Eric Flint: Carthago Delenda Est

The commodore scratched under his jaw. “All right,” he muttered. “I’m satisfied these people are who they say they are. But what about their other claims? And their weird proposal?”

Before anyone could respond, the communication console hummed vigorously. The com officer, Lieutenant Olga Sanchez, took the call.

“You’d better look at this yourself, Commodore,” she said, standing aside.

Trumbull marched over to the screen and quickly read the message. “Wonderful,” he muttered. “Just perfect.” He turned back, facing the small crowd on the bridge.

“Well, folks, after two hundred years-and God only knows how much money poured down that sinkhole-the SETI maniacs have finally picked up a signal from intelligent extra-solarians. Wasn’t hard, actually. The radio signals are being beamed directly at the Earth from a source which just crossed Neptune’s orbit.”

He took a breath and squared his stocky shoulders.

“Their findings have been confirmed by Operation Spaceguard, using the radar net set up to watch for asteroids. And Naval Intelligence has spotted them also, with modern equipment. The source is a fleet of spacecraft.”

He stared at the Gha in the viewscreen. “It seems they were wrong. About this, at least. Somebody else also realized the significance of the radio signals.”

“The Guilds!” exclaimed Quartilla.

Trumbull nodded. “One of them, anyway. They’re identifying themselves-in Latin-as the Ty’uct Trading Guild.”

Quartilla pointed to the body of the Voivode, still visible in the viewscreen. “That’s his guild. The one which bought and used the Romans.”

“What do they want?” snarled Vibulenus. His fists were clenched again.

“What do you think?” snorted the commodore. “They say that by right of first contact they are claiming exclusive trading privileges with this solar system. A Federation naval vessel is accompanying them to ensure the correct protocols. Whatever that means.”

Tambo translated this recent exchange for the benefit of the Gha. As soon as he finished, the Gha commander spoke.

“What it mean,” stated Fludenoc, “is they have right hammer in to the submission anybody objects. But must restrict theyselfs this system existing technology. Federation vessel is watchdog make sure they follow rules.”

Again, Tambo translated. The commodore’s gloom vanished.

“Is that so?” he demanded. “Is that so, indeed?”

He and his executive officer exchanged grins. The North American often exasperated Tambo with his quirks and foibles. But the South African was glad, now, that he was in command. There was a long, long tradition behind that wicked grin on Trumbull’s face.

Trumbull turned back to Lieutenant Sanchez. “Tell Naval Command that I’m deploying to meet this threat. If they have any new instructions, tell them they’d better get ‘em off quickly. Otherwise, I will follow my own best judgment.”

She bent over the console. Trumbull glanced up at the viewscreen. “Bring that ship aboard the Africanus,” he commanded the Marine lieutenant. “I want to get it below decks before the Guild vessels arrive.”

Seeing Tambo’s raised eyebrow, he asked:

“Any suggestions? Criticisms?”

Tambo shook his head. “I agree with you.”

The South African waved at the viewscreen, now blank. “We can decide later what we think about the Gha proposal. It sounds crazy to me, frankly. But who knows, in this strange new universe? In the meantime, by keeping them hidden we leave all our options open.”

The sight of the viewscreen flickering back into life drew his eyes that way. Within seconds, a starfield filled the screen. Against that glorious background, little lights could be seen, moving slowly across the stars. The ships were far too small to be seen at that distance, by any optical means. The lights were computer simulations based on information derived from a variation of Transit technology which was quite analogous to radar.

There were fourteen of those lights, Tambo saw. One of them-presumably the Federation observer-was hanging well back from the others. The thirteen ships of the Guild force itself were arrayed in a dodecahedron, with a single ship located at the very center.

“That’s a fancy-looking formation,” mused Trumbull. “But I don’t see where it’s worth much. Except for parades.”

From the corner of the bridge, where he stood next to Quartilla, Robert Ainsley spoke up.

“Excuse me, Commodore.”

Trumbull cocked his head around.

The historian pointed at the screen. “Judging from what I’ve learned since I was assigned to help the Romans orient themselves after their return-and everything we’ve just heard today fits in perfectly-I don’t-” He hesitated, fumbling for words.

“Go on,” said the commodore.

“Well, this isn’t my field, really. Not in practice, at least. But-I don’t think these Guilds have fought a real battle in-in-Jesus, who knows? Millennia. Many millennia.”

Trumbull smiled thinly and looked back at the formation marching across the starfield.

“Funny you should say that,” he murmured. “I was just thinking the same thing.”

Tambo cleared his throat. “According to the computer, sir, there are three classes of warships in that fleet. Eight small ones-about the size of the vessel the Gha seized-four mediums, and the big one in the center.”

He issued a modest little cough. “Naval procedure, as you know, recommends that we give enemy vessels a nomenclature. Since we don’t know what the Guild calls their own ships, we’ll have to come up with our own names.”

Trumbull’s smile widened. “Do you have any suggestions?”

“Oh, yes,” replied Tambo, solemn-faced. “I believe we should name them as follows: small ones, Bismarcks; the mediums, Yamatos; and the big one-”

He could not restrain his grin.

“-is a Titanic.”

The bridge was crowded, now, with the addition of the aliens. The Pilot and the Medic huddled against a wall, out of the way. But the four Gha, by virtue of their size alone, seemed to fill half the room.

“Do any of you know the rules of engagement?” Trumbull asked the Gha. Tambo translated his question into Latin.

The Gha were stiff as statues.

“We understand do not,” said Fludenoc. “What are-engagement regulations?”

Before Tambo could explain, the Gha commander turned to the Pilot and motioned. Fearfully, creeping on her footskirt, she shuffled forward. Tambo waited while Fludenoc spoke some rapid phrases in a language he didn’t recognize.

“That’s Galactic,” whispered Quartilla. “It’s an artificial language, with several dialects designed for the vocal apparatus of different Doge Species. This one is called Galactic Three.”

She began to add something else, but fell silent when Fludenoc turned back to the humans.

“Now I understand,” said the Gha. “Pilot say she not certain. Doges not fought each other many thousands-many thousands-years. But she think there no rules between Guild fight Guild. She-what is word?-strongly says you must not attack Federation vessel.”

“Will it attack us?” asked Tambo.

The Gha did not bother to check with the pilot before answering. “No. Federation ship will watch only.” He waved a huge, clawed hand at the viewscreen. “This is Guild business. Federation not interfere.”

After Tambo explained to his superior, Trumbull nodded. “It’s a straight-up fight, then.” To the com officer: “How good’s your Latin?”

She smiled. “Well, sir-it’s just about perfect.”

Trumbull grimaced. “Christ,” he muttered. “I’m going to have to learn that damned archaic tongue, after all.”