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CHAPTER THE 12TH
Gunfights, Guts, and Gore Galore: "I Have Seen the Gunman Kill"

 
...They tell me you are wicked and I believe them, for I have seen your painted women under the gas lamps luring the farm boys.
And they tell me you are crooked and I answer: Yes, it is true I have seen the gunman kill and go free to kill again...
 
Come and show me another city with lifted head singing so proud to be alive and coarse and strong and cunning.
... here is a tall bold slugger set vivid against the little soft cities;
Fierce as a dog with tongue lapping for action, cunning as a savage pitted against the wilderness...
 
Under the terrible burden of destiny laughing as a young man laughs,
Laughing even as an ignorant fighter laughs who has never lost a battle...
Laughing!
Laughing the stormy, husky, brawling laughter of Youth, half-naked, sweating, proud...

"Chicago"
Carl Sandburg

 

The late afternoon sun had just broken through the clouds as Melville and Hayl left the Laughing Dog

Tavern. As soon as they stepped out into the street, two bravos with swords at the ready came toward them.

Melville drew his sword and held it with the relaxed confidence of a man who knows it well. The crowd around them melted back at the sight of the drawn steel. He wished for a moment that he had his faithful dog with him, but Show Low was just civilized enough that you couldn't take a dog into a good restaurant or a theater. Even more than his dog, he needed his two faithful bodyguards, but he had foolishly ditched them. At least he had his monkey, and Hayl to cover his six!

Melville made a hasty assessment of the situation. There were bystanders (including plenty of women and kids) everywhere, and although they were staying well out of sword's reach, most of them didn't seem inclined to miss the show. "Blades only," snapped Melville to Hayl. "Too many people if a bullet misses. Cover my back. If I go down, get to the Fang. Have the duty officer send a party to recall our crew."

"Aye, sir," Hayl replied. His hand slid to the small of his back as he pulled his dirk out, regretfully leaving the .45 in its holster. Not that a middie's dirk was a poor weapon. It seemed small next to a sword, but the traditional "midshipman's dirk" was a foot-long blade with a two-space edge, making it quite formidable threat. Combined with the highly trained, battle-hardened veteran of several very nasty melees that Hayl had become, the blade and the boy constituted respectable protection for his captain's back. Very respectable.

Melville heard Hayl breathe deep and slow, bringing his body under control. At the same time he sensed his monkey pull its belaying pin from beneath its belly. Melville felt anger and rage at these mercenaries who would attack him in the streets full of innocent citizens! Scanning the cast of characters in the street he thought, Well... citizens anyway.

 

Melville's field of vision narrows as he feels his body prepare itself for battle. He pulls the air deep into his lungs, his native ferocity combining with the alien bloodlust he inherited from his Ship. This alien gift, combined with his own training, makes him even more impatient for the dance to begin; so as the posturing bully stands in front of him and begins to talk, he strikes!

The bravo stops at almost two arm's lengths from Melville, planting the tip of his sword in the ground, and saying with a sneer, "Well, Captain Melville, Lady Madelia asked me to find out what kind of funeral... walp!"

Always catch 'em when they're talking, Melville thinks to himself. Nobody can talk and fight at the same time.

His opponent screeches and falls back from the first thrust, parrying with lightning speed. Melville evades the riposte by the simple expedient of lopping off the idiot's arm.

The bastard was fast! he thinks. He's probably the best they've got. That's why they sent him after me. But speed was all he had going for him. What kind of training did these fools have? Beating up women and children? Who the hell stops to talk when weapons are drawn? These thoughts run through his mind as he pivots left to block the thrust of the bravo coming around his first opponent.

The attacker slips slightly in the blood gushing from the first man's arm. Melville's body takes over from his mind, sliding in to pierce his opponent's chest and heart with a full-extension lunge that's so pretty it actually makes the surrounding crowd cheer and applaud.

 

Midshipman Hayl had his hands full as two more assailants appeared from out of the crowd to attack his captain from behind.

 

Hayl stutter-steps in close and ducks, remembering Gunny Von Rito's words, "You gotta get in close when you got a knife and he's got a sword. It's damned hard, but you ain't gonna kill 'im just blocking his sword." He feels the jar as his monkey's belaying pin parries the sword to the side, and he senses the kiss of the blade touching his arm. He doesn't hear anything, and all he sees is a patch of pale shirt above the man's waist as his weapon slides in.

Hayl thrusts his knife up, over, and back down again. The wonderfully sharp blade guts his opponent like a fish. Then he pivots to the side to avoid the reeking mass of intestines as they fall out.

Hayl twists his head to locate the other assailant, and spots him just as the man swings a sword at his head in a powerful, two-handed, overhand blow. The little middie feels his world slow down as he tries to duck. He watches his monkey's belaying pin slam into the side of the sword, but without enough force to block the blade coming at his head.

His left arm is already in a high-guard position, so in desperation he blocks the blade to the side with his left hand. He feels the dull "smack" of the impact as he watches the blade rip through his outstretched wrist. The monkey's belaying pin together with his hand succeeds in deflecting the powerful blow. The deflected blade takes a bit of his hair with it, and he watches in horror as his hand falls to the ground, accompanied by a sprinkling of his hair.

Huh! babbles a tiny voice in his mind as the effect of slow-motion time gives him plenty of time to study his gushing stump. Lt. Broadax always says a battle shows what you're made of... It looks like meat, but there's less of that now. And lots of blood, although that's going fast too. And some tubes and white knobby bits...

The young midshipman sees the blood fountain out from his wrist and, in an inspiration born of desperation, he points the gushing stream of arterial blood at the swordsman's face and eyes. Hayl sees his opponent flinch. He seizes the opportunity and slams his dirk to the hilt in the man's chest, punching up through the diaphragm and into the heart. He is oblivious to the cheers of the watching crowd, but he distinctly hears the rattling gasp as the man realizes he has been killed by a mere boy.

Hayl lets go of his dirk, drops to his knees and grips his wrist, trying to stop the bleeding as he looks around wildly for any other assailants. The best first aid is to kill the man who's trying to kill you first! Otherwise, it's all sort of useless isn't it? Who told him that? He can't remember.

He hears the sound of his monkey, eeking frantically as the little creature scrambles down his arm and uses six of its eight tiny hands to squeeze the end of his wrist, slowing the flow to a trickle. His monkey is playing tourniquet with his left arm, so Hayl draws his .45 in his right hand. (To hell with his dirk! He's dropped it anyway...) He looks around for other attackers, and sees only his captain pulling a sword from someone's chest. So fast? he thinks. It all seemed like it took forever.

 

Melville pivoted and saw only the departing backs of the surrounding crowd. Good survival instincts, he thought bemusedly. The show's over so they're leaving before the cops arrive.

He saw Hayl on his knees with two dead bravos sprawled out in front of him. The captain hurried over, rapidly cleaning and sheathing his sword on a piece of shirt that one of his attackers no longer needed.

Hayl was looking around alertly, pistol in hand, his monkey eeking frantically as it squeezed the bleeding stump where the boy's left hand should be. Bloody hell! thought Melville. What happened to his hand? What a stupid question, Thomas, later.

Melville's monkey scampered over and picked up a bloody lump—Hayl's hand. Melville dropped to one knee, looking around at the tactical situation as he took the .45 from the boy and quickly placed it in the holster on Hayl's hip. Then he drew his own pistol and continued to "scan 360."

"Good job, son," he said huskily. "I think we need to get the hell out of Dodge. Quickly. Are you up to it?"

"Absolutely, Captain!" Hayl replied, and then his eyes rolled up into his head and he fell over in a faint.

"Damn," whispered Melville. "Damn."

A steady roar of gunfire was coming from the bar they had just left. Fang's first officer, marine lieutenant, and sailing master were still inside. Think, Thomas. Think! They should be able to take care of themselves. His priority was to get this boy to the hospital, then he could bring back help Fielder, Broadax, and Hans if need be. But he suspected it wouldn't be necessary. God help any fools who crossed swords with those three lunatics...

 

Fielder, Hans, and Broadax left the mismatched couple's cozy love nest and were heading down the steps into the bar. Then someone shouted, "There he is!" pointing up at the Fang's first officer.

"Oh, hell!" muttered Fielder, as a cluster of local talent drew their swords and headed toward the stairs. Damn! he gibbered to himself. Ursula must have hired every bravo and sellsword on the planet! And to think, just a few hours ago she wasn't even in my clue bag, let alone my paranoia pocket!

"I think we should try to negotiate," said Fielder.

"The word 'negotiate' ain't in my vocab'lary," snarled Broadax.

"Too many syllables?" asked Fielder innocently.

Her eyes crossed as she considered the word "syllables" and then she responded distractedly, "It don't matter why, the important thing is, it ain't in there. So here's the plan, I'll rush 'em, an' yew two pick off the stragglers."

"Oh, goodie," said Fielder. "Looks like you've got it all worked out."

"Yeah," she replied with an evil grin. "Except fer the part where we don't git kilt!"

"Don't!" said Fielder. "Don't even think about it!"

"I never do," replied Broadax as she charged down the stairs and into the mass of swordsmen who were gathering in front of her, screaming, "Jump on my ax while ye can, fools, I won't be so gentle!"

Hans and Fielder promptly drew their .45s and began to provide a thundering blast of covering fire for Broadax.

"She always hogs the bad guys," said Hans apologetically between shots. "She's jist selfish that way. But I figger she needs 'em more'n I do."

Fielder wasn't concerned about Broadax or Hans. He figured the deranged dwarf and her unbalanced boyfriend could take care of themselves. It was the bad guys who stepped back and drew their pistols who worried him. And he liked shooting people who worried him.

From the stairs Hans and Fielder had a good field of fire, but they were also exposed, so they blasted away at their foes as rapidly as they could while their monkeys eeked plaintively and blocked bullets furiously. They automatically divided up the room. Fielder, standing on the left, took the left half; while Hans worked the right side.

 

Broadax slices through the mob, her ax flying in great gouts of blood and gore while her monkey blocks blows and screeches triumphantly from atop her helmet. One of her opponents ("victims" might be a more accurate term) barely deflects a swipe of her ax, losing his sword in the process. He isn't smart enough to quit while he's ahead, and as she sweeps past him he hits her from behind with a chair. Her monkey ducks amidst a loud "Goongg!" and an explosion of splinters as the chair smashes into her helmet, but otherwise it had absolutely no effect.

After a brief pause the miscreant foolishly begins to smack her about the ears with the bits that are still in his hands—which her monkey ignores as it stays atop her helmet and concentrates on blocking more lethal blows. This gets her attention, and she lashes back with one foot.

"Owww! That had some salt on it," calls Hans admiringly from the stairs, where he and Fielder continue to systematically pick off anyone who displays a firearm. "'At'll teach 'im, sweety. Nuthin' but a bloody smear where 'is weddin' tackle ought ta be!"

The gunshots stop, and Broadax stands atop a heap of her dead, dismembered, and disemboweled foes. She and her monkey are drenched in crimson gore. Her uniform is torn to ribbons and her blood-soaked chainmail "lingerie" glistens like rubies in the flickering lamplight. The drifting gunsmoke joins with the stogie fumes that she and her monkey are happily emitting, and the coals of their two cigars glow like demon's eyes in the dim light.

"Huh!" she says, looking around triumphantly, "I guess 'ats all of 'em." The moans of the wounded indicate that anyone who isn't dead is in no condition to disagree, or to do anything except lie there and bleed, which is fine with her.

Then shots crack out from a new, unseen quarter. Broadax points her little "playtoy" upward and pulls the trigger, letting loose a roar and a gout of flame that would do a small dragon proud, pulverizing the lamp that hangs immediately above her.

Broadax is extraordinarily pleased with these results. This is the first time she has ever actually hit what she's aiming at in combat! Her voice calls out from the sudden darkness. "Hot damn! I like that! So didja see who's shootin' at us?"

"Well I'm pretty sure it wasn't that lamp, damnit!" says Fielder. "Now I can't see a thing."

"An' neither can they," she answers, as debris from the ruined ceiling rains down, bouncing off her helmet as her monkey hunkers down beneath her chin. "But they prob'ly can hear yer snivelin'! An' ye shoulda been keepin' one eye shut, ta build yer night vision."

"I would! If I'd of known you were gonna shoot out the damned light! That's a gaslight, you know," adds Fielder, petulantly. "You could have set this whole place on fire!"

"Nah, they gots autermatic shutoff valves when the pressure blows. Basic Dwarrowdelf mine technology. Now quit yer bitchin' an' look fer the bad guy!" concludes Broadax with a snarl.

Then there is another burst of fire in their direction, and in the gloom Fielder and Hans can spot their opponent's muzzle flashes. Immediately they send several rounds of very accurate fire in return. This results in a groan, the thud of a pistol hitting the ground, followed closely by the thump of a body. All of which is taken as a good indication that the miscreant had decelerated some slugs.

"Haha! At'll learn them vacuum-suckers!" says old Hans, thumping Fielder on the back. Hans is the kind of man who turns into seasoned hardwood with age, and it feels to Fielder like he's being smacked with a table leg.

"Yep," says Broadax. "Blud flies win yer havin' fun!"

 

As they headed out the door Fielder commented wryly, "Well, that's another dive can't go back to."

"Why not?" replied Broadax, sincerely perplexed. "We won, didn't we?" She jubilantly flipped a twenty dollar gold piece on the bar as they went past and said to the two frightened eyes that had been peering out at the floorshow, "Barkeep! A round fer the house. Whiskey fer you, an' beer fer all my li'l friends on the floor back there!"

 

* * *

 
When the gunsmoke settles,
we'll sing a victory tune,
And we'll all meet back,
at the local saloon!
 
And we'll raise up our glasses,
against evil forces,
Singing, "Whiskey for my men,
beer for my horses!"
 

* * *

 

Fielder, Hans, and Broadax moved hastily through the small foyer (the bouncer being conspicuously absent ever since Broadax had administered her etiquette lesson) and out of the tavern to see Melville on one knee with pistol in hand, protecting Hayl and facing the saloon door, while scanning in all directions. The captain's monkey held a bloody lump in one paw and brandished a belaying pin with a couple of others. Hayl's monkey clung tightly to his little master's wrist, acting as a tourniquet.

"Well, hell," stormed Broadax, looking at the corpses. "Looks likes yew had yer dance without us."

Fielder pulled out his .45 and scanned 360. It might not be much use at the moment, but it damned sure felt nice in his hand.

"Over a dozen of them attacked us in the bar, Captain," said Fielder, as he completed his scan. "They've been shown the error of their ways," he added dryly."

There was no response from Melville.

"Captain?" Fielder ventured as he prodded the still bleeding body of a dead swordsman with his foot. He was pleased to note that their foes here were all suffering from a severe and permanent case of dead.

Melville looked him in the eye. His face was expressionless, but the rage in his eyes was chilling. "Daniel."

"You okay?"

"Hayl's hurt," replied Melville. "I'm fine."

His eyes pivoted to Hans. "Mr. Hans, you and Lt. Broadax take Hayl to the naval hospital asap. Lt. Fielder and I will recover Elphinstone, Theo, and Asquith, then return to the Pier. All Fangs are to return to Ship. Send parties to recover anyone who doesn't return on their own. Clear?" he snapped.

"Aye, Cap'n," said Hans. "Mr. Hayl to the hospital. You an' Mr. Fielder to recover the monk, the doc an' the earthwurm. Broadax an' me recover the crew an' git 'em all back ta the Ship. All clear, Cap'n."

Hans recovered the middie's dirk from the chest of a corpse and wiped it quickly on the man's shirt, while Broadax reached over with one meaty paw and picked up the unconscious boy and his monkey as if they were a small bag of potatoes, tipping them over her blood-soaked shoulder. Hayl's monkey screamed monkey invective at her as it kept its grip on the seeping wrist while being tossed around with the midshipman. Her other hand held her ax, twitching it casually as she exhaled a cloud of smoke. Melville's monkey tossed Hayl's hand, and Broadax's monkey snatched it out of the air. Hans returned the dirk to its sheath on the boy's belt and pulled the two full magazines of .45 ammo from the mag holder on Hayl's hip, keeping one and tossing one to Fielder.

"Well, Cap'n, ye sure know how ta show a girl a good time!" Broadax chortled as she and Hans left at a quick trot.

"You know, Daniel, I really am very unhappy with Lady Madelia right now." His voice sounded normal (well, almost normal) but the look in his eyes was anything but. Something alien was peering out of those eyes. Fielder had seen warmer looking vacuum in the depths of interstellar space, and it matched his own mood perfectly.

Fielder holstered his .45 and replied, "Trust me, Captain, you aren't the only one."

Melville's and Fielder's grins were both much more a predator's snarl than anything of humor.

"We're burning daylight, Daniel. Let's go." The two of them moved off rapidly down the street, looking for their wayward crew.

 

* * *

 
Grandpappy told my pappy,
"Back in my day, son,
A man had to answer,
for the wicked things he done"...
 
'Cause justice is the one thing
you should always find.
You gotta saddle up your boys,
you gotta draw a hard line.
 

* * *

 

The trip to the hospital was fairly quick by foot. In actual fact, anywhere in the town was within walking distance. No matter how sophisticated it might seem, it was still a small outpost on a frontier world. It was a strategic shipping nexus, but the total population on the planet was under half a million people—although with some of them it wasn't clear whether they should be counted as people, livestock, or wildlife!

The naval hospital was actually a wing of the city's medical center. It maintained a separate herbal greenhouse to resupply depleted stocks aboard Ships, as well as necessary stores to maintain health among a deployed crew. (It had taken decades to get brandy declared a medicinal store. Which had many benefits, not to mention that being a medicinal store, it no longer counted against the wardroom's allowable amounts of spirituous beverages! Naval Medical command had been fighting off an attempt to have it supplemented with scotch whiskey for almost as long!)

It turned out that Mrs. Vodi had been living at the hospital for the past few days as she organized the medical department's resupply efforts. (And not incidentally managed to maximize her nighttime liberty in port.) This was a stroke of luck for Midshipman Hayl as she bullied, cajoled, wheedled, extorted, and downright intimidated everyone in sight to make his treatment a top priority.

The prognosis for reattaching his hand wasn't good, even with the resources of the hospital. And the hospital did have significant resources. While their retro-culture frowned mightily upon technology developed subsequent to Old Earth's First World War, exceptions were made for drugs and medical innovations available throughout the twentieth century. Even the most staunch conservative did not condone anyone's child to needless suffering or death for want of basic medical technology like antibiotics. Least of all their own!

Mrs. Vodi appeared calm and collected, in about the same way that the eye of a tornado appears to be peaceful and placid. Her impact point upon the hospital caused about the same amount of furor as that same tornado, its energy all focused upon helping one of her middies. When he was in the operating room and things were, in her words, "the best he can possibly get on this damned, benighted planet that hurt my boy!" she turned her attention on Broadax.

"Put those damned cigars out!" snarled Vodi at the blood drenched Broadax, yanking her cigar and her monkey's out of their gaping mouths and throwing them through a window into the street. "What do you think this is, a bar? It's a hospital and you should know better than to try and poison everyone in it for your own pleasure!"

She rounded on Hans next. "Now, in words of one syllable, not that you can handle anything more complex, who did this? And why?" Normally a levelheaded person, accustomed to dealing with the horrific injuries that cannonballs and splinters could inflict randomly upon her crew, she was incensed by the maiming of one of her boys. The thought of it was enough to send her rampaging out on the streets looking for the guilty bastards to return the favor!

"That Sylvan hag!" Vodi scowled after Hans told her that Lady Madelia had sponsored the attack. "If I had the chance, I'd happily plug her through the heart, kick dirt on her corpse, and wear red to her funeral! And Ursula! Oh, I know her type. I call them urinals: they're the kind of woman men dribble over, and women have nothing to do with!"

"Mrs. Vodi," interrupted the young corpsman, "I've got some guys at the front desk say'n they're from the Fang and want'n to know if Captain Melville is here. They say they heard he was hurt in some kind of fight. Only t'ing is t'ey looks more like local bully boys. Ain't got a navy look, if ya catch my drift."

Broadax and Vodi looked at each other and with that silent telepathy women throughout the universe seemed to have developed, nodded and started toward the entrance, feeling for various lethal bits of hardware. Mrs. Vodi did a double take when Broadax pulled out her "pockin' pistol" as Petrico had christened it.

"Would you mind if I borrowed that for a couple of minutes, Lieutenant?" Vodi asked eagerly.

"Hmm? Shore, shore," she replied absently as she handed it over and pulled her ax out of her belt. "I'm still sorta partial ta my old friend here."

Hans moved in front of the two women, hands outspread. "Ladies, ladies, jist a min'it, now. Honey, hold up. Lissen up fer a sec!" He smiled sickly as he met two, no, four sets of glares including monkeys—who seemed to have entirely too much ability to reflect their human's emotions. His monkey took the better part of valor and elected to slide down his back and hide, with just its mouth and eyes peeping over his shoulder.

"Now, we kin take care o' these bully boys. By the Lady, there ain't no problemo there. But why does we need ta? These vacuum-suckers ain't the ones 'at tried ta kill the boy an' our cap'n. Those bozos are already dead, an' little Mr. Hayl dun 'imself proud, even if it cost 'im."

The two women looked at him with gimlet eyes, but they were willing to listen for a few more minutes.

"I figger if we tell 'em that the cap'n's okay an' he's headed on back ta a certain tavern, that'll give us enuff time ta git everyone back to the Ship. An then the cap'n can figger out what he wants to do, and we'll know where to go find the bad guys if we want to."

Vodi and Broadax thought about it, and reluctantly agreed.

"But, damn it, sweetie, it ain't fair!" said Broadax. "I'm an art-eest, and us artists yearn ta do wat we wus born ta do. They already messed up my plans fer this afternoon! I shoulda got another good fight outa it at least!" She snarled and fumbled for a fresh cigar. Then looked over at Mrs. Vodi, snarled again, and started chewing the end furiously, but she didn't light it.

"Weelll," said Hans thoughtfully. "We can't kill 'em outright, even if it would jist be chlorine in the gene pool. But mebbee we can come up with some place to send 'em that'll make their lives reeel excitin'. I gotta think... I jist wish I knew more about this dirtball of a planet!"

"Ahhh! That's a good idea!" said Vodi with an evil grin. "And I know just the place to send them. I think I can also guarantee that them and all their friends will be occupied for a good while. No innocent bystanders either!

"You stay here," continued Vodi. "I'll go pass the word on to those idiots. Besides, this way I can check out who they are. Hell, they might be our boys and no way I want one of our guys to go where I'm sending these bozos! I'll tell them I'm a nurse from the hospital, which is what I am right now!"

"Go gitum!" said Hans, punctuating this with a happy chuckle as he and his monkey spit into the nearby trash receptacle.

"Hey, cut that out!" yelped the corpsman. "I have to clean those cans!"

Hans smiled—or was it a snarl? "Could be worse, sailor! Wouldja rather clean out trash cans or swab up those scumbags' blood offa the decks out there?"

The corpsman paled at the thought, and after a second look at Hans' face and a sideways glance at the blood-soaked, sawed-off lunatic who stood beside him fondling a battle-ax, he gulped and remembered a previous, pressing engagement.

Broadax was mangling her cigar at a furious rate, and her brows were pulled together in thought.

"Hey, hon, where did she say she wuz sendin' them scumbags, anyhoo?" she asked.

Mrs. Vodi laughed out loud when they asked her upon her return.

"Those idiots are all testosterone and no brains, they'll fit in good out there. See, one of my local friends mentioned that a group of, shall we call them, oh, stalwart hunters and trappers, had come back to town and were having a shindig. Only thing is, these boys have sorta gotten used to doing without women, if you get what I mean..." She trailed off and grinned.

"Seems like these boys got only three interests in life," continued Vodi, "and drinking and fighting are the other two. And it can get quite vigorous in there, and some of those boys ain't too socially adept nor subtle if you know what I mean."

Broadax looked quite fascinated with this whole idea. "Now, I ain't quite sure what ye means yet, but it sounds interestin'ly evil!"

"Well," replied Vodi, "it seems like they'd had problems that ended up in a few legal complications. These boys just don't know how to act when someone says no. So the police and them set it up. No one gets in without a password, but once you're in, you're on yer own." She smiled beatifically.

"So I gave 'em the password. I figured that them and all their friends should be gainfully occupied for a good while. And knowing some o' those boys, I figure these bravos and sellswords will learn the pleasures of receiving instead of giving!"

Hans looked at her in admiration. "Woman, 'at's evil. Truly, truly evil! The Elder King hisself couldn't o' wished worst on 'em! I love it!"

"The damned fools should know better than to trust free cheese in dark corners!" Vodi replied. "Besides, it was your idea in the first place, I just put the icing on the cake. If I was as good as you, I'd figure out how to get them to put their own handcuffs on!"

"Well, I wasn't a master chief fer nothin'!" cackled Hans, "But yew done outdid me with this one!"

"Yep, I do believe we're in the presence o' genius!" said Broadax, looking at Vodi in a wide-eyed admiration. "Sweetie, I think it's time ta buy this woman a drink!"

 

* * *

 
'Cause justice is the one thing,
you should always find.
You gotta saddle up your boys,
you gotta draw a hard line.
 
When the gunsmoke settles,
we'll sing a victory tune,
And we'll all meet back,
at the local saloon!
 
And we'll raise up our glasses,
against evil forces
Singing, "Whiskey for my horses,
beer for my men!"
 

* * *

 

Petreckski, Elphinstone, and Asquith were easy enough to find. They had heard the commotion and screams from Melville and Hayl's fight, and they headed toward the sound of the battle. By the time they got there, Melville and Fielder were just starting to look for them.

Melville was pleased by their response. Moving toward a fight isn't always smart, but you want people with that kind of instinct around you when life gets ugly.

The captain quickly briefed them on the events of the afternoon. Brother Theo tried mightily not to grin or even look at Fielder when he heard about the result of his dalliance with Ursula.

"Thou certainly hast a way with women, Daniel," said Lady Elphinstone, shaking her head with a wry smile. "Thy girlfriends all seem to hate thee exceedingly, so that the hatred wherewith they hate thee is greater than the love wherewith they loved thee."

But their smiles disappeared completely when they heard about Hayl. Then they split up. Melville needed to get to his Ship, where he would be in position to maneuver and control his forces, so he, Asquith, and Brother Theo headed toward the Fang. Meanwhile, Fielder and Elphinstone went to alert the midshipmen at the brothel. The middies' liaison with the local ladies of negotiable virtue was about to come to an abrupt end.

 

While the trip to the Ship was uneventful for Melville and Brother Theo, Elphinstone and Fielder were not quite so lucky.

They were cutting through a crowded outdoor cafe when a police officer intercepted them. "Hold up there, you two!" called the cop from across the cafe. When they looked at him, he yelled, "Yeah, you two. The one in the green dress, and the one with blood all over his legs."

Elphinstone looked over at Fielder's white uniform pants, splattered liberally with the blood from Midshipman Hayl, the dead bodies they had waded through in the bar, and the four dead bravos he had inspected in the street.

"Why, Daniel, I do believe 'tis us he hath hailed so impudently!" she said serenely.

Fielder glared at her with no apparent impact on her good spirits. "Think so, Sherlock?" he grunted.

The officer stomped over to them. He was short, stocky, and looked a wee bit irked. "What t' hell are you Navy types doing here? An' where t' hell did that blood come from?"

Fielder read the officer's name tag.

"You're Officer Alberick?" 

"Thanks," he said, rolling his eyes and stepping closer. "If you're going to play mentalist then how much do I weigh?" bellowed the hard-case cop.

"About a buck ninety-five," Fielder replied with an infuriating grin. "Give or take a donut."

The cop's volume control was no better than his grasp of personal space. His response to this was to lean forward and shout louder. "Your breath smells of alcohol! Have you been drinking?"

"Your eyes seem glazed, have you been eating donuts?"

The cop turned red and looked at Elphinstone. "You gonna tell me what da hell yer up to?"

"Thou wouldst know who we are?"

"Yes!"

"Then I shall tell thee without delay."

"Well?"

"I am called Elphinstone. Probably because 'tis my name."

"That's real cute, but it's not answering my questions! There's four dead bodies in the street just a few blocks away, chopped, gutted, and sliced clean, like from one of those fancy blades you Navy scum carry. And there's a bunch more shot and chopped to hell inside the Laughing Dog! So what do you know about those bodies, and where in hell did that blood come from?"

Fielder's face paled as his temper rose. Elphinstone felt action was needed to prevent having more blood spilled. After all, while the cop was being an officious jerk, he was doing his job, and injuring or killing a police officer was a great way to inspect prison cells—from the inside. She slipped a hand inside her shore medical kit, and palmed a syringe.

"Good officer, I pray thee calm thy wrath! We shall be more than happy to assist thee in thy quest for information! Ah, wait, there's a wasp on thy jacket!" she said as her arm snapped out like a viper and pumped the syringe into the artery in the side of his neck.

"What in the hell?" he gasped in confusion as his hand moved up to his neck.

"Bad cop. No donut!" said Fielder as he stepped forward and eased the officer slowly to the ground.

The customers at the tables around them were staring, but there seemed to be enough lawlessness in those who were watching, and enough ambiguity in the situation (since it wasn't really clear why the officer had fallen and there was no blood) to keep any observers from interfering. Fielder looked at the Sylvan healer with raised eyebrows.

"'Tis but a mild sedative, Daniel. We must make haste with our mission, and 'tis so much easier than arguing, is't not?" she smiled at him. "And so much easier than getting the governor to have us released after assaulting this gracious officer!"

Fielder grinned and nodded. As he stood up, the grin was wiped away instantly by the voice that came from behind them.

"Daniel, Daniel, I am just so, so disappointed in you!"

He spun around to see Ursula again, accompanied by... What would be the right collective noun? A gaggle of goons? A bully of bravos? The thoughts spun through his mind as he looked at her, then at the five armed men accompanying her, and then back at her. Damn. She must have recruited every piss-ant prairie punk who thinks he can shoot a gun!

Ursula was dressed in a slinky red thing that looked like it had been spray-painted on. Wait! Maybe it is just a layer of body paint... Ursula saw Fielder's eyes lingering on her body and gave him a sly smile and a wink that made his heart ache. Well, the ache might have been lower. Man, that woman looks good!

The tactical situation wasn't good. To his front was Ursula and her merry band of gunmen. The lead singer and her five percussionists, ready to set a merry beat on the revolver... To his right were a group of children in an alley tending a large flock of chickens. To his left and rear were nothing but tables filled with customers. Playing to a packed house.

Why in hell did that cop have to stop us? Fielder dithered to himself as he tried to find some option that increased the odds of personal survival.

The only good news was the fact that the customers in the outdoor cafe had noted the big Colt revolvers that each of Ursula's friends brandished. The danger of getting caught in a crossfire and the well developed survival instincts of the locals made the tables empty almost magically. Fielder now had a clear field of fire in front of him. Five targets, and no innocents. He also knew that Elphinstone had her two single-barreled pistols hidden in her sleeves and she was a deadly shot.

Maybe they had a chance!

Elphinstone spoke up quietly behind him. "I am watching thy back, Daniel. Thinkst thou I can help, tell me how."

"Take the two on the right, then cover my six," muttered Fielder

"What ever do you mean, Ursula?" Fielder countered as he watched the five gunmen. They were armed with Colt Peacemakers. Good guns, but the idiots hadn't even cocked them yet. Holding them in their hands, not even ready to fire. Yes, maybe God is watching out for me, he thought, while he gave the appearance of relaxing as he talked with her.

"Well, Daniel, just for old time's sake I tried to be nice to you, and you abused my hospitality. Then you broke my favorite mirror! That was just too, too much. Now I want you to meet my friends. They're local sellswords, but they're all tolerably skillful players, and they've been good to me. And they are so upset that you hurt me," she concluded with a pout.

"When we were together," continued Ursula, "you said you'd die for me. Now we've broken up, and I think it's time to keep your promise."

Fielder looked at Ursula and then at her gunmen, and shook his head. She had the kind of allure that could literally enthrall men, and she used that beauty like a psychopath uses a weapon: without mercy or hesitation. Her bravos were probably completely smitten, but he had to try. "Boys, it doesn't have to be this way. You know you're not all getting out of here alive. Don't let her lead you astray. She looks good, but take my word for it, she's stone cold frigid. The original Ice Maiden."

The insipid smiles on the bravos' faces made it clear that they were hers, body and soul. The look on her face made it clear that right now she fancied neither. She wanted only Fielder's death. Now.

"You know I'm not a maiden, Daniel," replied Ursula. "And whoever heard of an Ice Matron? You've turned into a major bore, and I'm beginning to experience some serious ennui here. So let us begin this dance."

Fielder was in motion even before she stopped talking. It was always a good idea to attack while your opponent was talking.

He said a quick prayer to the "Church of the Tactical Truth" whose creed was, in the words of the Reverend Cardinal Mad Dog McLung, "Go forth and be Tactical." Or, in the words of Saint Blauer: "If you mean to do it—make it mean!" 

Her boyfriends all had the classic, stylish pose that that you see in the truly self-deluded, just before they are sliced to bits, shot to death, or otherwise become aware that death is an equal opportunity provider. The head goon shifted his grip on his gun, sliding his thumb up to the hammer as if to cock it. Unfortunately for him, he stopped and looked at Ursula for confirmation before acting. Even more unfortunately, Fielder was already Acting and was no longer Observing and trying to Orient to what was happening around him. He was one whole OODA loop ahead of them.

We've got five, no, six targets, he thought to himself, remembering Ursula's little derringer cannon. Then Fielder gave himself a quick pep talk, trying to ambush his brain before fear and reason could kick in. But I've got one of the finest examples of Saint Browning's divine inspiration, cocked and locked with a tummy full of the local marines' best ammo. Seven in the mag and one in the chamber—eight ways of dying slung on my hip!

Fielder's eternal nonchalance was replaced with swift catlike movements. His hand was already moving back to his holster as he sidestepped to the left. In the time it took the head bravo to look at Ursula, Fielder had smoothly drawn his pistol and thumbed the safety down.

Assuming the bad guys were experiencing tunnel vision (which was a pretty safe assumption), the sidestep took him out of their field of view and literally off of their radar screen. It also made them adjust to his action and start up a new OODA loop.

The gun nestled in his hand like a handshake from an old and trusted friend. He saw the front sight come up to settle on head-goon, placed it just under a silver button on his chest, and stroked the trigger geennntly. The gun surprised him when it went off (as it should) and he brought it back down to the same target as the slide slammed back into battery and he stroked the trigger again. He let the recoil of the second shot pull the gun up and placed the front sight right on the middle of head-goon's continuous eyebrow and squeezed again. He seemed to have all the time in the world, choosing his aim, pressing the trigger, riding the recoil to the aim point. Blood blossomed on the bravo's chest, his head snapped back and he dropped like a stone—DRT: dead right there.

It was called the "Mozambique drill." Fielder had practiced it so intently that it came automatically, and with such astounding speed that the three shots seemed to roll together into one continuous blast. Best way to influence their hearts and minds, he babbled to himself, is two to the heart and one to the mind.

Fielder knew that a human being can suck up a lot of .45 rounds and still keep going. All pistol rounds (even the vaunted .45) were notoriously ineffective (as compared to shooting someone with a rifle, or preferably a 12-pounder cannon!), and Fielder's philosophy, learned on his Grandma BenGurata's knee, was to shoot people the way they used to vote in old Chicago: "Early and often!"

He was scared, he was mad, and he was determined to finish each opponent, onceandforall. Thankyouverymuch. As Machiavelli put it, "Never do your enemy a minor injury."

As always, he didn't hear his shots in combat. Just as the lion doesn't hear its own roar (if it did, all elderly lions would be stone deaf), and the hunter doesn't hear his shots. Whether you're shooting deer or men, the ears "blink" when you "roar"—just like the lion's. Living proof that man has the neural pathways of a predator in his head, just as he has the gripping fangs of a predator in his mouth.

As Fielder shifted left to the next target, he was aware that Lady Elphinstone's two pistols had spoken and saw that the two bravos to the right were acutely distracted by the holes that had appeared in their foreheads. The diners who had not already departed were now leaving in a mad scramble. The people were all going in the right direction (away from the shooters) but a burst of bloody feathers indicated that one of the chickens was having less success at fleeing the battlefield.

Damn! What a confusion!

"Daniel," said Elphinstone. "We are attacked from behind."

"Kill 'em!" shrilled Fielder.

"Certainly."

Fielder's front sight settled on the next man, who was raising his gun one-handed, turning side-on like a duelist. Daniel aimed at the damp spot in his armpit, and touched off two shots with incredible speed, focusing on the target area and the front sight, then riding the recoil up to put the front sight on the eye facing him before pressing the trigger a third time. He felt intense satisfaction as his opponent dropped instantly, DRT, again.

He felt a "Twack! Twack!" as his monkey's belaying pin blocked two bullets from god-knows-who, and a tug at his jacket as the last thug dove to the ground firing his six-shooter. This guy was a big one! Daniel hurried his last two shots at the huge thug, missing with both as the man rolled and twisted on the ground. Of course, acting like a broken-back snake on the ground may have kept Fielder from hitting him, it also kept the bravo from shooting accurately, so it was an almost even tradeoff. Except for the fact that the slide of Fielder's pistol was locked back on an empty magazine.

Stupid, stupid! Fielder screams to himself. That's what I get for over-training on Mozambique drills. Never do Mozambique drills when you have more than two opponents, or you end up with an empty gun and reloading while the last guys are shooting you.

While chewing himself out for fatal stupidity, he still doesn't stop trying. Fielder drops the magazine out with his right thumb as his left hand sweeps back to the magazine holder and pulls out fresh fodder. He feeds the mag into the grip as his eyes watch the huge bravo pop up with a cocked gun in his hand and a contemptuous sneer on his face.

Then Fielder hears a disembodied voice from his opponent. "I'm Spike! I taste like chicken!" chirps the voice.

The big gunman's face goes blank and he freezes. A millisecond later two shots punch out the front of his chest and whizz up over Fielder's head.

"Heh heh," says Ulrich, stepping out from behind the gunman with a smoking .45 in his hand, his monkey on his shoulder, and a tiny green parrotlet on his head. "He warn't so toughk."

This is followed by a thump as the gunman's huge body finally figures out that it was dead, tips over, and hits the ground like a fallen tree. The hilt of a knife standing up from the back of his skull shows where Ulrich had neatly pithed him. There are two .45 caliber entrance wounds in his back from where Ulrich had shot him. The small dirk sticking out of his right kidney is probably from Ulrich's monkey.

"Heeere kittykittykitty!" says Spike, peering down at the gunman's body.

"Ya think they wask gonna finishk this?" says Ulrich as he reaches out with a bloody hand to pick a morsel off of an abandoned plate.

Maybe it took the poor bastard so long to fall, because he had to figure out what to die from first, thinks Fielder, eyeing the corpse.

 

As the scar-seamed little coxswain looked down at the fallen body, his monkey reached out, snagged the bite of food from Ulrich's fingers and popped it into its mouth.

Fielder let the slide slam forward on a fresh mag, and spun around looking for more attackers. Where in hell did Ursula go? Damn that woman! And part of him couldn't help but think, Damn she looks good!

 
...the most she will do,
is throw shadows at you,
But she's always a woman to me...
 

He paused in surprise as he saw Lady Elphinstone pull her knife from a dead man sprawled behind him. Damn! She dropped two with her pistols and then covered our rear with her knife! Not bad. Not bad at all...

Fielder pivoted to the front again—just in time to see Ulrich prying his knife from the back of his victim's skull while his monkey pulled its tiny dirk from the hapless bravo's kidney. "Well dip me in vacuum and call me an ice cube!" said the highly disconcerted first officer. "Where the hell did you come from?"

Ulrich just shrugged and stole another bite from the table. "Eep!" said his parrotlet.

"And, damn," added Fielder, looking at the corpse at Ulrich's feet, "two .45 slugs to the heart, a knife in the base of the skull, and one in the kidney. Don't you think that was a little bit of overkill?"

"Ya never know," replied Ulrich, with an evil smirk. "He mighta bin one o' them reel tough guysk. Sometimes overkill isk jiiist enough."

The Fang's crew were all highly competent, professional, experienced killers, but most of them had to build up a good mad first. Most warriors had to get worked up to take a life. But the crazed coxswain was a stone cold, dispassionate killer. Like a farmer's wife wringing a chicken's neck. And that could be useful. Some tasks call for a hammer, or an ax, thought Fielder. That's Broadax. Other jobs needed a corkscrew. That's Ulrich.

"Well, sir," sneered Ulrich. "I guessk ya musk a' bin a bit flustered. Dewin' a pockin' Mozambeekee drill win ya had five targetsk! Or wusk you jusk savin' skum fer me? Heh, heh."

"More lead, more dead," muttered Fielder. "That's my motto." I'll never hear the end of this, he thought. And the little bastard is right. I was just so damned scared that I let myself get rattled, and I almost died because of it. But I really don't care what kind of ribbing I take. I'm alive!

"An' ya know, I think yer girlfrienk may be insane," continued Ulrich as he stepped to a table and picked up a blood-spattered pork chop. "An' I shouldk know."

His monkey eeked in vigorous agreement as the two of them began to gnaw on the pork chop.

I'm not sure which of those two crazies is scarier, Ulrich or his monkey, Fielder thought. With those damned knives in its hands it looks like a carving machine gone mad!

"Yes, Daniel, I must agree," said Elphinstone. "Thou shouldst definitely tread carefully with Ursula. I think she's a psychopath."

"Thank you both for the tip. I'd never have noticed," Fielder scowled. "But, again, where did you come from?" he asked Ulrich, semi-politely—after all there was no sense in pissing off another psychopath today!

"I's jusk eatin' at a corner table an' keepin' a eye on the brothel wit' our middiesk, win I seed these idjits walkin' up wit dat pretty girl o' yoursk. Ya know, tha'sk won hail of a wuman ya gotsk there!"

"She almost killed me! Twice!" Fielder exclaimed.

"Yep. Thatsk my kinda wuman!"

"Quick, too!" added Elphinstone. "She moved beyond my ken almost as fast as thy pistol came out, Daniel. Art thou wounded, Daniel? Thy jacket's arm hath a hole." She grabbed his left arm, and looked at it closely. "'Tis through thy jacket from front to back." She ripped the sleeve open to show a dimple in his skin. Shaking her head, the surgeon reached into her medical pouch as Fielder looked on in astonishment.

"I was hit? But I'm not bleeding, I can't be hit!" Fielder looked at his arm. As he watched the hole opened and blood started to pour down his arm.

"I am hit! Damn! I've heard about this. Vasoconstriction kept it shut, didn't it?" Fielder suddenly began to feel dizzy looking at the sight of his own blood. Other people's blood didn't bother him, but his blood was different!

"Aye, 'tis normal, Daniel," Elphinstone replied as she bound up his arm with bandages. "The human body replies to the insult of mortal danger by trapping the blood within the core of the body, such that thy outer skin canst act as armor during a fight!

"Ulrich," she continued on as she bandaged him, "thy captain hath decreed that our liberty is at an end, and that all of our gallant Ship's company shall return aboard her, forthwith. Wouldst thou carry this message to the midshipmen and all others thou dost encounter?"

"Aye, ma'am," he replied. "Grenoble'sk coverin' the back entrance o' the brothel. I'll git the middiesk an' him, an' we'll git back ta the Ship." Then he added with apparent pleasure, "Heh heh. I guessk I'll 'ave ta interrupt the middiesk fun." He looked around quickly and then departed immediately.

As Ulrich left, a waiter poked his head out from under a table. "Hey!" the man shouted indignantly. "He didn't pay his bill! The son-of-a-bitch just eats, shoots and leaves!"

"Here," snarled Fielder, flipping the waiter a small gold piece with his good hand. "This should cover it."

"All right, what's going on here?" said the authoritative voice of a policeman. This one unfortunately came with several other members of the local police department, all of whom had their guns drawn and appeared somewhat upset by the gory scene.

Probably mad because we interrupted their feeding frenzy at the local donut shop, Fielder mused irritably. Damn, damn! I should have known the shots would draw cops. Ulrich was smart enough to get out in time.

The police officer stopped and looked in dismay at the half dozen corpses strewn about in the stiff, awkward poses of death. "What in hell killed all these men?" he wondered aloud.

Lady Elphinstone looked at him. Then she shook her head mournfully as she examined the corpses. "Violent death, 'tis such a sadness. God knows, the grave doth come soon enough to us all... Multiple gunshot wounds. Stab wounds, slashes. Twas one hell of a fight."

"But who, or what, killed them!"

"Well, me thinkst we can rule out natural causes. 'Tis best we say they died mostly of lead poisoning. High velocity lead poisoning..."

"Huh." He looked around in dismay. "I think it's best if we take this one downtown."

"Hey, Sarge!" one of the other policemen called. "You ain't gonna believe this. Alberick's over here on the ground, sleepin' away!"

The sergeant looked at the snoring Alberick and back at Elphinstone and Fielder. "I really think you two are gonna have a few things to be explaining here. Let's go!"

 

Melville and Midshipman Hezikiah Jubal were at the Fang's upper-side quarterdeck rail as they discussed their pending departure.

Jubal was the senior midshipman, currently serving as the watch officer. "Sur," drawled the middie, "we're still missin' Lt. Fielder and Lady Elphinstone. So far we haven't had any response from the governor or the local police to our inquiries concernin' them. To be honest sur, Ah'm gettin' pretty concerned."

"Aye, Hezikiah. Me too."

"How's Midshipman Hayl, sur?" asked Jubal anxiously.

"Mrs. Vodi says that he's resting comfortably. Two-space seems to be aiding in his healing."

"How 'bout his hand, sur? Do they know yet?"

Melville sighed. "No, not for sure, but it really doesn't look good. His hand was reattached but Mrs. Vodi said that the damage was extensive, and he'll probably lose it. It might have been better if his opponent had spent more on his sword and bought one that had been tempered and sharpened in two-space, as it would have been a clean cut. Of course, then it might have cut through and killed him instead. Better to lose a hand than your life. But still..." He trailed off, shaking his head grimly and staring down into the dark blue plane of two-space, wishing that he could have done more.

"Yer lookin' at it wrong, sur, if Ah may say so." Jubal had served as an able seaman before being promoted to midshipman. If there were ever any more promotions to lieutenant to be made aboard the Fang, Jubal would be the first. So it was a Shipmate and a veteran of many battles who looked his captain in the eye as he continued. "You made sure Hayl got the trainin' he did, and that trainin' saved his life. Ah think it's amazin', Cap'n. He's a young boy, who started out as a midshipman—not someone like me who's been a sailor fer years. Those idiots you and Hayl killed knew absolutely nothin' about the Ever Evolvin' Church of Violence. But you made us pay our tithes in sweat and tears in trainin'. And curst hard it was too! And then you two brought them, our enemy, into the fold and initiated them into the mysteries of the True Way. Most folks don't know anythin' about violence, but we who do are a curst sight safer for it."

Melville blinked, trying to digest what Jubal had said and everything it implied. He was mildly disturbed by the religious connotations, but the young man had stumbled upon an elemental truth. No matter how it was stated. Those who forget, misuse, or ignore the way of violence are doomed to be initiated into the rites the hard way.

He shook his head and smiled ruefully. "Well said, Hezikiah. But it's hard to remember that when I think of young Hayl down in sick bay missing a hand."

"Aye, Captain, Ah understand, but the little tyke is alive—and he took down two of the scumbags that wanted to make you and him dead. Personally, Ah'm proud as hell of the boy!"

Melville grinned back at him. "Trust me, I'm proud of him too. Not to mention he kept me alive by covering my back. Here, now, what's this?"

They both looked down the Pier at a trio of figures approaching the Ship. Soon there was a sizable number of the crew at the railing, shaking their heads in wonder at what they saw.

Fielder was "pitching woo" to a brace of local ladies hanging on his arms as they saw their brave sailor to his Ship. It would have been a classic, timeless scene, identical to those played out by human sailors for untold millennia, if not for the bizarre sight of an alien monkey's head bobbing happily above Fielder's head.

"Yep," said Fielder, "there I was, facing the entire Guldur horde. And let me tell you, ladies, they were open for business..."

"Some of the people on that boat seem unhappy to see you," whispered one of his ladies, looking up at the faces on the railing. "Especially that short guy with the beard and the ax."

"Pay no attention to them. The downside of being better than everyone else is that people tend to assume you're pretentious."

"But why would they be like that?"

"Sometimes, the solution to a morale problem is just to kill all the unhappy people. It seems harsh, and the useless, expendable ones who are next on the chopping block tend to resent the fact that the only purpose of their life is to serve as a warning to others, but that is the law of the sea."

"It must be awful having to make those kind of decisions!"

"Yes, it's lonely at the top. But it's comforting to look down upon everyone at the bottom. I have to admit, I am often 'whelmed' by the responsibility. Not overwhelmed, mind you, just... whelmed."

Looking at the young midshipmen watching from the rail, one of his girls asked, "Aren't the young ones damaged by all that killing and stuff?"

"Aye, it's true," said Fielder as they stepped up the gangplank. "The hearts and minds of lesser beings are a lot more fragile than mine."

"He ain't got a mind ta damage, above 'is belt!" snarled Broadax disgustedly.

"The leapord never changes hisk shorts," muttered Ulrich.

"Heeeere kittykittykitty!" added his bird.

"We had reports that said you were dead," said Melville with a grin as Fielder came onboard. He was pleased in spite of everything to see his first officer return. Boye, tail wagging furiously, ran up to greet the latecomer.

"Bet you fifty dollars I'm not!" said Fielder with a smile, a salute, and a happy pat for the dog and the dog's monkey.

"Well, if you are, it looks like you weathered the experience well," said Melville, returning the salute.

"So ye convinced 'em ta let ye go, eh?" said Broadax disgustedly.

"The trick is to never tell the truth," said Fielder cheerfully. "Police never believe what anyone tells them anyway, so why give them extra work?"

"Ye've got the luck of the devil," scowled Broadax. "Personally I think yer related."

"Hey, 'He needed killing' is still a valid defense here," replied Fielder with a shrug. "Besides, the judge thinks I'm corrupt. We met previously in a brothel, so he trusts me. It's always nice when your vices pay off.

"Now, my ladies," said Fielder to his escorts, "I must leave you."

"But Danny, I thought you loved us?"

"I do, my sweet, I do. But not exclusively."

 

After Fielder saw his inamoratas off, he briefed Melville about his experiences.

"And the ladies?" Melville asked wryly.

"Simply a side effect, Captain, an aspect of my departure. The judge and I had a long discussion about our insignificant little altercation, and we merely moved it to a location more conducive to civilized conversation."

He grinned and added, "It didn't hurt that I was picking up the tab, either!"

"Well, what about Lady Elphinstone? She was arrested with you, wasn't she?"

"Well, Captain, the judge was a wee bit ticked off at our brave healer. He didn't mind her cleaning up the local gene pool a bit, but her knocking out a police officer with a sedative was deeply offensive to him. He was mumbling something about unlicensed drug dispensation, assault, and a few other minor things."

"I think I had better get the governor involved in this one, then. It sounds like it could be serious," Melville said grimly.

"Well, that really isn't necessary. For two reasons," replied Fielder, smiling and buffing his nails on his jacket.

"Firstly, it seems the local judicial system was overwhelmed with another case that had literally scores of dead and many more maimed. Apparently a large group of bravos and sellswords, hired by a visitor to this planet who has since departed hastily, attacked the private party of a group of local rustics with aberrant tastes in companionship and entertainment. The result was a bloodbath: murder on a mass scale, rapine of an unusually unsavory sort, and general mayhem of a magnitude that is uncommon even for this planet."

"Hmm," said Melville, shaking his head with a chuckle. "That appears to be Hans and Vodi's plan coming to fruition. I'll fill you in later. So the local population has experienced some intense natural selection, and the judicial system has bigger fish to fry. Tell me the other reason I shouldn't worry about Elphinstone."

"Well," began Fielder, "the judge and I had a long conversation and I told him that, as a naval captain on independent duty, you had the rights of high and low justice. That you had strong feelings about her behavior, and would be more than happy to take care of it."

Melville's eyebrows rose toward his hairline. "High and low justice? Daniel, did you happen to mention that I only have authority over offenses to Navy discipline? And I really don't think sedating a policeman affects Navy discipline. Nor do I think acting in self-defense is a crime!"

"Now, Captain. I never said what her punishment would be. After all, I am merely the poor overworked first officer!" He looked piously innocent for a moment before his face collapsed into a grin. "It's all far above my pay grade! I merely let the judge draw his own, umm, conclusions."

Melville studied him, then grinned back. "If this deal with the judge works, Daniel, remind me not to play poker with you. Such peasant cunning!"

Fielder placed his hand to his chest in mock indignity. "Please, Captain, not peasant cunning! Baronet Daniello Sans Fielder may be accused of many things, but never anything so base!"

 

Lady Elphinstone was brought to the gangplank of the Fang late in the afternoon watch. She was accompanied by a clerk of the court. Only a very careful observer could have discerned that her buttercup yellow dress and grass green sash were slightly begrimed.

"Are you in charge here?" asked the portly clerk.

Clearly not, Melville thought. "Yes," he said.

"I need to know what are your plans for this offender?"

Melville pontificated. "Aboard this Ship the captain is high, low, and every other altitude of justice to be had in two-space. Once I have her under my authority I assure you that I shall pass judgment hastily enough to make even you happy, lest the sentence have the unseemly taint of cool deliberation."

The clerk was clearly impressed by the captain's oratory. "Well, since you are ready for rapid judgment, then I am pleased. The judge will be as well. Tell me, what shall be the punishment for her crimes?"

Melville smiled benevolently and replied, "I believe that I shall sentence her to banishment to the deepest depths of the far frontier while she cares for our sick and wounded, in exchange for room and board and some pocket money, on her solemn promise not to ever kill or drug anyone not equally deserving."

And with this the portly clerk, and the Show Low criminal justice system, had to be content.

Elphinstone stood with her usual serene composure as the clerk left.

"Welcome back, my lady," said Melville.

"I thank thee. And I bring thee a message from the governor."

"What is it?"

"Wouldst like to know?"

"I'd like nothing better."

"Then I shall tell thee."

"Well then?"

"The governor says that he appreciates thy efforts as the 'Uber-Darwin lifeguard in the local gene pool' and thou art always welcome on his world. But, under current circumstances, 'twere best thou shouldst depart as soon as possible."

"I'll drink to that!" muttered Fielder.

 

* * *

 
We got too many gangsters,
doin' dirty deeds,
Too much corruption,
and crime in the streets.
 
It's time the long arm of the law,
put a few more in the ground,
Send them all to their Maker,
and He'll send them on down.
You can bet, He'll send 'em on down.
 
'Cause justice is the one thing,
you should always find.
You gotta saddle up your boys,
you gotta draw a hard line.
 
When the gunsmoke settles,
we'll sing a victory tune,
And we'll all meet back,
at the local saloon!
 
And we'll raise up our glasses,
against evil forces,
Singing, "Whiskey for my men,
beer for my horses!"
 

* * *

 

They were about to make the long run to the Hero Cluster. If they forgot anything, it couldn't be replaced at a convenient port stop—since there weren't any! So long hours were used to conduct pre-underway checks, finish the final loading of stores and water, and complete a thousand other vital tasks to ensure their survival and safe travel in two-space.

The crew of the Fang pitched in and worked like demons—hungover demons for the most part, but hardworking nonetheless! The general attitude was that if you were going to hoot with the owls, you had to scratch with the chickens. And if that meant you had to make a discreet stop to relieve your stomach over the side to do your job, well, that was part and parcel of a great liberty!

One of the worst chores was loading the barrels of food and water for the next stage of their trip. Two-space both helped and hindered in this process. It helped because water and food tended to remain fresh and useable longer in that environment. Conversely, that same environment wreaked havoc on most of the tools they could use to lift heavy objects. Due to the constant degradation of complex, machined surfaces, they were limited to using simple pulleys or "single-blocks." These were made of hardwood riding in a wooden saddle, which could be readily maintained with a chisel and lubrication. The downside was that with two blocks you only had a two-to-one ratio for lifts.

To hoist a standard fifty-five-gallon barrel it took a five-man team: three men to lift the almost five-hundred-pound barrel, one to stabilize it with a separate line, and a fifth man with a snubbing line running around a belaying point to keep it from falling if someone lost their grip. For some reason, the Navy felt it was exceedingly bad form to drop five-hundred-pound barrels on peoples' heads. Killing someone intentionally was one thing, but doing it by accident was a sign of bad workmanship—like a surgeon amputating the wrong leg!

This all meant that loading stores for getting underway was a slow, tedious, and hellaciously hard job for all hands. Food, water, and stores for a crew on a lengthy voyage occupied a lot of space, and it took a lot of time to get aboard.


During the final watering process, a "package" came aboard with the Fang's water barrels.

A dockyard worker cracked a sealed case and dropped the blob of black "goo" atop one of the last barrels scheduled to come onboard. He had been well paid for this act, and it was the easiest money he had ever earned. Basically, it was like cracking an egg into a pan.

"Ugg!" was his only comment as he watched the goo seep into the cracks in the barrel.

<<!!!>> replied the goo.

 

While the Fangs were preparing to get underway, they also had to get the remaining members of the crew back aboard. Normally this wasn't a problem, but ending their liberty early meant that working parties (large, heavily armed parties in this instance, just in case Ursula still had some surprises waiting for them) had to be sent out to the local brothels, bars, gambling dens, shops, bookstores, theaters, and churches to recover the crew.

And a few Fangs had to be bailed out of jail.

 

Lance Corporal Jarvis shook his head in rueful appreciation of his two squad members. "Dwakins, what in the hell happened to you?" he asked.

Dwakins had apparently started in the standard marine liberty uniform, but it was currently torn, stained and bled upon in such a fashion that it was obvious he had either survived a tornado or one hell of a good fight.

The other marine that Jarvis had to bail out was a bit of an anomaly. Rawl was an enemy Guldur who had been wounded (by Dwakins no less) when they captured Gnasher and Biter. From the dried blood on Rawl's fur and claws, it was apparent that the two of them had been involved in the same battle.

Their monkeys didn't look much better.

"Wuhl, Corp, ya know me 'n Rawl's buddies, right?" Dwakins asked, looking at Jarvis eagerly through the one eye that wasn't swollen shut.

"Yeah, Dwakins, you two are the Brothers Dumb. Always hangin' out together. Get on with it!"

"Wuhl, we wus havin' a quiet beer, an' this local cop sez Rawl couldn't be there. 'Lie with a dog an' ya wakes up with fleas,' 'e sez! He wus reel mean about it, too! Even if it wus true. I mean, we got all the fleas outa ol' Rawl a long time ago. So Ah had to defend muh friend and Shipmate!"

Jarvis moaned as he looked down and rubbed his eyes. "Damn," he muttered. "Why did I have to up and reenlist for this madhouse? Well, it looks like the Brothers Dumb win the booby prize again, Dwakins. Did you ever stop to think it might not be a good idea to start a fight with a cop? In a cop bar?! Next to the station house?!"

Dwakins and Rawl looked at each other, then at Jarvis. "But, Corp, Lt. Broadax tole me not ta think! She sez I'll only hurt muhself!"

 

And, of course, the emergency supplies had to be turned into the marine armory.

Hans was taking great pride in the fact that his weapon was clean, nay pristine, as he prepared to turn his .45 in. "Ya know," he said, "a well made .45 like this will feed anything. Even empty brass," he continued, as he jacked back the slide repeatedly and ran a magazine full of expended brass cartridges through the pistol.

"Hmm," Hans added, "I wonder if I should take the grips off and clean under there. Hate to turn in a dirty weapon."

Broadax was bored to tears by all of this. "It'll feed anything?" she asked, innocently, taking the pistol from Hans. "How 'bout this..." Then she dropped a sugar cookie into the breech of the .45 and hit the slide release. The slide slammed forward, spraying out a cloud of greasy crumbs and sugar.

Hans went cross-eyed in stunned anger as Broadax returned his pistol. Then Broadax put a dab of gun oil behind her ear, winked at him slyly, and said, "We only gots a few hours left on this dirtball. There's a tavern with an upstairs room right acrost the way. An' I thinks ye otter consider some uther priorities besides cleanin' yer damned gun."

Hans' anger died and he breathed deeply as he leaned forward and nuzzled her behind the ear.

"I love the smell o' gun oil in the evenin'," he said with a leer. "It smells like... well-lubricated parts..."

 

In addition to the Brothers Dumb, there was one other Fang who had fallen afoul of the law on Show Low. Ranger Aubrey Valandil had been cited early in their stay for spitting on the sidewalk. He had failed to make his court date, and there was a warrant for his arrest. As the senior ranger, Westminster went with Valandil to pay his fine, then he brought the errant Sylvan ranger home.

When the two rangers returned to the Ship they reported to the first officer in the wardroom. The only other occupant of the wardroom was Brother Theo, who was bending over a ledger in a corner.

"You are a black eye to this Ship, Ranger!" said Fielder, shaking his head in mock dismay. "Arrested for climbing buildings on Earth, public urination on Lenoria, and now this? You're a pocking one-man intergalactic crime spree!" Fielder, who had broken countless laws on Show Low, up to and including public nudity and multiple homicides, looked at Valandil sternly and asked, "What are we going to do with you?"

The quiet, self-possessed Sylvan ranger, who seldom said a word or displayed emotion, was sincerely embarrassed. And Fielder was deriving enormous pleasure from the sheer, pompous hypocrisy of his statements.

Westminster too was enjoying his partner's discomfort. Valandil probably hadn't spoken a complete sentence since he was thirteen, and his response this time was an abashed silence.

"Ah'll accept personal responsibility for him, sir," drawled the ranger. "He has assured me that his wild days are behind him, and Ah believe him."

"It's always the quiet ones, eh, Josiah?" said Fielder, with pursed lips and a nod. "Very well, you are dismissed. But I've got my eye on you, Ranger Valandil."

"Daniel," said Theo, looking up from his ledger with a shake of his head after the rangers left. "Your soul is so dark, it smudges mine."

Fielder just smiled.

 

Finally, the Ship was ready. Everything from rice to rhubarbs was packed away in its place, and all the crew was aboard.

As they cast off, the age-old call came forth from the dock workers: "Don't worry, sailor, we'll take care of yer girls for you while yer gone!"

And the good-natured, traditional response came back, "Good, they need some female company!"

 

And Fang left her message at one last Pier before they departed the galactic arm and headed into the Far Rift.

<<Kestrel...war...remember, remember...>>

 

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