by R. M. Meluch
Cowboy ran screaming to the nearest displacement facility and back to Merrimack. Never saw any man move that fast and that loud.
Old Man Steele threw Cowboy in the brig, and Cowboy was happy to be there.
The squids, who knew how to run a prank all the way home, signaled Merrimack and offered to post Cowboy’s bail. Steele had very woodenly informed the Vwakikikikik that there was no bail in the military. The squids told the Old Man to “unstuff.” No one ever saw TR Steele turn so red.
Kerry Blue’s belly hurt from laughing. She returned to the Merrimack at the last possible moment, nicely buzzed. She didn’t hate Cowboy so much anymore.
She went to the forecastle. The Old Man was right there, waiting for her. Glowering.
“What?” Kerry Blue said.
Steele’s eyes bugged out fit to explode.
Kerry rephrased, “What, sir?”
Then she remembered what she’d done. She’d really done it too.
Lieutenant Colonel Steele and Lieutenant Glenn Hamilton were sanitizing the lockers of the dead company and crew before sending the contents home to their grieving families.
Cowboy’s locker hung open.
There was some money in there, intact, but everything else was ash.
“What happened here?” Steele’s ears were some kind of crimson.
Kerry Blue said, “It’s sanitized, ain’t it?”
“This wasn’t yours!”
Kerry Blue choked. “No?”
That red teddy for sure didn’t fit Cowboy. Kerry Blue said, “You’da done it if I hadn’t. Sir.”
Kerry Blue was pretty sure that Steele didn’t want Cowboy’s family to see the stuff she’d burned.
Kerry Blue pulled a photo chit from one of her pockets. She’d been carrying it around. Wanted to trash it real bad. Kept trying to but hadn’t been able to go through with it. She gave it to Steele now, glad to be rid of it. “This ain’t mine.”
When you squeezed the chit, it gave you a life-sized holo of a pregnant woman, beaming as though she’d done something really important.
Steele looked as if he were about to atomize Kerry Blue. He probably would have, but the Hamster spoke first, like the final word. “Thank you, Flight Sergeant.”
The Hamster was all right. No wonder the captain was sweet on her.
Captain Farragut informed his Intelligence Officer that he needed a way to counter the perfect stealth of Romulus’ spacecraft.
Augustus found few leads. “That ship type is currently under development by the Pacific Consortium.”
“Under development?” Farragut said.
“It hasn’t been built yet.”
“Romulus is piloting one now. Did he steal the prototype?”
“The prototype hasn’t been built yet. The ship in development is not even called Xerxes yet.”
Augustus only knew it would be called Xerxes because he’d been aboard it.
The Pacific Consortium’s actual manufacturing facility was way out in Perseid space, but the Pacifics had a presence here in Fort Roosevelt.
Captain Farragut took a shuttle to the Pacific Consortium’s station to advise the local representatives of a credible threat to their development facility in Perseid space.
“There’s a terrorist using Pacific research against the United States.”
Consortium officials demanded that Farragut identify the terrorist.
Farragut told them he couldn’t provide that. The truth would sound like a perverse joke. He requested that the Pacific Rim coalition accept U.S. assistance in defending against attempts to steal Pacific technology.
The interview turned from frosty to bitter arctic.
Farragut guessed he couldn’t blame them. He heard himself talking a fine line between lunatic and very bad industrial spy.
“Exactly what do you suppose we are developing, Captain Farragut?”
“Y’all are manufacturing a full-stealth spacecraft. You’re fixing to call it a Xerxes. It can’t be seen for lookin’ at it. It won’t register on sensors. It’s the fastest ship of its mass. It’s meant to be an ambassadorial craft.”
Farragut was briskly escorted to the air lock.
At least they didn’t space him. He was pretty sure they wanted to.
Immediately following that episode, the U.S. State Department contacted Captain Farragut, demanding to know what he’d said to so piss off America’s closest allies. And had Captain Farragut ever heard of “chain of command.”
Farragut was not a secretive man. He was a “see the target, acquire the target, secure the target” kind of guy. He supposed it sounded bad, his asking for information on trade secrets.
Rear Admiral Mishindi’s voice came over the com with greater volume than Farragut had ever heard out of him. “What weren’t you thinking!”
Trying to explain it just made him sound a little bit crackers. Farragut was still on the interview when breaking news lit up all the space repeaters. The Pacific Consortium’s development center in Perseid space had blown up.
The Pacific Consortium was now screaming at the U.S.
Rear Admiral Mishindi looked ready to ream his formerly favorite ship captain. “Well, John. You’ve created a diplomatic incident. Is this what you were going for?”
“This here is sorta actually the incident I was trying to get in front of, sir,” Farragut said.
Mishindi demanded that Farragut’s Intelligence Officer be put on the com at once.
“Colonel Augustus,” Mishindi began tightly. “Are your people involved in the sabotage of the Pacific Consortium’s facility?”
Augustus didn’t call the rear admiral “Sir.” He didn’t bother looking at Mishindi at all. “My particular people, no. But I cannot, will not, answer for Romulus’ people.”
“Romulus?” Rear Admiral Mishindi blinked as if a fastball just got past him. “Romulus son of Magnus? Romulus is a bit player. Forget Romulus!”
“At your peril,” said Augustus and walked away from the com.
Mishindi’s eyes flared very white in his dark face. “Captain Farragut. You do know that you may send that thing back to Palatine any time.”
That thing. Augustus.
“I do know, sir. It’s what he wants. It would be a mistake. I need him.”
Captain Farragut searched for Colonel Augustus. Found him at last in the brig. Farragut frowned, puzzled. “Why are you here?”
“I figured it’s where you’d want me.”
Farragut leaned against the hatchway. “I thought about it. Augustus, are we sure it was Romulus who blew up the Pacifics’ development center? Romulus can’t have got to Perseid space from the Myriad that fast, can he?”
“Romulus doesn’t need to be in Perseid space. He only needed to order the hit. He has dangerous friends in Perseid space, it would seem.”
“So answer me this: Did Romulus just make his own future-built ship cease to exist?”
“The classic paradox doesn’t seem to be playing out that way,” Augustus said. “But we’ll know soon enough.”
“How?”
“When Romulus meets Romulus.”
3 September 2443
Xerxes
Roma Nova, Palatine
Corona Australis star system
Near Space
At last. At long last. Romulus arrived inside the Lambda Coronae Australis star system, where lay Palatine, capital world of the Roman Empire.
His Xerxes breeched Palatine airspace undetected. His ship’s descent over the capital city of Nova Roma triggered no alarms. He set down in a park near the Capitoline Hill. No one heard or saw a thing.
Security picked up his approach on foot to the palace. All the sensors recognized him and let him pass.
He was climbing the one hundred wide snowy steps to the palace on the Capito
line when he saw her.
She waited at the top. A vision. Auburn hair. Stature of a goddess. Soft. Fierce. Haughty. She took his breath away.
He paused on the steps to steady himself against the force of emotion that swept over him. The enormity of what he’d done to get here caught up with him.
Her image shimmered through the mist that sprang to his eyes. Emotion thickened his throat. She was here. He had arrived.
She saw him.
Amazement crossed Claudia’s face with a tentative smile as he mounted the stairs. “Look at you!”
She knew him. Even with five years on him, she knew him.
Romulus climbed the rest of the hundred steps to her, effortlessly. He felt winged. He reached the top. He stood over her. Breathed in the cloud of her scent, her warmth. She was here. He was here. He’d done it. He had moved space and time. He was here.
Her wide dark eyes moved, taking in all of him.
His voice came out thick. “How do I look?”
Her gaze met his. “Formidable.”
Her mouth stayed open, marveling, smiling. He offered her his arm. She slipped her little hand into the crook of his elbow and fell into step beside him. She would be able to feel the hard gauntlet under his sleeve, concealing his patterner’s cables.
He felt her living presence beside him. He was lord of the universe.
She kept stealing glances up at him as he escorted her inside the palace. Against all facts, she knew him. Changed as he was, she knew him.
So did his alter ego.
Young Romulus had caught a glimpse of him in the forecourt. Young Romulus came bounding inside to see himself in the atrium. The alter ego knew exactly who he was. The young alter ego looked dazzled.
Romulus, the god, faced the younger being who called himself Romulus now in this Anno Domini 2443.
Was I ever such a feckless idiot? This face that I used to see in the mirror gazes back at me now with star-struck wonder.
“So this is what I become,” said the alter ego, grinning, amazed.
That is what I was? I could just die.
No use waiting another moment. The sooner done, the less confusion. Romulus the patterner, the god, needed to know right now, once and for dead certain, what would happen. It was the old time-travel conundrum.
“Let us have this done.”
Patterner Romulus, newly arrived from Anno Domini 2448, drew his weapon here in 2443 and shot his younger self in the head.
THE ALTER EGO WAS DEAD.
Romulus the patterner lived. He’d been certain that he would. Everything he’d seen so far told him this was a parallel universe, not a fork in the one he’d left behind.
Claudia screamed. Wholly expected.
The palace guards had their weapons out, not sure where to point them. The guards didn’t know what they’d seen. What to do. There was a dead Romulus. There was a live Romulus.
“Put those away,” the living Romulus ordered. He turned his back on the guns, holstered his sidearm, and took Claudia in his arms. “That!” He sneered at the dead man. “That thing is nothing. I am the one who loves you more than any man ever loved anything or anyone. You are empress of my universe. Sweet Claudia, grieve not for that.”
The word empress reached through her terror and grief. He knew it would.
Romulus pulled an eraser from his sleeve, turned it on the fallen body of the alter ego, and atomized the remains. Claudia squeaked. A guard ordered uselessly, “Hold!”
Another guard pulled the trigger of his weapon.
The guard’s weapon didn’t fire. It recognized the target as Caesar’s son. Everyone heard the damning tone of machine refusal. The weapon spoke: “Target denied.”
The guard who’d tried to fire on Romulus turned white. Said awkwardly, apologetic, “Domni.”
Romulus ignored the guard’s existence, as if it were a trivial thing, the attempt to kill him. It was good that everyone saw the weapon refusing to fire on him. The man could vanish later if Romulus was still vexed. For now Romulus gave all his attention to Claudia. “Do you still want blue diamonds? For your crown? I think emeralds become you.”
The palace guards stared at this authoritarian being who looked and sounded like Romulus, who seemed to have assassinated another Romulus. There was no protocol for this scenario. The palace guns thought he was the true son of Caesar and had refused to fire on him.
This Romulus acted as if everything were under control and there were no issues worth his attention.
The captain of the guard blurted, “Domni!”
Romulus turned, annoyed. In a normal voice, a bit tired, he said, “What?”
“I beg your pardon. I require—request—some physical readings.”
“Why did you not require those earlier? I should break you for letting that imposter into my sister’s company. But I recognize that it was a convincing fraud. It even fooled Claudia. Now pay attention and do your duty.” Romulus offered himself to be read. “I am who I am.”
His DNA, his retinae, his bioelectric signature, and his brain waves all said he was Romulus son of Magnus. There was some oddity in the age of his cells. But things could happen to age a man. Mere age did not change who a man was.
His cables—Romulus called them his prostheses—they were his and none of their concern. “Just verify who I am. My personal business is my own.”
The guards posed the challenge questions they had on record. He answered all correctly without hesitation. Until he had enough of it. “You are done. Thou shalt leave now.”
This was, irrefutably, Romulus son of Magnus.
One guard blurted, “You just murdered someone.”
“Who?” Romulus said faintly. “Whom did I murder? Someone must be dead if I murdered someone. You cannot arrest me for murder until you produce or even identify a victim.”
Romulus was known as a games player. If Romulus set a snare, you didn’t want to step into it. The guards withdrew.
Romulus turned to Claudia.
Claudia’s face was wet. She looked pretty crying. Most women looked grotesque. She sniffled. Her pretty hands gestured over the empty space where had lain that thing she’d mistaken for him, Romulus, her adored brother. She squeaked, “I don’t understand.”
Romulus cupped her cheek in his palm. “Anything you want is yours. That is all you ever need to know.”
He’d always held sway over her. She loved him like a prisoner in love with her captor. He was the lord of her existence, the most powerful being in the universe. She must love him.
Claudia let him guide her inside to a private chamber. He told her, “We need to remove Magnus.”
Claudia revived at once, exasperated. “Have I not been telling you so!”
“Yes, beloved. I didn’t listen until it was too late.”
“Is it too late?”
“Not this time. You were right. You are right. There are things that must happen.”
“Marry me,” Claudia demanded.
“Yes. That is one.”
She threw her arms around him. Kissed him all over his face. Then she pulled back and pummeled his chest with one fist.
“What! Took! You! So! Long!”
“Oh, my sweet, longer than you know. Come.”
He escorted her out of the palace, past the abashed guards. He ordered them to stay at their posts.
His Xerxes sat, invisible on the palace grounds. He introduced Claudia to the Xerxes. She looked nervous. Must’ve thought he was crazy, talking to vacant air.
Then he led her by the hand up the unseen ramp.
A Xerxes would kill unauthorized borders. Claudia had been introduced. The ship accepted her. Romulus instructed the Xerxes to obey Claudia’s every wish and to defend her against all harm.
“These chambers are whatever you command them to be
,” he told her.
The deck to which they entered appeared now as an ornate terrace overlooking a brilliant, deep blue sea. They could see bright coral, white sand, and colorful fish under the surface.
“Change the appearance as you wish. Only tell it what you want. Just don’t try to walk through the cordons. Those mean real walls.”
Later in the evening, Romulus and Claudia sat cuddled together in a virtual alpine ski lodge. They watched news bulletins reporting the assassination of Caesar’s son, Romulus.
There were interviews with witnesses, but no recordings of the assassination itself.
“What is this?” Claudia pointed at the vid.
“Idiocy,” Romulus said. “Let the comments fall like the rain.”
Senators were launching their own investigations into the event. They claimed that a being who looked like an older Romulus had murdered Romulus son of Magnus. They wanted to apprehend and charge this imposter with the assassination.
Romulus got up, threw on a toga over his black shirt and black jeans, and pulled on his black riding boots.
“I’m sorry, Claudia. I need to sort out these monkeys. Make the ship entertain you.”
“I want to watch the monkeys.”
Romulus brought up the program that would transmit the Senate proceedings for her to watch from the safety of the Xerxes.
Romulus presented himself at the midnight meeting in the curia and announced to all the Senators, “I live.”
Senator Ventus said at once, “That is not Romulus.”
Romulus twisted a smile. “With disrespect, I beg to differ.”
Most of the Senators noticed a difference, but the longer one looked at him and heard him speak, the more one became convinced that he had to be Romulus. He remembered private conversations. But it was the inimitable attitude that sealed it.
One of the guards who had checked him in the entryway testified: “He’s not a clone. Clones have unique cellular markers. I don’t know what witnesses saw, but this is, beyond any doubt, Romulus son of Magnus.”
Senator Ventus pointed. “There’s something wrong with his neck and arms. I think we should see.”
Romulus shamed Ventus. Told him to leave his prostheses out of this.
