“The Marines at the hatch are under attack,” the communications officer reported. She’d taken up the job of trying to coordinate the internal defence of the starship, while the tactical and security officers took up position to defend the CIC. “They can’t…”
A dull thump echoed through the hatch. Penny looked at Wachter, who held his pistol in one hand as if he knew how to use it. Not all of the officers had bothered to qualify, Penny had discovered to her alarm; pistol shooting wasn’t a skill naval officers were encouraged to develop. But there was no alternative. The hatch started to glow as the Blackshirts began to cut their way into the CIC. By Penny’s calculations, they would be through in five minutes at most.
“Take your mask,” she ordered. “Everyone who doesn’t have a weapon, move into the Admiral’s office.”
Wachter gave her an odd smile. “Were you a Marine in a previous life?”
“Just common sense,” Penny said. She wasn’t about to admit that she’d planned for a mutiny ever since hearing about the mutinies at Jackson’s Folly. Percival had made so many enemies that she was still surprised no one had risen up against him by the time Camelot had fallen to the rebels. “And they might be safer there.”
Wachter shook his head. Penny nodded, grimly. Anyone who had had contact with Admiral Wachter would be considered a suspect at best, an outright traitor at worst. And besides, Blackshirts were known for committing atrocities in the heat of combat. The Empire encouraged that trait, believing that terror helped keep people in line, even though it tended to result in destroyed targets and dead rebels. But then, the Empire wasn’t known for caring about enemy lives.
The hatch blew open; dark-clad figures stormed into the CIC. Penny opened fire at once, joined by Wachter and the other three officers with personal weapons. The Blackshirts toppled backwards — they hadn’t even bothered to don proper armour — but there were more of them behind the first group. One of them threw a gas grenade into the compartment, which exploded and released a cloud of yellow gas. Penny prayed that the mask would be sufficient to keep it out as she kept firing, driving the Blackshirts back. But there seemed to be no shortage of Blackshirts…
The internal security systems must have failed completely, she thought. Or perhaps they’d been subverted long ago.
She felt her weapon grow warm in her hand and shuddered. Plasma weapons had a nasty tendency to overheat and then explode with stunning force. But there was nothing else to use… and besides, it might just be cleaner to die in an explosion than what she would undergo if the Blackshirts took her into custody again. She’d barely survived one interrogation. She knew she was unlikely to survive a second.
“Keep firing,” Wachter said, quietly. “We’ll hold them back as long as we can.”
Sidney led the way out of the shuttle and into the enemy superdreadnaught, his suit’s systems already trying to access the ship’s internal security processors. Unsurprisingly, they didn’t respond; someone had either locked the systems or simply destroyed them. It didn’t matter, he decided, as his HUD showed the shortest path to the CIC. They had to get there before it was too late.
No one tried to block their path as they smashed their way through two sealed airlocks, not until they reached Officer Country. Four Blackshirts stood there, firing at a group of Imperial Navy Marines who seemed to be trying to counterattack. For a moment, the situation was so surreal that Sidney almost started laughing, before the Sergeant pushed his way forward and spoke briefly to the Imperial Navy Marines. The Marines fell back a moment later, allowing the other Marines to advance forward.
The Sergeant barked orders. Sidney launched a grenade towards the enemy position, then joined the charge as the grenade exploded, knocking the Blackshirts out of their post. The Marines smashed through them and charged up the corridor, ignoring the handful of bullets that pinged off their armour. Sidney guessed that the Blackshirts had had to organise their mutiny on the fly. They hadn’t bothered to find weapons capable of burning through powered combat armour.
They crashed into the Blackshirts attacking the CIC and opened fire. There were no survivors.
Penny let out a sigh of relief as she carefully lowered her weapon to the deck, then stood upright, careful to keep her hands in view. The rebels might take her prisoner, but they wouldn’t treat her as badly as the Blackshirts would have done… assuming, of course, they didn’t know what had happened to their missing personnel, the ones who had become POWs. But even if they did decide to retaliate by butchering prisoners, it wouldn’t be as bad as being tortured first…
The rebel Marines were surprisingly gentle. One of them frisked her — she couldn’t help cringing away from his armoured hands, knowing that one mistake would break bones — and then cuffed her, before leaving her to sit on the deck. They were a little tougher with the other officers, then the crewmen who had hidden in the office. Penny found herself staring down at the deck, wondering what would happen now. The rebels had offered their prisoners choices in the past, but would they do that now?
It was nearly forty minutes before she was helped to her feet, then pushed gently towards the hatch. Outside, it looked like a warzone. Blackshirts, Marines and ordinary crewmen had fought savagely, often leaving their bodies on the blackened and scorched deck. Penny knew that the damage was mostly cosmetic, unlike some of the damage inflicted by enemy missiles, but she couldn’t help feeling bitter. They’d worked so hard to get General Clive up to marginally acceptable standards, during the flight from Earth, and now the ship had been damaged again.
In the shuttlebay, she wasn’t surprised when Wachter and herself were separated. There was a brief conversation between two of the rebel Marines, then they were helped into a shuttlecraft and firmly strapped down. The shuttle took off moments later, heading back into space. Penny tried to see if there was still fighting going on, but the naked eye revealed nothing. By now, surely the Blackshirts would have lost control of the fortresses…
She shook her head. One way or the other, it was no longer her concern.
A rebel officer met them as they were helped off the shuttle. “For the moment, we’ve assigned you guest quarters,” he said, “if you will give us your parole. If not…”
He left the statement unfinished, but Penny could guess. If they refused to agree not to cause harm to the rebels while they were on the ship, there were more unpleasant places they could be held. The brig, for example, or a refitted cargo hold. It certainly wouldn’t be very comfortable, even if the rebels didn’t go out of their way to make it unpleasant.
“We will give your our parole,” Wachter said. “And thank you.”
Penny said nothing as they were escorted through the ship’s corridors to a small cabin, probably once used by one of Stacy Roosevelt’s allies. It was large enough to house them both comfortably, even though it had clearly been stripped of anything valuable or dangerous. The rebel cut her hands free, warned them that Marines would be posted outside the door, then shoved them both into the room. Penny rubbed at her wrists as the hatch slammed closed, leaving them alone.
“Get some rest,” Wachter ordered. “I’ll have the sofa.”
“Yes, sir,” Penny said. God alone knew what the rebels would want with them. They’d better catch up on their sleep while they could. “And sir…”
Wachter tapped his lips, silently indicating that they were probably being observed.
After a moment, Penny nodded and walked into the bedroom, leaving him alone.