Worlds

by Eric Flint

  When he straightened, his face was rigid. "I also declare, on behalf of myself and all Romans, that any quarrel between us and Gha is a thing of the past."

  Tambo translated the exchange for the commodore. Like most North Americans, with the creaky linguistic skills of a people whose native language was the world's lingua franca, Trumbull had not picked up more than a few phrases of the Latin tongue which had been enjoying such an incredible renaissance the past few years.

  The commodore scratched under his jaw. "All right," he muttered. "I'm satisfied these people are who they say they are. But what about their other claims? And their weird proposal?"

  Before anyone could respond, the communication console hummed vigorously. The com officer, Lieutenant Olga Sanchez, took the call.

  "You'd better look at this yourself, Commodore," she said, standing aside.

  Trumbull marched over to the screen and quickly read the message. "Wonderful," he muttered. "Just perfect." He turned back, facing the small crowd on the bridge.

  "Well, folks, after two hundred years—and God only knows how much money poured down that sinkhole—the SETI maniacs have finally picked up a signal from intelligent extra-solarians. Wasn't hard, actually. The radio signals are being beamed directly at the Earth from a source which just crossed Neptune's orbit."

  He took a breath and squared his stocky shoulders.

  "Their findings have been confirmed by Operation Spaceguard, using the radar net set up to watch for asteroids. And Naval Intelligence has spotted them also, with modern equipment. The source is a fleet of spacecraft."

  He stared at the Gha in the viewscreen. "It seems they were wrong. About this, at least. Somebody else also realized the significance of the radio signals."

  "The Guilds!" exclaimed Quartilla.

  Trumbull nodded. "One of them, anyway. They're identifying themselves—in Latin—as the Ty'uct Trading Guild."

  Quartilla pointed to the body of the Voivode, still visible in the viewscreen. "That's his guild. The one which bought and used the Romans."

  "What do they want?" snarled Vibulenus. His fists were clenched again.

  "What do you think?" snorted the commodore. "They say that by right of first contact they are claiming exclusive trading privileges with this solar system. A Federation naval vessel is accompanying them to ensure the correct protocols. Whatever that means."

  Tambo translated this recent exchange for the benefit of the Gha. As soon as he finished, the Gha commander spoke.

  "What it mean," stated Fludenoc, "is they have right hammer in to the submission anybody objects. But must restrict theyselfs this system existing technology. Federation vessel is watchdog make sure they follow rules."

  Again, Tambo translated. The commodore's gloom vanished.

  "Is that so?" he demanded. "Is that so, indeed?"

  He and his executive officer exchanged grins. The North American often exasperated Tambo with his quirks and foibles. But the South African was glad, now, that he was in command. There was a long, long tradition behind that wicked grin on Trumbull's face.

  Trumbull turned back to Lieutenant Sanchez. "Tell Naval Command that I'm deploying to meet this threat. If they have any new instructions, tell them they'd better get 'em off quickly. Otherwise, I will follow my own best judgment."

  She bent over the console. Trumbull glanced up at the viewscreen. "Bring that ship aboard the Africanus," he commanded the Marine lieutenant. "I want to get it below decks before the Guild vessels arrive."

  Seeing Tambo's raised eyebrow, he asked:

  "Any suggestions? Criticisms?"

  Tambo shook his head. "I agree with you."

  The South African waved at the viewscreen, now blank. "We can decide later what we think about the Gha proposal. It sounds crazy to me, frankly. But who knows, in this strange new universe? In the meantime, by keeping them hidden we leave all our options open."

  The sight of the viewscreen flickering back into life drew his eyes that way. Within seconds, a starfield filled the screen. Against that glorious background, little lights could be seen, moving slowly across the stars. The ships were far too small to be seen at that distance, by any optical means. The lights were computer simulations based on information derived from a variation of Transit technology which was quite analogous to radar.

  There were fourteen of those lights, Tambo saw. One of them—presumably the Federation observer—was hanging well back from the others. The thirteen ships of the Guild force itself were arrayed in a dodecahedron, with a single ship located at the very center.

  "That's a fancy-looking formation," mused Trumbull. "But I don't see where it's worth much. Except for parades."

  From the corner of the bridge, where he stood next to Quartilla, Robert Ainsley spoke up.

  "Excuse me, Commodore."

  Trumbull cocked his head around.

  The historian pointed at the screen. "Judging from what I've learned since I was assigned to help the Romans orient themselves after their return—and everything we've just heard today fits in perfectly—I don't—" He hesitated, fumbling for words.

  "Go on," said the commodore.

  "Well, this isn't my field, really. Not in practice, at least. But—I don't think these Guilds have fought a real battle in—in—Jesus, who knows? Millennia. Many millennia."

  Trumbull smiled thinly and looked back at the formation marching across the starfield.

  "Funny you should say that," he murmured. "I was just thinking the same thing."

  Tambo cleared his throat. "According to the computer, sir, there are three classes of warships in that fleet. Eight small ones—about the size of the vessel the Gha seized—four mediums, and the big one in the center."

  He issued a modest little cough. "Naval procedure, as you know, recommends that we give enemy vessels a nomenclature. Since we don't know what the Guild calls their own ships, we'll have to come up with our own names."

  Trumbull's smile widened. "Do you have any suggestions?"

  "Oh, yes," replied Tambo, solemn-faced. "I believe we should name them as follows: small ones, Bismarcks; the mediums, Yamatos; and the big one—"

  He could not restrain his grin.

  "—is a Titanic."

  VII

  The bridge was crowded, now, with the addition of the aliens. The Pilot and the Medic huddled against a wall, out of the way. But the four Gha, by virtue of their size alone, seemed to fill half the room.

  "Do any of you know the rules of engagement?" Trumbull asked the Gha. Tambo translated his question into Latin.

  The Gha were stiff as statues.

  "We understand do not," said Fludenoc. "What are—engagement regulations?"

  Before Tambo could explain, the Gha commander turned to the Pilot and motioned. Fearfully, creeping on her footskirt, she shuffled forward. Tambo waited while Fludenoc spoke some rapid phrases in a language he didn't recognize.

  "That's Galactic," whispered Quartilla. "It's an artificial language, with several dialects designed for the vocal apparatus of different Doge Species. This one is called Galactic Three."

  She began to add something else, but fell silent when Fludenoc turned back to the humans.

  "Now I understand," said the Gha. "Pilot say she not certain. Doges not fought each other many thousands—many thousands—years. But she think there no rules between Guild fight Guild. She—what is word?—strongly says you must not attack Federation vessel."

  "Will it attack us?" asked Tambo.

  The Gha did not bother to check with the pilot before answering. "No. Federation ship will watch only." He waved a huge, clawed hand at the viewscreen. "This is Guild business. Federation not interfere."

  After Tambo explained to his superior, Trumbull nodded. "It's a straight-up fight, then." To the com officer: "How good's your Latin?"

  She smiled. "Well, sir—it's just about perfect."

  Trumbull grimaced. "Christ," he muttered. "I'm going to have to learn that damned archaic tongue, after all." />
  Then, with an irritated shrug: "Contact that fleet and warn them off."

  "Yes sir. How should I identify us?"

  Trumbull hesitated, before turning to the historian.

  "Give me some good old Roman term," he ordered. "Something vague, mind you—I don't—"

  Ainsley understood immediately. Smiling, he replied: "Just use SPQR."

  Tambo chuckled. Trumbull said to the com officer:

  "Use it. Tell them we're the—the SPQR Guild—and we have already established prior rights to all trade and commerce with this system." Growling: "Way, way prior rights."

  The com officer followed his orders. Three minutes later, a burst of Latin phrases appeared on the com screen.

  Lieutenant Sanchez clucked disapprovingly. "Their Latin's really pretty bad. That's a ridiculous declension of the verb 'to copulate,' for one thing. And—"

  "Just give me the message!" bellowed the commodore.

  The com officer straightened. "The gist of it, sir, is that our claim is preposterous and we are ordered to surrender."

  Trumbull grunted. "I was hoping they'd say that. I've never even met these people, and already I hate their guts." He leaned toward his executive officer. "Any recommendations?"

  "Yes, sir. I'd send the Quinctius. With an escort of SSBNs."

  Trumbull nodded. "I was thinking the same way. We may as well find out now if our lasers are as good as they're cracked up to be. And I'll be interested to see how the missiles work. The galactic computer claims kinetic weapons are obsolete, but I think it's full of crap."

  Trumbull began giving the necessary orders to his operations staff. Tambo, seeing the Gha commander's stiffness out of the corner of his eye, turned to face him.

  He wasn't sure—Gha were as hard to read as the Romans said they were—but he thought Fludenoc was worried.

  "Are you concerned?" he asked.

  The Gha exhaled explosively. "Yes! You must careful be. These very powerful Guildmaster craft."

  Tambo shook his head. "I think you are wrong, Fludenoc hu'tut-Na Nomo'te. I think these are simply arrogant bullies, who haven't been in a real fight for so long they've forgotten what it's like."

  He did not add the thought which came to him. It would have meant nothing to the Gha. But he smiled, thinking of a college fraternity which had once tried to bully four small Romans in a bar.

  Don't fuck with real veterans.

  "We've been doing this a long time, Fludenoc," he murmured. "All those centuries—millennia—while we were out of contact with the galaxy, we've been fighting each other. While these Doges—God, what a perfect name!—got fat like hogs."

  VIII

  The battle lasted two minutes.

  Seeing the huge ancient battleship sweeping toward them, with its accompanying escort of three resurrected Trident missile submarines, the Guild dodecahedron opened up like a flower. Ten laser beams centered on the Quinctius itself, including a powerful laser from the "Titanic" at the center of the Doge fleet. The three remaining Guild vessels each fired a laser at the escorts—the Pydna, the Magnesia, and the Chaeronea.

  Powered by their gigantic engines, the shields of the human vessels shrugged off the lasers. Those shields, like the engines, were based on galactic technology. But the Doge Species, with the inveterate habit of merchants, had designed their equipment with a cheeseparing attitude. The human adaptations—robust; even exuberant—were based on millennia of combat experience.

  The Pydna-class escorts responded first. The hatches on their upper decks opened. Dozens of missiles popped out—driven, here, by old technology—and then immediately went into a highly modified version of Transit drive. To the watching eye, they simply disappeared.

  "Yes!" cried Trumbull, clenching his fist triumphantly. Not three seconds later, the Guild fleet was staggered by the impact of those missiles. As the commodore had suspected, the Doge Species' long neglect of missile warfare was costing them heavily. Human electronic countermeasure technology was vastly superior to anything the Guild vessels possessed in the way of tracking equipment. Most of the incoming missiles were destroyed by laser fire, but many of them penetrated to the shield walls.

  Even galactic shields were hard-pressed against fifteen-megaton nuclear charges. Four of those shields collapsed completely, leaving nothing but plasma to mark where spacecraft had formerly been. The others survived. But, in the case of three of them, the stress on their engines had been great enough to cause the engines themselves to collapse. Their shields and drives failed, leaving the three ships to drift helplessly.

  Now the Quinctius went into action. Again, there was an exotic combination of old and new technology. The three great turrets of the ancient battleship swiveled, just as if it were still sailing the Pacific. But the guidance mechanisms were state-of-the-art Doge technology. And the incredible laser beams which pulsed out of each turret's three retrofitted barrels were something new to the galaxy. Human engineers and physicists, studying the data in the Roman-captured Guild vessel, had decided not to copy the Doge lasers. Instead, they combined some of that dazzling new technology with a revivified daydream from humanity's bloody past.

  Only a ship as enormous as the old Missouri could use these lasers. It took an immense hull capacity to hold the magnetic fusion bottles. In each of those three bottles—one for each turret—five-megaton thermonuclear devices were ignited. The bottles trapped the energy, contained it, channeled it.

  Nine X-ray lasers fired. Three Guild ships flickered briefly, their shields coruscating. Then—vaporized.

  Thirty seconds elapsed, as the fusion bottles recharged. The Guild ships which were still under power were now veering off sharply. Again, the turrets tracked. Again, ignition. Again, three Doge vessels vaporized.

  More seconds elapsed, while the Quinctius' fusion bottles recharged.

  The communication console on the bridge of the Scipio Africanus began humming. "Sir," reported Lieutenant Sanchez, "it's the Guild flagship. They're asking to negotiate."

  "Screw 'em," snarled the commodore. "They're nothing but pirates and slavers, as far as I'm concerned."

  Tambo grinned. "You want me to see if I can dig up a black flag somewhere?"

  Trumbull snorted. "Why not? We're resurrecting everything else."

  The operations officer spoke: "The Quinctius reports fusion bottles fully recharged, sir."

  Trumbull glared at the surviving Guild ships. "No quarter," he growled. "Fire."

  IX

  The World Confederation's Chamber of Deputies reminded Robert Ainsley of nothing so much as a circus. He even glanced at the ceiling, expecting to see a trapeze artist swinging through the air.

  "Is this way always?" Fludenoc asked quietly. The Gha, towering next to the historian, was staring down from the vantage point of the spectators' gallery. His bulging eyes were drawn to a knot of Venezuelan delegates shaking their angry fists in the face of a representative from the Great Realm of the Chinese People.

  The Chinese delegate was imperturbable. As he could well afford to be, representing the world's largest single nationality.

  Largest by far, thought Ainsley sardonically, even if you limit the count to the actual residents of China.

  He watched the bellicose Venezuelans stalk off angrily. Most likely, the historian guessed, they were furious with the Chinese for interfering in what they considered internal Venezuelan affairs. That was the usual bone of contention between most countries and the Great Realm. The Chinese claimed a special relationship—almost semi-sovereignity—with everyone in the world of Chinese descent, official citizenship be damned. Given the global nature of the Han diaspora, that kept the Chinese sticking their thumbs into everybody's eye.

  The Gha repeated his question. Ainsley sighed.

  "No, Fludenoc. This is worse than usual. A bit."

  The historian gestured toward the crowded chamber below. "Mind you, the Chamber of Deputies is notorious for being raucous. At the best of times."

  Somehow—h
e was not quite sure how it had happened—Ainsley had become the unofficial liaison between humanity and the Gha. He suspected that his long and successful work reintegrating the Romans into their human kinfolk had given him, in the eyes of the world at large, the reputation of being a wizard diplomat with weird people from the sky. Which, he thought wryly, was the last thing a man who had spent a lifetime engrossed in the history of classical society had ever expected to become.

  On the other hand—Ainsley was not a man given to complaining over his fate. And, fortunately, he did have a good sense of humor. He eyed the huge figure standing next to him. From his weeks of close contact with the Gha, Ainsley was now able to interpret—to some degree, at least—the body language of the stiff giants.