by R. M. Meluch
Golden hangar doors parted for Farragut’s LRS. “Not the servants’ entrance,” he overheard someone back on Merrimack say.
He rode the beam in, set the LRS down, locked down. Golden doors closed him in. The air pressure gauge turned green.
A Roman soldier, arrayed in bronze cuirass and scarlet cape came to the LRS to show Captain Farragut the way through the fortress, up to the immense double sequoia doors of Caesar’s audience hall.
It surprised Farragut a little that he was not taken first somewhere to make him presentable. Merrimack’s captors had stripped out all of the captain’s personal effects, so he was still wearing the dress uniform he had worn to General Pompeii’s table, but torn now and stained with blood, sweat, and gorgon gore. He smelled pretty bad and needed a shave.
He muttered into the com link on the back of his hand, “Hamster, get ready to run. If you don’t see Caesar when these doors open, get the hell out of here.”
Towering twin gods flanked the giant doors—Diana and Apollo, golden-skinned and armed with bows and arrows, she in a scant shimmersilk tunic, he in less. On a twelve-foot god, the fig leaf presented at eye level, and John Farragut was glad of the foliage.
The twin gods moved to open the massive doors. Farragut locked his eyes forward. First thing he saw had better be Caesar.
Apollo and Diana stepped to either side, admitting him to the Presence.
Farragut recognized the man on the dais, though it was a shock to see him so haggard. The emperor had let himself age authoritatively, with white temples and distinguished lines in his skin, but it was unusual for a man of his wealth and resources to go to jowls like that. Julius Caesar Magnus.
John Farragut had been before kings and presidents many times before. The Presence did not intimidate. It did impress.
The hall was huge. Alabaster columns soared to the distant ceiling, under which the architrave moved in a procession of larger-than-life tribute bearers from all the worlds of the Empire.
Above Caesar’s massive throne a pediment niche housed the generously figured goddess Ceres with a pregnant she-wolf at the foot of her throne and a globe in her hand, which Farragut recognized as planet Earth. Three mother images there. An unsettling grouping.
At the right hand of Caesar stood Numa Pompeii. Already a big man, dressed here in ceremonial armor, Numa looked huge.
On Caesar’s left stood a lean, very tall man with an opaque gaze, who had to be a patterner, dressed in gray. He was not perfect enough to be an automaton. He had to be human, though cables ran from the back of his neck to an outlet in the shimmering wall like an ancient electrical appliance. His attention seemed entirely inward.
A very long approach bridge of snowy marble stretched from the dais to the entranceway where Farragut stood. On either side of the bridge, the floor appeared to drop off to an eternal expanse of blue sky.
Farragut glanced down on soaring golden eagles and miles of white clouds. Heights never scared him and he was in no mood to admire the beauty. He marched straight up the bridge to the Presence on his raised dais.
The Presence handed Farragut back his sword. “Captain Farragut, thank you for coming.”
“I was invited at gunpoint, so I’m not going to pretend to have manners,” said Farragut, belting on his sword. Lionhead finials on Caesar’s throne watched him with topaz eyes.
It felt good to be armed. Farragut demanded of the great Caesar: “What do you want?”
“A truce,” said Caesar.
“We’re done here.” Farragut turned to go back the way he came.
“Captain Farragut, we took you for a reasonable man.”
“Sir,” Farragut turned his head to face the emperor, his body only half turned. “I am reasonably sure I am holding all the high cards at this table. I’ve seen your hand, and I am not sitting through a hot air storm while you’re holding nothing. You’ve got yourself a two-front war, haven’t you? You want us to put our war on hold while you deal with that godzilla you woke up. No. No truce. You want a cease-fire, you surrender. That’s my first, last, best, only offer.”
Dour silence held the great hall except for the rush of the wind under the bridge and eagle wings.
“Like I said, we’re done here,” said Farragut. Walked briskly back across the snowy marble bridge.
“Captain Farragut.”
Farragut wasn’t turning this time. Did not slow his pace.
“Captain Farragut.”
The second “Captain Farragut” made him stop. That the emperor had spoken his name—twice—at his back—made his skin crawl right up it. He waited for what was to follow.
Let Caesar say it to his back. “We would like to discuss—”
Started walking again.
He had reached the sequoia doors when he heard a clatter on the marble—a sound exactly like a gilt eagle scepter would make toppling down the steps of a raised dais. Then a rustle of rich fabric—like an old man standing. An abject voice: “In manus tuas.”
Farragut felt his eyes grow huge in his head.
Into your hands.
Words of ritual. Taken from the last words of Christ. Shorthand for a last surrender: Into your hands, I commend my spirit.
Farragut turned round to face his nation’s mortal foe.
With slow steps, Caesar descended the dais where his black-and-gold eagles lay on the floor. He opened his empty hands. “Rome surrenders.”
Farragut spoke in a near whisper, “What have you got yourselves into?”
“We are a desperate nation.”
“I figured that part out, sir. When the hell were you going to tell us?”
“We have no other possible choice. We are being eaten alive. Yours—and now Gladiator—are the only vessels to survive an encounter with Them once engaged.”
“The only of how many encounters?”
Caesar did not answer. Closed his eyes.
And did he see behind those creased lids the holocaust at the Far Cat?
That vision came to Farragut in the dark.
General Numa Pompeii could not keep quiet any longer. Words exploded out of him without leave: “It is not any great talent or secret they have, Caesar! They use swords and manual controls! His ship has low-tech backup systems. We can do that! We have their great secret. You don’t need to—”
Caesar held up his hand to signal silence. “Stratege,” he said. “Do we have their numbers?”
Numa did not answer that.
“What hands will lift those swords?” Caesar asked, fatally.
“We have colonies,” said Numa. “We have numbers.”
“We have willing amateurs. We have Hive fodder. They still have their best.”
“What are we?” said Numa with a thumping fist to his armored chest.
Caesar beckoned his general in for a murmur. Said something that first slackened, then hardened Numa’s face. The general turned away from the old man’s whispered words, chastised.
Numa did not speak again.
Caesar spoke aloud to the patterner stationed on the other side of his throne. “Augustus. Can you show Captain Farragut the map?”
The patterner did not acknowledge the request. Did not move.
But the blue sky and the eagles vanished, and John Farragut was standing on a marble bridge in outer space. A three-dimensional star map surrounded Caesar’s throne.
It took Farragut a moment to get his bearings. He was in Fortress Aeyrie in the Abyss. From there he found Palatine, Earth, and Terra Rica, in the Orion Starbridge. What he could not identify were the glowing orange dots cluttering the Abyss like stars. There were not that many stars in the Abyss. And each orange plot was labeled with a vector. The orange plots were moving FTL. Not a stellar motion.
“Hive swarms,” Caesar identified the orange plots for him. “Gorgons.”
Farragut felt his pulse leap. “Caesar, these spheres are going to home in on this res scan!”
“This is not a live resonant scan,” Caesar assured hi
m. “This is a recording made weeks ago, from elsewhere. The gorgons do not know where we are now. A tragedy that planets cannot run and hide so.”
Farragut took a moment to assess all the vectors on the map. He saw it now—where many plots converged on a single point. “Well, hell. All roads still lead to Rome.”
“Do not suppose they have not found you, Terran. There are hundreds of them headed for Fort Eisenhower. As for these,” Caesar gestured at the monsters in the dark. “Once they have devoured Palatine, your world is next in line. And they do move in straight lines. Your terms, Captain?”
“Take it up with President Marisa Johnson and Congress,” Farragut said curtly.
“I have no intention of sitting through a hot-air storm,” Caesar echoed, mild and reasonable how he said it. “You are a decisive man, Captain Farragut, and I will have this done quickly. You have the authority to dictate terms on this side of the Abyss.”
“I do?” Farragut blinked, spoke into his com, “Glenn, check the regs.” And back to Caesar, “You want to bypass Marisa? Why?”
“President Johnson and your Congress are politicians. You are a soldier. I will surrender to your U.S. Navy. You have power to accept for the Navy and for the United States by extension of that.”
Farragut was speaking into the back of his hand again: “Hamster, can I do that?”
There had been a feverish scramble for the Naval Codex back on Merrimack’s command deck. They had the reference now and Glenn Hamilton’s answer stumbled over the link, “Yes. Yes, sir. Actually, you can. The captain of a commissioned capital ship in the Deep End in wartime, has authority to speak for the United States.”
“We’re not in the Deep End. We’re in the Abyss.”
“We checked that, too, sir. Deep End is defined in the regs as the space this side of Fort Theodore Roosevelt.”
“Oh, for Jesus,” he spoke to the stars. He crossed the bridge back to Caesar, stood over the dropped scepter. “Sir, you’re gonna wish you asked President Johnson. Here are my terms. Palatine maintains its internal government, but not a skatload else. All Roman military units will swear allegiance to the U.S. Constitution.”
“Obedience,” Caesar amended. “Not allegiance. Allegiance is already sworn and cannot be foresworn.”
“Fine.”
“And not to the U.S. Constitution. To you.”
“I’m sworn to the Constitution and I obey the Joint Chiefs, so that still leads y’all back to the Constitution.”
“If that is where that road leads,” said Caesar, conceding. Then, “What will be our Trade status?”
“You’re an Earth colony. Always were.”
Farragut saw Caesar and General Pompeii bristle. That term was a bitter one. It threw the mighty Empire back to its colonial beginning. But Caesar did not argue. He asked harshly, “Are you done?”
He was not. “Where were all your killer bots?” Farragut demanded. “I want those under direct U.S. control.”
Palatine had robot fleets, hundreds of thousands of unmanned vessels equipped with a wide variation of weaponry.
“We have only those rolling out of the factories now,” said Caesar.
“No.” Mama Farragut’s boy was not so naive. “You’ve got thousands. Near on millions. Where are they?”
Caesar had just been called a liar. He stared John Farragut in the eyes. His voice was soft, brittle. “Robot ships are equipped with a kill switch. The kill switch does not just deactivate the robot; it causes the robot to self-destruct.” He took a deep breath for strength, finished. “The kill switch on a robot ship has a resonant trigger.”
“The Hive found your harmonic,” Farragut guessed.
Resonance was instantaneous. Caesar nodded. “Destroyed them all. Everywhere. At once.”
Farragut reconsidered his position. Good that Rome was without its vast automaton force, but the loss took the killer bots out of his own arsenal now.
“How many Legions are you consigning to my authority?”
A long conspiratorial pause expanded there. Secrets. Rome was accustomed to keeping secrets for millennia. Numa became like gray granite, the patterner Augustus completely inhuman and inanimate. Caesar looked grave.
Caesar answered: “Twelve.”
Farragut heard gasps from his com link, his command crew back on Merrimack.
Farragut asked, “Where’s the rest of them?”
Numa Pompeii came forward with an angry stride, offering something in his fist. Farragut put out an open palm to receive it.
Teeth.
“Sixty-four Legions?” Farragut cried. “How the hell did you lose sixty-four Legions?”
Caesar had to sit down. Explained, “Many were on board carriers when the Hive touched the killer bots’ harmonic. Many others perished in the evacuation of Telecore. Thanks to you, our first ship evacuated through the Catapult was also our last. You destroyed the Near Cat, and marooned our people in the Deep.”
“Load of crap, Caesar. Tote that guilt back where it came from. Your pride killed those people.” He handed Caesar his people’s teeth. “Who nuked Telecore?”
“The Praetorian Guard. It was necessary. Their last act.”
“Would it have killed you to ask for help before it came to that?”
“It does kill me to do so,” said Caesar. “Help us.”
“Imperial ‘us’?”
“All of us. All humanity.”
Farragut was about to demand the return of all POWs, including the rest of his crew. A sudden thought quilled his mouth. He asked in dread, “Where are the crew of the Monitor?”
A bitter turn of Caesar’s lips, too sad to be called a smile. Answered, “They should be safe. Monitor’s crew are on a slow prison boat through the Abyss back to Near Space. We were in no hurry to return them, so your people did not go to the Catapult.”
Farragut lifted eyes on a prayer. Felt the nearness of death brushing by.
Heard himself saying, “What was Monitor doing out here?” A very odd question to be asking his enemy. It just came out. Monitor’s mission was so secret his own country’s Intelligence agency would not tell him, so he had to ask Caesar.
“Your Monitor,” said Caesar, “was hunting for Fortress Aeyrie.”
“Fortress Aeyrie is not a military target,” Farragut blurted.
Made Caesar smile. “They did tell me you were a Boy Scout, Captain Farragut. That is why we offer surrender to you and not to your government.” And, profoundly defeated, Caesar asked, “Do you accept our surrender?”
“Just about,” said Farragut. “Now rack ’em.”
“Sir?”
Farragut picked up a fallen eagle standard from the marble deck. “Make an arch.”
That provoked a twitch even from the immobile Augustus. General Numa Pompeii looked about to detonate.
Farragut held out the eagle. “I insist.”
Caesar recoiled, aghast. “You wouldn’t.”
“I do.”
Caesar Magnus pulled in his quiet dignity, offended. “When one puts his hand under your foot, it is impolite of you to step.”
“Caesar, I can almost believe you’re sincere. But there can be no doubt in anyone’s mind all the way down to the buck grunt on either side. Down to the kid in the street with a pipe bomb. I have to see it. So does Rome. So does Earth. So no one can say, ‘what are they up to?’ Rack ’em. Right here, and down the Via Triumphalis at the Hill.”
He wanted another subjugation on Rome’s home planet, Palatine, in their capital city, down their processional way, in front of the Imperial Residence.
Unspoken—heavily implied—was that John Farragut had to see if Caesar could make his soldiers and his world obey. The doubt was too rude to speak, but there it was. If Caesar could not make his remaining soldiers walk under an ancient subjugation, he could not make them honor the surrender.
Caesar closed his eyes. “So be it.”
38
PEOPLE ALL OVER THE WORLDS woke each other in middle of
their nights to watch, astounded. Images from Fortress Aeyrie. Of Caesar Magnus and the Legion Pompeii walking under the crosswise spear held up by Caesar’s own eagles. And images from Palatine, where Roman Legions passed under racked spears on the Capitoline, the same march they had forced upon the armies of many a subject world. Watched in horror, like watching a king put on his own slave shackles.
Not until they saw it did the magnitude of the coming danger hit home.
Invoked their gods.
Merrimack reactivated her res chamber, and immediately received an incoming transmission from Earth, from the Joint Chiefs. Admiral Mishindi, near shouting: “John! Are you seeing this?”
“I’m right here, sir.”
“This has got to be a hoax! Where’s the Praetorian Guard? The Praetorian Guard would never stand for this!”
“No, sir. They would not,” said Farragut.
Let the silence speak. The feared and hallowed Praetorian Guard was simply not.
“What is Caesar really up to?” Mishindi asked, as if there were a secret to be shared.
“He’s surrendering, sir.”
“Lord God Almighty.”
“Admiral Mishindi, I thought you left the church a long time ago.”
“I’m thinking of re-upping. Good God!”
There followed an urgent call from Calli Carmel. Not sure where she was calling from. She immediately cried, “John! I only see the triarii going under those arches! Where are the crack troops? This has got to be a sham!”
“Speak English, Cal. What’s a triarii?”
“The reserves. I’m only seeing reserves walk in subjugation.”
“That’s about all they got, Cal. Look here. This is no reserve unit.”
He moved his vid sender to show her Numa Pompeii striding under the racked eagles at Fortress Aeyrie.
Dumbstruck silence sat on the com. Calli Carmel saw her nemesis in utter, humiliating submission. She knew now it was real. Numa Pompeii would never walk under a rack for show. Ever.
Calli might have gloated, but Farragut heard in her silence only real horror.
Merrimack received other signals, newscasts showing people watching the transmissions from Palatine. Showed all of the people, even citizens of Earth, frozen in that universal pose of horror, eyes huge and watery, staring above hands pressed together over mouths.
