The Guns of Two-Space

by Dave Grossman

  "Who can tell? They're always so glooomy about everything." The first officer winced as he watched another marine bounce out of the cloud of smoke and land on the deck. "Damned good thing those boys have been taught how to fall, or Lady Elphinstone and Mrs. Vodi would be even busier than they're going to be."

  "I don't think Lt. Broadax would be so incautious as to deprive the Ship of the services of any of her marines." Another marine bounced out to lie groaning on the deck before crawling to the side. "At least I hope not," Melville murmured as his monkey uttered a worried "Eep!"

  The approach to Lenoria's Pier was normal. The Fang and the Pier made their respective cannon salutes, and as the Ship came into the dock, the anticipation began to peak.

  Melville had been especially glum as he and his crew ate their meal that morning. His two bodyguards, Ulrich and Grenoble, were standing at the rail with him as they picked at their breakfast.

  "It really is a good thing that we're coming into port," confided Melville to his two companions. "The Ship's stores are completely out of catsup and mustard. So that's Flavor Hider Mark I and Mark II out of action. All I had left was my personal bottle of hot sauce, and I used the last of that two days ago. With Flavor Hider Mark III out, I think I might starve. But, if you don't mind my asking, I notice that you've both got a bit of hot sauce left, and um, I wouldn't ordinarily ask, but since we're almost at port I wonder if one of you could share?"

  The deranged little coxswain and the hereditary Sylvan bodyguard looked at each other and nodded. For once they found something they could agree on.

  "Captain," began Grenoble, "We would take a bullet for thee—"

  "—But cha ain't gittink none o' our damned hot saucek!" said Ulrich.

  "In a word: aye," said Grenoble.

  "Damn straighkt!" concluded Ulrich.

  "I'm Spike! I taste like chicken!" added his parrotlet.

  Elsewhere aboard the Fang, Corporal Kobbsven was holding forth to the marines on a subject near and dear to his heart: food! "I knew dat Jones vas trubble as soon as I laid eyes in 'im. Neffer trust a skinny cook, boys! Ja, yew betcha! I mean if he won't even eat his own food... Yew need a gal with meat on her bones, like our plump old Roxy, for really good cooking! So I figgers as soon as we gets off da Ship, we can git to da Danske Heart Rest'rant, were dey got's lutefisk dat'll stick ta yer ribs. Ja, an' potatoes an' dose liddle green peas, and some lefse. Now dat's da food o' the gods, it is! I'm tellin' ya boys, dat's better an' sex it is!"

  Gunny Von Rito's disgusted response to this was, "If that's better than sex, let me tell you, you're not doing it right!"

  Dwakins piped up, "Hey, Corporal, wut's that lutefisk stuff yer talkin' about? Some sorta food? Somethin' edible?" Dwakins looked pathetically eager at the thought of food not prepared by Kaleb Jones.

  The gunny started laughing, and responded, "Dwakins, ya' idjit. Lutefisk is some dead, dried fish the old Vikings used to get and keep in lye. For some strange reason, certain people," and he shook his head at Kobbsven who was lost in a daydream of gustatory delights, "seem to think it's still edible. Come to think of it," he continued after a moment's thought, "compared to what we've been eating, this overgrown ox might be right!"

  All the Fang's hopes and prayers were dashed by the appearance of a dainty, smartly dressed lieutenant who appeared at the gangplank as soon as the Ship was moored. Luckily for his safety, he delivered his envelope to the captain and departed before anyone knew its content.

  "Restricted to the Pier and base?!" Fielder stormed. "Do they think we're a pariah Ship?" His monkey eeked plaintively, clearly in sympathy with its person.

  The conversation in the wardroom with Captain Melville was not a pleasant one, for anyone involved. Apparently the long arm of the Admiralty had managed to reach out to Lenoria in the form of a fast mail Ship that had gone out before them from Earth. The resultant orders sat on the table in front of Melville.

  "I don't think I would go quite that far, Daniel," Melville observed thoughtfully. "We are permitted access to the Pier and the Navy base on Lenoria. It's just that, according to the Admiralty, 'the skills and person of the sloop Fang are required urgently at your future ports of call. In the interest of speeding your departure, you are directed to restrict liberty to expedite your departure to these future ports of call...' And Lenoria's port admiral was quite, umm, direct in his interpretation, which also precludes us from taking anyone into the crew, or leaving anyone ashore. So I'd say we weren't being treated as a pariah... More a source of infection!"

  Brother Theo was aghast. "Sir, we are prohibited from taking on new crew members? But what about Kaleb Jones? A replacement, or assistant or something?"

  "Jones." Melville inhaled and exhaled slowly, shaking his head as he tried to take a sip of the sherry in front of him, which seemed to have evaporated from his wineglass. He turned to glare at his unrepentant monkey, who continued to clean the fur around its mouth.

  "It appears we are, in fact, stuck with him. On the other hand, Brother Theo, as our purser, I think it best you deal with the victuallers for the foodstuffs and not Jones. The least we can do is make it more difficult for him to inflict his culinary masterpieces on us!"

  "Don' worry, I got's faith in da boy," came a growl from Lt. Broadax, seconded by an "Eek" from her monkey and punctuated by dual clouds of smoke.

  Fielder muttered, "Your 'boy' is a demon right out of Dante's Inferno!

  "Now see the sharp-tailed beast

  that mounts the brink...

  Behold the beast

  that makes the whole world stink."

  Melville shook his head and continued, "Lt. Fielder, arrange for liberty parties, and make sure they know they are limited to the base and Pier only. Which means we need to assign someone to supervise the shore patrol. Someone sharp, wise to the ways of the sailor, and who is experienced enough to keep them relatively safe. Definitely not a midshipman!"

  All eyes swung involuntarily to Mr. Hans, who sputtered into his drink. "Aw, bugrit! Captain, we had a few plans, I mean..." and he trailed off. He looked at his inamorata, who just shrugged and proceeded to try and prove that her cigars should be declared toxic weapons based upon effect. They were both professionals, and could be counted on to deal with the situation appropriately.

  "Aye, sir," Hans replied disconsolately.

  Melville ignored the byplay as he left the wardroom muttering, "Plans?" Remembering Broadax's words about her shopping excursion on Earth, he shuddered and resolved not to ask. After all, they were liable to answer!

  The port visit was just barely long enough for the Ship's company to take care of urgent business. Cargo was bought and sold through port factors at a sufficient profit to keep Brother Theo happy. Asquith was able to sell one copy of his book and the rights for reproduction and distribution of said book to a local publisher. Fresh water was onloaded to keep the barrels full before their next voyage out to the stars. The sailors and marines looked longingly at the world outside the base fence, but they had to be content with visiting every restaurant and store on the base and Pier, and stuffing themselves with food that everyone agreed was downright delicious compared to their repasts of late.

  This stop also gave the crew members a chance to purchase books, magazines, paper, pencils, art materials, and supplies for various projects. Most importantly they were able to stock up on "gedunk" and "pogey bait"—old terms from ancient prehistory, translated from a long-forgotten language, which apparently meant "food to be taken aboard and hidden until needed for sanity."

  The Ship's officers were relatively understanding, permitting most of the foodstuffs to come aboard without objection. Except for Kobbsven's lutefisk. After their experiences with Jones' abominations, everyone was understandably suspicious of any unfamiliar food, and the lutefisk required intervention from Lady Elphinstone to explain that it was indeed a foodstuff and was edible by normal human beings. Seeing as it was Kobbsven bringing it aboard, Fielder was inclined to wonder at the "no
rmal" part of that statement. Didn't the man have a nose?!

  Among the duties required of the officers of any visiting Ship was the thankless task of "Officer of the Guard." To ease the work of the port authorities, the various Ships at the Pier were required to supply a lieutenant or warrant officer for a full 24-hour detail. This duty included inspecting the various checkpoints, gates, fortifications and cannons which protected the Pier; supervising the guards at the entrances of the base to ensure that prostitutes and thieves were kept in check; and visiting the groundside bars within the confines of the base, as well as supervising the shore patrol that helped with these tasks.

  While he was the Officer of the Guard, Hans was called to respond to a report of a disturbance at the "Club." The "disturbance" turned out to be almost seven feet tall and weighed at least three-hundred pounds.

  Normally, the arrival of the shore patrol and the Officer of the Guard had a quelling effect on the Club. Every man and woman there knew that they hadn't done anything, but in the face of authority they tended to search their consciences for any minor offense the Navy might not be willing to overlook.

  In this case, though, the smashed tables, groups of moaning sailors, and the overwhelming odor of that most terrible of sins—spilled beer—persuaded most of the attendees that they weren't on the menu for the night and they proceeded to hunker down and watch the show.

  Hans drew a beer from the bar and sat down looking at the man-mountain who stood before him. His shore patrol party took their cue from the old warrant and stood back with considerable trepidation.

  "Come on, old man," the disturbance yelled. "I can take you, your whole damned shore patrol, and anybody else 'at wants ta help!"

  Having been on both sides of such altercations in the past, Hans was more amused than anything else. The trick was to get the idiot out of there and into the lockup where he could sleep it off before they shipped him back to his Ship. Hopefully without getting his shore patrol hurt, or, well, even himself. Much as old Hans hated to admit it, these little dances were getting a bit tough on the bones. Especially considering the stress his sweety had been putting on them in recent months! He broke off his internal monologue as he took a deep pull of his beer.

  "No problem. Jist start swingin'," Hans said, sipping at his beer. "I'll catch up."

  The huge sailor gaped at him, a bit confused by Hans' response. The damned shore patrol was supposed to mix it up, not stand back and watch that old man, even if he did look more like a mobile chunk of oak, rawhide, and whipcord than a person.

  "Awww, come on. Wouldn't you like to try to paint just one wall with me? I ain't never seen no bosun or warrant as could take me!"

  "Weelll, maybe we can have a little fun," said Hans. "But ya must've already worked up a hell of a thirst, so let's have a beer or two first."

  The huge, drunken sailor could see nothing wrong with that suggestion, so he grabbed a pitcher of beer off the nearest table that was still standing, and drank it down in one long chug.

  "Damn!" said Hans. "If you can fight like you can drink, we've got our work cut out for us. Bet ya a dollar ya can't do that again."

  "Ha! You lose old man," replied the sailor, as he grabbed another pitcher and chugged it down.

  "Hot damn!" said Hans in wide-eyed wonder as he tossed a silver dollar on the table. "I guess I lose, but it was worth the price for the show. I do like a man who enjoys 'is beer. The problem is, ya look like a feller who's smart and strong. If we put ya in the brig, I'm bettin' you'd jist break right out again."

  "Damned right!" said the sailor, who was now swaying like a tall pine in a strong wind.

  "Jist as I thought," said Hans, looking up from his beer with a nod. "I'll bet ye're also an escape artist—a regular Houdini. Between yer brains an' yer brawn, there can't be much that'd hold ya."

  The giant sailor nodded and burped, then he decided this called for another beer, and he began to drain another pitcher.

  "Dammit," Hans continued, "if I had some chains, you could show us how strong ya really are. But all I've got is this puny set of handcuffs. I'd be willin' ta wager another dollar, jist ta see ya break out of 'em. Wadda ya think? Can ya do it?"

  "Yeah, sure!" said the sailor. "As long as you don't mind your jewelry gettin' busted up. See these scars on my wrists? They're proof that I've busted out of every set of handcuffs anyone ever tried to put on me!"

  Now Hans was beginning to get seriously concerned. "Okay, then, 'at raises the stakes. Can ya do it with the cuffs behind ya?"

  "Ha! You betcha!"

  "Okay! Finish yer beer an' turn around. This is somethin' I gotta see!"

  Once in the cuffs, the huge sailor puffed, pulled and jerked for several minutes. "Damn! These are really strong. I can't get out of 'em," he growled.

  "Are ya sure?" Hans asked.

  The sailor tried again, with muscles standing out in an amazing display of human anatomy. "Nope," he gasped. "I can't do it."

  "Be sure. I'm rootin' fer ya. Come on, give it one more try." Hans took another pull of his beer as he watched the huge sailor with interest. For a minute there he thought the ox might break out of them!

  "No, damnit!" he panted, dropping to his knees in exhaustion, "I can't!"

  "In that case," said Hans, picking up the silver dollar on the table, "yer under arrest."

  The shore patrol moved in to take custody of the baffled and exhausted sailor, while Hans reflected that old age and treachery would always win over youth and energy!

  Of course, a set of high quality Dwarrowdelf "bracelets" helped. Old Hans hummed happily to himself as he dwelt upon some of the other, more pleasant, and considerably more kinky applications that these particular "bracelets" had seen recently.

  Only two more hours ta go before my duty's up, thought Hans as he took a long, satisfying drink of his beer. An' my li'l angel's waitin' fer me in her room at the bachelor officer quarters. Gotta be sure ta get my cuffs back from this dummy after they git him in a cell an' 'e passes out. Heh! If they worked on my li'l sugar plum, there's no way that big oaf coulda busted 'em!

  The Fang was ready to sail, but her first officer was in a bit of a dither. The stores had been loaded, the sailors and marines had brought aboard their gedunk, pogey bait, and survival rations for the trip, along with paper and pencils for their journals and material for their projects, art and craftwork. Everything was ready for their departure—except Broadax! Where in hell was she?

  Melville came up to his first officer as he paced near the upper quarterdeck at the gangplank. "Are we prepared to get underway, Daniel?"

  Fielder turned to him and responded, "Well, sir, all the pre-underway checklists are done and complete, I've made a tour of all the berthing spaces, all the miscellaneous items the sailors and marines brought aboard are stowed, and the catered lunch we ordered for today is sitting in the mess. We even got our last crewman out of the brig. Seems Ranger Valandil was picked up for public urination."

  "Huh!" said Melville.

  "Like you said, sir, it's always the quiet ones. So we're prepared to depart, except for one minor detail. Lt. Broadax is missing."

  "Broadax?" Melville replied in surprise. "Any messages from her?"

  "One message from her via Corporal Petrico. She said she'd be aboard before we got underway and she had a surprise for us."

  "A surprise, eh? In that case we should know soon, because unless my eyes deceive me I see a smoke cloud in a gingham dress coming down the Pier."

  Fielder turned and saw what appeared to be a brightly covered fireplug emitting copious amounts of smoke, followed by a porter carrying boxes and bales of stuff behind her. He blinked once or twice and said, "Do you know, Captain, I do believe I have now seen everything. Lt. Broadax in a gingham dress... And what is that porter carrying for her?" he wondered aloud. His monkey chirped confusedly as well.

  Lt. Broadax reached the bottom of the gangway and snarled at the dapper lieutenant and his guards, who had been posted there by the p
ort authority to enforce the Fang's pariah status and ensure that they didn't take anyone into the crew, or leave anyone ashore. The conversation was... intense. Broadax communicated graphically, biographically, and autobiographically what she thought about her fellow lieutenant, in a manner that only a former senior NCO can truly master, with she and her monkey both blowing great clouds of toxic smoke in the process. The unfortunate lieutenant's squad of guards were clearly enjoying the situation, and the captain and crew of the Fang listened in intently from the rail. Her victim quickly desired nothing more than to get Broadax out of his hair and onto her Ship. Then she mounted the gangway with her porter following behind.

  "Hoo-yah!" she said with a salute. "I'm reportin' aboard, sir!" Somewhere behind her beard it looked like she had a sly smirk on her face as she leaned forward and whispered, "An' I gots a serprise fer ye! But I thinks it better waits 'til we's underway."

  As Melville looked down at her in confusion, he felt his monkey grab his ear and pull gently up, until he was looking at her porter. Or what appeared to be her porter at first glance, until he recognized the ugly, old, one-eyed face mangling an unlit cigar, with a little monkey head peeping out of the collar of her longshoreman's smock. It was Roxy, their old cook! How in the hell did Broadax find her? How did she get here? In any case, the staged last-minute arrival to get past the guard on the Pier explained a few things, the rest could wait until they cleared port.

  Melville said quietly, "Aye, I think you have a point here, Lieutenant." He continued loudly, "Lt. Fielder, let's get the Fang underway and where she belongs, a long way from here."

  "Aye, sir!"

  Melville looked at Broadax again. So, he thought, reaming out that poor lieutenant in public was just a smoke screen (literally and figuratively!) to get Roxy aboard. She has many roles, our Broadax. She is our Achilles, our berserker, our Amazon. She is a marine, a warrior, a hard-boiled leader. But perhaps her most remarkable persona is just being Broadax, on liberty, stuffing that body into a dress and letting her and Hans roam the streets of some poor, innocent, unsuspecting planet!