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CHAPTER THE 16TH
Crab Salad at the Seafood Buffet: "Thoughts That Make the Strong Heart Weak"

 
There are things of which I may not speak;
There are dreams that cannot die;
There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak,
And bring a pallor into the cheek,
And a mist before the eye.
And the words of that fatal song
Come over me like a chill:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

"My Lost Youth"
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

 

Midshipman Anthony Hayl stood behind Deep Doo-Doo, Sue-Sue, and Bad Ju-Ju in his capacity as the upper redside battery commander. Malicious Intent had been moved to her position in the stern, ready to fire at the Crabs who would be chasing them if the captain's plan worked out.

Their initial battle with the Crabs had been frightening, but it had all happened so quickly that Hayl didn't have much time to think. This battle was going to be a lot worse. And he had plenty of time to think about it.

In all of his creative, optimistic, youthful imagination, young Hayl could not conceive of any way that they could survive. He had seen too much battle, too much death to have any illusions left. They were dead. They were all dead. There was no avoiding it, no way around it.

He had eagerly sought the opportunity to be a midshipman with the great Captain Melville. He had had such incredible dreams. Such feats of valor and triumph had filled his head. None of his daydreams included the nightmares that still visited his sleep upon occasion.

Hayl thought he was brave, but he felt his knees weaken and the blood drained from his face as the reality of this battle loomed before him. Then he felt the Keel charge in his new arm begin to <<purr>> and he felt a piece of Fang's fierce spirit surge through him. He started his breathing routine and began to get his body under control. But it was so much harder to rein in his imagination.

Then Grenoble, the captain's Sylvan bodyguard, walked up beside him companionably and put a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Art thou frightened, son?"

"Aye, sir."

"Use thy breathing, lad. Control thy body, and have faith in thy comrades, thyself and thy training. The Mirror for Princes, written in Persia, on Old Earth in thy eleventh century, encourages warriors to 'reconcile your heart with death. Under no circumstances be afraid, but be bold; for a short blade grows longer in the hands of the brave.' Five hundred years later, an earthling named William Makepeace Thackery said that 'bravery never goes out of style.' 'Tis not easy, lad. Few are born with it. But try with all thy might to nurture courage. Then thou shalt never be out of style."

"Aye, sir. I'm working on it."

"'Tis all that anyone could ask, and 'tis the path of wisdom. 'Fear tastes like a rusty knife and do not let her into your house.'"

 

* * *

 
And the words of that fatal song
Come over me like a chill:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."
 

* * *

 

Captain Thomas Melville layed on the firing platform of Sudden Death and considered the coming battle. Cutting across the front of the attacking fleet at this angle meant that a portion of their leading Ships could always bring them under fire with those bow-mounted cannon. But only a portion. For the entire Crab fleet to bring effective fire on the Fang they would have to shift course, and essentially start chasing her.

And that, unfortunately, was exactly what Melville was trying to force them to do. Just escaping the battle would be fairly straightforward. If he simply ran for the eastern horizon, Melville might be able to save the Fang and her crew. But he would be doing so at the cost of the utter destruction of the Hero Cluster's fleet. A cost that was totally unacceptable to the captain and crew of the Fang. They would die before they would let that happen.

So their mission was to entice the Crabs in, like a mother duck luring the predator away from her nest, with the age-old wounded-duck routine. It was one of the oldest tricks in the book. Would it work on the Crabs?

Melville watched over Sudden Death's sights as his first target slid closer and closer into his line of fire. He felt the ferocity of the 24-pounder beneath him: a chilling bloodlust to smash, rend, and kill raged through him, an emotion that had come to feel comfortable next to his soul. And from Fang herself he felt the anger and the urge to fight, to destroy these intruders—an urge that snuggled in tight to the other side of his soul.

These combined emotions roared back and forth between the three of them, as they jointly considered the target, watching while it slid under its single, glowing sail, closer and closer to its doom. They ignored the occasional 18-pound cannonball fired by one of their target's many mates, although those shots were getting more accurate with each passing moment.

The prey slid inexorably closer until, finally, the three (the gun, the Ship, and her captain) decided as one that it was theirs! The cannon growled its hate and loathing for the attackers, and belched forth its iron ball. <<Yes!>> it said in his mind. "Cha-DOOM!!" <<KillHurt!!>> screamed out the cannon and Melville watched as the shot traveled out... and slammed into the bow of the small Ship, smashing it like a firecracker set off in a child's model, sheering off the bow, and snapping the Keel like a toothpick as the Ship twisted and disappeared from two-space.

Midshipman Palmer screamed out, "Yes!" and pumped a fist into the air, as his monkey screeched out in agreement and waved its belaying pin in the air. "Hot damn, sir! Ya got 'im!" He continued more quietly but no less enthusiastically as the gun team rapidly reloaded the cannon for the next shot. "On the first shot! Just smashed 'im to pieces!" Sudden Death was one of the guns in his battery, and he took a great degree of ownership and satisfaction in "his" gun's accomplishment.

Melville nodded briefly, still focused on the tactical situation. He moved over to Cold Blooded Murder, the other 24-pounder on the upper green battery. As he layed down on the aiming platform he said, "Mr. Barlet, I'll be..." He broke off and involuntarily ducked as a ball found the forward rail and smashed into it, slashing the air with splinters and other debris. Luckily, the splinters and other shrapnel failed to find a home in flesh, but it was sobering taste of things to come.

The captain raised an eyebrow and drew up one side of his mouth in a lopsided grin. "As I was saying, I'll be going back and forth between the 24-pounders on the upper and lower greenside for the first few rounds. You and Gunny Von Rito will engage with the other guns as they bear. This will rapidly become a target-rich environment. So as they close, shift to rapid fire on all guns using the gun captains. Let no target go unserved!"

Barlet shook his head and grinned back, watching as the sailors and marines moved up to clear away the damage in the bow. "Aye, sir! Too bad we only have one broadside engaged. All the poor boys on the redside are going to feel ignored and unloved!"

Melville replied with a thin smile as he aimed Cold Blooded Murder toward his next target. "Don't worry, Mr. Barlet. They'll have their chance. Soon enough."

He touched off the next round, not lingering to see if it hit (it did) and scarcely waiting for the gun to finish its recoil before he dove through the hatch to the lower gundeck. His monkey screeched with joy as they slid headfirst down the line strung between the two levels.

Boye and his monkey couldn't follow their master's slide down the rope, so they had learned to take the long way round. The dog raced pell-mell down the ladder to the hold, dove through the hatch to the other side, scrambled out, thundered up the ladder to the deck, and joined his master with a happy bark. Boye's monkey sat astride the dog like a rider at a steeple chase, eeking merrily throughout the trip.

 

Melville alternated quickly from one 24-pounder to another, bouncing from the lowerside to the upperside as needed, firing any gun that was loaded and could bear on an enemy Ship. Sliding from one 24-pounder to the next he engaged an unending supply of targets that quickly grew closer and closer to the Fang. Grenoble stayed constantly behind the captain, while Ulrich reluctantly gave up his bodyguard role to supervise the lower stern guns.

He rolled off of Rabid's firing platform and was momentarily startled when the flanking 12-pound cannon fired for the first time in this battle. As he looked out over the side he was startled by the whip-crack of a cannonball going overhead, followed by a rustling crash as part of a yardarm and its attached canvas and rigging came down on the net overhead.

"Damn!" he yelled as a chunk of spar settled down, bouncing immediately over his head. "That was just a wee bit close for comfort!" Melville said with a grin to Rabid's gun captain.

"Aye, sir!" he yelled back, as he and his gun crew continued their dance, loading the cannon and heaving it back into battery.

Melville scrambled back to the hatch between the upper and lower gundecks, stepping over foot-long splinters, cordage, and a bleeding wreck of a sailor being tended by a corpsman.

The Crab cannons continued to flail at the Fang as she crossed the front of their formation. Between her speed and her angle, and the fact that the Crab fleet was maintaining the course for Hector, the Fang was still catching only occasional hits. But when an 18-pound ball hits, it does so with authority. Authority that translates into splintered wood work, smashed equipment, and—saddest of all—shattered crewmen.

Melville assessed the tactical situation. The Crab Ships had closed to the point where they were in effective range of both the 24-pounders and the 12-pounders. This meant that, reluctantly, he had to admit to himself that his job as cannoneer was over for now. Much as he wanted—nay, yearned!—to keep personally killing the enemy, it was time for him to look after the Ship as a whole.

 

Asquith and Lt. Fielder were watching from the lower quarterdeck as the range closed enough for Fang's 12-pounders to enter the fray. Gunny Von Rito was allocating targets and making sure the gun captains were concentrating on different Ships. They were close enough now that Melville had stopped firing individual guns, turning them over to the gun captains. Even without the captain's supernatural accuracy, they were near enough that the 24-pounders were killing with practically every shot.

The combination of Melville, Fang, and the vicious 24-pounders had destroyed dozens of the Crab gunboats, and now they were killing the Crabs with even greater intensity and efficiency. Yet they had only managed to destroy a slim fraction of the vast enemy fleet, and in spite of all their efforts, the Crabs didn't seem to have any inclination to change course and pursue the Fang.

All their efforts seemed to be without effect. It was as if they were trying to stop a tsunami with cannon fire—a veritable glowing white tsunami of Ships.

"You know Bert, this might be a good time to see if we can goad them a bit," Fielder commented. "The captain said he wanted to get them to chase us. So let's see if they can read flag signals!"

"Signalman, hoist the flags for 'We will accept your surrender.'"

Asquith turned to him as the signalman hoisted the flags and said, "Surrender? Isn't that perhaps a wee bit premature, Daniel?"

"No, Bert, the intent is to piss them off. If they can read the flags—which is a big if, by the way—then it might anger their admiral or whoever's in charge. In which case we may be begging them to come try and spank us." He laughed sardonically. "If they do, it'll get ugly. But dammit, it's going to take a lot more that they think to spank the Fang."

 

The Princess looked at the enemy Pier as it began to come into sight to their south. TheFleet was ready to kill. One damaged enemy Ship had escaped Her vanguard, and it was doing a surprising amount of damage to theFleet as it fled. Through the Hivemind She felt the unease of those who were taking fire from the lone enemy Ship. The Hivemind <<felt>> their pain as they died in a variety of horrific, painful, and exotic ways, and the urge to turn on their tormentor was great. But the Princess sent calming messages to theFleet as her attendants groomed her.

Her noble consort preened and watched Her proudly. He was yearning to mate with Her. The little attendants proudly groomed his sperm sack as it became swollen and distended—creating delicious pain!—in response to his powerful urge to cross his genes with one who has made such a killing!

<<Do not be distracted, my children. Ignore their foolishness,>> She said soothingly to the Hivemind.

TheFleet could only do one thing at a time. First they must take out the big target. There would be much blood and joy. The enemy would suffer every flavor of despair! Then She could send a swarm to destroy this one, slow enemy Ship that thought it could escape the wrath of Shewhomustbeobeyed!

 

On the upper quarterdeck, the two rangers were taking occasional maximum-range potshots with their muskets whenever an enemy Ship drew near enough. As they watched the fleet close with them, Westminster suddenly reached out and touched Valandil on the arm. "Aubrey! Look over there, at that Ship toward the center of the Crab fleet. Follow my sights," he said as he took careful aim and then cocked his head to the side, so that his partner could sight down the barrel. "Look carefully. Do you see? All the Crabs on all the other Ships keep facing that way and turning those eye stalks in that direction. And word has it that their royal caste is bigger, right? Well they're so far away that it's hard to tell for sure, but Ah'd swear that Ship has two really big crawdads, lots bigger than the rest. Ah do believe they might just be royalty!"

Valandil sighted down Westminster's musket, ignoring the crash and slam of the continuous firing of the cannons. "Aye, 'tis so," replied the Sylvan ranger, in his typical, laconic fashion.

"They're a damn sight bigger than the rest," said Westminster. "Not too smart either. If they had any sense they'd stay out of sight. At least, that's what Ah'd do if Ah was them. Ah wonder if taking them out will get their attention. Knocking out these piss-ant gunboats sure doesn't seem to be distracting them.

"Messenger!" Westminster called to the Ship's boy assigned to the upper quarterdeck.

"Aye, sir!" chirped the boy eagerly.

"Son, Ah need you to pass the word to the captain, asap. We've spotted a Ship that looks like it has Crab royalty that we can invite to dinner. Ask the captain if he thinks they should be the entree for the next course!"

"Damn, sir," said little Aquinar, who was the upper quarterdeck officer and had been listening carefully. "How many courses does this meal have?"

Westminster looked the boy in the eyes. He saw innocence and frustration. Fear and perplexity.

But not naiveté.

"Until they've had a bellyful of shot and steel, son," said the big ranger. "Until they've had a bellyful."

 

Melville got the message as he was returning to the upper quarterdeck. Standing on the quarterdeck, Westminster again put the Crab royalty in his sights and cocked his head aside so the captain could sight down the barrel at the Ship.

"Yep, Josiah, it looks like I need to take one more potshot!" He grinned to himself at the thought.

Through his contact with the Moss he asked Fang, <<Mark that Ship! Do you see it? Can you help me spot it again?>> He felt eager, bloodthirsty agreement back from his Ship.

"Royalty, eh?" he continued to Westminster. "Let's take 'em out. Maybe that'll get their attention!

"Mr. Barlet!" he called over the quarterdeck rail.

The master gunner came up to him quickly, reluctantly leaving the greenside battery as they blasted away at the enemy fleet.

"Sir?" Barlet shouted above the din.

"I'm about to take down a Ship that looks like it has a few Crab royalty aboard," said Melville. "It may be their flagship. If this attracts their attention we'll have a lot more company coming to this dance. If they all close in on us, shift back to double-shotting the guns. Pass the word to the lowerside as well. We'll need all the help we can get if they come at us full bore.

"Mr. Hans!" the captain called up to the sailing master who was standing on the mizzenyard overhead, supervising repairs.

"Aye, sir! I wus lis'nen. Wackin' wog royalty, eh! By the Lady, I'm all fer that! Heh, heh!"

"If this works," said Melville, "it might be a good idea to head dead away from the Crabs to start making them chase us. They're faster, but a stern chase will give us more time to pound them before they get here."

"Aye, sir!" replied old Hans as he and his monkey cheerfully launched dual streams of tobacco juice over the side.

"So prepare to cut away the bad canvas," Melville continued, "and get us ready to make maximum speed. Our new course will be hard to the redside and due east."

"Aye, sir!" Hans nodded in understanding as he sent messengers up into the rigging to prepare the topmen for the next phase of the engagement.

 

Melville scanned the area of two-space near the Ship with the larger Crabs—the ones that were probably royalty. He looked to see if there was other potential "royalty" nearby, but he could only see the one Ship with the larger Crabs.

He was on Cold Blooded Murder's firing platform, looking down over the sights while he signaled for the gun crew to adjust his point of aim. With one hand on the 24-pounder and the other on the Fang, Melville completed the circuit, acting as the biological equivalent of an AI targeting system. He could feel the anger and the bloodthirst of Fang as well as the yearning to mangle, maim and murder that emanated from Cold Blooded Murder. He felt these urges mingle in the deepest recesses of his own psyche and his lizard brain screamed out its need to fight and kill these intruders. All three of them intermingled into a lust to kill, until the shot was perfect. The cannon belched out a wave of force carrying hate/anger/bloodlust wrapped up around one 24-pound cannonball. <<Yes!>> "Cha-DOOM!!" <<KillHurt!!>>

Melville lost track of the cannonball in the air, but it was obvious when it hit. The 24-pound ball smashed directly at the base of the Crab's mast, sheering through the Keel, sending bodies and splinters into the air. Then the Ship turned turtle and twisted back out from two-space into the interplanetary depths of the Hector system.

 

Suddenly, he was HewhocommandstheFleet!

Just an instant before he had been just one more HewhocommandsaShip, receiving soothing messages from their Princess, Shewhomustbeobeyed, and now the Hivemind had settled on him, the largest and most mature male, to take charge!

Shock!Horror!Despair! He began to gnaw on one of his foreclaws as he tried to send feeble messages through the Hivemind.

TheFleet was in complete panic. There were collisions. Ships were being damaged! Some were even sinking! And it was all his responsibility!

Almost half theFleet was running away, headed back to the Hive, toward the nearest known Royalty!

But the portion of theFleet that had the hated RoyalslayerShip in sight responded differently. After a brief period of confusion, their response was to avenge the slayer of their Princess!

Not knowing what else to do, HewhocommandstheFleet snatched up a crewman and began to gnaw on the creature's head, sucking out its neural matter and sending out a weak signal to the Hivemind. It was hard to get through all the death cries and anguish of those who were perishing, but HewhocommandstheFleet sent his message, to the best of his ability. And that message was: <<Killthem! Killthem! KilltheRoyalslayerShip!>>

 

Melville rolled off the aiming platform and headed for the upper quarterdeck when he heard old Hans exclaim from the rigging overhead, "Bugrit!"

"Eep!" echoed Hans' monkey, emphatically.

The captain stopped and looked up at the old sailing master who was staring at the fleet of small Ships. Then he turned toward the Crab fleet. The closest elements of the enemy swarm were just a long musket shot from Fang's bow and closing fast.

Melville had accomplished his mission. The enemy was now well and truly pissed-off, and they were coming at the Fang. But all he could think was, Damn, those little bastards are fast! How in hell do they get that much speed from a single sail? Melville felt Fang's curiosity mingling with his.

Every single one of the Crab Ships that he could see was changing course and headed toward the Fang in a vast, converging, chaotic mob. Fang's cannons continued to fire, adding to the confusion as the Crab Ships veered toward them. In the midst of the turmoil many of the Crabs were colliding, and some were even sinking.

"Mr. Hans," Melville said, "I think we have attracted sufficient attention now. If you would, cut hard to our redside, due east—a little south of east if you need to—and straight away from the Crabs. And get some proper sails up again!"

"Aye, sir, an' with pleasure!" said Hans as he quickly passed on the command.

Melville continued wonderingly, "I guess the doctor was right when he said they had some sort of hive mind. It must've given them one helluva of a headache when I hit that Ship with their royalty on it. I don't think these damned oversized appetizers are gonna give up and go home now."

Hans slid down a line to join his captain. Already the Fang was on her new course and good canvas was being unfurled. "Aye, sir," he laughed bitterly. "They looks like a beehive that a kid whacked with a stick. An' they jist figured out where the stick came from."

"Okay," said Melville. "The good news is that they're breaking off from targeting the Pier and coming for us. So," he added with a grin, "I guess we've got 'em right where we want them. We'll lead 'em on a merry chase and hammer them with our stern guns."

"An' when they catch up with us?" asked Hans.

Melville shrugged. "Then maybe we'll turn on them and bust through with all guns blazing. Somewhere in there, Admiral Middlemuss and the fleet should come join the party!"

"Deck there!" came a call from the lookout high above. "About half those bastards is goin' the other way! The ones you can't see, they's all runnin'!"

There was an enormous cheer from the Fangs. Suddenly there was hope. Half the enemy had been defeated in a single stroke. Of course, there were hundreds more to go.

Melville's mind spun. He and his Ship worked together as a biological AI, studying all available data and looking at the situation from every angle, striving to leave chance with few places to hide.

"Mr. Barlet! I want you to personally take charge of the 12-pounder stern guns up here. Have the Gunny do the same on the lowerside. The Crabs have a speed advantage, so put paid to any bastard that tries to follow us. I'll take the stern 24-pounders. When they catch up with us, the broadsides will be handled by their gun captains, as they come to bear."

"Aye, sir," replied the master gunner. "Those bastards won't know what hit 'em!"

 

HewhocommandstheFleet scuttled up behind HewhosteerstheShip. He ripped off one of HewhosteerstheShip's back legs, and began beating him with it.

"Slow down! Hold back. We need to stay back to signal the cowards who are retreating, and we don't want the enemy to single us out to be destroyed. TheFleet cannot stand to lose another leader!"

Then he turned to use the leg to beat on Hewhosendsthesignals. "The Hivemind cannot hear my commands! Send signal flags! All Ships attack the RoyaltyslayerShip!"

 

The Fang's guns were recoiling more unevenly now. Their crews were tiring, stunned and exhausted by the constant thunder and crash.

The stern chase had not lasted nearly as long as Melville wanted it to. The rear guns didn't get a chance to take out much more than a dozen Crab Ships each before the enemy's superior speed allowed them to begin to swarm around the Fang. Now every gun was in play, lashing out death and destruction to the enemy in all directions.

Gun captains raised a fist to signal when their gun was ready, their faces rigid with concentration. Quick as the fist was raised the order was given to fire. The blasts of the mighty 24-pounders were like huge spitting tongues of flame and light, leaving a powerful tang of ozone in the mouth. The double-shotted cannons smashed into the enemy boats in an explosion of splinters and Crab appendages. High up in the rigging, the topmasts shivered with each blast of Fang's big guns.

The deep, bass blasts of the 24-pounders were accompanied by the metallic bangs of the 12-pounders and the sharp cracks of the muskets, and above and around it all were the screams of the dying and wounded, and the singing of the rigging. The deck bucked beneath their feet with every blast of the guns, and periodically there was a ringing, wooden gong sound as Fang's hull took a hit from one of the enemy's 18-pounders.

Then there was a crescendo of tortured, splintering wood as Fang smashed into a hapless Crab Ship, sundering it in two and sinking it almost instantly. As their atmospheric clouds came together, the Fangs could hear the death cries of the Crabs in the shattered Ship, their screams cut short as they sank into the icy grip of two-space.

It was an insane symphony of death and destruction, a nightmare chorus of torment.

 

"Keep double-shotting the guns!" bellowed Mr. Barlet as the master gunner rallied his gun crews. "It's just what the bastards need up close and personal like this!" Then Barlet saw his captain striding across the deck. "A target rich environment, sir!" he shouted with a snarling, feral grin on his face. In the midst of the battle's madness the Fang's master gunner stood lean, dark, and hard, like a teak sword.

Melville could feel the madness surge through him like a fever. It was infectious. He could see it in the faces marred by sweat and blood, Guldur and human alike, poised over hot guns like half-naked alien demons. Even the humans seemed alien, and the Guldur looked like fiends from hell.

 

"I don't know if they scare the enemy," muttered Fielder as he stood on the lower quarterdeck beside Asquith, looking out at the gun crews, "but by God they scare the hell out of me!"

Above them the protective nets jerked and twitched with falling debris, flying splinters, and the occasional body. A yardarm punched through the net, gouging into the planking next to Asquith. Then a body slammed into the netting and rolled through the gap. Asquith helped catch the hapless sailor, and began to drag him to the surgeon. Amazingly the man appeared to be unharmed, his fall having been broken by the net. He staggered to his feet with a nod of thanks and scrambled back up into the tattered rigging.

"Huh," said Fielder calmly. "I guess those nets were a good idea. Chalk another one up for the captain. Dammit, he'll be insufferable if we survive this."

 

On the upper quarterdeck Midshipman Palmer looked down at his hands, holding the end of a shard of glowing white wood protruding from his chest. His monkey had blocked a small forest of splinters, but it couldn't stop them all, and the little creature sobbed softly as it stroked the boy's pale cheek.

It's all right, Palmer tried to tell his monkey. It's okay.

Every breath hurt, but he didn't want to stop. He found that he had grown fond of breathing in the span of his twelve brief years. It was a useful habit. He and his body didn't want to give it up.

He watched bright red bubbles gurgle out of his mouth and drop onto his hands with every breath. He could see his reflection in the bubbles, and everything seemed very precious and beautiful.

Then the bubbles stopped. He was going to miss them.

No one noticed as Palmer's monkey gave one last, shuddering sob and disappeared from three-space.

 

Melville dove through the aft hatch and scrambled up the rope to the upperside. Here Mr. Barlet was still striding the gundeck, but up on the quarterdeck Death was the watch officer. One lonely quartermaster stood wild-eyed at the wheel, his legs straddling the bodies of two other men who had been killed at that post.

Young Midshipman Aquinar had been wounded and evacuated, and Midshipman Palmer had taken over as quarterdeck officer. Now Palmer was dead, his legs spread before him and his back against the splintered remains of the lower quarterdeck's greenside railing. The boy had his head bowed and his hands clutched a splinter in his chest as if in prayer. A pool of blood was spreading out from his body, as a corpsman raced onto the quarterdeck and began to conduct triage amidst the bloody carnage.

 

Down in the hospital, Lady Elphinstone's fingers were like scarlet claws moving with blurring speed as she operated on the wounded. Her monkey was an integral part of her, as its dripping red paws passed instruments, tied off arteries, and applied pressure, all at the precise moment required, without need of asking or telling. Even as her hands ministered to one patient, her eyes were resting on the next recipient of the tender mercies of those scarlet fingers.

Mrs. Vodi and her monkey were everywhere, moving swiftly and efficiently, helping those she could, as the wounded helped each other. One sailor, his eyes bandaged and blind, was holding another patient against his shoulder, shielding and calming his friend as he groped blindly for his friend's mouth and gently separated the man's lips. His monkey held a cup of water in its two upper paws, pouring a blessed sip of water into their Shipmate's mouth.

 

Midshipman Aquinar had returned from sick bay, and once again he stood beside his captain on the upper quarterdeck. A gaping splinter wound in his thigh had been hastily bandaged and he had limped back to his duty station. The tiny middie looked over at the pool of blood where Palmer had died and gulped. The blood was slowly congealing, and part of it was being absorbed by the Moss.

Aquinar had seen Ship-to-Ship combat before but he had never been seriously wounded, and he had never seen anything like this glowing horde of Ships. The volley of fire from the enemy gunboats was raining all around them. As they drew in close, the Crabs were able to fire with swivel guns that were mounted all around their Ships. In the face of the oncoming swarm of Ships, the hail of incoming fire, and the psychological shock of his recent wound, the tiny middie found himself unconsciously shifting to place his captain between himself and the enemy.

Westminster and Valandil still fired calmly and steadily from the rail, causing horrific confusion in the tight-packed enemy fleet as they picked off Crab quartermasters with deadly efficiency. Often, with the quartermaster suddenly slumped over the wheel, a Ship would veer off course and foul several other Ships. "By God, sir," Westminster laughed, "young Aquinar has the right idea!"

The rest of the quarterdeck joined in the laughter at the middie's expense, and, red-faced, Aquinar stepped out from behind his captain to face the oncoming swarm. Melville laughed with the rest and put a reassuring hand on the boy's shoulder.

"Signal from the Pier, sir," said Midshipman Aquinar, happy to find a distraction from his faux pas. "'All Ships will attack enemy soon. How can we assist until then?'"

How can they assist? thought Melville, looking across at the signal flags flying from the Pier. There really was nothing they could do until the fleet got its act together and sallied out. But you had to give Middlemuss credit for asking. "Here," said Melville with a laugh as he jotted a short message on the slate, "tell them this. You'll have to spell it out. I don't think any of that is in the code book!"

"Yes sir!" The boy laughed, and promptly limped over to send thirteen flags, each representing one letter, up the halyard.

 

"Sir! Response from the Fang!" said Admiral Middlemuss' signal lieutenant.

"Well?" snapped the harassed admiral.

"Um, sir, it says, 'SEND MORE CRABS'!?"

"Ha! Melville, you magnificent bastard!" shouted the admiral. "If we both live through this day, I'm going to make you wish the Crabs had won!"

 

The Fang was like an angry, drunken sailor, charging into a bar fight with a feral grin and clenched teeth, wanting only to inflict pain and oblivious to any damage taken. Hope was not an ally today. But desperation and bloodlust were firmly on their side.

The Crabs were close enough now that the Fang's 24-pounder cannonballs were blasting through the enemy Ships and damaging the Ships beyond them. It helped, but damn, there were still so many of them.

The bow guns were now fully engaged as well, taking care of the fastest craft that were trying to block their course. After they rammed the one Ship that played chicken with them, the Crabs hadn't tried that trick again, but still they raced to get ahead of the Fang and then spin around to gift her bows with one of those damned 18-pound balls.

I bet those 18-pounders would fit right into our broadside like they were made for it, if we could capture a few, Melville thought idly as he calmly walked the gundeck.

The bow gun spat out its double-shotted rage at a Ship that had mistakenly zigged when it should have zagged. In this kind of furball, an error like that was something that didn't happen more than once—it tended to be permanently fatal.

The Ship literally exploded with the impact of two 24-pound balls at close range, throwing the mast and sail high into the air, and shattering the hull—and incidentally the crew—into shards of wood, ichor, and chitin that rained down upon Fang's gun crews as they sailed forward.

The glowing white sail on the Crab Ship's upperside spread out and flew directly into the upper bow of the Fang, wrapping itself around the hull and decking, forcing the gun crew and damage control party to hack and yank at the sail, throwing the pieces onto the deck and over the side.

<<!!>> came from Fang—a feeling of surprise too great for words, focused on the pieces of sailcloth that the crew had thrown on the deck. Melville moved forward and picked up a piece and realized why the sails glowed.

The damned things are covered in Moss! No wonder they glow. Hell, this must be why they're so damned fast!

<<I W A N T T H I S!>> sent Fang. <<W E N E E D T H I S!>

Melville was in total agreement with that assessment, but, <<We need to get out of this battle alive first!>> he told his Ship.

<<Y E S! W E K I L L! G E T S A I L S! K I L L N O W!>>

<<Can't argue with that one,>> Melville agreed as the crewmen finally succeeded in clearing the sail that was fouling his bow gun.

"Belay that!" called Melville to a sailor who was about to cast a glowing white bundle of sailcloth overboard. "Just throw those sails on the deck there. And keep up the good work." he added, to encourage the confused young crewman. "We're giving them hell!"

"Aye, sir!"

Yeah, thought Melville, we're giving them hell, but we're taking it too. The good news was that the Crabs were terrible shots—probably because their royalty was gone and they were acting in a kind of collective berserker rage. And the Fang was still making good headway with only one gun—a 12-pounder—knocked out of play. But, damn!, the butcher's bill was stacking up with a few of the gun crews at 50% manning. Plus the sails and rigging were shot to hell, and several masts were shattered and barely standing. If this kept up, it was only a matter of time before the Fang went down.

Ah well, thought Melville. "One crowded hour of glorious life is worth an age without a name."

 

HewhocommandstheFleet was enraged and confused. Half his Fleet had left the battle and he could not get them to return. Already they were far enough away that he did not sense them in the Hivemind. Worst of all, his Royalty, his glorious, dangerous, beloved Princess, Shewhomustbeobeyed, was dead! And this large lump of dead sail, this RoyalslayerShip had killed her. And it wouldn't stop!

He chewed the head off of another one of his groomers and sucked its brains out meditatively.

If we cannot kill them because of their cannon, thought HewhocommandstheFleet, then we must board them. They will have to stop firing the cannons to fight us, and we can close and kill them with our Ships!

His skill in sending commands to the Hivemind was slowly improving, and he shared his vengeful thoughts with his hive brothers.

It was needful now for a Ship to close with the hated RoyalslayerShip. To grapple them and board them. Then the Royalslayers must stop their cannons to fight! And when the cannons stop they will die!

The Hivemind was in agreement with the plan.

 

In their single-minded, collective, obsessive concentration on avenging their Royalty, none of theFleet realized that by focusing on the one Ship, they neglected to think about the fleet fast approaching from the Pier area. After all, they could only do one thing at a time. And their Guldur allies had promised that these humans were easy meat, unused to fighting, and would run... like this offal!

 

"What in all the silly Sylvan hells are these oversized appetizers doing now?" Even though Asquith was right next to him, Lt. Fielder had to almost shout to be heard over the cannons' roar, the cracking muskets, the crash of falling, rending wood, and the cries of wounded men.

Asquith looked in the direction of the first officer's gaze. One Crab Ship was pulling ahead of its companions, aiming itself at the Fang's greenside rear quarter. The little Ship was now so close that its hull was essentially below the Fang's guns.

"Lt. Broadax!" yelled Fielder to the marine commander, who had been going back and forth between the marine detachments on the upper and lower sides, like an anxious child hopping from foot to foot. "It looks like the Crabs will try to board, so you get your wish! Standby to repel boarders!

"Gunny Von Rito!" Fielder continued. "Tell the gun crews to be alert to any other Crab Ships who try to board us. Pass the word to the upperside. Dammit all, don't let those pockers get that close again, and don't let them reinforce this boarder!"

The harassed gunny looked up in exasperation. "Aye, sir!" was all he said as he continued to direct the fire of the lowerside guns.

As Fielder was bellowing his commands, Broadax scrambled up to the quarterdeck and hopped onto the taffrail, perched like some hideous red gargoyle, looking over at the oncoming Ship.

The Fang's guns couldn't depress enough to hit the approaching gunboat's hull, but they had shattered the enemy's mast. Still, the enemy Ship had considerable momentum and Fang was moving so slowly now that the Crabs were going to be able to grapple.

Broadax hopped back down and roared in her gravelly voice, "Hoo-yah! All right, boys, we gits ta have some fun, now! Marines, standby to repel boarders, an' then ta take it over to 'em! Corporal Kobbsven, yew tell the lads on the upper side and take charge there. I'll lead the boys on this side. We'll meetcha in the middle over a nice plate of Crab legs and drawn butter!"

She shook her ax in the air with glee and yelled to Fielder, "Hot, damn! Ye do take me to the best dances, an' I appreciates it!"

Fielder shook his head gloomily. "See what I mean, Bert? I tell her to repel boarders and get a boarding party together..." He ducked reflexively as a sleet of splinters sprayed out from the mast overhead, then continued. ". . .and she acts like I asked her out to a fancy dress ball. Any normal mortal would be scared spitless, but not her."

Asquith, to his own amazement, laughed! Here they were, beset on all sides by enemies, the quarterdeck had been lashed with splinters and debris, killing off one quartermaster and wounding another, he'd had the crap scared out of him (or it would have been if he hadn't known to go to the head before all this had started), he knew they were all gonna die, and he managed to laugh at Fielder!

"Daniel," he said through the chuckles which were threatening to erupt into full scale, hysterical laughter, "did you ever stop to think that if she wasn't the kind of woman she is, you might be the one leading the boarding party?!"

Fielder paled at the thought. While he could fight, and damned well if need be, he considered himself a lover not a fighter. And the idea of leading the boarding party into the grinder that was coming alongside was a horrifying thought.

A slug from a Crab swivel gun wheeted past their heads and they both flinched reflexively. Swivel guns, Fielder thought to himself distractedly. Crabs got swivel guns. How come we ain't got swivvel guns?

"Good point, Bert," he responded. "I'll make sure that when my plate gets filled with Crab entrees trying to add me to the menu I'll pass it on to Broadax."

"I'm sure she'll appreciate it! Have you reconsidered apologizing to her and burying the hatchet?"

"Apologize? For what, Bert? And any buried hatchet would probably be between my eyes! And, oh by the way, do you mind if we continue this discussion another time?" he yelled as he yanked Asquith out of the way of the grappling hook that seemed to magically appear behind him, hovering in the air before it slammed to the deck, then slithered toward the rail where it grabbed fast, burying its tines deep into the wood.

"Damn!" yelled Asquith as he spun reflexively to face the rail while his pistols seemed to leap unbidden into his hands.

"Hey, Loo-tennnannt Broooad-ax! Company's coming!" lilted Fielder as he joined his friend, drawing pistol and sword. While he liked the newfangled monkey-assisted loading procedure, one advantage of steel was that it never misfired. And with Asquith and himself on pistols, and their monkeys reloading and blocking, they might be able to hold the quarterdeck until the marines got aboard the enemy Ship.

Grapnels flew like striking snakes and Crab small-arms fire rattled off the deck like deadly pebbles. The enemy Ship surged up to the Fang's stern and Broadax's marines flowed across. One hapless Crab fell between the Ships, where it was trapped between the two grinding vessels, screaming like a tormented animal. Its eye-stalks rolled with agony as ichor painted the hulls a sickly green and yellow. Then the lifeless husk slid down into two-space and disappeared.

 

As the Fang's hull touched the Crab Ship, there was an exchange, a transfer that functioned at many levels. Moss and neurons, citizens and hostages, ambassadors and philosophers: the exchange between the two Ships was all of that and more.

Fang found this new Ship to be incredibly alien, but once again the Fang told her tale, and the new Ship... listened.

The Crab Ship felt alien feet flooding onto her decks, while even more alien concepts and ideas flowed into her soul...

 

"Warm work, Captain!" said Barlet with a grin as he paced the gundeck. The endless, aching drills on the long passage across the Far Rift had taught them well. Fang's guns never stopped roaring their hate and defiance. The sound was painful and jarring as the double-shotted guns vomited death and made the deck planks buck beneath the gun crews' feet.

"Aye! That it is!" replied the captain. Boye barked his enthusiastic agreement. "Make sure your men have weapons to hand—the Crabs are trying to board aft. Broadax and her men are taking the fight to them, but others may try to take advantage of the distraction."

"Aye, sir! We're ready!"

 

HewhocommandstheFleet was dismayed. "Why are they still shooting their cannon? How can they fight when they are attacking the Ship? No mind can control fighting hand-to-hand and firing cannon at the same time! No one can do that!"

 

Rear Admiral Middlemuss looked at the Fang with something approaching awe.

She was like a comet, surrounded by a large cloud of Crab gunboats, but there was still a tail of at least a hundred, maybe two hundred more following her, swirling in and out, trying to get shots off at her. Her upperside mainmast and mizzenmast were shattered, with the top half of the mizzen totally shot away. Blood flowed from her decks. And still they fought, blazing away with cannon from both broadsides, with the stern guns taking their toll on the followers, and the bow cannon taking out any who approached too close to their course. She wasn't making more than five or six knots now, but the Fang was still fighting. And, most importantly, she was totally dominating the attention of the Crab fleet.

"Damned if he hasn't gotten them in a perfect shooting gallery lineup for us," the admiral muttered. "And I don't think the buggers even know we're here yet!"

He yelled up at his signal lieutenant, "Signal hoist to read, 'All Ships, turn to greenside, on my mark. Form line ahead. Engage as targets bear. Maximum firing rates. Friendly target danger-close.' Got that?"

"Aye, sir!"

He turned to his flag captain, Captain Stavros of the Frigate Asimov. "You understand my intent, then, Captain?"

"Yes, sir. On your command we'll turn to the greenside, form a line of battle, and start pounding the Crab Ships as we sail past them. Since the Crabs all mount their cannons forward, they'll have to break off from the Fang to attack us, and incidentally make themselves dead in the water, then we can make them dead indeed!" he finished with savage glee.

"You've got it. It'll be point-blank range for the guns so make sure your boys are ready."

"We'll be ready, Admiral, don't worry. Trust me, we're all ready for some payback!"

 

Melville read the flag hoists as well, with a surge of joy in his heart. That crusty, poker playing, old S.O.B. actually came through for us! Now we just have to survive for a few more minutes.

"Mr. Barlet, we're about to have some friendly company off our redside. Make sure your gunners cease fire when the line of battle comes into our firing arc."

 

The Crabs' attempt at boarding had been well and truly defeated. The flood of marines down into the Crab Ship, from both the upper and lower sides, had turned the table on the enemy boarders, sending them scurrying back in full flight, discouraged, disheartened, and dismayed. But not before Asquith, Fielder, and the quarterdeck crew spent a few frantic minutes potting the Crabs that climbed over the lowerside quarterdeck rail. The deck was littered with twitching Crabs and a handful of writhing humans in their mutual death agonies. The rapid, accurate fire from Asquith's pistols had amazed Fielder. He contributed when he could, in between his responsibilities conning and fighting the Ship as a whole.

Damn, Fielder thought as he watched Asquith's guns blaze and Crabs drop like flies, that psycho, Ulrich, has really trained Bert to perform under pressure. I wonder what our little earthling could do with a decent pistol, like those .45s we had down on the planet. Going to have to introduce him to those soon. Real soon!

 

On the upperside quarterdeck Grenoble, the two rangers and the dogs—along with their monkeys—served the same purpose, hammering the invaders with such gleeful efficiency that Melville and the quartermaster never even had to participate.

 

The quarterdeck personnel, above and below, only had to defend themselves for a few brief minutes before the Fang's marines hit the Crabs. The lunging line of bayonets moved across the enemy's lowerside bow with Broadax at the center. Fielder watched her pounce forward and sink her ax into the thorax of one of the enemy's big fighter Crabs, while her monkey deflected the alien creature's scorpion-like stinger. Her blow sounded like an ax biting into a log, smashing the big Crab down into the deck and cracking its shell like a coconut. A splash of green ichor fountained out in all directions from the creature as its innards came out, under compression, from the mashed body. Then she tore her ax out as you would from a chopping block, pulling a ropey string of green slime back with the axhead.

Working together as one, Dwakins and Rawl fought beside her, and they fought well.

Above and below, the marines moved forward like a butchering machine run amok, slicing and dicing the Crabs, pausing for a single volley of massed fire on command, and then pushing forward into the mass.

 

"Daniel," said Asquith quietly as they watched the marine machine at work aboard the enemy Ship. "Am I mistaken, or did I just hear Dwakins and Rawl shouting, 'Wreckdum! Wreckdum!' over there? What in the hell is that all about?"

"I really don't want to know, Bert."

 

"Execute!" ordered the admiral, and the line of battle, all the seaworthy Ships (or as close to seaworthy as they could make them and still get underway in time) turned nimbly to their greenside, forming a line of battle, like a string of ducklings following their mother, the flagship Asimov.

Middlemuss pumped a fist in the air in excitement, then quickly placed his hands together behind his back. He tried to maintain a calm stately demeanor, but the huge smile on his face gave him away as he observed the Fang draw closer to his beam at about five hundred yards distance. His gunners and officers watched him like a pack of dogs eager to be unleashed, waiting impatiently for the chance to fall upon these scum who had caught them by surprise. The time for retribution was approaching—quickly.

 

Melville strode the upper quarterdeck, stepping over a groaning sailor. Much as it hurt to leave the man, the captain's job was to keep the entire crew alive, not just one wounded crewman. So Melville simply called "Corpsman! Over here!" and kept going.

He glanced over the stern and verified that the marines had their battle in hand. Fighting was still fierce but it seemed to be concentrated at the stern of the Crab Ship.

He looked around the quarterdeck and noted with sorrow that the quartermasters had both been killed or wounded, and that a seaman named Simpson was manning the wheel. Tiny Aquinar was still standing his watch, hobbling around on his wounded leg and breathing deeply as he awaited orders. Melville nodded to him, "Mr. Aquinar, have the signalman make the signal for 'Reporting for duty.'"

"I'll do it sir," said Aquinar quietly. "Signalman's dead."

Melville felt ashamed that he hadn't even noticed. "Mr. Barlet," he called over the quarterdeck rail, "the redside batteries will cease fire on my command."

"Aye, sir!" the master gunner replied.

Melville watched as the Westerness Ships came closer to his beam... closer... closer.

"Signal from flagship, sir," said Asquith. "Return to port!"

"Thank you. Mr. Barlet... redside batteries only, cease fire!"

 

Midshipman Hayl felt the deck heave beneath him and the air was suddenly filled with a shower of deadly wooden shards and falling rigging as yet another cannonball smashed into Fang's mainmast. Other balls screamed overhead like tortured souls escaping from hell.

All around him the mast, decks, and railing were splashed with blood, as though the Ship were being painted by a lunatic. Men were being pulped into purple and scarlet masses by the enemy fire and falling spars that burst through the protective netting. He felt the tug of small splinters and debris on his clothing and wet splatters on his face. Looking down, he saw flecks of gristle and blood on his white pants.

Initially, Hayl was the upper redside battery commander. His guns hadn't gotten much play at first, and he and his gun crews had quietly watched as Midshipman Palmer, Mr. Barlet, and Captain Melville worked the stern chasers and the upper greenside battery. Then the enemy had begun to pull around the Fang's redside, and suddenly his guns were very busy.

When Midshipman Palmer was called to replace the injured Aquinar on the upper quarterdeck, Hayl had to fill in and command both the greenside and the redside batteries. He allocated targets whenever the captain or the master gunner didn't, he saw to a steady supply of shot for the guns and water for the crews, and he redistributed manpower as men were injured and killed.

Then Palmer had died while commanding the quarterdeck, and Hayl's duties and responsibilities became even greater! He still could not yet fully grasp the fact that the deep voiced, giant of a boy was dead.

Fortunately, Aquinar had limped back from the hospital to resume his duties on the quarterdeck. Hayl deeply respected the courage that it took to come back to the fight. The hospital wasn't really all that much safer, but it would have been tempting to just hunker down there and make the most of your wound. But not little Aquinar.

Young Hayl had been pushed to the limits of his endurance. He tried to be everywhere, encouraging, exhorting, assisting, directing, and allocating resources for his guns. His new arm sent a constant message of support and reassurance from the Fang, and his monkey's belaying pin had blocked a dozen deadly splinters.

One of his 12-pounders, Bad Ju-Ju, had been upended by a direct hit, killing or wounding half the gun crew. He had reassigned the survivors and kept the guns firing. It became an obsession with him. The guns must be fed. They must keep firing! They could not stop. They must not stop.

The air shook with each crash of Fang's guns as she gave far more than she received, and her guns, her vicious, feral guns screamed out their hate and wrath. "Cha-DOOM!!" And a cannon sprang back inboard where it was caught by its tackle. The sweat-soaked crew reached for fresh fodder to feed their guns, rammed two balls down its throat, and then ran the heavy cannon back out with a squeal like dying hogs.

"Cha-DOOM!!" "Cha-DOOM!!" The guns pounded like a great, thundering heartbeat, and Hayl knew that if that heart stopped beating, the Ship, and everyone aboard her, would stop living.

The young, one-armed middie felt shocked, stunned, and amazed when the captain gave the command command and the redside guns finally stopped. It was almost as if his own heart had ceased beating.

But they still had the greenside battery to feed and fire. He redirected dazed crewmen, pushing and shoving them to assist the exhausted greenside gunners. And the beat went on...

 

HewhocommandstheFleet pulled his mangled foreclaw out of his mouth and watched with satisfaction as one whole side of the hated enemy Ship finally fell silent. It was working! The Royalslayer's sluggish Hivemind was finally turned toward repelling the boarders! He gathered himself to order a mass attack on that side when he felt the sudden confusion of theFleet's Hivemind.

He whipped his head around, trying to pinpoint the source... and finally saw them! "Ships!" he cried. "The fleet from the Pier is here! How? How?"

The attendants around him groveled and the whole Fleet's Hivemind came to a halt as he snatched up an eager attendant, bit its head off, and sucked its brains out. The little Crab's final conscious act was a cry of blissful joy.

Under stress, and in the absence of Royalty, the neural matter from his attendants would go to the admiral's brain and he could be transformed to Royal status, with true Royal command abilities.

But, damn, he was quickly running out of attendants!

And the soldiers' skulls were too damned thick to suck their brains out...

He started to give orders to save his fleet, then stopped, wondering why his voice was muffled. Blast! He had his foreclaw in his mouth again. The urge to devour another attendant was overwhelming, and there were several juicy specimens gathered round, eagerly bobbing their heads up to have their brains consumed. But he had to give orders first!

"Retreat!Runaway!Run!Run!" he cried aloud, throwing his claws out frantically and flinging an attendant into two-space with a last wail of confused despair. HewhocommandstheFleet was also sending the same signal, to the best of his limited ability, at all empathic, telepathic and gestalt levels.

"Quick, signal the retreat!" he called out to Hewhosendsthesignals. HewhocommandstheFleet ripped an arm off of the signal officer and began to beat him with it as the hapless Crab raised the signal flags up the halyard.

Then the enemy fleet opened fire.

 

"Commence firing as the targets come to bear!" ordered the admiral.

He watched with intense satisfaction as the Asimov's broadside rang out from bow to stern, ripping out close-range blasts from their double-shotted cannon, smashing the Crab boats in crushing volleys of 12-pound balls. The gun crews reloaded with a will, returning the guns to battery to deliver their message of vengeance to the next lucky Crabs in line. As each Ship cleared the Fang, they commenced to fire in turn, smashing swathes of the Crab's Ships from two-space.

"Damn, I love it when a plan comes together," said Middlemuss to his chief of staff. "Especially one thrown together on a wing and a prayer like this one."

Captain Stockard replied thoughtfully, "I'd have to say that this plan relied a lot on Captain Melville giving us time to get out here. Seems like a lot of responsibility to heap on one young man's head at the last minute."

Middlemuss sighed. "Yes, it is. But he's the one who did the heaping. And I could tell from his poker that he plays one hell of a bluff. Damned glad I am that he played this bluff, too. Without him getting underway and taking out the attackers at the Pier and then distracting this fleet... Well, without him there wouldn't be a fleet."

"Aye, sir," Stockard replied. "Aye."

 

The Crab fleet began to dissolve like sugar in hot water. Between the pounding guns of the fleet and the broadsides of the Fang, their will to fight had been thoroughly shattered. They still outnumbered the Westerness Fleet, but with their courage—and their royalty!—gone, the remains of the Crab fleet started to run for the northern horizon.

Their guns were all mounted at the bow, which meant that they were turning their unarmed sterns to the bow chasers of their very irate pursuers. And while the Crab Ships were very fast, they weren't fast enough to escape unscathed—nowhere near fast enough.

For a stern chase is a long chase, and a faster Ship being pursued by a slower Ship can be in range for quite a long time. As the enemy fleet learned to their sorrow.

 

"Jarvis," said Broadax, "load up one o' them swivels and train it on the prisoners. If they try ta retake the Ship, ye know what ta do!"

He nodded and moved to a swivel gun mounted on the rail of the captured Crab Ship. Lance Corporal Jarvis was a right smart young lad, and Broadax was confident he could figure out how to make the thing work.

"Uh, sir," Broadax called over to Melville, "they's given up. Or at least they's stopped fightin'. An' yer right, Cap'n, they been studyin' us. Damnme if'n they don't talk our lingo! Sort o'. But they say they can only surrender ta royalty!"

Melville had come to the lower side to assess the damage on this half of his Ship. He and Fielder stood on the lower quarterdeck, watching the rout of the Crab fleet with subdued humor. The Fang was still intact, so to speak. She had taken damage. Terrible damage. And it hurt to even consider the butcher's bill, but she could still fight.

"Royalty?" said Melville. "Huh... Well... um, Lt. Fielder is a baronet. Mr. Fielder, the Crabs say they can only surrender to royalty. Go across and sort the matter out, please. There's a good fellow."

Not knowing what else to do, Melville then went back to the business of clearing the Ship's damage and making her ready for further action. It looked like the battle was over, but you never knew.

One thing warrior science had learned (and paid the price in blood to do so) was that if you relaxed after a battle, the price your body demanded was complete and utter exhaustion. That is why Napoleon had said, "The moment of greatest vulnerability is the instant immediately after victory." The best time to counterattack is after the enemy has won: when they let down their guard and were all suffering from the physiological backlash that came after battle.

Men were being carried below, to meet the tender mercies of Lady Elphinstone and her mates, sawing, cutting and stitching endlessly. Others were being dragged to the side, limp and emotionless, to await the sailmaker and his mates, who would sew them into their hammocks for the final journey.

Some of the wounded were moved to the other side, away from the dead, chatting quietly and watching the remaining hands at work with professional interest. Great masses of fallen cordage, shredded canvas, shattered wood, and a dismounted gun were strewn about. Men picked their way amongst it like stunned survivors of a Shipwreck.

To counter this post-combat letdown, Melville knew to keep the men busy. Keep them occupied doing the urgent tasks necessary to fight again if need be. Resupplying the ammunition for the guns, caring for the wounded, clearing away the damage, making repairs to the Ship's rigging—anything and everything that must be done if the Ship was to survive.

 

Melville stood on the upper quarterdeck and watched his crew scramble to repair the damage. Men and Sylvan were clambering aloft to splice severed lines, while the sound of pounding coming up through the deck told him that the carpenter and his mates were repairing damage to the hull.

The captain jerked in surprise as Thad Brun, one of the Fang's corpsmen, put a hand on his shoulder.

"Cap'n, you're gonna have ta go ta th' sick bay fer some o' these, but I'm gonna take out a couple o' t' worst fer now!"

Melville looked at him in surprise. "What are you talking about?"

"T' splinters, Cap'n. Ya didn't catch any bigguns, but 't looks like ya walked tru a cactus."

Melville stared at him, then looked down at his coat. His right side had a veritable forest of toothpick-sized splinters from his hips to mid chest. At first he thought none had penetrated until he realized the sodden feeling on his side was not sweat... and the damned things burned!

"Oh, hell," he said wearily, "not another session in the body shop."

"Naw," replied Doc Brun as he carefully worked his hand between the coat and his side and then suddenly lifted it clear of the skin to the accompaniment of what felt like a host of fire ants suddenly taking bites of his skin—and in unison, at that!

"Urrrk!" was about all Melville could manage as he rose to tiptoe.

"Eep!" said his monkey cheerfully. It joined Boye and the dog's monkey in craning their necks to observe the process with clinical interest.

"And why didn't you block those?" Melville asked his monkey accusingly.

The little creature held up a tattered, scarred and bullet-pocked belaying pin, shrugging innocently and expressively, as if to say, And just how in the hell was I supposed to have blocked them all?

"Yep," continued Doc Brun, oblivious to the captain's discomfort. "Nuttin' too serious here, jes' need a bit o' cleanin' out. But I think I'd take that coat off, 'twere I you. It's gots ta feel like a pincushion in there!"

"Thanks, I hadn't noticed!" retorted Melville. "And, Doc, have I mentioned lately that your bedside manner really sucks?"

"Yup, been tole that a'fore. Be glad ol' Doc Etzen didn't treatja, Cap'n. He's not near as gentle as me. Gots ta get back ta work. Yer okay fer now, skipper." And Brun picked up his equipment bag and headed for the next victim.

McAndrews and his monkey prepared the captain a mug of tea and then took his jacket, tut-tuting quietly as he and his monkey sadly examined the ruined garment. "That was yer best dress coat, too. Straight from the party to the battle," muttered the steward. "You coulda taken time to change first..."

 

Fielder was wide-eyed with amazement, an amazement that was tinged with considerable disgust and fear. But he hopped down from Fang's lowerside stern to the Crab Ship's bow and strode to their lower quarterdeck.

"What the hell is going on here," he asked the befuddled Broadax.

"areyouRoyalty?" chittered a little alien, as it waved its eye stalks, feelers, and front pinchers in his direction. "areyouNobleblood?" It sounded like a hyperglycemic child with a mouthful of marbles.

"Yes!" said Fielder arrogantly.

Through the Moss of their Ship the Crabs sensed the truth of Fielder's statement. "Royalty!Nobility!Royalty!" they cried, scuttling around him, tugging at his cuffs.

"Get back, you scum! Get back, I say!" spat Fielder as he sent them flying with kicks of his feet. But still they gathered around in ecstasy at the very idea of meeting true royalty. In horrified panic Fielder kicked one small Crab and stomped another of the groveling creatures, crunching them both into ichorous globs.

"Oh mah gawd we're dead now," said Broadax as she looked at the sudden swarm of Crabs all around them. "Git ready to sing yer death songs boys, Mr. Congeniality here 'as killed us all!" Then, with true dismay in her voice she added, "By the Lady, I can't believe I'm goin' to quaff ale in the hall of my ancestors, an' the only honor guard I can take down with me is a bunch of stinkin' overgrown piss ants!"

"yesyes!" cried the little creatures in ecstasy. "itisRoyalty! wearescum! wearescumtoher! shecrushesusbeneathherfeet! isproofofRoyalty!"

Then they pursued the panic-stricken Fielder across the quarterdeck with renewed vigor, crying, "crushme!crushme!"

Fielder was trapped in a corner, so he readily obliged them, still shouting, "Get back! Get back!" as the Crabs crunched beneath his feet.

One of the Crab officers, significantly bigger than the others, interceded. He started pushing the royalty smitten Crab crew out of the way, enlisting some help from a few of his crabby subordinates.

Finally they pushed back the infatuated tide, and the Crab officer approached the terrified Fielder.

"ihavekeptthemback!" it chittered, turning its eye stalks and feelers up to him. "ihaveservedyouwell!"

"Yes, yes, well done" said Fielder.

"nowcrushmeplease! crushme! chrushmeplease!"

"No! You are unworthy! You must take command of this vessel. Obey every order from our Ship. Obey every one of our crewman who is assigned to this Ship. If you serve us well in battle, I will come crush you as a reward, and place someone else in charge."

The Crab officer trembled in such ecstasy that his appendages rattled together. "yesyes! iwillserveyou!"

"Yes. Good. Be sure that you do." Then Fielder departed by the same route he arrived, and the Crab officer called after him.

"yes!yes! mayyouhavemanyyoung! mayyoureggsacksburst!"

Broadax and her marines simply looked on in openmouthed wonder. The Dwarrowdelf race had a strong meritocratic streak in them. Their leaders were often hereditary, but only if they proved themselves worthy. So it was that Broadax could speak with a passionate sincerity that most of the men of Westerness could not understand when she concluded, with wonder and disgust, "Gawddamn royalty. They're nothin' but stiff, starched, prong heads anyways!"

 

Later, Elphinstone tried to tend several of the dying aliens, attempting to treat them (or at least reduce their suffering) but also to understand them.

"I'm sorry that you had to die like this," the Sylvan surgeon told one of the little creatures that had been stomped by Fielder.

"no! isgood!" the alien gasped out. "isRoyalty. isNobleblood." Then its eye stalks rolled up and looked at her. "istrue? isRoyalty?"

"Yes," she said sadly. "I understand that he is a baronet."

"he? ismale?"

"Yes."

"ahhh. isgood," the crushed creature replied as it shuddered out its last breaths. "isRoyalty. couldbebetter. couldbefemale. likeQueen."

In dying ecstasy it spoke of its queen mother like a delirious, dying soldier would call out to his mother. "terribleasthedawn. treacherousasthesea. strongerthanthefoundationsoftheearth. allshallloveHer... anddespair. ilickQueenfoot asitcrushme...

Elphinstone could only shake her head sadly.

 

Midshipman Hayl stood, swaying with exhaustion and horror.

He could never tell the people at home about this. He could not speak of it, but he could never forget. He knew there would be dreams and nightmares about this battle.

But there was also a surge of pleasure, of great joy! There was the pure elation of being alive when he thought all was lost. There was the unspeakable satisfaction of looking in the eyes of living Shipmates and dead foe. The smell, the feel. It was in his blood!"

"Art thou happy, lad?" asked Grenoble, who came up beside him.

"Aye, sir," he replied with sincere surprise. "Aye. Is... is that okay, do you think?"

"The Scots, that great warrior tribe of thy homeworld have a proverb that says, 'Danger and delight grow on the same stalk.' Thou hast cause to be happy, lad. Thy Anne Bronte said that he who 'dares not grasp the thorn should never crave the rose.' Be happy. Rejoice in it. Thou hast earned it."

As the Fang limped into the Pier's atmosphere cloud, the guns on the glowing white bulwarks began to roar out a salute. A band was playing, the drums beating and the bugles calling out with wild, piercing cries of delight.

The Fang would have dipped her flag in return but the flag, the halyard, and the mast it flew from had all been shot to hell. A weary crew manned one of the 12-pounders and tried to return the Pier's salute, gun for gun, but they gave up after the cannons on the bulwarks just kept banging on and on...

Young Hayl was not the only one with tears in his eyes as the Fangs watched the crowds on the docks cheer themselves hoarse. Hayl's monkey screeched in triumph and his new arm surged with feral alien elation. God help him, he loved it.

 

* * *

 
 I remember the bulwarks by the shore,
And the fort upon the hill;
The sunrise gun, with its hollow roar,
The drum-beat repeated o'er and o'er,
And the bugle wild and shrill.
And the music of that old song
Throbs in my memory still:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."
 

* * *

 

Months later, the shattered remnants of theFleet returned to TheHive and HewhocommandstheFleet knelt trembling before TheQueen, ShefromWhomAllAuthorityflowed. He sighed with relief as he felt his skull crunch beneath TheQueen's powerful mandibles. At last the responsibility—and his head—was off his shoulders...

 

TheQueen carefully considered the information that flowed into her mind as she digested the neural matter of the pathetic, ineffectual male. HewhowashewhocommandstheFleet had developed quasi-Royal status during his long trip home, and She had briefly considered mating with him before sucking out his brain, but there was nothing of value in his genes. His status was pure happenstance, and then he failed to excel.

So, Her Fleet had been defeated. And Her best agent, a virtually immortal being that had served her species for untold thousands of years, had come back not just defeated but traumatized and destroyed. These "humans" had overcome the best She had to offer. Twice!

But lives lost in battle were as nothing to her. She felt about them like a sailor might think (if he thought at all) about brain cells lost to a hard night's drinking. The important thing was that She had learned much in the process.

She now knew the enemy's two great strengths. The humans' two ultimate weapons. One was a powerful, virtually unbeatable Ship, stolen from Her Guldur allies. The other was a malevolent, vicious creature called "cats."

The human's ill gotten Ship was slow, and its sails were dead. Still, this enemy Ship was going to be hard to destroy, and She would not underestimate it again.

The good news was that Her agent had brought the solution to cats. Soon Her agents everywhere would begin to distribute the powerful bio-toxin that would strip the humans of their cats.

She savored the knowledge that these "cats" would soon suffer every flavor of torment!

 

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