Christopher Nuttall - Democracy's Right

“It’s too late,” the helmsman shouted. The drive was still powering up. There wasn’t even enough power to make a random jump and hope they didn’t arrive as billions of disconnected atoms. “It’s too late…”

The tidal wave of missiles slammed into her ships and the entire battlecruiser squadron disintegrated. There were no survivors.

Neil somehow managed to gather himself long enough to close his jaw. He’d been a Marine for longer than he cared to remember and had seen far too many battles in space, yet he’d never seen anything like that, not even in drills. It had been centuries since the Empire had called together enough superdreadnaughts to launch so many missiles at once, but the launching ships were only freighters. How had they fitted so many missile launchers into the ships? And, coming to think of it, who was in command of the ships? Admiral Walker certainly hadn’t told him about the possibility.

“We are being hailed,” one of the operators said. Neil dragged himself back to reality. With their battlecruisers gone, the invaders could either surrender or die and he didn’t care much which one they chose. He dispatched a string of orders to his Marines, ordering them to hold position and demand surrender. “The commander of the ships would like to speak with you.”

“Put him through,” Neil ordered. If nothing else, they’d get some answers. “Who is it…?”

The display screen lit up, revealing a very familiar face. “Good afternoon, Major,” Daria said. Her face cracked into a brilliant smile. “I do hope I’m not late?”

The party had started as soon as the remaining Blackshirts were rounded up, secured and stored in an old freighter until the rebel leadership could decide what to do with them. The inhabitants of the asteroid had spontaneously flowed into the main chamber and started celebrating their victory and their miraculous escape from death or capture. A line of stores had opened, selling food and drink at knock-down prices, while no less than three bands were providing music for dancing with more enthusiasm than skill. It seemed as if the entire remaining population of the asteroid was there, shouting and singing and indulging in a celebration that threatened to shake the asteroid to pieces. No one seemed to care any longer about the danger.

Hannelore gasped in delight as Cordova whirled her around the dance floor. She didn’t know the steps — the dance was nothing like the formal dances she’d learned back at the High City — but it didn’t seem to matter. Hardly anyone seemed to know the steps; the dancers were just whirling around, having fun. The music was of poor quality, part of her mind noted, yet who cared? She was enjoying being alive, as was everyone else. She looked up into Cordova’s twinkling eyes and found herself laughing. They were alive!

She caught sight of Hester, watching from one side of the room with a dour expression, and felt a twinge of sympathy for the older woman. Hester’s husband and children were long gone, thanks to the Empire, leaving her alone. Hannelore was tempted to try to urge her onto the dance floor, but she had a sense that it simply wouldn’t work. Hester simply didn’t have any room in her for love or fun any longer. How could she, when the Empire remained undefeated and might be dispatching something larger than a squadron of battlecruisers to the asteroid? Hannelore was rather surprised that Hester hadn’t ordered the asteroid’s immediate evacuation.

Cordova pulled her into a long line of dancers and passed her to another man, who took her, spun her around and passed her to a third man. This dance seemed to be more orderly, at least, even though half of the dancers were clearly learning as they went along. The man who was at the end took her arm, kissed her and then passed her back to Cordova, who winked at her when she looked shocked. Couples were pairing off all over the dance floor, partners disappearing to celebrate the joy of being alive in a different way, or even making out in public. She blushed when she saw a topless couple kissing and fondling right in the middle of the dance floor, something that she’d never seen back home, not even in the most decedent parties. Cordova noted her surprise and leaned close to whisper in her ear.

“They’re just enjoying themselves,” he said, just before he kissed her on the cheek. The music was slowing down now, becoming a romantic tune, and so he pulled her closer. “Tomorrow we must leave this place.”

Hannelore nodded, feeling a shadow falling over her mood. They might have survived one battle with the Imperial Navy, but they might not survive the next. She didn’t want to think about what might happen if they took her alive, for a simple gene-test would reveal who she was and where she came from. Her family — both of her families — would probably prefer to bury her and forget that she had ever existed, rather than admit that one of their children had gone wrong. She remembered a son, a heir to one of the grandest families, who had vanished under mysterious circumstances. No one knew for sure, but there had been rumours that his own father had strangled him in the night, purely for doing something so horrifying that even the Thousand Families would be shocked. Hannelore had some difficulty in imagining what that might have been, but not any longer. The young man might well have been linked to a rebel faction on Earth.

Cordova seemed to sense her feelings, for he gave her a final kiss and led her over to one of the side tables, which was groaning under the weight of food and drink. Hannelore was surprised that they’d brought out so much food — including foodstuffs that had to have been smuggled in from the Empire — but perhaps it made sense. If the asteroid was being abandoned, what they couldn’t carry would have to be abandoned, at least until the war was won. It seemed that scavengers would come and steal everything that wasn’t actually nailed down.

“Take this,” he said, passing her a glass of a strange red liquid. Hannelore sniffed it carefully, decided it smelled drinkable and took a sip. It left a river of fire burning down towards her stomach. “What do you make of that?”

“Strong,” Hannelore said, between coughs. She had never tasted anything like it before, even when pushing the limits of what was permitted even to one of her high station. “What is it?”

“The name is unpronounceable,” Cordova said, sadly. There was something in his voice, an emotion she couldn’t quite identify. “It comes from Xeno-VII, you see.”

Hannelore took a longer look at the glass and its contents. “You mean that this is an alien drink?”

“Yep,” Cordova said, with a sudden manic grin. “Don’t worry; it’s compatible with our biochemistries. The Crabs don’t consider it an intoxicant; they use it for cleaning their claws after mating, rather like we might go to the shower.” He chuckled, as one does at a joke that isn’t really funny. “We — the Rim — sell a few barrels of this each year to certain parties within the Empire and none of them have the slightest idea where it comes from or what its manufacturers use it for.”

“Oh,” Hannelore said. She found herself giggling as she took another sip. “Why don’t you tell them? They’d have a collective heart attack.”

The thought wasn’t as funny as it seemed. The Empire would have reacted harshly against anything that reassembled alien chic, or humans adopting alien ways. There were so many different forms of family unit or social systems across the Empire that Hannelore wasn’t sure why they felt the need to bother, but there was little logic in it. The Empire was built — its sole justification for existing — around defending humanity from aliens and alien influence. The Security Division would probably feel that anyone who drank — and enjoyed — alien-produced wines was a closet alien sympathiser, a traitor to humanity. The poor bastard would probably have wound up on a penal world.