Finally there were no more enemy to kill. The foe were fleeing, fleeing. Even as they fled Melville turned Fang to sink one last ship, to mercilessly, ruthlessly send a few hundred more sentient beings into the frigid embrace of outer space. And then, when there was nothing left to kill, he stopped, reeling and staggering like a drunk man. On his back, his monkey gave a feeble, “eek.” Bits of flesh and blood splattered them. Some of it was his blood. He tested his body. Everything seemed to be working. Just minor wounds from flying wood splinters and falling debris, things his monkey couldn’t block. They began to ache. Have to see the doc soon, he thought. She’ll help.
He stood on the gundeck and looked around at the tattered remnants of his beautiful ship and his proud crew in stunned, amazed horror. . . .
Then the dead men fouled the scuppers and the wounded filled the chains,
And the paint-work all was spatter-dashed with other people’s brains . . .
His shell-shocked crew stood around him, looking at him in silence, with stunned, thousand-yard stares. Duty, he told himself. There was solace in doing his duty. He was obeying orders, protecting his nation’s allies from a foul invader, preventing tyranny and oppression. It was his duty.
No heed he gave to the flying ball,
No heed to the bursting shell;
His duty was something more than life,
And he strove to do it well.
He staggered up the steps to the quarterdeck. Damn. Damn, damn, damn, thought Melville, looking down at the crumpled, still form of Midshipman Ngobe at his feet. Ngobe’s monkey was a smear of blood and fur mixed in with the midshipman’s body. The little creature had died trying to deflect the cannonball that had killed his master.
Melville’s monkey crooned softly, mournfully. Melville sunk to his knees with tears welling up in his eyes. Duty. Here is the price of duty. Here is the price of victory. . . .
Victory! Victory! . . .
And there at the captain’s feet, among the dead and dying,
The shot-marred form of a beautiful boy is lying.
There in his uniform!
Once he stood, buoyant and eager-eyed,
By the brave captain’s side . . .
Into the battle storm!
There in his country’s uniform.
Laurels and tears for thee, boy,
Laurels and tears for thee!
Laurels of light, moist with the precious dew . . .
And blest by the balmy breath of the beautiful and the true;
And laurels of light, and tears of truth,
And the mantle of immortality;
And the flowers of love and immortal youth,
And the tender heart-tokens of all true ruth—
And the everlasting victory . . .
Dear warrior-boy for thee.
Chapter the 11th
Siege: Hark to the Call of War!
Far and near, high and clear,
Hark to the call of War!
Over the gorse and the golden dells,
Ringing and swinging of clamorous bells,
Praying and saying of wild farewells:
War! War! War!
“The Call”
Robert Service
Melville and Fielder stopped as they came down from their ship and looked out from the bluffs where the Pier was located. As always the transition from star-swept Flatland skies to a sunlit world was sudden and dramatic. In this case it was a sweltering tropical world, under a clear, brass colored sky. The visual impact of the light and the physical blow of the heat were joined by the additional sensory impact of a veritable nasal explosion of smells.
Before them, across the River Grottem, was the vast, low, teeming city of Ee. On their side of the river, high on the bluffs, encompassed by gray city walls and fortifications, was Ai, nicknamed “Bluff City,” with its vast Pier, lofty villas, and proud municipal buildings. Both cities were swollen with refugees from Scrotche, the city surrounding Ambergris’ Lower Pier, several hundred miles away and now conquered by the Stolsh invaders. All around them the twin cities swarmed and bustled with mobilization and preparation for war.
“There it is,” said Melville with a sardonic smile. “Proud Ai and pestilent Ee. AiEe, pearl of cities!”
“Oh, aye, sir,” replied Fielder. “This is indeed an annoying impurity, covered with the slimy secretions of an irritated, mindless sea creature. If I ever saw one, this is it.”
Melville grinned. “Our lovely refuge in a storm doesn’t appeal to you, Daniel?”
“I’ll say this for it, sir. I’ve traveled the galaxy, man and boy, and I’ve seen prettier cities, and I’ve seen bigger cities, but no city can rival fair AiEe for its smell. Ancient Katmandu and far Qualth were ripe indeed, but even these classic samples of olfactory poetry were mere doggerel when set against the full gagging glory of AiEe.” Looking down at a region of fetid sludge at the bottom of the bluff he continued. “And behold the River Grottem, which oozes between the proud twin cities. Reservoir, sewer and morgue, it serves each citizen from womb to tomb. Hastening the journey considerably in many cases.”
“Aye, Daniel, and if the Westerness consul tells us to, we will fight for it unto the death.”
“Damn,” said Fielder, with a scowl, “I hate it when you talk like that. We’ve been shot to hell, sir. Twice. No, dammit, three times! Four if we count your battle on Broadax’s World! Now we’ve accomplished a feat unprecedented in the annals of modern warfare. You yourself received a dozen minor wounds, and there are few men on board ship who aren’t at least lightly wounded. We’ve done enough, sir. It’s time for us to go home.”
Then, for just an instant, Fielder looked into the eyes of a man who wasn’t quite human, and he suppressed a shudder. Melville had grown. Leadership responsibilities and combat experience had forged him into a warrior. His deep communion with his Ship and cannons had also left a lasting mark, changing him into a killer. He’d “swapped moss,” exchanging neurons with savage, exotic beings, and the thoughts of alien, feral creatures now echoed in Melville’s brain. There is a streak of madness in anyone who spends quality time inside an alien mind. Only the demands of duty kept him on the slender rails of sanity, and the call of duty carved into his haunted soul was all that balanced the lust for blood. No living creature would keep him from his duty. If his duty was to kill, then that was good. That was very good.
Melville’s coxswain, Ulrich, stood glowering beside him. They’d become virtually inseparable in the short period since the battle. Ulrich always made Fielder’s blood run cold. The “murderous little killer of a hater” was as efficient and eager a killer as a sociopathic mongoose, and now he’d found his master. Fielder realized with a chill that the man who mastered such a killer was the one who truly deserved to be feared.
The butcher’s bill wasn’t as bad this time. Less than when they’d been ambushed by the Guldur. Far less than resulted from their boarding action. Most of their casualties were wounded, with only a handful of dead. It would have been much worse if AiEe’s superb medical facilities had not been immediately available. Although Ambergris was a low-tech world, AiEe’s upper city did have some superb mid-tech medical facilities, facilities which Lady Elphinstone was already putting to full use. Also, high up on the Pier, where the gravity was light, a hospital had been established where the wounded could recover in a low-gravity environment. Combining mid-tech medical treatment with low-gravity recovery facilities created a powerful, lifesaving synergy.
“Start getting the ship in order, and find us some replacements, Daniel,” said Melville quietly. “There are humans here, many of them sailors who may be willing to sign on with us. Perhaps some Sylvans could be convinced to join. We know that they make great topmen. Meanwhile, I will talk with the port admiral. I’ll pass on the message from Pearl, and try to get support for our repairs.” He added with a sardonic smile, “They will hopefully feel grateful to us.”
“Aye, sir. Aye they should,” his first officer replied with a fierce scowl.
“After that I’ll go to the consul. If he tells us to fight, then we will fight, and that’s all there is to it.”
High and low, all must go:
Hark to the shout of War!
Leave to the women the harvest yield;
Gird ye, men, for the sinister field;
A sabre instead of a scythe to wield:
War! Red War!
Corporal Kobbsven was the commander of Melville’s small escort as he went to make his visits. In this case that meant that Kobbsven was the battering ram, flanked by two large marines, punching a path through the fear-maddened, refugee-clogged streets of a city preparing for war. Women wept, children cheered, men marched or cheered or wept, and insanity reigned. In the background a cacophony of bells, bugles and horns proclaimed, “War! War! War!”