Two Space War Part 24

Was one long line of flame.

"Yes, Mr. Ngobe?"

"If you please, sir, Chips says . . ."

"What was that, Mids.h.i.+pman?"

"Beg pardon, sir." He responded, smiling, buoyant and eager-eyed, completely undaunted by his captain's best reproof. "Mr. Tibbits says that ever'thin's sound as a pound!"

"Good," said Melville quietly, "because we may be in trouble here."

The red-side was reloaded now, so they spun to bring its guns to bear. The aftmost 24-pounder, right in front of Melville, was almost completely depleted of crew. Their captain was being evacuated down to the hospital.

The dead and dying round us lay,

But our foemen lay abeam;

Her open portholes maddened us;

We fired with shout and scream.

Melville dropped his empty mug, stripped off his jacket, and called out to Broadax and her marines for a.s.sistance as he leapt down to captain the gun. Ulrich, his c.o.xswain, worked beside him with diligence and professionalism.

And when a gun's crew lost a hand,

Some bold marine stepped out,

And jerked his braided jacket off,

And hauled the gun about.

As he climbed up on the platform to aim down the barrel of the gun, Melville thought about Mister Barlet and felt a renewed appreciation for the sighting system his master gunner had devised.

Now was the moment of truth. His reserves had been deployed. On the lower side, Petreckski and the two rangers were also manning a gun beside a bunch of cooks and purser's mates. He was the final reserve, and now he was committed, up on the platform, leaning over the 24-pounder in an exposed position as Ulrich and the marines s.h.i.+fted it in response to his hand signals.

From captain down to powder-boy,

No hand was idle then;

Two soldiers, but by chance aboard,

Fought on like sailor-men.

When Melville judged the gun to be on target, he reached out to touch the Keel charge that would set it off. Suddenly, something remarkable happened. His left hand reached back and down, making contact with the s.h.i.+p's Moss that had recently grown on the platform. His right hand was in touch with the Keel charge of the 24-pounder. He "felt" Fang to his left, like a deep, powerful ent.i.ty; like being in the mind of some vast, intelligent, feral warrior. He also "felt" the Keel charge to his right, like being inside the mind of some savage, vicious, slavering beast, straining at the leash in its l.u.s.t for blood and death. He was in touch with them both, and through him they were in touch with each other.

The cannon delayed firing for an instant that seemed like an eternity to Melville. He could feel Fang rejoice as it was able to directly take part in the killing, but this was a calculated, deliberate malice. For an instant the three of them became one. One being, with one intent, to throw a 24-pound cannonball through the enemy's hull and directly into their Keel. To sink the enemy and send them into oblivion, into h.e.l.l where the murderous b.a.s.t.a.r.ds belonged!

> shout three minds in unison, "Cha-DOOM!!" they scream to the world as death incarnate belches from their maw, and > they chorus in triumph. For a brief instant they are the cannonball. They punch through and true. Straight as an arrow. Straight as a thought. The enemy Keel is crushed, instantly snuffed out of existence. Just as the enemy's prow, its bowsprit loaded with eager, bloodthirsty boarders, is approaching Fang's railing, they sink, sink . . . sink into oblivion. The enemy faces are masks of horror and despair as they sink, sink . . . sink into the hard, cold, pitiless depths of s.p.a.ce.

Remember, said a little voice, remember that they would have killed us, and all that we love, without remorse. . . .

Melville came up in shock, as from a plunge under cold water, as from a deep sleep, as from death. Death of being. Death of individuality. The pure, feral joy of battle and killing was still singing through his veins, and he looked for another enemy to kill . . .

Over and over again they screamed together as one, > Melville captained the 24-pounders throughout the rest of that famous run to the Upper Pier of Ambergris. A run that will be recorded in the annals of warfare, to be remembered for as long as there are minds to recall and hearts to inspire. He found that the 12-pounders wouldn't perform in the same way. They were perfectly willing to hit the enemy, to harm the enemy, but they didn't have the same feral, malignant urge to kill as the 24-pounders. Nor did they have the ability to punch straight through to the Keel for the killing blow.

Melville realized that here was a unique combination. Westerness s.h.i.+ps were products of civilized minds. No other s.h.i.+p of their navy could desire, could yearn to kill like his feral, vicious Fang. Fang, combined with these cannons, under his control, formed a team unlike anything ever seen. Somewhere in him there was a kindred spirit, a killing spirit, guided and shaped by a steely resolve to do his duty.

So he sought a gun, any 24-pounder, whichever one was loaded and ready. Acting as a human conduit between the awesome computing power of his s.h.i.+p, and the feral killing power of his cannons, Melville became an avatar of death. He willed the gun to strike the enemy Keel, and it did, each time taking hundreds of lives with it. He sailed into a vast forest of Guldur masts, followed by an ever-growing tail of allied s.h.i.+ps who picked off the few enemy s.h.i.+ps he only maimed. If it had been a fleet of enemy 24-pounder frigates he might not have survived, but against their 12-pounders he was like a lion among wolves. Everywhere he went he killed and he killed. His cannonb.a.l.l.s ran true and straight. His gun captains willingly ceded their guns to him, watching in awe.

And always at his side there was Ulrich, his killer c.o.x'in. If Melville was a counterpart to his s.h.i.+p, Ulrich was a living a.n.a.log to his feral, malignant cannons. As his 24-pounders fell completely under his dominion in their l.u.s.t to kill, like dogs obeying a master who will take them to the hunt, so too did Ulrich fall completely under his captain's sway upon that day.

Also making a special contribution were Melville's two rangers, Josiah and Valandil. They operated on the lower deck, while Melville fought mostly from the upper deck. Although they had to man a cannon upon occasion, they were always quickly relieved and sent back to what they did best. Many an enemy officer, or quartermaster standing at the wheel, or topman adjusting sails, became painfully aware, at a critical moment, that they were facing two of the finest rifle marksmen in the known galaxy. A brief, fleeting, final awareness in many cases.

Cinder sat beside them, barking with feral joy every time their musket b.a.l.l.s struck home. A group of s.h.i.+p's boys cl.u.s.tered round them, loading double-barreled muskets for them and echoing Cinder's savage pleasure every time an enemy topman fell, spinning down with balletic grace. The two rangers shared calmly in the pleasure, with the deep satisfaction of a true professional, quietly calling out targets, and congratulating each other's better shots.

Together Melville, his crew, his s.h.i.+p, and his guns formed a team so superior to his foes that the enemy fell everywhere they turned. Some snipers or tank crews in World War II on Old Earth accomplished such a state of superiority, reportedly racking up hundreds of kills. More famous than that were the fighter aces of World War I and World War II, some of them killing over a hundred, two hundred, three hundred and, in one case, as many as 353 enemy aircraft.

The vast majority of the fighter pilots never shot anyone down. Many never got the opportunity, and those who did often found out, too late, that they didn't have the killer spirit. One of the greatest fighter aces of all said that most of the time he killed men who never knew he was in the sky with them. This is what it must have felt like. The finest pilot in the finest machine with the finest crew, all utterly devoted to death. Completely committed to killing. Death incarnate, sweeping down. Melville laughed aloud. Laughed with joy. Joy of victory, joy of life. They were truly "Lords of helm and sail, tried in tempest and gale."

But each time, the enemy got in a few hits before they died. They always went down fighting, doing as much damage as they could.

His gun crews took tragic casualties. There wasn't a gun that didn't have at least one marine or a purser's mate filling in for dead and wounded comrades. When the captain wasn't there to fire the gun, and the majority of the time he couldn't be, then the crewmen fired them, and fired them well. But they could never match the preternatural, lethal accuracy of their captain, his s.h.i.+p, and his guns working together as one.

His topmen also suffered dearly, yet their ever-thinning ranks performed feats to rival Melville and the gun crews on the deck. When the upper mizzen topmast was shot away, they made heroic efforts to rapidly clear the debris, while calling down through the voice tubes. These were hollow tubes running beside the masts, from upper to lower decks, and down these tubes came the orders for the lower mizzen topsails to hang free, so that the sails' thrust was equal. When the lower maintop was shot off, the lower mizzen topsails were pulled taut again so they would pull again and balance the thrust. Again and again they performed such balancing acts, all while hacking away the hanging, dangling debris, and taking incoming fire.

Finally there were no more enemy to kill. The foe were fleeing, fleeing. Even as they fled Melville turned Fang to sink one last s.h.i.+p, to mercilessly, ruthlessly send a few hundred more sentient beings into the frigid embrace of outer s.p.a.ce. And then, when there was nothing left to kill, he stopped, reeling and staggering like a drunk man. On his back, his monkey gave a feeble, "eek." Bits of flesh and blood splattered them. Some of it was his blood. He tested his body. Everything seemed to be working. Just minor wounds from flying wood splinters and falling debris, things his monkey couldn't block. They began to ache. Have to see the doc soon, he thought. She'll help.

He stood on the gundeck and looked around at the tattered remnants of his beautiful s.h.i.+p and his proud crew in stunned, amazed horror. . . .

Then the dead men fouled the scuppers and the wounded filled the chains,

And the paint-work all was spatter-dashed with other people's brains . . .

His sh.e.l.l-shocked crew stood around him, looking at him in silence, with stunned, thousand-yard stares. Duty, he told himself. There was solace in doing his duty. He was obeying orders, protecting his nation's allies from a foul invader, preventing tyranny and oppression. It was his duty.

No heed he gave to the flying ball,

No heed to the bursting sh.e.l.l;

His duty was something more than life,

And he strove to do it well.

He staggered up the steps to the quarterdeck. d.a.m.n. d.a.m.n, d.a.m.n, d.a.m.n, thought Melville, looking down at the crumpled, still form of Mids.h.i.+pman Ngobe at his feet. Ngobe's monkey was a smear of blood and fur mixed in with the mids.h.i.+pman's body. The little creature had died trying to deflect the cannonball that had killed his master.

Melville's monkey crooned softly, mournfully. Melville sunk to his knees with tears welling up in his eyes. Duty. Here is the price of duty. Here is the price of victory. . . .

Victory! Victory! . . .

And there at the captain's feet, among the dead and dying,

The shot-marred form of a beautiful boy is lying.

There in his uniform!