Melville glowed with pleasure when he heard about Archer and Crater's triumph with Gnasher and Biter. He had been terribly tempted to steal their 24-pounders away from them, in order to fill the gaps in his Ship. But he couldn't bring himself to rob them of their precious guns when he knew that a war was coming. Now those guns, those magnificent guns had saved Westerness and sent the Guldur running with their tails between their legs. And on this side of the galaxy, Melville, his Ship and his guns had defended Westerness' western frontier. Those damned, deadly, rabid, magnificent, vicious, wonderful, savage guns had been the key to the survival of their civilization.
"And," said the admiral, "you're an even greater hero across whatever is left of Westerness. Which means the Admiralty—or at least certain senior members of it—hates and fears you more than ever. They've made it clear, in no uncertain terms, that you are not, under any circumstances, to come any further to the east than the Hero Cluster. In fact, I am under orders to send you on further west, and not to let you come back. You really have pissed-off the old, ossified coffin dodgers in the Admiralty, son. If it wasn't for the potential damage that their idiocy is doing to Westerness' survival, I'd congratulate you on the quality of your enemies, but as it is..." The admiral trailed off, shook his head, and continued.
"Of course, when those orders were written the Admiralty didn't know about the Crabs' attack on us. I'll follow my orders, but I will also use my authority, as the crown governor-general, to give you letters of marque and reprisal, to capture or destroy all Guldur and Crab Ships you should encounter."
"Damn them, sir! We're in the middle of a nightmare, and they're keeping their best Ship on the other side of the galaxy!" Melville paused for a moment to control his indignation at the infernal idiots at the Admiralty. Then he thought about what the admiral had just told him.
"Huh. Letters of marque to capture Guldur. Thanks a lot sir. With respect, there's not much chance of capturing too many of them."
"Not around here, but if you go far enough west you will. Head out to help Captain Everet and our colony on Morning Glory. Assist and inform our Sylvan allies, and keep on going west, for as long and as far as you want. Hurt the bastards, son. Hurt 'em bad! Sooner or later you'll run out of Crabs and you'll catch the Guldur in the rear! Eventually you'll get back to Osgil.
"Capture their Ships and pull up any Pier that they don't take down. Do a Sherman's march combined with a Doolittle raid on them. Pull whatever inspiration you want from history, so long as it has you behind what they think are their front lines, hurting them!"
Middlemuss took a breath and continued a little more calmly. "Use your own judgment, just make the bastards bleed! I'm counting on you to be a running sore in the enemy's flank. Drain them of some of their strength. Capture what you can and sink the rest. Assist our friends and kill our enemies! And, by God, I hope you can tell the difference between them better than the Admiralty can!
"This may be the end of Westerness as we know it," the Admiral concluded weakly. "We truly are hanging by a thread. Earth is gone, billions dead, our kingdom in a shambles..."
Rear Admiral Middlemuss looked at Melville with a scowl that only partially belied his inner reflections. The boy is just... good. Decent and good, dammit! thought the admiral. That was the only way he could think to put it. He had never known anyone who could be called simply "good."
Without Fielder and his crew of alien thugs Melville would be helpless in the world, yet they are all magnified and somehow made stronger and better by their captain. The Almighty has woven him deeply into the fabric of the universe, he has been raised up to answer the challenge of the age, and the galaxy is a better, richer place for it.
That's what the admiral thought. What he said was, "Melville, a wise man once said that, 'Sometimes the sickeningly self-righteous—like you—are the last bastion of defense.'"
"Well... I wouldn't put it quite that way, sir."
"Humph. All your talk of duty and honor can be a bit cloying, but dammit, the truth is that you're right. You are our kingdom's forlorn hope. Even if no one else sees it, I do. And someone was foolish enough to put me in charge; so, by God, that's what's going to happen."
As always, Melville was caught off balance by the promise of peril and responsibility. It took him by surprise and his first reaction was that he didn't like it. Yet while his immediate response was almost despairing, soon the lure of the challenge and the promise of the future began to make itself felt. He had been given a free hand and an opportunity to make great contributions. And a chance to return to his princess on Osgil! What more could any man ask?
Of course, most of a galaxy—as well as several billion enemy—stood in the way. But that's no obstacle to true love! Melville grinned and said, "That a worthy task is impossible is no excuse for not attempting it."
The admiral slowly shook his head as he watched Melville's smile. The young captain was given a forlorn hope. A veritable suicide mission. And he was loving it. "Anything that is in my power to assist you, anything within reason and my authority, it's yours," assured the Admiral.
Melville thought quickly. He planned to pick up a flotilla of war prizes, and as this flotilla was assembled, he would have to see that every vessel had an officer who could be relied upon to read and transmit signals correctly. Unless communications were good, all discipline and order would be lost. And he needed someone to command the Crab Ships. Someone the Crabs would accept, like they accepted Hayl. That meant more middies. Lots of middies.
"Well, sir, I need a completely free hand from the Shipyard. Not just repairs, but all the supplies and spares I can fit aboard. And I'll need officers, midshipmen, and petty officers to take charge of prizes."
"Yes, yes,I'll tell the Shipyard's captain superintendent to give you anything you need. Humph. Every young captain's wish is to have his way with my Shipyard, like a lad lusting after my daughter," the admiral muttered with a sour grin.
"As to officers. Hmmm. I don't have authority to order the assignment of officers, only NAVPERS can do that. But I can give you permission to conduct field promotions within your Ship. That's a trick you seem to have already mastered, and you'd probably do it anyway once you leave my immediate authority. At least this way you won't have to worry about them being confirmed down the road. Hmmm, and I can give you some petty officers as well as fill you up with able-bodied seamen and marines. And Dr. Myriad-Forsythewald is begging to go with you. So I'm sending him along. He might just be useful. God knows he's a royal pain in the arse here, always nosing around and pulling those outrageous bluffs at the poker table!"
Then, with a scowl the admiral continued, "And as to middies, well, you can have all of them you want. Our star kingdom has hundreds of families with enough political connection to get a midshipman's rating for their boys, but not enough clout to get them into the academy. Impoverished, expendable younger sons have been foisted off on the Navy from across the kingdom and beyond, just to get them out of the way, with an outside chance that they can make their fortunes at sea. A sizable portion of them seem to wash up here, like flotsam on a distant beach. Try hard not to get them killed, but they're out here because nobody will miss them too badly. And if you make them all rich heroes you'll have support from every sector of Westerness!"
"Aye, thank you, sir."
"So, you are the man of the hour. They're just your sort out there Melville, all monsters and fierce beasties, the lot of them. Now you've got the war you've been calling for, and the kind of mission that I think you and your Ship were meant for. My career, on the other hand, will be destroyed either way. If you get sunk or captured I'm to blame. And if you make it back to Osgil those old women in the Admiralty will never forgive me. But this is what is best for the kingdom, and if the price is my own mediocre career, then so be it."
"Sir, this isn't what I wanted."
"I have no complaints. Thanks to you we survived a surprise attack from a superior force, and by God I led a fleet in battle! I'l
l see to it that word about your role here gets back to the press in Westerness. That'll put another knot in the Admiralty's panties!
"And besides, I'm counting on you to bring back a vast fleet of war prizes, and I'll get the admiral's share of it all. My career may be finished, but if you do your job, maybe I'll go out as a very rich man.
The work being done in the Shipyard was progressing better than Melville could have hoped. The tripod being used as a crane to install the new masts on the Fang had been erected in less than a watch, and dropping in the two new masts had taken less than a day.
The time-consuming part was the actual installation of the rigging to support the masts and sails, followed by the backbreaking work of actually putting the new sails into place. Since the two-space environment was so hostile to non-organic materials, the Ships of Westerness were all equipped with natural fiber canvas—strong, sturdy and unbelievably heavy to the uninformed. While Westerness' society was uniformly against unrestrained technology, almost every sailor would have been happy to use lighter materials—if they would only survive the environment.
Sails made from once-living materials were the only thing that would withstand the stresses and rigors of two-space for long enough to be useful. Silk would have been a good replacement—but when made thick enough to substitute for sailcloth it became prohibitively expensive. The high-tech replacements for silk lasted for only a few days in two-space before starting to degrade. The historical replacements such as nylon and kevlar and their ilk performed no better before their untimely demise.
Thus, canvas sailcloth made of cotton fibers reigned supreme in two-space, as it had for centuries on the sailing ships of Earth. To expedite rigging the sails, the Shipyard actually had heavy-duty block and tackle, kept on the planet below and fully inspected and tested before each and every use. This equipment still relied on old-fashioned human effort, but it let that muscle power be used much more efficiently, although with a greater element of risk than was normally tolerated in two-space.
Hans, Melville, and Brother Theo were watching from the Fang's upper quarterdeck, surrounded by a great whirlwind of activity and an all-encompassing din as the new sails were being hoisted up into place.
"Well, gentlemen," Melville told his companions as they watched the evolution, "I've officially put Mr. Hayl in charge of the Crab Ship we captured. He's named her the Sting, after that stinger that the Crab warriors have. He says the Ship is pleased with the name, and apparently the Sting and her crew are happy to have him in command."
"Aye, Cap'n," said Hans. "By the Lady, Mr. Hayl's a good call, if I may say so. But I told the lad he shoulda named her the Shrimp. Heh, heh! Git it? A tiny shellfish, eh?"
"I couldn't agree more," nodded Theo. "About Mr. Hayl, that is. For he is a choice young man, and goodly, and there is not among the children of Fang a goodlier person."
"Hmm, I'm glad you two agree. It's quite a responsibility for someone his age, but it seems to be working out. Mr. Hans, as soon as we get these sails on, let's get that new Crab sailcloth in place on the Fang so it can start growing."
"Aye, Cap'n!"
"You know," continued Melville, "we haven't really slowed down to think about it, but it really is amazing that the Crabs grow the sailcloth. I'm still trying to wrap my mind around the idea of growing something in two-space."
"Aye," Brother Theo agreed. "And if this material is cheaper than sailcloth... or even close!" He paused as he swallowed his excitement. "If it is cheaper, then we have a product that would make the crew of the Fang unbelievably wealthy if we could corner the market..."
Hans grinned at the purser and nodded his head happily. "Turns out there's nuffin' easier 'n growin' it. They gots a Crab what sews patches onta the sailcloth an' then the Crab encourages it t' grow, like." He frowned momentarily. "Not too sure how 'e does it. But it grows! An' when it grows it eats the sailcloth an replaces it wit' the glowin' sailcloth stuff. I still got that sail from the Crab Ship we rammed an' sunk, an' we can git it started on the upper and lower fores'ls right away, Cap'n."
"Aye, make it happen, Hans," Melville replied. Then he took a deep breath and said slowly to Brother Theo, "You know, if this sail material is as good as Fang thinks it is, it's going to be a huge edge for our Navy. I'm not sure it's even ethical to make a profit on something so important to the survival of our culture—hell, our very species!"
"Future profits, now..." said Theo thoughtfully.
"Aye," said Melville. "After we kick the Guldur's and their allies' butts back into their kennels. Then we can start claiming our due. Now there's an idea!" Melville and his purser grinned at each other as they considered the prospect.
Hans and his monkey spat over the side, carefully avoiding a working party repairing the damage to the hull below. Then he grimaced and said, "Beggin' yer pardon, Cap'n. Even if'n the sails are as good as the Fang thinks, they're still a change. I'm all for it, ya understand, but some sailors ain't gonna want ta change fer nothin'."
Melville nodded slowly. "I think this war is going to cause changes, Hans. Lots of 'em. Westerness has been comfortable with our stability and refusal to change, but we've reached a cusp. We must change or die. Die as a nation, maybe even as a species. Die as anything except slave fodder to the Guldur, the Crabs, and probably the Orak!" He inhaled deeply and continued.
"We've resisted technological advances beyond the late Victorian era—with only a few exceptions, such as World War I weapons like the Browning Automatic Rifle and the .45 auto, plus a few medical techniques and drugs like antibiotics and anesthesia. None of these things are used in two-space, because they won't work out here. But they are in use on the planets of Westerness as they develop the infrastructure needed to make them.
"Our people and our planets already have the knowledge to build an industrial civilization to rival anything in the twentieth century. They have the reference books, the blueprints, and the necessary know-how to do it all with no guessing, no research. And yet, we haven't. With the exception of Earth and her colonies inside Sol's solar system, all human worlds stayed low-tech.
"In two-space we are limited as to what technology, or complexity of equipment can be transported. So anybody we attack from a Ship will have to be conquered with muzzle loaders and sharp two-space steel. But the planets have the knowledge, and now the motivation, to winnow through the early decades of the twentieth century to find tools of war that they can reasonably build. Aircraft? Tanks? Possibly. Breech-loading artillery? Almost certainly. Heavy and light machine guns and mortars? Definitely. Most of those things were in use in World War I on old Earth. They would make it possible for a small force to clobber any two-space invader, and they wouldn't be vulnerable to a Crash. Frankly, these things are absolutely vital for the survival of our species and our civilization, and there's absolutely no excuse not to build them."
"Aye," added Theo. "It would seem to me that every world would, in effect, have two military organizations: a high-tech establishment for home defense (if you can call early-to-mid twentieth century high-tech) and a low-tech establishment for exploration, defense of trade routes, and offensive operations. Despite cultural biases toward conservatism, the advantages of modern technology for combat are sufficiently overwhelming that I really doubt anyone who is capable of building a tech base will forgo it. You know, Captain, this will make warfare a lot like the period in the Middle Ages when fortifications were largely invulnerable and they had to be taken primarily through siege or treachery."
"Good point," Melville replied, nodding thoughtfully. "For millennia there has not been any significant threat of interstellar war, so the various worlds and empires were free to go off in whatever direction pleased them. And, for a lot of people, given the chance, a pastoral, Victorian or Shire society—with advanced medicine and a few other 'cheats'—is very appealing. Now we will be forced to move away from that. But only slightly. Just moving from the 1890's to the 1920's will do the trick on most worlds, I think. And the very r
eal example of what happened to Earth will prevent anyone from going too far in that direction."
Hans and Brother Theo were nodding thoughtfully as Melville continued bleakly.
"So there will be a transformation, my brothers. And these new sails may be the least of it. Given a choice between changing to keep your loved ones alive, or refusing to do so and watching them die... well given that clear choice, change generally wins. As Lord Byron said,
"A thousand years scarce serve to form a state:
An hour may lay it in the dust.
"And this hour, gentlemen," concluded Melville quietly, "may have laid Westerness in the dust."
"Not if we got anythin' ta say about it, by the Lady!" growled Hans.
"Amen," echoed Brother Theo grimly.
A side benefit of the Shipyard refit was that some liberty time was available. The opportunity for shore leave was there, but not the energy. At the end of their shifts most of the Fangs were too exhausted to do much more than share a beer or two before heading off to their racks.
There were some exceptions of course...
"Thank you for saving us, good sir. You will forever be the heroes of the Hero Cluster.
"'Tis our purpose in life, madam," replied Fielder with typical nonchalance, bending low to kiss her hand as he scanned her body, lingering over the key attractions. "But some duties are more rewarding than others."
"You are so modest!" cooed his admirer as she hung from his arm.
"He likes to practice modesty," said Asquith. "He's very proud of it. Good thing too. He'd be insufferable otherwise."
Roxy had negotiated with the local victuallers to fill them to the brim with food, including cold goods in all three crow's nests, and frozen goods secured in bundles at the crosstrees. While Jones had been reluctant to let Roxy do the negotiating, he had been mollified by Brother Theo's decision to allow him to acquire his own unique spices and condiments for the trip. Brother Theo was of the private opinion that most of the supplies he purchased could have been acquired much more cheaply at the local dump and charcoalry, but Jones' cuisine did seem to keep the Guldur happy. As well as one particular Dwarrowdelf, and that made it worth the expense and effort.
The Guns of Two-Space Page 59