Christopher Nuttall - Barbarians at the Gates

“Take us in,” he ordered. “Tactical, continue to monitor the drones. Inform me if there is the slightest hint that we’re not alone out here.”

The Tranter System was fairly typical, as star systems went, although it lacked a gas giant that could be mined for He3. It had seven rocky worlds orbiting the system primary, one of them habitable and, like many other worlds, home to an intelligent race. Roman had seen holograms of the inhabitants and it was easy to see why they were called Trolls: they were huge, ugly and given to carrying clubs and swords around wherever they went. The human settlers had used their technology to convince the Trolls that the humans were gods—a few thunderbolts had ensured they would be worshipped with fervor—and started shipping Trolls out as slave labor. It might have been against any number of laws and regulations, but Trolls made good security guards and slaves, although they didn’t possess the brainpower to handle advanced technology.

Or so the file claimed.

Personally, Roman wondered if that were actually true. The Trolls might prefer to be taken for dumb animals, only a step or two above cats and dogs. It would certainly be safer.

“Captain,” the tactical officer said sharply. “I am picking up energy signatures from AP-1!”

“Go to tactical alert,” Roman ordered calmly. Energy signatures on their own proved nothing—AP-1 was a good place to station a defense force—but if the defenders were on the alert, they might have picketed the entire system. “Can you get me a breakdown at this distance?”

There was a long pause.

“At least nine starships, all dreadnaught-sized,” the tactical officer said, finally. “They’re mounting modern scanners and tactical drives. I can’t pick up anything else at this distance.”

Roman nodded, thinking hard. The Federation Navy had only a handful of dreadnaughts in service—and none of them had been assigned to this sector. The dreadnaught design had been superseded by the superdreadnaughts, with the last dreadnaughts being built during the Inheritance Wars. After the wars, some had been sent to the Naval Reserve, while others had been decommissioned and sold as scrap. ONI had warned the Federation Navy that pirates and Outsiders were buying decommissioned ships for their own purposes, but no one had put a stop to the practice. Even a hull, without drives, weapons or sensors, was worth billions of credits.

It stood to reason that warlords would buy up every starship they could find, hiring mercenaries to help fight their wars and defend their worlds against the Federation Navy. It was rare to encounter a mercenary unit with anything larger than a heavy cruiser, but Roman couldn’t think of any reason why one couldn’t have nine dreadnaughts—apart from the crewing issue. A dreadnaught needed upwards of four thousand men to run effectively, although they could have modernized the ship and placed greater dependence on automated systems than the Federation Navy preferred.

Or perhaps one of the warlords had made a deal with the Outsiders and offered support in exchange for military assistance. Roman could see the sense in that, too.

“And AP-2?” Roman asked.

“Nothing, as far as I can tell,” the tactical officer said. “They don’t even have an ICN station on duty near the Asimov Point…”

“Unsurprising,” Roman commented dryly. It wasn’t as if the Marx System had anything to offer, apart from pirates and perhaps a black colony or two. The civil war that had literally destroyed the entire planet hadn’t left much behind. “Still, we will be careful. Very careful.”

Midway slipped towards AP-2 carefully, every passive sensor alert for a prowling starship. Logically, Roman told himself, there was no reason for Governor Hartkopf’s forces to picket the Asimov Point, not when there was nothing to be gained by trying to hold it and no reason to expect anything to come out of it. On the other hand, the governor had to know that Admiral Justinian would turn on him one day and perhaps attempt to use AP-2 as a possible angle of attack. In that case, securing the Asimov Point might seem like a good idea…although there were more direct ways for Justinian to get at his enemy without a costly diversion.

“No sign of any cloaked ship,” the tactical officer reported very quietly. There was no need to speak softly—sound didn’t travel in the vacuum of space—but no one had been able to break crews of the habit. “Still…passive sensors only, sir.”

Roman nodded. Passive sensors wouldn’t give the ship away, but they also meant that Midway’s sensor capability was grossly reduced. A cloaked enemy ship near the Asimov Point might spot them and launch a barrage before Roman’s active sensors located her presence. It was risky, but it cut three weeks off their journey.

“Take us in,” he ordered. Midway glided forwards, very gingerly, as if she expected an ambush at any second. They were within the Asimov Point… “Jump.”

Space twisted around the cruiser, then they were suddenly in the Marx System.

“Report,” Roman snapped. At least missiles weren’t already being fired towards them. “Are we clear?”

“No sign of any watching picket ships, captain,” the sensor officer reported. “The system might as well be deserted.”

“Maybe,” Roman said. It would take months of searching to locate a hidden colony or starship—if the task was even remotely possible. “Helm, take us towards the first waypoint. And then we will go pay a call on The Hive.”

He smiled at their relief. If nothing else, the long trip was finally over.

“It’s time to go hunting,” he assured them. “Let’s see what we can find, shall we?”

FNS Magnificent , Boskone System, 4095

“I understand that you sent for me, admiral?”

Marius leaned back in his chair and contemplated Commodore Arunika. She was pretty, as pretty as she’d been the day they’d first met, back before the Retribution Force had set off on its ill-fated mission. That wasn’t too surprising, considering modern anti-aging treatments—Arunika’s file claimed she was over sixty years old—but what was surprising was that she was still a Commodore. ONI handled promotions internally—the Promotion Board didn’t sit in judgement on Intelligence personnel—yet she should have been promoted long ago.

But then, that would have meant transferring her away from Magnificent . And that suggested all kinds of reasons why she might not have been promoted.

Her file had been remarkably thin, even for his clearance. Arunika had been born on Hindustan—the first world settled from India, back during the Second Expansion Era—and abandoned her caste to join the Federation Navy. She’d also abandoned her surname, a sign that she had turned her back completely on her homeworld. Hindustan wasn’t known for being very tolerant of differences and Marius had heard, from a friend who had visited the planet, that some of its citizens knew little about the Federation and cared less. Some of them might even believe they were still on Earth. Arunika, at least, had known better. ONI had snapped her up during Basic Evaluation and trained her as an analyst, before allowing her to move up in the ranks during the purge that followed the Blue Star War. And, somewhere along the way, she’d been recruited into the Brotherhood.