Democracy's Right

Chapter Twenty

For a crazy few minutes, just after Onslaught had flickered into the Jackson’s Folly system, Penny had thought that the mutineers had returned to the system and engaged the Imperial Navy. Five superdreadnaughts were posturing at a smaller task force of four superdreadnaughts and assorted smaller ships, going through a ballet that was both complex and extremely simple. The absence of weapons fire and the IFF signals transmitted from the superdreadnaughts revealed — to her slight embarrassment — that the starships were doing something rarely seen in the Imperial Navy, random drilling.

It wasn’t, she noted as her battlecruiser linked into the datanet serving as umpire for the duel, a live-fire exercise. The Imperial Navy frowned on live-fire drills, both because of the cost and because of the danger. Penny had been a child when the crew of a superdreadnaught had accidently armed a missile within the launch tubes — they’d somehow cut it free of the safety systems that should have prevented the missile from arming before it was launched — and detonated it inside the ship. The superdreadnaught had survived the blast — it was lucky that the other warheads had not detonated, as that would have vaporised the entire ship — yet her Captain had been unceremoniously cashiered from the service and her entire surviving crew had been blacklisted. Imperial Intelligence, according to some of the files she’d seen ever since she’d become Percival’s aide, had suspected it was deliberate sabotage, but the people responsible had died in the blast. There was no way to know for sure.

By the time she was welcomed onboard Commodore Rupert Brent-Cochrane’s command ship, she was actually quite intrigued by the results of the exercise. Everyone knew that superdreadnaughts couldn’t be beaten by anything less than a matching force of superdreadnaughts, yet Penny had wondered before if that was actually true. The Imperial Navy’s sole combat duties for the past few centuries had been swatting pirates, hunting rebels and raining missiles on helpless planets. It didn’t exactly encourage innovation and creative thinking, while the rebels — already badly outmatched — had one hell of an incentive to get as creative as possible. She barely noticed when the shuttle landed in the superdreadnaught’s shuttlebay and only looked up when she realised that Commander Figaro, the superdreadnaught’s XO, was waiting with a party of senior officers. Penny, who had never been piped onboard a ship before, accepted his salute with some surprise and allowed him to escort her to the Commodore. Brent-Cochrane, it seemed, was not in the CIC, but in one of the smaller compartments, chatting to his subordinate commanders over the datanet.

The nine superdreadnaught commanders didn’t look happy, even before Figaro opened the hatch and announced Penny, before withdrawing at speed. Penny could understand their unease; quite apart from an unprecedented set of war games, they were holding the post-battle assessment over the datanet, rather than meeting in person. Some of them, she realised, looked particularly unhappy. She guessed that they’d been on the losing side.

Brent-Cochrane looked at her, winked at her as soon as his eye was out of sight of the various holograms drifting in the compartment, and then turned back to his subordinates. “We will be holding another comparable drill tomorrow,” he warned, dryly. “I expect that each and every one of you will do better, or else.”

He tapped a switch and the holograms vanished. “Captain,” Brent-Cochrane said, turning so that he could look up towards Penny. His face split into a remarkably skewed grin. “Would you believe that four superdreadnaughts could beat five?”

Penny wouldn’t have, but there was no point in disagreeing with him. Brent-Cochrane might be a mere Commodore, yet he had connections that reached back into the Empire, connections that would allow him to squash an uppity commoner-born officer, even if she was an aide to an Admiral. Besides, the part of her that remained a professional naval officer was keenly interested. The fleet was rarely allowed to hold any kind of unformulated war games.

“It turns out that they can,” Brent-Cochrane said, waving her to a chair. His grin only grew wider. “You see, the four superdreadnaughts were backed up by swarms of smaller ships, all of which added their own point defence fire to the battle — and all of which were deemed expendable. The five superdreadnaughts simply lacked the firepower to punch through that wall of point defence before it was too late.”

He clicked his fingers as his stewardess arrived. “Natasha,” he sang out. “A glass of the finest Amber Dark for me and another for my guest, at once, if you please.”

Penny frowned inwardly as the stewardess vanished out of the hatch and returned with two wine glasses and a tall thin bottle, from which she poured a blue liquid into the glasses. Penny was mildly surprised to see her — stewards and stewardesses were one of the perks of being a senior officer, yet they normally stayed in their master’s quarters and away from the CIC. The stewardess was short, which very pale hair and a near-golden face. It was fairly certain, Penny was sure, that she was Brent-Cochrane’s lover.

She took one of the glasses and sniffed it carefully, as tradition dictated, although she was sure that someone as well connected as Brent-Cochrane would never stoop to serving an inferior brand. Amber Dark originated on one world — the vines couldn’t be transplanted to another world — and was so expensive that only the highest of the high were able to afford it. Penny had only tasted it once before, when she’d been at a formal ball with Percival, and she had been impressed. It was the finest wine in the Empire.

Brent-Cochrane lifted his glass and met her eyes. “Confusion to the rebels,” he said, and took a sip. No one would swill Amber Dark as if it were a cheap beer. “I trust that you like it?”

Penny took a sip of her own, using the motion to mask her confusion. Brent-Cochrane was being friendly, too friendly. He’d welcomed her onboard, had her piped onto his ship by no less than the ship’s XO and even invited her into his private flag compartment. If she’d been a very well-connected person, she would have suspected that Brent-Cochrane wanted to impress her, yet why would he bother? Penny had nothing that Natasha — or plenty of other women — had. Why, then, was he attempting to seduce her… and, for that matter, just what did he want?

“It’s very sweet,” she said, honestly. She took a second sip, feeling the silky taste billowing over her tongue, and then put the glass down on the nearest table. Natasha moved in to refill the glass. “The Admiral has some orders for you and your squadron.”

“Let’s be honest, shall we?” Brent-Cochrane asked, taking another sip himself. “You’re the one who gives the Admiral ideas he turns into orders, are you not?”

Penny swallowed several responses that came to mind. Somehow, having Brent-Cochrane — of all people — put it into words cut through all of her defences. Percival was a known problem; he was a brutal sadist and incompetent, yet she knew him. Brent-Cochrane was someone she knew far less well. She dared not show him any hint of her real feelings, but somehow she was certain that they had already moved far past that stage.

“I cannot say that that is really surprising,” Brent-Cochrane said. He was staring into his glass, watching as the light blue liquid seemed to spin around, catching and redirecting the light, but she was sure that he was watching her carefully. “The dear Admiral” — his voice had become mocking, a form of mockery that he would never have dared use to his face — “is responsible for the mutiny. Oh yes” — seeing her expression and mistaking it for surprise — “our lord and master betrayed the chief mutineer and then failed to make sure that he was truly broken. I wonder what his superiors would make of that.”

Penny picked up her glass and took another sip, trying to sort through her conflicting feelings. “It’s quite a problem for him,” Brent-Cochrane continued, when she seemed unwilling to continue speaking. “If he fails to contain the rebellion in time — before it spreads — he is likely to end up getting the blame and his patrons will be the first to blame him. The Roosevelt Family isn’t going to back him now, not when their interests are the worst affected. I wonder… what will he do then?”

His gaze sharpened. “And what will you do, I wonder, when Percival crashes and burns?”

“I do not know,” Penny admitted. She had never felt so vulnerable. Like it or not, she had linked her career to Admiral Percival’s career — and if he fell, so too did she. His family might ensure that he received a posting somewhere well away from everyone else — or perhaps arrange a quiet retirement for him — but they wouldn’t bother to do anything for her. She would be lucky to be allowed to resign; it was far more likely that she’d be turned into a scapegoat for Percival’s failure. Five years of helping him, of trying to steer him away from mistakes and allowing him to indulge his unnatural lusts with her would have been for nothing.

“I could help you,” Brent-Cochrane said, surprisingly. Penny knew better than to think he was offering out of the goodness of his heart. There would very definitely be a quid pro quo involved somewhere. “You could transfer yourself to me.”

Penny felt her eyes narrow. “And what will happen to you if Percival falls?”

Brent-Cochrane leaned back in his chair, projecting complete unconcern. “If the Admiral falls,” he said, “he will carry the blame for the failure. I, as one of his subordinates, would be in an excellent position to move up, perhaps even to take his place as Sector Commander. My family would definitely prevent him from trying to slip the blame onto me. Even if I didn’t get the position, I would still be in a far better place than anyone else.”

Penny considered it. It seemed fairly likely that Brent-Cochrane was actually right. Even if he wasn’t, it might just allow her a chance to escape the fall of her patron without ill effects. Or perhaps she was deluding herself. When different patrons clashed, it was always their clients who bore the brunt of the fighting.

The thought wasn’t a cheerful one. She’d seen enough, from working at Admiral Percival’s shoulder, to know that the patronage system was the only thing keeping the Empire together. Parliament was a joke; the independent judiciary had been penetrated and broken by the Thousand Families in so many ways. And, of course, there was no Emperor. The Thousand Families, she suspected, would one day reach a point where they could no longer expand, or extend their networks of patronage any further. She had no idea what would happen then, but she was fairly sure it would be bloody. The Thousand Families would turn on one another and the Empire would burn in the crossfire.

“You might be right,” she conceded, finally. If he wanted to be blunt, she could be blunt too; besides, it was slightly refreshing. Percival would never allow her to speak freely. “What are you offering me?”

Brent-Cochrane didn’t look offended at her directness. “At the moment, I wish you to report to me — privately — on the doings of our lord and master,” he said. “When Percival falls, I will take you under my wing and have you assigned to my staff. I may even be able to get you a command of your own. Or, if you wish, I could pay you; a few hundred thousand credits would ensure that you no longer needed to serve in the Imperial Navy.”

Penny kept her face expressionless as she ran through a series of thoughts in her head. The money wouldn’t be any protection if things went sour unless she had it switched into an untraceable credit account, changed her name and vanished. Even then, Imperial Intelligence would probably be able to track her down. It was tempting to cling to what remained of her integrity, yet the truth was that she had none, and had none since she had first started to whore herself to Percival. It was a bitter thought.

And there was no point in giving her loyalty to a man who would show her none.

“I accept,” she said, tightly. Brent-Cochrane’s eyes flickered with delight. “I’d like both the credits and the placement, once the Admiral has fallen.”

“Of course,” Brent-Cochrane said. It would be small change to him, of course. He could have paid her far more without needing to worry about his bank balance. His eyes fell on her uniform jacket. Unwisely, she’d worn one of the tighter outfits and she could feel his eyes leaving trails of slime all over her breasts. “And there was one other thing I wanted…”

Penny nodded slowly and started to unbutton her jacket.

Afterwards, unlike Percival, Brent-Cochrane started to get dressed again almost at once. He had to have given some kind of signal to the outside world — although Penny had seen nothing — and no one had interrupted them during their brief tryst. Penny was relieved about that — even though it wasn’t as if she had any dignity left for a voyeur to steal — yet she wished that she were alone. She needed to think and think hard. And she wasn’t sure why Brent-Cochrane had insisted that she give herself to him. Had it been a way to pressure her, to remind her of whom she now belonged to, or was it more primal, an attempt to beat the Admiral by sleeping with his lover?

“So,” Brent-Cochrane said, once he was dressed. Despite his reputation, he hadn’t hurt her, although he hadn’t gone out of his way to make her happy either. Penny had a great deal of experience in faking it and she was sure that he was convinced that she had enjoyed herself. It didn’t hurt that, compared to the Admiral, Brent-Cochrane was Casanova himself. “What does our lord and master wish for me to do?”

Penny flushed, trying to finish pulling on her jacket. “He wants you to be in a position to intercept the rebels when they attack their next target,” she said. The stupid jacket was refusing to button up properly. She cursed it as she felt for the buttons and forced them into place. “He thinks that your fleet should be sufficient to take on and beat the rebels.”

“Oh, he does, does he?” Brent-Cochrane said. He seemed amused by her struggles with her rebellious jacket. “And did he hire a clairvoyant to predict where the rebels are going to hit next, or does he intend for me to pick a world at random?”

Penny finished pulling on her jacket and produced a small comb from an inner pocket, working on her hair. Brent-Cochrane had, unsurprisingly, wrecked her hairdo. “He has a handful of worlds that he believes are likely targets,” she admitted. “He wants you to guard Greenland.”

“He picked the worlds, or did you?” Brent-Cochrane asked, dryly. Penny flushed again. It seemed that having a superior officer who knew just how smart one actually was could be dangerous. “I would like to know how you chose them.”

Penny explained, not bothering to give the Admiral any further credit. She’d looked at the worlds in Sector 117, following her hunch that Commander Walker would seek to harm the Roosevelt Family and humiliate Percival, and sorted out twenty-one worlds that would make possible targets. She’d separated nine of them because they were heavily defended with fixed defences, including some that would deter a superdreadnaught squadron unless they really wanted to take the world. The rebels, without a major shipyard under their control, probably wouldn’t consider them serious targets. That left twelve possible targets.

“I like the logic,” Brent-Cochrane said, finally. “Why does he want me to guard Greenland in particular?”

“Stacy Roosevelt insisted on it,” Penny said, remembering that discussion. She would personally have put Greenland in the lower tier of possible targets, but Stacy had insisted and the Admiral — of course — had backed her up. “Please tell me you’re not going to grovel to her too.”

“The Roosevelt Family has strong connections to my family,” Brent-Cochrane said, with a snort. “I don’t have to do anything for her and she knows it.”

He turned back to the private terminal as Penny checked her appearance in a small pocket mirror. All traces of their love-making were gone, as if it had never happened. “But Greenland is only one of several possible targets,” he continued, “and the rebels might avoid it purely because of its strong Roosevelt connection. Commander Walker” — he winked, reminding her that he blamed Percival for the mutiny — “may follow the same logic and avoid Greenland.”

Penny shook her head. “So what do we do?”

“First, we leave the drones here, as the Admiral ordered,” Brent-Cochrane said, thoughtfully. “This is a terribly determined world, but the Blackshirts will crush their determination eventually — they always do. Its butcher’s work and they’ll love it. The assault cruisers can give them the firepower they need to make sure they don’t actually lose their foothold on the surface. And then we go here.”

His finger tapped a location in interstellar space. “You see, I don’t trust Percival to understand that we weren’t to blame if the rebels hit elsewhere,” he said, dryly. “We’ll wait here and dispatch destroyers to the nearby systems. If the rebels hit them — and that includes Greenland — we will flicker in behind them and bring them to battle. If not…”

He smiled, inviting her to share the joke. “If not, it isn’t as if we can be blamed, is it?”

“No,” Penny agreed. With his connections, scapegoating him would be difficult, particularly if he was clearly only doing as he’d been told. “We were only following orders.”