"Take the two on the right, then cover my six," muttered Fielder
"What ever do you mean, Ursula?" Fielder countered as he watched the five gunmen. They were armed with Colt Peacemakers. Good guns, but the idiots hadn't even cocked them yet. Holding them in their hands, not even ready to fire. Yes, maybe God is watching out for me, he thought, while he gave the appearance of relaxing as he talked with her.
"Well, Daniel, just for old time's sake I tried to be nice to you, and you abused my hospitality. Then you broke my favorite mirror! That was just too, too much. Now I want you to meet my friends. They're local sellswords, but they're all tolerably skillful players, and they've been good to me. And they are so upset that you hurt me," she concluded with a pout.
"When we were together," continued Ursula, "you said you'd die for me. Now we've broken up, and I think it's time to keep your promise."
Fielder looked at Ursula and then at her gunmen, and shook his head. She had the kind of allure that could literally enthrall men, and she used that beauty like a psychopath uses a weapon: without mercy or hesitation. Her bravos were probably completely smitten, but he had to try. "Boys, it doesn't have to be this way. You know you're not all getting out of here alive. Don't let her lead you astray. She looks good, but take my word for it, she's stone cold frigid. The original Ice Maiden."
The insipid smiles on the bravos' faces made it clear that they were hers, body and soul. The look on her face made it clear that right now she fancied neither. She wanted only Fielder's death. Now.
"You know I'm not a maiden, Daniel," replied Ursula. "And whoever heard of an Ice Matron? You've turned into a major bore, and I'm beginning to experience some serious ennui here. So let us begin this dance."
Fielder was in motion even before she stopped talking. It was always a good idea to attack while your opponent was talking.
He said a quick prayer to the "Church of the Tactical Truth" whose creed was, in the words ofthe Reverend Cardinal Mad Dog McLung, "Go forth and be Tactical." Or, in the words of Saint Blauer: "If you mean to do it—make it mean!"
Her boyfriends all had the classic, stylish pose that that you see in the truly self-deluded, just before they are sliced to bits, shot to death, or otherwise become aware that death is an equal opportunity provider. The head goon shifted his grip on his gun, sliding his thumb up to the hammer as if to cock it. Unfortunately for him, he stopped and looked at Ursula for confirmation before acting. Even more unfortunately, Fielder was already Acting and was no longer Observing and trying to Orient to what was happening around him. He was one whole OODA loop ahead of them.
We've got five, no, six targets, he thought to himself, remembering Ursula's little derringer cannon. Then Fielder gave himself a quick pep talk, trying to ambush his brain before fear and reason could kick in. But I've got one of the finest examples of Saint Browning's divine inspiration, cocked and locked with a tummy full of the local marines' best ammo. Seven in the mag and one in the chamber—eight ways of dying slung on my hip!
Fielder's eternal nonchalance was replaced with swift catlike movements. His hand was already moving back to his holster as he sidestepped to the left. In the time it took the head bravo to look at Ursula, Fielder had smoothly drawn his pistol and thumbed the safety down.
Assuming the bad guys were experiencing tunnel vision (which was a pretty safe assumption), the sidestep took him out of their field of view and literally off of their radar screen. It also made them adjust to his action and start up a new OODA loop.
The gun nestled in his hand like a handshake from an old and trusted friend. He saw the front sight come up to settle on head-goon, placed it just under a silver button on his chest, and stroked the trigger geennntly. The gun surprised him when it went off (as it should) and he brought it back down to the same target as the slide slammed back into battery and he stroked the trigger again. He let the recoil of the second shot pull the gun up and placed the front sight right on the middle of head-goon's continuous eyebrow and squeezed again. He seemed to have all the time in the world, choosing his aim, pressing the trigger, riding the recoil to the aim point. Blood blossomed on the bravo's chest, his head snapped back and he dropped like a stone—DRT: dead right there.
It was called the "Mozambique drill." Fielder had practiced it so intently that it came automatically, and with such astounding speed that the three shots seemed to roll together into one continuous blast. Best way to influence their hearts and minds, he babbled to himself, is two to the heart and one to the mind.
Fielder knew that a human being can suck up a lot of .45 rounds and still keep going. All pistol rounds (even the vaunted .45) were notoriously ineffective (as compared to shooting someone with a rifle, or preferably a 12-pounder cannon!), and Fielder's philosophy, learned on his Grandma BenGurata's knee, was to shoot people the way they used to vote in old Chicago: "Early and often!"
He was scared, he was mad, and he was determined to finish each opponent, onceandforall. Thankyouverymuch. As Machiavelli put it, "Never do your enemy a minor injury."
As always, he didn't hear his shots in combat. Just as the lion doesn't hear its own roar (if it did, all elderly lions would be stone deaf), and the hunter doesn't hear his shots. Whether you're shooting deer or men, the ears "blink" when you "roar"—just like the lion's. Living proof that man has the neural pathways of a predator in his head, just as he has the gripping fangs of a predator in his mouth.
As Fielder shifted left to the next target, he was aware that Lady Elphinstone's two pistols had spoken and saw that the two bravos to the right were acutely distracted by the holes that had appeared in their foreheads. The diners who had not already departed were now leaving in a mad scramble. The people were all going in the right direction (away from the shooters) but a burst of bloody feathers indicated that one of the chickens was having less success at fleeing the battlefield.
Damn! What a confusion!
"Daniel," said Elphinstone. "We are attacked from behind."
"Kill 'em!" shrilled Fielder.
"Certainly."
Fielder's front sight settled on the next man, who was raising his gun one-handed, turning side-on like a duelist. Daniel aimed at the damp spot in his armpit, and touched off two shots with incredible speed, focusing on the target area and the front sight, then riding the recoil up to put the front sight on the eye facing him before pressing the trigger a third time. He felt intense satisfaction as his opponent dropped instantly, DRT, again.
He felt a "Twack! Twack!" as his monkey's belaying pin blocked two bullets from god-knows-who, and a tug at his jacket as the last thug dove to the ground firing his six-shooter. This guy was a big one! Daniel hurried his last two shots at the huge thug, missing with both as the man rolled and twisted on the ground. Of course, acting like a broken-back snake on the ground may have kept Fielder from hitting him, it also kept the bravo from shooting accurately, so it was an almost even tradeoff. Except for the fact that the slide of Fielder's pistol was locked back on an empty magazine.
Stupid, stupid! Fielder screams to himself. That's what I get for over-training on Mozambique drills. Never do Mozambique drills when you have more than two opponents, or you end up with an empty gun and reloading while the last guys are shooting you.
While chewing himself out for fatal stupidity, he still doesn't stop trying. Fielder drops the magazine out with his right thumb as his left hand sweeps back to the magazine holder and pulls out fresh fodder. He feeds the mag into the grip as his eyes watch the huge bravo pop up with a cocked gun in his hand and a contemptuous sneer on his face.
Then Fielder hears a disembodied voice from his opponent. "I'm Spike! I taste like chicken!" chirps the voice.
The big gunman's face goes blank and he freezes. A millisecond later two shots punch out the front of his chest and whizz up over Fielder's head.
"Heh heh," says Ulrich, stepping out from behind the gunman with a smoking .45 in his hand, his monkey on his shoulder, and a tiny green parrotlet o
n his head. "He warn't so toughk."
This is followed by a thump as the gunman's huge body finally figures out that it was dead, tips over, and hits the ground like a fallen tree. The hilt of a knife standing up from the back of his skull shows where Ulrich had neatly pithed him. There are two .45 caliber entrance wounds in his back from where Ulrich had shot him. The small dirk sticking out of his right kidney is probably from Ulrich's monkey.
"Heeere kittykittykitty!" says Spike, peering down at the gunman's body.
"Ya think they wask gonna finishk this?" says Ulrich as he reaches out with a bloody hand to pick a morsel off of an abandoned plate.
Maybe it took the poor bastard so long to fall, because he had to figure out what to die from first, thinks Fielder, eyeing the corpse.
As the scar-seamed little coxswain looked down at the fallen body, his monkey reached out, snagged the bite of food from Ulrich's fingers and popped it into its mouth.
Fielder let the slide slam forward on a fresh mag, and spun around looking for more attackers. Where in hell did Ursula go? Damn that woman! And part of him couldn't help but think, Damn she looks good!
...the most she will do,
is throw shadows at you,
But she's always a woman to me...
He paused in surprise as he saw Lady Elphinstone pull her knife from a dead man sprawled behind him. Damn! She dropped two with her pistols and then covered our rear with her knife! Not bad. Not bad at all...
Fielder pivoted to the front again—just in time to see Ulrich prying his knife from the back of his victim's skull while his monkey pulled its tiny dirk from the hapless bravo's kidney. "Well dip me in vacuum and call me an ice cube!" said the highly disconcerted first officer. "Where the hell did you come from?"
Ulrich just shrugged and stole another bite from the table. "Eep!" said his parrotlet.
"And, damn," added Fielder, looking at the corpse at Ulrich's feet, "two .45 slugs to the heart, a knife in the base of the skull, and one in the kidney. Don't you think that was a little bit of overkill?"
"Ya never know," replied Ulrich, with an evil smirk. "He mighta bin one o' them reel tough guysk. Sometimes overkill isk jiiist enough."
The Fang's crew were all highly competent, professional, experienced killers, but most of them had to build up a good mad first. Most warriors had to get worked up to take a life. But the crazed coxswain was a stone cold, dispassionate killer. Like a farmer's wife wringing a chicken's neck. And that could be useful. Some tasks call for a hammer, or an ax, thought Fielder. That's Broadax. Other jobs needed a corkscrew. That's Ulrich.
"Well, sir," sneered Ulrich. "I guessk ya musk a' bin a bit flustered. Dewin' a pockin' Mozambeekee drill win ya had five targetsk! Or wusk you jusk savin' skum fer me? Heh, heh."
"More lead, more dead," muttered Fielder. "That's my motto." I'll never hear the end of this, he thought. And the little bastard is right. I was just so damned scared that I let myself get rattled, and I almost died because of it. But I really don't care what kind of ribbing I take. I'm alive!
"An' ya know, I think yer girlfrienk may be insane," continued Ulrich as he stepped to a table and picked up a blood-spattered pork chop. "An' I shouldk know."
His monkey eeked in vigorous agreement as the two of them began to gnaw on the pork chop.
I'm not sure which of those two crazies is scarier, Ulrich or his monkey, Fielder thought. With those damned knives in its hands it looks like a carving machine gone mad!
"Yes, Daniel, I must agree," said Elphinstone. "Thou shouldst definitely tread carefully with Ursula. I think she's a psychopath."
"Thank you both for the tip. I'd never have noticed," Fielder scowled. "But, again, where did you come from?" he asked Ulrich, semi-politely—after all there was no sense in pissing off another psychopath today!
"I's jusk eatin' at a corner table an' keepin' a eye on the brothel wit' our middiesk, win I seed these idjits walkin' up wit dat pretty girl o' yoursk. Ya know, tha'sk won hail of a wuman ya gotsk there!"
"She almost killed me! Twice!" Fielder exclaimed.
"Yep. Thatsk my kinda wuman!"
"Quick, too!" added Elphinstone. "She moved beyond my ken almost as fast as thy pistol came out, Daniel. Art thou wounded, Daniel? Thy jacket's arm hath a hole." She grabbed his left arm, and looked at it closely. "'Tis through thy jacket from front to back." She ripped the sleeve open to show a dimple in his skin. Shaking her head, the surgeon reached into her medical pouch as Fielder looked on in astonishment.
"I was hit? But I'm not bleeding, I can't be hit!" Fielder looked at his arm. As he watched the hole opened and blood started to pour down his arm.
"I am hit! Damn! I've heard about this. Vasoconstriction kept it shut, didn't it?" Fielder suddenly began to feel dizzy looking at the sight of his own blood. Other people's blood didn't bother him, but his blood was different!
"Aye, 'tis normal, Daniel," Elphinstone replied as she bound up his arm with bandages. "The human body replies to the insult of mortal danger by trapping the blood within the core of the body, such that thy outer skin canst act as armor during a fight!
"Ulrich," she continued on as she bandaged him, "thy captain hath decreed that our liberty is at an end, and that all of our gallant Ship's company shall return aboard her, forthwith. Wouldst thou carry this message to the midshipmen and all others thou dost encounter?"
"Aye, ma'am," he replied. "Grenoble'sk coverin' the back entrance o' the brothel. I'll git the middiesk an' him, an' we'll git back ta the Ship." Then he added with apparent pleasure, "Heh heh. I guessk I'll 'ave ta interrupt the middiesk fun." He looked around quickly and then departed immediately.
As Ulrich left, a waiter poked his head out from under a table. "Hey!" the man shouted indignantly. "He didn't pay his bill! The son-of-a-bitch just eats, shoots and leaves!"
"Here," snarled Fielder, flipping the waiter a small gold piece with his good hand. "This should cover it."
"All right, what's going on here?" said the authoritative voice of a policeman. This one unfortunately came with several other members of the local police department, all of whom had their guns drawn and appeared somewhat upset by the gory scene.
Probably mad because we interrupted their feeding frenzy at the local donut shop, Fielder mused irritably. Damn, damn! I should have known the shots would draw cops. Ulrich was smart enough to get out in time.
The police officer stopped and looked in dismay at the half dozen corpses strewn about in the stiff, awkward poses of death. "What in hell killed all these men?" he wondered aloud.
Lady Elphinstone looked at him. Then she shook her head mournfully as she examined the corpses. "Violent death, 'tis such a sadness. God knows, the grave doth come soon enough to us all... Multiple gunshot wounds. Stab wounds, slashes. Twas one hell of a fight."
"But who, or what, killed them!"
"Well, me thinkst we can rule out natural causes. 'Tis best we say they died mostly of lead poisoning. High velocity lead poisoning..."
"Huh." He looked around in dismay. "I think it's best if we take this one downtown."
"Hey, Sarge!" one of the other policemen called. "You ain't gonna believe this. Alberick's over here on the ground, sleepin' away!"
The sergeant looked at the snoring Alberick and back at Elphinstone and Fielder. "I really think you two are gonna have a few things to be explaining here. Let's go!"
Melville and Midshipman Hezikiah Jubal were at the Fang's upper-side quarterdeck rail as they discussed their pending departure.
Jubal was the senior midshipman, currently serving as the watch officer. "Sur," drawled the middie, "we're still missin' Lt. Fielder and Lady Elphinstone. So far we haven't had any response from the governor or the local police to our inquiries concernin' them. To be honest sur, Ah'm gettin' pretty concerned."
"Aye, Hezikiah. Me too."
"How's Midshipman Hayl, sur?" asked Jubal anxiously.
"Mrs. Vodi says that he's resting comfortably. Two-space seems to be a
iding in his healing."
"How 'bout his hand, sur? Do they know yet?"
Melville sighed. "No, not for sure, but it really doesn't look good. His hand was reattached but Mrs. Vodi said that the damage was extensive, and he'll probably lose it. It might have been better if his opponent had spent more on his sword and bought one that had been tempered and sharpened in two-space, as it would have been a clean cut. Of course, then it might have cut through and killed him instead. Better to lose a hand than your life. But still..." He trailed off, shaking his head grimly and staring down into the dark blue plane of two-space, wishing that he could have done more.
"Yer lookin' at it wrong, sur, if Ah may say so." Jubal had served as an able seaman before being promoted to midshipman. If there were ever any more promotions to lieutenant to be made aboard the Fang, Jubal would be the first. So it was a Shipmate and a veteran of many battles who looked his captain in the eye as he continued. "You made sure Hayl got the trainin' he did, and that trainin' saved his life. Ah think it's amazin', Cap'n. He's a young boy, who started out as a midshipman—not someone like me who's been a sailor fer years. Those idiots you and Hayl killed knew absolutely nothin' about the Ever Evolvin' Church of Violence. But you made us pay our tithes in sweat and tears in trainin'. And curst hard it was too! And then you two brought them, our enemy, into the fold and initiated them into the mysteries of the True Way. Most folks don't know anythin' about violence, but we who do are a curst sight safer for it."
Melville blinked, trying to digest what Jubal had said and everything it implied. He was mildly disturbed by the religious connotations, but the young man had stumbled upon an elemental truth. No matter how it was stated. Those who forget, misuse, or ignore the way of violence are doomed to be initiated into the rites the hard way.
He shook his head and smiled ruefully. "Well said, Hezikiah. But it's hard to remember that when I think of young Hayl down in sick bay missing a hand."
"Aye, Captain, Ah understand, but the little tyke is alive—and he took down two of the scumbags that wanted to make you and him dead. Personally, Ah'm proud as hell of the boy!"
The Guns of Two-Space Page 40