by R. M. Meluch
He blurry gaze fell upon an object on the deck. The sword that had got ah this junk on her. It took her thoughts a moment to catch up with what happened back there in the bunker.
She sniffled. That hurt. Mumbled into the deck, the sword swimming before her eyes.
“Wliy’d they have swords in a bunker on Thaleia?”
17
CAPTAIN JOHN FARRAGUT recognized the boy. He had seen him on his first mission to Thaleia—a young boy with his arms clasped around the legate of Legion Draconis as the city of Antipolis smoldered after a gorgon attack. He remembered the dark eyes. The boy had grown, as boys will, and cut his curls very short since then.
Farragut entered the briefing room on his ship. He wore a language module. John Farragut liked to try to speak to people in their own tongue. People usually appreciated the attempt, though Augustus had forbade him to ever speak Latin in his presence.
Farragut took a seat opposite the boy at the table. “Are you Herius Asinius’ son?”
The boy’s eyes widened. He stayed silent.
“Convention says you can give me your name, soldier,” said Farragut. “Titus Vitruvius,” the boy announced, and added his rank. “Pilot.”
Farragut nodded. He recognized the name.
“Why did y’all have swords down there, son?”
Latin was one of those languages that actually had a good translation for the word “y’all.” A child’s idea of not talking was flexible. Titus sneered. “As if you did not know.” Farragut was the man who first put swords on a space battleship. Swords were used to kill gorgons.
Farragut was instantly on his com. Spoke in American: “Farragut to command deck. Gypsy, get a message to the JC. Hive presence on Thaleia.”
He sent Titus back to the brig and returned to the command deck.
Gypsy turned, searched his face in hope there was some mistake. “Hie Hive is in Near Space? We’re certain?”
Farragut nodded, his mouth tight, massively not happy.
The first Hive presence on Thaleia had been brief—a duration of mere months. Romans, Americans, the League of Earth Nations, and nearby alien species had all ganged together to exterminate the monsters. And until now everyone had supposed that the planet Thaleia had escaped an eruption of a second generation Hive. Rome had reported Thaleia clear while new swarms were springing up in the Deep End.
“The boy couldn’t have lied?” Gypsy made a last grasp for a better answer.
“No. He didn’t even mean to tell me,” said Farragut, in motion. He wasn’t really pacing the command deck. He was stalking. “Interrogating children is like shooting fish in a barrel.”
“Who shoots fish in a barrel, sir?” He shook his head. He didn’t know. “Had to been some ‘billy’s idea of a good time.”
The United States released the news that Rome was covering up the presence of the Hive on the Near Space planet Thaleia. The broadcasts reached Palatine under headlines like: WHAT YOUR GOVERNMENT WILL NOT TELL YOU!
Both the U.S. and Rome had repeater stations that made sure that the other nation’s homework! received its propaganda.
Roman broadcasts in turn showed images of dead children, purportedly killed in a U.S. raid on Thaleia. They also unveiled “secret U.S. recordings” of Roman children being tortured and killed in U.S. detention. The images were certain to shock, sicken and outrage anyone and everyone.
According to Rome the United States was using their fiction of a Near Space Hive presence as a pretext for their invasion of Thaleia, while committing atrocities on Roman children there.
The real captive children from Thaleia—one hundred of them—were on board John Farragut’s space battleship. Three of them had been banged up during capture, treated in the ship’s hospital, and were currently housed in the brig.
Analysis of the Roman broadcasts revealed the images of dead and tortured children to be digital fiction. “No children were harmed in the making of this propaganda feature,” said Colonel Z when he brought his report to the command deck.
“This is dirty combat.” said Farragut.
“No, this is dirty politics,” said Colonel Z. “Rome’s better at it than we are.”
“I never saw this coming,” said Farragut, stunned. Gypsy Dent touched his shoulder, said gently, “You wouldn’t, sir.”
Farragut’s own claims of gorgons on Thaleia were meeting with more skepticism than Rome’s claims of child torture.
Unlike on the Deep End colony of Telecore, there was plenty to eat on the Near Space world of Thaleia—a vicious plenty that would fight back against the Hive—but plenty. Yet there were no vast swarms of gorgons to be seen from space, chewing across Thaleia’s fields of razor grasses and whipthorn.
If Rome was covering up a Hive presence, they were covering very well, and making a liar out of Captain Farragut. Merrimack’s Intelligence officer offered to produce some visuals to prop up the U.S. story.
“No,” said Farragut. “I’ll go back to my source.”
“I shall conduct the interrogation,” said Colonel Z.
“No, I’ve got him,” said Farragut.
“Sir,” Colonel Z objected. “You are not trained in interrogating children.”
“I’m not?” said Farragut, almost laughing. “Do you know how many kid brothers I have?”
Titus Vitruvius was escorted back to Merrimack’s briefing room again. He told his guard that he was not talking, so she should just take him back to the brig right now.
When the guard delivered the boy to the briefing room, Captain Farragut was already seated at the table, popping back oqib nuts. He offered the open bag to Titus. “Nut?”
Titus Vitruvius refused with a big shake of his head, his chin up, arms crossed.
“Sit,” said Farragut.
Titus sat, stiff as a Roman standard.
“Do you know why we’re at war, son?”
The child did not even register the question. He answered what was on his mind. “You’re just mad because we tore down your arch. You should never have got that.”
Accustomed to hearing non sequiturs out of children, Farragut followed the leap. Titus was talking about the Triumphal Arch erected on Thaleia to mark the human victory over the Hive in Near Space. Caesar Magnus had dedicated the arch to John Farragut.
Romulus destroyed it. Farragut sat back. “I never really liked the damned thing.” The boy stayed rigid. His whole being shouted: I am not talking. See me not talking.
“Heri said you were a brave soldier, Titus Vitruvius.”
“Don’t care what any American said.”
Negative declarations apparently did not count as talking. “Heri,” Farragut explained, “was Herius Asinius, legate of Legion Draconis.”
A gasp escaped Titus.
“Heri said you defended the Roman fortress at his side. That’s why I’m surprised to find you in a Gameroom, Titus. I thought you were bound for a Legion.”
Titus’ fortress of attempted silence crumbled. “I wanted to join a Legion!” he cried. “They posted me with the gamers!”
“Have a nut.”
Titus shook his head a vigorous no.
“Diomede Silva dined with me after we took the Valerius. And I dined with Numa Pompeii when he took my Merrimack. You’re allowed to have a nut.” Farragut tossed one at him. The boy caught it by reflex.
Titus stared at Farragut. He asked, awed, “You met the great Numa Pompeii?” He nibbled cautiously on the edge of the nut. “Met?” said Farragut with a big laugh, and regaled Titus with war stories.
The boy listened wide-eyed, enthralled. Farragut had him fighting very hard not to smile at a story about Herius Asinius and a trench.
And Farragut told him how the brave Herius Asinius died.
The tale had the boy in tears—soldier tears, so they were allowed. Titus Vitruvius was profoundly moved, and proud to have been associated with a man like Legion Commander Herius Asinius.
“You and I have the same mission,” Farragut told the
boy. “The same duty to Herius Asinius. Now I don’t expect you to tell me anything about Rome. Tell me about our enemy, the Hive.”
Titus sniffled. He sat up imperially straight. “Like what?”
“Gorgons came back to Thaleia again, didn’t they?”
“They’re all gone,” Titus said, unconvincingly.
“You had swords in the Gameroom,” Farragut said.
Titus looked at him straight and spoke like a miniature adult, not a question, “You’re never sure they’re gone, are you?”
Farragut stopped breathing for a moment. It had been one of the worst moments of his career the day the gorgons came back to Antipolis the first time.
“No, sir,” Farragut answered the child gravely. “You’re never sure.”
And he got Titus to tell him about the night the Hive returned to Antipolis the second time. Titus gave him the exact Roman date.
“You don’t have a big population on Thaleia,” said Farragut. “Why hasn’t the Hive overrun the planet by now?”
“We are Roman,” said Titus proudly.
“Y’all were Roman the first time round, and y’all needed help then.”
Titus admitted, “They’re not that smart this time.” He meant the gorgons, not the Romans. “They don’t turn our automatons on us. They don’t make it hard to breathe. They’re easier to kill.”
But the Hive learned. From each and every encounter. The new Hive would have learned quite a lot from the deaths of the gorgons of Thaleia.
“They’re all gone now,” said Titus. A loud unspoken maybe on the end of that. “There weren’t that many anyway. Not like last time. Someone said they didn’t have time to plant a lot of seeds.”
“Seeds?”
Titus shrugged. “They come out of the ground.”
“Hell of a thing to keep quiet,” said Farragut.
“We were afraid you’d invade,” Titus defended.
“I did that anyway.”
Titus seemed to remember then that John Farragut was the enemy. But he couldn’t seem to get the right hate up.
Before Farragut returned Titus to his fellow prisoners, he told him, “You’re right, you know. Heri should have got the arch.”
A journey of three days brought Merrimack back to Earth where she dropped off prisoners, picked up equipment, and walked some dogs.
The drone fighter raids over the U.S. had stopped immediately after the raid on Thaleia, so the skies were quiet.
TR Steele sat on the edge of a pier on the waterfront at sunset. Actually he was more like propped against the pier, his legs out in front of him at an angle, beer in hand.
Sun on his broad shoulders threw his very long shadow out before him.
He looked out to the water. A wide sky. Seagulls. Sails.
Sighted her off the port beam. A young female approaching up the sea strand. Loose build. Rangy walk. Tank top showed her wide shoulders. Shorts of girene green. Hard-toned legs. The only soft parts on her were what separated her from the boys.
She strolled to him. Let her head tilt. Her hair was loose. She guided a windblown lock to behind her ear. “Come here often, soldier?”
“Only when I’m taking time out from maiming children.” Roman propaganda had lodged under TR Steele’s skin, and stayed there crawling and biting.
“Romans talk,” she shrugged. “Their lips move but it still smells like it’s coming out the other end.” Steele snorted. A real woman of refinement, his Kerry Blue. Steele was uncomfortable around refinement. Kerry Blue always managed to say what he was not allowed to. “Thanks,” he said. Her take on it knocked things into perspective. A piper ran across the sand at the waterline on its little stilt legs. A gull squalled. Kerry Blue lifted her leg over his, like mounting a horse, to sit straddling him, face-to-face, hips to hips. Warm.
She propped her forearms atop his broad shoulders, her wrists crossed behind his head. Her fingers toyed with the short hairs behind his neck. Her brown eyes looked into his.
He gazed back. “What are you doing, Marine?”
Her body rocked a little.
“Sir? Nobody’s fooling anybody here.”
The rough palms of his big hands cradled her head, fingers laced in her hair. He had no idea what had become of the beer. He agreed, “No.”
“Just another man and another woman on the waterfront,” said Kerry looking round at the sunset couples. “We’re just harder than the civilians.”
“One of us is a lot harder.”
‘”Thomas?” His name in her voice set all his common sense free on holiday. “Can we go somewhere?” It was a career wrecker. Thomas Ryder Steele could not even spell career at the moment. He unwound her arms from round his neck, stood up, enclosed her hand in his to take her somewhere.
Lying on his back. Morning sun in the window of the little room. She’d fallen asleep on top of him. Steele with his arms wrapped round Kerry Blue. All the way around, to hold her, all of her, contain her, protect her. That could not happen. Kerry Blue would not be contained or protected.
She stirred.
She’d gotten maybe an hour’s sleep. He none. He did not want to lose a moment. He felt her breathing. She lifted her head. Her hair fell in her face. She focused on him. Smiled. “Hi.”
Her sleep-swollen face looked amazing. She. She. The heaven-break-open, lightning-strike, star-shattering sex had nothing to do with her skill, though God knew she had gobs of experience he never wanted to think about.
It was this woman he had lived with for several years now. Courageous in her own way. She would be screaming her head off in fear, but still fighting in the front line, right there for you.
Her muscles were cute, girl-hard under smooth skin. Scars flecked her arms and legs. She lived rough. She parked her chin on his sternum, eyes looking up at his face. “You still gonna be mean to me?”
“Meaner.”
He ran his palms down her back. Her skin was slightly damp.
He had thought (and that would teach him to try thinking!) that once he gave in, the need would be finished. Get it out of his system. He’d been wrong seven times now. And deep down he’d known it. He had tried so hard to resist. Because now he was—knew he would be—utterly lost. There was no getting over this woman, ever.
And she. What did she think? He brushed a grain of sleep out of the corner of her eye. Her eyelashes caressed his thumb. He said, “The rat on you around ship is that you haven’t been yourself lately.” She knew what he was talking about. She tugged on his blond chest hairs. “Been holding out,” said Kerry.
“Never heard you could do that.”
“Never nothing worth holding out for.”
What he wanted to hear. Amazed to actually hear it. Made him want to go out and bring down a buffalo or something with his bare hands.
“Was I worth it?”
“Oh, yeah.”
She nipped his nose and got up to take another shower.
He listened to her patter around in there. Could get used to hearing that every morning. He ought to marry her. For a lot of reasons. Mostly because he wanted to.
Not that it would allow her to splash around in his shower on board Merrimack. They still could not get caught together.
He couldn’t ask her to marry him. She could laugh. Oh, you thought? How could you be so dumb?
Chilled him to the bone to think she might not be as serious as he was. She got what she was holding out for. All done? Game over?
He called into the bath, kept his voice nonchalant: “Ever been to Vegas?”
“I got no money! What am I gonna do in Vegas?”
We could walk down the glittery streets, stroll by a tacky chapel and hope she says, “Hey, Thomas, let’s get married.” A sudden signal on Steele’s com broke the perfect morning. He had turned that damn thing off.
The com turned itself on, as it could in dire emergency.
And then there was Kerry Blue dashing out of the shower, dripping wet, grabbing up her clothes, calling down
abominations. Her com was awake too. Spacecraft One had been shot down. President Johnson was dead.
18
HOW COULD THAT HAPPEN!” Farragut tried to keep his voice down, talking to his admiral.
Admiral Mishindi on video from Base Carolina looked haggard. He shook his head, completely in sympathy with Captain Farragut. “Tranquility Base got pounded last week. The President decided she had to make an appearance on the Moon for morale. It was unscheduled. Quiet. No media. We had Secret Service thick as Hive around her. Everything was fine until she tried to come back to Earth. Rome had someone on Tranquility.”
“A mole!” Farragut cried, astonished.
“A deep seeded mole. Just when we think we got them all.” Mishindi pushed his lower jaw forward, frustrated past words. “The mole obtained the field codes for Spacecraft One. And all those Roman warships we stranded at Fort Ike? Those dropped out of FTL right here. They opened fire on the President’s ship. All of them, including your old friend, the Horatius. The President did not have a prayer. Not a solitary prayer.”
“Did we get the mole?”
Mishindi closed his eyes and nodded grim satisfaction. “Our people on Tranquility showed great restraint in taking him alive. I cannot guarantee that his interrogation will strictly abide by convention.”
“Where are the Roman warships now?”
“Oh, they’re still here. Punching the hell out of Washington.The state, not DC. Ground defenses are taking hell. Monitor, Wolfhound, and Rio Grande are already there. Merrimack is to engage the Roman warships as soon as you get your people aboard.”
Farragut knew there were a lot of military bases in Washington, but: “Why Washington?”
“Fault lines. It’s a disaster, John. Rome’s not even targeting the military bases. Those are too well shielded. And they’re not shooting at the cities, which would be an obvious crime. They’re shooting into Puget Sound, which is not as obvious but still criminal. Tacoma, Whidbey Island, and Seattle are built on top of shallow faults. The shallow ones make the surface rock.”
Gypsy already had Merrimack curving shots around the horizon, tagging Roman ships over Washington, and shooting missiles out to chase the tags.
