“Finally,” Commodore Sonja Warren said, not bothering to hide her irritation. “Helm; begin jump preparation. I want to jump to the next waypoint before someone else goes wrong.”
“Aye, Commodore,” the helmswoman said. “Jump preparation begun; jump in two minutes precisely.”
Sonja scowled down at her hands, reminding herself not to snap at her crew. The assignment to escort the Annual Fleet to Sector 117 — and command of over thirty starships, the largest formation outside the Sector Fleets — was a indication of how much trust the Admiralty had in her abilities, but it was one of the most tedious assignments in the Imperial Navy. It was quite possible for a battlecruiser like Pegasus to make the trip from Earth to the Rim in under six months, yet escorting fifty bulk freighters ensured that the trip would stretch out to nearly nine months. The freighters were old, had far less precise drives and simply took longer to recharge before they flickered onwards to their next waypoint. It didn’t help that, in order to ensure security, they had orders not to go within a light year of an inhabited system. Her crew were tired and needed shore leave, but there was no chance of that until they set foot on Camelot.
She relaxed slightly at the thought. The next jump would take them to within two light years of Camelot, then there would be one final jump and they would be home free. Admiral Percival’s Sector Fleet could take over escort duties for the individual ships as they were scattered to the various inhabited worlds in the sector, allowing her crews — and Sonja herself — to have a well-earned rest. She had no idea what the shore leave facilities were like on Camelot, but she would have been happy just to go off duty for a few weeks and spend it all in bed, alone. It would be so lovely to have some guaranteed peace and quiet.
“Attention all ships,” the helmswoman said. “Jump in one minute and counting. Slave navigational computers to Pegasus: I say again, slave navigational computers to Pegasus.”
Sonja kept her face expressionless, even though she wanted to roll her eyes. For some reason best known to themselves, the Admiralty had insisted on concealing the waypoint coordinates from the freighter crews, even though they’d shared them with Admiral Percival and his command staff. The Annual Fleet might be the most desirable target for pirates — or the independent black colonies along the Rim — in the entire sector, but no pirate fleet could hope to rally the firepower to defeat the convoy’s escorts. Hell, she would have been delighted if they had tried. Blowing pirate ships into flaming debris would have broken the monotony.
The Empire was more than a little paranoid when it came to industrial nodes and stations, to the point where all of the standard Imperial-approved designs were firmly controlled by one or more of the Thousand Families and their corporate interests. Sector 117 needed an industrial base of its own, one that could support an expansion in the sector’s economy, yet the population would never be allowed to build one of their own. Instead, at great expense, they had been forced to import the industrial nodes from factories closer to Earth, keeping them dependent upon the Empire. Sonja didn’t know for sure, but she would have bet half her salary that Imperial Intelligence had added in a handful of their own components, ensuring that the Empire knew what had been built in the nodes — and when. It didn’t really matter in this case, at least. She knew that the freighters would eventually be unloaded at worlds that were already firmly under the Empire’s thumb. The Roosevelt Family had seen to that.
She checked the live feed from the display as the seconds ticked away and the freighters slaved themselves to the command ship. She doubted that any of their commanders were happy about it — she wouldn’t have wanted to slave her ship to any other ship, whatever the reason behind it — but they couldn’t argue. They came from the Family-owned shipping lines and would know better than to rock the boat too much. It would have serious career repercussions. No merchant career, no matter how illustrious, could survive a complaint from the Imperial Navy.
“Thirty seconds to jump,” the helmswoman said. She looked absurdly young for her position — or perhaps that was because Sonja herself felt old and tired. There were only two more jumps, she reminded herself, and then they would be safe and sound. “Twenty-nine, twenty-eight, twenty-seven…”
Sonja caught sight of her own reflection in the display and smiled to herself. Unlike many other well-connected commanding officers, she hadn’t bothered to design her own uniform, or even decorate her flagship in whatever style she chose. She wore the basic blue of the Imperial Navy, contrasting oddly with her short black hair and sharp face. She realised that she looked tired and promised herself at least four hours of sleep once the coming jump was completed. Her XO could handle the pause while the freighters recharged their flicker drives and braced themselves for the final jump. Or perhaps she just wouldn’t have the time. Her ship’s doctor had been nagging at her about her physical exam, the one she’d been dodging for the last year or so. Sonja hated being poked and prodded — she suspected that the doctor made it uncomfortable on purpose — but regulations were clear. Every crewman, even the starship’s commander, had to undergo a complete physical exam every five years. Her time was definitely running out.
The thought made her smile grew wider. She had played the great game of patronage carefully, trading patrons when necessary, until she had finally reached the command she sought. The Imperial Navy had been good to her and she would serve it loyally for as long as she could, yet even the greatest of connections couldn’t save her from the physical examination. Even the Imperial Navy, a patronage-riddled entity, drew the line there. A commander who might collapse while on duty was a danger to everyone, including herself.
“…Three, two, one,” the helmswoman said. “Jump!”
The Annual Fleet flickered out towards its next waypoint.
Colin sat in the sinfully comfortable command chair on the bridge of the General Montgomery, silently swearing to himself that he would have the chair pulled out and replaced with a properly uncomfortable one as soon as he had the time. He didn’t understand how the various commanders of the superdreadnaught had avoided falling asleep while on duty, although in Stacy Roosevelt’s case her falling asleep on the bridge could only have improved efficiency. Her Flag Captain has probably been relieved to hear snores coming from her command chair.
He shook his head and stared down at the datapad in his hand, flicking through the files on the superdreadnaught’s crew. He hadn’t been surprised to discover that the Thousand Families kept their own files on their clients, although he had been surprised to discover that they routinely shared them. Or maybe it was just between patrons; Stacy Roosevelt had access to most of Admiral Percival’s files, including Colin’s own. He had read it with a certain amount of amusement, and private relief that Stacy was out of reach. Percival had pulled no punches; Colin had been damned as overly ambitious, which was true enough, but also for having desires far above his station. Percival, in what he had doubtless considered the greatest of wit, had written about the common-born officer with ambitions to rise to the very top and join the aristocracy. Percival’s final comment — that Colin should spend the rest of his life on an isolated patrol base — would probably come back to haunt him. Colin doubted that even his connections could save him from nemesis.
The next file related to a crewwoman who had refused a superior’s advances and ended with the suggestion that she should never see promotion again, at least until she changed her mind and opened her legs for her superior. Colin shook his head in disbelief. He had always known that he had a vindictive streak — he’d considered doing horrible things to Stacy Roosevelt, purely out of a desire for revenge — but this was far beyond anything he had ever considered. Colin was mildly surprised that the crewwoman hadn’t been transferred to somewhere unpleasant — a far-off asteroid mining colony, perhaps — yet perhaps her superior’s lust had not dimmed. Or perhaps he just hadn’t wanted to commit anything to the files. Not all members of the Thousand Families were bastards. The superior’s social equals might have had a few things to say about his conduct.