Strength and Honor (39 page)

As the eel swept round the wall, Steele dashed back into the center of the arena, to roaring laughter. Wished to hell he had the spear back. The damned gladiator sword was too short.

Steele ran behind the eel to collect the shield.

The eel reacted to the movement, turned round.

Steele huddled down, holding the shield over him like a shroud with both hands. He waited for the eel. Heard its advancing intake of air and sand. As it came over him, he rammed the tall shield into the slit mouth, hard.

The beast bowled him off his feet. Steele felt the gills sandblast him as they passed over.

Then the eel turned over belly up like an attacking shark. Steele ran out of the way of its mad thrashing, as it tried to dislodge the shield from its mouth.

The bottom rows of box seats had backed up into the second tier. Romulus was laughing. . Spearmen posted in the audience moved down to the first row, ready to repel the eel in case it came up. Steele staggered to the arena’s edge, caught his balance against the wall. He’d lost his sword. It had to be buried in the sand under the convulsing eel. He roared up at one of the guards. “Give me your spear!” The man stared down at him as if he were mad.

“Give me the fucking spear!”

The guard looked across to Romulus, who appeared amazed, delighted, and he motioned for the guard to give Steele the spear.

The eel flipped back over, coughed out the shield, spitting yellow fluid on the sand. Might have been eel blood. Its sides rippled in wrath or pain.

Steele approached it, spear at the ready. The eel backed away from him—the crowd laughing uproariously—the monster retreating from the mouse.

Ain’t funny down here.

The eel rippled backward. Its tail touched the wall, and it turned its head with a start. Steele ran in, stabbed the spear into a nexus of dark conduits visible through the eel’s translucent skin just behind its head. He could only hope those were blood vessels or something critical in a nervous system.

May as well have been an off switch. The thing collapsed instantly, motionless, yellow stuff leaking from its mouth.

Steele staggered away from it, breathing hard. Not sure why he had chased the thing. Something the Romans had said down in the dungeon. If you bore the crowd, they’ll kill you themselves.

The crowd was not sounding murderous. They were happy with the show, chattering excitedly, laughing. Steele cast about for his sword. It was nowhere to be seen.

The pig-buffalo had finally stopped twitching. Steele retrieved the other short sword from its carcass. Like yanking something out of a stone.

Steele’s muscles were losing their strength.

The front rows were refilling.

Steele looked around to see if he could find where he’d dropped his water bottle. The crowd had taken up a chant: A-da-mas! A-da-mas! Caesar was looking somewhere between amused and bemused, and now just musing what to do.

Those animals had been meant to kill some of the scum from the criminals’ cage. Steele guessed the lupes were going to keep bringing out shit till something got him dead.

Soldiers in full armor came out next. Bunch of them. This was it. Steele just didn’t have anything left in him. He faced them, gory sword in hand.

The lead soldier shouted something at him in Latin. Sounded like a command.

Another said in American: “Drop your weapon.”

Steele let the sword drop.

The soldiers surrounded him, poked him to make him walk back through an arch, into a caged lift. Not the way he came in, and not the death gate. The crowd was on its feet, cheering him as he descended.

The guards prodded him down an unfamiliar corridor where automatons took custody of him and forced him into a shower.

He expected gas for sure, but he got water. Cold, but clear drinkable water. Under the flow he found he had taken the skin off his left knee and one elbow. His shoulders were scraped. There was a big knot on his shin he didn’t remember getting, and another scratch from who the hell knew what. A million stinging points from the sand blasting he’d got from the eel.

A clean tunic waited for him when he came out. Still no belt. Food. An intradermic injection took away some of the ache that was setting into his muscles.

The Romans had removed his language module when they sent him into the arena. They plugged it back in now, and punched a capsule into his earlobe.

Automatons took him back to his cell. He took note of all the doors, all the corridors along the way, who or what was on guard where.

As he came in sight of the cell, the Marines gasped and rose to their feet. “Colonel!”

“I knew it,” said Dak. “I knew it!” Dak had absolute faith in the Old Man. Dumb, but Steele appreciated the faith. Steele knocked forearms with Dak and accepted the
hoo ra!

The Roman gladiators in the opposite cell rose slowly too, clapping ironically.

“You were meant to die, you know,” a Roman told him. “Got that,” said Steele. “Gives real meaning to getting the hook.”

He shuddered at the afterimage of the big gladiator being hauled away like zoo meat. Then he became aware of animals roaring from their cages. And suddenly wondered what actually became of the defeated gladiator’s body.

Another Roman remarked, “You must have done well,
Adamas.
They like you.”

Must have. With a language module plugged in, he could now understand the chant that had followed him out of the ring.

A-da-mas! A-da-mas!

It was his name in translation. Steel.

He actually owed these gladiators for that remark about not wanting to bore the crowd. But he was not about to thank them.

Ever in escape mode, Steele asked the Romans, “Why didn’t they send automatons out to get me?” The gladiators recoiled. “Not in the arena!” A shudder in it, as if Steele had suggested blasphemy. “It is not
done.”

Munda, the Magister of Imperial Intelligence, requested a private meeting with Caesar Romulus. Munda claimed to be free of nanites but Caesar did not permit him in the palace. Caesar came to Imperial Intelligence wearing an exo-suit as if he were in outer space.

Munda received him in a secure chamber. Caesar would not sit, would not touch anything. Munda remarked on none of it.

“I wanted to alert you before I informed the Senate, Caesar. It seems the patterner Augustus isolated the harmonics of both of the new Hives.”

Caesar inhaled in cautious wonder. Stopped short of a smile. “Are you sure?”

“We won’t know for absolute fact until we resonate the complements and both Hives die, but it seems real, because we have the method by which he derived them.”

This was Power. Ultimate Power.

“Who else knows?” Romulus asked.

“Only the team I have assigned to this project in Imperial Intelligence.”

“The Senate has this?”

“No,” said Munda.

“But they’ll find it for themselves. The have a copy of Augustus’ data bank,” said Romulus, testing.

“But they don’t have the Striker,” said Munda. “They didn’t ask for it and we didn’t volunteer it. It’s a sixty-yearold vessel. But half the key is in the old Striker.”

Caesar was hard pressed not to laugh. “Then we can keep this secret!”

“We could, but why would we do that?”

“The Hive will arrive at Earth before it reaches Palatine.”

Munda looked disapproving. On Munda’s face that counted as horrorstruck. The man was expressive as rock. “The Hive knows no nations. It is not a weapon,” said Munda.

“Can you not see it?” said Romulus. “Earth on the eve of destruction, the United States on its knees, and Rome delivers—Passover.”

“An enjoyable fantasy,” Munda allowed. “Please be serious now. Tire Hive cannot be contained. This is not a matter of war, but a question of humanity.”

Caesar nodded gravely. “Of course it is. Thank you for your outstanding handling of this project.” Magister Munda died in his sleep.

31

^T
HE EARTHLY ORIGIN
of the escaped Marines forced them to stay near the city and its surrounding terraformed cultivation. Being human they could not forage off the alien land. They could not digest any of the native growth.

Neither could they go into the city in daylight. Their clothing was U.S. issue arctic black and white camouflage, out of place in Roma Nova in the spring.

At least their clothes were frictionless. Nothing adhered to the fabric. Their bodies might get ripe but their clothes never smelled of anything.

They had been hiding in an olive grove since their escape from the Coliseum. Unfortunately it was springtime and there was no fruit on the trees.

There were ducks on the pond, but getting one was the trick. The birds’ presence did indicate that there were edible things in the pond. However in this season the edible aquatics were still tadpoles, not even full frogs.

There were violets to be found in the shade, but there was not a Marine born who could survive on violets. In the forest beyond the olive grove there were last fall’s acorns. The white oak acorns. The ones from the red oaks gave you cramps.

Farms covered the beautiful landscape, but they all had security systems.

There was one picturesque little farm on a hillside with sheep and spring lambs, guarded by a dog.

“What happened to the dog?” Kerry Blue asked over a lamb supper in the forest.

“Don’t ask,” said Cain.

The meal was more of a breakfast, because it had taken the better part of the night to get a fire going, then to prepare the meat without proper tools.

The next night Carly managed to snag a woman’s tunic that had been left out on a deck, and the Marines sent Kerry Blue into town foraging for food in daylight.

She came back with five pizzas and a lighter for making a fire, which she pitched to Taher, their designated chef. “How’d you get that?” Taher wondered at the gift of fire.

“I asked,” said Kerry.

“You
talked
to Romans?” said Big Richard. “Now how didn’t that give you away?”

“I told them I was a Russian student and my language module was an American piece of shit.”

“Kerry does better than Cain at food duty,” said Menendez, tearing into the pizza.

“Yeah, what she brings isn’t still walking or clucking.”

“Hey, I killed it and skinned it, and it was good,” said Cain. Carly gave a goatly bleat and opened another pizza box. “Blue still gets better stuff,” said Menendez just before he plunged an entire slice of pizza into his mouth. “That’s ‘cause Blue has a marketable commodity,” said the Yurg.

Kerry Blue threw dirt in his face.

The Yurg wiped off his face, picked dirt off his pizza. “That sucked, what I said, Blue.”

“Yeah,” said Kerry. Night was closing in. They took stock of their displacement collars and landing disks in the last light. They had only five sets of displacement equipment. The escaped Marines numbered eight.

“Fine, then we send five, and they send their collars back for everyone else,” said Cain.

“Fine, but is there any chance in the known universe that we can find an area not covered by Roman jammers?” said Big Richard.

Carly checked a displacement set for correspondence. “Uh, a really good chance.” Heads whipped round. Carly held up her LD and collar. The lights were all red. “We’re here.”

“We just need a destination correspondence now,” said Cain.

“How do we do that?” said Big Richard. “We don’t have a com. Makes these things about twelve shades of useless.”

“We have a com.” Kerry Blue produced a Roman-made universal com she’d got on her last foraging mission. “If anyone knows a U.S. channel, see if you can raise the
Mack.”

Cain seized the com. The Yurg kissed Kerry’s hands. “Kerry Blue, I am sorry for what I said. I am not worthy to be in your company. I am mud. I am garbage. I am rat feces.”

“Eyeew.” Kerry pulled her hands away from his.

“Forgive me?” Yurg asked.

“Yeah. Forget it, Ratcrap.”

“Mack Mack Mack.
This is Alpha Three drinking wild whiskey. Can we get a dust off?”

Mister Hicks literally jumped out of his seat on the command deck. He turned to the captain. “Sir! I have evaders calling on the emergency channel on a nonstandard com.”

The captain and the XO both moved to the com station, motioned for Hicks to continue the communication. Hicks put the call on the speaker as he answered, “Alpha Three, this is
Merrimack,
please authenticate.”

“We’re in the pit of fubarosity here, how would you like us to do that?”

“What’s your name, son?”

“Captain!”
Cain recognized the voice. “This is Flight Sergeant Cain Salvador, sir!”

“What color is the exec’s hair?”

“Never seen it, sir. Her eyebrows are black.”

Gypsy scowled at Farragut. Her dark eyes warned:

Speak not of the hair.

Gypsy asked a question of her own: “What is the mid watch called?”

“Hamster watch, Commander Dent, sir.” Cain knew her voice too.

“What is redundance?” said Farragut.

“What is—?” that stumped him. Then, “Oh!
Oh!
It’s good! It’s good! It’s good! It’s good!”

Farragut turned to Gypsy, “Authentic enough for me.”

“I agree,” said Gypsy.

Farragut said, “Get us in range and get them out of there.” Gypsy spoke into the com, “We are showing five displacement signatures, Flight Sergeant.”

“That’s all the displacement equipment we have,” Cain returned. “There are eight of us.”

“Then gear up five and stand by to displace. We will advise you when we are in range.” She could hear Cain barking, “Blue, Big Richard, Yurg, Taher, Menendez. Collars! Disks!”

Kerry Blue could not say how scary it was to stand by for displacement while wearing red lights. At least if this went south, she would never know it.

Cain lifted the com.

A black figure out of the dark came over Cain. Black-gloved hand sealed over his mouth and the com flew out of his hand. Immediately, Kerry Blue was bowled off her LD. A black-clad figure landed on her, held her down.