“Sensors are picking up enemy ships,” the tactical officer said. “I confirm the presence of four destroyers and one manufacturing ship. The IFF signal identifies it as Fabricator.”
“Good hunting,” Khursheda said. She studied her display for a long moment, before looking up at the communications officer. There was no way that Fabricator could power up its drive and escape, but the destroyers could run any time they liked… if they abandoned the single most valuable ship in the system. “Demand their surrender.”
“Aye, Commodore,” the communications officer said. The dark-skinned woman worked her console for a few seconds. “They are not responding.”
“Lock weapons on target and go to active scans,” Khursheda ordered. The display sharpened as powerful sensors began probing space, hunting for targets. The manufacturing ship, twice the size of a superdreadnaught, was very clear on the display. The smaller destroyers, moving to cover the larger ship, were tiny. They couldn’t even stand up to one battlecruiser, let alone four of them. “Repeat our surrender demand. Remind them that we will take them alive and treat them decently if they surrender.”
There was a long pause. Khursheda found herself hoping that Admiral Walker was right, that others would wish to join the rebellion or perhaps to stand on the sidelines, without choosing a side. She knew that most of the Observation Squadron had joined the rebellion, as had the superdreadnaught crews, but Admiral Percival had time to prepare for a second round of mutinies. Placing Blackshirts on the various crews was absurd, at least from an efficiency point of view, but it would make any further mutinies impossible. Perhaps the reason why the manufacturing ship wasn’t surrendering was that there was a team of Blackshirts onboard, forbidding surrender by force of arms.
“They’re responding,” the communications officer said. As one, the four destroyers flickered out, vanishing somewhere in the vastness of interstellar space. Khursheda checked the readings from the sensors, but they were insufficient to determine where the destroyers might have gone. Somewhere within fifteen light years was the best the computers could do. The Imperial Navy’s researchers had promised that the ability to refine such projections was within reach, but no one, not even the Geeks, had cracked the underlying problem. “They’re offering to surrender in exchange for amnesty.”
Khursheda exchanged a puzzled glance with her XO. Why would they want Amnesty? It took her a second to realise that the crew of the manufacturing ship clearly feared that they would be blamed for whatever was going on down on Jackson’s Folly, or perhaps handed over to the locals for punishment. Admiral Walker would have done neither, Khursheda was sure. If he could resist the temptation to kill Stacy Roosevelt, he could probably resist the temptation to hurt men who had done nothing to him personally.
“Tell them that as long as they unlock the computers and refrain from causing any damage, we will leave them unharmed,” she promised. Perhaps the crew would be willing to join the rebellion. She keyed her console, linking her directly to the Marine shuttles waiting in the shuttlebay. “Major, you are cleared to launch; good luck.”
The display updated as the two shuttles raced away from her ship. Once the Marines were onboard and the manufacturing ship was secure, they’d take it to the first waypoint and wait for Admiral Walker and the other ships. The captured ship would be taken directly to the Geeks, where it would be used to produce additional material to supply the rebellion. The crew, if they refused to join the rebellion, would be transferred to the uncharted colony and left there until the war was over. Her lips twitched in sour amusement. The rebels, if they went on at such a rate, would end up building up a larger prison world than the Empire.
“The Marines have secured the ship,” the communications officer reported. “They’re warning that it will be at least another hour before the ship can flicker out.”
“We can wait,” Khursheda said. If there did happen to be an Imperial Navy superdreadnaught squadron within range, they would have to abandon their conquest and flicker out… or maybe not. “Tell them to move the ship to this location” — her hand danced over the console, designating a position several light seconds away — “and power down everything, but the essentials.”
“Aye, Commodore,” the communications officer said.
Khursheda sat back in her command chair. The Imperial Navy might return to the system before she could depart, but in that case she would literally hide the manufacturing ship right under their nose. She checked the timer and smiled. Now… all they had to do was wait for the time to leave.
“We’re coming up on the planet now,” the helmsman said. Jackson’s Folly loomed ahead of them on the display, a lovely green-blue world surrounded by red icons. Colin’s probes and sensor teams had been struggling to sort out the Imperial-held space facilities from friendly — or at least harmless — facilities, but it was a nightmarish struggle. There was far too much debris in orbit.
“Dispatch Marine teams to the orbital manufacturing facilities,” Colin ordered. According to the intelligence they’d picked up, the facilities the locals had built — the facilities Stacy Roosevelt had been so eager to capture intact — were currently occupied by the Blackshirts, who supervised the workers while holding their families hostage. Even so, it wasn’t a safe place to be a Blackshirt; the locals were alarmingly good at trapping and killing the invaders. It helped that the Blackshirts were neither trained nor equipped to operate in orbit. “Prepare to isolate targets on the ground.”
The Blackshirt commander — General Branford, according to intelligence — had been smart, smart enough to shut down his advanced tracking systems and try to hide. Colin’s own sensors could track some movement on the planet’s surface, but it was hard to distinguish between enemy movement and friendly activity. His communications officers were attempting to listen to communications from the planet’s surface, yet they were finding it hard to pull out anything useful from the babble. Only a handful of Blackshirt signallers were still transmitting, marking their locations as targets for KEW strikes.
Colin scowled. In some ways, it was the single most dangerous part of the operation. His superdreadnaughts — the only ships with large supplies of KEW projectiles to drop — were going to be operating close to the planet, so close that they would be trapped within its gravity shadow. If an enemy fleet happened to arrive, Colin would find himself trapped against the planet, forced to punch his way out rather than simply flickering to safety. And if that enemy fleet happened to consist of superdreadnaughts… Colin liked to think that the Popular Front could go on without him, but it wasn’t certain. Nothing was truly certain in life. He’d been living on borrowed time since he’d launched a mutiny against the Empire.
He smiled, pushing the dark thoughts aside. “Inform the Marines that they are cleared for launch,” he added. Whatever happened, he knew that his people would give their all. “They may engage the enemy at will.”
Colonel Neil Frandsen hooked into the assault shuttle’s sensors as it launched from the Marine transport, the pilot already gunning it down towards the planetary surface. Neil allowed himself a moment to enjoy the sight of a lovely world before he started to check up on the other shuttles. One had developed a drive fault and was being held back — a problem that occurred more frequently than the Marines liked to admit — but the remaining ninety were already spinning through space.
“Prepare to flicker,” he ordered. The shuttles were so small that they could flicker — with reasonable accuracy — far closer to the planet than any capital ship. Unlike the penal world, where there had been no counter-fire to speak of, Jackson’s Folly was occupied by the Blackshirts, who knew that they could expect no mercy from the locals. “On my mark… flicker!”