Barbarians at the Gates

by Nuttall, Christopher

  The Purple town was a strange mixture of human and alien styles. Roman took a deep breath as he stepped outside, enjoying the clear air. He couldn’t help but realize that the human habitations were all prefabricated colony-style buildings, while the alien buildings were far more elegant. The ugly human buildings had been designed that way to encourage colonists to develop their building skills and eventually move out of the prefabricated buildings and into proper homes. But the settlers had never bothered to move any further, even in Maskirovka City. With an industrial node floating in orbit producing all the prefabricated buildings they could desire, they had no incentive to change.

  The alien buildings bore no resemblance to human styles of architecture and design, at least at first glance. They looked to be constructed from a mixture of wood and stone, with earth pressed into the roofs and used to grow a grass-analogue. Roman recalled some of the genetically-engineered plants the RockRats had taken with them as they spread out among the stars and wondered, absently, if the Purples used something similar to help hold their buildings together.

  He looked up at the gas giant hanging in the sky, and shivered. You are mortal, the gas giant seemed to say. I am eternal. You puny mites and your tiny starships are nothing to me.

  A line of alien males ran past, squawking as they sighted a female target. Roman watched as the female dropped the bag she was carrying and knelt in front of the males, pressing her face into the dirt. The males surrounded her and began to fight savagely among themselves for the right to mate with the female. Roman wanted to look away, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the scene. He guessed that the kneeling female had just entered mating season—her scent calling the males to her—and that none of the other females was ready to mate.

  Once the victor in the fight had knocked the others down or out, he howled in triumph and then swept down on the female, lifting her ragged dress before entering her from behind. After a brief moment, the male pulled out, chattering happily. The female pulled herself to her feet, her expression unreadable, and gathered her possessions. No one stepped forward to help her—and none of the other males showed any sign of interest.

  “They’re not like us,” a voice said from behind him.

  He turned to see Elf.

  “To us, that’s a disturbing sight—a rape, perhaps even a gang rape. To them, that’s normal. No one will think any less of her, while the males are doing what comes naturally to them. On the other hand, they may mock her for not being careful when she was on the verge of entering mating season. She should have been inside so she mated with the male she chose—if she chose any male.”

  Roman blinked. “Have you been here before?”

  “I read the file as soon as we arrived in this system,” Elf said with a wink. “Old Marine saying—learn everything you can, because you never know what might come in handy and you’ll feel a damn fool if you don’t know it when you need it.”

  Roman nodded sourly. But they had to ponder what they read to make any use of it.

  He looked back at the alien female and saw her walking away, almost waddling. The other aliens seemed utterly unconcerned, although he saw a few casting their lidless eyes in the direction of the two humans. A handful of other humans—all teenage boys—had chortled to themselves at the show before heading back to one of the human buildings. They’d thought it was hilarious.

  “What are we doing here, anyway?” Roman asked after a long pause.

  “Shore leave,” she said dryly. “I must say you’ve been a terrible disappointment to me as your escort. All you’ve done is drink, and you’ve visited an alien city. You should be being fleeced by a fast-talking dealer, or spending your credits in a brothel...I remember a young ensign who was reported missing during shore leave and we had to go track him down. It turned out that he’d been lured into a drug den, and honestly thought that it hadn’t been more than a day.”

  Roman snorted. “And how long was it?”

  “A month,” Elf said. “The poor bastard was completely out of it, utterly zonked. At least they’d fed and watered him, or he would have died before we pulled him out.”

  “That wasn’t what I meant,” Roman said. He tried again, hoping she’d understand this time. “What is the Federation doing on Maskirovka?”

  “We’re here because we have no other choice,” Elf said. “What are you going to do now?”

  “I don’t know,” Roman admitted. He still had three days before he was supposed to report onboard the Donna Noble, leaving him at loose ends. He couldn’t return to Enterprise, not now. “I just don’t know.”

  “Come with me,” Elf said, reaching over and taking his hand. “There’s a place where we can dance—I love dancing—and then get some dinner, and more dancing...and who knows where it might lead?”

  Roman looked up in surprise. He’d thought that she’d lost interest in him, if she’d ever had it.

  “You’re the hero of the hour,” she said with a wink. “Relax and enjoy it—and all the free drinks you’ll get when you tell your story. Tomorrow is another day of woe and misery, in a universe of woe and misery, where death and destruction stalk us like...two giant stalking things.”

  “Oh, shut up.” Roman laughed. “Lead on, fair lady.”

  Chapter Twenty

  In public, all members of the Senate regard their fellow Senators as rivals. In private, they are often far more friendly—after all, they have friends and family in common. The world of the Federation Senate is a largely closed one and few people are permitted to enter it, at least without pledging their loyalty. The few Senators who are not part of the Factions are rarely able to accomplish anything.

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

  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 flo
ated 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.”