Democracy 1: Democracy's Right (21 page)

“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.”

Chapter Twenty-One

The Piccadilly System was one of the choicest pieces of real estate in Sector 117.  With one habitable world and two more that could be made habitable by some intensive terraforming, it would one day boast a population in the billions.  The two large gas giants and three asteroid belts orbiting further away from the primary provided raw material and fuel for a growing space-based industry, all under the control of the Roosevelt Family.  The Family had claimed the world for their own, shipped in a few million settlers who had signed very long-term contracts with the Roosevelt Family and its clients – and just started to build,  Fifty years after the system had been settled, it was one of the jewels in the Roosevelt’s Family’s crown.

Colin reflected on that as the
General Montgomery
and the other superdreadnaughts flickered into existence, a handful of light seconds from the planet itself.  On the face of it, there were good reasons for the Roosevelt Family to take a strong interest in the star system, yet his instincts were telling him that there was something more to it that the files – both the official files and the secure files they’d captured from Stacy Roosevelt – were saying.  The Roosevelt Family seemed to have poured a disproportionate amount of resources into the system.

“We have emerged, sir,” the helmsman reported.  Colin smiled to himself.  The display had lit up, showing the system, which proved that they had arrived, yet doctrine demanded that the fleet officers point out the obvious.  It wasn't that bad an idea – it ensured that officers always knew what they needed to know – yet he had always disliked it.  “All drives are cycling down now, as per orders.”

“Hold them at two minutes,” Colin ordered.  The superdreadnaught had built up a vast charge of power to jump ten light years into the system and it would take time to build up another charge to jump them out.  The drives would become overstressed if he held them at two minutes for too long, but it would last long enough to allow them to flicker out quicker if they ran into something they couldn't handle.  “Tactical; I need a system display.”

“Yes, sir,” the tactical officer said.  He worked his console as the main display continued to update.  At least the Roosevelt Family didn't look as if they were trying to hide anything; the hundreds of asteroid mining ships were easy to pick up, at least as long as they were emitting IFF beacons.  Colin doubted they’d keep identifying themselves once they realised that enemy ships were loose in their system.  “No enemy ships within combat range.”

“Good,” Colin said.  He settled back into the command chair, feeling the tension levels rising on the bridge.  He’d brought them into the system some distance from the planet, which should prevent the local defenders from panicking and opening fire, yet if the next part of the plan went wrong, they’d have a clear shot at his ships.  “Communications...transmit the modified IFF signal to System Command.”

“Aye, sir,” the communications officer said.  She tapped her own console, transmitting the pre-recorded message.  Colin had worked hard on it and he was proud of it, although it was far from perfect.  Unless Admiral Percival was a greater fool than even Colin believed, his first step when he learned about the mutiny should have been to order all the IFF codes and clearances changed.  “Signal sent.”

Colin smiled to himself.  He’d calculated that the defenders of Piccadilly would probably know the other superdreadnaught squadron commanders by name, so he’d cloaked his squadron in the guise of a squadron from Sector 99, a sector on the route inwards towards the Core Worlds and Earth.  The chances were good that whoever was in command of the system wouldn't actually know the person Colin was impersonating, although now he was heading towards the system’s defences the idea was suddenly starting to seem rather less clever.  If the enemy commander had balls as well as good connections – and realised that something was badly wrong – he would keep his nerve, welcome Colin’s fleet to the system, and open fire with everything he had the moment Colin entered weapons range.

It had taken several days of research to pull the entire message together, days in which he’d learned more about how the Roosevelt Family operated than he’d expected.  Indeed, he had seriously considered copying the data files and then sending them to the Roosevelt Family, if only to taunt them with the depth of Stacy’s failure.  He’d refrained after Daria had pointed out that Stacy would probably seek to conceal the loss of her secret files and could be relied upon not to alert her superiors.  Colin doubted that Stacy could get in worse trouble, but he’d accepted Daria’s suggestion.  Who knew – maybe Stacy
would
conceal it successfully.

He contemplated the vision of the planet, growing on his private terminal, and frowned inwardly.  There was nothing to suggest an explanation for why the Roosevelt Family considered it so important, yet there were plenty of signs of their interest.  The planet was orbited by three Capital-class orbital defence stations, each one with the mass of a superdreadnaught – and no need to use some of that mass on drives and shields.  Colin would not have cared to bet on the superdreadnaught against a single fortress, although the superdreadnaught would be able to pick the time and place of the engagement – and the orbital fortress was a sitting duck.  Each of the fortresses bristled with missile launchers and energy weapons – and, if those were not enough, was surrounded by smaller automated platforms.  The Roosevelt Family might have no clear reason for such largess, yet they had no reason to doubt their own security.  His lips twitched.  Perhaps the real explanation was that certain senior members of the Family wanted a place to live, away from the rest of the Empire.  Stanger things had happened.

The defences had one flaw, however; one that Colin had noticed the moment he brought up and studied the first images of the defences.  Actually, they had two, but the second one was one Colin dared not count upon, certainly not for anything vital.  Unlike a fleet of superdreadnaughts, the Fortresses were in fixed locations and couldn't move, unless they happened to have a fleet of tugs in the general area.  If Colin’s plan worked, he could bring his fleet into engagement range of one of the fortresses, while the others wouldn't be able to engage him because of the mass of the planet in the way.  Unlike Earth, which had a double layer of orbital fortresses, Piccadilly had only three.  Under normal circumstances, they would have more than sufficed to take care of any trouble.

“We have received a response from System Command,” the communications officer said.  “They are welcoming us to Piccadilly and are inviting you, specifically, to dine with the Planetary Governor once you make orbit.”

Colin chuckled to himself, sharing a grin with his Flag Captain.  The signal they’d sent had purported to be from Commodore Reginald Kennedy, a man whose entire family was a Roosevelt Client.  Indeed, they’d been clients of the Roosevelt Family for so long that they’d actually developed patronage networks of their own, which were in turn networks that could be used and exploited by the Roosevelt Family.  If Colin was any judge, the Roosevelt Family might refuse to see the Kennedy Family socially, but they’d be quite happy to work with their clients otherwise.  And Commodore Kennedy was a known factor. 

The planet’s second weakness was one that Colin had puzzled over, before resolving to data-mine the planet’s computers – once the war was over - and try to ferret out the answer.  Unlike most of the other worlds in the sector, Piccadilly was defended by forces owned and operated by the Roosevelt Family, not the Imperial Navy.  The Empire as a whole might frown on anyone else – even a Family – owning and operating superdreadnaughts, but they didn't try to forbid the Families from owning smaller ships.  The Roosevelt Family hadn't hired the Imperial Navy, even under Percival’s command, to guard their planet; they’d gone to the expense of obtaining their own fortresses and starships.  Even for an entity as wealthy and powerful as the Roosevelt Family, that wasn't small change.  It would have made a noticeable dent in their fortunes.

His lips twisted into a smile.  Household Troops – even ones crewing starships and orbital fortresses – were loyal to their Family, not to the Imperial Navy and they wouldn't think it necessary to take the precautions that an Imperial Navy officer would take.  Perhaps, Colin hoped, including allowing a superdreadnaught squadron far too close without confirming the identity of the commander and his crew.  They would consider the word of a Roosevelt Client more important than any warning from the Imperial Navy.

“Thank them for me,” Colin said, “and tell them that I will be delighted to accept.”

He watched as the communications officer keyed the program, sending the second false message.  Luckily, they were too far from the planet for a real conversation, although as they slid closer to the world and the time delay fell, he suspected it would become harder to maintain the masquerade.  If they found someone who actually
knew
Commodore Kennedy...well, by that point they’d better be in weapons range, or they’d just have to flicker out and try again somewhere else.

Colin pushed the thought aside, sitting back in his command chair and trying to appear relaxed, even though his heart was pounding so loudly that he was surprised no one else could hear it.  This was it, the fleet’s first real mission against a tough target.  The Annual Fleet hadn't been expecting an attack when Colin had opened fire; the penal world hadn't stood a chance, even if they had dared to offer resistance.  This was the first attack where Colin could expect to lose some of his ships, perhaps including a superdreadnaught.  And a defeat at this stage would be disastrous.

“Launch three stealth probes,” he ordered.  Luckily, the planet’s defenders didn't feel like chatting.  “I want to make sure that they have nothing stealthed awaiting us.”

That, too, was a gamble.  If they brought up active sensors, someone on the other side would ask the obvious question – why?  An alert tactical officer might realise that Colin’s fleet wasn't behaving as if it was on a courtesy visit.  Yet...if they had starships – like one of Percival’s other squadrons of superdreadnaughts – hidden away under cloak, they could spring an ambush before Colin realised that they were there and reacted.  The stealth probes were a compromise, allowing him to gain some extra insight into the system without tipping his hand.  He hoped.

“Aye, sir,” the tactical officer said.  Stealthed probes were expensive, which was partly why the Empire rarely deployed them except on truly vital occasions.  In theory, they were undetectable, but Colin’s experience with cloaking devices had told him that there was always turbulence, the disturbances in local space caused by the passage of a cloaked ship.  “I’m launching probes now.”

Colin nodded.  The first probe would head down towards the planet – reporting its findings via tightbeam laser transmissions – while the other two would orbit the squadron, watching for trouble.  The main display, even using the passive sensors, was still updating itself; the more Colin looked, the more he felt puzzled, even unsure.  The Roosevelt Family had built no less than three cloudscoops, which should provide enough fuel for a far greater industrial sector than he was seeing.  The thought nagged at him.  What, he wondered, were they trying to hide?

On impulse, he patched into the communications console and studied the image of the dispatcher talking to his communications officer.  He wore a red, orange and green uniform that clashed appallingly with his colour, an outrage against fashion, even to Colin’s limited fashion senses.  That, too, wasn't uncommon among the Household Troops.  Their masters liked them to look striking, to remind the universe of their power and wealth, even if they did end up looking ridiculous.  Colin bit down a snicker.  The enemy officer looked rather like a trifle on legs.

His humour died.  Or perhaps, he wondered, that was the point all long.

***

Specialist Bart Roberson didn't have a very demanding job, although he wasn't a very demanding person.  He’d trained in the Imperial Navy as a sensor specialist, before the Roosevelt Family’s recruiters had seen his file and made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.  If he joined the Household Troops, he could have a far higher salary and the chance to play with the latest communications gear; if he refused, he could be assured of a transfer to a cold and deserted asteroid monitoring station on the far edge of nowhere.  He’d agreed, biting down his anger, only to discover that he’d been posted to the far edge of nowhere anyway.  Actually, that was harsh; whatever else could be said about Piccadilly, it wasn't a bad place to live and work.  Two of his subordinates were actually young natives of the planet – their families were clients of clients, as he understood it – and he’d spent some time down on the surface himself. There were nice homes, nice people and even nice fishing!

He frowned down at his console, puzzled.  System Command on Piccadilly normally didn't have a very challenging job.  The system was supposed to be off-limits to non-authorised ships, leaving his main task monitoring asteroid miners and the warships that protected the system.  The arrival of an entire squadron of superdreadnaughts had been a surprise, but at the same time it had been surprisingly reassuring.  No one, apart from the Imperial Navy, was allowed to build and deploy superdreadnaughts.