“Good,” Marius said. He strapped the weapon to his belt and looked up at her. “And the interrogation?”
“Raistlin spilled his guts,” Papillae said. “That was lucky, admiral, as we discovered—just in time—that he’d been given suicide implants. He shouldn’t have had them at all until he was promoted to captain, but luckily someone thought to check before we injected him with truth drugs. He received his orders directly from the Senate itself. His father put him in place just after the Battle of Boskone, waiting until he received orders to assassinate you.”
Marius nodded numbly. If Blake Raistlin had been just a little smarter, he could have assassinated Marius—and Tiffany too, perhaps—in his quarters and made his escape; instead, he’d tried to assassinate him in public. And now, Marius knew who to blame.
“The worrying news is that you weren’t the only target,” Papillae continued. “Raistlin had orders to purge your entire command staff, whereupon the political commissioners would assume command and allow Internal Security troopers to secure the remaining ships. My guess is that he intended to slaughter everyone at the briefing, and chose his weapon accordingly.”
“So we were all meant to die,” Marius said. He looked up at her. “Do you know what this means, Major?”
Papillae said nothing.
“It means that I have no choice but to follow the path Admiral Justinian blazed, and declare war against the Senate. That, major, is what it means!”
She simply looked at him gravely, but made no attempt to stop him from doing anything. After a beat, he nodded at her in silent thanks.
He keyed his wristcom.
“All staff, this is the admiral,” he said. “Report to Briefing Compartment Two in thirty minutes. We have a lot of work to do.”
* * *
Tiffany gave him a hug as soon as he entered the compartment, while the other officers rose to their feet in a gesture of respect. Part of Marius wondered if Tiffany had been given orders to assassinate him as well, before he pushed that thought aside. Tiffany was too independent-minded to follow orders from Earth. Even so, Marius hated the paranoia. He’d pulled together an excellent command team, fought beside them...and now it was impossible to know who to trust. He silently damned Blake Raistlin under his breath, remembering the excellent report he’d planned to submit, one that recommended Raistlin for promotion and command of his own ship. Who could he trust?
The irony wasn’t lost on him. Admiral Justinian had spent ten years preparing for his rebellion, and he’d still failed. Marius had had bare hours since he’d been attacked and Vaughn had been killed. His plans, such as they were, remained unformed. All he could do was to focus on one issue at a time.
“Gentlemen and ladies, please be seated,” he ordered. “For those of you who haven’t seen the recordings of Raistlin’s interrogation, the Senate ordered the assassination—the assassination of me and my entire command staff. You were all targets. You were all marked for death.”
He felt, rather than heard, a dull rumble of anger spreading through the room. Good; if they were angry, they weren’t scared or hesitant.
“This leaves us with a choice,” he continued. “Returning to the Federation is not an option, nor is staying here. We can head to the Rim and beyond, hoping that we will remain undiscovered when the Senate sets its dogs upon our trail, or we can head to Earth and...remove the Senate.”
There was a long pause. No one said anything; they appeared to be holding their breath.
“Let’s be honest, shall we? The Senate has become a threat to the entire Federation. Their corruption helped fuel this rebellion, just as it fuels countless hopeless rebellions right across the galaxy. Their mishandling of Admiral Justinian led to the disaster at First Jefferson and made it almost inevitable that others would rebel against the Federation, too. Their willingness to slaughter their enemies—and the families of their enemies—led to bloody slaughter, for no one dared surrender. And you have all seen the report from Bester. The Senate ordered the slaughter of all of the senior staff, including innocent women and children.
“And they tried to kill us all,” he added. “I won’t pretend that I don’t take that personally.”
He paused, gauging their reactions. Some looked personally affronted, others—including Captain Garibaldi—were shocked. They’d believed the Senate would keep its promises. How wrong they’d been, Marius noted. They deserved better leaders.
“I swore an oath to the Federation. I swore that I would uphold the fundamental unity of the human race, the unity that has made us masters of half the galaxy. The Senators swear a similar oath when they are sworn into power—and look what they’ve done. They have forced people into a position where they can either fight or die—why shouldn’t they fight? The unity of the human race, so expensively restored in the Inheritance Wars, is coming apart at the seams. And the Senate is the driving force behind the collapse.
“We all know how they rape the colonies for raw materials and taxes they desperately need to pay for their social programs. We all know how they back some industrialists at the expense of others, ensuring that their companies are favored while their competitors are ruthlessly crushed. I think we have all seen the effect this has on our ships, and our operational readiness. We all know how they planned to appoint Federation Governors to the worlds we captured and strip them bare of everything they have, turning the people into corporate slaves. We all know what their refusal to challenge pirates and the Outsiders has meant—along the Rim, millions die while the Senate does nothing. I submit to you that the Senate must be removed.”
There was no disagreement. Part of him found that terrifying.
“Admiral Justinian wanted supreme power for himself. I don’t. I want to remove the Senate and put something better in its place, something more representative of humanity as a whole, something that will be harder to corrupt and turn into a reactionary force for rebellion. If this be treason, let us make the most of it!”
He took a long breath. “And yes, they will call it treason, particularly if we fail.”
There were some chuckles.
“I believe that my duty must be to remove the Senate,” he said finally. “If any of you do not wish to join me, I will understand. You can wait on Harmony for news of the result. I won’t be a vindictive bastard about it, but I do need to know your answers now.”
“Respectfully suggest, sir,” Admiral Mason said, “that you stop insulting us and start preparing for the march on Earth.”
Marius allowed himself to relax as chuckles ran around the room. His command staff were all pragmatists and, more importantly, they all knew that they were already on a death list. They could run to the Rim, but even that wouldn’t guarantee their safety. If the Senate won, they’d never be able to return home.
“I will make the same offer to the crewmen,” he said firmly. “You can do the same to your subordinates. There is to be no recrimination if someone chooses to sit this out, understand? Have them transfer themselves to the shuttlebays and send them down to the planet.”
“Aye, sir,” Admiral Mason said.
“I want the Grand Fleet ready to depart in twelve hours,” Marius ordered. “Make sure the fleet train is loaded with supplies from Harmony”—one other advantage of a civil war was that both sides used the same weapons—”and is ready to support us as we advance. If we are lucky, we won’t have to fight our way into Boskone and the other worlds we set up as nodal defense points...”
“One point,” Papillae said. “We have been unable to confirm that there isn’t a message already winging its way back to Earth with a warning. The Senate may not know that we’re coming, or they might suspect the worst.”
“You can’t pick out an encrypted message?” Admiral Mason snorted.
“The message might be something innocuous,” Papillae said. “Something that would pass unremarked. The message that activated Raistlin didn’t say anything directly.”
“We’ll assume that we’re
heading into hostile space,” Marius said with a nod. “We leave in twelve hours. Until then...dismissed!”
* * *
Roman had asked to see the admiral as soon as possible. He was surprised when he was called in only an hour after he sent the message, and even more surprised to see the two Marines guarding the admiral’s hatch. It was a break with tradition and, worse, it suggested that the Admiral no longer trusted his crew. The Marines searched him thoroughly but gently, and then allowed him to enter. The admiral himself was seated on the sofa, his left arm wrapped in a cast.
“Admiral,” he began. Words abruptly failed him. “I’m glad to see that you’re all right...”
“Save it,” Admiral Drake said. He looked up. Roman was surprised to see a new intensity burning in the admiral’s eyes. “I assume you want a new ship?”
“Yes, sir,” Roman said. He’d checked on Midway and had to admit that the report had been accurate. It would be cheaper to build a new assault cruiser than to repair a badly damaged one. She’d be sent to the breakers and her hull metal would be used to produce new ships. “Why did he open fire?”
“The Senate decided, in their infinite wisdom, to massacre all the prisoners we took on Bester,” Admiral Drake explained. His bitter voice shocked Roman to the core. “Admiral Justinian decided to go out in a blaze of glory.”
He frowned. “I don’t have a ship that needs a commander at the moment,” he added.
Roman couldn’t keep the disappointment off his face.
“I do need an aide, however. If you take the post now, I’ll give you a ship as soon as possible.”
“Yes, sir,” Roman said. He was surprised that the admiral wanted him—he’d graduated with Raistlin years ago, not that they’d ever been friends—but he knew better than to refuse. “When do I take up my duties?”
“Now,” Admiral Drake said. “We’re leaving in twelve hours and I want every ship that can fly and energize a beam going with us.”
* * *
Twelve hours later, Marius stood on the command deck and watched as the Grand Fleet slid into motion, heading towards the Jefferson Asimov Point. He would have found it hard to describe his feelings at the moment, knowing that he was rebelling against the Senate, crossing his own personal Rubicon.
One way or another, the die had been cast.
Chapter Forty-Eight
The shortest route between two points isn’t always a straight line when considering Asimov Points. A spacer knows that doubling back on his course can sometimes get him to his destination quicker.
-Observations on the Navy, 3987
In Transit/Earth, 4098
The Prince George-class space yacht had originally been designed for ten passengers and a crew of five. After the Brotherhood had the ship quietly refurbished in a military shipyard, the yacht had the speed of a destroyer and could be operated, if necessary, by a single person. Rupert had kept three of his most trusted retainers on the ship, but he’d dismissed the rest of the crew, even the woman who ran the galley. He’d had to eat packaged meals for the entire trip. After four weeks, even the pleasures of watching entertainment dramas he’d always meant to watch had worn off, and he was cursing his own mistake at not bringing along someone to share his bed.
But there hadn’t been much choice, or much time to arrange the desperate flight to Harmony. He’d hoped that there would be more time, either to send a warning message ahead of the assassination order, or for the Brotherhood to make other preparations on Earth, but they’d underestimated the Senate’s determination to act quickly. The assassination order was now winging its way to Harmony—no, it would have got there by now. And if Admiral Drake had been assassinated, the Brotherhood’s long-term plan would have fallen apart.
Silently, he cursed the two Factions under his breath. Who would have dreamed that Conservatives and Socialists could ever find themselves in agreement, if for radically different reasons? Perhaps the threat of being overthrown had made them panic and react quickly, even though there was no immediate threat.
He brooded on it as the ship went through another Asimov Point—using his Senator’s codes to gain immediate access—and wondered, again, what he would find when he reached Harmony.
They were midway through the Java System when the alert sounded.
“Senator,” Captain Windsor reported, “we are picking up military starships transiting the Asimov Point ahead of us.”
For a long moment, Rupert felt a flash of panic. His worst nightmare was discovering that the Senate had realized that he wasn’t going off on vacation and sent another message ahead of him, ordering his arrest or execution. The Senate would not, normally, have issued a kill-order for a Senator, but these were far from normal times.
His second thought was that Admiral Drake was ahead of him, and was bringing his fleet to Earth. As far as he knew—and he had had access to all of the Federation Navy’s reports—there wasn’t any other large fleet ahead of him. Admiral Drake’s force should have been the only one in the area.
“Hail them,” he ordered. “Transmit my Senate codes, and request permission to dock.”
There was a long pause.
“They’re declining permission,” Windsor reported. “They’re ordering us to vacate this space, or they will open fire.”
Rupert’s lips twitched. After everything, after his escape from Earth, dying at the hands of Admiral Drake would be the final irony.
“Send back another message,” he said. “One word: Arunika.”
There was a second pause.
“They are sending a Marine shuttle to dock with us and pick you up,” Windsor said. “I’m afraid that we cannot evade them, or escape either.”
Rupert bowed his head. At his age, there was no longer any point in fearing death.
“I understand, captain,” he said, “Follow their orders. I suspect that our lives are no longer in our hands.”
* * *
The transit from Harmony to Jefferson had been smooth. Marius had had Admiral Justinian’s forts secured by his Marines prior to the assassination attempt, so no one had tried to bar the fleet’s passage through the system. Admiral Justinian hadn’t built any further fortifications until the Asimov Point leading to Boskone, but they had been secured as well. The real danger had come when they’d passed into the Boskone System, yet the Senate hadn’t thought to issue orders barring the Grand Fleet’s passage. Besides, Marius had selected the system’s defenders personally and they had been horrified to learn about the assassination attempt.
He’d continued onward until they reached the Java System. The commander of the system’s defenses had balked until Marius had offered him the flat choice between surrender and being blasted out of the way. With only two fortresses, the commander had swallowed his pride and allowed his fortresses to be secured and occupied. Marius’s fleet hadn’t waited for the operation to be complete before they’d started heading towards the next Asimov Point. And then his sensors had picked up the yacht.
“Order the Senator brought onboard,” he ordered as soon as the cryptic second message had arrived. “Once he is aboard, resume course for Earth.”
He’d plotted out the course while preparing to leave Harmony. The shortest way to Earth led to the Gateway, but the Gateway defenders would definitely balk at allowing the fleet into the system without a fight, and the Grand Fleet would be bled white if it tried to break in by force. Admiral Justinian had had the right idea in crossing interstellar space to reach Earth. The key to the Solar System wasn’t Earth itself, but Home Fleet. Admiral Justinian had believed that he could take Earth before Home Fleet could intervene. Marius knew better.
He looked up as the Marines escorted Grand Senator Rupert McGillivray into his quarters. Marius hoped they hadn’t been too rough, although he couldn’t blame them for feeling paranoid due to the assassination attempt. The silver ring on the Senator’s hand caught his attention at once, informing him that the Senator was a member of the Brotherhood. A dark suspi
cion flared through his mind, which he pushed aside and waved the Senator to a chair.
“Welcome onboard,” he said tartly. “What happened?”
McGillivray made no pretense at being puzzled by the question. “The Senate decided that you were surplus to requirements,” he said flatly. “I came to warn you.”
Marius snorted. “You’re a month too late,” he pointed out. “You should have sent a message.”
“The Senate had locked out all communications to the Grand Fleet,” McGillivray explained. “I had hoped that I would be able to send you a message from Terra Nova, but they’d locked it out by then. I could only hope that you survived the assignation attempt.”
“Right,” Marius said. The Senator’s story was reasonably plausible. “And now that you know that I am still alive—and driving towards Earth—why are you here?”
McGillivray took a breath.
“Can I ask, first, what your intentions are towards Earth?”
Marius studied him for a long moment, reminding himself not to underestimate the Senator. McGillivray was older than Marius, older than Professor Kratman; the last survivor of the Imperialist Faction in the Senate. No one lived so long without gaining a vast amount of experience...and no one would remain in the Senate without knowing precisely where the bodies were buried. Old he might be, but McGillivray had lost none of his intelligence or knowledge.
“I intend to remove the Senate and create a new representative government,” Marius said flatly. There was no harm in the Senator knowing that. “Why are you here?”
“You need to do more than that,” McGillivray said. “You need to declare yourself Emperor.”
“Are you insane?” Marius stared at him.
“No,” McGillivray said. “Are you?”
“I don’t want to be Emperor,” Marius said after a long pause. “Why do you, a Senator, want me to become Emperor?”
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