Democracy 1: Democracy's Right (22 page)

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.

And the superdreadnaughts were coming closer and closer.

“You’re not exactly an expert in superdreadnaughts,” the Commander pointed out.  He wasn't being unpleasant; he was merely stating a fact.  It was one of the traits that made him bearable, unlike some officers Bart could have named.  “They might not be...”

It struck Bart, just a second too late.  “Those ships,” he gasped.  Now he saw it, he wondered at his own slowness in accepting it.  He should have seen it at once.  “They're in
attack
formation!”

***

Colin watched on the display as Alpha Station grew in front of him, a manmade moon bristling with weapons and defences.  Not unlike a superdreadnaught, or an Imperial Navy starship in a suspect star system, it had its shields and weapons on alert, although they weren’t powered up and ready for launch.  The station itself was ugly, a strange bulky shape that suggested sheer power and iron determination.  The weapons scattered across its hull only made it look incredibly unwelcoming.

“Passive systems only,” Colin ordered.  So close to the station, they would detect an active targeting scan the second he ordered it.  And then they would flash-charge their shields and open fire.  It wouldn't matter; the station was emitting enough energy to allow him to target it, even without active sensors.  The first warning they would have would be when his missiles were fired from his ships, roaring towards the station at incredible speed.  “Lock weapons on target.”

“Weapons locked, sir,” the tactical officer said, very quietly.  There was something about the brooding presence of the station that forced them to whisper, even though there was no way that sound could travel through a vacuum.  “The missile tubes are ready to open on your command.”

Colin nodded.  The external racks were loaded, of course, but that wasn't unusual when a squadron left one sector for another.  The enemy wouldn't think anything odd about that.  Their radars, however, were sweeping across the superdreadnaught’s hull and might well pick up the opening tubes.  He shrugged.  They were committed now anyway.

“Open the tubes,” he ordered.  He braced himself, knowing that time had run out, before tapping his console and unlocking the weapons.  He’d just put the trigger in the hands of his tactical officer and other junior staff.  “You may fire at will.”

The tactical officer keyed a switch.

A second later, the superdreadnaught launched its first massive barrage towards the station.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Bart watched the attack develop on his console, too late.

All nine superdreadnaughts opened fire, eight of them targeting Alpha Station with every missile they could bring to bear on the station, while the ninth opened fire on every automated weapons platform and orbiting sensor within reach.  The cloud of missiles – they were too densely packed for his systems to provide him with an accurate count – had been fired, just seconds before Alpha Station snapped over onto high alert.  At such short range, their drives could be boosted into sprint mode and accelerate within seconds of being launched, making it far harder for the defenders to calculate intercept vectors and start targeting point defence before it was too late.  It wasn't impossible to intercept missiles in sprint mode, it was just extremely difficult – and, naturally, the rebels weren't going to sit around and wait for the defenders to react.  They were going to continue pressing their advantage.

Bastards
, he thought, as Alpha Station's shields started to charge up.  It would be nice to think that perhaps, just perhaps, the formidable fusion reactors onboard the station could power the shield generators enough to hold off the onslaught, but he knew better.  The shield generators would burn out if they were forced to absorb or redirect so much power, something that would bring the interlocking generator network crashing down.  The station’s point defence started to engage, pumping out plasma bolts and railgun rounds as if there was no tomorrow – which there wouldn't be for the defenders – yet it was already too late.  The missiles were roaring towards their targets.

“Get the drones out,” the Commander ordered, frantically.  He hadn't seen; he hadn't understood.  Bart understood.  Alpha Station was going to be badly damaged, at the very least; the odds weren't good that any of the crew would survive.  No amount of drones – automated gunboat-sized craft – would change the odds.  “Get the automated platforms online.”

“They’re online,” Bart assured him.  The missiles the ninth superdreadnaught was launching were tearing through the network, expending an entire shipkiller on each of the undefended platforms.  A part of Bart’s mind admired the precision of the attack.  Platforms that might have helped save Alpha Station were being forced to devote their energies to remaining intact.  It didn't seem to make much difference.  The missiles were entering terminal attack range now.  “I think we need to think about evacuating.”

“Nonsense,” the Commander said.  It had just dawned on him that he was in command of the defences of the entire system while an attack was underway.  If he survived, if the enemy was beaten off, he would be promoted.  “There is no reason to believe that they know about this facility.”

Bart had to admit that he was right.  The Roosevelt Family – in a direct break with tradition – had placed their System Command on the planet’s surface, under a mountain.  If the enemy wanted to kill them, he would have to find them first – and then it would take several shipkillers to batter a way down to the bunker, or collapse the mountain on top of it.  The planet’s ecology would be badly damaged.  Of course, if they
were
Imperial Navy starships up there, they’d probably scorched entire planets before.  Wrecking a single continent would be nothing compared to that.

He looked back up at the display.  The missiles were finally hitting their target.

***

There was something raw, almost primal, about the explosions billowing up on the massive station's defensive shields.  Colin watched, struggling to keep his face expressionless, as the missiles exploded in wave after wave, knocking down shield sections and burning out shield generators.  Bursts of energy were making their way through the shields as they failed, licking and burning their way into the station's armour, further weakening the structure.  The station, which was better armoured than even the latest superdreadnaught design, might well have a chance to survive.  Its shield network was knocked down, yet it sprang back into place.  They had power and shield generators to spare.

The fortress had barely had a chance to spit back a single salvo of missiles before its shields failed completely, allowing Colin’s missiles to pound the fortress’s hull without hindrance.  Nuclear explosions flared out in the darkness of space, melting their way into the heart of the fortress, yet still it survived.  The interior of the fortress was heavily armoured too, meaning that Colin could blow parts of the fortress into radioactive debris and the remainder would continue to fight on.  Other warheads were detonating inside the structure – he wouldn't have given much for the safety of the fortress’s personnel – tearing into its very heart.  Entire sections of weapons failed, dying just before their base started to twist and explode.  The fortress didn't explode like a starship.  It simply fragmented into countless pieces of junk.

A testament to what the Empire can build
, Colin thought, impressed despite himself.  The Empire had never lost a Capital-class orbital fortress.  Coming to think of it, the last time the Empire had lost
any
kind of fortress had been back during the First Interstellar War.  Since then, the Empire had always been doing the attacking.  It had rarely been attacked itself.  Unlike a starship, with weight penalties for packing too much mass into the hull, the fortress had been able to pack far more armour.  The designers had known what they were doing.

“Record a message,” he ordered.  The communications officer nodded.  “Attention, defenders of Piccadilly.  This is Admiral Colin Walker of the Popular Front to Reform the Empire.  I intend to destroy this system’s orbital facilities.  I will give you ten minutes to abandon them and then I will open fire.”

The superdreadnaught shook as a missile from one of the automated platforms managed to slip through the point defence and explode against the ship’s shields.  “There will be no further warnings,” Colin added.  “The countdown will begin upon the transmission of this message.”

He looked over towards the communications officer.  “Transmit the message on all bands,” he ordered, tartly.  “We may as well give them fair warning.”

Colin, Hester and Daria had discussed the issue in some detail.  Hester had pointed out that the Roosevelt Family’s workers were certainly compliant in the crimes the Family had committed, but Daria had countered by pointing out that they hadn’t been offered a choice.  Colin had settled the argument by reasoning that the orbital facilities could not be rebuilt quickly – certainly without a new Annual Fleet – and destroying them would limit the world’s ability to take part in the war.  By the time the facilities were rebuilt, he hoped, they would have won or lost – and if they lost, it didn't really matter what happened on Piccadilly.

Besides, he added in his own mind, unlike Stacy or Percival himself, he felt no rage for the workers.  They had never committed crimes against him personally; their sole crime, if it could be called a crime, was being part of the system.

“The message has been transmitted,” the communications officer said.  “No response.”

Colin shrugged.  He hadn't expected one.  “Monitor the orbital facilities closely,” he ordered, as the superdreadnaught shook again.  “Let me know if they seem reluctant to evacuate.”

He smiled as he studied the display.  Percival would probably not have hesitated to use human shields and would have seen any concern for the workers as a sign of weakness.  He doubted that the Roosevelt Family’s representative on the planet’s surface would be that stupid, if only because it would be a good way to lose all of the Family’s clients at once.  A trained and experienced workforce wasn't something to just throw away; besides, Colin had no intention of slaughtering helpless workers.  If it could be avoided, that was. 

The other two stations, as he had expected, weren't firing – but then, there was little point in firing.  Colin’s ships were shielded by the planet itself.  The remaining warships in the system were attempting to reform into a new formation, although several of them were missing, probably having flickered out to warn other systems of just what had gone wrong.  Colin glanced down at his terminal, watching the counter ticking towards zero.  His worst-case estimate was that it would take at least thirty minutes for Percival to dispatch reinforcements into the system...and
that
relied upon him having forces on hand, ready to go.

He ran through a tactical check.  His ships had been hit, but none badly – although that would change if they tried to go up against the remaining fortresses.  There was no point in trying to take the system; the only thing they could do was wreak havoc and then take their leave.  He checked that the tactical staff were handling the running battle and pulled up the sensor records.  No matter how he worked it, there seemed to be nothing special about the planet, certainly nothing that explained the trillions of credits the Roosevelt Family had spent on it. 

Colin tapped a switch, transferring the records into a secure datachip he could give to Daria – perhaps she could shed some light on it – and turned back to his task.  The enemy warships seemed to be heading away from the planet’s gravity well, and then they halted, as if they were waiting for Colin to give chase.  He saw no reason to indulge them.  His superdreadnaughts couldn't catch the lighter units in normal space and they’d just flicker out if he got too close anyway.  It looked...odd.

“Launch an additional flight of probes,” he ordered.  “I want to know if they move even a single cloaked ship close to us.”

“Yes, sir,” the tactical officer said.  There was no longer any need to use stealthed probes.  “Launching probes...now.”

“
Incoming fire
,” the deputy tactical officer said.  “The stations are firing on us!”

***

“Relay the control signals through the warships,” Bart ordered.  It was a far from conventional idea, yet it seemed to be the only way to drive the rebels away from Piccadilly.  Their countdown was proceeding, marking the fact that his world had only two minutes before years of investment were destroyed, blown to flaming atoms by rebel starships.  “I want them to focus the missiles onto their targets.”

“Do as he says,” General Roosevelt added.  He’d come into the command station, relieving Commander Falcon.  The fortresses had raised objections when a lowly Specialist had asked them to start routing their commands through the starships.  “This isn't the time for a argument over procedure.”

Bart smiled.  The starships and orbital fortresses had one thing in common; they both had to control missiles they launched, in order to direct them towards their targets.  A rogue missile became a danger to both sides in a battle.  A superdreadnaught could control vast numbers of missiles at once – using command missiles to ensure a degree of tactical flexibility – but a cruiser or a destroyer had vastly more limited capabilities.  Bart had pointed out that the stations might not be able to launch their missiles directly at their targets, but they could send them around the planet, handing over control to the warships in observation positions.  It had taken some reprogramming to make it possible – the Empire wasn't keen on making it possible for outside forces to take control of its missiles – yet they’d done it. 

The system wasn't as efficient as it would have been if the stations had been in direct control of their weapons.  The smaller ships kept losing control of individual missiles, even though they were routing their commands though slaved command missiles and attempting to switch from missile to missile before they lost them permanently.  Even so, it had been a nasty surprise for the rebels, all the more so because they were being fired on from all sides at once.  Bart had redeployed the ships to allow them to control multiple missiles, even ones circling around the planet from the other side.

It was risky, he admitted; a shipkiller hitting the planet would be disastrous.  There were good reasons why the Empire disliked missile duals anywhere near a planet’s gravity well.  Yet, if it worked, it would drive the rebels away and it had been
his
idea. 
He
was the one who would be rewarded.

“They can probably swat them off indefinitely,” the Commander said.  He was pacing, doubtless worried about the effects on his career.  “We cannot hope to overwhelm their defences at this range.”

“That’s not an issue,” the General countered.  “All that matters is to keep them off balance until reinforcements arrive.”

***

Colin swallowed a curse as the missiles roared into his point defence network and started to die under his fire.  At first, he’d thought that the Empire had slipped a pair of battlecruiser squadrons into orbit under cloak and opened fire, but it hadn't taken long to realise what was actually happening.  Some clever bastard on the planet’s surface had managed to get the warships working to steer missiles fired from the station!