Chapter 5

George tried to open his eyes. He got his left eye open, but something had fused his right closed. He stared upwards to the rafters and ribbons of sunlight were escaping through broken slates. He turned his head a fraction and saw a wall made of bricks, roughly chiseled, very old, and held together with crumbling mortar that emitted more ribbons of bright sunlight.

He listened to the sounds surrounding him. Far off, outside, he detected shouting and the roar of steel wheels on a railroad track. Close by him, he heard another sound - that of labored breathing - a rasping, asthmatic sound, of someone fighting for each breath. He looked, and saw the bloodied face of his new friend Robert, his slight body slumped against the wall like a discarded sack. Robert was clutching himself around his ribs and it was plain to George he'd taken a severe beating.

"Robert?" he tried to call, but his mouth was full of his own blood. He spat and tried again. "Robert? You awake?"

"Geor - ge!" the lad spoke, between rasping breaths. "You - okay?"

"Fine," he lied. "You?"

"Hurts!" he screwed up his eyes in pain. "Blood!" the lad pointed at George, rattling his wrist chains.

"Huh?" George put his hand to his face and found dried blood. He wiped the back of his hand across his face and opened his other eye. "Ribs?" The boy nodded. "Why you?"

"Tr - tried to - s - stop. Stop - them - hitting - you."

"What?" George looked at Robert in shock. "You took a beating for me?"

The lad had a nasty cut to his forehead and purple bruises around his cheek and jaw. His plain cotton shift was dirty and stained with blood. George wondered how long the lad could survive in these inhuman, sceptic conditions without proper medical treatment. He felt a responsibility for the boy and, to be honest, a certain guilt he'd taken a hiding on his behalf.

He looked around the room again in hope of finding something he could use to his advantage. It was obvious they were in some kind of shed roughly assembled from ancient materials. He thought it would be easy enough to make a hole somewhere. However, his wrist chains were anchored to a steel post set in cement and clearly a more recent construction than the rest of the place. He pulled on the chain and found it bolted fast to the post with no hint of wear. At least, he thought, the chain was a little longer than the one in the hold of the ship and he could get up on his knees.

"Hold on, Robert," he told the lad. "We'll get out of this - you'll see."

His bold talk, however, didn't seem rooted in reality, but he thought the boy brightened a little nonetheless.

Just then, the steel door burst open and a large, and notably overweight, figure stood in the doorway framed by the burst of sunlight behind him. George squinted in the glare and couldn't see any detail of the man. He did, though, recognize his voice.

"How's it goin', arseholes?" he said. "Don't get up."

"Ah," George replied. "Dried out yet?"

"Oh, there's always one, always one, ain't there, arsehole? But, y'see, I'll give it a day and you'll be lickin' me arse with the rest of them. You'll come to like it when Lank Murphy gives ya an order. You'll like it so much you'll be beggin' for it."

"Begging your pardon, sir?" George said, faux polite. "But why would an arsewipe like yourself possibly want your arse licked by young boys?"

"You fuck!" Lank lashed out. He caught George around the face with the back of his closed fist, knocking him flat on his back. "You fuck!" he repeated, and began kicking George in the small of the back.

"Stand down, Murphy," came a stern voice from behind. "Leave him."

"You piece of shit," Lank snarled at George as he stomped out.

"Shelton," the newcomer announced. "I'm the manager, here, and if you don't want any grief from the likes of Murphy, just keep your head down and do an honest day's work. Now, you are?" He looked at Robert, brandishing an old fashioned clipboard.

"Um," Robert gasped, "Robert Haelstrom."

"'Robert' will do," Shelton said. "We don't bother with surnames here. And you?" He looked at George. "You're a late addition, aren't you?"

George thought for a moment whether to tell him his real name. He'd no idea what Shelton knew of his real identity. He decided to take a chance and see what comes of it. "George," he said, "George of the Black Guard."

"What?" Shelton looked stunned. "You putting me on?"

"No. I was on a military delegation to Cityplex when I was abducted by crooked cops. A Board Station was rigged - steel door came down, and they released narcogas, or something."

"Jeezus, I hope your kidding. The last thing I want is the Black Guard swarming all over me."

"Then leave," George said. "While there's still time. Meanwhile, the kid needs some medical treatment."

"I, I gotta check with the Company. You wait here, and I'll be back."

"Didn't think of leaving," George managed a wry grin.

"The fuck. The Black Guard? Crap!" Shelton muttered as he raced out the door.

George was grateful the Black Guard still had the respect of these people. It should make their operations much easier.

A little later, Murphy came back. He kicked the door open determinably and strutted back and forth between George and his new friend, Robert.

"Black Guard, are, ya?" he snarled. "I suppose I'm s'pose to be scared. So, scare me, ha ha ha."

"You'll keep, arsewipe," George told him. "The Arks have long memories."

"Oh, it's you who should be scared, Black Guard," Lank said. He knelt down and pulled George's head around by the beard. "See this?" he said, showing George the silver, electric baton. "You know what it feels like to have it shoved into yer gob?"

"Hmm," George considered, mock seriously. "Do you have an oral fixation?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" the big man asked, narrowing his eyes.

"I mean, do like to suck on little things?"

"Yeah?" Lank drawled, menacingly. "I know what you're getting' at, ya little fuck. Try this?" With that, he thrust the baton into George's mouth.

Out in the Gulf, Gina was explaining the operation of the autocannon to Kroon. The Henry Jacobson ploughed through South trending currents into a metre high swell heading roughly nor'east towards Moon Sound. The gun was mounted on the centerline on top of the cover to the fish hold. Clearly, there was to be no fishing possible as long as the gun remained on the deck.

"Ok," Gina explained, "these are what they call 'trays' - they contain the ammunition."

"Why 'trays'?" Kroon asked.

"Well, because, ah, cos, ah ... Cos, it doesn't matter, okay? It's just a name. The trays are always stacked to the right of the gun, because that's the side we load them into the receiver. Rada will sit on the left cos that's where it has the traverse pedals, trajectory control, scope and trigger."

"That seems a lot to do," Kroon said, thinking.

"Nah. It just takes a bit of, like, co-ordination. Look, it's my briefing, Kroon, so just pay attention and don't ask questions till afterwards, okay?" Kroon nodded. "Kay, so, each tray has two handles, one each side, and it takes two people to carry them. Take a side, carry it to the gun, lift, and slide into the slot. I slam the lever down, then we run back, got it?"

"Got it."

"Right, so, Rada fires the gun until the tray's empty. She shouts 'load' and we run to the tray, pull the lever up, take the tray by the handles and throw it to our left."

Kroon put up his hand, and Gina nodded. "Why left?"

"Cos that's out of the way. We don't want to mix the empties and loaded trays together and we don't want anything under our feet to trip us up. Kroon? We've got to know what the other is doing, in detail, at all times, or everything gets fucked up. That's real important. And Kroon, if Rada swings the gun onto the other beam, we have to move everything over to the other side, got it? Cos, ammunition's aways stacked to the right of the gun. You got to remember that, cos, who knows, I might get wounded and you have to do it on your own."

"Gina, be careful, okay?" Kroon said, suddenly concerned.

"Hey, you too. I wouldn't want Sian all upset, would I?"

"Me neither."

"Yeah, well, right, now the gun. Now, if Rada gets taken down, one of us has to take over. This gun is a Mk V and the same design hasn't changed much for 100 years. That's because it's simple, reliable and dump shit all over it and it still works. It's your basic recoil actuated mechanism." Gina walked around the gun and Kroon followed. "Ejector and chute under the breech and it fires the hot cases behind, maybe a metre or more. That's why you never stand behind closer than two metres in case a hot case smacks you between the legs."

"Ouch!" Kroon winced.

"Yeah," Gina grinned. "Gunner's position," she indicated. "Traverse left and right by pedals. Up and down with that lever, there. Find the range through the scope - laser rangefinder, and if you look through the eyepiece, you'll see the crosshairs and bar. Line the two together with the trajectory control in your right hand, and hold the trigger handle in your left. The button is covered with a flip cover so you don't knock it accidentally. It looks simple, but don't take anything for granted. A moving target, for instance, takes judgement cos you have to figure the deflection in your head - and real quickly. Now, we practice. Load!"

At the helm, Rada and John stood with Eric looking on with amusement.

"You've got a team, Rada," John said.

"Yeah! I thought those two weren't suppose to be getting along because of Kroon's thing with Sian?"

"She bounces back," John shrugged. "How far, Eric?"

"Hmm," the skipper looked skywards. "About dusk, I think. We timed it about right."

"Good."

"We should call Sian," Rada suggested. "Get her to do a sweep for us?"

"No radios!" Eric told them, adamantly.

"We use high band," John explained.

"High band, low band," Eric shrugged. "Don't matter. They'll be listening, you betcha."

"We shouldn't take the chance, John," Rada agreed. "As Eric says, we're a wooden boat. We get hit by cannon fire, the hull will be shattered."

Meanwhile, Sian was already in the air. She'd tried hailing the Henry Jacobson, but there was no answer. She deduced, correctly, they had the radio turned off and was maintaining radio silence. She decided to play with the heads of the Company's communications staff. Assuming the Henry Jacobson was heading south - not knowing they had decided to attack Moon Sound - she started broadcasting bullshit messages to non-existing Black Guard units.

"Big Orange to Starglow leader," she radioed. "Confirm authorization to penetrate FL, copy?"

"Okay, copy that. Objective 'H' in ten. Sparrow leader confirms clear to target, copy?"

And so on.

At Good Hope, Schecter looked up from the radio at Rasida with a bemused grin. "It's all shit!" he said. "Y'think 'FL' could stand for the Floral Line. Maybe 'H', Havana?"

"Too obvious," Rasida replied. "She wants them to think we're about to attack Havana. Say something back," she chuckled.

"Right, ah, 'Eagle leader to Big Orange. Confirm 'H' in ten. Clear to go, clear to go, copy?"

"Big Orange, copy that." Sian radioed back. "Good luck, Eagle."

"Watch your arse, Big Orange, out." Turning off the radio, Schecter and Rasida burst out laughing.

"How can anyone watch their own arse, Schecter?" Rasida laughed.

"A mirror? Two mirrors? It's just something you say, dummy."