Christopher Nuttall - Democracy's Right

He settled back in his command chair. The enemy missile swarm suggested that they hadn’t settled on a final target set, but with so many missiles it wasn’t an immediate priority. They could afford to drench his defences and see what shot back. The arsenal ships, for all their undoubted use, possessed no point defence worth a damn. Once the enemy realised what they were and started targeting them, Camelot would be lost along with the arsenal ships.

Stanford cursed as the rumble of the missile launch echoed through the superdreadnaught. “They’re on to us,” he said. He’d been working the console — having used the palm-imprint of one of the dead Blackshirts to make it work — only to discover that its functions were limited. The Blackshirts hadn’t really been aware of the capabilities of their tools. He’d managed to rig a system so that the Blackshirt command network was dumped into his small portable terminal. “I think we’d better get out of here.”

He keyed the console and brought up the lockdown data, examining it quickly and comparing it with the known Blackshirt locations. Jamming the Blackshirt command network had been easy enough; the surviving senior Blackshirt would literally be unable to take command of his force. It was a shame he couldn’t trigger the remainder of the internal weapons, but he had to settle for jamming them before taking a key-card from one of the bodies. The senior officers hadn’t realised it, but they’d given the Blackshirts the ability to give their people access authority, authority Stanford had been able to usurp. The lockdown would impede the enemy more than it would impede him.

“Come on,” he ordered, picking up his weapon and heading for the hatch. It had sealed, of course, but a wave of the card in front of the sensor opened it up. Stanford keyed his radio, passing on the data and then a final wave of instructions. “Move in on your targets and take them out now.”

He muttered a curse under his breath as he started to run, pausing only to open the locked hatches and meet up with other allies. Time wasn’t on their side. All it would take would be the Admiral deciding to blow the ship and they would all die, without knowing if the rebellion had been successful or not. Twice, they encountered small groups of Blackshirts and shot their way through them, the Blackshirts recognising his uniform and hesitating just long enough for the mutineers to get in the first shot.

“We need to move quickly,” he said, once they all met up in one of the smaller corridors, just outside the CIC. He checked his terminal and swore. Now that the enemy was alert to their operations, the Blackshirts were moving and trying to recapture vital compartments. It was taking them longer than it should — Stanford had taken the precaution of wiping all access permissions apart from the ones he had created himself — but they were moving. The superdreadnaught shuddered again as it unleashed another salvo, adding a new danger to the whole enterprise. They might be killed by their own side. “And we also need to take the CIC intact. No shooting unless they fire first.”

There was a low rumble of agreement.

“But how are they doing this?”

Brent-Cochrane blinked at the tone in the Admiral’s voice. The Admiral had been speaking with the Chief Engineer when armed men had burst in behind him, firing live weapons in Engineering , of all places! The Engineer’s face had vanished from the display; a moment later, the communications link had failed completely. Engineering had been added to the list of compartments that had somehow been taken by the mutineers.

The ship rocked sharply as a missile slipped through the point defence to slam against the shields. It was only a single warhead, but the battle stations were giving almost as good as they were getting and it was only a matter of time before more slipped through. The rebel superdreadnaughts weren’t firing, leaving him to wonder if they were real … or if the rebels had decided to abandon Camelot in the face of superior force. None of the superdreadnaughts were using point defence either.

“They clearly planned carefully,” Brent-Cochrane said. Imperial Intelligence was supposed to have placed even more agents in the crew, yet they’d heard nothing. A paranoid thought flashed through his mind. Was it simple incompetence… or something more sinister? Was Imperial Intelligence, for whatever demented reason made sense to a spook’s mind, working with the rebels? “I think we may need to consider…”

A green icon flashed on the display. “Sir,” the tactical officer said, in a tone of a man who hoped that his superiors would not blame him for the disaster, “ Admiral Owen has been destroyed.”

Brent-Cochrane blinked. The superdreadnaught hadn’t been under heavy fire, for she had been in the rear of the formation. There was nothing to explain the ship’s destruction, unless… he tapped his console and pulled up the records. It was clear as soon as he reviewed the live feed from the drones flying alongside the fleet. The superdreadnaught’s commander had triggered the self-destruct. His ship had to have been on the verge of falling to the enemy.

“Sir,” Brent-Cochrane said. A new light flashed on the display. The rebels — the mutineers — were trying to assert control of the ship from engineering. If they succeeded, the CIC could be sealed off and rendered harmless. “We need to trigger the self-destruct ourselves.”

Another console flashed. The flicker drive was powering down. “Impossible,” Admiral Quintana snapped. “I could not…”

He broke off as the sound of firing suddenly echoed in the distance. It took Brent-Cochrane a moment to realise that it was coming from the direct connection to the Blackshirts on duty outside the CIC. They were under attack. It wouldn’t be long until the mutineers penetrated to CIC and took over the ship.

“Sir,” Brent-Cochrane repeated. “You need to trigger the codes…”

Something flashed in the air. A knife appeared in Admiral Quintana’s eye, penetrating right into his brain. Brent-Cochrane lifted his weapon slowly as he saw the communications officer, one arm outstretched in a throwing pose. The treacherous officer had made it impossible to destroy the ship! He shot the communications officer as the hatch burst inwards and turned, firing towards the mutineers. He was still firing when four heavy blows slammed into his body and he collapsed into darkness.

Stanford watched the Commodore’s body fall to the ground and then looked around the CIC. Apart from the lone man, no one offered any resistance and it was easy to secure them and leave them for later attention. The chances were good that at least some of them would want to join the rebellion, but there was no time to test their loyalties now.

“Get in touch with the rebels,” he ordered, as he took the command chair. He checked his terminal and realised, to his relief, that the mutiny had secured all of the important locations. The remaining Blackshirts were isolated and could be dealt with at leisure. “Tell them that we want to surrender.”

He brought up the datanet console and checked the IFF signatures of the other superdreadnaughts. One of the ships was gone, he realised, but fourteen others had altered their IFF signals, confirming that they had been taken over by the mutineers. That might change, he knew, but for the moment they were secure. Hell, the loyalist superdreadnaughts might be on the verge of switching sides too.

“Quit firing at the rebels and prepare to fire on the loyalist ships,” he added. He hadn’t placed anyone on the smaller ships, knowing that if they took the superdreadnaughts more or less intact, they would be able to dictate terms to the other ships. The chances of being betrayed grew exponentially the more people he added to the conspiracy. “Get me a direct laser link to the friendly ships.”