a secret, though if you ask me, they sent out too small a force even if everything went right. This town<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nhas grown in the last few years, grown a lot. It’s funny how word of a haven gets around-we have mariners showing up from all points of the compass looking for shelter. We’ve even started another settlement farther along the coast at Port Maria to help accommodate the newcomers.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Jamaica can provide for you all?” He looked at the few wanderers on the main street. The Jamaicans made up for the drab streets and whitewashed buildings by dressing in brightly dyed colors: deep reds, brilliant yellows, and heavy purples.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Rich soil and richer waters.” She waved to a young couple out for a stroll. “But back to your ship. Your captain did not keep his mission a secret. We have a spy or two in most of the major ports on the Vampire Earth. They tell us when something worthwhile is shipping for the most part, but we heard about your-or their, I mean-plans while you were still outfitting. Just because the Thunderbolt’s gun could sink anything we have afloat didn’t mean we couldn’t do something about you at sea. One of our cutters kept watch at the mouth of the Mississippi, waiting for you to come out, and then it raised every sail when it saw you, and beat you here by two full days. A coastwatcher told us of your landfall by radio. We need to keep an eye on Montego Bay and the west end of the island all the time as it is.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“We knew you were moving up the coast, so we went out to meet you on it. I had a motorboat full of men, cut low, it would be hard to see. We were heading out for you from the time the moon went down. When we heard the shooting and saw the gun flashes, Captain Utari brought the Rigel out and put the extra men in the boats. Your captain was foolish to hug the coast like that.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“No one was expecting you to come after us. It turned out for the best. Or at least, I hope it will. I need the ship, Malia.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“I can’t imagine what your Southern Command would do with a gunboat, other than sink it trying to get it back up the<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nMississippi. I promise you we will make better use of it. You have enough problems, judging from the shortwave we get.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“What’s that?”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Battles, shortages. It seems that nothing but bad news ever comes from the north.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“We’re still standing. That’s something. So you made for the Thunderbolt when the firing started?”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Yes. We expected it to be a lot worse. We had an inflatable boat full of explosive we were going to use as a last resort. All the confusion you caused made the difference; otherwise, I expect it would have been a lot bloodier.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“It was bloody enough,” Valentine said. “If it weren’t for you and Captain Utari, I doubt I’d even be alive now. I’m in your debt.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nHer voice turned colder than any winter Jamaica had ever seen. “Then pay us back by leaving us alone. We do not need more trouble from Vampire Earth. We have problems enough.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe carriage moved up a slope, clusters of white buildings giving way to trees and lush ferns. Valentine smelled the rich aroma of green growing things all around and felt newly invigorated in the cooler night air. “Aren’t you afraid some cruiser is going to show up and get your town under its guns?”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“We’re pretty sure they do not bother with big warships. Our worry has always been a strong landing force. We’ve also heard rumors about some kind of Grog that takes to the water-that’s one of the reasons you saw armed men on the docks. It’s well for us the vampires don’t organize themselves properly.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“It’s their weakness,” Valentine agreed. “They’re about as cooperative as a cave full of rabid rats. They can’t see past the next infusion of aura.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Aura?”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Do you call it something else here? It’s what the Kurian Lords live off. Kind of an energy created by sentient beings. No, strike that-it’s generated by anything that lives, but<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nit’s just hundreds of times richer when it’s created by an intelligent being.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“I thought they drank blood,” she said, puzzled.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Their Reapers do, but the Reapers are just puppets, walking and talking tools for the dirty work of killing. There’s some kind of mental link between the Kurian Master and his Reapers. The Reaper feeds itself off the blood, yes, but its Lord gets the energy we call ‘vital aura.’ Either way, your calling it vampirism is correct, even if it sounds kind of… poetic.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Not a pleasant subject for conversation on such a beautiful night, David. We’re almost there.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThere emerged out of the palms and night. The Governor’s House turned out to be a substantial building constructed on a flat prominence jutting from the steep hill, or small mountain, just west of the town. Behind it, somewhere in the forest, the wooden wall wound down from a watch-tower at the top of the bill. The building itself was fashioned of cut and whitewashed stone with a red clay roof, reminding Valentine of an old Spanish mission he’d seen on the Texas coast. The driver waved to a pair of white-shirted police at the entrance to a flowered courtyard and wheeled the carriage around a fountain in the center of the circular drive. The horse seemed to know the routine better than the driver, and it stopped before the door at the tiniest murmur.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Thank you, Jason,” Carrasca said, patting the driver on the shoulder. “We will be several hours, so be sure to have your dinner.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“I’ll see to the horse first, but thank you, miss.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine stepped out of the carriage, and held the door open for his escort. “Miss?” he asked, as the driver moved off.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Jason taught me to ride and drive. I grew up here. He’s as much of a fixture of the place as the commodore. His father saved my grandfather’s life way back when. He’s a bit of everything: bodyguard, driver, interpreter. He knocked together my first boat, a little clinker-built toy I learned to<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nsail. He also made that,” she said, pointing to a flag that fluttered from a corner bell tower on the building, built to cover the door as well as the road coming up the hillside from the sea. “It’s dark so you can’t see it. Our flag is half blue and half green, with a sun in the center, kind of like the old French sun-king design. Do flags mean anything anymore?”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Flags? They’re not much used up North. Maybe nobody in the Free Territory could figure out what color represents survival. I’ll have to have a look when it’s lighter.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine’s night vision could pick up the emblem, even if the colors were muted, but he said nothing. The physical gifts of the Lifeweavers aroused suspicion in some people, as if he were no longer human. To this woman at least, he wanted to be a man rather than some kind of curiosity.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nHe sometimes wondered what exactly the Lifeweavers did to their human creations. The nearest thing he could compare it to in human experience was puberty, a sudden shift into an entirely new body type, complete with changed abilities and desires. Would any of it be passed on? His own father had been one of the Lifeweaver’s elite, but apart from a remarkably healthy childhood-despite several bad falls, he had never broken a bone, nor could he remember a serious illness-he had not been the most athletic of the young men growing up around him. Only his ability to sense the presence of a Reaper, as a cold shadow appearing on the fringes of his consciousness, distinguished him from the others in the Lifeweavers’ service.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Mr. Valentine?” Carrasca said, calling him back to the present from his contemplation of Jamaica’s night sky.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Sorry, my mind wandered,” he said, turning to the door she held open for him.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“That’s the only way it ever finds anything,” she said, following him into the wood-paneled entry hall.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nA boy took them down the hall to another plant-filled courtyard. Valentine paused at the tile surrounding the door at the other side. Each piece had been painted with delicate tropical blossoms.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Beautiful,” he said.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nCarrasca turned. Her eyes arced up and across the span of tiles around the portal. She looked oddly wistful. “You like them? That’s my work. I spent a few years obsessively painting. When I was a teen.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“I was an obsessive reader. I was-“<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nHe had started to talk about his parents, his brother and sister, but stopped himself. He needed to watch his mood tonight.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nShe took a step closer, lowered her voice. “Orphaned? I know.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Same with you?”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“The same.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine read the hurt as if he were looking in a mirror. He extended the crook of his elbow, and she took his arm. “What can you do?”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nShe gave him a gentle squeeze with her forearm. “Go to sea. That’s what finally worked for me. But let’s change the subject. Tonight’s a state dinner.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nAnd they passed down a hall to a dining room. The furniture in the Governor’s House, richly covered and well carved, did not match-the collection was perhaps pieced together from various recovered antiques on the island.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe man standing in the dining room did not match the elegant furniture either: a stumpy, tanned man bristling with energy and heavy white sideburns. The latter first traveled down his jaw, then turned up to join his mustache. He was broadly, powerfully built, and stood with the ready stance of a judo sensei. Perhaps because of the thickness of his chest, his arms seemed stunted by comparison, dangling afterthoughts on his barrel frame like the forelegs on a Tyran-nosaurus rex. He stood beside a sideboard, over which a hand-inked map of Jamaica hung in a gilded frame. Behind him, pairs of French doors opened out onto a balcony filled with fragrant white jasmines and red ixoras. According to Carrasca’s account, her grandfather had served as an officer<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nin the Old World’s Royal Navy, which had to put him close to his seventies.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Sixty-eight, my son, sixty-eight,” he said, turning to the young people. He slapped his broad belly, the gesture cracking like a pistol shot in the enclosed room. The expanse of stomach, which hung out from a gaily colored shirt over sus-pendered canvas trousers, did not ripple from the impact, demonstrating still-firm muscle beneath. “Everyone always wonders that when they see me, but are too polite to bring it up. Thought I’d save you the trouble. Am I right, Left-enant?” he asked, buttoning his shirt to preserve some formality at the meeting.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“And they always guess ‘not a day over fifty,’ sir,” she said, suddenly transformed into a young girl amused at her grandfather’s antics.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“The next question, at least to any young man who sees the two of us together, is where did she get her height and her looks?” Jensen said, apparently reading Valentine’s mind again. “Maria-my daughter-was even shorter than I was, may she rest in peace. It’s her father’s doing. Tall, handsome Cuban man he was, hair like yours-Mr., Mr.-“<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Valentine,” Carrasca supplied.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“That’s the problem with age, my son, and it’s a real bugger. What happened thirty years ago is bright as the island’s sun, but what you talked about just this morning disappears into a fog. But there was more to Eduardo than looks. As brave and as sharp as they come. Also dead, by the way. Should fair fortune be with you and you see long service, Valentine, you’ll see too many of the best ones die.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine’s memory, always too ready to parade the faces of the women and men he had known and lost, rose to the occasion. Jensen gathered as much from the expression on his guest, and he changed the subject.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Let’s eat, the cold dishes are already served,” the commodore said, moving to a chair. “Come down by me, you two, no sense shouting at each other over twelve feet of<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\ntable. That American President Eisenhower used to take dignitaries out on his back porch and talk to them, said he ‘got a better measure of the man’ or some such. I do the same thing over the dinner table. Cook tells me the chicken turned out well, and no one does a glazed ham like he does. Cook!” Jensen bellowed through the wall. “We’re ready when you are.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nBy the time they were seated, one of the picture-framelike carved panels on the wall opened, and the sweating cook appeared with a tray. He began to arrange dishes before the three: chicken swimming in orange sauce, some kind of peppery-smelling stew, corn and potatoes surgically carved and neatly arranged. A second man followed, bearing a thick ham glazed with slices of pineapple and something that looked like black cherries.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThe three began to help each other to servings from the varied dishes, as the cook poured wine into glass goblets, the only matching dinnerware on the table.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Captain Utari doesn’t know what he’s missing. I invited him, but then he hates this sort of thing. There’s no sailor like him, but he refuses to do anything with shoes on, or eat anything that can’t be bitten off the tip of his knife. Or maybe he just has a superior sense for the ridiculous. But as I’m fond of saying, this Port wasn’t just founded to preserve life, but to-“<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“-preserve a way of life,” Carrasca finished, reaching across the table to pat the commodore’s hand.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine sipped lightly from the wine.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Don’t like it? It’s a bit harsh, I know, but I get tired of rum and brandy,” Jensen apologized. “Jamaica’s a second Eden as far as I’m concerned, except for the wine. Don’t know enough about it to tell you why. Years ago we had some pretty fair stuff from the old hotels and resorts, but it’s been used up over time.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“I wouldn’t know. Haven’t had many chances to drink it. What I’ve had has been from dandelions or blackberries. This is rather good-in comparison.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nThey spent a few minutes eating under the anxious eye of the cook. He hovered like a teacher watching his pupils take a make-or-break exam. Valentine, who usually disliked the feeling of having too much of anything: alcohol, food, or even leisure, ate heartily until he heard his innards groan in discomfort.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nValentine raised his glass. “May I offer a toast? To the bounty of Jamaica, my hosts, and especially to the author of the best dinner I’ve had in years,” he said, dipping the goblet in the cook’s direction.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“I second the motion,” Carrasca said, eyes reflecting flickers of the candlelit room.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Hear hear,” added the commodore through a full mouth.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nFresh fruits and a sweet, milky pudding identified as flan finished the meal. The commodore enjoyed a private dessert, a toasted marrow bone. He went to work on the contents with a miniature fork, and Carrasca turned to him expectantly.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Young man,” Jensen began, sucking unabashedly at the bone, “my granddaughter tells me you tried to take the gunboat.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Had matters taken a better turn, we would have gone straight to Haiti.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Valentine, there’s nothing on Hispaniola but death. Are you looking for allies in the islands? You wouldn’t find any on Haiti who’ll help you up north. They have miseries enough.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Or here,” Carrasca said, her eyes turning hard. “We had a group of you Freeholders arrive before, when I was sixteen. Marched them through town and everyone cheered. They gave us lots of talk about guerrilla cadres and hit-and-run raids. Uniting the different parts of the island to go after Kingston. All they managed to do was get some of our inland people killed and a lot of families on the other side of the Blue Mountains hanged. There wasn’t any cheering when they left. If you think the people of Jayport-“<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Nothing like that,” Valentine said, startled at her sudden turn in temper. “I’m looking for a weapon, not allies. I’m not asking you or anyone to fight Reapers.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Malia,” her grandfather said, “the reprisals weren’t Mr. Valentine’s fault any more than they were Major Hawthorne’s.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Forgive my granddaughter,” Jensen added, turning to Valentine. “After the aborted uprising, they wiped out one of our settlements up in the mountains. That’s where her mother died,” he said, clamping his mouth firmly shut and looking at Carrasca. “My great mistake.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Not yours, Granddad,” she said. “You saw the uniforms, counted the guns, heard Hawthorne’s promises. Believed in him. He knew the kind of words to use. Even on Mum. She was a widow, Mr. Valentine, and-“<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Let’s not bore our guest with family business,” Jensen said. He looked at his granddaughter for a moment, as if trying to summon her mother’s features from Carrasca’s shapely face, then turned back to Valentine. “You need that ship you were on, the gunboat, to get this weapon?”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Get it and get it back to the mainland. We needed something big enough to carry it, a ship that could anchor off the coast long enough for me to find it and load it, then be able to go back unchallenged. The Thunderbolt is as large as they come in the Caribbean these days.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“You’re wrong,” Jensen said. “The Dutchmen down south have an old cruiser still working, God knows how. I think it used to be an American ship, too. It could blow the Thunderbolt in half, but the Dutchmen are on our side. In fact, I was planning on feeding your gunboat with their diesel fuel.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Was?” Valentine said, sensing an opening.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Mr. Valentine, I’m looking for a weapon, too. We are growing here. It’s getting harder and harder to support the people we have. Always more coming in, not always the sort we need, but still mouths to feed. I’ve never been much good at turning needy people away. The best land, at least for planting, is on the south half of the island. It’s not just my people I worry about; it’s my ships, as well. This harbor<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nis worthless in a real storm. But if I could get old Kingston, take it somehow from the Specter-that’s what we call that trumped-up devil running things there-a lot of our problems would be solved. A real harbor with a real shipyard, though it’s run to ruin like everything else, would mean a lot to us. Just that every time I’ve tried”-he nodded in his granddaughter’s direction-“it’s gone wrong.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nJensen stood and went to the map of Jamaica above the sideboard. He extended one of his short, thick arms and pointed to the coastline.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“The Specter has it pretty good. He’s about as secure in his position as he could be. Lives on a sort of estate, in a castle, no less.” Jensen pointed at a black square just off a crescent-shaped bay on die southern coast, west of Kingston. “They say he sometimes appears on the walls, to watch the women work his fields or see a new wagonload of the condemned come up the road, bound for the killing hole.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nJust right for a Kurian, Valentine thought.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“He’s jealous of his lands, always worried about another of his kind moving in. He has his Black Guard-that’s those Reapers you call ’em-and he keeps a good-sized regiment of Asians to keep the rest of the Jamaicans down. Those are the Horsed Police. Then the Chinese and Indians in turn run the Public Police-more thugs, mostly a rabble, that organize the farms and labor using the hard end of a club. Same old game: elevate an ethnic minority to a position of privilege that said minority knows will disappear if the ruler does, then give a lot of brutes a little power. He’s got informants everywhere … even within my palisade, I expect. Kind of reminds me of a web with a fat spider sitting in the center of it, sensitive to vibrations at the edges. We try to enter the web, we get stuck, there’s just not enough of us to get to him, even with the guns we’ve been stealing and stockpiling. Years before Major Hawthorne arrived, my son-in-law once tried to recruit some of the gangs in the mountains, but they killed Eduardo for his trouble. We can do what we want in the water around Jamaica, but that doesn’t<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\ndo much for us. He can get everything he needs from the land and the southern shoreline and the occasional armed trade ship. About all we’ve managed to do is keep his brothers and sisters from showing up to run other parts of the island, like maybe ours on the north coast or the Cockpit Country in the west.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“I suppose he never leaves that castle,” Valentine said, looking at the scale of the map.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“We’ve never heard of it, if he has,” Carrasca said.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“That’s usual for a Kurian. Their Reapers act as eyes and ears. No need to risk venturing out,” Valentine said. “They stay in their holes with just their servant or two ever seeing them. Immortality turns you into a recluse, evidently.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nBut this one likes to have a look around, now and then. Is he too secure for his own good?<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nNow that he knew more about the island’s situation, he saw the chance of an answer. Maybe not even a chance, maybe more of a prayer. “Sir, I’ll take your analogy about the web one step further.” Valentine felt his skin flush, not from the wine, but from his quickening pulse.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“Don’t let me stop you. I’m listening.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“His organization also has the weakness of a spider’s web.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“What’s that?”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\n“If you kill the spider, the web falls apart in a matter of days.”<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

\nEven Cook paused and looked at Valentine.<\/span>\n<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

\n

Read the full book by downloading it below.<\/p>\n

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Book Preview TALE OF THE THUNDERBOLT THE VAMPIRE EARTH 3 E.E. KNIGHT \u00a0 \u00a0 Possessed of an unnatural and legendary hunger, the Reapers have come to Earth to establish a New Order built on harvesting of enslaved human souls. They rule the planet. I thrive on the scent of fear. And if it is night, … Read more<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":6150,"comment_status":"","ping_status":"","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[417],"class_list":["post-6151","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-uncategorized","tag-e-e-knight"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/6151","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=6151"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/6151\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/6150"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=6151"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=6151"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=6151"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}