To Honor You Call Us

by Harvey G. Phillips

  “You will say nothing and will come with us.” And, then to the doctor, “I’ll call us a cab while you call your new friend.”

  ***

  Eighteen hours later, Doctor Sahin stood beside Max while the Quartermaster and several men under his command used four small, highly maneuverable electric fork-lifts to remove cargo palettes from the microfreighter on the Hangar Deck and drive them down a corridor designed for exactly that purpose a few meters away to the Cumberland’s main cargo hold. Once the unloading operation was well in train and running smoothly, Max began scrolling through the microfreighter’s cargo manifest.

  “Doctor, you did us proud, no doubt about that.” Max was even more than customarily enthusiastic. “We’re going to be eating better than any crew in the Navy outside of the Core Systems. Two tons of fresh-frozen beef. Real beef. Three tons of fresh-frozen chicken. Plus frozen turkeys, sausage, ham, salami, fresh and frozen vegetables, fresh and frozen fruit, frozen fish, frozen shrimp, olives, dates, real butter, honey, cheese, fresh eggs, fresh milk, a quarter ton of frozen ultra-concentrated orange juice, Russet potatoes, red potatoes, sweet potatoes, beans, rice, Arabica coffee. Morale on board is going to go up a hundred percent. And, your other cargo is even better.” A predatory grin spread across his face. “Much, much better. Let’s go to the Casualty Station and look in on our new passenger.”

  One deck up and twenty meters forward—the two men were in a closed examination room in the Casualty Station with Intelligence Officer Grade 4 “Robert Jones,” whom only the most gullible on board believed to be named anything remotely resembling “Robert Jones,” along with the tail man from Rashid IV who was strapped securely to an examination bed, and Nurse Church to monitor the tail man’s vitals during interrogation.

  “Well, Jones, what have we learned so far?”

  “This man was given 85 ccs of Agent 11 eighteen hours and seventeen minutes ago,” said Jones. “As such, he has been completely cooperative.”

  “I had never heard of Agent 11 until today. I’m not sure I am particularly happy that such a thing exists,” said Doctor Sahin.

  Agent 11, or Compliazine, was a drug, first devised for the mental health industry as a treatment for highly oppositional and non-compliant patients. But, as soon as the effects of the drug were discovered in clinical trials, it quickly vanished from sight. For a period of roughly twenty-four hours, it suppressed to the point of non-existence the ability of the subject to exercise any independent will. He would obey without question virtually any command given to him, including a command to provide truthful answers to questions. The drug came with certain disadvantages, though. First, in suppressing the will, Agent 11 also suppressed intelligence, such that a subject could tell you what he knew, but could not make any use of that knowledge or draw any conclusions from it. Second, the agent did not so much wear off as break down in the body to component compounds, most of which were highly toxic. If the subject was not detoxified starting about twenty-four hours after administration, he would die. And, third, any given subject could be given Agent 11 only three times, four at most, without suffering permanent brain damage. Even with these limitations, though, the drug was extremely useful for interrogations and was proving especially useful now. Because of the obvious misuse to which such a drug could be put by unscrupulous individuals, not only was the drug itself strictly controlled, its formula and even its existence were closely guarded secrets.

  Jones continued. “Name: Ernilum Grek. Occupation: espionage, specializing in surveillance and assassination. Works for the Krag, planted to feed them information on whether the Union or the locals ever started to zero in on their source of supply on Rashid IV and to kill anyone who got too close to the truth. He was planning to kill the doctor and Fahad by attacking their air car on its way from Amman back to the spaceport, and then return to kill Wortham-Biggs and his daughter. He has assassinated twelve others on five planets, some for the Krag, some for hire to various criminal organizations. Ten of those deaths are in our records as unsolved murders, the other two as accidents. We have his contacts, comm frequencies, check in schedule, authentication codes, cipher and encryption keys, cut out and dead drop locations, everything. This lets us wrap up a nice package to give to the local authorities that will let them clean out the entire Krag intelligence network on their world, and will let us get in one or two good pieces of disinformation to lead the Krag by the nose to exactly where we want them. Capturing this fellow has worked out very well for us, very well indeed.

  “I have also gotten from him a wealth of information about how the Krag run their local intelligence operatives, what the procedures are, how they are paid, what systems they use to protect each cell, and, because this man had worked for them on several other worlds before this one, we can get a general idea of the logistics they use from planet to planet. And”

  Jones was cut off at the conjunction by the loud buzzing of the Casualty Station comm panel, the volume on which the doctor had set to an unusually high volume level to get his attention as he had a tendency to become absorbed in what he was doing. He poked at the switch with his finger, missing it three or four times before hitting it. “Casualty, Sahin here.”

  “Doctor, this is Chief Xang in Cargo Handling. In unloading and stowing the contents of the microfreighter, we came upon a crate that is labeled ‘Personal: For Ibrahim Sahin.’ What do you want us to do with it?”

  “I have no idea what it is. What might be the size of this mysterious crate?”

  “About a meter and a half tall and about seventy-five centimeters in the other two dimensions. It’s gotta weigh a couple of hundred kilos.”

  At this, Max stepped over to the panel. “Xang, this is the skipper. I want you to have two of your best men, and I mean your best men—in fact, make it yourself and your best man—take the crate to the doctor’s quarters. By the time you get there, he will have set up a one time only entry keyed to your voice—that’s YOUR voice Chief—take it inside, open it, and whatever it is, set it up, lay it out, or whatever is appropriate. Understood?”

  “Perfectly sir. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it personally.”

  “Very good. Let me know when you’re finished.”

  “Aye aye.”

  Jones got to finish his rapturous description of the “take” from the captured Krag spy. Sahin’s own enthusiasm was damped substantially when he learned that the man was a Union citizen, born and raised on Alphacen. That unpleasant revelation, of course, meant that sometime in the next day or so the doctor would get to start his day off with a bang. Or, more precisely, five bangs in light of the naval regulation specifying that the execution of one man required a firing squad of five. Once this cheerful news was announced, the doctor had to detoxify the prisoner to make sure that he didn’t die in an hour or two of the poisonous byproducts of his body’s efforts to metabolize Agent 11, rather than dying in a day or two from having five 7.62 millimeter full metal jacket bullets pierce his heart at 843 meters per second. Dead is dead, but timing is everything.

  When he finally got to his quarters and palmed the entry scanner, all the doctor could think about was taking a shower and getting into bed. But, to his surprise, stacked neatly in front of his desk were several dozen bright red rectangular packages, each about half the size of a loaf of bread. When he walked over and picked one up, he could see that the packages were vacuum packed polyfoil labeled: “Wortham-Biggs Coffee: Rashid IV Community Special Reserve, Four Planet Blend. One Pound Net Weight.” Leave it to Wortham-Biggs to package his special coffee in that archaic quantity. There had to be fifty or sixty pounds. The doctor knew he could never drink that much coffee himself. Accordingly, he decided immediately to give several pounds to the Captain and to others to whom he wanted to show special appreciation or kindness, and would turn most of the rest over to the Wardroom Steward to serve to the ship’s officers on special occasions. Just as he was feeling good about that, savoring the memory of how good that coffee had tasted in
the shop back on Rashid IV, and mentally composing a note of thanks to send back to the giver of this unexpected gift, the doctor turned a corner into the main sitting area of his quarters.

  And stopped, dumbstruck.

  Chief Xang had been busy. He had brought in and set up one of the small but elegant pedestal tables kept in ship’s stores to display trophies, plaques, and other honors awarded to the ship. He had installed several microspots, small but powerful and tightly focused lamps that cast a bright, precisely directional beam of light and that drew their power from hair thin, almost invisible wires plugged into tiny pores every half meter or so in the bulkheads. And, he had placed on the table, turned to its most flattering angle, perfectly lit from above and four sides by microspots, filling the doctor’s quarters with an ethereal radiance of shimmering blues and purples and violets, the exquisitely glowing “Birth of the Waters.”

  Chapter 19

  19:52Z Hours 5 February 2315 (Navy Day)

  The Cumberland’s wardroom was full of singing. Not particularly tuneful singing, as those assembled were not chosen for their musical abilities. And not particularly articulate singing, as those assembled had been partaking rather liberally of the excellent beer and wine and ardent spirits taken aboard at Rashid IV. But, what the singing lacked in musicality and precision it made up in volume and enthusiasm, for it was Navy Day, the Union holiday set aside to honor the men (and very, very few women) who defended humanity’s very existence by service in Deep Space. And, the men in the Wardroom were singing a particularly Naval song, one with its roots sunk deep in the traditions of the Service, back to the days before man reached for the stars, before he even managed to coax his frail, little ships into sailing against the wind and tide by pushing them with smoky boilers, scalding steam, and whirling machinery. This song was a legacy from the days of oaken hulls and billowing sails, of “ships of wood and men of iron.” For more than five hundred years, men had handed it down like a cherished family heirloom, until now it was given booming voice in the cold void between the stars, a thousand light years from home.

  The words had evolved to fit the needs of a time harsher and more desperate than the age that gave rise to the original, but the tune was one that would have brought a smile to the face of Lord Nelson. He knew it as “Heart of Oak.” Over the centuries, it had become “Hearts of Steel.”

  To Stations my lads, 'tis to glory we steer,

  Oh, sons of the Union, we fight without fear;

  'Tis to Honor you call us, for Honor we stand;

  We brothers in valor await fame’s command.

  And the chorus rang out with even more gusto, as the half dozen or so Senior Midshipman who did not know the verses joined in. These boys, ages fifteen to seventeen, were even more thoroughly inebriated than the Officers because, although naval regulations prohibited giving them alcohol, by immemorial naval tradition they were permitted beer, wine, ale, and stout on certain holidays, including Navy Day (February 5), Union Day (July 20), and the birthdays of Admiral Nelson (September 29) Admiral Halsey (October 30), and General Patton (November 11).

  Hearts of steel, that’s our ships; hearts of steel, that’s our men.

  We always are ready; steady, boys, steady!

  We'll fight, not surrender, again and again.

  When the next verse began, the Mids stopped singing and went back to drinking. The officers carried on, sounding very much as though they had the blood of Mars in their veins.

  We’ll take payment in blood for the debt Krag must pay,

  And carve them with cutlass when they come to play;

  Our courage defiant ennobles the stars,

  Stalwart sons of Ares, strong offspring of Mars.

  The Mids joined in the Chorus again, this time even more loudly, many arm in arm and swaying back and forth in unison while Max’s booming bass and “Werner” Brown’s tuneful, yet powerful baritone practically rattled the china with “steady, boys, steady,” a phrase that had endured without change from the song’s “hard tack and salt horse” roots.

  The officers forged on into the concluding verse while the Mids refilled their glasses.

  We still make them bleed and we still make them die,

  And we shout mighty cheers as they fall from the sky;

  So cheer up me lads and let’s sing with one heart,

  We will win this war if we all do our part.

  The song was topped off by another repetition of the Chorus, sung even more loudly than the first two iterations and ending with a resounding thump as each man in the room honored tradition by pounding his fist on the table with the last “again.” Tradition also required that, after any singing of “Hearts of Steel,” glasses be drunk down and refilled—tradition that was, in this case, enthusiastically honored.

  A delightful meal, superb drink, manly singing, and naval companionship all combined to create a fine, warm mood in the wardroom, the kind of mood that made up for days and weeks of long, lonely service, short rations, protracted hardship, and extreme danger. When glasses had been filled all around, the Captain stood at the head of the wardroom table, and began to speak, the talk in the room dying quickly. “Gentlemen, I have two toasts. And only two.” Cries of “hear hear” made their way round the table, as many officers had endured endless litanies of Navy Day toasts from inebriated COs who had no inkling of when to shut up. “First, to our greatly esteemed Doctor Ibrahim Sahin, who acquired for us this outstanding food and excellent drink. I shall never again wonder which of my officers is best suited to go planetside and act as this vessel’s victualer.” He drained his glass, containing about two fingers’ worth of the warm, dark, fragrant liquid distilled only in an exotic corner of the galaxy known as Kentucky.

  “Hear, hear! To the doctor!” the officers responded, and drained their glasses.

  “Now, recharge your guns, gentlemen,” he said. All refilled their glasses.

  “Today is Navy Day. I’m just a plain-speaking fighting man, so I can’t give you a stirring speech about what the Navy means to each of us. But I can say this. Every one of you is a volunteer, most from boyhood. Every one of you has had at least one chance, most of you several, to leave the Service at the end of a tour and has re-enlisted. You have decided to make the Navy your life, not just once but many times. There is something about the Navy that has kept you here. Only you know, deep in your hearts, what that is. It is likely different for each of you.

  “I want to take this time to tell you what it is for me. For many years, I had the honor of serving under one of the greatest men to ever wear the uniform, Commodore—now Fleet Admiral—Charles L. Middleton.” Several of those present rapped their knuckles on the table or raised their glasses in tribute. Admiral Middleton was almost universally loved and respected, not just for his strategic brilliance but for his psychological insight which was reputed to be better than that of any other man in the Navy. “At a gathering like this, when I had just been commissioned as an Ensign on board the old Battlecruiser Margaret Jackie, someone asked him what it all meant. ‘Commodore Middleton, what does it all mean, life, the Navy, our purpose for being, the Universe, and everything else?’ Now, as many of you know, old Uncle Middy can be a bit long winded,” a few men smiled at their own recollections of the admiral’s infamous loquaciousness, “and we all expected quite a speech, but not this time. He just smiled and said one word: ‘love.’

  “I didn’t get what he meant back then. I thought he was talking about romantic love, or maybe the love that parents and children have for each other. But now I understand. He was talking about the kind of love that we have here, in the Navy. It may seem a strange thing to say about a service that has as its goal taking or killing the enemy, but at its very core the Navy is all about love. Because, gentlemen, loyalty is love—love for your ship, and love for your shipmates. Patriotism is love—love for the Union and the things that it stands for and protects. And, even Courage is love—the love of all these things and added to it the love of Duty and
Honor that is so powerful that for its sake you reach down to the very bottom of your deepest well of resolve and do what you have to do no matter how difficult it is and no matter how afraid you may be. And, understood in that light, the Navy is the greatest home and repository and source of love in the galaxy. She has no equal. So, gentlemen, raise your glasses and lift your hearts to that which moves us, to that which sustains us, to that which protects us, to that which gives us life, and to that which calls us to love, to duty, to honor, to glory.

  “To the Navy. May she live forever.”

  As one man they stood and drained their glasses.

  ***

  There was even more eating and drinking and singing one deck lower and sixteen meters aft in the Enlisted Mess, where food was generally served cafeteria style and the men helped themselves to whatever drink suited them. The songs included “Hearts of Steel,” just as in the Wardroom, other patriotic songs, and some others of a bawdier variety. Indeed, one old Able Spacer managed to lead the company through seventeen of the twenty-nine verses to “The Dirty Old Whore from Alnitak, Rendezvous” before passing out slumped against the soft serve ice cream dispenser. Even Clouseau, the ship’s cat, was enjoying the festivities, circulating from one Mid’s lap to another, begging little scraps of meat with an endearing tilt of the head and an occasional quiet meow. Indeed, he was not above stealing some of the tastier-smelling morsels from the plates of men and boys whose vigilance was impaired by drink.

  Most of the squeakers, the youngest classes Midshipmen who spent more of their day in the ship’s school than in official duties, were present and were even allowed tiny amounts of the smallest beer and of wine diluted with ginger ale under the watchful eye of Midshipman Trainer, “Mother Goose” Amborsky, who was on this day celebrating his thirty-second Navy Day in uniform. Old Mother Goose had taken a bit more than usual of the potato Vodka he favored and was in a talkative frame of mind, almost a different man from the gruff and laconic, but inwardly gentle, man the squeakers were used to seeing. Sensing this difference in mood, the boys had drawn out the Chief, getting him to reminisce about his younger days in the Navy and the changes in the service over the years. At the end of one such story, about how in the Portugal Class Battlecruisers all the Midshipmen were crowded into one cabin and slept on hammocks suspended from the ceiling—hammocks that, along with their boyish burdens, tended to become hopelessly tangled if the ship’s artificial gravity failed—the youngest Midshipman, the one stuck with the nickname “Will Robinson” until someone even younger came aboard, asked, “Chief, is it true you was in the Navy on the first day of the war?”