The Guns of Two-Space

by Dave Grossman

  "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 wheeting 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.

  They all understood that if they could entice the Crab fleet to pursue them it would eventually turn into a short-range slugfest, as the faster Crab Ships caught up with the Fang. But before it came to that, they'd have the chance to even the odds with their broadsides and then whittle the enemy down with the stern chasers.

  Midshipman Palmer looked over at his captain. "Sir, what happens if they don't change course to attack us?"

  Melville smiled at the midshipman. Palmer was a deep-voiced lad who was huge for his twelve years. He had served with great heroism and intelligence as a Ship's boy and had been promoted to midshipman shortly after they had captured the Fang. He had great potential as an officer and it was always good to develop the tactical knowledge and experience of the next generation.

  "Well, Mr. Palmer, what do you think would happen?"

  The middie thought for a second. "Well," he rumbled, "I figure that if they don't change course or attack, then we can cruise down their flank and pound the hell out of 'em with our broadside, then come behind 'em and romp across their rear and beat hell out of 'em with even more broadsides! An' since their guns are fixed forward, they won't be able to shoot back! Somewhere in there they oughta start changing
their mind about ignoring our Ship!"

  Melville nodded. "Not bad for a first pass, Mr. Palmer. Of course," he added with a grin, "whenever they do turn on us, we'll be in the midst of a swarm of Crab gunboats, like a crocodile intruding into a piranha-infested river."

  Palmer shivered as he considered the idea.

  "Just remember," continued the captain, "this 'croc' eats schools of piranha for lunch! Our big advantage is that we don't have to face our opponents to shoot them, but they do."

  "Aye, sir," said Palmer. "Plus our 24-pounders appear to have a slight range advantage. And the incredible accuracy we have when you're firing the guns, if I may say so, Captain."

  "Aye! So for now we have two tasks. We must fight them, and we must lure them away from the Pier so the fleet can get underway. Given our altered appearance and the fact that we are apparently running away, we should be downright irresistible."

  "Aye, sir!" growled Palmer. "Like a doddering old drunk, just asking to be rolled for his wallet. But when the robber rolls this drunk over, he'll find out we're faking, armed, and pissed-off mean!"

  Barlet interrupted him. "It looks like it's about that time, sir. Their last shot entered our air bubble. Which isn't good. Their guns must be about 18-pounders. And 18-pounders against our 24-pounders isn't all that unequal a contest," he concluded soberly.

  "No, it isn't," Melville replied as he climbed up onto the aiming platform above Sudden Death. "Especially when there's so damned many of them. So we better get started evening the odds."

  CHAPTER THE 16TH

  Crab Salad at the Seafood Buffet:

  "Thoughts That Make the Strong Heart Weak"

  There are things of which I may not speak;

  There are dreams that cannot die;

  There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak,

  And bring a pallor into the cheek,

  And a mist before the eye.

  And the words of that fatal song

  Come over me like a chill:

  "A boy's will is the wind's will,

  And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

  "My Lost Youth"

  Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

  Midshipman Anthony Hayl stood behind Deep Doo-Doo, Sue-Sue, and Bad Ju-Ju in his capacity as the upper redside battery commander. Malicious Intent had been moved to her position in the stern, ready to fire at the Crabs who would be chasing them if the captain's plan worked out.

  Their initial battle with the Crabs had been frightening, but it had all happened so quickly that Hayl didn't have much time to think. This battle was going to be a lot worse. And he had plenty of time to think about it.

  In all of his creative, optimistic, youthful imagination, young Hayl could not conceive of any way that they could survive. He had seen too much battle, too much death to have any illusions left. They were dead. They were all dead. There was no avoiding it, no way around it.

  He had eagerly sought the opportunity to be a midshipman with the great Captain Melville. He had had such incredible dreams. Such feats of valor and triumph had filled his head. None of his daydreams included the nightmares that still visited his sleep upon occasion.

  Hayl thought he was brave, but he felt his knees weaken and the blood drained from his face as the reality of this battle loomed before him. Then he felt the Keel charge in his new arm begin to <> and he felt a piece of Fang's fierce spirit surge through him. He started his breathing routine and began to get his body under control. But it was so much harder to rein in his imagination.

  Then Grenoble, the captain's Sylvan bodyguard, walked up beside him companionably and put a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Art thou frightened, son?"

  "Aye, sir."

  "Use thy breathing, lad. Control thy body, and have faith in thy comrades, thyself and thy training. The Mirror for Princes, written in Persia, on Old Earth in thy eleventh century, encourages warriors to 'reconcile your heart with death. Under no circumstances be afraid, but be bold; for a short blade grows longer in the hands of the brave.' Five hundred years later, an earthling named William Makepeace Thackery said that 'bravery never goes out of style.' 'Tis not easy, lad. Few are born with it. But try with all thy might to nurture courage. Then thou shalt never be out of style."

  "Aye, sir. I'm working on it."

  "'Tis all that anyone could ask, and 'tis the path of wisdom. 'Fear tastes like a rusty knife and do not let her into your house.'"

  * * *

  And the words of that fatal song

  Come over me like a chill:

  "A boy's will is the wind's will,

  And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

  * * *

  Captain Thomas Melville layed on the firing platform of Sudden Death and considered the coming battle. Cutting across the front of the attacking fleet at this angle meant that a portion of their leading Ships could always bring them under fire with those bow-mounted cannon. But only a portion. For the entire Crab fleet to bring effective fire on the Fang they would have to shift course, and essentially start chasing her.

  And that, unfortunately, was exactly what Melville was trying to force them to do. Just escaping the battle would be fairly straightforward. If he simply ran for the eastern horizon, Melville might be able to save the Fang and her crew. But he would be doing so at the cost of the utter destruction of the Hero Cluster's fleet. A cost that was totally unacceptable to the captain and crew of the Fang. They would die before they would let that happen.

  So their mission was to entice the Crabs in, like a mother duck luring the predator away from her nest, with the age-old wounded-duck routine. It was one of the oldest tricks in the book. Would it work on the Crabs?

  Melville watched over Sudden Death's sights as his first target slid closer and closer into his line of fire. He felt the ferocity of the 24-pounder beneath him: a chilling bloodlust to smash, rend, and kill raged through him, an emotion that had come to feel comfortable next to his soul. And from Fang herself he felt the anger and the urge to fight, to destroy these intruders—an urge that snuggled in tight to the other side of his soul.

  These combined emotions roared back and forth between the three of them, as they jointly considered the target, watching while it slid under its single, glowing sail, closer and closer to its doom. They ignored the occasional 18-pound cannonball fired by one of their target's many mates, although those shots were getting more accurate with each passing moment.

  The prey slid inexorably closer until, finally, the three (the gun, the Ship, and her captain) decided as one that it was theirs! The cannon growled its hate and loathing for the attackers, and belched forth its iron ball. <> it said in his mind. "Cha-DOOM!!" <> screamed out the cannon and Melville watched as the shot traveled out... and slammed into the bow of the small Ship, smashing it like a firecracker set off in a child's model, sheering off the bow, and snapping the Keel like a toothpick as the Ship twisted and disappeared from two-space.

  Midshipman Palmer screamed out, "Yes!" and pumped a fist into the air, as his monkey screeched out in agreement and waved its belaying pin in the air. "Hot damn, sir! Ya got 'im!" He continued more quietly but no less enthusiastically as the gun team rapidly reloaded the cannon for the next shot. "On the first shot! Just smashed 'im to pieces!" Sudden Death was one of the guns in his battery, and he took a great degree of ownership and satisfaction in "his" gun's accomplishment.

  Melville nodded briefly, still focused on the tactical situation. He moved over to Cold Blooded Murder, the other 24-pounder on the upper green battery. As he layed down on the aiming platform he said, "Mr. Barlet, I'll be..." He broke off and involuntarily ducked as a ball found the forward rail and smashed into it, slashing the air with splinters and other debris. Luckily, the splinters and other shrapnel failed to find a home in flesh, but it was sobering taste of things to come.

  The captain raised an eyebrow and drew up one side of his mouth in a lopsided grin. "As I was saying, I'll be going back
and forth between the 24-pounders on the upper and lower greenside for the first few rounds. You and Gunny Von Rito will engage with the other guns as they bear. This will rapidly become a target-rich environment. So as they close, shift to rapid fire on all guns using the gun captains. Let no target go unserved!"

  Barlet shook his head and grinned back, watching as the sailors and marines moved up to clear away the damage in the bow. "Aye, sir! Too bad we only have one broadside engaged. All the poor boys on the redside are going to feel ignored and unloved!"

  Melville replied with a thin smile as he aimed Cold Blooded Murder toward his next target. "Don't worry, Mr. Barlet. They'll have their chance. Soon enough."

  He touched off the next round, not lingering to see if it hit (it did) and scarcely waiting for the gun to finish its recoil before he dove through the hatch to the lower gundeck. His monkey screeched with joy as they slid headfirst down the line strung between the two levels.

  Boye and his monkey couldn't follow their master's slide down the rope, so they had learned to take the long way round. The dog raced pell-mell down the ladder to the hold, dove through the hatch to the other side, scrambled out, thundered up the ladder to the deck, and joined his master with a happy bark. Boye's monkey sat astride the dog like a rider at a steeple chase, eeking merrily throughout the trip.

  Melville alternated quickly from one 24-pounder to another, bouncing from the lowerside to the upperside as needed, firing any gun that was loaded and could bear on an enemy Ship. Sliding from one 24-pounder to the next he engaged an unending supply of targets that quickly grew closer and closer to the Fang. Grenoble stayed constantly behind the captain, while Ulrich reluctantly gave up his bodyguard role to supervise the lower stern guns.

  He rolled off of Rabid's firing platform and was momentarily startled when the flanking 12-pound cannon fired for the first time in this battle. As he looked out over the side he was startled by the whip-crack of a cannonball going overhead, followed by a rustling crash as part of a yardarm and its attached canvas and rigging came down on the net overhead.