Perilous Shield

Chapter Seventeen

Bradamont’s gasp halted Marphissa’s motion.

Kite had throttled back again, this time significantly. The damage to her structure was still there, but the red-line warnings of hull stress were sliding downward toward safer territory.

Kite whipped past the stern quarter of the last freighter in the upper column and bore down on the lone Syndicate HuK, pounding it with hell lances and the metal ball bearings known as grapeshot that became incredibly dangerous projectiles when they struck something at thousands of kilometers per second.

The Syndicate HuK, which had been pushing his own acceleration to the maximum, took those blows on a hull already under the most stress it could handle.

The HuK exploded into fragments, some large, some small, fountaining outward and forward along the vector the warship had still been accelerating upon when the vessel came apart. In an instant, the track of a single oncoming warship turned into hundreds of pieces of wreckage, racing toward the freighters as if the HuK’s remnants were still trying to get in a blow even after the warship’s destruction.

But because the HuK had been aiming to pass between the upper and lower lines of freighters, most of the debris went through that open area as well, passing onward harmlessly.

Some fragments did impact the last freighters, bringing to life new warnings on Marphissa’s display as the damage reports flowed in automatically. The thing she feared most to see, a major hull breach on one of the freighters, did not appear in the first wave of damage reports. A scattering of new reports came in, minor hull damage and some minor systems damage, then the wave of wreckage was past.

Kite was swinging back up and around in a vast parabola that was not nearly as stressful on her hull as the previous maneuvers had been. “Target destroyed,” Kite reported rather smugly. “Reverting to previous assigned target.”

Bradamont clapped Marphissa on the shoulder. “Only sixteen more hours to go.”

“Is that all?” Marphissa got control of her voice, then called Kite. “Very good job. Let’s all ensure no one else gets through.”

She shook her head, gazing at Kite’s damage status. “She’s going to be limited in maneuvers until we can get her into a dockyard. And she burned a lot of fuel doing that. Only sixteen hours, you said?”

“Yes,” Bradamont replied. “Are you good?”

“I’m great.” At lying. Her heart pumping from stress that had burned through drugs quicker than usual, Marphissa checked the status of her up patch, pulled it off, and slapped on another.

The next six hours were a nightmare of repeated lunges by the Syndicate ships and parries by Marphissa’s warships. Fire was actually exchanged again twice; once when Manticore fired missiles at the Syndicate light cruiser that was her target, causing the light cruiser to flee, and once when two Midway HuKs maneuvered a Syndicate HuK into a sandwich, where they could get in a few hits before the Syndicate HuK twisted away.

After a pause, the attacks resumed. Lunge. Intercept. Reposition. Attack. Defend. Re-form. Despite the drugs in her, Marphissa felt the strain of nearly constant concentration on the movements of multiple ships as two, then three more hours went by inconclusively.

An entire hour passed without more attempted attacks, the Syndicate warships positioned all around the Midway Flotilla continuing to stalk their prey but making no moves to strike.

“What’s he doing?” Marphissa asked Bradamont, shocked to hear how her voice cracked when she spoke.

A watch specialist approached Marphissa, Bradamont, and Diaz with a ration bar and water for each of them. Marphissa barely looked at him, not able to risk taking her focus from her display, but nodded her thanks and tried briefly to remember how many times the watch specialists had been relieved and replaced while she, Diaz, and Marphissa had remained on duty.

She popped open the gray ration-bar wrapper with the big, block letters that shouted “Fresh! Tasty! Nutritious!” as if font size could somehow make the claims reflect the reality of a ration bar. Marphissa chewed the ration bar mechanically, discovering that probably thanks to the up patches, she couldn’t sense the usual bitter aftertaste, or the usual moldy, musty flavor that was actually preferable to the aftertaste.

Bradamont finished swallowing a bite before answering, her own voice hoarse. “We always wondered if these Syndic ration bars tasted any better when they were less stale. Now I know that they don’t. I don’t know what Sub-CEO Qui is doing. But he’s got to be getting desperate. You are less than five hours’ travel time from the hypernet gate. If he’s going to stop you or hurt you, he has to do it within that time.”

Marphissa nodded again. “If we can use the hypernet gate,” she whispered, putting into words what they both feared.

“He’s trying awfully hard to hammer us,” Bradamont whispered back hoarsely. “If Qui knew we couldn’t leave via the hypernet, he would know he had a lot more time to wear us down.”

It was odd how, even under the stress of such a long, running fight and with everything except her mental clarity impacted by the up patches, Marphissa could still feel a sense of pleasure at hearing Bradamont use the words “we” and “us.” “I think,” Marphissa said, “that he is trying to lull us. He knows how worn-out everybody on these ships is. He might be assuming that giving us an hour or two of inactivity might make us slack off.”

“Or he could be resting his own crews,” Bradamont pointed out.

Marphissa almost choked on another bite of ration bar, swallowed it painfully, then gasped a brief laugh. “He’s a snake. Sub-CEO Qui is a snake. He won’t let them rest.”

Kapitan Diaz, slumped in his own seat, nodded in agreement. “You’ll get a rest when the job is done,” he quoted. “Unless you have to do it over again.”

“No work breaks until morale improves!” Marphissa added. “No, Honore, I guarantee you that Sub-CEO Qui is not giving his crews a rest. So far they have failed. He, their leader, has not failed,” she added sarcastically. “They have. That’s the Syndicate way. He is riding them hard, making them work harder, telling them that unless they succeed, they will be punished for their failure.”

“But he’ll be punished, too,” Diaz said, “especially once the Syndicate learns who we are and that we brought those Reserve Flotilla survivors back with us.”

“Right,” Marphissa agreed, “because it can’t be the fault of the CEO who sent Sub-CEO Qui on this mission, so it has to be Qui’s fault.”

“There are times,” Bradamont said, “when the Alliance fleet works the same way.”

“That’s probably why you couldn’t beat the Syndicate until Black Jack came back,” Diaz said. “That and because we’re such tough bastards.” He laughed.

“Check your up meds, Kapitan,” Marphissa ordered him. She drank all of her water, wondering just how much more uncomfortable she would get in the hours remaining, then hit her comm controls. “All units. It is likely that Sub-CEO Qui, the snake commander, is trying to lure us into losing alertness by conducting no actions for an extended period. Remain prepared.” What sort of motivation would someone like Bradamont give? Not the standard Syndicate fail and you will regret it. “You have all done an exceptional job so far. A few more hours, and we will have won. For the people, Marphissa, out.”

Another hour passed. Marphissa felt a growing sense of worry battling with the bodily fatigue the up patches couldn’t completely banish. Maybe Qui has learned that we can’t use the hypernet gate. Maybe he’s waiting until we get to the gate and realize we can’t escape that way. He’ll have a lot more time to wear us down then, and a lot more time to wait for reinforcements, while I try to keep defending these freighters using ships with worn-out crews and fuel-cell levels that are already lower than I’m comfortable with. Where the hell would I jump to? We’ll never make it back to the jump point for Kalixa in one piece.

“Two hours left,” Diaz mumbled, then blinked, sat straighter, and slapped on another up patch.

The nest of vectors for the Syndicate warships, which had been unchanging for hours, suddenly altered.

“They’re coming again!” Marphissa snapped. “This may be their last shot. They’re going to push these firing runs. Everyone, don’t let them through!”

The surviving Syndicate warships, three light cruisers and four Hunter-Killers, were coming in hard and fast. Marphissa watched them, feeling a growing, bleak certainty that this time the Syndicate warships would not avoid action no matter the odds. If they did not damage or destroy those freighters this time, they might not get another chance.

The light cruiser that was Manticore’s target had spun to one side and climbed, then dove, to confuse Manticore’s intercept. But Diaz kept Manticore glued on the light cruiser’s vector, his face gray with fatigue but his eyes sharp. “All weapons,” he ordered in a voice that came out in a croak. “Engage.”

Two missiles leaped from Manticore as the heavy cruiser raced to an intercept that went past in less time than the blink of an eye, hell lances and grapeshot lashing out on the heels of the missiles. All around the loose perimeter of defenders, other warships were closing to contact, weapons pummeling each other.

Marphissa could only wait to see the outcomes of engagements that took place far too rapidly for human senses to register.

The light cruiser targeted by Manticore had tried another last-second evasive maneuver, but Manticore’s missiles had both slammed home, inflicting massive damage amidships that had been joined by numerous hits from hell lances and grapeshot that had riddled the light cruiser’s bow. All weapons and many other systems out of commission, thrown off of his intended course by the missile impacts, the Syndicate light cruiser spun away helplessly.

Behind and below the freighters, light cruisers Harrier, Kite, and Eagle hit another Syndicate light cruiser in successive firing passes within a few seconds of each other. In their wake, an expanding ball of dustlike debris marked all that was left of the Syndicate warship after its power core had overloaded under the blows.

One of the Syndicate HuKs also died as light cruiser Falcon caught it with a perfect barrage that tore apart the small, lightly armored warship.

The light cruiser targeted by Kraken, though, was coming up from almost dead astern, his approach prolonged by the stern chase, and saw the other two light cruisers destroyed. He broke off from his firing run, climbing above the formation, out of range of Kraken’s weapons.

The three surviving Syndicate HuKs, all bearing wounds from clashes with Midway HuKs, also had second thoughts, tearing away to right, left, and below-ahead of the Midway formation.

Marphissa inhaled deeply, wondering how long it had been since she had breathed. “I wonder if we got Qui.”

“He might have been on one of those light cruisers we destroyed,” Diaz said. “Or he might have been the one who decided to save his own skin.”

“He is a snake,” Marphissa agreed. She rubbed her eyes and refocused on her display. “They could still get us.” Moving carefully, she touched her comm controls. “All units, this is Kommodor Marphissa. Very well done. But we cannot relax yet. It is another forty-five minutes until we reach the gate. I am redistributing assigned targets. Make sure anyone who attacks again does not survive.”

She assigned the sole remaining Syndicate light cruiser as a target for both Manticore and Kraken, then distributed her light cruisers and HuKs to watch the three remaining Syndicate HuKs. Are we safe? They shouldn’t be able to make it to the freighters now. But I can’t relax, can’t assume they won’t try again out of desperation. Can’t relax. Don’t dare relax. Not yet.

“Kommodor?”

Marphissa blinked at the senior watch specialist who had called to her, trying to reorient thoughts that had been locked obsessively on the Syndicate flotilla. “What is it?”

“Kommodor, our hypernet key indicates that Midway’s gate is accessible.”

“It’s…” Marphissa looked away from the Syndicate warships, seeing the hypernet gate looming massive and near.

“We’re here,” Diaz said, his voice disbelieving. “We’re at the gate.”

“When can we leave?” Marphissa asked. “Is the destination entered?”

“We can leave at your command, Kommodor. Midway is entered as the destination.”

She took another look at the Syndicate warships, which had begun to fall back, increasing the distance between them and the Midway Flotilla. Her own warships were still ranging out from the freighters, but were within the radius that could be set for the hypernet key. “Go. Now. All ships.”

There was no jolt to the nervous system as in entering jump space, but even if there had been, Marphissa doubted whether she would have been able to feel it. She stared at her display, where the Syndicate warships and the Indras Star System had vanished along with everything else.

Manticore and all the other ships of the Recovery Flotilla, all the warships and every one of the freighters, were nowhere, safe in the hypernet.

She heard a strange noise and turned to look, seeing that the watch specialists were all applauding. Why? They were looking at her. Why?

Bradamont was hauling Marphissa to her feet, though once she was up Bradamont had to lean on Marphissa as much as Marphissa leaned on her. “I told you that you could do it,” Bradamont said, her voice seeming to come through a few layers of gauze.

Marphissa managed to stand straight and look at the watch specialists. “I could not have done it without you,” she said. “We did this… I am going to rest now. You, too, Kapitan Diaz.”

“Yes, Kommodor. Senior Watch Specialist Lehmann, you are to… call Leytenant Pillai… to assume command of the bridge. Return the crew to… standard ship’s routine.” Diaz staggered upright, grinning foolishly at his success in saying the orders coherently.

They walked off the bridge. Marphissa wondered if the ship’s gravity was having problems. As she walked, the deck seemed to be going up and down under her feet like the deck of a ship on a planet’s sea. She reached her stateroom and realized that Bradamont had dropped off along the way at her own stateroom.

Marphissa entered, sealed the hatch, and locked it out of habit, fell into the bunk, grabbed the crash patch the ship’s doctor had laid out there almost two days earlier, slapped it on, then lay back, wide-open eyes staring at the overhead. Until the crash patch counteracted the drugs in the up patch, she wouldn’t be able to sleep.

She didn’t remember when that happened, didn’t remember dropping into the deep sleep of utter exhaustion. But at some point dreams intruded, dreams of Syndicate warships conducting firing runs, getting past her defenses, blowing apart freighters. And she was asleep on the bridge, passed out, unable to wake up even though she was bending every effort—

Marphissa jolted awake, her eyes open, staring into the darkened stateroom. I’m not on the bridge. She fumbled for her display. We’re in the hypernet.

Tense nerves collapsed with relief, and sleep overcame her again.

He had been awake the entire fight, making sure the freighter executives didn’t do anything they shouldn’t, and had now slept for what felt like almost as long a time. Instincts honed by a life of combat had recovered enough that Rogero came awake instantly at the soft knock on his door, one hand already closing about his sidearm. “Who?”

“Seki Ito.” The door opened, revealing Executive Ito with her open hands held out from her sides. “No danger. I just thought you might like some company.”

“Company?” That could mean a lot of different things.

Ito’s smile in response to his question made it obvious what company meant in this case. “I bet it’s been a while for both of us. No strings. Unless you want that.”

It had been a while, and having Bradamont on the same ship but being unable to even touch her had not made things any easier. Nor was it unheard of for single (or married) personnel far from home to temporarily step outside of partnership commitments.

But as nice as Ito looked at the moment, and as much as he knew he would enjoy her “company,” Rogero did not want to cheat on his commitment to Bradamont. “Thanks, but…” He tried to leave it at that.

Ito gave him an inviting look. “Are you sure? With Pers Garadun gone, I could use another patron.”

Ouch. Maybe this is more about Ito’s chances of getting a mobile forces command at Midway than it is about me. Perhaps I’m not that desirable after all. Fortunately, I’m old enough not to be devastated by that. “I can already recommend you for assignments, but General Drakon has strict rules about seniors sleeping with subordinates.”

This time Ito raised both eyebrows at him skeptically. “There have always been strict rules against it everywhere in Syndicate space, and it happens all the time everywhere in Syndicate space.”

“Yes, but General Drakon actually enforces those rules.”

“That’s boring. Well… if you’re certain you’re not lonely…” Ito changed her posture only slightly, but suddenly her body looked a lot more alluring to the male eye.

How do women do that? Rogero wondered. “No. Nothing personal.”

Ito sighed theatrically, spreading her hands in the ancient gesture meaning what-can-I do?

“Ito?”

“Yes?” She smiled.

“I heard Pers Garadun tell you and Executive Jepsen to tell everyone about what really happened at Kalixa, but Jepsen told me when I saw him that you had directed him not to, that you would take care of it alone.”

“That’s right,” Ito agreed.

“I told Jepsen to go ahead and tell everyone while we were transiting through Indras. There was no need for you to be the only one responsible. I wanted you to know that Jepsen didn’t disregard your instructions.”

“Oh. All right. If that’s what you want.” She gave him one more questioning look. “If that is all you want?”

“Yes.”

She left, closing the door behind her.

Exhaling in relief, Rogero lay back and looked upward, feeling ridiculously proud of himself for having resisted temptation. It is a triumph I will have to keep to myself, of course. Honore Bradamont is unlikely to be as impressed by my achievement. Though if I had given in to temptation and she had ever learned of it, the consequences would no doubt have been apocalyptic.

Gwen Iceni was awakened by the urgent pulsing of the comm panel next to her bed. She had a weapon in her hand and was scanning her darkened bedroom before waking up enough to realize that it wasn’t a warning of intrusion. “Iceni. What is it?”

“They’re back, Madam President!” the command center supervisor announced. “The Recovery Flotilla. They have arrived at the hypernet gate, and Kommodor Marphissa has sent a message saying they accomplished their mission. She is sending a more detailed report.”

A weight she had not been aware of carrying dropped from Iceni. “All of them? All of the ships we sent came back?”

“Yes, Madam President. They are all here.”

“I’ll see the detailed report in the morning. If Kommodor Marphissa hasn’t already begun doing so, tell her to bring the ships of the Recovery Flotilla to this planet and place them in orbit.”

There were plenty of weights left on her, and those Reserve Flotilla survivors would have to be screened to ensure they could each be trusted, but thousands of new, trained crew members for her warships would make every other concern a lot easier to bear.

Everything had worked out.

Something was bound to go wrong very soon.

Iceni ran one hand lightly over the display before her, causing virtual sheets of debriefing papers to ruffle past like the pages of a real book. “These supervisors and specialists from the Reserve Flotilla are a real gift.”

Togo caught the reserve in her voice, but then anyone could have. “You are concerned, Madam President?”

“I am concerned when things seem to be too good to be true.” She pressed one fist against her mouth as she thought. “We need to screen these people very carefully. I want to be sure they are who they say they are, I want to be sure they feel no allegiance toward the Syndicate, and I want to be sure they can be trusted to make up the majority of the crews of two extremely powerful warships.”

“This can be done,” Togo said. “But it will take time. That level of review will require use of facilities with limited capacities and use of skilled interrogation personnel who are in limited numbers.”

“Take the time.” Iceni glanced at her calendar. “How are the elections going?”

“There have been no reported problems. Many citizens are voting, believing your assurances that these elections will actually count their votes to decide the victors. A few troublesome candidates may win their posts, but we can easily manipulate the reported vote totals to ensure they lose.”

“Do we want to do that?” Iceni asked. “I’ve been thinking. If these people gain power, no matter how little we actually give them, they’ll also gain responsibility. They’ll either do their jobs well, in which case they may be worth listening to, or they’ll fail, in which case their troublesome aspects can be used to justify their losses in subsequent elections. But we may not have to manipulate the vote totals if we hold these candidates’ feet to the fire when it comes to their actual performance.”

Togo did not reply at first, undecipherable thoughts moving behind his eyes. “You would treat them as another class of workers?”

“Why not?” Iceni demanded. Malin had given her the idea in one of his covert communications, or suggested it anyway, and she had found the concept growing on her. “They are workers. They are working for me and for whoever voted for them. If they don’t keep me happy, if they don’t keep those who voted for them happy, then they will be held accountable. That’s how even an extremely limited democracy is supposed to work. In theory, anyway.”

“Madam President, what if they keep the people who voted for them happy but make you unhappy?”

Iceni smiled. “That would be a dilemma, wouldn’t it? But as someone whose judgment I respect remarked to me, the most difficult subordinates can be the most valuable. They make you take a second look at things you might take for granted, and they may see things you do not.”

Togo, who rarely caused a ripple in the smoothness of her routine, hesitated before replying. “There are risks,” he finally said.

“Of course there are. I still have the option of playing with vote totals if necessary, don’t I?”

“Yes, Madam President.”

“These elected positions have very limited power. Let’s see what the people do with that. The Syndicate system is based on the assumption that the people cannot be trusted and have to be led like sheep. Is that true? I want to know. Which requires giving them some freedom in this matter, so I can see how they do.”

“Yes, Madam President.” If Togo still had reservations, he kept them to himself.

The official certification of winners in elections had been held on Syndicate planets as long as Iceni could remember, elaborate affairs in which the preselected victors were congratulated in their preordained victories and sent forth with lofty calls to serve the people. The fact that those calls were as phony as the rest of the ceremony had always made it necessary to order supervisors to bring in large crowds of workers and their families to applaud when mandatory and otherwise simply act as props in the entire charade.

Iceni could feel the difference this time, and not simply because the event planners had been extraordinarily upset at not knowing who the winners would be well in advance while planning the ceremony. They seemed to take it as a personal insult that their planning would be dependent on who actually got the most votes. She had finally sacked half of the planning supervisors to shut them up, discovering afterward that the efficiency of the process appeared to have improved dramatically.

There hadn’t been any need to order in crowds for the occasion this time, either. They were here, they were there in all cities, in numbers and with enthusiasm that was very sobering.

“We’ve unleashed a monster,” Drakon observed. They were standing side by side on the stage from which the victors would be certified, their images being broadcast throughout the star system.

“A very large and demanding monster,” Iceni said. “But it was always there. The Syndicate just kept it suppressed. Unless we were willing to act as the Syndicate does, as the snakes do, we had to deal with that energy somehow. I am concerned about keeping it under control, though.”

“That may be very difficult,” Drakon agreed. “I’ve done some more exploration of my soldiers’ attitudes, and it confirms the suspicions I passed on to you earlier. If I gave them orders to fire on citizens, discipline might crack.”

Iceni nodded, smiling toward the crowds as if she and Drakon were engaging in small talk. Their lip movements were blurred by security fields, of course, ensuring that no one could read words off them and know what was really being said. “If your ground forces are no longer reliable, the local ground forces can’t be counted on for internal security missions at all.”

“I thought that you would be more upset by the news.”

Her smile held an edge of self-mockery. “I can be as hypocritical as anyone, but not on this issue. I’ve known since we took over that the workers and officers on our warships would refuse to participate in bombardments of citizens. They wouldn’t even cooperate in a threat to do so. Your soldiers were always our only means of enforcing control of the citizens.”

Drakon smiled, too. “We’re riding a tiger.”

“Exactly. Try not to get thrown.”

“You won’t throw me.” He made it a statement, not a question. “But the tiger might.”

“It will if we don’t keep it fed by measures like these elections. And they were clean elections,” Iceni said. “Mostly. Isn’t that a strange thing? We kept our words to the citizens.”

“Mostly,” Drakon agreed. “They’re going to want more, though.”

“We’ll feed them slowly,” Iceni said. “It will be difficult, but I like that. I’m tired of easy solutions.”

“Like ordering executions of anyone who gives us trouble?”

“Like that. I’m not a Syndicate CEO anymore.” I can almost believe that when I say it. Almost believe that I never did anything on my climb to the top that can’t be forgotten now. But I left victims behind me. We all did.

The official results were released to the media, appearing everywhere simultaneously. Cheers erupted. Iceni and Drakon waved, generating more cheers, then, after a few minutes, left the stage. “Even the ones who lost were applauding,” Iceni commented.

“If they believe the game isn’t rigged, they also believe that next time they might win,” Drakon pointed out.

“Buy-in. Yes. We need that. It’s something the Syndicate never appreciated the need for among citizens even though they obsessed about it among top-rank CEOs.” They walked to the two impressive vehicles awaiting them. “Would you ride with me?” Iceni asked.

He gave her a surprised look, then nodded. After passing orders to his own vehicle to follow, Drakon joined her in the spacious back of the Class One VIP Limo. “I’ve seen a lot of tanks that had less armor than these Class One Limos,” he said, sitting down opposite Iceni.

She smiled crookedly and rapped the virtual window next to her. It looked real, exactly as if a broad, clear view of the outside were visible through glass. In fact, it just overlay the same heavy armor as everywhere else on the vehicle. “Have you ever thought of these limos as metaphors for our lives?” Iceni asked. “Outwardly, you see one thing, something that appears transparent in many places. But, inside, things are very different than they appear.”

“Your staff and my staff didn’t appear to be thrilled at us riding alone together,” Drakon replied. “I’m pretty sure that reflected their inner feelings.”

She laughed. “They want to protect us. At least, I hope that’s their motivation. In an odd way, they control us.”

“Yeah,” Drakon agreed, leaning back against a cushion that molded itself to his back so swiftly and smoothly that it was scarcely noticeable. “They set our schedules, they can filter the information we see, they can make decisions in our names that we might not ever hear about. It worries me when I let myself think about it.”

Iceni nodded, then looked sidelong at him. “I wanted to thank you again for not even hesitating on handing Pele over to me. There’s a fair amount of damage to be fixed, but she’ll be operational before Midway is. That will go a long way toward making us secure.” She blew out an exasperated breath, then leaned toward him. “Damn you, Artur Drakon, tell me the truth. Why aren’t you worried about my controlling that amount of firepower relative to yours? Why aren’t you worried about me throwing you off the tiger?”

He searched her eyes for a moment, then leaned forward as well, so they were as close as the size of the limo allowed. “Because I know that if you wanted to kill me, Gwen, you would have succeeded in that already.”

“How sweet,” she said with a laugh. “Maybe I’m just planning on making you into a nice, controllable subordinate.”

“Hah! You know that I’ll never be anyone’s lapdog.”

“Then why do you… ?” She searched for the right word.

“Why do I trust you?” He laughed this time. “I said it. I trust you, Gwen. You’d stick a knife in me if I betrayed you, and you’d make sure it hit a vital spot. But if I play straight with you, I don’t think you’ll betray me.” Drakon shrugged. “So I guess I’m stupid.”

“No.” Don’t say it. Don’t say it. “You’re a good judge of character. And I am lucky to have you as a… as a… partner.” Why did you say it? Fool! You’ve given him leverage to use against you!

Oh, shut up! I am so tired of the games and the schemes and the daggers in the night!

Drakon looked back at her with genuine surprise. “Thank you. That probably sounds like a dumb thing to say, but I don’t know what someone in my position is supposed to say when someone in your position says something like that.”

“Thank you is acceptable.” Gwen smiled, the expression vanishing as she suddenly became aware of a strong and alarming urge to lean in farther and kiss Artur Drakon. She sat back quickly, putting distance between them.

“Is something wrong?” Drakon asked.

“No. Nothing. I’m fine.” Talk about something. Anything. “I’ve been trying to decide who should command Pele. I think I’ll transfer Kontos over to her and promote him to full Kapitan.”

Drakon sat back as well, plainly disconcerted by her quick changes in attitude and topic. “Umm… that’s your call. Kontos is unquestionably loyal. He’s had a pretty meteoric rise, though. Can he handle being commanding officer of a battle cruiser?”

“Now that they’re back, I posed the question to Kommodor Marphissa, and she discussed it with Captain Bradamont. They both think he can if there is sufficient experienced depth in the other officers on the battle cruiser.”

“Who ends up with the battleship?”

“I don’t know. I’m going through the survivors from the Reserve Flotilla, trying to narrow it down. Did you ever meet Sub-CEO Freo Mercia? She was second-in-command of a battleship in the Reserve Flotilla.”

“Not that I recall. Do you know her?”

“In passing,” Iceni said. “She impressed me during that brief encounter. If the reports we have from the other survivors of her ship are accurate, she assumed command after the commander of her battleship was incapacitated and did an excellent job of fighting the ship until it was hopeless, then getting as many of her surviving crew off as possible.”

“Incapacitated?” Drakon asked.

Iceni twisted her mouth. “Shot by the senior snake on board when he appeared to be wavering in his duties. Freo Mercia then shot the snake, ordered her crew to finish off the rest, and continued the battle with the Alliance until her battleship was too badly damaged to fight.”

“She sounds like a very good choice,” Drakon agreed.

“You deserve the chance to evaluate her, given the power we’re thinking about placing under her control. I’ll send her to you for a personal interview. We’ve been bringing the Reserve Flotilla survivors down to the surface since Kommodor Marphissa escorted the freighters into orbit. I understand that Colonel Rogero made it back to you safely?”

“He and Captain Bradamont,” Drakon said. “What do you think about that riot on the freighter?”

“It could be explained by resentment of an Alliance officer,” Iceni said slowly, “but . . .”

“Yeah. But. Colonel Rogero recommended careful screening of everyone on those freighters, which you are already doing.”

The vehicle slowed to a gentle stop. “Here we are,” Iceni said. “You can return to the safety of your staff, and I can reassure mine that I remain intact despite being alone with you.”

“Gwen . . .”

“Yes?”

Drakon shook his head. “Nothing.”

He left her wondering what he had almost said.

“Why did she invite us to this?” Morgan asked darkly.

“To emphasize that General Drakon is co-ruler of this star system,” Malin replied in his most patronizing voice.

“He’s not co-ruler of the mobile forces,” Morgan shot back. “Is this supposed to make us think he has any authority over them? A play act to make the General feel appreciated when it doesn’t actually mean a damned thing?”

“That’s not what President Iceni intends.”

“And just how do you know what President Iceni intends?” Morgan demanded, her eyes smoldering with suspicion.

Malin gave her back the look of an innocent man trying to understand the charges against him. “I listen. I have sources, and I listen. If you did the same, you would know why President Iceni is rushing the acceptance of this group of former supervisors so they can be sent out to the battle cruiser to help get it fully operational as soon as possible.”

“You listen?” Morgan smiled at Malin with such vast insincerity that Drakon almost laughed but caught himself in time. “I listen, too. I hear lots of things. Among them is that some of Iceni’s sources in the Syndicate sent a message on that last freighter that passed through this star system. A message saying that another attack by the Syndicate against us is being prepped right now. Do you want to know what I hear about you?”

“If it was anything you had proof of, you would have brought it to the General already,” Malin replied coldly.

“Behave yourselves in there,” Drakon told them both. “I don’t want the President to see my staff acting like a couple of quarreling kids.”

“Yes, sir,” Morgan replied, her expression perfectly serious. “But he started it.” She broke into a sharp laugh.

They entered the moderately sized auditorium selected for the ceremony. President Iceni, trailed by her bodyguard/assistant Togo, was just coming in from another door. In front of them all, three rows of former Syndicate supervisors who had once been executives and sub-CEOs of varying ranks stood at attention in their new uniforms as Leytenants and Kapitan-Leytenants.

Colonel Rogero also awaited them, saluting at the sight of Drakon.

Iceni came to a stop near Rogero. “It is only fitting that the man who played such a large role in the rescue of these personnel from an Alliance prison camp should be present as they join our forces,” she said.

Drakon, who had been told by Rogero of his invitation, returned the salute and nodded to Iceni. “The Kommodor couldn’t be here?”

“The Kommodor is with her flotilla,” Iceni said. “We have reports that another Syndicate attack could come at any time.”

“Really?” Drakon looked back at Morgan and Malin to subtly acknowledge the accuracy of their information, catching Morgan looking flatly toward Rogero as if waiting for a single betraying gesture.

As he looked back toward the rows of new officers, Drakon spotted one who seemed barely able to contain her happiness. He recognized her from the reports Rogero had provided. Former Executive Ito. She caught Rogero’s eye and smiled very quickly before returning her expression to a militarily correct rigidity.

Iceni gave a speech. Drakon felt his attention wandering, his eyes scanning the new officers, wondering what had led them to choose the risks of fighting for Midway over returning to Syndicate-controlled space. They had all been screened to ensure they would be loyal to him and Iceni, but Drakon had long since learned never to take such things for granted.

As Iceni finished, the new officers saluted her, and chorused “for the people!”

The ranks broke, the officers talking excitedly among themselves. Iceni turned to speak to Togo.

Newly appointed Kapitan-Leytenant Ito strode toward Rogero, openly smiling, then veered toward Drakon. She saluted him proudly. Drakon returned the gesture, aware that Malin had taken a couple of steps closer to him, as if prepared to make some remark.

Ito took another step toward Drakon, still smiling, right hand raised slightly and held out. “General,” she began, “may I presume to ask—”

Malin’s moves were so fast they blurred. One moment he was standing to the side of Ito and Drakon, the next he had his right hand locked on Ito’s right wrist. Malin’s left hand grasped his sidearm, the barrel of which was resting on Ito’s temple.