Two Space War Part 35

the ancient wrongs,

Their doors are shut in the evenings;

and they know no songs.

"The Secret People"

G.K. Chesterton

"Osgil," sighed little Aquinar, who was currently serving as the signal mids.h.i.+pman. "At last we are among friends. Finally we are safe."

"Aye," said Lieutenant Archer, who was the officer of the watch. Then he continued, not unkindly, "Now get on with your duties, Mr. Aquinar."

" 'Governor welcomes Fang. Should be happy to see captain, wardroom, and mids.h.i.+pman's berth at sixteen o'clock,' " said the little signal mids.h.i.+pman to the officer of the watch, who relayed the message to the captain, five feet from its source.

"Very kind of him, I'm sure," replied Melville with a voice and continence that communicated dismay. "We cannot refuse. Please reply, 'Many thanks, accept with pleasure: Fang.' " They were at the main Pier of Osgil, which rose out from Flatland on the upper side. He turned to his first officer who was standing beside him. "Mr. Fielder, you know the moorings here as well as anyone, so carry on."

The officers looked at each other in consternation. They were in no condition to meet with the governor, no matter how well meaning the invitation. The only uniforms they owned were the ones they were wearing when they'd come over from Kestrel, and these had seen multiple battles since. Their tattered uniforms weren't a source of shame in the heat of battle on Ambergris. But the humiliation that awaited them here filled them with dread.

There was one possible solution. Melville moved quickly to the upper fo'c'sle where his two rangers, his purser and his surgeon stood looking at the vast Pier. Elphinstone immediately perceived that something was amiss. "Why hast thou such a long face, Captain?" she asked.

"My lady, we've been invited to dinner. The governor has kindly invited the wardroom and the mids.h.i.+pmen to dinner, but while our s.h.i.+p is fit for an admiral's inspection, our uniforms are in tatters and we aren't fit to see any decent folk. I turn to you for succor. I couldn't refuse the invitation without giving offense, but if you went immediately to the governor and explained our situation, perhaps he'd understand?"

"My captain," she replied with a sad, kind smile and just the hint of a tear, "thou are the mightiest hero to come to Osgil in many an age. The city is thine. Thou hast but to ask, and it shall be done. By dinner tonight we shall have ye all in new dress uniforms of the finest quality."

The Westerness Navy's tradition of feeding its mids.h.i.+pmen on s.h.i.+p's stores (to the extent that it fed them at all, apart from their impoverished private stocks) led to a group of young men who were eternally hungry and obsessed with food. The local time and the s.h.i.+p's time were out of synch, and the meal was several hours later than they were accustomed to. So it was that the captain and his officers were very hungry, and their poor mids.h.i.+pmen were truly famished.

Thus the Fangs approached Government House slavering with greed, groomed, shaved and s.h.i.+ned to the highest degree, after a kaleidoscopic day of fitting and primping. True to her promise, Lady Elphinstone had turned out a small army of tailors. These professionals quickly decided that the basic Westerness naval uniform was so similar to that of His Majesty's Twenty-First Sappers as to make no difference, that the hats of the Northern Militia would do quite nicely with just a little reshaping and by changing the hat bands, and that the shoes of The King's Own Outer Guard were absolutely identical to the Westerness standard. The advantage was that all of these local uniforms were ready made, and on the shelf, as were suitable s.h.i.+rts and stockings. By simply transferring the b.u.t.tons and insignia from the old, tattered uniforms, they got the job done in a single afternoon, and had time to measure the rest of the crew for new uniforms as well, save for the twelve tailors and two cobblers who worked overtime to have Lieutenant Broadax's uniform done in time.

The end result was the very essence of perfection and of far better quality than most of Melville's men were accustomed to. Only the individuals going to the Governor's dinner had been taken care of today, but within a few days the entire s.h.i.+p would turn out in uniforms of the same quality.

Throughout that first triumphant meal, Melville tried to control his mids.h.i.+pmen's rapacious a.s.sault upon their food. His task was aggravated by the fact that Sylvan food wasn't completely satisfying to races whose metabolisms were designed to function in higher gravity. The mids.h.i.+pmen consumed great quant.i.ties of vegetables and mushrooms and whole flocks of small birds, and yet they still weren't satisfied. Melville was fearful lest their culinary covetousness should get them off on the wrong foot with their hosts, but it soon became clear that his concerns were groundless. In the eyes of the Sylvans, they could do no wrong.

The next few days were dedicated to bringing in fresh water and nonperishable stores, so that they could leave at short notice, as was expected of Her Majesty's s.h.i.+ps. When that was completed, Melville prepared to release his crew for sh.o.r.e duty. Only the barest skeleton crew would be left with the s.h.i.+p. The crew lined up for a partial pay on their way down the gangplank, "So's the lads'll 'ave a li'l walkin'-around money," as Hans put it.

The crew was lining up for their pay when Melville became aware that his monkey was gone. On the few occasions that it left him it never went far, so he looked around for it. Then he realized that everyone around him was also looking for their missing monkeys. He experienced a moment of surprisingly intense fear and loss. Most of the little creatures had appeared from nowhere, and there was suddenly the fear that they could disappear just as easily. He had a sickening sense of just how much the little creatures would be missed if they were truly gone.

"There they is!" shouted a voice. There was a period of bewilderment, followed by laughter when it became apparent that the monkeys, every single one of them, were queuing up at the end of the line, waiting patiently for their pay.

Okay, thought Melville, I can handle this. The important thing is not to lose them, to make them full-fledged members of the crew and give them an obligation to stay with us.

Melville jogged up the steps to the quarterdeck, turned and addressed his crew. "s.h.i.+pmates," he began, "We've been through some hard times, and some remarkable adventures. You are all professionals. You have proven it over and over again. You have made us proud. Now isn't the time to let that professionalism lapse. Now is not the time to bring shame upon your s.h.i.+p. Take your pay, go out, and have a good time. You'll find that the people of Osgil are grateful and generous. Your pay will go far. All of you," and here he made a point of pointing to the entire ma.s.s, and especially the monkeys, trying to make eye contact with them, "will be required to report for formation, here at dockside, every morning at eleven o'clock. Most of you should be able to stagger out to the s.h.i.+p by then." This drew appreciative laughs. "If you do not report for formation, you'll be reported AWOL. Again, you have all served us honorably and well. Do not let your s.h.i.+p down now. As you take the King's coin, you accept your responsibility as servants of the crown."

Then he turned specifically to the monkeys, pointing at them as he continued, "The monkeys will be paid as s.h.i.+p's boys, third cla.s.s. You'll be on sh.o.r.e leave like everyone else, and you'll be required to report for formation like everyone else. Do you understand?"

There was a brief, pregnant pause, then all the monkeys hopped up and down, screeching joyfully. This was immediately echoed by the crew's cheers. Melville stood with his hands on the quarterdeck rail and watched as his men were paid, then the boys. Finally the monkeys, with comic dignity, each took their pay as they strode down the gangplank and were unleashed upon the good citizens of Osgil.

From this point on, their experiences were a whirlwind of grand b.a.l.l.s and parties in flets perched high up in the vast trees of Osgil. Even the three-quarters Earth gravity of the planet added to their sense of lighthearted joy.

Osgil was faced with a vast war, unlike any they'd experienced before. It was being called the Two-s.p.a.ce War, and it had begun with a series of unparalleled disasters and defeats for the Sylvan and Stolsh. The Sylvans had every cause to fear the future. But while they dreaded the path before them, they also found joy in the one great victory that they'd enjoyed, and the heroes who bought that victory for them.

The Sylvans knew how to greet returning heroes. It was in their heritage. It was their tradition to reward deeds of great valor. It was even in their new philosophy inspired by cla.s.sic Earth science fiction. "TANSTAAFL," the Fangs were told repeatedly. " 'There ain't no such thing as a free lunch.' Aye? Well this be no free lunch, young sailor. Thou hast earned it."

A Fang's money wasn't accepted here. Night after night, every member of the crew was wined and dined somewhere. Down to the lowliest seaman, they told the tale of their battles over and over again, with bread crusts and wine stains on tabletops. They never grew weary of the tale, or the open hearts and open arms that awaited them afterwards.

Even the monkeys were accepted with open arms. Osgil was a sophisticated galactic port. Over the centuries a wide a.s.sortment of alien creatures had arrived at her docks, and Osgil took "Fang's Monkeys," as they quickly became known, in stride.

m m, m During the whirl of b.a.l.l.s and parties that he was invited to, Melville found himself being repeatedly paired with Princess Glaive Newra. Slender and barely five foot tall, she was strawberry blond, with the most remarkable peaches and cream complexion, and an impish sense of humor that charmed and delighted him. She was actually the granddaughter of the King of Osgil. One of many, many granddaughters, barely fitting under an extended definition of the t.i.tle of princess. But she was the very personification of a princess to him. He tried hard to keep his defenses up, yet whenever he was with her he truly felt like a knight, as though he were her paladin, dedicated to protecting and serving her kingdom and her civilization.

The Westerness emba.s.sy, on the other hand, had no experience with knights or paladins, no tradition of rewarding heroes. For a week, every message to the Westerness amba.s.sador went unanswered. The amba.s.sador would be obligated to be present when Melville went before the king. But that was one audience that hadn't occurred yet, even though it seemed like he'd met every other member of the royalty.

His lack of contact with the emba.s.sy troubled him. There was a sense of unseen wheels spinning. Decisions were being made in hidden chambers. Battles were being fought all around him, but for once Melville had no idea what to do, how to fight, how to make a difference in this struggle. So he was resolved to make as many friends as he could, to be as polite as he could to as many people as he could, and to live for the moment. And the moment was good.

Then a marine courier arrived at his inn with a message directing him to report to the Westerness amba.s.sador at thirteen o'clock the next day.

It was 12:30 in the afternoon when he turned off of a wide boulevard and entered into the gateway to the emba.s.sy grounds. Large portions of the planet didn't support the vast root structure for the towering forests that the Sylvan race preferred to live in. In Osgil the emba.s.sies, the Pier, the inns for visitors, many shops, taverns and the extensive "disreputable" district, were all mixed together in such an area. Off in the distance Melville could see the giant trees, rising like a wall of green skysc.r.a.pers marking the downtown district of some high-tech world. Last night he'd been dancing at a ball held high in a flet in one of those trees.

Melville missed the comforting, companionable weight of his monkey on his shoulder, but found some solace in his impeccable uniform. A marine guard stood at the open iron gate, his red uniform contrasting splendidly with the white wall and the green gra.s.s. Melville noted that he was apparently unarmed. The guard saluted him with obvious recognition and pleasure, and directed him to the main entrance of the large stone building that housed the emba.s.sy. It was most gratifying to be known, to have a good reputation among the troops.

He was striding along in the three-quarters gravity, crossing the gra.s.sy, tree covered grounds in the uniform of a lieutenant in the Westerness Navy. Black shoes with silver buckles, white pants, sword and belt chased in gold, and a blue jacket with gold plated b.u.t.tons and a gold washed, bra.s.s epaulet on his left shoulder. After all the time spent barefoot aboard s.h.i.+p, on Broadax's World, on Pearl, and on Ambergris, his shoes still felt strange.

At the building's entrance there were two more unarmed marine guards. The sight of unarmed individuals on guard duty made him sad and uneasy. Whoever was in authority here was the kind of wretched, pathetic individual who didn't trust, respect, or appreciate the young warriors who were trained and willing to fight and die for them. Again he was saluted with apparent pleasure, then the embarra.s.sed guards asked him to leave his sword with them. This was unusual. Armed individuals were commonplace on Westerness, at all military bases, and everywhere he'd traveled on Osgil. Yet here, in the one piece of Osgil that was actually a part of Westerness, he was immediately disarmed. The guards a.s.sured him that it was nothing personal, no one was permitted into the emba.s.sy with weapons.

He was escorted through wood-paneled hallways that were weakly illuminated by gas lights. Then he was led into a waiting room where he . . . waited. It seemed to him that he'd waited for over an hour. There was no clock or window in the waiting room and he didn't have a watch. No sailor would ever spend money on an object that would instantly become a piece of junk upon entering two-s.p.a.ce.

Finally, a nondescript, wizened old clerk took him into the amba.s.sador's office. No coffee, no seat offered. Just a darkened room, a wide desk, and the glowering, scowling presence of the amba.s.sador, who possessed the unlikely appellation of Sir Percival Incessant.

If I had a name like that, thought Melville, I might be p.i.s.sed off at the world, too.

Melville stood quietly before the desk and the amba.s.sador shuffled papers. Everything about the diplomat communicated the fact that he was obviously a very busy man, far too busy to be troubled by this trivial occurrence. Then he looked up, and cut directly to the point.

"Lieutenant, you have caused us an enormous amount of trouble. Do you see this stack of paper? It represents the ma.s.s of complaints and charges brought against you. First we have a complaint from the Guldur emba.s.sy. They were, er, sent packing by the King of Osgil several weeks ago, but not before they had the chance to communicate to us their dismay at your unprovoked attack and seizure of one of their s.h.i.+ps. They demand the return of the s.h.i.+p and all their captured sailors."

He was an odd little man. Almost as though he were trying to play some archetypal role. He was wearing a dark suit, with a pair of reading gla.s.ses perched halfway down a large nose that might have been inherited from an unhappy eagle, or perhaps a vulture, somewhere in his family lineage.

"Then we have a complaint, also from the Guldur emba.s.sy, delivered shortly before their, er, departure, demanding that you be delivered to them for the unprovoked sinking of several of their s.h.i.+ps off of Ambergris."

He looked at each piece of paper as though it were a worm in his salad.

"Then, through diplomatic channels, we have a complaint from the King of Guldur himself, stating that you partic.i.p.ated in hostilities on Ambergris. Apparently they hold you, and members of your crew, accountable for the deaths of what is, I must admit, an improbable number of their military leaders."

His eyes grew slightly wide and he held the next piece of paper at arm's length, as though it were going to bite him.

"And then, most remarkable of all, through diplomatic channels, we have a complaint from the Eman of Orak. It seems that they hold you and your crew accountable for the deaths of many of their soldiers during the, er, recent, unpleasant occurrences on Ambergris. We do not even have diplomatic relations with them. Their vast empire is an immeasurable distance away, and yet somehow you seem to have contrived to have personally killed one of their senior officers, a distant member of their royal family. The details are remarkably precise. Apparently you dispatched him with . . . er, two bullets in the forehead and a bullet in the mouth. They state that the precise placement of the bullets could have happened only as a result of what was clearly an execution-style slaying. Ahm."

He looked up at Melville with horror and amazement, holding another piece of paper as he continued.

"And during your return trip you seem to have threatened and gravely offended the senior surviving member of the Westerness consulate on Ambergris, who just happens to be a citizen of Earth!" The exertion of this last statement apparently left him winded, and he drew several deep breaths before he could continue.

"Lieutenant, we have spent hundreds of years building a star kingdom based on trade, and studiously avoiding any involvement in the affairs of the Elder Races. Where disharmony rules, commerce flags! Now you have created more disharmony, you have done more harm to our relations, you have caused more diplomatic emergencies in one voyage, than the rest of the history of Westerness put together! The vast empires of Guldur and Orak, and the diplomatic representatives of Earth are all very, very angry. In one . . . brief . . . period of time, you have managed to get a sizable portion of the galaxy very, very p.i.s.sed off at you!"

Again he had to draw several deep breaths before he could continue, using a handkerchief to mop his brow and to wipe the fine spray of spittle from his lips and chin.

"Here is what you are going to do, Lieutenant. You will recant. You will write a personal apology in response to every single one of these letters. You will state that these were unprovoked attacks, conducted by you, without authority. You will beg for their mercy. If you do that, then we will not turn you over to them, and we will not punish your crew. Instead we will s.h.i.+p you to Westerness, where you will face trial and punishment by your own people. Do you understand?"

There was a roaring in Melville's ears. The dark little room seemed to close in upon him. His crew. They would punish his crew. He could save his crew, all the brave men and women who suffered and served so n.o.bly. He could save them if he cooperated. All he had to do was to tell this little man's lies. Sacrifice himself, and his crew was safe.

It was his duty. It would be so easy to accept failure, to simply die and let it end. Here was his lawful authority telling him to surrender, and he was a good sailor, an obedient officer, a disciplined warrior. It would be so easy, but something in him couldn't give up. Something made him struggle against the fate that this little man had decreed for him. His duty was all he had. Obedience was his duty. What could be more important than duty.

But wait. The enemy was obedient. The Guldur commander who murdered his captain, he was just doing his duty. The enemy was just obeying orders. And still the enemy was evil. So what was the difference? The difference was Honor. A code of honor. Decency, n.o.bility, gentleness . . . all of that was in the warrior's code of honor.

There was something more important than duty. It was honor. How did Shakespeare put it? "Mine honor is my life; both grow in one; Take honor from me, and my life is done."

Once to ev'ry man and nation

Comes the moment to decide,

In the strife of truth with falsehood,

For the good or evil side;

"No sir. I won't do that. You've read my report. I see them there before you. They're confirmed by all my officers, and by the two Sylvan members of my s.h.i.+p. Lady Elphinstone isn't a liar. Neither am I, or any of the others who signed that report."

This was easy. It was like combat. You knew you were probably going to die, but you did it anyway without a second thought. Because it needed to be done.

"A vast war is brewing. The enemy is evil. They murdered my captain, murdered our s.h.i.+p, all under a flag of truce. They attacked the Stolsh without provocation, dropping onto their worlds without warning, inflicting unimaginable horrors upon innocent civilians. No one is asking you to make the decision. Just tell the truth to Westerness. Let them decide, based on the facts as sworn to by my officers, not your lies."

Some great cause, some great decision,

Off'ring each the bloom or blight,

And the choice goes by forever,

'Twixt that darkness and that light.

He looked into the eyes of the amba.s.sador, and knew what he was seeing. He knew of senior officers who were capable of great bravery in combat, but when it came to their precious careers, they compromised and prost.i.tuted themselves and their sacred honor. They sold their souls a nickel at a time, and in the end they had nothing left. They became very small men. In the end they'd become that most wretched of creatures, politicians.

Then to side with truth is n.o.ble,