machine gun at each end of the boat, currently unmanned. A couple of speedboats are being towed behind the trawler like dinghys and each of these also has a heavy machine gun. And there is also a thirty-six-foot motor yacht, following them under its own power.
There are a couple of dozen guys in Bruce Lee's pirate band, and they are now lined up along the trawler's railing, grinning, whistling, howling like wolves, and waving unrolled trojans in the air.
'Don't worry, man, I'm not going to let 'em fuck you,' Fisheye says, grinning.
'What you gonna do,' Eliot says, 'hand them a papal encyclical?'
'I'm sure they'll listen to reason,' Fisheye says.
'These guys aren't scared of the Mafia, if that's what you have in mind,' Eliot says.
'That's just because they don't know us very well.'
Finally, the leader comes out, Bruce Lee himself, a fortyish guy in a Kevlar vest, an ammo vest stretched over that, a diagonal bandolier, samurai sword - Hiro would love to take him on - nunchuks, and his colors, the patchwork of human scalps.
He flashes them a nice grin, has a look at Hiro and Eliot, gives them a highly suggestive, thrusting thumbs- up gesture, and then struts up and down the length of the boat one time, swapping high fives with his merry men. Every so often, he picks out one of the pirates at random and gestures at the man's trojan. The pirate puts his condom to his lips and inflates it into a slippery ribbed balloon. Then Bruce Lee inspects it, making sure there are no leaks. Obviously, the man runs a tight ship.
Hiro can't help staring at the scalps on Bruce Lee's back. The pirates note his interest and mug for him, pointing to the scalps, nodding, looking back at him with wide, mocking eyes. The colors look much too uniform - no change in the red from one to the next. Hiro concludes that Bruce Lee, contrary to his reputation, must have just gone out and gotten scalps of any old color, bleached them, and dyed them. What a wimp.
Finally, Bruce Lee works his way back to midship and flashes them another big grin. He has a great, dazzling grin and he knows it; maybe it's those one-karat diamonds Krazy Glued to his front teeth.
'Jammin' boat,' he says. 'Maybe you, me swap, huh? Hahaha.'
Everyone on the life raft, except for Vic, just smiles a brittle smile.
'Where you goin'? Key West? Hahaha.'
Bruce Lee examines Hiro and Eliot for a while, rotates his index finger to indicate that they should spin around and display their business ends. They do.
'Quanto?' Bruce Lee says, and all the pirates get uproarious, most of all Bruce Lee. Hiro can feel his anal sphincter contracting to the size of a pore.
'He's asking how much we cost,' Eliot says. 'It's a joke, see, because they know they can come over and have our asses for free.'
'Oh, hilarious!' Fisheye says. While Hiro and Eliot literally freeze their asses, he's still snuggled up under the canopy, that bastard.
'Poonmissile, like?' Bruce Lee says, pointing to one of the antiship missiles on the deck. 'Bugs? Motorolas?'
'Poonmissile is a Harpoon antiship missile, real expensive,' Eliot says. 'A bug is a Microchip. Motorola would be one brand, like Ford or Chevy. Bruce Lee deals in a lot of electronics - you know, typical Asian pirate dude.'
'He'd give us a Harpoon missile for you guys?' Fisheye says.
'No! He's being sarcastic, shithead!' Eliot says.
'Tell him we want a boat with an outboard motor,' Fisheye says,
'Want one zode, one kicker, fillerup,' Eliot says.
Suddenly Bruce Lee gets real serious and actually considers it. 'Scope clause, chomsayen? Gauge and gag.'
'He'll consider it if they can come and check out the merchandise first,' Eliot says. 'They want to check out how tight we are, and whether we are capable of sup-pressing our gag reflex. These are all terms from the Raft brothel industry.'
'Ombwas scope like twelves to me, hahaha.'
'Us homeboys look like we have twelve-gauge assholes,' Eliot says, 'i.e., that we are all stretched out and worthless.'
Fisheye speaks up on his own. 'No, no, four-tens, totally!'
The entire deck of the pirate ship titters with excitement.
'No way,' Bruce Lee says.
'These ombwas,' Fisheye says, 'still got cherries up in there!'
The whole deck erupts in rude, screaming laughter. One of the pirates scrambles up to balance on the railing, gyrates one fist in the air, and hollers: 'ba ka na zu ma lay ga no ma la aria ma na po no a ab zu … ' By that point all the other pirates have stopped laughing, gotten serious looks on their faces, and joined in, bellowing their own private streams of babble, rattling the air with a profound hoarse ululation.
Hiro's feet go out from under him as the raft moves suddenly; he can see Eliot falling down next to him.
He looks up at Bruce Lee's ship and flinches involuntarily as he sees what looks like a dark wave cresting over the rail, washing over the row of standing pirates, starting at the stern of the trawler and working its way forward. But this is just some kind of optical illusion. It is not really a wave at all. Suddenly, they are fifty feet away from the trawler, not twenty feet. As the laughter on the railing dies away, Hiro hears a new sound: a low whirring noise from the direction of Fisheye, and from the atmosphere around them, a tearing, hissing noise, like the sound just before a thunderbolt strikes, like the sound of sheets being ripped in half.
Looking back at Bruce Lee's trawler, he sees that the dark wavelike phenomenon was a wave of blood, as though someone hosed down the deck with a giant severed aorta. But it didn't come from outside. It erupted from the pirates' bodies, one at a time, moving from the stem to the bow. The deck of Bruce Lee's ship is now utterly quiet and motionless except for blood and gelatinized internal organs sliding down the rusted steel and plopping softly into the water.
Fisheye is up on his knees now and has torn away the canopy and space blanket that have covered him until this point. In one hand he is holding a long device a couple of inches in diameter, which is the source of the whirring noise. It is a circular bundle of parallel tubes about pencil-sized and a couple of feet long, like a miniaturized Gatling gun. It whirs around so quickly that the individual tubes are difficult to make out; when it is operating, it is in fact ghostly and transparent because of this rapid motion, a glittering, translucent cloud jutting out of Fisheye's arm. The device is attached to a wrist-thick bundle of black tubes and cables that snake down into the large suitcase, which lies open on the bottom of the raft. The suitcase has a built-in color monitor screen with graphics giving information about the status of this weapons system: how much ammo is left, the status of various subsystems. Hiro just gets a quick glimpse at it before all of the ammunition on board Bruce Lee's ship begins to explode.
'See, I told you they'd listen to Reason,' Fisheye says, shutting down the whirling gun. Now Hiro sees a nameplate tacked onto the control panel. REASON
version 1.0B7
Gatling-type 3-mm hypervelocity railgun system
Ng Security Industries, Inc.
PRERELEASE VERSION - NOT FOR FIELD USE
DO NOT TEST IN A POPULATED AREA
- ULTIMA RATIO REGUM- -
'Fucking recoil pushed us halfway to China,' Fisheye says appreciatively.
'Did you do that? What just happened?' Eliot says.
'I did it. With Reason. See, it fires these teeny little metal splinters. They go real fast - more energy than a rifle bullet. Depleted uranium.'
The spinning barrels have now slowed almost to a stop. It looks like there are about two dozen of them.
'I thought you hated machine guns,' Hiro says.
'I hate this fucking raft even more. Let's go get ourselves something that goes, you know. Something with a
