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?”