TW05 The Nautilus Sanction NEW (21 page)

Gambi’s ship had been boarded soon after the fight and those aboard were taken. There had been no time for them to reorganize, no time to make good their escape. They stood uneasily on the sand, covered by the guns of Lafitte’s men. Lafitte, still dressed in his black trousers, only without his vest and jacket, paced back and forth on the sand, his hair and white shirt ruffling in the breeze.

“Vincent, Vincent, Vincent,” he said, approaching Gambi and shaking his head. He looked the swarthy Italian in the face and Gambi looked away. “You have been very troublesome to me. Very troublesome, indeed.”

Gambi said nothing. Drakov stood to one side with the others, watching.

“I cannot afford to be lenient with you, Vincent,” said Lafitte. “Do you know why? Because you are a stupid man and you would not understand. You would mistake lenience for weakness and that would only lead you to act foolishly again. I cannot have that. I cannot allow you to attack my guests with impunity. I cannot allow you to set yourself above my authority. You see that, don’t you?”

“I have never acknowledged your authority,” said Gambi, defiantly. “You have no right—”

“My strength gives me the right,” Lafitte said, curtly. “You never should have come here, Vincent.

You should have gone your own way instead of trying to challenge me. Now you have lost. It is not enough for me to confiscate your ship. I must confiscate your life, as well.”

“So kill me, then,” said Gambi, contemptuously. “You can be brave now, with all these guns at your back.”

“Dominique,” Lafitte said. “Give him your sword.” Youx stepped up to Gambi and gave his sword to him.

“I will give you a chance to acquit yourself with honor,” said Lafitte. “Dominique, I charge you to carry out my orders. If Vincent should succeed in killing me, he and his crew go free. No one is to interfere. Understood?”

“Understood, Jean,” said Dominique.

“He will keep my word,” Lafitte said to Gambi. “Now, you wanted to challenge me, here is your chance. Make the most of it.”

Gambi growled and charged.

Lafitte smoothly drew his sword and, in the same motion, beat down Gambi’s blade and sidestepped the attack. He turned, moving lightly on his feet, one hand on his hip, the other holding the sword out before him, wrist circling slightly as he came back on guard. He looked bored.

“Come, Vincent, you will never win your freedom that way,” he said. “A little more finesse, eh?” Gambi swore and returned to the attack, moving more cautiously now that his first rush had failed.

He attempted a cut at Lafitte’s head, but Lafitte parried neatly, beat and riposted, slashing at Gambi’s shoulder. A bright streak of red appeared through Gambi’s shirt. They disengaged, circling each other on the sand as Gambi’s men called out their encouragement to him. Gambi bent down quickly and scooped up a handful of sand, flinging it at Lafitte’s face, but Lafitte read the move and ducked quickly to one side as Gambi moved in for a thrust.

Gambi recovered fast, but not before Lafitte opened up his cheek with a lightning slash across his face. Gambi howled and charged again, but Lafitte sidestepped him, playing him like a toreador plays a bull, working close to the body and using the barest minimum of motion. It was no contest. Gambi realized this and became desperate, flailing away madly with his saber and trying to put Lafitte on the defensive. Lafitte retreated smoothly, parrying each stroke and lunge, leading Gambi on, laughing and taunting him.

“Come, Vincent, come on, again, faster! Faster!”

Blade clanged against blade as Gambi desperately pressed his attack, sweat running down his face.

His crew, thinking he was gaining the advantage, cheered him on, but then Lafitte stood his ground, his sword describing spare arabesques in the air as it darted in at Gambi, cutting, slashing, pricking, stinging like a persistent bee as Gambi started to retreat. Each disengage met with a counter disengage, each parry with a riposte, each lunge turned aside as Lafitte pressed on, driving Gambi back until finally he lost his footing and fell. Snarling, he reached behind his neck and pulled a dagger from the sheath hanging down his back. He hurled it at Lafitte, but in mid-air Lafitte’s sword deflected it in an astonishing display of quick reactions. He stood, waiting for Gambi to get back to his feet.

“Enough of this,” he said. “I’m done with indulging you. It’s time for the coup de grace.” Gambi glanced around wildly, but there was no escape. With a scream, he lunged at Lafitte. Lafitte spun his blade, wrenching it out of his grasp and in the same motion, ran him through the chest. Gambi gasped, clutched at his chest and fell face down onto the sand. Lafitte looked down at him and sighed.

“Stupid man,” he said. He glanced at Gambi’s suddenly silent crew and then at Dominique.

“Kill them,” he said, and walked into the house without looking back.

Lafitte seemed to have completely forgotten the morning’s episode with Vincent Gambi by midday, when he announced he would be going into New Orleans to see his brother. He insisted Drakov come along, so they could dine together in the French Quarter. Together with Jules Verne and Dominique Youx, they left in the early afternoon. Land chose to remain behind, which surprised them, but his reasons became clear later on, when he was seen walking hand in hand with Marie toward the back end of the island. Grigori, anxious to be away from “the peasants,” as he called Lafitte’s men, went aboard the
Valkyrie
to make things ready for their departure, leaving Lucas, Finn and Andre alone with Martingale and Lafitte’s servants in the house.

Before he left, Drakov took them aside and thanked them for saving Martingale’s life. “His death would have been a great loss to me,” Drakov said. “He’s the best of my mercenaries. I have invested a great deal of time in training him. His adaptability to unusual situations is impressive. However, I must admit to being curious about why you interfered.”

“It had less to do with Martingale and the odds against him than it did with the
Valkyrie,”
said Lucas. “We’ve got enough to worry about with stopping you without having a time ship fall into the hands of a pirate like Gambi.”

“As practical as ever, Mr. Priest,” said Drakov, smiling.”You still believe you can prevail. I admire that.”

“I could do without your admiration,” Lucas said.

“Pity,” Drakov said. “I rather like you. You are a man of principles, a rarity in any time. Of all the men I’ve ever met, I respect you the most. Which is why I want to make certain we understand one another. You three are unquestionably the First Division’s finest, which is why it would be fitting for my father to receive the news of his defeat from you. Tomorrow morning, we shall be leaving Barataria for my base. I fully expect you to attempt something. I would be disappointed in you if you did not.

However, I will remind you that I am at war and that you three are prisoners of war. The battle for you is over. I will take special precautions to insure that you do not have any opportunity to cause trouble.

When we arrive at my base, you will find yourself even more helpless than you have been up to now. If you find that idea intolerable, Mr. Priest, then I urge you to escape now, while you can. It will not be easy, but no one will pursue you and you may be able to make contact with someone in the Underground eventually. If not, there are worse times in which to be marooned. But I hope you will remain. If you do, you will become a part of history. I leave the choice to you.” After the others had left, they found Martingale on the veranda, being attended by two young women Lafitte assigned to him while he recovered from his injuries. He sat in a cane chair while the girls fanned him, poured him rum and fed him bits of sweetmeats with their fingers.

“You look like a dissolute Roman emperor,” said Lucas. Martingale grinned and sent the girls inside to bring more glasses and more rum.

“You seem to be bearing up remarkably well,” said Andre. “Try not to strain yourself.”

“The trouble with Lafitte is that he likes ‘em too damn young,” said Martingale. “What the hell have I got to say to a couple of sixteen- or seventeen-year-olds, fresh from the Gold Coast? They’re babies.

They don’t know anything. Now you, on the other hand, you and I could probably find a thing or two to talk about.”

“Right now I’ll settle for talking about what we’re going to do about this mess,” said Andre.

“Have a seat,” said Martingale. The slaves brought out the rum and glasses, then he sent them away while they talked.

“Lafitte certainly has a hard life,” said Finn. “He’s come a long way since he was a filthy little street urchin in Paris.”

“He’ll be on the way back down again before too long,” said Martingale. “He’s too visible, too famous. The secret of success is to keep your head down.”

“You consider yourself successful, do you?” Andre said.

“I’m doing exactly what I want to do,” said Martingale. “That’s all being successful is. It’s not about money or anything else. I say I’m in it for the money because that’s something Drakov understands. He’s got lots of it. People who have lots of money understand real well what it’s about when someone comes to them wanting some of it. They can deal with it because they know the rules of that game. Drakov could never understand you like I do. He doesn’t even understand the rules you operate under.”

“What makes you think you do?” said Finn. “You opted out of the game, as you put it.” Martingale shook his head. “No, 1 didn’t. 1 just changed the rules around a little, so they would suit me more. The game is still the same, in many respects. Not to get overly philosophical, but life’s just a joke. You’re born, you struggle, you learn, you grow, you accomplish, then you die. No matter what you manage to pull off, death is still the final reward. So it’s a joke. No matter who you are or what you do, everyone gets paid off the same.”

“That sounds pretty cynical to me,” said Lucas.

“It happens to be true,” said Martingale, “but it’s a trap only if you accept it at face value. It’s not the payoff that matters. That’s where people go wrong. It’s the work. I deserted the Temporal Corps and became a mercenary not because I wasn’t happy with what I was doing, but because I wanted more control over it. The only real difference between us is that you have to serve the missions Forrester picks out for you. I get to pick my own. I can say no, and I do, frequently. I only fight the good fight.”

“I see,” said Finn. “Martingale only fights on the side of the angels, is that it?”

“You think that sounds corny?” Martingale said. He shook his head. “It only sounds that way because people think idealism is corny. I’ll tell you something, if six billion morons got together and decided that blue was purple, that’s what the world would accept. But it wouldn’t change the color, chum. Only the name. I’ll tell you what’s corny. We’re sitting here in a sunlit veranda on an island in the Gulf of Mexico, waited on by slave girls, for God’s sake, while out there somewhere is a nukie sub with enough death on board to wipe out half the globe. The guy who’s got his finger on the button is in New Orleans, having dinner with a pirate chieftain and a science fiction writer while we’re sitting here sipping rum punch. Now you tell me life’s not a joke.”

“Yes, but what’s the punchline?” Finn said.

Martingale took a long drink. “You’ve got me there. Drakov won’t tell anybody anything. He’s all twisted up inside, but he’s sure as hell organized. He has a knack for picking people and a knack for leading them, as well. He’s recruited men from all different periods of history, all soldiers, all top professionals in their own way. He keeps them well in line and he’s always got our buddy, Santos, to fall back on. One session with Benedetto and you’re a good little soldier again, programmed for following orders unquestioningly.”

“You don’t have any idea at all what he’s going to do?” said Andre.

“I assume it’s going to be nuclear blackmail,” said Martingale. “The same sort of thing the Timekeepers tried to do, only on a larger scale. But he’s been set up to do that ever since we stole the sub. He’s got something more complicated planned—”

“Wait a minute,” said Lucas. “1 knew there was something bothering me about all this. If the Referee Corps asked Dr. Darkness to help them with this, and you’re working for him, how could you have been involved
before
the sub was stolen?”

“It had nothing to do with the sub, initially,” said Martingale. “Darkness knew about the theft of the warp discs before your people did.”

Finn frowned. “How?”

“Who do you think owns Amalgamated Techtronics?” “
Darkness?”

“You think a scientist can be bothered with manufacturing?” said Martingale. “He needs someone to turn out the gizmos he invents. You’d be surprised at what he controls.”

“But Amalgamated Techtronics! That’s one of the biggest corporations in the whole—”

“So? What do you think, he gave the Temporal Corps the warp grenade for nothing? When they found out about the stolen shipment, they didn’t dare report it until they’d had a chance to tell the Doctor.

They couldn’t exactly call him. No one knows where he is. He just sort of . . . appears from time to time.

Fortunately, he was due in to check on a shipment of weapons prototypes they were building for him. It’s a lucky thing Drakov didn’t steal those.”

“What sort of prototypes?” said Lucas.

“Disruptors,” Martingale said. “The Temporal Corps doesn’t even know about them yet. You’d better hope they work, because they’re probably what we’ll be using against Drakov’s base when the time comes.”

“What’s a disruptor?” Finn said. “Or shouldn’t I ask?”

“I haven’t seen one yet,” said Martingale, “but they sound impressive. It’s a sort of warp gun. Its transponder taps into the energy field of a neutron star by means of an Einstein-Rosen Generator link. A limitless supply of ammunition in the form of energy, leeched from a star through a time warp. Sounds like a lovely little sidearm, doesn’t it? You squeeze the trigger and you get a stream of neutrons.”

“You’re kidding,” Finn said.