Two Space War Part 11

The wounded and most of the sailors had already retreated down through the next hatch, into the hold. After one brief hesitation the Guldur continued to hurl themselves through the maindeck hatch, and the marines continued to stab and slash into the ma.s.s of Guldur and Goblan bodies as they fell and slid down. Again the marines backed into the next hatchway, falling through one-by-one, dragging their dead and wounded with them into the lower hold.

Once again Broadax was the last one through. This time there were fewer Guldur besieging her, since the first hatchway formed a bottleneck that limited the number who could come through. She actually had the situation reasonably under control as she chucked a wounded marine back into the hatch behind her and fell back into the hold with only a handful of enemy clinging to her.

"Eeeeeek!"

The hatch was propped open above her, and as soon as she fell through onto the canvas ("Thump! Eeekeekeek!") the prop was pulled out and the hatch slammed down into place. Or almost into place, since there were various bits and pieces of screaming, yelping Guldur and Goblan protruding from the seam, where they'd been trapped as the hatch slammed shut. Bayonets flashed and they quickly became, in a very real sense, dead weight.

Here in the hold the Keel generated around 1.25 gees, and again the weight of Broadax and her entourage of curs and ticks was too much for the sailors holding the tarp. They hit the deck with a thump, "Whumph! Urk . . . urk . . . urkk?"

Broadax bellowed, red faced as she swept the luckless sailors with blazing eyes and a mangled stogie. "Oh ye b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. Ye d.a.m.ned bluebelly b.a.s.t.a.r.ds," she howled, rolling the smashed remains of her cigar in her teeth. "I'll get ye for this. I swear I will."

"Eek. Ge-eek-eek-ook!" Her monkey added threateningly.

Together she and her marines quickly dispatched the Guldur that had entered with her. Broadax stood in resplendent, gory red glory. Her red marine jacket and sailcloth trousers had been slashed to a few tattered ribbons. Only her round iron helmet and her coat of fine Dwarrowdelf chain mail remained, but they were again covered with a red jacket. As were her hair, face, head, arms, and legs. A solid layer of red blood coated her from head to toe. Her monkey, too, was like a sticky red wraith, barely discernible from the rest of her body as it moved about. Indeed, the monkey blended in with the rest of her like some bizarre, macabre extension of an alien being. Together they formed a symbiotic fellows.h.i.+p that was a living incarnation of death.

Above them the Guldur were pulling up on the hatch. Several ropes suspended from the hatch. Numerous sailors and marines hung from these ropes, using their weight to keep the hatch down as the ropes were secured to tie-off points on the deck.

Meanwhile a ma.s.s of marines flicked their bayonets up at the protruding bits of Guldur. They expertly removed the fragments of organic debris that blocked the hatch from seating firmly, like a surgeon would use a scalpel to remove the debris and decay that stopped a tattered wound from sealing tight.

The hatch finally fell fully into place and was dogged down firmly. They made one last check of all the hatches and flipped a piece of canvas so that it concealed the exposed, shattered Keel. Above them the enemy was already hacking at the hatch covers, but it would take time to cut their way through. They dove through the hatch to the upper hold where they would pick up Mr. Tibbits and make their final departure, posthaste.

Melville leaped joyfully onto the railing and hurled himself into the gap created by the cannon blast, grasping a double-barreled pistol in each hand. His bare feet slipped and skidded on the writhing, moaning, yelping ma.s.s of b.l.o.o.d.y fur as he landed. His monkey clung to his back with six legs and swung its belaying pin around with its top two legs.

To his left were Corporal Kobbsven and Gunny Von Rito. The ma.s.sive Kobbsven bore a mighty, two-handed claymore, and Von Rito had only an ancient K-bar fighting knife in his hand.

To Melville's right was the ranger, Josiah, with Valandil's dog at his side. As soon as he stood up, Josiah threw his rifle to his shoulder and fired two shots.

> "Crack-Ack!" He moved as quick as thought, the two shots coming so close together that it was almost impossible to tell them apart. Two officers on the enemy's distant quarterdeck each took a rifle bullet to the head. The .50 caliber mini b.a.l.l.s exploded out the backs of their heads and launched the ticks from their shoulders. The ranger's dog barked with joy as Josiah moved forward smoothly, dropping his rifle and drawing two pistols from his sash.

Petreckski followed immediately behind Melville, already firing the pistol in his right hand, with more ready in his belt.

> "Crack!" The shot was fired over Melville's shoulder, instantly dropping the first cur who stood in their way. The mids.h.i.+pmen came along behind and beside the monk, each of them with pistols in their hands and more tucked into their sashes.

The majority of the Kestrel's marines were fanning out to their left and right, followed by wave after wave of her sailors, s.h.i.+p's boys and s.h.i.+p's dogs. These were followed by the cook, the medicos, the wounded, and a furry ma.s.s of very irate cats.

The goal was to gain and maintain momentum. They couldn't permit themselves to be trapped in the bow of the enemy's s.h.i.+p. They needed to spread out so that their superior numbers could be brought to bear. It was vital that they make a s.p.a.ce for the entire crew to escape. Each crewman aboard the enemy s.h.i.+p was another life saved and another warrior who could hurt the enemy.

Melville ran forward across the dying, writhing, yelping ma.s.s and pointed his pistol at the first Guldur to raise up in front of him. The curs stood on their hind legs, and their clawed paws gripped swords and pistols every bit as well as a human could. But their heads were purely canine . . . or lupine. The men of Westerness preferred to think of them as canine. Curs and mutts, not wolves. However, the distinction was moot when one came at you with its fangs bared, a sword in its paw, and a Goblan tick on its back.

The curs' size varied greatly. Most were slightly smaller than a human. Some were quite a bit smaller. With a gray tick on their shoulders, even the small ones formed a fearsome fusion of species that was taller than a human. The ticks hung on with their legs, while their arms usually held a long knife in each hand.

A few curs were considerably larger than humans and they tended to carry an extra large tick. These were usually Guldur officers and it was just such a creature that rose up in front of Melville as he raced forward.

Melville didn't hesitate. Muttering "Front sight, front sight!" to himself, he thrust his right pistol forward. The Guldur were still disoriented by the sudden blast of the cannon. The ones who had survived needed just a split second to adjust themselves to what happened. Melville was determined not to give them that split second. Tempo, tempo, tempo. The momentum of the attack was everything.

He superimposed the pistol sight over the enemy's throat, brought the front sight briefly into focus and thumbed the Keel charge.

> "Crack!" Since it was propelled by a small Keel charge instead of gunpowder, the sound of a rifle or pistol in two-s.p.a.ce was much smaller. Melville noted that the effect of auditory exclusion, the tendency to shut out noises, was also greatly reduced. He distinctly heard this smaller sound, whereas in his last battle he'd tuned out the larger sound.

Regardless of how it sounded, it placed a high-velocity .50 caliber ball precisely up through the top of the cur's throat, shattering the base of its skull, traveling on through and slamming into the chest of the tick on its back. Guldur were notoriously hard to kill, but no creature survives a bullet to the base of the brain. The cur crumpled back like a toppled statue. Its tick went down with it, a miniature parody of its Guldur mount, arms spread wide and face turned upward as it fell.

The ease with which he dispatched this huge enemy officer was rea.s.suring to Melville. He continued to take each of his three remaining pistol shots with calm precision as he moved swiftly forward. > "Crack!"

> "Crack!" > "Crack!"

He had a vague impression of Corporal Kobbsven's great sword slas.h.i.+ng red havoc among the enemy ranks to his left, and Josiah and the dog weaving an intricate network of red death to his right. What was the dog's name? Melville thought. How odd to think of that question now!

All around him the sailors and marines of the Kestrel fought in swirls of blue and red jackets. Most of them had fired both barrels of their muskets early on in the battle. They were now little more than pikemen, fighting with their bayonets.

Around their feet the s.h.i.+p's dogs snapped and bit, confronting the ticks that tried to attack and infiltrate the battle line down low to the deck. Beside them were the s.h.i.+p's boys, also joyfully gutting ticks, and hamstringing and "neutering" the curs with their razor-sharp knives.

There were even a few s.h.i.+p's cats mixed into the melee. Greatly distressed, irked, outraged cats. The s.h.i.+p's cats never partic.i.p.ated in boarding parties, and seldom partic.i.p.ated in combat at all. Their job was to control the rats, mice, c.o.c.kroaches, and the other, alien, critters that tried to hitch a ride on the s.h.i.+p. Now they found themselves mixed into a boarding party and they didn't like it. Not one bit. The s.h.i.+p's dogs and boys responded to the battle with their customary boisterous, gleeful spirits.

Immediately behind Melville, Petreckski was performing his usual, splendid dance, emptying his pistols and then turning to precision sword work. Many times throughout the battle Melville saw a sword blade dart under his arm or beside his head to strike home into the enemy. Once it even darted out from between his legs and into the groin of the enemy in front of him. A macabre phallus of death. It never occurred to Melville to worry that the blade might harm him. He knew that this blade was guided with superb skill and speed, and it was dedicated to keeping the path in front of him clear.

Also behind him were the mids.h.i.+pmen, each with a double-barreled pistol in each fist. One of them was wounded even before crossing to the Guldur s.h.i.+p, and another fell with a musket ball in the head as soon as he crossed. But the remaining four were still behind him, including all three of those who had landed on Broadax's world. Periodically they took shots with their pistols. Shots carefully chosen to aid and protect him. Having the young middies shoot from behind him was something that concerned Melville and he reminded himself to have Petreckski take charge of their pistol marksmans.h.i.+p training in the future. a.s.suming there was a future.

As Melville and Petreckski fought with their swords, their left hands were usually back behind them in a fencer's stance. As the middies' pistols ran dry their job was to reload, and then place the loaded, c.o.c.ked pistols into Petreckski and Melville's outstretched left hands. Periodically during the battle, Melville and Petreckski gained added momentum when a double-barreled pistol was suddenly slapped into their hand.

Quoth he, "The she-wolf's litter

Stand savagely at bay:

But will ye dare to follow,

If Astur clears the way?"

Well, he was no "Astur," or any other hero of ancient legend, but Melville's sense of duty did put him at the forefront of the battle, in the most dangerous position, so that he could "clear the way." That didn't mean that he had to do it stupidly. His best fighters, Gunny Von Rito, Corporal Kobbsven, and Josiah, were to his left and right. Petreckski was immediately behind him, and the middies were also lending their a.s.sistance. The net effect was like the vanguard of a military attack, supported by artillery and the covering fire of all the units behind him. Even his monkey seemed to be adding its two bits, as it gibbered madly and flailed its belaying pin around with amazing speed and agility.

Archer and Crater had a special task in this attack. These two senior mids.h.i.+pmen had each been issued a powerful flashbang concussion grenade, to be used if the attack stalled. These terribly expensive devices were one of the Kingdom of Westerness' most closely guarded secrets. They were powered by a little piece of Keel contained in a special lining. The concussion and flash contributed by these devices wasn't much of a "secret weapon" but it was the best that Westerness could do, and it could make a critical difference if used correctly.

The momentum of the attack bogged down as the enemy forces mustered and met the warriors of Westerness in a solid line to the left and right of the mainmast. These curs and ticks were fresh, and organized two deep. The Westerness boarders were beginning to tire, and they weren't able to get their superior numbers into play along this straight line.

Melville was hard pressed. He was dodging blows from his enemy's sword and from the short sword of the tick on the cur's shoulders, although his monkey seemed to be helping a lot with this latter threat. Immediately behind this foe was another cur with a long boarding pike, thrusting and stabbing at Melville in a very proficient manner.

He considered calling for a flashbang . . . if he could just get a free second! Then one sailed over his head. Behind him the four middies began to chant, "ONE-thousand!, TWO-thousand!, THREE-thousand!, FOUR-THOUSAND!" On the last count there was a sudden flash and a loud "BLAAMM!" behind the enemy's line. There was a heartening chorus of yelps, and for one split second the enemy was surprised, stunned, and distracted. Even after that effect pa.s.sed, the enemy remained slightly cowed and dismayed.

In the early twenty-first century, some obscure pioneer in the field of warrior science introduced the concept of the Bigger Bang Theory. "In combat, all other things being equal, whoever makes the bigger bang will win."

Napoleon said that, in war, "The moral is to the physical as three is to one." That is, the psychological factors are three times more important than the physical factors. One of the most important of these "moral" or psychological factors is noise.

In nature, whoever makes the biggest bark or the biggest roar is most likely to win the battle. Bagpipes, bugles, and rebel yells have been used throughout history to daunt an enemy with noise. Gunpowder was the ultimate "roar." It had both a "bark" and a "bite." First used as fireworks by the ancient Chinese, later in cannon and muskets, gunpowder was a noisemaker that provided sound and concussion. Concussion is felt and heard, and gunpowder also provides the visual effects of flash and smoke. Often a gunpowder explosion, or its drifting smoke, can be tasted and smelled. Thus gunpowder provides a powerful sensory stimulus that can potentially a.s.sault all five senses.

This is one of the primary reasons why the early, clumsy, smoothbore, muzzle-loading muskets replaced the longbow and the crossbow. The longbow and the crossbow had many times the rate of fire, much more accuracy, and far greater accurate range when compared to the early smoothbore muskets. Yet these superior military weapons were replaced, almost overnight (historically speaking) by vastly inferior muskets. Inferior at killing, that is, not inferior at psychologically stunning and daunting an opponent.

Back on Old Earth, in the incredibly violent world of the early twenty-first century, the police forces often encountered criminals who would surround their houses with dozens of vicious dogs. The police tactical teams found that the best way to counter this problem was with a flashbang concussion grenade. One of these, tossed into the yard, seemed to "take the fight right out of them." It was like the dogs were saying, "Whoa! That's some bark you got there, fellow. I give up." The men of Westerness had hoped that, if they ever went to battle against the Guldur, the effect of a concussion grenade might be the same.

In two-s.p.a.ce it was very difficult to get a true concussive explosion. The Keel charge of a 12-pounder did make a significant noise, especially when the cannonball slammed into your s.h.i.+p's hull. But it was nothing like the concussion, flash, and smoke that a gunpowder weapon of similar size can create. Rifles and pistols in two-s.p.a.ce provided significantly less noise than an equivalent gunpowder weapon. So the wise men of Westerness, steeped in the lore of warrior science, were determined to find something that would provide a true concussion effect in two-s.p.a.ce. The result was the flashbang.

On the deck of the Guldur s.h.i.+p the curs were surprised by the flashbang, but every Westerness warrior was c.o.c.ked and primed to strike on the middies' count of "FOUR THOUSAND!" Every warrior within reach of the enemy thrust home a blow at the instant immediately after the explosion. Melville cut down and left to deflect the pike, using the recoil from that blow to deliver a powerful backhand slash that decapitated the cur in front of him.

And out the red blood spouted,

In a wide arch and tall,

As spouts a fountain in the court

Of some rich Capuan's hall.

As the cur's blood fountained upward into the face of its tick, Melville continued the sweep of his sword, bringing it around and to the right. He stepped in and to the right of his headless foe, before the body could even fall. The Guldur with the boarding pike still held his weapon on the other side of the corpse, which was now crumpling to its knees. Melville was completely free to thrust his sword up and to the left, into the torso of the cur with the pike.

Melville was vaguely aware of the fact that Kobbsven and Von Rito, to his left, and Josiah, to his right, were having similar success. Kobbsven's mighty sword was thres.h.i.+ng Guldur like wheat. His huge size, his terrifying strength, the awful pallor of his face, and his way of foaming at the mouth, all made him a dreadful incarnation of berserker rage.

Von Rito still fought with only his ancient fighting knife. Gunny Von Rito had been the Westerness Marines' primary trainer in hand-to-hand combat, and he had demonstrated that, one-on-one, a man with a knife would defeat a man with a bayonet more than nine-out-of-ten times. The gunny practiced what he preached, and his fighting knife combined with Kobbsven's huge claymore to form a long-range, close-range team that was a joy to behold. All along the battle line the curs' defense was giving way and the boarding party again began to move forward.

At that instant, Melville also became aware of Fielder and the men from the cutters. .h.i.tting the enemy in the flank. Initially they took them silently from the rear. Fielder demonstrated extraordinary ability at lopping off heads from behind, slaying many of them before the enemy even knew he was there. When the enemy finally began to turn to face this new threat, he combined excellent sword work with supernatural pistol skill. He's a consummate b.a.s.t.a.r.d thought Melville briefly, but he's also one h.e.l.lacious pistol shot.

Fielder seemed to be truly peeved. No, he was flat p.i.s.sed off, and was now screaming incoherently at the top of his lungs. He'd always been a bully, a cad and a bounder. At heart he knew he was a coward. Now, against his nature he'd been drawn into suicidal battle. His latent rage and fighting instincts took over his usual cynical self-serving nature. He was seriously irked and feeling abused about it all. He was a bellowing, flailing, flas.h.i.+ng paragon of berserker death and destruction, urging his men into desperate battle, and his impact turned the tide completely. He might be a "wicked contumelious discontented forward mutinous dog," Melville thought with an appreciative grin, but lord that man could fight like a trapped ferret when caught in "death ground."

Hans, Valandil, and a party of elite topmen fought their way through flocks of Goblan in the upper rigging. Hans' monkey clung to his back, chittering and screaming exultantly.

Never in his long life had Hans seen anything remotely like what Valandil was doing in the upper rigging of this s.h.i.+p. First the ranger stood on the end of the yardarm and fired both barrels of his rifle with deadly accuracy, picking off what appeared to be the Goblan captains of the foretop and maintop. Then he ran forward, leapt onto the enemy yardarm and fired all four barrels of his two pistols, picking off the four nearest Goblan, all before the rifle he dropped had time to fall halfway to the deck below. Then he dropped his pistols and drew his sword in a blur of motion. Then the real show began.

It defied description. The Sylvan flew, spun, sailed, and flipped in an astounding display of low-gee acrobatics. All the while his sword was a flickering, flas.h.i.+ng red scythe that left Goblan falling from the rigging like overripe fruit shaken from a tree.

The Goblan in the enemy's upper rigging fled Valandil like c.o.c.kroaches caught in the sudden light of a torch. Those who were too slow, or too brave, died like moths caught in a torch's flame. But he was just one warrior and the others were less successful at fighting the Goblan.

The battle in the upper rigging was slow and painful. If not for Valandil it would have been a failure. Even after being savaged by the Kestrel's grapeshot, there were so many, many ticks. Some sailors were shot by Goblan. Others were overwhelmed by a swarming ma.s.s of the nimble ticks. Dead, wounded, or simply tipped off balance, the fate of combatants on both sides was usually the same as they fell, spinning, cursing and fighting, to their deaths on the deck below.

Hans' monkey was like a gibbering guardian angle, flying along beside and above him. All eight arms expertly fended off Goblan attacks and constantly a.s.sisted Hans in maintaining his balance and his grip. On several occasions Hans found himself stabilized by his hair, as his monkey held onto his thin, wispy gray locks with two hands, while clinging to a line with four others, and fending off the enemy with its remaining two hands and its flas.h.i.+ng white teeth.

Hans had one additional weapon in his a.r.s.enal, a stream of tobacco juice. Spat out in this light gravity, it had excellent range and effectiveness as it splashed with superb accuracy into hapless Goblan faces.

Finally, after much heart-wrenching battle up in the dizzying heights where a slip meant certain death, they reached the enemy's mizzenmast. Then the remaining sailors of Westerness, led by Valandil and Hans, spun, slithered, slid, and spat down the rigging, to land with a "thump!" en ma.s.se, to visit sudden death and destruction on the small fortress of the enemy's upper quarterdeck.

Lieutenant Broadax flipped through the hatch and led her marines into the upper hold. Mr. Tibbits, the old carpenter, still knelt, weeping, holding the shards of the Keel.

"Chips," said Broadax, as gently as her harsh, rumbling voice was capable of speaking, "we must go."

"Aye," said Tibbits, looking up at the short, red, viscera-coated apparition that stood before him. He sent one last message of love and grat.i.tude to a faithful servant of his race, asking her to hold on for just a few more minutes. Then he picked up a small shard of the shattered Keel, reverently laid a piece of canvas over the s.h.i.+p's gaping wound and left. As they were leaving, through their bare feet, through the Elbereth Moss on the deck, they felt the reply to Tibbits' message of love.

In the upper fo'c'sle of the Kestrel Lady Elphinstone knelt to help evacuate a wounded marine. As she touched the deck, she too felt the s.h.i.+p's response to Chips' final message. The ancient Sylvan healer paused in wonder, that this young race should be worthy of such a message from the sp.a.w.n of the Elder King. And she kept this thing, and pondered it in her heart.

As the bows of those two great s.h.i.+ps rubbed together, the white Elbereth moss of those two sentient vessels was in contact, and the Guldur s.h.i.+p also felt Kestrel's final message. A fierce, slow, strong pulse of deep affection and loyalty surged across. The Guldur s.h.i.+p was a young s.h.i.+p, a new s.h.i.+p, freshly and roughly constructed. Her spirit and soul was still unformed, and what she felt coming across from the Kestrel rocked her to the depths of her being.

Broadax raced up the ladder from Kestrel's upper gundeck, leaping onto the maindeck with a wounded marine draped over each broad shoulder. The marines moaned, groaned and grunted with every step. "Be quiet, ye wimps!" said Broadax, ever the soul of sympathy and compa.s.sion, mourning her eradicated, disintegrated cigar. "Would ye rather I left ye?"

She and the few remaining marines, most dragging an injured comrade, moved quickly onto the upper fo'c'sle just in time to join Lady Elphinstone and evacuate the last wounded warriors.

On Kestrel's lower gundeck the Guldur finally break through the hatch to the hold. A ma.s.s of them leap down through the hatch to the lower hold. They and their Goblan riders are wide-eyed with terror at the prospect of meeting the ghastly Dwarrowdelf that has been defending every hatchway with such ferocity. Instead, there is nothing. No one. They look around in wonder, expecting an ambush.

More and more curs and ticks leap down to join their comrades. The Guldur first mate drops down to join them, barking orders. The curs dive through the hatch, through the plain of Flatland, to the upper hold, still expecting resistance. One pops back through and tells the first mate that the enemy have disappeared. Out of curiosity the Guldur officer reaches down and removes the piece of tarp that covers the Keel. He yelps in fear when he sees what is under the tarp.

Kestrel sends one last message, up through the Guldur's paws where they touch the deck: > * * *

Broadax is the last to leave the Kestrel. As she leaps across to join the boarding party, the n.o.ble old s.h.i.+p begins to sink. From above and below the plain of Flatland, the view is exactly the same as the s.h.i.+p seemingly melts into the sea, leaving two-s.p.a.ce and entering interstellar s.p.a.ce.

The two s.h.i.+ps are tied together at the railing, above and below. The Kestrel sinks and the Guldur s.h.i.+p stands fast. The railing is torn and shattered, with splinters flying. Soon only the Kestrel's masts can be seen. Finally they too disappear, somewhere into the hard vacuum of deep s.p.a.ce.

On the enemy's upper deck the boarders maintained the momentum of their attack. After the one volley of the precious flashbang grenades and Lieutenant Fielder's unexpected flank attack, the enemy was falling back on all fronts. As Melville approached the ladder to the enemy's upper quarterdeck a huge, brown cur, with large black spots, reared up in front of him. It was the biggest Guldur he'd ever seen and on its back was the biggest tick he'd ever seen.

The huge creature in front of him had to be the enemy's captain. It looked at Melville's monkey and said, with a bizarre, lap-tongued doggie grin, "I srree rrou have a tick! Hrrold strrill, rrI'll get it!"

Melville responded in surprise, "Tick?!"

The monkey echoed, with outrage, "Kick!!?"

Von Rito, Kobbsven and Josiah were all occupied. For once, Petreckski was busy elsewhere. No loaded pistol was available. The middies were madly reloading.

Melville had just dispatched a loose Goblan with a downward slash, and it took him a split second to dislodge his sword from the body. The oversized cur in front of him swung a ferocious, overhand sword stroke at his head, and he was out of position to block it.

At times like this the senses can become acutely, intensely clear, seeking to find any escape or alternative. Besides the obvious one. In this case the information provided by that vivid clarity served only to confirm the fact that Melville was doomed.

I shall not die alone, alone,