The Myriad: Tour of the Merrimack #1 (34 page)

“Do we have beam weapons?”

“Not really, sir. Moment they leave the barrels, they’ll torque round the event horizon. Might even shoot ourselves in the foot.”

Tactical: “Roman showing gunports.”

Com: “Roman signaling. Says he’s ready to accept our surrender.”

“Tell him to call back later,” Farragut told the com. “Tell him I’m busy.”

“Those words, sir?”

“Sure. Fine.”

Lu cried, “Cut hook and hit him!”

None of the command deck officers moved without a word from the captain or the exec, so John Farragut did not bother to countermand Colonel Oh.

“Sir!” Lu insisted—and crouched down at the sound of the Roman Striker rushing past. You could actually hear him, so close he came, so thick were the gases surrounding the ship.

The Striker shot by on a near tangent, swirling the dying gases behind it.

An explosion, muffled, reverberated low through the decks.

“Report!” Farragut demanded. “What was that?”

“Distortion bomb,” said Mr. Vincent.

“Penetrate our field?”

“Apparently not.”

Without calibrating the distortion precisely to
Merrimack
’s ever-shifting phases, penetration was a trillion-to-one chance. But that shot was not meant to penetrate. “Target finder,” Vincent clarified. “He took a sounding. He’s got a map of our field now. Depth. Orientation. Right now he’s studying it to find if we’re open to a fatal blow.”

“Are we?”

“Yes, sir,” Mr. Vincent said, as Mr. Emerson at the sensors nodded emphatic agreement. “Singularity has pulled us thin fore and aft. A hit anywhere in the stern takes us right out.”

“Then figure out how to reel in my Spit boat before this Striker shoots me in the ass.”

“Let go of SPT 1,” Lu answered.

“Not an option.”

“I remind the captain it is not just your ass about to be shot. It’s our collective ass.”

Below the rising crash and thunder, the helm could be heard muttering into his board, “Thank you, Colonel. I am sure he forgot that.”

Farragut spoke over him, “Did someone pull the colors off that Striker?”

“Red and black,” Emerson consulted the sensors. “And his sail is peppered with kill badges.”

“Red and black. What gens is that?”

Before Emerson could look it up, Calli answered directly, “Flavian.”

Tactical: “Roman turning wide.”

“Flavian,” Farragut echoed. “Is that Republican or Imperialist? Where do the Flavians stand on the Peace?”

“Imperial,” said Calli. “Right, honor, and the glory of Rome. Hawk to the bone.”

“Good,” said Farragut.

“Oh, hell,” said Lu.

Tactical: “Striker lining up a kill run.” Mr. Vincent turned from his board, earnest. “Sir. We can take this guy. Awaiting your orders.”

“You have my orders.”

Vincent turned back to his console, scarlet flush creeping back to his distant hairline.

“Steele is dead!” Lu shouted, fists clenched.

Again: “Do you
know
this, Lu?” Farragut asked quietly, right in the enormous eyes, not an argument, a solemn question.

“Yes!”

At the same time, the com tech sang out, “Res message on our harmonic.” And he put it on the speaker:

“
Merrimack. Merrimack. Merrimack.
This is SPT 1. Do you read?”

Calli stepped out of the way of the captain’s lunge for the res caller. “TR!
Status!
”

“SPT 1 here. We are intact and shouldn’t be. I can’t tell what’s holding us together. I think we’re inside the black hole. Instruments read garbage.”

Unmanned probes sent into black holes gave back the same result. The old saying remained true—black holes have no hair.

“I shut down the thrusters,” Steele continued. “I have power enough now to bring the thrusters back on-line, but I don’t know which way to fly. Advise.”

“I’ve got you, TR. Do NOT activate your thrusters. You are inside
Merrimack
’s field.”

“And sucking us down with you.”

“Colonel Oh, shut up,” Calli ordered.

Colonel Oh ignored her. “Captain, the Roman
has
us! We are sitting ducks!”

“Not much sport in it, is there?” Farragut murmured.

Lu wailed heavenward. “Oh, God. We are acting according to John Farragut’s sense of fair play against a goddamn Roman point man with a high score and an easy shot—”

Tactical: “Here he comes.”

Calli advised, very low and personal, “John, if you’re counting on the Roman’s sense of honor not to shoot you in the back, I should tell you that honor regularly only extends to other Romans. It’s dangerous to second-guess the Wolf Star.”

Farragut nodded. Murmured back, “I know that wolves kill what runs.”

“Yes, sir.” Calli assumed a posture of cool readiness, hands clasped behind her back, head imperially high.

Tactical: “Striker charging up his disrupters!”

Exec: “Thank you, Mr. Vincent.”

Flashes from the Striker’s ports drew red, severely arcing lines through the storming gases around
Merrimack,
bounced off her field.

Tactical: “Tracers! Dead on.”

Lu shrieking: “
Let go of the Spit!
”

Tactical: “Roman firing.”

18

D
ID NOT HEAR the shot. Disrupters were point specific. Whether they hit or missed, you never heard the shot.

Did feel the deck heave.

He missed!

The Striker’s shot must have hit the singularity, because the black hole’s tidal warp dipped and undulated. And, in the trough in the event horizon, SPT 1 appeared—

And instantly catapulted free to tumble end over end with
Merrimack
like a lopsided bolo, with a force that might have jumped them FTL were they in normal space.

“We’re loose!”

The stars showed through the viewport as solid lines as the ship whirled round and round, the kind of spin that would splatter all hands through the bulks if not for
Merrimack
’s force field.

“Stabilize ship,” Calli ordered.

Helm: “Stabilizing, aye.”

Tactical: “Striker tracking us.”

“Open fire on Striker,” said Farragut. “Shoot from the hip.”

“Without acquiring target?” Lu was appalled. “The singularity will foul any attempt—”

Calli: “Fire Control. Full broadside at the Striker. Fire. Fire now.”

The ship’s power coiled. You felt it coming up through the deck. The battleship unleashed a storm like a solar flare in the vague direction of the Roman point.

Tactical: “Clean miss.”

“Line up another round,” Farragut ordered.

“Striker wearing off.”

Lu Oh scoffed. “You don’t get a second shot! You weren’t even close! Like he’s going to wait around with
Merrimack
at full strength! What an e-jack!”

“Colonel Oh, remove yourself from the control room,” Captain Farragut said evenly.

“Fine.” Colonel Oh jerked off her headset. “Next time you feel the need to play chicken with a Roman, let me out of the car.”

Farragut murmured after her, “You break the jar.”

Calli cocked her head the better to hear. “Sir?”

“Talkin’ to myself.”

A crew of erks locked down SPT 1 upon the boat’s docking in
Merrimack
’s port wing.

Cowboy’s whoop rang off the metal bulks, his boot-falls clanging on the deck grates with his charge to greet the Spit’s return.

Kerry Blue tottered down the ramp like a fragile drunk.

“Ho! Doll!” Cowboy bowled her off her feet into his arms. “Sheeps, I thought you bought the bowling alley back there!” Cowboy stuck a yard of tongue down her throat, then broke off to crow, “You should have
seen
your rescue! Captain did
balls
with the Roman point! He’s a wild man! And you!” over Kerry’s head to the spit boat’s hatchway. “Old Man! And they call
me
cowboy! You are crazed! Fly right into a black hole! You’re the Man of Steel for sure!” Winked at Kerry, “At least part of him is!” He grabbed his own part in case anyone missed the reference.

Steele spoke with arctic reserve. “Flight Sergeant Carver. Last I was aware, we had a Roman Legion converging on this position. Has that situation changed?”

“No, sir. They’re coming.”

“
Then get back to your station.
”

Cowboy gave Kerry a wink and pinch on the ass in parting.

“Captain on deck!”

Steele snapped to along with everyone else.

Farragut waved down the salutes. The maintenance crew returned to their work on the Spit boat. Kerry Blue slumped from attention.

“Welcome aboard, Flight Sergeant Blue,” said Farragut with some irony, but mostly it was a real welcome.

“Thank you, sir,” Kerry said, breathless.

“And you.” The captain gave Steele an unconvincing scowl. He did not finish. The rest could be said later.

“Situation?” Steele requested.

“We’re about to get lousy with Romans. I set your Wing to back up the Battery. I’m not launching anybody with
that
out there.”

“Yes, sir.” Steele was in no mood to take on the black hole ever again.

“You two get your butts to sick bay,” Farragut dismissed Steele and Blue.

“Sir,” Steele stiffened, at attention. “Permission to obey that order after we take care of the Romans.”

Farragut looked at both of them critically. Looked pretty good for having been crushed by infinite gravity. “If you know you’re up to it, I can use you.”

Steele immediately sent Kerry Blue to join the gunners. Then he said to the captain, “Thank you, sir. How are we going to play this?”

Farragut shook his head. “Let’s see what the Romans throw at us before we swing.”

“Hey,
chica linda
, I saved a place for you.” Carly patted the seat next to her as Kerry ducked into her gun turret. “What’s it like inside a black hole?”

Kerry hunkered down next to her gun. “For something that’s supposed to have no hair, it was hairy.”

“Glad you could join us,” Reg muttered. Not like Reg to gush, but she sounded actually angry. “You got
any
idea what went on in this barge to get you back?”

“Not really,” Kerry said uneasily. She was getting terrible inklings.

Carly and Reg told her.

“Shit.” No wonder Reg was mad. Nobody risked that much for a girl they called the welcome mat. Farragut must have done it for Colonel Steele.

But then, who had Colonel Steele put it all on the line for?

“I feel like Lois Lane,” Kerry said shakily.

And funny, now that she thought of it, the man who had come flying to her rescue, flouting orders, had not been Cowboy.

Man of Steel, Cowboy had called him. Colonel Steele as her Superman. Right.

“You are lobster red, soldier girl. You okay?”

“Yeah.” Let go of thoughts so insanely unbelievable they pushed themselves away. “Yeah.” Kerry shoved nonexistent bangs from her brow. “I need a target. Where’s the frogging Romans?”

Orders came over the loud com for all hands to stand down from battle stations. Target was withdrawing from the system.

Kerry slapped her gun, rising. “Aw nuts!” She was in the mood to shoot something. “Frogging Romans.”

“Hey, if you want frogging, I’m here for you, Kerry.”

Kerry shrugged off the heavy ape arm that draped across her shoulders. “Shut up, Dak.”

Merrimack
remained on low alert, monitoring both of the Roman Legions’ retreat, in case it turn out to be a ruse.

But the battleground had changed. There was nothing here anymore that Palatine wanted, and a lot that it didn’t. Farragut did not expect the Romans to challenge him for the Myriad again. This earth was pretty well scorched.

“Captain!” the com tech reported, startled. “There’s a sleeper message in your cache.”

“From who?”

“It’s a res message—untraceable. And it’s not signed. But it’s in Latin.”

All hands in the control room paused at their stations and fell silent.

Farragut said at last, “Well, let’s have it.”

“It’s in Latin,” the tech repeated, unable to comply and rather proud of it. He printed off the message and surrendered it to the captain.

“So what’s this say—whose Latin is better than mine.” Farragut passed the printout to Calli.

Calli translated aloud, “ ‘Next time, when I have a clear shot at something other than your back, prepare to yield to Rome as my prize of honor, or else die for the glory of the Roman Empire.’ ” She handed the printout back. “ Standard Imperial bullshit.”

“That’s from the Striker!” someone whispered.

And Farragut shouted as if he could make himself heard through the hull across the lengthening light-years that lay between his ship and the Striker. “I’ll be waiting for you, asshole!” He turned sheepishly to Calli, with a shrug of his big shoulders. “Standard U.S. bullshit. He let us go.”

The crew on the command deck bridled at that suggestion, except for Calli, who said, “No, sir. He let
you
go. That message is talking to a singular you. There’s a difference in Latin.”

“Sirs?” the young sensor tech broke in, mystified. “Wasn’t that a
miss?
”

“He didn’t miss,” said Farragut. “He was perfect.”

And Calli countered the tech’s question with another question, “What are the odds of a miss that close accidentally being at the precise angle, depth, and strength to disturb the event horizon at the exact location which would free our SPT boat?”

“It was a million-to-one shot—” Mr. Emerson started, broke off as he heard what he was saying. Asked incredulously, “He can do that on purpose?”

Calli turned back to the captain. “That was a patterner, John.”

“A what?”

“An augmented man. I’ve never actually seen one, and Rome swears they don’t exist. A patterner is a kind of Frankenstein monster/secret weapon/cyborg kind of man. Admitting the existence of patterners would be admitting that Rome is playing with brain experiments on live subjects.”

“Violates the Cygnus Convention,” said Farragut. “Not to mention any Earthly sense of decency.”

Calli gave a sideways nod, allowing the truth of what he said. “Palatine denies it here to hell, but patterners have to exist because that had to be one. It was an inhuman shot. It was too perfect to be accident and too complicated and unique a task to ask of a targeting computer without preprogramming for these bizarre conditions.”

Farragut gazed out the port as if he could see which way the Striker had gone. “I wonder how he’s going to explain this back at Palatine. Letting a battleship go. Not just letting us go—he
sprang
the
Merri
-Mother-of-God-
Mack
from a black hole. I hope they don’t crucify him.”

“Don’t worry about him,” said Calli. “The record shows he fired on
Merrimack
, and
Merrimack
returned fire. Even if Imperial Command sees through that charade, they’ll reprimand him for failure to deliver a victory and that will be the end of it. The Empire understands standard bullshit. It’s a Roman invention.”

Merrimack
returned to the F8 system within the Myriad. The doomed planet Arra hung in a tranquil sea of stars, its clouds reflecting brilliant white into space. To look at the starry, starry sky you would have no idea what had just happened. How to tell the Arrans their world would be dead in less than ten years? The distorted orbit would kill most of the planet’s life before the neutrino barrage arrived to blast whatever survived the wintry hell.

The stars looked the same in the Arran sky. Captain Farragut did not know how to make the Arrans understand that quite of few of those stars were gone.

He supposed the Arrans would get an inkling once messages from Rea and Centro stopped coming, and when their interplanetary shuttles discovered the
kzachin
entirely missing. But they might just as easily conclude
Merrimack
was responsible for that breakdown.

“If only we could communicate better,” Farragut mourned. “If we had had time to decode their language. Maybe we could have made the Arran leader understand he must not go through the Rim gate. I could have stopped him. Damn the language barrier.”

And because of it, 900,000 intelligent beings and an entire ecosphere was gone. Just like that. Thousands of unique life-forms native to the planet Centro, extinct.

Nine hundred thousand dead. A number too big to absorb. Beings he had never met. Without faces, without names, they became a blank, hideous statistic, with numbing power. The mind’s defensive inability to take in numbers that large when spoken in the same breath as “dead” kept him from wrapping his mind around it. Captain Farragut could scarcely get his arms round his own eighty-one dead.

“I could have done something. If I could have talked to the Arrans, this would all be different.”

No need to communicate the danger to the Romans. A long-range res scan confirmed all Roman vessels exiting the Myriad, in a tearing hurry to cede the poisoned ground to Earth. In abandoning the field, Palatine had just saddled
Merrimack
with thirty million refugees. The planet Arra would need evacuating. And perhaps in more dire need, three million Reans—their colony remote, cut off from their government, from supplies, from communication—the Reans faced shortages, famine, anarchy.