Strength and Honor (23 page)

With all the Roman prisoners in the hold, Cain slammed the rear hatch shut. The remaining Marines were coming up much faster, strapping themselves into their seats as fast as they boarded.

Steele’s hands slipped on Kerry Blue’s gory wrists. He grabbed her upper arms hard, lifted her up and passed her over to Dak. Ranza shouting from below, “Go! Go! Go! It’s gonna blow!”

Ranza was the last one up. “Clear!”

Steele secured the bottom hatch of the Lander.

Darb, buckling in. “Is it going to implode or explode?”

“Now what kind of Darb question is
that!”
Ranza there, dropping into the seat next to him. “Honey, it’s gonna ‘plode! Don’t give a frog’s tit about the details!”

Steele shouted to the pilot, “Get us airborne
now!”

The engine whined.

The bunker ‘ploded.

The concussion slammed into the Lander’s force field, heaved the stomach into the throat. And suddenly reversed. The Lander waddled
up.
The Marines could feel the motion and shouldn’t.

The lights dimmed to dark.

“Ex,” said Darb.

“Huh?”

Lights back up.

“ ‘Plosion.Wasn’t very big. Only enough to scuttle the bunker.”

“How’d you know it wasn’t a big explosion?” Darb stomped at the deck with one heel.” ‘Cause these S-Nine Landers aren’t shielded for crap.” Ranza turned to Steele, “Next sortie, leave this guy. He is full of too much skat I don’t never need to know.”

Steele looked to Darby. Said at last, quietly, “We probably shouldn’t have set down the Lander on top of the bunker?”

Darb nodded, reluctant to agree. “Sir.” It was a dumbish mistake.

Steele looked to Kerry. She seemed to be in one piece. Unhappy. A slime of repulsive stuff on her. He could not see a wound on her. Wished he could take her into his shower and clean her off. He could still see a pretty woman under that revolting mess. He was a dead man and knew it.

Ranza was speaking, “So what’s the difference if it’s an implosion or an explosion? If it was a big one, either way we’re swimming with the sushi.”

“An implosion would have impeded the liftoff,” said Darb. “Impede,” Ranza echoed. “Who uses that word? What’s an impede?”

“Really small pede.” Darb put his forefinger and thumb close together. “Like a centipede. Less legs.” Kerry was looking out a viewport as the Lander rose. Murmured, “Here’s the interesting part.” She pictured what Calli Carmel looked like trying to get from Fort Ike to
Wolfhound. We got in. We woke them up.

Getting away from Thaleia involved a lot of Stingers which had not been out there on the inbound leg of this journey.

Shots from the Stingers battered the Lander. Kerry Blue did not need to know that these Landers weren’t shielded for crap. A shadow fell over them.

It was
Merrimack.
Descending. The great ship formed a top shield over them. The Lander was still vulnerable on the horizons. Stingers swarmed on every horizon.

A distinctive boom reverberated through the bulkheads. The Lander had been hit by a sounder, making way for something large.

“Good night,” said someone. The end.

They were about to be Carmelized.

Kerry closed her eyes.
This is gonna hurt.

She heard the whoosh. Orange lights of fire flickered behind her eyelids. Did not feel the bone deep agony. Opened her eyes. The Lander stopped rocking and booming. The fire was on the other side of the force field.

“Mack’s
got us.”

The Lander was inside
Merrimack’s
distortion field.

Merrimack
rose straight up with the Lander in tow, Stinger strikes flashing off the force field in useless pretty sprays.

Safe. Kerry sat back. Listened to her head pound.

Dak on one side, sweating like a cold beer.

Carly on the other side. A lot of blood on her, none of it hers.

The prisoners in the hold started to make noise, yelling and stomping and banging on the bulks like a cageful of bad-tempered monkeys.

“Oh, you know what?” Kerry Blue unstrapped, getting up, wincing. “I’ve been hit in the head. I’m icky. I’m not in a good mood. This is not happening.” She stalked back to the rioting hold. Wrenched open the hatch.

She stood in the hatchway, her eyes wild, chin forward. Felt the blood and brains drying on her face. Hair wet with it. She was a grotesque vision and knew it.

The children silenced at once.

“We need to lighten the load,” Kerry rasped. “Who wants to walk?”

They all stared at her, became very still.

She glared wildly over every last one of them. Spoke crisply,” ‘Kay then. I’ll get the straws.” Kerry slammed the hatch. She sat back down, head still throbbing. But the hold was quiet.

“How’d you do that, Blue?” Carly asked.

“Easy,” said Dak. “Kerry Blue has all the brains.”

Kerry whispered, “That is so not funny.” Looked as if she would cry.

Started to laugh like a lunatic till she thought her head would split.

Kerry unloosed her straps so she could lean over her knees. Her head ached so bad it pushed tears into her eyes.

He blurry gaze fell upon an object on the deck. The sword that had got ah this junk on her. It took her thoughts a moment to catch up with what happened back there in the bunker.

She sniffled. That hurt. Mumbled into the deck, the sword swimming before her eyes.

“Wliy’d they have swords in a bunker on Thaleia?”

17

^C
APTAIN JOHN FARRAGUT
recognized the boy. He had seen him on his first mission to Thaleia—a young boy with his arms clasped around the legate of Legion Draconis as the city of Antipolis smoldered after a gorgon attack. He remembered the dark eyes. The boy had grown, as boys will, and cut his curls very short since then.

Farragut entered the briefing room on his ship. He wore a language module. John Farragut liked to try to speak to people in their own tongue. People usually appreciated the attempt, though Augustus had forbade him to ever speak Latin in his presence.

Farragut took a seat opposite the boy at the table. “Are you Herius Asinius’ son?”

The boy’s eyes widened. He stayed silent.

“Convention says you can give me your name, soldier,” said Farragut. “Titus Vitruvius,” the boy announced, and added his rank. “Pilot.”

Farragut nodded. He recognized the name.

“Why did y’all have swords down there, son?”

Latin was one of those languages that actually had a good translation for the word “y’all.” A child’s idea of not talking was flexible. Titus sneered. “As if you did not know.” Farragut was the man who first put swords on a space battleship. Swords were used to kill gorgons.

Farragut was instantly on his com. Spoke in American: “Farragut to command deck. Gypsy, get a message to the JC. Hive presence on Thaleia.”

He sent Titus back to the brig and returned to the command deck.

Gypsy turned, searched his face in hope there was some mistake. “Hie Hive is in Near Space? We’re certain?”

Farragut nodded, his mouth tight, massively not happy.

The first Hive presence on Thaleia had been brief—a duration of mere months. Romans, Americans, the League of Earth Nations, and nearby alien species had all ganged together to exterminate the monsters. And until now everyone had supposed that the planet Thaleia had escaped an eruption of a second generation Hive. Rome had reported Thaleia clear while new swarms were springing up in the Deep End.

“The boy couldn’t have lied?” Gypsy made a last grasp for a better answer.

“No. He didn’t even mean to tell me,” said Farragut, in motion. He wasn’t really pacing the command deck. He was stalking. “Interrogating children is like shooting fish in a barrel.”

“Who shoots fish in a barrel, sir?” He shook his head. He didn’t know. “Had to been some ‘billy’s idea of a good time.”

The United States released the news that Rome was covering up the presence of the Hive on the Near Space planet Thaleia. The broadcasts reached Palatine under headlines like: WHAT YOUR GOVERNMENT WILL NOT TELL YOU!

Both the U.S. and Rome had repeater stations that made sure that the other nation’s homework! received its propaganda.

Roman broadcasts in turn showed images of dead children, purportedly killed in a U.S. raid on Thaleia. They also unveiled “secret U.S. recordings” of Roman children being tortured and killed in
U.S.
detention. The images were certain to shock, sicken and outrage anyone and everyone.

According to Rome the United States was using their fiction of a Near Space Hive presence as a pretext for their invasion of Thaleia, while committing atrocities on Roman children there.

The real captive children from Thaleia—one hundred of them—were on board John Farragut’s space battleship. Three of them had been banged up during capture, treated in the ship’s hospital, and were currently housed in the brig.

Analysis of the Roman broadcasts revealed the images of dead and tortured children to be digital fiction. “No children were harmed in the making of this propaganda feature,” said Colonel Z when he brought his report to the command deck.

“This is dirty combat.” said Farragut.

“No, this is dirty politics,” said Colonel Z. “Rome’s better at it than we are.”

“I never saw this coming,” said Farragut, stunned. Gypsy Dent touched his shoulder, said gently, “You wouldn’t, sir.”

Farragut’s own claims of gorgons on Thaleia were meeting with more skepticism than Rome’s claims of child torture.

Unlike on the Deep End colony of Telecore, there was plenty to eat on the Near Space world of Thaleia—a vicious plenty that would fight back against the Hive—but plenty. Yet there were no vast swarms of gorgons to be seen from space, chewing across Thaleia’s fields of razor grasses and whipthorn.

If Rome was covering up a Hive presence, they were covering very well, and making a liar out of Captain Farragut.
Merrimack’s
Intelligence officer offered to produce some visuals to prop up the U.S. story.

“No,” said Farragut. “I’ll go back to my source.”

“I shall conduct the interrogation,” said Colonel Z.

“No, I’ve got him,” said Farragut.

“Sir,” Colonel Z objected. “You are not trained in interrogating children.”

“I’m
not?”
said Farragut, almost laughing. “Do you know how many kid brothers I have?”

Titus Vitruvius was escorted back to
Merrimack’s
briefing room again. He told his guard that he was not talking, so she should just take him back to the brig right now.

When the guard delivered the boy to the briefing room, Captain Farragut was already seated at the table, popping back oqib nuts. He offered the open bag to Titus. “Nut?”

Titus Vitruvius refused with a big shake of his head, his chin up, arms crossed.

“Sit,” said Farragut.

Titus sat, stiff as a Roman standard.

“Do you know why we’re at war, son?”

The child did not even register the question. He answered what was on his mind. “You’re just mad because we tore down your arch. You should never have got that.”

Accustomed to hearing non sequiturs out of children, Farragut followed the leap. Titus was talking about the Triumphal Arch erected on Thaleia to mark the human victory over the Hive in Near Space. Caesar Magnus had dedicated the arch to John Farragut.

Romulus destroyed it. Farragut sat back. “I never really liked the damned thing.” The boy stayed rigid. His whole being shouted: I am not talking. See me not talking.

“Heri said you were a brave soldier, Titus Vitruvius.”

“Don’t care what any American said.”

Negative declarations apparently did not count as talking. “Heri,” Farragut explained, “was Herius Asinius, legate of Legion Draconis.”

A gasp escaped Titus.

“Heri said you defended the Roman fortress at his side. That’s why I’m surprised to find you in a Gameroom, Titus. I thought you were bound for a Legion.”

Titus’ fortress of attempted silence crumbled. “I wanted to join a Legion!” he cried. “They posted me with the gamers!”

“Have a nut.”

Titus shook his head a vigorous no.

“Diomede Silva dined with me after we took the
Valerius.
And I dined with Numa Pompeii when he took my
Merrimack.
You’re allowed to have a nut.” Farragut tossed one at him. The boy caught it by reflex.

Titus stared at Farragut. He asked, awed, “You met the great Numa Pompeii?” He nibbled cautiously on the edge of the nut.
“Met?”
said Farragut with a big laugh, and regaled Titus with war stories.

The boy listened wide-eyed, enthralled. Farragut had him fighting very hard not to smile at a story about Herius Asinius and a trench.

And Farragut told him how the brave Herius Asinius died.

The tale had the boy in tears—soldier tears, so they were allowed. Titus Vitruvius was profoundly moved, and proud to have been associated with a man like Legion Commander Herius Asinius.

“You and I have the same mission,” Farragut told the boy. “The same duty to Herius Asinius. Now I don’t expect you to tell me anything about Rome. Tell me about our enemy, the Hive.”

Titus sniffled. He sat up imperially straight. “Like what?”

“Gorgons came back to Thaleia again, didn’t they?”

“They’re all gone,” Titus said, unconvincingly.

“You had swords in the Gameroom,” Farragut said.

Titus looked at him straight and spoke like a miniature adult, not a question, “You’re never sure they’re gone, are you?”

Farragut stopped breathing for a moment. It had been one of the worst moments of his career the day the gorgons came back to Antipolis the first time.

“No, sir,” Farragut answered the child gravely. “You’re never sure.”

And he got Titus to tell him about the night the Hive returned to Antipolis the second time. Titus gave him the exact Roman date.

“You don’t have a big population on Thaleia,” said Farragut. “Why hasn’t the Hive overrun the planet by now?”