The Guns of Two-Space (12 page)

The upperside mainmast had taken several grazing hits, and the rigging and sails were in a shambles, but still they had thrust from the sails on two masts, and the topmen were placing patches on the sails. The damage to the Ship was serious, but it could be repaired. What ate at Melville's soul was the damage to his beloved crew.

Here a burly gun captain sat in a pool of blood, cupped the head of his assistant gunner and quietly told him that his arm was gone. Here the cook's mates gently wrapped a body in sailcloth and took it to join the line of silent forms in the waist, lying in military order even unto death.

The
smell
was what always got to Melville. The copper smell of blood wasn't really all that bad. What revolted him was the stench of vomit and feces you got when you opened up human stomach and guts. Some writers referred to it as a "slaughterhouse smell" but Melville always thought this sickening odor was distinctly different from any butchery of animals that he had experienced. Blood smelled like blood, whether it was cattle in a slaughterhouse or humans on the deck of a Ship. But the smell from the contents of
human
entrails was distinctly different from that of herbivores butchered in a slaughterhouse. It was like the difference between human feces and horse dung ... except worse. It was
that
smell that made a battlefield so distinctive, and nauseating, to Melville.

The captain put a hand on every shoulder and gave a quiet word to every beloved Shipmate. Then he moved to the sick bay and did the same as tears streamed down his cheeks.

O loved, living, dying, heroic comrade,
All, all my joy, my grief, my love, are thine.
 

You cannot truly understand what it is to command, until you lose men in battle. And yet, to truly protect these warriors, he had to be willing to take them into harm's way. In war no one was ever really safe on the defensive. If you sat and huddled on the defense, or if you ran and hid, in the end you—and those you loved—would probably die. Only by gaining the initiative did you have a chance to survive. Only by seeking out and attacking the enemy, on
your
terms, at times of
your
choosing, could you ever have a degree of true safety in combat.

To be a great military leader you must sincerely love your men. But to keep your men safe, all too often you have to give them orders that could result in their deaths. That was the great paradox of military leadership. That paradox was a burden upon Melville's heart. And yet it had also become a comfort, because once he truly understood it, he also knew that he had no choice.

Everywhere Melville went he was greeted by cheering Shipmates, and his heart was lifted. The support of his men and his Ship made it easier to live with what he had to do. They cheered because their captain had once again saved them against long odds. And, like the Ship and her guns, they yearned to finish the job.

A bloodlust was upon them all, and Ulrich spoke for most of the crew when he said, "Le's go back and furnish da baskards!" They were back on the upper quarterdeck, in their original battle stations. Standing beside Ulrich was Grenoble, the captain's other bodyguard, who nodded in rare agreement with the vicious little coxswain. The rest of the quarterdeck crew roared their agreement.

"Shut yer yaps!" said Lt. Broadax, turning the concentrated essence of her snarl upon them all. "The cap'n 'll make 'is own damned decisions, an' if 'e needs any crap from ye I'll crack yer thick skulls an' squeeze it out fer 'im!"

All around them the Ship was bustling with crew members making repairs. The damage to the mizzenmast on their upperside would require a Shipyard to fully repair, but the rest of the damage could be put to rights. The upper quarterdeck was especially busy, as the sailing master and bosun directed the placement of a temporary mizzenmast. It would only go high enough to rig the mizzen mainsail and a small mizzen topsail, but that was a significant improvement over their current state.

"Aye, Cap'n," reported old Hans. The lanky, gray-bearded sailing master was standing beside Melville on the quarterdeck, directing the placement of the jury-rigged replacement mast. "We'll 'ave ta do without a mizzen topgallent an' royal on the upperside," and then he and his monkey spit a stream of tobacco into two-space for emphasis. "But this jury mast, combined with the mending an' patching o' sails an' riggin', should bring us up to around eighty-five percent thrust."

Melville nodded his thanks. He was no "Captain Jack" with a mystical understanding of sails and rigging. He had to depend on Hans and his other experts in that area, but he knew he could trust the old ex-NCO's estimate without hesitation.

Then Hans winked at Broadax. The Dwarrowdelf officer smiled back (if that distortion of the gristle and hair on her face could be called a smile) and winked one beady, bloodshot eye back at him. On land the two of them were bizarrely mismatched lovers. Or at least, they appeared to be lovers, but after one look at Broadax no one really wanted to know... whatever there was to know. Aboard Ship they were professionals who were content to give each other winks, leers, and admiring glances. Not for the first time Melville thought of Longfellow's lines when he saw Broadax and Hans together.

No one is so accursed by fate,
No one so utterly desolate,
But some heart, though unknown,
Responds unto his own.
 

Melville considered the situation carefully. Two crippled enemy Ships sat waiting for him to gobble them up. But they would not go down without a fight.

Those Ships and their guns were extraordinarily valuable resources just waiting to be snatched. But it would cost him lives, the precious lives of his Shipmates.

War was coming, and he knew deep in his gut that those Ships and those guns might turn the tide in some future battle. But the Admiralty would not thank him for it.

It would
really
tick off the Admiralty if he took these Ships. Westerness' policy was dedicated to avoiding an involvement in the affairs of the Elder Races. But Melville (and the Sylvan, the Stolsh, and the Dwarrowdelf) knew that, sooner or later, Westerness would be on the receiving end of the kind of brutal, genocidal attack he had personally witnessed being inflicted upon the Stolsh.

Everything he had done up until now was undeniably an act of self-defense. According to the laws of the sea, when those Guldur Ships attacked him it was either an act of war or an act of piracy, and either way he had the right to hunt those Ships down and capture or destroy them. But the timid souls who were currently in command at the Westerness Admiralty would not see it that way.

Well, hell
, thought Melville,
how could I possibly be in any more trouble than I already am?
 

On the one hand there was his personal desire. He
wanted
more guns for
his
Ship and, damnit, he wanted to teach the Guldur a lesson. He had a score to settle with those bastards and most of all, for himself, he wanted the
honor
and the
glory
. That was what had motivated old King Henry V:

The fewer men, the greater share of honour...
By Jove, I am not covetous for gold,
Nor Care I who doth feed upon my cost;
It yearns me not if men my garments wear;
Such outward things dwell not in my desires;
But if it is a sin to covet honour,
I am the most offending soul alive.
 

On the other hand, as Master and Commander of a Ship, he could never let himself be driven by his personal desires or his lust for glory. If he tried to capture those Ships it would cost him lives, and all the glory and honor in the world was not worth the life of a single one of his precious, beloved Shipmates. And it would probably make trouble with the Admiralty—maybe even
more
trouble than he already had, hard as that might be to imagine.

On the gripping hand, there was glory and guns for his men and his Ship, glory and guns that would help them survive in the political and physical battles yet to come. And those guns and Ships would help Westerness survive the brutal, genocidal assault that he
knew
was coming. It was his
duty
to get those guns for his men, his Ship, and his nation. Duty: that fierce, harsh, insatiable mistress of his who could rightfully consume as many lives as she desired.

For once, duty and desire were in agreement.

"Turn us about," he said to the quartermaster. "We have unfinished business to attend to."

He had never felt more alive in his life.
And that makes sense,
he thought,
because...
 

We live in deeds, not years;
In thoughts not breaths.
 

Stand to your guns, my hearts of oak,
Let not a word onboard be spoke,
Victory soon will crown the joke;
Be silent and be ready.
Ram down your guns and spunge them well,
Let us be sure that the balls will tell,
The cannons' roar shall sound their knell;
Be steady boys, be steady.

"Sterret's Sea Fight"
Anon. (originally published in broadside format in 1801)

It was time for breakfast. They had fought for many long hours, and the crew was tired. Not exhausted, not at the end of their rope, but they were tired and a meal would be refreshing. They had pulled out of sight of the two Guldur Ships, and the tension was great as they broke their fast and headed back, the prey turning upon its predators.

Today's meals would normally have been served on the upperside, but the upper deck was a shambles so the lowerside was hosting meals again. The lunch meal for the night shift had been skipped, and those worthies were particularly hungry, although almost everyone aboard had a hearty appetite.

Almost
everyone. Cuthbert Asquith XVI could not understand how the crew could eat under these circumstances. Right beside him was Lt. Archer, who would soon be leading men in battle. The young lieutenant would probably be the first to die, yet he was eating with great zest, wolfing down his meal while walking around and making sure that his men had been taken care of and were eating well.

Archer looked over at the earthling. "Adrenaline!" he said with a broad grin as he scarfed down his scrambled eggs. "The breakfast of champions."

Asquith was baffled by this young man, and all the others like him. He had existed in a constant state of tension, unable to eat anything since they first encountered the enemy Ships.

Meanwhile, the Ship's routine continued in a placid, surreal manner. At this moment, in the background Asquith heard that age-old chant: "Sweepers. Sweepers, man your brooms. Give the Ship a clean sweep-down fore and aft. Sweep down all lower decks, ladder backs, and passageways. Throw all trash clear of the stern... Now sweepers... "

Having been completely rebuffed at any attempt to give spiritual consolation to Asquith, Brother Theo Petreckski was espousing the "finite heartbeat theory" to him.

"We each have been allocated a finite number of heartbeats, and when we use them up, then our brief span of existence in this world is complete. Thus, agitation, irritation, consternation, and all perspiration resulting from unnecessarily vigorous operation of your body only serves to use up your heartbeats needlessly."

Brother Theo was full-bellied, with a think blond tonsure and a round, red face that spoke of a soul long traveled under alien suns and often wrapped around exotic wines. He had twinkling blue eyes, and an expression around his eyes and lips that hinted of pending outbursts of song and laughter.

As he continued to pontificate, Lt. Fielder cut in. "Your stream of consciousness is definitely overflowing its banks."

"Ah, Brother Daniel," Theo replied with a look of mock piety, "at moments such as this I can't help but contemplate the uncertainty of the future. Think of how little time there may be left. How few heartbeats, and how each one must be nurtured, preserved, and cherished."

"Uh-huh," the sardonic first officer replied. "Well, I'm saving mine up for sex and fleeing from irate husbands."

"Daniel," said Theo with a kind smile and a shake of his head, "you are a truly twisted man. When you die, they will probably have to screw you into the ground."

"I have to admit," Fielder growled, "you are bringing religion into my life. I don't think I ever really believed in hell until I met you."

"Ah, well, I'm just God's humble servant, doing the best I can," the monk replied with a mischievous grin.

"God, please save me from your followers!" muttered the first officer in mock dismay.

Asquith was baffled by all this banter. But he was slowly beginning to understand that it was entertainment intended for one-and-all. Fielder and Theo derived pleasure and reassurance from restating some well-established and well-worn positions. And everyone on the quarterdeck took pride and satisfaction in knowing that they were warriors who could pontificate, philosophize, and remain true to themselves even in the face of death.

The enemy Ship came into sight.

They were plodding determinedly after the
Fang
with full thrust from the sails on their one remaining mast on the lowerside, as the ticks swarmed in the rigging, trying to make repairs. The canine derived Guldur "curs" were the definition of "doggedly determined."

On the enemy's upperside there was still a full compliment of masts, but the sails on two of them had to be slacked to balance the thrust. The enemy was feverishly working on a jury lower mainmast but their repairs had not progressed as far as the
Fang
's.

Fielder had come up to join Melville and Broadax on the upper quarterdeck. Broadax's battle station was with her marines beside the upper quarterdeck, and it was normal for her to move over and join the captain.

"Just for the record, sir," said the first officer quietly, "I recommend against this."