To Honor You Call Us (53 page)

“The reasons for wanting a transfer went away, so maybe the requests did, too, sir.”

“You might be right.  It’s just a helluva lot to swallow.  If it’s genuine, you might just be one of those Great Leaders of Men, like Patton and Halsey and Litvinoff and Wong and Middleton.  Like
that’s
fucking likely.  Hmpf.  Speaking of leadership, I know Admiral Middleton has a soft spot for you, so I sent him a signal about how your first cruise as a skipper came out.  He sent this—he’s a long way off, so it came by tachyon Morse and it’s pretty terse.  But, I thought you’d want to have it.”  He handed over a slip of paper, evidently torn right out of the decrypt printer.

It said:  “HORNEY PLEASE TELL CAPTAIN ROBICHAUX THAT HE DID AN OUTSTANDING JOB STOP I COULD NOT BE MORE PROUD OF HIM THAN IF HE WERE MY OWN SON STOP MESSAGE ENDS.” 

Despite the lump in his throat, Max could not help asking, “Horney?  Sir?”

“Um, old nickname.  Very old.  Goes back to my Mid days on the
John Houbolt. 
People didn’t start calling me ‘Hit’em Hard’ until I got my first command.  Enough about that.  Put that slip of paper in your scrapbook or wherever you keep things like that.  You’ll be wanting that twenty years from now, unless you get your reckless ass killed first, that is.”  Max folded it carefully and put it in one of the chest pockets of his uniform. 

“You know what probably prompted that signal?  It wasn’t bagging that Battlecruiser or even what happened at the Battle of Pfelung.  I told him about your CAPE scores.”

Sahin broke in.  “Cape?  What’s a cape?”

“Acronym, Doctor.  Computerized Automatic Performance Evaluation.  Your ship’s computer, arrogant little fucker that it is, constantly measures every kind of job performance on the ship that can possibly be measured by computer:  how long it takes your sensor people to identify a contact, how long between a system reporting trouble to when it is fixed, hundreds of other things, and turns them into a scaled index, updated daily, with 100 representing the most perfect crew imaginable.  I told Admiral Middleton that the
Cumberland
’s
CAPE went up from 21.7, the lowest in the Task Force, to 71.4, which is considered to be in the average range. 
Low
average, I might add, but still average.  So, Robichaux, Middleton sends me back a personal signal saying how that score improvement shows you to be some kind of fabulous diamond in the rough.  Well, I’ll tell you something, son, Fleet Admiral Charles L. Middleton can say that all he likes—you’re not under
his
command, in the Big Chair on one of
his
ships, while
he
has to sit in a fucking swivel chair behind a fucking desk and yell into a Goddamn comm panel trusting his carefully laid strategic plans to the judgment of a twenty-eight year old Coonass who doesn’t know when to keep his Goddamn pants zipped and his Goddamn mouth shut.  Saying things like that from where he sits is like betting with someone else’s money.  I ought to transfer you to his Task Force and see how he likes the crazy shit you pull in
his
nice, orderly command. 

“Your men, though, that’s something different.  Different thing, entirely.  First they put up with that bandicoot Oscar, then they go through that wild ride with you, and they still perform the way they did at the Battle of Pfelung.  The ship stood and fought, not just fought but fought well, against an enemy that was superior both in numbers and in firepower.  Good men.  Damn good men.  Been through hell.  Gave ‘em hell.  So, in tomorrow’s Orders of the Day, I’m issuing to the
Cumberland
a bronze Battle Star.  Light
that
big, bright fucker up the next time some shit for brains jerkoff fighter pilot calls your ship the ‘Cumberland Gap.’  Getting in your comebacks by blinker is too Goddamn slow.”  How had the Admiral heard about that?  “I am also authorizing your vessel to display an ‘E’ for Excellence for the next thirty days.  Keep this up and I wouldn’t be surprised to see your CAPE at about eighty-one or eighty-two in ninety days, which would put you in the top third.”

“I would,” said the doctor.

“
You’d be surprised? 
You don’t think they will improve that much?” asked the Admiral, scowling.  Doctor Sahin’s remark smacked of disloyalty to his crew, something of which Louis G. Hornmeyer took a very dim view.

“Actually, sir, I expect them to do substantially better.  I would bet that in ninety days their score will be at least ninety.”

“Doctor, I’m not sure you understand how this works.  These scores are indexed against the past performance of other crews—the amount of improvement required to get from the twenties to the seventies is actually less than what would take get the
Cumberland
from where it is now to a ninety.  There is a very strong Law of Diminishing Returns.”  Amazing how the Admiral’s legendary profanity abated when he talked to the doctor.

“I understand it perfectly.  I have spent some time familiarizing myself with the subject.”

“All right then.  You said ‘bet,’ Doctor.  Do you mean that literally?”

“Yes, I suppose that I do.”

“It’s well known that I like to put down a bet or two from time to time.  I know you’re flush with prize money right now, so do you want to put some of that money at risk?”

“It will not be at the slightest risk, with all due respect, Admiral.  What do you propose as the size of the wager?  How much can you afford to lose?”

“I think a thousand is reasonable.  Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

“BUSHMAN!”  Max expected the ceiling tiles to fall.  Bushman stuck his head in.  “Bushman, get The Book.  The Doctor here wishes to make a wager.”  The man bobbed his head and ducked back out.  He reappeared less than five seconds later carrying an old, tatty, antique-style ledger book and sat at a side table with a pen to write.  “Bushman, the Doctor and I have a bet that the CAPE scores for the
Cumberland
as of ninety days from this date will be ninety or higher.  He is pro, I am con.  The amount of the wager is one thousand credits to be paid in hard cash.  Is that acceptable, Doctor?”

“Perfectly.”

“Bushman, you can go.”  The man wrote for a few seconds, then got up and left. 

“As for you, Robichaux, you are one lucky son of a bitch.  Ordinarily, the Judge Advocate would be up my ass to beat you down hard for barging into Pfelung space, violating your orders to respect all neutral territorial rights.  Sanctimonious Goddamn paper pushers.  Fucking lawyers care more about where to put a fucking semicolon than about where to put a Carrier—but they have a lot of pull and it’s awfully damn hard to tell them to go get fucked.  Thanks to your crafty friend here, I can send them an engraved invitation to take a long walk down a short boarding tube.  I love this shit.”  Max’s face must have shown incomprehension.  “You don’t know?  Goddamn, son, you should pay closer attention to treaties you help negotiate.  It’s right here.”  He pulled the information out of his work station as deftly as a crack CIC officer on a Battleship.  “‘Article XXXVII, Paragraph 19.  Entry Into Effect:  The provisions of this treaty shall take full force and effect
nunc pro tunc
as of the outset of hostilities between the Krag Hegemony and the Pfelung Association, which outset of hostilities shall be deemed to have occurred when Krag forces first surreptitiously entered Pfelung Territorial space for the purpose of engaging in hostile acts against the Pfelung.’”

“I’m afraid I still don’t understand, Admiral.”

“I’ll let your friend, the Ambassador, explain it to you.”

Max turned to the Doctor who smiled innocently and said, “
Nunc pro tunc
means ‘now for then’ in Latin—as long as both parties agree to do it, it is perfectly legal for both to consent as a sort of amiable fraud that the document they signed this morning actually went into effect at noon on yesterday.  So, the treaty says that the Union and the Pfelung became Associated Powers when the Krag committed the first Act of War against them—sending those bomb rigged freighters into their space.” 

The Admiral smiled broadly.  “Don’t you see, Robichaux?  Laughed my fat ass off when I first figured this out.  That means when you went barging into their territorial space, with the Pfelung screaming that you were violating their sovereignty and that you needed to get the fuck out before they blasted you to kingdom come, technically, under this treaty, they are deemed to have already been our bosom buddies for several hours and you weren’t violating their neutrality at all!  Skated over that problem slicker than owl shit.  How hard was it to get this in the treaty?”

“Not at all,” the Doctor answered.  “When I explained privately how such a provision would protect the Captain from any unfortunate consequences resulting from his technical violation of their neutrality, they concurred enthusiastically.”  He turned to Max.  “You are liked by them exceedingly, you know.  I understand, in fact, that they intend to name after you their new pulse cannon battle station and a very large egg insemination pond that they are currently excavating.”

The coffee arrived at this point, Bushman expertly placing on the front of the Admiral’s desk the tray, containing three steaming mugs, a server containing a white slightly viscous liquid laughingly referred to as “cream,” and a small bowl of the granular, allegedly sweet, factory-synthesized substance that the Navy insisted be used in coffee and tea in place of sugar.  He made a discrete exit.  Everyone paused for a few moments to take a few sips of their coffee.  It was hot and strong and good.  Bushman had that part of his job down pat. 

The Admiral chuckled.  “An egg insemination pond?  I think that’s a fitting tribute to you, Robichaux.  A very fitting tribute.  Anyway, the Acting Ambassador here saved me from having to haul your sorry ass in front of a Board of Inquiry, for which I am thankful, because it would have made this part here very, very awkward.  SINKINESH!”  Did the man ever use the comm panel for anything other than ship to ship?  The doctor was toying with the idea of checking himself and Max for hearing damage when they got back to the
Cumberland
.

The Flag Secretary came in carrying two small hinged boxes, handed them to the Admiral, and left.  “Frankly, I’ve never seen the Commissioners of the Admiralty do anything so Goddamn fast.  I think the Pfelung leaned on them.  Hard.  And if they hadn’t, I would have.  Anyway, you both need to stand up for this.”

They stood.  The Admiral stood as well and produced a sheet of paper from a desk drawer.  Max was struck by how the man standing before him was both ordinary and extraordinary.  He was barely above average height for a man in the twenty-fourth century, one point eight, maybe one point nine meters, with a full head of thick, silver hair, a square jaw with a large dimple in the center, piercing gray eyes, and an animated mouth that seemed to flow rapidly from lopsided grin to fearsome scowl with no effort at all.  His build was nothing unusual, maybe a little more muscular around the shoulders, the chest, and in the thighs than common for a man of his age in a time when most heavy work was done by machine, and maybe a little trimmer around the waist than usual for a man just on the far side of sixty.  What was most striking about him was that he seemed to exude confidence, determination, and energy, as though he could take on the whole Krag fleet single-handedly armed only with the Model 1911 pistol on his hip.  The man presented himself as a winner, someone who would lead men to victory.  One got the feeling that the “with Arms” part of the Uniform of the Day was because the Admiral liked having a weapon at his side to remind him that he was in the business of killing the enemy.

The Admiral put on a pair of reading glasses.  His computer screen had an optical compensator for his aging vision.  The sheet of paper did not.  “There’s a lengthy citation here, it explains about quick thinking, intuitive problem solving, and lots of other things to give you swelled heads, you can read it yourselves later, but then it goes on to say, where is it, blah, blah, blah, yadda, yadda, oh yes, here, ‘and, therefore, for courageous resourcefulness and conspicuous gallantry in the highest traditions of the Union Space Navy above and beyond the call of duty, the High Commissioners of the Admiralty are pleased to confer upon Maxime Tindall Robichaux and Ibrahim Abdul Sahin the Commissioners’ Medal of Honor, with all the rights, privileges, and emoluments pertaining thereto.’” 

He looked over the top of his reading glasses at Sahin.  “Now, because the doctor is famously ignorant about such things, I will tell you that the Commissioner’s Medal of Honor is the highest military decoration in the Union Armed forces.  There are several special privileges that go with the award, Doctor; you might want to check them out in the database if you ever get around to accessing it.  I’ve heard that, if someone wants to keep information from you, your own ship’s database is an outstanding place to hide it.  Anyway, here you are.”  He handed over the medals in their velvet-lined boxes, and shook their hands with what seemed to be genuine affection. 

“In a few months, we’ll confiscate those so we can hand them back to you in front of a lot of people with bands playing, long speeches, and all sorts of other back-slapping bullshit in one of the big Fleet Award ceremonies we have four times a year.  But, I wanted you to have these now.  I like to hand out decorations as soon as they are awarded.  Besides, I’ve never gotten to award one of these, much less two.  Well, that’s everything I needed you two for. 
Cumberland
will be staying in the system for about three more weeks.  It will take that long for the regularly appointed Ambassador to arrive from Earth, and the Pfelung want to engage in some joint exercises with you, Robichaux.  Like the doctor here says, seems you’re something of a hero to them.