The Guns of Two-Space (29 page)

"Aye, sir," replied Fielder. "The ones that don't get killed learn fast."

Old Hans was up in the foremast beside Hayl, cheerfully passing on his experience to the young middie. The two of them were perched far above the Ship, sitting as calmly as if they were on a comfortable (albeit somewhat cold) park bench. "Feast yer eyes on it, boy!" said Hans. "'At's the biggest Pier you'll ever see in human space. Bigger'n Osgil, even though Osgil's Pier is thousands o' years older. This port is why the Admiralty is based on Earth instead of Westerness. When Earth was in charge of our kingdom they built up this base, and it jist made sense to keep the Admiralty at our biggest facility. An' since they was here it kept gittin' bigger acrosst the centuries. The Queen an' the Naval Academy is at Westerness, but this is the only facility that can handle all the demands of our Navy. We's comin' in on the east side, so 'at's Earthport's East Dock yer seein', with the South and North Docks spreadin' out to our left and right."

"Aye, sir," replied Hayl excitedly. His monkey was leaning forward on his shoulder,
eek
ing with joy and craning its neck eagerly as they both peered into the distance. Three stately frigates sat at the East Dock. To Hayl's eyes they looked like queens holding court over a host of smaller craft. Many of the lesser Ships were moving about in a state of controlled chaos, like a swarm of water beetles. "I think those are two of the new Poet Class frigates, and one of the Author Class."

"Well spotted, lad!" said the old sailor. "Ya can ignore all them brigs an' sloops an' luggers. With jist a few exceptions, the Westerness Navy don't maintain nothin' but frigates here at Earthport. If'n they ain't got three masts they don't count. The rest of 'em's jist the flotsum and jetsum o' two-space." He emphasized this by spitting a brown stream of tobacco juice, which was immediately joined by a smaller stream from his monkey. In the low-gravity environment that existed high up on the mast, the stream of tobacco juice flowed unnaturally straight and far before it dropped off into two-space as old Hans continued his lesson.

"The two Poets are the
Tennyson
an' the
Masefield
. An' damn-me ifn the other ain't the ol'
Heinlein
herself! Our
Kestrel,
maysherestinpeace, was one of the Raptor Class. Those were the first handful o' frigates that Westerness ever produced. Then they went to the Author Class. An' the first an' greatest o' the Author Class was the ol'
Heinlein
. All o' that class 'ave long since paid off their debt, an' you can bet their crew an' stockholders is doin' well fer themselves, thankyouverymuch! The Poet Class though, they's mostly still payin' off their debt."

"But our debt is paid, right?" asked Hayl.

"Aye, lad. By the Lady, we've paid in blood an' lives, the most precious coin of all. Yer right lucky to be a member of a fully paid out Ship. Plus ya got shares in the
Gnasher
an' the
Biter
, which oughta be counted as paid off, if everthin' goes right. An' 'at means we shouldn't have any problem fillin' up the berths on all three o' our Ships with quality lads. Eager young merchantmen from every lugger, schooner, sloop, an' brig ya see out here'll jump Ship in a heartbeat ta join us. But pay attention ta the Westerness Ships ya see here, son. In the future you'll be expected ta know the status o' all our frigates,
an'
the names o' their boats."

"But the names of the boats are always changing, each time they use a boat to establish a new world. How can you be expected to keep track of something that's always changing?"

Hans reached over and cuffed the boy lightly. "Don' ya go snivelin' on me now. You'll git yerself a copy of the
Naval Gazette
an' you'll study it, is what you'll do. An' ever' time ya comes inta port ya gotta git yerself the latest
Gazette
and git updated. It's not so hard. The Author Class boats are named after the writer's books. Ya can bet the old
Starship Trooper
an' the
Harsh Mistress
are still with the
Heinlein
. They ain't prob'ly never gonna sacrifice
them
ta establish a new world. So at's two of her six boats right there. Last I heard they was gettin' ready to use novellas and short stories for the other boats, since the grand ol' lady's pioneered so many worlds they done used up most of Heinlein's novels. Things 'ave prob'ly changed, but when we left 'ere a year ago it was the
Menace from Earth
,
Podkayne
,
Sixth Column
, an'
Waldo
. Yer job is to find out any changes, asap when we git inta port."

"Aye, sir," said Hayl, slightly daunted by the task. "Does every sailor keep track of these things?"

"Ever' good officer does, ya betcha! An' most petty officers will. Don' worry, it'll come easy in just a few years. The Poet Class now, they names their boats after the writer's poems. The
Tennyson
over there has the
Light Brigade
—I'm bettin' they ain't never gonna let that one go—
Crossing the Bar
,
Sleeps the Crimson Petal, Idle Tears
,
Morte d'Arthur
, an'
Ulysses
las' I heard.

"Look now," old Hans continued with excitement, "we's gittin' close enough ta see the Ships at the North and South Docks. The Author Class at the far end o' South Dock is the
Iain M. Banks
. She's one o' the last o' the Author Class, an' they name
her
boats after the sentient spaceships in 'is books. Rare bit o' whimsy on the part o' the Admiralty, that. Right now I think the
Banks
'as got the
Screw Loose
,
So Much for Subtlety
,
Just
Testing
,
Xenophobe
,
Very Little Gravitas
, an'
I Blame the Parents
fer 'er boats. Ya know, it's fairly common ta name a new planet after the boat what formed her Pier. An' yew can betcha there's some damned funny-named frontier worlds what's come outa them Ships!"

The old sailor laughed with pleasure at the thought, and little Hayl couldn't help but share the old salt's infectious joy as they came proudly into port. The air began to shake and the mast trembled with regular, rhythmic blasts of cannon fire as they entered the port's atmosphere and the
Fang
began paying her respects to the admiral's flag.

"Clear those idlers off the rail!" called Lt. Fielder from the upper quarterdeck. "That's Earthport and the Admiralty you're gawking at. We don't want them to think we're a bunch of bumpkins!"

The
Fang
had come to Earthport.

It was a fait accompli. Their bold arrival filled the hearts of all sailors with pride. It filled the media and the minds of the public with wonder and excitement.

"An' it's really, really pissed-off the old ladies in the Admiralty," said Broadax with her usual diplomacy and tact. "They definitely gots their panties in a knot."

None of their Ships had been given shore leave, but there were plenty of taverns and dives on Earthport herself.

The Admiralty seemed to be keeping them on the carpet. Maybe they needed time to decide what to do, but Melville thought it was a case of, "Let's show 'em who's boss and keep 'em stewing in the waiting room." Whatever the reason, it was a major tactical blunder on the part of the Admiralty. While they waited, forces were advancing on other fronts.

The saga of Melville and the
Fang
were already legendary among the Sylvans, the Stolsh, and even the Dwarrowdelf. Their latest battle added yet another chapter to the legend. Westerness, on the other hand, had heard nothing but rumors and second-hand accounts, and Earth didn't care much about what happened in two-space. Until now.

The write-up of their exploits in the
Naval Gazette
had been very positive and it was picked up by the Earth newspapers. To Earth, everything that happened in two-space was a kind of exotic, persistent delusion. Earthlings just didn't go there. Most of them
couldn't
go into two-space without major sacrifices, so for them Westerness and everything else that happened "out there" was a sort of tedious series of obscure fantasy novels that played out year after year, whether you read it or not. After all, nothing ever really
happened
there. But the exploits of Melville and the
Fang
changed that. This was war! This was action! It was adventure and blood and guts. And it caught the fickle fancy of Earth's popular culture.

What really amazed everyone was the success of Asquith's book. The e-publishing trade on Earth could get a book from manuscript to worldwide distribution in a day, and Asquith's novel was literally an overnight mega-hit. He became an instant celebrity, making the rounds of every media venue on Earth. Fate had granted him an eye patch, which he came to wear with a swagger. Any young lad would assure you that the patch is the mark of a true sailing Hero, as much so as a peg leg or parrot would be, and his exotic, adorable monkey substituted nicely for a parrot on his shoulder.

The book was a tremendous hit on Earth. Aboard the
Fang
, the reception was quite different.

The Admiralty had denied any kind of shore leave for the
Fang
and her two consorts, but Asquith, of course, had been permitted to return to Earth. To everyone's amazement, he came back.

Paper copies of his book had been printed and distributed in less than a week, and by the time Asquith returned everyone had read it. The little earthling was sitting in the wardroom with most of the Ship's officers. For Asquith the wardroom had long since become a comfortable place of companionship, but now the atmosphere was heated. Aboard the
Fang
, the critics were not kind.

"
Captain Melville and Fang: The Terror of Two-space,
" read Fielder in a droll, oratorical tone. "'To Captain Melville,'" he continued, "'Damn his poetry, damn his Ship, but God bless the bloody bastard, because he saved me for my dear mum.'"

There was a roar of laughter at Asquith's expense as Fielder read this dedication.

"What in the
hell
is
that
all about?" asked Fielder, holding the book up and looking at Asquith.

"Clearly," said Mrs. Vodi, "during the trip the Stockholm syndrome has set in, and our mess mate has become a fan. Albeit a reluctant, uncertain, and somewhat conflicted fan. I must note though, that you did diverge significantly and somewhat embarrassingly from the truth. And the truth was strange enough."

"So he embellished," drawled Westminster as he leaned back in his chair with a foot on the table. "He is a poet, ma'am. An art-eest!"

Mrs. Vodi whacked the offending foot off the table, muttering something about, "Damned rangers, never can housebreak 'em! Treat every piece of furniture like a tree stump." Westminster and the others paid scant attention. The conversation was just too much fun to interrupt.

"Indeed," interjected Brother Theo. "He never claimed that it was true! 'Based on the true story!' is a line that provides the purest defense possible: simple artistic license. Sir Phillip Sidney in his famous
Defence of Poesy
said, "I think truly, that of all writers under the sun the poet is the least liar... for the poet, he nothing afirmeth, and therefore never lieth."

"Thank you. I appreciate your support, I think," replied Asquith, with a nod to Theo and Westminster.

"Eep?" echoed his monkey.

"And I
did
sell it as fiction. Nobody on Earth really believes
any
of it, you know. They think I'm making it
all
up! Huh! I don't need drugs to be mentally unbalanced. I can do that all by myself!" Then, looking at Fielder he continued, "But I take it you don't think it's very good?"

"Frankly, no," replied Fielder.

"I thought it was good when I was writing it," said Asquith. "It practically wrote itself! It seemed like it just
flowed
up out of the Well of Lost Plots! I just got this... warm feeling when I was writing it."

"That happens to writers sometimes," said Mrs. Vodi kindly. "Just remember that it feels like that when you wet yourself too."

"Huh," said Asquith. "Become a writer and suddenly everyone's a critic. Well, dammit," he continued doggedly, pulling his shoulders back and lifting his head high in a posture that only served to emphasize his lack of chin, "when you've written your own book maybe you'll have a right to criticize."

Fielder began a slow, deliberate retort but Asquith pre-empted him. "'Look, he's winding up the watch of his wit; by and by it will strike!'"

"Now see here," said Fielder, "this Shakespeare riff of yours has gone just about far enough, I think."

Everyone grinned. It was good to see Asquith stand up for himself, and no one felt any need to defend Fielder.

"Tis clear, as the Bard said," continued Asquith, once again trampling over Fielder's languid, sardonic response, "'many wearing rapiers are afraid of goose-quills.' And, dammit, at least the book is selling!"

The diminutive earthling's peeved obstinance combined with his eyepatch made him look like a buccaneer bunny that has discovered that his water bottle is empty, and is determined that the management will hear about it. "And, frankly, I didn't expect to come back. I'd rather do root canal work on an angry Guldur then go back out into two-space again. But my publisher made me sign the contract in blood and I honestly didn't understand what I was getting into. You wouldn't
believe
the fine print in a book contract! The publisher has a right to demand a sequel,
and
my eldest begotten son for all I know. And who would have thought that an obligatory book publicity tour meant out here in two-space! So I have to stay with the
Fang
, selling the rights to my book to publishers in each port while I write the next book."