Christopher Nuttall - Democracy's Right

By the time she was welcomed onboard Commodore Rupert Brent-Cochrane’s command ship, she was actually quite intrigued by the results of the exercise. Everyone knew that superdreadnaughts couldn’t be beaten by anything less than a matching force of superdreadnaughts, yet Penny had wondered before if that was actually true. The Imperial Navy’s sole combat duties for the past few centuries had been swatting pirates, hunting rebels and raining missiles on helpless planets. It didn’t exactly encourage innovation and creative thinking, while the rebels — already badly outmatched — had one hell of an incentive to get as creative as possible. She barely noticed when the shuttle landed in the superdreadnaught’s shuttlebay and only looked up when she realised that Commander Figaro, the superdreadnaught’s XO, was waiting with a party of senior officers. Penny, who had never been piped onboard a ship before, accepted his salute with some surprise and allowed him to escort her to the Commodore. Brent-Cochrane, it seemed, was not in the CIC, but in one of the smaller compartments, chatting to his subordinate commanders over the datanet.

The nine superdreadnaught commanders didn’t look happy, even before Figaro opened the hatch and announced Penny, before withdrawing at speed. Penny could understand their unease; quite apart from an unprecedented set of war games, they were holding the post-battle assessment over the datanet, rather than meeting in person. Some of them, she realised, looked particularly unhappy. She guessed that they’d been on the losing side.

Brent-Cochrane looked at her, winked at her as soon as his eye was out of sight of the various holograms drifting in the compartment, and then turned back to his subordinates. “We will be holding another comparable drill tomorrow,” he warned, dryly. “I expect that each and every one of you will do better, or else.”

He tapped a switch and the holograms vanished. “Captain,” Brent-Cochrane said, turning so that he could look up towards Penny. His face split into a remarkably skewed grin. “Would you believe that four superdreadnaughts could beat five?”

Penny wouldn’t have, but there was no point in disagreeing with him. Brent-Cochrane might be a mere Commodore, yet he had connections that reached back into the Empire, connections that would allow him to squash an uppity commoner-born officer, even if she was an aide to an Admiral. Besides, the part of her that remained a professional naval officer was keenly interested. The fleet was rarely allowed to hold any kind of unformulated war games.

“It turns out that they can,” Brent-Cochrane said, waving her to a chair. His grin only grew wider. “You see, the four superdreadnaughts were backed up by swarms of smaller ships, all of which added their own point defence fire to the battle — and all of which were deemed expendable. The five superdreadnaughts simply lacked the firepower to punch through that wall of point defence before it was too late.”

He clicked his fingers as his stewardess arrived. “Natasha,” he sang out. “A glass of the finest Amber Dark for me and another for my guest, at once, if you please.”

Penny frowned inwardly as the stewardess vanished out of the hatch and returned with two wine glasses and a tall thin bottle, from which she poured a blue liquid into the glasses. Penny was mildly surprised to see her — stewards and stewardesses were one of the perks of being a senior officer, yet they normally stayed in their master’s quarters and away from the CIC. The stewardess was short, which very pale hair and a near-golden face. It was fairly certain, Penny was sure, that she was Brent-Cochrane’s lover.

She took one of the glasses and sniffed it carefully, as tradition dictated, although she was sure that someone as well connected as Brent-Cochrane would never stoop to serving an inferior brand. Amber Dark originated on one world — the vines couldn’t be transplanted to another world — and was so expensive that only the highest of the high were able to afford it. Penny had only tasted it once before, when she’d been at a formal ball with Percival, and she had been impressed. It was the finest wine in the Empire.

Brent-Cochrane lifted his glass and met her eyes. “Confusion to the rebels,” he said, and took a sip. No one would swill Amber Dark as if it were a cheap beer. “I trust that you like it?”

Penny took a sip of her own, using the motion to mask her confusion. Brent-Cochrane was being friendly, too friendly. He’d welcomed her onboard, had her piped onto his ship by no less than the ship’s XO and even invited her into his private flag compartment. If she’d been a very well-connected person, she would have suspected that Brent-Cochrane wanted to impress her, yet why would he bother? Penny had nothing that Natasha — or plenty of other women — had. Why, then, was he attempting to seduce her… and, for that matter, just what did he want?

“It’s very sweet,” she said, honestly. She took a second sip, feeling the silky taste billowing over her tongue, and then put the glass down on the nearest table. Natasha moved in to refill the glass. “The Admiral has some orders for you and your squadron.”

“Let’s be honest, shall we?” Brent-Cochrane asked, taking another sip himself. “You’re the one who gives the Admiral ideas he turns into orders, are you not?”

Penny swallowed several responses that came to mind. Somehow, having Brent-Cochrane — of all people — put it into words cut through all of her defences. Percival was a known problem; he was a brutal sadist and incompetent, yet she knew him. Brent-Cochrane was someone she knew far less well. She dared not show him any hint of her real feelings, but somehow she was certain that they had already moved far past that stage.

“I cannot say that that is really surprising,” Brent-Cochrane said. He was staring into his glass, watching as the light blue liquid seemed to spin around, catching and redirecting the light, but she was sure that he was watching her carefully. “The dear Admiral” — his voice had become mocking, a form of mockery that he would never have dared use to his face — “is responsible for the mutiny. Oh yes” — seeing her expression and mistaking it for surprise — “our lord and master betrayed the chief mutineer and then failed to make sure that he was truly broken. I wonder what his superiors would make of that.”

Penny picked up her glass and took another sip, trying to sort through her conflicting feelings. “It’s quite a problem for him,” Brent-Cochrane continued, when she seemed unwilling to continue speaking. “If he fails to contain the rebellion in time — before it spreads — he is likely to end up getting the blame and his patrons will be the first to blame him. The Roosevelt Family isn’t going to back him now, not when their interests are the worst affected. I wonder… what will he do then?”

His gaze sharpened. “And what will you do, I wonder, when Percival crashes and burns?”

“I do not know,” Penny admitted. She had never felt so vulnerable. Like it or not, she had linked her career to Admiral Percival’s career — and if he fell, so too did she. His family might ensure that he received a posting somewhere well away from everyone else — or perhaps arrange a quiet retirement for him — but they wouldn’t bother to do anything for her. She would be lucky to be allowed to resign; it was far more likely that she’d be turned into a scapegoat for Percival’s failure. Five years of helping him, of trying to steer him away from mistakes and allowing him to indulge his unnatural lusts with her would have been for nothing.

“I could help you,” Brent-Cochrane said, surprisingly. Penny knew better than to think he was offering out of the goodness of his heart. There would very definitely be a quid pro quo involved somewhere. “You could transfer yourself to me.”