Strength and Honor by R.M. Meluch Page B

house, no.
    A: And where do you propose to go? JMdeC: Elsewhere.

6
    Y OU CAN’T DO BATTLE in space with an enemy who won’t stand. Merrimack raced out to the source point of the diversionary fire that had hammered Wolflhound but that shooter was long gone. Captain Farragut tried to hail Gladiator on the old harmonic, but Gladiator was not responding. Anyone listening on the official harmonic had heard Calli’s last words: “Numa, you bastard—” Some doubted her ID of her assailant. But it was not necessarily a reasonable doubt.
    Numa Pompeii had not stayed in the area to explain, deny, or take credit for the attack, or to find out if Gaius survived it.
    Likely Numa was on his way to Palatine. Numa Pompeii had something to offer Romulus now. He had the death of Gaius Americanus.
    Still, there were other Romans in the Deep End who could have hit Wolfhound.
    The Roman Legion carrier Horlatius was out here somewhere. Marcus Asinius was in command of the ship if not the Legion.
    Marcus Asinius and his Legion Draconis had no love for Romulus. They respected John Farragut, but their loyalty lay absolutely with Rome.
    Farragut could not see Marcus Asinius participating in an assassination of a Roman Senator. But Marcus could have hit Wolfhound without knowing there was a target beyond Wolfhound or without knowing the identity of the passenger in the Spit boat.
    And Augustus was out there.
    “That wasn’t Augustus,” said Farragut, fact.
    “Sir?” said Commander Dent, less certain. The Augustus she knew was a first magnitude prick.
    “Augustus is still devoted to Magnus. Gaius was Magnus’ chosen heir. If Augustus were anywhere near this neighborhood, Gaius would have made it where he was going.”
    Augustus had to be on a spearline to either Palatine or to Caesar’s mobile palace Fortress Aeyrie to kill Romulus.
    The U.S. Rattlers of Fort Eisenhower had caught the second shooter immediately, the one who fired the kill shot on the Spit boat—a lone man in a small craft, not a patterner’s Striker. The Rattlers killed him. Killed him a bunch of times. Kept killing him because they could not undo what he did to Captain Carmel.
    The burn unit in the main station of Fort Ike smelled like medical gel. “Is Calli—?” Farragut was about to say all right, but he knew she was not all right. “—alive?”
    The doctor hesitated, looked thoughtful.
    “She’s dead?” Farragut filled in the silence.
    “Those are interesting questions,” said the doctor. Too detached for Farragut’s liking. Doctor Emil Embry. Older guy, not some kid who joined the Navy to learn the trade. Cool and steady. Almost callous. “She lost a major organ. We are regrowing one for her.”
    “Which organ?”
    “Her skin.”
    Farragut knew that Calli had been burned. “How bad?”
    “One hundred percent BSA,” said Dr. Embry. “I’m used to Naval acronyms, Doc. I don’t know your alphabet clumps.”
    “BSA. Body Surface Area. She has no skin. It was all necrotic, so we had to remove it. We are oxygenating her through medical gel.”
    “Will she—?”
    Live?
    Dr. Embry heard the unspoken word. “If I have anything to say about it, Captain Farragut. And, if may I say so, that counts for a hell of a lot.”
    Confidence was a good thing in a physician. Farragut felt the muscles in his neck relax a little. He held his head higher. “What about internal damage?”
    “The fire damage was mostly on the surface. She did not inhale, which is a blessing. It was a flash fry. It left her muscles in decent shape. Only the outer layer got cooked. Like fried ice cream.”
    Farragut muffled a sound of startled disgust that rose in his throat.
    “Or baked Alaska.”
    “Oh, for Jesus.”
    “Her internal organs are getting assistance. So she’s in remarkably good condition—for a woman without skin.” Farragut cast a glance upward. God? Sir? Thank you. And back to the doctor: “What about the Roman Senator, Gaius Americanus?”
    “I’m less