At least it isn't my ass on the line, she thought sourly. The insurgents didn't seem to have realised that there were areas off-limits for KEWs, thankfully. If they had, the Blackshirts occupying those areas would be facing far more determined attacks. As it was, the factories, universities and industrial development complexes were safely in the Empire’s hands, although no one knew how long that would last. She lifted her eyes to the master plot and scowled. The orbiting industrials were also off-limits, even if the rebels retook them and started to use them to produce new weapons of war. She had been told, quite firmly, that she was only authorised to deploy Blackshirts to recover them.
“Captain, the conference call is scheduled for 1450,” the communications officer said. Angelika nodded; forty minutes from local time, just long enough for her to have a shower and a change, hopefully allowing her to appear less stressed. She’d trained her subordinate captains to make the best use of their battlecruisers – and, in doing so, had probably encouraged them to think of ways to unseat her. She wouldn't be too surprised to discover that one or more of them had sent secret – and accurate – reports to their patrons, rather than the pap Public Information was putting out about a highly-successful campaign. The bastards were creating an illusion that, unless someone came up with a brilliant new tactics, could only rebound on the Empire.
“Good,” she said, again. She stood up and looked over at her XO. “You have the bridge.”
“I have the bridge,” the XO responded, already heading over to the command chair.
Angelika took a moment to check the ship’s status before heading for the hatch and out into Officer Country, barely managing to conceal the yawn that threatened to burst out and overwhelm her. The Blackshirt on duty outside her cabin snapped to attention, one hand almost cracking against his helmet, but she ignored him. The Blackshirts had been making themselves unpopular since they’d been brought onboard to replace the Marines, yet they’d been behaving themselves since she’d introduced one of them to the joys of breathing hard vacuum. No one raped one of her crew and got away with it.
She took a look at her bed, wondering if she could get away with thirty minutes of sleep, but she shook her head. She was too tired to risk it, not when she had to speak to her subordinates. Being late for that would certainly cause some of them to wonder if she was going soft. Shaking her head, she undid her tunic and headed over to the shower, knowing that her steward would pick up the dirty uniform and put it in the wash. The warm water felt heavenly after so long on the bridge. She swallowed another yawn and tried to put Jackson’s Folly out of her mind.
***
“I think they’re serious about keeping this system,” Markus said, as the freighter advanced into the inner system. The freighter-gunboat combination seemed to work, so Admiral Walker had ordered them to do it again, only in a far more dangerous system. Markus didn’t really care about the danger; even the Imperial Navy would hesitate before firing on an obviously harmless freighter, at least one thousands of kilometres from the planet’s surface. “Take a look at that!”
The Geeks had modified both freighters, but they’d had a great deal more time to work on the Sidonie and it showed. They’d rigged a sensor suite that was far better than anything the Imperial Navy had deployed to its starships, even the recon cruisers that were used to plot out targets before the Imperial Navy flickered in and destroyed them. The Survey Service itself didn't have such excellent gear. Even operating on passive mode, the sensors were still sucking in awesome amounts of data and filing it into the gunboat’s secure storage module.
Jackson’s Folly was not just occupied; the Empire was already attempting to exploit it. Starships hung in orbit around the world itself, striking regularly down at the surface, while others prowled the asteroid belts. The cloudscoops at the gas giant were ringed by a squadron of destroyers while freighters were unloading orbital weapons platforms, as if they feared an attack. Markus wasn't sure if they knew or suspected that the rebels were on their way – he had no time for the Popular Front nonsense – but it hardly mattered. All that mattered was that the last reports had been out of date. There were over sixty starships in the system, which suggested that whoever was in command had screamed for additional help and actually received it.
“I’ve found their manufacturing craft,” Carola reported, from where she was going through the data. The Geeks had programmed in the best analysis algorithms that Markus had ever seen, but in the absence of true AI it was impossible to rely completely upon them. “There's only one of them, unless there’s another on the far side of the system.”
“Could be,” Markus agreed. The Sidonie had deployed massive and stealthy sensor platforms, allowing it to soak up data at an astonishing rate. An active manufacturing ship wasn't easy to hide. The Empire might have intended to hide an additional ship in the system, but that would – naturally – limit its utility. “Or maybe the reports are true and the locals scored some spectacular successes.”
The hour ticked by slowly as more information flowed into the gunboat’s systems. The deployment patterns of Imperial Navy starships, the use of freighters and heavy convoy escorts even over small distances, the regular use of KEWs against planetary targets...even transmissions, broadcast using standard encryption protocols. The Imperial Navy had realised that the mutiny meant that the mutineers – and the Popular Front – had access to their coding systems, but the Blackshirts hadn't made the same deduction, or perhaps they just didn’t care. Markus watched some of their transmissions, signals showing burned out buildings, local inhabitants hanging from the nearest tree and shuddered. No one wanted to fall into the hands of the Blackshirts. He shut the signals off in disgust. The intelligence crew would want to look at them – and the propaganda department would want to use them to illustrate the horror of the Empire – but he didn't want to look at them again. It was just another reminder that, before the mutiny, he had been fighting for a monstrous regime. He would never wipe away the shame, or cleanse his hands of blood.
It would have been nice to make contact with the locals and promise support, maybe collect some information from them, but they’d been specifically ordered not to attempt anything of the sort. The Imperial Navy didn't seem to be paying attention to a damaged bulk freighter that was limping towards Jackson’s Folly – perhaps assuming that they could deal with her long before she reached the planet – yet that could change, if the Imperial Navy felt that it had a reason to look. The stealthed platforms and probes they’d launched, if they were detected, would mark the Sidonie out as an espionage ship. His lips twitched. Besides, there was no hope – as far as the enemy knew – of escape. The bulk freighter design took hours to power up its flicker drive.
Ninety-nine percent of combat operations, he'd been told when he'd started to train at the Academy, was nothing, but solid boredom. The life of a gunboat crew was normally anything but...yet now, he was bored. It was, by any standard, the most successful recon mission of his life...and yet, it wasn't exciting. He hadn't jumped into the system and weaved a random evasive course while using his sensors to plot out targets, leaving enemy pursuit in the dust when he triggered his flicker drive and jumped out again. Markus looked over at Carola and smiled to himself. They’d known that when they qualified as a gunboat crew – and as husband and wife – that they might die together. It had been considered better than one of them living to mourn the other.
“The monitor is flickering back to the world,” Carola said, suddenly. They’d noted the arrival of a monitor in the asteroid belt, something that had puzzled him until they’d realised that it was visiting the fabrication ship for resupply. How many KEWs had they dropped? He’d never heard of a monitor shooting itself dry before, even during the most intensive combat operations. And there were no less than six monitors – perhaps more – in orbit around Jackson’s Folly. How much fighting was there on the planetary surface?
The thought made him wince. The human race had largely abandoned armies sin
ce it had climbed into space, for no organised army could survive when the enemy controlled the high orbitals. The First Interstellar War had been fought out in space, with worlds bombarded with everything from asteroids to radioactive bombs and biological weapons. Even the Blackshirts were more of an occupation force than a real army, while the Marines were a precision unit. Just how bad was it down on the surface? He shook his head. The Blackshirts, he knew, deserved little sympathy. They deserved death, or worse.
“I think we've pushed our luck far enough,” he said, finally. The Sidonie was on the verge of crossing the security line surrounding the planet. The Imperial Navy would definitely send a ship to investigate their arrival now. “Shall we go?”
The Geeks had also redesigned the interior of the freighter, reasoning that they might be able to prevent the gravity compression caused by the flicker drive from destroying the ship. Markus settled down in his chair, checked that Carola was ready, and then powered up the drive. A moment later, they were gone from the system, leaving a mystery behind for the Imperial Navy. It wouldn't puzzle them for long.
***
From three light years away, Jackson’s Folly was completely indistinguishable from any other star, just another steady pinprick of light shining out in the darkness. The sight left Colin feeling oddly homesick, even though he had never been back home since he’d taken the oath at the Academy. He still remembered the child within who had gazed up on the stars and wanted to be out there among them.
His wristcom buzzed. “Sir, we have a full download from the gunboat,” his Flag Captain said. “The targeting patterns have not changed significantly, but there are some additional targets in the system. I request permission to deploy the battlecruisers to go after their manufacturing ship.”
“Granted,” Colin said. He smiled as a thought struck him. “Tell them to try to take it intact if possible.”
He took one last look at the stars and turned, heading out of the observation blister. “I’m on my way,” he said. “Order the fleet to begin jump preparation. It’s time to go to war.”
Chapter Thirty
“So I have sent to Camelot for additional support,” Angelika concluded. The conference had only been going on for ten minutes and she was already sick of it. Imperial Navy regulations insisted on all squadron commanders holding a conference with their subordinates regularly, yet she much preferred social gatherings on her flagship. At least they could have shared a meal as well as a long chat. “I’m sure that Admiral Percival will see the justice of our cause.”
There were some hastily-hidden smiles. No one seriously expected Admiral Percival to be motivated by anything resembling justice. It was more likely that he would consider how each possible decision would affect his own career before making up his mind. Angelika would have condemned that, but then...every Imperial Navy officer would probably make the same calculation. She probably would too, if she ever reached such rarefied heights. It was such a long way to fall.
“Until then, we will continue to support the troops on the ground and patrol the asteroids, hoping to locate their hidden bases,” she said. “I think that...”
She looked up in alarm as the GQ alert echoed though her ship. “All hands to battle stations,” her XO said. “Set condition one throughout the ship. Captain to the bridge; I say again, Captain to the bridge.”
Angelika scowled. She had chosen to hold the conference in her cabin as it allowed her to chance to be more relaxed and informal. She should have known better, she told herself as she broke the link and grabbed for her jacket, pulling it on and following it with the white hat that signified supreme command. The wags in the fleet called it the Worry Hat. The bastards, in her opinion, were quite right. She checked her appearance quickly and walked swiftly – not running, the ship’s commander could not be seen running – onto the bridge.
“I have the bridge,” she said, as the hatch hissed closed behind her. No one saluted or stood to attention, something that was not permitted during battle stations. “XO; report.”
“We have multiple hostile starships flickering into the system,” her XO reported. Angelika took the command chair and studied the main display. The glowing red icons representing nine superdreadnaughts – and a handful of supporting ships – were positioned in front of her. For a moment, she wondered if Brent-Cochrane had been permitted to return to Jackson’s Folly, but the IFF signals didn't match. She was looking at the rebel superdreadnaughts. “I confirm nine superdreadnaughts, nineteen cruisers of varying design and four ships of unidentified purpose.”
Angelika pulled the data up on her personal terminal and frowned. The rebel superdreadnaughts were the ones Commander Walker had successfully hijacked, but the battle computers couldn't put a name to the other ships. That suggested that they were from the Rim or the Beyond, where the Imperial Navy had lost quite a few smaller ships to mutiny – or perhaps they had simply been sold off by corrupt Imperial Navy contractors. She had urged Admiral Percival to hold a full investigation into the contractors within the system, but nothing had come of it, probably because the contractors were closely linked to the Roosevelt Family and it would only cause embarrassment. Or, perhaps, the Admiral himself was stealing the ships and selling them off. The irony made her smile. Admiral Percival was actually less corrupt than some of the other officers nearer the Core Worlds.
She shook her head. Whatever the origin of the smaller ships, the superdreadnaughts alone were more than powerful enough to destroy her command, which meant...standing still and waiting to be hit probably wasn't a good idea.
“General signal to all ships,” she ordered. Her tone, she hoped, would discourage anyone from questioning her too closely. “I want every warship in orbit to form up around the flag. The monitors are to be dispatched at once to the waypoint” – her hands danced across her terminal, designating a set of coordinates – “I have selected, where they are to wait for further orders. If I do not issue orders within the week, they are to make their way back to Camelot and report to Admiral Percival.”
She saw another icon blinking on her display – General Branford wanted to talk to her – and ignored it. There was nothing she could do for him and his men now. The simplest tactic would be to power up the flicker drive and jump out, but it went against the grain to leave without taking a bite out of the enemy first. Of course, the enemy had bigger weapons and might take a much bigger bite out of her...she pushed that thought aside and waited for her orders to spread through the command network. There was too much to be done.
And to think I was bored and stressed, she thought, mockingly.
“Communications; transmit directly to the Petunia and the Dudley,” she ordered. “They are to separate from their squadrons and fly directly to Camelot, where they are to report to Admiral Percival and recommend that he dispatches a superdreadnaught squadron to reclaim this system.” She scowled. Her enemies would probably accuse her of defeatism, but then her enemies weren't looking at nine superdreadnaughts with blood in their eyes. “Inform me when they have flickered out.”
The enemy superdreadnaughts were still bearing down on her with ponderous inevitability, but her small fleet was already forming up around the Violence. She called up the tactical display and ran through several different options. There was no way they could actually hope to win – which, in some ways, simplified the tactical situation enormously – but perhaps they could bluff. And who knew; maybe the horse would learn to sing.
“The fleet is to follow the designated course,” she ordered, as the command datanet tightened up. Her hands danced over the panel, drawing out a course that would allow them to fly away from the planet in normal space, while also allowing her to take a few long-range shots at the incoming ships. It was lucky, she told herself, that she’d insisted on deploying and maintaining the external racks, even though her crew had grumbled endlessly about it. “Any starships within the outer system – most particularly Fabricator – are to head out of the system and rendezvous at
the first waypoint.”
She scowled. There was no way to mask her actions as anything other than a retreat. The freighters and the manufacturing ship would require time to power up their flicker drives, far longer than a warship or even commercial fast transport. If she held out long enough before flickering out, she might manage to keep the rebels concentrated on her, rather than hunting down targets that couldn't run. And who knew – perhaps there was a superdreadnaught squadron within range that could come to her rescue.
The two fleets and their projected courses appeared in front of her. If she was right – if the enemy commander didn't have a plan of his own – they would have around thirty minutes of long-range missile fire before she had to flicker out, perhaps less. It wasn't enough, but it would have to do.
Democracy 1: Democracy's Right Page 29