Old Mars

“Take a few men belowdecks,” Jason instructed, “and make sure there aren’t more of the ship’s crew down there that we’ll need to worry about before we move on to the galleon. We’ll have enough trouble dealing with the sailors who boarded the—”

“Captain!” one of the pirates shouted.

Jason turned quickly in that direction. Through the sand that gusted all around them, he could see across to the galleon, lashed by grappling hooks to the side of the corvette.

An entire detachment of Praxian sailors were surging over the railing from the galleon, murder in their eyes.

“Never mind.” Jason flashed Tyr a quick smile. “You get the idea.”

There had been a time when the mere sight of a pink-skinned figure breathing air had been enough to give Jason’s opponents a moment’s pause, usually just enough for him to gain a tactical advantage against them. But enough stories had circulated in the years since of the so-called human who sailed the sand seas aboard a pirate vessel, that Jason had largely lost the element of surprise. That he’d grown older in the interim, and no doubt needed that moment’s advantage now more than ever, was a cruel irony that was not lost on him.

So it was with a labored sigh that Jason met the sailors’ charge. Not one of them even blinked when they saw his skin, his hair, or his lack of gills.

He felt like a once-popular TV star, now reduced to offering autographs to uninterested passersby at a boat show …

If taking the corvette had been comparatively easy, at the cost only of a few minor injuries, defending it from the returning sailors would clearly come at a higher price. The corvette’s crew outnumbered the pirates three to one, and though Jason had always boasted that each of his crewmen was worth any three other fighters combined, proving that boast was more difficult in practice than it had been in theory.

While Tyr and two other pirates dealt with the sailors who had been belowdecks manning the launchers, the rest contended with those who had returned from taking the galleon. And Jason himself faced the master of the corvette, who bore the rank insignia of a commodore in the Praxian navy tattooed on his forehead. At the end of one arm, the commodore carried a sword, and, in the other, a burning torch.

Jason was surprised to see the open flame. The natives of the red planet typically used fire only for manufacturing purposes, most often in foundries on rocky atolls far from their aquatic homes in the canal networks. It was not entirely unknown for fire to be used as a weapon, but it was far from common.

“You are either brave, mad, or a fool,” the commodore said in a heavy Praxian accent. “But whichever it is, you will die!” To punctuate his words, he lunged forward with his sword, aiming it squarely at Jason’s chest.

“Everything dies, commodore.” Jason parried the Praxian’s lunge and flashed a smile. “So I’m certain I’ll die eventually.” Jason riposted, thrusting his own sword at the commodore. “But not today!”

The commodore hissed menacingly as he sidestepped Jason’s sword, barely avoiding the thrust.

“You, a pirate, would protect these … these heretics?” The commodore’s anger was almost palpable. “But why?”

Heretics? Jason scarcely had time to think, as the commodore swung the torch he bore at Jason’s head.

Jason danced back out of the way, feeling the warmth of the torch on his face. Had he been a native Martian, the heat itself would have been enough to dry his eyes for an instant, forcing opaque nictitating membranes to slam shut, momentarily obscuring his vision. No doubt that was the reason the commodore took the risk of fighting while carrying an open flame. But Jason’s eyes simply stung and watered, and though his lids squinted against the heat and smoke, he never lost sight of his opponent’s position.

But he allowed the commodore to think that he had.

Eyes half-lidded, one hand groping erratically through the air in front of him, Jason feinted with his sword, aiming well clear of the commodore’s body. He could hear the soft clacking of mandibles as the commodore chuckled to himself, sure now of an easy victory.

As the commodore lunged forward, aiming his sword at Jason’s midsection in a killing thrust, Jason handily sidestepped at the last moment. Natives were always surprised by how quickly Jason could move in the lower gravity of the red planet and how much stronger he was than he appeared, facts that he had long since learned to use to his advantage. Before the startled commodore could react, Jason brought his sword slamming down on the commodore’s breather, slashing the back of the commodore’s head in the process.

The commodore pitched forward, gasping for breath, dropping both sword and torch as he groped for the back of his head, where dark green blood was already welling freely.