Christopher Nuttall - Democracy's Might

“We jump in twelve hours,” Colin said. “Inform the alpha crews to make sure they get a good night’s sleep, then a meal. Beta crews can finish resupplying the ships, then get some sleep too. They’re going to need it.”

“Yes, sir,” Damiani said. “And our plan of attack?”

“We’ll go with Alpha-Five,” Colin said. It wasn’t the most subtle plan he’d devised, but there was little subtle in charging at a brick wall. If the enemy commander refused to take the bait, they would have to engage the defences directly. And that would be bloody. “You and your squadrons will provide flank cover. The superdreadnaughts and arsenal ships can duel with their opponents.”

“We’ve altered the arsenal ship missile programming,” Commander Tobias reported. “If they try to use nukes to take out swarms of missiles at once, it will be considerably harder.”

“Let us hope so,” Colin said. They’d also copied the idea themselves, but unless the enemy had come up with their own arsenal ships it wouldn’t be necessary. “Get some sleep, ladies and gentlemen. I’ll see you in the morning.”

He watched as they filed out of the room, then turned and looked back at the display. The target was waiting for them, almost daring the rebels to attack. Colin would have preferred to avoid it completely, but he knew there was no choice. The enemy were practically offering him the chance to destroy their fleet on a platter. And that meant… he gritted his teeth, bitterly. If they were making such an offer, they probably had a nasty surprise waiting for him.

Shaking his head, he reached for the switch and turned off the display. The Morrison Fleet had to be destroyed. There was no alternative.

But the thought didn’t make him feel any better.

“You know, this could be our last night alive,” Crewman Rogers said.

The spy had to admit he had a point. They were going to be flying straight into the teeth of the Empire’s heaviest defences, at least outside the Sol System. There would be casualties, massive casualties… and it was quite possible that one of the destroyed ships would be General Montgomery . It might very well be their last night alive.

“Honestly,” she said, putting as much flirtation into her voice as she could, “couldn’t you come up with a better chat-up line?”

“And I have really never seen an angel fly so low,” Rogers said, as sweetly as he could. “Or take me to bed, love. You’ve pulled.”

“Idiot,” the spy said. “Those lines are dreadful .”

She shook her head. It was quite normal for Rogers to try to forget what was coming, but she had other worries. There had been no response, as far as she could tell, to the message she’d sent, nor had the superdreadnaught’s security staff realised that she’d sent the message at all. Or they had realised and were merely biding their time. The spy couldn’t understand why they hadn’t nabbed her, if they had realised she was there… but maybe they were playing a complex game. Intelligence officers tended to like complex plots. She doubted the rebel ones would be any different, even if they were rebels.

Her conditioning nagged at her, reminding her of her duty. But what could she do? One single person couldn’t sabotage the superdreadnaught, certainly not without help. But her conditioning wouldn’t let her do nothing, even though cold logic told her that there was nothing she could do. All she could do was wait.

“But this is our last night,” Rogers whined. “You might die a virgin.”

The spy burst out laughing. She was no virgin. Imperial Intelligence had taught her how to seduce, how to convince men to lower their guard around her — and that had often meant pillow talk, when the men were half-asleep and unaware of their words. But Rogers had nothing useful he could tell her…

A thought rang through her head. Why not ?

She stood and held out a hand. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s go find a privacy tube.”

Rogers gaped at her, then grinned boyishly. He’d been nervous, she realised. Was he a virgin? It was rare for a crewman to be a virgin, if only because the senior crewmen often took the juniors to brothels when they docked at naval bases. But Rogers might easily have chosen not to go, if he’d been nervous. Brothels were rarely decent places for young and inexperienced men.

“Thank you,” he said, as they made their way to the nearest tube. Thankfully, it was unoccupied. “I… I’ll make you proud.”

The spy fought down the urge to jeer. Instead, she kissed him as soon as they were inside.

“Relax,” she said. Perhaps it was his first time, after all. “There’s no need to hurry.”

Afterwards, they fell asleep in each other’s arms.

It was unusual to hold a holographic conference, Penny knew, as the images popped into the conference room. The etiquette that underpinned the Empire frowned on sending a holographic representative, even if one happened to be on one’s deathbed. Penny had never presumed to understand etiquette, but Wachter’s decision to put it aside sent a strong message to his subordinates. She hoped they picked up the right one.

“Attention on deck,” she said. If there was one advantage to using holograms, it was that there was no need to use the massive conference chamber. Instead, they could comfortably fit into a smaller compartment. “The Admiral is on the deck.”

Admiral Wachter strode into the compartment and nodded to the holograms. “We can discard the rest of the formalities,” he said, shortly. “Be seated.”

The holograms, blurring together into an indistinct mass, settled down. Penny took her chair and watched as Admiral Wachter took control of the display, presenting the sensor records from Parallax. It wasn’t exactly a victory, despite Commodore Yamani’s boasts, but it was close enough to please her superiors. And besides, Imperial Intelligence wouldn’t be coming for her.

“You can access the full sensor records later,” Admiral Wachter said, as he sat down. Unlike most commanding officers, he had insisted on allowing his officers full access to the sensor records, even from the unsuccessful battles. “The important detail is that the rebels are approaching Morrison. We may see them here at any moment.”

A low rustle ran through the chamber as the assembled officers reacted to the news. That, Penny knew, was why the Admiral had insisted on the holographic meeting. If the rebels attacked, the officers wouldn’t have to flee back to their ships. But they might also see it as an insult, if they didn’t think about it. Too many of the Morrison Fleet’s officers had made a career out of following orders without bothering to actually consider them.

“We have worked hard and trained hard for the coming battle,” the Admiral continued. “We can take pride in our achievements. We can fight and we can win, which is more than we could have done five months ago. But we dare not let ourselves be overconfident. The rebels have experienced officers, excellent ships and even new weapons. They will give us a hard challenge.

“But we will meet that challenge. And we will beat them.

“They have to come here,” he reminded them. “We will be ready.”

Penny nodded. The only real alternative for the rebels was to head directly to Earth — some of their raiders might have already reached the planet — but that would leave Morrison in their rear. Admiral Wachter and his fleet might set off for Jackson’s Folly, scorching or occupying every rebel-held world along their way. The populations they’d liberated would see Imperial Navy starships in their skies again, each one crammed with Blackshirts ready to purge the worlds of rebels and rebel supporters. No, she told herself. If the rebels wanted anything more than a bloody slaughter, they had to take out Morrison. It was the only way to safeguard their rear.