Christopher Nuttall - Democracy's Right

The planet’s second weakness was one that Colin had puzzled over, before resolving to data-mine the planet’s computers — once the war was over — and try to ferret out the answer. Unlike most of the other worlds in the sector, Piccadilly was defended by forces owned and operated by the Roosevelt Family, not the Imperial Navy. The Empire as a whole might frown on anyone else — even a Family — owning and operating superdreadnaughts, but they didn’t try to forbid the Families from owning smaller ships. The Roosevelt Family hadn’t hired the Imperial Navy, even under Percival’s command, to guard their planet; they’d gone to the expense of obtaining their own fortresses and starships. Even for an entity as wealthy and powerful as the Roosevelt Family, that wasn’t small change. It would have made a noticeable dent in their fortunes.

His lips twisted into a smile. Household Troops — even ones crewing starships and orbital fortresses — were loyal to their Family, not to the Imperial Navy and they wouldn’t think it necessary to take the precautions that an Imperial Navy officer would take. Perhaps, Colin hoped, including allowing a superdreadnaught squadron far too close without confirming the identity of the commander and his crew. They would consider the word of a Roosevelt Client more important than any warning from the Imperial Navy.

“Thank them for me,” Colin said, “and tell them that I will be delighted to accept.”

He watched as the communications officer keyed the program, sending the second false message. Luckily, they were too far from the planet for a real conversation, although as they slid closer to the world and the time delay fell, he suspected it would become harder to maintain the masquerade. If they found someone who actually knew Commodore Kennedy… well, by that point they’d better be in weapons range, or they’d just have to flicker out and try again somewhere else.

Colin pushed the thought aside, sitting back in his command chair and trying to appear relaxed, even though his heart was pounding so loudly that he was surprised no one else could hear it. This was it, the fleet’s first real mission against a tough target. The Annual Fleet hadn’t been expecting an attack when Colin had opened fire; the penal world hadn’t stood a chance, even if they had dared to offer resistance. This was the first attack where Colin could expect to lose some of his ships, perhaps including a superdreadnaught. And a defeat at this stage would be disastrous.

“Launch three stealth probes,” he ordered. Luckily, the planet’s defenders didn’t feel like chatting. “I want to make sure that they have nothing stealthed awaiting us.”

That, too, was a gamble. If they brought up active sensors, someone on the other side would ask the obvious question — why? An alert tactical officer might realise that Colin’s fleet wasn’t behaving as if it was on a courtesy visit. Yet… if they had starships — like one of Percival’s other squadrons of superdreadnaughts — hidden away under cloak, they could spring an ambush before Colin realised that they were there and reacted. The stealth probes were a compromise, allowing him to gain some extra insight into the system without tipping his hand. He hoped.

“Aye, sir,” the tactical officer said. Stealthed probes were expensive, which was partly why the Empire rarely deployed them except on truly vital occasions. In theory, they were undetectable, but Colin’s experience with cloaking devices had told him that there was always turbulence, the disturbances in local space caused by the passage of a cloaked ship. “I’m launching probes now.”

Colin nodded. The first probe would head down towards the planet — reporting its findings via tightbeam laser transmissions — while the other two would orbit the squadron, watching for trouble. The main display, even using the passive sensors, was still updating itself; the more Colin looked, the more he felt puzzled, even unsure. The Roosevelt Family had built no less than three cloudscoops, which should provide enough fuel for a far greater industrial sector than he was seeing. The thought nagged at him. What, he wondered, were they trying to hide?

On impulse, he patched into the communications console and studied the image of the dispatcher talking to his communications officer. He wore a red, orange and green uniform that clashed appallingly with his colour, an outrage against fashion, even to Colin’s limited fashion senses. That, too, wasn’t uncommon among the Household Troops. Their masters liked them to look striking, to remind the universe of their power and wealth, even if they did end up looking ridiculous. Colin bit down a snicker. The enemy officer looked rather like a trifle on legs.

His humour died. Or perhaps, he wondered, that was the point all long.

Specialist Bart Roberson didn’t have a very demanding job, although he wasn’t a very demanding person. He’d trained in the Imperial Navy as a sensor specialist, before the Roosevelt Family’s recruiters had seen his file and made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. If he joined the Household Troops, he could have a far higher salary and the chance to play with the latest communications gear; if he refused, he could be assured of a transfer to a cold and deserted asteroid monitoring station on the far edge of nowhere. He’d agreed, biting down his anger, only to discover that he’d been posted to the far edge of nowhere anyway. Actually, that was harsh; whatever else could be said about Piccadilly, it wasn’t a bad place to live and work. Two of his subordinates were actually young natives of the planet — their families were clients of clients, as he understood it — and he’d spent some time down on the surface himself. There were nice homes, nice people and even nice fishing!

He frowned down at his console, puzzled. System Command on Piccadilly normally didn’t have a very challenging job. The system was supposed to be off-limits to non-authorised ships, leaving his main task monitoring asteroid miners and the warships that protected the system. The arrival of an entire squadron of superdreadnaughts had been a surprise, but at the same time it had been surprisingly reassuring. No one, apart from the Imperial Navy, was allowed to build and deploy superdreadnaughts.

And yet there was something wrong. He was sure of it. The nine superdreadnaughts seemed to be legit, with the proper IFF codes, but something kept nagging at his mind. He had the galling feeling that if he’d had some proper military experience, he would have known what was wrong. He couldn’t place it at all.

“Sir,” he said, slowly. “I think you should take a look at this.”

Commander Darius Falcon looked over his shoulder. The Commander wasn’t a bad person, although he refused to mingle with his subordinates and seemed to have the delusion that he was an aristocrat himself. Personally, Bart didn’t give a damn. The Thousand Families ran the Empire and if they had all the power, at least they weren’t trying to crush his soul. They’d even done him a favour, of sorts, when they’d brought him into the Household Troops. He would certainly not have received such a high salary in the Imperial Navy.

“They’re legit,” the Commander said. “What is it about them that is puzzling you?”

“I’m not sure,” Bart admitted. The Commander didn’t have any more military experience than Bart did — he’d got his post through connections — and he might not have understood. “There’s just something wrong about them.”

On impulse, he brought up the display and showed the feed from one of the live sensors. The superdreadnaughts were lumbering forward — there was little beauty or grace in their movements — and heading right towards Alpha Station. Under Alpha, in a lower orbit, the massive orbital docking station waited, its crews already preparing to receive the superdreadnaught squadron. The Roosevelt Family would probably be quite happy to allow their client’s crew to have leave on the station, even if they didn’t allow them to go down to the planet.