But the logistics were staggering. There were millions of employees on Earth. Protecting all of their families was a difficult task ...
“It will be handled,” Sharon assured him.
Tiberius nodded. “One other matter,” he added. “You will ensure that the Fairchild children are sent to a good home. They don’t need to be overshadowed by the past.”
“Yes, My Lord,” Sharon said. She didn't seem surprised by his decision. “Should they be assigned to a colony world?”
“Somewhere reasonably decent,” Tiberius ordered. He looked up at the two personnel officers. “I want your full reports by the end of the week.”
They left, no doubt glad to be away from Tiberius. Sharon remained, looking down at him with an odd expression on her face. After a moment, Tiberius quirked an eyebrow. She looked puzzled for a moment, then nodded in understanding.
“You're being kind to the children,” she said. “That’s better than your peers would have done.”
“I know,” Tiberius said. His peers – the Family Heads – were older than him by several decades, at the very least. They wouldn't care about the children, even if they understood that the children had been innocent victims. Their mother had to die – Tiberius couldn't have changed that – but they didn't have to join her. Or be sentenced to a penal colony. “Make sure they have something to rely on, if they go to a colony world. Maybe one of the ones founded by lesser family.”
Once, thousands of colonies had been settled by eccentrics from Earth. Rogue groups, religious factions, people who merely wanted to get away ... but that had come to an end when the Empire had started tightening the screws. Now, the only people who founded colonies were the Thousand Families, most of them designed to start paying off as soon as possible. But a handful were designed to stand on their own. It wasn't something Tiberius had ever approved of, but he could see the value. And besides, those worlds weren't involved in the war.
It struck him, suddenly, that he had never met the children, that he had only seen their images when they were being threatened by the interrogators. And yet he still felt guilty for what he'd had done to them – and what would have been done to them, if their mother hadn't talked. Sending them to a decent colony was the very least he could do.
“There's a world founded by an idiot who fancies himself an artist,” he said, slowly. There were times when he envied that man, even though the decision to leave the High City seemed foolish. The artist had no responsibilities beyond his art. “Maybe they'd like to go there.”
He looked down at his hands. They were clean, perfectly manicured ... and yet he knew they were covered with blood. Decisions made casually in the Families Council resulted in very real hardship for the people under his authority. He'd made those decisions without every worrying about the people, until now. But was he considering them now because he'd seen one of them tortured until she’d been stripped mentally naked – or because some of the victims had risen up against the Empire?
The Empire was necessary. He knew that for a fact. But was the suffering also necessary?
He looked up at Sharon. “Did I do the right thing?”
Sharon lifted her eyebrows. She was loyal – she had no choice, but to be loyal – but it was rare for Tiberius to ask her advice. And yet, who else could he ask? Admiral Wachter was at Morrison, a month away even in the fastest courier boat, while the other senior family members would always keep their eye on the prize. They’d want to see him weaken himself by asking for advice, or even reassurance. It was lonely up at the top.
“I think it doesn't matter what happens to the children,” Sharon said, finally. “You could do far worse to them, innocent or not.”
She was right, Tiberius knew. The whole idea of law and justice was a joke when the Thousand Families were involved. No one would have said anything if he’d had the children killed, or thrown down to Earth to fend for themselves, or even thrown into the brothels despite their young age. There was no law for the Thousand Families, no matter what they did; there were no pleasures, no matter how perverse, denied to them. In the end, he realised, he was looking at the ultimate end result of untrammelled power. There was nothing that members of his family could not do.
There was no point in punishing the children. It wasn't as if they could gain anything by punishing the children. But too many aristocrats would have done it anyway, because they could. Because no one would have told them no.
“Yeah,” he said, finally. “I know.”
Sharon leaned forward. “Is that really what you want to know?”
Tiberius hesitated, then lifted his eyebrows. “What do you mean?”
“I think you were asking me about more than just the children,” Sharon said. “You were asking about the Empire as a whole. Is it right to keep such tight control over countless planets and settlements and uncounted trillions of people?”
“Good question,” Tiberius agreed. “And how can you even ask that question?”
Sharon snorted. “I cannot actively act against your interests, nor can I let something happen against your interests without trying to stop it,” she said. “The Mind Techs ensured that I would be loyal and obedient – and I’ve accepted that as perfectly normal, even though rationally I should be outraged. But that doesn't stop me considering such questions, or bringing them to your attention should you ask. Because ... I have to know what your interests actually are, before I act in them.”
Tiberius felt his eyes narrow. “Who defines my best interests?”
“You do,” Sharon said. She snorted, again. “The Mind Techs were not allowed to suggest that I – or someone else – might define your best interests for you.”
“Creepy,” Tiberius said.
“Exactly,” Sharon agreed. “Do you see the problem?”
“You volunteered,” Tiberius said. “I read your file. You were offered an excellent rate of pay and superb retirement package in exchange for accepting the conditioning.”
“I know that,” Sharon said. “But don’t you see the point? The Mind Techs and the people who recruited me treated me as an object. They thought I could be reprogrammed to suit their desires – even if all they gave me was loyalty, I wasn't the same after I stood up from the machine. And if it wasn't for the fact the treatment slowly wears down initiative and imagination, you’d do it to everyone. You already do to the Blackshirts. Wouldn't you like to do the same to the Imperial Navy?”
Her face twisted into a smile. “If you could, you would,” she added. “Who would worry about a mutiny if everyone was conditioned into service? Oh, you’d have reason to worry if your conditioned pawns ever had to face a real emergency. But you tacitly assumed for centuries that there would never be another interstellar war. Why not seek to condition everyone?
“And where does it end? The entire human race turned into a ant colony, with only a handful of people still possessing free will?
“You’d love to wield such power. Even if you didn't, the other Family Heads would want it. And why not? It would make them safe forever. All it would cost them is treating everyone like objects. And that’s why you have a rebellion on your hands now. You’ve been treating people as objects so long that they’ve finally had enough of it.”
Tiberius forced himself to remain calm, even though her words cut at him. “We wouldn't do that ...”
“You've been doing it all along,” Sharon said. “Loyalty training, promoting your clients ahead of the competent, even insisting on your personal servants being conditioned. Why wouldn't you condition everyone in the Empire if you could work out the logistics?”
She sat back, then smiled again. “Think about it,” she said. “Those poor children. Their dead mother. The workers who aren't promoted because they’re not seen as politically reliable. The starship crewmen who aren't offered a chance to shine because they might try to take power for themselves, or because they won’t kiss the ass of people born to their rank and station. The miners who are left to starve be
cause maintaining their colony is not cost-effective. The colonists who are dumped on a lethal world, expected to develop it into something liveable or die trying. All of them have hopes and dreams, aspirations and plans ... and you destroy them casually, because it suits you. Because of a balance statement, or because of your fears, or even because you’re grouchy one morning.”
Tiberius stared at her. “I have never destroyed lives because I was grouchy one morning.”
Sharon met his eyes. “Are you sure of that?”
“I don't know,” Tiberius admitted. He looked up at her, wonderingly. He’d never given much thought to the conditioned, apart from noting that they were loyal and unimaginative – but then, most of the ones he encountered were slaves. “What do you think I should do?”
“Try to remember that you’re not dealing with numbers in an account statement,” Sharon advised. “You've already made one step forward by helping the vulnerable. Now you can try and see what else you can do.”
“And see if the rebels will talk instead of destroying us,” Tiberius said. By his calculations, Gwendolyn and Pompey should have encountered the rebels by now. But he knew there was little they could offer until the rebels scored a decisive victory. And, if the rebels lost, there would be no need to negotiate. “Thank you for your advice.”
He watched her go, mulling over what she’d said. It had honestly never occurred to him that she could provide such profound insight, particularly as her boundaries were almost as limited as his own. But then, she knew her own condition, even if she wasn't really allowed to think about it. Tiberius was just as much as slave as Sharon, with the added complication that he couldn't really leave. He would be Family Head until the day he died ...
Unless they do manage to unseat me, he thought. Shaking his head, he pulled up the next report and started to read. Unless that day came, he had his duty. And then someone else will be stuck with the job.
Chapter Twenty
“That’s all of the freighters loaded, sir.”
“It’s about bloody time,” Commodore Viand snapped. He glared down at the display, which showed the freighters slowly disengaging from the supply dump. “Have they finally managed to slave their navigational computers together or are we going to have to make multiple jumps?”
“They have, sir,” the communications officer said.
Viand nodded. He knew he was being unfair, but he didn't really care. He’d expected to be sent to Morrison to join the Imperial Navy squadrons there. Instead, he’d been detailed to convoy escort as bases surrounding Morrison were stripped of everything from spare parts to personnel to keep the Morrison Fleet operating. Given it’s condition, Viand rather suspected that it would take years before the fleet was ready for anything other than the scrapheap, but Admiral Wachter hadn't asked his opinion before starting work.
“Then tell them to assume formation,” he ordered, tiredly. “Inform me as soon as we are ready to depart.”
He sat back in his chair, fighting down irritation at the civilians who had been conscripted into the Imperial Navy. None of them were very happy about it, despite being promised double-pay for their service. They’d only grudgingly gone to work and loaded up the freighters, dawdling as much as possible. If there hadn't been a handful of naval personnel on each ship, Viand would have worried about them jumping in the wrong direction and taking their cargos to the highest bidder. Imperial Navy spares were highly prized along the Rim, if only because they tended to be better-built than the civilian-produced models.
And most of the civilian freighters were old, fifth or sixth-hand by the time they reached their current owners. They’d never bothered to install newer flicker drives, which meant that the convoy had to move some distance from the planet before jumping out and heading towards Morrison. Viand suspected, despite all the precautions, that the convoy would scatter immediately after the first jump. Civilian drives were never very accurate at the best of times and they were expected to jump in formation ...
The communications officer broke into his thoughts. “Commodore, all ships are in formation,” he said. “They’re ready to depart.”
“Take us out,” Viand ordered. That had been pleasantly quick, compared to the loading. A task that should have taken two days had stretched out to a week, thanks to civilian attitudes to work. Perhaps they should have offered more money. “Match our speed to the slowest ship in the convoy.”
Dead Hand thrummed quietly as her engines came online, powering her away from the orbital supply dump. Viand fancied that he could feel the cruiser’s indignation at how she’d been treated, first stripped of half of her crew to work at Morrison and then assigned to escorting wallowing freighters from isolated supply dumps to the naval base. Dead Hand was designed for raiding enemy star systems, slashing in and launching missiles before pulling out again, hopefully unscratched. She wasn't meant to be tied down as a convoy escort.
But you kept your ship in working condition, he thought, sourly. Admiral Wachter had complemented him in person. It was more than most commanders did at Morrison.
He shook his head in bitter amusement as the display changed, showing the formation. The starships should have moved together, but they were already spreading out. Civilians simply weren't used to staying in formation and it showed. The heavier freighters seemed to wallow as they picked up speed, their smaller brethren moving ahead as if they were keen to get the whole experience over with. Viand couldn't blame them, although he knew it would be years before they were allowed to return to civilian life. The warships hadn't been the only ships at Morrison to be allowed to decay. If anything, the fleet train was in a worse state.
We told ourselves that we didn't need it, he reminded himself. We had bases everywhere, allowing us to deploy wherever we wanted. Now ... we’ve lost half the bases and we’re screwed.
“We’re approaching the jump point,” the helmswoman said.
“Slow to all stop,” Viand ordered, tiredly. A naval warship could jump at speed, but a civilian freighter didn't really have that option. The ship would probably disintegrate mid-jump if it tried. “And check and recheck their calculations.”
He sighed. Minerva lay four light years from Morrison, a single jump for a warship. But for a formation of ancient civilian freighters? Viand had decided on four jumps, one light year apiece. It was playing it very safe, but he didn't want to lose a single ship. The civilians might have exaggerated the fragility of their ships, yet he didn't want to find out the hard way.
“Calculations running now,” the helmswoman said. “I ...”
“Incoming missiles,” the tactical officer snapped, as alarms howled. Bright red icons appeared on the display. “Incoming missiles!”
“Bring up the point defence,” Viand snapped. He was shocked, but training rapidly asserted itself. “Clear to open fire; I say again, clear to open fire.”
“Reading five enemy starships,” the tactical officer said. “No; seven!”
Viand stared at the display. Five rebel starships, within four light years of Morrison? They had to have done nothing but travel from Camelot to Morrison since the Battle of Camelot. Or were they other mutineers? It was quite possible that other ships had deserted the Empire, particularly since potential rebels realised they were not alone. He pushed the thought aside as he looked down at the display. His squadron had been caught flatfooted and they were about to pay a terrible price.
“Point defence activating, now,” the tactical officer said. Viand silently blessed his own foresight in holding tactical drills while they were waiting for the freighters to load, even though he had only wanted to keep his crews occupied while the civilians took their sweet time to prepare their ships. “Enemy missiles thirty seconds from impact.”
Viand braced himself as the missiles flashed into the point defence envelope. They’d been taken so completely by surprise that there was little time to prepare a proper defence. He couldn't help noticing that half of the missiles were targeted on the freighters,
rather than the warships. It was an odd tactic, he thought, then he realised what the enemy had in mind. The attackers might want to take the freighters intact, but they knew help would rapidly arrive from Morrison. Instead, they were merely blowing the freighters into flaming debris.
“Got a lock on the enemy ships,” the tactical officer snapped. “Ready to return fire.”
“Return fire,” Viand ordered. The missiles were approaching his ships now, slipping into terminal attack mode. Only a handful had been downed by the point defence. “Fire a full spread and ...”
The missiles struck home. Dead Hand shuddered, then lost her shields. Viand had only a moment to realise that four missiles had slammed into the hull before their warheads detonated, washing the entire world away in a flare of brilliant white light.
***
“Excellent shooting,” Jason Cordova boomed. The entire Imperial Navy squadron had been wiped out before it even managed to fire a single missile back towards its attackers. “Retarget the remaining freighters and continue firing.”
Commander Patrick Jones nodded, watching in disbelief as the freighters tried to scatter. If they’d been destroyers or gunboats, they might have made it. But they couldn’t hope to get out of missile range before it was too late. The second wave of missiles was already closing in rapidly, aiming to destroy rather than cripple. Patrick knew that the raiding squadron would need the supplies, but they didn't want to risk tangling with a fully-alert military force.
He winced as several freighters dropped their puny shields, signalling their surrender. Firing in surrendering vessels was not considered approvable behaviour, but there was no alternative. Several other freighter crews had taken to the lifepods, abandoning their ships. It might keep them alive, he decided, as the second wave of missiles struck home. The remaining freighters disintegrated in balls of radioactive plasma, taking the enemy supplies with them.
Democracy's Right: Book 02 - Democracy's Might Page 19