Perilous Shield

Chapter Thirteen

He had entered Alliance orbital installations before. He had done so wearing combat armor, at the head of soldiers, fighting against defenders sometimes frantic and sometimes determined, but almost always tough. In Colonel Rogero’s mind, the thought of an Alliance orbital installation conjured up images of torn metal, smoke filling those passageways not open to vacuum, and death walking all about him as attackers and defenders fought and bled.

It felt unreal now to step from a shuttle, an Alliance shuttle, onto the clean, smooth surface of an undamaged loading dock, out into an open passageway beyond.

But Alliance Marines waited there, armed and armored for combat, though their face shields were open in a small gesture of peace. Despite the open face shields, the Marines’ weapons looked to Rogero as if they were all powered-up and ready to fire, which did nothing for his peace of mind. Alliance Marines in combat armor aroused some very unpleasant memories for him. But he remembered that Honore Bradamont had walked onto a former Syndicate warship, surrounded by former Syndicate officers and crew, to do her duty. I can do no less than her.

The Marine officer in command gestured wordlessly to Rogero, then led the way into a larger area where crowds of civilians were visible on either hand. The crowds were held back by more Marines as the numbers of civilians swelled rapidly. Apparently, word of his visit had spread quickly but only recently so that spectators were rushing to view the event.

Admiral Timbale waited in the center of the open area, standing stiffly as if on sentry.

As Rogero appeared among the ranks of the Marines, a low sound arose from the crowds, the murmur of many voices speaking at once so no one voice could be understood. He could not hear the words, but he could sense the feelings behind them. The crowds sounded… curious. He didn’t wear a Syndicate uniform. He wasn’t a prisoner. For so long the universe had been divided into two sides. You were Alliance, including the much lesser allies like the Callas Republic or the Rift Federation, or you were Syndicate. But Rogero looked like something else. Something new. What?

He wished he could be sure of the answer to that himself.

Rogero came to attention before the Alliance Admiral and saluted, bringing his right fist across to touch his left breast. Would the people here recognize that as a Syndicate-style salute? It had been at least fifty years since Syndicate personnel had been ordered never to salute Alliance officers, in one of the more petty lowerings of common courtesies and humanity that had characterized the war as it dragged on. Quite likely no one but prisoners of war would have seen Syndicate workers exchanging salutes.

Admiral Timbale, his eyes studying Rogero intently, returned the salute in the Alliance fashion, bringing up his right hand to touch his right temple. “Welcome aboard Ambaru station, Colonel Rogero of the independent and free Midway Star System.” Timbale recited the words slowly and clearly, ensuring they could be heard by the crowds and entered into the official record exactly as he said them.

Bradamont had told him what to say, and now Rogero paused to be certain he recalled the words properly. “As an official representative of the independent and free Midway Star System, I express my thanks for your assistance in the… humanitarian mission in which I am engaged.” It had been hard to say humanitarian without giving the word the usual Syndicate sarcastic lilt, but Bradamont had drilled him on it. “Admiral Geary has defended our star system and all of human-occupied space twice against the attacks of the enigma race. Our forces were honored to fight alongside his during the last engagement.” You have to mention Admiral Geary, Bradamont had urged. Tell them he accepted you as allies. And don’t call him Black Jack. The Alliance people may call him that to your face, but you have to appear more respectful. “We hope this is just the beginning of a new chapter in our relations with the people of the Alliance.”

Another murmur of conversation arose from the crowd. It still didn’t sound threatening, but it didn’t sound welcoming, either. Skeptical, perhaps. Well, he couldn’t hold that against them. He had his own share of skepticism about working with the Alliance. The countless dead in the very-long and only-recently-ended war would stand between him and these people for long years to come.

An officer just behind Timbale stepped up next to him and offered a data pad. Timbale took the pad, looked over the screen, then offered it in turn to Rogero.

Rogero read the screen carefully even though it appeared to contain the same wording as the agreement previously sent to him. He touched the record tab, activating the pad. “I, Colonel Donal Hideki Rogero, as an authorized and appointed representative of Gwen Iceni, President of the Midway Star System, accept full custody of the former prisoners from Syndicate Worlds’ military forces held by the government of the Alliance in the Varandal Star System, and agree to abide by the terms of the agreement set forth here.”

Timbale took back the data pad, passing it to his aide, who stepped back again, then looked Rogero over once more. “A hundred years of hate,” Timbale said in a low voice, “is not easily overcome.”

“Yet we must,” Rogero said, “so that the next generation has a chance to live without that hate.”

“True enough, but if you still wore a Syndic uniform, I’d be hard-pressed to believe you meant it.” Timbale nodded toward the crowd. “They’ve been told that Admiral Geary supports your government, so they’re willing to listen. Tell your leaders not to blow that chance. The people of the Alliance may not listen a second time if they get betrayed again.”

“I understand.” Rogero saluted once more. “For the people.” Remembering Bradamont’s comments, he made the words sound as if they really did mean something, which drew a skeptical look from Timbale.

“To the honor of our ancestors,” Timbale replied, returning the salute again. “Perhaps—” he began.

A bustle of noise and activity drew their attention. Rogero saw a large number of Alliance soldiers in uniforms he recognized. Elite commandos. They were coming this way as fast as they could push through the crowds.

Timbale spun to face the Marine officer. “Get him back to his shuttle. Now. Make sure he gets aboard and the boarding hatch is sealed. Block anyone from reaching him.”

The Marine hastily saluted, then he and the other Marines began quickly herding Rogero back to the dock entry. Rogero felt a curious reluctance to retreat like this. Part of him wanted to turn and face those commandos. Face them down, fight them, as he had more than once.

But that would be foolish, and senseless. He couldn’t win. It would imperil his mission.

And if he were captured by those commandos, he did not doubt that Honore would live up to her promise to come after him, no matter the cost to her. That decided him.

The Marines formed a solid wall in the passageway behind Rogero as he reached the dock. Their armor alone made a formidable barrier, in addition to which most of the Marines were facing outward, weapons held at a port arms position in a nonthreatening but obvious way. He could hear Admiral Timbale ordering the commandos to stop, orders that were being repeated, which meant they likely were not being obeyed. There was no telling how much time he had, or what the Alliance Marines would do when the commandos reached them. But Rogero still paused long enough to look into the eyes of the Alliance Marine officer, one professional to another, one veteran to another. “Thank you.”

The Marine looked back, his face expressionless but his eyes both hostile and puzzled. Then the hostility cleared a small amount, and the Marine nodded to acknowledge the words.

No more than that, but it was something.

Rogero walked quickly up the ramp and onto the shuttle, hearing the hatches sealing behind him.

“Strap down fast!” the pilot called over the intercom. “I’ve got direct orders from the admiral to blast out of here!”

He had barely gotten into a seat before acceleration pressed Rogero back hard enough to drive the breath from him. He managed to get the straps fastened as the shuttle swung wildly from side to side and up and down as if following a roller-coaster track through space. Pilots. They’re all crazy. This one is probably enjoying tearing out from the station and whipping through all of the traffic around us even though we’re probably avoiding swift death by only centimeters at times.

Bradamont had been right. The ground forces here had attempted to intervene, had doubtless aimed to detain him. Perhaps the intelligence service of the Alliance had prompted that, recognizing Rogero with certainty when he had recited his full name for the turnover ceremony. But Bradamont had also been right that Timbale was to be trusted.

I was protected by Alliance Marines, Rogero realized. They defended me. No one will believe it.

I’m not sure I believe it myself, and I was there.

Rogero looked toward the display positioned near his seat, wondering if he was allowed to touch it. All it showed now was an outside view, stars and other bright objects glittering against the black of space, the dots of light blurring into streaks as the shuttle spun onto new vectors. The shuttle rolled again, and the small disc of a not-too-distant planet spun across the display, bottom to top before vanishing again.

“There’s a lot of shuttles out,” the pilot suddenly said, startling Rogero. “From the markers on them, they’re loaded with personnel. Must be your guys.”

Once again, Admiral Timbale is true to his word. He did order the movement of the prisoners begun while I was still on the way to the station to see him.

What exactly happened on the station? Why would Alliance military personnel refuse to obey the orders of a senior officer, even if he was of the fleet and they of the ground forces? No Syndicate worker would have defied orders from a CEO because the CEO was not their assigned supervisor.

But if a snake CEO had ordered an action, other CEOs would have had a hard time stopping it.

There’s a stench of political maneuvering here. I didn’t expect it in the Alliance. Despite what Honore has told me, I thought they would be fanatically pure in their dedication to only military issues. Not like us, riddled with politics. Most of the Syndicate, or now former Syndicate, officials that I know felt like that. Strange that we should have believed our foes to be superior to us in such a way. I feel strangely disappointed. If we had to lose, why couldn’t the enemy who beat us have been superhuman?

“Thank you,” he said to the pilot. “How long until we reach my ship?”

No response came, the pilot perhaps already regretting volunteering information. Or perhaps the pilot had suddenly remembered who his passenger was.

Any thrill that came from the wild ride had long since subsided by the time the shuttle began braking hard. Fortunately, the rough-and-tumble shuttle trip had also eased off as they got farther from Ambaru. Rogero gripped the armrests tightly as the braking maneuver went on and on, then abruptly ceased. A few moments later, a gentle bump announced their arrival at the air lock of the freighter. A fast approach, one long burn, and a gentle arrival with no last-minute thrust adjustments. The pilot was showing off, even under these conditions. Rogero grinned, heady with relief. “Well done!” he called to the pilot. “You’re good.”

As he headed for the air lock, the pilot offered a single word in reply. “Thanks.”

Rogero had no sooner left the lock and stepped onto the freighter than he felt the shuttle disconnect.

Lieutenant Foster, the commander of the platoon of Rogero’s soldiers aboard this freighter, was standing by with several of his troops. “We were told the first load of prisoners would be here within minutes, sir,” he explained.

“Get them in and moved away from the air lock,” Rogero ordered, trying to adjust emotionally to the rapid transition from being surrounded by the Alliance to now being back among his own soldiers. “Fast, clean, no holdups. Any questions?”

“No, sir.”

More than five thousand to pack onto six freighters. They would be stacked in the passageways as well as the Spartan living quarters, and there wasn’t time to do an elegant job of the stacking.

The air lock opened again. Men and women began coming onto the deck of the freighter, all of them wearing faded Syndicate uniforms that bore the marks of amateur repairs of rips and tears as well as burn marks. They looked healthy enough, but their eyes bore the wariness and resignation of those who had spent their lives expecting nothing but worry and uncertainty. Rogero knew that look. Most workers under the Syndicate had it though they disguised it as best they could.

“Welcome,” Rogero said, using his voice of authority. “We are here to take you back to Midway. You are no longer prisoners of the Alliance.”

A woman in the dilapidated outfit of a senior line worker straightened and spoke to him in the tones expected of a worker. “Honored CEO—”

“I am not a CEO. I was a sub-CEO. Now I am a Colonel in the ground forces of the independent star system of Midway. You know us. Now, obey instructions. We must get everyone on board as quickly as possible.”

Looking more dazed than ever, murmuring among themselves, the freed prisoners followed one of the soldiers down the passageway.

Lieutenant Foster watched them come off the shuttle with growing amazement. “How many are on there?”

“As many as the Alliance could safely fit,” Rogero said. “They have little with them but the clothes on their backs. No luggage, no bulky garments or survival suits, so each individual doesn’t take up much room.”

The next hour was a blur as shuttle after shuttle docked, discharged its passengers, then pulled away to make room for the next, while Foster’s platoon labored to move the freed prisoners away from the air lock and get them packed in somewhere to make room for the next load. The sense of urgency from the Alliance shuttles was easy to pick up, but as load after load accumulated, the process began slowing down as people clogged the passageways on the freighter. Even though the freed workers were trained to unquestioning obedience, they were disoriented and confused, many looking around as if awaiting the moment when they would wake up from this dream.

“Move!” Rogero bellowed at one group that had unaccountably stopped dead, completely clogging a major intersection of passageways. As the workers bolted into motion like frightened deer, he heard his name being called.

“Donal!”

Colonel Rogero recognized the man and woman pushing their way toward him, but he had to search his memory for a moment to place them. Sub-CEO Garadun and Executive Ito. From… a battle cruiser. He couldn’t remember which one. They had met several times at official meetings and official social events related to those meetings. Not that social events were casual or that he had learned all that much about the other Syndicate officials he met there, including these two. Everyone at official social events assumed there would be covert snakes salted through the attendees, not to mention plenty of surveillance gear, all listening for any hint of disloyalty. Official Syndicate social gatherings did usually have unlimited, free drinks, but since that was aimed at getting people drunk enough to blurt out compromising statements, wise citizens limited their intake. It all made for “casual” gatherings that were extremely formal, everyone watching their actions and words, as well as the actions and words of those around them.

Garadun stopped before Rogero, his face split by a huge grin. “Then it’s true! You came for us! For once the ground forces have bailed out the mobile forces!”

“We’re from BC-77D,” Ito said, coming to a halt beside Garadun. “in case you don’t remember. A lot of our crew got off when the unit was destroyed, and they’re with us now.” She was smiling almost as widely as Garadun. “Is it true? The Syndicate government is gone?”

“Not gone,” Rogero advised. “It still exists on Prime. But we’ve thrown them out of Midway.”

“The snakes… ?”

“Dead. We took them down.” Rogero heard pride in his voice as he said that. Well, why not? It was true.

Garadun and Ito exchanged glances. “It’s obvious you’ve got ground forces. Do you have any mobile forces?” Garadun asked.

“Why do you think we’re here? We need trained crews.”

“How did you know to come here?” Ito asked. “How did you know any of us were alive?”

Rogero cleared his throat before speaking to buy a few seconds. “How much do you know? About what happened after . . .”

“After we were captured?” Garadun said. “Not much. The Alliance guards claim that the war is over, that they won. Maybe they did. We didn’t believe them, but we don’t know. Since you’re here to get us, maybe we won.”

“They won,” Rogero said. “Black Jack.”

Ito shook her head, her eyes dark. “He is not human. A demon. He has to be.”

“He saved us,” Rogero blurted out, seeing the shock on their faces. “After he broke the Syndicate government and forced an end to the war. He led his fleet to Midway and threw back an enigma attempt to take over the star system.”

“He beat the enigmas?” Garadun stared at Rogero.

“A demon,” Ito repeated.

It was not a good time to bring up the complicated events that had led the infamous Black Jack to be the savior of Midway Star System, Rogero thought. “Anyway, the Syndicate government failed. The Syndicate way of doing things failed. It all failed. President Iceni and General Drakon are running things at Midway now. We are free.” He saw the reactions to the word “free” and smiled again. “We’ve got an escort waiting at Atalia. Cruisers and destroyers loyal to us and commanded by Kommodor Marphissa—”

“Kommodor?” This time Garadun shook his head. “The name Marphissa isn’t familiar to me.”

“She was an executive on a heavy cruiser. Clearing out the Syndicate loyalists left some big gaps in the chain of command and improved promotion opportunities. Listen, we have very limited ability to screen all of you. What can you tell me about the physical condition of everyone? Most of those we’re picking up in seem to be in good health. I’m not spotting any old, untreated injuries.” He didn’t have to explain why he had looked for those. In a Syndicate labor camp, something like that was routine.

Garadun looked away, glowering.

Ito gave him a sympathetic glance, then nodded to Rogero. “The Alliance scum took good care of us, much as we hate to admit it. Nothing great. Bland food, but enough of it. Some cleanup duties at the camp where we were held, but no hard labor. Medical care when needed, though nothing but what was needed. They treated us as prisoners, but we weren’t abused.”

“It was Black Jack,” Garadun grumbled. “The guards talked about him. He crushed our flotilla, he killed so many of our friends, and yet we owed decent treatment to him. We’re fine, Donal. You shouldn’t find any serious health problems.” He focused on Rogero skeptically. “There are no CEOs? You said Iceni and Drakon are still running things.”

“Not as CEOs.” Rogero nodded to the personnel streaming past. “They sent us to get you. Very risky, very expensive, but they sent us to get you.”

That went home. The casual callousness of Syndicate leaders toward workers and junior executives was simply taken for granted. “I guess if they did that, they aren’t just CEOs with different titles,” Garadun remarked.

“What do you need us to do?” Ito asked.

“Help keep things under control. Keep people moving. We have to cram ten kilos of workers into a five-kilo bag. After that, we’ve got a long ways back. Sort out anyone who wants to stay loyal to the Syndicate. We’ll drop them off in a Syndicate-controlled star system. Are there any snakes among you?”

“Oddly enough,” Ito commented with a gentle smile at odds with the lack of feeling in her voice, “none of the snakes with our flotilla survived.”

“Good.” Rogero stopped speaking as silence fell around him. He saw Garadun and Ito staring behind him and turned to see Bradamont there. She had been in the comm compartment, out of sight. Only something urgent would have brought her out.

“Admiral Timbale says we need to leave as soon as possible,” Bradamont reported. “A courier ship has left the star system. Timbale suspects that he may be relieved of command when it returns.”

“We’re already getting everyone on board as quickly as we can,” Rogero agreed. “Sub-CEO Garadun, Executive Ito, this is Captain Bradamont of the Alliance fleet. She is the official Alliance liaison officer to President Iceni and General Drakon.”

Garadun and Ito were still staring at Bradamont, their expressions like stone.

Bradamont faced Rogero. “Do you require anything else, Colonel Rogero? If not, I will continue to monitor the situation and inform you of any significant developments.”

He barely suppressed a grin. Bradamont’s statement had sounded very much like a subordinate reporting to a superior. She had done that on purpose, establishing before these others that he was in charge here. “No, Captain Bradamont, I do not require anything else. Keep me informed.”

As Bradamont left, Rogero gestured to Garadun and Ito. “She’s the only Alliance citizen on any of these ships.”

“She’s answering to you?” Garadun asked in a disbelieving voice.

“That’s right.” Rogero paused to slap the nearest comm panel. “Executive Barchi,” he called to the freighter’s commander, who was on the ship’s bridge. “Tell the other ships to ensure they are getting people aboard as fast as they can move them. The moment we have the last individual off the last Alliance shuttle, we are heading for the jump point at the best acceleration these ships can manage.”

As he finished, Ito came close, grasping Rogero’s chin to stare into his eyes. “Donal, is this real? You haven’t been turned? This isn’t some sick Alliance trick to break our morale, where just as we’re about to leave this star system, they’ll jump out of the bulkheads to tell us it was all a game to mess with our heads? Is this real, Donal? Is that Alliance officer really doing what you say and have you told us what is really going on at Midway?”

Rogero gazed back into Ito’s eyes. “It is all true. You’re going home. We’re going to jump for Atalia as soon as we can reach the jump point, and there you’ll find Kommodor Marphissa’s flotilla waiting for us.”

Ito nodded and let her hand fall. “Even a CEO couldn’t lie that well. Keep that Alliance bitch away from our people, though. There’s no telling what they might do.”

Rogero stiffened. He could let the words pass, and after all they were what any Syndicate citizen would have said, but this was Bradamont. “Executive Ito, that officer, that Alliance Captain, is the only reason we are here. She told us of you, she helped convince our leaders to send this mission, she helped us get here, and she convinced her own leaders to release you to us. Her fleet, her people, took losses defending our homes from the enigmas. During the war, she was captured and spent time in a Syndicate labor camp. Yet she fought for us.”

Neither one wanted to hear it, but Garadun finally answered in a gruff voice. “A labor camp? All right. As long as she answers to you.”

Ito was watching Rogero closely. “Yes. Since it seems to be important to you.”

“Colonel Rogero?” Lieutenant Foster sounded worried as he pushed through the crowd toward him. “We need you to talk to the Alliance shuttle pilots. There’s some problem with timing between deliveries. And, sir, there’s another Alliance destroyer on an intercept with us.”

Rogero nodded briskly to Garadun and Ito, dashing off with gratitude for the interruption. Ito had plainly sensed that his opinion of Bradamont was not purely a professional matter.

He reached the small command deck of the freighter and squeezed in near Foster and Executive Barchi. “Where’s the destroyer?”

Barchi pointed. “Here. There’s its track. It will be here in about half an hour if I’m reading this right.”

“What happened to the other two? Sai and, uh . . .”

“Assagei. They headed back for the jump point a few hours ago.”

“Velocity…” Rogero muttered, trying to find that data. He was used to displays for ground equipment, not those for spacecraft. “There it is. Point zero three light. Is that fast?”

Barchi made a dismissive gesture in response to Rogero’s question. “On a planet? Fast as hell. Up here? A mobile forces unit? He’s loafing along.”

“He’s not in a hurry?” Rogero pressed.

“A ship like that, they don’t think anything of ramping up to point zero five light or point one light,” the executive explained. “He’s taking his time. But then, he knows we can’t outrun him. Why rush when we’re sitting ducks? Even if we bent on full acceleration, he could catch us within an hour or so.”

Rogero kept his eyes on the display, not wanting to look at the freighter executive who simply accepted his helplessness. Rogero had always been in the ground forces, always been able to fight or run or perhaps fight and run. It was easy to forget how things were for those without weapons or speed to serve them. Men and women like this freighter executive, who had spent the years of the war knowing that if the enemy appeared, they had no good options, no chances unless distances were great enough or the freighter too small a prize for the enemy to bother with. Without them and the cargoes they hauled between stars and planets, the war could not have continued, but they had always been prey in that war. It was a strange and ugly irony.

He called down to the tiny comm compartment, where Bradamont had again taken up her watch. “Captain, there is an Alliance destroyer on its way to intercept us.”

“I’ll see what I can find out,” Bradamont called back. “What’s her velocity?”

“Point zero three light.”

“That’s all? What are the Alliance shuttles doing?”

“Still off-loading.”

“They’d break off if there was impending action. Let me know if any start heading away before off-loading.”

Lieutenant Foster had relaxed since Rogero arrived. Someone of higher authority was here to make the decisions, and Rogero knew his soldiers had confidence in him. I earned that confidence the hard way. But now I’m putting on an act for the lieutenant and everyone else. Calm. Confident. Everything may be hectic, but otherwise it’s fine. Except if that Alliance warship comes in shooting, we’re all dead.

“Colonel Rogero?” Bradamont’s voice had rarely been so welcome.

“Here.”

“Destroyer Bandolier is being sent to provide close escort for us. Admiral Timbale is increasingly concerned that someone might try to interfere with the prisoner transfer or try to board one or more of the freighters. He’s also going to send the light cruiser Coupe over to us. They have orders to accompany us until we jump for Atalia.”

“Thank you, Captain,” Rogero said, trying to sound as dispassionately professional as possible in a this-woman-is-merely-a-fellow-officer manner. Someone might try to interfere? The Alliance ground forces people. Or maybe their intelligence branch. Or maybe other people I don’t even know about. I hope Admiral Timbale can keep them off our backs. “That’s it, then,” he told Lieutenant Foster. “We’re getting an escort.”

“An escort?” Foster asked. “Alliance mobile forces are going to escort us?”

“I know it feels strange. Think how strange it will feel for them.”

“More likely,” Executive Barchi grumbled, “they’ll be along to nail us immediately if we do anything suspicious.”

“We won’t do anything suspicious. Let’s get those people aboard our ships and get out of this star system.”

“Yes, sir!” Foster agreed.

There wouldn’t be any need to motivate everyone to keep working quickly. Not this time. Nobody wanted to stay here, where the Alliance ruled and evidence of Alliance military power loomed with deadly menace on all sides.

“Um, Colonel?” the freighter executive asked, sounding and looking like the bearer of bad news. “My line workers say we’ve got a problem in the internal communications. Some of that new stuff you installed seems to be interfering with it, so if you need to talk to anybody inside this ship before we get it sorted out, you’ll need to send a runner.”

Rogero’s immediate frown caused the executive to look a lot more nervous. “Are external comms impacted at all?”

Lieutenant Foster was already shaking his head when the executive answered. “No. No. No problem there. It’s your external comm gear that is somehow interfering with internal comms. We could probably fix the internals really fast if we shut down the externals for a few—”

“We can’t afford to lose external comms,” Rogero said. “Not for any length of time.” Not being able to talk to the Alliance shuttles and the other freighters would be a major problem, but a temporary loss of internal communications in this freighter was only annoying, not serious. “Let me know as soon as internal comms are fixed.”

The executive nodded with visible relief that Rogero’s response hadn’t been worse.

“Lieutenant Foster, with internal comms down, I want you to check on conditions personally and report back here.”

Foster saluted and rushed off.

Another shuttle came and went. Another shuttle docked.

“How are we doing, Lieutenant?” Rogero asked, as Foster returned, looking like he had just run a race.

“We’re tight, but there’s room, sir. We can take more. No discipline problems.”

“We’re almost done,” Executive Barchi reported. “Only two or three shuttle loads per freighter left to go. Another half an hour to forty-five minutes, and we can get the hell out of Dod.”

“Just where is Dod?” Rogero asked, his eyes on the freighter’s display.

“I dunno. Some star system nobody wanted to stay in, I guess. It’s not even on the charts.”

Rogero had barely begun to absorb the executive’s good news when Bradamont burst onto the command deck. “What the hell happened to internal comms on this ship? Commandos have launched from Ambaru! We’ve got to get moving now!”