Democracy’s Might

Series Listing

Book One: Democracy’s Right
Book Two: Democracy’s Might
Book Three: Democracy’s Price (forthcoming)

Christopher G. Nuttall

http://www.chrishanger.net
http://chrishanger.wordpress.com/
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All Comments Welcome!

Cover Blurb

The rebels have won a great victory, shattering the Empire’s grip on Sector 117.  Starships are mutinying, the Empire’s power and authority are crumbling and the rebels are making their way towards Earth.  Their victory seems inevitable.  

But, as news of the rebellion finally reaches Earth, the Thousand Families start preparing for all-out war.  The Empire has a war leader, a colossal advantage in firepower and the determination to do whatever it takes to destroy the rebels before they can win.  

As both sides rush towards a titanic confrontation, they know that whoever wins will inherit the Empire.  But, with humanity’s mighty civilisation threatening to collapse, they may only inherit a desert called peace.

[As always, my eBooks are DRM-free.  You can do anything you like with them that you can do with a normal paperback book.  Download a large sample from my website (www.chrishanger.net)  before you buy.]

Author’s Note

Democracy’s Might is Book II of The Democracy Series, following Democracy’s Right.  It will probably be completely incomprehensible to someone without reading Democracy’s Right first.  Fortunately, Democracy’s Right is available on Kindle; a free sample can be downloaded from my website.

It is my intention to write Book III in March or April 2014.

If you like this book, please review it on Amazon and join my facebook page or mailing list.

Thank you for your time.

Christopher Nuttall

Prologue

“Transit complete, sir.”

Captain Saku Rautiainen sucked in his breath as Jupiter appeared on the viewscreen.  Easily one of the largest gas giants known to mankind, it dominated the Sol System, the Great Red Spot blazing out in the interstellar darkness.  Hundreds of installations orbited the gas giant, ranging from large industrial nodes and cloudscoops to a giant Class-III shipyard.  Jupiter had powered humanity’s expansion into the galaxy ever since the human race had first started to reach into space.  Its shipyards produced a tenth of all new human starships.

It was an impressive sight, Saku decided.  Even knowing that most of the installations were owned by the Cicero Family, even knowing that they contributed mightily to humanity’s bondage, they were still impressive.  He took one last look, then glanced down at his display, checking that the IFF codes had been accepted by the defences.  If the Geeks had failed, the whole operation was about to come to a short and violent end.

“They accepted our codes,” Martin McKenzie said.  “Don’t they know there’s a war on?”

Saku smirked.  It had been seven months since the first mutiny, six months since word had finally been sent to Earth – and barely a week since it had arrived at the heart of the Empire.  There were so many defences in orbit around Earth and the other planets in the Sol System that attack seemed inconceivable.  Earth hadn't been directly threatened for thousands of years, unless one counted the Empress’s suborning of Home Fleet.  The mutinies had taken place thousands of light years away.  It was unlikely that the defenders of Earth realised that they might be attacked within days of word reaching the planet.

“I don't think they’ve realised it yet,” he said.  “Take us in.”

He glanced over at his old friend and smiled.  McKenzie had worked for one of the big shipping lines before suffering an accident that had damaged his legs, leaving him permanently stuck in a mover.  The shipping line might have abandoned him, but he’d somehow managed to find work on an independent freighter, work that had eventually led him to the underground.  He'd volunteered for the mission as soon as he’d heard about it, despite the near-certainty that they wouldn't escape.  Like Saku, McKenzie had scores to pay off.

The defences did nothing as the giant freighter inched closer and closer to the heart of the complex, the giant Class-III shipyard.  There were only three such shipyards in the Empire, the only ones authorised to design and build superdreadnaughts.  Not that the Empire had done much of that in the last two hundred years.  The Empire’s monopoly on superdreadnaughts – and possession of the biggest hammer in the galaxy – had allowed the designers to slow down and stop trying to improve their work.  Somehow, Saku had a feeling that they were going to regret it.

He smiled to himself.  The Empire was stagnant; the Thousand Families, who ran the Empire, saw no reason to invest in Research and Development efforts which might change the status quo.  After all, something might come up which would invalidate all of their monopolies and shatter their grip on power.  But they were going to regret that too.

“Picking up a signal,” McKenzie said.  “They want us to head for a specific access port and prepare to be boarded.”

“Too late,” Saku said.  The Underground had obtained the access codes years ago, they’d just never had a good reason to use them.  Even the Empire could adapt quickly if given a nasty poke.  “Do you have proper targeting solutions?”

“Yes, sir,” McKenzie said.  He sounded faintly offended by the question.  “We might as well be at point-blank range.”

“Good,” Saku said.  “Blow the hatches, then open fire.”

The underground had worked hard to turn the seemingly-harmless freighter into a q-ship.  Her hull looked normal, until the hatches were removed, revealing the missile launchers hidden underneath.  If someone was monitoring their progress, they’d know that something was badly wrong ... but it was already too late.  The giant freighter shuddered as she launched her missiles, targeted directly on the shipyard.  It would be bare seconds before they struck their targets and wiped them from existence.

“Gunboats and assault shuttles incoming,” McKenzie warned.  “I think they’ve spotted us.”

Saku barely heard him.  The shipyard had been torn apart, shattered by the missiles.  His ship’s automated systems were already firing a second salvo, targeting industrial nodes and smaller complexes the Empire might be able to use to repair the damage.  A cold satisfaction flooded through his body as he watched the shipyard die.  It was a symbol of the Empire’s oppression of the entire human race.  Whatever happened, now that the galaxy was at war, the Empire’s monumental self-confidence would not survive.

“Thank you,” he said, softly.

Moments later, the gunboats tore the freighter apart.

Chapter One

The High City was considered the oddest city on Earth, with good reason.  Unlike the rest of the planet's inhabitants, the aristocrats lived in paradise.  A thousand kilometres of land around the High City had been turned into a garden, allowing everything from gentle walks to hunting, fishing and hawking.  At the edge of the garden, there was a security wall that prevented anyone from entering the High City without permission, keeping the aristocrats safe.  Combined with Earth’s giant orbital defences and the looming presence of Home Fleet, it was the safest place in the Empire.

Lord Tiberius Cicero, Family Head of House Cicero, stood at the window and stared out over his family’s lands.  A dozen mansions, gleaming in the sunlight, provided homes for the family’s members, while – beyond them – a handful of barracks housed the family's advisors, servants and Household Troops.  There were thousands of people who were part of House Cicero and billions more who worked for the family, directly or indirectly.  And all of them acknowledged Tiberius as their master.  

Unless they think they can get away with something, Tiberius thought, sourly.  There were times when he seriously considered holding a cull.  He was young, the only heir his father had had, so he'd won the position of Family Head by default.  If he’d realised, at the time, that there was more to the position than just the title, he might have insisted that the Family Council pick another heir.  Half of them want me dead – or at least out of their way.

He gritted his teeth as he caught sight of his own reflection.  Unlike most of the family children, he had largely chosen to stay with the distinctive features his great-grandfather had engineered into the family line.  Short brown hair, a strong rather than handsome face ... and a nose too large to be elegant.  He looked like a young man wearing his father’s body ... which, in a sense, was true.  The genetic modifications worked into the family line had ensured that the children were near-copies of their parents.

There was a knock on the door.  “Come in,” he called, without turning round.  There was no point in looking to see who was outside.  The strict etiquette of the High City forbade any of his family enemies from visiting him without seeking permission first, which gave him an opportunity to deny them entry.  And if the underground had successfully penetrated the complex, he and the entire family was dead.

“I have the latest reports from Jupiter, My Lord,” Sharon said.  She was an older woman, although she had once been a beauty in her youth.  “The shipyard has been rendered completely unusable.”

Destroyed, you mean, Tiberius thought.  He’d been shocked, then angered, by the news.  Now, all he could do was push his feelings aside and gird for war.  The family will not be happy.

Sharon flinched at his expression.  It wasn't uncommon in the Empire for the messenger to be blamed for the message.  Even he had been known to snap angrily at messengers, even though they could not logically be blamed for the content of the message.  Sharon had been with him long enough to know that he never meant it, but still ...

Tiberius shook his head as he turned to face her, taking the datapad and skimming it rapidly.  It was traditional to hire a personal assistant who was beautiful, rather than intelligent, but Tiberius had rapidly learned that such assistants were largely useless.  Sharon might not be a beauty – now, anyway – but she was brisk, efficient and knowledgeable.  And she wasn't a distraction from his work.  It would have been easy to sink into a life of luxury and ignore the outside universe.  There were times when he found himself seriously considering abandoning his responsibilities and walking away.

“The Families Council has called a meeting,” Sharon added, when Tiberius had finished scanning the datapad.  “They want a full meet in thirty minutes.”

Tiberius wasn't surprised.  It had barely been a week since the first tidings from Sector 117 had arrived on Earth, carrying news of absolute disaster.  The Thousand Families had been stunned and angered, then they’d started looking to see what advantage each of them could pull from the chaos.  But they would eventually have to start working together, wouldn't they?  The rebels had managed the impossible and pulled together thousands of disparate factions, creating the largest single threat the Empire had faced since its foundation.  It’s rulers would have to work together too.

“Tell them I’ll be there,” he said, turning away from the window and walking towards his desk.  “Call me five minutes before the meeting is due to start.”

His grandfather had designed the office himself, Tiberius knew, which might be why he hated it.  The old man had been a ruthless grasping bastard, always struggling to put the family ahead of everything else; his office had been designed to show off his wealth and power.  Priceless artworks hung everywhere, clashing together in a display that showcased the family’s possessions – and their master’s lack of any real taste.  Charm and elegance might dominate the rest of the mansion, but not in his grandfather’s office.  Tiberius had seriously considered redecorating as soon as he moved in, before deciding that it wouldn't be good to become too comfortable.

He read through the report twice, looking for hope.  But there was nothing.  The core of the Jupiter Shipyard had been destroyed, leaving the family with an immense bill for repairs at the worst possible time.  Reading between the lines, Tiberius suspected that it would be cheaper to build a completely new shipyard.  The weasel words written by the bureaucrat who’d signed off on the report hinted as much.

It could be worse, I suppose, he told himself.  The Roosevelt Family is screwed completely.

Once, he would have taken a small amount of pleasure in watching a mighty family brought low.  Lord Paul Roosevelt was just as much of a grasping bastard as Tiberius’s grandfather, without the virtue of belonging to the same family.  His push to take sole control of Sector 117 – and Jackson’s Folly – had alienated most of the other families.  Now, with the rebels in control of the family’s investment, the entire clan was tottering and threatening to collapse into rubble.  It would be nice to watch Lord Paul humbled ...

... But not if the fall of one family brought the entire Empire down too.

His intercom buzzed.  “My Lord,” Sharon said, “the meeting will take place in five minutes.”

Tiberius nodded and stood, walking to a sealed door hidden behind a large portrait of a woman with an enigmatic smile.  It opened, once the sensor had checked his DNA, revealing a comfortable chair and an empty table.  Few of the Family Heads would choose to willingly enter another’s mansion, even for a top security meeting.  Instead, they sat in their rooms and projected their images to the others.  One by one, they flickered into existence, only a faint shimmer betraying their true nature.  Tiberius sat upright as one of the automated systems placed a drink by his chair.  He was younger than the others, easily the youngest Family Head in four centuries.  It was important that he be taken seriously.

Everyone knew that there were a thousand aristocratic families in the Empire.  What everyone didn’t know – but should have been able to guess - was that some of the Thousand Families were more important than the others.  The eleven most powerful families formed the Families Council, which was intended to deal with problems outside the remit of a single family.  Tiberius scowled as he realised that, counting himself, there were only ten Family Heads in the room.  The family that would replace the Roosevelt Family had not yet been identified.  

If we vote, we could be deadlocked, he thought.  Traditionally, a vote taken by all eleven families was binding.  But a deadlocked vote was effectively useless.

“The meeting will come to order,” Lady Madeline Hohenzollern said.  She was over a hundred years old, yet looked young enough to pass for Tiberius’s sister.  He knew better than to turn his back on her.  “The subject in front of us is the mutiny in Sector 117 and subsequent events.  I call upon Grand Admiral Joseph Porter to brief us.”

She lifted a hand.  Grand Admiral Porter appeared at the other end of the table, looking uncomfortable.  Unusually, he was neutral, without belonging to any of the Thousand Families; he only held his post because none of the families wished to hand so much power to another family.  But it also meant that none of the families would defend him, if they started looking for a scapegoat.  And it was certain, Tiberius knew, that they would start looking for someone to blame.

“My Lords and Ladies,” Porter said.  His voice was perfect, too perfect.  Tiberius guessed he was using a voder to appear calm, despite the breach in protocol.  “The situation is grave.”

He paused for effect, then carried on.  “The first mutinies took place on the Jackson’s Folly Observation Squadron,” he informed them.  “Led by Commander Colin Walker, the mutineers seized the squadron – and then the superdreadnaughts that were intended to spearhead the ... occupation of Jackson’s Folly.  Once the superdreadnaughts were under their control, the mutineers captured or destroyed the Annual Fleet, then started a campaign intended to undermine our control of the sector.  This culminated with an attack on Camelot, which ended with the rebels in firm control of the sector.  An attempt to regain control three weeks later failed.”

Tiberius scowled.  It took six months to get a message from Earth to Jackson’s Folly.  By the time they’d received word of the first mutinies, Camelot had already fallen to the rebels and the Empire’s control had been shattered.  Presumably, the rebels would advance towards Earth – they had to know that the Empire still maintained an immense advantage in industrial production – and the time delay would slip, but it would still be hard masterminding the war from Earth.  But did they dare trust someone with enough firepower and independent authority to stop the rebels?

“The rebels also uploaded a message into the Interstellar Communications Network,” Porter continued.  “The message, in short, incited mutiny among others outside Sector 117.  By now, we have received reports of hundreds of mutinies and small uprisings on thousands of worlds.  At worst, we could be looking at the loss of a third of our combat-capable units to the rebels.”

Tiberius heard someone swear out loud.  He couldn't blame him.

“Right now, we do not know how far the rebellion has spread,” Porter concluded.  “We are persistently six months out of date.  The last message we received suggested that rebel ships had reached Sector 69, which is on a direct line to Earth from Camelot.  However, we do not have a comprehensive picture of their movements.  They might easily have advanced closer to Earth.”

Tiberius had no illusions about the Empire’s popularity.  It had none.  The only saving grace had been that the different underground factions had been unable to unite into a coherent threat.  Imperial Intelligence had worked hard to keep them at loggerheads, sometimes passing up on the opportunity to wipe them out just so the underground remained disunited and harmless.  But now ... the underground had a leader and hope.  If a third of the Imperial Navy had fallen into rebel hands, the Thousand Families were staring defeat in the face.

He tapped the table for attention.  “How many of those ships have fallen into rebel hands?”

“We don’t know,” Porter confessed.  “There were mutinies that gutted the interiors of their ships, starships that were intercepted and destroyed before they could escape ... and it will still take months for them to unite their fleets.  Quite a few of them might have gone rogue and become pirates.  We simply don’t know.”

“Very well,” Lady Madeline said.  “How do we respond to this crisis?”

“War,” Lord Bernadotte said.  “The rebels, by their own declaration, want our blood.  I do not believe that we can compromise with them in any meaningful way.”

“But war would be immensely costly,” Lord Rothschild pointed out.  “We are already facing the economic fallout from the Roosevelt Collapse” – he paused to peer at the empty space where Lord Paul Roosevelt should have sat – “and large expenditures now would be disastrous.  If we lose a second or third family, we might lose the Empire.”

“We are already risking the loss of the Empire,” Lord Bernadotte snapped.  “The rebels want us dead.  They are not likely to agree to stay in Sector 117, leaving the rest of the human-settled galaxy to us.  At the very least, they would demand the end of the Thousand Families and our control over the Empire.”

There was a long pause as the assembled Family Heads considered the matter.  Their ancestors had been the men and women who had built and funded the Empire.  In exchange, they had assured themselves – and their descendents – of control over the structure they had built.  They might have argued constantly over the exact direction of the Empire, but they had never allowed outsiders into power.  Indeed, they’d started even refusing to allow outsiders to marry into the families.  In hindsight, Tiberius suspected, that had been a mistake.

If the rebels broke the Thousand Families and their monopoly on power, no one had any illusions about what would happen next.  At best, their family-owned corporations would be outmatched and destroyed by free competition; at worst, there would be a purge, with their relatives killed or dumped on penal worlds.  There would be no hope of rebuilding their position after a rebel defeat.  Lord Bernadotte was right.

But Tiberius knew that Lord Rothschild was also right.  War would be costly.  The Empire might win the war, only to lose itself when the economy collapsed.

“War, then,” Lady Madeline said, after the vote was taken.  Seven out of ten voted for war, leaving three doves isolated at the table.  “Admiral ... how can we win?”

Tiberius listened absently as Admiral Porter droned on about activating starships from the reserves and conscripting officers and men from civilian life.  He was no space combat expert – and besides, he was grimly aware that Admiral Porter was no expert either.  A past master at bureaucratic infighting, skilful enough to maintain his position despite a lack of powerful patrons ... but no expert in actual combat.  He had never even stood on the command deck of a starship, let alone taken her into action.  

“I have tactical officers currently analysing the entire situation,” Porter said.  “In addition, we have the testimony of Captain Quick, who was brought back to us by ... intelligence officers.”

Tiberius smiled.  One of his people had had the wit to take Captain Quick from Camelot before the planet fell to the rebels.  Tiberius had rewarded and promoted the man, then handed Captain Quick over to Imperial Intelligence and ONI.  There was no point in trying to seek advantage from holding her, not with the Empire at risk ...

He tapped the table as Admiral Porter began to wind down.  “There remains one final issue,” he said.  There was no need to involve himself – or the rest of the Family Heads – in the precise details of the mobilisation.  Admiral Porter was trying to smoother them in minutia.  “Who do we place in command of the fleet?”

A rustle ran around the table.  They all had clients within the Imperial Navy, officers they patronised and promoted in exchange for obedience and support.  Patronage networks underlined the Navy, ensuring that no one family gained control of sufficient firepower to take out the rest of the aristocracy.  After the Empress, the question of control had pervaded all of their discussions.  Whoever they put in command of the defence against the rebels had to be someone completely loyal ...

... And no such paragon existed.  How could he when there were so many masters?

But there was one person who was loyal to the Imperial Navy.  He would have to do.

“We need unity of command,” Tiberius said.  Having a dozen officers, each one loyal to a different family, would be disastrous.  Political infighting was acceptable under normal conditions, but this was war.  The rebels would not hesitate to take advantage of fractures within the Imperial Navy.  “I propose that we appoint Admiral Wachter to command the fleet.”

“Oh,” Lord Rothschild said.  It was impossible to tell if he approved or not.  The Rothschild Family had fewer connections to the Imperial Navy than most of the others.  “And why him, specifically?”

Tiberius smiled.  “We can't assign anyone from our families,” he said.  Even he would be tempted, if he controlled so much firepower.  “But we don’t dare appoint someone who isn't from the aristocracy.  Admiral Wachter is skilful, loyal and devoted to the Imperial Navy.  If he had wanted to be disloyal, he had plenty of chances before he was ... retired from the service.”

He felt his smile grow wider.  Admiral Wachter had alienated too many members of the aristocracy and their clients, including Admiral Percival.  But Percival was dead or wishing he was, while the Roosevelt Family was collapsing into nothingness.  There was a window of opportunity to rehabilitate Admiral Wachter and Tiberius intended to take it.  Once there was someone reliable in command, the combination of superior firepower and superior industrial production would ensure that the rebels were stopped.

There was a long debate, unsurprisingly, but there was no real opposition.  Tiberius accessed his personal communication channel and asked Sharon to invite Admiral Wachter to the mansion, then started laying additional plans of his own.  Stopping the rebels was important, yes, but it was equally important to safeguard the family.  Opening secret lines of communication might only benefit both sides.  The other families would object, of course, if it became public ...

Tiberius shook his head.  They would be doing the same thing too.

And besides, he added, in the privacy of his own head, the Cicero Family had an unfair advantage.  All it required was the right messenger ...

Chapter Two

Admiral Joshua Wachter was a short, stumpy man, wearing a simple black uniform without any rank badges or medals.  No, Tiberius realised, as the Admiral came to a halt in front of his desk; it wasn't a uniform at all, just something tailored to resemble one.  The Admiral was making a statement, warning Tiberius that he still considered himself a naval officer first and foremost.  Tiberius was almost relieved.  It was nice to deal with someone who wasn't putting his own interests – or his Patron’s interests – ahead of everything else.

“Please, be seated,” Tiberius said.  “We have a great deal to talk about.”

He studied the Admiral with some interest as the older man sat down.  Like most aristocrats, the Admiral could have taken advantage of the latest rejuvenation treatments, but it was clear that he hadn't bothered.  His medical file stated that his last treatment had been two weeks after he’d been placed on permanent leave from the Navy.  It was clear that Wachter lacked the vanity of so many other officers his age.

“The rebellion, I presume,” the Admiral said.

Tiberius wasn't too surprised.  In theory, Public Information was maintaining a complete news blackout, but the destruction of the Jupiter Shipyard was hard to miss.  By now, according to his sources, word was spreading rapidly through the Sol System.  The Empire might control all licensed media outlets, but the underground had its own ways of spreading information.  And someone like the Admiral would probably still have friends in the Navy, men and women who might pass on the word.

“Yes,” Tiberius said.  He picked up a datapad from his desk and held it out.  “This is the situation, as of this morning.  I won’t insult your intelligence by pointing out that much of it is out of date.”

The Admiral quirked his eyebrows, then took the pad and started to read.  Tiberius watched carefully, trying to read the man’s emotions, but it was impossible.  The Admiral was well-schooled in keeping his face expressionless, even without an electronic mask or emotional control implants.  That too wasn't surprising.  No one reached high office without the ability to mask their emotions, dissemble and lie outright, should it be necessary.

“Interesting,” the Admiral observed, when he had finished.  “You do realise the underlying cause of this revolution?”

Tiberius suspected he did, but motioned for Wachter to continue anyway.

“The system is not designed to allow the smart, talented and ambitious a chance to flourish,” the Admiral said.  “Men and women who know they are more competent than their superiors are kept back, watching helplessly as people are promoted merely on the grounds of birth or their willingness to kiss the ass of the aristocrats.  It doesn't really breed loyalty when you constantly keep the talented down, does it?”

“Apparently not,” Tiberius agreed, coolly.

“Take yourself, for example,” the Admiral continued.  “You are younger and less experienced than most of the adults in your family.  Your sole qualification for being Family Head is being the biological son of the previous Family Head.  I would not be too surprised if elements in your family were quietly trying to undermine your position.  Why should they not resent your elevation over your head?”

Tiberius knew the Admiral had a point.  He’d never asked to succeed his father; indeed, he’d expected the old man had many years to go before death.  But he hadn't really been given a choice.

He cleared his throat.  “Thank you for being direct,” he said.  “Let me ask you a question in return.  Which side are you on?”

Others, he knew, would probably not give him a honest answer.  But he had a feeling the Admiral would be honest, even if it killed him.

The Admiral considered the question for a long moment.  “The Empire has its flaws, but it maintains human unity and human unity is the key to human survival,” he said, finally.  “We were taught that in the last interstellar war.  The rebels may seek reform now, but they will unleash forces that will either shatter the Empire or push them to replacing the Thousand Families with an aristocracy of their own.  The only thing holding humanity together is the strong hand of Empire.  I cannot side with rebels.”

He met Tiberius’s eyes.  “Which isn't to say that I don’t think reforms have to be made,” he added.  “The rebels do have legitimate complaints.  If you could answer them, you may prevent future rebellions.”

Tiberius remembered the Empress and shuddered.  There was no way the Families Council would agree to dismantle the patronage networks, if that was even possible.  The networks weren't just there to boost their power and status, they were there to prevent another Empress from seizing control of a large portion of the fleet and turning it against the Empire.  But the networks seemed to have failed.  The rebels might be six months from Earth – but that had been six months ago.  Where were they now?

“That would be difficult,” he admitted.  Capable officers were ambitious officers – and ambition was dangerous.  “We couldn't bring them all into the families ...”

The Admiral smiled.  “Why not?  It would help prevent inbreeding.”

Tiberius’s eyes narrowed.  The suggestion that the Thousand Families were inbred was an old slur, but it wasn't true.  Genetic engineering ensured that there were no problems with inbreeding for the families, no matter how closely they were related.  Hell, there was so much engineering that it was questionable just how much of Tiberius’s father had gone into him.

“Oh, not biological inbreeding,” the Admiral said.  “Intellectual inbreeding.  The echo chamber created by having so many people in agreement talking together, without allowing any room for new ideas along with new blood.  How many of your fellow aristocrats could even begin to understand life outside the High City?”

“Point,” Tiberius conceded, ruefully.  “Most of them wouldn't even know where to begin, if they were kicked out of the High City.”

He sighed, remembering old battles.  In his opinion, at least two-thirds of the family were little more than oxygen thieves – and he suspected the same was true of the other major families.  They enjoyed themselves, partying endlessly, while Tiberius and the other more responsible adults handled all the work.  But then, even the vast domains of the Cicero Family were insufficient to give everyone something meaningful to do.  And to think there were times when he envied the social butterflies!

“That isn't what I called you here to discuss,” he said, rubbing his forehead.  There was too much to do and too little time.  “We are currently assembling a fleet to confront and defeat the rebels before they spread too far.  I would like you to take command of the fleet.”

The Admiral lifted an eyebrow in pretend surprise.  “Why me?”

“Because you’re loyal to the Empire,” Tiberius said.  “Because you’re not loyal to a single Family.  Because you are a competent naval officer.  Because ...”

He shook his head.  “There are good reasons to select you,” he added.  “And the Families Council signed off on it.”

“I’m sure that must have been a long argument,” the Admiral commented.  He leaned back in his chair and placed his fingertips together.  “And why should I take the job?”

“Because you’re loyal to the Empire,” Tiberius said.  He’d read the Admiral’s file carefully, line by line.  It had stated that the Admiral was desperate to return to space.  “And because you understand what’s at stake.”

There was a long pause as the Admiral considered it, his face impassive.  “There are conditions,” he said, finally.

“Name them,” Tiberius said.  He wasn't in the mood to bargain.  “What do you want?”

The Admiral ticked off points on his fingers.  “You can't run the war from Earth,” he said.  “I want overall authority to operate without referring every decision back to you.  I want authority to remove officers who don’t live up to my standards or are hopelessly corrupt.  I want authority to activate the naval reserves, access naval stores and other measures to get the fleet into fighting trim without having to seek permission from Luna Base.”

Tiberius felt his eyes narrow, again.  “You think the fleet isn't in fighting trim?”

“I would be very surprised if it is,” the Admiral said, bluntly.  “When I was last on the command deck of a superdreadnaught, corrupt officers had a nasty habit of stealing supplies and selling them off.  I expect the missiles that destroyed the Jupiter Shipyards came from the Imperial Navy, originally.  Even if they didn’t ...”

He shrugged.  “And morale will be in the pits,” he added.  “Which leads to another point.  I don’t want Blackshirts on the ships.  Putting them on ships in Sector 117 was idiotic, to say the least.  I’m not surprised that the crews mutinied.  The Blackshirts are animals.”

“I know,” Tiberius said, quietly.

“And one other thing,” the Admiral said.  “I know there will be spies in the command staff and spies in the crews.  The patronage networks will see to that, I expect.  But I don’t want anyone undermining my authority.  If you want to relieve me of command, that’s one thing – I’ll accept it, even if I won’t like it.  I won’t tolerate officers trying to undermine me or asserting separate authority.  One hint of that and I will put the officer in question out an airlock.”

Tiberius met his eyes, seeing nothing but grim resolve.  The Thousand Families had been leery of placing so much power into a single person’s hands, even before the Empress had reminded them of the wisdom of that policy.  If the Admiral was secretly disloyal – or even merely ambitious – he would have ample opportunity to prepare the ground for a coup.  The patronage networks normally made that tricky, if not impossible.  But if the networks were told to keep their heads down ...

There would be no checks and balances, nothing to prevent the Admiral from laying his own plans.  He'd been a legend in the Imperial Navy a long time before Tiberius had even been born, one of the few Admirals to earn respect from all ranks.  And yet, if he’d wanted to be disloyal, he could just have kept his mouth shut.  Instead, he was practically daring Tiberius to reject him.  Or was it a cunning double-bluff?

Or was he completely unaware of the political subtext?  Did he just want the tools he needed to do the job properly, no matter the political cost?

“I believe I can ensure that no one challenges you openly,” Tiberius said, slowly.  “But I’m afraid there will be spies.  I doubt I could convince the others to remove them.”

“Probably not, no,” the Admiral said.  He looked down at the datapad, then back up at Tiberius.  “Admiral Porter – or rather his command staff – is correct to suggest that we prepare our defensive lines at Morrison.  The rebels will, assuming they drive on Earth, have to reduce and occupy the base to protect their rear.  My fleet will assemble there, then lure the rebels into battle in a time and place of our choosing.”

“There will be objections,” Tiberius pointed out, mildly.  “Hundreds of worlds are at risk.”

The Admiral snorted.  “I cannot defend everywhere,” he said.  “If I spread out the fleet, we will risk losing everything.  The rebels will simply concentrate their forces against one target after another.  Smaller worlds add nothing to their strength, so they can be recovered after the rebel fleet is destroyed.”

Tiberius nodded.  “Why not attack directly towards Jackson’s Folly?”

“I doubt the fleet is in any condition to take the offensive,” the Admiral admitted.  “The rebels will know that we have a huge production advantage.  Their only hope for victory is to attack Earth and the other Core Worlds as soon as possible.  The autonomous worlds may even consider joining the rebels if the rebels look likely to win.”

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 freighters 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.”

He rolled his eyes.  “We’ll be lucky if we leave within a month,” he added.  “And then we will have to worry about internal security, without the damned Blackshirts.”

“Yes, sir,” Penny agreed.  

That, at least, was something she wouldn't mourn.  The Blackshirts were trained and conditioned to be garrison troops, ready to commit atrocities at the drop of a hat.  Looting and rape were the perks of the job, although Penny rather doubted they made up for losing a chunk of their minds.  But putting the Blackshirts on starships had been asking for trouble.  They didn't have the experience to keep themselves safe or the restraint to keep from hurting innocent crewmen.

“I was planning to have you kick ass at Luna Base and get them to assign us more experienced crewmen,” the Admiral informed her.  “But you’re not in any shape for a proper argument.  Instead, I want you to start devising tactical problems based on what you’ve seen from the rebels.  Make sure you give them as many advantages as possible.”

Penny nodded.  Tactical simulations – the ones that weren't planned out in advance - frequently gave the enemy advantages that they shouldn't have in real life.  Missile broadsides might be larger, individual missiles might be faster; in theory, practicing against a stronger opponent was good practice for fighting a real enemy.  But most live-fire exercises were carefully planned to ensure the right side won.  Nothing was left to chance.

She smiled.  Maybe Admiral Wachter would insist on holding a random exercise, inviting his subordinates to actually compete.  It might teach them more than they’d learn otherwise.

“After that, I want you to start thinking about what other surprises the rebels might come up with,” the Admiral added.  “I suspect that they will have full access to the Geeks and Nerds – they’ve always been trying to push the limits of the possible.  What else might they be able to devise to give themselves an unfair advantage?”

Penny considered it.  Arsenal ships weren't a real innovation – she had no doubt that the ships could be duplicated – but the Admiral was right.  The Geeks had always pushed the limits and the rebels had every interest in encouraging them.  After all, they knew that they were still massively outgunned by the Empire.  If they could come up with something completely new, it might prove disastrous.  

And the Empire, as a general rule, didn't encourage innovation.  Why should it, Penny asked, when the Thousand Families already had everything they wanted?  But there were always scientists trying to push the limits, no matter what discouragement was thrown at them.  The Geeks might just have a lead on the Empire.

“Yes, sir,” she said, again.  She looked up at the holographic display, silently calculating ship transit times.  The rebels would have to knock out a dozen bases before they reached Morrison, she suspected.  “I won’t let you down.”

Admiral Wachter reached out and squeezed her shoulder.  If Percival had done it, she knew, it would have been unpleasant.  But Admiral Wachter seemed genuinely supportive.

“I know you won't,” he assured her.  “Have fun.”

***
Compared to Percival, Penny decided over the following weeks, Admiral Wachter was a brilliant commanding officer.  The cynical side of her mind pointed out that anyone would seem brilliant compared to Percival, but it seemed harder and harder to maintain her detachment when the Admiral was genuinely caring.  He didn't object to her occasional trips to sickbay; he even ensured she had enough time to recover every time she suffered a panic attack.  

It wasn't just her, too.  The Admiral cared for the entire crew.  He might have conscripted men and women, but he’d ensured that they didn't simply vanish into the Navy.  They had permission to send messages to their families, collect their pay and all the other little details that made it easier for them to settle in.  Penny still worried about a mutiny, particularly among the conscripts, but nothing materialised.  But then, there were few places less conductive to a mutiny than Earth.

Home Fleet was not in good shape, she realised, after she started reading the reports from the Admiral’s repair crews.  Half of the superdreadnaughts had real problems going to full power, let alone leaving the Sol System.  The smaller ships were in better state, but a number of ships in the reserve were effectively nothing more than dead hulks.  They’d been cannibalised to keep the other ships functional.

“It will be worse at Morrison,” Admiral Wachter predicted, as they made their final preparations for departure.  Several repairs would have to be carried out while the ships were in flight.  “But at least we can purge officers there.  Their patrons will be hundreds of light years away.  By the time they find out their clients have been purged, it will be too late.”

Penny smiled.  After years spent wrestling with the supply department under Percival, she couldn't wait.  The bureaucrats were in for a nasty surprise.

Chapter Four

“I think they’re on the alert.”

Commodore Adeeba Hamil nodded in agreement as the light freighter drifted towards the giant station orbiting Mars.  The Imperial Navy had deployed several squadrons of light cruisers to screen the planet, with a squadron of superdreadnaughts in reserve.  Others, according to the civilian-grade sensors mounted on the freighter, were gathering near Jupiter, preparing to go to war.

“It looks that way,” she said.  Colin would have to be warned of the enemy formation, but they wouldn't be going back to Jackson’s Folly for months.  “Are you sure we can get down to Mars?”

“As long as the DNA reprofiling worked, you should be fine,” the smuggler assured him.  He'd introduced himself as Fred, when they’d made contact at the independent asteroid; he'd assured them that it was easier to reach Earth by contacting the underground on Mars.  “If it didn't ...”

He let her fill out the rest of the details for herself.  Adeeba had been a Commander in the Imperial Navy – and one of the original mutineers at Jackson’s Folly.  Her DNA pattern was registered within the Navy’s databanks, along with everyone else who had ever even considered joining the Navy.  If the reprofiling had failed, she would be caught the moment the inspectors tested her DNA.  And, at that point, the implants in her head would kill her.

“I'm sure we’ll be fine,” she said.  She'd always been happier on the command deck of a starship, but there were only a handful of rebels with any experience of Earth.  Colin hadn't had many choices when the time came to pick envoys to Earth's underground.  “And if we’re not, you can plead innocent and pay bribes.”

“Maybe,” Fred groused.  “But I will be in deep shit anyway.”

Adeeba nodded, running her hand through her long dark hair.  She’d grown up on Earth, experiencing enough along the way to convince her that the Empire was neither fair nor reasonable when it felt that it’s security was threatened.  Fred would probably be held responsible for shipping them to Mars, even if he hadn't had the slightest idea who they were or what they represented.  It wasn't just her and Neil who were at risk, but the Mars Underground itself.

She looked up as Colonel Neil Frandsen entered the compartment.  The Marine was trying to slouch, but it wasn't working very well.  There was no mistaking the extensive discipline that had been hammered into the former Imperial Marine, or the fact he was a very dangerous and experienced man.  Like Adeeba, he’d seen the dark side of the Empire and had been unable to remain silent.  And, just like her, he was risking a fate worse than death if they were caught.

“I’ve got our papers ready,” Frandsen informed her.  “Everything has been checked and checked again.”

“Just don’t forget your lines,” Fred advised them, as the freighter advanced towards the station.  “One mistake, right now, and they will interrogate you extensively.  Unless, of course, you pay them a bribe.”

Adeeba rolled her eyes.  Mars was humanity’s oldest colony world, home to nearly five billion humans, most of them living in the teeming rat warrens under the terraformed landscape.  Like Earth, corruption and decay were a fact of life.  There was so much competition between the families that ran the planet that there was no room for the ordinary citizens to gain power, let alone independence.  No wonder, she decided, that there was an underground on Mars.

She couldn't help feeling nervous as the freighter finally docked with the station, but all her fears seemed groundless.  The customs officer barely even glanced at them; he ran their IDs through the central processor, checked their DNA and then impatiently waved them through the security door and into the station.  Adeeba kept her face expressionless as they walked into the throng of visitors, then found their way to the space elevator.  Four hours later, they were on Mars.

Robinson City was odd, even by the Empire’s standards.  It was composed of a series of giant domes, each one housing those wealthy enough to have surface homes, built on top of a warren that dated all the way back to the first settlements on Mars.  Most of the locals in the warren seemed drab, almost completely colourless; the ethnic groups that had settled Mars, centuries ago, had long since blended together into something unique to the red planet.  She wasn't even sure how to tell the difference between the different occupations.  The only people who seemed obvious were the prostitutes.

“We had to fight our way through a set of warrens once,” Frandsen said, once they found a room.  The landlady took cash and asked no questions, even though it was obvious that neither of them came from Mars.  “Even finding our way was tricky.”

Adeeba nodded in understanding.  The warren didn't seem to have street names, corridor designations or anything else that might help an outsider find their way around.  Somehow, she suspected that it would be easy to get lost if they walked further underground.  She remembered what she’d been told by Fred, before they flickered into the Sol System, and scowled.  Finding the underground would be easy.  Convincing the underground that they could be trusted would be hard.

They went out for dinner, finding a small eatery several corridors away from their rented room.  The food was bland, utterly tasteless.  Adeeba ate it anyway – naval rations were worse – and then followed Frandsen through a twisting series of corridors.  She hoped the Marine was better at keeping track of where they were going, she decided, as they reached a warehouse on the lower levels.  If they got split up, she knew she would never find her way back to the surface.

“Halt,” a voice ordered, as they stepped into the warehouse.  “Keep your hands where we can see them.”

Adeeba winced, inwardly.  The warehouse was dark.  She couldn't see the speaker.  Carefully, she lifted her hands, then swallowed hard.  Making contact was always dangerous, she’d been warned.  They might just be about to walk right into Imperial Intelligence’s waiting arms.

“We come from Tamerlane, selling quality,” she said.  It was their official excuse for visiting Mars, but it was also a code phrase from the underground.  “And we need to see the Big Man.”

“Indeed,” the voice sneered.  “Put your bags on the floor – gently – then get undressed.”

Adeeba exchanged glances with Frandsen, then placed the bag on the floor and pulled off her shirt, followed rapidly by her trousers.  Whatever body modesty she'd once possessed had been lost by years in the Navy, where close quarters – often unisex quarters – were common.  Even so, she hesitated before removing her bra and panties and dropping them on the dusty ground.  They were both completely naked – and vulnerable.

A light flicked on, revealing two separate doors.  “Girl, go to the left,” the voice ordered, coldly.  There was no hint of any emotion in its tone.  “Boy, go to the right.  We have to scan you both thoroughly.”

The examination was as uncomfortable as Adeeba had feared, although the two grim-faced women who examined her were surprisingly professional.  They checked her implants carefully, reluctantly conceded that she wasn't carrying anything dangerous, then pushed her through a second door.  Inside, there was a tall man carrying a pair of dressing gowns.  He passed one of them to Adeeba and she donned it, gratefully.  A moment later, Frandsen joined them.  Adeeba couldn't help staring at his scars before he pulled his own gown on, concealing his body.

“This way,” the man said.

He led them into a smaller room, a makeshift office.  A dark-skinned man was sitting on a packing crate, waiting for them.  He stood up, nodded politely to them both, then indicated that they should sit on crates themselves.  A small pot of tea, bubbling in the corner, let out a low whistle.  The man poured three mugs of tea – it was tradition on Mars, Adeeba recalled – and handed them out, then sat down facing them.

“You can call me the Big Man,” he said.  His accent was noticeably from Mars, although it was exaggerated enough to make her wonder if it were an act.  The man’s face was bland enough to suggest genetic modification.  Chances were he could vanish quickly into the warrens if Imperial Security or the Blackshirts came after him.  “And you’re from the rebellion.”

“Yes,” Adeeba said, shortly.  “We need your help to get to Earth.”

“So I hear,” the Big Man said.  “And that leads to a simple question.  Can you guarantee that the Empire will be overthrown?”

Adeeba hesitated, composing her reply.  “We can offer no guarantees,” she said, carefully.  “However, with your help, we have a greater chance of success.”

“That is true,” the Big Man agreed.  “However, we are also very vulnerable.  If we stage an uprising on Mars – or Earth – we may well be crushed.  The Imps will control the high orbitals.  Somehow, I don’t think they will have many qualms about bombarding Mars, let alone Earth.”

“Probably not,” Adeeba said.  “They will certainly react harshly to any challenge to their authority.”

“Also true,” the Big Man said.  “So tell me.  Why should we assist you?”

Frandsen leaned forward.  “Aren't you committed to overthrowing the Empire?”

“There’s a difference between taking brave steps and committing suicide,” the Big Man pointed out.  If he was offended by Frandsen’s tone, he didn't show it.  “The point remains that we are massively outgunned, on both Earth and Mars.  I will not throw lives away for no good reason.”

“We are not asking you to rebel at once,” Adeeba said.  “Like you said, it would be useless – and futile.  We want you to do two things for us.  First, we want you to prepare for the day we attack the Sol System, so you can be ready to rise up then.  Second, we want you to help sabotage the Empire’s war effort.  You have, I believe, access to some bureaucrats in the logistics section?”

“A few,” the Big Man said, without committing himself.  “There are others on Earth with more connections.”

He shrugged.  “And what are you prepared to offer in exchange?”

“You should already be able to obtain weapons,” Frandsen said.  “I can offer military training for men and women who are willing to fight.”

“Training we can get, if we need it,” the Big Man said.  He looked at them both for a long moment.  “And what sort of universe do you envisage taking shape after the Thousand Bastards are defeated?”

Adeeba smiled.  Colin had given her very specific instructions for when that point was raised.

“Mars will gain autonomy,” she said, simply.  “You will be responsible for your own affairs, without any interference from the Empire.  You will send elected representatives to Parliament on Earth to debate the overall course of the Empire, like the other worlds.”

The Big Man lifted an eyebrow.  Parliament was a joke, everyone knew, a thin gloss of legality covering the naked power wielded by the Thousand Families.  MPs might have been democratically elected once; now, they were effectively picked at random by the Thousand Families.  There was so little power in Parliament that even the damned patronage system barely touched the MPs.  Some of the candidates, Colin had once observed, were selected for amusement value and nothing else.

“We believe that a democratically-elected Parliament will have more ability to reflect the wishes of the Empire’s population than anything else,” Adeeba explained.  She understood the man's doubts, but the rebels hadn't been able to come up with a better idea.  “There will also be checks and balances in place.”

“Mars has a small population, compared to Earth,” the Big Man said.  “What is to stop Earth from outvoting us?”

“Each planet will have one representative,” Adeeba said.  “Earth won’t have more votes than Mars.”

“I could see that working, I suppose,” the Big Man said.  “And what if I wanted support against other factions on Mars?”

Adeeba winced.  They'd expected the question, sooner or later, but anticipation didn't make it any easier.  One of the reasons the various undergrounds had never united against the Empire was a simple failure to agree on a common goal.  Some factions wanted to take power for themselves, others wanted to split the Empire up into smaller power groups ... and still others had darker motives.  Imperial Intelligence, according to the files they’d recovered on Camelot, had been encouraging infighting among the rebel groups for centuries.  As long as the rebels were fighting each other, they weren't a threat to the Empire.

“We are not going to take sides,” she said, seriously.  If they supported one faction, others might unite against them – or simply tip off the security forces.  “Our objective is the destruction of the Empire.  We can fight over what comes afterwards once the Empire is gone.”

The Big Man smiled.  “Understandable,” he said.  “I will provide you both with transport to Earth and an introduction to friends of mine on the surface.  I trust that will be enough, for the moment?  I’d prefer not to go into detail about other steps.”

Frandsen leaned forward.  “How do you propose to get us to Earth?”

“They monitor passengers coming and going from the planet,” the Big Man said.  He winked at them.  “They don't pay as much attention to shipping crates.  The ride will be uncomfortable, but safe enough.”

Unless someone tips them off, Adeeba thought, coldly.  There would be thousands of starships unloading in Earth orbit every day.  No one could inspect all of the crates before they were sent down to the surface.  A few bribes would make sure of that, she suspected, if the security officers looked resolute.  They'd been warned that the underground had strong ties with criminal organisations.  It was the only way to survive.  

“Thank you,” she said.  “When do we leave?”

The Big Man grinned.  “Did you leave anything in your room?”

Adeeba shook her head.  She would have been surprised if he hadn't had the room searched while they were eating dinner.  The underground had only survived through extreme paranoia and careful precautions.  They’d only brought a couple of small bags with them, containing nothing more than a pair of datapads and changes of clothes.  By now, both of the bags would have been thoroughly searched too.

“Then you can leave at once,” the Big Man said.  “We’ll give you sleeping pills once you’re inside the crate.  I’d suggest taking them.  It will take at least nineteen hours for you to reach Earth and it will not be a comfortable trip.  And we daren’t give you anything electronic.”

“We’re prefer to stay awake,” Frandsen said.  “Can you give us a book or two?”

The Big Man smiled.  “Of course,” he said.  “And good luck.”

Adeeba scowled.  There was another good reason not to go to sleep.  If someone had tipped off Imperial Intelligence, they would wake up in a prison cell with their implants deactivated – or they would not wake up at all.

***
As it happened, the trip was not as bad as they had feared.  Adeeba had been confined in smaller spaces than the crate; the handful of blankets they’d been given were enough to lie on, even when the crate was shipped up the orbital elevator and then loaded into a starship for transport.  There was some shaking, then the brief sensation of flickering through interplanetary space, followed by more shaking.  Adeeba found herself nodding off in the middle of the trip; Frandsen grinned at her, then volunteered to take watch while she slept.

They both snapped awake as they felt someone opening the crate.  The lid fell off a moment later, revealing two tired-looking faces peering down at them.  Moments later, the side was opened, allowing them both to step out of the crate.  Maintenance uniforms were shoved at them; they donned them rapidly, then followed the underground men out of the new warehouse and through a series of darkened corridors.  None of the security officers even looked twice at them.

And the atmosphere was very definitely Earth’s ... a faint combination of human sweat and blood, hints of pollution and something indefinably homelike.

“We’ve put aside a room for you,” one of their escorts grunted, as they reached a set of doors.  “This is Earth.  You are expected to remain inside until we call for you.”

“We understand,” Frandsen said.  The underground would know more about sneaking around than the outsiders, even though both of them had actually been born on Earth.  “Do you have food for us.”

“There is food inside, and water too,” the man said.  “But remain inside.  We dare not lose you now.”

The room was actually bigger than the tiny apartment Adeeba remembered from Earth, although it was smaller than her quarters on the battlecruiser she'd commanded.  She allowed herself a smile as the door closed, leaving them alone.  They’d made it!  She watched silently as Frandsen checked for bugs, then reported the presence of a handful of optical and audio pickups scattered around the room.  It didn't look as if anyone had made an effort to hide the bugs.

This is Earth, she thought.  The Empire tried hard to monitor its citizens.  No one had any right to privacy.  It was one of the many reasons she had to hate the Empire.  Colin’s reasons had started out personal and become general; hers were general, which had then become personal.  They do things differently here.

“We had better get some rest,” Frandsen said.  “And ...”

He tapped his lips, turning his head so the bugs couldn't catch his movement.  Adeeba understood; they didn't dare deactivate the bugs, even though it was unlikely that anyone was watching them personally.  They couldn't afford to attract attention.  All they could do was wait for the underground to make contact.

Shaking her head, she walked over to the bed and lay down.

Chapter Five

“It is done,” Major Vincent Anderson reported.

Colin nodded, not looking away from the view of the stars – and the Shadow Fleet, gathered around his flagship.  It was strange to feel guilty after everything he’d done, from breaking his sworn oaths to the Imperial Navy to sending people to their deaths in his name, but he couldn't help feeling bad.  And yet there had been no choice.  Commodore Quigley could have torn the Popular Front apart.

He’d been unpopular among his crews – and among his superiors, which was unusual.  Even Admiral Percival, never a very good judge of character, had refused to grant him further promotion, something that had clearly rankled.  The Commodore had been as ambitious as Colin himself and much less moral.  By the time his squadron heard of the mutinies and the rebellion, he'd clearly been planning something for himself.  Instead, he'd simply taken his squadron and defected to the rebels.

And then the trouble started, Colin reflected.  He wasn’t popular.  We would have had another mutiny on our hands.

He'd been unsure what to do.  The Shadow Fleet could hardly refuse reinforcements, but he couldn't allow Quigley any power, not when his own squadron was on the verge of mutiny – a second mutiny, from the Empire’s point of view.  In the end, he’d accepted Anderson’s suggestion.  Quigley was fond of flying his own shuttle.  It had been simple enough to arrange an ‘accident’ that had destroyed the shuttle, taking the wretched Commodore with it.  

“Make sure no one ever finds out what happened,” Colin ordered.  The Shadow Fleet had expanded rapidly as more and more mutineers brought their ships to join the formation.  Few of them knew Colin, even by reputation.  He couldn't afford his subordinates having doubts about him, not when they had to take the offensive.  “We can't even afford rumours.”

He scowled.  Admiral Percival had had legitimate authority behind him, even though he’d been a bastard of the first rank.  Contemplating Percival’s new life on the penal colony was a thought that definitely kept him warm at night.  But Colin found it harder to maintain his authority; he’d mutinied against his superiors, why couldn't his subordinates mutiny against him?  If they thought that Colin was actively purging the ranks of unwanted officers and crew ...

“I did the work myself,” Anderson assured him.  The Security Officer, who had proved his loyalty to the rebellion by not alerting Percival when he’d first detected signs that a mutiny was planned, stepped closer.  “There is nothing left to suggest that it was anything other than a tragic accident.”

“Let’s hope so,” Colin said.  He took one last look out at the gathering fleet, then turned and strode towards the hatch.  “Is everything prepared for the meeting?”

“I believe so,” Anderson said.  “Are we finally ready to take the offensive?”

Colin scowled.  Several sectors had fallen into rebel hands like ripe fruit, simply because the Imperial Navy had never bothered to station anything larger than a light cruiser to defend them.  However, the region of space they occupied was finally starting to brush up against worlds and sectors that were quite heavily defended.  Some of the defended worlds could be bypassed and isolated, at least until the war was won or lost; others, he knew, had to be reduced before the rebels could drive on Earth.  

“I hope so,” he said.  “The bastards still have vast firepower under their command, vastly more firepower than us.  We can't give them too much time to recover.”

He led the way into the conference room, feeling an odd sense of satisfaction as his subordinates – and the handful of political representatives – rose to their feet.  It was the sort of respect he’d wanted when he’d served the Empire, back when he’d been naive enough to believe that a talented man without connections could succeed.  But Percival had destroyed both his hopes and his faith in the Empire.  Colin wondered, absently, just how Percival was coping on the penal world.  The files agreed that half the convicts dumped on the surface died within the first six months.

“Please, be seated,” he said, taking his seat at the head of the table.  They sat down and gazed at him expectantly.  “It has been five months since we secured Camelot, five months during which we have prepared for the offensive against Earth.  We dare not wait any longer.”

They were an odd group, he told himself.  Former Imperial Navy officers, like himself; rebels from a dozen planets or hidden asteroid settlements ... and Jason Cordova, who looked, as always, larger than life.  The man who had refused to scorch a planet on the Empire’s command and then fled into the Beyond with his ship, rather than return to face judgement – and certain death.  Colin rather admired him, although there were times he doubted Cordova’s common sense.  After so long in the Beyond, the man might well not be completely sane any longer.

Beside him, Hannelore Ellicott-Chatham looked nervous.  Unlike most of the rebels, she had been an aristocrat who had set up an independent mining company of her own before it had been captured by Cordova.  Now, she was working as a supply officer – she was genuinely talented, Colin had to admit – and Cordova’s lover.  The evil part of Colin’s mind wondered which occupation was more demanding.  

Commodore Jeremy Damiani sat next to Colin himself, his face expressionless.  He'd worked for Stacy Roosevelt before she'd lost her superdreadnaughts to the rebels, then switched sides without a second thought.  Colin knew that Damiani was reliable; he had good reason to be grateful for Stacy refusing to leave him in command of her ships.  If he’d been in command, the rebellion might have ended there and then.  But now he was a loyal rebel ...

Colin pushed the thought aside as he faced the group.  “The Empire will know about us now,” he said.  His most optimistic calculations suggested that Earth would have known about the rebellion for at least two weeks, although he knew better than to rely on it.  It was quite possible that someone on Percival’s staff had reported accurately to his patron, even though Percival himself had tried to keep a lid on the news.  “Right now, they will be mobilising to confront us.  They will have no choice.”

He looked from face to face, willing them to understand.  Already, between the Geeks and thousands of talented workers who had finally been allowed to use their talents, the rebel-controlled industrial nodes were working miracles.  Given ten years, Colin suspected, the Shadow Fleet would be able to roll over the Empire with ease.  But they didn't have ten years, not when the Empire was now well aware of the threat.  The Thousand Families wouldn't dare let a challenge to their power go unanswered.  

Colin had no illusions, even though he knew – better than most – the true condition of the naval reserve.  The starships and formations along the border had been forced to run regular maintenance cycles, but bases closer to Earth had been allowed to grow lax.  Corruption had set in; starships had been pillaged for components that could be sold to civilians.  There were entire squadrons that only existed on paper.  But, given time, the Empire could still put together a formidable challenge ...

And, if it geared up for all-out war, it would easily be able to out-produce the rebels.

“We will divide our offensive into three formations,” Colin continued.  He’d hashed out the plan himself, then consulted a handful of subordinates.  This was the first time he’d presented it to the entire council.  “The Main Strike Fleet, under my command, will advance towards Morrison, where we will attempt to reduce and occupy the naval base.  As Morrison is likely to be their staging base for any counterattacks, depriving the Imperial Navy of the base’s facilities will be a crippling blow.”

He paused, scowling at the holographic star chart.  A competent enemy commander would understand that Morrison had to be held – or give up any thoughts of a counterattack for several years – but who knew who he’d be facing?  Another Percival ... or someone more competent?  Colin had nothing, apart from contempt, for the Thousand Families, but they did sometimes produce competent officers and administrators.  The question rattled around and around in his mind, receiving no answer.  Who would he be facing?

“The Deep Strike Fleet, under Commodore Damiani, will be advancing ahead of the Main Strike Fleet, raiding planetary defences and orbital installations,” Colin said.  “This serves two purposes; it will confuse the enemy about our ultimate intentions and create political pressure for the Imperial Navy to defend the targeted worlds.  If we’re lucky, they will spread out their forces to cover potential targets.  Even if they don't, they will have to cope with the political fallout from losing the worlds and installations.”

Colin smiled, coldly.  He had never claimed to be an expert in economics, but rebel analysts had tried hard to predict what would happen when the Roosevelt Family finally collapsed.  Their best-case projection suggested that the other families would manage to take their assets for themselves, preventing the collapse from spreading further, yet it would place even more strain on the Empire.  And, if they couldn't prevent the collapse from spreading, the Empire might find it impossible to pay for the war.

“Finally, the Deep Raid Fleet, under Captain Cordova, will raid shipping and other isolated targets within the Core Worlds,” Colin concluded.  “This will not only force them to divert additional forces to cover convoys, it will create a sense of unease among their leadership.  If we can reach out and touch the Core Worlds, what’s to say we can’t reach out and touch Earth itself?

“I won't lie to you.  The Empire still has a staggering advantage in firepower – and we will be going up against tough fixed defences, no matter how badly corruption has eroded their ability to fight.  We could still lose – but the Empire’s self-confidence will not survive.”

There was a long pause.  Only a handful knew about the secret mission to Earth, let alone the plans for coordinated action with the underground movements.  He didn't dare discuss that openly, not when news might spread through the fleet and into unfriendly ears.  There were so many newcomers that it was quite likely that some of them were reporting back to the Empire.  And besides, they’d never figured out how the Empire had managed to locate Sanctuary Asteroid.

Finally, he nodded to Salgak.

The Geek’s voice buzzed as he spoke, drawing attention to the metal implants that marred his pale flesh.  Such augmentation was banned in the Empire, even for the upper classes; the Geeks wore their implants proudly, as a badge of honour.  Colin honestly couldn't imagine why anyone would augment themselves so heavily it was questionable if they were human any longer, unless it was a gesture of defiance.  The Empire wouldn't hesitate to kill any scientist who started pushing the limits of research and development.

“We have turned our missile production facilities over to the Popular Front,” the Geek stated, bluntly.  “Instead, we have worked on improving the missile systems and developing new weapons and technologies.  We have managed to improve the performance of standard shipkiller missiles in several different ways.  One of them will give the missiles additional powered flight range.”

Colin smiled.  That wouldn't be too useful against enemy starships – the standard tactic against an overwhelming barrage of missiles was to flicker out – but it would be very useful when they confronted fixed defences.  Orbital fortresses weren't much larger than superdreadnaughts, yet they had no need to devote mass to drives, allowing them to stockpile far more missiles in their hulls.  Being able to engage them outside their own effective range would definitely give the enemy a nasty surprise.

“Another modification will make the missiles effective against enemy drive systems,” Salgak stated.  “However, we are unable to produce them except in very small numbers.  It requires a degree of precision that standard shipyards and industrial nodes are incapable of duplicating.  There are also problems with the arming systems; the missiles may have to be fired from very short range, if they are to be completely effective.

“In hopes of tackling this problem, we have been designing a modified gunboat that we hope will be able to launch one or two such missiles.  However, cramming drives, shields and weapons into a gunboat hull is tricky.  We may have better luck if we leave the flicker drive out, then minimise everything else.”

“The gunboats would not be able to retreat,” Damiani pointed out, sharply.  “If the battle was lost, they would be trapped.”

“There are hard limits to how much the flicker drive unit can be reduced,” the Geek informed them.  “So far, we have been unable to overcome those limits.”

There was a pause.  “Our research, combined with the additional resources captured from naval bases and facilities, has offered several new possibilities,” Salgak added.  “One suggests that we might be able to wrap a flicker field around gunboats or missiles, tossing them into the enemy system.  Another suggests that we might be able to build a working FTL communicator.”

Colin leaned forward, fascinated.  “You believe you can actually make one work?”

“To a very limited extent,” Salgak said.  “The flicker drive works by folding space around the starship, creating a link between its start and end point.  We believe that we might be able to drive mass-less energy though a flicker field, projecting the energy forward at FTL speeds.  However, the system would be very basic.  It would certainly not allow us to extend a datanet over interstellar space.”

He paused.  “It would also be quite flimsy,” the Geek added.  “The signalling might burn out the system.”

“Like how keeping a flicker drive powered up places wear and tear on the drive systems,” Colin mused.  For once, the bureaucrats at Luna Base had a point.  The flicker drive was temperamental at the best of times – and, once burned out, it was impossible to replace without a shipyard.  Imperial Navy regulations stated that a flicker drive was not to be powered up until the time came to jump, which tended to leave a starship taking incoming fire while it’s engineers frantically activated the drive.  “But it would be very useful to have a working FTL communicator.”

He considered the possibilities.  If the rebels had real-time information on what was happening even a single sector away, it would be easy to outmanoeuvre the Empire.  The Thousand Families would be permanently out of date, while Colin could issue orders and know they would be obeyed instantly.  Central command would become a very real possibility.  

The Empire would really like such a system, he thought, grimly.  They’d never have to fret over giving so much authority away again.

“We will work on the system,” the Geek buzzed.  “But we caution you that it may be years before the system is workable.  We dare not develop a Superiority complex.”

Colin had to smile.  Superiority was a story cadets had been forced to read while training at Luna Base.  The storyteller had recounted the story of how his side in an interstellar war had built several different superweapons, each of which had presented their own colossal problems when they’d actually been deployed.  In the meantime, their enemies had kept chugging out standard starships and weapons ... which had given them an overpowering advantage – and victory.  Colin had wondered, at the time, if the story had been written by someone trying to justify the general freeze on research.  It hadn’t been until much later that he’d discovered that the story actually dated all the way back to the pre-space era.

But the writer was right.  They could start throwing resources into developing new weapons, but lose the war because the new weapons failed to live up to their promise.

“No, but we will be outgunned once the Empire gets organised,” he said.  “What about actual starship production?”

Hannelore leaned forward.  “We have taken possession of the Roosevelt Family’s facilities in the sector,” she said.  “Most of them were designed to produce heavy cruisers or lighter ships, nothing heavier.  They may have intended to launch a civil war of their own.”

Colin snorted.  Somehow, he had the feeling that the Roosevelt Family was in deep trouble, back on Earth.

“We should have our first heavy cruiser coming out of the slips in two months,” Hannelore continued.  “Our crews are motivated to succeed; I hope to ramp up production in the next three to four months, once we get the bugs out.  We’re also completing the first missile defence ship, but that will require extensive testing before we move to mass production.”

“Good,” Colin said.  There was nothing particularly special about the arsenal ships.  He would be surprised if the Empire failed to duplicate the freighter modifications within a month or two of seeing the concept in action.  By then, he wanted a countermeasure of his own in place.  “And superdreadnaughts?”

“We’re cutting out much of the Class-III shipyard infrastructure,” Hannelore said.  “However, it will still be several months before we’re ready to produce our own superdreadnaughts – and at least nine months after that before the ship is ready for launch.”

Colin nodded, although it wasn't good news.  The rebels had captured fifty-six superdreadnaughts in all, including a handful that had mutinied and then made it out to Sector 117 after the Battle of Camelot.  But the Empire still had several hundred under its control, an irresistible force if they were combined into a single unit.  Colin doubted the Empire would put so much firepower under anyone’s control, but it was still a nightmare.

“Work on it,” he ordered, tiredly.  He looked around the room, then smiled.  One way or another, they would either emerge victorious or lose the war within a year.  “We launch in two days.  Good luck to us all.”

Chapter Six

“I don’t think they trust me very much,” Hannelore said, as she stepped through the airlock into Random Numbers.  “I keep getting suspicious glances.”

“Not on my ship,” Cordova said.  He closed the airlock behind them, then led the way towards Officer Country.  “You’re more than welcome here.”

Hannelore gave him a sharp glance.  “You know what I mean.”

Cordova said nothing until they were inside his cabin with the hatch firmly closed, then turned to face her.  “Trust is not something given freely along the Rim,” he said, seriously.  “I don't care to recall how long it took me to gain the underground’s trust, even though I had a whole heavy cruiser under my command.  You’re an aristocrat from an aristocratic family and not all of them can see past it.  Not yet.”

“And yet they trust me to handle procurement and industrial production,” Hannelore said.  “I have ample opportunities for sabotage.”

“There’s a shortage of qualified personnel,” Cordova reminded her.  “But they wouldn't be too trusting of anyone new, no matter where they came from.  It takes time to build up trust – and it can be lost in a moment, if the wrong thing is said or done.”

He grinned at her.  “Can I stop being serious now?  I hate it.”

Hannelore rolled her eyes.  Cordova seemed larger than life.  His body was massive, his golden hair and beard made him look like a gallant pirate out of a child’s book and he even carried a sword at his belt.  The outfit he wore looked thoroughly absurd, the fashion of a bygone age.  And he was rarely completely serious, except when he was with her – or Colin, who he seemed to respect.  There were times when Hannelore wondered if he was bipolar.

She suspected, judging by his reaction to her comment, that he had aristocratic blood in him too.  It wasn't the only clue.  He'd spoken to her of the High City more than once, showing a familiarity that could only have been gained through living there for a while.  Few non-aristocrats were allowed anywhere near the city, apart from servants – and the servants were conditioned for complete loyalty.  No, Cordova had to have been an aristocrat once.  And then he’d walked away from it all.

It made him more ... moral than her, she decided.  She had only decided to throw her lot in with the rebels after Cordova had captured her mining platform, although in her heart she had always been a rebel.  After all, she could easily have stayed in the High City and sunk into a life of luxury.  Instead, she’d tried to build a fortune for herself – and, when offered the chance, she moved over and joined the rebels.  She had little true reason to love the aristocracy.  Even her name was a reminder that her family hadn’t wanted anything apart from someone to bind two families together.  And it had failed.

“I managed to get the fleet train organised for you,” she said, pushing her memories back into the back of her mind.  If the rebels won, she would be well-placed to extract revenge; if they lost, she would have worse problems than bad memories.  “You’ll have all the supplies you need, I hope.”

“I hope so too,” Cordova agreed.  “None of the ammunition expenditure projections I’ve seen have ever been anything other than understatements.”

“They were trying to save money,” Hannelore said.  She'd seen similar charts when she’d been a mining engineer.  It was astonishing how little concern a manager thousands of light years from her complex had shown for the men and women working in deep space.  “But I have crammed forty freighters with missiles, spare parts and repair crews.”

The thought made her smile.  It was astonishing just how many starships there were in the Beyond – and just how many of them had signed up with the rebellion.  But many of their crews had balked at hauling freight, pointing out that there was no glory in it.  Hannelore had had to point out, more times than she cared to remember, that rebel starships couldn't fight without missiles, which had to be delivered to the front lines by freighters.  And then there were the problems with missile supply ... if they hadn't captured the supplies at Camelot, the offensive might have had to be delayed for several months.

“That’s a relief,” Cordova said, bluntly.  “We’re not going to be operating in friendly territory.”

Hannelore couldn't disagree.  Pirates required an infrastructure to operate – and the Imperial Navy had long since purged the Core Worlds of hidden pirate bases, supply dumps and repair yards.  There was no shortage of smugglers in the region – the Empire’s high taxes had seen to that – but none of them were likely to support even a single pirate ship, let alone a whole squadron.  Cordova and his crewmen would be on their own.  

Rebel logistics were a nightmare, even without the endless bureaucracy that characterised the Imperial Navy.  There was no ready-made network of bases, forcing her to organise freighter convoys to transport supplies from Sector 117 to the front lines.  The further Colin and his fleet moved from their bases, the harder it would be to maintain the offensive.  Hannelore had actually put out a standing request that all enemy freighters be captured instead of destroyed.  The Shadow Fleet desperately needed them.

The freighter crews had been right; there was no glory in hauling freight.  But without them, the offensive would grind to a halt.

“Make sure you come back alive,” she ordered.  She couldn't go with him, as much as she might want to.  She’d accepted her own duties on Camelot.  “I’ll miss you.”

Cordova unbuckled his jacket, then dropped it on the deck.  “I’ll miss you too,” he assured her, as he pulled her into his arms.  “Just remember to keep studying logistics.”

Hannelore rolled her eyes, then smiled as he started to open her shipsuit.  It was odd, but making love with Cordova was more exciting than making love to anyone in the High City.  Maybe it was the excitement of being a rebel, matched with the certain knowledge that she would be executed on the spot if she was ever caught ... or maybe it was the awareness that Cordova, for all his faults, lived life.  It was more than could be said for any spoilt brat from the High City.  

Afterwards, she held him tightly.  She didn't want to let him go.

***
“I had to speak to a few freighter crews,” Daria said, as she and Colin sat down to breakfast the following morning.  Her bright red hair seemed to glow under the light, drawing attention to her face.  “Not all of them were happy serving under Hannelore.”

“Bastards,” Colin said, shortly.  “I thought the Beyond didn't give a damn where you came from, only who you were.”

Daria shrugged.  “They tend to make an exception for aristocrats,” she said.  “But she definitely isn't a spy.”

Colin tended to agree.  Anderson had kept a close eye on Hannelore ever since she joined the rebellion, but even the professional paranoid had had to admit that Hannelore seemed loyal to her new cause.  Besides, like Colin himself, she had ample reason to be dissatisfied with her position in the Empire.  She could never have risen higher, no matter how well she did.

“I’m a mutineer,” Colin pointed out.  “Cordova is a deserter.  Hester is a rebel.  How many half-reformed pirates do we have under our banner?”

“People are stupid,” Daria said, dryly.  “You should know that by now.”

She shook her head.  “I also had to speak to a couple of officers who were eagerly looking forward to looting, raping and burning their way across the Empire.  We’re going to have trouble with them.  I can tell.”

Colin nodded.  The Empire had sowed hatred wherever it went, even on otherwise harmless and unimportant worlds.  In the wake of the rebel conquests, administrators and other imperial personnel had found themselves under attack from their former subordinates and brutally slaughtered.  Colin had found himself forced to offer safe havens to the officials, knowing that a bloody slaughter would only harden hearts on the other side.  No one would surrender if they thought they were merely going to be killed anyway.  

There were plenty of administrators – Admiral Percival, for one – Colin would happily kill himself.  He had no problems understanding why the locals would want to slaughter every official they could catch.  But it created a political nightmare for the Popular Front.  

And it would get worse if his subordinates started committing atrocities in his name.

“Keep a sharp eye on them,” he said, finally.  “And if they do start committing atrocities, we’ll have to deal with them.”

He gritted his teeth at the thought.  People were rarely logical.  If they saw their fellows punished, it was quite likely that they wouldn't see the justice in it.  If the atrocity didn't look like an atrocity, or if they believed the victims deserved what they got, they would start wondering about Colin.  And then he might face a mutiny of his own.

“By now, Public Information will probably have told everyone that we've scorched the entire sector,” Daria pointed out.  “Do you think it will matter?”

She had a point, Colin knew.  The Empire’s propaganda machine was the only part of the bureaucracy to be genuinely efficient.  By now, he suspected, the Empire’s counter-narrative would already be on its way back out towards Camelot and Jackson’s Folly.  He wondered, absently, just what angle they would take.  Would Colin be branded a pirate, a mutineer or someone who had merely been misled?  Or would they simply claim that the Shadow Fleet had been captured and its former crewmen executed by rebels?  They wouldn't want to suggest that a mutiny could be successful.

Colin rather doubted they would succeed.  He’d been a naval officer long enough to know that there were plenty of ways to exchange information without Imperial Intelligence getting wind of it, even if it was just whispered conversations in the washrooms or beside one of the heavy drive units.  Word of the mutinies would have spread through the entire navy by now, suggesting to capable and ambitious crewmen that they might want to try their luck.  Even a failed mutiny would tie up the Empire’s resources for quite some time ...

... And if they put more Blackshirts on the starships, mutiny was almost guaranteed.

It galled him to be thinking like a calculating bastard, rather than a naval officer.  The thought of having crews tormented by drug-addled imbeciles should have been horrific.  Instead, he almost welcomed the thought.  More mutinies would help the cause immeasurably.  But each of them would be triggered by human suffering.

Daria reached over and touched his arm.  “Colin?”

Colin started.  “Yes?”

“You zoned out for a moment,” Daria said.  She looked concerned, surprisingly so.  “Are you all right?”

“I think so,” Colin said, ruefully.  Showing weakness was a deadly mistake in the Beyond – and in the navy.  “I was just wondering about the cost.”

Daria snorted.  “Are you having doubts?”

She pushed on before he could answer.  “Before we liberated these sectors,” she said, “the population lived in a nightmare.  None of them dared breath easily.  The knock on the door could come at any time, whereupon they could be dragged out of their homes, beaten halfway to death and then taken to penal camps.  Their children could be taken away, their property could be seized ... they’d just vanish.  And, if they were lucky, the worst that would happen was that they spent the rest of their lives in a penal camp.

“Hundreds of worlds were exploited, stripped of natural resources to feed the Thousand Families.  Entire planets became debt slaves to the corporations, their population forced to labour endlessly or die.  Those who dared to rebel were crushed with overwhelming force, their lives destroyed by the Empire.  Do you really think that some additional pain, now, is worse than what they have suffered over the centuries?

“Maybe it was understandable that no one resisted when resistance seemed futile.  But now there is hope, now there is a Popular Front ... and you, the rebel leader.  Now, everyone who hates the Empire has someone to rally around.  It will be costly – but will it be worse than leaving the Empire in place?”

She stopped, breathing hard.

“True,” Colin agreed.  “But I still worry about the cost.”

“I think that proves you’re human,” Daria said.  “Do you think the bureaucrats worry about the human cost?”

Colin shook his head.  Entire planetary populations had been uprooted, families had been broken up and scattered across several different star systems – and that had been through a desire to rationalise the Empire’s work, not genuine malice.  The Empire had done terrible things to planets that had revolted against central control, believing it needed to make examples out of resisters.  Colin had seen a planet that had been bombarded back to the Stone Age and another that had been permanently deprived of technology.  And that didn't count the worlds that had simply been scorched clean of life.  

It would grow worse, he knew, when the Thousand Families turned on themselves.  They’d barely been expanding any more, at least until they’d discovered Jackson’s Folly.  And if the Follies hadn't looked like an easy target for exploitation, they might have been left alone.

“Good,” Daria said.  “I worry too.  But I also know that failing to swallow the medicine, no matter how unpleasant, will ensure that we do not succeed.”

Colin nodded, then finished his breakfast.  It had astonished him, when he'd first transferred his flag to General Montgomery, to discover the sheer level of luxury Stacy Roosevelt had enjoyed.  Her quarters had been crammed with artwork, showing a complete lack of taste, while she’d had over forty servants to tend to her needs.  It said something about her, Colin had decided, that all of her servants had joined the rebellion the moment they’d been offered the chance.  When he’d had a moment, he'd transferred the artwork to help with fundraising and thrown out most of the remaining decorations.  The compartment still felt absurdly large for anyone, even an Admiral.

And how many officers, he asked himself, were only promoted because of their connections?

“We will succeed,” Colin told her, firmly.  He changed the subject quickly.  “Where’s your shadow?”

“Connecting with a few people who don’t want to meet me face to face,” Daria said.  “Not all of them are my fans.  They might want to meet you though.”

“They’ll have to hurry,” Colin said.  “We’re leaving as soon as possible.”

He tapped a switch, activating the star chart.  He’d looked at it so often over the past couple of weeks that he felt he’d memorised it.  Countless stars were green, indicating that they were of little tactical interest, but a handful were yellow or red, indicating important industrial nodes or naval bases.  Morrison, sitting barely a month from Earth, was the darkest red of all.

Colin scowled, wishing he knew just who was in command of the base.  Who would the Empire choose?  And would it be someone actually competent?

He shook his head.  There was no way to know until they were closer.  Much closer.

***
The spy had plenty of practice at playing her role.  As a trained starship engineer, she was simply too important to be discarded for a mere suspicion, something Imperial Intelligence had relied upon when they’d primed her for her role.  The Rim had a shortage of trained personnel, ensuring that any newcomer with the right skills was warmly welcomed.  It helped that her files – which Imperial Intelligence had carefully inserted into the right networks – contained a sob story about rape, sexual abuse and other matters that would encourage someone to make a run for freedom.

But she could barely contain her astonishment as her shuttle approached the giant superdreadnaught.  There were hundreds of thousands – perhaps millions – of volunteers joining the rebellion.  The Rim had sent thousands of workers, but so too had Jackson’s Folly and hundreds of other worlds that had been enslaved by the Empire and then liberated by the rebels.  She couldn't believe the sheer scale of the activity taking place in orbit.  If she hadn't been conditioned to be completely loyal, she might have considered joining the rebels herself.

A dull mummer of excitement ran through the shuttle as it landed in the shuttlebay.  The spy stood and joined the eager throng as they made their way out the hatch and down onto the deck, where they were met by a handful of grim-faced engineering officers.  They’d all be tested, of course; there were so many people who wanted to join the rebel fleet that some of them had probably lied about their qualifications.  The spy had no worries on that score.  Even without her files, she had enough experience maintaining starships that she could be an engineering crewwoman without arousing suspicion.  And, once her cover was secure, she could start laying her plans.

“Follow me,” one of the crewmen said.  “And don’t wander off.”

The spy concealed her amusement as he led them through a long corridor and down into the engineering compartment.  Her companions seemed awed by the sheer size of the superdreadnaught.  But in space, there was no real reason why someone couldn't build a starship the size of a small moon, if they were prepared to waste the resources.  It was planet-side industry that suffered from odd limitations.

As she had anticipated, the test was simple, absurdly simple.  A quarter of her comrades still failed, however, and were marched back to the shuttlebay.  The remainder were escorted to cabins and told to settle in.  There was some grumbling – the general expectation had been that they would get to grips with the Empire at once – but the spy was not surprised.  Hurry up and wait was an old military saying.

She smiled, inwardly, as she lay on her bunk.  This time, she told herself, it would be different.  The rebels would not get lucky again.

Chapter Seven

It was four days before the underground made contact, four days of ration bars, tedious conversation and moments of fear when security forces seemed to be pounding through the corridors.  Adeeba liked Frandsen, but after several months cooped up together in a tiny starship they had little left to talk about, even if they hadn't known they were under surveillance.  She spent her time reading the datapad, wishing that they'd been able to bring something less bland than government-approved files.  But almost anything else would have raised eyebrows.

When the door finally opened, it was almost a relief.  Three young men stepped inside, all with the look of guarded suspicion worn by almost everyone born on Earth.  Adeeba shivered, remembering her own childhood, as the men motioned for them to pick up their bags and follow them out of the door.  Outside, the corridors seemed packed with men and women, all wearing the same drab overalls.  They also wore metallic bracelets that glittered ominously in the light.

“Take these,” their escort muttered.  Adeeba glanced down at the bracelet, then put it on her wrist.  It clicked into place, seemingly as immovable as a handcuff.  “Then remove them as you pass through the security gate.”

There were thousands of workers making their escape, Adeeba saw, as they reached the checkpoint.  The guards looked bored, uninterested, as the bracelets were scanned, then removed and dropped in the bucket.  They would be recycled the following morning, Adeeba recalled, remembering how the system worked.  No one could enter or leave the complex without being noted and logged by the system.  She couldn't help wondering how the underground intended to ensure that they were listed as having logged in instead of just seeming to appear from nowhere inside the complex.

But no alarms sounded as the bracelet was scanned, then unlocked.  She let out a breath she hadn't realised she’d been holding, dropped the bracelet in the bucket and then followed their escort out into the city.  Earth smelled worse out here, she decided, the stench bringing back old memories.  The thousands of civilian workers seemed unaware of the smell as they headed back to their homes, leaving their work behind for the day.  Adeeba and Frandsen were simply lost in the crowd, two out of millions of civilians.  Their escorts guided them down a long passageway and into an underpass that seemed to lead into darkness.  The dank smell of human urine reached her nostrils as they stopped outside an access hatch, then stepped into a narrow passageway that seemed to be lined with electronic boxes.  She jumped the first time the walls shook, then realised where they were.  They were walking alongside the underground transport tube network.

They stopped outside another hatch, which opened after their escort tapped out a pattern, revealing a small dimly-lit office.  Inside, two men and a woman were seated at a table, pretending to read pornographic magazines.  Adeeba didn't miss how their eyes weren't actually following the images, but keeping an eye on the newcomers.  Behind them, the hatch slammed closed.  If this was a trap, she knew, they were thoroughly caught.

“You may call me Gaunt,” the woman said, putting her magazine down.  It looked surprisingly tame, compared to some of the material Adeeba had seen in the Imperial Navy.  “For the moment, you will deal with me – and only with me.  If you have a problem with this, too bad.  We don’t dare risk being betrayed.”

“We understand,” Adeeba assured her.  The Empire had no shortage of ways to get information out of unwilling donors.  No matter how determined someone was to refrain from talking, they could be made to talk.  “We have taken similar precautions ourselves.”

“I do hope so,” Gaunt said.  She stepped forward, into the light.  “As you can see, we know the consequences of being betrayed.”

Adeeba studied her for a long moment.  Gaunt was tall, bald and had a very nasty scar on her face.  One of her eyes was covered with an eye patch, suggesting that it had been removed at some point; the other flickered around madly, watching for threats.  This was not a woman to underestimate, Adeeba realised.  If she had suffered so much and kept going, she would be willing to do whatever it took to get revenge.  And she probably considered she had little to lose, if the shit hit the fan.

“So,” Gaunt said, coming to a halt right in front of Adeeba.  “Tell me why we should listen to you?”

Adeeba sighed and started to tell the entire story, once again.

“We have sources in the High City,” Gaunt said, when she had finished.  “We can confirm most of what you’ve told us.”

Adeeba wasn't too surprised.  Admiral Percival had worked hard to keep news from leaking outside Sector 117 – he'd known he would get the blame for the whole incident, if he failed to stop the rebels before the news got out – but the fall of Camelot had definitely broken the media blockade.  Earth might well have received bits and pieces before the first complete report actually arrived.  But had they taken the isolated fragments seriously?

“We can also confirm that the Imperial Navy has dispatched a task force to Morrison,” Gaunt added, coldly.  “If you wished to delay its departure, you have failed.”

“That wasn't all we had in mind,” Adeeba said.  She explained, briefly, what she’d told the Big Man.  “We would like to coordinate your efforts with ours.  This is the one chance we will have to bring down the Empire.  If you can make it easier to take down Earth itself ...”

“My superiors might question the wisdom of involving ourselves,” Gaunt said.  “We would certainly require more proof of your good faith – and your willingness to keep promises.”

Adeeba kept her face expressionless, but she knew she’d found at least one ally.  There was an odd ... carelessness about Gaunt that suggested she would be happy with the thought of action, even if it carried immense risks.  She hadn't had them strip-searched and scanned thoroughly as soon as they entered the meeting place, after all.  Either that, Adeeba decided, or she was sure she could escape the security forces, if they were shadowing her visitors.

“Rebel starships will start operating within this sector soon,” Adeeba said, hoping that Colin hadn't had reason to change the plans.  They’d both known that operational requirements might force him to hold back.  “For the moment, all we really ask from you is intelligence – and that you prepare an uprising in conjunction with our invasion of the system.”

“If it happens,” Gaunt observed.  “Your forces are an awful long way away.”

“I’m here,” Adeeba said.  “The others are on their way.”

Frandsen leaned forward.  “I understand a reluctance to show yourselves,” he said.  “But this is likely to be the best chance you have to actually win.  Your superiors should also understand that if they don’t take part, they will have little say in how the post-Empire universe develops.  I suggest you make that clear to them.”

Gaunt studied him for a long cold moment, then nodded.  “I assume you have a pipeline set up to get intelligence out of the system?”

“Yes,” Adeeba said, shortly.  If all went to plan, the pipeline should lead to the raiding fleet when it finally arrived.  But the plan itself was imprecise.  There were just too many factors that might delay matters, too many things that might go wrong.  “If worst comes to worst, we can send a ship all the way to Jackson’s Folly.”

“Then we will discuss matters and get back to you,” Gaunt said.  “You will be escorted to one of the chambers we use to hide people from the Blackshirts.  I suggest that you stay there until we come for you.  The lower levels are not as closely observed as the higher levels, but you might still be noticed.  If we choose to work with you, we will teach you how to get around Earth undetected.”

“Understood,” Adeeba said, shortly.  There was no point in arguing.  She might have been born on Earth, but she knew little about getting around without being observed.  And Earth was the most heavily-wired planet in the galaxy.  “Can we get some reading material this time?”

Gaunt laughed, but there was no humour in the sound.  “Maybe you would like the statements issued by Public Information on their special paper,” she said.  “It’s ideal for wiping your ass.”

***
“That’s the latest report from Luna Base,” Sharon said.  “And Lady Gwendolyn has requested to speak with you at your earliest convenience.”

Tiberius sighed.  There was really far too many reports for him to read, as Family Head, but he didn't dare pass too many of them down to his subordinates.  His uncles and cousins would be delighted to take the responsibility from his hands, knowing that it would give them control over part of the family's interests – and eventually enough leverage to render him a figurehead.  He didn't dare allow that to happen, not when the family's very survival was at risk.

“Tell her I’ll see her in an hour,” Tiberius said, wearily.  He didn't know how his father and grandfather had managed to keep an iron grip on the family's affairs.  But then, they’d been old enough to know where all the bodies were buried, sometimes literally.  “Do you have a report from the security office?”

“Nothing since the last report,” Sharon said.  “Do you want me to request a progress report?”

Tiberius shook his head.  It would make him feel like he was doing something, but it wouldn't really be helpful.  The security officers would fall over themselves to give him a progress report, instead of doing something actually useful.  It had taken him several months to realise that micromanaging his handful of trusted subordinates was pointless at best, dangerous at worst.  Some of his fellows had never understood it.

“No, thank you,” he said.  “But if you could tell Marie to attend me after Gwen, I would be very grateful.”

Sharon bobbled a curtsey to him and withdrew, leaving him to read through the report from Luna Base.  As Wachter had warned, in his last message before the fleet had flickered out, corruption had actually worn down Home Fleet’s ability to fight.  Indeed, the report suggested, if the rebels had set out for Earth just after the Battle of Camelot, they might well have won.  Home Fleet was in no condition for a fight.  Wachter had added a strong suggestion that they appoint another CO, one who had the ability to kick ass and take names, then sort out the mess.  He hadn't realised that the political struggle over appointing a commander at Morrison would pall compared to the struggle over Home Fleet’s CO.

The Empress used Home Fleet against us, despite all of our precautions, Tiberius thought.  He was unique among the Family Heads, simply because he hadn't been born when the Empress had seized power for herself, only to lose it scant months later.  No one knew what had happened to her, merely that she’d vanished when the patronage networks had united against a common foe.  We have good reason to fear handing someone else the same power.

But Wachter was right too.  The Empire had been safe.  There was no alien power capable of threatening the Empire, while the various underground movements couldn't do more than harass the Empire’s forces.  The occasional mutiny or rogue starship couldn't do any real damage either, even united with the exiles along the Rim.  Everyone had known there was no reason for Home Fleet to be in top condition.

And now there was a genuine threat, political games would make it harder to assemble a defence force.

He scowled.  The Empire was sluggish, slow to realise that there was a threat and slow to react, taking comfort in its overwhelming firepower to make up for any delay in its response. But now there was a threat with enough firepower not to be intimidated by superdreadnaughts – and the determination to take advantage of delays in the Empire’s response.

We can supervise Home Fleet, he thought, grimly.  We couldn't do that for Morrison.

He was so wrapped in his thoughts that he almost didn’t hear Sharon calling him until she repeated herself, telling him that Gwendolyn was waiting to see him.  Tiberius sighed, then invited Gwendolyn to enter the room.  This time, she was wearing a long white gown that set her blonde hair off nicely, hinting at her attributes rather than revealing them.  Tiberius wondered, absently, who she was planning to seduce ... or if she was simply trying to look the part of an Ambassador.  After all, she would have to impress the rebels ...

“I reviewed the files,” Gwendolyn said, taking a seat without being invited.  “The rebels will want quite a bit from us, won’t they?”

Tiberius scowled.  Ideally, he would like to see everything return to the status quo, but he knew better than to expect it.  Even if they beat this rebellion, the example the rebels had set would inspire others.  There were still reports of mutinies coming in from the other side of the Empire.

“I imagine they will,” he said.  “But it depends on the military situation.”

The Thousand Families had started life as corporate power blocs, back in the days of the First Emperor and the Great Interstellar War.  They'd built the massive industrial machine that had propelled humanity to victory and they had had no intention of forgoing the rewards of their efforts.  The First Emperor had merely been the one to step forward and try to seize supreme power for himself.  His former comrades had turned on him, fearing the consequences of concentrating so much power in one man’s hands.  But, a thousand years later, power was concentrated in a handful of hands.  It wasn't much of an improvement, Tiberius realised.  

“If we are in a position where we can offer the rebels our services, we will give up political power in exchange for retaining our economic power,” he said.  It would be a tricky balancing act.  They would have to switch sides when they still had something to offer the rebels, but after the other families had lost the ability to lash out and punish the deserters.  “If not, we will seek to gain control of their tech advances in exchange for light treatment.”

Gwendolyn gave him a sugary-sweet smile.  “And what would the other families make of your planning?”

Tiberius smiled back.  “You intend to betray your family?”

His smile grew wider at her expression.  She could reveal some of his contingency plans to the other Family Heads, but no one would ever trust her again.  The family came first, always.  It was hammered into their heads as soon as they grew old enough to learn.  And if Gwendolyn betrayed the family openly, she would be lucky to survive long enough to regret it.

“I merely point out the possibility of a leak,” Gwendolyn said, stiffly.

“I merely point out that you are the only person who knows the plan,” Tiberius said, mockingly.  There was no point in trying to be polite with someone who would merely see it as a sign of weakness.  “You will not share it with anyone, even Pompey.  You will keep it in mind until the time comes to use it.”

He leaned backwards, studying her.  “When are you leaving?”

“Tonight,” Gwendolyn said.  “We’re not going to be taking a known ship – or a crew.  Pompey has already secured a yacht that can be handled by one person.  He thinks we shouldn't have any problems reaching Camelot – or Jackson’s Folly.”

Tiberius concealed his amusement.  Two people, alone on a ship for six months ... it sounded like a bad soap opera.  By the time they reached their destination, Gwendolyn and Pompey would either be firm friends or sworn enemies.  He briefly considered the relationship potential, then dismissed the thought.  They might not have been closely related enough for it to count as incest, and thus forbidden, but they weren't exactly compatible.

“I shall place you in his capable hands,” he said.  “Of course, if you do get caught by the other families, I shall deny all knowledge of you.”

Gwendolyn snorted, rudely.  

“Thank you,” she said, standing up.  “We will do our best.”

Tiberius didn't doubt it.  Success in such a delicate mission would ensure that Gwendolyn’s status within the family rose rapidly.  Failure would go unacknowledged; hell, the entire mission would be wiped from the files so completely that human memory would be all that remained.  Gwendolyn might just succeed in escaping blame completely.

He stood and held out a hand.  After a moment, she shook it firmly, then turned and walked out the door.  Tiberius watched her go, then smiled as Marie stepped inside, carrying a towel under one arm.  Even in the High City, where beauty was common, she was extraordinary.  Long dark hair framed a muscular body and breasts that were just the right size.  But she was the most talented massage therapist in the High City, as far as Tiberius could tell.  He’d bought out her contract the day after discovering just how much tension he felt after his first full meeting of the Family Council.

“Please, lie down,” Marie said, with a bow.  The loose dress she wore fell open slightly, revealing her breasts.  “I will make you feel better.”

Tiberius snorted.  It wasn't as if she could take his problems away.  But he’d done all he could and now he would have to wait.  And pray.  Perhaps she could help him forget, just for a while.

He stood up, removed his tunic, then lay down on the sofa.  There was a whispering sound as Marie removed her dress, then bent down and started to work on his back.  Sighing, Tiberius gave himself up to her ministrations.  It would keep him distracted long enough to make him relax.

Chapter Eight

Commodore Jeremy Damiani sat on Shadow’s command bridge and watched as her crew scurried to battlestations.  The battlecruiser had seen more than her fair share of action since the original mutiny – Colin himself had commanded her, before shifting his flag to the superdreadnaught – but half of her crew was new.  Jeremy had been running endless drills ever since the squadron had departed Camelot, yet the only true test would come when they encountered the enemy for the first time.

He leaned back in his chair, trying to project an air of unconcern.  The shortage of crewmen was particularly acute when it came to senior officers, most of whom had either thrown their lot in with the rebels or insisted on being transferred to a holding colony.  Jeremy was not only the commander of the entire squadron, he was the battlecruiser’s commander too.  His XO had been a Lieutenant before the mutiny and didn't have the experience to handle the post, let alone overall command.  But there was no alternative.

“All systems report ready, Captain,” the XO said.  He looked absurdly young – and he was absurdly young – but his voice was steady.  “Shadow is fully at your command.”

Jeremy nodded, never taking his eyes off the datanet.  The entire squadron had gone to battlestations, linking their ships into a single entity.  They were ready for anything, he hoped, although the preliminary survey of the system ahead of them had concluded that there was nothing more dangerous than a handful of destroyers and automated weapons platforms in orbit.  Jeremy rather hoped that was true.  An easy victory would do wonders for morale, particularly after the last bruising exercise.  It had been carefully designed to give the enemy every possible advantage.

“Power up the flicker drive,” he ordered, pushing his thoughts aside.  “Jump on my mark.”

A dull whine echoed through the battlecruiser as the flicker drive powered up.  Jeremy tensed, remembering all the combat jumps they’d carried out since the mutiny had begun.  He might not have been there for the start, but he’d joined as soon as he’d been offered an opportunity.  After spending months serving Stacy Roosevelt, even the prospect of being shot for mutiny no longer seemed terrifying.

“Jump,” he ordered.

His stomach clenched as space twisted around the giant battlecruiser, jumping them two light years into the enemy-controlled system.  He swallowed hard, refusing to show any signs of weakness on his command bridge, then looked up as the display rapidly lit up with new icons, each one a potential threat.  Four Imperial Navy destroyers were hanging in orbit around Happy Daze, two more seemed to be leaving orbit in company with a pair of freighters.  Behind them, the automated weapons platforms wouldn't be a problem until the battlecruisers entered orbit.  In any case, they were unlikely to impede Colin’s advance towards Earth.

“Transmit a demand for surrender,” he ordered, as the squadron powered towards the planet, weapons and sensors probing the darkness for threats.  “And inform them that we will spare the lives of anyone who joins us.”

He watched as the IFFs popped up on the display.  The destroyers weren't Imperial Navy, he noted without surprise, but Household Troops belonging to a particular family.  Rumour had it that Household Troops received the very best of everything, from salaries to women and other perks; they certainly rarely seemed disloyal to their masters.  Chances were they’d fire a few shots for the honour of the flag, then flicker out.  Loyal or not, six destroyers couldn't stand up to nine battlecruisers.

“They just sent us a copy of their brochure,” the communications officer said.  She sounded as though she were trying hard not to laugh.  “We can swim in their cool waters, climb their high mountains ...”

Jeremy shook his head, wondering just what the enemy CO was thinking.  Had they even heard about the revolution?  Happy Daze was quite isolated, he knew; the system rarely had any traffic that wasn't connected to its status as a holiday resort for the wealthy and powerful among the aristocrats and their servants.  But surely the Imperial Navy Sector CO would at least have tried to warn them.  His patron wouldn't have thanked him for leaving so many people to be caught by the rebels.

“Repeat our demand for surrender,” he ordered.  It was unlikely in the extreme that the system didn't know about the rebellion, which suggested that the system CO was trying to irritate him.  “And then prepare to engage the enemy.”

Four icons vanished from the display.  “Sir,” the tactical officer said, “the freighters and their escorts just jumped out.  I couldn't get a bearing on their course from this distance.”

Jeremy scowled.  The tactical officer, thankfully, had some formal training, but his former CO had been a right bastard, snapping and snarling at his men for every little setback.  No tactical officer could hope to draw a bearing from such a distance, let alone take his ship in hot pursuit, yet the officer still worried about punishment.  Not for the first time, he wondered why it had taken so long for a general mutiny to get underway.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said.  If there was one thing he had learned from working with Stacy Roosevelt, it was that shooting the messenger only ensured that one got less mail.  The crew might not pass on something vitally important if they thought he would take it out on them.  “Lock weapons on the other destroyers.”

He looked back at the display, wondering if the enemy CO was mad – or if he had laid a trap.  The enemy destroyers had formed up into a hammerhead formation, combining their weapons and sensors into a single unit ... which would be admirable if a single battlecruiser didn't mount more missile tubes and energy weapons than an entire squadron of destroyers.  A single barrage from his ships would be enough to wipe out the entire enemy squadron.  He couldn't decide if the enemy CO was trying to bluff him ... or was merely planning to fight to the death, no matter how pointless it seemed.  Maybe he expected nothing, but punishment for abandoning the planet.

And yet he can't hope to save it, Jeremy thought, as the two squadrons converged.  Any fool could see that, just by weighing his firepower against mine.

“Entering weapons range in two minutes,” the tactical officer said.  There was a hint of excitement in his voice, overshadowing his earlier worries.  Tactical officers were trained to be aggressive and, now that the Shadow Fleet had removed the non-professional requirements for promotion, it could come rapidly to a proven operator.  “Missiles locked on target, ready to fire.  Energy weapons locked on target, ready to fire.”

“Stand by,” Jeremy ordered.  What was the enemy commander thinking?  Had he laid a minefield?  No, that would have required precognition.  Even a spy on Shadow wouldn't have known their exact angle of approach.  Jeremy himself hadn't known.  “Fire the first barrage as soon as we enter weapons range, then hold fire.”

An alarm sounded as the enemy ships opened fire, the display suddenly lighting up with dozens of red icons.  They’d crammed additional external racks onto their hulls, Jeremy saw, improving their throw weight at the cost of some manoeuvrability.  They did know about the rebellion then, he told himself, as Shadow shivered and unleashed her own barrage.  Even without expending her external racks, it was still more firepower than all four enemy destroyers could hope to unleash.

The enemy destroyers vanished from the display.  Jeremy heard the tactical officer’s gasp of dismay; the enemy had simply flickered out rather than allow the missiles to strike home.  It was about their only viable tactic, Jeremy knew.  He ordered the tactical officer to deactivate their missiles – thankfully, the Imperial Navy had long since perfected the technique of recovering unexpended missiles – and then watched as the enemy missiles entered his point defence envelope.  One by one, they were picked off and vaporised before they could strike the starship’s shields, let alone its hull.

Jeremy sat back, studying the tactical analysis.  There were no noted improvements in the enemy missiles, no ECM or modified seeker heads that might give them a chance to score hits.  He wasn't too surprised – the Imperial Navy wasn't known for innovation – but Anderson had warned him to keep an eye open for surprises.  If the Roosevelt Family had been quietly preparing for the collapse of the Empire, why not other families?  And why couldn't they seek secret alliances with rogue scientists?

“Picking up all four enemy destroyers, right at the edge of sensor range,” the sensor officer said.  “They’re keeping an eye on us, sir.”

“Unsurprising,” Jeremy commented.  The enemy CO had clearly decided to witness whatever happened in the system, even if he couldn't do anything to stop it.  Not an idiot, then; it was almost a shame he had refused the invitation to join the rebellion.  Who knew what piece of tactical information would serve as a clue to rebel capabilities?  “Keep an eye on them in return.”

He looked over towards the helm.  “Take us in towards the planet,” he ordered.  “And fire on the automated platforms as soon as they come into range, then dispatch the recovery crews.”

Happy Daze belonged to one of the smaller families, according to the files.  Unlike most colony worlds, it had been left almost completely uninhabited after the terraforming process had been completed.  The only permanent population, at least as far as anyone knew, was a small army of servants, gamekeepers and pleasure slaves, who would remain on the planet until they had completed their service.  Visitors to the planet could enjoy pampering on a colossal scale, from swimming in warm moonlit seas to hunting dangerous animals in the bush.  The sheer scale of the resort world stunned Jeremy every time he considered it; they’d turned an entire planet into a holiday camp.  They could have established a similar installation on an inhabited world and it would have been much cheaper.  And they still would have had guaranteed security.

But they hadn't installed massive defences, he noted, as the automated platforms came into range.  They were enough to deter a pirate attack – and there wasn't anything else in the system worth defending – but they couldn't hope to stand off a single battlecruiser, let alone nine of them.  And, unlike the destroyers, they had no way to flicker out and escape certain destruction.  Jeremy watched dispassionately as the platforms fought briefly, then were picked off one by one.  There wasn’t anything else in orbit, not even a transit station.

They probably just kept the shuttles on the ground, he thought, as the battlecruisers settled into orbit.  It isn't as though they need a large infrastructure.

“Hail them,” he ordered.  “Transmit the pre-recorded message.”

“Aye, sir,” the communications officer said.  

Jeremy smiled to himself.  If the people on the ground had any sense, they would have already evacuated the holiday resort.  It was quite likely that anyone important had already been evacuated – they’d had at least five months warning, perhaps more – but he doubted they would have evacuated the servants.  But in any case, the planet was completely naked.  A handful of KEW strikes would obliterate the facilities, leaving the survivors completely isolated.  In order to meet Colin’s demand that the rebels try to avoid atrocities, the message gave the inhabitants thirty minutes to evacuate.

There was little on the planet that was actually worth destroying – and nothing that was of any military value.  Jeremy had questioned the value of hitting the planet at all, only to have Colin point out that the family that owned the planet would be furious with the Imperial Navy for failing to provide additional protection.  Besides, it was possible that losing the planet’s facilities would cause more economic damage.  The analysts weren't sure if the family actually owned everything or if they were still paying off the loans.  Untangling the financial network underpinning the Empire, they'd confessed, could take years.  Jeremy rather suspected that the best option would be to destroy everything and start again from scratch.

But then countless millions will starve, he thought.  There were hundreds of worlds dependent on food shipments because they’d never been allowed to set up farms for themselves.  The whole system was rotten to the core.  We have to be more careful.

“Picking up a message,” the communications officer said.  “They’re offering to pay a colossal ransom if we leave the system without destroying anything – anything else.”

Jeremy shook his head.  There was no point in trying to take money, not when the value of the Imperial Credit was sinking rapidly.  Raw materials or industrial production might be worthwhile, but there was nothing in the system that was worth the effort of collecting it.  It was possible that the destroyers might be surrendered to him, yet he rather doubted it.  The family would be heavily penalised for aiding and abetting the rebels.  

Idiots, he thought.  It isn't as if countless destroyer-sized starships didn't go rogue.

“Tell them that they now have” – he glanced at the display – “fifteen minutes to evacuate the facilities.”

“Aye, sir,” the communications officer said.  

Jeremy waited, studying the enemy destroyers in the display.  Would their CO throw caution to the winds and do something stupidly heroic, or would he just watch and plot revenge? Four destroyers couldn't fight an entire squadron of battlecruisers, but they could cause real trouble behind the lines.  The rebel supply lines weren't as solid as they might wish in any case.  If the CO was cunning enough to plan his attacks carefully, he might cripple the offensive as it progressed towards Morrison.  

Or would he simply head towards Morrison himself?

The timer reached zero.  “Launch KEWs,” he ordered, shortly.  The tactical staff had plenty of time to refine their targeting systems.  “Take out the facilities.”

He’d half-expected force field defences, but nothing materialised as the KEWs fell down and struck their targets.  There was no need for warheads; one by one, the facilities that had taken so much time and effort to build were wiped out of existence.  Jeremy said a silent prayer for the employees, servants and slaves – he hoped they had evacuated, even though he knew their superiors might have forced them to stay in the complex in the hopes of using them as human shields – and then looked over at the helm.  There was no longer any point in remaining within the system.

“Take us to safe distance, then prepare to flicker out,” he ordered.

The squadron rose up, heading away from the planet.  Jeremy watched the enemy destroyers as they altered course themselves, moving to shadow the battlecruisers.  It made no sense to him, then he realised that the enemy CO was hoping to get a bearing from their jump out of the system.  It wouldn't do Imperial Intelligence any good – he wasn't planning to jump all the way to a secret rebel base – but it did suggest that the enemy CO was crafty.

You’re on the wrong side, mate, he thought.

But he’d been on the wrong side too, until he’d been offered a chance to join the rebellion.  Somehow, despite his resentment, he had never really considered mutiny; the Empire’s illusion of invincibility had been too strong.  But now ... now there were no limits.  And word of the Empire’s defeats was spreading rapidly.  They’d never be able to recover completely, even if they beat Colin and the Shadow Fleet.  

He briefly considered trying to mousetrap the destroyers, before dismissing the thought.  The enemy CO was cagey, cagey enough to make it unlikely that he could be trapped.  He sensed a calculating mind in his opponent, cold and dispassionate enough not to be tricked into rash moves.  There was no point in wasting time trying to kill a single enemy officer.

“Captain,” the helmsman said, “we are at minimum safe distance from the planet.”

“Set a random destination, then flicker out,” Jeremy ordered.  Maybe – just maybe – the enemy crew was good enough to get a bearing on their departure.  It wouldn't do them any good if the coordinates led to empty space, three light years from the nearest star.  “And then stand down from battlestations and jump us to the first scheduled waypoint.”

He relaxed as his stomach twisted again, then relaxed.  The operation had gone entirely according to plan, a welcome surprise.  They'd jumped in, blasted their targets and jumped out again without loss.  By all standards, it had been a textbook operation.  Colin would be pleased, once he heard the news.  Jeremy’s fleet would reform in three weeks, after picking off a whole series of targets.  If every operation was successful, the Empire would face colossal problems in rebuilding ...

But he knew that few of their targets had any tactical significance at all.  They might wound the Empire’s economy, they might prick it’s pride, but they wouldn't impede the war effort or cripple the Empire’s military strength.  Given time, the Empire could put together a fleet that utterly outgunned the Shadow Fleet ... and now they were on the alert.  Just because Stacy Roosevelt had been incompetent didn't mean that they were all incompetent.  The enemy CO at Happy Daze had been cunning and very capable.  What could he do with a squadron of superdreadnaughts?

I don’t want to know, Jeremy decided.  It was possible that the CO would be shot for his failure.  He disliked the thought intensely, but if it removed a competent player from the enemy side maybe it was worth it.  But we might find out the hard way.

He stood up.  “Send the tactical reports to my office,” he ordered, as he walked towards the hatch.  He would have to assess every ship’s performance, then suggest areas they should focus on in exercises.  There was nothing quite like action to expose weak points.  “XO, you have the bridge.”

Chapter Nine

Morrison had a long and illustrious history, Penny knew.  It had been a naval base before there had actually been an Imperial Navy, then a staging post during the Great Interstellar War.  Later, it had served as a base for the Empire’s absorption of all known human colony worlds, only to become less important as the borders were pushed further and further away.  Even so, it was still an immense facility.  Morrison itself was surrounded by asteroid settlements, shipyards and industrial nodes, while the gas giant had a dozen cloudscoops and other facilities in orbit.  She couldn't help feeling impressed at the sheer level of activity in the system.

Admiral Wachter seemed less impressed as the fleet headed towards the massive orbital fortress that served as System Command.  And, as she watched, Penny understood why.  The squadron should have been challenged at once, the moment they flickered into the system.  No challenge had been forthcoming, nor had the defences gone to full alert.  The Admiral snorted in disapproval, then keyed into the system and started to read his way through the full reports.  He looked up five minutes later.

“Dispatch inspection teams to the fortresses, the reserves and a random number of starships,” he ordered.  “Concentrate on the heavier ships, but pick them at random.”

“Yes, sir,” Penny said, gratified that her voice remained steady.  A month in transit had given her time to recover, although she still had panic attacks from time to time.  The Admiral expected her to think, but he didn't expect her to stress herself out too much.  “I’ll send the teams at once.”

“Then call a full gathering of senior officers – captains and higher - to take place on my ship, five hours from now,” Wachter added.  “Inform them that attendance is mandatory.  Anyone who doesn't attend can save time by handing in their resignation.”

Penny surprised herself by giggling.  “They’re not going to believe it,” she pointed out.  It was hard to fire a senior officer, particularly one with high-ranking patrons.  “They might be defiant ...”

“Good,” Wachter said.  He swung his console over so she could see what he saw.  “Just looking from the outside is enough to tell me that someone has been quite hellishly incompetent.  Quite a few people, in fact.  If the rebels attacked the system, now, I’d expect the defenders to lose.”

His eyes narrowed as he looked down at the display.  “Heads are going to roll,” he added.  “And I mean that literally.”

Penny nodded, then started to organise the gathering.  As she had expected, it wasn't easy to convince everyone to attend.  Most of Morrison’s higher ranks had been there long enough to think themselves immovable, while their juniors were too intimidated or apathetic to care what their seniors did.  She wasn't too surprised.  Morrison might once have been a great naval base, but it had been thousands of light years behind the border for too long.  By the time the meeting was meant to take place, she was having wistful thoughts about a rebel attack.

“Wear your dress uniform,” Wachter ordered, as they prepared for the gathering.  “And take your service pistol with you.”

Penny had been astonished to discover just how many senior officers there were attached to Morrison.  There were over five hundred captains, commodores and admirals in the system, half of whom seemed to be redundant.  Only two hundred captains even commanded a starship.  As several of those ships were listed as being part of the reserve, it was quite likely that they were only in nominal command.  It hadn't stopped them from collecting the salaries attached to the positions.

The compartment was normally used for fleet-level briefings, where over a hundred officers might gather to hear their commander speak.  It was the largest compartment on the superdreadnaught, yet cramming so many officer inside was impossible.  Penny had finally been forced to separate the lower-ranking officers from their commanders, assigning them to smaller compartments.  The whole briefing was going to be broadcast to the entire system anyway – Wachter had insisted – but the attendees hadn't been told about it.  They might have used it as an excuse not to attend in person.

Wachter strode into the compartment and stepped onto the podium, glaring down at the assembled officers.  Penny followed him into the compartment, then stood at the edge of the room, beside an armed and armoured Marine.  There was an entire company of Marines on alert, just in case the officers decided to get rowdy.  Wachter had insisted, despite Penny’s doubts that the officers would offer violence.  Unlike Percival, he hadn't snapped at her for offering her opinion.

“For those of you who don’t know me,” Wachter said, “I am Admiral Joshua Wachter, your new commanding officer.  I assume that some of you, at least, have had the sense to access my file once you heard I was taking command.  Those of you will know that I have no patience for idiots, I don't suffer fools gladly and I am absolute death on corruption.  This base is supposed to be the linchpin of Earth’s defences, the final barrier between an outside threat and the Core Worlds.  And this base is in terrible condition.”

He tapped off points on his fingers, one by one.  “Starships in the reserve have been cannibalised, allowed to decay or simply sold off, existing only on paper.  Orbital defences have been allowed to weaken to nothingness.  Starship maintenance cycles have been abandoned.  Spare parts have been sold off to civilian interests while military crews have been forced to scrounge for enough replacements to keep their starships at a barely functional level.  High-ranking officers are paid for doing nothing, as far as I can see, while junior officers and crewmen have been deprived of their pay for weeks or months.  And quite a few experienced crewmen have been booted out of the navy, even though we desperately need their skills.”

There was a long pause.  “Would any of you care to dispute that assessment?”

Penny rather doubted that anyone would.  She was right.

“I checked the accounts too,” Wachter added.  “Credits have been assigned to procuring pleasure slaves and prostitutes, while starships and orbital fortresses have been deprived of their discretionary funds.  Vast sums of money seem to have vanished without trace.  Tell me something, if you would be so kind.  Just why did you think you could get away with it for so long?”

His voice dripped sarcasm.  “Oh, I can guess,” he mocked.  “You believed that your patrons would protect you.  Perhaps you were giving them a cut of the proceeds.  Perhaps you thought that you were satisfying their desires.  And perhaps you thought Morrison would never have to go back on a war footing.  Well, you were wrong!

“Rebels have taken Sector 117.  By now, they will have taken several more sectors – and they will be advancing towards us.  They will have no choice.  And, if the situation in this system continues, they will overrun the planet and its defences with ease, before advancing onwards to Earth.  It will not happen.  I will not let it happen.”

His voice hardened.  “A third of you have already been marked down as hopelessly, stupidly corrupt.  I say stupidly because you didn't even show the intelligence of a parasite, one smart enough to know it would die when its host died.  This isn't favour-trading, this isn't simply skimming some money off the top of a contract, this is outright treason!  And you will be removed from your positions, stripped of your ranks and dumped on a penal colony.  Your patrons will not lift a single finger to save you.”

Penny watched as the Marines flowed through the room, hunting for the people on the list and removing them.  There was little resistance, not when the Marines wore light combat armour and carried stunners.  The officers who had been spared were staring at Wachter with a strange mixture of emotions on their faces; fear, awe, even a certain amount of respect.  But Penny knew that it wasn't over yet.

Wachter waited until the last officer was removed, then he smiled coldly at the remaining officers.  “Doesn't the room seem smaller without them in it?”

His smile grew wider, but still lacked warmth.  “If I had the time, I would sack all of you,” he added.  “You did nothing to stop your peers from stealing money, abusing personnel and generally ensuring that Morrison wasted away.  A few more decades of such treatment and the rebels wouldn't have to bother attacking the system.  As it is, I will expect one hundred percent commitment from each of you to refurbishing the starships and defences before the rebels attack.  If I catch you skimming, slacking or being generally obnoxious, I will put you out the airlock personally.  Do you understand me?”

Penny concealed her amusement with an effort.  The officers looked thoroughly cowed, although she doubted that would last long.  They were probably already composing the notes they intended to send to their patrons, protesting that Wachter was severely overstepping his authority.  Penny suspected they would be astonished when they discovered that, if anything, Wachter had the power to purge them all and spit on their remains.  No doubt the patronage networks would respond, eventually, but by then the rebels would either have been defeated ... or it wouldn't matter in any case.

“Now,” Wachter said.  “We have seven squadrons of superdreadnaughts here.  Only three of them, according to my teams, can be considered combat-worthy.  The others will need some heavy refurbishment before they can even be considered more than scrap metal, let alone moving targets.  The squadron commanding officers were among those removed.  Let's see if their replacements can do a better job.”
***
Penny suspected that no one on Morrison had ever expected an inspection by a neutral inspector, let alone someone like Admiral Wachter.  The Admiral seemed a human dynamo of energy, moving from ship to ship and inspecting them personally, promoting, demoting or even sacking officers on the spot.  After two bullying rings were uncovered, large numbers of ordinary crewmen were switched around or added to the holding pens, where they were forced to wait with their former superiors.  The Admiral, perhaps wisely, had banned all out-system communications for at least a week.

But it was an immensely difficult task.  Each hour brought new problems for the Admiral to solve, ranging from personnel discipline to a colossal shortage of spare parts.  The Admiral exploded with rage when he discovered that the industrial facilities had been working flat-out to produce spares, but none of the production had ever been sent to the fleet.  Instead, they had been sold to civilians – or pirates.  There were enough starships that existed only on paper for Penny to suspect that some of them had simply been sold to pirates.  Their so-called commanding officers had simply pocketed the funds intended to keep them going.

“I want you to work with the intelligence crews,” Wachter told her, a week after their arrival at Morrison.  “We’re closer to the rebels now; we should start collecting better intelligence.”

Penny was privately relieved.  She had never been a very confrontational person before the Mind Techs had gone to work on her; now, she could barely endure raised voices when confronting a single person.  Even hearing the Admiral chew out one of his new subordinates made her cringe inwardly, though she knew she wasn't the target.  On the other hand, with someone praising her work and generally looking out for her, she found herself enjoying her career again.  She couldn't help wondering, no matter how treacherous the thought was, if that freedom was what the rebels enjoyed.

There was no shortage of intelligence flowing into Morrison, but the intelligence officers had been either incompetent or focused on internal security.  She wasn't surprised at that either; the crews stationed at Morrison had been so badly treated by their seniors that there were regular threats of mutiny and Marines had had to be deployed numerous times just to quieten them down.  Admiral Wachter hadn’t shuffled the crews just to break up bullying rings; he’d also hoped to prevent any planned mutiny from taking place.  If the reports from Camelot were accurate, the force that should have defeated the rebels and reclaimed the planet had mutinied against its commanders.  

It could happen here, Penny thought.  And we’d lose the war.

She pushed the thought aside and turned to the intelligence.  In hindsight, it was clear that the Thousand Families should have been tipped off before the Battle of Camelot.  There were enough pieces of intelligence for someone to put the picture together, even though Percival had insisted on not reporting anything until the rebels were defeated.  She gritted her teeth at the memory – if there was one thing good about the way she’d been treated, it was that she found it hard to think of the bastard – and started looking for anything that post-dated the battle.  The rebels were definitely on the offensive.

But they had no choice, she knew.  She'd gone over the figures time and time again.  A long war suited the Empire, if only because it had a colossal production advantage.  The rebels would know that too.  They’d understand that their only chance for outright victory was to press the offensive as hard as possible.

And yet they managed to take out the Jupiter Shipyards, she thought.  What happens if they take out the other two Class-III shipyards?

She shook her head, dismissing the thought.  The Empire could still replace them and start constructing new superdreadnaughts far faster than the rebels.  It didn't change the balance of power, at least not in the short term.  Or so she hoped.

“The intelligence is still outdated,” she said, when Wachter stepped into her office.  He’d given her a suite next to his, one intended for a Vice Admiral.  She found it hard to imagine that anyone would need such a large suite.  Even Percival hadn't brought along a small army of servants and pleasure slaves.  “But it’s clear they are advancing towards Morrison.”

Wachter smirked, but there was no malice in it.  “As anyone who could read a map could tell you.”

Penny nodded.  “I’ve been considering options,” she said.  She pointed to the star chart, indicating stars that were likely to be targeted specifically.  “We could set small ambushes in these systems, trying to drain their forces.”

“Chancy,” Wachter said.  “What would happen if we found ourselves out of place?”

It was a good question, Penny had to admit.  And it was more insightful than anything Percival had ever said.

“We station two or three squadrons here, here and here,” she said, altering the map so it showed flicker range.  “We also station courier boats in each of the potential targets.  When the rebels arrive, the boats jump out and summon the battle squadrons.”

“We don’t have the superdreadnaughts to spare,” Wachter said, slowly.  “I’d prefer not to deploy any of them until we have every last ship in good condition.”

Penny nodded in agreement.  Some of the superdreadnaughts orbiting Morrison were in such bad condition that cockroaches and rats had taken up residence in the tubes.  The entire ship had had to be decompressed, then carefully cleaned to remove all traces of their presence before repairs could begin.  They’d even started to chew through sealed compartments and destroy valuable components.  The Admiral was right.  They didn't dare risk sending out the superdreadnaughts until they had the entire formation in acceptable condition.

“Still, we can deploy battlecruisers, maybe even heavy cruisers,” Wachter said.  “Get in, land a blow or two, then get out.  At the very least, the rebels would have to cover their flanks.”

“We could also send ships up towards Jackson’s Folly and raid their rear,” Penny added.  “It would be risky, because we would lose track of the ships, but it might be worthwhile.”

Wachter hesitated, studying the chart.  “Goddamned Roosevelt Family,” he muttered, unpleasantly.  “What were they thinking when they installed so many defences and industrial nodes?”

Penny hesitated, then gave the answer she’d deduced.  “They wanted to fight a civil war.”

“It looks like they succeeded,” Wachter grunted.  “And they’ve made life harder for the rest of us.”

He looked down at the chart.  “I think we'd be better off withholding that until after we’ve given the rebels a bloody nose,” he added.  “Organise a couple of heavy squadrons – nothing heavier than battlecruisers – for your ambush scheme.  See if we can get in a couple of blows, then force them to shoot off their missiles.  Even if they recover them it will still cost them time.”

“Yes, sir,” Penny said.  Being given general orders made her feel proud.  She wasn't being micromanaged, merely being told what he wanted accomplished and expected to work the rest out for herself.  “Will you require me later this evening.”

Wachter hesitated.  “I have ordered myself to watch the lashings,” he said.  “I issued the orders.  I can't not watch.”

Penny shivered.  Lashing was technically legal, but very rare.  It was more common to dock a crewman’s pay, demote them a grade or simply reassign them.  But several of the bullies had tried to reassert themselves, clearly not taking the Admiral’s warning seriously.  Perhaps a public lashing would help them learn the error of their ways.

“You should lash the commanding officers too,” she said, remembering Percival.  “They deserve it.”

Wachter nodded, then shook his head.  A poor commander generally meant a poor crew, but commanders couldn't be treated like ordinary crewmen.  They were expected to maintain a certain dignity at all times.  In Penny’s opinion, far too many of the commanders at Morrison didn't deserve the title, but there was no helping it.  There were only a handful of potential replacements.

“We’ll start formal exercises tomorrow,” Wachter added.  “Hopefully, a few of the worst will prove themselves incompetent and give me a chance to remove them.  You can command the opposing force.”

He smiled.  “Just remember what I told you,” he concluded.  “Make them work for their victory.”

Chapter Ten

Commander Ira Dennison stared around his command centre, feeling – again – a sensation of total despair.  Fairfax had been intended to serve as a shipping hub, but the economic slowdown had diminished the system’s importance long before the rebellion had started in Sector 117.  Ira was far too young and junior to be in command of the mighty orbital fortress, yet he’d been given no choice.  His former commanding officer had departed the system soon after the Battle of Camelot for ‘consultations.’  It was rather more likely, Ira knew, that the bastard had weighed the odds and decided to leave before the rebels landed on the system like a ton of bricks.

It was quite likely to happen, he knew.  Fairfax had a small shipyard, a couple of industrial nodes and a planetary population that chafed under outside rule.  The only thing keeping the planet from a general uprising was the hulking presence of the orbital battlestation, which could hammer the planet back into the Stone Age if Ira felt like it.  But there were times when he had his doubts.  Which side should he be on?

The Empire hadn't been bad to him, he had to admit.  He’d passed through the Academy and gone out to serve in Fortress Command, with a handful of commanding officers who hadn't been too bad to the newly-minted Ensign.  Even the coward who’d fled hadn't been an unpleasant person.  Ira had heard whispered stories of abuses, but he’d never seen any of them personally.  Fortress Fairfax-One – Fortress Command was not noted for imagination when it came to naming its fortresses – was a reasonably happy orbital fortress.  It just happened to be sitting right in the path of the rebel advance.

Ira had tried to convince himself that the system would remain untouched, but he knew better than to believe it.  The shipyard alone was worth capturing, while the industrial nodes would help support the rebel war effort.  Besides, there was an entire planet of potential rebels under the fortress’s guns.  He would sooner expect the rebels to commit suicide than leave Fairfax alone.  Even if it couldn't threaten their supply lines, it could serve as a base to starships that would.

An alarm chimed.  He jerked upright, his eyes searching the display.  There had been almost no visitors to the system in the months since they’d heard of the Battle of Camelot.  The only movement had been STL interplanetary transports carrying ore from the asteroid field to the industrial nodes.  Now ... several red icons had blinked into existence, a safe distance from the planet.  Others were appearing too, spreading out into a crude but effective formation.

“I'm reading twenty-seven superdreadnaughts and forty smaller ships,” the tactical officer said.  She sounded stunned.  Like most of Fortress Command’s personnel, she had never seriously expected a major attack on the worlds they guarded.  “They’re generating enough ECM to make it hard to be sure we’re seeing them all.”

“Good work, Bianca,” Ira said.  The rebels weren't even trying to hide.  Were they that overconfident or did they want him to think that they were overconfident?  Ira hadn't been allowed access to the sealed personnel files, so he knew almost nothing about the rebel commander.  “Bring our systems to full alert, then load missile tubes.”

Bianca looked up at him in surprise.  She was junior to him by six months – which hadn't stopped them from moving in together as soon as they’d realised that regulations were unlikely to matter any longer.  Fortress Command had always been more laid back about interpersonal relationships than the Imperial Navy, although rumour suggested that the navy was also more given to having illicit relationships.

“Commander,” she said carefully, “there are twenty-seven superdreadnaughts out there.”

“I know,” Ira said.  It was unlikely the ECM hid more superdreadnaughts, although he had to admit it was possible.  “But we can't just surrender.”

***
Colin forced himself to relax as the Shadow Fleet settled down into hammerhead formation.  There was no way to know what the defenders had in mind for Fairfax; they might surrender at once, they might fire off a handful of shots and then surrender ... or they might fight to the death.  Fortress Command had never been noted for defiance in the face of overwhelming power, but they were holding an entire planet in bondage.  They had to suspect that the locals would tear them apart if planetary bombardment was no longer a factor.

“One orbital fortress, Class-VIII; confirmed,” the tactical officer said.  “Nine automated weapons and sensor platforms; confirmed.  No military starships within detection range.”

“Lock weapons on target,” Colin ordered.  Unlike a superdreadnaught, the orbital fortress couldn't hope to run.  He'd once sneaked up on an enemy fortress and blasted it from point-blank range, but it was unlikely that trick would work again.  By now, the entire Empire would know which superdreadnaughts had fallen into rebel hands.  “And transmit our demand for surrender.”

He waited as the signal pulsed out, wondering just what the enemy officers were thinking.  It was possible they'd surrender at once, of course, or they might hold out for guarantees.  Colin wouldn't hesitate to offer them, if asked.  Like he’d told his crew, time and time again, accepting surrenders only to break them ensured that no one would surrender in future.  

“No response,” the communications officer said.  “I didn't even pick up an automated reply.”

Colin sighed.  Exchanging missile fire with an orbital fortress was always dangerous.  The fortresses packed more firepower than a superdreadnaught, while there was a small but very real danger that one of the missiles would strike the planet at a reasonable percentage of the speed of light.  It would be utterly disastrous for the planet, all the more so as neither side in the war could hope to organise relief efforts in time to save even a small percentage of the population.

“Illuminate the targeting locks,” he ordered.  The enemy wouldn't be able to miss that, even though it would also allow them to precisely target Colin’s ships.  “And then prepare to fire.”

***
“Ira,” Bianca snapped, “why are you prepared to die?  Honour before fucking reason?”

Ira stared at her, remembering long nights in their shared cabin.  “What ... what do you mean?”

Bianca’s lip curled with contempt.  “Commodore Ugly fled the moment he realised that this planet was under threat,” she sneered.  “Are you going to fight and die for the Empire, which abandoned you here, or are you going to do the smart thing and surrender?”

“We have a duty,” Ira protested, cursing their relationship.  And, for that matter, just how close in rank they were.  He didn’t have the gravitas of an older commanding officer and knew it.  “We can’t just surrender ...”

He shuddered, recalling some of the whispered tales that had reached their ears.  The rebels were murderers, rapists and cannibals.  Those who had been captured had been killed, those who had surrendered had been brutally raped and then killed ... there was no shortage of horror stories.  But she was right.  If they stood and fought, the battle wouldn't last very long at all.  The superdreadnaughts were already targeting his hull openly.  Twenty-seven superdreadnaughts could put out enough firepower to win the engagement very quickly.

“Please,” Bianca said.  “You don’t deserve to die just because your superiors have abandoned you.”

Ira winced.  His life wasn't the only one at risk.  He didn't want Bianca to die, let alone any of the others on the station.  They were his friends, even though he was their nominal commander.  He didn't want them to die uselessly ...

He keyed the console.  “This is Commander Dennison,” he said, shortly.  “If I surrender, what terms are you prepared to offer?”

***
Colin checked the files before answering.  Commander Dennison was young, barely twenty-five, although his file didn't suggest strong aristocratic connections or patronage.  Maybe he'd just been lucky; Fortress Command wasn't as badly riddled with patronage as the Imperial Navy.  But at that age ... he shouldn't have been in command at all.  The file stated that Commodore Uzi should have been in command.

“A question first,” he said.  “What happened to Commodore Uzi?”

There was no mistaking the disgust in the young man’s voice.  “He left shortly after we received word of Camelot,” Dennison said.  “We haven’t seen him since.”

Fled like a scalded cat, Colin translated, mentally.

He smiled, then pressed on.  “Marines will board your station and secure the vital points,” he said.  “If you wish to join us, you will be welcome.  If not, you will have the option of being shipped to an internment camp or transferred back to the Empire at the earliest opportunity.  Anyone on the ground who wishes to leave with us will be provided with transport; anyone who wishes to remain can do so.  My rather strong advice would be to leave.”

There was a pause.  Commander Dennison said nothing.

“One other point,” Colin added.  “I expect you to keep your surrender.  If there is any attempt to trick my forces, ambush them or otherwise impede them in the performance of their duties they have full authority to use lethal force.”

“I understand,” Dennison said.  “We won’t offer any resistance.”

He looked down at his console, then tapped a switch.  “Launch the Marine shuttles,” he ordered.  “I want that station in our hands by the end of the hour.”

***
Ira felt butterflies in his stomach as the two shuttles disengaged from the mass of enemy warships and headed towards the station.  He'd often asked himself, when he'd been a young trainee, just what he would do if faced with a hopeless situation.  But all of his dreams of a noble last stand had left out the simple fact that he wouldn't be alone.  Bianca and all of the others were standing there with him – and they would die if the rebels destroyed the station.

He keyed his console, searching for appropriate words.  His mouth felt dry; he had to swallow twice before he could speak.  “I have surrendered the fortress to the rebels,” he said, shortly.  Fortress Command was nowhere near as compartmentalised as the Imperial Navy.  Even the lowest crewman knew that they were facing impossible odds.  “They will be boarding us shortly.  Everyone not on the command deck is to assemble in the lower shuttlebay, leaving weapons and anything that can be used as weapon behind.

“I have entered into the log,” he added, suiting actions to words, “that the decision to surrender was mine and mine alone.  No action should be taken against any of you if you return to the Empire.  The rebels have offered us a chance to choose where we go afterwards; I will not attempt to dictate your choice.”

He paused, searching for other words.  “Don’t argue about this, please,” he concluded.  “It isn't just our lives at stake.”

His hand fell off the console, closing the channel.  Bianca gave him a long look, then a faintly reassuring smile.  Ira remembered all the horror stories and shivered, praying that he hadn't made a dreadful mistake.  One fourth of the crew was female.  If the rumours were actually true, he might have condemned them to a fate worse than death.

On the display, the shuttles came closer and closer.

***
“All right, you apes,” Sergeant O’Neil snapped.  “Remember what I told you – and don’t fuck up.  I’ll kick the ass of anyone who fucks up, then the CO will discharge whatever’s left of you out an airlock.  Do you understand me?”

Corporal Sidney Harris joined in the shouts of understanding.  He’d grown up on a lawless asteroid in the Beyond, he’d killed his first man at the age of eight – and somehow the Sergeant still managed to intimidate him.  But then, the Sergeant had taken all the new recruits into a large hall during their first training session and invited any of them who wanted to try and kick his ass to take their best shot.  After four hulking bravos had been knocked down one by one, the new recruits had shut up and started to learn.  Sidney had been lucky enough to be seen distinguishing himself when the imps had attacked Sanctuary Asteroid.  It had earned him a promotion to Corporal and command of four privates.

He checked his assault rifle, then his armour, as the shuttle docked with the access hatch.  It opened, allowing the Marines to flow into the station.  Inside, it was deserted; the briefing had stated that the crew were currently in the shuttlebay, apart from two on the command deck.  Sidney listened as the Sergeant barked orders, then followed him towards the command deck.

The interior of the station almost seemed eerie, compared to an asteroid that was over a hundred years old.  Sidney had to snap at one of his men who seemed puzzled by the bare design, just before they reached the bridge.  The hatch was already open, but the Marines advanced as if they expected an ambush.  If the enemy were planning something, they wouldn't risk allowing the Marines to access the command network before springing the trap.

There were two people on the command deck, both absurdly young and unmarked compared to someone who had spent all his life in the Beyond.  One of them was a young man, with a slightly unfinished face and a weak chin; the other was a dark-haired girl with violet eyes and an expression that suggested she wasn't as confident as she pretended.  The Marines searched them both, then secured their hands and put them in the corner to wait while the techs took control of the station.  Sidney angled to stay on the command deck, but the Sergeant detailed him and his men to join the teams searching the station from top to bottom.  Twenty minutes later, it was declared secure.

“Escort the prisoners to the shuttles,” the Sergeant ordered, once Sidney returned to the command deck.  “And well done.”

Sidney nodded, although he had his doubts.  They’d faced no opposition, no one inclined to actually fight.  The next time they boarded a station or a starship, someone might fight back.  And then they would really be tested.

“Yes, sir,” he said.

***
Ira had been nervous even before the Marines entered the compartment and searched them both, gently but firmly.  After their hands had been bound, he'd worried more ... until they were escorted down and into the shuttles, along with the rest of the crew.  No one seemed hurt, although several of the younger crewmen looked worried.  They'd all heard the rumours.

“You need to make up your minds soon,” the rebel who greeted them said, once they’d been transferred to another starship.  “If you want to join us, you would be welcome.  If you want to go back to the Empire, or go to an internment camp, it can be arranged.  But you will have to make up your minds before we depart, or we’ll assume the camp.”

“I’ve already decided,” Bianca said.  “I’d like to join you.”

Ira hesitated, then made up his mind.

***
“All forty of the fortress crew joined up,” Sergeant O’Neil said.  “I guess they were unhappy about being abandoned and left to die.”

“Smart of them,” Colin said.  He would have been astonished if any of them wanted to return to the Empire.  They’d be blamed for not stopping an unstoppable foe.  “And the people on the ground?”

“There’s a lot of complaints about the uplift,” Colonel Yamato reported, through the intercom.  He didn't sound very happy with his lot.  Securing a planet – even just the cities -  took several divisions; Yamato had a regiment at best, none of which were well-trained.  “The locals think we should just let the administrators be killed.”

Colin wasn't surprised.  There were only a handful of worlds were the administrators were popular – and most of them were places so poor that there was little for the Empire to take.  If the fortress hadn't been there, the administrators would have been lynched already.  But he’d made the deal and he intended to stick to it.

“Tell the locals that we need to interrogate the bastards,” he said.  It was true enough, although Colin would have been astonished if the administrators had known anything of more than fleeting interest.  They'd been isolated ever since the System CO had fled, taking his only destroyer with him.  “And then have them shipped to the camp.”

“Yes, sir,” Yamato said.  “I ...”

He broke off as Colin’s console chimed.  “Sir, this is Sanderson,” the tactical officer said.  “We just picked up a flicker burst – an exit burst.”

Colin’s eyes narrowed.  “What sort of burst?”

“A corvette, I think,” Sanderson said.  “She must have been lying doggo all this time, even before we arrived, just watching and waiting.  And then she just jumped out.”

“Taking tactical information with her,” Colin said.  The corvette would have been close enough to get an accurate count on how many ships were in his formation, although he’d been careful not to bring his entire fleet to Fairfax.  “Interesting ...”

He shook his head.  There was little they could do about it, not now.  Besides, their course towards Morrison was alarmingly predicable in any case.  The enemy would just have their suspicions confirmed.  Colin had tried to think of alternatives, but they all involved giving the enemy more time to prepare.

“Remind everyone to be careful what they say in clear,” he ordered.  Someone had clearly been thinking hard, which suggested an unwelcome level of competence.  Were there any battle formations within range?  “And then inform the fleet that we will be departing to the first waypoint in two hours.  We don’t want to stay here any longer than strictly necessary.”

He closed the channel, then stared down at the display, not really seeing it.  Just who was in command of the Empire’s forces – and how far were they prepared to go to win?