They had paid a thousand men,
Yet they formed and came again,
For they heard the silver bugles sounding
challenge to their pride,
And they rode with swords agleam
For the glory of a dream
And they stormed up to the cannon’s mouth
and withered there, and died.
The might of a vast star empire was wasting away before their eyes. The Guldur members of Fang’s crew couldn’t bear to come to the ramparts and watch, as the others did on their off hours.
As the Stolsh defenders watched in horror, their resolution began to waver. Even the refugees from Scrotche, the Lower Pier city that had been conquered by the Guldur, were losing heart for the slaughter. Melville, Broadax and Hans found that even their fierce lust for vengeance was being fulfilled. The young captain was constantly busy in the councils of the allies. Encouraging them to fight and, yes, to kill their foes, now while they could. Churchill’s admonishment was brought up again and again.
Fielder, self-centered as a tornado, as self-absorbed as a cat, was able to find complete comfort in his pragmatic, egocentric philosophy. “Do onto others before they do onto you” and “Better you than me,” had served him well for a lifetime, and he saw no need to change now that a whole army was coming to kill him. But even he couldn’t find delight in the enemy’s slaughter. Only Ulrich, Melville’s fierce coxswain, could continue to watch the enemy’s death and destruction with undiluted pleasure.
The daylight lay in ashes
On the blackened western hill,
And the dead were calm and still;
But the Night was torn with gashes—
Sudden ragged crimson gashes—
And the siege-guns snarled and roared,
With their flames thrust like a sword,
And the tranquil moon came riding on the heaven’s silver ford.
All too soon, the tide began to turn. Slowly but surely, inexorably, the enemy fought back. At great cost they emplaced siege guns. Vast batteries, battalions and brigades of siege guns, howitzers and mortars began to strike back at the besieged city. And the tide of public opinion began to turn. Each Stolsh soldier who died renewed the defender’s determination, each civilian killed rekindled their hatred.
The curs had taught Melville to hate. Now they were teaching the Stolsh to hate. It was a lesson the Guldur taught well.
Each night the enemy attacked. Each night the assaults grew fiercer, ever more terrible and ferocious. The defenders’ guns became worn, the crews grew weary, but the seemingly inexhaustible Guldur hordes attacked fresh each night.
* * *
What a fearful world was there,
Tangled in the cold moon’s hair!
Man and beast lay hurt and screaming,
(Men must die when Kings are dreaming)—
While within the harrowed town
Mothers dragged their children down
As the awful rain came screaming,
For the glory of a crown!
The enemy counterfire became increasingly accurate. The defenders’ guns were destroyed. Their crewmen died. Raw civilians filled the gaps and helped man the guns. Women bore ammunition up to the guns. Children carried water to their fathers and brothers.
Melville sighed and shook his head as he watched the defenders respond with shock and anger to their losses. It was as if they couldn’t comprehend what their enemy would do to them. As though the reality of death and horror couldn’t be grasped until it was upon them.
Early in World War II, back on Old Earth, Nazi Germany launched a series of aerial bombing attacks that became known as the Battle of Britain. These attacks on civilian targets accomplished little except to harden the hearts and steel the resolve of an entire nation, and it was this resolute determination which Churchill embodied in his famous speeches.
Islamic extremists made the same mistake early in the twenty-first century, launching attacks on civilian targets in the United States. These attacks unleashed the vast might of that huge, powerful nation in ways that the terrorists never dreamed possible.
Now the Guldur bombardment of the Ai population centers was having the same result. But the most resolute, determined people in the world could still be defeated. They just made the price higher. So they fought, and they died. And died. And died. Each day, as dusk fell, the ragged, exhausted, shell-shocked defenders wondered how they could survive another night.
It was then that the Honorable Milton Carpetwright chose to call Melville to his office. Closed curtains. No coffee. One question.
“Piss on golf?” a bemused Melville repeated.
“Yes. That’s what he said. My marine detail seemed to think it was funny. Just what did he think he was doing, talking to me that way?”
Melville’s brain spun, grasping for a way to communicate the concept. “Sir,” he began, “you’re from a mid-tech colony of Old Earth, so you may not understand the history behind the phrase. ‘Piss on golf’ is a term, a catchphrase, a political slogan. We studied this at the academy. The concept goes back to 1349 when King Edward III of England told the citizens of London that their ‘skill of shooting’ was being neglected, and he proclaimed that ‘every one of the said city, strong in body, at leisure times on holidays, use in their recreation bow and arrows, or pellets or bolts, and learn and exercise the art of shooting . . . that they do not, after any manner apply themselves to the throwing of . . . handball, football, cambuck, or cockfighting, nor suchlike vain plays which have nor profit in them.’ You see sir, the playing of such ‘vain’ pursuits is considered to be a sure sign of decadence in most worlds.”
“Well,” he blustered, “that’s ancient history! None of the great leaders of any developed world would ever think that way!”
“Perhaps, sir. But many would consider Teddy Roosevelt to be one of the greatest leaders of the twentieth century, and he said, while he was President, that: ‘We should establish shooting galleries in all the large public and military schools, should maintain national target ranges in different parts of the country, and should in every way encourage the formation of rifle clubs throughout all parts of the land . . . It is unfortunately true that the great body of our citizens shoot less and less as time goes on. To meet this [challenge] we should encourage rifle practice . . . by every means in our power. Thus, and not otherwise, may we be able to assist in preserving the peace of the world. Fit to hold our own against the strong nations of the earth, our voice for peace will carry to the ends of the earth. Unprepared and therefore unfit, we must sit dumb and helpless to defend ourselves, protect others, or preserve peace. The first step—in the direction of preparation to avert war if possible, and to be fit for war if it should come—is to teach our men to shoot.'”
The consul simply sat, with his mouth open, trying to digest this.
“Do you see, sir? In essence, what Teddy Roosevelt and King Edward III are saying is, ‘Piss on golf.’ ” Melville continued, relentlessly, “most scholars believe that when the population starts playing games with no actual application to survival skills, and when they displace swordsmanship and shooting sports, then that’s a certain sign that they have become decayed and are deserving of contempt. That’s why, when you asked Ranger Westminster what was his ‘secret,’ he said the secret was to ‘piss on golf.’ It might overstate the position for rhetorical purposes, but that honestly is the standard answer. If you spend most of your time and energy on such pursuits, then in the minds of many people, it is a waste of human talent.”
“Well,” said the little man with a self-deprecating smile and a wave of his hand, “in my case, I have so little talent when it comes to golf that I’m not really wasting all that much.” For just a moment Melville found himself liking the diplomat, as he continued earnestly, “Do people really think that way? Do they think that we are decayed and worthy of contempt if we aren’t into shooting or fencing?”
“Well sir, there is nothing wrong with any sport, but if you spend most of your leisure time and take inordinate pride in these trivial sports then, perhaps, yes. And if your culture considers these ‘vain sports’ to be a higher good, while suppressing or deprecating the skills that contribute to a society’s survival, then yes, across the galaxy such a world is subject to a degree of contempt. You think the Stolsh, or Sylvan, or any other major society respect you when you take them out on the golf course? The truth is just the opposite. Anyway, sir, let us hope the Stolsh have been living by that standard, because very soon now, our survival will depend upon the shooting skills of the average Stolsh militia member.”
So the morning flung her cloak