Deathlands 118: Blood Red Tide by James Axler Page A

approving noises.
    “We will have quiet,” Miss Loral intoned.
    Manrape’s face was a frozen mask.
    “Bosun,” the first mate ordered, “Mr. Ricky has given fire. Give fire in return or beg to withdraw.”
    Manrape’s jaws worked and his eyes grew wider and wider. Ricky made a stern, internal effort to stay strong as Manrape’s pupils dialed down to pinholes of insanity. A number of things could happen now. Manrape could withdraw, and the matter would be settled. He could match Ricky and gallantly discharge his blaster harmlessly into the trees and again the matter would be settled. He could blow Ricky’s head off, though that would be seen as vindictive. He could shoot Ricky, hoping only to wound him, and in a fit of bad manners the crew would despise him for, claim honor was not satisfied and rape Ricky later when he was recovered. Doc had cautioned that there was another, darker possibility. Manrape might just snap and go berserk.
    Ricky awaited his fate.
    Manrape buckled to the sand.
    The sob that tore from the titan’s throat was one of the worst things that Ricky had ever heard in his young life.
    Another and another and another followed in waves of inconsolable loss crashing on the rocks of desolation. Miss Loral and the crew were absolutely horrified.
    “Mr. Manrape” Miss Loral put both hands on her AK. “Are you satisfied?”
    Manrape fell to his face in the sand, sobbing.
    Miss Loral cleared her throat. “Mr. Ricky?”
    Ricky looked to Doc. Doc had theorized that Mr. Manrape would not hurt him. Ricky had protested that Manrape intended to ensure that he never crapped correctly again. Doc had countered yes, but to shoot Ricky, to hurt him, much less mar him, was not within Manrape. Like when Doc sang or spoke eloquently, Ricky was something beautiful to the golden giant and, given his proclivities, something to be possessed. Doc had once more admitted that terrible suffering had turned him into the broken man that he was, yet he could not imagine the suffering that had molded Manrape. Plan B had been forged.
    Doc nodded.
    Ricky handed his spent blaster to J.B. and walked across the sand. The ship’s knife Jak had palmed him in parting burned a hole in the small of Ricky’s back beneath his jersey. Ricky’s shadow fell over the bosun.
    “Bos’n?” Manrape pushed himself up to his knees like the weight of the broken world was above him rather than beneath him. Tears drew trails through the sand coating his face. Ricky took a long breath. “You’re the mightiest among us, the best of us, our bos’n, the Glory’s backbone and her almighty right hand. You are the keeper of the creed and code, and I thank you for showing me mercy this morning.”
    Manrape shuddered.
    “But for the good of the ship. I must ask you to forgive me for not loving you.”
    Everyone assembled jumped as Manrape lunged forward. He seized Ricky’s legs in his mighty arms and buried his face against his thighs as fresh sobs racked him. “I do!”
    Ricky flushed beet red as his appalled shipmates watched the spectacle.
    “Miss Loral?” The young man found himself saying the most inconceivable thing of his short life. “I think Mr. Manrape and I need a moment alone.”

Chapter Ten
    Ricky’s return stopped just short of being a celebration. The story of the duel ran from stem to stern, orlop to the tops and then back again in ever greater and glowing detail. Oracle had weighed anchor, ordered just enough sail raised to generate forward momentum and declared a make and mend day, which Ryan learned was pretty much an afternoon off.
    Crewmen sat about making and mending clothing. The crew with long hair sat about in small circles combing out each other’s coifs and rebraiding them. It turned out Purser Forgiven was also the ship’s barber. A barrel cut into a chair for the purpose was brought up from the hold and a line of crewmen stood to be shorn or shaved. Other crew played at dice or other games. Many just lolled