Barbarians at the Gates

by Nuttall, Christopher

  He sat back and scowled again as his tactical staff moved to obey. In a bad entertainment flick—one of the ones with steel-jawed heroes, awful dialogue and half-naked women—the enemy force would have slipped around the rear and gone onwards to wreak havoc deeper within the Federation. But the real universe didn’t work like that. Admiral Justinian’s force needed supplies and refits that only a fleet base could provide, which meant they couldn’t simply abandon their base in hopes of punching through and taking Earth any time they pleased.

  They needed to stop the Retribution Force, so where were they?

  “Admiral, Admiral Parkinson is signalling you,” the communications officer said.

  “Put him through,” Marius said tiredly. It was probably a complaint about how many recon drones he’d fired into the inky darkness of space. “And keep monitoring the drones.”

  No matter how he looked at it, the enemy’s behavior made no sense.

  Where were they?

  * * *

  Everyone knew that StarCom units were expensive, therefore rare. Only a relative handful of Federation systems, even in the Core Worlds, had a couple of StarCom units; Jefferson, despite being a moderately wealthy planet, had never invested in them. There was no point. Perhaps, if it became possible to use the StarCom to signal across interstellar space, the economics would change, but until then everyone knew that there was no StarCom in Jefferson’s space.

  But everyone was wrong.

  There was no local StarCom in the Jefferson System, but the Grand Senate’s lackeys didn’t know—couldn’t know—that Admiral Justinian had stripped all nine StarCom units out of planetary systems in the Harmony Sector. Those units had been transferred to Jefferson in order to coordinate a trap. Now, the data FNS Dandelion collected was being transmitted to Admiral Justinian...and the ships waiting for the so-called Retribution Force were prepared to kick them all back to the Stone Age.

  The crew of FNS Dandelion were as loyal to Admiral Justinian as anyone could wish, even though some of them believed that their current mission was bordering on suicidal. The small destroyer was lying in space, all of her systems stripped down to the bare minimum, monitoring the Asimov Point with passive sensors alone. The Federation Navy—the loyalist side, at least—wasn’t trying to hide. Enterprise had blazed her IFF to the whole system, and it was hard to hide a superdreadnaught’s emission signatures from ultra-sensitive passive sensors. Captain Muller was quietly pleased with his crew’s performance; the entire crew was even speaking in whispers, as if the loyalists could hear them through the soundless depths of space.

  “I think that all of the heavies are through,” his sensor officer murmured. “The third component of their fleet seems to be hanging back.”

  “Wise of them,” Captain Muller grunted. He turned to the communications officer, a newcomer to his ship. “You may begin transmitting at once.”

  There was no response from Admiral Justinian, but Muller and his crew hadn’t expected one. They settled back to continue monitoring the Asimov Point, ensuring that the Federation Navy hadn’t somehow pulled a fast one and slipped additional units into their Retribution Force.

  Those Senatorial lackeys didn’t know it yet, but they were walking right into a trap.

  * * *

  It was a common problem with deep-space warfare—at least away from the Asimov Points—that it was generally very difficult to predict the enemy’s movements accurately enough to lie in wait for him. The Battle of Athens had taught the Federation Navy that the age when enemy assaults had to be funnelled through Asimov Points were over. Admiral Justinian, however, had had an advantage; his enemy had settled on the most direct route through the Jefferson system. That might not even have been such a bad idea, were it not for the fact that the StarCom network gave Justinian a degree of tactical flexibility that his opponent lacked.

  “They’re coming on in, fat and happy,” Caitlin said in disbelief. “Don’t they even know to be careful?”

  Justinian shrugged. He’d read Parkinson’s file, but there was no way to know what was going through his opponent’s mind. He might believe that the system genuinely was empty—it wasn’t as if the locals were going to warn him, even without his orbital weapons platforms ensuring that the system remained compliant—or he might be preparing a deadly trap of his own. Or perhaps one of his more able subordinates, like Marius Drake, had talked him into something more subtle than his own preferred tactics. They certainly weren’t trying to hide, after all; active sensors were sweeping the darkness, unaware that their targets were almost invisible except at very short range.

  “Prepare to engage,” Justinian ordered. “We will engage them at Point Cannae.”

  “Aye, sir,” Caitlin said. She checked her console. “Time to engagement: seventeen minutes and counting.”

  * * *

  The live feed from all of the recon drones was being fed into Magnificent’s flag bridge. It seemed as if there was nothing out there, an eerie darkness that sent chills down Marius’s spine. It felt almost as if they were alone in space, without even the warm light of a G2 star nearby. Enterprise was picking up speed, nearly five light minutes ahead of Magnificent and the other superdreadnaughts, which also bothered Marius to no end. Any data his sensors picked up would be five minutes out of date, but there was nothing he could do about it. The long-promised StarCom system for real-time coordination was a dream.

  “Admiral,” the sensor officer said slowly. “I think I have something.”

  “Show me,” Marius snapped. A blur appeared on the main display. “What is...?”

  Understanding clicked, too late. “Get me the flag,” he ordered. Whatever he did, it would be five minutes before Admiral Parkinson picked up his warning. “Now!”

  * * *

  Roman had been studying the tactical console when all hell broke loose.

  “Incoming missiles,” the tactical officer barked. Alarms rang out throughout the ship as a swarm of red icons appeared out of nowhere. It looked as if at least thirty superdreadnaughts had been lying in wait. “Again, I say, incoming missiles...”

  “Bring point defense online,” the captain snapped. His words echoed through the command network. “All hands brace for impact; I say again, all hands brace for impact.”

  The display updated rapidly as Enterprise’s point defense engaged the incoming missiles. Roman, having nothing else to do, studied their pattern and frowned. Conventional tactics were to throw everything at the largest ships first, but only a handful of missiles were targeted on the Enterprise. The remaining missiles, over four hundred of them, were targeted on their escorts. It was almost as if the enemy intended to strip away Enterprise’s protective cover, while leaving the star carrier intact.

  But that was insane…wasn’t it?

  He stared down at his display, puzzled. Hundreds of missiles were dying, but the remainder were getting through to their targets. And some of the missiles looked...odd.

  Why?

  * * *

  Admiral Justinian’s techs hadn’t been able to make a new breakthrough in force field technology. What they had managed to do was combine two very old concepts—matter-antimatter power generation and shaped force fields—and install the result in the smartest missiles the human race had been able to devise. The problem with antimatter warheads was that it was impossible to shape the blast, ensuring that most of the energy was radiated out into space. But the combined missiles, ungainly though they were, were able to direct most of the blast into a single lance of unimaginable power. The force fields lasted little longer than a handful of seconds, but it was enough.

  And, by combining the schematics of Enterprise with the homing missiles, they knew precisely where to aim.

  * * *

  “Incoming! Brace for...”

  Enterprise’s very hull seemed to scream as deadly lances of energy speared deep into her vitals. Roman clung onto his console for dear life as the entire ship shuddered violently. The lighting flickered ou
t for a second, just before a shockwave sent someone flying across the secondary bridge and into a bulkhead. The console flared with red light, warning that it was now the tactical console for the entire ship, and Roman was suddenly her tactical officer.

  “She’s dead,” Sultana said in alarm. “Roman...”

  Roman turned to see Commander Duggan. Her body was crumpled against the bulkhead, her head hanging at an unnatural angle. It didn’t take a doctor to know that there was nothing that could be done for her, not now. He keyed the internal communications system, trying to contact sickbay anyway, but the entire system seemed to have crashed.

  Roman stared up at the status display in alarm. Judging from the reports, whatever the hell they’d been hit with had penetrated the hull only ten meters above the secondary bridge. It took him a moment to realize why—and then he almost had a fit of the giggles. Commander Duggan had told him that the yard dogs, working on the ship, had lowered the secondary bridge down two decks.

  It had saved their lives.

  “Case Omega,” the internal monitoring system announced. “Case Omega is now in effect.”

  He sobered quickly. Case Omega meant that the captain was dead...and the chain of command was broken. If the flag bridge had been hit, the admiral and his staff were probably dead as well. His duty was to report to whoever was senior, once the internal monitoring system determined who had both seniority and a pulse. They couldn’t all be dead...

  “Case Omega completed,” the intercom announced. “Lieutenant Garibaldi is in command.”

  Roman stared at the console. He was nineteenth in the chain of command. He couldn’t be in command. One of the senior lieutenants had to have survived, or the engineer or the major...but none of them was apparently in the chain of command.

  “Captain,” Sultana said formally.

  Roman flinched. She was his junior by bare hours.

  “We have more missiles incoming,” she told him. “What are your orders?”

  And the crushing weight of command fell on Roman’s shoulders.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Fiction is full of examples of crippled starships somehow making it back home, but in reality it is rare for a cripple to escape. When a ship is crippled, but not destroyed, it generally means that the enemy intends to take her as a prize.

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

  Jefferson System, 4092

  “Admiral Drake, we have multiple incoming contacts on attack vector,” the sensor officer reported. Her well-trained voice revealed no panic. “Designating contact details now.”

  Only a few hours into the system and everything is going to hell, Marius thought bitterly. But at least the penny has finally dropped. We finally know where Justinian is.

  “Show me,” Marius ordered.

  He swallowed a curse as the holographic display lit up with red icons. His first inclination was to dismiss what he was seeing, for it looked like something out of a first-year tactical planning assignment at the Academy. Entire fleets of superdreadnaughts and carriers were bearing down on his fleet, lighting up their drives in a manner that ensured they would be detected. It looked as if the entire Federation Navy had rallied to fight beside Admiral Justinian and his allies. His second, more coldly rational thought was that it was a trick. The sensors were picking up over ten thousand superdreadnaughts, an impossible figure. If Admiral Justinian had had such a force, he would have blown through Earth’s defenses and Home Fleet, winning the war in a single blow.

  “Designating group one as Bogey One,” the sensor officer said, attempting to give shape and form to the oncoming threat. “Designating group two as Bogey Two...”

  Marius nodded to himself as the display continued to sharpen. The sight before him suggested that Justinian was deploying decoys, using ECM to fool his long-range sensors into having flights of fancy. But the rogue admiral would know that Marius wouldn’t be fooled—and he’d positioned his decoys so that the Retribution Force would have plenty of time to get over their panic, if Marius had been inclined to panic. Most of those ships weren’t real, he knew; the only question was which ones were genuine starships. Picking the wrong course could lead to a close-range engagement against a superior force.

  “Admiral, Bogey Four is launching starfighters and gunboats,” the sensor officer reported. “The smaller craft will reach the Asimov Point in seven minutes—mark.”

  New red icons flared into life on the display. Bogey Four was behind the Asimov Point and piling on the acceleration, attempting to reach the Asimov Point before Marius and his fleet could double back and escape. It showed a degree of tactical coordination and flexibility that should have been impossible. All promising officers were taught to hold to the KISS Principle—Keep It Simple, Stupid—and Justinian, it seemed, had tried to launch as complicated a feint as possible.

  Or they might transit the point themselves, Marius thought coldly. The third prong of the Retribution Force was still on the other side of the Asimov Point, awaiting orders to transit into the Jefferson System. They weren’t escorted by anything larger than a battlecruiser, which meant that a single superdreadnaught squadron could slaughter the transports and commandeer the yachts before they could scatter and run. If the supplies were lost, the Retribution Force would be unable to reload its missile tubes once the engagement was over—assuming a victorious engagement. Admiral Justinian might just have pulled off the strangest victory in the history of space warfare.

  “Communications, prepare a mass launch of courier drones,” Marius ordered. A mass launch would fire upwards of a thousand courier drones towards the Asimov Point. The enemy wouldn’t be able to intercept all of them, unless they’d manage to develop something completely new. But the enemy starfighters would be on the Asimov Point before the courier drones got there. He shook his head. It was the best warning he could give the remainder of the Retribution Force. “Stand by to record a message.”

  “Drones ready, sir,” the communications officer said. “Standard emergency protocols engaged.”

  “Record,” Marius ordered, keying his console. “Admiral Hawser, this is Admiral Drake. The Retribution Fleet has been ambushed; do not attempt to transit the Asimov Point into Jefferson. Cloak your ships and withdraw from the Asimov Point; I say again, cloak your ships and withdraw from the Asimov Point. If you do not hear from us in twelve hours, or if enemy ships start transiting the Asimov Point in force, declare yourself in command and head back to base—the long way around. I am attaching an up-to-date copy of our sensor logs with this message. Good luck.”

  He released the key. “Message saved, admiral,” the communications officer said. “Permission to launch the drones?”

  “Permission granted,” Marius said. He turned to face the sensor officer as the first drones appeared on the display. “I want you to launch a second shell of sensor drones towards the advancing contacts. Ideally, I want to get drive field readings on the craft before they get into weapons range. And then launch a third shell of drones towards Enterprise. I need to know what happened to the admiral.”

  He settled back in his command chair and caught his breath. On the display, a cloud of blue icons flashed towards the Asimov Point, while smaller red icons moved to intercept them. Courier drones were the only way of communicating from system to system—and only then when the system possessed Asimov Points—and the enemy would have no difficulty in understanding what Marius was trying to do. If the third prong received no warning, they might be caught by surprise if—when—enemy superdreadnaughts came after them. He caught his breath as blue icons started to vanish, only to smile in relief as a handful of drones made it to the Asimov Point, flickered and vanished. The third prong would be warned, unless there was another enemy force lying in wait.

  He shook his head, dismissing the thought. Unless Justinian had somehow developed the coveted interstellar FTL communicator, that would be a trick too far.

  “Enemy starfighters are redeploying, sir,” the senso
r officer reported. “They may be falling back from the Asimov Point...”

  “Or preparing to come after us,” Marius finished. Starfighters were the most dangerous threat to starships, providing they operated in large numbers with suitable bases. The price they paid for being so fast and deadly was short legs. Unless there was a fleet of cloaked carriers floating nearby, it would be hours before Admiral Justinian could direct starfighters against his fleet. Gunboats, on the other hand, had much longer legs, but they were also easier targets. He ran through the possible outcomes in his mind and scowled. Admiral Justinian was very definitely calling the tune. Or maybe...

  “Raise Captain Al-Barag,” he ordered. “We will take the fleet into cloak for a few seconds and then start randomly cloaking and uncloaking our ships, When his ships are cloaked, he is to detach himself from the main body and split up his squadron. They are to attempt to get close to the incoming forces and determine which ones are more than just sensor ghosts.”

  “Aye, sir,” the communications officer said. He paused. “We do know that Bogey Four includes some real carriers, sir.”

  “True,” Marius agreed. No one had yet found a way of using ECM to create a false impression of starfighters in combat. “Let’s see if we can find out how many of his ships are real, shall we?”

  The seconds ticked away slowly as the enemy fleets continued their stately advance. It was maddening, in many ways; he could pick an enemy fleet at random—except Bogey Four—and advance on it, knowing that if it was nothing more than decoy drones and sensor ghosts he would punch right through and put himself beyond all possibility of interception. And yet, there was the unanswered question of what had happened to the Enterprise. Magnificent hadn’t recorded a signal reporting the carrier’s destruction, which suggested that the ship had merely been disabled—and Admiral Parkinson was definitely out of contact. The time delay alone would have made it impossible for him to exercise any kind of command, at least over Marius’s force. And yet, if Enterprise and her escorts had been destroyed, Marius could have broken free of the trap, gambling that they wouldn’t run into a real enemy force.