The Guns of Two-Space (47 page)

Koluvitz grinned at him. "I forgot to mention that Sir Geoffery and I both spent some time in meditation and training with the monks there." The marine captain shook his head with a wry smile as he continued. "The governor can shoot rings around me, and anyone else on the planet! He's the sector pistol
and
rifle champion. And don't for a minute think we
let
him win! If any of us could ever beat him, we'd do it in a heartbeat and never stop rubbing it in!"

As he led them to the issue desk with the waiting marine armorer and their own Corporal Petrico standing by to assist, he added with a laugh, "Oh, and the governor said to tell you: he never did learn to play golf! 'Piss on golf. Real men go to the range!' has become his motto after he heard about you and your rangers' exploits on Ambergris!"

Dinner with Sir Geoffery that evening was an informal affair at his residence. The governor was an impressive man, despite his average stature and plain dress. He was clean shaven, with a lantern jaw, and close-cropped sandy hair that was solid gray at the temples. His most distinctive features were his steely eyes and powerful, riveting voice and inflection.

Melville noted the wear on the left hip of the governor's plum colored jacket where a sword would hang, as well as the slight bulge on the right side indicating he was probably equipped with one of the armory's lovely .45 caliber pistols in a hand-tooled and decorated paddle holster to match the ones they had issued to Melville and his crew. The regimental pin in his cravat indicated he had been an army spec-ops commander in his younger days. The governor's calloused handshake was like gripping a hand full of coarse sandpaper, making it clear that he still spent a great deal of time with a pistol and a sword in his hand.

The dinner party included the governor, his aide, several of the governor's secretaries, and Captain Koluvitz. Interestingly enough, all the men and women seemed to be ex-military, almost evenly split between marines and the army.

After introducing himself to Melville, the governor went on to politely greet Melville's monkey.

"Do our mysterious little alien visitors need any special food?" asked Sir Geoffery. "I'd hate to neglect a guest."

"No special diet required, sir," replied Melville, reaching up and rubbing his monkey behind its ear. "As best we can figure, in its native environment the spider monkey is an herbivore, and it primarily eats shoots and leaves off of one specific tree. But since adopting us, they've also adopted our diet and appear to thrive on whatever we eat."

The governor was an excellent host who kept the conversation limited to lighthearted stories of the city of Lowball and its inhabitants. All of which he humorously asserted were absolutely true, So Help Me God!

"Trust me, my friends," said their host with a booming laugh, "I could never even dream up stories as interesting as the ones I see daily. We have a lovely city, set in a lovely land, with a rare mix of cultures and sophistication.

"For example, last week I was dining at the Kansas Street Grill, which is an excellent place for steak. As a side note, avoid the seafood until the winter here, seafood in summer is a bit of a gamble with your stomach.

"Where was I? Oh, yes, the Kansas Street Grill. While I was dining, two gentlemen (and I use the term loosely here) who were apparently hunters or trappers by their gear, were seated nearby. I am guessing, but I must admit you rarely see gentlemen around town, in new suits, carrying packs and rifles! Apparently they were celebrating some success, and they both had a fresh shave, a bath, and a new wardrobe. The smell of Bay Rum and pomade was something fierce.

"So, here these two trappers were seated at a table by a very formally dressed maitre d'. Did I mention the Kansas Street is somewhat ritzy, at least by Show Low's standards? And Billy Bob, I believe was his name, pulls the damask napkin out of the silver napkin ring, places it around his neck and ties a knot in it.

"And the maitre d', Johann, grits his teeth and asks, 'Sir, will you be having a shave or a haircut?'"

Sir Geoffery laughed with the rest of the table and then sadly shook his head. "Although, I must admit they do have the best chef on the planet, damned if they don't!"

He paused for another sip and added loudly. "Not that Anna, my cook, is bad. No, not at all! But I fear she's slipping of late and can't measure up to Kansas Street's Chef Stevey."

A voice came from the serving window going to the kitchen. "I heard that, Sir Geoffery! And if for some reason your dessert soufflé collapses, you can comfort yourself knowing that the best chef on the planet wouldn't a let it happen!"

General laughter followed as Anna stuck her head through the window and waved a wooden spoon at him.

"Gentlemen and ladies," announced the governor, "may I present the architect of this splendid repast: my cook, Anna, who has been with me for over fifteen years. As an aside, and in my defense, I will simply point out that the Chef Stevey at the Kansas Street Grill is also her husband, and that the two of them do persist in making my life interesting!"

"Get along with ya now, Sir Geoffery!" she replied, coming through the dutch door with a serving tray. "We ne'er make your life more interestin' an' it deserves a' be. An' Stevey said those boys' names were John and Sam, not Ernie an' Billy Bob!"

"I surrender, and yield my narrative and my palate to thee, O wondrous and all-knowing cook!" He stood and bowed elaborately toward her. She placed the dessert on the sideboard and solemnly curtsied in return.

As she returned to the kitchen, he looked over at Melville and said quietly over the general conversation, "Anna came to work for me as a cook after her retirement from the Army. Before that she was my regimental cook, and Stevey was my sergeant major. One of the best things about forming a brand-new sector administration was that it left me free to choose military and ex-military, as opposed to the political hacks that seem to fill most of the older sector governors' offices."

"I see," replied Melville. "And if I might venture a guess, I'd bet there was a good reason why the Secretary for Colonization wanted a—if you will pardon my familiarity—highly competent retired general officer, a governor's office staffed with a significant number of military officers, and an armory manned with some amazing overachievers?" He lifted a politely inquiring eyebrow at the governor.

"Hah, you're a cool one, aren't you? Yes, there is a very good reason, strategically. There's the Grey Rift and the whole width of the spiral arm between us and the Guldur. But if they take out our East Coast, Westerness will have to fall back on our frontier worlds, and Show Low is a key hub. Furthermore, if any unknown bug-a-boo attacks
this
coast from across the Far Rift, they are going to need supply and refit worlds. Strategically, Show Low is well located, has abundant natural resources, food stores, an agreeable climate, one of the biggest Piers on the West Coast, and a population that alien invaders might view as prime slave labor or livestock. In other words, we're a likely target if anyone hits the West Coast, and
our
defense is key to defending the Rim. But it is also a lawless planet that is much in need of taming before it can be truly useful.

"So," the governor continued, "the Secretary of Colonization and the Prime Minister decided it was well past time to designate some sector governors, and perhaps add some additional marines specializing in manufacturing and training. And Show Low was the first planet to benefit from this new policy." He grinned cheerfully as he added, "And I must say that your reports have added considerable impetus to the overall process!

"Thus we prepare," the governor concluded with a sigh, "and plan and try to anticipate all the things that could happen. But tonight, we drink and enjoy... still, we remember McCrae's 'Flanders Fields,' eh?"

Melville nodded as he thought of the lines:

In Flanders Fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row.
 

Then Melville looked up from his wine and quoted:

"If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields."
 

Sir Geoffery nodded. "Exactly, my boy. Exactly. So, let the Admiralty rage, but know that your achievements are appreciated, and your reports have been heeded. And you and your Ship will always have a 'port in a storm' here, should you have need." Then he smiled sadly and said, "At least until the poppies grow o'er my dead body."

Melville nodded at the older man. He understood.

While liberty went on apace, the
Fang
still needed to be maintained and resupplied. Someone had to do all the thousands of things a Ship must do on a daily basis to keep it in fighting trim.

Which meant that for the Ship's officers and captain the next opportunity for liberty occurred the following evening, Ship's time. Since they were in port for only a short period, they didn't reset the Ship time, so that an evening of liberty for them actually started in midmorning in the city of Lowball. Taking the governor's recommendations for a vaudeville matinee show had provided an evening's (or late morning's, depending which rubber clock you used) entertainment in a surprisingly well designed theater. After the show they went looking for a tavern for an after-dinner tipple or three.

It was a drizzling, rainy day dirtside. Raincoats were never needed in two-space, and most of the
Fang
s had purchased cheap waterproof ponchos from vendors who set up stalls at the base of the Pier. Rain dribbled fitfully as they stepped out of the theater, so the group of officers walked down the covered boardwalk, seeking a drink and enjoying the smell of the rain while horse-drawn wagons, carriages, and cabs rattled on the cobblestone street. In two-space there was nothing but the constant crisp air above deck, or the locker room smell of confined humanity below, and it always felt good to enjoy the rain or sunshine of a real planet.

The colors of Show Low were as refreshing as the sounds and smells. The street was alive with rich earth tones: the browns and tans of fresh wood, the soft gray of weathered wood, the steel gray cobblestones glistening in the rain. These earth tones were punctuated by myriad flashes of bright color in signs overhead, in shop windows and the clothing of the crowds.

As they walked along the boardwalk their middies were badgered by a local character who was wearing a black cowboy hat with a six-gun slung on his hip.

"I seed a glimpse o' them cursed M-1911 autermatics under yer jackets!" said the character.

"Yep," replied Hans, patting his hip with a confident smile. "Nuthin' but the best fer our friends!"

The man looked at young Hayl with the wild eyes of a zealot and said, "Repent and mend yer ways, boy! The revolver is the
true
God's Gun! The Colt single six was the gun that won the West! By the time your M-1911 showed up, it was all over but the shoutin'!"

"You know, historically speaking, he's got a point there," said Hayl thoughtfully.

"Now, don't yew lisken to 'im!" said Ulrich, who was standing behind Melville. He and Grenoble were shadowing the captain in their capacity as his bodyguards. "'E'll turn ya into a blasked 'revolver'! Then we'd 'ave ta run ya outa the Navy for wat they calls 'apostacky.' I think I skee skum o' them 'loosk wimen' over there. Yew go talk with them, boy. Better
that
than yew turn inta a pockin' revolver."

Ulrich began to shoo the happily compliant midshipmen toward a brothel, but Melville called out, "Leave Mr. Hayl with me, Ulrich, and you and Grenoble keep an eye on the rest of the middies." Tiny Aquinar was still aboard Ship as the watch officer, and with Hayl now out of the batch, Melville felt like he had done his best to keep the youngest middies away from temptation. The others were old enough to tend to themselves, and there was no way that anyone could keep them away from the brothels if that was their goal. With Ulrich and Grenoble watching over them, the middies who were headed eagerly toward the ladies of negotiable virtue would be about as safe as possible under the circumstances. Besides, Melville had been looking for a way to get out from under the eye of his overprotective bodyguards.

Ulrich and Grenoble both gave the captain a set of matching scowls, but an order from their captain was the only thing that could get them both to agree. Besides, they were on liberty on a Westerness planet. What could go wrong here?

The remaining officers stepped into the small foyer of the Laughing Dog Tavern. They were immediately stopped at the door by a hulking bouncer with the classic broken nose and traditional attitude.

"Yew scum gotta check yer weapons," said the bouncer, leaning against the wall and looking down his crooked nose with obvious scorn.

"Why?" replied Broadax, rolling her cigar in her mouth. "We know they works jist
fine
."

"Ha...Ha," said the bouncer with a sneer. "And yer gonna have ta put dat stinkin' cee-gar out."

The fluid flow of motions beneath Broadax's rain poncho indicated that a census of lethal hardware was taking place. Melville knew that he was going to have to intercede quickly before the idiot met an unfortunate end, but then Fielder cut in.

"She doesn't really smoke cigars, she merely mangles them," said Fielder, hoping to confuse the bouncer with a technicality.

"I ain't talkin' to yew, pretty boy. An' I don't like
none
o' yer attitudes. Yer
all
dee-nied admittance."

"Attitudes are contagious," said Fielder with a pleasant smile. "Ours might kill you."

"Ye got kids?" asked Broadax, looking up with what a scholar once called a "coprophagic grin" and an intensity that caused the bouncer's few functioning neurons to start pinging around in panic. Just about then her monkey reared up from her shoulder and started flipping its belaying pin from hand to hand.

"Uh, no...?"

"Want 'em?" she snarled, whipping an ax up from under her poncho in a blur that stopped with incredible precision in front of her victim's fly.