The Ninth Circle: A Novel of the U.S.S. Merrimack

by R. M. Meluch

  The leader of the stranger pack, the grand male with gray sides, came over to Patrick and Glenn at a loping trot. His color was not the faded gray of age. It was an iron gray hue. Patrick dubbed him Graysides.

  Graysides looked hard at Patrick and Glenn. He sniffed them. Sniffed again. Glenn got the inevitable nose in the crotch. Graysides hummed something to Conan. Before Conan could reply, Patrick hummed something back.

  Conan and Graysides barked out loud with fox laughter.

  Patrick translated for Glenn. “Graysides asked Conan what we were.”

  “What did you tell him?” She was pretty sure she knew the answer.

  “‘Funny.’”

  Nicanor called on Bagheera to kill the boarders.

  Bagheera wasn’t helping.

  Nox, with the part of his brain that wasn’t flailing, wondered why he wasn’t dead yet. He’d been knocked to the deck, but the kill stroke hadn’t descended on him. The boarders hadn’t fired on them, hadn’t stabbed them. The Praetorians could have killed any of them immediately with a bronze fist.

  A lordly voice of a Praetorian ordered, “Weapons on the deck! Personal fields off. Hands where we can see them.”

  The brothers looked to one another for direction.

  Nicanor’s machete dropped to the deck. Nox had already lost his machete. He let his dagger drop. It clattered down. Heard other weapons dropping.

  Nox was hauled to his feet, his arms wrenched behind his back. Shackles closed round his wrists. Metal-gloved hands patted him down for hidden daggers. A kick to his heel started him walking toward the air lock. “March.”

  Nox advanced toward the hatch.

  Here we go. Out the air lock.

  But no. The hatch at the other side opened, and Nox and his guards passed through the air lock into Gladiator.

  Nox glanced back. Felt a jolt of surprise. His brothers were not behind him. The hatch shut.

  Only four of the guards had come aboard with Nox. They pushed him the way they wanted him to go.

  They passed through bronze-embossed corridors. There were gilded and enameled coffers in the overhead. Aldebaran scarab crickets were heraldically placed at the tops of archways.

  The Gladiator used to be the ship of the great triumphalis Numa Pompeii before he became emperor.

  Numa Pompeii was Caesar now. Nox didn’t know who commanded Gladiator these days.

  But there were Praetorian Guards on board.

  Why were there imperial guards on a ship at the galactic Rim? Someone far from the home world was acting high and overly mighty for his station.

  Nox’s escort passed him into the custody of other Praetorians. These were in full ceremonial regalia, with silver eagle wings embossed across their cuirasses, triple-plumed helmets, and ornate bronze greaves. They marched Nox toward an audience with someone who had a dangerously high sense of his own importance.

  The Praetorian Guard and the silver eagles belonged solely to Caesar.

  Who did this guy think he was?

  Enormous doors flanked by marble gods parted.

  The Praetorians hauled Nox bodily—still living and breathing bodily—into the throned presence of Caesar Numa Pompeii.

  After a night of drumming and dancing, the two fox packs united for a hunt at dawn. No small animals, birds, and insects would do for this. They brought down a heavy, hoofed thing that looked like a cross between an antelope and a lorry. Conan clamped onto the beast’s throat. Graysides’ jaws closed on its spine. Other males hung onto the thing’s long horns, weighing them down to the ground.

  Glenn hung back, hugging her splinter gun. She desperately wanted to save her boys from those wicked horns and those lethal thrashing hooves.

  Don’t.

  The beast fell over, kicking and bellowing.

  This is what they live for. Let them do their jobs.

  The bull died. Swift strokes with the razor edge of curved claws made the skinning look easy. The foxes tore off hunks of meat and sliced open the belly. A cluster of young foxes stuck their faces in the cavity.

  After gorging and then licking each other clean, the young girls brought meat around to the aged members of their tribes, and to Patrick and Glenn.

  Several foxes visited to make sure Glenn and Patrick got a share. Glenn tried to smile at the bloody shank proudly bestowed on her. “Thanks. Awfully.”

  Patrick said, “At least it’s not entrails.”

  Glenn cooked the meat with her heat stick. She did not dare make an open flame out here. But she was not about to eat raw meat now that she knew she and Patrick were fair game for any microbes that might be in it.

  Fox noses picked up the scent of cooking meat. Members of both packs moved in to find out what it was.

  Whiskers tickled Glenn’s cheek. It was Brat.

  Glenn offered Brat a bit of the cooked part. Brat nibbled at the edge, let the piece drop. His nose wrinkled up. The others chortled.

  Brat said it was funny.

  When the foxes left the kill site, a circle of tattlers descended to finish the feast.

  The tribes returned to the fox meadow, where Graysides told a story. Patrick recorded it on his omni.

  The young ones hung on the old male’s every hum as if it were a ghost story.

  Glenn whispered, “Can you tell what he’s saying?”

  Patrick shook his head.

  “I can’t make it out,” Patrick whispered. “Not unless smelly black thorn bushes are crossing the river.”

  The rest of the day was spent sleeping, lazing. Cooler breezes in the evening brought play. Then drumming and dancing.

  “Uh-oh,” said Patrick.

  Glenn followed his gaze.

  A wiry young male from the other tribe was sparking Princess. The one with the nicked ear and heavy scar across his flank. Glenn had named him Rogue.

  Princess kept pacing with a haughty strut in her gait, her tail straight up like an empress’ fan. She made flirty eyes. Rogue laid gifts at her dancing feet.

  Mama-san and Daddy moved in to inspect the gifts.

  Glenn pushed her way in there too, checking out the offerings. Patrick asked, “Is he good enough for her?” Not sure if he was kidding.

  One of the gifts was a tanned hide. The furred side of the skin was spotted and striped in colors of rich auburn, tiger orange, black, and white. The other side was soft as kid leather. “This is well done,” Glenn said.

  Even the young male named Tanner from their own tribe gave the hide a thorough resentful inspection. Tanner could find no fault with Rogue’s work.

  Glenn moved back to stand with Patrick. He put his arm around her shoulders. “Is he good enough?”

  “No one’s good enough for our Princess,” said Glenn. “But she wants him.”

  Princess was acting coy.

  The bachelor males of her own tribe were agitated. Brat was biting his own tail in distress.

  None of the local boys challenged Rogue.

  Mama-san and Daddy appeared to approve.

  When the evening drumming started, Princess and Rogue danced in a line that was just the two of them, no one else. They shared a mouse snack. They wandered into the woods in the starlight.

  Nox breathed an oath in Americanese. “Almighty. Almighty.”

  “Yes, Mister Farragut?” Caesar said, as if he had been addressed.

  Nox recovered. Declared, “I am not a Farragut.”

  “You are not an Antonius either.” Caesar’s voice rumbled.

  Nox was struck by the enormity that was Numa Pompeii, the enormity of his station.

  Caesar Numa was a titan, brawny, fleshy. Romans like their gods huge, with huge appetites and vast grasp, living grandly.

  Nox couldn’t fathom what could possibly have brought Caesar to the outer rim of the galaxy. There must be something of great importance here. And it could not be Nox, or even the stolen Xerxes.

  Numa studied him in intimidating silence. Nox was not going to make another sound without leave.

>   Finally Caesar commanded him, “Speak.”

  Nox opened his mouth. Speech stopped up in his throat.

  He hadn’t been asked a question. Caesar had bid him say something.

  Nox spoke his mind, “How does puny pirate garbage rate Caesar’s attention?”

  “You are garbage,” Caesar confirmed. “But you are not puny, and you have never not had Our attention.”

  It’s my coiens birth name, Nox thought, sour. If Caesar thinks that will give him leverage with Big John, it will not. Not ever.

  Caesar said, “You acquired a flight program for a Xerxes transport. From your friend Tycho. Did you think anyone would just hand that over to an ignominiosissum without higher permission?”

  At this point, I’m guessing not, Nox thought.

  Nox had never quite believed his luck in pulling off the theft of the Xerxes. And so he hadn’t. Not without a large amount of help. Very large.

  Caesar spoke, like the voice of a canyon, “You shall take your Ninth Circle to the Rim world known as Zoe, sometimes called Eden.”

  Strange place to send The Ninth Circle.

  As if reading Nox’s thought, Numa said, “It needs a serpent.”

  Nox didn’t know that world. Zoe. There were settled worlds across one-eighth of the galaxy, so there were many places he had never heard of. He knew he would be able to locate Zoe in the Xerxes’ data bank, so he didn’t ask Caesar for directions. He waited for Caesar to tell him what to do when he got there.

  Caesar said, “We require non-Roman Roman eyes on the ground.”

  Non-Roman Roman. That described him well. He wondered how Caesar knew that he was still devoted to the Empire. Nox guessed that was how Numa got to be Caesar.

  Nox had to ask, “Caesar needs psycho killers?”

  “We have no use for psychotics,” said Numa. “They talk too much. Make no mistake, you are cowards. You are garbage. But you are Our garbage. You are not free. You are not citizens. We are Rome, and We own you. If We tell you to fly into a planet, that is what you shall do.”

  Nox thought he was about to die. Even so, something lifted inside him. Maybe it was his squashed soul. All he wanted was to serve Rome. “Am I crashing the Xerc into the planet?”

  “Not this planet. Not now. But it’s a future option. For now, get to Zoe, get your eyes on the ground. Gather every bit of information there is. Look for aliens.”

  “Caesar? It’s an alien planet. They’re all aliens.”

  “You will know them when you see them.”

  That statement implied that Numa had already seen the aliens. Caesar must already have remote surveillance on Zoe.

  “Will you obey?”

  “Yes, Caesar.”

  “Go.”

  Nox froze in place, a question clogged in his throat.

  “What?” Caesar prompted. A deep rumble.

  He’s letting me go with a Xerxes. Nox had not earned anyone’s trust. All I did was say yes. “You take me at my word I will do your bidding?”

  “We would not take a syllable of yours on faith. But We don’t need to trust you. We know you are telling the truth. You lie like a Farragut. Which means you are abysmal at it. You have been fortunate so far in lying only to truly gullible people.”

  Nox caught himself before he could raise a Roman salute. But he was not Roman. That might go over badly.

  A last word rumbled from the massif, a blithe afterthought “Oh, and you might need to fly past Merrimack to get yourself on the ground.”

  Ah. There it is. It is my name. My name is not going to help. Nox assured Caesar, “Merrimack will shoot a pirate ship.”

  “Try not to get shot.”

  “There is a very high probability I will die trying to get my eyes on the ground.”

  “Yes?” Numa gave a shrug of one massive shoulder. “Quelle dommage.”

  The fox tribes traded out a few of their young adult members, thus mixing up the bloodlines and sealing their friendship.

  Then Graysides’ pack went its separate way.

  When the tribes divided, Princess went away with Rogue.

  “Oh, Patrick,” Glenn said with her hand over her heart, her eyes teary. “There goes our baby.”

  Patrick squeezed her shoulders. Sighed, “They grow up so fast.”

  Director Izrael Benet’s res recorder saved all his incoming messages. Its capacity was advertised as: “As close to infinite as you’re ever going to get.”

  It was full. There were inquiries from all nations and colonies in the entire known region of the galaxy.

  Benet pulled the resonator out of its bracket and hauled it to the ship, where Sandy Minyas kept her workstation. Benet dropped the resonator on her desk. “Answer your messages.” He turned to go.

  “Izzy—”

  “Get your buddy to help you,” Benet cut her off.

  Sandy said, “Where is Patrick?”

  Benet took a wrong step. Caught his balance. Stopped. Thought. When was the last time he’d seen Patrick? Or Glenn?

  Days ago?

  At least days.

  “Dead,” Benet answered airly. “He’s dead. I’m going to kill him.”

  Nox returned to the Xerxes. Knew he was pale. Paler than his usual fair complexion. His red, blue, and yellow scars had to be standing out like neon.

  The bronze-armored Praetorians withdrew from the Xerxes. The hatches closed behind them.

  The energy hook holding Bagheera died. Gladiator separated from the Xerxes and vanished.

  Nox’s brothers showed tentative smiles, baffled. Leo said, “We’re alive.”

  “We’re here.” Galeo gave Bagheera’s bulkhead a thump. “Why in the brane did they let us keep the Xerxes?”

  “Caesar told them to,” said Nox faintly.

  That got him one synchronized blink from six sets of eyes.

  Pallas said, “You had an audience with Caesar?”

  Orissus said, “Of course he didn’t.”

  “Oh, he did,” said Nox, light-headed.

  “Yo?” said Leo.

  “Ho?” said Galeo.

  “Caesar is in the Outback?” Nicanor said, still not believing it. “Here?”

  Nox nodded. “All of him.”

  Nox told them about the audience. His brothers made him tell it several times.

  “So that’s why Bagheera disobeyed us,” said Leo.

  “He recognized a higher authority,” said Nox. He couldn’t fault the ship for obeying Caesar.

  “How did Caesar get registered in the ship’s system?” Galeo said.

  “He’s Caesar!” said Nox. “He wants it done, it happens.”

  “But how did he find us?” Faunus said. “He’s Caesar. He’s not God.”

  “Frateri, I didn’t get to ask a lot of questions,” Nox said, still rattled from the encounter. “And that topic didn’t come up.”

  “He had to be getting a lock on a res pulse,” said Leo. “There is no other way.”

  “We haven’t been resonating,” said Nox.

  First thing Nox had done on hijacking the Xerxes was shut down the res chamber.

  “I’m going to guess that we have been,” Pallas said.

  “A second res chamber not on the specs?” Leo guessed.

  “I’ll find it,” said Faunus.

  “Look for two,” said Nox. He recalled a saying about redundancy. It was good. It was good. “And we have a handler.”

  “Caesar told you that?” Nicanor said. It was not the kind of thing one is normally advised of.

  “No, he didn’t tell me. But there has to be one. You know there has to be one.”

  Nox set Bagheera to searching surrounding space for something lurking in the dark that could be watching them.

  “Could be one of us,” said Pallas. “Actually, it has to be one of us.”

  “No,” said Nox. He wouldn’t stand for that idea. Not for a moment. “‘You are my brothers.” If it’s one of us, I really have nothing. “The strength of the pack is the wolf, an
d the strength of the wolf is the pack.’ It’s not any of you.”

  “Could be you,” said Orissus.

  Nox’s blue eyes rolled. “If you think that, shoot me now.”

  “Is it you?” Galeo asked.

  “No. And it’s not you, Galeo,” Nox said. “It is not one of my brothers!”

  But it was.

  Toward evening the foxes took a roundabout route back to the meadow after merrily chasing a herd of rodents cross-country all day. Patrick decided on a more direct path, which took him and Glenn across a patch of overly ripe ground fruit.

  The gourds grew on long trailing vines with browning leaves. The swollen fruits looked like pumpkins and smelled like tomatoes gone wrong.

  A sudden pop and a splat made Patrick give a girl shriek. He hunkered down, covering his head with his arms. “Who’s shelling!”

  Glenn shouted, “The vegetables are exploding!”

  Another pumpkin burst.

  “I always tried to tell my mother they’d do that!” Patrick said.

  They had set off a chain reaction. Another gourd popped. Patrick saw Glenn get slapped with orange pulp. He shouted, “Run!”

  He and Glenn came running and yelling through the patch. The foxes watched from their safe roundabout path, laughing.

  When they got back to the meadow, the foxes didn’t want Glenn and Patrick near them. They stank.

  “I don’t want me near me,” said Patrick.

  Glenn’s face, coated with dried juice, was fixed in a wince. They headed through the deep-shadowed woods toward the stream to rinse off as the sun was setting.

  Except for the exploding part, Patrick might have mistaken the gourds for pumpkins. Everything about this place was so very familiar—in a very strange way.

  Everything except for those.

  Patrick put his hand over Glenn’s mouth.

  He was pretty sure no one had ever done that and come away without teeth marks, and he suspected he was on the verge now. With his free hand he pointed over Glenn’s shoulder through the ferny branches as he pulled her down into a crouch.

  He knew when she got sight of them. He felt her tense up in instinctive loathing for something they had never seen. His own hair stood up on the back of his neck.