The Guns of Two-Space (58 page)

Jarvis stood shaking his head. "Yep. And for this I decided to stay in the marines. If I hadn't got all noble and greedy I coulda been home now, behind my old mule, peacefully plowing my own land. And damned if that don't sound right nice compared to dealing with my two idiots."

Broadax sighed, exhaling a cloud of toxic smoke that was repeated in miniature by her monkey. "Well, ye know no good deed goes unpunished. So go sort out the Brothers Dumb an' git 'em settled down agin. It's downright embarrassin' hearin' 'em yammerin' like a couple o' puppies growlin' over a teat!"

She snarled again as she walked over to Hans, who was carefully looking the other way as he controlled a case of the giggles.

"I vonder vot dem cats is lookin' at?" Corporal Kobbsven observed to the sailor next to him.

The sailor turned and saw several cats sitting on their haunches and staring at the side of a water barrel on the deck.

"Dammed if'n I know. Who knows why a cat does anyting? O' course who but a marine wastes time starin' at a cat anyhow?" the sailor chortled.

Kobbsven growled slightly and forgot about the cats as he watched the captain and his first officer move to the firing line.

"Woof!" added Boye at their feet, as the dog (and his monkey) watched his person intently.

Melville and Fielder looked relaxed and confident as they approached the rail. They had stripped off their jackets and were in white shirts and blue trousers, with their bare feet on the Moss of the Ship.

<

> came the message through the Moss to the captain. <

>

The temptation was great.
Fang
's assistance might make a big difference in this contest. But Melville grinned cheerfully as he thought back to
Fang
, <>

<

> He caught a flash of amusement through the Moss as it sent back
Fang
's response.

<>

As he stepped up to the line for instructions, he whispered to Fielder, "Don't worry, Daniel, I'll be gentle. I know it's just your partying catching up with you, and not your increasing age and feebleness!"

Fielder sniffed and raised his nose a bit as he said, "Gentle, huh? Partying, age, and feebleness? Sir, don't you know that you have to relieve yourself of tensions to shoot well?"

Melville smiled and said softly, "Yes, and I'm sure running naked through the streets is a great tension reliever, now isn't it?"

"Not fair, sir, not fair! It seems I will have to teach you manners by out-shooting you today!" he chortled in response.

Westminster shook his head at the two of them. "Sirs, if you two fine gentlemen are through talking trash, Ah'd like to get this match under way."

Fielder and Melville grinned at him and each other unrepentantly.

"When you hear the bell, you will draw and fire both barrels from each gun at the two targets," the ranger drawled. "Each target must have one round in the head region and one in the torso, both in the kill zone. You will then reload and repeat the sequence, for a total of eight rounds fired, four in each target." Even though the participants had heard the directions many times before in previous matches, they listened carefully as judges had been known to vary the target zones at the last minute.

"Are the shooters ready?" Westminster asked.

Melville and Fielder nodded, looking relaxed and composed while their monkeys crouched on the rail nearby, watching.

Ding!
went the bell in Valandil's hand. Melville's right hand came up holding the pistol and met his left hand in front of his chest as it rose to eye level. <> the pistol spoke in his mind and "
Crack!Crack!
" it said to his ears. On the second shot both hands dropped as the first pistol went into the holster, the second lifted out in his left hand and met the empty right hand, coming up to eye level as the pistol cracked twice more.

Fielder was shooting at the same time, but Melville was totally immersed in his task, feeling the grip of the pistol, watching the front sight as it came into focus and covered the target as his thumb caressed the nipples of the Keel charge.

As Melville fired the second shot from the second pistol, he brought the muzzle up, thumbed a bullet into each muzzle, rammed them home, brought it up to align with the target, and thumbed the Keel charges: <> "
Crack!"
<> "
Crack!
" as he aimed first at the head and then the torso. Then he brought the gun in, reloaded, and repeated the sequence again.

<> Melville felt from
Fang
.

<> Melville agreed with a smile.

"Cease fire," shouted Valandil.

"I told you that you needed more practice Captain!" Fielder chortled. "Or maybe you need a bit more relaxation time in port."

Melville grimaced at the targets, then shook his head ruefully. "Point taken, Daniel. I think perhaps I had better think about my own practice schedule as well as the crew's."

Westminster leaned in to look at the offending target. Melville had been faster, but one of his shots was high and outside the torso ring. "Well, Captain, it might not be good enough to win here, but in the real world Ah reckon it'd hit the man's throat right in front of the spine. Woulda taken the fight outa him real quick. 'Course that's why we always teach folks to shoot at the center of mass: 'cause you've got room to miss the center and still maybe take 'em out anyway. But it ain't quite good enough today," he said, grinning cheerfully at his captain.

<

> he felt from his Ship.

Melville sighed ruefully, regretting that he hadn't used
Fang
's assistance. <> he thought back good-naturedly. <>

The slime mold was... frustrated. To say the least. In all its countless millennia of experience it had never run into targets that were so alert, and so stupidly stubborn! And the Ship! Never before had the Moss given the slightest indication that it could even sense the presence of the mold on its surface! Yet these mammals and the Moss seemed to work together to frustrate it in its sacred duty: the death of all aboard for the greater glory of Quar!

A person in this situation might be rightfully accused of sulking, but the mold was a creature of a very different type. It took out its frustrations by tweaking the waste products it was secreting into the water barrel, making the death slower, more painful, locking it in tightly to the biological information it had acquired in losing chunks of itself to the cats.

The alien mold considered itself an artist of death, and these exasperating mammals had driven it into a creative frenzy.

"So whatsk the status o' da bettink on da match so far, Hansk?" Ulrich asked.

Hans quirked a grizzled eyebrow at Ulrich, his monkey, and the goofy little green bird bobbing atop his head. "'Bout the same as it were an' hour ago. Most o' the bets had the captain or Fielder picked as t' winner, a good chunk had Grenoble up, an' most o' the marines were goin' fer Dwakins. But they're mostly bettin' from pride fer one o' their own more'n they think he can win it."

"Huh. How's 'bout da bettin' on Asquith?" he asked curiously.

"Him? The earthworm?" Hans asked incredulously. "I gots two idjits in the whole pool who bet on him t' win. An' he's one o' 'em!" He paused and looked thoughtfully at Ulrich then continued slowly. "O' course, if'n by some chance he
did
win, those two idjits would split the pool, wouldn't they?" His monkey spit over the side, which cued Hans to do the same. "Ya wouldn't happen ta know who actually put down the money on him, wouldja?" he probed.

Ulrich smiled beatifically—a truly frightening sight to Hans, since the only other times the old seadog had seen that same expression was in battle, framed by a mask of gore.

"Well, I know'd one o' them idjitsk wask Asquith," said Ulrich, "an' sincesk t' othersk me, I'm guessink we's gonna find out whosk da idjitsk here shortly!" He grinned evilly as his monkey
eek
ed wickedly.

"Eep!" agreed his bird.

"An' whilsk you're at it, see what kinder odds ya can git on a side bet fer da earthworm againsk Grenoble." He handed Hans a bulging leather purse. "I figger Asquith'll finishk up shootink 'fore Grenoble finishkes reloadink 'is lask round. So's whyn't ya see what kinder oddsk ya kin get fer us, why don't ya?"

Hans tossed the purse in his hand thoughtfully. "Lemme git this straight," he said slowly. "Ya want me ta bet that Asquith will be done shooting—and win!—before Grenoble finishes reloading to fire his last two shots? Look, Ulrich, I can buy that Asquith has been practicin'. I can even believe that he's good enough ta win against Grenoble—even though the pockin' Sylvan knight is faster'n hell. I mean, I know ya bin workin' with the boy. But before Grenoble finishes
reloadin'
?!"

Hans shook his head and continued. "I can git good odds fer it, but yer gonna lose, unless somethin' happens ta distract Grenoble. An' if it does, all bets are off, Ulrich. I know how ya feels about that Sylvan, I do. You can't deny that you'd give yer right arm to stick it too 'im."

"Atsk right. Skumbudy's right arm, anyway. They's always lotsk a right arms around, no sense in wastingk mine."

"That's what I thought. But, by the Lady,
nobody
gits ta play fast 'n loose with the rules jist ta embarrass someone else." Hans said, giving the sawed-off psycho a glare which slid right past him.

"Nawrsk, ya gotsk me wrong, Hansie, ya does. All straightsk, not a thing I'm gonna do exceptin' watch that prancink prig git taken down a notch—or maybe ten! See how 'e feels after an earthworm beatsk 'im like a drum!" He chortled evilly.

Hans eyed him curiously. Then he crossed his arms and stared over the side for a moment. "Wellll," he said slowly, "so long as it's on the up-'n'-up, I think I can git some good odds." He smiled at the little coxswain. "After all, it ain't like it's gonna happen. So, hell, I'll even be taken some o' yer money myself!"

Ulrich grinned back. "You jesk be doink dat, an' I'll be collectink from ya after the match."

"Heeere kittykittykitty!" concluded his parrotlet.

Cuddles and Brutus crouched on on the deck on opposite sides of the water barrel, watching for the appearance of their nemesis.

A calico cat was stretched out on its side, shivering feverishly and whining quietly. Cuddles got up and paced over to her, sniffing her mouth and body.

Besides the smell of meat and sickness Cuddles caught a whiff of the mold on her breath. Musty, dark, and nasty, the mold had a smell reminiscent of food gone bad.

While not very intelligent compared to a man or a monkey, the cats had generations of breeding and the environment of two-space to thank for their extra capabilities compared to the cats throughout history. And one thing Cuddles had, along with the native cunning that was his birthright, was an abundance of experience with all sorts of pests.

Right now, all that experience and cunning was screaming out to him that this enemy was death to the cats! Cuddles turned back and sat on the deck again, looking at his enemies: an alien mold, and a cat that wanted to replace him as alpha male.

Cuddles' tiny cat brain wondered how he could use the situation to his advantage. After all, the mold had to go.

And so did Brutus.

Grenoble neatly folded the red-braided, hunter-green jacket of his crimson-and-clovers, handed it to a Ship's boy for safekeeping, and moved to the firing line clad in white shirt and red-trimmed, grass-green trousers. He looked relaxed and ready as his monkey hopped up into the rigging above his head to watch. The proud Sylvan knight and hereditary bodyguard looked over at Asquith and grinned confidently as he waited for the match to start.

Asquith pulled off his plum-colored jacket, handed it to another Ship's boy, and moved to the firing line. His monkey stayed on his shoulder, holding a belaying pin and looking around suspiciously. Its eyes found Ulrich, and it shrieked a fierce "Eek!" and waved its belaying pin at him while looking around even more suspiciously.

Westminster looked over at Ulrich, who looked back at him with an innocent shrug that fell about a mile short of true innocence.

The ranger shook his head, and walked over to Asquith.

"Mr. Asquith, normally the monkeys are spectators and not participants in these events," he drawled with a friendly smile.

"Says who?" Asquith replied back, looking like a dyspeptic bunny rabbit on a rampage. "I'm not about to get out here without him. Those damned Dwarrowdelf dumplings hurt!"

Westminster looked at the earthling in confusion. "Ah'm not sure Ah understand what you mean. What dumplings? What in the blazes are you talking about? You're just here to shoot."

Asquith nodded over at Ulrich. "
His
damned dumplings! The things
hurt
when they hit from that sling of his!"

Westminster looked over at Ulrich, who looked back with a shrug.

"Eep?" added his bird innocently.

The ranger shuddered and decided that he really didn't want to know how Ulrich taught pistolcraft. At least not right now. But he noticed that Asquith looked more peeved than nervous as he waited on the firing line. And his monkey looked downright irritated, swinging its belaying pin back and forth, looking all over but seeming to concentrate in Ulrich's direction more than anything else.

The bell in Valandil's hand rang and Asquith and Grenoble both chose to shoot with a gun in each hand rather than the more stable two-handed hold. While the two-handed grip provided greater accuracy, its downside was that it required reholstering and drawing to shoot the second pistol.