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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.

 

"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 minute 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-shirt... 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?"

Vodi's monkey was enjoying the harangue immensely, reinforcing key comments with the occasional "Eek!" as it kept a careful watch in all directions. Periodically the creature would whip an arm out with blinding speed to snag an olive from a passing martini or an hors d'oeuvre from a tray or a hand.

With the exception of the "performing artist" the artsy folks were all dressed in black. (Which Vodi claimed was really about personal cleanliness, or lack thereof.) They had been happily grazing along, maintaining serious expressions no matter what kind of drivel they were viewing in the name of "art." Now someone was calling their bluff, and one of the sheep bleated in response, "Well, you just don't get it."

Vodi was beginning to wind down, but this last remark ran fingernails down the blackboard of her soul. "And that violates the Second Law of Art, Elantu's Law," she replied with renewed vigor, cutting off the recalcitrant sheep and herding it back into the flock, "which says, 'If the artist has to explain what it means, then it's not art.' It's not art, it's a failure. Instead of universal symbolism or universal language, it's gibberish. Or a con job!"

It occurred to Melville that it was a good thing Broadax or Ulrich weren't there. They would have been demonstrating the fine art of high-pressure, arterial blood splatters on the walls. Hmmm, thought Melville, distractedly. It wouldn't be high-pressure blood spatters as I don't think they would be in full vasoconstriction. Oh, wait, after the first victim—I mean, "artistic endeavor"—the rest would be in full fight-or-flight mode. Well, flight anyway. Thus resulting in the proper arterial paintbrush for their preferred canvas. At least until the police showed up to put an end to Broadax and Ulrich's brief but dramatic careers as artists and art critics.

Melville grabbed a fresh drink from a passing server. Then he cut in and took Mrs. Vodi gently by the arm, guiding her down onto yet another of the levitating platforms with a laugh as he placed the drink in her hand. "You better take this," he said. "You've got to be working up a thirst."

"Ha! I was just getting started. But now that you mention it..." and the rest was drowned out with a series of deep refreshing gulps concluded by the loud, satisfied sigh of a dog who had just given the sheep what-for, or a person who had just struck a blow for rational thought. This was joined by a happy "Eek!" from her monkey as it reached out to sip from the same drink.

They were ambling along peacefully, happily strolling up, down and around, going from one platform to another, when suddenly it became Melville's turn to strike out at the insanity of a depraved and decadent society. He was trying to stay out of trouble. He was honestly trying to be a good guest, but then one of the black-clad art-eests who had been spouting tepid free verse in a corner had to go and ask him about poetry.

"Ah! The famous Captain Melville!" said a black-clad poet of indeterminate gender, whose unnaturally black skin glistened with ever-changing sparks and flashes of color. "I understand that you have a flair for poetry. Tell me honestly now, what did you think of my new work? I saw you listening as I was reciting that last bit."

"Well," Melville replied, "There were only three small things wrong."

"Oh," said the crestfallen poet. "What would that be?" s/he asked as the others listened in.

"First, you read it. Which can be excused, but perhaps not when it comes to something you wrote. If the artist won't bother to commit it to memory it must not be worth much. Second, you read it poorly. And third, it wasn't much worth reading in the first place. If you think that's poetry, you're just fooling yourself. One late twentieth century poet put it this way:

 
"True poetry to me has meant
Possessing the ability
To use some brilliant words to make
Another person clearly see
 
"A vivid mental picture and to
Make an easy, natural rhyme,
As if the words were idly used
In idle talk some idle time.
 
"It may be my opinion,
But it's why we know Lenore,
And Free Verse won't last as long
As the Raven's, 'Nevermore.'"
 

"Eek!" added Melville's monkey in its own pithy conclusion.

Mrs. Vodi chortled gleefully as the would-be poet's space-black face took on a flush of fiery tracings. S/he tried to drink from his (her?) empty glass, while the cloud of black-clad onlookers all looked down their noses and tut-tutted. Melville realized that Fielder was standing behind him, looking impeccable in his best, hand-tailored uniform. The first officer was framed by a pair of stunning blonds who had an unnatural number of teeth between them. They were both stroking Fielder's monkey, and the little critter seemed to be delighted by the attention. Playing to his two lady friends, Fielder drawled, "It's a good thing that no duels are permitted on Earth. Otherwise, I'm afraid we'd have to kill an awful lot of these people."

Melville was amazed that Fielder's brass balls weren't setting off every metal detector on Earth, not to mention his lady friends' BS detectors. But his two companions were obviously impressed and captivated by this bloodthirsty comment. Both of them blushed deeply across their abundant décolletage and Melville stared in fascination as twin flushes ran up their perfect white necks like a Guldur horde burning everything in its path. One of the blonds whispered something in Fielder's ear. Whatever she said must have been singularly stimulating, because it made him flush and breathe deeply. "Wonderful party, Captain, but I think we'll be on our way now," he said as he departed hastily.

"Well!" said Vodi, "I haven't had so much fun since the hogs ate my little brother!"

Melville wasn't exactly sure what to make of that, so he nodded and the two of them continued to wander, each finding comfort in the company of a fellow pilgrim in this very strange land. They quickly left the realm of art-eests, as signified by the absence of black attire, and entered a region of gaudy, brilliant, and often quite risqué garments.

Then they saw someone dressed in the uniform of a Westerness naval officer and started to head toward him, moving up and down across the levitating platforms, like swimmers striking out for an island in an ever-shifting sea of the unfamiliar and insane. The Westerness officer had his back to them, and Melville was set to say hello as he moved in beside the man. But he quickly came to a confused halt as he realized that it wasn't a man and there was something very wrong about the uniform.

"It's the Melville Look," she said, turning toward him with a satisfied smirk and a wink to her stable of fawning admirers. "All Earth is abuzz about your capturing that Fang thingee, and this is going to be all the rage, dahh-ling."

This clearly called for some witty, cutting repartee on Melville's part.

"Huh?" he said.

Vodi was in shocked amazement at the situation but at least she was able to generate an intelligent response. "Well damnit, Josiah's dog helped capture the Ship. So shouldn't you all be wearing dog collars and sniffing each other's bottoms?"

"No, no, no, my pet," the fashion-eesta replied, as delicate patterns of navy blue and gold danced and flickered across her face. "That is so last year. The whole canine dominance thing's been done to death, deary. It's not due to come around again for at least a few more years. But this is a caftan of a completely different color.

"Although," she continued, her face rippling and shivering with pinks and reds as she spoke, "I must say that everyone did like those dog collars, leashes, and naked partners going about on all fours. The roller blades surgically implanted into hands and knees is what really made it work last time, along with that wonderful 'In Heat' drug. And all that yummy anatomy hanging down certainly opened up a whole new range of body paint and bustier options. What a lark it was!"

"I do not want to hear about it," said Vodi.

"Well, I do admit it was a little hard on all the boys and girls who overdid the organ enhancement fad that was popular just before that. Anyway, you should be honored. But you know, Captain, your jacket is really not quite the style, and those shoes are completely passé.

"Now hang on just a minute!" said Vodi in outrage. "How can you say the captain doesn't have the Melville look? He is Melville! Who the hell made you the fashion police?"

"Well, darling," she replied, haughtily scanning Vodi's simple black shift and her gray hair pinned up in a bun. "The whole fashion SWAT team couldn't save you, deary."

"Oh, honey," said Vodi, cocking back her arm with a saccharine smile that has terrified a veritable host of patients across the years, "I'm gonna slap you so hard that by the time you stop rolling, your clothes will be out of style."

Melville still had not said a word. He was floating along in a state of total, shell-shocked bemusement when Brother Theo came up and interrupted Mrs. Vodi's righteous wrath.

"Ohhh. Now that has potential," cooed the fashion-eesta, looking at Theo and apparently oblivious to how close she was to a painful life lesson from Mrs. Vodi. "Rope belts and rough brown cloth, ooo, I can just see it catching on! And I really like the haircut," she added, her face taking on rope-like patterns of brown and tan as she looked at Theo's tonsure. "That basic concept can be applied elsewhere on the body too, darling. Yass, I think I know what's coming after the Melville look. But you know, the little rat on everyone's shoulder really doesn't work. The whole furry mascot bit has been done to death."

"Eep?!" replied all three monkeys in outraged chorus.

"Excuse us please, madam," said Theo, taking Melville and Vodi aside. "I must confer with the captain." As they walked away the monkeys' arms reached out in all directions in a blur of movement, and a veritable hail of olives, glasses, and hors d'oeuvres flew back at the fashion-eesta with uncanny accuracy.

 

Theo guided Melville into a dimly lit alcove and Vodi happily followed, sensing some useful gossip about the "real" world.

"I've negotiated with the Earthport chapterhouse of the Celebrimbor Shipwrights guild, Captain. Just as we anticipated, they were eager to acquire two of the 24-pounders. They came and took possession of the guns today." Melville nodded. The Dwarrowdelf had taken two, and now the Westerness Shipwrights had taken two more. All of these were taken from Gnasher and Biter, leaving them with exactly the same strength as the Fang.

Once again Melville felt the urge to claim some 24-pounders from Gnasher and Biter to fill the gaps in his Ship. This was his last chance to do so, and he was sorely tempted. But much as he yearned to have those guns, much as he lusted to fill those gaps in his "teeth," he just couldn't bring himself to strip Archer and Crater's Ships. He would have to be content with an equal distribution of 24-pounders between the three Ships. Besides, he did have all those lovely little 12-pounders to fill in the gaps. That was something that Archer and Crater did not have, nor could they spare the ruinous expense for them. (Since, after Piers and Keels, cannons were some of the most precious commodities in the galaxy, mostly because they were driven by a big Keel charge.) Nor could Melville bring himself to share any of his 12-pounders with them. His largess just didn't extend quite that far!

"So did we get what we wanted for the 24-pounders?" asked Melville. He had no problem with Mrs. Vodi listening in. He trusted her discretion.

"Aye, sir," Theo replied with obvious pleasure. "This has been a very successful port call for us. We received an excellent price on the three Shiploads of trade goods we brought from Nordheim and Osgil. And the Shipwrights' guild paid us most handsomely for the two 24-pounders." The purser smiled and there was a brief pause as he allowed himself the indulgence of a major gloat. A gloat which Melville and Vodi fully shared. Above all else they were traders, and there was a deep sense of satisfaction that came with making a profitable port call.

"The Celebri also agreed to support us in our dispute with the Admiralty," said Theo, "and they have pledged some future, undefined 'favor'... which causes me a degree of foreboding. Those are very strange people, Captain, and I'm not sure I want them doing us too many 'favors.' Anyway, I apologize for interrupting you with all this—"

"Huh," interjected Vodi, "rescued is more like it."

"—but," Theo continued, "I have received word that you will be summoned to see the admiral tomorrow, and I wanted you to know about this before then."

Lt. Fielder joined them as Theo concluded his report and left with a polite nod of his head. The first officer looked considerably more disheveled than the last time they had seen him. He had lost some of his sartorial splendor, but he appeared to be quite pleased with himself and his lot in the world. Fielder was accompanied by a gorgeous redhead dressed in a conservative white suit.

Where does he get such a steady supply of stunners? thought Melville.

"Sorry to bother you, sir," said Fielder, "but this young lady asked me to escort her to you. She says she represents a pro-war faction in the Admiralty. They want to crank up the fleet's Reserve/Retired Enhanced Manning Force and do other war prep, but frankly their cause looks hopeless."

Things were moving entirely too fast for Melville. He needed time to think. He desperately wanted the world to just slow down a bit. Mostly, he yearned to get aboard his Ship and sail far, far away from this madhouse.

"The 'Reserve/Retired Enhanced Manning Force?'" asked Melville. "Do they really call it that?"

"Yes, Captain," said the redhead in a husky voice. "Otherwise known as the R/REMF."

"Careful, sir," said Fielder. "This is a high-tech world and this could be a setup." Looking at her suspiciously he continued, "You might be wired for sound. There's only one way to find out, and you probably won't enjoy it."

"How do you know I wouldn't?" she purred.

"Oh. She looks like a real hard case, sir. Just give me ten minutes alone with her and I'll get at the truth."

"Mmmm. Seek, and you shall find," she said, licking her lips, "and the truth shall set you free."

"I think this is a matter that can be left in my first officer's capable hands," said Melville. "I'm going to my Ship."

 

As he stepped out of the alcove with Mrs. Vodi, Melville commented, "You know, they are all flakes. Take those actors over there, or the news commentators who've been interviewing me and whose only skill is looking good and reading a prompter. They're just hollow shells. The character or reporter we think we love is not the person. What we see is nothing more than words and ideas poured into his hollow soul by a writer. And the art-eests and fashion-fascists we met, with rare exceptions they're all just faking it and deep inside they know it. I honestly think authors are the only celebrities who are truly worthy of admiration. You can't fake writing a book, especially a successful book: there are no real shortcuts, and you pretty much have to do it on your own.

"Hilaire Belloc wrote about The Barbarian," Melville continued thoughtfully as he scanned the crowd. "For him a 'Barbarian' is a man who 'will consume what civilization has slowly produced after generations of selection and effort, but he will not be at pains to replace such goods, nor indeed has he any comprehension of the virtue that has brought them into being.' I think that is why we rightfully revere authors. Their work has given us countless thousands of hours of pleasure. We do not want to be barbarians, so we are sincerely at pains to make a contribution of our own. If we can't do that, the least we can do is to comprehend the hard work and other virtues that brought these books into being, and to appropriately honor and appreciate the author."

"You have a valid point, Captain," replied Vodi. "Writers are definitely worthy of our esteem, if any celebrity is. But with all due respect I'd bring to your attention Exhibit A for the opposing view."

Melville looked where she was pointing and saw little Asquith pestering his agent to get out of his contract, while his agent diligently plied the publisher for a bigger advance.

"Well, maybe not all writers," agreed Melville with a rueful laugh. "But at least there's the military. There is a realm of decisive men of action. There is a place where you can find true giants who stride the galaxy and are worthy of admiration."

Groans and thuds came from the dark corner of the alcove where they had left Fielder and his girlfriend, and Vodi cocked her head with a thin smile and said, "Once again you have an excellent point. Our military does have its 'giants' who are worthy of honor and glory. But do you include moral giants like Fielder?" And on cue the redhead began a gasping scream, or at least Melville assumed it was the redhead.

"Or," continued Mrs. Vodi, "were you referring to intellectual giants like Broadax and Ulrich? Or maybe you mean those great mental and moral giants of the Admiralty?"

"Huh," said Melville.

 
"O wad some Power the giftie gie us,
To see oursels as ithers see us!"
"Indeed, Captain," replied Mrs. Vodi.
"I guess we all have feet of clay," said Melville. "We're all just people trying to get by. Who the hell am I to judge? I'm going to my Ship."
"Eep!" agreed his monkey.
 

The next morning Melville received a letter summoning him to the admiral's office. McAndrews and his monkey fussed over the captain's uniform, and then it was only a short walk down the dock and into the Admiralty headquarters.

Melville had left his monkey behind but at least he was able to carry his sword. He entered the vast puzzle palace and was led through a maze of corridors and offices which were walled, floored, and roofed with glowing white Nimbrell wood. The walls were peppered with tasteful paintings, and prints accumulated over the centuries.

Finally he was led into the inner sanctum, high up in the main building of Earthport. More like the "inner sphincter" thought Melville. The gravity was extremely light here, but his heart was heavy as he walked into the admiral's suite.

The ancient hallways, expensive old furnishings and vaguely musty atmosphere made Melville feel like an intruder in a posh gentleman's club. A chummy realm of collegiality and handshake deals. An exclusive club where he was not welcome.

"So, you have one of those new Guldur Ships, eh?" said the dapper young flag lieutenant who was the admiral's aide. "How do you find it?"

"Usually where I left it."

"Ha, yes, mmm. Indeed. You know, Melville, nobody here's quite sure what to make of your story. Personally I think that a tale of such bizarre complexity and outrageous daring has got be true. Nobody here can believe you're smart enough to make it up. Well, off we go to see the admiral."

As he entered the admiral's office he was disconcerted as his bare feet trod on a plush, maroon carpet. Usually aboard Ship and on Piers the decks were left bare for the Moss to flourish. The walls had an assortment of oil paintings, and a big bay window looked out on the Pier.

"Ha! Melville," said Admiral Beaucoup, a bluff old man with huge white muttonchop sideburns who was behind an enormous desk, leaning back in a black chairdog. The admiral pointedly did not get up, nor did he offer Melville a seat or refreshments. "So you're the young man who's been the source of so much trouble, eh? You've got an amazing number of people who want your head on a platter, I'm afraid. So many pigeons have come home to roost, it's like a damned eclipse!"

Good! said a little voice in Melville's head. Then we will fight in the shade!

"You know," the admiral continued, wagging his finger admonishingly with a jovial chuckle, "in retrospect, capturing three Guldur Ships, sinking a couple dozen others, and helping to kill a few hundred thousand Oraki and Guldur just might not have been a very good move. Eh?"

Well sir, thought Melville, it is true that we helped turn a couple hundred thousand of them into buzzard buffets on Ambergris. And thousands more are freeze-dried pup-sickles floating around in space thanks to us. But if we don't kill enough of them, the others just won't respect us in the morning, don'tcher see? And, anyway, what's the point of having a devastatingly destructive, kick-ass Ship if you can't use it?

That's what the little voice in his head was gibbering. What he said was, "Well sir, it was all in self-defense. They did start the whole thing by ambushing and killing the Kestrel, our captain, and a good portion of our crew."

"Eh, well they do admit to that, but they say it was an accident. They claim they were cleaning their cannon when it went off. Damned wogs and aliens, can't trust any of them, eh?" said the admiral with a knowing wink.

"And the Oraki claim you executed one of their royalty. Two good shots to the forehead and one right into the old kisser. Ha! Good shootin' that, eh? Best thing to do with 'em if you ask me. But I'm afraid the whole matter is completely out of my hands. It's all politics, don'tcher see? We can't let them think you're being rewarded for that kind of behavior. Where would we be if all of our officers went off whacking wog royalty, eh?"

 

Thus Melville was informed of the Admiralty's judgment. In the end, it wasn't as bad as he'd feared. He was pretty sure that he could see the influence of the Celebri Shipwrights at work, and it was a bemused and mostly relieved young captain who returned to his Ship.
"Deck there!" called the lookout in the foremast crosstrees. "I can see the cap'n comin'!"

"Very well," replied Fielder. "Midshipman of the watch, call the side party, stand by to pipe the captain aboard."

Soon Melville came up the gangplank and saluted the side party as his monkey leapt happily to his shoulder.

"Well," he said, when he stood on the quarterdeck with his first officer and purser, who were the two key officers involved with the operation and finances of the Ship. "I think we've succeeded in dodging the bullet. They've denied us prize money for the Gnasher and the Biter, but they sure as hell are not going to give 'em back to the Guldur."

"Huh. Tightfisted bastards," said Fielder.

"Wait, you haven't heard anything yet," replied Melville. "Archer and Crater remain in command of their Ships. The Admiralty doesn't have much choice about that, since the Ships have bonded to them. There'll be no promotions for any of us though. They've rated us all as sloops, and therefore a lieutenant can stay in command."

"Ha!" exploded Fielder. "The most powerful Ships afloat, and we're rated as sloops. There is the twisted mind of the bureaucrat at work for you."

"Aye," Melville replied with a sad, bemused shake of his head. He felt like he was in the middle of a novel, like one of those compelling, addictive, and terribly frustrating Connie Willis books from the classic era of science fiction, where you just wanted to take every single silly sod of a character and slap the snot out of them. "At least they can't deny us the Osgil prize money," Melville continued. "But here's the real kicker. Look at this," he said, holding out a sheet of paper for them to look at. "They've assessed a 'registration fee' for all three new Ships."

"Hmm," said Brother Theo, carefully calculating the sums. "It's nothing like having to pay for a new Ship from the Keel up. We could probably scrape up the fee for the Fang from our Osgil prize money. And the income from our cargos, and from selling the 24-pounders on Nordheim and Earth would go a long way toward paying for the Gnasher and the Biter. But it's an ingenious way for the Admiralty to 'tax' us and get their teeth into us."

"Aye," said Melville. "Of course, we won't pay our debt off right away, even if it didn't bankrupt us. We'll pay it in increments over the next few years, just like a new Ship. Oh, and the Fang is still banished to the far side of the galaxy. I don't know what they plan to do with Gnasher and Biter, but I'm betting they'll keep us far apart from each other."

"Probably the poorest possible milk runs and scut jobs they can find," said Fielder.

"The important thing is, we've got our Ship," said Melville, "and we've got twenty-four hours to get the hell out of Dodge. Is everyone aboard?"

"Aye, sir," replied Fielder. "There were amazingly few complications with the local authorities. We just got our only problem child out of hock from the local authorities. It seems Ranger Valandil was arrested for climbing some of their skyscrapers, which apparently is something they frown on here. EarthPol has some remarkable vid shots of him free-climbing outside the 212th floor of his hotel. The cops said to ask him—and all the other Sylvans—to, 'Please not climb our buildings.'"

"Huh. It's always the quiet ones, isn't it?" said Melville, shaking his head. "Well, we're off. Our first stop is Lenoria, followed by an endless string of one-Pier ports to the Western Rim, and then across the Far Rift to the Hero Cluster. We'll probably never see Evereven and our homes and families in this lifetime, but at least we are alive and fairly well off."

"Amen to that," said Fielder. "After everything we've been through, I'm just happy, and surprised, to be alive!"

"Oh, and call all hands aft," added Melville. His face suddenly split into a grin of sincere pleasure as he continued, "I've actually got orders now, and I have to read myself in as Master and Commander!"

When the crew and officers had assembled, Melville stood at the upper quarterdeck rail, looked out upon his crew, and began reading from the parchment in his hand. The more he read the bigger the smile became on his face. Initially there was some confusion among the crew, but then the Fangs began to echo their captain's smile.

"'By the Commissioners executing the office of Lord High Admiral of Westerness and Lenoria et cetera, and of all Her Majesty's planets and territories et cetera. To Lt. Thomas Melville, Esquire, hereby appointed Master and Commander of Her Majesty's Ship the Fang.'"

This was greeted with a great roar of approval from the assembled Fangs, and Melville's face was alight with joy as he continued. He had heard other commanders read themselves in before, but as he read these beautifully penned, powerful, ancient Words, he felt something greater than himself flooding through his soul.

"'By virtue of the power and authority to us given, we do hereby constitute and appoint you Master and Commander of Her Majesty's Ship the Fang willing and requiring you forthwith to go aboard and take upon you the charge and command in her accordingly, strictly charging and commanding the officers and company belonging to the said Ship subordinate to you to behave themselves jointly and severally in their respective employments with all due respect and obedience to you their said commander, and you likewise to observe and execute as well the general printed instructions and what orders and direction you shall from time to time receive from us or any other of your superior officers for Her Majesty's service. Hereof nor you nor any of yours may fail as you will answer the contrary at your peril. And for so doing this shall be your warrant. Given under our hands and the seal of the office of Admiralty on this fifth day of May in the twenty-seventh year of Her Majesty's reign.'"

The Fangs roared their approval, and rising up through their bare feet there was a great tide of affirmation, a fierce ratification that came swelling out from Fang herself, until it felt like a ringing in the ears and a soaring in the soul.

 

During the time that Melville had been making his whirlwind media tour, the Fang's sailors, marines, and middies had been training and qualifying on high-tech simulators on Earth. And they took the qualification process very seriously.

An American private who fought in the trenches of World War I back on Old Earth had a base pay of $13 a month. But he received an extra $5 a month if he qualified expert with his rifle, which was a significant bonus. In the early twenty-first century, the Los Angeles Police Department still maintained a "bonus range" which provided bonus pay for pistol marksmanship. Officers received $8 per month as a Marksman, $16 per month as a Sharpshooter, $32 per month as an Expert, and $64 per month as a Distinguished Expert.

The sailors, marines, and midshipmen of the Westerness Navy received similar bonuses for qualifying expert with their pistols and rifled muskets. The sailors also received considerably more pay if they passed the series of simulators and tests that qualified them as an "able-bodied sailor."

Needless to say, the Fangs were all eager to earn such qualifications, and a stop on Earth was their chance to attain them. But Earth's high-tech total immersion simulators weren't just for qualifying as marksmen or able-bodied sailors. These incredibly realistic combat simulators also gave them a chance to fight and "die" yet still live to learn from the experience.

(Only Broadax failed to benefit from this opportunity. She was kicked out of the simulator facility because she kept going into berserker attacks on the computers and their operators. "This is not combat! This is a simulator! It's just like a video game! There are rules!" screamed the enraged senior simulator operator as a squad of marines finally escorted Broadax from his facility.)

Between sessions on the combat simulators, the troops had a chance to immerse themselves in the "classics" that were not available in printed form. The Star Trek TV series and movies, the Star Wars movies, and of course Peter Jackson's Lord of the Rings movies were standard fare for a young sailor's first Earth visit. These movies and TV shows had survived the Crash created by the Elder King's Gift through data disks that were recovered from museums.

The middies were pretty "buzzed" by this experience. Their captain had just read himself in, and then the midshipmen began their morning class. During a break in their training Brother Theo took the opportunity to discuss their recent activities.

 

"And so, my friends," began Theo when his middies had assembled in the waist, "you have now had an opportunity to experience the classics. Earth brings in a tidy sum from Westerness citizens who come to steep themselves in these movies, like an ancient Muslim making his Haj to Mecca—back before it was nuked into a glassy plane. And the Lord of the Rings is the most famous and popular of them all. Peter Jackson was a great genius, but even he had a tragic flaw. He tried to change the work of the master. He actually changed Tolkien's original!"

"But, sir," interjected Aquinar, "what we saw seemed pretty true to the book."

"Aye," Theo replied with the kindly chuckle and benevolent nod of a buddha holding court. The usual ring of additional students and onlookers had gathered around, listening with eager attention. "Jackson cannot be blamed for neglecting to think of the far future. But he really should have anticipated the fact that hundreds of years later the copyright would have passed, and the technology would be there to 'rectify' a movie just as easily as you can rewrite a book. Thus it was inevitable that most of Jackson's deviations from the original text would be changed back, but it was done so artfully that you would not have even noticed the difference. Of course, the movie and the book are not nearly so salient to Earth, but they are terribly important to Westerness. So in the process of catering to us, you can rest assured that most of the scenes that were not faithful to the book were treated like some perverted, obscure mistranslation, with the errors and departures from the primary source quickly sorted out for future generations."

"What kind of things did they do in the original movie?" asked Faisal with horrified fascination.

"Well, for instance, there was Gimli, who was played almost entirely for comic relief in the movie." This brought a growl from Broadax who was listening nearby, leaning on her ubiquitous ax and looking as if she'd like to fight somebody. "Or, worst of all, there was the treatment of Merry and Pippin. In the book they were transformed through war from simple, carefree souls into 'fearless hobbits with bright swords and grim faces' who came home and brought a righteous reckoning to the Shire. In the original movie this was completely omitted! There were several other such instances. They should have known that altering this story was like changing the Bible, and that six-hundred years later people would be watching a version that had completely corrected their sad attempts at 'artistic license' with one of the great works of all time."

"Well," said Jubal thoughtfully, "it wus one hail of a movie."

"Aye," said Grenoble, the captain's Sylvan bodyguard who was standing silently by in his crimson-and-clover uniform. "Thy Prime Minister Disraeli, a great leader who stood at the helm of the British Empire in their prime, advised us to 'Nurture your minds with great thoughts. To believe in the heroic makes heroes.' 'Tis nothing in the galaxy more heroic than thy Lord of the Rings. It may be thy culture's greatest contribution. Believe it in thy heart, and may the heroes of literature make thee heroic in life. For that is what literature should accomplish."

"Aye,' concluded Theo, "so here's to the great twenty-first century genius who made this masterpiece come alive on the screen, and, here's to those who went back and rectified his hubris and folly."

Then he changed topics and asked his class, "Tell me, what did you think of your experiences in the simulators?"

There were shudders and frowns among the middies, and then tiny Aquinar looked up with his dark eyes and said, "I got the impression that the simulator liked killing us, sir."

"Aye," replied Brother Theo. "Computers. The intelligence may be artificial, but the malice is genuine. Enough talk. Back to sword drill, you laggards!"

 

Later that day the middies were invited to dine with the wardroom. In the captain's cabin, Melville was hosting Archer and Crater. It was the Fang's final evening in port, and soon another chapter in their adventure would begin.

 

The wardroom was filled with the satisfaction and contentment of full bellies after a good meal. The wine was circulating and the discussion had turned to the Fang's treatment by the Admiralty.

It was hard for them to accept what had happened. What good was glory, bought at such a tragic price of blood and lost lives, when others didn't recognize it? It was like being a wealthy man traveling in a foreign country, where you couldn't exchange your money into the currency of the land.

"At least we got our prize money from Osgil," said old Hans, "an' we've all got ownership shares in three Ships, by the Lady! Accrost the years 'at's gonna amount ta more money then most folks could dream of."

"Eep!" agreed his monkey, bobbing its head happily.

"I don't know," replied Fielder, "I can dream of an awful lot of money. Me, I want what's coming to me... The world, sweety, and everything in it. The bottle stands by you, Mr. Hayl."

Broadax shook her head. "If'n ye ain't morally bankrupt, yer definitely overdrawn! Hell, money ain't everythin'!" growled Broadax. "We been cheated outa our fair share o' glory, fame, an' immortality, dammit! Fame an' immortality bought with blood an' lives. The lives of our mates, an' the lives o' bunches o' Guldur an' Goblan bastards we done sent to freeze in hell with the Elder King. They done spat on the sacrifice o' all our dead mates, an' the spirits o' all the enemies they took with 'em!"

"I don't want to achieve immortality through acts of glory," replied Fielder, "I want to achieve immortality through not dying!"

Broadax just snarled as the first officer continued. "As for fame, well: once God gave a man a choice of fame, power, and adulation, and wealth. So he asked only for great wealth. And lo, he had all of these. We have got wealth, and wealth will make you famous and powerful. And handsome—at least in the eyes of most ladies. Come now, Mr. Hayl. Move the bottle along smartly if you're not going to partake."

"But not wisdom," replied Brother Theo as his monkey nodded wisely from his hood. "No amount of money can buy wisdom. That is one commodity that has not been commercialized."

"Hmm, you want wisdom, do you?" asked Mrs. Vodi with a smile. "Once two men saved a fairy. The fairy gave them each one wish. One asked to be the wisest man on earth. The other asked to be even wiser, and lo, the fairy turned him into a woman!"

That received a round of appreciative laughter. Then Midshipman Hayl said hesitantly, "Forgive me if I'm out of line, but can anyone tell me why we have been treated like this. I thought we'd be greeted as conquering heroes."

"Ah, Grasshopper," replied Theo. "Once two peasants saved a fairy. The fairy gave them each one wish. The one asked for a cow. The other said, 'I wish his cow would die!' Do you see? It is an eternal human tendency toward shortsighted selfishness. We are the first peasant, and the Admiralty is the petty, vindictive second peasant."

Hayl was feeling the wine and he also felt a bit overwhelmed and sulky. His monkey sunk its head deep into its thorax, and the middie looked down at the table as he muttered, "Please don't call me 'Grasshopper,' sir."

"Very well," replied Theo with a twinkle in his eye and a chuckle that took the sting out of his words. "Members of the mess, I propose a toast to he who shall now be known henceforth as 'Cockroach.'"

That brought general laughter and a cheer as they all raised their glasses, and a chorus of voices said, "To Cockroach!"

"That's not so bad really," laughed Westminster. "Since the little bastards are almost impossible to kill!"

Lady Elphinstone favored Hayl with a gentle smile that made his heart melt and his spirits soar. "The boy's question deserves an answer," she said, kindly turning the conversation away from poor red-faced Hayl. "Generations without war can do this to a nation. History becomes legend, and legend became myth. And some things that should not have been, are forgotten."

"Aye," growled Broadax. "Yer Westerness has had it too damned soft, and now ye pays the price! But there's been many places an' times when people've thought of war as the given, an' peace the perversion. Take the Greeks o' Homer's time, fer instance. They saw war as the one endurin' constant, as routine an' all-consumin' as the cycle o' the seasons. They knew full well that war can be grim an' squalid in many ways, but it wus still the time when the will of the gods were manifest on Earth. To the Greeks, peace wus nothing but a fluke. A delay brought on by bad weather, or when ye had ta keep the troops at home until the harvest wus done. Any o' Homer's heroes would see the peaceful life o' yer average Earthling, or even most citizens o' Westerness, as some bizarre aberration. An' in truth, 'at might jist be the wisest way ta look at it."

That brought a series of solemn and somewhat surprised nods. No one had ever heard Broadax pontificate in such depth. Frankly, no one knew she had it in her, but clearly this was touching on a topic that was near and dear to her heart.

Lt. Fielder nodded and added, "I fear that the powers-that-be in the Admiralty have become something dreadful and disgusting: politicians. Over the centuries we've protected them from the natural results of their actions, so we've bred all the sense out of them. They weren't too smart to begin with, and it's been downhill ever since. Now they have become urbane terrorists, fighting with memos and news leaks instead of muskets and cannnons. For them it is total warfare, and there is no rule book."

"Excuse me," said Asquith, hesitantly, "and I mean no disrespect, but isn't it disloyal to speak of the Admiralty this way?"

"Yep, we're a strange mix," replied Hans. "Outspoken, freebootin' merchants, combined with the warriors of a democracy." The others nodded in agreement to this as he continued. "'Ere in the wardroom we say what we damned well think. But we obey orders, by God. An', young midshipmen," he said, pointing a stern finger at the middies, "you'll do the same. It's a fightin' man's right ta gripe, but we will do our duty. Aye, lads?"

There was a chorus of agreement from the midshipmen as Hans concluded, "Otherwise, we be no different from them vacuum-suckin' scumbags we despises."

"Aye," said Lady Elphinstone softly as she held her wineglass up so that her monkey could take a dainty sip. "Ye who knowst what war is like shall find it almost impossible to communicate with the children of peace. To a warrior, war is a teacher of positive values: courage, self-sacrifice, respect for authority, dedication to a common goal. But these are signally absent in the soft and cynical selfishness of Earth's culture. The men of war can't crack the cynicism of such a culture. 'Everyone' knows that if those values had ever really existed in the past, they were only the result of some collective delusion. The children of peace think they are too smart for that, but they are really just cynical. Most of them, like Earth, and the Admiralty today, think 'tis but a sick joke to suggest that war could ever teach anybody anything good. But thou knowst better, and in the end thou shalt do thy duty. We shall all do our duty. And if thou livest, thou shalt be the wiser and the better for it, like Merry and Pippin returning home to the Shire."

"Well said, my lady," said Brother Theo. "Forgive me, Cuthbert, I mean no personal offense, and I am sorry to speak so bluntly, but the leaders on Earth, and most of those among our Admiralty, are wraiths. Like Tolkien's Ring Wraiths. Wraith derives from words like wrath, as in anger. Writhe which is to twist and turn. And wreath, which is a twisted thing. The wraith is defined by shape, not substance. They are creatures of vacuity. Emptiness. They sell their souls a nickel at a time to get power, and when they get it, they are empty, hollow, soulless creatures."

"Yesss," replied Asquith cautiously. "I fear that there is some truth in that, and I take no offense. But do we really want to be saying all of this in front of these lads," he said gesturing toward the midshipmen.

"These 'lads' are military officers and warriors," scowled Lt. Fielder. "They are all veterans of battle. Many battles for most of them. The boy asked, dammit, and he has a right to understand what has happened, and why it happened. We do them no favors by protecting them from reality."

"Aye and what they must comprehend," said Theo, "is that one of the great instruments of power is technology, and one of its great victims is nature: the world, the pastoral environment that we know and love on all the worlds of Westerness... except for Earth."

Then Theo reached out to the bottle, and frowned as he poured the last few dribbles into his empty glass. "Mess steward!" shouted Fielder. "I say there, a fresh bottle. We're dry as a hangman's eye here!"

Theo nodded his thanks and continued. "Tolkien despised the internal combustion engine, you know, which polluted and defiled his environment and his world, usurping the horse, the walk, and the community. Tolkien, who we venerate, is all about applicability, not allegory. And he can definitely be applied to technology. Lord how he would have despised television, video games, movies and vids on demand, and all the other, modern versions and perversions thereof. Especially when each individual can pursue and feed his worst perversity."

There was a pause as the mess steward brought a new bottle and topped off Theo's glass. The monk and his monkey sipped and sighed with satisfaction as Mrs. Vodi picked up the conversation.

"For Earth, this technology is a cancer, a tragic disease," said Vodi. Like the Rings of Power in Tolkien's writings, all the different versions of the electronic screen pollute and defile Earth's cultural environment. Art, the home, the conversation, and most especially the written word are its victims."

"Aye," continued Theo. "Westerness escaped that when we burst out into two-space and embraced our retro-culture, but Earth did not. We left our Admiralty at Earthport because our best naval facility was here. And, lamentably, across the centuries the Admiralty has become a part of Earth. But we, and the rest of the Kingdom of Westerness are frontier worlds. We espouse and embrace the old ways. And one thing we can be sure of—the thing that Tolkien, Heinlein and the other masters understood so well—is that sometimes there is evil in the land and brave men must go to war."

"Darkness comes," whispered Lady Elphinstone. "A kind of darkness that most men cannot imagine. Blacker than the space it moves through. And good men must go forth to fight it."

"'War,'" said Brother Theo, looking at the middies, "is Sanskrit for, 'desire for more cows.' And 'checkmate' in chess is from the Persian 'Shah mat' or 'the king is dead.' So what does that suggest to you, my young gentlemen?"

This was met with wide-eyed silence from the midshipmen, and finally old Hans answered the question.

"'At means we gots the choice o' givin' 'em all our cows, or whackin' their king!" said Hans. "I'm all for takin' a stab at the big kahuna, cause I kinda likes my cows. I'll be damned if'n I'll give em a single damned cow!"

"Aye," replied Brother Theo. "Well and succinctly put, Mr. Hans. On that note, let us conclude this evening's class and proceed to a more pleasant topic. The bottle stands by you, Mr. Jubal."

 

While the Fang's officers were hosting the middies in the wardroom, Lieutenants Archer and Crater were Melville's guests in his cabin. They had all read themselves in as Master and Commander of their respective Ships, and this meal was a form of celebration, as well as a good-bye.

McAndrews was, at best, an unimaginative cook. And Mrs. Vodi, who was sometimes called upon to cook for special occasions, was dining in the wardroom. So the meal in Melville's cabin was catered from the Pier, and it was excellent since they could afford to pay for the best.

Key members of the Fang's crew had been sent to form a cadre for Gnasher and Biter. The young commanders did not have authority to promote anyone to officer ranks, and the Admiralty was not going to give them any officers. But they did have the authority to upgrade from within the enlisted ranks, so top-quality young petty officers had been promoted and transferred. These individuals would form a loyal core of combat-hardened shareholders who would help Archer and Crater get off on the right foot.

For example, young Bernard Hommer (he of the golden halo of hair) had largely recovered from his wound and had been sent to Lt. Archer's Ship to serve as bosun and acting sailing master, and another top bosun's mate had gone to serve in the same capacity aboard Crater's Ship. Cookie sent her two best helpers to be Ship's cooks. Brother Theo sent his two top mates to serve as acting pursers. Each of the Fang's departments sent two trusted, experienced, loyal young NCOs to fill key leadership positions aboard these two new Ships. And, of course, they already had two Dwarrowdelf NCOs to lead their marines.

The remaining enlisted berths had been filled with eager volunteers from here on Earthport. There was no lack of experienced sailors and marines from aboard Earthport's swarm of luggers, brigs, and sloops who were willing to jump Ship to earn shares aboard a Westerness Navy Ship. This was especially so considering the wealth and fame of these three Ships. (Which was yet another good reason to appreciate Asquith, since it was his novel that helped to spread their fame on Earth and on Earthport.)

Archer and Crater were also able to find plenty of young midshipmen who were eager to sign on with them. Judicious selection from among many applicants had given them some experienced watch officers who would help cover their lack of commissioned officers. But the Admiralty and NAVPERS (the Naval Personnel Office) kept a tight grip on all officer assignments, and there would be no more officers for the Fang and her sisters.

Melville had given Archer and Crater what advice he could, encouraging them to stick to that harsh mistress, Duty, while listening to their experienced NCOs and acting fairly. "Your Ship will remain faithful," said Melville, "and you have a cadre of loyal, experienced NCOs. Listen to the advice of others, then make your own decisions. Be guided by your sense of duty, and allow yourself the time to grow into your position. Don't destroy yourselves because of the bad days, take pride in the good days, and never stop learning."

"We'll try to remember that," said Archer solemnly, while Crater nodded.

"You will not, you rascals!" replied Melville with a laugh. "After a brief, cautious period you'll think you know better than everyone else alive! Your Ship will give you confidence, and you will be full of piss and vinegar. Which is as it should be, I think. Just be conscious of what is happening, listen to your NCOs, and never forget your duty."

Then he concluded, lifting his glass, "To Duty, my brothers! And to our Ships!"

"To Duty and our Ships!" replied his companions.

"Eep!" echoed their monkeys happily.

 

Fang, Biter, and Gnasher had rubbed against the Moss of Earthport, Mankind's most ancient Pier. And these three sentient Ships told their tale, just as they had told it to the Pier at Nordheim.

Kestrel had been an old, old friend to Earthport. Her passing was mourned, and a fierce anger was kindled in the heart of that ancient Pier. Earthport intuitively and instinctively understood Kestrel's selfless, dying act that had helped her beloved crew capture Fang. The sentient entity that was Earthport was not surprised by Kestrel's sacrifice. It had exchanged Moss with Kestrel thousands of times across the centuries. In the end Earthport was Kestrel, and Kestrel was Earthport, and she loved her humans with the same intensity and purity.

Under the circumstances, Kestrel's sacrificial actions came as no surprise to Earthport, but the ancient Pier was shocked to its core by the three Guldur Ships' experiences. A Pier that had known only gentle, loving symbiosis with humanity was stunned when Fang, Gnasher, and Biter told of the bondage and hate that had festered upon their decks. And a Pier that had known only joy and prosperity suddenly knew fear and dread when it learned of the dark tide of death, destruction, and desolation that was spreading across the vast face of two-space.

From that day forth, each Ship that rubbed Moss with the Earthport became a part of Kestrel, Fang, Biter, and Gnasher, and they carried their tale and their warnings via a system of communication that could not lie, and could not be ignored.

A message was also sent through the bare feet of all those who strode upon the decks of Westerness' Ships, and to all who stood upon her Piers. The message that came to the men of Westerness via their Ships and Piers was not one of words, but rather of feelings, emotions, and concerns. If you could put those diffuse feelings and emotions into a single word, it would be "War!" Red war was coming. War to the knife.

And Westerness began to prepare herself for war. The Moss knew, even if the Admiralty was in deep denial. Even if her sailors and marines did not know it yet, they felt it. Oh yes, across that vast star kingdom, they could not help but feel it... and prepare.

 

The next morning the Fang's sails boomed and cracked like thunder as each piece of canvas, from the vast mainsails to the tiny royals, filled and hardened to the constant downward wind of two-space. The Fang took on ever more speed as each sail began to draw, until finally she left Earthport under a cloud of canvas.

 

As they sailed away from Earth, old Hans and Midshipmen Hayl were again high up in the cold air of the crosstrees.

"Okay, lad," said Hans, "that Poet Class frigate comin' in, who is she and what's 'er boats?"

"That's the Emily Bronte," replied Hayl promptly. "And her boats are Remembrance, High Waving Heather, Night Is Darkening, Happiest When Most Away, How Still How Happy, and No Coward Soul Is Mine."

"Well done, lad! Well done! I can see ya ain't been wasting yer time here at Earthport. Ya been studying, have ya?"

"Aye, sir. But I also knew that she was due in, so I paid special attention to her."

"Hoo-yah! Well done, again," said the old sailor with a wink. "Ya'd do well to study Emily Bronte, indeed. Like all the Bronte sisters, she died young, but what a mark she made, what a light she lit! 'No Coward Soul Is Mine,' indeed! May we be able to make such a mark before we're called home, lad. An' may we be able to say the same."

 

* * *

 
No coward soul is mine
No trembler in the world's storm-troubled sphere
I see Heaven's glories shine
And Faith shines equal arming me from Fear
 

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