The Guns of Two-Space (51 page)

His opponent screeches and falls back from the first thrust, parrying with lightning speed. Melville evades the riposte by the simple expedient of lopping off the idiot's arm.

The bastard was fast!
he thinks.
He's probably the best they've got. That's why they sent him after me. But speed was all he had going for him. What kind of training did these fools have? Beating up women and children? Who the hell stops to talk when weapons are drawn?
These thoughts run through his mind as he pivots left to block the thrust of the bravo coming around his first opponent.
 

The attacker slips slightly in the blood gushing from the first man's arm. Melville's body takes over from his mind, sliding in to pierce his opponent's chest and heart with a full-extension lunge that's so pretty it actually makes the surrounding crowd cheer and applaud.

Midshipman Hayl had his hands full as two more assailants appeared from out of the crowd to attack his captain from behind.

Hayl stutter-steps in close and ducks, remembering Gunny Von Rito's words, "You gotta get in close when you got a knife and he's got a sword. It's damned hard, but you ain't gonna kill 'im just blocking his sword." He feels the jar as his monkey's belaying pin parries the sword to the side, and he senses the kiss of the blade touching his arm. He doesn't hear anything, and all he sees is a patch of pale shirt above the man's waist as his weapon slides in.

Hayl thrusts his knife up, over, and back down again. The wonderfully sharp blade guts his opponent like a fish. Then he pivots to the side to avoid the reeking mass of intestines as they fall out.

Hayl twists his head to locate the other assailant, and spots him just as the man swings a sword at his head in a powerful, two-handed, overhand blow. The little middie feels his world slow down as he tries to duck. He watches his monkey's belaying pin slam into the side of the sword, but without enough force to block the blade coming at his head.

His left arm is already in a high-guard position, so in desperation he blocks the blade to the side with his left hand. He feels the dull
"smack"
of the impact as he watches the blade rip through his outstretched wrist. The monkey's belaying pin together with his hand succeeds in deflecting the powerful blow. The deflected blade takes a bit of his hair with it, and he watches in horror as his hand falls to the ground, accompanied by a sprinkling of his hair.
 

Huh!
babbles a tiny voice in his mind as the effect of slow-motion time gives him plenty of time to study his gushing stump.
Lt. Broadax always says a battle shows what you're made of... It looks like meat, but there's less of that now. And lots of blood, although that's going fast too. And some tubes and white knobby bits...

The young midshipman sees the blood fountain out from his wrist and, in an inspiration born of desperation, he points the gushing stream of arterial blood at the swordsman's face and eyes. Hayl sees his opponent flinch. He seizes the opportunity and slams his dirk to the hilt in the man's chest, punching up through the diaphragm and into the heart. He is oblivious to the cheers of the watching crowd, but he distinctly hears the rattling gasp as the man realizes he has been killed by a mere boy.

Hayl lets go of his dirk, drops to his knees and grips his wrist, trying to stop the bleeding as he looks around wildly for any other assailants.
The best first aid is to kill the man who's trying to kill you first! Otherwise, it's all sort of useless isn't it?
Who told him that? He can't remember.
 

He hears the sound of his monkey,
eek
ing frantically as the little creature scrambles down his arm and uses six of its eight tiny hands to squeeze the end of his wrist, slowing the flow to a trickle. His monkey is playing tourniquet with his left arm, so Hayl draws his .45 in his right hand. (To hell with his dirk! He's dropped it anyway...) He looks around for other attackers, and sees only his captain pulling a sword from someone's chest.
So fast?
he thinks.
It all seemed like it took forever.

Melville pivoted and saw only the departing backs of the surrounding crowd.
Good survival instincts,
he thought bemusedly.
The show's over so they're leaving before the cops arrive.
 

He saw Hayl on his knees with two dead bravos sprawled out in front of him. The captain hurried over, rapidly cleaning and sheathing his sword on a piece of shirt that one of his attackers no longer needed.

Hayl was looking around alertly, pistol in hand, his monkey
eek
ing frantically as it squeezed the bleeding stump where the boy's left hand should be.
Bloody hell! thought Melville. What happened to his hand? What a stupid question, Thomas, later.
 

Melville's monkey scampered over and picked up a bloody lump—Hayl's hand. Melville dropped to one knee, looking around at the tactical situation as he took the .45 from the boy and quickly placed it in the holster on Hayl's hip. Then he drew his own pistol and continued to "scan 360."

"Good job, son," he said huskily. "I think we need to get the hell out of Dodge. Quickly. Are you up to it?"

"Absolutely, Captain!" Hayl replied, and then his eyes rolled up into his head and he fell over in a faint.

"Damn," whispered Melville. "Damn."

A steady roar of gunfire was coming from the bar they had just left.
Fang
's first officer, marine lieutenant, and sailing master were still inside.
Think, Thomas. Think!
They should be able to take care of themselves. His priority was to get this boy to the hospital, then he could bring back help Fielder, Broadax, and Hans if need be. But he suspected it wouldn't be necessary. God help any fools who crossed swords with those three lunatics...

Fielder, Hans, and Broadax left the mismatched couple's cozy love nest and were heading down the steps into the bar. Then someone shouted, "There he is!" pointing up at the
Fang
's first officer.

"Oh, hell!" muttered Fielder, as a cluster of local talent drew their swords and headed toward the stairs.
Damn!
he gibbered to himself.
Ursula must have hired every bravo and sellsword on the planet! And to think, just a few hours ago she wasn't even in my clue bag, let alone my paranoia pocket!
 

"I think we should try to negotiate," said Fielder.

"The word 'negotiate' ain't in my vocab'lary," snarled Broadax.

"Too many syllables?" asked Fielder innocently.

Her eyes crossed as she considered the word "syllables" and then she responded distractedly, "It don't matter why, the important thing is, it ain't in there. So here's the plan, I'll rush 'em, an' yew two pick off the stragglers."

"Oh, goodie," said Fielder. "Looks like you've got it all worked out."

"Yeah," she replied with an evil grin. "Except fer the part where we don't git kilt!"

"Don't!" said Fielder. "Don't even think about it!"

"I never do," replied Broadax as she charged down the stairs and into the mass of swordsmen who were gathering in front of her, screaming, "Jump on my ax while ye can, fools,
I
won't be so gentle!"

Hans and Fielder promptly drew their .45s and began to provide a thundering blast of covering fire for Broadax.

"She always hogs the bad guys," said Hans apologetically between shots. "She's jist selfish that way. But I figger she needs 'em more'n I do."

Fielder wasn't concerned about Broadax
or
Hans. He figured the deranged dwarf and her unbalanced boyfriend could take care of themselves. It was the bad guys who stepped back and drew their pistols who worried him. And he
liked
shooting people who worried him.

From the stairs Hans and Fielder had a good field of fire, but they were also exposed, so they blasted away at their foes as rapidly as they could while their monkeys
eek
ed plaintively and blocked bullets furiously. They automatically divided up the room. Fielder, standing on the left, took the left half; while Hans worked the right side.

Broadax slices through the mob, her ax flying in great gouts of blood and gore while her monkey blocks blows and screeches triumphantly from atop her helmet. One of her opponents ("victims" might be a more accurate term) barely deflects a swipe of her ax, losing his sword in the process. He isn't smart enough to quit while he's ahead, and as she sweeps past him he hits her from behind with a chair. Her monkey ducks amidst a loud
"
Goongg!"
and an explosion of splinters as the chair smashes into her helmet, but otherwise it had absolutely no effect.
 

After a brief pause the miscreant foolishly begins to smack her about the ears with the bits that are still in his hands—which her monkey ignores as it stays atop her helmet and concentrates on blocking more lethal blows.
This
gets her attention, and she lashes back with one foot.
 

"Owww! That had some salt on it," calls Hans admiringly from the stairs, where he and Fielder continue to systematically pick off anyone who displays a firearm. "'At'll teach 'im, sweety. Nuthin' but a bloody smear where 'is weddin' tackle ought ta be!"

The gunshots stop, and Broadax stands atop a heap of her dead, dismembered, and disemboweled foes. She and her monkey are drenched in crimson gore. Her uniform is torn to ribbons and her blood-soaked chainmail "lingerie" glistens like rubies in the flickering lamplight. The drifting gunsmoke joins with the stogie fumes that she and her monkey are happily emitting, and the coals of their two cigars glow like demon's eyes in the dim light.

"Huh!" she says, looking around triumphantly, "I guess 'ats all of 'em." The moans of the wounded indicate that anyone who
isn't
dead is in no condition to disagree, or to do
anything
except lie there and bleed, which is fine with her.
 

Then shots crack out from a new, unseen quarter. Broadax points her little "playtoy" upward and pulls the trigger, letting loose a roar and a gout of flame that would do a small dragon proud, pulverizing the lamp that hangs immediately above her.

Broadax is extraordinarily pleased with these results. This is the first time she has ever actually
hit
what she's aiming at in combat! Her voice calls out from the sudden darkness. "Hot damn! I like that! So didja see who's shootin' at us?"
 

"Well I'm pretty sure it wasn't that lamp, damnit!" says Fielder. "Now I can't see a
thing
."
 

"An' neither can they," she answers, as debris from the ruined ceiling rains down, bouncing off her helmet as her monkey hunkers down beneath her chin. "But they prob'ly can hear yer snivelin'! An' ye shoulda been keepin' one eye shut, ta build yer night vision."

"I would! If I'd of known you were gonna shoot out the damned light! That's a gaslight, you know," adds Fielder, petulantly. "You could have set this whole place on fire!"

"Nah, they gots autermatic shutoff valves when the pressure blows. Basic Dwarrowdelf mine technology. Now quit yer bitchin' an' look fer the bad guy!" concludes Broadax with a snarl.

Then there is another burst of fire in their direction, and in the gloom Fielder and Hans can spot their opponent's muzzle flashes. Immediately they send several rounds of very accurate fire in return. This results in a groan, the thud of a pistol hitting the ground, followed closely by the thump of a body. All of which is taken as a good indication that the miscreant had decelerated some slugs.

"Haha! At'll learn them vacuum-suckers!" says old Hans, thumping Fielder on the back. Hans is the kind of man who turns into seasoned hardwood with age, and it feels to Fielder like he's being smacked with a table leg.

"Yep," says Broadax. "Blud flies win yer havin' fun!"

As they headed out the door Fielder commented wryly, "Well, that's another dive can't go back to."

"Why not?" replied Broadax, sincerely perplexed. "We won, didn't we?" She jubilantly flipped a twenty dollar gold piece on the bar as they went past and said to the two frightened eyes that had been peering out at the floorshow, "Barkeep! A round fer the house. Whiskey fer you, an' beer fer all my li'l friends on the floor back there!"

* * *

When the gunsmoke settles,
we'll sing a victory tune,
And we'll all meet back,
at the local saloon!
And we'll raise up our glasses,
against evil forces,
Singing, "Whiskey for my men,
beer for my horses!"
 

* * *
 

Fielder, Hans, and Broadax moved hastily through the small foyer (the bouncer being conspicuously absent ever since Broadax had administered her etiquette lesson) and out of the tavern to see Melville on one knee with pistol in hand, protecting Hayl and facing the saloon door, while scanning in all directions. The captain's monkey held a bloody lump in one paw and brandished a belaying pin with a couple of others. Hayl's monkey clung tightly to his little master's wrist, acting as a tourniquet.

"Well, hell," stormed Broadax, looking at the corpses. "Looks likes yew had yer dance without us."

Fielder pulled out his .45 and scanned 360. It might not be much use at the moment, but it damned sure felt nice in his hand.

"Over a dozen of them attacked us in the bar, Captain," said Fielder, as he completed his scan. "They've been shown the error of their ways," he added dryly."

There was no response from Melville.

"Captain?" Fielder ventured as he prodded the still bleeding body of a dead swordsman with his foot. He was pleased to note that their foes here were all suffering from a severe and permanent case of dead.

Melville looked him in the eye. His face was expressionless, but the rage in his eyes was chilling. "Daniel."

"You okay?"

"Hayl's hurt," replied Melville. "I'm fine."

His eyes pivoted to Hans. "Mr. Hans, you and Lt. Broadax take Hayl to the naval hospital asap. Lt. Fielder and I will recover Elphinstone, Theo, and Asquith, then return to the Pier. All
Fang
s are to return to Ship. Send parties to recover anyone who doesn't return on their own. Clear?" he snapped.