Barbarians at the Gates

by Nuttall, Christopher

  There was a long uneasy pause. Marius finally decided to raise his concerns.

  “Admiral,” he said carefully, “I feel that splitting up the fleet risks having one of our sections defeated in detail and destroyed. I do not feel that Admiral Justinian will be standing on the defensive, not after some of his family and supporters were publicly executed. The Book gives him precisely no chance against our sheer weight of firepower, which means that he will be driven to be unconventional. We might jump into the next system to discover that we have flown right into a trap.

  “Furthermore,” he continued, before Parkinson could say a word, “the course you have suggested has a number of disadvantages. The enemy will be able to operate with the advantage of internal lines of communication and rotate forces to meet us at will, either outside Jefferson or within the Jefferson System proper. We are short on supplies and...”

  “We will be drawing supplies from the fleet supply deports as we pass,” Parkinson said sharply. “They are still in our hands.”

  “With all due respect,” Marius said, “how do we know that they are still in our hands?”

  He kept his expression blank, even though some of the junior officers now looked uneasy. There was—inevitably—a major time lag between sending a message from Earth and receiving it at the other side of the Federation, let alone receiving a reply. Even using the Asimov Point network and StarCom units—where they were emplaced—didn’t allow a message to reach the Rim in less than six months. By now, Admiral Justinian’s forces could have taken the two sectors closest to Harmony, and the Retribution Force wouldn’t know a thing about it until they blundered into an ambush.

  “They have confirmed that they are still loyal,” Parkinson said shortly. He turned back to the star chart. “Addressing the issue of local governments, we will remove them...”

  * * *

  “Perhaps you could spare me a few minutes,” one of the younger officers said as the meeting broke up. “I believe that we need to talk.”

  Marius stared down at her in surprise. She wore the uniform of a Commodore, yet her white non-dress uniform showed no golden stars representing ships under her command. He hadn’t paid attention to her at the meeting, but he studied her now, uneasily aware that she was studying him in return. She was short, with light brown skin and long dark hair that hung in a ponytail. A single red dot on her forehead marked her as coming from one of the orthodox Hindu worlds, even though the Federation Navy frowned upon displays of religious enthusiasm. He couldn’t help but notice that she was remarkably pretty.

  “Commodore Arunika,” she said, as she held out a dark hand for him to shake. “Office of Naval Intelligence.”

  Marius nodded, bending over to kiss the air above her hand. The silver ring she wore on her finger caught his eye and he stared at it. He’d never seen one before, but there was no mistaking the silver band with the Star of David ingrained in the metal. Arunika led him through a pair of compartments and into a more private briefing room. He didn’t protest at how she’d taken charge. The silver ring marked her as a member of the Brotherhood.

  “You raised some important concerns, admiral,” Arunika said as soon as the airlock had hissed closed and she’d carried out a brief check for bugs. “ONI has been crunching the numbers ever since we identified the person behind the attack on Earth. I’m afraid that our conclusions have been...ignored.”

  Marius’s eyes narrowed. The Office of Naval Intelligence had been heavily politicized in the years before the Blue Star War. Eventually, they’d overstepped themselves and provided inaccurate and incomplete data to the Senate, data that the Imperialist Faction had used to argue its case for war. After the first defeats, the Senate had been looking for scapegoats, and ONI had found itself purged. The officers who had doctored the data—or simply refused to read what was clearly there—had been dismissed from the service, and ONI had been stripped of most of its responsibilities. Federation Intelligence, the civilian intelligence-gathering organization, had stepped up to fill the hole.

  “I see,” he said. Parkinson wouldn’t have paid any attention to ONI without direct orders in triplicate from his political masters. “And what did you conclude?”

  His implants reported that hers were requesting permission to transmit a file. He authorized it automatically and accepted the file, noting the level of security precautions buried in the document. If someone else had tried to accept it, the file would have destroyed itself and vanished.

  “That’s everything we have,” Arunika said. “To summarize: Admiral Justinian has spent the last ten years—at least—preparing his rebellion. Most of the Federation Navy officers assigned to the sector served under him before, or are dangerously ambitious and intelligent. If that wasn’t enough, the admiral has also been requesting an alarmingly large supply of spare parts from Earth—and setting up shipyards and industrial nodes in the sector. Depending on the assumptions we feed into our computers, Admiral Justinian may have a far larger fleet than we know, with a support network second only to the Federation Navy.”

  Marius frowned. “And if he had a larger fleet, why not use it against Earth?”

  “We don’t know,” Arunika said. “It may interest you to know that two of three Federation Intelligence supervisors in the sector have met untimely ends. The first apparently went big game hunting on Ripley, and was killed by one of the more unpleasant creatures on the planet. The second was fond of patronizing the more...extreme whorehouses on Harmony and, eventually, he died in one of them. You don’t want to know how. The third’s reports showed no sign of concern but since the attack on Earth, he hasn’t responded to attempts to contact him.”

  Marius saw the implications at once. “He’s been turned,” he said flatly.

  “Almost certainly,” Arunika agreed. “How confident are you that Admiral Parkinson can lead the Retribution Force to victory?”

  Marius didn’t bother to answer. Openly criticizing a senior officer was a severe breach of military etiquette, regardless of his personal feelings. There were times when it could be done legally, but not when talking to an ONI spook, even if she was pretty. And besides, she could probably read the answer in his face. He wasn’t very confident at all.

  “I suggest that you watch your back,” she said seriously. “And if you need help, perhaps we can be of service.”

  She held up her hand, drawing his attention to the ring. “We are interested in you, admiral,” she said. “Perhaps we can help one another.”

  “And what, precisely, is the Brotherhood’s interest in this?” Marius scowled.

  “The Brotherhood is interested in keeping the Federation stable and strong,” Arunika said. Her eyes lit up with the light of the true fanatic. “If Justinian succeeds in overthrowing the government, or even in declaring independence and making it stick, the result is likely to be chaos. The Brotherhood does not approve of chaos.”

  “I wouldn’t have thought that you would have approved of civil war, either,” Marius countered. The Brotherhood...? The last thing he needed was another player with uncertain motives, particularly one with a long and secretive history. He wasn’t blind to the implications of Arunika wearing the ring openly. It was a show of influence and power. “Why are you offering to help me?”

  “Because we need to solve this problem as soon as possible,” Arunika said. “There are other admirals who may be considering becoming warlords and attempting to seize power. If Justinian is crushed quickly, they may be deterred from attempting to plunge the Federation even further into a Civil War. We can do a great deal for you, admiral.”

  “Of course you can,” Marius agreed. No two rumors about the Brotherhood agreed, but there was a general consensus that the Brotherhood was rich, powerful, and utterly ruthless in accomplishing its objectives. It had certainly made no secret of those. “But what do you want in exchange?”

  Chapter Ten

  The moment when a fleet departs is a moment of pomp and splendor. Many great speeches a
re made by political leaders. Behind them, however, is a hidden truth. Assembling a worthy fleet is growing harder and harder in these dark economic times.

  -An Irreverent Guide to the Federation, 4000 A.D.

  FNS Enterprise/Magnificent, Sol System, 4092

  “I’m afraid the main bridge is out,” Commander Duggan said calmly, “and we’re all dead.”

  Roman grimaced. Today’s simulation had started with the reserve tactical crew—including him—sitting and waiting for something to happen. In a real battle, he’d been told, it was unlikely that they’d have anything important to do, but the simulation was much more exciting. A freak hit on the ship’s hull with a bomb-pumped laser had just taken out the bridge, and command and control functions had been transferred to the secondary bridge. His console had lit up with new icons, flaring towards the carrier...which was suddenly dependent on the secondary crew to spearhead her defense. No human mind could keep up with the speed of space combat—computers had to control the actual firing sequence—but human minds had to set the computers’ priorities.

  His hands flew over the console as his training asserted itself, even as part of his mind complained that the simulation wasn’t particularly realistic. Enterprise was what the Federation Navy called a High Value Unit—wags complained that it really meant High Value Target—and she never operated alone. A small fleet of cruisers and destroyers escorted her everywhere, even when she went in for refit. The simulation, however, had Enterprise off all alone, surrounded by incoming enemy missiles. The engineering crew were already laboring to replace burned-out components and restore the lost shields, but until then a lucky missile could slip through one of the gaps in the shielding and impact against the hull.

  The incoming missiles entered engagement range, but something was off.

  He frowned as the data started to come through. The missiles were showing almost unbelievable behavior, things he’d never seen or expected to see in all of his training.

  He checked and double-checked his data. No, what he’d seen was still there—the missiles were moving in random patterns that defied the best efforts of his fire control computers. It should have been impossible...no, it was theoretically possible to do it with missiles. But why would anyone want to bother, especially during the middle of a battle? The missiles risked burning out their drives and ending up drifting uselessly in space.

  And then the first missiles that had been fired toward the Enterprise vanished.

  He cursed as he realized why the missiles had acted in such an odd manner. Enterprise’s point defense was currently firing in shotgun mode, pumping out so many plasma bolts into the right general area that some of them were bound to hit something. Yet the law of averages ensured that at least some of the missiles would get close enough to shift to terminal velocity and ram into the carrier.

  Whoever had programmed this scenario was truly fiendish, he realized. Because if any of those missiles hit an unshielded section of the hull, most particularly with an antimatter warhead, the entire carrier would be blown to atoms, despite her armor and internal security systems.

  Acting on instinct, he pulled out of the engagement—allowing the computers to handle it—and activated a sensor focus. There was no point in avoiding the use of active sensors, not when the enemy had clearly located the carrier and were doing their best to kill her. He swept the sensor focus across the incoming missiles and almost laughed out loud when he realized the trick. The smartass who’d designed the simulation had bent the laws of physics and allowed a set of enemy gunboats to accompany the incoming missiles, using their fire control links to allow much greater accuracy. The tactic wasn’t particularly realistic—no gunboat could pull such maneuvers without overloading the compensators and smashing the pilot to jelly—but it was theoretically possible.

  He keyed the console, overriding the previous targeting protocols, then activated the ship’s huge broadsides. The primary beams induced instant fission once they hit their targets, although they were useless against a shielded starship because the shields had no matter to fission. But the gunboats were unprotected—and were rapidly exterminated.

  Roman let out a sigh of relief. Their doom, moving at the speed of light, had struck them before there could be any warning of its arrival. Deprived of their command and control, the missiles returned to their original programming and streaked towards Enterprise on a least-time course. He was able to reprogram the computers just before the engagement was taken out of his hands. One by one, the computers picked off the missiles, leaving only two to slam into the shields. Nuclear fire blossomed out in the blackness of space, but the carrier was intact.

  The screen flickered and brought up a new message. SIMULATION TERMINATED. Roman allowed himself a sigh of relief and stretched, feeling the sweat running down the back of his neck. It felt as if he’d been in the hot seat for hours, rather than—he queried his implants—seventeen minutes. But then, as he’d had hammered into his head at the Academy, a space battle rarely took very long unless the two sides were evenly matched. The weaker side would generally either break contact, or be destroyed.

  “Not too shabby,” Commander Duggan said as she emerged from the hatch. The simulation had said that she was on the main bridge, but it was nothing more than part of the scenario. In combat, the commander would be on the secondary bridge, ready to take over if the main bridge was taken out by the enemy. “You saved the ship.”

  “Thank you, commander,” Roman said. He braced himself. They had been running simulations for days now, so heavily that he’d dreamed of them in his rack, and not all of them had been as successful. A handful had resulted in the entire ship being destroyed, or accidentally ramming an enemy ship. The senior lieutenants had joked about newly-minted lieutenants who had accidentally rammed entire planets.

  “On the other hand, why didn’t you allow the automated systems to take over sooner?” Commander Duggan asked. “You could have spent longer looking for the gunboats.”

  Roman considered his answer carefully. One thing he had learned was that neither the commander nor the captain had any patience for waffling. If there were several right answers, it was best to go for the one that made sense to him rather than the one he thought his superior officers wanted to hear. They were knocking him into shape and he understood why, even though part of him resented it.

  “I wanted to ensure that they would continue to track the missiles, even if I was wrong,” he said. “I didn’t know for sure that it was gunboats doing the directing.”

  “Well, something had to be directing the missiles,” the commander pointed out sardonically. “In your copious spare time, you might want to study the dynamics of missile control systems and how they operate in real life, as well as theory.”

  “Yes, commander,” Roman said. He tried to think about when he could fit in time to study missile control systems, and drew a blank. Every minute of every day was crammed with tasks, from actually serving as assistant tactical officer to working on the vessel’s interior, to spending time exercising with the Marines. And he’d been assured that he had an easy life! He wouldn’t be getting much sleep, were it not for the fact that sleeping hours were mandatory.

  “I see that you have a session with the Marines coming up,” Duggan added. “I’m afraid that that has been cancelled. The captain wishes to hold a small dinner party for the new officers, and you’re invited.”

  Roman nodded. No junior officer with a lick of sense would refuse an invitation to dine with the captain. He’d been told, back at the Academy, that some captains were very sociable with their crews—though always maintaining command distance—and that others hardly spoke to their subordinates when off duty. Captain Timothy Oriole seemed to fall somewhere in between. He’d spoken briefly to the newcomers when they’d first come onboard, but he’d left most of their training in Commander Duggan’s hands. And perhaps that was for the best. Captains had absolute authority over their crews—and irritating his commanding officer coul
d bring his career to a screeching halt.

  “Thank you,” Roman said.

  “Hit the fresher and don your dress uniform,” the commander ordered. “The party starts at 1700 precisely; try not to be late.”

  * * *

  The superdreadnaught FNS Magnificent was one of the newest superdreadnaughts built for the Federation Navy. She was only five years old—Federation Navy personnel counted from the moment a ship first left the shipyard under her own power—and carried enough firepower to go toe-to-toe with anything smaller than a fortress. The ship had been refitted twice since her launch, but Marius Drake knew as well as anyone else with real experience that naval technology hadn’t advanced since the Inheritance Wars. There were a hundred small refinements made every year, yet there was nothing new or revolutionary in his flagship.

  He stood in the Observation Blister and peered out into the darkness. The cold, unblinking stars shone back at him, mocking human pretensions to galactic rule. You think you are so mighty, they seemed to say. But we will be here long after you and all your works have vanished from the universe. It was easy to see why there were cults that worshipped the universe itself, believing it to be imbued with sentience, even though it apparently took little interest in human affairs.

  Marius had never been particularly religious as an upbringing on Mars had left little room for religious introspection. Staring at the stars was as near as he got to any kind of overt belief. He’d seen people who prayed daily, to gods who might or might not exist, but he’d never been tempted to accept any of them himself. He believed in what he could see and feel; no god had ever spoken directly to him, unless the universe itself counted.