Barbarians at the Gates

Chapter Sixteen

Jefferson System/FAS- 836393/Boskone System, 4092

“The enemy fleet has crossed the mass limit,” Caitlin reported.

She was too much of a professional to show her surprise, but Justinian had known her long enough to guess what she was thinking. He hadn’t given up the chance to destroy the Senatorial lackeys, no matter what it looked like. Yet he could have crippled or destroyed many more ships before the remainder escaped, so she had to be wondering why he didn’t do it.

“They will be going FTL as soon as possible,” she said.

“Leaving behind a number of cripples,” Justinian said. He allowed himself a smile. Marius Drake had done well to extract most of his force from what had been intended as a death trap, but he’d had to abandon nearly thirty starships. “Pass on the message; I want the Marines to accept surrenders and take the ships intact.”

“They’ll blow the computers,” Caitlin warned. “Sir, why…?”

Justinian smiled again, doing his best to project some warmth.

“We could have pressed our advantage and perhaps destroyed additional ships,” he told her. “This way, however, those lackeys know that we will accept surrenders and may not be willing to fight to the death—not for the Senate.”

He grinned up at her, and then looked back at the display. “And that way, we can regroup and advance against the nearest fleet base before Drake’s forces can get back in contact with the rest of the Federation.”

He stood up and strode to the airlock. “Stand the fleet down and start repair work at once,” he added. “I want to be ready to move within seventy-two hours.”

“Stardrive engaged, sir,” the helmsman said. “We’re clear.”

Roman allowed himself a moment of pure relief. His mind had come up with all kinds of theories about what Admiral Justinian might be playing at when he allowed the remainder of the Retribution Force to escape. Justinian might be sending a force around outside the mass limit to intercept and destroy the fleeing ships, or he might have other plans…or he might even have run out of missiles. But whatever the reason, Enterprise was safe…at least for the moment.

Intercepting a starship under continuous displacement drive was almost impossible. The entire fleet had gone into FTL together—allowing them to communicate and even shuttle from one ship to another—but any pursuing forces would have to somehow insert themselves into the displacement field surrounding the fleet.

“Stand down from condition-one,” he ordered. He was mildly surprised that Admiral Drake hadn’t relieved him the moment he’d heard that a mere lieutenant had assumed command of the Federation’s flagship. “The damage control crews can continue to make basic repairs; the tactical and conning crew can get some rest.”

He turned and looked up at the ship’s status display. The damage control teams had worked wonders, sealing off the damaged parts of the ship and ensuring that the ship’s structural integrity would remain intact. It didn’t take years of experience to know that Enterprise would need at least six months in a shipyard before she could be declared fully operational, but they’d make it home. Roman was in no doubt of that.

He flicked through the next part of the report and shook his head. They’d fired off most of their missiles in the final engagement, and needed to rearm. And they’d lost over three-fourths of their fighters.

“Sir,” Sultana said slowly, “you need to get some sleep yourself.”

Roman hesitated. He didn’t want to leave the bridge. There might be another crisis that would require his personal intervention, at least until he was relieved of command. And then there was the problem that there were only a handful of command-track officers left alive. They all needed sleep. His tired mind refused to grapple with chain of command issues. He honestly couldn’t place who was next in command and who didn’t need sleep. The chief engineer wasn’t in the chain of command, nor was the ship’s doctor, or the intelligence officers who had been attached to Admiral Parkinson—those who remained alive. He made up his mind and scowled. Appointing someone outside the command track to take command, if only for a few hours, was a violation of regulations.

He keyed his console anyway.

“Chief engineer, this is Garibaldi,” he said. Captain Garibaldi sounded pretentious and not a little absurd. “I need you to assume command for a few hours. You have full authority to command the damage control teams in repairing the ship.”

“Understood,” the chief engineer said. His voice was oddly reassuring. He’d had years of experience in engineering and damage control and that was what Enterprise needed. “I’ll see you on the next watch.”

Roman yawned as he stumbled off the bridge and staggered down towards the shared cabin. It crossed his mind that he was captain and really should sleep in the captain’s cabin, but the thought felt absurd. Besides, the captain’s cabin had been depressurised in the attack. The airlock hissed open and he almost fell. Once inside the cabin, he collapsed on his bunk, not even bothering to take off his shoes and uniform jacket. Tiredness overwhelmed him and he fell asleep.

He woke up a few hours later, shaking. He’d been in command of the ship—and he’d killed thousands of Justinian’s soldiers. Former Federation Navy soldiers. Roman had known, intellectually, that he’d have to kill in the name of the Federation, and yet…he’d somehow never realized it, not really. And then he’d been in command…it was a miracle that the ship hadn’t exploded the moment he’d assumed command. He’d given orders and somehow they’d survived, yet he had no clear memory of what he’d said or done. Everything was a blur.

There was no sign of Sultana, he noted, as he sat upright. It took everything he had to stumble to his feet, strip, and stagger into the fresher, cold water washing away the sweat and grime from the battle. As water ran down his body, he activated his communications implant and accessed the damage report. The damage control crews had managed to fix most of the easy problems, but the rest would have to wait until they reached a shipyard. It made him wonder when that would be, if ever. The only shipyards in this sector were controlled by Admiral Justinian.

Shaking his head, he stepped out of the fresher and started to dress. There was work to do.

Marius ran his hand through his hair as he stared at the star chart, considering. “Once we get to FAS-836393”—the red giant had never been honored by a name—”take us through the Asimov Point at once to Delta Bannerman, and then through there to Golden Harbour.”

He scowled, running through the possibilities in his head. The strange network of Asimov Points doubled back on themselves, leaving relatively few links to the Core Worlds, unless there was an uncharted Asimov Point somewhere in the sector. It wasn’t impossible, but it wasn’t something they could count on, not when Admiral Justinian would be preparing his forces for a rapid advance.

The olden days must have been easier, back before the continuous displacement drive. On the other hand, without the stardrive, the fleet would have been forced to surrender, or it would’ve been destroyed.

“From there, take us through the Gamma Chain to Boskone,” he concluded unhappily. “We can link up with the Fleet Train there and use the base’s facilities to reload and repair our ships.”

“Aye, sir,” the helmsman said. “I am relaying the course to the remainder of the fleet.”

Marius barely heard him. He was still considering the implications. It would take at least ten days to reach FAS-836393 and slip into one of the red giant’s Asimov Points. From there, it would take at least another twelve days to reach Boskone, while Admiral Justinian—if he pushed it—could be there in ten. In fact, if the Admiral was willing to gamble, he might be able to cut the remains of the Retribution Force off and destroy them. It wouldn’t be a peaceful flight. If they beat Justinian to Boskone, they might be able to hold him until reinforcements could reach them from the Core Worlds. If…

He keyed his console, accessing the Marine channel.

“Toby, take a squad of Marines and get over to Enterprise,” he ordered. “I want those prisoners transferred over here for ONI’s interrogators. I need to know what they know.”

“Understood,” Vaughn said.

Marius released the console and studied the fleet’s status. Seventy superdreadnaughts had entered the Jefferson System. Forty-eight had escaped, almost all of them damaged, some badly. And then there were the damaged carriers, cruisers and destroyers. Nearly half of his starfighters had been wiped out in the fighting, along with most of his gunboats and light support craft. He couldn’t remember such a defeat in the years since the Blue Star War, even back when he’d been commanding the fleet stationed along the Rim. The pirates and Outsiders had never managed to inflict major losses on his ships. They’d preferred to avoid the Federation Navy and pillage undefended civilian ships and planets instead.

You need sleep, he told himself tiredly. There was no way around it. Taking stimulants would only come back to haunt him. Promising himself that he would sleep once he finished reorganizing his fleet, he studied the display. The senior CAG had been killed on Illustrious, leaving Commodore Mason in overall command of the starfighters. Marius barely knew Mason, but he had a good reputation as a hard-charging commander.

“I need you to reorganize the starfighter squadrons,” Marius ordered without preamble once his communications officer had gotten him in touch with Mason. “Consider yourself promoted to Fleet CAG and start work after you have some sleep.”

“Certainly, sir,” Mason said. He sounded groggy.

Marius hated to think what he sounded like, but he doubted that it was reassuring.

“I have one issue to raise,” Mason said. “I should move my flag to Enterprise, yet the ship is currently being commanded by a mere lieutenant…”

“He assumed command under Case Omega,” Marius said sharply. It was very much a tenth-order issue at the moment. Besides, the young lieutenant was either very good, or very lucky. Both were traits worth encouraging. “I will review the matter when I have time. Until then, I expect you to treat him as you would any other captain…”

“But admiral…”

“Those are your orders,” Marius said coldly. “Either follow them, or turn the command over to your successor and consider yourself relieved.”

There was a pause.

“Understood. I will follow my orders,” Mason said. “Over and out.”

Marius rubbed his eyes, issued a few more orders, and then headed for his cabin. Magnificent had a truly magnificent suite fit for any admiral who might be aboard her, yet all he cared about was the bed. There were officers who brought their mistresses aboard—a practice officially disapproved of, although winked at in private—and even installed a private staff of their own. But Marius had never cared for such abuses of authority. Why set a bad example for the rest of the fleet?

He collapsed on the bed without even loosening his shirt or taking off his boots, and went to sleep.

The first ten days of the transit went smoothly, much to Marius’s relief. The fleet’s ships shared engineers and repair crews, swapping out damaged components and repairing the ships as much as possible. Most would need a shipyard before they could be repaired properly, but they’d be able to fight or run if necessary. They wouldn’t be able to fight for long, unfortunately, as they would run out of missiles very quickly. Marius had reluctantly decided to avoid action if possible, at least until they reached Boskone.

He’d checked up on Enterprise from time to time—Mason apparently had supporters in the fleet, who had attempted to bring the matter to Marius’s attention—but everything seemed to be running smoothly. Besides, he didn’t have a suitable commanding officer to put in Garibaldi’s place. Mason himself might have been angling for the command—a poisoned chalice at the moment, although Enterprise would be repaired as soon as she was brought to a shipyard—yet normally he’d be outside the chain of command. Marius could override the regulations in an emergency, though he would have to account for his actions to a Board of Inquiry. The thought made him grimace. No matter what happened, there was going to be a Board of Inquiry and a Senate Commission inquiring into the defeat.

FAS-836393 had no planets, not even a cloud of asteroids or comets. As such, the system was deserted, without even a smuggler or pirate base. Marius didn’t take chances—Admiral Justinian would probably have been able to deduce his destination—and ordered the liberal use of sensor drones to probe the Asimov Point prior to taking the fleet through to Delta Bannerman. The RockRat system—Delta Bannerman possessed no Earth-like worlds but it did have an abundance of asteroid belts, making it an ideal home for the asteroid-dwelling RockRats—was suspiciously quiet as the fleet crossed from one Asimov Point to the other. It was unlikely that Admiral Justinian had been able to subvert them, Marius told himself; it was far more likely that the fiercely independent RockRats had chosen to ignore his fleet. Marius had considered seeking their help to repair his ships, but it would only have given Justinian more time to cut them off even if the RockRats had agreed.

Golden Harbour was friendlier, although there was little they could do to aid his fleet. The twin planets were one of the strangest systems in the Federation, two water worlds orbiting surprisingly close together. The planets had been settled by mermen—humans who had undergone genetic modification to allow them to live and breathe underwater—and there were relatively few baseline humans in the system. Their handful of orbital facilities were barely sufficient to stand off a pirate attack, let alone a rebel fleet. Marius exchanged greetings with the planet’s president, warned him of the danger and wished him luck. There was little else he could do.

“That bastard Parkinson led us into a trap,” he said to Vaughn one evening. “What did the captives have to say for themselves?”

“Admiral Justinian was very keen to capture the Enterprise,” Vaughn told him. “Justinian wanted the carrier intact to serve as his flagship. His Marines didn’t know why.”

“Ego, probably,” Marius said. “Or perhaps he was making a point.”

He closed his eyes. There was no way to avoid the consequences. ONI’s private evaluation of the situation made grim reading. The Federation Navy had somehow devolved into factions over the past few decades, while he’d been out on the Rim chasing pirates. Admiral Justinian might be the first admiral to rebel, declare independence and perhaps attempt to make himself Emperor, but he wouldn’t be the last. ONI suspected that at least a dozen more senior officers were considering rebelling themselves, either to ally with Justinian or betray him down the road—and the defeat at Jefferson would only embolden them. Even if they acted in isolation, without coordinating their forces, Marius’s force would be in real danger.

The thought was bitter, but Marius forced himself to study the situation unflinchingly. He believed in the Federation, in the unity of the human race. Only unity protected humanity from countless alien enemies, or even from its own darker instincts. How many would wage war if the Federation didn’t keep a lid on such conflicts? Too many, he was sure.

And that would tear the Federation apart.

The Inheritance Wars had come close to shattering humanity’s fragile unity. What would Justinian’s War—for want of a better name—do, with the Outsiders poised to take advantage of the Federation’s weaknesses?

He shook his head. Whatever happened, whatever the price, the fundamental unity of the human race had to be protected. The Senate might be corrupt, the Federation might be unwieldy and far too complex and restrictive, but it was all they had.

The alternative was chaos. On a galactic scale.

Roman had never visited Boskone, but he’d heard about the system. Quite apart from the fact that it served as a chokepoint along the Harmony Chain, it was unique in explored space. The system primary had one massive planet, a gas giant that might well have been a star if it had slightly more mass. Instead, it had given birth to a handful of moons, including an inhabitable planet. Life-bearing moons were rare, but Maskirovka was unique. No other moon had developed an intelligent race.

Even so, there was no time for sightseeing. They’d met up with the Fleet Train when they entered the system and started to reload the ships at once, while sending smaller ships back to the Core Worlds to request reinforcements. Roman had expected to be relieved, yet instead he found himself still in command as Enterprise struggled to prepare herself for the coming battle.

No one had any doubts that Admiral Justinian was on the way. If he punched through Boskone, he would be able to push out a defensive perimeter or drive on towards Earth. Either would be disastrous.

But attacking a strongly-held Asimov Point was a difficult task at the best of times. Pushing Justinian back would be costly.

Roman had hoped they would have several weeks to prepare before the system was attacked. Instead, the Retribution Force was still struggling when Justinian’s first probes transited the Asimov Point.