Strength and Honor (28 page)

Monitor
slung a hook out to surround
Guadalajara,
stretching her own force field fearfully thin, and hurtled up to FTL, vanishing from the battlefield.

No one tried to pursue.

Chief Engineer Kit Kittering, watching the Striker on the monitors, observed out loud, “That old Striker doesn’t have any solid ordnance.” Just as the Striker sent a cluster of pencil missiles up the gunports of the U.S. Landing Command Ship
Chimney Rock.

“Yes, he does.”

Chimney Rock’s
force field flickered out, leaving her naked in space. A single beam sliced her in two. Ships from both sides moved in to save/destroy what was left.

When Augustus had taken the old Striker from
Merrimack
months ago, its magazines were empty. Augustus had found someplace to reload since then.

The Striker started down into the atmosphere. Farragut immediately barked, “Target the Striker!” He could not let Augustus down there to pick off his ground troops.

“Lost him,” said Tactical.

“How can you lose him in the atmosphere?” Gypsy’s voice came out brittle, as if about to dismiss Markham from the deck.

Targeting came to Tactical’s rescue, “Striker has submerged into the ocean off the coast of Roma Nova. We’re just not very good underwater, sir.”

Gypsy looked to Captain Farragut, astonished. As if only John Farragut could know what Augustus was doing under the sea. Farragut shook his head. “We are not following that cobra into its hole.”

“We should find him and hit him while he’s underwater,” said Kit. “That Striker’s not built for undersea ops.”

“Neither are our weapons,” said Farragut, but not to give up, he ordered, “Send down the V-jocks. Let them take their shot.”

The remote fighter craft launched. The V-jock named Wraith, safe in his compartment within
Merrimack,
declared that his remotes would win the war.

A sudden blast like a small nova filled the viewports. A concussion rocked the ship. Someone’s antimatter had escaped containment. “Jesus Christmas!”

And another nova immediately after the first.

“Ours?” Farragut demanded.

Tactical responded, “No and yes.
Trajan
did not want to be boarded.”

“Norris,” Farragut whispered like a prayer. The other nova would have been
Edmonton.
Captain Norris of the
Edmonton
had been charged with taking
Trajan.

Mr. Hicks on the com reported that
Monitor
had returned to the battle zone.
Monitor
had with her the survivors from
Guadalajara.
There were very few. Captain Washington communicated
Guadalajara’s,
FTL vector to other ships in the fleet. Just in case
Monitor
did not survive the battle, someone else would know where to collect the dead later. The wreck of the
Guadalajara
would not just vanish into history like the Roman
Sulla.

Wraith sent his report from the remote control chamber. The remotes had got as far as the water. They submerged where the Striker had gone in, then lost contact. Wraith could not even say what hit them.

Merrimack’s
force field lit up with a boom and shudder.

“Shit!”
That might have been anyone.

“Striker,” said Tactical. Had not seen him coming. “On the Sixes.”

“The number of the beast,” said Systems.

The Helm was jinking. Another shot landed. The distortion field dispelled most of the shock. The deck still started into a roll, abruptly stopped and did not settle back as the inertial system stabilized.

“He’s after
Merrimack
now!” said Tactical. Gypsy looked to Farragut, “Does this mean Romulus is dead?”

Farragut shook his head, couldn’t tell. He was taking a message from Admiral Burk: “The Striker is your responsibility,
Merrimack.
Take it out.”

Farragut heard the subtext in the admiral’s voice:
Don’t let the patterner go this time.

Helm was steering a wild random course. And, knowing that his own randomness had a pattern to it, switched hands.

Tactical advised, “I’m counting at least six Roman ships firing on the Striker.”

“Is the Striker returning fire?”

“No, sir. We’re his only target.”

The Helm had run out of hands, so Farragut took a turn driving the boat in a weird scribble path as he spoke, “The only certain shot we have will be up the Striker’s barrel. We need to jam a shot up his nose. Here, take this.”

He gave the helm to Kit. She bobbled and wobbled. “You’re going to jam up a patterner?”

Gypsy took a hand at the helm. Graceful lines with sudden turns. “You know he’s going to do the same thing— jam something up one of our barrels. And Augustus has actually
done it before.”

“I remember,” Farragut assured her. “It’s not his Striker. It’s sixty years old and built for someone else. Systems, clam us up!”

The ship’s gun barrels reeled in. Klaus Nordsen at Systems took the ship’s force field to adamant.
Merrimack
was almost safe, but quite useless in this mode. Roman ships swarmed around the Striker like sharks to blood in the water. Captain Farragut picked up the caller, told the com tech, “Put me on the old Attack Group code.”

“Aye, sir. You’re set to resonate, sir.”

Farragut opened the com and spoke: “Augustus. Looks like a one-sided friendship out there.” He did not identify himself. Did not need to. “Why do your friends want you that dead?”

The familiar laconic voice on the com returned: “There’s money in it.”

Romulus had put a bounty on the patterner’s head.

In space there is no up and down, but the Striker’s orientation in space was the same as
Mack’s,
as if the two were standing on the same floor facing each other.

With the com on mute, Farragut spoke aside to Gypsy, “Get a line up his cannon barrel When you’ve got it, make a window and take him out. Make it happen.” And on the com, Farragut started up a chat, “Augustus, you’re fighting for an evil government that wants you dead. Do you see anything wrong with that?”

“Got a line up my barrel yet?”

Farragut’s startled inhalation through his nose was probably audible over the com. Augustus knew what Farragut was doing.

“You couldn’t dissemble your way to a surprise birthday party, John Farragut.” The Striker suddenly jinked wildly, and darted away from the planet.

“Stay with him!” Farragut ordered.

The Striker led
Merrimack
on a chase that took them around Palatine’s outermost moon. It was a small moon that could sit inside the Gulf of Mexico. Sunlight reflected bright off its face.

Merrimack
circled once around. “Where is he?”

“He’s on the far side,” said Tactical. “Mirroring us. Maintaining distance.”

They circled.
Merrimack
came round to the dark side of the moon. “Stop all progress.”

“Stopping, aye.”

The ship stood still, waiting for Augustus to come around.

He didn’t.

“Where is he?”

“Opposite us.”

Tactical showed no incoming ordnance curving round the moon. No tags. Augustus was waiting too.

“Ready all torpedoes, ready all forward beams, and stand by to open our field and fire everything we’ve got.”

“Torpedoes ready, aye. Beam cannon ready, aye. Standing by, aye.”

The patterner had already destroyed a U.S. cruiser and a U.S. command craft and a hail of Roman missiles. Patterners did not miss.

“Stand by to clear the moon. At my command, take the
Mack
straight up, open the gunports and hit him straight on.”

Gypsy would not question orders. She arranged all stations to readiness for everything to happen at the captain’s single command.

“Ready, aye. Standing by, aye.”

Gypsy stood aside, hands clasped behind her back, at ease.

John Farragut was a straight shooter.

Augustus knew that.

Gypsy could only obey. Mentally she said good-bye to her husband. Her sons. She and the proud ship were about to die in this showdown.

Captain John Farragut and Augustus out in the street, guns ready, waiting for one to say
Draw.

“Fire.”

PART THREE
The Janus Gate

21

^B
RIGHTNESS FILLED ALL PORTS,
overloaded all the monitors, bright as if plunging into the sun, with a thunderclap and roar, shudder, and crackling hiss. Saw it. Heard it. Which meant,
We’re still here!
A shout from Targeting:
“Got him!”
Specialists jumped to their feet at their stations.

“Yeah!”

Brightness dying away, the main monitor showed the Striker, spinning in space, its force field flickering. Commander Gypsy Dent shouted orders over the noise. “Targeting! Tag the Striker!”

Dead. Augustus had to be dead. But the U.S. could not let the Striker or the contents of Augustus’ data bank fall into Roman hands.

“Fire Control! Stand by to fire torpedo on the Striker!”
Gladiator’s
great hulk moved in between
Merrimack
and the Striker. Targeting: “Tags—No good! I—I’ve tagged
Gladiator.”
“Fire!” said Gypsy, not to leave money on the table.

“Fire on
Gladiator\
Targeting. Get a tag on that Striker!” Lights of
Merrimack’s
torpedo detonations flared against
Gladiator
to no effect other than the lights. Targeting reported, “I have tags on
Gladiator
again.
Gladiator
has the Striker inside a hook.” The Romans wanted Augustus’ machine memory. Gypsy would not give it to them.

“Fire on
Gladiator.
Continuous fire.”

From somewhere in the melee around the planet a Roman was spitting out killer bots like hornets from a nest, and they were swarming here to the outer moon.
Merrimack
threw off a wall of energy to detonate a mass of them short of the ship.

“Targeting. Get a firing solution on the thinnest part of
Gladiator’s
hook.”

“Targeting, aye. Solution acquired, aye.”

“Fire Control. Fire all beams.”

“Firing, aye.”

The tendril of energy that connected
Gladiator
to the captive Striker lost integrity.

“Hook the Striker!”

But too quickly, a flight of Roman fighters had swarmed in, surrounded the Striker in a tight box formation, and locked their force fields together into a solid shell. The tortoise was an old Roman tactic.

Captain Farragut was peripherally aware of the rest of the battle around the planet, of a fireball in Palatine’s atmosphere. Someone had slid into the planet’s gravity well. Romans were responding. It was their planet. They could not let any ship’s antimatter containment fail in their atmosphere.

Farragut said, “I want an ID on that ship. Friend or foe?” A Roman salvage craft was rising from the ground to meet the falling wreck.

“Foe,” said Tactical. “Roman.”

Captain Farragut had Mr. Hicks open a tight beam communication link with Captain Dallas McDaniels of
Rio Grande.
“Need a favor, compadre.”

“Name it, John, old son.”

“Hook the tortoise. Keep a drag on it. I don’t want the lupes escaping to FTL with the Striker.”

Immediately an energy hook shot out from
Rio Grande
and lassoed the Roman tortoise formation. It was an energy loop instead of the sort of hook that takes the target object within the ship’s force field. Not as secure a hold, but a lot safer in case the target decided to blow itself up.

The tortoise dragged
Rio Grande
like an anchor.

“Done,” said Captain McDaniels. “What do you want me to do with this slow tortoise now?”

“Try to angle him away from anyone friendly. Keep a hold on him, until I tell you, then drop him and run for your life.”

“John, old son, do you mean to tell me you’re about to throw that dead Roman ship down there at me?”

There was an imminent matter/antimatter explosion coming up from the planet Palatine in the body of the crippled Roman ship.

“Yes, sir.”

“Send it,” said Captain McDaniels.

Captain Farragut looked to Commander Dent. “Got that?”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Gypsy quickly issued orders to the various stations to set up the delivery of the ship-bomb to the target Roman tortoise.

The actions and calculations, based on ever shifting input, would be too complex and come in too fast for voice commands to execute the firing sequence. The decision algorithms and resultant action triggers were loaded into the fire control program.

Merrimack
moved in close to the planet as the Roman salvage craft seized the falling spaceship and swung it spaceward at better than escape velocity.

The wreck came flying back into vacuum.
Merrimack
hit the Roman wreck with a repulsive force to redirect it toward the Striker.
Rio
dropped its hold on the Roman tortoise and sprinted away.

The tortoise, abruptly free of Rio’s drag, hurtled away in the opposite direction—on an intercept course with the wreck which was going rapidly critical.

The redirection pulse had been enough to shake the last coherence from the antimatter containment system of the ruined craft. Antimatter met matter short of interception with the tortoise. Detonated.

“Miss!”Tactical cried.

“Close enough,” said Targeting.

The pure white nova expanded and kept traveling into the assembled ships of the Roman tortoise. The blast shook the box formation of Roman fighters. Their combined force field wavered. “Fire on the tortoise!” Gypsy ordered, and missiles arrowed into the unstable formation.

The tortoise shell broke apart. The Roman fighter ships staggered, naked to the vacuum. Beams from
Rio Grande
picked them off.