Ultima (2 page)

AD 2222; AUC 2975

The intruders at the Hatch emplacement were first spotted by sharp-eyed Arab navigators aboard the
Malleus Jesu
. In their quiet chambers aboard the interstellar craft circling high above this world, the Arabs, doubling as observers and mapmakers here at the destination, routinely scrutinized the area around the Hatch through their farwatchers. The newly minted Hatch was the key objective of the mission, after all, and deserved surveillance and protection.

And now Centurion Quintus Fabius himself was in the air, on the way to investigate.

The leather sac of the aerial
cetus
creaked and snapped as the great craft shifted in the light wind. Quintus was standing alongside the command position, a bank of levers worked by a
remex
, one of the junior crew who reported to Movena, the
trierarchus
, the commander of the ship itself. Like Movena, this
remex
was a Brikanti, and just as arrogant and sullen as Movena herself and all her kind. And yet you couldn't argue about his competence. As he stroked his levers, great paddles shifted in the air around the flank of the
cetus
, and the craft moved sweetly in response, heading toward the Hatch, which stood open on the scarred plain that Quintus's engineers had made when they had unleashed the hot breath of the kernels on this world, and
created
this wonder.

The bridge of the
cetus
was a clutter of controls and instruments, and scuffed wooden tables on which lay heaped charts and itineraries, mappings of this world hand-drawn since the expedition's arrival three years ago. The air was redolent with the characteristic scent of the Brikanti, the folk of the uncivilized north, with the mead they drank and the treated hog-leather they wore, and the tang of the Valhallan tobacco they liked to chew as they worked.

But this mundanity terminated at the window, before which an alien world unfolded before Quintus's eyes. Even after three years, even after he had walked so much of it—and even after he had changed its face significantly by building roads and camps and the permanent colony, and of course creating the Hatch—still Quintus found this world astounding.

The Hatch itself had been set on a scrap of higher land, overlooking a plain on which native vegetation sprawled, a low scrub of purple and white studded with odd orange cones. The Greek philosophers aboard assured Quintus that the cones were communities of creatures mostly too small to see—cities of the invisible, each mound a Rome of the germs. Farther away the land rose, ascending toward lofty mountains before which foothills stood in attendance. And those mountains and hills, each a massive plug of volcanic rock, had been
shaped
with terraces and walls and mighty crenellations that cast sharp shadows in the unchanging mother-of-pearl light of the principal sun, Romulus. They were mountains turned into fortresses by beings who had once lived here, and remade their world, and vanished—blown themselves to bits, no doubt, Quintus had heard his gloomier legionaries conclude in the camps. And yet those mountain sculptors evidently shared something with the rudest legionary from the poorest province of the Empire: they had built Hatches.

Well, Quintus had brought his ship here, and the engineers and the legionaries and the slaves had built their own Hatch, and their names would be remembered for it, the ancient number of the legion of which this century was a part inscribed at the foot of the stone Cross of Jesu, which was the only human monument permitted to accompany a Hatch. This was forever Quintus's Hatch. And this world, the fourth of the family that surrounded this stellar twin, Romulus, would, once the permanent
colonia
was formally dedicated by the
vicarius
, become the latest province of a Roman Empire that had now reached to the stars themselves.

This
was what he had achieved, he, Quintus Fabius; this was what he had bought at what would be the cost of thirteen years of his own life before he saw home again, and, thanks to the mysteries of near-lightspeed travel, a sundering by many more years than that from the family and friends he had left behind. It was a price he paid gladly; to command such a vessel as the
Malleus Jesu
on such a mission as this, to build a Hatch, was the pinnacle of his career so far—and likely not to be surpassed, he reminded himself with a twinge of resentment, as it was rare for officers from the provinces to rise much further in the imperial army unless they were wily enough for intrigue and assassination. Yet the Hatch was not
for
Fabius, or his crew, or any human; the Hatch was a thing in itself, its own purpose as ineffable as that of a temple to a forgotten god.

And now, as he peered down from a washed-out sky, the perfection of the Hatch and its setting was ruined by the intruders. As the
cetus
made its ponderous way toward the Hatch position, Quintus felt his temper boil up, and he clenched and unclenched one massive fist, feeling the muscles in his arm work.

“Two of them,” said Gnaeus Junius. Gnaeus was Quintus's
optio
, his second in command. Gnaeus was peering down at the Hatch location through a finely wrought Greek farwatcher, leather and glass in a wooden tube.

“Give me that.” Quintus grabbed the instrument from Gnaeus's hands and held it up to his eye. As usual, at first, he saw only darkness.

“You need not squint so much, sir.”

“I'm angry. When I'm angry, I squint.”

“Yes, sir. You also grind your teeth.”

“No, I don't.”

“No, sir.”

Slim, dark, elegant, his tunic always spotless, Gnaeus Junius was an equestrian, a member of one of Rome's oldest aristocratic pedigrees. Gnaeus, though so young, was likable, flawlessly competent, and had displayed none of the arrogance or sense of entitlement redolent of so many of his class. Quintus had found him utterly dependable. None of which saved Quintus from a sour resentment that this boy was destined to rise far higher in the army and beyond it than Quintus himself ever could—that the only way Quintus could avoid having to report to this elegant boy someday would be retirement.

Now Gnaeus reminded him calmly of the issue in question. “So, about the intruders, sir. Two of them.”

Quintus studied the strangers through the farwatcher. “A man and a woman. Old enough. In their fifties, or older? That makes them older than any of our veterans, or their wives. Save maybe Titus Valerius of the seventh cohort, who I know for a fact has been lying about his age for a decade. Some men just don't want to retire.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, even Titus is going to have to retire now. The
colonia
—that's his job now, for all the grumbling.” A morning of trying to deal with complaints from the colonists, the veterans who would be left behind on this world, had soured Quintus's mood, even before this business of the intruders.
Nothing will grow in this foreign muck, Centurion . . . You can't leave me on the same planet as Caius Flavius, Centurion; he's had his eye on my wife since the Valhalla Superior campaign and now he's leering at my daughter! . . . I swear, Centurion, I swear . . .

Gnaeus said tactfully, “Well, those aren't any of our veterans down there, sir, or their families. Nor are they any of the
remiges
.”

He was right. Eight subjective years after leaving Terra, including five years cooped up on the ship itself, Quintus was sure he would recognize any of the
Hammer
's crew and passengers, even the lowliest slave. The complement of the
Malleus Jesu
was a few hundred, not counting the slaves, with the core of it being the eighty men of Quintus's century, and an equal number of
remiges
, the ship's crew—known by an archaic term deriving from a word for “rowers”—mostly Brikanti, with their own hierarchy and their own officers under the sullen Movena, along with
their
families. But he did not recognize the intruders below.

“They
look
like Brikanti—you have to give them that,” he murmured. “Those odd clothes. Jackets and trousers rather than tunics and cloaks. Peculiar colors, aren't they? Packs on their backs. And what's that pale sparkle on their shoulders? Looks almost like frost, melting . . . Impossible, of course. No frost on this world, not on the day side anyhow.”

“And no sign of weapons,” Gnaeus said practically.

Quintus grunted. “I'd want to strip them down and turn out their packs before I could be sure of that. At least they're not Xin.”

Gnaeus pursed his lips. “I wouldn't jump to conclusions, sir. The Xin empire is larger than ours, and includes many ethnicities. Even if not Xin themselves, they could be provincials, agents, even mercenaries.”

Quintus sighed. “The tripolar politics of Terra reaching out to us even here, eh,
optio
? Us, the Brikanti, and the Xin.”

“Well, the Brikanti are our allies, sir. And we're not actually at war with the Xin.”

“You mean, we weren't when we left home.”

“True, sir.”

The craft was descending now, with a rattle of chains as ground anchors were dropped from a lower deck. Quintus grabbed his cloak from where he had flung it over the back of a chair and tied it around his neck, checked his sword and
ballista
were at his belt, and jammed his plumed helmet on his head.

Gnaeus frowned his lips. “You're going to interrogate them yourself, sir?”

“By Christ's tears I am.”

“I think it's best if you approach these people with an open mind. If I may say so.”

“Hmm. If they are Brikanti or Xin, I need to observe the proper diplomatic protocols before I throw their arses in the brig—is that your thinking?”

“Sir, we didn't bring these people here. I mean, on the
Malleus Jesu
. And so the only way they can have got here—”

Somehow this elementary observation hadn't impressed itself on Quintus's consciousness. “Unless they walked hundreds of miles from one of the indigenous Hatches, the only way is through
that
Hatch. Which we ourselves constructed—”

“And which has evidently connected itself to the wider network of Hatches, just as it should. But we don't know
where
that connection will have been made to. Perhaps to some place even more exotic than the cities of far Xin.”

Quintus, through his temper, saw the sense behind this reasoning. “So we don't know where they're from, how they got here, or what they can do. Therefore we don't know what threat they may represent to us, the ship, our mission. Even the Empire.”

“No, sir.”

“Well, the sooner we find out the better. Let's get this over with. Back me up,
optio
.” And he strode without hesitation to the stair to the lower deck.

Behind him he heard the
optio
snap out commands, hastily assembling a guard unit from on-duty legionaries.

It was a relief for Quintus to hit the ground at the bottom of the ladder, to leave the confinement of the aerial whale and to be able to stride out toward the intruders, putting all his energies into the simple action of walking. To work out his frustrations in motion, in physical exercise: that had been his way since he had been a young bull of a raw recruit in Legio XC Victrix, unable to combat the shadows of privilege, preference and nepotism that had blighted his career in the army from the very beginning. Walking was one thing, but having somebody to punch out would be even better.

But that didn't appear to be a likely option today. The two elderly intruders just stood there by the Hatch emplacement, watching him approach. They looked somewhat startled—as you might, he thought, if you had just passed through the mysteries of a Hatch itself—but they did not seem afraid, did not seem daunted by the prospect of a fully armed centurion of the Roman army bearing down on them as if he had a kernel up his arse.

One of them, the man, even called out—something. The words sounded vaguely familiar to Quintus, the accent odd, stilted.

Time for a parade-ground bellow, Quintus decided.

The craft overhead was like a tremendous airship. It moved smoothly, silently. It bore a symbol on its outer envelope, crossed axes with a Christian cross in the background, and lettering above:

S P Q R

Anchors of some kind were dropped from a fancy-looking gondola. When the craft had drifted to a halt, a rope ladder unrolled to the ground. And as Yuri Eden and Stef Kalinski watched, astonished, a hatch opened, and a man clambered down the ladder.

As soon as he reached the ground, the man started toward them. He wore a plumed helmet, and a scarlet cloak over what looked like a bearskin tunic. His lower legs were bare, above strapped-up boots. He had a sword on one hip, and a gaudy-looking handgun in a holster on the other.

Yuri called, “Who the hell are you?”

The man, striding steadily, started shouting back:
“Fortasse accipio oratio stridens vestri. Sum Quintus Fabius, centurio navis stellae
Malleus Jesu
. Quid estis, quid agitis in hac provincia? Et quid est mixti lingua vestri? Germanicus est? Non dubito quin vos ex Germaniae Exteriorae. Cognovi de genus vestri prius. Bene? Quam respondebitis mihi?”

Always another door, Yuri thought. “Let me handle this.” He spread his hands and walked forward, toward the angry stranger.

•   •   •

“I think I understand your guttural speech. I am Quintus Fabius, Centurion of the star vessel
Malleus Jesu
. Who are you, and what are you doing in this province? And what is that mongrel tongue of yours? German, is it? From Outer Germania, no doubt. I've dealt with your sort before. Well? What have you got to say for yourselves?”

The fellow said something to his female companion, and walked forward, apparently undaunted. But at least he spread his hands, Quintus observed, showing he was unarmed.

Gnaeus Junius caught up with Quintus, panting. Glancing over his shoulder, Quintus saw a small squad of legionaries had followed the
optio
, all according to regulations. “You're out of breath, Gnaeus. Double your daily exercise period for the rest of the month.”

“Thank you, sir. Do you really think they're from Outer Germania? Well, I suppose you should know.”

“And why's that, Gnaeus Junius? Because, even though my mother tongue is a purer Latin than yours, my father was from Germania Inferior and my mother was from Belgica, which to the likes of you means I may as well be
transrhenus
myself, is that it?”

“Of course not, sir.”

“We're not all moon worshippers and bear shaggers, you know.”

“I'm relieved to hear it, sir.”

“And my ancestors did put up a hell of a fight. The legions had to drive us all the way to the coast of the Mare Suevicum before they were subdued.”

“As you've pointed out before, sir.”

“So don't try to flatter me, Gnaeus Junius.”

“Sir—”

“You're very bad at it—”

“
Sir.
The intruder is doing something with his pack.”

Quintus saw that the man had turned away from his companion, the woman, and she was opening up the pack on his back for him. Quintus and Gnaeus immediately drew their
ballistae
, their handguns. Quintus heard the senior man of the squad behind him murmur brusque commands.

The male stranger, seeing the Romans' reaction, spread his empty palms wide once more and again called out.

“We should jump them,” Quintus said.

“Give them a moment, sir,” Gnaeus said. “They're speaking again. That tongue does sound more Germanic than not. But, you know, I would swear I can hear a
third
voice, neither the man's nor the woman's.”

Quintus glanced around sharply. The two strangers were alone. “Your hearing is either better than mine,
optio
, or worse.”

“As if it's coming from the pack on the man's back . . .”

“A belly-speaker? But we are rather far from any theater here. I'll not be amused by trickery.”

The woman was closing up the pack now. Evidently she had found what she wanted. She held two compact nodules of a smooth, white substance, like small marble pebbles.

“Whatever that is,” Gnaeus murmured, “it's surely too small to be a weapon.”

“Now who's jumping to conclusions?”

The woman handed one of the nodules to her companion. They were both watchful of the Romans, and were evidently endeavoring to make sure Quintus's men could see everything they were doing. Cautiously, they each pressed a nodule into one ear.

And when the man spoke again, Quintus was startled to discover he could understand his words.

“Is the translation correct? Can you understand me?”

“He speaks Latin,” Gnaeus breathed. “Rather stilted, formal Latin.”

Quintus growled, “If they could speak Latin all the while, why address us in German?”

“Perhaps they could not speak it,” Gnaeus said, puzzling it out. “Perhaps it is those nodules in their ears that speak it for them. For I think I hear a trace of the German behind the louder Latin words . . . Or perhaps it is the little fellow they carry in the pack on the man's back who knows the Latin.”

“And who belly-speaks for the other two, I suppose? Your imagination runs away with you,
optio
.”

“This is a strange situation, sir. Perhaps imagination is what we need.”

“Let's get down to reality.” Quintus put his weapon back into its loop at his belt and stepped forward, bunched fists on hips. “What is your mission here?”

The strangers exchanged glances. “We have no mission. We are,” and here the speaker stumbled, as if searching for a precise term, “we are scouts.” The two of them pulled the white pods away from their ears and spoke in their own tongue, briefly.

“Scouts? For what army? Are you Brikanti or Xin or Roman? To which emperor do you pay your taxes?”

Gnaeus murmured, “The Brikanti don't have an emperor, sir.”

“Shut up.”

The woman said now, “Our speaker has not the right word. We are,” another hesitation, “philosophers. We came through the, the door—”

“The Hatch,” said Gnaeus.

“Yes, very well, the Hatch. We came to discover what is here, on this world. Not as part of a military force.”

“They're saying they're explorers, sir.”

Quintus grunted. “They're lying, then. Romans don't explore, any more than Alexander did—not for any abstract purpose. Romans discover, survey, conquer.”

“But they aren't Romans, sir.”

Quintus repeated, “What emperor do you serve?”

The strangers exchanged a glance. “We serve no emperor. Our province is unconquered.” Again they looked uncertain at the translation.

Quintus scoffed. “Nowhere on Terra is ‘unconquered' save for the icy wastes of the south. Flags fly everywhere—somebody's flag at least, and more than one if there's a war in progress.”

The woman tried again. “We recognize none of the names you mentioned. None of the polities.”

Gnaeus said, “Then you can't come from Terra.”

The woman looked at him frankly. “Not from your Terra.”

Gnaeus's eyes widened.

Quintus was baffled, and frustrated. “What do you mean by that? Perhaps your country has vanished under conquest, like the kingdom of the Jews. Perhaps your people are slaves.”

“No,” the woman said firmly. “We are not slaves.” She seemed to listen for a moment. “Very well, ColU. I'll emphasize that. We are freeborn.”

Gnaeus asked, “Who are you speaking to? Who is . . . Collu? Collius?”

“We are freeborn,” the woman said again. “Strangers to you, strangers in this place, but freeborn. We ask for your protection.”

“Protection?” Quintus rapped his breastplate. “What do you think I am, a
vicarius
, a Bible scholar? So you don't have nations. You don't have owners. Do you have names? You?” He jabbed a finger at the woman.

“My name is Stephanie Karen Kalinski.”

“And you?”

The man grinned, almost insolently. “Yuri Eden.”

Quintus glanced at Gnaeus. “What do you make of that? ‘Stephanie' sounds Greek—respectable enough. But ‘Yu-ri”—Scythian? Hun?”

“Their names are as exotic as their appearance, sir,” Gnaeus murmured.

“Oh, I've had enough of this. We've a lot to get done before the
Malleus Jesu
can leave this desolate place—the sorting-out of the veterans and their
colonia
for a start. I've no time for philosophical conundrums. Disarm them, take them as slaves—find some use for them, if they have any. And if all else fails, find a suitably economical way to dispose of them.”

Gnaeus looked unhappy, but he nodded. “Yes, sir.”

The woman stepped forward sharply. “Quintus Fabius. You're making a mistake to dismiss us. We can be useful to you.”

He laughed. “How? You're too old to be a concubine, too flabby and soft to fight—what, can you cook?”

She tapped her skull. “We have knowledge. Knowledge you don't share.”

Gnaeus said hastily, “She may have a point, sir. We still don't know anything about these people, how they came to be here. The Greeks have a saying: ‘Knowledge is the most potent weapon.'”

Quintus grunted his contempt for that. “A phrase no doubt cooked up by some shiny-domed philosopher when Roman legionaries first came to his hometown waving their swords.”

“He's right,” the woman said. “It would be irresponsible of you to discard us without being sure—”

Quintus roared, “Irresponsible? Do you presume to tell me my duty, woman?”

But Kalinski held her ground. “For example, perhaps we have knowledge to share of a common enemy.” She thought it over. “An enemy of Rome, stronger and more wily than even the Xin and the—”

“The Brikanti,” Gnaeus prompted.

Quintus demanded, “Of what enemy do you speak?”

She gestured at the installation behind her. “I speak of whoever wishes these Hatches to be built to straddle the stars. And who manipulates the destinies of mightier empires even than your Rome to make it so . . .”

But now the man, Yuri Eden, seemed distracted by something. Apparently oblivious of the conversation, he took a step forward.

The legionaries reacted, drawing their weapons and pulling closer to their commander. Quintus too made to draw his
ballista
.

But Gnaeus laid a restraining hand on his arm, and pointed into the sky. “It is the sunrise, sir. He is puzzled by it.”

Remus was rising, the second star of this double system, brighter than Luna or Venus, brighter than any star in the sky of Terra. Everywhere the shadows became doubled. Romulus never shifted in the sky of this world, but Remus did, following a convoluted apparent path that even the ship's Arab mathematicians had had difficulty puzzling out.

And a runner came dashing from the anchored
cetus
. “Centurion! There's a report of a riot at the
colonia
. The men are in the granary, and are threatening to burn down the
principia
—”

“What, again?” Quintus raised his head to the sky and let out another roar. “Father of the Christ, why do you goad me? With me,
optio
.” And he stalked off back to the
cetus
.

Yuri Eden watched the second sun rise, entranced.