The Guns of Two-Space
Page 31
"The fun just never stops," muttered Asquith. "One more question, if I may ask it of you, Brother?"
"Certainly."
"I'm working on my second book, and I'm trying to figure out a way to help the readers keep the deck plan of the upper and lower sides straight. Hell, I still get mixed up sometimes! Have you got any suggestions?"
"I believe I may be able to assist," replied the monk with a genial smile, pulling out a pencil and the notebook where he kept many of the working notes for his duties as the Ship's purser. "I actually have it sketched out here," he said flipping through pages of load plan sketches, manifest lists, and stores usage calculations. "Here it is! See?" he continued, pointing with his pencil at a meticulously drawn illustration of two deck plans, side-by-side and virtually identical. "This is a diagram of the Fang's upperside, and here, right beside it, is the lowerside."
"They look the same to me," said Asquith.
"Ah, but it's what's different that is important. Notice that the greenside and the redside are in different directions, and the names of the guns and the cutters are different! And the hatches that the captain uses to cut through from the upper to the lower sides in combat are a tad off center. Now, take this page, and fold it right here, and, ta-da! The greensides and the redsides are on the same side, and the hatches line up!"
"Huh!" said Asquith, taking the book and folding the page in, and then back again. "I think I get it!"
"May I humbly suggest that you put an illustration like this in your book?"
"Maybe," the diminutive earthling author replied cautiously as he digested the idea. "You know, it might just work. I saw something like this on the back cover of a Mad Magazine once."
Their journey would take them through little of the greatness of Westerness. Cuthbert Asquith the XVI described the series of one-Pier worlds as the "Smallness of Westerness" which neatly outlined the cluster of one-horse, one-Pier ports they visited. This term also neatly described the small minds and timid spirits back at the Admiralty, a viewpoint which Asquith was gleefully happy to record in his next book.
The Fang's course was more reminiscent of the garbage man's route through alleys and cul-de-sacs rather than the tomcat march of the best damned Ship afloat—which the Fangs knew they deserved! As old Hans put it, "The only way ta git ta these hellholes is by mail packet or by accident!"
One shining light in the unrelenting blandness of their trek through that vast obscurity where the dark planets of the kingdom spun in the lonely night, was Brother Theo. The cherubic monk was able to acquire the finest comestibles and potables that each world had to offer, at the best possible prices. The Fang was a wealthy Ship, just back from foreign climes, battles, and hardship tours (not to mention their experience with Jones' abominable cooking) so they spent money like... well, like sailors. They purchased exotic local varieties of microbrewery beer, wine, steaks, roasts, seafood, homemade baked goods, vegetables, and fruits to fill their larders. All of the finest and freshest quality.
From the mess deck to the wardroom to the captain's table, none of the crew had ever experienced such food. Even their perennially insatiable midshipmen found themselves fully satisfied with the quantity of food that was provided. And, happily for their marines, Kaleb Jones was still able to placate the esoteric tastes of their resident Dwarrowdelf.
In addition to providing an endless flow of local delicacies from countless worlds, Brother Theo was also a wizard at figuring out cargos that would turn a decent profit from port to port, as well as when they reached civilization again. He was determined to make them all rich (or richer depending on your perspective) and that was an objective that every Fang aboard could support wholeheartedly.
The only crew member who was completely happy with this rather mundane state of affairs was Asquith. There was no combat, no excitement to distress the little earthling, and he was able to sell a copy of his book at every stop. The book was quickly purchased by a local publisher who would reprint and market it on their world, and then would hawk it off to even more worlds. Inside of a few months his book could be found on most of the planets in the star kingdom, being touted as "A Bestseller on Earth!" and "A true story of the greatest hero of our age."
Despite the lack of stimulation in their journey, the Fangs knew there was a valid reason for every stop. Each of these worlds was a member of their great star kingdom, hungry for news and information from the major planets. And, unlike early colonists on Earth, they were a literate people, educated and intent on improving their lot in life. (Or at least to find some literary escapism and cheap entertainment in their lives.)
Westerness' control of its empire was not merely a matter of her Ships, although those mighty symbols of trade and power were a critical ingredient. Westerness' rule also was represented by a permanent and organized system which had immense power to accumulate, absorb, and assimilate local institutions.
There was a whole nexus of professional, social, and psychological links that permeated all levels of the star kingdom, all serving to bind them together. Westerness had made a huge investment, politically, economically, and culturally, in expanding the frontier to the far edge of the galactic arm and beyond, and they were determined not to lose it. And (perhaps most importantly) they were determined to gain a return on their investment. This had to be done very carefully, maintaining bonds of kinship and fidelity, while turning a profit without alienating the far-flung citizens.
The viability of the frontier depended not just on communications within the region, but also on the maintenance of links back to Westerness and the core planets. All of which required substantial shipping assets, and even the smallest of planets was usually provided with a small two-space Ship to meet local needs.
Salutes were exchanged with the local Ships as they approached each Pier. Initially the salute was in time, but once the local crew fired the first few shots they often fell further and further behind, as the weary, potbellied reservists tried to keep up. And always there was the question, "How many shots to honor a three-masted Ship commanded by a lieutenant?" The resultant answer varied from port to port as they traveled across the vast expanse of Westerness.
It was rare for a mighty frigate (or even a three-masted "sloop") to visit such minor worlds as these. In many cases the Fang was the biggest Ship the locals had ever seen. Indeed, their arrival would have been a major sensation in most of these ports, had there been a sufficient critical mass of population for a good sensation to get off the ground.
The planets they visited were filled with weary women, determined farmers, cagey hunters, and fierce-looking trappers with beards, buckskin, and a smell to match any pelt. (In some cases, the pungent odor of the untanned hides was actually a relief from the smell of the trappers!) And all of them were, as Asquith put it, "talking in authentic frontier gibberish."
On a few occasions they were called upon to move parties of settlers from one backwater world to another. Because the Fang was far larger than the usual Ships that plied these small ports, she was a natural method of transport for big groups who had long ago sent in requests to move to another world. The Fangs felt sorry for these brave souls, and yet they were respectful of their hardy pioneer spirit.
The crew tried, in their rough, sailor fashion, to be kind and supportive to their passengers. Toward the end of each short voyage, the captain always held a special meal for them. The settlers were assembled for a dinner in their honor on the upperside waist and Melville always offered a toast to them. A toast that was shared wholeheartedly by his officers and crew.
"Here's to you, my fellow adventurers," he said, "and to your new lives as a part of this new frontier world. My brothers and sisters, you are the future. Work hard, live well, be happy and fertile, and keep your powder dry! I hope that someday we can meet each of you again. Until then, may God bless you and keep watch over you."
Then Brother Theo sent them forth with an ancient blessing upon their new home. "'Blessed of the Lord be this land
, for the precious things of heaven, for the dew, and for the deep that coucheth beneath. And for the precious fruits brought forth by the sun, and for the precious things put forth by the moon. And for the chief things of the ancient mountains, and for the precious things of the lasting hills.'"
And these Words from a man of the cloth were a great comfort to their passengers.
In the end, Words and respect were all they had to give.
For Cuthbert Asquith XVI, one major benefit of the long trip had been a chance for target practice. And some more practice. And still more practice.
He had railed and sniveled at the thought of learning to shoot, but now he was surprised to learn that he actually enjoyed it! Shooting well was a joy, and once he started to practice, he could feel himself relax and his aim improve.
He had spent some time with Brother Theo and Daniel, benefiting from their tips and learning to shoot well, but he found that the most improvement simply came from practice. It was like the hoary old joke from well before the Crash:
"Hey buddy, can you tell me how I can get to Carnegie Hall?"
"Practice!"
Even though Carnegie Hall didn't exist anymore, the philosophy (and the joke) still applied.
So Asquith tried to enjoy a little shooting during every day of this interminable trip through the alleys and backroads of Westerness. He didn't stand watch, nor had he any assigned tasks as a paying passenger, and the library had palled during his first month onboard. (If you could use the term "library" to describe several shelves of classic science fiction, reference manuals and texts, and a few torrid romance novels that no one seemed to claim but were nevertheless well-thumbed and -read.)
To Asquith, the choices were fairly slim: spend each day writing and drinking until he could no longer write, or find some outside interest to fill his day.
He told himself that he already had one full-time vice called writing, and a second full-time vice of drinking would interfere with his first vice. So it was clear to him that he needed to fill the void with other interests, and pistol shooting had done wonderfully well. (Not to mention, he still remembered the incident as a young man when some so-called friends had recorded images of him at a party experimenting with some of the miscellaneous intoxicants available on Earth. The imagery had convinced him that looking like a fool was quite embarrassing, and had played a strong part in his initial decision to take the drastic step of traveling off Earth!)
Asquith was having his monkey reload his pistol, using the technique that Ulrich had taught him. And, in keeping with the coxswain's "request" Asquith only practiced this in secret, shooting from the little coxswain's private area. He found that he quickly got used to the smell of the pigeon coops and the laundry. After a lifetime on Earth, it almost felt like home.
He relaxed and took a deep breath, then let it out part way and held it as the first pistol came up and the front sight came into focus on the center of the target suspended out from the side of the Ship. He touched the nipple on one barrel and then the other <
For Asquith, the hardest part of learning to shoot with either hand had been the coordination of twisting his one good eye so that he could see clearly down the sightline of his left pistol. At one point he had tried something called a "border shift" where, after firing with his right hand, he attempted to juggle and shift the two guns from hand to hand.
Right in the middle of this maneuver Ulrich appeared from out of nowhere. Ulrich's monkey snatched Asquith's pistols out of midair while the crazed coxswain screwed his own pistol onto Asquith's nose.
"Now, ya ain't gonna do somethink so stupkid agin, are ya?" snarled Ulrich. "Da Ship moves! An' da fightink moves. So ya don't wants yer gunsk outa yer hands. Got ik?"
"Heeere kittykittykitty!" added his parrotlet.
The little lunatic was like that: he and his feral monkey would show up out of nowhere, make a point, and disappear again. He wasn't malicious, but for some reason known only to God and Ulrich himself, he seemed to approve of Asquith and his shooting.
As his right gun lined up on the target he was reminded quite forcefully of their resident psychopath when he felt a rock strike the back of his head. Whack! Asquith's head bounced forward with the impact and he pivoted, the pistol arcing around in front of him.He felt a blow to the inside of his right arm as his pistol was smacked aside, and he felt that damned cold muzzle socket itself onto the end of his nose again like it grew there!
"Damn it, Ulrich!" he said with a whiney nasal intonation caused by the blockage of his nostrils. "What in the hell are you playing at? That hurt!"
Then his mind caught up with his body which had frozen cross-eyed staring at the barrel of Ulrich's pistol. The coxswain's monkey (looking feral and vicious as always) had its head beside Ulrich's, smiling a malevolent upside-down smile and flipping a little dagger between four hands.
Ulrich's parrotlet was bobbing happily on top of his monkey's head. The bird hopped onto the front sight of Ulrich's pistol, looked Asquith in the eye, and said, "I'm Spike! I taste like chicken!"
The coxswain laughed quietly as he removed the pistol (and the bird) making the gun disappear as the bird fluttered back up to his shoulder. "Ya know, yer responsk was pretty good there. If'ink I waskn't ready ya'd 've 'ad me in yer skights. I likesk that, I does I does."
"So why'd you do that?!"
"Yer gettink better wit' dem piskols, so's I figgers iks time fer ya ta learn how ta shootsk under combat condish-kins," replied Ulrich.
"Pray tell me, sir, whatever do you mean?" Asquith replied sarcastically. Ulrich was an interesting character, and Asquith had come to realize that the man, while he was as dangerous as a pissed-off cobra (and likely twice as fast) seemed to enjoy passing on these tidbits of combat wisdom.
Ulrich looked at him seriously. "See, ta captaink, he's damned good 'n ta furball. Fightsk like he's sum kinda crazy man, but he fightsk smart. He gotsk the best sit-yew-ational awarenessk I ever seed. But 'e needsk someone to watch 'is back. I kin cover him mosk o' da places he goes..." He paused and Asquith could have sworn he almost looked shy. Shy? Ulrich?
"But 'e can't alwaysk take a bodyguard wit' 'im. You, now..." He paused and smiled—a very small, very nasty smile, but a smile nonetheless. "But you goesk wit' 'im most places. So, da better ya doesk, da better da oddsk are my captaink has some backup wut might keepsk 'im alife.
"So, I seen hows yer shootink an' yer pretty good at it. Yer fask, yer accurate, 'n yer monksk dewink good too." Ulrich's monkey eeped quietly in agreement, without interrupting the steady juggling of its dagger from hand to hand to hand. His parrotlet, bobbing happily on the monkey's shoulder, echoed the sentiment.
"But ya gotsk ta git some sit-yew-ational awarenessk. So's I gotsk just da' t'ing fer it." He held up a leather strap, then folded it in half, put a small stone in it, and swung it rapidly in the air.
Something wizzed past Asquith's ear. He spun and looked, and there was a large ragged hole in the target, next to the small group of holes his bullets had made. He spun back to look at Ulrich.
Ulrich smirked malevolently. "So'sk yew'n yer monk 'r gonna keep on practicink, but I'm gonna add sumpthink. I'm gonna be shootink at ya wif dis liddle slink. So'sk if'fn yer monk ain't payink attention, yer gonna git hurt."
Asquith stared at him aghast. "Ulrich, have you completely lost whatever tiny bit of mind you possessed! If my monkey's loading my pistols he can't be looking at you, and those rocks hitting my head are liable to kill me! I know that Brother Theo says what doesn't kill you makes you stronger, but killing me won't make me stronger! And I am not going to be a bodyguard for Melville! I'm just shooting for the fun of it!"
Ulrich flat out laughed (something the entire crew would have been shocked to know he w
as even capable of) and said, "Naw, dese won'k kill ya! I gotsk some 'o da dumplinsk 'at Jones made fer ta lieutenant an' ta Guldur. Dese'll jist git yer attention! An' yer monk don't needsk ta see ta reload. Li'l sucker gotsk hands ta spare, ya see?
"So yew jist keep shootink. Yer monk'll watch yer back an' reload. 'E's jist gotsk ta practice it, ya see?
"An' yeah ya ain'k no bodyguard. Ya ain'k gotsk da eye fer it!" he added, smirking at the reference to Asquith's single eye. "But ya might be jist a mite bedder'n nuthink."
Asquith thought about it, ignoring Ulrich completely as he did. He turned and looked over the side at the vastness of two-space hanging in widespread panorama around him. His monkey eeked for his attention, and when Asquith looked at it, it nodded its head and flourished its belaying pin in one set of hands and a bullet and ramrod in another pair.
Asquith smiled and scratched its head gently. "So, little man, you think we should learn this as well, hmm?" He turned back to face Ulrich and his monkey again, catching sight of an anxious look on the coxswain's face before it changed back to the vicious leer he was used to seeing. God help me, the man is serious! Asquith thought.
"All right, you sawed-off psychopath, let's get on with it! If you're going to ruin my morning of shooting to teach us a new trick we might as well do it right!"
"Aye, 'ats da spirik!" said Ulrich. "Give a man a fishk, an' 'e'll eat fer a day. Teachk 'im ta fight, an' 'e'll feast on da meaty marrow of hisk foes fer a lifetime!" Ulrich smirked as Asquith tried to digest this morsel of psychotic wisdom. Then the coxswain's hand blurred forward launching a dumpling at Asquith. "Crack!" resounded from the belaying pin in his monkey's hands as it screeched loudly in surprise.
"What in hell!" Asquith screamed, shocked and surprised that Ulrich had launched a dumpling at his head the moment he agreed. Dumpling hell! he thought. That's a rock, I don't care what Broadax thinks! Then he was even more surprised to find that he had a pistol in his right hand. But his final and most significant surprise was to find that his pistol had been smacked aside and that damned muzzle was screwed onto his nose again.