The Lost Stars: Shattered Spear (17 page)

He shrugged. “In extreme conditions, people find strength sometimes. They knew if they didn’t get in that cage they would die.”

“But they will be all right now?”

“It will take some time, Kommodor. I will soon sedate them and strap them down, because”—he tapped his head—“nightmares come, you know. After this sort of thing. Nightmares come.”

“I know.” She stood up, stopping with a stern gesture the automatic attempts by the three soldiers to rise again as well. “You will rest now. You are safe. I will speak with you again when you are better.”

Capek tried to stand yet again despite his unsteadiness, and shakily recited the standard Syndicate Acceptance of Responsibility. “This worker is responsible for the failure. My coworkers did not—”

“There was no failure,” Marphissa said.

“You came,” the woman said. “You came for the CEO. We failed to—”

“We came for you.”

“But . . . we’re just workers.”

“You are our comrades,” Marphissa said. “We do not leave anyone behind.”

As she walked back toward her stateroom to try to get some rest, Marphissa realized that was why the crew had cheered. It wasn’t simply that they had plucked three soldiers away from certain death, it was that those soldiers were “just workers.” They hadn’t been saved because they were high-ranking executives or CEOs. The risk had been run, the chance taken, even though the objects of the rescue were “just workers.”

The Syndicate never would have approved such an operation, Marphissa knew. It wouldn’t have been cost-effective. The risks would have been out of proportion to the possible gains, as precisely calculated
in spreadsheets that assigned the same sort of carefully calibrated values to human beings as they did to pieces of equipment. The workers would have been left to their fates, slowly dying as they waited in vain for rescue.

It surprised her to realize that it had never occurred to her that the person or persons who needed to be picked up from the planet might be “just workers.” That simply hadn’t mattered.

She reached her stateroom and closed the hatch, falling gratefully onto her bunk fully clothed, and thinking that maybe, perhaps, it would be possible to overcome much of the toxic influence she and everyone else aboard
Manticore
had inherited from their years as servants to the Syndicate.

*   *   *

MARPHISSA
could not really relax until
Manticore
finally entered jump en route Midway. They had only been intermittently able to see the portion of the planet where the enigmas had been working, but during those periods no activity could be detected. Either the enigmas were continuing to lie low until the human warship was gone, or the distance to the planet had grown too great to spot the small surface indications of the work deep underground.

“I tell you,” Diaz commented, “I was expecting some enigma warships to pop up at any moment while we were inside atmosphere and simply blow us apart.”

They were sitting in Marphissa’s stateroom, Diaz having stopped by after leaving the bridge. Being in jump meant he could relax somewhat as well, and the stateroom offered far more privacy for candid talk than did the bridge.

“I was expecting that, too,” Marphissa confessed. She ran one hand through her hair, sighing. “I am guessing that what we did was so unexpected that the enigmas were still arguing over how to react by the time we were done. They had never seen a human warship do what we did, so they had no idea what to do about it.”

“Doing the completely unexpected does sometimes help you out,” Diaz admitted. He stretched slowly. “Damn. I think I’ve been tensed up every minute we were at Iwa. And at Moorea. It’s a good thing the crew can’t tell how scared we are at times.”

“I think they may figure out a lot more than we give them credit for,” Marphissa said. “Speaking of figuring things out, did your people finish downloading and copying the data from those soldiers’ battle armor?”

“No.” Diaz made a helpless gesture with both hands. “They were going to try, since we told them to do it, but fortunately before they started I asked the right question, and they admitted that they were not familiar with ground forces’ software, so there was every chance that the access and download attempt would have triggered an autowipe of all the data by Syndicate-installed security subroutines.”

Marphissa clapped a hand to her face, exasperated, then slowly lowered it. “Every time I think we’re getting the workers past their Syndicate training . . . and look I just called them workers instead of specialists, so I’m also defaulting to that . . . they start to mindlessly obey an order instead of letting us know there might be a problem.”

Diaz shrugged. “Under the Syndicate, telling a supervisor there might be a problem with an order could get you shot. They learned to obey first and think not at all. Anyway, I told them not to touch the armor. We can turn it over to Drakon’s ground forces when we get back. They’ll know how to access that data. What are we going to do with the three soldiers?”

“Give them to Drakon, too, I guess.” Marphissa saw the look that Diaz couldn’t quite hide. “President Iceni trusts him. He’s backed the president in every way. And Honore Bradamont says that General Drakon is a good man who never really acted like a CEO.”

“I believe Bradamont,” Diaz admitted, “even though her judgment might be a little influenced by her involvement with that ground forces colonel. I just hate the thought of those soldiers thinking that we betrayed them after all. My medical specialist is keeping them asleep
to aid their recovery, but he says every time he lets them wake a little they always look terrified until he can remind them that they were rescued. In their heads, those soldiers keep going back to that hellhole.” He grimaced and looked down. “I wonder if they’ll ever leave it, or if they’ll spend the rest of their lives feeling like they are still there.”

“You know how it is for us,” Marphissa said softly. “There’s a battleship I served on soon after becoming a junior executive. We got on the wrong end of a nasty battle. Everything knocked out, then the Alliance Marines came aboard. I don’t know how many times I’ve woken out of a nightmare where I am still fighting that battle in the darkened passageways of that doomed ship, blood and death everywhere, all my friends dying, some of them dying slow so they had plenty of time to know it—”

Her voice choked. Marphissa breathed in and out slowly, blinking back tears, aware that Diaz was conspicuously not looking at her.

“I know,” he finally said, still looking away. “There are two kinds of people in the Syndicate service. Those who died horrible deaths, and those who survived to remember. How did you survive?”

“The Alliance got driven off. Their Marines pulled back off the ship before they could take our defensive citadels.” Marphissa rubbed her eyes irritably. “Then those of us who were still alive were ordered to handle the casualty detail, collecting the bodies of our former friends and comrades, and getting the battleship into good enough shape to be hauled back and scrapped for parts and materials.”

“Nobody ever accused the Syndicate of being sentimental. It’s not good business.”

“True.” Composing herself, Marphissa nodded to Diaz. “We are the lucky ones, you know. Yes, we remember those who did not live, we remember how they died, but we can still try to make things better, try to save those that we can.”

Diaz smiled briefly. “Like three ground forces workers who expected to die?”

“Like them. It matters,” she insisted. “They matter. That’s why we must win—because we believe that.”

Diaz nodded, then smiled again. “But also there is this. We must win because if we lose, you and I will surely be killed in a very painful and public fashion.”

“That is another good reason,” Marphissa agreed.

*   *   *

CAPTAIN
Honore Bradamont had mostly gotten over the occasional ugly flashback caused by being aboard Syndicate-design warships crewed by men and women in what were still basically Syndicate-style uniforms despite minor changes and new rank insignia. She had grown familiar with having bodyguards watching her to ensure none of the crew decided to act on their long-nurtured hatred of the Alliance and everyone who wore its uniform, even though that very familiarity with the practice disturbed her. And she had been able to accept that these men and women were not the “Syndic” monsters she had been taught to hate, who had killed many of her friends, and whom she had spent much of her life killing and trying to kill.

But to be riding a former Syndicate battleship, poised to assume command of a flotilla of former Syndicate warships if necessary, felt too bizarre to be real. To be sharing meals with former Syndicate officers whose own warships she had fought, and destroyed, at places like Varandal Star System, and who were supposed to follow
her
orders? If not for the orders that Admiral Geary had given her to do everything she morally could do to ensure the survival of the new regime on Midway, and her own belief that anyone who could win the loyalty of Colonel Donal Rogero as General Drakon had done must be a person worth following, Bradamont might have felt too disoriented to command at all, let alone well.

Manticore
should have been back by now. Where the hell was Kommodor Asima Marphissa anyway? They had become friends,
giving a strong personal aspect to Bradamont’s worries. But she would be relieved once Asima made it back to Midway not simply because it would mean she had survived her mission, but also because Bradamont could then gracefully return the role of flotilla commander back to Midway’s own Kommodor.

Five minutes ago, Midway’s sensors had spotted the battle cruiser
Pele
altering vector and accelerating toward the jump point for Lono. What was Kapitan Kontos doing and why was he doing it? Since
Pele
was nearly three light hours away, the action had been taken that long ago, and any message sent by Bradamont demanding explanation would require a six-hour round-trip.

Her impatient thoughts were interrupted by a call from the bridge. “Two light cruisers arrived at the jump point from Lono three and a half hours ago,” Kapitan Freya Mercia reported. “They are accelerating toward the inner star system at the best rate they can manage.”

Bradamont frowned at the image of the battleship
Midway
’s commanding officer. “That’s a very small attack force.”

“Ridiculously small,” Mercia agreed. “Our sensors have spotted combat damage on both warships.”

A tone sounded, drawing Bradamont’s attention to an incoming message. “Kapitan Kontos is hopefully informing us of his intentions. Are you copied on this message?”

“Yes,” Mercia replied.

The image of Kapitan Kontos appeared before Bradamont. He was seated on the bridge of
Pele
, and still looked impossibly young for his rank and for being assigned to command Midway’s only battle cruiser. But she had seen him in action and knew that Kontos was a brilliant tactician with an instinctive grasp of space combat.

“Honored Captain Bradamont,” Kontos said, his tone and bearing formal and respectful. “I have sighted two light cruisers arriving from Lono and am proceeding to intercept their track. A message sent by
them to my ships asks for asylum and indicates they were pursued by Syndicate warships when they entered jump at Lono. Main propulsion on both ships has suffered damage, limiting their ability to accelerate. Unless otherwise ordered, I will join up with the two light cruisers and escort them to a safe orbit. For the people, Kontos, out.”

“He attached the message sent to his ships,” Kapitan Mercia noted. “Shall I play it?”

“Yes, please, Kapitan.” Bradamont had early on sensed Mercia’s unease with her, but the former Syndicate officer had done her best to accept Bradamont, so she did her own best to deal respectfully in turn.

The image this time was of a dazed-looking executive on the bridge of a standard Syndicate light cruiser. The small bridge of the light cruiser was marked by signs of combat, a few bodies still sprawled within sight. “We have killed all of the loyalists and Internal Security Service agents aboard and are seeking to join forces with those of Midway. But we took damage fighting our way free of our flotilla. There were two heavy cruisers in close pursuit when we jumped from Lono. Both of our ships have suffered damage to main propulsion. We urgently require escort. Please save us! For the people, Kavistan, out.”

It seemed like a pretty much straightforward situation. Bradamont took a quick glance at the display in her stateroom, but she was already familiar with the arrangement of Midway’s warships. The battleship
Midway
that she was riding, along with heavy cruiser
Basilisk
, light cruisers
Falcon
and
Osprey
, and three Hunter-Killers were orbiting together to cover both Midway’s hypernet gate, the most likely place for another Syndic attack to arrive, and the jump point from the star Pele, from which any enigma attack would come. That put them three and a half light hours from the jump point from Lono, far too distant to reach the new arrivals quickly.

Another heavy cruiser,
Kraken
, the remaining light cruisers
Hawk
,
Kite
, and
Eagle
, and six Hunter-Killers were orbiting far around the
edge of the star system, covering the jump points from the stars Kahiki, Kane, Laka, and Iwa. They were more than five light hours away from the new arrivals.

The remaining three Hunter-Killers that Midway’s small navy boasted were still gone, returning representatives to the star systems of Ulindi, Taroa, and Kane.

That left the battle cruiser
Pele
and a single heavy cruiser,
Gryphon
, who had been orbiting to cover the jump points from Lono and Kahiki.
Pele
and
Gryphon
had been only about one light hour from where the new ships had arrived.

She shouldn’t have to do anything. By the time any of Midway’s other warships could get to the vicinity of those two light cruisers,
Pele
and
Gryphon
would already have long since engaged and driven off a pursuit force consisting of only heavy cruisers. Even a far-less-capable officer than Kontos could handle that.