Democracy's Right

Chapter Twelve

The buzzing of the intercom woke Penny from an uncomfortable sleep.

“Commander Quick to the Flag Bridge, please,” it said. “I say again, Commander Quick to the Flag Bridge, please.”

Penny scowled as she pulled herself out of bed and reached for her tunic. She wasn’t blind to the verbal demotion — there could only ever be one Captain on a starship, so anyone else holding the rank of Captain was normally granted a courtesy promotion to the next rank — or to what it said about Commodore Rupert Brent-Cochrane. Four days with him on the superdreadnaught had been rather fraught; Brent-Cochrane believed that he was going places and that Penny could, somehow, help him accomplish his aim. Penny had no idea why he believed that she could help — his connections were far superior to hers — but there had been several uncomfortable discussions and verbal fencing, all completely pointless.

She checked her appearance in the mirror, running a hand through her long blonde hair to ensure that it stayed in place. At least the bruises had faded away, thanks to a liberal application of quick-heal ointment and painkiller. Penny buttoned up her tunic — silently grateful that she wasn’t with Percival and that she could wear a more regular uniform — and checked the pistol she wore on her belt. Ever since the first reports of the mutiny, Percival had insisted that his staff carried weapons, even though the reports had made it clear that the mutiny had been led by senior officers, officers like her.

The thought made her smile, humourlessly, as she walked through the hatch and out into Officer Country. There was an entire platoon of Blackshirts deployed to protect the officers from their crew — the Marines had been removed from the ship, following the interrogation of the loyalists from Jackson’s Folly — and several more companies deployed to keep an eye on the crew. They were already making themselves unpopular. The drug treatments used to render the Blackshirts willing to commit the most horrific atrocities in the name of the Empire also damaged their sense of good behaviour, as if anyone who willingly joined the Blackshirts had any sense of decency in the first place. There had been nine rapes, four beatings — for no real reason Penny could see — and at least one murder. If the crew of the General Winston hadn’t been feeling mutinous before, Penny knew, it sure as hell was feeling mutinous now.

She passed another Blackshirt as she reached the Flag Bridge, holding up her indent for him to inspect before he waved her through, into the compartment. It was buzzing with life; Brent-Cochrane, whatever his other faults, was a fairly competent commander. Unlike Stacy Roosevelt, he had rather more than two brain cells to rub together, even though there were rumours of perversions in his private life that put even Percival in the shade. The Commodore nodded to her as she entered, but didn’t move away from the display. The superdreadnaught squadron was only two light years from Jackson’s Folly.

Penny found her seat and sat down, matching his studied rudeness with studied unconcern. The terminal she wore at her waist bleeped as she pulled it out of her belt, having finished running the search program while she was asleep. Percival hadn’t been very forthcoming about Commander Walker, but Penny had access to the secured files and had used her terminal to make enquires. Commander Walker had been royally screwed by Percival — not in the same sense, part of her mind joked, as she was royally screwed — and now he was out for revenge. It wasn’t unknown for senior officers to have ‘accidents’ at the hands of junior crewmen who felt slighted in some way, but she had to admit that Commander Walker had found a hell of a way to get back at his superior. Percival would be very lucky if his career survived the mutiny. He’d certainly never be trusted with such responsibility ever again.

It had occurred to her — she had carefully not mentioned it to Percival, although he would think of it himself soon enough — that the Empire could bring pressure to bear on the families of the mutineers. Her search program revealed that it wasn’t going to be that easy. According to Imperial Intelligence, Commander Walker’s family had died a long time ago and he hadn’t even been back to his homeworld for the funeral. That wasn’t uncommon — the sheer size of the Empire meant that the notification might not arrive until the funeral was over — yet Walker had never even applied for leave to go home. There were other, more promising, possibilities, but Penny suspected that they too would be useless. The rebels had to know that the Empire wouldn’t show them any mercy.

“Prepare for jump,” Brent-Cochrane said, bringing her back to reality. He’d pushed his ships to the limit rushing to Jackson’s Folly, as if he expected to find the mutineers still present in the system. He’d also brought along three squadrons of heavy cruisers, one squadron of battlecruisers and five squadrons of destroyers, enough to destroy the entire rebel fleet if they encountered it. Penny doubted that they would be that lucky, but at least Brent-Cochrane had considered the possibility. “On my mark… flicker!”

Penny’s chest heaved as the starship jumped two light years, appearing two light minutes from Jackson’s Folly. Brent-Cochrane had decided, given that there was no way to know just what was happening on Jackson’s Folly, that it would be wiser not to jump in right on top of the planet. The gravity well would certainly scatter his formation when they arrived, something that would be disastrous if the rebels were still present and on the ball. The display lit up, revealing the existence of the planets — as if someone could have stolen them, she mocked herself — but little else. They were too far from the planet to pick up starships orbiting it at once.

“Launch probes,” Brent-Cochrane ordered. A shell of sensor probes spun out around the starships, watching for signs of cloaked ships trying to sneak towards the formation. A second formation plunged ahead of the ships, heading down towards Jackson’s Folly. “Helm… you are cleared to take us in towards the planet.”

“Yes, sir,” the helmsman said. The remainder of the fleet would be slaved to his console, a heady sensation for such a young officer. Judging by his features, he was connected to the Thousand Families, marking time until he was promoted to a position more befitting his origins. Penny felt a harsh surge of jealousy. He would never have to whore himself for promotion. “The fleet is underway.”

The display updated rapidly as active sensors scoured space, hunting for targets. Penny had seen the records from the Observation Squadron, but she hadn’t really understood just how industrialised Jackson’s Folly was, even if its technology was less advanced than the Empire’s technology. Hundreds of asteroids were emitting into space, suggesting mining and settlement operations, while cloudscoops orbited the larger gas giant, sucking in the raw lifeblood of interstellar commerce. The planet itself was surrounded by dozens of industrial stations, while its two moons had their own installations. And then there were the thirteen daughter colonies in different star systems. For a planet which had only been effectively colonised for seven hundred years, the people of Jackson’s Folly had nothing to be ashamed of. If they’d had a few hundred more years… it might have been them, not the Empire, making decisions about their future.

She shook her head as newer icons, red ones, blinked into life. Jackson’s Folly had worked hard to build up a defence since they’d first heard that the Empire was expanding towards them, but it hadn’t been enough. Thirty-one battleships were coming to life, escorted by over two hundred smaller ships and covered by orbital weapons platforms… yet she knew that they couldn’t stand against the Empire. Brent-Cochrane’s fleet fanned out into a formation that both protected the superdreadnaughts and uncovered them, allowing them to fire at will.

“Open a channel,” Brent-Cochrane ordered. He waited for the communication’s officer’s nod. “Attention, Jackson’s Folly. By determination of the Supreme Court of the Empire, you are heirs to the debt incurred by your founders, a debt of over two hundred trillion credits. You are ordered to pay this debt at once or your systems will be repossessed. You have five minutes from receipt of this message to respond.”

He drew a finger over his throat, severing the channel. It would take at least ninety seconds for the message to reach Jackson’s Folly, and then there was no way of knowing how long it would take them to respond. Penny wondered if Brent-Cochrane had any idea of the absurdity of his words, or if Jackson’s Folly had known the sheer size of the judgement against them. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway, she knew; if they’d paid up, the Empire would just have looked for other demands until they’d found something that Jackson’s Folly literally could not give them. It wouldn’t have been hard.

“Commodore,” the tactical officer reported, “the enemy formation is forming up.”

Penny studied the display. Given their weakness in missile throw weights, the enemy ships had clearly decided to remain in orbit and coordinate with the planetary defence systems, rather than come out to fight. She couldn’t blame them, although it was a risky tactic; a shipkiller missile could slip through the orbital weapons platforms and crash into the planet, causing considerable devastation. She could hear some of the officers muttering about cowards who refused to fight, but what had they expected? Jackson’s Folly’s defenders to come out throw themselves on the Imperial Navy’s guns?

“No response, sir,” the communications officer said.

“Open a channel,” Brent-Cochrane ordered, sharply. He had clearly decided to forget diplomacy, or whatever passed for it in the Empire. “Attention; you are ordered to stand down your shields and weapons and prepare to be boarded. There will be no further warnings.”

The tactical display lit up sharply as new red strobes of light flickered into existence. “Commodore, we are picking up tactical sensors,” the tactical officer said. He sounded tense, almost worried. “We’re being scanned and pinned down.”

“Unsurprising,” Brent-Cochrane growled. “Do they have any surprises? Are they using any unexpected technology in their scans?”

“The scans are mil-grade, sir,” the tactical officer said. “I think they’re from a Mark-CI sensor node, probably from a decommissioned Imperial Navy vessel. It’s certainly more advanced than we were told to expect.”

Brent-Cochrane shrugged. “Even if they have equal weapons to us,” he said, as his fleet rumbled onwards towards its target, “it won’t make a difference.”

He looked up at the display. “Target weapons,” he ordered. In three minutes, they would be at extreme range. Penny could see how his mind was working. That deep in the gravity well, Jackson’s Folly’s defenders would be unable to flicker out and escape. The smaller ships might be able to escape — although they’d risk burning out their drives — but the battleships could be destroyed quickly and brutally. “Prepare to fire.”

Penny counted down the seconds as they moved towards a line on the display, the precise moment when they would be able to open fire. It seemed so slow on the display, even though they were moving through space at speeds an earlier generation would have found unimaginable. It was weird, when it was possible to cross light-years in a split second, yet she couldn’t blame the Commodore. Ambitious sadist though he might be, at least Brent-Cochrane had the sense to be careful when dealing with the unknown.

“Weapons locked on target,” the tactical officer said. “I am getting updated telemetry from the drones. The defenders are moving to enhance their position.”

“No need to give them the time,” Brent-Cochrane said. The starships had reached weapons range. “You are authorised to open fire.”

The superdreadnaught shook as it unleashed its first barrage of missiles. A moment later, the other superdreadnaughts followed suit, emptying their external racks into space. The missiles formed up, guided by their onboard computers, and roared towards the defences. The defenders started to return fire, a counter-attack that looked impressive until Penny saw the underlying data from the drones. Jackson’s Folly had missiles, all right, but they were both larger and slower than the Imperial Navy’s missiles. The mutineers hadn’t taken the time to transfer any of their stocks to the defenders.

She pushed the thought of oncoming death out of her mind. She’d studied the records downloaded to her just before they’d departed Camelot and it was clear, in hindsight, that something had been wrong with the Observation Squadron. They’d requested enough supplies from Camelot to allow them to function independently for at least five years, including both weapons and spare parts. That alone should have tipped off Imperial Intelligence, but Captain-Commodore Howell had signed off on the requests, his name alone ensuring that no one would take too close a look at them. The Roosevelt Family’s determination to secure Jackson’s Folly for their private use had, ironically, contributed to the mutiny’s success. It wasn’t something that she could suggest to Percival, not when he too was dependent on the Roosevelt Family for his patronage. He would be more likely to turn on her.

“Impact in twenty seconds,” the tactical officer said. “The enemy point defence is engaging our missiles.”

Penny watched, a helpless observer, as the defenders opened fire. It was immediately clear that their point defence was far better than the Empire had believed, but that it wasn’t anything like enough. She suspected — it would be impossible to prove it, at least immediately — that they had removed all the cut-outs the Empire had built into their datanets, allowing a far greater degree of coordination. Even if they hadn’t built additional starships, they might have had enough… if they’d had more point defence. As it was, the torrent of missiles simply overwhelmed the defenders and started to slam home. One by one, the starships of the Jackson’s Folly Defence Force were systematically destroyed.

Their own desperate attempt to strike back at the Empire failed almost at once. Their missiles ran into the combined point defence of eighty starships, bound together by the most sophisticated datanet that the Empire could produce. The missiles were scythed down, only a handful surviving to make it through the defences and slam against starship hulls. They might have had better luck if they had aimed at the smaller ships, but they’d concentrated on the superdreadnaughts and their shields could easily handle the impacts. Nuclear fire blossomed against the darkness of space and then faded away, leaving the shields unharmed. Nothing, not even a tiny erg of energy, leaked through the shields to scar the hull.

The main body of the defenders might have been destroyed, but many orbital weapons platforms were still intact, firing desperately towards the Imperial Navy starships — as if they could somehow ward them off. Brent-Cochrane ordered a second salvo fired, although this one was more restrained. Some of the orbital weapons platforms were mounted on asteroids and accidentally de-orbiting one would cause a disaster. The Roosevelt Family would not be happy. They’d certainly see to it that Brent-Cochrane was never given any other responsible command in his entire career. The irony wasn’t lost on Penny as one by one the remaining platforms were rapidly destroyed.

“Launch the assault sleds,” Brent-Cochrane ordered. Normally, assaulting and securing the orbital industrial nodes would be a Marine responsibility, but with Marine loyalties uncertain, the task had been given to the Blackshirts instead. Penny suspected that most of them were going to die in the assaults, yet she knew the Empire’s view; there were always plenty more Blackshirts where they came from. They were recruited from the poorest of colony worlds or Earth’s undercity, before being indoctrinated into the Security Division. “I want those facilities secured now.”

Penny shrugged, sitting back in her chair and watching with polite interest. A handful of positions on the ground were firing on the fleet — ground-based defences were rare in the Empire, officially because it would expose the civilian population to enemy counter-fire — and they were rapidly destroyed by KEWs dropped by the fleet. The civilian population down below would be terrified, wondering what was going to happen to them when the Empire finally started to land its occupation force. Penny hoped that most of them had the sense to get out of the cities and remain away from the Blackshirts. They were not known for being gentle occupiers.

“Shit,” someone snapped. Penny looked up just in time to see one of the asteroid facilities disintegrate in a towering explosion. The sheer size of the explosion suggested that someone had touched off a nuke, rather than allow the facility to fall into the Empire’s hands. “Sir, the facility has been…”

“Destroyed,” Brent-Cochrane snarled. Penny smiled inwardly. There went that bonus from the Roosevelt Family. “Order the remaining facilities to be secured, quickly.”

Somewhat to Penny’s disappointment, the remaining facilities weren’t rigged to blow when the Blackshirts occupied them. The few remaining Jackson’s Folly personnel were taken prisoner and transferred to one of the troop ships until facilities could be found for them on the surface of the planet. Brent-Cochrane watched from his own chair as the high orbitals were ruthlessly secured and the debris destroyed or tipped into the planet’s atmosphere, where it burned up harmlessly. There were no remaining shots from the planet’s surface.

“Land the landing force,” Brent-Cochrane ordered, calmly. The first assault boats separated from the transports and headed down towards the planet’s surface. The Commodore himself strode over to Penny and placed his hand on her shoulder, hard enough to hurt. “You’ll be able to report to the Admiral that we succeeded, of course. Jackson’s Folly is ours.”

“Of course,” Penny agreed, keeping her voice even. On the other hand, if the Commodore’s fleet were to be drawn away, the rebels would be able to liberate Jackson’s Folly. How long would the world remain occupied then? “Was there ever any doubt about the final outcome?”