To Honor You Call Us (Man of War)

by Honsinger, H. Paul

  “Kill the braking drive. Engage main sublight at 28 percent.” After a few seconds, “Drives, make it 30 percent. Pitch and yaw, steering amidships on my mark… NOW. Yaw, two degrees to port… and amidships… 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 ship was now 28,890 kilometers. Max hoped to sneak his ship out of the Vaaach’s wake and slip away with his new haul of priceless intelligence. Max was polishing 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 “shit.” Very deep shit.

  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 ship 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 ship 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. God only knew how many Gs that entailed. If the Cumberland tried a velocity change even a tenth that violent, the ship would tear itself apart. The biggest piece anyone would find would fit easily into a shot glass.

  Obviously, the Vaaach were more advanced than anyone had suspected. The ships 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 ship 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 eyeballs 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 attitude control off line. Let’s not burn out anything trying to fight a two-million-Hawk grapfield.”

  The Cumberland hung stationary in space, like a dragonfly on a collector’s pin, with the now brightly lit and decidedly menacing Vaaach ship 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 title 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 Robichaux. “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 attitude 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 ships 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 cutlass, and held it across his chest in a kind of salute.

  “I am Lieut
enant Commander Maxime Tindall Robichaux, Union Space 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 ships in neutral space. We intend no harm to any Vaaach, nor shall we venture anywhere near your dread sovereignty.”

  The Vaaach replied with more pissed-off lion and bear sounds, this time consisting of more deep bass 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 warship drew away from the Cumberland at astonishing 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 ship and the bizarre service history of the ship itself, when his comm buzzed. He hit the button. “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 space 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 ship’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 circumstances. 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?”

  “Damn 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 m
anifold 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 ship’s new commander are not equal to the mission we have been assigned. 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 shipmates. 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 ship, so none of us know firsthand how this ship 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, ships rushed into battle from the yards unfinished, virtually untrained men being led straight to their deaths, poor discipline, chaotic logistics, ships in space for years at a time with spacers 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 ship. 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.