Democracy's Right

Chapter Thirty-Five

“Jump completed, Admiral,” the helmsman said. The display flickered to life, revealing the Greenland System ahead of them. There was no point in trying to hide their presence, so the sensor departments were using their active sensors at full power. The freighters and the handful of warships within the system weren’t responding yet, but they would. Even a blind starship captain would recognise the nine superdreadnaughts bearing down on the planet.

“All ships are reporting in,” the tactical officer said. “All weapons systems are online and ready for activation.”

Colin nodded, leaning back in his command chair and trying to project an impression of unconcern. “Launch probes, full spread,” he ordered. It was possible that Percival had tried to hide a surprise within the system, perhaps another squadron of superdreadnaughts. Colin hadn’t been able to decide if Percival would have the nerve to ask for help from Sector 99 or not. “I want every dust mote within this system tracked and logged.”

“Aye, sir,” the tactical officer said. “I am launching probes now.”

The probes sped away from the superdreadnaughts, transmitting their findings back to the ships thought tightbeam lasers. Colin watched as they updated their results, confirming that there were no starships within the limits of detectable range. With cloaking devices, or a starship simply shutting down all of its systems and pretending to be a harmless asteroid, that wasn’t as large as he would have preferred, yet even the Geeks hadn’t been able to improve the sensor systems to the point where they could detect a powered-down starship drifting in empty space. They were still promising breakthroughs, but Colin would believe it when he saw it. He’d also like an FTL communicator, while he was wishing, or a superweapon that could take out a superdreadnaught in a single shot.

And while I’m wishing, I’d like a pony, he thought, with sudden amusement. He smiled, studying the display. Judging from the sensor probes that were sweeping up towards his fleet, the defenders of the planet had noticed their arrival and were preparing to put up a fight. Collectively, his fleet had more firepower than the two massive orbital fortresses covering Greenland, but individually… it was going to be close, or at least it would have been if Colin had intended to take the planet. The yellow icons representing orbital installations appeared below the orbital fortresses, their crews already abandoning ship in lifepods and shuttles, saving their lives. Colin had known, even though he had taken no pleasure in it, that they wouldn’t have any time to issue warnings this time. They had to take out the facilities and retreat before Percival sent in reinforcements.

“Good work,” he said. The Geeks had managed to improve the control systems for the probes. While the Imperial Navy might be only able to launch six probes at once — or risk losing control of the additional probes — his ships could launch up to fifteen, each. It gave him an unprecedented level of tactical awareness, yet he had to keep reminding himself that merely having the probes didn’t make him aware of everything within range. It was still possible for a bold or cunning ship’s captain to slip close to his ships. “Helm… take us on the planned trajectory.”

The superdreadnaught seemed to strain at the leash as she moved towards the planet, her weapons systems coming awake one by one and locking onto their targets. Colin smiled darkly as he took in the sensors emanating from the orbital fortress, wondering when her commander would choose to open fire. If Colin had been in his shoes, with as much firepower as he had at his disposal, he would have opened fire as soon as the starships came into range, even though it would have given Colin’s point defence longer to lock onto and destroy the incoming missiles. It would have distracted the attackers — and their tactical sensors — from returning fire and it might, if the defenders were very lucky, knock out an external rack and damage a superdreadnaught’s ability to fire.

Greenland was a second world that had been given an unusual level of development, thanks to the Roosevelt Family. Colin would have been delighted to have the small complex of shipyards and industrial nodes in orbit around the planet under his control. Indeed, given a few more years, Greenland would probably become the production capital of the sector — particularly after the pasting the rebels had given Piccadilly. Colin turned it over and over in his mind, but no explanation seemed plausible. The Roosevelt Family was either led by fools — which might have explained why they’d trusted the system to Stacy Roosevelt — or they had some deeper motivation for their actions. Whatever it was, Colin hoped, his war had put an end to it. And who knew what would happen to the Roosevelt Family — and the Empire — if they were unable to complete their plans?

He pushed the thought out of his mind as the small fleet crossed the invisible line in space marking weapons range. He’d planned to hold fire until they reached a closer range — the fortress had a powerful point defence system and it was surrounded by automated weapons platforms — but if the fortress had opened fire, he would have had to return it and use the external racks. The fortress seemed inclined to wait for him to get closer, which was odd, even though it was what he wanted. A chill ran down his spine as he contemplated the words of one of his old instructors at the Academy.

“If your battle is going according to plan,” the old man had said, two years before he’d been taken away for some political offence against the Empire, “you are about to lose. No battle plan has ever survived contact with the enemy and no battle plan ever will.”

Colin scowled, unable to suppress the feeling of imminent disaster. “Launch a second set of probes,” he ordered. The tactical officer gave him a surprised glance, but he didn’t argue, even though there was no overt reason to launch additional probes. “Prepare to engage the enemy.”

The fortress was finally coming alive, almost exactly when Colin had predicted, a compromise between range and speed. The shorter the range between shooter and target, the faster the missiles could travel… and the shorter time in which they could be intercepted. Colin watched the updating display for a long moment, checking that the fortress’s impressive salvo of missiles hadn’t been augmented somehow, before looking up at the tactical officer.

“Lock missiles on target,” he ordered. It was an unnecessary order, but Imperial Navy protocol demanded that it be issued. “Prepare to fire.”

“Missiles locked on target, sir,” the tactical officer said. His hands danced over the control systems, targeting the missiles on the massive fortress. Unlike the last fortress they’d destroyed, this one was fully aware of the danger and was prepared to meet it. Its point defence would take a heavy toll of Colin’s missiles, hence his willingness to spend lavishly in order to take out the fortress. “We are ready to attack.”

“Fire,” Colin ordered, calmly.

The superdreadnaught rocked sharply as she unleashed the first barrage from its external racks, just before tiny destruct charges separated the remains of the racks from the starship and pushed them into space. A moment later, the ship rumbled again as she unleashed the firepower of her internal tubes, the updated missile control systems taking control of both salvos and melding them together. The spread of ECM missiles, armed with jammers and decoys rather than standard nuclear warheads, followed afterwards, adding to the confusion. Depending on the skill of the enemy sensor techs on the receiving end — and the Roosevelt Family could hire the best, if they were so inclined — they might have problems separating out the real missiles from the decoys. Their screens would be showing over a million missiles bearing down on them.

Colin’s lips twitched, without humour. If he could have fired a million missiles in a single salvo, he wouldn’t have had to worry about Admiral Percival or the defences of Camelot. He could have waltzed into orbit, destroyed the defences with a single overpowering salvo and accepted surrender from the remains of the facilities on the planet below. Once the arsenal ships were finished, the rebels would have a throw weight far greater than anything the Imperial Navy could fire back at them, at least for the opening salvo. The real question was how long it would take the Imperial Navy to come up with a counter-measure.

“Enemy are deploying point defence units,” the tactical officer said. Colin nodded, unsurprised. The chances were good that quite a few missiles would expend themselves uselessly, but that was a given in any battle. “They’re powering up…”

His voice broke off as new red icons flickered into existence. “Admiral,” he said, his voice filled with sudden — unprofessional — horror. “Multiple contacts! Multiple hostile contacts!”

Commodore Brent-Cochrane couldn’t resist the thrill that seemed to dance through his entire body as his small squadron powered up its drives and prepared to flicker into the Greenland System. He’d taken the risk of keeping the flicker drives on standby, even if it did shorten the lifespan of the drives by several years, knowing that success would lead to forgiveness. The angry memos from the Imperial Navy’s Engineering Department — which seemed to spend most of its time inventing reasons why vital and costly repairs should not be carried out — would wash off his back like water, if he succeeded. His own engineers — who were on the ships and therefore deserved to be heard — had been more tolerant, but even they had warned that he couldn’t do it for long. If the rebels didn’t take the bait, he would have some explaining to do to the penny-pinchers back on Earth…

But the rebels had taken the bait! He raised a mental glass in a toast to Captain Quick, Percival’s aide, knowing that her calculations had saved his position — and boosted it beyond measure. If he managed to bring Admiral Percival the head of the chief mutineer, or even destroyed the rebel superdreadnaughts, no one would be able to stand in his way. Admiral Percival would be disgraced and Brent-Cochrane would be in a good position to step into his shoes. His patrons back on Earth — the two families who had hoped that his parents would bring them together — would see to that. He rubbed his hands together with glee as he settled back into the throne-like command chair. It was time to wreak havoc on the rebels and save the Roosevelt planet, guaranteeing him the support and patronage of the most powerful Family in the sector. They’d drop Admiral Percival like a hot rock.

“Commodore,” the tactical officer said, flatly. “All ships are ready to power up.”

Brent-Cochrane grinned, unpleasantly. “Then by all means,” he said. “Take us into the fire.”

His ships were already moving through space at a considerable speed when the flicker drive engaged, sending a wave of nausea through the ship. Brent-Cochrane felt, for a second, as if he’d been punched in the belly, but he swallowed hard and stood up, studying the display that had appeared in front of him. They hadn’t got it quite right, he noted thoughtfully, but they’d certainly got close enough to shock the rebels.

“Transmit a demand for surrender,” Brent-Cochrane ordered. He didn’t expect the rebels to comply, but Percival had insisted, claiming that the rebels were too cowardly to put up a fight if they found themselves staring down the missile tubes of nine superdreadnaughts. He’d enlisted the aid of a staff psychologist to prove his case, yet as the psychologist wasn’t travelling with the squadron, Brent-Cochrane tended to disregard his opinion. It sounded a lot more like Percival was trying to cover his ass. Besides, a person who could lead a mutiny and then overwhelm and capture nine superdreadnaughts was clearly not a coward, whatever else he was. “And then prepare to fire.”

He settled back in his command chair, watching as his crew moved smoothly about their work. It had been painful and unpleasant — he could smell the stench of vomit from somewhere behind him — but they’d come out of the flicker on a direct course for the enemy superdreadnaughts. Whatever they did, there was no way in which they would be able to avoid engagement, which left one final question. How long did the rebels have before they could flicker out and escape?

Colin fought hard to maintain his composure, although part of him was relieved that the shoe had finally fallen. He’d sensed something was wrong and yet he’d done nothing… silently, he cursed his own error in not ordering them to fall back from the planet while they had the chance. The enemy commander had trapped them, almost perfectly. Whoever was commanding the enemy fleet was on the wrong side.

He pushed that thought aside as he contemplated the tactical situation, tossing options around in his head. His crew could handle the incoming missiles from Greenland. Luckily, the orbital fortress seemed to be holding its fire while the enemy fleet waited for Colin’s surrender, although that wouldn’t last. Colin had heard rumours about Household Troops firing on targets just to ensure that the Imperial Navy didn’t have a chance to capture them. All of a sudden, those reports seemed alarmingly creditable.

The enemy commander, unless he had another trick up his sleeve, hadn’t timed it just right, although given the problems with coordinating operations across light years, he’d done better than anyone could reasonably have expected. If Colin chose to continue towards the planet, even accelerating, he would be forced into a close-range action against the orbital fortresses, one where his ships wouldn’t have the advantage. If he broke away from the planet, they would certainly be committed to a missile duel with the enemy superdreadnaughts… which, if they managed to run them down because of their higher velocity, would have a chance to bring them into energy range. And if that happened, the rebellion was finished, along with the superdreadnaughts. The enemy commander, intentionally or otherwise, had caught Colin between two fires.

Just for a second, Colin felt indecision creeping up on him, but remaining where they were would be the worst choice of all. “Signal the enemy ships,” he ordered. “Tell them” — his lips twitched in delight — “hell no!”

“Aye, sir,” the communications officer said. Whatever the Empire might say about fair treatment, or even forgiveness, they all knew better. The Empire would either execute them on the spot or dump them all on a penal world, with no hope of escape. “They’re not responding.”

The display sparkled with bright red icons. “I think they have responded,” Colin said. Absurdly, a stray thought ran through his mind, reminding him of the lessons on human-alien interaction back at the Academy. Most of them had been about how important it was to teach the aliens that humanity was the superior race and any resistance would bring death, but some had been genuinely interesting. Aliens often had different ways of communicating than humanity, yet some ways of communication had been universal. Opening fire, for one, was a pretty good way of conveying threatening intent. “Helm” — he tapped his console for a moment, designating a new course — “alter course as specified.”

“Aye, sir,” the helmsman said. If he had doubts about the wisdom of the course, he didn’t show them. Colin wouldn’t have been surprised if he had. In order to avoid fire from the superdreadnaughts, he was flying alarmingly close to the orbital stations. The wave of incoming missiles the fortress had launched might have been battered down, evaded, or survived, but there were would be more coming at them soon. “We are altering course… now.”

Colin nodded. Whoever was in command of the enemy ships would know, now, that he intended to fight. The only question remaining, therefore, was brutally simple. Could his ships survive long enough for them to power up their drives and escape?

“They rejected the officer,” Captain Faulding said, in tones that suggested that it was a personal insult. “They refused even to discuss it with us!”

“They would have been stalling,” Brent-Cochrane pointed out. He had half-expected the rebels to try just that, but he would have demanded that they powered down all of their systems before entering any discussions. They would doubtless have refused. “You may fire at will.”

His superdreadnaught shuddered as another salvo was unleashed towards the enemy ships, which were rapidly reconfiguring themselves into a new formation. In theory, they possessed equal firepower to Brent-Cochrane’s ships, which at least raised the possibility of the enemy commander electing to fight a duel with energy weapons. In practice, it wasn’t too likely that Commander Walker would dare. Both sides would suffer horrendous damage, but Brent-Cochrane was in a friendly system and Commander Walker was… not.

He watched as the rebel point defence started to engage his missiles and scowled. Their point defence was more effective than he had expected… and he suspected that their damage control was even better. The ships were over-engineered — the Imperial Navy Design Board was composed of professional paranoids — yet that didn’t explain the improved performance that the rebels were getting from some of their systems. For the first time, Brent-Cochrane had doubts about his chosen course of action. Would it not be wiser to put the plot to dislodge Percival to one side and unite against the rebels?

“Send a signal to Greenland,” he ordered, softly. “Tell them that I want their Household Troops out here supporting us.”

“Aye, sir,” the communications officer said. There was a long pause as the rebels continued to move away from the planet, and then opened fire in unison. Brent-Cochrane let out a breath he hadn’t known that he had been holding. There were no unexpected additions to their firepower. “Commodore, they’re refusing, citing safety concerns…”

“Fuck them,” Brent-Cochrane scowled. He smiled darkly. If the Household Troops refused to come and join the fight, they were damn well not getting any of the credit. “Continue firing.”