“First,” Bradamont insisted, “they have to figure out that the Midway Colonel Rogero is the same as Sub-CEO Donal Rogero of the Syndicate Worlds’ ground forces. Second, if they do, the Marines will be there. Third, if somehow Alliance intelligence does get its hands on you, I will personally go onto that station and get you back no matter what it takes. I will not have you treated here as I was by the Syndics even if I have to do things that neither Admiral Timbale nor Admiral Geary would approve of.”
Rogero looked at her and felt himself smiling. “How was it you characterized President Iceni?”
“What? Why did you bring that up?”
“No reason. Tell your Admiral Timbale that I’ll be there.”
She gave him another look, this one suspicious, then hit the send command. “Admiral Timbale, thank you. I will provide what I can via this message about Admiral Geary and our activities in alien-controlled space. Before I begin, Colonel Rogero has agreed to the physical turnover of prisoners aboard Ambaru. I assured him that there would be no danger to him when you had promised his safety. I must, however, inform you that it is very likely that Colonel Rogero has a high-priority flag on his files in our intelligence system. It is purely an intelligence matter. It has nothing to do with his actions in the war. You have my word of honor, sir, that it is not a war-crimes flag.
“Here is a summary of what Admiral Geary’s fleet encountered . . .”
AFTER a long, plodding voyage that was the best the freighters could manage, they were close enough to Ambaru station, within a few light-seconds, for the communication delays to be almost unnoticeable. “Believe it or not, Captain Bradamont,” Admiral Timbale said, “I have some qualms about turning some of these Syndics over to those Midway people. There’s no doubt that at least a few of the prisoners are die-hard Syndicate Worlds’ patriots. What will your Midway people do with them?”
“Are any of them snakes, Admiral?” Bradamont asked, exchanging a glance with Rogero.
“Snakes?”
“Syndic Internal Security Service.”
“Oh, those guys. No. None of them are tagged with that.”
Rogero leaned in. “Admiral Timbale, only ISS agents would face danger at our hands, and that is because of the blood of our people on their hands. Each of our freighters has a small ground forces unit aboard for security, so we need not fear actions by the Syndicate loyalists. We will drop off along the way to Midway anyone who does not want to join us.”
Timbale paused, then spoke heavily. “Drop off? Admiral Geary has had some influence on me, Colonel. I would feel guilty if I turned over to you prisoners who were subsequently pushed out of air locks to get rid of them.”
Rogero shook his head firmly. “We will not do that. General Drakon’s orders.”
“What’s that?”
“We have orders not to kill prisoners. We will obey those orders, Admiral. Any prisoners released to us who do not wish to join with us will be delivered to one of the Syndicate-controlled star systems we pass through on our way home. Safely delivered.”
Timbale studied Rogero, then nodded. “Very well, Colonel. The first shuttle is on its way to the freighter carrying you. Ride it back here, and we’ll get this done. Don’t worry, I’m not going to wait for the completion of the physical turnover before we start shoveling Syndic prisoners at you. Make sure those freighters are ready to take a lot of prisoners and take them fast.”
Bradamont spoke warily. “Are there any grounds for concern, Admiral? Any security threats?”
“I don’t have ironclad control of every unit in this star system, Captain. Not even close. So far, I’ve presented a very carefully tailored account of what’s going to happen to everyone. But at some point, some of the Alliance military forces that don’t answer to me might get orders from some other high-ranking officer to do things that you and I and Colonel Rogero wouldn’t like at all, especially given what you told me about possible Alliance intelligence interest in Rogero. The faster we get this done, the better.”
“That does not sound good,” Rogero said after Timbale had signed off.
“No,” Bradamont agreed. “Get in, get out, get back here in one piece.”
“I’ll do my best.”
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.
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