Democracy 1: Democracy's Right

by Christopher Nuttall

  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, t
oo, 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.

  And yet there was something wrong. He was sure of it. The nine superdreadnaughts seemed to be legit, with the proper IFF codes, but something kept nagging at his mind. He had the galling feeling that if he’d had some proper military experience, he would have known what was wrong. He couldn’t place it at all.

  “Sir,” he said, slowly. “I think you should take a look at this.”

  Commander Darius Falcon looked over his shoulder. The Commander wasn’t a bad person, although he refused to mingle with his subordinates and seemed to have the delusion that he was an aristocrat himself. Personally, Bart didn't give a damn. The Thousand Families ran the Empire and if they had all the power, at least they weren’t trying to crush his soul. They’d even done him a favour, of sorts, when they’d brought him into the Household Troops. He would certainly not have received such a high salary in the Imperial Navy.

  “They’re legit,” the Commander said. “What is it about them that is puzzling you?”

  “I’m not sure,” Bart admitted. The Commander didn't have any more military experience than Bart did – he’d got his post through connections – and he might not have understood. “There’s just something wrong about them.”

  On impulse, he brought up the display and showed the feed from one of the live sensors. The superdreadnaughts were lumbering forward – there was little beauty or grace in their movements – and heading right towards Alpha Station. Under Alpha, in a lower orbit, the massive orbital docking station waited, its crews already preparing to receive the superdreadnaught squadron. The Roosevelt Family would probably be quite happy to allow their client’s crew to have leave on the station, even if they didn't allow them to go down to the planet.

  And the superdreadnaughts were coming closer and closer.

  “You’re not exactly an expert in superdreadnaughts,” the Commander pointed out. He wasn't being unpleasant; he was merely stating a fact. It was one of the traits that made him bearable, unlike some officers Bart could have named. “They might not be...”

  It struck Bart, just a second too late. “Those ships,” he gasped. Now he saw it, he wondered at his own slowness in accepting it. He should have seen it at once. “They're in attack formation!”

  ***

  Colin watched on the display as Alpha Station grew in front of him, a manmade moon bristling with weapons and defences. Not unlike a superdreadnaught, or an Imperial Navy starship in a suspect star system, it had its shields and weapons on alert, although they weren’t powered up and ready for launch. The station itself was ugly, a strange bulky shape that suggested sheer power and iron determination. The weapons scattered across its hull only made it look incredibly unwelcoming.

  “Passive systems only,” Colin ordered. So close to the station, they would detect an active targeting scan the second he ordered it. And then they would flash-charge their shields and open fire. It wouldn't matter; the station was emitting enough energy to allow him to target it, even without active sensors. The first warning they would have would be when his missiles were fired from his ships, roaring towards the station at incredible speed. “Lock weapons on target.”

  “Weapons locked, sir,” the tactical officer said, very quietly. There was something about the brooding presence of the station that forced them to whisper, even though there was no way that sound could travel through a vacuum. “The missile tubes are ready to open on your command.”

  Colin nodded. The external racks were loaded, of course, but that wasn't unusual when a squadron left one sector for another. The enemy wouldn't think anything odd about that. Their radars, however, were sweeping across the superdreadnaught’s hull and might well pick up the opening tubes. He shrugged. They were committed now anyway.

  “Open the tubes,” he ordered. He braced himself, knowing that time had run out, before tapping his console and unlocking the weapons. He’d just put the trigger in the hands of his tactical officer and other junior staff. “You may fire at will.”

  The tactical officer keyed a switch.

  A second later, the superdreadnaught launched its first massive barrage towards the station.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Bart watched the attack develop on his console, too late.

  All nine superdreadnaughts opened fire, eight of them targeting Alpha Station with every missile they could bring to bear on the station, while the ninth opened fire on every automated weapons platform and orbiting sensor within reach. The cloud of missiles – they were too densely packed for his systems to provide him with an accurate count – had been fired, just seconds before Alpha Station snapped over onto high alert. At such short range, their drives could be boosted into sprint mode and accelerate within seconds of being launched, making it far harder for the defenders to calculate intercept vectors and start targeting point defence before it was too late. It wasn't impossible to intercept missiles in sprint mode, it was just extremely difficult – and, naturally, the rebels weren't going to sit around and wait for the defenders to react. They were going to continue pressing their advantage.

  Bastards, he thought, as Alpha Station's shields started to charge up. It would be nice to think that perhaps, just perhaps, the formidable fusion reactors onboard the station could power the shield generators enough to hold off the onslaught, but he knew better. The shield generators would burn out if they were forced to absorb or redirect so much power, something that would bring the interlocking generator network crashing down. The station’s point defence started to engage, pumping out plasma bolts and railgun rounds as if there was no tomorrow – which there wouldn't be for the defenders – yet it was already too late. The missiles were roaring towards their targets.

  “Get the drones out,” the Commander ordered, frantically. He hadn't seen; he hadn't understood. Bart understood. Alpha Station was going to be badly damaged, at the very least; the odds weren't good that any of the crew would survive. No amount of drones – automated gunboat-sized craft – would change the odds. “Get the automated platforms online.”

  “They’re online,” Bart assured him. The missiles the ninth superdreadnaught was launching were tearing through the network, expending an entire shipkiller on each of the undefended platforms. A part of Bart’s mind admired the precision of the attack. Platforms that might have helped save Alpha Sta
tion were being forced to devote their energies to remaining intact. It didn't seem to make much difference. The missiles were entering terminal attack range now. “I think we need to think about evacuating.”

  “Nonsense,” the Commander said. It had just dawned on him that he was in command of the defences of the entire system while an attack was underway. If he survived, if the enemy was beaten off, he would be promoted. “There is no reason to believe that they know about this facility.”

  Bart had to admit that he was right. The Roosevelt Family – in a direct break with tradition – had placed their System Command on the planet’s surface, under a mountain. If the enemy wanted to kill them, he would have to find them first – and then it would take several shipkillers to batter a way down to the bunker, or collapse the mountain on top of it. The planet’s ecology would be badly damaged. Of course, if they were Imperial Navy starships up there, they’d probably scorched entire planets before. Wrecking a single continent would be nothing compared to that.

  He looked back up at the display. The missiles were finally hitting their target.