"And," said Melville, "the one thing that the Guldur and the Goblan are not, is thumos! They are an oppressive, controlled, centrally managed empire, which refuses to delegate authority or permit any kind of freedom or independent action."
"That, I believe, is why they feel threatened by such newcomers to two-space as we," agreed Myriad-Forsythewald. "That they, long resident throughout this sphere are not, and have not ever been thumos, and are content to merely exist! While we, bumbling and rash in our youth and energy, are running hither and yon with enthusiasm, courage, joy and creativity."
"Aye!" growled the admiral.
Melville picked up his glass, stood, and smiled at the table. "Then, ladies and gentlemen, I give you the Queen, our allies, and our thumos! Long may we revel in it!"
"Hear, hear!" his companions cried as they drank deeply.
After dinner, the party moved back to the ballroom for yet more dancing. Melville and the admiral tried to slip out with Dr. Myriad-Forsythewald and a few other officers for poker, cigars and brandy. But before they could make good their escape, they were cornered by the beautiful, gracious, and quite formidable Mrs. Middlemuss.
"Captain Melville, where are you going?" she asked in full Mrs. Rear Admiral mode, just as Melville had almost made it through the door to the study where the card table awaited them. Her tone made the entire procession—august officers and academic alike—pause like guilty children.
"Uhh, ma'am, I was simply stepping aside for a few moments of gentlemanly conversation..." he began cautiously.
"Oh, piffle. You were sneaking off to join my husband and his cronies for another of his endless card games. But someone needs to think about the overall success of the party. These old fogies will not be missed," she said, gesturing dismissively at Melville's fellow escapees, "but I have quite a few young ladies who lack a dance partner, and you, sir, are most highly in demand!"
"But, ma'am, I remind you that I am a terrible dancer..." he began desperately, and was cut off by her voice and smile.
"Now, Captain, I've been watching, and you will do fine. I even had the band modify the song list for you. You will do quite nicely!" she said firmly.
The admiral looked back at his wife's face, then over at Melville and said, "Well, every once in a while someone has to make a sacrifice for the greater good. I guess tonight's your night. Have fun!" With a nod, he quickly closed the door. You could almost hear the relief as they managed to make their retreat from this most formidable opponent—the hostess determined to make a social success!
For most of the rest of the evening, Melville was forced, (not entirely against his will, mind you) to escort lovely young women to the dance floor. As always, the process reminded him of his Princess Glaive. How shallow every women seemed by comparison. Always there was the same question, "What are the fashionable ladies wearing in Westerness this season?" Always Melville assured them that they just happened to be wearing the height of fashion. And always they were delighted by his blatant, flattering lie.
Dancing with young ladies did have its occasional pleasant aspects, and it was immensely preferable to having them all cluster around him and compete for his attention between sets. At least dancing prevented them from ganging up on him!
From his vantage point on the dance floor he observed the social ecology of the Hero Cluster. The men gathered in the corners like cobwebs, spinning tall tales, business partnerships, and networks of friendship and information. The matrons moved along the edges, like a rainbow of colored mice, nibbling at reputations, assessing prospects, and plotting the future genealogical architecture of the Hero Cluster.
Melville caught occasional glimpses of his officers through the crowd and around the perimeter of the room. Brother Theo in an intense discussion with a varied group of academics and officers, with his bright-eyed monkey hovering over his head and watching with interest. The middies huddled in a corner, seeking escape. Lady Elphinstone, slim and elegant in a small cloud of naval officers vying for her attention. Hans and Broadax in a corner with a group of older officers and warrant officers as well as a few marines, producing a toxic cloud of cigar smoke that was, thankfully, pulled out through the open windows by a breeze. Fielder, assuring his dance partner that the latest fashion on Westerness was, "Very low cut and daring," and how wonderful it would look on her. And of course, Ulrich and Grenoble, always keeping a watchful eye on their captain from the sidelines—no ditching them after what happened on Show Low!
"Captain, I dare say you haven't heard a word I've said!" declared the redheaded damsel in his arms.
She had the worst case of halitosis he had encountered in any female of his experience, although he had upon occasion encountered worse in some men and especially among Guldur with whom he had crossed swords. But then he wasn't required to hold any of them close. At least not for long. Melville grinned winningly and said, "My lady, I must admit that as a dancer I am sadly lacking in grace. If I fail to concentrate on the steps, we should have to call in the surgeons for the care of your poor feet!"
She pouted momentarily and then melted in even more closely and whispered up to him, her dragon breath just inches from his face, "Well, we couldn't have that now, could we?"
Feeling her body warmth against him awoke quite a few feelings, foremost among them panic, which was made worse by the smile Mrs. Middlemuss was gifting him with from the sidelines. His monkey caught on quickly to his unease and came to his rescue by extending its neck so that its up-side-down face was, so to speak, eye to eye with her closed eyes, and said softly, "Eek?"
Her eyes popped open and she repeated the verbal sally, albeit in a much more emphatic voice. "Eeek! Ohmigod! What is that animal?" she shrieked.
Melville almost trembled with relief. "Why, uh..." what was her blasted name again? Oh, yes, June. "...pardon, June, I thought you had met my monkey."
"It's Jane!" she said frostily as she stormed off the dance floor.
"Whew!" he said as his monkey eeped quietly in agreement.
Seeing Mrs. Middlemuss coming toward the dance floor yet again, in full Mrs. Rear Admiral mode with still another young lovely in tow, Melville did what most stalwart young officers would do at that point: he beat a hasty strategic retreat to a quiet corner near the bar.
The bar happened to be adjacent to an exit, so he was in a position to see Lt. Fielder taking his leave of a lovely young lady. It was close to midnight, and the Fang's first officer was headed off to begin his shift as duty officer. They both seemed distinctly disheveled, and the lady had a faint set of grass stains on the back of her white gown. Although it was probably only noticeable to anyone who was sober—a condition Melville had reluctantly embraced due to the need to save the feet of various lovely ladies throughout the night.
"I must say good night, my dear lady," said Fielder.
"It is more like good morning now!"
He kissed her hand, bending low and eying her décolletage, "You are a delight to see at any hour, madam."
She smiled demurely and replied, "I believe you have seen enough for one day, sir!" But the wink over her shoulder as she turned took away the potential sting of her words.
Melville shook his head in wonder. What was it about Fielder that attracts the ladies so? Perhaps it's the same thing that makes women of that sort like cats...
It was well after midnight before the guests began to disperse from the party. Some of the officers were so inebriated that they had to be carried to their Ships. Others staggered out the door, glassy-eyed but unsupported, moving with the intense concentration of drunken men struggling to avoid disgracing themselves.
Others were stopping in the shadows to find their own brand of pleasure. Through a brief flicker of moonlight Melville saw a woman's body, naked to the waist, her arms wrapped around a navy officer's neck and giggling with enjoyment as he fumbled at her clothing.
It was at that moment, as officers were spread to the four winds, leaving and traveling to many destinations, with th
eir crews mostly on shore leave, that the Crab attack hit.
Aboard the Fang Lt. Fielder had resigned himself to an evening of sorting out high-ranking drunks, ensuring the return of the command groups to the appropriate Ships, and all the other associated duties assigned to a man who had attracted the attention of the admiral in a most unfortunate way.
The Fang's first officer believed that any bad fortune should be shared with his friends. His brand of misery truly loved company. This philosophy, combined with his natural laziness and desire for assistance, had caused Fielder to coerce the wardroom into assisting him with his duties.
Normally, getting the Fang's officers to leave a party early would have been a task of Sisyphean dimensions. Luckily for Fielder, he had two things working for him.
First was the nature of an admiral's soiree. While junior officers could be made to attend, they couldn't be forced to enjoy it. And, to be honest, the Fangs were warriors, and had found themselves somewhat uncomfortable in the continued company of so many "sheepeople." Thus, the wardroom members were not entirely displeased to have an excuse to leave the party early. "Sorry, ma'am. Duty calls, don'cherknow?"
The other thing in his favor was his promise to take them out drinking the next time they were on liberty. The admiral had restricted Lt. Fielder's freedom, but there were still plenty of bars and clubs on the base where he could fulfill this promise. Knowing the capacity of his companions, he didn't think it would be cheap.
Asquith looked over at Fielder as they stared out at the spectacular panoply of two-space. The sailors and officers assigned to the shore patrol were out in force tonight. The officers and men aboard the Fang were standing in reserve, ready for any situation which needed a wise head or a firm hand to control it.
Fielder was thinking morosely about how much booze it was going to take to fill up this crew. Damn, he thought dejectedly, I expected the wardroom to help out in response to my bribe. But most of the crew too? Damn, that's a lotta beer! But that's what I make the big bucks for, isn't it? To spend on wine, women, song, and friends—and to waste the rest reluctantly?
"Daniel," Asquith asked, "is it normal practice to have the first officer of a Ship assigned to help the shore patrol after an admiral's party?"
Fielder grimaced and then chuckled ruefully. "No, Bert, not really. It's a good idea, mind you. We have a lot of Ships in port to attend the soiree. Maybe to impress that Guldur admiral. From the admiral's point of view, assigning me to this duty is making a virtue of necessity. Remember the attacks on Show Low?"
Asquith nodded silently, and his hand reached down unconsciously to caress the two-space pistol holstered at his hip. Fielder noted the gesture and echoed it with a grin. Amazing how his friend had changed during their journey!
"Well, I guess it could happen again," continued Fielder. "So, keeping me off the streets reduces the probability of another attack by my dear old friend, Princess Madelia. Although I think the admiral was more concerned for the potential innocent bystanders than he was about me!"
Asquith murmured, "I can see why, after what happened on Show Low." This was punctuated by an emphatic "Eep!" from his monkey. Asquith reached up to scratch behind its ears gently. "But what about the captain, Daniel? Isn't he a prime target as well?"
Fielder snorted derisively. "Yes, there is that, isn't there? Which might explain why Ulrich and Grenoble are always with him." He continued softly, "But, Bert, I've noticed that he seems, at times, to..." He paused and then continued "not exult in violence, but since he bonded with the Fang, he appears to be more, well, comfortable where the action is hottest. I'm not sure how to describe it, but since the bonding, it's as if he has incorporated the Ship's eagerness for battle into his personality. So, I don't see him hiding from a fight."
Asquith was looking out at the field of stars above him and asked idly, "Daniel, were there any other arrivals scheduled today or tomorrow?"
"Not that I know of Bert, why?"
"Then what are those things out there?" he asked, pointing out toward a group of specks that looked like distant sails, but glowing oddly white, like the Moss on the timbers surrounding them.
"I don't know," replied Fielder, "but I don't think they were invited to the admiral's soiree." After a brief hesitation he called out, "Battle stations! Battle stations!" Then he quietly added to Asquith, making the little earthling snort with laughter, "All hands prepare to fend off party crashers."
Better safe than sorry was the motto taught to Baronet Daniello Sans Fielder on his Grandma BenGurata's knee. In all things except women.
The rapidly approaching vessels appeared to be small, one-masted boats. He couldn't tell much else about them, except that they were all distinguished by a large, glowing white sail on the single mast.
The leading Ship was suddenly punctuated by a flash as it fired a cannon from well outside the atmosphere of the Pier. The cannonball made no noise until it pierced the air cloud around the Pier with a shrill shriek, bounced through the plane of two-space and disappeared into the depths of space.
"Damn," said Fielder quietly. "What fresh hell is this?"
* * *
Eternal Father, strong to save,
Whose arm hath bound the restless wave,
Who biddest the mighty ocean deep
Its own appointed limits keep;
Oh, hear us when we cry to Thee,
For those in peril on the sea!
CHAPTER THE 15TH
The Attack of the Appetizers:
"Who Knows Only Honor, Knows Not the Odds"
The man who knows only honor,
knows not the odds;
The man who knows only the odds
knows not honor
Phil Messina
ModernWarrior.com
Cries of alarm rang through the streets. "To your Ships! To the docks! We're under attack!"
At the admiral's party, and in the gardens around the admiral's residence, there was pandemonium.
The officer fumbling at his lady love's undergarments was luckier than most. He was able to get the word quickly and race to his Ship, pulling at his clothing. Others were either incapacitated beyond responding, or finding it difficult to run while pulling their pants on!
Melville had his clothes on, he was not drunk, and
he headed back to his Ship at a dead run without wasting a second to utter a word to anyone.
Like the rest of the wardroom, Hans had let himself be bribed by Lt. Fielder into leaving the admiral's party early. Not that it was much of a sacrifice. It wasn't really his kind of party.
Hans had the Fang's mooring lines singled up and ready for either the captain's arrival or for Mr. Fielder to assume command and take her out to engage their attackers. Not that he wanted Fielder to take her into combat, but it didn't look like any of those other idiots were going out to fight the enemy. Which left it up to the Fang and her crew.
The old sailing master gave a sigh of relief as he heard the lookout up in the crosstrees call out, "cap'n's coming down the Pier, sir! At the double, with Ulrich and Grenoble."
Heh, heh! Them Crabs'll be suckin' vacuum an' sayin' hello to the Elder King soon enough, now that our cap'n's aboard! thought Hans. Besides, they ain't seen a real crab until they seen my sweety when she's fired up!
"Inform the first officer!" said Midshipman Aquinar to the Ship's boy by his side. The boy was actually older than Aquinar, but he obeyed the tiny middie's command without hesitation.
"Man the side," continued Aquinar, in his clear, calm young voice. "Call the bosun." While her crack crew prepared the Fang to sail into combat, her marines moved quickly to form a row of crimson jackets and white cross belts against the luminous decks. As the captain came up the gangplank, the marines' double-barreled muskets cracked to present arms while the bosun's whistle shrilled its piercing salute.
"Come aft, Mr. Fielder," said Melville to his first officer as Boye and the dog's monkey greeted the captain's return with joyful barks and eeks. "
A sharp-looking turnout," he said to Lance Corporal Jarvis as he walked past.
The compliment brought a tight, proud smile on the rigid face of the young NCO. The world had gone mad. Again. But all was well with the Fang: their captain was aboard.
All around them the fleet was in panic. The Wordsworth and the Osprey were already sunk, and the Thomas Gray was going down as Melville watched. Most of the Ships were dying at dock, and their crews were able to escape onto the Pier. But the loss of these noble, ancient old Ships pierced the heart of every watching sailor.
A few lines from Gray's "The Epitaph" came to Melville's mind as he stood on his quarterdeck and watched that great Ship go down.
Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth
...And Melancholy mark'd him for her own.
Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere...
"We commend thee to 'The bosom of his Father and his God,'" whispered Melville.
"Oh, God. Are we gonna die?" asked Asquith quietly, as he watched Ship after Ship disappear from two-space.
"Yep," replied Melville as he hurried to the quarterdeck. "Everyone does. But not today," he growled. "Not today, by God."
Due to her position at the military supply dock, the Fang was closer into the perimeter and was not in the fight yet. That was about to change.
"All the wardroom and all but a handful of the crew's aboard, sir," reported Fielder. "We're ready to fight."
"Good!" replied the captain. "Mr. Hans! Get us under way. Head straight out. Punch through and get some distance from the bastards. Give me all the speed you've got, as quick as you've got it."
"Aye, sir!"
"Mr. Barlet, give 'em a whiff of grape, all around!" Melville ordered. "I want those bastards to have something else to think about besides shooting at us. Have all guns fire for their Keels whenever you come to bear. They're flimsy little pockers! I think our 24-pounders will smash 'em to bits if we get a good body blow. Even the 12-pounders might, but the big guns will for sure!"
The Guns of Two-Space Page 50
