Christopher Nuttall - Democracy's Right

She passed through two layers of security around the Admiral’s private compartment, wincing as the Blackshirts on guard ran sensor probes over her body, before entering the antechamber and taking a moment to catch her breath. Whatever was on the datachip, it couldn’t be good. The thought of passing it to a younger officer and ordering him to give it to the Admiral was tempting, but Penny liked to think that she had more integrity than that. Besides, Percival might not be so quick to dispose of her. He’d have to find another partner as well as a competent aide.

“Come in,” Percival’s voice said, as she keyed the access panel. Penny braced herself and stepped inside. For a man with such depraved tastes, Admiral Percival’s office was fairly simple, decorated with only a handful of artworks. It had taken her several years to realise that Percival, by decorating his office in such a manner, was making a statement to his social superiors. Stacy Roosevelt had probably understood it at once. “I trust that you have an update on the Annual Fleet?”

“No, sir,” Penny said, as she saw Percival sitting at his desk, reading a datapad. “There is no update from the Annual Fleet.”

She pasted a concerned expression on her face as the Admiral keyed a switch, bringing up the lights in the compartment to full intensity. Admiral Percival had been handsome once, yet now he looked unpleasant, although honesty compelled her to admit that that might be her awareness of his inner nature talking. He was balding, with a chest that was going steadily to fat, concealed only by skilful tailoring. His piggish eyes stared suspiciously at her, for once without the lust her skilfully tailored uniform awoke in his mind. Admiral Percival might not have had the connections and patronage he claimed to have — if he had, he would have been Grand Admiral — but he was an expert at the great game of intrigue and could tell when something was badly wrong. And, the nasty part of her mind whispered, he was right.

The Admiral had been worried for the last three days about the Annual Fleet, which had been meant to arrive five days ago. Penny herself wasn’t so worried. The fleet was coming directly from the Core Worlds and it was almost certain to be delayed, whatever the Imperial Navy might have promised. Percival knew that, at least theoretically, but his contacts with the Roosevelt Family were breathing down his neck. It was a complete waste of time. There was nothing Percival could do to make the fleet arrive faster. And, of course, he knew that, adding to his foul temper at the unjust nature of the universe.

She took a moment to think, parsing her words carefully. “Admiral, Commodore Roosevelt has returned from Jackson’s Folly,” she said. If she could make sure that Stacy got all the blame, perhaps she could escape unscathed. “There has been an incident.”

Percival stared at her. He would have been informed at once if the superdreadnaughts had returned, but he had missed Stacy’s bulk freighter. No one had known who the ship carried until the Marines had boarded her and discovered Stacy and three hundred officers and men.

“An incident,” he repeated. He sounded suspicious. “What kind of incident?”

Penny kept her face carefully blank. “She lost the superdreadnaughts,” she said. Percival’s eyes opened wide. “This datachip is supposed to explain it.”

She leaned over and inserted the chip into the Admiral’s reader, watching over Percival’s shoulder as the image appeared on the screen. A young officer, wearing a Commander’s uniform, was standing in Stacy’s flag deck, on the superdreadnaught. Penny didn’t recognise him, but from Percival’s sudden intake of breath, it was clear that he did.

“Admiral Percival,” the unnamed Commander said. His voice was mocking, almost cocky. “By now, you will know that we have taken over both the Observation Squadron and Commodore Roosevelt’s superdreadnaught squadron. You may consider this a declaration of war. We are officers and men who have grown aware of the true nature of the Empire — and of people such as you — and we are sworn to bring it down, or die trying. I advise you to consider surrender. We are coming for you.”

Penny concealed her own reaction with an effort, for Percival had gone red with anger. It was clear that the message had been carefully designed to incite him to fury, perhaps to push him into doing something stupid. It wasn’t a very informative message, but then, the real message had been Stacy Roosevelt’s return to Camelot. It not only proved that the Commander was telling the truth, yet it was also a gesture of contempt. Besides, she thought in the privacy of her own head, returning Stacy only hurt the Empire. Shooting her in the head or blowing her out the airlock would have been rather more helpful.

“ Walker ,” Percival hissed. He seemed to be having difficulty controlling himself. “God damn it — I told Howell he couldn’t be trusted!”

That, Penny suspected, was an outright lie. Whoever Commander Walker was, if there had been the slightest suggestion from the Admiral that he couldn’t be trusted, he would not have been promoted to Commander, let alone transferred to the Observation Squadron. She pulled her personal terminal off her belt and checked its records. There was a Commander Colin Walker attached to the Observation Squadron, Captain Howell’s XO. The image matched.

Percival glared up at her. “What happened?”

“I don’t know, sir,” Penny admitted. She was more shaken than she cared to admit. A rebel with an entire squadron of superdreadnaughts under his command could do a great deal of damage before the Empire found and destroyed the ships. If the Empire ever did find and destroy the ships, for space was vast and it was impossible to cover all of the possible targets. How had Stacy managed to lose the ships? “All I have is that datachip.”

Percival stared down at the table. “Call a meeting,” he ordered, finally. “I want to speak to Stacy personally and then we will decide what to do.”

Penny hoped that the cosmetic scales on her face covered the bruises as she followed Admiral Percival into the Flag Briefing Room. Percival had heard Stacy’s account of what had happened — Penny suspected that it had been modified a little to make Stacy look better, although nothing could have saved her from looking a total fool — and thrown a furious tantrum of his own. Penny wanted to rub her cheek where he’d slapped her, but it would only have drawn attention to the marks. She just hoped that no one could see them.

“Attention on deck,” Admiral Percival growled. The four people waiting for them stood up at once. “Be seated. We have a long day ahead of us.”

He took his own chair and looked at Stacy Roosevelt. “Rebels have taken a superdreadnaught squadron,” he said, flatly. “Apparently, the Observation Squadron decided to mutiny and then take the superdreadnaughts when Commodore Roosevelt arrived. They were totally successful.”

Penny watched the other two Commodores, the commanders of Percival’s remaining superdreadnaught squadrons, as Percival outlined what had happened. Commodore William, an older man with a sense of decency, looked shocked, almost as if he was unable to believe what had happened. William — like Percival, he had rejected his family’s name, being very low in the hierarchy — might not have been the most competent of officers, but he was reliable. Penny would have given her right eye to serve under him.

Commodore Rupert Brent-Cochrane, on the other hand, was clearly enjoying Stacy’s discomfort. Brent-Cochrane — the name signified a pairing between two different branches of the Thousand Families — was young, ambitious and completely ruthless. He had carried out two scorching missions of worlds that had dared to rise in revolt against the Empire and ruled his crew with an iron hand. A tiny medal on his uniform marked him as a member of the Disciples of Gor, a cult that existed within the Thousand Families and some of their most trusted sycophants. Few knew for sure what they did behind closed doors, but some of the rumours were terrifying. The man might have been classically handsome — the result of expensive modifications by body-shapers — yet his eyes told the true story. The Commodore was even more of a sadist than Percival.