Yet that scaffold sways the future,
And, behind the dim unknown,
Standeth God within the shadow
Keeping watch above his own.
Melville had only been in his cell for a few hours. But they'd been some of the worst hours of his life. Doubts about what he had done ate at him. He worried about his family and the shame that he was bringing upon them. Perhaps it meant more than shame for his family, perhaps they too would be punished to appease his enemies. He couldn't help but think that the ambassador, far older and wiser in the ways of the world, might be right. He was gambling it all: his life, his fortune, and his sacred honor.
He kept telling himself that it was no different from the risk of combat. That in the end, they could not take his honor away. They could take his life. They could take his fortune. (Such as it was! Small loss there.) But they couldn't take his sacred honor. Only he could do that, and if he agreed to tell their lies then that was what he would have done. But how could he be sure?
He lay back on his cot, his mind spinning like a wheel trying to gain traction, when there was a knocking at his door. In spite of everything he smiled to himself. You don't knock at a prisoner's door. "Come in!" he said, sitting up in the light gravity. Gunny Von Rito walked in.
"Well, sir," said the gunny, a grin splitting his scarred face, "you've got yourself in a hell of a fix. But not to worry, we've come to spring you."
Melville shook his head with a sad smile as he looked up at the big NCO in his red jacket. The full magnitude of what had happened was just beginning to set in. "Don't get yourself in trouble, Gunny."
"Sir," the gunny answered, his friendly grin suddenly becoming feral, "It's not me that has trouble. Or you. The marine guards let us know what happened. Just scuttlebutt among jarheads, you know? We just happened to let Lady Elphinstone and Valandil know what was up. The King of Osgil, and the King-in-Exile of Stolsh, along with the Dwarrowdelf League ambassador, have summoned you to an audience. Tonight. The Westerness ambassador has informed them that you won't be available. Now it is the Westerness ambassador who has trouble. And now you, sir, are about to disappear, escaping from durance vile, adding yet another chapter to your legend."
"Things do move fast around here," said Melville, standing up. "But I get a sense that it has been building up to this for quite a while."
The situation was clear. His allies had made a massive flanking maneuver upon the enemy, and now he had to make his move. Melville wasn't very good at the whole angst business. He didn't need hope when despair could be delayed. He lived for the moment. And once again, the moment was good.
On his way out the gunny reverently handed him a .45 auto in a hand-tooled leather paddle holster, designed to fit snugly into his waistband in the small of his back, where it would be concealed by his uniform jacket. Another small paddle holster held two magazines on his left hip.
"The embassy's emergency supplies," said the gunny smugly. "They seem to have suddenly become available to most of our officers. Oh, and Lieutenant Broadax asked me to tell you that as the senior marine she would have come . . . but we decided I might be slightly less conspicuous."
As they left the cell the young marine guard had Melville's sword in his hand. He handed the sword to Melville, came to a rigid position of attention, saluted smartly, and conducted an "about face" that would have made his drill sergeant proud.
"You ready, son?" asked Von Rito.
"Aye, Gunny."
"Sorry, 'bout this, but you know you'll be in big trouble without this souvenir. And we can't be having that!"
Then, "Thunk!" and Von Rito gave him a precisely measured punch to the back of the head, guaranteed to leave a good lump. The guard crumpled quietly to the floor.
"Aye, you're a wily devil, sir," said the gunny as he led them out. "No cell can hold you by God!"
High upon the loftiest flet in the tallest tree in Osgil, the King of Osgil sat upon his throne in a flowing robe of green. Emeralds, rubies, and vivid, glowing, sunshine-yellow gems flashed from his crown and gown. Upon the dais, standing on each side of the king, were the King-in-Exile of Stolsh, garbed in elaborate robes made of all the swirling colors of a living world as seen from space, and the bearded ambassador of the Dwarrowdelf League, in glistening scale mail, steel helmet and battle-ax.
There was nothing above them but the two radiant moons of Osgil and a vast sea of stars. The two moons made the immense platform as bright as lamplight. The scene was surrounded, virtually framed, by elegant Sylvan landscape, architecture, and design, consisting of sweeping, flowing, naturalistic lines—and naturist lines, which is quite different, incorporating the elegant beauty of the nude form. It was art nouveau long, long before nouveau was new on Old Earth.
Behind the dais, an orchestra played a noble tune that sounded faintly regal to the visitors.
Arrayed to the left and right of the dais were the ambassadors of all the worlds with embassies on Osgil. Notably absent was the Guldur ambassador, who had been sent home several weeks prior. Notably present was Sir Percival Incessant, his face red with anger, the nostrils of his oversized nose flaring. Standing sullenly beside him, as the senior representative of Earth, was the Honorable Cuthbert Asquith XVI.
In formation before the king was the crew of H.M.S. Fang. Each crew member had their monkey perched proudly upon their shoulder. Melville stood in front, with Lady Elphinstone and Valandil, the two Sylvan members of his crew, immediately to his left.
The Sylvan and Stolsh nobility were gathered around the Fangs' square formation, chatting among themselves with drinks in their hands.
To the rear of the formation, servers stood beside tables groaning under the load of a Sylvan banquet. Not a fully satisfying meal to human appetites, but definitely a bounty of tasty snacks. All around them were the lovingly tended trees and flower beds of the Royal Gardens, perched high above the earth.
The orchestra played a final, stately chord and fell silent, which was the signal for all conversation to cease as the king began to address the crowd.
"Be it known to one and all, that we here gathered: the King of Osgil, representing the Sylvan peoples across the galaxy . . ." The Sylvan were one of the most diverse and widespread races in the galaxy. Osgil was their Prime World, and he was only the king of this one world. But if anyone could speak for all the myriad Sylvan worlds, he was the one to do it.
" . . . the King-in-Exile of Stolsh," here the tall Stolsh king bowed to the crowd in a swirl of colors, "representing the Kingdom of Stolsh which is currently besieged and occupied by vile attackers . . .
" . . . and the ambassador to the Dwarrowdelf League . . ." and here the ambassador raised his battle ax and slammed the hilt into the ground three times. He was of royal lineage, and was the rightful king of the large Dwarrowdelf population on Osgil. The word "king" more rightfully translated as "mine boss."
" . . . do hereby decree and declare the following . . ."
It was interesting to watch the Westerness ambassador's eyes begin to shift back and forth, like rodents trying to escape, as the magnitude of the political forces aligned against him became clear.
"We decree that the joint expedition aboard the ship Kestrel, representing the Kingdom of Westerness and the King of Osgil, and containing a citizen of the Dwarrowdelf League, was unjustly and murderously attacked, under the flag of truce, by the forces of Guldur. This was a premeditated act of war against the Kingdoms which dispatched this expedition, and the rulers here assembled do decree that all actions taken by the acting captain and by the crew were under the full authority of ourselves, and the joint agreement under which the expedition was dispatched. We do advise our Sister, Victoria the Fifth, the queen of Westerness, to accept this as a premeditated assault upon the nation of Westerness, and to join us in the mutual defense of our realms."
That, thought Melville, is stretching the terms of the joint agreement for our expedition significantly, but who is going to disagree with the King of
Osgil's interpretation of his own agreement?
"We do further decree, to those assembled here, and to the galaxy at large, that the Ship Fang belongs to the Queen of Westerness, rightfully captured in an act of lawful self defense. We grant prize rights for the Ship to Captain Thomas Melville, which Ship is now bonded and bound to him and him alone, by right of blood and battle. And we grant prize money, as determined by the Osgil Prize Court, to Captain Melville and the current crew of H.M.S. Fang."
This drew a great cheer from the Fangs. Patriotism, promotion and prize-money had been described as the three masts of the old British Royal Navy. Now this crew, which so prized tradition and the rich heritage of Aubrey and Hornblower, was delighted to be the first Westerness crew to ever receive prize money from a Sylvan Prize Court.
As a part of their recent treaty, Westerness and Osgil had agreed to respect each other's Prize Courts. This treaty was signed by Westerness as a measure to foster trade by supporting mutual counterpiracy operations. It's doubtful that any Westerness diplomat had ever foreseen the current situation, but Melville was beginning to wonder if the long-lived and far-sighted Sylvans hadn't anticipated this possibility.
This had all been briefly presented to Melville ahead of time. He didn't understand exactly why, but the only thing the Sylvans asked of him was two of Fang's 24-pounder cannons. They'd promised two 12-pounders in return, and they'd promised to reimburse them handsomely in prize money for these two guns. It hurt to let go of any of his guns, but this was a small price to pay in return for such generosity.
"We do further decree," continued the king, his deep, powerful voice rolling across the assemblage, "that Captain Thomas Melville, commanding the Westerness ship Kestrel, and later the Westerness ship Fang, acted in keeping with all civilized traditions and behavior in all aspects of his conduct."
Well, thought Melville, nothing like getting a total pardon for all actions from three of the greatest empires in the Galaxy. Piss off powerful enemies, and I suppose it's only fair that you get powerful friends. Looking at Sir Percival Incessant, now white with rage, Melville began to wonder just where he stood with one other major star kingdom: his own.
"We do further decree, that Captain Melville's actions in capturing H.M.S. Fang, breaking through the blockade of Ambergris, resisting the unprovoked invasion of Ambergris, and assisting in the evacuation of Ambergris, were acts of valor and military prowess unprecedented in the long histories of our peoples. Actions deserving of the highest honors our kingdoms are empowered to bestow."
There was an appreciative rumbling from the formation of Fangs, and applause from the audience standing beside them, applause which built to a thundering crescendo, echoed by one and all. Except for the Fangs who were standing at rigid attention, the three leaders upon the dais who were nodding regally, and the Westerness ambassador. Even Asquith, standing beside Incessant, gave a few puzzled, limp claps.
Then the awards were given. First Melville was called forward and made a Member of the Order of Knights Companion of the King of Osgil, and a member of the Royal Host of Glory by the King of Stolsh. The Dwarrowdelf ambassador declared him a Friend of the Dwarrowdelf League, apologizing in a deep gravelly voice that while he deserved more, that was the best that a lowly ambassador was authorized to do. The two kings each hung a very impressive medal around his neck, while the Dwarrowdelf ambassador settled for reaching up and giving a hearty handshake. In his enthusiasm the ambassador's huge, calloused hands nearly crushed Melville's hand.
Melville's monkey sat proudly and serenely through it all, its eyes sparkling as it took everything in. Then the King of Osgil declared that the tiny monkey was now a Squire to the King. The little creature seemed to be deeply affected, cooing slightly and stretching its head out timidly to let a ribbon be placed around it. With one hand it grasped the medal that hung from the ribbon, peering at it studiously while stroking the ribbon with several other hands.
Then each of his officers were called up to become Knights of the Realm of Osgil and Members of the Royal Order of Honor in Stolsh. And to receive a bone crushing handshake and the Friendship of the Dwarrowdelf League from their ambassador. Their monkeys also calmly accepted their masters' honors, but they too appeared deeply touched when they were declared Royal Squires and given beribboned medals.
A particularly poignant moment occurred when Broadax stood before her people's ambassador. The burly, bearded old Dwarrowdelf paused and looked her over carefully. It was known that she'd left her own people in some sort of rebellion, if not outright disgrace. The Fangs held their breath and waited to see if their beloved lieutenant would be snubbed.
Tears began to flood from the Dwarrowdelf ambassador's eyes, flowing freely down into his beard. He reached out his hand and Broadax took it slowly. The old Dwarrowdelf pulled her to him and wrapped his other arm around her. His voice was loud and sounded like grinding gravel as he said, for all to hear, "You have made us proud, good sister warrior. A Dwarrowdelf ax has struck a mighty blow in this first great battle against an evil foe. This is good. This is very good!"
At this the Fangs all cheered spontaneously, and a red flush rose upwards from Broadax's neck like a barbarian horde, burning everything in its way.
Then the three rulers walked the ranks of the Fangs, with Melville leading them and introducing each man, woman, and boy. These were truly noble representatives of their three races, noble in speech and noble in deed, each of them shaking every hand and personally thanking each crew member as they bestowed a medal upon him. And in every case his monkey was duly declared and bedecked as a Royal Orderly. A group of aides followed them as they made their rounds, carrying a seemingly inexhaustible supply of medals to go with the handshakes.
Even the Guldur members of the crew, standing timidly, feeling unworthy of recognition, were encouraged, thanked, and rewarded. They may have fought with the Guldur initially, but they fought for the right side in the battles that mattered, and they were living proof that the Guldur were an oppressed people. All three rulers made it clear to Fang's Guldur crew members that they blamed their rulers, and not them; and would welcome any of their race who rallied to their cause in the years to come.
After the last crew member was duly bemedaled and beshook, the King of Osgil turned to Melville. "But, some of thy crew who came with thee to our fair planet are not here!"
"Sire," said Melville, "Your navy was kind enough to provide caretakers for our ship during our absence. All of my crew members are here."
The old king's eyes sparkled and he grinned a grin that looked a lot like his granddaughter's mischievous smile. "Nay, good captain, what of the dogs and cats who have served ye so well? Would ye forget them? I have not. We are not, as a rule, partakers of red meat, but an imported beefsteak has been purchased and sent to your ship. Even as we speak, the four-legged members of your crew are being rewarded in the manner that they prefer best."
Finally, after every individual was recognized, the King of Osgil returned to his throne and concluded with these Words. "A valiant paladin of thy home world once said, 'Where do we get such warriors? What loving God hath provided, that each generation, afresh, there should arise new giants in the land to answer the summons of the trumpet. Were we to go but a single generation without such heroes, then within the span of that generation we should surely be both damned and doomed.' So now let us partake of the meal that awaits us, and let us give thanks in every way for these worthy warriors who have answered the summons of the trumpet in our hour of need."
Melville saluted the dais. This was not a prescribed military action but it felt appropriate to do so, as a pure and simple act of recognition and greeting between warriors. Then he executed an about-face, looked out on his crew, and with a smile of sheer joy he commanded, "Fall out!"
"Do you understand the full magnitude of what you have done? You are leading our nation down the path of war. Nothing is worse than war! . . ."
It didn't take long for Sir Percival Incessant to
corner Melville. They hadn't even sat down yet. Out of respect, the others backed away and discreetly watched as the Westerness Ambassador to Osgil publicly self-destructed.
"Nothing is worse than war . . ." Aye, thought Melville. Aye, he knew the horrors of war far, far better than the man standing in front of him. Visions raced through his mind. AiEe burning. Her brave people, ravaged, raped, tormented, and dying. A little body crumpled on his quarterdeck. Had he really brought that upon Westerness? For a brief moment his moral compass spun and the world reeled. Dear God, I'd do anything to avoid this. But it cannot be avoided. It has been brought to us, inflicted upon us, and our only choice is to fight or die.
Aye, there is something worse than war, Melville thought to himself. How did John Stuart Mill put it? "War is an ugly thing, but not the ugliest of things; the decayed and degraded state of moral and patriotic feeling which thinks nothing worth a war is worse . . . A man who has nothing he cares more about than he does his personal safety is a miserable creature who has no chance of being free, unless made and kept so by the exertions of better men than himself."
Melville tuned out the ambassador's words as he studied the individual standing before him.
No matter how this turned out, Incessant's career as a diplomat was finished. Here was a man who could rise to positions of rank and recognition that most people would never dream of, and then spend his every effort scheming to gain even more. Melville looked into the heart of the man standing in front of him and felt only contempt and pity. In the end, however high he rose, whatever he achieved, he would never be happy. A lifelong diet of festering resentment and spite would leave him old and bitter, with a belly full of bile.
Here was a man with great reservoirs of vindictiveness and spite, dammed up behind fragile walls of paranoia and ineptitude. Now his actions, his policies, and he himself had been publicly repudiated by three major galactic powers. Now the dam had burst, and the flood of hate was so great that the ambassador lost all sense of propriety. He was going mad before Melville's eyes.
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