The Pilot hesitated. Again, Fludenoc barked humor.
"He is not actually an ignoramus, Pilot, appearances to the contrary. It's just that, like most Gha, his education was oriented toward practical matters. His knowledge of history is sadly deficient."
Beyond a mildly irritated inhalation, Oltomar did not argue the point. Fludenoc made a gesturing motion to the Pilot. Continue.
"Radio is a part of the electromagnetic spectrum," she explained. "Very far toward the low frequency end. Modern civilization doesn't have any real use for those bands. But in the early stages of industrial chain reaction, it is always the first avenue by which rising civilizations conquer electromagnetism. For a short period of time, such planets project radio waves into the galaxy. The waves are very weak, of course, and undirected, so they are quickly lost in the galaxy's background noise. If the Federation Meteorological Survey hadn't been keeping that portion of the galaxy under close observation because of the Transit storm, those signals would never have been noticed."
Uddumac interrupted. "You are saying that humans have achieved civilization?"
"Yes. There can be no natural explanation for such radio signals. And only a civilized species can project radio signals powerful enough to be picked up at interstellar distances."
"What level of civilization?" demanded Oltomar. "Class One or Two? Or even—Doge?"
"There's no way to tell without—"
"The distinction is critical!" Oltomar's statement was almost a shout. "It's absolutely critical."
The Pilot froze. Fludenoc interposed himself between her and Oltomar. She was actually in no physical danger at all, but her species tended to panic quickly. His protective presence would enable her to relax.
"Stop bullying her, Oltomar," he said quietly. "She has no way of answering your question—without us making the journey to that planet. Which is precisely what I propose to do."
He gestured to the dead bodies of the Voivode and the Investigator. "Our journey, not theirs."
Oltomar subsided, but Uddumac was still unsatisfied.
"This could easily be a complete waste of effort, Fludenoc. We need to find a suitable species which can claim Doge status. Legally. If the humans are already Class One—advanced Class One—we might be able to nudge them over the edge. As long as we could keep hidden the fact that their Transit capability was stolen from already established Doge technology. But if they're only Class Two, there's no way—"
He broke off, shivering his shoulders in that Gha gesture which corresponded to a human headshake.
Fludenoc hesitated before responding. Uddumac's reservations, after all, were quite reasonable. In order for a species to claim Doge status under Federation law, they had to demonstrate a capacity for interstellar travel and commerce. In technological terms, Transit; in socio-political terms, a mercantile orientation. An independent capacity, developed by their own efforts, not simply a capacity acquired from already existing Doges.
Civilized species which lacked that capacity were considered Class One if they had managed to depart the confines of their own planet before being discovered by galactic civilization. Class Two, if they were a society still bound to their world of origin.
As Uddumac had rightly said, it might be possible to give humans a false Doge identity by surreptitiously handing them Transit technology. Transit technology, by its nature, was fairly invariant. All the existing Doge Species used essentially the same method. But the subterfuge would only work if humans had already achieved a very high level of Class One civilization. Nobody would believe that human Transit was self-developed if the species was still pulling wagons with draft animals.
"The decision has already been made," Fludenoc stated, firmly but not belligerently. Again, he pointed to the Doge corpses. "We have no choice now, brothers. Let us make Transit to the human planet. The answer can only be found there."
There was no further opposition. Fludenoc swiveled to the Pilot.
"Take us there," he commanded.
The Pilot left the chamber immediately. Fludenoc turned to examine the Medic.
"Do not not mind me," the Medic immediately trilled. "I am just just a bystander."
All the Gha, now, barked their humor.
"But are you still interested?" asked Oltomar.
"Oh, yes yes! Very interested interested!"
IV
Not so many days later, after Transit was made, the Medic was still interested. Fascinated, in fact.
"What what in the name of Creation is that that that?"
There was no answer. Everyone in the control chamber was staring at the viewscreen.
Staring at that.
The Pilot finally broke the silence. "I think it's a boat," she whispered.
"What is a—a boat?" asked Oltomar. He, also, spoke in a whisper.
"I think she's right," muttered Fludenoc. "I saw a hologram of a boat, once. It looked quite a bit like—that. Except that's a lot bigger. A whole lot bigger."
"I say it again!" hissed Oltomar. "What in Creation is a boat?"
"It's a vessel that floats on water," replied Fludenoc. "Very large bodies of water, such as don't exist on our planet."
Oltomar stared at the screen. "Water?" he demanded. "What water? We're still in the outer fringes of this solar system!"
A hum from the communication console announced an incoming message.
"I think we're about to find out," said the Pilot. She shuffled toward the console. "Let's hope they speak some language the computer can translate."
Fludenoc was suddenly filled with confidence. That was the strangest-looking spacecraft he had ever seen. But, then again, he had thought the Romans were the strangest-looking soldiers he had ever seen, too.
"The computer will be able to translate," he predicted. "Latin has been programmed into it for over two thousand years."
He was not wrong. The Latin phrases which the computer received were spoken in a very odd accent, it was true. Quite unlike the original input. But the phrases were simple enough:
"Unknown spacecraft: you are ordered to hold position. Any movement toward the inner planets will be construed as a hostile act."
"There are more of those—boats—coming," said Uddumac. "Lots of them. Very big boats."
"We repeat—hold your position. We are sending a boarding party. Any resistance will be construed as a hostile act."
Fludenoc instructed the Pilot: "Send a message indicating that the boarding party will be allowed ingress without obstruction. And tell them we seek a parley."
"These are Romans?" queried Oltomar. His tone wavered pure confusion.
"Pilot," said Fludenoc. "Ask them to identify themselves as well."
The reply came quickly:
"This is Craig Trumbull speaking. I am the Commodore of this fleet and the Captain commanding this vessel. The CSS Scipio Africanus."
V
"I feel like an idiot," muttered Commodore Trumbull. His eyes, fixed on the huge viewscreen, shifted back and forth from the sleek, gleaming Guild vessel to the nearest of the newly arrived ships of his flotilla.
The Confederation Space Ship Quinctius Flaminius, that was. As she was now called.
Standing next to him, his executive officer grinned. "You mean you feel like the guy who shows up at a formal ball wearing a clown suit? Thought he'd been invited to a costume party?"
Trumbull grunted. Again, he stared at the CSS Quinctius Flaminius. As she was now called.
The USS Missouri, in her former life.
"I can't believe I'm trying to intimidate a Guild vessel with these antiques."
Commander Stephen Tambo shrugged. "So what if it's a World War Two craft dragged out of mothballs?" He pointed at the ancient battleship on the viewscreen. "Those aren't sixteen-inch guns anymore, Commodore. They're lasers. Eight times as powerful as any the Guild uses, according to the transport's computer. And the Quinctius' force-screens carry the same magnitude of superiority."
"I know that!" snappe
d the commodore. "I still feel like an idiot."
The executive officer, eyeing his superior with a sideways glance, decided against any further attempt at humor. The North American seemed bound and determined to wallow in self-pity.
Commander Tambo shared none of that mortification. True, the Confederation's newly created naval force was—from the standpoint of appearance—the most absurd-looking fleet imaginable. It had only been a few years, after all, since the arrival of the Romans had alerted humanity to the fact that it was a very big and very dangerous galaxy. Proper military spacecraft were only just starting to be constructed. In the meantime, the Earth had needed protection. Now.
So—
The Romans had brought the technology. Their captured troop transport's computer had carried full theoretical and design criteria in its data banks. The quickest and simplest way to create an instant fleet had been to refit the Earth's old warships.
By galactic standards, the resulting spacecraft were grotesque in every way. Nor was that simply a matter of appearance. They were not airtight, for instance. Because of the force-screens, of course, they did not need to be. But no proper galactic vessel would have taken the chance of relying on force-screens to maintain atmospheric integrity.
But Tambo did not mind in the least. As a South African, he was accustomed to the whimsies of history.
And besides, there were advantages.
He turned away from the viewscreen and gazed through the window of the bridge. A real window, that was—just plain, ordinary glass—looking down onto the vast, flat expanse where Tambo enjoyed his daily jogging. No galactic spaceship ever built—ever conceived—would have provided him with that opportunity.
The huge flight deck of the CSS Scipio Africanus.
Formerly, the USS Enterprise.
"The boarding party's leaving," he announced.
Commodore Trumbull turned away from the viewscreen and joined him at the window. The two men watched as the boarding craft lifted off from the flight deck—no hurtling steam catapults here; just the easy grace of galactic drives—and surged toward the force-screen. There was a momentary occultation of the starfield as the boarding craft's screen melded with that of the Africanus. A moment later, the boarding craft was lost to sight.
"Jesus H. Christ," muttered the commodore. "A complete idiot."
Tambo could not resist. He did a quick little dance step and sang, to the tune from Fiddler on the Roof: "Tradition!"
Trumbull scowled and glared at the viewscreen. The boarding craft was already halfway to the Guild vessel.
The CSS Livy, as she was now called. Naming her after a historian, thought the commodore darkly, was appropriate. He had protested bitterly. Bitterly. But the Naval Commissioning Board had been seized by the rampant historical romanticism which seemed to have engulfed the entire human race since the return of the Roman exiles.
The CSS Livy. Formerly, the prize exhibit at the Berlin Museum of Ancient Technology. A full-size reproduction—faithful in every detail—of one of the Roman Empire's quinqueremes.
The commodore could restrain himself no longer.
"They could at least stop rowing the damned oars!"
VI
Gaius Vibulenus shook his head firmly, and turned to Trumbull.
"No, Commodore," he said in his heavily accented English. "I do not recognize them. Not specifically. They are the same species as the—we just called them the 'frogs.' Or the 'toads.' "
The Roman looked back at the viewscreen. His eyes were now focused on the corpse of the Voivode. A Confederation Marine lieutenant was holding the creature's head up.
"And I cannot say that I recognize him, either. He is the same type as the Guild Commander who murdered Helvius and the others, yes. But whether he is the same individual—"
Gaius shrugged. "You must understand, Commodore, that we saw many intelligent species while we served the trading guild. But never very many different individuals of any one species. So they all looked much the same to us. Bizarre."
From behind them, Quartilla spoke. "I recognize him. The dead one, I mean."
Everyone on the bridge turned toward her.
"You're sure?" asked the Commodore.
Quartilla nodded. "Oh, yes. His species call themselves Rassiqua. Their body shapes and—call them 'faces'—are difficult for others to distinguish between, but each of them has a quite distinct pattern of skin mottling." She pointed at the corpse being held up before the viewscreen. "This one has a—"
She leaned over to the historian standing next to her, gesturing with her agile plump hands. "What do you call this, Robert—a thing with six sides?"
Robert Ainsley frowned for a moment, tugging at his gray-streaked professorial beard, before he understood her question.
"Hexagon."
"Hex-a-gon," she murmured, memorizing the word. The executive officer, watching, was impressed by the—woman's?—obvious facility and experienced ease at learning languages. She and Vibulenus had arrived at the Scipio Africanus aboard a special courier vessel less than an hour before. But even in that short time, Tambo had been struck by the difference between Quartilla's fluent, almost unaccented English and the stiff speech of her Roman companion.
"If you turn him around," said Quartilla, "you'll see a hexagon pattern on his left rear flank. Three hexagons, if I remember correctly. All of them shaded a sort of blue-green."
Commodore Trumbull began to give the order, but the Marine lieutenant was already moving the body. A moment later, grunting slightly, he held the Voivode's left rear flank up to the screen.
Three small hexagons. Shaded a sort of blue-green.
Gaius Vibulenus hissed. "That stinking bastard."
Tambo stared down at the Roman. The former tribune's fists were clenched. The steel-hard muscles in his forearms stood out like cables. For all the man's short size—and Vibulenus was tall, for a Roman—Tambo was glad that rage wasn't directed at him.
By current physical standards, the Romans were not much bigger than boys. The appearance was deceiving. Small they might be, and slightly built, compared to modern men, but the returned exiles' ancient customs were unbelievably ferocious, by those same modern standards. Tambo knew of at least one college fraternity, full of bravado, which had been hospitalized in its entirety after making the mistake of challenging four Roman veterans to a barroom brawl.
"But you don't recognize the frogs?" asked Trumbull. "The—what do they call themselves? The Gha?"
Quartilla shook her head. "No, Commodore. The Gha never demanded service from us Ossa pleasure creatures. We had almost no contact with them."
Her voice was icy with old bitterness. Tambo watched Vibulenus give her hand a little squeeze.
The commodore frowned deeply. Quartilla took a breath and added:
"I can verify everything else the Gha have said, however. I think they must be telling the truth here also. How else could they have known that the Voivode had once been the Roman commander? For that matter, how else could they have learned Latin?"
"He knew Helvius's name, too," muttered Vibulenus. The Roman was frowning very deeply himself, now. Almost scowling, in fact.
Seeing the expression on his face, the commodore stated: "Yet you still seem very suspicious, Tribune."
Vibulenus gave a little start of surprise. "Suspicious?" His face cleared. "You do not understand, Commodore. I was just thinking—It is hard to explain."
The Roman gestured toward the Gha on the viewscreen. They were standing toward the rear of the Guild vessel's command chamber, closely guarded by armed Marines. "Guilty, perhaps. These—Gha—were never anything to us but our masters' goons. It never occurred to me that they might have names. It certainly never occurred to me that they might know our names."
The Gha commander in the viewscreen suddenly spoke. His Latin was crude, but quite understandable.
"You Gaius Vibulenus. During period was I assigned guard Cacique, while was your Guildmaster, you tribune command Tenth C
ohort."
Gaius winced. "Your name is Fludenoc, am I right?" Quickly, with the easy familiarity of a man accustomed to elaborate ancient nomenclature, he added: "Fludenoc hu'tut-Na Nomo'te?"
The Gha bent forward stiffly.
"I believe him," said Gaius abruptly. The tone of his voice carried the absolutism of a hardened, experienced commanding officer. The Roman returned the bow, and spoke again in Latin.
"I thank you, Fludenoc hu'tut-Na Nomo'te, and your comrades, for finally giving justice to Helvius. And Grumio and Augens."