“Go on,” said the commodore.
“Well, this isn’t my field, really. Not in practice, at least. But—I don’t think these Guilds have fought a real battle in—in—Jesus, who knows? Millennia. Many millennia.”
Trumbull smiled thinly and looked back at the formation marching across the starfield.
“Funny you should say that,” he murmured. “I was just thinking the same thing.”
Tambo cleared his throat. “According to the computer, sir, there are three classes of warships in that fleet. Eight small ones—about the size of the vessel the Gha seized—four mediums, and the big one in the center.”
He issued a modest little cough. “Naval procedure, as you know, recommends that we give enemy vessels a nomenclature. Since we don’t know what the Guild calls their own ships, we’ll have to come up with our own names.”
Trumbull’s smile widened. “Do you have any suggestions?”
“Oh, yes,” replied Tambo, solemn-faced. “I believe we should name them as follows: small ones, Bismarcks; the mediums, Yamatos; and the big one—”
He could not restrain his grin.
“—is a Titanic.”
VII
The bridge was crowded, now, with the addition of the aliens. The Pilot and the Medic huddled against a wall, out of the way. But the four Gha, by virtue of their size alone, seemed to fill half the room.
“Do any of you know the rules of engagement?” Trumbull asked the Gha. Tambo translated his question into Latin.
The Gha were stiff as statues.
“We understand do not,” said Fludenoc. “What are—engagement regulations?”
Before Tambo could explain, the Gha commander turned to the Pilot and motioned. Fearfully, creeping on her footskirt, she shuffled forward. Tambo waited while Fludenoc spoke some rapid phrases in a language he didn’t recognize.
“That’s Galactic,” whispered Quartilla. “It’s an artificial language, with several dialects designed for the vocal apparatus of different Doge Species. This one is called Galactic Three.”
She began to add something else, but fell silent when Fludenoc turned back to the humans.
“Now I understand,” said the Gha. “Pilot say she not certain. Doges not fought each other many thousands—many thousands—years. But she think there no rules between Guild fight Guild. She—what is word?—strongly says you must not attack Federation vessel.”
“Will it attack us?” asked Tambo.
The Gha did not bother to check with the pilot before answering. “No. Federation ship will watch only.” He waved a huge, clawed hand at the viewscreen. “This is Guild business. Federation not interfere.”
After Tambo explained to his superior, Trumbull nodded. “It’s a straight-up fight, then.” To the com officer: “How good’s your Latin?”
She smiled. “Well, sir—it’s just about perfect.”
Trumbull grimaced. “Christ,” he muttered. “I’m going to have to learn that damned archaic tongue, after all.”
Then, with an irritated shrug: “Contact that fleet and warn them off.”
“Yes sir. How should I identify us?”
Trumbull hesitated, before turning to the historian.
“Give me some good old Roman term,” he ordered. “Something vague, mind you—I don’t—”
Ainsley understood immediately. Smiling, he replied: “Just use SPQR.”
Tambo chuckled. Trumbull said to the com officer:
“Use it. Tell them we’re the—the SPQR Guild—and we have already established prior rights to all trade and commerce with this system.” Growling: “Way, way prior rights.”
The com officer followed his orders. Three minutes later, a burst of Latin phrases appeared on the com screen.
Lieutenant Sanchez clucked disapprovingly. “Their Latin’s really pretty bad. That’s a ridiculous declension of the verb `to copulate,’ for one thing. And—”
“Just give me the message!” bellowed the commodore.
The com officer straightened. “The gist of it, sir, is that our claim is preposterous and we are ordered to surrender.”
Trumbull grunted. “I was hoping they’d say that. I’ve never even met these people, and already I hate their guts.” He leaned toward his executive officer. “Any recommendations?”
“Yes, sir. I’d send the Quinctius. With an escort of SSBNs.”
Trumbull nodded. “I was thinking the same way. We may as well find out now if our lasers are as good as they’re cracked up to be. And I’ll be interested to see how the missiles work. The galactic computer claims kinetic weapons are obsolete, but I think it’s full of crap.”
Trumbull began giving the necessary orders to his operations staff. Tambo, seeing the Gha commander’s stiffness out of the corner of his eye, turned to face him.