Christopher Nuttall - Democracy's Right

It felt odd walking through the starship in a Blackshirt uniform. The crew they encountered, the ones who were not involved in the mutiny, shied away from him, the fear in their eyes sending chills down his spine. The men were bad enough, but the women were terrified and found ways to get away from him, even though he wasn’t even leering at them. It tore at his heart as he pushed his two charges into Marine Country and through the hatch leading into the main security compartment. From the small compartment, the Marines could have handled any security or behaviour problem on the starship.

“You,” a voice demanded. Stanford half-turned to see a Blackshirt officer bearing down on him, his face set in a permanent expression of anger. “Why have you brought those pieces of human waste here?”

Stanford could have made an excuse, but the more he talked, the less likely it would be that anyone would fall for his disguise. “For support,” he said, and lifted his weapon. He took aim before the Blackshirt could react and shot him through the head. His two companions drew their own weapons and plunged into the security compartment. “Kill them!”

Forty seconds later, every Blackshirt in Marine Country was dead.

“They’re approaching missile range,” the tactical officer said. “They’re launching additional probes.”

Colin nodded. The decoys had formed up with the rest of his ships, creating an impression of an entire fleet of superdreadnaughts waiting for Admiral Quintana and his force. The Admiral was probably trying to sort out the real ships from the decoys, a task the Geeks had sworn blind would be impossible. Colin wouldn’t have put money on it. In his experience, the word ‘impossible’ was only a reflection of the unknown.

“Keep countering them,” he ordered. The timer was ticking down to the point where he would have to open fire… and then, once it became clear he could only launch one massive salvo, Admiral Quintana would understand what he had done. “And bring up the point defence. I want them ready to engage at a moment’s notice.”

“Two minutes to missile range,” the tactical officer reported. “The enemy is scanning us and launching sensor probes.”

“Probably trying to pin down the command ship,” Admiral Quintana commented. Brent-Cochrane couldn’t disagree. “It won’t get them anywhere.”

He smiled. The Imperial Navy’s standard practice was to illuminate the flagship in order that all should know the greatness of the commanding officer. Against an opponent who could throw such massive salvos in one shot, it was nothing more than suicide. Admiral Quintana had kept his flagship stepped down so that it was indistinguishable from the remainder of the fleet, while using pinpoint lasers to send orders from ship to ship. The rebels would only be able to destroy the flagship through sheer luck. Luck had been on their side, Brent-Cochrane acknowledged, but it would take a vast amount of luck to get out of this one. They wouldn’t get that lucky break, he promised himself, whatever it took.

“Prepare to fire once we enter weapons range,” Admiral Quintana ordered. He smiled down at the display. “And then we will see what they have up their sleeves.”

An alarm chimed. “Admiral,” the Security Officer said, “I have lost contact with Marine… ah, with the Blackshirt CO. The link to their compartment failed.”

Brent-Cochrane stared in horror. It couldn’t be a coincidence. The rebels had made contact with others at Sector 99 — perhaps they’d had cells in place long before the mutiny at Jackson’s Folly — and the cells were now launching a mutiny of their own. The entire superdreadnaught might be under enemy control.

“Sir,” he said, “we have to lock the ship down, now!”

Admiral Quintana turned and gave him a puzzled look. “There is a rebel team onboard this ship,” Brent-Cochrane snarled. Part of him knew that if he was wrong, it would be the end of his career, but if he was right… his career didn’t matter, not against the danger of the rebellion spreading out of control. “We have to secure the ship before all hell breaks loose.”

“Check with the other sections,” Admiral Quintana ordered. He didn’t sound as if he believed Brent-Cochrane; after all, there had never been a successful mutiny on a superdreadnaught. But then, every superdreadnaught had an entire Marine Regiment allocated to provide internal security, not hated and despised Blackshirts. “I want them all to check in now.”

They waited while the communications officer ran through the checks. Several compartments, including two other security positions, refused to respond. Others reported that everything was normal, without any signs of trouble at all. Even Admiral Quintana was convinced that something was badly wrong. He sounded the internal security alarm and ordered a lockdown. All though the ship, blast doors swung down, isolating each and every compartment. The mutineers would be split up into hundreds of separate cells, where they could be mopped up easily.

“Get in touch with the troop transports,” Admiral Quintana said. “I want them to shuttle over an entire regiment of Blackshirts.”

“Aye, sir,” the communications officer said. He worked his console for a long moment. “Sir, several other starships are reporting onboard trouble as well.”

Brent-Cochrane cursed. No wonder the rebels were holding their ground. They knew that their allies were planning to take the superdreadnaughts intact and deliver them to the rebellion. They were just waiting to walk in and claim their new ships!

Admiral Quintana clearly agreed. “Launch missiles,” he ordered. Brent-Cochrane was fairly sure that no other commander had ever opened an engagement with enemy ships while there was a mutiny underway, but with the lockdown in place they should be able to regain control. “You are to continue firing until the enemy force has been destroyed.”

The superdreadnaught shuddered as she launched her first mighty salvo.

“They’re firing at extreme range,” the tactical officer said, as the display sparkled with a swarm of deadly red icons. Colin didn’t need anyone to tell him that the superdreadnaughts had flushed their external racks. Everything in the fleet larger than a destroyer had contributed to that massive salvo. There were so many missiles that even the Geek-designed systems would have trouble controlling them all. “They will enter point defence range in six minutes and counting.”

Colin nodded. The problem with firing at extreme range, as any tactician would admit, was that it gave the defenders plenty of time to plot intercept solutions and plan their defence. Admiral Quintana had side-stepped that problem with the overwhelming use of brute force; no defence, not even the combined datanet protecting the planet, could hope to stop them all. And, worse, as long as the enemy force remained out of the gravity shadow, Colin could throw enough missiles at them to shatter their fleet and they would just flicker away.

“Deploy missile pods,” he ordered. “You are cleared to engage with station-mounted weapons only.”

The tactical officer hesitated. “Sir…?”

“Do it,” Colin snapped. He understood the officer’s confusion, but there was no time for a debate. The stations packed far more missiles than his superdreadnaughts, or even the arsenal ships. They could fire for far longer without shooting themselves dry… and besides, firing only those weapons might suggest to the enemy commander that all of the superdreadnaughts were decoys. “Bring the point defence online and start tracking the enemy missiles.”