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Most of the redoubts had been found and raided decades ago, but occasionally a hitherto untouched one would be located. As the stockpiles became fewer, so did the independent salvaging and trading organizations. Various trader groups had combined resources for the past several years, forming consortiums and absorbing the independent operators.
The consortiums employed and fed people in the Outlands, giving them a sense of security that had once been the sole province of the barons. There were some critics who compared the trader consortiums to the barons and talked of them with just as much ill will.
Since first hearing of the Millennial Consortium a few years before, the Cerberus warriors had learned firsthand that the organization was deeply involved in activities other than seeking out stockpiles, salvaging and trading. The group’s ultimate goal was to rebuild America as a technocracy, with a board of scientists and scholars governing the country and parceling out the resources where they saw the greatest need. They had taken over the smaller trading groups, absorbing their resources and personnel.
Although the consortium’s goals seemed utopian, the organization’s overall policy was pragmatic beyond the limit of cold-bloodedness. Their influence was widespread, well managed, and they were completely ruthless when it came to the furtherance of their agenda, which when distilled down to its basic components, was nothing more than the totalitarianism of a techno-tyranny. The final objective sought by the Millennial Consortium was to impose a supranation over the world. The Cerberus warriors had faced millennialists in far-flung parts of the planet.
“Do you know what technocracy is?” Brigid asked.
Captain Saragayn nodded. “Again, only what Mr. Book told me—it is a form of government rooted in science, not politics or religion. It was first developed in the early twentieth century by scientists, engineers and other specialists.”
“Yes,” Brigid drawled sardonically. “The conclusion reached by these specialists was that an industrialized society governed by a council of scientists and technologists would be far more productive, less prone toward crime and deviation from the standard and certainly not inclined to bomb itself out of existence.”
“That’s not the case?”
Book started to speak, but Saragayn held up a silencing hand. “I want to hear what she has to say.”
Confidently, Brigid declared, “Technocracy is a serviceable set of ideals, I suppose. But it can only function by imposing a dictatorship. That is what lies at the heart of technocracy. The ruling elite are selected through a bureaucratic process on the basis of specialized knowledge rather than through anything remotely similar to the democratic process.”
“The Millennial Consortium curtails human freedom, then.” Saragayn did not ask a question; he made a statement.
“Basically, yes. Technocracy as envisioned by the Millennial Consortium cannot coexist with freedom.”
“You think that is important?” Saragayn asked. “Freedom?”
Brigid cast him a questioning glance. “You don’t?”
“I confess I don’t quite understand it.”
Mr. Book snorted. “It’s a strictly emotional concept, illusory. Freedom is also a very great danger because human beings are ignorant by nature and are dominated by the wild side of their consciousness.”
“Freedom,” Captain Saragayn echoed thoughtfully. “I have heard a few chants of that here, from some of the discontented islanders. Freedom to do what? Freedom from who?”
“From the leash of serfdom,” Brigid retorted. “Held by men like you.” She inclined her head toward Book. “And you.”
“The people of Pandakar are simple, primitive souls,” the captain said. “They need a father to look after them and apply discipline. If they did not have that, then the entire system established by my family a hundred years ago falls apart. For example—”
Saragayn paused and his eyes fixed on Daramurti. “My nephew here has served as my bodyguard for over three years. He has been loyal, true and faithful for three years. Then he fell victim to one who did not share those virtues—my wife Clarise. She seduced you, didn’t she Daramurti?”
Daramurti’s shoulders stiffened, then sagged. He swallowed hard and cast his eyes toward the floor.
“I can’t really blame him,” Saragayn continued smoothly. “Clarise is beautiful—and French. That is a heady combination for a young and oversexed man. I am sure he resisted her wiles for as long as he could. But then one day not too long ago, he fell into her bed and after a day and night of vigorous fucking, Daramurti swore to be loyal to her. To that end, he allowed seditionists controlled by my wastrel son, Mersano, to infiltrate Pandakar.”
Captain Saragayn sighed, shifted his throne and idly examined Brigid’s TP-9, turning it back and forth in his right hand. “Mersano and Clarise’s force plan to stage an attack tonight as soon as the storm hits. That should be within the next couple of minutes, I think.”
Book’s eyebrows rose, his forehead acquiring new creases. “Then why are we standing here, Captain?”
“Ah, calm yourself, sir,” Saragayn replied softly. “I intend to trap my enemies, and the best way to do that is to let them think their plot against me is succeeding.”
Brigid glanced over at Daramurti. “So you told him of the plan?”
The man did not make eye contact and Saragayn laughed. “Well, of course he did. All of Pandakar is filled with my informants, and the Juabal Hadiah—” he used the barrel of the pistol to indicate the ship “—is wired with spy eyes…particularly the bedrooms of my wives. Nothing goes on here without my knowledge. I may pay no attention to it, but I do know about it.”
“Be that as it may, what precautions have you taken?” Mr. Book asked uneasily.
“It should suffice that I have taken them.” Saragayn stared steadily at Daramurti. “With his help.”
“His help?” Book echoed.
“Although my nephew had sworn loyalty to me, and then to my wife Clarise, ultimately he learned that his primary loyalty lay to himself. He was only too eager to tell me everything I wished to know to protect first his young, impudent cock and then his life.”
Saragayn chuckled, a sound like the warning buzz of a rattlesnake. “Isn’t that right, nephew?”
Daramurti finally lifted his head. Tears glimmered in his eyes. He looked as fearsome as a small boy caught with a forbidden piece of candy. His mouth opened and closed like a fish stranded on dry land. “I live only to serve you, glorious Uncle. Ever and always.”
“Yes,” Saragayn whispered. “How well I know that.”
The autopistol in his hand blasted out a wave of sound, like a thunderclap. Daramurti’s head jerked violently back on his neck. A piece of scalp exploded from the rear of his skull, riding a slurry of blood that splattered the wall of the corridor. He staggered backward and fell heavily.
While the gunshot echoed in the throne room, another explosion shook the bulkhead. Brigid recognized it as the detonation of an RPG. Book stumbled, his eyes widening. “What the hell—?”
Without a word, Brigid wheeled on him, her right fist whipping up fast, connecting with the underside of Book’s jaw. The uppercut snapped the man’s head back. Arms windmilling, he toppled off his feet, slamming against Captain Saragayn.
Surging forward, Brigid snagged the barrel of her autopistol and gave it a vicious corkscrew twist, tearing it out of Saragayn’s hand and then slashing down with the butt against the crown of his head. Although cushioned by the turban, the blow still landed solidly enough to drive consciousness out of the man’s eyes with the suddenness of a candle being extinguished.
Then Brigid turned and ran out into the corridor, leaping nimbly over the corpse of Daramurti.
Chapter 5
Oil lamps glowing from behind panes of yellow glass illuminated the corridor. Brigid considered breaking the glass and dousing the flames because she suspected Captain Saragayn watched her through a closed-circuit spy eye. She doubted he would stay unconscious for long—if he did nothing else for his host, Book would see to his revival.
From outside she heard more explosions, but now they sounded more like thunderclaps. Woven faintly through the racket, she heard the staccato rattle of automatic gunfire. Behind her came the murmur of male voices and thump of running feet. Brigid plunged through the first open door she saw.
She stood in a dim chamber, somewhat Asian in decor but with an Arabian Nights kind of furnishing. There were heaps of big satin and tasseled pillows, tapestries hung from the ceiling and several women of all sizes, shapes and colors stared at her. The only thing they shared in common was nudity. They stared at her silently, their overly made-up faces as immobile as masks.
Brigid put a finger to her lips as she moved deeper into the room, toward an archway at the rear of the cabin. The women stared at her soberly. Astringent smoke curled from a brass brazier set before a multi-armed, many-breasted statue. She stifled a cough as she sidled past. Then the solemn, shivery boom of a gong pressed against her eardrums.
Casting a startled glance behind her, she saw a naked black woman, her flesh glistening with oil, standing before a huge disk of bronze, a mallet in her hands. She struck it again and the heavy note reverberated throughout the chamber. Then three Malaysian men rushed through the door. They wore yellow head scarves like Daramurti and they swung the barrels of their pistols in short arcs. Judging by their bare-toothed grimaces and wild eyes, Brigid figured they were on the verge of panic.
The beaded curtain clattered as Brigid bounded through the arch. The door on the other side swung open easily and she quickly closed it behind her, noting sourly it had no lock. She found herself in a very narrow passageway lit by overhead neon tubes. A small closet opened off to the left, holding cleaning and janitorial supplies.
Grabbing a push broom and a heavy, long-handled mop, Brigid placed the wide head of the broom beneath the doorknob and jammed the blunt end of the handle against the wall, inside the angle where it joined with the floor.
The mop was more difficult to affix, but she managed to brace it just above the knob. Fists and feet began hammering against the door. It shook under the repeated impacts, but the improvised barricades held. She heard a man cursing in Magindano, then the door spit dust and wood splinters as a triburst erupted.
Brigid broke into a sprint down the passageway, navigating through a labyrinth of rusting pipes and wheel valves crisscrossing in all directions. She maneuvered around fuse boxes and cooling systems, all the machinery that kept the giant treasure ship alive. The bulkheads, coated with grease and layers of grime, told her she was very close to the engine room.
When the passage terminated at a closed door, Brigid cursed under her breath, but she knew she could no longer afford to be cautious. Lifting the handle, she took a deep breath, threw the door open wide and plunged into a solid wall of wind- and rain-swept fury.
Staggering on the wet deck, Brigid slammed the door behind her and leaned against it. Rain crashed down in a solid torrent from the dark sky. The downpour pounded her in sheets, virtually blinding her and making it difficult to breathe without inhaling water. In an instant, she was soaked to the skin. She cupped a hand over her nose and mouth so she could breathe without difficulty.
Pressing herself against the superstructure, she found a little shelter beneath the overhang of the deck above. She squinted away from the great crooked fingers of lightning scorching their way across the sky and grimaced at the deafening claps of thunder. Brigid had been in wild weather before, but she had never encountered a monsoon. She wondered if the storm’s violence was common in this part of the world or due to the aftereffects of skydark.
After a few minutes, the wind died down to no more than intermittent gusts. The rain slacked off to a steady drizzle. Lightning still arced across the sky, but the heart of the storm had moved away. The humidity rising in its wake was oppressive.
Staring through the shifting sheets of water, she gazed toward the harbor front. She saw bursts of flame and tiny lights strobing in the shadows. Dimly she heard the crump of grenades and the chatter of subguns. A battle raged up and along the quayside. The insurrection was in full swing, proceeding despite the weather.
A twisting thread of red fire streaked up from the darkness, rising into the sky in a wide arc, then lancing down toward the upper decks of the ship. Brigid crouched. Because of a thunderclap, she barely heard the rocket’s detonation, but the blaze of the explosion painted the shadows a flickering orange for a couple of seconds. The vessel shuddered. Men and women began screaming. She assumed the first rocket had either fallen short or struck an underpopulated section of the Juabal Hadiah.
Brigid pushed herself away from the bulkhead and sprinted along the deck, looking over the railing at the murky water glimmering at least fifty feet below. A man yelled behind her, and she heard the sharp report of a pistol. A bullet thumped the air less than an inch from the right side of her head.
Swiveling at the waist, Brigid squeezed off two rounds. She didn’t aim—the shots were fired strictly for effect. She saw no one, but she heard more men shouting in frantic Magindano.
She sprinted along the slippery deck and reached a square hatch and a ladder stretching downward. A closed door was opposite it. She opened the door, set it to swinging on its hinges, then half climbed, half slid down the ladder, listening to the thump of running feet overhead.
On the deck below Brigid scanned the vicinity for either a hiding place or adequate cover from bullets. She rounded a corner and saw a stack of crates. Without hesitation she threw herself behind them and crouched motionless, trying not to breathe too loudly. No one came by so she guessed she had divided her pursuers. She heard more scattered shots, but this time from the direction of the waterfront. A rocket exploded, filling the area with an eye-hurting brilliance. There were more stuttering shots, a series of screams and shouts. The ripping sounds of multiple subguns firing on full-auto came from somewhere nearby aboard the ship.
A small sampan floating less than fifty yards away spit a tongue of flame. She caught a glimpse of a quick, fiery streak, and the ship shuddered under a blow that shook the deck violently. The harbor erupted astern, water rising in a column.
Realizing that the rocket had most likely punched a deep hole in the Juabal Hadiah’s hull below the waterline, Brigid rose from her hiding place, made sure the zone was clear, then ran out along the deck again. She ran down a short flight of steps and ducked through a low archway onto a gallery overlooking the stern of the ship. The giant flag of Saragayn, bearing the image of a blazing skull superimposed over a crossed sword and a rifle, hung from a sturdy mast overhead.
A pistol cracked and the sharp reports of an autorifle tore through the fabric of the air, but the shots were not aimed at her.
Returning through the archway, she saw a dozen armed men ranged around the railings of the gallery. They exchanged a flurry of gunfire at point-blank range. Two of them clutched at themselves and folded over. The racket of the gunfire and the whine of ricochets stunned Brigid’s senses.
Men rolled on the deck—keening, strangling with their hands, clubbing with empty revolvers, struggling hand-to-hand with knives. She could not differentiate between Captain Saragayn’s men and the insurrectionists, and she didn’t try.
Taking a breath, she focused her attention on an area of the gallery free of combatants and lunged for it, running flat-out. A man in a coverall suddenly loomed out of the darkness and straight-armed her. His slamming palm caught her in the upper chest, driving almost all the wind from her lungs and sending her sprawling.
Brigid slid across the deck on her shoulders and back. As she did, she squeezed off two quick shots between her outspread legs. The man’s shirt sprouted a pair of holes and he went over backward. Dragging air back into her lungs, she climbed to her feet and sprinted for the railing again.
Before she covered much of the distance, two men raced to intercept her. Brigid saw them coming, but she kept going, knowing a retreat back to the archway would only give them clear shots at her back.
She altered direction, racing toward them, firing with the TP-9 at the end of an outstretched arm. They returned fire with handguns and she felt a bullet pluck at her hair, ripping out a few strands by the roots.
Wincing, she kept her finger pressed down on the trigger, directing precision bursts. A man’s face broke apart in flying arcs of blood. Then the slide of the TP-9 blew back into the locked-and-open position. Since stopping or slowing meant an instantaneous death, she increased her speed, the length of her stride, legs pumping fast and furiously.
She flung her weapon in front of her. The metal frame of the TP-9 smashed into the face of Saragayn’s soldier barely half a second before her knee slammed into his solar plexus. Carried by the momentum of her rush, she bowled into him and both of them went down. A shot from the man’s pistol went up into the sky.
Going into a shoulder roll, Brigid cartwheeled up and over the man, using his chest as a springboard. She landed on her feet in a deep squat, and then sprang up and onto the Pandakaran. His face was spattered with blood from a laceration on his forehead. Her right foot, with all her weight behind it, drove into his neck. She pivoted sharply and smartly on her heel, crushing his larynx, grinding her foot into his windpipe.
Clutching at his throat, a flood of scarlet spilling from his open mouth, the man went into convulsions, clawing at the deck with his free hand, legs kicking spasmodically.
Brigid raced for the edge of the deck, leaped atop the railing and then jumped feetfirst into the black water far below. As she fell, she inhaled a deep lungful of oxygen and held it. She slammed through the oily surface of the harbor cleanly. The water felt tepid, almost as warm as the air. Water gushed up her nose and filled her sinus passages, trickling into her throat.
She let herself plunge downward, pulled by the weight of her boots and clothes. Brigid tamped down the panic surging within her. Over five years before she had nearly drowned in the Irish Sea, and since that day, she had developed a morbid fear, almost a phobia, of dying by water.
Slitting her eyes open, the brine stinging them, she stared at the roiling surface above her. She glimpsed only intermittent flashes of light. Her ears registered the muffled, multiple thumps of bullets striking the water. She saw the bubble-laced streaks of the slugs punching into the sea around her.
When her boot soles sank into the soft ooze of the bottom mud, she carefully pushed off at angle, stroking in the general direction of the waterfront. Only when her lungs began to ache intolerably did Brigid decide to surface. She came up slowly near an area of the pier crowded with sampans. She fought the impulse to cough and gasp.
Raking strands of hair away from her eyes, spitting out water, she tried raising Kane and Grant via the Commtact. She received no response and wondered briefly if immersion in seawater had caused the comm unit to malfunction.
Brigid swam underneath the pier. Close overhead was a tangle of timber braces and struts. Long growths of moss dangled from them, like the beards of old wise men she had seen in pictures.
A dull pounding shook the air for a couple of seconds. Looking toward the Juabal Hadiah, she saw a plume of white steam billowing out of a hole in her port-side hull. She assumed various combustibles had exploded within the ship. Treading water, she looked for a way to climb out of the harbor without being seen. Voices shouted back and forth, and slowly they diminished in volume.
Brigid swam quietly toward the shoreline, still keeping just beneath the pier, the barnacle-encrusted pilings scraping her arms. She pulled herself along by the cross struts until her feet touched the bottom and she was able to wade. She reached a wooden ladder made of crudely hammered-together slats, and after resting a minute to regain her breath, she climbed it as quickly as she could. The weight of her sodden clothes and boots dragged at her as she pulled herself up, hand over hand.
When Brigid reached the top, she raised her head by degrees so she could see over the edge of the pier. The first thing she saw was the bore of a gun, staring directly into her face like a hollow, cyclopean eye.
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