“No, Captain,” the sensor officer said. “The only object within detectable range is the ICN station.”
Khursheda nodded. “Take us towards it,” she ordered. She looked over at the communications officer. “Keep transmitting our false IFF signal. We don’t want them getting suspicious and alerting higher command.”
Colin’s original thought had simply been to blow the ICN network and force Percival to devote additional starships to convoying information all over the sector. Daria – backed up by Hester – had put forward an alternative suggestion. There was no need to destroy the entire network, or even parts of it, when the rebels could put it to work on their own behalf. Khursheda didn’t like Daria – there was something about the woman that rubbed her up the wrong way – but she had to admit that it was a good idea. It might even work.
The Geeks had reprogrammed her starship’s IFF transmitter to pretend that it was a battlecruiser on detached duty from the nearby Sector 99. Khursheda was fairly sure that, sooner or later, the Imperial Navy would cotton on to that trick and the IFF codes would have to be altered, but until then it should work neatly. She would have preferred to use codes from a starship known to be in the sector, yet there was too great a chance of one of the starships they encountered knowing that the ship they were impersonating was somewhere else. It was a risk, but a calculated one.
Part of her was depressed by how easy it was to start thinking of the loyalists in the Imperial Navy as enemies, but it wasn't hard to understand. The Imperial Navy had no shared loyalty, not when everyone knew that promotions happened because the promoted were well-connected, or were sleeping with their superiors, or other criteria that had nothing to do with merit. Khursheda, for all of her stern appearance, hadn’t felt much loyalty towards the Navy as a whole. All she had needed was someone to encourage her to rebel.
“And then prepare our message,” she added. “I want to transmit it as soon as they verify our identity.”
***
Lieutenant Neil Schmitt loved his job. Most Imperial Navy officers would have regarded a transfer to the Interstellar Communications network as a demotion, if not a permanent career freeze, but Neil had never been particularly ambitious. All he really wanted to do was read his books and watch the universe go by, an aim made much easier by his new assignment. He’d been transferred over as a young Midshipman and, by volunteering to stay longer than he absolutely had to, he’d been granted promotion. From just another operator on the vast station, he had become its commander, a position that afforded him certain rights.
The Empire – and the Federation before it – had spent billions of credits on attempting to develop a workable form of faster-than-light communication. And, for all of their investment, they had nothing to show for it. In theory, there were plenty of ways to transmit a signal faster than light, but in practice the only way to do it was to have the message carried on a starship. It was incredibly frustrating for the Empire’s rulers, who wanted to control their Empire, yet had to account for the massive time delay built into the system. If Earth had wanted to send a signal out to Camelot, it would take nearly six months for the message to reach its destination and then another six months for Earth to get any reply. It was partly why Admiral Percival and his fellow Sector Commanders received so much latitude, in an Empire that didn’t think highly of individual initiative and enterprise. They needed the authority to deal with a small crisis before it became a larger one.
Their first solution to the problem had been to decree that every starship had to carry a sealed message pod that would allow it to convoy messages between systems. The idea hadn’t worked out too well in practice as starships were delayed, or rerouted, or simply ‘forgot’ to pick up the message packets. The second solution involved the ICN; courier boats would jump from system to system, pass on the message bundles to the ICN stations, which would in turn relay them into the system or onwards to another courier boat. The system was clumsy and inefficient, but it worked – and it had other advantages. With all messages being sent through the ICN, it allowed the Empire a chance to censor everyone’s mail – or detect subversive messages before they were transmitted into the Empire.
It also had another advantage, as far as Neil was concerned. The Empire didn’t allow its corporations – particularly the ones with weaker ties to the Thousand Families – or private citizens any access to unbreakable encryption. Neil could use backdoors engineered into the system to peek at the messages, and then covertly hold them back for a few days while using his insider knowledge to make bets on the stock market. Working with a few allies deeper within the Empire, they were able to use their advance knowledge to gain wealth or avoid loss – and, as long as they were careful, they would be completely undetectable. They were careful. They gambled normally and only bet high when they were sure of their ground.
He barely noticed the battlecruiser flickering into the system, for he was carefully writing a message to his allies. Admiral Percival had refused to release any news of the rebellion into the ICN, which meant that stock markets further into the Empire would be unaffected by the news – at least, so far. Neil was betting that Admiral Percival would keep it classified for a few months longer, which would allow him and his allies the chance to secure their own positions and bet high. When the news finally broke – and it would; the ICN wasn’t the only communications channel – they would be in a good position to benefit. Best of all, it looked perfectly natural from the outside. No one would be able to tell what they were doing, even if Imperial Intelligence carried out a thorough investigation. He hadn’t even had to hold any messages.
“Lieutenant,” Midshipwoman Fanny said, interrupting his thoughts. He saw no reason for formality on his command deck, but Fanny was young and ambitious – and desperate to escape the ICN. She was also pleasant on the eye, so Neil saw no immediate reason to authorise her transfer. “The Dauntless is transmitting a long message packet, priority one.”
Neil lifted his eyebrows. He didn’t dare tamper with priority one messages – that would mean certain death if he were caught – yet even they had to be checked by the censor. He keyed his console, transferring the data packet to his own system, and swore aloud as he took in the headers. The message wasn't just priority one; it was tagged with an Imperial Intelligence sticker, ensuring that it would go right to the top of the system. Worse, the second tag ordered a general broadcast to everywhere outside the system, but not into Camelot itself until a certain time. He found himself scratching his head. Neil liked the ordinary and the message was as outside the ordinary as it was possible to get, at least without the battlecruiser opening fire and blowing him and his station to vapour.
“Interesting,” he said, without committing himself to anything. The only reason he could think of for a blanket message was to ensure that everyone got it – at least everyone with the right code key to unlock the message. No, he realised, as he read through the final headers; the later tags contained instructions for the message to decipher itself, without the need for a code key. Someone wanted to broadcast a message to everyone within the Empire. The message would route itself through every last communications system it could reach, twisting and turning like a living thing. “I wonder why…”
“Sir, the battlecruiser is demanding a receipt,” Fanny insisted. She sounded nervous. No lowly Midshipwoman would want to handle a message with tags that came right from the highest authority in the sector. “They want us to confirm that we will send the message as soon as the next courier boat arrives.”
Neil scowled to himself, thinking hard. There was something odd about the message, odd enough to make him wonder if he shouldn’t check with Imperial Intelligence’s offices in the Camelot System before forwarding the message. Except…if the message was genuine, and he had no reason to believe it wasn't, he would get into considerable trouble by delaying it, even for a few hours. He knew the schedules of the courier boats by heart and there was no way he could get a signal to Camelot and back b
efore the message had to be transmitted. If the signal was false, he would be a hero, but if it was genuine…he’d be lucky not to be assigned to a penal world.
And, even if the message was false, he would have ignored perfectly legitimate codes. Imperial Intelligence would not be amused, perhaps even punish him for ignoring them, even though he’d done the right thing. They would be looking for a scapegoat and he knew, from long experience, that shit always flowed downhill. He would be the one who received the blame. He agonised for a long moment, and then made up his mind.
“Copy the signal into a burst transmission to Camelot, then transfer it into the buffer and transmit it to the next courier boat to arrive,” he ordered, finally. Having prepared the groundwork, it was time to cover his ass. “I’ll attach a message to it stating that I cannot verify that the message was approved by officers on Camelot. That should suffice.”
“Yes, sir,” Fanny said. Neil saw her jacket, carefully opened to reveal a little of her cleavage, and smiled to himself. Fanny was a survivor. There was no doubt of that. With a couple of patrons and perhaps some luck, she would rise high. “The next courier boat is due in two hours, seventeen minutes.”
And would be gone again in two hours, thirty minutes, unless something went badly wrong with the drives, Neil knew. “Yes,” he agreed, dryly. “We had better not delay then, had we?”
***
Khursheda watched from her ship as the ICN station accepted the message, copying back the message headers to confirm receipt. She said a silent prayer under her breath that the system would work perfectly, before looking up at the helmsman and ordering him to jump them out to where the rest of the squadron was waiting for them. They’d pushed their luck too far already.
The message headers did far more than just direct the message to its proper destination, she knew; they ensured that no one would attempt to unlock the message’s encryption before it was too late. The message – a declaration of rebellion would be forever moving ahead of any warning, any order to stop the message and erase it from the ICN. The Empire would have to wipe it completely – which would be difficult, as it would be bouncing back to the sender every few weeks – and change all of the codes. One of the headers, one normally assigned to Imperial Intelligence, would ensure that the automated systems just allowed it to slip through the censors. No one would look at it, she hoped, and even if they did, they wouldn’t be able to decrypt it in time.
She smiled as the battlecruiser flickered out of the system. The Empire insisted on maintaining complete control over the planetary datanets, although there were datanets – on Earth and the Core Worlds, mainly – that defied easy control. They could normally wipe any subversive message from the network without more than a tiny percentage of the planet’s population seeing it. Now…the message the rebels had created included the codes that would tell the monitors to ignore it, to let it pass through without comment. The entire Empire would see the message and know that a rebellion had begun.
***
Neil watched without undue surprise as the courier boat flickered into the system, dumped a massive data packet into the ICN station’s filters and accepted the transfer of an equally large data packet from Neil’s crew. As he had expected, there was no word from Imperial Intelligence’s base on Camelot. The courier boat waited long enough to recharge its drives and then flickered out, heading for its next destination. Neil turned back to his own work and pushed the message out of his mind. There were two corporate messages that he’d held back that had to be slipped into the next data packet, just in time to prevent anyone from wondering if they’d been deliberately delayed.
Nine hours later, just after he went off duty, had a long rest and returned to his station, a Blackshirt transport flickered into existence, right next to the station. Neil barely had time to wipe his own secured data store within the network before they stormed aboard, arrested him and his entire crew, transferring them to their ship. It seemed that the message wasn't real after all. Neil gathered that after the Blackshirt commander, who looked deeply frightened, had driven a fist into his chest while screaming obscenities at him. The message had been faked, using codes that shouldn’t have been in private hands.
And, in the finest traditions of the Empire, the messenger was going to be shot.
Chapter Twenty-Five
“Let me do the talking,” Brent-Cochrane said, as the shuttle slowly drifted into the massive orbital fortress’s hanger bay. Penny gave him a single raised eyebrow, which made him smile. The way he was dressed, Percival might well have a heart attack on the spot, or find it hard to restrain homicidal impulses. “You stay quiet and pretend to be a good little aide.”
Penny shrugged. Brent-Cochrane had worn the standard dark blue dress uniform of a Commodore, but instead of wearing the blue cap, he’d donned a shining white cap with gold braid. Traditionally, only the supreme commander of a particular formation – a mere squadron, even of superdreadnaughts, wouldn’t be enough – would wear such a cap and wearing one to a meeting with the Sector Command was both an unsubtle insult and a subtle message to Percival’s supporters. Percival would see it as a challenge to his authority, yet he could do little about it, not with the level of connections enjoyed by his younger subordinate. He would have to grin and bear it, although part of Penny hoped that he would suffer a heart attack and die.
The shuttle gently touched down and the hatch opened, allowing the air from the fortress to flow into their craft. Brent-Cochrane’s personal bodyguard stood up and headed out of the hatch, making a circuit of the craft before he would allow any of Brent-Cochrane’s staff to follow him into the hanger bay. That, too, was another subtle insult to Percival, an implication that Brent-Cochrane didn’t trust his superior to organise his own security. Percival, an expert at the backstabbing and intrigue that made up the innermost circles of the Imperial Navy, would have no difficulty in understanding the message, although he would still find himself powerless to respond.
“Clear,” the bodyguard said, finally. If there was any doubt in his voice, Penny couldn’t hear it. “There’s a reception party waiting for you.”
The small party stood to attention as the Empire’s Anthem started to blare out, played through the speakers. Brent-Cochrane stepped from the shuttle, every inch the visiting monarch, and strutted to the far end of the line. The welcoming party was commanded, Penny saw with an inner flicker of doubt, by a mere Lieutenant. That, too, was an insult, one calculated to annoy the impulsive Commodore. Brent-Cochrane showed no visible reaction, even to her; he accepted the young officer’s salute and returned it with his own.
“Lieutenant,” he said, calmly and with perfect poise. “Permission to come aboard?”
“Permission granted, My Lord,” the Lieutenant said. He looked relieved; Penny knew how he felt. There were cases of visiting officers being offended by their reception party and demanding immediate punishment, or breaking careers effortlessly because they felt that their pride had been slighted. “Welcome onboard.”
Brent-Cochrane smiled. “Thank you,” he said. “Would you care to escort us to the Admiral’s quarters?”
The Lieutenant bowed and nodded, dismissing the welcoming party with a wave of his hand and turning to lead the two of them out of the hanger bay. Brent-Cochrane dismissed most of his party – he’d given them orders to mingle with the station’s crew, but remain on call – and allowed Penny to precede him as they walked though the station. The station was so massive that even Percival hadn’t been tempted to try to decorate it all in his own favoured style – the cost would have been shockingly high, even to someone with far more exalted connections – but she saw some of his paintings and artworks scattered around, announcing his control over the station. She wondered, sometimes, what the lower decks thought of their supreme commander’s taste in artwork, although no one gave a damn about their opinions – least of all Percival. The lower decks were there to do the dirty work and then remain out of sight, out of mind. The Imperial
Navy only tolerated a few Mustangs – officers from the lower decks – every year.
Penny considered as she walked, contemplating the two men in her life. Percival was a sadist and a sexual pervert, yet in his way he was simple and easy to understand. The longer she spent in Brent-Cochrane’s company, the harder she found it to understand him. He was intelligent, capable, competent and – unlike Percival – interested in her for her brain, rather than her body. After their first coupling, he had never touched her again. It struck her as odd.
Or perhaps it wasn't so odd, she reflected. Men liked playing their dominance games and Brent-Cochrane was playing one, not with her, but with Percival. Sleeping with Percival’s woman might be nothing more than yet another attempt to beat Percival, even though Percival would never find out about it. Brent-Cochrane might have a grand scheme to dislodge Percival from his position, yet in his mind, he already had. Or perhaps he trusted in his patrons and his undoubted ability to control his ships. He was simply too valuable for Percival to dispose of him.
Penny’s lips tightened as she fought to get back into the old ways of thought, adding an extra sway to her hips and tightening her jacket. The courier boat had found the squadron four days ago, ordering Brent-Cochrane to abandon his position and bring the squadron to Camelot with all possible speed. That, she was sure, meant bad news…or perhaps Percival had his own plan to get rid of his uppity subordinate before things went badly wrong for him. Or perhaps he was just missing Penny in his bed…no, that couldn’t be the answer. He could have ordered any of the young female officers into his bed and no one would have cared – well, no one who mattered. The Imperial Navy wouldn’t have cared in the slightest as such abuses of power were common, even winked at by senior officers.
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