Democracy 1: Democracy's Right

by Christopher Nuttall

  “Yes, sir,” Damiani said. “Admiral...how long are we going to wait?”

  Colin understood his concern. The information they’d recovered from Stacy Roosevelt’s files had been the latest she’d had, but it had been nine months out of date when it had been sent to her. It was quite possible that the Annual Fleet’s commander had decided to change the waypoint coordinates, or even decided to risk jumping from their last waypoint direct to Camelot. Colin and his rebel fleet could wait for weeks without knowing what had happened, or that they’d missed their target.

  “As long as it takes,” Colin said. It wasn't entirely hopeless. One of Daria’s ships had the Camelot System under permanent observation. They’d know if the Annual Fleet arrived and that the rebels had missed their chance. “We lose this and we have to go back to Plan B.”

  Damiani frowned. “Plan B?”

  “I’m still working on it,” Colin admitted. He had a contingency plan, but it wasn't one he wanted to share, not yet. “Without the Annual Fleet, we’d take much longer to build up a rebel fleet...”

  “Admiral,” the tactical officer barked. “Contacts! I have multiple starships, flickering in right on top of us!”

  Colin braced himself as new red icons flared into existence on the display. The tactical computers were already categorising them, separating the freighters from their escorts, before assigning new targeting priorities to the datanet. The superdreadnaughts and battlecruisers were already linked together; now, with their targets finally in range, they were targeting the enemy ships and preparing to fire.

  “Fire,” Colin ordered, quietly.

  The superdreadnaught shuddered as it unleashed the first massive broadside. Even without the external racks, a superdreadnaught could launch over three hundred missiles per salvo, but the external racks tripled the superdreadnaught’s throw weight. All nine superdreadnaughts had fired in the same moment, their missiles linked into the datanet and roaring towards their targets, backed up by ECM and decoys designed to make it harder for the enemy tactical computers to defeat the incoming salvo. It was overkill, as Colin’s council of war had pointed out, but he didn't dare take chances. They had to win their first battle.

  “Impact in forty seconds,” the tactical officer said.

  ***

  Sonja relaxed slightly as the jump completed, feeling the knot of tension in her stomach slowly unlocking and fading away. At least they'd been jumping from rest, rather than at high speed. It wouldn't have been a pleasant experience for the freighter crewmen, of course, but her crews could handle the sensation. A combat jump, on the other hand, would have been much more dangerous and uncomfortable.

  “Get me an updated count on the ships,” she ordered. She wouldn't have put it past the civilian ships to somehow screw up the coordinates – even if they were slaved to her ship – and appear somewhere else. Civilians couldn't be trusted. Every naval officer knew that. “I want them all located...”

  “Commodore,” the tactical officer interrupted. Sonja whirled around, her rebuke fading away as she took in his tone of panic. She’d never heard him badly shaken before, even when they’d jumped alarmingly close to an asteroid and almost rammed it. “We have incoming missiles! We’re under attack!”

  Chapter Eight

  For a moment, sheer disbelief held Sonja frozen. Who would dare to attack the Annual Fleet? No pirate fleet could hope to have the firepower needed to take on the defenders...and then she looked at the display and knew what she was facing. Thousands of missiles were roaring towards her ships, her computers faithfully identifying them as Imperial Navy-standard Mark-VII Shipkillers. A superdreadnaught couldn't stand against such firepower and a battlecruiser like Pegasus was flimsy by comparison. She glanced down at the timer at the bottom of the display and swore. There were at least seven minutes before the battlecruiser could flicker out and escape and, by then, they would be destroyed several times over.

  “Bring up the point defence,” she ordered, as training took over. The escorting ships had, thankfully, already established their datanet. There might be no hope of survival, yet they could at least force the enemy to pay a price – and, perhaps, if they held out long enough, one of the smaller ships could get out and alert the sector fleet. She would die doing her duty. “Find me the attackers!”

  The display updated as the battlecruiser’s sensors went active, sweeping space for targets and locking in on the source of the missiles. Nine massive starships were wobbling out of cloak, already belching a second swarm of missiles towards her ships...and she knew despair for the first time. They were Imperial Navy superdreadnaughts...and that meant that the sector fleet was compromised. They hadn’t encountered hostile aliens, or even rebels from beyond the Rim; Admiral Percival’s ships had either fallen into enemy hands, or perhaps he'd decided to rebel against the Empire. Who knew? She had never trusted Percival and, judging from a few of their comments, neither had her patrons. The presence of a handful of smaller ships beside the behemoths was irrelevant. Only the superdreadnaughts mattered.

  “Target the lead superdreadnaught,” she ordered. The enemy ships weren't broadcasting IFF signals – a breach of Imperial Law, part of her mind wittered uselessly – and so there was no way to isolate the command ship. Standard Imperial practice was to have the command ship in the middle, where it would be protected by its eight siblings, but there was no way to know how the unknown commander would operate. A brave commander might lead from the front; a coward - and she knew that Percival was a coward - would command from the rear. “Open fire.”

  The battlecruiser lurched as it opened its tubes and launched the first salvo towards its target, rapidly combining its fire with that of its comrades. She silently cursed the regulation that forbade the deployment of external racks on convoy escort ships, even though there had been no time to deploy them before the enemy ships opened fire. If she’d thought to load the racks at the last waypoint, instead of waiting impatiently...she shook her head angrily, watching as the storm of icons roared down on her ships. There were only a few seconds left.

  The point defence systems did what they could. Decoys were launched, attempting to spoof the missiles into wasting themselves uselessly against drones. The datanet wove long-range tactical lasers, short-range plasma cannons and even close-combat rail guns into a single deadly net, knocking missiles out one by one...but there were always more missiles. Their own penetrator aids helped confuse the point defence, convincing the computers that they weren't facing thousands of missiles, but hundreds of thousands. Sonja watched helplessly as the missiles passed through the outer defence grid and roared down towards her shields. Her engineering crew had diverted all the power they could to the protective bubble surrounding the ship, yet she knew that it was too little, too late.

  She glanced at the timer and knew that there would be no escape, no last-minute relief from death. The enemy ships had fired so many missiles that they could spread them out over her entire fleet, taking them all out in the first salvo, sparing nothing, not even a picket ship. It made sense, she knew; whoever was in command of the opposition was ruthless, but capable – far more capable than Percival. A hundred missiles slammed into a destroyer and it vanished in a ball of flame, followed rapidly by a battlecruiser and two heavy cruisers. The enemy missiles were retargeting, moving from destroyed ships to retarget themselves on ships that had remained intact. Dozens were lost, to point defences or to drones and decoys, but the remainder just kept coming. There was no escape.

  Sonja keyed the intercom. “My crew,” she said, finding herself lost for words. She hadn't been that bad a commander, had she? How did they think of her on the lower decks? Did it even matter? It had certainly never mattered to her when she had been the mistress of everything she surveyed. “It's been an honour.”

  Thirty seconds later, nineteen missiles impacted on the battlecruiser’s shields and slammed through to the hull. Sonja had a microsecond to see the bridge disintegrating into fire...and then there was noth
ing, but darkness. Her mighty ship disintegrated into a ball of flaming plasma. There were no survivors.

  ***

  “Incoming missiles,” the tactical officer warned. Colin watched, impressed that the escorting units had even managed to get a few shots off before they had been destroyed. It was only a pitiful handful compared to the salvo he’d thrown at them, but it was enough to be dangerous – assuming that they made their way through the fleet’s datanet and point defence. They’d targeted the General Montgomery in particular, although he wasn't sure if they’d known it was the command ship or they’d simply fired at the ship leading the charge. “Point defence is coming active...now!

  Colin forced himself to relax, even though he wanted to lean forward, as if he could somehow strengthen the point defence by sheer force of will. The superdreadnaughts might have all the beauty and charm of a brick, but they were armed with enough point defence to stand off hundreds of missiles, along with the sensors to separate out real missiles from the decoys. It didn't look as if the escorts had managed to program in a proper attack pattern before they’d been attacked, a testament to how badly they’d been taken by surprise, but it wouldn't have mattered. They hadn't fired anything like enough missiles to swamp the superdreadnaught’s defences.

  His fleet closed in around the General Montgomery, adding their weapons fire to the point defence. One by one, the enemy missiles were wiped out, until only a handful survived long enough to make their terminal attack runs. Only one of them made it through the defences to slam harmlessly against the superdreadnaught’s shields, barely even shaking the massive starship. The internal compensators compensated easily. Colin checked on the shield generator and smiled in relief. It had barely been touched, yet alone burned out by the hit.

  “No damage, sir,” the damage control officer reported. One reason for the superdreadnaughts having such massive crews was for damage control, but there hadn't even been any damage. Colin understood, for the first time, just how some planets had felt when the superdreadnaughts had appeared in their skies, big enough to be seen from the ground by the naked eye. What was the point of rebelling – even destroying – local authority when the superdreadnaughts would arrive and bombard the planet back into submission? “We are fully mission-capable.”

  “Good,” Colin said, studying the display. The last of the escorts had been destroyed, without even a hope of getting out a warning. The Annual Fleet – all fifty massive civilian freighters, carrying over a trillion credits worth of industrial material – was at his mercy. “Open a channel to the freighters.”

  “Aye, sir,” the communications officer said. “Channel open, Admiral.”

  Colin smiled. “Attention, civilian freighters,” he said. “This is Admiral Walker of the Shadow Fleet.” He’d decided to name the fleet after the battlecruiser, knowing that the name would become legend, not least because his force wouldn't be the first Shadow Fleet. With any luck, Imperial Intelligence would conclude that the reports of that fleet’s destruction had been premature. “You are ordered to deactivate your defences and prepare to be boarded. If you offer no resistance, you will not be harmed. Any resistance will result in the destruction of your vessels.”

  It was a bluff, but he hoped that they were too shaken to draw the correct conclusion and call him on it. He didn't dare destroy the freighters, although there were plenty of other options. The Marines could force-board the ships and capture the crew, although that did include the risk of introducing random factors into the equation. The crews might do something stupid that would destroy the ships, even though Stacy’s files had started that the ships didn't carry any self-destruct systems.

  “We’re picking up signals from most of the ships, sir,” the communications officer said. “They’re surrendering and dropping their shields.”

  Colin smiled in relief. No warning had gone out to Camelot, but it was still well to complete their business quickly and then get away from the sector fleet’s HQ. “Neil,” he said, keying his wristcom, “you are authorised to board the freighters as quickly as possible and get them underway.”

  “Understood, sir,” the Marine Colonel said. “We’re on our way.”

  Colin leaned back in his command chair and watched the display. The remaining freighters had seen sense and surrendered, deactivating their defences and waiting patiently for the Marines. He hoped they didn't think that his fleet was composed of pirates. Very few merchant skippers would willingly surrender to pirates, knowing what pirates would do to their crew, particularly if their crew including women and children. One duty the Imperial Navy did that Colin approved of completely was suppressing pirates.

  He studied the timer on the display thoughtfully, knowing that they would have to wait at least four hours before the freighters could finish powering up their drives and flicker out, to a set of coordinates that Colin had provided. There, a handful of military-grade transports that Daria had somehow obtained – Colin didn't want to know how, although he suspected bribery – would take the cargo onwards to a secure location beyond the Rim. The Imperial Navy often disposed of older ships onto the civilian market and it wasn't unknown for underground organisations or terrorists – or pirates – to bribe the Navy into authorising their purchase.

  One by one, the ships were boarded and secured. Now all they had to do was wait.

  ***

  Colonel Neil Frandsen watched through the shuttle’s sensors as they closed in on the freighter, moving in a random evasive pattern just in case the freighter’s crew was feeling particularly bold or stupid. The freighters were only armed with minimal point defence and shields – the Family-run shipping lines had long since decided to cut all, but the most essential costs – but they were more than enough to take out a shuttle, even an armoured Goblin. The freighter was massive. If they had to board her by force and secure her it could take hours, even for trained Marines.

  “This is Guard-One,” he said, linking his communications system directly into the freighter. “Please have your entire crew assembled on the bridge when we board and have the Captain meet us at the airlock. There is no need to make this difficult.”

  The docking port winked open ahead of them and the pilot guided the shuttle towards it, mating her up neatly with the freighter. By Imperial Law, all airlocks and docking ports had to be standardised, even though there were ways to make the process quicker and more efficient. Neil had long suspected that the real reason for the law was so that the Families – which owned the factories that produced the airlocks – could maintain their monopoly, but he had to admit that it wasn't such a bad idea. As long as all the airlocks were standard, they could carry out emergency rescue missions without worrying about having to cut through the hull.

  “Remember,” he warned, as the air pressure equalised, “be gentle unless they decide to show us any hostility.”

  The airlock hissed open and he stepped through, followed rapidly by two other Marines wearing powered combat armour. It was unlikely that the freighter crew carried anything that could punch through the armour, but freighter crew did tend to carry a wide variety of weapons and it was quite possible that they had something they thought could harm the Marines. Besides, the armour was quite intimidating and hopefully it would discourage resistance. He waited impatiently for the inner airlock to hiss open and stepped into the freighter proper. The vessel’s Captain, as per instructions, was waiting for them. She was an older woman, with greying hair and a beaten demeanour, although she held herself proudly.

  “Welcome aboard,” she said, curtly. It was probably the most insincere greeting Neil had ever received, although he decided to accept it at face value. The freighter’s crew had witnessed their escorts being destroyed – with no losses to the attackers – and had to have been thoroughly cowed. Or so Neil hoped. The last thing he needed was for someone to start thinking that he could act like a hero. “I will escort you to the bridge.”

  Neil followed her though a secure hatch – hearing the sounds of thr
ee more Marines cycling through the airlock behind him – and onto the bridge. It wasn't as efficient as a military vessel, but that wasn't the real surprise. The real surprise was the crew; four men, five women and seven children of varying ages. The freighter, he realised in surprise, was a family-run business. If it was like others he had seen over the years, the crew would have been independent until they’d finally run afoul of the law and had to contract themselves out to one of the big shipping lines. They’d probably told themselves that they’d work themselves free within the year, only to find that their debts kept mounting and there was no hope of escape. If they’d been captured by pirates...it didn't bear thinking about.

  “Thank you,” he said, resolving to be as polite as possible. There was no need to make it difficult for the Captain. “Is this all your crew?”

  “Yes,” the Captain said, shortly.

  “I’m going to have to ask you all to remain here while we search the ship,” Neil informed her. He didn't think that the Captain was lying, but it was always a possibility. “Once we have secured the ship and powered up the drive, we will jump out to a secure location and unload the cargo. After that, you will be free to join us or depart, as you see fit.”