by R. M. Meluch
“Get it off! It’s peeing down my neck.”
“I don’t think that’s pee, chica linda.”
The creature was flapping, its warts pulsing.
“Aw! Nah! Come on! Really?”
* * *
Captain Farragut opened up the ship’s bar to toast Don Jose Maria de Cordillera, Colonel Augustus, and Commander Calli Carmel. He would have invited Lieutenant Colonel Steele, but that wouldn’t be doing Steele a favor. Steele was a plain soldier at heart. You’d never find him in an Officers’ Mess unless commanded to be there.
Farragut said, “Someone—that would be you, Augustus—explain Constantine to me. Was he actually the same historical megalomaniac who supposedly died decades ago?”
“That same Constantine, yes. Constantine Siculus arranged his own death to stop the hunters from searching for him.”
“You knew he was still out there?”
“I only became aware of his continued survival when I was on board Romulus’ Xerxes. One of the first things Romulus did on arriving back in time—stop wincing, John Farragut—was send an assassin missile to the Deep End to kill Constantine. I thought it strange that Romulus found it necessary to kill a dead historical figure. After we left the Myriad, I sent my Striker to follow the assassin missile.”
“You told me you couldn’t contact your Striker,” Farragut said. “You lied to me, Augustus.”
“I left off half the truth. I couldn’t contact my Striker by resonator. But Strikers talk to each other by tachyon clicks. It’s slower than resonance, but clicking doesn’t attract Hive attention.
“Secundus’ Striker transmitted a continuous warning on the tachyon clicker for any other Striker who might come out that way. It told us that Constantine was alive and intent on coopting any patterner who came there.”
“Us? Who is us?”
“Me and my Striker.”
“And yet you sent your Striker into the Deep End.”
“It was a risk worth taking.”
“And your Striker killed Constantine?”
“No,” Augustus said. “Romulus’ assassin missile killed Constantine. My Striker ordered Secundus’ Striker to follow it back to Near Space. It was a long trek.”
“And what was Secundus doing while his Striker was running away with your Striker?”
“Being dead.”
“You’re sure? The patterner Secundus is dead? Death doesn’t seem all that permanent these days.”
“Secundus has been dead for sixty years. Patterners don’t live that long.”
“And Constantine?”
“Dead.”
“You’re sure.”
“Secundus’ Striker sent confirmation to my Striker by tachyon clicker. Romulus’ assassin missile successfully connected with Constantine. Constantine is finally, truly dead.”
Augustus’ Striker was also dead. Farragut knew that. To the extent that Strikers could be considered alive in the first place, Augustus’ Striker was now thoroughly dead. The gluies had eaten into his Striker’s antimatter chamber.
Secundus’ Striker—the little ship that had served as an ark for its cargo of alien creatures from the Deep End—that Striker was still functional. The possession of Secundus’ Striker was hotly contested now.
“Caesar Numa Pompeii has the lawful claim to the Striker,” Augustus said. “The Striker is a Roman vessel. It must be returned to Rome.”
“Okay,” said John Farragut.
Okay?
Farragut had never known Augustus to blink.
Now Augustus looked cross. “John Farragut, you are the most transparent being in the known galaxy. You’ve already offloaded the aliens.”
Farragut didn’t deny it.
“That could be construed as piracy,” Augustus said.
Farragut’s broad shoulders lifted. Dropped. “My sister granted the aliens asylum.”
Augustus’ face was an impenetrable mask. Commander Calli Carmel flashed a dazzling smile. She had to be envisioning Numa Pompeii’s reaction. She laughed out loud. “Why were all those creatures on board the Striker in the first place?”
Jose Maria de Cordillera answered that one. “Constantine Siculus intended that Striker to be his life craft out of the Deep End. The creatures mimicked the gorgons’ resonance and passed themselves off as part of the Hive. The resonance from the creatures could have given Constantine safe passage through the Deep.”
Farragut made an exasperated noise. “What makes men like Constantine and Romulus think they can rule the universe? They’re not real. They’re megalomaniacs. They shouldn’t be real.”
“Constantine and Romulus are not unique,” Jose Maria said. “As much as one might want to believe that the madman who sets himself up as a god in the jungle is the stuff of fiction, the heart of darkness is real. History is populated with genocidal maniacs with delusions of invincibility, from Caligula to Hitler, to His Excellency President for Life, Field Marshal Al Hadji Doctor Idi Amin, VC, DSO, MC, Lord of All the Beasts of the Earth and Fishes of the Sea, and Conqueror of the British Empire in Africa in General and Uganda in Particular.
“As late as this third millennium there was also Glorious General descended from heaven, Dear Father Guiding Star of the Twenty-First Century, Great Defender, Savior, Great Sun of Life, Shining Star of Paektu Mountain, Ever Victorious Iron-Willed Commander, Highest Incarnation of the Revolutionary Comradely Love, His Excellency Kim Jong-Il. No one needs to make these men up. They are. The Pacific Consortium, who created the Xerxes ship, were well aware of the existence of such men. ‘Unleashing a weapon without a failsafe is the dumbest godforsaken thing in the world.’”
John Farragut winced, nodding. “I said that, didn’t I?”
The Pacifics already knew better than to give their products the ability to kill a world leader.
Calli asked, “Why didn’t Romulus detect the failsafe in his Xerxes? He was a patterner.”
Augustus answered. “The failsafe is not in the Xerxes’ specifications. It’s entirely passive. The failsafe doesn’t exist until it’s triggered by a grossly forbidden command, such as an act of war. The Xerxes expunged its operating system when Romulus tried to use it to kill the U.S. President.”
Farragut: “Would you have detected the failsafe?”
“Detect it? No. But I knew there had to be one. It’s common sense.”
“Why didn’t Romulus know? You said he was a superior patterner.”
“Have I ever told you that being able to see doesn’t make you look? The ability to see patterns doesn’t curb the human tendency to kick unwanted data under the rug to get desired answers.” Augustus leaned back, his eyes shut, brow creased as if in pain.
“Can I do anything for you?” Farragut asked.
“Tell your sister to surrender the U.S. to Rome.”
“I don’t see that ever happening.”
Augustus snorted. Mistake. Got blood on his mouth and chin. “Merda.”
“Are you dying?”
“Technically we’re all dying,” Augustus said. “I just also happen to have a nose bleed.”
The space battleship Merrimack reverberated with a colossal ship-wide ’cuss jam.
Company and crew were dancing, clanging, clubbing, and stomping.
A massive unglamorous reconstruction effort awaited them. But now was now. They’d won a big one. The ship was dancing.
A resonant hail came in on Farragut’s private harmonic. He withdrew to the relative quiet of his cabin to take the call. The image that came up stunned him.
“Captain Farragut,” his brother said.
“John!”
“My name is Nox. Call off your search. I won’t be found.”
Captain John Farragut had people looking for his younger brother. Captain Farragut was wealthy. He could mount an interstellar manhu
nt. He needed to find his brother—find him before anyone else did. Everyone else wanted him dead.
“Nox,” Captain Farragut started over.
John Junior blinked at the sound of his own chosen name. He may have expected his older brother to ignore his demand for a separate identity.
Captain Farragut got the idea that his brother was trying very hard to hate him and not quite getting the job done. “Nox, come home. We can work this out.”
“Work this out? Are you stark raving? I am wanted for treason. They will fry me.”
“Nox? Our sister is the President of the United States.”
Nox gave a graveyard laugh.
So what if Nox didn’t get the death penalty? So what if he got a full Presidential pardon? He’d backed the wrong horse. He was a man without a country. There was no life for him back home.
“Let me go. You’re making it hard for me to disappear. Just stop. John? Can you do that for me?”
Captain Farragut’s throat felt thick. Nox had made himself one of the most despised men in the galaxy.
Captain Farragut wanted to be a big brother to him. It was the dead last thing Nox wanted.
Captain Farragut bowed his head. “I will.”
The resonator went dark and silent.
Farragut turned his gaze upward, the direction heaven was imagined to be. Maybe in another life things turned out differently for his brother.
But, even after everything he’d seen, John Alexander Farragut still didn’t believe in that stuff.
Eventually the ’cuss jam silenced. Everyone went back to work or back to sleep.
Captain Farragut caught up with the Hamster before the change of the watch. “A moment of your time?”
“Of course.” Lieutenant Glenn Hamilton pushed back a lock of hair that wasn’t loose, a nervous gesture. She looked down at the deck. “I’m sorry about your brother, John.”
Captain John Alexander Farragut gave a small nod.
Glenn asked, “Have you heard anything about Donner?”
The Archon of Arra. Another dictator. Not a terrible one. A fair one, in fact. Donner had been Glenn Hamilton’s benefactor when Merrimack had been at the planet Arra in the Myriad.
Farragut nodded. “Arra came out of this in better shape than Earth. Your buddy, Donner, is now giving orders to the LEN relief missionaries. I think they enjoy it. I’ve approved your leave.”
“Oh,” Glenn said, a descending note. Not enthusiastic. She hadn’t requested leave. Her husband Patrick had requested it for her.
Captain Farragut stopped walking. Glenn stopped with him.
He turned to her. Cradled her face in his hands. “Hamster,” he started. Shook his head. Started over. “Glenn. I want you—”
He got lost in her eyes.
She held her breath, expectant.
He found himself again.
“—off my boat.”
All the muscles in her face let go.
She recovered quickly. She always did.
Lieutenant Glenn Hamilton inhaled. Exhaled as if she’d been running. “Okay. Yeah. Right. Okay.”
Patrick was taking her to a planet the farthest point from anywhere. It was an unflaggable world. The scientific expedition there needed a xenolinguist. Patrick was excited about it.
The planet was called Zoe.
“I guess I’ll either remember why I married him or—”
Or. She let that hang.
“You’re not coming back here,” Farragut said. “With or without Patrick.”
That hit her deep. “It’s not fair,” she said. Immediately winced; she couldn’t believe she just said that.
It didn’t need to be fair.
“I’m recommending you for an independent command,” Farragut told her. “You figure out what you want. There’s no road that has you and me on it.”
“I think I always knew that,” Glenn said. “You were always a fantasy of mine, John.” She could swear his face looked pink.
“Fifth amendment,” he said back.
It was the change of the watch. TR Steele heard quick light footsteps behind him in the corridor. He picked up his pace. He knew the sound of her footsteps.
She sped up. Caught up with him.
She had recovered completely from her ordeal in the lower sail. He had been able to avoid her since then.
He didn’t want to acknowledge anything that happened in the lower sail.
Here she was, asking, “Did you mean what you said?”
TR Steele hadn’t thought he would be alive to face down those words. He’d thought they were both going to die down there when he said them.
You are all I think about.
“I didn’t say anything,” he growled.
He was taking big strides. She skipped to keep up with him. Swung her arms. Did she have to skip? Marines don’t skip.
Kerry Blue was not what anyone outside the service would call beautiful. Steele thought she was beautiful. She filled his dreams. Her big heart, her toughness. She could get scared, but she never let it make her give up her ground. She was shameless. She lived in the moment.
There was no one so alive as Kerry Blue. She was a life force. She owned him.
She was smiling at him. “You gonna go back to being mean to me?”
He pressed his lips into a straight line, chin pushed out. Didn’t intend to answer her. Heard himself talking. “Meaner.”
“Yes, sir.” She got herself in front of him. He either had to stop or else walk into her. She stood up on tiptoe, kissed him on the mouth, then twirled—Marines should not twirl!—and she skipped away, ponytail swinging.
He watched her go. He wasn’t watching the ponytail.
And he imagined things that were never gonna happen in this or any universe.
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