Recovering from Battle:
Lief Should I Rouse at Morning
Could man be drunk forever
With liquor, love or fights,
Lief should I rouse at morning
And lief lie down at nights."Could Man be Drunk Forever"
A.E. Housman
Melville was hung over. Seriously, seriously hung over. He hadn't touched a drop of liquor, but he felt like a sailor the morning after he got knee-walking, commode-hugging drunk, got beat up in a bar fight, and then got falling-down, belly-crawling drunk.
He'd been going on a physical and emotional high from the minute the apes attacked him on Broadax's World, up until the capture of this Ship. Man could not be "drunk forever, with liquor, love or fights." Now, finally, things were slowing down, and he must pay the price.
During combat an effect called vasoconstriction makes the veins constrict. The arteries are wide open, but just before the capillaries the return flow is cut off and the veins collapse. This is why a person's face will go white under intense stress. The blood pools in the body core and in the large muscle masses. Blood pressure skyrockets and, unless an artery is hit, bleeding from wounds can be very limited. In effect, the whole outer layer of the body becomes a layer of armor. Immediately afterward a powerful backlash can occur. Vasodilation sets in, the veins are wide open, and the face turns red and flushed.
For Melville that meant the blood loss from his shoulder wound was limited, initially. Shortly after combat was over and he relaxed, the blood began to gush from his wound and he christened the deck of his new Ship with a fair amount of his blood. The last thing he remembered, before he slept and woke up with this incredible "hangover," was Lady Elphinstone applying a little psychological first aid as she staunched the bleeding and plied her Sylvan skills to stitch up his wound.
He was lying on the deck where he had collapsed after slaying the enemy captain. His shoulder was a blaze of pain. Anesthetics and pain relievers did work in Flatland, but any complex chemical compound that wasn't part of a living creature tended to slowly break down. Thus, over time, the effectiveness of pain numbing medication grew weaker and weaker as it sat in storage. The Kestrel had been at sea for a long time and the stuff he'd been given was very weak.
He'd once read an early twenty-first century book entitled Ether Day, about the invention of anesthesia. The book fortunately survived the Crash since it was deemed fit to include in military archives, which the paranoid military types kept religiously separate from the vast interlocking Info-Net. A certain line from that book stuck in Melville's mind. "When one speaks of 'pain' during an operation without anesthetics, it is a word with ragged tails of meaning and imagery that permanently dye the mind: the peculiar red of one's own blood, the echoing blue of a limb dropping to the floor." Yep, that was about right. There was a lot of that going around today. Pain is relative. It doesn't get any more intense than when it's related to you.
The warriors of Westerness had found mind control tools, based in warrior science, to help them handle their pain. In the early twenty-first century, elite military units learned to apply the precepts of "Lamaze" to combat. Lamaze was initially a tool that was used to permit women to go through the very painful process of childbirth without pain medication. Soon the basic process of breathing, relaxation, visual concentration, and listening to a coach were applied to a wide variety of situations where individuals were in pain and medication wasn't immediately available or effective.
Melville was applying his Lamaze skills diligently. He was doing his breathing. He was working consciously on relaxation, avoiding the tension/pain/more-tension/more-pain cycle. He was listening very intently to Lady Elphinstone. And he was concentrating his vision intensely on a focal point, a knot in a rope far above him as he lay flat on the deck of his new Ship. Lovely, fascinating, remarkable knot. The combined effect was such that so many senses were being used, and so much thought processing was going on, that there was little mental capacity left over for feeling pain.
It really did work. One author called this the "ceremony of diminution," quite rightly stating that, "this stoical appearance of indifference in fact diminishes the pain."
It really did work. Melville kept telling himself that. Trying hard to believe it.
Next to him Lieutenant Broadax, coated in drying blood, was looking up into the stars with a blissful smile and a fresh cigar. She gave new meaning to the term "crusty old Marine" as she said to no one in particular, "Aye, this is wot I joined the Marines fer. Travel the galaxy, meet exotic creatures . . . and kill 'em!"
"Captain," said Lady Elphinstone as she worked on him, "lives have been lost, and thou must take care, lest thou shouldst feel some guilt in the aftermath of this combat. Dost thou hear me?"
"Yess . . . my lady," he gasped in reply. The wound in his shoulder was deep enough that she had to apply her stitches in two layers, a few stitches in deep to hold it together, and then a layer on the surface to close the wound.
"Thou hast no cause to feel guilt. Thou hast done well. Most importantly, thou hast done thy duty, and there is great healing in that. Hast thou read the Bhagavad Gita? 'Twas written on thy world in, I believe, the fourth century b.c."
"No," replied Melville, breathing hard, concentrating hard, relaxing hard, and trying to ignore the pinwheels of pain coming from his shoulder as she worked on him. "I . . . haven't read it. Tell me, how doesss-sss-sss it apply . . . to the current haah-aah! sssituation?"
"It says that, 'Valor, glory, firmness, skill, generosity, steadiness in battle and ability to rulethese constitute the duty of a soldier. They flow from his own nature . . . If you perform the sacrifice of doing your own duty, you do not have to do anything else. Devoted to duty, man attains perfection.' Dost thou hear me?"
"Yesss."
"Captain, thou hast done thy duty. For a little while, today, thou didst attain perfection. Go now and rest, for thou art weary with sorrow and much toil."
"Th-thank you, Doctor," said Melville, gasping with relief now that she was finished. "Any additional medical advice?"
"Yes. Thou must never, under any circumstances, take a sleeping pill and a laxative on the same night. Now sleep. Sleep." There must have been a dose of hypnosis in the healing skills of that good Sylvan surgeon. When she said "sleep," even as Melville was grunting in disgust at the very idea, he found himself drifting off. . . .
He awoke to the great-grandmother of all hangovers. His body shook like a sick dog. His stomach, no, his entire digestive tract, was a gurgling churning mess. His very soul ached. Every muscle was wrenched and every movement was pain incarnate. Every breath was pain. If only he could stop breathing. Yes, that might help. . . .
Melville was flat on his back. His left arm was strapped to his side. His left shoulder ached. His left ear ached. He reached up with his right hand to push the sleep mask up on his forehead, wincing as it caught on his wounded ear. The Elbereth Moss provided a constant soft yellow light anywhere inside a mature, healthy Ship of two-space. To really sleep well you needed to be in the dark, so those who slept below decks usually wore a sleep mask. Someone had kindly put one on him.
With the mask removed, Melville could see that he was in a cabin in his new Ship. His spider monkey slept, curled up beside him. He knew they were somewhere in the stern cabin of the Ship, directly below the quarterdeck. He could see the eternal constellations of Flatland, through what were obviously stern windows. Under his pillow he felt the butt of his pistol: a short, squat, black, double-barreled, over-and-under, .45 caliber "security blanket." In two-space he was never without this old family heirloom that seemed to grow better and better across the centuries as its Keel charges adapted to Flatland. He hadn't used it in his last battle, but it had been tucked into his belly sash like a lucky rabbit's foot. A rabbit's foot with teeth.
A portly sailor looked kindly down at him. "Captain," he asked, "how are you feeling?"
Duty. Duty was still ringing in his mind. Elphinstone said he was doing his duty. That made it okay. All he had to do was keep doing his duty. That would make everything okay.
He pulled at his blanket and looked down at himself. He was naked. Can't do your duty naked. At least not his duty to Westerness. He might just be able to do his duty to his nation if he could find some clothes. But the kind of duty he might perform while naked was definitely outside his ability at the moment. Fortunately that was not his pressing need.
"Dresh me." His mouth was dry. His voice was slurring. He worked some saliva into his mouth. His monkey looked up with sleepy curiosity.
"Sir, you can't get up!"
"I'm . . . captain. Dress me. Dammit. Or you're fired." Portly One's eyes got big and he began to scramble about obediently while Melville stifled a moan.
It hurt. It hurt bad. Melville made a visit to the head in the little quarter-gallery hanging out over the blue plane of Flatland, voiding his bladder and bowels out into interstellar space as he rested on the seat of ease with his head swimming. He looked in a mirror mounted to a bulkhead. The fellow looking back at him didn't look like the winner in a battle. (Yeah, yeah, "You shoulda seen the other guy." Sure, sure.) The top half of his left ear was missing. His face was white and pasty from loss of blood. His monkey sat on his right shoulder, like a huge, fawn-colored tarantula, with its legs splayed out in all directions.
Finally he was dressed in white trousers, shirt, black belly sash, and blue jacket. Tucked in the sash was his ugly little pistol. He would have felt naked without it. He was weak, depending heavily on Portly to accomplish even the simplest tasks. His steward had somehow manifested a steaming cup of tea that Melville eagerly sipped down. What was his name? He'd seen him before. Used to be Captain Crosby's steward. Should remember his name. Brain not working right . . . "What's your name, sailor?"
"McAndrews, sir."
"Aye. Thank you, McAndrews."
And so he went out on the deck of his Ship. His Ship.
As soon as he poked his head out he could tell that his cabin was under the upper side quarterdeck, which is where the captain's quarters should be. A marine stood on guard at his door. All sails were furled and the Ship appeared to be docked.
"Are we at Broadax's World?"
"Aye, sir," McAndrews replied. "We've moved all the dead below. They've been buried and Words said. Lieutenant Fielder said we needed to move fast, to avoid the main Guldur fleet and warn the Stolsh."
"Good. That's right." Fielder. He felt a knot of fear and dread in his stomach. Would Fielder try to rob him of his Ship? So far everything Fielder had done was appropriate. Best to confront the issue immediately. Mostly Melville wanted to crawl back into his bunk and keep sleeping, but duty called him. "Where is Lieutenant Fielder?"
"Here, sir. I'm right here."
Melville turned around and there was Fielder, standing above him at the railing on the upper quarterdeck, where the officer in command should be. He'd called him "sir." That was a good start.
He looked carefully at his first mate. Lord he looked bad. He didn't look defiant, or angry. Just tired. His dark hair hung limp and loose. His usually florid face was pale. He probably hadn't slept for a very long time. "Mr. Fielder, how long until we will be ready to set sail?"
"I think it will be about another hour, sir."
"Very good." Now for a situation report. "Give me a sitrep."
"Chips has established commo with our new Ship. She appears to be willing to tolerate us for now. The carpenter's mates have no significant problems in preparing the Ship to sail, since we only fired grape and canister at her."
Good. At least that part of his plan worked. He nodded for Fielder to continue.
"Guns has most of our 12-pounders on board. They're lashed down but we haven't begun to cut gun ports yet. I wanted to check with you first."
"Good. No immediate rush on that. We'll give it careful consideration. Tell Guns to prepare a recommendation."
"Yes, sir. Mr. Hans has the rigging and sails in order. He says he's ready to go. He still has to finish loading the last two cutters onto the deck. There should just be enough room for them."
"Good."
"Lieutenant Broadax has the enemy prisoners in the lower hold, well away from the Keel." Fielder's face was a steely, emotionless mask, but you could see his mask slip and a sneer slithered out when he mentioned the Dwarrowdelf's name. Well, that problem could wait. Odds were that Broadax could take care of herself. They were technically the same rank now. Melville nodded for him to continue.
"Mr. Petreckski says that there is adequate supply of water and food, even if some of the curs' chow might not be to our liking."
"Good." One less problem to worry about. They'd brought the cutters over with full water barrels and lots of food, but it wouldn't have been sufficient if there wasn't an adequate supply already on the enemy Ship.
"And the surgeon has the wounded in the lower quarterdeck cabin. All wounded from ashore have been brought aboard and our dead have been buried. Lady Elphinstone insisted that we not wake you up, so I proceeded with the burial." No apology there. Just a statement of fact. Overall, Fielder's actions and his demeanor were about as good as Melville could have asked for. Indeed, a compliment was in order.
"Well done, Daniel. Well done. Now I'm going to go ashore. I'll be right back." Fielder nodded and Melville left.
He was lowered onto Broadax's World in a bosun's chair; then he walked down to the graves. It was a blur of pain, both physical and emotional. McAndrews stood beside him. Melville dropped to his knees before the graves of his shipmates. So many, many graves. God, if he could only stay drunk with combat. Duty. He'd done his duty. A dirty, four-lettered word. Like kill. Like hell. Like damn.
It was raining. The new graves were slick mounds of wet earth. The graves of those killed by the apes already had grass sprouting from them. Young boys and old salts rested here. Some he knew well, many he didn't.
Melville generally disliked poetry that didn't rhyme. Somehow it struck him as cheating. But if that was so, then Walt Whitman cheated and got away with it. Privately, with only McAndrews and a small guard of marines there, Melville said Whitman's benediction upon his friends.
"A child said What is the grass? fetching it to me
with full hands . . .
I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord . . .
And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut
hair of graves.
"Tenderly will I use you curling grass,
It may be you transpire from the breasts
of young men,
It may be if I had known them I would have
loved them . . .
It may be you are from old people, or
offspring taken soon out of their mothers' laps,
And here you are the mother's laps.
"What do you think has become of the young
and old men?
And what do you think has become of the women
and children?
"They are alive and well somewhere,
The smallest sprout shows there is really no death . . .
All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier."
Melville stood on the upper quarterdeck. They were moving out toward Stolsh space to warn them of the vast, slow moving Guldur fleet that was approaching. He'd sent Fielder and the middies to bed for four hours. Each of the sections also bedded down everyone they could, keeping only a skeleton crew on duty. For four hours Melville stood on the quarterdeck of his Ship (his Ship!) and rejoiced. He forced himself to eat and drink. His body ached. His soul ached, but the naval officer that was his core, his Keel, was rejoicing.
Above him the off-white sails were like clouds blocking the view of the starry heavens. The mizzenmast, mainmast and foremast all had three sails spread. Beneath the sails he could see the bowsprit pointing the way toward their navigation mark. Beneath the bowsprit another sail was spread.
There was little for him to do as he watched the sand trickle out for four turns of the hourglass. Every hour the glass was turned and they calculated their speed by the age-old process of casting the log. He wanted to test the new guns, but not now. He wanted to play with the sails and rigging, but not now, not with this skeleton crew. It seemed that every living creature who wasn't on duty was sleeping. Mostly he listened to the beautiful distant music, the song of Flatland, and just . . . was.
In four hours Fielder relieved him, the skeleton crew was rotated, and the men continued to sleep. Melville made a short visit to the hospital, where Elphinstone and Vodi escorted him as he visited the wounded.
Heavy gravity could be deadly to injured men, so it was vital to get them as far up above the plain of Flatland as reasonably possible. So they'd put the hospital in the cabin below the lower quarterdeck. The great windows in the stern looked out on the beautiful constellations of two-space, which was a balm to the soul of every sailor. They lay stacked up on pallets, wrapped in blankets.
They were hurt so very badly, these warriors of his. Many had lost limbs and were now destined to live a maimed and crippled life. Some might not last through the day. In the corner, slightly out of the way, removed from the others, one sailor was gasping out his last few breaths. They were brave, but in the end they were so frail, so very fragile.
Too delicate is flesh to be
The shield that nations interpose
'Twixt red ambition and his foes
The bastion of liberty.
Their efforts had saved all their lives, had given them victory in battle against a base, cowardly foe. But somehow, at moments like this it all seemed so hollow. Melville found himself overwhelmed with affection for these men, these brave men, these noble warriors, this "delicate flesh" that had followed him into battle and made their victory possible.
Was there love once? I have forgotten her.
Was there grief once? Grief yet is mine.
Other loves I have, men rough, but men who stir
More grief, more joy, than love of thee and thine.
The men were in remarkably good spirits. They seemed to take particular joy from his monkey. Cats and dogs were there to keep them constant company, but they considered the monkeys to be a particular talisman of luck and success. Wild tales of the monkeys' contribution to their battles were already circulating. Melville's monkey seemed to take the cautious stroking and petting as its rightful due.
Faces cheerful, full of whimsical mirth,
Lined by the wind, burned by the sun;
Bodies enraptured by the abounding earth,
As whose children we are brethren: one.
The hardest part was knowing that they would probably have to do it again. These men, of whom so much had already been asked, would have more to do. They would mend and heal their bodies, only to do it all again. Worse yet, their enemy could attack them at any moment, before they were healed, and these brave men would have to huddle helplessly in the hospital, where death could still find them.
His job was to protect them. How could he take them into harm's way again?
And any moment may descend hot death
To shatter limbs! Pulp, tear, blast
Beloved soldiers who love rough life and breath
Not less for dying faithful to the last.
Melville moved to the corner, where he knelt and held the hand of the dying sailor. It seemed like a very long time as the sailor shuddered out his last few minutes of life.
O the fading eyes, the grimed face turned bony,
Opened mouth gushing, fallen head,
Lessening pressure of a hand, shrunk, clammed and stony!
O sudden spasm, release of the dead!
He held the cold, dead hand for another moment, then let go, as Lady Elphinstone moved to cover the sailor's face. The room was silent, dead silent, as her assistants removed the body.
Was there love once? I have forgotten her.
Was there grief once? Grief yet is mine.
O loved, living, dying, heroic soldier,
All, all my joy, my grief, my love, are thine.
The warriors of Westerness dreaded burial in the cold vacuum of space. This body would be lovingly sewn into a sailcloth bag, and then lowered on a line into the "sea," into interstellar space. Sometimes there was a whole "stringer" of these strange, sad, frozen fish, to be hauled up and buried upon landfall.
The sailors gave a few last loving strokes to his little monkey. Others held their dogs and cats, pups and kittens, nurturing and treasuring the lives in their hands, as death went past. There were a few last words. Inconsequential words, comforting, supporting words. Then he left. He went to his cabin and wept . . . and slept.
It was eight hours later when he awoke. Most people go through a kind of panicky, preconsciousness checklist upon awakening. "Who am I?" "Where am I?" (And, upon occasion, "Good god, who is she?") Perhaps this is because they exist in a miasma of constant doubt and dread. Doubt and fear were what propelled them through life.
Melville had developed an ability common in most successful sailors and soldiers. With the exception of last time, when he'd been put to bed while unconscious, he woke up every morning knowing exactly who he was, where he was, and what he had to do that day.
He lived completely in the present. He knew where he was yesterday, he damn sure knew where he was today, and he had a pretty good idea where he'd be tomorrow. If you wanted anything more than that he'd have to check his log books or calendar.
He never had to "find himself" when he woke up in the mornings because he knew exactly who he was. He was, by God, the man in charge.
Again he made a trip to the head in the quarter-gallery, and again McAndrews had a cup of tea ready for him. Lots of sugar and lemon, just as he liked it. He still ached, but when he saw McAndrews there and smelled the tea, he was willing to suffer the portly, unctuous steward to live another day. Periodically his monkey stretched its neck out and took a drink of the tea. It closed its eyes and shuddered comically with the first sip, then it came back for more.
The cutters had been loaded with everything from the old Kestrel that they thought might be needed. Melville had tossed in a small bag of his own personal gear. Some books, tea bags, and a bottle of lemon juice. Somehow his steward had found the bag and put the contents to good use. Yes, Melville thought, I might just permit him to live a while longer. With McAndrews' help he managed to get dressed and went out on the deck, just in time to join the day watch for breakfast.
Over the centuries a rhythm had developed in the Ships of the Westerness Navy. The sailors on the "day" watch slept on the deck while the "night" watch was up and about for twelve hours. The night watch did most of the daily maintenance in the hold, worked silently, and respected their shipmates' sleep.
Then the "day" watch went on duty, and the sailors on the "night" watch slept in the hold or gundeck for twelve hours. Their new Ship had no separate gundeck, so the night watch all slept in the upper hold, while the marines and the Guldur prisoners were berthed in the lower hold. The day watch was boisterous and loud as they worked in the rigging. They did all the maintenance on the deck, and tried to limit how much they disturbed their shipmates in the hold.
Twelve hours could be a long shift, but a sailor's life was usually an easy, paced life, with plenty of time for breaks, and all three meals taken on duty. Out on the maindeck, in preparation for breakfast and dinner meals, their old cook, Roxy, would have her mates set up their "burners." These were yet another special adaptation of a Keel, which were designed, in this case, to release their energy as heat.
One day Cookie would set up on the upper maindeck, and the next day she'd set up on the lower maindeck. This made the upper and lower crews socialize during meals, which contributed to the cohesion of the whole Ship. The only meal that wasn't served on the maindeck was the night watch's lunch, when the cooks set the kitchen up in the hold, so as to avoid bothering the day watch as they slept on the deck.
The watches "blended" into their duties at shift change. First the day watch formed up for duty and were inspected by their section chiefs. Then half of them had breakfast on deck, while half the night watch ate dinner at the same time. Finally the other half of the watches had their meals. At the end of the watch the process was reversed. This permitted the day and night watches to constantly intermingle and cross-level information.
Even with all these shared meals, if the captain wasn't careful, the "upper" and "lower" crews could become almost two separate ships. In order to prevent this, a constant rotation was in place. Periodically the lower night watch would become the upper night watch. In a few days the upper day watch would trade off with the lower day watch.
Westerness officers sometimes ate, or "messed," with their sailors out on the deck, but in the normal process of duty they preferred to eat in the wardroom. The petty officers and marine NCOs also ate together in a separate mess. The captain often ate alone in his cabin, in splendid solitude. Soon they'd set up an area in the hold to use as a wardroom. For now Melville stood on the upper quarterdeck, eating some kind of scrambled breakfast concoction with Lieutenant Fielder, Lieutenant Broadax, his surgeon, his midshipmen, his two rangers (who were accounted by the captain as officers on this Ship), and his four warrant officers.
The crew was lounging around on the unfamiliar maindeck. Messmates gathered in groups around the guns, clusters tucked into corners, and clumps sprawled out on the deck, as they began the process of making themselves at home. They were enjoying a leisurely meal, and during the meal they went about the age-old process of "debriefing" after combat. With each telling of the events of the battle they "multiplied their joy," emphasizing the valor, the courage, the sacrifice, the professionalism of their mates, living and dead. And they "divided their pain," working through the memories and "delinking" them from the physiological arousal.
Some would imagine that these sessions would be a kind of "koom-by-yah sob-fest," but nothing could be further from the truth. Across the centuries, warriors learned that the men who grew weepy and could not control their emotions were the ones who would not be there the next year. It was okay to weep, to mourn briefly and intensely at the funeral of a friend, but it was not acceptable for a warrior to weep at the memory of combat. Perhaps you would weep the first time, but you were ashamed of your weeping, and the next time (and the next, and the next) it was expected that you would talk about your combat experiences and remain calm. You must talk, and you must remain calm, in order to "make friends" with the memory.
Across the countless centuries warriors have taken their cues from the "Old Sarge." There was always an Old Sarge. He was the veteran of twenty battles, and he was calm. Weeping and becoming emotional at the memory of combat was not acceptable because, across the countless centuries, warriors found that the way to continue performing the desperate, wretched, debasing, dirty job of combat was by controlling your emotions, dividing your pain, and making friends with the memories. Every night, around the campfire, or over hot food with their messmates, this age-old process continued.
In these sessions the men also sorted out what had actually happened. In Alexis Artwohl's twenty-first-century law enforcement research, almost a quarter of the combat veterans she interviewed had memory distortions. They actually "remembered," sometimes with vivid intensity, something that did not happen. And half of these veterans had experienced memory loss, with significant gaps in the memory of what happened. Left to their own devices, there was a tendency to "fill in the gaps" with guilt-laden acceptance of responsibility, sometimes even a greatly exaggerated sense of guilt. "Its all my fault." "I let my buddies down." "I was a failure." These were the kinds of responses felt by many men after combat. Only their mates, the ones who shared the event with them, could help them fill in the holes accurately. And only their friends, their comrades who had shared the searing experience of combat, only they could give understanding, acceptance, and forgiveness of the events that had occurred.
Every day, day after day, this is what occurred. This is what warriors did.
Melville's left arm was slung securely to his side, but his left hand was free. He held the plate in his left hand, propped on a railing as he spooned the mystery glop into his mouth with his good right arm. Periodically, as a spoonful was on its way to his mouth, his monkey would reach out a three-fingered paw with amazing speed and dexterity to snag a handful. Sometimes Melville would lift up a spoonful and be momentarily disoriented when it arrived empty at his mouth. The other crew members with monkeys were experiencing the same thing. No one seemed to begrudge the little creatures their small tariff on the goods that went from plate to mouth.
"Shipmates," Melville began. "We have a course and a mission, so now I think the first order of duty is to establish the name for our new Ship. Mr. Petreckski, I understand you have been interviewing the Guldur prisoners. What did they call this Ship?"
"Well, sir," replied the purser, leaning against the railing in his brown robes, "I think I can show you better than I can tell you. Valandil, if I may use your dog as a demonstrator?"
"Certainly," replied the ranger, looking down at his dog with mild bemusement.
Petreckski dropped down on one knee and patted the dog on the side. "Cinder, I need to show the captain your teeth, please."
Cinder, thought Melville to himself, her name is Cinder. Why didn't I know that?
The Sylvan dog looked up at Petreckski in amiable compliance, as the purser peeled back her lips and showed the captain her teeth. "Do you see this lower right canine tooth?"
"They named the Ship after a fang?"
"No sir, not a fang, although they have a specific word for each of the four fangs, two upper and two lower. Actually, the Guldur have a very specific word for every single tooth in their head. Their teeth are very important to them. Do you see the little gripper teeth in between the two lower canines?"
"Yesss . . ."
"Well, sir, the second one from the left is what this Ship is named after. Apparently this whole class of Ships has each been named after one of these little gripper teeth."
"Hmm, I don't think that we can name our Ship 'Her Majesty, the Queen of Westerness' Ship, the Second Little Gripper Tooth in from the Canine.' Since we only have one of these Ships, instead of a whole class of them, I propose that we shall name her Fang. Does anyone see a reason why this would be a problem?"
"No sir," responded Mr. Barlet, the gunnery warrant, "but that still leaves open the class of Ship she represents. I think that the cannonball these big guns fires is close to a 24-pounder, so may I suggest that we call her 'Her Majesty, the Queen of Westerness' 24-Pounder Frigate, Fang."
"Very good," responded the young captain with a smile, "and so it shall be!"
Of course, he didn't have the authority to take this action. It would have to be approved by the Admiralty. When the time came his actions would be judged, and his only real defense would sound something like, "Hey, it followed me home. Can't I please keep it?" But right now, what other option did they have?
"Chips," Melville went on, looking at his carpenter, "at the end of the day watch I intend to go down and talk to the Ship. Would you be so kind as to come with me then?"
"Aye, sir," Mr. Tibbits replied. He appeared benumbed, still in deep shock and mourning from the loss of Kestrel. It reminded Melville of an Edgar Allen Poe poem,
For, alas, alas, with me
The light of life is o'er!
"No moreno moreno more"
(Such language holds the solemn sea
To the sands upon the shore)
Shall bloom the thunder blasted tree,
Or the stricken eagle soar!
Truly something ancient and magnificent had been lost. The stricken falcon would soar no more, no more. She was lost to mankind, and lost to the Kestrel's old crew. But Tibbits had been in close daily telepathic contact with the Ship for many long years. For him it was like losing a spouse, a soul mate. Only the duty of coordinating with this new Ship seemed to be keeping him afloat.
"Now, gentlemen, there is one more task I want to take care of before we begin our first full day watch aboard our new Ship. A happy task. I'm going to give Midshipman Archer and Midshipman Crater field commissions to acting lieutenant. Lieutenant Fielder will have the night watch and I will take the day watch. Each of us will now have a lieutenant to command the lower quarterdeck, while we command the upper deck."
Melville looked at the two young men. Jarad Crater was a tall broad-shouldered lad with an open grin and a scraggly wisp of beard on his chin. He'd seen Crater in action and the boy was very good, but he still managed to communicate an image of gangly awkwardness. Buckley Archer was a slender lad of average size, with brown hair, and elegant red sideburns and goatee. He carried himself with an air of self-confidence and poise, but there was always an underlying note of wary concern. They were both academy graduates and extraordinary young men. They were fully proven. Given their skills and the current circumstances, Melville felt completely justified in giving them field commissions.
"Lieutenant Archer. Lieutenant Crater," he said, looking them each in the eye and shaking their hands as he said their names. "My congratulations to both of you. You understand that this commission may not be approved upon our return to Admiralty authority, but regardless, it will look good on your records." They both nodded their stunned reply.
"My friends," he continued, looking at his officers, "now we must replenish the ranks of our midshipmen. Look for ship's boys that you can nominate to be midshipmen. Give me your suggestions at the end of the watch. We'll put them right to work and begin training them immediately. When we get the chance, we'll nominate them for the academy."
Melville looked around at his officers and could see that they were thinking about the young men under their command. "We should also draw from our seamen and perhaps even our petty officers for midshipmen. Most of you know that I began my career as a seaman and a young petty officer, before being selected for the academy. Mr. Fielder also spent some years as a seaman before being selected as a midshipman and then receiving a field promotion to lieutenant. I think," Melville continued with a grin and a glance at Fielder, "that we can agree that some quality officers can come from the ranks."
Melville looked at young Midshipman Aquinar. He could guess the boy's thoughts. Archer and Crater were promoted to lieutenant. Midshipman Faisal was in the hospital and Midshipman Chang was dead. Aquinar was now the senior midshipman.
The monkeys had developed a habit of stretching out their accordion necks and placing the top of their heads on their master's shoulder so that their upside-down face was now right-side-up. Perhaps this was an attempt to look more like their friends, or simply their impish sense of humor. The result was that it appeared as though a small, second head was growing from your shoulder. Now Aquinar's monkey was doing that, and it was mildly disconcerting as both heads looked at their captain with wide eyes.
"Mr. Aquinar, you are now the senior midshipman. The midshipman berth will be empty except for you, but it will fill up soon. Some of them will be quite a bit older than you, but I expect you to remain in charge. If you need any assistance, don't hesitate to ask any of the officers." Both heads looked at him and both nodded in solemn, silent understanding.
Melville looked over at his own monkey's face. It was resting on his shoulder just like Aquinar's, and he could swear that its right-side-up face winked at him as it also nodded.
" . . ." Blink. " . . . Yes, well, then let us get to work. This is the beginning of day watch. Mr. Crater, you take command of the lower quarterdeck. Mr. Aquinar, you'll be assigned to assist the carpenter in his duties; tomorrow you'll have a new crew of midshipmen to break in. Mr. Fielder, Mr. Archer, you have the night watch, we'll see you in twelve hours. Sleep well."
Melville stood and rejoiced in his first full watch as captain. He stood beside a young helmsman, who stood at the Ship's wheel. Under the watchful eye of the quartermaster, the boy was looking carefully across the maindeck, keeping the Ship on course by keeping the bowsprit pointed at a specific star. Melville still ached, but his body was young, as was his soul. Body and spirit seemed to be working together, in spite of his wounds, to find some enthusiasm for his duties.
At the beginning of the watch they'd measured the Ship's speed by heaving the log. Melville, as the officer on duty, stood holding a timer. He said "Go," and turned over the small half-minute glass. The "log" consisted of a small piece of Keel attached to a line, since anything other than a Keel wouldn't remain in two-space but would sink into interstellar space. On his command the quartermaster threw the log off the back of the quarterdeck. The log hit the sea, bobbed once and began to recede into the distance as the Ship sailed away. A young quartermaster's mate stood holding the reel as the line raced off, marked periodically by knots in the cord. When the last grain of sand ran out of the tiny glass, Melville said, "Stop," and the young sailor stopped the cord.
"Just a tad under ten knots, sir," said the quartermaster, looking down at the reel. The quartermaster's mate began to reel the log back in as the quartermaster looked up at his captain. "Not near as fast as old Kestrel, sir, but not too bad. As we tweak the rigging, hopefully we can do a bit better than that."
Hans, in his role as sailing master, was working hard to get every bit of speed out of their new Ship. "Aye, sir," he told his young captain as he handed up a chunk of chewing tobacco for his monkey to bite a chaw off of, "the ticks is piss-poor sailors. Damned fine topmen, mind ya, but their idee of arrangin' sails 'as got no finesse, no art to it, if ya take my meanin'."
A two-space Ship typically had ten sails. A mainsail, topsail, and topgallant sail on each mast, and a spritsail on the bowsprit. They all ran perpendicular to the length of the Ship. The strange "wind" or gravity effect of two-space was caught by the sails. Since it always came from directly above there was never any need to shift the angle of the sails, which made their rigging quite a bit simpler than it was in the old sailing vessels. Which was good, because any kind of pulley, as would be found in a block and tackle, was quickly made useless by the technology-eroding effects of Flatland.
Spankers and jibs, sails that ran more parallel to the length of the ship, contributed little to the forward movement of a Ship. So they were used only rarely, to facilitate sudden direction changes.
"The curs made a damned fine Ship, sir," added Hans during one of his periodic consultations with Melville. These conferences were really more diplomatically conducted education sessions than consultation, as the master sailor explained what he was doing to his young captain. He and his monkey spit streams of tobacco juice over the side of the railing as he continued. "She has some o' the strongest masts I've ever seen on a Ship. By God, I think 'er sticks are stout enough 'at she might be able ta stand some royals and a spritsail-topsail, if we do it real careful like. We might work on those later, but fer now we have at least a week's worth o' work in front of us, sorting out this rats' nest of a riggin' the ticks 'ave been usin'."
Every turn of the Ship's glass marked an hour, and each hour the bell was rung, up to twelve bells. Then the night watch would begin the cycle again. At one bell they heaved the log again. "Just a hair over ten knots this time," the quartermaster said with a satisfied grin.
Shortly thereafter a nervous young ship's boy approached the quarterdeck. "Beg pardon sir," the young man said. "But Mr. Petreckski and Lady Elphinstone say there's som't'n int'restin happenin' in the surg'ry, if the Cap'in has time to come look."
"Thank you. Tell them I need to speak with Mr. Barlet first and then I will be there directly."
"Aye, sir! You'll be with Mr. Barlet and then to the surg'ry direc'ly." The boy saluted and scurried off as Melville turned to the quartermaster on duty. "Do you feel that all is well here?"
"Aye, sir," he replied with a confident grin. "All is well." Above them Mr. Hans' sailors were working like a great, chattering flock of dirty white birds, adjusting the sails and coordinating well with the quartermaster throughout the process. Hans respectfully coordinated with his captain, but it was immediately obvious to Melville that the new sailing master (and ex-chief) had a mastery of sails and rigging that he would probably never equal. Melville resigned himself to the fact that he'd never be a Jack Aubrey, tweaking the sails of a Ship to get the greatest possible speed. He counted himself lucky to have Hans as a sailing master and was content to leave such things to the real expert.
"She's a sweet Ship," the quartermaster continued, "if a little slow and sluggish compared to Kestrel. Some of the changes Chief, er, Mr. Hans is making will make her even sweeter."
The quartermasters were all experienced and trusted petty officers, assisted by two mates, one of whom served as the helmsman. As a former petty officer himself, Melville remembered how much he enjoyed it when the officers left him in charge. It was rare that there wasn't at least a midshipman in nominal "command" and the quartermasters were enjoying their moment in the sun. Melville hoped to find a few good midshipmen from among the ranks. Although technically a promotion, it was often hard to convince a good career NCO to take the step from godlike NCO powers to lowly midshipman. It was sometimes easier to move them to a warrant position, as he had done with Chief Hans, but even then it was hard to get a good NCO to step "down" from being the big frog in his comfortable little pond, to being a middle-sized frog in a bigger pond.
Melville returned the young petty officer's grin. "Very good. I'm going to coordinate briefly with Mr. Barlet, then I'll be down in the surgery."
It wasn't hard to find the gunnery officer. He, Gunny Von Rito, and their mates were on the lower gundeck, crawling all over the big guns that Barlet had designated as 24-pounders. "Guns," said Melville as he walked up, "what do you think of these cannon?"
"Sir, they're simply magnificent," replied the gunnery officer, with joy shining from his dark face. "Did you know that they were actually brass under this black coating the curs put on their guns? Brass cannons, by the Lady!"
He scowled and continued, "But the sighting system stinks! It's like building the biggest, finest ship ever imagined, out of the finest possible material, and then not putting a rudder on her. It's just like the curs, but I can't really blame it all on their stupid, slam-bam-thankee-ma'am tactics. The problem is that this gun is too big to lean over and sight down when you fire it, and anyone who stands behind it when you touch her off will be crushed. So you have to sight her from behind the barrel, step back, tap the Keel charge, then jump back fast. Bottom line is that whenever you shoot, you're always firing from old data."
Then he grinned with the joy of a true craftsman, the feral grin of a master gunner facing a problem that he was born to solve. "I think I have a solution. It'll be tricky but I think we'll be able to use these guns in a way the Guldur never dreamed possible."
"Good!" Melville responded. "That's our top priority. Let me know what you need to get the mission accomplished. I'm also eager to do some test firing, so let me know when you're ready. Our second priority is to get the 12-pounders we brought from Kestrel into position. Do you have a suggestion as to their placement?"
"Yes sir, I do. I think we can put a pair of 12-pounders forward of each pair of 24-pounders, two above, two below, on both the green and red sides. If we do it right, then on the upper green-side and the lower red-side we can swing the for'ard-most gun around and use her for a bow chaser at need."
"That will account for eight of them, what of the remaining four?"
"Well, sir, I'd like to put two each in the cabin right below the quarterdeck, above and below, as stern chasers." His brows furrowed and he looked askance at his captain, warily, judgingly. "The only problem is that you'd have to give up a lot of space in your cabin."
Melville laughed out loud. It was plain to see that in Barlet's eyes this was a test of the new captain's character, but for Melville it was no test at all. "Aye, Guns, great minds do think alike. That's exactly the solution I came up with. I don't give a hoot in hell about space in my cabin! But what I do want is to give a load of grief to anyone who chases us. I figure with a Ship this slow we're more apt to be the chasee than the chaser. So having some firepower back there may be useful. Tell Chips where you want the gun ports put, and make it happen! We have the wounded in the lower quarterdeck cabin, so do that last, and give the surgeon plenty of warning before you do it."
"Aye, sir!" Barlet nodded happily as Melville turned and strode toward the surgery. If only all of his tests were that simple. If only all of his men were that easy to please. His good mood evaporated instantly and anxiety gripped his stomach as he thought about the fact that there would be times when he'd have to make hard decisions, decisions that they wouldn't like. All their support and amiable nods might dry up in an instant in the face of their young, inexperienced captain.
The glow of the Elbereth Moss provided steady light. Within the Ship, if nothing was placed in the way, the combined light from the ceiling, bulkheads and floor could be almost as bright as daylight. But it was rare to have a room with nothing in the way of the Moss. Usually there was furniture, great quantities of equipment hanging on the bulkheads, and hatches in various bulkheads and decks.
The surgery was a walk-in closet, just off the lower quarterdeck cabin, where the glow of Lady Elbereth's Gift flowed freely. Nothing was hung on the bulkheads. There was no furniture except a table and no hatches except for one small door. Outside this small door was the hospital, where many of the wounded were stacked up in stretchers.
Many of them were sitting up in their pallets to peer into the surgery. A large bloody bundle sat outside the door and Doc Etzen, the day watch corpsman, stood outside the door. A strong stench of decaying flesh was in the air.
The captain ducked into the surgery. As he bent over to go in it became clear that the putrid smell was from the bundle sitting outside the door, and from inside as well. The strange, constant, downward "wind" of two-space drove their sails. It also pulled a draft down through vents in every room, then exited the Ship from vents just above the sea. Even with this constant flow of air, the smell was almost overwhelming. Gagging slightly at the stench, he found Petreckski, Lady Elphinstone, and her assistant, Mrs. Vodi, gathered around the operating table, the latter two with their usual small cloud of cats at their feet.
The Sylvan was wearing her traditional buttercup yellow dress with grass green sash. Her long blond hair was braided behind her. Her hands were covered with blood and ichor, but her garments were spotless.
Vodi was in a dowdy black shift, her gray hair up in a bun. She was gummy as a baby, with a face like a large, self-satisfied, golden raisin. She kept a large chaw of tobacco in her cheek and a spit cup in her bloody hand. As he watched, she spat a stream of juice into the cup. "Psssuttt."
"Sir!" said Petreckski. His pale blue eyes were shining with excitement in his heavyset face. His thin, straw colored hair was in disarray, and he had a smear of blood on his cheek. Smears of blood and ichor could be detected on his brown robe. "Look at this."
On the table before them, spread out on a piece of sailcloth, was the dissected body of one of the little spider monkeys, spread-eagled on the table. If eight legs, a tail and a head splayed out and sliced open in every direction could qualify for that term. On Petreckski's shoulder sat his monkey, alive and well, peering down at the body without any apparent distress or concern over the process. Indeed, the little monkey seemed as intent and interested as its master. Melville looked over at his monkey, which was craning its neck to look at the operating table, apparently sharing the interest, as Petreckski continued. "I saved the corpse of an ape and several spider monkeys from Broadax's World, and we just finished dissecting them."
It occurred to Melville to be concerned that precious space on their cutters must have been tied up with such items during the boarding process. But collecting cargo and knowledge was the purser's job. That was his contribution to Westerness and Melville trusted him to know what constituted valuable cargo. In the old days of sailing ships the purser wasn't often a popular officer, since he was notorious for stealing from the ship. In those days "purser's tricks" was a term for any kind of swindle with food or supplies. But today, in the Westerness Navy, the purser was a highly respected professional who helped make sure that the Ships turned a profit as they traveled. A profit that was shared by all the warrior-traders onboard the Ship.
"This little fellow is one of the ones that fell from the trees while they were fighting the apes," Petreckski went on, pointing to the bloody remains. "He really didn't have too much damage, just some internal trauma and broken bones. Of course, he and his bigger playmate out there have gotten a little ripe."
Melville found himself fighting a wave of nausea at the sight and smell in the confined area. The purser went on, oblivious to his captain's discomfort. "We could have put them on a line and hung them down into space. But the freezing and vacuum would have done even more damage, and then we'd be working with a frozen body, so this is really best."
"I assume," Melville asked, "that the reeking bundle outside the door is this little fellow's larger cousin?"
"Well, yes and no," Petreckski replied. "That is the bundle containing the ape, but he isn't even remotely a relative of this little monkey," gesturing at the bloody mass on the table. "Perhaps Lady Elphinstone can explain it best, since this is really her area of expertise."
Nodding at the purser, the Sylvan healer took up the account. Beside her, her lob-lolly girl, Mrs. Vodi, spat some tobacco juice into her spit cup, "psssuttt," causing Melville's stomach to heave again.
Elphinstone was "still waters" that ran very deep, but even she was reflecting a little of Petreckski's excitement. "Captain, I need to begin by telling thee that the large apes are very crude, simple creatures. To put it plainly, they are very unevolved. The one we dissected was clearly male, but cursory inspections of their bodies after the battle also identified many females."
She went on, her fingers flashing a probe and a scalpel to demonstrate her points. "The spider monkeys, inside, are as different as night is from day. They have the same three-fingered paws as the apes, but one of their fingers is capable of wrapping around and acting as an opposable thumb. Thou canst also see that these little ones have a very highly refined neural system. And look, thou canst tell that their brain is quite well developed." Melville could tell no such thing, but was content to take her word on it. "Everything about them is evolved, or developed to the very highest degree. But here is the most remarkable thing. They have absolutely no sexual or reproductive capability."
"So," said Melville, since something seemed to be expected of him at this point, "the spider monkeys are the dominant species of the world, while the apes are some distant, unevolved branch."
"Captain," Petreckski interjected, shaking his head thoughtfully, "these two creatures are as different from each other as a squid is from you and me. Different number of limbs, different reproductive process, different nervous system, and totally different levels of development. They look similar, but they couldn't possibly be any more different. That's why it's so very strange that they look so much alike!"
Melville looked at him blankly. Elphinstone went on, trying to make it clear. "Think of it as though two civilizations set out to build an automobile. One is crude, industrial age technology, making a Model-T Ford. The other is the highest technology thou canst think of, making a state-of-the-art land vehicle. Inside, nothing is the same, so why bother to make it look like a Model-T?"
The excitement and enthusiasm in these two was mildly infectious. Melville found himself beginning to share their interest. Then they gave him the one bit of information that was truly electrifying. "But," Elphinstone continued, her blue eyes sparkling with relish, "if they have no reproductive capability, and they don't, then how dost thou explain the two baby monkeys that arrived last night?"
"Babies?" Melville asked.
"Two that we know of," said Petreckski. "Both are with the wounded. Hakeem and Ivanov both report waking up with a little bundle of fur nestled beside them. They say they thought it was a puppy, or kitten at first, but when they found out it was a monkey, just like yours, they were delighted."
"Well, let us take a look at these 'babies,' " said Melville, delighted to have an excuse to leave the malodorous surgery. He didn't think he could last another few minutes without embarrassing himself. To add to his discomfort, Mrs. Vodi spat a squirt of tobacco juice into her cup again. "Psssuttt."
The young captain looked at her and must have appeared particularly green.
"Yes, Captain," said the ancient lob-lolly girl. "I know it's a nasty habit. I tried to kick it. 'Get Thee behind me, Satan!' I said, and a scant minute later I heard a deep voice say, 'Nice Ass.' Oh, well, Take 'em where you can get 'em. That's my motto."
" . . ." Blink. Gulp. Blink. Melville looked at her ample bottom and gulped again. Mrs. Vodi didn't just derail his train of thought. She ripped up the rails and tied them in knots over roaring fires made of the railroad ties, burning the station and the bridge for good measure on the way out. " . . . Um. Yes. Well, let us see these 'babies,' shall we?"
"Wait, Captain," said Petreckski his voice growing low and conspiratorial. "Before you go, I have one last thing to show you." He reached behind him and pulled up a cloth sack. Inside the bag was an assortment of shattered belaying pins and chunks of wood. "These are the pieces of wood that our little friends were waving around in battle. Please look carefully at them and see what you notice."
Melville looked, picking each one up and examining it in the bright light of the surgery. The hair began to stand up on the back of his neck. "Yes . . . Each of them does seem to have an inordinate number of musket balls in it." That was an understatement. Several of them were riddled with imbedded musket balls, and deep grooves indicated where many more bullets had been deflected.
Petreckski continued as Melville stood transfixed by what he was holding in his hand. "Captain, you and Lieutenant Broadax, in particular, were real bullet magnets. Right out in front. Every enemy musket was firing at you. The Guldur are rather bad shots, and the Goblan are even worse, but not that bad." He pointed to two particularly tattered chunks of wood. "This is the one your monkey carried, and this belonged to Broadax's monkey. Truth is, you should both be dead, several times over. But somehow, it would appear, our monkeys may have been . . . blocking bullets. I don't know any other way to put it. Perhaps it's just a coincidence, or perhaps our little friends have a lot to answer for."
Now his whole skin was a mass of goose bumps. The stench of the surgery was forgotten. Melville stared at his monkey, and he could swear that the little creature looked him in the eyes and shrugged. "Perhaps," replied Melville, still looking at his monkey. "For now, let us keep this quiet." He reached up and scratched behind his monkey's soft, furry ears in a way that the little creature seemed to enjoy. It arched its back, closed its eyes and pushed gently against his ministering hand.
Melville continued, "Broadax and Fielder need to know about the results of your . . . research." He gestured at the bullet encrusted belaying pin in the purser's hand, "And about the . . . bullet stopping. Otherwise, this stays within this room. Understood?"
Elphinstone, Vodi, and Petreckski all nodded solemnly. So did Petreckski's monkey.
" . . ." Blink. "Right, then," he continued as he ducked out the door, "let's see these 'babies.'"
Standing out in the main hospital area, Melville took deep breaths as the others came out to join him. He wanted to say something about getting rid of these stinking corpses, but then realized that a few ship's boys were already taking charge of that task, dragging the bundles away in a manner that was oddly furtive.
The two tiny monkeys did look like little dappled kittens or puppies, all curled up, but with way too many legs stirred into the equation. Their "masters" were inordinately proud of them. Melville shuddered to think how possessive they might be if they suspected the monkeys' bullet-stopping skill.
No one had a clue where they came from. "Why, from momma monkeys, of course!" said one sailor and they all laughed. Melville and Petreckski looked at each other knowingly.
Melville knew he was running out of gas. He was already "smoked," as they would say of an exhausted warrior. By the end of his twelve-hour shift he was going to be useless, or "smoked like a cheap cigar," as the saying goes. There was something he needed to do first. Something he'd been putting off.
A young ship's boy, third class, was assigned to the quarterdeck, and when Melville returned to his duty station he called him over.
"Sir!" said the boy, wide eyed and tugging his forelock in salute.
"Find the carpenter and ask him to come meet me here, when he has a chance."
"Aye, sir! When the carpenter gets a chance, 'e's to come meet you here."
Tibbits arrived shortly. "Aye, sir?"
"Mr. Tibbits, I've been putting off talking to our Ship. Do you think that now is a good time?"
"Aye, sir. She'll talk with her carpenter, but in the end everythin' depends on her relationship with the Cap'n. Now is as good a time as ever. If you wait too long she may feel insulted, or it may look weak."
"Aye, Chips. My thoughts exactly."
"Aye, and there's one other thing," said the old carpenter, pulling a white Moss-coated piece of wood from his pocket. "I saved a shard of Kestrel's Keel. A bit of her's still alive here," he said. "I reckon you can decide what to do with it, but maybe it'd be a good idea to put it next to the new Ship's Keel. Maybe they can . . . talk . . ."
"Aye," said Melville, taking the sliver of wood and immediately feeling the comforting, distant sense of an old friend. "Between this and Kestrel's cutters sitting on her decks, Fang will have something to think about. Let's go."
Down in the hold Melville and Tibbits stood over the Keel of Her Majesty, the Queen of Westerness' 24-Pounder Frigate, Fang. This was a vital moment. If the Ship didn't accept them, they might well be dead. There were several ways that Fang could kill her occupants, and none of them were pleasant ways to die. The captain's relationship with his Ship was the key. "Chips," Melville asked, "do you have any advice before I speak with her for the first time?"
"Well, Cap'n, I'd be real gentle. She's a young Ship, and she seems kind of stunned by the whole business. She swapped Moss with old Kestrel during the boarding, and our four cutters is in direct contact with her. That seems to be havin' an effect. The curs don't treat their Ships real nice. Seems like there's not much love there. Our relationship with dear old Kestrel seems to be something new to young Fang here, and she's tryin' to adjust. Just be gentle, Cap'n and in the back of my mind I'd be thinkin' a little about old Kestrel, as background noise, so ta speak."
"Thanks, Chips." Melville sat down carefully in the 1.25 gees of the hold. He took several deep belly breaths. Now wasn't a time to show fear. Then he placed a hand on the Keel.
Speaking aloud and through his telepathic link to his Ship, Melville introduced himself. <<"Fang. I'm your captain. On behalf of our old Ship, the Kestrel, and our entire crew, I thank you for your hospitality.">>
<<C A P T A I N? F A N G?>>
<<Yes, we have translated your old name as Fang.>>
Melville had a sudden vision of a wolf lunging. In his vision there was particular emphasis on the wolf's canine tooth, its fang. Bright fang. Strong fang. Ripping fang. Good fang. <<F A N G G O O D.>>
Melville heaved a sigh of relief. She liked the name.
<<C A P T A I N G O O D F I G H T E R. K I L L C A P T A I N.>>
<<Yes, I killed the old captain.>> It suddenly occurred to Melville that, in Fang's mind, that might be key to his mastery of this Ship. Especially by Guldur tradition, that made him the rightful master. He suddenly felt a shudder of fear when he thought about the quirk of fate that permitted him to meet and defeat the captain of this Ship in honorable combat.
With almost puppylike excitement Fang went on. <<G O O D F I G H T. G O O D B L O O D!>>
Yes. His blood had flowed freely on the deck, where the Elbereth Moss soaked it up. As it did most blood, but not any other fluid. What did that do? What did it mean to the weird amalgam of Moss and Guldur-based memories that formed Fang's sentience? Whatever it meant, it seemed to be good.
And then, with a strange sadness and yearning, something was added . . .
<<G O O D S H I P.>>
Melville felt a thrill as he understood that his Ship was talking about Kestrel. Their old Ship had left them with one last gift. The respect and awe of this young Ship. Keeping his hand on the Keel, Melville reached into his pocket and pulled out the Keel shard from Kestrel. He placed it lovingly next to Fang's Keel charge, wedging it in a little. One hand on the shard and one hand on the Keel, he felt a surge of interest and empathy. Something deep and profound was happening, something he could barely understand.
Fang repeated herself, saying again, with new depth of feeling, <<G O O D S H I P. S A F E N O W.>>
<<Aye, all of us are safe now, thanks to you.>>
<<G O O D P U P S! P U P S S A F E T O O.>>
Again, Melville understood through their telepathic bond that Fang was speaking of the cutters, and the real dogs treading the decks of this Ship. And, strangely enough, the young midshipmen and ship's boys whose bare feet trod the decks. Yes, thought Melville, with his eyes misting up just a little. They were good pups.
Then he realized with a shock that Fang included him as a "pup." Great, he thought with a smile, it's the classic tale of a ship and her boy!
Then Fang got down to coordinating daily business with her captain.
<<W H E R E G O?>>
The young captain smiled and looked up at Tibbits. "We're home, Chips. We're home." Brave Kestrel, their brave dogs, and the courage of their brave lads had bought them a home.