Strength and Honor (2 page)

The Romans were gone. The Hive was still there.

Captain Farragut liked to know his enemy. He had been in
Merrimack’s
lab with the xenoscientists, observing how newly emerged gorgons behaved, when he received Hamster’s summons, Farragut spoke before anyone could tell him; “The balloon went up?”

Specialists at their close-packed stations on the command deck traded looks. Somehow, from what Hamster said, John Farragut had figured out that the United States was at war.

“Looks like it, sir.” Lieutenant Glenn Hamilton nodded toward the forward communications shack, where the cryptotech had cloistered himself with the EAM. “Waiting on confirmation.”

Commander Egypt “Gypsy” Dent entered the deck.

She had left her ferocious hair in her cabin. Her head was smooth. Her brown eyes were narrowed into a squint, half-asleep. Strong-boned, tall and frowning, Gypsy scanned the monitors for some sign of the emergency that had roused her here. Hamster advised her softly, “It’s war, sir.”

The eyes opened at once. Gypsy was awake now. “Who declared?” said Farragut. “I’m fixin’ to be almighty unhappy if it was us.”

He could not believe the Joint Chiefs would strand him out here in the deepest end of the Deep End, sitting on the biggest warship in the U.S. Naval Fleet, while the U.S. declared war without so much as a stand-by-for-heavy-rolls to warn him.

But Hamster answered,
“They
did, sir.”
They.
Rome.

The Imperial Government of Rome establishes the following facts:

Although Rome on her part has strictly adhered to the rules of international law in her relations with the United States during every period of the recent Emergency in the common defense against the Hive, the Government of the United States has used the Emergency to abridge the right of Rome to its own government, and continues to usurp the lawful authority of Rome over her own armed forces under pretext of a common defense against a threat that has been diminished to inconsequence in order to perpetuate oppression and to enforce a treaty coerced under most extreme circumstances. The United States violates Roman borders at will, and denies Rome the autonomy and security to which every nation is entitled, in actions more consistent with an organized crime racket rather than a civilized nation.

Pledges extracted upon threat of being fed to monsters cannot be bound by law.

The Government of the United States has thereby virtually created a state of war.

The Imperial Government of Rome, consequently, discontinues diplomatic relations with the United States of America and declares that Rome considers herself as being in a state of war with the United States of America.

Vlll.xiii.MMCDXLVI

CAESAR ROMULUS.

“And you are all rotten people and don’t deserve to live no more,” Tactical added in a low mutter into his console.

“Thank you, Mister Vincent,” said Farragut, a warning in his voice. Loose comments were what got Marcander Vincent bucked down to the Hamster Watch in the first place.

Farragut asked Lieutenant Hamilton, “Where do we stand?”

“We have the text of the President’s request to Congress to declare back at ‘em,” said Hamster, and fed the text to his station.

To the Congress of the United States:

On the morning of August 13,the Imperial Government of Palatine, pursuant to its course of galactic conquest, declared war against the United States.

The long known and the long expected has thus taken place. The forces endeavoring to enslave the entire galaxy now are moving into free space.

Delay invites greater danger. Rapid and united effort by all free peoples who are determined to remain free will insure a victory of the forces of justice and of righteousness over the forces of inhumanity and of totalitarianism.

I, therefore, request the Congress to recognize a state of war between the United States and the Imperial Government of Palatine.

MARISSA JANE JOHNSON.

“Congressional recognition is ‘imminent,’” Hamster added. Farragut looked to the com tech, “Nothing from Congress yet?”

“Not yet, sir.”

“ ‘Kay.” Farragut drew alongside Commander Dent, his hand between her shoulder blades. He spoke low, “If approval comes in before I get back, keep it quiet. There’s something I have to do first.”

“Understood, sir.” Their heads were close together. Gypsy’s brown eyes flicked, her focus shifting across his face, assessing.

There was a time, during the last hostilities, when Farragut had standing orders: Should
Merrimack
ever fall into enemy hands, Captain Farragut must kill his cryptotech. During that time,
Merrimack
had in fact been captured by Romans. Yet the cryptotech, Qord Johnson, was still alive to this day and authenticating the EAM in
Merrimack’s
communication shack right now.

Someone
else
had orders regarding the cryptotech in case of capture now. You never could trust John Farragut to kill his own people. Farragut still had his orders regarding the Roman patterner, whom
Merrimack
carried on board.

In case of war, the captain’s first task—to be carried out immediately and without question—was to take Augustus down. The Roman patterner was the single biggest threat to U.S. security. Farragut’s order was clear. Neutralize the threat. Do not try to capture Augustus or to salvage information from him. As Admiral Mishindi said, “Just drop him.”

Qord Johnson emerged from the communications shack.

He looked to the captain and the XO. “Sir. Sir.” He passed the EAM to Farragut. “Emergency Action Message confirmed. Rome declared war. President Johnson presented her declaration to Congress.”

Then it was real. War. Gypsy studied the captain’s eyes. She asked quietly, “Do you want me to do it, sir?” Farragut shook his head. “If Augustus hears anyone but me coming to visit him, he’ll know something’s up.”

That was true. Normally the crew and Marines on board
Merrimack
went out of their way to avoid crossing Augustus’ path.

Most men on board would
like
to have these orders.

Captain Farragut could not ever delegate something like this. The day he delegated because he could not carry out an order for himself was the day he delegated command of his ship.

He motioned to one of the Marines who flanked the hatch. “Do you have a single stage piece on you?” The sergeant fished a small backup weapon from his boot pocket. Surrendered it, grip first.

Farragut checked the load. Head busters. Low velocity projectiles, only meant to pierce a human body, not tear through and through. The point detonated only upon abrupt contact with human DNA.

The sergeant reminded Farragut uneasily, “That piece is coded to me, sir.” He felt stupid saying that to the captain. Would feel stupider if he hung the captain out there pulling the trigger of a gun that wouldn’t fire for him.

Weapons on board a space battleship were coded to their proper users. A weapon would not fire for anyone other than its coded owner.

But everyone on board
Merrimack,
company and crew alike, belonged to Captain John Farragut.

Farragut assured the Marine benevolently, “Son, there’s nothing on this boat I can’t shoot.”

Even so, he depressed the trigger halfway. A green light confirmed recognition. He let up the trigger, clicked the safety off, cocked the piece, and slipped it into his jacket pocket like a street thug.

“Do you want a Marine guard?” his XO asked.

Farragut shook his head no. “Gypsy, he can hear a gnat spit.” .

“He’ll hear
you,”
said Gypsy.

“Good bet,” Farragut agreed. “He’ll hear me coming. But that’s okay. He likes to pretend I don’t exist.”

Augustus never stood up when the captain entered his compartment. Most times Augustus did not even bother to look at him at all.

“I’ll be right back.” Farragut moved out fast. He did not try to soften his footsteps. He needed to sound normal.

This task had to be done. He saw the wisdom and necessity of it. And he knew how to kill—and not just at a distance. Farragut had beheaded the Roman Captain Sejanus on the command deck of his own ship with a sword. He knew how to do this.

This was just another Roman.

The most abrasive, off-pissing, caustic, sadistic son of a Roman bitch he had ever known. The most loyal. With a courage beyond question. He was having a son of a hard time with this one. Farragut would get only one shot, if that. He would not be able to say anything. No regrets. No good-bye. He could not even look him in the eyes. Augustus could read Farragut’s eyes. And Augustus was extremely fast.

No one outdraws a patterner. Just shoot him. A shot in the back if Augustus’ back presented first. A prickle like fear stung his mouth. He tried to blank out his thoughts. Stop thinking and just move.

Sounds of his ship around him were all normal. Booted footsteps on eight decks. Voices through thin partitions— fewer voices at this hour of the mid watch. The steady low hum of six mammoth engines. The sharp thunk of rubber balls in the squash court. Air rushing in the vents. Water moving through conduits. Hiss of hydraulics. Clicking of a dog that needed its nails cut.

His ship was an industrial beauty. Spare. Utilitarian. Thin partitions were only in place to keep things from passing compartment to compartment. Any equipment that might be tucked within walls on a passenger ship— conduits, pipes, struts—was all on view here. There were no ceilings, only the undersides of the upper decks along with more of the ship’s inner workings clustered up there in the overhead. You could see what this ship was made of. Except for things dangerous, secret, private, or requiring heavy containment,
Merrimack
was right there for you to see.

Farragut slid down the ladder to the corridor that accessed the torpedo rack room. At six foot eight in height, Augustus was difficult to billet. A torpedo rack was the only place he could fit horizontally.

Farragut made a conscious effort not to slow his stride. He wondered if Augustus could read deadly intent in a man’s footsteps.

He hoped Augustus would not look when the hatch opened. He couldn’t remember a time when Augustus ever did look. Augustus’ pattern of disdain for Farragut’s authority would serve now.

The patterner slept most of the day and all the mid watch. There was a good chance Farragut would catch him sleeping. He was probably going to murder Augustus in his rack.

Farragut kept his right hand in his pocket, gripping the sidearm.

Don’t even show the piece, he decided. Just point and shoot through his pocket. The interior space beyond the hatch was tight. The instant that hatch opened, Farragut would be very close to his target. Point-blank, in fact.

His throat tightened up as he neared the hatch. He fought off the personal reaction.
To hell with it.

Big breath. Hold it.

His left arm was supposed to be reaching to pull the hatch open, but he suddenly could not move it. He hadn’t heard a thing. Two invincible, cable-reinforced arms had locked around him from behind, pinning his left arm across his chest, his right arm locked against his side. A large hand closed over Farragut’s right hand, the one gripping the sidearm inside his pocket.

Squeezed.

The weapon discharged.

The bullet lodged in Farragut’s deck boot. The head did not detonate.

The shot itself had made barely a pop. No one was going to come running to investigate.

The rough cheek pressing hard against Farragut’s temple pushed his head to an unnatural turn, forced his chin into his own shoulder, immobile.

Augustus’ breath puffed against his ear in a whispered growl. “I have the same orders.”

2

^M
INUTES GREW LONG
for those who waited on the command deck. The deep scowl on the XO’s bold features made her look frightening.

Commander Dent was already an imposing figure, very tall, heavy-boned, hard-muscled, her head shaved. She had a smooth alto voice that she never needed to raise. Gypsy Dent commanded respect on sight.

Lieutenant Hamilton’s size did not command respect, but
she
did. Once you’d been dressed down by the Hamster, you never tested her authority again.

At five foot one with a dainty frame, Glenn Hamilton held her own among the tall, muscular people who surrounded her.

That the captain had an eye for pretty Glenn Hamilton was a badly kept secret. Farragut was the only one who didn’t think his affection was obvious.

The commander and the lieutenant maintained straight-ahead stoic gazes, scarcely moving. Captain Farragut should have reported in by now. Augustus should be dead.

The command deck was quiet. Time suspended.

Com silence broke. Several sharp intakes of breath met the hail to the command deck. But the incoming signal was not an internal transmission. The hail was resonant, and it originated from Earth. Congress had recognized the U.S. declaration of war.

Qord Johnson, the cryptotech, asked Commander Dent, “Commence Divorce Protocol, sir?”

“Not until we hear from the captain,” said Gypsy. Her scowl took on gargoyle depths.

Glenn Hamilton blurted, “Something’s wrong.”

The words were scarcely out when an alarm sounded.

From somewhere in the ship, dogs barked.

Merrimack’s
dogs seldom barked except in case of fire.

“Fire,” the systems tech of the mid watch reported. Systems on the mid watch was a young man named Klaus Nordsen. “Fire in the port flight hangar,” Nordsen said, then, immediately, “Hull access hatch opening. Flight deck.”

The hull access .would be someone trapped by the fire in the flight hangar making his escape out to the flight deck. “Fire crew to port flight hangar,” Commander Gypsy Dent ordered.

“Hull access hatch closing,” Nordsen reported.

The atmosphere out there between the hull and the ship’s surrounding force field was thin and cold. A man did not last long out there without an atmospheric suit. And soon enough, young Nordsen announced, “Hull access hatch opening. Cargo bay.”