The Shadow of Cincinnatus

by Nuttall, Christopher

  “We will be,” Emperor Marius assured him.

  The emperor keyed a switch. “The interesting fact about Nova Athena is that the system has absolutely no Asimov Points,” he said. “Or, at least, none we’ve managed to detect. It’s possible the locals didn’t bother to do more than a basic survey – given the political situation, they might not have wanted to locate any Asimov Points.”

  Roman didn’t blame them. Nova Athena might have evaded most of the funding options for new colonies, but – by Federation Law – Asimov Points belonged to the Federation. If they’d located one, they would have had to surrender a great deal of political power to the Grand Senate, which wouldn’t have hesitated to use it ruthlessly until Nova Athena had been turned into yet another dependency. As it was, they’d managed to remain largely off the sensor display until they’d established themselves solidly. The Grand Senate might have intended to take over, but doing it legally would be a major problem.

  Or would have been a major problem, Roman thought. Now, the precise post-war status of Nova Athena would depend on the man sitting across from him, sipping tea and looking thoroughly unwell. They’re not going to have an easy time of it.

  “We will proceed through Point Delta, then split the fleet into two formations,” Emperor Marius continued. “You will take your battle squadrons to Salam, whereupon you will cross the gulf of interstellar space and enter the Nova Athena System. I will take my ships to Yankee and make the crossing from there. This will not only give us a chance to sweep two successive Asimov Chains clear of enemy presence, but make it harder for them to predict our course.”

  “They would probably suspect our target in any case,” Roman said, slowly. It struck him as too complex a plan to be practical. “Shouldn’t we operate as one unit, sir, and reduce the risk of having both fleets defeated separately?”

  There was a flicker of anger on the emperor’s face, which faded almost as quickly as it had come. “The scouts report minimal enemy presence in all of the systems,” Emperor Marius said. “We will have the option of smashing those ships and minor fortifications without risking losses to ourselves, while gaining control of both chains, which would allow us to threaten a number of different worlds. They would not be sure we intended to head for Nova Athena...and, in any case, we would be blocking any attempt to move ships back from the occupied worlds to our target.”

  That was true, Roman thought, as he studied the starchart. The Asimov Chains ran through a number of vital systems, systems the Outsiders had probably designated as nodal systems for rapid reinforcement of any threatened planet. There was no way to be sure how many starships they had on hand for immediate deployment, but he had to admit that they wouldn’t be able to get them to Nova Athena without punching through one or both of the onrushing fleets.

  But it still struck him as an alarmingly complex plan.

  “I have brought additional freighters crammed with supplies,” Emperor Marius added, as he clicked off the display. “Your fleet train is ready to move?”

  “Always,” Roman said. He’d learned that precaution during the advance on Admiral Justinian that had ended the Justinian War. “They’re on three hours notice to move.”

  “Then we will launch the offensive in one day,” Emperor Marius said. “Your remaining ships and fortresses should be capable of holding Boston.”

  “I hope so,” Roman said. He’d had replacement fortresses towed from the other Asimov Points to Point Delta, but there had been no time to replace the mines and automated weapons platforms that had been destroyed in the battle. The supplies of prefabricated platforms had been tapped out. “In any case, they would need to smash the fortresses covering all of the Asimov Points to secure the system.”

  “All war is risk,” Emperor Marius said. He sighed. “I have to meet with people on Boston, Roman, or I would have stayed here longer.”

  “I understand,” Roman said. Once, it would have been a pleasure to host his mentor. Now, he wasn’t so sure. “Are you going to meet with the planetary representatives?”

  “We’ll see what they have to say for themselves,” Emperor Marius growled. He made to rise to his feet, then stopped. “There is one other matter we have to discuss.”

  Roman shivered. There was something in the way Emperor Marius had said it that sent chills down his spine. “Yes, sir?”

  “The prisoners,” Emperor Marius said. “I want them transferred to the POW transports and shipped back to Mars. They may be able to tell us things we need to know.”

  “I would prefer to keep them here,” Roman said, carefully. He’d heard rumors about what happened on Mars during the Grand Senate’s tenure. The prisoners were lucky if they were only violated by mind-probes, their secrets ripped out of their brains one by one. “They’re being held under standard POW conventions...”

  “And I would like you to send them to Mars,” Emperor Marius snapped. The anger was back, stronger this time. “They are not legitimate prisoners of war, Roman.”

  “I took them under the standard conventions,” Roman said. He reminded himself that he’d faced death bravely as a young officer and forced himself to meet his mentor’s bloodshot eyes. “Their ultimate disposition can wait until the end of the war.”

  Emperor Marius glowered at him. “Are you defying me?”

  “They have thousands of our people held prisoner,” Roman said. The envoys had made that clear, to the point of providing evidence that the POWs were alive and reasonably happy. “I don’t think we should mistreat their prisoners, sir, or our people will be mistreated in turn.”

  Roman paused. “And every one of them who might know something useful has a security implant,” he added. “I don’t think we can get anything out of their heads, sir. The implants would kill them if they detected any form of enhanced interrogation. None of them are talking freely.”

  “There are ways around those implants,” Emperor Marius growled. “Roman...”

  “We shouldn’t take the risk,” Roman pleaded. “Sir, we will locate their bases and we will destroy them, but we don’t have to become monsters in the process. The survey ships will find one of their worlds or we’ll take a navigational database intact or we’ll find something we can use as a guide...”

  Marius glared at him. Roman forced himself to hold his eyes.

  “I hope you’re right,” Marius snapped, finally. “But I think you’re wrong. The prisoners will stay here.”

  The emperor rose, then marched towards the hatch and stopped. “I will be hosting a dinner tonight for the commanding officers,” he added. “You will, of course, attend. Your girlfriend is also invited.”

  The hatch hissed open. Emperor Marius stepped through. The hatch hissed closed behind him.

  Roman let out a long shuddering breath as he rose on suddenly weak legs. There was sweat trickling down the back of his neck. He hadn’t felt so close to death since his first real taste of combat, on Enterprise. And yet, Marius Drake was his mentor, even a friend. There seemed no reason to be so scared...

  Two years. Two years of absolute power. Had that been enough to change the man he’d known into a growling tyrant? He’d never heard Marius Drake show any traces of self-pity before, even when he’d been deprived of command unjustly. Operation Retribution would have succeeded brilliantly if Admiral Drake had been in command, but the Grand Senate hadn’t trusted him. It hadn’t been the brightest idea. He’d been loyal to them right up until the moment they’d tried to kill him.

  And his hands were shaking, Roman thought. What did that mean?

  His terminal bleeped. “Admiral Garibaldi, this is Professor Kratman,” a voice said. “I would like a moment to talk to you, if that is acceptable.”

  “Sure,” Roman said, shakily. For once, he had relatively little to do. He’d cleared as much of his schedule as possible to meet his former mentor, while his staff could handle most of the issues facing the fleet. “Give me twenty minutes, then come find my stateroom.”

  He clicked
off the starchart – the emperor had forgotten to take his datachip with him – and then stepped into the washroom. His face was pale, while sweat prickled on his forehead and his uniform was stained. Cursing under his breath, he stripped, showered and dumped the uniform in the wash basket, then hastily donned a spare one. He wasn’t sure he wanted to meet his former tutor, not after seeing how badly Marius Drake had changed, but he suspected there was no choice. Besides, maybe Kratman knew what was wrong.

  “Elf,” he said, keying a switch. He kept his voice briskly formal, even though she was his lover. They tried hard to keep it professional outside their quarters. “We’ve been invited to dinner tonight, but I need to talk to you first. Come to my stateroom in one hour.”

  And maybe you will know what’s wrong, he thought, grimly. And how best to fix it.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  The old saying about even paranoids having enemies is, unfortunately, accurate. However, paranoia tends to lead to seeing enemies even in the most unlikely of places.

  -The Federation Navy in Retrospect, 4199

  Boston, 4101

  “It’s good to see you again, Roman,” Professor Kratman said. “It’s been quite some time.”

  “It has,” Roman agreed, studying his former tutor closely. He looked little different from Roman’s recollections; short white hair, an angular face and sharp blue eyes. The suit he wore was very unmilitary, but he hadn’t been a formal naval officer for years. “And time has been kind to you.”

  Kratman didn’t mince words. “You saw the emperor,” he said. It wasn’t a question. “What did you make of him?”

  Roman scowled. “What is wrong with him?”

  “Marius Drake is a military commander,” Kratman said. “A very good military commander.”

  “I didn’t know that was in dispute,” Roman said, tartly.

  “A military has a relatively simple structure,” Kratman explained. “Orders are issued from the top to lower ranks, who carry out their orders. Certain officers have a great deal of leeway in how they carry out their orders, others have very little freedom of operation. The point is that everyone knows where they stand at all times.”

  Roman wasn’t sure that was entirely true, but held his peace.

  “The civilian universe is a very different beast,” Kratman continued. “Instead of – pardon the term – an absolute dictatorship, lesser ranks have priorities of their own that might not jibe with upper ranks. A corporation will do what is best for itself, rather than the Federation as a whole; a person will act in his own best interests, rather than any mythical greater good. You understand the problem?”

  “I think so,” Roman said, slowly.

  “The Grand Senators had patronage networks that stretched from the very heights of society to the lowest depths,” Kratman said. “They could and did get things done; they’d designed a social structure that supported their primacy. The emperor, by contrast, does not have any support network outside the military. His ability to make his will felt is dependent on deadly force because he has few other tools at his disposal.”

  Roman met his eyes. “What does this mean?”

  “A military unit is well understood,” Kratman said. “But a civilian structure is often less organized. The emperor has been trying to treat the Federation’s economic system like a military unit, one that can be ordered about at will.”

  Kratman paused. “The system was broken before the coup,” he said, “but there has been no time to make reforms. Instead, we have been straining every muscle to produce as much war material as possible, which has been causing some structures to simply break down. Workers are going on strike because they can’t handle it any longer, we’re suffering disasters because infrastructures have broken under the strain...and so on, and so on. Worst of all, perhaps, the bureaucracy has proven resistant to attempts to curb its power.”

  “And so the emperor is under a great deal of stress,” Roman mused.

  “Worse than that,” Kratman said. “He’s become alarmingly dependent on painkillers, I believe, and quite possibly alcohol. I have been monitoring his behavior as closely as possible over the last two months; he’s definitely in a downward spiral. Mood swings, sudden fits of anger...it all fits a very dangerous pattern.”

  Roman bit down the urge to say something that would have earned him a record number of demerits, back at the Academy.

  “His obsession with beating the Outsiders has blinded him to some of the dangers,” Kratman warned. “Others, I believe, he has simply dismissed, intending to handle them after the war is won. For one thing, he has been creating new security forces on Earth. Those forces, as such forces tend to do, have started to mutate out of control. Brutal repression has become the order of the day.”

  “I don’t believe it,” Roman said. But he’d seen the change in the emperor. The man he’d respected and admired had become a warped shadow of his former self. “I don’t want to believe it.”

  “Neither do I,” Kratman said. “And I took my life into my hands to come talk to you.”

  Roman’s eyes narrowed. “It can’t be that bad...”

  “It is,” Kratman said. “Do you know how many journalists have been disappeared in the two months before I left Earth?”

  “...No,” Roman said. “The Marius Drake I knew wouldn’t have allowed people to be snatched off the streets and taken away.”

  “I doubt he knows,” Kratman said. He cleared his throat. “There are just too many demands on his time, Roman. He simply cannot handle everything put in front of him. I suspect General Thorne ordered the journalists imprisoned, either for questioning the official line or simply because he wanted to establish himself as a power. The old Blackshirts will have nothing on a force that acts completely without restraint.”

  Roman shivered. “And what do you want me to do, if you came here at great personal risk?”

  “Talk to him,” Kratman said. “I believe he will listen to you, if no one else. But if not...you might want to start thinking about contingency plans...”

  “To take power myself?” Roman snapped. Cold anger flashed through his mind. “You want me to betray the man who put me here?”

  “If necessary,” Kratman said.

  “No,” Roman said. He forced himself to calm down. “I am damned if I will betray him.”

  “You have to consider the good of the Federation,” Kratman said. “What will happen when something big breaks? Or an uprising occurs on Earth itself? Or the economy, what’s left of it, collapses into nothingness? We are already on the brink, Roman, of reaching the point of no return. There will be nothing left of the Federation to save!

  “We need this war to end,” he insisted. “Even if we have to admit the Outsiders might have a point, even if we have to grant them concessions, we need the war to end. The Federation simply cannot support it any longer.”

  Kratman took a breath. “We have reached the end of the line.”

  Roman forced himself to think calmly, logically. He had more sympathy with the Outsiders than he cared to admit, even before he’d heard about the new security forces. He’d grown up on an asteroid, after all, and he knew how intrusive the Federation could be. There was definitely something to be said for pruning the bureaucracy as far back as possible. And yet he’d thought Marius Drake would handle it.

  But he can’t prune the bureaucrats if he needs them at the same time, Roman thought. And if they resist being pruned, he will need to concentrate on dealing with them...and he can’t, because he has so much else to do.

  But the thought of turning against his mentor was horrific. Admiral Drake had picked him out for rapid advancement, supported his career, even taken advantage of his determination to do the right thing. The thought of betraying the emperor...Roman shook his head, reluctant to take that step. He was no Grand Senate lackey, ready to betray in exchange for a small price; he was a Federation Navy officer, loyal to his superior. And, a day ago, he would have said his superior was deserving of s
uch loyalty.

  He looked down at his hands, recalling – to his horror – how the emperor’s hands had twitched and shaken. That was not a good sign. He’d seen drug addicts before, on Boskone and several other shore leave hubs, and they’d barely been able to function. It started small, Elf had told him, but the addict rapidly needed more and more drugs just to hit the high. Or, perhaps, to avoid the pain. Indeed, if someone was dependent on painkillers, their body would produce pains to encourage them to take the drugs.

  “I don’t know,” Roman said.

  The thought was maddening. He knew how to be decisive in combat, when a moment’s hesitation could mean the difference between life and death, but he didn’t know how to turn against his mentor. And how could he? Emperor Marius needed help and support, not a knife in the back. Part of him wanted to call the Marines and have Professor Kratman thrown into the brig. The rest of him feared the professor might have a point.

  Kratman rose to his feet. “I suggest you think about it,” he said. “But you should know, from my lectures if nothing else, that there are few easy choices in politics.”

  “Fuck off,” Roman said.

  Kratman nodded, then stepped through the hatch.

  * * *

  Dinner with the emperor was far worse than Roman had dared fear. He’d never liked formal dining affairs at the best of times, but some of the officers the emperor had brought with him were worryingly sycophantic. They seemed to have decided that Roman was high in the Emperor’s favor, so they spent far too much of their time kissing his ass. After the third captain had congratulated him on his great victory, in flowery tones that were normally reserved for Officer Readiness Reports, Roman was ready to kill the next one who dared try to flatter him.

  No wonder the emperor is having problems, he thought, as the stewards served the first course. If he has people flattering him every day, he won’t know what to believe.

  He gripped Elf’s hand under the table, then ate, watching the emperor all the time. There were more worrying signs, now he knew to look for them. The emperor was drinking heavily...and not just expensive wines. Someone – as always – had set up a still on Thunderbird and the emperor had been helping himself to their produce. Roman made a mental note to have a word with the ship’s commanding officer, then dismissed the thought as futile. Captain Abrams didn’t look like the sort of man who would dare defy the emperor.