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A/N: I wasn't originally going to write this, as I don't quite feel qualified to `mess around' in Sturgeon's playground; but, I was so intrigued by the request (and because I worship Theodore Sturgeon) that I finally gave into the niggling little idea chewing on the back of my ear.
The title comes from a quote by John Dryden. Unfortunately, it's not from All For Love or The World Well Lost (where Sturgeon took his title from). I was trying for a bit of symmetry there, but couldn't quite get it to work.
I have to mention that I love the story this is based on so very much. One of my (albeit many) favorites by the legendary author. I found this quote from Sturgeon about it and it makes me chuckle: "I sent The World Well Lost to one editor who rejected it on sight, and then wrote a letter to every other editor in the field warning them against the story, and urging them to reject it on sight without reading it."
~~***~~
Thirteen weeks and two days passed after the return of the Starmite 439 from the Dirbanu home world before Grunty was scheduled to ship out with Captain Rootes again. And for the first time in his life, the big man found himself dreading the trip. They'd been received back to Earth with some celebrity, as if terra was eager to soak up the last drops of anything that remained of the loverbirds. The garrulous Captain absorbed this adulation as his due, and Grunty did his taciturn best to avoid it.
Upon receiving the news that the much adored Dirbanu were in fact, both males of their species however, that enthusiasm quickly changed. There was as much disappointment as righteous outrage, a modicum of indifference - their return having coincided with a spate of new trideo releases - and a tiny, well-obscured faction of celebration. In a general sense, though, the mood of terra was negative. The populace, for once having come together in celebration of something so pure and beautiful, felt deceived and - despite the fact that it was their own assumptions and their own self-deception that led to it - morally outraged.
The reaction of the government was much the same. They expressed disappointment at the inability to establish beneficial contact with the Dirbanu but approved of the methods utilized to try. Apparently killing fugitives seeking asylum was alright so long as it had the potential to open the doors for diplomatic relations.
In the waking periods on the trip home Rootes alternated between plotting and solidifying their explanations to the terran government about the fate of the loverbirds - how had the Dirbanu almost managed their escape (they woke early from stasis and exploited a weakness in the chamber's hatch), who fired the weapon that had killed them (Rootes) , what had happened to the escape pod (launched the bodies because there was no way to preserve them in stasis) - and venting his disgust and abhorrence over the Loverbirds themselves. So much so that Grunty was even more grateful than usual for his solitary time; and despite how much he normally relished those quiet moments alone with the Captain, he was actually relieved when they finally returned to Earth.
Their next mission found the pair reunited once more in order to deliver an official contract to the exclusive rights to mining derridium ore on Artan Prime. Details had been months in hammering out, each point quibbled over and every clause dissected, and while Terran officials were crowing over having finally negotiated the near-impossibly sought rights, they were desperate to get the contracts approved. Unfortunately the Artans required a contribution of their own genetic material to the contract to act as proof of agreement, and so a process that could normally be handled via terminals and long distance carrier waves, now required physical delivery of the contract slates, and a sample of the signing official's DNA. A favorite of the Terran government, Rootes was the first man considered for the job.
~~***~~
Aboard the Starmite 439, Grunty prepped for launch. He readied the finder, setting the first mass center to the moon. He was anxious and nervous for the return to space with Captain Rootes but so eager to be away from terra. He completed all the preflight checks and double-checked the mass points and readied the Starmite for exodus. All that their departure awaited now was the arrival of the Captain. The big man removed himself to the stasis alcove and mentally steeled himself for the painful recitations of conquest after conquest that always accompanied their pre-departure period on board.
Captain Rootes was as garrulous as ever when he first came aboard; chatting happily to the technicians, and trading off-color jokes over the comms with the government folk. To Grunty's surprise though, when the techs cleared out and the doors were sealed, and it was just the two of them once again, Rootes did not spend their first hours reciting his recent carnal exploits. Instead he recounted experiences of a different nature.
"By God, I tell ya, Grunty. All them people, even the dames, all they wanted to do was hear about them damn fairy aliens. I went to that one place, Teddy's," he elbowed Grunty in the ribs. "You know the one don't you?" He didn't bother to wait for a reply. "Anyway, this blonde, she takes me to her room and I'm getting her warmed up and then she stops me to ask `bout them damn loverbirds. `Did I know?' she asks me, and she's lookin' at me like I'm some kind of fairy too." He slammed a fist on the console, prompting Grunty to hurriedly readjust a lever knocked slightly out of alignment with its fellows. "It's like I've been contaminated."
For nearly two and a half hours, Rootes went on like that, almost non-stop in his diatribe. It wasn't even all that unsimilar to his usual ranting, but for the strange passion his words held. Although to Grunty, it seemed that the more he raged and the longer he kvetched, the more the Captain's tone changed. Not long before they were ready for the first RS Shift, he was still griping, but with a decidedly different fervor.
"Christ a'mighty, Grunty. You'd think those people had never heard of such a thing before, as much as they were goin' on about it. Damned if I could sit down at even the scuddiest watering hole for a drink without some idjet who saw me on the trideo pullin' up a seat like he was my danged long lost brother. Buyin' me drinks and chattin' like we was shipmates of old. But every damn time, every time I tell you, it weren't long before they was asking after those fairies. I about had to punch one of `em in the gut to get him to get off my case." He gave a snorting scoff. "Did end up clockin' one of them bastiches who had the nerve to accuse me of bein' a sympathizer."
Cocking his head at his silent partner, the Captain asked: "What'dya think, Grunty? You think that people are just so damn angry because they were fruits or is it just because they're pissed about bein' wrong about `em in the first place?"
Grunty was saved from having to reply by the tinkling chime of the finder indicating the first mass nexus had been located. Rootes sighed, and shuffled over to his bench in the stasis chamber then slumped heavily down onto the black padding. Relieved at the blessed silence, Grunty took his place on his own bench and hastily flipped the switch that activated the first shift and dropped them into oblivion.
Blackness faded and Grunty snapped to consciousness almost brutally; one moment in the deep sleep of the RS shift and the next fully aware. He lay still, unmoving, for several minutes becoming attuned to the humming of the stasis generator. All sounded right and well, the almost imperceptible buzz thrumming through the ship like the steady pulsing of a healthy heart. When he finally rose, he moved immediately to the control panels to perform a check of the indicators, and was pleased, though unsurprised, to see everything running smoothly. After logging the first shift, he fixed the next mass point into the finder. The second stasis shift was just a short burst after the first one, not even long enough for Rootes to wake up.
There was a frown on the Captain's face when Grunty returned to the sleeping couches, and he wondered if Rootes had faded into the psychoneural blackout with bad thoughts in his mind.
He who learns must suffer.
And even in our sleep pain that cannot forget
falls drop by drop upon the heart,
and in our own despair, against our will,
comes wisdom to us by the aweful grace of God.
Aeschylus born circa 456BC, his words supplied, and he traced a finger over that downward curve, wishing he could encourage the corners to turn up. He sat, staring for many long minutes until the finder chimed. He lingered just a minute more, wondering what changes were yet to come on this mission. Then he returned to his couch and engaged the button that instigated the shift and brought on another stasis.
Rootes was a man obsessed. Their journey to Artan took seven solar days, necessitating thirteen Referential Shifts, and after rousing from each one, the captain would invariably turn the conversation back to the Dirbanu. As the trip progressed and Rootes' obsession didn't lessen, Grunty's sense of anxiety grew. Lying awake after yet another blackout, the big man thoughts fed his paranoia. Did Rootes suspect? Is that why he wouldn't let it lie? Would he confront him; refuse to fly with him anymore? Was he trying to provoke him into giving something away? Grunty didn't know the answer to any of the myriad questions, but was thankful his normal state was one of silence that wouldn't provoke any undue curiosity.
Even more distressing than the questions in his head, was the fact that he found no solace in the silence, and even his oldest and most reliable friends, his books, brought the big man no peace. His words were muted to infrequent bursts or complete silence by the looming clouds of darkness that could not be chased from his mind.
Thankfully, the delivery and signature of the contract went flawlessly. The Artan High Chancellor provided a sample of his bio-material for the contract and graciously accepted the Terran Ambassador's blood in return. Following the largely ceremonial contract signing, the Captain and his `crew' were invited to avail themselves of the planet's hospitality. Grunty declined with his usual silent negation, prepared to return the Starmite alone and await the Captain's return a short time before their scheduled departure in six solar hours. He had his books waiting and desperately looked forward to a few hours completely alone.
To his surprise though, Rootes also turned them down. "Wanna check the Generator," he offered by way of explanation, "felt a funny vibration." The Artan's were disappointed, but also quite compassionate over the need of a Captain to look after his ship. Grunty could say nothing; despite the fact that he knew there was no trouble with the Referential Generator. It had been purring softly and consistent the whole of the trip.
Back onboard Rootes went immediately to work and Grunty had no choice but to follow. There was a full supply of tools on board, but as well as the ship usually ran he didn't think they'd ever been used. Rootes hauled the lot of them to the engine compartment, and sorted them on the decking. He unsealed an engine panel, pulled out one of the stasis arrays and started to work. Figuring that if nothing else, a once-over of the mechanicals couldn't hurt, Grunty settled on a fold-down stool and joined him.
"Bet your wondering why I didn't stay." Rootes said, breaking the silence that had held sway since the two had returned to the ship and begun their troubleshooting of the generator. "I mean, you know that Artan has some action. Woohoo, remember that stop over two years ago?" He paused to fix Grunty with a faint grin, "Course you don't... stayed aboard didn't you? But I'm sure I told you all about it." He leered. "Wild times."
Rootes sobered after a moment of distant-eyed remembrance and turned back to his work. "But this time?" He lifted a shoulder as he reached for a hydro-spanner. A minimal shrug. The most uncertain Grunty had ever seen him.
The silence that followed grew heavy and oppressive. Rootes was waiting for him to push the conversation forward. Grunty knew if he didn't, the matter would be dropped and that would be the end of it. Torn between morbid curiosity and the almost overwhelming need to stay silent, the former won. "This time?" he echoed in his low, gravelly voice; the most he'd spoken in days.
"Dammit, Grunty." Rootes cursed, throwing the tool down where it struck the floor panel with a hollow clang. "This time I didn't want to get more questions. That's all people want to ask about; those damn Dirbanu. Can't even get away from it when we ain't on Terra." He slumped his shoulder against the bulkhead, letting it hold him up. "And you got some who wanna celebrate with me for wiping em outta the universe and some who wanna see me strung up for what they think we done. But at least those folks are quiet in their rage. I can deal with them."
The ones who wanna slap my back and buy me a drink, though..." he hesitated, risked a sideward glance at the man who was still stolidly working away at the exposed conduit panel, "it's them folk that I wanna get away from, Grunty." He said it like a man confessing his worst sins to a preacher. "I mean, I thought that I hated queers?" He snorted. "Sheesh, I'm down right friendly compared to some o' them." The sweep of ruddy hair on his head bobbed as he shook his head.
"Grunty?" Rootes asked after another of those long, ponderous silences.
Grunty made an acknowledging noise; a low grumble that was the tonal equivalent of a shrug. Externally he was his usual, placid self, expression bland; but internally he was a roiling mass of emotion and apprehension - a panic attack waiting to happen. There was something building here, something big...
"You and me, we've worked together a long time eh?"
Grunty nodded.
Hesitating again, opening his mouth then closing it a few times, Rootes pushed on. "You know I ain't no kind of idjut who cares much what people say about him. But I got a reputation, ya know? And I mean, I don't care much what people think of me, `cept for those that actually matter. Right?"
Again a nod. And a flutter of the heart at being told, however sideward, that he mattered to the short, rooster of a man.
"So ah... you wouldn't think less of me then, if I was to tell ya that I'm startin' to feel sorry for them queers?" There was another furtive glance.
Grunty shook his head in the negative; the gesture his most emphatic yet.
Rootes expelled a relieved breath. "I mean, I ain't got no truck for their type, but when I got a load of people tellin' me that I shoulda just lazed `em, or spaced `em alive, or sent `em down to that planet to be ripped to pieces, or hell, done it myself... It just started to get to me, ya know?"
"Maybe they were just lonely." He postulated as he pushed away from the wall and turned back to his work. "Maybe that's what started it. Just two guys spendin' a-lotta time together." He waved a hand between them. "Like me and you, Grunty. We spend lotsa time just me and you."
The man being spoken of made no noise or gesture, his breathing was shallow, but slow and steady, and even his eyes stayed fixed on the coupler in his thick fingers. There was no external tell that might give away just how chaotic his thoughts. No outward evidence that he felt as if his whole being might come apart.
Oblivious to his internal struggle, the Captain carried on. "So... maybe they were lonely and that's what started it. Maybe. I don't know. But, even if that was the case, they shouldn't have tried to be public about it. Shouldn't have flaunted it. Ya know? It was somethin' they shoulda just kept quiet, just between them." He huffed an exhale. "`Specially on their planet. I mean, they were just escaped criminals. Would've been bad enough on Earth if they'd been found out. Look how it bad it got after they were gone!"
"It ain't like in them old days on Earth like they sometimes show in the trideos; when anybody could be with anyone else. Naw, time took care of that. Back when there were those biowars and breedin' men and women got to be so scare that they made it against the law to be queer. Sure, time is different now, but people ain't forgotten about all that. There may not be laws no more, but there's social pressure. You saw how terra reacted when they got the news about the Dirbanu."
Rootes went silent then, knelt to pick up a micro-canister of thermal lubricant, and sprayed a fine coating on a heating coupler he'd removed. His focus, for now, wholly on the precise movements required to dexterously thread a coil of derridium wire through the slicked conduit. Busying himself with the exposed panel in front of him, Grunty worked just as silently, hands calm and controlled while his mind churned.
The last time he'd felt so torn up inside was when the Loverbirds had been on board and he'd realized they'd discovered the truth. Now, it was even worse. Now it seemed that Captain Rootes had reached the same conclusion. He couldn't be sure though. He'd have expected Rootes to react far differently if he suspected his shipmate of being like the loverbirds, to be less understanding and more disgusted, more hateful. It was the unknown that was killing him. Grunty wanted nothing more than to cry out, to beg Rootes not to hate him.
His world was tumbling down around him; shattering into thousands of tiny pieces that flew apart no matter how hard he tried to hold them together. And still Grunty worked on in silence. Waiting. His words tried to find comfort in it.
"And silence, like a poultice, comes
To heal the blows of sound."
1809, Oliver Wendell Holmes, came an anxious moment later, his mind almost too agitated to cite the words properly. The anticipation sought to tear him apart.
"Grunty?"
And here it came.
"You ever been lonely, Grunty?"
Not what he expected to hear... Breath held tight in his chest, Grunty heaved his broad shoulders up then down as if to say `I suppose.'
Rootes read it as he'd meant, nodding slightly. "Yeah. Ya know, I kinda wondered, Grunty. Kinda wondered if maybe you let them Dirbanu go cuz you ... maybe understood them?"
The big man froze, couldn't breath, couldn't swallow, couldn't blink. He was sure that even his heart had stammered to stillness in his chest. Finally, when the Captain looked over at him, the question so evident on his face, all that Grunty could do was what his name suggested. He grunted. It was a noncommittal noise. Let Rootes make of it what he would.
"Yeah," Rootes said with an exhale and a nod. "Yeah, I thought so."
Grunty said nothing.
"I ain't gonna lie to you, Grunty. Owe ya that." He scrubbed a hand through his hair, mussing the russet waves. "I got no truck for it. Ya get me?" Grunty nodded dutifully and Rootes nodded in return. "But you ain't never given me cause to feel like we ain't nothing but shipmates. If it weren't for those Dirbanu, I'd never have known. And that's good, I think." He chewed his lip for a moment. "I can't imagine it's been easy, shippin' with the likes of me?"
Grunty wanted to protest - to decry that possibility, his words singing out in his mind:
"If I accept you as you are, I will make you worse; however if I treat you as though you are what you are capable of becoming, I help you become that!"
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, 1749
- but instead he made the non-committal noise he knew the Captain would expect.
Rootes snorted noisily. "Yeah, I get `cha. Me an' my big yap always yammering on about this dame or that. Lettin' me do my braggin' and my boastin'. Though you maybe were just too shy to tell your own stories." He frowned then, suddenly, looking bereft. "But ya ain't got none to share, do ya?" He said it sadly, but knowingly. "Poor dumb bastich." He added quietly, but there was affection in his tone at the oft used words.
He lifted his hands, another emphatic gesture in the making, but found one weighted down by the re-wired coupler. The Captain glance down at it, blinked, and then took a few minutes of ponderous silence to reinsert the unit back into the waiting array. It slid in soundlessly, and a few quick adjustments had it seated and secured as though it had never been removed. Rootes pulled his hands out and wiped them on his coverall, looking as though he'd performed all of the tasks by rote, with no thought on them at all.
Grunty wondered what he was thinking.
"Damn, Grunty." Rootes swore a moment later, shaking his head. "That's so damn lonely. I can't..." his hands clutched at empty air. "I... me I need it. I can't see myself goin' without for too long. Christ. I'd..." His head swished from side to side again in denial. "At least those loverbirds had each other. What've you got?"
"Fortune and love favor the brave", Ovid circa 43 BC, his words supplied almost imploringly, and Grunty took a chance. "You." He lifted his chin towards the other man.
Rootes hardened for a moment, going flinty around d the eyes. Silence but for the soft susurrus of breath from his flared nostrils fell around them. Grunty tensed, he'd gone too far, and waited for the blow, whether it was fist or words, he knew would be coming.
But the expected assault didn't come. Rootes deflated like a leaky tire, and his expression went just as flat and soft. He coughed and shrugged at the same time. "Suppose your right." Rootes laughed then, and it was so much like his normal, bawdy, braying self that Grunty felt relief course through him. "And damn me if that ain't sad." He wiped a palm over his face as he said it, smearing a streak of the bluish thermal lubricant down his cheek. "Hell of a pair we make, eh, Grunty?" He chuckled again and the noise was strangely warm and dry.
Grunty nodded, letting the unfettered adoration show in his eyes. Feeling suddenly like a passenger in his own body Grunty became aware of his arm lifting and his feet shuffling forward. He felt as if he watched his own hand outstretch towards the Captain's face, watched as Rootes' eyes went wide but he didn't back away, watched as his rebellious fingers curled around an angle of that chiseled jaw and his bold thumb swiped at the shimmering smudge, leaving a swath of clean, ruddy skin in its wake.
They stayed frozen in that tableau for an indeterminate amount of time. Long enough for Grunty's eyes, peeled wide and white-rimmed, to sting with dryness, but he dared not blink. The Captain said nothing and his expression did not change from the faintly alarmed, yet somehow wry moue, with curls of amusement tucked in the corners around his mouth. Did Grunty imagine it or did Rootes lean just a little heavier into the cup of his palm?
Finally though, the Captain did move; he reached up and slapped Grunty's hand away. But it was more of a lazy shove than a hard strike and that hidden amusement still showed itself on the curving of his lips.
"Quit that, Grunty," he scolded mildly, "an git back to work." He turned back to his own task of refitting the dynamic array, although the quirk at the corner of his mouth was visible even in profile.
Grunty went back to his own work, dutifully, though his eyes flicked sideward now and then. The big man's mind shifted back into its regular, ever-churning, never-silent habits. He thought about his life before this journey, before the Dirbanu and to how he'd perceived his place in it. The right words sprang unbidden to his mind:
"My mind to me a kingdom is; such present joys therein I find that it excels all other bliss that earth affords or grows by kind. Though much I want that most would have; yet still my mind forbids to crave." Edward Dyer, 1607.
But now? Now he needed new words and his quick mind shuffled through an endless catalogue and found some - John Keats, 1884 - that seemed to suit best:
"And as, in sparkling majesty, a star
Gilds the bright summit of some gloomy cloud;
Brightening the half veil'd face of heaven afar:
So, when dark thoughts my boding spirit shroud,
Sweet Hope, celestial influence round me shed,
Waving thy silver pinions o'er my head!"