Barbarians at the Gates (52 page)

“Please stay,” Henrietta said. She sounded lonely. “I just want to talk, I promise.”

Roman hesitated, then sat down again.

* * *

The fleet passed through the Wanaka System without incident and made transit into the Farnham System. The settlers there hadn’t wanted more than an agricultural economy, and had been reluctant to sell mining rights to their gas giants to anyone. The Federation Senate had ended the issue—after a great deal of pressure from a couple of interstellar corporations—by rewriting the law to allow the corporations to set up mining cloudscoops without permission. The local settlers had retaliated by refusing to provide any rest and relaxation for the mining engineers, so the system had rapidly become known as a hardship posting for mining crews.

Because the system had been cut off by the rebellion, ONI had no hard evidence on what might be taking place in the Farnham System. It was something of a relief for Admiral Drake to discover that the mining stations had been shut down, at least temporarily. But Marius hadn’t been inclined to take anything for granted, so he’d dispatched a squadron of destroyers to check out the mining stations.

“The Marines confirm that the bases have been placed on standby and abandoned,” Raistlin reported. “There are no signs that anyone has visited the stations since the shutdown.”

“Good,” Marius told him. He studied the display, wondering if Admiral Justinian had placed a single starship within the system. The Grand Fleet was cloaked, but the turbulence caused by the fleet’s maneuvers would probably be detected, cloak or no cloak. “Recall the squadron, then tell the fleet to resume course for the mass limit. We need to keep moving before some unhelpful bastard picks us up and blows the whistle.”

“Aye, sir,” Raistlin said.

He settled back into his command chair and allowed himself a droll smile. Unless they’d missed something, the Grand Fleet’s passage had been undetected and the back door was wide open. All that remained was to kick the door down as hard as possible and keep moving. If they were lucky, they’d get halfway to Jefferson before Justinian even realized they were coming.

“And get me Captain Garibaldi,” Marius added. “I want to discuss opportunities for us in the Sphinx System.”

“Yes, sir,” Raistlin said. He paused, considering. “Do you wish him to report onboard
Magnificent
?”

“No,” Marius said. Convention dictated that the junior officer visited the senior, but convention could go hang. And even though it was an aide’s job to keep reminding his admiral about protocol, Marius didn’t want to hear it. “I will settle for electronic transmission. Make sure that it is a secure link. We don’t want just anyone listening in.”

The problem of interstellar communications has vexed humanity—and every other known race—since humanity first discovered the Asimov Points. Where there is a chain of Asimov Points from sender to receiver, it can take hours—or days—to send a message over hundreds of light years. Where there is a gap in the chain, it can delay the message by weeks or months. As can be imagined, this communications delay adds a certain amount of confusion to military operations...

-
An Irreverent Guide to the Federation,
4000 A.D.

Jefferson System/Bester System, 4097

“The intelligence is remarkably precise,” Admiral Justinian said, “and that worries me. How do we know that it isn’t a trick?”

Caitlin considered the question seriously. The admiral had spent years building up an intelligence network on Earth—everyone who was anyone or wanted to be someone had their own intelligence network—but the Senate’s hasty counter-measures had wiped out most of his better-informed sources, along with hundreds of people whose only crime had been annoying one of the Senators charged with overseeing the purge. His few remaining sources had chosen to remain in deep cover and were very careful what they forwarded to the admiral.

She sighed. Like most governments, the Senate had shown a much more dangerous side of itself when its power was genuinely threatened. Their reign of terror, as unpleasant as it had been, had definitely produced results.

“You must admit that it holds up under scrutiny,” she pointed out after a long pause. “They only have two choices if they want to win within the year: reinforce Boskone to the maximum possible extent and attack from there, or push their ships through hostile space.”

“And take us up the backside,” Justinian agreed.

He stared up at the holographic display, studying the twin icons representing Marx and The Hive. Tactical icons orbited the two stars, the data already out of date. And yet, he was still more informed than the Grand Senate—or Admiral Drake. Admiral Justinian’s one advantage over the Federation was faster communications, and he used it ruthlessly.

“If you were in command of the fleet, Caitlin, which way would you go?”

“Marx,” Caitlin said automatically.

Justinian gave her a questioning look.

“It doesn’t matter how they look at it,” she explained. “A direct assault into a defended Asimov Point is going to bleed them white. It might cost them dearly enough to allow us to launch a counter-attack. If possible, they will seek to avoid such an offensive.”

Justinian bowed his head in thought.

“I cannot disagree with your logic,” he said after a long beat. “Look.”

He keyed the console and the holographic chart zoomed out. Admiral Justinian’s space was centered on Jefferson, the star that served as the terminus for nine Asimov Chains. Harmony, his capital, was at the end of one Asimov Point, but the others led to other parts of his empire, each one a nightmare to secure. The admiral had used most of his resources to build new starships rather than fortresses, and he hadn’t paid anything like as much attention to the Marx Chain as he should have.

In hindsight, Caitlin knew they should have been more concerned with blocking access to The Hive.

“If we send ships to Marx, they will be out of position if the enemy does try to mount an assault from Boskone,” he said.

Caitlin nodded impatiently. Justinian liked to outline and expound upon his thoughts, but she found it a little tiring.

“If we ignore the threat from Marx,” Justinian went on, “we face the risk of a powerful enemy force getting loose in our rear. How many worlds would dearly love to switch sides if the Senate gave them the opportunity?”

Caitlin scowled. Admiral Justinian had repealed most of the Federation Law that colonists and settlers saw as an imposition by grey men thousands of light years away, but he hadn’t put anything in its place. His rule was a military rule, and while a starship could be commanded by a draconian man, it wasn’t so easy to command an entire economy in the same fashion.

It hadn’t helped that he’d been diverting all his resources into building up his war fleet, which had caused shortages for the remainder of his empire. Planetary governments were going along with him, for now, but she had no illusions. Their professed loyalty would last until the Federation offered them a viable alternative.

Justinian pressed the point.

“Seriously, Caitlin—how many do you think would defect, given the chance?”

“Too many,” she said. “Maybe if we moved our ships to here—” she tapped the icon representing Samovar, a dull world orbiting a dim red star “—and held them in position? If there is a threat from Marx, we’ll know about it in time for the fleet to take up defensive positions and block the Asimov Point. If the enemy does intend to punch through from Boskone, we can move the fleet back to reinforce the defenses...”

“Workable,” Admiral Justinian agreed. He looked over at her. “And yet, something tells me that there’s something we have missed.”

Caitlin studied the display for a long moment. “And what might that be?”

“If I knew, I wouldn’t have missed it,” Justinian told her sarcastically.

She recognized the stress in his voice and refrained from saying anything.

“Cut the operations orders and move the fleet into Samovar, but order them to remain near the origin Asimov Point,” the admiral ordered. “We may as well hedge our bets as much as possible.

“Aye, sir,” Caitlin said. She grinned at him. “We will certainly receive warning before the enemy starts crossing the gulf between The Hive and Marx.”

“Let’s hope so,” Justinian said with a scowl. “My enemy is devious. I miss Admiral Parkinson. Perhaps I should have thought of that before I killed him.”

“Doubtless,” Caitlin agreed dryly. “At least we can be sure that Hartkopf won’t allow them to transit the Bester System.”

“You can always count on a weasel to weasel,” Justinian reminded her. “I trust Hartkopf about as far as I can pick up and throw an entire superdreadnaught.”

* * *

Colonel Scudder allowed himself a moment to study the governor’s private compartment, and then snapped his fingers for two of his men. When they arrived, he gave them orders to clear out everything in the compartment and to have it fumigated before anyone else tried to move into the section. He had no way of knowing just what Hartkopf had been doing in his private compartment, but the cushions, the filthy paintings and the vast array of expensive liqueurs suggested a number of possible answers. Hartkopf’s tastes, it seemed, ran towards the gross rather than the subtle.

To a man like Scudder, who had deliberately cultivated his thin and pinched appearance, complete with a sallow face and pale complexion, it was disgraceful. A Sector Governor should have more dignity instead of playing the sybarite while plotting rebellion.

He marched up to the fortress’s command center in a vile mood, which wasn’t lessened by the discovery that Hartkopf’s body—along with some of his most trusted subordinates—had vanished after he was assassinated. The people who might have known what had happened to the body had also vanished, although it seemed that they might have been killed in the fighting that had torn the system apart before the Grand Fleet arrived to restore order. He checked the list of remaining prisoners, compared them to the lists he’d been given before he’d left Earth, and allowed himself a relieved smile. His orders from the Senate had been clear and unambiguous. There would be rewards for those who followed orders, but those who disobeyed—even if they couldn’t carry out the orders—would regret it.

The Senate wouldn’t thank him for being insufficiently thorough when it came to reclaiming the system for the Federation. He knew that his superiors had their own business interests in the sector, which would only be boosted by control of Bester, and he intended to present them with a tamed planet.

“Ship the senior prisoners to the barge,” he ordered when he’d finished skimming the list. It hardly mattered that not all of the senior prisoners were on the proscribed list. “I want them well away from the planet’s surface.”

The young lieutenant turned from the console. “Sir, the admiral specifically ordered that the prisoners were to be held...”

Scudder cut him off sharply. “Does the admiral outrank the Senate?” he demanded angrily. “I have instructions to secure and pacify this system, and that is what I will do. If you have a problem with that, place yourself under arrest. One of your subordinates will have your posting...”

“No, sir,” the lieutenant said. He turned back to his console and started to issue orders, doubtless aware of Scudder’s eyes drilling into his ramrod-straight back.

Scudder had no idea how the lieutenant been assigned to Internal Security, an organization where following orders, no matter how insane or absurd, was highly commended. Perhaps the youngster had highly-placed relatives who had secured him an easy position, although nothing Scudder did was ever
easy
, or safe. Whatever else could be said of him, he was no coward; he led his men from the front, shared their rations and ensured that few questions were asked about their conduct while on leave.

“The marshals want you to know that the prisoners are protesting...” the lieutenant started.

“Tell them to apply the treatment we applied to those protesters on Mars if they keep it up,” Scudder ordered. Back then, he’d led his men, wearing full combat armor and carrying shock-rods and stunners, against men and women who might as well have been naked. The result had been a bloody end to the protest. “I want them all on the barge yesterday, if not sooner.”

He turned away from the lieutenant and stared down at the tactical display showing Bester and the orbital defenses surrounding the planet. His men had relieved the Marines who’d taken and secured the facilities, and promptly shipped the junior prisoners down to the planet’s surface. The senior prisoners were still on the station, but it wouldn’t be long before they, too, were transferred to the barge. In the meantime, his forces would occupy the planet’s vital locations and purge the government of all undesirable elements.

The Colonel was still contemplating this happy thought when he received a call from the barge.

“Colonel, all of the senior prisoners are aboard,” the officer in charge reported. “I’m afraid that many of their family members insisted on accompanying them.”

“No matter,” Scudder said. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

He shrugged. The Senate’s orders were clear, regardless of what the admiral had said. If they gave amnesty to snakes like the men who had betrayed their sworn oaths, they would just rise up again and launch a second coup. He knew how to deal with them, and the Senate’s orders overrode the admiral’s instructions. Besides, the Grand Fleet was already on its way towards its target. Whatever minor tactical considerations were involved, the battles would be over by the time the news of what Scudder had done reached Admiral Drake.