by R. M. Meluch
Swinging hard at a fast-moving target with a comrade close by had been good training for using swords to cut down gorgons.
Gypsy missed a return, and the hard little ball hit her in the thigh. Hard. “Gorgon bite!” she cried, limping off the pain. She growled at herself. “Out of practice.”
“As are we all,” said Farragut, lining up a serve.
Gypsy spun her racquet in her hand and crouched ready for another volley. Farragut served. Gypsy returned. “Are we—uh!—getting any updates—uh!—on the new Hives? Ha! My serve.”
“If there are any reports, I’m not getting them.” Farragut tossed the traitorous ball to her and crouched ready for the serve.
“t/fc/Ace!”
Farragut retrieved the ball and tossed it back to her again. “I really don’t think anyone is compiling reports on the Hive.”
Gypsy frowned. Her frowns were frightening. “Do they think if they pull the sheets up over their heads, the gorgons can’t bite them?”
“I guess.” A mighty return. “Cowabunga!” The little ball thudded at Gypsy’s feet. She scowled at the captain. “What kind of word is that?”
“No idea.” He,tossed his racquet up and caught it by the grip. “We don’t have any shortage of Thaleian supply ships trying to run the blockade,” said Gypsy. And some of them were succeeding. It was a high-risk run, but if the ship was coming from Thaleia, odds were high that it was unmanned, so anything on board was replaceable.
“If the Thaleians can send supplies off world that means the Hive presence on Thaleia hasn’t gotten critical.”
“Yet,” said Farragut.
“Any updates on Toto Two?”
Last she heard the decoy drone flock dubbed “Toto Two” had been leading the gorgons of Telecore away from Fort Eisenhower.
“Gorgons are still chasing.” Farragut slammed a shot off the rear wall. It sailed to the front wall where Gypsy crowded it back into the front wall. Scored.
“But,” said Farragut.
“With Weng and Ski, there’s always a but,” said Gypsy.
“Always. And Weng and Ski tell me they have evidence from a monitor on the planet that other gorgons have lifted off the surface of Telecore and those headed off in the opposite direction.”
“Toward Fort Ike.”
“Toward Fort Ike.”
Gypsy lost her serve.
“Can Weng and Ski confirm that?”
“Nope.” Farragut aced his serve with a mighty blow. “The gorgons ate the monitor.”
Gorgons from Telecore would be several years getting to Fort Eisenhower. But years had a way of evaporating in time of war. Farragut would rather do something about the gorgons some time before they were eating through his hull and chewing on his boots.
No one was ready for another battle with the Hive. And, if these had been swords instead of squash racquets right now, Gypsy woulda just cut his arm off.
“Romulus has announced he will be holding games in the Coliseum,” Mr. Hicks reported from the com station.
Farragut gave his head a small shake. Not sure what made that remarkable. “That’s what the Coliseum was built for.”
“I mean with gladiators, sir. Fighting to the death.”
“You have got to be shagging me.”
“How can Romulus announce anything?” the systems tech asked. “I thought the Marines took out Palatine’s relay station.”
“That was the resonant receiver station,” said Hicks. “That took out their reception of galactic surveillance. The local network is fine and Romulus can still send his pronouncements out on the capital harmonic.”
“And he’s going to hold games,” said Captain Farragut. “Glad to see he has his priorities in order.”
Lieutenant Glenn Hamilton, looking over Tactical’s shoulder, not terribly sure of herself, said, “Captain, we have trade.”
Farragut turned to Ian Markham at Tactical, brows very high and questioning why Tactical had said nothing.
“It’s Wolfhound!” said Markham, hands up, defensive.
“Moving sublight,” said Hamster watching the plot. “Approaching the planet. Lots of Romans around and no one’s shooting at her.”
“She’s giving all the recognition signals,” said Tactical, his face growing hot. Wanted to say he didn’t need the captain’s girlfriend looking over his shoulder. Hamster should stick to the mid watch.
Farragut looked to Gypsy. “Did you know Cal was coming?”
Gypsy shook her head, as surprised as anyone. “No, sir.”
Mr. Hicks had Wolfhound’s harmonic on the resonator before the captain could demand it. “Calli, where are you?” Farragut sent without a preface of any sort.
There would be a moment while the Wolfhound’s mystified com tech passed him over to Wolfhound’s captain. Calli answered, “John?” her voice very surprised. Then uneasily, “Do you want to verify yourself?”
“Cal, I’m lookin’ at your ship entering Palatine’s star system.”
“My Wolfhound?”
“Your Wolfhound.”
“Blow it up,” said Calli.
“Roger that. Farragut out. Helm! Get us between Wolfhound and the planet, yesterday!”
“Aye, sir.” Engine sounds crescendoed. “We’re there, sir.”
“Punt.”
Merrimack rammed the Roman backward before the Roman could register Merrimack in the area. Merrimack opened up with beam fire, and sent tags to the false Wolfhound’s stern in prep for torpedoes. Mr. Hicks put his current communication on the speaker. “Captain, this is what’s coming over the fleet channel.”
The voice on the speaker sounded like Calli Carmel’s, requesting assistance, claiming Merrimack was in Roman hands and firing on her ship.
But Admiral Burk was not the old woman who lived in a shoe, and knew for damned certain that Wolfhound was not assigned to his Fleet. Burk opened a tight beam to Merrimack, “Captain Farragut, I assume you confirmed that the ship is not Wolfhound.”
“Yes, sir,” said Farragut, his ship not pausing in its fusillade on the Roman imposter. “I just talked to Cal seconds ago. Looks like the lupes have infiltrated our Fleet channel.”
“Very well. Carry on.”
Lieutenant Colonel TR Steele stood straddling his Silver Horse in the tundra dusted with snow. Windblown ice crystals hit the Silver Horses with a thin tinny clatter. The Marines, the Silver Horses, and their gear were camouflaged black and white as volcanic rock and snow. Curtains of auroras waved in the weird sky that was neither night nor day. TR Steele felt like a ghost.
He had died inside when he received the signal from Flight Leader Ranza Espinoza. Ranza had hit the panic button and there had been no further word after that. No information. It had been sudden whatever it had been.
Kerry Blue was in Ranza’s unit.
Steele’s team had stopped here to check their bearings.
A Marine known as the Yurg stood with his ear pressed to his com, listening to the Fleet channel. Yelled, “Merrimack’s shooting at Wolfhound.” Steele scowled, confused. “Wolfhound is here?”
The Yurg paused. “No. Guess that’s why the Cap’n’s shooting.”
A shower of big red meteors, which may have been the end of the Roman imposter, drew wide fiery streaks across the dark sky. The men grunted some hoo ras.
It was warming to know Merrimack was nearby. “Fleet’s switching over to Channel B,” the Yurg advised.
Steele nodded. Switched his own com over. He looked to Icky Iverson, who had been a damn long time getting a read on their present location.
At long last Icky announced, “We’re here.”
The Marines dismounted their Silver Horses.
Their footsteps made harsh sounds in the brittle air.
The Marines had navigated to a weapons depot. One of the fleet’s big ships had buried supplies here in preparation for the team’s next guerrilla attack.
Steele’s men found the place by global coordinates. There were no physical
markers at all to distinguish it from the surrounding tundra.
Icky found the edges of the lid, which melded perfectly into the landscape. The Yurg pried up the top. Shone a light inside the underground cache.
“Shit!”
“Everything’s gone!”
“Drop that!” Steele yelled, of the cover. “Mount up. Run!”
Marines ran to their Silver Horses, Steele shouting into his com, “Gabriel. Gabriel. This is King Rat. Are you up there? Depot’s been smoked and we’re about to be bounced. Can we get a dust off?”
“King Rat, this is Gabriel. That is affirmative. Keep running. We’ll catch you.”
Marines mounting their Silver Horses. Lifting from the ground. Icky, in the rear, slipped. Landed on his face. Steele turned a circle with his horse. He bellowed at Icky, “Get on!”
Icky got himself up. Took a step. Lost his balance again. The ground was moving.
In the dark sky, out of the moving curtains of red lights, a mammoth spearhead shape descended, growing larger.
Merrimack.
The motion in the ground was all around the Marines.
Suddenly Romans poured out of camouflaged pits, too dark, too many to count. Steele slashed wide with his field knife, sliced one Roman’s throat open. To no effect.
Androids.
You only get one shot with an android. Immediately the knife flew out of Steele’s hand; his cannon and his sidearm lifted away. He lost contact with his saddle. No idea what became of his Silver Horse. His wrists immobilized in a superhuman grip.
Two Silver Horses sped away in icy clouds. And immediately plowed into black nets. Metal screeched against volcanic rock. A swarm of androids crowded around Merrimack’s lowering sail. While, black on black, a low flying sheet of killer bots moved in fast. Merrimack opened up like a dragon, spouting hydrogen fire at the advancing bots.
The androids stormed the sail as Merrimack’s hatch opened. Navy sharpshooters on a platform picked off androids one by one, trying to weed them out from their Marines. The ship could not just scoop up the whole skirmish and spit out the bad ones—a Roman android in captivity tended to go off like a bomb.
Steele struggled. The android held him fast. He could not even wave at the sharpshooters to tell them to nail this thing.
The androids were thick around the sail. If Mack had her Fleet Marines on board, they could fight these things off, Steele thought.
He lost sight of his men in the throng of androids. Merrimack’s force field had solidified. It glittered under the auroras. The hatch to the lower sail was still open.
Steele could see Captain Farragut hanging from a ladder like a pirate in the rigging of an ancient ship, weapon at the ready, searching all round. Steele could not hear him through the force field, but could see his mouth moving, clearly yelling: TR1 TR! As TR Steele fought uselessly against the machines that dragged him. He was pulled down, kept going down. Underground. Lost sight of Farragut. Of Merrimack. Of anything.
From the subterranean blackness he heard the space battleship rising, the searing shriek of outbound fire following after her.
27
FARRAGUT CAME UP THE LADDER from the lower sail like a missile launch. He charged onto the command deck, bellowing: “Tracking! Do we have him? Where is he?”
“I can tell you where we lost them, sir,” said Tracking. “The lupes must have killed all the corns and the tracking units. The colonel’s disappeared from the grid.”
The corns and the tracking units were dead. And what of the Marines wearing them?
Farragut stalked the confines of the crowded deck with a ready fist. Nothing safe to hit, and it was all his equipment anyway. “What was Steele’s next target?”
“Space control relay tower, five clicks from where the lupes grabbed them.”
“Let’s go get it.”
“It’s shielded top to bottom, Captain,” Gypsy advised, only after giving the orders to put Merrimack on course to the target.
Merrimack descended back into Palatine’s atmosphere. Because the ship and her shields were designed to deflect anything she met head on, she plowed sideways into the relay tower.
The enemy shields held, but the tower canted over, its foundations uprooted.
Merrimack rose out of the atmosphere to massing Roman warships, avid as piranha, Gladiator in the thick of them.
The command crew could tell that the captain wanted to get into a street fight with Numa Pompeii. The better part of valor ordered, “Dodge and run. FTL.”
Farragut took some verbal fire from Admiral Burk for freelancing.
“I support the men under my command, sir,” Farragut sent back.
Expected to catch hell for that remark, but no more hell was forthcoming. His next communication was Admiral Burk ordering the Fleet to switch communications to Channel C.
Roma Nova, the second eternal city, lay tranquil, beautiful and impressive in the morning light. Romans loved to impress. The city had been built on the premise that human beings need beauty. Only observe the amount of work and money spent on art and music, and one must recognize the need for beauty as a basic hunger.
Opponents of Caesar expected some backlash at Romulus’ proposal of holding games in Roma Nova. Especially from areas of the planet suffering the effects of the U.S. military strikes.
But the backlash was limited. Places still struggling without power were feeling patriotic and defiant. Let the Americans see Rome unbowed. Households with independent generators invited neighbors and stranded travelers in to watch the games from there.
The Senate and the Roman intelligentsia were appalled at the very idea of gladiatorial contests. Appalled at the public interest in them, at the distraction from things of importance.
Senator Trogus, who was not permitted into the Presence since his contact with Augustus’ black box, appeared before Caesar as a projected holoimage, ugly in his anger. “This is outrageous. It’s prehistoric!”
“No, games lie squarely in the historical era,” said Caesar smoothly. “There is written documentation of them.”
Trogus sputtered. Caesar had taken a convenient turn down a semantic detour and had not addressed the point. “We are an enlightened society! You make us into cartoon barbarians! Caesar, you humiliate us in front of the civilized galaxy!”
“Gladiatorial contests are the farthest thing from barbarism,” said Romulus, composed, sober.
He was seated very casually, both feet on the seat of his throne, one folded leg resting flat, the other up at a right angle. He was all in black but for the gold of his oak leaf crown. Black and gold. Julian colors. “I honor our fathers. I do not disavow them as some men will. I remember where we came from. The games give a man who is without honor a chance to restore his dignity, his status as a man, by blood and courage. A last chance at honorable death. This is a privilege. What could be more elemental? More Roman?”
“I suppose Caesar intends to have an old-fashioned spectacle of animals tearing at each other as well!”
Romulus drew himself up straight in his throne, astonished and offended. Feet on the floor and palm to his chest as if stabbed to the heart. “No. What kind of sick mind could suppose that? Animals are innocent and without honor. What have you against animals, Trogus?”
Left Trogus tangled in his own argument. One must choose words with extraordinary care when talking to Caesar. No one was better at stabbing you with your own blade than Caesar Romulus.
Let Trogus feel idiotic for bringing up the subject of animal fights. Romulus did not mention that there could be some animal feeding at the games.
The lifting of the hood revealed an underground passageway, wide, high, all stone. Stone archways led off to chambers on either side blocked by metal bars. Cages. Prisoners crowded the cages. Animal snarls and scuffling sounded from farther down the brooding corridor.
“Colonel!”
The voice came from down the corridor where TR Steele was headed. He saw his Marines. Behind bars.
/> Cain Salvador. Dak Shepard. Twitch Fuentes. Carly Delgado. Ranza Espinoza.
Steele’s heart stood still, leaped into sunlight. Kerry Blue.
The Marines crowded at the bars, thrilled and dismayed to see their CO down here. Steele’s own team was in there too, arrived ahead of him. Icky Iverson. The Yurg. Big Richard. Taher. Menendez. Androids ordered the American prisoners against the back wall, then opened the cage to push Steele in. No one rushed the door. No human ever won a hand-tohand with an android. “Fresh meat,” the prisoners in the opposite cage announced.
The barred door clanked shut behind Steele, locked. His Marines rushed forward. Kerry Blue seized the excuse to get her arms round Steele. Everyone else was mugging him too. The Yurg reaching over the rest of them to pat Steele on his buzz cut blond head.
“Do that again, Marine, I’ll brig you,” Steele snarled. Yurg grinned. Colonel never made too many jokes. “Yes, sir.” Kerry Blue pressed against Steele’s side like a missing piece restored. Nothing looked too grim anymore. He had to let go of her to clasp other hands and knock fists with his men. The Marines bombarded him with news. Darb was dead. They killed Darb.
Steele hushed them. “Save it. Don’t talk.”
He turned round to see all the Roman eyes across the corridor, watching them. Listening.
Steele tried to take in all of what was here. He had twelve Marines with him, men and women together in one roughly ten- by twenty-foot cage.
He noted that the lupes had let the Marines keep their language modules, and their gunsights still bracketed their eyes. But no one had a com on him.
There were Romans down here too, behind bars, separate from the Americans. The group in the cage opposite the Marines were bigger men, healthier, and better kept than the shabby collection crowded into the cage at the intersection of the next corridor.
A heavy weight dropping on the overhead made a loud dull thump and sent sawdust sprinkling down from the wooden ceiling.
The oddity of this place caught up with Steele. He spoke out loud, incredulous. “Where the hell are we?”