him, between him and Reinhardt. And he started forward toward the opening in the rail. The butt of the energy pistol carried in the tactical thigh holster on his right leg almost touched Doring’s fingertips.
Dimitri took a step forward. “Esteemed passengers, I must say a proper farewell.”
“I am sure,” Doring said, nodding.
Dimitri extended his hand to Doring. Doring’s right arm arced slowly upward. They clasped hands, as if in friendship. “My young friend. I wish you fair seas to the islands and that, whatever your secret mission is about, it goes well and you live to tell of your exploits to your great-grandsons.”
“And I wish to you, Captain Dimitri, all that within your heart you wish to me.”
Dimitri, who was left-handed, had probably done this a dozen, or a hundred times before.
Wilhelm Doring, on the other hand, although right-handed by birth, had trained himself to be ambidextrous in all things except writing (which he could manage with his left hand but did poorly). Doring sensed the body movement, the resetting of the shoulders, the tightening of Dimitri’s grip. Doring’s left hand grasped the hilt of one of the several knives he carried. This one was patterned after the Fairbairn-Sykes commando knives of more than six and one-half centuries ago. The blade was slender and double-edged, designed for close-range killing.
Doring freed the knife from the inverted sheath sewn into the lining of his open battle vest.
Doring’s left fist tightened against the double quillon guard of the knife. He punched the blade forward and upward, coming in below the level of Dimitri’s belt and the body armor vest which the pirate captain habitually wore. As the steel penetrated, Doring jerked back, still grasping Dimitri’s right hand, throwing the big Russian off balance. Dimitri’s own blade missed Doring’s abdomen by inches, skating off Doring’s armored battle vest as Doring twisted right.
Doring shouted to his band, “Now!”
At the far right edge of Doring’s peripheral vision, he could see Reinhardt shoving Marie back and out of immediate danger, then swinging up his energy rifle to fire.
Doring let go of his knife as he twisted his right hand free of Dimitri’s grasp. The big Russian was down to his knees, doubling forward to the deck, screaming, “Kill them!”
Doring’s left hand was already moving his energy rifle into position, his right flexing to recover circulation as he grasped his pistol. There was a blur of motion to his left. Some of Rene’s men, he surmised. Doring fired his pistol indiscriminately toward the knot of Russian pirates which had surrounded Dimitri as he wheeled half left and fired the energy rifle toward the blur. Indeed, it was a man, then another and another, cutlasses and energy pistols in their hands. In the light of the swaying lamps here near the rail, their faces looked yellow and tightly drawn into masks of hatred.
Two of the pirates fell. Then, as Doring stepped back, something struck the energy rifle from his grasp, the weapon swung on its sling and crashed against his left thigh.
Doring wheeled left. There was a whooshing sound as steel sliced air and Doring ducked.
It was Rene, the leathery-faced Wild Tribesman, first mate to Dimitri. In Rene’s right hand was a cutlass, in his left a pistol. The pistol fired now. Doring flinched, his pistol off line; there was no chance to fire in his own defense. But in the same instant, the body of one of the pirates fell between Doring and Rene, the pirate-already dead-taking the shot.
There were bursts from energy weapons all around him now, and the ringing of steel as cutlasses and knives did their work.
Marie screamed, “Willy! Look out!”
Doring had his pistol up, to fire. As Doring leveled the weapon, Rene’s cutlass swiped toward him. Doring dodged, but the cutlass caught the pistol less than an inch forward of the trigger guard. It was a backstroke of the cutlass, so instead of breaking
Dimitri took a step forward. “Esteemed passengers, I must say a proper farewell.”
“I am sure,” Doring said, nodding.
Dimitri extended his hand to Doring. Doring’s right arm arced slowly upward. They clasped hands, as if in friendship. “My young friend. I wish you fair seas to the islands and that, whatever your secret mission is about, it goes well and you live to tell of your exploits to your great-grandsons.”
“And I wish to you, Captain Dimitri, all that within your heart you wish to me.”
Dimitri, who was left-handed, had probably done this a dozen, or a hundred times before.
Wilhelm Doring, on the other hand, although right-handed by birth, had trained himself to be ambidextrous in all things except writing (which he could manage with his left hand but did poorly). Doring sensed the body movement, the resetting of the shoulders, the tightening of Dimitri’s grip. Doring’s left hand grasped the hilt of one of the several knives he carried. This one was patterned after the Fairbairn-Sykes commando knives of more than six and one-half centuries ago. The blade was slender and double-edged, designed for close-range killing.
Doring freed the knife from the inverted sheath sewn into the lining of his open battle vest.
Doring’s left fist tightened against the double quillon guard of the knife. He punched the blade forward and upward, coming in below the level of Dimitri’s belt and the body armor vest which the pirate captain habitually wore. As the steel penetrated, Doring jerked back, still grasping Dimitri’s right hand, throwing the big Russian off balance. Dimitri’s own blade missed Doring’s abdomen by inches, skating off Doring’s armored battle vest as Doring twisted right.
Doring shouted to his band, “Now!”
At the far right edge of Doring’s peripheral vision, he could see Reinhardt shoving Marie back and out of immediate danger, then swinging up his energy rifle to fire.
Doring let go of his knife as he twisted his right hand free of Dimitri’s grasp. The big Russian was down to his knees, doubling forward to the deck, screaming, “Kill them!”
Doring’s left hand was already moving his energy rifle into position, his right flexing to recover circulation as he grasped his pistol. There was a blur of motion to his left. Some of Rene’s men, he surmised. Doring fired his pistol indiscriminately toward the knot of Russian pirates which had surrounded Dimitri as he wheeled half left and fired the energy rifle toward the blur. Indeed, it was a man, then another and another, cutlasses and energy pistols in their hands. In the light of the swaying lamps here near the rail, their faces looked yellow and tightly drawn into masks of hatred.
Two of the pirates fell. Then, as Doring stepped back, something struck the energy rifle from his grasp, the weapon swung on its sling and crashed against his left thigh.
Doring wheeled left. There was a whooshing sound as steel sliced air and Doring ducked.
It was Rene, the leathery-faced Wild Tribesman, first mate to Dimitri. In Rene’s right hand was a cutlass, in his left a pistol. The pistol fired now. Doring flinched, his pistol off line; there was no chance to fire in his own defense. But in the same instant, the body of one of the pirates fell between Doring and Rene, the pirate-already dead-taking the shot.
There were bursts from energy weapons all around him now, and the ringing of steel as cutlasses and knives did their work.
Marie screamed, “Willy! Look out!”
Doring had his pistol up, to fire. As Doring leveled the weapon, Rene’s cutlass swiped toward him. Doring dodged, but the cutlass caught the pistol less than an inch forward of the trigger guard. It was a backstroke of the cutlass, so instead of breaking
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