Their first solution to the problem had been to decree that every starship had to carry a sealed message pod that would allow it to convoy messages between systems. The idea hadn’t worked out too well in practice as starships were delayed, or rerouted, or simply ‘forgot’ to pick up the message packets. The second solution involved the ICN; courier boats would jump from system to system, pass on the message bundles to the ICN stations, which would in turn relay them into the system or onwards to another courier boat. The system was clumsy and inefficient, but it worked — and it had other advantages. With all messages being sent through the ICN, it allowed the Empire a chance to censor everyone’s mail — or detect subversive messages before they were transmitted into the Empire.
It also had another advantage, as far as Neil was concerned. The Empire didn’t allow its corporations — particularly the ones with weaker ties to the Thousand Families — or private citizens any access to unbreakable encryption. Neil could use backdoors engineered into the system to peek at the messages, and then covertly hold them back for a few days while using his insider knowledge to make bets on the stock market. Working with a few allies deeper within the Empire, they were able to use their advance knowledge to gain wealth or avoid loss — and, as long as they were careful, they would be completely undetectable. They were careful. They gambled normally and only bet high when they were sure of their ground.
He barely noticed the battlecruiser flickering into the system, for he was carefully writing a message to his allies. Admiral Percival had refused to release any news of the rebellion into the ICN, which meant that stock markets further into the Empire would be unaffected by the news — at least, so far. Neil was betting that Admiral Percival would keep it classified for a few months longer, which would allow him and his allies the chance to secure their own positions and bet high. When the news finally broke — and it would; the ICN wasn’t the only communications channel — they would be in a good position to benefit. Best of all, it looked perfectly natural from the outside. No one would be able to tell what they were doing, even if Imperial Intelligence carried out a thorough investigation. He hadn’t even had to hold any messages.
“Lieutenant,” Midshipwoman Fanny said, interrupting his thoughts. He saw no reason for formality on his command deck, but Fanny was young and ambitious — and desperate to escape the ICN. She was also pleasant on the eye, so Neil saw no immediate reason to authorise her transfer. “The Dauntless is transmitting a long message packet, priority one.”
Neil lifted his eyebrows. He didn’t dare tamper with priority one messages — that would mean certain death if he were caught — yet even they had to be checked by the censor. He keyed his console, transferring the data packet to his own system, and swore aloud as he took in the headers. The message wasn’t just priority one; it was tagged with an Imperial Intelligence sticker, ensuring that it would go right to the top of the system. Worse, the second tag ordered a general broadcast to everywhere outside the system, but not into Camelot itself until a certain time. He found himself scratching his head. Neil liked the ordinary and the message was as outside the ordinary as it was possible to get, at least without the battlecruiser opening fire and blowing him and his station to vapour.
“Interesting,” he said, without committing himself to anything. The only reason he could think of for a blanket message was to ensure that everyone got it — at least everyone with the right code key to unlock the message. No, he realised, as he read through the final headers; the later tags contained instructions for the message to decipher itself, without the need for a code key. Someone wanted to broadcast a message to everyone within the Empire. The message would route itself through every last communications system it could reach, twisting and turning like a living thing. “I wonder why…”
“Sir, the battlecruiser is demanding a receipt,” Fanny insisted. She sounded nervous. No lowly Midshipwoman would want to handle a message with tags that came right from the highest authority in the sector. “They want us to confirm that we will send the message as soon as the next courier boat arrives.”
Neil scowled to himself, thinking hard. There was something odd about the message, odd enough to make him wonder if he shouldn’t check with Imperial Intelligence’s offices in the Camelot System before forwarding the message. Except… if the message was genuine, and he had no reason to believe it wasn’t, he would get into considerable trouble by delaying it, even for a few hours. He knew the schedules of the courier boats by heart and there was no way he could get a signal to Camelot and back before the message had to be transmitted. If the signal was false, he would be a hero, but if it was genuine… he’d be lucky not to be assigned to a penal world.
And, even if the message was false, he would have ignored perfectly legitimate codes. Imperial Intelligence would not be amused, perhaps even punish him for ignoring them, even though he’d done the right thing. They would be looking for a scapegoat and he knew, from long experience, that shit always flowed downhill. He would be the one who received the blame. He agonised for a long moment, and then made up his mind.
“Copy the signal into a burst transmission to Camelot, then transfer it into the buffer and transmit it to the next courier boat to arrive,” he ordered, finally. Having prepared the groundwork, it was time to cover his ass. “I’ll attach a message to it stating that I cannot verify that the message was approved by officers on Camelot. That should suffice.”
“Yes, sir,” Fanny said. Neil saw her jacket, carefully opened to reveal a little of her cleavage, and smiled to himself. Fanny was a survivor. There was no doubt of that. With a couple of patrons and perhaps some luck, she would rise high. “The next courier boat is due in two hours, seventeen minutes.”
And would be gone again in two hours, thirty minutes, unless something went badly wrong with the drives, Neil knew. “Yes,” he agreed, dryly. “We had better not delay then, had we?”
Khursheda watched from her ship as the ICN station accepted the message, copying back the message headers to confirm receipt. She said a silent prayer under her breath that the system would work perfectly, before looking up at the helmsman and ordering him to jump them out to where the rest of the squadron was waiting for them. They’d pushed their luck too far already.
The message headers did far more than just direct the message to its proper destination, she knew; they ensured that no one would attempt to unlock the message’s encryption before it was too late. The message — a declaration of rebellion would be forever moving ahead of any warning, any order to stop the message and erase it from the ICN. The Empire would have to wipe it completely — which would be difficult, as it would be bouncing back to the sender every few weeks — and change all of the codes. One of the headers, one normally assigned to Imperial Intelligence, would ensure that the automated systems just allowed it to slip through the censors. No one would look at it, she hoped, and even if they did, they wouldn’t be able to decrypt it in time.