Christopher Nuttall: Democracy's Might

“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.