For Honor We Stand

by Harvey G. Phillips

  “Sure does, skipper. Let’s hope that they honor us by not blowing us to flaming atoms.”

  “Amen to that.”

  “After reading your report from the last encounter, I always wondered . . . .” DeCosta’s curiosity remained unsatisfied, because at that moment the ship gave a sudden lurch.

  “Grap field,” announced Kasparov. “Two-point-three-five million Hawkings.”

  “Maneuvering, null the drive. Take maneuvering thrusters to standby and inertial attitude control offline.” The orders came quickly, but without any evident emotion. “Not even a Battleship could make headway against a field that strong. And they’ve probably got the damn thing set on ‘low.’”

  As soon as LeBlanc acknowledged those orders, Kasparov spoke up. “Sir, it’s déjà vu all over again. Based on visually observed ship configuration and spectrum of the light from her view ports, Uniform one is posident as Vaaach, same type of ship as our last encounter. Intel has code named that type Boron Class. And, sir, based on what little trickle of sensor data I’m getting from her, we’re thinking it might be the same ship.”

  “Wouldn’t that be an interesting coincidence,” Max said, hoping he sounded a lot calmer than he felt. Several CIC displays showed an image of the Vaaach vessel, a gigantic, black spear point, bristling with technologically advanced means of killing other thinking beings. The warships of most known species looked like non-threatening elongated boxes or elongated cylinders. But, when the Vaaach built a warship, the ship itself looked like a deadly weapon.

  Suddenly Chin stirred and started hitting controls. “Sir, it’s only been less than a minute since they grabbed us, but we just received comms from the Vaaach ship, sir. And, text sir, not visual. Coming up on Commandcom.

  The butterflies in Max’s stomach turned into a flock of condors. If the Vaaach wanted to talk, they waited about a minute and a half and then established visual comms, usually on Channel 7. No one ever received text comms from them. At least, no one who lived to file a report.

  Max read the text as it came up on the display. “YOU HAVE MADE CLANDESTINE INCURSION INTO VAAACH TERRITORIAL SPACE STOP EXPLAIN QUICKLY WHY WE SHOULD NOT IMMEDIATELY DESTROY YOU STOP MESSAGE ENDS.”

  “They certainly do not waste words,” said the doctor.

  “Not usually, no,” Max said. The doctor didn’t know the half of it. The message contained none of the formalities of a Vaaach communication between hunters: no greetings, no announcement of the sender’s identity and his credentials as a warrior/hunter, and no ritual insults to the recipient. Just the combined demand and threat. That was bad. Very, very bad. The Vaaach were pissed.

  Max needed to send a reply. Now. And without much time to think about it. What to say? Think Honor. The Vaaach are all about Honor and their Rules of the Hunt. Max spent a few minutes typing on his console, made a few revisions, and then said, “Mister Chin, send the text that’s on CommandSend.”

  “Aye, sir.” Chin accessed the Commander Send data/comms channel, pulled up the message, and sent it. Only after it went out could just about everyone in CIC read: “THIS VESSEL IS FOLLOWING THE BLOOD TRAIL OF WOUNDED PREY STOP ENTRY NOT CLANDESTINE BUT ANNOUNCED BY REPEATED BROADCASTS ON STANDARD INTERSPECIES COMM CHANNELS STOP MESSAGE ENDS.”

  “You’re not going to ask them not to kill us?”

  “Absolutely not, doctor. Not unless I have a strong desire to die in the next five seconds. From the Vaaach perspective, any kind of pleading is at least a sign of weakness and, very likely, a sign of guilt. If you are innocent, why plead for mercy rather than simply demonstrating that you are innocent? What you do in this situation is tell the Vaaach the facts that mean they should not kill you: in this case, first that we were in active pursuit of wounded prey, which under their rules gives us the right to enter their territory; and, second, that we didn’t sneak in but announced our presence honorably.”

  Major Kraft and his Marines cycled in through the hatch. Having deduced what Max wanted them for, DeCosta arranged them behind the skipper so that if visual communications were established, the Vaaach would see six hardened warriors and their immediate commander arrayed behind their Captain, ready to engage in personal combat.

  Once the Marines were suitably arranged, no one said a word. Either the Vaaach would respond to the message or they would activate their antimatter cannon and vaporize the Cumberland. One or the other. Any time in the next minute or so. Max had to will himself to relax his grip on the arms of his chair. He was sure his fingers had left permanent impressions in the metal. The wait seemed endless. Time oozed forward like a tired snail going uphill.

  “Beep.” Because of the usual murmur of voices in CIC, the soft electronic alert from the comms console was generally inaudible to anyone but a man sitting right in front of it. This time, it sounded almost as loud as the General Quarters klaxon. Everyone let out the breath they didn’t know they were holding.

  Chin dispensed with the usual announcements. He just said, “On Commandcom, sir.”

  “PROVIDE PRECISE IDENTIFICATION OF PREY YOU CLAIM TO HAVE WOUNDED STOP MESSAGE ENDS.”

  At least it wasn’t a blast from their antimatter cannon. Max typed. A bit longer than last time. “Send this.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “PREY IS KRAG MEDIUM CRUISER UNION NAVAL REPORTING NAME CRAYFISH CLASS STOP DAMAGE INCLUDES DESTRUCTION OF METASPACIAL TRANSCEIVER ARRAY DAMAGE TO MULTIPLE MISSILE TUBES AND PROBABLE SMALL HULL BREACH STOP QUERY DO YOU WISH US TO MAKE SENSOR SCANS OF KRAG VESSEL OR SENSOR RECORDS OF BATTLE AVAILABLE TO YOU STOP MESSAGE ENDS.”

  Again the waiting. Clouseau stood up and stretched languorously, investing the familiar series of motions with the unaffected sensuality possessed only by cats and sexually confident human females. He sprang lightly to the deck and, continuing to stretch while he walked, sauntered onto the command island and lay down with his head resting on Max’s left foot. Max could not help but smile at the situation: the domesticity of having a cat using one’s foot for a pillow, not in a living room in front of the fire, but on a heavily armed warship at battle stations facing possible annihilation by an advanced alien race nearly a thousand light years away from the blue and green world on which the respective owners of the head and the foot had evolved.

  “Sir?” It was Ensign Bales, the seldom heard from officer who oversaw the ship’s computer systems and data network.

  “Yes, Bales.”

  “It’s hard to tell, but I think that the Vaaach just pulled a dump from our computer.”

  “What did they get?”

  “It looks like they scanned the whole MDC,” he said, his voice tinged with incredulity.

  Most of the heads in CIC turned at that one. The Cumberland’s Main Data Core contained a stupefyingly enormous quantity of data. The most rapid data transfer technology available in the Union—the fastest computer in existence reading the data, transmitting it over a high bandwidth, 2.5 million channel, polyphasic quantum differentiated laser “pipeline,” to be written by the fastest computer ever made--could probably accomplish it in half a day. And the Vaaach had done it, not only without permission in nearly undetectable fashion from kilometers away without any physical connection, but had done so in only a minute or two. Bales explained, “I would not have spotted it at all, but we did a super high resolution scan of our data drives after the last encounter and came up with a subtle signature made by the kind of sensor they use that gets left in the nano-magnetic substrate. Basically, they employ a sophisticated quantum scan to take a snapshot of each one and zero molecule orientation in the memory matrix, which would mean that their sensor resolution is down to the molecular, if not atomic, level. Then, they just convert the scan back into data using some kind of translation algorithm. If that’s what it is, they have sensor technology like we never imagined. Of course, we may be sitting here for a while waiting for any response—it will take them hours just to resolve the image into a machine readable data stream, and I can’t begin to predict what it wi
ll take for them to work their way through the operating system, find the files they want, translate them into their own language, and read them.”

  Max shook his head. “No, Mister Bales, I don’t think it will take them long at all. I think I may have time to take a leak, though. Barely.” Max got up and went to the head.

  He had just come back, had Gilbertson fetch him some coffee, and took a few sips when Chin announced, “Skipper, I’m receiving a request to establish visual communications, channel seven.”

  “By all means, Mister Chin. Let’s not keep the mighty hunters waiting.”

  Chin worked his console. Less than a minute later, Max’s Commandcom display and a dozen other displays around CIC punched into that channel showed the furry face of the Vaaach commander. It looked like the same one they had encountered a few months before, but it was hard for humans to tell one Vaaach from another. Basically, they all looked like Koala bears. Enormous, ferocious, carnivorous, long fanged, very short-tempered Koala bears. Koala bears that made an Earth grizzly bear look like the kind of bear you tuck under the quilt with your four year old daughter at bedtime. The average Vaaach was 4.5 meters tall, with razor sharp retractable claws the size of carving knives, six fangs about as long as bayonets, and hard-staring yellow-green eyes that looked as though their owner was deciding how you would be at your most flavorful: fast grilled, slow roasted, or raw.

  The Vaaach began to speak: a series of growls, roars, snarls, and similar sounds, like a fight between a polar bear and a mountain lion. Lagging by about ten seconds, the computer provided a written translation on an adjacent screen, occasionally throwing in what was intended to be helpful explanatory material. The first few growls sounded as though there were some Standard words in there, mangled by the Vaaach’s incompatible vocal apparatus. “Lieutenant Commander Maxime Tindall Robichaux, Union Space Navy, of the planet Nouvelle Acadiana, I greet you. [Voiceprint matching positively establishes that the speaker is Forest Victor Chrrrlgrf, encountered by this vessel on 22 January 2315 in the Tesseck A system.] Our statement that you entered Vaaach space in a dishonorable fashion is no longer operative. We received your transmission. A member of my crew logged it improperly. The individual responsible is undergoing punishment. Does this satisfy the affront to your honor?”

  The Vaaach leaned back in his seat and flexed his claws over and over: extend, retract, extend, retract, extend, retract. Each cycle took nearly a second. Max wondered what those claws would do to human flesh.

  “Not much of an apology,” DeCosta observed.

  “For a Vaaach, that was practically groveling in abject guilt.” Max keyed the audio pickup for transmission. “Forest Victor Chrrlgrf of the Rawlrrhfr Forest, Victor of the Battle of Hrlrgr, I greet you. I consider Honor to be satisfied in this matter. I hope the punishment being given to the individual who made the error is not too severe. We were not greatly harmed.”

  When Max finished talking he leaned back in his chair, adopted the most relaxed posture he could make himself adopt, and watched Chrrlgrf read the translation. At one point, he stopped flexing his claws, extended them fully, and made a slight sweeping motion with one of his hands. Intel said that the motion indicated anger—a suppressed reflex to reach out with his hand and rip open his opponent’s chest. He finished reading, considered for a moment, and looked up, those alien and yet so obviously intelligent and perceptive eyes leveled right at the camera. He could only imagine how intimidating it would be to have the immense, powerful Vaaach in the same room.

  The Vaaach, gave off what sounded like a sigh. An almost pensive sigh. What’s that about? Then, the polar bear versus mountain lion match resumed and translation started to scroll up the display. “I am no longer to be addressed as ‘Forest Victor.’ My present rank is ‘Forest Commander’ [a rank believed to be roughly equivalent to Rear Admiral]. You are blameless for the error in addressing me. Such changes are military matters we do not often reveal to fruit eaters [a term which the purely carnivorous Vaaach use to disparage any species that consumes plants even to the smallest degree]. Regarding the negligent member of my crew, his punishment is not a matter to be discussed with frivolous monkey offspring. Be satisfied with knowing that neither you nor he has been put to death. Do not give me cause to regret either decision. As to what to do with you, there is a fine point of Honor and the Hunters’ Rules we must resolve based upon a further review of the computer records we have obtained from you. We will advise you when we have decided. It should not be long, even for one with a primate attention span. Do not attempt to leave. This communication ends now.” The carrier cut off and the displays tuned into it went blank.

  “What the hell was that about?” Everyone was staring at the doctor, not just because of the unaccustomed vehemence with which he stated his question, but also because he almost never uttered any kind of curse. “None of that makes any sense at all.”

  “Actually, doctor, it does,” Max said, calmingly. The sometimes excitable Sahin injecting additional fear and anxiety into the CIC was the very last thing he needed. The men were nervous enough with the ship caught like a bug in a jar waiting to know whether the entomologist with his hand on the lid was going to set them free or dissect them. “The Vaaach are bound, on penalty of swift death, to a strict code of Honor, which they apply consistently and—by their standards at least—fairly. Sometimes, the right thing to do can depend on some seemingly trivial difference in the facts, just as in a law case. So, they’re looking at what happened. In detail. It won’t take them long to make up their minds. They are decisive. Very decisive. They make Admiral Hornmeyer look wishy washy.” A few people chuckled at that. Good. If people are laughing, they aren’t so scared that they aren’t thinking. And, they should always be thinking. “They’ll learn what they need, announce what they found and what they decided based on what they found, and then they’ll act on it.”

  Someone figured out that this would be a good time to run for the head. Heads, actually, one for officers and one for enlisted, because the Navy feared deep in its blue-clad soul that something disastrous would certainly ensue if an officer and an enlisted man ever took a crap in the same room, even if they did so one after the other. Of course, no line formed because that would mean that everyone in line was away from his station at the same time. Precedence was determined by catching the eye of the Midshipman working in CIC for that watch, Gilbertson in this case, and making a jerk of the head in the direction of the facilities. The Midshipman kept track of who was ahead of whom and, when all eyes would turn toward him as the head door opened, he would simply nod in the direction of the man whose turn it was. The Mid was expected to do this without any kind of notes or other memory aid, and to do so without error. For the boys, not only was it a small introduction to the naval world of responsibility, the practice also helped train their minds in the nearly automatic retention and memorization of sequence-based information, an essential skill at any level of naval service.

  The seat in the head had not yet lost most of the warmth from the posterior of the last man on Gilbertson’s mental list when Chin announced, “Carrier on Channel Seven, sir.”

  “Let’s have it.”

  Chin made the requisite connections causing the bizarre interweaving of complex geometric patterns and color progressions that the Vaaach used for a test pattern to appear on a dozen or CIC displays. Then, he tied the CIC visual and audio pickups into the transceiver, which notified the Vaaach that the Cumberland was ready to engage in communication. A moment later, the test pattern was replaced in favor of the Vaaach commander, his fuzzy face and tufted Koala bear ears looking cute and cuddly as ever, with his dagger-like fangs and deadly, alien yellow-green eyes even more dangerous. A few short roars and a snarl followed.

  “I greet you, Commander Robichaux,” said the translation.

  “I greet you, as well, Forest Commander Chrrlgrf.”

  “We have reviewed your activities since we last met, including your recent battle with the Krag.
We will not kill you. Not today.” Max could feel an immediate dissipation of tension in the compartment, like a spring uncoiling.

  “We are pleased to learn of your decision.”

  A few short, barking growls, perhaps the Vaaach equivalent of laughter. “Of course you are. You will continue to hunt the Krag. We hope you kill many of them. It seems you were born for that purpose, as Forest Commander Vllgrhmrr said twelve seasons ago when you spent time among the Hunters of Vermin. Now, regarding the hunt, you have forced us to do something for which there is no precedent. At my command, shortly before meeting you, this ship destroyed the prey you pursued. We now know that, when we killed it, the prey was suffering from many wounds, including wounds you—not just your hunting brothers—but you and your ship, inflicted on it. And, of all the wounds suffered by this prey, the ones inflicted by you and your ship were the most recent. We now also know that the prey was fleeing you when it ran into our trap. Under our law, the hunter who inflicts the latest wounds upon the prey taken by another or who drives it to another hunter has rights of blood, the right to join in the kill.”

  The Forest Commander paused once again. He contemplated one of his claws. Perhaps it was duller than the others. Perhaps it was sharper. Perhaps there was something about its wicked curvature and its long, knife-like cutting edge that he found particularly appealing. As he was doing that, the light went on for Levi. That’s why the skipper made certain that the Cumberland inflicted some damage on the Krag ship before it escaped. He knew that doing so conferred specific rights. Crafty bastard.

  After a few seconds, the CIC transducers started to put out more feeding time at the tiger cage sounds. “Unfortunately, you cannot exercise this right in the usual way because the kill has been made and the prey utterly destroyed, to the last atom. Even so, failing to grant your rights of blood would be an act of extreme dishonor, and is not even to be considered. I have just spoken with the Loremaster and the Lawspeaker on our home world and they are in agreement with me and with each other: our traditions and law allow no exception. You must share—if not in the kill itself, than in the meat from the beast—even if you are a tiny, pink, fangless, scampering primate.”