Barbarians at the Gates (53 page)

Some of his men—the ones he relied on for the truly dirty work—would be disappointed. Personally, Scudder didn’t care. It was just a job. Besides, there was an entire planet of women just below them and Scudder had a reputation for being liberal with leave cards once the mission was complete. They’d be at Bester long enough to enjoy themselves, once the planet had been pacified and reinforcements arrived. The latest Internal Security divisions would already be on their way.

* * *

The barge—no one had ever bothered to name it—had started life as a bulk freighter, back in the days before the stardrive. Internal Security hadn’t been concerned about the freighter’s limited choice of destinations, as they’d converted the freighter into a prison barge. It would be difficult, if not impossible, for anyone to rescue the prisoners and if they rioted and overthrew their guards, the barge couldn’t hope to outrun even a crippled destroyer. The ship was, naturally, completely unarmed.

Scudder had no time to gaze upon the planet below as his shuttle docked with the barge. He pulled himself through the airlock into the crew compartment. Most of the original automation had been pulled out and replaced with modern equipment, ensuring that only five crewmen were actually needed to run the vessel. The crew compartment and control systems were also separated from the prisoner compartments by a layer of battle steel that was completely impenetrable, at least to anything the prisoners might have on hand. If worst came to worst, the crew compartment could separate from the main body of the ship and abandon the prisoners in space.

“Welcome aboard, colonel,” the barge’s captain said.

Scudder had picked the man personally; he was small, unpleasant and thoroughly unimaginative. He was the ideal tool for Internal Security, if only because he didn’t have the imagination to be disloyal. And he would do anything if ordered, no matter how vile. He’d been on suspension from the Federation Penal Service when Internal Security had recruited him.

“Can I say how pleased I am to see you?” the man added.

“No,” Scudder growled. The sooner he completed his task, the better. “Show me the prisoners.”

The crew compartment was cramped, even with the new computers and control systems. At the rear of the compartment, there was a set of nine monitors. Scudder flicked through them one by one, examining the prisoners thoughtfully. Many of them looked despondent, clearly wondering what was going to happen to them, while others had already realized the truth. Some of them—he caught sight of a number of young girls who had chosen to stay with their families—shouldn’t really be there at all.

Not that Scudder gave a damn. The Senate had ordered the execution of all rebels, along with their families, and Scudder intended to give them exactly what they had ordered.

“I have command,” he said.

The captain blinked at him, but nodded.

Scudder keyed a switch and accessed the intercom. His words would be heard throughout the prisoner compartments.

“Rebels: by Senatorial Decree, you have been found guilty of treason, mutiny against lawful authority and various other charges. The penalty for your crimes is death.”

He keyed a second switch, opening the air vents. The prisoner sections would start to decompress slowly, but surely. The rebels would have plenty of time to realize what awaited them before they died. It would be interesting to see how they reacted when they realized the truth. He’d seen men fighting each other for the last gasp of air, and others trying to give their own lives to save other men. Perhaps it would be the latter here. There were families at stake.

“Make sure this is prepared for transmission,” he ordered. “I want the entire system to see what happened to them.”

The rebels were trying desperately to block the air vents, a tactic that might have worked if some of the air vents hadn’t been out of reach. But the air was running out. Men and women started to turn purple as they stumbled around, gasping for air. A child—she couldn’t have been more than six—stumbled to the deck and lay still. Other children had been killed by their parents to spare them the pain of suffocation and death.

Scudder allowed himself a tight smile as the final drops of air flew out of the compartment, leaving only death behind. How could such a sight fail to chill the heart of even the harshest rebel?

“Transmit the recording to the planetary datanet,” he said, once it was all over. “I want them all to see.”

* * *

The tiny scout ship had watched from afar as the Grand Fleet had trashed what was left of the system, but they’d been sneaking back to the Asimov Point to reach The Hive when they’d picked up the broadcast. Admiral Justinian had ordered Lieutenant Suzan Bones and her crew to watch the planet and report back if anything occurred that might affect his interests. An invasion—and then a slaughter—definitely counted.

“Those lousy, murdering...”

“Quiet,” Lieutenant Bones ordered. “We need to get this back to the admiral.”

The scout was barely large enough for the four who occupied it. They’d been living in one another’s fumes for weeks, and tempers had been riding high. Even so, they knew their duty; all they had to do was get back to Marx with the data.

And then,
Suzan thought mordantly,
Admiral Justinian will know just what happened to people stupid enough to surrender to the Federation.

She ran through the situation in her head while cursing under her breath. They’d never counted on Hartkopf being assassinated and his little kingdom falling apart. All of a sudden, new options had opened up for the Federation lickspittles. The admiral had to be warned.

“Entering Asimov Point now,” the helmsman reported.

Suzan nodded.

“Get us out of here!”

Even with the stardrive, systems on the end of long, gangly chains of Asimov Points tend to be cut off from the remainder of the Federation. This tends to hamper their development and limit their immediate opportunities for economic expansion
.

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

Sphinx/Hawthorne System, 4097

“Nothing to report?”

“No, captain,” the sensor officer said. “The sensor board is clear.”

Captain Keller nodded impatiently, and then shook his head. Taking his frustration out on his officers was the mark of a poor commander and he liked to think that he was better than that. Still, it had been three months since
Percival
had been assigned to the system, and being at Sphinx was not the most glorious of postings. The system was at the end of a chain of Asimov Points that led back to Jefferson, and systems like that tended to worry planners.

It was true that the system had little beyond a handful of RockRat colonies and a tiny independent mining operation. It didn’t really need a picket. The Book, however, insisted that there had to be a picket in all systems. Even without the stardrive, it was possible that a barely-surveyed system might hide a second, undetected Asimov Point.

And if that Asimov Point led into enemy space, the strategic situation would turn upside down, instantly.

It had been a long posting, and he was uneasily aware that he was running out of drills for his crew. They all needed some leave, but there was little hope of finding anything worth enjoying in the Sphinx System. Perhaps he should allow a handful of crewmen to take one of the gunboats and go through the Asimov Point to Hawthorne. The Hawthorne System was nearly as poor and deserted, but at least it had an Earth-like planet and the promise of female company.

“Never mind,” he said, settling back down in his command chair. “Perhaps we should run a few tracking exercises, just to make sure that we don’t get bored.”

* * *

The blue icon representing the Asimov Point leading to Hawthorne, blinked on and off on the display. The red icon for the cruiser remained firmly in place, glaring down at Roman coldly, as if it was just waiting for him to come closer. The ship’s commander had actually ordered his ship to remain on station within the Asimov Point itself, a gutsy move when an interpenetration event could destroy his ship before his crew even realized that they were dead.

The cruiser—pre-war databases listed her as the
Percival
—didn’t have her shields and weapons up, ready to hit a target as soon as one showed itself. If she’d detected
Midway
and the remainder of the squadron, she would either have transited the Asimov Point and escaped, or opened fire. Unless her captain was insanely brave, he reminded himself. It was quite possible that he was quietly tracking them through passive sensors while lining his weapons up on Roman’s ship.

Roman spoke softly, even though sound couldn’t travel through space.

“Report.”

“One
Gamma
-class light cruiser and two gunboats,” the sensor officer said, equally quietly. “There’s no sign that they have detected our presence.”

“No,” Roman agreed. “Weapons?”

“We can take her out before she even sees us, sir,” the tactical officer assured him. “The gunboats may be a little trickier. One of them is currently looping around, out of range; it may be able to jump back through the Asimov Point before we destroy it.”

“Yeah,” Roman said. The problem with cloaking devices was that they were far from perfect. The longer they floated near their target, the greater the chance of being detected. “Lock weapons on target.”

“Weapons locked, sir,” the tactical officer said.

Roman sat down in the command chair and straightened his tunic. “On my command,” he ordered. “Fire!”

Midway
lurched as she flushed her external racks towards the enemy ship. It was overkill, by at least a factor of ten, but they had to take her out with the first shot. If
Percival
managed to bring up her drive and transit out, the entire chain would be alerted before the Grand Fleet reached its target.

He watched as the cruiser’s point defense started to lash out—barely coordinated and far too little, too late—and then the missiles struck home.
Percival
vanished in an eye-tearing blast of light, followed rapidly by one of her gunboats. The second twitched and then started to race towards the Asimov Point, just before an antifighter missile launched from
Midway
killed her.

“Target destroyed, sir,” the tactical officer reported calmly. “She didn’t pass a message through the Asimov Point.”

“Good,” Roman ordered. “Signal Admiral Drake. Inform him that the point is secure.”

* * *

“Admiral,” the communications officer said, “Captain Garibaldi is signalling that the point is secure. The picket ship was destroyed before she could get off a message drone.”

Marius smiled. So far, so good. He had no illusions about how far they’d get before Admiral Justinian realized they were on their way, but the longer they could keep him in the dark, the better. If they had to punch their way through a defended Asimov Point, the Grand Fleet would be badly damaged in the struggle.

“Deploy the assault fleet,” he ordered. “Signal Commodore Goldberg that he may begin the assault when ready.”

He leaned back in his chair and relaxed.

“And send an additional signal to Captain Garibaldi,” he added. “Well done.”

* * *

“Captain, Admiral Goldberg is preparing to launch his drones.”

Roman nodded. Jumping blind was something that no naval commander would do if it could be avoided.

“Good,” he said. “Prepare for transition.”

The drones flickered, vanishing from the display. Roman counted silently down in his mind. The latest model of recon drones took two minutes to recycle their drives—assuming they survived the transit and whatever the enemy threw at them—before jumping back to their masters. In that time, their sensors would scan the surrounding area of space and identify enemy fortresses, minefields and starships. The pre-war reports claimed that there was nothing stronger than a pair of fortresses that dated all the way back to the Inheritance Wars, but ONI hadn’t been able to get a lock on what might have been put in place after the current war began.

The seconds counted down. And then four drones reappeared on the display.

Four out of seventy, Roman noted. The defenders were clearly on the alert.

“Drone data downloading now,” the sensor officer said.

The main display lit up like a Christmas tree. There were five fortresses guarding the Asimov Point, backed up by a squadron of dreadnaughts and a handful of smaller ships. Roman suspected that it was already too late to preserve secrecy, but if they were lucky...

“The Commodore is launching assault drones now,” the tactical officer reported. “The jump countdown has begun.”

A pair of red numbers appeared in the main display. Roman took a breath, knowing that the defenders would be being hammered by the fury of uncontrolled antimatter. Driving into an Asimov Point was a far cry from the stately space battles he’d fought against pirates and enemy warships; indeed, there was a slight chance that
Midway
would interpenetrate with one of her sisters and both ships would vanish in colossal fireballs. Even in friendly territory, it still struck him as somehow
unnatural
.