Blood Harvest

Ryan eyed the disposition of the sec men again and readied himself to start blasting. Doc sounded like he was about to drop the ball. Doc waved an impatient hand at Ryan and handed off. Ryan gave Baron Barat a withering look. “We’ve recced it.”

The baron’s face froze.

Ryan went with gut instinct. “It’s not hard to move among you. Particularly during the day.”

The baron flinched and Ryan knew he had given him a gut shot where it hurt. Barat raised a hand to Jorge-Teo and spoke a few words in Portuguese. The constable left and the baron returned to Doc. “Forgive me, Baron. I have neglected my duties as host.” Jorge-Teo came in with a tray bearing a carafe of wine, cheese and smoked fish. The constable poured wine. Doc nodded at Ryan, who assumed the role of royal food taster and picked up the goblet.

Baron Barat sighed and took up his own cup. He toasted vaguely toward Ryan and drained the goblet. He set the empty glass down, smacked his lips with relish and smiled condescendingly. Ryan took a swig from the goblet. The wine was heavier and sweeter than the communion wine on the sister island. Ryan poured it back and set the goblet down in front of Doc. The constable refilled the glass.

Doc ignored it. “Baron, let me be blunt. My ship, the Vermont, went down in the other night’s storm.”

The baron kept his poker face, but Ryan could almost hear him considering his own lost boat and calculating.

“I believe my escort ships—”

The baron blinked. “Your escort ships?”

“Yes, my Vermont was a cargo ship and was heavily laden. The Maine and Hampshire are warships and faster. Last I saw of them from the Vermont, they were running ahead of the storm. We signaled them with lanterns before we went down. They will of course return in a few days’ time.”

Ryan sensed Baron Barat’s discomfiture. Doc was playing his hand well. Now if he could just—Ryan’s stomach reared within him like a striking cobra. He tried to bring up his blaster to bear but his stomach ejected its contents so violently it almost tore the lining of his throat. Ryan fell to his hands and knees as sickness that made a mat-trans jump feel like an after-dinner belch racked him. “Doc! I—”

Ryan went fetal as his bowels spasmed.

Doc’s hand froze on the grips of his blaster as the baron’s sec men leveled their weapons. One was pointed at Doc. The other at aimed at Ryan’s retching form on the floor. Jorge-Teo relieved Doc of his LeMat, then knelt and relieved Ryan of his weapons. Doc struggled to maintain an imperious mien. “You disappoint me, Baron.”

The baron ignored Doc and poured himself another glass of wine. He swirled it in his glass and admired its color before sipping it. He peered down at Ryan in mock sympathy. “Sadly, one’s first few experiences with our native lotus are somewhat…purgative. For one who imbibes it for the first time, I must admit he was given a very powerful dose. I fear his dreams shall not be pleasant.”

“Baron Barat, I must protest this—”

Barat turned to the constable. “It has been three days since we lost Roque.” He held up his glass. “I feel the draft upon me, and must sleep until the effects have passed. You know what must be done.”

“Yes, Baron.” Jorge-Teo grinned unpleasantly at Ryan and Doc. “And what of these two?”

“Put the sec man in a cell. He will be of use to no one for at least a day.”

They both looked at Doc. “And the baron?” the constable asked.

“Yes, the baron.” Barat gave Doc a very hard and measuring look. “Make him comfortable.” The skull-face smile returned once more. “I will speak with this man again after I have slept. Bring him to the manor come sundown.”

NIGHT HAD NEARLY fallen. Mildred stood and peered out into the drizzling rain and fog. They had spent the afternoon exploring the tiny island and found damn little. She shivered in the cold ocean breeze and stepped back inside the shattered blockhouse. Mildred took out Doc’s note and read it again for lack of anything better to do. On one side was a picture of what looked to her like some kind of penguin. On the back Doc’s spidery longhand read:

Dear friends,

If you are reading this missive then you have successfully journeyed through the mat-trans. A boat approaches, time constrains me to brevity. In summary:

-being picked up by fishing boat

-believe we are in an island chain upon the Atlantic

-disposition of natives unknown

-advise caution

-circumstances of corpse most curious (Mildred, please take note of marks on deceased’s inner arms.)

-presume us to be upon the big island.

I remain,

Your faithful servant in all things,

“Doc”

Mildred turned the note over and looked at the date scratched beneath the bird sketch. “Doc wrote this three days ago.”

Jak nodded. “Not been back.”

Mildred shivered again. “Make a fire.”

Jak frowned out at the rain. “Driftwood’s wet.” He dug into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a handful of hexamine fuel tabs and bounced them once meaningfully in his hand. Each cube had a burn time of about fifteen minutes. “Two hours.”

“I’m cold.”

Jak nodded and took out flint and steel. He wrapped a fuel cube in a scrap of char cloth from his backpack. Sparks shot as he scraped the steel and magnesium rods together. It only took him two strikes and Mildred sighed as the tiny fire came to life. She warmed her hands over it and gave Jak her most winning smile across the fire. “You’re the man, Jak.”

Jak nodded at the wisdom of the statement.

“I’m hungry.”

Jak sighed and stuck out his hand. “Note.” Jak studied the words for a moment and handed it back. He drew one of his throwing knives as he rose and headed for the door. “Be back.”

Mildred gave Jak a suspicious look. “You’re not going to hunt down Doc’s penguin, are you?”

“Puffin.”

“What?”

Jak held up the sketch. “Puffin.”

“How the hell do you know what a puffin is? Tell me you aren’t going out there to kill Doc’s puffin.”

Jak gave one of his rare smiles. “Our puffin.”

Mildred’s stomach betrayed her and growled in agreement. A part of her mind was already hoping it tasted like chicken. “Well, possession is nine-tenths of the law.”

Jak blinked. Half the time he couldn’t fathom her predark gibberish. He turned and stepped into the night with his blade glittering between his fingers.

“Might as well be talking to myself.” Mildred sighed. She turned her attention to the body and began talking to herself out of habit as she went into medical doctor mode. “Deceased is a Caucasian female, mid to late teens. Body shows obvious signs of acute starvation. Final cause of death most likely dehydration once victim became nonambulatory.” Mildred shook her head sadly as she examined the body. “Girl, you went the hard way.” She peered at the puncture marks Doc had noted. The holes on her inner arms were large and the bruising was bad. Just looking at them told her the IV needle had to have been fourteen gauge or bigger. It looked like work from Doc’s time rather than hers, and it was pretty clear to her that someone had been drawing blood rather than administering fluids.