“Or they’re tracking us on passive sensors and they’re planning to blow us apart when we get into point-blank range,” another Marine put in. Wisecracking was an old Marine tradition, if only to serve as a barrier against tension, but few would argue that it sometimes went too far. “We might be the first to find out that it is a trick.”
Neil shrugged, knowing that the motion — and his scowl — would be invisible inside his armour. If the defenders intended to fire on the Marines, there would be no warning, not now that they’d gotten into energy range. Weapons designed to tear through starships and induce atomic fission in their component molecules wouldn’t have any trouble vaporising the Marine shuttles — and, as the blast would be moving at the speed of light, the first notice they’d have of its presence would be when the shuttles exploded.
The Imperial Navy didn’t have much practice at surrenders; wrack his brain as he might, he couldn’t remember the last time an Imperial Navy warship surrendered, unless he counted the mutiny Admiral Walker had led. No full-sized orbital fortress had ever surrendered to an outside force, not when the First Interstellar War had promised nothing, but destruction for humanity. Whatever the Dathi had in mind for humanity, in an alternate reality where they had won the war, their treatment of prisoners of war had been appalling. Humanity hadn’t taken long to return the favour — and grow out of the habit of trying to take prisoners. It was quite possible that it was a trick, although God alone knew what Percival thought he could get out of it. Perhaps he was thinking of the chance to take some hostages of his own, or maybe a few bargaining chips? There was no way to know for sure.
His lips twitched humourlessly. Percival had no way of knowing, but each of the shuttles carried a full-sized warhead powerful enough to damage the station if it was detonated inside the shuttlebay. It wouldn’t be enough to break through the armour if detonated on the hull, yet if it went off inside the fortress it would wreck the entire station. No one was sure if the station would actually survive, but it would definitely render the station useless for the foreseeable future. It would probably not be worth attempting to repair the station at all.
He peered though his implants as the station grew closer, growing larger and more daunting all the time. The station’s mass was relatively equal to a superdreadnaught’s, but its boxy exterior was covered in weapons and point defence systems. He knew, from previous exercises, that the interior of the station was designed to resist a boarding party as much as it was designed to make fighting off an invading fleet relatively simple. The Imperial Navy used comparable stations to hold down rebellious worlds and, from time to time, resistance groups had managed to get armed fighters onboard. Neil had investigated one such action seven years ago and had concluded that the rebels had succeeded through paying hefty bribes.
“They’re opening the main shuttlebay for us,” the pilot said. “They’ve opened the flight management system to my computers and there is no sign of trouble.”
“Ah, but there wouldn’t be, would there?” Neil asked. He glanced down at the plan of the rotating station in his HUD. “Tell them that we are diverting to Shuttlebay Four” — a shuttlebay closer to the station’s command centre than the main shuttlebay, normally only used for inspection flights — “and that we will be docking in two minutes.”
“Yes, sir,” the pilot said. He didn’t question Neil’s order, for it was a common boarding practice when Marines boarded potentially-hostile ships. If the station’s crew had arranged any unpleasant surprises for them, the Marines wouldn’t oblige them by coming in the entrance they’d selected. “They’re opening the other shuttlebay for us now.”
Neil felt the tension rise as the shuttle rose up towards a glowing hatch and flew into the station. Normally, the station would have insisted on using a tractor beam or a gravity field to ensure that there were no accidents, but there was no way he would have agreed to that when boarding a station. Instead, the pilot put them down on the deck, using the shuttle’s drive fields, and the Marines dived out of the craft and onto the deck. No hail of fire greeted them. There was no one there at all, apart from a single crewman who was looking rather bemused.
“Welcome onboard,” he stammered. Neil smiled to himself. The surrender might have been sent out in Percival’s name and none of the other stations would dare object, but the command station — he wondered, absently, if the station had a name — had suffered what was, in effect, a mutiny. The whole situation was dangerously unstable and could explode at any minute, which was why he’d brought four whole companies of Marines along and assigned them to the boarding party. “Ah… Commander Redfield sends his compliments and invites you to join him in the command centre.”
Neil grinned. He’d been right. No one knew how to surrender. The thought was almost amusing. It wasn’t as if there were drills for surrendering a station. “Good,” he said. “I’m afraid that more of my men are going to be boarding the station and securing vital locations. Please inform Commander Redfield that any resistance will result in harsh punishment. My people have orders to use deadly force.”
The man’s face drained of colour. Neil rolled his eyes behind his helmet. Of course; who else would hold a position on a massive fortress, apart from a coward. The man was certainly afraid to contradict him, although that wasn’t a problem. It might make the occupation easier.
“Yes, sir,” the man said, finally. “Ah… should I escort you to the command centre?”
“Of course,” Neil said. “Lead the way, please.”
He followed the officer through the station’s passageways, concealing his surprise at how few crewmen they encountered. A quick query of the station’s datanet — unlocked for them to access as part of the surrender terms — revealed that most of the crew had been ordered to go to their quarters and remain there, while the Blackshirts had been sent to the gym. It was large enough to contain an entire company of Blackshirts for a brief period, although Neil didn’t hesitate to dispatch several platoons of Marines to keep an eye on them. The Blackshirts might not accept any orders to surrender and try to put up armed resistance. Luckily, they weren’t wearing proper armour, allowing the Marines to vent the compartments and suffocate them if necessary. Neil wasn’t inclined to take chances.
The command centre’s hatches had been locked open, allowing him to stride right into the nerve centre of the station. Commander Alan Redfield — a young man with a developing paunch — looked up at him nervously, then stood to attention and saluted. Neil returned the salute, just before noticing a grossly-overweight man lying on the deck, groaning. Admiral Percival looked just as ugly as he’d been told.
“Welcome onboard,” Redfield said. Neil suspected that he meant it. The prospects of a Blackshirt mutiny had to have been floating through the Commander’s mind. “I surrender this station and the planet to you.”
“I accept your surrender,” Neil said, equally formally. He wasn’t sure if Redfield had the authority to surrender the planet, but if someone on Camelot wanted to try to hold out it would last as long as it took to drop a KEW on their base. Very few planets had ground-based planetary defence centres, if only because taking them out always tore up the real estate and inflicted vast damage on the planetary surface. “I believe that my commander will wish to make an offer to you all, but until then I have to treat you with some care.”
“I understand,” Redfield said. He didn’t sound unhappy about it, but then… it was clear that he believed that he was lucky to be alive. The images of over eighty superdreadnaughts surrounding the planet floated in space, suggesting that the sensors on the fortress couldn’t tell the real superdreadnaughts from the drones. “Sir… what about him?”