To Honor You Call Us (Man of War)

by Honsinger, H. Paul

  Bad news: One, the Cumberland, a known “problem” ship that had turned in a disappointing performance in two fleet actions (or as Caesar might have said, “She came, she saw, she ran like hell”), was becoming known around the fleet as “The Cumberland Gap.” Two, her skipper and XO had recently been relieved, and rumor had it that many of her senior noncoms had been reassigned to shore duty back in the Core Systems. Three, whatever problems the ship had, there would be plenty of leftovers still aboard for Max to deal with as the new CO.

  The rest? A mystery until he opened the sealed orders, but there were hints that gave him hope. The orders directed him to part company no later than fifteen minutes after his appointment as skipper became effective, which said that “Old Hit ’em Hard” was in a hurry. And the “kick ass” part smelled like orders for combat. He wouldn’t say “kick ass” if the Cumberland were going to be assigned to patrol a rear area or escort a hospital ship back to Earth or Alphacen, right?

  Max had a lot to do and not a lot of time in which to do it. For the next several hours, he was going to be nothing but assholes and elbows. His first errand, though, was going to be a pleasure—a trip to the quartermaster to draw the uniforms, patches, and, most important, the coveted Command in Space Badges (one for each uniform) and lieutenant commander’s insignia that went along with his new posting and rank. Then, he needed to belly up to a workstation to access everything he could learn about the Cumberland and her crew.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 2

  * * *

  08:53Z Hours, 21 January 2315

  Max sat in the copilot’s seat of the transferpod as it glided across the seventeen kilometers of space that separated the Halsey from the Cumberland. There was no sense of motion except when the pod was nudged gently every few minutes by short growling burns from its maneuvering thrusters. He would have preferred to pilot the pod himself, but there were things that commanding officers of rated warships did not do: They did not carry their own gear (his gear had been sent over by a different pod and presumably had already been stowed in his quarters). They did not pour their own coffee unless they were alone. They did not shine their own boots. And most emphatically, they did not pilot their own transferpods.

  At this distance, and with the fleet moving slowly through the shadow of the tawny fourth planet out from this particular star—a gas giant world boasting a spectacular ring system—not even the outline of the Cumberland could be seen, but only the winking pinpoints of red, green, blue, and white running lights and the barely visible white rectangles of the occasional viewport. Max longed for a good look at his new command, even though Union warships were never very exciting to look at. They were all essentially long, squared cylinders (or long, rounded boxes) with the rounded bluntness of the sensor array on one end and sublight propulsion systems on the other, with much of everything in between studded with an apparently haphazard collection of smaller cylinders, antennas, weapons ports, point defense turrets, missile launch tubes, field emitters, and other mechanisms that helped the ship find the enemy, elude the enemy, confuse the enemy, or—Max’s favorite—blow the enemy to hell.

  Even as he drew closer, the lines of the vessel stubbornly refused to resolve themselves. Union warships were jet black, their hulls coated with a polymer that absorbed light and most other forms of electromagnetic radiation so as to make the ship more difficult to detect. With running lights off and viewports shuttered, she was virtually invisible to the naked eye and darned hard to spot even with sensitive instruments. Even now, with running lights on, docking hatches illuminated, and viewport shutters open, the eye could not trace out her shape and lines from the disconnected dots and blobs of light that appeared to be floating in the darkness, unrelated to one another.

  The pod was headed toward a green, blinking circle that indicated the main docking port through which he would gain entrance to the ship. The young able spacer second class piloting the tiny vessel guided it with practiced precision toward its destination. When the pod was ten meters from the port, he brought it to a stop and keyed the autodock sequence. Control of the pod transferred automatically to the Cumberland, which rotated the pod 180 degrees to bring its airlock in contact with the hatch and extended the docking seal. A slight hiss, followed by two distinct thumps, signaled to Max that the pressures had equalized between the two vessels and that both sets of outer airlock doors—those for the pod and those for the Cumberland—had opened.

  A recorded voice announced, “Initiating artificial gravity” as the Cumberland’s gravity was extended through induction into the pod. Feeling his weight return, Max stood, walked to the airlock, and took a deep breath. You’re on, he said to himself as he palmed the door mechanism.

  Both sets of inner doors slid open, revealing the Cumberland’s salute deck, a small, square compartment holding six naval officers in white dress uniforms, an honor guard of six Union Marines in the emerald green of their service’s dress uniform, the boatswain in the scarlet dress uniform of a senior naval noncommissioned officer, and one man in the plain black tunic and pants of an officer from the Union Military Intelligence Directorate. Max took all of this in without turning his head or showing any expression.

  Almost lightheaded from emotion, he took one precise step from the pod onto the deck—his first onto his new command—and paused, feet together, for a slow count of five as he heard both sets of doors close and the transferpod detach from the airlock behind him. He then pivoted ninety degrees to his left so that he was facing aft and was looking directly at the Union national flag and the Union naval, or Admiralty, flag standing next to one another on flagpoles against the left bulkhead just inside the hatch. He briskly saluted them, then reversed the turn exactly to face an officer, a lieutenant who apparently was the XO, standing in his path about a meter and a half inside the hatch. Max brought himself into a second salute and held it. “Permission to come aboard, sir.”

  The lieutenant brought himself into a salute and held it while he said, “Permission granted, sir. Welcome aboard.” He snapped his hand back to his side. A split second later, Max’s hand followed suit. The lieutenant then said, “Attention on deck,” and pressed a key on his percom. A chime sounded on the salute deck and throughout the ship, signaling that every word uttered in that compartment would be heard by all hands.

  Max reached into the inside pocket of his uniform tunic, the pocket made for precisely this purpose, and removed the formal Commanding Officer’s Warrant that had been delivered to him only an hour before. He unfolded the document and read aloud in his best official voice:

  “By the Authority of the President, the Assembly, and the Senate of the Union of Earth and Terran Settled Worlds, and by directive of the Commissioners of the Admiralty, I hereby name, appoint, and constitute Lieutenant Commander Maxime Tindall Robichaux to hold and carry out the post of Master and Commander of the Union Space Ship Cumberland, Registry Number DPA 0004, the same being a vessel of war in the service of the Union Space Navy. The said Maxime Tindall Robichaux is hereby required and directed forthwith to take charge and command of the aforementioned vessel; to obey all applicable laws, regulations, standing orders, and operational orders that shall issue from duly constituted authority from time to time; and to secure due obedience to the same from all persons lawfully under his command. Let him answer to the contrary at his peril. And for all of the above and foregoing, let this be his warrant. Given by my hand and seal this twenty-first day of January in the year 2315, by Louis G. Hornmeyer, Vice Admiral, Commanding, Task Force Tango Delta.”

  As soon as the echo of the word “Delta” died, the Boatswain sounded two notes on his whistle and announced in a stentorian tone: “Cumberland arriving.”

  “I relieve you, sir,” said Max to the lieutenant in front of him.

  “I stand relieved,” he replied.

  “It is with pleasure and pride that I accept the honor and responsibility of command of this fine vessel,” Max said, sounding anything but full
of pleasure. “I look forward to meeting all of you and, more important, to meeting and destroying the enemy. Let the deck officer log the change in command. All standing orders to remain in force until further notice. That is all.”

  Max shook the lieutenant’s hand firmly. The man responded with equal firmness and with what seemed like genuine warmth.

  “Max Robichaux. You must be Garcia.”

  “Yes, sir. Roger Garcia. Welcome aboard, sir. Shall I introduce the officers?”

  “Later, I think. Old Hit ’em Hard wants us underway with celerity.” Everyone in the Task Force was taking delight in using that word, which until recently had been a part of practically no one’s vocabulary. “What’s our status?”

  “Well, sir, the ship is ready for departure in all respects. We’ve got a top drawer chief engineer—really has his thrusters aligned. Sublight drive is on standby; navigational sensors and deflectors are energized; and Engineering is standing by to answer bells. All we need is a course and speed.”

  “Outstanding.” Max was liking this XO already. “Course is one-one-five mark two-six-two, speed zero-point-zero-one c. Destination is Navbuoy Juliett Alfa Hotel one-niner-three-niner.”

  Garcia spoke into his percom. “XO to Maneuvering, did you get that?”

  A voice responded from the unit, “Maneuvering to XO, aye, aye. Course one-one-five mark two-six-two, zero-point-zero-one c, destination Navbuoy Juliett Alfa Hotel one-niner-three-niner. Sir, are we rendezvousing with the buoy?” Maneuvering wanted to know whether he would be required to decelerate at the end of the run and stop at the buoy.

  Garcia looked questioningly at Max.

  “Negative.”

  “Negative,” repeated the XO. “You are clear to maneuver.”

  “Understood, no terminal deceleration. Clear to maneuver, aye. Engineering reports main sublight drive ready to engage.” A short pause. “Engaging.” Another short pause. “Helm responding and ship coming to new heading.” With the inertial compensators apparently set for less than maximum, Max could feel the ship start to move and the deck shift slightly under his feet. “Steady on one-one-five mark two-six-two, accelerating at Standard.”

  From what Max could hear, whatever was wrong with the ship had not affected the really sharp-sounding man at Maneuvering.

  “Very well,” Garcia said. Then, to Max, “We’re under way, Skipper.”

  “Well done, XO. How long have you had the ship?”

  “Only about eighteen hours, sir. I joined her at Jellicoe Station and brought her here.”

  “I understand.” The man hadn’t been on board long enough to unpack his gear, much less make his mark on the crew. Whatever kind of order the ship was in, Max could not reasonably hold the XO responsible, and Max’s response communicated that understanding. “I’ll meet you in CIC shortly.”

  “Very good, sir. See you there.” The two men shook hands again. Max nodded slightly to the remainder of those assembled on the salute deck, and following the route he had carefully memorized (it simply does not do for a new captain to be seen making wrong turns or wandering about lost on his own ship, no matter how new he may be to her), he went to his cabin. Even on a ship as small as Cumberland the captain enjoyed a relatively spacious suite, consisting of a combination office, changing room, and dining area known as the “day cabin,” with a small attached lavatory; and a “berth cabin” that contained a bed, various lockers for personal effects, a small sitting area, and a full bathroom with shower.

  It was in the day cabin that Max carefully removed his dress whites and hung them in his uniform locker, before selecting the correct uniform designed to communicate exactly the message he wanted to send to the whole crew upon walking into his CIC for the first time. After putting it on, he accessed a security-keyed section of the day cabin lockers to retrieve just one more item.

  A warship’s control center is never perched in a vulnerable position at the top of its command hull or in its bow behind a huge set of windows. Rather, it is locked away like the crown jewels of a particularly paranoid king, nestled near the masses of computer cores and communication gear that allow it to function, deep in the center of the vessel; surrounded by an independent set of armored bulkheads; provided with its own life support and power supply; and accessible only through a single vault-like hatch watched unceasingly by several layers of electronic protection and heavily armed Marines.

  Accordingly, two immense privates and one lean, grizzled sergeant, all holding M-88 pulse rifles at the ready and also bearing sidearms and boarding cutlasses, watched carefully as Max placed his palm on the CIC access scanner. It was not until the scanner’s readout changed from red to green, and the CIC hatch opened to admit him that they shouldered their weapons, nodded respectfully, and stood aside, allowing him to enter the ship’s sanctum sanctorum.

  Max took a deep breath and stepped into CIC. A midshipman posted by the hatch, barely thirteen by the look of him, spotted Max immediately and piped at the top of his adolescent lungs, “Captain on deck!” Everyone in CIC, except for those personnel seated at critical control stations, immediately snapped to rigid attention.

  “As you were.” That fast, Max knew something was seriously wrong on this ship. The midshipman’s voice, apparently in the midst of changing from preadolescent soprano to something approaching baritone or even bass, broke comically in the middle of the word “deck.” Although the boy blushed furiously, no one laughed. Not even a quickly stifled giggle from another midshipman. If even the generally irrepressible boys, who were on the ship to experience the life of a fighting man on a Union warship and to begin their training to become enlisted men and officers, were too cowed to laugh, that was bad. Very bad.

  Max knew he had to start turning things around, and he couldn’t start any sooner than now. “What’s your name, son?”

  “Kurtz, sir.” The young man’s voice broke again, this time yet more comically. The child was, if possible, even more terrified than before.

  Max smiled warmly at the boy and said softly, “Relax just a bit, son. Keep that up and you’ll strain something.” And more loudly, “Very good, Mr. Kurtz. Carry on.”

  Max started to walk the several steps that would take him from the hatch to the command island where the CO and XO Stations were located. As he cleared the bank of damage control monitors that blocked most of the CIC from seeing more than the top of his head, Max could hear the slight intakes of breath and shifting in place that indicated that people were startled at what they saw.

  So, they’re startled. Good.

  Everyone in CIC was wearing dress blues. That is, everyone except the skipper. Max was wearing his SCU, or space combat uniform. Although dress blues were just below dress whites in formality and were regarded as being one of the snappiest-looking uniforms in Known Space, the SCU was not snappy looking, even in the slightest. It looked, in fact, like a shotgun marriage between a repair technician’s jumpsuit and a pressure suit, with just a dash of children’s pajamas thrown in as a fashion statement. It consisted of a rugged, royal-blue coverall, with several odd-looking bulges and even odder-looking pockets, and had integrated “booties” that extended over the feet of the wearer. The bulges held two portable oxygen generators, and the pockets held a collapsible zip-on helmet and pressure gloves. This untidy assembly worked together as an emergency pressure suit that could be configured in about thirty seconds to keep the wearer alive for just over two hours in the event of a hull breach or life support failure. He was also wearing his station harness, which would secure him to his duty station if the ship’s artificial gravity failed; his Beretta-Browning M-62 10 mm sidearm, along with five 18-round magazines for the weapon; and his 635-millimeter-long razor-sharp boarding cutlass. In other words, whereas the rest of the CIC crew was dressed to impress, Max was dressed to kill.

  Max turned to Garcia. “XO, status.”

  “Steady on course one-one-five mark two-six-two. Accelerating at Standard. No traffic along our trajectory. ETA at Na
vbuoy JAH one-nine-three-nine is seven minutes. All systems nominal except that when we tested the weapons before departure, we got a flow rate reading in the coolant manifold for the number four pulse cannon that was a little out of tolerance. An engineering crew is tearing down the unit right now.”

  “Very good, Mr. Garcia. Keep me apprised.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Max stood at the CO station and took a long, slow look around. Everyone seemed to be doing their jobs: the plotters were manually adjusting the locations of ship contacts on the 3D tactical projection; the three enlisted men at the controls of the Maneuvering Station were making tiny adjustments to course and drive settings under the watchful eye of a chief petty officer; environmental control specialists were monitoring and tweaking the systems that maintained a livable environment on the ship; and so on around the compartment. Everything looked right and yet was subtly wrong.

  He took a few minutes to walk around, briefly looking at each display, noting that as he approached each station, the man serving it would tense up, ever so slightly. And though most of the displays showed things in good order, two revealed what Max could see were comparatively minor but subtle problems that the watch stander should either have been addressing or should have announced for others to remedy. That’s when he noticed the shine. On everything. All the surfaces in CIC gleamed, even the ones that were unfinished metal when the ship came out of the yard. They gleamed beyond the rigorous level of cleanliness that was normal for a warship—they gleamed as though they had each been polished laboriously, endlessly, obsessively, many, many times over the roughly year and half the ship had been in commission.