“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.
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 aband
on 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!”
Chapter Forty
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.
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