Christopher Nuttall - Democracy's Right

She smiled inwardly as he bent over the terminal and tapped it rapidly, scrolling through sheets of reports provided by various star systems. He had ordered, against Penny’s advice, that every star system and duty station was to report its status as often as possible — and fired off demerits and demotions for officers who failed to produce comprehensive reports. In theory, it should have allowed him a perfect image of the sector and how it was functioning; in practice, it was just another waste of time, a substitute for real action. She couldn’t imagine Brent-Cochrane or another competent officer wasting his time with such garbage.

Angelika’s position, Penny suspected, was stronger than she had known. If Percival had ordered a board of inquiry to convene, that board of inquiry would have had to look into everything, up to and including the original mutinies that had overwhelmed the Observation Squadron. And, even with a tame board of inquiry, there would be no way to hide the sheer scale of Percival’s failures. By law, the details would have to be communicated to Imperial Navy HQ on Luna, alerting them to the problems in Sector 117. Thanks to the rebels, they were going to know soon enough anyway, but Percival’s board of inquiry would sharpen a few minds. He might as well have signed his own death warrant.

“ Bitch ,” Percival said, finally. He brought his hand hard down on the wooden table, shaking it badly. It was real Earth-born wood, a rarity so far from Humanity’s homeworld, and it was worth more than Penny would ever see in her life. And yet, Percival was prepared to damage it, even to destroy it, just because he was angry. “That bitch presumes that she can dictate to me!”

Penny thought it was safest to say nothing and let him work it out of his system, so she pretended to pay attention as Percival raged, blaming each and everyone — apart from himself — for the disasters that had swept through Sector 117. He stormed backwards and forwards, banging his hand against the bulkheads and the desk, but he didn’t lay a hand on her. Penny was relieved, but also puzzled. Had he sensed something about her, perhaps the hope she’d felt after Brent-Cochrane had welcomed her into his circle? Or had he just decided not to take his anger out on her?

“And so we have to find more Blackshirts and sent them to Jackson’s Folly, where they too will be killed,” Percival finished. “How many Blackshirts can we scrape up if we cut all of the garrisons in the Sector down to the bare minimum?”

Penny, who had worked the numbers out weeks ago, was ready. “Around seven hundred thousand, sir,” she said, briskly. There just weren’t that many Blackshirts left in the Sector, not after the rebels had captured the first invasion force intact and devastated the second force months later. She would be very surprised to discover that a single Blackshirt was left alive on Jackson’s Folly. Percival had stripped out a sizable force for the first invasion and had to do the same for the second invasion. There might be an unlimited supply of Blackshirts — there was no shortage of people willing to join, be injected with tailored drugs and sent out to kill on behalf of the Empire — yet it took time to train up new ones. “I’m afraid that transport is also going to be a bottleneck.”

“Those goddamned raiders,” Percival exploded. Penny could only nod. She didn’t know how they’d done it, but the rebels had managed to get most of the rebel groups working together, specifically targeting Imperial shipping. Their targeted raids — they were so well targeted that she was sure that they had a source somewhere within Camelot — were having a dangerous effect on local shipping. “God damn those bastards to hell!”

Penny carefully didn’t mention a second problem. No matter how she looked at it, it was alarmingly clear that too much tonnage was disappearing for it to be raiders, unless the raiders possessed a fleet large enough to stand up to several battle squadrons. She hadn’t brought it to Percival’s attention, but she suspected that the true explanation was much simpler than they had realised. The ships were vanishing because their crews were mutinying against their superiors — or the shipping lines that held them in bondage — and setting out to find the rebels. It seemed impossible, until she looked at the freighter designs. There was no way they could all be secured without placing a company of Blackshirts on each and every freighter. And that, judging from some of the incidents on Imperial Navy starships, would do nothing for morale.

By her off-hand calculations, the shipping in Sector 117 was disappearing at an alarming rate, damaging the ties that held the sector together. What would happen then? There was no way to know for sure, but some of the planets simply couldn’t feed themselves, which would result in mass starvation. At least the rebels hadn’t been targeting cloudscoops, although that might change in a hurry. A shortage of HE-3 would ensure that interstellar shipping ground to a halt. And what would Percival do then?

She looked up as the door chime rang, insistently. Percival strode over to his desk and slapped his hand hard down on the release, opening the hatch. William Derbyshire entered and blinked owlishly at Percival, as if he were a mild-mannered professor rather than Imperial Intelligence’s Head of Station. Percival seemed to calm down instantly; he might have been the Sector Commander, but a complaint from Imperial Intelligence would result in his demotion and transfer to the other side of the Empire.

“Ah, Admiral,” Derbyshire said. He took a seat without being invited and pulled a sealed datachip out of his pocket, opening it with his thumbprint and inserting it into the desktop processor. “There has been something of a development.”

He looked up as the symbol of Imperial Intelligence appeared on the display. “We have been tapping all of our assets in the Beyond to attempt to locate the rebels,” he said. “It was not an easy task. The Beyond is a very paranoid place and even those who are well-known in the community don’t know everything. Indeed, those who are well-known may know the least, because they’re easy for everyone to find. The people maintain their privacy and mind their own business…”

“Sounds like paradise,” Percival growled, impatiently. Derbyshire smiled, indulgently. “What did one of your tame mouthpieces find?”

“It would have to be a tame ear,” Derbyshire said, absently. Penny realised that he was enjoying mocking Percival, or making him wait before he uncovered his secret. “We only use mouthpieces to spread lies and propaganda throughout the Beyond. We have been spreading propaganda about the rebels, but alas — the Beyond doesn’t seem to believe us. I fear we may have lost several mouthpieces to their counter-intelligence teams.”

“Never mind that,” Percival ordered. “What did you learn?”

Derbyshire looked up at him. “Oh, nothing too much,” he said. “Just the location of the rebel base.”

Percival’s mouth opened. No sound came out.

“One of our deep-cover agents was invited to the meeting where they announced their Popular Front,” Derbyshire explained, grinning. “It took the agent some time to get to a more… open asteroid, but once he made it… why, the message was passed on to a covert team and sent back here. The commander made the call to come here directly, rather than continue with his program, and I’m sure that you will agree that he deserves a reward. I have taken the liberty of writing him a commendation in your name, as well as urging that he be promoted as soon as possible. The Empire needs minds that can react and adapt plans — or abandon them — at short notice.”

At any other time, Percival would have exploded at the thought of someone else daring to use — even by proxy — his authority. Instead, he just stared at the desktop processor, as if it contained the key to eternal life — or, perhaps, to eternal patronage. Penny could almost read his thoughts. If he destroyed — or crippled — the rebellion, perhaps he wouldn’t lose his power and position after all.