The Barbarian Bride (The Decline and Fall of the Galactic Empire Book 3)

by Christopher Nuttall

  Too used to fucking servants, he thought, tiredly. If he’d known all hell was going to break loose, he would have taken more precautions. And too used to not looking after myself.

  He cursed under his breath as the datanet connection broke. Earth was the one world in the Core Worlds where the datanet wasn’t smooth, at least outside the government buildings and richer residential areas. The network of datanodes that built up the system on every other developed world simply didn’t exist; instead, there was layer upon layer of older systems, going all the way back to the early space age. Rupert had heard, once, that there were even archivists who were constantly trying to track and store data that had been uploaded to the network over a thousand years ago. It was, he suspected, quite possible.

  But it’s also possible they don’t want the proles revolting, he thought, darkly. Earth had been the one place, until comparatively recently, where the power of the Grand Senate could be challenged. The Grand Senate had supplied entertainments on one hand, to keep the masses quiet, and cracked down on any thought of political dissent on the other. Keeping them from organizing a mass movement would be the first step to keeping the proles firmly under control.

  He reached for his pistol as he heard someone walking down the corridor outside, wondering if he’d have to sell his life dearly. The landlord had taken his money without demur, but Rupert was all too aware that the Emperor would have placed a price on his head. If the landlord recognized him, if the landlord wanted to ensure his rise out of the slums and into a far better place to live, he only had to call the police. And then, there was no shortage of human animals wandering the streets. He might be raped, killed, and eaten by someone who had no idea who he’d been.

  And that might be better than what the Emperor has in mind for me, he thought. Marius Drake’s increasing instability had been obvious... and it was clear that, whatever Professor Kratman had said to Roman Garibaldi, that it had been enough to push Drake over the edge into full-blown paranoia and madness. He won’t be satisfied with my head if I fall into his hands.

  He eyed the door as the footsteps grew closer, understanding — finally — the fear that gripped Earth. The door was nothing more than a sheet of plywood. A single kick would bring it down, allowing robbers, rapists and murderers to break into the apartment. Earth’s crime rates, based solely on reported crimes, were the highest in the Federation. He honestly didn’t understand why the emigration rate wasn’t higher. Life on a colony world might be hard, particularly if an immigrant didn’t have the money to pay his way to the new world, but it was still better than life on Earth. But, perhaps, the all-pervading fear explained it.

  It was easy to pour scorn on the poor when I was in my mansion, he thought, relaxing — slightly — as the footsteps echoed away. They were nothing more than a voiceless mass.

  It was a bitter thought, but he was too honest to refuse to face it. He’d believed, despite his explorations, that the poor were poor because they deserved to be poor, because they did nothing to better themselves. But the corrosive effects of life on Earth, of being dependent on the government and helpless against thugs, wore them down. They were helpless to control their lives. Indeed, they didn’t believe they could control their lives.

  He put the terminal to one side — he’d have to try again later and hope the local processors were feeling more accommodating — and rose, staggering over to the window. His body had been enhanced, before and after his birth, but the cold was still seeping into his old bones, reminding him that winter was coming. He had a nasty feeling he wouldn’t survive the next few months, even if he remained hidden from the Emperor’s patrols. The cold would kill him as surely as a plasma pulse through the head.

  Outside, night was falling over Chicago. Countless people thronged the streets, drained of life. Most of them were men; women tended to hide in their apartments or do what they could to keep themselves hidden. There were no children in sight. A handful of young men strode down the middle of the street, displaying a confidence that had everyone else scurrying for cover. Gangsters, Rupert thought; men who dominated the area, men who had no hesitation in taking what they wanted from the rest of the population. And yet, their lives were nasty, brutish and short. A gangster never knew when he’d be knifed by one of his comrades in a fight over a woman, or killed in one of the endless turf wars between street gangs.

  And his life is as worthless to his leaders as the life of a woman on the streets, Rupert thought, morbidly. He couldn’t help recognizing the similarity between the Grand Senate and the gangsters. The leaders lived lives of luxury, or what passed for luxury on the streets, while their footsoldiers fought, bled and died on their behalf. They have nothing to live for, nothing but the certainty of death.

  He wondered, as he stepped away from the window, just how much of the poverty below was the government’s fault. The Imperialist Faction had never really cared about Earth, beyond keeping the defenses strong; the Conservative Faction had merely wanted to maintain the status quo. Only the Socialists had given a damn, and most of their leaders had been more interested in power than actually helping. Indeed, in some ways, they’d made the problem worse. They simply hadn’t understood the beast they’d created.

  And now, I may die here too, he thought, as he sat back down on the bed. The landlord had probably assumed that Rupert would die in the apartment, that he’d been kicked out by his family when he turned into a burden. Hell, he’d probably assumed that Rupert was only fifty years old, rather than well over a century. And if I die here, everything I have done will be for nothing.

  It had been his decision to back Marius Drake, nine years ago. And it had been his decision to support Emperor Marius’s bid for power. But now... the warning signs had come too late for him to do something about the Emperor’s growing madness before the Brotherhood was crushed and broken. All he had been able to do was run and hide...

  ... And pray that he would still have the chance to make a difference.

  * * *

  There was paperwork, Marius had once known, and then there was paperwork. The reports and briefings he had to read contrasted with the reports and briefings that could be safely passed on to subordinates. But now he had to read everything, just to make sure he knew precisely what was going on. It was hard, almost impossible, to prioritize, even between intelligence reports from Tara Prime, logistics reports from AlphaCent and personnel management reports from Home Fleet. They all seemed important.

  He felt his head starting to pound, again, as he reached for yet another report and skimmed it quickly, looking for the key words. Not one useful damned thing from the Cairngorms Industrial Complex, he noted rapidly, and over fifty pages to tell him so. Production rates were still falling, go-slows were becoming more common... it didn’t seem to matter what the workers were threatened with, they just kept slowing down. And the writer spent most of his time coming up with excuses for the slowdown rather than putting forward suggestions for solving the problem. Marius would happily have given him the authority to at least try to solve the problem if he’d come up with a possible solution.

  I should have him shot, he thought, putting the datapad down. Bad news was one thing, but a lack of optimism was quite another. And tell his successor not to waste my time.

  Gritting his teeth, he rubbed his forehead, then reached into his pocket and produced the small packet of pills. He needed them, he told himself, as he swallowed two of the grey pills and washed them down with a swig of coffee. The headaches were nothing more than a distraction, a distraction he couldn’t allow himself. But, even with the pills, the headaches were growing worse. Frantically, he searched through the small pile of datapads, each one crammed with reports, looking for good news. Surely, there had to be something going his way.

  The doorbell chimed. He glanced up, irritated.

  “Sir, General Thorne requests an immediate audience,” the marine guard said. “Do you have a moment to see him?”

  Marius glanced at the repo
rts, then nodded curtly. General Thorne, at least, brought him solutions as well as problems. They might not always be the best solutions, but at least he was trying, Everyone else seemed content to have Marius come up with the solutions, as if there was no one else with a spark of initiative. And he was tired of it. The date he could retire, the date Tiffany and he could walk off into the sunset together, seemed further and further away every time he looked.

  “Send him in,” he ordered. His stomach rumbled. “And ask the steward to bring us fresh coffee.”

  The door opened. General Thorne entered, looking surprisingly well turned out for someone who should have been awake for most of the day. Marius felt a stab of envy, remembering the days when he’d been on his command deck for over forty hours at a stretch, then reminded himself sharply that he was no longer a young man. Besides, the drugs and stimulants they’d taken during that battle had nasty side effects. They’d been useless for days after the battle had come to an end.

  Pity, he thought. There just isn’t enough time in the world to sleep.

  “Sir,” General Throne said. He pulled himself upright and saluted smartly. “I have interesting news.”

  “Sit,” Marius ordered.

  He rubbed his forehead, once again. His headache hadn’t faded, despite the pills. He cursed under his breath as the steward arrived, carrying a tray of fresh coffee and sandwiches. Tiffany again, he noted, with a flicker of mixed love and irritation. She’d been nagging him to eat — and making sure the staff nagged him too. But there was little time to eat. There were just too many goddamned reports to read, orders to issue...

  “Very well,” he said, as he took his cup of coffee. “What’s the interesting news?”

  “A courier boat arrived from Tara Prime,” General Thorne said. “It was chartered, specifically, by ONI.”

  Marius lifted his eyebrows. “Go on.”

  “The courier boat carried a datachip earmarked with a specific code, a code belonging to one of our deep-cover agents,” General Thorne continued. “Thankfully, the local branch of ONI couldn’t get past the priority codes, so they forwarded the chip to Earth. And there it was decrypted. It’s both bad and good news.”

  “I see,” Marius said. “And what is the bad news?”

  “Admiral Vincent has been cuddling up to Admiral Garibaldi,” General Throne said. “He approached Garibaldi on New Year’s Day with an offer of an alliance.”

  Marius swore, running through a collection of words he’d learned on his first cruise from the formidable Chief Petty Officer. He’d trusted Admiral Vincent, at least as much as he trusted anyone with two battle squadrons under his command. But then, he’d trusted Admiral Garibaldi too, and Roman had turned on him. Why wouldn’t Vincent do the same?

  “I see,” he said, again. He wanted to take Home Fleet and lay waste to Tara Prime, after snatching Admiral Vincent for cruel and unusual punishment, but caught himself before issuing orders. “And the good news?”

  “He doesn’t know we know,” General Thorne said. “The deep-cover agent only found out through sheer luck.”

  Marius closed his eyes in silent contemplation. If Admiral Vincent was trying to play both ends against the middle... it was possible, he had to admit. Roman Garibaldi had always been an idealist — Marius had admired that in him — but Admiral Vincent was more of an opportunist. No doubt he wanted something in exchange for switching sides, or he wouldn’t have risked opening negotiations. He could just have surrendered, rather easily, when the rebels flowed into Tara Prime.

  “Which leads, I suppose, to the obvious question,” he mused. “What does he want?”

  “Permanent control over the Tara Sector, apparently,” General Thorne said. “In exchange for his support, the rebels are to concede the sector to him as a permanent fiefdom. His heirs will inherit it and the will of the people, for what it’s worth, will count for nothing. Apparently, the rebel leadership were quite uncertain about accepting the offer.”

  Marius snorted. In his experience, politicians and traitors saw nothing wrong with going back on their word — or stabbing a former friend in the back — as soon as their friend was no longer needed. Hadn’t the Grand Senate tried to kill him after he’d saved their collective ass from Admiral Justinian? The rebels, led by a bunch of turncoats, would probably turn on Admiral Vincent after they took Earth, no doubt claiming they were liberating the Tara Sector from a tyrant. Unless, of course, Admiral Vincent was savvy enough to take precautions...

  He probably is, Marius thought. He’s not bidding for the whole shebang.

  His face darkened as he contemplated the possibilities. Admiral Vincent had always struck him as an unimaginative sort, but that very lack of imagination might have saved Admiral Vincent from making a bid for empire. Instead of trying to grab Earth and declare himself Emperor — as Admiral Justinian had tried — he merely wanted a sector. Given enough time to dig in, Vincent might well make it impossible for anyone to dig him out without expending vast amounts of war material. The rebels might just concede the sector and allow Admiral Vincent his kingdom.

  He won’t overextend himself, Marius added, mentally. And whoever wins the civil war will be too exhausted to fight for Tara Prime.

  “He doesn’t know we know,” he said, out loud. “And we were planning to move reinforcements into the sector, to stage a decisive battle...”

  He allowed his voice to trail away as he contemplated the possibilities. Admiral Vincent — like Roman Garibaldi — had had plenty of time to place his loyalists in key positions all over the sector and its defending fleet. It was unlikely Marius could count on a mutiny when Admiral Vincent came out in support of the rebels, even though there were a handful of deep-cover agents on the Admiral’s ships. At most, he suspected, there would be a great deal of confusion, which would render it impossible to defend the sector. The rebels might even take advantage of the chaos to put an end to Admiral Vincent there and then.

  He’s sure he can get away with it, he thought. I don’t think he would have taken the risk otherwise.

  “We could move Home Fleet forward, into the sector,” he mused. “And then shut Admiral Vincent down before it’s too late.”

  “He might not surrender,” General Thorne pointed out.

  Marius nodded in irritation. If Admiral Vincent knew — or suspected — that Marius knew what he’d been planning, he wouldn’t come quietly. His ships would put up a fight, depleting the supplies Marius needed to fight the Outsiders. And the rebels, presumably already inching down from Marble, would intervene before the shooting came to an end, capitalizing on dissent in his camp. No, Marius couldn’t afford to do anything too overt. But, at the same time, he couldn’t just allow Admiral Vincent to get away with treachery. Losing Tara Prime would make ultimate victory far harder to achieve.

  Get the fleet to Tara Prime, he thought. Invite Admiral Vincent to board my flagship for dinner and grab him. Then take control of the planet and the system’s defenses...

  “There is a possibility,” General Thorne said. “I took the liberty of reading Admiral Vincent’s file.”

  Marius looked up, suspiciously. If there had been something in the files relating to possible treachery, he would have noticed. The Grand Senate would certainly not have tolerated a bottom-feeder like Admiral Vincent if it had a reason to doubt his loyalty. God knew they’d had enough problems with Justinian and his ilk. And Vincent, careful which cards he played, might prove a more dangerous threat.

  “He had political ambitions, I believe,” General Thorne said. “His two eldest children have entered the navy, but his four youngest children were dispatched to Blyton Towers and remained there, despite the... upset.”

  Marius blinked in surprise. Blyton Towers was, officially, a finishing school for young adults. In reality, it specialized in teaching the kind of manners and deportment favored by the aristocracy. Tiffany had told him that she’d been lucky to escape; the school, she’d said, specialized in turning brains into mush. Admir
al Vincent must have hoped to marry his children into prominent families and use their new connections to further his career.

  And now he’s planning to create his own kingdom, he thought, sourly. His children will be the highest in the land.

  “We could grab the children,” General Thorne said. “It won’t be long before he recalls them, I suspect. And then we could use them...”

  “Very true,” Marius agreed. He smiled, rather coldly. Everyone brought him problems, but only General Thorne brought him solutions. “Snatch the children now, before they can be recalled. And then we will see what use we can make of them.”

  Tiffany would be appalled, part of his mind noted as General Thorne turned to leave. The thought cost him a pang, which he ruthlessly pushed aside. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was preserving the Federation and stopping the traitors before it was too late.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Like all elite groups, the Grand Senate — and the aristocracy that surrounded it — had developed its own manners, its own way of living, that was profoundly alien to the rest of the Federation. Newcomers to the group, be they as illustrious as Admiral Drake or rich as Director Hamilton (CEO of Falcone Corp), found themselves profoundly out of place, their etiquette marking them as newcomers. Even the wealthy, who traded social respect for money, were looked down upon by those born into the aristocracy.

  Unsurprisingly, it proved harder for newcomers to replenish the Grand Senate than it should otherwise have been.

  —The Grand Senate in Hindsight, 5123

  Earth, 4102

  “You know how much it costs to come here?” Lieutenant Gartrell asked. “More than I’ll make in a lifetime.”

  Lieutenant Kevin Sanderson shrugged as the aircar approached Blyton Towers, its automated beacon already requesting and receiving permission to land. The school was halfway up a mountain in what had once been Switzerland, surrounded by white snow that cast an eerie sheen over the towering building. A hot zone at the rear puzzled him — his sensors could shed no light on it — until he realized it was a swimming pool. He couldn’t help thinking that the students, scions of some of the richest families in the system, had to have easy lives.