Haven's Blight

It made it easier to do their job of keeping lookout, anyway.

“I almost feel like helping them,” Mildred shouted. “Feel guilty about not, anyway.”

A mob of Tech-nomads worked in the water up to their waists, hauling on ropes; others pushed against the hull of the grounded ship from land. The New Hope had bent on a cable and was trying to tow her sister ship free, although the channel’s narrowness meant she had to pull at an angle. They worked with a fierce singleness of purpose, with none of the parrot chatter that often characterized the Tech-nomads when they were among themselves.

Not that they could’ve heard one another.

“Don’t,” J.B. yelled. “Didn’t they teach you to never volunteer back in your time?”

“But maybe if we helped we could speed things along.”

“We’re not going to escape the hurricane,” Krysty called. “This is it.”

“The Tech-nomads hired us to guard their fleet,” Ryan said. He stood watching the rescue operation with arms folded. He willed himself not to feel the wind’s hammering. Compared to controlling the atavistic, instinctive fear of the storm’s awful power, that was a breeze.

“They could ask us to help if they wanted. They told us to keep an eye out. So that’s what we do.”

“Good,” Jak said. Though the albino teen was willing to work like a slave on his own account, and for his friends, he had a reluctance to work on a stranger’s behalf.

“More than you know, my lad,” Doc shouted. “Unless you believe that’s an innocent oceanic wayfarer seeking shelter from the storm coming around that bend downstream?”

The others saw the high prow of a sturdy little vessel that looked like an old shrimp boat, just poking around a stand of black mangrove.

“Wouldn’t you know it,” J.B. said.

An ear-tormenting rattle pierced the storm’s howl. Ryan saw Kayley, a female Tech-nomad rescued from the sinking Finagle’s First Law, spin and fall into thigh-deep water. He looked up.

Across the river men and muzzle-flashes appeared among wind-lashed trees. They were shooting at the Tech-nomads trying to rescue Egret. From the big clouds of smoke produced by most of the weapons, visible for an instant before the wind whipped them away into curling threads that quickly vanished in the rain, Ryan guessed most of the pirates were firing black powder blasters.

“Good luck to them reloading if the smoke poles’re muzzle-loaders,” J.B. remarked unconcernedly. He yanked the plastic wrap off his Smith & Wesson M-4000 shotgun and began ejecting buckshot shells into his hand. Feeding those into a cargo pocket of his baggy pants, he produced a box of rifle slugs and loaded those in their place.

Mildred sat, fastidiously managing to get a piece of the waterproof material to hold still long enough for her to plant her behind on it. As if it could make any possible difference, given how skin-soaked they all were. She took out her ZKR target pistol and propped her elbows just inside her knees.

Ryan unwrapped his own sniper rifle. He wiped condensation off the outsides of both lenses of his scope with a handkerchief from his pocket. Raising the longblaster to his shoulder, he confirmed the insides of the lenses were clear. The scope remained waterproof after all the years and abuse it had been through.

He wondered how long that would last, as nothing lasted forever.

A nearer rattle of blasterfire told him the Tech-nomads had begun returning fire at the pirates who had infiltrated through the trees on the far bank. He swung his scope down along the river. He didn’t have the option a normal shooter did, of using his other eye to discover where to point the much more restricted vision field of the telescopic sight. But he had a lot of practice with pointing toward the last place he’d looked.

And the shrimp boat wasn’t a small target. He picked it up right away. It was stained white and sun-faded blue, the paint peeling badly from long exposure to sun and weather. The name Mary Sue was painted on the bow.

He lined up the post of the telescopic sight on a man hunkered behind a battered M-60 machine gun laid across the shrimper’s bow rail. These pirates had some serious armament. Then again he’d noticed both the Tech-nomads and the pirates tended to use only heavy full-automatic weapons, like the M-60 or the BARs Isis favored. Support weapons. For personal arms both sides stuck to semiauto, conventional repeaters, or even black powder and non-firearms. He knew why: ammo. It was expensive, hard to come by, heavy. Even though he was pretty sure the Tech-nomads reloaded, and maybe manufactured some of their own, full-auto fire was a pretty wasteful way to go.

It was a long shot at the machine gunner, especially in these conditions, at least five hundred yards. The only thing going for Ryan was that the wind trying too hard to knock him on his rear was blowing almost right into the teeth of the shot. It wasn’t going to deflect the hefty 180-grain copper-jacketed traveling about 2800 feet per second bullet much. He took a deep breath and started to let about half of it out.

Ryan’s field of view filled with yellow fire. He jerked his head back, completely surprised. The shrimp boat was awash with flame. The gunner in the bow, completely wrapped in flames, let the heavy black blaster fall overboard. An instant later he followed, flapping his arms like firebird wings. Crewmates were doing likewise. The lucky ones weren’t on fire. Although luck in this case might just mean a chance to drown in the raging river, rather than burn.