Two Space War Part 10

Up in the rigging, it was important not to look too strong. To accomplish this, many of the Westerness sailors were hiding, packed in the crow's nests. The rest were firing rifles. In two-s.p.a.ce, loading and firing was much easier. No need for powder here. A little Keel charge plugged the breech of each barrel. Insert two mini b.a.l.l.s into the double-barreled muzzle, drive them home with the double ramrod, re-set the ramrod beneath the barrel, touch the Keel charge at the base of the barrels with your thumb, and "Crack!" the mini ball slammed forward.

The white, Elbereth Mossa"coated Keel charges of the muskets and pistols were much smaller than those of the cannon. When you touched them off there was a small sense of sentience, like a purring cat.

On the upper quarterdeck Melville's job was made much easier by the effect of Kestrel's grapeshot on the Goblan in the upper rigging. The enemy was having trouble fine-tuning their sails, so they simply dropped all sails and let the Westerness s.h.i.+p board, just as she pleased. Just where he wanted. If the Kestrel wasn't so obviously crippled, with her mainmast shattered, the Guldur might have feared that she would try to trick them with some maneuver. But under the present circ.u.mstances it was obvious that they could only be coming to board. And that was just fine with the curs.

As they drew near, it became obvious that the boarding would come off as planned. Melville called a final command, "Let fly the sheets!" Once upon a time, in the old, wet navy, that meant to release the bottom half of the sails. Then the sails could "fly" in the wind, without providing any more forward momentum. While sailing the endless seas of Flatland this command still meant to release the bottom half of the sails, but now the result was that the constant downward "wind" of two-s.p.a.ce made the sails hang loose, straight down, so that forward momentum ceased.

The quartermaster's mate echoed the command through the voice tube to the lower quarterdeck so that the sails would be equally trimmed on both sides. This prevented any chance of "tipping" which could lead to "sinking." In the rigging, above and below, the sailors released the sails that were giving forward thrust. Their headway quickly dropped off, and the quartermaster used the rudder to fine tune the final approach.

Melville left control to the quartermaster, grabbed a double-barreled pistol in each hand and ran to the bow to lead the boarding party. Both his monkey and the eery calm still clung to him. Sweet as kiss-my-hand, the two s.h.i.+ps moved toward a gentle meeting, right where Melville wanted.

Lieutenant Fielder sat out in Fatty Lumpkin, watching the s.h.i.+ps pull together. "The b.a.s.t.a.r.d," he muttered to himself. "The goofy, gonzo, poetry-prating, prat b.a.s.t.a.r.d. He might actually pull this off. He might just do it. Come on, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

Fielder moved down to where the deck was close to the plain of Flatland. He lay on his side and stuck his head in, like you might dip your head into a pool of water. He held one eye above and one below Flatland, which permitted him to see both the upper and lower portions of each s.h.i.+p. Anyone other than a sailor would be driven to distraction, if not insanity, by the operation. But for someone who had spent his childhood and teen years as a mids.h.i.+pman it was a normal procedure.

From this position Fielder could see the comparative lack of sailors and marines on the lower side. And that mad, demented, berserker Broadax stood in the lower bows waving her silly hatchet, glaring out from beneath the obligatory iron Dwarrowdelf helmet. On the upper side the crow's nests were crowded and the bow was packed with marines.

Melville, the d.a.m.ned fool, had left the quarterdeck and was moving to the front of the marines on the upper deck. A single blue jacket in a sea of red, s...o...b..ating as he waved two big, double-barreled pistols in the air. All sails hung free on both s.h.i.+ps, and they coasted gently together. Kestrel's upper guns were blazing away at the Guldur's upper rigging. Her lower guns were hammering the enemy's lower guns. If only they could prevent a blast from those big guns that would shake the Kestrel's Keel loose.

"Come on, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Come on." For the first time in many days, hope began to kindle in Fielder's heart. "You know," said Fielder to no one in particular, "when trouble arises and things look bad, there's always one individual who perceives a solution and is willing to take command. Very often, that individual is quite mad."

Down in the lower gundeck, as they approached the Guldur, red bow to red bow, Mr. Barlet got one last shot off with the red bow chaser. > "CHOOM!" > He put a load of grape into the enemy's red-side gun ports. Then he moved back astern, firing the first four red-side 12-pounders as they came to bear on the same gun ports. > "CHOOM!" > > "CHOOM!" > > "CHOOM!" > > "CHOOM!" > He put hundreds of canister b.a.l.l.s into the enemy in a desperate attempt to stop them from firing into the crippled Kestrel.

Stopping a gun from loading is really not too difficult. Stopping a loaded gun from firing is far more difficult. Good as he was, Barlet and his gunners weren't able to stop one of the enemy's guns from firing. Just as they drew together with the enemy, the huge cannon fired.

"CH-DOO-OOM!!!" The Kestrel shuddered from stem to stern. Her severed mainmast shuddered and swayed as it hung in the rigging. The b.u.t.t end of the shattered mast ground into the decking. Those with their feet or hands in contact with the Elbereth Moss felt their s.h.i.+p groan in agony and effort.

Down in the hold Mr. Tibbits moaned in pain as he held onto the shards of the Keel, lending his spirit and soul to that of his s.h.i.+p. He was using his body as a living conductor to link the sundered pieces of the Keel. The soul of his dying s.h.i.+p ran through him.

The blast tore through the hull in the lower red bow and came out the lower green bow. The shot was devastating, but it didn't touch the Keel. Kestrel, the faithful s.h.i.+p that had served the men of Westerness for over a century, was able to hold on for a few minutes more.

Melville raced across the fo'c'sle to join the marines waiting patiently in the upper bow. All around him men lay still in hiding, beneath heaps of sails and ropes, and inside the phony cutter. Most of them clutched double-barreled muskets with fixed bayonets. Random musket b.a.l.l.s from the enemy's rigging punched through their cover and hit some of the sailors lying beneath, wounding many of them, killing some. But there was never a sound or a twitch that would give them away as they lay in hiding, bleeding and dying.

Melville leapt over and around many of them, stepping on a few. Again there was no sound from them. A strange, awesome and powerful joy was building in him. He'd abandoned all options but one. His plan was working, and now it was time to kill.

His monkey slipped down the back of his jacket, down his pant legs and onto the deck as Melville moved to the forefront of the boarding party. He was relieved to see the little creature get out of harm's way, but now he was worried that it might be left on board the Kestrel when she sank. This worry was relieved and the original concern returned when the monkey scampered up his back with a wooden belaying pin clutched in its upper two paws. The marines around Melville grinned and cheered at the little monkey's mock ferocity as it waved the belaying pin in the air above the young captain's head.

Melville looked at the marines crouched at the railing and he looked at the sailors hiding around him as he thought, Biding G.o.d's pleasure and their chief's command.

Calm was the sea, but not less calm was that band

Close ranged upon the p.o.o.p, with bated breath,

But flinching not though eye to eye with death.

The enemy was ma.s.sed at the railing, a demonic, canine ma.s.s of Guldur. A wall of fur the color and hue of every dog on earth, and some never seen on earth. Most of them were crisscrossed with white bandoleers. Furred claws clutched muskets, pistols and swords. Atop it was a sea of slavering snouts, yellow fangs, howling red mouths, and glaring eyes. Above that were the gray furred Goblan ticks, perched on the curs' backs. Their smaller fists clutched smaller swords, pistols and rifles, with their big-eyed, big-eared heads glaring out from on high.

As this howling ma.s.s drew near, a little piece of Kipling occurred, unbidden, to Melville: But now ye wait at h.e.l.l-Mouth Gate

and not in Berkeley Square.

The s.h.i.+ps came within arm's reach. Grappling hooks flew over from both sides to hold the vessels together in a death grip. But whose death?

Chapter the 6th.

Boarding Action:

I Shall Not Die Alone, Alone

High in the wreck I held the cup,

I clutched my rusty sword,

I c.o.c.ked my tattered feather

To the glory of the Lord.

Not undone were the heaven and earth,

This hollow world thrown up,

Before one man had stood up straight,

And drained it like a cup.

"The Deluge"

G.K. Chesterton

Gunny Von Rito was lying inside the canvas "cutter," peering through holes in the sailcloth. Just as the enemy was ready to leap at them he touched off the two 12-pounders hidden under the canvas. A bullet-headed, barrel chested, broad shouldered man with a criss-cross pattern of scars on his face and bald head, he looked as though his past a.s.signments included serving as the regimental battering ram. His arms reached out far enough for him to simultaneously touch the Keel charges of both the cannons that flanked him. > "CHO-OOM!" > The two guns held a double load of grape. The enemy was at point-blank range, with no cover at all. Each cannon belched out twenty-four pounds of half-inch b.a.l.l.s, blasting through the sailcloth camouflage and exploding into the approaching ma.s.s of Guldur. The big guns recoiled back across the fo'c'sle with stunning force. The sailors had avoided hiding in this area, lest they be smashed by their own guns. The for'ard gun recoiled so hard that it punched through the green-side railing and fell into the sea, where it bobbed once and sank, disappearing into interstellar s.p.a.ce.

Melville stood between the cannons, with enemy musket b.a.l.l.s whizzing past him. For him the cannon blast was as though he'd blinked his eyes and suddenly the enemy was no longer there. Only a red mist hung in the air where they once stood. An instant before there'd been a barking, slavering ma.s.s of enemy troops. Now there was a yelping, whining, groaning, ma.s.s of twitching bodies and slick red fur.

Before the stunned enemy could fill the gap, Melville and the men of Westerness began the process of violently abandoning s.h.i.+p.

Lieutenant Broadax stood in the lower bow, clenching her cigar in her teeth and roaring her defiance at the furry ma.s.s confronting her. The curs and their ticks up in the rigging were terrible shots, but the sheer volume of enemy fire had already dropped several of her marines as they crouched behind the railing. Some died where they lay. Some of the wounded crawled back to the for'ard hatch and dropped down. Other wounded marines lay moaning and helpless, sick with fear that they might be left behind on a dying s.h.i.+p when it was time to retreat.

Broadax hadn't been able to remove the little spider monkey from her back. Now it clung to her, gibbering with apparent terror, "Eekeekeekeek-ah! eekeekeek-ah! eek-ah! eekeek-ah!" as it waved some silly chunk of a broken spar around with its two upper hands.

The curs were holding their fire for one last point-blank volley. Broadax heard the bark of their commander, which was the signal for them to hit the deck.

Hitting the deck like this was a "dishonorable" act that distressed the curs greatly. But, as Broadax had put it to her marines, "Always remember, boys, incomin' fire has the right of way!" Most of the Guldur volley whizzed over their heads. Then the men of Westerness leapt up and each marine emptied both barrels into the wall of fur in front of them.

Already the Westerness sailors in Kestrel's lower-side rigging were down on the deck and scurrying through the hatches. A wave of ticks came across from the enemy rigging, close on their heels. The sailors quickly closed and secured all the hatches except for the one immediately behind the marines in the lower-side bow.

Broadax swung her ax in a glittering, lethal figure-eight, and all the marines put in one solid bayonet thrust. Then they fell back around the hatch that led down into the gundeck below, crouching to pull their wounded and dead with them as they went. They didn't always succeed. In trying to rescue their wounded, several others were killed or injured, lying in bleeding, red-jacketed heaps.

The ladder to the gundeck below had been removed and the marines simply fell down through the hatchway, one-by-one, trusting the sailors below to catch them. The sailors held a piece of stout sailcloth stretched taut between eight of them. When healthy marines. .h.i.t the cloth they were unceremoniously flipped off. When wounded marines. .h.i.t they were rolled gently off where they were immediately carried down to the lower hold, through the plain of Flatland, and into the rear of the main boarding party. There the s.h.i.+p's boys and the lightly wounded would help them in evacuating to the enemy vessel.

Broadax went last, backing into the hatchway. With her left hand she reached out and tossed two marines back through the open hatch behind her, while cutting the knees out from under a row of Guldur with one powerful sweep of the ax in her right hand. "To the axeman, all supplicants are the same height."

A wave of fur, fangs and steel came at her and she simply fell back through the hatch, covered with a mountain of snarling, clawing, slas.h.i.+ng Guldur. Her ax flashed in an intricate, deadly pattern as she fell. Her spider monkey clung tight with six legs. The club in its two uppermost legs delivered a flurry of blows all around Broadax's head as they fell backwards, the monkey gibbering all the while. A despairing "Eeeeeek!" trailed behind them along with a wisp of cigar smoke and spray of blood.

Broadax's body, covered with a ma.s.s of curs and ticks, hit the outstretched canvas held taut by the sailors.

"Thump! Eeekeekeek!"

The weight was far too great and the impact s.n.a.t.c.hed the canvas from the sailors' hands. The whole mess. .h.i.t the deck with a sickening thump. "Whumph! Urr . . . urrk . . . urkk?" A flurry of bayonets skewered the ma.s.s of Guldur and Goblan, flicking them off of the pile like pitchforks might toss hay bales.

The Guldur above hesitated for one split second as they looked down into the open hatch. The pile of bodies shuddered and s.h.i.+fted as Broadax struggled to her feet and staggered out from under the hatchway with a small mountain on her back. Her marines continued to flick curs and ticks off of her. Her monkey broke free of the clinging attackers and renewed its flurry of blows with its chunk of wood, slapping away anything that approached Broadax's head, while its sharp teeth snapped at anything in reach.

"Ye d.a.m.ned blueboys!" Broadax bellowed.

She pitched one hapless Goblan against the bulkhead with her left hand ("Thump! Urk!"), thrust the haft of her ax back and down into the gut of a Guldur ("Thud! Huuuu!"), then thrust the blade up into the conjunction of several others ("Yelp! Ark!") as she smashed her face into a hairy dog face, extinguis.h.i.+ng her cigar in an enemy's eye ("Aaaargh!").

"Ye only had one job," she howled, continuing to harangue the unfortunate sailors. "Just one thing. Hold the d.a.m.n tarp. Was that too d.a.m.ned hard fer ye?"

"Mumph? Mumph!" her monkey added. Its comment m.u.f.fled by the Goblan neck in its mouth.