Democracy 1: Democracy's Right

by Christopher Nuttall

  ***

  Penny made sure to stay out of Percival’s way as he stalked the compartment, clenching his fists and muttering under his breath as he railed against both Captain-Commodore MacDonald and many of his own well-born or well-connected subordinates. Penny had known that Percival had a tendency towards paranoia – it wasn't a bad trait to have if they really were out to get you – yet she was surprised at just how deeply it had worked its way into his mind. He hadn’t been blind to Brent-Cochrane’s manoeuvrings – or his rather-less-than-subtle dig at his commanding officer – and now there was a second officer seemingly intent on pushing him over the brink.

  She smiled inwardly as he bent over the terminal and tapped it rapidly, scrolling through sheets of reports provided by various star systems. He had ordered, against Penny’s advice, that every star system and duty station was to report its status as often as possible – and fired off demerits and demotions for officers who failed to produce comprehensive reports. In theory, it should have allowed him a perfect image of the sector and how it was functioning; in practice, it was just another waste of time, a substitute for real action. She couldn't imagine Brent-Cochrane or another competent officer wasting his time with such garbage.

  Angelika’s position, Penny suspected, was stronger than she had known. If Percival had ordered a board of inquiry to convene, that board of inquiry would have had to look into everything, up to and including the original mutinies that had overwhelmed the Observation Squadron. And, even with a tame board of inquiry, there would be no way to hide the sheer scale of Percival’s failures. By law, the details would have to be communicated to Imperial Navy HQ on Luna, alerting them to the problems in Sector 117. Thanks to the rebels, they were going to know soon enough anyway, but Percival’s board of inquiry would sharpen a few minds. He might as well have signed his own death warrant.

  “Bitch,” Percival said, finally. He brought his hand hard down on the wooden table, shaking it badly. It was real Earth-born wood, a rarity so far from Humanity’s homeworld, and it was worth more than Penny would ever see in her life. And yet, Percival was prepared to damage it, even to destroy it, just because he was angry. “That bitch presumes that she can dictate to me!”

  Penny thought it was safest to say nothing and let him work it out of his system, so she pretended to pay attention as Percival raged, blaming each and everyone – apart from himself – for the disasters that had swept through Sector 117. He stormed backwards and forwards, banging his hand against the bulkheads and the desk, but he didn't lay a hand on her. Penny was relieved, but also puzzled. Had he sensed something about her, perhaps the hope she’d felt after Brent-Cochrane had welcomed her into his circle? Or had he just decided not to take his anger out on her?

  “And so we have to find more Blackshirts and sent them to Jackson’s Folly, where they too will be killed,” Percival finished. “How many Blackshirts can we scrape up if we cut all of the garrisons in the Sector down to the bare minimum?”

  Penny, who had worked the numbers out weeks ago, was ready. “Around seven hundred thousand, sir,” she said, briskly. There just weren't that many Blackshirts left in the Sector, not after the rebels had captured the first invasion force intact and devastated the second force months later. She would be very surprised to discover that a single Blackshirt was left alive on Jackson’s Folly. Percival had stripped out a sizable force for the first invasion and had to do the same for the second invasion. There might be an unlimited supply of Blackshirts – there was no shortage of people willing to join, be injected with tailored drugs and sent out to kill on behalf of the Empire – yet it took time to train up new ones. “I’m afraid that transport is also going to be a bottleneck.”

  “Those goddamned raiders,” Percival exploded. Penny could only nod. She didn’t know how they’d done it, but the rebels had managed to get most of the rebel groups working together, specifically targeting Imperial shipping. Their targeted raids – they were so well targeted that she was sure that they had a source somewhere within Camelot – were having a dangerous effect on local shipping. “God damn those bastards to hell!”

  Penny carefully didn't mention a second problem. No matter how she looked at it, it was alarmingly clear that too much tonnage was disappearing for it to be raiders, unless the raiders possessed a fleet large enough to stand up to several battle squadrons. She hadn't brought it to Percival’s attention, but she suspected that the true explanation was much simpler than they had realised. The ships were vanishing because their crews were mutinying against their superiors – or the shipping lines that held them in bondage – and setting out to find the rebels. It seemed impossible, until she looked at the freighter designs. There was no way they could all be secured without placing a company of Blackshirts on each and every freighter. And that, judging from some of the incidents on Imperial Navy starships, would do nothing for morale.

  By her off-hand calculations, the shipping in Sector 117 was disappearing at an alarming rate, damaging the ties that held the sector together. What would happen then? There was no way to know for sure, but some of the planets simply couldn’t feed themselves, which would result in mass starvation. At least the rebels hadn't been targeting cloudscoops, although that might change in a hurry. A shortage of HE-3 would ensure that interstellar shipping ground to a halt. And what would Percival do then?

  She looked up as the door chime rang, insistently. Percival strode over to his desk and slapped his hand hard down on the release, opening the hatch. William Derbyshire entered and blinked owlishly at Percival, as if he were a mild-mannered professor rather than Imperial Intelligence’s Head of Station. Percival seemed to calm down instantly; he might have been the Sector Commander, but a complaint from Imperial Intelligence would result in his demotion and transfer to the other side of the Empire.

  “Ah, Admiral,” Derbyshire said. He took a seat without being invited and pulled a sealed datachip out of his pocket, opening it with his thumbprint and inserting it into the desktop processor. “There has been something of a development.”

  He looked up as the symbol of Imperial Intelligence appeared on the display. “We have been tapping all of our assets in the Beyond to attempt to locate the rebels,” he said. “It was not an easy task. The Beyond is a very paranoid place and even those who are well-known in the community don’t know everything. Indeed, those who are well-known may know the least, because they’re easy for everyone to find. The people maintain their privacy and mind their own business...”

  “Sounds like paradise,” Percival growled, impatiently. Derbyshire smiled, indulgently. “What did one of your tame mouthpieces find?”

  “It would have to be a tame ear,” Derbyshire said, absently. Penny realised that he was enjoying mocking Percival, or making him wait before he uncovered his secret. “We only use mouthpieces to spread lies and propaganda throughout the Beyond. We have been spreading propaganda about the rebels, but alas – the Beyond doesn't seem to believe us. I fear we may have lost several mouthpieces to their counter-intelligence teams.”

  “Never mind that,” Percival ordered. “What did you learn?”

  Derbyshire looked up at him. “Oh, nothing too much,” he said. “Just the location of the rebel base.”

  Percival’s mouth opened. No sound came out.

  “One of our deep-cover agents was invited to the meeting where they announced their Popular Front,” Derbyshire explained, grinning. “It took the agent some time to get to a more...open asteroid, but once he made it...why, the message was passed on to a covert team and sent back here. The commander made the call to come here directly, rather than continue with his program, and I’m sure that you will agree that he deserves a reward. I have taken the liberty of writing him a commendation in your name, as well as urging that he be promoted as soon as possible. The Empire needs minds that can react and adapt plans – or abandon them – at short notice.”

  At any other time, Percival would have exploded at the thought of someone else
daring to use – even by proxy – his authority. Instead, he just stared at the desktop processor, as if it contained the key to eternal life – or, perhaps, to eternal patronage. Penny could almost read his thoughts. If he destroyed – or crippled – the rebellion, perhaps he wouldn't lose his power and position after all.

  “Good,” Percival said, savagely. “Do the rebels know that we know?”

  “I do not believe so,” Derbyshire said, thoughtfully. “They may not, however, keep using the same base forever.”

  “So we move now,” Percival said, sharply. He looked over at Penny. “What ships do we have on station?”

  “Commodore MacDonald’s squadron is the most powerful one on hand,” Penny said. Percival scowled. It would mean putting the chance for glory in the hands of a junior officer he hated, but he would still be able to claim some of the credit. “If you waited two weeks, we could send one of the superdreadnaught squadrons or...”

  “No,” Percival said. His mood had completely changed. “I want you to write the orders for the good Commodore. She’s to go capture the rebel base; I want the rebels here, in chains, for trial and execution. If the base cannot be captured, they are to blow it and withdraw.”

  “Yes, sir,” Penny said. Watching Percival act decisively was odd. “I’ll send the orders at once.”

  “And then report back here,” Percival added. “I think we need to celebrate.”

  Penny nodded, keeping the disgust off her face.

  ***

  Angelika received her new orders philosophically, although she noted that if her squadron happened to run into the rebel superdreadnaughts – again – the results were unlikely to be any better than the last time. She uploaded the coordinates into the squadron’s navigational database, checked that all weapons and supplies were loaded into her ships, and then ordered her squadron to move away from the planet and the ring or orbital defences. Seven thousand kilometres from Camelot, her ships flickered out and vanished.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  “There’s nothing new on the passive scans, Captain,” the tactical officer said. “The only shipping in the system are the asteroid miners and the local defence ships.”

  Captain Daniel Hawthorne nodded, forcing himself to walk back to the command chair and sit down. Peering over his officer’s shoulder was accomplishing nothing, even though he was tenser than he wanted to admit. He wanted to see some action and, so far, they’d hung in the Greenland System for over two weeks without anything happening. They couldn't even rotate crew through the system’s shore leave facilities. The orders from Commodore Brent-Cochrane had been simple. They were to remain in the system, unknown even to the local System Command, and wait. When the rebels arrived, they were to power up their drive and jump out of the system to where the Commodore and his fleet were waiting.

  It was a mission suited to a destroyer – the smallest true warship in service – yet it wasn't one that suited Daniel, nor was it one fitting for a man of his seniority. He should have been commanding a heavy cruiser or maybe even a battlecruiser, but an evening of drunken rudeness to a senior officer had put an end to that. He’d been ordered to take command of Snow White, a destroyer, and all that his seniority could do was keep him from being summarily dismissed. Was it any surprise that he'd climbed into a bottle? It was far more surprising that Commodore Brent-Cochrane, having taken command of the squadron, had helped him to climb out of it and assigned him to new responsibilities. It went against the grain to admit that he needed help from such a young man – regeneration treatments or not, he would have been astonished if the Commodore was any older than forty – but perhaps it was working. Or perhaps not; he had been floating in orbit, all systems powered down as far as they would go without depowering his ship, for two weeks...and he was bored.

  He glanced around the bridge, scowling as he studied the displays. The bridge was cramped – the seven officers on duty rubbed shoulders far more than they should – and cold, despite his uniform. The destroyer’s sixty crewmen were good sorts, at least, but he’d heard the grumbles and knew that they didn't want to stay under blackout conditions much longer. Neither did their Captain, of course, yet he understood the importance of their mission. It wasn't something he could share with the crew.

  “The rebels are very likely to target your assigned worlds,” Commodore Brent-Cochrane had said. He’d positioned his ships in interstellar space, which was against doctrine, but would give them an excellent chance of being able to respond to a crisis as soon as it appeared. “If they target your world, I want you to jump out and whistle up the troops without being detected. The rebels won’t have time to bring up their own sensors before you’re out of there.”

  “Continue tracking the freighters,” he ordered. Like Piccadilly, Greenland was owned and operated solely by the Roosevelt Family. The Imperial Navy had been asked to stand guard in the system, reinforcing the two orbital fortresses and the hundreds of automated weapons platforms, but Brent-Cochrane had chosen to creatively interpret his orders. If the rebels did attack the system, he’d calculated, his force would have time to intercept before serious harm was done. It wasn’t an attitude calculated to please the Roosevelt representative at Camelot and Daniel was sure that angry messages were already burning up the light years towards Earth. “Perhaps we can run a few tracking exercises, or maybe just tighten up the scans.”

  He settled back into his chair and tried to relax. Stacy Roosevelt had actually tried to issue orders directly to Brent-Cochrane’s squadron, a serious breach of military etiquette. Daniel rather hoped that she would be summarily dismissed from the Imperial Navy for gross incompetence – the Imperial Navy had lost ships before, but no one had ever managed to lose nine superdreadnaughts to a set of boarding parties – but he doubted that it would come to that. Her Family would manage to save her career, yet the Imperial Navy would probably try to send her somewhere harmless. There was no shortage of places to send young officers who couldn't be trusted not to screw up on a more serious posting.

  “Two more ships, Captain,” the sensor officer reported. Two new green icons flickered into life, new freighters heading down towards the planet. Interstellar trade within the sector was starting to die away now, even though the interplanetary trade was as strong as ever. Perhaps the rebel raiders were being careful about coming deep into an unfriendly star system, or perhaps they were just concentrating on exterminating the interstellar shipping first. Daniel scowled. That was where he should be, watching over helpless freighters as they moved from system to system, not wasting his time on a system that was perfectly capable of looking after itself. “One of the freighters has an unusual drive signature.”

  Daniel looked up, interested. Any relief from boredom was welcome. “Is it a rebel ship trying to be cute?”

  “Uncertain, sir,” the sensor officer said. “It could be the result of normal wear and tear, or it could be a Captain trying to pretend to be a merchant ship and not succeeding very well. We could try to slip closer and take a look at it, perhaps test the cloaking device against active sensors...”

  “No,” Daniel said, reluctantly. Sneaking up on a freighter was easy, as thousands of pirates and millions of dead spacers could testify, even without a cloaking device. Snow White could probably do it without losing her cover, yet he knew better than to try. The Commodore had been most specific. They were to remain undercover until – if – the rebels attacked and only then were they to break cover. “We stay here and remain hidden.”

  The sensor officer scowled, but nodded. Under cloak, they could remain hidden indefinitely, at least until they came close to the defences surrounding the planet. After what had happened at Piccadilly, the Roosevelt Family knew exactly what could happen to their other planets and had issued new orders. No starship was to be allowed to approach the defences without proving its identity several times over, using new identification codes that were being hand-carried from star to star. If Snow White ventured too close, the chances were good that
the turbulence she would leave in her wake would be detected and she would be fired upon before she could identify herself. The last thing he wanted to do was die at the hands of friendly forces.

  Daniel shared his frustration, but there was nothing he could do, apart from endless drills and repair work. He was proud of his crew, for all that they were fewer in number than he deserved, than he had earned through his years of service to the Empire. Snow White was a tight little ship, even if her previous Captain had insisted on decorating her with images of a dark-haired woman with extraordinarily pale skin. Some of the images were nude, yet still demure, as if the girl was imbued with inner dignity. Daniel had found the images haunting at first, but he had grown to love them over the years. He had no idea what the crew thought about it.

  “Hold us here,” he ordered. The two newcomers were heading down towards the planet, exchanging signs and countersigns with the defences. A Marine assault shuttle was already flying towards them, intent on searching the ships before they were allowed to come any closer. “I think it’s time for a drill.”

  Without further delay, he hit a pre-programmed set of commands and the alert sirens began to blare through the hull.

  ***

  “And so all of the repairs have been completed,” Flag Captain Jeremy Damiani said. His statement was echoed by the other Captains, whose ghostly images floated in the middle of Colin’s stateroom like spectres at a feast. The Imperial Navy might insist on all such discussions being done in person, but Colin saw no reason to maintain an outdated tradition. Besides, he suspected that it was done so that the various commanders could show off their cooks and the Popular Front had no time for such nonsense. “We are fully combat-capable and raring to go.”