Perilous Shield

by Jack Campbell

  Bradamont gazed back somberly. “You could have revolted while the war was still going on.”

  “Some did. Didn’t you hear of those?” Marphissa shuddered and took a long drink, then refilled her glass. “When the Syndicate had mobile forces in abundance, they could deal with rebellion very easily. Traitors died,” she said bitterly. “The worlds of traitors were reduced to ruins, the families of traitors died or were left to struggle amid the rubble of their cities, and the snakes were everywhere. Breathe the wrong words, and you disappeared. Offend a CEO, and your husband or wife or children disappeared. We could have revolted? Dammit, don’t you think we tried?”

  “I’m sorry.” Bradamont sounded like she meant it. “In the Alliance fleet, we often complain about fighting our own government. But we’ve endured nothing like that. Nothing like that.”

  “They call us traitors now, the Syndicate,” Marphissa continued. “But we’re not. Do you know the funny thing? The entire Syndicate system encourages betrayal. Of your friends and your coworkers and even your spouse or your parents or your children. But then it says you must be loyal to the boss who has no loyalty to you. Damn them. Damn all of them.” Why am I saying this to her? But I could never say it to anyone. Not for all my life.

  Bradamont broke an uneasy silence. “But Iceni is different?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about Drakon?”

  “General Drakon? He supports the President. That’s all I need to know.”

  “I thought he was a co-ruler,” Bradamont said.

  “I suppose technically he is,” Marphissa conceded. “But I respond to orders from the President. What is Black Jack really like?”

  “He’s . . .” Bradamont frowned at her glass. “Not what anyone expected. Not less. More. He’s real.”

  “Is he—? They say he— I mean, there’s talk that he is more than—”

  “He’s human,” Bradamont said.

  “But was he sent? Is he an agent of more than the Alliance?” Marphissa demanded.

  “He never claimed to be. I don’t know. That’s way above my pay grade.” Bradamont bent a questioning look on her. “I thought Syndics didn’t believe in that sort of thing.”

  “Religions? Faith? All of those have been officially discouraged. We were only supposed to believe in the Syndicate. But people hung on to the old beliefs.” Marphissa shrugged. “Sometimes that was all we had to hang on to. Some people believed in the Syndicate, like somebody else would believe in a divine power, but a lot of them here were shaken in that faith when the Syndicate abandoned us to the enigmas. Did you really see some of the enigmas?”

  Bradamont nodded, not fazed by the change in topic. “We saw one. Part of one. We actually learned very little about them. Admiral Geary is convinced that the enigmas would commit racial suicide to keep us from learning more.”

  That took a while to sink in. “A race even crazier than humanity? Wonderful.”

  “To them,” Bradamont said, “it’s not crazy. To the enigmas, what they’re doing makes perfect sense. Kind of like how the war made sense to humanity.”

  “No, there you’re wrong,” Marphissa said, refilling her glass and Bradamont’s as well. “We’ve all known the war was crazy. No one could figure out how to end it. Fighting a war because we couldn’t figure out how to end it. I guess the enigmas aren’t crazier than we are after all. What about the fast ships we saw? The beautiful ships. Can you tell me about the ones in those?”

  “The Dancers?” Bradamont couldn’t help smiling. “They’re very, very ugly. And they seem to think in some different ways than us. But there’s still a connection there. They helped us.”

  “They saved our primary planet.” Marphissa raised her glass in salute. “I couldn’t believe it possible, actually managing to divert a launched bombardment. To the Dancers!”

  “To the Dancers,” Bradamont echoed. “But they are really ugly. Here’s an image.” She offered a data pad. “I’m going to deliver a report on them to your President.”

  Marphissa gaped at the image. “Like a wolf and spider having offspring. Seriously? This is how they look? But they drive ships like the ships were part of them. Incredibly graceful. How do their maneuvering systems manage that?”

  Bradamont rolled a drink around in her mouth before swallowing it. “We’re pretty sure they drive their ships manually.”

  Marphissa jerked in involuntary reaction. “Those kinds of maneuvers at those speeds? Done by manual control rather than automated systems? That’s impossible.”

  “It is for us.”

  “What can you tell me about the huge ship?” Marphissa pressed.

  “The Invincible? We captured it from the Kicks.” Bradamont squinted as she studied the play of light in the amber liquid partially filling her glass. “They’re cute. The Kicks. And crazy. Not leave us alone crazy like the enigmas. Take over the universe if they could crazy. And absolutely fanatical fighters. To the death. They’re in the report for your President, too. Hopefully the Kicks will never make it to human space, but you need to know why you don’t want to go to space controlled by the Kicks.”

  “Thank you.” Maybe it was the booze. Maybe it was the shared experiences in warships. But Marphissa felt herself relaxing and smiling at Bradamont with real welcome. “I hope that includes how you captured that huge ship.”

  “It was . . . challenging,” Bradamont commented. “Yeah. We can talk about how we, Admiral Geary’s fleet, that is, beat our enemies.”

  Marphissa met the Alliance captain’s eyes, feeling an inner chill that fought her previous sense of warming toward Bradamont. “Like us. How you beat the Syndicate mobile forces.”

  “Yes,” Bradamont said in a softer tone as if sensing Marphissa’s feelings. “I meant it when I said that. To help you work out ways to defeat the Syndicate Worlds’ forces that come here to try to regain control of this star system. I can talk about what was done in different engagements, from Corvus all the way to Varandal. Admiral Geary authorized me to do that.”

  “Varandal? Isn’t that Alliance space?”

  “Yes. That’s where we fought your Reserve Flotilla.”

  “Destroyed our Reserve Flotilla, you mean,” Marphissa corrected. She stared at her glass. “I know. CEO Boyens told President Iceni that much, at least, though it seems he left out a lot of other things from when he was your prisoner. We had a lot of friends among the crews of those units. Some people had more-than-friends. The Reserve Flotilla spent a long time out here. They were based in this star system for decades.” Her tones had turned sad, angry, and accusing. Unfair, she knew. It had been war. But, still . . .

  “I’m sorry,” Bradamont said again.

  “We’ve both lost plenty of friends, I’m sure.”

  Silence for a few moments, then Bradamont spoke with forced cheerfulness. “Have you received a list of prisoners yet?”

  “What?” Marphissa asked, wondering if she had heard right.

  “A list of prisoners,” Bradamont repeated. “The officers and crew members from the Reserve Flotilla we took prisoner at Varandal after their ships were destroyed.”

  Marphissa had been raising her glass for another drink, but now her hand froze in midmotion. “Prisoners? You took prisoners? Not just CEO Boyens?”

  “Yes.” Bradamont flinched. “Hadn’t you heard that as soon as Admiral Geary took command, he banned the killing of prisoners?”

  “I’d heard that, but I didn’t believe it.”

  “It’s true. We stopped executing prisoners—” Bradamont flushed this time. “I can’t believe we ever did it. I can’t believe we sank so low before he reminded us— The point is, we took prisoners. And if we didn’t want prisoners and were in a Syndic-controlled star system, we let their escape pods go. Didn’t you hear that?”

  “We heard only what the Syndicate government wanted us to hear,
” Marphissa said.

  “Oh, yeah. Security. It’s funny what governments justify using security as a reason, isn’t it? Well, I can tell you there are prisoners from your Reserve Flotilla being held at Varandal. A lot of them. I know that.”

  Marphissa just stared at Bradamont for what felt like a minute, then managed to speak again. “You’re sure they’re still at Varandal? Not dispersed to labor camps all over the Alliance?”

  Once again Bradamont flushed, but this time in anger. “The Alliance never had labor camps. They would have been sent to prisoner-of-war camps. But they were still being processed when the war ended, then nobody wanted them sent to their star system to worry about. They’ve been stuck at Varandal, in the hands of fleet authorities, who have to worry about feeding them and housing them and guarding them and taking care of them until the prisoner-repatriation agreements are finalized. I know because so many of the officers there were complaining about it. The Syndics, I mean the Syndicate Worlds’ government, is supposed to be working out procedures for prisoners of war to be sent home, but the whole process is dragging out, and meanwhile, the authorities at Varandal are stuck with a lot of Syndics they’d love to give back to someone.”

  Bradamont’s flush faded into a thoughtful expression. “You guys are someone. You say you know the survivors of the Reserve Flotilla being held at Varandal. Why don’t you send somebody to get them?”

  “What? Us?” Marphissa asked, not quite believing what she was hearing.

  “Send a converted freighter or two. How many would you need? More than two. Four. No, six. There are about four thousand prisoners from the Reserve Flotilla. It’ll be a little tight, but six converted freighters can haul them if they’re rigged to carry as many people as possible.”

  “We can rig—” Marphissa began eagerly before reality imposed itself on her thoughts. “Freighters. All the way across to the Alliance, through space where Syndicate authority is being contested or has already collapsed? Where any Syndicate authority that did exist would be gunning for ships operating on our behalf?” I will not get my hopes up. I will not think this could happen.

  “You would have to send an escort,” Bradamont agreed. “A few of your warships.”

  “Warships. We only have a few. And you want us to send a convoy escorted by warships to an Alliance star system?”

  “That might not be a good idea.” Bradamont took a drink, swirling the liquid in her mouth again for a moment before swallowing. “All right, here’s how you could do it. Just a suggestion,” she added wryly. “Go to Atalia. You’ve got the hypernet gate, so you can use that to get most of the way there. From Atalia, it’s an easy jump to Varandal. Atalia has declared independence from the Syndicate Worlds like you have though it’s not in nearly as good a shape as you are.”

  Marphissa nodded wordlessly. They didn’t have to discuss the reasons for that. A border star system would have been pounded mercilessly over the decades.

  “Atalia had a Hunter-Killer when we went through there last,” Bradamont continued. “Just one. There’s an Alliance courier ship there, too, maintaining a picket watch at the jump point for Varandal. Your convoy pops in to Atalia, then your warships wait at Atalia while the freighters go on to Varandal.”

  “What happens when six former Syndicate freighters show up at Varandal?” Marphissa asked.

  “The Alliance authorities will demand to know why they’re there. They won’t destroy them right off the bat. Would you do that if Alliance freighters showed up here?”

  “No.” Obstacles. Objections. What could prevent this from working? “Would they release those prisoners to us?”

  Bradamont grimaced, rubbing the back of her neck. “Technically, we’re supposed to repatriate them to the Syndicate Worlds. But that’s getting harder with every star system that bails out of the Syndicate Worlds. And we still don’t like the Syndicate Worlds. It wouldn’t be very humanitarian to take people from newly independent star systems and dump them back under Syndic control.”

  “Humanitarian?” Marphissa asked sarcastically.

  Bradamont responded with a questioning look. “Why did you say humanitarian like that?”

  “Because it’s . . . a joke. No one ever says that and means it. Means what it actually is supposed to mean, whatever that is.”

  “Oh.” Bradamont seemed briefly rattled, then refocused. “Then let’s say that, in practical terms, the Alliance fleet wants to be rid of those prisoners at Varandal.”

  Marphissa sat her glass down carefully, aware of how her hand was shaking. “How many?” she whispered. “How many did you say?”

  “I don’t know exactly. Roughly four thousand. That’s the number people kept throwing around.”

  “Four thousand.” Out of how many? But so many times, when ships were destroyed, it happened in a flash, with no chance for survivors. For even four thousand to come out of that battle alive after their ships had been too badly crippled to fight reflected considerable luck. “We had no idea. Many of those men and women are our friends. They’re from here, or nearby star systems.”

  “I’m sorry. I would have mentioned it right away if I’d realized—”

  “That’s all right.” Marphissa sighed. “We just assumed they were all dead. We had to. That’s how it’s been.”

  “I know.” Bradamont grimaced. “We assumed the same when forces were lost to Syndic hands.”

  “I’ll need to get President Iceni’s approval for it. We can’t even think about doing this until the, uh, special operation to get rid of the Syndicate flotilla here succeeds. If that operation works, it will mean sending off a flotilla to escort those freighters, and they’ll be gone awhile. That might be a hard sell when we have so few units. To be honest, if it were anyone but President Iceni, it would be an impossible sell. I think our President will jump at the opportunity, but there will be advisers trying to convince her not to do it. Where’s the profit in it?” Marphissa added bitterly. “And General Drakon might be hard to sell on it as well.”

  “From what I have heard of General Drakon, he’s not that bad. But he might still need a strong reason.” Bradamont gazed at her somberly, then gestured around them. “This battleship of yours is still being fitted out. Do you have a crew for it?”

  “Just a skeleton crew,” Marphissa admitted. “Finding enough trained mobile forces personnel to fill out the crew of a battleship is proving to be a serious challenge, and there’s another under construction at Taroa that will eventually require a crew, too. Our ambitions and hardware exceed our available supply of skilled personnel.”

  “Four thousand survivors of the Reserve Flotilla might help you out with that problem,” Bradamont noted.

  “That’s right.” Marphissa looked around her at the unfinished compartment they were in, imagining it completed and filled with people she had never expected to see again. “They’re alive, they’re trained, a lot of them thought of Midway as home before they got yanked out of here, and with those reasons, I’ve got a good chance of convincing people in charge to let us go get them. Damn you, I think I do want to kiss you, you Alliance monster.”

  Bradamont grinned. “Keep your filthy hands off me, you Syndic scum.”

  “Your people also exchange insults to express friendship, Alliance demon?”

  “We reserve those kinds of insults for the best of people, Syndic shrew.”

  “Thank you for the compliment, Alliance fiend.”

  “You’re welcome, Syndic savage.”

  “No problem, Alliance ghoul.”

  “Happy to oblige, Syndic devil.”

  Marphissa paused, realizing that the booze had gone to her head and not caring except that it made concentrating more difficult. She hauled out her comm unit. “Excuse me while I look up some more words.”

  “Is it all right if I have another drink while I wait?” Bradamont asked.

 
“Be my guest, you . . . Alliance . . . harpy.”

  “Thank you.” Bradamont was checking her own personal unit. “We’re supposed to be getting to know each other, you Syndic . . . sleaze. I can keep it up as long as you can.”

  When Kapitan-Leytenant Kontos, looking worried, finally checked up on them, the bottle was empty and they were leaning on each other, crying over the friends they had each lost.

  Marphissa called Manticore to let them know her inspection of the Midway was taking longer than expected.

  The next day, hangover controlled but not eliminated by a generous dose of painkillers, she transmitted a “report” of her inspection of the Midway that included the code phrase called for in her written orders (“everything can be done on schedule with proper support”), then led Captain Bradamont, her uniform hidden under standard-issue Syndicate-crew coveralls adorned with the insignia of a Midway Kapitan, to Manticore’s shuttle. Kontos joined her there, unhappy at leaving Midway but obedient to his own orders to also transfer temporarily to Manticore.

  A couple of days after that, in company with the newly arrived cruiser, Manticore approached the jump point for the star Maui. Officially, Manticore would escort the cruiser all the way to the home star of most of its crew, Kiribati.

  Only three people aboard Manticore knew that in fact she would leave the cruiser when it was most of the way to Kiribati. Kommodor Marphissa, Kapitan-Leytenant Kontos, and the mysterious VIP going by the name of Kapitan Bascare knew that Manticore would jog off to one side, heading for the star named Taniwah, where another hypernet gate could be found.

  From the hypernet gate at Taniwah, Manticore would leap back to Midway.

  To arrive nose to nose with the Syndicate flotilla commanded by CEO Boyens.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “COME to full-combat alert twenty minutes before we arrive at Midway,” Marphissa ordered.