“We need to move quickly,” he said, once they all met up in one of the smaller corridors, just outside the CIC. He checked his terminal and swore. Now that the enemy was alert to their operations, the Blackshirts were moving and trying to recapture vital compartments. It was taking them longer than it should — Stanford had taken the precaution of wiping all access permissions apart from the ones he had created himself — but they were moving. The superdreadnaught shuddered again as it unleashed another salvo, adding a new danger to the whole enterprise. They might be killed by their own side. “And we also need to take the CIC intact. No shooting unless they fire first.”
There was a low rumble of agreement.
“But how are they doing this?”
Brent-Cochrane blinked at the tone in the Admiral’s voice. The Admiral had been speaking with the Chief Engineer when armed men had burst in behind him, firing live weapons in Engineering, of all places! The Engineer’s face had vanished from the display; a moment later, the communications link had failed completely. Engineering had been added to the list of compartments that had somehow been taken by the mutineers.
The ship rocked sharply as a missile slipped through the point defence to slam against the shields. It was only a single warhead, but the battle stations were giving almost as good as they were getting and it was only a matter of time before more slipped through. The rebel superdreadnaughts weren’t firing, leaving him to wonder if they were real… or if the rebels had decided to abandon Camelot in the face of superior force. None of the superdreadnaughts were using point defence either.
“They clearly planned carefully,” Brent-Cochrane said. Imperial Intelligence was supposed to have placed even more agents in the crew, yet they’d heard nothing. A paranoid thought flashed through his mind. Was it simple incompetence… or something more sinister? Was Imperial Intelligence, for whatever demented reason made sense to a spook’s mind, working with the rebels? “I think we may need to consider…”
A green icon flashed on the display. “Sir,” the tactical officer said, in a tone of a man who hoped that his superiors would not blame him for the disaster, “Admiral Owen has been destroyed.”
Brent-Cochrane blinked. The superdreadnaught hadn’t been under heavy fire, for she had been in the rear of the formation. There was nothing to explain the ship’s destruction, unless… he tapped his console and pulled up the records. It was clear as soon as he reviewed the live feed from the drones flying alongside the fleet. The superdreadnaught’s commander had triggered the self-destruct. His ship had to have been on the verge of falling to the enemy.
“Sir,” Brent-Cochrane said. A new light flashed on the display. The rebels — the mutineers — were trying to assert control of the ship from engineering. If they succeeded, the CIC could be sealed off and rendered harmless. “We need to trigger the self-destruct ourselves.”
Another console flashed. The flicker drive was powering down. “Impossible,” Admiral Quintana snapped. “I could not…”
He broke off as the sound of firing suddenly echoed in the distance. It took Brent-Cochrane a moment to realise that it was coming from the direct connection to the Blackshirts on duty outside the CIC. They were under attack. It wouldn’t be long until the mutineers penetrated to CIC and took over the ship.
“Sir,” Brent-Cochrane repeated. “You need to trigger the codes…”
Something flashed in the air. A knife appeared in Admiral Quintana’s eye, penetrating right into his brain. Brent-Cochrane lifted his weapon slowly as he saw the communications officer, one arm outstretched in a throwing pose. The treacherous officer had made it impossible to destroy the ship! He shot the communications officer as the hatch burst inwards and turned, firing towards the mutineers. He was still firing when four heavy blows slammed into his body and he collapsed into darkness.
Stanford watched the Commodore’s body fall to the ground and then looked around the CIC. Apart from the lone man, no one offered any resistance and it was easy to secure them and leave them for later attention. The chances were good that at least some of them would want to join the rebellion, but there was no time to test their loyalties now.
“Get in touch with the rebels,” he ordered, as he took the command chair. He checked his terminal and realised, to his relief, that the mutiny had secured all of the important locations. The remaining Blackshirts were isolated and could be dealt with at leisure. “Tell them that we want to surrender.”
He brought up the datanet console and checked the IFF signatures of the other superdreadnaughts. One of the ships was gone, he realised, but fourteen others had altered their IFF signals, confirming that they had been taken over by the mutineers. That might change, he knew, but for the moment they were secure. Hell, the loyalist superdreadnaughts might be on the verge of switching sides too.
“Quit firing at the rebels and prepare to fire on the loyalist ships,” he added. He hadn’t placed anyone on the smaller ships, knowing that if they took the superdreadnaughts more or less intact, they would be able to dictate terms to the other ships. The chances of being betrayed grew exponentially the more people he added to the conspiracy. “Get me a direct laser link to the friendly ships.”
He checked the call log as he waited for acknowledgement and smiled. Only two superdreadnaughts seemed to be completely free of mutineers, far more than he had dared hope. The remainder were either in the hands of his allies or being disputed. The Blackshirt transports were demanding orders from the Admiral. It seemed that he had ordered them to prepare to dispatch troops to the various superdreadnaughts, but then they’d lost contact with him.
“Detach yourself from the command datanet and form a new one,” he ordered, once he had made contact with his allies. Another superdreadnaught had fallen, leaving only ten as loyalist ships. The loyalists were panicking, uncertain of what to do. “I’m trying to talk to the rebels now.”
The first sign Colin had that all was not well with the enemy side was when one of their superdreadnaughts exploded for no apparent reason. It had been easy to tell that the ship had self-destructed — he knew perfectly well that his fortresses hadn’t fired on it, or at least not enough to destroy her — yet why? Ships did not explode for no apparent reason. Even a fused flicker drive would have merely rendered the ship unable to flicker away.
“Admiral, we’re picking up a message from the enemy flagship,” the communications officer said. “They’re saying that they had a mutiny and they want our support!”
Colin didn’t hesitate. It could have been a trick, or a trap, but not even the Empire would sacrifice an entire superdreadnaught just to bait a trap.
“General signal to the fleet,” he ordered. “The battle line will advance to support the friendly ships.”
He keyed another console and linked into the Marine command net. “Neil,” he said, “you can start getting your shuttles ready. I have a number of ships that you need to board.”
“They’re coming out to support us,” Stanford said, in relief. It had occurred to him that the rebels might not believe him, even if he had taken the superdreadnaught out of action. Two other superdreadnaughts had fallen to mutineers, leaving the remaining ships isolated and unable to act. The rebel crews had targeted them with energy weapons, just in case. He keyed his console and linked into the loyalist command net. They might not have known it, but the Admiral’s access permissions allowed him to go anywhere. “This is the rebel commander.”