by R. M. Meluch
Merrimack’s force field crackled and groaned, made a sickening light show through the clearports as the ship took hit after hit.
“Colonel Steele,” Farragut sent up to the battery. “I just counted fifteen javelin strikes.” Five intercepts out of twenty hostile missiles. “Unacceptable, TR.”
“Yes, sir,” said Lieutenant Colonel Steele.
The Marine gunners’ second chance was already on its way—a salvo of thirty javelins. Impact due in eighteen to twenty-three seconds.
Farragut had been in a fistfight like this once. That one had been sixteen to one. Best tactic against multiple attackers was to run. Not sure that card was still in the deck. Surrounded like this, Merrimack was caged in an energy field the size of a small solar system.
“Mr. Gray, we’re in a bag. Punch us out of here.”
“Aye, sir.”
In a fistfight the first punch usually gets blocked. So Commander Gray issued instructions for a lunge forward at the oncoming Legion, a zig down, a zag toward the rising starboard, and a charge forward again in hopes of carrying the Merrimack past the Legion and forcing the largest bar of this Roman cage to reverse direction.
The helm fed the course to the ship’s battery so the gunners could adjust their shots accordingly, then executed the escape action.
The Legion was ready for it. They gave little reaction to all the feints, anticipated the end maneuver and went straight to countering that one. The Legion split, with the rear guard executing an immediate full reverse. One of the rear guard caught Merrimack a hammerball square on the stern.
Merrimack’s force field fluttered. Gravity hesitated, came back hard, buckled the MPs’ knees to the deck, cracked the techs’ foreheads to their consoles. Farragut dropped into a linebacker crouch. Jose Maria went down like a cat.
Then a torpedo strike concussed the ship, peppered an inner corridor with slivers from the ship’s own hull blown inward.
Ears popped open as air rushed out of the ship to fill the gap between the punctured hull and the inertial screen.
An erratic groaning of a force field in distress warbled through the pounding of the ship’s guns. “Systems, do we have a containment field going bad on us?” Commander Gray asked.
“Yes, sir,” the systems tech reported. “Engine Three’s containment field is fluctuating. Mr. Kittering is—Go ahead.” That last spoken into the tech’s headset, to the senior engineer.
“Put her on the box.” Farragut waved a come on.
The systems tech clicked his com link onto the speaker, through which Kit’s voice became audible, “—need to space Number Three.”
“Kit, this is Farragut. Is that engine critical?”
“No, sir. Just keeping a contingency plan in place. This engine is NOT going to reach critical. I won’t let it.”
“Kit, you might rethink that. When it comes time to jettison an engine, can you—” He paused, reconsidered what he was about to ask, pushed ahead anyway, “Aim it?”
Kit’s voice went softly icy, as if he had suggested she cut off her arm and throw it out a porthole. Reminded him of the cost of the thing, and reminded him that the engine was not critical.
“Yes, I know the cost. It’s one-fifth the cost of the surviving engines, which are going to fall into Roman hands if I don’t do something drastic. Can you aim a jettisoned engine?”
“Sir, I’ll—make it happen.”
“Mr. Gray, coordinate this.”
“Aye, sir. Target, sir?”
Farragut gave a nod at the tactical display, which had identified most of the member ships of the Legion. “Cal’s buddy.”
The Roman flagship.
“Gladiator, sir?”
“Gladiator. We take out Numa, or we got nowhere to run.”
“May I make a suggestion, sir?” Commander Gray offered.
“I’ll take any you got.”
Sebastian Gray spoke in a stop-start staccato, attention divided between the com chatter on his headset, and the plots on the tactical display. “We probably won’t be able to get a jettisoned engine close to any of the Roman ships, especially Gladiator. They’ll avoid it or just shoot it. But Mr. Kittering can probably arrange the containment mix so that when the engine blows, it’ll hose antimatter everywhere. Now if we can stick some matter onto the Roman force fields right before that—”
“Tag ’em!” Farragut roared.
Merrimack launched homer tags at all Roman vessels within range, especially Gladiator. Any Roman tags which might be clinging to Merrimack’s field were not just deactivated but scoured off. There must be no particle of matter attached to Merrimack’s defensive barrier when the antimatter was unleashed.
Kit, reported up: “Engine Three, ready to jettison.”
“Jettison Number Three.”
“Jettisoning Number Three, aye. Engine away.”
Without its containment housing, Number Three’s antimatter collided with its matter. The force of mutual annihilation sprayed the engine’s surviving matter and antimatter in a wide, widening bubble, detonating all warheads in its radius.
The sphere of antimatter grew, reached back to Merrimack . Washed harmlessly over her force field.
Commander Gray on the com: “Battery! Recommence fire! Tactical! Status of the Romans!”
“All incoming Roman ordnance destroyed.” Mr. Vincent reported. “No damage to the Roman ships. Repeat: No damage. Not even any detonations against the Roman shields.”
“How can that be?”
“The lupes must have cleaned the tags off their force fields same time we did.”
Commander Gray looked cheated. “Now how the hell could they know to remove dead tags? Unless they saw us do it. But still. That is damn fast thinking.”
“Don’t beat yourself up, Bast. It was a great plan,” said Farragut. “Points to Numa.”
A ripping blast inside the ship slammed Farragut against the bulk. Split his lip against his teeth. He tasted blood. Heard shouts muffled by the sponginess in his eardrums.
“Systems, what was that?” Commander Gray demanded, crawling up his console from the deck.
“Roman beam shot caught one of our cannon shells leaving the barrel. Looks like the shell detonated half in, half out of the force field. Gun bay twenty-five is a code thirty-three.” Fire code.
The Roman shooter was either vastly lucky or impossibly good. Either way, that was a one in a million shot. Impossible really.
Then he did it again. This one caught the shell more in than out of Merrimack’s force field. Ripped two gun blisters off the ship, with cannon and crew, and left the hull torn open. Only the heavy blast wall, which backed the gun blisters, kept the ship from more catastrophic damage.
Two in a million.
“Lock down!” Farragut ordered, and the shouts echoed throughout the ship, “Lock down! Close and seal all ports!”
Farragut turned to Tactical. “Mr. Vincent, there’s a Striker out there. Find it!”
All of Merrimack’s guns reeled inboard, the force field solidifying over the ports.
Except one. Gun bay sixteen was stuck open.
The command officers listened to the exchange between Colonel Steele and the gun crew over the intracom, Colonel Steele roaring in some unknown tongue, but everyone understood what he was saying.
Gun bay sixteen reported, “Cannot close the gunport. We have a foreign body in the cannon.”
“Can you dislodge?”
“Won’t budge in or out. It’s big, sir. And it’s in here.”
“Nature of the foreign body. Something blown back?”
“No, sir. It looks like—Sir, it looks like another gun barrel.”
“Oh, for—” Farragut pulled off his headset. “Systems, get me a picture. What is he looking at?”
One of the ship’s external monitors picked up the unlikely scene from the outside. “Located your Striker, sir,” said Mr. Vincent, putting the image on the display.
A very small Roman ship, carrying u
nder its fuselage a missile launcher nearly as long as the Striker itself, had thrust that launcher’s 30-millimeter barrel in through Merrimack’s gunport, right up the cannon barrel, so that its maw was inside Merrimack. The Striker had managed the maneuver without sustaining any damage to itself. The precision was unreal.
The Striker’s colors were not black and gold. This one was not Julian.
Farragut put his headset back on. “Gun bay sixteen. This is Captain Farragut.”
“Sir! Gun bay sixteen, aye.”
“Serge.” Farragut recognized the voice. Big Brazilian ape. Played a mean game of squash. Could remain vertical carrying an awful lot of alcohol. And evidently never ever blinked. “Good man. Serge, can you load a shell and blow this guy out?”
“Can’t load, sir. Enemy’s barrel is sticking right up through the cannon breech. He is in here. I might be able to discharge small arms up his nose, but it might make him sneeze. Please advise.”
Farragut responded over the com, “Any chance this guy has fried his brains out like our poor Julian friend Septimus did?”
“Don’t think so, sir. We’re in direct contact. I’m getting vibrations through the barrel. Like something moving around over there in the Striker.”
And in case there was any doubt, came a strange voice, muffled, flat, not Serge’s: “I live.”
Farragut squeezed the com as if it were Serge’s big beefy shoulder. “Get out of there, son.” Took off the headset, shook his head at the damning sight on the display.
Commander Gray asked, “Is that a patterner, sir?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Know him?”
Farragut nodded.
An angry little ship. Red and black. Gens Flavius. First patterner Captain Farragut had ever seen.
Remembered the Myriad. The Merrimack in a tug-of-war with an event horizon. Farragut refusing to let go of two crewmen to turn and defend himself.
Rather than take the kill shot in the back, this red-and-black Striker had made an impossible shot that set Merrimack free.
The Striker’s parting words: Next time, when I have a clear shot at something other than your back, prepare to yield to Rome as my prize of honor, or else die for the glory of the Roman Empire.
Commander Gray hadn’t been there.
“I owe this one my hide,” Farragut told Commander Gray. “And he’s come to collect.”
The com tech held up a link, “Captain. Numa Pompeii, for you, sir.”
The command deck became quiet, a weird oasis of stillness amid shouts of emergency, which rang through the rest of the ship. A stillness as acrid as the smoke. Whites showed full round all the eyes on deck. Everyone knew what this was.
“Let’s have him,” Farragut nodded to the box.
Waited for the demand.
His gaze strayed to the systems monitor screen. Number Four Engine containment field was fluctuating.
The com tech routed the Roman signal to the speaker and advised the Roman, “Go ahead, sir.”
“Captain Farragut,” the disembodied baritone voice of Numa Pompeii inquired.
“I’m here,” said Farragut. Standing straight up. Gaze level, distant, slightly to the starboard.
“We will not board you, Merrimack,” said General Pompeii. “Surrender or die.”
How quaint that sounded. How weird that he meant it.
Farragut mentally ran through all the possibilities, thoughts racing faster than light. All scenarios came back to those two. Surrender or die.
Still, he tried, without hope, “We are carrying fifty Romans in detention. Do you want to talk to them?”
“They are Romans,” said General Pompeii. Meaning Romans were ready to die for Rome. “Your decision, Captain.”
A feeling like a knife in the gut. With someone else’s voice, Farragut spoke, “Mr. Gray. Strike colors.”
Gray nodded to the Marine guard.
With the smallest hesitation, a motion like a sob in her shoulders, the Marine obeyed, laid a reverent hand to the panel that slowly furled Old Glory and reeled the flag inboard. And because it seemed the thing to do, she extinguished the ship’s exterior lights that had illuminated the colors for so long through the eternal night.
Numa’s voice sounded again through the speaker, “Not enough.” And he pressed the demand, “Farragut, your surrender.”
“I’m choking here, Numa. Give me a second.”
Numa waited.
Farragut lifted his face as if looking for God, took in a breath. He asked, a rather desperate stall, “Terms?”
“You have my terms. Surrender or die. Now.”
Farragut opened the shipwide intercom, so all of Merrimack would know what was happening. Sounded like someone else speaking. Could not be he, because he could not even breathe. “General Pompeii, this is Captain John Farragut. Merrimack surrenders.”
PART SIX
In Manus Tuas
32
FARRAGUT RASPED, “FORCE FIELD.”
Commander Gray saw to the force fields, brought them down to minimal, presenting only enough barrier to prevent air escaping, and down to nothing around the air locks.
The Roman boarders would have no trouble getting through.
The exec also initiated capture protocol, commencing destruction of sensitive files. Asked Farragut, “Who has the CT?”
Farragut pointed to himself and spoke without voice, “I do.” Then he got Lieutenant Hamilton on the com, his words escaping one, two at a time, “Everyone. Cargo hold.”
Glenn Hamilton had known him a long time, so she understood him. Captain Farragut wanted his crew and company assembled in the only place big enough to hold them all.
As they congregated in the cargo hold, Farragut detoured to sick bay. Kissed his medics, laid hands on the wounded, pulled covers over the faces of his dead.
Jose Maria had accompanied him to sick bay, and there he stayed when Farragut departed for the cargo hold.
Wondered how he would speak, but he found his voice in time to talk to his crew and company as the Romans approached.
He named the dead. Thanked the living for their loyalty and courage, and their superhuman fighting spirit. “What faced us here was beyond even us. And it only proves that nothing under God is invincible.
“You know I’m not the giving-up type. But I won’t sacrifice your lives to keep this ship out of Roman hands. You are far too valuable. I expect we will be separated. Should this be the last time I talk to you, I need you to know: there is no guilt in stopping your fight now. We did all we could. I have surrendered. Respect my surrender.”
A ship’s dog trotted in, a big-hearted mutt who sensed he was needed. He climbed up on the cargo crate on which the captain stood and sat at the captain’s side.
Farragut interrupted himself, hand on the dog’s head. “Reminds me. Og, have your boys leash the dogs—the four-footed ones. I don’t want any of these guys getting shot trying to protect us.”
He continued to the assembly, “And I need y’all to do something for me. Survive. You will—I promise you will—see your families and your homes again. And none of you dare feel bad about that. You have served your country and your world honorably. Never a better crew, never a better pack of dogs prowled these decks.”
A smattering of barking crackled from the Marines, quickly quieting again to listen, for already there intruded the clanking of the Roman corvus. The bang of a boarding skiff coming up against the hull.
“And if I could, I would thank each man jack and jane of you face-to-face by name. But Numa’s knocking at my door here—”
The deep thump of a hatch opening. Many boots tramping in unison.
“Be proud, as you have made me very, very proud.”
The dog snarled, hackles lifted, teeth bared, as Captain Farragut gave over his sword to Numa Pompeii in formal surrender. Normally, the ceremonial antique weapon these days was a revolver.
General Pompeii quirked a half smile at the sword. “A little over the t
op. But that’s you, Captain Farragut.” Numa passed the blade to an attendant. “Join me for dinner, Captain?”
“No disrespect to the Triumphalis, but I am the farthest thing from hungry,” said Farragut, and before Numa could press the invitation, said, “How the hell did you locate us?”
“That was easy. Once you betrayed your location at the Far Catapult, I drew a straight line from the Catapult to Fort Eisenhower. You would not be far off it. Not that you don’t have sinkers and sliders in your arsenal, but you are at heart a fastball pitcher.”
Know your enemy.
“Dammit Numa, you know what’s out there! And you send a Legion after me?”
The Roman nodded. “I know what’s out there. The Merrimack is fresh meat. And I need fresh meat, because They learn.”
“The meat is not as fresh as you think,” Farragut took mean pleasure in disillusioning General Pompeii. “In fact, it’s pretty well tainted. The gorgons figured out how to shut us off.”
Numa’s eyes masked shock, suspicion, doubt. Rather mockingly he said, “You’re trying to tell me your ship was boarded?”
“That’s a surprise?” said Farragut. “The gorgons boarded plenty of Roman vessels I’ve seen.”
“You have an intact ship and a live crew and you tell me with a straight face your systems were shut down and you were boarded.”
“Here’s my straight face, Numa.” Farragut turned his face to the side, pointed at a fresh star-shaped scar in front of his ear, precisely describing the outline of a gorgon leg-mouth.
Numa’s color darkened, his victorious shine dulled. His mouth set into a sullen line. He spoke flatly to his guard, “Show the captain to his accommodations.”
There was a cot, but Jose Maria found John Farragut sitting on the deck in his solitary detention compartment, his back against the bulk.
Farragut looked up at his visitor. Jose Maria was dressed in casual aristocracy—wide black trousers, a light taupe tunic wrapped round his narrow waist, his hair pulled back in its silver clasp.
“They treating you okay, Jose Maria?”
“Very well,” said Jose Maria, coming to crouch at near level with Farragut. Balanced on the balls of his feet, shod in soft, expensive galoug-skin slippers.
