by R. M. Meluch
“What’d that cost you?”
Eyelids lowered, brows went up. “You are channeling Augustus, young Captain,” Jose Maria scolded gently. “That was unkind.”
“That was unforgivably rude,” said Farragut, surprised that the words even came out of him. “Forgivable.” Jose Maria made the sign of the cross over him. “Te absolvo.”
Jose Maria’s standing as philanthropist and as a Catholic would make him welcome at the Vatican, seat of the archaic Earth religion which had long since parted ways with the Roman Empire.
“We’ll need to delouse you and all your things before we get to Fort Ike,” said Farragut.
The crew had come to referring to nanites as lice.
Neither the term nor the requirement surprised Jose Maria. He was aware of all the sanitization happening around him. Farragut promised him, “I’ll have the crew repack your crates when they’re done,”
Jose Maria demurred, “Young Captain, I have a set of personal nano-machines I should very much like to preserve.”
“I’ll get you a capsule. We can tow your nanites outboard with the oxygen bricks. You’ll need to park them outside the Fort and pick them up on your way out.”
“That will suffice. Thank you for accommodating me.”
“Are you taking the Shotgun home or are you and Mercedes touring the galaxy?”
“I have not decided,” he said, thoughtful.
The Shotgun could displace Jose Maria and Mercedes across the two thousand parsecs that separated Fort Dwight David Eisenhower from Fort Theodore Roosevelt in an instant. A ship existed in the Fort Ike terminus of the Shotgun one moment, and then in the Fort Ted terminus the next. Never in between.
From Fort Ted, Earth was only eighty-two light-years away. Terra Rica was not much farther but in a different direction.
A hefty tariff accompanied nonmilitary use of the Shotgun. That would not be an issue for Jose Maria if he decided to use the Shotgun.
The alternative to the Shotgun was a three-month voyage across the Abyss—the lightly starred space between galactic arms. Maybe less than three months if Jose Maria tried to set a record in his new Star Racer.
“Fort Ike and Fort Ted are both military targets,” John Farragut advised Jose Maria. “Unless the Pope is drumming his fingers, I’d take the long way home. The farther you stay from us, the safer you will be.”
“Perhaps then I should pick up a guitar in Fort Eisenhower,” said Jose Maria, contemplating the long journey across empty space. “One way or the other, I shall see you on the other side.” Jose Maria drew Farragut in for a hug and a kiss on both cheeks, and one more on his forehead, as he would one of his sons. “Vaya con Dios, young Captain.”
The ship was nearly cleansed and most of the new communications links established, when the com tech reported, “Captain, I’ve got a hail on our old res harmonic.”
Specialists on the command deck tensed at their stations. This far into the protocol, no one should be using the old harmonics. Anyone using an old harmonic had to be hostile, no matter what kind of excuse they tried to give. Captain Farragut moved over to the com station. “Who is it claiming to be?”
“Numa Pompeii in Gladiator.”
“Well, he better not have the new harmonic,” said Farragut.
Farragut relaxed, but only a degree. Numa was a devil he knew. Made sense for Numa to be on the Attack Group’s old harmonic. Did not make sense that a Roman general would be contacting Merrimack during a state of war.
Captain Farragut motioned the com tech to put the call on speaker, and he said into the com, “Numa. Maybe I can help you find your way into the nearest black hole. Where are you?”
“Not far from you.”
Farragut reared back from the com, motioning the com tech to mute it.
Not good. Not good.
Farragut ordered Targeting: “Find him.” And to Gypsy, “Are we tight?” He meant the ship’s force field.
“We’re tight, sir,” Commander Dent affirmed. The ship’s condition watch had been elevated ever since the declaration, just for this sort of surprise.
Lately an ally, Numa knew where the Mack was headed when they parted ways. Merrimack hadn’t moved from that known destination.
Numa’s Gladiator was like a hippopotamus submerged in the muddy river water. Hidden. Deadly. Powerful. Territorial.
“Should I move us?” Gypsy suggested.
“Stand by. Just because he says he’s here doesn’t necessarily mean he’s here.” Farragut motioned the com back on. “State your intentions, Numa.”
Farragut had expected Numa to be long gone. He would be, if his destination really was Near Space. And if he was not headed for Near Space, what the hell was he doing? “Permission to approach,” Numa Pompeii requested, his voice a rumble as from the volcano.
“You’ve got my permission to proceed to the Elysian Fields, Numa. Tell me where you are.” Farragut muted the com and barked aside at Targeting, “Do we have him?”
“No, sir. Trying, sir.” The needle was fat but the haystack was vast. Targeting muttered into his instruments. “Wish I were a gorgon right now so I could home in on the source of a res pulse.”
“We have gorgons right downstairs,” Gypsy said. “Are any of them pointing somewhere besides at us?” Horrified that he hadn’t thought of it, Targeting hastened to check out the idea.
Gypsy then suggested very low to Tactical, who was not helping in the hunt, “Do you know that Mister Vincent would really like to come back on days?”
Tactical could pick up a hint when it exploded on his bow. Murmured back, “Aye, sir.” And set to helping Targeting find Gladiator.
Gypsy moved to the captain, where he stood glaring at the com, waiting for Numa’s response. Again, she spoke very low. “I don’t believe the Roman, sir. He wouldn’t still be here. He’s got a three-month journey home.”
Numa’s voice sounded from the com, “I would like to come over under a white flag.” Farragut felt his own eyes go wide. Heard Gypsy whisper, “Bullskat.”
Numa Pompeii had not been Caesar Magnus’ man.
He was even less Caesar Romulus’ man.
Numa Pompeii had not been on Palatine for the Senate vote that elected the new Caesar. Worse, Numa had not been there to make his own bid for the job. Maybe Augustus wasn’t the only rogue Roman out there.
Making sure the mute was still on, Farragut told Targeting and Tactical, “Bring your search in tight, boys. He’s real close.”
Gypsy said, still in a whisper, “He’s playing us, sir.”
Farragut nodded. Numa might betray the current Roman leadership, but he would never betray Rome. He had friends.
Numa Pompeii was an enormously influential man.
And an enormous man. Built like a small mountain, Numa Pompeii moved with surprising speed and agility for his mass and age. He was nearly fifty Earth years old, though doubtless getting muscle rejuvenations for a decade or more.
Farragut nodded for the com tech to take the com off mute. “Are you seeking amnesty, Numa?”
“No,” said Numa Pompeii. “A truce. I want to talk.”
“You are not coming aboard,” Farragut declared. He had already cleared Mack of nanites. The last thing he needed was a wily-—possibly infested—Roman general on board.
“You would come aboard Gladiator?” Numa said, incredulous.
“Are you nuts?” Farragut said back. Numa knew Americanese well enough to understand that. “I’ll meet you outside. Park the gunboat—and keep it parked. Approach in a small craft to coordinates we send you, then you step outside. If I get sight of your gunship, I start shooting. If Gladiator moves, I start shooting.” He clicked off. “Send him coordinates. Someplace close to nowhere. We’ll see if he shows.”
Gypsy asked, “Do you trust him, sir?”
“ ‘Bout as far as a Planck length,” said Farragut.
Gypsy’s graceful brows twisted into dubious lines. “That far?”
Insects on shipboard went silent
as Merrimack left Telecore’s orbit. Insects were standard issue on Navy ships in the Deep End. Their sensitivity to Hive presence made them invaluable. Also made them annoying.
The insects had been a nuisance as long as Merrimack orbited Telecore, sounding over and over again what everyone already knew, the Hive was here, the Hive was here.
The insects had been banished to the lab to heckle the xenos.
With the return to insect peace, tiny cricket cages were brought back to the command deck of Merrimack to resume their function as early warnings.
Merrimack headed out to a place near nowhere.
Numa Pompeii made the rendezvous in a light courier type vessel, all lit up, no armament hanging off it, white flags stiff in the windless nothing of space.
Tactical was able to back trace the location of Gladiator to a point two light-years out. “Keep a bead on him,” said Farragut. “If Gladiator moves from that position, shoot Numa.”
At the appointed galactic coordinates, a large space-suited figure emerged from the Roman courier and floated into the deepest of oceans.
Farragut suited up. Drifted out an air lock.
Space was raw, absolute, stark, beautiful, merciless.
Farragut got a little lost gazing at the overwhelming vastness. Finally he engaged the small jets that propelled him to rendezvous with the other microbe out here in this eternal sea. They braked in front of each other and clasped gloved hands.
The meeting of unequal masses set them on a slight drift, backward for Farragut. They grasped each other’s sleeves and touched helmets.
Sound conducted through their faceplates.
“Ave,” said Numa. His voice reverberated in Farragut’s helmet.
“Hey,” said Farragut, an Appalachian hello. Farragut was American blueblood, but he tended to speak like just folks.
They were face to face. So close that Farragut could see very little other than Numa’s face, but not so close that Numa would have three eyes.
Numa’s face was unretouched and not good-looking. A face like an assembly of stones. Numa had wealth, power, a big personality, and energy second only to Farragut’s, so you didn’t notice the homeliness of the face unless you were inches from it.
“I can’t see Romulus authorizing this meeting,” said Farragut. “You’re not doing anything treasonous, are you?”
“Not yet,” said Numa.
Farragut guessed: “You haven’t pledged to Romulus.”
“I have the luxury of time.”
Kissing Romulus’ ring would have to wait until Numa achieved Near Space. That would not be happening for at least three months.
So Numa Pompeii, the General, the Senator, the Triumphalis, had a three-month window in which to decide a loyalty, or to figure out what kind of base of power he might organize.
Numa Pompeii was one of only three Romans other than Romulus who knew that the Roman Senate’s vote for Romulus to the position of Caesar had been based on an incomplete last testament of Caesar Magnus.
Romulus had unsealed his father’s testament only after he received word—from Numa Pompeii—that the patterner who sealed Magnus’ testament was dead.
The patterner was not dead. Perhaps Numa wanted to get back to Near Space before he could be expected.
“You’re not getting near the Shotgun, if that’s what this is about,” Farragut told Numa up front.
“No. I do not want passage through your Shotgun. It would not look good to accept favors from Americans.”
“So what favor can I do for you?”
“I need to talk to Gaius.”
The other man who knew that Romulus falsified Caesar’s testament was Gaius Bruccius Eleutherius Americanus—the man whom Magnus actually named as his successor in his true testament.
Gaius Americanus was currently at the U.S. Space Fort Eisenhower in the Deep End.
The reported death of the testament’s witness, Augustus, crippled any claim to power Gaius could make that Magnus chose him.
Gaius Americanus did not know that Augustus lived.
And Numa could not tell him. With all the U.S. com channels changed, Numa could not contact Gaius in Fort Eisenhower.
“Gaius Americanus is safe in Fort Eisenhower,” said Farragut. “The Senator does not live to be safe,” said Numa. “He lives for Rome. As do I.”
“Caesar is not Rome?”
“Depends on whether Caesar is actually Caesar.”
“Are y’all proposing to set up a government in exile at Fort Ike?”
“A Roman government within a U.S. fortress? That will not fly. If Gaius wants to do anything for Rome—the true Rome—he will need to come out of that fortress.”
The suggestion set Farragut on guard. He was accustomed to taking men at their word, but Numa Pompeii was an opportunist.
Until Numa declared a loyalty, God knew where he stood. And God might oughta better check his sources at that.
Farragut spoke, suspicious, “Last time I looked, you and Gaius Americanus were not the best of buds.”
“We never had so much in common before.”
The commonality would be the knowledge that Caesar Romulus was a patricidal fraud. That was a tie that could bind political adversaries. “Tell him I want to talk to him,” said Numa. “Let Gaius decide if he wants to talk to me.”
“I will give him the message,” said Farragut.
“And I want the patterner.”
Farragut did not have the patterner to give. Apparently Augustus had not bothered to contact Numa upon parting company with Merrimack. Not to give anything away, Farragut sidestepped truthfully, “I won’t hand him over.”
“You can’t hold him,” Numa said.
You got that right, Farragut thought. He was not a good liar, so he said nothing. “Let me talk to him,” Numa pressed. Farragut did not address the demand. Let Numa continue thinking that the U.S. had custody and control of the patterner. Captain Farragut did not come out here to give information to Romans. He took the offensive, “Do you have capability to home in on the origination point of a res pulse?”
“Would I tell you?” Numa parried.
The answer was obvious: No.
Farragut said, “I’ll let Gaius know you want to see him.”
“I need a little more than that. Captain Farragut,” said Numa. “If Gaius says yes to the meeting, he will need a way out here.”
Farragut agreed to deliver the invitation to Gaius and to arrange transportation for Gaius if he consented to leave Fort Eisenhower.
“Choose someone of unquestionable reliability,” said Numa. “I came to you because you are honorable, Captain John Farragut. Most Americans are rabid Roman haters. I do know the American definition of a good Roman. How can I be certain that the transportation you provide won’t seize at a chance to turn Gaius into a good Roman even under a white flag?”
“I have just the man for the job,” Farragut assured him. “She doesn’t hate Romans. She only hates you.”
THE OUTER DARKNESS DIALOGS
(Being a series of conversations among Jose Maria de Cordillera, Augustus, and John Farragut on board the flagship of Attack Group One en route to Sagittarius Zero)
A.D. 2445
The dialogs. I.
A: The Hive is entropy incarnate. Entropy is a fundamental condition of the universe.
JF: Well, entropy is an enemy of the United States, so it is my sworn duty to combat entropy.
A: Leave it to John Farragut to simplify the matter down to a one-brain-cell level. Fact is the universe is falling into disarray. The Hive just accelerates it. The universe’s ultimate perfect form is destined to be a vast spread of attenuated atoms quivering in the eternal night forever and ever amen. So what is any of it for? Life is a cosmic waste of consciousness.
JMdeC: Stated that way, yes, it would be.
A: The Catholic speaks. Catholic arguments don’t count, Don Cordillera. When logic fails, you can’t just resort to magic.
5
; JOHN FARRAGUT, YOU KNOW Numa I Pompeii is my least favorite sapient being in the known galaxy.”
“I know that, Cal.”
Calli Carmel, captain of the wolfhunter class spaceship Wolfhound, received the secure message from Captain Farragut on one of the new channels.
She could not believe what he told her. Captain John Farragut expected her to ask her adored former teacher Gaius Americanus to come out of the safety of Fort Ike to meet with the man she called Numa Pompous Ass.
“Do you trust him?” Calli asked, all but crawling into the com, as if she could take hold of him and shake some sense into him.
“Glory, no! I’m just delivering the message. It’s not an endorsement. Though an insurgency against Romulus’ rule would not be a bad thing.”
“If that’s really what this is about.” Calli smelled something else.
“It’s not your decision, Cal. Deliver the message to Gaius Americanus.” The flatness in his voice said he was pulling seniority on her. Do it, Cal.
She could probably appeal to Admiral Mishindi, but Mishindi would tell her to follow Farragut on this one. This was the Deep End and it was war. Challenging John Farragut just to keep her favorite Roman safe would be an extraordinarily bad idea.
“It’s Gaius’ decision,” said Farragut. “If Gaius decides to come out of hiding to meet with Numa, give him safe passage out of the Fort and give them a meeting space.”
Calli could not argue with that. Hated it. “Can I bug the space?”
“I’d be real disappointed if you didn’t.”
Captain Calli Carmel was a minor celebrity. Most of her fame was not for her heroism in battle, though she had planned and executed a couple of high impact missions, both as executive officer of the Merrimack and later as captain of her own ship, Wolfhound.
But what Calli Carmel was known for was her beauty. A stupid thing to be known for by her own reckoning. Anyone could look like anything these days. Calli had the indefinable something else that pushed her above and beyond physical beauty. Didn’t make it any less stupid.
Calli Carmel had gained notoriety across the settled part of the galaxy when she attended a public ceremony on the arm of Romulus not-yet-Caesar. That ceremony saw the assassination of Romulus’ father, Caesar Magnus. So the image of Calli at Romulus’ side was witnessed over and over on interstellar media. Ever since then, the media called her Empress Calli.