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Authors: R.M. Meluch
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boys. He’s real close.”
Gypsy said, still in a whisper, “He’s playing us, sir.”
Farragut nodded. Numa might betray the current Roman leadership, but he would never betray Rome. He had friends.
Numa Pompeii was an enormously influential man.
And an enormous man. Built like a small mountain, Numa Pompeii moved with surprising speed and agility for his mass and age. He was nearly fifty Earth years old, though doubtless getting muscle rejuvenations for a decade or more.
Farragut nodded for the com tech to take the com off mute. “Are you seeking amnesty, Numa?”
“No,” said Numa Pompeii. “A truce. I want to talk.”
“You are not coming aboard,” Farragut declared. He had already cleared Mack of nanites. The last thing he needed was a wily-—possibly infested—Roman general on board.
“You would come aboard Gladiator?” Numa said, incredulous.
“Are you nuts?” Farragut said back. Numa knew Americanese well enough to understand that. “I’ll meet you outside. Park the gunboat—and keep it parked. Approach in a small craft to coordinates we send you, then you step outside. If I get sight of your gunship, I start shooting. If Gladiator moves, I start shooting.” He clicked off. “Send him coordinates. Someplace close to nowhere. We’ll see if he shows.”
Gypsy asked, “Do you trust him, sir?”
“ ‘Bout as far as a Planck length,” said Farragut.
Gypsy’s graceful brows twisted into dubious lines. “That far?”
Insects on shipboard went silent as Merrimack left Telecore’s orbit. Insects were standard issue on Navy ships in the Deep End. Their sensitivity to Hive presence made them invaluable. Also made them annoying.
The insects had been a nuisance as long as Merrimack orbited Telecore, sounding over and over again what everyone already knew, the Hive was here, the Hive was here.
The insects had been banished to the lab to heckle the xenos.
With the return to insect peace, tiny cricket cages were brought back to the command deck of Merrimack to resume their function as early warnings.
Merrimack headed out to a place near nowhere.
Numa Pompeii made the rendezvous in a light courier type vessel, all lit up, no armament hanging off it, white flags stiff in the windless nothing of space.
Tactical was able to back trace the location of Gladiator to a point two light-years out. “Keep a bead on him,” said Farragut. “If Gladiator moves from that position, shoot Numa.”
At the appointed galactic coordinates, a large space-suited figure emerged from the Roman courier and floated into the deepest of oceans.
Farragut suited up. Drifted out an air lock.
Space was raw, absolute, stark, beautiful, merciless.
Farragut got a little lost gazing at the overwhelming vastness. Finally he engaged the small jets that propelled him to rendezvous with the other microbe out here in this eternal sea. They braked in front of each other and clasped gloved hands.
The meeting of unequal masses set them on a slight drift, backward for Farragut. They grasped each other’s sleeves and touched helmets.
Sound conducted through their faceplates.
“Ave,” said Numa. His voice reverberated in Farragut’s helmet.
“Hey,” said Farragut, an Appalachian hello. Farragut was American blueblood, but he tended to speak like just folks.
They were face to face. So close that Farragut could see very little other than Numa’s face, but not so close that Numa would have three eyes.
Numa’s face was unretouched and not good-looking. A face like an assembly of stones. Numa had wealth, power, a big personality, and energy second only to Farragut’s, so you didn’t notice the homeliness of the face unless you were inches from it.
“I can’t see Romulus authorizing this meeting,” said Farragut. “You’re not doing anything treasonous, are you?”
“Not yet,” said Numa.
Farragut guessed: “You haven’t pledged to Romulus.”
“I have the luxury of time.”
Kissing Romulus’ ring would
Gypsy said, still in a whisper, “He’s playing us, sir.”
Farragut nodded. Numa might betray the current Roman leadership, but he would never betray Rome. He had friends.
Numa Pompeii was an enormously influential man.
And an enormous man. Built like a small mountain, Numa Pompeii moved with surprising speed and agility for his mass and age. He was nearly fifty Earth years old, though doubtless getting muscle rejuvenations for a decade or more.
Farragut nodded for the com tech to take the com off mute. “Are you seeking amnesty, Numa?”
“No,” said Numa Pompeii. “A truce. I want to talk.”
“You are not coming aboard,” Farragut declared. He had already cleared Mack of nanites. The last thing he needed was a wily-—possibly infested—Roman general on board.
“You would come aboard Gladiator?” Numa said, incredulous.
“Are you nuts?” Farragut said back. Numa knew Americanese well enough to understand that. “I’ll meet you outside. Park the gunboat—and keep it parked. Approach in a small craft to coordinates we send you, then you step outside. If I get sight of your gunship, I start shooting. If Gladiator moves, I start shooting.” He clicked off. “Send him coordinates. Someplace close to nowhere. We’ll see if he shows.”
Gypsy asked, “Do you trust him, sir?”
“ ‘Bout as far as a Planck length,” said Farragut.
Gypsy’s graceful brows twisted into dubious lines. “That far?”
Insects on shipboard went silent as Merrimack left Telecore’s orbit. Insects were standard issue on Navy ships in the Deep End. Their sensitivity to Hive presence made them invaluable. Also made them annoying.
The insects had been a nuisance as long as Merrimack orbited Telecore, sounding over and over again what everyone already knew, the Hive was here, the Hive was here.
The insects had been banished to the lab to heckle the xenos.
With the return to insect peace, tiny cricket cages were brought back to the command deck of Merrimack to resume their function as early warnings.
Merrimack headed out to a place near nowhere.
Numa Pompeii made the rendezvous in a light courier type vessel, all lit up, no armament hanging off it, white flags stiff in the windless nothing of space.
Tactical was able to back trace the location of Gladiator to a point two light-years out. “Keep a bead on him,” said Farragut. “If Gladiator moves from that position, shoot Numa.”
At the appointed galactic coordinates, a large space-suited figure emerged from the Roman courier and floated into the deepest of oceans.
Farragut suited up. Drifted out an air lock.
Space was raw, absolute, stark, beautiful, merciless.
Farragut got a little lost gazing at the overwhelming vastness. Finally he engaged the small jets that propelled him to rendezvous with the other microbe out here in this eternal sea. They braked in front of each other and clasped gloved hands.
The meeting of unequal masses set them on a slight drift, backward for Farragut. They grasped each other’s sleeves and touched helmets.
Sound conducted through their faceplates.
“Ave,” said Numa. His voice reverberated in Farragut’s helmet.
“Hey,” said Farragut, an Appalachian hello. Farragut was American blueblood, but he tended to speak like just folks.
They were face to face. So close that Farragut could see very little other than Numa’s face, but not so close that Numa would have three eyes.
Numa’s face was unretouched and not good-looking. A face like an assembly of stones. Numa had wealth, power, a big personality, and energy second only to Farragut’s, so you didn’t notice the homeliness of the face unless you were inches from it.
“I can’t see Romulus authorizing this meeting,” said Farragut. “You’re not doing anything treasonous, are you?”
“Not yet,” said Numa.
Farragut guessed: “You haven’t pledged to Romulus.”
“I have the luxury of time.”
Kissing Romulus’ ring would
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