"Huh?" said Hayl, but Theo kept rolling on with nothing more than a quick wink to mark his little malapropism.
"They may be headstrong, but they are also pragmatic. They'd both love to kill the other, but if one of them offers the challenge to a duel, the other gets to chose the weapon. Lt. Fielder would opt for pistols and riddle poor Lt. Broadax, while Broadax would select edged weapons and Fielder would be worm food in the blink of an eye. And so they dance. It provides a form of entertainment for the crew. A kind of dangerous spectator sport. Just be sure to never mention it to either of them, and stay well out of the way whenever they are in the same room."
"Aye," said Archer. "So let's kind of linger here and watch the show, shall we?"
His full family name was Baronet Daniello Sans Fielder: the noble family "without a field," having lost all land, wealth, influence, and everything but their title many generations ago. He had been sent to sea at a young age by an impoverished family, and he was as bitter as baking chocolate and self-centered as a cat. Melville kept seeing hints that somewhere inside him there was a nugget of decency. But then that might just have been wishful thinking.
Fielder was a master pistol shot and an extraordinarily proficient first officer who directed the day-to-day operations of the Fang with great skill and energy. He was also an unrepentant coward who could fight like a demon if cornered. He claimed he was following the philosophical path of an obscure twentieth century thinker named Linus, who held that "there is no problem so large or complicated you can't run from it." Now that he had acquired some wealth, he was even more desperate to avoid danger and hang on to his fortune.
Melville knew that if he got rid of Fielder the Admiralty would never assign a replacement for him, and in all honesty Melville was unlikely to find anyone half as competent to run the Ship. In the end the captain rationalized his decision, figuring that the Fang did not need a bold, brilliant, and charismatic first officer who was determined to to outshine her captain. Besides, Fielder helped provide an anchor and a balance for Melville. Or so he kept telling himself.
She was Lt. Ninandernander Broadax, a Dwarrowdelf in sworn service to the Crown of Westerness. No one ever called her Nina. (Unless old Hans did in moments of intimacy when they were off duty and off the Ship, but no one even wanted to think about that.) She was as twisted as a strand of barbed wire, and beloved and respected by almost everyone aboard. Everyone except Fielder, that is.
The Dwarrowdelf were a race of delvers, seeking heavy metals deep in the hearts of high-gravity worlds. Survival on such worlds requires great strength and lightning fast reflexes. It is intuitively obvious and widely understood that high-gee worlds can nurture a race with great strength. Less well known is the fact that fast reflexes are also a byproduct of high gravity.
A fundamental requirement for bipedal, humanoid existence, on any world, is to catch yourself if you trip and fall. Getting your hands in front of your face before it smacks into the ground is a basic survival skill. You have to do this fast on high-gee worlds, and the price of failure is high. In high-gravity the slow and the weak die off quickly, and the survivors are naturally selected for strength and speed.
The downside of existence on high-gee worlds is that projectiles drop very quickly. Rocks, arrows, bullets, and just about anything else launched in high gravity and dense atmosphere have a flight path similar to a rock thrown underwater. Thus the Dwarrowdelf had zero skill with projectile weapons. It was bred out of them across countless generations of natural selection, and a Dwarrowdelf never had the chance to develop a skill with projectile weapons, even if they were capable of it.
The result was that Lt. Broadax was not just a bad shot, she was dangerous with any kind of gun unless she had lots of time to think, or was able to screw the end of the barrel directly into her opponent. And even then, more often than not she'd end up grazing and crippling her terrified foe.
Her skill at ranged weapons might leave everything to be desired, but in close combat she was one of the most fearsome warriors that nature had ever wrought. And she was a product of a military organization, combined with combat experiences, that worked together to forge her natural, raw talents like a master smith will forge a perfect blade. She was a blade that had been hammered in white-hot fire and death, and quenched in oceans of blood.
Her warrior spirit was as strong as her body, and she lived for one thing and one thing only. Glory! She rejoiced in every battle they fought. This was what she'd hoped for when she abandoned her people to be the first Dwarrowdelf to enlist in the Marine Corps of Westerness. As a female, her own society wouldn't allow her to be a warrior. They wanted to deny her the glory of battle, but she had proven herself and had been honored by her own people. Today she had no regret for turning her back on her people and her culture to fight as a mercenary for some distant kingdom. This was what she was born for.
Melville loved her dearly and she was truly loyal and grateful to him. But, like Fielder, Broadax was a flawed tool. In the end she was a borderline sociopath who was pathologically incapable of avoiding a fight, and willing to do anything for glory. Fortunately, over the centuries military forces have developed rituals, ceremonies, honors and guidelines to gainfully employ borderline sociopaths while keeping them within the limits of acceptable behavior.
Lady Elphinstone was in the process of scolding Lt. Broadax, taking the cigar out of the marine's mouth with a fierce look and a peremptory "No smoking!" The surgeon held the stogie at arm's-length and looked at it as though it were a cancerous tumor. Noxious odor and smoke drifted from one end, while the other, unlit end of the stogie was dripping with saliva and falling apart in her hand. Broadax didn't smoke cigars, she tortured them, igniting one end and mangling the other until the poor thing finally succumbed somewhere in the middle. Elphinstone gingerly tossed the decaying, dying stogie into a slop bucket, where it found an end to its suffering and misery with a brief "hiss!" of relief.
"But it's my right ta smoke!" said Broadax, belligerently.
"There are a lot of things that thou hast the 'right' to do," responded the surgeon, primly. "But many of them need to be done in private, or at least not in my hospital. For example, thou shouldst move thy bowels in private. Can we trust thee not to do that here?"
The ordinarily unflappable ex-NCO looked slightly stunned and dazed. Lt. Broadax had met her match and she knew it. The predator defending her lair is almost never defeated and it is seldom worth the cost even if you can. (That is why the lion tamer is in the cage before the lions. If you did it the other way around, you'd be paying to see an entirely different kind of entertainment!) So Broadax simply clammed up and turned to watch the floorshow.
Fielder came into the hospital just as the medicos were turning their attentions away from Broadax and directing their tender mercies upon the hapless Asquith. Ordinarily the first officer would have avoided Broadax, but he could never let anyone think that he would run from the marine lieutenant, and he was happy to see her in one of those rare moments when she was disconcerted and socially off balance. Besides, Asquith and Vodi were sparring, and it was the best entertainment aboard the Ship.
"Garlic soup?!" said Asquith.
"Now, eat up," Vodi replied patiently. "Garlic is a goodness. Garlic was invented by a righteous and loving God so that man could swallow snails without choking."
Asquith tried to digest this logic as Vodi continued sternly, while the others looked on with the virtuous pleasure of the healthy observing the ill. "Now that you are here in hospital," she said, "you must leave off your bad habits. You must give up cussing, smoking and drinking."
"But I don't do those things!"
"Well there you have it. You're a sinking ship at sea with no ballast to throw overboard. You forgot to cultivate your bad habits when you had a chance. Now there's no hope for you! It was good knowing you. I think."
"Thanks, that makes me feel better," Asquith said weakly.
"It's my job to make people comfortable. Or m
iserable. By fits and starts. Depending on what they've earned lately. I wouldn't want to deny you anything you've worked so hard to achieve."
"Can't you hold your tongue for one minute, and just feed me?"
"She can't hold her tongue," interjected Fielder, "she'd cut herself."
Vodi looked over at the first officer with a saccharine sweet smile that said, Sooner or later, buddy, you'll be under my care. Sooner or later.
"Speaking of thanks, and just rewards," continued Asquith, "what about those leeches you used to reattach my finger? What's become of them? Are they still around?"
"Unfortunately," said Vodi, with true sadness, "to get the greedy little piggies to let go we have to pour salt on them, and that kills them."
Asquith looked at Elphinstone, who was examining his dressings while Vodi distracted him, and asked, "How does a doctor who believes life is precious feel about killing these creatures?"
"Wouldst thou know the crux of the matter, then?"
"I asked, didn't I?"
"Then I shall tell thee."
"Yes?"
"'Twas simply this. I had to chose between them or thee," she replied. "'Twas a hard choice, but in the end it was the lesser of evils. Which wouldst thou have preferred?"
Still trying to protest—or at least delay—the garlic soup that Vodi was spooning down his throat, Asquith began to pursue one of his favorite topics. "Why can't you people do anything that isn't primitive and ineffectual? Like this foolish soup as medicine. Or look at my hand," he said, holding it up and looking to the urbane Fielder for some sympathy. "It's the damned Flintstones! They stitched me up with waxed thread. Waxed thread! Somebody just light my wick and make a wish! When I finally get back to Earth, the book I'll write will pay for the therapy I'll need."
Everyone grinned at that. They all appreciated a good rant from their pet earthworm, who had remained obstinately ignorant about such matters until now, when they were suddenly, rudely, and quite painfully inflicted upon him.
"Or this silly Ship," he continued, gesturing petulantly at the luminous white bulkhead beside him and glaring at them with his one good eye. "Why can't the hull be made out of steel? Then that so-called 'splinter' wouldn't have taken out my eye."
"Nope," Vodi replied, full of the infinite patience that a medical specialist can have for a patient who is completely at her mercy. "It has to be made out of this special kind of wood that the Moss will grow on. That really limits the number of Ships out here in Flatland."
"Why can't it be part wood and part steel?"
"'Tis because," replied Elphinstone with equal patience, "the inimical forces of two-space tend to twist and distort, and eventually destroy most structural parts not made out of Nimbrell timbers."
"Could the canvas be made out of mono-filamant? Or plastic?"
"No," said Broadax, throwing in her two-bits. "Anythin' artificial decays real quick, eaten up by that evil bastard, the Elder King! So it has to be made out o' something livin', so Lady Elbereth protects it, ye see? An' gunpowder is pretty much inert in two-space. It just kinda smolders. Like tobacco. Thank the Lady for that."
"That gunpowder doesn't work?" asked Asquith in confusion.
"Naw," She said scornfully, rolling her ubiquitous stogie around in her mouth. Lady Elphinstone had taken her lit cigar upon entering the room, but she could still chomp on an unlit stogie, inflicting a slow, hideous demise upon it from one end only. "I thanks the Lady that tobacco will burn, or at least smolder. Otherwise how's a girl ta git a good smoke?"
"You know," said Mrs. Vodi, "Lt. Broadax inspired some of our Guldur crew members to take up smoking cigars. They looked for all the world like a dog with a cigar in its mouth, which is a singularly incongruous and ludicrous sight. For most of them, though, the habit didn't take. Whenever they got excited or distracted they tended to think the cigar was food and swallow it. Then you heard a unique yelping noise which is universal dog-speak for 'lesson learned.'"
"Aye," said Elphinstone. "So things only smolder in two-space. As a result there are no real burns. The only way thou canst be burnt in two-space is to spill thy food or," looking disapprovingly at Broadax, "swallow thy cigar."
"Now, my lady," said Vodi with a wink, "we all need to cultivate those bad habits, so you have some baggage to throw overboard when you get ill. If we ever get the good lieutenant in our tender mercies she'll have to give up those awful things, and the shock will either kill her or heal her."
"Could you use Greek fire?" asked Asquith doggedly, not yet convinced that these primitives were doing all that was possible to overcome the limitations of their environment.
"Nope," said Vodi, patiently. "Like I told you. No combustion, that's why the cook has to heat the food with modified Keel charges in the burners."
"So all you have to fight with are bare blades, and muzzle-loading muskets and cannons, launched by those crazy Keel charges?"
"Yes, although some of those cannon, you have to admit, are pretty potent," said Vodi, shoving another spoonful of soup down her unwilling patient's throat. "You've touched the Keel charge on some of those 24-pounders?"
Asquith shuddered at the taste of the soup and the memory of the 24-pounders. "Yes. I've never felt anything like it in my life. Pure hatred and destructive malice. That does bring up a question. Does size really matter? It appears that the larger the weapon, the more aggressive. Is this true? Or is there a really, really angry derringer out there? What about a weapon that's pacifistic in nature?"
"'Does size really matter?'" replied Vodi, wagging her spoon threateningly in Asquith's face. "Such a straight line you hand me, my friend! But I'll let that one go and wait for a sportin' shot."
"The bigger a gun is, the more intelligent it tends to be," said Fielder as he lounged against one luminous white bulkhead. "But you should try a few shots from the captain's little pistol. It's been in his family for generations, constantly remaining in two-space and building up a personality. It's amazingly intelligent, and it's the most vicious thing I've ever held in my hand—barring a few ex-girlfriends I can think of. As to a pacifist weapon, well I've yet to run into one of those, but the galaxy is a big place. Who knows what's out there."
"What about gas warfare?"
"Been tried," replied Fielder. "The chemicals decay almost immediately upon entry into two-space."
"So that's why the level of medical support is so poor? No drugs at all?"
"They tend to decay on long voyages," replied Fielder. "Even our canvas sails decay over time, and we've spent centuries breeding and developing the plants that they came from. That's why the medicos grow a garden that includes the garlic you are enjoying. Our Vodi is a master herbalist, and the cook has a small garden of herbs and spices."
" Aye," said Vodi with dignified pride. "I'm an herbalist first class and an apothecary second class. Herbalism is really my strong suit."
"I think you've been spending too much time inhaling your inventory," said Asquith petulantly. "None of those 'herbs' did me any good. Chains are your strong suit! Chaining folks down on the operating table!"
"I guess it could be worse," said Vodi with a wink to one-and-all. "In Lt. Broadax's case, chain mail is her only suit."
Always happy to reinforce and support any cut at Broadax, Fielder groaned appreciatively and said, "Go to your room!"
"Only if you'll spank me when I get there!" replied Vodi with a saucy smile.
Fielder grinned back, not visibly daunted by the prospect of spanking the ample Vodi. Then he left with his dignity intact while Broadax and Vodi chuckled and Elphinstone looked on with a disapproving but resigned shake of her head.
Finally, they were done with repairs. As old Hans put it, "We did a right fine job a blastin' the blazes outa them vacuum-suckin' Guldur bastards. There ain't much more we can do ta turn these crippled, shot-ta-hell hulks into fightin' Ships." So the period of constant effort and exhausted naps was mostly behind them and they finally had a few moments to slow down for reflection.
Now it was time to mourn their dead and honor their fallen.
The sailors of two-space lived in dread of being buried in space. The bodies of their fallen comrades would be buried in the rich, living earth of the first planet they came to. For now their canvas-wrapped bodies would be pulled behind them, sunken in two-space, like a macabre stringer of frozen fish towed behind a boat. Burial could come later, but right now they needed to take time for a memorial service.
Melville stood on the upper quarterdeck looking down at a sea of upturned faces full of grief, expectation, scars, and broken noses. Men at war, warriors who had adjusted to war, grieved briefly and intensely. His job was to guide them along that path. Melville felt like he had had far too much experience at it. He longed for someone to help him with the burdens upon his soul and spirit. But for now his duty was to speak Words for their fallen comrades.
"The Bible tells us that, 'there is a time for everything,'" began Melville, "'and a season for everything under the sun.'"
His crew sighed and settled in to hear their captain apply the healing balm of Words to guide and carry them through their grieving. Untold thousands of applications of these ancient Words to the griefs of more than two thousand years had carved them into the cultural consciousness of the listeners, giving the Words power. Power to heal and power to strengthen lives in times of sorrow and loss. And it helped that Melville was a darned good speaker.
"'There is a time to be born, and a time to die. A time to sow, and a time to reap. A time to kill, and a time to heal.' Shipmates, my brothers and sisters, the time for killing has passed, for now. It is time to grieve, and it is time to heal.
"He that lacks time to mourn,
lacks time to mend.
Eternity mourns that.
'Tis an ill cure
For life's worst ills,
to have no time to feel them."
Among the humans were Sylvans who listened with shining eyes. Their race had already been enchanted and fascinated by Earth's language, culture and heritage, and now they were part of it. Guldur crew members, scattered throughout the crowd, listened with cocked canine heads, fascinated by the cadence, beauty, and sense of the words.
The Guns of Two-Space Page 16