"For me the money's just a way of keeping score."
"Huh!" grunted Fielder in surprise, looking carefully at his young captain. He could actually say things like that with a straight face, and seemed to be truly sincere about it. Fielder realized that for Melville the glory was all that mattered, and prize money was a way to put numbers on glory. "Then the 'score' is, 'Us: a whole bunch. Every other ship in the whole damned Westerness and Sylvan Navies: zero.' Any way you cut it, it's damned good of them, and we're winning the game."
Then Melville dropped his bomb. "They also say that we can keep the Sylvan topmen, and that Lady Elphinstone and Ranger Valandil will continue to stay with us, as part of their exchange program."
"Well, I will be damned," replied Fielder, leaning forward and looking at Melville with a touch of wonder and suspicion. "I'd have thought that with the war coming on they could have found a better use for crack topmen, an elite ranger and a master surgeon. Sir, this is not a good sign if you ask me. It means that they still have plans for us, and if it's all the same to you I'd just as soon never again get involved in this crazy Two-Space War of theirs."
Melville smiled confidently as he said, "Well, Daniel, I'm not about to turn them down. And whether or not we see any more action depends on whether anyone attacks us, and on what Westerness decides to do about the war. Frankly, I don't see Westerness getting involved. Yet."
"Aye," Fielder agreed cautiously.
"Another matter we need to discuss," Melville continued, intentionally changing the subject, "is why the Honorable Cuthbert Asquith is pacing the docks below. What do you know about it?"
"Well, sir," said Fielder with an evil grin, "I got the inside intel on that. It seems that old Cuthbert has got himself in trouble with the Sylvan secret police."
"Secret police?"
"Aye, sir. The name doesn't translate all that well. You might call them the 'thought police,' or maybe the 'culture cops,' or the 'technology cops.' Whatever you want to call them, they're the tool the Sylvans have developed across the centuries to deal with agitators, innovators, and technological trouble makers. It appears that Asquith shot his mouth off, as he did with us, and was turned over to the tender mercies of the secret police. He has been released, but only under the condition that he leave on the next ship headed west. There is a high risk that the Guldur will attack any unescorted ships, so the Sylvan admiralty is organizing a convoy system, but it will be a week or so until the first convoy is escorted out. So it appears that we are the next ship out and he has a choice. He can come groveling back to us, eating dirt every step of the way. Or he can be picked up by the culture cops again."
They both smiled rather unpleasant smiles, as Melville reflected on Asquith's dilemma. Then he said, "Daniel, sooner or later, no matter what we do, Asquith will probably get back to Earth and give his report."
"Aye, sir," agreed Fielder. "Even the Sylvans appear to be reluctant to murder a citizen of Earth in cold blood, no matter how bad the provocation, or how terminal his stupidity. They might like to, but they'd never get away with it. I think that they honestly didn't want the king's guards to kill the Westerness ambassador. He just provoked some young hothead bodyguard too badly, and now the whole kingdom has to be on their best behavior."
"Yes," said Melville. "Like us, the Sylvans need all the goodwill they can get. Hopefully the Earth authorities know that Asquith is a fool and a twit, and releasing him will probably do less harm than killing him would. You know, maybe this is an opportunity for us to be his 'saviors.' People do grow, they do learn, and perhaps he has already been taught an important lesson by the Sylvans."
"I see where you're headed, sir. On the long voyage across the Grey Rift, perhaps the legendary 'Stockholm Syndrome' will set in, and we can win him over."
"Daniel, I know that you can be most genteel when you want to. I'd like for you to go talk to Asquith, tell him that just a simple apology will be accepted and all will be forgiven if he'll respect our culture and values. At best we might win him over a little, and at worst . . . well, at worst he can't say anything worse about us than he's probably already going to say."
"Aye," Fielder replied with an evil grin, "and without a shipload of passengers who might witness it, there is always the possibility that he might have an 'accident' this time."
"No, Daniel, I want to make it very clear that we don't want any of that. Earth will hire countless private investigators, bounty hunters and mercenaries to scour the galaxy and seek justice if one of their citizens disappears. We don't want any of that. Just talk to him. Turn on the charm and see if you can work it out."
"Aye, sir," his first officer replied with a wry grin. "While I'm gone, perhaps you can talk to Private Jarvis. His enlistment is up this week and he seems determined not to re-up. Everybody in his chain of command has talked to him. Perhaps you can change his mind."
"Okay, I'll give it a try. Send him in."
On his way out Fielder noticed that McAndrews, the captain's steward, had Melville's uniform jacket in his hand. He was shaking his head and muttering peevishly, "Don' know how I'm ever gonna get those grass stains out . . ." Melville just blushed slightly and tried to ignore him, as Fielder grinned evilly.
"I didn't become a marine for this. Not to go around killing people!"
"Perhaps you should have been a sailor instead." Melville chuckled, but it was clear that Private Harold Jarvis didn't see the humor in the situation.
"Sir, it's different for people like you and Lieutenant Broadax. You like combat, but I was scared to death every single time. I was so scared. And it hasn't gotten any better."
"Son, I can't speak for Broadax, but I hope you'll believe me if I tell you that I was scared to death every time. Only my training and my conditioning carried me through. Then, afterwards, when we had to bury shipmates . . ."
"Aye, sir."
"Jarvis, I know you want to go back to the farm. I understand. Your family comes from a planet with what, just a few dozen families?"
"Aye, sir. Fairhome. There's just a Pier and a couple of dozen homesteads. A Ship comes a couple of times a year. Other than that it's just us. It's a beautiful world, sir," and here the young, broad-shouldered farmboy's voice began to choke up a little. "Lord I miss it. The cry of the pixies at night, the sun coming up over the dewdab trees. It's a simple, quiet life. Everyone goes to bed with the chickens and gets up with the cows. . . ."
Melville paused briefly to dwell upon the dangers associated with a literal interpretation of a loosely worded saying. "Aye . . . Jarvis, you saw what the Guldur did to Ambergris. Would you say that they are evil? What they did there, in your opinion, was that evil?"
"Aye, sir. They were powerful bad. If ever the word evil ever deserved to be used, I reckon it deserves to be used on them."
"A very wise man once wrote that 'the only scientific definition of evil is that you can't ignore it.' We can't ignore them. We can't ignore the fact that there is evil in the universe, and someone has to man the ramparts of civilization so that our families can sleep safely in their beds."
"Aye, sir."
"What you saw happen in Ambergris, is that what you want for your homeworld? Most of the thousand worlds in the Westerness Kingdom are like that. We are a young kingdom, full of homestead worlds who are completely unable to defend themselves. If the Guldur come West across the Rift, then worlds like Earth can use their high technology to blast anything foolish enough to come down their Pier. And Westerness has a population base that could hold off the enemy for generations. But the only way we can keep your homeworld safe, the only way Fairhome and hundreds of other worlds like it can be truly safe, is to have professional warriors manning our frontiers. If there weren't men like you in our armed forces, if there weren't people willing to suffer and endure, then we would be doomed. It will be easier for you next time. But someone else, starting fresh, might die in a situation where you could survive."
"I understand that. I accept it. That's not the har
d part. But sir, the part that bothers me is the lies. It's all a lie. The poetry and the glory and the honor, it's a lie. I've seen war, and it's not like that."
"No, my friend, it's not a lie," said Melville gently. "It's men making the best of a dirty, nasty job that has to be done. There are times when evil comes, when darkness falls, and good men must fight. Then we make a virtue of necessity. Pain shared is pain divided. Joy shared is joy multiplied. Every night around the campfire, or with our messmates over dinner, we talk about the battle. Each time we divide our pain and we multiply our joy. Until in the end we've turned combat into something we can live with, something we can keep on doing. It would be a lie if we completely forgot the pain, the suffering and the loss. But it's not a lie to recognize that there is good to be found in battle. And it's not a lie to focus on the good parts, to magnify the joy and divide the pain so that we can live with it. There is glory, if we give it to them. There is honor, if we honor those who do it. Sometimes wars have to be fought. It destroys enough, it harms enough during the war. It is foolishness, it is madness to let it destroy us after the war. So we turn it into something we can live with. And we turn ourselves into creatures who can do this dirty, desperate job, do it well, and live with ourselves afterward."
Jarvis nodded. He was a good troop; there was real potential here. He wasn't stupid, and he sincerely wanted to learn. He respected his captain, so he listened, truly listened as Melville continued.
"Very few of us can be Heinleiners all the time, although we strive for it and maybe we can have moments of courage, confidence and competence. And most of us won't be Cherryh's most of the time, living in a constant miasma of fear and tension. Most of us just get on with life, one day at a time."
Jarvis nodded again, still listening. He wasn't trying to think about what to say next, which is how most people spend a conversation. He just listened.
"You remember that Earthling, Asquith?"
"Aye, sir."
"He was giving our officers a hard time about our veneration of The Lord of the Rings. He asked, 'where are the Hobbits?' He didn't understand that we are the Hobbits. Few of us will be noble Striders, or magnificent Gandalfs. Those are goals to strive for, almost like angels. But most of us are less than the angels. We fall short, and are Hobbits.
"For me the Shire is the real world, full of soft, sleepy, unassuming souls who are capable of great deeds if pressed. And we are the Hobbits. We are Bilbos doing a desperate, dirty job out of a sense of responsibility, because if we didn't, then the job may not get done. Or we are a Samwise, bearing an unimaginably horrible burden out of love for our fellow warriors. Or we're Merrys and Pippins, silly fools who don't have a clue what they're getting into, but who grow into something noble and larger than life in the end."
Jarvis nodded thoughtfully. Melville put a hand on the young marine's shoulder as he concluded. "Just think about it. That's all I ask. No one will blame you if you leave; you have served honorably and well. But the 'Fellowship' calls to you," he said with a little, faintly self-mocking grin.
"Asquith apologized. He seemed relieved to do it. And he seemed sincerely surprised that that was all there was to it. That we honestly would accept him after that. I think he's beginning to understand that we don't expect him to change his opinions, just not force them on us. Maybe it will work out."
Melville was sitting in his cabin engaging in one of his hobbies when Fielder came in to report on his conversation with the earthworm. They were docked out at the end of the Pier, away from most of the other ships. Out the big stern window of his cabin there was nothing but the vast panorama of two-space. A target hung from a spar coming off the mizzenmast, dangling just outside the open window. Melville was sitting in his chair, with his back to the bulkhead and the window to his right. He was plinking out the window with his old double-barreled .45 pistol.
Melville had a steaming cup of tea in his left hand, and his pistol in the other. He was rocked back in his chair with his feet propped up on the table. "Well done, Daniel. Thank you for handling that."
"No problem."
"Would you like a cup of tea? Coffee perhaps?"
"Coffee would be good, thank you."
"McAndrews! Coffee for the first officer. You know how he likes it."
"Aye, sir," said his steward, who had been listening outside the door.
"You know, sir," said Fielder, "I've always wanted to try a few shots from that pistol of yours. May I?"
"Certainly," said Melville, pleased at his first mate's interest. "It's an old Colt. It's been in my family for centuries," he said as he handed it over, "and the Keel charge seems to be extra smart, like a wise old hound dog, except this dog never really grows old, he just gets better. The two of us have bonded pretty nicely."
Fielder squeezed off both barrels, <
"Sweet. Truly a sweet little pistol. Pretty intense little fellow too. I think I'll pick out one of the ship's pistols and make it my own, maybe pass it down through the generations."
"That's an excellent idea. Some of the ship's pistols are over a hundred years old, but they have never really bonded with anyone for long. It would be good to have a weapon that you're really comfortable with to use in two-space, just like you're comfortable with a .45 auto in three-space."
"Aye," Fielder replied with a grin, sitting down at the table and taking a cup of coffee from the steward as he bustled in. "There's another way that a handgun is better than a woman. You can have one handgun at home and another for the road," he said, grinning. "Mind if I try it again?"
"Certainly, be my guest," Melville replied as he passed a small pouch of bullets to the first officer.
"And there's one more advantage to a handgun," said Fielder as he loaded the pistol. "If you admire a friend's handgun and tell him so, he'll be pleased and let you try a few rounds with it."
Melville added, "And, a handgun doesn't take up a lot of closet space."
"That's the spirit, sir. I just wish I could convince old Hans of that," he said with what appeared to be a very sincere shudder.
"Oh. You heard about Hans' . . . girlfriend?"
"Aye. Oh, aye, sir. As Grandma BenGurata told me,
"Don't sweat the petty things,
and don't pet the sweaty things."
"Well," said Melville, searching for something appropriate to say, "what would we be without love?"
"Rare? Perhaps extinct?"
There was an awkward moment of silence as they considered each other. They were two very different men who had been tempered in battle and made old beyond their years. Yet in some ways they were strangely immature for men of their experience and position in life. If they weren't, they wouldn't be here. The truly mature man, the prudent man wouldn't be found sailing the galaxy in a fragile wooden vessel. Some men will remain forever young in their dreams and ambitions.
Melville decided to cut to the chase, and put it clearly and bluntly to Fielder as the first officer loaded the pistol. "Daniel, you have a choice. You can leave right now and possibly have a normal career, with hope of a command. Although just being associated with this ship may be an undying blot on your record. Or, you can continue to serve as first mate with me. They have officially blessed me as captain of this Ship, and I have the authority to offer you a permanent position as first mate, locked into this Ship, damned and cursed by the Admiralty for all eternity. Or until they change their minds."
Fielder scowled, sighted the pistol, and fired two shots, <
Then he replied, setting the pistol on the table as the target spun, "Frankly . . . if I may speak frankly, sir?" Melville nodded and Fielder continued, "Frankly, sir, I think you're one wave short of a shipwreck. The contact you've had with these alien minds—the Ship and the 24-pounders—it's changed you. I'm not at all sure how it's going to turn out. And," he added cautiously, "—again, no offense intended—you were never wrapped too tig
ht in the first place. The end result appears to be a weird mix of brilliance, paranoia, and murderous ferocity all in the same person. But your brilliance and paranoia has kept us alive, and your ferocity is focused solely on the enemy."
His scowl disappeared, and he continued, thoughtfully, "So I think I'll follow you. Perhaps out of self interest. Perhaps out of idle curiosity," he added with a microscopic, sardonic grin that took some of the bitterness out. "For whatever reason, I'll stay if you'll have me. My question is, though, why would you want me? Why not be rid of me while you have the chance?"
"I guess you're my anchor, Daniel. I feel myself slipping . . . away, sometimes, a little. You, Broadax, Hans, Elphinstone, and all the rest are my anchors, my link to humanity. We may not always like each other, but we do balance each other out. We have become bonded in battle, and only that forge is hot enough to do such work."
"I look at it like this," Fielder said, looking off into the distance reflectively as he loaded the pistol. "Every man is the 'hero' in his own 'novel.' In war there are a thousand 'novels,' no, ten thousand, a hundred thousand, that all turn into sad little unpublished short stories. Many end with the early, obscure, pointless death of the 'hero.' That's the reality of life. I was lucky enough to play a part in a story where the hero overcame long odds. If I were the senior officer we'd all have died. But you were in command, and we lived. And so I choose to finish the book. I choose to follow you. You're good with poetry, sir. But two can play that game, and I think I found one that applies here." Then he continued, with his usual sardonic smile,
"I have been given my charge to keep—
Well have I kept the same!
Playing with strife for the most of my life,
But this is a different game.
I'll not fight against swords unseen,
Or spears that I cannot view—
Hand him the keys of the place on your knees—
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