Democracy's Right: Book 02 - Democracy's Might

by Christopher Nuttall

  Colin wondered, absently, just how they planned to explain receiving a message from the rebels, as the Thousand Families had vetoed any thought of opening lines of communication. He shrugged a moment later, dismissing the thought. It wasn't his problem.

  “Good,” he said. “We shall be following; we’ll be in the Sol System five weeks from today. I suggest you make it clear to them, very clear, that the harder we have to fight to take control, the less merciful we will be feeling. Do you understand me?”

  Gwendolyn bowed her head, submissively. Colin almost pitied her before realising that it was yet another attempt at emotional manipulation. She was very good at it. He hardened his heart, then reached into his jacket pocket and dropped a chip on the table in front of her. She glanced at it, then looked up at him. He read the question in her eyes.

  “My proposed peace terms,” Colin said. “I haven’t bothered to exaggerate to allow you to haggle me down to the barely acceptable. Those are my terms. If you refuse to accept them, the Thousand Families will be destroyed.”

  “And the Empire might go down with us,” Gwendolyn pointed out.

  “We’ll take that chance,” Colin said. He stood. “You’ll be returned to your ship in an hour. Once you are there, head back to Earth at once. If we beat you there, it will be very embarrassing for you.”

  It would be, he knew. Quite apart from the failure to ensure that the Families Council had a chance to debate Colin’s terms, it would be strange for a single ship to be beaten by an entire fleet. Colin knew, better than most serving officers, that the more ships there were in a fleet, the slower the average speed. After all, ships could suffer navigational or drive failures, forcing the entire fleet to slow down to ensure they stayed together ...

  He walked out of the hatch, then headed towards the CIC. Five weeks to Earth, he told himself, five weeks to the final confrontation with the Thousand Families and their loyalists. If the files were accurate, Home Fleet hadn't been in any better state that the Morrison Fleet ... and it hadn't had a commander as independent as Admiral Wachter. But he knew, better than anyone, just how inaccurate the files could be. It was possible that the Thousand Families had managed to find a competent CO for Home Fleet.

  Colin smiled, dismissing the thought. One way or another, he knew, it would all be over soon. And then the real challenge – reforming the Empire – would begin.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Tiberius stood in his office, staring out over the High City.

  It looked so safe and tranquil. And it was safe. The aristocrats might contest with one another for power and position, but they would never resort to physical conflict, while the servants were all conditioned into obedience and docility. They would never turn on their masters, no matter what they were offered. It was impossible, even, for a servant to attack an aristocrat at the behest of their master.

  But that safety was rapidly becoming illusionary. The news from Morrison had arrived last night and the Thousand Families were quietly digesting it. So far, a full council had not been summoned, which Tiberius had to admit was an ominous sign. Everyone was probably contemplating their fallback positions in the wake of losing Morrison. And Admiral Wachter ... the final report had suggested that he'd been killed, but Tiberius had his doubts. Admiral Wachter was unlikely to die so easily.

  If he’s in rebel hands, Tiberius thought, he might join them.

  Wachter was loyal, but that loyalty had to have been stretched to breaking point when the Blackshirts had turned on him. The contingency plans had been limited; Wachter had been marked for death if he surrendered, or if there was good reason to think he would mutiny against the Empire. But now ... if he'd survived, who could blame him for switching sides?

  Apart from the Thousand Families, of course, Tiberius thought.

  The news hadn't leaked yet, which was quite remarkable. Somehow, the lid had been kept on, but it wouldn't last. Losing Morrison meant that the rebels were within a month of Earth ... no, it meant that the rebels had been within a month of Earth. If they’d set out as soon as they’d secured Morrison, they could be within hours of Earth by now. There had been no reports of bases obliterated or core systems seized, but that meant nothing. The rebels had to know that taking Earth would give them control ... or collapse the Empire into rubble.

  There would be panic, he knew, when the news finally leaked out. And the underground, which had been suspiciously quiet, would act. And then ...

  We might be on the verge of losing, he thought. And in doing so, we might lose everything.

  His intercom chimed. “Yes?”

  “My Lord, we picked up a message,” Sharon said. “Gwendolyn and Pompey have returned to Sol. They are requesting to speak with you as soon as possible.”

  “Have them sent here, then hold my calls,” Tiberius ordered. “Unless the rebels are about to attack, I don’t want to know about it.”

  He scowled as he stared down at the city, feeling an odd spurt of envy for the pleasure-seeking aristocrats. He’d been brought up to consider them worthless, overgrown children who would never been suitable to hold authority within their families, yet they had nothing to worry about. Even those who had been junior members of the Roosevelt Family could still enjoy lives of complete luxury. Their family might have collapsed, but they were still taken care of. But that might be about to change.

  It was nearly an hour before Sharon showed Gwendolyn and Pompey into his office. Both of them looked tired; Gwendolyn hadn't even bothered to change into one of her more eye-catching garments. Tiberius smiled in amusement, then waited for Sharon to bring drinks and a small selection of sandwiches. He hadn't been eating properly lately and she’d started to nag him about it.

  “All right,” he said. “What did they say?”

  “They’re on their way,” Gwendolyn said. “They want us to surrender, now.”

  Tiberius quirked an eyebrow. “On what terms?”

  “They will guarantee our lives,” Pompey said, darkly. “But they made no other promises.”

  Tiberius shook his head. Even with a seemingly-invincible rebel fleet bearing down on them, it was unlikely in the extreme that the Families Council would just roll over for the rebels. They’d want more than just their lives, even if the rebels held all the cards. And they didn't, Tiberius knew. The destruction of the Empire’s industrial base would leave the rebels with an impossible task. It would take centuries to rebuild everything the Thousand Families could destroy.

  “I spoke to their leader extensively,” Gwendolyn said. “He was ... resistant to my charms.”

  “A man of good taste,” Tiberius teased.

  Gwendolyn made a rude gesture, then continued. “The rebels are unlikely to be placated by anything short of a power-sharing arrangement, with them sitting in the cockpit,” she said. “I read them pretty thoroughly. Most of them are determined to assert themselves, even if it means prolonging the war. The former mutineers want to secure their position, the planetary rebels want autonomy at the very least and the Beyonders just want to be left alone. I do not believe we can make compromises without giving up most of our power.”

  Tiberius didn't doubt it. Gwendolyn was a good judge of character.

  “I didn't see any splits within the rebel leadership we can exploit, either,” Gwendolyn added. “They have a general plan of campaign, one they intend to follow unless we manage to hit them hard enough to force a reconsideration. I think their preferred outcome is one that will please all of the factions, or at least give them enough of their desires that they can claim victory.”

  “But any of their desires would cost us greatly,” Tiberius mused. “Unless we planned to cheat them at a later date.”

  “I do not believe that they would fall for any trickery,” Pompey said. He looked up, his face suddenly very serious. “They are aware of the possibility of treachery. I imagine they will take precautions to prevent us from stabbing a knife in their backs. More to the point, right now they hold the whip hand. Trying
to cheat them could be disastrous.”

  Tiberius hesitated, then nodded. “I don't know what the Families Council would say,” he said, darkly. “Did you hear of any other negotiators?”

  Gwendolyn and Pompey exchanged glances. “No,” Gwendolyn said, finally. “But that doesn't prove anything.”

  “I know,” Tiberius agreed. He looked down at the table. “If they choose to object to sending messengers ...”

  Pompey snorted, rudely. “Let us be clear on this,” he said. “We have lost two out of three Class-III shipyards. We have lost the Morrison Fleet, plus any number of smaller formations that tried to slow the rebels down. Right now, Home Fleet is the last deployable formation under our control. Everything else is either tied down or unable to reach Earth in time to be of service. We are, in short, in a very weak position.

  “The rebels, by contrast, are riding high. They’ve punched out the only real threat to their positions, allowing them to advance on Earth. Their morale is sky-high, their determination to bring us to our knees driving them forwards ... and they know that they will not have a better chance to win outright. This is not the time to haggle. I think we should seek terms as soon as the rebels enter this star system.”

  “I know that,” Tiberius snapped. “But I don’t speak for everyone.”

  “Then talk the council into it,” Pompey said. “Because if the rebels take the system by force, they won’t be inclined to offer us anything. And why the hell should they?”

  Tiberius nodded. “But how do we know they will keep their word?”

  He stood. “I want to speak with one of the prisoners,” he added. He'd contemplated it as soon as the prisoners had arrived on Earth, but he hadn’t had the time. “And then I will talk to the council.”

  ***

  Imperial Intelligence, Jeremy considered, must be going soft.

  There had been a very brief mind probe, bad enough to give him headaches every time he'd looked into a bright light, and then nothing. The intelligence officers had tried to sweet talk him into doing what they wanted, then even offering large bribes, but they hadn't tried to force him to talk again. It was odd, definitely. Perhaps someone had finally convinced them of the value of honouring promises of good treatment ... or perhaps someone had merely decided to leave the prisoners to stew in their own juices.

  He looked around the cell, wondering if boredom would eventually drive him to talk. It was a larger cell than he’d expected, but it was bare apart from a bunk and toilet. One wall had been replaced completely by metal bars, allowing the guards to see him at all times. If there was anyone else in the complex, he hadn't been able to see or talk to them. But then, isolation was probably part of the softening up process.

  And he had no idea where he was. They’d moved him to a ship for several weeks, then transferred him to a planetary surface, but he'd lost track of time completely. It felt as if the universe had shrunk down to the prison cell. It could have been months or years since he'd been taken captive. Maybe the rebellion was over, maybe Colin was dead ... there were days when he had to force himself not to dwell on the possibilities. There were too many days when he seriously considered just trying to end his life.

  He looked up as four armoured guards stepped up to the bars and motioned for him to stand up and come forward. They were always masked, completely faceless, but he had seen enough of them to tell that there were seven guards assigned to watching him. It was easy to tell the difference if he studied the way they moved. Most of them were surprisingly disciplined too, compared to the rumours he'd heard. Perhaps Imperial Intelligence handed out random brutality on a carefully calculated schedule.

  Or maybe they’re still trying to soften me up, he thought, as he reached the bars and thrust his hands through the gap. The guards pushed his hands back; tiredly, he turned around and allowed them to cuff his hands behind his back. They never seemed to relax around him, even though they had to know that he wasn't augmented into superhumanity. Every time they took him out of the cell, he was cuffed and shackled to restrict his movements. And they rarely bothered to speak to him.

  They hustled him down a long dark corridor and into a smaller interrogation room. It looked exactly the same as the room on Morrison, complete with chair and save for the absence of an interrogator. The guards sat him down in the chair, chained him down so thoroughly he could barely move a muscle, then withdrew, leaving him alone. Jeremy glanced around, puzzled. Was his interrogator even present or was this just another mental game?

  He looked up as a hidden door in the metal wall cracked open, revealing a young man with short blonde hair and surprisingly handsome features. Jeremy had no difficulty in recognising the signs of extensive genetic engineering and modification, even though they were more elaborate than anything he'd seen away from a high-gravity world. The man carried himself like he was in charge. And yet, Jeremy realised, he hadn't really seen a holding cell before at all.

  “Well,” Jeremy said, finally. “Who are you?”

  The man sat down and faced Jeremy. “Does it matter?”

  “It could,” Jeremy said.

  “I wish to apologise for your treatment,” the man said. “There was some ... dispute over how best to handle rebel POWs.”

  Jeremy snorted. “Do you think that apologising will be sufficient?”

  “Perhaps not,” the man said. “My name is Tiberius. Does that mean anything to you?”

  Jeremy took a longer look at his features. He'd never been one of the officers who studied the aristocracy with a pathetic intensity, but he knew the major players. “Tiberius Cicero?”

  “Yes,” Tiberius said. “I need to speak with you.”

  “You seem to have me at a disadvantage,” Jeremy said. He rattled his chains meaningfully. “And you seem to have a captive audience, if a powerless one. What do you want to say?”

  “Your commander has taken Morrison,” Tiberius informed him. “And he is on his way to Earth.”

  Jeremy considered it. Assuming he was speaking to the real Cicero, he was on Earth. And if news of Morrison’s fall had only just arrived, it was clear that the rebel feel might be hard on its heels. If Colin had taken Morrison, there would be nothing between him and Earth. No wonder the guards were treating him oddly. The prospect of brutal retaliation had to be alarmingly clear.

  “I will believe you, for the moment,” he said. “What does that have to do with me?”

  Tiberius looked surprised. “Why do you doubt me?”

  Jeremy laughed at him. “You don’t think Imperial Intelligence is full of little tricks?”

  “I am me,” Tiberius said. “Your commander has offered us our lives, if we surrender.”

  “Then take it,” Jeremy advised. “You won’t get a better offer.”

  Tiberius met his eyes. “How do we know you – he – will keep his word?”

  “The same guarantee you offered to my crew and myself,” Jeremy said. “I was promised good treatment, as I recall.”

  “Point,” Tiberius said. “But we cannot just surrender.”

  “Then gamble on victory,” Jeremy said. He sighed, loudly enough to be irritating. “Why did you even come here if you are reluctant to trust our word?”

  “I wanted to know if your commander could be trusted,” Tiberius said.

  Jeremy snorted. “Colin is a decent person,” he said. “Perhaps too decent, at times. You and your families would not be treated badly, if you accepted his terms. But I don’t think that you could keep your power and place, not now. You’ve done too much damage to humanity.”

  He looked up. “Do you understand,” he added, “just how many people joined us when they realised there might be a chance at victory? Even if the odds were stacked against us, we had superdreadnaughts and determination and new ideas ... and people, willing to fight beside us to bring down an edifice that blighted thousands of worlds and billions of lives. Your legacy is one of hatred, sown by your greed and determination to take whatever you wanted from the people
who worked hard to earn it. And now they’re coming for you.”

  Tiberius’s face tightened. “You may be right,” he conceded. “But we will have to see what happens before we surrender.”

  “Be careful you don't surrender too late,” Jeremy mocked, as Tiberius rose to his feet. “You might have nothing left to use as a bargaining chip.”

  Tiberius looked down at him, but said nothing. Instead, he just walked through the hatch and vanished.

  After a long moment, the guards returned and escorted Jeremy back to his cell.

  He contemplated what he’d been told as soon as he was alone. It was possible it was a trick of some kind, but it seemed pointless. Why would the enemy wish to claim to be weak – or losing the war? They’d want to convince him they were winning, surely? And if it was the truth ...

  The thought cheered him and worried him in equal measure. Prisoners had been killed before on Camelot, just to prevent the rebels from liberating them. What would happen to him and the others? Where were the others? He could have kicked himself for not asking Tiberius that question. The young man might have known the answer.

  He tossed possibilities over and over in his head long into the night.

  ***

  “There was a message inserted into the communications network,” Gaunt said. “The rebels have taken Morrison and they’re on their way here.”

  Adeeba smiled, watching as Frandsen trained a group of young men in using modified powered combat armour. Somehow, the underground had obtained it from a military base, only to discover that they didn’t have anyone who knew how to use it. They were lucky, Frandsen had pointed out, that they hadn't stolen Marine-issue gear. That was keyed to a specific user and jammed up if anyone else tried to use it.

  “Good to hear,” she said. “How did the message reach the communications network?”

  “I'm not sure,” Gaunt admitted. She looked rather irritated with her next sentence. “They wouldn't have told me in any case.”