Free Democracy 1: Democracy's Right by Christopher Nuttall Page B

Jackson’s Folly itself.”
     
    Colin winced.  Even though he had been careful to operate alone, without drawing any help – officially or unofficially – from Jackson’s Folly, it was true that the Empire would probably seize on his mutiny and rebellion as an excuse to clamp down on the planet.  He felt guilty over that, even though he knew that there had been no choice – and besides, he’d read Stacy Roosevelt’s secret orders.  The planet was going to be brutally subjected and brought under Imperial rule, which meant the direct rule of the Roosevelt Family.  The entire governing class of the planet, it seemed, had been marked for death.  Stacy had orders to round them up, interrogate them and then either execute them or transfer them to a penal world.
     
    “But if you’re determined to avert a slaughter, transfer them to one of the colonies along the Rim,” Daria continued, unaware of his inner thoughts.  “There are several worlds there that are borderline, with small populations and some interest in seeing that the Empire suffers badly, keeping it away from their worlds.  We could just drop them there and leave them to take care of themselves.  They’d have a chance to survive and we wouldn't have to worry about what they might be doing in our rear.”
     
    Colin smiled.  “Good thought,” he agreed.  If nothing else, perhaps the Blackshirts could do what millions of convicts had been doing since the human race started to expand into space.  Having been unwillingly transported to a borderline world, they’d have the choice between making it liveable or dying there.  “I’ll send the transports back with you and they can be emptied on one of those worlds.”
     
    “Of course,” Daria agreed.  “And then I will set up the meetings with the underground organisations.  They will all want a piece of you.”
     
    “I know,” Colin joked.  “That’s what I’m worried about.”
     
    ***
    The Flag Briefing Room on the General Montgomery was massive, easily large enough to hold every Captain in a full task force, perhaps even one of the sector fleets.  Colin hadn't set foot in one since Admiral Percival had betrayed him, yet he’d seen several before then and they had all been different.  Normally, the Captain of the superdreadnaught was entitled to decorate the ship in whatever style he felt appropriate, but Stacy Roosevelt had taken that entitlement for herself.  Her taste, Colin decided, was appallingly bad.  Golden artefacts, each one worth more than even a Captain made in a year, were scattered around, while the bulkheads were painted a strange mixture of gold and silver.  Colin had already privately resolved to have it changed as soon as possible, if they ever had the time.  Besides, the artworks – although he felt that calling them artworks was being charitable – were worth millions of credits.  The rebellion might need funding.
     
    He glanced from face to face as his senior officers rose, greeting him as he entered the room.  He’d had to reshuffle his most trusted officers to ensure that each of the superdreadnaughts had a hard core of his personnel onboard – and armed Marines, just in case – and they were all getting used to their new responsibilities.  At least, unlike Stacy Roosevelt, Colin believed in frequent drills and proper rewards for good service, ensuring that his crew were already motivated to do their best.  Besides, the thought of execution or a permanent exile on a penal world would keep a few minds concentrated on avoiding capture.  Given a few days, the superdreadnaughts would be functioning at maximum efficiency.  If only they had more time...
     
    “Gentlemen, be seated,” he said, as he took his own seat.  Commodore Roosevelt had obtained her own chair for the briefing room, one shaped more like a throne than a typical Navy-issue chair, and Colin felt vaguely silly sitting on it.  Even so, it was just another thing that would have to