The Guns of Two-Space

by Dave Grossman

  What the hand dare sieze thy fire?

  "Tyger! Tyger!"

  William Blake.

  The Fangs were particularly happy to pick up many tins of small fish packed in oil, which were a special delicacy on Show Low.

  "Damn," said Broadax in wonder as she opened a can. "Them li'l fishies is crammed in as tight as... Well, damnme if they ain't packed tight as earthlings on public transportation. I hated ridin' in them ye know. They always smelled reel bad ta me."

  "Aye," replied Hans, reflecting on the fact that

  elevators and packed subways tended to smell different to a Dwarrordelf. "They's lots of 'em in there. An' any one of 'em beats the hell outa the culinary indignities of that damned cook o' yers."

  "Hey now!" said Broadax. "I likes 'is chow. I swear to ye, the angels dance on my tongue when I eats his cookin'! So jist remember, anyone lays one hand on that boy an' ye gots me ta answer to!"

  "Well, there is one good thing ya can say fer him!" said Hans with a grin.

  "Wat?" she asked suspiciously.

  "After eatin' Jones' food, our recent adventures on Show Low seem a lot less threatenin'!"

  In the midst of this happy chatter an exhausted Fielder leaned back in his chair and fell into a deep slumber, sleeping the sleep of a man with nothing on his conscience. Or a man with no conscience at all.

  Thus began their slow, placid journey through the distant deeps of two-space. They were bound for the Hero Cluster, one of the westernmost outposts of Westerness. The Far Rift was a vast ocean between the spiral arms of the galaxy, and the Hero Cluster was a lonely group of islands in the middle of that ocean.

  The routine of the Ship, the drills, the meals, and the daily tasks necessary to keep her functioning perfectly as a man-of-war were soothing and familiar to the crew. They had all been given the chance to relax and blow off some steam on Show Low, and the stories thereof were told and retold, gaining polish and glory—and frequently losing any relationship to reality!

  Once the Ship and crew had finished shaking down to their normal routine, Melville and Fielder started implementing a training schedule. This included daily drills, training for the crew in their areas of responsibility, cross-training in different work areas so that the Ship could continue to operate if people were injured or killed, damage control training, casualty control training, and practice and competitions to hone the skills of the crew.

  An outside observer might think that there was very little work aboard a two-space vessel. The sails rarely needed to be adjusted to catch the constant winds of two-space, and the weather never changed, so just what was there for these lazy sailors and marines to do? As one ranger put it, "Ah, the life of a sailor. They eat 'til they're tired. Then they sleep 'til they're hungry."

  What civilians didn't realize is that dealing with the effects of two-space required daily effort. Each of the simple tools and machines they carried with them had to be examined, measured, and if necessary, repaired daily.

  And while the sails and sheets did not need adjusting to catch the wind, they were also vulnerable to the deteriorating effects of two-space. This was minimized by using natural materials that had once been alive (and were therefore less subject to decay), but even they were affected over time. Thus the boatswain's mates and carpenters were kept busy checking and repairing the Ship's hull and rigging as well.

  Two-space firearms were largely immune to deterioration by the presence of their Keel charges, but the cannon carriages and ammunition had to be checked and rotated to minimize the effects.

  And then there were the people.

  While the Moss provided the air, light, and heat needed to support life, there is more to life than that!

  So Roxy and Kaleb were kept busy preparing healthy, toothsome, and nutritious meals. (Although there was considerable debate as to whether Kaleb Jones' meals should ever be called tasty, even with the vociferous praise of Lt. Broadax and the Guldur!). Since the entertainment and morale value of food was important to the crew, both groups of sailors tended to combine and good-naturedly chastise each other about the glop the others were eating. However, since Jones and Broadax had nothing anyone could identify as a sense of humor about their food, the conversations tended to be fairly subdued. The threat of Jones' ever-present pistol and Broadax's uncertain temperament kept the joking at a quiet, cautious level.

  To provide entertainment, Melville and Fielder initiated a schedule of competitions. There were the usual hornpipe, singing, and poetry contests. There was even a shadow puppet competition conducted in a cabin with all the luminous walls covered with sailcloth, and a light coming in from a hole in the bulkhead from an adjacent cabin. This was won, hands-down, by a shadow rendition of Macaulay's "Horatius at the Bridge" presented by Marine Bentley, ably assisted by his monkey using all eight limbs to represent both the bridge and the oncoming enemy host.

  But most of the competitions involved skills that had application to the Ship's performance in combat. Such as: fastest watch team to remove and replace a sail, quickest boat crew to launch a jollyboat or cutter, time to shift cargo from one part of the hull to another to balance out the trim, fastest cannon crew, and lots of drills and contests focused on proving who could win the bragging rights as the "best in the crew" at individual skills such as swordsmanship, pistolcraft, and rifle marksmanship.

  "I think that completes the training schedule, Daniel," Melville said with a sigh as he pushed away the stack of paper.

  "Pretty much, sir." Fielder took a sip of the captain's wine and stared at the goblet in thought. It was an excellent vintage, just purchased on Show Low and stored up for the journey. "But I think we need to take another look at the pistol match. Right now, it's planned as another bulls-eye competition, which isn't bad." He took another drink and swirled the liquid around, watching the glints of light reflect from it.

  "But?" Melville prompted.

  "Dammit," the first officer answered with a scowl, "I screwed up on Show Low. If it hadn't been for Ulrich showing up when he did it might have been a permanent mistake. I know I'm good with a pistol. Hell, there are only one or two people on the Fang who are as good as me, and on my best day I can beat anyone aboard." He grinned at his captain, silently daring him to contradict him.

  Melville laughed, not bothering to disagree. No matter what his other faults, Fielder was naturally talented with a pistol. And he worked hard to enhance that natural gift. Of course, Melville was confident that on a good day he could take his first officer. But he didn't really mind when Fielder had an occasional win. There was no shame in losing to a man who trained so hard, not when you knew that his skill might be keeping you alive someday! Having men who trained with you, encouraged you, teased you when you made a boneheaded mistake and cheered you when you did well: that was vital to making and keeping his Fangs such deadly competent warriors.

  "But I made a near fatal error," Fielder continued. "I had three targets, four if you count Ursula, even if she did make herself scarce when the fight started. Maybe more if Elphinstone had missed. But I just automatically used the Mozambique drill, two to the heart and one to the head, when I should have moved laterally while putting one quick bullet in each of those bastards and then gone back to double-tap them."

  "Okay, Daniel. So what do you want to do differently? More lectures and training on tactics in a gunfight?"

  Fielder considered for a moment, then drained his glass and poured both of them a bit more of the wine.

  "An excellent vintage, sir," commented Fielder in sincere appreciation as he took another sip.

  "Thank you, Daniel." Melville dutifully took a sip, but he was oblivious to the taste. This was yet another of his social failings, along with his inability to dance. He could hardly tell one wine from another if it weren't for the different colors. McAndrews had selected and purchased all the wine for his captain, but Melville would be damned if he'd let anyone know that.

  "Lectures and tactics training would definitely be useful
, sir," continued the first officer. "But I think we need to move to a more practical shooting competition. It was actually suggested by Ulrich, and I think the little psycho may actually have a good idea here. In two-space we're limited to our double-barreled pistols, but the same principles apply. Rapid reloads and engaging multiple targets are key to survival. So, in addition to lectures and practice, I suggest we shoot timed competitions: two guns per man, four rounds from each gun, eight rounds all together. That way we get them practicing rapid reloads for the match."

  "Okay, Daniel, but a lot of our people will be terribly slow at reloading, and maybe a bit unsafe. How do we get it all done in one Sunday afternoon?"

  "Well, in the early elimination rounds we'll do it without reloads, so we quickly identify the ones who need the most training. Then we'll keep reducing the time until we have it down to eight people who are the fastest. At the end we'll shoot off man-to-man, with reloads required, in a single elimination, until we figure out who's the fastest at shooting and reloading."

  Melville pondered this as they both sipped their wine.

  "I like it, Daniel. It will be new and entertaining, it sorts out the ones who need more training, it identifies some cadre to teach them, and eventually we can do it with everyone being required to reload. Best of all, it gives me bragging rights when I beat you."

  "Sure," Fielder replied with a confident smile. "And then Ulrich will win an elocution contest and Broadax will take first prize in a beauty contest."

  It was Sunday. First they had the time-honored ritual of captain's rounds. Then Brother Theo held a religious service from the upper quarterdeck. After the service would come the pistol match (which everyone was anticipating eagerly) so Theo kept it short.

  "During the early days of World War II, on Old Earth, the British Army was trapped on the coast of France in a place called Dunkirk. The situation was grim. They were outnumbered, overwhelmed, and defeated, trapped on a narrow strip of beach with their backs to the sea. Across the English Channel the British were desperately scrambling to prepare an evacuation fleet consisting of every scow and fishing boat available. 'Hold out!' England told her troops. 'We will rescue you!' The commander of the besieged British forces sent back a three-word answer: 'But if not...'"

  The assembled Fangs all nodded attentively. This was the kind of sermon they could sink their teeth into.

  "'But. If. Not!'" continued the monk dramatically. "These were the words of the three Hebrew children about to be thrown into the fiery furnace in the Book of Daniel. 'Our God shall preserve us,' they said, 'but if not,' He is still God. Shipmates, that British officer had faith, and he was communicating to a culture steeped in faith, who understood the deep meaning of a simple three-word message.

  "Shipmates, some of you think that we are forsaken by the Admiralty. Cursed and forlorn, banished to the farthest reaches of our star kingdom! Have faith. However bad it is, our God will preserve us. If we train, prepare, and persevere, He will show us a path home. But if not, He is still God and He has promised to preserve our souls!

  "Permit me to conclude with my favorite Psalm. A short little piece of ancient poetry called 'The Traveler's Psalm.'"

  The crew sat back to listen. Here were Words, the most ancient of words, to provide solace in times of trial.

  "I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills,

  From whence cometh my help?

  My help cometh from the Lord!

  "Behold! He will not suffer thy foot to slip.

  He that keepeth Israel

  shall neither slumber nor sleep.

  "The Lord is thy keeper,

  The Lord is thy shade upon they right hand.

  He shall not suffer the sun to smite thee by day,

  Nor the moon by night.

  "The Lord shall preserve thee from all evil!

  [How?!]

  He shall preserve thy soul!

  "The Lord shall preserve thy going out,

  and thy coming in;

  From this day forth,

  and even forever more.

  "What more could we ask?" concluded the monk. Then he nodded to the captain and stepped away from the rail.

  "Amen," said Melville, delighted as always with a padre who understood the virtue of a short sermon. "First officer, set up for the match!"

  "Brother," asked Midshipman Hayl quietly as they departed, "did they rescue those guys on the beach?"

  "Aye, verily," Theo replied distractedly as he prepared for the match. Then he looked over at the young middie, who was unconsciously rubbing the stump at the end of his arm, and the monk smiled. "It has always been referred to as the Miracle of Dunkirk. Every fishing boat and rinky-dink civilian pleasure craft that could float came across the English Channel that night in perfect weather, the clouds kept the German aircraft away, and the evacuation went flawlessly. But even if He didn't rescue their bodies, the greatest miracle is to preserve our sad, sorry souls. The Almighty does work miracles, little Cockroach, he just does it in His own peculiar way, in His own sweet time. Now, let's get on with the match, eh?" he concluded with a wink and a grin. "I have to teach some of these heathen a lesson in marksmanship!"

  Everyone aboard was excited by the idea of a practical pistol match. The practice targets were shot to bits and had to be replaced on almost every watch. The only people who were not required to shoot in the match were the rangers (Josiah Westminster and Aubrey Valandil) and Ulrich, who had volunteered to serve as judges.

  The rangers had nothing to prove when it came to marksmanship, and everyone knew that they would be competent and impartial. And having Ulrich as one of the judges helped to ensure that no one was going to argue over trivialities—it just wasn't safe!

  The first two elimination rounds were fairly straightforward. While firing one pistol and then the other was simple, doing it in the allotted time wasn't always so easy. It required either shooting one gun with the weak hand, or shifting pistols. Either method was allowed so long as safe gun handling rules were used and the target was hit.

  The final roster of eight people shooting in the head-to-head competition had two wildcards. Grenoble, Lt. Fielder, Captain Melville, Mrs. Vodi, Brother Theo, and Lance Corporal Jarvis were odds-on favorites. No surprises there. But to everyone's amazement, Private Dwakins edged out Corporal Petrico—who had a misfire after failing to ram home one of his bullets properly. ("Somebeach! Da pockin bore was pockin distorted 'cause the mawdikkin Keel charge is pockin bad!" snarled the little armorer.) And the real surprise was Cutherbert Asquith XVI, who astonished the entire crew by firing his two pistols accurately and rapidly without even a discernible pause.

  These eight shooters were the best of the best. It was a great honor to make it this far, but the real contest was yet to come.

  While the crew was enjoying the competition, the Ship's cats were participating in a contest of a different sort, hunting an entirely different beast, in the starry forests of the night...

  An alien empire was preparing a devastating sneak attack on the Hero Cluster. They had an extensive spy network, they knew about the Fang, and they had very wisely concluded that Melville and his Ship had to be neutralized to ensure the success of their attack.

  The nature of two-space precluded most methods an enemy could use to sabotage a Ship. Explosives other than Keel charges didn't explode, flammable materials didn't flame, and the warping effects of two-space precluded any technologically sophisticated attacks. From time immemorial, the only way to destroy a two-space Ship had been with another Ship.

  But Melville and his crew had demonstrated repeatedly that trying to attack the Fang with another two-space Ship (or even with four such Ships) was simply a good way to lose Ships—either to Melville and his prize crews or to the depths of intergalactic space.

  So a sentient alien slime mold had been placed aboard the Fang on Show Low. It was sentient, but in all other ways it was anathema to life. Other than loyalty to its masters, its only real joy was in destroying virtu
ally every species that it encountered. Once the mold was in contact with a life form, it tailored its own waste byproducts to produce lethal bio-toxins specifically designed to kill that specific species.

  The saboteurs had planned well. The slime mold had been deposited on the surface of one of the water barrels. Once the barrel was aboard, the mold could slip out unnoticed into the Ship's environment to meet up with humans for the first time—and kill them!

  The cats' alpha male was a nasty, gnarly, vicious, mottled-yellow creature named Cuddles. He was locked in a struggle against a large black cat named Brutus, who was actively challenging Cuddles' position. In some cultures the old male is allowed to slink back into quiet dotage and peaceful retirement, living out his last years in some protected spot. But that was not for Cuddles.

  This was truly a life-and-death struggle. Cuddles would die before he would give up the privileges that came with being top cat. Privileges such as first choice at any food and the opportunity to violently possess any female that was currently in season.

  Cuddles and Brutus had been among the first to notice the mold seeping from a water barrel stowed on the lower deck next to the mainmast. The cats were instinctively suspicious and hostile toward anything new in their environment, and this black mold seeping out from the water barrel was definitely something that did not belong. Cuddles and Brutus tossed the first few blobs overboard with hacking slashes of their claws. As other cats arrived to deal with the intruder, the two competing alpha males backed off to opposite neutral corners where they could keep an eye on each other as they cleaned their paws.

  Fortunately for Cuddles and Brutus, the disoriented, isolated samples of the mold on their paws had not yet had the chance to analyze the nature of this new enemy. Without the full processing power of the main body, the small colonies on Cuddles' and Brutus' paws could not develop the poisons and toxins which would allow it to tailor biochemical weapons for this new feline foe, and it could not rapidly adapt to the destructive mechanisms of the two cats' digestive tracts.