by R. M. Meluch
“Munda!” Caesar strode in smiling. Senator Ventor heeled at Caesar’s flank, clad in a toga that reflected his rank. Caesar and Munda were both simply dressed. They had nothing to prove. “You have something for me.”
“Per your desire, Caesar,” said Munda. “I give you—”
Munda lifted the polished silver lid.
“—Augustus.”
Caesar’s eyes widened despite himself. Ventor, standing a few respectful paces back, craned his head to see around Caesar.
“It’s huge,” said Romulus.
The data receptacle was two inches in diameter, not entirely round because it was not entirely rigid. Its surface was a smooth gray. It was the biggest data storage unit Caesar had ever seen.
“It is a big one,” Munda allowed. “Sixteen exabyte capacity.” Romulus stepped closer. Shied back again on a sudden thought.
“Is it clean?”
“Any cleaner and the data would be erased,” said Munda. “We need the data. But we’re certain this is infected with a lethal virus.”
Romulus shrank away farther, backed into Senator Ventor and stepped on the hem of his toga.
“Lethal to data,” Munda clarified. “A data virus. We are setting up a discrete system in which to analyze the data, entirely isolated from any other system.”
“We know this is infected?” Romulus asked in a voice that clearly said, Why they hell did you bring this in here?
“We cannot afford to assume otherwise, Caesar. Nanites have eaten out the data banks of the Striker, and left no data tracks to be recovered.”
“Nanites.” Caesar looked round as if he could see the infinitesimally small machines crawling. Palace guards at the doors glanced down at their feet. The curiosi did not blink.
“Are they on the loose?” Romulus asked.
“The nanites on the Striker were self-limiting. They executed their tasks, then ceased to function. Then housekeeper nanites erased even those from existence. It was a precision process. Typical of a patterner.”
Romulus put on black kid leather gloves. He had expected to need gloves to keep the data bank pristine. Now it was his hands, not the data bank, which he felt needed the protective barrier. He took a step closer, tentative as a wild animal lured by an offering of food. He peered over the edge of the platter. Glanced up from the silvery black box to Munda’s stone face.
“Are there any nanites in there?”
“We detected no nanoactivity. Does not mean there are no nanites in there. There are nanoparticles all through the patterner’s remains. Nanites kept his body from rejecting the augmentations. Some of his bionanites are trying to keep his remains alive even now.”
Nanotechnology had been known for over four hundred years now. Machines worked faster as their size decreased. Machines with walls one atom thick worked very fast and required miniscule amounts of energy to operate.
The first nanoscale devices counted specific molecules in a chemical sample. The next natural task was to have them identify pathogens in a blood sample. Then to diagnose disease. Then more advanced nanomachines were used to seek out and destroy pathogens in the human body.
The CIA and Imperial Intelligence had come up with less benevolent tasks for them. Nanomachines could modify physical materials at a molecular level. They could be programmed to replicate themselves, or to build or destroy structures one atom at a time.
No one could say what use a malevolent patterner might put them to. “Most of the nanites in Augustus’ body stopped functioning at the patterner’s death,” said Munda. “Most.” Romulus took another step back, snugging his gloves on tighter. He nodded up at Munda. “Touch it.”
Munda shifted, uneasy. “Really?” More uneasily still under Romulus’ blinkless stare. No one was offering Munda gloves. “Caesar?”
The magister’s stone face turned chalky, as if he’d been asked to set himself on fire. Senator Ventor stared. The curiosi were very still. The guards held their breaths. Romulus broke into laughter. “Of course not.” He gave a boyish grin.
Munda did not laugh.
Senator Ventor stepped forward. He had brought polymer gloves with him and he put them on. His hand hovered over the silvery receptacle. “Is it fragile?”
“No. Not at all,” said Munda, but added, “I wouldn’t step on it.” Ventor inhaled. Boldly done, if to be done at all. He closed his hand around the ball and lifted it.
“Has some weight to it,” he said, feeling his hand still intact, no spikes driving into his palm, no explosions, no sudden itches.
“Yes.” Munda was glad enough to be able to let the platter drop to his side.
Sounds of disturbance carried through the monumental wood doors of the chamber. Then the doors themselves parted. Palace guards were challenging a knot of Senators who would not be turned away. They wore their togas with the crimson stripes to impress their rank on Caesar’s minions.
These men were too high-ranking to be manhandled without further word from Caesar. As the doors parted, the guards looked to Caesar, searching for permission to club these men.
Caesar lifted his hand high, beckoned to the intruders like visitors. “Enter.”
The guards let the four Senators through, but closed ranks behind them, blocking the attempted entry of the Senators’ attendants. The guards shut the doors on the attendants with some shoving and scuffling.
Munda’s curiosi took several steps forward from the wall where they had been standing at ease. They crossed their arms now and fixed their basilisk gazes on the Senators in silent warning.
Senators Trogus, Umbrius, Quirinius, and Opsius stalked in with long strides, chests puffed out, eyes and nostrils flaring, mouths twitching in umbrage.
Trogus, leader of this rat pack, shouted, “This is an outrage!”
“It is certainly disrespectful,” Caesar allowed in a civil voice with a whisper of a smile.
Two of the Senators had the sense to be abashed.
Quirinius had, in the days of Caesar Magnus, been considered the third man in the Empire. His rank was now closer to two thousand and fifty-first. Still he was a seemly person. Dignified. Quirinius gave a nod of apology toward Caesar.
Trogus would not be shamed off course. His voice was thin and irritating. “That is the most valuable data reservoir in the Empire! It is not a ball to amuse Caesar! You shall surrender the patterner’s data bank to the Senate immediately!”
“You want it?” said Caesar faintly. He met Ventor’s eyes, tilted his head toward Trogus. Ventor took up the cue, tossed the silvery black box to Senator Trogus.
On reflex, Trogus caught it bare-handed. Was immediately aghast at the thing in his hands. He took note of the gloves on Ventor and Romulus. A tremolo infected Trogus’ voice, “Caesar?”
Umbrius, Quirinius and Opsius drifted backward. The palace guards leaned attentively inward. The curiosi looked curious. They all watched Tragus in silence for several extended, loudly ticking seconds. “Well, there he is,” said Caesar. “The formidable Augustus.”
Senator Tragus tried to recover his dignity and control. His voice came out pitched too high to have any semblance of courage. “Of course any sabotage will be in the data.”
“Yes, we all know that,” Romulus said, impatient. “What you really came here looking for is something to use against me. Augustus’ own version of my father’s testament will be in there.”
Tragus sought the high ground. “What we are really looking for are the Hive harmonics. The menace has returned to Near Space. There are gorgons on Thaleia.”
“And you suppose I am not looking for Hive harmonics? I am not so petty and irresponsible as to use my position for personal spite.”
“Your decisions have been questionable, Caesar, and I have a duty to question them. This data bank belongs to the people of Rome. It is not to be kept by one man or tossed about like a toy!”
An inner door opened. The guards held their stations. This was an intruder not to be denied. She was allowed through
like a swallow through the rafters.
Claudia entered with a swish of silks and billow of patchouli and dark spice.
“Is he here?” she said, her dark exotic eyes alight.
She danced to the center of the knot of men. She faced Tragus. Her fingers lifted with a glitter of emeralds. “So here is the dreaded Augustus.”
“Claudia, don’t—”
Claudia plucked the data receptacle from Tragus’ hand.
“What? This?” She turned her wrist as if holding a faceted bauble to the light. Augustus’ data bank was plain and gray no matter which way she held it.
“It’s harmless,” said Tragus.
Claudia spoke to the black box in silken spite, “Did you see this moment coming, patterner?”
Senator Ventor deftly snatched the data recepticle from Claudia’s fingers before she could decide to punish it.
The Intelligence Magister, Munda, growing agitated watching the valuable data passing hand-to-hand, held up the tray and urged Ventor, “Kindly replace the black box on the tray, Senator. We have a segregated system set up to analyze it and control any data surprises.”
“What? What?”
The sudden screech made everyone start, and Ventor nearly bobbled the silvery ball.
“Why are you here!”
Claudia went rigid, her hands clenched into glittering fists, her eyes staring at air with fear, fury, and hatred. Romulus opened his hands solicitously to his sister. “Claudia?” Claudia shouted at someone not there, “Shut up! Shut up! Go away!”
Caesar’s guards and the Intelligence agentes hastily scanned the chamber for light benders and pinpoint sound packets. They found nothing in the chamber that could be causing false images.
A murmur came from someone, “Seems Banquo’s ghost is in the room.”
Romulus detonated. “I heard that!” He rounded on Senator Umbrius. Caesar commanded his guards, “Slay him!”
Caesar’s guards look alarmed, but started forward, drawing their swords, for honestiores required a sword. Umbrius’ eyes grew huge. The rest of the man visibly shrank. Romulus held up his hand. Said quickly, “I rescind the order. I am enraged is all.” Banquo’s ghost. As if his sister were here confronted by the ghost of someone she had conspired to murder.
Romulus spoke in deadly calm to Umbrius, “You impugned my sister’s honor and I reacted as any man would. But I am not any man, I am your Caesar and you will apologize to me and to my sister.”
Umbrius did, earnestly, on bended knee before Caesar. Claudia was taking backsteps. “Get that thing out of here!” She might have been talking about Umbrius, but she was looking at empty space. “It’s not real!” she screeched. At least part of her knew that. “What do you see, Claudia?” Romulus moved toward her. She whirled on him. “Don’t you dare try to make me sound stupid!”
Romulus flinched back from her rage. He made to put his arms around her. Stopped. His mouth burned. He backed away carefully. Talked soothingly, “Well, Claudia, obviously it has light benders on it. None of us can see it. You need to tell me what is there.”
Munda marked Caesar’s deft wording. Most other people would have said, Tell me what you think you see. Caesar’s Tell me what is there sounded as if he believed her entirely.
But Claudia’s attention was now on her own hands. She tried to rub something off them. She beheld her hands in advancing horror, as if they were covered in something hideous.
Munda covered the data receptacle on the platter and whisked it away, his curiosi in his wake, back to the catacombs of Imperial Intelligence.
25
DON’T MOVE!” ROMAN legionaries bellowed. A lot of them Large boots tromping Cole Darby’s face.
Okay, thought Darb cooperatively. On the ground, not sure if he was lying on his back or his front. Getting the idea his neck was broken. Not moving was not a problem. If the lupes ordered him to move he was screwed. Didn’t feel his own breath from his nostrils against his upper lip and wondered if he was breathing. If not, he ought to be blacking out soon.
Heard grunts of the others. Ranza. Cain. Dak. Carly. Twitch. There was some kicking going on.
Kerry Blue’s cry sounded frightened. “Darb!”
A voice in Latin: “This one’s dead.”
A lupe may have kicked him because Darby’s head rocked slightly against the grass and he felt his cheek move against the dirt.
The pitiful cry, “No!”
I love you, Kerry Blue.
Strange face loomed close to his. No pity there. Very young. Perfect Roman. Cole Darby moved his eyes to tell the face he was not dead.
“He’s alive!” Kerry cried.
The face rose away.
The Latin pronouncement, “No, he’s not.”
Barrel in his ear. Kerry Blue’s screech. The leading edge of a blast.
Claudia cried for days, racked by headaches. Blisters, real ones, appeared on her hands. She scratched at them until her hands were bloody. Specialists tried to block the reception of the nerve endings to her brain, but it didn’t help. As if the itching was not in her hands but all in her head.
She screamed from a stabbing pain in her eye.
Medici sedated her.
More than once she bolted up from what should have been deep sedation to scream: “Pater!”
Attending medici looked up as Caesar Romulus entered Claudia’s room in the private clinic. He had brought fresh flowers.
One of the attendants took the flowers and put them into a vase at Claudia’s bedside.
Claudia was unconscious, twitching, moving, her face pale against the pillow, her thick eyelashes quivering, noises coming from her throat.
“You cut off her hair,” said Romulus, shocked. It brought to mind Calli Carmel, and he had to wonder if Calli were not behind this monstrous attack.
“She was tearing at it,” said a medicus. “We have it here.” She indicated a side table where Claudia’s long dark locks lay cleaned, combed, and bagged next to her emeralds. Hair was easily reattached, and Claudia looked in no state to be missing it.
Her hands were covered in gauze, her wrists bound in soft restraints at her side. “She has been calling for your father, Caesar,” a medical attendant advised, insinuation in his voice.
“She is calling God, you idiot,” said Romulus.
Chastised, the attendant said, “She is in terrible pain.”
“Then stop the pain! What is wrong with you?”
The senior medicus, Pontius Placidus, moved in, took over. “We have shut off the neural pathways from the nerve endings to her brain, Caesar. We cannot stop the pain. The nanites are inside her brain.”
“Nanites!” Caesar recoiled. “From the patterner’s black box?”
“Yes, Caesar.”
“Other people have touched the black box with their bare hands,” said Romulus. “Why isn’t Trogus scratching his hands off?”
“The nanites are programmed to activate upon a trigger event.”
“What trigger?”
Pontius Placidus said quietly, “Caesar, may we talk in private?” and showed Caesar to a door. Opened it for him and let Romulus precede him through it to the kind of room where they tell you, “I’m so sorry.”
The room was chock-full of potted plants, crowded with life, green and flowering. Tiny jewel birds uttered soft fluttering notes, not their characteristic hard banging chirps. The light through the false windows was soft as Earthlight. The chairs were overstuffed to hug you when you sat in one. The hearth held an eternal flame.
Romulus refused the chair. He was dressed all in black, even to his gloves, which had become part of his usual garb. He held his arms crossed so hard that he was hugging himself. Struggled not to bite the hand that tried to heal. He just wanted to execute the lot of these quacks and bring in someone competent.
Pontius Placidus was the best neurologist in the Empire.
“There are several specialized types of nanomachines at work here,” Pontius Placidus explained. “The
syndrome is activated by a combination trigger. The recognition molecules react with a specific target biologic. In this case the recognition molecules are reacting to a near DN A match to Magnus. A filial match.”
“Augustus targeted me,” Romulus translated.
The medicus seemed to hedge. Continued, “DNA is not enough. It is a combination trigger. Contact with DN A having filial commonality with Magnus is the first thing the nanite looks for. That contact triggers the nanite to construct a second set of recognition molecules, which are dispatched to the hippocampus and the frontal lobe to troll for electrical pulse patterns within the central nervous system that equate to patricidal memory and guilt.”
“Stop!” Caesar cried. “You cannot possibly read a mind from electrical pulses.”
“In a limited sense, yes, we can,” said Placidus. “A patricidal experience alters the map of the human brain. Crime leaves physical tracks. The recognition molecules look for the shape of a memory. Killing one’s father is a major event. The experience leaves an impression—a characteristic brain pattern.”
“The nanite cannot have found that in my sister,” Romulus declared.
“It thinks it did,” the medicus said diplomatically. “That event triggers the creation of yet another recognition molecule which looks for a guilt reaction associated with the memory. Guilt dwells in the frontal lobe—guilt as in the fear of being caught. The nanites do not look for remorse, which is a separate pattern. Finding a filial match for Magnus’ DNA, patricidal memory, and guilt, the nanites then construct other nanites to inject information into the brain. They bring the patricidal memory to the fore cortex and create visual, auditory, and olfactory electrical pulses. Electromagnetic pulses trigger the release of the brain’s own neurotransmitters to create a synthetic reality—pain, visions, stench, itching. Other nanites create the physical blisters.”
“You are implying that my sister is guilty of something and I know that is not true. She is high-spirited and self-indulgent. That is all. Very well, she is a brat. I know that. Augustus was a murderous renegade. He killed our father and tried to divert his own guilt to a high, high target. Augustus and Gaius Americanus and the American Callista Carmel are all in this.”
