Barbarians at the Gates

Chapter Ten

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 could 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.

The hatch hissed open and his friend Vaughn stepped in, coming over to stand beside him. Marius didn’t turn around, as he’d programmed the hatch to admit only Vaughn, once he’d personally swept the Observation Blister for surveillance devices. It seemed unlikely that anyone would bother bugging the entire ship, but he knew that the ship’s computers covertly monitored internal conversation and occasionally flagged something for Security. This way, the computers would know where they were—their implants would see to that—but they wouldn’t be able to listen in.

“You seem to have developed an attack of paranoia,” Vaughn observed mildly.

Marius knew it was that very mildness that had caused many people to underestimate Vaughn. The Federation Marines were the Federation’s shock troops, the most powerful and capable rapid reaction force in history: they boarded enemy starships, landed on enemy planets and were generally feared by the Federation’s enemies. But Vaughn didn’t seem like the type to do anything violent.

Before Marius could answer, Vaughn went on. “Do you honestly think anyone would dare to bug the second-in-command of the Retribution Fleet?”

“I don’t know,” Marius admitted. “Considering all that’s happened so far…”

He started to outline everything that had happened since he’d learned that he wouldn’t be commanding the Retribution Fleet, just so Vaughn could check his thinking. Despite his objections, Parkinson had split the fleet into three sections, just as Parkinson had said he’d do in the first place. Marius had even pointed out that this put Parkinson’s life at risk, but Parkinson hadn’t wanted to hear it.

But the stupidity didn’t end there. A quick check had revealed that the Fleet Train had been joined by several luxury liners, which carried the new governors of Harmony Sector. The files had been sealed, but with the aid of a couple of intelligence officers, Marius had managed to work out a list of the potential candidates. They had all been men with very strong political connections.

None of them seemed to care that they were flying straight into a war zone.

“Honestly, Vaughn, what do you think of all this?” Marius asked. “Because this really doesn’t look good, not from where I’m standing.”

Vaughn considered it for a long moment. His thoughtful expression reminded Marius of when they’d first met, when he’d been the young commanding officer of a light cruiser and Vaughn had been the CO of the ship’s Marine detachment. As the Marines reported only to the ship’s captain—him—he and Vaughn had become fast friends, serving together as their careers advanced. When he’d been sent to the Rim to take command, there had been no other choice for Marine CO. He trusted Vaughn with his life.

“The Brotherhood’s involvement is worrying,” Vaughn said finally. “You never know who might be working for the Brotherhood, or reporting back to them. They’ve always been very well represented in the Navy, and nothing has ever managed to change that, so…”

He shrugged. “Watch your back, that’s all I can think of right now. Though I wish I had better advice to give.”

“Everyone seems to be telling me to watch my back,” Marius said. He smiled, ruefully. “Perhaps I should wear body armor under my uniform, and sleep with a pistol under my pillow.”

“Good idea,” Vaughn agreed. “And make sure you carry a weapon at all times, not just in simulations.”

Marius nodded reluctantly.

Centuries ago, the Snakes had attacked and occupied a handful of human worlds. They’d discovered that the inhabitants, once they’d gotten over their shock at being invaded by hostile aliens, were more than capable of fighting back against their alien overlords. By the time the nascent Federation Navy had retaken the occupied worlds, the Snakes had resorted to mass murder and genocide to eliminate the insurgents. Even then, they’d failed to make a clean sweep and thousands of humans had survived the bombings. The Federation Navy had rescued them and transported the survivors to a refugee camp on Terra Nova.

One of the resistance leaders had been a political genius as well as an unrivalled tactician. He’d convinced the remainder of the other groups to form the Brotherhood of Humanity, a society that would have only one objective—to ensure that no alien race could ever threaten humanity again. They’d begun life as a political pressure group, but they’d rapidly become one of the Federation’s strongest supporters and proponents of a hard line towards aliens in the Federation. Rumor had it that two alien races that hadn’t survived their encounter with humanity had been deliberately exterminated by the Brotherhood.

Even without committing genocide, the Brotherhood—now a secretive group with no visible chain of command—ensured that no alien ever became anything more than a second-class citizen in the Federation. No alien could ever be equal to a human, not in their eyes. It would be the first step towards human extermination.

And now the Brotherhood is interfering in my life, Marius thought sourly. What did they want?

Membership in the Brotherhood was hardly forbidden. The vast majority of the human population thoroughly supported the Brotherhood’s stance on aliens and alien rights, or lack of them. Even so, the Brotherhood’s members were generally encouraged to keep it a secret, adding to the society’s mystique—and, he realized, making it easy to develop an exaggerated impression of their abilities. In fact, now that he thought about it, had it been the Brotherhood that had encouraged Earth’s media to turn him into a hero?

“It seems to me that you have the choice between accepting their help or not,” Vaughn said, breaking into Marius’s train of thought. “And what might they be able to do for you?”

Marius shook his head. “Let’s concentrate on surviving the next few months first, shall we?”

“All right,” Vaughn said. “But you’re going to be escorted by armed guards whenever you leave the ship. I don’t think this fleet can afford to lose you.”

Marius opened his mouth to argue, and then realized that Vaughn was right. Admiral Justinian’s strike on Navy HQ had killed most of the Navy’s high-ranking officers, at least the ones assigned to Earth. The officers stationed away from Earth seemed to have incurred the Senate’s suspicion merely because they hadn’t been on Earth or in the Core Worlds when the attack took place. And the remaining officers in the fleet, the Commodores who commanded the squadrons that had been assigned to the Retribution Force, were hopelessly junior to Parkinson.

“At least I convinced him to use recon drones first before we enter the Asimov Points closer to the Harmony Sector,” he said bitterly, hoping Vaughn would understand. Recon drones that were capable of transiting through an Asimov Point were expensive, and the bean counters complained heavily whenever they were deployed. The Senate would not be amused when the Federation Navy presented them with a bill for a few hundred recon drones to replace the lost ones. “We might not be caught on the Asimov Point.”

For a bare second, he was back on the Matterhorn, back when the superdreadnaught had flown right into a point-blank ambush. Admiral Parkinson wouldn’t make that mistake, thankfully, but what was running through Admiral Justinian’s head? It didn’t take a tactical genius to deduce the Retribution Force’s planned advance, not given the topography of the Asimov Points. Hell, Justinian could just keep his fleet in Jefferson and wait until his scouts revealed that the Retribution Fleet was advancing, and then move forward to meet the Senate’s counterstroke.

“We both know that if your plan is going perfectly, you’re about to lose,” Vaughn pointed out. “I think you’d better be prepared to relieve Parkinson, if necessary.”

Marius blinked at him. Vaughn was plain-spoken, but he was rarely that blunt.

“Think about it,” Vaughn said. “Whatever criteria the Senate used to pick him, it wasn’t tactical skill or imagination. He doesn’t even have the imagination to make you do all the work and take all the credit. And I’ve met Justinian. He’ll run rings around the poor political appointee and his noble benefactors.”

He looked out at the unblinking stars. “I think you’d better be prepared for the worst,” Vaughn added. “Someone has to be thinking about what could go wrong.”