Rogero replied in a low voice. “I believe Executive Ito was very unhappy with the treatment you were receiving. But that’s because of your actions. She sees you as an equal if also a recent enemy. What made her outraged was to see line workers and supervisors behaving that way toward someone of executive rank, as well as the lack of discipline in their showing such behavior in the presence of her and Sub-CEO Garadun.”
“I see.” Bradamont smiled wryly. “I guess I should be grateful, whatever the reasons.”
“I’ll have two soldiers here before you leave. You’ll have an escort from now on.”
“It looks very much as if Ito’s instructions are being followed,” Bradamont pointed out.
Rogero paused, realizing how little Bradamont knew of the Syndicate way of doing things. It was hard to think of her as being innocent, yet when it came to the underside of Syndicate life, she knew almost nothing despite the attack on General Drakon soon after her arrival. “You understood the need for bodyguards on the planet.”
“Yes. That necessity was pretty heavily underlined by the attack on your General right after I arrived. But that was a much-less-controlled environment than this. I can see the discipline these people were trained to follow.”
How to explain? “Very rigid control can mask and create a great deal that happens out of sight,” Rogero said. “There is the surface, and there is what goes on beneath it. I routinely sleep with a sidearm handy because assassinations happen. Personal disputes, the desire for a promotion opportunity, an opportunity to blame a rival for the deed, there are many reasons. Disputes are resolved in ways that never see the light of day. Rules are meant to be twisted, or ways are meant to be found around rules, all without anyone in authority admitting to anything. You deserve whatever you can get away with, and if you get caught or simply accused, no mercy will be expected or given unless you have a patron powerful enough to protect you. That is how things have been done, in all aspects of Syndicate society. That is what President Iceni and General Drakon rebelled against.”
She gazed somberly at him. “General Drakon told me the same thing. The snakes, the Internal Security Service, were a symptom, not a foreign element.”
“Sadly, that is true. Which is why, when the Syndicate grew weak enough, everyone who could began revolting against it. Wait for the escorts to arrive before you leave.” He drew out his sidearm, holding it out to her. “And keep this handy. Don’t worry. I’ve got another.”
BRADAMONT’S estimates proved accurate. The Alliance destroyer and light cruiser were eventually joined by another destroyer, all of them weaving around the freighters in a frequent shifting of positions that must have caused a huge amount of frustration for the fixed defenses in the star system. No rocks were fired at them from the rail guns occupying many defense sites throughout the star system; though whether that was because they could not get a clean shot or they had been told not to fire remained unknown.
Admiral Timbale had sent Bradamont one final message, urging them to keep going, then ceased communicating to protect himself.
No one called them, in fact. The six freighters might have been in a bubble insulated from any form of communication, except that they could tap into the Alliance news broadcasts filling the space between planets.
Where is Black Jack? seemed to be the most common theme.
“These are not a happy people,” Sub-CEO Garadun observed in the tiny meal compartment of the freighter, which had become an executive dining room. He sat on one side of the small table, looking across it at Rogero on the other side. “I used to imagine them gloating over their victory, assuming they really had won. It doesn’t seem to have brought them much joy, though.”
“I wonder if there were any winners,” Rogero said. “The Syndicate Worlds lost, but did the Alliance win? Or did they suffer a lesser form of defeat?”
“If not for Black Jack . . .”
“Yes. He made the difference, just when he was most needed, just as the legends of the Alliance claimed.” Rogero turned a questioning look on Garadun. “According to the people of the Alliance, that was the work of the living stars.”
“More likely coincidence.”
“Hell of a coincidence,” Rogero observed.
Garadun raised an eyebrow toward Rogero. “Have you been hanging around the workers too much, Donal? Listening to their myths about ancestors and stars and other mystical powers that care what happens to us? What’s the policy toward that at Midway? Is it still officially discouraged?”
Rogero shook his head, looking down toward the table’s well-worn and blemished surface. “No. It’s not being encouraged, either. It’s just allowed. If citizens want to believe in something, that’s their business.” He looked directly at Garadun again. “The Syndicate taught us to believe in nothing. And eventually they taught us so well that we didn’t believe in the Syndicate anymore either.”
“That’s a point.” Garadun set down his drink, a pouch of Ground Forces Fluid Maintenance and Vitamin Supplement, lemonade flavor (contains no lemons), and looked back at Rogero. “I’ve been thinking. I don’t blame you for revolting and wiping out the snakes in your star system. Hell, I’m happy for you. But Midway isn’t home for me. I need to get back to Darus.”
“We don’t know what the situation is at Darus,” Rogero replied. “And we can use you. Midway is building a bigger flotilla. But it’s your choice.”
“Are you going to drop the loyalists off at Atalia?”
“I don’t know,” Rogero said. “Maybe there, maybe at Indras. It will be up to Kommodor Marphissa. I’d say Atalia for sure, since we can use the room on the freighters, but Atalia is also independent now. They probably won’t appreciate having a thousand or so Syndicate loyalists dropped in their laps.”
“I’m scarcely loyal,” Garadun said. “But . . . look, Donal. I know you get on all right with that Alliance officer, but it’s very hard for me. If Midway is a place where the Alliance has a strong voice . . . then it isn’t somewhere I can accept yet. There’s too much history, too much pain, for me to be part of that.”
“I understand. But that officer is the Alliance voice at Midway. She’s all there is, and she has only as much authority and influence as we grant her.”
“Hmmm. But still,” Garadun noted, “she has Black Jack and his fleet behind her. The fleet Midway needs to protect itself.”
“President Iceni knows she has a lot of leverage because of how much Black Jack needs Midway. According to what General Drakon has told me, she’s playing her side of the game well.” Rogero tapped the tiny table between them. “The Alliance doesn’t want the enigmas getting any closer to it. And only through Midway can the Alliance access the other two alien races that Black Jack found.”
Garadun stared back at Rogero. “Two more? Different than the enigmas?”
“Very different.”
“How did you find out about them?”
“Black Jack told us about them.” Rogero sat back as far as the cramped seat would allow, which wasn’t far. “It’s strange. Do you know what Captain Bradamont told me? Black Jack was in survival sleep during the war. The whole time since it began until he was found recently. He never knew the war. He didn’t grow up hating us or knowing how many of his friends and relatives had died during the war. So it’s much easier for Black Jack to imagine getting along with us. Not the Syndicate. Us. It’s not emotional for him. He can still believe in peace.”
Garadun didn’t answer for a while, brooding over what Rogero had said. “I can’t believe in peace,” he finally said. “Not yet. Not even after that Bradamont did so well getting us out of that mess. I can see her professional skills and accept them and even admire them. But that’s not the same as accepting her.”
So many think that way. I love her. But those around me distrust her at best. They see the enemy, where I see the woman. Will that ever change? But Rogero kept those thoughts hidden. “You are far from alone in that. We can’t forget. If for no other reaso
n than we owe that to those who died not to forget them. But if we let the past rule us, we’ll be condemned to endless war and endless dying, and we all know how that feels.”
“All too well,” Garadun said. “What do we know about those two new sets of aliens? Did you see them?”
“Images of some of them, and records the Alliance provided.” Rogero paused, remembering his first sight of the alien spacecraft when Black Jack’s fleet arrived at Midway. “One of them is dangerous. The other is friendly. The friendly ones helped us. They stopped a bombardment aimed at our primary world—”
“You’re joking.”
“No, they did it. We’ve got a lot to learn about them, besides making Midway safe against any threat from the Syndicate government on Prime. Are you sure you don’t want to help?”
“Not as sure as I was.” Garadun looked outward, his eyes distant. “I wanted to be a scout when I was young. An explorer. As a young boy, I dreamed of being the one to finally find another intelligent species. The existence of the enigmas was a deep secret, so I thought I could still be the first to find aliens. But there weren’t any job openings. No scouts required. Everyone had to support the war effort. No resources could be wasted on exploration, and besides, the frontier was sealed for reasons that were so secret no one would even say they were secret. I went into mobile forces training with a vague hope that someday, when the war ended, I’d be able to use those skills to become a scout and see new star systems.” He sighed, saddened by the memories. “I gave up those dreams a long time ago. They died with each inhuman bureaucratic decision I had to live with and with every battle at every star where I fought.”
Garadun played with his drink pouch for a few moments before giving Rogero a searching look. “But, maybe, like Black Jack, my dreams aren’t really dead. Maybe they just went to sleep so deeply I didn’t realize they still lived. I need to see my family at Darus. But afterward, if a former sub-CEO can make his way to Midway, maybe with his family, would there be room there for him?”
“I’m certain of it.” Rogero gestured vaguely. “Or on Taroa if you prefer there. Didn’t you once tell me you liked it?”
“Taroa? Sure I liked it. Lovely place. What’s happened there?”
“Revolt. The people rule there, but it’s not a mob. They’ve got a government that we’re supporting. They also lost a lot of people during the revolt and could use immigrants. Especially immigrants with the right skills and training,” Rogero added.
“I’ll think about it,” Garadun promised.
“What about Ito? Any idea how she feels?”
“Ask her.” Garadun took a drink and grinned. “She’ll want at least a heavy cruiser.”
“I don’t know that I can promise that.”
“Just tell her you’ll try. All she wants is an excuse to go. Most of the former crews will go, too. Not that they love their supervisors.” Garadun laughed at the idea. “But they think we’ll look after them, they think of Midway as home, and a lot of them have family there, and since we’ve been living without snakes for a while, they’ve gotten used to that and like it. They’ll need a firm hand, though. Ito can provide that.” He laughed again. “One of the snakes on our ship almost made it to the escape craft. I saw Ito shoot him before he made it to the hatch. She’ll go with you.” Garadun laughed a third time, accompanied with a sly look at Rogero. “Ito told me she thought you were hot for that Alliance captain. Can you imagine? Women see that sort of thing everywhere.”
“I guess so,” Rogero said, hoping that he had revealed no reaction to Garadun’s words and deciding to change the subject as quickly as possible. “How certain are you that there aren’t any snakes or snake agents among the workers and supervisors that we recovered?”
Garadun shrugged. “As certain as we can be. You know how often snakes on stricken mobile forces units mysteriously fail to make it to escape craft. When we were picked up by the Alliance, there weren’t any openly known snakes among us. Every once in a while, someone among the prisoners would get tagged by their fellows as a covert snake. We’d hold a trial, without the Alliance guards knowing, of course, and if the charges held up, we’d deal with the snake. Then we’d turn the body over to the guards with one of the usual excuses about falling down stairs or off a building or something.” He gave Rogero a knowing look this time. “It’s a little worrisome how easily the workers came up with excuses like that. I can’t swear there aren’t still some covert snakes among our numbers. I don’t think so. But they can be very hard to spot.”
“I know,” Rogero agreed. “How many of those with us do you estimate will want to be let off?”
“Off the top of my head? Maybe fifteen hundred. No more than that. Most of those won’t be loyalists any more than I am. They’ll be people wanting to go to their families at places other than Midway, or people who can’t stomach even a whiff of Alliance involvement with you, or both. How long until we jump?”
Rogero checked his data pad. “Assuming nothing happens between now and then, about five hours.”
“It can’t happen a minute too soon for me.” Garadun stared toward the hatch leading into the passageway where workers sat with their backs against the bulkheads. “I never thought that I’d leave here, not unless it was on some prison transport taking me to a camp somewhere deeper inside the Alliance. I never thought I’d go home again, see my family again, have a chance at anything again. And now . . .” He exhaled heavily. “If that Alliance officer had as much to do with it as you say, well, maybe someday I can look her in the eye and not have to hide how I feel.”
ROGERO made sure to be on the freighter’s command deck as the small convoy approached the jump point that led to Atalia. The six freighters lumbered along steadily, not far from each other but not in anything resembling the ordered formations that mobile forces units always adopted.
The three Alliance warships had fallen back, opening the distance between them and the freighters. They had never communicated with the freighters, and didn’t seem likely to say good-bye. Rogero wondered whether he should send a message to the warships.
Bradamont came onto the command deck, her eyes going directly to the display where the three Alliance warships loomed nearby.
“Should we say something?” Rogero asked her. “Thank them for their assistance? Just say farewell?”
“No.” Bradamont’s voice sounded hollow. “You can’t acknowledge that they did anything for you. It could get them in trouble.”
“But everybody knows. It was obvious.”
“Yes, everybody knows, but nobody is admitting that they know.”
Rogero shrugged. “All right, but it sounds like how we did things in the Syndicate.”
“I didn’t need to hear that.” She clearly wasn’t taking the comment humorously.
He watched her, seeing the look in Bradamont’s eyes as they prepared to leave Alliance space and leave behind Alliance warships, everything that Bradamont knew and held dear. Everything except him. And for him as much as anything she had given this up, official orders or not.
“Ready,” the freighter’s executive said.
“What about the other five?” Rogero asked.
“Yes. Ready to go. See those lights on the display? We’ve got our jump orders linked. When I go, we all go.”
“Then go,” Rogero said.
The stars vanished.
The endless gray of jump space filled the display.
Captain Bradamont left the bridge.
After a long minute, Rogero left, too. It would be four days in jump space before they reached Atalia. At least in jump space, everything traveled at the same speed, and they would reach the other star as swiftly as the fastest battle cruiser.
TWO days in jump, and Rogero was feeling uneasy. Uneasiness was normal in jump space. People didn’t belong here, and the longer they stayed, the worse it felt. But that kind of discomfort usually took a bit longer than two days to be noticeable. This was something else.
He
walked restlessly around the freighter, having to step over innumerable workers sitting in the passageways because there was not enough room elsewhere for them. The air had already gone a bit stale, life support not quite up to the task of handling so many people. It wouldn’t become dangerous in the time they would have to live with it, but the smell would get worse, and headaches would become increasingly frequent.
Rogero found that his steps had brought him to the quarters occupied by Honore Bradamont. He frowned slightly as he realized that this was the source of his unease. Why? Since entering jump, Bradamont had stayed inside that small compartment, out of sight of the workers, not wanting to flaunt her presence before those who still saw her as the enemy. The two soldiers of Rogero’s who were standing sentry outside Bradamont’s door at this hour were alert. What, then, bothered him?
He walked up to the soldiers, who both came to full attention and saluted him. “How does everything look?” Rogero asked.
Syndicate soldiers were trained to not ask questions, to not volunteer information, to do what they were told and nothing more or less. Rogero’s soldiers, like many of those in General Drakon’s forces, had been given different training for the last few years. Observe. Think. Tell someone if something looks wrong.
So when he asked how does everything look? these soldiers knew that he meant it as a question to be answered.
The more veteran of the two chewed his lip for a moment. “We’re being watched, Colonel, sir.”
The other soldier nodded.
“By who? How often?”
“Pretty often, Colonel. It’s a feeling. Someone is watching. Like on a battlefield, even when the armor sensors are saying there’s nothing there, you can still tell there’s a sight on you. They’re staying low, though. So many workers go by all the time, they can just meld in with them.”
The second soldier nodded again. “Especially when we’re doing turnover, Colonel, relieving the shift before us or being relieved. Whoever it is pays close attention at those times.”
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