“Wait, Captain,” said Petreckski his voice growing low and conspiratorial. “Before you go, I have one last thing to show you.” He reached behind him and pulled up a cloth sack. Inside the bag was an assortment of shattered belaying pins and chunks of wood. “These are the pieces of wood that our little friends were waving around in battle. Please look carefully at them and see what you notice.”
Melville looked, picking each one up and examining it in the bright light of the surgery. The hair began to stand up on the back of his neck. “Yes . . . Each of them does seem to have an inordinate number of musket balls in it.” That was an understatement. Several of them were riddled with imbedded musket balls, and deep grooves indicated where many more bullets had been deflected.
Petreckski continued as Melville stood transfixed by what he was holding in his hand. “Captain, you and Lieutenant Broadax, in particular, were real bullet magnets. Right out in front. Every enemy musket was firing at you. The Guldur are rather bad shots, and the Goblan are even worse, but not that bad.” He pointed to two particularly tattered chunks of wood. “This is the one your monkey carried, and this belonged to Broadax’s monkey. Truth is, you should both be dead, several times over. But somehow, it would appear, our monkeys may have been . . . blocking bullets. I don’t know any other way to put it. Perhaps it’s just a coincidence, or perhaps our little friends have a lot to answer for.”
Now his whole skin was a mass of goose bumps. The stench of the surgery was forgotten. Melville stared at his monkey, and he could swear that the little creature looked him in the eyes and shrugged. “Perhaps,” replied Melville, still looking at his monkey. “For now, let us keep this quiet.” He reached up and scratched behind his monkey’s soft, furry ears in a way that the little creature seemed to enjoy. It arched its back, closed its eyes and pushed gently against his ministering hand.
Melville continued, “Broadax and Fielder need to know about the results of your . . . research.” He gestured at the bullet encrusted belaying pin in the purser’s hand, “And about the . . . bullet stopping. Otherwise, this stays within this room. Understood?”
Elphinstone, Vodi, and Petreckski all nodded solemnly. So did Petreckski’s monkey.
” . . .” Blink. “Right, then,” he continued as he ducked out the door, “let’s see these ‘babies.'”
Standing out in the main hospital area, Melville took deep breaths as the others came out to join him. He wanted to say something about getting rid of these stinking corpses, but then realized that a few ship’s boys were already taking charge of that task, dragging the bundles away in a manner that was oddly furtive.
The two tiny monkeys did look like little dappled kittens or puppies, all curled up, but with way too many legs stirred into the equation. Their “masters” were inordinately proud of them. Melville shuddered to think how possessive they might be if they suspected the monkeys’ bullet-stopping skill.
No one had a clue where they came from. “Why, from momma monkeys, of course!” said one sailor and they all laughed. Melville and Petreckski looked at each other knowingly.
Melville knew he was running out of gas. He was already “smoked,” as they would say of an exhausted warrior. By the end of his twelve-hour shift he was going to be useless, or “smoked like a cheap cigar,” as the saying goes. There was something he needed to do first. Something he’d been putting off.
A young ship’s boy, third class, was assigned to the quarterdeck, and when Melville returned to his duty station he called him over.
“Sir!” said the boy, wide eyed and tugging his forelock in salute.
“Find the carpenter and ask him to come meet me here, when he has a chance.”
“Aye, sir! When the carpenter gets a chance, ‘e’s to come meet you here.”
Tibbits arrived shortly. “Aye, sir?”
“Mr. Tibbits, I’ve been putting off talking to our Ship. Do you think that now is a good time?”
“Aye, sir. She’ll talk with her carpenter, but in the end everythin’ depends on her relationship with the Cap’n. Now is as good a time as ever. If you wait too long she may feel insulted, or it may look weak.”
“Aye, Chips. My thoughts exactly.”
“Aye, and there’s one other thing,” said the old carpenter, pulling a white Moss-coated piece of wood from his pocket. “I saved a shard of Kestrel’s Keel. A bit of her’s still alive here,” he said. “I reckon you can decide what to do with it, but maybe it’d be a good idea to put it next to the new Ship’s Keel. Maybe they can . . . talk . . .”
“Aye,” said Melville, taking the sliver of wood and immediately feeling the comforting, distant sense of an old friend. “Between this and Kestrel’s cutters sitting on her decks, Fang will have something to think about. Let’s go.”
Down in the hold Melville and Tibbits stood over the Keel of Her Majesty, the Queen of Westerness’ 24-Pounder Frigate, Fang. This was a vital moment. If the Ship didn’t accept them, they might well be dead. There were several ways that Fang could kill her occupants, and none of them were pleasant ways to die. The captain’s relationship with his Ship was the key. “Chips,” Melville asked, “do you have any advice before I speak with her for the first time?”
“Well, Cap’n, I’d be real gentle. She’s a young Ship, and she seems kind of stunned by the whole business. She swapped Moss with old Kestrel during the boarding, and our four cutters is in direct contact with her. That seems to be havin’ an effect. The curs don’t treat their Ships real nice. Seems like there’s not much love there. Our relationship with dear old Kestrel seems to be something new to young Fang here, and she’s tryin’ to adjust. Just be gentle, Cap’n and in the back of my mind I’d be thinkin’ a little about old Kestrel, as background noise, so ta speak.”
“Thanks, Chips.” Melville sat down carefully in the 1.25 gees of the hold. He took several deep belly breaths. Now wasn’t a time to show fear. Then he placed a hand on the Keel.
Speaking aloud and through his telepathic link to his Ship, Melville introduced himself. <<"Fang. I'm your captain. On behalf of our old Ship, the Kestrel, and our entire crew, I thank you for your hospitality.">>
<
<
Melville had a sudden vision of a wolf lunging. In his vision there was particular emphasis on the wolf’s canine tooth, its fang. Bright fang. Strong fang. Ripping fang. Good fang. <
Melville heaved a sigh of relief. She liked the name.
<
<
With almost puppylike excitement Fang went on. <
Yes. His blood had flowed freely on the deck, where the Elbereth Moss soaked it up. As it did most blood, but not any other fluid. What did that do? What did it mean to the weird amalgam of Moss and Guldur-based memories that formed Fang’s sentience? Whatever it meant, it seemed to be good.
And then, with a strange sadness and yearning, something was added . . .
<
Melville felt a thrill as he understood that his Ship was talking about Kestrel. Their old Ship had left them with one last gift. The respect and awe of this young Ship. Keeping his hand on the Keel, Melville reached into his pocket and pulled out the Keel shard from Kestrel. He placed it lovingly next to Fang’s Keel charge, wedging it in a little. One hand on the shard and one hand on the Keel, he felt a surge of interest and empathy. Something deep and profound was happening, something he could barely understand.
Fang repeated herself, saying again, with new depth of feeling, <