Two Space War Part 13

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 s.h.i.+p. 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 ma.s.ses. Blood pressure skyrockets and, unless an artery is. .h.i.t, 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 s.h.i.+p 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 st.i.tch 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 ent.i.tled 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 s.h.i.+p. 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 st.i.tches in two layers, a few st.i.tches 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 rulea"these const.i.tute 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 circ.u.mstances, 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 s.h.i.+p of two-s.p.a.ce. 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 s.h.i.+p. His spider monkey slept, curled up beside him. He knew they were somewhere in the stern cabin of the s.h.i.+p, directly below the quarterdeck. He could see the eternal constellations of Flatland, through what were obviously stern windows. Under his pillow he felt the b.u.t.t of his pistol: a short, squat, black, double-barreled, over-and-under, .45 caliber "security blanket." In two-s.p.a.ce 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 s.p.a.ce 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, s.h.i.+rt, 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 s.h.i.+p. His s.h.i.+p.

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 s.h.i.+p 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 s.h.i.+p? 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 s.h.i.+p. She appears to be willing to tolerate us for now. The carpenter's mates have no significant problems in preparing the s.h.i.+p 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 s.h.i.+p.

"And the surgeon has the wounded in the lower quarterdeck cabin. All wounded from ash.o.r.e 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 ash.o.r.e. 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 s.h.i.+pmates. So many, many graves. G.o.d, if he could only stay drunk with combat. Duty. He'd done his duty. A dirty, four-lettered word. Like kill. Like h.e.l.l. Like d.a.m.n.

It was raining. The new graves were slick mounds of wet earth. The graves of those killed by the apes already had gra.s.s 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 gra.s.s? 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 gra.s.s,

It may be you transpire from the b.r.e.a.s.t.s

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,