To Honor You Call Us (34 page)

“Chomping at the bit, sir.”  Max preferred not to think too carefully about what that would look like.

“Mister Kurtz, escort the doctor.  Make sure he gets to Boarding Hatch Charlie by the most direct route.”  Max had no high opinion of the doctor’s ability to find quickly any part of the ship other than the Casualty Station, the Wardroom, and his own quarters.  Kurtz, who knew every corridor and access ladder like the back of his hand, led the garishly-costumed Doctor
cum
Cutter Captain out.

“Major Kraft, the doctor is on his way.  CIC out.”

In less than three minutes, Sahin was standing in the boarding airlock, a compartment about seven meters square, near the boarding hatch with Major Kraft and eight Marines.  Kraft and his men were all clad in crimson and gold uniforms similar to the doctor’s but rather less ornate, and all carrying the stainless steel, polymer stocked, sawed off shotguns, Sig-Sauer pattern side arms, and short swords carried by boarding parties in the Romanovan Revenue and Inspection Service.  The Marines seemed perfectly familiar with the weapons.  As one Marine manipulated the controls, the boarding tube extended from the Destroyer’s airlock to that of the freighter, and a green light indicated that the tube was fully extended and pressurized.  The party went into the tube, closing the hatch behind them. 

Reaching the other end after only about seven meters, the same Marine hit another switch.  A red light indicating that there was an excessive pressure difference between the freighter and the boarding tube switched to amber, indicating that the pressure was being equalized, in this case by opening a valve admitting air into the tube from a tank of high pressure reserve air installed in the tube’s extension hardware for that purpose.  A countdown clock appeared on the control console initially showing 0:45, meaning that the equalization process would take 45 seconds.  The doctor whispered something to Kraft.  The Major’s eyes hardened.

One Marine, a private, elbowed a Lance Corporal, presumed to know marginally more than he, “Sven, why do we got to keep up the play acting.  We’ve got them grapped.  They’re not going anywheres.”

“’Cause, they might really
be
Ghifthee Neutrals, that’s why.  If they are, we don’t want them to know they were boarded by a Union ship, as it might create an interstellar
in sye dent
, that’s why.  If they are, we can just say they passed inspection, cast off, and send them on their merry way, none’s the wiser,
that’s
why.” 

Kraft turned to his men.  “Remember, men.  Don’t say a word unless you have to.  Keep your eyes open and be ready for anything, but don’t shoot or cut unless we are attacked first or you hear me give the order.  But, don’t be surprised if there are Krag on that ship.  All right.  Just a few seconds.”

The counter went to zero and the hatch on the freighter opened with a slight hiss, admitting the boarding party to an airlock into which they all just barely fit.  The hatch closed behind them, the airlock mechanism verified that there was adequate pressure in the chamber, and the inner hatch opened.  Five Marines stormed through the opening, shotguns held high and fanned out in a rough semicircle in what looked to be a corridor, rather narrower than those on the destroyer.  Seeing nothing any more threatening than Captain McKelvie standing in the corridor and sweating nervously, one of them sang out, “
Securos
.”  Kraft, the doctor, and the rest of the Marines entered the corridor, with Kraft, who was apparently uniformed as some sort of officer, and the doctor coming to the fore.  The doctor stood before the Captain who bowed to him formally.  The doctor returned the bow, just a hair less deeply, and said, “Captain, kindly take us to the bridge.”  He then turned to a group of five Marines who were standing a little apart from the others and said, “
Quaere navis
.”  Search the ship.  The remaining four Marines, Kraft, and the doctor followed Captain McKelvie forward.  As soon as the Captain was out of sight, one of the five Marines in the first group produced a hand-held scanner from his equipment belt, pushed a few buttons, glared narrowly at the display, pressed a few more buttons, glowered at the device’s tiny screen, pulled his percom out of a pocket in his uniform, and pressed a few keys on it in a pre-established sequence.

Tiny ear buds placed deep in the ear canals of the doctor and Major Kraft softly beeped.  The two men shared a glance just as they stepped onto the freighter’s bridge where, in addition to the Captain, there were three men at various stations.  “Captain, your documentation, please.”  The Captain pulled a blue cube about one centimeter to the side out of a tiny compartment in the commander’s station and handed it to the doctor, who inserted it in what was dummied up to look like a standard Romanovan ID Cube reader.  The reader told him that the Romanovan device that this reader purported to be would have shown the cube to contain the genuine Ghifthee Ship’s Registry, Space Frame Inspection Certificate, Engine Inspection Certificate, Environmental Systems Sufficiency and Operability Certificate, Safety Equipment Inspection Certificate, Galley Health Inspection Certificate, Flight Plan, Cargo Manifest, and Personnel Manifest for
G.C.V. Loch Linnhe. 
It also told him, because the circuitry was from a state of the art Union Naval ID Cube Reader, that the cube was a sophisticated forgery, probably of Krag manufacture.  He ejected the cube from his reader and put it in a small pocket on his tunic just the right size for holding a few ID cubes. 

“And your personal ID, if you please.”  The Captain reached into his tunic and produced a green cube, the same size as the blue one.  The doctor’s scanner showed this cube to be forged as well.  Even the man’s name was probably made up.  “It says here, Captain, that you are a native of Ghiftha Prima.” 

“Yes.  Born and raised.”

Ghiftha Prima was only the fifth extra solar planet settled by humans.  The colonization expedition was put together by an idealistic dreamer named Solomon Ghift who drew colonists from, quite literally, every nation on Earth.  And, since Standard had not yet become standard and they spoke hundreds of languages, he made every one of them learn Esperanto, a language still spoken as a cradle tongue by all that world’s natives.

“So, then you would speak the Esperanto.”

“Yes, of course.  Do you?”

“No.  Not really.”  The Captain was relieved at this news, although he tried not to show it.  “I do, however, know enough to share this little joke with you. 
Via patro estas malpura kovarda.
”  At that, the doctor laughed loudly and slapped the man on the shoulder.  The Captain laughed with equal gusto, proving what the doctor suspected based on the faked ID cube, that this man was not a Ghifthee.  If he were, after all, he would not have laughed when the doctor told him “Your father is a dirty coward.” 

The doctor ejected the Captain’s ID cube and handed the reader to one of the Marines, abruptly ceasing his laughter.  He then elaborately dropped the cube on the deck, affected an exaggerated shrug of apology, and suddenly stomped it under the heel of his right boot, shattering the cube into ten thousand tiny glittering shards.  Before the Captain could even gasp his shock, Sahin had shattered the second cube in the same manner.  “You are no more a Ghifthee than I am Solomon Ghift.  Marines, arrest them.”

“Marines?  You’re Union,” the Captain exclaimed, reached into an equipment bin, grabbed something, and had begun the motion of pulling the object free when Sahin flashed out his sword and brought it down, edge first, on the Captain’s arm, slicing neatly through the man’s uniform sleeve but not breaking the skin.

“This sword, as you can see my dear sir, has a keen edge.”  As did Doctor Sahin’s voice.  “And, if you do not want me to perform a non-surgical amputation of that arm, you will drop whatever is in your hand and put both hands, slowly, where I can see them.”

“You’d best do it, mate,” said one of the Marines.  “If he’s even a hair slow on the sword this shotgun will do you just fine.”  The other Marines covered the remaining bridge crew with their shotguns, carefully positioning themselves so that no one was in anyone else’s line of fire.

“Truss ‘em, men,” said Kraft.  Covering each other in series, the Marines produced wrist ties which they used to cinch the crewmen’s wrists behind their backs.  When this task was accomplished, a process completed in about twenty seconds, Kraft pulled out his percom, strapped it to his wrist, and pushed the call button.  “Aft party, status.”

A voice came over the device’s speaker.  “We’ve got two men in Engineering and one Krag that was holed up in a cargo bin.  It used its sword to express its objections to being taken captive, so I had to blow its arm off with a shotgun.  Tell the doctor, though, I put the stump in a tourniquet and I’ve saved the loose arm, it’s still flopping something fierce—don’t know whether he’ll want to try to reattach it, hang it on his wall, or give it to his girlfriend to wear as a stole, but I’ve got it wrapped up.  The two humans are uninjured—they’re trussed up nice and neat.  Two interesting discoveries, though.  First, there was a helluva bomb bolted to the main reactor—set to blow if tampered with or if the ship was hit by weapons fire.  Dokate disarmed it and we jettisoned the explosive.  Second, we found their cargo.  You’ll never believe it, sir.  It’s gold.  Tons and tons of it. 

Chapter
16

10:44Z Hours 29 January 2315

Max and Doctor Sahin were sharing a relaxing, if not perfectly flavorful, dinner in Max’s Day Cabin, which contained a small but comfortable dining area.  The hard-working men assigned to the Galley gamely struggled to turn the less than ideal raw materials furnished to them by the Navy into interesting and flavorful food, with mixed success.  Tonight was one of their better nights.  A spicy vegetable soup, undoubtedly made with frozen vegetables, was followed by an even spicier meat and vegetable goulash (the fewer questions asked about the meat, the better), freshly-baked bread (flour, baking powder, powdered eggs, etc., were compact and easily stored for long periods, so there was always fresh bread on a well-ordered warship), mashed potatoes (dried, reconstituted), green beans (canned), and lemon pound cake for dessert (what goes for bread also goes for cake).  All washed down, in Max’s case, with the better than fair but not quite good Ship’s Beer (every ship brewed its own beer unless the CO2 scrubbers were malfunctioning) and capped by the ubiquitous naval fuel, Navy coffee—hot, strong, and black.  Doctor Sahin drank fruit juice (reconstituted from freeze-dried powder) with his dinner but shared coffee with Max. 

Having finished the meal, the men moved to the Day Cabin’s sitting area, where both men sipped their coffee and enjoyed a second slice of the really quite creditable pound cake.

Doctor Sahin had eaten only about half as much as Max, but he had just emitted a long, loud belch of repletion and seemed utterly satisfied with the fare.  “The victuals on board this vessel are certainly better than they were on Travis Station.”

“Really?  I’d have thought that the food on a station would be better than on ship.  Stations get more frequent resupply, from more sources.  The variety should be better, at any rate.”

“I haven’t been on board ship long enough to develop an opinion regarding variety, but the food here is more flavorful than on the station.  Station food was abundant and various but unspeakably bland.”

“That won’t be a problem here.  You see, before we departed, I was able to draft a few carefully chosen Culinary Specialists (we mustn’t say ‘cook’ you see) who grew up on Nouvelle Acadiana or in Louisiana back on Earth.  Our Cajun cooking may be not fancy, but at least it has some taste to it.  None of these we just ate were actually Cajun dishes, but they all had what I call the Cajun flare.”

“I found them very tasty.  But, then, my ancestry is mostly Middle Eastern and Eastern Mediterranean and our food is zesty as well.  My experience in the Navy is that the cuisine is influenced primarily by that of the Midwest of North America and the Southeast of Great Britain which, as far as I can tell, are vast, desolate culinary wastelands.”

“Meat and potatoes and overcooked vegetables.”

“Precisely.”  The doctor’s face took on the small smile that Max had come know meant that he was about to utter what he regarded as a witticism.  “It is no wonder that Salt Water and Space Navies have long been dominated by personnel from those regions and their stock.  They went into space to escape the wretched food.”  He looked at Max, as though expecting him to be seized with a paroxysm of laugher.  When this did not come to pass, he went on, somewhat disappointed.  “I’m going to enjoy this posting.  I have not eaten this well in years.  My only concern on board ship is encountering swine flesh without knowing it.”

“Not a problem.  Nearly a quarter of the Navy is Muslim, so pork is not a part of the naval diet, with the exception of bacon and ham which are always served separately and with alternative dishes available.”  Then he put two and two together.  “Doctor?  I didn’t know you were Muslim.”

“I have made no secret of it.”

Max made a dismissive gesture.  “No matter.  You know the old saying, ‘We were birthed by a hundred faiths, but the Navy is father to us all.’”

“I have heard the saying,” said Sahin, “and generally admire the sentiment, but have always thought the saying itself rather strange.  After all, does it not seem to imply that you and I and every other man in the Navy is the product of the conjugal union between our father, the Navy, and our respective mothers, the faiths of our people?  It seems to border on the sacrilegious.”