Work Text:
Through Marcus' tear-blurred vision, the moon on the horizon swam, blurred, and doubled. He shut his eyes. It wasn't fair. It wasn't right. Inside, his uncle and the senator and that damned Placidus were still talking, as if it were a pleasant evening, as if no one had said anything about the Ninth Fleet.
When he opened his eyes again, the moon was its usual cool silvery shape, and he snorted a little at it. Her. He had never been sure what to think about that. They had known what the heavens were, truly, for thousands of years, and for five hundred had flown among the stars themselves, and yet Marcus still believed in his heart that that ball of rock was Diana's. He had walked on other worlds, circling other stars, and some part of him still believed the gods were there. He had prayed to Mercury before every jump, Mars before every combat drop.
And look what it had gotten him. Look at him. Look what the gods had done.
He glared up at the moon. His sense of unfairness now felt more petulant; he wanted to see the heavens shift as he watched, to see the terminator sweep across that pale scarred face, plunging it into blackness. Of course, it was the moon, and therefore that certainly wasn't going to happen fast enough to watch. Inconvenient. That only irritated him more. Nothing cared about him.
As if perfectly timed to underscore that point, one of the connections in his leg buzzed, sending a tingling, snapping pain up to his hip, white-hot, and Marcus hissed through his teeth. That was one thing he was never going to forget. Out by the Isca system there had been peace, a tentative peace, and that had made it all the worse when the damned British raider had dropped out of hyperspace right on their tail. He hadn't expected boarders. No one had. He shouldn't even have been there, leading the party to the airlock, but, oh, he had wanted the glory, the only way to wash his name clean. He had been an idiot.
The Dumnonii man had been wearing vacuum-rated armor. Marcus never saw his face. It could even have been a woman, for all he knew. Maybe it was better that way, not to know. All he remembered were mirrors: the dark glass of the intruder's suit faceplate, in which he had seen his own body, twisted in freefall. And, of course, the shining parabolic metal of the blaster cone, building up energy, reflecting a great glow, too bright to see—
In zero-g, his blood floated in perfect spheres, strange and beautiful. He reached for one, wanting to capture it, to guard it, to keep it safe. It broke in his hand. Then came the pain.
Ninety-five percent of people took to the cybernetic limbs without any problems whatsoever, the medics had said. They had assured him of this, over and over, as he babbled deliriously in sickbay. A day for the surgery—all perfectly routine—another few days of bed rest, and two or three ninedays of physical therapy, on Terra or some other planet, to get him used to the neural feedback. He could go right back to his duties. They'd promised.
Marcus Aquila, unlucky Marcus Aquila, cursed by the gods like the rest of his family... well, he turned out to be in that other five percent.
It wasn't that the leg didn't work, precisely, because it did. Most of the time it moved when he wanted it to, if not necessarily as he wanted it to. It was a thing of extremes. It would flex either too much or not enough. One minute the skin-level sensors would be so sensitive that a touch would make him want to scream in agony, and the next minute he could burn the pseudo-skin away and feel nothing. Worst of all, though thankfully rarest, was when it locked up and he was forced to drag it behind him. It was an awful limp in gravity and so much useless mass in null-g zones. The random flares of pain were almost ignorable in comparison to the indignity of that. The connections were fine, they had said. There was nothing they could do, though for months on end they had tried, they had altered a nerve here or a muscle there. None of it worked. It was him. His fault.
In the end the discharge was almost a mercy. Almost.
He stared up at the stars and curled his fingers into a fist. Gods, he should still be out there, he should be up there... he should be a soldier. He wasn't. Not any longer. Centurion Aquila, commanding the ground troops of the Fourth Auxiliary Cohort, Second Fleet Augusta of the Roman Star Empire—that man was no more.
There was a noise from somewhere behind him, the creak of a door, the light from the atrium spilling into the garden, and hurriedly Marcus scrubbed at his face with the hanging fold of his awkward toga in case it was the fleet legate. He had dressed up for the dinner; the legate knew a great many men of wealth and power. Perhaps, his uncle had hinted ever so delicately, if he impressed Marcellus he could be introduced to these men. So he had put on his old formal toga and tunic, fumbling with the ancient folds when all his body remembered how to do after ten years was slide into a military skinsuit. At the dinner he had smiled and laughed at all the right places, been the gracious host, until that Placidus had opened his mouth—
"Marcus?"
The gods be thanked, at least it was his uncle.
"Marcus, are you still out here?"
Of course he was; where would he have gone? It was really his uncle asking if he was well, presentable, if he was out here weeping his eyes out like a child. Politeness. All was politeness, diplomacy and veiled phrases that did not mean what the words said. Even for equestrians. Even now.
"Here, uncle!" he called as he stepped towards the light. He was proud that his voice did not shake.
Footsteps came up beside him and then stopped, just behind him and to the side. Marcus did not turn.
"The tribune did not mean to offend you," offered his uncle, after several seconds of hideous silence.
Marcus winced. "My father— the Ninth Fleet— the Eagle—!" He took a breath and collected himself. "How can that man say so casually that a trader caught the signal of the Ninth's Eagle in British space and then do nothing? How can he say we should forget them— my father! And you— you agreed with him!"
The words caught in his throat and for an awful moment Marcus thought he might start crying again. Emotional lability, one of the doctors had said, trying to be reassuring. Certainly a potential side effect of all the rewiring they'd done in his brain, trying to get that damned leg working. But she'd been too earnest, too eager, and Marcus knew she'd been trying to hand him an excuse. A man's feelings, as ever proper in moderation, were not this weeping and black despair.
His uncle's voice was rough, and when Marcus turned at last to face him he saw tears glimmering in the old man's eyes. "Don't you think I understand? He was my brother, Marcus."
Marcus held out his hands, imploring. "But—"
"It would be suicide," he snapped, with all the authority of a twenty-five year veteran, a former station prefect on the frontier. "Politically as well as physically, sending a good fleet after bad. We haven't the resources to engage any of the British properly—" a three-thousand-year-old story, that one was, back when they shared only a planet and not a galaxy— "and they would die for nothing."
"The Eagle is not nothing! My father is not nothing!"
"He is to Rome," said his uncle, eyes downcast. "And you heard the legate as well as I did. Out past the Are-Cluta Belt there's hardly anything worth noticing. Agricultural worlds. Barbarians who have never left their own backwater systems. Primitive technology, likely. They've been cut off out there for so long, who knows what's left? It's a wonder the Eagle is still broadcasting. They probably don't even know what they have."
"You can't know that," Marcus tried, anguished.
Now his uncle met his gaze, and his face was twisted in sadness. "You know that if that's where the Ninth went down, he's not alive. It's been twenty years, Marcus."
"It's not about that."
"Still." His uncle shrugged. "They will not invade. Not for this."
"It doesn't have to be an invasion. Send one man. Maybe two."
His uncle's eyes went wide. "Marcus—"
"It is no stain on Rome's honor if I am lost. Let them disavow any knowledge." But if I succeed, I will gain everything. "And I am only one man. I can slip in, unnoticed. And I can return with the Eagle. I will do this."
"You can't— how will you get there? And they will know you are Roman. You don't speak British. You'll give yourself away the moment you land, even if you can trace the Eagle."
Marcus threw his hands to the skies. "I'll hire a ship! Hire a British pilot! I don't know!"
"Trust a Briton? With this?" His uncle snorted. "You may as well trust Sinon! The end will be the same."
"I will do this," Marcus repeated.
He tried to turn, to make a firm, decisive exit, striding across to the far side of the garden and the door there. But his ankle and knee had both locked, leaving him to hop about in an ungainly pivot. He cursed and tried not to trip on the toga.
Or he could die out there. If the gods meant it to be his death, then it would be. He had rather die in the stars.
It took time to find the right company, of course. There were so many competing factors to balance: he could not simply inquire of a reputable, above-board civilian fleet whether they'd be willing to cross the Wall, and at any rate the best and most well-regarded companies were not likely to hire Britons at all, much less aid and abet a raid. This left the shadier companies, the ones who—Marcus, cringing, could barely imagine himself doing it—could be persuaded, for a generous donation, to go wherever he asked of them. But that had the opposite problem: these people would not be trustworthy. If they would take your money and lie for you, who was to say they wouldn't take more from someone else to space you?
How did you find a thief and a liar who would never betray you? It was a nice paradox. Rome had always had its ways, and in most other situations the grand tradition of patronage would have stood him well. Ask a client, who asks a client, who asks a client. Or beg a favor of your patron, who in the old days might have even lent you a slave himself. But slavery was gone now; every schoolchild could name the dates of the Sixth Servile War. You could not be given a man whose loyalty had already been bought for you.
And a Briton, someone from the spacegoing tribes? Could they even be persuaded to scheme against their own for any money? Marcus rubbed at the bridge of his nose and reflected that he was beginning to see why his uncle had warned him off from the venture. Still, he had narrowed it down to a shortlist, outfits that from all their reviews and endorsements sounded just iffy enough that they might sell him the use of a ship and a pilot. He would have to call them and inquire about Britons, though.
And if they have none? Or if I get to the port and decide that I simply cannot trust them? The answer was obvious: next company, or widen the search. There were options still. There was time. There was. Twenty years and the Eagle was still out in the frontier worlds. They probably didn't know. It was safe. But if the barbarians ever found out what they had, there would be no time at all.
Marcus stood up from the console, stretched, and walked to the window. Over the hills, shuttles rose from the port, the glow of their drives shining even in daytime. He watched a little passenger ship spiral up, up, into the sun, and realized only after it had disappeared from view that his hand was clenched about the edge of the sill. Soon, soon.
All right. The sooner he started, the sooner it would all be over. He stalked back to the computer console and called up the vidphone, then stabbed decisively with his stylus at the first name on the list. Transgalactic Shipping. They were well-known, if not precisely for their integrity; their owner was a cousin of those Lepidi. Was it only last year that Lepidus, the governor of Nova Gallia, had been convicted of graft?
They would be bribable. Marcus swallowed. It was all right to bribe them. For Rome. He was doing this for Rome. For his father. A greater good.
The screen cleared and refocused on a pretty young woman at a desk, who pulled her palla up about her shoulders and smiled pleasantly enough at the screen. "Hail. Transgalactic Shipping greets you. I am Claudia. What may we do for you today, sir?"
Ought he give his real name? It wasn't as though the account he would pay them from didn't have his name on it. How did this even work? He glanced toward the corner of the screen: it said the call was secure on both ends, but no one was so foolish as to think that basic encryption could keep the emperor's spies out.
Marcus cleared his throat. "I'm— well— I am interested in hiring a ship and a pilot." There. That was safe enough.
"Certainly, sir." Claudia nodded briskly; at the bottom of the frame he could see her hands flicker with motion as she entered this. "What is the approximate distance of your ultimate shipping destination? Local, the cisterminal colonies... or farther?" When he said nothing, she frowned, still tapping away. "We need the information to prepare a quote, sir."
He licked his lips; his mouth was suddenly quite dry. "British space."
Claudia didn't even look up. "Very good." He could see her making a note of this. Nothing about her face changed. All perfectly ordinary. It wasn't illegal to ship things to British space. It wasn't an act of war merely to visit. Unlike what he was planning. "And how much will your goods mass? Is there any special handling required?"
"No goods. Just me. One passenger."
The routine questions stopped, and she stared at him, her mouth a small round o of surprise. "We... we are a freighting company."
Marcus let himself smile a little, trying to muster all of the commanding presence he was sure he once had. His heart pounded. "I know." He left a significant pause. "I have heard of your company."
Claudia's eyes darted away; she was looking at someone on the other side of the desk. For permission? "In rare circumstances," she said, faintly, "we have been known to make exceptions."
He forced the smile wider. "I think you will find me very reasonable."
She bit her lip. "One moment, sir, and I will transfer you to my patron."
The screen blanked out, and Marcus sat back, though he did not let himself smile. He was a step toward his goal, though he could not help but feel that his honor was draining away with it.
All in all, it took much less time than Marcus had thought. Fortunately for him, Transgalactic did indeed have a British pilot, willing to ferry him to Alpha Draconis—or whatever it was the Britons called it. The man on the other end of the call, agreeable to the point of obsequiousness, had promised their pilot's complete and full compliance with all requests, as soon as Marcus had discreetly transferred a rather alarming sum of sesterces into a Helvetian account. Yes, certainly, planetside excursions would be possible! Of course the pilot would serve as translator! Anything he wanted!
And so it was that he bade his uncle goodbye and took ship for the L5 transfer point. Floating off the shuttle into the weightlessness of the small station that tumbled among the asteroids, Marcus was suffused by memory. He hadn't been off-planet since the army, and somehow it was right to be floating here, a homecoming, but all wrong. It was strange without the bulk of armor, without even a blaster strapped across him—another thing he had been assured that the pilot would provide. He had forgotten the man's name already.
"Hey, groundling!" a woman yelled from behind him, and abruptly Marcus was aware that he had been lingering, blocking the tube to the station airlock. "If you're going to be sick in zero-g, by Castor, don't do it right here!"
They all thought he knew nothing. Perhaps they thought he was a tourist, although Marcus couldn't imagine anything less exciting than the Trojan Points.
It didn't matter what they thought of him. He would go, he would do this. He had decided it.
The rest of the trip was even less pleasant; the shuttle to the lunar farside cargo complexes was old, slow, and cramped, and its pilot seemed to take a perverse joy in making the ride as uncomfortable as possible for Marcus, his sole passenger. Marcus gritted his teeth. Gods, if this man were one of his soldiers, he would— but he wasn't, and therefore he could do nothing. He did not tip.
The domes that sprawled out across the Sea of Dreams were of the same vintage as the shuttle, and Marcus took in the sight of the dingy bulkheads and their welded patches with some apprehension. Surely the ship had to be better.
Wrapping one arm through a handhold, he unzipped his bag and fished out the electronic vellum. Where was he going? The freighter was, naturally, the Fides, a virtue so diluted by invocation that Marcus would put his last denarius on there being easily five hundred ships with the same name. Her pilot was one Esca MacCunoval. Well, he had asked for a barbarian; it was no surprise that the name should be barbarian to match. A quick check of the station computers gave him the berth, and off he went. The actual ship berths, he quickly found out, were in fixed orbit, and it was another dismal ride back up out of the gravity well.
Through the scarred viewport next to the airlock, Marcus made out the dull curves of the Fides where she sat placidly in space. Marcus frowned. She wasn't much to look at: a small ship, probably one of the last of the old Vespasian-class haulers. The hyperspace drive was perched just aft of the center fin, above the realspace drive, at an unfortunate angle that suggested it had been riveted there by drunkards. The Fides didn't look deadly or sleek or even maneuverable, or any of those words one might want to compliment a ship with. She looked... average. Which, he supposed, was a good thing. He didn't want to be noticeable.
He could back out. It didn't have to be here, today, this ship.
He tapped the ship comm panel before he could change his mind.
After a few seconds, the panel crackled to life, audio only. "Yeah?" said a man's voice, with a distinctly British accent. "This is the Fides. What do you want?"
Marcus sighed; too late, he hoped the audio pickup hadn't caught that. "Permission to board."
A dry laugh. "And who are you, then?"
"I am," said Marcus, with enough ice in his voice to chill plasma, "your new contract. From your employer."
There came a heartfelt obscenity; Marcus' British was good enough for that. "One minute." The man did not sound especially apologetic. After a pause he added: "Sir." It sounded like he hadn't quite wanted to say the last part.
After an eternity of waiting, the airlock creaked and rumbled open. Marcus squinted: the man at the other end of the long tube was floating upside-down from the station orientation. It was meant to unnerve him, he was sure; it was a deliberate discourtesy. Marcus grabbed for one of the handholds and spun over and down, farther down the tube and now on the same plane.
The man floating in front of him regarded him neutrally. He was a small man, about Marcus' own age, with a pale, narrow face. He wouldn't have said the man was his type, and yet there was something undeniably attractive about him. No. He wasn't about to start this. He had a job to do. Right. Marcus smiled. Be professional.
He could be no one other than this Esca whom Marcus was expecting; he wore unmarked coveralls, short-sleeved, and with his arms exposed there could be no doubt he was a pilot. His left arm was wrapped black, his right arm red; the stretchy webbing of the wrap looked cheap, like something left over from a hasty surgery or an athletic meet, but what had he expected? This was hardly a man who could afford the quality gauntlets of the military. The wrap started between his thumb and forefingers on each hand and went from palm almost to elbow, leaving a tantalizing gap of bare skin between the wrap and the jumpsuit. The suit was unzipped at his throat, exposing the smallest triangle of pale flesh—
Stop it.
"You're Esca MacCunoval?"
A nod. "Pilot of the Fides. At your service." The twitch of his lips could equally have been grin or grimace. "I'm told I'm to take you to Alpha Draconis and back, possibly with some time downside. I wasn't told your name."
"Marcus Aquila." He was not braced enough for a handclasp. Only then did he wonder if he should have lied.
MacCunoval eyed him speculatively. "Senator?"
"Equestrian." Another thing he could have lied about.
"Really," said MacCunoval, dry-voiced. It wasn't a question. "An honor, citizen. I wouldn't have known it, to look at you."
He couldn't tell if the man was joking, damn him. But Marcus had in fact tried to dress inconspicuously. "The traditional toga is rather unwieldy in freefall."
"I'm sure it is." In one fluid motion, MacCunoval pushed off the ceiling and threw himself backwards toward his ship, still facing Marcus as he floated down the transfer tube. "I assume you'll want the tour."
Marcus let go. "Certainly."
He wanted to trust him, he realized. He was being stupid. His judgment was clouded. By Hercules, the man had a distinctly non-regulation blaster strapped to his hip. This could be bad.
Whatever happens, the gods meant this for me, he reminded himself, and he followed.
"There's cargo?" asked Marcus, peering through the doors of the hold at all the neatly-secured pallets. "I thought this was—"
"—a passenger run just for you, yes," said MacCunoval, still with that dry voice. "Only I was already loaded for Eta Draconis before being informed of the change in plans, and my employers did not pay me enough to cover unloading and warehousing in the meantime. We've enough fuel, so it shouldn't be a concern. Unless you have time to stop at Eta Dra on your way home...?"
They would be running with the Eagle and praying to all the gods that no one caught up with them before they hit Roman space. Marcus frowned. "No."
"A pity. At any rate," MacCunoval continued, his voice strangely flat and reticent, "I'll keep them on the manifest. It will look convincing enough for the Wall guards. Best to be carrying something. They'll be suspicious otherwise."
Marcus squinted at the nearest pallet. They were dark, hard-sided containers, stacked one atop the other, each printed with a long identification string and nothing else. "What have you got, then?"
The smile in return was full of a calculated innocence. "Agricultural machinery." And damn it all, but it was a pretty smile.
"Ah."
Nothing was to be gained by pointing out the obvious euphemism; it was a game they were playing. The Briton would pretend it was the truth, and Marcus would pretend to believe him. He did wonder how illegal weaponry would be a safe cargo under the scrutiny of the border guards, but he supposed that he ought to defer to MacCunoval's expertise. If he was going to do this.
The rest of the ship, surprisingly, was in good repair; it had been cared for, if not lovingly, at least respectfully. MacCunoval's tone was neutral, giving nothing away as he showed off the hatch leading to the drives, the personnel area with just enough room for two sleep-sacks, the suit storage—Marcus thought the larger pressure suit would probably fit him—and even the galley. Something about it was wrong, though. MacCunoval had shown him about the ship well enough, but his manner made it plain that he did not want him here. Even now, in the narrow passageway that led to navigation, MacCunoval floated ahead of him, having braced his body all across the corridor, as if protecting it from Marcus.
"So," the Briton said, licking his lips. "You still interested?" Every line in his body screamed say no.
He couldn't do this. Not if the man was going to behave this way. "Pilot MacCunoval—" he began.
"Esca," the man interrupted, with a grin that made Marcus want to shiver in delight.
"Esca, then." He enjoyed the feel of the name on his lips, even as he wondered why Esca would do this. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but I am getting the impression that you, personally, are not very interested, yourself, in providing this particular service." Maybe, just maybe, the man would tell him what was going on. He'd volunteered. Why was he acting this way?
The smile faded. "Sir," Esca said. "I mean, citizen Aquila—"
"Call me Marcus." Maybe personal names would help all around.
Esca nodded. "Marcus. I assure you that your request will be fulfilled, as you have asked."
Esca's eyes were fixed ahead, his face stiff. This was just what his employer had told him to say, Marcus was sure. That wasn't helping.
"But you don't want to do it," Marcus pressed. "You can tell me the truth. It's all right. I'll—" he groped around for an answer— "Is it the money? I'll pay your commission, no matter what. Even if I leave right now. You'll have whatever you would get from them. For the whole flight." What in the world was coming out of his mouth? The man wasn't even that pretty. He wasn't. "Just tell me the truth."
"Why?" The word was as emotionless as everything else, but it was not a refusal. "Why would you do that?"
How much could he safely say? "My travels require a certain amount of... delicacy. I want— I need to know I can trust you. And I can't, not if you lie to me." And I want to anyway, and that frightens me.
Esca's mouth quirked. "It is the money, then, since you asked. But not in the way you probably think. Only, Aqu— Marcus— look at it from my perspective. You're getting a ship with a master-level licensed realspace and hyperspace pilot—an excellent pilot, if I say so myself—who speaks British who can go downside with you—to the Epidii system, of all places. Everything you asked for. I, on the other hand, have no idea what you want me for that isn't just flying this thing. I don't know who you're going to meet, or what you're going to do, or whether I'm going to get a blaster bolt to the head the instant we've crossed the Wall on the way back because I've seen too much or translated too much for your liking. They don't pay me enough for that."
Marcus stared at him in confusion. "Then why'd you volunteer for it?"
"Oh," said Esca, faintly. "Oh, gods." And then he started laughing, a horrible laugh, as he folded in on himself with an awful sob. "Don't make me cry, gods, the tears'll get in everything and short out that hatch access—" he rasped, and then, still half-sobbing, he was blotting his face with a rag. When he looked up his face was twisted with disbelief. "I have to ask, Marcus, when you bought yourself a pilot, just what did you think you were getting?"
Even though they were in freefall, Marcus could have sworn there was a lead weight forming in his belly. "Transgalactic is a bonded, licensed company," he said, tentatively. You knew they were scum. That's why you picked them. "They can't— you can't be— it's illegal. Slavery. Slavery is illegal." The word felt filthy to say. Slave was the worst of insults.
"That's a funny word, illegal." Esca's eyes were fixed somewhere beyond Marcus' shoulder. "There are lots of things Rome says are illegal, and they seem to happen anyway. Especially if no one finds out. Borders—those are funny things too. Not every tribe lives behind the Wall, and well, if a wing of Roman bombers—privately owned, mind you—happened to attack a British planet, just for fun, it might be that Rome never found out. Even if they took prisoners."
"I'm sorry." He had no idea what else to say.
"It's also not quite true that it's illegal. Indentured servitude, I should point out, is perfectly legal."
Esca held out his arms, wrapped wrists tilted out, as if presenting them for inspection. What did that have to do with anything?
Marcus blinked. "I don't understand."
"I'm sure you've met hyperspace pilots before." Esca's frown was almost thoughtful. "But civilian's not like military, soldier boy."
He had never said. "How did you know I was—?"
"You practically have centurion written on your forehead. But let me spell it out for you: in the fleet, if you're selected to be trained as a hyperspace pilot, what happens?"
He still wasn't following. But he was going to try. "Well," Marcus began, "I assume there are classes, theory, simulations, all of that, before you get the surgery—"
Esca lifted up one finger. "And who pays?"
"The army." How was that even a question? No one worried about that. "Training costs are all covered, even for the pilots. Of course. They get you for twenty-five years, so I'm sure they make their money back—"
Oh.
"You were a slave," he said, struck by the stupid unfairness of it all. "You were a slave and you didn't even get to pick."
"It doesn't matter." Esca had shut his eyes.
Marcus sighed. "How much do you owe them?"
"Seventy," Esca said, very quietly.
"Seventy thousand sesterces? That's not too bad." He'd be free in no time. By Pollux, Marcus could even cover that much...
"Million. Denarii."
Marcus could not think of a thing to say. "They're— they're mad. You'll never be able to pay that back."
Esca smiled weakly. "Now you've got the idea. So you see, I have to do what you want. I don't really have a choice in the matter."
"But— but— couldn't you quit?" The idea, as it came to him, was brilliant. "A ship is a ship, right? It shouldn't matter who you work for. Surely if you're as good as you say you are, one of the better companies would be willing to buy up the debt, loan you another ship, and—"
"Do you not know how anything works? This—" Esca tapped the black tape on his left arm— "is a proprietary port. I am physically capable of jumping exactly one type of ship: the Vespasian class, as you see here. The hardware won't fit anything else. The chip in my brain won't interface with anything else either unless they switch a few logic gates, but I appreciate the extra touch in making the plugs incompatible." He gave an awful chuckle. "So it's me and the Fides, or one of her sisters, shackled together for life, and guess what company the Vespasians are all owned by? One company, one ship class, with me forever." He frowned. "Actually, that's not quite true—according to the port schematics I can fly a military Trajan-class long-range fighter, but I've never seen one of those in my life. Not really a surprise, as I'm not a soldier. And they decommissioned them all, what, fifteen, twenty years ago?"
Marcus was still caught up in the first sentence. "I don't remember anyone in the army complaining about incompatible hardware." In fact, hadn't Tiburs been piloting a little survey scout one day and the entire Imperator Caesar the next? Those had to be different classes.
"I didn't say there wasn't a standard port and chip wiring. I just said I didn't have them." Esca grimaced. "In the unlikely event I manage to buy out my contract, they will install a standard interface. As a gift, I suppose. With a standard port you can fly anything. And before you say anything about that—they have all the surgeons under their thumb, and no company would touch someone else's work. One hears rumors of, shall we say, black-market operations, but you'll forgive me if I don't want to risk my brain for that."
Marcus whistled. "They've thought of everything, haven't they?" It was awful. "They're not— you can't bribe them, I suppose? The surgeons?"
Esca shrugged. "Probably not much cheaper than actually buying out the contract. It is both brain surgery and rocket science, after all," he added, grinning at the horrible, horrible joke. "I would expect it costs."
The sound of his own laughter startled Marcus. It was a terrible thing to joke about, but, gods, he couldn't remember laughing in— he didn't know how long.
He liked this man. Damn it all, but he liked him. And it was not as if there could be some other way to measure whether Esca—or any other pilot he could find—would betray him. There was nothing to do but step forward, as it were, into the venture.
Marcus licked his lips and parted with the truth. A piece of it. "Since you have been candid with me...?"
"Yes?" Esca stared at him almost avidly. Oh, he was hanging there as if he didn't care, but something in his tone said otherwise.
"I am," began Marcus, "on the way to Alpha Dra to retrieve a certain object. Let us just say that it has... a sentimental value to me." Technically true, if understated. "I have had word that it is on the planet. I think there's only the one colonized one. Six, maybe?"
"Planetside? You're positive? Not on station?"
What a strange thing to ask. "Planetside." Marcus nodded firmly. "So I have heard. It has a beacon, which ought to squawk when we're in system. Locating it should be the easy part. But, as I do not speak British..." He let the rest of the sentence trail off, hoping Esca would fill in.
But Esca's lips were pursed, and he was staring off down the corridor, behind Marcus. "Planetside," he murmured. "Do you even know what you're ask— no, of course you don't. I can translate, but I take it—" he was looking up now, rather thoughtfully— "that this item is something that its current possessors would not be willing to part with so freely?"
Marcus could not help wincing. "You could say that." He essayed a smile. "I'll tip well?"
Another laugh. "You'd better." Esca's face went carefully neutral. "Are you suggesting, perhaps, that some amount of thievery might be involved?"
He could not tell, looking at Esca, whether Esca was condoning or condemning this. He took a deep breath. "Yes."
There. Let the man throw him off the ship. He'd already promised him the money for nothing at all.
Esca floated there in silence, his expression unreadable.
"They took it first?" Marcus tried.
Esca sighed, a sudden, explosive exhalation. "Come with me. I want to show you something."
Without any other warning, he pushed off the wall and dove headfirst down the corridor, past Marcus, just barely brushing him with one of his legs as he went. Marcus shivered at the touch. This was either a very bad idea or a very good one, and he had no idea which.
Esca led him down the corridor, then he twisted himself and pushed down the maintenance passageway that led to the drives. Marcus stared, bewildered, hovering at the top of the hatchway. There was nothing he needed to see. Just drives. Esca had already shown him those. Well, he'd pointed out the passage, at any rate. Marcus hadn't actually gone down there to check.
"No," said Esca, "I meant it. Down here."
He shoved off—and his leg picked that moment to short out on him, frozen and doubled under him, so that he physically could not fit into the narrow tunnel with his leg twisted that way. "Ah! Son of a sl—" Slave. Esca. He ended the word in a hiss.
"You can say whatever you want," came Esca's voice, half-amusement and half-concern, "but are you all right up there?"
He nodded, and then he realized Esca couldn't see him. "Fine, just— my leg's shorted out."
There was a pause.
"Oh," said Esca, sounding suddenly very careful, as if Marcus were a fragile sculpture or a thing to be pitied. Marcus gritted his teeth. "Did you need any help, then?"
"No," he said. What could Esca do for him, anyway? "I'm good. I'm coming." Thankfully, at that moment, his leg unlocked, and he sighed in relief and swung down the narrow maintenance tube, mindlessly building up speed on the handholds that doubled as a ladder when they were in gravity.
He flipped out of the tube and into the drive control room, and nearly slammed bodily into Esca, just barely checking his motion in time by hanging onto the last handhold. The place was smaller than he thought it would have been. There was barely room for two people; Esca was already packed in close, though he was trying to be as far away as possible. There was a look in his eyes that said that he didn't know what to do or say, and gods, Marcus had seen that on so many faces.
Esca cleared his throat, suddenly awkward. "I'm sorry. I didn't know."
"You're not supposed to know." Marcus sighed. "War wound. The cybernetics are supposed to be indistinguishable. That's what the fleet surgeons said."
He could see the ignominious path of his career, a disgraceful fall, trace his way across Esca's mind, reflected neatly in his face. "I'm sorry," Esca said again, and it was the wrong word.
Marcus blinked. Esca's Latin had been so good, but now he had said me paenitet, when before it had been me miseret. "I think you meant—"
"I know what I meant." Esca's mouth twitched, in half a bleak smile. "Someone might as well apologize on behalf of the Britons. You can't have been fighting anyone else."
"You're not— you're not even Dumnonii. Or are you?" He didn't need to apologize for this. He didn't owe Marcus anything.
Esca shook his head. "Brigantes." His face was tight, and Marcus guessed there was some old memory there, perhaps an enmity wakened. And then he grinned. It was a forced smile, but Marcus would take it. "Anyway, here, look at this."
Marcus looked around the control room. There was nothing special about it, not that he saw. All the boards were green, the drives ready to spin up—or they would be if the ship weren't docked. The maintenance and diagnostic log panel glowed dully next to the hatch; it had been signed off on a month ago. All regular. But here was Esca, smiling like there was something else going on, a real smile now, and damned if it didn't make Marcus want to kiss him.
He swallowed. "What?"
Esca moved close— and pushed past him. He watched as Esca pried up the corner of a bulkhead with one red-wrapped hand, lifting it away, and— there was a room beyond there. A little room, with a bunk, just barely enough for a person. Maybe two, if they were friendly. But there was enough room. Marcus gaped.
"Since it's basically next to the drives, the drive shielding hides it from external scans. You wouldn't think anything of a bit of fuzziness on the sensors. Even an onboard inspection won't turn up anything. This place is so lousy with energy that it'll all just bounce, even with hand-scanners. Just what you'd expect to find in drive control." Marcus glanced over to see Esca, grinning.
"What do— what do you even smuggle? Or who?"
The smile this time was the barest hint of one. "I hardly think I know you well enough to say."
Slaves. His people. What else could it be?
Well, he had been pushing it. "Right. And you want to smuggle... me?"
Esca's brows were drawn together. "Actually, it would be easier if.... well. How much do you know about Alpha Dra?"
"Not much. Why?"
"It figures. Roman." Esca chuckled. "Right. The main problem is going to be getting you downplanet. The system itself is inhabited by Epidii—they live on Alpha Draconis VI—but they don't get out much. There's an orbital station, but it's run by the Selgovae. They have some sort of mutually-beneficial financial arrangement, I'm sure."
Tribal politics. Why did it even matter to him? Stupid farmers had probably been there so long they'd forgotten how to make basic rockets, and they needed someone else to run the place. "So?"
"So—" Esca stressed the word— "the Selgovae also do passenger control for downplanet travel. And they won't let anyone land planetside without a good reason. Which I happen not to have. They make you dock, and so if you're going downside you do it as a passenger on one of their shuttles. And I can tell you right now, they won't be thrilled about a Roman. But if it was just a matter of landing and sneaking you out, no problem." Esca had likely done that before, to judge by his tone. "Sneaking you through customs and aboard a Selgovae shuttle is another matter entirely. I don't think we can."
"Wait. You're saying you can't do this—?"
Esca held up a hand. His palm was wrapped in black. "No, listen. I'm saying I can. Here's the plan. Give me your frequency, whatever the thing's locator circuit's on. I'll go get it. You'll stay on board. Hide here. Is your item small enough to carry? I can— I can pay them off, the agents—"
No. "You don't understand," Marcus tried. "I have to get it. I have to get it myself. It's my honor at stake."
"Your honor?" Esca's face twisted incredulously. "What is this all about?"
"It's an Eagle," Marcus said. In all his plans, he had resolved to keep this secret from the pilot, never to tell him until they were safely back in Roman space, and maybe not even then. He had clearly not accounted for Esca. Esca had trusted him with his secrets. Should he not be equally trusting in return? And Esca, for his part, went silent and still with vast surprise writ across his features. "What I'm looking for, I mean. The Ninth Fleet's Eagle," Marcus continued. "My father's Eagle. Lost for twenty years."
"Lord of Light," whispered Esca, very softly. Then he said nothing, and Marcus held his breath in the silence, until: "You're paying well enough, eh? You Romans and your Eagles. All right, then. We'll figure something out."
"All right?"
Esca grinned like a madman. "Just because you're so pretty, Roman. I'm in. Let's go hunt birds."