To Honor You Call Us (50 page)

“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 non-confidential 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 almost 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. 

“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 made these remarks over dinner with Max, being taken in the now-familiar to him dining area of 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 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 did also point 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, “quite certain, indeed.  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, two smaller warships, and taking or destroying three freighters and their valuable cargo, they can hardly do other.”

“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 non-humans has made common cause with us—you know, 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 non-humans, especially since the galactic community holds the Pfelung in generally high esteem, in contrast to us.  And, let’s not forget that the Pfelung have friends, that is, close ties to other races who are barely on speaking terms with us, and may be able to persuade them to make common cause with them against the Krag, even though they might not be willing to ally directly with 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 the 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 hundred and fifty light years, maybe three hundred, 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 short cut for them around our defenses directly into the heart of our space, it’s a short cut 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 spinward 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 is 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 succeed finally, 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.

“Then, over time, the Pfelung industrial capacity can become an asset.  Given several months to retool, they could make spare parts, missiles, ammunition, and so on.  Finally, don’t forget that they have some of the best shipyards in Known Space.  There isn’t a reason in the worlds that they couldn’t repair or even build Union warships out here.  As you recall, that’s an option under the Treaty to be negotiated at a later date.  If we could increase ship production ten or twenty percent, it could make a huge difference.”

“Well, then, things are starting to make a bit more sense to me.  But, I must be missing something.  I can see how all of these facts mean that this treaty is very, very important.  But, if I am any judge of official language, and I like to think that I am, the Admiral attributes to this pact significance greater than can be explained by these things.  I am becoming increasingly convinced that there is something important that I do not know.”

“What you do not know, Doctor, is that we are losing the war.”

The statement, delivered in a calm, matter of fact tone, struck Dr. Sahin like a punch to the solar plexus.  The words hung in silence.  For once, the doctor was aware of the sounds of the ship:  the ever-present hum of the life-support systems, the minute vibration imparted by fusion reactor’s coolant pumps, the almost subliminal babble of the ship’s main internal comm channel which Max kept turned on in his cabin day and night, at this moment summoning the late for duty Ensign Friedrichs to his station in Auxiliary Fire Control.  He perceived keenly the sounds of life in space, in the way that a pleasing background music that has always been present leaps into relief after the sounding of a funeral dirge’s dark, jarring, opening chord.

Knowing that disbelief was evident on his face, the doctor struggled to find words to give it voice.  After several seconds, he managed.  “But, Max, the news reports!  I hear them daily.  I see the headlines on the NewsWeb:  broad offenses meeting victory, enemy attacks stopped and turned back with heavy loss, war production surging beyond expectation, new ship and weapons designs being introduced continually.”

“Lies,” Max said bitterly.  “Well, maybe not
lies
exactly, but propaganda, clever ‘information management,’ the selective transmission of some facts combined with the selective withholding of others.  If not blatant untruths, then they are at the least misleading.  Even with the level of command access and the security clearance I have as the Master and Commander of a Rated Warship, I have to read between the lines, look at the raw data, locate the engagements on a star plot and watch as they inch closer and closer to the Core Systems week after week.” 

“I still don’t believe you.”

“All right.  I’ll prove it to you with evidence that you have already gathered, facts you already know.  Set aside the ‘victories’ that you’ve heard of from outside sources.  Think only of the fleet engagements of which you have some more direct knowledge—what people said around Travis station about battles that were fought in this theater.  You know, where people who had seen the battle or fought in it or received unfiltered reports about it were talking.  In the years that you have been posted to this area, how many of
those
battles were victories for the Union?  You’re a trained scientist—evaluate objectively the best data you have at your disposal.  What’s your conclusion?”

He thought carefully for at least half a minute.  “I recall there being general talk of thirteen fleet actions.  Of those, my impression is that we won two.”

While the doctor was thinking, Max was ticking off the battles in his mind.  He nodded at the doctor’s answer.  “I’m impressed, Bram.  We might make a real Navy man out of you yet.  Yes.  That is exactly right.  Over the past four years, there have been thirteen fleet engagements in this theater, with the Union defeated in eleven and victorious in only two.  Two of those eleven defeats could, arguably, be scored for the Union as strategic victories, as we turned back Krag attacks and remained in possession of the battle area, though losing more ships as measured by tonnage than we destroyed, but that’s a fine point.  So, as far as we can verify from our own experience, we are losing the war in this theater of operations.”