The Guns of Two-Space (53 page)

Fielder read the officer's name tag.

"You're Officer Alberick?"

"Thanks," he said, rolling his eyes and stepping closer. "If you're going to play mentalist then how much do I weigh?" bellowed the hard-case cop.

"About a buck ninety-five," Fielder replied with an infuriating grin. "Give or take a donut."

The cop's volume control was no better than his grasp of personal space. His response to this was to lean forward and shout louder. "Your breath smells of alcohol! Have you been drinking?"

"Your eyes seem glazed, have you been eating donuts?"

The cop turned red and looked at Elphinstone. "You gonna tell me what da hell yer up to?"

"Thou wouldst know who we are?"

"Yes!"

"Then I shall tell thee without delay."

"Well?"

"I am called Elphinstone. Probably because 'tis my name."

"That's real cute, but it's not answering my questions! There's four dead bodies in the street just a few blocks away, chopped, gutted, and sliced clean, like from one of those fancy blades you Navy scum carry. And there's a bunch more shot and chopped to hell inside the Laughing Dog! So what do you know about those bodies, and where in hell did that blood come from?"

Fielder's face paled as his temper rose. Elphinstone felt action was needed to prevent having more blood spilled. After all, while the cop was being an officious jerk, he was doing his job, and injuring or killing a police officer was a great way to inspect prison cells—from the inside. She slipped a hand inside her shore medical kit, and palmed a syringe.

"Good officer, I pray thee calm thy wrath! We shall be more than happy to assist thee in thy quest for information! Ah, wait, there's a wasp on thy jacket!" she said as her arm snapped out like a viper and pumped the syringe into the artery in the side of his neck.

"What in the hell?" he gasped in confusion as his hand moved up to his neck.

"Bad cop. No donut!" said Fielder as he stepped forward and eased the officer slowly to the ground.

The customers at the tables around them were staring, but there seemed to be enough lawlessness in those who were watching, and enough ambiguity in the situation (since it wasn't really clear why the officer had fallen and there was no blood) to keep any observers from interfering. Fielder looked at the Sylvan healer with raised eyebrows.

"'Tis but a mild sedative, Daniel. We must make haste with our mission, and 'tis so much easier than arguing, is't not?" she smiled at him. "And so much easier than getting the governor to have us released after assaulting this gracious officer!"

Fielder grinned and nodded. As he stood up, the grin was wiped away instantly by the voice that came from behind them.

"Daniel, Daniel, I am just so, so disappointed in you!"

He spun around to see Ursula again, accompanied by...
What would be the right collective noun? A gaggle of goons? A bully of bravos?
The thoughts spun through his mind as he looked at her, then at the five armed men accompanying her, and then back at her.
Damn. She must have recruited every piss-ant prairie punk who thinks he can shoot a gun!
 

Ursula was dressed in a slinky red thing that looked like it had been spray-painted on.
Wait! Maybe it
is
just a layer of body paint...
Ursula saw Fielder's eyes lingering on her body and gave him a sly smile and a wink that made his heart ache. Well, the ache might have been lower.
Man, that woman looks good!
 

The tactical situation wasn't good. To his front was Ursula and her merry band of gunmen.
The lead singer and her five percussionists, ready to set a merry beat on the revolver...
To his right were a group of children in an alley tending a large flock of chickens. To his left and rear were nothing but tables filled with customers.
Playing to a packed house.
 

Why in hell did that cop have to stop us?
Fielder dithered to himself as he tried to find some option that increased the odds of personal survival.

The only good news was the fact that the customers in the outdoor cafe had noted the big Colt revolvers that each of Ursula's friends brandished. The danger of getting caught in a crossfire and the well developed survival instincts of the locals made the tables empty almost magically. Fielder now had a clear field of fire in front of him. Five targets, and no innocents. He also knew that Elphinstone had her two single-barreled pistols hidden in her sleeves and she was a deadly shot.

Maybe they had a chance!

Elphinstone spoke up quietly behind him. "I am watching thy back, Daniel. Thinkst thou I can help, tell me how."

"Take the two on the right, then cover my six," muttered Fielder

"What ever do you mean, Ursula?" Fielder countered as he watched the five gunmen. They were armed with Colt Peacemakers. Good guns, but the idiots hadn't even cocked them yet. Holding them in their hands, not even ready to fire.
Yes, maybe God
is
watching out for me,
he thought, while he gave the appearance of relaxing as he talked with her.

"Well, Daniel, just for old time's sake I tried to be nice to you, and you abused my hospitality. Then you broke my favorite mirror! That was just too,
too
much. Now I want you to meet my friends. They're local sellswords, but they're all tolerably skillful players, and they've been good to me. And they are
so
upset that you hurt me," she concluded with a pout.

"When we were together," continued Ursula, "you said you'd die for me. Now we've broken up, and I think it's time to keep your promise."

Fielder looked at Ursula and then at her gunmen, and shook his head. She had the kind of allure that could literally enthrall men, and she used that beauty like a psychopath uses a weapon: without mercy or hesitation. Her bravos were probably completely smitten, but he had to try. "Boys, it doesn't have to be this way. You know you're not all getting out of here alive. Don't let her lead you astray. She looks good, but take my word for it, she's stone cold frigid. The original Ice Maiden."

The insipid smiles on the bravos' faces made it clear that they were hers, body and soul. The look on
her
face made it clear that right now she fancied neither. She wanted only Fielder's death. Now.

"You know I'm not a maiden, Daniel," replied Ursula. "And whoever heard of an Ice Matron? You've turned into a major bore, and I'm beginning to experience some serious ennui here. So let us
begin
this dance."

Fielder was in motion even before she stopped talking. It was always a good idea to attack while your opponent was talking.

He said a quick prayer to the "Church of the Tactical Truth" whose creed was, in the words ofthe Reverend Cardinal Mad Dog McLung, "Go forth and be Tactical." Or, in the words of Saint Blauer: "If you mean to do it—make it mean!"

Her boyfriends all had the classic, stylish pose that that you see in the truly self-deluded, just before they are sliced to bits, shot to death, or otherwise become aware that death is an equal opportunity provider. The head goon shifted his grip on his gun, sliding his thumb up to the hammer as if to cock it. Unfortunately for him, he stopped and looked at Ursula for confirmation before acting. Even more unfortunately, Fielder was already Acting and was no longer Observing and trying to Orient to what was happening around him. He was one whole OODA loop ahead of them.

We've got five, no, six targets,
he thought to himself, remembering Ursula's little derringer cannon. Then Fielder gave himself a quick pep talk, trying to ambush his brain before fear and reason could kick in.
But I've got one of the finest examples of Saint Browning's divine inspiration, cocked and locked with a tummy full of the local marines' best ammo. Seven in the mag and one in the chamber—eight ways of dying slung on my hip!
 

Fielder's eternal nonchalance was replaced with swift catlike movements. His hand was already moving back to his holster as he sidestepped to the left. In the time it took the head bravo to look at Ursula, Fielder had smoothly drawn his pistol and thumbed the safety down.

Assuming the bad guys were experiencing tunnel vision (which was a pretty safe assumption), the sidestep took him out of their field of view and literally off of their radar screen. It also made them adjust to his action and start up a new OODA loop.

The gun nestled in his hand like a handshake from an old and trusted friend. He saw the front sight come up to settle on head-goon, placed it just under a silver button on his chest, and stroked the trigger geennntly. The gun surprised him when it went off (as it should) and he brought it back down to the same target as the slide slammed back into battery and he stroked the trigger again. He let the recoil of the second shot pull the gun up and placed the front sight right on the middle of head-goon's continuous eyebrow and squeezed again. He seemed to have all the time in the world, choosing his aim, pressing the trigger, riding the recoil to the aim point. Blood blossomed on the bravo's chest, his head snapped back and he dropped like a stone—DRT: dead right there.

It was called the "Mozambique drill." Fielder had practiced it so intently that it came automatically, and with such astounding speed that the three shots seemed to roll together into one continuous blast.
Best way to influence their hearts and minds,
he babbled to himself,
is two to the heart and one to the mind.
 

Fielder knew that a human being can suck up a lot of .45 rounds and still keep going.
All
pistol rounds (even the vaunted .45) were notoriously ineffective (as compared to shooting someone with a rifle, or preferably a 12-pounder cannon!), and Fielder's philosophy, learned on his Grandma BenGurata's knee, was to shoot people the way they used to vote in old Chicago: "Early and often!"

He was scared, he was mad, and he was determined to finish each opponent, onceandforall. Thankyouverymuch. As Machiavelli put it, "Never do your enemy a minor injury."

As always, he didn't hear his shots in combat. Just as the lion doesn't hear its own roar (if it did, all elderly lions would be stone deaf), and the hunter doesn't hear his shots. Whether you're shooting deer or men, the ears "blink" when you "roar"—just like the lion's. Living proof that man has the neural pathways of a predator in his head, just as he has the gripping fangs of a predator in his mouth.

As Fielder shifted left to the next target, he was aware that Lady Elphinstone's two pistols had spoken and saw that the two bravos to the right were acutely distracted by the holes that had appeared in their foreheads. The diners who had not already departed were now leaving in a mad scramble. The people were all going in the right direction (
away
from the shooters) but a burst of bloody feathers indicated that one of the chickens was having less success at fleeing the battlefield.

Damn! What a confusion!

"Daniel," said Elphinstone. "We are attacked from behind."

"Kill 'em!" shrilled Fielder.

"Certainly."

Fielder's front sight settled on the next man, who was raising his gun one-handed, turning side-on like a duelist. Daniel aimed at the damp spot in his armpit, and touched off two shots with incredible speed, focusing on the target area and the front sight, then riding the recoil up to put the front sight on the eye facing him before pressing the trigger a third time. He felt intense satisfaction as his opponent dropped instantly, DRT, again.

He felt a "Twack! Twack!" as his monkey's belaying pin blocked two bullets from god-knows-who, and a tug at his jacket as the last thug dove to the ground firing his six-shooter. This guy was a big one! Daniel hurried his last two shots at the huge thug, missing with both as the man rolled and twisted on the ground. Of course, acting like a broken-back snake on the ground may have kept Fielder from hitting him, it also kept the bravo from shooting accurately, so it was an almost even tradeoff. Except for the fact that the slide of Fielder's pistol was locked back on an empty magazine.

Stupid, stupid!
Fielder screams to himself.
That's what I get for over-training on Mozambique drills. Never do Mozambique drills when you have more than two opponents, or you end up with an empty gun and reloading while the last guys are shooting you.

While chewing himself out for fatal stupidity, he still doesn't stop trying. Fielder drops the magazine out with his right thumb as his left hand sweeps back to the magazine holder and pulls out fresh fodder. He feeds the mag into the grip as his eyes watch the huge bravo pop up with a cocked gun in his hand and a contemptuous sneer on his face.

Then Fielder hears a disembodied voice from his opponent. "I'm Spike! I taste like chicken!" chirps the voice.

The big gunman's face goes blank and he freezes. A millisecond later two shots punch out the front of his chest and whizz up over Fielder's head.

"Heh heh," says Ulrich, stepping out from behind the gunman with a smoking .45 in his hand, his monkey on his shoulder, and a tiny green parrotlet on his head. "He warn't so toughk."

This is followed by a thump as the gunman's huge body finally figures out that it was dead, tips over, and hits the ground like a fallen tree. The hilt of a knife standing up from the back of his skull shows where Ulrich had neatly pithed him. There are two .45 caliber entrance wounds in his back from where Ulrich had shot him. The small dirk sticking out of his right kidney is probably from Ulrich's monkey.

"Heeere kittykittykitty!" says Spike, peering down at the gunman's body.

"Ya think they wask gonna finishk this?" says Ulrich as he reaches out with a bloody hand to pick a morsel off of an abandoned plate.

Maybe it took the poor bastard so long to fall, because he had to figure out what to die from first,
thinks Fielder, eyeing the corpse.
 

As the scar-seamed little coxswain looked down at the fallen body, his monkey reached out, snagged the bite of food from Ulrich's fingers and popped it into its mouth.