The Shadow of Cincinnatus (40 page)

Elf will organize it
, he thought, as he turned his attention back to the enemy fleet. Whoever was in charge had managed to re-orient his fleet far too quickly for Roman’s peace of mind, then set course for the edge of the gravity limit. He’d make it too, Roman suspected, although the Federation Navy would harry his ships until they dropped into stardrive and vanished. The more ships that were destroyed here, the fewer he would have to destroy later on.

“Continue the advance,” he ordered. “And concentrate on crippling as many ships as possible.”

A report from Point Delta popped up in his display and he frowned. The enemy battlecruiser, free of the need to stick with the fleet, had made it to the point and passed through at high speed. Her crew would be vomiting on the deck, Roman knew, but it was worth it. They’d made their escape before the Federation Navy could do more than fire a few ineffective shots at them.

And they’ll warn their fellows that we won the battle
, he thought.
And how will the Outsiders react to that
?

He considered it for a moment, then pushed the thought aside. His starfighters were closing in on the enemy ships, savaging their defenses as the next wave of missiles advanced towards them with deadly intent. It would be enough, Roman was sure, to give them a very hard time indeed. And even if it wasn’t...

A wave of enemy missiles came back at his ships, only to be picked off almost at once by the gunboats. Their rate of fire had slacked noticeably, Roman saw; they’d probably started to shoot themselves dry. The Federation Navy was all too aware of just how easy it was to run out of missiles, even with an entire fleet of superdreadnaughts. Logistics, as always, were far more important than mere tactics. Hell, he was on the verge of shooting himself dry too. And that raised new problems.

“Halt the pursuit as soon as we reach ten percent of our weapons load,” he ordered, sourly. He disliked the idea of abandoning the chance to hammer the enemy as much as possible, but running out of missiles would be disastrous, if the Outsiders managed to launch another attack before he’d reloaded his ships. “And then take us back to Point Delta.”

“Aye, sir,” Lieutenant Thompson said.

* * *

“General,” Lieutenant Juneau said. “We’re about to fire our last rounds.”

Charlie gritted his teeth. The energy weapons were effectively unlimited, but they couldn’t reverse course and enter energy range without ensuring their destruction. There was no sign the Federation ships had run out of missiles – at least, they were firing them off with abandon – and he didn’t dare take the risk of a knife-range duel that could go either way. He could cripple the Federation’s fleet, but the Federation could rebuild faster than the Outsiders, even if it couldn’t match their technology. The only way out was to keep going and hope he could repair and reload his fleet before Admiral Garibaldi capitalized on his victory.

“Sir,” Lieutenant Juneau said. “The Federation ships are falling back.”

Charlie frowned. The Federation ships had reduced speed sharply, ceasing fire and recalling their starfighters. For a moment, he wondered if it was a trick, an attempt to lure his ships back for the kill. But as the distances grew longer, he realized they were – for some reason – being allowed to depart without further interference.

“Take us out of here as soon as we cross the line,” he ordered, quietly. “And then get me a complete report on the fleet’s status, estimated repair time and everything else we might need.”

He wouldn’t keep his job, he was sure. No matter how well he’d served in the past, his career would never survive a defeat on such a scale. And nor should it. The Federation had sometimes kept admirals on active duty who had more political connections than they had brain cells, but it had always regretted it. There was no way the Outsiders would make the same mistake. A minor failure was a learning experience; a major failure could not be overlooked.

“We’ll enter FTL in ten minutes,” Lieutenant Juneau reported. “Sir, several of the fleet’s vessels are unable to activate their stardrives.”

“Ship their crews over to working ships, then scuttle them,” Charlie ordered, tiredly. At least the Federation Navy was unlikely to intervene. “There’s nothing else we can do.”

Ten minutes later, it was all over.

* * *

“They purged their computer databases,” Elf said, four hours after the remains of the enemy fleet had vanished into FTL. “But we recovered several thousand crewmen. One of them, I suspect, will talk.”

Roman smiled as she sat down next to him. “And Admiral Ness?”

Elf had to bite down a very unmilitary giggle. “He was composing a long statement for the emperor on how the defeat was all your fault and claiming that you refused to listen to his properly cautious advice.”

It took Roman a moment to put it together. “He was predicting our defeat?”

“Yup,” Elf said. “And he held a destroyer at Point Beta, so he could get his ass out of the system if Fifth Fleet was smashed by the Outsiders. What a charming asshole.”

“What a pity he didn’t send the report before we won,” Roman mused. Emperor Marius wouldn’t be too pleased to receive a report claiming a victorious battle was actually a defeat, particularly once Roman’s official report arrived. “I dare say we can give him command of some of our prizes and send them back to Earth, along with a proper report. That should get rid of him, if nothing else.”

“True,” Elf said. She paused. “I believe the governor was making noises about a party on Boston, Roman. Do you want to attend?”

Roman shook his head, quickly. “I think not,” he said. “There’s no shortage of matters to attend to now, I’m afraid.”

“You need the rest,” Elf said. “Your subordinates can handle the repair and reloading efforts.”

“But a party on the surface would be no rest at all,” Roman said. “I’d sooner sleep here.”

“Then
sleep
,” Elf said. “Or should I knock you out to make sure you actually rest?”

But the aftermath of victory can be sometimes worse than defeat.

-The Federation Navy in Retrospect, 4199

Earth, 4100

“I wasn’t expecting to see you here, professor,” Grand Senator –
former
Grand Senator – Rupert McGillivray said.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you here at all,” Kratman answered, dryly. The other Grand Senatorial mansions had been closed down, with the intention of turning them into museums when peace returned to the galaxy. “Why are you still here?”

“The emperor didn’t evict me from my home,” McGillivray said. “I think he knew about my connections.”

Professor Kratman nodded as he sat down. Grand Senator Rupert McGillivray had been the last of the Imperialist Faction, the only one to remain in the Grand Senate after the Blue Star War. It was an open secret, now, that he’d only kept his place through his Brotherhood connections and his value as a mediator. And, of all the Grand Senatorial Families, he was the only senior member not to be dead or exiled to a penal world. That, too, had come as a result of his Brotherhood connections.

“I think he also considered you harmless,” Kratman said, as McGillivray showed him into the sitting room. It was – unsurprisingly – luxurious, the walls covered with paintings of the great heroes of the past, but there was dust everywhere, save for a pair of comfortable chairs. “Can’t you get the help these days?”

“The emperor banned the practice of turning criminals into slaves,” McGillivray said. He clicked on a kettle, then readied two mugs of coffee grains and milk. It had once been vanishingly rare to see a Grand Senator do any form of menial labor. “I don’t know if he suspected something or if he merely hated the whole procedure on principle, but I’ve practically been left alone in my house.”

Kratman shrugged. Turning criminals and rebels into slaves had suited the Grand Senate just fine – and it had also suited the Brotherhood, who had sometimes used implanted slaves as spies. McGillivray had owned hundreds of them, all with varying degrees of independence, who watched the guests they served with unblinking eyes. But now they were gone. The only implanted slaves left on Earth, at least officially, were those who served Lady Tiffany.

“Fewer mouths to feed,” Kratman said. He watched as McGillivray poured coffee for them both, then added a generous slug of whiskey. “And fewer watching eyes.”

“True,” McGillivray agreed. He stirred the mugs, then passed one of them to Kratman. “It is nice to see you again, professor, but something tells me this isn’t a social call.”

He sat down, holding his mug in his hands. “What can I do for you?”

Kratman took a moment to study McGillivray. Like many of the Grand Senators, his physical appearance suggested he was roughly forty, but in truth he was well over a hundred and fifty years old. Now, his hair was finally starting to grey, either because he’d chosen to forgo further regeneration treatments or because he simply couldn’t afford them. McGillivray had never been wealthy, at least not compared to the other Grand Senators, and he no longer had a faction to call his own. It was quite possible that he was coming to the end of the line.

“I assume you’ve been watching the world go by,” he said, carefully. McGillivray might have been retired, but he could still draw on reports from the Brotherhood. “What do you think is going to happen to us?”

“I think we’re going to have a rough time of it,” McGillivray said. He took a sip of his coffee, then leaned forward. “The riots have yet to be brought under control.”

Kratman nodded. The first set of rioters had been squashed, hundreds of thousands of students rounded up and marked for exile, but it had come at a price. Many of their parents objected to seeing their children manhandled, let alone sent away from Earth, never to return. There were just too many to be handled roughly themselves, while they tended to include the most productive sectors of Earth’s economy. Their objections could not be ignored.

And, in the meantime, other riots had started to spring up.

The emperor was starting to see conspiracies everywhere, Kratman knew, but he might well have a point. Someone was coordinating the riots, making them spring up and do some considerable damage before the security forces responded, then encouraging the rioters to melt away into the background when the security forces finally arrived. The ones stupid enough to stay and try to fight had been captured and interrogated, but all they’d been able to say was that they’d received orders from people who had kept their faces hidden. It hadn’t been enough to help the security forces track down the ringleaders.

“That’s one problem,” Kratman agreed. “And the second would be our infrastructure. The disaster on AMP Thirty proved that, I think.”

“True,” McGillivray said. His eyes narrowed as he considered the possibilities. “Unless it
was
sabotage. Professor. Antimatter production plants are known for endless safety requirements”

Kratman shook his head. AMP Thirty had been given quotas for antimatter production well in excess of what could be produced safely, then ordered to get to work. There had been no survivors, but the datastream from the production plant had suggested that there had been a failure in the containment systems, milliseconds before the explosion. They’d been lucky as hell the production plant hadn’t been located on a planetary surface – score one for the environmentalists – or billions would have died. As it was, the blast had been picked up across the entire solar system.

“I think it was a single component breaking down under the strain,” Kratman said. He gathered himself, then pressed on. “It isn’t the only place in danger of suffering a major failure.”

McGillivray nodded, impatiently. “So we’re working our people and infrastructure to death,” he said. “Have you tried bringing this to the emperor’s attention?”

“I’ve tried,” Kratman said. “He doesn’t want to hear it.”

McGillivray smirked. “Classic father-son relationship,” he said. There was an amused note to his voice. “No son wishes to hear the father was actually right about something.”

“He isn’t my son,” Kratman snapped. The thought wasn’t a pleasant one, because it dragged up painful memories. His children had died long ago; his wife had moved out to the colonies after their deaths, separating peacefully from him. “And you know it.”

“You were his first CO,” McGillivray said. “You were meant to be a father to your men.”

“I got most of them killed at Sapphire,” Kratman muttered. His ship had been lucky, as absurd as it seemed. Few other ships had survived the battle. “And he was just a midshipman at the time.”

“He would have looked up to you,” McGillivray said. “He certainly wouldn’t have asked you to serve on his cabinet if he hadn’t trusted you.”

Kratman took a breath. He’d raised sensitive subjects before, during his stint at the Luna Academy, but – whatever the cadets might think – there was no real danger. Even the Grand Senate’s Oversight Committee had to admit that talking about problematic policies and military disasters helped the cadets prepare for the future. But...he knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he was about to cross the line into outright treason. Or, at least, something Emperor Marius would probably consider treason. The precise legal definition of the term wouldn’t matter, much, if the emperor decided to press charges.

“Tell me something,” Kratman said. “What do you think of the emperor?”

McGillivray met his eyes. “I think he’s a driven man,” he said, slowly. “But what do
you
think of the emperor?”

“I think he’s losing it,” Kratman said, shortly. “There are quite a few worrying signs in his behavior.”

“Like what?” McGillivray asked. “He always struck me as a stable man.”

Kratman sighed. “Too many to count,” he said. “You realize that Blake Raistlin is still alive? The trial was suspended when the Outsiders started the war; Raistlin himself is still held in the cell under the President’s House. Emperor Marius visits him, from time to time, even though he is determined to send the treacherous bastard to the firing squad.”