Outlanders 39 Hydra's Ring, page 1
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 1
The naked albino woman came from somewhere in the back of the Dai Jia Lou, sinuously weaving her way between the crowded tables.
Werner Musgrave squinted through the dark, round lenses of his spectacles, not sure if he could trust his vision, since his eyes stung and watered due to the haze of acrid smoke. Although he knew customs governing the exposure of the naked human body were only vague guidelines on Autarkic, he hadn't expected to see a nude female strolling through the most popular gathering place on the island, either.
The Dai Jia Lou was jammed and jumping even though it was only an hour past sunset. So many people stood elbow to belly that it was almost impossible to see the decor of the big tavern. A wooden bar spanned the far wall with nearly two dozen stools before it, not one of them exactly like any of the others. Musgrave figured they had been built, stolen or cobbled together over a period of many years. Behind the bar a cracked and fogged mirror within a gilt frame decorated with absurdly elaborate scrollwork only dimly reflected the overhead lights.
Small round tables filled the middle of the huge room, sprouting from the floor like a cluster of dark-capped mushrooms. The table section was lined on three sides by tall privacy booths. White curtains overhung by strings of bottle-green glass beads enclosed each booth. Four impassive Asians, tong security men, stood before the booths, their arms crossed over their chests. They wore identical black clothing with white detailing on the collars and cuffs. Their garb fit loosely, making it easy to conceal and to draw the weapons they carried. Strips of cloth bound their foreheads, all of them emblazoned with the red ideograph of Wei Qiang.
Musgrave knew Wei Qiang hand picked his men, selecting only hardened killers. The tong's preferred weapon for close-in fighting was a long-hafted, single-bladed hatchet. Each one of the men carried one, riding high in a red sash around his waist.
Musgrave idly wondered who might be within the privacy booths and whether they were important enough to warrant guards. One of the independent pirate commanders could be behind a curtain, dallying with a rented girl or boy, but he doubted it. Most of the pirate fleets had moved their bases of operations from the Cific to the Gulf of Mexico and they no longer paid Wei Qiang tribute.
The fourth wall of the Dai Jia Lou was occupied by a low stage holding a very old upright piano, a drum set and a brass-framed harp.
All the chairs and stools were filled with patrons. The red-jacketed wait staff could hardly move among the packed tables, but the naked albino woman didn't seem to have any problem making her way.
Upon a second glance, after fanning away the smoke produced by bronze incense burners, hookahs and long clay pipes, Musgrave realized the woman wasn't completely naked, but she had gone to some effort to make it seem as if she were.
She was perhaps five feet three with a mane of long white hair that fell down her back like a stream of snow. A strip of cloth of the same milky hue as her skin was pulled tight over her firm breasts, under her arms and knotted between her shoulder blades.
Aside from that, she wore only a G-string, or a greatly diminished version of one. From the rear of it arched a tail of brilliantly colored feathers that swayed with every suggestive move of her hips as she sauntered around the room.
Her skin, the color of polished bone, gleamed with satiny highlights as if it were oiled. Her eyes were enormous, the irises bright red, the lids painted a deep sea-green, a color repeated on lips that curved in either a seductive smile or a scornful grimace, depending on the man she looked at. She looked at many of them, first one, then another.
Her crimson gaze passed over Musgrave, paused for a fraction of a second as if waiting for a reaction from him, then moved on.
Musgrave wasn't surprised. He knew he was an unimposing presence in his drab, dun-colored coverall. He was under medium height and stocky of build with close-cropped iron-gray hair, and the expression on his coarse-complexioned face was studiedly neutral. He gave the impression that his expression would remain the same whether he watched a Cific sunset, a dying child or an almost nude woman. Behind the dark lenses of his glasses, his pewter-colored eyes were utterly cold and passionless.
Although the albino woman had done nothing but walk into the room, the customers broke into thunderous applause. Males and even females began chanting, "Misha! Misha! Misha!" and they hammered on the tabletops with their fists.
Misha lifted her arms over her head in acknowledgement of the calls and sauntered slowly around the perimeter of the floor, her hips snapping from side to side, the train of feathers swishing and rippling through the air. She arched her back and the points of her breasts strained against the thin cloth confining them. A steady, almost lethargic drumbeat sounded from the darkened stage.
Voicing a wild cry, a wiry little Hispanic man broke away from the bar and rushed toward her, grimy hands reaching lustfully for her hips, but the black-clad tong security staff intercepted him. Spiked knuckle-dusters flashed in the dim light. No one paid any attention as he went down under pummeling, metal-reinforced fists. Most of the customers probably figured the intoxicated man was fortunate, since the tong security men apparently didn't consider him hatchet worthy.
Without raising so much as an eyebrow, Musgrave watched as the tong security men carried the maimed, moaning man to the door and heaved what was left of his body onto the rocky embankment upon which the Dai Jia Lou was built.
The sudden thunder of multiple drums filled the room, interwoven with the clang of a bell being struck repeatedly by a metal rod and the piping skirl of a Chinese woodwind, the p'ai hsiao. Glancing toward the stage, Musgrave saw that three musicians had mounted it while everyone's attention was focused on the albino woman.
The tempo of Misha's movements sped up, matching those of the drums and the bell. Her hips and arms and legs flashed in intricate movements in the hazy light. Her body curved, bending forward and backward as if her spine were made of rubber, her white hair touching the floor and the plumed tail quivering and arching.
In rhythm with the drumbeats and the clanging of the bell, Misha's lower body undulated, the muscles of her belly contracting and rippling. With a sharp cry of triumph, she ripped away the G-string and the breast binding in two savage motions, flinging both into the crowd.
Musgrave expected to see the bright plumage fall to the floor, but it didn't. To his unease, the feathers arched and shook as if they were part of the woman's body, attached to the base of her spine. The word mutie sprang to the forefront of his mind, and his stomach lurched in sudden revulsion.
As if aware of his reaction, Misha whirled on the balls of her bare feet and glared directly at him, her eyes blazing crimson with contempt. A challenge glinted there, as well, silently daring him to rise from his table and investigate his suspicion. She turned her back, defiantly frisking her bare buttocks and feathered tail at him.
A hard tap on his shoulder yanked Werner Musgrave's attention from Misha's gyrating pelvis and thrashing, colorful tail. He couldn't be sure if it was an artificial appendage or if the girl was indeed some kind of mutant, despite how biologically impossible he knew the concept to be. Bird and human DNA simply could not mix.
Cranio loomed over him, the same hatchet man who had met him at the docks and escorted him to the Dai Jia Lou. Although he was dressed like one of the tong, Cranio was not an Asian. Brown skinned, he was at least six feet three inches tall and over half of that wide.
His dark eyes burned with a kind of black fire under straight, equally black brows. His hair was tight against the scalp of his big head, like a coarse-curled black helmet. Musgrave guessed him to be of Polynesian extraction, probably a Maori, mainly because of the blue spiral designs tattooed on his cheeks.
Cranio said nothing, but his voice wouldn't have been audible over the racket anyway. He jerked a thumb meaningfully toward the door. Musgrave rose from the table, making certain the small briefcase was still securely chained to the metal bracelet around his right wrist. Although he didn't think it likely a thief would try to steal from a guest of Wei Qiang, the warlord's influence and reputation had waned over the past couple of years.
Musgrave followed Cranio through the crowd, the people parting for the big man like waves before the prow of a ship. They stepped out into the cool night air and Musgrave inhaled it gratefully, despite the many strange scents it held. Over the horizon, black thunderheads massed and he glimpsed a flash of lightning within them.
The double doors were situated at a corner of the Dai Jia Lou, beneath a tall bamboo canopy that sported carved wooden ducks and egrets on the frontispiece. Scrollwork covered the window ledges and the shutters around them.
On the hills leading down to the waterfront, a variety of buildings stood against a backdrop of trees. Most of them were single-story structures, but the Dai Jia Lou rose four levels from the heart of the settlement, its size due to the fact it served as a combination of tavern, music hall, bordello, trading outpost and the only hotel within three thousand square miles.
The man beaten by the tong security men still lay on the embankment, his torn flesh spilling crimson across the dirty stones. Cranio ignored him, marching down the flight of wooden steps.
"Come," Cranio directed.
Musgrave fell into step behind the big man, following him along narrow, twisting lanes toward the wharves. The streets were narrow and deeply rutted. From booths and the mouths of alleys, raucous men and women of all ages and ethnic groups offered everything from goods to sexual services. When they spied Cranio, they fell silent or eased back into the shadows.
The anchorage was built around a long spit of land that stabbed out into the ocean over a shallow bay. None of the score of docks, like the furniture within the Dai Jia Lou, were of uniform size or shape. Torches thrust into brackets bolted to the pilings lit up the rippling waters with eerie, shifting highlights.
Looking out past the bay to the open water, Musgrave noticed the storm clouds had scudded closer. Lightning flared and he heard the distant boom of thunder.
Cranio's destination was a dock at the very tip of the land spit. Moored to the dock was a long wooden vessel riding high above the waterline, its profile all sharp angles, arches and buttresses. The planking and timbers had been heavily varnished and lacquered to the bright red color of freshly spilled blood.
Three masts held huge sheets of sailcloth that folded as neatly as a paper fan. They reminded Musgrave of gigantic window blinds. Chinese characters marked the junk's stern, but he couldn't read them. However, he knew that most of the junks and sampans tied up in port were part of Wei Qiang's fleet, his ships identified by bright scarlet chops painted on the hulls.
Not too long ago, even the most ambitious trader and vicious freebooter gave the Wei Qiang ships a wide berth due to a hard-earned fearsome reputation. Nearly sixty years before, Qiang and his tong had invaded the Western Islands and established a pirate and smuggling empire.
Werner Musgrave was aware that the term "Western Isles" was something of a misnomer. Back during the nuclear holocaust, bombs known as earth-shakers had been triggered, seeded months before by submarines along the fault and fracture lines of the Pacific Ocean. ICBM missiles had pounded the Cascades, from western Canada down to California. The concentrated destructive force had ripped that part of the earth to pieces.
Tidal waves swept inland and, pummeled by earthquakes and volcanic activity, much of California sank beneath the waves. When it was over, the Cific coast was barely twenty miles from the foothills of the Sierra Nevada range.
After a century, the sea had retreated somewhat, leaving islands in its wake where most of the landmass had once been. Many of the islands were the high points of old California, or regions that became more elevated with the shifting of the tectonic plates.
The two men crossed a gangplank spanning the black waters of the bay to the deck of the junk. Although Musgrave saw sailors lounging about among the rigging, he also saw several not quite hidden automatic gun emplacements, positioned to catch intruders in triangulated cross fires.
Cranio led to the way to the elevated superstructure of the foc'sle and gestured with one hand toward the open hatch. A pair of stone Fu guardian dogs snarled on either side of the hatch.
Without hesitation, Musgrave entered a dimly lit companionway, carefully climbing down the short ladder into a spacious cabin. From the wooden bulkheads hung brocades of the finest silk, and drifting wreaths of fragrant smoke covered the thick brine smell of low tide. The streamers curled from the mouthpiece of a gold-bowled water pipe atop a great teak-wood desk.
The surface of the desk was intricately carved and inlaid with ivory and jade, depicting pagodas, tigers and elephants. A lean old man sat behind it in a high-backed chair of dark root-wood, puffing contemplatively on the pipe.
Werner Musgrave hadn't seen many truly old men. He had spent most of his life in Mandeville, as an assistant to the administrator of the Manufacturing Division. People in the villes or the Tartarus Pits did not as a general rule live much past fifty. Wei Qiang looked twice that age.
Illuminated by tea candles floating in large, water-filled glass bowls on either side of him, the old man's skin appeared somehow leathery and repellently moist at the same time. His complexion was like that of dark butter, and despite his rail-thin frame, his flesh seemed to hang off him as if it were several sizes too large. A thin white mustache trailed down on either side of the lipless slash of his mouth.
Wei Qiang's slitted eyes were old with an ancient wisdom, but they seemed oddly hooded, like those of a drowsing hunting bird.
Above a deeply furrowed but high brow, he wore a skullcap of black satin with a single coral pearl attached to the fore piece, which Musgrave knew indicated he held a rank of Chinese royalty, probably a Mandarin. He figured the ideographs embroidered in gold thread upon his high-necked blue jacket symbolized his high station.
A brown-furred marmoset perched on the old man's left shoulder, inspecting Musgrave with alert, bright eyes.
"I am he with whom you have sought an audience," the old man said softly. "I am Wei Qiang. I expect you to bow when you enter my presence."
Chapter 2
"I am Werner Musgrave," the dun-clad man said, inclining his head a fraction of an inch. He knew his short nod was more disrespectful than if he had made no acknowledgement of Wei Qiang's statement whatsoever.
The old Chinese didn't reply, but studied him closely, expectantly. With a slightly trembling left hand, he gestured toward a wicker chair. The flickering candlelight winked on the conical fingernail protector placed over the man's gnarl-knuckled thumb. It was made of interwoven strands of gold wire.
Musgrave sat down, placing the briefcase on his lap. He unzipped the collar of his coverall and turned the lapel inside out to reveal a small brass button pinned to it. The inscribed image was a stylized representation of a standing, featureless man holding a cornucopia, a horn of plenty, in his left hand and a sword in his right, both crossed over his chest. No words were imprinted on it, but none was necessary.
"I do not discuss business with a man whose eyes I cannot see," Wei Qiang said. "Please remove your spectacles."
Musgrave ignored the request. "Do you recognize this insignia?"
Wei Qiang nodded almost reluctantly. "It has been my misfortune to cross paths with representatives of the Millennial Consortium in the recent past."
The man's voice, although raspy and brittle, did not sound at all weak, nor was his English blurred by any kind of an accent.
Musgrave permitted himself a small, superior smile. "Yes, I read reports of the incidents. Last February, the crew of one of your privateer ships was seriously discommoded when it attempted to board a trading vessel under the protection of the consortium. And the following April—"
Wei Qiang interrupted, "Why are you here?'
"I will be blunt," Musgrave replied. "Your smuggling and piracy networks are in disarray. Since the fall of the baronies over a year ago, most of your contacts, conduits and client base have virtually disappeared, either dismantled or absorbed by local consortium branches. Your most powerful allies have deserted Autarkic. Many of your own people plot your demise, including your eldest son, whom you banished but who still has confederates within your organization...that is why you hide aboard this vessel."
For an instant, the membranous veils lifted from the old man's eyes, which flashed with surprising energy in the flickering candlelight. Their color was a true tiger green. "I do not hide. If assassins seek my life, they know where to find me."
Musgrave chuckled, a hint of condescension lurking at the back of his throat. "If you say so. However, those who desire your death are not motivated by avarice or vengeance but only by business considerations."
"Business considerations," the old man echoed sardonically. "By that you mean chaos?"
"Anarchy does indeed run rampant around the baronies and through their former territories," Musgrave conceded. "But for those with the proper vision, there are opportunities for both power and profit in chaos."
