James Axler Deathlands 053 Savage Armada

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didn't belong to Kinnison.
Reaching a tall flight of stairs cut into the very granite of the mountain, he
started to climb at an easy lope. A hundred slaves had died cutting the
staircase, and fifty more while decorating it with fancy designs. But that was
only fitting for the man who ruled the thousand known islands of the entire
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world. Once, an outlander found on the beach had claimed to come from the
mainland. Brandon shot him in the face on the spot. Such foolish talk could
make others think of leaving, undermine the power of the barons and their sec
men. Absolutely intolerable.
At the top of the stairs, the lieutenant walked slowly across fields of
manicured lawns edged with flowering gardens. Sec men saluted as he passed.
Passing a splashing fountain, Brandon headed straight for the front door of
the baron's castle. It used to be a post office building, but its thick walls
and lack of windows made it a perfect fortress. The glass door had long ago
been replaced by thick wood bound by straps of iron. Three of the four doors
were closed, the open doorway guarded by an armed sec man standing stiffly at
attention.
"Morning, Private," Brandon said as he tried to enter, but the young sec man
stood his ground and didn't move.
"Halt!" the teenager ordered, and snapped the bolt on his longblaster.
"Password, sir!"
Contemptuously, Brandon sneered at the youngster. "You know who I am and what
I do to idiots who annoy me. Now get out of the way!"
The sec man paled, but swung the barrel of the Weatherby .30-06 rifle toward
the sec chief. "Password or die," he said calmly. "Your choice."
The two stared at each other, then the lieutenant made a move for the pistol
at his side. Instantly the guard shifted his aim and fired. The holster
jerked, a ragged scar in the polished leather where the round had plowed
through.
"Next one goes in your face," the teenager stated, sweat dripping off his
cheeks
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nds%2053%20-%20Savage%20Armada.html and dampening his shirt.
Suddenly a squad of sec men raced into view carrying a wide assortment of
weapons.
"Excellent." Brandon smiled, easing his stance. "Good response time and fine
shooting, Sergeant."
"Private, sir."
"Not anymore," Brandon said. "Nor are you working for internal sec. You're
with me now, a private guard for the baron himself. I need a new XO on the
boat, and I
think you'll do."
"Me, sir? Thank you, sir!"
"What's your name, son?"
"Hannigan, sir. Thor Hannigan."
"Meet me down at the dock, slip 2, PT 264. We'll talk later, Sergeant
Hannigan."
"Aye, sir!"
"The rest of you men are dismissed!" Brandon shouted.
Relaxing, the other sec men shouldered their weapons and walked back to their
assigned posts. Beaming a smile, Brandon tried to get past the boy, and the
longblaster was shoved into his face again.
"Nice try. Password or die," Hannigan said low and dangerous. His finger was
already putting pressure on the trigger, and any attempt to knock the blaster
aside would only set it off.
In cold fury, the lieutenant stared at the man, then slowly nodded.
"Excellent," he
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nds%2053%20-%20Savage%20Armada.html said. "Black dust, I'll take you on as
crew! The password is broken sword."
"Pass, sir," Hannigan said, lowering his weapon to port arms.
Watching his step, Brandon walked inside, then turned. "Don't forget to pick
up that spent brass," he said, gesturing vaguely at the spent round on the
ground.
Hannigan sneered. "That's for privates, not me."
"Good man," he grunted. "You'll go far."
Proceeding down the main corridor, Brandon went past the dining hall, the
armory and then the soundproof doors to the dungeon. Whimpering and the thump
of metal on flesh could be heard softly from within. Soundproof, his ass. Damn
door needed repairs again. Too many near escapes had damaged the jamb once
more.
When would the men learn to cut the hamstrings of prisoners so they couldn't
run, even if they got free from the shackles? Time for more beatings.
Stopping before the entrance to the throne room, the lieutenant smoothed his
hair and made sure the flap on his holster was buttoned down tight before
entering.
The baron had more rules on sec than he did.
He knocked on the sheet metal covering the door, and an old woman pushed the
heavy portal aside and let him enter.
"How is he?" Brandon asked, glancing around the huge room. The baron was
holding court over some people from another island who were trying to buy more
black powder.
"Bad, sir," the woman muttered softly. "Wife nineteen gave him another girl."
"Black dust! Did he let this one live?"
She shook her head. "Threw it into the sea himself."
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Brandon heard the shift from a person to a thing. He couldn't blame her. The
woman was trained to deliver children, not murder newborns. But the baron was
set on getting a son to replace him when death finally came, or claimed that
he would take them all to hell when he died. Nobody doubted the threat.
On a raised wooden platform, an obscene pile of flesh sat in an armless
throne, wads of mottled flesh hanging over either side of the chair. Slaves
stood attendant on both sides, with armed sec men in the corners, and a large
crowd of people standing patiently before the pulsating mound of fat as he
nosily guzzled from a cup of wine made from a spent 120 mm artillery round.
Baron Maxwell Kinnison was beyond repulsive.
His hard piggy eyes were sunk deep in a pool of fat, and a tremendous belly
flopped over his gunbelt and quivered upon his unseen lap. His clothing was a
mixture of Navy uniforms and bedsheets, and the checkered grips of predark
revolvers jutted from his clothing in several locations. Hair grew in
irregular tufts in his otherwise bald head, his face was a mass of open sores
and the fingers of both hands were wrapped in strips of cloth stained black
and yellow from the dried blood and pus.
His disease was called the red death. Some old healer once called it by the
fancy name of leprosy. Kinnison was dying by pieces, and only massive amounts
of jolt and alcohol helped him dull the pain enough to stay coherent. Any
remaining sanity had disappeared years earlier. However, he was still the only
person alive who knew the secret formula for making black powder, which was
the very heart of their power over the lesser islands. No matter how many
people wanted him aced, that secret had to be pried from the bloated whale
first, no matter what the cost.
Snorting for air through his tiny nose, the baron took a whole chicken from
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the bowl of roasted birds alongside his throne and started to rip the skin off
the white meat with jagged yellow teeth.
"My lord," Brandon said, advancing and snapping off a salute.
"Report," the baron mumbled, his mouth overflowing with food. Bits of bird
fell
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his embroidered tunic.
"Pirates attacked another convoy headed for the western islands. I sank two,
but couldn't find their hidden docks." [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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