There were times when a scrubber would break, even without being in place for far longer than regulations permitted. Even the finest ships in the Imperial Navy ended up with infestations of mice, rats or even cockroaches, who left their dead bodies on the scrubbers with alarming regularity. Colin wouldn’t have been angry at Nix if a scrubber had failed in such a way, but Nix had done something incredibly stupid and dangerous. He had also done something that, in the Imperial Navy, could carry a death sentence.
“And then I checked the numbers,” Colin said, watching Nix wilt under his gaze. “The number on your 666 documents didn’t match the serial number on the scrubber. I checked with the database and the number on the scrubber, it seems, was assigned to one that should have been withdrawn over two years ago. And, needless to say, you didn’t even have that number on your 666 forms at all!”
He controlled himself with an effort. “Nix, you are in violation of Imperial Navy Regulations,” he stated, flatly. The formal charge could wait until Colin had a chance to do the paperwork. His lips twitched. He’d led his comrades into rebellion and he was still worrying about paperwork! “Do you wish to face Captain’s Mast or the judgement of your fellow crewmates?”
Nix blanched, his face turning even paler. Colin – or an Imperial Navy Captain, seeing that Colin had effectively resigned from the service – could legally issue any punishment he liked on his ship, up to and including execution. And his crewmates wouldn’t be any kinder. They would know that he’d put their lives in danger and wouldn’t hesitate to issue harsh punishment. His life wouldn’t be worth living until he quit – as if he could quit now – or someone managed to kill him and make it look like an accident. Yet, by long tradition, Captain’s Mast was inviolate. If Colin didn’t kill him, his crewmates wouldn’t kill him either.
But then, Colin knew, tradition was increasingly worthless these days.
“I choose Captain’s Mast,” Nix said, finally. He lowered his gaze to the floor. “I will submit to your judgement.”
You’re going to regret that, Colin thought, coldly. “Very well,” Colin said. “Crewman Nix, you are demoted to Crewman Fourth Class, with all the attendant reduction in pay and rights. Your work will be monitored by the NCOs who will not hesitate to administer punishment should you make additional…mistakes. In addition, you will receive ten lashes in front of the crew tomorrow after First Quarter. Do you accept the punishment?”
Nix swallowed hard. Technically, he could try to refuse, but the thought was absurd. Colin had let him off lightly and they both knew it. “Yes, sir,” he said. Lashing was rare in the Imperial Navy and almost always reserved for gross incompetence or misjudgement. “I will accept the punishment.”
Colin looked up at the Marines. “Take him back to his sleeping quarters and have him organise his possessions,” he ordered. “He is to be transferred to the Fourth Class quarters and assigned a bunk there until further notice.”
“Yes, sir,” the lead Marine said. Unlike Nix, his voice was brisk and focused. Marines normally served as police onboard warships, breaking up fights between the crew and maintaining discipline. If the reports were accurate, Percival had replaced the Marines on his ships with Blackshirts. Colin smiled at the thought. Percival could hardly have encouraged the rebels – and mutinous tendencies among his crews – more if he’d ordered them to gun down their own families. “Come along, you.”
Colin watched as Nix was marched out of the compartment and then closed his eyes, cursing his luck. Nix was one of the crewmen who just sought to wander through life, uncaring about any higher cause, not even focused on possible promotion. It wasn't an uncommon type, yet Colin couldn’t afford them on his ships. It wasn't as if he had the might of the Imperial Navy and Imperial Intelligence behind him. He might act like a Captain in the Imperial Navy, yet Nix could point out – quite rightly – that he’d walked away from the service and therefore had no command rights.
But then, Nix had never been taught to think. The Imperial Navy recruited its lower decks crewmen from poorer worlds, gave them a little rote training and sent them out to pick up the rest on the job. Nix knew nothing, Colin suspected, about how the starship he was serving on actually worked, perhaps not even why an air scrubber was so important. The NCOs worked overtime to keep the new recruits from killing themselves, knowing that they would be blamed if one of the newcomers accidentally blew up the ship. The senior officers, who had been through the Academy as cadets of rare promise (or so Colin had been told) rarely understood what happened below decks.
There were ships where a good cadre of NCOs and a caring commanding officer ensured that they were a joy to serve on…and ships that were hellish nightmares for young crewmen, or even junior officers. The lower decks were dominated by thuggish crewmen, who bullied recruits out of their pay, created stills for illegal consumption of alcohol and – often – far worse. Colin knew all about the abuse of power practiced by Admiral Percival, Stacy Roosevelt and their twisted kin, but the lower decks could match their sadism, if not their sophistication. He wondered absently if Stacy Roosevelt had known about the powder keg under her feet, before realising that it was unlikely. She wouldn’t have cared if she had.
Back when Colin had been promoted to Commander and serving as the XO of HMS Shadow, he had made it his business to understand and tame the lower decks. It was ironic, but his exile at Percival’s hands had introduced him to a whole new side of the Imperial Navy, one he had never realised existed. And he’d won; he’d cleaned out the bullies and convinced the NCOs to support him. After the war, once the Empire had started to reform, Colin intended to ensure that the lower decks became safe places to work. The bullies could take a short trip out of the airlock in their underwear.
Shaking his head, he turned back to the report from Flag Captain Jeremy Damiani, who had been doing his own checks on the other side of the superdreadnaught. Colin knew that he had stepped on the man’s toes mercilessly, but he knew that there wasn't any choice – and besides, he needed to be intimately familiar with the superdreadnaught. Damiani hadn’t been allowed to clean out the problems on his own ship – Stacy Roosevelt had refused him permission to do anything of the sort, although Colin had no idea why – and he had been horrified by what he’d found. Colin had been more pragmatic, if only because he’d seen worse. There were starships in the Imperial Navy that were not, in truth, commanded by their Captains.
He placed the datapad aside and stared up at the tactical star chart glowing in front of him. On the way back from Piccadilly, they’d hit two smaller worlds, wiping out a pair of Imperial Navy facilities in one and looting the other, where Percival had created a small resupply base for his ships. Colin had wondered if it had been a trap – it was odd for Percival to show so much forethought – so he’d gone in carefully, only to loot the station and flicker out – as far as he could tell – without any pursuit. If someone drew the three points he’d attacked on a star chart, they’d see them running in a line towards the Rim, but not towards the parts of the Rim that were part of the Popular Front. It might waste some of Percival’s time and resources.
Colin grinned to himself. As far as he could tell, Percival’s only hope was that Colin would expose himself, allowing one or both of Percival’s superdreadnaught squadrons the chance to intercept him and break his force. Percival was doubtless already trying to search the Rim for his base – or his supporting elements – but that would be a thankless task. The Rim and the Beyond was vast, with hundreds of hidden colonies; Percival would have some problems tracking down and locating the right one. The prospect of betrayal was far more serious, but Colin had taken ample precautions. The vast majority of the Rim’s citizens had no idea where he was based and Colin intended for it to stay that way.
And then there was the message. Hester had written the basic message, and then Colin and Daria had worked on it, refining their statement to the Empire. It had been calculated to inspire potential rebels all across the Empire, but at the same time t
o discourage futile uprisings. And, hopefully, it would give Percival heart failure. Colin suspected that news of the rebellion was already going to Earth, regardless of what Percival had ordered, yet…would they replace him with someone more competent? He shook his head. It didn’t really matter. It would take just under six months for his message to get to Earth and another six months for any new orders to reach Percival. By then, Colin would either have defeated Percival or died in an expanding ball of radioactive plasma.
His intercom buzzed. “Sir, this is Private Willis,” a voice said. “We have moved Nix to his new quarters.”
“Thank you, Marine,” Colin said. Nix would get a second chance, although one in which he would be supervised for the rest of a very short and uncomfortable career. Colin intended to beach him when he had the chance. “You can report back to your duty stations now.”
Grinning, he turned back to his notes.
***
“And what,” Neil demanded, “do you call that?”
He glared at the new recruits, who looked nervously back at him. They had no formal military training at all, not even the quick and dirty training given to the Blackshirts. What they did have was a willingness to fight and die for their homes, the colonies along the Rim. Some of them were experienced fighters, yet they had never been properly trained. The difference was only unimportant to someone who had never served and Neil had been a Marine for over thirty years.
“You are not taking part in a dance,” he snapped, casting a jaundiced eye over the recruits. “This training is supposed to teach you how to be precise! You stand straight when at attention, do you understand? And when I tell you to about-face, I want to hear you cry out when your fucking tool gets caught in your pants!”
He shook his head as the recruits looked miserable. They’d signed up without truly understanding the machine they’d joined, the Marine Corps; not as it was, but as it would be. Neil rather thought that his old Drill Sergeants would have approved, although they would probably be trying to kill him, if he ever saw them again.
“Fifty push-ups,” he added. “Drop and give them to me now!”
He concealed a smile as the recruits dropped and started to do push-ups. They’d thought that doing fifty was bad, the first time around…and then he'd shown them that he could do over five hundred, while only using one hand. It had impressed them more than most of them had wanted to admit.
They weren't bad kids, he admitted, in the privacy of his own head. A little rough, a little unresponsive to discipline, but the Marine Corps had taken worse and converted them into the finest Marines in the Empire. Or even outside it. The Marine Corps had been his family, one that had been shamed when they had been ordered to carry out a massacre. He would redeem it, whatever it took.
He caught sight of a small skinny guy, struggling with the final push-ups. The young man had the heart, all right; the only question was if he’d last long enough to grow the body. Neil knew what the Marine Corps meant, even if the new recruits didn’t; war. War meant fighting and fighting meant killing. And deaths, friendly deaths. The Empire liked to conserve its Marines, although the blackshirts were regarded as expendable, yet…there were always deaths. There were times that he wished he’d been killed in the moment of his greatest victory, when he'd taken the superdreadnaughts for the rebellion. And yet he had lived.
Neil looked out over the sweating backs of the young men and women and wondered, despite himself, which one would be the first to die.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“Welcome to Sanctuary,” Cordova announced, as they stepped off the shuttle and into a massive rocky hanger deck. Unlike visiting an Imperial Navy starship, or a private firm, there was no welcoming party to greet them. “What do you think of the place?”
Hannelore looked around her, but it was nothing special, not unlike the habitats she had visited and intended to create at Tyler’s Star. There seemed to be no security, apart from a single flight controller, and nothing barring the way into the heart of the asteroid. She couldn't see any safety systems, but she found herself hoping desperately that they were there. A space habitat was not always a safe place to live.
She’d actually enjoyed the two weeks she’d spent on the Random Numbers. Cordova had been the perfect gentleman, encouraging her to talk about her own life and asking insightful questions about the High City on Earth, even some that suggested that he had some insider knowledge of the place. In return, he’d told her about the Popular Front, about hundreds of rebel and insurgent groups working together to force the Empire to reform, or destroy it. Despite herself, Hannelore had found herself horribly intrigued and fascinated. Could it be that the Empire could be reformed, rather than destroyed? She’d known, of course, just how badly the system was rigged. The Roosevelt Family might even have managed to take the whole Tyler’s Star project off her hands and give it to one of their allies. She’d kept it as quiet as she could in hopes of avoiding their interest.
Cordova had explained, regretfully, that while she wasn't a prisoner in a standard sense, the rebels couldn't allow her to go home. The truth was that Hannelore didn’t want to go home. If she went home now, she would be exposed as a failure, along with the whole Tyler’s Star project. The Thousand Families wouldn't throw her into the gutter to die – there were standards, even for the lowest families – but they wouldn't allow her another chance to prove herself. She would be given a small stipend and expected to join the thousands of family members partying, drinking and drugging themselves to death. The only alternative would be to retreat into herself and mind everyone else’s business, like Great Aunt Grace. The memory of the long-nosed elder woman, poking herself into everything, made her shudder. She was not going to wind up like that.
“It looks like an ordinary asteroid habitat,” Hannelore said, as they passed through a small airlock and into a bustling crowd. She’d shopped at the great shops on Earth, yet there was something about the market in front of her that drew her attention. Great piles of clothes competed with books and datachip stores, while some of the sellers were openly displaying weapons or other illegal supplies. She picked up one of the books and discovered, to her surprise, that it was written in a language she didn't recognise. The Empire had attempted to stamp out all languages apart from Imperial Standard, yet she supposed she shouldn't be surprised to discover another language – or thousands of them – thriving along the Rim. “Or maybe...”
She saw Cordova smile as it sank in. There was nothing fake about the market in front of her, none of the urgent need to be fashionable surrounding the High City’s great shopping malls, or none of the fugitiveness that surrounded the shops for the lower classes. There was no fear in the air, no sense that the Imperial Tax Authority might descend on the shoppers to demand its cut of the proceeds, or that the Blackshirts might march into the compartment and arrest everyone just for being in the presence of subversive literature. The people living along the Rim or out in the Beyond might live in permanent fear, terrified that the Empire might one day discover them and send starships to capture or destroy their asteroids, but they didn't let it wear them down. The kind of grinding, ever-present fear she’d sensed on other worlds simply didn't exist here.
“Of course,” Cordova said, when she finally managed to put it into words. “The people here are free! They can do what they like and if they don’t like their companions, they are free to set up an asteroid habitat of their own and live apart from them. We have millions of different groups out here. Look!”
His long finger pointed towards a pair of short figures, moving from stall to stall. The two green aliens, almost child-like in their motions, seemed to be welcome on the asteroid, rather than being hissed at as they would be on most Imperial worlds. The Empire encouraged anti-alien feeling and racism, yet the Rim seemed to accept all comers. The two aliens, she noted through numb shock, were also doing the one thing that would guarantee them a death sentence back in the Empire. They were carrying weapons...and no one seemed
to find that alarming.
She looked away, her gaze sweeping across the market. Now she knew to look for the signs, she could see that most of the people within view were also armed; indeed, she would have bet good money that the ones who appeared unarmed were actually carrying concealed weapons. They weren't carrying stunners either, but outright weapons, ranging from pistols to submachine guns and even plasma rifles. She’d been told that the Empire had a monopoly on plasma technology, but like so much else she’d been told about the Rim and its people, she was starting to realise that that was a lie. There was an entire vibrant culture hidden away among the uncharted stars.
The sound of heavy footsteps and mechanical whirring announced the presence of a cyborg, striding through the compartment without concern. Hannelore felt sick as she saw how the metal implants had been worked into the man’s flesh, yet he seemed alive and unconcerned – and no one else seemed concerned either. The crowds parted to allow him to pass and he strode on into the heart of the asteroid without a backwards glance. On an Imperial world, he would have been arrested for improper – if not illegal – use of physical implants. Such technology was reserved only for the ruling elite.
Democracy 1: Democracy's Right Page 26