Democracy's Right: Book 02 - Democracy's Might

by Christopher Nuttall

  “Send them the complete report, then tell them to nominate my replacement,” Amir ordered, tartly. “You have the deck.”

  He stepped through the hatch, into his cabin. It was a nice suite, he had to admit; it housed himself, his wife and his two children quite comfortably. But their lives would be blighted too, even though they had nothing to do with his mistakes. The Sandakan Family had no tolerance for failure, even among their own kin. They’d be lucky if they weren't told to spend the rest of their lives on a world that, no matter how comfortable, was very definitely a prison.

  Pouring himself a glass of wine, he sat down at his desk and studied the pictures he’d hung on the walls. His wife was gorgeous, thanks to the most elaborate cosmetic surgery money could buy, while his twin girls were the cutest little girls in the universe. Maybe they were at the stage where they were dreadfully embarrassed when their father called them cute, but they were cute. Amir looked at their long dark hair, framing their dark faces, and felt a pang of guilt. They were his daughters and he had failed them.

  He opened the desk drawer and removed the pistol. It had been a present from his crew when he'd left Fortress Command, something he valued because no one could have forced them to offer him something so practical. Normally, sycophants would produce a plaque or something that required minimal effort. A working pistol would require hours of paperwork, particularly a chemical weapon instead of a plasma blaster.

  Placing the weapon on the table, he scribbled three notes. One for his XO, who would have to assume command; one for his wife, to apologise for his failure; one to the Family Head, accepting full responsibility for the disaster. By now, for all he knew, word had already reached Earth. Humanity’s homeworld was only eight light years away, after all.

  He hesitated, then reached for the pistol. Quite calmly, he put the weapon to his temple and pulled the trigger.

  ***

  Patrick slowly fought his way back to full awareness. His chest hurt, as did his head, pounding away as if someone was firing cannons inside his skull. But, as he opened his eyes, the pain slowly started to fade away. He was lying on a bed in sickbay, a concerned-looking doctor staring down at him. Behind the doctor, Cordova was waiting.

  “Captain,” he croaked. “I ...”

  “A bad case of jump shock,” the doctor said, briskly. She looked over at Cordova. “He really needs to take it easy for a day or two, as do the other victims.”

  “I know,” Cordova said. “We’re going to have to wait here for a few days in any case, at least until we repair the drive and replace the damaged components. The crew can recuperate in peace.”

  Patrick forced himself to sit up. “The crew?”

  “A third of the crew has jump shock,” the doctor said, sharply. She gave him an assessing look. “I’m not too surprised, really. Making such a jump could easily have killed everyone on the ship.”

  “It was that or die,” Cordova said. “But we made it out.”

  Patrick nodded. “How many ships?”

  “We lost seven,” Cordova admitted, reluctantly. “But we wiped out most of the shipyard and probably wrecked the Sandakan Family. Not a bad rate of exchange, I feel.”

  “Perhaps.” Patrick agreed. Seven ships, a fifth of the raiding fleet. But, right now, the Empire would have real trouble rebuilding its superdreadnaught squadrons. They only had one Class-III shipyard left, in the Terra Nova System. “Terra Nova?”

  “It's too obvious,” Cordova said. Clearly, he’d been having similar thoughts. “And they will guard it thoroughly as soon as they hear about Wolf 359.”

  “And it would be harder to attack in any case,” Patrick said. The Terra Nova Shipyard, like the Jupiter Shipyard, orbited a gas giant. They couldn't launch a flicker attack and hope to survive. Unless they used smaller shuttles ... “Captain ...”

  “Get some rest,” Cordova ordered. He gave Patrick a brilliant smile. “We’re safe now. We can take a day or two to recuperate ...”

  “Do it in your own cabin,” the doctor ordered. She marched over and made irritated gestures at them. “I need the bed.”

  Cordova nodded, then helped Patrick to his feet. “Get some rest, then join me for our next planning session,” he ordered. “Or talk someone into bed, if you like. We do have plenty of time to think about planning our next course of action.”

  He snickered, then winked. “And just think! These are the problems of victory. How do you think they’re feeling?”

  Patrick had to smile. By now, word would definitely have reached Earth. The Thousand Families would be near panic. Who knew how they’d react? How could they react?

  Maybe they will negotiate, he thought. It didn't seem very likely. Or maybe they will resort to desperate measures.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Whiplash, Tiberius thought. We have whiplash.

  Admiral Wachter’s courier boats had broken all speed records to get news of the Battle of Morrison back to Earth. But, a day after the news from Morrison had arrived, word had arrived from Wolf 359. The giant shipyard and industrial production facility had effectively been destroyed. Countless facilities were gone and the workforce was dead.

  The effect had been immediate. Confidence in the Sandakan Family had collapsed, particularly after the Family Head moved to secure the family's remaining investments. Right now, they were on the slippery slope towards bankruptcy and the remaining families were rapidly calculating how best to take advantage of the situation – or avoid being dragged down with the Sandakan Family. And Tiberius knew that their collapse would hurt his family. There were outstanding debts and contracts that would never be honoured.

  He watched with grim amusement as the Families Council convened. The Sandakan had, naturally, been told that his presence was no longer welcome. Surprisingly, he had tried to fight, to insist on his rights, even though his family was struggling for survival. It had taken Tiberius several minutes to realise that the council vote could be farmed out to the highest bidder, even though that was technically against the rules. But then, rules were what the Thousand Families said they were.

  Grand Admiral Porter was the first to speak.

  “The latest report from Wolf 359 states that over eighty-five percent of the total productive facility has been lost,” he said, in a droning voice that tried to minimise the effects of the blow. “Long-term effects will hamper our ability to rebuild our fleets and resupply the Imperial Navy with anything larger than a destroyer or light cruiser. Even our missile production facilities have been impacted. Shortages can be expected for several months to come before we can reconfigure other industrial nodes ...”

  Tiberius listened, carefully, as the Admiral droned on. Nothing he said was new, precisely, but he’d hoped that there would be encouragement. Instead, the news was almost worse than he had feared. At best, their plans to take the offensive against the rebels would have to be put off for several years, despite the victory at Morrison. And at worst ... the rebels might just have scored a war-winning blow.

  “I trust,” Lord Rothschild said, “that steps have been taken to secure Terra Nova?”

  “I have ordered the dispatch of an additional superdreadnaught squadron from Home Fleet,” Admiral Porter said. “My analysts are already considering additional security measures for the system.”

  “Such matters are my family’s responsibility,” Lord Bernadotte snapped. “By long custom ...”

  “Right now, your shipyard is the only one capable of replacing the lost superdreadnaughts,” Lord Rothschild pointed out. “Failing to protect it could be disastrous.”

  And it has nothing to do with the fact you want a lever over your rival, Tiberius thought, coldly. Taking the shipyards into general ownership would please you, wouldn't it?

  “My Household Troops will not be caught on the hop,” Lord Bernadotte said. “It was damn careless of the Sandakan to leave such a flaw in the yard’s security.”

  “But not one he was responsible for,” Tiberius muttered.
<
br />   Lord Bernadotte glared at him. “And you think I am responsible for the poor decisions of my ancestors?”

  Tiberius resisted the urge to point out that was exactly what he had tried to imply about the Sandakan, but held his peace.

  “We cannot afford to lose your shipyard,” Lord Rothschild said, softly. “You will maintain full control of the installation. We will merely provide security.”

  “That can be handled later,” Tiberius said. “We must now consider the long-term course of the war – and the future of the Empire.”

  He took a breath, then pressed on. “The Sandakan Family is unable to meet its debts,” he said, flatly. All of his analysts agreed on that point, although they weren't certain just how long it would be before the final collapse. Like most of the Thousand Families, the Sandakan Family had assets that were off the books. “When it goes down, it will seriously damage the rest of us.”

  There were nods of agreement. Even if the families worked together, they were all going to take a blow. And the families were simply not good at working together.

  “We cannot afford another blow like that,” Tiberius continued. “I think we should seriously consider coming to terms with the rebels.”

  “Out of the question,” Lord Bernadotte thundered. “This is the worst possible moment for considering peace with the rebels.”

  Tiberius met his eyes. “We won a victory at Morrison,” he said. “The rebels were knocked out of the system, in complete and total disarray. But we lost Wolf 359, which threatens our ability to replace our losses as well as our entire economic edifice. What happens if we take another blow like that? What happens if we have to keep paying for the war effort while we are unable to pay debts and meet our obligations?

  “We might win the war and lose the Empire.

  “This is our moment to offer peace terms,” he added. “Let the rebels have Sector 117. Let them have their other conquests. Let them take the underground members from Earth and the rest of the Core Worlds. We will reconfigure our economy, recover from the war and replace our losses. By then, the war can be restarted with impunity.”

  “You would be forcing us all to accept massive losses,” Lord Rothschild said, thoughtfully. “None of the rebel conquests would be returned to us.”

  “Better to lose part of the Empire than all of it,” Tiberius insisted. “Right now, the rebels are just as shocked as we are. But once they run the calculations for themselves, they will know that we are actually in a very weak position. And then they will resume the war.”

  “You're young,” Lord Bernadotte said.

  “And what,” Tiberius asked sharply, “does my youth have to do with anything?”

  “The young are idealistic, just like the fools who believed that the Empress would reform the system and – just incidentally, give them power and position,” Lord Bernadotte hissed. “You do not realises, young man, that we cannot let our grip on power slack. Do you really imagine, in your ivory tower, that the population loves us? What do you think would happen if we allowed another interstellar power to exist?

  “I’ll tell you what will happen,” he added. “We will be out-produced. The Geeks and Nerds will push the limits of technology as far as they will go. It won’t be long before our economy is completely up-ended by their research, while we struggle to repair the damage from the war. And the mere existence of a different political system will give our population ideas, won’t it? No matter what we do, they will be discontented. They will revolt.”

  He looked around the table, as if he were pleading with them to understand. “We stand at the top of a very shaky power structure,” he said. “We are, in effect, riding a tiger. But if we try to get off, the tiger will eat us.”

  “And if we try to stay on,” Tiberius said, “we may be knocked off anyway.”

  Lord Bernadotte ignored him. “For the past thousand years, we have controlled the Empire to suit ourselves,” he said. “We have rewritten the laws as necessary. We have absorbed, assimilated or destroyed competition. Anyone who looked like posing a threat to our dominance was simply pushed out of business. But how well would we do if we no longer controlled everything? Would we be able to compete?”

  He was right, Tiberius knew. But would they be able to stay in control?

  “The best we could hope for,” Lord Bernadotte concluded, “is a gradual loss of power and eventual collapse. What else would there be for us?”

  “Perhaps we could reconfigure ourselves to survive, even in a universe of free competition,” Tiberius suggested.

  “And are you,” Lord Bernadotte asked, “willing to take that chance?”

  He met Tiberius’s eyes. “Are you willing to risk everything your ancestors built up, knowing that it could all be lost?”

  “I believe that it is already at stake,” Tiberius said, stiffly. “Even if all the rebels dropped dead tomorrow, we would still be struggling for years to rebuild. And well ...”

  He paused for effect. “And there is the other fact that seems to have been overlooked.”

  Lord Bernadotte grimaced. “And that is ...?”

  “Wolf 359 is just under eight light years from Earth,” Tiberius said, quietly. “The rebels could be probing the Sol System right now.”

  “Home Fleet stands by to repel any offensive,” Admiral Foster said, quickly. “We have drilled and exercised endlessly ...”

  “Thank you,” Tiberius said, cutting him off. He’d read the reports from his clients and few of them had been anything like so optimistic. “What is to stop the rebels mounting another raid, this time aimed at Earth? And what will it do to the underground’s morale if they see the rebels raiding the Sol System?”

  He looked down at the table. The underground had been quieter since the security forces had raided a dozen hidden bases, but they’d definitely been infiltrating the orbital defences. A dozen would-be operatives had been caught, leaving Tiberius wondering just how many they’d missed. It was alarmingly possible that Home Fleet was already infiltrated too.

  “We should vote,” Lord Bernadotte said. “Tiberius has made his case – and I have discussed the issues with coming to any kind of agreement with the rebels. All those in favour of sending a mission to discuss peace?”

  Tiberius stuck up his hand, but he was alone. Even the doves were unwilling to commit themselves to discussing peace.

  “The matter is now closed,” Lord Bernadotte commented. He shot Tiberius a snide glance. By custom, once the vote had been taken, the matter could not be opened again, at least unless the situation changed remarkably. “We must now consider the issue of Admiral Wachter and the POWs. I do not believe that we can dispute that Admiral Wachter overstepped his authority in making any promises to the rebels.”

  Tiberius sighed. Admiral Wachter had sent dispatches ... but so had the Imperial Intelligence officers and the spies within the Morrison Fleet. The latter two all agreed that Admiral Wachter had ensured that little reliable information could be extracted from the prisoners, regardless of their origins. They’d been forced to restrict themselves to gentle methods of extracting information, something that they found uncomfortable.

  “We certainly issued a death sentence for any rebels,” Lord Rothschild agreed. “Admiral Wachter definitely shouldn't have made them any promises, certainly not ones that could rebound on us.”

  “But the rebels will fight harder if they believe they cannot surrender,” Tiberius pointed out, tiredly. He agreed with the Admiral’s logic, even though he wished they’d discussed the possibility earlier. But then, the Thousand Families had been in no mood for compromise even before the victory at Morrison. Admiral Wachter might have left with orders to butcher all prisoners upon capture. “And we will also abandon any hope of using them for propaganda purposes.”

  “This is a sign of disturbing independence on the Admiral’s part,” Lord Bernadotte added. “Do we wish to leave him in his position?”

  “He just won our one true victory,” Tiberius snapped.
“The war is not yet won and you’re already plotting to remove him?”

  “And what,” Lord Bernadotte asked in tones of sweet reason, “if he turns on us?”

  “We cannot afford to get rid of him now,” Tiberius insisted. “The rebel fleet was damaged, but it escaped largely intact. They will recover and they will resume the offensive. And when that happens, we had damn well better be prepared to meet it!”

  Lord Bernadotte gave him a sharp look. “First arguing for peace talks, then defending the prisoners ... are you convinced that we will lose this war?”

  “We could win and find ourselves bankrupted,” Tiberius reminded him. “I don't think I wish to win on those terms. And besides ...”

  He hesitated, then appealed to their sense of self-preservation. “Let us assume that we lose the war,” he said. “What will the rebels do to us if we torture prisoners?”

  “There’s a difference between interrogation and torture,” Lord Edison injected.

  “Yes,” Tiberius agreed. “They’re spelt differently.”

  He pressed on before anyone could interrupt. “When the war is won,” he insisted, “we can do whatever the hell we like. We can execute all the rebels or send them to godforsaken penal colonies. But until then, we have some interest in treating prisoners gently.”

  Lord Edison snorted. “Even traitors to the Empire?”

  “Even them,” Tiberius said. Director Smyth’s memo had been interesting, if only because of the logical hair-splitting. One could evade the Admiral’s instructions by arguing that traitors were already sentenced to death, even though they’d surrendered upon a promise of good treatment. “It is in our interests to treat prisoners gently.”

  “Very well,” Lord Bernadotte said. He glanced around the table. “All those in favour?”

  Tiberius held his breath ... then sighed in relief as nine Family Heads sided with him.

  “The Admiral may still be a problem,” Lord Rothschild said. “I propose that we dispatch additional security forces to Morrison. If he decides to turn on us, we can have him eliminated before he becomes a very real problem.”