To Honor You Call Us (Man of War)

by Honsinger, H. Paul

  A few minutes later, three chief petty officers sat around a small table in a tiny office for the use of CPOs, known as the “Goat Locker.” They were not happy. “Ship’s going to hell on a maglev rail,” said the first.

  “You got that right,” said the second. “First thing young Captain ‘Row-Bye-Shit’ does is stop the crew from doing the one thing that it’s really good at. You can’t have a taut ship if the men don’t have pride in her, that’s for sure.”

  “And discipline’s going to go out the airlock, to boot,” the third chimed in. “All this namby-pamby nonsense about encouraging the men and not crossing the line and not punishing them for not doing their duty… there’ll be hell to pay for it. With this bunch, you’ve got to be on them every second, and they’ve got to know that if they don’t do their duty, there’s more waiting for them than harsh language and being put on report.”

  “On top of that, this young torpedo jockey is going to get us killed, every man and boy of us. I can feel it. He’s reckless. And this deployment is a suicide mission. It’s all right out of some third-rate trid vid: resupply caches known only to him, independent operations in the Free Corridor, destroy enemy shipping—all bullshit!” The first one was starting to get worked up. “That’s not what destroyers do. We’re escorts. We operate with other ships. Right in the training manuals, it says that the functions of a destroyer are primarily to screen larger ships from attack by fighters and other smaller ships, scout the route ahead, and operate as sensor pickets for the Task Force, not run around on our own in a distant sector cut off from all support like some overlong tree branch just waiting to get chopped off. There’s only two ways this ends. We’re all either cold dust between the stars or louse bait in some Krag POW camp.”

  “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 contained confidential remarks from the admiral himself, addressed to Max’s attention and for his eyes only. Max sat 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 other assorted 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’s 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 had arrived 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. 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, so 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, 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 that 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 something between five and seven ships running all the time, usually about half a dozen charters and the two with family members on board that were owned by the company.”

  “Well, that wouldn’t make it one of the big players, but that’s still a pretty good-sized company. What kind of trading—” The comm panel beeped unexpectedly. Startled, Max flinched. He shot a quick glance at Dr. Sahin, who was studiously looking toward the porthole, as though making a point of not noticing Max’s reaction, although Max was certain he had noticed. Damn. He hit the button to open the comm circuit.

  “Robichaux.”

  “Skipper, this is the XO. We’ve got a minor power deficit on the forward main deflectors. Brown says he’ll get the problem licked within the hour, but until he does, I’d like to transfer some power from the rear deflectors. Regulations don’t allow me to do that without approval of the CO.”

  “Granted,” Max said at once. “Let me know if there is any further problem.”

  “Aye, sir.” Max closed the circuit.

  “Where was I? Right. What 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 meet their business contacts.

  “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, on many worlds in the Corridor I know people or—at least know people who know people—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.”

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

  “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 to pass for a cousin at least. 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?”

  “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 in less than an hour, with my duffel ready for an extended cruise as her chief medical officer, he was going to play table tennis with my testicles.”

  “Sounds like you were shanghaied, Doctor.”

  “Indeed.”

  “So, is everything satisfactory?”

  “For a ship with a complement of 215 men and boys, I find the Casualty Station admirably well equipped and stocked. 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 that I plan to remedy 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 need only 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, only two weeks after the Gynophage attack, so when I joined my first ship, the San Jacinto, the crew was still about a third female.”

  “But post-Gynophage…”

  “Post-Gynophage, it’s a different ballgame,” said Max.

  A different ballgame didn’t begin to describe it. The Gynophage was an incredibly deadly viral disease cooked up by the Krag and launched against the Union sometime in the 2285 or 2286. It was carried on board 217 highly stealthed compression drive drones programmed to reach 217 different planets throughout the Union within hours of each other on 12 August 2295, the fourteenth year of the war, and to dispense thousands of atmosphere entry vehicles that spread the virus in the air over population centers.

  Although the virus almost instantly infected everyone it reached, most males experienced no symptoms. Women, on the other hand, were subject to excruciating Ebola-like liquefaction of their internal organs and death within hours of infection, at a rate of nearly 99 percent. Those few whom it did not kill, it rendered scarred, brain damaged, and sterile.

  As if that were not bad enough, the disease spread rapidly from person to person by virtually every known means of disease transmission. As infected men fled affected planets on private spacecraft, they spread the disease to the remaining Union worlds within days. Only a Herculean effort, involving practically every human medical researcher in the galaxy, costing more than 300 trillion credits, and tying up most of the interstellar communications bandwidth and computing power available to the human race, saved humanity from extinction. In only thirty-two days from day of the attack, the Gynophage Project developed a combination antibody serum and vaccine known as the Moro Treatment, after the head of the project, the brilliant Kenyan physician and medical researcher, Dr. Emeka Moro.

  With more than half of the human females in the galaxy dead and the demographic future of humankind in doubt, the Navy withdrew almost all of its serving female personnel, most of whom were of childbearing age, to the Core Systems, effectively making the Navy an all-male force.

  “It’s certainly unfair to the women who might want to serve, but I don’t see any way around it,” said Max. “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, aboard 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, he had no choice but to go forward. “There was a pulse cannon coolant leak yesterday, before I came aboard, and several of the men were briefly exposed to the fumes. There were no apparent injuries at the time, but I was conducting 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 were 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.”