Plastic bullets spanged against the bulkheads and pieces whistled through the crowd. Burton felt one sting his leg. Arrows thumped against metal or the metal of the hull or through the metal of armor and into flesh. Down the way, barely visible in the smoke, some archers were returning the arrow fire of the enemy.
Just before the collision, and perhaps afterward, boarding bridges had been extended from the Not For Hire. These were oblong railingless duraluminum extensions thirty feet long which had been concealed within the hull behind closed ports.
Burton pulled his Mark IV pistol out and aimed coolly across the top of the paddlebox. His bullets knocked down three men with the crested helmets and silvery cuirasses.
Burton reloaded his pistol, then blew his whistle three times. He turned to see how many had heard the signal. About twenty. The others were still shooting or reloading. Burton holstered his pistol, unsheathed his cutlass, and, waving it, shouted, “Follow me!”
Evidently, the enemy marines had had the same idea. The firing across the way suddenly stopped, and the crested helmets surged over the railing and dropped onto the top of the box. Burton met one of them halfway on the slippery curving top of the housing. He was in the lead, and his helmet and cuirass bore eagle heads. A small man, he attacked as if he were a giant, his cutlass a silver whirl.
“Cochon! Tu as la face d’un con!”
”Ta mère fait la gamahoucherie avec les nègres!” Burton shouted. “Et ton père boit dans les pissoires!”
Burton laughed as the little fellow, his eyes enormous, almost frothing at the mouth, hammered away at him. Burton parried each time, then suddenly slid his cutlass in, using the point instead of the edge. The little Frenchman reeled back as blood gushed from a deep cut in his cheek. As he returned furiously to the attack, two battlers got in the way. Burton lost sight of him in the swirling melee. A man and a woman, fighting side by side, attacked him, and he was forced to back quickly away from them. The woman was taller than he by almost a head, and she had the long lean body of a fencer. Her companion was shorter than Burton but muscular. They drove him back toward the edge of the paddlebox, from which a number of men and women, screaming, had fallen. The slope put them above Burton, but this was not an advantage for them. Burton leaped to one side, went in past the woman’s guard, and raked her arm with the edge. Her cutlass fell clattering on the duraluminum surface, and then she fell backwards, struck by a bullet.
The man lunged then, trying to get him with the point. Burton deflected this and riposted, then brought his cutlass back in a manchette that cut across the fellow’s wrist. The man’s weapon dropped; Burton stepped forward, putting his foot on the woman’s cutlass. She had bent down to pick it up, and Burton’s move imprisoned her hand under her weapon’s hilt.
He could have cut off her head then, but the man, bellowing, charged in head-down. Burton brought the edge of his cutlass down against the brim of the man’s helmet, but the impetus of the attack knocked him down. The man went to the deck with him. He caught a flash of the woman picking up the cutlass. She’d be on him in two seconds. The man got onto his hands and knees and shook his head. Burton, lying on his back, kicked his boots into the man’s face. The woman ran toward him then, her cutlass raised. Burton rolled over past the man, who was lying face down, blood running from his mouth.
One of his marines got in the way of the woman, though not intentionally. He was retreating from the onslaught of a huge red-headed man. The marine, a paleolithic named Skroombr, was retreating. Hopelessly outclassed, he had a choice of being killed by the cutlass or going off the box into the water. The tall woman had taken a cut at Skroombr, but missed. The red-headed man had bellowed at her to get out of the way. Now she came at Burton, who had gotten to one knee. He snatched the heavy gun from his holster and fired at her as she loomed over him. The bullet hit her cuirass in the center, knocking her onto her back. Though the plastic projectile had not penetrated the duraluminum armor, it had bent it inward at the point of impact. And she was unconscious from shock.
Her companion was trying to draw his gun. Burton rose and kicked him in the face again. The man collapsed. Burton bent down and rolled him over the edge of the paddlebox.
He looked up. The red-headed giant had severed Skroombr’s right arm with his cutlass, and Skroombr, gushing blood, was dead on the deck. The redhead kicked the corpse, and it went sliding down the curve of the paddlebox and over the edge. The redhead looked fiercely around, almost seeming to breathe fire. Seeing Burton, he started toward him. Suddenly, the tall black form of Umslopogaas, holding Woodpecker, was in front of him. The redhead, knowing that his cutlass was no match for the long-shafted axe, produced a knife. He did it with such speed that Burton could not see where the blade had come from. A streak in the light from the fires, the knife struck point-first. But Umslopogaas, fortunately for him, had slipped in blood. The knife hit the top of his helmet as he bent forward. It bounced off as he continued his forward movement, turning a stumble into a charge. Straightening up just in time, he brought his axe-head up. Steel rang as the redhead’s cutlass struck the head of the axe. Umslopogaas’ grip was almost torn from the shaft, so strong was the impact.
But he quickly jabbed the point of the head at the redhead. And then, suddenly becoming aware that he was alone, that his fellows had been cleared from the paddlebox, the redhead leaped. He soared over the edge, dropping into the darkness between the two boats.
It was a long way down. But if the redhead survived the fall, he would be back into the fray soon. He gave the impression of great energy and determination.
The Swazi grinned and called to Burton, “That man with the hair like fire… I will meet him again.”
Burton said nothing. What was there to say? He took stock of the situation. His marines had won this little battle. His troops were pouring from the walkway over the box, and they had pushed the resistance back on both sides of the walkway.
But the situation was just the opposite where the prow of the Not For Hire touched the portside of the Rex. Here Clemens’ men had run over King John’s crew, and they were crowding onto its decks. At least, this was happening on the hurricane decks. Below this there was still battling.
Burton started toward the deck, and at that moment a blast completely deafened and half-stunned him, lifted him from the box, and propelled him through the air. He fell headlong onto several people, fortunately for him. Otherwise, he would have been killed or severely bashed. Even so, when he returned to full consciousness, his chest and face hurt from the impact against armor. The two he had landed on were either senseless or dead.
Rising, he stared at the Rex. It was leaning away from him, slowly tilting. It took some time before he grasped that it was sinking.
Someone near him murmured, “Torpedo! Their torpedo boat got through!”
So…the gun and rocket batteries on the starboard side had failed to sink the Not For Hire’s launch. Or, if they had succeeded, they had done so too late. One, perhaps two, torpedoes had struck the Rex at the waterline. The explosion had lifted him, hurled him forward. Rather, it had lifted and rolled that mighty boat just enough out of the water for the edge of her deck to catch the edge of the paddlebox. And, like an acrobat bounced from a trampoline, Burton had soared off the box.
Below him, to both sides, men and women were scrambling from the sinking vessel to the Not For Hire. Among them were the enemy who had just battled so successfully to board the Rex.
He came out of his freeze then. Where was Alice? Had she been caught in sick bay, perhaps killed as the deadly waves from the explosion traveled through the metal hull? He had been told that when a torpedo struck a big vessel, the vibrations from the explosion went upward from deck to deck in a triangle, and all those who stood in it died. He did not know if that was true. In any event, sick bay was in the middle of the boat. Surely the deadly fatal waves would not reach there. But hatches might have been slammed shut, and she might be trapped. Or she could have been knocked
out or her arm or leg broken. Or she may have been all right, but she did not have time to get out of the boat.
It was sinking swiftly. Those who had not leaped to the deck level on which Burton was now had to try for the lower decks as the boat sank. They did not have much time, a few seconds.
Some did jump and were caught between the decks. They shrieked as their bodies were cut or ground in half between the hulls.
Some made it.
The boarding bridges screamed metallically as they were bent or torn off by the rolling Rex.
He didn’t see Alice. However, the boat was so huge that she could have been on the far end and he wouldn’t even see her in this fitful firelight. Or she could have jumped off the other side and be swimming now.
He became aware that the Swazi was gripping his arm.
“We can do nothing to keep her from sinking, captain. We must fight on the boat or else leap into The River and swim for it. Our enemies outnumber us two to one.”
The Rex kept on rolling, the weight of the water pouring in through the big hole and the starboard paddlewheel making her heavier on that side. As he stared fascinated, he saw the mighty bottom expose itself, then it sank back into The River. And there was then only a hole in the waters, the sides steep and racing, streaked white in the fires from the Not For Hire, forming a whirlpool. A vast sucking sound was followed by a great sigh, as if the vessel were glad that the end of its long journey had at last come.
The waters fell together and swirled. Great bubbles burst on the surface.
“Captain, we must fight!” Umslopogaas said.
Burton got onto the railing and held on to a stanchion while he looked along both lengths of the deck. His marines and many crewmen were strung out along the walkway. So far, their opposition had ceased. Clemens’ people had retreated to prepare an ambush or surprise attack. Or they had halted to observe the sinking of the Rex Grandissimus. Whatever they were doing, they were not in sight.
But when he leaned far out to look on the decks below, he saw that the walkways contained a number of the enemy. They did not crowd the walkways, there were not enough of them left to do that. But they were moving toward the prow, where some of King John’s men had managed to get aboard. In fact, unless he was mistaken, John was among them. He could not be sure at this distance, but one man had broad shoulders and tawny hair. Or the hair seemed to be tawny.
Whether it was John or not, his people were going to have a hell of a fight soon. So, for that matter, would those around Burton.
More bubbles burst. Debris popped out on the roiled waters from time to time. Among it, a few swimmers struggled.
For the third time, Umslopogaas spoke.
“Captain, we must fight!”
Burton got down from the railing.
Somebody else was on his right side. He looked around into the dark eyes of Tom Mix. Beyond him was the sturdy figure of Jack London. Mix drawled, “Pogaas is right, captain. We either got to fight or get to hell off of here.”
“What the hell is there to fight about?” London cried. “Our boat’s gone! It’s like having your country sink under you.”
In a sense, London was right. But their captain might still be alive. And as long as John was, his cause was not dead.
Also, there was Alice. She could be dead, most probably was. But he would not quit until he knew whether she was alive or dead.
“All right!” Burton bellowed, suddenly coming from his stasis. He paused. From above and below came scattered gun reports and cries, the clashing of blades. That was another reason to keep on fighting. As long as others did, he couldn’t quit.
“Quiet!”
The voices of those around him died down. He got back onto the railing so they could all see him.
“King John’s still alive! And fighting!” he cried. “I saw him down at the front part of the boat on this side!”
He did not know if he had really seen John. But his troops needed something to fight for, blood to be transfused into their morale.
A loud cheer rose.
“There are plenty of us aboard,” he said. “You can hear them now! We’ll go to their help! Mix, you take all but fifteen and lead them down to the boiler deck, the port forward section. That’s where John and most of the others are! I’ll take my fifteen and try for the main ammunition stores! If we can get to them, we’ll set them off and sink the boat! You be sure to tell John that when you get to him! He shouldn’t be taken unawares!”
“Hell, you could blow us all up, too!” Mix said.
“Not if you’re on the walkway,” Burton said. “Anyway, you’ll have to take your chances!”
“Then you want us to be a diversion, to draw everybody to us while you pussyfoot down to the ammo room?” Mix said.
“That’s about the essence of it,” Burton said.
Mix turned and began shouting orders. Burton picked his fifteen, mostly from those that happened to be near him. Umslopogaas was one. While the remainder of the force was walking toward the nearest ladder, Mix in their lead, Burton took his men in the opposite direction.
Umslopogaas, behind him, said, “Captain, where is the powder room?”
“A good question,” Burton said. “I’m presuming that it’s amidships, probably in the boiler deck. Or there may be more than one. But the main one should be in the boiler deck.”
As he went by a prostrate form, he heard a groan. He stopped and looked through the semidarkness. The sound had come from one of the bodies strewn along the deck.
The groan came again. This time he identified its source. It was a man lying on his side. Burton held up his hand and said, “Halt!”
The Swazi passed the command along.
“What is it?” Umslopogaas said to Burton, who was kneeling by the wounded man.
“He can tell us where the magazine is,” Burton said.
The Swazi pulled the bleeding man to a sitting position. The man’s head lolled; his mouth hung open.
“Where is the ammunition supply room?” Umslopogaas said in Esperanto.
The man stared with glazed eyes.
The Swazi released the man, who fell backward, striking his head hard upon the deck, “He is of no use!”
ii
Before the airplane double duel, Nur el-Musafir told Peter Frigate, “It’s not so much the physical events of a battle that should interest a person, though these do have a certain fascination, especially among those engaged in it. The number of soldiers or sailors involved, the attacks, the defenses, the feints, the percentage of casualties, the stupidities and blunders, the shrewd or brilliant moves, the seizing of temporary advantages, the cowardices and heroisms, the unexpected turn of events, the unexplainable mishaps, the sudden surges of common courage or lack of it, these, to a certain degree, are intriguing.
“But what is really interesting and significant is what the soldiers, from the general down to the lowliest enlisted man, learn from the battle. And even more important, what changes in character, if any, the participants have during the battle. Or what they become aware of in retrospect after the battle.”
“I’ve been through a few,” Frigate said. “About all I was aware of during them was that I was scared, sometimes literally shitless. Though usually I get diarrhea before the battle and so go into it with empty bowels. Most of the time I wish that I was somewhere else. However, after it’s over, I get a certain peculiar feeling of happiness. It’s not so much that I survived as it is having wreaked violence on the poor devils I’d fought, I became aware of this on Earth when I was forced into some fist fights and won. At that time I analyzed myself, and I was sure that under my lifelong and almost pathological aversion for violence was a suppressed desire for violence. But I was afraid of it; I suppressed the desire, perverted it into a great fear of it. It’s taken years for me to overcome that, to see the other side of the coin, as it were. I no longer am numb, paralyzed when physical or verbal violence threatens. But I still get frightened before the action start
s and sometimes during it. But that’s normal. If I’m brave, it’s because I’m afraid to show my fear.”
“You still react too much to other people’s opinions,” Nur said. “When you can act on your own, without regard for what others think, then you’ll have taken one more step toward being a whole man.”
“I know that,” Frigate said.
Nur grinned and shook his head.
“You’re always telling me that you already know that. But with you knowledge doesn’t lead to action. Though you’ve improved enormously since I met you.”
Frigate refrained from saying that he’d known that.
One of his troubles, Frigate thought, was that he was a reactor. He’d depended too much upon letting others initiate action. But inside or under the reactor was another self, an embryonic or perhaps suppressed actor or initiator. That self had burst through now and then, but had usually not known moderation and had spoiled his nonreacting acts. It was an overly exuberant Samson who toppled down the temple while trying to pull up a pillar. And then, of course, the bad results of his initiative had caused him to allow the nonreacting self to take over again.
Still, his Riverworld life had given him a chance to overcome that, and he had done so to a certain degree.
Nur had kept an almost continuous psychological pressure on him, and that had been the main factor in changing his character. But the life aboard the Rex had also resulted in increasing both his confidence and awareness of his self. Like all the others, including King John, he had been trained to fulfill any duty aboard. Thus, during the many years on it, he’d learned almost everything needed to be a proficient electrical and mechanical engineer, plumber, gunner, radar and radio operator and maintenance man, welder, fitter, boat pilot, and officer. He’d also spent countless hours in exercises designed to build muscle, wind, and quickness. He’d learned judo, jiujitsu, judako, savate (both French and Moroccan), boomerangery, archery, boxing, marksmanship, spearmanship, axmanship, stick-fighting, knife fighting and throwing, tomahawk and battle-axe throwing, and dueling with foil, épée, saber, and cutlass. With everybody else, he’d taken turns being the commander so that, if need be, he could captain the boat. The day after doing that, he might be put on cleaning detail to scrub out the toilets and wash the decks.
Riverworld Short Stories Page 11