“I don’t know,” Tiberius admitted. He looked up at her, wonderingly. He’d never given much thought to the conditioned, apart from noting that they were loyal and unimaginative — but then, most of the ones he encountered were slaves. “What do you think I should do?”
“Try to remember that you’re not dealing with numbers in an account statement,” Sharon advised. “You’ve already made one step forward by helping the vulnerable. Now you can try and see what else you can do.”
“And see if the rebels will talk instead of destroying us,” Tiberius said. By his calculations, Gwendolyn and Pompey should have encountered the rebels by now. But he knew there was little they could offer until the rebels scored a decisive victory. And, if the rebels lost, there would be no need to negotiate. “Thank you for your advice.”
He watched her go, mulling over what she’d said. It had honestly never occurred to him that she could provide such profound insight, particularly as her boundaries were almost as limited as his own. But then, she knew her own condition, even if she wasn’t really allowed to think about it. Tiberius was just as much as slave as Sharon, with the added complication that he couldn’t really leave. He would be Family Head until the day he died…
Unless they do manage to unseat me, he thought. Shaking his head, he pulled up the next report and started to read. Unless that day came, he had his duty. And then someone else will be stuck with the job.
Chapter Twenty
“That’s all of the freighters loaded, sir.”
“It’s about bloody time,” Commodore Viand snapped. He glared down at the display, which showed the freighters slowly disengaging from the supply dump. “Have they finally managed to slave their navigational computers together or are we going to have to make multiple jumps?”
“They have, sir,” the communications officer said.
Viand nodded. He knew he was being unfair, but he didn’t really care. He’d expected to be sent to Morrison to join the Imperial Navy squadrons there. Instead, he’d been detailed to convoy escort as bases surrounding Morrison were stripped of everything from spare parts to personnel to keep the Morrison Fleet operating. Given it’s condition, Viand rather suspected that it would take years before the fleet was ready for anything other than the scrapheap, but Admiral Wachter hadn’t asked his opinion before starting work.
“Then tell them to assume formation,” he ordered, tiredly. “Inform me as soon as we are ready to depart.”
He sat back in his chair, fighting down irritation at the civilians who had been conscripted into the Imperial Navy. None of them were very happy about it, despite being promised double-pay for their service. They’d only grudgingly gone to work and loaded up the freighters, dawdling as much as possible. If there hadn’t been a handful of naval personnel on each ship, Viand would have worried about them jumping in the wrong direction and taking their cargos to the highest bidder. Imperial Navy spares were highly prized along the Rim, if only because they tended to be better-built than the civilian-produced models.
And most of the civilian freighters were old, fifth or sixth-hand by the time they reached their current owners. They’d never bothered to install newer flicker drives, which meant that the convoy had to move some distance from the planet before jumping out and heading towards Morrison. Viand suspected, despite all the precautions, that the convoy would scatter immediately after the first jump. Civilian drives were never very accurate at the best of times and they were expected to jump in formation…
The communications officer broke into his thoughts. “Commodore, all ships are in formation,” he said. “They’re ready to depart.”
“Take us out,” Viand ordered. That had been pleasantly quick, compared to the loading. A task that should have taken two days had stretched out to a week, thanks to civilian attitudes to work. Perhaps they should have offered more money. “Match our speed to the slowest ship in the convoy.”
Dead Hand thrummed quietly as her engines came online, powering her away from the orbital supply dump. Viand fancied that he could feel the cruiser’s indignation at how she’d been treated, first stripped of half of her crew to work at Morrison and then assigned to escorting wallowing freighters from isolated supply dumps to the naval base. Dead Hand was designed for raiding enemy star systems, slashing in and launching missiles before pulling out again, hopefully unscratched. She wasn’t meant to be tied down as a convoy escort.
But you kept your ship in working condition, he thought, sourly. Admiral Wachter had complemented him in person. It was more than most commanders did at Morrison.
He shook his head in bitter amusement as the display changed, showing the formation. The starships should have moved together, but they were already spreading out. Civilians simply weren’t used to staying in formation and it showed. The heavier freighters seemed to wallow as they picked up speed, their smaller brethren moving ahead as if they were keen to get the whole experience over with. Viand couldn’t blame them, although he knew it would be years before they were allowed to return to civilian life. The warships hadn’t been the only ships at Morrison to be allowed to decay. If anything, the fleet train was in a worse state.
We told ourselves that we didn’t need it, he reminded himself. We had bases everywhere, allowing us to deploy wherever we wanted. Now… we’ve lost half the bases and we’re screwed.
“We’re approaching the jump point,” the helmswoman said.
“Slow to all stop,” Viand ordered, tiredly. A naval warship could jump at speed, but a civilian freighter didn’t really have that option. The ship would probably disintegrate mid-jump if it tried. “And check and recheck their calculations.”
He sighed. Minerva lay four light years from Morrison, a single jump for a warship. But for a formation of ancient civilian freighters? Viand had decided on four jumps, one light year apiece. It was playing it very safe, but he didn’t want to lose a single ship. The civilians might have exaggerated the fragility of their ships, yet he didn’t want to find out the hard way.
“Calculations running now,” the helmswoman said. “I…”
“Incoming missiles,” the tactical officer snapped, as alarms howled. Bright red icons appeared on the display. “Incoming missiles!”
“Bring up the point defence,” Viand snapped. He was shocked, but training rapidly asserted itself. “Clear to open fire; I say again, clear to open fire.”
“Reading five enemy starships,” the tactical officer said. “No; seven!”
Viand stared at the display. Five rebel starships, within four light years of Morrison? They had to have done nothing but travel from Camelot to Morrison since the Battle of Camelot. Or were they other mutineers? It was quite possible that other ships had deserted the Empire, particularly since potential rebels realised they were not alone. He pushed the thought aside as he looked down at the display. His squadron had been caught flatfooted and they were about to pay a terrible price.
“Point defence activating, now,” the tactical officer said. Viand silently blessed his own foresight in holding tactical drills while they were waiting for the freighters to load, even though he had only wanted to keep his crews occupied while the civilians took their sweet time to prepare their ships. “Enemy missiles thirty seconds from impact.”
Viand braced himself as the missiles flashed into the point defence envelope. They’d been taken so completely by surprise that there was little time to prepare a proper defence. He couldn’t help noticing that half of the missiles were targeted on the freighters, rather than the warships. It was an odd tactic, he thought, then he realised what the enemy had in mind. The attackers might want to take the freighters intact, but they knew help would rapidly arrive from Morrison. Instead, they were merely blowing the freighters into flaming debris.