"Clear those idlers off the rail!" called Lt. Fielder from the upper quarterdeck. "That's Earthport and the Admiralty you're gawking at. We don't want them to think we're a bunch of bumpkins!"
The Fang had come to Earthport.
It was a fait accompli. Their bold arrival filled the hearts of all sailors with pride. It filled the media and the minds of the public with wonder and excitement.
"An' it's really, really pissed-off the old ladies in the Admiralty," said Broadax with her usual diplomacy and tact. "They definitely gots their panties in a knot."
None of their Ships had been given shore leave, but there were plenty of taverns and dives on Earthport herself.
The Admiralty seemed to be keeping them on the carpet. Maybe they needed time to decide what to do, but Melville thought it was a case of, "Let's show 'em who's boss and keep 'em stewing in the waiting room." Whatever the reason, it was a major tactical blunder on the part of the Admiralty. While they waited, forces were advancing on other fronts.
The saga of Melville and the Fang were already legendary among the Sylvans, the Stolsh, and even the Dwarrowdelf. Their latest battle added yet another chapter to the legend. Westerness, on the other hand, had heard nothing but rumors and second-hand accounts, and Earth didn't care much about what happened in two-space. Until now.
The write-up of their exploits in the Naval Gazette had been very positive and it was picked up by the Earth newspapers. To Earth, everything that happened in two-space was a kind of exotic, persistent delusion. Earthlings just didn't go there. Most of them couldn't go into two-space without major sacrifices, so for them Westerness and everything else that happened "out there" was a sort of tedious series of obscure fantasy novels that played out year after year, whether you read it or not. After all, nothing ever really happened there. But the exploits of Melville and the Fang changed that. This was war! This was action! It was adventure and blood and guts. And it caught the fickle fancy of Earth's popular culture.
What really amazed everyone was the success of Asquith's book. The e-publishing trade on Earth could get a book from manuscript to worldwide distribution in a day, and Asquith's novel was literally an overnight mega-hit. He became an instant celebrity, making the rounds of every media venue on Earth. Fate had granted him an eye patch, which he came to wear with a swagger. Any young lad would assure you that the patch is the mark of a true sailing Hero, as much so as a peg leg or parrot would be, and his exotic, adorable monkey substituted nicely for a parrot on his shoulder.
The book was a tremendous hit on Earth. Aboard the Fang, the reception was quite different.
The Admiralty had denied any kind of shore leave for the Fang and her two consorts, but Asquith, of course, had been permitted to return to Earth. To everyone's amazement, he came back.
Paper copies of his book had been printed and distributed in less than a week, and by the time Asquith returned everyone had read it. The little earthling was sitting in the wardroom with most of the Ship's officers. For Asquith the wardroom had long since become a comfortable place of companionship, but now the atmosphere was heated. Aboard the Fang, the critics were not kind.
"Captain Melville and Fang: The Terror of Two-space," read Fielder in a droll, oratorical tone. "'To Captain Melville,'" he continued, "'Damn his poetry, damn his Ship, but God bless the bloody bastard, because he saved me for my dear mum.'"
There was a roar of laughter at Asquith's expense as Fielder read this dedication.
"What in the hell is that all about?" asked Fielder, holding the book up and looking at Asquith.
"Clearly," said Mrs. Vodi, "during the trip the Stockholm syndrome has set in, and our mess mate has become a fan. Albeit a reluctant, uncertain, and somewhat conflicted fan. I must note though, that you did diverge significantly and somewhat embarrassingly from the truth. And the truth was strange enough."
"So he embellished," drawled Westminster as he leaned back in his chair with a foot on the table. "He is a poet, ma'am. An art-eest!"
Mrs. Vodi whacked the offending foot off the table, muttering something about, "Damned rangers, never can housebreak 'em! Treat every piece of furniture like a tree stump." Westminster and the others paid scant attention. The conversation was just too much fun to interrupt.
"Indeed," interjected Brother Theo. "He never claimed that it was true! 'Based on the true story!' is a line that provides the purest defense possible: simple artistic license. Sir Phillip Sidney in his famous Defence of Poesy said, "I think truly, that of all writers under the sun the poet is the least liar... for the poet, he nothing afirmeth, and therefore never lieth."
"Thank you. I appreciate your support, I think," replied Asquith, with a nod to Theo and Westminster.
"Eep?" echoed his monkey.
"And I did sell it as fiction. Nobody on Earth really believes any of it, you know. They think I'm making it all up! Huh! I don't need drugs to be mentally unbalanced. I can do that all by myself!" Then, looking at Fielder he continued, "But I take it you don't think it's very good?"
"Frankly, no," replied Fielder.
"I thought it was good when I was writing it," said Asquith. "It practically wrote itself! It seemed like it just flowed up out of the Well of Lost Plots! I just got this... warm feeling when I was writing it."
"That happens to writers sometimes," said Mrs. Vodi kindly. "Just remember that it feels like that when you wet yourself too."
"Huh," said Asquith. "Become a writer and suddenly everyone's a critic. Well, dammit," he continued doggedly, pulling his shoulders back and lifting his head high in a posture that only served to emphasize his lack of chin, "when you've written your own book maybe you'll have a right to criticize."
Fielder began a slow, deliberate retort but Asquith pre-empted him. "'Look, he's winding up the watch of his wit; by and by it will strike!'"
"Now see here," said Fielder, "this Shakespeare riff of yours has gone just about far enough, I think."
Everyone grinned. It was good to see Asquith stand up for himself, and no one felt any need to defend Fielder.
"Tis clear, as the Bard said," continued Asquith, once again trampling over Fielder's languid, sardonic response, "'many wearing rapiers are afraid of goose-quills.' And, dammit, at least the book is selling!"
The diminutive earthling's peeved obstinance combined with his eyepatch made him look like a buccaneer bunny that has discovered that his water bottle is empty, and is determined that the management will hear about it. "And, frankly, I didn't expect to come back. I'd rather do root canal work on an angry Guldur then go back out into two-space again. But my publisher made me sign the contract in blood and I honestly didn't understand what I was getting into. You wouldn't believe the fine print in a book contract! The publisher has a right to demand a sequel, and my eldest begotten son for all I know. And who would have thought that an obligatory book publicity tour meant out here in two-space! So I have to stay with the Fang, selling the rights to my book to publishers in each port while I write the next book."
"Ha! But you hate it out here!" grinned Vodi.
"Tell me about it," replied Asquith glumly. "There isn't even enough time for my cloned eyeball to come out of the vat before I have to head back out into this insanity! Being a writer is not what I thought it would be. Basically, I'm doomed to carry cases of my book with me wherever I go for the rest of my life, hawking copies and working on the sequel in my spare time."
"Welcome, my friend," said Brother Theo, patting him on the shoulder, "to the ranks of wandering wayfarers, traveling troubadours, vagabond vagrants, roving rogues, and road agents, and all their ill-mannered ilk, distributing data across the galaxy, like parasites disseminating disease."
"Yeah, that's me," sighed Asquith. "Well, my friends and mess mates, I've come to know your ilk, so I brought a couple dozens of excellent Earth wine with me as a peace offering. I had our mess steward open a bottle, so charge your glasses whilst I propose a toast." This earned a sincere cheer, and in less than a mi
nute they all held their glasses high as Asquith said,
"I have no doubt at all the devil grins
As seas of ink I spatter,
Ye gods, forgive my 'literary' sins,
The other kind don't matter.
"So here's to literary immortality," concluded Asquith glumly. "It's not necessarily what it's cracked up to be."
"Eep," agreed his monkey.
That brought a chorus of further agreement, and thus the critics were placated by the time-honored process of a spirited defense, and a well-placed bribe of spirits.
Whatever events were occurring in the slow-paced halls of the Westerness Admiralty, the dizzying speed of Earth's fickle public was leaving the Navy far behind. Asquith's book generated a plethora of demands for Melville to make media appearances across Earth, which left the Admiralty in a state of extreme agitation and confusion.
Several centuries ago, just as humanity had gotten a good start at exploring two-space, Earth had peacefully relinquished her nascent star empire to Westerness. Since then, Earth's attitude toward Westerness and two-space had been one of benign neglect combined with total disinterest verging on disbelief. By now, most of the people on Earth thought of two-space and Westerness (if they thought of it at all) as just an elaborate fantasy played out by some obscure sect.
The Admiralty tried to respond to Earth's demands by hinting that Melville was in deep trouble for losing the Kestrel. They implied that it was a "Navy thing" and the plebeian public wouldn't understand, "Don'tcherknow old boy?"
This was not well received on Earth. The best thing the Navy could have done was to have simply ignored the public, and the fickle finger of fandom would have gone somewhere else. But the Navy's heavy-handed response made Asquith's book even more popular and greatly increased the frenzied demand for media appearances.
Asquith's biography of Melville sparked a fad that briefly made poetry popular on Earth. For the first time in centuries the home of Kipling and Shakespeare was actually talking in rhyming couplets. The higher-ups in the Navy bureaucracy may have wanted to hold Melville responsible for losing the Kestrel, but Asquith used his fame to mount an informal defense in the popular media. In particular, a bit of doggerel, written by Asquith and posted on the Net became a big hit:
I should not tell YOU how to fight,
You who put Kestrel on its flight
To poke around among flat stars
With crewmen schooled in masts and spars.
While Kestrel sank you traded Fang
Quite slyly with that Guldur gang.
Their blush of vict'ry turned to shame
With how you won that fighting game.
The curs then watch as off you sail,
Them flinging curses from the rail.
Your Kestrel's loss a crime? It's NOT!
In tactics books THAT should be taught!
Then the Admiralty made their next mistake. They let Melville make a few appearances, trying to throw a bone to placate the media moguls who kept Earth's bored billions entertained. It only served to tantalize and taunt the beast.
Melville ended up doing a brief whirl of media appearances that left him bewildered and exhausted. He did enjoy it, in a mind-numbing sort of way. But most of it was quickly forgotten, like vague memories of irrational, nonsensical dreams that blend together and really don't matter in the morning.
One event that did stick in Melville's mind (primarily because of its particularly bizarre nature) was a literary party with Asquith's publisher and agent in attendance. The Admiralty had granted shore leave to all of the Fang's officers when they finally let Melville go, so Mrs. Vodi and Fielder were also at the party in response to Asquith's invitations.
Melville and Fielder were in their best uniforms, accompanied by their monkeys, but without pistols, swords, or even knives. Weapons were forbidden on decadent, pacifist Earth, and there was absolutely no way to slip anything through the tight decon stations designed to keep out weapons and the devastating two-space virus that had caused Earth's "Crash" centuries before. Both officers felt naked without their weapons, and Fielder had quickly tucked away the first steak knife that he could get his hands on.
As they entered into the party they were struck by a vast panoramic scene. The event seemed to be taking place at multiple levels in a huge, vaulted chamber. Above them, people stood on large flat sections of carpet that floated in mid-air, drifting around in a dizzying fashion, though never bumping into each other or crowding their riders. People mingled freely, stepping up, down or across, from one piece of flying carpet to another as freely and easily as if they were stepping down a set of stairs, while they talked, sipped, and snacked.
"Thomas Melville of the Royal Westerness Navy, Captain of Her Majesty, the Queen of Westerness' Ship, the Fang," announced a major-domo in a voice that was subtly but powerfully enhanced by electronics as they entered into the vast ballroom. "Member of the Order of Knights Companion of the King of Osgil, Member of the Royal Host of Glory of the King of Stolsh, and Friend of the Dwarrowdelf League. And his... monkey," said the announcer, with a microscopic pause that seemed to communicate great depths of amazement or confusion, "Squire to the King of Osgil.
"Baronet Daniello Sans Fielder," continued the major-domo, "Lieutenant of the Royal Westerness Navy, First Officer of Her Majesty, the Queen of Westerness' Ship, the Fang, Knight of the Realm of Osgil, Member of the Stolsh Royal Order of Honor, and Friend of the Dwarrowdelf League. And his monkey, Squire to the King of Osgil."
Melville and Fielder wore the twin "gongs" awarded to them by the kings of Osgil and Stolsh hanging from colorful ribbons around their necks, and each of their monkeys proudly bore its own medal in a similar fashion. But, proud as the two officers were of their medals, they would both have happily traded them in for swords when they saw the arrogant and disdainful glances of the assembled earthlings turned their way.
"Cuthbert Asquith, the Sixteenth, Earth's Consul to the Planet Ambergris, and his monkey." Asquith looked almost dashing with his black eyepatch and tuxedo, and the monkey perched on his shoulder added an exotic, alien effect.
Asquith's literary agent was named Curt Richards, a tall, elegant, stately man in a white turtleneck under a black jacket. He spent the whole night talking about the revolutionary new idea of publishing "p-books" (books actually written on paper!) for distribution on Earth, and striving with single-minded tenacity to get a bigger advance from Asquith's publisher.
The publisher was a very real and surreal shock to Melville. Standing before him in a Navy uniform was none other than Captain Ben James of the Royal Westerness Navy (retired), who had been Melville's professor at the academy.
As a cadet Melville had always thought that Captain James was several sheets short of a full spread of sails, but now he had to concede that the man who had been his favorite professor was also a canny and cunning old bird. James was living happily on Earth, where high-tech medicine prolonged his life while he built an impressive publishing empire based on rot-gut pulp fiction. And Asquith's book was the current crown jewel of his empire.
Captain James had become hugely successful at marketing Earth fiction (in p-book form) to the thousand worlds of Westerness' far-flung star kingdom, while also marketing Westerness fiction (in e-book form) to Earth and to the teeming billions on the Moon, Mars, the Asteroid Belt and the moons of Jupiter and Saturn. He was even having some success at marketing to Dwarrowdelf and Sylvan worlds, although their civilizations were having difficulty understanding the difference between copyrighted material and the vast treasure trove of Earth literature that was in the public domain.
Melville found himself admiring the incredible energy and sheer audacity of Captain James' accomplishments, while noting that the cunning little dynamo was still a bit "all knots and no rudder' as they used to put it at the academy. And, thought Melville, you must never forget the array of fruit salad on the old captain's chest. All those ribbons said that he'd been there, done that, bought the T-shir
t... and then washed his windows with it.
Melville made the mistake of saying that he was surprised at the continued success of the literature on an advanced world like Earth. Captain James promptly went into instructor mode and informed Melville that, "Reading is actually the highest of high-tech. One classic author called it, 'an infinitely complex imaginotransference technology that translates odd, inky squiggles into pictures inside your head.'"
"Yes, my friend," added Richards, the literary agent. "Any sufficiently advanced technology is magic, and books will always be a kind of magic."
It appeared to Melville that the only truly stable, sane one in the literary crowd that night was Etaoin Shrdlu, a publisher who had made a competing offer for Asquith's book and seemed to view the whole event with serene placidity. Then Asquith informed him that this was merely the effect of very high-quality medication, and Melville decided that it was time to mingle.
But if Melville thought the book folks were crazy, he was quickly given an education in higher order insanity as he stepped up onto one of the floating platforms and began to mix with the poetic and artistic types at the party. His first brush came as he tried to extricate Mrs. Vodi from a full-fledged harangue against some "art-eests" whose works were on display at the party.
"You bunch of flakes and fakes," said Vodi as she lectured a gaggle of artists and critics in her usual diplomatic and tactful manner. She had them neatly trapped in a corner, and was running them ragged like a sheepdog joyfully penning sheep. "You call this art? Ha! You know that a society is truly decadent when it falls for your brand of fakery. It violates the First Law of Art, Carmack's Law, which says, 'If I can do it, it's not art.' How many years of art school did you have to go to to learn to splash paint on a canvas like that? If someone studies music for four years, they walk away with an ability to play an instrument and can do something I could never do or imitate. But you walk away with an art degree, and the best you can do is this? Something any fool can imitate? This is the best ya got? 'If I can do it, it ain't art!' And the price tag! Ten thousand dollars for that? Oh, so you know so much about art, eh? Then you buy the freaking thing! And you, dammit, get some clothes on that man! What the hell's that supposed to be? Performance art? Performance art! Squirting those substances into that orifice has not been approved by the surgeon general! Oh, and now you're gonna light it, eh? Betcha think that's clever? Ha! I've seen better around any campfire when the boys have been eating beans! I know an artist has to suffer for his art, but why do we have to?"
The Guns of Two-Space Page 22