The Guns of Two-Space (28 page)

"I've stood in some mighty-mouthed hollow
That's plumb-full of hush to the brim;
I've watched the big, husky sun wallow
In crimson and gold, and grow dim,"
 

"So English was allowed to grow, to live, to evolve naturally," continued the ambassador with a nod. "It's the kind of thing that ambassadors study, but most people don't really understand. Latin was killed by the Ciceronians, who maintained that only words used in the writings of Cicero were true Latin. Essentially their efforts were to freeze Latin from the time of Cicero, and
because
of that they stopped Latin from evolving. What does not grow, dies."

That sounded like it deserved a toast, so they all drank happily to that concept as the ambassador continued.

"Once upon a time French was the lingua franca. But the French Academy was established to guard the 'purity' of the language, which doomed it, because they wouldn't allow it to evolve, to adapt. The failure of their language to adapt to the needs of their empire might actually have been why their empire failed."

"But English has never had a controlling body, has it?" asked Melville with keen interest.

"Aye, lad," replied the old ambassador. "And English is the only language on Earth in which the first-person singular is capitalized. Therefore 'I' is emphasized, empowering the individual. 'I' decide what my language is. And English is the only major language that keeps the original spelling of the language from which the word came. We have no qualms about stealing words. And it
is
stealing, not borrowing, because we have no intention of returning them. We even keep some of the original rules."

Mrs. Vodi added, "The English language is a lot like the old United States. A melting pot in which everything is welcome. Or maybe a better model would be a stew pot, in which spicy new 'chunks' are welcome."

"Aye," said Captain Strongfar. "Of course, everyone accepts it in their own way. The Sylvans have their silly affectation with all those 'thous' and 'thees.' We play it pretty straight, although our use of 'ye' instead of 'you'
is
a bit of an affectation, I suppose, if truth be told. But ye Westerness folk are the ones with the damnedest assortment of dialects, accents, and affectations. There is yer Corporal Kobbsven's Scandinavian lilt, and all those southern and hillbilly accents. As best I can tell, the further their homeworld is from Earth or Westerness, the more pronounced those accents become. The one I can't figure out, though, is yer coxswain, Ulrich. Where in the deep bowels of the Elder King's frozen black hell did
he
come from?"

"Well, he's not saying," replied Melville, "and no one really knows. The one thing we can all agree on, though, is that the linguistically innovative and syntactically challenged Ulrich doesn't really have an accent. He has a passionate
grudge
against the English language, and he tortures it with malice aforethought. But the good news is that
you
have chosen to speak our language, and as your guest please permit me to say, 'thank you' for that."

"The alternative is to try to communicate in the Dwarrowdelf tongue," said the ambassador, "which is as twisted and tortuous as their damned mining tunnels! For example, they employ something called the 'triple negative.' So someone might ask you in Dwarrowdelf, 'Isn't it not that you aren't feeling well today?'"

"What in the
hail
does
that
mean?" asked Westminster, who was leaning quietly back in a corner smoking a pipe.

"DamnedifIknow," replied the ambassador with a shrug. "That's why we
always
negotiate in English!"

"Foul calumny and infamy!" said Strongfar. "The perfidious slander of weak minds that cannot grasp the beauty of a truly complex language. Still, sadly, it's true that everywhere I go, as I sail the vast expanse o' two-space, it's yer language, literature, and poetry that rules the hearts of millions, nay billions, across the vast galaxy. So here's to yer wolfling civilization that sprung up without any help from others, and yer all-conquering language, ye magnificent bastards! It looks like ye showed up just in time to help us kick the Guldurs' hairy arses!"

That earned another great cheer and a mighty quaff of ale, while the Dwarrowdelf chorus continued in the background.

"The snows that are older than history,
The woods where the weird shadows slant;
The stillness, the moonlight, the mystery,
I've bade 'em good-by—but I can't."
 

Melville knew that it was time for him to leave. His officers could linger for a while longer, but as their captain he felt that he must lead the way.

The young captain sat in the warm inn, knowing that he had been fortified and renewed by his visit to this harsh world. Outside the winter wind howled and the sleet hissed upon the windows. In here were the warm ambers and reds of the open hearth where the fire popped and glowed as potatoes baked and a big kettle of mulling ale simmered sweetly, the fat candles flickered, monkeys chittered quietly from overhead, and sleeping dogs rumbled beneath the benches.

"It's the great, big, broad land 'way up yonder,
It's the forests where silence has lease;
It's the beauty that thrills me with wonder,
It's the stillness that fills me with peace."
 

The fragrance of the place seeped into his soul, warming him to his core as much as the heat that flowed from the hearth. It was an organic odor of old hardwood walls and furniture imbued with countless applications of beeswax polish, generations of tallow smoke, fresh pinewood scent seeping from the fire, frothy beer, wet boots, and damp dogs.

Outside, the building shuddered beneath the fierce wind. Inside his spirit was warmed by good companions tried and true, new friends, and quiet conversations after an evening of loud, lewd, and lusty songs, with contented bellies thoroughly wrapped around good beer.

It all seemed terribly precious and dear to him, and a part of him knew that it might never again be the same. Soon it might all be destroyed by the politicians and the Admiralty on Earth. He was under orders to report to the Westerness Admiralty at Earthport, and he would obey, but he knew that his heroic deeds, so honored and lauded by the Sylvans and Dwarrowdelf, would not be appreciated by the timid little men in charge on Earth. Those small sad souls feared change and fled into denial as their only bulwark against the cruel, harsh galaxy that was coming to attack them. And ultimately, unfortunately,
they
would be the ones who passed judgment upon Captain Thomas Melville and his friends.

"They're making my money diminish;
I'm sick of the taste of champagne.
Thank God! when I'm skinned to a finish
I'll pike to the Yukon again."
 

A bitter bile built up in his stomach and throat as he considered what might wait for them on Earth. It was
hard
not to be in control. After being literally the captain of his fate as they traveled between the stars and fought their way across a sizable slice of the galaxy, it was
hard
for him to accept what might be waiting for them. A part of him wanted to break free from authority, to return to Osgil and accept the offer that the High King of the Sylvans had made. To place himself, his Ship, and his crew under Sylvan authority. In essence, to rebel from authority, to defect from his nation.

"The strong life that never knows harness;
The wilds where the caribou call;
The freshness, the freedom, the farness—
O God! how I'm stuck on it all."
 

Rebel. Defect. Ugly words. Pitiful, wretched words when matched up against the fierce beauty of his two harsh mistresses: duty and honor.

Melville sat for one last moment, drinking up all the sight and sound and smell he could, feeling a great wave of the dull ache that one great author had termed "anticipated nostalgia." Then he gave a heavy sigh, stood up, paid the tab, flung on his great fur cape, whistled for his dog, and with one last nod to the room he prepared to go out into the bitter cold. But he went forth with a fierce inner fire of contentment and peace, knowing that he was doing his duty and acting with honor.

"I'll fight—and you bet it's no sham-fight;
It's hell!—but I've been there before;
And it's better than this by a damsite—
So me for the Yukon once more."
 

Melville's monkey came scampering across the room, scurried up his side, and nestled under the cape, wrapped around its master's neck like a scarf, with only its head peeking out. Boye leapt up cheerfully, trotting happily along beside him, eager for adventure, with the requisite monkey nestled deep into the thick ruff at the dog's neck. Then he went out into the night with a blast of cold, a flurry of snow, and one last wave to his friends, ducking through the low doorway with a final Robert Service stanza echoing in his ears.

"There's gold, and it's haunting and haunting;
It's luring me on as of old;
Yet it isn't the gold that I'm wanting
So much as just finding the gold."
 

His dog was the personification of happiness and delight as they left. Boye rubbed his head against Melville's thigh, and he reached down to rub the dog's ears. Wagging his tail enthusiastically, the great beast stood up on hind legs to sniff inquisitively, his hot breath covering Melville's face in a warm cloak.

The dog didn't borrow trouble. He lived in the present, finding joy in eager bounding through the snow drifts, while the dog's monkey held on like a rider at a steeple chase,
eek
ing merrily.

The young captain looked at Boye romping in the lamplight of the surrounding buildings, and he laughed out loud as they went down the street. He lobbed a snowball that dropped quickly in the heavy gravity, and the dog leapt up to catch it in a happy, chomping explosion of snow.

Like his faithful companion, Melville had an irrepressible, cheerful spirit. He would never be worth a damn at mathematics, or the engineering and mechanics of a Ships' sailing plan. Others would have to do that for him. But he possessed a few Gifts that were unfolding in a satisfying manner. The Voice of command and authority, something that many leaders never develop, was coming early for him. He had a knack for poetry that often provided the right Words at the moment of truth, and he had the ability to communicate them well. He was a natural at tactics and military history, and he was very good with a sword and a pistol. But perhaps his most important Gift was his ability to live intensely in the present.

Most humans spend all their energy thinking and worrying about what happens next or what just happened. They cling desperately to the past, or they live in dread and anticipation of the future. The only time they deal with
now
is by looking back on it. And because of this, most people live in fear, dreading the future instead of living in the present.

Perhaps it was because he lived so completely in the present that Melville was generally fearless. It was something most dogs can do. That's why dogs are usually happy and ready for a romp, a nap, a fight, or a tummy rub at a moment's notice. Dogs just avoid the whole
angst
business. Melville felt that people could learn a lot from dogs. They seemed to have things better worked out, dogs.

For Melville, as long as there was life there was hope. And where there is hope there can be no despair. So he threw back his head, smelled the crisp cold air, and looked up at the ancient alien white peaks all around him. And above those mountains...

...the moon set the pearly peaks gleaming,
And the stars tumbled out, neck and crop;
And I've thought that I surely was dreaming,
With the peace o' the world piled on top.
 

What the hell. He never was any good at the whole angst thing. The dog's spirit was infectious, and Melville couldn't help but feel that wherever they went, whatever they did, whatever was waiting for them, it would be... an adventure. Out there, somewhere.

* * *
 

There's a land where the mountains are nameless,
And the rivers all run God knows where;
There are lives that are erring and aimless,
And deaths that just hang by a hair;
There are hardships that nobody reckons;
There are valleys unpeopled and still;
There's a land—oh, it beckons and beckons,
And I want to go back—and I will.
 

We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.

"Little Gidding"
T. S. Eliot

They made a splendid show as they sailed into Earthport.

Just a little over a year ago the
Kestrel
had set out with the Sylvans on a joint exploratory mission. Now her crew returned with three noble frigates, each with a towering pyramid of canvas above and below, including royals and studding sails, sailing serenely into Earthport. Each Ship had the flag of Westerness above her, a swirling galactic pinwheel, gold on a field of blue, proclaiming the possession of three mighty and magnificent new Ships in the Navy of Westerness. And each Ship had powerful guns aboard that were unlike anything ever seen before.

Young Hayl sat in the crisp, cold air, high in the foremast crosstrees, bursting with joy as he eyed the great

Ship
Fang
and her consorts trailing behind. He looked with pride at the seamen bustling about the deck below, or straddling the yards all around him, prepared to slack sail for final approach.

He was midshipman of the watch, thus to him went the traditional honor of serving as lookout on close approach to a port. "Get aloft with you, Mr. Hayl," the first officer had said, "and tell us what you see." Fielder had looked at the boy with unwonted fondness as he scrambled up the ratlines. He saw Melville smiling at him, scowled, and made a mental note to be cruel to someone in the near future, just in case anyone thought he was going soft.

"Our young gentlemen are growing up on this voyage," said Melville, "him most of all."