by R. M. Meluch
Calli shook her head. “Let’s go traditional. Honestly, all I can think of is, ‘See the target, acquire the target, secure the target.’”
Epilogue
MERRIMACK’S NEW LEGAL OFFICER reported to the space battleship. The quartermaster showed him to the captain’s quarters, where he saluted the captain. A courier had brought a small package wrapped like a wedding gift addressed to the captain of the Merrimack.
“We got a wedding gift from Rome,” said Calli.
“Are we sure we want to open that?” said Rob Roy.
Because it originated on Palatine, it had been through all the scanners. Twice.
It was heavy for a small box. Calli pulled back the gilt wrapping to reveal a life-sized solid gold locust. “Son of a bitch.” Calli picked it up. It had the heft of solid gold. She turned it over.
Greek characters, engraved in the golden locust’s thorax, read: To Callista. “Son of a bitch,” she laughed. Inscribed in Greek as it was, her name was not her name but the inscription on the golden apple—the infamous gift at the wedding of Peleus and the goddess Thetis that started the Trojan War.
Translated, it really read: To the fairest. Calli was not sure if he was calling her beautiful or picking a fight. “Son of a bitch.”
Rob Roy took the card that came with it. It bore only the signature, engraved in gold. Made his eyes go wide.
“Oh, that can’t be a surprise,” said Calli, reaching for the card. No one in this universe would give her a locust but Numa Pompeii.
“Oh, it is a surprise,” said Rob Roy. “A little anyway. It seems you’re not the only one with a new title, Captain Callista Carmel Buchanan.” He passed her the card.
The gold letters identified the sender:
CAESAR NUMA.
