Christopher Nuttall - Barbarians at the Gates

Scudder allowed himself a tight smile as the final drops of air flew out of the compartment, leaving only death behind. How could such a sight fail to chill the heart of even the harshest rebel?

“Transmit the recording to the planetary datanet,” he said, once it was all over. “I want them all to see.”

The tiny scout ship had watched from afar as the Grand Fleet had trashed what was left of the system, but they’d been sneaking back to the Asimov Point to reach The Hive when they’d picked up the broadcast. Admiral Justinian had ordered Lieutenant Suzan Bones and her crew to watch the planet and report back if anything occurred that might affect his interests. An invasion—and then a slaughter—definitely counted.

“Those lousy, murdering…”

“Quiet,” Lieutenant Bones ordered. “We need to get this back to the admiral.”

The scout was barely large enough for the four who occupied it. They’d been living in one another’s fumes for weeks, and tempers had been riding high. Even so, they knew their duty; all they had to do was get back to Marx with the data.

And then, Suzan thought mordantly, Admiral Justinian will know just what happened to people stupid enough to surrender to the Federation.

She ran through the situation in her head while cursing under her breath. They’d never counted on Hartkopf being assassinated and his little kingdom falling apart. All of a sudden, new options had opened up for the Federation lickspittles. The admiral had to be warned.

“Entering Asimov Point now,” the helmsman reported.

Suzan nodded.

“Get us out of here!”

Sphinx/Hawthorne System, 4097

“Nothing to report?”

“No, captain,” the sensor officer said. “The sensor board is clear.”

Captain Keller nodded impatiently, and then shook his head. Taking his frustration out on his officers was the mark of a poor commander and he liked to think that he was better than that. Still, it had been three months since Percival had been assigned to the system, and being at Sphinx was not the most glorious of postings. The system was at the end of a chain of Asimov Points that led back to Jefferson, and systems like that tended to worry planners.

It was true that the system had little beyond a handful of RockRat colonies and a tiny independent mining operation. It didn’t really need a picket. The Book, however, insisted that there had to be a picket in all systems. Even without the stardrive, it was possible that a barely-surveyed system might hide a second, undetected Asimov Point.

And if that Asimov Point led into enemy space, the strategic situation would turn upside down, instantly.

It had been a long posting, and he was uneasily aware that he was running out of drills for his crew. They all needed some leave, but there was little hope of finding anything worth enjoying in the Sphinx System. Perhaps he should allow a handful of crewmen to take one of the gunboats and go through the Asimov Point to Hawthorne. The Hawthorne System was nearly as poor and deserted, but at least it had an Earth-like planet and the promise of female company.

“Never mind,” he said, settling back down in his command chair. “Perhaps we should run a few tracking exercises, just to make sure that we don’t get bored.”

The blue icon representing the Asimov Point leading to Hawthorne, blinked on and off on the display. The red icon for the cruiser remained firmly in place, glaring down at Roman coldly, as if it was just waiting for him to come closer. The ship’s commander had actually ordered his ship to remain on station within the Asimov Point itself, a gutsy move when an interpenetration event could destroy his ship before his crew even realized that they were dead.

The cruiser—pre-war databases listed her as the Percival —didn’t have her shields and weapons up, ready to hit a target as soon as one showed itself. If she’d detected Midway and the remainder of the squadron, she would either have transited the Asimov Point and escaped, or opened fire. Unless her captain was insanely brave, he reminded himself. It was quite possible that he was quietly tracking them through passive sensors while lining his weapons up on Roman’s ship.

Roman spoke softly, even though sound couldn’t travel through space.

“Report.”

“One Gamma -class light cruiser and two gunboats,” the sensor officer said, equally quietly. “There’s no sign that they have detected our presence.”

“No,” Roman agreed. “Weapons?”

“We can take her out before she even sees us, sir,” the tactical officer assured him. “The gunboats may be a little trickier. One of them is currently looping around, out of range; it may be able to jump back through the Asimov Point before we destroy it.”

“Yeah,” Roman said. The problem with cloaking devices was that they were far from perfect. The longer they floated near their target, the greater the chance of being detected. “Lock weapons on target.”

“Weapons locked, sir,” the tactical officer said.

Roman sat down in the command chair and straightened his tunic. “On my command,” he ordered. “Fire!”

Midway lurched as she flushed her external racks towards the enemy ship. It was overkill, by at least a factor of ten, but they had to take her out with the first shot. If Percival managed to bring up her drive and transit out, the entire chain would be alerted before the Grand Fleet reached its target.

He watched as the cruiser’s point defense started to lash out—barely coordinated and far too little, too late—and then the missiles struck home. Percival vanished in an eye-tearing blast of light, followed rapidly by one of her gunboats. The second twitched and then started to race towards the Asimov Point, just before an antifighter missile launched from Midway killed her.

“Target destroyed, sir,” the tactical officer reported calmly. “She didn’t pass a message through the Asimov Point.”

“Good,” Roman ordered. “Signal Admiral Drake. Inform him that the point is secure.”

“Admiral,” the communications officer said, “Captain Garibaldi is signalling that the point is secure. The picket ship was destroyed before she could get off a message drone.”

Marius smiled. So far, so good. He had no illusions about how far they’d get before Admiral Justinian realized they were on their way, but the longer they could keep him in the dark, the better. If they had to punch their way through a defended Asimov Point, the Grand Fleet would be badly damaged in the struggle.

“Deploy the assault fleet,” he ordered. “Signal Commodore Goldberg that he may begin the assault when ready.”

He leaned back in his chair and relaxed.

“And send an additional signal to Captain Garibaldi,” he added. “Well done.”

“Captain, Admiral Goldberg is preparing to launch his drones.”

Roman nodded. Jumping blind was something that no naval commander would do if it could be avoided.

“Good,” he said. “Prepare for transition.”

The drones flickered, vanishing from the display. Roman counted silently down in his mind. The latest model of recon drones took two minutes to recycle their drives—assuming they survived the transit and whatever the enemy threw at them—before jumping back to their masters. In that time, their sensors would scan the surrounding area of space and identify enemy fortresses, minefields and starships. The pre-war reports claimed that there was nothing stronger than a pair of fortresses that dated all the way back to the Inheritance Wars, but ONI hadn’t been able to get a lock on what might have been put in place after the current war began.