The Guns of Two-Space (70 page)

This is the real world,
Melville told himself.
It is not some novel, where the characters you really love never die. Sometimes the wrong people die.
Like Mr. Tibbits, the gentle, beloved old carpenter.

The loss of Tibbits and the maiming of young Hayl had scarred Melville's soul. He could no longer depend upon denial and ignorance to protect him from the horror of combat.

Maybe it was part of his maturing process as a warrior. Just another hurdle to overcome. But he could no longer pretend that the good guys, the ones you loved, could not die.
We Could Die!
That was the terrible, unpredictable actuality of real combat.
Remember this the next time you think about going into battle
, he told himself bitterly.

God above knew it wasn't fair. One Ship against all of these bloody bastards,
whoever
the hell they were. His men, his Ship, his guns against this bloody fleet that covered the horizon to the north of him.

You expected unfairness in life. Life is hard. Then you die. But this went beyond that. He felt his mortality. He sensed his impending death. They were going to die. They were
all
going to die! He felt overwhelmed with despair as he looked at these men and prepared to give them the orders that would lead them to their doom.

His knees felt weak and the mug of tea in his hand begin to shake slightly. All was gone. Hope? Gone. Future? Gone.

No!

I am Thomas Melville, Master and Commander of
Her Majesty's Ship, the Fang
, and I refuse to accept it!
He drew a deep combat breath and felt
Fang
's ferocity seeping into his soul.
I am
Fang
! I am her mighty guns! I am her crew! And we refuse to accept it!
 

As a wise man once wrote, "Life isn't fair. It's just fairer than death."

"Shipmates," he began, taking a calm, steady sip from his tea as his dog sat quietly beside him, "we have a bit of a challenge in front of us. You have heard by now that the Ships we just destroyed were not alone, but rather the vanguard of a vast fleet."

He took a breath, let it out slowly, and took another sip of tea. "To be honest, I haven't a clue how many of them there are. They all seem to be the same type of small Ship with glowing white sails. But there are, as Dillsvon just told me, a 'buttload' of them."

There were a few strained chuckles from the officers as they absorbed his words.

"It appears that the fleet will be delayed in getting underway. They will have to man the surviving Ships, tow the badly damaged ones out of the way, and then form up in line of battle. Our job is obvious. Delay the enemy fleet until Rear Admiral Middlemuss gets the Navy out and can engage and destroy them."

Fielder asked, in a tone that was completely devoid of his usual sarcasm, "Sir, have you any idea how to delay this 'buttload' of Ships without getting the
Fang
's—and our—butts shot completely off?"

"Actually, Daniel, I do," he said with a small smile. "Or at least a method of giving our fleet time enough to get underway. I hope it will be sufficient to keep us intact, but it's going to be close.

"I had the signalman hoist the flags for 'enemy in sight' and 'Intend to engage,'" Melville continued. "I reported the number of Ships to be 'greater than one hundred.' Which," he added bemusedly, "is the most that our code book had for a signal for enemy fleets. It would appear that the people who made up our signal books suffered from a dearth of imagination.

"My plan is to act like we are damaged and running from the fray here at the Piers. We will appear to be easy prey. Somebody that they will want to gobble up before they continue on to the bottled up, besieged, and thoroughly smashed fleet they expect to find Pierside.

"My only concern is that the Crabs who just got away may know that we're not that hurt. But I'm betting they'll have trouble telling all our Ships apart, or maybe they'll think that the ones we sunk hurt us when they weren't watching. If they
don't
take the bait, we'll find some way to get their attention.

"Mr. Hans will take charge of strewing debris, spare spars, and other objects about, making it appear as if we have taken serious damage. Furl our sails and hang some old rotten canvas, and tear them up good so that they look battle-damaged. We have cause to believe that they can read our signal flags, so we'll limp along and appear awfully easy to spank while we send deliberately snide, snotty, and nasty flag messages to the enemy. Mr. Fielder can use his imagination for that one, I believe." The officers chuckled briefly and he continued the briefing with a renewed sense of confidence.

This might work. Dammit, it might just work! Keep telling yourself that, Thomas. We don't have to fight them all. We just have to delay them. Give the Crabs a good bloody nose, and hold out until the rest of the fleet can join us.

"Let us
provoke
them. They are alien, but I'm betting they are predators, and it is a universal truism that every predator cannot help but be tempted by the wounded-duck routine. I want us to look like a frigate that is barely holding herself together—an easy target—as we go crawling out to escape the destruction that they think is happening here.

"And when they see us, why then we'll do what would come naturally to a Ship so damaged. We'll attempt to run away, at the same crawling pace." He grinned again, but this time it was more a flash of predator's fangs than a true smile. "When we have them trailing us, looking for a prize... Well, then we unfurl our real sails, throw overboard anything that hinders us,
and we fight!
"

"Eep!" echoed Melville's monkey. The other monkeys and their humans all nodded in agreement.

"It'll be a running fight," continued Melville. "A stern chase. And a stern chase is a long chase, so we'll have lots of time to share things with them. Little things like 24-pound cannonballs to make their lives interesting. Then we'll circle back here and let the rest of the fleet have some of the fun. After all, we wouldn't want them to think that we're too greedy to share now, would we?"

From their duty stations on the upperside gundeck and the rigging, the
Fang
's sailors and marines were watching the officers on the upper quarterdeck. As they heard the chuckles rising from their leaders they wondered what in the
hell
could be so damned funny at a time like this.

Melville looked over the greenside railing at the multitude of small Ships approaching the Pier. The enemy fleet had closed enough that the glowing sails could be seen from the main deck now, and they looked like a vast, white wildfire that spread across the horizon.

Six down, and only a thousand or so to go, eh?
the captain mused as he stared out at the small craft.
Should make for an exciting morning, shouldn't it?
 

"
Damn
there's a lot of 'em!" Melville said to the two buckskin-clad rangers who were standing with their rifled muskets at the quarterdeck rail. "How'd that joke of yours go, Josiah? First Captain Bravo had one ship attack him, and then four, and now..."

"Yep, sir," Westminster drawled with a grin. "It's definitely brown pants time."

"Ha!" replied his captain, mirroring the ranger's grin. "We'll hold that in reserve. I've got a few other tricks I want to try first.

"Mr. Hans," Melville continued. "Let's bend on sail for speed—or at least as much speed as we can get from that ratty canvas. You did a great job of making it look battle damaged. I want to come left three points to the greenside, so that we're aimed at their left flank, the far right edge of their formation as we face it. My intent is to open fire as we come into maximum range and draw them away from the port. That should give our Ships time to come out and join us."

"Assuming that they do," muttered Midshipman Hayl, the captain of the upper redside battery, who was standing on the maindeck directly below Melville.

"No, Mr. Hayl, you do them a disservice," Melville rebuked him gently. "They may not have our experience at war, but they are men of Her Majesty's Navy. They
will
come out to play with us."

I have no doubt they will come, eventually
, Melville thought grimly.
But will they come in time to give us succor—or to give us last rites?
 

Cuthbert Asquith XVI stood near the lowerside bow looking at the vast swarm of sails coming toward them. The sight was so amazing that it took a moment for him to shift from awe to fear and despair. A veritable tidal wave of beautiful luminous sails over lovely little white Ships was coming at them. And all of them crewed by some kind of overgrown crab that wanted revenge for every seafood buffet he had ever enjoyed. Sometimes the world made absolutely no sense at all.

"Daniel, if we've never had contact with these 'Crabs,' then why the hell are they trying to kill us? It just doesn't seem logical!"

Fielder looked out over the greenside at the approaching horde. He sighed and said, "Damned if I know, Bert. I've never even
heard
of them until that Dr. Myriad... uh... Forays... whatever his name is. Until he mentioned that they were a legend or myth out here in the far rift. They should've stayed mythical."

"Somehow I don't think my pistols are going to do much good here, Daniel," Asquith said quietly.

A glint from one of the leading Ships drew the eye to a cannonball in flight toward the
Fang
.

"Hmmm. Good reach on that one," observed Fielder. "From the range on that cannon, and from everything we've seen so far, it appears to be something bigger than a 12-pounder and smaller than a 24-pounder. Based on the size of the Crab Ships I'd say that in my professional judgment it's probably around an 18-pounder."

"Is that bad?" Asquith asked in horrified fascination.

"Well, yeah. It sure isn't
good
news that everybody in the galaxy seems to have bigger guns than us. The Guldur have those damned 24-pounders, and now these Crab bastards have 18-pounders. And remember, there's two of them in each of those little gunboats, one on the upperside and on the lowerside. So, it's definitely bad news if they hit us. An 18-pounder on our hull wouldn't do quite as much damage as the 24-pounders the Guldur were hitting us with, but they've got one
hell
of a lot more of them and it really isn't going to be pretty." Fielder took a bit of morbid satisfaction from watching Asquith's face pale as the significance hit home.

"Oh," he replied in a small voice. He paused for a moment then continued. "Any suggestions for anything I can do to help, Daniel?"

Fielder looked at him in surprise.

Asquith looked back with what he probably imagined was a ferocious expression, but instead looked more like the snarl of a dyspeptic terrier.

"To be honest, Bert, with only one eye, you wouldn't be worth anything with a sword—no depth perception. And unless you're a psychotic berserker like our Mistress Broadax, an ax isn't one of the best choices for you. On the other hand, I think that you and your monkey have more than proven yourselves as pistoleers, so if you would care to remain here as a reserve with me if we are boarded?"

Asquith smiled at him gratefully. "Thank you, Daniel. I'd be honored to stay with you as a reserve." His monkey seconded him with a fierce "Eek!" as it brandished its belaying pin and ramrod.

"'Ere, now," came a gravelly voice from behind them as Broadax and her monkey came forward from inspecting her marines. "I 'eard dat!"

Fielder paled and shook his head. "Never fails with her, does it?" he whispered to Asquith.

Broadax continued with what she apparently thought was a grin, but came across as a gaping fissure in a furry mask wreathed in the ever-present cloud of toxic smoke. "'Psychotic berserker,' eh?! I
likes
that 'un. Jist remember now, if'n we gits a chance we gots ta board a few of 'em. I needs sum more ax practice, ye know! Girl's gotta keep her berserkin' up, ye know!" As she passed she gave Fielder a friendly, gentle tap as far up on his back as she could reach, which felt a lot like being rabbit-punched.

Asquith and Fielder watched as she headed to the upperside to check on the marines stationed there.

Asquith said thoughtfully, "Daniel, correct me if I'm wrong, but I thought that you two were, well, not enemies... but perhaps, unfriends?"

The first officer shook his head in confusion. "Well, I sort of thought so too. Brother Theo and I were talking about it with Hans, and near as we can figure out, I keep getting her into fights and she
really
likes that. And somehow, what I'm saying doesn't seem to be what she's hearing." He shook his head in confusion, "Or maybe it's what I'm saying doesn't come across to her in the way that others hear it."

Fielder sighed and continued. "Although I've got to admit that while she's as ugly as homemade sin and will never be a Weber—one of those decorative Amazon heroines in some of the classic science-fiction writing—she sure as hell is useful in a fight. Pound for pound I'd rather have that maniac on my side in a fight, than damned near anyone else I can name. So long as she doesn't have a gun. Lord, she has to be the universe's worst with a gun."

Asquith looked up at a sound, a whispery
wheet
ing noise he had heard during their last battle. A sound that sent shivers down his spine.

"Ah, looks like the waiting is over, Bert! That was one of their balls coming through into our air bubble. That means we should be able to start hitting
them
now."

Asquith considered for a second. "Daniel, if we can hit them, doesn't that mean that they'll soon be able to hit us?"

Fielder gave him a grim smile. "Yep. Makes life kind of exciting, now doesn't it?"

Barlet and Melville were standing near Midshipman Ellis Palmer, who was commanding the upper greenside battery. Sudden Death had been shifted from the bow to its position in the broadside battery, to get maximum firepower on the greenside. Each cannon was loaded with a single roundshot. The gun captains had done their best to find the smoothest, roundest balls for this first shot. This was going to be long-range gunnery, and for that they wanted the best possible fodder for their cannons.