She smiled as the battlecruiser flickered out of the system. The Empire insisted on maintaining complete control over the planetary datanets, although there were datanets — on Earth and the Core Worlds, mainly — that defied easy control. They could normally wipe any subversive message from the network without more than a tiny percentage of the planet’s population seeing it. Now… the message the rebels had created included the codes that would tell the monitors to ignore it, to let it pass through without comment. The entire Empire would see the message and know that a rebellion had begun.
Neil watched without undue surprise as the courier boat flickered into the system, dumped a massive data packet into the ICN station’s filters and accepted the transfer of an equally large data packet from Neil’s crew. As he had expected, there was no word from Imperial Intelligence’s base on Camelot. The courier boat waited long enough to recharge its drives and then flickered out, heading for its next destination. Neil turned back to his own work and pushed the message out of his mind. There were two corporate messages that he’d held back that had to be slipped into the next data packet, just in time to prevent anyone from wondering if they’d been deliberately delayed.
Nine hours later, just after he went off duty, had a long rest and returned to his station, a Blackshirt transport flickered into existence, right next to the station. Neil barely had time to wipe his own secured data store within the network before they stormed aboard, arrested him and his entire crew, transferring them to their ship. It seemed that the message wasn’t real after all. Neil gathered that after the Blackshirt commander, who looked deeply frightened, had driven a fist into his chest while screaming obscenities at him. The message had been faked, using codes that shouldn’t have been in private hands.
And, in the finest traditions of the Empire, the messenger was going to be shot.
Chapter Twenty-Five
“Let me do the talking,” Brent-Cochrane said, as the shuttle slowly drifted into the massive orbital fortress’s hanger bay. Penny gave him a single raised eyebrow, which made him smile. The way he was dressed, Percival might well have a heart attack on the spot, or find it hard to restrain homicidal impulses. “You stay quiet and pretend to be a good little aide.”
Penny shrugged. Brent-Cochrane had worn the standard dark blue dress uniform of a Commodore, but instead of wearing the blue cap, he’d donned a shining white cap with gold braid. Traditionally, only the supreme commander of a particular formation — a mere squadron, even of superdreadnaughts, wouldn’t be enough — would wear such a cap and wearing one to a meeting with the Sector Command was both an unsubtle insult and a subtle message to Percival’s supporters. Percival would see it as a challenge to his authority, yet he could do little about it, not with the level of connections enjoyed by his younger subordinate. He would have to grin and bear it, although part of Penny hoped that he would suffer a heart attack and die.
The shuttle gently touched down and the hatch opened, allowing the air from the fortress to flow into their craft. Brent-Cochrane’s personal bodyguard stood up and headed out of the hatch, making a circuit of the craft before he would allow any of Brent-Cochrane’s staff to follow him into the hanger bay. That, too, was another subtle insult to Percival, an implication that Brent-Cochrane didn’t trust his superior to organise his own security. Percival, an expert at the backstabbing and intrigue that made up the innermost circles of the Imperial Navy, would have no difficulty in understanding the message, although he would still find himself powerless to respond.
“Clear,” the bodyguard said, finally. If there was any doubt in his voice, Penny couldn’t hear it. “There’s a reception party waiting for you.”
The small party stood to attention as the Empire’s Anthem started to blare out, played through the speakers. Brent-Cochrane stepped from the shuttle, every inch the visiting monarch, and strutted to the far end of the line. The welcoming party was commanded, Penny saw with an inner flicker of doubt, by a mere Lieutenant. That, too, was an insult, one calculated to annoy the impulsive Commodore. Brent-Cochrane showed no visible reaction, even to her; he accepted the young officer’s salute and returned it with his own.
“Lieutenant,” he said, calmly and with perfect poise. “Permission to come aboard?”
“Permission granted, My Lord,” the Lieutenant said. He looked relieved; Penny knew how he felt. There were cases of visiting officers being offended by their reception party and demanding immediate punishment, or breaking careers effortlessly because they felt that their pride had been slighted. “Welcome onboard.”
Brent-Cochrane smiled. “Thank you,” he said. “Would you care to escort us to the Admiral’s quarters?”
The Lieutenant bowed and nodded, dismissing the welcoming party with a wave of his hand and turning to lead the two of them out of the hanger bay. Brent-Cochrane dismissed most of his party — he’d given them orders to mingle with the station’s crew, but remain on call — and allowed Penny to precede him as they walked though the station. The station was so massive that even Percival hadn’t been tempted to try to decorate it all in his own favoured style — the cost would have been shockingly high, even to someone with far more exalted connections — but she saw some of his paintings and artworks scattered around, announcing his control over the station. She wondered, sometimes, what the lower decks thought of their supreme commander’s taste in artwork, although no one gave a damn about their opinions — least of all Percival. The lower decks were there to do the dirty work and then remain out of sight, out of mind. The Imperial Navy only tolerated a few Mustangs — officers from the lower decks — every year.
Penny considered as she walked, contemplating the two men in her life. Percival was a sadist and a sexual pervert, yet in his way he was simple and easy to understand. The longer she spent in Brent-Cochrane’s company, the harder she found it to understand him. He was intelligent, capable, competent and — unlike Percival — interested in her for her brain, rather than her body. After their first coupling, he had never touched her again. It struck her as odd.
Or perhaps it wasn’t so odd, she reflected. Men liked playing their dominance games and Brent-Cochrane was playing one, not with her, but with Percival. Sleeping with Percival’s woman might be nothing more than yet another attempt to beat Percival, even though Percival would never find out about it. Brent-Cochrane might have a grand scheme to dislodge Percival from his position, yet in his mind, he already had. Or perhaps he trusted in his patrons and his undoubted ability to control his ships. He was simply too valuable for Percival to dispose of him.
Penny’s lips tightened as she fought to get back into the old ways of thought, adding an extra sway to her hips and tightening her jacket. The courier boat had found the squadron four days ago, ordering Brent-Cochrane to abandon his position and bring the squadron to Camelot with all possible speed. That, she was sure, meant bad news… or perhaps Percival had his own plan to get rid of his uppity subordinate before things went badly wrong for him. Or perhaps he was just missing Penny in his bed… no, that couldn’t be the answer. He could have ordered any of the young female officers into his bed and no one would have cared — well, no one who mattered. The Imperial Navy wouldn’t have cared in the slightest as such abuses of power were common, even winked at by senior officers.