Two Space War Part 9

No grime of smoke nor reeking blood hath s.m.u.tched

The virgin brow of this unconquered queen.

She is the Joy of Courage vanquis.h.i.+ng

The unstilled tremors of the fearful heart;

And it is she that bids the poet sing,

And gives to each the strength to bear his part.

"Courage"

Dyneley Hussey

Melville stood beside the quartermaster on the upper quarterdeck. A strange calmness was upon him as he maneuvered the Kestrel toward their foe. His eight-legged spider monkey clung to his back, peering cautiously over his shoulder. He stroked the monkey's little neck, and found himself completely resigned to the fact that today was a good day to die.

He wasn't going to die easy. He had no death wish. The Mirror for Princes, written in Persia on Old Earth in the eleventh century, commanded warriors, "reconcile yourself with death . . . be bold; for a short blade grows longer in the hands of the brave." Melville was reconciled to death.

Dag Hammerskjld, a famous twentieth-century statesman, put it like this, "Do not seek death. Death will find you. But seek the road which makes death a fulfillment." All his life Melville had sought that road. Now he'd found it. He was on that road, and he was at peace with himself and the universe.

Melville had read about military leaders who entered into this state. They weren't suicidal, indeed, just the opposite. But once the plan was made, once all possible preparations were taken, and you're about to see how the dice settle, there can be an enormous peace.

"We are going to attack and board the doggies," he'd told his officers. "Only they aren't 'doggies' any more. That's what we called them when they weren't our foe. I like dogs. The Guldur like to think of themselves as wolves, but they're nothing but curs. From now on that's what we will call them, and by the living G.o.d we'll neuter these curs!"

Indeed, that was what the Guldur looked like. Huge dogs, giant mutts, standing on their hind legs. They had opposable thumbs on their paws, and were as varied in color and coat as the dogs of Mother Earth. It was strange, the power that existed in words. Calling them "curs" would make it easier to kill them, and some serious killing was now required.

"In spite of what everyone seems to think, we will win. We are going to meet the enemy bow to bow on the red-side. The curs like boarding actions. Their honor and their doctrine won't let them deny us a boarding if we come at them with an equal force. They will also think this approach is advantageous to them. Boarding from this direction will bring their lower red-side guns dead against us. What they don't know is that they have already killed our s.h.i.+p, so their guns can't do us much further harm, and we want them to board the lower side. Meanwhile, we'll all be in the upper bows, where their guns can't reach us. Then they will reap what they sow, as we leave them to die on the s.h.i.+p that they killed."

The mids.h.i.+pmen lay under a tarp in the upper bow of the Kestrel, nibbling on bits of s.h.i.+ps biscuit. Beside Crater, Archer and Aquinar were the three other mids.h.i.+pmen who had remained on the Kestrel. The three who'd been part of the away party to Broadax's World all had their spider monkeys with them. The little creatures still refused to leave their newfound friends and there was no sense in leaving them behind on a dying s.h.i.+p. Everyone who was adopted by a monkey worried that the creatures might get in the way in battle, but they didn't see any real choice. And there was something about the little monkeys and their past actions that led the crew members to trust them.

Waiting with the six middies were Josiah Westminster, with the rangers' remaining dog; Brother Petreckski; and the vast majority of the crew. Melville offered Josiah and Petreckski an opportunity to remain on Broadax's world, since their duty as purser and ranger could be interpreted to give them an excuse for missing the battle.

Melville smiled at Josiah and put it this way, "How about it, John Carter, you want to play with your Tarka friends some more?"

Josiah grinned his mischievous grin and replied, "Throughout mah life I've never turned from the glory road. You sir, are on the glory road, and ah shall follow."

Melville laughed aloud. He'd opened with Burroughs, and Josiah trumped him with Heinlein.

When he put the matter to Petreckski, the purser simply replied: " 'Here I stand. I can do no otherwise.' " Melville grinned to hear the words of Martin Luther come out of the monk at this time.

All the cutters were away under Lieutenant Fielder's command. In place of the cutter that usually filled the Kestrel's bow, a phony cutter of canvas and wood sc.r.a.ps had been constructed. Busted spars and tangles of rope and sail were artfully placed to make the area a confusing mess. Under this camouflage the crew waited patiently.

Two 12-pounder cannon were also hidden here under a heap of dirty sailcloth, with a double load of grapeshot, poised to fire down into the enemy's deck. Gunnery Sergeant Don Von Rito lay between the guns with a few hand-picked gunners. Gunny Von Rito was a marine who was the gunnery warrant's senior NCO. These two 12-pounders would only get one shot before they recoiled back across the deck. Von Rito was determined to insure that this one blast of grape would get maximum "payback" for the cowardly, treacherous attack that had murdered their captain and first officer.

The majority of their marines were under the command of Corporal Kobbsven. They were the only ones in view on the upper deck, crouching along the railing, looking like a "normal" boarding party.

Their new captain had put it clearly. "Unless I specifically say otherwise, every swinging, living creature on this s.h.i.+p, including the cook and her cat, will go across the upper red-side bow in the boarding party." Indeed, somewhere in the party was the one-eyed old cook, Roxy, her cat, all the other cats, and all the s.h.i.+p's dogs. Many of the crew lay on the maindeck, under artfully draped tarps or inside the phony cutter. Those who couldn't find room on the maindeck waited below, on the upper gundeck, ready to swarm out the for'ard hatch and join the boarding party.

What was about to happen wasn't a boarding, but a ma.s.s exodus from a dying s.h.i.+p. For all they knew, the s.h.i.+p's rats also sat poised to join them.

Lady Elphinstone was one of those who waited below on the upper gundeck. Lieutenant Melville had offered her an opportunity to remain below, with the wounded, on Broadax's world. Her response was simply to say, "My duty is to tend our wounded. Where thou art going, there shall be wounded, and so I must go."

She and her "lob-lolly girl," Mrs. Vodi, held their medicine bags. Their two medical a.s.sistants, or "corpsmen," Pete Etzen and Thadeaus Brun, stood by with even more medical equipment packed on their backs. Under ordinary circ.u.mstances Elphinstone and Vodi would never be in the boarding party. That was Doc Etzen and Doc Brun's job. But anyone who stayed behind on this s.h.i.+p could expect nothing but certain death. The only hope of survival was in rapidly boarding the enemy's s.h.i.+p. Something the curs were apt to violently resent and resist.

A cloud of distraught, distressed cats milled around Elphinstone and Vodi. For many hundreds of years a systematic effort had been dedicated to breeding dogs and cats for intelligence. The cats and dogs a.s.signed to the Westerness Navy were the cream of the crop of a centuries-long breeding program. The result was that the cats had some idea what was going on, and they didn't like it. Not one bit. The whole thing seemed completely beneath their dignity.

The dogs also had a good sense of what was going on and, as usual, thought it was all a great, glorious game. "Fetch boy! Go get the s.h.i.+p!"

Darren Barlet, the gunnery warrant, strode the lower gundeck. Black as a gun barrel, whipcord lean, with a ramrod posture and a shaven head, Barlet was a wizard at long-range gunnery. His men joked admiringly that if all else failed they could lay him on a gun carriage and use him as a cannon. All he had to do was put a cannonball in his mouth and command it to seek the enemy. His men were certain that the ball wouldn't dare disobey.

"Switch guns to get as much firepower as you can up for'ard on the red-side, above and below," Lieutenant Melville had ordered. "Run painted logs out as Quaker guns to fill any gaps, so that the enemy won't know what we're doing. Load nothing but grape or canister in every gun."

"Aye, sir," the master gunner replied quietly.

"Your job is to suppress the enemy's guns. Every hit they get on us is another chance they might knock the Keel loose. Keep the pressure on them. Fire canister and grape into those big gun ports as long, as hard, and as fast as you can."

"Aye, sir," again, quietly with a nod.

"Guns, at first the danger will be from the bow chaser on the lower green-side. Focus our two lower bow chasers there. Then, as we close up, bow-to-bow on our red-sides, I want you to suppress those two guns on the lower red-side. On the upper side, have the bow chasers try to clear the ticks out of the rigging. No ball shot, you understand? You'll just damage our s.h.i.+p, for that is what the enemy's s.h.i.+p is. Our s.h.i.+p by G.o.d. Aye, and the curs owe us one! As soon as we come alongside, give one or two last shots of grape into those lower gun ports, then all the gun crews race up and join the boarding party."

"Aye. Oh, aye, indeed, sir." There was nothing but steely determination in those brown eyes. If anyone could pull this off, it would be his master gunner.

Now Mr. Barlet and a few hand-picked crews stood ready to fire the guns that would come to bear in the coming battle. The rest of his gunners stood by with pistol, boarding ax, and the straight swords of two-s.p.a.ce sailors, waiting beside the medics below the for'ard hatch on the upper side, or concealed on the upper maindeck with the boarding party.

Mr. Hans (no longer "Chief" Hans, much to his dismay), hung in the upper rigging beside Valandil, the Sylvan ranger. Each of them had a rifle cradled in one arm. When Melville gave Valandil the opportunity to remain below on Broadax's world, the ranger's answer was yet another literary quote, said with the barest twitch of a smile, " 'Faithless is he that says farewell when the road darkens.' "

Hans' monkey scampered and frolicked next to him, apparently untroubled by the chill, and completely delighted by the quarter gravity of the upper rigging. Like the monkey, Valandil exulted in the dizzying heights and low gravity of this realm. The Sylvan race lived high in the huge trees of low-gee worlds. The ranger's skill in battle was superb in any terrain, but here he was a supernatural fighter, and the sailors were heartened by his presence.

"I need a crack crew in the rigging, and your best quartermaster teams on duty at the wheel, above and below," Lieutenant Melville had told Hans. "They need to respond quickly, and bring us to a gentle stop right at the enemy's bow. The crew in the upper rigging has a special job. I want all of them to stay up high where the gravity is light. Swarm into the enemy's rigging as fast as you can, stay high, head to the enemy's stern, and drop down on their quarterdeck. Have sailors hidden in the crow's nests to reinforce this action. Cut through or bypa.s.s any pockets of Goblan resistance in the rigging. Meanwhile, all the crew in the lower rigging will come up as fast as they can and reinforce the boarding party."

Newly commissioned "Lootenant" Broadax stood with a quarter of her marines in the bow of the lower maindeck, smiling, caressing her ax, and humming to herself. She wasn't sure about this "ossifer" business. Ossifers had to do a lot of talking and directing of folks, and she'd never been good with words. She always found it easier to hit people with something. But this battle now. This was something she could handle. Her monkey clung tightly to her back, making little squeaks of concern and protest.

"You will be in charge of the defense of our lower decks," their new captain had told her. "Except I don't want the lower decks defended. I want you to lure them in. Take the bare minimum force you need for the job. We will be in contact with the enemy only at the bow, so the s.p.a.ce they can come across is fairly small. Detach the rest of your marines to support the boarding party on the upper deck." Broadax nodded placidly and sucked in on her cigar as he continued.

"Hold at the bow just long enough for the crew in the rigging to escape through the hatches. Stand for a minute at the for'ard hatch, then give them the gundeck, taking all the gunners down with you. Drop down into the hold and dog the hatch. I want to give them full run of the lower-side maindeck and gundeck, but not the hold. Then immediately evacuate Mr. Tibbits and your whole crew to the upper maindeck and reinforce our boarding party." Again she nodded, exhaling a cloud of noxious smoke that formed a small, low-lying fog bank.

"Do not let them into the hold. If you run the curs will chase. Their instinct, their 'honor,' and their doctrine demand it. But if they get into the hold and see the condition the Keel is in, they'll run back to their s.h.i.+p like their tails were on fire." Still Broadax said nothing, only pulling in a drag from her cigar and rolling it to a corner in reply.

"Lieutenant Broadax," Melville continued, looking down into her beady, bloodshot eyes, "I want you to try very hard to avoid getting yourself killed. That's an order. I need you and your marines to reinforce the main boarding effort. Is that all understood?"

"Yes, sir!" the Dwarrowdelf replied, fondling her ax and exhaling deeply, adding fresh reinforcements to the toxic fog bank at her feet. "Minimum force below ta draw the curs in. The rest'll be under Corporal Kobbsven up here. Down below we'll let the blueboys in the rigging git out, then give the curs the maindeck. Then we git the gunners out, an' give 'em the gundeck. Dog the hatches shut, an' don' let 'em in the hold. Git back ta the upper deck an' come join the party." She added with a saucy wink and a gap-toothed grin, "An' don' git me ossifer a.s.s bit by no mutt."

Old Hans shot a stream of tobacco overboard and laughed admiringly at this little joke at their new captain's expense. Broadax seemed truly delighted with her role in this caper. You'd never know that she'd just been given the most dangerous mission in what was already a forlorn hope. Kind of a suicide mission within a suicide mission. And she loved it.

Tibbits sat in the hold with a hand on the Keel of the s.h.i.+p. The old carpenter was sobbing unashamedly.

"Mr. Tibbits," the captain had told him gently, "you stay in the hold and keep the s.h.i.+p company. Once Lieutenant Broadax has cleared out, ask the s.h.i.+p to hold for just another few seconds. Then immediately join the boarding party. Chips?" Melville continued, looking the old carpenter in the eye. "Resist the temptation to go down with the s.h.i.+p. That's an order. Your skills may be vital to convincing this new s.h.i.+p to accept us. The survival of everyone on this s.h.i.+p may depend on your being with us."

Melville lowered his voice to a rasping whisper, husky with unshed tears, "Just tell her good-bye for us. Let her know we love her, and we will avenge her if she can hold on for a little while longer. If we do this right, old Kestrel herself will personally kill half of the enemy for us. Okay?"

The old man raised a tear-streaked face to his new captain. Not caring what the young lieutenant saw. He replied softly, almost inaudibly. "Aye, sir. Aye."

Lieutenant Fielder was in a black funk as he stood in the upper stern of Fatty Lumpkin, which usually served as the captain's barge. The other three cutters, Sharp-ears, Wise-nose and White-socks were sailing slowly along beside him, making an intentionally poor job of getting away from the coming battle.

"Put a skeleton crew in each cutter," Melville had said. "Move away as though you were trying to escape, but make a poor job of it and stay reasonably close. Come around to the far side of our boarding, and take the curs in the rear, on the green-side of their upper maindeck. You'll kick them in the tail, while we hold their noses!"

" 'Kick them in the tail,' " Fielder muttered to himself. He was too depressed to respond with anything more than a scowl. Their little handful of crewmen couldn't conceivably have any impact on the battle. To add injury to insult, Melville had loaded each cutter down so that they couldn't possibly make any speed. "We should be able to put three 12-pounders in each cutter, if we lift the cannons from their carriages and store them separately. The curs may have killed our s.h.i.+p, so we'll take theirs, but we'll save the cutters and as many of our cannon as we can."

Like the rest of the s.h.i.+p's crew, they'd scrambled madly to prepare for Melville's insane scheme. That was the problem with the navy. Put an idiot in charge, and you had a s.h.i.+p full of idiots. Following a deranged dreamer's daft scheme to the letter.

There was a very good chance that the Kestrel would die long before they boarded, in which case everyone on board would die. Or she might die during the boarding, in which case most of the crew would die with the s.h.i.+p, and the rest would be butchered by the Guldur. The only ones with a chance of surviving were those in the cutters. Maybe, if they split up, some of them could escape the Guldur s.h.i.+p. But loaded down like this, even that was a remote possibility. They were gonna die. . . .

Theoretically, you should be able to see forever across the vast, flat plain of Flatland. However, it seemed that the gravitational pull of the entire galaxy was so great that it actually pulled the light waves "down" toward the plain of Flatland within a fairly short distance. Or at least that was the dominant theory. Whatever the reason, the enemy s.h.i.+p had been out of sight for several hours. Now its topsails were in sight, and it bore down on them relentlessly. The crew of the Kestrel could have used a little more time camouflaging their positions in the upper bow, but when the enemy drew into sight they were about as ready as they were ever going to be.

The Guldur grapeshot had chewed most of the way through their mainmast on the Kestrel's upper side. Melville had the carpenter's mates pull away the spars and tightly wound rope that had been put in place to reinforce the mast around this damage. Then they chopped at the damaged section until their mainmast was completely severed. Now the severed b.u.t.t-end of the mast was resting on the deck. The mast and topmast were still united at the cap and the trestle-trees, suspended by the shrouds. When the enemy saw this they a.s.sumed that the mainmast had finally broken and their elusive foe had turned to fight a weak, desperate delaying action. While her cutters, filled with much of the crew, tried to escape.

Both s.h.i.+ps slowed down for a boarding action, coming at each other head on.

The bow chaser in the Guldur's lower section fired one shot, which went high and cut through the rigging.

Down in the lower gundeck, Mr. Barlet looked at the Guldur marksmans.h.i.+p with disgust. The curs loved to board and didn't pay much attention to long-range gunnery. He yearned to get his hands on one of those huge guns. He would show them how to use it to its full potential.

The forwardmost 12-pounders, on the red- and green-sides, above and below, could be swung around as a bow chaser. Thus a total of four guns could be brought to bear toward the front. Now it was time for these guns to start paying the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds back.

The bow chasers were all loaded with canister, which was like grapeshot but held together so that it didn't spread as fast. The Guldur liked their gunnery close. "Go for the throat" was the curs' motto. Their usual, preferred method of combat was one quick blast and then board the enemy, continuing to bang away with the guns while the boarding action was in progress. None of this dancing around and playing with long-range gunnery for them. It was just "wham-bam, thankee ma'am" for the curs.

It was a little surprising that they even took the one long shot. But the range of the Guldur guns, combined with the slow speed as the two s.h.i.+ps approached each other, would give the curs ample time to reload. Under ordinary circ.u.mstances.

The curs clearly planned to get one more shot with the bow chaser on their green-side below, at close range. Once they met bow-to-bow on the red-side, they'd have a point-blank shot with the two guns on the red-side below.

Usually the goal in a s.h.i.+p-to-s.h.i.+p battle like this was to damage the other guy, with minimal regard for the damage he does to you. In this case Melville had to do everything humanly possible to reduce the chance of taking a hit that might cut the circuit on Kestrel's Keel. This meant that below the plain of Flatland, where the enemy had a bow chaser in position, they would use their guns to fire at the enemy's guns.

Mr. Barlet hunched over the lower green-side bow chaser. The two lower bow chasers should each be able to fire three times before the huge Guldur gun was reloaded. He wanted to use every shot to put canister b.a.l.l.s through the huge gun hatch before the Guldur could fire again.

Barlet was hunched over in the odd, contorted position of a "sniper." The gun would recoil violently upon firing, so he had to stand to the side of the carriage. But he needed to look down the barrel to aim. That meant he must face the gun from the side, bend over, turn his head to the left, and rest his cheek on the gun barrel as he sighted down it. His left hand was above him, grasping a handhold in a support beam, while he shouted commands to the crew and used his right hand to signal fine adjustments.

Gunpowder didn't work in two-s.p.a.ce. Flatland operated by its own laws, its own logic. If you wanted to propel something from a pistol, rifle, or a cannon in two-s.p.a.ce, it had to be from a muzzle-loader with a Keel charge set in its base.

When the gun was ready to fire Barlet lifted his cheek up off the gun barrel and touched the Keel charge which stuck out from the cannon's end, like a nipple protruding from the end of a baby bottle. It always grew a layer of Lady Elbereth Moss, and it was somewhat sentient. When his hand touched the Keel charge it initiated the force, the energy that sent the cannonball flying. Touching the keel charge was almost like patting a dog. He "felt" the gun speak to him and he tried to "talk" back, telling it exactly where to fire.

> the gun responded, like the yelp of joy from a dog that was released to chase a rabbit. "CHOOM!" > He barely had time to s.n.a.t.c.h his hand back as the gun recoiled against its restraining ropes, and the load of canister splattered against the green-side of the Guldur s.h.i.+p. Like some huge shotgun blast, it slammed twelve pounds of half-inch b.a.l.l.s into the enemy's hull. But the range was long for canister, and by the time it reached the target the pattern had spread so widely that it would have taken some significant luck for one to go in the hatch.

With the gun recoiled all the way back, all Barlet had to do was to stride forward, stepping over the taut restraining ropes, to the red-side where the other bow chaser waited. He leaned forward again and put his cheek against this gun, repeating the aiming and firing process. > "CHOOM!" > Again the canister shot splattered against the green-side. Hopefully a ball or two went into the gun port and slowed down the enemy's loading process.

The green chaser's crew of four gunners had their 12-pounder loaded and run back up to the gun port. Barlet ran around the back of it to a.s.sume his original position. The s.h.i.+ps were approaching each other rapidly, and now the range was better. Again he fired the green chaser. > "CHOOM!" > This time the cl.u.s.ter of shot was much tighter as it impacted around the enemy's open hatch. There could be little doubt that it was making life miserable for whoever was trying to load that gun. Again, with the red chaser. > "CHOOM!" > Then the green. > "CHOOM!" > The enemy gun port was chewed into an irregular opening, and there was no movement to get their huge bow chaser back into position. This gun was silenced. The enemy bow chaser on the lower green-side had done no harm. Now, as they approached the Guldur s.h.i.+p, the goal was to put the same kind of pressure on the guns on the enemy's lower red-side. Those guns couldn't bear on them yet, but as they approached bow-to-bow for boarding, they might be able to get off a shot.

Guns couldn't fire through the plane of Flatland. What Mr. Barlet was doing on the lower gundeck had limited impact on the upper half of the Guldur s.h.i.+p.

On the upper side they were moving into the enemy's dead s.p.a.ce. No enemy guns could hit them here, so the goal of the upper bow chasers was to kill as many of the enemy as possible, in support of the boarding operation. Like the guns below, these bow chasers had time to get off three shots each before the two s.h.i.+ps met. They each fired one canister followed by two of grape. Each shot sent another twelve pounds of half-inch b.a.l.l.s sweeping through the enemy rigging.

A veritable sleet of shot swept the enemy's masts and rigging, killing swarms of the Goblan "ticks." These "allies" were actually more like va.s.sals or slaves. They lived and worked high up in the Guldur s.h.i.+ps where the "curs" didn't like to go. Clearing the Goblan out of the enemy's upper rigging helped clear the way for Hans, Valandil, and the sailors who would "take the high ground" and sweep down on the enemy's upper quarterdeck.

A hail of shot rattled the enemy rigging, and a rain of black Goblan came down. Like decayed fruit falling from a dying tree, they landed with a wet, crunching "thud!" on the deck, or they fell into the sea. Into Flatland. Those who hit Flatland bounced through once, bobbed partially back out again, and then disappeared into the vacuum of interstellar s.p.a.ce.

The battle wasn't all one-sided. The Guldur in the bow of the upper and lower sides fired volley after volley of muskets at the approaching Westerness s.h.i.+p. The Goblan in the rigging were savaged by the Kestrel's cannon fire, but they too sent down a hail of musket b.a.l.l.s directed at the marines who were visible and exposed as they crouched in the upper and lower bows.

The marines' job was to draw the enemy's attention away from the hidden boarding party waiting behind them . . . and to stay alive. So most of them weren't invested in exposing themselves to return fire. They simply crouched behind the railing, praying or swearing, as was their individual inclination.

Private Jarvis had been mauled by an ape in the last battle. He'd recovered enough to be released for duty. Now here he was again, with musket b.a.l.l.s bouncing around him and wood splinters flying into his exposed flesh. Sergeant (oops, Lieutenant) Broadax might enjoy this stuff, but he'd never been so miserable in his life. At least the apes didn't shoot at you. Once again his bladder control was failing and "leg sweat" was darkening his trousers. He felt his bowels loosen and it was all he could do to maintain control of his sphincter.

In training they'd been told about a survey of combat veterans in World War II, back on Old Earth in the twentieth century. About half the veterans who saw intense frontline action admitted to wetting themselves in combat. In the same survey almost a quarter of these combat veterans admitted to messing themselves. Jarvis was one of many combatants since then whose cynical response to that data was, "h.e.l.l, all that proves is that the rest were liars."