of something other than that fine muslin we were taking to him,â J.B. stated. âThe shell burst in the barge and set some of the cloth bales on fire.â
That was neither manâs problem. Trying to prevent another shell from landing smack in the middle of the cabinâor blowing a hole at their waterlineâwas.
In his observation of the enemy vessels, Ryan had noticed that the helmsman of each was plainly visible through an ob port, above the bow cannon, although shadowed. He couldnât tell if the port had glass. Since he knew the odds of its being bulletproof were slim, he discounted the chance it would turn a longblaster bullet.
It wasnât an easy shot. Realistically, Ryan didnât think he had to hit spot-on, but he lined up the shadowy head on the lead boatâs driver as carefully as he could, and fired.
âHead shot,â J.B. reported. He had whipped out a handy little 8-power Simmons monocular heâd bought off a scavvy a few weeks back and was scoping out Ryanâs target.
âAce on the line,â the one-eyed man said. And indeed, when he could see his target again, there was an indistinct flurry of activity on the boatâs bridge, and no head visible behind the spoked wheel. âLight âem up.â
As J.B. began to rip short, controlled bursts of 9 mm rounds at the other craft, Ryan saw that, without a hand at its helm, the lead vessel had already began to slew to his right. A second shot through the front ob port helped discourage anyone who might think of trying to regain control.
Ryan swung his scope in search of new targets. He heard cheering break out from behind him and realized the pursuing craft were losing way against the slow, heavy Sippi current.
âLooks like they had enough for now,â J.B. remarked, as he eased off the trigger. âWant me to continue firing them up?â
Ryan lifted his head from behind the scope.
The distance between the lumbering Queen, which had almost completed her turn to the north, and the other craft was visibly increasing now. Blasterfire from that direction had ceased.
âDonât waste the bullets,â he said.
âWhat the nuke did you do?â Trace Conoyer called.
Ryan looked around to see the captain striding toward him from the cabin on her long, jeans-clad legs.
Her tone of voice had demanded a response, but it wasnât hostile or challenging.
âI left Nataly at the helm,â she said. âHow did you make those New Vick frigates sheer off?â
âFrigates?â J.B. echoed.
âNew Vick?â Ryan asked.
âThey like to call them that. Theyâre just glorified blasterboats and muster two, three cannon. Four, five at max. But they are ironclad. Theyâre part of the fleet the barony of New Vickville has been building for a generation now.â
The barge began to obscure Ryanâs view of the so-called frigates. The cloud of brown-tinged white smoke told him that the fire there wasnât serious.
âI sent Moriarty and a damage control party aft to put out the fire,â the captain said. âI sent the white-haired kid and Doc along. It was obvious they werenât going to have anything to shoot at, and they seemed antsy for something to do. Got the kid perched up top of the cabin, keeping eyes skinned for trouble from landward. Heâs still at it. Heâs a strange one.â
âThat he is,â Ryan agreed, although Jak was no longer a kid. Then again, he was slighter and smaller than Ricky Morales, who was a kid. It was a natural mistake.
âWere those boys shooting at your tow barge, for some reason?â J.B. asked.
Trace shook her head. âThey werenât aiming for anything in particular.â
âMust be triple-bad shots,â J.B. said. He had slung his Uzi and now took his glasses off to polish them with a handkerchief.
The captain shrugged. âMebbe. But those cannon arenât anywhere near accurate at that range. Theyâre smoothbores. Usually four-pounders, in boats like those. Six for the broadside cannon, mebbe.â
J.B. nodded. That was his lingo, even if charcoal-burning cannon without rifling were pretty far out on the fringe for him.
Krysty and Mildred approached them from around the starboard side of the cabin.
âNo injuries, Captain,â the shorter woman reported. âThat was some lousy shooting, thankfully.â
âAny orders for us, Captain?â Krysty asked.
âStand ready if youâre needed.â
The statuesque redhead gave her lover a wink as he straightened from the rail. He kept his blaster in hand, just to be sure.
âSo whatâs the deal with this barony of New Vick?â J.B. asked. He settled his wire-rimmed spectacles back in place. Behind them Ryan could see a gleam in his eyes. âWhy are they building up a fleet?â
âTheyâre in an arms race with Poteetville,â Trace replied.
âCaptain.â
âWhat have you got for me, Edna?â the captain asked.
This time it was Edna Huang who was approaching from astern. A short, bespectacled Asian woman who inexplicably liked to wear her shiny black hair all wound into circular pigtails, she was the Mississippi Queenâs chief purser.
âArliss reports the fire is controlled and heâll soon have it out,â Edna said. âThereâs no sign of structural damage to the barge that he can find.â
âAce on the line,â the captain said.
The purser seemed less than happy at the very news she brought.
âWhatâs eating at you?â Trace asked.
âThereâs not much damage to the textiles, maâam. But thereâs still some. We may need to write off as much as ten percent, adding in for smoke damage.â
âItâs the cost of doing business on the river,â the captain said.
âBaron Teddyâs not going to be triple pleased.â
âYou leave him to me. He knows how the world works today.â
âYes, maâam.â
âNow run along and send up
