> "Cha-DOOM!!" <
Boye, unable to follow Melville down the line, sat on the lowerside deck and whined pitifully, gazing longingly into the hole where his master had vanished.
Melville fired each of the stern guns in turn, bouncing back and forth between the lower and upper sides, using the new hatches to speed his movement. Each time, Boye barked with delight when Melville clambered up the rope to fire the lowerside stern gun, and then whined with frustration when his master disappeared down the hatch again.
As the enemy's bow guns hammered away at his rigging, Melville punched a steady series of deadly accurate shots straight into their bow. The distance between the two Ships did not close nearly as fast during this stern chase, and it took longer than it did the last time for Melville to shatter the enemy's Keel and make his kill, but the outcome was the same as before.
After a brief but brutal slugfest Melville's superior accuracy took its toll. The enemy Ship was sinking and the Fangs were cheering as their pursuers died.
Melville watched and wondered—not for the first time—how long it took to die in a hard vacuum. Explosive decompression was not a quick or painless death. But how long did it take? Ten seconds? A minute? As long as you could hold your breath? However long it was, every second would be filled with pain. Blood vessels bursting in the brain. Eyes hemorrhaging and lungs rupturing. Explosive expansion of nitrogen bubbles in the joints...
Perhaps it was too much pain to really register. Maybe at some point the chorus of agony would overwhelm the mind. So many extraordinary, simultaneous violations of the body might be just massive overkill to the pain receptors in the brain.
Perhaps. Maybe.
The inhabitants of two-space lived in constant dread of answering these questions, of meeting the enemy that waited patiently all around them, lurking constantly and malignantly.
And always there was this: Better you than us. The angel of death had passed over them. Their tension eased, and most of the veteran crew thought to themselves, You bastards came looking for trouble, and you found it.
This latest battle had done still more harm to their rigging. The topmen had worked like heroes to repair most of the damage suffered in the first engagement, but now their ragged sails had absorbed additional holes and their yards and rigging ended this battle in worse shape than before. This time even more topmen lay dead or wounded in crimson pools upon the deck, and the next enemy Ship had already closed into range.
Their major bit of good luck thus far was that the enemy had not shattered any of their masts. But that could change in a moment. With this third Ship Melville changed his strategy and began to aim at the enemy's masts. He had to keep them at a distance, and just a few good shots could shatter the approaching Guldur's foremast and slow them greatly. Besides, he didn't want to sink these last two Guldur Ships. He had other plans for those bastards!
Melville and the third Guldur Ship began their battle by each taking out a mast. Just as Melville's precisely aimed shot from Malicious Intent shattered the enemy's upper foremast right at the base, a lucky shot from the enemy combined with previous damage to take down the Fang's upper mizzenmast.
With a shattering, rending roar, the mizzenmast came tumbling down while Melville was still on top of the upper stern gun. He looked up in time to see the great mass of canvas, and spars come ponderously down, dragging two screaming sailors and a trail of rigging behind it like writhing snakes. He rolled off the platform and crouched next to the gun carriage as the foot-wide yardarm smashed down across the gun.
"All hands to the gun!" roared Melville as he crawled out from the debris. "Clear this gun for action!" He heaved himself up, only to realize that his right hand was half sunk into the shattered, pulped skull of one of the assistant gunners.
"Clear the gun first, then see to the rest!" Melville shouted. All around him the entire upperside crew was dashing about, chopping and hauling at the debris like a mass of ants on a kicked-over anthill. He wanted to stop and help with this task, but their lives depended on hammering the enemy, and he raced to the hatch. "Mr. Hayl!" he said, grabbing the young midshipman by the shoulder. Hayl jumped and Melville couldn't help but smile briefly. The boy had anticipated the touch of a deadly splinter or cannonball and not his captain's hand.
Melville looked him in the eye and said, "Come to the lower deck and tell me the instant this gun is cleared for action. Do you understand?"
The boy's face was white and his eyes were wide. Melville could hear the tension in his voice as he nodded and squeaked, "Aye sir!" Then Melville saw Archie Hargis, his imperturbable clerk, look him in the eye and nod calmly from behind the young midshipman. Melville grinned with relief—he knew that a veteran crewman would backstop the midshipman to ensure that he was informed as soon as the gun was back in action.
He scrambled over a mass of debris and dove into the hatch. With the fall of the mizzenmast the line running straight down the center of the hatch had gone slack, and his heart was in his throat as he made the dive without his guideline. He dropped through to the lowerside, where the rope was still attached to the lower mizzen topsailyard, and scrambled up the line to the deck, where Boye greeted him joyously. He looked up at the quarterdeck and called to Lt. Fielder, "Daniel, the mizzenmast has come down on the other side!"
"Aye, sir. They called over the voice tube to tell us. We've already slacked sail to balance the thrust."
"Good. Send all of your idlers up to help them, and have someone get this line taut, so I can go safely back through the hatch when the upper stern gun is clear."
"Aye, sir!" responded Fielder calmly, and then he began to call out clear, concise and effective orders. Melville grinned as he hopped up on Rabid, the lower stern gun. Fielder may not have much liking for a fight, but when the chips were down his competence, combined with his strong sense of self preservation, made him extremely capable. As Sun Tzu said, "When in death ground, fight!"
Then Melville fired the gun and saw the ball shatter the enemy's lower foremast. He watched with intense satisfaction as the mast shivered and then slowly bowed forward, picking up speed as rigging snapped and the angle became more pronounced, until it slammed down across the enemy's bowsprit in a great flapping tangle of wood, canvas, and cordage.
Now the enemy had both his upper and lower foremasts down. This new damage did not slow the enemy any more, since they had already slacked sails on the foremast to balance the thrust, but the forward-leaning masts had came down like fallen trees, completely blocking the enemy's bow guns. Melville only had one gun to fight this battle with, but the enemy had none.
Melville began to slam shot after shot into the enemy's mainmast. Rabid's gun crew threw themselves at their handspikes and rammers, oblivious to anything but the hungry muzzle of their gun. After just three shots the Guldur's mainmast came tumbling down, and the Fang began to pull rapidly away from Guldur number three.
Guldur number four, the last of their attackers, was now closing rapidly. Over sixty percent of the Fang's sails were out of commission and one of her two big stern guns was down, while a completely fresh enemy came charging at them with both bow guns blazing.
Melville and Rabid were getting to know each other. They were fine-tuning their relationship with each shot fired, and as this new enemy approached, Melville, his Ship, and his gun all felt a great sense of confidence.
On the upperside the Guldur Ship would be hammering them mercilessly and the Fang could not respond. Their only hope was to quickly and efficiently stop the enemy, right now, with this gun.
He is the gun, he is the Ship. They are him and they are one.
He aims down the barrel. The tiny motions of his head happen without conscious thought, guiding the crew to make minuscule adjustments to the gun. He is not aware of reaching down to touch the Keel charge at the base of Rabid's barrel, it is just... time. In the fullness of time it happens.
<
Rabid's first shot is just a hair left, smashing halfway through the left side of the enemy's foremast.
Melville waits with intense frustration while the crew reloads the gun and slams the huge weapon back into battery. <
"Ah, you bastards," murmurs Melville as the gun is slammed back into battery by its crew. "We got you bracketed."
<
The crew cheers themselves hoarse and Boye barks triumphantly as they watch the enemy's foremast tumble down and cover the bow gun. The Guldur Ship is now close enough that the two 12-pounders in the Fang's stern cabin beside him can finally come into action. For a brief period they add their share of death and destruction, punishing the enemy for the presumptuousness of getting this close.
Melville's lips draw back and he begins to hammer away at their mainmast.
<
Again, the frustrating, agonizing wait as the gun is reloaded, and then: <
He doesn't notice the stink of ozone or the blinding flash of the cannon, he only has eyes for the enemy. <
But Melville, Fang, and Rabid are not done. The enemy can still do damage on the upperside, and the foe is still in range of their gun. Melville must continue to savage the enemy Ship for as long as he can.
Now their target is the enemy's mizzenmast; their last mast, their only mast on this side. Already the enemy has dropped out of range of the Fang's 12-pounders, and the two guns in the stern cabin beside him go silent.
<
<
"Damn, dead on, but too low," Melville mutters while Fang and Rabid seethe with frustrated rage.
The gun crew sees where the ball struck, and they automatically elevate the barrel. It is now back in battery and raised to the maximum possible extent.
It seems to take forever for the gun to come back into battery, but finally it is ready. Melville touches the Keel charge and commands the next shot. Fang dedicates all of her vast intellect to compute and direct the shot. <
The crew cheers and roars as the final mast shivers and falls on the distant enemy Ship, while Rabid's crew races to refill the shot garlands, not willing to rest until their gun is ready for the next battle.
Now there were only three Ships still alive in this piece of two-space: the Fang, and two Guldur strung out to her stern. One enemy Ship was completely dismasted on one side, while the other was only getting thrust from one mast. The Fang had steady thrust from two masts—albeit with badly damaged rigging and terribly tattered sails.
If Melville wanted to he could pull away from his enemy and escape the battle. But that would mean they were still out there, and with some repairs they could still catch his tattered, mangled Ship.
It would not be easy, but there would never be a better time to finish off the attackers, and Melville's beloved Ship and crew would not be safe until their enemy was completely defeated. Besides, Melville was a firm believer in kicking the bastard while he was down.
In victory, humility. But until the victory was won and his Ship was safe, his motto was: fair fights are for fools.
I am no Homer's hero you all know
I profess not generosity to a foe...
If you play a game of chance,
know before you begin
If you are benevolent,
you will never win.
Their achievement thus far had been nothing short of amazing. Throughout history there have been warriors with extraordinary, deadly superiority in combat. There were swordsmen, duelists, and snipers on every world who racked up hundreds of kills, and Melville was in part a duelist and a sniper. But the Fang's prowess was more akin to the man-machine interface of the fighter aces or elite tank crews in the twentieth century on Old Earth. Some of these war machines were manned by pilots and crews whose remarkable competence permitted them to make hundreds of kills.
The majority of the fighter pilots and tank commanders in twentieth century combat never got a single "kill" to their credit. Many never got the opportunity, and those who did often found out, too late, that they didn't have the killer spirit. One of the greatest fighter aces of all, a man with over three hundred kills to his name, said that most of the time he killed men who never knew he was in the sky with them.
As Melville felt the thrill of his survival, his success, his triumph, he knew that this was what it must have felt like for one of those legendary aces. The finest pilot in the finest machine with the finest crew, all utterly devoted to killing. He and his Ship were death incarnate. Melville laughed aloud. Joy surged through his soul—joy in victory, joy in life. As he stood there, with one hand stroking the hot barrel of Rabid and one hand on the Moss of his Ship, McAndrews poured him a mug of tea as the steward's monkey added lemon and sugar.
Melville took a sip, and then he held the cup up for his monkey. He felt almost dizzy and slightly disoriented as he began to relax. After the intense, focused concentration of aiming the gun it was like waking from a dream. As the savage spirit of Rabid seeped out of his soul it was like coming down from a drug high. Suddenly he realized that his body was bruised and battered and his hands were rope-burned. His awareness expanded outward from aiming the gun, to his body, to his Ship. Suddenly he remembered the rest of his responsibilities, the rest of his Ship.
"Dear Lord," he said, "what about the upperside?" Then he handed the mug to McAndrews, turned, and strode quickly to the hatch.
He called over his shoulder to the quarterdeck, "Steady as she goes, get us well away from those bastards for now."
"Aye, sir," Lt. Fielder replied. "Sounds like a good idea to me."
Melville gave the rope a tug to be sure it was secure on the other end and slid down headfirst as he had done so many times before, except this time he was conscious of the pain in his hands. When he popped through to the other side he didn't have the energy to clamber up the rope, so he swung over to the ladder and climbed up onto the upper gundeck.
On the lowerside Melville had taken the last two enemy Ships out of action by dropping their foremast over their bow guns and then hammering them with impunity. On the upperside the situation was reversed. The 24-pounder at the Fang's upper stern gunport was out of action, and both enemy Ships had been able to pound away at the crew as they tried desperately to clear the gun and repair the damage. The only thing that prevented the enemy from dropping the Fang's mainmast on this side was the fact that Melville had done so much damage, so quickly, on the other side and then pulled away from the battle. Even then, it was a close-run thing.
The upperside mainmast had taken several grazing hits, and the rigging and sails were in a shambles, but still they had thrust from the sails on two masts, and the topmen were placing patches on the sails. The damage to the Ship was serious, but it could be repaired. What ate at Melville's soul was the damage to his beloved crew.
Here a burly gun captain sat in a pool of blood, cupped the head of
his assistant gunner and quietly told him that his arm was gone. Here the cook's mates gently wrapped a body in sailcloth and took it to join the line of silent forms in the waist, lying in military order even unto death.
The smell was what always got to Melville. The copper smell of blood wasn't really all that bad. What revolted him was the stench of vomit and feces you got when you opened up human stomach and guts. Some writers referred to it as a "slaughterhouse smell" but Melville always thought this sickening odor was distinctly different from any butchery of animals that he had experienced. Blood smelled like blood, whether it was cattle in a slaughterhouse or humans on the deck of a Ship. But the smell from the contents of human entrails was distinctly different from that of herbivores butchered in a slaughterhouse. It was like the difference between human feces and horse dung ... except worse. It was that smell that made a battlefield so distinctive, and nauseating, to Melville.
The captain put a hand on every shoulder and gave a quiet word to every beloved Shipmate. Then he moved to the sick bay and did the same as tears streamed down his cheeks.
O loved, living, dying, heroic comrade,
All, all my joy, my grief, my love, are thine.
You cannot truly understand what it is to command, until you lose men in battle. And yet, to truly protect these warriors, he had to be willing to take them into harm's way. In war no one was ever really safe on the defensive. If you sat and huddled on the defense, or if you ran and hid, in the end you—and those you loved—would probably die. Only by gaining the initiative did you have a chance to survive. Only by seeking out and attacking the enemy, on your terms, at times of your choosing, could you ever have a degree of true safety in combat.
To be a great military leader you must sincerely love your men. But to keep your men safe, all too often you have to give them orders that could result in their deaths. That was the great paradox of military leadership. That paradox was a burden upon Melville's heart. And yet it had also become a comfort, because once he truly understood it, he also knew that he had no choice.
The Guns of Two-Space Page 8