Democracy 1: Democracy's Right (24 page)

“That’s a bit of a mouthful,” Hannelore said, before she could stop herself.  There was something about the speaker, Captain Cordova, that seemed to encourage informality.  If nothing else, it certainly suggested that he didn’t have looting, raping and pillaging in mind.  “I have never heard of the Popular Front.”

“The whole universe will know of us soon,” Cordova promised.  His booming voice carried with it unlimited confidence, the kind of confidence that only nature’s aristocrats possessed.  Some of the family brats Hannelore had known had it, but it was rare outside the Thousand Families, at least from what she’d seen.  Her lips twitched again.  She hadn’t seen
that
much of the galaxy outside the Thousand Families.  “I’m afraid that I’m going to have to ask you to surrender your facilities.”

Hannelore felt a sudden hot wave of anger flowing through her, but she clamped down on it mercilessly.  There was no point in getting angry, not now.  She didn’t quite dare.  “You’re talking about wrecking the livelihood of nearly a hundred people,” she said, the strongest argument she dared use.  “If you destroy the platforms…”

“We have no intention of destroying the platforms,” Cordova said.  “We just wish to remove you and your crew from them for a short period of time, until the war is over.”  His voice hardened.  “I'm afraid I cannot give you a choice in the matter.”

Hannelore keyed the switch and looked over at Jackson.  “Can we resist?”

His shrug was very droll.  “We don’t have anything to resist with,” he pointed out.  “If we say no, they’ll either open fire or send in their troops to take us prisoner.”

“Very well,” Hannelore said, reopening the channel.  There was no point in asking for guarantees, although even she had heard of Cordova’s reputation.  He didn’t have anything like the reputation some pirates had.  “We will transfer over to your ship and then seal the platforms.”

***

An hour later, she found herself breathing in clean air as she stepped onboard the
Random Numbers
.  Not all of her crew had been keen to surrender, but spacers couldn’t allow themselves any delusions about reality and reality was that Cordova had the firepower to make any objections pointless and futile.  Hannelore had considered trying to sneak away, using only gas thrusters in hopes of avoiding their radar, yet she’d ended up dismissing the idea.  It simply wouldn’t have worked.

“Welcome aboard,” Cordova said.  On the screen, he’d been remarkable; in person, he was striking, even stunning.  His smile was so bright that it seemed to light up his entire face.  It was easy to see why his crew both loved and followed him, even into exile and certain sentence of death if they were caught.  “I have taken the liberty of preparing quarters suitable for one of your exalted rank and station.”

“Thank you, but I would prefer to bunk with my crew,” Hannelore said.  She had long ago lost the modesty that a young girl in the High City on Earth was required to develop – or at least pretend to develop.  “I wish to make sure that they are not mistreated.”

“No one will be mistreated,” Cordova assured her.  His smile grew wider.  “And perhaps you would join me for evening dinner.  There is much that you can tell me about Earth.”

Hannelore blinked in confusion.  Why would Cordova want to know about Earth?

“I would be honoured,” she lied.  It was quite possible that Cordova wanted to take her to bed instead.  It wouldn’t be
that
uncomfortable – it wasn't as if she were a virgin, or that he was unattractive – but it would have felt like she was betraying her crew.  “And then you can tell me all about the Popular Front.”

Her father had told her, once, to learn everything she could.  Knowledge was power, he’d told her, and power was always worth having.  If she was to be Cordova’s guest – or prisoner – she might as well learn what he had to tell her, and how he intended to justify himself to the universe.

And besides, it might be fun.

“I would be delighted,” Cordova said.  “Shall we say my quarters, at nine?”

Chapter Twenty-Four

Commander
Khursheda Ismoilzoda – now a Commodore in the rebel fleet – knew that others saw her as prim and unimaginative.  It was an appearance she had taken pains to cultivate, if only because – as a young, unattached and attractive female officer in the Imperial Navy – it provided a form of protection.  The young sharks – high-ranking officers intent on cutting a romantic swath through lower-ranking officers and crew – could be discouraged if one looked stern enough.  It had helped her rise – if slowly – through the ranks and had marked her as a safe pair of hands.  Her tactic had worked until she had refused the wrong person and had been banished to Jackson’s Folly.

Unlike Colin, who had personal reasons for rebelling against the Empire, Khursheda had grown up on Earth and learned to despise the Empire from a very early age.  Earth’s teeming billions lived in poverty, a poverty only made worse by the fact that their social superiors refused to allow them any chance to make their own decisions.  The poor lived their lives without hope and, whenever they fell afoul of the Empire’s laws, found themselves exiled into space.  It was no wonder that there were so many applicants for newly-opening colony worlds…and that the Empire had logistical problems shipping so many people off-world.  Millions departed Earth each year, only to be replaced by millions more born to poor and hopeless mothers.  The poverty trap was grinding and almost unbeatable.  Khursheda had beaten it by joining the Imperial Navy as a young girl and excelling in her training, to the point where she had been granted a commission and the chance to rise within the Navy.

As far as she knew, however, she was the last survivor of her family.  Her parents had died when she was very young, killed in one of the endless gang wars that raged through Earth’s teeming cities.  Two of her brothers had been killed by the Blackshirts – she still didn’t know why, despite searching though Stacy Roosevelt’s files – and three of her sisters had been sold into sexual slavery by the time they reached their menses.  They’d been lucky.  Khursheda knew that there were children, boys and girls who were barely born, sold into slavery.  And her sisters, like so many others, had been worn out and killed by their new job.  Their pimps hadn’t cared; they’d just gone on to the next few girls, of which there was an inexhaustible supply.

“Captain” – as there were so few trained command officers, Khursheda was serving as both Captain of
Lightning
and Commodore of the rebel squadron – “we have emerged within the Camelot System.”

Khursheda nodded, feeling her heart starting to beat faster in her chest.  Colin had given her the mission because she was reliable, yet now – so close to a force that could destroy her and her entire squadron – she wanted to flee and flee far.  If Percival’s crews were on the ball, if they had a squadron of superdreadnaughts on alert – or even a squadron of battlecruisers – her tiny squadron risked complete destruction.  If it had been up to her, she would have preferred to carry out her mission somewhere else, but there had been no other choice.  The geography of the Interstellar Communications Network dictated their actions.

“Remain on yellow alert,” she ordered.  They had emerged towards the edge of the system, safely away from any possible threat.  Percival’s sensors might have picked up their arrival, but he probably wouldn’t think much of it, not when civilian ships appeared at the edge of the system all the time.  A military starship with military-grade computers could risk jumping right into the heart of a system, yet few civilians would dare take the risk.  There was too great a chance of appearing too far from one’s destination.  “Are there any threats within detectable range?”

Colin and Khursheda had discussed the possibility at length.  If Percival was thinking ahead – or, more likely, someone in his employ was thinking ahead – he might just have a battlecruiser or two guarding the ICN station.  It was what Colin would have done, if he’d had the forces on hand to cover all the bases.  Percival might not have considered the risk worthwhile – after all, Colin might have turned up with his entire fleet and picked off a battlecruiser squadron – yet it was well to be careful.  Khursheda had no illusions.  She couldn’t hope to outfight the Sector Fleet if it came after her.

“No, Captain,” the sensor officer said.  “The only object within detectable range is the ICN station.”

Khursheda nodded.  “Take us towards it,” she ordered.  She looked over at the communications officer.  “Keep transmitting our false IFF signal.  We don’t want them getting suspicious and alerting higher command.”

Colin’s original thought had simply been to blow the ICN network and force Percival to devote additional starships to convoying information all over the sector.  Daria – backed up by Hester – had put forward an alternative suggestion.  There was no need to destroy the entire network, or even parts of it, when the rebels could put it to work on their own behalf.  Khursheda didn’t like Daria – there was something about the woman that rubbed her up the wrong way – but she had to admit that it was a good idea.  It might even work.

The Geeks had reprogrammed her starship’s IFF transmitter to pretend that it was a battlecruiser on detached duty from the nearby Sector 99.  Khursheda was fairly sure that, sooner or later, the Imperial Navy would cotton on to that trick and the IFF codes would have to be altered, but until then it should work neatly.  She would have preferred to use codes from a starship known to be in the sector, yet there was too great a chance of one of the starships they encountered knowing that the ship they were impersonating was somewhere else.  It was a risk, but a calculated one.

Part of her was depressed by how easy it was to start thinking of the loyalists in the Imperial Navy as enemies, but it wasn't hard to understand.  The Imperial Navy had no shared loyalty, not when everyone knew that promotions happened because the promoted were well-connected, or were sleeping with their superiors, or other criteria that had nothing to do with merit.  Khursheda, for all of her stern appearance, hadn’t felt much loyalty towards the Navy as a whole.  All she had needed was someone to encourage her to rebel.

“And then prepare our message,” she added.  “I want to transmit it as soon as they verify our identity.”

***

Lieutenant Neil Schmitt loved his job.  Most Imperial Navy officers would have regarded a transfer to the Interstellar Communications network as a demotion, if not a permanent career freeze, but Neil had never been particularly ambitious.  All he really wanted to do was read his books and watch the universe go by, an aim made much easier by his new assignment.  He’d been transferred over as a young Midshipman and, by volunteering to stay longer than he absolutely had to, he’d been granted promotion.  From just another operator on the vast station, he had become its commander, a position that afforded him certain rights.

The Empire – and the Federation before it – had spent billions of credits on attempting to develop a workable form of faster-than-light communication.  And, for all of their investment, they had nothing to show for it.  In theory, there were plenty of ways to transmit a signal faster than light, but in practice the only way to do it was to have the message carried on a starship.  It was incredibly frustrating for the Empire’s rulers, who wanted to control their Empire, yet had to account for the massive time delay built into the system.  If Earth had wanted to send a signal out to Camelot, it would take nearly six months for the message to reach its destination and then another six months for Earth to get any reply.  It was partly why Admiral Percival and his fellow Sector Commanders received so much latitude, in an Empire that didn’t think highly of individual initiative and enterprise.  They needed the authority to deal with a small crisis before it became a larger one.

Their first solution to the problem had been to decree that every starship had to carry a sealed message pod that would allow it to convoy messages between systems.  The idea hadn’t worked out too well in practice as starships were delayed, or rerouted, or simply ‘forgot’ to pick up the message packets.  The second solution involved the ICN; courier boats would jump from system to system, pass on the message bundles to the ICN stations, which would in turn relay them into the system or onwards to another courier boat.  The system was clumsy and inefficient, but it worked – and it had other advantages.  With all messages being sent through the ICN, it allowed the Empire a chance to censor everyone’s mail – or detect subversive messages before they were transmitted into the Empire. 

It also had another advantage, as far as Neil was concerned.  The Empire didn’t allow its corporations – particularly the ones with weaker ties to the Thousand Families – or private citizens any access to unbreakable encryption.  Neil could use backdoors engineered into the system to peek at the messages, and then covertly hold them back for a few days while using his insider knowledge to make bets on the stock market.  Working with a few allies deeper within the Empire, they were able to use their advance knowledge to gain wealth or avoid loss – and, as long as they were careful, they would be completely undetectable.  They were careful.  They gambled normally and only bet high when they were sure of their ground.

He barely noticed the battlecruiser flickering into the system, for he was carefully writing a message to his allies.  Admiral Percival had refused to release any news of the rebellion into the ICN, which meant that stock markets further into the Empire would be unaffected by the news – at least, so far.  Neil was betting that Admiral Percival would keep it classified for a few months longer, which would allow him and his allies the chance to secure their own positions and bet high.  When the news finally broke – and it would; the ICN wasn’t the only communications channel – they would be in a good position to benefit.  Best of all, it looked perfectly natural from the outside.  No one would be able to tell what they were doing, even if Imperial Intelligence carried out a
thorough investigation.  He hadn’t even had to hold any messages.

“Lieutenant,” Midshipwoman Fanny said, interrupting his thoughts.  He saw no reason for formality on his command deck, but Fanny was young and ambitious – and desperate to escape the ICN.  She was also pleasant on the eye, so Neil saw no immediate reason to authorise her transfer.  “The
Dauntless
is transmitting a long message packet, priority one.”

Neil lifted his eyebrows.  He didn’t dare tamper with priority one messages – that would mean certain death if he were caught – yet even they had to be checked by the censor.  He keyed his console, transferring the data packet to his own system, and swore aloud as he took in the headers.  The message wasn't just priority one; it was tagged with an Imperial Intelligence sticker, ensuring that it would go right to the top of the system.  Worse, the
second
tag ordered a general broadcast to everywhere outside the system, but not into Camelot itself until a certain time.  He found himself scratching his head.  Neil liked the ordinary and the message was as outside the ordinary as it was possible to get, at least without the battlecruiser opening fire and blowing him and his station to vapour.

“Interesting,” he said, without committing himself to anything.  The only reason he could think of for a blanket message was to ensure that
everyone
got it – at least everyone with the right code key to unlock the message.  No, he realised, as he read through the final headers; the later tags contained instructions for the message to decipher itself, without the need for a code key.  Someone wanted to broadcast a message to everyone within the Empire.  The message would route itself through every last communications system it could reach, twisting and turning like a living thing.  “I wonder why…”

“Sir, the battlecruiser is demanding a receipt,” Fanny insisted.  She sounded nervous.  No lowly Midshipwoman would want to handle a message with tags that came right from the highest authority in the sector.  “They want us to confirm that we will send the message as soon as the next courier boat arrives.”

Neil scowled to himself, thinking hard.  There was something
odd
about the message, odd enough to make him wonder if he shouldn’t check with Imperial Intelligence’s offices in the Camelot System before forwarding the message.  Except…if the message was genuine, and he had no reason to believe it wasn't, he would get into considerable trouble by delaying it, even for a few hours.  He knew the schedules of the courier boats by heart and there was no way he could get a signal to Camelot and back before the message had to be transmitted.  If the signal was false, he would be a hero, but if it was genuine…he’d be lucky not to be assigned to a penal world. 

And, even if the message
was
false, he would have ignored perfectly legitimate codes.  Imperial Intelligence would not be amused, perhaps even punish him for ignoring them, even though he’d done the right thing.  They would be looking for a scapegoat and he knew, from long experience, that shit always flowed downhill.  He would be the one who received the blame.  He agonised for a long moment, and then made up his mind.