Christopher Nuttall - Democracy's Right

“Launch the pod,” he ordered. A moment later, Commander Fox’s pod fell out of orbit and started falling down towards the planet’s surface, near one of the few settlements that had refused to leave the planet. There had been times when the pods had burned up in the atmosphere, rather than landing on the surface, but Colin’s engineers had checked the pod. It should deliver its contents to the surface relatively safely. “Helm; power up the drive and prepare to jump us out of here.”

He took one last look at the network of orbital defences covering the planet, and then he tapped a code into his console. Their self-destruct systems activated, destroying the defences and leaving the wreckage falling down towards the surface of the planet. If nothing else, the Empire would have to replace all of the facilities before they repossessed the planet and started shipping out new convicts. It was just another nail in Admiral Percival’s coffin.

“Take us out of here,” he ordered. “It’s time to go home.”

Commander Fox had run out of curses long ago as the pod headed down towards the surface of the planet. It was no smooth shuttle ride, but a bumpy fall towards the surface of the planet, disaster averted only by the parachute deploying and dumping them somewhere on the main continent. The shock of the impact left them all stunned for a few moments, before he finally managed to free himself from the webbing and stagger towards the hatch. It took another few minutes of wrestling before the hatch opened and he half-fell onto the surface of the planet. The stench hit him at once and he wrinkled his nose, feeling vomit bubbling up from inside him. He swallowed hard and looked around. They were lying right on the edge of a massive patch of sand, near a jungle. In the distance, he could see smoke…

And there was something moving, just below the surface of the sand.

“Come on,” he shouted.

And then he started to run.

The innermost chambers of Admiral Percival’s private quarters — luxurious even by the standards of the Thousand Families — were dominated by images of a blonde woman, a woman Penny had never been able to identify. She was tall, with a patrician appearance and very long hair, as if she were born to the purple, yet she only appeared in submissive poses. The main artwork, one that appeared in the main chamber, was of the woman kneeing naked, with her legs spread wide and her hands locked behind her head. Penny had thought, at first, that Percival had been trying to tell her something; later, she’d realised that Percival wasn’t that subtle, or keen to hide what he was. The woman’s identity and her meaning to the Admiral remained a mystery. In truth, Penny wasn’t sure that she wanted to know.

She settled back on the sofa and crossed her legs, attempting to portray an image of being at her ease while Commander David Howe outlined the Jackson’s Folly campaign. Howe was Brent-Cochrane’s man through and through, a client from a family of clients, someone who could be expected to paint his master in the best possible light. Even so, it was hard to disguise the fact that events weren’t going quite as well as they should. After a successful operation against Jackson’s Folly’s space-based defence force — such as it was — the Blackshirts were getting bogged down by insurgency warfare and a bloody-minded population that seemed to regard civil disobedience as a way of life. If the planet and its population weren’t wanted intact, the planet would probably have been scorched by now, yet instead several Blackshirt commanders had been relieved for excessive force. That had struck Penny as hilarious when she’d first heard about it, just before she’d boarded the battlecruiser for the trip back to Camelot. Excessive force was normally the key to advancement in the Blackshirts, the more of it the better. They just weren’t anything more than the Empire’s sledgehammer.

But best of all, as far as she was concerned, was that there was no way that she could be blamed for the operation’s successes and failures. She hadn’t been in command; indeed, even Percival wouldn’t have had the nerve to put her in a command position, not over someone as well-connected as Brent-Cochrane. His Family would go ballistic and Percival’s career would feel the effects; there was no way that the Roosevelt Family would back him that far, not after such a foolish action. Brent-Cochrane would have the glory if the war was a success — she carefully didn’t look at Stacy Roosevelt, who was occupying another chair, her face pale and expressionless — and, unluckily for him, the blame if things continued to go badly wrong.

“And so he wants reinforcements,” Percival demanded, finally. “Did he bother to suggest from where I should draw those reinforcements?”

Penny concealed her smile. She’d briefed Percival that there were relatively few Blackshirt divisions left in the sector, certainly not ones that could be pulled away from their current duties and reassigned. The Empire’s rule was, not entirely surprisingly, rarely popular and if the Blackshirts were called away, a safe rear area might no longer be safe. Percival might have the authority to scorch second-rank or third-rank worlds, yet his superiors would not be too happy with any such action. Planets were expensive and terraforming a world after it had been scorched was a tedious, time-consuming project.

“No, Admiral,” Howe said. For the first time, he looked uncertain. Penny almost sympathised. How could he know how far his patron would back him? “He merely wishes you to know that accomplishing the objective of breaking Jackson’s Folly to the will of the Empire will require either reinforcements or mass slaughter.”

Percival scowled, his face turning an alarming shade of purple. “I will consider your master’s orders,” he said, in a tone that suggested that Brent-Cochrane had better watch his back. Penny shrugged to herself. Percival had never faced such a series of interlocking catastrophes before and it was bringing out the worst in him. How long would it be, she wondered, before he started searching for a scapegoat? If she knew him at all — and, after five years of service, she knew him very well — it wouldn’t be long at all. “I suggest that you transfer your chips to the intelligence staff here and then get some rest. I may wish to talk to you later.”

Howe, at least, was bright enough to recognise a dismissal when he heard one. Bowing his head to Stacy, he saluted Percival, turned and marched out of the quarters. He’d probably find his way to the relaxation centre and have some fun with the girls there, before getting some sleep — or perhaps he was canny enough to go straight to his assigned quarters and get some rest. There was no way to know, but then, Penny didn’t really care.

“Penny,” Percival said, turning back to face her. She nodded, concealing her own apprehension. “Do you agree with the report from Commodore Brent-Cochrane?”

Penny kept her face expressionless. It could be a set-up, an attempt to shift the blame, or it could be a genuine question. With Percival, either was possible. “Jackson’s Folly is unusually well-armed for a world,” she said, carefully. “Occupying the surface is one thing; crushing the planet’s determination to fight on is going to take much longer. On the other hand, the planet’s high orbitals are in our hands and the locals have no way of displaying us from those positions. Our ultimate victory is assured.”

“Yet we need the planet’s population relatively intact,” Stacy pointed out. Just for a second, she sounded the age she appeared, a teenage girl far out of her depth. Penny felt no sympathy. Even if Stacy had been in command, even if the mutiny hadn’t taken place, the results would have been identical. “We need to exploit the world and its daughter colonies, not destroy it.”