Christopher Nuttall - Democracy's Might

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

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

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

“…Shit,” Penny said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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