The Guns of Two-Space

by Dave Grossman

  Mrs. Vodi added, "The English language is a lot like the old United States. A melting pot in which everything is welcome. Or maybe a better model would be a stew pot, in which spicy new 'chunks' are welcome."

  "Aye," said Captain Strongfar. "Of course, everyone accepts it in their own way. The Sylvans have their silly affectation with all those 'thous' and 'thees.' We play it pretty straight, although our use of 'ye' instead of 'you' is a bit of an affectation, I suppose, if truth be told. But ye Westerness folk are the ones with the damnedest assortment of dialects, accents, and affectations. There is yer Corporal Kobbsven's Scandinavian lilt, and all those southern and hillbilly accents. As best I can tell, the further their homeworld is from Earth or Westerness, the more pronounced those accents become. The one I can't figure out, though, is yer coxswain, Ulrich. Where in the deep bowels of the Elder King's frozen black hell did he come from?"

  "Well, he's not saying," replied Melville, "and no one really knows. The one thing we can all agree on, though, is that the linguistically innovative and syntactically challenged Ulrich doesn't really have an accent. He has a passionate grudge against the English language, and he tortures it with malice aforethought. But the good news is that you have chosen to speak our language, and as your guest please permit me to say, 'thank you' for that."

  "The alternative is to try to communicate in the Dwarrowdelf tongue," said the ambassador, "which is as twisted and tortuous as their damned mining tunnels! For example, they employ something called the 'triple negative.' So someone might ask you in Dwarrowdelf, 'Isn't it not that you aren't feeling well today?'"

  "What in the hail does that mean?" asked Westminster, who was leaning quietly back in a corner smoking a pipe.

  "DamnedifIknow," replied the ambassador with a shrug. "That's why we always negotiate in English!"

  "Foul calumny and infamy!" said Strongfar. "The perfidious slander of weak minds that cannot grasp the beauty of a truly complex language. Still, sadly, it's true that everywhere I go, as I sail the vast expanse o' two-space, it's yer language, literature, and poetry that rules the hearts of millions, nay billions, across the vast galaxy. So here's to yer wolfling civilization that sprung up without any help from others, and yer all-conquering language, ye magnificent bastards! It looks like ye showed up just in time to help us kick the Guldurs' hairy arses!"

  That earned another great cheer and a mighty quaff of ale, while the Dwarrowdelf chorus continued in the background.

  "The snows that are older than history,

  The woods where the weird shadows slant;

  The stillness, the moonlight, the mystery,

  I've bade 'em good-by—but I can't."

  Melville knew that it was time for him to leave. His officers could linger for a while longer, but as their captain he felt that he must lead the way.

  The young captain sat in the warm inn, knowing that he had been fortified and renewed by his visit to this harsh world. Outside the winter wind howled and the sleet hissed upon the windows. In here were the warm ambers and reds of the open hearth where the fire popped and glowed as potatoes baked and a big kettle of mulling ale simmered sweetly, the fat candles flickered, monkeys chittered quietly from overhead, and sleeping dogs rumbled beneath the benches.

  "It's the great, big, broad land 'way up yonder,

  It's the forests where silence has lease;

  It's the beauty that thrills me with wonder,

  It's the stillness that fills me with peace."

  The fragrance of the place seeped into his soul, warming him to his core as much as the heat that flowed from the hearth. It was an organic odor of old hardwood walls and furniture imbued with countless applications of beeswax polish, generations of tallow smoke, fresh pinewood scent seeping from the fire, frothy beer, wet boots, and damp dogs.

  Outside, the building shuddered beneath the fierce wind. Inside his spirit was warmed by good companions tried and true, new friends, and quiet conversations after an evening of loud, lewd, and lusty songs, with contented bellies thoroughly wrapped around good beer.

  It all seemed terribly precious and dear to him, and a part of him knew that it might never again be the same. Soon it might all be destroyed by the politicians and the Admiralty on Earth. He was under orders to report to the Westerness Admiralty at Earthport, and he would obey, but he knew that his heroic deeds, so honored and lauded by the Sylvans and Dwarrowdelf, would not be appreciated by the timid little men in charge on Earth. Those small sad souls feared change and fled into denial as their only bulwark against the cruel, harsh galaxy that was coming to attack them. And ultimately, unfortunately, they would be the ones who passed judgment upon Captain Thomas Melville and his friends.

  "They're making my money diminish;

  I'm sick of the taste of champagne.

  Thank God! when I'm skinned to a finish

  I'll pike to the Yukon again."

  A bitter bile built up in his stomach and throat as he considered what might wait for them on Earth. It was hard not to be in control. After being literally the captain of his fate as they traveled between the stars and fought their way across a sizable slice of the galaxy, it was hard for him to accept what might be waiting for them. A part of him wanted to break free from authority, to return to Osgil and accept the offer that the High King of the Sylvans had made. To place himself, his Ship, and his crew under Sylvan authority. In essence, to rebel from authority, to defect from his nation.

  "The strong life that never knows harness;

  The wilds where the caribou call;

  The freshness, the freedom, the farness—

  O God! how I'm stuck on it all."

  Rebel. Defect. Ugly words. Pitiful, wretched words when matched up against the fierce beauty of his two harsh mistresses: duty and honor.

  Melville sat for one last moment, drinking up all the sight and sound and smell he could, feeling a great wave of the dull ache that one great author had termed "anticipated nostalgia." Then he gave a heavy sigh, stood up, paid the tab, flung on his great fur cape, whistled for his dog, and with one last nod to the room he prepared to go out into the bitter cold. But he went forth with a fierce inner fire of contentment and peace, knowing that he was doing his duty and acting with honor.

  "I'll fight—and you bet it's no sham-fight;

  It's hell!—but I've been there before;

  And it's better than this by a damsite—

  So me for the Yukon once more."

  Melville's monkey came scampering across the room, scurried up his side, and nestled under the cape, wrapped around its master's neck like a scarf, with only its head peeking out. Boye leapt up cheerfully, trotting happily along beside him, eager for adventure, with the requisite monkey nestled deep into the thick ruff at the dog's neck. Then he went out into the night with a blast of cold, a flurry of snow, and one last wave to his friends, ducking through the low doorway with a final Robert Service stanza echoing in his ears.

  "There's gold, and it's haunting and haunting;

  It's luring me on as of old;

  Yet it isn't the gold that I'm wanting

  So much as just finding the gold."

  His dog was the personification of happiness and delight as they left. Boye rubbed his head against Melville's thigh, and he reached down to rub the dog's ears. Wagging his tail enthusiastically, the great beast stood up on hind legs to sniff inquisitively, his hot breath covering Melville's face in a warm cloak.

  The dog didn't borrow trouble. He lived in the present, finding joy in eager bounding through the snow drifts, while the dog's monkey held on like a rider at a steeple chase, eeking merrily.

  The young captain looked at Boye romping in the lamplight of the surrounding buildings, and he laughed out loud as they went down the street. He lobbed a snowball that dropped quickly in the heavy gravity, and the dog leapt up to catch it in a happy, chomping explosion of snow.

  Like his faithful companion, Melville had an irrepressible, cheerful spirit. He would never be w
orth a damn at mathematics, or the engineering and mechanics of a Ships' sailing plan. Others would have to do that for him. But he possessed a few Gifts that were unfolding in a satisfying manner. The Voice of command and authority, something that many leaders never develop, was coming early for him. He had a knack for poetry that often provided the right Words at the moment of truth, and he had the ability to communicate them well. He was a natural at tactics and military history, and he was very good with a sword and a pistol. But perhaps his most important Gift was his ability to live intensely in the present.

  Most humans spend all their energy thinking and worrying about what happens next or what just happened. They cling desperately to the past, or they live in dread and anticipation of the future. The only time they deal with now is by looking back on it. And because of this, most people live in fear, dreading the future instead of living in the present.

  Perhaps it was because he lived so completely in the present that Melville was generally fearless. It was something most dogs can do. That's why dogs are usually happy and ready for a romp, a nap, a fight, or a tummy rub at a moment's notice. Dogs just avoid the whole angst business. Melville felt that people could learn a lot from dogs. They seemed to have things better worked out, dogs.

  For Melville, as long as there was life there was hope. And where there is hope there can be no despair. So he threw back his head, smelled the crisp cold air, and looked up at the ancient alien white peaks all around him. And above those mountains...

  ...the moon set the pearly peaks gleaming,

  And the stars tumbled out, neck and crop;

  And I've thought that I surely was dreaming,

  With the peace o' the world piled on top.

  What the hell. He never was any good at the whole angst thing. The dog's spirit was infectious, and Melville couldn't help but feel that wherever they went, whatever they did, whatever was waiting for them, it would be... an adventure. Out there, somewhere.

  * * *

  There's a land where the mountains are nameless,

  And the rivers all run God knows where;

  There are lives that are erring and aimless,

  And deaths that just hang by a hair;

  There are hardships that nobody reckons;

  There are valleys unpeopled and still;

  There's a land—oh, it beckons and beckons,

  And I want to go back—and I will.

  CHAPTER THE 8TH

  Earth:

  "To Arrive Where We Started"

  We shall not cease from exploration

  And the end of all our exploring

  Will be to arrive where we started

  And know the place for the first time.

  "Little Gidding"

  T. S. Eliot

  They made a splendid show as they sailed into Earthport.

  Just a little over a year ago the Kestrel had set out with the Sylvans on a joint exploratory mission. Now her crew returned with three noble frigates, each with a towering pyramid of canvas above and below, including royals and studding sails, sailing serenely into Earthport. Each Ship had the flag of Westerness above her, a swirling galactic pinwheel, gold on a field of blue, proclaiming the possession of three mighty and magnificent new Ships in the Navy of Westerness. And each Ship had powerful guns aboard that were unlike anything ever seen before.

  Young Hayl sat in the crisp, cold air, high in the foremast crosstrees, bursting with joy as he eyed the great

  Ship Fang and her consorts trailing behind. He looked with pride at the seamen bustling about the deck below, or straddling the yards all around him, prepared to slack sail for final approach.

  He was midshipman of the watch, thus to him went the traditional honor of serving as lookout on close approach to a port. "Get aloft with you, Mr. Hayl," the first officer had said, "and tell us what you see." Fielder had looked at the boy with unwonted fondness as he scrambled up the ratlines. He saw Melville smiling at him, scowled, and made a mental note to be cruel to someone in the near future, just in case anyone thought he was going soft.

  "Our young gentlemen are growing up on this voyage," said Melville, "him most of all."

  "Aye, sir," replied Fielder. "The ones that don't get killed learn fast."

  Old Hans was up in the foremast beside Hayl, cheerfully passing on his experience to the young middie. The two of them were perched far above the Ship, sitting as calmly as if they were on a comfortable (albeit somewhat cold) park bench. "Feast yer eyes on it, boy!" said Hans. "'At's the biggest Pier you'll ever see in human space. Bigger'n Osgil, even though Osgil's Pier is thousands o' years older. This port is why the Admiralty is based on Earth instead of Westerness. When Earth was in charge of our kingdom they built up this base, and it jist made sense to keep the Admiralty at our biggest facility. An' since they was here it kept gittin' bigger acrosst the centuries. The Queen an' the Naval Academy is at Westerness, but this is the only facility that can handle all the demands of our Navy. We's comin' in on the east side, so 'at's Earthport's East Dock yer seein', with the South and North Docks spreadin' out to our left and right."

  "Aye, sir," replied Hayl excitedly. His monkey was leaning forward on his shoulder, eeking with joy and craning its neck eagerly as they both peered into the distance. Three stately frigates sat at the East Dock. To Hayl's eyes they looked like queens holding court over a host of smaller craft. Many of the lesser Ships were moving about in a state of controlled chaos, like a swarm of water beetles. "I think those are two of the new Poet Class frigates, and one of the Author Class."

  "Well spotted, lad!" said the old sailor. "Ya can ignore all them brigs an' sloops an' luggers. With jist a few exceptions, the Westerness Navy don't maintain nothin' but frigates here at Earthport. If'n they ain't got three masts they don't count. The rest of 'em's jist the flotsum and jetsum o' two-space." He emphasized this by spitting a brown stream of tobacco juice, which was immediately joined by a smaller stream from his monkey. In the low-gravity environment that existed high up on the mast, the stream of tobacco juice flowed unnaturally straight and far before it dropped off into two-space as old Hans continued his lesson.

  "The two Poets are the Tennyson an' the Masefield. An' damn-me ifn the other ain't the ol' Heinlein herself! Our Kestrel, maysherestinpeace, was one of the Raptor Class. Those were the first handful o' frigates that Westerness ever produced. Then they went to the Author Class. An' the first an' greatest o' the Author Class was the ol' Heinlein. All o' that class 'ave long since paid off their debt, an' you can bet their crew an' stockholders is doin' well fer themselves, thankyouverymuch! The Poet Class though, they's mostly still payin' off their debt."

  "But our debt is paid, right?" asked Hayl.

  "Aye, lad. By the Lady, we've paid in blood an' lives, the most precious coin of all. Yer right lucky to be a member of a fully paid out Ship. Plus ya got shares in the Gnasher an' the Biter, which oughta be counted as paid off, if everthin' goes right. An' 'at means we shouldn't have any problem fillin' up the berths on all three o' our Ships with quality lads. Eager young merchantmen from every lugger, schooner, sloop, an' brig ya see out here'll jump Ship in a heartbeat ta join us. But pay attention ta the Westerness Ships ya see here, son. In the future you'll be expected ta know the status o' all our frigates, an' the names o' their boats."

  "But the names of the boats are always changing, each time they use a boat to establish a new world. How can you be expected to keep track of something that's always changing?"

  Hans reached over and cuffed the boy lightly. "Don' ya go snivelin' on me now. You'll git yerself a copy of the Naval Gazette an' you'll study it, is what you'll do. An' ever' time ya comes inta port ya gotta git yerself the latest Gazette and git updated. It's not so hard. The Author Class boats are named after the writer's books. Ya can bet the old Starship Trooper an' the Harsh Mistress are still with the Heinlein. They ain't prob'ly never gonna sacrifice them ta establish a new world. So at's two of her six boats right there. Last I heard they was gettin
' ready to use novellas and short stories for the other boats, since the grand ol' lady's pioneered so many worlds they done used up most of Heinlein's novels. Things 'ave prob'ly changed, but when we left 'ere a year ago it was the Menace from Earth, Podkayne, Sixth Column, an' Waldo. Yer job is to find out any changes, asap when we git inta port."

  "Aye, sir," said Hayl, slightly daunted by the task. "Does every sailor keep track of these things?"

  "Ever' good officer does, ya betcha! An' most petty officers will. Don' worry, it'll come easy in just a few years. The Poet Class now, they names their boats after the writer's poems. The Tennyson over there has the Light Brigade—I'm bettin' they ain't never gonna let that one go—Crossing the Bar, Sleeps the Crimson Petal, Idle Tears, Morte d'Arthur, an' Ulysses las' I heard.

  "Look now," old Hans continued with excitement, "we's gittin' close enough ta see the Ships at the North and South Docks. The Author Class at the far end o' South Dock is the Iain M. Banks. She's one o' the last o' the Author Class, an' they name her boats after the sentient spaceships in 'is books. Rare bit o' whimsy on the part o' the Admiralty, that. Right now I think the Banks 'as got the Screw Loose, So Much for Subtlety, Just Testing, Xenophobe, Very Little Gravitas, an' I Blame the Parents fer 'er boats. Ya know, it's fairly common ta name a new planet after the boat what formed her Pier. An' yew can betcha there's some damned funny-named frontier worlds what's come outa them Ships!"

  The old sailor laughed with pleasure at the thought, and little Hayl couldn't help but share the old salt's infectious joy as they came proudly into port. The air began to shake and the mast trembled with regular, rhythmic blasts of cannon fire as they entered the port's atmosphere and the Fang began paying her respects to the admiral's flag.