by R. M. Meluch
Tactical scanned for antimatter in the planetary system in case Rome had salted the approach. Ian Markham pronounced the path clear. Roman sentinels orbiting Palatine opened fiery eyes. Missiles streaked out to meet the invaders.
U.S. beam fire detonated the missiles before they could reach their targets. The fleet advanced through clouds of debris.
Ships of the Roman home guard turned out to form a feeble blockade. It was nearly impossible to block ships in space. All the defenders were outflanked, leaving the Roman ships to chase the Americans toward the planet.
The fleet’s biggest ships descended, the ones that did not care what hit them. Merrimack, Monitor. The space battleships were nearly invincible when locked inside a seamless distortion field.
Roman destroyers opened fire on Merrimack and Monitor, while other Americans ships fired on the destroyers.
The big ships ignored them. Descending.
Inside the atmosphere, the barrage from space ceased.
Roman beam fire could too easily glance off an American distortion field and stab into a civilian population. Exploding warheads could radiate the atmosphere. And a successful shot on any one of Merrimack and Monitor’s combined twelve engines would unleash an apocalyptic amount of antimatter into the air.
The invaders, unconcerned with littering the landscape, lobbed shots on enemy spaceports below them. Nothing penetrated a Roman base’s stout energy dome, but the fire kept anything inside there locked in.
Merrimack proceeded to a northern continent. The mammoth spearhead shape descended over thinly populated ground, sending bulky pad-footed animals running. Flying snakes sprang and glided away in glittery flocks. The battleship sank down gently over an open field, so low the branching antler weed scratched at the force field round Merrimack’s bottom sail.
“Set the roaches free,” Commander Gypsy Dent ordered. Systems created a breach in the ship’s lower force field. Container hatches opened to drop thousands of small mechs—reconnaissance robots—that skittered through the alien weeds toward a Roman spaceport. The mechs were small and moved at a pace which made them indistinguishable from resident insectoid life, and would allow them to penetrate the same kind of shields that allowed personnel to walk through. The official designation was Automated Recon Mech, ARM, and they looked more like beetles, but no one loved them and they were difficult to crush, so they were better known as roaches.
As Merrimack rose, robotic air-to-air gunships launched from the spaceport on the horizon. Waiting for that, Merrimack punched the base through its launch windows with beam fire. Black pillars of smoke spouted from the dome.
Merrimack moved away from the drop site, her scanners looking back to see if anything else came out to stomp on their roaches, which had already dispersed themselves over ten acres.
“Got away with that one,” Cole Darby remarked, waiting in the crowded Lander for the Marines’ turn.
“The first one is free,” said Ranza.
The roaches had been a trial balloon, testing the resistance to objects on the ground. Any reconnaissance the ARMs gathered would be extra.
“Coulda sent us down on that drop,” said Cain, wistful.
“You thought this was a cruise ship, sweet baby?” said Darb.
Merrimack brushed down again, a thousand miles away from the first drop site. Aircraft met her approach this time. Merrimack fired small projectiles at them. The unmanned Roman airplanes went down easily, plowing up the Roman ground.
“Drop horses,” Gypsy Dent ordered.
Merrimack dropped vehicles, small two- or three-man hovercraft. Silver Horses they were called, after some old time cowboy hero who would whistle and his horse would come. The Silver Horses scattered as Merrimack rose into the air.
More Roman aircraft came over the horizon. Left smoking trails going down.
Still nothing was shooting down at Mack from orbit.
“It’s true,” Ian Markham remarked, looking up from his tactical readouts to see the blue sky through a clearport. “Rome is scant on the inward pointing weapons.”
And it made sense. Palatine was one nation. Ground to ground shots were not in the Romans’ home game playbook. They hadn’t had home game since their war of independence a century and a half ago.
And the orbital platforms which Rome built for making space-to-ground assaults were all in Earth’s Solar system right now.
“Enemy aircraft sighted.”
“Erase the birds,” said Gypsy. “Fire at will.”
When the air was clear again of intact Roman craft, Merrimack moved to another drop zone a scant thirty miles from the drop site of the Silver Horses. The space battleship bent low to ground. Her lower sail divided a field of feathery red grasses as tall as trees.
“Drop the dogs,” said Gypsy.
This time Merrimack put troops on the ground—seven hundred and twenty Fleet Marines—in between the clumps of soaring red plumes. Roaches skittered out at their feet in all directions.
“Hang onto your goolies, boys,” said Cain, moving out.
“Kerry Blue, you can hang onto mine.”
“Shut up, Dak.”
Ranza drew her weapon at the soft hiss of something coming in fast through the red plumage. Almost shot her Silver Horse. Merrimack rose away, moved across the continent, clearing the sky of everything in it. She touched sail to drop roaches on a communications tower.
Moved off to a military installation where Roman Legions were stationed. Robot aircraft rose in black clouds around the base. Came down in black hailstorms.
A ring of missile emplacements guarded the site outside the installation’s force field perimenter, so the missile launchers could fire without breaching the base’s shield. Merrimack punched out all the outboard missile launchers, then pounded at the base itself with a few experimental energy blasts. The base was well shielded even at ground level, and nothing got inside.
Tactical took a sounding of the surrounding ground.
Got the plot of the underground cargo tunnels by which equipment was transported into the base. Merrimack dropped bombs into the ground over the top of the tunnels until several sections caved in.
Taking a cue from the Roman attackers at Washington, Merrimack shot beams underneath the Roman installation to loosen the ground. Shook the shielded emplacement like a snow globe. Didn’t think the LEN would be objecting this time.
Merrimack moved on to a Roman training camp. Found it not shielded and not currently occupied. Merrimack left it a crater.
Tactical back-traced the underground tunnels to a central transfer station. Drilled a hole with beam fire to where several tunnels converged. Opened up with the hydrogen hose down the hole.
The space battleship continued her cross continent rampage, hitting every power plant she saw, punched solar collectors and dams. Shot torpedoes into rivers to change their courses. Roared out to sea to mow down wind turbines.
“We have someone’s attention, Captain.”
“About time.” Captain Farragut took the alert in stride. “How many?”
“It’s Gladiator.” “That’s enough. Fire on Gladiator. Continuous fire. And take us back to the party on the roof.”
Merrimack fired up at Gladiator. The beams glanced off Gladiator’s force field in all directions. That was to remind Numa that he did not want to get into a brawl down here.
And Farrgut did not want Numa sniffing around for Merrimack’s dogs. “Keep firing,” said Farragut. “I don’t want a nanosecond to go by that something’s not hitting Gladiator.”
“Aye, sir. With respect, sir, what can he do?”
“He can smother us.”
Gypsy clarified, “He could hook us in his force field.”
“But then if we die, he dies,” said Targeting.
“If that’s what Caesar told him to do, that’s what he’ll do—and Romulus will consider it a better-than-even trade.”
Merrimack ascended into the darkness of space.
“Gladiator is
moving out of range,” Targeting reported. “Far side of the planet, still in atmo.”
“Hail Monitor” Farragut ordered the com tech. And when Mr. Hicks had Monitor on the com, Farragut took up the caller: “Martin, you still down there?”
“That I am, John,” Captain Martin Washington of the Monitor replied. “Numa’s headed your way. I think he means to snuff you in a suicide cocoon.”
“Sounds uncomfortable. Are you on the roof?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Coming up. Thanks for the heads.”
The battle in the vacuum was largely around Palatine’s main power stations. No world ever liked to keep antimatter in atmosphere. The matter-antimatter power plants in orbit fed energy to the planet surface by beam.
Unlike the power plants orbiting Earth, none of the power plants here served neutral nations. Many American energy companies served other countries, and many American energy companies were partly or wholly owned by neutral nations. Rome had not been able to turn out the lights in America. Palatine’s power stations were all fair game.
The energy stations were all well shielded, but the attacking ships didn’t need to destroy them. They need only punt them out of orbit to render them useless.
Rio Grande was embroiled in a slug fest with Trajan, who was putting up a fanatical defense of a power plant. Monitor, rising out of the atmosphere, added a punch at Trajan with a planet killer.
Trajan choked. Her force field wavered, blinked out.
Rio took the power plant for a ride.
Admiral Burk directed another ship, the cruiser Edmonton, which hadn’t yet deployed its Marines, to board Trajan.
Ian Markham at Tactical reported: “Something odd happening out there.”
“Something more specific, please,” said Commander Gypsy Dent, irritated. “There’s a plot out there drawing a lot of Roman fire, and it’s not one of ours.”
“Augustus,” said Farragut just before Tactical cried, “It’s a Striker!”
“Whose side is he on?” said Gypsy.
“Not ours,” said Captain Farragut.
The Striker was a slippery target, evading or destroying any shot directed toward it, U.S. or Roman. A beam shot from the Striker crippled the U.S. cruiser Guadalajara.
Roman ships converged to bang away at the wounded ship.
“Fire at the jackals!” Farragut ordered.
But the Roman ships opened the cruiser up to vacuum.
Monitor slung a hook out to surround Guadalajara, stretching her own force field fearfully thin, and hurtled up to FTL, vanishing from the battlefield.
No one tried to pursue.
Chief Engineer Kit Kittering, watching the Striker on the monitors, observed out loud, “That old Striker doesn’t have any solid ordnance.” Just as the Striker sent a cluster of pencil missiles up the gunports of the U.S. Landing Command Ship Chimney Rock.
“Yes, he does.”
Chimney Rock’s force field flickered out, leaving her naked in space. A single beam sliced her in two. Ships from both sides moved in to save/destroy what was left.
When Augustus had taken the old Striker from Merrimack months ago, its magazines were empty. Augustus had found someplace to reload since then.
The Striker started down into the atmosphere. Farragut immediately barked, “Target the Striker!” He could not let Augustus down there to pick off his ground troops.
“Lost him,” said Tactical.
“How can you lose him in the atmosphere?” Gypsy’s voice came out brittle, as if about to dismiss Markham from the deck.
Targeting came to Tactical’s rescue, “Striker has submerged into the ocean off the coast of Roma Nova. We’re just not very good underwater, sir.”
Gypsy looked to Captain Farragut, astonished. As if only John Farragut could know what Augustus was doing under the sea. Farragut shook his head. “We are not following that cobra into its hole.”
“We should find him and hit him while he’s underwater,” said Kit. “That Striker’s not built for undersea ops.”
“Neither are our weapons,” said Farragut, but not to give up, he ordered, “Send down the V-jocks. Let them take their shot.”
The remote fighter craft launched. The V-jock named Wraith, safe in his compartment within Merrimack, declared that his remotes would win the war.
A sudden blast like a small nova filled the viewports. A concussion rocked the ship. Someone’s antimatter had escaped containment. “Jesus Christmas!”
And another nova immediately after the first.
“Ours?” Farragut demanded.
Tactical responded, “No and yes. Trajan did not want to be boarded.”
“Norris,” Farragut whispered like a prayer. The other nova would have been Edmonton. Captain Norris of the Edmonton had been charged with taking Trajan.
Mr. Hicks on the com reported that Monitor had returned to the battle zone. Monitor had with her the survivors from Guadalajara. There were very few. Captain Washington communicated Guadalajara’s, FTL vector to other ships in the fleet. Just in case Monitor did not survive the battle, someone else would know where to collect the dead later. The wreck of the Guadalajara would not just vanish into history like the Roman Sulla.
Wraith sent his report from the remote control chamber. The remotes had got as far as the water. They submerged where the Striker had gone in, then lost contact. Wraith could not even say what hit them.
Merrimack’s force field lit up with a boom and shudder.
“Shit!” That might have been anyone.
“Striker,” said Tactical. Had not seen him coming. “On the Sixes.”
“The number of the beast,” said Systems.
The Helm was jinking. Another shot landed. The distortion field dispelled most of the shock. The deck still started into a roll, abruptly stopped and did not settle back as the inertial system stabilized.
“He’s after Merrimack now!” said Tactical. Gypsy looked to Farragut, “Does this mean Romulus is dead?”
Farragut shook his head, couldn’t tell. He was taking a message from Admiral Burk: “The Striker is your responsibility, Merrimack. Take it out.”
Farragut heard the subtext in the admiral’s voice: Don’t let the patterner go this time.
Helm was steering a wild random course. And, knowing that his own randomness had a pattern to it, switched hands.
Tactical advised, “I’m counting at least six Roman ships firing on the Striker.”
“Is the Striker returning fire?”
“No, sir. We’re his only target.”
The Helm had run out of hands, so Farragut took a turn driving the boat in a weird scribble path as he spoke, “The only certain shot we have will be up the Striker’s barrel. We need to jam a shot up his nose. Here, take this.”
He gave the helm to Kit. She bobbled and wobbled. “You’re going to jam up a patterner?”
Gypsy took a hand at the helm. Graceful lines with sudden turns. “You know he’s going to do the same thing— jam something up one of our barrels. And Augustus has actually done it before.”
“I remember,” Farragut assured her. “It’s not his Striker. It’s sixty years old and built for someone else. Systems, clam us up!”
The ship’s gun barrels reeled in. Klaus Nordsen at Systems took the ship’s force field to adamant. Merrimack was almost safe, but quite useless in this mode. Roman ships swarmed around the Striker like sharks to blood in the water. Captain Farragut picked up the caller, told the com tech, “Put me on the old Attack Group code.”
“Aye, sir. You’re set to resonate, sir.”
Farragut opened the com and spoke: “Augustus. Looks like a one-sided friendship out there.” He did not identify himself. Did not need to. “Why do your friends want you that dead?”
The familiar laconic voice on the com returned: “There’s money in it.”
Romulus had put a bounty on the patterner’s head.
In space there is no up and down, but the Striker’s orient
ation in space was the same as Mack’s, as if the two were standing on the same floor facing each other.
With the com on mute, Farragut spoke aside to Gypsy, “Get a line up his cannon barrel When you’ve got it, make a window and take him out. Make it happen.” And on the com, Farragut started up a chat, “Augustus, you’re fighting for an evil government that wants you dead. Do you see anything wrong with that?”
“Got a line up my barrel yet?”
Farragut’s startled inhalation through his nose was probably audible over the com. Augustus knew what Farragut was doing.
“You couldn’t dissemble your way to a surprise birthday party, John Farragut.” The Striker suddenly jinked wildly, and darted away from the planet.
“Stay with him!” Farragut ordered.
The Striker led Merrimack on a chase that took them around Palatine’s outermost moon. It was a small moon that could sit inside the Gulf of Mexico. Sunlight reflected bright off its face.
Merrimack circled once around. “Where is he?”
“He’s on the far side,” said Tactical. “Mirroring us. Maintaining distance.”
They circled. Merrimack came round to the dark side of the moon. “Stop all progress.”
“Stopping, aye.”
The ship stood still, waiting for Augustus to come around.
He didn’t.
“Where is he?”
“Opposite us.”
Tactical showed no incoming ordnance curving round the moon. No tags. Augustus was waiting too.
“Ready all torpedoes, ready all forward beams, and stand by to open our field and fire everything we’ve got.”
“Torpedoes ready, aye. Beam cannon ready, aye. Standing by, aye.”
The patterner had already destroyed a U.S. cruiser and a U.S. command craft and a hail of Roman missiles. Patterners did not miss.
“Stand by to clear the moon. At my command, take the Mack straight up, open the gunports and hit him straight on.”
Gypsy would not question orders. She arranged all stations to readiness for everything to happen at the captain’s single command.
“Ready, aye. Standing by, aye.”
Gypsy stood aside, hands clasped behind her back, at ease.
