“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 stern 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.
“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 motor on it.”
Because of the fires and small explosions going off on Bruce Lee’s pirate ship, it takes them a minute to realize that several people are still alive there, still shooting at them. When Fisheye becomes aware of this, he pulls the trigger again, the barrels whirl themselves up into a transparent cylinder, and the tearing, hissing noise begins again. As he waves the gun back and forth, hosing the target down with a hypersonic shower of depleted uranium, Bruce Lee’s entire ship seems to sparkle and glitter, as though Tinkerbell was flying back and forth from stem to stem, sprinkling nuclear fairy dust over it.
Bruce Lee’s smaller yacht makes the mistake of coming around to see what’s going on. Fisheye turns toward it for a moment and its high, protruding bridge slides off into the water.
Major structural elements of the trawler are losing their integrity. Enormous popping and wrenching noises are coming from inside as big pieces of Swiss-cheesed metal give way, and the superstructure is slowly collapsing down into the hull like a botched soufflé. When Fisheye notes this, he ceases fire.
“Cut it out, boss,” Vic says.
“I’m melting!” Fisheye crows.
“We could have used that trawler, asshole,” Eliot says, vindictively yanking his pants back on.
“I didn’t mean to blow it all up. I guess the little bullets just go through everything.”
“Sharp thinking, Fisheye,” Hiro says.
“Well, I’m sorry I took a little action to save our asses. Come on, let’s go get one of them little boats before they all burn.”
They paddle in the direction of the decapitated yacht. By the time they reach it, Bruce Lee’s trawler is just a listing, empty steel hull with flames and smoke pouring out of it, spiced by the occasional explosion.