The word hung in the ensuing silence for a heartbeat, after which Max shattered the tension by laughing out loud, the clouds of his anger dispersing like a quickly spent summer thundershower. When his mirth subsided and he could speak again, he said, “Doctor, oh, Doctor”—he was still gasping for air—“you weren’t insulted. Not even close. Don’t you know that ‘Bones’ is a traditional nickname for a ship’s chief medical officer? It’s short for ‘sawbones.’ It’s a term of respect and affection, going back to the earliest days of our service. You must’ve done an excellent job or shown them uncommon kindness. Spacers call a doctor ‘Bones’ only if they like him. It’s quite the compliment, especially to have acquired the nickname so quickly after you’ve joined the ship.”
“How peculiar. And ‘Bones’ seems like such an unflattering name for a physician. Is this custom of bestowing nicknames that go with one’s function common in the Navy?”
“Absolutely. There are about a dozen of them that go all the way back to the first UESF ships in 2034. We call our chief gunner ‘Dirty Harry’; the youngest or smallest midshipman, ‘Will Robinson’; the armorer or weapons master, ‘Burt Gummer’; the astrocartographer, ‘Galileo’; our midshipmen’s trainer, ‘Mother Goose’; the communications officer, ‘Sparks’; the chief navigator, ‘Magellan’; and the chief engineer, ‘Scotty.’ There’s a few more that are less common. We don’t know the source for a lot of these names, but they’re traditional, and we in the Navy respect our traditions.”
“Oh. That is quite different. Very well. So long as it is kindly meant, then I will take no offense. But I continue to be confused and bewildered here. How does one learn all of these traditions, these unwritten rules, these secret understandings that are a part of this fascinating but so very insular subculture?”
“I’ve never really thought about that. For most, it isn’t a problem. More than 85 percent of the crew on most warships have been in space since boyhood. This world is part of our upbringing. The Navy is our hometown and our shipmates are our family. I went to space when I was eight years old, right after the Gynophage took my mother and baby sisters. I hardly remember what it’s like to be a civilian, to live in a house, for the weekends to be different from the weekdays, to look out a window and see something other than blackness.
“The average man on a naval vessel went to space at age nine and a half. Don’t worry, Doctor. As you live it, you’ll learn it. And you’re surrounded by crew who’ll be happy to help you because they have every reason to seek your favor. No man on this ship wants to anger the ship’s surgeon, for obvious reasons. As you take care of them, they’ll take care of you. It appears that the men already think kindly of you, and that’ll go far for someone in your position.”
“That’s good to know, Captain.” He smiled sheepishly. “And thank you for the advice and for not berating me for my ignorance, as many have done before. I consider it a kindness. It means a great deal to me.”
“Think nothing of it, Doctor. You’ll find that there’s often great generosity in the Navy, except to our enemies. Now, if there’s nothing further, I have another appointment in a few minutes.”
“Of course, Captain. That is all I have.” He rose.
“Oh, Doctor.”
“Yes, Captain.”
“Before you go back to the Casualty Station, I need you to do something.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Go to the quartermaster on C Deck, Compartment 09, tell him that I sent you, and ask him to give you correct and proper instruction on the regulation arrangement of that uniform. Tell him to explain it just like he would to the newest squeaker. And let him know that if he practices on your credulous simplicity in any way, I’ll use him as a cutlass drill dummy. Use just those words.”
“I will, Captain.” The doctor’s brow furrowed in thought. “Captain, you said that the quartermaster was not to ‘practice on my credulous simplicity.’ Is that not a quote from The Pirates of Penzance?”
“It is,” Max said, surprised.
“Ah, yes. I recall the scene. Right after the famous ‘Paradox’ song. Are you an aficionado of Gilbert and Sullivan?”
“I am. You?”
“I find the libretti utterly ridiculous and the music totally… sublime. I cherish their work as a wellspring of infinite mirth and a fountain of ever-living beauty in a vast, lonely desert of conflict and suffering.”
“That’s beautiful,” Max said in a low voice, strangely moved.
“Captain, may I say that I am somewhat surprised,” the doctor went on, oblivious. “One does not expect to find in your position a man appreciative of four-hundred-year-old British comic operettas.”
“Doctor, if that surprised you, then you’re in for lots of surprises in the Navy. No mold fits all the men we’ve got. The quartermaster I’m sending you to was, at one time, a famous Gilbert and Sullivan performer. In fact, he played the Pirate King in a command performance for the Union president and the Senate on Earth about twenty years ago.”
“It is surprising, indeed, to find such a man in the Navy.”
“Not as much as you might think, Doctor. He was with the Rechartered D’Oyly Carte Opera Company of Victoria Regina.”
“Really?” the doctor exclaimed mildly, clearly not getting it.
“Doctor, VicReg fell to the Krag in 2298.”
“Oh.” Long pause. “We should watch a performance together on trid vid sometime, or perhaps sing a duet or a trio with the quartermaster.”
“Maybe, Doctor, when this ship’s in better order. For now, though, if there’s nothing further, you’re dismissed.”
The doctor gave a salute that was marginally more correct than the first; Max returned it, and he departed.
Max hit a button on his desk. “Lao, is my next appointment out there?”
“Yes, Captain.”
“Send him in.”
The hatch opened and the Marine guard admitted a beefy man, just over medium height, with reddish-blond hair and a reddish-blond mustache, framing a distinctly reddish and patently jolly face that was doing its best at the moment to affect an expression of severe disapproval.
The man approached Max’s desk. They exchanged brisk salutes.
“Lieutenant Brown reporting as ordered, sir.”
“Have a seat, Wernher. Coffee?”
“Thank you, sir, but no. I’ve got about six or seven liters in me. I’m overdriving my reactors as it is.”
“How’re things shaping up down in Engineering?”
“Reasonably well. I have to admit that I am very impressed by the design of this class. Every now and then BuDes gets one right. The engines are particularly robust. She’ll be fast, nimble, rugged, and very stealthy. I just wish she had longer legs. I don’t like running around as far from home as we are going to be with so little fuel in our belly.”
“Neither do I, Wernher, but it’s all a trade-off for her speed and stealth. Listen, old friend, I need you to do something for me, and I need you to do it in your own very stealthy manner.”
“You know how I generally feel about ‘favors,’ old man, but since you saved my tender, pink hide back on General Patton’s birthday, I suppose I might be prevailed upon to do something a little bit out of the ordinary.”
“Much obliged. I need covert surveillance installed, full angular coverage, on every critical component of the jump drive, the stealth systems, and the atmosphere processors.”
“From where do you want the feeds monitored?” It never even occurred to him to ask why the captain wanted the surveillance.
“The Marine Watch Station. And hide the data lines, make them impervious to tapping—you know the drill.”
“I do, indeed. Now, if I am going to do this favor, I am going to ask one in return.”
“Name it.”
“I think it’s high time you told me why you call me ‘Wernher.’”
“After all these years, you haven’t figured it out?”
“It’s only been thr
ee years, and apparently not.”
“Three and a half. Okay, I’ll tell. Lieutenant, what’s your name, first and last?”
“You know very well that it is Vaughn Brown.”
“There, see, don’t you get it? ‘Wernher Vaughn Brown.’”
“No, I’m afraid that I don’t.”
“Don’t they teach history any more? I guess not. He was an engineer. Brilliant. He headed the team behind the launch vehicle that first took humans to the Earth’s moon. You know. Wernher von Braun. Sound familiar?” The engineer shook his head.
“I can’t believe you never heard of him. Great man. Noble sort of fellow. Very worthy of admiration in every way. Well, except for working with the Nazis in World War II. But a great engineer. You’re the best engineer I have ever worked with, and your name sounds like his, so it is only natural for me to call you that. It’s a great compliment, you know. Just don’t let it go to your head.”
“It never occurred to me that it was a joke, particularly one so… feeble. Now, Captain, I’ve got a jump coming up in less than half an hour, and I would like to get back to Engineering and make sure that everything is shipshape.”
“Go ahead. And be sure to let me know when that surveillance is online, will you?”
Brown nodded.
“Good. You’re dismissed.”
* * *
CHAPTER 5
* * *
11:26Z Hours, 21 January 2315
“Captain on deck,” young Midshipman Kurtz announced, this time managing to hold his voice in the same octave for the entire announcement. Max met the boy’s eye and winked his approval, causing a slight grin to appear on his Oliver Twist–like features. He strode to the command island, surveying the CIC with a professional eye.
Although things were not all good, they were, at least, better. Everyone was in his SCU and, if appropriate, was carrying his sidearm and boarding cutlass. Most of those standing watch didn’t look as though they were going to pass out from terror if Max said “Boo!” to them. The CIC arms locker, absent just over an hour ago, was restored to its proper place, and Max could see through its clear polymer door that it was chock full of pistols, pulse rifles, and boarding cutlasses as well as a few sawed-off shotguns, machine pistols, and at least two battle axes. Although Max was not himself very good with a battle ax, he liked them a lot. There was nothing like a two-meter-tall Viking-descended farm boy from Nya Sverige swinging a seven-kilogram battle ax and yelling, “Död till Krag” to make one of the rat-faced bastards piss its pants.
Max took his seat. “Status, XO.”
“We are next in line to jump and are cleared by traffic control on the Halsey. Now on second-stage approach to the jump point, proceeding at fifteen hundred meters per second and set to slow to one hundred fifty meters per second at the two-minute mark. I have verbally conferred with the chief engineer, and he has certified that the ship is jump ready. All stations have reported by lights and by comm that they are secure for jump. Jump officer confirms that his board is green.”
“Thank you, XO.”
“Coming up on two minutes to jump,” said Stevenson, the jump officer. “Two minutes… MARK.”
“Beginning third-stage approach to jump point. Slowing to one-five-zero meters per second,” sang out LeBlanc, the chief petty officer in charge of the Maneuvering Station. “We are in the groove.”
“Navigator,” said the XO, “verify coordinates of jump point and resend to Maneuvering and jump officer.”
The navigator hit a few keys. “Transmitted.”
“Received and congruent with previous coordinates. No change,” said the jump officer.
“Same here,” said LeBlanc at Maneuvering.
“Jump officer, set your clock and synchronize,” said the XO.
The jump officer responded, “Set and synchronized.”
“Verify destination.”
“Destination is Bravo jump point in the Ypres Minor system, coordinates as displayed.”
“Very well,” said the XO.
“One minute,” announced the jump officer.
“Safe all systems for jump,” said the XO.
Because jumping had a way of scrambling delicate electronics, most ship’s systems had to be rendered inactive. The few systems that lacked complex data processors, such as lights and the maneuvering thrusters that kept the ship precisely on course to the jump, didn’t pose a problem, but computers, external communications, drives, sensors, weapons, and environmental controls had to be powered down or put on standby—“safed”—before jumping, which meant that ships emerged from jump blind, deaf, paralyzed, stupid, and helpless.
“Safing,” said Stevenson. Around CIC, display after display went offline, until the only data being displayed anywhere were the seconds remaining on the jump clock and a distance reading to the jump point, both rapidly approaching zero.
The seconds ticked down. Max sat silently while the XO and the CIC crew conducted the jump, consistent with naval custom. XOs typically handled nonbattle maneuvers, which was part of how XOs learned to be COs. One of the most important tasks of a commanding officer was to train his XO in the art and science of command so that he could step into his CO’s shoes at any time, something that happened, by promotion or sudden, violent death, somewhere in the fleet at least once a day.
“Ten seconds. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six. Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Jumping.”
Just as the ship passed through the invisible and unmarked point in space where the lines of metaspacial flux created by the gravitational field of the nearest star combined with the lines of metaspacial flux spun off by the superstring vibrations of the galaxy’s dark matter such that both sets resonated in exactly the right metagravametric harmonic, the ship’s jump drive bored a hole in the fabric of space-time. This opened a window into metaspace and jumped the ship in a quantum instant from its location to that of its resonance twin, which was, in this case, just over eleven light years away. The Cumberland simply vanished from the space it had occupied, reappearing about 30 AU from the class F main-sequence star locally known as Markeb B and officially known by a Union Space Navy Galactic Survey number that not even astrocartographers ever managed to remember.
Human beings experience the jump in different ways. It is, inherently, a strange event for them: the near-instantaneous transfer of their material selves across light years while passing through an n-dimensional realm in which the very nature of matter, energy, and existence is fundamentally different from those in our universe; a realm that, although the size of a single geometric point, is somehow in contact with every point in our own universe. Some people became violently nauseated. Some got dizzy or became disoriented. Some experienced profound visions of a transcendental nature. Max Robichaux typically experienced a deep yearning for drink and food, this time a steaming mug of dark-roast coffee and a chicken-salad sandwich. With sliced pickles.
“Jump complete, restoring systems,” Stevenson announced, neither nauseated nor dizzy, nor disoriented, nor graced with a transcendental vision, nor craving coffee and poultry on bread. One watch stander at a secondary navigation console was quietly retching into a jumpsick bag. A greenie and a midshipman looked as though they might pass out, but seemed to be recovering quickly.
Screens and displays started to come back to life, a process that took a few minutes as computers reinitialized, sensors powered back up, and other systems reestablished their normal function. Max always hated that interval: even though it was wildly unlikely that there would be another ship out there in an uninhabited system selected as a destination—selected because of how little ship traffic went through it—there was always a chance. He suppressed an urge to fidget. It was all right to be tense, but he must not ever look tense.
“Collision lights are on, and forward lookouts report nothing visible in our path, sir,” Kasparov, the sensor officer said. The Mark One eyeball, belonging to men picked for good low-light and distance vision while looking out LumaTite viewpo
rts in the bow and assisted in some cases by anachronistically named night vision goggles, was always the first system available. Next, there usually came the report about engines.
“Sir, report from Engineering,” said Heinzelmann, the petty officer third class assigned to CIC from Engineering, mainly to report and coordinate information from one to the other. “Lieutenant Brown signals that the main sublight drive is available at up to 80 percent. He expects full availability in one minute. Jump drive is available now. Compression drive in thirty minutes.”
“Very well. Maneuvering, let’s cautiously clear the datum. Ahead on main sublight at 2 percent. Use ship’s current attitude as our heading.” Maneuvering acknowledged the order. Various other officers at Comms, Environmental Control, Weapons, and all around the horn were now reporting that the systems under their respective observation or control were coming back to life. Max acknowledged them all, but the man he really wanted to hear from was Kasparov, again. He was taking a little longer than he should.
“Captain,” it was Kasparov. Finally. “I have EM, grav, mass, and neutrino passive scans out to about two million kills. All clear.”
“Very well. Thank you, Mr. Kasparov.” Max could relax a little. No enemy in his immediate vicinity was bearing down on him and his new command. “Maneuvering, shape course for this system’s Bravo jump point, main sublight at standard acceleration to zero point five c. Give me a rough ETA as soon as you can work one out.”
Max still needed to hear more from Mr. Kasparov, and it was very slow in coming. Max knew that there were Union forces in this system that his people should be detecting by now. That department needed a lot of work. The seconds ticked by. “Captain, contact.” Kasparov’s voice was both louder and higher than Max liked to hear. “Four contacts—designating as Uniform One, Two, Three, and Four. Apparent fighters, bearing two-seven-eight mark zero-two-eight, closing at point one seven c.” Max noted silently that Kasparov did not mention the range to the contacts, but he could see that information on his own display. The ball was now in Tactical’s court.
To Honor You Call Us (Man of War Book 1) Page 7
