The Lost Stars (20 page)

“What about our techs? Can they come up with the answer now that they know it can be done?”

“They have been notified, General. I understand that President Iceni has made that research a priority.”

“Good. Thank you.” As Malin's image vanished, Drakon turned his gaze back to the display at the front of the compartment, where the stars and the surface of the planet offered their visions of opposing but equally dire fates.

THE
buzz of conversation among the main orbiting facility workers and family members who had gathered to view the arrival of those who had been captured by the enigmas rose as Drakon walked into view. He did his best to look casual, stopping to speak with the soldiers who were providing security in the shuttle-dock area for the event. “How does it feel?” he asked the major in charge of the guard force. “Do you have enough troops on hand?”

“The citizens are excited, General,” the major replied. “No anxiety, no sense of trouble brewing, though. No one thinks we're hiding anything. We've got plenty of soldiers here if something unexpected happens.”

Drakon nodded, his eyes on the hatch through which the liberated prisoners would come. “I don't know about you, Major, but I'm discovering that it's sort of nice to be on the same side as the citizens.”

The major grinned, as did the soldiers within earshot. “Yes, sir. Instead of doing the dirty work for the snakes and the CEOs, we're working for the people. I could get used to that.”

“It's a welcome change, isn't it?” These soldiers, and many others, had been used for security details often in the past. The snakes wouldn't deign to dirty their hands with routine crowd control, or riot suppression, or other “mass internal security” actions, so the CEOs would order regular troops to do the disagreeable tasks.

But as Drakon took in the attitudes of his soldiers, saw that they stood and reacted toward the crowd as if they were part of it rather than a separate force to control it, he wondered what would happen if orders were given to use force against this crowd or any other. Iceni had said that she and Drakon still had the ability to use force to control the citizens, but looking at the situation here and now, Drakon wondered if that was still true.

I'll check with my brigade commanders for their impressions when I get back to the surface. First, this operation has to be done right.
“Stay alert when the prisoners start coming out,” Drakon ordered. “There was some trouble when they were picked up by our shuttles.”

The major's smile faded into a frown. “The Alliance?”

“No. Apparently the Alliance treated them well. The trouble was because these citizens have been imprisoned by the enigmas. They're fragile.”

“Oh, yes, sir. Like someone out of a labor camp? I'll pass the word.”

The background drone of conversation rose to a roar as Gwen Iceni walked onto the dock, waving to the citizens behind the security barricades. “I-cen-eh! I-cen-eh!” the crowds chanted between cheers.

Drakon walked to meet her. “You're popular,” he observed.

She eyed him, unexpectedly smiled, then grabbed his hand with one of hers and raised both high while turning to face the crowds full on. Drakon felt uncomfortable as the cheers redoubled and he heard cries of “Dra-kon!” and “the General!” mixed with the adulation for Iceni.

“I don't trust it,” he muttered to Iceni, as she lowered her arm and released his hand.

“The hero worship from the mob?” she asked. “You're right not to trust it. It can shift like the weather, and they'd be howling for our blood instead of chanting our names worshipfully. It was a good idea to meet up here together. It lets everyone see us doing something jointly, as a team.”

“Maybe we should look for anyone who appears unhappy at that,” Drakon commented.

“That's not a bad idea.” She spoke into her personal comm. “My security detail will do a software search of security-camera imagery for discontented expressions.”

“Where are your bodyguards?”

“If the need arises for them, you'll see them.” She smiled. “Yours?”

“I've got soldiers on hand.”

“Do you know of any specific threats?”

“No,” Drakon replied. “That bothers me. Somebody should be mouthing off, somebody should be getting drunk and boasting about what he or she would do someday, somebody who hates the CEOs should be planning to hit us because of our past. And then there's the hidden snake agents out there. Why aren't I hearing anything? Somebody went after
you.”

“True. We can't let our guards down, and the lack of reported threats to either of us is odd. We're going to have to worry about threats to Captain Bradamont now as well. She will be coming off the ship first. We need our citizens to see this Alliance officer as a friend. How better to do so than by having her release to us the prisoners liberated by Black Jack?”

“It won't be enough, but it'll be a start,” Drakon conceded. “There goes the hatch. Let's hope this doesn't turn into a fiasco.”

The background noise of talking and shouting among the citizens dwindled rapidly as Captain Bradamont came walking out of the hatch, heading straight for Drakon and Iceni. Her Alliance uniform was impossible to miss, as was the fact that she was not walking like a prisoner. The conversation among the citizens died out completely before a few angry shouts erupted.

By then, Bradamont had reached Drakon and Iceni. She came to attention and saluted in the Alliance fashion, the fingertips of her right hand to her right brow, holding the gesture as she spoke. “President Iceni, General Drakon,” she said in a voice that easily carried. “It is my great pleasure to deliver to you on behalf of the Alliance the citizens who were formerly held captive by the enigma alien race. We have brought them home, as they wished, and now release them to the care of their friends, families, and loved ones.”

Drakon returned a Syndic salute, right fist coming across to rest on his left breast. “Thank
you.”

Iceni nodded. “We are all in debt to Black Jack, who liberated these citizens from the enigmas, brought them back to us through great dangers, and asked for
nothing
in return for them.”

The buzz of conversation this time was much more subdued as the citizens reacted to the show that been put on for their benefit. Drakon suspected that Bradamont's little speech had been edited by Iceni before the freighter carrying her arrived.

Bradamont stepped a little closer and spoke much more quietly. “Watch the liberated prisoners carefully when they come out and handle them gently if they start to act up. They're very jumpy. Not dangerous. Just scared.”

“Got it,” Drakon said, watching as the liberated prisoners began coming out of the hatch. Some wore new overalls and other clothing provided by the Alliance, while many others clung to the patchwork assortment of clothing they had worn when liberated. They walked in a group, staying together like a herd of animals seeking protection, some looking around in wonder and others staring fixedly ahead. Most of them broke into relieved smiles as they saw images and uniforms that told them they were indeed home.

One of them, an elderly man, saw Drakon and pulled himself away from the others. He straightened and saluted in a jerky, rusty way, as if the gesture were something dimly remembered.

“Line Worker Olan Paster,” he announced. “Reporting for duty.”

Drakon regarded the old man somberly as he returned the salute. “What is your unit?”

“Hunter-Killer 9356G,
sir.”

“G-model Hunter-Killers haven't been constructed for decades,” Iceni said. She looked up from a quick data check. “HuK 9356G is listed as having disappeared at Pele forty-five years
ago.”

“It has been that long?” The old man blinked in confusion. “We had no way to track time. The Alliance told us the universal date, but we wondered. I'm sorry. I don't know the clothes you wear, so I don't know what title to give
you.”

“We've discarded standard Syndic outfits,” Drakon told him. “I'm General Drakon, this is President Iceni. We are no longer part of the Syndicate Worlds.”

“Not . . . Syndicate?”

“No,” Iceni said, smiling reassuringly now. “There are no snakes in this star system,” she announced to all of the former prisoners. “We are no longer servants to the Syndicate, no longer slaves to the CEOs on Prime. We, and you, are free. You will be given living quarters on this station and treated well. As soon as any family members in this star system are identified, they will be allowed to visit you. Cooperate to the best of your ability in answering all questions. Citizens from Taroa, we have accepted temporary custody of you pending your acceptance by the new government in Taroa Star System. The rest of you are welcome here while we locate your homes and try to arrange transportation.”

A woman of late middle age stared at Drakon. “What has happened to the Syndicate Worlds? The Alliance workers told us they had won the war, that it was over. We didn't believe them.”

“Did the Alliance treat you well?” Iceni asked for the benefit of the onlookers.

“Yes. Yes, they were good to
us.”

“The war
is
over,” Drakon said. “You'll have access to current news as well as archives and history so you can catch up on events.”

“Thank you, honored
CEO—”

“General,” Drakon interrupted. “My rank is General. The civilian leader of this star system is
President
Iceni. CEOs no longer rule here.”

“For the people!” Iceni said loudly, drawing renewed cheers from the onlookers as doctors began leading the liberated prisoners toward the room block set aside for them.

A small child, who must have never known freedom, broke away from the group and ran up to Captain Bradamont. “Thank you! Thank you for saving us!” the child cried before her mother caught up and led her back to the group.

Drakon glanced at Iceni and saw her smiling. That little incident would play very well on every newscast and other form of media.
I wonder if Gwen somehow set that up,
too?

Captain Bradamont watched the prisoners leave, then faced Drakon and Iceni again. “I am at your service.”

She was putting up a good act. He had to give Bradamont credit for that. But Drakon could see the nervousness behind her unruffled façade.

“So I understand,” Drakon said. “Come along. Your bags will be brought down later.”

He and Iceni began walking back toward the VIP boarding area, Bradamont between them. It felt odd to walk side by side with an Alliance officer. Very odd. Soldiers formed security a ways before and behind as they walked, as did several men and women dressed as citizens who stayed well away but who were exceptionally alert and radiated a dangerous competence.

“My office,” Iceni said, “is issuing a public announcement about you, Captain Bradamont. Everyone in Midway Star System is being told that you are here as a personal representative of Black Jack. Do you know the term ‘scion'?”

Bradamont shook her head.

“There are several sorts of patronage arrangements in the Syndicate system,” Iceni explained. “We still default to that system. People still think in those terms and understand those terms. Most patronage arrangements are informal, reflecting varying degrees of interest by a higher-up in the career and life of a particular subordinate.”

“I understand that sort of thing,” Bradamont said.

“Then there is a scion,” Iceni continued. “A scion is a formal designation of patronage. When someone is declared the scion of a high-ranking official, it says that anything that happens to the scion, any threat made to the scion, is the same as if it was done to the high-ranking patron. My office is identifying you to every citizen as a scion of Black Jack and a scion of both General Drakon and myself.”

Iceni gave Bradamont a wry look. “There has probably never been a scion with that amount of firepower in her corner. Congratulations.”

“Thank you, but that wasn't necessary—”

“Yes, it was,” Drakon said. “Everyone had to know that any attempt to harm you or mistreat you would be regarded in the exact same way as a personal attack on myself or President Iceni. That won't keep you safe from anyone gunning for either of us, but it will stave off attempts by anyone tempted to settles scores from the
war.”

“It will also,” Iceni added, “ensure that you are treated appropriately to your rank. Anyone who insults you will know they are insulting us as well.” She brought out a comm unit and passed it to Bradamont. “This is yours. It is loaded with personal contact numbers for myself, General Drakon, and some of our high-ranking assistants. If you use this unit to call any of the official numbers it will automatically encrypt the conversation. That does not mean no one can intercept the signal or decipher what is being said. Never say anything confidential on this unit or in public. Save such conversations for face-to-face talks in secure environments.”

“We've set up quarters for you at my command complex,” Drakon said. “There's a suite there for visiting VIPs. It's a lot more than an officer of your rank would normally get, but then you're also sort of an ambassador. Having you inside the command complex perimeter will make security a lot easier.”

Bradamont just nodded this time, looking at the military and civilian guards around them. Her thoughts couldn't be read from her expression, but Drakon found himself wondering if this level of guards and security would have been found around comparable Alliance leaders.
Probably. The Syndicate didn't have an exclusive monopoly on crazies. But for someone much lower on the ladder like Bradamont, this amount of personal security must feel weird.

They reached the access to the VIP dock, shedding most of the guards and all of the onlookers as they left the public areas. “Tell me,” Iceni said to Bradamont, “your impression of Kommodor Marphissa.”