by Anthology
This is all worked out because gravity is a variable rather than a constant in a starship. No matter how you mounted that bunk, sometimes it would hang you like a hammock, sometimes like a salami in a kosher delicatessen back on O’Earth. (You’d be surprised how many of those there are in these days of the furgem Jewrab hegemony, Yitzak ben El-Makesh, prexy.) Sometimes “up” is relative to the head of the starship, sometimes to its tail, sometimes to its longitudinal axis and sometimes to its skin.
Sometimes it’s in free-fall. Those bunks work regardless.
Gordon Lester Wallace kept his three V’s and top-rocker when he gave up shore duty and went back on board the James O. Eastland with the spacerine detachment, but he lost his position—no squad leaders were needed and he wound up assistant squad leader in Lt. Jimmie Rainie’s platoon, working for Sarge Bo Fallon. It wasn’t a bad squad or a bad platoon, and what the hell, gyrene casualties do tend to get a bit heavy so there was a good chance that there’d be an opening for an experienced squad leader one of these days.
Mean, not that Gloowoo wanted to see Bo dead. Hale, a leetle wound would do it, providing it wasn’t too leetle. Bo out of action for a while, Gord would be squad leader again, then when Bo came back from sick bay he’d be out of work! That was the way to do it.
There hung Gord sumpin up in the sack (bonnet tied neatly neathiz chin) merrily dreaming away of some nifty N’Alabama baby (Miss Merriass Markham perhaps or then again perhaps not) not too many hours outen Fort Sealy Mae Spaceport, chowed down, settled round, gear stowed, weapons checked out, checked in with CO, leader Bo, ship’s records, chaplain, quartermaster, company clerk & a necessary minimal few others, happily snoring up a storm much to annoyance of a few early risers (?) when an eyeball-smiting beam filled the gyrene embunkment where he was embunked and poor old Gord he flinched away, eyelids squeezing together trine to make that light stop only it wouldn’t and then a let’s call it sound started & worked its way up into his ears from a point so low he more felt it in his teeth (danged back molars needed some dental attention but the N’Ala spacerines were a mought short of dental talent these days) vibrating his whole danged skull & working its way up into his crany danged um and shaken the whole thing until he felt almost as if the whole banging noise was pouring out of his ears instead of in and he shook his head nearly like a dragonfly flicking sideways through some summery sunlit air and even in that tied-on teeny-weeny baby bonnet he somehow managed to whomp hisself upside the haid on some kinder stanchion or beam anna wham he donged hisself unpleasantly, clicked his teeth, flung defiantly wide those previously tight-clenched eyelids staring into the damned ultra-blue reveille light and mumbled unintelligibly something to the effect that tough is tough but you’d think they’d find some gentler way of waking the spacerine detachment aboard the goddam James O. Eastland when it was time for chow in the goddam standard ship’s time morning.
After chow they had a shape-up in the troop-marshaling area and the detachment commander, Colonel-General “Pissfire” Pallbox, addressed the men.
—Umen—Colonel General “Pissfire” Pallbox (his real first name was not spoken allowed in the N’Alabama spacerines, you can bet your *ss)—Umen—(being somewhat repetitious)—are the finest fighting force in the N’Alabama spacerines.—
Up went bajeesus & saintgeorge a loud cheer.
—M the N’Alabama spacerines bein the finest fightin force in the en dammit tire planetary military establish fuckin ment.—He spit on the deck. Some swabby wone like that!
(Prolonged & stormy applause.)
—M the N’Alabama planetary military establish fuckin ment—his voice rising—being the finest fightin force among the pure surn white planets under God & His Son Jesus George Christ!—
—Yay!—everybody said to that, loud & with enthusiasm.
—M the pure surn white planets—ole Pissfire hollern rantin now, snappin his official spacerine issue galluses m turnin from side to side—bein the toughest, meanest, wild-spit-in-the-eye-&-kick-em-in-the-nuts bunch of ball-barren men in the entire furgem galaxy!—He jumped up & down with a red face & shoutin.
All the spacerines likewise.
Gord, he like to piss his pants when he heard that speech. That old Pissfire, now there was a leader bajeez, none of this weakwater and julep-jippin wheezes like you got from Milburn Mitchum or Eugene Youngerman or them other pansy-assed parlor ticians. Gord, he just stood there hoping to hear more.
Pissfire, he said—Now these here swabbies—and he paused for reaction, being a man who knew how to play to an audience, even of enlisted men—now these here swabbies, they got a certain technical competence, we gotta hand them that much.—he said, then paused again while a titter (pardon) swept the ranks.
—An ole Admiral Yancy Moorman, he tellin me this morning that these swabbies spotted some blips on their lookin glasses. Now some of them blips, we know what they are. I can tell you men now—he leanin forrard comspiracarily & emphasizin that word now—that we haven a general fleet mobilization & rendezvous today, m we been plannin, right, we been plannin what we all been trainin for m hopin for for all these years, we going to land on goddam N’Haiti m teach the nigra papadocs oncet m frall they place!—
Spacerines cheerin an whoopin an huggin each the other (sometimes with a leetle more hug than you might think for spacerines, but what the hell, they wuz a long way from Leto) when they hear that, you can bet your sweet a*s. But then Colonel General “Pissfire” Pallbox, he had summin else to add:
—But those other blips ole Yancy’s boys seen—he let that other sink in a little bit—those other blips, they a bit farther off, m they straight on ahead, m unless ole Yance, he fooled mightily, he says he thinks they bein the N’Haitian damned space fleet! Now you men, you know what that means.—He stoppen & looken around once more.
—You know what that means! We can’t go pissin away our military cream on their bap-a-lousy two-bit crummy planet m let their cruvvelin damned forces have a free pass at our sacred homes! Nossir! No cruvvelin black animan nigra goin lay one filthy paw on some innocent defenseless little golden curly-headed surn baby while Pissfire Pallbox draws breath. Are you with me?—
Oh, he played a audience well. They been howlin yet if he didn’t raise his hand for quiet.
—Oak hay, men—Pissfire wrapped it up—we goin rendezvous as planned, but then we goin head straight at them cruvvelin black papadocs m smash the daylights out of that bunch of floating tin they call a space fleet. Before another sun sets—(he was talken meta damn phorically you realize of course, out there in the big glittery dark)—ole Goody Mazaccy’ll wish he been a waiter or summon else a nigra’s fit to be, an not play-act at bein a admiral.—
He finished up his speech & walked off & the lesser brass took over & made speeches & then the damned company grade officers took over & they made speeches & finally the NCO’s took charge & got everybody to fixing up their packs & spacesuits & practicing battle stations & calling out raider detachments & boarding parties & making sure they had their weapons at hand & ready to go & ammunition supplies okay & the chaplain went around & prayed over everybody & gave em all a tweak below the belt & finally everybody had chow again & grabbed a little sack time cause you never know when you’ll get a chance once a battle starts.
By late afternoon (according to standard ship time, you can never tell in space of course except on a civil liner where they keep dark & light hours but on a military ship it’s light all the time & ready to go) Gord was “up” again, everybody was giving his lase-axe a final cleaning, everybody was talking in a kind of nervous undertone & Gord kind of quietly drifted off (one of the advantages of being a 3V & rocker without the responsibility of command) & headed for a window hoping to see the fleet rendezvous (he was still that much of a boy at heart & loved to watch space ships land & take off & all that stuff) & kind of hoping that the swabbies would be trying out their holo projectors in preparation for fooling the poor stupid apes in the impending battle & at the same time
wondering if he’d be fooled himself & not be able to tell the projos from the rest of the real fleet Well, one thing for sure, if he saw another goddam James O. Eastland, agonized matter exhaust pouring out her asshole & red lase streaming out her slit & gun ports zapping & bapping, at least he’d know that that was a projo, that was for sure.
Found himself a nice window, part of a big old gun blister right there in Jimmie O’s flank. Gun crew’d been there & everything was all clean m polished nice the emplacement was a big ole bapper, Gord figgered it for a 60 megapower go-go mounted right there to the deck & emplaced into the blister for better sighting & maneuverability, plugged in & charged up & ready to go when the whistle blow. Gun crew must all been in their bag-m-bonnets trynta grab a last nap m only one guard was left at the blister, nice chubby blond boy with a perspirey complexion & a tendency for his hair to get plastered onto his forehead name of Leander Laptip.
Gord he walked up m Leander said—See them points Gord?—m Gord nodded m grunted m Leander said—Ain’t stars.—m Gord made a kind of grumphy noise m Leander said—They ours Gord!—
Gord he crawled into the blister with Spacerine Corporal Leander Laptip brushing maybe not nearer than necessary to get past and get a good look at those points and he said, full of patriotic fervor and enthusiasm—You right, Leander, they our fleet oak hay.—
Arms around each other and holding mutually onto that 60 megapower all shined up & ready for action go-go bapper for steadiness there in the stapaglassene blister & their heads close together four wondering eyes perceived the assembly (weren’t they lucky to be on the right side of the James O. Eastland!) of the en just about tire N’Alabama military space defense force, swabbies & gyrenes alike.
How many ships? Gord, Leander they tried pointing out & keeping count, calling out names when they knew em m types when they didn’t know names: sleek m speedy hit-m-runners darting ahead, destroyers, bigger, heavier armed but still light m maneuverable, tenders, communication ships, supply ships built like giant plasmetal balls:
:m sister ships of the James O. Eastland, giant elongated shafts bearing instrument rings m command modules at their heads, giant fuel balls at their bases: Orval Faubus, Theodore H. Bilbo, Lester Maddox. Gord picked out Voerward. Leander picked out Goebbels.
Forming up, forming up, commo beams crackling almost audibly, data sensors humming, circuits m generators throbbing, troops preparing for the battle to come: Long, Lee, Davis, Perez, on they came. The pod-bearing States Rights, her bulging belly packed with daughter ships ready to spring into battle, gnats that would spread havoc among the enemy fleet. The space ram Jackson, N’Alabama’s weapon of last resort, a space-flying shaft of almost solid plasmetal, crew quarters buried deep inside macrometers of padding m protection, if all else failed, lasing m zapping m bapping, Jackson could smash, headfirst, into any enemy ship, nothing in space could survive that impact m the Jackson’s crew padded m strapped inside there would just wait for a retrieval team if they could make it outside themselves, m the flagship of the N’Alabama fleet, pride of a planet, painted pure glistry white with a giant portrait six decks high m a hundred meters long:
:Lurleen McQueen, flying out of N’Montgomery spaceport, proud m pure m altogether sure, bearing the finest of the finest, armed to the hilt, surrounded by a swarm of tenders almost audibly buzzing m bounding at her every move. Oh, that ship she was proud of her ass!
—What you think that ship cost, Gord?—asked Leander.
Gord looked, shrugged (rubbing up a little bit on Leander as he done so, but unavoidably let’s be quick to note) m didn’t say nothing.
—What you think this fleet cost?—asked Leander.
Gord took his free hand off the go-go bapper for a moment m rubbed his head, then he said—Dunno. Must be close on three thousand ships here, big ole battlebottoms down to those little pizmaiers zoopin around out there. Them damn parlor ticians planetside (he liked to pick up space talk when he got off the ground, being a boy at heart) surely know how to squeeze the ole taxes out of us, but they hardly do nothing with all the money but build ships, buy zappers m bappers, train soldiers m the like, for about as long as I can remember. Lemme see now . . . —he got deep in thought but didn’t get through it cause the ship rocked:
:kerwhup!:
:alike to send him m Leander sprawling m struggling if they didn’t have a good secure grip on the bapper m onto one the other. Then they heard a ship’s siren sounding m in a minute ole Admiral Moorman’s voice a-whipping through the ship’s voice system:
:—Moorman here tention crew stations medially furgem papadocs clearly got some kind of longer range weapons as we calculated still beyond pickup gear but they gotta be northeast quadrant between 30, 34 degrees, holos on, gunners ready m I turn command over to section CO’s.—:
:m off he goes m there’s bumping m bitching sounds m voices, noises, thumps m sommon sounding like a urrkh! m a familiar voice coming on:
:—Pallbox here listen all spacerines we gettin moren we an fuckin ticipated soonern we ex hubbadubba pected everybody to assemly areas goddam now by ee-vee-ay detachments we gonna augment firepower ex shittin ternally till the nigras get close m then we gonna go across m take the furgemothers assall!—
He shutten up, voice system crackled a couple-three times m shutten off, feet pounding, whistles sounding, people shouting, Leander he yell at Gordon—My crew coming now m you gotta go ole buddy.—he given G. Lester one sweet tonguing m away Gilwoo swooped coming round a corner passed Leander Laptip’s gun squad pounding down the plasmetal corridor m Gordon Lester he making his way at top speed past his condombunk picken his pack m on his way fastern you can say Jackie Robinson m he going so furgem fast m he so sucken scared he don’t know whether he mess his pants or just let a little nervous gas but he knows it smells bad in that sealed-suit but he’s in place for a quick tense countoff.
Lt. Jimmie Rainie he’s zoopin around in front checking who’s there (everybody is) m all the squad leaders are dancing up & down making sure everybody’s got his equipment, no use being present if you don’t have your gear right, weapons ready, sealed-suit proper; everybody’s okay though spacerine drill being what it is they’ve been through this beau coup times in barracks on drill field in the boondocks bivouacced away from camp and you can bet every time they ever hit black deep space.
:kerwhup!:
:that ship gives another shake, gyrenes jarred but everybody keeps his feet Lt. Rainie he hollers, his voice comes out crackly-plasmetally in everybody headphones—You all oak hay? Stand fast men!—
They do.
Ship starts to buckle across her beam, ole James O. being in bad trouble, in perilous shape and those poor white boys they haven’t even seen no black-as* papadoc ships yet but now everybody standing in unsteady slowly tilting ranks wobbling m wavering as gravity slips around up goes down m heavy-light swapping around m only grabboots holding those gyrenes steady to the deck but leaning m swaying m Gordon Lester Wallace the one two three he looks up m:
:Great Balls of Fire!:
:the core dinged ceiling/wall/hull utha ship’s got a rent in her up there thirty feet above his wondering head half a football diamond long m nearly as wide m on the other side of it up/down/out there [Gord he feel like he falling/flying/swooping out/up/down into that hole/flat black pool/sky/plane m he swooping in circles his head wobbling on his suddenly rubbery neck m his stomach sending up sour warnings of the taste of things to come meanwhile churning/burning inside m a humring in his ear (phone)s as Lt. Rainie’s voice hollering (to be continued)]:
:gigant shapes huge glistry another Jimmie O. beside the James O. beside a ghosty wavery Eastland behind a bigabigabiga battlewagon oozy fat letters honor prow proclaiming James O. Eastland uptop a glowing gleaming phanty J. O. Eastland surrounded by a clustra JamesJamesJames O.O.O. EastlandEastlandEastland some solid some lucent m beyond Gord can see a Bilbo, another, another, waving, dancing, bapping m zapping away m Longs m Lees m Faubuses m Maddoxes m one Lurleen,
two, three, whee! m:
:faway, faway, wayway past the holos visible at last the shiteaten N’Haitian nigra fleet:
ships m ships m ships
ships m ships m ships
ships m ships m ships
ships m ships m ships
firing, firing
swooping m dodging
rays, missiles, rams, coming from the nigras’ ships, coming from the N’Ala ships,
noises in the headphones, sum um words, sum um not, loud m Creesacappery screaming m now a break, now a second unscreaming m now coming across the headphones Lt. Jimmie Rainie’s (continued now!) voice—You gyrenes, you surn men, nowsa time, on the hull, weapons up, now, now, up, lezgo!—in command still, Gord he’s trained, he obeys, kicking his grabboots, shloop! off the deck, up, outen that hole, ee-vee-ay time, out/up/down onto/into black deep/flat swoop/tumble m a quick spin, most a mini-orbit m clank! splank! onto the hull, onya belly, look up, through holos (you men bin trained!) m a one-man lase-axe ready to augment ship’s firepower, looking up at nigra ships, Creeso! how many they must have holos too but even so how many they must have us five-to-four, four-to-three, three-to-two m now the two fleets they intermingling m:
:zapper m bapper fire crossing, singing m zinging, singeing m twingeing the ether itself, lighting streaks red, yellow, orange, glaring magenta, blood colors, flesh colors, missiles barreling by, striking usships, themships, silent glarey detonations, impact demolishments m:
:kerwhup!:
:the Eastland took another shot someplace Gord didn’t see where only felt the whole sucken hull buck m thud beneath him m just as she settled down a might Gordon he readying his lase-axe once more there’s the most incredible:
:B-L-O-O-M-I-N-G: