by R. M. Meluch
This was just another Roman.
The most abrasive, off-pissing, caustic, sadistic son of a Roman bitch he had ever known. The most loyal. With a courage beyond question. He was having a son of a hard time with this one. Farragut would get only one shot, if that. He would not be able to say anything. No regrets. No good-bye. He could not even look him in the eyes. Augustus could read Farragut’s eyes. And Augustus was extremely fast.
No one outdraws a patterner. Just shoot him. A shot in the back if Augustus’ back presented first. A prickle like fear stung his mouth. He tried to blank out his thoughts. Stop thinking and just move.
Sounds of his ship around him were all normal. Booted footsteps on eight decks. Voices through thin partitions— fewer voices at this hour of the mid watch. The steady low hum of six mammoth engines. The sharp thunk of rubber balls in the squash court. Air rushing in the vents. Water moving through conduits. Hiss of hydraulics. Clicking of a dog that needed its nails cut.
His ship was an industrial beauty. Spare. Utilitarian. Thin partitions were only in place to keep things from passing compartment to compartment. Any equipment that might be tucked within walls on a passenger ship— conduits, pipes, struts—was all on view here. There were no ceilings, only the undersides of the upper decks along with more of the ship’s inner workings clustered up there in the overhead. You could see what this ship was made of. Except for things dangerous, secret, private, or requiring heavy containment, Merrimack was right there for you to see.
Farragut slid down the ladder to the corridor that accessed the torpedo rack room. At six foot eight in height, Augustus was difficult to billet. A torpedo rack was the only place he could fit horizontally.
Farragut made a conscious effort not to slow his stride. He wondered if Augustus could read deadly intent in a man’s footsteps.
He hoped Augustus would not look when the hatch opened. He couldn’t remember a time when Augustus ever did look. Augustus’ pattern of disdain for Farragut’s authority would serve now.
The patterner slept most of the day and all the mid watch. There was a good chance Farragut would catch him sleeping. He was probably going to murder Augustus in his rack.
Farragut kept his right hand in his pocket, gripping the sidearm.
Don’t even show the piece, he decided. Just point and shoot through his pocket. The interior space beyond the hatch was tight. The instant that hatch opened, Farragut would be very close to his target. Point-blank, in fact.
His throat tightened up as he neared the hatch. He fought off the personal reaction. To hell with it.
Big breath. Hold it.
His left arm was supposed to be reaching to pull the hatch open, but he suddenly could not move it. He hadn’t heard a thing. Two invincible, cable-reinforced arms had locked around him from behind, pinning his left arm across his chest, his right arm locked against his side. A large hand closed over Farragut’s right hand, the one gripping the sidearm inside his pocket.
Squeezed.
The weapon discharged.
The bullet lodged in Farragut’s deck boot. The head did not detonate.
The shot itself had made barely a pop. No one was going to come running to investigate.
The rough cheek pressing hard against Farragut’s temple pushed his head to an unnatural turn, forced his chin into his own shoulder, immobile.
Augustus’ breath puffed against his ear in a whispered growl. “I have the same orders.”
2
MINUTES GREW LONG for those who waited on the command deck. The deep scowl on the XO’s bold features made her look frightening.
Commander Dent was already an imposing figure, very tall, heavy-boned, hard-muscled, her head shaved. She had a smooth alto voice that she never needed to raise. Gypsy Dent commanded respect on sight.
Lieutenant Hamilton’s size did not command respect, but she did. Once you’d been dressed down by the Hamster, you never tested her authority again.
At five foot one with a dainty frame, Glenn Hamilton held her own among the tall, muscular people who surrounded her.
That the captain had an eye for pretty Glenn Hamilton was a badly kept secret. Farragut was the only one who didn’t think his affection was obvious.
The commander and the lieutenant maintained straight-ahead stoic gazes, scarcely moving. Captain Farragut should have reported in by now. Augustus should be dead.
The command deck was quiet. Time suspended.
Com silence broke. Several sharp intakes of breath met the hail to the command deck. But the incoming signal was not an internal transmission. The hail was resonant, and it originated from Earth. Congress had recognized the U.S. declaration of war.
Qord Johnson, the cryptotech, asked Commander Dent, “Commence Divorce Protocol, sir?”
“Not until we hear from the captain,” said Gypsy. Her scowl took on gargoyle depths.
Glenn Hamilton blurted, “Something’s wrong.”
The words were scarcely out when an alarm sounded.
From somewhere in the ship, dogs barked.
Merrimack’s dogs seldom barked except in case of fire.
“Fire,” the systems tech of the mid watch reported. Systems on the mid watch was a young man named Klaus Nordsen. “Fire in the port flight hangar,” Nordsen said, then, immediately, “Hull access hatch opening. Flight deck.”
The hull access .would be someone trapped by the fire in the flight hangar making his escape out to the flight deck. “Fire crew to port flight hangar,” Commander Gypsy Dent ordered.
“Hull access hatch closing,” Nordsen reported.
The atmosphere out there between the hull and the ship’s surrounding force field was thin and cold. A man did not last long out there without an atmospheric suit. And soon enough, young Nordsen announced, “Hull access hatch opening. Cargo bay.”
It seemed obvious that whoever had just fled the fire in the flight hangar was reentering the ship through the cargo bay’s man hatch.
But Nordsen then reported, “Cargo doors opening.” Gypsy moved to Systems’ console to see the readouts for herself.
Nordsen was right. The hatch in question was not the man hatch, which had shut again. What was opening now were the big doors which admitted the passage of cargo. Even over here in the ship’s fuselage on an upper deck, the command crew could feel the pressure change with the big doors’ opening. Atmosphere bled out to the space between hull and force field.
Nordsen shook his head at his console, still trying to make his readouts fit the actions of men fleeing a fire. “Why would they do that?”
Gypsy spoke, coldly certain, “That’s Augustus.” The cargo bay was where the Roman Striker was stowed.
The Striker was a Roman ship, small, long range. Fast, heavily armed. A Striker was custom built to house a patterner.
A Roman patterner inside his Striker was a nearly unstoppable force.
Augustus had destroyed his own Striker back on the planet Sagittarius Zero.
It was the Striker of an earlier patterner that was clamped down in Merrimack’s cargo bay now.
The fire in the flight hangar was undoubtedly a diversion for Augustus to get at the Striker in the cargo bay and launch himself to freedom.
“Lockdown. Lockdown,” Gypsy commanded.
The command deck jolted. Crew felt/heard muffled explosions, probably in the flight hangar. More diversions. Or Augustus destroying the Merrimack.
“Lockdown not happening, sir,” Systems reported. “I’m showing a command override here.” Nordsen turned to Commander Dent. “Override on Captain Farragut’s authorization.”
Commander Dent looked venomous. “He wouldn’t. Override that!” Gypsy ordered. “Set force field to adamant.” She pounced on the com, “Captain Farragut, please respond!” And to the com tech, “Why isn’t he answering?”
“Sir!” the com tech acknowledged. “The captain’s personal com is not registering.” It wasn’t off. It was not registering at all, which meant the captain’s p
ersonal com had been damaged or destroyed.
Farragut’s personal com was implanted in his wrist.
Gypsy spoke into the loud com. Her voice resounded through the ship: “All hands. All hands. This is the commander. Set Condition Watch One. Siege stations. Siege stations. Hostile in the cargo bay. Secure cargo bay. Eliminate Colonel Augustus.”
Systems reported, “Striker is clearing the cargo bay. Cargo doors closing.” Just because Augustus was outside the hull did not mean he was free of the ship yet.
“He is not getting through the force field,” said Gypsy.
The ship’s force field, rather than her hull, was the ship’s true line of containment, what really stood between the ship’s atmosphere and vacuum. The low-pressure space between the force field and the hull acted as a kind of air lock.
With the call to siege stations, Merrimack’s gun barrels retracted, and the ship’s force field solidified over the gun-ports and torpedo tubes and missile launchers. Nothing but layered engine vents broke Merrimack’s energy barrier.
Nevertheless, Nordsen reported, “Force field breach.”
This could not be happening.
“Where?” Gypsy demanded, looming over the console. She already knew. “Cargo bay egress. He’s got himself an opening.” Augustus the patterner had found a pattern in Mack’s command codes to let him out.
“Seal force field!” Gypsy ordered.
Nordsen attempted to obey even as he voiced concern, “Not sure how good an idea that is, sir. If we manage to trap Augustus in here, can’t he just blow himself up and gut the Mack with him? Hail Caesar and good night Merrimack!”
Gypsy waved off the objection. “He could have done that by now if that’s all he wanted. Augustus wants out.”
Once Augustus was outside Merrimack’s force field, then he could still shoot back through the breach and ream Merrimack’s insides out. Gypsy would not allow that. “If he guts us, he’s coming with us. Get that field sealed now.”
Even if Gypsy had to sacrifice Mack to a Roman suicide, she could not let a Roman patterner in possession of a Striker loose on the galaxy. Because there were bigger targets out there than Merrimack.
There was the Fort Eisenhower/Fort Roosevelt Shotgun.
And there was Earth.
“Striker is clear of force field!”
“Damn!”
Nothing to do now but survive him.
“Seal force field!” Gypsy ordered as someone, probably Marcander Vincent at Tactical, murmured, “He’s going to wax us.” Nordsen reported, shouting with relief, “Force field sealed, aye!”
Gypsy darted the young systems tech a withering glower to tell him it was a little late.
She heard the com tech dressing down some baboon on his link, “Stay off the intracom if you don’t have anything to report!”
Marcander Vincent at Tactical announced, “Striker coming round.”
Gypsy ordered, “Change field pattern. Random seed.”
Augustus’ knowledge of Merrimack’s codes would enable him to pierce the constantly changing force field unless Mack jumped to an unexpected point in the pattern.
The Striker came round.
And kept going without firing a shot.
“Striker away!” Marcander Vincent reported, surprised. “All speed.”
“Track him!” Gypsy ordered. “Mister Vincent, don’t lose him! Helm! Pursue hostile! I want that bastard. Lieutenant Hamilton! Find the captain. Find out if he’s still on board. Get hold of Colonel Steele. Tell him we may have a hostage situation—”
Movement at the hatch caught her eye. “Captain!”
“John!” flew out of Hamster’s mouth.
Farragut appeared in the hatchway, propped up by the great white rock that was Lieutenant Colonel TR Steele, commander of the two Fleet Marine companies on board Merrimack.
A red welt colored Farragut’s forehead over a forming lump. Farragut gestured at his bruised throat, his mouth opening and shutting like a grouper’s. He couldn’t talk. His larynx had been crushed. He entered limping, leaning heavily on the Marine CO. A burn hole showed through the captain’s jacket pocket.
Lieutenant Colonel TR Steele of the Fleet Marines was six feet tall and solid, a couple of years younger than Farragut. Steele was a man of enormous courage and loyalty—not a great intellect—not lacking by any means, just not packing any to spare. Steele was as down-to-earth as a man in space could be.
Steele piloted the captain to a seat. Farragut slid down from Steele’s rock hard shoulder to sit heavily. Farragut gingerly pulled off his right boot, the one with an undetonated head buster round lodged in it. Steele hovered over him, his whole head an enraged shade of scarlet underneath his white-blond buzz-cut hair.
Steele hated the Roman Augustus more than anyone on board Merrimack. It was killing him not to be able to kill Augustus.
Gypsy’s eyes raked Farragut from reddening lump to bare foot. “Captain, I’m ordering you to the hospital.”
Farragut nodded. The motion pained his throat and he winced. He held up a forefinger to say: Yes, but first. He motioned toward the loud com and mouthed the words, “Call it.”
Gypsy took up the loud com. “Now hear this. Now hear this.” And she read the Congressional resolution to the four hundred and twenty-five crew of the Merrimack and seven hundred and twenty Marines of the 89th Battalion of the Fleet Marine:
“Whereas the Imperial Government of Palatine has formally declared war against the Government and the People of the United States of America: Therefore be it Resolved, that the state of war between the United States and the Imperial Government of Palatine which has thus been thrust upon the United States is hereby formally declared; and the President is hereby authorized and directed to employ the entire military forces of the United States and the resources of the Government to carry on war against the Imperial Government of Palatine; and, to bring the conflict to a successful termination, all of the resources of the country are hereby pledged by the Congress of the United States.”
Even on a ship built for just this purpose, the words had a deep impact.
Gypsy Dent had a husband and two sons back on Earth. John Farragut had mother, father, twenty brothers and sisters and all of their offspring back in the U.S. Glenn Hamilton’s family—herself and Dr. Patrick Hamilton, ship’s xenolinguist—were both here on Merrimack.
Colonel TR Steele’s Marines were his pack. He lived to fight for the United States. Hated Rome. War was good news.
Gypsy turned to Farragut, who wasn’t making any moves toward the hospital yet.
Farragut tapped on the arm of his seat. Gypsy recognized Morse code. When you served on Merrimack you learned Morse. It was the favorite communication system of last resort on board ship.
Farragut’s dits and dahs ordered: Initiate Divorce Protocol.
Gypsy gave the command deck over to the lieutenant so Gypsy could retrieve the Divorce procedure codes from the safe in her cabin. She retrieved Farragut’s codes as well, because Farragut’s codes were in Gypsy’s safe. The captain’s own safe had been destroyed earlier during a battle with the Hive.
The cryptotech Qord Johnson ducked into his forward compartment to get his codes from his safe.
Farragut, through pantomime which only Hamster could figure out, ordered a blast bag brought to the command deck to remove Farragut’s boot with the unexploded head buster in it.
Hamster also ordered the stores admin to get the captain a new right boot, a new wrist com, and a new sky blue captain’s jacket. It was a thing an efficient officer or a close personal friend would think to do. Even so, the knowing glances passed among command deck personnel.
Farragut gave his sidearm back to the Marine guard at the hatch.
Only when Gypsy returned to the command deck and the procedures of the Divorce Protocol were underway did Captain Farragut surrender himself to the medics.
———
The United States armed forces had been ready for the eventualit
y of a violent split with Rome. They were not expecting it to come like this, but such things never go down as expected.
Reality was that the crew and company of Merrimack had been sharing living space on a space battleship with a Roman patterner. They had planned to kill him first thing the conflict went hot.
But the Roman patterner got away.
The authors of the protocol recognized that such a thing could happen. Things go wrong. That was an unwritten law of military tactics. Commanders failed to account for it at their peril.
The U.S. needed to operate under the absolute worst case scenario. They needed to assume that Rome had all the U.S. codes.
Access codes, recognition codes, res harmonics, authorization codes, systems codes, targeting/tracking codes, detonation codes, ops codes, com codes, displacement codes, firing codes for every cannon in the battery, every handgun, every Swift, every long range shuttle, every space patrol transport.
And so Merrimack and the entirety of the United States armed forces had to change all of them.
It was a complicated routine, which could not follow any pattern. Certain changes were designed to be subject to human whim.
The trick then was the synch up of random decisions with random decisions made in other systems thousands of light-years away.
Resonance allowed instant communication across any distance, but Augustus had been in Merrimack’s database, so Augustus possessed all the resonant harmonics currently in Navy use. The harmonics had to be changed and communicated to the Pentagon without Augustus picking up the communication.
The Divorce Protocol had been in place ever since Caesar Magnus gave Augustus to Captain Farragut at the time of Rome’s surrender.
The procedures for code changes were not stored in any database. They resided in a lot of printed text and antique code-wheels stored in the physical safes of key personnel. Even then the text was not complete, providing another circuit breaker against information leaks. There were blanks to be filled in at the time of the Divorce. The more unexpected the method of blank-filling, the better. There was dice rolling, coin flipping, blindfolded pointing, playing basketball games and using the score to pick numbers.
