The Guns of Two-Space (75 page)

Young Hayl had been pushed to the limits of his endurance. He tried to be everywhere, encouraging, exhorting, assisting, directing, and allocating resources for his guns. His new arm sent a constant message of support and reassurance from the
Fang
, and his monkey's belaying pin had blocked a dozen deadly splinters.

One of his 12-pounders, Bad Ju-Ju, had been upended by a direct hit, killing or wounding half the gun crew. He had reassigned the survivors and kept the guns firing. It became an obsession with him. The guns must be fed. They must keep firing! They could not stop. They must not stop.

The air shook with each crash of
Fang
's guns as she gave far more than she received, and her guns, her vicious, feral guns screamed out their hate and wrath.
"Cha-DOOM!!"
And a cannon sprang back inboard where it was caught by its tackle. The sweat-soaked crew reached for fresh fodder to feed their guns, rammed two balls down its throat, and then ran the heavy cannon back out with a squeal like dying hogs.

"Cha-DOOM!!"
"Cha-DOOM!!"
The guns pounded like a great, thundering heartbeat, and Hayl knew that if that heart stopped beating, the Ship, and everyone aboard her, would stop living.

The young, one-armed middie felt shocked, stunned, and amazed when the captain gave the command command and the redside guns finally stopped. It was almost as if his own heart had ceased beating.

But they still had the greenside battery to feed and fire. He redirected dazed crewmen, pushing and shoving them to assist the exhausted greenside gunners. And the beat went on...

HewhocommandstheFleet pulled his mangled foreclaw out of his mouth and watched with satisfaction as one whole side of the hated enemy Ship finally fell silent. It was working! The Royalslayer's sluggish Hivemind was finally turned toward repelling the boarders! He gathered himself to order a mass attack on that side when he felt the sudden confusion of theFleet's Hivemind.

He whipped his head around, trying to pinpoint the source... and finally saw them! "Ships!" he cried. "The fleet from the Pier is here! How? How?"

The attendants around him groveled and the whole Fleet's Hivemind came to a halt as he snatched up an eager attendant, bit its head off, and sucked its brains out. The little Crab's final conscious act was a cry of blissful joy.

Under stress, and in the absence of Royalty, the neural matter from his attendants would go to the admiral's brain and he could be transformed to Royal status, with true Royal command abilities.

But, damn, he was quickly running out of attendants!

And the soldiers' skulls were too damned thick to suck their brains out...

He started to give orders to save his fleet, then stopped, wondering why his voice was muffled. Blast! He had his foreclaw in his mouth again. The urge to devour another attendant was overwhelming, and there were several juicy specimens gathered round, eagerly bobbing their heads up to have their brains consumed. But he had to give orders first!

"Retreat!Runaway!Run!Run!" he cried aloud, throwing his claws out frantically and flinging an attendant into two-space with a last wail of confused despair. HewhocommandstheFleet was also sending the same signal, to the best of his limited ability, at all empathic, telepathic and gestalt levels.

"Quick, signal the retreat!" he called out to Hewhosendsthesignals. HewhocommandstheFleet ripped an arm off of the signal officer and began to beat him with it as the hapless Crab raised the signal flags up the halyard.

Then the enemy fleet opened fire.

"Commence firing as the targets come to bear!" ordered the admiral.

He watched with intense satisfaction as the
Asimov's
broadside rang out from bow to stern, ripping out close-range blasts from their double-shotted cannon, smashing the Crab boats in crushing volleys of 12-pound balls. The gun crews reloaded with a will, returning the guns to battery to deliver their message of vengeance to the next lucky Crabs in line. As each Ship cleared the
Fang
, they commenced to fire in turn, smashing swathes of the Crab's Ships from two-space.

"Damn, I love it when a plan comes together," said Middlemuss to his chief of staff. "Especially one thrown together on a wing and a prayer like this one."

Captain Stockard replied thoughtfully, "I'd have to say that this plan relied a lot on Captain Melville giving us time to get out here. Seems like a lot of responsibility to heap on one young man's head at the last minute."

Middlemuss sighed. "Yes, it is. But
he's
the one who did the heaping. And I could tell from his poker that he plays one
hell
of a bluff. Damned glad I am that he played this bluff, too. Without him getting underway and taking out the attackers at the Pier and then distracting this fleet... Well, without him there wouldn't
be
a fleet."

"Aye, sir," Stockard replied. "Aye."

The Crab fleet began to dissolve like sugar in hot water. Between the pounding guns of the fleet and the broadsides of the
Fang
, their will to fight had been thoroughly shattered. They still outnumbered the Westerness Fleet, but with their courage—and their royalty!—gone, the remains of the Crab fleet started to run for the northern horizon.

Their guns were all mounted at the bow, which meant that they were turning their unarmed sterns to the bow chasers of their very irate pursuers. And while the Crab Ships were very fast, they weren't fast enough to escape unscathed—nowhere near fast enough.

For a stern chase is a long chase, and a faster Ship being pursued by a slower Ship can be in range for quite a long time. As the enemy fleet learned to their sorrow.

"Jarvis," said Broadax, "load up one o' them swivels and train it on the prisoners. If they try ta retake the Ship, ye know what ta do!"

He nodded and moved to a swivel gun mounted on the rail of the captured Crab Ship. Lance Corporal Jarvis was a right smart young lad, and Broadax was confident he could figure out how to make the thing work.

"Uh, sir," Broadax called over to Melville, "they's given up. Or at least they's stopped fightin'. An' yer right, Cap'n, they been studyin' us. Damnme if'n they don't talk our lingo! Sort o'. But they say they can only surrender ta royalty!"

Melville had come to the lower side to assess the damage on this half of his Ship. He and Fielder stood on the lower quarterdeck, watching the rout of the Crab fleet with subdued humor. The
Fang
was still intact, so to speak. She had taken damage. Terrible damage. And it hurt to even consider the butcher's bill, but she could still fight.

"Royalty?" said Melville. "Huh... Well... um, Lt. Fielder is a baronet. Mr. Fielder, the Crabs say they can only surrender to royalty. Go across and sort the matter out, please. There's a good fellow."

Not knowing what else to do, Melville then went back to the business of clearing the Ship's damage and making her ready for further action. It looked like the battle was over, but you never knew.

One thing warrior science had learned (and paid the price in blood to do so) was that if you relaxed after a battle, the price your body demanded was complete and utter exhaustion. That is why Napoleon had said, "The moment of greatest vulnerability is the instant immediately after victory." The best time to counterattack is after the enemy has won: when they let down their guard and were all suffering from the physiological backlash that came after battle.

Men were being carried below, to meet the tender mercies of Lady Elphinstone and her mates, sawing, cutting and stitching endlessly. Others were being dragged to the side, limp and emotionless, to await the sailmaker and his mates, who would sew them into their hammocks for the final journey.

Some of the wounded were moved to the other side, away from the dead, chatting quietly and watching the remaining hands at work with professional interest. Great masses of fallen cordage, shredded canvas, shattered wood, and a dismounted gun were strewn about. Men picked their way amongst it like stunned survivors of a Shipwreck.

To counter this post-combat letdown, Melville knew to keep the men busy. Keep them occupied doing the urgent tasks necessary to fight again if need be. Resupplying the ammunition for the guns, caring for the wounded, clearing away the damage, making repairs to the Ship's rigging—anything and everything that must be done if the Ship was to survive.

Melville stood on the upper quarterdeck and watched his crew scramble to repair the damage. Men and Sylvan were clambering aloft to splice severed lines, while the sound of pounding coming up through the deck told him that the carpenter and his mates were repairing damage to the hull.

The captain jerked in surprise as Thad Brun, one of the
Fang
's corpsmen, put a hand on his shoulder.

"Cap'n, you're gonna have ta go ta th' sick bay fer some o' these, but I'm gonna take out a couple o' t' worst fer now!"

Melville looked at him in surprise. "What are you talking about?"

"T' splinters, Cap'n. Ya didn't catch any bigguns, but 't looks like ya walked tru a cactus."

Melville stared at him, then looked down at his coat. His right side had a veritable forest of toothpick-sized splinters from his hips to mid chest. At first he thought none had penetrated until he realized the sodden feeling on his side was not sweat... and the damned things burned!

"Oh, hell," he said wearily, "not another session in the body shop."

"Naw," replied Doc Brun as he carefully worked his hand between the coat and his side and then suddenly lifted it clear of the skin to the accompaniment of what felt like a host of fire ants suddenly taking bites of his skin—and in unison, at that!

"Urrrk!" was about all Melville could manage as he rose to tiptoe.

"Eep!" said his monkey cheerfully. It joined Boye and the dog's monkey in craning their necks to observe the process with clinical interest.

"And
why
didn't you block those?" Melville asked his monkey accusingly.

The little creature held up a tattered, scarred and bullet-pocked belaying pin, shrugging innocently and expressively, as if to say,
And just how in the hell was I supposed to have blocked them all?
 

"Yep," continued Doc Brun, oblivious to the captain's discomfort. "Nuttin' too serious here, jes' need a bit o' cleanin' out. But I think I'd take that coat off, 'twere I you. It's gots ta feel like a pincushion in there!"

"Thanks, I hadn't noticed!" retorted Melville. "And, Doc, have I mentioned lately that your bedside manner really sucks?"

"Yup, been tole that a'fore. Be glad ol' Doc Etzen didn't treatja, Cap'n. He's not near as gentle as me. Gots ta get back ta work. Yer okay fer now, skipper." And Brun picked up his equipment bag and headed for the next victim.

McAndrews and his monkey prepared the captain a mug of tea and then took his jacket, tut-tuting quietly as he and his monkey sadly examined the ruined garment. "That was yer best dress coat, too. Straight from the party to the battle," muttered the steward. "You
coulda
taken time to change first..."

Fielder was wide-eyed with amazement, an amazement that was tinged with considerable disgust and fear. But he hopped down from
Fang
's lowerside stern to the Crab Ship's bow and strode to their lower quarterdeck.

"What the hell is going on here," he asked the befuddled Broadax.

"areyouRoyalty?" chittered a little alien, as it waved its eye stalks, feelers, and front pinchers in his direction. "areyouNobleblood?" It sounded like a hyperglycemic child with a mouthful of marbles.

"Yes!" said Fielder arrogantly.

Through the Moss of their Ship the Crabs sensed the truth of Fielder's statement. "Royalty!Nobility!Royalty!" they cried, scuttling around him, tugging at his cuffs.

"Get back, you scum! Get back, I say!" spat Fielder as he sent them flying with kicks of his feet. But still they gathered around in ecstasy at the very idea of meeting true royalty. In horrified panic Fielder kicked one small Crab and stomped another of the groveling creatures, crunching them both into ichorous globs.

"Oh mah gawd we're dead now," said Broadax as she looked at the sudden swarm of Crabs all around them. "Git ready to sing yer death songs boys, Mr. Congeniality here 'as killed us all!" Then, with true dismay in her voice she added, "By the Lady, I can't believe I'm goin' to quaff ale in the hall of my ancestors, an' the only honor guard I can take down with me is a bunch of stinkin' overgrown piss ants!"

"yesyes!" cried the little creatures in ecstasy. "itisRoyalty! wearescum! wearescumtoher! shecrushesusbeneathherfeet! isproofofRoyalty!"

Then they pursued the panic-stricken Fielder across the quarterdeck with renewed vigor, crying, "crush
me
!crush
me
!"

Fielder was trapped in a corner, so he readily obliged them, still shouting, "Get back! Get back!" as the Crabs crunched beneath his feet.

One of the Crab officers, significantly bigger than the others, interceded. He started pushing the royalty smitten Crab crew out of the way, enlisting some help from a few of his crabby subordinates.

Finally they pushed back the infatuated tide, and the Crab officer approached the terrified Fielder.

"ihavekeptthemback!" it chittered, turning its eye stalks and feelers up to him. "ihaveservedyouwell!"

"Yes, yes, well done" said Fielder.

"nowcrushmeplease! crushme! chrushmeplease!"

"No! You are unworthy! You must take command of this vessel. Obey every order from our Ship. Obey every one of our crewman who is assigned to this Ship. If you serve us well in battle, I will come crush you as a reward, and place someone else in charge."

The Crab officer trembled in such ecstasy that his appendages rattled together. "yesyes! iwillserveyou!"

"Yes. Good. Be sure that you do." Then Fielder departed by the same route he arrived, and the Crab officer called after him.

"yes!yes! mayyouhavemanyyoung! mayyoureggsacksburst!"

Broadax and her marines simply looked on in openmouthed wonder. The Dwarrowdelf race had a strong meritocratic streak in them. Their leaders were often hereditary, but only if they proved themselves worthy. So it was that Broadax could speak with a passionate sincerity that most of the men of Westerness could not understand when she concluded, with wonder and disgust, "Gawddamn royalty. They're nothin' but stiff, starched, prong heads anyways!"