This enemy captain had been killed by the Fang's cannon fire. The low-ranking Guldur in charge of the Ship quickly submitted to Lt. Crater, and Corporal Petrico leapt up onto the stern rail with a pistol in his hand and a great cry of "Die chew pockers!" on his lips, only to find that the battle was over. The Ship readily accepted Lt. Crater as her captain, and she was christened the Biter.
Melville felt a great weariness flood through him when this final enemy was defeated. He knew it was his normal post-combat malaise, combined with the physiological "backlash" as the sympathetic nervous system stopped providing survival hormones and the parasympathetic processes began to demand attention and bodily resources for neglected maintenance functions. Having been through this several times before helped a lot, but knowing what was happening did not take all the sting out of it.
In his case, the normal, human, post-combat response was aggravated and complicated by his telepathic and empathic communication with his alien Ship and her guns. In some ways the spirit of his Ship strengthened him, and in other, unpredictable ways it weakened him. The result was that he was emotionally off-balance after combat.
A part of him feared that he would become unstable, and would spin into a pit of madness. As Neitzche put it, "Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. For when you look into the abyss, the abyss also looks into you." Melville peered constantly into that abyss, and he felt a constant dread of its result. Or maybe it was simply a sane man's wish to remain so, in an environment that damned near required insanity to deal with it.
The young captain stood on the enemy deck and looked out on the ghastly, gruesome carpet of wounded, dead, and dying sprawled thickly upon the white deck in awkward, undignified postures. The dead are always without dignity, thought Melville.
They were mostly Guldur, the wounded ones moaning softly or trying to crawl away like sick animals will do, leaving bloody smears behind them. There were many who would never move again. Some of his crew was here as well. Melville stood amidst the malodorous miasma of the battle, mourning each and every one of them as he softly bestowed a benediction.
"O ye afflicted ones, who lie
Steeped to the lips in misery,
Longing, yet afraid to die..."
The warriors around him nodded their solemn agreement.
Melville was reeling under the weight of exhaustion, trying to shake off his post-combat depression and silence the blood-lust of the alien minds that had bonded with him. Then fate dealt him its harshest blow of all.
"Sir," said Fielder with unaccustomed gentleness. "I'm afraid I have bad news." His first officer had met Melville in the bow just as he was climbing back aboard the Fang, and the sadness in Fielder's eyes chilled Melville in a way no words could accomplish.
"Go ahead. What is it?"
"Chips... Mr. Tibbits, he was killed just before we launched the boarding parties. The butcher's bill is really surprisingly light, but he... he will be missed."
"Aye," replied Melville quietly, thinking of the gentle old Ship's carpenter. Tibbits' death had not been particularly heroic. A random bullet, probably fired from a Goblan in the upper rigging, had caught the old man in the head as he was coming out of a hatch. It came as such an out-of-the-blue surprise that his monkey was completely unprepared to block it. It was just damned bad luck. A senseless death, like most deaths in combat. As usually happened whenever a crew member died, Tibbits' monkey just ... disappeared.
Melville turned away from Fielder as tears began to well up in his eyes. The whole weight of this battle, the ultimate responsibility for all the deaths that had happened, suddenly felt like an unbearable burden.
Melville had lost both of his parents as a teenager, and like his parents, that decent, fatherly old man just hadn't seemed mortal.
If I had thought thou couldst have died,
I might not weep for thee;
But I forgot, when by thy side,
That thou couldst mortal be.
The loyal old officer who had been such a staunch supporter to his young captain couldn't have been the one to die. It wasn't conceivable that he was dead.
This is the real world, Melville told himself. It is not some fable, where the characters you really love are never killed. Sometimes the wrong people die. That is the terrible, unpredictable actuality of real combat. Remember this the next time you think about going into battle.
As a wise man once wrote, "Life isn't fair. It's just fairer than death." And those who get to live, should. It took all the energy he could muster to get on with his duties. But that stern mistress, that harsh hag, duty, drove him on.
Melville moved to the upper quarterdeck and called the crew aft. "Shipmates," he said, gripping the quarterdeck rail and looking out upon their faces, "there's a possibility that more Guldur are coming." Through his bare feet on the deck and his hands on the rail he felt his Ship imparting strength. "We may not be done fighting. We need to get repairs in place, get as much speed on these Ships as we can, and get the hell out of here. You deserve a chance to rest, but we all know that life isn't fair. So let's go to work."
The Fang's crew, for the most part, were as exhausted as their captain. They had all been under incredible, life-and-death pressures—literally seconds from death for hours at a time. But the crew tended to be less oppressed by the post-combat let down, and they didn't have the fey, fell, and sometimes malignant spirits of alien minds to shake off. The crew was generally of a simpler disposition and philosophy, without the burden of command. They were already anticipating the loot and the fame that would come from this battle.
These enemy warships didn't have any commercial cargo that the Fang could claim, and most of the actual Ships' equipment would stay onboard. Furthermore, their eventual objective was Earth, and the Fangs had a sense that the Westerness Admiralty would not welcome the news of this battle. Nor was the Admiralty apt to tender money for their war prizes, as the King of Osgil had done for their capture of the Fang. But all the dead ticks (there were no captured ticks) had been stripped of their silver, gold, and gems. And two Shiploads of ticks made for a lot of loot.
The Guldur officers sometimes carried money, but the cur sailors generally did not have anything of value. In life and in death the cur crewmen were mostly tragic, impoverished, oppressed creatures. A Guldur sailor's attitude seemed to be, "If you can't eat it, play with it, mount it, or fight it, then piss on it." (Which, in fact, wasn't much different from a young Westerness sailor or marine.) But past battles had taught the Fangs that the Goblan secreted their life's savings upon their bodies and, unlike the Guldur, the ticks were wealthy, grasping, miserly creatures.
As to the fame the Fangs had earned, well, there was no doubt that this tale was a ticket to free drinks in any tavern in Westerness. Or Sylvan or Dwarrowdelf space for that matter. So the fame was good and you could upon occasion drink fame, but you could not eat it. Nor would it buy you that retirement farm, tavern, or business back home that most sailors dreamed about. In the end what really counted was the loot, which was placed into a common kitty and then carefully divided by rank and duties. Thus the money from the ticks was nice and it was immediate, but the primary source of wealth (or at least potential wealth) was the future income of the captured Ships themselves.
One of the rarest, most expensive, and precious things in the galaxy was a Ship of two-space. The technology behind the Keels was a great secret, but it was common knowledge that the manufacturing process was arduous and expensive, dwarfing even the enormous cost of the huge, intricate, complex wooden Ship, constructed of the rare and costly Nimbrell wood. The Star Kingdom of Westerness made these absurdly expensive Ships, and then their crews spent generations helping to pay for them.
Although their routes and assignments were usually prescribed, a Ship of the Westerness Navy operated its own budget with a high degree of independence in internal business affairs. Cargo, trading goods, food, supplies, and equipment were not su
pplied from some central storehouse. These goods were earned, purchased, constructed, and traded for with great zeal and a constant eye for profit.
Each Ship of Westerness was a business, and each crewman a stockholder in the business. If the business did badly the officers and crew could have their Ship taken away from them. Such foreclosures were rare, but they did happen. As the sailors said, "The best way to get back on land is to miss a boat payment." Of course, if a Ship was on special duty for the crown, such as exploratory duty, then the Navy met their payment, or paid them for their service. During time of war, commercial operations and trade became secondary, the crown assumed responsibility for the Ship's payments, and they became first and foremost men-of-war.
The older Ships, like their Kestrel and the other Raptor Class frigates, and the Author Class frigates, had been paid off over the span of many generations. The new Poet Class frigates were still in the process of paying for themselves. The Queen and the Admiralty always got their share, but once the Ship was paid off there was a far larger slice of the profit for the crew.
Thus, what was exciting and important to the Fangs was that their Ship was paid for, and so were these newly aquired Ships, Gnasher and Biter. The Fangs were now stockholders in these new Ships. Gnasher and Biter were debt free, so money would flow from them in the years to come and a share of the wealth from all three Ships would go to each crew member who was there from the beginning. Future crew members would have to pay out their ownership shares, but the current crew would reap a profit from the very beginning.
The exhausted Fangs worked their miracles on the Biter as they cycled through all-too-brief rest periods.
Again the wounded were evacuated back to the Fang and the dead Guldur were put over the side. Their bodies had not yet stiffened, and the limp corpses sailed lazily into two-space without resistance, as if they were resigned to their fate and glad to get it over with.
The Ship had to be self-sufficient. Very little was ever wasted. Economic survival required it, and their actual physical survival might demand it at any moment. The lack of some trivial piece of equipment could very well mean the difference between life and death. "For want of a nail..."
The ropemaker and the carpenter's mates picked through the debris to salvage everything that might be of use. All around them were the sounds of hammers, axes, and saws, mixed with the strong smell of paint from the repaired red- and greenside railings.
Above them the sailors stayed busy splicing and mending, and the tattered sails were pulled down to patch and stow for future use. The sailmaker and his mates were squatting amidst most of the open deck space, their canvas spread and their needles flashing as they patched and repaired the sails that could be salvaged. Some of the canvas would be put immediately into service, wrapped lovingly around the bodies that came out of the hospital.
Periodically a surgeon's mate would come on deck and toss a bloodstained bundle over the side. A leg? An arm? No one wanted to know, and the silent, grim-faced observers couldn't help but think that it might have been theirs. The Fangs tried to salvage everything, but there was nothing in that bundle that could be put to future use. The owner was done with it.
Lt. Fielder didn't spare himself as he moved constantly among the work parties without a sign of fatigue. He and old Hans examined every repair and woe unto any culprit whose work was not up to their standards.
Melville visited the hospital as often as he could. This was his hardest duty of all. He tried to touch each warrior. To hold a hand or grip a shoulder. And as he made physical contact with each wounded warrior he attempted to direct the energy and the spirit of his Ship into them as it flowed through him. Thus, in the only way that he was able, with tears welling up in his eyes, he comforted and strengthened the wounded and dying.
Was there love once? I have forgotten her.
Was there grief once? Grief yet is mine.
O loved, living, dying, heroic comrade,
All, all my joy, my grief, my love, are thine.
Even Cuthbert Asquith XVI awoke to find the young captain standing over him, with a gentle hand on his shoulder. When it happened he felt... different. And the feeling lingered, as though he had been shown a door, or at least a window, into a land that he did not know existed. A remarkable place, full of light and darkness, good and evil, courage and fear, fellowship and loneliness, honor and hopelessness, glory and obscurity, duty and despair.
"For once thou hast avoided injury in one of these battles of yours," said Lady Elphinstone, looking fondly at the captain as he stood over the little earthling.
"Aye," added Mrs. Vodi. "You'd almost think he doesn't love us anymore!"
He shrugged, and all his numb mind could think to say was, "Please don't take it personally. I'll try to do better next time."
"Don't feel obligated for our sake," replied Vodi with a sad smile as he stumbled out the door.
As he worked, Melville found himself jerking his head in what were jokingly called micro-naps. He pinched, slapped, and even punched himself to stay alert. When that didn't work he collapsed onto his bunk and sank into instant unconsciousness. An hour later McAndrews would shake him awake and hand him another mug of hot tea.
As the captain, he could have slept for as long as he wanted. He could even rationalize it by saying that he needed to be alert and fit to make command decisions. But Melville knew there was the very real possibility of another Guldur attack. Survival depended on getting well away from the site of the original battle and moving quickly in a new, unpredicted direction.
Melville could not bring himself to get more rest than his crew, and the crew took their lead from their captain. He had to keep them going. They had been in savage, continuous combat, but the fight was not over yet. Let them falter and they might drop. Allow them time to mourn the loss of a Shipmate and they could lose the will to continue.
So the Fangs worked like heroes to get jury masts up on the Biter. Soon they had her under way, with more and more sail going up with each passing hour. In just a few hours they caught up with the Gnasher, whose prize crew had put up enough sail for her to limp along, and then both crews worked on the Gnasher.
In a matter of just a few exhausting days Melville had a flotilla of three Ships making sail for Nordheim. Gnasher and Biter had three jury masts on one side, and the Fang had one jury mast, but still they were making respectable speed.
Lt. Broadax, Lt. Archer, Brother Theo, and Midshipman Hayl were in the hospital the day after the final battle, visiting the wounded. When the Ship was not in combat the hospital was located in the lowerside deck cabin. On the upperside this same cabin was occupied by the captain. The deck cabins were at about one gravity (as opposed to the rest of the area belowdecks, where the gravity increased to 1.5 gees as you went down to the Keel) and they were well ventilated, so the deck cabins weren't nearly as stuffy and close as the other enclosed spaces below decks. But still, just as the faint fragrance of food is always present in a kitchen, the indistinct odors of disinfectant, feces, and urine usually lingered in the hospital. In spite of the ventilation and the constant efforts of the medicos. To the crew these were the distant scents of death and suffering... the vague lingering ghosts of comrades past.
Archer had just checked up on his old friend, Petty Officer Bernard Hommer, who looked like he would recover from his wound thanks to Lady Elphinstone's surgical skills. Then Archer and Hayl thanked Ulrich for saving their bacon on the enemy quarterdeck.
"Aye," replied Ulrich, looking Archer in the eye with an expression of crazed concentration, "well I dun got shot ta hell gittink ya a Ship, ell-tee. Don'k screw it up, now, ya hear? Don'k let nobudy takesk it away frum ya."
Archer and Hayl left with a final nod to Ulrich. Then Brother Theo joined them and Hayl asked his two seniors, "Wasn't he kind of disrespectful?"
"Well, you gotta make allowances for a wounded man," said Archer, "and then you have to make special allowance for Ulrich. He's pretty much one of the deadliest
bastards you're ever gonna meet."
"He seems kind of small and scrawny," said Hayl, doubtfully.
Brother Theo shook his head sadly. "There is potential for significant edification here, young Mr. Hayl. Never judge the sword by the scabbard, nor the warrior by his looks. Countless times I have found myself deceived by first impressions. You just can not tell the quality of a man's spirit by his appearance."
"Aye," added Archer. "I'd rather have a man of any size or shape who has a 'never-quit' combat mind-set, dressed in his skivvies and a light coat of grease, armed with a toasting fork; than a trash-talking spineless wannabe with full armor and a cannon, who you have to constantly look back to see if he's behind you."
Just then Lt. Fielder came past them with a nod and went into the hospital to visit the wounded. The three Ships were still a mass of activity as they struggled to get jury masts and sails up, but this was part of his daily duties as first officer—something he found distasteful but necessary. When he entered the big stern cabin he found Broadax talking with Elphinstone, Vodi, and Asquith.
"Uh oh," whispered Archer to Brother Theo as he peered into the room, "Broadax is still in there. There might be some sparks flying."
"Why? What's going on?" asked Hayl.
"Well," replied Archer with a look at Brother Theo, "I suppose you need to know about the personalities of your officers, and in this case you need to understand about Broadax and Fielder's feud, if only to figure out when to get out of the way."
"Aye," said the monk, "the boy needs to know, for his own safety. Their quarrel is a very pretty, petty quarrel as it stands. We should only spoil it by trying to explain it. For now, know that they are, the both of them, as headstrong as the proverbial allegory on the banks of the Nile, and just as deadly."
The Guns of Two-Space Page 15