The Myriad: Tour of the Merrimack #1

by R. M. Meluch

  Augustus gave a crocodilian smile. So Farragut recognized this as a third fight. Remembered what the deck tasted like. But Farragut’s anger remained mild, more irritation. Unthreatened. Augustus had not yet cut to the core of his being.

  So John Farragut was not a control addict. He did not need to be master of every moment. That explained how he could be so buoyant. No one is ever happy who craves control, because it is not possible in this universe. John Farragut could let go and roll.

  Interesting quality in a man in charge of a battleship with planetary siege capability; plus two Space Patrol Torpedo Boats; two companies of Marines with thirty-six Swifts and a battery of thirty-six multipurpose guns; a formidable arsenal of distortion bombs, torpedoes, and missiles, including Space Darts, Space Slugs, Star Sparrows, and a Continental Knife.

  So if control is not what drives you, what are you doing out here, Captain? In a position very like a god.

  How did a man get to be this powerful if he did not crave control?

  Augustus had misread him again. Hard to interpret what Augustus had never seen. “Your children are not yours.”

  Got him! Saw that shot lodge under Farragut’s skin and detonate like a splinter shot. Augustus watched the captain absorb the hit.

  Farragut bridled, voice rigid, “Well, Augustus, given that they are two and three years old and I haven’t been home in seven, I don’t think there’s anyone who hasn’t figured that pattern out.”

  Farragut could shrug off his physical defeats, when he had fought the good fight and lost. This was bigger than he was. Augustus found the wound that defined the man. All the instincts of a father; but not a father. “Why’d you stay away seven years?”

  “I was on my way home when we got the call to the Battle of Eta Cassiopeia.”

  “And you decided to become a hero instead.”

  Farragut ignored the comment. Heroism wasn’t his goal. It was simply an unconscious quality of his being. “She didn’t understand. Wouldn’t, I guess. She had to know what I was doing out here. By the time I was clear to go home . . . I found out I was going to be a father, so to say. I . . . couldn’t go. I took my leave on Alpha Centauri instead. I was going to make another try at healing whatever had gone wrong there. The second child tore it. I really tried to think of them as adopted. That wouldn’t go down. Stuck right here.” He put a fist to his chest. “Ever swallow a bone?”

  “Try chewing, John.”

  “Right.” Farragut inhaled deeply. Had been holding his breath. “She didn’t want a divorce. I couldn’t stay married to her.”

  Apparently couldn’t even speak her name. It was Laura.

  “I told her either sue me for abandonment, keep my name, the house, whatever the court wanted to give to a woman with two children; or else I’d sue her for adultery, cut her off, disown her kids. She sued. I’ve never met John and Lacey Farragut.”

  “John Alexander Farragut, Jr.,” said Augustus more precisely.

  “Isn’t that just the damnedest kick in the teeth?” Blue eyes lifted, terribly liquid.

  “So why did you give her the choice?”

  “Because I was afraid if I got into a fight with her, I’d kill her. And hurt two innocent civilians who didn’t ask to be born or named Farragut.” His arms were crossed. “Found what you’re looking for yet, Augustus? ’Cause I’m getting tired of this conversation. I can have Mo perform something invasive without an anesthetic if I want this.” Farragut headed for the hatch.

  “Want to know who are the fathers of your children?”

  Farragut ran into the hatch without opening it. Leaned there, forehead to fist. It was the plural that did it. Augustus saw that Farragut hadn’t known that part of it. Farragut had assumed a single lover.

  Augustus saw the war waging behind the blue eyes. Saw himself reflected in them, the devil in the desert. Farragut did not want to ask. The question was sordid. A carving knife in the heart. He stalled, asked back, “How did you get that information?”

  “It was just there. The patterns are there.”

  Farragut shook his head, lost. “Augustus, I don’t know what it is you actually do.”

  “I see patterns in data. The children were DNA-PRINTED when they started school. That’s in the FBI files, which are on board Merrimack’s database. One father was mapped when he took a position requiring a security clearance. The other was mapped when he was a schoolboy himself. The data is all in there. I saw the matches.”

  “Lordy, Augustus. I can look at a game of solitaire and miss a play. You could plug me in to the collective wisdom of the known universe, and I still wouldn’t see to put that red ten on that black jack.”

  “I am a patterner.”

  “But I thought the information didn’t stay in your head once you unplugged.”

  “I retain what interests me.”

  “Don’t you need a program to read a database? What about incompatible file formats?”

  “All electronic information is, at its most basic, on or off. The patterns are binary. The human mind, properly enabled, can read on and off. The patterns of the data explain themselves. An operating system is just another program. A program is just another pattern. Want the names?”

  “No,” John croaked. Then he caved. “Yes.”

  “Sure?”

  Wouldn’t look at him. Like a surrender: “Tell me.”

  Augustus spoke two names.

  No change registered on Farragut’s face at first, except perhaps a slackening, a blankness, confusion. Blue eyes blinked. Still blank. No connections. No recognition.

  Then he reared up, a smile washing his face clean.

  Augustus tilted his head curiously. “You’re going to have them killed?”

  Breathing freely, Farragut smiled. “No.”

  “Then why did you want their names?”

  “So I don’t suspect my friends.” His smile broadened, became positively giddy. “They’re no one I know!” The knives dissolved from his back. He muttered a joyful babble, “Small of me ever to think a friend of mine could ever do that to me! Lordy, John, you’re an ass.”

  A truly relieved, enormously happy ass. Sneaking faceless parasites invading his home in his absence were a fact of existence. They could not wound him. Just so long as it wasn’t a friend. Farragut had no armor to his stern.

  “Yes, to your original question,” said Augustus.

  Farragut had forgotten by then that he’d asked one. “What question was that?”

  “You are interesting, John Farragut.”

  5

  FLIGHT SERGEANT BLUE STOOD at the sentry post outside Sensor Compartment 3. The sign on the hatch at her back read: REDUNDANCY IS GOOD. REDUNDANCY IS GOOD. REDUNDANCY IS GOOD.

  Colonel Steele had stationed her under the bottom of the ship, deep in the lower sail with the machines. Wasn’t really sentry duty. It was a stupid waste of time. No one ever came down here.

  Footsteps clanging down the ladder made her power up her side arm.

  The Navy had issued her a splinter gun. The two-stage weapon was designed for shipboard use. Not powerful enough to penetrate a bulk, it fired a thin dart designed to lodge deep in human flesh. If it hit your intended target, then you could detonate it, or threaten to. The second-stage trigger sent the signal to splinter the dart into lethal shards. The threat was usually enough to stop the sane.

  No one was due. And no one ever came down here between watches for any good reason. Kerry took aim up at the hatch.

  From the hatchway in the overhead emerged a pair of man-sized deck boots clanging down the ladder rungs, long muscular legs, a long lean torso, long arms, a handsomely shaped Roman head. Face like a granite carving not quite free of the stone.

  The Intelligence Officer, Augustus. Kerry wondered if she ought to challenge him. Palatine was an ally now, and this was a full bird colonel. Still, you never knew about Romans. She took aim, inhaled to say halt. Her mouth had gone absolutely dry.

  Augustus ignored the weapon p
ointed at his head. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder in a “let’s go” gesture. “You’re on, Blue.”

  Kerry pushed the splinter gun into its holster at her thigh. “Donner called?” Kerry guessed, astonished. Men never called after they said they would. The Archon was truly alien after all.

  Augustus turned around in the small space. There was scarcely room enough to do that. He seemed to find it strange. “Why are you here? I thought you were supposed to be resting.”

  “Colonel put me under the ship for punching out Dak Shepard.” It wasn’t as if she’d hurt him. Dak was fully twice her size and he’d deserved it. He wouldn’t shut up. Colonel Steele had it in for her, was all. Always had.

  That was of no concern to Augustus. Augustus gestured up the ladder. “Move it out, soldier.”

  “The captain said I could only go if I wasn’t on duty,” said Kerry. “I’m on duty.”

  “That was smoke,” said Augustus. “And point of fact, you’re not on duty.”

  “Says who?”

  “I.”

  Kerry hesitated. “Can you do that?”

  She was a little vague on chain of command when it included Romans. Steele was only a light colonel.

  “Farragut can,” said Augustus.

  “Oh.” Nothing vague there. These orders came from God. “Oh Gawd. Colonel Steele is gonna do a burn.”

  “Aside from the amusement value, I do not care.” Augustus tilted his head toward the ladder for her to fall in.

  Captain Farragut put an arm around Kerry Blue’s shoulders. It was a brotherly arm. John Farragut was the eldest of a litter of twenty-one; he tucked Kerry under his wing like number twenty-two. Kerry could always tell when a man was interested in her. Despite the captain’s warmth, he was not.

  He told her she did not have to do this. He briefed her on what he wanted her to get out of the Archon:

  What was a kzachin?

  What was the Arrans’ mode of FTL travel and communication?

  Where was Origin?

  Who was the minefield intended for?

  Had another alien species brought the Myriadians to the Myriad?

  Did she have any questions?

  “Does he have a tail?” asked Kerry.

  She had been able to see under the billowy linen shirt a strong back, a sensual curve to Donner’s spine under that short-clipped mane. Where his loose trousers had tugged against his legs, she’d seen the impression of a hard-corded thigh. His bared arms were hard, bronze, human enough. Pretty sexy, really. But she didn’t know if she could deal with a tail.

  There was a bit of eye rolling at her question.

  “No tail. Any other questions?”

  “What does he want?” Kerry asked.

  The captain and the IO exchanged glances, surprised that she could actually ask something substantive.

  The captain confessed, “You know what, Kerry? I honest-to-God don’t know.”

  Augustus spoke past Kerry to the captain, “He may just want to talk.”

  Kerry mumbled, “Then we’re in trouble. I’m not smart.”

  “Next to the local females, she’s a bloody Einstein,” Augustus said to the captain.

  “Hey!” Kerry protested. Then added, “Sir.”

  Augustus continued talking past her, “If you’re concerned for her tact, remember the Myriadian females are dumb as hamsters. The Archon may well overlook anything she says wrong.”

  The xenos had reported that the females’ brains were physically smaller than the males. It was the land of stupid, complacent women—Troglodyte heaven. Maybe the chief Troglodyte wanted more.

  “Kerry called Donner by the wrong ‘you’ back there,” Augustus said. “Did you notice?”

  The captain nodded. “Same ‘you’ that upset him when I used it. He didn’t mind when Flight Sergeant Blue said it.”

  “Donner seemed to think it was cute. He may just want to hear what she has to say.”

  That would be a first, thought Kerry, as the officers talked over her head.

  “And if he wants something else, don’t worry about him using force,” Augustus said—to the captain, though Kerry thought she just might be real interested in that comment. “Rape seems to be a creep crime in the Myriad—much like child molestation in our cultures. And Donner is not a creep. And we know he won’t eat her for dinner. He can’t digest her.”

  “Oh. Thank you, Colonel Augustus,” Kerry had to speak. “I feel so much safer now.”

  That bit of insubordination lifted eyebrows, but neither officer called her on it. Farragut spoke—to Kerry—as if trying to convince himself, “You’ll be okay.”

  Kerry tried to ask, “So what if he . . . ? Should I . . . ?” She could not finish. Never used those kinds of words to officers.

  The captain, who always struck her as a bit naive in some respects, did not understand the question. Augustus answered her, “When in Rome.”

  Kerry understood, nodded. “When in Rome, show ’em how we do it downtown.”

  “Try to keep it in the suburbs,” said Farragut, catching up with the intent. “Don’t shock him. Keep your dog collar on. If you get into trouble, bag yourself to an LD, call for displacement and we’ll have you out of there right now.”

  “I can take him,” said Kerry.

  “I don’t want an interstellar incident, Flight Sergeant.”

  “I can take him.” She didn’t say fight him.

  Lieutenant Colonel Steele made an uncomfortable presence in sick bay. Steele never came here of his own power unless carrying someone else. The big Marine asked gentle, older Dr. Shah in near mumbles if the doctor had given Flight Sergeant Blue anything in the way of protection.

  Mohsen Shah gave a gentle laugh. “Colonel Steele, a shoe fetishist is having a better chance of impregnating the object of his desire than the Archon is having with an Earth woman. Leather is at least having the same genetic base code.”

  The lieutenant colonel’s fair face turned flaming scarlet. He growled, “I meant protection against disease.”

  “It is being the same question. Kerry Blue is being—how would you be saying?—bulletproof.”

  “Are you sure?” Steele shifted in place, recrossed his thick arms. “Viruses mutate.”

  A Marine with a little knowledge was an annoying thing. Mo Shah sighed. “Ah. I am seeing—you are not understanding the reason why.” The colonel was one of those people for whom biology was voodoo. Dr. Shah tried to answer him in terms TR Steele might understand. “Have you ever been trying to mount a Centauran wheel on your Harley?”

  “That’s a shooting offense where I come from,” Steele growled.

  “Yes, yes, of course, it is being so.” Mo Shah smiled indulgently. “But could some godless Centauran be doing it?”

  “Hell, no. The Centauran wheel takes only four lug nuts.”

  “And they are being metric,” Dr. Shah added.

  “And they’re in that dumb metric scale,” Steele confirmed, punching the air with his forefinger.

  “So! Even if you could be adjusting the size of the bolts, there is no use drilling out a fifth bore because the other four holes are not going to be lining up. And you cannot exactly be pushing the holes around to be making them space evenly. Are you following me?”

  “Follow so far. Hell if I know where you’re going with it.”

  Shah explained, “In very much the same way, an alien virus cannot be readjusting its genetic code to be matching up with ours. It will not be happening. It cannot be happening. The Myriadian viruses are being metric with four bores—and their bolts are being threaded the wrong way. Their genetic code is having an opposite orientation to ours. The Myriadian viruses you are fearing will not even be knowing where they are.”

  Steele grunted something like thanks, turned red again, and marched stiffly out. Trying not to think about where the Myriadian viruses might be going.

  Kerry Blue’s arrival split the air with a loud crack. The displacement tech had put her down on the
palace terrace. She stepped off her LD and moved to the white railing. Its marble glowed with numinous beauty under the starlight. She leaned on the cool stone and looked out over the lake, the water bedizened with star reflections. Overhead, the heavens blazed with twinkling lights in indigo velvet. She took off her cap and her hair-band. Moist breezes ruffled her hair. She inhaled green-and-blue smells.

  Sensing someone behind her, she turned around.

  Donner. Without his guards. Hands behind his back. “Do Earth people give gifts?”

  “Of course.”

  “Here.” He brought from behind his back—wiggling—the lizard plant that had crawled down her uniform at their first meeting.

  A startled cooing cry escaped her. Then, suddenly, tears. She cuddled the leafy creature into her arms. Its webby feet clung to her.

  “I do not understand this reaction,” said Donner, distressed.

  “I’m happy,” she gushed tearfully.

  “This does not appear happy.”

  “Oh, yeah, it confuses our guys, too.” Men hated crying women. And they really hated crying Marines. She sniffled. The plant took up a perch on her shoulder. “But I was told these things can’t eat our insects. The molecules are left-handed.”

  “And is your sunlight left-handed? This creature is a plant.”

  She smiled brightly. “You mean it’s okay?”

  “I do not give gifts that die.”

  She reached for Donner’s head. The motion startled him, but he held his ground, as she took his face in her hands and kissed his cheek. His skin felt warm to her lips.

  He came away flustered. Recovered his composure. “You were listening to my ocean.”

  “Oh. Yes. Just now. I was,” she said. “That’s because it sings.”

  A smile of pure delight lit Donner’s entire face. “It does. I stopped noticing a long time ago. It is pretty, is it not?” He touched her face, his fingers dry, warm, his touch light. “How came you by this color?”

  “I was born with it.”

  “It is better than the others.”

  The plant moved up to sit on her head. She moved a webby foot off her eyelid.