Barbarians at the Gates

Chapter Eighteen

FNS Magnificent, Boskone System, 4092

The summons to report to Admiral Drake onboard Magnificent had come nearly a week after the Battle of Boskone. Roman had spent nearly twenty minutes trying to decide what to wear while his shuttle was prepared for the flight. As a captain—even an acting captain—he had a right to wear dress whites, but somehow he doubted that Admiral Drake would be impressed by a lieutenant putting on airs. As a lieutenant, he should wear his dress uniform, yet very few people in the Federation Navy enjoyed wearing dress uniforms. The issue had been settled by the discovery that there were no captain’s uniforms on Enterprise, so he’d reluctantly worn his more standard dress uniform. He was honest enough to admit to himself that worrying over the uniform was a substitute for worrying over what the admiral was going to say, considering the hostility of Admiral Mason. Roman was sure Mason had burned up the airwaves with his complaints about having to report to a very junior officer.

It wasn’t the first time Roman had been onboard a superdreadnaught, but somehow it felt very different. No formal party met him when he disembarked from the shuttle, much to his relief, as he had no idea how to handle the protocol when one captain visited another. Yet everyone he met seemed to know his name. Officers, including some astronomically senior to him, found time to shake his hand and congratulate him, adding to the air of unreality. He was almost in a daze when the Marine guard opened the hatch to the admiral’s office and motioned for him to step inside.

He’d never met Admiral Drake before, but he’d taken the opportunity to use his new command codes to read the classified section of the admiral’s file. Drake was shorter than he had expected, reminding him of Major Shaklee, yet he was clearly in control of the situation. Short, dark hair framed a classically handsome face and brilliant dark eyes. Roman marched across to the desk, threw a perfect salute, and stood at attention. The only other admiral he’d encountered—briefly—was Admiral Parkinson, but he hadn’t commanded this level of respect. Admiral Drake had pulled the entire fleet out of a deadly trap.

“At ease,” Admiral Drake said. He had a faint Martian accent. “Cut the cadet crap. There’s just the pair of us here.”

Roman relaxed, very slightly.

“I said relax,” Admiral Drake added dryly. “You’re not in trouble, Mr. Garibaldi. I assure you of that.”

Roman did his best to stand normally, as he would if he were around Sultana before he’d been so abruptly elevated to acting captain.

The admiral settled back and grinned, an expression which transformed his entire face. “First things first, Mr. Garibaldi. I have nominated you for the Navy Cross, with Gold Stars. I believe that it will be confirmed automatically by the Admiralty, but don’t gloat too soon about being the youngest officer to win it in combat. They may feel that I have been too generous.”

“Yes, sir,” Roman said. The Navy Cross was only issued to personnel who had served with distinction in combat. The only officer below the rank of captain to win it had been a lieutenant-commander during the Blue Star War. The recipient had to show uncommon valor and skill. “I…thank you.”

“I believe there may be other rewards coming your way,” Admiral Drake said in an almost jovial manner.

Roman flushed, and then realized that he was being teased. But before he could respond, the admiral carried on.

“I recommended you for several Federation awards, although those will have to be granted by the Senate. You’re also entitled to a cash reward for saving the Enterprise from certain destruction. The taxmen will probably try to take a bite out of it, but hire a good lawyer and they will discover that they don’t have a leg to stand on.”

He paused. “And you have my thanks as well,” he added. “Many people showed uncommon valor in the Battle of Jefferson, but you stood out among the crowd. Your assumption of command was precisely the right thing to do, as were your actions when the enemy started to land troops on your ship. Allowing them to land on your ship will probably annoy the traditionalists—you didn’t have any way of knowing if they were carrying an antimatter mine to destroy Enterprise if they couldn’t take her intact—but it paid off. As a very old commander once said, it’s better to be lucky than good.”

“Yes, sir,” Roman said carefully.

Admiral Drake leaned back in his chair. “You do realize that you won’t be allowed to keep Enterprise?”

Roman nodded. It wasn’t a surprise, even though part of him had dared to hope as the weeks went by without his being relieved of command. Traditionally, anyone who assumed the position of acting captain was automatically confirmed as captain, but he’d looked it up: The most junior officer to assume the position permanently had been a lieutenant-commander. And he’d only commanded a destroyer, not the Federation’s flagship.

“You’re too young and too inexperienced,” Admiral Drake said seriously. “I did think hard about letting you take her back to Earth and transferring command there—she will have to go into a shipyard anyway, unless they decide to scrap her…”

“No,” Roman said before he could stop himself.

“Your first command is always something special,” Admiral Drake said, showing no sign of annoyance at the interruption. “I read your report—very professional, by the way—and she will need at least six months in a shipyard, perhaps longer. It depends on how many other ships need to be repaired—they may just dry-dock her for a few years until there’s a slip free for an expensive and time-consuming repair job.” He shrugged. “I’m going to be stripping out most of her crew to fill holes elsewhere—I think they’ll probably give her a whole new crew and commander.”

“Yes, sir,” Roman said again.

“I understand how you feel,” Admiral Drake said. He looked up, meeting and holding Roman’s eyes. “The Navy doesn’t usually bother to take account of its junior officers’ preferences when it comes to assigning berths, but I’m going to give you a choice. The Navy Cross will ensure that you’re promoted one full grade in any case. So. Captain Singh on the Vengeance needs a new tactical officer. You’d be promoted to lieutenant-commander and assigned to his command. You’d be on the fast track to a command of your own—you’ve certainly proved that you can handle it.

“The second possibility is the Donna Noble,” he added. “She’s a destroyer with seventy crew, under Captain Homchoudhury and she needs an XO. I’ve stolen both her XO and his second for filling in other holes. You’d be in the spotlight, but her captain has a good reputation for getting young officers ready for higher command. He’ll even teach you what fork to use first at a banquet.”

Roman blinked, and then realized that he was being teased again. Luna Academy hadn’t taught many social graces beyond basic formality in the mess and how to act at the captain’s table. Blake Raistlin, on the other hand, had introduced him to the concept of a whole upper-class social strata that excluded everyone who couldn’t or wouldn’t fit in. It hadn’t occurred to him that a captain would have to fit in, but it made sense.

He smiled. A useful life lesson from Blake Raistlin. Who would have thought it?

“You get to choose,” Admiral Drake said. “Whatever your choice, I will endorse it.”

“Thank you, sir,” Roman said. He was tempted to ask for advice, but suspected that it might be a test, not unlike some of the tests the cadets had undergone at the Luna Academy. “When do you need my decision?”

“As soon as possible,” Admiral Drake said. “The fleet really doesn’t have time to waste. Enterprise and a small escort will have to take our casualties back to the Core Worlds, along with my report on this battle. It might stop unreasoning panic and start more grounded panic.”

He smiled at his weak joke. “But I can give you an hour or two. After that, I will have to assign you myself.”

Roman considered it. He had to admit that he’d enjoyed command, once he’d gotten over the blind panic and crushing sense of responsibility. And he liked to think he’d done well for the Enterprise, besides saving her from total destruction. Losing command of her hurt, even though he’d expected it. Being a tactical officer would be exciting, but it was still a small fish in a big pond. An XO, even of a destroyer, had far more responsibility.

“I’ll take the Donna Noble,” he said finally.

“I thought you would,” Admiral Drake said. He picked a chip off the desk and passed it to Roman. “Your promotion and official orders. Return to the Enterprise, enjoy command for the last time by ordering the stewards to pack your supplies, and then take a few days of leave on Maskirovka. I’m going to be rotating as many crew as I can through the shore leave facilities so they all get a chance for a rest.”

He shrugged. “You can report to the Donna Noble after that. Be sure to enjoy your leave, as it will be the last chance for quite a long time.”

“Yes, sir,” Roman said.

“And please accept my congratulations as well,” Admiral Drake said. “I expect to hear a great deal more about you in the future.”

Roman stood to attention, saluted, and turned to leave through the hatch. If he had to lose Enterprise, serving as an XO on a destroyer would more than make up for it. And his name would be entered in Enterprise’s Captain’s List. He shook his head and headed towards the shuttlebay. Once he was back on Enterprise, he would ensure that his successor received a ship in as near to perfect condition as humanly possible before he went on leave.

“Was I ever that young?”

Vaughn did him the honor of considering the question seriously. “I don’t think you were born wearing an admiral’s uniform and a silly hat,” he said after a long pause. “You were a young officer when we first met, a young man who’d earned a First and thought he knew everything.”

Marius snorted. He’d arranged for Vaughn to watch the brief interview, trusting the Marine’s sense of character to compensate for his own willingness to believe the best of someone with an excellent combat record. And Roman Garibaldi had accepted his semi-demotion calmly, without becoming upset or angry. Marius had demoted officers before for incompetence and some of them had lost their tempers completely.

“I was a young fool,” he agreed. “I take it you like him, then?”

“From what I know of him,” Vaughn said. “Major Shaklee spoke highly of him, as did a handful of his subordinates. He definitely shows promise.”

“More than shows it,” Marius pointed out. “He killed four battlecruisers and took the only prisoners that we got out of the whole war, at least until they came through the Asimov Point and tried to take us out.”

The thought made him grimace. The attacking starships had all been destroyed, but a handful of starfighter pilots had surrendered once they realized they’d been abandoned. Their interrogations had been brief; the pilots knew little beyond their own roles in the battle, certainly nothing about Admiral Justinian’s overall strategy. He’d hoped to learn about why they’d thrown themselves in with the rogue admiral, but they hadn’t been forthcoming. ONI would have to use drugs or direct brain implantation to learn their secrets, and that didn’t seem too likely under the circumstances.

“You’re the admiral,” Vaughn reminded him. “If you have doubts about him, act on them; if not…”

“Shit or get off the pot?” Marius guessed.

“Exactly,” agreed Vaughn.

Marius shook his head, studying the display. “I’m giving the Enterprise to Captain Fowler. He’ll be delighted to get out of the line of fire and he can certainly command her long enough to take her back to Earth…”

He snorted. Captain Fowler had somehow been promoted time and time again, mainly for looking like a 3D star, but it hadn’t taken long for Marius to realize that the man had a soft, panicky interior. Fowler had never seen action before, at least not against an equal or superior force, and he’d come close to losing it completely during the Battle of Jefferson. Only the threat of being relieved of command from Commodore Sheridan had kept Fowler and his ship in line. If Fowler had fled, his ship would have been isolated and exposed to enemy fire. Her rapid destruction would have been a certainty.

Perhaps that, too, had kept Captain Fowler in formation.

“He won’t hesitate to stab you in the back,” Vaughn warned. “He’ll whine to the Senate and his backers about how you mistreated him and threatened him with death or worse.”

“Fuck him,” Marius said tartly. “He’s stupid enough to think that command of Enterprise is a reward, even now. He can take the carrier back home, along with my report on his fitness—and Commodore Sheridan’s report. We’ll see what the Admiralty makes of that.”

“Make sure they’re in an unbreakable code,” Vaughn warned. “I’d bet you dinner at the Hotel Splendid that he’ll read them as soon as he’s out of reach, otherwise.”

Marius nodded, then ran his hand through his hair. Legally, he could have relieved Fowler of command and sent him back on a civilian ship to face a court martial, but that would have opened him to attacks from the captain’s backers and family. Sending him back on the Enterprise would reduce the number of attacks, at least until the Admiralty had a chance to decide if he should face a court martial or simply be transferred to an isolated mining station in the middle of nowhere. The Federation Navy had plenty of places to promote incompetent officers into command positions where they could do no harm.

“On a different note, the Governor of Maskirovka requested that you assign a pair of Marine Regiments to support the Planetary Guard,” Vaughn said.

Marius frowned in surprise. The request was probably working its way through his inbox somewhere, but he hadn’t seen it yet. Vaughn would have been copied into any requests for Marine support.

“He didn’t say why,” Vaughn went on, “but Maskirovka does have an intelligent race. Perhaps they’re causing trouble for the settlers.”

“Or perhaps the settlers are thinking about causing trouble themselves,” Marius said. He’d been on the Rim too long to share the unthinking prejudice against aliens held by most of the human race, but when push came to shove it was humanity first, last, and always. “How long has it been since the Inheritance Wars? Long enough for us to forget the carnage?”

“Boskone wasn’t involved in the wars,” Vaughn pointed out. “The chances are good that the governor is just as deeply corrupt as any other politician. His subjects may feel that they have nothing to lose through rebellion, and the settlers may feel like throwing their lot in with Admiral Justinian. How can it get any worse for them?”

“It can always get worse,” Marius said sourly. “Anyway, please go check it out. We can’t advance through the Asimov Point without reinforcements, so if you think it’s necessary, ship in a couple of regiments and deploy them as you see fit.”

“They’ll be pleased,” Vaughn said. “Damage control isn’t what we jarheads signed up to do.”

Marius shrugged. Now that Admiral Justinian’s forces had been beaten back, he’d taken the risk of carrying out more extensive repair work on some of his starships. ECM buoys would create the impression that his fleet was still on alert, watching the Asimov Point carefully. The CSP would keep any intruding recon drones from getting close enough to realize that they were being conned.

But even with the Fleet Train, the repair work was going slowly. Too slowly. He’d sent an urgent request to the Core Worlds for as many mobile repair yards as they could send forward, along with fortress components and additional crew. But he doubted he’d get everything he wanted, or even everything that he absolutely needed. He knew that the Senate would still be reeling from the disaster at Jefferson, and would be looking for someone to blame—him.

But he couldn’t let that affect him, or his decision making, or this war would be over soon—and in a way the Grand Senate assuredly would not like.

“They may need to do more of it,” Marius said after another long pause. “We can’t leave this system without risking overall defeat.”

“So who gets there first with the most wins,” Vaughn said thoughtfully. “In the long run…can Justinian win?”

Marius studied the star chart. “If the other Sector Admirals and governors remain loyal, then no—he can and will be ground into powder once the massed Federation Navy is pointed at him. If not…the Federation could shatter into a myriad of competing powers. In that case, Justinian might win by default.”

“Not a pleasant thought,” Vaughn agreed. “One other point: I would like to deploy Marines to escort the younger officers and crew on Maskirovka. They won’t have any experience of life on a settled world, and may get into real trouble.”

“Babysitting,” Marius said with a nod. “See to it. They won’t like it, but it’s for their own good. I can do without having to search for kidnapped crew—or bailing them out of jail.”

“You could always send in the Marines and break them out of jail,” Vaughn offered.

Marius allowed himself a moment to consider the image before dismissing it with a wave of his hand.

“Come on; it will be fun—and cheap.” Vaughn’s eyes twinkled.

“Be gone, tempter,” Marius said with a laugh. “I have to write the report. If I’m really lucky, it won’t get me summarily demoted when the Senate reads it.”

“They won’t do that, will they?” Vaughn asked. “You got us all out of the trap.”

“Why not?” Marius asked. “Who else do they have to blame?”