by R. M. Meluch
“Gaius!” Open flew the door. “Gaius! I would be no kind of man if I did not! Come in! Come in.”
“You are harboring a fugitive,” Gaius warned, crossing the threshold. “And honored and proud to do so!” Quirinius shut the door. “Where have you been?”
“Locked in a place that does not exist.”
On hearing a sound from outside, Quirinius moved quickly to a rear window to peer out, and Gaius asked, “Is your house under watch?”
“No,” said Quirinius, seeing nothing. “I could wish it were. I am troubled by vandals. They steal my lambs, and I don’t know what has become of my dog.”
Quirinius offered his guest a chance to clean up, but Gaius said, “If you can stand my stench a while longer, can we speak first?”
“Yes, yes.” Quirinius beckoned him to the courtyard. He did not fear satellite surveillance. Could thank the Americans for that.
A colonnade enclosed a private garden. Vines twined up the columns. A mosaic of dolphins swam in the fountain at the center of the courtyard. A stone table and comfortable chairs sat on a circle of polished terra-cotta tiles.
A human slave brought refreshments. Quirinius had no automatons. He never cared for false people. He told the girl to prepare a bath, fresh clothes, and a bedchamber for his guest.
Then Gaius and Quirinius listened in horror to each other’s tales, tales of deeds within the prison, and worse without.
Quirinius had not thought he could be more disgusted with Romulus. “I would say that Caesar is insane except that he appears to have complete command of all his faculties. I can only conclude that he is evil.”
Quirinius had no idea there were any Americans in Roman captivity other than the famed Adamas, which was revolting enough. Quirinius had no idea that the American POWs had escaped—twice now—and there had been no public warning. The cover-up was abominable.
“Half the world is still dark. The Americans drop out of FTL at will and snipe at our repairs as soon as we are ready to go live again. We have citizens boiling water—boiling water in this century, because we cannot provide purification. We have lost surveillance on our colonies. And Caesar plays his games.”
“Is that truly Caesar?” Gaius asked.
The question jolted Quirinius. “Why? Why ask?”
“I have heard the gladiators complain that they don’t fight before Caesar. Why doesn’t Caesar witness his own games? Has he been involved in affairs of state?”
“He has not come to the Curia,” said Quirinius. “But he does introduce the games.”
“Does he?” said Gaius.
Quirinius sat back, reviewing his recent memories of Caesar. Caesar appeared only briefly at the start of the games, reciting formal declarations before ceding his seat to a young woman. Now that Quirinius thought about it, an automaton could do that much convincingly.
Quirinius rose and went inside to his home office. He opened up vid com to the Imperial Palace and demanded an audience with Caesar.
The major domus refused him, informing Quirinius that he was on a list of those forbidden from entering the palace. Quirinius demanded a video audience instead. “Unless I am forbidden to look upon the visage.” He meant it as sarcasm, but that demand was denied without explanation.
Quirinius shut off his vid com. Looked up at Gaius, who had been listening from behind the camera. Gaius commented, “This begins to smell worse than I do.”
Quirinius said, “Perhaps I am less than wise making these inquiries from my home. And I think now I should not use the com to inform my lady wife that we have a houseguest. I am going out. I shall leave you in the care of my slave. Anything you want, ask or help yourself. This is your house.”
Gaius nodded his gratitude.
Quirinius put on his Senatorial toga. He instructed the slave to inform the lady Ludmillia face-to-face that they had company.
Quirinius tracked down the identity of one of the young ladies who filled in for Caesar at the games. He located the woman herself, and accosted her coming out of a dressmaker’s shop.
Because Quirinius was a Senator of some rank the woman welcomed the attention and answered all his questions.
Of the man who appeared at the games and gave his seat to her, she confided in a conspiratorial whisper, “That is not really Caesar.” She put her finger to her lips and winked.
Quirinius nodded that her secret was safe with him, while near bursting with outrage. Caesar was expected at the games if he were in Rome. How dare he stage this barbaric circus and not attend in person? The man forgot that he was not an autocrat; he was servant of the People.
“Where is Caesar?” Quirinius tried to sound casual asking that one.
The young woman shrugged, jingling her new earrings.
The question had been a long shot. Of course she would not know. Upon returning home, Quirinius found Gaius shaved, washed, dressed in clean clothes, and having coffee in the courtyard with Ludmillia.
Ludmillia rose to kiss her husband, then sat back down to hear what Quirinius had learned in the city. Quirinius had few secrets from his wife and did not try to exclude her. She was safer knowing what he was about.
Quirinius reported that he could gather no verifiable sighting of Caesar within the last several days. And that the man who was introducing the games was not Caesar, and was not even a man.
Ludmillia speculated, “It is possible that Romulus has fallen to Claudia’s malady?”
“What is Claudia’s malady?” Gaius asked.
Quirinius sat forward, appalled. “Have they told you nothing, Gaius?”
“I have been in a cage beneath the Coliseum. I heard gladiators’ gossip. The Americans are very careful to speak nothing of importance, not that anyone can hear.”
Ludmiliia explained that Claudia was in intense pain and calling for her father. Her sickness started after she had touched something of the patterner Augustus.
“I’m not sure if she is calling her father,” said Quirinius. “I saw the woman, and that cry sounded like fear. Her pain and her delusions are being driven by nanites from the patterner. The data receptacle inside Augustus’ head was infected with nanites.”
Gaius had not even known Augustus was dead, killed by John Farragut in the first siege of Palatine. Gaius at least knew that Palatine was under attack. He had gathered that from the prisoners under the Coliseum.
Gaius said, “If that is not Caesar opening the games, then who is sending out the replica of Caesar and who is running Rome?”
“It must be Romulus, from wherever he is,” said Quirinius. “There is no one who could or would use Romulus as a front.”
“I concur,” said Gaius.
“Romulus is up to something,” said Quirinius. “Something more, I should say.”
“But where is he?” said Gaius. “Maybe he is visiting the ravaged cities on the dark side of the world, giving solace and succor to the victims,” said Ludmillia. Quirinius touched her hand, appreciating the irony, but he could not laugh. Quirinius went out again, this time to pay a call on Romulus’ comrade in the Senate, Senator Ventor.
Ventor did not admit his visitor into his house. Did not even let him within the perimeter of the heavily monitored grounds. So right there at the ornamental front gate, Quirinius asked Ventor when last he had seen Caesar.
“Scheming, Quirinius?” Ventor asked back. “Just tell me that the holder of your leash is in Rome,” Qurinius challenged.
The question seemed to surprise Ventor, and he did not answer, which left Quirinius to wonder if the silence came from Ventor not knowing the answer, or was it because Caesar was not in Rome?
More direct still, Quirinius demanded, “Where is Caesar?”
A twitch moved the corner of Ventor’s eyelid. Ventor did not answer. He turned his back on his caller and boarded an elevated carriage to carry him back up the long drive to his house.
Quirinius could read that answer clearly.
Ventor didn’t know.
After mu
ch internal doubt and debate, Munda’s successor as head of Imperial Intelligence sent a resonant signal on Caesar’s private harmonic.
The new magister had been instructed not to make contact except in cases of dire importance. In his message, the magister stated only, “Gaius Americanus escaped.”
Important enough. Caesar did not rebuke him for the contact, and responded, “Was he shot?”
“No, Caesar. Senator Americanus successfully escaped. With an American group of prisoners of war and several violent criminals.”
“Well, now he is obviously a traitor,” Caesar sent back. “Have Gaius Americanus shot on sight.”
———
TR Steele took point. He moved through the forest at night. Three moons in various phases added light to the faint glow from the city below. His eyes had grown accustomed to the dark, so he spotted the figure ahead on the rise—a female silhouette in tunic and boots framed between trees against the sky of midnight blue.
Steele stopped. He blinked at the vision of exactly what he wanted to see. Was this Roman bait set out for him? What Roman could know the one thing TR Steele wanted to see more than anything in the universe?
He wanted too badly to believe his eyes, so he didn’t dare. Yet he knew that loose rangy build, those wide shoulders for a woman. He recognized the way she moved when she shook out her hair, the way she jerked her head back to bat away a bug in her face. That was not an automaton. That was nothing that could be duplicated by PanGalactic or anyone else.
The figure suddenly froze, like a deer hearing a twig snap, even though Steele hadn’t made a sound.
He had seen that wary stance from her many times on Hive watch. Her right hand had frozen in the act of reaching for her sword, which wasn’t at her side now.
Steele cupped his hands round his mouth and whispered, “Blue. Kerry Blue!” She didn’t move. Steele slowly emerged from the underbrush so she might see him. The silhouette stayed mapped against the night sky like a still photograph, immobile. A tremor rippled the image. And suddenly she dropped out of her stance, hurtling down the incline at a twig-snapping, leaf-crushing run.
Steele caught her jumping into his arms.
Her arms, her legs wrapped round him tight.
He held her hard, trying not to crush her. His hands found every part of her. He tangled his fingers in her wet hair. She had bathed in a stream; her skin was damp and a little chilled. He felt her heart pounding close to his. Her life in his arms. He kissed her neck, her hair, her ear, her face. Held her head, and kissed her mouth with a hunger deeper than the need for water or air.
At last he came up from the kiss, crushed his face against the side of her head, and whispered with difficulty, like requesting she remove something vital from his chest, “Let go of me, Marine.”
She lowered her feet to the ground, pulled back to look at him in the dark, her eyes half-drowned with happy tears, smiling giddily. She touched him several times with her palms, just to make sure he was really really here and hadn’t vanished.
“How many of you are there?” he whispered.
“Eight,” she said. “We’re eight. Everybody.”
AO eight of the Marines who escaped on the night he was shot still lived. He thanked God again.
“I have ten,” Steele told her. “I’m bringing them. Tell yours not to shoot us.”
“We don’t have guns,” she whispered. “The Roman crap we got don’t work for us.”
He seized her head, kissed her fiercely, and let her go.
Kerry dashed up the rise to tell the others.
Steele went back to get his team.
At the approach of Steele’s group, Kerry Blue’s group hid themselves behind trees. Carly grabbed Kerry and dragged her behind an uprooted tree with her. Scolded, “How could you bring them! They’re Roman fakes! That can’t be Steele! He’s dead!”
“He’s real,” said Kerry. “Oh bitch, babe, you gotta trust me on this.”
Carly shook her head wide, pitying. “Chica, chica—”
Cain Salvador stepped out of hiding, making himself a clear target for whatever approached. “I have to believe Kerry on this one.” He strode down to meet Colonel Steele. Saluted, “Sir!”
“As you were, Marine.”
“But you died!” Carly called from behind her tree. “Sir.”
“Twice!” Ranza called back, flanking Steele. “He died twice.”
Steele ordered the two groups of Marines to ask each other personal questions, the answers to which the Romans could not know. His men needed to trust each other.
A lot of questions were exchanged, with quite a lot of laughter at things they dredged up to establish their identities.
Carly asked Kerry, “How’d you know Steele was alive?”
Kerry screwed up her face at her. “Carly! I been with you the whole time. Why you asking me a question?”
“I just want to know how you knew,” said Carly.
Carly hadn’t been at the knee wall when the colonel had been shot during their escape. But Twitch had told her about Kerry’s anguished scream.
Thomas.
Carly hadn’t known TR Steele’s name was Thomas. Hadn’t seen him lock gazes with Cain Salvador at the end and order Cain to get Kerry out of there.
Okay, so Kerry fell in love stupid. And Steele even stupider back. Didn’t explain how Kerry Blue, who saw him dying, knew he was alive. “So how’d you know?”
“I got no idea how.” Kerry shook her head. “He just had to be.”
Colonel Steele nodded to Flight Sergeant Cain Salvador. His voice dropped down a choked octave. “Good job, Salvador.”
Cain had kept Kerry Blue alive. Steele’s gratitude was profound, suffused with an intensity that could not be faked ever. The embarrassment, the depth of raw emotion, the trust.
Weird having charge of your CO’s girlfriend, who was also your comrade-in-arms. Awkward. That’s why there were rules against this kind of skat.
Yet the difference here was the difference between Hey soldier, cover my ass while I shoot off some unauthorized ordnance, and an order spoken with his dying breath to protect the woman he loved. No matter that he was not allowed to love her. There was no distinction in the military code of conduct, but the difference on the human level was huge and definite. Unwritten, understood, and recognized when it was thrust upon you as something you must do, a pact from man to man. And you accept it. Because you’re human.
Cain shrugged as if it were no big deal. This had probably been a Neolithic ritual. The shrug to say it was nothing, which really meant, Thank you for admitting that you put a hell of a load on me and I went off grid for you.
Sudden harsh white lights fell on all of them from above. Threw hard black tree shadows out on the ground. Illuminated more figures among the surrounding trees. A loud voice from behind the light commanded in Latin: “Do not move.” Oh, hell, not again.
Civilian space traffic into Western Europe had been on an alarming increase for months. Italy got the bulk of it. Italy was not at war with Palatine, either as a nation for herself, or as a member of the League of Earth Nations. At first the Italian authorities did not object to civilians of the Empire of Rome visiting their country. But they did not mean to invite quite this many Romans.
And did not seem to be able to stop them. Italy, France, Spain, Portugal, Morocco and Algeria had huge numbers of Roman visitors.
Captain Carme! on board Wolfhound, orbiting Earth with the home guard, signaled Jupiter Control regarding a new raft of Italians. “Are we sure these are all civilians?”
“We are sure there are enough Italian citizens on board those ships that we can’t shoot at them.”
And because the ships were not attempting to land in the United States, Calli could not buzz them away from entering Earth’s atmosphere.
Italy would not authorize the U.S. military to come in on the ground to repel their excess visitors, much less allow them to drop any ordnance on Italian soil.
Most
of the visitors did not have proper admittance documents. They were obviously Roman. They spoke flawless Italian or French or Portuguese or Spanish or Arabic depending on the country they visited. Immigration was not inclined to incarcerate masses of orderly people. The visitors gently bypassed immigration. Italy did not authorize the use of force against them, and the immigration officials did not attempt to make any arrests. The Romans were breaking immigration law, but they were well dressed, friendly, said hello, and brought nice gifts. Colonial wine was very fine, and a confection that rivaled chocolate for divinity was a nice gift.
The visitors submitted to searches. They carried no weapons, they had adequate currency, did not look as if they would be a burden, and there were just too many of them and not enough reason to get belligerent with them.
Wolfhound could only watch all those wolves coming in among the lambs.
“That’s cheating,” said Red Dorset at the com station.
“You tell ‘em,” said Tactical. “Bet you’ll really hurt their little feelings with that one.”
The Romans had staged a mass Exodus from Earth a century and a half ago. “Is this the Eisodos?” Red wondered out loud.
Tactical straightened up at his station, yelped, “You mean they’re all coming back?”
Red Dorset passed a message from Jupiter Control to Captain Carmel. Per instructions from Captain John Farragut a week ago, Jupiter Control reported the approach of an Italian ship bearing Italian colors, Italian ID, and a passenger manifest of children.
Calli ordered Red Dorset to contact his buddy Guglielmo in Italy to recheck the ship’s identity while she took Wolfhound closer for a look at the target.
Merrimack was in Palatine’s atmosphere, making decoy drops on the planet’s surface. Any time Merrimack dropped to sublight speed she had all the Roman ships’ attention. The Romans knew by now that Merrimack was often used as a diversion, sent down only to draw fire. And the diversion always worked, because Roman defense could not afford to ignore her.
