A series of roaring sounds, punctuated by growls and snarls came from the audio outputs around the room. This lasted for about fifteen seconds. Then, the computer produced a translation text on a screen beside the image of the Vaaach complete with supposedly helpful explanations, set off by brackets, of terms and cultural references. The Vaaach sat, regarding the camera placidly while it knew the humans were reading the translation. “I am Forest-Victor [a rank believed to be equivalent to a senior Captain or a Commodore] Chrrrlgrf of the Vaaach Sovereignty, son of the perilous Rawlrrhfr Forest, slayer with these claws of the strangling Targruf [a forty-meter long Anaconda-like snake, strong enough to crush a ground car, that lives deep in the Rawlrhrf Forest and is believed to kill several hundred adult Vaaach per year], and victorious commander at the Battle of Hrlrgr [a fleet engagement against Species 9 fought on August 8, 2313 involving more than seventy-five capital ships and resulting in a decisive victory for the Vaaach]. I greet you, tiny, pink, clawless, fangless, furless Human, child of the ridiculous gibbering monkeys that so amuse us in our zoos. Identify yourself and state your purpose in straying so far from the trees out of which your ancestors so foolishly descended.”
This had to be done exactly right. Max made a subtle hand gesture which the computer would recognize as a command to include his whole body in the imager shot. He stood, drew his boarding cutlass, and held it across his chest in a kind of salute. “I am Lieutenant Commander Maxime Tindall Robichaux, Union Space Navy, fierce son of planet Nouvelle Acadiana, a dangerous world completely infested with carnivorous reptilian alligators and swarming with venomous snakes.” A minor exaggeration: the snakes and alligators generally avoid the Polar Regions. “A Frigate under my personal command has vanquished a Krag Battlecruiser of superior force and I have personally slain seventeen Krag with the steel you see before you, two before the sap of manhood had risen in my limbs. My people are at war with the Krag. We go to attack their ships in neutral space. We intend no harm to any Vaaach nor shall we venture anywhere near your dread Sovereignty.”
The Vaaach replied with more pissed off lion and bear sounds, this time consisting of more deep bass rumbling and low snarls. Somehow, Max got the impression that the tension level had just dropped a notch. The translation appeared. “The Vaaach have nothing to fear from your feeble little vessel, so do not waste our time convincing us that you are not a threat to us. We can see that at a glance. You state that you travel to meet the Krag in battle. Good. They are skilled opponents but not worthy ones. They begin wars without declaring them. They kill the innocent for no purpose. They take what they do not need. If your purpose is to kill them, we would not hinder that. The more of them you kill, the more pleased we shall be. Why, though, did you follow our vessel, like a blood drinking pest riding a predator’s tail? This act does not appear to show the respect that one hunter gives another.”
“Dread Forest-Victor, many of my crew have never seen the face of the enemy and have neither drawn his blood nor had theirs drawn. Stalking skills must be practiced against a wily target or, when the trail of the true prey is found, it will elude the stalker and vanish into the trees.”
Max watched as the eyes of the huge alien warrior read the translation of his words. The black nose wrinkled twice, which Max thought was the equivalent of a nod. The claws stopped grooming the arm fur. The Vaaach held his claws with the points aimed at his own face, and seemed to be conducting a visual inspection of their sharpness. A few rumbles ensued, followed by several low, almost relaxed roars. Max’s screen soon read: “So, you seek to sharpen your claws on us before you sink them into the entrails of your enemy. It is very likely that your claws are longer than your fangs but your goal is worthy. Your stalking was not proficient but neither was it entirely unskillful. We will not kill you. At least, not on this hunt. Now, go forth to kill Krag. We may even amuse ourselves by leaving some of its fur behind so that you may take the scent. But, do not stalk us again, lest we kill you for your monkey impertinence. This transmission ends now.”
The screen went blank, the grappling field disengaged, and the huge warship drew away from the Cumberland at astonishing speed.
Still alive. “Maneuvering, resume course to the jump point, point four five c. Comms, check all EM records for the last few seconds of that transmission for something buried in that message. If there’s nothing there, have the computer folks run a file survey and see if there’s any new data that we didn’t put there. I think the mighty Forest Victor just sent us a present.”
“Aye, sir,” answered both Maneuvering and Comms.
“Let me know when you find it. I’ll be in my quarters. XO, you have CIC.”
“Aye, sir. I have CIC.”
Max needed to change uniforms. It would not do for the rest of the men in CIC to get a whiff of his sour, cold sweat.
Chapter 7
19:12Z Hours 22 January 2315
Two more jumps, no more surprises. One of the systems had contained a few civilian freighters making their slow way between jump points at 0.08 c. That was in a system popularly known as Merrick’s Crossing because a disoriented navigator named Austin Merrick had accidently discovered that the system had six instead of the expected three jump points. None of them went anywhere particularly important, but one of the lesser routes between some marginal asteroid mines and some equally marginal foundry planets did traverse the system, which is why the freighters were there.
The steadily improving Sensors section speedily and accurately identified the freighters, Comms extracted the registry and flight plan information from their transponders, and Weapons practiced generating firing solutions on them and simulated their destruction with simulated weapons resulting in not so simulated jubilation from the personnel involved.
Max was alternating between studying the service records of the three Chiefs who tried to sabotage his ship and the bizarre service history of the ship itself when his comm buzzed. He hit the button. “Skipper here.”
“Sir, this is Rochefort in Crypto. Compu section found that Easter egg you were looking for. Somehow the Vaaach managed to write it into our database of space traffic control system approach protocols, but we’ve run every decrypt routine we have on it and I’ve tried some of my own crazy ideas and we can’t even tell what type of file it is, much less read it.”
“Rochefort, what do you know about Vaaach maps?
“Nothing, sir.”
“They aren’t your run of the mill maps. They show two projections. One is the one we are all used to of a static display of the position of objects and the other is a changing perspective following the point of view of the traveler as he moves along various routes. Try decrypting the file as something like that instead of a standard text or numerical message.”
“Aye, sir. Rochefort out.”
“The perspective changes as you go,” Max said to himself. “It changes as you go.” He took a sip of his coffee, gone cold hours ago. Somehow, probably when he had first poured it, Max had sloshed a bit of the coffee on the outside of the mug where it had run down the side and formed a ring around the base. Max had seen thousands of such rings over the years, yet this one held his gaze. Though consisting of the tiniest amount of coffee, somehow the mysterious physics of surface tension and capillary action had managed to distribute the spill into an even circle that went all around the base of where the mug had been, with no part of the ring holding more coffee than any other. It was very close to geometric perfection, and yet, had a man taken that same amount of coffee and tried to draw a perfect circle on the desk with the coffee spread evenly all the way around, Max was certain that the man with all his intelligence would fail where unthinking physics succeeded brilliantly.
Max wiped up the coffee with his napkin, pulled his keyboard towards him, and typed a short order.
Less than five minutes later, the XO, Doctor Sahin, Lieutenant Brown, and Major Kraft were sitting in Max’s Day Cabin sipping coffee. It was the first time he had brought together thes
e four men, whose posts traditionally made them a sort of “kitchen cabinet” or “brain trust” for a ship’s Captain. Some skippers met extensively with these officers or a subset of them, while others tended to make decisions on their own. Max had no idea what his natural command style was. All he knew was that at this hour, on this day, he wanted the benefit of their opinions.
“Gentlemen, I have brought you together so that we can discuss an item of great concern to me. Since this is the first time we have met, I want to make clear what my rules are for these gatherings. You are absolutely free to say whatever is on your mind, without any regard for rank, provided only that we confine our discussion to the issues, and not engage in offensive personality. Everything we say here is unofficial, off the record, and is never to be repeated to anyone under any circumstances. You will never be questioned or be made to explain or answer for anything that happens in this room. And, I, personally, will never hold against you any opinion that you state here. You are, therefore, expected to give me the benefit of your entirely candid, unguarded, and forthright views. Further, I expect everyone here to abide by these same rules. Do I have your agreement?
“XO?”
“Damn straight.”
“Doctor?”
“Indeed.”
“Major?”
“Ja vohl.”
“Werner?”
“Quite right.”
“Very well, then. As you know, we recently apprehended three very senior and highly regarded Chiefs trying to sabotage the Atmosphere Processor Manifold so that we would have to abort the mission. The Major and I have both interrogated these men and are convinced that they’re not working for any foreign power, but that their actions are explained by their concern that the crew and this ship’s new commander were not equal to the mission we had been assigned. Simply put, they were convinced that the mission would end in certain death and they sought to save their own lives and the lives of their shipmates. I would like to talk about what to do with these men.” Kraft opened his mouth as if to speak. Max halted him with his upraised hand.
“Before anyone voices their opinion on this subject, I think a few facts need to be put before you. All of us are new to this ship, so none of us know firsthand how this ship got to be the way it is. I’ve been through the files in the computer here, and Admiral Hornmeyer made some records available to me that I would not otherwise be able to see. Together they tell an interesting story. It is a story you should hear.
“Now, most of y’all know that in those first several months of this war, hell, the first few years of this war, the Navy was in bad shape. Defeat after defeat, fleets withdrawing in disarray, ships rushed into battle from the yards unfinished, virtually untrained men being led straight to their deaths, poor discipline, chaotic logistics, ships in space for years at a time with spacers allowed no leave and living in horrible conditions, irregular pay, inedible food, morale through the bottom deck, you know the story. Well, that’s when the Chief of Naval Operations appointed five Inspectors General with almost complete power to clean up the mess. One of those Inspectors was Captain Frederick Joseph Borman.” Max saw nods about the table. “Yep. You remember the name, all right. The tough old bastard hasn’t been retired that long. Probably the most feared man in the Navy, but also one of the most effective. He attacked the problems head on and what Captain Borman attacked, Captain Borman defeated. But, you all know that.
“Now, here’s the part you don’t know. In order to conduct his famous surprise inspections and snap evaluations, not only did Borman have to be able to get around the entire theater of operations, he had to be able to get around quickly and secretly. The only way to do that was to give him his own ship. It had to be fast so that he could cover a lot of ground and it had to be reasonably powerful so that it could fight its way out of trouble if the Krag penetrated the battle planes and ambushed it, which is the sort of thing that happened all the time back then.
“So, they gave him one of the best designs to come out of that period, a Rubicon Class Destroyer, the U.S.S. Seine, whose skipper was, you guessed it, a young Lieutenant Commander named Allen K. Oscar. As you can imagine, with an IG on board, the Seine wasn’t a fighting ship. She was more of an Admiral’s Yacht. Oscar and his crew learned, probably led in that direction by Borman, to make their ship an example of perfect cleanliness, polish, and obsessive physical perfection. And, because Oscar probably suffered from some minor form of mental disorder, I’m sure Doctor Sahin here could tell you the name, these tendencies became more exaggerated every year. And why not? The Seine never saw combat and was too busy playing taxi to Captain Borman to participate in exercises, so her deficiencies never manifested themselves in a way that anyone could see. No one knew that her missiles gleamed but couldn’t hit a target.
“Then, when Borman retired and the now obsolete Seine was converted into a training vessel, Oscar and his crew—who had gotten stratospherically high Fitness Reports from Borman—were reassigned en masse to a new Destroyer, the Cumberland. Obviously, if BuPers had possessed the merest whiff of a glimmer of a hint of a clue as to how FUBAR this ship was, Oscar would have been given a desk job or been sent to one of those hospitals with lots of grass and trees and birds where they don’t let the patients have any sharp objects. And, they would have broken up the crew, retrained the men, and scattered them all over the fleet. But, no, that’s not what happened because, based on the sacred and holy Fitness Reports done by Inspector General Borman himself, this was an exemplary crew who should be kept together in a new command to preserve their fighting efficiency.
“As if that wasn’t enough of a prescription for disaster, I will also tell you that Captain Oscar and Pang the XO were both exceptionally abusive. It was nothing for Oscar to haul an entire watch from one department or another into the Enlisted Mess or have them stand at attention on the Hangar Deck for an hour and a half while he would scream at them about how incompetent they were and how he should Court Martial the lot of them. Then, there’s all those men in the Brig and on report for minor infractions—you already know about that. And, now, here’s something that I just learned from Doctor Sahin here. It seems that when this ship went through Jellicoe Station to be outfitted for this cruise, the Fleet Medical Service administered the Reed-Brannon Psycho-Physiological Stress Test to this crew and over half tested in the Yellow Zone or higher. Now this is fairly common on a warship, but remember: these men had seen no combat in eight months. This captain pounded these men into a twisted mold, and when we tried to return them to a normal shape, some of them snapped. Now, bearing that in mind, what should we do with them?”
There was a long silence, lasting the better part of a minute as the assembled officers pondered what they had just heard. It was Garcia who spoke first. “I sympathize with them. I’ve seen a lot of what you are talking about. The rot on this ship runs deep and this crew should have been broken up and reassigned. But I don’t trust these three. Not for a minute. So what if they’ve got squirrels in their attic? It just means that they are more likely to do some other crazy thing some other time, say, when we’re even further from home or just as we enter combat. Given our destination and our mission, it’s just too dangerous to give them the run of the ship. Our objective comes first, the safety of this crew and this ship second, and what we feel for these men, men who I admit have had a very difficult time, comes a very, very poor third. My loyalty is with the two-hundred and twelve men and boys who did their duty, not with the three who—whatever their intentions—were giving aid and comfort to the Krag. Remember that we have about two hundred men on board who have been through everything these men have been through but who did not betray their shipmates by trying to sabotage the life support systems in their own vessel. I say leave them in the Brig for the duration and then present them for Court Martial when we get back to the Task Force. They can be Admiral Hornmeyer’s problem, or the Judge Advocate, or the fleet head shrinker. This is one time we should pass the buck—somebody else
made the problem, so let somebody else solve it. We have enough problems of our own.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t feel for them at all. The enemy is supposed to be out there,” Major Kraft jabbed his finger at the stars showing through the viewport, “not in here. Traitors are traitors. Reasons don’t matter. Let them be an example—you can’t betray your ship and your shipmates, no matter what the reason, no matter what was done to you. You always have a choice. Loyalty to the Union. Loyalty to your shipmates. Or treason. In the final analysis, it really is that simple. You judge a man by his choices. There is no doubt what they did, and there is no doubt that it meets the definition of treason under Union law and naval regulations. We are on detached service, and under EMCON—we can’t even ask for advice, so this ship is a law unto itself. We should carry out the law and execute them. Today. Before another hour passes. Swift and certain execution will leave no doubt for others about what choices they should make.
The doctor was shaking his head. “Sure, they committed treason. Of that there is no doubt. But did they have a choice? Did they truly have a choice? Or did Captain Oscar and the Inspector General twist these men’s minds and souls into such knots that they couldn’t think for themselves any more. Maybe they were so traumatized and mentally beaten and threatened and manipulated that, in certain situations, they were deprived of their power to choose what to do and could act only under the constraint of internal compulsion. We must remember, gentlemen, that this is a ship that fled the enemy twice and that was destroyed in simulated fashion in who knows how many fleet exercises. These men were operating under the certainty that, if this ship with this crew faced the enemy, they would all certainly die. Under those circumstances, were they capable of doing anything other than what they did? If not, then they did not choose to be traitors and we cannot in good conscience punish them. Punishment should follow as a consequence for a wrongful choice—for a malicious and evil exercise of the will. If you take away a man’s choice and deprive him of his will, then punishment is unjust and executing them would be a travesty of justice. These men were not fully responsible for their actions. We cannot simply toss them out an airlock or shoot them.”
To Honor You Call Us Page 12