“Yes, Your Majesty,” General Thorne said.
He’d do it too, Marius knew. Thorne had no morality, no sense of right or wrong; he’d follow orders to the bitter end. And if he killed a few thousand people who were technically innocent... well, one couldn’t make an omelette without breaking a few eggs. Admiral Garibaldi and the Outsiders had to be stopped.
“They’ll hate us,” Tiffany said. “Marius...”
“It has to be done,” Marius snapped. “There’s no choice!”
“I want a full media campaign,” he added, turning to Lawrence Tully. “Everyone is to know that Admiral Garibaldi has allied himself with the Outsiders, with aliens. He has to be stopped.”
Tully looked doubtful. “Your Majesty, we spent the last two years promoting Admiral Garibaldi...”
“The idiots who watch the slop the media puts out will believe anything,” Marius said. He shrugged, expressively. “Just make sure the story is convincing. Break out all the old propaganda and use it.”
He took a breath, wishing for a pill or a drink, then went on.
* * *
It took nearly three hours to bring the meeting to a close, Tiffany noted, three hours during which her husband proved he wasn’t the man she remembered any longer. Marius had always had a ruthless streak, but now... now he was giving orders to have protesters shot and families taken hostage, just to keep the industrial workers in line. She had no illusions just how bad things would become, once it became clear that the government had abandoned all pretense of respecting Earth’s long-held rights. There was going to be a nightmare.
She watched him, nervously, as they walked back to their bedroom. There were several new security guards outside, all wearing black uniforms copied from the original Blackshirts. It would have amused her, once upon a time, but it didn’t now. Marius — and General Thorne — had resurrected the Grand Senate’s security troops and put them to work.
“It’s going to be fine,” she said, as the hatch closed behind them. She wondered, suddenly, if she should light the candles or give him a massage. “What happened?”
Marius turned to look at her. There was something cold and dangerous in his gaze. For the first time since she’d met him, she couldn’t help feeling frightened.
“I was betrayed,” he snapped. He strode over to the drinks cabinet and opened it, removing a bottle of Caledonian Scotch. “Roman betrayed me. And Kratman.”
“But what happened?” Tiffany asked. She watched in alarm as Marius put the bottle to his lips and took a long swig. “I thought...”
“I thought he was loyal,” Marius hissed. “I won’t make that mistake again.”
Tiffany felt her heart break, just a little. She’d planned a romantic reunion, not... not being alone with a monster who wore her husband’s face. But what could she do?
Better think of something quick, her own thoughts mocked her, as Marius took another long swig and then reached for her. If this goes on, how long will it be before he comes to suspect you of treason?
Interlude One
From: The Chaos Years (5023)
Word spread across the Federation, carried by starships and courier boats, as Admiral Garibaldi and Emperor Marius struggled to rally support for their cause. The out-worlds, already caught in the middle of the Outsider War, hastened to pledge their support for the Outsiders and Admiral Garibaldi, while the inner worlds hesitated, unsure which way to jump. No one wanted to back a loser.
The Core Worlds, already restless under Emperor Marius’s rule, were deeply divided. Many feared losing control of the out-worlds, of what the Outsiders might do if they gained absolute power, while others deeply resented Emperor Marius’s measures to boost and diversify the economy. Earth itself, homeworld of the human race, teetered on the brink of civil war. Many of its inhabitants would have liked to enter the workforce, if there had been jobs for them. Others, though, feared for the future, regardless of who won the war. Marius might be bad, some said, but the Outsiders would be hell incarnate. They had no reason to treat Earth with anything, apart from scorn.
Both sides fought desperately to prepare their forces for a further round of war. Roman Garibaldi mustered a joint fleet of Federation and Outsider ships, while Emperor Marius struggled to reinforce Home Fleet and prepare ambushes along the bloody route to Tara Prime. And, caught in the middle, once-loyal officers wondered who they should support, if they should support anyone. Why not set up as an independent warlord? The Federation they’d served was long gone, but, in its death throes, it might take the galaxy down with it.
And so the stage was set for war.
Chapter Eleven
The complexities of an Asimov Point assault were, by 4101, well known to the Federation Navy. Indeed, barring the lucky discovery of an unknown Asimov Point chain that would allow a navy to slip a fleet into the enemy’s rear, they were still important despite the invention of the stardrive.
—The Federation Navy in Retrospect, 4199
Hammond/Alexis, 4101
“We seem to be alone, Admiral,” Lieutenant Thompson said. “The system appears to be deserted.”
Roman nodded, although he knew better than to take that on faith. The Emperor might well have detached a handful of cloaked cruisers as his ships passed through Hammond, either to provide advance warning for the defenders of Alexis or ambush his supply lines as his battle squadrons inched away from their bases. It was, after all, a standard tactic, honed in the years before anyone had invented the continuous-displacement stardrive. Even an officer as unimaginative as Admiral Ness would have thought of it.
“Detach a squadron of battlecruisers and order them to race to the Alexis Point, as planned,” he ordered. He doubted he could surprise the defenders, but he could try. “If their CO sees an opportunity to destroy any picket ships, he is to take it.”
He sat back in his command chair and studied the display. Hammond had been classed as worthless, when the first survey ships had passed through the system; the later discovery of a third Asimov Point hadn’t changed the system’s ranking, as the third Asimov Point led to a dead end. Unsurprisingly, the handful of rocky planets and single gas giant hadn’t received much in the way of investment from the Federation. The system hadn’t even had a cloudscoop until Roman had provided one, as part of buttressing the defenses of Boston. He would have been surprised if the population of the system’s sole inhabited world knew what was happening beyond their thin atmosphere, or gave much of a damn if they did.
“Deploy an additional shell of recon drones,” he ordered, absently. “I want to know about it if anyone tries to sneak up on us.”
“Aye, sir,” Lieutenant Thompson said.
Roman nodded to himself. Earthers — and other planet-dwellers — found it hard to grasp the sheer vastness of interstellar space, but as an asteroid-born he understood all too well. The entire Federation Navy could be hidden somewhere within the system and his sensors wouldn’t see it, as long as her crews were relatively careful. Each superdreadnaught might be two kilometres long, yet they were grains of sand against the immensity of the interstellar desert. It was hard to escape the sense that he was leaving safety and security behind, heading out on a voyage that might lead him to rocky shoals. Part of his mind wanted to abort the mission and flee back to the warmth of Boston.
He smiled, dismissing the thought. He’d wanted to join the Survey Service, as a younger man, but the war had put a stop to such ambitions. Roman wondered, afterwards, if he’d be able to take command of a survey squadron and head out beyond the Rim, if only to see what was waiting for humanity in the darkness. He certainly met the qualifications required for survey officers now...
But the Outsiders may object to us poking through their territory, he thought, as his ships continued their stately crawl towards their destination. And they may wind up with their independence, if the war allows it.
Long hours passed before a new icon popped up in the display. “Admiral, the battlecruisers have detected a
n escort carrier sitting on the Asimov Point,” Lieutenant Thompson reported, grimly. “She has a shell of fighters surrounding her.”
Roman cursed under his breath, although he knew he shouldn’t have expected the enemy to do something stupid. Escort carriers were largely defenseless — they were really nothing more than modified freighters — but with a fighter shell patroling local space there was no hope of getting his battlecruisers into missile range before the escort carrier detected them and launched drones back through the Asimov Point. The defenders would have ample warning of his arrival.
And they’ll pick up my ships when we enter sensor range, he thought. Even with ECM, they’ll have a good chance to assess our strength before popping back through the Asimov Point.
He shuddered, inwardly. The escort carrier was no treacherous warship serving a warlord, no Outsider or alien battleship that needed to be destroyed in open combat... her crew had been his allies, a mere three months ago. Who knew? If they understood what had happened, if they understood why Roman had realized the Emperor needed to be removed, they might agree with him. But the iron laws of interstellar combat decreed that the ship had to die, with as little warning as possible. There was no alternative.
“Order the battlecruisers to engage,” he ordered. Surprise was already gone, but perhaps he could keep the enemy in doubt as to his total strength. The Emperor would already have a good idea of Fifth Fleet’s total strength, but he would give a great deal, no doubt, to know just what the Outsiders had added to his fleet. “They are to kill her as quickly as possible.”
He kept his face impassive, fighting down the wave of disgust and guilt at his decision. A crew had been sentenced to death, just for being trapped on the wrong side. And the crew might already be dead. The time-delay between sending messages and receiving them meant that his battlecruiser commanders might already have had to engage, if one of the fighters came too close to their ship. And he wouldn’t know for at least two hours...
Damn you, Marius, he thought, bitterly. What have we become?
The hours crawled by, slowly, before the final update blinked up in front of him. Roman read it, quickly; the battlecruisers had killed the escort carrier, but she’d managed to get off her drones before she’d been blown to atoms. His commanders had had no choice; they’d had to engage at long-range. And that had ensured the escort carrier had had time to do her duty before she died.
“Order the fleet to increase speed,” he said. The enemy CO, trapped on the other side of the Asimov Point, would know about the battlecruisers, but hopefully he wouldn’t have any real idea of just what was bearing down on him. “And signal the battlecruisers. Anything that pokes its nose through the Asimov Point is to be slapped back, hard.”
He forced himself to relax as the Asimov Point appeared on the display, surrounded by his battlecruisers. The real-time update popped up in front of him; he breathed a sigh of relief as he realized the enemy CO had only launched drones through the point, rather than actual starships. Drones were hard to hit — the battlecruisers would have bare seconds to engage before they reversed course and plunged back through the Asimov Point — but most of their sensors were decidedly short-range. It was possible, reasonably possible, that the enemy CO had only seen the battlecruisers...
“Launch the first set of drones,” he ordered, as the fleet sorted itself into assault formation. “I want them summoned to surrender.”
“Aye, sir,” Lieutenant Thompson said.
Roman gritted his teeth as the drones approached the Asimov Point and vanished. There had been three fortresses on the far side, according to the last update; Alexis hadn’t been deemed important enough for heavier defenses, not given the far greater defenses of Ruthven. He doubted that could have changed, not in the three months since the Battle of Nova Athena, but he knew better than to underestimate the Emperor. Marius Drake hadn’t had half the tactical flexibility Roman had enjoyed, simply by having access to new weapons systems, yet he’d been more than capable of using what he had in a creative manner.
The first set of drones popped back into existence, their numbers sharply reduced. Roman scowled — that almost certainly meant that the gunners and starfighter pilots on the far side were well-trained and experienced — and then frowned as their sensor records appeared in front of him. There were no additional fortresses, but the Asimov Point practically crawled with minefields and free-floating missile pods. It looked as through the enemy CO had actually started expanding his defenses long before the Battle of Nova Athena.
Smart guy, Roman thought. He’d checked the files, but there was no clue which way the CO would actually jump. He’d bleed us white if we weren’t ready for him.
“There was no response from the fortresses,” Lieutenant Thompson reported. “They didn’t try to surrender.”
“Send through a second flight of drones,” Roman ordered. He wondered, absently, if the fortress commander was reluctant to surrender to a single squadron of battlecruisers. No sane battlecruiser commander would try to force an Asimov Point if there was any alternative. “I want them to have a chance to surrender.”
He watched the drones vanish, but none returned. The enemy CO, it seemed, hadn’t given any stand-down orders to his crews. Roman cursed under his breath — over fifteen thousand trained personnel were about to die — then keyed his console.
“Launch the assault pods,” he ordered. “And then ready the first assault squadrons.”
* * *
Commodore Leon Brinkman had no intention of surrendering. He’d made the mistake of allowing a sweet-talking superior officer to lure him into Fortress Command only to discover, too late, that Fortress Command was very much the despised ugly stepsister of the Federation Navy. He might reach flag rank, if he were lucky, but he would never command a fleet in action — and, because of that, he would never climb to the very highest ranks. The thought of surrendering without a fight to an officer a full four decades younger than he — and a traitor, to boot — was too much.
“Sir,” Commander Hadfield said. “Enemy assault pods are transiting the Asimov Point.”
“Order the CSP to engage,” Leon said, although he knew it was unnecessary. Everyone in the navy knew just how important it was to kill as many assault pods as possible before they could open fire. Indeed, no one, not even the most anal superior officer, would complain if the pilots opened fire without waiting for orders. “And stand by to repel attack...”
He braced himself as the remaining pods opened fire, unleashing a tidal wave of missiles on his fortresses. A handful were picked off by the CSP, but the remainder kept coming, automatically shifting into sprint mode as they closed in on their targets. Hundreds died as his point defense crews picked them off; dozens survived to slam into the fortress’s shields and detonate, shaking the fortress violently. Red icons flared up on the status display as the damage began to mount.
“Sir, we’ve lost four shield generators,” Lieutenant Redbird called. “They were antimatter warheads!”
“We have been at war for the last seven years,” Leon snapped. There was no time for surprise. Any reluctance to deploy antimatter warheads had vanished as soon as Admiral Justinian had attacked Earth, back in the mists of time. “Get repair crews on the task, now!”
He swore under his breath as a new cluster of red icons appeared on the display; destroyers, frigates and escort carriers, the latter already launching starfighters into the maelstrom. The former orientated themselves, then opened fire, launching mine-clearance missiles into the minefields as a second wave of assault pods materialized. Leon gritted his teeth as they started to launch, their warheads no doubt receiving updated tactical data from the rebel destroyers. It looked chaotic, but he was experienced enough to see a well-practiced team at work.
“Target the ships,” he snapped, as the wave of missiles roared towards his command. “And fire!”
The fortress barely shuddered as it unleashed the first spread of missiles. Not having to cram the
hull with engines gave it a throw weight a superdreadnaught would envy — and shields a superdreadnaught commander would sell his soul to have wrapped about his ships. The escort carriers had already reversed course and plunged back into the Asimov Point, but the remaining ships were holding position, systematically sweeping the mines out of space. He had to admit their crews were very well trained...
... And yet, no destroyer could hope to stand up to capital shipkiller missiles.
“Four enemy destroyers have been destroyed,” Commander Hadfield reported. “Two more have been badly damaged...”
“The escort carriers have returned,” Lieutenant Robinson called. “They’re launching a second wave of fighters!”
“Commit the remainder of the CSP,” Leon ordered.
* * *
“The enemy position has been badly weakened, sir,” Lieutenant Thompson reported. “But their defenses are holding.”
“Send in the third wave of assault pods, then the first battle squadron,” Roman ordered. It was risky — the smaller ships had done an excellent job of clearing the minefields, yet there were hundreds of mines and automated weapons platforms still intact — but there was no choice. “Go!”
“Aye, sir,” Lieutenant Thompson said.
Roman cursed under his breath as the third set of assault pods popped through the Asimov Point and vanished from the display. He’d hoped to blow through the defenses, not get bogged down into a long drawn-out engagement. But the enemy CO had put up a brutal fight, rather than surrendering, with or without firing a handful of shots to uphold his honor first. He hadn’t thought too highly of the concept of sowing every Asimov Point with a handful of fortresses, when it had been proposed to him, but in hindsight it might just have been a good idea after all. If nothing else, it had certainly cost him three waves of assault pods. He’d have to slow his advance to resupply before he tried to force his way into Ruthven.
The Barbarian Bride (The Decline and Fall of the Galactic Empire Book 3) Page 11
