by R. M. Meluch
“I do not.”
Augustus had been brought back from the dead. Never was happy about it.
Marines in the forecastle stood up and applauded Dak’s entrance right before Taps.
The Yurg gave Dak’s head a tug, making sure it was on tight.
“What was it like?” Gunner Shasher Wyatt asked.
“I don’t wanna do it again,” Flight Sergeant Dak Shepard said. Then he saw Kerry Blue, and he gave a hopeful grin. “Welcome a man back from the dead?”
“Uh.” Kerry Blue took a step backward. “I don’t do zombies.”
Lieutenant Hazard Sewell stepped down from officers’ country to welcome Dak back to life.
“Where are we, sir?” Dak asked. “Where’d all the stars go?”
No stars meant they were traveling FTL.
“We’re halfway home.”
“You mean we left the Myriad?”
“Feels like a retreat,” Flight Leader Hazard Sewell said. Southern gentleman Hazard Sewell took retreats personally.
“That’s because it’s a retreat, sir,” Carly Delgado said, sour. She was sitting on the edge of Dak’s sleep pod in the rack. She flicked her switchblade into the cracks between deck grates at her feet.
There was a League of Earth Nations ship still operating back there inside the star cluster Myriad. The international ship was one of the big round geodesic kind that everyone called a LEN golf ball. It was orbiting the planet Arra, taking on all the refugees it could. The LEN were doing good work, and righteous proud of it they were, too. They let Merrimack know it. Flight Sergeant Taher had been standing guard at the hatch to the command platform when some Lennie official from the golf ball called Merrimack coward over the com and tried to order Captain Farragut to get back there and pick up refugees.
“Cap’n told ’em we’re chewed,” Taher said. “Told ’em we’re out of hard ordnance, and we’re carrying eighty-one dead.”
“That many?” Kerry Blue said.
“Wow,” Reggie said, real soft.
“Yeah,” Taher said. “The Lennie says back, ‘Then you have eighty-one open sleep pods, do you not?’”
Big Richard gave a kind of gurgle. “What’d the captain say to that?”
“I don’t know those words,” Taher said. “Anyway, it’s down to eighty now. Can’t count Dak anymore.”
“I’m not sleeping with no alien,” Dak said.
Taher’s head ducked down. His eyebrows stayed up where they were. “What?”
Cole Darby patted Dak’s beefy shoulder. “We won’t let the aliens get your sleep pod, Dak.”
“They’re not getting my C-rats neither.”
“They can have mine,” said Menendez.
“I was told the Arrans can’t digest anything we have to eat,” Reg Monroe said. “We would need to carry food for the aliens too, if we took them aboard. Their molecules are built wrong. Is that true?”
“Yeah, there’s something like that,” Kerry Blue said. “I couldn’t eat anything when I was on world.”
Tattoo was sounding over the loud com: “TAPS, TAPS, lights out, all hands turn into their rack, no movement about the decks Taa-AAAPS.”
The she-men withdrew to the double x chromosomed side of the forecastle. The forecastle went dark.
You could still hear your mates rustling in their pods.
“Where are the Romans?” someone whispered.
“What do you want with ’em?”
“Shoot ’em.”
“I thought there were Romans out here.” The voice sounded like Big Richard’s.
There had been rumors of a massive buildup of Romans in the Deep End. Sixty-four Legions. That was the number you always heard.
“Hope they’re doin’ better than we are.” That sounded like Shasher Wyatt.
“They’re Romans! I hope they all get eaten.” That also sounded like Shasher Wyatt. So it had to be Shasher’s twin, Dumbell. “Do you think we taste like chicken?”
Dak told them to shut up.
22 June 2443
U.S. Space Battleship Merrimack
Perseid Space
Grunt work. It’s what you do with seven hundred and twenty Marines when they weren’t fighting. You tried to fill their every waking moment and leave ’em too spent to dream. They always, always, had something in reserve.
And some things never change. There’s Kerry Blue making some navvy very happy in the maintenance shed. And tearing the hell out of every dream Lieutenant Colonel TR Steele wasn’t allowed to have.
What was it about Kerry Blue that shot his brain out the air lock? She was nobody’s vision of immortal beauty. Nothing out of the ordinary about her face, except that it turned him to slush. She looked friendly. Her hair was brown. Breasts, yes. Two present, but not the first things Steele saw. Hips and ass—maybe he saw those first. It was her loose-jointed, unsoldierly hi-there walk that was going to land him in Leavenworth. He couldn’t even call it a come on. It was the way Kerry Blue got herself from here to there whether anyone was looking or not. When she climbed over an obstacle, it wasn’t smooth, but it was, well, easy. Kerry Blue was easy. Her voice was definitely a she-voice. Not particularly sweet. It was bright and a little bit scratchy, and the sound of it hollowed Steele right out.
She was a screamer. An ecstatic screamer. You always know what Kerry’s doing. Just not who. Not Steele. Not ever.
Apparently she was over that asshole Cowboy. She’d had way too much help getting over that asshole Cowboy.
Steele bellowed at Flight Sergeant Kerry Blue to get back into uniform and get her work done. He added more tasks, not sure they even needed doing. Anything to keep Kerry Blue occupied in some activity other than what she did best—break TR Steele’s heart.
He wanted her more than he wanted his next breath.
Why was there no air to be had whenever she left a compartment?
And whose idiot idea was it to allow women in the Fleet Marine anyway?
As for the navvy who’d been helping Kerry get over that asshole Cowboy, Steele wanted him dead. The navvy wasn’t in Steele’s chain of command, so Steele couldn’t skin him. That guy had run like a rabbit, and Steele tried not to look at him. Didn’t want to be able to recognize him.
Steele turned his eyes to the overhead while Flight Sergeant Kerry Blue zipped and snapped. “Sir?” she said, like gearing up for a question.
Steele grunted for her to go ahead.
“Do you think Augustus could bring Cowboy back from the dead? You know, like he did Dak?”
Steele felt his whole head burn. Why didn’t she just plunge a dagger into his chest? He roared at her to go carry out her orders.
He stalked away, breaths heaving as though he’d just come out of the ring after twelve rounds with King Kong Goliath. His head was on fire. He heard a roaring.
Bring Cowboy back?
I wanted him dead! I want him to stay dead!
TR Steele hated Cowboy.
Because Kerry Blue loved him. She loved Cowboy, and she’d just stepped on Steele’s guilt for wishing one of his own men dead.
Steele was dizzy with rage.
Could Augustus bring Cowboy back from the dead?
He didn’t remember deciding to come here. But Steele found himself here, standing at the monster’s hatch.
Steele didn’t tap for admittance. He pounded with the bottom of his fist to announce himself, then let himself into the lair of the loathed Roman cyborg Augustus.
Augustus was horizontal in his rack. The man looked like a hungry snake amid a lot of gaudy Roman stuff that glittered like gold.
One eye opened. This was some mythical creature you sell your soul to. Augustus commented languidly, “You?”
This visit was unexpected.
Unexpected on Steele’s part too. And, just to b
e a shit, Steele answered back, “No.” This is not me.
Augustus didn’t speak again. It was Steele’s move.
No way out now. Just say what he came for. “It’s about Flight Sergeant Jaime Carver.”
“I don’t know this man.”
“You heard of him. They called him Cowboy. He died right before you came aboard. He’s in the morgue.”
“Oh. That mess,” Augustus said. “I know the one.”
Steele wanted to retreat. Wanted to go take a shower. It was as if this creature’s glance left a slime on him. And Steele didn’t even want what he was about to ask for.
He came here out of guilt for wanting Kerry Blue. Out of guilt for wanting Cowboy dead because Kerry Blue loved him.
Steele had wanted Cowboy dead. And now Cowboy was dead.
He was my soldier.
Cowboy had done it to himself. That was a fact. Still, Steele heard himself asking, choking, “Can you bring Cowboy back from the dead like you did Flight Sergeant Shepard?”
Augustus moved, like a snake shifting its coils. He exhaled as if going to sleep. He closed his eyes, dismissive, and said, “I can’t ungrind meat.”
28 June 2443
U.S. Space Battleship Merrimack
Perseid Space
The voyage to Fort Eisenhower dragged on. From Fort Ike the two megaklick jump to Fort Roosevelt would take less than a heartbeat. Getting to Fort Ike was taking a lifetime.
With no gorgons to kill, a man gets restless.
Flight Sergeant Cole Darby. The Darb. In for a routine physical.
Doctor Mohsen Shah glanced at his patient. Glanced again. Looked startled. As startled as the serene Riverite ever got. “How has your nose come to being so?”
“What?” said Cole Darby. As if nothing whatsoever could be wrong.
“Your nose is being flat.”
“It is being smelling just fine, Mo.” Darb gave a sniff. “Smells nice in here. Smells green.”
Mo Shah kept the ship’s hospital smelling of chlorophyll.
Mo inspected the nose. “The cartilage is being crushed.”
Cole Darby shrugged. “So I look like Dak.”
Cole Darby had been in a fight. Fighting will get you in deep shiatsu on board a Navy ship.
Mo asked, “Who won the fight?”
“The guy with the straight nose.”
Mo gave a sigh. And let the issue roll. Count on a Riverite to let it roll. The physician said, “I am needing to be mending your nose.”
“Do you have to?” Cole Darby asked. “I like this look.” He checked his profile in the mirror as far as he could. His eyes slid all the way sideways. His normally straight Anglo nose had gone altogether snubby. “Do I look like a street king or what?”
“It is indeed being a face that is belonging in the brig.” Mo agreed. “The Navy is wanting its Fleet Marines to be performing at optimal capacity. That is including breathing.”
“Fine. Fine. Fine.” Cole Darby was doomed to carry a face that could strike terror in the hearts of baby bunnies, but only for their first six weeks. “Fix my honking nose.”
1 July 2443
U.S. Space Battleship Merrimack
Sagittarian Space
Something was not right on John Farragut’s ship. A secret. A secret known to a lot of people, but not to him, and he was the captain. Farragut asked his XO, “Do you know what’s afoot?”
“I’ve got it covered, sir.”
“I’d like to know exactly what you have covered, Mister Carmel.”
Calli pressed her full lips into a line. Confessed. “They’ve decorated the Og, sir.”
Took a couple moments for all the implications to sink in. The surly chief, Ogden Bannerman, would never stand for any kind of “decoration,” whatever that meant. Farragut realized, “He’s asleep on duty.”
Calli nodded.
“You woke him?”
Calli pouted, shut her eyes with a serious shake of her head that said, Not on a bet.
Another realization, “You decorated him?”
Calli nodded, desperate not to smile.
“Write him up?”
“Just waiting till he wakes up, sir.”
“Well,” said Farragut, resigned. “Let’s see him.”
* * *
The Og was a piece of work. This was serious.
The Chief had fallen asleep in his chair. So heavy a sleep you might have thought he was dead except for the snoring.
For that much stuff to be hanging on him meant the Chief had been there a long time. From the looks of it he had been visited by every navvy and Marine on board the space battleship.
Christmas ornaments and earrings hung from all parts of his clothing, and he was strung three times round with Ramadan lights—which were the same thing as Christmas lights except that these came out of Sabrina Ali’s locker. There was a dreidel in his ear.
It was amazing what the crew had squirreled away in those little lockers. Chalk. There was always chalk on any ship of war. What else would one use to write messages on one’s bombs? Someone had chalked the Og’s brambling brows blue.
The string of formal spoons had to have come from Chef Zack, who kept a close eye on his cutlery. There was also a popcorn garland, and a garland of all the spare/lost buttons on board Merrimack, and crown of braided garlic over locks of cornsilk hair.
Company and crew had stuffed socks inside the Og’s shirt to give him breasts. There was a flanged leather skirt of Roman ceremonial armor draped half round the Og’s waist. There was too much Og for it to go all the way around.
“Where’d he get the Roman kilt?” Farragut whispered.
Calli gave a significant look. The answer was obvious, but still a surprise. Only one person on board had a set of Roman ceremonial armor.
Farragut blinked, surprised. “Damn.”
The Og woke bellowing. You could hear the thunder throughout the ship. Threatening all with the brig, castration, cat-o-nine-tails, keel-hauling. Chief Ogden Bannerman was going to bring every last one of you dogs up on charges. You’ll have to come to me to get your crap back and when you do—
In the sudden silence, you could guess that Chief Ogden Bannerman had found the captain’s stars on his collar.
4 July 2443
U.S. Space Battleship Merrimack
Sagittarian Space
Company and crew were performing a percussive version of the 1812 Overture on the ship. Any tool and any solid surface could be conscripted into the orchestra.
Colonel Augustus glared at Captain Farragut. He had been doing it since he entered the Officers’ Mess and took up a barstool next to the captain.
Farragut finally demanded, “What?”
“Romulus remembers a Subjugation,” Augustus said. It had the sound of something that had been festering for a while.
“Subjugation? What’s that?”
Augustus’ brows drew together. Farragut read an unspoken As if you didn’t know on Augustus’ face. Augustus said, “Roman Legions marching under crossed spears. There’s defeat, and then there’s degradation. Subjugation happens when you crush and humiliate your enemy.”
“Nothing like that ever happened on my watch.”
“It did in Romulus’ timeline.”
“You’re looking at me like it’s my fault.”
“You ordered it.”
“Pretty sure I didn’t.”
Softly, “You really don’t know?”
“There’s a lot I don’t know. What in particular’s got you looking at me like I killed your dog?”
The look in Augustus’ black eyes was all hatred.
“Sixty-four Roman Legions are gone.”
“What do you mean gone?”
5 July 2443
U.S. Space Battleship Merrimack
Sagittarian Space
“Sir?”
It was her voice. Steele turned mechanically.
Kerry Blue there. “Thank you for asking Augustus about Cowboy.”
Steele felt himself turning to glue. Steele didn’t know how she’d found out that he’d asked Augustus for help. That Roman ghoul must have told her. The man was not a man. Augustus was a natural sadist.
Steele had only asked Augustus to revive Cowboy to clear his own conscience. Because Steele had wanted Cowboy dead.
Cowboy was dead. Why was Kerry Blue still hanging her heart on that worthless ass?
Steele growled at her. “I didn’t do it for you. I did it for his widow.”
Kerry Blue’s freckles got very noticeable. Her face had gone to chalk. She looked like he’d just shot her.
Her voice came out thin. “His what?”
Part of him wanted to shout at her, call her a slut. But he was an officer. Rules of frat said he had no right thinking about what she did in her free time. He was blundering like a jilted, out of line moose.
“Cowboy’s wife,” he snarled at her. “His pregnant wife!”
5 Quintilis 2443
Xerxes
The Abyss
Like sailing ships of old, spaceships took time to cross the vastness between shores. Even traveling faster than light it took months just to cross the explored part of the galaxy.
As Romulus’ ship crept back toward civilization—crossing the thinly starred region known as the Abyss that stretched between the Sagittarian arm of the galaxy and Near Space—he marked the points so far where the anticipated reality had branched off in different directions. They were small things, most of them. But he, of all people, knew that small things—nano-sized things—could make exponential changes in a pattern.
Merrimack had been exactly where she was supposed to be, but Merrimack had a sister ship, Monitor. Where was Monitor?
He found her where he thought she should be. Monitor was operating in Near Space, close to Earth. There was supposed to be a Roman mole on Monitor, serving as a command officer. Romulus couldn’t find a record of the mole on board. He couldn’t find any record of the man at all. Jorge Medina never existed. That was frightening.
