Man Of War: To Honor You Call Us Part 26

Once the proceedings were concluded, the negotiators, following the Pfelung custom, sat together in a muddy, shallow pool (the new acting amba.s.sador 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 s.p.a.ce, but he was able to relate a few drunken sh.o.r.e 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 quant.i.ty 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 doc.u.ment.

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 s.p.a.ce 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 bas.e.m.e.nt of the E Ring of the run-down Old Pentagon on Earth to work in the Department for the Production of Zippers, b.u.t.tons, 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 a.s.sociated 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 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 s.p.a.ce, 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 a.s.sociation.

"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."

"d.a.m.n 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.

"Then, over time, the Pfelung industrial capacity can become an a.s.set. 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 s.p.a.ce. There's no reason 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 10 or 20 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 greater significance 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 the 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 perpetually late-for-duty Ensign Friedrichs to his station in Auxiliary Fire Control. He perceived keenly the sounds of life in s.p.a.ce, 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 captain 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?"

The doctor 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. 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."

The doctor was not ready to concede the point. "But speaking as a scientist, I must point out that our sample might not be representative. Things might be going less well here than in other areas. I know that I have heard the former commander, 'By the Book' Bushinko, spoken of in unflattering terms. Other commanders in other areas might be having more success."

"Bushinko was better than a lot of people think. Some of the other theatres have had worse than him by far, although I think the current crop is pretty good all around. No, from what I can tell from unfiltered reports, things here are going about as well here as they are everywhere else. Although we are putting up stubborn resistance and imposing huge losses on the enemy, and although we haven't had anything like the lightning series of defeats we suffered early in the war, we are slowly and inexorably falling back, losing system after system. The enemy had nearly a hundred years to build up a huge reserve of ships, to stockpile immense caches of ammunition, fuel, and supplies, and to plan his campaigns and diplomatic maneuvers step by step.

"We, on the other hand, were caught entirely with our pants down. Our forces were out of position, our economy wasn't on a war footing, and we had no training infrastructure or reserve of skilled manpower adequate for total war. We were caught by surprise and have been improvising from the very first hour. Sure, we've made great strides, but with the systems we've lost, with the casualties we've already suffered, with what the Gynophage did to our population and birthrate, and based on our estimates of the enemy's industrial capacity and his rate of population increase, they will eventually overwhelm us."

"What about the victory we just won? Will that not make a difference?

"Some. Not enough. I don't have access to the highest level information, but what I can access is close enough for some rough calculations-I've spent enough time doing rotations as an Intel officer to know how to turn the raw data into estimates. The Krag have a roughly 15 to 18 percent industrial advantage and somewhere between a 50 and 100 percent population growth advantage. Remember, they don't just look like rats, they breed like rats too. Our best intel from prisoners is that they give birth to litters of six after a fifty-two day gestation period. Having the Pfelung on our side will-in maybe a year or so-make up almost a quarter of the difference in industrial capacity. The only way we can win, absent some miracle, is to acquire some more allies."

"But if they have had such a decided advantage from the beginning, why have they not been able to win the war in more than thirty years?"

"Time and distance. When they attacked, the border between the Krag and the Union was seventeen hundred light years from the Core Systems. Now, it's just over a thousand. You can't just go zipping through s.p.a.ce any which way you feel like. You need to take and hold star systems-star systems with jump points. And you can't just jump into a defended system with a jump point because-since a jump point is a fixed point in s.p.a.ce-it can be defended with heavy pulse cannon batteries and ma.s.sive missile emplacements, all zeroed in on the jump point and ready to fire on thirty seconds notice. You jump into a defended system, you're dead.

"So, if you want to take that system, you have to take months to send heavy ships, using compression drive across interstellar s.p.a.ce at low c multiples to take the jump point. And very often, you are detected a good way out, and a task force is sent to intercept you in deep s.p.a.ce. That's where those famous battles out in interstellar s.p.a.ce come from.

"Say you win. Once you've taken the system, it takes more months to get the infrastructure jumped into that system and set up to get those ships fueled and repaired and reinforced and provisioned so they can cross to the next system, and more months to cross s.p.a.ce to get to the next system, and so on. Step by step. Even when the enemy is kicking your a.s.s, it takes a year, maybe two, for him to advance twenty pa.r.s.ecs.

"We've held him to far less than that. We do have some advantages: mainly, they didn't have as much success as they expected early in the war because the War of the Fenestrian Succession left us better prepared than they expected. That invalidated a considerable portion of their war plan, and the Krag are not good at improvising. We are; it's one of our strengths. So, we have been playing for time, trying to stave off defeat until we can convince enough other powers to declare war against the Krag to turn the tide. If nothing changes, my estimate is that we have another four to six years before the disparity of forces becomes so overwhelming that our defense will collapse."

"And then?"

"We won't have enough forces to defend all the necessary jump points, and the Krag will find a direct route to the Core Systems. Once that happens, they will be exterminating all life on Earth and Alphacen and Bravo and Nouvelle Acadiana and all the rest in a matter of days. I've heard rumors of a contingency plan involving sending a small core of survivors in fast ships to plant a new human civilization beyond the reach of the Krag somewhere in another part of the galaxy, but I don't hold out much hope of that working. I've been hunted by them, you know. The Krag are relentless. These people would be found and killed like all the rest. The human race would die."

"Not if I can help it."

"Excuse me?"

"I said: Not if I can help it. I won't let it happen."

Max was amused. "You? You won't let it happen? And just what do you think you are going to do about it?"

"I am a diplomat-I have a Masters degree in Interstellar Relations, you know. I have connections on dozens of independent human worlds and even on a few alien ones. I know people. I will make the necessary alliances. I am a very determined man. I have always accomplished what I set out to accomplish. I will accomplish this as well."

Unconvinced, Max nevertheless decided that it would be a futile enterprise to try to explain to Dr. Sahin the difficulties involved in a twenty-six-year-old acting amba.s.sador concluding interstellar alliances with somewhere between six and fifteen discrete foreign powers. So, he turned the discussion to other matters.

"Yes, you are a diplomat. For at least the next several weeks, you will be the Union's acting amba.s.sador to the Pfelung a.s.sociation. There are several other agreements to negotiate-I have just forwarded to your pending file a memo from the admiral's legal staff outlining what they think is needed. Also, I see that the Pfelung have several ceremonies for you to attend, including a dedication of some new facility at one of their hatcheries to which they invited not just you but also me and as many of the ship's company as are available at the time. It is rather a strongly worded invitation, so I plan to turn out about 130 men. I wonder what is so important about a hatchery."

"I have no idea, but it is fortunate indeed that the admiral saw fit to provide you with that appointment for you to 'fish' out of your safe at the opportune moment. 'Fish.' What a wit I am!" Max rolled his eyes. "I am astonished at the admiral's foresight. It is beyond amazing to me that he foresaw that things would unfold as they did and require the appointment of an amba.s.sador to the Pfelung. He is truly an amazing gentleman. I hope to make his better acquaintance someday."

"He certainly is a man of considerable ability," Max replied. "Don't expect that you will ever get chummy with him, though. You should be aware, my friend, that he may not be quite what you think he is."

He rose from his chair, walked over to the safe, entered the combination, removed two envelopes, and returned to his seat. He held in his hand the same two envelopes he had pulled from the safe back at Navbuoy JAH 1939 three weeks before.

He opened the cream-colored one and pulled out several sheets of paper covered with dense, flowing script. "This is a handwritten, confidential note from Admiral Hornmeyer. I don't think he'd mind if I shared with you this paragraph: 'I have personally a.s.signed as your chief medical officer one Ibrahim Sahin. When you meet the gentleman, you may think I am doing you no favor, but I expect by the end of this commission you will be very thankful to have him on board. He is not officer-like to even the slightest degree, I'm afraid, and does not know a pa.r.s.ec from a parsnip. But he has unusual gifts in several other areas, including, I strongly suspect, an underdeveloped talent for diplomacy. Should you discover you have need of an accredited diplomat and cannot wait for one to be furnished from the Core Systems, I have made rather liberal use of my authority under the Articles of War to issue appointments of him as amba.s.sador to each and every independent power in the Free Corridor and vicinity. I need to appoint someone, and G.o.d knows I'm not making you amba.s.sador to anyone or anything. I am trusting you to pull out only the appointment(s) necessary to the occasion and to keep the others locked in your safe. Kindly destroy the remaining ones or return them to me at the conclusion of your mission.'

"So, in this envelope," Max said, indicating the larger envelope, the one that had contained his orders, "are to be found your appointment as Union Amba.s.sador and Minister Plenipotentiary to the governments of..."-he pulled them out and sorted through the doc.u.ments, reading the names one by one-"the Vaaach, the Ghiftee, Romanova, New Zarahemla, the Unified Kingdom of Rashid, Allied Emirates, and Protected Islamic Worlds, and four or five others. There are also two that are signed in blank that I have permission to fill in as needed. Rather clever, in my book, and quite the vote of confidence in you."

"I'm quite sure I have no idea what to say."

"From my point of view, the only thing to say is that the admiral was right about you, and then move on. I rather like that part about not knowing a pa.r.s.ec from a parsnip. Sometimes the old b.a.s.t.a.r.d comes up with a very clever turn of phrase. He seems to be right about the talent for diplomacy part. Speaking of which, I wish you would clear up one mystery for me. After meeting with the Pfelung, we have learned how important their art and their artistic heritage is to them, but however did you know that fact during the battle? It was not in the briefing materials, which-by the way-I know you did not even read. Shame, shame."

"It was obvious. No people who could fashion a work of art like the one in my quarters could be anything but fanatic about the creation and preservation of things of beauty. The dealer who gave it to me sent along a data file about the art form. It isn't made of gla.s.s, you know, but a material carefully refined from molten quartz and given a higher index of refraction by including traces of silver and lead and several exotic rare earths and metals. It's known in Standard as vitreum. The colors come not from mineral pigments or organic stains, but from microscopic particles of ground gemstones suspended in the vitreum in such number and so uniformly that it looks as though the material itself has been stained. That is why the colors are so vivid, catch the light the way they do, and never fade. The different colors come from streams of these gemstones that are swirled into the vitreum while it is still molten, layer by tiny layer.

"Some colors are the colors of one type of gemstone, and others are made by mixing as many as seven different shades of gemstone. Birth of the Waters consists of some seventeen thousand differently colored vitreum layers, each blown meticulously by hand, one inside the other, some only a few microns thick. It took more than a year to make. I found it impossible to imagine that any people who would go to those staggering lengths to create an object of that kind of beauty could bear to be a part of destroying it absent the most compelling necessity. And even then, they would strive greatly to find a way to preserve it. That's what I was betting on, at any rate. Have you seen it?"

"Not in person."

"Then you simply must. Immediately." They set down their coffee and went through the short series of corridors and access ladders that led to the doctor's cabin. They stood quietly in the day cabin, where the sculpture was displayed.

Max regarded the ethereal yet seductive a.s.semblage of curves and swirling radiances and was speechless for nearly a minute, until he finally whispered, "Regardez donc."

"Je concours."

CHAPTER 25.

02:27Z Hours, 21 February 2315 When the Task Force, or that portion of it sent to help cement the new agreement with the Pfelung, began to arrive, everyone on the c.u.mberland expected the first ships through the jump point to be scouts and escorts, followed only at great length by the more powerful vessels. It was to Max's surprise and consternation that the first vessel to appear was the Halsey, Admiral Hornmeyer's immense flagship.

Within minutes of coming through the jump point, the carrier had launched two fighter elements as combat area patrol and established a digital laser com-link with the c.u.mberland to enable rapid and secure exchange of data between the two ships. In only a few seconds, the c.u.mberland was able to update all of her tactical and other databases to conform with the most recent information available to the flagship, while transferring to the flag all of her logs and status reports. Personal electronic mail was also exchanged, allowing many of the c.u.mberland's crew to receive messages from distant relatives as well as wives or sweethearts. And in some cases, wives and sweethearts.

Also received by the c.u.mberland was a one line message. CDR AND CMO REPORT TO FLAG. The "immediately" part was understood. Max and the doctor, having both been wakened from deep slumber, fortified with coffee, and attired in Working Uniforms with Arms (the everyday uniform jumpsuit plus sidearms, determined by Comms to be the Uniform of the Day on board the flagship) were in the c.u.mberland's five-man launch, crossing the few thousand meters that separated the destroyer from the carrier. Max's stomach was in knots. This was going to be a skinning. You rousted a destroyer captain out of bed between two and three in the morning because you wanted to rip him a new one, not because you wanted to sip coffee with him and hand him a medal.

Guided by the carrier's traffic controllers, the launch maneuvered its way beneath the great ship's underbelly to settle into one of its many landing decks on the starboard side. A docking tube extended from a nearby hatch and sealed itself around the launch's hatch. Max, the doctor, and the able s.p.a.cer first who had piloted the launch crossed through the tube, through an airlock, and into a small compartment set up as a salute deck for lesser captains. The age-old boatswain's whistle sounded as Max stepped onto the deck, and six Marines came to present arms. The boatswain then barked out "c.u.mberland, arriving." Max turned to his left, saluted the Union and Admiralty flags, and then pivoted back to his right to salute the officer standing in front of him. "Permission to come aboard, sir."

"Permission granted," said the lieutenant commander who greeted him, returning the salute. The doctor and the launch pilot followed, similarly saluting the flags and the officer.

Welcome aboard, Captain, Doctor. I'm Jackson, part of the admiral's staff. He's expecting both of you. Please follow me. s.p.a.cer, follow the chief here and he'll show you to the enlisted pilots lounge."

Max had been stationed on the Halsey for a few months but had never been into the sacred realm of the exalted admiral, so he followed the other officer almost blindly for what seemed like hours, certain that he was walking toward an unpleasant fate. The flagship seemed as big as a continent after the confined s.p.a.ces aboard the c.u.mberland. The three men wound their way through several confusing twists and turns and finally arrived in the admiral's outer office, there to be greeted by the full commander who served as the admiral's flag secretary, a very responsible job in its own right. The officers exchanged salutes. "Captain, Doctor, the admiral is expecting you. Go right in."

Max took a deep breath, stepped up to a real wooden door, turned the k.n.o.b, and went in. The admiral was glowering at the comm panel on his desk. Although Max could not hear what the poor fellow on the other end of the circuit was saying, there was no mistaking a certain pleading, penitent tone.

The admiral listened for about twenty seconds, then cut the other man off at the knees. "G.o.dd.a.m.n it, Captain, that sounds like a personal problem to me. This is a forward area in wartime, son. Do you f.u.c.king understand what it means to be one thousand light years from the Core Systems? I don't think that you do. Everyone has personnel problems. You have fewer than most. Your ship has a full complement; many do not, and I have provided you with the best roster of officers available given other requirements.

"Now, Captain, if you can't get your s.h.i.t together, reach down to whatever level this crew is at, and pull them up by their f.u.c.king bootstraps to an acceptable level of training and performance, there are lots of destroyer captains hungry to command a frigate like yours. I'll give the job to one of them and give you something to do more suited to your talents-maybe commanding a deuterium tanker on the Europa run."

The admiral listened for a few seconds to sounds of acquiescence. "Good. Now go train. Hard." A few more words over the comm. "No, dumba.s.s. Harder than that." Some pleading sounds emerged. "No, absolutely not. I don't f.u.c.king have a week. I need that ship on the line, killing the Krag. You have four days. Get it done. Flag out."

He stabbed the comm b.u.t.ton with brutal force, breaking the connection, if not the whole comm panel, then looked up at Max and the doctor, standing in front of his desk at painfully rigid attention. As soon as his eyes met Max's, the admiral snapped, "And just who the f.u.c.k are you two?"

So nice to see that the admiral is in such a good mood. They both saluted. Max snapped out, "Lieutenant Commander Maxime Robichaux and Lieutenant Doctor Ibrahim Sahin of the c.u.mberland, reporting as ordered, sir."

The admiral returned the salute so briskly that his fingernails were in danger of being flung off, and glanced at his chrono. "Sweet Jesus, Robichaux, you took your own G.o.dd.a.m.n time getting here, didn't you? When I summon a commander to report to the flag, I expect him to appear with celerity." Then he moderated slightly.

"But I suppose Jackson kept you held up with all those d.a.m.n ritual theatrics on the salute deck. Nothing gets past that man quickly. I'm going to have to start calling him 'Stonewall.'" Max couldn't help but smile at the joke. "And it is about a twolight year walk from the salute deck to here.

"Have a seat, gentlemen." He turned his head slightly in the approximate direction of a door in the bulkhead to the right of the one through which Max and the doctor had entered. "Bushman!" he bellowed loud enough to fracture hull metal.

The door flew open and a sixty-ish chief petty officer third stuck his gray hair and severe, lined face into the compartment. "Yes, Admiral?" The man managed somehow to sound both respectful and put out.

"Bushman, you old burned-out thruster nozzle, it's oh-three-f.u.c.king-hundred hours and I'm meeting with these officers. How the h.e.l.l are we supposed to get jacks.h.i.t done at this G.o.dforsaken hour without coffee? That's COFFEE, Bushman. I'm sure you've heard of it. How long have you been my steward, man?"

"Nineteen wonderful years, Admiral."

"And in that amount of time I'd have thought that a man of your worldly wisdom would have figured out some of the basics of the job. Now what do I have to do to get something in here that's hot and black and crammed to the f.u.c.king gunwales with caffeine?"

The man stepped all the way into the office. Max could see that, even given the limited degree to which decorations were worn on the Working Uniform, Bushman had more awards for valor than most cruiser captains. Maybe when Hornmeyer was a dashing young captain, this man was at his side in some hard-fought boarding actions. He sure hadn't earned all that fruit salad serving coffee. "If the admiral would just take a whiff, he would smell that I started a fresh pot as soon as Captain Robichaux was piped aboard." And then, after waiting just a split second too long, he added, "Sir."

"Very well, then, Bushman. When you bring it in, try not to slosh it all over these officers, will you?"

"I'll do my best, sir." He smiled briefly at Max and backed out of the room.

"G.o.dd.a.m.n surly old Bushman. One of these days I'm going to have to bust him back to mid to show him who's the f.u.c.king boss around here. Now. Robichaux. Right. I've read your reports. G.o.d knows you've been a busy little f.u.c.ker. First thing, your prisoner roster. Been locking them up left and right haven't you? First man-who's that wormy little s.h.i.t with the portable drug factory? Green. Right. It seems that s.p.a.cer Green has signed a formal waiver of all right to appeal your conviction by order of him for trafficking. So, I get to sentence him on my own authority. I'm sending him to a medium-security penal facility for five years. Then, he'll serve out the rest of his enlistment. Maybe he'll go straight and maybe he won't. His choice, either way. Maybe Daddy's kicking him out the airlock will be the best thing that ever happened to the slimy little b.a.s.t.a.r.d. He has a chance to turn his life into something if he wants, and maybe someday he'll amount to more than a puddle of poodle p.i.s.s. Or not. His choice.