The Ninth Circle (16 page)

Read The Ninth Circle Online

Authors: R. M. Meluch

BOOK: The Ninth Circle
11.49Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
Glenn tried to shoo the trunks away without actually slapping them. Finally she cried, “Patrick, what are they doing?”
Patrick pointed up at the carrion birds. “I think they want you to shoot the tattlers.”
 
Consul Marco Camiciarossa was dubious when the young American man showed up at the Italian consulate on planet Phoenix and introduced himself as John Farragut, Junior.
“You are Admiral Farragut’s
son
?” the consul asked, skeptical.
Camiciarossa had never heard that the famous Admiral John Farragut had a grown son.
“I’m his brother,” said this John Farragut.
Curiouser and curiouser. Camiciarossa gave an uncomfortable laugh. This was a joke. A weak one. “Who would name two sons John?”
“You obviously don’t know our father. His Honor has an ego. I’m the junior. I know it’s odd, but it’s God’s truth.”
Camiciarossa politely asked to check his visitor’s DNA. He expected this obvious fraud to quickly excuse himself and withdraw.
“Not a problem.” The alleged John Farragut, Junior, presented himself for testing. “Anything you want.”
Astonishingly, Camiciarossa found an authenticated record that Admiral John Alexander Farragut actually had a younger brother also named John. The younger John had a different middle name than the admiral. This younger John Farragut had the same middle name as their father. The visitor’s DNA and retinal image checked out to the identity John Farragut, Junior.
It was so fantastical that Camiciarossa had to make one more crosscheck, in case the science had been subverted. Camiciarossa would not be gulled. In an ancient day it was common to use obscure knowledge to verify someone’s identity. Consul Camiciarossa resurrected the old challenge. “Mother’s maiden name?”
“Winfield.”
Camiciarossa flushed, embarrassed. The young man was who he said he was. Camiciarossa tried to make amends for grilling his guest. “Signor Farragut. I do so apologize for the terrorist treatment.”
The young man waved the apology away. “Understandable. Expected. You got a strange request from a total stranger. And I have to confess I can’t pretend I’m on any official business. I saw one of these at an air show, and they just don’t let you get within five hundred feet.”
John Farragut, Junior, had asked for a tour of the Italian ambassador’s Xerxes transport.
“I fell in love from afar,” said the younger Farragut.
The Farraguts were a wealthy family. Camiciarossa hadn’t known they were quite that wealthy.
But Camiciarossa supposed one needn’t be able to purchase a Xerxes in order to lust after one. “It is a magnificent machine,” Camiciarossa assured him. “I think even Rome must admit it is the premier ship of its kind.”
The two strolled out to the secure area of the consulate, arm in arm, LEN fashion. The much grander Italian embassy building loomed beyond the compound wall.
Camiciarossa’s eyes kept straying aside, stealing glances at the cuts on the young American’s face. When a slight bump to his side made young Farragut wince, Camiciarossa took the opening to ask, “Are you injured?”
Farragut nodded. “I got thrown by a horse.”
Horsemanship was an aristocratic pursuit. “You are an equestrian?”
“Not a good one.” The young man touched his ribs gingerly.
Camiciarossa thought his guest had forgiven him for his rude welcome. This Farragut looked somewhat like the infamous admiral but more refined, with less brawn. He was just as blond and six foot tall. “We don’t see many Americans here. What brings you to Phoenix?”
“I’m on an old-fashioned Grand Tour,” said Farragut. The Grand Tour was still a custom among the well-bred gentry. “I’m seeing the cosmos. Other people. Other places. I’m thinking of becoming an ambassador when I finish school.”
A very pleasant surprise. “That would be a change from your brother,” said Camiciarossa and immediately checked himself.
What a ghastly thing to say
. He feared he had insulted his guest.
But this John Farragut graciously agreed, “Wouldn’t it?”
The famous Admiral John Alexander Farragut was a U.S. cowboy who negotiated at gunpoint. Admiral John Alexander Farragut was not well-loved by the League of Earth Nations.
“I am
not
my brother,” this John Farragut assured Camiciarossa.
That was a good thing, the consul thought.
They had come to an open area close to the ordinary transport hangars.
Energy sparked off the young man, an anxious anticipation like a boy on his first date. He searched about for his beloved.
Camiciarossa smiled. “See her?”
Puzzled. Expectant. Farragut said, “No.”
Camiciarossa could not hold back his grin. “You see—or don’t see!—this is beyond perfect optical invisibility.” He commanded the air, “
Bernini
! Reveal yourself.”
The Xerxes appeared from emptiness.
The young man’s intake of breath was satisfying.
Camiciarossa enjoyed his shock and depth of emotion. The young man was profoundly impressed.
The Xerxes was an aggressive, faceted, flying wing, big as a yacht. Even revealed it was difficult to see. The harder one looked, the more diffuse its details. It took on colors of sky and ground and the maintenance hangars behind it.
“In full stealth our Xerxes refracts light and scatters the image so it cannot be detected by any electromagnetically sensitive means. Sounders can send a ping straight at it; the Xerxes won’t be there.”
The young man found his voice. “That must make it tough for airspace control.”
“Control is notified of its presence on a strictly need-to-know basis. And, of course, airspace control needs to know.”
He took the young man for a walk around, pointed out the two antimatter engines bulging under the fuselage. They couldn’t really see the topside this close up, as the ship was tall.
“Shall we board?”
His guest was having trouble putting words together, overwhelmed. He nodded, “Please.”
“Signor Farragut—” the consul started, then switched, hand over heart. “May I call you John?”
The young Farragut hesitated. Camiciarossa thought he’d been too familiar. But Farragut explained, “Actually, I go by my middle name these days.”
Camiciarossa had done the background check, so he didn’t need to ask what it was.
“Of course.” Camiciarossa nodded. “Knox.”
11
 
G
LENN AND PATRICK SPENT several days among the mammoths. At night the male mammoths paced guard duty in shifts. Mothers lay down in the tall grass, their babies between their forelegs.
Came a morning when the herd woke early. Trunks extended up in the air, sniffing. Snorting. There was something on the wind they didn’t like.
Glenn reached for her splinter gun.
The herd got to its feet and shuffled away from the smell.
There was something beyond the eastern trees they didn’t like. They didn’t
hate
it, but they were avoiding it.
Glenn sniffed. Immediately she felt ridiculous. As noses went, she was seriously outgunned. She didn’t smell anything deadish or shitty on the breeze.
“Are we going with them?” Glenn gazed after the mammoths.
Patrick gave the kind of nod that said maybe. “I want to see what spooked them.”
He seemed to have an idea what it was.
Glenn and Patrick jogged across the wide meadow in the opposite direction from the mammoths. When they came to the trees, they crept softly through the underbrush to see what lay beyond.
Where the vines and bushes thinned, they hunched low and tucked into a ready-made foxhole left by an uprooted tree. Huddled against the earthen wall of their bunker, Glenn slowly lifted her head and pushed aside a bare root to peer into the clearing.
She inhaled a little gasp. A sound of shock, but good shock. A Christmas morning gasp, or a moonlit meadow filled with fireflies gasp.
Patrick edged up to peer over the side. He breathed, “It’s them!”
Glenn smiled, delighted. “They’re—”
Charming
was the word, but Glenn couldn’t bring herself to say it.
Cute
. Another word she didn’t know how to pronounce.
“Foxes!” Patrick whispered.
They were handsome animals, superficially vulpine, the size of very large dogs, wolf-bodied but with broader chests. The faces were tapered, their ears pointed and erect.
They had Samoyed smiles.
Fox language was what the LEN brought Patrick to Zoe to study.
Half of the foxes were on all fours. At least a half dozen were walking on their hind legs in a bent leg stance, and one carried something in its forepaws. Several wrestled and tumbled. One lolled in the grass. Their palms and the soles of their feet were black pads.
The foxes moved in ways that looked playful.
All the pictures Glenn had seen of foxes were taken in a winter setting. The animals in those pictures had thick lustrous pelts. The short coats of these on the summer meadow were sleek and shiny as racehorses. Only the fur of their topknots and their tails was long and bushy.
Glenn counted forty or fifty. May have missed some, and counted some others twice. They were gamboling and tumbling in the high grass.
Glenn and Patrick went unnoticed, huddled downwind under the tree roots.
Glenn noted the animals’ formidable claws, the canine teeth. She whispered, “What would they do if we went out there?”
Patrick’s eyebrows shrugged. He didn’t know. “They share with each other. They don’t pick fights. They’re only ever aggressive toward prey.”
“Are we prey?”
“
That
, my Hamlet, is the question.”
The foxes looked sweet and cheerful. And they were so . . . with each other. No one knew how they would react to humans.
“They’re pack predators,” Patrick whispered. “They can bring down beasts the size of a yak. There could be a reason the mammoths shuffled on elsewhere. I’m not sure what kind of IFF we’d get here.”
He meant Identification Friend or Food.
Glenn watched intently for a while. Couldn’t help smiling as the foxes played. She glanced aside to Patrick, who had turned around to sit with his back against the embankment, facing the other direction.
She was surprised to see him so pale. And he’d stopped talking.
The short hairs stood up on the back of her neck. Patrick’s gaze was fixed immediately behind her. Glenn noticed the body heat now radiating at her back. And an animal smell. Patrick spoke straight ahead of him in a small strained voice, “Grandma, what big teeth you have.”
 
As the Italian consul Marco Camiciarossa ushered his visitor into the Xerxes’ air lock, the inner hatch sealed fast against their approach. The ship spoke in a firm voice. Could have been male or female. “Unregistered person attempting entry.”

Other books

When Sparks Fly by Kristine Raymond, Andrea Michelle, Grace Augustine, Maryann Jordan, B. Maddox, J. M. Nash, Anne L. Parks
Grayling's Song by Karen Cushman
Seer by Robin Roseau
Weep In The Night by Valerie Massey Goree
Open Season by Linda Howard