To Honor You Call Us

by Harvey G. Phillips

  “Unless we do something about it, first,” said the second.

  “Aye,” said the other two.

  Chapter 4

  11:10Z Hours 21 January 2315

  The hand-addressed envelope in the captain’s safe had been confidential remarks from the Admiral himself addressed to Max’s attention and for his eyes only. Max was sitting in the office section of his Day Cabin, a moderate space consisting of a desk and office chair, a few chairs for visitors, a few assorted other tables and chairs, and a small waiting room outside a door. Max considered the Admiral’s comments while he waited for his next appointment due in a few minutes.

  As always, the Admiral had said a lot in comparatively few words. Max knew he would reread the note several more times before he squeezed all of the meaning out of it. In particular, on top of some very interesting remarks about a few of the officers assigned to him, he found the Admiral’s comments about his own attributes troubling: “Normally, a Navy Cross means a plum assignment. In your case, however, certain conduct both in space and in the dirt causes me to have serious reservations about your judgment. You know the incidents of which I speak. As things stand now, the prospects of your rising above your present rank are extremely slender.

  “Still, you do seem to have a fire in your belly. There is always the remote chance that this command experience will be the crucible that turns poor metal into steel. So, against my better judgment, I am giving you this opportunity. It is opportunity mitigated by serious challenges: former CO is a loon, former XO a sycophantic martinet, ship shines better than it shoots and has performed miserably by every measure, NCOs are likely to try mutiny or sabotage if you change anything, and even the conscientious officers are green and not terribly proficient. But, it is not all bad. The ship is one of the best designs to come out of the yards in decades. You will find reason, too, to thank me for the officers whom I have recently transferred to the vessel. You are being given lemons. Go make lemonade. And kick some Krag ass while you’re at it.”

  The Marine posted outside his door stuck his head in to let Max know that Dr. Sahin was here for his appointment. “Send him in.”

  The doctor entered, approached Max’s desk, did a fair approximation of a salute, and started to take a seat.

  “Doctor, wait.”

  The doctor froze. Sahin was in something approaching combat gear, but his weapons belt had a twist in it and his boarding cutlass was attached to the wrong loop on the uniform. Also, the sleeves were fastened in such a way that, if the ship lost pressure and the doctor had to put on his pressure gloves, they would not make a proper seal with the sleeves, the uniform would not hold pressure, and he would die. “Doctor, first, you need to review the training file on this particular uniform. You’ve got a few things wrong. And, second, military courtesy dictates that you don’t sit in the presence of your commanding officer until and unless he invites you to do so.”

  “I apologize, sir. I have been serving almost exclusively in a hospital for my entire naval career.”

  “I understand. You’re probably going to want to brush up on these things now that you’re on a combat vessel.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Please be seated.”

  The doctor sat.

  “Doctor, you’ve sure got an unusual background for a Chief Medical Officer on a warship. Undergraduate degrees in Philology, Theology, Xeno-Botany, and Xeno-Herpetology, Master’s Degree in Interstellar Relations from the University of New Istanbul, second in your class at Johns Hopkins Medical School on Earth, Residency in the Trauma Unit of Beijing General Hospital. And, according to your record, no one’s quite sure how many languages you speak.”

  “I find it rather difficult to reckon myself, particularly as so many ‘languages’ are in reality only dialects or variants of other languages. Suffice it to say that I can converse with virtually all of the humans and most of the aliens in the part of space to which we are headed. The only language which gives me difficulty is the particular argot spoken in the Navy.”

  “As smart as you are, you won’t have any problems picking it up. Now, on top of what your records say, Admiral Hornmeyer has notified me unofficially that you have personal contacts in the Free Corridor that might be able to put us on the trail of Krag purchases and ship movements. Now, how in the big bright galaxy is that?”

  “Captain, as you know, I was born on Tubek. But, at the risk of sounding like a well-worn literary cliché about Arab and Turkish traders, my father’s ancestors for many generations have been merchants and traders from New Istanbul in the Markeb sector.”

  “I’ve served on Patrol Vessels in that area. Any company I might have heard of?”

  “The firm was Harun Sahin & Sons, founded by my grandfather.”

  “That’s not one I remember. But, I’d remember only the largest ones and the ones who gave us trouble.”

  “I am certain that our company would have been neither of those. It was in that broad medium tier of firms. We kept anywhere between five and seven ships running all the time, usually about half a dozen charters and the two owned by the company with family members on board.”

  “Well, that wouldn’t make it one of the big players but that’s still a pretty good sized company. Anyway, what kind of trading did your folks do?”

  “There wasn’t any specialty, really. They stayed away from contraband and extremely bulky goods such as ore and grain, but on the whole they simply looked for items in one system that they could buy and sell for a profit in another. It really didn’t matter what, although I remember carrying a lot of precision machine tools, gourmet olive oil, and fine art Pfelung glassware. The routes tended to be among the worlds of the Free Corridor and between the Free Corridor and the Union worlds in the Markeb and Tulloi sectors. Because my cousin and I were to take over the business when my father and his brother became too old to run it, we frequently went along so we could be introduced to their business contacts and so the contacts would get to know us.”

  “When the Tulloi sector fell to the Krag, my father, his brother, and their wives were all on board the two family ships, along with most of the rest of my relatives, and were never heard from again. I was relieved that my younger sister and two brothers were attending secondary school on Tubek and were not harmed. Of course, Tubek fell a few years later and they are now lost as well. In any event, I know people or—at least know people who know people—on many worlds in the Corridor who are likely to be the people with whom the Krag are doing business. From them we might learn departure times, routes, and other information that will help you find these ships in the immensity of space.”

  “Quite possibly.”

  “And, am I correct in my understanding that before our departure this vessel was provided with a Piper-Grumman Shetland class micro-freighter?”

  “It was. The Navy has done us proud, too. She looks worn and banged up on the outside, but she’s been retrofitted with naval specification engines and weapons that just might get you out of a tight corner or two.”

  “I look forward to piloting her,” the doctor said with enthusiasm.

  “Don’t think so, Doctor. Able Spacer Second Fahad came aboard an hour before I did. His Pilot Assessment Score is one eighty-five on that ship and one sixty overall. He looks enough like you pass at least for a cousin. He’ll be doing the piloting.”

  “But, I grew up on freighters. I can pilot the ship.”

  “Sorry, Doctor, I’ve seen your piloting scores. They’re barely high enough to let you at the helm of a Vespa-Martin Dragonfly in open space in some of the more lenient systems. No way are they high enough for me to let you pilot a souped-up armed microfreighter in company with a Rated Warship, much less land on her hangar deck. Hangar deck landings are a specialized skill and you haven’t had the training. I don’t want you banging up our new freighter.”

  “As you wish.”

  “Have you had a chance to check out your equipment, stores, and personnel yet?”

&nb
sp; “I have. That was the first thing I did when I reported on board around 03:00 in response to Admiral Hornmeyer’s most exigent directive.”

  “Exigent directive?”

  “Indeed. I was wakened from a sound sleep at 02:10 or so by the Admiral himself on voicecom. He told me, rather loudly, to get my lazy, overeducated ass out of my bunk, and said that if I wasn’t on board the Cumberland with my duffel ready for an extended cruise as her Chief Medical Officer in less than an hour he was going to play table tennis with my testicles.” He added confidentially, “I hasten to add that those were most decidedly not his exact words. Twenty minutes later a Marine the size of a municipal sports arena arrived at my quarters, completed my packing for me in less than two minutes, marched me out the door, onto a transferpod, and onto the ship. As soon as I arrived, Lieutenant Garcia greeted me with precise orders to check out my department to ‘make sure everything was shipshape’ and to provide a personal report to him by 07:00. Then another Marine, even larger than the first, marched me to the Casualty Station where I immediately began my evaluation to determine the, how should I say, shipshape-ness of the department of which I was suddenly in command.”

  “Sounds like you were Shanghaied, Doctor.”

  “Indeed.”

  “So, is everything satisfactory?”

  “For a ship with a compliment of two hundred fifteen men and boys, I find the Casualty Station admirably well equipped and stocked, indeed, impressively so. I have also met the personnel assigned to me and I find them to be reasonably well trained for their respective positions, although there appear to be some deficiencies in some specific areas of training, areas which I plan to remediate immediately. I also note that the morale appears to be rather poor. My understanding is that the previous Chief Medical Officer was less than stellar.”

  “He wasn’t the only one,” Max said. “What about your Head Nurse, what’s his name?”

  “Church. The Admiral reassigned him from the Nimitz and he came aboard ten minutes before I did. When I got to the Casualty Station, he already had the Secured Pharmaceuticals Locker open, an armed Marine Sergeant standing by to guard the drugs, and was taking inventory with the Pharmacist’s Mate witnessing and performing a cross-check. I am favorably impressed. I could not ask for better. There is only one thing more that one could wish for.”

  “And that would be?”

  “A female nurse.”

  Max smiled. “Yes, that would have its advantages.”

  “I resent your implication, sir. There are distinct therapeutic advantages to having a female nurse on board, especially if she is attractive. In my experience, female nurses are more tender and sympathetic than the male ones and injured men seem to be more willing to submit without resistance or complaint to embarrassing and painful procedures administered by a female nurse. Resistance and opposition seem to disappear as if by magic in the presence of an attractive young woman. Whereas I might have to spend precious minutes, even hours, employing sophisticated reasoning and advanced psychological techniques to secure the patient’s cooperation, a lovely young nurse needs only to bat her eyes at the recalcitrant, cantankerous old Chief Petty Officer and the thing is done. It also goes without saying that females are on the whole, by nature, more conscientious, more attentive to details, have better short-term memories, possess higher manual dexterity, and have a greater facility for understanding the speech of injured, infirm, or excited patients who may not be speaking clearly. They employ problem solving techniques that are identifiably different from those employed by males. In short, they bring attributes to the table that are not present when one has an all-male medical staff.”

  “Actually, Doctor, I was making no improper implication and those are the kinds of advantages I was thinking of. You see, I first went to space in 2295, so I remember the all-gender Navy. The first ship I served on, the San Jacinto, had a female XO, Weapons Officer, Chief Engineer, Chief of the Boat, and—before the Gynophage—just over forty percent of her compliment. By the time I got aboard, the crew was still about a third female.”

  “But, post-Gynophage . . . .”

  “Post-Gynophage, it’s a different ball game. It’s certainly a different Navy. Since the Krag managed to kill nearly half of the female humans in the galaxy in less than a month with their damned bioweapon, the top brass and the politicos decided that our remaining females are too precious to risk being killed in combat or being exposed to any new version of the virus the Krag might come up with. So, no women on warships, no women, absent compelling personnel requirements, in any forward posting. And so, after twenty years, the result is that, except for some very senior top brass and older NCOs back in the Core Systems, for all intents and purposes we’ve got no women in the Navy, period.”

  “Given the current species-wide demographic crisis, is it not prudent that our healthy young women be back in the Core Systems getting married and having babies instead of out here killing and being killed?”

  “I suppose, when you look at it that way, from the point of view of the whole species, it’s a reasonable decision.” Max shook his head. “But, it’s horrible from the point of view of the women. Look at what Rear Admiral Kathleen Phillips did with her scratch force at the Battle of Sirius B in the First Interstellar War. She tossed out the standard formations that the book prescribed for her situation, the old classic Dual Convex Envelopment or the Layered Radial Convergence, and off the top of her head came up with the idea of squeezing the enemy between a Hammerschmidt Cone and a Zhou Matrix. We call it the “Hammer and Anvil” and we use it to this day. If there is another Kathleen Phillips out there whose highest and best occupation is leading warships into battle, maybe she doesn’t want be stuck on the ground making babies. Maybe she doesn’t care if she runs the risk of getting the Gynophage because she wants to be out here fighting beside her brothers. I mean, can you imagine going up to Admiral “Killer Kate” Phillips and telling her that she belonged at home, barefoot and pregnant? She’d grind up your liver and cook it into her boudin.”

  “Boudin?”

  “Cajun fast food. One of the ingredients is liver. Absolutely delicious. It’s made from—” Max’s voice trailed off. “Actually, Doctor, I’m thinking that, as a physician, you’ll be a whole lot happier if I don’t tell you what’s in it, especially since I eat it every time I can get any. In fact, I’m pretty sure that you’ll be better off if you forget I even said the word.”

  “Ignorance is bliss?”

  “Exactly. Anyway, the Navy was more civilized, more humane, less prone to aberrant behavior and extremes of all kinds when there were women on board ship. Even if they were only five or ten percent of a given crew, they were a stabilizing influence. By the time I had been in space for four years, they were all gone from warships. Damn shame. Maybe, once we’ve won this war, we can bring them back.”

  “The Casualty Station will be a better place.”

  “So will CIC. So, Doctor, if that’s all—“

  “Lieutenant Commander?”

  A look of irritation, quickly squelched, crossed Max’s face. “Doctor, on board this vessel, I’m ‘Captain.’”

  “Oh, quite right. So sorry. I have only limited experience in dealing with combat officers who are actually conscious. The ones I’m used to seeing weren’t much concerned with titles when I had my hands inside their chest cavities. In any event, Captain, I have a problem that I need to discuss with you.”

  “What problem?”

  The men continue to insult me.”

  Max flushed. “Insult you? A commissioned officer? Not here, they don’t. There will be no insubordination on my ship. Who’s been insulting you? What kind of insult? I won’t stand for it.”

  Sahin was taken aback by Max’s vehemence, but having broached the subject had no choice but to go forward. “There was a pulse cannon coolant leak yesterday, before I came on board, and several of the men were briefly exposed to the fumes. There were no apparent injuries at the time, but I was condu
cting a follow up examination, as a precaution, just to be sure that there was no latent pulmonary damage and hemotoxicity. During these examinations, virtually every one of them addressed me, in the friendliest and most cheerful tone of voice you understand, but with the most insulting name.”

  Max’s anger grew. His eyes blazed and he gritted his teeth. In a cold, deadly voice, sounding for all the worlds as though he was ready to toss the malefactors out the nearest airlock, he asked, “And what, exactly, did they call you.”

  “Captain,” the doctor continued reluctantly, afraid of what would happen to the men in question, “I very much regret to tell you that they called me . . . Bones.”

  The word hung in the ensuing silence for a heart beat, 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 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?”

  “Sure. Absolutely. There are about a dozen of them that go all the way back to the first U.E.S.F. 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 of a lot of these names, but they’re traditional and we in the Navy respect our traditions.”