He shrugged. “Besides, we don’t know where the rebel shipyards are,” he added. “Given three or four years to build up our forces, we can start scouring the Beyond for their bases.”
Tiberius winced. “How long will it take to finish the war?”
The Admiral gave him a quirky grin. “The war could be shortened considerably by making the wrong decisions now,” he said. “But war is a democracy. The enemy gets a vote.”
“Finish it as quickly as possible,” Tiberius said. The Empire hadn't mobilised the entire Imperial Navy in centuries. Even bringing the naval reserves up to full fighting trim would be costly – and, right now, the Empire’s economy was fragile. What would happen if it collapsed completely? “We don’t know how much time we have before the Empire falls.”
“No,” the Admiral said. “I suppose you don’t.”
Sharon entered the office when Tiberius called her, then escorted the Admiral to the shuttle that would take him to his new flagship. Tiberius watched him go, hoping that he’d done the right thing by pushing the Admiral forward. Even if he was loyal, it had been years since the Admiral had set foot on a command deck. What if he'd lost the knack?
He pushed his thoughts aside as two of his cousins, Lady Gwendolyn Cicero and Lord Pompey Cicero, were shown into the office. Gwendolyn was tall, heartbreakingly beautiful and had a mind like a steel trap, as countless would-be lovers had found out to their discomfort and dismay. There was a reason she was tipped to head up the family's intelligence apparatus after her great-uncle resigned. She had a remarkable talent for extracting information from unwilling donors. Beside her, Pompey seemed to almost fade into the background, which suited him quite nicely. There were few better experts on security measures and countermeasures in the High City.
And they were both young enough to actually think.
Tiberius nodded to them both as they sat down, Gwendolyn artfully arranging herself so she displayed the tops of her breasts to watching eyes. He knew better than to trust her completely, not when she had enough ambition for the entire family hidden under her smile, but he knew that she could be trusted to put the family’s interests ahead of her own. After all, even Tiberius could not remain in the family if he alienated everyone else. Pompey, on the other hand, had no real ambition. It wasn't always a character flaw.
“You know the situation, I assume,” he said. They would probably have heard the full story from one of Gwendolyn’s sources. Tiberius knew for a fact that she was bedding a senior member of the Rothschild Family, someone high enough to isolate facts from the rumours flying through the High City. “I have a specific task for you two.”
Gwendolyn smiled, winsomely. “For us, My Lord?”
“For you,” Tiberius confirmed, shortly. If there was one thing he knew about Gwendolyn, it was never to lower his guard around her. “This rebellion threatens the interests of the family as well as the Empire as a whole. We may lose the war.”
“Surely not, My Lord,” Gwendolyn said. She was mocking him, very slightly. “The Empire is invincible.”
“We may defeat the rebels, but lose the war,” Tiberius said, coldly. “The cost of defeating them might well add to the economic damage we have already suffered. If the ties binding our economy start to collapse, we will find ourselves scrabbling over the pieces of the Empire and fighting a civil war. We might not come out ahead.”
He scowled, contemplating the possibilities. If the infighting between the Thousand Families became open warfare, there would be a desperate struggle over the Imperial Navy and other military facilities. The patronage networks would turn on each other, fighting a desperate war to secure control of the ships and orbital fortresses. Tiberius knew that the family had thousands of men and women in key positions, but he also knew that the other families had their own clients. There was no way to know who would come out ahead when the shit hit the fan.
His scowl deepened. They’d been running out of room to expand easily long before the rebellion at Jackson’s Folly. If the rebels had waited another fifty years, the Empire might have ripped itself apart and saved them the trouble.
“Openly, we intend to fight,” he said. “Covertly, I want you both to serve as ambassadors to the rebels. If we win, well and good; if we lose, I want to ensure that the family’s position is not badly compromised.”
“I don't see how we can avoid being compromised,” Gwendolyn pointed out, tartly. “The rebels want our heads, preferably not attached to our bodies.”
“They will have to govern after winning the war,” Tiberius countered. “If they wanted wanton destruction, Earth would be uninhabitable by now. We can ensure a reasonably peaceful transition of power ... or force them to rebuild the Empire from scratch.”
“Risky,” Pompey observed. He gave Tiberius a long considering glance. “I dare say the Families Council will not be happy about us going behind their backs.”
“They’ll be doing the same,” Tiberius predicted, dismissively. “However, we have an unfair advantage. I expect you” – he looked directly at Gwendolyn – “to take full advantage of it.”
Gwendolyn gave him a charming smile. “You place your faith in my powers of seduction?”
Tiberius produced a datachip from his pocket and dropped it on the desk. “Jason Cordova, Hero of the Underground, is a Cicero,” he said. It had taken his father plenty of time, money and effort to bury the truth, but it had all paid off. “And if family loyalty isn't enough to gain his assistance, we know something else about him. We know a single detail that will shatter his position beyond repair.”
Pompey frowned. “If that is true,” he said, “the secret would be years out of date.”
“Trust me,” Tiberius said. It had shocked him when he’d opened the sealed file, despite considering himself prepared for anything. “This secret will never grow old.”
Chapter Three
Captain Penelope Quick – Penny to her friends and enemies alike – stared down at her hands, fighting to control the shaking. Two weeks in Imperial Intelligence’s Luna Holding Facility had been far from pleasant, even before the Mind Techs had submitted her to their interrogation procedures. Torture and beatings would have been kinder. Instead, metallic fingers had pried their way into her mind, extracting every last fragment of information from her skull. By the time they had conceded – reluctantly – that she had been telling the truth all along, the experience had damaged her mind.
Her throat hurt from screaming. That, at least, was a tangible pain. Worse, perhaps, were the ghostly delusions of broken bones, or invisible flames scorching her skin. The guards hadn't seemed to care when she curled up in her cell, shaking helplessly as her tortured mind tormented her. Even afterwards, the memories still took their toll on her. She doubted she would ever stop shaking, no matter what she did. It had been a surprise when they had taken her out of the cell, told her to wash and dress, then placed her on a shuttle. Her new commanding officer, it seemed, was waiting for her.
She crept over to the porthole and stared into the inky blackness of interplanetary space. It was rare for a spacer to be a claustrophobe – no one who served in the Imperial Navy could be afraid of tight spaces – but Penny no longer felt comfortable in the shuttle. She had a feeling that it would be worse on the starship, even though it was probably a superdreadnaught. The Mind Techs had done untold damage to her mind, then simply let her go. Part of her wondered if they had expected to have custody of her until her mind finally gave out. They certainly hadn't bothered to provide any treatment for the damage they’d inflicted ...
Her hands started to tremble again. Angrily, she glared down at them, then looked back out of the porthole as the superdreadnaught came into view. Like all General-class superdreadnaughts, General Clive was five kilometres long, a blunt hammer of a starship studded with sensor blisters, missile tubes and energy weapons. A dozen smaller starships held close station around her hull, several of them modified light cruisers. The rebels, she knew, had converted bulk freig
hters into arsenal ships, giving them a colossal throw weight in the first broadside. Her new commander, whoever he was, had put her recommendation of increasing the number of escorting starships into practice. It wouldn't be perfect, she knew, but it would give the superdreadnaught a chance to survive.
A dull shiver ran through the shuttle as it passed through the superdreadnaught’s shields, then the force field holding her atmosphere inside the shuttlebay. Penny felt her legs tremble, moments before the shuttle touched down on the deck. Gritting her teeth, she stood up and walked over to the hatch, catching sight of her reflection as she passed a display screen. She looked awful. Her long hair had been cut short to allow the Mind Techs to attach their tools, while her eyes were surrounded by dark rings that told of a lack of sleep. And her eyes themselves looked haunted ...
I told them everything, she thought, remembering her desperate attempts to convince her interrogators that she was telling the truth. But they hadn't wanted to believe her. I told them everything and they still tore my mind to shreds.
The hatch opened; she jumped backwards, feeling a flash of panic. Outside, a single young woman waited, wearing an Ensign’s uniform. Penny couldn't help noticing – with a flicker of envy – that it was a standard uniform, without any of the careful tailoring that some commanding officers insisted on. Percival had insisted that all of his female subordinates wear uniforms intended to show off their bodies.
She staggered and almost fell as the memory overwhelmed her. The Ensign reached out for her ... and Penny jumped, almost lashing out at the young woman. Penny barely heard her questions, then her urgent call to sickbay. The deck suddenly seemed warm and comforting ...
The next thing she knew was that she was in sickbay, with two concerned faces looking down at her. One of them wore the standard white uniform of a naval doctor, the other wore the black uniform of an Admiral. Penny cringed away from him, her memories bubbling up inside her skull. Her head suddenly began to hurt badly, a dull throbbing that made it hard to control her thoughts.
“I cannot imagine what they were thinking,” the doctor was saying. Penny fought to listen to her, even though her ears seemed to be failing. “There’s little physical damage, but the mental damage will take weeks or months of recovery before she can even consider returning to duty.”
“I think there aren't many people with direct experience of the rebels,” the Admiral said. He might have been wearing the same uniform as Percival, but he certainly sounded more competent. But then, Percival was not a skilled commanding officer. Was he even still alive? Penny had no idea how the Battle of Camelot had ended. “They probably thought the same.”
Penny looked up as the doctor pressed something metallic against her skull. There was a faint hiss, followed by a numbing sensation that was a welcome relief, after the pain. Penny almost sagged, her eyelids suddenly very heavy, before she forced herself to sit upright. The doctor eyed her with concern, then held out a glass of water. Penny sipped gratefully.
“My very strong advice,” the doctor said, “would be to take it easy for the next few months.”
“I don’t think that will be possible,” Penny said. It took her four tries to say the sentence properly. “They wanted to blame me.”
“They won’t be blaming you,” the Admiral said. He gave her a thoughtful look. “The record – and the data they took from your mind – indicates that it was all Percival’s fault. As the Roosevelt Family is currently in deep shit, it seems unlikely that anyone will actually bother to try to save his reputation.”
“Good,” Penny said, after a moment. “Is he alive?”
“We don’t know,” the Admiral told her. “The rebels might well have killed him.”
“Good,” Penny said, shortly. Once, such words would have earned her a court martial; now, she no longer cared. “I hope the bastard rots in hell.”
The Admiral gave her a droll smile. It took her a moment to realise that he not only agreed with her, he wasn't shy about making it known either. Oddly, the sight made her want to cry. What would she have been able to do if she had served under an Admiral who had been more interested in his job than sex?
“ONI feels that you should be assigned to my command,” the Admiral said, after a moment of silent reflection. “Under the circumstances, I would understand if you wish to remain in sickbay ...”
“No,” Penny said, shortly. The pain would be back soon, she was sure, but she wanted to see what it was like working with a competent Admiral. Besides, if she seemed useless, the best she could hope for was a dishonourable discharge. She wouldn't be able to afford treatments for mental damage after being kicked out of the navy. “I can work under you.”
“I hope you’re right,” the Admiral said. He stuck out a hand. Penny grasped it and shook, firmly. “I am Admiral Wachter.”
Penny blinked in surprise. Admiral Wachter was a legend! But who else would be selected to defend the Empire?
“They have inflicted considerable trauma on your mind,” the doctor informed her, sharply. “So far, there has been only limited physical damage, but that might not matter. I expect you to come back here as soon as you feel anything, even a mild headache. In fact, I want you to sleep here for the next few weeks. That will allow me to monitor your condition.”
Penny opened her mouth to object, then changed her mind. She had always enjoyed having a cabin of her own, a place to retreat from the universe, but the doctor was right. If she wanted to heal, she would need medical attention and constant supervision. Somehow, she had the feeling that the Admiral would be unhappy if she didn't seek help when she needed it.
She stood upright. Her legs seemed stable, although she suspected that it wouldn't be long before they were trembling again. She wasn't even sure why her body was shaking in the first place. Her interrogators hadn't physically hurt her, apart from strapping her down to the bed.
“Come with me,” the Admiral said. “But don’t hesitate to call for help if you need it.”
The interior of the General Clive was plain, almost Spartan. Penny had served on starships that had been decorated to suit their commander’s personal tastes, but the superdreadnaught’s CO didn't seem to have bothered. Or perhaps he or she believed that simplicity was best, which had the added advantage of allowing the crew access to the superdreadnaught’s innards. There was an old story about a CO’s artworks that had blocked access to a damaged component, years ago, and of how the entire ship had had to be scrapped. Penny suspected that there was some element of truth in the tale.
She felt an odd sense of relief as she stepped onto the flag deck and looked up at the giant holographic display dominating the compartment. The superdreadnaught was surrounded twenty-six other superdreadnaughts and nearly four hundred smaller ships, all holding a tight formation. Judging by the display, the tactical crews were holding near-constant exercises, practicing desperately to defend against a missile swarm. It didn't look as though they were succeeding, but they were clearly out of practice. They’d get better in time.
“Take a seat,” the Admiral said. “Tell me what you make of this.”
Penny sat, gratefully, and watched as he tapped a switch, replacing the tactical display with an interstellar star chart. The rebels seemed to hold hundreds of stars, mainly concentrated on Sector 117. Penny reminded herself, savagely, that the information was almost certainly months out of date. Without any way of sending messages faster-than-light, the Empire was dependent on news brought back by starships ... and it took months to get a message from the edge of the Empire to Earth. The rebels might easily have advanced closer to Earth in the time it had taken for Earth to even know that there had been a rebellion.
“They’re going to be coming for Earth,” she said, finally. Sector 117, thanks to the Roosevelt Family, had a functional industrial base. The rebels wouldn't have hesitated to press it into service, aided and abetted by workers who hated their masters with a fierce passion. “And they’re going to be coming soon.”
“Precisely the conclusion drawn by the Grand Admiral’s tactical staff,” the Admiral said. He gave her a smile that made her smile back. “Our objective is to stop the rebels at Morrison, then push them back and ultimately defeat their forces. This is not going to be easy.”
Penny couldn't disagree. Admiral Percival had been the worst possible commanding officer for Sector 117, a man more interested in maintaining his position and enjoying his pleasures than actually fighting. The rebels had run rings round him, then eventually captured his home base and the supplies stockpiled there. By now, the rebels were strong enough that a major fleet deployment would be required to stop them, which would draw down the forces elsewhere. And that, in turn, would encourage other uprisings against the Empire.
She had no illusions about the Empire’s popularity outside the Core Worlds. It had none. There were countless planets groaning under the weight of taxes, even when they weren't being directly exploited by one of the Thousand Families. The only thing saving the Empire from a general uprising had been the willingness to apply force to stamp on rebels and the lack of a united rebel front. Now, the force had been discredited and the rebels did have a leader. She couldn’t help feeling that the war was going to push the Empire right to the limit.
“I had hoped to set out within the week,” Admiral Wachter continued. “As it is, we are having to bring these superdreadnaughts up to scratch and train new crews – crews often taken from merchant ships. I dare say they’re unhappy.”
Penny winced. There was legal precedent for conscripting merchant crews when the Imperial Navy was short on crewmen – quite a few merchantmen had naval experience – but it was never very popular. Most of the conscripted had left the Navy because they disliked working under military discipline and corrupt superiors. Bringing them back onboard was asking for trouble.
“There are millions of naval personal on Luna,” the Admiral continued. “Millions of them. And do you know how many have the experience of actually working on a starship? Only a handful.”
Democracy's Right: Book 02 - Democracy's Might Page 3