“Continue tracking the freighters,” he ordered. Like Piccadilly, Greenland was owned and operated solely by the Roosevelt Family. The Imperial Navy had been asked to stand guard in the system, reinforcing the two orbital fortresses and the hundreds of automated weapons platforms, but Brent-Cochrane had chosen to creatively interpret his orders. If the rebels did attack the system, he’d calculated, his force would have time to intercept before serious harm was done. It wasn’t an attitude calculated to please the Roosevelt representative at Camelot and Daniel was sure that angry messages were already burning up the light years towards Earth. “Perhaps we can run a few tracking exercises, or maybe just tighten up the scans.”
He settled back into his chair and tried to relax. Stacy Roosevelt had actually tried to issue orders directly to Brent-Cochrane’s squadron, a serious breach of military etiquette. Daniel rather hoped that she would be summarily dismissed from the Imperial Navy for gross incompetence — the Imperial Navy had lost ships before, but no one had ever managed to lose nine superdreadnaughts to a set of boarding parties — but he doubted that it would come to that. Her Family would manage to save her career, yet the Imperial Navy would probably try to send her somewhere harmless. There was no shortage of places to send young officers who couldn’t be trusted not to screw up on a more serious posting.
“Two more ships, Captain,” the sensor officer reported. Two new green icons flickered into life, new freighters heading down towards the planet. Interstellar trade within the sector was starting to die away now, even though the interplanetary trade was as strong as ever. Perhaps the rebel raiders were being careful about coming deep into an unfriendly star system, or perhaps they were just concentrating on exterminating the interstellar shipping first. Daniel scowled. That was where he should be, watching over helpless freighters as they moved from system to system, not wasting his time on a system that was perfectly capable of looking after itself. “One of the freighters has an unusual drive signature.”
Daniel looked up, interested. Any relief from boredom was welcome. “Is it a rebel ship trying to be cute?”
“Uncertain, sir,” the sensor officer said. “It could be the result of normal wear and tear, or it could be a Captain trying to pretend to be a merchant ship and not succeeding very well. We could try to slip closer and take a look at it, perhaps test the cloaking device against active sensors…”
“No,” Daniel said, reluctantly. Sneaking up on a freighter was easy, as thousands of pirates and millions of dead spacers could testify, even without a cloaking device. Snow White could probably do it without losing her cover, yet he knew better than to try. The Commodore had been most specific. They were to remain undercover until — if — the rebels attacked and only then were they to break cover. “We stay here and remain hidden.”
The sensor officer scowled, but nodded. Under cloak, they could remain hidden indefinitely, at least until they came close to the defences surrounding the planet. After what had happened at Piccadilly, the Roosevelt Family knew exactly what could happen to their other planets and had issued new orders. No starship was to be allowed to approach the defences without proving its identity several times over, using new identification codes that were being hand-carried from star to star. If Snow White ventured too close, the chances were good that the turbulence she would leave in her wake would be detected and she would be fired upon before she could identify herself. The last thing he wanted to do was die at the hands of friendly forces.
Daniel shared his frustration, but there was nothing he could do, apart from endless drills and repair work. He was proud of his crew, for all that they were fewer in number than he deserved, than he had earned through his years of service to the Empire. Snow White was a tight little ship, even if her previous Captain had insisted on decorating her with images of a dark-haired woman with extraordinarily pale skin. Some of the images were nude, yet still demure, as if the girl was imbued with inner dignity. Daniel had found the images haunting at first, but he had grown to love them over the years. He had no idea what the crew thought about it.
“Hold us here,” he ordered. The two newcomers were heading down towards the planet, exchanging signs and countersigns with the defences. A Marine assault shuttle was already flying towards them, intent on searching the ships before they were allowed to come any closer. “I think it’s time for a drill.”
Without further delay, he hit a pre-programmed set of commands and the alert sirens began to blare through the hull.
“And so all of the repairs have been completed,” Flag Captain Jeremy Damiani said. His statement was echoed by the other Captains, whose ghostly images floated in the middle of Colin’s stateroom like spectres at a feast. The Imperial Navy might insist on all such discussions being done in person, but Colin saw no reason to maintain an outdated tradition. Besides, he suspected that it was done so that the various commanders could show off their cooks and the Popular Front had no time for such nonsense. “We are fully combat-capable and raring to go.”
Colin smiled, knowing that Percival — assuming that he had an accurate report on the Battle of Jackson’s Folly — would be astonished and horrified to discover how quickly his ships had been repaired. Thanks to Daria — and, to a lesser extent Hester — he had tapped into a rich vein of talent in the Beyond, engineers and repair crews who actually knew what they were doing. The Imperial Navy might prefer not to educate its crews too much, but the Beyond had no time for such luxuries and Colin hadn’t hesitated to take advantage of it. The superdreadnaughts had swapped out all the damaged components and replaced them within days.
“Excellent,” he said. He glanced up at the commanding officer of the General Grant, which had been the main target during the Battle of Jackson’s Folly. “Are you sure that your ship is in fighting trim?”
“I am certain of it, sir,” the young commander said. Like Colin, he’d been an XO on the Observation Squadron before the mutiny and an enthusiastic participant from Day One. It was ironic, but if there was one thing that the Empire and the Popular Front had in coming, it was that neither of them would willingly give a superdreadnaught to a man they didn’t trust. Colin had decided, not without regret, to move the superdreadnaught officers elsewhere, just in case. “We had to go EVA to swap out some of the armour plates, but we’re back in order now and” — he grinned at Damiani — “raring to go.”
Colin smiled. “Excellent,” he said, again. The recon missions had already been dispatched to Greenland, although he had been reluctant to use the same tactic more often than necessary. By now, the Imperial Navy would know to look for a freighter that appeared to have been abandoned by its crew. Or perhaps they would be paranoid about everything that entered their system, with very good reason. The reports from his agents at Camelot had reported that Admiral Percival had started updating the IFF signals again, this time making it impossible for a ship to enter the inner system without being searched. “If there are no other concerns…”
He waited, but no one spoke. “This may be our most challenging encounter yet,” he added. The preliminary recon missions had suggested that there was nothing unexpected within the system, yet two armoured fortresses in orbit and thousands of automated platforms were nothing to laugh at, particularly when they couldn’t sneak up on the bastards and blow them away before they could react. “Once we get the recon data back from the gunboats, we jump in hard and fast, concentrating on wrecking as much of the Roosevelt Family’s investment as possible, before we vanish again.”