Barbarians at the Gates

Chapter Twenty

Earth, Sol System, 4092

It would have surprised many of the residents of Earth—particularly the poor unfortunates who spent their entire lives in the cities that housed hundreds of millions of human beings—that there were parts of the planet that had returned to an almost pristine state. The Federation hadn’t shared its predecessor’s obsession over preserving the planet’s ecosystem, but it had encouraged the development of off-planet industry and the transfer of as much manufacturing capability into orbit as possible. The development of fusion power, solar power satellites and other systems had reduced—and eventually eliminated—most of the sources of pollution that had so bedevilled earlier generations. As more and more people left the planet, or crowded into the growing network of interconnected cities, the planet had started to recover. Large portions of entire continents were slowly returning to a more natural state.

The citizens rarely saw any of it. The ones who managed to obtain a fairly good education and better themselves tended to emigrate, often finding work as contract labor, although their descendents might find citizenship on a colony world.

There were always rumors about tribes living in the wilderness, unaware or uncaring of the modern world, but no one took them seriously. Grand Senator Rupert McGillivray would have liked the rumors to be true, if only because they showed the indomitable nature of the human soul. No other race had achieved so much in so short a period of time.

He smiled as the first aircar—escorted by hovering gunships and private troops—settled down on the landing pad at the front of his mansion. Like almost all of the Senators, and all of the Senators who were part of the network of families that made up the Federation’s political elite, he lived in the countryside, inhabiting a mansion that had been in his family for generations. The Senate Hall was the public place for debates, but the mansions had always served as the place for private deal-making, all the more so now when a political catfight between the Conservatives and the Socialists could spectacularly shift the balance of power. The two visiting him today who would eat his food and drink his wine would hate the thought of being beholden to the remains of the Imperialist Faction, but they had little choice. Admiral Justinian had knocked down far too many old certainties.

The second aircar floated in from the opposite direction, forcing his house’s traffic control system to concentrate on keeping the two escorting forces separate. In these troubled times, Rupert wasn’t surprised that they both had heavy escorts, yet doing so ran the risk of an argument turning into an actual battle. Perhaps they were intent on demonstrating their power in the hope that they wouldn’t have to use it. There was nothing more worrying than a terrified member of the political elite.

He keyed the badge he used as a private terminal.

“Escort our guests to the Blue Room,” he ordered as he turned and left his private room. “I will be along shortly.”

Generations of his family had added their own improvements to the mansion. Examples of alien artwork—the loot of humanity’s conquests—littered the walls, joined by hundreds of paintings that had been liberated from various art museums and storage vaults centuries ago. Some of them were believed lost by the remainder of the human race—for example, a painting of the Battle of Pearl Harbor that hung on his wall from when Chinese forces had stormed the American base in the opening days of World War Three had been reported destroyed after San Diego was decimated by a nuclear bomb—while others were held in trust for the day they would be returned to humanity.

He padded down the long corridor, shaking his head. Very few people on Earth, outside of people attending universities and of course the historians, knew there had once been nations called America or China. These days, when people thought of Americans, they thought of the American-ethnic planets that were part of the Core Worlds.

The Blue Room had been designed for conferences and was outfitted with the most sophisticated counter-surveillance tools known to the Federation. It was comfortable, rather than formal, with a small drinks dispenser and adjustable chairs, along with a processor that could connect to every database on Earth. Rupert took his seat and settled back, waiting for his household staff to escort the guests into the room. Their allies—the supporters and aides they’d brought to the meeting—would be placed elsewhere. The real meeting would take place here.

He stood up as Grand Senator The Honorable Carlton Brockington, Leader of the Conservative Faction, was escorted into the room. Brockington looked tired and worn. The shock of hearing about the defeat at Jefferson, much less the later battle at Boskone, had taken a toll on the Conservative Faction. Allegiances were being redrawn under the table, suggesting that Brockington might find himself replaced if the war continued to go badly. Grand Senator Alison Wallisch, Leader of the Socialist Faction, looked altogether more confident. She cast a nasty look at Rupert as she entered, reminding him that she—at least—hadn’t forgotten how the Socialist Faction had been pushed into supporting the Blue Star War. The prospect of yet another alien race to civilize had proved too tempting to resist.

“Thank you for coming,” Rupert said once the doors had closed. He had no doubts about the loyalty of his household staff, but the other two would be aware that his staff worked for him. “It is my pleasure to allow you to use my humble home for your talks.”

Brockington scowled at him. He knew when he was being mocked.

The shifting political scene might not resurrect the Imperialist Faction, but Rupert controlled a handful of votes. They could be decisive if the two main factions fell out. Perversely, despite being the weakest of the three, Rupert knew that he was in the strongest position. He might not be able to win on his own, but he could determine who won—or lost.

“We need to consider the current situation,” Brockington said after a long pause. “Parkinson failed us. The grand march to victory he promised turned into a disaster. The media…has been tearing away at our failure to secure the victory we guaranteed.”

Rupert concealed a smile. The Senators controlled around a third of Earth’s media, but the system of checks and balances the original writers of the Federation Constitution had worked into the system prevented them from controlling all of it. And that didn’t include the independent media outlets off-planet; the Core Worlds would resist any attempt to slap controls on their media, threatening the position of their elected representatives. The net result, now that Admiral Justinian hadn’t been squashed flat, had been the media turning on the Senate. Someone in whatever was left of Navy HQ had leaked the records of the battle and retired admirals had been happy to comment on Parkinson’s many failings as a tactician, feeding the panic. Earth’s citizens hadn’t had to feel fear since the First Interstellar War. Now, after the attack on Earth itself, they were fearful and turning on the Senate.

“They’ve actually been demanding that we put Admiral Drake in charge,” Alison said. “For all I know, he’s the one who might have leaked the recordings to the media.”

“I very much doubt it,” Rupert pointed out mildly. “Admiral Drake has ordered the media out of the Boskone System, citing concerns about revealing too much information to the enemy.”

“A clear abuse of his authority,” Alison snapped.

Rupert thought about pointing out the hypocrisy in that statement—the Socialist Faction wanted to control the media completely, believing that the less the public knew, the happier they’d be—but declined the opportunity to score a point. Instead, he focused on the issue at hand.

“Admiral Drake has also given us a victory—both victories,” he said. “And then he managed to extract most of the Retribution Force from Jefferson after it was ambushed. I submit to you that we cannot afford to lose him. We have to use him.”

Alison snorted.

“And what happens if he turns his coat and goes over to Justinian, or sets up on his own? We are talking about giving him enough firepower to wreck several planets…”

“More like entire star clusters,” Rupert said. “A single destroyer could wreck a planet or two if they weren’t defended.”

“The fact remains that he could turn on us,” Brockington said. “He may be from Mars, but his family is not well-connected. They are certainly not connected to the Senate.”

“We could find him a wife,” Alison said slowly. “There are quite a few possible candidates for a marriage which would tie him to us by blood. There isn’t even any reason why it has to be immediate. We could hold out the promise to him and delay things until Justinian is defeated—and then cancel the arrangements, if necessary.”

“I have asked my researchers to draw up an extensive psychological file on Admiral Drake,” Rupert said with a smile. He’d also spoken to Professor Kratman and some of his other allies, although that wasn’t something he was about to mention in this company. “Their conclusions were quite encouraging.”

He had their undivided attention.

“Marius Drake is a believer in the Federation; in duty, honor, loyalty…all the military virtues,” Rupert continued. “His desperation to convince us to release additional units to the Rim didn’t come from an urge to challenge us, or to encourage his own relief, but from a determination to protect the colonies from pirates and Outsiders. Drake may not be loyal to any of us, not personally, but he is loyal to the Federation—and we are the embodiment of the Federation. I believe we can count on him.

“He could have gone rogue along the Rim, or joined Admiral Justinian, or even led his ruined fleet to a different sector and set up as an independent warlord,” he pointed out when they looked unconvinced. “Instead, he chose to make his stand and hold Admiral Justinian. That is not the record of a traitor, but of a very loyal man.”

“We can use him,” Alison agreed.

“The fact remains,” Brockington growled, “that he isn’t one of us. Even if we arrange him a marriage to one of our daughters, he won’t be part of High Society.”

“We could always put in another formal commander and inform him that he is to consider himself subordinate to Admiral Drake, whatever the chain of command might say,” Alison said thoughtfully. “That would save us having to acknowledge that we owe him, at least publicly.”

“I’m afraid that won’t work.” Rupert shook his head. “In fact, it would be asking for trouble.”

“And why would that be the case?” Alison rounded on him.

“Let’s face facts, shall we?” Rupert asked. “The bonds of loyalty that held the Federation Navy together are snapping. Admiral Justinian was merely the first to attempt to seize supreme power for himself. There are at least a dozen other admirals—or Sector Governors—who might launch their own bids for power. They’re currently sitting on the fence, waiting to see what we do.

“Now tell me: how do you think they’d react when we keep replacing the one man who has bought us victories?” He smiled at their disgusted expressions. “We will be telling them that whatever grounds we use for promoting people, they don’t include either loyalty or competence. The ones who don’t have serious political connections will be wondering if they will be made to carry the can for failures or disasters caused by other people. The ones who are ambitious will start thinking how they can accomplish their aims without us, if we don’t help them. We have to send them a message—and that message has to be that we will reward loyalty, and success. Or we may as well decide that we’re going to lose most of the Federation.”

The Socialist and the Conservative looked at each other.

“Very well,” Brockington said, finally. “We will recognize Admiral Drake as he deserves.”

Rupert nodded.

“And we also have to listen to his recommendations. You saw the report he sent back to Earth. We have to honor it as much as possible.”

“He’s asking for huge monetary expenditure at precisely the time we need to reduce spending,” Brockington pointed out. “We cannot afford a new program of military construction.”

“And you think that Admiral Justinian cannot afford it?” Alison demanded. “We increase the taxes on the industrialists—call it an emergency raise in taxation, to be repealed after the war—and use it to fund the program. We’re fighting for them as well as ourselves.”

Rupert smiled as they started arguing again. Brockington was opposed to all increases in taxation on principle, if only because the industrialists provided much of his Faction’s backing. The Socialists, on the other hand, had wanted to hit the industrialists with higher tax rates for centuries. Brockington’s supporters would not be happy, not the least because there was no guarantee that the Socialists wouldn’t insist on keeping the higher tax rates after the war was over. If the Socialists used the wedge they’d been given and forced through higher taxes—and penalties, and regulations—they could cripple the economy. Worst of all, they’d be using the money they gained to buy votes by distributing government largesse into the Core Worlds, ensuring that they couldn’t be easily removed from power. The results would not be pleasant.

“With very strict limits,” Brockington said unhappily. “And we end the war as quickly as possible.”

“That may take years,” Rupert said flatly. “Admiral Drake was clear on that. We have to rebuild, train new people and produce an entire new fleet. And then we have to smash our way to Harmony and crush Admiral Justinian in his lair. All of that assumes that Admiral Justinian is the only one we have to deal with. If another admiral turns rogue, we could be looking at a nasty civil war that will last for decades.”

“And put far too much military power in the hands of Admiral Drake,” Alison observed. “There should be checks and balances.”

“Interfering with his command could cause a disaster,” Rupert reminded her. It was a point he had to keep repeating. The Senators had been absolute masters of the Federation for so long that they had problems realizing that might have changed. “We either trust him or we don’t. There isn’t a middle ground.”

“Right,” Brockington said. “We trust him—and we take a few precautions. My cousin’s youngest son is going to be promoted; right, we will promote him to commander and assign him as Admiral Drake’s aide. A Fleet Admiral needs an aide and that aide has to be well-connected himself, so he won’t be able to argue. And when the time comes that Admiral Drake is no longer needed…”

He allowed his voice to trail off suggestively.

No one bothered to argue.

The banquet following the second round of meetings—when the decisions taken by the leaders were hammered out into formal proposals that would be presented to the Senate—was as elegant as Rupert could make it. His servants served a luxurious meal coupled with the finest wines from across the Federation. He allowed himself a second glass of Brigadoon Whiskey as he contemplated his success. The other two didn’t realize it, as their Factions were currently occupied in sorting out the contracts for the new wave of military construction, all of which promised vast opportunities to skim from the government funds in all manner of barely-legal ways, but he’d gotten everything he wanted.

He turned back to the table and smiled as the desserts were finally served. His maids, like the maids in all of the other mansions, wore skimpy uniforms and bracelets that marked their status as brain-burned criminals. The brain-burned—a punishment reserved only for the very worst of criminals—had no rights, but using them as personal servants was illegal. Not that it really mattered; for High Society, laws were something that happened to other people. The brain-burned made ideal servants. as they did what they were told, without question, and never betrayed their masters.

It would have really upset his visitors, particularly the half-drunk youngster who was playing with one of his maids, to know that they weren’t brain-burned at all. It was astonishing what someone would say in front of someone they knew couldn’t understand them. The level of intelligence Rupert gathered was remarkable.

The maid put a plate of cheese and biscuits in front of him and he ate it slowly, considering his next move. So far, everything was going entirely to plan. All of the variables had been successfully predicted and countered. So far, he reminded himself; ultimate success was not guaranteed. Nothing was ever guaranteed in life.

Still, the Brotherhood would be pleased.

From: The Chaos Years (5023)

As we have seen in preceding chapters, unnoticed by most of its citizens, the Federation’s moral authority was declining rapidly in the period following the Blue Star War. The social glue that held the Federation together was crumbling, creating an unrecognized state where corruption and ambition went hand-in-hand to shake the Federation to its foundations. Admiral Justinian was merely the first admiral to turn into an independent warlord; the Federation’s failure to crush him quickly meant that others would be tempted to try their luck. The Senate—nervous about its grip on power—only made matters worse. Admirals and governors who might have sat on the fence saw the Senate’s desperate attempts to shore up its power as a threat, one that might consume even the loyal.

So it was that the three years following the Battle of Boskone—and the stalemate between the loyalists and Admiral Justinian that resulted—saw the Federation stumble from crisis to crisis. No less than seven Sector Governors and nine admirals declared independence, or attempted to turn their sectors into autonomous regions within the Federation. Two went rogue and turned their fleets into pirate forces, or headed out beyond the Rim to set up pocket kingdoms of their own. The chaos kept spreading. No one was safe.

It was Admiral Lafarge who has been commonly credited with posing the worst threat to the Core Worlds. Lafarge, commander of a sector far too close to the Core Worlds for comfort, risked a drive on Earth, convinced that the Senate intended to recall and murder him. (No amount of historical research has provided convincing evidence that this belief was actually well-founded.) His incursion, destroyed by Home Fleet in the brief and bitter Battle of Terra Nova, only provided the impetus to the Senate to proceed with its plans for internal security—even at the cost of alienating other potential allies.

An outsider, looking at the Federation from a mythical objective vantage point, would have wondered if the edifice was going to collapse within years, perhaps months. Rogue and rebel admirals, Outsider raids and even rebellions on hundreds of human and alien worlds threatened its integrity. Had the Federation’s many enemies succeeded in working together, its defeat and dismemberment would have been a certainty.

And so it was that Admiral Drake, now promoted to Fleet Admiral, set plans in motion to keep its enemies off-balance and suspicious of one another. It was the only hope of savaging something of the Federation from disaster.