by R. M. Meluch
Farragut could not argue. What else could make a man so thoroughly misplace his brain? There was someone out there whom Urbicus had no business loving.
After both Caesar and the assassin were dead, Imperial Investigators recovering the assassin’s purged data files had found too too many pictures of a girl. A sloe-eyed bambi with long coltish legs. She was flat-chested and slender as a reed. But she was clothed in all the pictures.
It was obsession at a distance. Julius Urbicus had never actually crossed the last line with her. The girl did not even know him. Urbicus had a collection of images of her in the gymnasium, in the pool, at picnics, laying flowers in a temple, dancing in a school play, riding in a transport, sleeping in the sun.
“Think of Hadrian and Antinous,” said Calli.
Gypsy blinked away that image. “I’d rather not.”
“I have a sister her age,” said Farragut.
Calli said, “Would you rather be known as Caesar’s assassin or a pedophile?”
“Caesar’s assassin,” Farragut and Gypsy spoke as one. Then Farragut alone, “But Urbicus never touched that girl. He was just creepy, not criminal. How could Romulus get him to kill his friend Caesar Magnus and die over a secret like that?”
“Someone promised to cut up Pretty Girl if he didn’t kill Caesar,” Gypsy guessed. “That’s why Urbicus couldn’t take it to Imperial Intelligence. The double I’s would have killed her themselves to remove the lever.”
“Well, whoever was making the actual threats, it wasn’t Romulus,” said Calli. “Not directly. Romulus had no contact with Urbicus in the months before the assassination. Romulus’ enemies checked that.”
“Hell, I wouldn’t want contact with him either,” said Farragut.
“The capita always distances himself from the crime,” said Gypsy. “He gets someone else to tell someone else to walk and talk for him.”
“So Romulus would have had someone he trusted threaten Urbicus,” said Farragut, then echoed himself, “Someone Romulus trusted. That narrows it way down. Cal?”
A very odd look had fallen across Calli’s new face.
She said, “That narrows it down to one.”
“Rom?”
That was her innocent, wheedling voice. She wanted something. Romulus responded, “Hm?” She came into the study barefoot, her dress a jewel-
colored assembly of strategically tied scarves. Maybe there had been seven at one time, but now there were five.
“Who programmed that raunchy redhead in the Caligula room?” She flounced down to sit at his feet in a billow of silk where he sat at his reading desk.
“I don’t know,” said Romulus, eyes on his documents. “I have not seen her recently.”
“I deleted her.”
“That explains why I haven’t seen her.”
“She was rude to me.”
Romulus made a small noise like a partial laugh. “She’s just a bunch of code.”
“Not any more.” Romulus’ brows lifted. “I suppose you showed her.”
“Well that is the point—I haven’t.” She stood up, came round to the front of his desk, braced her palms on the edge of it and leaned over so he had to look at her. “Whoever programmed her wants a lesson in respect.”
“I shall talk to the programmers.” He sat back, stretched out his legs. Looked up at his sister. “I don’t want to rein them in too hard. There really have been some fun surprises in that room.”
Claudia made a small moue. She had to allow that.
She circled behind him, looped her arms round his neck, lay her cheek on his hair. “You are distracted.”
“I am.” He put his hand over her hands on his chest. “Is it the re-vote?”
“No. That is behind us now. It’s Augustus. I commanded him dead, and he is not dead.”
“He is Flavian. Make the Flavians turn him in,” said Claudia. “Start executing their children until you have the rogue Flavian in custody or dead.”
Romulus patted her hands. “Efficient, Claudia. But not in our best interest.”
“You are irrevocably Caesar now. Do what you want. Marry me. I want to be Empress.”
“We can’t.”
“Why? The prohibition is prehistoric. There is no danger of idiot offspring anymore. As if you and I would leave the construction of our sons and daughters to chance. We would get the best of both of us. Not that we have a single idiot gene between us.”
“Oh, we do,” said Romulus with an unhappy chuckle. “Don’t fool yourself, dear. Look who sired us.” He had her there. She gave a hmmm. “Well then, eliminate those genes for certain. Marry me.”
“Claudia, you know appearances matter.” He reached up to touch her beautiful face. “It would not be popular.”
“You are extraordinarily popular.”
“Crowds are fickle.”
“It is what I want. No one is more devoted. Who better to be at your side?”
It was true. There was no one more constant. No one he could trust. He held her perfumed hands. “It will happen. But not just now.”
“When?” she demanded.
“When I am sitting on the Papal throne in the Vatican in old Rome, and America is annexed into the Empire, and I am giving my address Urbi et Orbi et Cosmi. Then the People and the Senate will deny us nothing.”
15
WITH ROMULUS FIRMLY reestablished at the helm of the Roman Empire, Roman missiles resumed their attacks on the Continental United States.
So did Roman drone fighters.
Both weapons were renewable and persistent as gorgons. Unlike gorgons, the drone fighters numbered only in the dozens at any one time. The drone fighters were adaptable, elusive, almost creative. Sometimes they acted in concerted packs. Other times not. Their behavior evidenced programming far more advanced than anything the United States had ever developed. Naval Intelligence badly wanted a drone fighter’s central processing unit for analysis.
“Catch it! Catch it! Catch it!” Carly Delgado cried over the com. “There’s money in it! I got your topside, Twitch, just catch it!”
The rest of the Alphas kept the other drones off Twitch’s back as he drove his Swift down on a drone he had cut out of a pack.
He rode it all the way down and mashed it into the ground, pinning it under his belly shield. He had the stoutest part of his force field down there, trusting his mates with his ceiling.
He and the drone were still intact, on the ground, in the middle of a cornfield. The fight had started in Kansas. Coordinates said Twitch was in Nebraska now. The drone struggled to get out from under his Swift. Twitch kept it pinned.
The drone blew up under him.
Fluent Anglo-Saxon from Twitch.
“What’d you do?” Ranza sent.
“Catched it,” said Twitch.
Drone fighters always scuttled themselves when crippled. That was why there was money in a capture. Thwarted, frustrated, Alpha Flight raced to the roof to let off heat and much foul language.
Twitch, who had cooked something in his undercarriage, returned to Merrimack. Alpha Flight returned to atmo without him.
There was a lot of yelling on the com from Echo Flight. Roman drones had ganged up on the new guy in Echo, who was screaming.
Kerry Blue would have screamed too. It was a horrible sight. A mob of Roman drone fighters hit Echo Six and hit him again, shooting, ramming, bouncing. They could have killed him by now, but it looked like they were saving that part.
Kerry loosed her guns. Nailed one drone. “Hoo ra!” Turned wide.
Roman drone fighters were built for maneuvers in atmo. Swifts were not. Kerry’s kill hadn’t turned any of the rest of them from their game of beating up Echo Six.
Cain and Delta Four disintegrated another drone. Both pilots claimed,”Mine!” Steele was ordering Echo to the roof before they burned up. Echo Six, the new guy, tried to climb with his Flight. The drones slammed him down and down.
Too many drones, too close to Echo Six.
; Echo Six went down in a stream of smoke.
Immediately a U.S. evac rig rose from the ground. It was necessary to remove the crippled Swift out to vacuum in case its magnetic antimatter chamber lost integrity. If the drones meant to cause havoc, they should have gone after the evac rig next. They didn’t. The drone that had killed Echo Six was busy turning a victory roll.
After a quick cool-off, the surviving Echoes returned from the vacuum in a pack and erased the gloating killer drone from the sky. No slamming, no games. They just executed him. All of them could claim that kill.
The surviving Roman drones scattered. They bounced up and down in the air. Looked like they were laughing.
Alphas and Deltas chased and killed them all.
And a fresh round of drones entered atmosphere, while the Marine Swifts had to head topside again. The new drones prowled for ground targets. TR Steele ordered the entire Wing back to Merrimack. His dogs howled loud protests but all obeyed. Locked down on the hangar deck, the Swifts slammed their canopies back.
Hot, angry Marines climbed out of their Swifts.
No one angrier than Colonel Steele.
“Sir!” the Marines appealed to him, like pet dogs looking to their master, as if he could make it stop raining. Steele’s jaw was set, blue eyes ice hard. A helmet rocketed across the hangar, bashed into the bulk. Steele’s.
He stalked out of the hangar.
The bullmastiffs settled a little. Good to see the Old Man angry. TR Steele was going to make it stop raining.
Captain Farragut heard Colonel Steele coming before he saw him. Met him outside the command deck and redirected him to the briefing room. Asked Commander Dent to join them. Hailed the IO, Colonel Z, on his com and requested his presence as well.
Gypsy Dent arranged for recordings of the drone encounter to be piped to the briefing room.
The officers watched the debacle play back.
“This is whaleskat,” Farragut told the Intelligence officer. “Steele’s dogs don’t need to catch one of those things to know what’s driving them!” The spontaneity. The end-zone gloat. The gang mentality. The victory roll.
“Those aren’t machines driving,” said Steele.
The Intelligence officer, Colonel Z, agreed. “The behavior argues against an onboard artificial intelligence. We’re still certain that the missiles are automatons, but the drone fighters do appear too smart. They apparently have remote human drivers using a resonant signal.” Virtual jockeys. V-jocks, they were called on Merrimack.
Naval Intelligence had insisted all along that the Romans were using sophisticated onboard computers.
“How could anyone ever think these were artificial intelligences?” said Farragut throwing an arm wide across the deadly playful images. “Computer brains cost, and Rome spends these things like trash. They’re not afraid of dying. And they’re snotty.”
Steele was incensed. V-jocks brought to mind an image of someone lounging in a comfortable chair, his feet up, drink and snacks at his elbow, playing games.
They had played games with Echo Six.
“They laughed. They laughed!” Steele roared, red in the face. The playback had come to the bouncing drones. “Could be interpreted that way,” said Colonel Z, studying the image.
“We’ll never defeat them like this,” said Farragut. “Steele’s dogs kill a drone, a new one comes down from the carrier, and the pilot is right back in it.”
“Kill the pilots,” said Colonel Steele. “The pilots could be anywhere,” said the IO, like the last word in an argument.
“They could be anywhere, but they’re not,” said Farragut. He was not going to be stonewalled. “They are somewhere. Some places are more likely than others. I wouldn’t look for zebras in the wardroom—I’d look in a zoo. And zoos are in major population areas. Narrow it down! Where would you put V-pilots?”
“We have V-jocks here on Merrimack,” said Colonel Z. “The Roman V-jocks could be on a ship as well. Which means they could be, I beg your pardon, anywhere.”
“Our V-jocks are on board to give options to this mobile battle platform. Why would the Roman V-jocks be on a ship for an invasion of Earth? Earth isn’t going anywhere! A shipboard base gives them no advantage and it makes them vulnerable. If I were a Roman commander, I would keep my remote pilots on the ground and shielded.”
“And scattered for greater security,” said Colonel Z. “Which means they could be in Asia for all we know.”
Asia was the popular term for the Perseus Arm of the galaxy, in the opposite direction from the Deep End and just as far away.
Farragut blinked. “You think they’re in Asia?”
“There is no solid reason to think the remote pilots are precisely there,” said Colonel Z. “My point is the search area is inconceivably vast. The V-pilots could be separated by light-years. We’ll never ferret them out. We don’t know that they’re all in one place.”
“But we do,” said Gypsy.
She had been watching the recordings, still playing on the monitor. She pointed. “Can you stop that and replay that last segment?”
The recording was set back. Farragut, Steele, Colonel Z, and Gypsy Dent watched a drone on an attack run. The drone fighter inexplicably lost concentration, jinked, and shot wide of anything like a target. Another drone suffered the same malfunction immediately afterward. Then the first drone shot at the second drone.
The IO was mystified. “What could cause that kind of malfunction?”
Gypsy kept her eyes on the playback. “I know exactly what’s causing that.” And she asked that the officers move the discussion into Merrimack’s own remote pilot center. She commanded one of Merrimack’s V-jocks to join them there.
Merrimack’s remote control center was a small bullpen with a half dozen stations.
Steele stood against the wall, muscular arms crossed in front of his wide chest. V-jocks. Steele didn’t like ‘em. Marines called them gamers. And the word was not used kindly when spoken by a Marine.
Gypsy cranked up the simulator and loaded a ground strike program.
Commander Gypsy Dent took a seat at a console next to the gangly V-jock everyone called Wraith. Gypsy put on a V-helmet and told Wraith, “Take an attack run with me. Race you to first kill.”
“You’re on, sir.”
Wraith was an expert. He immediately located a target in the simulation, moved into position, and was locking in for the kill.
Gypsy—the person, not the remote craft—physically reached over from her station and shoved Wraith. Wraith’s simulated craft jinked and his shot went wild.
“Hey!” Wraith cried, and, in instant retaliation, he shoved her back and took a virtual shot at her craft. Wraith and Gypsy took off their V-helmets and looked up at their audience. Farragut said: “All the remote pilots are in the same room.” Commander Gypsy Dent turned to Wraith. “Push me again, I’ll pull your ears off, soldier.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And don’t you ma’am me. I’m not your mama.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thank you for your help, soldier,” said Gypsy.
Farragut was absorbing the import. Could the Roman pilots be in the same room, reaching over and shoving each other? Sniping at each other? “It sure fits,” said Farragut. “But I just always pictured a lot more discipline from Rome.”
“They’re kids,” said Gypsy. She had two of them. “Not necessarily, sir,” said Wraith, ducking his head between his bony shoulders, sheepish.
The IO added, “I seem to recall Merrimack once had a casualty in its own Marine Wing, a Swift flying backward into an explosive, I believe? And another pilot tunneled a Swift twenty feet into a planet?”
“Yes, we did,” Steele said tightly. That second one had been Kerry Blue. His Kerry Blue. “Our Fleet Marines are a boisterous group,” said John Farragut. “So the Roman V-jocks aren’t as disciplined as the Legions. Where does that get us?” said Z. “It gets us looking for one concentrated installation,” said Farragut
. “Possibly a bunker.”
“Which could still be anywhere in the galaxy,” Z repeated wearily. Gypsy shook her head. “They’re kids and they’re close to home.”
“All Roman soldiers are young these days, Commander Dent,” said Colonel Z. “Children are mass produced and mass schooled.”
“They don’t mass teach remote piloting,” said Gypsy. “It’s not regarded as real warfare. It’s useful, but there’s no honor in it. A remote is the weapon of a coward.”
“Or of someone you want to keep safe,” Farragut boarded Gypsy’s train of thought.
“Remote work would be choice duty for a child who actually has parents instead of genetic donors,” said Gypsy. “The parents could keep their child safe and still have him serve the Empire. I would look on Palatine for their bullpen. Maybe Thaleia. In fact, look at Thaleia first. Putting the pilots on Thaleia would keep the whole project together. Thaleia’s population is all engineers. What’s an engineer’s child going to do in wartime?”
Tire IO allowed, “Thaleia has a small population. That does make for a search with small enough parameters to be reasonable. If we come up empty, then we haven’t squandered a lot of time and resources on this goose chase.”
“Do it,” said Captain Farragut.
Colonel Z set his intelligence analysis programs to sift through Department of Defense surveillance recordings of the planet Thaleia. He was looking for traffic patterns, materials movements, and energy emanations from underground.
Colonel Z located a likely site, within a military base, underground, with high security. Traffic surveillance recorded adults arriving with a child and departing the site without the child.
Farragut had Z go back to look at surveillance from the time of the bunker’s construction. The foundation gave a picture of its layout. It was the. sort of place the spooks called a Land Sub—a self-contained twenty-four-hour operation with dormitory, dining, and operations facilities like a submarine, except that this facility was subterranean. Colonel Z estimated one hundred and eighty personnel inside.
Armed with enough certainty, Farragut took the proposal to Admiral Mishindi. “I don’t need to tell you, John, that anything on Thaleia is. a hard target,” Mishindi warned.