To Honor You Call Us (Man of War)

by Honsinger, H. Paul

  “Maneuvering, bring us to a stop and null the drives. Let’s talk to the Pfelung and figure out what we’re doing before we go anywhere.”

  Maneuvering executed the order. Max looked around at the men in CIC, all of whom seemed to have made a decision at that same instant to look up from their stations and meet the eyes of their shipmates. Without saying a word, they all knew they were sharing the same thoughts. They were alive. They had stopped the Krag. They had won the battle. The Cumberland Gap was closed.

  Chin broke the spell. “Incoming message. It’s Admiral Cenruu-Maa 114. Text only. Displaying now.”

  “WE OFFER THANKS AND APOLOGIES STOP WE SHARE YOUR SADNESS AT BRAVE PASSING OF THOSE WITH WHOM YOU SWAM STOP IMPERATIVE THAT WE TASTE THE SAME MUD AS ACCREDITED REPRESENTATIVE OF YOUR GOVERNMENT AT EARLIEST POSSIBLE TIDE STOP PLEASE ADVISE IF THIS IS POSSIBLE STOP MESSAGE ENDS.”

  “It’s a pity that we don’t have an accredited diplomat on board,” said the doctor. “We could conclude a Mutual Defense and Cooperation of Forces Treaty right now.”

  Max smiled. “Funny you should say that.”

  * * *

  CHAPTER 24

  * * *

  13:42Z Hours (07:19 Local Time—High Tide), 10 February 2315

  As several of the space-faring species of the Orion-Cygnus arm of the Milky Way Galaxy almost simultaneously developed interstellar travel and started to encounter one another in the early twenty-second century, customary rules and processes of diplomacy gradually and cautiously evolved. By an accident of history, some would say a very unfortunate accident, Earth’s unique recent history of being divided into dozens of semi-hostile nation-states meant that humans were one of the few species with any extensive diplomatic experience and a readily available set of sophisticated rules for dealings between independent governments. Accordingly, the forms of diplomacy used among the three dozen or so cultures that interacted with one another in Known Space tended to follow, at least generally, those that evolved on Earth.

  So, it was in accordance with those usages, that the captain of the USS Cumberland, as the commanding officer of a Rated Warship on Detached Service with an accredited diplomat on board, exchanged several messages with the Pfelung Commissariat for Communications with Creatures Who Live Beyond the Waters to negotiate the precise time at which the new acting Union ambassador would present his credentials. The result of those communications was that Max, in full dress whites, and the doctor, also in full dress whites augmented by the bright turquoise sash worn by a Union naval officer serving as an ambassador to a foreign power, were standing on a ceremonial polished stone platform at the edge of a shallow tidal pool, its gentle waves lapping quietly at the edge.

  In the pool was no less a dignitary than the Pfelung Commissar for Communications with Creatures Who Live Beyond the Waters, a finely formed adult male of 185 kilograms, looking a bit like a giant catfish with crocodile legs and wise, patient eyes the size of grapefruits, accompanied by his adjutant, a somewhat smaller male of similar shape, and three females about half their size. The females were present in the capacity of witnesses from the Ruling Hatchery, which was the Pfelung’s female-only legislative branch. Although evolution had left the Pfelung only semiaquatic, and they performed a lot of business on dry land and from time to time even in buildings, they preferred to conduct high ceremony from shallow muddy pools. This one was their favorite for major diplomacy, as the mud was particularly full of delicious segmented worms.

  The large male made a long string of noises that sounded like, and had in fact evolved from, the sounds one would make blowing air into soupy mud. The sounds reminded Max of a child playing with his oatmeal by using a drinking straw to make bubbles. The translator modules in the men’s unobtrusive ear pieces translated the blops and bloops into Standard.

  “On behalf of the Pfelung people, we welcome you, the representatives of the Terran Union, to our world, to our waters, and to taste our mud with us. Let both our peoples remember this day. So that our people could survive, some of those with whom you swam gave their lives. Their blood has entered the stream to be carried to the Great Sea. We grieve with you for their loss.

  “Our common enemy has spilled the blood of our people as well. Their blood has entered the stream, been carried to the Great Sea, and now mingles with that of your people. That blood now ties us together. Its scent in the water enrages us. We can no longer remain neutral. Your struggle is now our struggle. Your enemy is now our enemy. The Krag shall now be food for the lesser fish. They shall be a portion for the worms. That is all I have to say on this subject. The prospective ambassador may now present his credentials.”

  At this point, on most worlds the prospective ambassador would hand a document known as a “Letter of Credence” to the relevant official. But as one does not hand a piece of paper to a Pfelung almost eyeball deep in a muddy pool (the document is delivered to an aide, who appears near the end of the ceremony to put it in a file), the doctor read the document out loud in his somewhat stilted but cultured voice.

  “To the Commissar for Communication with Creatures Who Live Beyond the Waters, The Political and Economic Association of the Pfelung Worlds, greetings. Pursuant to the Fourth Revised and Supplemental Articles of War of 9 September 2312, under the authority vested in me as vice admiral and senior officer in this theater, I do hereby name, constitute, and appoint Ibrahim Sahin, BA, BS, MA, MD, as Acting Ambassador and Minister Plenipotentiary from the Union of Earth and Terran Settled Worlds, to the Pfelung Association with all the rights, privileges, and duties appertaining thereto under Union law and the usages of interstellar diplomacy, to serve until such time as a regularly appointed ambassador shall arrive at the Pfelung seat of government and have his or her credentials accepted by proper authority. Thus given under my hand and seal this twentieth day of January in the year 2315, Louis G. Hornmeyer, Vice Admiral, Commanding, Task Force Tango Delta.”

  The commissar listened to the translation coming over a seashell-looking device that he held in one gill, apparently against a hearing organ located there, then made more bubbling noises. The translator rendered his words quickly in its neutral, machine voice.

  “I hereby accept your credentials and recognize you, Dr. Ibrahim Sahin, as Ambassador and Minister Plenipotentiary of the government of the Union of Earth and Terran Settled Worlds. On behalf of the people of the Pfelung Association, please accept my hope that you enjoy both the purity and the temperature of the streams in which you swim, that you find our ponds to your liking, and that your gills remain free of parasites.” At that, he promptly submerged and swam away, the universal Pfelung sign that the audience was at an end.

  At that moment, another Pfelung male waddled his way up to the two men and said through their translators, “Ambassador, I am Herm-Mekk 943, Assistant Subcommissar. May I please take your Letter of Credence?”

  The doctor gave him the document, which he grasped between two of his dozen or so finger-like prehensile mouth parts, and he slipped it into a satchel worn around his midriff.

  “Now, if you gentlemen will follow me to the Commissariat building, I will show you to your meeting with Subcommissar Huugah-Han 134 and Admiral Cenruu-Maa 114 for discussions regarding the proposed Mutual Defense and Cooperation of Forces Treaty.”

  Max and the doctor followed the young Pfelung along a worn but somewhat muddy path—apparently the kind the Pfelung like—toward a building a few hundred meters away.

  “If I may ask,” said the doctor, “what are the intentions of the subcommissar and the admiral?”

  “It is a proper question,” responded Herm-Mekk, “although some species prefer a great deal of circumlocution and prevarication before discussing and deciding the meaningful issues. We Pfelung find that, as compared to other species, we are direct. Firm, even stubborn, but direct.”

  Max laughed out loud. “Direct diplomats. You must be unique in all the galaxy. You will get on famously with us. My friend and I are not diplomats at heart: he is
a healer and I am a military man.”

  “That is good. We do not enjoy indirect and imprecise communications. They flow too closely to the current of deception and outright falsehood. On the issues covered by this treaty, we are strongly disposed to be in accord with you. We are with your people because your strategic interests and ours are two currents flowing in the same river bed. And with you, Captain, for your heroism on our behalf and with you, Ambassador, for your obvious understanding of the importance that things of beauty have to the Pfelung soul.

  “A team of staff diplomats, led by myself, labored through the night, without mud between their toes or worms in their mouth parts for so much as a moment, to prepare a draft treaty, with the object of making it so equitable and reasonable that you would accept it with little negotiation, allowing it to be concluded within the next few tides. The plan is to present that draft to you at this meeting. We hope we are not being presumptuous.”

  “Not at all,” said the doctor, nearly overcome with relief that he would not be called upon to do any diplomatic heavy lifting. “We wish to conclude discussions as soon as possible so that our respective military establishments can begin to work out joint arrangements for the defense of this area. In particular, we need to work out with you how to protect the critical jump points in your system until you get those new battle stations constructed.”

  “Those new battle stations that will, we strongly hope, be protected from attack from all sides,” Max added.

  “Yes. That is certain. The Commissariat for the Design of Installations for the Repulsion of Those Who Would Disturb Our Hatcheries is already well along in that regard.”

  The draft treaty proved to be exceptionally reasonable. The doctor needed to propose only a few changes, one relating to exactly when the treaty became effective and one—suggested by Max—a minor amendment regarding the command structure to be employed in Union–Pfelung joint operations. The text of the treaty, with the proposed amendments, was transmitted to the admiral’s legal staff for review and approval (the matter being deemed too urgent to wait for the transmission delays involving a message to Earth), resulting in the approval of the lawyers and the blessings of the admiral.

  The Pfelung speedily accepted both proposed amendments and, indeed, apologized for not including the requested language in the first draft, stating that they should have thought of those matters themselves.

  In fact, the only wrinkle in the whole affair was a sudden insistence by the Ruling Hatchery (four members of which bustled into the meeting room unannounced and apparently in something of a lather) that no further business could be transacted until the Union delegation provided to the Pfelung holographic images, of a certain size and resolution, of Lieutenant Garcia, Chief Amborsky, and the nine other men who died on the cutter, as well as the nonconfidential portions of their service records. Max immediately contacted the ship on his percom, and the requisite data was transmitted on the prescribed channel within five minutes.

  Once the proceedings were concluded, the negotiators, following the Pfelung custom, sat together in a muddy, shallow pool (the new acting ambassador and Max in bathing suits) and spoke at some length about various rivers, lakes, and bays each had visited, including the clarity of the water, the salinity, whether the bottom was muddy or sandy or rocky, and the amplitude of the tides. Max had very little to contribute in this regard, having spent most of his life in space, but he was able to relate a few drunken shore leave frolics in and around bodies of water.

  That ritual completed, the doctor signed and the commissar himself stained the treaty the very afternoon of the day on which discussions began. The commissar’s “staining” of the treaty was accomplished in the standard Pfelung manner by producing a small quantity of the dye the Pfelung squirted into the water to help them evade predators, coating his left ventral fin with the ink, and then leaving a print of the inked fin on the document.

  The diplomatic proceedings concluded, Max and Sahin returned to the ship.

  “I’m certainly very pleased that we obtained this treaty and very gratified at the most complimentary signal sent by the admiral, but I think that people are making a planet out of a meteoroid,” the doctor said over dinner with Max in the captain’s day cabin. Tonight’s dinner was private; the ship’s official celebratory dinner would be the following night, to give the cooks time to lay on something special. Another larger dinner would be held once the admiral and an element of the Task Force arrived in several days.

  “I know all about the Pfelung’s nice little navy and their staggeringly brilliant fighter pilots and their strategic location, but the admiral’s uncustomarily effusive praise and all of the hoopla makes it seem as though this treaty may actually be the key to winning the war.”

  Max had to swallow another bite of a truly splendid blackberry cobbler before he could answer. “Old Hit ’em Hard did pen some very kind words—about you and the treaty at any rate,” said Max. “Of course, he also pointed out that by entering the Pfelung system without their consent, I directly violated my orders to ‘respect all recognized territorial space claims,’ and that the judge advocate was going to have to conduct a formal inquiry to determine whether I am to go before a court martial.”

  “I am quite certain that the inquiry will find you utterly blameless,” said Sahin with a knowing smile. “Given that you won what is likely to become a famous victory and that you did so on the heels of destroying an enemy heavy battlecruiser and two smaller warships, and taking or destroying three freighters and their valuable cargo, they can hardly do anything else.”

  “You don’t know Admiral Hornmeyer. He once court martialed a captain—a full captain by rank, mind you—for crossing the boundary of his designated patrol area to pursue a possible enemy contact. The court busted him down two grades. Last I heard, he was overseeing a fuel depot in the Groombridge 34 system. No, my friend, I would not put it past the admiral to haul me before a court martial and then see that I get busted down to ensign and get sent to the basement of the E Ring of the run-down Old Pentagon on Earth to work in the Department for the Production of Zippers, Buttons, Snaps, Hooks, and Other Clothing Fasteners.”

  “You are practicing on my credulous simplicity. Tell me truly: there is no such department, is there?”

  “Well, I must admit that I’ve never heard of such a department and that I made that name up. But I know enough about the military bureaucracy that there is a department very much like it somewhere. I guarantee it, even if the name may be somewhat different.”

  “I thought so. Anyway, as we were saying, I think your worries are exaggerated. By my reading of the situation, you are a naval hero, and I cannot imagine bringing a hero up on charges.”

  “Time will tell. My mind will not be at ease, though, until the inquiry is complete and I have a formal exoneration in writing. Going back to the admiral’s remarks, though, I must disagree with you. I don’t think that he overstated the case even to the slightest degree. In fact, I am increasingly convinced that you do not appreciate the strategic value of what just happened here.”

  “You now how obtuse I can be about strategy. Perhaps you could enlighten me.”

  “First, you understand that we have had very few allies in this war. Most of the independent human powers have stayed out, even though the Krag have promised to exterminate them too, eventually. And until now, none of the nonhumans have allied with us. You know, being pushy, upstart monkeys and all that, we’re not terribly popular out here in the wider galaxy. So, the Pfelung have opened the door to more nonhumans, especially since the galactic community holds the Pfelung in generally high esteem, in contrast to us.”

  “So, the Pfelung may help sway galactic opinion.”

  “Precisely, Doctor. We need allies, and the Pfelung are a good start. And then there is the immediate tactical benefit. Our finned friends declare war against the Krag, which the Ruling Hatchery did about an hour ago, and—as an Associated Power under the treaty—they take over th
e defense of five whole border sectors, freeing up more than five dozen destroyers; eleven or twelve cruisers; six or so battleships; and at least two, if not three, carriers to stiffen our defenses elsewhere or to use offensively. The ships are in motion as we speak.

  And the Pfelung forces not needed for defense can supplement operational maneuver groups operating with a radius of a 150 light years, maybe 300, depending on how much of a safety margin they insist on for getting home in time to mate.”

  “I can see where that might make a difference. Absolutely.”

  “I know that you said you understood the strategic location of this system, but I suspect you were seeing it only defensively. Think of the offensive possibilities.” Ways of taking the war to the Krag were always foremost in Max’s mind.

  “Just as this system represented a shortcut for them around our defenses and directly into the heart of our space, it’s a shortcut for us in the other direction. The jump point from this system that our cutter blocked, when it repairs itself, reaches to a point on their coreward flank—a flank that intelligence tells us is very poorly provided with battle stations, cannon platforms, system missile batteries, or other fixed defenses because it faces the hitherto neutral Pfelung Association.

  “Of course, seventy or so days is plenty of time to get ships in there, but it’s a lot easier to punch through defensive formations of ships alone than to punch through a defensive formation of ships integrated with a network of heavy defensive installations. We take the forces freed up, combine them with the additional forces our allies can supply, and use this system as the invasion route, and that lets us go on the offensive in this theater. We can start pushing them back for a change.”

  “You seem excited at the prospect.”

  “Damn straight, I am. And here’s the kicker. That offensive has a chance to finally succeed because we now have a forward source for fuel that we don’t have to haul all the way from the Core Systems or produce with separation ships. Two-thirds of our logistics capability is devoted to fuel, you know. If we had a fuel source close to this front, it would cure the bottleneck in transporting munitions, food, medical supplies, spares—everything.