Democracy 1: Democracy's Right

by Christopher Nuttall

  “Admiral,” he said, trying to sound as business-like as possible, “the rebels are demanding a response.”

  “I’ll give them a response,” Percival bellowed. His sudden shift from silence to outright rage was disorientating. “I’ll blow his ships to plasma and throw the bastard out of an airlock!”

  “Admiral,” Alan said, quietly. He knew that he was taking his career in his hands, but somehow it was growing harder to care. His older brother had called him a coward and perhaps he was right. The thought of dying because his Admiral had refused to see sense and surrender was too much. “We cannot win this fight. Those superdreadnaughts have enough firepower to cut through the datanet and destroy this fortress. It may take them time to obliterate all of the fortresses, but they can do it.”

  He hesitated on the next few words. “And they have offered to accept your surrender and even offered to guarantee your safe conduct,” he added. If Percival was a coward, as his behaviour seemed to suggest, it might appeal to him when more logical arguments failed. “You could return home and…”

  “Be silent,” Percival snapped. He stood up and marched over to the tactical console. Nothing, not even his superbly-tailored uniform, could disguise the fear running through his body and voice. Alan could see sweat staining his uniform. “When they enter weapons range, you are ordered to open fire. Do you understand me?”

  He turned to stare at Alan. “Do you understand me?”

  There was only one answer to that. “Yes, sir,” Alan said. He glanced down at the console to avoid looking any further at Percival. “I understand. The enemy ships will enter firing range in twelve minutes.”

  “Open fire as soon as they enter firing range and then keep firing until their ships are smashed,” Percival ordered. “Do not quit firing without my permission.”

  ***

  Colin kept his expression calm and composed, but inwardly he could feel worry working its way through his system. There were nine battle stations in orbit around the planet, positioned so that at least four of them could engage his fleet at any one time. He was still advancing forward, yet if Percival didn’t see sense – or at least what Colin wanted him to see – and surrender, he would have to fall back, reload the arsenal ships and return to the system. And that would blow any lingering belief that the superdreadnaughts were real out of Percival’s mind.

  He checked the display. Superdreadnaughts couldn’t go much closer to the planet without being caught in the gravity shadow, preventing escape, although the drones could continue to advance and simply be ordered to self-destruct before they could be captured. Even so, he did have his sole squadron of superdreadnaughts and if Percival didn’t surrender, he would have to flicker out. The timer was ticking down…

  ***

  Alan watched as the enemy superdreadnaughts drew closer, their tactical sensors already locking onto the fortress and supplying information to their missiles. The fortresses had deployed their countermeasures, of course, but unlike starships it was very hard to hide the presence of a fortress. They were so massive that they actually generated tiny gravitational fields of their own.

  An alarm pinged, seconds before the entire fortress shook. “Admiral,” he said, “a gunboat just flickered out of Shuttlebay Two!”

  Percival turned his dead eyes on him. He didn’t seem to care, even though whoever was in the gunboat had not only cut through several levels of encryption that were supposed to prevent it, but risked the destruction of the entire fortress.

  “Ignore it,” he said, harshly. “Prepare to engage the enemy.”

  Alan made up his mind. “Admiral,” he said, carefully, “I hereby relieve you of command under Section IR-23 of Imperial Navy Regulations.”

  Percival spun around to stare at him. “This is mutiny,” he snapped. Section IR-23 dealt with commanding officers who showed signs of madness. It was rarely used, not least because misusing it carried heavy penalties. “You are…”

  He reached for the pistol at his belt and Alan leapt at him. Perhaps wisely, Percival had refused to allow his officers to carry weapons, but Percival was badly out of shape and in no condition for a tussle. Alan knocked him to the ground, picked up his pistol and used the butt to knock the Admiral out. No one moved to stop him, even though they knew that there were armed Blackshirts just outside the hatch. Something would have to be done about them. At the moment, Alan had no idea what. He had never considered mutiny, even as a private mental exercise.

  “Contact the rebels,” he ordered. The officers moved to obey, leaving him wondering what to do next. “Tell them…tell them that we would like to surrender.”

  He keyed the main command network. It demanded Percival’s identification, so he held Percival’s hand to the sensor and allowed it to read the implant concealed within his palm. The computer network opened up in front of him and he transmitted a surrender order into the datanet. He doubted that anyone would question it. They all knew the odds. Besides, he knew of no one besides Stacy Roosevelt who liked Percival.

  “They’re acknowledging,” the communications officer said. “Marines are on the way.”

  “Good,” Alan said. He checked the command hatch and sealed it with Percival’s authority. “And now all we have to do is hold out till then.”

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  “She’s stepped down her scans,” the pilot said, as the assault shuttles flew towards the massive orbital fortress. “I think the surrender is genuine.”

  “Or they’re tracking us on passive sensors and they’re planning to blow us apart when we get into point-blank range,” another Marine put in. Wisecracking was an old Marine tradition, if only to serve as a barrier against tension, but few would argue that it sometimes went too far. “We might be the first to find out that it is a trick.”

  Neil shrugged, knowing that the motion – and his scowl – would be invisible inside his armour. If the defenders intended to fire on the Marines, there would be no warning, not now that they’d gotten into energy range. Weapons designed to tear through starships and induce atomic fission in their component molecules wouldn't have any trouble vaporising the Marine shuttles – and, as the blast would be moving at the speed of light, the first notice they’d have of its presence would be when the shuttles exploded.

  The Imperial Navy didn't have much practice at surrenders; wrack his brain as he might, he couldn't remember the last time an Imperial Navy warship surrendered, unless he counted the mutiny Admiral Walker had led. No full-sized orbital fortress had ever surrendered to an outside force, not when the First Interstellar War had promised nothing, but destruction for humanity. Whatever the Dathi had in mind for humanity, in an alternate reality where they had won the war, their treatment of prisoners of war had been appalling. Humanity hadn't taken long to return the favour – and grow out of the habit of trying to take prisoners. It was quite possible that it was a trick, although God alone knew what Percival thought he could get out of it. Perhaps he was thinking of the chance to take some hostages of his own, or maybe a few bargaining chips? There was no way to know for sure.

  His lips twitched humourlessly. Percival had no way of knowing, but each of the shuttles carried a full-sized warhead powerful enough to damage the station if it was detonated inside the shuttlebay. It wouldn't be enough to break through the armour if detonated on the hull, yet if it went off inside the fortress it would wreck the entire station. No one was sure if the station would actually survive, but it would definitely render the station useless for the foreseeable future. It would probably not be worth attempting to repair the station at all.

  He peered though his implants as the station grew closer, growing larger and more daunting all the time. The station’s mass was relatively equal to a superdreadnaught’s, but its boxy exterior was covered in weapons and point defence systems. He knew, from previous exercises, that the interior of the station was designed to resist a boarding party as much as it was designed to make fighting off an invading fleet relatively simple. Th
e Imperial Navy used comparable stations to hold down rebellious worlds and, from time to time, resistance groups had managed to get armed fighters onboard. Neil had investigated one such action seven years ago and had concluded that the rebels had succeeded through paying hefty bribes.

  “They’re opening the main shuttlebay for us,” the pilot said. “They’ve opened the flight management system to my computers and there is no sign of trouble.”

  “Ah, but there wouldn't be, would there?” Neil asked. He glanced down at the plan of the rotating station in his HUD. “Tell them that we are diverting to Shuttlebay Four” – a shuttlebay closer to the station's command centre than the main shuttlebay, normally only used for inspection flights – “and that we will be docking in two minutes.”

  “Yes, sir,” the pilot said. He didn't question Neil’s order, for it was a common boarding practice when Marines boarded potentially-hostile ships. If the station’s crew had arranged any unpleasant surprises for them, the Marines wouldn't oblige them by coming in the entrance they’d selected. “They’re opening the other shuttlebay for us now.”

  Neil felt the tension rise as the shuttle rose up towards a glowing hatch and flew into the station. Normally, the station would have insisted on using a tractor beam or a gravity field to ensure that there were no accidents, but there was no way he would have agreed to that when boarding a station. Instead, the pilot put them down on the deck, using the shuttle’s drive fields, and the Marines dived out of the craft and onto the deck. No hail of fire greeted them. There was no one there at all, apart from a single crewman who was looking rather bemused.

  “Welcome onboard,” he stammered. Neil smiled to himself. The surrender might have been sent out in Percival’s name and none of the other stations would dare object, but the command station – he wondered, absently, if the station had a name – had suffered what was, in effect, a mutiny. The whole situation was dangerously unstable and could explode at any minute, which was why he’d brought four whole companies of Marines along and assigned them to the boarding party. “Ah... Commander Redfield sends his compliments and invites you to join him in the command centre.”

  Neil grinned. He’d been right. No one knew how to surrender. The thought was almost amusing. It wasn't as if there were drills for surrendering a station. “Good,” he said. “I’m afraid that more of my men are going to be boarding the station and securing vital locations. Please inform Commander Redfield that any resistance will result in harsh punishment. My people have orders to use deadly force.”

  The man’s face drained of colour. Neil rolled his eyes behind his helmet. Of course; who else would hold a position on a massive fortress, apart from a coward. The man was certainly afraid to contradict him, although that wasn't a problem. It might make the occupation easier.

  “Yes, sir,” the man said, finally. “Ah...should I escort you to the command centre?”

  “Of course,” Neil said. “Lead the way, please.”

  He followed the officer through the station’s passageways, concealing his surprise at how few crewmen they encountered. A quick query of the station's datanet – unlocked for them to access as part of the surrender terms – revealed that most of the crew had been ordered to go to their quarters and remain there, while the Blackshirts had been sent to the gym. It was large enough to contain an entire company of Blackshirts for a brief period, although Neil didn't hesitate to dispatch several platoons of Marines to keep an eye on them. The Blackshirts might not accept any orders to surrender and try to put up armed resistance. Luckily, they weren't wearing proper armour, allowing the Marines to vent the compartments and suffocate them if necessary. Neil wasn't inclined to take chances.

  The command centre’s hatches had been locked open, allowing him to stride right into the nerve centre of the station. Commander Alan Redfield – a young man with a developing paunch – looked up at him nervously, then stood to attention and saluted. Neil returned the salute, just before noticing a grossly-overweight man lying on the deck, groaning. Admiral Percival looked just as ugly as he’d been told.

  “Welcome onboard,” Redfield said. Neil suspected that he meant it. The prospects of a Blackshirt mutiny had to have been floating through the Commander’s mind. “I surrender this station and the planet to you.”

  “I accept your surrender,” Neil said, equally formally. He wasn't sure if Redfield had the authority to surrender the planet, but if someone on Camelot wanted to try to hold out it would last as long as it took to drop a KEW on their base. Very few planets had ground-based planetary defence centres, if only because taking them out always tore up the real estate and inflicted vast damage on the planetary surface. “I believe that my commander will wish to make an offer to you all, but until then I have to treat you with some care.”

  “I understand,” Redfield said. He didn't sound unhappy about it, but then...it was clear that he believed that he was lucky to be alive. The images of over eighty superdreadnaughts surrounding the planet floated in space, suggesting that the sensors on the fortress couldn't tell the real superdreadnaughts from the drones. “Sir...what about him?”

  He gestured to Percival, who was clearly trying to wake up from his unwanted slumber. The bruise on his face suggested that someone had knocked him out.

  “We’ll take him into custody,” Neil said. Admiral Walker would probably want to deal with him personally. Neil didn't care. He might never have known Percival personally, but the bastard represented everything that was wrong with the Empire, from power without accountability to corruption and decadence. “We don't want someone to damage him before we can decide what to do with the bastard.”

  He smiled. Judging from the damage someone had inflicted on the Admiral, it was clear that Admiral Walker hadn't been the only person he’d managed to offend. If he’d been winning friends and influencing people at his usual rate – if Walker’s stories were to be believed – he’d be lucky to survive long enough to stand trial.

  “That leaves the others,” he said. “How many other high-ranking officers are here?”

  “Commodore Roosevelt is down on the planet,” Redfield said. Neil grinned, remembering his last meeting with Stacy Roosevelt. If it hadn't been for her connections, she would have been shot for gross incompetence; even with her connections, she would never see command again. “Captain Quick, the Admiral’s former...aide was relieved of duty. She was sent to her quarters.”

  “Good,” Neil said. He shook his head. “I think you had better go to your quarters, at least until we have this station firmly under control.”

  It took thirty minutes to confirm that the station was occupied, once the Blackshirts had been surrounded and disarmed. Neil had expected trouble, but once he’d started to pump the air out of the gym they’d become very reasonable very quickly. The Blackshirts had marched out with their hands held high and had been searched and stripped, before being transferred to one of the freighters which would provide transport to the prison world. There were so many Blackshirts on the surface now that it probably rated as a first-stage colony – or would, if there had been an equal number of women on the surface. There were no female Blackshirts - and the others who had refused to join the rebellion were sent to the other side of the planet.

  “We searched the station,” a Marine reported. “There is no sign of Captain Quick.”

  Neil frowned, puzzled. The station’s internal sensors were superb, far superior to anything they’d deployed outside the station. It should have been impossible for anyone to hide for long, even if they knew enough about the sensor network to circumvent it in some compartments. His mind drifted back to the report of a gunboat jumping out of the station – a risky trick that could have torn the station apart – and wondered if she had been on the ship. It would have been a ballsy stunt, but doable.

  “Leave it for the moment,” he said, finally. Tracking down one officer wasn't a priority for the moment. “We have other fish to fry.”

  ***

  Four
hours after the station had been declared secure – and the planet had surrendered at gunpoint – Colin was welcomed onboard the station by the Marines. The Colonel showed him around, allowing him a chance to inspect Admiral Percival’s quarters before introducing him to some of the surrendered officers. All of the battle stations had surrendered, although their senior officers couldn’t be trusted. They’d been separated from their men and transported onboard the prison barge. Colin had no idea what would become of them in the future – although he would have to decide it soon enough – but it didn’t matter. Manning the stations was the important issue for the moment. Percival’s fleet might have been smashed, but the Imperial Navy was far from defeated. It might take them a few months to put together a more powerful force, yet Colin knew that one would be on the way sooner or later.

  The Marines had, at his request, assembled most of the station’s officers and men in one of the big shuttlebays. Colin remembered, in a sudden flicker of déjà vu, speaking to his men following the first mutiny. Then, he’d spoken from the heart, telling them that the mutiny might fail and that they might all die for his cause. Now...now, whatever else happened, the Empire’s faith in its own superiority wouldn't survive, even if the Popular Front was destroyed. The next rebellion might topple the Empire completely.