The Guns of Two-Space (60 page)

"'Expendable,' am I!" said Asquith in outrage. "I'm the damned Ship's historian, and
you're
going down in the annals as a psychopathic, homicidal maniac!"

That seemed to please Ulrich enormously. He and his monkey grinned ear-to-ear and looked at each other happily.

"Heeere kittykittykitty!" added the little green bird from atop his head.

By the end of the day the mold had been able to preserve about half of its beginning mass and was firmly ensconced in the cracks of the water barrel. And a half-dozen cats had died. The final score at the end of the quarter was: six cats dead, and half the slime mold ingloriously defeated.

Both sides waited for the next round in the battle. The mold took the opportunity and the information that it had, and began to secrete large quantities of carefully tailored poisons into the water barrel. Poisons designed to kill cats, since that was the only biological data that it had available.

Grenoble wasn't the only one who was initially outraged by the change in rules.

Initially
being the operative word, since after he had taken a few minutes to think about it, he had a blinding flash of the obvious: if his monkey helped him, they both had a hell of a lot better odds of surviving in combat.

And very few combat veterans value arbitrary rules over survival. Ethical warriors have rules that are cast in stone, such as sparing opponents who have surrendered, and treating honorable enemies honorably.

At the same time, there was a long historical legacy (tracing back to Odysseus and Sun Tzu in human society) which enshrines duplicity, deceit, and sneakiness to give your own side an edge. An old military adage says, "If you ain't cheatin', you ain't trying... and if you get caught cheatin', you ain't trying hard enough."

The crew and officers felt that the monkeys and their capabilities gave them an edge in survival, and this new monkey-assisted loading technique was another edge they could use. Unfortunately, like most things that look easy, the rest of the match proved that skill and coordination come with a price: practice!

Asquith and his monkey were the hands-down winners for the rest of the match, and Ulrich won the equivalent of about six months' pay from his well-placed bets.

"Bugrit. I guess Asquith wins," said Hans, shaking his head as he handed over Ulrich's winnings.

"Da earthwurm didn't jisk defeat yas!" Ulrich crowed to the chagrined shooters with an evil, snaky sneer. "'E drove off yer herdsk, sold yer familiesk inta sklavery, and buried yer rottin' corpskes in unmarked gravesk! Heh, heh."

The other competitors had tried hard, but figuring out when your monkey was done reloading turned out to be a bit more complex than it appeared. And then there was the problem of retraining muscle memory. The better the crew was at shooting and reloading by themselves, the harder it was to remember to do something new—especially in competition the first time. The only competitors who came even close to giving a smooth performance were Dwakins and his monkey, who took second place overall.

In the end, Asquith was presented with the trophy: a small Nimbrell wood plaque with two tiny crossed pistols (carved out of a piece of Kaleb Jones' salt pork!) to hang on the wall of his tiny cabin. But the thing that he found himself valuing most of all was a sincere handshake and a "Well done!" from Melville, and the respect and applause of his Shipmates.

Most touching (and confusing) of all was when Ulrich walked up, put a hand on Asquith's shoulder, looked him in the eye and said, "Not bad fer a slimeky, usklessk earthwurmk!"

"Eep!" added his parrotlet.

"How'n da hell didja manage 'at one, Dwakins?" Broadax growled balefully at the private, after the match.

"Manage wat, mah'yam?" Dwakins replied in confusion.

"You 'n' yer monkey, ya dimwit! How'dja git the reloadin' so smooth!?" she shouted in exasperation.

"Ummm, I dunno. He jist did it fer me...?" Dwakins said desperately, while Rawl looked on in confusion.

"Rieutenant, I think he jussst tell monkey to rrreload pisshtols!" Rawl contributed.

"Eep," added Rawl's monkey, helpfully.

"Oh, by the tangled beard of my mama,
why me!
" she screamed to the sky. "Jarvis! Git yer ass over here an' see if'n ye kin help these two idjits figger out what'n da hell theys doin' right!"

"To think," Jarvis muttered to himself, "I coulda been staring at the uncomplicated north end of a peacefully south-bound mule right now. My da's right: I
am
a greedy idjit."

"I tole ye Jarvis, ain't no good deed goes unpunished!" she snarled back.

Everyone knew what the daily ration would be for the crew. For each man during the average day at sea (after the first couple of weeks, when all perishable goods had been consumed) there would be a gallon of water; one pound of biscuit or some equivalent thereof; a pound of salt pork, salt beef, beef jerky, or some equivalent thereof; a half gallon of small beer or wine; a pint of oatmeal, or other whole grain cereal; four ounces of cheese; four ounces of sauerkraut or some other form of pickled vegetable; and two ounces of lemon or lime juice. In all these cases, the "some other form" was often an alien equivalent of meat, fruit, vegetables, or fermented drink that the sailors of the eighteenth or nineteenth century on Old Earth could never have dreamed of. But the basic ratio and distribution of the types of food was something that those ancient sailors would have readily recognized.

Overall, given the nature, diversity, and quantity of goods that he had to purchase, load, maintain, and distribute, it was no wonder that a ship's purser was traditionally dishonest or incompetent. Multiply each man's daily rations by the number in the crew, times the long weeks and months at sea, and you got some idea of Brother Theo's headaches.

Theo saw to the apportionment of the daily ration, after that it was up to Jones and Roxy and their mates to do their best with it. And of late, there was a serious problem with their "best." In fact, the food seemed to be making the crew ill!

As if Brother Theo did not have enough problems, over the last few days most meals had been accompanied by a number of the crew reporting to the sick bay, sick as... well, sick as dogs was the best way to say it. Vomiting and diarrhea were bad anywhere, but in the cramped conditions aboard Ship it was even worse, and Theo couldn't track down what was causing it. They had started boiling the drinking water, and both Jones and Roxy were using proper sanitation and cooking methods, so the products of their galleys
should
have been healthy and filling.

Although, Theo reflected, he'd take the "healthy and filling" part on faith when it came to Jones' galley. Even after all this time watching Broadax and the Guldur chow down on what appeared to be rocks, ashes, and solid chunks of wood that had started out as perfectly useable salted meat, flour, and meal, he still couldn't believe that anything could eat that... stuff, and claim it was good!

Brother Theo hoped that word of Jones' food never got to the neo-pope. Food that bad could have profound theological implications. There was still a strong strain of Neo-Catholicism that preached mortification of the body to strengthen the spirit, and the Lord knew that Jones' stews and cuisine definitely constituted mortification of the flesh for any human.

Well, any normal human, anyway. Dwakins seemed to be willing to eat the food every other day with his Guldur companion. The only thing he refused to eat were the "dumplings"!

But that didn't solve Theo's problem.

What
was causing this illness? "I guess it's time to go check with Lady Elphinstone and the captain, and see if they have any ideas," he said to himself resignedly.

The ninja slime mold that was supposed to neutralize the threat posed by the
Fang
was itself neutralized... by a bunch of felines! Ignominiously trapped in a water barrel, the slime mold railed and ranted, poisoning the water with cat toxins and waiting for an opportunity to escape.

"In truth, Captain, I have been confused in my search for the cause of this plague of sickness. And, in honesty, this confounded confusion doth make me wroth!" Lady Elphinstone declared.

The surgeon, her lob-lolly girl, the purser, and the first officer were all meeting in the captain's office to discuss the matter.

"Aye," said Brother Theo. "So far we have determined that it isn't anything to do with the food preparation equipment or techniques. We even checked the spices and utensils." He shuddered briefly and added, "I inspected Jones' galley area myself. Do you know how nerve-wracking it is to be followed around by an irritable cook who stirs his food with a pistol?"

Melville nodded sympathetically.

"Or at least he
did
stir his food with that pistol. I finally got him to agree to use regular utensils and holster the gun to help isolate the cause of the sickness. I'm not sure it would have been possible if I hadn't brought Lt. Broadax along. She proved to be, uh... convincing in a way that I couldn't."

"I wish I'd been there for that," grinned Fielder.

"So far," Theo continued, "we know that it isn't a disease or caused by poor hygiene. At one time or another it strikes every living creature aboard, including the dogs. The only exception is the monkeys, which proves that they are truly alien, but we already knew that. And we know that it kills cats—horribly and painfully."

"Eek!" added his monkey emphatically from his robe's hood, where it was comfortably ensconced with its head peering over the monk's thin blond tonsure.

"Dammit, Captain," said Vodi, "something's killing my kitties, and we
gotta
figure out what's doing it!"

"Aye. It doth appear to be a biochemical toxin that is fatal to felines," explained Elphinstone. "But for us it hath only a few side effects. Wouldst know what they are..." Then, looking at the first officer with a tight smile, she added after a microscopic pause, "...Daniel?"

Blinking in surprise Fielder responded, "I'm not gonna like this, am I?"

"Please, do tell us," prompted the captain.

"Then I shall."

"Thank you," said Melville, grinning in anticipation of whatever Lady Elphinstone had in store for the first officer.

"The primary symptoms appear to be nausea, anal leakage, and methinks probably impotence."

"I'm getting two out of three just listening," said Fielder weakly.

"If we hath luck in isolating it, mayhap we can clear up two of them before we get to port and find out if thou dost suffer from the third, Daniel!" Elphinstone retorted primly.

"Okay, so it's a toxin or a poison," interjected Melville. "And it must have come aboard on Show Low. Have we got a feel for the source? Have we narrowed it down yet?"

Silence came from around the table, until Brother Theo said slowly, "Captain, we're pretty sure we have it narrowed down to the water supply. And if it is, we may be in trouble, depending on how much of our water is contaminated. If we're lucky it won't be too much. But it's hard to tell, and even harder to analyze in two-space."

"How did you figure out it was the water?" asked Fielder curiously.

"Serendipity!" claimed Elphinstone. "Able Seaman Jackon started having symptoms, so he shifted to eating what he considered a sovereign remedy: small beer and salt pork straight from the cask." She shuddered daintily. "Methinks the man doth have a stomach created to sup on the fare from hell to survive upon that! But, leastways, he was correct, in that he hath cured his malady, and those that were afflicted were also cured of the worst of the malady with such fare."

Mrs. Vodi chimed in sourly, "Humph. 'Cures' it, in a manner of speaking. Constipated, tipsy sailors all blowing gas outa both ends. I damn near think I'd a rather have them cleaning out their trousers, puking over the rails and sitting on the head all day, than burping in my face and farting left and right!"

Lady Elphinstone and Mrs. Vodi were both mildly offended when the meeting broke up in gales of laughter.

The ninja slime mold continued its battle, and the crew was puzzled by the medical mystery of their malady. The cats were deeply frustrated. And the dogs were happily oblivious.

Lady Elphinstone was profoundly puzzled as she inspected and re-inspected the water barrels. Her confusion might have been alleviated if anyone had told her that the affected water barrel had been broached. But the load plan called for the cooks to use a different cask first, and the medicos remained in frustrated ignorance.

And so the cats continued to get sick and slowly die. Mrs. Vodi and Lady Elphinstone were nearly overcome with grief, guilt, and frustration as their sick bay filled up with dying cats.

Cuddles was completely unaffected. And Brutus, who shadowed Cuddles' every step also managed to share the alpha male's immunity.

Cuddles was, by nature and breeding, nasty and cunning. He avoided water anyway as a general principal. And
especially
water that had any smell of mold! Meat and lots of it was his just reward as the head cat. Gravy juices as well. Or dainty laps from a beer held up to him, which was his due as feline royalty.

As Kobbsven finished firing the pistol in his left hand he lifted his right hand to bring that pistol from his shoulder. And felt it yanked back, accompanied by a loud "Eek!" of protest from his monkey.

"Yah, yah!" he said crossly, in his singsong Scandahoovian accent. "I din't know ya weren't ready, liddle one. Ya don't gots ta be screamin' so loud. I gets der message! Yah, yew betcha."

The big marine corporal looked over at Asquith and his monkey and yelled in frustration, "Dis here is von shtupid idoit ideer! Yah, yew betcha. How are ya to be shootin' if'n yer monk ain't done reloadin' fer yah yet? I keeps on doin' dis drill, an' he ain't never done when I'm ready!"

Asquith had been standing beside the firing line, helping to instruct the marines in this new technique. His friend, Lt. Fielder, was standing beside him, and the two of them exchanged glances as the little earthling heaved a sigh and started over to explain things one more time to the big ox.