by R. M. Meluch
Gypsy’s hair.
“Hell no, sir!” she answered.
Commander Gypsy Dent’s hair was an elaborate nest of serpentine dreadlocks detached from Gypsy’s head and exiled to her cabin until Gypsy got off duty, when she reattached it to her head hair by hair.
Gypsy was very proud of her hair, and she had given Captain Farragut an order: “Speak not of the hair.”
No one else would have made the connection, even if they had heard Farragut once describe Gypsy’s hair as “a war zone.” But Glenn Hamilton and John Farragut operated on the same harmonic. He figured it out instantly.
“Don’t tell Commander Dent I said that,” said Hamster. “She’ll sic her hair on me.”
She bounced the basketball.
It was the middle of Glenn Hamilton’s night. She ought to be in bed, with her husband. “All not happy in the rose garden?” Farragut guessed. “Plant the rose garden!” said Hamster. She took another shot. Bounced off the rim. “I am not going to sleep wflh that.”
She flipped the bird at her absent sweetheart.
Farragut seized her impudent digit in his fist and walked Glenn by the finger over to a data terminal. He pressed her fingertip to an authorization pad. Her hand was dainty and tiny in his big paw. Her fingernail formed a neat little oval peeking out the bottom of his fist. He let go of her finger. The authorization pad showed green. He’d given her access to the captain’s quarters. “You can rack out at my place,” Farragut told her. “Be out of there by eight bells.” Glenn collected the basketball. She tossed it from hand to hand, agitated, considering the offer. Farragut intercepted the ball, kept it. He nodded sideways out the hatch. “Get some rest.” Glenn let her chin drop to her collarbone, suddenly very sleepy. “Thank you, sir.” She left the deck, her little red ponytail swinging side to side.
Farragut forgot about the encounter until mid watch, ship’s night, which everyone called the Hamster watch. The delicate smell of someone else, someone female, lingered on his pillow.
Had the damnedest dreams.
“Word is Lady Hamilton spent the day in the captain’s rack,” Carly arrived in the forecastle with the latest gossip. Gossip had already got there ahead of her, and Darb said back, “Yeah, she did but the cap’n didn’t. He was on duty.”
“Crap,” said Kerry Blue, disappointed. “Hamster should dump Doctor Pat and make the captain happy.”
“Never happen, chica linda” said Carly. “They’re officers. Officers take that skat serious.”
“It’s not like officers’ zippers don’t go down like everyone else’s,” said Cain Salvador.
“Yeah,” said Dak Shepard and added with a snigger, “They just make a real loud sound when they get caught.” Kerry Blue’s stomach fluttered. That was exactly nothing she wanted to hear.
“Hamster ain’t right for the captain,” said Ranza Espinoza.
“You think?” said Kerry Blue.
Ranza lifted a sneering lip. “Nah. She’s not for him. She’s just here. Farragut needs a hen, and that chick don’t lay eggs.”
“Somebody told me Farragut had a wife,” said Cain Salvador.
“Yeah,” said Dak. “Named Maryann.”
“So Farragut is married?” said Cain, surprised.
“Was,” said Dak.
“A while ago,” said Kerry Blue.
“She offed herself,” said Carly.
“Really?” said Cain. “Damn, I never found him that tough to be around.”
“That’s the point,” said Cariy. “He wasn’t around.”
“She did it because he wasn’t around?” Suicide was alien to Kerry Blue and she made a face, looking around for anyone else who thought that was weird. “Seems a little drastic,” said Cole Darby to her frown. “Couldn’t she just have an affair with the stable boy?”
“I wouldn’t,” said Kerry Blue.
“Wouldn’t what?”
“Kill myself,” said Kerry.
“We know that, chica,” said Carly.
“Kerry would do the stable boy,” said Dak.
Kerry didn’t ever want to know what she would do.
Merrimack looked down from the observation deck at the devastated world of Telecore. It was getting time to leave.
Captain Farragut loathed giving ground to the enemy. As a soldier, he wanted to kill them.
It galled him to know that exterminating an entire Hive was as easy as flipping a switch. He had destroyed the two original Hives with two resonant pulses. They died in an instant.
It was pathetically easy.
And impossible at the moment.
Repeating that feat required identifying the specific harmonic that held this new Hive together. There were infinite harmonics. John Farragut had been given the first two. Xenos were working on recreating the methodology but if isolating a harmonic were not so damnably difficult then some intelligent entity would have stopped the original Hives long before now.
The Hive was so alien to organic life, so improbable, so contrary to ordinary laws of nature that worlds died before they could realize the nature of the beast.
John Farragut was sure to holy hell that no one would be giving him harmonics this time. The neutron hose option was tempting. But tactical victory could lead to strategic disaster.
John Farragut would not be the one to teach this Hive what a neutron hose was. But neither could he trust the gorgons of Telecore to stay on Telecore once Merrimack left orbit.
The xenos could not tell him what part of a Hive’s “knowledge” was learned and what was instinct.
Attraction to a resonant source was probably instinctive. Hive ability to hone in on a source and a reception point of resonance appeared to be an inborn skill as well.
Even now the gorgons of Telecore leaned up, yearning like sunflowers at Merrimack’s every orbital pass.
If this Hive behaved like its predecessor, then as soon as these gorgons became spaceborne they would immediately head to the closest resonant source. Assuming Merrimack was no longer here, that would make the swarm’s target the U.S. Space Fortress Dwight David Eisenhower. A space fort was a stationary target.
Farragut quit the observation deck and swung into the lab. “Doctor Weng! Doctor Sidowski! Show me what you’ve got!”
“I think we have come up with a workable solution—” said Weng.
“More of a stopgap than a solution—” said Ski.
“—to handle the resident swarm in the absence of human oversight,” said Weng. The xenos presented to Captain Farragut a collection of small drones.
Farragut picked one up. It was lightweight, roughly spherical, larger than a softball, smaller than a basketball. He turned it over and over. “They look like Roman rovers.”
Weng nodded. “We nicked the design.” Ski: “They’re programmed to resonate on different harmonics. This is the first set—”
“We’re calling it Toto.”
“Toto is engineered to run around on the surface of Telecore, resonating.”
“Gorgons chase resonant sources.”
“The gorgons will chase them,” said Weng. “Toto is faster than the gorgons,” said Ski. “According to current data,” said Weng. “We’re basically giving the gorgons a little exercise,”
said Ski. “Let them burn energy.”
“Keeps them occupied.”
“What if the gorgons catch Toto?” Farragut asked. “We want them to.”
“Eventually.”
“After a while.”
“Why?”
“For one thing, the gorgons will learn that a resonant source isn’t edible. We want them to think that.”
“So in the best case scenario they’ll conclude that chasing something resonant is a waste of energy,” said Ski. “We never get the best case scenario,” said Farragut. He passed the rover of Toto One back to Doctor Sidowski. “Aye, Captain. That brings us to Toto Two,” said Weng. Toto Two wasn’t in the lab. Ski brought up an image of Toto Two. Farragut blinked. “Toto Two’s a l
ong-range shuttle.”
“Toto Two will be orbiting Telecore. If the gorgons achieve escape velocity and leave atmosphere, Toto Two is programmed to commence resonating on a new harmonic,” said Ski.
“A new harmonic in case the swarms guess that the first harmonic was a dry hustle,” Weng noted. “Not like we don’t have enough harmonics to work with.”
“Toto Two is programmed to leave orbit and lead the gorgons off in a direction away from Fort Eisenhower.”
“They’re wild geese,” said Farragut. Merrimack had used wild geese many times to draw the Hive off a vulnerable target.
“Except that Toto Two will be moving at a velocity calculated to let the gorgons gain on it in small increments,” said Ski.
“So the gorgons don’t lose interest,” said Weng. “We want to keep them chasing,” said Ski. “That should—” Weng began. “should—” Ski emphasized.
“—keep the gorgons off course and unfed for at least a year,” Weng concluded. “What do you think?” Ski asked. They both looked expectantly to the captain. “I like it, guys,” said Farragut. “Make it work. And hope the gorgons of Telecore get hungry enough to eat each other before we’re forced to deal with them again.”
4
A BITCH NAMED INGA greeted Captain Farragut at the hatch to the only civilian compartment on the space battleship. The Doberman was former crew. Drummed out of the Navy in disgrace, Inga had become pet to the only man on board permitted to own a pet, Merrimack’s civilian adviser Don Jose Maria de Cordillera.
Inga sat on Farragut’s command, her stubby tail wagging, shaking her whole stern with it, a big sharp white smile on her clueless face.
The creation of smart dogs was an idea that came and went and came and went over the centuries, and met with disaster every time it came, and always went chased by dogs.
It seemed natural for Man to want his best friend to be better. The idea of a genetically engineered canine with enhanced intelligence held irresistible promise.
The results had been the meanest, most unpredictable, most undoglike breeds ever conceived. Smart dogs had personalities a lot like Augustus’ in fact.
With self-awareness came willful disobedience.
Smart dogs were cunning, self-serving, skulking, sulking, depressive, disloyal, mutinous, thieving curs with delusions of grandeur. A dog that would just as soon bite you in the face as submit to a human being’s dominance.
Having eaten of the fruit of the tree of knowledge, Man’s creations questioned the imperative of unquestioned devotion.
Cadres of dogs trained for fearless service to humankind, loyal unto death, decided to stuff this for a game of soldiers and go their own way. A dog named Bravo, popularly known as Spartacus, led a massacre of his unit’s handlers. That fubar ended the last attempt at improving Dog almost a hundred years ago.
The remaining smart dogs had been castrated by their creator and heaved out of the garden. The Fall of the enhanced Dog was Dog’s failure to bow to the Alpha.
Merrimack’s contingent of fourteen unenhanced canines was comprised of the three rat terriers—Godzilla, Kong, and Dragon; five miniature shepherds; two golden retrievers in the medical service; Nose and Sweet Lips, the miniature bloodhounds; and Pooh the standard poodle whom the chief considered his dog.
Inga the Doberman had been sacked for killing a crewmate. The crew had been seaweed, and may have been dead before Inga started chewing on it, but Inga’s behavior was unacceptable for a member of the U.S. Navy nonetheless.
Inga was not a smart dog. John Farragut gave the now-civilian Inga an ear scratch as he entered the compartment.
At one time holograms of wide open pastures with running horses and deep blue skies had graced the confines of Jose Maria’s cabin. The space was bare now, its true small dimensions clear. In it was only a bed surrounded by stacks of crates. One crate served as a chair, another two as a writing desk. Everything else was in the crates.
Jose Maria was already packed. He knew what a declaration of war meant.
“Young Commodore.” Jose Maria rose from his chair-crate and turned from his desk-crates to greet Farragut with a smile and a continental bow. He was dressed simply in a charcoal gray tunic and black trousers of elegant weave.
“It’s Captain again,” said Farragut. The Attack Group had disintegrated and so had Farragut’s temporarily elevated title.
“Young Captain,” Jose Maria corrected himself.
A Terra Rican aristocrat, Jose Maria de Cordillera looked refined no matter what he did. Even when he’d been wielding a sword and wading ankle-deep in dying gorgons, he was a mesmerizing figure.
He was an older man, greyhound slender, his long black hair held back in a silver clasp. The silvering blaze at his temples had grown wider in the last year. He had truly beautiful hands, his neat nails shaped very short on the left hand; squared off and somewhat longer on the right. Fingernails of a man who played Spanish guitar.
John Farragut glanced over all of Jose Maria’s crates. “Where’s your guitar?”
“He took it,” said Jose Maria, tranquil.
He. Augustus.
Farragut reacted with a start. “Augustus was here?”
Jose Maria had known that Augustus was jumping ship.
John Farragut spoke, a little betrayed. “You didn’t warn me.”
“I had no idea you were unaware,” said Jose Maria. “As it was, I gave him my blessing.”
Not the way Farragut had been blessing Augustus.
“I’m sure Augustus appreciated that,” said Farragut.
“He swore at me,” Jose Maria said with a philosophical shrug.
Captain Farragut could not delay the sour news that brought him here. “I’m sorry I have to beach you at first port of call, which is fixing to be Fort Eisenhower. Under the Divorce Protocol I can’t carry a neutral anymore.”
Jose Maria showed no offense. “I understand, young Captain.”
Farragut continued, apologetic, “I can’t even take you through the Shotgun. And I know civilian shuttle schedules have got to be hashed, so I can’t even guess how long a layover you’ve got ahead of you before you can get back to Near Space.”
“I know the rules for neutrals in wartime,” said Jose Maria, unconcerned. “I have had my eye on that pretty little new-styled Star Racer. I saw them for sale at Portrillo station in the fortress on our last time through. I could never justify buying such a toy before.” His dark eyes became impish, “This is a sign, do you not think?”
Farragut smiled, picturing Jose Maria with a sassy space yacht. Jose Maria could easily afford it. He was enormously wealthy, a moral man who felt some guilt at the indulgence. But the war did provide an excuse.
Farragut said, “Do I need to ask what you will christen her?”
“No, young Captain, you do not.”
There was soon to be a quick little racing yacht named Mercedes dashing among the stars.
Jose Maria’s wife Mercedes had been a xenobotanist. She had gone to the Deep End with Romans several years ago on a secret terraforming project beyond U.S. settled space.
Everything about the planet was perfect for terraforming when the Roman explorers found it—its irradiation, its gravitation, its revolution, its rotation, its tilt, its orbital eccentricity, the pressure and composition of its atmosphere, its soil, its water, its sun. It was perfect. Better than perfect—because, despite its ideal conditions, there was no native life to compete with Roman imports.
Soon there was a balanced, thriving ecosystem on the distant colonial world. The Romans named the planet Telecore. Mercedes Cordillera started homeward on board the Roman ship Sulla.
Sulla never arrived.
For a long time no one would speak of Sulla’s existence. Voices dropped to a hush at mention of the name. No one would talk to Jose Maria.
With nearly limitless financial resources. Jose Maria set himself on a quest to find his wife. His quest brought him to Merrimack.
Jose Maria’
s home was the unified nation-world of Terra Rica. Terra Rica was neutral in the U.S./Roman conflict. Jose Maria had come on board Merrimack as a sword master. The sword was not a recognized weapon of war at the time, so Captain Farragut did not call Jose Maria an arms instructor. A semantic cheat, but it got the Terra Rican neutral on board a United States space battleship without breaking his neutrality.
In their journey to the far reaches of the Deep End of the galaxy Merrimack uncovered a terrible secret.
There really were monsters at the edge of the map.
It turned out that the crew and passengers of Sulla were the first human victims of the Hive. The planet Telecore was close behind.
Someone might have wondered why a planet perfect for life had none. Rome had only found Telecore devoid of all life because the Hive had already been there once, eaten it clean, and moved on. And came back.
The Hive ate the terraformed world clean one more time.
The Hive was ancient, resilient, a veteran of countless attempts to destroy it. Swarms could outmaneuver, overpower, and turn high-tech weaponry on its owners. Yet despite all the Hive’s collective adaptations and tricks, the individual members could still be cut with a sharp edge. A ship equipped with swords was the first to survive an encounter with the Hive.
Jose Maria had assisted in destroying the original enemy, but failed in his quest to bring his wife home. He knew Mercedes was dead. He would have liked to lay her to rest on Terra Rica.
Sulla had never been found.
Jose Maria was going home alone.
“I must give you something of mine,” Jose Maria told John Farragut. “There may not be time later. I gave Augustus my guitar.”
Well, Augustus had taken it.
Jose Maria gave John Farragut his Spanish sword.
The elegant sword, its elaborate hilt fashioned like El Cid’s colada, bore nicks and scratches of honorable service. The cord that kept it in hand through many battles was frayed. “Hell of a gift,” said Farragut, profoundly moved. “Thank you.”
He asked Jose Maria if he was going home now to Terra Rica.
“Earth first,” said Jose Maria. “I have an audience with the Pope.”