by R. M. Meluch
Claudia had, during her days at the Imperial Military Institute, looked nearly identical to Calli Carmel.
To hear Claudia tell it, it was Calli who mimicked Claudia in those days, not the other way around, and Claudia changed her own looks because Calli’s mimicry struck her as too weird.
“Just why do you suppose Calli cut all her hair off and changed her face again!” Claudia challenged the stunned Intelligence agents. “Bit of a mutt face now, isn’t she?”
One of the agentes told her, “Captain Carmel’s face was recently burned in an attack outside Fort Eisenhower.”
“Of course it was,” Claudia said, patronizing, nodding in nostril-deep sarcasm. “The same attack that made Gaius Americanus change his face and pretend to be dead. Where is the intelligence that is supposed to be down here? There was no attack on Gaius Americanus and Calli Carmel! It was a story made up by the American CIA! So there you have it—the Americans and their spy Calli Carmel killed my father. And Gaius Americanus was in on it!” She stood up to go. “Do something!”
———
Merrimack’s hospital was filled past capacity with casualties from the Northwestern military bases. The ship’s Marine companies were on the ground assisting with disaster relief.
Cain Salvador strapped a wounded man onto a backboard for evac to Merrimack’s hospital. He brushed dirty sweat off the top of his lip with the dust-covered back of his wrist. Gave himself a mud mustache.
“I need to quickly go to my office,” the man protested weakly, scarcely able to move. “I was supposed to soon be in a meeting.”
“Take it easy, sir,” said Cain. “I’m sure your meeting was canceled.”
“Where am I to now be taken?”
“Merrimack, sir. Just relax.”
The man did seem to relax.
“I’ve got this one,” said Cole Darby, taking over for Cain. Darb strapped the man down tight and hailed Merrimack. He asked for the Intelligence officer instead of the hospital.
“Colonel Z? This is Flight Sergeant Cole Darby down on the planet. I think I have a Roman here.”
The man, immobile on the backboard, rolled his now enormous eyes toward Darb. Darb crouched next to the man, gave him a reassuring pat on the restraints as he spoke into his com, “What do you want me to do with him?”
Wolfhound sat on a rubble hillock and pumped out drinking water as fast as she could make it.
“I feel like a milk cow,” said Captain Carmel standing in the shade of her beached ship as John Farragut hiked up the rise, stepping over the hoses running out from Wolfhound.
The water synthesizing system on board the wolf-hunter class ship was overkill for servicing a single midsized ship. It had been designed for a situation just like this.
Actually the wolfhunter was designed to fight her way into a site under siege and provide drinking water to the population.
Captain Farragut joined Captain Carmel in the shade. They surveyed the scene around the waterfront. Saw nothing not wrecked, broken open, upended. Lost count of the sources of belching black smoke. Merrimack’s dogs were down here, searching the collapsed buildings for trapped survivors.
The sky up high was merciless blue.
Farragut spoke in a very odd voice, not quite believing what he was telling her, “Calli, you’re wanted for the assassination of Caesar Magnus. They have a cross ready at the base of the Capitoline for your execution.”
Calli absorbed this news, then said, “I don’t rate a sword?”
Roman honestiores had to be executed by the sword.
“Don’t be flippant, Cal.”
She nodded. “I’ve been warned about that. Can’t seem to help myself.” The news was so utterly absurd. She asked, “I killed Magnus?”
John Farragut nodded. “You and your lover, Gaius.”
“I begin to like this story.”
“Cal.”
“You know I can’t speak a man’s name without rumors flying.”
“According to rumor, you and Gaius have been flying.”
“Even now that I’ve lost my looks?” She ruffled all her cowlicks. Concrete dust fell to her shoulders.
The Roman public was ferociously in love with the news story. They loved Calli’s new face—especially the way the Roman media retouched the shadows to make her look haggish. They relished the sight of a proud American beauty brought low. It validated their belief that the Americans had been behind Caesar’s assassination. They knew it all along.
“Sampson Reed is suggesting they hold a trial in The Hague,” said Farragut. “Get it cleared in the international arena.”
“I am not going to kangaroo court.”
“I don’t think The Hague hops.”
“I am not going to court,” said Calli. “It’d be a waste of time and prove nothing. Rome will say America bought off The Hague when I’m exonerated. If Rome can’t already see this is a pile of squid muffins, no trial will make it more obvious. They know the United States had no motive to kill Magnus. Magnus surrendered to us and submitted to the Subjugation. We liked Magnus. We had nothing to gain by his death.”
“But you did.”
“I did?”
Farragut pulled up a headline posted in the American media directly after Magnus’ assassination: EMPRESS CALLI.
She had acquired that nickname because beautiful Calli had attended the event (which was not meant to be an assassination) on the arm of Romulus.
“So why am I not empress?”
“Romulus turned you down, you presumptuous slut. Their words.”
“They called me a slut?”
“A presumptuous slut.”
“Oh, when a Roman calls you a slut, you’ve gotta be the whore of Babylon. Can someone explain to Reed this is an obvious farce?”
“Reed likes the idea of international cooperation. Says innocence can breathe in the open air.”
“My Commander in Chief is a dwit. Does he realize that the person who can testify to my whereabouts on Palatine before the assassination was Romulus? Honest to God, John, if I could get a hold of Augustus I’d tell him to pick me up right now.”
“That would look sublime.”
“It is sublime! In that corner I’ve got a sociopath hailed as Caesar and in my corner I’ve got a Commander in Chief with the IQ of birdseed.”
A miniature shepherd dog, head hanging, tongue hanging, coat gray with dust, padded up to the captains and flopped down on the tops of Farragut’s boots, panting. Farragut looked to Calli. “Know where I can get some water?”
———
“Darb’s getting a bong!” Flight Leader Ranza Espinoza announced. Her bright grin showed the gap between her front teeth.
“No bullsh?”The more massive Cain bumped into Darb with his shoulder, making him stagger. “What for?”
“Our Darb bagged a Roman spy trying to sneak on board Merrimack as a med-evac case,” said Ranza. “So he’s getting a cute little piece of hardware to hang on his dress jacket.”
Kerry Blue crouched on a cinder block to stretch her back muscles. She smiled up. “How’d you manage that. Darb?”
“The guy was splitting infinitives.”
“Everyone does that,” said Carly, surprised she remembered what an infinitive was. “I don’t even know what that means,” said Cain. “It’s something impossible to do in Latin,” said Darb.
“Or Spanish. It used to be improper English to split ‘em but that rule got flushed because the only reason it was ever improper to split an infinitive in English was because you can’t do it in Latin. Well, English isn’t Latin and this isn’t the Roman Empire, so everyone splits infinitives now. Well, this guy, to absolutely prove that he was not a native Latin speaker, used an infinitive in every sentence so he could proceed to then split the hell out of every one no matter how bad he had to completely mangle the language to always do it.”
“Darb, I’m glad you understood what you just said.”
“You can kiss my bong, Dak.”
“That
is not Callista.”
Numa Pompeii watched the recording in the cheerless underground chamber of Imperial Intelligence Headquarters. Twice.
It was not just the features and the voice, which anyone could alter, but the way the woman moved, the nuances other voice, the words she chose. There was nothing of Calli Carmel in that woman who pushed poison ink cartridges at Julius Urbicus.
Numa Pompeii saw that Imperial Intelligence already knew that. They were just fishing for corroboration of Claudia’s story where they thought they could get it.
Imperial Intelligence had closed ranks around their leader. The woman in the video must not be Claudia. That was the fact. Now they needed to find or create proof.
One of the agentes prompted, “Remember this is a disguise, Triumphalis. You need to look through the surface.”
“I would know Callista anywhere,” said Numa. “And that is not she.”
“You don’t suppose the recording could have been tampered with?” another suggested. “Suppose whatever you like,” said Numa, who could read a battleground. “I am not an expert in data tampering.”
Romulus had his curiosi trying to make Numa confirm his sister’s wild story, even when it was obvious that the person in the recording was Claudia. It was every inch, every gesture, every word Claudia. It was the soulless soul of Claudia. And it was the quick, cagey, psychotic mind of Claudia to claim it was Calli instead. Just like her brother.
It was Claudia. But Numa was not going to champion the truth when it could get him stabbed in the night. The curiosi did not intimidate Numa Pompeii. But Numa was smart enough to be wary.
He was not trusted, Numa knew that. He was not let in on Caesar’s strategy in the war—if Romulus even had a strategy.
The strikes on the Washington coast had been Rome’s first substantive hit on the United States in this war. And it brought out all the negative effects of battle on Earth. The United States shared an atmosphere with a lot of neutral nations Rome did not want entering the conflict on the wrong side. Romulus pushed his limit on that one.
Romulus had demanded the U.S. surrender, but that was bluff and posture. If serious, it was unrealistic at best. Romulus hadn’t the background in either statesmanship or warfare to be Caesar, and it was beginning to show.
It would catch up with him sooner or later. Numa needed to survive until later.
He told the curiosi, “If the recording has been altered, then that could be anyone.”
“Calli Carmel?” they pressed.
“If you need it to be.”
“Why did the little girl need to die?”
Claudia pouted, vexed. “Why are you asking me?”
“It was a needless death,” said Romulus. “And it has turned out unfortunate.”
“Who knew the old sod had a sleeper message? I took care of it, did I not? It was an accident anyway.”
“Was it?”
“Of course.”
A camera shoved its way in front of Calli Carmel’s face, her new face streaked with mud, dust, and sweat. Calli was ready to answer questions about her ship’s water synthesizing system and the relief effort here in Seattle, but the reporter asked Calli, inter nos, if that figure talking to Caesar’s assassin in the assassin’s secret recording wasn’t really Calli after all.
Calli glared into the camera, looking cross. “Yes, that was I. I was in Rome as guest of Romulus. I was on his arm at his father’s assassination. Romulus had charge of my comings and goings, and you know I could not have got my face changed or gone to Urbicus’ house without Romulus providing access. I delivered the poison pens to Urbicus to force him to kill Magnus. Romulus promised I would be empress if I helped him. But he ballasted me after he was done with me. I destroyed my looks in a fit of self-hatred.” She presented her new face to the cameras. “I have found Jesus now. I forgive Romulus for using me. But for his arranging his father’s murder, that is between Romulus and our Lord Jesus Christ.”
The recording went straight to broadcast through the civilized part of the galaxy. The entire crew of Merrimack gawked at the image of their former XO confessing to Magnus’ assassination.
It was playing on the monitors of the command deck.
“She didn’t say that!” Hamster cried, on the verge of laughter.
“Oh, I bet she did.” Farragut said, hiding an amazed smile behind his hand, his eyebrows lifted so high they were stuck somewhere in the overhead.
He had never heard a higher, more suspiciously scented pile of moon cheese in his life. Yet the media were picking it over as if it were real news.
Calli had already learned that the best way to fight lies was not always with the truth. No matter what she said in answer to that question, no one was ready to believe her. So she fed them a bigger, fatter, juicier, sizzling lie. Let the public choose between Romulus’ sister forcing the assassin’s hand or Romulus’ lover doing it with help from Romulus. Romulus came out smelling either way.
Gypsy shook her head at the monitors. Murmured, “Oh, Cal, honey, you spent too much time in Rome.”
Doctor Weng and Doctor Sidowski had bad news for Captain Farragut.
“Toto Two has been activated,” said Weng.
“Toto ... ?” Farragut started, hadn’t located the brain ceil that housed the meaning of that name yet. “Two,” said Ski. “Telecore!” Farragut had it now. “The decoys.” Merrimack had left two sets of decoys behind in the Deep End to draw the gorgons of Telecore away from human settlements.
“The gorgons acquired escape velocity—” said Weng.
“—and FTL capability,” said Ski.
“So fast!” It had taken the new Hive only months to discover they could survive in vacuum and attain faster than light speed travel. Farragut was dismayed. He had hoped for more time—something measured in decades.
“Like ducks to water,” said Weng.
“Woke up Toto Two,” said Ski.
“Are the gorgons at least following the bait?”
“Yes, sir.”
That was a break. “Are they gaining on Toto Two?”
“Yes, sir,” said Weng.
“At the proper speed, sir,” said Ski.
“Should give us more time, sir.” Weng.
“We hope, sir.” Ski.
“Thank you, gentlemen.”
“Captain?”
“Yes, Doctor Sidowski?”
Ski, with a self-conscious glance down at his own shuffling feet: “Is Captain Carmel seeing anyone?”
The dialogs. VI.
JMdeC: I see patterns. I can tell you a snowflake under normal circumstances will have six symmetrical arms. I can tell you a tiger will have stripes. Can you do better than that?
A: I can do better if you tell me the temperature and the species of the tiger. I can do even better if you tell me the air pressure and show me all the tiger’s ancestors.
JMdeC: So chaos comes into consideration with how fine you split the hair.
A: All depends on how fine you need the hair.
JMdeC: If you know all the variables, you can predict the result.
A: Yes.
JMdeC: Of course my if statement there is clearly an impossibility so even a patterner can forget about one hundred percent accurate predictions.
A: [nodding] Only uncertainty is certain.
20
BEFORE DAWN IN ROMA NOVA on the planet Palatine the city was cloaked in deep gray.
The stars were fading. The companion star of the Wolf was still visible, bright as a big planet, twinkling. Two of the planet’s six insignificant moons hung low over the western hills.
The air scarcely stirred. From the Palace on the Capitoline Hill the river appeared as a black glassy ribbon winding underneath the graceful arches of the viaducts between the Forum and the Coliseum. Birds sounded a few notes from the tiled rooftops. Silhouettes of the Kwindaqqin spires soared into the soft darkness, their gaudy colors yet to appear.
Caesar had not slept. Dressed in black, he walked the
loggia like a brooding Hamlet.
For over a week Romulus had been fighting the ghost of the assassin. Romulus told his people that the assassin’s recording was a CIA fiction. The woman wasn’t Calli. Neither was it Claudia. It was a fabrication. The scene never happened.
Mist hung over the river.
Sirens woke up in an eerie wail.
Caesar met his guards bursting into his chamber, asked, gesturing at the noise, “Is that real?” The first guardsman gave a breathless nod. “Yes, Caesar. U.S. space fleet. Invasion strength. One hour out.”
A second guard added, “They’re approaching from the galactic southeast, under heavy distortion.” Romulus turned to look through the archway at the lightening sky as if there would be something to see. On the ground, across the cityscape, lights appeared in many windows. “I thought the Yanks were busy with their earthquakes,” said Caesar. “The American military role in the rescue effort was somewhat overstated.”
“Somewhat?” said Romulus. Glanced toward the sky. “Invasion strength?”
All week long the American media had been showing images of their space battleships in orbit around Earth, their flags at half staff for President Johnson’s funeral— images of ships which must have left the Solar system a week ago because they were almost here.
“What things do you wish moved to your bunker, Caesar?” an attendant asked.
Romulus started to answer. Froze.
They’re coming for me.
This full-scale U.S. invasion was revenge for their President Johnson.
Possibly they knew the location of Caesar’s bunker.
“I want to be with my people,” Romulus declared suddenly, and he went down into the mass City shelter with the civilians.
The first wave appeared, winking into real space as the ships dropped down from FTL speed. Between the false plots and the double appearances, the American ships numbered somewhere between a thousand and eight thousand.
The fleet made a horrific image.
“I’m glad we’re the invaders,” said Ian Markham at Tactical. “I wouldn’t want to see us coming.”
Still the fleet was not an overwhelming force on a planetary scale. The terror would be in the wondering if the Americans had come to drop nukes.
