The Twice and Future Caesar (36 page)

Captain Farragut stared at the images from Port Chalai on
Merrimack
's tactical display.

There, at the Near Space terminus of the Boomerang, were three hulking Roman style Legion carriers, painted red, black, and gold. Romulus' colors.

Lieutenant Hamilton: “Sir. I have Rear Admiral Mishindi on your direct com.”

Farragut picked up the direct feed. “Sir! This has got to be an illusion! You know Romans always put on a convincing show.”

“It's real, John.” Rear Admiral Mishindi sounded tired. “Those Legion carriers came through the Boomerang from Port Campbell.” Mishindi took a long breath. Sighed. “One may guess they carry Legions.”

John Farragut wouldn't have it. “Those ships could be carrying eighty tons of blue peaches for all we know!”

Mishindi gave a strained smile and shook his head. “Apparently Romulus has many devoted followers in Perseid Space. God knows how he had time to recruit them, but he has them.”

Time. Time never seemed to be a problem for Romulus.

A low, sardonic voice sounded from the rear of the command deck: “Almost as if there were two of him.”

“I didn't ask you to speak, Colonel Augustus.”

“Sir.”

“Romulus has Legions,” Farragut said, trying to make himself believe it. His voice sounded hollow to his own ears. “Does Numa have Legions?”

“That is not known.” Rear Admiral Mishindi was looking gray around the edges.

“Numa rules worlds!” Farragut shouted to be heard above the roar of Fleet Marine Swifts launching off
Merrimack
's wing. The sound reverberated through the whole space battleship. “He's a
dictator
for cryin' tears! It's been—what? Three months since his Sinai Address? He must have something!”

“And he may. But Numa Pompeii doesn't issue public reports of his recruiting and training progress,” Rear Admiral Mishindi said. “Numa Pompeii hasn't been sighted for days. Intelligence lost him right after his appearance at Beta Centauri.”

It was easy to lose people if they had FTL capability.

“Even if Caesar Numa has the means to challenge Romulus' forces for control of Port Chalai, it's not good for the United States either way—to have Numa or Romulus controlling the only fast supply route between Near Space and the outer arm of the galaxy.”

Rear Admiral Mishindi saw Captain Farragut about to speak and cut him off. “Don't even think it, John.”

“Send me in!”

“No, John. We can't bleed off resources from the defense of Earth against the Hive to help the Pacifics against Romulus. We are
just
keeping ahead of the gorgons here at home.”

Another flight of Swifts was returning to
Merrimack
from a gorgon-slaying sortie. They clunked into their slots on the ship's wings. The hiss of flight elevators and the slamming of hatches echoed through the space battleship's hull.

Farragut shouted over the noise. “I'm not saying help the Pacifics. It's the Pacifics' own fault Romulus took their ports. I'm saying
send me there
!
I'll
take the Boomer and stake a proper flag on both ports!”

Farragut was still major league pissed at the Pacific Consortium for not listening to his warnings about the lack of failsafes in their design of Romulus' Xerxes spacecraft.

Mishindi looked grave. “That is not a realistic scenario.”

“It's a real good scenario! Romulus is traveling in a Pacific-made ship! The Pacifics let Romulus get hold of their Xerxes. That fodgorsaken piece of work has made Romulus invincible.”

“I know.”

And now Romulus had Legions here in Near Space.

3 February 2444
U.S. Space Battleship
Merrimack
Earth orbit
Near Space

Captain Farragut woke to the vibration of his wrist com. He squinted at the chronometer, confused. The command deck was hailing him in the middle of the mid watch, his night cycle, yet there were no sounds of emergency. Only the normal ambient bangs, hisses, and booms of a ship at war.

Captain Farragut's voice came out gravelly. “Hamster? What's the emergency?”

“I'm sorry. This is not an emergency, sir.” Glenn Hamilton had the prettiest voice. “Not for us. It's a major event. I thought you'd want to know Numa Pompeii's battlefort, the
Gladiator
, sublighted at Port Chalai. He destroyed the Port Chalai terminus of the Boomerang. Romulus won't be getting any more legionaries out of Perseid Space for a very long time.”

He was wide awake now. Bolt upright. John Farragut wanted to tell that woman she had just made him a very happy man. Unwise.

Instead: “Roger that. Out.”

5 February 2444
U.S. Space Battleship
Merrimack
Earth orbit
Near Space

Romulus' three Legion carriers in Near Space had gone FTL. There was no tracking them. They could appear anywhere, anytime, shooting.

Merrimack
was on high alert. She couldn't leap to the safety of FTL
space. She needed to stay sublight to dispatch and receive her fighter craft and spout flames at masses of gorgons trying to enter Earth's atmosphere.

Captain Farragut found his ship's xenolinguist, Doctor Patrick Hamilton, in his lab, listening intently to sounds in his headphones while observing images of silky mammoths on a display. It was nothing relevant to their current crisis.

Farragut shut Patrick Hamilton's imager off. The mammoths disappeared.

Patrick Hamilton took off his headset. But he didn't stand up. “Yes, Captain?”

“Could the Hive possibly have a language?” Farragut asked.

“You want to talk to it?” Patrick Hamilton asked. Added, belatedly, “Sir?”

Patrick Hamilton was an artistic-looking man, a handful of years younger than Farragut, much more slender, with soft brown hair and soft brown eyes. Women thought Patrick Hamilton attractive until he opened his mouth.

Farragut said, “I'll talk to the Hive if I can feed it misinformation. Or if I can convince it to drop dead.”

Patrick wagged his head. “No go. The Hive doesn't have a language. Does the Roman cyborg say it does? Then he can just plug in and spit out a full lexicon in five hours like he did in the Myriad.”

“I'm not talking to the Roman cyborg right now,” Farragut said evenly. “And
you
are talking to the captain.”

John Farragut was a famously easygoing man, but there were limits.

“Yes, sir,” Patrick said, abashed. “I think—I
think
—the Hive is a single entity. I mean the
whole
Hive. All the swarms. All the spheres. Its communication is all internal—the equivalent of a neural network. Think of the reaction of a stomach to food. The body's signal to increase gastric acid isn't language.”

“The cyborg might agree with you,” Farragut said.

Augustus had said something similar, back in the Myriad. When the Hive had overwhelmed his consciousness, Augustus had called the Hive a gut.

“The signal doesn't
say
anything,” Patrick Hamilton said. “Like a whiff of pheromones tells me to chase a hot
linda
. The sensory input triggers a
response, but the signal is not part of a language. There's no syntax, no meaning.”

If Farragut had hackles, they would be standing straight up now. This man had a perfectly beautiful, fun, smart, capable
linda
wearing his ring. Lieutenant Glenn Hamilton was command-caliber sharp. She was too good for Doctor Hamilton.

Captain Farragut was thinking about Mrs. Hamilton in ways three hundred sixty degrees—a full turn of the screw—wrong.

He forced his focus back to the real topic. “What is the Hive hearing, smelling, or sensing in response to the irresistible harmonic?”

Patrick pouted. “The what?”

This man had not been paying attention.

“There is a resonant harmonic that makes all the gorgons in the stellar area stop whatever they're doing and go chase the resonant source. What's the message?”

“I would ask a xenobiologist,” Patrick said.

“I have. I'm asking you now.”

“My
guess?
This is no better than a guess. My
guess
is that the resonance
is
the message. It's an IFF. Identification Friend or Foe. If the gorgons go on the offensive when you resonate on that harmonic, you're probably looking at a foe.”

“Then what is Romulus giving his people that protects them from Hive interest?”

“Same thing, different gang. It's still Identification Foe or Friend. If the gorgons are sitting down to dinner together, that suggests they're all sending the Friend harmonic.”

“Two Hives,” Farragut said.

“Yeah. Yes, sir. There are probably two Hives.”

Cole Darby's private journal. Keep Out. This is PRIVATE.

If you think we got no time for gossip just because we're fighting the battle of Armageddon, you'd be wrong. What is life but who is doing who? You think there's a lot of whispering when we're bored? Well, life on the edge ramps it up red hot when your blood's racing and gorgons eat you alive in your dreams.

Lots of action makes for lots of tales. And the rumor mill, it be grinding.

Captain Farragut has a thing for Lieutenant Hamilton. He thinks it's a secret, but undiscovered fog giants in the Andromeda galaxy know about it. The only one who thinks it's a secret is Captain Farragut. He calls her Hamster. Okay, yeah, I know that's her nickname. But that's the thing. Farragut doesn't use nicknames. Glenn Hamilton is the only man-jane on board this whole big boat the captain doesn't call by name.

Truth is, the Hamster's husband is a gwerb. I've seen Doctor Ham give Kerry Blue the dancing eyebrows like he thinks she really really wants him. Kerry Blue just rolls her eyes and walks away. Patrick Hamilton isn't repulsive to look at. Okay, yeah, he is when he flashes that icky sappy come-on baby smile at Kerry Blue. He oughtta know that Blue don't do married men. Not on purpose. And holy mascons on the moon—did she ever go orbital when she found out about Cowboy's wife! Other than that, if you're married, Kerry Blue's not riding. Oh, well, yeah, okay, she'll comfort a man who's just been Jodyed, but that's different.

Most of us Bull Mastiffs think the Hamster ought to beach the gwerb and be with the captain. The captain really deserves to have what he wants. But that would leave a frat charge hanging out there. No getting around that.