“Seems flimsy,” William said.
He shook his head. Set up a penal colony, dump prisoners . . . and then not give them what they needed to establish a permanent settlement. It looked more like an exercise in sadism than anything else, except the Theocracy had lavished resources on the penal world. They could have been sadistic without shipping the prisoners away from their homeworlds. No, it made no sense at all.
“I looked through the manifests,” Doctor Braham added. “We think there’s around seven thousand prisoners on the planet’s surface, mostly from Verdean. However, the manifests state that over twenty thousand prisoners were dumped onto the surface. That’s a hellish loss rate by anyone’s standards.”
William shivered. “How does it compare to ours?”
“I don’t know,” Doctor Braham admitted. “As far as I know, no one has ever actually studied the development of our penal colonies. But then, most of the prisoners are guilty of appalling crimes. For all we know, the truly bad ones get killed shortly after they’re dumped on the surface.”
“Probably,” William agreed. The worst of criminals were often killed by their fellow inmates, even in a secure jail. He doubted any of them would survive for long on a penal colony, not if their crimes were common knowledge. “It’s not the same, is it?”
“No,” Doctor Braham agreed. She cleared her throat. “A number of prisoners are suffering from various diet-related illnesses despite considerable levels of genetic engineering. Luckily, regular food will help them recover, but they’ll be weak for some time to come. The remainder should be fine once they’ve had a chance to relax and eat; there’s more than enough food for them, thanks to the captured ships. Long-term, of course, they may manifest other health problems. We don’t have time to do a full medical check on each and every one of them.”
“I’ll inform the captain,” William said. “Is there anyone we can use?”
“You’ll have to check the manifests,” Doctor Braham said. “I wasn’t interested in anything other than their health.”
“Understood,” William said. It was unlikely the Theocracy would choose to maroon trained spacers, not when it had ways of making them obedient, but it was possible. He’d check the manifests before reporting to the captain. “Do you think any of them will pose a threat?”
“There may be some extreme behavior,” Doctor Braham said, slowly. “For better or worse, most of them believed they’d been dumped to die—quite rightly, given the evidence. They had no hope of doing anything more than living as long as they could, then dropping dead. Now that they’re free, or at least have real hope, they may act out in unpredictable ways. And if any of them were loyal to the Theocracy . . .”
“Or conditioned,” William interjected.
“Or conditioned,” Doctor Braham agreed, “we probably won’t know until it blows up in our face. All we can really do is keep an eye on them and hope nothing goes badly wrong.”
William nodded. He couldn’t imagine anyone remaining loyal to the Theocracy after being dumped on an icy hellworld, but people had remained loyal to unworthy governments in the past, despite being treated like shit. It was just something else the crew would have to watch—and watch carefully. A single person who’d been conditioned, without know ing he’d been conditioned, might explode like a time bomb at the worst possible moment. He wouldn’t set off any alarms because he wouldn’t know he was lying. Only a deep mind probe would find the truth . . .
And such a deep probe would do more harm than good, William thought sourly.
“I’ll report to the captain,” he said. “And thank you.”
Doctor Braham nodded curtly. William left Sickbay and walked to the intelligence section, where a team of staffers was already going through everything pulled from the station’s computers and matching it against what they already knew. There was little direct data, he saw, but quite a bit that could be mined for useful intelligence. Later, once the former prisoners were on the freighters, they would be interrogated too. The oldest of them had been on the planet no longer than six years. They’d have more up-to-date information than any secondgeneration refugee.
He pulled up the prisoner manifest and ran through it. The Theocracy hadn’t bothered to compile a proper manifest; most of the prisoners, he saw, had been classed as insurgents, questioners, or heretics. He was surprised the latter had remained alive long enough to be dumped on the icy world, but perhaps there was a certain sense to it. The Theocracy would assume that mere death wasn’t good enough for the heretics, not when they needed to suffer first. And, judging by the vast numbers who’d died on the penal colony, they’d succeeded magnificently.
Bastards, he thought savagely.
There didn’t seem to be anyone immediately useful, much to his irritation. He wasn’t sure he would have trusted any former prisoner with military-grade technology, but it would have been nice to have some extra crews for the captured freighters. Shrugging, he made a copy of the data, then checked the latest updates from the surface. The captured soldiers had been dispatched to the planet’s surface in landing pods, while the first prisoners were being brought up to the ships now.
He shrugged, then walked through the ship to the captain’s office and pressed the buzzer once. The door slid open, revealing the captain studying the fleet readiness reports from the rest of the squadron. William had to smile; how long would it be, he wondered, before the other ships started complaining that they weren’t being given a chance to take a swing at the enemy? But then, they had fired on the convoy escort ships . . .
“Captain,” he said, saluting. “I have the report from the doctor.”
He outlined what he’d heard and then leaned forward. “Most of them are from a single world,” he said. “There’s clearly something going on there.”
“I know,” the captain said. She tapped a switch, then motioned for him to take a chair as a holographic image sprung to life. “Verdean. Settled in 2300, according to the old UN files; apparently, the original settlers were a French offshoot who had no real interest in settling on the official French-ethnic worlds. The files don’t go into details on why, or how they managed to remain separate from New France, but they convinced the UN to give them a settlement grant and a colony ship. They were quite well established by the time the Breakaway Wars began.”
She shrugged. “Like us, they took no official part in the conflict,” she added after a moment. “And that’s the last we heard of them until now. They were already behind the Theocracy’s borders by the time we realized we needed to gear up for war.”
“They couldn’t have been occupied for very long,” William said thoughtfully. “Not if there’s a resistance movement still in existence.”
“No, they couldn’t have been,” the captain agreed. She gave him a mischievous smile that almost made him wish he was younger and out of the chain of command. “And they’re barely twenty light years from our current location.”
William smiled back. “You intend to attack?”
“I certainly intend to scout out the system,” the captain said. Her smile widened. “It occurs to me that we have several thousand former resistance fighters, a great deal of captured weapons, and a restive world. Dumping both the fighters and the weapons onto Verdean might give the Theocracy a few nasty headaches.”
“Or they might simply wreck the world from orbit,” William said. He didn’t disagree with the captain, but it was his job to point out the downsides. “They’re not likely to restrain themselves if they feel their grasp on the world is weakening.”
“The resistance may have to choose if they wish to fight or not,” the captain said. “All we can do is give them the opportunity.”
“They could stockpile the weapons and build up their forces,” William suggested. “When we liberate the system properly, they could hit the bastards on the ground.”
“Their choice too,” the captain said. “I’ve asked for two representatives from the resistance to join us.”
“What they know will be out of date,” William warned.
“I know,” the captain said. “But it’s the best we have.”
* * * * *
Jean-Luc couldn’t help feeling bitter envy as he and Perrier followed the Marine through the starship’s corridors and into the captain’s office. If Verdean had had such ships, it would never have fallen when the Theocracy arrived; it would never have known the humiliation of submission to an alien religion and an alien way of life. But Verdean had never been wealthy, never been able to afford more than a pair of destroyers to ward itself against outside threats. The formal battle for his homeworld had lasted, he’d been told, less than an hour.
He blinked in surprise when he saw the starship’s captain. She was young, so young he would have classed her as no older than himself; beside her, the grizzled older man looked far more like a commanding officer. But there was no mistaking the gold star on her collar, or the simple fact she was sitting behind a desk. Perrier hesitated, then snapped a salute; Jean-Luc, unsure of what to say or do, merely nodded. The captain didn’t seem inclined to take offense.
“Welcome aboard,” the captain said. Her voice was sweet, all the more so for being the only female voice he’d heard in a year. “I’m Captain Falcone of the Royal Tyre Navy; this is Commander McElney, my XO. Thank you for coming.”
“Thank you for coming,” Perrier said. “I don’t think I have the words to say just how grateful we are.”
The captain nodded. “I’ll get right to the point,” she said. “The Commonwealth and the Theocracy are currently at war. Our king has stated his intention of eventually taking the conflict into Theocratic space, liberating the worlds currently held in bondage and occupying their homeworld in hopes of preventing a resurgence of the war. Our mission is currently to make their lives as miserable as possible, buying time for a major offensive to be prepared.”
Perrier smiled. “Sounds like a good idea to us,” he said. “How may we be of service?”
“It is my intention to scout out your homeworld, then plot a raid,” the captain said. She must have sent a command, somehow, for a holographic star chart appeared over her desk. “You’ll notice that we’re not actually far from Verdean. Assuming we can break the defenses without risking major losses, I will do so—and then hammer the enemy positions on the surface. I then intend to insert you and your men onto the ground before the enemy can rally a counterattack.”
“Interesting,” Perrier said. “You don’t intend to hold the system?”
“I don’t have the firepower if the enemy comes in force,” the captain admitted. “I may hang around long enough to lure them into a trap, but that will be tricky. There’s very little leeway to do anything but get out before they pin us down.”
Jean-Luc coughed. “So you can get us down, but not help us?”
“You would need to decide if you intend to continue the fight or remain underground until your world can be liberated completely,” the captain said. “We couldn’t force that choice on you.”
Perrier considered it for a long moment. “We were slowly being strangled when I was captured,” he said. He glanced at Jean-Luc. “I don’t think the situation has gotten any better since.”
“Oh, no,” Jean-Luc said. He forced himself to feel anger. Anger was far better than the helpless despair that had convinced him to throw himself at the janissaries, fully expecting that they would kill him. “It was dire when I was captured. They killed my family for nothing, after they’d had their fun. It’s a fucking nightmare.”
“Language,” Perrier said quietly.
“I’ve heard worse,” the captain assured him.
She gave Jean-Luc a smile tinged with sadness. “We will spend the next couple of days going through everything you know, then we will start preparing you for the insertion,” she added. “If we don’t, or we can’t complete that objective, for whatever reason, we will find another option. You’ll have your chance to make them pay for what they’ve done.”
“Thank you,” Jean-Luc said. “But when will our world be liberated?”
“I wish I could give you a timetable,” the captain said. “We need to keep them off balance while we gather our forces, then take the offensive and ram straight into their territory. I hope it won’t be long, but . . .”
“We understand,” Perrier said. “Any help you give us will be very welcome.”
Beside him, Jean-Luc nodded in agreement.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
It had been years since Admiral Junayd had visited the Aswan System, back when he’d been supervising the border defenses before the Theocracy started preparing for war in earnest, and he hadn’t been too impressed at the time. Aswan existed as little more than a forward operational base, a minor shipyard and industrial node; too far from the border to support the offensive, too close to be transformed into a major industrial base. Even now, with a war on, it didn’t seem to have been improved. A single squadron of superdreadnoughts held station orbiting the planet itself and another squadron drifted near the shipyard, while several dozen smaller ships flitted around the system or dropped in and out of hyperspace at will.
He stood on the bridge of the light cruiser God’s Faithful and felt cold anger congealing inside his heart. Aswan hadn’t been one of his responsibilities while he’d been planning the offensive against Cadiz, but he’d been expecting better from the commodore in command of the base. It was depressingly clear that he’d allowed standards to lapse: the light cruiser, which had dropped out of hyperspace twenty minutes ago, hadn’t been challenged, even though it was on a direct course towards the planet itself. The superdreadnoughts, which should have been on alert, seemed to have been stood down. He hoped he was wrong, but experience suggested otherwise.
It’s Cadiz in reserve , he thought. He had no idea why Admiral Morrison had cared so little for even basic precautions, but he would make damn sure that the commodore got the punishment his Commonwealth counterpart had earned. And if the enemy attacked, all hell would break loose.
“Admiral,” Captain Erith said, “we are being challenged.”
“Finally,” Admiral Junayd snapped. “Send them my command codes, then inform Commodore Malian that I wish to see him the moment I board.”
“Yes, Admiral,” Captain Erith said.
Admiral Junayd ignored him, concentrating on the display. The defenses looked formidable, at least, and the sensors were active . . . but why hadn’t his ship been challenged? Had they been so confident that he was friendly? Or were they merely being idiots? If Admiral Junayd could take a spy ship into enemy space, there was no reason the Commonwealth couldn’t do the same. He ground his teeth with anger. It was bad enough that he’d been made the scapegoat for the Theocracy’s failure to close the trap properly, a problem caused by Princess Drusilla, but to have to cope with incompetence . . .
He swore under his breath, then turned to look at the captain. “Order my staff to be ready to board the station as soon as we dock,” he said. “I don’t want to waste any time.”
A dull shiver ran through the ship as it docked. Admiral Junayd steadied himself, then walked down to the airlock, ignoring the sharp glances Captain Erith threw at him. It wasn’t hard to guess that Erith was worried about his career too, but Admiral Junayd found it hard to give a damn. Right now, he had a far more important problem to worry about. Unless his guess was very wrong, those superdreadnoughts were in poor repair.
And should be at the front, he thought as he stepped through the airlock. The thought of what he could have done with an extra squadron of superdreadnoughts—let alone two—was thoroughly unpleasant, but unavoidable. He could have trapped and destroyed both Commonwealth fleets, then ripped through the defenses of a dozen worlds. But there’s no point in worrying over what might have been.
A small party met him at the airlock, led by Commodore Malian and his cleric. Admiral Junayd studied both of them for a long moment; the commodore looked alarmingly fat and happy, while the c
leric had the dimwitted expression common to men who’d been promoted above their level of competence. Junayd felt another surge of hatred and then fought it down; he believed, but he hated men who thought their belief made them more competent than those who had studied war for decades. There was no point in making a second enemy right now.
“Admiral Junayd,” Commodore Malian said. “Allow me to welcome you . . .”
“You will take me to your office at once,” Admiral Junayd said, cutting him off. He had no interest in an extended series of welcoming speeches that would be long on flowery religious references and short on anything useful. “The rest of your staff can return to their duties.”
The commodore gaped at him, then hastened to obey. Admiral Junayd muttered orders to his staff, then followed the commodore through a series of twisting corridors and up to his office, which was surprisingly luxurious. A warrior was meant to have a bare office, Admiral Junayd had been taught, but the commodore had clearly gone soft. The bulkheads were decorated with paintings, the chairs were sinfully comfortable, and the desk was made of real wood. What had his cleric been doing? Maybe the idiot was smart enough to understand his own ignorance, but surely he could have noticed everything in plain view? Or had the commodore merely convinced him that it was vital for the war effort that the CO was allowed to decorate his own office? “Sit,” Admiral Junayd ordered. “Explain. Now.”
Commodore Malian stared at him, his eyes wide. “Explain what, sir?”
“Your command failed to challenge my ship until we were already alarmingly close to the planet,” Admiral Junayd said. “Your starships appear to be concentrated here, rather than on patrol or scattered over the numerous potential targets in the sector. Your superdreadnought squadrons look to be in very low readiness; indeed, the only area where you can reasonably be said to have lived up to regulations concerns planetary defenses. Explain.”
He lowered his voice. “And you can also explain,” he added, “why I shouldn’t be sending you back in chains, charged with corruption and gross incompetence.”
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