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CHAPTER THE 6TH
Rejoicing, Remorse, and Recovery: "Out from the Gloomy Past"

 
We have come over a way
that with tears has been watered,
We have come treading our path
thru' the blood of the slaughtered,
Out from the gloomy past,
till now we stand at last
Where the gleam of our bright star is cast.
 
Lift ev'ry voice and sing,
till earth and heaven ring,
Ring with the harmonies of liberty;
Let our rejoicing rise,
high as the list'ning skies,
Let it resound loud as the rolling sea.

"Lift Every Voice and Sing"
James Weldon Johnson

 

Lt. Broadax had just brought one of her wounded marines into the hospital. The unfortunate wretch was slung over her shoulder like a sack of potatoes being carried by an ambulatory fire hydrant, his feet dragging behind her. The marine moaned as his ankles thumped

into each step as she came up the inclined ladder—which sailors refused to call "stairs."

"Quit yer bitchin', dammit," Broadax grumbled through her cigar as she flipped her cargo onto a bed. "Sweat dries, blood clots, bones heal, but glory lasts forever! So suck it up, an' be a marine!" she said encouragingly. The marine landed next to a wounded Guldur sailor with blood-soaked bandages sealing a punctured right lung. Then she stopped to watch as Vodi and Elphinstone prepared to operate on Asquith.

The earthling had taken a shard of wood in his left eye. Another had lodged in the palm of his left hand after severing the middle finger. The finger was hanging by a thread of flesh, and the stump was oozing blood.

Asquith had recovered consciousness, but he was in a state of extreme shock, looking dazedly with his right eye at the shard of wood in his hand. He was still oblivious to the splinter that stuck out of his left eye like a broken tooth.

"I guess that's fate's way of giving you the finger, my friend," said Mrs. Vodi with a cheerful laugh. As she said this she reached out to hold his good hand to stop him from touching the splinter that was protruding from his eye socket. If nothing else, Vodi's patented bedside manner was guaranteed to distract her patients. And they needed to keep Asquith distracted from the wound to his eye for as long as they could.

"Don't worry," Lady Elphinstone reassured the patient. "We'll get that splinter out of thy hand, and we'll get thy finger reattached, good as new."

"Splinter!" said Asquith, surfing the crest of hysteria as he looked at the mass of white wood protruding from his hand. "You call that a 'splinter'? A splinter is something I can take out with tweezers! And just how do you primitives intend to do the microsurgery required to reattach my finger?"

"We use leeches and maggots in our surgery," said Vodi happily, as the surgeon began to prep the patient. "Right up until the twenty-first century they were still using leeches in microsurgery, then they were replaced by all kinds of exotic, high-tech goodies. Out here in two-space that stuff wouldn't last two seconds, so we use these little piggies. They'll suck up blood and inject enzymes that will make your blood vessels dilate, engorging themselves and swelling up to ten times their original size in the process."

"Mmm. Sounds kinda kinky," said Broadax with an evil chuckle and a wink at Vodi. The marine lieutenant had decided to hang around for a minute to watch the show. "I love that kinda talk," Broadax continued. "Do tell us more."

"Plus it provides a mild anesthetic so thou dost not even feel its presence," continued Elphinstone primly, pointedly ignoring the other two females in the room.

"Ah, 'at takes all the fun outta it!" cackled Broadax.

"We use a slosh of beer to draw them to the surface," said Mrs. Vodi as Lady Elphinstone pointedly ignored the lewd commentary and concentrated on her work. "The little devils love beer. There you go. Here come some cute ones to the top. Aren't they just lovely?"

Asquith whimpered and Broadax craned her neck, watching with the voyeuristic excitement of someone who isn't on the chopping block.

"The primary thing we use them for is to reattach severed limbs," Vodi continued. "They inject bunches of nature's own anticoagulant. We just slap them onto any severed limb, and these girls do the housework for us. Sucking up all that nasty old used blood, so it doesn't cause gangrene. Dilating blood vessels so the good blood can flow. What more can you ask?"

Asquith listened to all this in horrified wonder. "What more can you ask! OhGodOhGodOhGod! I'll tell you what you can ask! To be released from the clutches of depraved, sadistic people like you! Maggots! Leeches! What kind of doctor are you?!"

"Hmm," replied Elphinstone distractedly, as she finished strapping Asquith to the operating table with leather-coated chains. "The kind that might just save thy finger. But 'tis another matter that concerns me."

"Yes? What is that?" asked the diminutive earthling.

"Wouldst know what it is?"

"I said so!"

"Then I shall tell thee."

"Yes? And...?"

"'Tis this," she said, pointing sadly at the shard sticking out of his eye socket. "I'm afraid there's no hope for thine eye."

On that note Asquith gave a distracted, cross-eyed look from his right eye, focusing on the splinter protruding a few inches from the left socket. Then he suddenly realized why he was not receiving any information from that eye. He spasmodically tried to reach up with his hands to feel the wound, but he was firmly strapped to the table. Then he sighed and fainted.

 

Later, with his eye removed, the empty socket bandaged, his finger reconnected, and his dirty drawers changed, Asquith came to bleary consciousness. Vodi and Elphinstone were hovering over him.

"Well," said Vodi, "that splinter damned near punched through to your brain. It almost got you, but it looks like you'll come out of this adventure with nothing worse than an eye patch. Very rakish and stylish-looking it will be. Any preschooler would tell you that the patch is the mark of a true sailing Hero, every bit as much as a peg leg or parrot would be."

Asquith nodded blearily, and started to drift off to sleep.

With a gentle smile Lady Elphinstone added,

 

"So may'st thou live, till like ripe fruit thou drop

Into thy mother's lap."

 

"A healer's blessing," mumbled Asquith. "Thank you. But I don't think it's original. I think that's Milton..."

"Shh. 'Twill be our secret."

 

The two Ships remained lashed together as they exchanged crew members and supplies. Repairs were already begun and the wounded were all evacuated back to the Fang. The Guldur dead were dispatched with little ceremony, while the Fangs that had been killed were wrapped lovingly in sailcloth and brought back aboard their Ship.

The prize crew for Lt. Archer's new Ship was enjoying one last meal aboard the Fang while the final details were wrapped up. Melville whispered a little prayer for Archer and his men. Just a handful of good sailors could keep a Ship going in a straight line, but they would be doomed if they had to fight. Over lunch Archer filled Melville in on his telepathic contact with his new Ship.

"It was amazing, sir," said Archer. "My Ship told me I was a 'Good pup.'"

"Yeah, Fang told me the same thing," replied Melville with a laugh. "Congratulations, Buckley. You have won a Ship. She will be loyal to you, and there is no one in the galaxy who can take her away from you, short of killing you. Within a week you and your prize crew should be able to use the captured Guldur, just like we did aboard the Fang. Any idea what we should name her?"

"Well, sir," said Archer, gulping down a bite of Cookie's meat loaf covered in catsup, "like the Fang, she appears to have been named after a specific tooth in a Guldur's mouth." His next fork full came to his mouth empty as his monkey intercepted it with a lightning-fast flick of its truehand, and Archer never missed a beat as he sent his fork down for another bite. "Best I can figure, it's one of the back molars. So how does 'Gnasher' sound?"

"Excellent! I now pronounce you captain of Her Majesty, the Queen of Westerness' Ship, the Gnasher. Now get on over there and get some sail up on her while we police up the other Guldur Ship. As soon as you can get under way, set a course for Nordheim. I think the Dwarrowdelf there will make us welcome and help us refit. We should catch up with you shortly. If we don't show, just go on to Nordheim and then to Earth."

"Um, sir, one last question," said Archer. "I'm really honored and overwhelmed to be given my own Ship. It is the most coveted gift. But I gotta know, why didn't you give this opportunity to Lt. Fielder? He is senior."

"Well," replied Melville thoughtfully, "you are now a fellow Master and Commander of a Ship, and essentially an equal, so I'll speak frankly. But this has to stay between us. I offered the opportunity to him. His answer was not just 'No,' but 'Hell no!' He said he wanted to keep his sanity and, I quote: 'French kissing an alien mind is not conducive to mental hygiene.' He also felt he was better off staying here with a lucky captain. And, frankly, he had absolutely no interest in facing the enemy captain in mortal combat."

"Hmmm," replied Archer, "in retrospect, maybe he's the smart one."

"Aye. I've thought that many times," said Melville with a sigh.

 

In the end, the battle for the last Guldur Ship went comparatively well. This time Melville hammered the enemy with cannon fire for considerably longer, paying special attention to the crow's nests in order to butcher the ticks who were hiding there. Only then did he conduct the boarding operation. He cursed himself for not doing the same previously, but he had been too eager to have enough enemy crewmen survive so they could form the core of a crew for the Ship in the future. He had miscalculated, spending the lives of too many of his own sailors, trying to preserve the lives of the enemy. It was a mistake that he would not make again.

Lt. Crater led the cutter party that assaulted the quarterdeck from the enemy's right flank this time, with Midshipman Hayl again serving as the "messenger' for this force. Midshipman Hezikiah Jubal, an able seaman who had been promoted from the ranks and had seen several boarding operations, was in charge of the cutter party hitting the enemy's left flank. The marines took the lowerside again, and this time Private Dwakins was able to keep his feet if not his wits. And Corporal Petrico replaced Ulrich in the assault from the jollyboat onto the enemy's stern.

This enemy captain had been killed by the Fang's cannon fire. The low-ranking Guldur in charge of the Ship quickly submitted to Lt. Crater, and Corporal Petrico leapt up onto the stern rail with a pistol in his hand and a great cry of "Die chew pockers!" on his lips, only to find that the battle was over. The Ship readily accepted Lt. Crater as her captain, and she was christened the Biter.

Melville felt a great weariness flood through him when this final enemy was defeated. He knew it was his normal post-combat malaise, combined with the physiological "backlash" as the sympathetic nervous system stopped providing survival hormones and the parasympathetic processes began to demand attention and bodily resources for neglected maintenance functions. Having been through this several times before helped a lot, but knowing what was happening did not take all the sting out of it.

In his case, the normal, human, post-combat response was aggravated and complicated by his telepathic and empathic communication with his alien Ship and her guns. In some ways the spirit of his Ship strengthened him, and in other, unpredictable ways it weakened him. The result was that he was emotionally off-balance after combat.

A part of him feared that he would become unstable, and would spin into a pit of madness. As Neitzche put it, "Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. For when you look into the abyss, the abyss also looks into you." Melville peered constantly into that abyss, and he felt a constant dread of its result. Or maybe it was simply a sane man's wish to remain so, in an environment that damned near required insanity to deal with it.

The young captain stood on the enemy deck and looked out on the ghastly, gruesome carpet of wounded, dead, and dying sprawled thickly upon the white deck in awkward, undignified postures. The dead are always without dignity, thought Melville.

They were mostly Guldur, the wounded ones moaning softly or trying to crawl away like sick animals will do, leaving bloody smears behind them. There were many who would never move again. Some of his crew was here as well. Melville stood amidst the malodorous miasma of the battle, mourning each and every one of them as he softly bestowed a benediction.

 
"O ye afflicted ones, who lie
Steeped to the lips in misery,
Longing, yet afraid to die..."
 

The warriors around him nodded their solemn agreement.

Melville was reeling under the weight of exhaustion, trying to shake off his post-combat depression and silence the blood-lust of the alien minds that had bonded with him. Then fate dealt him its harshest blow of all.

"Sir," said Fielder with unaccustomed gentleness. "I'm afraid I have bad news." His first officer had met Melville in the bow just as he was climbing back aboard the Fang, and the sadness in Fielder's eyes chilled Melville in a way no words could accomplish.

"Go ahead. What is it?"

"Chips... Mr. Tibbits, he was killed just before we launched the boarding parties. The butcher's bill is really surprisingly light, but he... he will be missed."

"Aye," replied Melville quietly, thinking of the gentle old Ship's carpenter. Tibbits' death had not been particularly heroic. A random bullet, probably fired from a Goblan in the upper rigging, had caught the old man in the head as he was coming out of a hatch. It came as such an out-of-the-blue surprise that his monkey was completely unprepared to block it. It was just damned bad luck. A senseless death, like most deaths in combat. As usually happened whenever a crew member died, Tibbits' monkey just ... disappeared.

Melville turned away from Fielder as tears began to well up in his eyes. The whole weight of this battle, the ultimate responsibility for all the deaths that had happened, suddenly felt like an unbearable burden.

Melville had lost both of his parents as a teenager, and like his parents, that decent, fatherly old man just hadn't seemed mortal.

 
If I had thought thou couldst have died,
I might not weep for thee;
But I forgot, when by thy side,
That thou couldst mortal be.
 

The loyal old officer who had been such a staunch supporter to his young captain couldn't have been the one to die. It wasn't conceivable that he was dead.

This is the real world, Melville told himself. It is not some fable, where the characters you really love are never killed. Sometimes the wrong people die. That is the terrible, unpredictable actuality of real combat. Remember this the next time you think about going into battle.

As a wise man once wrote, "Life isn't fair. It's just fairer than death." And those who get to live, should. It took all the energy he could muster to get on with his duties. But that stern mistress, that harsh hag, duty, drove him on.

Melville moved to the upper quarterdeck and called the crew aft. "Shipmates," he said, gripping the quarterdeck rail and looking out upon their faces, "there's a possibility that more Guldur are coming." Through his bare feet on the deck and his hands on the rail he felt his Ship imparting strength. "We may not be done fighting. We need to get repairs in place, get as much speed on these Ships as we can, and get the hell out of here. You deserve a chance to rest, but we all know that life isn't fair. So let's go to work."

 

The Fang's crew, for the most part, were as exhausted as their captain. They had all been under incredible, life-and-death pressures—literally seconds from death for hours at a time. But the crew tended to be less oppressed by the post-combat let down, and they didn't have the fey, fell, and sometimes malignant spirits of alien minds to shake off. The crew was generally of a simpler disposition and philosophy, without the burden of command. They were already anticipating the loot and the fame that would come from this battle.

These enemy warships didn't have any commercial cargo that the Fang could claim, and most of the actual Ships' equipment would stay onboard. Furthermore, their eventual objective was Earth, and the Fangs had a sense that the Westerness Admiralty would not welcome the news of this battle. Nor was the Admiralty apt to tender money for their war prizes, as the King of Osgil had done for their capture of the Fang. But all the dead ticks (there were no captured ticks) had been stripped of their silver, gold, and gems. And two Shiploads of ticks made for a lot of loot.

The Guldur officers sometimes carried money, but the cur sailors generally did not have anything of value. In life and in death the cur crewmen were mostly tragic, impoverished, oppressed creatures. A Guldur sailor's attitude seemed to be, "If you can't eat it, play with it, mount it, or fight it, then piss on it." (Which, in fact, wasn't much different from a young Westerness sailor or marine.) But past battles had taught the Fangs that the Goblan secreted their life's savings upon their bodies and, unlike the Guldur, the ticks were wealthy, grasping, miserly creatures.

As to the fame the Fangs had earned, well, there was no doubt that this tale was a ticket to free drinks in any tavern in Westerness. Or Sylvan or Dwarrowdelf space for that matter. So the fame was good and you could upon occasion drink fame, but you could not eat it. Nor would it buy you that retirement farm, tavern, or business back home that most sailors dreamed about. In the end what really counted was the loot, which was placed into a common kitty and then carefully divided by rank and duties. Thus the money from the ticks was nice and it was immediate, but the primary source of wealth (or at least potential wealth) was the future income of the captured Ships themselves.

One of the rarest, most expensive, and precious things in the galaxy was a Ship of two-space. The technology behind the Keels was a great secret, but it was common knowledge that the manufacturing process was arduous and expensive, dwarfing even the enormous cost of the huge, intricate, complex wooden Ship, constructed of the rare and costly Nimbrell wood. The Star Kingdom of Westerness made these absurdly expensive Ships, and then their crews spent generations helping to pay for them.

Although their routes and assignments were usually prescribed, a Ship of the Westerness Navy operated its own budget with a high degree of independence in internal business affairs. Cargo, trading goods, food, supplies, and equipment were not supplied from some central storehouse. These goods were earned, purchased, constructed, and traded for with great zeal and a constant eye for profit.

Each Ship of Westerness was a business, and each crewman a stockholder in the business. If the business did badly the officers and crew could have their Ship taken away from them. Such foreclosures were rare, but they did happen. As the sailors said, "The best way to get back on land is to miss a boat payment." Of course, if a Ship was on special duty for the crown, such as exploratory duty, then the Navy met their payment, or paid them for their service. During time of war, commercial operations and trade became secondary, the crown assumed responsibility for the Ship's payments, and they became first and foremost men-of-war.

The older Ships, like their Kestrel and the other Raptor Class frigates, and the Author Class frigates, had been paid off over the span of many generations. The new Poet Class frigates were still in the process of paying for themselves. The Queen and the Admiralty always got their share, but once the Ship was paid off there was a far larger slice of the profit for the crew.

Thus, what was exciting and important to the Fangs was that their Ship was paid for, and so were these newly aquired Ships, Gnasher and Biter. The Fangs were now stockholders in these new Ships. Gnasher and Biter were debt free, so money would flow from them in the years to come and a share of the wealth from all three Ships would go to each crew member who was there from the beginning. Future crew members would have to pay out their ownership shares, but the current crew would reap a profit from the very beginning.

The exhausted Fangs worked their miracles on the Biter as they cycled through all-too-brief rest periods.

Again the wounded were evacuated back to the Fang and the dead Guldur were put over the side. Their bodies had not yet stiffened, and the limp corpses sailed lazily into two-space without resistance, as if they were resigned to their fate and glad to get it over with.

The Ship had to be self-sufficient. Very little was ever wasted. Economic survival required it, and their actual physical survival might demand it at any moment. The lack of some trivial piece of equipment could very well mean the difference between life and death. "For want of a nail..."

The ropemaker and the carpenter's mates picked through the debris to salvage everything that might be of use. All around them were the sounds of hammers, axes, and saws, mixed with the strong smell of paint from the repaired red- and greenside railings.

Above them the sailors stayed busy splicing and mending, and the tattered sails were pulled down to patch and stow for future use. The sailmaker and his mates were squatting amidst most of the open deck space, their canvas spread and their needles flashing as they patched and repaired the sails that could be salvaged. Some of the canvas would be put immediately into service, wrapped lovingly around the bodies that came out of the hospital.

Periodically a surgeon's mate would come on deck and toss a bloodstained bundle over the side. A leg? An arm? No one wanted to know, and the silent, grim-faced observers couldn't help but think that it might have been theirs. The Fangs tried to salvage everything, but there was nothing in that bundle that could be put to future use. The owner was done with it.

Lt. Fielder didn't spare himself as he moved constantly among the work parties without a sign of fatigue. He and old Hans examined every repair and woe unto any culprit whose work was not up to their standards.

Melville visited the hospital as often as he could. This was his hardest duty of all. He tried to touch each warrior. To hold a hand or grip a shoulder. And as he made physical contact with each wounded warrior he attempted to direct the energy and the spirit of his Ship into them as it flowed through him. Thus, in the only way that he was able, with tears welling up in his eyes, he comforted and strengthened the wounded and dying.

 
Was there love once? I have forgotten her.
Was there grief once? Grief yet is mine.
O loved, living, dying, heroic comrade,
All, all my joy, my grief, my love, are thine.
 

Even Cuthbert Asquith XVI awoke to find the young captain standing over him, with a gentle hand on his shoulder. When it happened he felt... different. And the feeling lingered, as though he had been shown a door, or at least a window, into a land that he did not know existed. A remarkable place, full of light and darkness, good and evil, courage and fear, fellowship and loneliness, honor and hopelessness, glory and obscurity, duty and despair.

"For once thou hast avoided injury in one of these battles of yours," said Lady Elphinstone, looking fondly at the captain as he stood over the little earthling.

"Aye," added Mrs. Vodi. "You'd almost think he doesn't love us anymore!"

He shrugged, and all his numb mind could think to say was, "Please don't take it personally. I'll try to do better next time."

"Don't feel obligated for our sake," replied Vodi with a sad smile as he stumbled out the door.

As he worked, Melville found himself jerking his head in what were jokingly called micro-naps. He pinched, slapped, and even punched himself to stay alert. When that didn't work he collapsed onto his bunk and sank into instant unconsciousness. An hour later McAndrews would shake him awake and hand him another mug of hot tea.

As the captain, he could have slept for as long as he wanted. He could even rationalize it by saying that he needed to be alert and fit to make command decisions. But Melville knew there was the very real possibility of another Guldur attack. Survival depended on getting well away from the site of the original battle and moving quickly in a new, unpredicted direction.

Melville could not bring himself to get more rest than his crew, and the crew took their lead from their captain. He had to keep them going. They had been in savage, continuous combat, but the fight was not over yet. Let them falter and they might drop. Allow them time to mourn the loss of a Shipmate and they could lose the will to continue.

So the Fangs worked like heroes to get jury masts up on the Biter. Soon they had her under way, with more and more sail going up with each passing hour. In just a few hours they caught up with the Gnasher, whose prize crew had put up enough sail for her to limp along, and then both crews worked on the Gnasher.

In a matter of just a few exhausting days Melville had a flotilla of three Ships making sail for Nordheim. Gnasher and Biter had three jury masts on one side, and the Fang had one jury mast, but still they were making respectable speed.

 

Lt. Broadax, Lt. Archer, Brother Theo, and Midshipman Hayl were in the hospital the day after the final battle, visiting the wounded. When the Ship was not in combat the hospital was located in the lowerside deck cabin. On the upperside this same cabin was occupied by the captain. The deck cabins were at about one gravity (as opposed to the rest of the area belowdecks, where the gravity increased to 1.5 gees as you went down to the Keel) and they were well ventilated, so the deck cabins weren't nearly as stuffy and close as the other enclosed spaces below decks. But still, just as the faint fragrance of food is always present in a kitchen, the indistinct odors of disinfectant, feces, and urine usually lingered in the hospital. In spite of the ventilation and the constant efforts of the medicos. To the crew these were the distant scents of death and suffering... the vague lingering ghosts of comrades past.

Archer had just checked up on his old friend, Petty Officer Bernard Hommer, who looked like he would recover from his wound thanks to Lady Elphinstone's surgical skills. Then Archer and Hayl thanked Ulrich for saving their bacon on the enemy quarterdeck.

"Aye," replied Ulrich, looking Archer in the eye with an expression of crazed concentration, "well I dun got shot ta hell gittink ya a Ship, ell-tee. Don'k screw it up, now, ya hear? Don'k let nobudy takesk it away frum ya."

Archer and Hayl left with a final nod to Ulrich. Then Brother Theo joined them and Hayl asked his two seniors, "Wasn't he kind of disrespectful?"

"Well, you gotta make allowances for a wounded man," said Archer, "and then you have to make special allowance for Ulrich. He's pretty much one of the deadliest bastards you're ever gonna meet."

"He seems kind of small and scrawny," said Hayl, doubtfully.

Brother Theo shook his head sadly. "There is potential for significant edification here, young Mr. Hayl. Never judge the sword by the scabbard, nor the warrior by his looks. Countless times I have found myself deceived by first impressions. You just can not tell the quality of a man's spirit by his appearance."

"Aye," added Archer. "I'd rather have a man of any size or shape who has a 'never-quit' combat mind-set, dressed in his skivvies and a light coat of grease, armed with a toasting fork; than a trash-talking spineless wannabe with full armor and a cannon, who you have to constantly look back to see if he's behind you."

Just then Lt. Fielder came past them with a nod and went into the hospital to visit the wounded. The three Ships were still a mass of activity as they struggled to get jury masts and sails up, but this was part of his daily duties as first officer—something he found distasteful but necessary. When he entered the big stern cabin he found Broadax talking with Elphinstone, Vodi, and Asquith.

"Uh oh," whispered Archer to Brother Theo as he peered into the room, "Broadax is still in there. There might be some sparks flying."

"Why? What's going on?" asked Hayl.

"Well," replied Archer with a look at Brother Theo, "I suppose you need to know about the personalities of your officers, and in this case you need to understand about Broadax and Fielder's feud, if only to figure out when to get out of the way."

"Aye," said the monk, "the boy needs to know, for his own safety. Their quarrel is a very pretty, petty quarrel as it stands. We should only spoil it by trying to explain it. For now, know that they are, the both of them, as headstrong as the proverbial allegory on the banks of the Nile, and just as deadly."

"Huh?" said Hayl, but Theo kept rolling on with nothing more than a quick wink to mark his little malapropism.

"They may be headstrong, but they are also pragmatic. They'd both love to kill the other, but if one of them offers the challenge to a duel, the other gets to chose the weapon. Lt. Fielder would opt for pistols and riddle poor Lt. Broadax, while Broadax would select edged weapons and Fielder would be worm food in the blink of an eye. And so they dance. It provides a form of entertainment for the crew. A kind of dangerous spectator sport. Just be sure to never mention it to either of them, and stay well out of the way whenever they are in the same room."

"Aye," said Archer. "So let's kind of linger here and watch the show, shall we?"

His full family name was Baronet Daniello Sans Fielder: the noble family "without a field," having lost all land, wealth, influence, and everything but their title many generations ago. He had been sent to sea at a young age by an impoverished family, and he was as bitter as baking chocolate and self-centered as a cat. Melville kept seeing hints that somewhere inside him there was a nugget of decency. But then that might just have been wishful thinking.

Fielder was a master pistol shot and an extraordinarily proficient first officer who directed the day-to-day operations of the Fang with great skill and energy. He was also an unrepentant coward who could fight like a demon if cornered. He claimed he was following the philosophical path of an obscure twentieth century thinker named Linus, who held that "there is no problem so large or complicated you can't run from it." Now that he had acquired some wealth, he was even more desperate to avoid danger and hang on to his fortune.

Melville knew that if he got rid of Fielder the Admiralty would never assign a replacement for him, and in all honesty Melville was unlikely to find anyone half as competent to run the Ship. In the end the captain rationalized his decision, figuring that the Fang did not need a bold, brilliant, and charismatic first officer who was determined to to outshine her captain. Besides, Fielder helped provide an anchor and a balance for Melville. Or so he kept telling himself.

 

She was Lt. Ninandernander Broadax, a Dwarrowdelf in sworn service to the Crown of Westerness. No one ever called her Nina. (Unless old Hans did in moments of intimacy when they were off duty and off the Ship, but no one even wanted to think about that.) She was as twisted as a strand of barbed wire, and beloved and respected by almost everyone aboard. Everyone except Fielder, that is.

The Dwarrowdelf were a race of delvers, seeking heavy metals deep in the hearts of high-gravity worlds. Survival on such worlds requires great strength and lightning fast reflexes. It is intuitively obvious and widely understood that high-gee worlds can nurture a race with great strength. Less well known is the fact that fast reflexes are also a byproduct of high gravity.

A fundamental requirement for bipedal, humanoid existence, on any world, is to catch yourself if you trip and fall. Getting your hands in front of your face before it smacks into the ground is a basic survival skill. You have to do this fast on high-gee worlds, and the price of failure is high. In high-gravity the slow and the weak die off quickly, and the survivors are naturally selected for strength and speed.

The downside of existence on high-gee worlds is that projectiles drop very quickly. Rocks, arrows, bullets, and just about anything else launched in high gravity and dense atmosphere have a flight path similar to a rock thrown underwater. Thus the Dwarrowdelf had zero skill with projectile weapons. It was bred out of them across countless generations of natural selection, and a Dwarrowdelf never had the chance to develop a skill with projectile weapons, even if they were capable of it.

The result was that Lt. Broadax was not just a bad shot, she was dangerous with any kind of gun unless she had lots of time to think, or was able to screw the end of the barrel directly into her opponent. And even then, more often than not she'd end up grazing and crippling her terrified foe.

Her skill at ranged weapons might leave everything to be desired, but in close combat she was one of the most fearsome warriors that nature had ever wrought. And she was a product of a military organization, combined with combat experiences, that worked together to forge her natural, raw talents like a master smith will forge a perfect blade. She was a blade that had been hammered in white-hot fire and death, and quenched in oceans of blood.

Her warrior spirit was as strong as her body, and she lived for one thing and one thing only. Glory! She rejoiced in every battle they fought. This was what she'd hoped for when she abandoned her people to be the first Dwarrowdelf to enlist in the Marine Corps of Westerness. As a female, her own society wouldn't allow her to be a warrior. They wanted to deny her the glory of battle, but she had proven herself and had been honored by her own people. Today she had no regret for turning her back on her people and her culture to fight as a mercenary for some distant kingdom. This was what she was born for.

Melville loved her dearly and she was truly loyal and grateful to him. But, like Fielder, Broadax was a flawed tool. In the end she was a borderline sociopath who was pathologically incapable of avoiding a fight, and willing to do anything for glory. Fortunately, over the centuries military forces have developed rituals, ceremonies, honors and guidelines to gainfully employ borderline sociopaths while keeping them within the limits of acceptable behavior.

 

Lady Elphinstone was in the process of scolding Lt. Broadax, taking the cigar out of the marine's mouth with a fierce look and a peremptory "No smoking!" The surgeon held the stogie at arm's-length and looked at it as though it were a cancerous tumor. Noxious odor and smoke drifted from one end, while the other, unlit end of the stogie was dripping with saliva and falling apart in her hand. Broadax didn't smoke cigars, she tortured them, igniting one end and mangling the other until the poor thing finally succumbed somewhere in the middle. Elphinstone gingerly tossed the decaying, dying stogie into a slop bucket, where it found an end to its suffering and misery with a brief "hiss!" of relief.

"But it's my right ta smoke!" said Broadax, belligerently.

"There are a lot of things that thou hast the 'right' to do," responded the surgeon, primly. "But many of them need to be done in private, or at least not in my hospital. For example, thou shouldst move thy bowels in private. Can we trust thee not to do that here?"

The ordinarily unflappable ex-NCO looked slightly stunned and dazed. Lt. Broadax had met her match and she knew it. The predator defending her lair is almost never defeated and it is seldom worth the cost even if you can. (That is why the lion tamer is in the cage before the lions. If you did it the other way around, you'd be paying to see an entirely different kind of entertainment!) So Broadax simply clammed up and turned to watch the floorshow.

Fielder came into the hospital just as the medicos were turning their attentions away from Broadax and directing their tender mercies upon the hapless Asquith. Ordinarily the first officer would have avoided Broadax, but he could never let anyone think that he would run from the marine lieutenant, and he was happy to see her in one of those rare moments when she was disconcerted and socially off balance. Besides, Asquith and Vodi were sparring, and it was the best entertainment aboard the Ship.

"Garlic soup?!" said Asquith.

"Now, eat up," Vodi replied patiently. "Garlic is a goodness. Garlic was invented by a righteous and loving God so that man could swallow snails without choking."

Asquith tried to digest this logic as Vodi continued sternly, while the others looked on with the virtuous pleasure of the healthy observing the ill. "Now that you are here in hospital," she said, "you must leave off your bad habits. You must give up cussing, smoking and drinking."

"But I don't do those things!"

"Well there you have it. You're a sinking ship at sea with no ballast to throw overboard. You forgot to cultivate your bad habits when you had a chance. Now there's no hope for you! It was good knowing you. I think."

"Thanks, that makes me feel better," Asquith said weakly.

"It's my job to make people comfortable. Or miserable. By fits and starts. Depending on what they've earned lately. I wouldn't want to deny you anything you've worked so hard to achieve."

"Can't you hold your tongue for one minute, and just feed me?"

"She can't hold her tongue," interjected Fielder, "she'd cut herself."

Vodi looked over at the first officer with a saccharine sweet smile that said, Sooner or later, buddy, you'll be under my care. Sooner or later.

"Speaking of thanks, and just rewards," continued Asquith, "what about those leeches you used to reattach my finger? What's become of them? Are they still around?"

"Unfortunately," said Vodi, with true sadness, "to get the greedy little piggies to let go we have to pour salt on them, and that kills them."

Asquith looked at Elphinstone, who was examining his dressings while Vodi distracted him, and asked, "How does a doctor who believes life is precious feel about killing these creatures?"

"Wouldst thou know the crux of the matter, then?"

"I asked, didn't I?"

"Then I shall tell thee."

"Yes?"

"'Twas simply this. I had to chose between them or thee," she replied. "'Twas a hard choice, but in the end it was the lesser of evils. Which wouldst thou have preferred?"

Still trying to protest—or at least delay—the garlic soup that Vodi was spooning down his throat, Asquith began to pursue one of his favorite topics. "Why can't you people do anything that isn't primitive and ineffectual? Like this foolish soup as medicine. Or look at my hand," he said, holding it up and looking to the urbane Fielder for some sympathy. "It's the damned Flintstones! They stitched me up with waxed thread. Waxed thread! Somebody just light my wick and make a wish! When I finally get back to Earth, the book I'll write will pay for the therapy I'll need."

Everyone grinned at that. They all appreciated a good rant from their pet earthworm, who had remained obstinately ignorant about such matters until now, when they were suddenly, rudely, and quite painfully inflicted upon him.

"Or this silly Ship," he continued, gesturing petulantly at the luminous white bulkhead beside him and glaring at them with his one good eye. "Why can't the hull be made out of steel? Then that so-called 'splinter' wouldn't have taken out my eye."

"Nope," Vodi replied, full of the infinite patience that a medical specialist can have for a patient who is completely at her mercy. "It has to be made out of this special kind of wood that the Moss will grow on. That really limits the number of Ships out here in Flatland."

"Why can't it be part wood and part steel?"

"'Tis because," replied Elphinstone with equal patience, "the inimical forces of two-space tend to twist and distort, and eventually destroy most structural parts not made out of Nimbrell timbers."

"Could the canvas be made out of mono-filamant? Or plastic?"

"No," said Broadax, throwing in her two-bits. "Anythin' artificial decays real quick, eaten up by that evil bastard, the Elder King! So it has to be made out o' something livin', so Lady Elbereth protects it, ye see? An' gunpowder is pretty much inert in two-space. It just kinda smolders. Like tobacco. Thank the Lady for that."

"That gunpowder doesn't work?" asked Asquith in confusion.

"Naw," She said scornfully, rolling her ubiquitous stogie around in her mouth. Lady Elphinstone had taken her lit cigar upon entering the room, but she could still chomp on an unlit stogie, inflicting a slow, hideous demise upon it from one end only. "I thanks the Lady that tobacco will burn, or at least smolder. Otherwise how's a girl ta git a good smoke?"

"You know," said Mrs. Vodi, "Lt. Broadax inspired some of our Guldur crew members to take up smoking cigars. They looked for all the world like a dog with a cigar in its mouth, which is a singularly incongruous and ludicrous sight. For most of them, though, the habit didn't take. Whenever they got excited or distracted they tended to think the cigar was food and swallow it. Then you heard a unique yelping noise which is universal dog-speak for 'lesson learned.'"

"Aye," said Elphinstone. "So things only smolder in two-space. As a result there are no real burns. The only way thou canst be burnt in two-space is to spill thy food or," looking disapprovingly at Broadax, "swallow thy cigar."

"Now, my lady," said Vodi with a wink, "we all need to cultivate those bad habits, so you have some baggage to throw overboard when you get ill. If we ever get the good lieutenant in our tender mercies she'll have to give up those awful things, and the shock will either kill her or heal her."

"Could you use Greek fire?" asked Asquith doggedly, not yet convinced that these primitives were doing all that was possible to overcome the limitations of their environment.

"Nope," said Vodi, patiently. "Like I told you. No combustion, that's why the cook has to heat the food with modified Keel charges in the burners."

"So all you have to fight with are bare blades, and muzzle-loading muskets and cannons, launched by those crazy Keel charges?"

"Yes, although some of those cannon, you have to admit, are pretty potent," said Vodi, shoving another spoonful of soup down her unwilling patient's throat. "You've touched the Keel charge on some of those 24-pounders?"

Asquith shuddered at the taste of the soup and the memory of the 24-pounders. "Yes. I've never felt anything like it in my life. Pure hatred and destructive malice. That does bring up a question. Does size really matter? It appears that the larger the weapon, the more aggressive. Is this true? Or is there a really, really angry derringer out there? What about a weapon that's pacifistic in nature?"

"'Does size really matter?'" replied Vodi, wagging her spoon threateningly in Asquith's face. "Such a straight line you hand me, my friend! But I'll let that one go and wait for a sportin' shot."

"The bigger a gun is, the more intelligent it tends to be," said Fielder as he lounged against one luminous white bulkhead. "But you should try a few shots from the captain's little pistol. It's been in his family for generations, constantly remaining in two-space and building up a personality. It's amazingly intelligent, and it's the most vicious thing I've ever held in my hand—barring a few ex-girlfriends I can think of. As to a pacifist weapon, well I've yet to run into one of those, but the galaxy is a big place. Who knows what's out there."

"What about gas warfare?"

"Been tried," replied Fielder. "The chemicals decay almost immediately upon entry into two-space."

"So that's why the level of medical support is so poor? No drugs at all?"

"They tend to decay on long voyages," replied Fielder. "Even our canvas sails decay over time, and we've spent centuries breeding and developing the plants that they came from. That's why the medicos grow a garden that includes the garlic you are enjoying. Our Vodi is a master herbalist, and the cook has a small garden of herbs and spices."

" Aye," said Vodi with dignified pride. "I'm an herbalist first class and an apothecary second class. Herbalism is really my strong suit."

"I think you've been spending too much time inhaling your inventory," said Asquith petulantly. "None of those 'herbs' did me any good. Chains are your strong suit! Chaining folks down on the operating table!"

"I guess it could be worse," said Vodi with a wink to one-and-all. "In Lt. Broadax's case, chain mail is her only suit."

Always happy to reinforce and support any cut at Broadax, Fielder groaned appreciatively and said, "Go to your room!"

"Only if you'll spank me when I get there!" replied Vodi with a saucy smile.

Fielder grinned back, not visibly daunted by the prospect of spanking the ample Vodi. Then he left with his dignity intact while Broadax and Vodi chuckled and Elphinstone looked on with a disapproving but resigned shake of her head.

 

Finally, they were done with repairs. As old Hans put it, "We did a right fine job a blastin' the blazes outa them vacuum-suckin' Guldur bastards. There ain't much more we can do ta turn these crippled, shot-ta-hell hulks into fightin' Ships." So the period of constant effort and exhausted naps was mostly behind them and they finally had a few moments to slow down for reflection. Now it was time to mourn their dead and honor their fallen.

The sailors of two-space lived in dread of being buried in space. The bodies of their fallen comrades would be buried in the rich, living earth of the first planet they came to. For now their canvas-wrapped bodies would be pulled behind them, sunken in two-space, like a macabre stringer of frozen fish towed behind a boat. Burial could come later, but right now they needed to take time for a memorial service.

Melville stood on the upper quarterdeck looking down at a sea of upturned faces full of grief, expectation, scars, and broken noses. Men at war, warriors who had adjusted to war, grieved briefly and intensely. His job was to guide them along that path. Melville felt like he had had far too much experience at it. He longed for someone to help him with the burdens upon his soul and spirit. But for now his duty was to speak Words for their fallen comrades.

"The Bible tells us that, 'there is a time for everything,'" began Melville, "'and a season for everything under the sun.'"

His crew sighed and settled in to hear their captain apply the healing balm of Words to guide and carry them through their grieving. Untold thousands of applications of these ancient Words to the griefs of more than two thousand years had carved them into the cultural consciousness of the listeners, giving the Words power. Power to heal and power to strengthen lives in times of sorrow and loss. And it helped that Melville was a darned good speaker.

"'There is a time to be born, and a time to die. A time to sow, and a time to reap. A time to kill, and a time to heal.' Shipmates, my brothers and sisters, the time for killing has passed, for now. It is time to grieve, and it is time to heal.

 
"He that lacks time to mourn,
lacks time to mend.
Eternity mourns that.
'Tis an ill cure
For life's worst ills,
to have no time to feel them."
 

Among the humans were Sylvans who listened with shining eyes. Their race had already been enchanted and fascinated by Earth's language, culture and heritage, and now they were part of it. Guldur crew members, scattered throughout the crowd, listened with cocked canine heads, fascinated by the cadence, beauty, and sense of the words.

"So let us mourn, but the purpose of that mourning is to mend. To heal. Think, and ask yourself: if you had been the one to fall, and your comrades were driving on, what would you want for them?"

Melville paused briefly and then continued, answering his own question. "To live! You would want your brothers to live the fullest, richest, best life they can. That is what you lived, and fought and died to give them!"

The crew nodded their heads in agreement. "Aye," rumbled quietly from many throats. "Aye."

"Now they are the ones to fall. Your comrades have fallen, and what do they want for you?"

Again the crew nodded as their captain went on to echo the answer that was in their hearts. "The same thing! They would want the same thing for you. The fullest, richest, best life you can have. That is your mission. That is your moral, sacred responsibility. That is what they lived and fought and died to give you. And that means you must go on.

"We've lost these comrades, and we can never have them back on this side of the veil, except in our hearts, minds, stories, and songs. But if their loss destroys just one of us, if survivor guilt takes away the fullness of just one life, then we've given another life or another victory to the bastards who came to kill us. And we'll be damned if we give those bastards one more life!"

He completed this last sentence in a soaring oratorical crescendo and his warriors responded with a roar of affirmation. Then Melville nodded and turned to Brother Theo Petreckski. "Brother, will you lead us in a Song?"

"I'd be honored to, Captain," replied the monk with a nod. The Fangs were a diverse lot, drawn from many cultures and species, and bound together mostly by the iron bonds of the fellowship of arms. They came from many and sundry faiths, but when the mystery of life and death was upon them, a Song of Faith, led by a man of faith, even an unordained monk like Brother Theo, could be comforting. Like Melville, Theo reached back to the old, strong Words that resonated in the heritage and souls of these lonely men in this distant, desolate patch of space. In his clear, pure tenor voice he began one of the many songs that the sailors loved to sing at Sunday services,

 
"Lift ev'ry voice and sing,
till earth and heaven ring..."
 
and the company joined in...
 
"Sing a song full of faith
that the dark past has taught us,
Sing a song full of hope
that the present has brought us;
Facing the rising sun
of our new day begun,
Let us march on till victory is won.
 
"God of our weary years,
God of our silent tears,
Thou who hast brought us thus far on the way;
Thou who has by thy might,
led us into the light,
Keep us forever in the path, we pray."
 

A skeleton crew was placed in charge of Melville's little flotilla, and for the first time in many days they rested.

 

"So what did you think about being in battle?" asked Midshipman Aquinar.

The exhausted middies were now gathered in the midshipmen's berth. The air was thick with the smells of the middies' food stores, human sweat, dogs, and confined humanity as they lay snuggled into their canvas hammocks. Brother Theo and Mrs. Vodi had checked in on them, and this was the first time they had been together and alone without the constant demand of work and the endless burden of fatigue. Now, tired as they were, they had to talk, and Aquinar had raised this intriguing question.

Hayl was new to the Fang, and he respected and admired the "old-timers" like Aquinar. Even the older, veteran midshipmen admired tiny Aquinar, who had been the first to adopt a monkey.

What do I think of battle? Hayl asked himself. "Well, it was kind of fun. I think. Maybe," he answered. His monkey was snuggled beside his head, looking up drowsily from his hammock.

"Yeah, but what class of fun?" replied Aquinar, whose monkey was already asleep, burrowed out of sight somewhere in his bedding.

"Huh?"

"There's four classes of fun," said Aquinar patiently. "Class I Fun is 'Fun at the time.' Class II Fun: 'It's fun later, but not at the time.' Class III Fun: 'It's fun for others to hear about it.' And then there's Class IV Fun: 'Fun you regret.'"

Hayl mulled this over as Aquinar continued.

"For me I think it was Class II," said Aquinar. "I know there were people who honestly enjoy combat, like Lt. Broadax, and I'd like to be like her. Battle is definitely Class I fun for her. And there are those who can look back on it as fun, like climbing a mountain: it's hell at the time but you can look back on it with satisfaction. I think it was like that for me, Class II Fun. How 'bout you?"

"Well, I don't regret it," said Hayl. "I'm glad I'm alive and I'm glad we won, so it's not Class IV. But it wasn't fun at the time, I was scared to death through it all. I'm not even sure it's fun later. So it wasn't Class I or Class II. I guess it was Class III Fun. The kind of 'fun' we can tell others about for the rest of our lives, and they'll admire us for it. The kind of thing that it's fun to hear about, but not really all that much fun to do. Was it like that for you the first time?"

"Aye," said Aquinar. "I think they call those adventures. Something you really wouldn't want to do yourself, but it is good to read about or hear about while you're snuggled in a warm bed while a storm outside pounds on your roof. It was like that for me at first, battle. It was definitely Class III Fun. As you get more experience under your belt I think you'll adapt. I did. Most people do."

"Aye, I hope so."

Then they pulled black sleep masks over their eyes, blocking out the constant light of the lambent Moss all around them, and they drifted off to sleep.

But in his sleep Hayl kept seeing an endless flow of blood and guts pouring over him, and the sad, dog eyes of the enemy captain staring at him. In his dreams the Guldur captain kept looking at him with those mournful eyes and asking, "Why did you have to kill us? Why? Did you think it was 'fun' to kill us?"

Always Hayl answered, "We didn't want to! We had to, or you were going to kill us! Please, please, leave me alone. We didn't want to." And he awoke, sobbing.

When he awoke, Mrs. Vodi was there, holding his head, pulling off his sleep mask and whispering gently in his ear, telling him to "breathe, breathe deep. It's only a dream, little one, it's not real. Now you have to breathe. Get it under control. Separate the memory from the emotions, my little one, and make peace with the memory. Breathe with me. In through the nose, breathe in, breathe in, hold it, hold it. Good. Good. Now out through the lips, out, out. Breathe with me."

Hayl found that he could not deny Mrs. Vodi as she looked in his eyes and whispered her commands. As she held his head and breathed into his face he found himself breathing deeply in sync with her, and he found himself regaining control.

"You did what you had to do, little one," continued Mrs. Vodi, stroking his sweat-soaked hair, while his monkey gibbered quietly and stroked the hair on the other side of his head. "We all did. I'm so very glad that you are okay, that you made it, and it is right for you to be glad you are okay. The worst is over now, and it is okay to be alive. Breathe with me now, breathe. Whenever the memories come you remember, little one, you remember to breathe, and know that it is okay to be glad. Every one of God's creatures will fight for its life and be glad to survive. It is okay to be glad, it is good to be alive. Breathe now, breathe..."

 

There were many ways to deal with the demons after combat, many ways to put them to rest. For Fielder and most of the officers in the wardroom the solution was found in fellowship, humor, songs, and wine. Not necessarily in that order.

Warriors throughout history have understood the importance of social and cultural responses to combat stress. Veterans of battle have always used military group bonding, supportive leaders, and affirming comrades, combined with alcohol, sex, memories of sex, singing, and humor to help them deal with their combat experiences. Far from being placebos, these life-affirming activities are actually powerful survival mechanisms that have been developed across the millennia to help defuse traumatic situations and reassert normality into shattered lives.

Tonight, in the wardroom, red wine, warm fellowship, and cleansing laughter flowed freely. It is a remarkable fact that warriors can always find something to laugh about after the battle. In this case, much mirth was generated by the discovery that Josiah Westminster had lost part of his mustache somewhere in the battle. It might have been shot off or cut off, but the ranger had a different explanation. "Ah thought one bite was chewy, when I grabbed a snack there in the heat of the battle!" he said, fingering his lopsided 'stache. "Now mah poop's gonna look like a fox turd!"

The air was rich with the scent of wine, good food, and close companionship. Old Hans and Lt. Broadax sat side-by-side, enjoying each other's company, but not going any further while aboard Ship. Broadax and Fielder had an unspoken truce on this night, and all the officers and warrants took turns discussing the battle, eating, drinking, leading songs and reciting poetry.

The spirit and theme was set by Lt. Fielder as he led them in a toast.

 
"Fill every beaker up, my men,
pour forth the cheering wine:
There's life and strength in every drop,
—thanksgiving to the vine!"
 

* * *

 

Melville lay in his bunk. He was one of the few in the entire Ship who was alone on this night. The captain in solitary splendor.

But he was not completely alone. Boye slept beside him, woofing gently and hunting in his dreams. Beneath him and all about him, his Ship was in constant, empathic contact. Nestled beside him, his monkey slept the sleep of the exhausted. And far, far away, across the Grey Rift in Osgil, his betrothed, his Sylvan princess, reached out her loving spirit.

It was good to have his Ship and his beloved in his heart and his mind, to cancel out the others who kept him company on this night. The angry, alien, malignant, murderous spirits of his guns were also with him, burned into his neurons and seared into his soul. And the spirits of all the beings he had killed came back across two-space to visit him when he shut his eyes, asking if it was all truly necessary, asking if they really had to die. But most of all, the memory of lost friends and comrades came to visit, bringing remorse, regret and second-guessing that turned into self-loathing.

His dead comrades fused and melded with the enemy and the alien hatred of his cannons, forming a toxic mixture that sapped the life from him. Times like this made death and oblivion look desirable, appropriate, and even preferable.

Melville's talent for poetry never truly turned off, and he found himself thinking,

 
I could lay down like a tired child,
And weep away the life of care
Which I have borne, and yet must bear.
 

And then he loathed himself even more, for he had little patience with self-pity and angst, in others or in himself.

Yet still his self-loathing and self-doubt kept rising up like a corpse from the grave. He second-guessed himself over and over again, trying to think what he could have done differently. Was he truly worthy to be captain of this great Ship? Or was he only a glory-seeking fool? Did he really do the right thing? Were his motives pure? Were Tibbits and all the others dead because he had sought glory?

 
His food
Was glory, which was poison to his mind
And peril to his body.
 

In this case, his quest for glory was poison to these beloved crew members who had trusted him and died. Was it also poison to his mind and his body?

In the depths of his despair and doubt he thought again of the great Ship that had accepted and befriended him, the magnificent crew that had accepted him, and—most of all—the Sylvan princess that had embraced him. His Princess Glaive.

"It is not over, dear Thomas," she had said to him. "Thou shalt remember me, and thou shalt come back to me. I will call thee from across the galaxy, and thou shalt come. I have woven mine magic, the simple magic of a sincere woman's true love, and now thou art mine. For as I say, so must it be."

As he thought of her his despair seemed to wash away. He looked out the stern windows of his cabin and remembered her with fresh tears in his eyes. But now they were the healthy tears of a young man dreaming of his beloved who was far, far away. Tears known to many, tears of anticipation and longing. Tears of affirmation and life. And he whispered to the stars,

 
"Oft in the tranquil hour of night,
When stars illume the sky,
I gaze upon each orb of light,
And wish that thou wert by."
 

Boye woke to the sound of Melville's voice, placing his big hairy head on Melville's cot and licking his master's face, the dog's monkey looking sleepily over his head. Melville's monkey stirred and crooned quietly beside him. The captain's hand touched the bulkhead beside his bed, and he felt the firm, wild, and loving spirit of his Ship spread through his mind, body, and soul.

Then depression and demons fled before the memory of his truelove and the love of his companions. This crisis of spirit passed. He was able to weep healthy tears for his beloved fallen comrades, and for Tibbits, the fatherly man who had been so dear to his heart. And he whispered through his tears, as he stroked his dog's head,

 
"And the tear that is shed,
Though in secret it rolls,
Shall keep his memory
Green in our souls."
 

In his cabin the captain finally slept, and he slept deeply. Deep enough to dream alien dreams in brilliant colors he had never seen. Deep enough to reach out and touch the face of the galaxy. Deep enough to feel the love of his Sylvan princess touch him from across the stars. Her love was the air that he was breathing, and his Ship was the firm earth beneath his feet.

In his dreams, his love, his Ship, and he wove a tapestry of faith and trust and strength that was a balm onto his soul and gave wings to his heart. Together they lit the candles of their spirits. Together they became a star that blazed, like a beacon in darkest times. Together they would seek out the darkness and go light the galaxy. In his dreams.

 

In the marines' berth Private Dwakins was curled in a ball, racked by sobs and nightmares. Gunny Von Rito and Lance Corporal Jarvis were there beside his hammock. Von Rito laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Breathe, breathe, it's only a dream, son. Breathe in, breathe in..." said the gunny.

"Gunny, corporal," sobbed Dwakins, "Ah knows we gotta fight fer our lives. I know we gots ta do this. The enemy didn't give us no choice. But when does the poetry, an' the honor, an' all the glory stuff the captain talks about begin?"

"Aye, Dwakins," said Jarvis, his squad leader, "yer right! We gotta do it, and the battle will kill enough. The enemy kills enough. It'd be crazy to let it destroy lives after the battle, lives that didn't have to be lost. So we choose to focus on the good stuff. We multiply the joy and divide the pain, so we can live with what we have to do. The captain explained it to me once, and now I understand it. The bad stuff is true, but the good stuff is true too! And you gotta look for the good parts. You gotta choose to focus on the good stuff. There is honor if we honor those who did it. There is glory if we give them glory."

"Aye, son," growled Gunny Von Rito. "You done good. All of us, working together, we saved the lives of every person aboard. And now we're gonna live full, rich lives afterwards! And the bastards who tried to kill us ain't gonna take that away. I give you honor, son. And I give you glory, and you have to take it if you're gonna be able to live in this old world and do this job. Now breathe, breathe in..."

 

Among the Ship's boys there were also tears and nightmares that night. And Lady Elphinstone was there doing for them what Mrs. Vodi and Brother Theo did for the middies.

From the highest to the lowest, from the captain to the middie, amongst the Ship's boys and the marines, there were many tears shed that night. Not everyone wept, but each in their own way dealt with burdens and loss.

They mourned lost comrades, and lost innocence. Then they slept the "sleep that knits up the ravell'd sleeve of care." And as they slept they healed, and steeled themselves to get on with all the glorious and mundane challenges of life.

 

* * *

 
The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.
 
And the night shall be filled with music,
And the cares that infest the day
Shall fold their tents like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.
 

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