The Lost Stars: Perilous Shield tls-2

by Jack Campbell

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 now
here, 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 als
o 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.