Barbarians at the Gates

Chapter Six

Earth-Luna Sphere, Sol System, 4092

“Now hear this,” the intercom blared. “The emergency is now over; I say again, the emergency is now over. Luna Academy will stand down from alert status.”

Roman looked up as the airlock clicked open, allowing them to leave the Safe Lock. For the first hour of the emergency—whatever it was—he’d tried to review his class notes, but afterwards he’d just tried to sleep. There came a time, always, when further cramming was not only useless, but actually harmful. The cadets didn’t need to memorize information—not with the memory implants provided by Luna Academy—and cramming was a sign of panic.

A message flickered into his implant, and he read it, quickly. All fifth-year cadets were to report at once to the Assembly Hall. The polite wording of the message didn’t quite disguise the fact that it was an order in all but name. No cadet with an inch of common sense would disregard the message, or choose to ignore it.

Besides, Roman could count the number of emergency drills—let alone emergencies—that had taken place at Luna Academy on the fingers of one hand. What could they want with him and the other cadets now? Could things have gone so badly that they were needed?

No, that couldn’t be it. The proctors probably just wanted to debrief the cadets before they returned to their studies…no, there were no longer any studies. Professor Kratman’s class had been the last prior to their exams.

He felt a familiar quiver in his chest as he contemplated the coming ordeal. Passing their exams would be difficult enough, but he’d sworn to himself that he would try for a First—a First, a perfect score on the exams and simulations that made up the final tests -- as it would set him on the path for rapid promotion. All Luna Academy graduates were commissioned as lieutenants once they graduated from the Academy, but there was no guarantee the Navy would send them anywhere exciting. A First would give him a certain degree of choice when it came to his initial posting.

Or would they be sent out into service—out to war—without taking the exams? The thought was attractive—and terrifying. What if they were going straight to war?

He was still mulling it over when he walked into the Assembly Hall. Years ago when he’d been a first-year cadet, he had spent hours here learning how to fit into the Navy. And, after he and Raistlin had gone at each other, they had both been disciplined in the Assembly Hall. It was astonishing how much humiliation could be crammed into simply having their misdeeds read in public, before being assigned to scrub toilets with toothbrushes. Now, the only time they saw the Assembly Hall was when they were mustered for inspection or when they listened to a guest lecturer. Some of the talks were interesting, touching on matters that were rarely covered at the Academy, while some were boring and tedious.

As he looked around, he realized that the hall hadn’t been so crowded in years. Every fourth- and fifth-year cadet had been summoned. He caught sight of a few of his classmates and headed over to join them.

“Attention on deck!”

Roman stiffened automatically as the proctor called them to attention. A moment later, he caught sight of Commandant Leon Singh as the commander emerged from the side of the room and moved briskly to the stage. He had never seen the Commandant socially—cadets usually only saw the Commandant if they were about to be expelled from the Academy—and there were no shortages of rumors flying around about him, much less the small knife he wore at his belt. Singh apparently had special dispensation to wear the knife and turban along with his small, neatly-trimmed beard. Like most of the staff, Singh’s file was closed to the prying eyes of students.

“At ease,” the Commandant said flatly. His Federation Standard was neat and precise, but there was a hint of another accent behind his words. “For those of you who haven’t figured it out”—his tone made it clear that he hoped that no cadet that stupid had survived the brutal winnowing of the Academy to date—”the Solar System was attacked. As yet, we do not know by whom, or why. We do know that you—the fifth-years, at least—will be graduating as soon as possible and will be going to war.”

Roman swallowed. Death was a RockRat’s constant companion, one that could strike at any moment. The fragile environments RockRats created in asteroids could be destroyed easily, through carelessness, while it was also easy for enemy ships to blow them apart. He’d known from his earliest days that a single mistake could kill him and his family, yet…he’d never truly faced the prospect of his own mortality. Now…he was going to war?

The prospect left him feeling unprepared, unready. It was tempting to believe that the war would be over before the exams were completed—providing they were even going to hold the exams at all, of course—and he officially graduated, but he knew that that was folly. Whatever had attacked the Federation, whoever they were, probably wasn’t willing to give up that easily.

Suddenly, his worries over whether he would take a First or not seemed trivial.

“Barring unforeseen circumstances, exams will be held as planned, a week from today,” the Commandant continued.

Roman and the other cadets remained silent, but he could tell that a few of them were excited, perhaps hoping they’d not have to sit exams after all. Luna Academy’s exams were brutal.

“I suggest that you all familiarize yourself with the rules and regulations for the exams—don’t just load them into your implant—and follow them to the letter,” Commandant Singh continued. “Ignorance will not be considered an acceptable excuse. Those of you who do have acceptable excuses must have them on file for the Academy Committee in three days. I shouldn’t have to tell you that failing to register any special excuse on time will result in it being disallowed.”

His gaze swept over the assembled cadets. “These exams will determine your future as officers in the Federation Navy. The culmination of five years of work and study is about to begin. Are there any questions?”

A fourth-year Roman barely knew stuck up his hand. “Sir,” he said, when the Commandant acknowledged him, “why are we holding the exams at all under these circumstances?”

A low rustle ran around the chamber, but the Commandant seemed unbothered by the question.

“You are too inexperienced to be called up at once, ideally,” he said, simply. “Besides, we need to show that this attack will not force us to panic and change our schedules.”

Roman wasn’t sure he believed the answer, but he held his tongue.

“Good luck,” the Commandant said. “You are free to approach your tutors should you require help, but don’t waste their time. Dismissed!”

The cadets saluted and headed for the doors. Roman joined them, heading towards Professor Kratman’s study. The professor was the only person he knew who’d fought a battle and survived. And he might know just what had actually happened during the battle over Earth…

In Admiral Marius Drake’s opinion, the Grand Senate Hall was nothing less than a testament to the wealth and power of the Federation. One thousand boxes, each holding a single Senator, were assembled in the massive room, allowing the President to see and recognize anyone who wanted to speak. The boxes were decorated with the red and gold of the Federation’s emblem and the flags of the planets they represented, allowing each Senator to be instantly recognizable. The media, which was ensconced today in the Stranger’s Gallery, far above the Senators, would be able to record everything. Only Earth and Luna could watch live as the Senators pontificated for the benefit of their voters, but no Senator could resist the thought of such a large audience.

Marius sighed. There was far too much work to be done in orbit, but the Grand Senate had insisted he attend the speech—and assigned him to a seat just underneath the President’s box. It was a position of honor, he’d been told, and yet he would have preferred more time to rebuild Earth’s tattered defenses. Who knew when the next attack would begin?

He stood as President David Yang entered to the strains of the Federation’s anthem. The President, elected by Federation-wide popular vote, had almost no power, but he was the public face of the Federation. Yang—a tall, handsome man with short dark hair and faintly Oriental features—had been elected two years ago, and was midway through his current term. If Yang knew that he was nothing more than a figurehead, it wasn’t apparent on his face. But as Marius knew full well, in times of crisis the Head of State had to appear to be in control. The reality of the situation was nowhere near as important, under the circumstances.

“Be seated,” the President said, his words echoing around the chamber. The original designers had ensured that everyone could hear everything said inside the chamber. “A grave crisis is upon us.”

There was a long pause.

“Less than a day ago, the planet Earth was attacked,” Yang informed the Senators. “An atomic weapon was deployed on the surface of Earth, destroying Navy Headquarters and almost decapitating the system defense force. At the same time, a second weapon was used to destroy an orbital fortress, crippling our orbital defenses. After that, an enemy fleet entered the system; not from beyond the Rim, not from an alien species intent on overthrowing our rightful dominance of the galaxy, but from one of our own admirals!”

The crowd remained silent, which was puzzling. Normally, political speeches and press conferences were loud affairs, with questions being shouted from all directions. But now the room was silent.

Then the President leaned forward, his eyes glittering ominously.

“It is my sad duty to report to the Senate—and the Federation at large—that Admiral Justinian has risen in revolt against us,” Yang continued. “Worse yet, his ships came within a hair’s breadth of occupying Earth!”

This time, there was an outpouring of anger from the Senators and even from the media. Someone in the command room must have neutralized the sound barriers, allowing everyone to be heard. The thunderous response threatened to shake the room to its foundations.

Marius watched as Senators, both Conservative and Socialist, shouted their anger and rage. Admiral Justinian’s allies were in grave danger. Glancing around the Senate Hall, he wondered how many of them were in the room, barely aware of the hammer that was about to fall. The smart ones would have boarded their private starships and fled.

But was it really Justinian?

The evidence suggested as much. Home Fleet, as Drake had expected, hadn’t been able to run down the remainder of the enemy fleet, but they had scored a bit of success when the starfighters had caught an enemy cruiser by taking out its drive units. The Marines had stormed the ship—a freak hit had taken out the self-destruct—and managed to take some of the crew alive. Their interrogation hadn’t been gentle, but it had been informative. And it had concluded that Admiral Justinian, Commanding Officer of the Seventh Fleet, was in open rebellion against the Federation.

That wasn’t good news.

Admiral Justinian was known for being a careful tactician and strategist—and, of course, he’d had the sense to back off when it was clear he was losing. Marius had never met Justinian in person—their paths had never converged—but Justinian had a sound reputation throughout the Navy. And yet he’d risen up against the Federation, against the Grand Senate and the Federation Navy. Why?

I’ll have to find out, Marius thought, darkly. He could imagine several reasons, from outright lust for power to a genuine belief that a military government was the only answer to the Federation’s problems. And why were his subordinates following him? What had he promised them? The battle for hearts and minds had only just begun.

“We will not allow this rebellion to go unpunished,” the President thundered, once the noise had dimmed to a dull roar. “We will assemble a fleet to hunt down and destroy the treacherous Justinian, along with anyone who knew of his treachery and supported him in it. We will hunt him down like a dog! His allies on Earth, the traitors who aided him to slip his weapons within the walls of our fortress, will be exposed and killed. We will not allow him to scare us into craven surrender.”

Marius wondered just what the President was going on about. No one had yet mentioned surrender, or even compromising with Justinian, but Marius saw several problems with hunting Justinian down and destroying him. Considering Justinian had risked the attack on Earth in the first place, Seventh Fleet must be completely under his control, or he would never have dared mount the attack for fear of being knifed in the back. And that meant that the Federation Navy would have to break Seventh Fleet, which would require an enormous commitment of firepower…and they were assuming Justinian and his men were all they had to fight.

After all, who knew how many other admirals were thinking about rebellion? Perhaps Justinian had merely been the first to put theory into action.

“And yet, there is one who must be rewarded,” the President said. A spotlight shone down from high overhead, drawing attention to Marius. “The man who took command during our gravest hour of need, who ensured the decisive defeat of the treacherous Justinian, must be recognized. For his services, Vice Admiral Drake is promoted to admiral”—there was an outburst of cheers—”and has been awarded the Federation Star. And, after he has been feted as he deserves, he will be a very important part of the mission to destroy Justinian once and for all!”

This time, the cheering went on and on. Marius held himself ramrod straight as the President left his box—as tradition demanded—and pinned the medal on Marius’ dress tunic. The Federation Star was the highest award in the Federation Navy, and only the President—advised by the Naval Oversight Committee—could award it to a deserving recipient. The holder of the Federation Star was not only granted an additional pension from the Senate, but he had the right to claim a salute from anyone, regardless of rank, who encountered him while wearing the medal. It almost made up for the contempt he’d endured from the Grand Senate.

And besides, he told himself, with the Federation Star on his breast, who could deny him anything?

“And so I made the decision to hold back the remainder of Home Fleet,” Drake concluded. Once the President’s speech was over, and the Prime Minister, the Leader of the Opposition and the Leader of the Independent Movement had made their speeches, he’d been summoned to a smaller room, where he’d found himself facing the Naval Oversight Committee. The committee had briefly congratulated him on his victory, then demanded an immediate account of the entire battle from start to finish. “In my considered judgement, there was no point in attempting a chase.”

“And that is precisely the point we wish to discuss,” Senator Alison Wallisch said. Her nasal voice echoed unpleasantly in the smaller chamber. “It seems to us as if you chose to allow the treacherous bastard to escape.”

Marius held onto his anger with an effort. If Alison had worked a day in her life—at least outside the political field, where everyone around her told her what she wanted to hear all the time—he would have been astonished. It had grown increasingly clear from both meetings that she didn’t understand the realities of naval combat. Bringing the remains of the enemy force to battle would have been impossible, as long as the enemy commander chose to refuse to engage.

“The realities of interplanetary warfare made it impossible to intercept his fleet,” he said evenly. There was no point in losing his temper. “Had I ordered Home Fleet to give pursuit, only the smaller units—the starfighters and the cruisers—could have caught up with the enemy.”

“And you could have caught them,” Senator Hammond pointed out.

“I would not have wished to catch them with smaller units, sir,” Marius said. “The cruisers are designed for convoy escort duties or fast raids into enemy territory. They are not designed to face superdreadnaughts in open combat. Had I sent them against the superdreadnaughts, they would all have been destroyed, without delaying the enemy. The starfighters inflicted some damage, but the enemy force outran Home Fleet’s carriers.”

“This is not a productive line of questioning,” McGillivray said. The Grand Senator winked at Marius before continuing. “The fact of the matter is that Vice Admiral—sorry, Admiral—Drake fought a battle for which he was unprepared, and turned a looming disaster into victory—a victory, I might add, that saved all of our lives. Or do you expect that Admiral Justinian would have spared us, once he took the high orbitals and forced Home Fleet to surrender?”

“I quite agree,” Brockington said. The Leader of the Conservative Faction leaned forward. “Our current priority is defeating Justinian before his example leads others to rebel. A mighty force must be assembled to crush the viper in his den. Admiral, how do you advise we proceed?”

Marius frowned inwardly. Something was going on, something moving just beyond his awareness. The political waters were murky and there were sharks somewhere within the deeps. He pushed the lingering concern aside and concentrated on answering the question. Besides, under Case Omega, he was the senior surviving officer in the system.

“I have not yet had time to conduct more than a brief examination of the possibilities,” he said. That was an exaggeration, for there had been no time to conduct any planning. He was making it up as he went along. “Admiral Justinian may be safely assumed to have the remainder of Seventh Fleet and the system defense forces in his sector. He may have allies from the other fleets, or links with Outsiders and rebel factions. Therefore, I believe that we should activate the Naval Reserve and use it to reinforce Home Fleet, which will allow us to dispatch a force superior to Seventh Fleet and occupy his shipyards and industrial nodes. This may bring him to battle, if he is prepared to offer it.”

It was basic military strategy, a mixture of generalities and very few specifics. Even so, he knew it should impress them, while the remainder of the planning could be done at Luna HQ. He’d already given orders for the back-up facilities—shut down for funding concerns—to be reactivated and staffed as soon as possible.

He looked up and wanted to scowl, but kept his expression carefully blank. It was obvious that the Senators were exchanging messages through their implants again.

“We thank you for your suggestions,” Alison said slowly. “We will put them into effect as soon as possible. There is, however, another pressing concern. You usurped command under Case Omega.”

Marius stared at her. That was a problem? “Senator, I…”

“Admiral Cuthbert Parkinson was the superior officer in the Sol System,” Alison said with cold dispassion. Marius did a brief search through his implants. Admiral Parkinson’s military career had been undistinguished, with nothing to explain his rapid promotion—nothing in the files, at least. And if he had been senior officer after Navy HQ was destroyed, why hadn’t he identified himself? “You took his rightful command.”

“Admiral Parkinson failed to identify himself to the command network,” Marius said as calmly as he could. Reading between the lines, Parkinson’s file fairly screamed political appointee. “I was unaware that he was alive. Time was short, and I had to take command as no one else appeared to be interested in doing so.”

“And we forgive that transgression,” Alison said. She smiled sweetly. “However, as senior officer, Admiral Parkinson will command the Retribution Force. You will serve as his subordinate.”

“Yes, Senator,” Marius said tightly. It took everything he had to keep his voice level. He couldn’t resist a sardonic comment. “I understand and I will obey.”