The Guns of Two-Space

by Dave Grossman

  The ninja slime mold was virtually immortal. It could endure impact, shock, stabbing, strangulation, freezing, fire, and dismemberment, but these isolated samples of the mold could not survive the awesome destructive ability of the powerful digestive tract of a cat. The slime mold that Cuddles and Brutus licked off their paws was doomed to the inglorious fate of being defecated into two-space, causing only minor diarrhea and indigestion in the process.

  The final eight pistol competitors were shooting from the greenside railing in the lower waist. The targets were hung from the mainsail yardarm. A few lookouts and a skeleton crew were manning the upperside quarterdeck, with the rest of the crew observing from the lowerside rails, rigging, yards and quarterdeck. The dogs also sat watching attentively, eagerly enjoying the competition and cheering on their masters with boisterous barks.

  First up in the competition were Dwakins and Mrs. Vodi. Lance Corporal Jarvis felt more than a bit conflicted here, since he was Dwakins' squad leader. Jarvis wanted the lumbering blockhead to do well, but he also wanted to win.

  "Just take it easy, Dwakins, you'll do fine. Shoot just like you been practicing," Jarvis reminded him, "and don't worry about how you're doing."

  "He do rreal gud," Rawl insisted.

  Since Dwakins had carried the wounded Guldur into sick bay, Rawl had been his constant companion. He was one of the few Guldur who had elected to join the marines instead of the Ship's company of sailors. Rawl wasn't the sharpest tooth in the mouth, but he was steady and reliable—so long as he was with Dwakins. And when Dwakins was with Rawl, the two of them together seemed to have fewer problems dealing with life and its challenges than either of them alone. Or as Broadax had observed more than once, "Either of them two idjits alone 'ud have to double their brains ta make a good moron. I mean, them boys can hide their own Easter eggs, if ye know what I mean? But ye gets the Brothers Dumb workin' tagedder an' they makes one good marine!"

  The perfect example of this was Dwakins with a pistol. Before Rawl came into his life, Dwakins was competent, but nothing more. But when the two of them spent time together building their skills, they grew faster and more fluid, as if they combined together, shoring up the other's weak spots and problem areas.

  Jarvis finally realized that, as their squad leader, the best way to handle the two of them was to simply give them a job and let them figure out how to handle it. They never seemed to go at it the same way that any normal marine would, but they always got it done. Somehow.

  So when the two shooters came to their mark, Mrs. Vodi appeared relaxed and confident, and Dwakins was arguing with Rawl all the way to the mark.

  "Ah ain't eatin' dat glop Jones is makin' tonight! It's got dem rocks init ya call dumplin's. They's jis' liddle rocks is what they is!"

  "Nawrr, you gots' terr chew 'em up good. Iss gud food—betterr than Rrroxy makes tonight. She makes salt porrrk stew. Gud, yes? Taste rike human! But bitterrrash dumprings betterrr."

  "Ah still ain't eatin' it!"

  "We bet then. You win rrround. We eat Rrroxy sstew. You lose, we eat Jones sstew. Much betterr forr us both. Good forr you and you little teeth. Make sharrperr!" Rawl growled back.

  "Done, ya overgrown puppy. Now lemme shoot so's Ah can eat some decent stew tonight!" Dwakins shook his head and stomped over to the mark.

  Jarvis looked over at Rawl, who stood there with a doggie smile on his jaws, his tongue hanging out over his lower fangs.

  "What're you two yammering on about?" said Jarvis. "He's supposed ta be getting ready to shoot, not thinking about dinner!"

  "If Dwakins thinks, he no sshoot good. So I distrract him," Rawl replied. "My brrother do betterrr when his brrain not involved."

  Broadax looked up at Jarvis. "Dwakins has a brain?" she whispered incredulously.

  Jarvis simply shook his head in resignation. "I think the Guldur has custody of it most days. And then Dwakins comes outta the blue and surprises me again."

  "Them cops on Show Low found out it ain't a good ideer ta peeve our Dwakins," said Broadax. "I found out he managed ta git a half-dozen 'er so of 'em sent ta the hospital fer various contusions, abrasions, and cuts. Rawl sez he an' the monks jist covered Dwakins' back whilest he went through those flatfoots like grease through a goose! But what really musta shook up them cops wus Dwakins' battle cry. He kept shoutin', 'Wreckdum! Wreckdum!' as he clobbered 'em. I betcha that confused and scared the hell outa of 'em!" Broadax shook her head in combined amusement, admiration, and bewilderment. "Yep," she concluded, "might jist make one good marine outa them two idjits!"

  Valandil tapped the bell to start the match. Mrs. Vodi and Dwakins both drew their first pistol, quickly firing both barrels, drawing the second pistol as they fired and then shifting their stance to fire that gun with the opposite hand. Both Dwakins and Vodi holstered their first pistol and grabbed two bullets as they fired the second gun. They reloaded both barrels in that gun, fired the reloaded pistol, and then reloaded and fired the pistol again.

  While Mrs. Vodi was fast reloading, Dwakins was even faster and he completed firing his seventh and eighth rounds as she was just bringing the pistol to bear on the target.

  Westminster peered at the targets, and all eight rounds from both contestants had entered the required areas, four in the head target area, four in the center of mass of the torso silhouette.

  "Dwakins takes the round," he announced, to Vodi's obvious disgust, and Dwakins joy.

  "Hoo-yah! Ah gots salt pork stew fer mah dinner tonight!" he yelled, which confused Vodi and the rest of the crew mightily.

  "Awwr rright, awwr rright," Rawl growled at him. "Want to make it besst two ourrt of thrree?"

  <> the slime mold called out telepathically to the cats as it retreated in disgrace, oozing back into the cracks in the water barrel to escape the slashing onslaught of the cats' digging claws. And retreat it must. Already several large cell clusters had been flicked overboard into two-space where even its immortal cells could not survive.

  Wherever it was in contact with the cats' paws the message was sent. <>

  The cats were... confused. Many kinds of vermin had tried to infest their Ship, but their prey had never <> to them before...

  "Next two contestants will be Brother Theo Petreckski and Lance Corporal Jarvis," Valandil called out.

  Brother Theo took the mark and looked over at the marine. "Corporal Jarvis, I do hope you will not take it amiss when a man of the cloth has to teach one of our poor marines what it means to shoot well!" he called out cheerfully.

  Jarvis laughed delightedly. "Not at all, Brother. Just remember to spend some time in prayer confessing the sin of unwonted pride!"

  "Now, now, Corporal. It's only unwonted if I lose! And God favors those who practice!"

  Jarvis only laughed as he let his mind focus on the targets, relaxing as he readied himself to react with the whip-crack fast reactions he was known for.

  The slime mold tried a new tactic, seeping down the side of the barrel through the cracks to the deck, and then oozing slowly toward the nearest crevice in the decking. The mold killed the Moss wherever it came into contact with it. While Fang couldn't feel the mold directly, it could sense the areas where the Moss died. For Fang it was as though something was scraping a tiny strip of Moss off of the deck. This was the kind of thing that happened all the time when heavy objects were dragged or pushed across the deck, and Fang quickly grew back over those spots. It was nothing unusual, no cause for alarm.

  For the cats, it was obvious something was happening when the Moss stopped glowing in a spot near the base of the barrel. This gave them an area to home in on, slashing, scraping, and licking at the alien creature with their claws and their abrasive, raspy tongues.

  Once again the s
lime mold was forced to take shelter in the cracks between the water barrel's staves.

  For the other cats, taking over the battle from Cuddles and Brutus, their luck had run out. By the time they came into contact with the slime mold the intruder had analyzed the body chemistry of this new foe and had developed toxins which would kill the creatures that consumed it. These cats would defecate the small colonies they ingested overboard into two-space, but not before the intruder had released enough toxins to kill them.

  Jarvis and Brother Theo were both fast. Very fast. Firing and reloading, the two men finished in a dead heat. The final score showed Brother Theo to be more accurate, with one of Jarvis' rounds landing slightly outside the target zone. Not far (if it had been an actual foe, he would have suffered an acute and terminal case of lead poisoning) but enough for Brother Theo to move on to the next round.

  "Ah, hell!" Broadax cursed. "Ye means ta tell me the honor o' the Westerness marines is restin' on the backs of the Brothers Dumb? Wot kinder nonsense is this, Corp'ral?" She jerked her thumb over at Dwakins and Rawl, who were still arguing passionately over the merits and failures of bitterash dumplings. "If'n them two doorknobs ain't talkin' 'bout food, they's talkin' 'bout women. An' neider o' the two of 'em knows enough of the female o' any species t' fill a thimble!"

  Jarvis stood shaking his head. "Yep. And for this I decided to stay in the marines. If I hadn't got all noble and greedy I coulda been home now, behind my old mule, peacefully plowing my own land. And damned if that don't sound right nice compared to dealing with my two idiots."

  Broadax sighed, exhaling a cloud of toxic smoke that was repeated in miniature by her monkey. "Well, ye know no good deed goes unpunished. So go sort out the Brothers Dumb an' git 'em settled down agin. It's downright embarrassin' hearin' 'em yammerin' like a couple o' puppies growlin' over a teat!"

  She snarled again as she walked over to Hans, who was carefully looking the other way as he controlled a case of the giggles.

  "I vonder vot dem cats is lookin' at?" Corporal Kobbsven observed to the sailor next to him.

  The sailor turned and saw several cats sitting on their haunches and staring at the side of a water barrel on the deck.

  "Dammed if'n I know. Who knows why a cat does anyting? O' course who but a marine wastes time starin' at a cat anyhow?" the sailor chortled.

  Kobbsven growled slightly and forgot about the cats as he watched the captain and his first officer move to the firing line.

  "Woof!" added Boye at their feet, as the dog (and his monkey) watched his person intently.

  Melville and Fielder looked relaxed and confident as they approached the rail. They had stripped off their jackets and were in white shirts and blue trousers, with their bare feet on the Moss of the Ship.

  <

> came the message through the Moss to the captain. <

>

  The temptation was great. Fang's assistance might make a big difference in this contest. But Melville grinned cheerfully as he thought back to Fang, <>

  <

> He caught a flash of amusement through the Moss as it sent back Fang's response.

  <>

  As he stepped up to the line for instructions, he whispered to Fielder, "Don't worry, Daniel, I'll be gentle. I know it's just your partying catching up with you, and not your increasing age and feebleness!"

  Fielder sniffed and raised his nose a bit as he said, "Gentle, huh? Partying, age, and feebleness? Sir, don't you know that you have to relieve yourself of tensions to shoot well?"

  Melville smiled and said softly, "Yes, and I'm sure running naked through the streets is a great tension reliever, now isn't it?"

  "Not fair, sir, not fair! It seems I will have to teach you manners by out-shooting you today!" he chortled in response.

  Westminster shook his head at the two of them. "Sirs, if you two fine gentlemen are through talking trash, Ah'd like to get this match under way."

  Fielder and Melville grinned at him and each other unrepentantly.

  "When you hear the bell, you will draw and fire both barrels from each gun at the two targets," the ranger drawled. "Each target must have one round in the head region and one in the torso, both in the kill zone. You will then reload and repeat the sequence, for a total of eight rounds fired, four in each target." Even though the participants had heard the directions many times before in previous matches, they listened carefully as judges had been known to vary the target zones at the last minute.

  "Are the shooters ready?" Westminster asked.

  Melville and Fielder nodded, looking relaxed and composed while their monkeys crouched on the rail nearby, watching.

  Ding! went the bell in Valandil's hand. Melville's right hand came up holding the pistol and met his left hand in front of his chest as it rose to eye level. <> the pistol spoke in his mind and "Crack!Crack!" it said to his ears. On the second shot both hands dropped as the first pistol went into the holster, the second lifted out in his left hand and met the empty right hand, coming up to eye level as the pistol cracked twice more.

  Fielder was shooting at the same time, but Melville was totally immersed in his task, feeling the grip of the pistol, watching the front sight as it came into focus and covered the target as his thumb caressed the nipples of the Keel charge.

  As Melville fired the second shot from the second pistol, he brought the muzzle up, thumbed a bullet into each muzzle, rammed them home, brought it up to align with the target, and thumbed the Keel charges: <> "Crack!" <> "Crack!" as he aimed first at the head and then the torso. Then he brought the gun in, reloaded, and repeated the sequence again.

  <> Melville felt from Fang.

  <> Melville agreed with a smile.

  "Cease fire," shouted Valandil.

  "I told you that you needed more practice Captain!" Fielder chortled. "Or maybe you need a bit more relaxation time in port."

  Melville grimaced at the targets, then shook his head ruefully. "Point taken, Daniel. I think perhaps I had better think about my own practice schedule as well as the crew's."

  Westminster leaned in to look at the offending target. Melville had been faster, but one of his shots was high and outside the torso ring. "Well, Captain, it might not be good enough to win here, but in the real world Ah reckon it'd hit the man's throat right in front of the spine. Woulda taken the fight outa him real quick. 'Course that's why we always teach folks to shoot at the center of mass: 'cause you've got room to miss the center and still maybe take 'em out anyway. But it ain't quite good enough today," he said, grinning cheerfully at his captain.

  <

> he felt from his Ship.

  Melville sighed ruefully, regretting that he hadn't used Fang's assistance. <> he thought back good-naturedly. <>

  The slime mold was... frustrated. To say the least. In all its countless millennia of experience it had never run into targets that were so alert, and so stupidly stubborn! And the Ship! Never before had the Moss given the slightest indication that it could even sense the presence of the mold on its surface! Yet these mammals and the Moss seemed to work together to frustrate it in its sacred duty: the death of all aboard for the greater glory of Quar!

  A person in this situation might be rightfully accused of sulking, but the mold was a creature of a very different type. It took out its frustrations by tweaking the waste products it was secreting into the water barrel, making the death slower, more painful, locking it in tightly to the biological information it had acquired in losing chunks of itself to the cats.

  The alien mold considere
d itself an artist of death, and these exasperating mammals had driven it into a creative frenzy.

  "So whatsk the status o' da bettink on da match so far, Hansk?" Ulrich asked.

  Hans quirked a grizzled eyebrow at Ulrich, his monkey, and the goofy little green bird bobbing atop his head. "'Bout the same as it were an' hour ago. Most o' the bets had the captain or Fielder picked as t' winner, a good chunk had Grenoble up, an' most o' the marines were goin' fer Dwakins. But they're mostly bettin' from pride fer one o' their own more'n they think he can win it."

  "Huh. How's 'bout da bettin' on Asquith?" he asked curiously.

  "Him? The earthworm?" Hans asked incredulously. "I gots two idjits in the whole pool who bet on him t' win. An' he's one o' 'em!" He paused and looked thoughtfully at Ulrich then continued slowly. "O' course, if'n by some chance he did win, those two idjits would split the pool, wouldn't they?" His monkey spit over the side, which cued Hans to do the same. "Ya wouldn't happen ta know who actually put down the money on him, wouldja?" he probed.

  Ulrich smiled beatifically—a truly frightening sight to Hans, since the only other times the old seadog had seen that same expression was in battle, framed by a mask of gore.

  "Well, I know'd one o' them idjitsk wask Asquith," said Ulrich, "an' sincesk t' othersk me, I'm guessink we's gonna find out whosk da idjitsk here shortly!" He grinned evilly as his monkey eeked wickedly.

  "Eep!" agreed his bird.

  "An' whilsk you're at it, see what kinder odds ya can git on a side bet fer da earthworm againsk Grenoble." He handed Hans a bulging leather purse. "I figger Asquith'll finishk up shootink 'fore Grenoble finishkes reloadink 'is lask round. So's whyn't ya see what kinder oddsk ya kin get fer us, why don't ya?"

  Hans tossed the purse in his hand thoughtfully. "Lemme git this straight," he said slowly. "Ya want me ta bet that Asquith will be done shooting—and win!—before Grenoble finishes reloading to fire his last two shots? Look, Ulrich, I can buy that Asquith has been practicin'. I can even believe that he's good enough ta win against Grenoble—even though the pockin' Sylvan knight is faster'n hell. I mean, I know ya bin workin' with the boy. But before Grenoble finishes reloadin'?!"