The Twice and Future Caesar (30 page)

“He's not king of anything,” Farragut said. “So who is Romulus fixin' to declare war against? Surely not
Rome
. He can't declare against his own Empire, can he?”

Calli said, “A just war,
jus ad bellum
, requires the means and a justifiable reason. He doesn't have it.”

She looked to Augustus, who gave the smallest nod of agreement.

An alert came across military channels that Romulus had stepped outside the Italian embassy.

Farragut cried, “Who do we have at Beta Centauri! Anyone got a shot?”

The newsfeed from Beta Centauri showed Romulus, in full antique regalia—bronze cuirass, greaves, and crested helmet—stalking up the street known as “Embassy Row” to the gates of the U.S. embassy on Beta Centauri. He carried a cornel wood spear fitted with a barbarous iron head that had been dipped in what looked like blood.

Embassy guards behind the wrought iron bars watched him approach. They weren't moving as long as Romulus stayed outside the perimeter of their sovereign ground.

Romulus stood outside the gates and announced: “I, Romulus, and the People of Rome declare and make war on the so-called United States of America. To restore Roman honor and might, squandered by false kings. To remove the false government from the soil of the Roman province of America, a degenerate society that doesn't value military prowess in its leadership. To uproot the cancerous decadent tyranny that has taken hold there.”

Saying so he hurled the spear between the iron bars of the gate. The spear point stabbed deep into the embassy's stout wooden door.

Captain John Farragut watched the newscast from
Merrimack
's command platform. A lot of mouths hung open around him.

Farragut looked to his XO, hopeful. “Are we at war?”

“I don't think so,” Calli said. She turned to Jose Maria de Cordillera, standing at the back.

Jose Maria shook his head. “I rather think not.”

“Shucks,” said Farragut.

Through the porthole in the captain's quarters on
Merrimack
, Earth appeared like a white-veiled jewel in the blackness of space.

Jose Maria de Cordillera sat on the bench and played his guitar.

Augustus lay flat on his back on the deck grates, nursing a headache. He looked dead. It was easy to step on him, especially when the ship's artificial gravity gave one of its burbles.

Farragut mused out loud. “Romulus is a patterner. He has a stealthy ship developed in the future.”

Only the guitar spoke for several measures.

“He has a stealthy ship.”

“You said that,” the floor spoke.

“It stands repeating.” Farragut turned his back on the porthole. “Romulus has a stealthy ship. He destroyed that ship's development facility. Why did he do that?”

“Presumably to keep its secrets.” Jose Maria stopped playing. “To keep rivals from being constructed. But you know that, young Captain.”

“Yes, I know that. That's the point. Is Romulus really overlooking something so all-fired obvious? Or has he taken care of it, and I missed the explosions.”

The dawn came to Jose Maria. “You mean redundance is good. Redundance is good.”

“Redundance is extraordinary. What did destroying the Consortium's development facility win Romulus? The Pacific Consortium
must
have an offsite backup of all the records they lost when Romulus destroyed the development facility.”

“More than one backup,” Jose Maria suggested. “Redundance is very, very good. But Romulus is a patterner. He must have noticed that.”

From the floor: “Ability to see doesn't make you
look
.”

“Thank you for agreeing with me for once, Augustus.”

“It is so seldom deserved.”

“The Pacifics lost a facility,” Farragut went on. “But you
know
they haven't lost any technical knowledge. They know how this Xerxes ship is going to be put together. I need to get it into the Consortium's head that Romulus already has their finished design.”

Jose Maria said, “You cannot believe that developing a failsafe today will result in any changes to the ship that Romulus now flies.”

“No. But the
Pacifics
need to find a way around their own defenses. They're the only ones who can do it.”

The floor spoke. “Your plan of attack, John Farragut?”

“I need someone more diplomatic than I am to explain all that to the Pacific Consortium.”

The Pacific Consortium representative received
Don
Jose Maria de Cordillera with all the warmth of a Swiss bank auditor. Jose Maria returned to
Merrimack
too quickly.

“What did they say?” Farragut asked.

“Nothing,” Jose Maria said. “I mean that literally.”

Farragut stood baffled. Mouth open. Nothing coming out. Then the roar. “They have no idea what they're doing! The Pacifics are creating a ship that can't be seen, can't be tracked, can't be remote-accessed, has no failsafe against being used as a weapon. If that isn't the dumbest godforsaken thing—!” He couldn't believe it.

He really couldn't believe it.

2 October 2443
Italian Embassy
Beta Centauri

Romulus made his next appearance on a broadcast from inside the Italian embassy on Beta Centauri. He wanted to clarify that he had declared war against the United States of America for herself as a breakaway Roman province but not as a member of the League of Earth Nations. Romulus had no quarrel with the LEN.

Then, to Rome's colony, America, Romulus offered amnesty to any U.S.
citizen who wanted to fight on the right side. There was no shame in being born under unlawful rule. “Make a decision now. Once America loses the war, the Empire has no use for losers. America was founded as a Roman colony. American Romans must join me proudly. I welcome you home.”

John Farragut shut off the display. “Romulus won't get any Americans taking up that offer.”

Caesar Numa Pompeii was not getting suckered into whatever game Romulus was playing. Romulus had no troops, no territory, no ships. He wasn't even son of Caesar anymore. Romulus stood on borrowed ground, braying.

Numa controlled the Empire's home world and Rome's colonies. Rome's colonies were bled out. Caesar Numa was not about to levy troops from colonies that had already lost sixty-four Legions to the Hive. And for
what?
To combat Romulus' empire of vapor? Romulus needed a fight. Numa did not. The Hive was not a threat to Near Space. Approaching Hive spheres wouldn't reach Near Space for another one hundred years. The Hive would not get any more Roman soldiers than Magnus had already fed to it. Numa could wait Romulus out.

Numa made his own announcement.

“That thing is not Rome. I do not recognize that pretender's delusions of leadership of the Empire. Romulus' organization is not a lawful entity. His declaration of war against the United States has no legal force. A state of war does not exist between the United States of America and the Roman Empire. Romulus, son of criminally inept Magnus, is nothing but a self-employed terrorist.”

Marisa Johnson, President of the United States of America, didn't favor Romulus with a quick reaction. Romulus' declarations meant nothing, and his words were beneath Presidential notice. Two days passed before Marisa Johnson issued her own brief statement, tacking it on like an afterthought following statements on the economy and the trade deficit. She addressed her remarks to the American people, not to Romulus or Rome. “We do not recognize Romulus' arbitrary assumption of powers. We do not recognize his status as head of any legitimate State. We do not recognize Romulus' declaration of war against these United States and will not answer it. I have nothing further to say on the topic.”

And she fell forward onto her desk, blood pooling under her nose.

4 October 2443

Merrimack
's U.S. flag stood motionless in the vacuum. It didn't look right. You really wanted to see Old Glory wave.

At half-staff, it really didn't look right at all.

The public outcry over the assassination of the American President had been immediate and universal. Even Numa Pompeii's Rome offered sympathy, without recognizing U.S. independence.

No one officially accused Romulus. Not yet. Investigators were still searching for proof of his involvement. They were not finding it. They could only acknowledge that President Johnson's death had been achieved by means of a two-stage weapon. The initial stage had been the delivery of an explosive charge—possibly nitro based—into the President. An aide remembered the President coughing recently. They'd both thought she'd inhaled a gnat in the rose garden. The aide had given the President a glass of water.

The second stage was carried out days later, a detonation of the initial charge by remote trigger. The charge was in her chest.

The investigation and the funeral preparations dominated the news services.

“Just let me know when we're at war,” Captain Farragut said.

“Sir? I have something,” Tactical reported.

Captain Farragut was the only man on
Merrimack
who could stand Marcander Vincent, and that just barely.

Farragut asked with forced calm, “Define ‘something,' Mister Vincent.”

“Can't.” Marcander Vincent threw images up on several displays.

The tactical displays showed vast black mats, like millions of snakes thrashing in an oil slick. They washed up on a black volcanic shore from out of a wide blue ocean on the daylight side of a world. Clots of the substance were breaking up into stringy mats as they hit the rocks.

“Where are those images coming from?”

Tactical replied, “Twenty-eight degrees north latitude, fifteen degrees west longitude.”

“What planet?”

“Ours. Here. This is Earth.”

Astonished, Farragut asked, “What's the Home Guard say?”

“Nothing from the Home Guard—”

Com interrupted, “Here it comes.”

Came the blare that always preceded an emergency broadcast, just as an insectoid shivering broke out on deck.

Crickets in stick cages on the command platform chirped. Ants in their terrariums poured from their holes.

The systems specialist leaned away from his station and retched, and Commander Carmel announced over the loud com:
“Hive sign!
Hive!”