The Myriad: Tour of the Merrimack #1 Read Free Page B

mid-forties, perhaps fifties. Face like granite. Hair black, tightly curled, close-cut. Carried himself with a dangerous dignity. A disdain.
    Captain Farragut offered an open right hand. Augustus let the hand hang out there in midair. The flight deck stiffened, gripped in a collective breath hold, turning blue.
    Captain Farragut cut easily to the point: “I know y’all broke away from Earth a hundred and a half years ago, but you’ve got to know this is a sign of friendship.”
    “An open hand shows you hold no weapon,” Augustus corrected. “I do. Ergo.” Still no hand.
    Eyes bulged from the breath holders.
    The captain’s voice did not vary from its easy Kentucky drawl. “Then let go of it long enough to greet your duly appointed commanding officer.”
    The Roman’s hand opened, lifted—saluted, greeting the office, not the man. Bootheels came together sharply. No one had ever heard an ancient Roman salute, but you had to doubt an ancient Roman ever managed a convincing heel rap like that in sandals.
    Farragut’s brows lifted. He returned an American salute. And since no pleasantries were to be exchanged, he ordered, “Mr. Juarez, show Colonel Augustus to his quarters.”
    “An escort is unnecessary,” Augustus countered. “Tell me which compartment you’ve assigned to me. I am familiar with the layout of a U.S. Merrimack -class battleship.” Unsubtle reminder there, of Palatine’s capture of Merrimack ’s sister ship Monitor during the war. The Monitor must have impressed the Romans, because they turned around, gave it back, and offered alliance with the United States against Them, the Hive.
    Marauding omnivores from outer space had made strange bedfellows of the United States and the planet Palatine.
    Captain Farragut chose to pretend the remark was meant to be helpful. “By all means.” He ordered the new intelligence officer to report to sick bay after he stowed his gear in his quarters. Granted him permission to go, and he was gone.
    A nervous titter escaped the personnel on the flight deck.
    “I think that might have gone better,” Farragut said.
    The tension immediately bled off with a big deck-wide snigger.
    One of the ship’s dogs, the bloodhound named Nose, had given the Roman a sniff in passing and immediately sat down—a signal that he smelled something not right about Augustus.
    “I’ll put a tag on him,” Steele said, but Farragut belayed that: “I don’t think he’ll get lost.”
    That was not the point. Steele plunged ahead, “But he’s—”
    “Roman?” Farragut chided mildly.
    There were worse things in this galaxy than Romans.

    A squad of Marines waited for Colonel Steele in the forecastle on his way to officers’ country.
    He felt numbingly cold in recognition:
    Dak Shepard. Flew as Alpha Two. A grunt with wings. Big ape. A football washout—too slow for offense, too small for defense at a petite one hundred kilos. Nothing left for Dak but to bash heads for Uncle Sam.
    Carly Delgado. Alpha Four. A hard case. All rope and bone. Stick girl. Little pyramid breasts and a wide pointy cradle of hip. Wide face, brutally high cheek-bones, and a sharp little chin. That squint did her no good. Too tough to cry. Carly was crying.
    Twitch Fuentes. Alpha Five. The quiet one. Didn’t trust his English.
    Little Regina Monroe. Alpha Three. Reg was making those squeaking sobs. Sounded like a mouse.
    And hope against hope, she was still there in the back of the knot: Kerry Blue. Alpha Six. Puffy-faced. Eyes rimmed red. Mouth had that fat-lipped look you get from crying hard. Grieving anger knit her brow.
    They were all here but Alpha Seven. That asshole.
    Steele braced himself in stony dread as Flight Leader Hazard Sewell stepped forward for his squad. The designated mouth. “We’re having a memorial for Cowboy. We’d like you to say a few words, Colonel.”
    Heart stuck in his boot.
    They waited, expectant. Never expected Colonel Steele to say no.
    These soldiers all loved