by R. M. Meluch
“Weld handed the flock over to the wolf!” said Gypsy.
“He did. He didn’t know it—how could he? But that’s exactly what he did.” And the wolf had eagerly questioned the sheep. Among the subjects of his inquiry he found the perfect patsy on whom to pin his own crimes. He needed to identify someone as the Roman traitor if he ever hoped to stop the hunt for himself.
He found a guileless lawyer, who looked young as a boy, and who had made a pest of himself trying to get into the burn unit where security was tight around the American captain and the Roman Senator.
Rob Roy Buchanan looked like the perfect mark.
But the interrogation had gone horribly wrong. The interrogator found his own verbal maneuvers fed back to him by this junior lawyer, and then he committed a fatal error.
“He told Rob Roy to shut up.”
“An Intelligence officer never ever tells the subject of an interrogation to shut up,” said Gypsy. “And not while the fort is under siege and the subject is supposedly a suspected traitor.” The first rule of interrogation was to keep the subject talking.
While Rob Roy Buchanan kept his interrogator talking, other Intelligence officers dug into the interrogator’s business transactions and searched his living compartment. They found a million dollars in very cold cash in the freezer, data pointers to a numbered account in his private records, and some unsatisfactory explanations for solo trips through the fort that provided opportunity to disperse Roman landing disks between the fortress stations.
The image in the final report made Rob Roy Buchanan look even younger than usual. His eyelashes were very faint so his eyes appeared to be just the two brown disks of his irises. He had shaved. He looked fifteen years old, except that, he stood between six-two and six-five depending on his posture. He looked utterly disarming.
And Farragut had almost, almost told General Weld that Rob Roy did not need interrogating. “That’s a good man,” said Gypsy. “Calli should keep him.”
Many of the Roman missiles and drones hitting the Continental United States were coming from carriers, cloaked in distortion and ready to flee faster than light as soon as they were sighted. But U.S. scanners picked up some other possible sources, moving in plain sight—registered internationals, flagged as cargo vessels.
Some nations would flag a paper airplane if the fee were paid.
Scanners located a suspicious hulk—claimed to be an Eastern Alliance trader—bearing a Freelander flag. Roman missile trails led back to this cargo ship.
Traders normally earned premiums for early delivery. The Freelander’s course led back on itself in a wide circle around nothing, in a hurry to get nowhere.
Merrimack was riding in its shadow now.
“Want to shoot it?” Gypsy asked, standing next to Farragut on the command deck.
“I do,” said Captain Farragut. They were so close they could hit the cargo ship with their lights and actually see it.
The neutral Freelander flag was posted all over it.
“If this goes bad, it will fall on your head,” Gypsy gave a dutiful warning. “Hard.”
“Oh, my head’s used to it. I have identified the plot as an enemy hostile. Commander Dent, destroy the Freelander.”
“Aye, sir. Targeting, acquire the Freelander.”
“Target acquired and tagged, aye,” said Targeting. He turned around at his station. “It’s right there. Should we get some space between us if that thing’s carrying what we think it’s carrying?”
Targeting was still speaking as the com tech reported, “Freelander is screaming that he’s neutral.”
“Advise personnel aboard the cargo ship to take to their lifeboats and get behind us. Helm, make a few hundred klicks between Mack and the target.”
Helm responded: “Adjusting separation, aye.”
Tactical: “Target is showing life craft.”
Helm: “Separation achieved.”
The cargo ship was no longer in visual range. But the tags would assure that any ordnance from Merrimack would connect with the target. Gypsy looked to Farragut, “What kind of chaser do you think?”
“I think if we could light a match in there it might do the trick,” said Farragut. “Fire Control. Single torpedo, standard load,” Gypsy ordered.
“Torpedo ready, aye. Fire Control standing by.”
“Fire torpedo,” said Gypsy Dent.
“Torpedo away, aye.”
The torpedo hissed upon leaving the ship. It instantly disappeared into the dark in search of the cargo ship.
The damn thing turned out to be a space munitions dump. The cargo ship became visible like a supernova. All Merrimack’s viewports dimmed under the intense light.
Marcander Vincent stood right up at his station and shouted as if across the vacuum: “Hey, Caesar! This is what real up-blowing looks like!”
A haze hung in the atmosphere over the United States. Dark clouds rolled across the continent, visible from space, and rains fell like after a volcano. Winds swept the skies clear to brilliant sunsets.
There was a lull in the missile strikes, but no peace in the silence. America waited for the next wave of attacks.
Captain Farragut received a message from his father.
The judge wanted to move the family to the outer colonies.
“No, sir,” said Captain Farragut, an order. And to the judge’s outraged bluster, he asked the old hunter, “What’s more likely to get shot—a pheasant lying low in the field or a pheasant taking to the air? Stay low!”
“There are missiles over my house. OVER MY HOUSE!”
“Then go up the road and stay with the Lees or the Wilkens,” Captain Farragut answered. “Just keep to the ground and do not get into anything that looks like a government vehicle.”
“They’re doing this to get at you, you know!” the elder Farragut accused.
The missile flights directly over the Farragut house—yes, those probably had been aimed to get the younger Farragut’s attention. “Yes, sir.”
“Then you make them stop!”
“Aye, aye, sir,” said Captain Farragut.
The attacks had already stopped. For this moment. That was part of the terror. The not knowing when they would start again.
It was unclear what Romulus had hoped to achieve. The three surviving giant Roman gunships had vanished faster than light. Those could be anywhere.
The attacks on U.S. military installations had not made a single penetration.
So far there had been no strikes on utilities or on civil ian transports.
“If he’s not going after utilities, that strongly suggests his intent is occupation,” Farragut observed.
The Pentagon was adding up the damage, and keeping watch for the next strike, and expressing indignation.
“I suppose this means we’ll be bombing Palatine,” Gypsy said.
“I think we might oughta better,” said Farragut.
“Ya ha and hoo ra!” a Marine guard at the hatchway let loose. Shut himself up, looking contrite. There came no rebuke for the outburst. “Can’t we hit Fortress Aeyrie too?” Tactical asked. “Would,” said Farragut. “If we knew where it was.”
“Palatine is the better target, sir,” said Gypsy. “Especially if Caesar is not there.”
That would let the Roman populace see the might of Caesar, hiding in his mobile fortress while U.S. ships were bombing Palatine.
Farragut nodded, but warned, “They’ll be ready for us. They must know the Yanks are coming.”
“Lunaris, tell me about World War Two submarines,” said Romulus with a voice of silk.
Lollius Lunaris explained, “There was a tactic—it may even have been a fiction, but it was recounted so often that every American knows it. A submarine under attack would crash dive and jettison debris and an oil slick to make it appear dead to the hunter ships on the surface.”
Caesar said, “You had information that the destruction of the Shotgun was likely a ruse and you failed to pass it on.”
/> Lunaris opened his mouth. I tried to tell you.
The words went unspoken, but Caesar heard them anyway. “This is the Imperial Palace. There are no half measures. It is your job to make certain that vital information gets where it needs to go. There is no excuse for doing half a job.” He swept his hand at the space vista that took up one enormous wall of the audience hall—the scene of a crippled Roman gunship drifting amid the widely scattered wreckage of another.
“You killed those ships, Lunaris. You are dismissed.”
Lunaris tottered out of the throne room, not sure how he managed to stay vertical.
He ordered a sword and fell on it.
President Marissa Johnson dispatched an official protest of Rome’s violation of the articles of surrender and of Caesar’s groundless declaration of war.
Caesar Romulus opened a visual communication with the American leader. Marissa Johnson had the jowls of a second term President. They were expected, almost required.
In Rome, a man of wealth was expected to be beautiful, whether the wealth was inherited or manufactured. Visually, Caesar was a beautiful man, with those lush brown curls, his petulant lips, his deep brown eyes, and his nose perfectly Roman. His voice was a masculine baritone. Caesar Romulus answered President Johnson serenely. He was much less paranoid and strident since the Roman Senate had ratified his position. “With respect, Madame President, violating the surrender is rather the point.”
“The terms were lenient,” said President Johnson. “Unreasonably lenient.”
Rome’s armed forces had come under U.S. command in order to mount a concentrated offense against the Hive. Rome had been permitted to keep its internal government and all its laws.
“We were joined for the common good,” said President Johnson. “And the alien threat is still here. Your obligation is not fulfilled.”
“The alien threat is in your yard, Madame President. Clean it up yourself. Rome has no obligation to you. I am not a pirate or a thug. Here is how it is: when you pry pledges out of a drowning man as you dangle the lifeline over his head, do you expect the pledges he makes to be binding? Not in any court, Madame President of the United States of America. Not even yours.”
“We came to Rome’s aid in the Empire’s hour of need!”
“America’s aid to Rome was entirely self-serving. The defense of Rome was the defense of America. But the defense of America is not the defense of Rome.”
And Romulus outlined his demands for a lasting peace. The demands included annexation of the United States of America into the Empire as a province of Rome.
Marissa Johnson replied publicly that the United States would be formulating an appropriate response to Rome’s demands. Though she was rumored to have turned directly to her Secretary of Defense and said: “Bomb their ass.”
9
IT WAS A WEEK’S JOURNEY for a space battleship from Earth to Palatine. Monitor stayed behind at Earth, pretending to be both Merrimack and herself. Other attack ships also pretended to be more than they were as their twins stole toward the Roman capital, two hundred light-years away.
Merrimack kept her Swifts inboard to minimize the chance of detection. Chances of being detected at FTL normally ranged between remote and impossible, but any approach to heavily patrolled and monitored Palatine was an exception.
“They know we’re coming, so what’s the point of hiding?” Carly said, kicking a soccer ball foot to foot on the hangar deck, stir crazy. “And just what are you grinning at?”
Kerry Blue and the Darb had just come into the hangar, grinning and sniggering.
Kerry darted in and stole the ball from Carly.
Kerry Blue had not been herself lately. She hadn’t been yab yumming anyone. And Kerry Blue had yab yummed just about every man on board. She passed the ball to Darb, who missed it completely. “Darb showed me a Greek play.”
Twitch corralled the loose ball as Carly said, “A what? Yuk! How cultured! Doesn’t everybody die?”
“That’s a Greek tragedy,” said Darb. “This was a comedy. Everyone gets married at the end of a comedy.” Dak’s face rolled up as if smelling mold, “So was it funny?”
“Yeah,” said Kerry Blue, still laughing at some of the lines. “Lots of sex jokes. It was updated, wasn’t it, Darb?”
“No,” Cole Darby sighed. “Sex was funny back then too.” Cain reached in a foot and stole the ball from Twitch. “I don’t know, my man. Sounds way too Roman for me.”
“Me too.” Ranza threw her weight into Cain and snagged the ball.” ‘Kay. Darb. Tell me how the iupes kept their society secret for two thousand fox-trotting years.”
The ship’s gravity gave one of its random burbles. Ranza lost her step and the ball. She let her arms slap her sides, watching the ball escape. “Millions of lupes. All over the world. Big fat secret. I can’t keep my birth date secret. How’d they do that?”
“In plain sight,” said Darb.
During the Long Silence the Roman cloak of secrecy had leaked like the Titanic. But anyone who tried to reveal the secret empire came off as a raving dwit. A secret Roman Empire was just another conspiracy theory.
Romans concocted a lot of different conspiracy theories just to keep their real one hidden in the stack. There was competition among them to see who could get the most followers for the wildest idea.
Romans passed down their secret traditions generation to generation, though not necessarily by blood. They did not hesitate to adopt worthy persons, bestow upon them their own gens name—their secret true name—and make them part of their tribe.
Romans preserved their language in the disciplines of law, medicine, religion, science, and higher education. Latin infested the English language. The Roman mythos was taught in schools. Roman symbols were ubiquitous—the caduceus, the scales, the symbols for male and female, for the planets.
Roman culture was not buried very deep. Non-Romans would trip over an exposed root and think nothing of it.
Heirs, whether by blood or adoption, blended into local society. They rose to positions of prominence, whether as research scientist or judge or Pope.
The World Wide Web was the beginning of the empire’s resurrection. Global communication made a united organization possible. Race and nationality mattered less and less as globalization progressed. Rome, long accustomed to annexing foreigners, folded the worthy in. Strength and Honor were what mattered.
With the advent of faster than light travel, the secret empire conceived a plan for a mass exodus from Earth, to be deployed once a suitable destination was found.
A U.S. corporation—wholly owned by a secret society of Romans—terraformed and colonized a nearby world, two hundred light years away, in the Lambda Coronae Australis system. The corporation christened the colony Palatine.
In A.D. 2290 the Romans of Palatine raised their standards and their eagles, and declared independence from the United States. The call went out Earthwide to all their secret kind to come. And the Exodus was on.
The result was a severe talent drain from all of Earth, not just from the United States. Romans were everywhere, and they left in tribes. Earth lost, if not the best and brightest, then at least the extremely talented and very, very smart. Romans had cultivated fine minds. They were highly educated and technically adept. Motivated. With a proud—arrogant—history.
There followed a short, embarrassing war of independence. The United States tried to hold onto the colony built under their flag. The League of Earth Nations came out in favor of colonial independence, and promised to lend military support to Palatine if the United States continued to press its claim by violent means.
Next came the attempted embargo. The U.S. cut off all assistance to Palatine and all trade. If Palatine wanted to stand alone, let it stand alone and languish.
Palatine flourished. Romans had designed their new home world to be self-sustaining. Romans used a great deal of automation.
The new Rome started out without a human under class. Automatons p
erformed menial, repetitive, or dangerous tasks. Wherever there was a problem, there was a programmable solution. Rome had the minds. Palatine had the natural resources. They lacked population, but resolved that by mass reproduction, using in vitro conception and ranks and ranks of incubators to supplement a limited number of wombs. Roman civilization rapidly spread into an interstellar empire. Palatine colonized new worlds faster even than the United States—because Rome did not care if a world had a resident civilization or not. As long as an Earth nation hadn’t got to it first, the world was theirs.
Upon arriving in the Lambda Coronae Australis star system, Merrimack let loose the dogs of war by launching her Wing. Sprung from a week’s confinement, the Marines were rabid to shoot Romans. The Swifts strafed Palatine.
The results were unexpected.
Alpha Seven reported first over the com: “I don’t know what the target’s transmitting, but I can’t get a tone on my own foot.”
Alpha Three: “Try taking it out of your mouth, Darb.”
“I don’t hear a whole lot of hoo ras out of anyone else!” Darb sent. “Are you hitting anything?” Dak offered: “I bit my tongue.”
Alpha Flight circled the target for a second pass, but computer-guided sighting went AWOL in the Roman distortion. Shots from the hip rebounded from Roman energy shields.
The Marines then discovered why the lupes had come in low when they attacked the U.S.—Palatine’s planetary defenses could not hit a crate on the deck. The Swifts decided to try the Roman tactic against them. They dropped fast and fired low.
But come in too low, you didn’t get shot but your shots and you rebounded off the Roman energy shield. Kerry Blue heard Cain sailing away on a high bounce: “ WAhoooooooooo!”
Kerry Blue touched right down on the ground and tried to send a shot in the front door of her target.
The shot came straight back at her. It hit her on the fat part of the distortion field, so she survived it. She passed verdict on the tactic as she climbed: “That’s a DDT.”
