Christopher Nuttall - Barbarians at the Gates

“I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do,” he said after a thorough check-up. The dead arm had been wrapped in a cast, but he’d warned Marius that the cast was purely a temporary measure. “It’s going to have to come off and be replaced, either with a vat-grown arm or a prosthetic.”

Marius winced. It was possible to grow lost parts of one’s body—as long as there was a single DNA sample to use as a template—in a vat, but it wouldn’t feel quite the same as the rest of his body. He’d known men who’d had replacements and then always been uncomfortable with their new organs. And yet, he didn’t want to have an artificial arm. It wouldn’t suit him, either.

“Right,” he said. “How long until I can get a new arm?”

“It’ll take a month to grow it, admiral.” Yu frowned. “Once it’s ready, it will have to be grafted onto the stump—we’ll remove the dead arm first, of course—and then it will take you several months to get used to using it again. I could fit you with an artificial arm now, but that would still take some getting used to.”

Marius nodded slowly. “I don’t have the time right now,” he said.

The doctor nodded, sombre. News of the attempted assassination had flashed through the entire fleet.

“Start growing the new arm,” Marius ordered, “and I’ll have it fitted when I have the time.”

“As you wish, admiral,” the doctor said. “Come back later today for another check-up. I want to be sure that the cellular disruption isn’t spreading.”

Marius nodded, then stalked out of sickbay. Outside, he met the two Marines who had been assigned to him as a personal guard and Major Papillae, Vaughn’s second-in-command. She would have assumed his position at once—the Marine chain of command was designed for rapid shifts—and yet seeing her felt unpleasant, as if he were betraying his oldest friend. Vaughn would have laughed at the thought, but then…Vaughn was dead.

He still couldn’t get used to that.

“Admiral,” she said formally. Her voice was brisk and efficient. “I completed the ceremonies for General Vaughn. His body has been stored in a stasis tube until it can be returned to his homeworld, and I read his will. He wished you to have this.” She passed him a small packet.

Marius opened it, wishing he were anywhere else and that this wasn’t really happening. It was impossible to believe that a presence so vital as Toby Vaughn was dead, even though Marius had seen Vaughn die before his eyes. Die to protect him, no less. Inside, there was an old chemical-propelled projectile weapon and a handful of clips.

Marius pulled it out in surprise and saw the golden globe and anchor that decorated the weapon. Traditionally, every Marine who made it to command rank was presented with such a weapon—a reminder of the different national services that had been blended into the Federation Marines—and was expected to keep it with him at all times. Vaughn had once joked that any Marine officer who had to fire the weapon in action was in serious danger, because projectile weapons didn’t have anything like the range and firepower of modern plasma cannons. But he wouldn’t have given up the weapon willingly, not until he died.

Having it passed on to him, Marius knew, was a great honor. And he would have given it up in an instant if it brought his friend back to him.

Papillae allowed him a moment to contemplate the weapon, and then cleared her throat. “The remainder of the Internal Security shitheads”—the news of the massacre at Bester had also spread through the fleet—”are in their transports, apart from a handful who were killed resisting arrest. The transports themselves are in lockdown, and I have a company of Marines on each of them, ensuring that the bastards cannot escape. We had to separate some of the political commissioners because they were in danger from the troopers.”

“Good,” Marius said. He strapped the weapon to his belt and looked up at her. “And the interrogation?”

“Raistlin spilled his guts,” Papillae said. “That was lucky, admiral, as we discovered—just in time—that he’d been given suicide implants. He shouldn’t have had them at all until he was promoted to captain, but luckily someone thought to check before we injected him with truth drugs. He received his orders directly from the Senate itself. His father put him in place just after the Battle of Boskone, waiting until he received orders to assassinate you.”

Marius nodded numbly. If Blake Raistlin had been just a little smarter, he could have assassinated Marius—and Tiffany too, perhaps—in his quarters and made his escape; instead, he’d tried to assassinate him in public. And now, Marius knew who to blame.

“The worrying news is that you weren’t the only target,” Papillae continued. “Raistlin had orders to purge your entire command staff, whereupon the political commissioners would assume command and allow Internal Security troopers to secure the remaining ships. My guess is that he intended to slaughter everyone at the briefing, and chose his weapon accordingly.”

“So we were all meant to die,” Marius said. He looked up at her. “Do you know what this means, Major?”

Papillae said nothing.

“It means that I have no choice but to follow the path Admiral Justinian blazed, and declare war against the Senate. That, major, is what it means!”

She simply looked at him gravely, but made no attempt to stop him from doing anything. After a beat, he nodded at her in silent thanks.

He keyed his wristcom.

“All staff, this is the admiral,” he said. “Report to Briefing Compartment Two in thirty minutes. We have a lot of work to do.”

Tiffany gave him a hug as soon as he entered the compartment, while the other officers rose to their feet in a gesture of respect. Part of Marius wondered if Tiffany had been given orders to assassinate him as well, before he pushed that thought aside. Tiffany was too independent-minded to follow orders from Earth. Even so, Marius hated the paranoia. He’d pulled together an excellent command team, fought beside them…and now it was impossible to know who to trust. He silently damned Blake Raistlin under his breath, remembering the excellent report he’d planned to submit, one that recommended Raistlin for promotion and command of his own ship. Who could he trust?

The irony wasn’t lost on him. Admiral Justinian had spent ten years preparing for his rebellion, and he’d still failed. Marius had had bare hours since he’d been attacked and Vaughn had been killed. His plans, such as they were, remained unformed. All he could do was to focus on one issue at a time.

“Gentlemen and ladies, please be seated,” he ordered. “For those of you who haven’t seen the recordings of Raistlin’s interrogation, the Senate ordered the assassination—the assassination of me and my entire command staff. You were all targets. You were all marked for death.”

He felt, rather than heard, a dull rumble of anger spreading through the room. Good; if they were angry, they weren’t scared or hesitant.

“This leaves us with a choice,” he continued. “Returning to the Federation is not an option, nor is staying here. We can head to the Rim and beyond, hoping that we will remain undiscovered when the Senate sets its dogs upon our trail, or we can head to Earth and…remove the Senate.”

There was a long pause. No one said anything; they appeared to be holding their breath.

“Let’s be honest, shall we? The Senate has become a threat to the entire Federation. Their corruption helped fuel this rebellion, just as it fuels countless hopeless rebellions right across the galaxy. Their mishandling of Admiral Justinian led to the disaster at First Jefferson and made it almost inevitable that others would rebel against the Federation, too. Their willingness to slaughter their enemies—and the families of their enemies—led to bloody slaughter, for no one dared surrender. And you have all seen the report from Bester. The Senate ordered the slaughter of all of the senior staff, including innocent women and children.