The Guns of Two-Space (21 page)

Lt. Fielder didn't spare himself as he moved constantly among the work parties without a sign of fatigue. He and old Hans examined every repair and woe unto any culprit whose work was not up to their standards.

Melville visited the hospital as often as he could. This was his hardest duty of all. He tried to touch each warrior. To hold a hand or grip a shoulder. And as he made physical contact with each wounded warrior he attempted to direct the energy and the spirit of his Ship into them as it flowed through him. Thus, in the only way that he was able, with tears welling up in his eyes, he comforted and strengthened the wounded and dying.

Was there love once? I have forgotten her.
Was there grief once? Grief yet is mine.
O loved, living, dying, heroic comrade,
All, all my joy, my grief, my love, are thine.
 

Even Cuthbert Asquith XVI awoke to find the young captain standing over him, with a gentle hand on his shoulder. When it happened he felt... different. And the feeling lingered, as though he had been shown a door, or at least a window, into a land that he did not know existed. A remarkable place, full of light and darkness, good and evil, courage and fear, fellowship and loneliness, honor and hopelessness, glory and obscurity, duty and despair.

"For once thou hast avoided injury in one of these battles of yours," said Lady Elphinstone, looking fondly at the captain as he stood over the little earthling.

"Aye," added Mrs. Vodi. "You'd almost think he doesn't love us anymore!"

He shrugged, and all his numb mind could think to say was, "Please don't take it personally. I'll try to do better next time."

"Don't feel obligated for our sake," replied Vodi with a sad smile as he stumbled out the door.

As he worked, Melville found himself jerking his head in what were jokingly called micro-naps. He pinched, slapped, and even punched himself to stay alert. When that didn't work he collapsed onto his bunk and sank into instant unconsciousness. An hour later McAndrews would shake him awake and hand him another mug of hot tea.

As the captain, he could have slept for as long as he wanted. He could even rationalize it by saying that he needed to be alert and fit to make command decisions. But Melville knew there was the very real possibility of another Guldur attack. Survival depended on getting well away from the site of the original battle and moving quickly in a new, unpredicted direction.

Melville could not bring himself to get more rest than his crew, and the crew took
their
lead from their captain. He had to keep them going. They had been in savage, continuous combat, but the fight was not over yet. Let them falter and they might drop. Allow them time to mourn the loss of a Shipmate and they could lose the will to continue.

So the
Fang
s worked like heroes to get jury masts up on the
Biter
. Soon they had her under way, with more and more sail going up with each passing hour. In just a few hours they caught up with the
Gnasher
, whose prize crew had put up enough sail for her to limp along, and then both crews worked on the
Gnasher
.

In a matter of just a few exhausting days Melville had a flotilla of three Ships making sail for Nordheim.
Gnasher
and
Biter
had three jury masts on one side, and the
Fang
had one jury mast, but still they were making respectable speed.

Lt. Broadax, Lt. Archer, Brother Theo, and Midshipman Hayl were in the hospital the day after the final battle, visiting the wounded. When the Ship was not in combat the hospital was located in the lowerside deck cabin. On the upperside this same cabin was occupied by the captain. The deck cabins were at about one gravity (as opposed to the rest of the area belowdecks, where the gravity increased to 1.5 gees as you went down to the Keel) and they were well ventilated, so the deck cabins weren't nearly as stuffy and close as the other enclosed spaces below decks. But still, just as the faint fragrance of food is always present in a kitchen, the indistinct odors of disinfectant, feces, and urine usually lingered in the hospital. In spite of the ventilation and the constant efforts of the medicos. To the crew these were the distant scents of death and suffering... the vague lingering ghosts of comrades past.

Archer had just checked up on his old friend, Petty Officer Bernard Hommer, who looked like he would recover from his wound thanks to Lady Elphinstone's surgical skills. Then Archer and Hayl thanked Ulrich for saving their bacon on the enemy quarterdeck.

"Aye," replied Ulrich, looking Archer in the eye with an expression of crazed concentration, "well I dun got shot ta hell gittink ya a Ship, ell-tee. Don'k screw it up, now, ya hear? Don'k let
nobudy
takesk it away frum ya."

Archer and Hayl left with a final nod to Ulrich. Then Brother Theo joined them and Hayl asked his two seniors, "Wasn't he kind of disrespectful?"

"Well, you gotta make allowances for a wounded man," said Archer, "and then you have to make special allowance for Ulrich. He's pretty much one of the deadliest bastards you're ever gonna meet."

"He seems kind of small and scrawny," said Hayl, doubtfully.

Brother Theo shook his head sadly. "There is potential for significant edification here, young Mr. Hayl. Never judge the sword by the scabbard, nor the warrior by his looks. Countless times I have found myself deceived by first impressions. You just can
not
tell the quality of a man's spirit by his appearance."

"Aye," added Archer. "I'd rather have a man of any size or shape who has a 'never-quit' combat mind-set, dressed in his skivvies and a light coat of grease, armed with a toasting fork; than a trash-talking spineless wannabe with full armor and a cannon, who you have to constantly look back to see if he's behind you."

Just then Lt. Fielder came past them with a nod and went into the hospital to visit the wounded. The three Ships were still a mass of activity as they struggled to get jury masts and sails up, but this was part of his daily duties as first officer—something he found distasteful but necessary. When he entered the big stern cabin he found Broadax talking with Elphinstone, Vodi, and Asquith.

"Uh oh," whispered Archer to Brother Theo as he peered into the room, "Broadax is still in there. There might be some sparks flying."

"Why? What's going on?" asked Hayl.

"Well," replied Archer with a look at Brother Theo, "I suppose you need to know about the personalities of your officers, and in this case you need to understand about Broadax and Fielder's feud, if only to figure out when to get out of the way."

"Aye," said the monk, "the boy needs to know, for his own safety. Their quarrel is a very pretty, petty quarrel as it stands. We should only spoil it by trying to explain it. For now, know that they are, the both of them, as headstrong as the proverbial allegory on the banks of the Nile, and just as deadly."

"Huh?" said Hayl, but Theo kept rolling on with nothing more than a quick wink to mark his little malapropism.

"They may be headstrong, but they are also pragmatic. They'd both love to kill the other, but if one of them offers the challenge to a duel, the other gets to chose the weapon. Lt. Fielder would opt for pistols and riddle poor Lt. Broadax, while Broadax would select edged weapons and Fielder would be worm food in the blink of an eye. And so they dance. It provides a form of entertainment for the crew. A kind of dangerous spectator sport. Just be sure to never mention it to either of them, and stay well out of the way whenever they are in the same room."

"Aye," said Archer. "So let's kind of linger here and watch the show, shall we?"

His full family name was Baronet Daniello Sans Fielder: the noble family "without a field," having lost all land, wealth, influence, and everything but their title many generations ago. He had been sent to sea at a young age by an impoverished family, and he was as bitter as baking chocolate and self-centered as a cat. Melville kept seeing hints that somewhere inside him there was a nugget of decency. But then that might just have been wishful thinking.

Fielder was a master pistol shot and an extraordinarily proficient first officer who directed the day-to-day operations of the
Fang
with great skill and energy. He was also an unrepentant coward who could fight like a demon if cornered. He claimed he was following the philosophical path of an obscure twentieth century thinker named Linus, who held that "there is no problem so large or complicated you can't run from it." Now that he had acquired some wealth, he was even more desperate to avoid danger and hang on to his fortune.

Melville knew that if he got rid of Fielder the Admiralty would never assign a replacement for him, and in all honesty Melville was unlikely to find anyone half as competent to run the Ship. In the end the captain rationalized his decision, figuring that the
Fang
did
not
need a bold, brilliant, and charismatic first officer who was determined to to outshine her captain. Besides, Fielder helped provide an anchor and a balance for Melville. Or so he kept telling himself.

She was Lt. Ninandernander Broadax, a Dwarrowdelf in sworn service to the Crown of Westerness. No one ever called her Nina. (Unless old Hans did in moments of intimacy when they were off duty and off the Ship, but no one
even
wanted to think about that.) She was as twisted as a strand of barbed wire, and beloved and respected by almost everyone aboard. Everyone except Fielder, that is.

The Dwarrowdelf were a race of delvers, seeking heavy metals deep in the hearts of high-gravity worlds. Survival on such worlds requires great strength and lightning fast reflexes. It is intuitively obvious and widely understood that high-gee worlds can nurture a race with great strength. Less well known is the fact that fast reflexes are also a byproduct of high gravity.

A fundamental requirement for bipedal, humanoid existence, on any world, is to catch yourself if you trip and fall. Getting your hands in front of your face before it smacks into the ground is a basic survival skill. You have to do this
fast
on high-gee worlds, and the price of failure is high. In high-gravity the slow and the weak die off quickly, and the survivors are naturally selected for strength and speed.

The downside of existence on high-gee worlds is that projectiles drop very quickly. Rocks, arrows, bullets, and just about anything else launched in high gravity and dense atmosphere have a flight path similar to a rock thrown underwater. Thus the Dwarrowdelf had zero skill with projectile weapons. It was bred out of them across countless generations of natural selection, and a Dwarrowdelf never had the chance to develop a skill with projectile weapons, even if they were capable of it.

The result was that Lt. Broadax was not just a bad shot, she was
dangerous
with any kind of gun unless she had lots of time to think, or was able to screw the end of the barrel directly into her opponent. And even then, more often than not she'd end up grazing and crippling her terrified foe.

Her skill at ranged weapons might leave everything to be desired, but in close combat she was one of the most fearsome warriors that nature had ever wrought. And she was a product of a military organization, combined with combat experiences, that worked together to forge her natural, raw talents like a master smith will forge a perfect blade. She was a blade that had been hammered in white-hot fire and death, and quenched in oceans of blood.

Her warrior spirit was as strong as her body, and she lived for one thing and one thing only. Glory! She rejoiced in every battle they fought.
This
was what she'd hoped for when she abandoned her people to be the first Dwarrowdelf to enlist in the Marine Corps of Westerness. As a female, her own society wouldn't allow her to be a warrior. They wanted to deny her the glory of battle, but she had proven herself and had been honored by her own people. Today she had no regret for turning her back on her people and her culture to fight as a mercenary for some distant kingdom.
This
was what she was born for.

Melville loved her dearly and she was truly loyal and grateful to him. But, like Fielder, Broadax was a flawed tool. In the end she was a borderline sociopath who was pathologically incapable of avoiding a fight, and willing to do anything for glory. Fortunately, over the centuries military forces have developed rituals, ceremonies, honors and guidelines to gainfully employ borderline sociopaths while keeping them within the limits of acceptable behavior.

Lady Elphinstone was in the process of scolding Lt. Broadax, taking the cigar out of the marine's mouth with a fierce look and a peremptory "No smoking!" The surgeon held the stogie at arm's-length and looked at it as though it were a cancerous tumor. Noxious odor and smoke drifted from one end, while the other, unlit end of the stogie was dripping with saliva and falling apart in her hand. Broadax didn't smoke cigars, she tortured them, igniting one end and mangling the other until the poor thing finally succumbed somewhere in the middle. Elphinstone gingerly tossed the decaying, dying stogie into a slop bucket, where it found an end to its suffering and misery with a brief "
hiss!
" of relief.

"But it's my right ta smoke!" said Broadax, belligerently.

"There are a lot of things that thou hast the 'right' to do," responded the surgeon, primly. "But many of them need to be done in private, or at least not in my hospital. For example, thou shouldst move thy bowels in private. Can we trust thee not to do
that
here?"

The ordinarily unflappable ex-NCO looked slightly stunned and dazed. Lt. Broadax had met her match and she knew it. The predator defending her lair is almost never defeated and it is seldom worth the cost even if you can. (That is why the lion tamer is in the cage
before
the lions. If you did it the other way around, you'd be paying to see an entirely different kind of entertainment!) So Broadax simply clammed up and turned to watch the floorshow.