Barbarians at the Gates

Chapter Twelve

Jefferson System, 4092

Admiral Justinian still remembered the day when he had realized—for the first time—just how rotten and decayed the Federation had become. He’d been promoted to captain only six months before Pinafore—his first command—had been assigned to a rebellious system and ordered to keep the peace. It hadn’t taken long for him to realize that there was little hope of preventing an insurgency that would either wreck the planet or force the Federation to land ground troops to suppress it. The local governor, the nominee of the interstellar corporation that had acquired the rights to develop and exploit the planet, treated the settlers worse than slaves. He’d casually broken some of the most sacred laws on the books and no one had bothered to do anything about it. The settlers had eventually been put down—in every sense of the word—by orbital bombardment.

Justinian had always been ambitious and watching the slow collapse of the Federation had turned his thoughts to how an intelligent and well-positioned person could take advantage of the chaos. He had seen the vast powers and responsibilities granted to Sector Commanders and, by the time he’d been promoted to commodore, he’d already been well on the way to building up a network of supporters and allies. The Senate was corrupt, the president was a non-entity and the Federation Navy was slowly coming apart at the seams. It had been easy to find supporters—and some backers who were prepared to forward money and political support. When he’d been appointed as Harmony’s Sector Commander, it had been the perfect opportunity to turn his plans into reality.

If he’d had another five years, as he’d planned, his fleet would have had no difficulty in occupying Earth, convincing the Senate to surrender and overawing the other admirals. As it was, he’d received word that the Senate was on the verge of recalling him to Earth, convincing him that he’d better move now or abandon years of careful planning. The strike against Earth had been chancy—even though early reports suggested that the first stages of the operation had succeeded better than he’d had a right to expect—and, like all smart commanders, he’d had a contingency plan. The moment he’d heard that Admiral Parkinson was being put in command of the Retribution Force, he’d placed his own plans into operation. Sitting and waiting for the enemy to come to him was galling, especially as he’d been known as a commander who always took the offensive, but it would be worth it.

Otherwise, he would die with his fleet.

He smiled. In days of yore, emperors—and would-be emperors—had led their forces from the front. The Senate, of course, never left Earth. He knew who he preferred to be in command, the man who took the same risks as his crewmen. And he knew that his crews responded to that.

He’d had years to build up a whole secret source of manpower for his fleet and they were his loyalists. The Federation Navy had no idea just how badly it was outmatched. And if the new weapons worked as advertised…

“Admiral, the enemy is sending recon drones through the Asimov Point,” Captain Caitlin Bowery reported. Tall, dark and strikingly pretty, Caitlin served as his Flag Captain. She had been his subordinate on his first command, and he had kept her with him as he had risen to admiral. His wife didn’t like it, but if she wanted to be empress—and social queen on Earth—she would have to live with it. “They’re ready to advance.”

Justinian nodded. It would have been unwise to expect Parkinson to charge into the system without bothering to check it out first. Even he could see that the Asimov Point was the perfect spot for an ambush. The unimaginative clod would do what The Book ordered and probe the system first, and then—if there was an enemy fleet drawn up to meet him—bombard the Asimov Point with antimatter missiles until the enemy fleet was forced back from the maelstrom.

“Good,” he said. Perversely, it would be some hours before the two fleets came to battle, even under the worst-case scenario. “Bring the fleet to condition two, but keep us under cloak. We don’t want to risk discovery before it is too late for them to escape.”

Roman’s heart was beating so loudly as the Enterprise jumped into the Jefferson System that he was surprised no one else could hear it. He’d braced himself for the possibility of an enemy ambush, but nothing appeared to challenge their presence. He swallowed hard, cursing his dry throat, even as his mind mulled over the tactical situation. Doctrine said, quite clearly, that allowing an enemy unchallenged access into your system—and time to deploy and prepare for action—was equivalent to accepting eventual defeat.

“Launch ready fighters,” the captain’s voice ordered. “Prepare the remaining squadrons for immediate launch.”

Roman did nothing. The command wasn’t addressed to him and, in any case, he was locked out of the command systems unless something happened to the main bridge. He would be a helpless spectator in the coming battle.

Instead, he watched the system display.

The Jefferson System was unusual in several ways. It was a nexus of Asimov Points, with no less than nine Asimov Points orbiting the local star. That wasn’t uncommon in and of itself, but as a general rule, the nexuses tended to orbit massive stars—like the blue giant Sapphire. Jefferson’s primary, on the other hand, was a fairly common G2 star like Sol, with an inhabitable planet and several gas giants and asteroid belts for mining. The colonization rights had been snapped up by the Williamson Corporation, who had formed a development corporation and settled a colony on the inhabitable world. Oddly, the planet’s settlers had paid off their debts fairly quickly and couldn’t be legally sodomized by the Senate-supported interstellar corporations. With access to so many Asimov Points—and the legal right to collect tolls on interstellar shipping—the system had a bright future ahead of it. He scowled. It was easy to see why some Senators were salivating at the chance to place their own people in control of the system. Jefferson had played no part in the Inheritance Wars, but if the system was legally declared in rebellion against the Federation, all local authority could be disbanded and the planet placed into the hands of a Federation Governor. The locals would have no say in the eventual disposition of their system.

Enterprise slowly moved away from the Asimov Point, her escorts spread out around her. Even though everything seemed fine, Roman felt the tension level on the auxiliary bridge as it rose—apparently no one trusted what was going on, if he was any judge—and fought hard to stay calm. The unknown, the tutors had warned him, was more terrifying than any known threat, but he hadn’t believed them until now. Somehow, staring at a display that showed absolutely nothing, apart from friendly units and the system’s planetary bodies, really bothered him.

The enemy had to be out there somewhere. So where was he?

He thought briefly of Elf—felt a sudden stab of regret that he hadn’t mustered the courage to ask her out—and then focused on his display. Behind Enterprise and the first part of the fleet, the heavy superdreadnaughts were flickering into the system, one by one. No one took chances with superdreadnaughts, as it took two years to build a superdreadnaught, even in the Jovian Yards, and it would take almost an hour to get them through into the system.

But where was the enemy?

Marius was having similar thoughts as Magnificent emerged into the Jefferson System. His first inclination had been to assume that the enemy was lying doggo under a cloaking field, perhaps waiting for the superdreadnaughts to arrive before opening fire. If he’d been in command, he would have launched a squadron of light cruisers and destroyers into Jefferson first and had them survey the Asimov Point before he risked the flagship and her escorts. Admiral Parkinson, however, had refused to listen to him—and Marius had to admit that he might have been right.

Except…why would anyone abandon their best chance to give the Retribution Force a bloody nose?

He called up the system display and scowled. Every five minutes, a new superdreadnaught emerged through the Asimov Point and fell into formation. The Federation’s position was growing stronger—even with Enterprise and her escorts already heading towards the Harmony Asimov Point—all the time, which was convenient, but suspicious. One thing he’d learned on his very first cruise under then-Captain Kratman had been that any plan that seemed to be working perfectly was just about to fail spectacularly. That was why the very emptiness of the space seemed to be mocking him.

Something was drastically wrong, and he needed to figure out why. Fast.

“Launch additional recon probes,” he ordered. Admiral Parkinson hadn’t ordered anything of the sort, but Marius didn’t need to tell anyone that. What he was doing was in the best interests of the Retribution Force, and he knew it. He’d tell Admiral Parkinson that later, if they all lived through whatever was coming. “I want a shell of them around us at all times—in fact, replenish them at random intervals and have recon fighters move up to plug any holes in our coverage.”

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 out 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.