Christopher Nuttall - Democracy's Right

The shuttle gently touched down and the hatch opened, allowing the air from the fortress to flow into their craft. Brent-Cochrane’s personal bodyguard stood up and headed out of the hatch, making a circuit of the craft before he would allow any of Brent-Cochrane’s staff to follow him into the hanger bay. That, too, was another subtle insult to Percival, an implication that Brent-Cochrane didn’t trust his superior to organise his own security. Percival, an expert at the backstabbing and intrigue that made up the innermost circles of the Imperial Navy, would have no difficulty in understanding the message, although he would still find himself powerless to respond.

“Clear,” the bodyguard said, finally. If there was any doubt in his voice, Penny couldn’t hear it. “There’s a reception party waiting for you.”

The small party stood to attention as the Empire’s Anthem started to blare out, played through the speakers. Brent-Cochrane stepped from the shuttle, every inch the visiting monarch, and strutted to the far end of the line. The welcoming party was commanded, Penny saw with an inner flicker of doubt, by a mere Lieutenant. That, too, was an insult, one calculated to annoy the impulsive Commodore. Brent-Cochrane showed no visible reaction, even to her; he accepted the young officer’s salute and returned it with his own.

“Lieutenant,” he said, calmly and with perfect poise. “Permission to come aboard?”

“Permission granted, My Lord,” the Lieutenant said. He looked relieved; Penny knew how he felt. There were cases of visiting officers being offended by their reception party and demanding immediate punishment, or breaking careers effortlessly because they felt that their pride had been slighted. “Welcome onboard.”

Brent-Cochrane smiled. “Thank you,” he said. “Would you care to escort us to the Admiral’s quarters?”

The Lieutenant bowed and nodded, dismissing the welcoming party with a wave of his hand and turning to lead the two of them out of the hanger bay. Brent-Cochrane dismissed most of his party — he’d given them orders to mingle with the station’s crew, but remain on call — and allowed Penny to precede him as they walked though the station. The station was so massive that even Percival hadn’t been tempted to try to decorate it all in his own favoured style — the cost would have been shockingly high, even to someone with far more exalted connections — but she saw some of his paintings and artworks scattered around, announcing his control over the station. She wondered, sometimes, what the lower decks thought of their supreme commander’s taste in artwork, although no one gave a damn about their opinions — least of all Percival. The lower decks were there to do the dirty work and then remain out of sight, out of mind. The Imperial Navy only tolerated a few Mustangs — officers from the lower decks — every year.

Penny considered as she walked, contemplating the two men in her life. Percival was a sadist and a sexual pervert, yet in his way he was simple and easy to understand. The longer she spent in Brent-Cochrane’s company, the harder she found it to understand him. He was intelligent, capable, competent and — unlike Percival — interested in her for her brain, rather than her body. After their first coupling, he had never touched her again. It struck her as odd.

Or perhaps it wasn’t so odd, she reflected. Men liked playing their dominance games and Brent-Cochrane was playing one, not with her, but with Percival. Sleeping with Percival’s woman might be nothing more than yet another attempt to beat Percival, even though Percival would never find out about it. Brent-Cochrane might have a grand scheme to dislodge Percival from his position, yet in his mind, he already had. Or perhaps he trusted in his patrons and his undoubted ability to control his ships. He was simply too valuable for Percival to dispose of him.

Penny’s lips tightened as she fought to get back into the old ways of thought, adding an extra sway to her hips and tightening her jacket. The courier boat had found the squadron four days ago, ordering Brent-Cochrane to abandon his position and bring the squadron to Camelot with all possible speed. That, she was sure, meant bad news… or perhaps Percival had his own plan to get rid of his uppity subordinate before things went badly wrong for him. Or perhaps he was just missing Penny in his bed… no, that couldn’t be the answer. He could have ordered any of the young female officers into his bed and no one would have cared — well, no one who mattered. The Imperial Navy wouldn’t have cared in the slightest as such abuses of power were common, even winked at by senior officers.

Brent-Cochrane had been furious, although his fury hadn’t been as raging hot as Percival’s had been, when she’d been slapped or beaten by her superior. She could understand his position, for they’d been working on training the squadron, only to discover that most of the commanding officers were unsuited for their position. The Empire rarely gave superdreadnaughts to officers with imagination — they might have the imagination to use them in rebellion against the Empire — and Brent-Cochrane’s subordinates had the collective intelligence of a dead fish. She smiled at the thought; perhaps it was a little harsh. The collective intelligence of a dying scorpion, doomed, but still able to kill with its sting. If something happened to him, his subordinates would fight on, with all the intelligence and competence of a newly-minted cadet entering the Academy.

The Lieutenant paused outside the Admiral’s outer hatch and pressed his thumbprint against the scanner, opening the hatch and allowing them access. He stood aside, waving them through — it seemed that junior officers were still not allowed into the Admiral’s quarters — and closed the hatch behind them. Four Blackshirts, carrying stun batons and sensor needles, stepped forward and ran the needles over their bodies, looking for hidden surprises. Penny concealed her own surprise. Percival had to be feeling paranoid… or perhaps he was making another subtle insult, implying that he didn’t trust Brent-Cochrane not to harm him. Penny almost snorted at the thought. Brent-Cochrane’s plans for harming his superior officer, at least as far as she knew, didn’t include his physical murder.

“They’re clean,” the first Blackshirt reported. He was a burly man, with piggish eyes; indeed, Penny wondered if the training process had included shots of Gorilla DNA. His voice, a thick guttural sound, was an unmistakable mark, the results of the drugs that had been shot into the recruits when they entered the training camps. They ensured both obedience to lawful authority and unquestioning brutality to everyone else. “No bombs, no guns; only a single dress sword.”

“Then show them in,” an impatient voice snapped. Penny felt her heart skip a beat as Percival’s voice echoed through the compartment. “Now, if you please.”

Penny allowed Brent-Cochrane to precede her into Percival’s inner compartment, taking the additional few seconds to gather her thoughts. Percival had altered the décor slightly, moving the submissive blonde woman to a new place on the wall and replacing it with… she leaned forward, unable to believe her eyes. The new picture was one of a man being unceremoniously strangled by the hangman’s noose. She fought down the urge to vomit, trying to understand why Percival had placed it in such prominence, or why he would want to sleep under it. Or why, for that matter, he would expect her to sleep under it.

“They failed in their duty,” Percival said, without bothering with formalities. That might have been intended as yet another insult, but she suspected, from the angry tone of helpless fury in his voice, that it was simply an oversight. “They failed in their duty and, because of them, the whole Empire knows about the rebellion.”