Paul was checking his own. "That's all you've got? I've got almost two full mags left!" His voice became fatherly, "Look, take it..." he never finished the sentence.

  Deeter, Ragnaar and the remaining pirates, executed their plan, storming the B-25 and showering it with bright magenta streaks of energy. Encouraged by the shouts of their crew mates, Maria's prisoners rose and turned toward the plane. Quick on the trigger, the harsh vibrating bark of Maria's twin .50 cal. guns changed their minds.

  One arm wrapped around the strut of the landing gear to keep from toppling, Mike fought to focus as he fired, being careful to conserve ammunition. Paul was forced to flatten himself prone against the starboard wing, close to the fuselage to avoid the vicious wave of energy pulses.

  Paul fired fiercely at his now limited field of vision. Having lost the advantage of height, he tried to drop to the floor to keep Mike from being overrun but the intensity of the pirate's attack kept him confined. Maria could not help. Her prisoners, prone on the deck, watched and waited for the chance to escape if her gun turret turned away.

  Mike heard the familiar clack of the bolt locking open on an empty magazine and his stomach fell. He let go of the strut and dropped to the deck. "I'm out, Pappy..."

  Paul felt sick inside, his stomach tightening, his hands buzzing with adrenalin, "Hold on, kid." He prepared to drop to the floor to protect his friend and the B-25 shuddered with a hefty boom, violently lurching, pitching to the port side. Paul knew they would try to overrun Mike's undefended position and if he couldn't retrieve his friend quickly, there would be no hope. Paul tried calling his wingman on the com, but there was no answer. He fired rapidly and emptied his magazine, trying to beat the attackers into retreat.

  The pirates, their number diminished, but their fervor strong, closed on the plane. Paul rammed his last magazine into the carbine and prepared to fight until his last round. "If they get me, darlin', gun `em all... every single one of 'em..." His southern accent seemed to be stronger under stress.

  Maria looked over her shoulder, but of course couldn't see him. She refused to believe it was going to end like this. "OK, Pappy," she replied through clenched teeth. Desperately trying to call Jack on her comm unit rewarded her with nothing but waves of static.

  Paul took a deep breath and rolled off the wing. He hit the deck in a crouch and rolled backwards uncontrolled. It saved his life, energy pulses passing wildly around him, the pirates unable to hit him. He scurried to the starboard landing gear amidst a brutal slew of pirate fire and rubbed his swelling left ankle. Mike's motionless form lay almost ten feet from the blackened port landing gear, its shredded tire scattered in pieces and ribbons of rubber around the deck.

  The pirates were so close Paul could see their faces. He chose his targets carefully, gritting his teeth to remain calm, wrestling with a fight or flight response that was doing its best to convince him flight was the preferred choice of action. He twice killed pirate soldiers trying to flank him, but as his ammunition dwindled, he realized his luck was going with it... “I'd give my left nut for an M249 right about now,” he breathed. “Or a nice big, fat M60...”

  Bursts of gunfire erupted behind him, coming from the cargo ramp, and Paul snuggled down beside the wheel of the Sweet Susie's gear. Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, Paul said a short prayer. "Well, so much for Lady Luck... lazy bitch." Blazing magenta streaks, whizzed by him from behind, striking crates forward of the plane. That was unnerving enough, but it was the war cry, a long, deep, roaring howl, which made his blood run cold. "Christ Almighty! What the hell is that...?"

  "Just us, Commander..." breathed the husky female voice in Paul's earpiece. It sounded familiar even through the static and disturbance. He couldn't quite discern who it was, but who gave a shit, help was help. Paul shifted his position to venture a quick peek. "Stay where you are Paul, we don't want to hit you," growled another familiar but indiscernible female voice.

  Raulya, Myomerr and a contingent of about fifteen of the Princess's security officers, had appeared inside on the loading ramp and raced across the cruiser's cargo deck toward the Sweet Susie, firing as they ran. Some had carbines, some had energy rifles collected from dead pirates. Paul could not remember seeing a sweeter sight, imagining the bugles and cavalry flag fluttering above them as they thundered in on horseback. Shooting from the hip as they ran at close to full stride, Paul was amazed at their remarkable accuracy. He kept his head down just the same.

  As they passed through the group of thirty-plus prisoners, several foolishly rose to confront the officers. Snarling, Raulya and Myomerr slashed and hacked with the butts of their weapons, viciously repelling the crewmen without slowing or breaking stride. Excited by the sound of breaking bone and the smell of fresh blood, the two Ketarians howled their savage war cry as they advanced, firing savagely, beating back the pirate soldiers.

  Completely unnerved by this sudden, fearless, ruthless, counter attack; the pirates' offensive crumbled. They laid down their weapons and surrendered after losing well over half their men in the bloody failed attack against the Sweet Susie.

  ■ ■ ■

  Ragnaar sat with his back against the storage crates where he had found Deeter lying in a pool of dark crimson. He cradled the lifeless body of his friend in hulking arms, but with a tenderness his generous size didn't belay. He spoke softly to the fallen soldier, "You died well, my brother..." He pinched the bridge of his nose to block the tears he had never shed for other lost comrades. "They must truly be the Demons of Hellion," he continued, "for we have lost..." He considered it briefly, but decided no others could have succeeded in defeating them in this manner. He shook his head, "No, no one else could have done this. I fear for my soul, my friend." The big man was a pirate, but he had not always been so and he was not without beliefs. "As you cross the bridge of Whyte, put in a favorable word for me with the good Lords of Heavenite, eh? I do not wish to pitched into the dark water of Hellion that passes under it."

  Pappy, accompanied by Maria, knelt next to his wingman. Together, they grimaced as they looked at the young pilot's charred tunic, fused to the skin all along the right side of his torso. Pappy leaned close to listen for a heartbeat, though he hadn't much hope. Realizing something was jabbing him in the stomach, Paul looked down to see the muzzle of a Beretta 9mm pushing against him. It was firmly held in Mike's right hand, his index finger on the trigger.

  "Izat you, Pappy...?" Mike's voice was soft but steady. One eye opened weakly, trying to see through the haze of a mild concussion.

  Paul grinned widely. "Yeah, it's me, kid..."

  "Me too," added Maria, with tears in her eyes.

  "Oh good," Mike's hand dropped to the deck, still holding the Beretta. "Didn't think I could pull the trigger anyway..."

  "You did good, kid."

  "Really?" Paul nodded. "Thanks." Mike smiled weakly, his speech was slow and a bit slurred. "Could only play possum after that tire went boom. Figured to blow the nuts off the first guy who came to finish me..."

  Paul put his hand on Mike's shoulder, "You did just fine. Now shut your yap and relax; the medics are on their way."

  Maria's pendant, the Teardrop Crystal of Rhomm, had slipped from the neckline of her tunic and swayed gently above Mike Warren's pained form as she leaned over him. It looked almost fluid, like a fresh drop of rain clinging to the gold chain around her neck. Mike, fixing his eyes on it, had a sudden desire for water. "Christ, I'm thirsty." He swallowed dryly. "Got anything to drink?"

  There was, of course, nothing available. And as Paul and Maria looked at each other in silent search of an answer Paul's eyes widened. Maria raised one eyebrow. "What...?"

  Paul pointed to the pendant which had begun weeping moisture in slow, steady, sparkling drops. "It's leaking..."

  Maria looked. "It's not leaking," she said in astonishment, "it's weeping!"

  "Weeping, leaking," said Paul. "What the hell's the difference? It's dribbling all over the place!"

  Mike could feel the drops hitting his neck. "Get some in my mouth why doncha..." he mumbled.

  Paul was getting impatient, "Where the HELL are those medics? The kid's having a hard time breathing..." He unbuttoned his wingman's tunic to make him more comfortable.

  Maria touched the wet crystal to her tongue before Paul could object and smacked her lips in contemplation. "That was pretty stupid," said Paul crisply, "What if it's poisonous?"

  Maria smiled coyly and making a face, stuck out her tongue. Woman's intuition told her it wasn't, but she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of admitting he could be right. Something told her the crystal was sympathetically reading her needs somehow and was trying to provide for that need, although she had no idea how that could be possible... After all, it was just a crystal. Wasn't it?

  The crystal's moisture was cool and smooth. It slickly coated Maria's mouth like a light oil, but it had a wondrous sweet-tart flavor that made her mouth water. She smiled at Paul, her mouth tingling from top to bottom. Paul raised one eyebrow, "Well?"

  "Yeah," rasped Mike, "well?"

  Maria held the crystal over Mike's mouth, "It's safe."

  The droplets splashed across Mike's outstretched tongue and Maria wiped the crystal across his lips. "Mmmmmmm," grinned Mike, closing his eyes. "That's great." Suddenly he inhaled sharply and deeply, his eyes open wide and his body rigid, back arched.

  “Jesus!" shouted Paul as he grabbed Mike by the shoulders to hold him down.

  "I, I, I don't understand..." stammered Maria, stunned.

  But it passed as quickly as it came. The young pilot's body relaxed and his breathing became regular and with greater ease. He closed his eyes and appeared to slip into a comfortable state of sleep.

  Paul scratched his head. "What the hell... lemme see that." He touched the crystal and sucked the wetness off his finger. Smacking his lips speculatively, he was pleased by the initial sensations. He was very suddenly aware of a strange sensation sweeping across his body. It took his breath away momentarily, but was pleasing just the same. It wasn't long though, before he realized the ankle he'd injured tumbling off the wing of the B-25, no longer pained him, at least not to the degree that it had previously. Paul wondered if this might have been what Mike felt. It must contain some kind of drug, and since Maria had no injuries, she had not felt the same sensations over her body, just the initial reaction. Paul shook his head, he felt little pain, "Amazing..." It was all he could think of to say.

  The messenger trotted to a stop under the wing of the Sweet Susie. "Need to let you know sir," he puffed, "all wounded have to be moved out to the Princess's landing pad near the flight tower."

  "Why so far?" asked Paul.

  The young messenger shrugged. "Dunno' sir, it's just where they're moving everybody." He turned to leave.

  "Hey!" shouted Maria, "why couldn't they tell us that over the com half an hour ago?!"

  "Some of the comlinks are damaged," he explained. "About a third of the grid is off line. You must be in a dead spot." He trotted off in the direction he came.

  "Shit," muttered Paul, "I can't carry him, my ankle's too weak."

  Ragnaar, who had wandered cautiously over, dropped to one knee and gently laid the lifeless body of his best friend in the row with the rest of his fallen comrades, near the port side of the B-25. "I will carry him..." he said over his shoulder, without turning around.

  Paul turned and eyed him suspiciously. "How do I know I can trust you?"

  Ragnaar rose and unfolded his six and a half foot herculean frame. "The battle is over," he said, gazing at the row of casualties spread before him. He motioned to the bodies with a wave of his hand. "The dead are gone..." he added, turning to meet Paul's gaze, "and it is time to tend to the needs of the living."

  "You hurt him and I'll kill you," said Maria, matter-of-factly.

  "I don't doubt it," said the pirate casually, meeting her gaze, "but like I said, the battle is over. Besides, I don't kill helpless men."

  "That's not what I've heard," growled Maria sarcastically.

  Ragnaar ignoring the comment, walked past her over to where Mike lay, and knelt beside him. Placing one hand on Mike's chest and the other on his forehead, Ragnaar closed his eyes. "He is your best friend, no?"

  "Yes," confirmed Paul.

  "I understand your concern," said the pirate, gently smoothing Mike's hair, "but he has the heart of a Cerulian Lion. He will not die."

  "And, just how do you know that?" asked Maria venomously.

  Ragnaar smiled. "Because, Miss Arroyo, there are some things I just know..." Without looking up into her stunned face, Ragnaar gently scooped Mike's limp body up off the deck with little apparent effort and cradled him carefully. "Ready, Commander? I believe your friend is in need of some attention."

  The men exchanged guarded smiles, it wasn't often Paul saw Maria at a loss for words. He had a feeling Ragnaar knew that too. The odd trio walked toward the ramp in silence, Maria trailing behind and Paul hobbling like mad to keep up with the pirate's long, easy strides.

  Ragnaar shook his head, "I'll never understand a race that lets their women fight..." he said quietly, his eyes twinkling with light mischief.

  Strangely enough, Paul found the pirate oddly likeable. "Well, it sure wasn't my idea..." he countered, smirking.

  Ragnaar laughed a laugh befitting his size. "Well," he said after gaining his composure, "you don't appear to be the Demons of Hellion."

  Paul looked up at him. "Huh?"

  The pirate shook his head, "Oh, nothing, Commander." He smiled to himself about his private joke; he wished Deeter had been there to share it with him.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  PRINCESS HEDONIST, LAN SYSTEM: ADRIFT

  The conflict on the landing pad ended rather suddenly when Gantarro caught Kidd unawares as he tried to escape the crossfire on the pad. With the barrel of a laser shoved in his ear, Kidd had no choice but to order his crew to surrender. Basically, it was an inevitable outcome. But Gant's actions, which he refused to call heroic, prevented an extended conflict which could have easily doubled the number of casualties.

  Jack stood at the foot of the steps leading to the control tower, surrounded by wounded from both sides. Medical attendants, both mechanical and biological, attended to those wounded. "Stand still, Commander Steele..." said the medibot in a female voice.

  Jack fidgeted as she removed the shards of graphite composite from his forehead and wiped the blood from his face. "Geez, take it easy, will ya? That hurts!"

  "It will do more than just hurt if we don't get it all out," she urged. "Be still!" Holding his face firmly by his jaw, her optical pickup zoomed in to inspect the lacerations across his forehead for any remaining debris as she dabbed away the blood. She was a short, boxy, automaton with two arms and five-fingered digital hands, moving on rubber treads and not legs. Her extendable articulated neck supported her shiny oblong head. It contained a single optical sensor with zoom adjustable floodlight and multi-use surgical laser. "You are lucky, Commander, you have a rather hard cranium." She tapped the top of his head with a rubber padded metal digit, "Though I don't doubt you'll have a tremendous headache."

  Jack winced as she wrapped his head with a clean dressing, "Y'know, you need to work on your bedside manner..." he grumbled.

  The medibot paused, and with a glowing optical sensor, unblinkingly looked him in the eye. She tilted her head in introspection, "But you're not in a bed, Commander." After a moment, she returned her attention to his dressing.

  "What I meant was..." he abandoned the thought. "Oh, forget it," he mumbled.

  "Hey Jacko..." Derrik, still carrying his M1, strolled up from the tower office.

  Jack attempted to turn toward the approaching voice but forgot his head was still anchored by the medibot's grip. "Ow... Hey Derrik. Say, how's the professor doing?"

  "Lost his arm, but he'll live."

  "Christ," whispered Jack. "Man I'm really sorry, I didn't expect..."

  Derrik shook his head. "Forget it," he interrupted, "Uncle has. Call to duty, honor, stiff upper lip... all that rot. As far as he's concerned, we won and that's all that counts."

  "Wow..." Jack couldn't help but admire that kind of intense, selfless dedication. "He sure is a tough old bird..."

  "Well, it helps to be a bit daft," added Derrik.

  Jack smiled weakly, "I suppose."

  "So, how's your bean, old boy?"

  Jack ran his hand around the newly finished bandage and gingerly touched his wrapped forehead. "I've got a major headache."

  "Undoubtedly." Derrik clapped Jack on the shoulder, "But you Yanks have good, hard heads."

  Jack smirked, "So I've been told."

  ■ ■ ■

  Brian strolled across the landing pad toward the tower with Fritz at his side after organizing an armed security attachment to guard the swelling number of prisoners. Fritz trotted up to Jack and sat at his side searching for an approving hand. He found it, the pilot rubbing his ears. Jack knelt down and checked the dog again for injury. The crate that had exploded had tossed them both, leaving them momentarily senseless, but it appeared the Shepherd was completely untouched. Jack glanced up as Brian approached. "Have either of you guys seen Pappy's group?"

  "No," said Derrik, slinging his carbine over his shoulder by its strap.

  "Not yet," said Brian, "Comm links are still down too."

  "OK," nodded Jack. "Let's get a messenger up to them, have them bring everybody out here. Get `em some extra help if they need it. Let's see if we can get this mess all organized."

  "No problem, Skipper, it's already been done."

  "Super..." Jack rubbed his head, "anybody got an aspirin?"

  "No," countered Brian, "but I've got another headache for you. Gantarro says Kidd is requesting a meeting with the commander of our forces."

  "Aww geez," moaned Jack, "why doesn't he handle it?" Brian shrugged, saying nothing. "OK," conceded Jack, throwing up his hands. "Whatever, just give me a few minutes." Brian agreed and disappeared to find Gant and the pirate Captain. Shedding his bloodied coveralls, Jack Steele adjusted his uniform and smoothed his tunic. His blood had seeped through the coveralls and stained his uniform tunic. "Shit. Well, there goes another good shirt," he muttered to Fritz.

 

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