The Guns of Two-Space (4 page)

"Yes, mah'yam!" he gulped. Dwakins was overwhelmed with relief. Marine motivation and clever insults confused him, but threats now, threats he could handle.

If only he could figure out what a "wreckdum" was.

The quarterdeck personnel were all grinning at each other after they heard their captain give the order to prepare for combat. Young Mr. Anthony Hayl was the midshipman on duty, and he listened in confusion as the sailors smiled confidently and whispered over his head. They were all trying to look wise and intelligent, generally with indifferent success.

"Our cap'n's a real fire eater."

"Aye, he's a right plucked one, an' lucky ta boot."

"'We'll take 'em
all
on,' 'e sez!"

"Aye, an mebbee we'll board one o' the bastards an' make sum more prize muney!"

Each of the crew had one of the eight-legged spider monkeys perched on his shoulder, and the monkeys were echoing their hosts' ferocious enthusiasm for the approaching combat.

Hayl had just come aboard the
Fang
a few days ago. At twelve years old he was as green and inexperienced as any crewman or officer that ever was, but he already had a soft, furry, eight-legged monkey perched on his shoulder.

The baby monkeys always appeared when no one was looking. How they reproduced and where they came from was a mystery. When they first arrived they were palm sized and dappled like a fawn.

Hayl's monkey had shown up two days ago and had clung to him tenaciously ever since. The monkeys had a weird, upside-down face that could be pulled into their thorax on an accordion neck. When it came up out of the thorax, its mouth came out first, then its nose and eyes, and finally its neck. Right now Hayl's monkey shared its master's uncertainty, clinging tight to the boy's shoulder with its jug-eared head pulled back into its thorax. The only thing you could see was a hairy half-moon sunk into its fluffy chest, with its chittering teeth on top, and its nose and part of its eyes peering out fearfully.

Hayl was reaching up and stroking his tiny monkey, making reassuring noises and wishing
he
had a hole that he could pull his head into. Just offhand, it looked to him like Lt. Fielder was the only sane person onboard, while the captain—
and
everyone else on the Ship—was stark, raving mad. He had been raised on Osgil, it was his home, and all his instincts said, "Run! Run away! Go home!" But the captain said fight, so fight they would.

And as he faced his first sea battle at the tender age of twelve, young Midshipman Hayl was a very frightened, homesick boy.

* * *
 

Often I think of the beautiful town
That is seated by the sea;
Often in thought go up and down
The pleasant streets of that dear old town,
And my youth comes back to me.
And a verse of a Lapland song
Is haunting my memory still
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth
are long, long thoughts."

"My Lost Youth"
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

I remember the black wharves and the slips,
And the sea-tides tossing free;
And the Spanish sailors with bearded lips,
And the beauty and mystery of the ships,
And the magic of the sea.
And the voice of that wayward song
Is singing and saying still:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth
are long, long thoughts."

"My Lost Youth"
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

By the end of the twentieth century, the art of conversation had pretty much died on Old Earth. A person from that toxic era probably could not have truly imagined the effects of a lifetime spent without TV, video games, movies on demand, and other forms of electronic entertainment. In the retro-culture of Westerness, true conversation was born anew. And aboard the
H.M.S.
Fang
, among an intelligent, literate crew confined together for months, even years on end, conversation flourished as a cherished art form.

The art of conversation was not at all like someone from that decayed era of ancient Earth would probably have imagined it to be. It was filled with long companionable pauses. A full day might be spent pleasantly preparing bon mots and witty quips to present to one's peers at dinner. While conversation flowed within one group, a messmate would be lounging about, quietly reading a tattered old book. Another might be writing in a journal. Conversation and writing often involved long, detailed descriptions—it was Zane Grey rather than Louis L'Amour. (Although both of these classic Western authors were deeply beloved.) Sketching was a common pastime, and free time was often filled with in-depth classes, passing on skills and knowledge. Music and intricate crafts occupied many of the crew's free hours. So did long, pleasant card games. And contests.

Shooting contests were popular on the Ships of the Westerness Navy, and on this Ship, Sunday afternoon shooting matches were a favorite diversion.

In two-space there was no weather and no daylight—only eternal, splendid, star-spangled night. The days and weeks were tracked by carefully calibrated hourglasses. And the Ship's calendar indicated that this was Sunday afternoon.

Earlier this morning there had been "captain's rounds," a thorough inspection of every nook and cranny for dirt, disrepair, and disorder. With that solemn, Sunday ceremony completed to the captain's satisfaction, the afternoon could now be devoted to enjoyment.

Thus, while the captain and his first officer were on the upper quarterdeck observing the approaching Guldur Ships, most of the
Fang
s were gathered on the lower quarterdeck for a pistol match.

"There can be absolutely
no
doubt that females are the equal of men in battle when it comes to marksmanship," said Mrs. Vodi, the venerable surgeon's assistant, or lob-lolly girl. "There can be debate, and good people can disagree when it comes to other realms, such as swordsmanship, where physical strength comes into play, but
this
is a universally admired warrior skill and it is one area where the field is level."

Mrs. Vodi was patiently explaining this to Cuthbert Asquith XVI, in response to his query as to why she and Lady Elphinstone, the Ship's surgeon, were participating in the pistol match. The diminutive earthling had trouble understanding why anyone would participate in such a "sport" but at least for the sailors, the marines, and the Ship's two rangers, this was part of their job description. Mrs. Vodi stood in a dowdy black shift with her gray hair up in a bun, while Asquith wore the height of fashion in civilian clothes, with a snuff colored waistcoat over white breeches.

"God made all men equal," Mrs. Vodi continued, "but Mr. Colt made men
and
women equal.
If
you're willing to practice." With that she sent a stream of chewing tobacco over the rail into two-space for emphasis. ("
Sppuutt
.") Her toothless face looked to Asquith like a good-natured golden raisin, and when she spit it was as though the raisin had contorted up and ejected a seed. Her monkey, perched happily on her left shoulder, also spit a tiny stream of tobacco juice overboard ("
Sppriitt
"), in an impressive display of synchronized spitting.

Asquith could not help but look, in horrified fascination, as the two streams of brown juice arced out, joined together in midair, and sank into the vast dark blue plane of Flatland. Then it bounced back out once and disappeared forever into interstellar space.

"So," said Mrs. Vodi after unleashing her expectoratory exclamation mark, "there should be nothing but scorn for any female whose job might bring her into combat, if she doesn't willingly and constantly practice her pistolcraft.

"Weapons, particularly handguns, are critical, indeed indispensable, for any small person in neutralizing a size and strength disadvantage. Before there were firearms, our ancestors were routinely terrorized by bullies whose only justification was that they were big and hairy. There are fools in every era who would bring back those dark times. Whenever a culture returns to those days, whenever citizens are disarmed or women are told that they shouldn't learn to shoot, then it is women who suffer most. In view of that irrefutable fact, women, of all people, should master this skill."

Cuthbert Asquith XVI was a citizen of Old Earth who had chosen to make a foray into two-space, in order to see "primitive, exotic worlds." Nano-tech and bio-robotic implants were first-class tickets to a ghastly death upon entry to Flatland, because the strange, exotic realm of two-space was corrosive to high technology, and complex devices decayed quickly. Thus, most worlds were content to settle into a retro-culture environment, with technology remaining stable at levels which Earth had experienced prior to World War I.

Old Earth was a rare exception to the galaxywide retro-culture norm. Earth was a high-tech world teeming with billions of people, most of whom refused to give up their nanotechnology and bioengineered bodies to travel the galaxy. But Earth still had great power and influence within the star kingdom of Westerness. So, upon being contacted by the government of Earth, the Westerness foreign ministry had readily obliged by giving Asquith what seemed to be a safe billet in a small consulate on Ambergris.

Thus Cuthbert Asquith XVI had purged himself of all his implants and nano-tech, and arrived on the sleepy Stolsh world of Ambergris. Just in time for that world to be invaded in the opening stages of what was now known as the Great Two-Space War. A war that was still raging across that spiral arm of the galaxy.

Having experienced some of the excitement he thought he was seeking, and finding it
not
to his liking, Asquith escaped Ambergris aboard the
H.M.S. Fang
as the sole survivor of the Westerness Consulate on that unhappy planet. Now the little earthling was aboard the
Fang
en route from Osgil to Old Earth, trying to figure out how he could politely escape from Mrs. Vodi's harangue on the responsibility to participate in pistol marksmanship training. It occurred to him to briefly fake some social malady, but God only knew what remedy the medico might force upon him.

"You know I'm not
just
responsible for the crew's medical welfare," Vodi continued. "I'm also trained and qualified to watch out for their emotional and psychological welfare. Post-traumatic stress disorder, debriefings, psychology, counseling, and all that. In my training I learned that Dr. Sigmund Freud, in his
Introductory Lectures on Psychoanalysis
, discovered 'that a fear of weapons is a sign of retarded sexual and emotional maturity.' Well," she continued with a leer, "no one ever accused
me
of being sexually retarded! Heh, heh."

Whoop, whoop. Info overload,
thought Asquith, looking at the ample, mature, matronly body of Mrs. Vodi.
I really didn't need to know about that.
Then he looked longingly over the railing at the deep, dark blue of two-space and thought,
Just one quick leap and it will all be over. One jump, a brief instant of pain, and I'll escape this insane asylum forever.
 

Mrs. Vodi saw him gazing intently over the side and said companionably, "It really is fascinating, isn't it. I never get tired of looking out at the splendid blue fabric of space."

"More like the ugly black floorboards of hell," muttered Asquith.

The competition had quickly weeded out the less able pistol shots in the Ship's crew, so that now only the
Fang
's best marksmen were firing off the greenside of the lower quarterdeck. Much of the rest of the crew was watching from the mainyard, the mizzenyard, and the railing along the greenside waist. The jollyboat had been moved out of the way and the competitors aimed at targets hung off the greenside of the Ship from the mizzen yardarm. The audience took great pleasure from the show as they engaged in betting and banter from the sidelines.

Luckily for Asquith, the number of competitors had dwindled to the point where Vodi's turn to shoot came quickly. As she moved to the railing and picked up one of the muzzle-loading pistols that they used in two-space, Asquith happily slid out of range of Vodi's harangue
and
her tobacco juice. Only to be intercepted by yet another well-meaning crew member who felt it was his responsibility to educate the earthworm.

"Marksmanship is important to keep you alive in combat," said Lt. Buckley Archer, slipping smoothly in to replace Mrs. Vodi. Just a few short months ago the dapper young man with his bushy sideburns and elegant red goatee had been a midshipman, but the loss of their old Ship, the boarding and taking of the
Fang
, and the subsequent battles to escape the invading Guldur had slaughtered the Ship's officers to such a degree that young Archer had been given a field commission and was now serving as the Ship's second officer.

"If you are a good shot," Archer continued, "then you gain a key tactical advantage by opening up the ground between you and the threat. At arm's length, your opponent doesn't have to be good, he just has to be lucky. The better the shot you are, the more distance is your friend. As Lt. Fielder says, 'Distance can be our friend. But
not
if the other guy is a better shot than you. Then you can run, but you'll only die tired.'

"Our weapons are really very accurate, you know," the lieutenant continued. "The barrels in all of our muskets and pistols have rifling in them. And the musket balls and pistol balls we fire really aren't 'balls' at all. See," he said, holding up what looked like a misshapen lump of lead for Asquith to see, "they're bullet shaped, with a cavity in the back. It goes down the barrel easy, but when you fire it the cavity expands and grips the rifling in the barrel, making it damned accurate. But the gun is only as accurate as the one who shoots it, so you gotta practice!"

Asquith nodded politely. He was not sure which was worse: the mindless monotony of going off somewhere so that he could be alone, or the tedium of listening to the inane prattle of these barbarians. He reminded himself that a conversation, almost any conversation, was probably better than being alone with himself.