Excerpt


“What did the Spaniards want with Natty Cove?” Hume asked. His Spanish was quite good, if heavily accented; anyone who hoped to make a living off the Spanish Main did well to learn the tongue needed to demand a surrender.

“I don’t know,” the nun said stubbornly. “I was their prisoner, and they–like you–do not regularly bring prisoners into their confidence.”

“Why were you their prisoner?” Hume asked. “You took up the space in their hold usually reserved for gold and treasure; I’ve got a crew of angry corsairs wondering how they’re going to take a 1/100 share of a nun, and every answer you give me will help dissuade them from the more immoral thoughts they entertain.”

“Is that a threat?” said the nun. “Or a poor attempt at parley? Either way, I’ve nothing to offer you. I am a simple Sister of Our Lady of Veracruz, taken against my will from my convent and my service to the Lord on the orders of I know not who.”

“Somehow, I doubt that all the Sisters of Our Lady of Veracruz know how to boot a man in the bollocks to try and swim for it.” Hume said drily.

“On the contrary, sir, Veracruz is full of buccaneers and pirates of every stripe, many with commissions from the King, and we in the Sisters are first taught how to defend our honor as brides of Christ. And my mother was a fine swimmer who taught me much. I would wager that I could outswim any man jack of your crew if you’d let me get to brine.”

Hume cradled his head in his hands. “Look, Sister. Four ships were sunk in getting you spring of those irons, and nearly five hundred men gave their lives in front of your galleon’s bewitched Spanish Cannon. What am I to tell the men to which I’m beholden?”

“Tell them that they have my thanks,” replied the nun, “and that the abbess of my convent will reward in gold any crew willing to ensure my safe return.”

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“After you, Mister Cooke.”

Cooke stepped forward with “Old Irontooth,” his favored blunderbuss, packed with a double powder charge and a handful of grapeshot. “Old Irontooth” made a very eloquent argument, worthy of Demosthenes, to the Spanish lock. Seeing the error of its ways, the lock yielded to persuasion.

“Remember, boys,” Hume said. “Much as we mourn our fellows, the fact is that through their sacrifice we’ve all got more of a share of the golden treasure in the hold.”

Cooke made a gruff noise and kicked in the door. The lanterns revealed…piles of shot and shell, a Spaniard dead from a wooden splinter to the eye, and a powder charge smoldering mere inches from a heap of gunpowder. That, and a prisoner clapped in irons: a young woman in the habit of a missionary nun.

“This treasure leaves something to be desired, skipper,” Cooke deadpanned.

“Abandon ship!” Hume barked. There was no dousing that powder charge, not in time to be sure that the sparks thrown up wouldn’t ignite the entire magazine. Cooke gave his skipper a look as the men took a powder to flee the burning powder.

“Yes, yes, of course,” Hume grumbled. He pulled a brace of pistols from his quartermaster’s rig and blasted through the chains restraining the nun. She could be useful as a hostage, or something. She was clearly in shock, and allowed the boarding buccaneers to carry her limply topside.

Hume continued to bark orders to his men, only cutting the grapples when he was satisfied that all of them were clear. They worked the Fancy Rat free with gaffs, but it had only made a quarter-league’s distance when the Nuestra Señora erupted. It wasn’t enough to sink the Rat, any more than the explosion of the Surprise had been to put the Nuestra Señora herself under, but the sails were torn, ropes were parted, and wood was splintered even as the deck was sprayed with red-hot debris.

And, at that moment, the nun opened her eyes and delivered a sharp kick to Cooke’s stones. Her ruse of shock falling away, she wriggled free of his grasp and made a dash for the gunwales and freedom.

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Pulled almost directly alongside Nuestra Señora, the Surprise let loose a full broadside at point blank range as the Spaniards were reloading their guns. It was a volley that would have left any other ship a splintered hulk, but the galleon’s mysterious Spanish Plate was too great an obstacle, and the shot bounced off as if fired into a sheet of iron.

In response, the Nuestra Señora ran out her own Spanish guns. Hume could see men aboard the Surprise dropping their ramrods and grapples and fleeing, well remembering what had happened to the Gunway II. But it was too late; the Nuestra Señora roared her Spanish Cannon and the Surprise was obliterated. Its magazine blew, ripping the ship in two and flinging men and cannon in all directions. Those who had made it into the water before the explosion were dragged screaming below by the suction of the submerging wreck.

“Keep ‘er steady, boys!” cried Hume. To their credit, the crew of the Fancy Rat didn’t break or run despite what they’d seen befall the other ships in their flotilla. Hume had a moment of grim thought–the boys knew that they’d be sent to the bottom running as surely as they would fighting–before he gave to order to board. “We’ll give ’em a surprise as a remembrance of our mates now perished!”

The Fancy Rat had approached from astern as the Nuestra Señora had been distracted by vaporizing the Gunway II and Surprise. Hume had his men run out onto the prow with grapples, and at his mark the men threw them. It wasn’t the traditional way to grapple with a foe, which was usually done gunwale to gunwale, but the Nuestra Señora had none of her bewitched Spanish Cannon to the rear. At the same time the first grapples were tossed out, Hume threw the Rat‘s rudder hard to port; this brought the ship’s gunwale perpendicular to Nuestra Señora‘s stern. With ladders and grapples, Hume and his men could board Nuestra Señora from the rear like a Port Royal courtesan.

Hume led his men personally, with their first order of business to silence the gunners. The Spanish Cannon they fired were the most potent weapons the seas had seen since the secret of Greek Fire had been lost, but without men to touch them off, they were so much ballast, and the muskets the Spanish marines bore seemed to have no such enchantment. As luck would have it, the Spaniards to port were too intent on taking aim at the Duke of New York, which had turned and made sail to flee the engagement.

“Take ’em out, boys!” Hume howled.

It was too late; the Spanish Cannon roared and the Duke of New York vanished in a pillar of flame and screaming. It was a hollow triumph, though; still flatfooted by the rear boarding, the Spaniards manning the deck cannons were swept away by a volley of musketry. The others abandoned their guns as the shouted order was passed along: “¡Todas las manos! ¡Repeler asaltantes!”

Hume grinned, and drove the point of his cutlass into a deck officer’s rib cage. “Let’s see how they do in a fair fight!”

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The pirate fleet had been assembled in haste but not without care, the promise of booty from a Spanish treasure galleon being more than most corsairs in the area could resist. Not a single galleon had been taken in nearly the entire year previously, with all the ships known to attempt the endeavor lost with all hands. There were wild tales of cannonballs bouncing off the sides of treasure galleons, of their own shot and shell tearing through opposing ships with inhuman accuracy and power, but a confederation of five ships was enough to but all such notions—silly superstition in the eyes of their masters—to rest.

The treasure galleon—Nuestra Señora de la Inmaculada Concepción—was quietly shadowed by a pair of skiffs after leaving Veracruz, but to the surprise of its crew, their course took them not to Havana or the open waters of the Atlantic but to the pirate isle of Nativitad, better known to buccaneers as Natty Cove. Arriving in the harbor, Nuestra Señora drove the smaller pirate craft from the harbor before beginning a bombardment of the settlement itself. Its captain informed Natty Cove via note that it was to surrender itself immediately and submit to search and seizure, but as a pirate town there was no mayor or government to treat with. When one of the shadowing skiffs notified the fleet, they proceded at best speed to intercept their prize and save the city.

The five pirate ships—the Surprise, the Gunsway II, the Howdah Keg, the Fancy Rat, and the Duke of New York—engaged the galleon simultaneously, crossing her “T” in what would usually have been a position for a rout.

Twenty minutes later, four of the five ships were ablaze and sinking.

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“Why would anyone want to play the clarinet?” Cindy scrunched up her nose. She played the flute on the way toward playing the piccolo, the slightest and most feminine of instruments.”

Brady hugged his clarinet case tightly to his chest and began to walk more quickly.

“Yeah,” said Arden, who played the drums. “Clarinet’s something you play when all the good instruments are taken. All the real instruments.”

Continuing without acknowledging them, Brady visibly reddened. His clarinet case, the size and shape of a small briefcase, thumped against his knees as he fled.

“What a loser,” Cindy said after him, in a loud voice she was sure he could hear.

“Yeah,” added Arden. “Why not drop band if you’re just going to lame it up with the clarinets?”

Once he was out of the range of their taunts, Brady opened a maintenance door with a credit card and slipped into the school’s restricted area. A few moments later he was on the roof. The procession of President Mtumbe of Katanga was just passing by the school.

Opening the clarinet case, Brady removed the pieces of his instrument before prying up the felt backing to reveal an optical scope, a pistol grip, suppressor, and five rounds of .30.06 full metal jacket. A few snaps and twists later, he had assembled a short but functional single-shot clarinet sniper rifle.

He played a short song on it, and melted away before Mtumbe’s security detail could avenge their slain leader.

And that was why Brady Carruthers, young assassin, played the clarinet exclusively.

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“The study was a fiasco, terminated less than halfway through the experimental procedure.”

“The subjects?”

“Some died, a few others were executed. You know how it goes; there’s no problem that the PRC has that can’t be solved with nine grams of lead, or so they say.”

“So they say. But how exactly did the study fail? Sedation overdose?”

“Suicide. The first group was sedated for a month, kept from atrophy and whatnot with the same technology used for astronauts. When they were awoken, to a man they immediately attempted to kill themselves with the nearest available implement. They only executed the ones who failed.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“I’m not sure I do either. All I know is that the sedative induced a near-constant state of REM sleep. 20–25% of total normal sleep is REM sleep, about 90–120 minutes in an average night. It’s also when the most intense dreaming takes place.”

“So they had been, essentially, dreaming for a month?”

“And they decided, to a man, that they’d rather die than face the waking world again.

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Lots of kids stomp the fall leaves in their yard.

Especially after you’ve been raking, there’s no more tempting thing for a small child. With no snow on the ground, they’re just drawn to those fireworks of foliage. Evan was no different; I watched the leaves fly about with pleasant crunches as he stomped. I suppose I might have been angry since I’d spent all morning getting them into a pile, but I wasn’t.

Lots of kids stomp the fall leaves in their yard.

People have told me, in retrospect, about the time when they realized their children were…special. Everyone has their own story about what first caused them to sit up and take notice of the differences, what set their child apart for the others. For me, and for Evan, it was that fall day when he got into the leaves, just as the first snap of cold was creeping into the air. It wasn’t anything in the way he was playing, or yelling, or something like that.

No, I first knew Evan was special when I stood there in the window, watching the leaves fly about outside crushed and flaking, while Evan stomped energetically on the kitchen floor directly behind me.

Lots of kids stomp the fall leaves in their yard.

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Anderton Schultz looked back at Kent, his eyes wild. One of the contact lenses had slipped, with blue appearing like an eclipsed moon from behind the blood red. The latex appliances were coming off in spots, and hadn’t really been applied properly in the first place.

“Think about what you’re doing!” Kent cried. “You’re not well, Andy!”

“Cast the warm-bloods into the Caverns of Ice!” growled Schultz. “Cast the warm-bloods into the Caverns of Ice!”

“Stop saying that stupid line!” Kent snapped despite himself. “Andy, for shit’s sake, snap out of it!”

Even if Schultz’s hatred toward Kent hadn’t been laser-sharp and incandescent, he wouldn’t have heard a word. The movie had been made in 1990, and he’d been buried under makeup, but in light of his recent reversals, Schultz had realized that after fighting it for so long, it was time for an embrace.

With a gutteral growl, Schultz hefted Kent up over his head with both hands, using the strength that he’d used often in doing his own stunts. Upon seeing the inky abyss before him, concealing the canyon floor 100 feet down, Kent’s wheedling abruptly turned into frenzied, infantile shrieks.

“Cast…the warm-bloods…into..the Caverns of Ice!”

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“I have heard the two-legs talking,” purred the cat in a voice both soft and satisfied. “You are to be taken to a great pride-leader of theirs as a prize and curiosity.”

“It matters not,” replied the Huia male, gently rubbing his thick beak against the dark plumage of his mate, “as long as we are together.”

“Oh, you will be,” said the cat, shifting her balance slightly as the ship bobbed amid light waves. “The two-legs will stuff you with sawdust and wires, side by side. I have heard of it from toms in port.”

“As long as we are together,” the female huia said. She cooed softly and returned her mate’s gesture with her long beak like a curved needle.”

“Bah, such mawkishness is no kind of sport,” snarled the cat. “No wonder your kind is rare enough to be a curiosity.” She turned to the next cage in the ship’s hold. “What about you, owl?” she said. “How does it feel to be among the last of your kind, taken from your home to be stuffed by a pride of two-legs?”

“Ah..ahah..AHAHAHAHAHA!” one of the owls cackled. “Hehehehe…you want to have a bit of sport with us, two-legs, is that it? Maybe agree to, heh, open our cages and let you end our misery early? AHAHAHAHA!”

“And why not?” said the cat, speaking the patois common to predators in a low and mewling voice. “A quick snap…I would do it clean. You’d die a warrior’s death. Who knows, you and your queen there might even best me and fly away to safety.”

“Ahahaha…AHAHAHA!” cackled the female laughing owl. “We’ve heard things as well, you know. There was a sort of…ahahaha…little bird that once lived not far from where we did. Killed by cats they were, all of them! And do you know what the two-legs did in return? They killed the cats, all of them!” The owls chortled together.

“So…ahaha…so you see, cat, we may be bound for a stuffing, but you’re surely not” the male cackled. “Eat one feather of ours or our amorous fellow-passengers and the two-legs will snuff you out like a blind cricket!”

The cat hissed and snarled in return. But, recognizing the futility of the gesture, it turned and sulked out of sight.

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“See? All of them gone.” Caleb Barnet, the cemetery caretaker, was an odd sort with a vaguely singsong diction and a long-running, long-joked-about conflict of interest since he was the younger of the two sons of old Ethel Mae Barnet who ran Barnet Funeral Home over on East Schloss St.

Deerton PD Officer Mike Overhauser had responded to plenty of Caleb’s calls before. Usually it was something about teenagers in the cemetery walking over his fine crosscut grass or littering, and he’d been known to call the fuzz when one of the kids he hired for odd jobs over the summer looked at him funny. A lot of the guys in the city police looked at Caleb Barnet’s calls as a good excuse to pick up some coffee at Easton’s Gas.

And then there was this.

“Any idea who might have wanted to take them?” Mike bent over a grave to examine it closely. The gentleman six feet south, all dressed up with nowhere to go, was one Jared Matthews. As noted on his tombstone, he’d died in Korea circa 1952 and by rights there ought to have been a little steel holder in the ground with an American flag and a slot for flowers. Instead, the flag and flowers had been placed on the ground on either side of an empty hole.

“It’s those damned teenagers again,” Caleb said in his distinctive diction. “Pulling them up and selling them for scrap to get money for meth and dope.”

Mike pulled on a latex glove and examined the flag and flowers–one of many scattered about a burial field completely denuded of steel holders. “It’s just cheap pressed steel,” he said. “Worth less than a penny each in scrap. All the money’s in copper and stuff like that.”

“Then they’re making shivs out of them, or using them as crack pipes,” insisted Caleb. “I tell you officer, it’s those goddamned kids, with too many horror movies and not enough respect for the dead!”

“Maybe,” said Mike, unconvinced. “I’ll dust these for prints and we’ll do some drive-bys tonight.”

Over Caleb’s protestations that dusting and drive-bys weren’t enough, Mike bagged the evidence and returned to his squad car to call in the report. Caleb stalked back to the cemetery maintenance shed in response, muttering darkly.

Not far away, the stolen steel flag holders were arranged in a complex geometric pattern on the ground about their thief, close enough to be seen but missed by both caretaker and cop.

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