Barbarians at the Gates (24 page)

* * *

The enemy light cruisers opened fire the moment they appeared, sweeping through the remaining mines before they could retarget themselves on the cruisers. A number died almost at once as automated weapons platforms opened fire, expending themselves frantically to kill the cruisers before they were picked off themselves. The CSP followed, flashing back into the combat zone and launching missiles towards the cruisers before the cruisers could bring up their datanets and fight as a single entity. All but three of the cruisers died in the first five minutes of the engagement, but in doing so they cleared the path for the heavier ships.

“Admiral, we have four heavy bulk freighters transiting through the Asimov Point,” the sensor officer reported. “They’re...”

Marius exchanged a puzzled glance with the tactical officer. Bulk freighters were hardly warships, although in the opening years of the Inheritance Wars they’d soaked up missile strikes from warships before the widespread use of compressed antimatter. There was no rhyme or reason to using them in the assault, which meant...what? Were they loaded with antimatter?

“Check that—they’re carriers, sir,” the sensor officer corrected himself. “They’re launching starfighters now.”

Marius scowled. Converting freighters into carriers was an old tactic, although the makeshift carriers were nowhere near as flexible as properly-designed carriers. Admiral Justinian clearly didn’t want to risk his remaining carriers in a direct assault on the Asimov Point. It reminded Marius of his other actions, where conservation of force was placed ahead of tactical considerations, even the opportunity to destroy most of the Retribution Force.

“Order the CSP to move in and destroy,” Marius ordered tightly. He studied the possibilities for a moment, then made up his mind. “The Forty-Fifth Squadron will advance and engage the enemy carriers.”

“Aye, sir,” the communications officer said.

Marius barely heard him. There was a second possible reason for using bulk freighters as starfighter carriers, to lure the superdreadnaughts forward where they could be engaged by antimatter-loaded drones or even superdreadnaughts jumping through the Asimov Point. If Marius lost his superdreadnaughts, his fleet would be defeated. There was no way around that, nor did he have the fixed defenses necessary to hold without his mobile units. The Core Worlds would only be hearing about the first defeat now—it would be weeks, at least, before they forwarded reinforcements to his fleet. If, of course, they sent any at all.

He watched coldly as the single superdreadnaught squadron moved forward and opened fire, targeting the bulk freighters before they could turn and escape through the Asimov Point. Once they were destroyed, the enemy starfighters would be trapped, unable to retreat without another carrier to carry them back through the Asimov Point. They’d have to surrender, or die once their life support ran out.

The final cruiser died as the superdreadnaughts moved closer, followed by two of the bulk freighters. A third was hit badly and heeled over, spewing out plasma before losing containment on its antimatter warheads and vaporizing into a fireball. The enemy fighters threw themselves on the superdreadnaughts, only to be engaged by the CSP and the supporting gunboats.

Marius allowed himself a brief moment of optimism. Perhaps they could hold after all.

“Sir, enemy superdreadnaughts are transiting the Asimov Point,” the sensor officer reported. “I have at least five superdreadnaughts...no, seven...”

Marius watched as at least seven superdreadnaughts emerged from the Asimov Point in a tight stream of death and destruction. Admiral Justinian wasn’t taking the chance of ordering simultaneous transits—not with ships that took two years to build—but he was funnelling them through as tightly as possible. As the earlier assaults had temporarily cleared the field, the superdreadnaughts were safe from immediate attack. The mines and automated platforms that should have engaged them were already destroyed.

“Send a signal to all ships,” he ordered. One way or the other, the battle would be decided now. “The battle line will advance and engage the enemy.”

* * *

Flight Leader Elspeth Grey cursed as her starfighter flashed towards the newcomers, already spitting deadly plasma fire into space. They couldn’t hope to hit a planet, let alone a starfighter, with random fire, but they were successfully disrupting the wave of incoming starfighters. The squadrons—hastily patched together after the Battle of Jefferson, although she called it the Fuck-Up of Jefferson—had drilled as hard as they could once the fleet had reached safe harbor, yet they weren’t as disciplined as they had been at Jefferson. Half the pilots had never worked together before. The remainder had barely graduated from various training camps when they’d been scooped up and told to crew carriers from the Naval Reserve. It was typical of the brass to throw together a few scraps of meat and try to make a sausage out of them—and it wasn’t very pleasant for the sausage.

“Form up on me,” she ordered, swallowing her anger. She hadn’t expected to be promoted to Flight Leader so quickly, but her former commander had bought the farm at Jefferson along with his second, leaving Elspeth as the most experienced pilot in the squadron. It was a sign, she told herself, of just how desperate they were to put her in command. Her experience had been limited to simulations and chasing down pirates, who often didn’t have a clue how to use the equipment they’d somehow obtained from the Federation Navy.

She designated a superdreadnaught as a target and waited for her pilots to check in before issuing a second order: “Follow me!”

The enemy superdreadnaught grew larger in her HUD as her starfighter rocketed towards it. At least it wasn’t protected by a CSP of its own, she reasoned, and the remainder of the enemy starfighters seemed to have been tied up by the Federation Navy’s superdreadnaughts.

She led her flock towards the rear of the nearest superdreadnaught. The superdreadnaught’s point defense was getting more and more accurate as they approached, picking off a handful of inexperienced pilots before they could evade. Elspeth barked orders and dire threats into the communications channel, reminding the remaining pilots that randomness was the key. A predictable flight path meant certain death.

“Hold on to your missiles,” she ordered when several inexperienced pilots brought up their targeting systems too early. She didn’t blame them—it was easy for inexperienced pilots to misjudge distances and fear a collision—but it wasn’t the right time at all. They were only making themselves bigger targets. “Stand by...now!”

Her squadron of starfighters turned and fell into attack formation, shifting as a blizzard of plasma fire burned through space towards them. Two pilots—both men she barely knew, as they’d been assigned to the
Illustrious
before the carrier had been blown out of space—died as they were picked off by the enemy’s point defense. The remainder did her proud, holding on to their missiles until she finally barked the order.

They fired in one great salvo. The great hulk of the superdreadnaught was pockmarked with balls of fire, which merged together into one great explosion that wiped the superdreadnaught from existence.

Elspeth laughed, picked off an unwary enemy fighter that had approached too closely, and led her flock back to the barn. They would rearm and return to the fray.

Grinning, she allowed herself the thought that perhaps the newcomers—maggots, as they were known—weren’t so bad after all.

* * *

“Fire at will,” Marius ordered.

Magnificent
shuddered as she unleashed a swarm of missiles towards the remaining enemy superdreadnaughts. This time, the firepower advantage was on his side, and he used it ruthlessly. The massed fire of entire squadrons of superdreadnaughts were launched against isolated targets, forcing them to struggle to survive.

One by one, the enemy superdreadnaughts blew apart and died in the darkness of space. The remainder were fighting a losing battle.

He scowled. None of this made any sense, unless Admiral Justinian had one final trick up his sleeve.

* * *

Justinian forced himself to remain calm as the loss rates continued to mount. He hadn’t led his fleet into the Boskone System personally, something that probably hadn’t endeared him to men who were committing treason on his orders, but that had helped to save his life. He didn’t have the force to punch through the Asimov Point without bleeding his fleet white, leaving them easy meat for a counterattack from Home Fleet or one of the other loyalist forces.

“Recall the remaining ships,” he ordered. There was no point in forcing a victory that would ruin him and his cause. He had his shipyards, his newer innovations—and his backers on Earth. The game was far from over. “We’ll concede this battle.”

“Aye, sir,” Caitlin said, sounding relieved. “Do you want to fall back on the Asimov Point?”

“Negative,” Justinian said. He doubted that Admiral Drake had the firepower to punch through the Asimov Point. “If they come through, we will hold them here.”

He settled back, watching as his surviving ships retreated through the Asimov Point. The Federation had to hold Boskone—that was a given. On the other hand, Justinian could fall back and make a stand closer to Jefferson, which allowed him a degree of flexibility the Federation lacked.

And yet, he knew he was pinned, at least until he rebuilt his forces and launched a second attack. The war had effectively stalemated.

* * *

“That’s confirmed, admiral,” the sensor officer said, “Their remaining ships have pulled out of the system. We won!”

“So it would seem,” Marius agreed. There was no way to know what was going through Justinian’s mind—which meant that Drake’s forces would have to stay on the alert, knowing that a second attack could come at any time. “Admiral Mason, designate a fighter wing to serve as CSP and recall the remaining pilots. Hold them at condition-two, but let them get some rest. They deserve it.”

He allowed himself a tight smile as the fleet slowly stood down. They’d held! They’d stopped Admiral Justinian dead in his tracks. Morale, which had been rock-bottom after the disaster at Jefferson, was going to skyrocket. And it wouldn’t do his reputation any harm, either. The Senate would have problems trying to smear his reputation now.

“And pass a message on to all ships and personnel,” he added. “Well done.”

Federation Navy medals may be handed out by the commanding officer, once confirmed by the Admiralty—confirmation that is almost invariably forthcoming. Federation awards and decorations are the exclusive gift of the Senate, although a commanding officer may recommend a subordinate for them.

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

FNS
Magnificent
, Boskone System, 4092

The summons to report to Admiral Drake onboard
Magnificent
had come nearly a week after the Battle of Boskone. Roman had spent nearly twenty minutes trying to decide what to wear while his shuttle was prepared for the flight. As a captain—even an acting captain—he had a right to wear dress whites, but somehow he doubted that Admiral Drake would be impressed by a lieutenant putting on airs. As a lieutenant, he should wear his dress uniform, yet very few people in the Federation Navy enjoyed wearing dress uniforms. The issue had been settled by the discovery that there were
no
captain’s uniforms on
Enterprise
,
so he’d reluctantly worn his more standard dress uniform. He was honest enough to admit to himself that worrying over the uniform was a substitute for worrying over what the admiral was going to say, considering the hostility of Admiral Mason. Roman was sure Mason had burned up the airwaves with his complaints about having to report to a very junior officer.

It wasn’t the first time Roman had been onboard a superdreadnaught, but somehow it felt very different. No formal party met him when he disembarked from the shuttle, much to his relief, as he had no idea how to handle the protocol when one captain visited another. Yet everyone he met seemed to know his name. Officers, including some astronomically senior to him, found time to shake his hand and congratulate him, adding to the air of unreality. He was almost in a daze when the Marine guard opened the hatch to the admiral’s office and motioned for him to step inside.

He’d never met Admiral Drake before, but he’d taken the opportunity to use his new command codes to read the classified section of the admiral’s file. Drake was shorter than he had expected, reminding him of Major Shaklee, yet he was clearly in control of the situation. Short, dark hair framed a classically handsome face and brilliant dark eyes. Roman marched across to the desk, threw a perfect salute, and stood at attention. The only other admiral he’d encountered—briefly—was Admiral Parkinson, but he hadn’t commanded this level of respect. Admiral Drake had pulled the entire fleet out of a deadly trap.

“At ease,” Admiral Drake said. He had a faint Martian accent. “Cut the cadet crap. There’s just the pair of us here.”

Roman relaxed, very slightly.

“I said relax,” Admiral Drake added dryly. “You’re not in trouble, Mr. Garibaldi. I assure you of that.”

Roman did his best to stand normally, as he would if he were around Sultana before he’d been so abruptly elevated to acting captain.