cursed and flailed in the titan’s grip.
Ryan stepped forward despite the kegs strapped to his back.
Doc’s voice thundered across the deck. “Cursed pederast!” The entire deck stared as Doc rounded on Manrape. The old man drew himself up to his full height and his eyes flashed with imminent violence. “Should you wish to compulse young Ricardo into the role of catamite, then you shall be forced to come through me!”
Manrape dropped Ricky and turned.
“Doc!” Ryan shouted. “No!”
Doc produced a marlinspike with the same oil-on-glass speed he could draw his sword from his cane when properly motivated. The crew barely had time to gasp as Doc lunged for Manrape’s heart. Manrape slapped the marlinespike out of Doc’s hand as if he was swatting a fly, and his backhand tossed Doc to the deck. For a moment, silence reigned.
Commander Miles’s familiar roar broke the silence. “What in the last megaton that boiled the seas is going on?”
Manrape sighed happily. “Old Stick, unsigned, attempted murder of the bos’n with a marlinspike.”
Miles glared down at Doc in terrible judgment. All fight had gone out of the old man, and he twitched and mewled on the deck. The marlinspike lay damningly beside his hand. Miles’s eyes filled with rage. “Witnessed?”
More than a dozen men chorused. “Aye!”
“Clap Old Stick in irons! Take him to the captain for judgment!” Miles shook his head. He already knew the sentence. “String a rope, and prepare to pipe all hands on deck to witness the mighty hand of the Glory’s creed and code.”
“Can’t you see he’s damaged!” Ryan shouted. “The drug you gave him stuped him!”
Shocked silence fell across the deck. Ryan expected a second rope to be rigged beside Doc’s. It was Manrape who spoke. “Perhaps One-Eye is right, Commander. Why bother the captain? We have a cure for those who are drunk or addled on duty.”
“We know the creed. We hold the code,” Miles intoned. “Mr. Manrape does not press his injury and begs mercy.” Miles jerked his head toward the starboard rigging. “Ship’s punishment, then! Seize Old Stick into the shrouds. See if that clears his head. Failing that, let the gulls have him as an example to those who might be likewise tempted.”
Crewmen seized Doc and carried him over their heads to the starboard rail, laughing. Ryan took a step forward. A huge, raw, red hand slammed onto his shoulder. “Best case, you hang right up there next to him in the shrouds. Worst case, you hang alone from the yardarm.”
Ryan tensed with frustrated rage as the crewmen lashed Doc spread-eagled in the shrouds ten feet above the deck and facing inward. “Mr. Hardstone!” Miles called.
The big red-headed man removed his hand from Ryan’s shoulder and snapped to attention. “Aye, Commander!”
“You have empty seats at your table. One-Eye will mess with you and your mates.”
“Aye, sir!”
“The captain says until he is proved otherwise or signed, One-Eye is your responsibility.”
Ryan was starting to have a very bad feeling about being proved otherwise.
Hardstone gave Ryan a none-too-pleased look. “Aye, sir.”
“Mr. Manrape!”
“Aye!”
“Let Mr. Ryan stand another watch for his insolence.”
“Aye.”
Miles turned on his heel and returned to the quarterdeck.
Manrape stroked his chin. “Mr. Forgiven!”
The purser looked up from counting a pallet of green bananas. “Aye, bos’n?”
“Would you gaze on the ship’s dictionary for me when you have a moment?”
“Aye. And what would you know?”
Manrape looked up at Doc. “The meaning of the words pederast and catamite.”
Krysty staggered into the fo’c’sle. The hammocks had been stowed and tables hung from the ceiling above as the watch got ready to mess. They were at anchor so lanterns were lit. Commander Miles had considered Krysty unfit for most duties aboard ship, and she was half convinced he was right.
That had not stopped Krysty from being assigned to run up into the rigging to bring the top men water several dozen times; running messages between decks; scrubbing the decks and heads; taking nails, rope, twine and supplies to the repair crews; being speeded along with a rope end when it was perceived she wasn’t moving fast enough; and enduring more sexual innuendo and gropings in passing than she had been subjected to her entire life in the Deathlands.
Sweet Marie called out from her mess table. “Over here, girlie!” Krysty looked that way. Sweet Marie sat with J.B., Jak, Mildred and Ricky. Two crewmen sat with them, the pink mutie, Mr. Movies, who seemed to rule the rigging, and a huge sagging, bull of a man. “You mess with us!”
Krysty sat down to the sound of whistles and hoots “Flame on flame!” someone called.
“I’d pay hard jack to see that!” a crewman replied.
Krysty stared the big woman in the face amid the jeering. “I’ll chill you.”
Sweet Marie threw back her head and laughed. “Oh, I’m not one to force myself on anyone, but when your man is corruption down in the Old Place and you’re all alone, you’ll remember your Sweet Marie when every shark comes circling.”
Krysty reserved comment.
A small, pretty, dark-haired and olive-skinned woman made her way over to the table. Krysty saw that her eyes were milk-white without pupils. She made soft clicking sounds as she unerringly wove through the crowd and clutter. Crewmen called out to her. “Gypsyfair! When you gonna mess with us?”
The woman called back in bemused disgust. “Shut up! I’m walking belowdecks!”
Gypsyfair sat down and turned her milk-white gaze on Krysty. “Nice to meet you, Red. Too many norms and not enough muties on this ship if you ask me.”
Krysty tried to hide her surprise. The blind mutant grinned. “Your hair don’t move normal, girl.”
Sweet Marie’s mass visibly sagged. “Red’s mutie?”
“Yeah?” Krysty bristled. “So?”
Gypsyfair laughed. “Now I’ve seen Sweet Marie eat things that would choke a stickie and ask for seconds, but eat a mutie girl? She just won’t do it.”
Despite all her innuendo Sweet Marie turned beet red.
