Man Of War: To Honor You Call Us Part 8

The s.h.i.+p's main sublight drive ceased to push the s.h.i.+p, but with virtually no friction in the vacuum of s.p.a.ce, the s.h.i.+p would not slow appreciably unless a counteracting force were applied, so the braking drive, forward-aimed thrusters mounted on four projections that ringed the hull, fired at half power.

The chief watched both s.h.i.+ps' trajectories and velocities with an expert eye. He'd been handling the s.h.i.+p since the day it came out of the yard, and he was d.a.m.n good at it. He had the help of a brilliant fly-by-wire computer that adjusted the relative thrust of the braking drive thrusters so that the s.h.i.+p would continue to answer the turn being commanded by the maneuvering controls even as the s.h.i.+p slowed.

"Kill the braking drive. Engage main sublight at 28 percent." After a few seconds, "Drives, make it 30 percent. Pitch and yaw, steering amids.h.i.+ps on my mark... NOW. Yaw, two degrees to port... and amids.h.i.+ps... now. Captain, we're through the turn. That one was close. If she turns any tighter, we're not going to be able to stay with her."

"Understood, Chief. I don't want to press our luck. Back us off to thirty thousand kills. Let's see if we can sneak away from this guy and go on about our business."

Max pretended not to notice the obvious wave of relief that washed through CIC. He had to admit, though, that as the range to target reading on his own display showed a steadily growing number, he was breathing more easily as well.

An hour and fourteen minutes went by, and the range to the Vaaach s.h.i.+p was now 28,890 kilometers. Max hoped to sneak his s.h.i.+p out of the Vaaach's wake and slip away with his new haul of priceless intelligence. Max was polis.h.i.+ng off a sandwich that the galley had earnestly insisted was made from roast beef, but which Max strongly suspected came from an animal of a distinctly different heritage, when he heard Kasparov gasp.

"Captain," the sensor officer's voice was far too loud and far too high-pitched for Max's comfort, "the Vaaach grav curves are doing something I don't understand. The whole pattern is twisting into something like an 'S' shape."

Max knew what that meant. That "S" stood for "s.h.i.+t." Very deep s.h.i.+t.

Automatically, Max came to his feet. "Maneuvering, pitch up hard, give me a delta Y of one-three-zero degrees, Main sublight to Emergency." He wanted to veer off from the present course and also slightly away from the Vaaach s.h.i.+p in order to get out of its path and open up the range at the same time.

"Target has turned in its own length and is accelerating back down its previous course. They are already at point two five," said Kasparov.

Sweet Jesus. In its own length? How was that even possible? As if that weren't bad enough, the other s.h.i.+p had dumped .42 c of forward velocity and had put on .25 in the other direction-that's a total delta V of 67 percent of the speed of light in under a minute. G.o.d only knew how many Gs that entailed. If the c.u.mberland tried a velocity change even a tenth that violent, the s.h.i.+p would tear itself apart. The biggest piece anyone would find would fit easily into a shot gla.s.s.

Obviously, the Vaaach were more advanced than anyone had suspected. The s.h.i.+ps that had so impressed the humans with whom the Vaaach had previously made contact were probably two-hundred-year-old sixth and seventh raters. Today, Max was up against a s.h.i.+p of the line.

"They're altering course to intercept. Closure is so rapid I can't measure it-I'm not sure they didn't go superluminal for a fraction of a second." There was a violent lurch. Station harnesses kept anyone from falling out of his seat or being thrown around the CIC, but Max was certain that one of his eyeb.a.l.l.s was rolling around on the deck somewhere. "We're being held by a very powerful grappling field, sir."

"Power rating?"

"Over two million Hawkings, sir."

"We'll never break that. Maneuvering, null all drives, take maneuvering thrusters and inertial att.i.tude control off line. Let's not burn out anything trying to fight a two-million-Hawk grapfield."

The c.u.mberland hung stationary in s.p.a.ce, like a dragonfly on a collector's pin, with the now brightly lit and decidedly menacing Vaaach s.h.i.+p a scant sixteen hundred meters off the bow, stabbing it with nearly a dozen brilliant spotlights. In contrast to the familiar cylinder, ellipsoid, or elongated-box forms that dominated human, Krag, Pfelung, and most other species' design, the Vaaach vessel was a long, narrow, flattened wedge with a sharp bow and angled corners at the stern that bent back toward the central drive unit like a giant, barbed spear point aimed threateningly at the comparatively tiny Union destroyer.

"Sir," said Tactical. It had to be more bad news. "They've locked some sort of antimatter cannon on us. I'm pretty sure that one shot would, well..."

"I get the picture. We'll just have to convince them not to shoot, now, won't we?"

"Ready to transmit, visual, aural, or text," prompted Chin, a bit too eagerly.

"Negative. Not when we're dealing with the Vaaach. They've got us. It would be... impertinent to speak without being spoken to. Here's the way this plays out." He tried to make it sound like plot summary for a trid vid comedy program. "They're going to let us hang here for about a minute and a half so that there will be just enough time for it to sink in how helpless we are and how we are entirely at their mercy, but not enough time for us to detect any weakness they might have and start to formulate a plan to get away. Then they'll hail us on visual. They don't care if the standard protocol for interspecies communication is text. They're carnivores who hunt by sight, so they like to lay eyes on who they are talking to. Or who they might be having for dinner. They like to use channel 7. The forest victor, or grove guardian, or tree tamer, or whatever his t.i.tle is will engage us in witty blood-and-guts warrior banter, after which they'll either let us go with their blessing or blast us to dust with that antimatter cannon."

Bhattacharyya at Intel snorted softly. It was clear that the captain had asked for that briefing on the Vaaach to educate Bhattacharyya, not Rob.i.+.c.haux. "Captain?" he interjected quietly.

"Yes, Bhattacharyya?"

"So, you've encountered the Vaaach before?"

"Let's just say for now that we've met and I'm still alive to give evasive answers about the experience," Max answered, evasively.

Ninety-four seconds elapsed on the chrono before Chin said, "Captain, we are being hailed. Visual. Channel 7."

"Let's see it."

Several screens in CIC cut to an image of a large, brownish-gray, furry face with a small black nose and white fluffy tufts where the ears would go on an Earth mammal. The Vaaach looked like an overgrown Koala bear, except for the penetrating intelligence in its yellow-green eyes, the forty-five-centimeter-wide mouth from which protruded six 20-centimeter fangs, and the 10-centimeter claws with which it was grooming the fur on its forearm. A forearm that Max knew to be twice the diameter of his own neck.

The average Vaaach was just over four-and-a-half-meters tall, weighed roughly three-quarters of a ton, and armed with nothing but claws, teeth, and att.i.tude could easily take down a fully grown grizzly bear. The grooming gesture gave Max hope. It usually represented mild condescension with a hint of rebuke, as to a wayward but promising cub.

A series of roaring sounds, interspersed with growls and snarls, thundered from the audio outputs around the room. This lasted for about fifteen seconds. Then the computer produced a translation text on a screen beside the image of the Vaaach, complete with supposedly helpful explanations, set off by brackets, of terms and cultural references. The Vaaach sat, regarding the camera placidly while it allowed the humans to read the translation.

"I am Forest Victor [a rank believed to be equivalent to a senior captain or a commodore] Chrrrlgrf of the Vaaach sovereignty, son of the perilous Rawlrrhfr Forest, slayer with these claws of the strangling Targruf [a forty-meter-long anaconda-like snake, strong enough to crush a ground car, that lives deep in the Rawlrrhfr Forest and is believed to kill several hundred adult Vaaach per year], and victorious commander at the Battle of Hrlrgr [a fleet engagement against Species 9, fought on 8 August 2313, involving more than seventy-five capital s.h.i.+ps and resulting in a decisive victory for the Vaaach]. I greet you, tiny, pink, clawless, fangless, furless human, child of the ridiculous gibbering monkeys that so amuse us in our zoos. Identify yourself and state your purpose in straying so far from the trees out of which your ancestors so foolishly descended."

This had to be done exactly right. Max made a subtle hand gesture that the computer would recognize as a command to include his whole body in the imager shot. He stood, drew his boarding cutla.s.s, and held it across his chest in a kind of salute.

"I am Lieutenant Commander Maxime Tindall Rob.i.+.c.haux, Union s.p.a.ce Navy, fierce son of planet Nouvelle Acadiana, a dangerous world completely infested with carnivorous reptilian alligators and swarming with venomous snakes." A minor exaggeration: the snakes and alligators generally avoid the polar regions.

"A frigate under my personal command has vanquished a Krag battlecruiser of superior force and I have personally slain seventeen Krag with the steel you see before you, two before the sap of manhood had risen in my limbs. My people are at war with the Krag. We go to attack their s.h.i.+ps in neutral s.p.a.ce. We intend no harm to any Vaaach, nor shall we venture anywhere near your dread sovereignty."

The Vaaach replied with more p.i.s.sed-off lion and bear sounds, this time consisting of more deep ba.s.s rumbling and low snarls. Somehow, Max got the impression that the tension level had just dropped a notch. The translation appeared.

"The Vaaach have nothing to fear from your feeble little vessel, so do not waste our time convincing us that you are not a threat to us. We can see that at a glance. You state that you travel to meet the Krag in battle. Good. They are skilled opponents, but not worthy ones. They begin wars without declaring them. They kill the innocent for no purpose. They take what they do not need. If your purpose is to kill them, we would not hinder that. The more of them you kill, the more pleased we shall be. Why, though, did you follow our vessel, like a blood-drinking pest riding a predator's tail? This act does not appear to show the respect that one hunter gives another."

"Dread Forest Victor, many of my crew have never seen the face of the enemy and have neither drawn his blood nor had theirs drawn. Stalking skills must be practiced against a wily target or, when the trail of the true prey is found, it will elude the stalker and vanish into the trees."

Max watched as the eyes of the huge alien warrior read the translation of his words. The black nose wrinkled twice, which Max thought was the equivalent of a nod. The claws stopped grooming the arm fur. The Vaaach held his claws with the points aimed at his own face and seemed to inspect their sharpness. A few rumbles ensued, followed by several low, almost relaxed roars.

"So, you seek to sharpen your claws on us before you sink them into the entrails of your enemy. It is very likely that your claws are longer than your fangs, but your goal is worthy. Your stalking was not proficient, but neither was it entirely unskillful. We will not kill you. At least, not on this hunt. Now, go forth to kill Krag. We may even amuse ourselves by leaving some of its fur behind so that you may take the scent. But do not stalk us again, lest we kill you for your monkey impertinence. This transmission ends now."

The screen went blank, the grappling field disengaged, and the huge wars.h.i.+p drew away from the c.u.mberland at astonis.h.i.+ng speed.

Still alive.

"Maneuvering, resume course to the jump point, point four five c. Comms, check all EM records for the last few seconds of that transmission for something buried in that message. If there's nothing there, have the computer folks run a file survey and see if there's any new data that we didn't put there. I think the mighty forest victor just sent us a present."

"Aye, sir," answered both Maneuvering and Comms.

"Let me know when you find it. I'll be in my quarters. XO, you have CIC."

"Aye, sir. I have CIC."

Max needed to change uniforms. It would not do for the rest of the men in CIC to get a whiff of his sour, cold sweat.

CHAPTER 7.

19:12Z Hours, 22 January 2315 Two more jumps, no more surprises. One of the systems had contained a few civilian freighters making their slow way between jump points at 0.08 c. That was in a system popularly known as Merrick's Crossing because a disoriented navigator named Austin Merrick had accidently discovered that the system had six instead of the expected three jump points. None of them went anywhere particularly important, but one of the lesser routes between some marginal asteroid mines and some equally marginal foundry planets did traverse the system, which is why the freighters were there.

The steadily improving Sensors section speedily and accurately identified the freighters; Comms extracted the registry and flight plan information from their transponders; and Weapons practiced generating firing solutions on them and simulated their destruction with simulated weapons, resulting in not-so-simulated jubilation from the personnel involved.

Max alternated between studying the service records of the three chiefs who tried to sabotage his s.h.i.+p and the bizarre service history of the s.h.i.+p itself, when his comm buzzed. He hit the b.u.t.ton. "Skipper here."

"Sir, this is Rochefort in Crypto. Compu section found that Easter egg you were looking for. Somehow the Vaaach managed to write it into our database of s.p.a.ce traffic control system approach protocols, but we've run every decrypt routine we have on it, and we can't even tell what type of file it is, much less read it."

"Rochefort, what do you know about Vaaach maps?

"Nothing, sir."

"They aren't your run of the mill maps. They show two projections. One is the one we are all used to seeing, of a static display of the position of objects, and the other is a changing perspective following the point of view of the traveler as he moves along various routes. Try decrypting the file as something like that instead of a standard text or numerical message."

"Aye, sir. Rochefort out."

The perspective changes as you go, Max said to himself. He took a sip of his coffee, gone cold hours ago. Somehow, probably when he had first poured it, Max had sloshed a bit of the coffee on the outside of the mug, where it had run down the side and formed a ring around the base. Max had seen thousands of such rings over the years, yet this one held his gaze. Though consisting of the tiniest amount of coffee, somehow the mysterious physics of surface tension and capillary action had managed to distribute the spill into an even circle that went all around the base of where the mug had been, with no part of the ring holding more coffee than any other. It was very close to geometric perfection, and yet, had a man taken that same amount of coffee and tried to draw a perfect circle on the desk with the coffee spread evenly all the way around, Max was certain that the man with all his intelligence would fail where unthinking physics succeeded brilliantly.

Max wiped up the coffee with his napkin, pulled his keyboard toward him, and typed a short order.

Less than five minutes later, the XO, Dr. Sahin, Lieutenant Brown, and Major Kraft were sitting in Max's day cabin, sipping coffee. It was the first time he had brought together these four men, whose posts traditionally made them a sort of "kitchen cabinet" or "brain trust" for a s.h.i.+p's captain. Some skippers met extensively with these officers or a subset of them, whereas others tended to make decisions on their own. Max had no idea what his natural command style was. All he knew was that at this hour, on this day, he wanted the benefit of their opinions.

"Gentlemen, I have brought you together so that we can discuss an item of great concern to me. Because this is the first time we have met, I want to make clear what my rules are for these gatherings. You are absolutely free to say whatever is on your mind, without any regard for rank. Everything we say here is unofficial, off the record, and is never to be repeated to anyone under any circ.u.mstances. You will never be questioned or be made to explain or answer for anything that happens in this room. And I, personally, will never hold against you any opinion that you state here. You are, therefore, expected to give me the benefit of your entirely candid, unguarded, and forthright views. Further, I expect everyone here to abide by these same rules. Do I have your agreement?

"XO?".

"d.a.m.n straight."

"Doctor?"

"Indeed."

"Major?"

"Jawohl."

"Wernher?"

"Quite right."

"Very well, then. As you know, we recently apprehended three senior chiefs trying to sabotage the atmosphere processor manifold so that we would have to abort the mission. The major has interrogated these men and is convinced that they're not working for any foreign power, but that their actions indicate a concern that the crew and this s.h.i.+p's new commander are not equal to the mission we have been a.s.signed. Simply put, they were convinced that the mission would end in certain death, and they sought to save their own lives and the lives of their s.h.i.+pmates. I would like to talk about what to do with these men." Kraft opened his mouth as if to speak. Max halted him with his upraised hand.

"Before anyone voices their opinion on this subject, I think a few facts need to be put before you. All of us are new to this s.h.i.+p, so none of us know firsthand how this s.h.i.+p got to be the way it is. I've been through the files, and Admiral Hornmeyer made some records available to me that I would not otherwise be able to see. Together they tell an interesting story. It is a story you should hear.

"You all know about the chaotic first years of the war and how they led to the appointment of the inspector generals, including Captain Borman." It was familiar but uncomfortable lore: how the beginning of the war was marked by defeat after defeat, fleets withdrawing in disarray, s.h.i.+ps rushed into battle from the yards unfinished, virtually untrained men being led straight to their deaths, poor discipline, chaotic logistics, s.h.i.+ps in s.p.a.ce for years at a time with s.p.a.cers denied leave and living in horrible conditions, irregular pay, inedible food, and borderline mutinous morale. Just as it seemed these problems might destroy the Navy before the Krag could do the job, the chief of naval operations appointed five inspectors general with almost complete power to clean up the mess. One of those inspectors was the famous or, perhaps more accurately, infamous Captain Frederick Joseph Borman, reputed to be the toughest man in the Navy. Certainly the most feared.

"Now, here's the part you don't know. In order to conduct his famous surprise inspections and snap evaluations, not only did Borman have to be able to get around the entire theater of operations, he had to be able to get around quickly and secretly. The only way to do that was to give him his own s.h.i.+p. It had to be fast enough that he could cover a lot of ground and it had to be reasonably powerful so that it could fight its way out of trouble if the Krag penetrated the battle planes and ambushed it, which is the sort of thing that happened all the time back then.

"So they gave him one of the best designs to come out of that period, a Rubicon cla.s.s destroyer, the USS Seine, whose skipper was-you guessed it-a young lieutenant commander named Allen K. Oscar. As you can imagine, with an IG on board, the Seine wasn't a fighting s.h.i.+p. She was more of an admiral's yacht. Oscar and his crew learned, probably under Borman's direction, to make their s.h.i.+p an example of perfect cleanliness, polish, and obsessive physical perfection. And because Oscar probably suffered from some minor form of mental disorder, these tendencies became more exaggerated every year. And why not? The Seine never saw combat and was too busy playing taxi to Captain Borman to partic.i.p.ate in exercises, so her deficiencies were well concealed. No one knew that her missiles gleamed but couldn't hit a target.

"Then, when Borman retired and the now obsolete Seine was converted into a training vessel, Oscar and his crew-who had gotten stratospherically high fitness reports from Borman-were rea.s.signed en ma.s.se to a new destroyer, the c.u.mberland.

"Obviously, if BuPers had possessed the merest whiff of a glimmer of a hint of a clue as to how FUBAR this s.h.i.+p was, Oscar would have been given a desk job or been sent to one of those hospitals with lots of gra.s.s and trees and birds, where they don't let the patients have any sharp objects. They would have broken up the crew, retrained the men, and scattered them all over the fleet. But no, that's not what happened because, based on the sacred and holy fitness reports done by Inspector General Borman himself, this was an exemplary crew who should be kept together in a new command to preserve their fighting efficiency.

"As if that wasn't enough of a prescription for disaster, I will also tell you that Captain Oscar and his XO Pang were both exceptionally abusive. Both had a habit of berating the men for as long as an hour and a half, singly and in groups, in the most insulting terms. When you add to that Oscar's habit of throwing men in the brig for arbitrary reasons, you have a crew that has been greatly traumatized and has been put under enormous stress. It is so bad that, even though this vessel has not seen action in eight months, the men all have scores on the Reed-Brannon Psycho-Physiological Stress Test that make it look like they've been in continuous combat for months. Now, bearing that in mind, what should we do with them?"

There was a long silence, lasting the better part of a minute, as the officers pondered what they had just heard. Garcia spoke first.

"I sympathize with them. I've seen a lot of what you're talking about. The rot on this s.h.i.+p runs deep, and this crew should have been broken up and rea.s.signed. But I don't trust these three. Not for a minute. So what if they've got squirrels in their attic? It just means that they're more likely to do some other crazy thing some other time, like when we're even farther from home or just as we enter combat. Given our destination and our mission, it's just too dangerous to give them the run of the s.h.i.+p.

"Our objective comes first, the safety of this crew and this s.h.i.+p second, and what we feel for these men-men who, I admit, have had a very difficult time-comes a very, very poor third. My loyalty is with the men who did their duty, not with the ones who-whatever their intentions-were giving aid and comfort to the Krag. Remember that we have aboard 212 men who have been through everything these three men have been through, but who did not betray their s.h.i.+pmates by trying to sabotage the life support systems in their own vessel.

"I say leave them in the brig for the duration, and then present them for court martial when we get back to the task force. They can be Admiral Hornmeyer's problem, or the judge advocate's, or the fleet headshrinker's. This is one time we should pa.s.s the buck-somebody else made the problem, so let somebody else solve it. We have enough problems of our own."

"I'm sorry, but I don't feel for them at all," Major Kraft said. "The enemy is supposed to be out there," he jabbed his finger at the stars showing through the viewport, "not in here. Traitors are traitors. Reasons don't matter. Let them be an example-you can't betray your s.h.i.+p and your s.h.i.+pmates, no matter what the reason, no matter what was done to you. You always have a choice. Loyalty to the Union. Loyalty to your s.h.i.+pmates. Or treason. In the final a.n.a.lysis, it really is that simple. We should carry out the law and execute them. Today. Before another hour pa.s.ses. Swift and certain execution will leave no doubt for others about what choices they should make."

Sahin shook his head. "Yes, they committed treason. Of that there is no doubt. But did they have a choice? Did they truly have a choice? Or did Captain Oscar and the inspector general twist these men's minds and souls into such knots that they couldn't think for themselves any more? Maybe they were so traumatized and mentally beaten and threatened and manipulated that, in certain situations, they were deprived of their power to choose what to do and could act only under the constraint of internal compulsion.

"We must remember, gentlemen, that this is a s.h.i.+p that fled the enemy twice and that when it fought simulated battles against other s.h.i.+ps, it lost and was ruled to be destroyed. Every time. These men were operating under the certainty that if this s.h.i.+p with this crew faced the enemy, they would all certainly die. Under those circ.u.mstances, were they capable of doing anything other than what they did? If not, then they did not choose to be traitors and we cannot in good conscience punish them.

"Punishment should follow as a consequence for a wrongful choice-for a malicious and evil exercise of the will. If you take away a man's choice and deprive him of his will, then punishment is unjust, and executing him would be a travesty of justice. These men were not fully responsible for their actions. We cannot simply toss them out an airlock or shoot them."

"All of you are forgetting something," Brown said. "These men all stand the same station. They are the number one missile fire control technicians for the Blue, Gold, and White watches. They are each other's reliefs and replacements. The only way they were all able to be away from that station at the same time was that Larch-Thau had a utility man standing in for him. Now, every man with a Comet is certified as being able to operate missile fire control systems, but these men are the experts on the nuts and bolts, the suba.s.semblies and the workarounds. They are best qualified to maintain, calibrate, troubleshoot, and repair those systems if damaged.

"If we take a hit to that part of the s.h.i.+p and have to rebuild fire control from spares, those are the men I would a.s.sign to do it. There are others who could probably work it out from the schematics in the database, but it would take them ten times as long as our traitors. My department cannot spare-this s.h.i.+p cannot spare-these men.

"Captain, you should know that if you execute all three, it will be my duty under naval regulations to request formally that we return to the Task Force and obtain replacement personnel, because loss of them will impair our combat readiness. And I will do the same if you leave them locked in the brig for the duration. I need them on duty."

"But, Lieutenant," Major Kraft said, "this becomes an issue only if fire control takes severe damage. When was the last time you were on a s.h.i.+p that had to rebuild fire control from spares? I've never heard of anyone doing it. I can't see twisting the arms of justice to preserve our ability to deal with a very remote contingency. If you're worried about it, take a few of your best men from the most similar system-pulse cannon fire control, for example-and give them a crash training course in what these fellows did. That will replace much of what you will be losing. Enough, at least, to cover this remote eventuality."

The captain raised a silencing hand. "Gentlemen, I thank you for your views. They have clarified my thinking on this issue. My strong personal inclination is in line with Major Kraft. I cannot abide treason and feel that the wages of treason are death. But my personal wishes can't be decisive here. These men are valuable to this s.h.i.+p, and they're valuable to the Navy. I believe that there's a lot to what the Doctor said here as well-that these men have been damaged in such a way that their choices weren't their own in many ways." He turned to Dr. Sahin meaningfully, "Not in all ways, mind you. But I don't want to be the final judge of that.

"The needs of the s.h.i.+p come first. I aim to return them to duty." Kraft started to say something. Max stopped him with a warning index finger. "I aim to return them to duty under strict guard. They are confined to quarters when off duty. When on duty, they will remain under observation by an armed Marine, and they will be kept away from any systems other than the one to which they are a.s.signed. We will turn them over to the authorities when we return to the fleet. Admiral Hornmeyer and the Judge Advocate will decide these men's ultimate fate. Until then, I want you to examine them, Doctor, and to give me a sense of the state of their mental health. I also want to meet with them and impress upon them the seriousness of their position, that if they go astray again, they will be shown the airlock, but that they also are being given a chance for forgiveness and redemption.

"Men, many of our ancestors believed that lost souls could be reclaimed and find redemption through the power of mercy, love, and understanding. That's one of the central teachings of my faith, as well. I'm a warrior, and my areas of expertise are conflict and death. But I'm willing to try my hand at something different for the sake of these men. They are our s.h.i.+pmates. They deserve the best we can give them. I will not cast them into the darkness unless I have no other choice. Dismissed."