Strength and Honor (29 page)

“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?”

Farragut shook his head. He left Hamster in charge of the deck. He dropped into a seat at one of the day crew’s stations. Told Hamster, “Not sleeping.”

Hamster made a head motion in the direction of the now quiet maintenance hangar. “Sounded like fun over there.”

“I think they had a good time,” said Farragut, unusually subdued. He fell silent.

I killed Augustus.

Not sure he believed it. Seemed a fact. He knew by now never to trust the report of a death unless you actually see the body. This one felt real.

He asked Hamster, “Did we get any readings on the Striker during the time we had it?” Hamster checked the records log. “Yes, we did. Looking for something specific?”

“Any life signs?”

“None. When we got hold of it, the Striker was colder than the grave.” She looked at Farragut. “We knew that.”

“We did,” he said. “ ‘We’re just having a hard time believing it.” He had outdrawn a patterner.

That should never ever have happened.

A patterner’s brain was augmented to allow it to interface with a data bank and analyze the whole of its contents. The patterner was designed to use the human brain’s natural inclination to detect patterns and to order data on a level that machines could not do. Human
insight
was necessary to conceive of the need or to realize the impact of a data set before a machine intelligence could recognize it.