After all, who knew how many other admirals were thinking about rebellion? Perhaps Justinian had merely been the first to put theory into action.
“And yet, there is one who must be rewarded,” the President said. A spotlight shone down from high overhead, drawing attention to Marius. “The man who took command during our gravest hour of need, who ensured the decisive defeat of the treacherous Justinian, must be recognized. For his services, Vice Admiral Drake is promoted to admiral”—there was an outburst of cheers—”and has been awarded the Federation Star. And, after he has been feted as he deserves, he will be a very important part of the mission to destroy Justinian once and for all!”
This time, the cheering went on and on. Marius held himself ramrod straight as the President left his box—as tradition demanded—and pinned the medal on Marius’ dress tunic. The Federation Star was the highest award in the Federation Navy, and only the President—advised by the Naval Oversight Committee—could award it to a deserving recipient. The holder of the Federation Star was not only granted an additional pension from the Senate, but he had the right to claim a salute from anyone, regardless of rank, who encountered him while wearing the medal. It almost made up for the contempt he’d endured from the Grand Senate.
And besides, he told himself, with the Federation Star on his breast, who could deny him anything?
* * *
“And so I made the decision to hold back the remainder of Home Fleet,” Drake concluded. Once the President’s speech was over, and the Prime Minister, the Leader of the Opposition and the Leader of the Independent Movement had made their speeches, he’d been summoned to a smaller room, where he’d found himself facing the Naval Oversight Committee. The committee had briefly congratulated him on his victory, then demanded an immediate account of the entire battle from start to finish. “In my considered judgement, there was no point in attempting a chase.”
“And that is precisely the point we wish to discuss,” Senator Alison Wallisch said. Her nasal voice echoed unpleasantly in the smaller chamber. “It seems to us as if you chose to allow the treacherous bastard to escape.”
Marius held onto his anger with an effort. If Alison had worked a day in her life—at least outside the political field, where everyone around her told her what she wanted to hear all the time—he would have been astonished. It had grown increasingly clear from both meetings that she didn’t understand the realities of naval combat. Bringing the remains of the enemy force to battle would have been impossible, as long as the enemy commander chose to refuse to engage.
“The realities of interplanetary warfare made it impossible to intercept his fleet,” he said evenly. There was no point in losing his temper. “Had I ordered Home Fleet to give pursuit, only the smaller units—the starfighters and the cruisers—could have caught up with the enemy.”
“And you could have caught them,” Senator Hammond pointed out.
“I would not have wished to catch them with smaller units, sir,” Marius said. “The cruisers are designed for convoy escort duties or fast raids into enemy territory. They are not designed to face superdreadnaughts in open combat. Had I sent them against the superdreadnaughts, they would all have been destroyed, without delaying the enemy. The starfighters inflicted some damage, but the enemy force outran Home Fleet’s carriers.”
“This is not a productive line of questioning,” McGillivray said. The Grand Senator winked at Marius before continuing. “The fact of the matter is that Vice Admiral—sorry, Admiral—Drake fought a battle for which he was unprepared, and turned a looming disaster into victory—a victory, I might add, that saved all of our lives. Or do you expect that Admiral Justinian would have spared us, once he took the high orbitals and forced Home Fleet to surrender?”
“I quite agree,” Brockington said. The Leader of the Conservative Faction leaned forward. “Our current priority is defeating Justinian before his example leads others to rebel. A mighty force must be assembled to crush the viper in his den. Admiral, how do you advise we proceed?”
Marius frowned inwardly. Something was going on, something moving just beyond his awareness. The political waters were murky and there were sharks somewhere within the deeps. He pushed the lingering concern aside and concentrated on answering the question. Besides, under Case Omega, he was the senior surviving officer in the system.
“I have not yet had time to conduct more than a brief examination of the possibilities,” he said. That was an exaggeration, for there had been no time to conduct any planning. He was making it up as he went along. “Admiral Justinian may be safely assumed to have the remainder of Seventh Fleet and the system defense forces in his sector. He may have allies from the other fleets, or links with Outsiders and rebel factions. Therefore, I believe that we should activate the Naval Reserve and use it to reinforce Home Fleet, which will allow us to dispatch a force superior to Seventh Fleet and occupy his shipyards and industrial nodes. This may bring him to battle, if he is prepared to offer it.”
It was basic military strategy, a mixture of generalities and very few specifics. Even so, he knew it should impress them, while the remainder of the planning could be done at Luna HQ. He’d already given orders for the back-up facilities—shut down for funding concerns—to be reactivated and staffed as soon as possible.
He looked up and wanted to scowl, but kept his expression carefully blank. It was obvious that the Senators were exchanging messages through their implants again.
“We thank you for your suggestions,” Alison said slowly. “We will put them into effect as soon as possible. There is, however, another pressing concern. You usurped command under Case Omega.”
Marius stared at her. That was a problem? “Senator, I...”
“Admiral Cuthbert Parkinson was the superior officer in the Sol System,” Alison said with cold dispassion. Marius did a brief search through his implants. Admiral Parkinson’s military career had been undistinguished, with nothing to explain his rapid promotion—nothing in the files, at least. And if he had been senior officer after Navy HQ was destroyed, why hadn’t he identified himself? “You took his rightful command.”
“Admiral Parkinson failed to identify himself to the command network,” Marius said as calmly as he could. Reading between the lines, Parkinson’s file fairly screamed political appointee. “I was unaware that he was alive. Time was short, and I had to take command as no one else appeared to be interested in doing so.”
“And we forgive that transgression,” Alison said. She smiled sweetly. “However, as senior officer, Admiral Parkinson will command the Retribution Force. You will serve as his subordinate.”
“Yes, Senator,” Marius said tightly. It took everything he had to keep his voice level. He couldn’t resist a sardonic comment. “I understand and I will obey.”
Chapter Seven
The fifth-year exams at Luna Academy are the toughest exams in the Federation. They determine the future of the young officers who survive five years at the Academy. Naturally, cheating is strongly discouraged and heavily punished on the rare occasions it is detected. But the Federation Navy, it seems, has a use for a cheat who somehow manages to circumvent the heavy security surrounding the Examination Hall.
-An Irreverent Guide to the Federation, 4000 A.D.
Luna Academy, Sol System, 4092
Roman couldn’t help feeling nervous as he stepped into the Examination Hall. Ten days had passed since the attack on Earth and slowly—very slowly—information had started to spread through the Academy at the speed of rumor. The cadets knew, now, about Admiral Justinian and looked up his record, along with Admiral Drake and the others involved in the conflict. And he’d tried to talk with Professor Kratman, who had curiously been unavailable to him and every other cadet. All they’d really been told was that they would be told everything about the war after they completed their exams.
But few of the cadets really believed that would happen.
He sighed. If he could just take these exams and be d
one with them, maybe he’d somehow be able to talk with Professor Kratman before he got shipped out. And that might actually be much more valuable to him than taking these exams ... he wondered, again, why they were even bothering with the exams?
Didn’t the Federation know there was a war on?
The Examination Hall was separated from the remainder of Luna Academy by nearly a mile of rock. It had been dug out as part of the early excavations that had eventually become Luna Academy—like most complexes on Luna, the Academy was mostly underground—and then sealed off by displaced rock. The only link between the Examination Hall and the remainder of the Academy was a single tunnel, heavily guarded and secured by the proctors. No one, they’d been warned, would be able to take anything into the Examination Hall, while the Hall itself was sealed by all manner of security devices known to man. Even if an enterprising cadet had found a way to sneak an illicit communications device into the hall, he would have found it useless. Rumor had it that anyone who did manage to cheat successfully would be rewarded by an instant promotion, but the penalties for trying and failing were harsh. Few attempted to beat the system.
“Remove all your clothing,” the head proctor droned dully. “Understand; your person is your sole responsibility. The merest hint of anything suspicious will result in a full and comprehensive search. The discovery of any cheating equipment will result in immediate suspension.”
Roman shrugged and started to disrobe, removing his cadet greys, followed by his regulation-issue underwear. Privacy was never a big concern in a RockRat habitat; besides, any reluctance he’d had about stripping in front of his classmates had been lost in the first two years at the Academy. No one paid undue attention to their fellows, no matter how attractive, as it was completely unprofessional.
Before he forgot, Roman added his terminal to the pile of clothing, which would be sealed away for later collection by the Academy staff. Of course, he still had his communications implant, but that would be useless inside the Examination Hall. It left him feeling oddly naked; on a RockRat habitat, a terminal meant safety, as it alerted the asteroid’s emergency crews if something went badly wrong.
“When you are ready, pass through the security gates,” the proctor continued. “Make certain that you have divested yourself of everything. You must not take anything into the Examination Hall.”
Roman stood up, placed his small pile of clothing in the nearest locker and started to walk towards the gates. He made a final check of his implant, which had downloaded every file he thought might be relevant, before stepping through the gates. The memory implants could store everything a cadet might need to know, although they’d been warned more than once that having information in an implant wasn’t the same as memorizing it, and it wouldn’t necessarily help to have a chunk of information if one didn’t actually comprehend what it meant. Besides, he had a private suspicion that he’d be tested on what information they chose to bring into the Examination Hall as well as their answers to the test questions.
The gate clicked as he stepped through, revealing nothing but a long, barren corridor. A cool breeze struck him in the face as he reached the proctor at the end of the passage.
“Here,” the proctor said in a bored voice, handing him a small bundle of clothing, which would suffice for the Examination Hall. “After you’ve put this on, go to Room 101.”
“Yes, sir,” Roman said. “Thank you.”
He donned the proffered clothing quickly, wincing at the fit—the pants were too tight and the top was nearly falling off. This must be another test in and of itself, as clothing this obnoxious surely must be yet another obstacle to overcome. Living in space could be uncomfortable at best, downright unpleasant at worst. He knew better than to think he’d get a large set of quarters all to himself for several years.
“Remember,” the proctor said. “If you leave the examination room for any reason, you will not be permitted to return.”
Roman nodded, wordlessly.
The briefing notes echoed through his head as he walked towards Room 101. The private—and very small—rooms were supposed to keep cadets from cheating, at least as a group. He’d been told that the small room he’d be assigned to would provide him with absolute silence and enough food and water to refresh himself, if necessary. But he still wasn’t sure if the exams were strictly necessary. He really didn’t know what to expect.
He braced himself as he reached Room 101 and pressed his palm against the scanner. The door clicked open and he stepped inside, taking in the familiar computer terminal—separate from the Academy datanet—and the small food processor in one corner. The room even had a working fresher. He took a deep breath, walked over to the terminal and sat down. The timer on the display counted down the seconds to when the exam would begin. It seemed deliberately designed to torment the eager young cadets.
Roman felt his heart begin to race and concentrated on calming himself, swallowing deeply. Some parts of the exam would be relatively simple—military law hadn’t changed since the Inheritance Wars, although the interpretation was often arguable—and other parts would be complex, challenging him to think fast while under pressure, if these were anything like the exams he’d taken in previous years. He checked the timer again and stood up, fetching a glass of water from the food processor and placing it next to the terminal. The timer was nearly at zero.
“Attention,” a dispassionate voice boomed. “The exam is about to begin. Take your places and prepare for the first section. Cadets who believe they require assistance are reminded that summoning assistance unnecessarily will count against them.”
The terminal flashed once and the exam opened. He checked the first section and confirmed his name, ID code and class, and then opened up the exam proper. It was divided into sections, some with no specified time limit, others with a very limited period before the terminal locked down. There were no second chances with some of the sections, while he could go back to review others until the end of the exam.
Taking a deep breath, he opened the first section and plunged right in.
* * *
“I haven’t seen you for a long time,” Professor Kratman said. “I understand that you’re quite the hero of the hour.”
Marius nodded, holding up one hand in salute. Technically, he outranked an Academy Professor, but Kratman had been his commanding officer during the Blue Star War and it was impossible to break the old habit. Besides, he was a guest at Luna Academy; his decision to drop in had been made on the spur of the moment.
“It seems that the Senate doesn’t understand that,” Marius said. He’d tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice, but he couldn’t do it. The Senate had him jumping through all sorts of obnoxious hoops, just because they could, and he’d had to hold his temper again and again and again. Even at nearly ninety years of age, his patience only held so much. “What do you think I did wrong?”
The Professor eyed him in surprise. “Why, nothing, admiral.” He laughed wryly. “You need to step outside the Federation Navy every once in a while. This sort of behavior isn’t at all surprising from the Senate. You haven’t been paying attention to the local media, have you?”
“No,” Marius said. In his experience, reporters were idiots, spies, or merely out to make a fast credit without caring about the consequences. He had never forgiven one particular news outlet along the Rim for reporting details about captured pirates that had made it impossible to bring them to trial. “Why should I care what they have to say?”
Kratman fixed him with an unrelenting stare. “You should know that war is birthed in politics,” he said sharply. “Especially this war. Why don’t you access the daily brief and check?”
Marius hesitated, and then complied, accessing his implant and using it to pull the latest round-up of news from Earth. There was, as always, a deluge of largely useless information, mainly revolving around what the most famous people in High Society were doing—or who they were screwing. He pushed that aside and concentrat
ed on military news, searching for his name. There were over seven thousand hits in the previous twenty-four hours alone. It seemed as if the entire planet was talking about him.
The stories were nearly universally praiseworthy; they discussed his quick thinking, and his actions during the Battle of Earth. There were interviews with survivors of the battle, all of whom credited him with saving Earth, and live footage from the battle itself. The entire planet had seen a fortress explode in orbit and had known, for the first time in centuries, real physical danger. And he was the man who’d saved them.
“You’re famous,” Kratman said mildly. “Why do you think the Senate took fright?”
“I don’t understand,” Marius admitted. “Why did they take fright?”
“The Core Worlds are the only ones where public opinion must be taken seriously,” Kratman reminded him gently. “Earth’s population can make or break Senators—and don’t they just know it! Why do you think they’ve never risked cutting the dole money handed out to the permanently unemployed, or the free food handed out to the starving, or the free access to the datanet and other public services? Earth’s massive population of teeming sheep would never allow it. How many Senators would lose their seats, no matter how hard they tried to rig the elections?” He grinned.
“And you saved the entire planetary population,” he added. “Now, you’re their hero, the man who can do no wrong.”
“Right,” Marius said. He checked his appointments calendar with a frown. There had been literally thousands of requests for interviews, all of which had been refused by his staff. He’d simply never checked up on it before. “Why does that scare the Senate?”
“Think about it,” the Professor said. “The Federation was designed to do the impossible—to provide interstellar government for the thousands of planets settled by humanity. The founding worlds were reluctant to create an overbearing political entity, so they attempted to hamstring the Federation by limiting the scope of its powers. But, as such entities tend to do, the Federation grew more powerful anyway, while the politicians became one great inbred family. The Inheritance Wars only enhanced that trend because the Federation won, and there seemed to be no reason to question the political situation.”
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