Christopher Nuttall - Democracy's Right

“No damage, sir,” the damage control officer reported. One reason for the superdreadnaughts having such massive crews was for damage control, but there hadn’t even been any damage. Colin understood, for the first time, just how some planets had felt when the superdreadnaughts had appeared in their skies, big enough to be seen from the ground by the naked eye. What was the point of rebelling — even destroying — local authority when the superdreadnaughts would arrive and bombard the planet back into submission? “We are fully mission-capable.”

“Good,” Colin said, studying the display. The last of the escorts had been destroyed, without even a hope of getting out a warning. The Annual Fleet — all fifty massive civilian freighters, carrying over a trillion credits worth of industrial material — was at his mercy. “Open a channel to the freighters.”

“Aye, sir,” the communications officer said. “Channel open, Admiral.”

Colin smiled. “Attention, civilian freighters,” he said. “This is Admiral Walker of the Shadow Fleet.” He’d decided to name the fleet after the battlecruiser, knowing that the name would become legend, not least because his force wouldn’t be the first Shadow Fleet. With any luck, Imperial Intelligence would conclude that the reports of that fleet’s destruction had been premature. “You are ordered to deactivate your defences and prepare to be boarded. If you offer no resistance, you will not be harmed. Any resistance will result in the destruction of your vessels.”

It was a bluff, but he hoped that they were too shaken to draw the correct conclusion and call him on it. He didn’t dare destroy the freighters, although there were plenty of other options. The Marines could force-board the ships and capture the crew, although that did include the risk of introducing random factors into the equation. The crews might do something stupid that would destroy the ships, even though Stacy’s files had started that the ships didn’t carry any self-destruct systems.

“We’re picking up signals from most of the ships, sir,” the communications officer said. “They’re surrendering and dropping their shields.”

Colin smiled in relief. No warning had gone out to Camelot, but it was still well to complete their business quickly and then get away from the sector fleet’s HQ. “Neil,” he said, keying his wristcom, “you are authorised to board the freighters as quickly as possible and get them underway.”

“Understood, sir,” the Marine Colonel said. “We’re on our way.”

Colin leaned back in his command chair and watched the display. The remaining freighters had seen sense and surrendered, deactivating their defences and waiting patiently for the Marines. He hoped they didn’t think that his fleet was composed of pirates. Very few merchant skippers would willingly surrender to pirates, knowing what pirates would do to their crew, particularly if their crew including women and children. One duty the Imperial Navy did that Colin approved of completely was suppressing pirates.

He studied the timer on the display thoughtfully, knowing that they would have to wait at least four hours before the freighters could finish powering up their drives and flicker out, to a set of coordinates that Colin had provided. There, a handful of military-grade transports that Daria had somehow obtained — Colin didn’t want to know how, although he suspected bribery — would take the cargo onwards to a secure location beyond the Rim. The Imperial Navy often disposed of older ships onto the civilian market and it wasn’t unknown for underground organisations or terrorists — or pirates — to bribe the Navy into authorising their purchase.

One by one, the ships were boarded and secured. Now all they had to do was wait.

Colonel Neil Frandsen watched through the shuttle’s sensors as they closed in on the freighter, moving in a random evasive pattern just in case the freighter’s crew was feeling particularly bold or stupid. The freighters were only armed with minimal point defence and shields — the Family-run shipping lines had long since decided to cut all, but the most essential costs — but they were more than enough to take out a shuttle, even an armoured Goblin. The freighter was massive. If they had to board her by force and secure her it could take hours, even for trained Marines.

“This is Guard-One,” he said, linking his communications system directly into the freighter. “Please have your entire crew assembled on the bridge when we board and have the Captain meet us at the airlock. There is no need to make this difficult.”

The docking port winked open ahead of them and the pilot guided the shuttle towards it, mating her up neatly with the freighter. By Imperial Law, all airlocks and docking ports had to be standardised, even though there were ways to make the process quicker and more efficient. Neil had long suspected that the real reason for the law was so that the Families — which owned the factories that produced the airlocks — could maintain their monopoly, but he had to admit that it wasn’t such a bad idea. As long as all the airlocks were standard, they could carry out emergency rescue missions without worrying about having to cut through the hull.

“Remember,” he warned, as the air pressure equalised, “be gentle unless they decide to show us any hostility.”

The airlock hissed open and he stepped through, followed rapidly by two other Marines wearing powered combat armour. It was unlikely that the freighter crew carried anything that could punch through the armour, but freighter crew did tend to carry a wide variety of weapons and it was quite possible that they had something they thought could harm the Marines. Besides, the armour was quite intimidating and hopefully it would discourage resistance. He waited impatiently for the inner airlock to hiss open and stepped into the freighter proper. The vessel’s Captain, as per instructions, was waiting for them. She was an older woman, with greying hair and a beaten demeanour, although she held herself proudly.

“Welcome aboard,” she said, curtly. It was probably the most insincere greeting Neil had ever received, although he decided to accept it at face value. The freighter’s crew had witnessed their escorts being destroyed — with no losses to the attackers — and had to have been thoroughly cowed. Or so Neil hoped. The last thing he needed was for someone to start thinking that he could act like a hero. “I will escort you to the bridge.”

Neil followed her though a secure hatch — hearing the sounds of three more Marines cycling through the airlock behind him — and onto the bridge. It wasn’t as efficient as a military vessel, but that wasn’t the real surprise. The real surprise was the crew; four men, five women and seven children of varying ages. The freighter, he realised in surprise, was a family-run business. If it was like others he had seen over the years, the crew would have been independent until they’d finally run afoul of the law and had to contract themselves out to one of the big shipping lines. They’d probably told themselves that they’d work themselves free within the year, only to find that their debts kept mounting and there was no hope of escape. If they’d been captured by pirates… it didn’t bear thinking about.

“Thank you,” he said, resolving to be as polite as possible. There was no need to make it difficult for the Captain. “Is this all your crew?”

“Yes,” the Captain said, shortly.

“I’m going to have to ask you all to remain here while we search the ship,” Neil informed her. He didn’t think that the Captain was lying, but it was always a possibility. “Once we have secured the ship and powered up the drive, we will jump out to a secure location and unload the cargo. After that, you will be free to join us or depart, as you see fit.”