The Guns of Two-Space (36 page)

"Thanks for your concern, Daniel. But, no, he hasn't succeeded in poisoning anyone... yet. That I know of. Although I do think his 'chef's special' today was Heimlich maneuvers..." He sighed. "Do you know, I never understood why they called it a 'mess' in the old books until I started eating, or rather trying to eat his cooking."

Fielder laughed quietly and said, "Well, according to Lady Elphinstone the food is in fact nutritious and healthy and will sustain life indefinitely, or at least as long as you can stomach it. She says that by Dwarrowdelf standards the food would be considered adequate, if not outstanding, due to its soft texture."

"Soft!" Asquith exclaimed. "Soft, she says? Daniel, there was a sailor last night who was using some of the salt meat in the stew as a carving medium. He said it had softened just enough he didn't have to use a chisel to work it!"

Off in the distance, their new cook was waving his pistol in the air and berating a sailor who had complained that the meat was too tough. "Just set about it with a couple of forks," explained Jones. "If 'at don't wurk, ya just kind of maul it with a bit of knife work..."

Fielder found it hard to maintain his usual sardonic humor in the face of this situation and stared glumly off into the stars of two-space. "Like I said, the Dwarrowdelf would consider it a bit soft. Lady Elphinstone reminded me that food under high gravity has to be fairly dense simply to grow upright, which means those who eat it have to have equally stout teeth and jaws." He sighed again. "Like Broadax's."

"Yeah, Daniel," replied Asquith. "Broadax certainly seems to like it."

Fielder chuckled. "Apparently so, Bert. And since she is happy, life is better for the marines and sailors she has to work with, which means they have a Catch-22 situation: if they complain about Jones and get him replaced, then they have to deal with an unhappy Broadax; but if they keep Broadax happy, they have to eat Jones' cooking."

"Damned if they do, and damned if they don't", Asquith laughed. "And here I thought I had some difficult decisions."

Again a snatch of angry conversation came to them from the mess line.

"I saw ya put innocent potatoes in there," cried a sailor, "an'
this
is wat came out. How can you git
potatoes
to be so tough?"

"Ya just cooks 'em fer a long time. Tumble 'em in, bobble 'em around, and fry the hell out of 'em. Fry the hell out of 'em, 'at's my motto. An' a dab o cookin' sherry. Ya needs lots a cookin' sherry. Call me obvious, but ya can never have too much cookin' sherry or bitterash root. At's my motto."

"What's troubling you then?" Fielder asked, looking around to check on the Ship and make sure they were relatively private.

"Well," Asquith said shyly, "a while back Lt. Archer was telling me about... dreams." He paused, then said, "He was telling me about dreams where the subconscious is sending a message and he mentioned that when you start having dreams of failure that your unconscious mind is telling you to practice."

Fielder nodded and said, "Generally, that's the interpretation of those types of dreams. In the sports world they're called 'performance anxiety dreams.' Guns not working in your dreams means you need to practice shooting. Punches that don't have any effect on your opponent represent a lack of confidence, and hard training can provide that confidence. I've had those a time or two myself. Especially when I'm, umm, escorting a married woman," he said with a leer.

"Married women? Daniel, isn't that dangerous with that barbarian custom of dueling that you Westerness types have?"

Fielder laughed. "That
would
explain why I only get those dreams when my current girlfriend is married. But that doesn't answer your question, Bert. What kind of dream are you having?"

"Pistols... guns..." he mumbled. "Damned things won't work. Just sort of wilt in my hand. Or bullets droop out the barrel. So my mind is telling me I need to learn about the damned things? I never wanted to be a duelist. I never wanted to go into combat! I never even wanted to leave Earth again!"

Fielder looked at him with a brief feeling of sincere affection. Sort of like you'd feel for a frightened pet bunny. "Look, Bert, you're getting a few things confused here. There is a huge difference between a duel and combat. The only similarity is that in both cases someone is trying to kill you. And the same training generally works for both. The best protection that you can have in a violent galaxy is to be deadly proficient with a pistol. Not to win duels. The whole idea is to
avoid
duels. The goal is to make it clear, to
any
potential enemy, that challenging you is tantamount to suicide. In the real world, most of the time, people don't go around looking for the fastest gun to beat in a fair battle. That's a myth from the Earth's Old West. It's the paradox of combat: in the real world, the better able you are to kill someone, the less likely you are to have to do it."

Asquith was silent for a while, thinking it over. Fielder stood by companionably, waiting for him to decide what he wanted, hoping the little man would decide to learn pistolcraft. While it might not be necessary, it
could
just save his life. And, he reflected, surprising as it was, Asquith had developed into a friend. Life was long. Things changed. People changed. And a tincture of time combined with native intelligence was one of the best medicines for curing ignorance.

Asquith sighed. "Well, what do I have to lose?"

"Aye," said Fielder. "My Grandma BenGurata always said, 'It's best to learn skills at leisure, just in case circumstances force you into a career change. And
change
is the only certainty in life.'"

Fielder believed in the general principle of striking before your victim gets a chance to talk himself out of the idea. So he arranged for Brother Theo to give Asquith his first lesson off the upperside stern, or "fantail" of the Ship. This allowed for Fielder to be nearby on the upper quarterdeck to observe and assist, and to store up a few embarrassing anecdotes for a time when Asquith, or others, would enjoy them. This location also kept most of the idlers from kibitzing or otherwise "helping" the earthworm learn the basics of survival.

Brother Theo was more than happy to teach Asquith, since it gave him an excuse to spend a morning shooting and teaching. Two things he loved to do. As Asquith learned quickly, Brother Theo did love the sound of his own voice, although this was leavened by his sincere interest in his pupil, and in the subject matter.

"Mr. Asquith, first, you have to understand that all we can do is train you to operate a weapon: to
use
it effectively and efficiently when needs must. The
ability
to actually fire the weapon and extinguish a life at the moment of truth must come from within." His monkey
eek
ed emphatically at this, causing Brother Theo to twitch a brief grin at the little creature on his shoulder. "I would like to assert that the likelihood of such an event is doubtful, but based on recent history..." he trailed off with a slightly sad smile.

Asquith sighed. "I know, and I believe I need to learn the skill. I understand the need for it, but I must admit I'm not too happy about it."

Brother Theo nodded. "You are playing at the edges of the 'paradox of the warrior' that has followed us throughout civilization. You see, the warrior must have the skill, and the
will
to kill. The young soldier, sailor, or marine is issued a weapon and learns the skill. That is the easy part, and it does not make him a warrior. Next, he must understand, he must truly comprehend the fact that weapons
kill
. The full magnitude of the act of killing must hit him, and he has to deal with it, which should make him reluctant to take up his weapons,
unless
he believes it is truly necessary. And that is the vital step in the evolution of the true warrior: realizing what weapons can do, and still believing in the necessity to protect yourself and your loved ones. So, grasp it, understand it, and don't let go of it. Weapons exist to kill."

"Then why don't you store your weapons away if they're so dangerous? Why do you have them on you or near you so much of the time?" Asquith asked curiously.

"Ah, grasshopper," Brother Theo answered with a chuckle, "there are no dangerous weapons. There are only dangerous men! And to deal with dangerous men in a dangerous world, you must be dangerous! Ergo, you
need
a weapon, and the skill and the will to use it.

"Now," continued the monk, "you have asked a terribly important question. An inquiry which demands a response! Why must we have our weapons with us?"

"Oh, no," Asquith groaned. "Is there any chance of getting the short answer here, or am I going to have to hear it all before I get to shoot?"

"Watch it, Mr. Asquith, you're starting to sound like my poor midshipmen when I lecture them!" He grinned at the earthling, and continued, "Seriously though, we must avoid what Saint Blauer called a 'lip service, fortune cookie mindset.' Like, 'Be the willow, bend don't break.' That's just splendid. Thankyouverymuch. But a fortune cookie could have done about as much good! The key question to ask is, 'Do I have a tangible, useful skill afterward?' So, what will it be, a fortune cookie, or a skill that will stick to your ribs and be there for you when your life depends on it?"

"Well, when you put it that way, I guess I'm here to learn a skill."

"Good!" replied Theo. "So the answer is that teaching someone to use a weapon gives you conscious skills. It's only when you live with a weapon and carry it with you at all times that it becomes an unconscious part of you, so that it will be there when you need it most. To be honest, carrying a weapon is inconvenient, often uncomfortable, and frequently, if you will pardon a man of the cloth using vulgarity, a royal pain in the arse!"

"If you'll forgive me saying so, you don't always sound very, um, 'pious' I think is the word."

"Some folks wear their halos much too tight," said Theo with a chuckle and a self-deprecating shrug. "I figure God wants spiritual fruit, not religious nuts."

Asquith laughed. "Well, anyway, if carrying a gun is so blessed inconvenient, why do it? Why not just keep it somewhere nearby so you can get to it when you need it?"

"I'll answer that," replied Fielder, who had been listening. "My favorite literary character says, 'When you need a gun, you need it very badly, and nothing else will do.'"

"Pre-zactly," replied Theo. "I like to explain it this way. If I have it on me, no one else can take it from me. And when I need it I probably won't be able to plan exactly when the occasion will be. So if it isn't on me, I won't have it!"

Fielder snorted and said, "That's a hell of a long-winded way of saying the same thing," and then he wandered off to torment some errant soul up in the rigging.

"And," added Theo, "as St. Farnam put it, 'Carrying a gun also imparts a sense of self-respect, indeed nobility, to the carrier. He continually confirms in his own mind that his life and health are important and worth defending and that he, not some unit of government, is the one primarily responsible for his own safety and well being. It is the ratification of the doctrine of individual responsibility.'"

"Huh!" said Asquith, mulling that over carefully.

"Enough of that, my friend!" declared Theo. "
This
is your standard Westerness two-space pistol, commonly referred to as 'old reliable.' And it is, indeed, reliable. So long as you take care of it and keep it either on you or stored next to the Keel at all times so that the effects of two-space are minimized. Two barrels, each with a Keel charge at the end which acts as a trigger when you thumb it, one sight, one rod to ram the bullets home, and a pouch of bullets to practice with."

He looked Asquith directly in the eye. "I discussed this with the captain. He agreed that if you were interested and motivated, this pistol is yours. And to make it a bit more desirable, I'll tell you a secret. This is one of the pistols Gunny Von Rito tuned up and customized for me, so you can count yourself among the rare recipients of his craftsmanship."

Asquith was silent for a moment. He looked away into the distance of two-space and then looked back and said with a slight grin, "Well, perhaps we should help me figure out what I should be doing with this pistol so I don't embarrass us all."

Brother Theo chuckled heartily and said, "Well then sir, you have asked for it! First, this is the front sight..." and he continued happily into the first lesson of pistolcraft for his newest student.

Ulrich had picked up a genuine parrotlet—a kind of pygmy parrot—while he was on Earth. He named the tiny green bird "Spike" and kept it on one shoulder. He and his monkey were teaching it to talk. Ulrich was training it to say, "I'm Spike! I taste like chicken!" and "Heeere kittykittykitty!" His monkey was teaching it to say, "Eep!"

This project was one of the many things that Ulrich did to keep himself entertained while he did the officers' laundry. Most of the time the little coxswain didn't mind washing and pressing for the officers. It needed to be done right, and no one bothered him while he was doing it. Besides, it helped keep his skipper looking impressive, and Ulrich knew better than anyone that appearance could overawe the opposition as much as any weapon. And it
did
make it easier to kill them when they were overawed, which was something that Ulrich heartily approved of.

The officers' laundry facility and Ulrich's pigeon cages were wedged into a small "head" that protruded like a barnacle from the side of the Ship. Under ordinary circumstances, any crewman would come to the head to sit in comfort and drop his waste into two-space. But
this
head was the coxswain's private domain. He was walking toward his area when he heard a sound that was out of place. It almost sounded like a voice but no one came down here unless they had to. Most of the weaklings couldn't handle the smell of the laundry and the pigeons combined.

He dropped the laundry bag he was carrying and drew his pistol as he slowly sidled down the passageway toward the sound. He slid down low and risked a quick peek around the corner, and then stood up suddenly in disgust.