Christopher Nuttall - Democracy's Right

“Open a channel,” he ordered. “This is Admiral Walker of the Shadow Fleet.”

He smiled, knowing how the enemy crewmen would be reacting. The Shadow Fleet was a legend, even though Colin suspected that the Popular Front — or whatever they ended up calling themselves — wouldn’t want to keep the name. Still… he could use it for the moment and, with any luck, it would serve to confuse the enemy.

“You are ordered to surrender at once,” he continued. “If you comply with all of our orders, you will not be harmed. Deactivate the planetary defence grid. Do not attempt to purge your computers or activate any destruct systems. You have one minute from this message to comply.”

He leaned back in his command chair and waited for the seconds to tick away. Purging a starship’s computers would make it hard to use the ship, at least until the computers could be rebooted and reprogrammed, but it was hardly fatal. The computers on the orbital platform, on the other hand, were vitally important. They contained the records of who had been sent to where on the planet’s surface. It didn’t take much imagination to realise that searching an entire planet — a planet with no technology that could be detected from orbit — was not going to be an easy task. Colin knew that it would take years to accomplish and there was no way he could keep his fleet in one place that long. It would be easier to contact Percival and offer to surrender.

“Target the automated platforms,” he ordered. There were thirty seconds before they deadline ran out. “Prepare to fire.”

“I’m seeing things,” Lieutenant Adam burbled. He stank of alcohol and sparkle dust. It wasn’t forbidden when off duty — and forbidding it wouldn’t have been very effective in any case — but Fox felt a twinge of disgust. “They’re a figment of my imagination.”

“You have no imagination,” Fox snarled at him. He’d wondered if his sensors had been having flights of fancy when the superdreadnaughts arrived, but every sensor told the same story. The wreckage of the bulk freighter had been forgotten as the superdreadnaughts ploughed their way towards his station. Their blocky ugly image — the very picture of a blunt instrument — was now displayed on all of his consoles. Their tactical scans were so powerful that they were threatening to blind some of his more sensitive sensors. “Inject yourself with a cleanser and then take the tactical console.”

He ignored Adam’s fumbling in the compartment’s medical dispenser as he stared at the superdreadnaughts, his mind racing. What was he to do? A tactical genius like Admiral Joshua Wachter could not have pulled a victory from the jaws of defeat, not with nine superdreadnaughts bearing down on him. The defences hadn’t been designed to stand up to anything heavier than an assault cruiser. If he surrendered, the Empire would not be happy with him and he might find himself the latest convict on the planet’s surface; if he fought, the results would be certain death. It didn’t take a simulation to tell him that any fighting could only have one result.

“Answer them,” Adam said. Fox looked up with a snap. The seconds had been ticking away while he’d been frozen by his own thoughts. “Tell them that we surrender!”

The naked panic in his voice disgusted Fox, yet he understood; to his shame, there was nothing else they could do, but surrender. Adam might have been a coward — it was why he had been sent to the penal world’s orbiting station in the first place — yet he was right. Fox might have fought if there had been a hope of victory, but that hope was simply non-existent. A single superdreadnaught would have rolled over his station — probably without even having its paint scratched — and then liberated the prisoners anyway. Nine superdreadnaughts would just do it quicker.

He keyed the console. “This is Commander Fox,” he said, calmly. As long as they were talking, there was still a chance that he could game the outcome. “If we surrender, what guarantees do you offer for my men and me?”

There was hardly any pause before the reply, a sign of just how close the superdreadnaughts were to his station. “We will guarantee that they and you will remain alive,” the voice said. It was as cold and harsh as the winters on an icy world, one far from a warm star. “We make no other promises. Surrender now or die. There will be no further discussions.”

Fox bowed his head. At least they would live… if the speaker chose to keep his word. It was tempting to believe that he wouldn’t, but he knew that if they fought, they died. There really was no other choice.

“Deactivate the defence grid,” he ordered Adam, who was already standing by the tactical console. He flicked a switch and linked back into the communications system. “We surrender; I say again, we surrender. The defence grid is deactivated.”

“Good,” the voice said. “Armed Marines are on their way. I strongly advise you to comply with their orders and do nothing to irritate them.”

“I understand,” Fox said, caught between fear and puzzlement. Armed Marines ? Who were these people? They couldn’t be the Shadow Fleet. Even at its height, the Shadow Fleet of legend had never included superdreadnaughts, or the Empire would have taken it a great deal more seriously. The only thing he could think of was that it might be a security test, yet why would they bother? It made no sense to him at all. “We will comply.”

He switched the channel again, connecting him to the other stations on his platform. “We are going to be boarded,” he said, flatly. “You are ordered to comply with their requests ” — he didn’t want to say orders — “as far as possible. They have promised that they will leave us alive as long as we cooperate. That is all.”

Fox sat down in his command chair and waited to see what would happen. On the display, the defence grid had gone completely off-line, but the newcomers weren’t taking any chances. They were keeping their shields up and their weapons ready to deal out death to anyone who interfered with them, while shuttles were being launched towards the station, following an evasive pattern that looked vaguely familiar. The speaker had talked about Marines, he recalled, and the shuttle pilots were flying Marine-standard flight patterns…

He just didn’t know what to make of it. Who were these people?

“Ugly station,” Colonel Neil Frandsen muttered, as his shuttle flew right towards the orbital platform. The Empire hadn’t bothered to invest much love in the design; it was a boxy platform, covered with airlocks and launching tubes for transport pods. It even looked old, as if the workers couldn’t be bothered painting it properly before completing the assembly and releasing it into orbit. But then, hardly anyone was expected to see it. No one cared about the opinions of the convicts, the Imperial Navy personnel on duty would be the dregs of the system and the rest of the Empire wouldn’t be permitted in the system. “Take us right towards the VIP entrance.”

The pilot chuckled as the shuttle levelled out and arrowed towards an airlock near the top of the boxy platform. Neil watched, unconcerned, as they passed deactivated weapons stations, each one only requiring the touch of a button to bring it to life again. The station’s crew could kill thirty Marines, if they opened fire, but then the fleet outside would reduce the station to flaming debris, all of which would fall into the planet’s atmosphere and probably set off another environmental change.

He keyed his suit’s radio. “Commander Fox, you will assemble your command crew in the main compartment,” he ordered. “Any officer or crewman found out of place will be unceremoniously shot.”