For Honor We Stand (54 page)

The Vaaach began to speak:  a series of growls, roars, snarls, and similar sounds, like a fight between a polar bear and a mountain lion.  Lagging by about ten seconds, the computer provided a written translation on an adjacent screen, occasionally throwing in what was intended to be helpful explanatory material.  The first few growls sounded as though there were some Standard words in there, mangled by the Vaaach’s incompatible vocal apparatus.  “Lieutenant Commander Maxime Tindall Robichaux, Union Space Navy, of the planet Nouvelle Acadiana, I greet you.  [Voiceprint matching positively establishes that the speaker is Forest Victor Chrrrlgrf, encountered by this vessel on 22 January 2315 in the Tesseck A system.]  Our statement that you entered Vaaach space in a dishonorable fashion is no longer operative.  We received your transmission.  A member of my crew logged it improperly.  The individual responsible is undergoing punishment.  Does this satisfy the affront to your honor?” 

The Vaaach leaned back in his seat and flexed his claws over and over:  extend, retract, extend, retract, extend, retract.  Each cycle took nearly a second.  Max wondered what those claws would do to human flesh. 

“Not much of an apology,” DeCosta observed.

“For a Vaaach, that was practically groveling in abject guilt.”  Max keyed the audio pickup for transmission.  “Forest Victor Chrrlgrf of the Rawlrrhfr Forest, Victor of the Battle of Hrlrgr, I greet you.  I consider Honor to be satisfied in this matter.  I hope the punishment being given to the individual who made the error is not too severe.  We were not greatly harmed.”

When Max finished talking he leaned back in his chair, adopted the most relaxed posture he could make himself adopt, and watched Chrrlgrf read the translation.  At one point, he stopped flexing his claws, extended them fully, and made a slight sweeping motion with one of his hands.  Intel said that the motion indicated anger—a suppressed reflex to reach out with his hand and rip open his opponent’s chest.  He finished reading, considered for a moment, and looked up, those alien and yet so obviously intelligent and perceptive eyes leveled right at the camera.  He could only imagine how intimidating it would be to have the immense, powerful Vaaach in the same room.

The Vaaach, gave off what sounded like a sigh.  An almost pensive sigh.  What’s that about?  Then, the polar bear versus mountain lion match resumed and translation started to scroll up the display.  “I am no longer to be addressed as ‘Forest Victor.’  My present rank is ‘Forest Commander’ [a rank believed to be roughly equivalent to Rear Admiral].  You are blameless for the error in addressing me.  Such changes are military matters we do not often reveal to fruit eaters [a term which the purely carnivorous Vaaach use to disparage any species that consumes plants even to the smallest degree].  Regarding the negligent member of my crew, his punishment is not a matter to be discussed with frivolous monkey offspring.  Be satisfied with knowing that neither you nor he has been put to death.  Do not give me cause to regret either decision.  As to what to do with you, there is a fine point of Honor and the Hunters’ Rules we must resolve based upon a further review of the computer records we have obtained from you.  We will advise you when we have decided.  It should not be long, even for one with a primate attention span.  Do not attempt to leave.  This communication ends now.”  The carrier cut off and the displays tuned into it went blank.

“What the
hell
was that about?”  Everyone was staring at the doctor, not just because of the unaccustomed vehemence with which he stated his question, but also because he almost never uttered any kind of curse.  “None of that makes any sense at all.”

“Actually, doctor, it does,” Max said, calmingly.  The sometimes excitable Sahin injecting additional fear and anxiety into the CIC was the very last thing he needed.  The men were nervous enough with the ship caught like a bug in a jar waiting to know whether the entomologist with his hand on the lid was going to set them free or dissect them.  “The Vaaach are bound, on penalty of swift death, to a strict code of Honor, which they apply consistently and—by their standards at least—fairly.  Sometimes, the right thing to do can depend on some seemingly trivial difference in the facts, just as in a law case.  So, they’re looking at what happened.  In detail.  It won’t take them long to make up their minds.  They are decisive.  Very decisive.  They make Admiral Hornmeyer look wishy washy.”  A few people chuckled at that.  Good.  If people are laughing, they aren’t so scared that they aren’t thinking.  And, they should always be thinking.  “They’ll learn what they need, announce what they found and what they decided based on what they found, and then they’ll act on it.”

Someone figured out that this would be a good time to run for the head.  Heads, actually, one for officers and one for enlisted, because the Navy feared deep in its blue-clad soul that something disastrous would certainly ensue if an officer and an enlisted man ever took a crap in the same room, even if they did so one after the other.  Of course, no line formed because that would mean that everyone in line was away from his station at the same time.  Precedence was determined by catching the eye of the Midshipman working in CIC for that watch, Gilbertson in this case, and making a jerk of the head in the direction of the facilities.  The Midshipman kept track of who was ahead of whom and, when all eyes would turn toward him as the head door opened, he would simply nod in the direction of the man whose turn it was.  The Mid was expected to do this without any kind of notes or other memory aid, and to do so without error.  For the boys, not only was it a small introduction to the naval world of responsibility, the practice also helped train their minds in the nearly automatic retention and memorization of sequence-based information, an essential skill at any level of naval service. 

The seat in the head had not yet lost most of the warmth from the posterior of the last man on Gilbertson’s mental list when Chin announced, “Carrier on Channel Seven, sir.”

“Let’s have it.”

Chin made the requisite connections causing the bizarre interweaving of complex geometric patterns and color progressions that the Vaaach used for a test pattern to appear on a dozen or CIC displays.  Then, he tied the CIC visual and audio pickups into the transceiver, which notified the Vaaach that the
Cumberland
was ready to engage in communication.  A moment later, the test pattern was replaced in favor of the Vaaach commander, his fuzzy face and tufted Koala bear ears looking cute and cuddly as ever, with his dagger-like fangs and deadly, alien yellow-green eyes even more dangerous.  A few short roars and a snarl followed. 

“I greet you, Commander Robichaux,” said the translation.

“I greet you, as well, Forest Commander Chrrlgrf.”

“We have reviewed your activities since we last met, including your recent battle with the Krag.  We will not kill you.  Not today.”  Max could feel an immediate dissipation of tension in the compartment, like a spring uncoiling.

“We are pleased to learn of your decision.”

A few short, barking growls, perhaps the Vaaach equivalent of laughter.  “Of course you are.  You will continue to hunt the Krag.  We hope you kill many of them.  It seems you were born for that purpose, as Forest Commander Vllgrhmrr said twelve seasons ago when you spent time among the Hunters of Vermin.  Now, regarding the hunt, you have forced us to do something for which there is no precedent.  At my command, shortly before meeting you, this ship destroyed the prey you pursued.  We now know that, when we killed it, the prey was suffering from many wounds, including wounds you—not just your hunting brothers—but you and your ship, inflicted on it.  And, of all the wounds suffered by this prey, the ones inflicted by you and your ship were the most recent.  We now also know that the prey was fleeing you when it ran into our trap.  Under our law, the hunter who inflicts the latest wounds upon the prey taken by another or who drives it to another hunter has rights of blood, the right to join in the kill.”

The Forest Commander paused once again.  He contemplated one of his claws.  Perhaps it was duller than the others.  Perhaps it was sharper.  Perhaps there was something about its wicked curvature and its long, knife-like cutting edge that he found particularly appealing.  As he was doing that, the light went on for Levi. 
That’s
why the skipper made certain that the
Cumberland
inflicted some damage on the Krag ship before it escaped.  He knew that doing so conferred specific rights.  Crafty bastard.  

After a few seconds, the CIC transducers started to put out more feeding time at the tiger cage sounds.  “Unfortunately, you cannot exercise this right in the usual way because the kill has been made and the prey utterly destroyed, to the last atom.  Even so, failing to grant your rights of blood would be an act of extreme dishonor, and is not even to be considered.  I have just spoken with the Loremaster and the Lawspeaker on our home world and they are in agreement with me and with each other:  our traditions and law allow no exception.  You must share—if not in the kill itself, than in the meat from the beast—even if you are a tiny, pink, fangless, scampering primate.” 

At least the Vaaach was being insulting.  That was always a good sign.  He broke eye contact with the camera for an instant, as though he was concealing an emotion.  Amusement?  Feigned reluctance to do something he had planned to do all along?  Reading humans is hard enough, but a fur-faced, technologically advanced, tree-dwelling, carnivorous alien?  “According to the Loremaster and the Lawspeaker, before you may receive your meat, you must first be proclaimed a Hunter.  We do not suffer hard-won meat to be passed to the scavengers and carrion birds.  As the leader of the hunt in which you took your first Kill of Honor with Brothers of the Trees, it is my duty to give you a Hunter’s Name.  It is a duty I must fulfill well, as the Name’s fitness for the Hunter is a measure of the Honor of he who bestowed it.” 

The Vaaach paused, as if pondering something.  He bared some of his lower teeth, revealing that they were all needle sharp.  A smile, perhaps?  “Your records tell an interesting tale of your hunts since we last met.  You have been a busy little primate, very much a
bglrrmlmp
[a burrowing parasite, much like a tick, that causes extreme irritation to Vaaach skin and is very difficult to remove] in the flesh of the Krag.  Your nature as a hunter and a warrior is clear to me.  I know the kind of name to give you, but I have not had time to find the words in your primitive, poorly organized database.  So, I must ask you.  What is the primary form of terrain near the place of your birthing?”

“Wetlands primarily.  Swamps, marshes, bayous.  Some low-lying plains and grasslands.  Occasionally woods,” said Max, wondering where this was all going.

“Swamp.  Very well.  I also need to know the name of a creature on your world like our
hrllarlemar
—virtually all complex ecosystems have such an animal.  The
hrllarlemar
is small, quick, and crafty.  It has a peculiar kind of genius for getting through fences, for entering and raiding closed outbuildings where we keep our small domestic animals, for defeating and penetrating the most elaborate means used to keep it out.  When hunted, it is highly elusive and has a great many tricks for evading and escaping hunters.  It doubles back on its trail to send us in circles.  It leaps from tree to tree so as to leave no scent.  It leads our hunting animals into bogs and then scampers away.  In our language, its name stands for its qualities.  We often say that a crafty warrior is a sly old
hrllarlemar
.  Do you have such an animal?”

“We do.  It is called a fox.”

“Fox.  The name suits the beast.  Come to your feet, Hunter to Be.”

Max stood.  This was starting to feel as though it might be important.

“Maxime Tindall Robichaux, of planet Nouvelle Acadiana, henceforth and so long as claws and fangs shall yearn to find the flesh of prey, you shall be a Hunter of the Vaaach.  Your current rank is that of Peer [the lowest rank in the Vaaach Hunter hierarchy].  You shall be called by the name ‘Swamp Fox.’  Is that an acceptable name?”

“Forest Commander, I’m afraid that it
has
been used before.  That was the nickname of General Francis Marion, an American Rev--”

Max was stopped in mid word by an almost deafening roar so loud that it triggered the sound system’s protective circuits to prevent damage to the crew’s hearing.  Max looked anxiously down at the translation. 

“I care not that it has been borne before by some long-dead fruit-eating monkey.  The Vaaach did not confer the name on him.  It has no meaning to us.  The Vaaach do not recognize it.  Your choices are simple.  You may accept the name, or you may refuse it.  If you refuse it, you must earn the right to claim your own name by vanquishing me in single, unarmed Honor Combat in the treetops.  Such combat usually results in the death of one of the combatants.  My ship has an arboretum with trees grown for just that purpose.  Speak now.  How do you choose?”

“I accept the name.”

He made a few more of the short, barking growls that Max was even more convinced were laughter.  “Wise choice.  Here is your share of the meat.  May it give you strength for many hunts.  The voices of my ancestors whisper to me that your hairless face awaits me around many turns of my life’s journey.  I have no doubt that I will find you as much a nuisance then as I do now.  Until then, hunt well.  Unless you seek swift and certain death, leave our space immediately by the most direct route.  This communication ends.”  The carrier cut off, the grappling field collapsed, and the enormous black, menacing arrowhead of the Vaaach vessel pivoted in its own length, pulled away from the Destroyer, engaged its compression drive, and was gone.