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

by Christopher Nuttall

  There’s no way to keep the alert from heading up the chain, he thought, grimly. And there are too many loyalists in Astrid and Maben who will try to make a fight of it. Or so we’ve been told.

  He cursed, not for the first time, the true nature of a civil war. No one could be relied upon, not even the most loyal and faithful of crewmen. Admiral Vincent’s officers would fight to repel the Outsiders, he was sure, or a marauding alien fleet, but would they fight him? Or would they turn on their superior instead, when he tried to surrender? It was impossible to be sure which way people would jump when push turned to shove.

  But if there’s no way to prevent them from sending a message up the chain, he added mentally, we have no choice but to live with it.

  “Order the fleet to prepare to head for the Yellowstone Point,” he said. “The defenses of the other points can be left to die on the vine.”

  “Aye, sir,” Lieutenant Thompson said.

  Roman nodded to himself, slowly. Unless the defenders wanted to repeat his trick of pushing their fortresses through the Asimov Point — a trick that had cost him two out of four fortresses with the others heavily damaged by the stresses of transit — they’d be irrelevant to the overall war. There was nothing to be gained by killing thousands of crewmen who couldn’t harm him, no matter how loyal they were to the Emperor. And he would be damned if he allowed himself to turn into a mass murderer on the bloody road to Earth.

  “We’ll depart in one hour,” he added. “Until then, continue to monitor the situation.”

  He rose and stalked through the hatch, heading down to the guest suite. It was unlikely in the extreme that anything would happen, as the fleet hovered nearly half a light year from the primary star, well outside detection range, but it made sense to be careful. Roman had heard rumors about extreme long-range sensors for years, along with a host of other pieces of technology that had never come into general use. But then, Emperor Marius had once told him that the Grand Senate generally discouraged technological research. They already ruled the galaxy, he’d said. Why take the risk of accidentally inventing something that would completely destroy their power?

  But the Outsiders didn’t come up with too many improvements, Roman thought, as he keyed the hatch. There was a low chime, then the hatch hissed open. The long-range missiles were the only real surprise and it didn’t take the Federation more than six months to duplicate them, once we knew it was possible.

  “Admiral,” Hannalore Vincent said. “Welcome to my humble abode.”

  Roman’s lips twitched. The Federation Navy, for some reason that was probably buried in the files, insisted on guests being given the very best of everything. Hannalore’s suite was huge, large enough for a game of zero-gee soccer. Roman would have killed, when he’d been an ensign, to have such lavish quarters. Or perhaps he would have found them a little disconcerting. During his last year as a cadet, he’d shared quarters with five other cadets and considered himself lucky that he wasn’t sharing a dorm with ten.

  “We’re on the outskirts of Astrid now,” he said, choosing to forgo any pleasantries. “Are you ready to depart?”

  Hannalore rose, the movement drawing his attention to her curves. “I can leave at any moment,” she said, cheerfully. “Are you proceeding through the Yellowstone Point?”

  Roman nodded, silently giving her points for being ready to leave at a moment’s notice. It wasn’t common among aristocrats — or civilians. Maybe Hannalore had earned her rank after all. He’d looked her up, in the files, but they hadn’t been very enlightening. He’d privately concluded that Hannalore had been assigned to her father’s command as soon as she’d graduated, leaving her with no chance to carve out a career of her own.

  “We’ll be leaving in an hour,” he said. “I trust that will give you enough time to make it through the Astrid Point?”

  “It should, barring disaster,” Hannalore said. “The crews won’t bat an eyelid when I return from my inspection tour.”

  Roman studied her for a long moment. He hadn’t met many aristocrats, save for Lady Tiffany and Blake Raistlin — and the latter, of course, had tried to kill Marius Drake. But Hannalore seemed remarkably composed for someone who’d stuck her head in the lion’s jaws. Perhaps she had definitely earned her rank after all.

  “Good,” he said. She was her father’s oldest child, after all. She’d be his heir when the old bastard finally died. He had a feeling he’d be dealing with her several times in the future. “I thank you for coming.”

  “I dare say my father will be pleased,” Hannalore said. “He’s quite interested in meeting you, Admiral.”

  “I’ll try and make time to see him once we have the fleet moving through the Tara Prime system,” Roman said, as he led the way to the hatch. “But right now our concern is getting to Earth as quickly as possible.”

  Hannalore followed him through the hatch and down to the airlock, where her courier boat was docked. Roman’s technicians had gone over the tiny craft with a fine-toothed comb, eventually concluding that there were no surprises, save for the fact that Hannalore had flown the craft herself, without assistance. It was an impressive feat, Roman had to admit. The couriers practically flew themselves, but being alone in such a tiny cabin could be terrifying.

  He keyed his wristcom as Hannalore stepped through the airlock, which hissed closed behind her. “Bridge, this is the Admiral,” he said. “Prepare to release the courier boat.”

  “Aye, sir,” Captain Lancelets said.

  Roman waited until the courier boat had separated itself from the fleet, then slowly walked back to the CIC. The die was cast now, he knew; they’d be committed to making their slow way to Tara Prime through a route he knew to be predictable. But then, they’d lose the element of surprise the moment the other defenses within the system reported their arrival and transit through the Asimov Point. He considered, briefly, attacking the system’s defenses after all, but it wouldn’t give them any worthwhile advantage. Admiral Vincent would have New Redeye under observation as well as Maben.

  “Admiral,” Lieutenant Thompson said. “The courier boat has dropped into FTL.”

  “Very good,” Roman said. He glanced at the display, silently calculating the vectors. It shouldn’t take Hannalore more than twenty minutes to reach the system limits, with another four hours to reach the Astrid Point. As long as she didn’t alter course, there shouldn’t be any real risk of accidentally running her down. “And the fleet?”

  “All units report ready, sir,” Lieutenant Thompson said. “Tyrant’s Test reported an unexpected harmonic in her shield generators, but Captain O’Brian insists that his ship is fit for battle.”

  Roman had to smile. No one questioned the bravery and competence of Federation Navy crews, not now that the Justinian War had burned away a great deal of deadwood, but the Outsiders were practically fanatics. But then, their ancestors had been driven away by the Federation, during the Inheritance Wars. They knew, all too well, that Emperor Marius intended to restart surveying and settling the Beyond once he had a few years of peace and quiet to rebuild the Federation. The Outsiders would have to choose between fleeing again, or submitting.

  “As long as he’s sure,” he said. The Federation Navy gave a great deal of autonomy to starship captains, but the Outsiders gave more. “But keep an eye on her, just in case. We don’t want to take a superdreadnaught into battle with a faulty shield generator.”

  He sat down in his command chair, then leaned forward. “Our course is set?”

  “Yes, sir,” Lieutenant Thompson said. “Least-time course to the Astrid Point.”

  “Then take the fleet into stardrive,” Roman ordered. “And drop us out at the system limits.”

  Valiant shuddered, slightly, as her stardrive came online, pushing her into FTL. Roman forced himself to relax, even as the fleet dropped back out of FTL, reminding himself that the odds of being detected and ambushed were incredibly low. Even if Hannalore intended to betray them, she simply wouldn’t h
ave the time to organize an ambush. Or so he hoped...

  “No contacts, sir,” Lieutenant Thompson said. “Local space is clear.”

  “Launch a shell of recon drones,” Roman ordered, as the fleet advanced into the system. “I want to know if a single atom of dust is out of place.”

  He leaned back in his chair as the fleet slowly proceeded towards the Asimov Point. There was no attempt to hide — there was no hope of keeping the other Asimov Points from sounding the alert — and so he waited, as patiently as he could, until they slid into weapons range. The Asimov Point was defended by three fortresses and hundreds of mines, but the latter would be more effective against ships coming through from Astrid. He couldn’t help wondering if the defense planner was inexperienced, incompetent, or if there was something else involved. There was, after all, little worth fighting for at Marble.

  A civilian might have thought the minefield to be a good idea, he thought, dryly. But an experienced officer would know it was a waste of resources.

  “Send a surrender demand,” he ordered. “Inform the fortress crews that they will be treated honorably, if they surrender without a fight.”

  “Aye, sir,” Lieutenant Thompson said. There was a long pause. “No response, sir.”

  An alarm sounded. “They’re locking weapons on our formation, sir,” she added. “I think they’re preparing to fight.”

  “Idiots,” Roman muttered. The fortresses weren’t even the latest model — it certainly didn’t look as though they’d been refitted since the Justinian War — and even if they had been, they couldn’t have done more than delay him. “The Emperor isn’t going to be here to save them.”

  “Yes, sir,” Lieutenant Thompson said. She paused. “They may be hoping the minefield will suck up enough of our missiles to give them a fighting chance.”

  “Then they’re idiots,” Roman said, firmly. It might have worked, if the fortresses had been mobile units, but no missile heads were going to be diverted when they knew where their targets were. The mines might soak up a few missiles, he figured, yet the remainder would definitely get through. “Signal the fleet. Open fire.”

  Valiant shook, violently, as she unleashed a full broadside from her external racks, then her missile tubes. Roman wondered, as the other ships added their own weight to the barrage, if the enemy was trying to convince him to expend his missiles, but he had plenty of time to reload before proceeding through the Asimov Point. And, if there was something in the system big enough to fight him, he had more than enough space to evade it while making his way back to the system limits. It would be embarrassing, but better a retreat than a missile duel with a superior force.

  He watched, grimly, as the missiles ploughed through the minefield as if it wasn’t there. As expected, the mines soaked up a handful of missiles, but the remainder kept going. The fortresses returned fire, of course, yet they weren’t shooting at fixed targets. And their missiles were definitely second-rate, dating all the way back to the Justinian War. It didn’t look as though they’d been refitted with the latest ECM, let alone replaced altogether.

  Oh, you stupid bastard, Roman thought, wondering just who was in command of the fortresses. What did your men do to deserve having you as their commanding officer?

  “Direct hits,” Lieutenant Thompson reported. “Fortress One has taken heavy damage, sir; Fortress Two has lost power and is spewing lifepods...”

  She paused as an icon vanished from the display. “Fortress One has been destroyed, sir,” she added, correcting herself. “The minefield is still active.”

  “Launch minesweeper missiles,” Roman ordered, curtly. “And then dispatch shuttles to pick up the lifepods.”

  He paused, considering. “Try to raise Fortress Two, if you can,” he added. “Offer to take their surviving crew off.”

  “Aye, sir,” Lieutenant Thompson said.

  Roman nodded, then glanced at the status display. Missiles from the Justinian War had been deadly, once. But advances in defensive technology and point defense rendered them far less dangerous to starships. Hell, merely updating the fire control sensors had stripped the missiles of half their long-range effectiveness. He was surprised no one had seen fit to upgrade the fortresses, although Yellowstone was far less important than Astrid. It was quite possible they’d run into something far more dangerous before they reached Tara Prime.

  Although not if Hannalore was telling the truth, he mused. Tara Prime is the chokepoint, after all. They might not choose to waste effort fortifying the side-systems.

  “Admiral,” Lieutenant Thompson said. “I have been unable to raise anyone on Fortress Two, but the marine shuttles are prepared to try to force a docking.”

  Roman hesitated. Common humanity called for an attempt to save lives, despite the risk. If there was anyone still alive on the powerless hulk, they’d die when they ran out of air. But, at the same time, they might try to resist, violently, when his men came to rescue them. Who knew what they were thinking?

  But they didn’t do any damage, beyond forcing us to waste our missiles, he thought. We’d have no reason to take revenge.

  “Order them to try,” he said, finally. “And launch drones into the Asimov Point as soon as possible. I want a clear picture of everything awaiting us on the far side.”

  “Aye, sir,” Lieutenant Thompson said.

  Roman settled back in his chair, quietly reviewing the contingency plans he’d made over the last week. Maybe Hannalore and her father were telling the truth, maybe everything would be sunshine and roses once they reached Tara Prime, but he dared not take it for granted. It was quite possible that one of their officers would overthrow them, either out of loyalty to the Emperor or a simple desire for promotion. And then all hell would break loose.

  “The drones are returning, sir,” Lieutenant Thompson said. “There’s nothing on the far side, beyond a minefield and a number of automated weapons platforms.”

  “Odd,” Roman said, out loud. “No covering units?”

  “There’re no active starships within the system at all, at least as far as the drones can tell,” Lieutenant Thompson said. “The minefield is just sitting there.”

  “Dispatch a handful of assault pods to clear it,” Roman ordered. It was definitely odd. Every tactician knew that minefields were only reliable if covered by mobile units or fortresses, even when guarding an Asimov Point. “And then ready the first assault units to move through the point. I want the entire area swept for hidden surprises.”

  “Aye, sir,” Lieutenant Thompson said.

  Roman nodded, grimly. It had been easier, far easier, when he’d known he could expect nothing but brutal resistance. Now... now there was no way to know who was on what side — and who might change sides, given the incentive. Admiral Vincent should have had more than enough time to pack Tara Prime with his loyalists, but what if he’d missed a handful of deep-cover agents?

  And if the game was easy, he told himself, as the superdreadnaught inched through the Asimov Point, anyone could play.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  And so began a game of treachery, bluff and counter-bluff.

  —The Federation Navy in Retrospect, 4199

  Tara Prime, 4102

  Marius couldn’t keep himself from feeling a flicker of grim anticipation as he watched Admiral Vincent’s shuttle approaching Enterprise. The superdreadnaught, named for the now-defunct supercarrier that had once been the flagship of the Federation Navy, had entered the system through the Asimov Point, followed by sixty-two other superdreadnaughts and over two hundred smaller ships. He had to smirk at the shock the system’s defenders would have felt, when they saw the fleet... and, perhaps, the panic running through Admiral Vincent’s mind. Sixty-three superdreadnaughts were quite enough to lay waste to the system, particularly if the defenders were having a crisis of loyalty.

  But at least he came, Marius thought, glancing at Tiffany. She’d been beside him for most of the voyage, providing what comfort and support she could. H
e doesn’t know that we know.

  The thought almost made him laugh out loud. If Admiral Vincent knew what Marius knew, he would have boarded a shuttle and fled through the Maben Point in hopes of linking up with Admiral Garibaldi before it was too late. Not that it would have worked, of course; he’d have fled to the rebels with nothing, save for his own skin. Admiral Garibaldi would probably have interned him, rather than giving him a command. Unless, of course, he’d managed to take his battle squadrons with him.

  “Sir,” Commander Lewis said. “The Admiral’s shuttle has landed.”

  “Have him escorted to the briefing compartment,” Marius ordered, unable to keep the childlike glee from his voice. He was going to enjoy himself, by God. This time, the damnable traitor would dance to Marius’s tune. “I’ll meet him there soon.”

  Normally, he would have been punctual. The Grand Senate’s custom of making someone wait to see you, just because you were more important than your guest, had never failed to annoy him. But this time he waited, knowing it would make Admiral Vincent more unsure of himself. He’d be fretting like a boy sent to see the headmaster, or an ensign facing the captain, before Marius chose to enter the compartment. His uncertainty would make him far easier to control.

  He gave it twenty minutes before nodding to Tiffany and leading the way down to the briefing room. A pair of armed marines stood outside, wearing light combat armor and carrying plasma rifles. Marius rather doubted that Admiral Vincent would pose any threat — he was shockingly overweight in a universe where removing excess fat was hardly a problem — but their presence would add to the uncertainty. Admiral Vincent had to be wondering, right now, just what Marius knew, if anything. It was certainly unusual for someone to be summoned to the flagship and then made to wait under armed guard.

  The hatch hissed open. Marius pasted a smile on his face as he entered, spying Admiral Vincent sitting at the far end of the table. He’d grown fatter since Marius had last laid eyes on him; Marius couldn’t help comparing Vincent to an overgrown walrus, complete with a moustache that had been fashionable years ago, back during the Blue Star War. His piggish eyes surveyed Marius nervously as he sat down, with Tiffany leaning against the rear bulkhead rather than sitting down herself.