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CHAPTER THE 17TH
Taking the Long Way Home: "The Souls of Fire"

 
But to the souls of fire I give more fire,
and to those who are manful
I give a might more than man.
 
These are the heroes,
the sons of the immortals who are blessed...
for I drive them forth by strange paths
that they may fight the titans and the monsters
and the enemies of Gods and men...

Charles Kingsley
Canon of Westminster and Chaplain to Queen Victoria

 

Who was that old general who said that the only thing as bad as losing a battle is winning one? Melville thought to himself in pain.

He had left the sick bay after being treated by Mrs. Vodi and Lady Elphinstone. As usual, they had also treated the young captain to a tongue lashing intended to make him more careful in the future.

"Its my job," he replied. "I've got to be a good example to the crew," he replied.

"Sorry to burst your bubble, Captain," said Mrs. Vodi, "but you look more like a horrible warning!"

He responded with a shrug—which hurt—and an insouciant grin, saying, "An anonymous wise man once wrote that, 'Life is not a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well-preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming, "Wow! What a ride!"'"

"Well, Captain, thy 'ride' hast been naught but an uncontrolled fall thus far." replied Elphinstone. "In medical terms thou art what we call CTD: circling the drain. If thou hast any plans beyond the next few years, thou wouldst be well advised to learn how to apply the brakes."

 

Melville looked at his Ship in dismay as Fielder, Hans, and DeWalt stood with him on the upperside gundeck.

The Fang's hull had been pierced, smashed, and gouged in a surprising number of places. The rigging looked as if a maniac with a carving knife had been hacking out bits and pieces of rope, canvas, and wood, and then reglued them together at random. That was due to the topmen working like fiends to keep the masts, spars, sails, and rigging functional throughout the battle.

The Keel though (the all-important Keel!) was miraculously untouched.

The nets rigged above the main deck had proven useful in saving more than a few lives—much to Fielder's mixed disgust and satisfaction. Disgust that the idea worked, and satisfaction that he wouldn't have to find more men to man the Ship.

No, give the man his due, Melville thought. The satisfaction was due to the men's lives being saved. Fielder might be a thorough bastard at times, but he cared about his men. Of course, the reason (or so Fielder explained to anyone who asked) was that qualified, competent men who were thoroughly trained would keep him alive longer. Luckily, no one had ever said he had to like them all! But respect for competence, now that was important. And the thought of losing a competent sailor was enough for Fielder to suggest that the idea for rigging nets be submitted to the Admiralty as well as the Naval Institute Proceedings. Melville suspected that his first officer might need to visit a local dentist before they left again—the way that man ground his teeth!

Walking with Fang's first officer, carpenter, and sailing master to survey the damage to their Ship was a sobering experience. Here, a shattered gun carriage, the 12-pound cannon still lying on the deck, with the area around it splashed with dark, dried blood, emitting a faint burned-pork smell overshadowed by the iron-coppery reek of blood and the stench of feces and urine—both purged and riven from sailors—still hanging in the air. Underfoot the deck was littered with splinters (as if a chunk of wood a foot and a half long and an inch through could truly qualify as a "splinter"!) rammed into the Nimbrell wood. And over there, a smear of blood and other... things less easily identifiable coated the bulkhead. Enough! he thought bleakly.

As they climbed down into the upper hull, the first thing that met the captain's eye was a hole in the hull that a boy could crawl through. "Gentlemen," he said, "your opinions of the damage?"

They looked at each other, then Hans nodded and spoke first. "Well, sir," he said, then paused as he and his monkey spit tobacco juice out yet another hole smashed through the hull of the Ship, "yer know, the old gal is actually pert' near seaworthy. Hull's good, got sum patchin' ta do. Prolly have ta replace the upperside mainmast and mizzenmast, it wus only quick work on riggin' an' stays kept 'em up, they's so beat ta hell. A helluva lot of riggin' ta be replaced. An' some o' the yards is sprung bad. Got's ta replace most o' the canvas too." Hans stopped talking, chewed slowly on his wad of tobacco, shifted the cud to his other cheek and looked over at Melville.

"Cap'n, I gots ta talk 'bout the sails. Them glowy ones the Crabs had." Hans looked over at Melville who simply nodded for him to continue.

"I bin lookin' the stuff over. It's light. 'Bout half the weight o' our canvas. An' the glowy stuff is Elbereth's Moss!" he finished reverently. "Lady Elbereth's Gift, on sails! Who'd a thunk it! Midshipman Hayl dun brought it ta me. Said Fang liked it main well, so's he'd been talkin' to the Crabs. He's sayin' that they's sorter fascinated with his hook, so he got's 'em talkin' 'bout it, an' they tol' him they grow this stuff! He says one o' dem Crabs can start growin' it on the sails, an' it'll grow an' take over from the canvas."

<<I W A N T / D E S I R E / N E E D T H I S!>> came blasting into Melville's mind so strongly he winced, as did DeWalt, followed by scandalized and annoyed eeks from their monkeys.

Melville shook his head carefully, then said, "And I imagine you want permission to start trying to farm our sails with this Moss growing material?"

"Well, sir, I know it's a new ideer, an' even though I ain't much on newfangled things..." He trailed off for a moment. "Even so, yessir, I do recommend we tries it. I mean, it's the Lady's Gift! It's meant to be used! I don't mean to git all religious an' mystical, but it's like the Lady herself's given it to us, to help keep us outta the hands o' the Elder King. So, mebbe we'll try it on one sail first, ya knows?"

Melville nodded. "Good, good. If we can use this new 'Mossy' sail instead of canvas, then that will shave quite a few tons of weight off of our vessel, which should correlate to some speed improvement. Not to mention, Fang seems curiously intent on obtaining sails made of this material. And, in all honesty, I think it might be best to keep our gallant lady happy with whatever finery she so desires."

DeWalt smiled and said, "I think that the sailcloth may have more effect than simply weight reduction. In any case, though, Fang does seem intent on them. I thought our Fang was going to take my head off in her eagerness to get these sails! And with due cause, I do believe."

"Please explain," said Melville, who was eager to learn any Celebri secrets that his carpenter might let slip."Captain," said DeWalt carefully, "I've been examining the Crab Ship. The 18-pound cannon are nice, very nice indeed. Still, in comparison to the 24-pounders, they are not truly that important. But there are two other... treasures aboard that Ship. Treasures of unimaginable worth. First are the swivel guns!"

"I like the sound of 'treasures of unimaginable worth,'" said Fielder as he leaned against a bulkhead and crossed his arms. "Although my capacity for imagining treasure may be better than you think. But how could these little popgun swivels be of value, Joby? They can't be much more than a three-pounder."

"I have to be careful about giving away secrets here," replied the carpenter, licking his lips, "but it is as if you had horses and cats, but no dogs! Nothing to fill that gap! The ships of Hornblower's days were littered with swivel guns, and they were a key ingredient in the ship-to-ship battle. Kind of the machine gun of their day. But we don't have that, and we can't... er, can't 'design' one. We don't have the ability to make it. If you had any idea of the resources and effort that have gone into making them across the years! Well, believe me, it has remained one of the top three items in the Celebri wish list."

"Hmmm, and what are the other two?" asked Melville, trying to be casual.

"I can't say, Captain. I've already given away more than I should. But war is upon us now, and believe me, these swivels will be of incredible value. And the Celebri will reward the Fang enormously for two of them."

"Once again, it has to be two, eh?" Melville probed. "As though you had to breed them?"

"Captain, I implore you to keep that kind of conjecture to yourself."

"Very well," said his captain with a nod. "Please continue. You said there were two treasures?"

"Aye," continued DeWalt excitedly. "The other is the sailcloth!"

"Was that on the Celebri wish list?" asked Fielder.

"Ha! We never even thought of it as a possibility. It is beyond our wildest dreams! Truly, sending samples of the sail material to the Guild headquarters, along with some Crabs to tend it, is of vast importance. We all understand that the amount of Moss living as part of the entity affects its ability. The bigger the gun, boat, or Ship, the 'smarter' the entity. I am only conjecturing now, but I think the value of the sails that allow growth of the Moss on them might be more important than the just the weight savings! The potential value includes the mental, or calculation ability of the Ship. And I think it might explain the impressive speed of the Crab boats!"

"Sez you," interjected Hans. "Damned mains'ls weigh a couple o' tons each, all by their ownselves! The weight alone explains the diff'r'nce!"

"Be that as it may," said DeWalt, "I think the added area of Moss growth may prove to be more important in the long run. And what if this sailcloth is better at catching the 'winds' of two-space? We don't really know what it is that our sails catch. Many experts believe that it is a two-space manifestation of gravitational forces. We just call it the 'wind' to explain how it can push our sails. Whatever it is, it's entirely possible that this sailcloth, consisting of a two-space organism, would be better at catching the two-space wind, thus giving us greater speed!

"You know, Captain," the carpenter continued with a dreamy, distant look in his eyes, "it is a weird and wonderful galaxy out there. The Ships and guns are sentient, because they are capable of being coated with Moss. Why not the sails, which are an extension of the Ship! Or maybe even the rigging, or a sword, or who knows what?"

"Enough, Mr. DeWalt!" said Melville with a laugh and a kind hand on the man's broad shoulder, as he reeled his carpenter back into reality. "I believe that I can understand the potential importance of the sails. But right now, we need to get repairs started more than we need to debate the utility of captured Crab accouterments, correct?"

"Aye. Anyhow, Captain," DeWalt continued, "I take it that you noticed the Crabs were trying not to kill our Ship? The people, yes, but they wanted the Fang, and wanted her bad enough to keep trying to chip away at us rather than simply blasting our Keel at point-blank range. I find that rather disturbing myself, since I don't think our crabby friends have the physiological capability to climb through the rigging to sail her. And if they can't sail her, then why did they want her? That's a puzzle, and I simply don't like the answers I keep getting."

Fielder smiled sardonically. "You mean answers like the idea that the crab cakes were working with that scumbag of a Guldur Admiral?"

Melville grinned briefly and then winced as he tried to shrug. "I think we can take it as a working assumption that the Guldur were clearly involved in the planning for this somehow. Hope the cur chokes on this mess in any case. All right people, back to the main issue. And that issue being: time to repair the Ship. How long?" Melville fixed his officers with a gimlet eye.

DeWalt looked at Hans, who raised an eyebrow. The carpenter nodded and then said, "Captain, Mr. Hans and I have been discussing the very same thing. We're agreed that with just the Ship's resources we can be ready to get underway in two or three days. But—and it's a big one—we won't be in shape for combat. And, it looks like we're headed for more combat." He sighed and rolled his big shoulders to loosen them up. "For us to be combat ready, using Ship's resources, we're talking about five to six weeks minimum. We can do that without bankrupting the Ship—but just barely."

Melville scowled. "Damn, I really don't like those odds. How about using the Shipyard resources here on Hector?"

DeWalt nodded. "With the Shipyard's full resources, I can have the Fang out of here in under two weeks. Replace instead of repair, do it the fast way. And to be honest, I know the master of the local Celebri chapterhouse in Hector, and if I lead the work it'll get done better and faster."

He grinned. "Reason I know the masters here, is that one's my cousin, and the other married my little sister. And I was on the board that sat for their mastership."

He sobered quickly as he continued. "However, the odds on using the Shipyard are very low right now. They have five Westerness frigates they are trying to salvage and repair, which has the yard fully preoccupied."

Melville nodded thoughtfully. "All right, gentlemen. Complete the things that must be done immediately. Get your folks taken care of and make sure they're doing okay. Mr. Fielder and I have to finish the after-action report and have my clerk get it copied and over to Rear Admiral Middlemuss' office. Keep the folks going in two-in-three watches so they can get some rest, but make sure we have lookouts set in case the Crabs come back for another visit. And make sure that you get some rest."

"That goes fer you too, Cap'n!" said Hans with a grin. "Looks ta me like yer body's debtors is all lined up to collect on their IOUs!"

"Aye, Hans. You've got that right," replied Melville with yet another grin that turned into a wince. "I'm going to lead by example on this one."

 

Melville slept through most of the morning and felt pretty decent when he got up. He might not be the most patient man in the world, or the most cautious, and certainly not the most diplomatic, but he was right up there at the top of the line when it came to resiliency.

He smiled at the image in the mirror as he called for McAndrews. Time for a shave and to get cleaned up, and then...

Then he sobered as he thought, And then it's time to visit the naval hospital and see how Lady Elphinstone and the doctors had gotten along with my sailors. And then the letters to the families of the men that died, and having Brother Theo set up the funerals...

More funerals. Always there were the funerals...

Boye came over, sat on the floor next to him, and put his head on his person's knee. Melville absently rubbed the dog's ears. Their two monkeys were chittering happily to each other as they rooted out some small insect or alien vermin in the corner.

He leaned over and scratched Boye's chest with both hands. The dog immediately stuck his long tongue out to lick his person's face.

"Ahh, phhbtt," Melville hacked and spit as he pushed the dog away. "I should know never to have my mouth open near you unless I want to have my tonsils licked!"

Boye bounced up, ready to play, but was disappointed when his master turned back to the mirror to continue getting ready. Melville might have a lot of limitations and failures, but one thing he did well was living in the moment, with all its joys and pains. And for now, getting ready to face a most difficult day was sufficient.

 

Several days later, Melville was feeling relatively at peace with the world. The funerals were over, and the Fangs had grieved intensely but briefly. The repairs had begun, even though they weren't progressing very quickly. Hector's Shipyard was overwhelmed by the sudden influx of major repairs, and top priority was being given to Ships that were barely staying afloat. By virtue of her relatively intact condition, the Fang wasn't slated to receive dockyard support for another week, or three... or more.

Dockyard resources and supplies might be tight for a frigate, but Melville was able to scrape up sufficient materials to repair the one-masted Crab Ship they had captured. She would be a useful little tender and he was determined to keep her. There were many times when a small, fast Ship with a healthy bite could come in handy.

In a remarkable turn of events, Midshipman Hayl had been adopted by the Crabs and their Ship. Lt. Fielder had taken the young middie over to tell the Crabs that Hayl was in charge of a routine repair detail aboard their Ship. The first officer had wisely kept a phalanx of bayonet-armed marines around himself to prevent the royalty-besotted Crabs from mobbing him with their sycophantic scuttling.

The Crabs' initial response to the small, one-armed midshipman was intense curiosity. Then the bizarre crustaceans decided that Hayl must be Fielder's larva or pupae.

"threelimbs? isgrub! islarva! ispupae! royallarva! wewillprotecthim! wewillnurturehim!"

The Crabs seemed to watch over Hayl with a proprietary air, as someone to be cherished and protected. Unlike their adoration of Lt. Fielder, which was a completely different story. Talk about your one-sided love affair! Melville chuckled to himself as he reflected on the matter. The Crabs had an inbred adoration of royalty and hereditary nobility of any type. Fielder, on the other hand, absolutely loathed the Crabs. (He didn't even like seafood!) Since this was roughly the relationship the Crabs had with their own royalty, the little alien creatures felt right at home.

Fielder, though, was considerably less content with the situation. It looked like maybe the answer was to put Hayl in charge of the Crab Ship.

The captain's thoughts broke off suddenly as Midshipman Aquinar knocked on the door and then stuck his head and shoulders in. "Sir, Lt. McKurkle is here from the admiral's office," he said solemnly.

"Ah. Send him in straightway, would you?" Melville replied as he stood up and tucked in his shirt.

"Welcome, Kit." Melville smiled as his guest entered. "I thought I still had a few hours before we met for cards tonight," Melville added in a jesting manner.

The two of them had spent a good bit of time together over the last few days, most of it at the admiral's quarters. Large quantities of cigars and spirits had been reduced to smoke and fumes in working meetings at the admiral's office. In the present crisis, poker games were now somewhat fewer and farther between. But the admiral still managed to fit in some of his beloved poker sessions. He had an interesting method of deciding how to allocate scarce resources. He got the principal officers involved in the issue to attend a game, and hashed out the problems with the men involved over cards, sorting out problems and priorities.

Essentially it was the same business that would have been conducted in the flag conference room, but in much more congenial surroundings. And these occasions were helping the Admiral forge his fleet and officers together into a unit. But it took time, and time was something that Melville wasn't sure they had to spare.

"I have a feeling that all bets are off tonight, Thomas," Lt. McKurkle returned soberly. "Admiral Middlemuss sent me to bring you to his office as soon as possible. And no, I can't talk about it, but..." He looked up and met Melville's eyes. "I am also to tell you that the Fang will be transported to the Shipyard area at the beginning of the second shift, and you are to ensure that the Ship is prepared."

Melville looked at him closely. McKurkle looked serious, but then he often did. Melville wondered idly if a sober demeanor was something that was issued to all admiral's aides when they took the job.

"Aye, I'll pass the word immediately. And then we'll head over to the admiral's. I must confess, my curiosity is piqued."

 

"Dammit, Melville, sit down," said Rear Admiral Middlemuss. The admiral was reclining thoughtfully back in a chairdog and he gestured curtly to a matching dog. The coffee table between them was made of an exotic wood that seemed to trap the eye when you tried to follow the dark whorls of its grain. The room was filled with dark wood and thick rugs, smelling of the admiral's rich pipe tobacco, with faint undertones of beeswax polish and chairdog.

Melville eased himself down and the big creature woofed softly while Melville scratched behind its ears. The chairdog enticed him with its softness, as it was intended to, contouring and drawing him down into its furry warmth. Melville remained tense for a moment, and then he relaxed and allowed the creature to have its way as the admiral's steward passed him a steaming hot cup of deliciously sweet tea. As usual whenever he was in a chairdog, Melville's monkey began to quietly explore the big, soft creature.

"Well, Thomas, you've already been informed that your Ship is going into the Shipyard tonight. Before I explain, I want to know about your plans for this little Crab gunship that you've refitted."

Melville shrugged. "I see it as having great potential to be an extremely fast scout, tender, and consort for the Fang. Unless I'm forced to, I have no intention of selling it for prize money. The hive-mind crew of the Crab Ship bonds to royalty, and they have bonded to Baronet Fielder, my first officer, much to his dismay and embarrassment. He treats them, well, disdainfully, while everyone else tries to be nice. The result is that the enemy crew grovels and admires Fielder even more, since he's treating them exactly the way their own royalty does."

"Huh. I'll be damned," replied the admiral. "'Different strokes for different folks,' eh? From everything I've heard, your Fielder would best understand that."

"Aye, sir."

"Do you intend to put Fielder in command?"

"No, sir," Melville answered, sipping at his tea thoughtfully. "I don't think he'd stand for it. The Crabs seem to have accepted little Midshipman Hayl as Fielder's larva or grub. Their relationship to immature royalty or nobility is one of mutual love and affection that's easier for us to understand. So I'm thinking about putting Hayl in command of the Crab Ship, with a small crew of humans to support him."

"Be careful, damnit," the admiral growled. "It might be a trap."

"Aye, sir," Melville replied with a cocky grin. "It could be rigged with biological contaminants, alien saboteurs, or bad poetry. But I don't think so. My Ship tells me we should trust it, my gut says we can trust it, and I'd like to have it along."

"Okay, I can see where a Crab tender and scout would come in handy. And Lord knows, you'll need all the help I can give you. Anything you need from the dockyard will go to the Crab Ship as well as the Fang."

"Aye, sir...?" Melville responded, questioningly.

"You want to know what the hell's going on, that makes me grab you and pull you into my office, and shove the Fang ahead of half the other Ships for repair, most of whom have more senior captains and more serious damage, right?" Middlemuss lifted one corner of his mouth while his eyes narrowed with an "almost" smile.

The semi-smile disappeared as the admiral continued. "A fast mail packet arrived this morning. It came straight from the Admiralty on Earth, via Show Low." Melville sat up straight at the news.

"Oh, sit back, Thomas. It wasn't the old ladies at the Admiralty trying to stick their fingers in your eye again. Truth to tell, I would have much preferred that. Come to think of it, so would you."

Melville's eyebrows rose in astonishment before he corralled them, forcing himself to lean back in his chairdog and put on the poker face he had been practicing of late.

The admiral continued. "The Crabs' attack appears to have been timed to hit just before we got word of a Guldur attack on Westerness. Our Guldur guest probably received advance warning, as you saw, during last night's party. His Ship left port, heading west, immediately after he left the party. Shortly thereafter, the Crabs hit. But you know all about that."

The old admiral's face was grim as he continued. "The news is... overwhelming. We found out that Westerness has been invaded by the Guldur. Vast enemy fleets have swept through and devastated our empire. Dozens of small planets have fallen to the enemy before they could get warning, with everyone destroyed, hideously and horribly butchered by the Guldur. As word spread by fast Ships, hundreds of small, one-Pier worlds had to pull their Pier down or face invasion and destruction. All those Piers died when they were brought into three-space, but it was the only choice.

"Lord knows how long it will be before we can get back to those worlds with another Pier. Many of them only had a total population of a few thousand souls. The poor bastards may not be able to survive under these conditions."

Melville thought of all the planets they had visited on their lazy journey through the "smallness" of Westerness. Hundreds of those fragile frontier worlds would now have to fend for themselves. Many of them would die slow, lingering, horrible deaths: alone, afraid, and cut off from the rest of humanity.

"It was classic maneuver warfare. The Guldur didn't attack our strength. They cut through us, avoiding our main fleet and destroying our heartland, like Sherman's march to the sea during the American Civil War in the nineteenth century.

"This attack was a devastating economic loss to our star kingdom. And just the threat of another such invasion fleet may make the continued expansion and sustainment of Westerness, as it is currently happening, unviable. The only option is to go on the offensive. But the limitation in Keels and Piers means that it will be very difficult to launch a major offensive."

Melville felt a sick, stunned feeling in the pit of his stomach as the admiral continued grimly. He sat on the edge of his seat, oblivious to the chairdog's quiet protest, and placed his teacup carefully on the coffee table. His monkey also ignored the chairdog and quietly moved up to Melville's shoulder, its big eyes shining intelligently.

"The worst of it was what they did to Earth. Apparently, the Guldur dropped a bunch of tiny containers over the side while they conducted a raid on Earthport. They weren't really attacking the Pier. The raid was just a cover for the Guldur to get close enough that the containers could transition back to three-space in such a way that they were in Earth's atmosphere. High, but in atmosphere. As best we can tell, the containers were imbedded with the Elbereth Moss, or the Elder King's Gift, or whatever the hell caused the Crash."

The admiral stopped and looked at his pipe, playing with it for a moment before relighting it. "Once it got on Earth, the virus got into the Earth's grid..."

"Oh, dear Lord!" breathed Melville. "Another Crash. Except this one was intentionally started by our enemies."

"Aye. This is something we don't have to worry about. As citizens of the Kingdom of Westerness, we intentionally limit technology to levels that two-space will grudgingly accept. The Sylvans learned this lesson thousands of years ago, and we followed in their footsteps. But Earth has been one of our weak points, simply because they've refused to accept any restraints on their technology.

"So, as we read the scenario, on high-tech worlds like Earth, the enemy can send down some kind of bio-electronic virus bomb that creates another Crash. Any Ship can drop these bombs by simply passing over the two-space location of the planet.

"On Earth the result has been the death of billions, and an almost complete destruction of the infrastructure on the planet. Water purification, distribution, and pumping worldwide. The food factories that kept them all fed. The climate control and air circulation for underground warrens where they lived. You name it, it's broken. Virtually the entire population of Earth is wiped out. Most died horribly. Suffocated. Dehydrated. Starved..."

The pipe stem in Middlemuss' trembling hands snapped with a brittle sound, and he carefully laid it on the coffee table.

"The wheels have come off of any kind of World War II or Lord of the Rings analogy for our kingdom," the admiral continued, gazing down at his pipe sadly. "Basically, the Germans have nuked New York, the Orcs are in the Shire, and the Eastern Seaboard of the U.S. has been ravaged by Nazi panzer divisions. Decades, maybe centuries of bitter war are in front of us. And Westerness has paid the price for its obsession with peace and staying out of the Elder Race's affairs. Any government that is adamantly unwilling to pay war's butcher bill up front will inevitably pay it with compound interest in the end. There's an old, old quote by a man named Porteus:

 
"War its thousands slays,
Peace its ten thousands.
 

"In this case, though, it was tens of billions. Billions," he whispered. "Damn, I can barely even conceive of it!" the Admiral said while shaking his head slowly.

"And, with exquisite timing, their allies attacked us out here. There have been reports of enemy agents and sabotage everywhere." Then, with a thin smile, he continued, "Some bastard even dumped piranha in my koi pond. They might try to sabotage your Ship, Melville, so keep an eye out."

"Will do, sir, but we haven't seen anything so far."

Admiral Middlemuss nodded distractedly and continued. "The good news is that the billions of citizens on the Moon, Mars, Venus, Jupiter's moons, and all of Earth's other colonies are untouched. For them two-space was always a kind of unreal sideshow. But now war is upon them and they are taking it seriously. There is cause to believe that they will be invested in helping us as best they can."

And so, war was finally upon them, thought Melville. War. The bloody, tragic domain of tyrants. The sport of kings, emperors, and would-be gods. The acid test of men and of civilizations. The red forge of death and democracy, of fear and freedom. And the profession of warriors, who took their wages in the coin of death and glory, honor and pain. War had come to Westerness ... and to Earth.

"The rest of the good news is that the two Ships you captured, the Gnasher and the Biter, commanded by your two wolf cubs, were the only thing we had that could defeat the enemy. They've become quite the heroes back home, ultimately leading the fleet that drove the enemy off, harassing and hammering them halfway back across the Grey Rift."

Melville glowed with pleasure when he heard about Archer and Crater's triumph with Gnasher and Biter. He had been terribly tempted to steal their 24-pounders away from them, in order to fill the gaps in his Ship. But he couldn't bring himself to rob them of their precious guns when he knew that a war was coming. Now those guns, those magnificent guns had saved Westerness and sent the Guldur running with their tails between their legs. And on this side of the galaxy, Melville, his Ship and his guns had defended Westerness' western frontier. Those damned, deadly, rabid, magnificent, vicious, wonderful, savage guns had been the key to the survival of their civilization.

"And," said the admiral, "you're an even greater hero across whatever is left of Westerness. Which means the Admiralty—or at least certain senior members of it—hates and fears you more than ever. They've made it clear, in no uncertain terms, that you are not, under any circumstances, to come any further to the east than the Hero Cluster. In fact, I am under orders to send you on further west, and not to let you come back. You really have pissed-off the old, ossified coffin dodgers in the Admiralty, son. If it wasn't for the potential damage that their idiocy is doing to Westerness' survival, I'd congratulate you on the quality of your enemies, but as it is..." The admiral trailed off, shook his head, and continued.

"Of course, when those orders were written the Admiralty didn't know about the Crabs' attack on us. I'll follow my orders, but I will also use my authority, as the crown governor-general, to give you letters of marque and reprisal, to capture or destroy all Guldur and Crab Ships you should encounter."

"Damn them, sir! We're in the middle of a nightmare, and they're keeping their best Ship on the other side of the galaxy!" Melville paused for a moment to control his indignation at the infernal idiots at the Admiralty. Then he thought about what the admiral had just told him. 

"Huh. Letters of marque to capture Guldur. Thanks a lot sir. With respect, there's not much chance of capturing too many of them."

"Not around here, but if you go far enough west you will. Head out to help Captain Everet and our colony on Morning Glory. Assist and inform our Sylvan allies, and keep on going west, for as long and as far as you want. Hurt the bastards, son. Hurt 'em bad! Sooner or later you'll run out of Crabs and you'll catch the Guldur in the rear! Eventually you'll get back to Osgil.

"Capture their Ships and pull up any Pier that they don't take down. Do a Sherman's march combined with a Doolittle raid on them. Pull whatever inspiration you want from history, so long as it has you behind what they think are their front lines, hurting them!"

Middlemuss took a breath and continued a little more calmly. "Use your own judgment, just make the bastards bleed! I'm counting on you to be a running sore in the enemy's flank. Drain them of some of their strength. Capture what you can and sink the rest. Assist our friends and kill our enemies! And, by God, I hope you can tell the difference between them better than the Admiralty can!

"This may be the end of Westerness as we know it," the Admiral concluded weakly. "We truly are hanging by a thread. Earth is gone, billions dead, our kingdom in a shambles..."

Rear Admiral Middlemuss looked at Melville with a scowl that only partially belied his inner reflections. The boy is just... good. Decent and good, dammit! thought the admiral. That was the only way he could think to put it. He had never known anyone who could be called simply "good."

Without Fielder and his crew of alien thugs Melville would be helpless in the world, yet they are all magnified and somehow made stronger and better by their captain. The Almighty has woven him deeply into the fabric of the universe, he has been raised up to answer the challenge of the age, and the galaxy is a better, richer place for it.

That's what the admiral thought. What he said was, "Melville, a wise man once said that, 'Sometimes the sickeningly self-righteous—like you—are the last bastion of defense.'"

"Well... I wouldn't put it quite that way, sir."

"Humph. All your talk of duty and honor can be a bit cloying, but dammit, the truth is that you're right. You are our kingdom's forlorn hope. Even if no one else sees it, I do. And someone was foolish enough to put me in charge; so, by God, that's what's going to happen."

As always, Melville was caught off balance by the promise of peril and responsibility. It took him by surprise and his first reaction was that he didn't like it. Yet while his immediate response was almost despairing, soon the lure of the challenge and the promise of the future began to make itself felt. He had been given a free hand and an opportunity to make great contributions. And a chance to return to his princess on Osgil! What more could any man ask?

Of course, most of a galaxy—as well as several billion enemy—stood in the way. But that's no obstacle to true love! Melville grinned and said, "That a worthy task is impossible is no excuse for not attempting it."

The admiral slowly shook his head as he watched Melville's smile. The young captain was given a forlorn hope. A veritable suicide mission. And he was loving it. "Anything that is in my power to assist you, anything within reason and my authority, it's yours," assured the Admiral.

Melville thought quickly. He planned to pick up a flotilla of war prizes, and as this flotilla was assembled, he would have to see that every vessel had an officer who could be relied upon to read and transmit signals correctly. Unless communications were good, all discipline and order would be lost. And he needed someone to command the Crab Ships. Someone the Crabs would accept, like they accepted Hayl. That meant more middies. Lots of middies.

"Well, sir, I need a completely free hand from the Shipyard. Not just repairs, but all the supplies and spares I can fit aboard. And I'll need officers, midshipmen, and petty officers to take charge of prizes."

"Yes, yes, I'll tell the Shipyard's captain superintendent to give you anything you need. Humph. Every young captain's wish is to have his way with my Shipyard, like a lad lusting after my daughter," the admiral muttered with a sour grin.

"As to officers. Hmmm. I don't have authority to order the assignment of officers, only NAVPERS can do that. But I can give you permission to conduct field promotions within your Ship. That's a trick you seem to have already mastered, and you'd probably do it anyway once you leave my immediate authority. At least this way you won't have to worry about them being confirmed down the road. Hmmm, and I can give you some petty officers as well as fill you up with able-bodied seamen and marines. And Dr. Myriad-Forsythewald is begging to go with you. So I'm sending him along. He might just be useful. God knows he's a royal pain in the arse here, always nosing around and pulling those outrageous bluffs at the poker table!"

Then, with a scowl the admiral continued, "And as to middies, well, you can have all of them you want. Our star kingdom has hundreds of families with enough political connection to get a midshipman's rating for their boys, but not enough clout to get them into the academy. Impoverished, expendable younger sons have been foisted off on the Navy from across the kingdom and beyond, just to get them out of the way, with an outside chance that they can make their fortunes at sea. A sizable portion of them seem to wash up here, like flotsam on a distant beach. Try hard not to get them killed, but they're out here because nobody will miss them too badly. And if you make them all rich heroes you'll have support from every sector of Westerness!"

"Aye, thank you, sir."

"So, you are the man of the hour. They're just your sort out there Melville, all monsters and fierce beasties, the lot of them. Now you've got the war you've been calling for, and the kind of mission that I think you and your Ship were meant for. My career, on the other hand, will be destroyed either way. If you get sunk or captured I'm to blame. And if you make it back to Osgil those old women in the Admiralty will never forgive me. But this is what is best for the kingdom, and if the price is my own mediocre career, then so be it."

"Sir, this isn't what I wanted."

"I have no complaints. Thanks to you we survived a surprise attack from a superior force, and by God I led a fleet in battle! I'll see to it that word about your role here gets back to the press in Westerness. That'll put another knot in the Admiralty's panties!

"And besides, I'm counting on you to bring back a vast fleet of war prizes, and I'll get the admiral's share of it all. My career may be finished, but if you do your job, maybe I'll go out as a very rich man.

 

The work being done in the Shipyard was progressing better than Melville could have hoped. The tripod being used as a crane to install the new masts on the Fang had been erected in less than a watch, and dropping in the two new masts had taken less than a day.

The time-consuming part was the actual installation of the rigging to support the masts and sails, followed by the backbreaking work of actually putting the new sails into place. Since the two-space environment was so hostile to non-organic materials, the Ships of Westerness were all equipped with natural fiber canvas—strong, sturdy and unbelievably heavy to the uninformed. While Westerness' society was uniformly against unrestrained technology, almost every sailor would have been happy to use lighter materials—if they would only survive the environment.

Sails made from once-living materials were the only thing that would withstand the stresses and rigors of two-space for long enough to be useful. Silk would have been a good replacement—but when made thick enough to substitute for sailcloth it became prohibitively expensive. The high-tech replacements for silk lasted for only a few days in two-space before starting to degrade. The historical replacements such as nylon and kevlar and their ilk performed no better before their untimely demise.

Thus, canvas sailcloth made of cotton fibers reigned supreme in two-space, as it had for centuries on the sailing ships of Earth. To expedite rigging the sails, the Shipyard actually had heavy-duty block and tackle, kept on the planet below and fully inspected and tested before each and every use. This equipment still relied on old-fashioned human effort, but it let that muscle power be used much more efficiently, although with a greater element of risk than was normally tolerated in two-space.

Hans, Melville, and Brother Theo were watching from the Fang's upper quarterdeck, surrounded by a great whirlwind of activity and an all-encompassing din as the new sails were being hoisted up into place.

"Well, gentlemen," Melville told his companions as they watched the evolution, "I've officially put Mr. Hayl in charge of the Crab Ship we captured. He's named her the Sting, after that stinger that the Crab warriors have. He says the Ship is pleased with the name, and apparently the Sting and her crew are happy to have him in command."

"Aye, Cap'n," said Hans. "By the Lady, Mr. Hayl's a good call, if I may say so. But I told the lad he shoulda named her the Shrimp. Heh, heh! Git it? A tiny shellfish, eh?"

"I couldn't agree more," nodded Theo. "About Mr. Hayl, that is. For he is a choice young man, and goodly, and there is not among the children of Fang a goodlier person."

"Hmm, I'm glad you two agree. It's quite a responsibility for someone his age, but it seems to be working out. Mr. Hans, as soon as we get these sails on, let's get that new Crab sailcloth in place on the Fang so it can start growing."

"Aye, Cap'n!"

"You know," continued Melville, "we haven't really slowed down to think about it, but it really is amazing that the Crabs grow the sailcloth. I'm still trying to wrap my mind around the idea of growing something in two-space."

"Aye," Brother Theo agreed. "And if this material is cheaper than sailcloth... or even close!" He paused as he swallowed his excitement. "If it is cheaper, then we have a product that would make the crew of the Fang unbelievably wealthy if we could corner the market..."

Hans grinned at the purser and nodded his head happily. "Turns out there's nuffin' easier 'n growin' it. They gots a Crab what sews patches onta the sailcloth an' then the Crab encourages it t' grow, like." He frowned momentarily. "Not too sure how 'e does it. But it grows! An' when it grows it eats the sailcloth an replaces it wit' the glowin' sailcloth stuff. I still got that sail from the Crab Ship we rammed an' sunk, an' we can git it started on the upper and lower fores'ls right away, Cap'n."

"Aye, make it happen, Hans," Melville replied. Then he took a deep breath and said slowly to Brother Theo, "You know, if this sail material is as good as Fang thinks it is, it's going to be a huge edge for our Navy. I'm not sure it's even ethical to make a profit on something so important to the survival of our culture—hell, our very species!"

"Future profits, now..." said Theo thoughtfully.

"Aye," said Melville. "After we kick the Guldur's and their allies' butts back into their kennels. Then we can start claiming our due. Now there's an idea!" Melville and his purser grinned at each other as they considered the prospect.

Hans and his monkey spat over the side, carefully avoiding a working party repairing the damage to the hull below. Then he grimaced and said, "Beggin' yer pardon, Cap'n. Even if'n the sails are as good as the Fang thinks, they're still a change. I'm all for it, ya understand, but some sailors ain't gonna want ta change fer nothin'."

Melville nodded slowly. "I think this war is going to cause changes, Hans. Lots of 'em. Westerness has been comfortable with our stability and refusal to change, but we've reached a cusp. We must change or die. Die as a nation, maybe even as a species. Die as anything except slave fodder to the Guldur, the Crabs, and probably the Orak!" He inhaled deeply and continued.

"We've resisted technological advances beyond the late Victorian era—with only a few exceptions, such as World War I weapons like the Browning Automatic Rifle and the .45 auto, plus a few medical techniques and drugs like antibiotics and anesthesia. None of these things are used in two-space, because they won't work out here. But they are in use on the planets of Westerness as they develop the infrastructure needed to make them.

"Our people and our planets already have the knowledge to build an industrial civilization to rival anything in the twentieth century. They have the reference books, the blueprints, and the necessary know-how to do it all with no guessing, no research. And yet, we haven't. With the exception of Earth and her colonies inside Sol's solar system, all human worlds stayed low-tech.

"In two-space we are limited as to what technology, or complexity of equipment can be transported. So anybody we attack from a Ship will have to be conquered with muzzle loaders and sharp two-space steel. But the planets have the knowledge, and now the motivation, to winnow through the early decades of the twentieth century to find tools of war that they can reasonably build. Aircraft? Tanks? Possibly. Breech-loading artillery? Almost certainly. Heavy and light machine guns and mortars? Definitely. Most of those things were in use in World War I on old Earth. They would make it possible for a small force to clobber any two-space invader, and they wouldn't be vulnerable to a Crash. Frankly, these things are absolutely vital for the survival of our species and our civilization, and there's absolutely no excuse not to build them."

"Aye," added Theo. "It would seem to me that every world would, in effect, have two military organizations: a high-tech establishment for home defense (if you can call early-to-mid twentieth century high-tech) and a low-tech establishment for exploration, defense of trade routes, and offensive operations. Despite cultural biases toward conservatism, the advantages of modern technology for combat are sufficiently overwhelming that I really doubt anyone who is capable of building a tech base will forgo it. You know, Captain, this will make warfare a lot like the period in the Middle Ages when fortifications were largely invulnerable and they had to be taken primarily through siege or treachery."

"Good point," Melville replied, nodding thoughtfully. "For millennia there has not been any significant threat of interstellar war, so the various worlds and empires were free to go off in whatever direction pleased them. And, for a lot of people, given the chance, a pastoral, Victorian or Shire society—with advanced medicine and a few other 'cheats'—is very appealing. Now we will be forced to move away from that. But only slightly. Just moving from the 1890's to the 1920's will do the trick on most worlds, I think. And the very real example of what happened to Earth will prevent anyone from going too far in that direction."

Hans and Brother Theo were nodding thoughtfully as Melville continued bleakly.

"So there will be a transformation, my brothers. And these new sails may be the least of it. Given a choice between changing to keep your loved ones alive, or refusing to do so and watching them die... well given that clear choice, change generally wins. As Lord Byron said,

 
"A thousand years scarce serve to form a state:
An hour may lay it in the dust.
 

"And this hour, gentlemen," concluded Melville quietly, "may have laid Westerness in the dust."

"Not if we got anythin' ta say about it, by the Lady!" growled Hans.

"Amen," echoed Brother Theo grimly.

 

A side benefit of the Shipyard refit was that some liberty time was available. The opportunity for shore leave was there, but not the energy. At the end of their shifts most of the Fangs were too exhausted to do much more than share a beer or two before heading off to their racks.

There were some exceptions of course...

 

"Thank you for saving us, good sir. You will forever be the heroes of the Hero Cluster.

"'Tis our purpose in life, madam," replied Fielder with typical nonchalance, bending low to kiss her hand as he scanned her body, lingering over the key attractions. "But some duties are more rewarding than others."

"You are so modest!" cooed his admirer as she hung from his arm.

"He likes to practice modesty," said Asquith. "He's very proud of it. Good thing too. He'd be insufferable otherwise."

 

Roxy had negotiated with the local victuallers to fill them to the brim with food, including cold goods in all three crow's nests, and frozen goods secured in bundles at the crosstrees. While Jones had been reluctant to let Roxy do the negotiating, he had been mollified by Brother Theo's decision to allow him to acquire his own unique spices and condiments for the trip. Brother Theo was of the private opinion that most of the supplies he purchased could have been acquired much more cheaply at the local dump and charcoalry, but Jones' cuisine did seem to keep the Guldur happy. As well as one particular Dwarrowdelf, and that made it worth the expense and effort.

Besides, Brother Theo had made sure that the contracts with the Shipyard were established with the billing for all work and supplies coming from the kingdom's purse, rather than the Fang's own money. After all, the work was being done at a premium price at the request of the local flag officer, wasn't it? And since the Fang was being refitted at the Shipyard, provisioning the Ship after battle should be considered part of the repair rather than a normal expense, shouldn't it? Which left all that coin available for other important things—like a profitable cargo...

And while Brother Theo was that rarity among pursers—a reasonably honest man—no man became successful in that field without at least a touch of larceny in his soul!

 

"My final status report, sir," said Melville as he entered the admiral's office and placed a thin stack of paper on the big wooden desk.

Rear Admiral Middlemuss looked up from his work as the young captain entered. The confident grin on Melville's face reminded him of a quote by Admiral Bull Halsey in World War II, who said, "There are no great men, just great circumstances, and how they handle those circumstances will determine the outcome of history." And with such men as this, and those reprobates he calls a crew, will our history be determined, thought Middlemuss.

"Humph. More reports from Earth, Melville," said the admiral, tossing across a packet of official correspondence that had come in on the latest mail packet. "You are the man of the hour. The Ships you captured and the crews you trained have saved the day. Your 24-pounders are being reproduced by the Dwarrowdelf, Sylvans, and our own Celebri, thanks to you. My local Celebri guildmaster tells me that the Crab sailcloth and swivel guns being sent back to Westerness are an even bigger deal than the 24-pounders. I've sent the guns and the cloth, and some Crabs to tend or 'grow' the sailcloth, along with signed documents donating them to Queen and Crown, but only for the duration of the current war. Somewhere along the line they may make you rich, and I want to be sure that I get the admiral's share of any prize money and proceeds! I'm also saving some of the cloth, and the crabs to tend them, for my fleet."

Middlemuss snorted bemusedly as he continued. "And that blasted alien Ship of yours appears to have been single-handedly spreading war fever across Westerness. Everywhere the Fang was in port, she convinced the Pier, and the Pier told her story to every Ship that docked there, which in turn passed it on to every Pier that they docked in, which passed it on to the Ships that docked at those Piers. The bottom line is that, in a remarkably short time, every Ship and Pier in Westerness has become rabidly pro-war, which of course has influenced all the captains and their crews. Pretty damned effective PR campaign!

"Most intriguing of all, word is coming to us that those damned monkeys of yours are beginning to appear in your wake, everywhere that you've traveled! They'll come in real handy in this war, I think." He glared at the monkey on Melville's shoulder and muttered, "You mysterious little buggers!"

The monkey just shrugged with a look of wide-eyed, "Who, me?" innocence as the Admiral continued.

"So you've been spreading monkeys and war fever across Westerness, like a damned intergalactic plague ship! And it's spread like clap through a cheap dockside cathouse! This, combined with all your achievements, has completely turned the tide of popular opinion, making the Admiralty look even more foolish than ever. So they hate you all the more, because you've succeeded in proving to the entire known universe that they're galactic-class idiots."

"Aye, sir," replied Melville cautiously, not knowing what else to say.

"Sit down, dammit," said the admiral, gesturing to a chairdog, as he studied Melville's report. "According to this, and my chief of staff's report, your Ship is ready to get underway. All accounts for your Ship have been settled..." A strange, wry look passed over the admiral's face, a source of confusion to Melville until later when he spoke with Brother Theo about certain contracts and stores. "Your new crew members are aboard, your poker accounts have been settled. Or should I say winnings?" He bent a mildly reproachful eye upon the unrepentant Melville.

"Why, heavens, sir, just because some poor soul tried to run an outrageous bluff with the biggest pot of the night..." Melville grinned at him.

"Humph. Be that as it may." In spite of himself Middlemuss couldn't help but twitch a smile back. "I understand your Crabs are singing like songbirds, giving us excellent intel on the Crab civilization?"

"Well, Admiral, 'singing' is not exactly the right word for their speech," Melville replied, "but they seem to have no reluctance to share everything they know. Hayl and Dr. Myriad-Forsythewald are working with your intel staff and getting it all down on paper." Melville had a sudden fear that the admiral might claim the Sting and her Crabs for intelligence purposes, so he added, "Their knowledge might well make the difference between success and failure for us on this mission."

"Aye," agreed the Admiral as he slid a sheet of paper over the polished top of the desk. "They followed you home, so you can keep 'em. I've put your orders in writing. When you get to Osgil, there will be no doubt that you were acting under orders."

Melville looked at the lethal piece of paper. A single page filed with terse lines that would dispose of so many lives.

"And here are your letters of marque," added the admiral, sliding two more sheets of paper across the desk. Two more deadly scraps of paper, which unleashed the Fang to wreak havoc upon vast portions of the galaxy, held in check only by his conscience and the Laws of War. "Nobody has a clue what the format for a letter of marque ought to look like, but that is as legal and thorough as we could make it. Now be off with you." And then as a strange kind of blessing he added,

 
"Wert thou all that I wish thee,
great, glorious and free.
First flower of the earth
and first gem of the sea.
 

"Now git!" Middlemuss said, turning his back and looking out the window to hide the traitor tears in his eyes.

"Oh, and Melville," he growled over his shoulder, "tell that damned rascal of yours, Fielder, that a certain influential gentleman from the local government was inquiring about his location this morning. I understand my flag lieutenant made a small mistake and directed said gentleman to a, umm, house of lesser repute on the outskirts of the city. Just so he knows he's still making friends and influencing people. Eh?"

"Aye, sir." Melville strode out the door, shaking his head at the continuing follies of his first officer. Societal rules to Fielder were like fence-posts to a dog.

A jealous boyfriend? Melville mused. Maybe an outraged father? Perhaps a brother? Nah, probably a husband. Daniel's allergic to the possibility of having to get married, and he says the best way to avoid that unhappy fate is to woo only married women.

 

Melville hosted his officers to dinner that evening, and informed them of their mission.

"And so, the good news is, we're headed home. We thought we'd never see Westerness again, but by God we're headed home! The bad news is, we're taking the long way home."

"Humph!" Fielder snorted. "The 'long way,' eh? Most of the galaxy, at least two alien empires, and several billion enemy are in the way. And the path is across uncharted realms!"

"Aye," replied Melville with a touch of wonder in his voice. "Uncharted realms. As Swift put it,

 
"So geographers, in Afric-maps
With savage-pictures fill their gaps
And o'er uninhabitable downs
Place elephants for want of towns."
 

"Or they put 'Here be dragons!'" said Broadax, with a laugh and grin that looked like it should split her hairy face, "an' we're the dragon slayers!" Then she scowled and added, "An' we gots sum serious payback ta dish out to the raggedy-assed, sorry excuse fer dragons in them parts! By the Lady, if they got an ass, we'll kick it, and send 'em ta suck vacuum with the Elder King!"

"Amen," agreed Mrs. Vodi in a subdued voice. "I still can't believe that they are all dead. The fashion-eesta, the art-eests, all the silly, foolish, gentle people we saw on Earth... They're all dead?"

"Aye," replied Melville. "The lucky ones are dead. The few who remain alive may envy the dead. Hilaire Belloc wrote about the decadent, irreverent, foolish individual we met over and over again on Earth. He called that person The Barbarian. 'Discipline to him seems irrational,' and he is affronted that 'civilization should have offended him with priests and soldiers.'

"Belloc says that, 'We sit by and watch the Barbarian. We tolerate him; in the long stretches of peace we are not afraid. We are tickled by his irreverence, his comic inversion of our old certitudes and our fixed creeds refreshes us; we laugh. But as we laugh we are watched by large and awful faces from beyond: and on those faces there is no smile.'"

Melville sighed as he continued. "While Earth went its decadent, irreverent way, the Guldur were watching with awful faces from beyond. And they were not smiling. Now Earth is dead... But, my brothers, my sisters, we will avenge them! We will avenge the billions dead on Earth! We have a crack crew. If there is anyone in the galaxy who can get us through this mission alive it is you. But I will not have anything but volunteers on this mission."

"I just wish there were more of us," sulked Fielder. "Out of all the vast fleets in Westerness, it would be good if a few of them could come along to help us."

Merriment danced in Melville's eyes as he replied, "No, my friend. If we are marked to die, we are enough to do our country loss; and if to live, the fewer men, the greater share of honor.

"God's will! I pray thee, wish not one man more!

"By Jove, I am not covetous for gold, nor care I who doth feed upon my cost. It yearns me not if men my garments wear. Such outward things dwell not in my desires. But if it be a sin to covet honour, I am the most offending soul alive!

"No, faith, my brother, wish not one man from Westerness. God's peace! I would not lose so great an honor as one man more, methinks, would share from me for the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more!

"Rather proclaim it, Fielder, throughout my Ship, that he which hath no stomach for this fight, let him depart. His passport shall be made and crowns for convoy put into his purse. We would not die in that man's company that fears his fellowship to die with us!

"This Ship is called the Fang: he that outlives this voyage, and comes safe home, will stand a tip-toe when this Ship is named, and rouse him at the name of Fang. He that shall survive this voyage, and see old age, will feast his neighbors, then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars, and say, 'These wounds I had aboard the Fang!'

"Old men forget. Yet all shall be forgot, but he'll remember with advantages what feats he did that day. Then shall our names, familiar in his mouth as household words: Melville the captain, Fielder and Broadax, Hans and Barlet, Elphinstone and Vodi, Westminster and Valandil, Theo and DeWalt, Hayl and Sting, be in their flowing cups freshly remember'd.

"This story shall the good man teach his son; and the good Ship Fang shall be remember'd. From this day to the ending of the world, but we in it shall be remember'd. We few, we happy few, we band of brothers—and sisters! For he, or she, to-day that sheds their blood with me shall be my brother, shall be my sister. Be they ne'er so vile, this day shall gentle their condition. And gentlemen in Westerness now a-bed shall think themselves accursed they were not here, and hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks that fought with us aboard the Fang!"

This application of a classic bit of Shakespeare to their current situation brought a thrill of pleasure to every heart, and a thunderous roar of approval rang out as they drank to that.

Melville looked at his first officer and asked, "What say ye, Daniel?"

Shaking his head with the driest of all possible smiles Fielder responded, "Bah! As for me and my impoverished house, I have no choice." And indeed, it was true that no other Ship was apt to take him, and to stay in port would likely spell his doom when his many enemies caught up with him. (To say nothing of husbands!) "So, as Churchill said, 'Go for the swine'—or crabs or curs!—'with a blithe heart!'"

"Lt. Broadax?"

"A mission laced with danger an' destruction? Nay, verily eager for death and disaster? Wat more could a girl ask?!"

"Brother Theo?"

"There is a verse that warriors have claimed across the centuries," the monk replied. "Isaiah 6:8, 'I heard the voice of the Lord, saying, Whom shall I send, and who will go for us? Then said I, "Here am I Lord! Send me!"'"

One by one Melville's officers answered in the affirmative.

"Aye," concluded Melville. "Then tell those bastards that Fang is afoot in the land! The Fang is coming. And all hell's coming with us! War, war is still the cry! War even to the knife!"

Once again there was an answering roar of affirmation and a quaffing of the captain's excellent wine before Melville continued. "The admiral has let slip the dogs of war. In 2001, the United States back on Old Earth—God rest their souls—was attacked by terrorists, and over three-thousand citizens were murdered in a single day. You all know the rest of the story. After decades of peace, America let slip her dogs of war. A warrior poet wrote about those 'sheepdogs' who defended their flock in those days. Now Westerness has let slip her dogs, and these Words apply to us, every bit as much as those Words of Shakespeare's that I just shared:

 
"Most humans truly are like sheep
Wanting nothing more than peace to keep
To graze, grow fat and raise their young,
Sweet taste of clover on the tongue.
Their lives serene upon Life's farm,
They sense no threat nor fear no harm.
On verdant meadows, they forage free
With naught to fear, with naught to flee.
They pay their sheepdogs little heed
For there is no threat; there is no need.
 
"To the flock, sheepdogs are mysteries,
Roaming watchful round the peripheries.
These fang-toothed creatures bark, they roar
With the fetid reek of the carnivore,
Too like the wolf of legends told,
To be amongst our docile fold.
Who needs sheepdogs? What good are they?
They have no use, not in this day.
Lock them away, out of our sight
We have no need of their fierce might.
 
"But sudden in their midst a beast
Has come to kill, has come to feast
The wolves attack; they give no warning
Upon that calm September morning
They slash and kill with frenzied glee
Their passive helpless enemy
Who had no clue the wolves were there
Far roaming from their Eastern lair.
 
"Then from the carnage, from the rout,
Comes the cry, "Turn the sheepdogs out!"
Thus is our nature but too our plight
To keep our dogs on leashes tight
And live a life of illusive bliss
Hearing not the beast, his growl, his hiss.
 
"Until he has us by the throat,
We pay no heed; we take no note.
Not until he strikes us at our core
Will we unleash the Dogs of War
Only having felt the wolf pack's wrath
Do we loose the sheepdogs on its path.
 
"And the wolves will learn what we've shown before;
We love our sheep, we Dogs of War!"
 

* * *

 

Melville saw his guests out the door of his cabin, after a long night of planning and partaking of drink and discussion. Finally he was alone with Grenoble and Ulrich.

"I won't order you to do this, either, my friends," the captain said, looking at his mismatched set of bodyguards. "Tell me now if you want to opt out of this one, and I'll understand completely."

Grenoble responded, "A Hebrew proverb of thy Old Earth says, 'If someone is going to kill you, get up early and kill him first.' The Hagakure sets forth that a samurai's word is 'harder than metal.' I will keep my oath. Whither thou goest, I go. Let us get up early and kill the enemies of both our kingdoms. First!"

"Aye," muttered Ulrich in agreement. "Kill 'em first. Damn straighkt! Kill 'em all! An' let God sort 'em out!"

"Heeeere, kittykittykitty!" agreed his parrotlet.

"And I'll be hanging around too, sir," said McAndrews from behind him, where the portly steward and his monkey were clearing the table. "'As the Lord liveth, and as thy soul lives, I shall not leave thee.' There's not a manjack aboard who'd leave you, Captain. And you sure as hell can't get rid of me that easily," he added with a grin.

Melville looked at this faithful man, who lived only to serve. Then at the two bodyguards who were ready to stop a bullet for him. Through his feet his Ship sent a message of loyalty and trust from hundreds of other steadfast souls. And he felt a lump in his throat.

 
Think where man's glory most begins and ends
And say my glory was I had such friends.
 

* * *

 

The Fang's first officer, as usual, was profoundly depressed at the prospect of danger. "You know, the fate of all mankind... the fate of the galaxy, is in our hands," said Fielder in the wardroom after the captain's dinner. "That is just... so... so..."

The wardroom chimed in to help complete his sentence.

"Scary?"

"Sad?"

"Pathetic?"

"Awesome!"

Fielder put his head in his hands and muttered, "God help us."

 

Fang's large new batch of midshipmen, with a proper appreciation of the insignificance of their species, had come aboard with an awestricken, daunted hush.

Fielder and Asquith were watching as they were received aboard by Midshipman Jubal. The repairs to the Ship were complete, and the time had almost come to get underway.

"Are you coming with us?" Fielder ask the little earthling.

"Do I have a choice?" replied Asquith. "I've signed a contract in blood with my publisher. I'm going wherever the hell Thomas Melville and his crew of alien thugs goes. Lord help me!" he concluded with a weak grin.

"Hmm... Maybe. Maybe not. Have you considered the possibility that, amidst the tragic storm clouds of war there might have a small silver lining for you? That your publisher was probably killed and your contract nullified when the Guldur hit Earth?"

"Yes, I did. It made me feel lousy, thinking that all those people were killed and I got out of a contract that's probably going to get me killed just like them." Asquith sighed and shook his head. "I haven't quite grasped the fact that my whole planet is dead. I just can't... digest it. I think I'm going to have to see it before I really believe it...

"But I can adjust to the fact that publishers must be immortal! You've got to give him credit: Captain Ben James is a survivor. Turns out my publisher moved to the Moon, where low gravity combined with high-tech promises to keep him alive for another hundred years... probably just to torment me. He still has contacts though, since the letter from him got here on the most recent mail packet. Apparently the demise of Earth has turned my first book into an interstellar mega-bestseller, and there is no way that he's letting me off the hook."

Fielder commiserated in amused sympathy. "I guess we'll have the pleasure of your company for a while longer then. And it has all the makings of a long, desperate journey. Hmph. Traditionally, a suicide mission at least has the benefit of being brief."

"Life is sure strange," said Asquith despondently.

"As compared to what?" Fielder asked innocently.

"Well, dammit, I guess you've got me there."

"So, have you got your sequel written yet?"

Asquith snorted. "Hell, I've got two books for them. I sent the manuscript for everything that has happened so far, and now this forthcoming misadventure will be the third book in the series. That ought to keep my publisher happy. I can see it now: The Further Adventures of Captain Melville and His Merry Band of Hooligans, Aliens, Cutthroats and Other Fun People: Complete With his Cheering Section in the Red Jerseys Led by Our Own Inimitable Mistress of Mayhem Herself!"

"It's dangerous business, going out the door," said Fielder with an understanding nod. "You never know where the adventure will take you."

"I just wish I knew where we were going!"

"I know, but it's classified," replied Fielder, realizing full well that virtually every other soul aboard knew, and Asquith would find out soon enough. "If I told you I'd have to kill you."

"Do it, and put me out of my misery."

Fielder couldn't help but laugh. As always, he was pleased to find someone more miserable than himself when danger reared its ugly head. "Nope, it's best that you don't know," he replied. "That way, if we get captured, you can tell them that you're here against your will."

"I am here against my will!"

"Good job. Keep practicing."

 

The final preparations for departure were happening in a kaleidoscopic blur of activity. In the midst of everything else that needed to be done, a Ship arrived with that greatest of all delights to the sailor: letters from home. The Fangs had hoped that some mail would have caught up with them on Earth, or perhaps at Show Low, but those hopes had been in vain. Now many months worth of mail arrived in one batch, and activity about the Fang slowed to a crawl as everyone read their mail and posted their hasty responses to loved ones...

 

"Hmm," said Brother Theo, as he and the rest of the officers sat in the wardroom, quietly reading their mail and companionably exchanging tidbits of gossip, news, and information. "It seems that the monkeys have, indeed, appeared everywhere that Fang, Gnasher, and Biter have traveled, spreading spider monkeys like a virus. They're mostly attaching themselves to warriors. Not much more info. It'll be interesting to see how that develops. Methinks mankind has found a true friend."

"Look at this!" exclaimed Broadax holding up what looked for all the world like a large, misshapen rock. "Mah mum sent a loaf of Dwarrowdelf bread! Seems ta've survived the trip jist fine!" she added, as she started to beat a chunk off with the back of her ax.

"Hmm," added Fielder, holding up an amazingly similar lump of calcified matter. "My mother sent some of her fruitcake. After you're done hacking off a piece of your bread, I'd be obliged if you would apply the same technique to this."

"Damn! That does look good, doesn't it!" said Broadax, eying the fruitcake covetously.

"Huh!" said Westminster. "Ah got a letter from mah sister. Everyone's safe. The Guldur invasion was too far east to impact them. The big news is that there's trouble back in our church again. Apparently the finance committee refused to provide funds for the purchase of a chandelier, because none of the members know how to play one! She says that the new pastor asked Bubba to help take up the offering, and three guys and a gal stood up. Terrible confusion and bickering resulted from that little 'fox pass!'"

 

Up in the captain's cabin Melville was cherishing a letter from his betrothed, Princess Glaive. "My Knight, my Paladin," she wrote, "never doubt my love for thee, nor my faith that thou shalt return..."

"Aye," he whispered to the wind. "I'm coming." And he posted a reply. He and the letter were going around the galaxy in different directions. He wondered if he would arrive sooner than the letter, but he never doubted that he would arrive.

 

Early the next morning, the Fang and her new tender, the Sting, departed the Hero Cluster, headed due west, taking the long way home.

 

Before they left, Rear Admiral Middlemuss had given the Fangs a speech, exhorting and praising them, and quoting Churchill to say that he could "...promise nothing but blood, sweat, and tears!" to everyone in the Hero Cluster.

"Oh goodie," muttered Fielder. "We're going to take on several vast galactic empires with nothing but the admiral's personal bodily fluids."

 

The Fang made a proud sight, with her full panoply of sails, complete with Hans' prized royals and stuns'ls and her crew manning the rails in observance of old traditions as she exchanged salutes with the Ships remaining behind. The Fang's royals and stuns'ls would have made her stand out anywhere in the known galaxy. But her mainsail had a particularly singular appearance, with a section in the middle of the standard Navy sailcloth which appeared to be, well, glowing.

Captain Thomas Melville stood on his quarterdeck. Boye was next to him, front paws on the quarterdeck rail, barking with delirious doggy delight at the Sting sailing close beside them. The strange thing was how good he felt. It was good to be alive, and good to experience life with a double dose of the passion left in it.

Lord, he loved his job.

He loved his dear, betrothed Princess Glaive with as great and pure a love as any man could have for a women. But first and foremost he had to play a desperate game for mortal stake, for the future's sake. The game, his Duty, his job, this was his first love, and his first love was for this.

 
But yield who will to their separation,
My object in living is to unite
My avocation and my vocation
As my two eyes make one in sight.
 
Only where love and need are one,
and the work is play for mortal stakes,
Is the deed ever really done
For Heaven and the future's sakes.
 

* * *

 

Rear Admiral Middlemuss stood at the Pier watching the Fang as her sails sank into the west. Signal flags were sent from atop the bulwarks with a final message: "GOOD LUCK FANG. GOD SPEED."

A signal officer ran up to Admiral Middlemuss clutching a scrap of paper with Melville's response jotted down on it. "Sir," he said, "one last message from the Fang's signal halyard.

The admiral read the note and nodded.

It said three words: "BUT IF NOT."

 

Aboard his Ship (his Ship, by God!), Midshipman Anthony Hayl looked for the remnants of his former sadness, and found instead only an enormous joy. Something had broken inside, but the fissure didn't open up the usual well of sadness. Instead he discovered a fierce exultation that was all the more precious because it had been bought and paid in sweat and blood, stratagem and struggle, distress and discomfort, pain and torment, death and dismemberment.

Mr. Hans had helped him rig a topmast on the Sting, complete with a glowing topsail and Westerness-style rigging. This new sail was bringing the Sting up to completely new realms of speed, and his Crabs and his Ship loved it. She might just be the fastest Ship in the galaxy! And Mr. Hans was talking about adding stuns'ls!

The fate of the galaxy was hanging in the balance and they were sailing off into appalling danger, yet Hayl felt nothing but thrilled. Thrilled by what he was doing, and how very blessed and honored he was to be able to do it. The little bit of the Fang in his arm, and the Sting beneath his feet echoed and amplified his joy until he thought he would burst.

The Pier was sinking out of sight on the eastern horizon. It was just the two Ships out here together, and, dammit, he couldn't help himself.

"Quartermaster, take us on a lap around the Fang!"

"Aye, sir!" replied the crusty old sailor, feeling the boy's infectious elation.

There were six humans aboard Sting and all of them hooted with delight. Under his feet Hayl felt the Sting's joy, and through her he felt the reciprocal pleasure of his Crabs.

"Again! Take her in closer this time!"

Like a happy dog circling its master the Sting kept making laps and the Fangs hung over the railings and cheered them on.

 

Melville, Broadax, and Fielder were standing on the quarterdeck watching the Sting go past.

What a brave, splendid boy, Melville thought, as the one-armed midshipman and his Ship came whipping past them. During their voyages the captain had watched Hayl metamorphose from a caterpillar boy, into a deadly, butterfly-bright warrior and a leader of warriors.

"Huh!" he said to Fielder. "These young officers. Give 'em their own Ship and they think they don't have to answer to authority any more. Assign Mr. Hayl a mission, if you please, Mr. Fielder. Send him out scouting in front of us, out there, somewhere," he concluded, waving to the westward.

"Aye, sir," replied the first officer, who was sinking into a deep funk.

Casting one last glance at the Pier as is sunk below the horizon Fielder muttered, "Good bye, fool world."

"Hoo-yah!" shouted Broadax, as she and her monkey waved jubilantly at Hayl, fiercely echoing his pleasure.

The little middie waved back from the Sting with such joy that Melville couldn't help but grin back.

 

* * *

 
I remember the black wharves and the slips,
And the sea-tides tossing free;
And the Spanish sailors with bearded lips,
And the beauty and mystery of the ships,
And the magic of the sea.
And the voice of that wayward song
Is singing and saying still:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."
 

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