by R. M. Meluch
John Farragut was a straight shooter.
Augustus knew that.
Gypsy could only obey. Mentally she said good-bye to her husband. Her sons. She and the proud ship were about to die in this showdown.
Captain John Farragut and Augustus out in the street, guns ready, waiting for one to say Draw.
“Fire.”
PART THREE
The Janus Gate
21
BRIGHTNESS FILLED ALL PORTS, overloaded all the monitors, bright as if plunging into the sun, with a thunderclap and roar, shudder, and crackling hiss. Saw it. Heard it. Which meant, We’re still here! A shout from Targeting: “Got him!” Specialists jumped to their feet at their stations.
“Yeah!”
Brightness dying away, the main monitor showed the Striker, spinning in space, its force field flickering. Commander Gypsy Dent shouted orders over the noise. “Targeting! Tag the Striker!”
Dead. Augustus had to be dead. But the U.S. could not let the Striker or the contents of Augustus’ data bank fall into Roman hands.
“Fire Control! Stand by to fire torpedo on the Striker!” Gladiator’s great hulk moved in between Merrimack and the Striker. Targeting: “Tags—No good! I—I’ve tagged Gladiator.” “Fire!” said Gypsy, not to leave money on the table.
“Fire on Gladiator Targeting. Get a tag on that Striker!” Lights of Merrimack’s torpedo detonations flared against Gladiator to no effect other than the lights. Targeting reported, “I have tags on Gladiator again. Gladiator has the Striker inside a hook.” The Romans wanted Augustus’ machine memory. Gypsy would not give it to them.
“Fire on Gladiator. Continuous fire.”
From somewhere in the melee around the planet a Roman was spitting out killer bots like hornets from a nest, and they were swarming here to the outer moon. Merrimack threw off a wall of energy to detonate a mass of them short of the ship.
“Targeting. Get a firing solution on the thinnest part of Gladiator’s hook.”
“Targeting, aye. Solution acquired, aye.”
“Fire Control. Fire all beams.”
“Firing, aye.”
The tendril of energy that connected Gladiator to the captive Striker lost integrity.
“Hook the Striker!”
But too quickly, a flight of Roman fighters had swarmed in, surrounded the Striker in a tight box formation, and locked their force fields together into a solid shell. The tortoise was an old Roman tactic.
Captain Farragut was peripherally aware of the rest of the battle around the planet, of a fireball in Palatine’s atmosphere. Someone had slid into the planet’s gravity well. Romans were responding. It was their planet. They could not let any ship’s antimatter containment fail in their atmosphere.
Farragut said, “I want an ID on that ship. Friend or foe?” A Roman salvage craft was rising from the ground to meet the falling wreck.
“Foe,” said Tactical. “Roman.”
Captain Farragut had Mr. Hicks open a tight beam communication link with Captain Dallas McDaniels of Rio Grande. “Need a favor, compadre.”
“Name it, John, old son.”
“Hook the tortoise. Keep a drag on it. I don’t want the lupes escaping to FTL with the Striker.”
Immediately an energy hook shot out from Rio Grande and lassoed the Roman tortoise formation. It was an energy loop instead of the sort of hook that takes the target object within the ship’s force field. Not as secure a hold, but a lot safer in case the target decided to blow itself up.
The tortoise dragged Rio Grande like an anchor.
“Done,” said Captain McDaniels. “What do you want me to do with this slow tortoise now?”
“Try to angle him away from anyone friendly. Keep a hold on him, until I tell you, then drop him and run for your life.”
“John, old son, do you mean to tell me you’re about to throw that dead Roman ship down there at me?”
There was an imminent matter/antimatter explosion coming up from the planet Palatine in the body of the crippled Roman ship.
“Yes, sir.”
“Send it,” said Captain McDaniels.
Captain Farragut looked to Commander Dent. “Got that?”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Gypsy quickly issued orders to the various stations to set up the delivery of the ship-bomb to the target Roman tortoise.
The actions and calculations, based on ever shifting input, would be too complex and come in too fast for voice commands to execute the firing sequence. The decision algorithms and resultant action triggers were loaded into the fire control program.
Merrimack moved in close to the planet as the Roman salvage craft seized the falling spaceship and swung it spaceward at better than escape velocity.
The wreck came flying back into vacuum. Merrimack hit the Roman wreck with a repulsive force to redirect it toward the Striker. Rio dropped its hold on the Roman tortoise and sprinted away.
The tortoise, abruptly free of Rio’s drag, hurtled away in the opposite direction—on an intercept course with the wreck which was going rapidly critical.
The redirection pulse had been enough to shake the last coherence from the antimatter containment system of the ruined craft. Antimatter met matter short of interception with the tortoise. Detonated.
“Miss!”Tactical cried.
“Close enough,” said Targeting.
The pure white nova expanded and kept traveling into the assembled ships of the Roman tortoise. The blast shook the box formation of Roman fighters. Their combined force field wavered. “Fire on the tortoise!” Gypsy ordered, and missiles arrowed into the unstable formation.
The tortoise shell broke apart. The Roman fighter ships staggered, naked to the vacuum. Beams from Rio Grande picked them off.
“Lasso Striker!” Farragut ordered. He did not want to bring the Striker inside Merrimack’s own protective field in a hook. There was no telling what the tug-of-war over the Striker’s carcass had done to its own magnetic containment fields. Farragut would not risk Merrimack swallowing an antimatter blast from the Striker.
“Got him!” Engineering reported. “Oh, hell, Numa’s going to sit on us,” said Farragut. “Helm, take us somewhere.”
The Roman Legion carrier Horatius moved in to cut across the hook, but Helm changed course, avoiding the cross.
“Can we go FTL and still hold a lasso hook?” Farragut asked anyone who might have an answer. “Chances are against it,” Kit Kittering replied. “We’re more likely to drop the Striker.”
“We don’t dare reel him in, and Rome’s not fixin’ to let us keep him,” said Farragut. He made the decision he had been avoiding. “Scuttle the Striker.”
Gypsy immediately ordered, “Tag the Striker.”
“Tagging Striker, aye. Striker tagged, aye.”
“Launch torpedo.”
“Launching torpedo, aye.”
The torpedo screeched out from its tube below decks—detonated. No pronouncement came from Tactical. Just a gasp. “Hit?” Gypsy inquired. “No!” Tactical cried, just now making sense of his readings. “Gladiator intercepted the torpedo! He’s got a hook on the Striker. A whole hook.”
“Hook over hook,” Farragut ordered.
Merrimack’s energy hook clapped over the top of Gladiator’s, like a fist over a fist, and pulled. “Let’s arm wrestle.”
Merrimack’s hook was not solid. The secondary grip kept threatening to slip.
“Oh, for Jesus.” Farragut got on the fleet com: “Any ship! Any ship. This is Merrimack. Gladiator is stretched! Hit him!”
Admiral Burk returned on the com, “Not your fleet, Captain Farragut.”
Farragut leaned straight-armed over the com. Turned his head, appalled and amazed. Met Gypsy’s brown eyes. She spoke low, “Missing Calli, sir?”
He nodded. “Real bad.” If Cal were here, she wouldn’t need asking to kick Numa around. But Rio was here. Captain Dallas McDaniels slammed a planet killer up Gladiator’s stern. Which should have done something but didn’t. Numa had
been braced for the blow. Beam bursts flashing on Mack’s force field were from the Legion carrier Horatius.
Gladiator got a firm hold on the Striker, yanked.
“Lost hook!”
Targeting spoke, “Sure hope Augustus has that Striker on self-destruct mode, because there he goes.” The Striker, with whatever was left of Augustus, disappeared inside Gladiator’s dark maw. Admiral Burk sounded the order for the fleet to retreat to FTL.
22
U.S. SPACECRAFT HAD VANISHED from the Lambda Coronae Australis solar system. The lights were on in the capital city of Roma Nova. The skies were clear, the city untouched.
“Did our Legions crush their ground troops?” Caesar Romulus asked, coming up from the city bunker with a throng of people after him. He wore a crown of bright paper loops on his dark curls. The children of Roma Nova had taken to decorating him down in the shelter.
“There were no enemy ground troops, Caesar,” a military adviser informed him. “No one can win a war without ground troops,” said Caesar, incredulous. “They cannot put troops down without air-space superiority and they don’t have it.”
“The United States has been denied!” Romulus pronounced to the delighted throng around him. They escorted him from the city bunker to the palace.
Inside the palace, one of Caesar’s most devoted attendants appeared distraught. The older man looked up and beheld Romulus as if beholding great Caesar’s ghost.
“Caesar!” Atticus cried in shock and relief. “I looked inside your bunker! I feared—” His hands shook in the presence of a miracle. As if Romulus had returned from the dead. The man’s knees buckled under him, as he was crushed with relief, in tears and groveling for joy.
Adoration was good, but this was embarrassing and overdone.
Roma Nova had not been hit, This sort of shock at Caesar’s survival was a bit theatrical. Romulus pushed Atticus away with his foot. “I’m fine. Get up.”
“I saw your bunker—”
“I wasn’t there,” Caesar said, annoyed. “I wanted to be with my people.”
Romulus shed his fawning servant at the door to his informal business office. An Intelligence officer waited there. A more seemly sort of man, this one saluted, fist to chest. “Caesar.”
Romulus did not greet him. Couldn’t remember his name. “Where is Augustus?” Caesar demanded.
“Dead, Caesar. Inside the Striker.”
“Where is the Striker?”
“In our possession.”
Romulus inhaled, drinking in the sweet bitterness of the moment. “So then, do you have something for me?” Romulus had demanded Augustus’ head on a platter. “In quarantine, Caesar. There is a lot of nanoactivity in the Striker. The men are being cautious. I understand they will be making up a plate for you when it’s safe.”
“Wise.” Caesar controlled his impatience. “I thank you.”
He turned a control to open the windows.
Romulus’ satisfaction was colored by voices of people in the street. They were not calling Romulus. They were calling Numa Pompeii. Romulus crossed to a tall window, pulled back the scarlet curtain. Pompeii colors were out in force—bronze and steel -through the streets.
Numa Pompeii was the hero of the hour. Numa Pompeii had defeated the renegade patterner. Numa Pompeii had battled back Merrimack and set the U.S. fleet to rout.
“Come with me,” Caesar bade the Intelligence officer.
Caesar Romulus found Numa Pompeii waiting in Caesar’s audience hall, preening. None of the holoimages were powered up, so the chamber appeared as it truly was, a stately space, its high ceiling held up by pillars, its walls painted with frescoes of serene landscapes, mountains and vineyards. There were no storm clouds. No lightning.
“Pompeii!” Romulus entered at a jaunty strut, not to show the least sign of weakness in front of the massif that was General Numa Pompeii.
The big man’s smile looked smug, his salute felt ironic.
Romulus told him, “I suppose you’ll be expecting another Triumph for this.” And Caesar quickly stepped up to his dais, to get his head above Pompeii’s.
Numa Pompeii shrugged a great shoulder. “The people seem to expect it.”
“Yes, the people.” Those fickle people.
“But I don’t,” Numa continued.
“How modest of you,” said Romulus, wondering if he ought not to demand a DNA check on this person.
“Because the Yanks have not retreated,” said Numa. “Not really. They have only gone FTL. They are minutes away.”
“You have seen this?”
“Some things you know without seeing. I have seen that half the world is in blackout. There are areas without public water.”
“Yet our defenses here held!” Romulus opened his arms to his light-filled palace and the happy people outside who did not seem to be wanting for water.
“Roma Nova held because Roma Nova was not hit,” said Numa. “The primary power plant for this continent was destroyed. You are running off your local backups now. All the orbital power stations are off-line. We’ve lost several spaceports and underground terminals, and all the communications satellites. Foreign tourists and business travelers are clamoring to get out. I will have a full report for you when all the damage assessments are in, Caesar.” Numa strode for the doors, turned, and added as if in afterthought, “But Augustus really is dead this time.”
Romulus brightened. “You’ve seen him?”
Numa Pompeii nodded down.
Romulus snapped his fingers at the Intelligence officer.
“I want those remains verified.”
“It shall be done, Caesar,” the Intelligence officer inclined a bow.
Numa Pompeii left the presence at a swagger, threw wide the tall doors of the palace. Let in the chants from outside: “NU MA! NU MA! NU MA! “
After the third servant gawked at Romulus with an expression of utter shock that could have nothing to do with his paper crown, Romulus ventured down to his bunker alone.
The imperial bunker was a large warren of rooms like a small palace, complete with bedchamber, servants’ quarters, kitchen, and throne room.
He found the small hole that had been burned through miles of dirt, through the bunker’s massive concrete stone and concrete foundation, up through the seat of Caesar’s throne and out through the back of the throne at head level.
A shot. A Striker shot. From outside. From under the sea. Romulus started to shake. He crouched, dizzy, glad he was alone.
Oh, shit. Oh, crap.
A patterner’s shot, clean through all the palace defenses into his place of safety, and twice through his throne.
That would have been my head! He shot at my head!
He sat on the oriental carpet. Brought his breathing under control. Recovering.
Stared at the hole.
His breaths came deep with bitter defiance and triumph.
You missed. YOU MISSED!
He allowed himself a laugh. It sounded maniacal even to his ears, but he was alone and he had to laugh. You’re dead, damn you, patterner, and you missed!
The invasion fleet lurked just beyond the orbit of the Wolf Star’s companion star. All the U.S. troop carriers were out here too, waiting their turn.
Signals from a plethora of roaches on the planet surface did not indicate that Rome was aware that the Fleet had set a couple thousand Marines down on Palatine. The guerrilla strikes could go forward.
Ships of neutral nations were rising from Rome’s civilian ports. Members of the League of Earth Nations—Italian, Chinese, Brazilian ships—as well as alien ships.
No ships were coming in at the moment, though the Fleet kept watch for the possible approach of Colonial reinforcements. The Roman Empire was vast. But surveillance had yet to indicate that the capital world had called for help from its hundreds of colonies, except for nearby Thaleia. Those ships would never reach Palatine.
Merrimack felt big and empty without her Marines.
The
ship smelled like popcorn. The captain and off-duty crew assembled in the maintenance hangar to watch the resonant broadcast from Earth. The news included a Presidential address—or the News from the Continental Shelf, as Sampson Reed was known, in reference to his vast chin. Farragut had ordered popcorn brought in from the galley for his crew.
Reed’s speech was largely a justification of the attack on Palatine. He spent a lot of verbiage trying to appease the League of Earth Nations, which apparently was furious that it had no warning of the attack, as many League nations had people doing business on Palatine.
“No warning!” someone in the maintenance hangar yelled at the video. “What does the League think a declaration of war is!”
Someone else: “They wanted us to give them the date of our surprise attack.”
“Oh. Got it.”
When the President of the LEN came on video, the audience in the space battleship’s hangar yelled at the image and threw popcorn through him.
“If you can’t stand the bombs, stay off of Palatine!”
The U.S. Secretary of Defense got a cheer when he gave warning to the LEN not to send ships to Palatine because they would be turned away. Those League ships that were already on Palatine could leave, but don’t try to come in. The US. would not be responsible for whatever happened to any ships that got through.
Then they got to see Caesar on national broadcast. Rome was calling the battle a victory.
Jeers and catcalls drowned out much of Romulus’ speech. The ship’s dogs were running through the video images picking up all the thrown popcorn.
Farragut studied the image of Romulus.
It looked like Romulus. Moved like Romulus. Spoke like Romulus—not that Farragut could hear much of what he was saying over his crew’s enthusiastic abuse. This Romulus did not have the subtle flaws of an automaton. It was not an imposter. It was far too Romulus. Alive.
Romulus was alive. And Augustus was dead.
This is not right.
It had taken a while for a sense of reality to catch up with Farragut. I killed Augustus.
After the news show, Captain Farragut returned to the command deck. His arrival startled the Officer of the Watch, Lieutenant Hamilton and the rest of the Hamster Watch crew. “Something wrong, Captain?”
