The Guns of Two-Space (22 page)

Fielder came into the hospital just as the medicos were turning their attentions away from Broadax and directing their tender mercies upon the hapless Asquith. Ordinarily the first officer would have avoided Broadax, but he could never let anyone think that he would run from the marine lieutenant, and he was happy to see her in one of those rare moments when she was disconcerted and socially off balance. Besides, Asquith and Vodi were sparring, and it was the best entertainment aboard the Ship.

"Garlic soup?!" said Asquith.

"Now, eat up," Vodi replied patiently. "Garlic is a goodness. Garlic was invented by a righteous and loving God so that man could swallow snails without choking."

Asquith tried to digest this logic as Vodi continued sternly, while the others looked on with the virtuous pleasure of the healthy observing the ill. "Now that you are here in hospital," she said, "you must leave off your bad habits. You must give up cussing, smoking and drinking."

"But I don't do those things!"

"Well there you have it. You're a sinking ship at sea with no ballast to throw overboard. You forgot to cultivate your bad habits when you had a chance. Now there's no hope for you! It was good knowing you. I think."

"Thanks, that makes me feel better," Asquith said weakly.

"It's my job to make people comfortable. Or miserable. By fits and starts. Depending on what they've earned lately. I wouldn't want to deny you anything you've worked so hard to achieve."

"Can't you hold your tongue for one minute, and just feed me?"

"She can't hold her tongue," interjected Fielder, "she'd cut herself."

Vodi looked over at the first officer with a saccharine sweet smile that said,
Sooner or later, buddy, you'll be under my care. Sooner or later.
 

"Speaking of thanks, and just rewards," continued Asquith, "what about those leeches you used to reattach my finger? What's become of them? Are they still around?"

"Unfortunately," said Vodi, with true sadness, "to get the greedy little piggies to let go we have to pour salt on them, and that kills them."

Asquith looked at Elphinstone, who was examining his dressings while Vodi distracted him, and asked, "How does a doctor who believes life is precious feel about killing these creatures?"

"Wouldst thou know the crux of the matter, then?"

"I asked, didn't I?"

"Then I shall tell thee."

"Yes?"

"'Twas simply this. I had to chose between them or thee," she replied. "'Twas a hard choice, but in the end it was the lesser of evils. Which wouldst thou have preferred?"

Still trying to protest—or at least delay—the garlic soup that Vodi was spooning down his throat, Asquith began to pursue one of his favorite topics. "Why can't you people do anything that isn't primitive and ineffectual? Like this foolish soup as medicine. Or look at my hand," he said, holding it up and looking to the urbane Fielder for some sympathy. "It's the damned Flintstones! They stitched me up with waxed thread. Waxed thread! Somebody just light my wick and make a wish! When I finally get back to Earth, the book I'll write will pay for the therapy I'll need."

Everyone grinned at that. They all appreciated a good rant from their pet earthworm, who had remained obstinately ignorant about such matters until now, when they were suddenly, rudely, and quite painfully inflicted upon him.

"Or this silly Ship," he continued, gesturing petulantly at the luminous white bulkhead beside him and glaring at them with his one good eye. "Why can't the hull be made out of steel? Then that so-called 'splinter' wouldn't have taken out my eye."

"Nope," Vodi replied, full of the infinite patience that a medical specialist can have for a patient who is completely at her mercy. "It has to be made out of this special kind of wood that the Moss will grow on. That really limits the number of Ships out here in Flatland."

"Why can't it be part wood and part steel?"

"'Tis because," replied Elphinstone with equal patience, "the inimical forces of two-space tend to twist and distort, and eventually destroy most structural parts not made out of Nimbrell timbers."

"Could the canvas be made out of mono-filamant? Or plastic?"

"No," said Broadax, throwing in her two-bits. "Anythin' artificial decays real quick, eaten up by that evil bastard, the Elder King! So it has to be made out o' something livin', so Lady Elbereth protects it, ye see? An' gunpowder is pretty much inert in two-space. It just kinda smolders. Like tobacco. Thank the Lady for that."

"That gunpowder doesn't work?" asked Asquith in confusion.

"Naw," She said scornfully, rolling her ubiquitous stogie around in her mouth. Lady Elphinstone had taken her lit cigar upon entering the room, but she could still chomp on an unlit stogie, inflicting a slow, hideous demise upon it from one end only. "I thanks the Lady that tobacco will burn, or at least smolder. Otherwise how's a girl ta git a good smoke?"

"You know," said Mrs. Vodi, "Lt. Broadax inspired some of our Guldur crew members to take up smoking cigars. They looked for all the world like a dog with a cigar in its mouth, which is a singularly incongruous and ludicrous sight. For most of them, though, the habit didn't take. Whenever they got excited or distracted they tended to think the cigar was food and swallow it. Then you heard a unique yelping noise which is universal dog-speak for 'lesson learned.'"

"Aye," said Elphinstone. "So things only smolder in two-space. As a result there are no real burns. The only way thou canst be burnt in two-space is to spill thy food or," looking disapprovingly at Broadax, "swallow thy cigar."

"Now, my lady," said Vodi with a wink, "we all need to cultivate those bad habits, so you have some baggage to throw overboard when you get ill. If we ever get the good lieutenant in our tender mercies she'll have to give up those awful things, and the shock will either kill her or heal her."

"Could you use Greek fire?" asked Asquith doggedly, not yet convinced that these primitives were doing all that was possible to overcome the limitations of their environment.

"Nope," said Vodi, patiently. "Like I told you. No combustion, that's why the cook has to heat the food with modified Keel charges in the burners."

"So all you have to fight with are bare blades, and muzzle-loading muskets and cannons, launched by those crazy Keel charges?"

"Yes, although some of those cannon, you have to admit, are pretty potent," said Vodi, shoving another spoonful of soup down her unwilling patient's throat. "You've touched the Keel charge on some of those 24-pounders?"

Asquith shuddered at the taste of the soup
and
the memory of the 24-pounders. "Yes. I've never felt anything like it in my life. Pure hatred and destructive malice. That does bring up a question. Does size really matter? It appears that the larger the weapon, the more aggressive. Is this true? Or is there a really, really angry derringer out there? What about a weapon that's pacifistic in nature?"

"'Does size really matter?'" replied Vodi, wagging her spoon threateningly in Asquith's face. "Such a straight line you hand me, my friend! But I'll let that one go and wait for a sportin' shot."

"The bigger a gun is, the more intelligent it tends to be," said Fielder as he lounged against one luminous white bulkhead. "But you should try a few shots from the captain's little pistol. It's been in his family for generations, constantly remaining in two-space and building up a personality. It's amazingly intelligent,
and
it's the most vicious thing I've ever held in my hand—barring a few ex-girlfriends I can think of. As to a pacifist weapon, well I've yet to run into one of those, but the galaxy is a big place. Who knows what's out there."

"What about gas warfare?"

"Been tried," replied Fielder. "The chemicals decay almost immediately upon entry into two-space."

"So that's why the level of medical support is so poor? No drugs at all?"

"They tend to decay on long voyages," replied Fielder. "Even our canvas sails decay over time, and we've spent centuries breeding and developing the plants that they came from. That's why the medicos grow a garden that includes the garlic you are enjoying. Our Vodi is a master herbalist, and the cook has a small garden of herbs and spices."

" Aye," said Vodi with dignified pride. "I'm an herbalist first class and an apothecary second class. Herbalism is really my strong suit."

"I think you've been spending too much time inhaling your inventory," said Asquith petulantly. "None of those 'herbs' did me any good.
Chains
are your strong suit! Chaining folks down on the operating table!"

"I guess it could be worse," said Vodi with a wink to one-and-all. "In Lt. Broadax's case, chain
mail
is her
only
suit."

Always happy to reinforce and support any cut at Broadax, Fielder groaned appreciatively and said, "Go to your room!"

"Only if you'll spank me when I get there!" replied Vodi with a saucy smile.

Fielder grinned back, not visibly daunted by the prospect of spanking the ample Vodi. Then he left with his dignity intact while Broadax and Vodi chuckled and Elphinstone looked on with a disapproving but resigned shake of her head.

Finally, they were done with repairs. As old Hans put it, "We did a right fine job a blastin' the blazes outa them vacuum-suckin' Guldur bastards. There ain't much more we can do ta turn these crippled, shot-ta-hell hulks into fightin' Ships." So the period of constant effort and exhausted naps was mostly behind them and they finally had a few moments to slow down for reflection. Now it was time to mourn their dead and honor their fallen.

The sailors of two-space lived in dread of being buried in space. The bodies of their fallen comrades would be buried in the rich, living earth of the first planet they came to. For now their canvas-wrapped bodies would be pulled behind them, sunken in two-space, like a macabre stringer of frozen fish towed behind a boat. Burial could come later, but right now they needed to take time for a memorial service.

Melville stood on the upper quarterdeck looking down at a sea of upturned faces full of grief, expectation, scars, and broken noses. Men at war, warriors who had
adjusted
to war, grieved briefly and intensely. His job was to guide them along that path. Melville felt like he had had far too much experience at it. He longed for someone to help him with the burdens upon
his
soul and spirit. But for now his duty was to speak Words for their fallen comrades.

"The Bible tells us that, 'there is a time for everything,'" began Melville, "'and a season for everything under the sun.'"

His crew sighed and settled in to hear their captain apply the healing balm of Words to guide and carry them through their grieving. Untold thousands of applications of these ancient Words to the griefs of more than two thousand years had carved them into the cultural consciousness of the listeners, giving the Words power. Power to heal and power to strengthen lives in times of sorrow and loss. And it helped that Melville was a darned good speaker.

"'There is a time to be born, and a time to die. A time to sow, and a time to reap. A time to
kill
, and a time to
heal
.' Shipmates, my brothers and sisters, the time for killing has passed, for now. It is time to grieve, and it is time to heal.

"He that lacks time to mourn,
lacks time to mend.
Eternity mourns that.
'Tis an ill cure
For life's worst ills,
to have no time to feel them."
 

Among the humans were Sylvans who listened with shining eyes. Their race had already been enchanted and fascinated by Earth's language, culture and heritage, and now they were part of it. Guldur crew members, scattered throughout the crowd, listened with cocked canine heads, fascinated by the cadence, beauty, and
sense
of the words.

"So let us mourn, but the purpose of that mourning is to mend. To heal.
Think
, and ask yourself: if
you
had been the one to fall, and your comrades were driving on, what would you want for them?"

Melville paused briefly and then continued, answering his own question. "
To live!
You would want your brothers to live the fullest, richest, best life they can. That is what you lived, and fought and died to give them!"

The crew nodded their heads in agreement. "Aye," rumbled quietly from many throats. "Aye."

"Now they are the ones to fall. Your comrades have fallen, and what do
they
want for you?"

Again the crew nodded as their captain went on to echo the answer that was in their hearts. "The same thing! They would want the same thing for you. The fullest, richest, best life you can have.
That
is your mission.
That
is your moral, sacred responsibility.
That
is what they lived and fought and died to give you. And that means you must go on.

"We've lost these comrades, and we can never have them back on this side of the veil, except in our hearts, minds, stories, and songs. But if their loss destroys just one of us, if survivor guilt takes away the fullness of just one life, then we've given another life or another victory to the bastards who came to kill us. And we'll be
damned
if we give those bastards one more life!"

He completed this last sentence in a soaring oratorical crescendo and his warriors responded with a roar of affirmation. Then Melville nodded and turned to Brother Theo Petreckski. "Brother, will you lead us in a Song?"

"I'd be honored to, Captain," replied the monk with a nod. The
Fang
s were a diverse lot, drawn from many cultures and species, and bound together mostly by the iron bonds of the fellowship of arms. They came from many and sundry faiths, but when the mystery of life and death was upon them, a Song of Faith, led by a man of faith, even an unordained monk like Brother Theo, could be comforting. Like Melville, Theo reached back to the old, strong Words that resonated in the heritage and souls of these lonely men in this distant, desolate patch of space. In his clear, pure tenor voice he began one of the many songs that the sailors loved to sing at Sunday services,