Christopher Nuttall - Barbarians at the Gates

FNS Magnificent , Boskone System, 4095

It was an older and more confident Roman Garibaldi that strode into Fleet Admiral Marius Drake’s office on the superdreadnaught. He wore a captain’s uniform as if he’d been born to wear it.

Marius accepted the younger man’s salute and returned it before waving Garibaldi to a seat. The newly-minted captain took it without the hesitation he’d shown on their first meeting, three years ago. Marius smiled as he returned to his own seat. It wasn’t the first time he had mentored a promising junior officer, but Garibaldi was something special. Very few people had the combination of skill and luck that Garibaldi displayed in abundance. The Promotion Board clearly agreed. At twenty-five, Garibaldi was the youngest captain in the Federation Navy—and in history.

The thought made Marius smile momentarily as he nodded to his steward, who had prepared cups of coffee for the admiral and his guest. Too many promising young officers had died since Admiral Justinian had started his rebellion, killed in battle or captured by one of a dozen factions that were tearing the Federation apart. Admiral Justinian’s second attempt to punch through the Asimov Point and capture the system had been bad enough, but the revolution on Maskirovka had been bloody and futile…and the other rogues had been worse. Marius knew that he’d been lucky to get even the reinforcements he’d been given, not with too many other flashpoints requiring a permanent Federation Navy presence. The Senate’s growing panic had ensured that large forces were kept on permanent standby around nodal points, limiting the ships that could be deployed on offensive operations. It was total bloody chaos.

“My congratulations on your promotion,” Marius said as they sipped their coffee. “I read the citation. Your little stunt at Terra Nova could have gone spectacularly wrong.”

“Yes, sir,” Garibaldi said. “I believed that the risk was justified.”

Marius had to smile. The younger man was more focused than he’d been as a junior officer. War did that to young officers, those who survived the first few years of their careers.

“So did the Promotion Board and your own captain,” Marius agreed. “I read both his report and the more private message he forwarded to me. You nearly gave him a heart attack.”

He smiled at Garibaldi’s expression. “You deserve command of Midway , certainly,” he added, changing the subject. “Command of the first of a new generation of starships! Not too shabby, not at your age.”

Garibaldi hesitated, and then must have realized that he was being teased.

“Yes, sir,” he said, an unmistakable note of pride in his voice. “I’m very proud of her.”

“I read the readiness reports.” Marius tapped the datapad on the table. “You’re doing very well, certainly better than some believed. I think you have a bright future ahead.”

He shrugged, dryly. “And since you’ve come all the way from Earth, do you have any personal messages for me?”

“There’s a locked information store that I brought over to you from the Senate,” Garibaldi informed him. “And Professor Kratman gave me a datachip that I was to place into your hands alone.” He reached into a sealed pocket, produced the unmarked chip, and passed it over to Marius, who took it gingerly. A secure datachip would be rigged to disintegrate if someone tried to break into the encoded data store. “He sends you his regards.”

“I served with him,” Marius said absently. He placed the datachip in a secure drawer on his desk and closed it with an audible thump. “It’s good to see you again.”

“Thank you, sir,” Garibaldi said, sounding excessively formal. “It is good to see you again too.”

He wasn’t used to the informality of higher-ranking officers, Marius noted, certainly not among those under his command. But he’d learn.

“You may change your mind,” Marius told him, and smiled at his nonplussed expression. “I have a particular task for you and your ship. I’m afraid another tempting opportunity to get yourself killed in the line of duty beckons.”

Garibaldi showed no overt reaction.

“Yes, sir,” he said.

Admiral Drake, according to rumor, had been offered another Star Carrier—perhaps even the Enterprise herself—as a flagship, but had chosen to continue to fly his lights on the Magnificent . Roman had only been onboard her once, when he had been relieved from command of Enterprise and officially promoted for the first time, so he’d never seen the briefing room. It was large enough to hold every captain in the fleet, but only a handful of people were seated at the table today: a brown-skinned woman without any rank tabs, a very dark-skinned man he’d never seen before, a Marine Major General who looked oddly familiar…and Blake Raistlin, who turned towards Roman with a welcoming smile. He wore the tabs of a commander and the white and blue uniform of an admiral’s aide, which struck Roman as odd. The Raistlin he remembered had been determined to win a command.

“My father didn’t like the thought of me risking myself,” Raistlin muttered when Roman asked. “I’m his only heir, you see, and he felt that I shouldn’t be risked on board a smaller ship. I haven’t told him that when the admiral takes us back on the offensive, I’ll be on this superdreadnaught and under fire from enemy ships. It would only upset him.”

“If we could all be seated,” the brown-skinned woman said, “we can begin.”

The room locked and sealed itself as Roman took his seat. Admiral Drake joined them, seated at the head of the table, along with a man Roman recognized; Admiral Mason, who looked as if he hadn’t changed much from the days when he’d flown his flag on Enterprise . Mason gave him a thin nod.

Of course, back then, Mason hadn’t thought much of his flagship’s commander and hadn’t hesitated to make his feelings known. Roman had been told that some officers had opposed his promotion to captain and wondered, absently, if Mason had been one of them. And what, precisely, was he doing at the briefing? The last Roman had heard, he was still in command of the fleet’s starfighter force.

“I am Commodore Arunika, for those of you who don’t know me,” the brown-skinned woman said calmly. “My companion”—she indicated the black man—”is known as Uzi. His real name is highly-classified and he assures me that he has forgotten it himself. His precise role here will be explained in the privacy of this briefing room and may not be discussed outside a secure compartment. Anyone found leaking the data to any unauthorized person will be facing a court martial before they can blink.”

She smiled thinly. “With the admiral’s position, I will review the current situation before going on to outline Operation Kidd,” she said.

Drake nodded.

“Admiral Justinian has been content to play a waiting game since his failure to punch through the Asimov Point a second time and the defeat—the destruction—of the rebellion on Maskirovka,” she told them. “The sudden upsurge of violence and rebellion all across the Federation—and the rise of the new warlords—may have helped encourage him to remain quiet, for now. We do not expect that happy state of affairs to last, nor are we able to go on the offensive. The bottom line is that we believe he is currently building up his forces with the aim of taking advantage of our weakness before we can overcome the other threats and crush him.”

A holographic star chart appeared over the table, a number of stars blinking bright amber.

“Six months ago, Governor Pyotr Eustasovitch Hartkopf abandoned the pretense that he was a loyal and able servant of the Federation,” she continued. “Hartkopf’s name was a byword for corruption and decadence long before Admiral Justinian kicked off the war, but powerful friends in high places prevented him from being recalled to Earth to face an investigation. An investigatory commission was, in fact, being pulled together when Hartkopf, perhaps realizing that time was running out, chose to declare himself a warlord. He subverted or overcame loyal units of the Federation Navy and established himself in full control of the Zathras Sector.