Two Space War Part 15

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 a.s.sistants 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 s.p.a.ce. This body would be lovingly sewn into a sailcloth bag, and then lowered on a line into the "sea," into interstellar s.p.a.ce. 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 G.o.d, 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 d.a.m.n 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 G.o.d, 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 s.h.i.+ps 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 s.h.i.+pmates' 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 s.h.i.+p 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 s.h.i.+pmates in the hold.

Twelve hours could be a long s.h.i.+ft, 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 s.h.i.+p. 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 s.h.i.+ft 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 s.h.i.+ps. 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 mids.h.i.+pmen, his two rangers (who were accounted by the captain as officers on this s.h.i.+p), and his four warrant officers.

The crew was lounging around on the unfamiliar maindeck. Messmates gathered in groups around the guns, cl.u.s.ters 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.

"s.h.i.+pmates," 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 s.h.i.+p. Mr. Petreckski, I understand you have been interviewing the Guldur prisoners. What did they call this s.h.i.+p?"

"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 bemus.e.m.e.nt.

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 s.h.i.+p 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 s.h.i.+p is named after. Apparently this whole cla.s.s of s.h.i.+ps has each been named after one of these little gripper teeth."

"Hmm, I don't think that we can name our s.h.i.+p 'Her Majesty, the Queen of Westerness' s.h.i.+p, the Second Little Gripper Tooth in from the Canine.' Since we only have one of these s.h.i.+ps, instead of a whole cla.s.s 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 cla.s.s of s.h.i.+p 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 s.h.i.+p. 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 morea"no morea"no morea""

(Such language holds the solemn sea

To the sands upon the sh.o.r.e)

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 s.h.i.+p for many long years. For him it was like losing a spouse, a soul mate. Only the duty of coordinating with this new s.h.i.+p 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 s.h.i.+p. A happy task. I'm going to give Mids.h.i.+pman Archer and Mids.h.i.+pman 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 circ.u.mstances, 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 mids.h.i.+pmen. Look for s.h.i.+p's boys that you can nominate to be mids.h.i.+pmen. 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 mids.h.i.+pmen. 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 mids.h.i.+pman 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 Mids.h.i.+pman Aquinar. He could guess the boy's thoughts. Archer and Crater were promoted to lieutenant. Mids.h.i.+pman Faisal was in the hospital and Mids.h.i.+pman Chang was dead. Aquinar was now the senior mids.h.i.+pman.

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 mids.h.i.+pman. The mids.h.i.+pman 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 a.s.sistance, 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 a.s.signed to a.s.sist the carpenter in his duties; tomorrow you'll have a new crew of mids.h.i.+pmen 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 s.h.i.+p's wheel. Under the watchful eye of the quartermaster, the boy was looking carefully across the maindeck, keeping the s.h.i.+p 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 s.h.i.+p'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 gla.s.s. The "log" consisted of a small piece of Keel attached to a line, since anything other than a Keel wouldn't remain in two-s.p.a.ce but would sink into interstellar s.p.a.ce. 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 s.h.i.+p 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 gla.s.s, 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 s.h.i.+p. "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 p.i.s.s-poor sailors. d.a.m.ned 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-s.p.a.ce s.h.i.+p 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 s.h.i.+p. The strange "wind" or gravity effect of two-s.p.a.ce was caught by the sails. Since it always came from directly above there was never any need to s.h.i.+ft 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 s.h.i.+p, contributed little to the forward movement of a s.h.i.+p. So they were used only rarely, to facilitate sudden direction changes.

"The curs made a d.a.m.ned fine s.h.i.+p, 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 s.h.i.+p. By G.o.d, 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 s.h.i.+p's gla.s.s 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 s.h.i.+p'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 s.h.i.+p 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 s.h.i.+p," 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, a.s.sisted 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 mids.h.i.+pman in nominal "command" and the quartermasters were enjoying their moment in the sun. Melville hoped to find a few good mids.h.i.+pmen from among the ranks. Although technically a promotion, it was often hard to convince a good career NCO to take the step from G.o.dlike NCO powers to lowly mids.h.i.+pman. 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?"