by John Ringo
“I heard your quality control was bad.”
“You left yourself open...”
“I know that...” To’Jopeviq said, trying to decide whether to snarl or laugh.
“I take it you lizards don’t do smack down talk. Let me give you a class using task, condition and standard. Task: Insult your enemies. Condition: Com channel between two shuttles during a very shaky ceasefire. Standard: Use insults that maximally insult your opponent but not to a level that will cause fire. Step One: Determine such areas in a xeno-person as may be reasonable to use as insults. Step two: Determine methods to modify standard insults, see appendix, to fit the xeno form. Extra points for being topical. Step three: Deliver smack-down. Analysis and lessons learned after practicum.
“Practical demonstration: Your mother is so ugly that when the gods turned her into a kordo she thought her prayers were answered. Your mother is so fat when she sits on the Troy it goes out of orbit. Your AVs are so puny compared to our battlestations that their commander’s penises shrivel at the thought. The reason you guys can’t shoot straight is your stubby little lizard arms and beady little eyes that are useless in the shining light of our human magnificence. You, the suitably instructed, shall now proceed to perform the task to standard.”
To’Jopeviq paused, amazed. Not at the string of insults, however.
“What is your rank?” he asked.
“Why, you going to send me a reply by endorsement for insulting you? I don’t think it’s classified. Engineer’s Mate Second Class Parker. You?”
“Colonel To’Jopeviq,” the Rangoran replied. “I take it that you simply constructed that...task, condition and standard? Or is it something you’ve heard before?”
“Want to hear the task condition and standard for opening a can of fresh skul, sir? No, I just made it up. Why?”
“I withdraw the field, mastered, Engineer’s Mate,” To’Jopeviq said, rippling his scales. “Pilot cut the com.”
* * *
“Luzer,” Dana said, making an L on her forehead. It was with some effort. They were still pulling three Gs.
“I still think you’re insane,” Angelito said.
“I’m not so insane as to not point out we’re at turn-over,” Dana said. “So try to get the skew-turn right. On second thought, my bird. I want this to look right.”
“What about...”
“I will take you on at jungleball...”
“Your bird, coxswain.”
* * *
“You did not wish to perform the task?” Beor said, mildly amused.
“Engage your brain, Lieutenant,” To’Jopeviq snapped. “That was a junior enlisted person. In, as noted, the middle of a battle. Performing a complex task. Who none-the-less had the presence of mind to not only engage in insults, easy enough, but to develop a standard procedure for them.”
“I was actually thinking that she was junior for the mission,” Beor said. “Our pilot is a captain.”
“I don’t think you’re grasping my point,” the Colonel said, calmly. “Have you ever worked at the ground level of operations?”
“Only Kazi,” Beor said.
“Very different than in the regular forces I assume,” To’Jopeviq said, dryly. “A ship, a unit, a force, is composed of many parts. Both the physical equipment and the personnel. Just as every part of one of the ships has to work properly, the personnel must work within that ship...properly. In sync. They are part of the machine in a way and must do the dance of the machine.”
“Turning to the side in the corridors?” Beor asked.
“Much more complex than that,” To’Jopeviq said. “My first post was as a laser gunnery officer. Managing the maintenance of the equipment, training the junior personnel on damage control. As one example, there was a particular collimator that would frequently blow out during sustained use. There were parts. But I was in charge of several systems. During training, often I would get the word that one of the lasers was down. It would, almost invariably, be a collimator. But until I arrived and ordered that it be repaired, that someone go get the collimator from stocks and then supervise the installation, often it would not be done. At least at first. I take quiet pride that by the time I left the post when a system broke my men worked on it immediately and intelligently.”
“Why?” Beor asked. “And how?”
“Depended upon the individual,” To’Jopeviq said. “Some because they feared the consequences of failure. If I had to turn up to supervise, they knew that it would go hard on them. Some because they looked to me as a father figure and wanted to please me. None, I think, because they really cared if the system was repaired or not.”
“It took constant supervision by officers such as myself to simply maintain the systems. The mid-level enlisted were not much better. What I would have given for one mid-level enlisted with that much brains. Someone like that would have been grafted to intelligence or another intellectual job. And they are motivated to perform their duties. They are maintaining their maximum acceleration. There are any number of ways that they could have shirked this duty. Just go slow. Move further away from our fleet. Yet they are not only flying fearlessly within visual range of our AVs, they are exchanging insults and composing standards while doing so.”
“Your point being that there enlisted are good?” Beor asked. “Does that matter?”
“Does that matter,” To’Jopeviq snarled. “Does that matter? Does it matter if the lines of code are all properly written? Does it matter if the airlocks are sealed or not? Who writes the code? Who ensures the airlocks work? Yes, it matters! It is a piece of intelligence that is useful. Even crucial. It demonstrates another reason that they are so effective and efficient in war. And I’m sure that the High Command would ask the same question. Does it matter...”
* * *
“I really don’t think it matters if we get there a couple of seconds late,” Angelito said. “It’s about getting there at all.”
“Sissy,” Dana said as the com from the Ogut ship opened.
“Terran Shuttle One Four Three Bravo Two-Three, vessel Vezhzhiboujivvumae-tharrezhaocuchuzhophmezhuquybighulhij ATC, you are approaching at the outside parameters of your system capability. Please assume a less aggressive approach.”
“Vezhzhibou...uh... Ogut vessel, Twenty-three. Orders were max accel movement. Minimized approach outside current parameters. Just have our people waiting at the door, over.”
“Your approach has a high likelihood of damage to your vessel, Twenty-Three.”
“Just have your docking clamps hot,” Dana said.
The approach was hot. Closer than she’d like. She was decelerating at her maximum of four hundred gravities and the computer was saying “stable” according to the orbit of the Ogut ship at six centimeters. Which was just too close. OTOH, her chatting with the Rangora had had her doing a late turn-over. So much for being able to juggle two things at once. Okay, and watching the engineering screens and wondering when the Rangora and Thermopylae were going to start duking it out again. She, frankly, wasn’t sure she was more afraid of the Rangora or the cloud of missiles that the light units brought through from Earth.
“We’re going to hit their ship,” Angelito squeaked. “Is that an act of war?”
“Only if we survive it,” Dana said. “And we’re not going to “hit” their ship.” Please don’t let me hit their ship... “Now shut up...”
Hitting the docking ring was always fun, even in the Troy’s main bay going at centimeters per second. Hitting it in the Black when both vessels were moving in different directions in three dimensions was three times the fun. Coming in hot, still doing three hundred meters per second with less than a hundred meters to go, was watching a train wreck about to occur. But you weren’t going to have time to wince.
However in the brief moments of entering the Troy’s main bay when she’d earned the moniker “Comet,” Dana had learned a very important lesson: Humans have no conceptual ability to understand, at a gut level, wha
t “four hundred gravities of acceleration” really means. Two race cars hitting head on don’t generate four hundred gravities of acceleration on the bodies of the dead drivers. There was no pre-Contact human system capable of generating four hundred gravities of acceleration. So “doing it by the seat of your pants” was like a monkey trying to fly an F-16. Blind in a rainstorm. A Myrmidon maneuvering under full power didn’t “bank.” Or, rather, the “banks” occurred so fast that they were undetectable by the human eye. Don’t bother watching those hands, they move faster than you can see.
And during that entry Dana hadn’t just been wincing and hoping that she would survive. The entry wasn’t even straight. She had had to continuously maneuver. And what she discovered was that Myrmidons were so maneuverable they made hummingbirds look gawky.
The shuttle thus crossed the last hundred meters in, literally, the blink of an eye, decelerated from, relative to the Ogut ship, over two hundred meters per second, faster than the top speed of an SR71, to essentially zero relative velocity and hit the docking ring with a mild “clank.”
“Solid dock,” Dana said, trying not to let the sigh slip into her voice. “Are our personnel ready?”
* * *
The docking bay had a viewscreen and the Ogut had politely allowed the human contingent to view their incoming shuttle.
Dr. Palencia was well aware that there was no point in holding up his hands and wincing at a human shuttle about to crash into the Ogut ship. And it was definitely unprofessional for a diplomat to half shriek. On the other hand, he wasn’t the only one. The only people who hadn’t visibly reacted were the Chief Envoy and the odd Hawaiian security chief.
“Solid dock,” the pilot toned over the announcers. “Are our personnel ready?”
“I know that voice,” Dr. Velasquez said, wonderingly. “No wonder Mr. Vernon wants her for one of his pilots.”
“We have a confirmed seal, gentlemen,” Security Chief Corrigan said, in her usual mild tones. “And I have a confirmed security code. Boarding will be in reverse order of grade with the exception that all security personnel save myself will board first and I shall board after the chief envoy.”
The hatch dialed open and one of the spacesuited crew waved.
“Sirs, Shuttle Twenty-Three at your service, sirs. If it is possible to begin boarding? Soon?”
“And if we could begin boarding, please.”
THIRTY-ONE
“This has to be the screwiest space battle in history,” Admiral Clemons muttered.
“Would the Admiral care to place a bet on that?” Leonidas asked.
“Probably not,” Clemons said. “There’s worse?”
“There have been few wars of the scale of the Rangora attack on the Glatun in the last five thousand Earth years,” Leonidas replied. “However, there have been smaller conflicts. During a minor dispute between the Ogut and the Nooh there was a temporary cease fire that lasted four years. When negotiations failed, the two sides were required by a small codicil of the cease fire to return to the identical location and conditions of the moment of cease fire including all personnel and equipment in their respective positions. In many cases on both sides, individuals had to be recalled to duty and retrained. Various members of both forces took demotions to resume their duties of four years previous. Fourteen of the Nooh members had been terminated due to conditions of mutiny in the interim and others had been discharged and yet were required to return to service for the battle.”
“Who won?” Commodore Guptill asked.
“It is generally classed as a draw,” Leonidas said. “However, the Nooh surrendered on terms shortly afterwards.”
“Get me Admiral Marchant if he’s got a second,” Clemons said, thoughtfully. “And Leonidas, cite on that?”
“Battle of Zhuttev. GalDate 12479. And again in 12483.”
“May have to remind me again.”
* * *
“Admiral,” Horst said. “Thanks for arranging the ride.”
“You set up the conditions,” Marchant said. “Which is the point of the call. The Rangora have to know that their in an extremely adverse position. I know we broached the subject, but I’d like you to revisit the topic of a negotiated surrender of their forces. I don’t mind killing Horvath all day long but despite their actions I’ve come to rather like the Rangora. And this is going to be a slaughter.”
“Their rather adamant but I’ll revisit the topic,” Horst said. “Especially since I tend to agree. What is the status of their Marines?”
“From what I’ve gotten from Admiral Clemons, they’re not really making much progress in the rat maze and as soon as the cease fire lifts, Troy’s Marines will be dropping in behind them. Again, adverse correlation of forces. If it helps, we’d be willing to agree to something like the Battle of Zhuttev but not the screwier aspects.”
“Battle of...” Horst said then paused as a download pinged. He considered the outlines then chuckled. “I thought that was familiar. Yes... I’ll contact them and bring it up.”
* * *
“Zhuttev?” General Sho’Duphuder said, his spines rippling. “That’s a reference you don’t often see. But, no, Envoy. The position is rejected. In fact, the previous position of full withdrawal of Rangora forces is off the table. The battle will proceed as soon as the shuttles are clear.”
“General, I would urge you to reconsider,” Ghow Ve’Disuc said. “Zhuttev is a perfectly acceptable condition.”
“Not with this correlation of forces,” Sho’Duphuder replied. “And I have had communication with High Command on the situation. They are in agreement. The battle proceeds, Envoy.”
“Very well, General,” Ve’Disuc said. “We are, finally, approaching the gate. So... Good luck.”
“The humans have a saying,” General Sho’Duphuder replied. “Fortune favors the prepared.”
“There goes a very brave Rangora,” Thunnuvuu Zho’Ghogabel said, softly.
The shuttle cleared the gate and both envoys shuddered at the reflected tactical display in the Galkod system.
“Or perhaps...not,” Ve’Disuc whispered. “Colonel To’Jopeviq?”
“This we did not know about,” To’Jopeviq said. “But it seems perhaps High Command did read our estimates.”
* * *
“Give me the Rangora commander,” Admiral Marchant said.
“On screen, sir...”
“Last chance, General.”
“We’re already launching, Admiral,” General Sho’Duphuder replied. “Do your worst.”
“Order is Tallyho,” Admiral Marchant said, quietly.
“Tally ho, aye. Full drive all missiles. Mobile units to follow. Drop all the Marines.”
“This is going to be a bloodbath,” Marchant said. He leaned back in his command chair as the Grover Cleveland accelerated towards the enemy. “What a bloody waste.”
“Admiral! Gate activation from Galkod system!”
* * *
“Home again, home again, jiggedy jig,” Dana said as they approached the Troy. They’d cleared the gate well ahead of the Rangora shuttle.
“Say again?” Angelito said.
“Norte thing,” Dana said. “Home again, home again, jiggedy jig. Riding the back of a fat little pig. I have no idea why they’re riding a pig so don’t ask. And since it probably translated, note that it rhymes in English.”
“Okay,” Angelito said. “And, yes, I see the rhyme. We’re to enter through the vessel bypass.”
“Got that. Your bird.”
“How do you say it? For values of mine?”
“That would be...” Dana said then paused as a tactical update downloaded. “Oh no. Oh no, no, NO...”
* * *
“Where the hell did that come from?” Admiral Clemons snarled. “What the FUCK?”
The gate was spewing Rangora ships. Two AVs followed by cluster after cluster of Aggressor groups.
“Based upon intelligence estimates, that is a good part of the remaining Rangor
a fleet,” Leonidas said. “About forty percent. And the correlation of forces...is now somewhat adverse.”
“Ya think? Dexter?”
“We’re shot dry, sir,” Guptill replied. “Laser clusters are trashed and we’ve still got spin. Worst of all...”
“Granadica! Can you shut the door now? Please?”
“Sir,” Guptill said. “The shuttles?”
“Jesus Christ!”
“Rangora are going to full launch,” Leonidas intoned.
“Target?”
“Us.”
* * *
“Maneuver six one delta,” Admiral Marchant snapped. “Assure we have basket control of all the Thermopylae forces.”
“Thermopylae forces locked,” Captain George Whisler replied. “Six one delta, aye.”
Captain Whisler, tactical officer of Second Fleet, was almost totally focused on the upcoming battle. A good ninety percent of his available brainpower was devoted to the complex system that was Second Fleet.
But everyone has that little voice deep in their brains. That kid, usually between the ages of nine and twelve, who read or saw something that set their destiny.
That nine year old, in the captain’s case, was in turns delirious and terrified as the vision of a BBC show about the Battle of Trafalgar kept flashing across his mental screens.
The difference being the last thing the Fleet wanted to do was “cross the enemy’s T.”
Humans had studied the tactics used in ship to ship battles among the Galactics and found things to like and dislike.
The basic concept was simple. Whatever the weapon, penetrator missiles, laser, mass drivers, there were three things standing between the target platform and the weapon: missiles, shields and armor. This was, in the view of most older officers, better than theoretical concepts of wet carrier battles where the only thing standing between a carrier and an Exocet were missiles, Phalanx and luck.
