To Honor You Call Us

by Harvey G. Phillips

  “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 and folkways 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 eighty-five percent of the crew on most warships have been in space since boyhood. This world is part of our upbringing. The Navy is our Home Town 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 black sky.

  “The average man on a naval vessel went to space at age nine and a half. I suppose, you learn it by living it. 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 zero nine, 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.’ It that not a quote from The Pirates of Penzance?”

  “It is,” Max said, surprised. “When Frederick informs the Pirate King and Mabel that Major General Stanley lied to them about being an orphan, the Pirate King is furious to learn that the Major General ‘practiced on our credulous simplicity’ and vows swift and terrible revenge.”

  “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 as 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 Cart Opera Company of Victoria Regina.”

  “Really,” he 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 blonde 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, Werner. 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, Werner, 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 ‘Werner.’”

  “After all these years, you haven’t figured it out?”

  “It’s only been three years and, apparently not.”

  “Three and a half. OK. 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? ‘Werner Vaughn Brown.’”

  “No, I’m afraid that I don’t.”

  “Don’t they teach History any more? I guess not. My father was an Aerospace Engineer—that’s where my first and middle names come from—and I grew up hearing about this man. He was an engineer. When the Americans first sent humans to the Earth’s moon, he headed up the team that designed the launch vehicle. You know. Werner 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 on 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.

  While things were not all good, they were, at least, better. At least everyone was in his SCU and, if appropriate, was carrying his sidearm and boarding cutlass. At least most of the watch-standers 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. While 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 Nimitz. Now on second stage approach to the jump point, proceeding at one thousand five 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.” This from 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 non-battle 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 super-string 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, opening a window into metaspace and jumping the ship in a quantum instant to the location of that location’s 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 thirty 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 the light years while passing through an n-dimensional realm in which the very nature of matter and energy and existence is fundamentally different than 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 become violently nauseated. Some get dizzy or become disoriented. Some experience 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 re-initialized, sensors powered back up, and other systems re-established their normal function. Max always hated that interval because, even though it was wildly unlikely that there would be another ship out there in an uninhabited system selected as a destination 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, looking out LumaTite viewports 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 3rd 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 eighty 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 two 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.”

  “V
ery 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.

  Bartoli returned the ball, albeit a little more slowly than Max would have liked. “Ships are fighters, sir, in finger four formation, they are Charlie Bravo Delta Romeo.” Tactical read that the fighters were arrayed in the classic fighter formation invented by the Luftwaffe over France and Poland centuries ago, with the ships arrayed like the tips of the fingers of an outstretched hand: one in front, one on each side of and a little behind the leader, and a fourth trailing and a little behind one of the flankers. And, they were at CBDR, which stood for Constant Bearing, Decreasing Range, meaning that they were headed straight for the Cumberland.

  “IFF?” Identification, Friend or Foe. Max was asking the question of the day: were the ships transmitting the correct electronic recognition signal?