Iron Rage. James Axler

       Chapter Four

      Krysty felt her gut clench and her eyes widen as the roar ended in a colossal splash to the west of Mississippi Queen, so close that the tubby tug rocked perceptibly.

      The redheaded beauty looked north. A line of ships, ominously dark in the shadows of chem clouds crossing the afternoon sun, seemed to stretch across the mile-wide river, side-on to each other. Thin lines of dark smoke rose from their stacks, diffusing rapidly as the breeze began tugging it toward the west bank. A puff of lighter smoke, also drifting to her left, stood out from the rest. That was from the cannon that had fired at them.

      Yellow lights flashed from all along the line.

      The first boom rolled over them like thunder. Ryan knelt and laid his longblaster across the railing. J.B. knelt by his side, his fedora jammed tightly on his head and his Uzi in his hands. Krysty knew he was by Ryan’s side for support only. His blaster didn’t have the range to do any damage to the hostile ironclads, which were at least a quarter of a mile distant.

      Captain Conoyer was already sprinting for the cabin, shouting, “Hard to port, now! Redline the engines!”

      She paused at the pilothouse doorway. “Everybody whose duties don’t keep them up top, get belowdecks now!” she bellowed. “Barge damage party, get back aboard and under cover!”

      Most of the attackers’ volley dropped into the water at least a hundred yards shy of the Queen’s bow, sending up greenish-brown columns of water that burst into white froth before opening like flowers and falling back again. A couple shots splashed closer, but wide to the right and left.

      â€œAt least it’ll take them a while to reload,” Mildred said, wincing as the multiple thumps of cannon shots reach them. She had reflexively hunkered down behind the front rail. So had Krysty.

      â€œBigger boats are already turning broadside to bring their side blasters to bear,” Ryan reported, peering with his scope through falling spray.

      â€œI’d say it’s just about ready to get serious,” J.B. said, sounding more interested than alarmed.

      Krysty looked back. The people who had gone on board the barge to fight the fire in the fabric bales were scrambling back across the thick hawser that connected the hulls. She was relieved and pleased to see Doc trotting right across, as spry as a kid goat, holding his arms out to his sides with his black coattails flapping. Despite his aged appearance, he was chronologically but a few years younger than Ryan. The bizarre abuse and rigors the evil whitecoats of Operation Chronos had subjected him to after trawling him from the late 1800s had aged him prematurely, and damaged his fine, highly educated mind. But he could still muster the agility and energy of a man much younger than he appeared to be.

      Ricky came last, straddling the thick woven hemp cable and inchworming along, but he did so at speed.

      Avery had vanished. “You and Mildred best head for cover,” Ryan said.

      â€œThey’ll only hit us by accident,” Mildred replied, “shooting oversize muskets at us.”

      â€œThey’re going to have a dozen or two shots at us, next round,” J.B. said. “That’s a lot of chances to get lucky.”

      â€œLooks like some smaller fry are heading this way,” Ryan reported. “Krysty, Mildred—git!”

      â€œBut what good will a wooden hull and decks do against iron cannonballs?” Mildred asked.

      â€œSplinters!” Ryan exclaimed.

      â€œCome on.” Krysty grabbed the other woman’s wrist and began to run for the cabin. Though Mildred was about as heavy as she was, Krysty was barely slowed, towing Mildred as if the woman were a river barge. She was strong, motivated and full of adrenaline.

      Krysty heard Ryan open fire. Given the range, the bobbing of the approaching lesser war craft, and the complex movement of the Queen—pitching fore and aft as well as heeling over to her right from the centrifugal force of the fastest left turn the vessel could manage—she doubted he’d be lucky enough to hit anything significant.

      The women had almost reached the cabin when the next salvo hit, roaring like an angry dragon. Krysty saw stout planks suddenly spreading into fragments almost in her face.

      And then the world vanished in a soundless white flash.

      * * *

      RYAN’S HEART ALMOST imploded in his chest when he heard the shell crash through the roof of the bridge and detonate. Krysty!

      He stood, pushed off from the rail and spun.

      The forward port corner of the cabin—his right—had been smashed. Smoke streamed out. He heard screams, smelled burned flesh, and burning horsehair from padded chairs.

      Krysty lay on her back on the deck, her head in Mildred’s lap. Her hair was curled close to her head, though not tightly, and was waving feebly. Her face was a ghastly mask of gore and char.

      â€œKrysty!” he shouted.

      Mildred waved him off.

      â€œHer forehead’s just nicked,” she said. “The rest is just smoke.”

      â€œShe’s not hurt?”

      â€œShe’s concussed,” Mildred said. “But she’s tough. She’ll make it. There’s nothing more to do for her right now. Ow! What?”

      The last was directed at J.B., who had taken off his fedora and was swatting her on top of the head with it.

      â€œYour hair’s smoldering up top,” he said.

      â€œOh,” she said sheepishly. “Something made me dive for the deck. Since Krysty was hanging on to my wrist it was easy to take her down with me. But she still caught more of the blast than I did.”

      â€œHelp!” somebody yelled from inside the cabin. “Somebody help the captain!”

      Ryan and Mildred looked at each other. “Look out after Krysty, John,” she said. Easing Krysty’s head to the planks, she extricated herself and stood.

      As soon as he saw Krysty’s head laid gently down, Ryan moved ahead of Mildred to the door and looked inside.

      A dense haze of greenish smoke filled the bridge, lit poorly by afternoon sunlight slanting in through the hole, and a few oily flickering yellow flames. The stink of burned gunpowder, hair and overcooked flesh was intense. Ryan had to clamp his jaw shut against acid vomit that shot up his throat.

      Nataly Dobrynin stood at the wheel. Like Krysty’s, her face was a black-and-crimson mask. She was craning

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