The Guns of Two-Space

by Dave Grossman

  "So let us mourn, but the purpose of that mourning is to mend. To heal. Think, and ask yourself: if you had been the one to fall, and your comrades were driving on, what would you want for them?"

  Melville paused briefly and then continued, answering his own question. "To live! You would want your brothers to live the fullest, richest, best life they can. That is what you lived, and fought and died to give them!"

  The crew nodded their heads in agreement. "Aye," rumbled quietly from many throats. "Aye."

  "Now they are the ones to fall. Your comrades have fallen, and what do they want for you?"

  Again the crew nodded as their captain went on to echo the answer that was in their hearts. "The same thing! They would want the same thing for you. The fullest, richest, best life you can have. That is your mission. That is your moral, sacred responsibility. That is what they lived and fought and died to give you. And that means you must go on.

  "We've lost these comrades, and we can never have them back on this side of the veil, except in our hearts, minds, stories, and songs. But if their loss destroys just one of us, if survivor guilt takes away the fullness of just one life, then we've given another life or another victory to the bastards who came to kill us. And we'll be damned if we give those bastards one more life!"

  He completed this last sentence in a soaring oratorical crescendo and his warriors responded with a roar of affirmation. Then Melville nodded and turned to Brother Theo Petreckski. "Brother, will you lead us in a Song?"

  "I'd be honored to, Captain," replied the monk with a nod. The Fangs were a diverse lot, drawn from many cultures and species, and bound together mostly by the iron bonds of the fellowship of arms. They came from many and sundry faiths, but when the mystery of life and death was upon them, a Song of Faith, led by a man of faith, even an unordained monk like Brother Theo, could be comforting. Like Melville, Theo reached back to the old, strong Words that resonated in the heritage and souls of these lonely men in this distant, desolate patch of space. In his clear, pure tenor voice he began one of the many songs that the sailors loved to sing at Sunday services,

  "Lift ev'ry voice and sing,

  till earth and heaven ring..."

  and the company joined in...

  "Sing a song full of faith

  that the dark past has taught us,

  Sing a song full of hope

  that the present has brought us;

  Facing the rising sun

  of our new day begun,

  Let us march on till victory is won.

  "God of our weary years,

  God of our silent tears,

  Thou who hast brought us thus far on the way;

  Thou who has by thy might,

  led us into the light,

  Keep us forever in the path, we pray."

  A skeleton crew was placed in charge of Melville's little flotilla, and for the first time in many days they rested.

  "So what did you think about being in battle?" asked Midshipman Aquinar.

  The exhausted middies were now gathered in the midshipmen's berth. The air was thick with the smells of the middies' food stores, human sweat, dogs, and confined humanity as they lay snuggled into their canvas hammocks. Brother Theo and Mrs. Vodi had checked in on them, and this was the first time they had been together and alone without the constant demand of work and the endless burden of fatigue. Now, tired as they were, they had to talk, and Aquinar had raised this intriguing question.

  Hayl was new to the Fang, and he respected and admired the "old-timers" like Aquinar. Even the older, veteran midshipmen admired tiny Aquinar, who had been the first to adopt a monkey.

  What do I think of battle? Hayl asked himself. "Well, it was kind of fun. I think. Maybe," he answered. His monkey was snuggled beside his head, looking up drowsily from his hammock.

  "Yeah, but what class of fun?" replied Aquinar, whose monkey was already asleep, burrowed out of sight somewhere in his bedding.

  "Huh?"

  "There's four classes of fun," said Aquinar patiently. "Class I Fun is 'Fun at the time.' Class II Fun: 'It's fun later, but not at the time.' Class III Fun: 'It's fun for others to hear about it.' And then there's Class IV Fun: 'Fun you regret.'"

  Hayl mulled this over as Aquinar continued.

  "For me I think it was Class II," said Aquinar. "I know there were people who honestly enjoy combat, like Lt. Broadax, and I'd like to be like her. Battle is definitely Class I fun for her. And there are those who can look back on it as fun, like climbing a mountain: it's hell at the time but you can look back on it with satisfaction. I think it was like that for me, Class II Fun. How 'bout you?"

  "Well, I don't regret it," said Hayl. "I'm glad I'm alive and I'm glad we won, so it's not Class IV. But it wasn't fun at the time, I was scared to death through it all. I'm not even sure it's fun later. So it wasn't Class I or Class II. I guess it was Class III Fun. The kind of 'fun' we can tell others about for the rest of our lives, and they'll admire us for it. The kind of thing that it's fun to hear about, but not really all that much fun to do. Was it like that for you the first time?"

  "Aye," said Aquinar. "I think they call those adventures. Something you really wouldn't want to do yourself, but it is good to read about or hear about while you're snuggled in a warm bed while a storm outside pounds on your roof. It was like that for me at first, battle. It was definitely Class III Fun. As you get more experience under your belt I think you'll adapt. I did. Most people do."

  "Aye, I hope so."

  Then they pulled black sleep masks over their eyes, blocking out the constant light of the lambent Moss all around them, and they drifted off to sleep.

  But in his sleep Hayl kept seeing an endless flow of blood and guts pouring over him, and the sad, dog eyes of the enemy captain staring at him. In his dreams the Guldur captain kept looking at him with those mournful eyes and asking, "Why did you have to kill us? Why? Did you think it was 'fun' to kill us?"

  Always Hayl answered, "We didn't want to! We had to, or you were going to kill us! Please, please, leave me alone. We didn't want to." And he awoke, sobbing.

  When he awoke, Mrs. Vodi was there, holding his head, pulling off his sleep mask and whispering gently in his ear, telling him to "breathe, breathe deep. It's only a dream, little one, it's not real. Now you have to breathe. Get it under control. Separate the memory from the emotions, my little one, and make peace with the memory. Breathe with me. In through the nose, breathe in, breathe in, hold it, hold it. Good. Good. Now out through the lips, out, out. Breathe with me."

  Hayl found that he could not deny Mrs. Vodi as she looked in his eyes and whispered her commands. As she held his head and breathed into his face he found himself breathing deeply in sync with her, and he found himself regaining control.

  "You did what you had to do, little one," continued Mrs. Vodi, stroking his sweat-soaked hair, while his monkey gibbered quietly and stroked the hair on the other side of his head. "We all did. I'm so very glad that you are okay, that you made it, and it is right for you to be glad you are okay. The worst is over now, and it is okay to be alive. Breathe with me now, breathe. Whenever the memories come you remember, little one, you remember to breathe, and know that it is okay to be glad. Every one of God's creatures will fight for its life and be glad to survive. It is okay to be glad, it is good to be alive. Breathe now, breathe..."

  There were many ways to deal with the demons after combat, many ways to put them to rest. For Fielder and most of the officers in the wardroom the solution was found in fellowship, humor, songs, and wine. Not necessarily in that order.

  Warriors throughout history have understood the importance of social and cultural responses to combat stress. Veterans of battle have always used military group bonding, supportive leaders, and affirming comrades, combined with alcohol, sex, memories of sex, singing, and humor to help them deal with their combat experiences. Far from being placebos, these life-affirming activities are actually powerful survival mechanisms that have been dev
eloped across the millennia to help defuse traumatic situations and reassert normality into shattered lives.

  Tonight, in the wardroom, red wine, warm fellowship, and cleansing laughter flowed freely. It is a remarkable fact that warriors can always find something to laugh about after the battle. In this case, much mirth was generated by the discovery that Josiah Westminster had lost part of his mustache somewhere in the battle. It might have been shot off or cut off, but the ranger had a different explanation. "Ah thought one bite was chewy, when I grabbed a snack there in the heat of the battle!" he said, fingering his lopsided 'stache. "Now mah poop's gonna look like a fox turd!"

  The air was rich with the scent of wine, good food, and close companionship. Old Hans and Lt. Broadax sat side-by-side, enjoying each other's company, but not going any further while aboard Ship. Broadax and Fielder had an unspoken truce on this night, and all the officers and warrants took turns discussing the battle, eating, drinking, leading songs and reciting poetry.

  The spirit and theme was set by Lt. Fielder as he led them in a toast.

  "Fill every beaker up, my men,

  pour forth the cheering wine:

  There's life and strength in every drop,

  —thanksgiving to the vine!"

  * * *

  Melville lay in his bunk. He was one of the few in the entire Ship who was alone on this night. The captain in solitary splendor.

  But he was not completely alone. Boye slept beside him, woofing gently and hunting in his dreams. Beneath him and all about him, his Ship was in constant, empathic contact. Nestled beside him, his monkey slept the sleep of the exhausted. And far, far away, across the Grey Rift in Osgil, his betrothed, his Sylvan princess, reached out her loving spirit.

  It was good to have his Ship and his beloved in his heart and his mind, to cancel out the others who kept him company on this night. The angry, alien, malignant, murderous spirits of his guns were also with him, burned into his neurons and seared into his soul. And the spirits of all the beings he had killed came back across two-space to visit him when he shut his eyes, asking if it was all truly necessary, asking if they really had to die. But most of all, the memory of lost friends and comrades came to visit, bringing remorse, regret and second-guessing that turned into self-loathing.

  His dead comrades fused and melded with the enemy and the alien hatred of his cannons, forming a toxic mixture that sapped the life from him. Times like this made death and oblivion look desirable, appropriate, and even preferable.

  Melville's talent for poetry never truly turned off, and he found himself thinking,

  I could lay down like a tired child,

  And weep away the life of care

  Which I have borne, and yet must bear.

  And then he loathed himself even more, for he had little patience with self-pity and angst, in others or in himself.

  Yet still his self-loathing and self-doubt kept rising up like a corpse from the grave. He second-guessed himself over and over again, trying to think what he could have done differently. Was he truly worthy to be captain of this great Ship? Or was he only a glory-seeking fool? Did he really do the right thing? Were his motives pure? Were Tibbits and all the others dead because he had sought glory?

  His food

  Was glory, which was poison to his mind

  And peril to his body.

  In this case, his quest for glory was poison to these beloved crew members who had trusted him and died. Was it also poison to his mind and his body?

  In the depths of his despair and doubt he thought again of the great Ship that had accepted and befriended him, the magnificent crew that had accepted him, and—most of all—the Sylvan princess that had embraced him. His Princess Glaive.

  "It is not over, dear Thomas," she had said to him. "Thou shalt remember me, and thou shalt come back to me. I will call thee from across the galaxy, and thou shalt come. I have woven mine magic, the simple magic of a sincere woman's true love, and now thou art mine. For as I say, so must it be."

  As he thought of her his despair seemed to wash away. He looked out the stern windows of his cabin and remembered her with fresh tears in his eyes. But now they were the healthy tears of a young man dreaming of his beloved who was far, far away. Tears known to many, tears of anticipation and longing. Tears of affirmation and life. And he whispered to the stars,

  "Oft in the tranquil hour of night,

  When stars illume the sky,

  I gaze upon each orb of light,

  And wish that thou wert by."

  Boye woke to the sound of Melville's voice, placing his big hairy head on Melville's cot and licking his master's face, the dog's monkey looking sleepily over his head. Melville's monkey stirred and crooned quietly beside him. The captain's hand touched the bulkhead beside his bed, and he felt the firm, wild, and loving spirit of his Ship spread through his mind, body, and soul.

  Then depression and demons fled before the memory of his truelove and the love of his companions. This crisis of spirit passed. He was able to weep healthy tears for his beloved fallen comrades, and for Tibbits, the fatherly man who had been so dear to his heart. And he whispered through his tears, as he stroked his dog's head,

  "And the tear that is shed,

  Though in secret it rolls,

  Shall keep his memory

  Green in our souls."

  In his cabin the captain finally slept, and he slept deeply. Deep enough to dream alien dreams in brilliant colors he had never seen. Deep enough to reach out and touch the face of the galaxy. Deep enough to feel the love of his Sylvan princess touch him from across the stars. Her love was the air that he was breathing, and his Ship was the firm earth beneath his feet.

  In his dreams, his love, his Ship, and he wove a tapestry of faith and trust and strength that was a balm onto his soul and gave wings to his heart. Together they lit the candles of their spirits. Together they became a star that blazed, like a beacon in darkest times. Together they would seek out the darkness and go light the galaxy. In his dreams.

  In the marines' berth Private Dwakins was curled in a ball, racked by sobs and nightmares. Gunny Von Rito and Lance Corporal Jarvis were there beside his hammock. Von Rito laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Breathe, breathe, it's only a dream, son. Breathe in, breathe in..." said the gunny.

  "Gunny, corporal," sobbed Dwakins, "Ah knows we gotta fight fer our lives. I know we gots ta do this. The enemy didn't give us no choice. But when does the poetry, an' the honor, an' all the glory stuff the captain talks about begin?"

  "Aye, Dwakins," said Jarvis, his squad leader, "yer right! We gotta do it, and the battle will kill enough. The enemy kills enough. It'd be crazy to let it destroy lives after the battle, lives that didn't have to be lost. So we choose to focus on the good stuff. We multiply the joy and divide the pain, so we can live with what we have to do. The captain explained it to me once, and now I understand it. The bad stuff is true, but the good stuff is true too! And you gotta look for the good parts. You gotta choose to focus on the good stuff. There is honor if we honor those who did it. There is glory if we give them glory."

  "Aye, son," growled Gunny Von Rito. "You done good. All of us, working together, we saved the lives of every person aboard. And now we're gonna live full, rich lives afterwards! And the bastards who tried to kill us ain't gonna take that away. I give you honor, son. And I give you glory, and you have to take it if you're gonna be able to live in this old world and do this job. Now breathe, breathe in..."

  Among the Ship's boys there were also tears and nightmares that night. And Lady Elphinstone was there doing for them what Mrs. Vodi and Brother Theo did for the middies.

  From the highest to the lowest, from the captain to the middie, amongst the Ship's boys and the marines, there were many tears shed that night. Not everyone wept, but each in their own way dealt with burdens and loss.

  They mourned lost comrades, and lost innocence. Then they slept the "sleep that knits up the ravell'd sleeve of care." And as they sl
ept they healed, and steeled themselves to get on with all the glorious and mundane challenges of life.

  * * *

  The day is done, and the darkness

  Falls from the wings of Night,

  As a feather is wafted downward

  From an eagle in his flight.

  And the night shall be filled with music,

  And the cares that infest the day

  Shall fold their tents like the Arabs,

  And as silently steal away.

  CHAPTER THE 7TH

  Nordheim:

  "The North Countree is a Hard Countree"

  Oh, the North Countree is a hard countree

  That mothers a bloody brood;

  And its icy arms hold hidden charms

  For the greedy, the sinful and lewd.

  And strong men rust, from the gold and the lust

  That sears the Northland soul.

  "The Ballad of Yukon Jake"

  Edward E. Paramore, Jr.

  Asquith woke up the next morning with two new things in his world.

  First was a determination to adapt to this strange world. He had dreamt of guns that would not fire and a puppy that looked up at him with frightened eyes. And he knew what that meant.

  The second was his monkey. He had a monkey. It was a tiny, dappled, fawn-colored thing at first, snuggled next to his head in bed, looking up at him with sleepy eyes.

  The two events blended together in his mind. The

  monkey meant that he had been accepted by this world, and he was determined to accept it in return. Whatever that led to, whatever it meant, he was willing to give it a try.