“Order the freighters to move in,” he ordered. “I want them everyone on the shipyard loaded onto the freighters as quickly as possible.”
He allowed himself a smile. The shipyard was useless without the trained personnel to run it — and the Empire didn’t have a large pool of trained manpower. Much of the people they did have had died at Jupiter or Wolf 359; even if they stripped smaller shipyards of their personnel it would still take weeks or months to restart operations. In the long run, Colin calculated, the Empire would be unable to put the shipyard back to work until the matter was settled, one way or the other.
“Send the Geeks a note of congratulations,” he added, “then take us back to the edge of the gravity shadow. It’s time to head onwards to Earth.”
The display showed Earth clearly, only one jump from Terra Nova. By now, Colin suspected, the Thousand Families would be utterly overwhelmed. They probably knew that Terra Nova had been attacked, if his calculations were correct. Unused to making quick decisions, they would have to decide between sending superdreadnaughts rushing back to Terra Nova — and they’d already missed the best opportunity for a genuine victory — or keeping them in position to defend Earth. Politically, he suspected, it would be impossible to decide before it was no longer an issue.
“Send a courier boat to the RV point,” he ordered. “I want a full download from Captain Cordova.”
He watched the courier boat flicker out, then he turned back to monitoring progress within the gravity shadow. Thankfully, there was no resistance. The shipyards and orbital fortifications were rapidly emptied of their personnel, allowing the freighters to start climbing back up towards the edge of the gravity shadow. Once they jumped out, the personnel would be held at the RV point until the war was over. Or, if it took too long to win, they would be shipped back to Morrison or Jackson’s Folly and put to work there.
“There’s too many people on the moon to evacuate,” the coordinator warned. “Sir…”
“Leave them,” Colin ordered, after a moment. The civilians wouldn’t be harmed by the Empire, of that he was sure. It would shatter the bonds holding the patronage networks together beyond repair. “Just make sure you confiscate all of the shuttles and anything else they could use to reach orbit.”
He watched as the remaining freighters flickered out, then glanced down at the report from the courier boat. Cordova had done well, according to the cloaked ship that had monitored Sol after Cordova had flickered out. The enemy had taken a bloody nose, then had been forced to watch helplessly as the rebels retreated, untouched and untouchable. They had to be fuming with rage…
Not that it matters now, he thought. We’re about to win or lose the war.
He keyed his console. “All hands, this is the Admiral,” he said. “We are about to flicker to Earth, the homeworld of humanity — and the heart of the Empire. The battle we will fight will determine the fate of humanity for a thousand years. If we win, we can reform the Empire and end the colossal abuses of power that have destroyed trillions of lives. And even if we lose, we will ensure that the Empire’s colossal self-confidence will no longer survive. They will change or die.
“Think of your friends, your families, all of those who have suffered at the hands of the Empire,” he continued. “This is our best chance to end their suffering, once and for all, and build a new order. This day, win or lose, will be remembered. Let us give them something to recall.
“I expect each and every one of you to do your duty, one final time.”
He took a breath. Earth, the homeworld of humanity… he’d never really expected to enter the Sol System with a battle fleet, not until he’d started to plan the first mutiny. Even then, he’d known the odds were against him. But the Empire was a rotting corpse, already dead; he knew he had the opportunity to win.
And even if they didn’t win, they would be remembered. Others, one day in the future, would use the memory to encourage them to go for their enemy’s throats…
“Jump,” he ordered.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
The argument had started the moment the courier boat had arrived from Terra Nova, reporting that the shipyard was under attack. Tiberius listened helplessly as most of the Family Heads shouted at each other, bickering even as time ran out. He knew, with a certainty that surprised him, that the rebels were on their way to Earth. Once they captured Terra Nova, they wouldn’t want to give the Empire any time to recover from the shock.
“Gentlemen,” Admiral Porter said. They ignored him. “Gentlemen, please…”
Tiberius followed his gaze. New red icons had flared into existence, alarmingly close to Earth. The rebel fleet had arrived. One by one, the Family Heads turned to stare, their argument dying out as they realised that retribution was finally on its way. Tiberius looked from face to face and wondered, absently, just how they had managed to keep power for so long. But as long as they’d controlled the biggest stick in the galaxy, they hadn’t needed to be subtle. Now, that stick had broken in their hand.
“They’re outnumbered,” Lord Bernadotte said, in the tones of a man desperately clutching at straws. “We can beat them.”
“I doubt it,” Tiberius said. Admiral Foster was no Admiral Wachter — and Home Fleet had been in a worse state than the Morrison Fleet, before Wachter had taken command. The rebels, by contrast, were battle-hardened and ready to fight. “We have to consider other options.”
“You mean surrender,” Lord Rothschild said. “Why would they accept our surrender?”
Tiberius forced his voice to remain calm. “We still control large parts of the economy,” he pointed out, smoothly. “If they refuse to accept our surrender on terms” — he knew what terms the rebels would demand, thanks to Gwendolyn — “we can cripple the economy and ensure that they inherit a wasteland. Not to mention force them to shoot their way past Home Fleet, if they refuse to deal with us.”
“They’d just agree, then go back on the deal,” Lord Bernadotte snapped. “Why should they honour any agreement with us?”
You would do that, Tiberius thought. If you thought you held the whip hand, you’d break whatever deals you made whenever it suited you.
“The rebels are trying to form a new government,” he said, instead. “If they break their word so blatantly, they will find it impossible to get anyone else to trust them.”
“None of the rebel factions will object to us being brutally slaughtered,” Lord Bernadotte pointed out, sharply. “Why would they care?”
“Because it sets a damn precedent,” Tiberius snapped back. “They may gloat at our misfortune, but what stops the rebels from doing it again and again?”
Lady Madeline’s image flickered out. Tiberius barely noticed.
Alarms sounded a moment later. Tiberius suddenly found his attention torn between the meeting and Sharon, who had burst into the conference room. She never did that; hell, it was the one room in the complex that was barred to her, unless it was an absolute emergency.
“My Lord,” she said, “the rebels are attacking the High City!”
Tiberius swore, then turned his attention to the other holograms. “We seem to be under attack,” he said. A glance at the live feed revealed that the High City wasn’t the only place under attack. The underground had been building up its forces and putting them in place. “I think our time has run out.”
There was a brief, silent consultation between the other Family Heads. “We take a vote,” Lord Rothschild said. “And then we abide by it.”