Christopher Nuttall - Democracy's Right

He shook his head as the timer continued to tick down towards missile range. Soon enough, they would know what they were facing. Why worry about it now?

Private Andy Barcoo hated the superdreadnaught. He hated the constant throbbing noise in the background, the tiny metallic passageways and — most of all — the hatred he saw in the eyes of the crew. The drug treatments that all Blackshirts received once they passed through Basic Training made them hypersensitive to slights and bad treatment and he had already put two members of the crew in sickbay before the Sergeant — a real asshole if ever there was one — had reprimanded him severely. His jaw still hurt where the Sergeant’s reprimand had connected, threatening to knock out a few of his teeth. The Blackshirts healed quickly — another effect of the drugs — but the pain lingered on. Andy had begged for some additional painkillers, yet the Sergeant had — instead — assigned him to guarding the armoury. It wouldn’t do for any of the superdreadnaught’s crew to get their hands on weapons. They were just one step up from occupied people in Andy’s view and everyone knew that occupied people lied all the time.

He held himself rigid, even though there was no sign of the Sergeant. Obedience had been beaten into him at the Training Centre, to the point where he literally could not disobey an order, unless it contradicted the regulations that had also been hammered into his head. Andy had been on campaigns where the Blackshirts had been empowered to do whatever they wanted to the local population — and had been ordered to have as much fun as they could — but being on the superdreadnaught was boring. He was uneasily aware that only a thin wall of metal separated him from the cold vacuum of space.

Andy looked up as he heard someone heading down the corridor towards his position. He’d been ordered not to actually block the passageway, only to prevent anyone from gaining access to the armoury without permission, and so he stepped back just before the person turned the corner and walked right towards him. She was a crewwoman — there were no female Blackshirts — wearing a shipsuit that had been opened to reveal the tops of her breasts and expose just enough of her that he wanted to see more. Andy felt a sudden wave of lust burning through his mind, interfering with rational thought, yet another side-effect of the treatments he’d undergone. If he hadn’t been ordered to remain where he was, he would have reached for the girl and drawn her to him. As she drew closer, he was suddenly very aware of her perfume, a smell that seemed to trigger glands he hadn’t known he had. He wanted her desperately.

“We’re going into battle soon,” the girl said. Her voice was rich and very feminine. “I need to relieve myself first” her tongue licked her lips, revealing precisely what she meant by relieve herself — “and I was wondering if you could help.”

She leaned forward, giving him a magnificent view of her breasts, and put her arms around him. He bent down to kiss her, pushing his lips against hers, yet just as he pushed his tongue into her mouth he felt something get pushed against the back of his neck. Andy realised, in a moment of horror, that he’d been tricked and threw the girl hard against the bulkhead, but it was already too late. The world was dimming around him as the drug took effect and he collapsed onto the deck. Darkness swallowed him a moment later.

“That bastard needed to brush his teeth properly,” Crewwoman Singe said, in disgust. She spat on the bulkhead before kicking the unconscious Blackshirt in the groin. “Where the hell did he learn to kiss?”

“I doubt that it’s on the curriculum at wherever they’re trained,” Stanford said. He took a moment to check the Blackshirt and then turned to the armoury. The Blackshirts had clearly felt that only one guard had been required — there were two armoury compartments on the ship, both of which were being raided — and on first glance it was easy to see why. The hatch was made of battle steel and should have been resistant to anything short of a heavy laser cannon or fission beam. The superdreadnaughts, however, had emergency systems that could be used to unlock a hatch manually if necessary, allowing them access to the armoury. “Take his gun and use his cuffs… belay that; undress the bastard first and then use his cuffs to secure him.”

He opened the small inspection hatch and peered into the tiny maintenance compartment. The moment he started to fiddle with it, an alarm should sound on the bridge, which meant that if his ally hadn’t managed to bypass the system successfully, they were going to be in a fight right from the start. He looked down at the naked Blackshirt, wondering if he’d been the one who had raped a crewwoman, before reaching into the compartment and altering the chips. There was a hiss and the hatch started to glide open. Two of his crewmen caught it and pushed it all the way back, allowing his team to swarm inside.

“Take the rifles and the grenades,” he ordered. They’d all been given basic weapons training, but none of them had any experience with powered armour. If they’d had a few Marines to help them… but the Marines had been off-loaded and no one knew what had happened to them. “Make sure you take the communicators and switch them to a private band.”

The first team collected their weapons and headed out of the compartment, as they had planned. The second team would remain and guard the armoury, using it to arm the crewmen while hopefully denying its contents to the loyalists. The other teams would get their own weapons and then carry out their part of the plan. He watched as the first team opened a hatch into the tubes and headed out, unseen, towards the engineering compartment. Once they were in place, they would force their way inside and take control.

“Pass me the uniform,” Stanford ordered, and started to don the Blackshirt’s outfit. It wasn’t a good fit, but Imperial Navy uniforms rarely were at first and he assumed that that was true of the Blackshirts as well. He found a shiny surface and inspected himself. He looked alarmingly realistic.

“You look terrifying, boss,” one of the crewmen said. “You’d better mind that we don’t shoot you by accident.”

Stanford nodded. He’d considered the possibility when he’d first come up with the plan, but he’d deemed that the risk was worth it. The Blackshirts might be completely unfamiliar with the superdreadnaught, yet they still had more weapons and far more experience in using them. If they could deal with their commanding officers in one fell swoop, it might be worth any risk. Besides, he had no intention of allowing anyone else to take the risk.

“If anyone does, I’ll have him cleaning toilets for the next millennium,” he threatened, as he checked the Blackshirt-issue plasma pistol. Unlike the standard weapons, it included a reader that checked for a Blackshirt implant before it would fire. Stanford knew how to remove it, but as he examined the pistol he was amused to discover that its former owner already had, even though he’d probably been told not to even think about it. It wasn’t too great a surprise. The systems did tend to fail and that would be disastrous in combat. “Jake; you have command here, but stay in touch. Don’t fuck up.”

“I won’t,” Jake promised. “Good luck, mate.”

Stanford nodded and collected his two escorts. With the Blackshirts taking over security roles on the starship, they had developed a habit of arresting crewmen for various offenses and demanding a bribe before they were set free. His two escorts would look like crewmen who had been unable, or unwilling, to pay the bribe and would be spending the next few hours in the brig before their salaries were docked or some other punishment was assigned. As long as they kept their weapons out of sight, they should be fine.