The Guns of Two-Space

by Dave Grossman

  It's all right, Palmer tried to tell his monkey. It's okay.

  Every breath hurt, but he didn't want to stop. He found that he had grown fond of breathing in the span of his twelve brief years. It was a useful habit. He and his body didn't want to give it up.

  He watched bright red bubbles gurgle out of his mouth and drop onto his hands with every breath. He could see his reflection in the bubbles, and everything seemed very precious and beautiful.

  Then the bubbles stopped. He was going to miss them.

  No one noticed as Palmer's monkey gave one last, shuddering sob and disappeared from three-space.

  Melville dove through the aft hatch and scrambled up the rope to the upperside. Here Mr. Barlet was still striding the gundeck, but up on the quarterdeck Death was the watch officer. One lonely quartermaster stood wild-eyed at the wheel, his legs straddling the bodies of two other men who had been killed at that post.

  Young Midshipman Aquinar had been wounded and evacuated, and Midshipman Palmer had taken over as quarterdeck officer. Now Palmer was dead, his legs spread before him and his back against the splintered remains of the lower quarterdeck's greenside railing. The boy had his head bowed and his hands clutched a splinter in his chest as if in prayer. A pool of blood was spreading out from his body, as a corpsman raced onto the quarterdeck and began to conduct triage amidst the bloody carnage.

  Down in the hospital, Lady Elphinstone's fingers were like scarlet claws moving with blurring speed as she operated on the wounded. Her monkey was an integral part of her, as its dripping red paws passed instruments, tied off arteries, and applied pressure, all at the precise moment required, without need of asking or telling. Even as her hands ministered to one patient, her eyes were resting on the next recipient of the tender mercies of those scarlet fingers.

  Mrs. Vodi and her monkey were everywhere, moving swiftly and efficiently, helping those she could, as the wounded helped each other. One sailor, his eyes bandaged and blind, was holding another patient against his shoulder, shielding and calming his friend as he groped blindly for his friend's mouth and gently separated the man's lips. His monkey held a cup of water in its two upper paws, pouring a blessed sip of water into their Shipmate's mouth.

  Midshipman Aquinar had returned from sick bay, and once again he stood beside his captain on the upper quarterdeck. A gaping splinter wound in his thigh had been hastily bandaged and he had limped back to his duty station. The tiny middie looked over at the pool of blood where Palmer had died and gulped. The blood was slowly congealing, and part of it was being absorbed by the Moss.

  Aquinar had seen Ship-to-Ship combat before but he had never been seriously wounded, and he had never seen anything like this glowing horde of Ships. The volley of fire from the enemy gunboats was raining all around them. As they drew in close, the Crabs were able to fire with swivel guns that were mounted all around their Ships. In the face of the oncoming swarm of Ships, the hail of incoming fire, and the psychological shock of his recent wound, the tiny middie found himself unconsciously shifting to place his captain between himself and the enemy.

  Westminster and Valandil still fired calmly and steadily from the rail, causing horrific confusion in the tight-packed enemy fleet as they picked off Crab quartermasters with deadly efficiency. Often, with the quartermaster suddenly slumped over the wheel, a Ship would veer off course and foul several other Ships. "By God, sir," Westminster laughed, "young Aquinar has the right idea!"

  The rest of the quarterdeck joined in the laughter at the middie's expense, and, red-faced, Aquinar stepped out from behind his captain to face the oncoming swarm. Melville laughed with the rest and put a reassuring hand on the boy's shoulder.

  "Signal from the Pier, sir," said Midshipman Aquinar, happy to find a distraction from his faux pas. "'All Ships will attack enemy soon. How can we assist until then?'"

  How can they assist? thought Melville, looking across at the signal flags flying from the Pier. There really was nothing they could do until the fleet got its act together and sallied out. But you had to give Middlemuss credit for asking. "Here," said Melville with a laugh as he jotted a short message on the slate, "tell them this. You'll have to spell it out. I don't think any of that is in the code book!"

  "Yes sir!" The boy laughed, and promptly limped over to send thirteen flags, each representing one letter, up the halyard.

  "Sir! Response from the Fang!" said Admiral Middlemuss' signal lieutenant.

  "Well?" snapped the harassed admiral.

  "Um, sir, it says, 'SEND MORE CRABS'!?"

  "Ha! Melville, you magnificent bastard!" shouted the admiral. "If we both live through this day, I'm going to make you wish the Crabs had won!"

  The Fang was like an angry, drunken sailor, charging into a bar fight with a feral grin and clenched teeth, wanting only to inflict pain and oblivious to any damage taken. Hope was not an ally today. But desperation and bloodlust were firmly on their side.

  The Crabs were close enough now that the Fang's 24-pounder cannonballs were blasting through the enemy Ships and damaging the Ships beyond them. It helped, but damn, there were still so many of them.

  The bow guns were now fully engaged as well, taking care of the fastest craft that were trying to block their course. After they rammed the one Ship that played chicken with them, the Crabs hadn't tried that trick again, but still they raced to get ahead of the Fang and then spin around to gift her bows with one of those damned 18-pound balls.

  I bet those 18-pounders would fit right into our broadside like they were made for it, if we could capture a few, Melville thought idly as he calmly walked the gundeck.

  The bow gun spat out its double-shotted rage at a Ship that had mistakenly zigged when it should have zagged. In this kind of furball, an error like that was something that didn't happen more than once—it tended to be permanently fatal.

  The Ship literally exploded with the impact of two 24-pound balls at close range, throwing the mast and sail high into the air, and shattering the hull—and incidentally the crew—into shards of wood, ichor, and chitin that rained down upon Fang's gun crews as they sailed forward.

  The glowing white sail on the Crab Ship's upperside spread out and flew directly into the upper bow of the Fang, wrapping itself around the hull and decking, forcing the gun crew and damage control party to hack and yank at the sail, throwing the pieces onto the deck and over the side.

  <> came from Fang—a feeling of surprise too great for words, focused on the pieces of sailcloth that the crew had thrown on the deck. Melville moved forward and picked up a piece and realized why the sails glowed.

  The damned things are covered in Moss! No wonder they glow. Hell, this must be why they're so damned fast!

  <> sent Fang. <

  Melville was in total agreement with that assessment, but, <> he told his Ship.

  <>

  <> Melville agreed as the crewmen finally succeeded in clearing the sail that was fouling his bow gun.

  "Belay that!" called Melville to a sailor who was about to cast a glowing white bundle of sailcloth overboard. "Just throw those sails on the deck there. And keep up the good work." he added, to encourage the confused young crewman. "We're giving them hell!"

  "Aye, sir!"

  Yeah, thought Melville, we're giving them hell, but we're taking it too. The good news was that the Crabs were terrible shots—probably because their royalty was gone and they were acting in a kind of collective berserker rage. And the Fang was still making good headway with only one gun—a 12-pounder—knocked out of play. But, damn!, the butcher's bill was stacking up with a few of the gun crews at 50% manning. Plus the sails and rigging were shot to hell, and several masts were shattered and barely standing. If this kept up, it was only a matter of time before the Fang went down.

  Ah well, thought Melville. "One crowded hour o
f glorious life is worth an age without a name."

  HewhocommandstheFleet was enraged and confused. Half his Fleet had left the battle and he could not get them to return. Already they were far enough away that he did not sense them in the Hivemind. Worst of all, his Royalty, his glorious, dangerous, beloved Princess, Shewhomustbeobeyed, was dead! And this large lump of dead sail, this RoyalslayerShip had killed her. And it wouldn't stop!

  He chewed the head off of another one of his groomers and sucked its brains out meditatively.

  If we cannot kill them because of their cannon, thought HewhocommandstheFleet, then we must board them. They will have to stop firing the cannons to fight us, and we can close and kill them with our Ships!

  His skill in sending commands to the Hivemind was slowly improving, and he shared his vengeful thoughts with his hive brothers.

  It was needful now for a Ship to close with the hated RoyalslayerShip. To grapple them and board them. Then the Royalslayers must stop their cannons to fight! And when the cannons stop they will die!

  The Hivemind was in agreement with the plan.

  In their single-minded, collective, obsessive concentration on avenging their Royalty, none of theFleet realized that by focusing on the one Ship, they neglected to think about the fleet fast approaching from the Pier area. After all, they could only do one thing at a time. And their Guldur allies had promised that these humans were easy meat, unused to fighting, and would run... like this offal!

  "What in all the silly Sylvan hells are these oversized appetizers doing now?" Even though Asquith was right next to him, Lt. Fielder had to almost shout to be heard over the cannons' roar, the cracking muskets, the crash of falling, rending wood, and the cries of wounded men.

  Asquith looked in the direction of the first officer's gaze. One Crab Ship was pulling ahead of its companions, aiming itself at the Fang's greenside rear quarter. The little Ship was now so close that its hull was essentially below the Fang's guns.

  "Lt. Broadax!" yelled Fielder to the marine commander, who had been going back and forth between the marine detachments on the upper and lower sides, like an anxious child hopping from foot to foot. "It looks like the Crabs will try to board, so you get your wish! Standby to repel boarders!

  "Gunny Von Rito!" Fielder continued. "Tell the gun crews to be alert to any other Crab Ships who try to board us. Pass the word to the upperside. Dammit all, don't let those pockers get that close again, and don't let them reinforce this boarder!"

  The harassed gunny looked up in exasperation. "Aye, sir!" was all he said as he continued to direct the fire of the lowerside guns.

  As Fielder was bellowing his commands, Broadax scrambled up to the quarterdeck and hopped onto the taffrail, perched like some hideous red gargoyle, looking over at the oncoming Ship.

  The Fang's guns couldn't depress enough to hit the approaching gunboat's hull, but they had shattered the enemy's mast. Still, the enemy Ship had considerable momentum and Fang was moving so slowly now that the Crabs were going to be able to grapple.

  Broadax hopped back down and roared in her gravelly voice, "Hoo-yah! All right, boys, we gits ta have some fun, now! Marines, standby to repel boarders, an' then ta take it over to 'em! Corporal Kobbsven, yew tell the lads on the upper side and take charge there. I'll lead the boys on this side. We'll meetcha in the middle over a nice plate of Crab legs and drawn butter!"

  She shook her ax in the air with glee and yelled to Fielder, "Hot, damn! Ye do take me to the best dances, an' I appreciates it!"

  Fielder shook his head gloomily. "See what I mean, Bert? I tell her to repel boarders and get a boarding party together..." He ducked reflexively as a sleet of splinters sprayed out from the mast overhead, then continued. "...and she acts like I asked her out to a fancy dress ball. Any normal mortal would be scared spitless, but not her."

  Asquith, to his own amazement, laughed! Here they were, beset on all sides by enemies, the quarterdeck had been lashed with splinters and debris, killing off one quartermaster and wounding another, he'd had the crap scared out of him (or it would have been if he hadn't known to go to the head before all this had started), he knew they were all gonna die, and he managed to laugh at Fielder!

  "Daniel," he said through the chuckles which were threatening to erupt into full scale, hysterical laughter, "did you ever stop to think that if she wasn't the kind of woman she is, you might be the one leading the boarding party?!"

  Fielder paled at the thought. While he could fight, and damned well if need be, he considered himself a lover not a fighter. And the idea of leading the boarding party into the grinder that was coming alongside was a horrifying thought.

  A slug from a Crab swivel gun wheeted past their heads and they both flinched reflexively. Swivel guns, Fielder thought to himself distractedly. Crabs got swivel guns. How come we ain't got swivvel guns?

  "Good point, Bert," he responded. "I'll make sure that when my plate gets filled with Crab entrees trying to add me to the menu I'll pass it on to Broadax."

  "I'm sure she'll appreciate it! Have you reconsidered apologizing to her and burying the hatchet?"

  "Apologize? For what, Bert? And any buried hatchet would probably be between my eyes! And, oh by the way, do you mind if we continue this discussion another time?" he yelled as he yanked Asquith out of the way of the grappling hook that seemed to magically appear behind him, hovering in the air before it slammed to the deck, then slithered toward the rail where it grabbed fast, burying its tines deep into the wood.

  "Damn!" yelled Asquith as he spun reflexively to face the rail while his pistols seemed to leap unbidden into his hands.

  "Hey, Loo-tennnannt Broooad-ax! Company's coming!" lilted Fielder as he joined his friend, drawing pistol and sword. While he liked the newfangled monkey-assisted loading procedure, one advantage of steel was that it never misfired. And with Asquith and himself on pistols, and their monkeys reloading and blocking, they might be able to hold the quarterdeck until the marines got aboard the enemy Ship.

  Grapnels flew like striking snakes and Crab small-arms fire rattled off the deck like deadly pebbles. The enemy Ship surged up to the Fang's stern and Broadax's marines flowed across. One hapless Crab fell between the Ships, where it was trapped between the two grinding vessels, screaming like a tormented animal. Its eye-stalks rolled with agony as ichor painted the hulls a sickly green and yellow. Then the lifeless husk slid down into two-space and disappeared.

  As the Fang's hull touched the Crab Ship, there was an exchange, a transfer that functioned at many levels. Moss and neurons, citizens and hostages, ambassadors and philosophers: the exchange between the two Ships was all of that and more.

  Fang found this new Ship to be incredibly alien, but once again the Fang told her tale, and the new Ship... listened.

  The Crab Ship felt alien feet flooding onto her decks, while even more alien concepts and ideas flowed into her soul...

  "Warm work, Captain!" said Barlet with a grin as he paced the gundeck. The endless, aching drills on the long passage across the Far Rift had taught them well. Fang's guns never stopped roaring their hate and defiance. The sound was painful and jarring as the double-shotted guns vomited death and made the deck planks buck beneath the gun crews' feet.

  "Aye! That it is!" replied the captain. Boye barked his enthusiastic agreement. "Make sure your men have weapons to hand—the Crabs are trying to board aft. Broadax and her men are taking the fight to them, but others may try to take advantage of the distraction."

  "Aye, sir! We're ready!"

  HewhocommandstheFleet was dismayed. "Why are they still shooting their cannon? How can they fight when they are attacking the Ship? No mind can control fighting hand-to-hand and firing cannon at the same time! No one can do that!"

  Rear Admiral Middlemuss looked at the Fang with something approaching awe.

  She was like a comet, surrounded by a large cloud of Crab gunboats, but there was still a tail of at least a hundred, maybe two hundred more following her, swir
ling in and out, trying to get shots off at her. Her upperside mainmast and mizzenmast were shattered, with the top half of the mizzen totally shot away. Blood flowed from her decks. And still they fought, blazing away with cannon from both broadsides, with the stern guns taking their toll on the followers, and the bow cannon taking out any who approached too close to their course. She wasn't making more than five or six knots now, but the Fang was still fighting. And, most importantly, she was totally dominating the attention of the Crab fleet.

  "Damned if he hasn't gotten them in a perfect shooting gallery lineup for us," the admiral muttered. "And I don't think the buggers even know we're here yet!"

  He yelled up at his signal lieutenant, "Signal hoist to read, 'All Ships, turn to greenside, on my mark. Form line ahead. Engage as targets bear. Maximum firing rates. Friendly target danger-close.' Got that?"

  "Aye, sir!"

  He turned to his flag captain, Captain Stavros of the Frigate Asimov. "You understand my intent, then, Captain?"

  "Yes, sir. On your command we'll turn to the greenside, form a line of battle, and start pounding the Crab Ships as we sail past them. Since the Crabs all mount their cannons forward, they'll have to break off from the Fang to attack us, and incidentally make themselves dead in the water, then we can make them dead indeed!" he finished with savage glee.

  "You've got it. It'll be point-blank range for the guns so make sure your boys are ready."

  "We'll be ready, Admiral, don't worry. Trust me, we're all ready for some payback!"

  Melville read the flag hoists as well, with a surge of joy in his heart. That crusty, poker playing, old S.O.B. actually came through for us! Now we just have to survive for a few more minutes.

  "Mr. Barlet, we're about to have some friendly company off our redside. Make sure your gunners cease fire when the line of battle comes into our firing arc."

  The Crabs' attempt at boarding had been well and truly defeated. The flood of marines down into the Crab Ship, from both the upper and lower sides, had turned the table on the enemy boarders, sending them scurrying back in full flight, discouraged, disheartened, and dismayed. But not before Asquith, Fielder, and the quarterdeck crew spent a few frantic minutes potting the Crabs that climbed over the lowerside quarterdeck rail. The deck was littered with twitching Crabs and a handful of writhing humans in their mutual death agonies. The rapid, accurate fire from Asquith's pistols had amazed Fielder. He contributed when he could, in between his responsibilities conning and fighting the Ship as a whole.