Earth Thirst (The Arcadian Conflict) - By Mark Teppo Page 0,14

is long, and it reminds me of my first kopis. I show him an old technique, one that works just as well now as it did back then. I like the way the blade feels in my hand, and cutting the second man's throat feels like a home-coming.

I lick the blade, feeling like a junkie as my body shivers at the taste. The blood is foul and I want to spit it out, but much like Nigel when he was drinking from the student, once it hits the back of my throat, there's no denying the shivering joy that sweeps through my body.

I hack through a number of critical pipes and tubes, mainly to coat the blade with enough oil-based products to take the edge off my desire, but also to reduce the boat's ability to do more than drift with the current until the oncoming storm can have its way with the derelict vessel.

The rest of the tactical team hasn't been waiting for me to find them, and as I return to the upper deck, they try to catch me in a furious hail of bullets. I'm not so easily caught unaware, and I don't stroll blithely into the gunfire. The pair in the engine room carried Heckler & Koch UMPs—the magazines I found on the other men match—and I return fire, catching one of the team. He staggers over the rail, and pitches off the boat. The remaining pair head for high ground, and I let them think they've got the advantage of high ground. They're just going to get picked off by Phoebe.

Nothing happens after a minute or so, and I finally crab-walk to a position where I can look to the rear of the boat. Why isn't Phoebe firing?

The answer is clear as soon as I look. The Cetacean Liberty isn't following the Cherry Blossom any longer. The Prime Earth vessel's aspect is all wrong. She's heading off on a different course entirely.

As I stare, wondering what is going on, one of the two mercenaries pops out of the bridge and empties a clip in my direction. Bullets chew up the deck and railing around me, and more than a few chew on me too. I drop out of sight, gasping from the pain. It's been a long time since I've been hit this badly. Not since… when? Verdun? The fall of 1914? I gape at the sight of my blood. So many holes. I am going to lose blood.

Mother will be so displeased. Such a waste.

The mercenary drops down to the deck, coming to look for me. We get in a stand-off, both firing at the same time. He panics; I get lucky. The .40 S&W round is heavy, and firing it causes the gun to jerk more than the old 9mm round. He doesn't control his weapon, and his bullets stitch a line in the wall over my head. My bullets run right up his hip and belly. He drops, screaming, and curls into a fetal position on the deck. I drag my leaking body across the deck.

He is close to passing out when I reach him, and he finds a reserve of strength when I latch on to his leg. He starts screaming again, and I shove my fist into his mouth to shut him up.

One more. I'll take care of him in a minute. As soon as I drain what blood is left in this one.

The last guy bolts from the other side of the bridge, and I waste a few seconds wondering where he's going to go. The harpoon boat isn't that big. He can't hide forever. Then I hear the sound of a motor running, and a gurgling noise. Like a hose filling.

I dart forward, racing toward the nose of the boat where I discover why there hadn't been anyone manning the harpoon guns. They've been replaced with something more akin to a mounted fire hose, except this hose is attached to a series of tanks lashed along the front rail of the boat. The last mercenary has turned the hose around, and as I come limping into his field of vision, he lets loose with a spray of a pale yellow liquid.

I back-pedal, slipping on the wet deck, and the chemical spray douses my legs. As it soaks through the fabric of my pants, the burning starts. My legs feel like they are being devoured by an infestation of fire ants. I'm firing my gun indiscriminately—trying to hit him,