The Twice and Future Caesar (21 page)

“Stealthy pencils,” Farragut said.

“They are stealthy, and they're fast. They're called serpent's teeth. His strongest weapon is his ability to displace through jammers without standard equipment. I need to adjust your jammers.”

Farragut stepped aside for him to get at the controls. “Go.”

That went against protocol, allowing a Roman officer, newly returned from hostile control and custody, to manipulate the ship's defenses. Farragut made quick decisions when he needed to, and he sensed he couldn't delay for a heartbeat here.

“Did
you
displace through jammers?” Calli demanded of Augustus.

“I did not. You failed to have your jammers engaged while I was outside. That was stupid. And you should have skipped town the instant I disappeared. Romulus can displace without three-way correspondence. He needs only the advanced sending station—which his ship has. It works.” Augustus was living proof of that.

“And Romulus can get through our jammers,” Calli said.

“Not
now
.” Augustus had just scrambled the jammer sequence.

“And he's supposed to be from the year 2446?” Farragut asked. He had a tough time with that idea.

“2448 actually.”

“The date on the missile fragment we have says 2446.”

“That's just the patent registration date. Romulus came from five years in the future. He's lost his looks.”

That last was nothing Farragut cared to hear. Augustus liked young men and seldom censored his observations.

“Romulus has better sensors. He has my Striker.”

“What's his displacement range?”

“I would move your ship again.”

Calli advised, “We are traveling FTL, and the ship has been making random vector changes every two or three seconds, sir.”

Farragut acknowledged with a quick nod.

“And your so-called Caesar Romulus does not have your Striker, Augustus,” Calli went on. “It's right there.” She pointed toward the Tactical display.

The Tactical display gave a visual image to the object lurking in the perfect black. Augustus' red and black Striker tumbled end over end, its hatches open to the vacuum.

“Ah. He spat it out,” Augustus said. “Don't retrieve it.”

“Wasn't thinking of it,” Farragut said.

Calli: “Captain, Romulus can't be behind this. He's not that smart.”

“He has an enhanced mind and a huge data library,” Augustus answered. “He was always clever. He's five years older than the Romulus you know. He knows how to surround himself with devoted smart people.”

“Did you bring any of that huge data library back with you, Colonel Augustus?” Calli asked. She sounded as though she expected a no.

“Bits of it. Accidentally. The interesting bits. Romulus is a patterner.”

Any shred of credence fell off Calli's face. “Colonel Augustus, how
exactly
did you allow yourself to be captured?”

“By being unconscious. I woke up in the Xerxes' infirmary. I didn't know Romulus brought my Striker inboard until I tried to access it.”

“Access it. You mean Romulus didn't have you in restraints?” Calli said.

“He did. I have an internal connection with my Striker. It allows for silent remote access to my Striker's controls. It's silent unless someone is listening for tachyon clicks. I ordered my Striker to come. I didn't know quite how close it was. Turned out to be inside the Xerxes. I could hear it ripping up the deck clamps. Romulus ran out of the infirmary. Presumably to deal with it.”

“He left you alone?” Calli said. “Really.”

“In restraints, yes. My Striker's thrashing tripped a fire emergency status. Patients in an infirmary are only ever restrained for their own safety. And a Xerxes exists to keep its inhabitants safe. Under a fire emergency the patient restraints auto-release. Keeps the patients from burning alive if their caregivers are incapacitated. Surprised
me
well enough. I went straight for the displacement chamber.”

Farragut turned to his XO. “Calli, get us out of here. Point us at Fort Ike.”

Calli issued the necessary commands.

A soft voice sounded from the rear of the command platform. Jose Maria de Cordillera. “Young Captain? Should we not do something to bar the Rim Gate against the Hive? Might gorgons travel through the wormhole? Might they devour the Earth long before we can be born?”

“Not an issue,” Augustus said.

“How is that not an issue?” Farragut asked. “I want to be born.”

“Because it's an imperative to Romulus,” Augustus said. “One of the pieces of information I tripped over and retained. Romulus has the right equipment and the intention to seal the Rim Gate against anything coming or going. He wants that wormhole shut for eternity. Let him do it. We can go now.”

“We're all that stands between the gorgons and the living worlds in this system,” Farragut said.

“Billions of gorgons will be here inside the month. We're no match,” Calli said. “John, you know that.”

He did know. It was tearing him up. The gorgons would destroy the beautiful, living planet, Arra.

“Holy Jesus, I do not like running from a battlefield.”

Jose Maria offered, “Philip the Second said he retreated like the ram—backing up in order to hit harder.”

Sounded great.

Except that's not what I'm doing here. I'm chewed and whipped and empty and delivering eighty-one dead to their mamas. And when the erks get my
Merrimack
stitched back together, I still got nothing to stand against this monster.

And what's possible and what's true are just not lining up anymore
.

“Sir?” A specialist asked. “Are we gonna die?”

Expected the captain to say something like, “Not without a fight.”

He said, absolutely, “No.”

That's why men followed John Farragut.

He turned to his XO. “Fort Ike. Best speed.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Romulus watched
Merrimack
leap to her FTL escape. She was gone. Augustus had got away.

Romulus had only himself to blame.

Had he learned nothing? He badly wanted to press the chase to recapture Augustus, to make Augustus pay for his future crimes. But it wasn't a chase anymore. It would be a hunt.

And Augustus might be dead already.

Romulus couldn't count on it. He had
just
managed to jettison the patterner's Striker before it could rip up his Xerxes from the inside.

Augustus' Striker drifted now, detectable by standard sensors, its hatches open to space.

The Striker was an antique vessel, custom-conformed to its antique pilot. Romulus could destroy it. But he was reluctant to burn another serpent's tooth. He sorely regretted not carrying a bigger arsenal. He had expected to have two Legion carriers at his disposal by now.

Romulus' prescience was a rapidly diminishing reservoir. Already
Merrimack
could be reporting his existence to the powers in Near Space. Would anyone believe there were two of him?

Romulus recognized his worst mistake had come while he'd revived Augustus. Augustus had brief, accidental exposure to knowledge he should never have. Romulus should have just let Augustus die.

It was vital that Augustus not have the Hive harmonics. An Augustus able to control the Hive would be the end of everything. Romulus was afraid to find out what Augustus had seen. Afraid. But he had to know.

With profound dread he tapped into his data banks to see what Augustus' mind had touched.

Did Augustus have the Hive harmonics?

He did not.

Romulus confirmed it twice. Augustus had not accessed information on resonance.

Romulus disconnected from patterner mode, shaking. He brushed moisture from his upper lip. He'd narrowly escaped complete disaster there. He should not be making these kinds of missteps.

Prioritize. Stay disciplined.

Before leaving the Myriad, Romulus launched the assassin missile, which Cinna had prepared, to seek and destroy that megalomaniac Constantine Siculus on Planet Zero, deep in the Deep End of the galaxy.

Constantine Siculus was the only other person in existence in the year 2443 who knew the Hive harmonics and how to determine a location of a resonant pulse. That information must belong to Romulus alone.

It would take months for the assassin missile to connect with its target, but it would be done. Constantine would die.

Augustus' Striker remained as an unaddressed problem. Romulus didn't dare leave it behind intact. But he didn't want to spend any of his ammunition on it.

He knew how he could secure the ship without destroying it himself.

He floated a spider drone into the derelict Striker to place a new interface on top of the patterner's interface. Should Augustus attempt to take remote resonant control of his Striker, the new interface would rewrite Augustus' programming and rupture every synapse in his brain.

That was a good contingency measure.

It wasn't enough.

Augustus was smart. He may be antique and evil, but Romulus shouldn't underestimate Augustus' cunning. Augustus—or anyone—might take the Striker in physical tow.

So Romulus floated a remora into the Striker, where it concealed itself inside the navigation system, to wait—forever if need be—for its trigger. Should the Striker ever drop out of FTL in Near Space territory, the remora would resonate the irresistible harmonic. Ravenous gorgons would announce the Striker's arrival. By then Romulus would have a proper arsenal with which to destroy the Striker, if the Hive hadn't finished it off first.

Now there was one last task Romulus needed to perform before he set off for Near Space and civilization—block and mask the Rim Gate. Nothing must pass through that wormhole ever again. Romulus and Cinna had devised the perfect barrier.

Once Romulus positioned the barrier, he was done here. He turned his Xerxes toward Palatine.

Merrimack
, taking her shortcut through the U.S. Shotgun, would reach Near Space before him. There was nothing for it. Romulus would get there. In time.

The Empire needed Romulus.

Rome. Claudia. I come.

10 June 2443
U.S. Space Battleship
Merrimack
Sagittarian Space
FTL

F
LIGHT
S
ERGEANT
D
AK
S
HEPARD
sat up. He wasn't wearing clothes. Didn't know this compartment. It was cold. The lights were dim. He didn't want to be here.

Last he remembered, he was swabbing melted gorgons off the deck after the last gorgon battle. No. Wait. He'd finished doing that. He remembered eating pretzels. He'd heard a cicada. A barking dog. Saw Kerry Blue's eyes get real round.

He'd got real dizzy, as if all the blood was rushing out of his head. Last thing he'd heard was little Reg Monroe screaming that way high ice-pick-in-the-ear shriek she had.

Now he was here. Missed a whole lot of what happened in between there and here.

Didn't know where they'd stuck him. This wasn't the ship's hospital. Wasn't the brig, either, but it was real gloomy. Looked the way he imagined a morgue would.

He swung his legs over the side of the pallet. Set bare feet on the deck grates.
Yi-ya!
It was cold. Heart of greta cold.

He found a sheet. Just lying there. He pulled it around himself, then pushed through the hatch to a corridor.

Not a part of the ship he normally saw.

A navvy fluids tech turned, stared. Dak expected some comment like “nice toga,” but the navvy got all hunched over and hustled away like he'd seen a zombie.

Dak found a reflective surface. Nope. He was not a zombie. Just a naked man clutching a sheet.

Not sure where he was in the ship. Didn't want to get caught checking the bull's-eye like a rookie to find what deck he was on.

Finally someone came, walking straight toward him. Short guy. Older. Balding. White coat. No shoulders.

It was Mo Shah. The Riverite doctor.

Mo stopped, eyed Dak head to really cold toes, then said kindly, “Be coming with me, please.” Mo took Dak's arm.

Nice man, Mo. There were folks on board Dak liked better, but for out-and-out nice, you gotta go with the Mo. And Mo's hand was warm.

Mo Shah guided Dak through the labyrinth of corridors and shafts to the nice warm, bright hospital section in the ship's main fuselage. Dak made Mo lead the way up the ladders. Didn't want anyone looking up his toga.

Mack
carried a big hospital. Medics and techs and Marines and everyone including the ship's dogs clustered around—at a distance—staring as Mo and Dak came through. Dak wondered if he should balance a ball on his nose for them.

And here's Lieutenant Colonel Steele and Captain Farragut. God and God Almighty. Dak froze a moment, torn between coming to attention and holding onto his sheet. Tent Hut! And oh, crud, there goes the sheet.

All eyes wandered off to the sides. A quick nod down from the captain—his eyes way off that way—gave Dak leave to retrieve the sheet. Dak dove for it.

A screech shot up like a sonic bomb from behind all the tall people up front.

“DAK!”

Dak cringed, grasping his sheet around him. “Oh, Reggie girl! The ears!”

Lieutenant Colonel Steele looked thunderstruck. Dak didn't know the Old Man's face could make that expression.

The captain was looking kinda real surprised too. Captain's face never hid anything.

“Dak.” The captain didn't sound sure. “It's Dak Shepard, isn't it?”

Dak nodded. Cap'n knew everyone's name.

“How are you, son?”

“Uh.” Had to think about that one. “Okay. Nekked, sir. Cold. I had a real greta of a nightmare.”

“How did you come to be in this state, son?”

Dak's teeth were chattering. “I dunno. Can I get some clothes?”

Captain said softly, “Mo, see to the Marine.”

Right after he ordered everyone back to their stations, Captain Farragut sought out the one person who hadn't been in the hospital staring at Dak.

Augustus, about as long as a torpedo, lay in a rack, an ornate Roman tapestry pulled across him for a blanket. He didn't rise at the captain's entrance. Didn't open his eyes. It was normal for Augustus to sleep most of the day.

Farragut said, “Something you want to report, Augustus?”

Eyes stayed shut. “I brought one of your Marines back to life.”

“Yes,” Farragut said. “Was it just the one?”

There had been eighty-one dead in static cold storage on the space battleship. Eighty now.

“The flight sergeant was the only one I could repair,” Augustus said. “He was still fresh when they put him in the preserver. And his was a simple wound.”

Yes. Of course. Beheading was simple.

One of the hard-shelled, pincered kind of monster—the kind called a can opener—had killed Flight Sergeant Shepard. Simply.

“I thought Rome didn't have the technology for that kind of resurrection,” Farragut said.

“Rome doesn't. Romulus does. I came across the procedure in Romulus' data bank. The knowledge was interesting. It stayed with me after I disconnected. Thought I'd try it.”

“You experimented on my Marine?”

“I sense disapproval. It wasn't as though I was going to kill him. Should I put him back the way I found him? Is he not all right? He struck me as rather peculiar.”

Augustus had restored the Marine just fine. Dak had a lot of great qualities, but intellect was not one of them.

“Can you re-sus the others?” Farragut asked.

“The others are overdone. And you assume they want to be brought back.”

“I do assume,” Farragut said.

“I do not.”

Augustus had been brought back from the dead. Never was happy about it.

Marines in the forecastle stood up and applauded Dak's entrance right before Taps.

The Yurg gave Dak's head a tug, making sure it was on tight.

“What was it like?” Gunner Shasher Wyatt asked.

“I don't wanna do it again,” Flight Sergeant Dak Shepard said. Then he saw Kerry Blue, and he gave a hopeful grin. “Welcome a man back from the dead?”

“Uh.” Kerry Blue took a step backward. “I don't do zombies.”

Lieutenant Hazard Sewell stepped down from officers' country to welcome Dak back to life.

“Where are we, sir?” Dak asked. “Where'd all the stars go?”

No stars meant they were traveling FTL.

“We're halfway home.”

“You mean we left the Myriad?”

“Feels like a retreat,” Flight Leader Hazard Sewell said. Southern gentleman Hazard Sewell took retreats personally.

“That's because it's a retreat, sir,” Carly Delgado said, sour. She was sitting on the edge of Dak's sleep pod in the rack. She flicked her switchblade into the cracks between deck grates at her feet.

There was a League of Earth Nations ship still operating back there inside the star cluster Myriad. The international ship was one of the big round geodesic kind that everyone called a LEN golf ball. It was orbiting the planet Arra, taking on all the refugees it could. The LEN were doing good work, and righteous proud of it they were, too. They let
Merrimack
know it. Flight Sergeant Taher had been standing guard at the hatch to the command platform when some Lennie official from the golf ball called
Merrimack
coward over the com and tried to
order
Captain Farragut to get back there and pick up refugees.

“Cap'n told 'em we're chewed,” Taher said. “Told 'em we're out of hard ordnance, and we're carrying eighty-one dead.”

“That many?” Kerry Blue said.

“Wow,” Reggie said, real soft.

“Yeah,” Taher said. “The Lennie says back, ‘Then you have eighty-one open sleep pods, do you not?'”

Big Richard gave a kind of gurgle. “What'd the captain say to
that?
”

“I don't know those words,” Taher said. “Anyway, it's down to eighty now. Can't count Dak anymore.”

“I'm not sleeping with no alien,” Dak said.

Taher's head ducked down. His eyebrows stayed up where they were. “
What?
”

Cole Darby patted Dak's beefy shoulder. “We won't let the aliens get your sleep pod, Dak.”

“They're not getting my C-rats neither.”

“They can have mine,” said Menendez.

“I was told the Arrans can't digest anything we have to eat,” Reg Monroe said. “We would need to carry food for the aliens too, if we took them aboard. Their molecules are built wrong. Is that true?”

“Yeah, there's something like that,” Kerry Blue said. “I couldn't eat anything when I was on world.”

Tattoo was sounding over the loud com: “TAPS, TAPS, lights out, all hands turn into their rack, no movement about the decks Taa-AAAPS.”

The she-men withdrew to the double x chromosomed side of the forecastle. The forecastle went dark.

You could still hear your mates rustling in their pods.

“Where are the Romans?” someone whispered.

“What do you want with 'em?”

“Shoot 'em.”

“I thought there were Romans out here.” The voice sounded like Big Richard's.

There had been rumors of a massive buildup of Romans in the Deep End. Sixty-four Legions. That was the number you always heard.

“Hope they're doin' better than we are.” That sounded like Shasher Wyatt.

“They're Romans! I hope they all get eaten.” That also sounded like Shasher Wyatt. So it had to be Shasher's twin, Dumbell. “Do you think we taste like chicken?”

Dak told them to shut up.

22 June 2443
U.S. Space Battleship
Merrimack
Perseid Space

Grunt work. It's what you do with seven hundred and twenty Marines when they weren't fighting. You tried to fill their every waking moment and leave 'em too spent to dream. They always, always, had something in reserve.

And some things never change. There's Kerry Blue making some navvy very happy in the maintenance shed. And tearing the hell out of every dream Lieutenant Colonel TR Steele wasn't allowed to have.

What was it about Kerry Blue that shot his brain out the air lock? She was nobody's vision of immortal beauty. Nothing out of the ordinary about her face, except that it turned him to slush. She looked friendly. Her hair was brown. Breasts, yes. Two present, but not the first things Steele saw. Hips and ass—maybe he saw those first. It was her loose-jointed, unsoldierly hi-there walk that was going to land him in Leavenworth. He couldn't even call it a come on. It was the way Kerry Blue got herself from here to there whether anyone was looking or not. When she climbed over an obstacle, it wasn't smooth, but it was, well, easy. Kerry Blue was easy. Her voice was definitely a she-voice. Not particularly sweet. It was bright and a little bit scratchy, and the sound of it hollowed Steele right out.

She was a screamer. An ecstatic screamer. You always know what Kerry's doing. Just not who. Not Steele. Not ever.

Apparently she was over that asshole Cowboy. She'd had way too much help getting over that asshole Cowboy.