Christopher Nuttall - Barbarians at the Gates

“And they tried to kill us all,” he added. “I won’t pretend that I don’t take that personally.”

He paused, gauging their reactions. Some looked personally affronted, others—including Captain Garibaldi—were shocked. They’d believed the Senate would keep its promises. How wrong they’d been, Marius noted. They deserved better leaders.

“I swore an oath to the Federation. I swore that I would uphold the fundamental unity of the human race, the unity that has made us masters of half the galaxy. The Senators swear a similar oath when they are sworn into power—and look what they’ve done. They have forced people into a position where they can either fight or die—why shouldn’t they fight? The unity of the human race, so expensively restored in the Inheritance Wars, is coming apart at the seams. And the Senate is the driving force behind the collapse.

“We all know how they rape the colonies for raw materials and taxes they desperately need to pay for their social programs. We all know how they back some industrialists at the expense of others, ensuring that their companies are favored while their competitors are ruthlessly crushed. I think we have all seen the effect this has on our ships, and our operational readiness. We all know how they planned to appoint Federation Governors to the worlds we captured and strip them bare of everything they have, turning the people into corporate slaves. We all know what their refusal to challenge pirates and the Outsiders has meant—along the Rim, millions die while the Senate does nothing. I submit to you that the Senate must be removed.”

There was no disagreement. Part of him found that terrifying.

“Admiral Justinian wanted supreme power for himself. I don’t. I want to remove the Senate and put something better in its place, something more representative of humanity as a whole, something that will be harder to corrupt and turn into a reactionary force for rebellion. If this be treason, let us make the most of it!”

He took a long breath. “And yes, they will call it treason, particularly if we fail.”

There were some chuckles.

“I believe that my duty must be to remove the Senate,” he said finally. “If any of you do not wish to join me, I will understand. You can wait on Harmony for news of the result. I won’t be a vindictive bastard about it, but I do need to know your answers now.”

“Respectfully suggest, sir,” Admiral Mason said, “that you stop insulting us and start preparing for the march on Earth.”

Marius allowed himself to relax as chuckles ran around the room. His command staff were all pragmatists and, more importantly, they all knew that they were already on a death list. They could run to the Rim, but even that wouldn’t guarantee their safety. If the Senate won, they’d never be able to return home.

“I will make the same offer to the crewmen,” he said firmly. “You can do the same to your subordinates. There is to be no recrimination if someone chooses to sit this out, understand? Have them transfer themselves to the shuttlebays and send them down to the planet.”

“Aye, sir,” Admiral Mason said.

“I want the Grand Fleet ready to depart in twelve hours,” Marius ordered. “Make sure the fleet train is loaded with supplies from Harmony”—one other advantage of a civil war was that both sides used the same weapons—”and is ready to support us as we advance. If we are lucky, we won’t have to fight our way into Boskone and the other worlds we set up as nodal defense points…”

“One point,” Papillae said. “We have been unable to confirm that there isn’t a message already winging its way back to Earth with a warning. The Senate may not know that we’re coming, or they might suspect the worst.”

“You can’t pick out an encrypted message?” Admiral Mason snorted.

“The message might be something innocuous,” Papillae said. “Something that would pass unremarked. The message that activated Raistlin didn’t say anything directly.”

“We’ll assume that we’re heading into hostile space,” Marius said with a nod. “We leave in twelve hours. Until then…dismissed!”

Roman had asked to see the admiral as soon as possible. He was surprised when he was called in only an hour after he sent the message, and even more surprised to see the two Marines guarding the admiral’s hatch. It was a break with tradition and, worse, it suggested that the Admiral no longer trusted his crew. The Marines searched him thoroughly but gently, and then allowed him to enter. The admiral himself was seated on the sofa, his left arm wrapped in a cast.

“Admiral,” he began. Words abruptly failed him. “I’m glad to see that you’re all right…”

“Save it,” Admiral Drake said. He looked up. Roman was surprised to see a new intensity burning in the admiral’s eyes. “I assume you want a new ship?”

“Yes, sir,” Roman said. He’d checked on Midway and had to admit that the report had been accurate. It would be cheaper to build a new assault cruiser than to repair a badly damaged one. She’d be sent to the breakers and her hull metal would be used to produce new ships. “Why did he open fire?”

“The Senate decided, in their infinite wisdom, to massacre all the prisoners we took on Bester,” Admiral Drake explained. His bitter voice shocked Roman to the core. “Admiral Justinian decided to go out in a blaze of glory.”

He frowned. “I don’t have a ship that needs a commander at the moment,” he added.

Roman couldn’t keep the disappointment off his face.

“I do need an aide, however. If you take the post now, I’ll give you a ship as soon as possible.”

“Yes, sir,” Roman said. He was surprised that the admiral wanted him—he’d graduated with Raistlin years ago, not that they’d ever been friends—but he knew better than to refuse. “When do I take up my duties?”

“Now,” Admiral Drake said. “We’re leaving in twelve hours and I want every ship that can fly and energize a beam going with us.”

Twelve hours later, Marius stood on the command deck and watched as the Grand Fleet slid into motion, heading towards the Jefferson Asimov Point. He would have found it hard to describe his feelings at the moment, knowing that he was rebelling against the Senate, crossing his own personal Rubicon.

One way or another, the die had been cast.

In Transit/Earth, 4098

The Prince George -class space yacht had originally been designed for ten passengers and a crew of five. After the Brotherhood had the ship quietly refurbished in a military shipyard, the yacht had the speed of a destroyer and could be operated, if necessary, by a single person. Rupert had kept three of his most trusted retainers on the ship, but he’d dismissed the rest of the crew, even the woman who ran the galley. He’d had to eat packaged meals for the entire trip. After four weeks, even the pleasures of watching entertainment dramas he’d always meant to watch had worn off, and he was cursing his own mistake at not bringing along someone to share his bed.

But there hadn’t been much choice, or much time to arrange the desperate flight to Harmony. He’d hoped that there would be more time, either to send a warning message ahead of the assassination order, or for the Brotherhood to make other preparations on Earth, but they’d underestimated the Senate’s determination to act quickly. The assassination order was now winging its way to Harmony—no, it would have got there by now. And if Admiral Drake had been assassinated, the Brotherhood’s long-term plan would have fallen apart.