To Honor You Call Us

by Harvey G. Phillips

  As a result of these deceptions, Max was hoping that the sensors on board the Ghiftee freighter (freighter sensors are usually pretty rudimentary) would show what appeared to be a ship coming through the jump point that led to Romanovan space, identifying itself electronically as a Romanovan cutter, emitting the same sensor beams as a Romanovan cutter, recovering from jump at the same rate as a Romanovan cutter, and carrying out the same search patterns as a Romanovan cutter. The purported Ghiftee should conclude, therefore, that the Cumberland was a Romanovan Cutter. If it walks like a duck, swims like a duck, and flies like a duck, it must be a duck.

  “Speed is now at point two eight,” said LeBlanc, forty-six minutes later, “which is where the Romanovans like to cruise at in this class. Executing second leg of search pattern.”

  “Active sensor contact,” announced Kasparov. “Bearing, range, course, and speed congruent with previous passive contact identified as November two. Getting a good, strong return. Sir, that would be a solid detection for a Romanovan ship.”

  “Very well. Now we act like we just spotted them. Maneuvering, increase to what would be Flank for the Romanovans and shape course to intercept.”

  “Romanovan flank, intercept course, aye.”

  In a few minutes, the Cumberland had accelerated to 0.55 c, just as a Romanovan Cutter would under the circumstances. An hour and a half later, the destroyer had matched course and speed with the freighter and was holding station 800 meters off her starboard beam.

  Just then, Doctor Sahin walked onto the bridge, resplendent in the crimson and gold uniform of a Romanovan Cutter Captain, glittering with enough multi-colored braid, oddly-shaped insignia, and jewel encrusted medallions to decorate a dozen admirals and the bellmen from every five star hotel in the quadrant, and made only slightly more ridiculous by the matching riding breaches tucked into gleaming cavalry boots, complete with loudly jingling, jeweled spurs. An absurdly long sword in an elaborately bejeweled scabbard hung at his side. Several men broke out in open laughter. “Doctor Sahin,” the skipper exclaimed, “you look as though you outrank God!”

  “I beg you, sir, to say nothing further along those lines. It is a most impious remark,” said the doctor, genuinely horrified.

  “I beg your pardon, Doctor. It was an improper thing to say. But that uniform!”

  “You have my pardon, certainly. Indeed, it is a bit excessive. But, the Romanovans do have an exaggerated sense of their own grandeur, as one would suspect for a colony of upstart Italians with pretentions of being successors of the Roman Empire. They even speak Latin, of all things.”

  “Now, Doctor, let’s not have any illiberal remarks about Italians.”

  “Certainly not. Admirable people. Can there be any a nobler tribe than the race that sired Vivaldi and Verdi, Da Vinci and Michelangelo, Dante and Cima? No. I refer to the Romanovans as a distinct species sprung from the Italian genus. One need only look at this comic-opera costume of a uniform, much less listen to their interminable bombastic symphonies or view their grotesque, grandiose architecture to know that, as a people, they have a deep-seated sense of inferiority and an overwhelming need for external validation.”

  “That, Doctor, is beyond me. Now, you are certain that you can pass for one of them—to convince someone who has heard their speech many times that you are a native?”

  “Certainly. I have studied Latin since the cradle and spent a great deal of time in Romanovan space with my father, selling machine tools and purchasing gourmet olive oil. Their language is merely Classical Latin with a Tuscan accent and with some rather idiosyncratic grammatical errors.”

  “Outstanding. Then have a seat right here.” Max got up from his station and gestured for the doctor to take his place. The doctor’s sword got hung up on the skipper’s console causing the tip to swing around and hit Garcia in the knee. The XO grasped the sword and guided it so that it would follow the doctor into the seat.

  “Careful, Doctor,” said the XO, “you’ll put someone’s eye out with that.”

  “Indeed,” he said with an embarassed smile. “I mustn’t make more work for myself.” Then, sheepishly, as if to explain the accident, “It is an unusually long sword.”

  The XO smiled. “They must be compensating for something.”

  “Indeed,” said Sahin.

  Temporarily evicted from his accustomed place, Max sat down at the “Commodore’s Station,” a comfortable seat with a compact console on the Command island, usually unoccupied, placed there for use by visiting senior officers.

  Now it was time to talk like a duck. “Comms, send the first message,” Max ordered.

  “Aye, sir.” The Romanovans, like the Romans before them being enamored of all things traditional, invariably hailed and communicated with foreign vessels using the old Interstellar Text Transmission Protocol, the same protocol which, with the interposition of a translation matrix, was used to communicate with alien species. So, it was in that clunky, hundred year old code, which did not allow the sending of lower case letters, punctuation, or special characters, that the Cumberland sent: “GHIFTHEE FREIGHTER THIS IS THE ROMANOVAN CUTTER CARACALIA STOP PREPARE TO BE BOARDED FOR SAFETY AND CARGO INSPECTION STOP NULL ALL DRIVES AND DISABLE ANTI-GRAPPLING FIELD STOP MESSAGE ENDS.”

  The freighter, like most ships, had an anti-grappling field. Such fields could be overcome either through brute force by a hugely powerful grapfield, such as the one generated by the Vaaach ship of recent memory, or through finesse by jamming. The Cumberland, however, lacked the power to overcome an antigrap and could not jam such a field in less time than it would take for the freighter to escape. So, Max needed to convince the freighter to null its field.

  About a minute passed. “Response message, sir,” said Comms. The text appeared on Max’s console, and on several others: “WE ARE IN UNCLAIMED SPACE STOP OUR COURSE DOES NOT TAKE US INTO OR THROUGH YOUR JURISDICTION STOP STATE AUTHORITY BY WHICH YOU CLAIM RIGHT TO BOARD THIS VESSEL STOP MESSAGE ENDS.”

  “Exactly what we thought they’d say,” said Max. “Wait thirty seconds and then send the second message.” In response to Chin’s puzzled look, “We don’t want it to look like we had the message already written, do we?”

  Chin nodded his comprehension. “Aye sir. Wait thirty and then send message number two.”

  At the appropriate moment, Chin hit the key for the second transmission. It read: “THIS SYSTEM HAS A JUMP POINT WITH COUNTERPART IN ROMANOVAN SPACE STOP THEREFORE UNDER ARTICLE XXIX SECTION 8 PARAGRAPH 12 OF THE SECOND INTERSTELLAR CONVENTION ON NAVIGATION CUSTOMS COMMERCE AND TERRITORIAL CLAIMS THIS SYSTEM LIES WITHIN OUR SYSTEM DEFENSE AND IDENTIFICATION ZONE STOP AS SUCH WE ARE ENTITLED TO BOARD YOUR SHIP TO INSPECT IT FOR COMPLIANCE WITH INTERSTELLAR SAFETY PROTOCOLS AND TO DETERMINE WHETHER YOUR VESSEL OR CARGO POSE ANY THREAT TO THE SECURITY OF OUR IMPERIUM STOP MESSAGE ENDS.” This message had the dual attributes of not only copying exactly a message sent under similar circumstances by a genuine Romanovan cutter, but also of being a scrupulously accurate statement of the applicable interstellar law. The Romanovans might be pompous asses, but they were punctilious about interstellar treaties.

  “Sir,” said Comms, “they are requesting visual. Receiving a carrier on Channel 5.”

  “Doctor, that looks like your cue. Everything ready, Chin?”

  Comms checked to be sure that the camera was set for a tight shot of the doctor, just his head and shoulders with so little of the background included that no one could tell from the image that he was on a Union Destroyer instead of the Romanovan Cutter. “Aye sir, all set.”

  “Now, Doctor, remember you are playing a part. Imagine yourself as Admiral Sir Joseph Porter, K.C.B.”

  The doctor sat up straighter, donned a headset, adopted the stern aspect of aloof, haughty condescension that went with the Ruler of the Queen’s Navy from Gilbert and Sullivan’s H.M.S. Pinafore, and nodded imperiously to Max.

  Max gestured to Comms who said, “Opening Channel 5.”

  The several screens
punched into Channel 5 briefly showed the standard interstellar visual comm test pattern, a black circle transected by two wide bars at right angles to each other, the bars each divided into several blocks containing different shades of gray. Because color perception varied so greatly from species to species, standard transmissions were in a monochrome mode inaccurately referred to as “Black and White.” Color communications generally took place only between ships of the same flag.

  The test pattern was soon replaced by the face of a human male with light hair, light eyes, a long, thin nose, and a small, pointy chin. He appeared to have an unadjusted age of about sixty, which meant he could be anywhere between fifty and a hundred and fifty. To the doctor’s trained eye, and to Max’s practically experienced one, the man appeared to be extremely nervous.

  “This is Fergus McKelvie, Master of the Ghifthee Freighter Loch Linnhe. We request further verification of your identity before we consent to boarding.”

  “Captain McKelvie,” the doctor replied in an unaccustomed accent, presumably Romanovan, and with equally unaccustomed steel in his voice, “you will be boarded, whether you consent or not. This cutter is armed and in these dangerous times my orders are to treat as hostile and to fire upon any vessel that does not heave to for inspection. I suspect that your owners would not appreciate having to tow your vessel to the nearest yard to replace the drive unit that I am prepared to blast to flinders five seconds from now.” Romanovan Cutter Captains did not ask nicely. They started with bluster and threats, then worked their way on up.

  “Cutter Captain, you know that we can out run you.”

  “Granted. But you cannot outrun my pulse cannon, sir. I will have your main sublight drive burned off before you can say ‘all ahead Flank,’” said the doctor as prompted by Max via headset. He turned his head to the right where he had been told the Romanovans put the Weapons console on their Cutters and barked: “Armis dominum, para incendere.” As arranged earlier, the Stealth Officer created the semblance of what would have happened had a real Cutter Captain ordered his Weapons Officer to “prepare to fire.” He activated emulation emitters giving off a power signature similar to that given off by a Cutter’s pulse cannon being placed in Prefire mode.

  There was no doubt that the deception fooled the freighter captain, as the expression of abject horror on his face was unmistakable. In fact, he looked as though he was about to become physically ill. “No no no no NOOOO,” he nearly shrieked. “Don’t fire. That won’t be necessary. Not necessary AT ALL.” He turned to his right. Still speaking Standard, he ordered in a panicked voice, “null the drive, kill the field, prepare for boarding and inspection.” Back to the camera, he said, quaveringly, “Captain we await your boarding party.”

  “Wise decision, Captain.” To his imaginary Weapons Officer, “Armis dominum, qui inrita ordinem.” And then to the camera, “Very well. Prepare to be boarded. Finum nuntiante.” In response to those orders, stealth killed the false pulse cannon emissions and Comms closed the channel.

  The instant the channel was closed, Max turned to Weapons, “Engage grappling field and put the freighter in docking position. Maneuvering, as soon as we get a firm lock, null the drive.” He hit the comm switch, “Major Kraft, you and your boarding party ready?”

  “Chomping at the bit, sir.” Max preferred not to think too carefully about what that would look like.

  “Mister Kurtz, escort the doctor. Make sure he gets to Boarding Hatch Charlie by the most direct route.” Max had no high opinion of the doctor’s ability to find quickly any part of the ship other than the Casualty Station, the Wardroom, and his own quarters. Kurtz, who knew every corridor and access ladder like the back of his hand, led the garishly-costumed Doctor cum Cutter Captain out.

  “Major Kraft, the doctor is on his way. CIC out.”

  In less than three minutes, Sahin was standing in the boarding airlock, a compartment about seven meters square, near the boarding hatch with Major Kraft and eight Marines. Kraft and his men were all clad in crimson and gold uniforms similar to the doctor’s but rather less ornate, and all carrying the stainless steel, polymer stocked, sawed off shotguns, Sig-Sauer pattern side arms, and short swords carried by boarding parties in the Romanovan Revenue and Inspection Service. The Marines seemed perfectly familiar with the weapons. As one Marine manipulated the controls, the boarding tube extended from the Destroyer’s airlock to that of the freighter, and a green light indicated that the tube was fully extended and pressurized. The party went into the tube, closing the hatch behind them.

  Reaching the other end after only about seven meters, the same Marine hit another switch. A red light indicating that there was an excessive pressure difference between the freighter and the boarding tube switched to amber, indicating that the pressure was being equalized, in this case by opening a valve admitting air into the tube from a tank of high pressure reserve air installed in the tube’s extension hardware for that purpose. A countdown clock appeared on the control console initially showing 0:45, meaning that the equalization process would take 45 seconds. The doctor whispered something to Kraft. The Major’s eyes hardened.

  One Marine, a private, elbowed a Lance Corporal, presumed to know marginally more than he, “Sven, why do we got to keep up the play acting. We’ve got them grapped. They’re not going anywheres.”

  “’Cause, they might really be Ghifthee Neutrals, that’s why. If they are, we don’t want them to know they were boarded by a Union ship, as it might create an interstellar in sye dent, that’s why. If they are, we can just say they passed inspection, cast off, and send them on their merry way, none’s the wiser, that’s why.”

  Kraft turned to his men. “Remember, men. Don’t say a word unless you have to. Keep your eyes open and be ready for anything, but don’t shoot or cut unless we are attacked first or you hear me give the order. But, don’t be surprised if there are Krag on that ship. All right. Just a few seconds.”

  The counter went to zero and the hatch on the freighter opened with a slight hiss, admitting the boarding party to an airlock into which they all just barely fit. The hatch closed behind them, the airlock mechanism verified that there was adequate pressure in the chamber, and the inner hatch opened. Five Marines stormed through the opening, shotguns held high and fanned out in a rough semicircle in what looked to be a corridor, rather narrower than those on the destroyer. Seeing nothing any more threatening than Captain McKelvie standing in the corridor and sweating nervously, one of them sang out, “Securos.” Kraft, the doctor, and the rest of the Marines entered the corridor, with Kraft, who was apparently uniformed as some sort of officer, and the doctor coming to the fore. The doctor stood before the Captain who bowed to him formally. The doctor returned the bow, just a hair less deeply, and said, “Captain, kindly take us to the bridge.” He then turned to a group of five Marines who were standing a little apart from the others and said, “Quaere navis.” Search the ship. The remaining four Marines, Kraft, and the doctor followed Captain McKelvie forward. As soon as the Captain was out of sight, one of the five Marines in the first group produced a hand-held scanner from his equipment belt, pushed a few buttons, glared narrowly at the display, pressed a few more buttons, glowered at the device’s tiny screen, pulled his percom out of a pocket in his uniform, and pressed a few keys on it in a pre-established sequence.

  Tiny ear buds placed deep in the ear canals of the doctor and Major Kraft softly beeped. The two men shared a glance just as they stepped onto the freighter’s bridge where, in addition to the Captain, there were three men at various stations. “Captain, your documentation, please.” The Captain pulled a blue cube about one centimeter to the side out of a tiny compartment in the commander’s station and handed it to the doctor, who inserted it in what was dummied up to look like a standard Romanovan ID Cube reader. The reader told him that the Romanovan device that this reader purported to be would have shown the cube to contain the genuine Ghifthee Ship’s Registry, Space Frame Inspection Certificate, Engine Inspec
tion Certificate, Environmental Systems Sufficiency and Operability Certificate, Safety Equipment Inspection Certificate, Galley Health Inspection Certificate, Flight Plan, Cargo Manifest, and Personnel Manifest for G.C.V. Loch Linnhe. It also told him, because the circuitry was from a state of the art Union Naval ID Cube Reader, that the cube was a sophisticated forgery, probably of Krag manufacture. He ejected the cube from his reader and put it in a small pocket on his tunic just the right size for holding a few ID cubes.

  “And your personal ID, if you please.” The Captain reached into his tunic and produced a green cube, the same size as the blue one. The doctor’s scanner showed this cube to be forged as well. Even the man’s name was probably made up. “It says here, Captain, that you are a native of Ghiftha Prima.”

  “Yes. Born and raised.”

  Ghiftha Prima was only the fifth extra solar planet settled by humans. The colonization expedition was put together by an idealistic dreamer named Solomon Ghift who drew colonists from, quite literally, every nation on Earth. And, since Standard had not yet become standard and they spoke hundreds of languages, he made every one of them learn Esperanto, a language still spoken as a cradle tongue by all that world’s natives.

  “So, then you would speak the Esperanto.”

  “Yes, of course. Do you?”

  “No. Not really.” The Captain was relieved at this news, although he tried not to show it. “I do, however, know enough to share this little joke with you. Via patro estas malpura kovarda.” At that, the doctor laughed loudly and slapped the man on the shoulder. The Captain laughed with equal gusto, proving what the doctor suspected based on the faked ID cube, that this man was not a Ghifthee. If he were, after all, he would not have laughed when the doctor told him “Your father is a dirty coward.”

  The doctor ejected the Captain’s ID cube and handed the reader to one of the Marines, abruptly ceasing his laughter. He then elaborately dropped the cube on the deck, affected an exaggerated shrug of apology, and suddenly stomped it under the heel of his right boot, shattering the cube into ten thousand tiny glittering shards. Before the Captain could even gasp his shock, Sahin had shattered the second cube in the same manner. “You are no more a Ghifthee than I am Solomon Ghift. Marines, arrest them.”