Democracy's Right

Chapter Twenty-Six

“I presume,” Colin said with deadly calm, “that you have some kind of explanation for this?”

The crewman in front of him, a man who would never have set foot in Officer Country at all back when the superdreadnaught had fought for the Empire, looked uncomfortable and nervous. He was standing between two burly Marines, shaking so badly that he could barely stand to attention. Colin studied him carefully, silently noting the unshaven face and rat-like eyes. The crewman didn’t cut a very convincing — or reassuring — image.

But then, no one would have expected the fleet’s commanding officer to deal with the matter personally. Colin had only intervened to make the point that such issues would be taken seriously.

“We noted the problem with the atmosphere scrubbers two weeks ago,” Colin said, when the crewman said nothing. The Marines who had arrested him hadn’t told him why he was under arrest, but Colin suspected that the crewman knew perfectly well why Colin had sent for him — either that or he was guilty of something else. “Crewman First Class Nix… why were they not replaced?”

Nix flushed. It wasn’t traditional to spell out a crewman’s full rank. It was almost inevitably the prelude to a chewing out, if not summary demotion. The lower decks maintained themselves through harsh discipline, overseen by the NCOs, and a shared belief that attracting the attention of the senior officers was a bad idea. Colin hoped that Nix understood how much trouble he was in; if not, Colin would feed him the problem step by step, and then inform the crewman of just how he was going to be punished.

He smiled, inwardly. If nothing else, it was incredibly rare for an Admiral to handle such matters. His mere involvement would be a stern message to the crew.

“My department was busy coping with the reloading of the missile tubes,” Nix said, finally. His shaking hadn’t improved. “We didn’t have time to switch out the atmosphere scrubbers. Sir, My Lord, those scrubbers are good for at least another two months…”

His voice died away as Colin looked at him, feeling a sudden urge to draw his pistol and shoot Nix though the head. On the face of it, Nix was quite right; the superdreadnaught — indeed, all military starships — was over-engineered and could have lost half of the scrubbers without the crew finding it hard to breathe. But then, Nix’s real offence hadn’t been anything to do with not replacing a scrubber. His offence was far worse.

“You may be right,” Colin said. Nix sagged against one of the Marines. Only a complete idiot would have mistaken Colin’s tone for forgiveness. “You may have been able to leave the scrubbers in place without causing an immediate problem. Now tell me… what else did you do?”

Nix flushed. “I did nothing else, My Lord,” he protested. “It was the only shortcut…”

“I read your 666, Nix,” Colin said, sharply. “Would you like to know, I wonder, just what it said?”

The Imperial Navy loved paperwork — indeed, Colin had sometimes thought that the fleet could probably have used its piles of paperwork to bombard anyone intending to attack the Empire. Everything had to be logged; the loss of even a single bullet had to be noted and, eventually, would provoke an inquiry from the bureaucracy. Everyone on a warship had their own set of paperwork to fill out, most of which Colin had gleefully abandoned once the rebellion had started, yet there were some pieces of paperwork that could not be rejected or converted into toilet paper.

A copy of Form 666 had, according to regulation, to be filled out to account for each and every replaced part on the starship. A supervising crewman — like Nix — was responsible for filling in the forms for his department, adding them to the database in the ship’s computers and allowing his commanding officer to learn, with the touch of a button, the exact condition of his ship. Or maybe not; it was far from unknown for junior officers or crewmen to fill out fake 666 forms, knowing that the risk of detection was minimal. How many Captains would crawl through the tubes connecting one part of the ship to another, knowing that it would smudge their fancy uniforms? Colin had even heard rumours that entire superdreadnaught squadrons had been allowed to rust, while their commanders filled out fake forms verifying that they existed and pocketing the pay for the crew.

“I read your 666 very carefully,” Colin said, when Nix declined to reply. “It told me that the atmosphere scrubbers in your section had been replaced on time, right when you were helping to manhandle missiles through the tubes and out into space. And then it told me that you and your crews replaced the scrubbers all the way back to the day we took these ships off Commodore Roosevelt. And yet, when I had the scrubber examined, it had clearly been in place longer than six months. No wonder those poor recruits complained about the smell!”

His nostrils twitched as he contemplated the issue. The scrubber had been installed in a tube connecting two compartments, one used to house crewmen and the other used to house recruits from the various asteroid colonies out past the Rim. The crewmen had ignored it — they were used to having their interests and concerns dismissed by their superiors — but the recruits, all hailing from various asteroid colonies, had taken their concerns to the NCOs, who in turn had taken them to the engineers. The scrubber had been located and, when the engineers had seen it, they’d called Colin and handed the issue over to him.

There were times when a scrubber would break, even without being in place for far longer than regulations permitted. Even the finest ships in the Imperial Navy ended up with infestations of mice, rats or even cockroaches, who left their dead bodies on the scrubbers with alarming regularity. Colin wouldn’t have been angry at Nix if a scrubber had failed in such a way, but Nix had done something incredibly stupid and dangerous. He had also done something that, in the Imperial Navy, could carry a death sentence.

“And then I checked the numbers,” Colin said, watching Nix wilt under his gaze. “The number on your 666 documents didn’t match the serial number on the scrubber. I checked with the database and the number on the scrubber, it seems, was assigned to one that should have been withdrawn over two years ago. And, needless to say, you didn’t even have that number on your 666 forms at all!”

He controlled himself with an effort. “Nix, you are in violation of Imperial Navy Regulations,” he stated, flatly. The formal charge could wait until Colin had a chance to do the paperwork. His lips twitched. He’d led his comrades into rebellion and he was still worrying about paperwork! “Do you wish to face Captain’s Mast or the judgement of your fellow crewmates?”

Nix blanched, his face turning even paler. Colin — or an Imperial Navy Captain, seeing that Colin had effectively resigned from the service — could legally issue any punishment he liked on his ship, up to and including execution. And his crewmates wouldn’t be any kinder. They would know that he’d put their lives in danger and wouldn’t hesitate to issue harsh punishment. His life wouldn’t be worth living until he quit — as if he could quit now — or someone managed to kill him and make it look like an accident. Yet, by long tradition, Captain’s Mast was inviolate. If Colin didn’t kill him, his crewmates wouldn’t kill him either.

But then, Colin knew, tradition was increasingly worthless these days.

“I choose Captain’s Mast,” Nix said, finally. He lowered his gaze to the floor. “I will submit to your judgement.”

You’re going to regret that, Colin thought, coldly. “Very well,” Colin said. “Crewman Nix, you are demoted to Crewman Fourth Class, with all the attendant reduction in pay and rights. Your work will be monitored by the NCOs who will not hesitate to administer punishment should you make additional… mistakes. In addition, you will receive ten lashes in front of the crew tomorrow after First Quarter. Do you accept the punishment?”

Nix swallowed hard. Technically, he could try to refuse, but the thought was absurd. Colin had let him off lightly and they both knew it. “Yes, sir,” he said. Lashing was rare in the Imperial Navy and almost always reserved for gross incompetence or misjudgement. “I will accept the punishment.”

Colin looked up at the Marines. “Take him back to his sleeping quarters and have him organise his possessions,” he ordered. “He is to be transferred to the Fourth Class quarters and assigned a bunk there until further notice.”

“Yes, sir,” the lead Marine said. Unlike Nix, his voice was brisk and focused. Marines normally served as police onboard warships, breaking up fights between the crew and maintaining discipline. If the reports were accurate, Percival had replaced the Marines on his ships with Blackshirts. Colin smiled at the thought. Percival could hardly have encouraged the rebels — and mutinous tendencies among his crews — more if he’d ordered them to gun down their own families. “Come along, you.”

Colin watched as Nix was marched out of the compartment and then closed his eyes, cursing his luck. Nix was one of the crewmen who just sought to wander through life, uncaring about any higher cause, not even focused on possible promotion. It wasn’t an uncommon type, yet Colin couldn’t afford them on his ships. It wasn’t as if he had the might of the Imperial Navy and Imperial Intelligence behind him. He might act like a Captain in the Imperial Navy, yet Nix could point out — quite rightly — that he’d walked away from the service and therefore had no command rights.

But then, Nix had never been taught to think. The Imperial Navy recruited its lower decks crewmen from poorer worlds, gave them a little rote training and sent them out to pick up the rest on the job. Nix knew nothing, Colin suspected, about how the starship he was serving on actually worked, perhaps not even why an air scrubber was so important. The NCOs worked overtime to keep the new recruits from killing themselves, knowing that they would be blamed if one of the newcomers accidentally blew up the ship. The senior officers, who had been through the Academy as cadets of rare promise (or so Colin had been told) rarely understood what happened below decks.

There were ships where a good cadre of NCOs and a caring commanding officer ensured that they were a joy to serve on… and ships that were hellish nightmares for young crewmen, or even junior officers. The lower decks were dominated by thuggish crewmen, who bullied recruits out of their pay, created stills for illegal consumption of alcohol and — often — far worse. Colin knew all about the abuse of power practiced by Admiral Percival, Stacy Roosevelt and their twisted kin, but the lower decks could match their sadism, if not their sophistication. He wondered absently if Stacy Roosevelt had known about the powder keg under her feet, before realising that it was unlikely. She wouldn’t have cared if she had.

Back when Colin had been promoted to Commander and serving as the XO of HMS Shadow, he had made it his business to understand and tame the lower decks. It was ironic, but his exile at Percival’s hands had introduced him to a whole new side of the Imperial Navy, one he had never realised existed. And he’d won; he’d cleaned out the bullies and convinced the NCOs to support him. After the war, once the Empire had started to reform, Colin intended to ensure that the lower decks became safe places to work. The bullies could take a short trip out of the airlock in their underwear.

Shaking his head, he turned back to the report from Flag Captain Jeremy Damiani, who had been doing his own checks on the other side of the superdreadnaught. Colin knew that he had stepped on the man’s toes mercilessly, but he knew that there wasn’t any choice — and besides, he needed to be intimately familiar with the superdreadnaught. Damiani hadn’t been allowed to clean out the problems on his own ship — Stacy Roosevelt had refused him permission to do anything of the sort, although Colin had no idea why — and he had been horrified by what he’d found. Colin had been more pragmatic, if only because he’d seen worse. There were starships in the Imperial Navy that were not, in truth, commanded by their Captains.

He placed the datapad aside and stared up at the tactical star chart glowing in front of him. On the way back from Piccadilly, they’d hit two smaller worlds, wiping out a pair of Imperial Navy facilities in one and looting the other, where Percival had created a small resupply base for his ships. Colin had wondered if it had been a trap — it was odd for Percival to show so much forethought — so he’d gone in carefully, only to loot the station and flicker out — as far as he could tell — without any pursuit. If someone drew the three points he’d attacked on a star chart, they’d see them running in a line towards the Rim, but not towards the parts of the Rim that were part of the Popular Front. It might waste some of Percival’s time and resources.

Colin grinned to himself. As far as he could tell, Percival’s only hope was that Colin would expose himself, allowing one or both of Percival’s superdreadnaught squadrons the chance to intercept him and break his force. Percival was doubtless already trying to search the Rim for his base — or his supporting elements — but that would be a thankless task. The Rim and the Beyond was vast, with hundreds of hidden colonies; Percival would have some problems tracking down and locating the right one. The prospect of betrayal was far more serious, but Colin had taken ample precautions. The vast majority of the Rim’s citizens had no idea where he was based and Colin intended for it to stay that way.

And then there was the message. Hester had written the basic message, and then Colin and Daria had worked on it, refining their statement to the Empire. It had been calculated to inspire potential rebels all across the Empire, but at the same time to discourage futile uprisings. And, hopefully, it would give Percival heart failure. Colin suspected that news of the rebellion was already going to Earth, regardless of what Percival had ordered, yet… would they replace him with someone more competent? He shook his head. It didn’t really matter. It would take just under six months for his message to get to Earth and another six months for any new orders to reach Percival. By then, Colin would either have defeated Percival or died in an expanding ball of radioactive plasma.

His intercom buzzed. “Sir, this is Private Willis,” a voice said. “We have moved Nix to his new quarters.”

“Thank you, Marine,” Colin said. Nix would get a second chance, although one in which he would be supervised for the rest of a very short and uncomfortable career. Colin intended to beach him when he had the chance. “You can report back to your duty stations now.”

Grinning, he turned back to his notes.

“And what,” Neil demanded, “do you call that?”

He glared at the new recruits, who looked nervously back at him. They had no formal military training at all, not even the quick and dirty training given to the Blackshirts. What they did have was a willingness to fight and die for their homes, the colonies along the Rim. Some of them were experienced fighters, yet they had never been properly trained. The difference was only unimportant to someone who had never served and Neil had been a Marine for over thirty years.

“You are not taking part in a dance,” he snapped, casting a jaundiced eye over the recruits. “This training is supposed to teach you how to be precise! You stand straight when at attention, do you understand? And when I tell you to about-face, I want to hear you cry out when your fucking tool gets caught in your pants!”

He shook his head as the recruits looked miserable. They’d signed up without truly understanding the machine they’d joined, the Marine Corps; not as it was, but as it would be. Neil rather thought that his old Drill Sergeants would have approved, although they would probably be trying to kill him, if he ever saw them again.

“Fifty push-ups,” he added. “Drop and give them to me now!”

He concealed a smile as the recruits dropped and started to do push-ups. They’d thought that doing fifty was bad, the first time around… and then he’d shown them that he could do over five hundred, while only using one hand. It had impressed them more than most of them had wanted to admit.

They weren’t bad kids, he admitted, in the privacy of his own head. A little rough, a little unresponsive to discipline, but the Marine Corps had taken worse and converted them into the finest Marines in the Empire. Or even outside it. The Marine Corps had been his family, one that had been shamed when they had been ordered to carry out a massacre. He would redeem it, whatever it took.

He caught sight of a small skinny guy, struggling with the final push-ups. The young man had the heart, all right; the only question was if he’d last long enough to grow the body. Neil knew what the Marine Corps meant, even if the new recruits didn’t; war. War meant fighting and fighting meant killing. And deaths, friendly deaths. The Empire liked to conserve its Marines, although the blackshirts were regarded as expendable, yet… there were always deaths. There were times that he wished he’d been killed in the moment of his greatest victory, when he’d taken the superdreadnaughts for the rebellion. And yet he had lived.

Neil looked out over the sweating backs of the young men and women and wondered, despite himself, which one would be the first to die.