Fielder nodded and said, "Generally, that's the interpretation of those types of dreams. In the sports world they're called 'performance anxiety dreams.' Guns not working in your dreams means you need to practice shooting. Punches that don't have any effect on your opponent represent a lack of confidence, and hard training can provide that confidence. I've had those a time or two myself. Especially when I'm, umm, escorting a married woman," he said with a leer.
"Married women? Daniel, isn't that dangerous with that barbarian custom of dueling that you Westerness types have?"
Fielder laughed. "That would explain why I only get those dreams when my current girlfriend is married. But that doesn't answer your question, Bert. What kind of dream are you having?"
"Pistols... guns..." he mumbled. "Damned things won't work. Just sort of wilt in my hand. Or bullets droop out the barrel. So my mind is telling me I need to learn about the damned things? I never wanted to be a duelist. I never wanted to go into combat! I never even wanted to leave Earth again!"
Fielder looked at him with a brief feeling of sincere affection. Sort of like you'd feel for a frightened pet bunny. "Look, Bert, you're getting a few things confused here. There is a huge difference between a duel and combat. The only similarity is that in both cases someone is trying to kill you. And the same training generally works for both. The best protection that you can have in a violent galaxy is to be deadly proficient with a pistol. Not to win duels. The whole idea is to avoid duels. The goal is to make it clear, to any potential enemy, that challenging you is tantamount to suicide. In the real world, most of the time, people don't go around looking for the fastest gun to beat in a fair battle. That's a myth from the Earth's Old West. It's the paradox of combat: in the real world, the better able you are to kill someone, the less likely you are to have to do it."
Asquith was silent for a while, thinking it over. Fielder stood by companionably, waiting for him to decide what he wanted, hoping the little man would decide to learn pistolcraft. While it might not be necessary, it could just save his life. And, he reflected, surprising as it was, Asquith had developed into a friend. Life was long. Things changed. People changed. And a tincture of time combined with native intelligence was one of the best medicines for curing ignorance.
Asquith sighed. "Well, what do I have to lose?"
"Aye," said Fielder. "My Grandma BenGurata always said, 'It's best to learn skills at leisure, just in case circumstances force you into a career change. And change is the only certainty in life.'"
Fielder believed in the general principle of striking before your victim gets a chance to talk himself out of the idea. So he arranged for Brother Theo to give Asquith his first lesson off the upperside stern, or "fantail" of the Ship. This allowed for Fielder to be nearby on the upper quarterdeck to observe and assist, and to store up a few embarrassing anecdotes for a time when Asquith, or others, would enjoy them. This location also kept most of the idlers from kibitzing or otherwise "helping" the earthworm learn the basics of survival.
Brother Theo was more than happy to teach Asquith, since it gave him an excuse to spend a morning shooting and teaching. Two things he loved to do. As Asquith learned quickly, Brother Theo did love the sound of his own voice, although this was leavened by his sincere interest in his pupil, and in the subject matter.
"Mr. Asquith, first, you have to understand that all we can do is train you to operate a weapon: to use it effectively and efficiently when needs must. The ability to actually fire the weapon and extinguish a life at the moment of truth must come from within." His monkey eeked emphatically at this, causing Brother Theo to twitch a brief grin at the little creature on his shoulder. "I would like to assert that the likelihood of such an event is doubtful, but based on recent history..." he trailed off with a slightly sad smile.
Asquith sighed. "I know, and I believe I need to learn the skill. I understand the need for it, but I must admit I'm not too happy about it."
Brother Theo nodded. "You are playing at the edges of the 'paradox of the warrior' that has followed us throughout civilization. You see, the warrior must have the skill, and the will to kill. The young soldier, sailor, or marine is issued a weapon and learns the skill. That is the easy part, and it does not make him a warrior. Next, he must understand, he must truly comprehend the fact that weapons kill. The full magnitude of the act of killing must hit him, and he has to deal with it, which should make him reluctant to take up his weapons, unless he believes it is truly necessary. And that is the vital step in the evolution of the true warrior: realizing what weapons can do, and still believing in the necessity to protect yourself and your loved ones. So, grasp it, understand it, and don't let go of it. Weapons exist to kill."
"Then why don't you store your weapons away if they're so dangerous? Why do you have them on you or near you so much of the time?" Asquith asked curiously.
"Ah, grasshopper," Brother Theo answered with a chuckle, "there are no dangerous weapons. There are only dangerous men! And to deal with dangerous men in a dangerous world, you must be dangerous! Ergo, you need a weapon, and the skill and the will to use it.
"Now," continued the monk, "you have asked a terribly important question. An inquiry which demands a response! Why must we have our weapons with us?"
"Oh, no," Asquith groaned. "Is there any chance of getting the short answer here, or am I going to have to hear it all before I get to shoot?"
"Watch it, Mr. Asquith, you're starting to sound like my poor midshipmen when I lecture them!" He grinned at the earthling, and continued, "Seriously though, we must avoid what Saint Blauer called a 'lip service, fortune cookie mindset.' Like, 'Be the willow, bend don't break.' That's just splendid. Thankyouverymuch. But a fortune cookie could have done about as much good! The key question to ask is, 'Do I have a tangible, useful skill afterward?' So, what will it be, a fortune cookie, or a skill that will stick to your ribs and be there for you when your life depends on it?"
"Well, when you put it that way, I guess I'm here to learn a skill."
"Good!" replied Theo. "So the answer is that teaching someone to use a weapon gives you conscious skills. It's only when you live with a weapon and carry it with you at all times that it becomes an unconscious part of you, so that it will be there when you need it most. To be honest, carrying a weapon is inconvenient, often uncomfortable, and frequently, if you will pardon a man of the cloth using vulgarity, a royal pain in the arse!"
"If you'll forgive me saying so, you don't always sound very, um, 'pious' I think is the word."
"Some folks wear their halos much too tight," said Theo with a chuckle and a self-deprecating shrug. "I figure God wants spiritual fruit, not religious nuts."
Asquith laughed. "Well, anyway, if carrying a gun is so blessed inconvenient, why do it? Why not just keep it somewhere nearby so you can get to it when you need it?"
"I'll answer that," replied Fielder, who had been listening. "My favorite literary character says, 'When you need a gun, you need it very badly, and nothing else will do.'"
"Pre-zactly," replied Theo. "I like to explain it this way. If I have it on me, no one else can take it from me. And when I need it I probably won't be able to plan exactly when the occasion will be. So if it isn't on me, I won't have it!"
Fielder snorted and said, "That's a hell of a long-winded way of saying the same thing," and then he wandered off to torment some errant soul up in the rigging.
"And," added Theo, "as St. Farnam put it, 'Carrying a gun also imparts a sense of self-respect, indeed nobility, to the carrier. He continually confirms in his own mind that his life and health are important and worth defending and that he, not some unit of government, is the one primarily responsible for his own safety and well being. It is the ratification of the doctrine of individual responsibility.'"
"Huh!" said Asquith, mulling that over carefully.
"Enough of that, my friend!" declared Theo. "This is your standard Westerness two-space pistol, commonly referred to as 'old reliable.' And
it is, indeed, reliable. So long as you take care of it and keep it either on you or stored next to the Keel at all times so that the effects of two-space are minimized. Two barrels, each with a Keel charge at the end which acts as a trigger when you thumb it, one sight, one rod to ram the bullets home, and a pouch of bullets to practice with."
He looked Asquith directly in the eye. "I discussed this with the captain. He agreed that if you were interested and motivated, this pistol is yours. And to make it a bit more desirable, I'll tell you a secret. This is one of the pistols Gunny Von Rito tuned up and customized for me, so you can count yourself among the rare recipients of his craftsmanship."
Asquith was silent for a moment. He looked away into the distance of two-space and then looked back and said with a slight grin, "Well, perhaps we should help me figure out what I should be doing with this pistol so I don't embarrass us all."
Brother Theo chuckled heartily and said, "Well then sir, you have asked for it! First, this is the front sight..." and he continued happily into the first lesson of pistolcraft for his newest student.
Ulrich had picked up a genuine parrotlet—a kind of pygmy parrot—while he was on Earth. He named the tiny green bird "Spike" and kept it on one shoulder. He and his monkey were teaching it to talk. Ulrich was training it to say, "I'm Spike! I taste like chicken!" and "Heeere kittykittykitty!" His monkey was teaching it to say, "Eep!"
This project was one of the many things that Ulrich did to keep himself entertained while he did the officers' laundry. Most of the time the little coxswain didn't mind washing and pressing for the officers. It needed to be done right, and no one bothered him while he was doing it. Besides, it helped keep his skipper looking impressive, and Ulrich knew better than anyone that appearance could overawe the opposition as much as any weapon. And it did make it easier to kill them when they were overawed, which was something that Ulrich heartily approved of.
The officers' laundry facility and Ulrich's pigeon cages were wedged into a small "head" that protruded like a barnacle from the side of the Ship. Under ordinary circumstances, any crewman would come to the head to sit in comfort and drop his waste into two-space. But this head was the coxswain's private domain. He was walking toward his area when he heard a sound that was out of place. It almost sounded like a voice but no one came down here unless they had to. Most of the weaklings couldn't handle the smell of the laundry and the pigeons combined.
He dropped the laundry bag he was carrying and drew his pistol as he slowly sidled down the passageway toward the sound. He slid down low and risked a quick peek around the corner, and then stood up suddenly in disgust.
"Hey!" he said, as he holstered his gun and walked around the corner. "Jist wat da hell ya thinks yer dewink?" Remarkably enough, the little sociopath was only curious instead of angry, a situation that most of the crew would have sworn was impossible.
"Urk!" grunted Asquith as he tried to simultaneously turn and keep from dropping the bag of bullets, ramrod, and pistol he was juggling in his hands.
Ulrich flicked out a fast fingertip and casually redirected the muzzle of the pistol out over the side as Asquith's monkey made a dive and caught the bag of bullets and the ramrod with a scolding "Eeek!" The earthling's helplessness actually made Ulrich feel somewhat expansive, a condition which might be charitably referred to as peevish in a normal sailor.
Asquith blinked his one good eye rapidly a few times while he opened and closed his mouth. He finally squeaked out, "Practicing!" and started to wave the pistol upward as a demonstration, which move was quickly forestalled by Ulrich pointing it over the side again.
"An' jisk wat are ya practicink? How ta juggle a piskol over da side o' the Ship?" Ulrich shook his head in mild bemusement. Finding an earthworm, practicing with a pistol no less, outside his laundry was not something he ever expected to see! The surprise actually rendered him close to something normal people called agreeable—so long as you could call a highly violent, volatile and unpredictable sociopath agreeable.
"No, ummm, actually reloading rapidly. Brother Theo and Lt. Fielder both agree that I have the basics down and simply need practice. Actually, Lt. Fielder said a few tens of thousands of practice shots was all I would need. I think he was joking a bit, though, I mean, tens of thousands of bullets, I mean..." Realizing he was babbling, Asquith shut up and just stood there.
Ulrich on the other hand was digesting the revelation that both Brother Theo and Lt. Fielder thought this man had the basics down. The coxswain knew both of them well and liked neither of them. (Actually, Ulrich didn't like anyone aboard the Fang, with the possible exception of his birds and his captain.) But he did respect their abilities with guns. Especially Fielder when he had a .45 auto. The man was useless unless he was forced to fight and then he was damned near as fast as Ulrich.
"Damned idjits gotsk it mesked up anyhowsk. Ya gotsk a monkey an' he's willink ta help. Get two piskols, an' give the monk the bulletsk an' ramrod. Like dis." He grabbed the bag of bullets and slung it over his shoulder so the mouth was near the monkey on his shoulder, and took the pistol and ramrod and handed the ramrod to the monkey.
"Now if'ink you're inna furball, in a real fight, yer monkey'll be busy usink 'is belayin' pin ta keep yer puny haid t'gether. So's it ain't gonna be this faskt, but he's buttloads faskter 'n you. Hell, he's faskter 'n I am, but don't tell the l'il baskard, he'll jisk git a swelled haid." The monkey on the coxswain's shoulder added an amused "Eep!" Asquith couldn't think of a single monkey aboard that looked so, well, feral was the only word that seemed to describe it.
Suddenly Ulrich lowered the pistol and aimed outward, and his thumbs touched the Keel charges rapidly one after the other <
Where did that gun come from!? thought Asquith.
Meanwhile Ulrich's monkey used one hand to snag a bullet, drop it down a barrel, and ram it home with the other hand while repeating the process in the other barrel. Ulrich brought the pistol to the ready and fired, <
"Eep!" said Ulrich's monkey with smug satisfaction.
"Eep!" echoed his parrotlet, bobbing its head and peering down the bore of the pistol curiously.
Asquith and his monkey stared at Ulrich and his monkey, then looked at each other, then back at Ulrich again. Ulrich flipped the gun in his right hand around and held the butt out as he made the one in his left hand disappear in the same mysterious fashion it had appeared in the first place. "I told ya ya wuz doinink it wrong." he said.
"An' only practicek it here. Itsk our secret. Ya hear me?" Ulrich snarled and looked at Asquith with feral malice. The diminutive earthling gulped and nodded in sincere agreement.
"Dat dam'd gun's loaded. Ain't suppoz ta be empky. Ain't no good ta no 'un empky. Gun's gotta be loaded, got me?" He glared at Asquith.
Asquith took the gun cautiously, feeling like he was playing with unstable explosives. He was careful to keep the pistol pointed well away from this awful little man while he accepted the bag of bullets with his other hand. "Ummm, yes, I believe I do, and rest assured I will keep it properly, uhh, loaded, I mean, uhh..." He trailed off, watching to see what would come out of this scary, sawed-off sociopath next.
"Good", Ulrich grunted. His monkey seconded with an emphatic "Eep!" which was again echoed by his parrotlet. Then he turned and crabbed off around the corner toward his laundry and his pigeons.
"Eek!" said Asquith's monkey.
"Hmm," Asquith replied, looking meditatively after the dangerous little man. "That was a singular experie
nce. I wonder if I can fit him in the next book?" He shook his head as he handed the bag of bullets and the ramrod to his monkey. He wondered if Brother Theo would be averse to giving him another pistol as he turned back to his solitary practice.
He started to scratch his nose, and his monkey gave a startled "Eeek!" and whacked the muzzle of the gun away from his nose.
"Oops," he mumbled. Maybe Daniel was right. It might take a few tens of thousands of rounds just to get the reflexes right!
Captain Thomas Melville, Master and Commander of Her Majesty the Queen of Westerness' Frigate the Fang felt pretty good as he stepped on the main deck early in the morning watch. The morning report from the watch officer had placed them on track and more than halfway to Lenoria. Fang was content with her lot and he felt her rumble happily beneath the surface of his mind, like a sated lion sprawled out in the warmth of the day.
The canvas overhead belled full with the winds of two-space , and the day watch was industriously cleaning, stowing, and working on the myriad things necessary to keep a Ship operational as a warship. Brother Theo was giving a lecture while the midshipmen were working on some project, and the marines were, ummm, what were they doing?
Looking aft, he saw Lt. Broadax leaning against the redside rail, eyes fixed overhead at her marines swinging through the rigging in a single line. She had a manic grin on her face and a cloud of smoke swirling around her as she watched her marines skylarking high overhead. Her monkey was also conspicuous for its absence.
"An' da best o' da mornin' to ye, sir!" she said as Melville came up to her.
"And to you, Lieutenant. Might I ask what your marines are doing this morning, swarming through the rigging like monkeys?" he replied quizzically.
"Jist a li'l mornin' PT, Cap'n!" she replied. "I'd be up with 'em, but I'm sorta dawdlin' over breakfast this mornin'. Ya know, that Jones boy is a genius. This food is tongue swallerin' good! I don' know where he got sweet noodles an' bitterash root fer spicin' but 'at's da best damned porridge I've et since I joined da marines. Seems he wus taught by a visiting Dwarrowdelf cul-er-nary specialist at the Royal caterin' Acadermy! An' the boy done took right to it! Now ain't that a stroke o' luck! An' yew know wat that boy tol' me today?"
The Guns of Two-Space Page 27