Democracy's Might

Chapter Twenty-Three

“You appear to have not made many improvements,” Admiral Wachter commented. “Dare I ask what you actually did?”

Penny watched with some amusement as Captain Solomon cringed under the Admiral’s cold gaze. The superdreadnaught General Sugiyama had been inspected two weeks ago, whereupon it had been discovered that the ship was in a pitiful state. Admiral Wachter had angrily berated Captain Solomon, reminded him of his combat record, then told him that he had two weeks to fix the damage. The inspection tour had revealed that hardly anything had actually been done.

“Let me help,” Wachter said, when the Captain said nothing. “You should have replaced the entire tactical system — but you haven’t. You should have checked the missiles you have in storage and replaced them if they were found to have decayed — but you haven’t. You should have resorted your crew, removed the worst of the bullies and appointed new supervisors — but you haven’t. Why, exactly, did you decide to leave your shop in the same crappy state it was when I first had it inspected?”

The Captain swallowed, then stood upright. “I have patrons…”

Wachter lifted a single eyebrow. “And your patrons told you to delay matters?”

“They said I had to do it,” Captain Solomon insisted. “I don’t know why…”

“I can guess,” Wachter said. He met the Captain’s eyes. “Let’s consider this, shall we? The rebels cannot be more than a month away — and they’re probably quite a bit closer. We have to get as many superdreadnaughts as possible into fighting trim before they arrive. And then your patrons give you orders to delay the repair work? What do you think they have in mind?”

He pressed on before the Captain could answer. “It doesn’t matter what they have in mind,” he said. “I think they’re committing treason by trying to slow down the repair work. If the rebels smash the fleet here, it will be years before we can take the offensive even if Home Fleet successfully defends Earth. And you, Captain, were considered expendable. They knew I wouldn’t leave you in command.”

Penny kept her face expressionless. She knew what it was like to be a client — and to be caught between common sense and orders from one’s superiors. But Admiral Wachter was right. They needed every last superdreadnaught ready for action as soon as possible — and orders to delay matters simply made no sense. And yet… Captain Solomon had known that defying his patrons would have cost him his career, if they were feeling forgiving. Patrons could never risk showing weakness, for fear that their other clients would desert them,

“You are relieved of command,” Wachter said, addressing Solomon. He nodded to the four Marines he’d brought with him. “These gentlemen will escort you to the holding camp on Morrison, where you can write me a full explanation of what you were ordered to do and just why you thought you should do it. Maybe, just maybe, I can find you a post less challenging, one where your patrons will leave you alone.”

He watched as the Marines hauled the protesting Solomon off his bridge, then looked around for the ship’s XO. “Commander Hastings?”

The younger man stood up, eying the Admiral nervously. Penny hastily scanned his file and winced, inwardly. Hastings was far too young for his rank. A quick check revealed that he was a lower scion of a lower family. Somehow, she wasn’t surprised, although she knew it could be a bad omen. Percival had come from similar origins and he’d grown into an utterly incompetent monster.

“You are promoted to Captain,” Wachter said, “and placed in command of this ship. I will assign you a competent XO and a cadre of maintenance crewmen within the day. You are ordered to get this ship up and running at acceptable levels within two weeks. Failure to do so will cost you your rank. Do you understand me?”

Hastings nodded. He looked confident, although Penny couldn’t tell if he genuinely believed he could handle it or he was simply recklessly overconfident. She told herself it was probably the latter. Aristocrats were rarely placed in positions where they could fail.

“I suggest you listen to the experienced newcomers,” Wachter added. “They do know what they’re talking about, Captain.”

He turned and strode through the hatch, heading back down towards the shuttlebay. Penny saluted Captain Hastings quickly, then followed. The ship’s bulkheads were covered in fancy artwork, some of them downright erotic. Penny was no expert in art, but she had a feeling that most of them were original works — and that Captain Solomon had spent most of his ship’s discretionary budget on decoration. Percival had done the same, years ago.

“They wanted to encourage more aristocrats to take up command posts,” Wachter commented, when she said that out loud. “There had to be some incentives beyond the prospect of having one’s body blown to atoms if war actually did break out. So they came up with the idea that officers could decorate their ships to suit themselves, at least as long as the ships were still combat-worthy. Somewhere along the line they forgot about keeping the ships ready to fight.”

Penny nodded in understanding. No one in their right mind would have appointed Percival to command a squadron, let alone a whole sector, if they’d genuinely expected trouble. But then, there had been no reason to expect trouble, at least not in foresight. Hindsight, on the other hand, showed that the Empire had underestimated the ingenuity of some of its junior crewmen. And then there had been quite a few commanding officers on Morrison who had never left the pleasure dens, even to board the starships they nominally commanded.

She followed him into the shuttle and took a seat. Unlike Percival, Wachter seemed content with a simple transport shuttle, one that might be used for moving crewmen from one ship to another. The pilot powered up the drives and took them out into space as Penny accessed the fleet-wide datanet through the shuttle’s systems and asked for an update. They would have been alerted at once if the rebels had attacked, but everything else had been put on hold.

“Admiral,” she said, as a report blinked up in front of her, “a freighter arrived from Tyson.”

Wachter frowned. “Tyson?”

Penny scanned the report, then passed him the datapad. “The rebels attacked,” she said, shortly. “And most of our crewmen decided to come back here.”

“And the rebels could be on their heels,” Wachter said, thoughtfully. He read the report, then called out to the pilot. “Take us to Station Nine.”

“Aye, sir,” the pilot said. The shuttle hummed louder as it altered course. “Station Nine in twelve minutes.”

Penny gave Wachter a puzzled look. “Station Nine?”

“Imperial Intelligence has the returnees in its grubby hands,” Wachter said, grimly. “I want to get my hands on them before they do something stupid.”

“…Shit,” Penny said.

Only a handful of officers and crewmen had chosen to return to the Empire, even though the rebels were quite decent about returning those who wanted to return. Penny knew what had happened to most of the returnees, though; they’d been interrogated brutally, then shipped to the nearest penal world. Stacy Roosevelt had been the only real exception — and no one knew what had happened to her after the Fall of Camelot. But then, she’d been aristocracy. The others had had no such protections.

“Call the Marines, too,” Wachter added. “Imperial Intelligence might try something stupid.”

Penny felt her head throbbing in sympathy as they approached the colossal space station. As the sector capital, as well as a colossal naval base, Morrison rated a full Imperial Intelligence detachment, including a station that was nominally independent from the Imperial Navy. The Navy had never put pressure on the intelligence officers, at least prior to Wachter’s arrival, if only because they had been seen as a separate organisation. Wachter, on the other hand, expected workable intelligence within a useful timeframe.

She clenched her teeth together as the shuttle docked at the airlock. They hadn’t been allowed access to the station’s shuttlebay, although she wasn’t sure if the shuttlebay was occupied or if it were a calculated insult. But Wachter probably wouldn’t care, she knew; he never seemed to pay much attention to formality, let alone the complex greeting rites for when one senior officer visited another. Her body started to tremble, but she held it under control by sheer force of will. She would not let her treatment at the hands of Imperial Intelligence render her useless, not now.

Wachter stood up and led the way through the hatch. Penny followed him, mentally clenching and unclenching her hands. Outside, two men wearing civilian clothes waited for them. There was something odd about their outfits, but it took Penny several moments to understand what she was seeing. From a distance, or through civilian eyes, they looked almost military. And yet the outfits were still definitely civilian.

“Take me to Director Smyth,” Wachter ordered. “Now.”

The two men blinked in surprise. Imperial Intelligence had a lot of influence. They were probably more used to men genuflecting in front of them than barking orders. After a moment, one of them nodded and led the way down the long corridor. The other fell in behind them, bringing up the rear. Penny met his eyes for a moment and shivered, inwardly, at the coldness in his gaze. It was impossible to tell if he’d been conditioned or if he was really that cold, but the sight chilled her to the bone.

Director Smyth was a tall, inhumanly thin man with a pinched face and receding hairline. He looked faintly sinister to Penny, although that could have just been her imagination. The Director was standing in front of a set of monitor screens, each one showing a different person in an interrogation cell. If her experience was anything to go by, Penny realised, they hadn’t yet started work. The detainees were being given time to imagine what lay ahead of them.

“Admiral,” Smyth said. His voice was as cold as his eyes. “What can we do for you?”

“You can start by explaining why you moved the returnees to this complex,” Wachter said. “I issued specific orders that I was to be informed when someone — anyone — returned from rebel captivity.”

Smyth smiled. It didn’t reach his eyes. “Imperial Intelligence has standing orders to take anyone who has spent time in captivity into custody as soon as possible,” he said. “In this case, they have to be checked for conditioning and then sent to Earth for further interrogation.”

“There wasn’t time for them to be conditioned,” Wachter snapped. He’d reviewed the entire file on the flight. “And they chose to come back to us.”

“They also lost a battle against the rebels,” Smyth pointed out. “There are standing orders for defeatist officers also to be returned to Earth.”

“That has yet to be established,” Wachter said, coldly. “And executing officers who suffer defeat through no fault of their own is not helpful for morale.”

“My duty is ensuring that defeatism doesn’t spread,” Smyth said. “We already have too many whispers of trouble running through the sector. Defeatism will defeat us as surely as rebel missiles.”

“So will convincing officers and men that they won’t survive their superiors if they lose battles,” Wachter said. “The proper procedure for handling a defeat is to examine the sensor records, hold an inquest and then decide if a court-martial is merited. That does not included snatching naval personnel without due cause, threatening them with a full-spectrum interrogation and then…”

“I have authority from Imperial Intelligence to do whatever it takes to provide intelligence,” Smyth interrupted. “These…. returnees have to be interrogated so we can learn what they know.”

“The rebels wouldn’t have let them see anything we could use tactically,” Wachter said. He met Smyth’s eyes. “Tell me, Director. What sort of message do you think you’re sending to the officers and crew here? At Morrison?”

Smyth glared at him. “That Imperial Intelligence is doing its duty?”

“No,” Wachter said. He took a step forward. “That they cannot expect mercy, if they are captured and then choose to return. That there is no point in remaining loyal to the Empire if captured, because if they survive the rebels they sure as hell won’t survive Imperial Intelligence. That they will be made the scapegoats for each and every defeat…”

He took another step forward. “I have spent the past few months trying desperately to shore up morale, hoping and praying that it is enough to prevent a mutiny when the rebels finally arrive,” he added. “I have removed bad or corrupt commanding officers. I have sorted out pay which was often months overdue. I have promoted or otherwise rewarded officers and crewmen who showed genuine promise at anything other than ass-kissing. And I will not allow you to jeopardize all that just because you think these people” — he waved a hand at the monitors — “might know something you can use to make yourself look impressive.

Penny stared at him. No one, absolutely no one, stood up to Imperial Intelligence. Even Percival, for all of his contacts and patrons, had trod carefully around the spooks. Everyone knew that being targeted by the intelligence officers could ruin a career, even if one happened to be completely innocent. But Wachter… Wachter didn’t seem to care.

“There are two ways this can go,” Wachter added, in a voice as cold and deadly as interstellar space. “You can decide that they are innocent of all charges and release them into my custody… or the Marines will storm the station, liberate them and arrest your people on charges of impeding the war effort. Because I will not tolerate such stupidity.”

“We are not under your command,” Smyth hissed. “Imperial Intelligence doesn’t answer to you.”

“I have authority directly from the Families Council,” Wachter countered. “Do you answer to them?”

Smyth hesitated, suddenly very aware of the dangerous waters surrounding him. Penny felt a moment of sympathy, which rapidly faded away as she recalled what Imperial Intelligence had done to her in their search for a scapegoat. The Families Council might be worried about what Wachter would do with the Morrison Fleet, but they would be equally nervous about Imperial Intelligence. Besides, it would take a month to get a message to Earth. By then, the battle for Morrison might well have been fought.

“I will formally protest this to my superiors,” he said, finally. “But you can take the prisoners.”

“Thank you,” Wachter said, with mocking politeness. “Once the Marines arrive, have them transferred to Station Seven. Gently, mind you. I don’t want any of them to accidentally expire.”

“They may well have been conditioned,” Smyth warned. “I must ask you not to let them anywhere sensitive.”

“They will be watched,” Wachter assured him. He turned and marched towards the hatch. “Penny; come.”

He didn’t say another word until they were back in the shuttle, heading back towards General Clive. “That man will cost us the war if he isn’t careful,” he snapped. “It wouldn’t take long for rumours to start to spread.”

“Yes, sir,” Penny said. She shook her head in admiration. “Did you really intend to have the Marines storm the station?”

“People are playing political games,” Wachter reminded her. “First Captain Solomon — he’s a Rothschild client if I recall correctly — and now Imperial Intelligence. They’re quite desperate to avoid the blame for missing the warning signs before the first mutiny.”

Penny scowled. “Were there any to see?”

“A large conspiracy could not have been kept secret indefinitely,” Wachter said. “And everything we know about the first set of mutinies confirms that they were planned carefully in advance. I’d bet half my salary that the security officer on the squadron was either breathtakingly incompetent or up to his neck in the plot.”

“I thought they were conditioned into absolute loyalty,” Penny objected. “Or could the conditioning be broken?”

“Not someone like that,” Wachter said. “Or Smyth, for that matter. A conditioned officer has little imagination or initiative. He might react to something obvious, but miss something dangerously subtle. No, the security officer was probably involved in the mutiny. It’s the only explanation that makes sense.”

Penny shook her head in disbelief. She was used to thinking of Imperial Intelligence as something more than human, a vast implacable force that supervised their lives and watched for the merest sniff of discontent. But cold logic told her that Imperial Intelligence was far from perfect. They’d completely missed the planned mutiny until it was far too late. Even in hindsight, the clues were hard to see.

“They’re human,” Wachter reminded her. He tapped the shuttle’s bulkhead gently. “No matter their power and authority, they’re human. And humans make mistakes — or have hopes, dreams and ambitions that get stepped on by their superiors. That’s why the mutiny took place. And that’s why we cannot allow Imperial Intelligence to overstep its bounds any longer.”

Penny nodded, wordlessly.

Wachter reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder. “You did well, in there.”

“Thank you,” Penny said, feeling her cheeks heat. “So did you.”

The intercom buzzed. “Admiral, Commodore Yamani and the 234th Battlecruiser Squadron have returned to the system,” Commander Cain said. “They encountered the rebels at Parallax.”

“A week away,” Wachter said, quietly. “They could be here any minute.”

Penny felt cold ice congealing in her belly. She’d worked hard — they’d all worked hard — to repair the damage neglect, incompetence and corruption had done to the fleet, but now they were about to face a proper test. The rebels would be out for blood.

“Alert everyone on the main command team,” Wachter ordered. “I want a holographic conference in one hour.”

He closed the channel, then looked up at Penny.

“It’s time to bait the trap,” he told her. “And then we will see who emerges victorious.”