The Lost Stars (17 page)

“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.

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

Kapitan Toirac eyed her worriedly. They were in Marphissa's stateroom, which was nothing luxurious on a heavy cruiser but large enough for two people without feeling claustrophobic. “We're going to drop into the lap of the Syndicate flotilla, and we'll be moving at only point zero two light speed in normal space.”

“That's the idea. We want them to chase us. The moment we arrive at the gate, command of the
Manticore
will temporarily shift to Kapitan Bascare.”

“What? Asima— Excuse me, Kommodor, I don't even know who this Bascare
is.”

“You'll find out.” Marphissa couldn't yet tell Toirac that “Bascare” was actually Alliance Fleet Captain Bradamont, but she unbent enough to explain more. “Trust me. These are the orders of President Iceni, to carry out an operation planned by her. But we have to do our part.”

“I don't know.” Toirac looked around, uncertainty written all over his expression and posture. It had become an all-too-familiar look for him, whether in private or on the bridge.

Marphissa licked her lips, trying to find the right words. “Ygor, we've known each other for a while. I recommended you for command of this ship.”

“You did? Why didn't
you—”

“Wait.” She fixed him with a hard look. “You've got the skills to run this ship, but you're not demonstrating the strength to command it. You're slow, you hesitate, you allow your specialists and junior officers to decide things that you should be deciding. It's one thing to delegate some authority and responsibility. I believe in the wisdom of that, contrary to the teachings of the Syndicate. But you can go too far. Delegation is one thing. Effectively ceding command decisions to your subordinates is another.”

Kapitan Toirac scowled, looking away. “I'm doing my best. This is very difficult. I'm trying to avoid the mistakes of the Syndicate.”

“Fine; you don't want to run the ship with an iron hand. I understand that. But you're going too far in the other direction. You can't command this ship unless you
command
it! I will back you, Ygor. I will give you what advice I can. I know Kapitan-Leytenant Kontos has been speaking to you, trying to help. But he says you're not listening.”

“Kontos! A few weeks ago, he was a subexecutive! I know more about being in charge than he does.”

“He's good, Ygor. Kontos knows how to do things so that subordinates look to him as a leader. You need to cultivate the same traits, the same approach to command—”

“If you're so unhappy with me,” Toirac grumbled, “why not just drop the hammer?”

“Because I want to help you succeed,” Marphissa insisted, trying not to let Toirac's behavior aggravate her too much.

“Tearing me down is not helping
me.”

“Have you heard anything that I've said? Have you noticed how your officers and specialists are acting toward you and around
you?”

Toirac's mouth set stubbornly. “If you're so unhappy with me, maybe this ship would be better off with another commanding officer.”

She glared at him. “I don't want that, but since you raised the topic I have no choice but to warn you that unless you start acting like the commanding officer of
Manticore
, I will have no choice but to recommend that you be replaced.”

He stared at her, the gaze turning dark. “It didn't take long, did it, Asima? All that talk of things being different now, but once you got your hands on power, you're just another Sub-CEO trying to suck up to her
CEO—”

Marphissa leaped to her feet, her mind filled with anger. “I will pretend those last words were not said! Listen to yourself! I am trying to offer you help, and you're answering me with insults! If I were being a typical Sub-CEO I would've relieved you of command weeks ago! But I've been waiting. Waiting to see you assert yourself.”

Toirac avoided her eyes. “Yes, Kommodor.”

“Damn you, Ygor. Are you trying to back me into a corner?”

“The Kommodor can act as she sees fit. I understand and will comply.”

“Get out of here!” Marphissa nearly yelled, worried that she would say something far worse if Toirac continued to display attitude rather than intelligence.

He saluted, the gesture stiff and formal, then left, only the hatch closing mechanism preventing it from slamming under the force of Toirac's push.

She sat down, trying to control her anger.
I tried. And he answers me with “I understand and will comply,” as if I really am some Syndicate thug abusing her authority. It's a lot easier to complain about the boss than to be the boss. But if Toirac can't tell the difference between me and a Syndicate bootlicker, he's not just weak, he's also a fool.

Don't decide now. You're too angry. But Toirac had better show me a lot better performance and do it fast.

“Kommodor?” The question was accompanied by a knock on her hatch.

Marphissa looked up, calming herself. “Enter.”

Bradamont eyed her from the hatch. “Is everything all right?” Behind her, Kontos was looking up and down the passageway, keeping an eye out for trouble. Bradamont and Kontos were already in survival suits, prepared for combat.

Both Kontos and Marphissa had noticed that the Alliance officer focused a lot on the ship, on the state of equipment, cleanliness, and other material issues, but didn't seem to worry about the crew. Bradamont paid attention to the crew, displaying unmistakable interest in them and their jobs, but she didn't appear to
worry
about them as a potential source of danger. The implications of that attitude, what it might say about the Alliance fleet versus Syndicate practices that still haunted this ship, bothered Marphissa a great deal.

“Personnel issues,” Marphissa explained. “We're half an hour from arrival, aren't we? I need to focus on that. We're going to have to do everything just right.”

“It's nothing you can't handle,” Bradamont said.

“You're going to be in temporary command. You have to call the maneuvers. I'm sure that's what President Iceni wants.” Marphissa managed a smile. “Besides, I want to watch you maneuver a ship in combat.”

“I wish to watch that as well,” Kontos offered.

“Are you sure your crew will be all right when they find out who I
am?”

“They know me. They believe in the President. They also know Kapitan-Leytenant Kontos by reputation. And . . . they're conditioned by training to do as they're told. Those things should keep the crew from blowing up until we get the job done.”

Marphissa quickly pulled on her own survival suit, then led the way to the bridge, taking her seat next to a visibly sulking Kapitan Toirac, who had not yet donned a suit himself. The specialists on watch took in the survival suits on her, Bradamont, and Kontos, and unobtrusively began passing the word to their friends in other parts of the ship that something was up. Two of the specialists glanced Toirac's way, said something to each other in very low voices, and grinned.

Marphissa suppressed a sigh, mentally running through candidates to replace Toirac. Kapitan-Leytenant Diaz came quickly to mind. As second-in-command of
Manticore
, he had done his best to support Toirac and had not undermined him in any way that Marphissa was aware of. Diaz lacked apparent ambition, which could foretell problems if he was promoted above his comfort zone, but his actions commended
him.

Kontos, standing at the back of the bridge next to Bradamont, cleared his throat.

Marphissa checked the time. “Kapitan, it is nineteen minutes until we arrive at Midway.”

Toirac ignored
her.

Fine. You're gone. But I won't do it formally until after this operation is over. We don't need the disruption a change of command could cause when we're this close to action.
“Bring
Manticore
to full-combat readiness,” Marphissa ordered the specialists on the bridge.

“Yes, Kommodor!”

The specialists popped open lockers near their watch stations and pulled on their own survival suits, outfits that were far inferior to the battle armor worn by ground forces but provided some protection from shrapnel and small arms as well as providing oxygen if the ship was holed by the enemy. The helmets stayed open, unpressurized hoods draped loosely behind their shoulders, to conserve the suits' life support until it was needed. Readiness reports flowed in, green markers popping up on Marphissa's display as weapons, sensors, shields, and propulsion as well as a host of other less critical areas reported full-combat status.

Kapitan Toirac, moving with obvious slowness, took out his own emergency suit and put it on as well.

“The ship is at full-combat readiness, Kommodor,” the senior specialist reported.

“Five minutes. You can do better,” Marphissa said. “Next time, make it four. Everyone on the bridge, listen. The moment
Manticore
leaves the hypernet and arrives at Midway, Kapitan Bascare will become temporary commanding officer of this ship. You will respond to her every order as if it were mine, regardless of what happens. Is that clearly understood? There must be no hesitation, no questions.”

The specialists all nodded and saluted. The seniormost specialist smiled as he did so. “I understand and will comply, Kommodor.” But he gave the old words of subservience an aura of pride that made Marphissa smile in return.

Bradamont came to stand beside Marphissa.

Kontos caught Marphissa's eye and tilted an inquiring eye toward Toirac. She shook her head and mouthed “later” in reply.

Marphissa readied a command for
Manticore
's identification broadcast, ensuring that the broadcast was disabled and wouldn't send anything until she activated it. The sensors in CEO Boyens's flotilla would know
Manticore
without any official ID being broadcast. They had seen her hull too many times and knew every unique feature and mark it had accumulated in space. But the identification contained in the broadcast this time would give them a very unpleasant surprise.

Five minutes. “Everyone listen,” Marphissa said. “If Kapitan Bascare sends a message, she will use a different name and rank. She is here by personal order of President Iceni. Do not let that name and rank cause you to hesitate. Is that clear?”

Once again, everyone nodded. Everyone but Kapitan Toirac.

“Disable main propulsion unit two,” Marphissa ordered. “Ensure it does not light off when maneuvering orders are given, not until you are told to reactivate
it.”

“Yes, Kommodor,” the engineering specialist said. “Deactivating main propulsion unit two. Unit two is deactivated.”

Marphissa looked at Bradamont. “Do you need this seat?”

“No. The weapons are yours. I can give whatever maneuvering commands are needed while standing here.”

One minute. “Shields at maximum, all weapons ready,” Marphissa said to Bradamont.

Kontos hadn't moved, but his eyes were locked on Bradamont.

They exited the gate at Midway, the nothing outside of
Manticore
abruptly being replaced by countless stars and endless space. “I have command,” Bradamont announced. “Come starboard one seven zero degrees, down two zero degrees, maximum acceleration on main propulsion units one, three, and four.”

Manticore
swung around and accelerated, her vector altering to head for the other ships of the Midway Flotilla, five light-minutes away.

“Boyens is still here,” Marphissa observed, as her display updated.

Bradamont nodded and pointed to another area relatively close to the hypernet gate. When they had left, the entire Alliance fleet had been two light-hours from the gate, but now a substantial force of battle cruisers and other warships orbited only ten light-minutes away.

“The Syndicate flotilla is maneuvering,” the senior specialist announced. “Heavy cruisers and Hunter-Killers. They're coming around to an intercept.”

Bradamont nodded again. “When will they come within weapons range of
us?”

The specialists exchanged glances. “We were not moving fast coming out of the gate, Kapitan Bascare, and with one propulsion unit disabled, we are accelerating at less than an optimum rate. The Syndicate heavy cruisers will be within missile range in seventeen minutes.”

“Good. How long will it take to bring main propulsion unit two back online?”

“Five seconds, Kapitan. Then another five seconds for it to achieve full thrust.” The specialist gave her a quizzical glance, wondering why an officer of such rank did not know such basic information about a ship built by the Syndicate Worlds. They had seen Kapitan Bascare practicing maneuvering
Manticore
during some of the transits through star systems while escorting the other cruiser and knew from that she was experienced in handling ships, making her lack of knowledge all the more puzzling.

Bradamont smiled slightly. “Sixteen minutes,” she told Marphissa.

Her confidence was so palpable that the crew, despite their nervousness as the Syndicate pursuit force lunged toward them, waited without question as the bubble on their displays marking missile-engagement range for the Syndicate warships drew steadily closer to
Manticore
.

“The Alliance ships are moving! They are . . . heading toward the Syndicate flotilla!” The operations specialist blinked at her display in disbelief, then grinned. “They are coming to help us? Black Jack is coming!”

Not the Alliance, Marphissa noted. Black Jack. She would remember that.

An alert pulsed on the displays, warning that the Syndicate warships would be within missile range in one minute.

“Steady,” Bradamont said. “Engineering, I will order main propulsion unit two back online in one minute and ten seconds. Is that understood? Wait for the command.”