“You go there and get them ready to receive us,” Colin said. “We’ll take the fleet and come meet you at the rendezvous point.”
He turned back to the display. “One additional point,” he added. “Do you know what we can do with five hundred thousand prisoners? We have to put the Blackshirts somewhere.”
Daria considered it. “Kill them all and the universe would smell a little better,” she said, darkly. “There isn’t a single person along the Rim who would condemn you for killing them, not even slightly.”
“I don’t want to start with a mass slaughter,” Colin explained. “We’re going to have to start accepting surrenders and that won’t be easy if they think they’re just going to be killed out of hand.”
“They’ll probably wind up thinking that anyway,” Daria pointed out. “Public Information will turn you into a mass murderer without any bother at all. They’ll start claiming that you have slaughtered the entire crew and replaced them with pirates drawn from a Rogue World — or Jackson’s Folly itself.”
Colin winced. Even though he had been careful to operate alone, without drawing any help — officially or unofficially — from Jackson’s Folly, it was true that the Empire would probably seize on his mutiny and rebellion as an excuse to clamp down on the planet. He felt guilty over that, even though he knew that there had been no choice — and besides, he’d read Stacy Roosevelt’s secret orders. The planet was going to be brutally subjected and brought under Imperial rule, which meant the direct rule of the Roosevelt Family. The entire governing class of the planet, it seemed, had been marked for death. Stacy had orders to round them up, interrogate them and then either execute them or transfer them to a penal world.
“But if you’re determined to avert a slaughter, transfer them to one of the colonies along the Rim,” Daria continued, unaware of his inner thoughts. “There are several worlds there that are borderline, with small populations and some interest in seeing that the Empire suffers badly, keeping it away from their worlds. We could just drop them there and leave them to take care of themselves. They’d have a chance to survive and we wouldn’t have to worry about what they might be doing in our rear.”
Colin smiled. “Good thought,” he agreed. If nothing else, perhaps the Blackshirts could do what millions of convicts had been doing since the human race started to expand into space. Having been unwillingly transported to a borderline world, they’d have the choice between making it liveable or dying there. “I’ll send the transports back with you and they can be emptied on one of those worlds.”
“Of course,” Daria agreed. “And then I will set up the meetings with the underground organisations. They will all want a piece of you.”
“I know,” Colin joked. “That’s what I’m worried about.”
The Flag Briefing Room on the General Montgomery was massive, easily large enough to hold every Captain in a full task force, perhaps even one of the sector fleets. Colin hadn’t set foot in one since Admiral Percival had betrayed him, yet he’d seen several before then and they had all been different. Normally, the Captain of the superdreadnaught was entitled to decorate the ship in whatever style he felt appropriate, but Stacy Roosevelt had taken that entitlement for herself. Her taste, Colin decided, was appallingly bad. Golden artefacts, each one worth more than even a Captain made in a year, were scattered around, while the bulkheads were painted a strange mixture of gold and silver. Colin had already privately resolved to have it changed as soon as possible, if they ever had the time. Besides, the artworks — although he felt that calling them artworks was being charitable — were worth millions of credits. The rebellion might need funding.
He glanced from face to face as his senior officers rose, greeting him as he entered the room. He’d had to reshuffle his most trusted officers to ensure that each of the superdreadnaughts had a hard core of his personnel onboard — and armed Marines, just in case — and they were all getting used to their new responsibilities. At least, unlike Stacy Roosevelt, Colin believed in frequent drills and proper rewards for good service, ensuring that his crew were already motivated to do their best. Besides, the thought of execution or a permanent exile on a penal world would keep a few minds concentrated on avoiding capture. Given a few days, the superdreadnaughts would be functioning at maximum efficiency. If only they had more time…
“Gentlemen, be seated,” he said, as he took his own seat. Commodore Roosevelt had obtained her own chair for the briefing room, one shaped more like a throne than a typical Navy-issue chair, and Colin felt vaguely silly sitting on it. Even so, it was just another thing that would have to be replaced once they had the time. “First, thank you all for your efforts. We are ready to flicker out on schedule.”
He smiled at their reactions. There were some senior officers, ones he had known personally, who would have demanded a standing ovation from their subordinates, but none of them would have clapped and cheered for him — not that he wanted such treatment, anyway. He needed his subordinates to be open and honest with him, not for them to start dressing up defeat as victory. The thought made his smile grow wider. Public Information, for all of its skill at controlling the media, would have some problems convincing the population that losing nine superdreadnaughts to a mutiny was a victory.
“If we make it to the Annual Fleet’s waypoint ahead of time, we will use the position to conduct additional drills until we can operate as a unit,” he continued. The superdreadnaught crews hadn’t been drilled properly under Commodore Roosevelt, although some of the brighter Captains had drilled their crews as if they were operating alone, without the rest of the squadron. “If not, we will need to engage at once or abandon our prize. Our operational plan reflects that reality.”
“Yes,” Khursheda said. She was now one of the superdreadnaught Captains, the vessel’s prior Captain having refused to join the revolution. He would be sharing Stacy Roosevelt’s living quarters on her way back to Camelot. “Colin… is it necessary to strike so hard?”
Colin frowned at her expression. He understood her point, of course; it meant that the escorts, including men and women who might join the rebellion, wouldn’t have a chance to surrender. He hated the concept himself, but there was little choice. His small squadron couldn’t afford a battle where there were more than a handful of variables. God alone knew how quickly the convoy escorts would respond.
And, worse, they would be alarmingly close to Camelot itself.
“I think that we don’t have a choice,” he said, grimly. “If we fail to take the Annual Fleet intact, we may be unable to press our advantage and destabilise the entire sector. And that, my friends, dooms us to inevitable defeat.”
There was no further argument. Few of them were happy with it, but they were all professional naval officers and understood the realities of combat in deep space. They couldn’t afford to lose their first battle, or the rebellion would collapse before it had even begun. And that, they knew, would doom any hope of freedom from the Empire.
Two hours later, the combined fleet flickered out towards its first destination.
Chapter Seven
“Commodore, Markus Twain reports that she is finally ready to jump,” Lieutenant Cohen reported. “All ships have now reported ready.”