Christopher Nuttall - Barbarians at the Gates

“I know,” Roman said. Truthfully, he had no idea what to tell Henrietta. He’d kept her on the ship for two years, without hope of freedom. Elf had suggested giving her a new identity and dumping her on a newly-colonized world—where she would have a chance to build a new life for herself—but if he put her down somewhere, she might have betrayed them, willingly or otherwise. If the Marines hadn’t been loyal to Elf—and if the commissioner hadn’t been an idiot, and if they hadn’t managed to avoid a detachment of Internal Security troops—keeping her presence a secret would have been impossible. “What do you think we should tell her?”

Elf shrugged, crossing her arms under her breasts. “If Justinian accepts the offer of amnesty, there is no reason why she couldn’t be included in it.”

Roman swallowed a curse.

“But if so, she might betray us,” he pointed out.

“You’re quite the white knight,” Elf mocked lightly. She uncrossed her arms and pressed her fingers against the transparent bulkhead. “You have two choices: you can kill her, dump her body into space and swear blind that you never saw her… or you keep her alive and accept the risk of betrayal. And if you don’t want to murder a young girl who didn’t ask to be born to the galaxy’s worst traitor since the Convention of Arbroath, you have to accept the risks.”

“I know,” Roman said and nodded. He sighed heavily. “I’ll talk to her.”

“There is another option,” Elf offered. “You could dump her on Wanaka. No one from the Federation can be bothered visiting the planet; it isn’t as if they run the handful of newcomers through DNA scans to check their identity. She could make a good living for herself on the planet’s surface.”

“I doubt it,” Roman said. Wanaka was hardly a testament to female equality. Life on the planet’s surface was nasty, brutish and short. There was no modern medical care, save for medical packages imported by smugglers and reserved for high-ranking personages. “I’ll ask her anyway, and see what she says.”

“Better decide quickly,” Elf said as Roman turned to go. “I think that time is running out for all of us.”

It had taken some creative modification of bulkheads—and not a little barefaced lying—to create a compartment in which Henrietta could hide. Luckily, Midway and her sisters had been built to allow a considerable degree of internal reconfiguration without actually threatening the starship’s structural integrity. The young prisoner—if she was a prisoner; Roman was never actually sure in his own mind—had a bunk, a living room, a food processor and a bathroom. Indeed, she had better quarters than some of his junior officers.

She had had to live in them for the last two years.

She was lying on the bed when Roman entered through the sealed airlock in Marine Country. Few crewmen entered Marine Country willingly, at least without permission, and the hatchway was carefully sealed. An inspection would probably reveal her presence, but Roman had, so far, managed to avoid it. Besides, he’d reconfigured the interior quite a bit, remembering what happened to the Enterprise . The reconfigured command stations had saved the ship from capture and conversion into Admiral Justinian’s flagship.

“Good afternoon,” Roman said, taking a seat near to her bunk.

Henrietta didn’t look up from the terminal she was spooling through, studying history and politics. Roman had found her hundreds of books to read that he’d stored within the terminal, as she couldn’t be allowed access to the starship’s computer network.

When she didn’t respond, he added, “We need to talk.”

Henrietta had lost weight during her captivity and dark bags surrounded her eyes. Elf had told him that even though Henrietta was well-treated, it was impossible to avoid the fact that she was a captive. Being trapped in the small compartment would slowly drive her mad. Roman had felt more than a little guilty when Elf had pointed that out, even though if he’d handed Henrietta over to his superiors, she would have been executed along with most of the captured personnel, as the Senate hadn’t been feeling merciful. Once ONI had drained those prisoners of everything they knew, they’d been formally executed by firing squad.

“Sure,” she said after a long beat. “What can I do for you?”

“We’re on a mission,” Roman told her flatly. “We’re heading right towards your father’s homeworld. Once we get there…”

“You’re going to kill him,” Henrietta said in a matter-of-fact tone.

“I don’t know.” Roman took a breath. “The Senate has agreed to provide Admiral Justinian—your father—and his supporters with a limited form of amnesty. If they surrender without ado, they will be sent into exile rather than being killed outright. I believe that will apply to you as well. I can slip you into the transport so you would go into exile with your father.”

“The Senate never keeps its word.” Henrietta snorted. “Why should I trust them?”

“You do have a choice,” Roman pointed out. “You can stay with us, at least until your father surrenders, or we can dump you on the planet below. It’s called Wanaka. The Senate wouldn’t find you there, even if they had a reason to go looking.”

Henrietta’s face took on the vagueness of someone consulting her implants. Even without access to the computers, she would still have a basic planetary database.

“A barbaric place,” she said finally. “I’ll take my chances with you.”

“I had to offer.” Roman stood up. “I’ll chat with you again as soon as I can.”

“Please stay,” Henrietta said. She sounded lonely. “I just want to talk, I promise.”

Roman hesitated, then sat down again.

The fleet passed through the Wanaka System without incident and made transit into the Farnham System. The settlers there hadn’t wanted more than an agricultural economy, and had been reluctant to sell mining rights to their gas giants to anyone. The Federation Senate had ended the issue—after a great deal of pressure from a couple of interstellar corporations—by rewriting the law to allow the corporations to set up mining cloudscoops without permission. The local settlers had retaliated by refusing to provide any rest and relaxation for the mining engineers, so the system had rapidly become known as a hardship posting for mining crews.

Because the system had been cut off by the rebellion, ONI had no hard evidence on what might be taking place in the Farnham System. It was something of a relief for Admiral Drake to discover that the mining stations had been shut down, at least temporarily. But Marius hadn’t been inclined to take anything for granted, so he’d dispatched a squadron of destroyers to check out the mining stations.

“The Marines confirm that the bases have been placed on standby and abandoned,” Raistlin reported. “There are no signs that anyone has visited the stations since the shutdown.”

“Good,” Marius told him. He studied the display, wondering if Admiral Justinian had placed a single starship within the system. The Grand Fleet was cloaked, but the turbulence caused by the fleet’s maneuvers would probably be detected, cloak or no cloak. “Recall the squadron, then tell the fleet to resume course for the mass limit. We need to keep moving before some unhelpful bastard picks us up and blows the whistle.”

“Aye, sir,” Raistlin said.

He settled back into his command chair and allowed himself a droll smile. Unless they’d missed something, the Grand Fleet’s passage had been undetected and the back door was wide open. All that remained was to kick the door down as hard as possible and keep moving. If they were lucky, they’d get halfway to Jefferson before Justinian even realized they were coming.