The Lost Stars (22 page)

Rogero followed, mystified, as Drakon led the way through the complex. “How's your unit doing?”

“They're fine, General. Morale is good.”

“Excellent. I need to talk to you later about your impressions of the troops and their attitudes toward the citizens.” Drakon stopped before the closed door of a small automated snack bar for use by headquarters personnel. “But that can wait a few hours. Here we
are.”

“General?”

Drakon glanced at Rogero. “Your new, extra responsibility is inside. It's something that only you can deal with, Colonel.”

“In . . . a snack
bar?”

“Take your time. When you're done in there, report to VIP Quarters One. Understand?”

“VIP
?”

“Just do as you're told, Colonel.” Drakon partially opened the door, took Rogero by one arm, and urged him through the
gap.

Mystified, and a bit worried again, Rogero started to turn back as he heard the door click shut behind him. Instead, he spun to face the inside of the room as someone stood up from one of the tables.

For one of the few times in his life, Donal Rogero could only stare, unable to think or talk.

“I bought you a drink,” Captain Bradamont said, offering a bottle. “I didn't have any of the local currency, so your General lent me some.”

The Alliance dress uniform she wore was clean and neat, not like the torn and burn-marked battle uniform that Bradamont had worn on the prisoner transport ship and in the labor camp. A command pin had been added to the decorations she wore, along with some new campaign and battle ribbons. But she herself had not changed at all. “Honore?” Rogero finally said as his brain gradually began working again. “Is this real?”

She walked up to him, offering the bottle once more. “It's real. I told you that I'd buy you a drink someday. Your General said this is a popular drink here.”

“He was joking,” Rogero said, feeling dizzy. “The troops call it
croak
because of the taste. We use it to clean brass.”

“Oh, sorry.” She paused, looking at him. “You said you'd buy dinner.”

“Yes. I did.” Rogero shook his head. “I . . . I don't understand.”

“I've been detached from the Alliance fleet with orders to serve as liaison officer to the Midway Star System.”

“It's . . . not possible. General Drakon knows. He knows about
us.”

“Yes. So does Admiral Geary.”

“Then . . .
why?”

“Because they know us,” Bradamont said. “They know that we held to honor despite everything and that we never failed in our duties. We never betrayed them, we never betrayed our worlds, and we never betrayed each other. Maybe that qualifies us to show our respective peoples how to work together. There were some other reasons why I ended up being asked to volunteer for this assignment, but we can discuss those another time.”

Enough neurons finally started firing in Rogero's brain for him to think. “General Drakon set this up? How did he know that the last thing you said to me was that you would buy me a drink someday?”

“I told him.” She smiled. “He seems like a hard boss, but a good
one.”

“He's a very good boss. He's . . . he's . . . Dammit, Honore, may I hold you? May I kiss
you?”

“Why the hell are you asking instead of doing it, Donal? But be careful not to muss the uniform.”

DRAKON
waited until an escort arrived to get Bradamont safely to her quarters, telling them to wait until Colonel Rogero opened the door. As he walked away, he saw Morgan standing at the end of the hallway, her eyes locked on the door to the snack
bar.

“Is what I heard true?” she demanded.

Instead of replying, Drakon bent a stern look her way. “Is that the proper tone of voice to use with
me?”

She made an obvious effort to control herself. “Pardon me, sir. Is it true that an Alliance fleet officer is in that room and
not
under arrest?”

“We're not at war with them anymore, Colonel Morgan. In fact, they're acting a lot like allies.”

“Sir—”

“Yes. An Alliance fleet captain is in that room. She is an official representative to President Iceni and me, and she is under the personal protection of President Iceni and me. She is my scion. Understand? Nothing is to happen to her, and she is to be treated with the respect appropriate to her rank.”

“Your . . .
scion
.” Morgan stared at him, her eyes wide and alight with fury. “An Alliance officer. They killed—”

“We all killed, Colonel Morgan. The war has ended. We have plenty of enemies in common. We start over now. Even if that weren't true, we need the backing from Black Jack that woman gives us. She might be the one thing that buys us enough time to get our forces strong enough to stand on our
own.”

The way she regained full control almost instantaneously was startling and more than a little alarming. The fire in Morgan's eyes died, replaced by a cold shield that revealed neither thoughts nor feeling. Her expression smoothed out into a similarly shielded exterior. “Yes, General. I understand.” Even her voice was now perfectly professional and properly respectful.

“Colonel Morgan . . . Roh . . . we need to do things differently. For a long time, the past, the present, and the future were all the same. The same war then, the same war now, the same war to come. That pattern has finally been broken. The future can be different than the past. The future can be better than the past.”

Emotion came back. Morgan nodded, smiling in total agreement. “Yes, sir. The future will be better.
We
will build our strength, and we will make a better future.”

“You understand that declaring Captain Bradamont to be a scion of myself and President Iceni is to ensure her safety?”

Morgan smiled and nodded. “It doesn't mean she's really your heir in any
way.”

“That's right. Come along with me. I want to talk about finding the snakes still hiding on this planet or elsewhere in this star system.”

“I've been digging. Got a few leads,” Morgan said as she walked beside him. They went out the front of the headquarters complex into the open area before it, guards automatically falling into place around Drakon. He glanced at the turf covering much of the plaza facing his headquarters, his mind as usual briefly recalling how much effort the Syndicate had insisted go into keeping that grass perfect, including the use of the most sophisticated genetic manipulation to create grass of just the “right” shade of green and just the right thickness of each blade of grass. He had looked at the official specifications for grass once, marveling at how much effort could be invested in something so relatively unimportant, especially given the Syndicate bureaucracy's tendency to blow off issues regarding the safety of the soldiers who were prohibited from walking on the grass except during official functions.

Behind them, the front of the headquarters complex did not look like the fortress that it was, the armor and defenses hidden behind false windows, façades, and other decoration. In one of its odder decisions, the Syndicate bureaucracy had mandated no fences or other barriers or defenses on the other three sides of the parade plaza, declaring that ground forces headquarters must appear open and accessible to the citizens. Or perhaps the decision hadn't been so odd since it had meant the snakes inside their Internal Security Service facilities had been better protected behind their defensive walls than the soldiers of the ground forces.

“We should fix some of this,” Drakon commented to Morgan. “Now that we can. Get some unobtrusive defenses set up along the outer perimeter of the parade area. No citizens are allowed on it anyway.” He scanned the other three sides of the plaza, where low, multiuse buildings of various designs sat across from an access road that formally separated the headquarters area from the rest of the city. A lot of the citizens were in sight, going about their business and, out of long habit, avoiding even glancing toward the headquarters. The snakes had liked to haul in anyone suspected of “surveillance,” even if the evidence for that had consisted only of a single fleeting look toward a government building.

“Now you're talking,” Morgan agreed, and began describing a set of defenses that would have withstood a full-scale attack by an entire army.

“Maybe a little less than that,” Drakon suggested dryly, glad that he had gotten Morgan's mind off the Alliance officer. “Have you found any leads yet
on—”

Drakon would never know just what had tipped off one of his bodyguards. The woman had begun to shout a warning, her weapon out and coming up to aim, when alarms tied to automated sensors watching the area blared to life, followed a second later by shots erupting from three sides.

ICENI,
head lowered in thought, bolted to attention as an urgent signal echoed in her office. “What is
it?”

The staff official looking at her through the virtual window that had popped up beside her desk spoke rapidly. “We have reports of weapons being fired near General Drakon's headquarters. Automated collection systems show an ongoing firefight.”

“A
firefight
?” Iceni demanded. “Not just a few shots?”

“There are scores of shots already recorded, Madam President. I have dispatched emergency tactical teams from the nearest police stations and notified the nearest hospitals to send assistance.”

“Good.” She was taking deep breaths, trying to control her heartbeat, which had begun racing.

“Hundreds of messages, alerts, and bulletins in news channels and other media about the fighting are being held up by the censoring software.”

“Keep doing that until we find out what's going on,” Iceni ordered.

The officer looked to one side, his expression going from concerned to horrified. “Dozens of unconfirmed media reports saying that General Drakon is dead are coming in and being blocked from further transmission, Madam President.”

Dead? No. Impossible. Not him.
She inhaled slowly again. “Hold those as well. I want to know everything as fast as we learn
it.”

“But if General Drakon
is—”

“He's not dead!”

The officer stared, then nodded. “I understand, Madam President. I will send a constant data feed to your desk.”

“Get it going,” Iceni said, her voice under control again. As the officer's image vanished, her hand went to her comm unit, then hesitated.
If he's alive, and people are shooting at him, he doesn't need distractions.

Where the hell is Togo?

THE
female bodyguard died before she could get off a shot, as did two other guards, but her warning had given Drakon the extra instant he needed to dive for cover and avoid subsequent shots aimed at him. Not that there was much cover in this open area, by order of the Syndicate bureaucracy.

Drakon sprawled behind the body of one of his guards, his weapon in his hand, trying to spot some of the locations where the shots were coming from as solid projectiles and energy bursts tore holes in the very-carefully-maintained turf near him. Even under these circumstances, a small part of his mind couldn't help recalling certain bosses he had suffered under who would have been far more upset about the damage to the grass than the deaths of the bodyguards.

Two meters away, Morgan, her face a mask of rage, was lying near another dead guard, her weapon out, one hand supporting her weapon hand as she fired with steady, careful accuracy. Other defensive fire was going out, the surviving bodyguards and the sentries at the entrance to the headquarters hurling shots at the places among the low buildings surrounding the plaza from which the attackers were firing.

Spotting the location of one attacker, Drakon aimed and squeezed off three carefully spaced shots.
It's been about fifteen seconds since they opened fire,
another part of his mind calculated with cold precision.
The reaction security force inside headquarters will be out here within another forty-five seconds.

The attackers had ceased aiming at the guards and now were concentrating their fire on Drakon. He wondered if forty-five seconds would be too long. Bad enough to be the target of so many attackers when in battle armor, but right now all he had were the defenses in his uniform, which while sufficient for some protection would not stop the sort of barrage that was directed at
him.

Morgan glanced back at him, sizing up his situation and his peril in an instant, her eyes dark and wide.

She bolted to her feet, instantly becoming the most prominent target on the plaza.

“Morgan!” Drakon shouted, firing rapidly at a couple of spots from which shots were coming. “Get down!”

She ignored his command, not just charging furiously ahead but also screaming defiance and firing as she ran to generate the maximum amount of attention. Morgan could move like a ghost when she wanted to. Right now, she was doing all that she could to attract the fire of the attackers to her, and away from Drakon. Morgan was dodging as she moved to make shots aimed at her more difficult, but was still hideously exposed. In full battle armor, such a maneuver would be very risky. With Morgan wearing no armor at all, her charge was insane.

Unable to stop her, Drakon took advantage of the distraction Morgan had provided to rise to one knee and aim, ignoring the shots still aimed at him that tore into the turf or zipped past his head. His next shot caused a figure to fall. He shifted targets, firing several more times.

Soldiers were spilling out of the headquarters entrance and secondary exits, menacing in armor, carrying combat weapons, and searching for targets.

The remaining fire aimed at Drakon dropped off so rapidly that he knew the attackers must be bolting for safety.

Morgan had reached her objective, miraculously not having been hit. She leaped over a railing, one hand staying locked on the top rail to help her pivot in midair and come down on those sheltered behind the ankle-high wall topped by the open fence. Drakon saw her weapon firing and Morgan's free hand rising to strike down viciously.

“General!” The captain in charge of the response force and a dozen of his soldiers raced into place around Drakon, forming an armored perimeter.

Drakon pointed, speaking coolly and clearly. “Shots came from there, there, there, and there. Colonel Morgan has taken out whoever fired from that location.”

“We've got troops in full pursuit,
sir.”

Drakon heard the sirens from headquarters cut off but heard other sirens approaching. “There will be police responding to this gunfire. Make sure our troops don't engage them by accident.”

“Yes,
sir!”

Drakon looked around, realizing that firing had completely ceased. The soldiers forming an armored wall about him moved outward as they were reinforced, leaving him standing in a small, circular, open area where the grass smoked in dozens of places that marked the impacts of shots.

Two of the soldiers moved slightly, opening a temporary gap between them. Morgan came strolling through that gap. She was dragging a limp body with her by one leg, the body's torso and head thumping along over the ground. Reaching Drakon, Morgan dropped the leg and stood by her trophy, grinning wolfishly.

“Roh,” Drakon said, “if you ever—”

“You're all right, General?” Morgan interrupted, her chest still heaving from exertion, her eyes alight with something more feral than adrenaline-fueled energy.

“I'm fine. That was insane.”

She grinned wider. “I got a medical waiver saying I'm good enough for government work, General. I had to draw their fire.”

“No, you didn't,” Drakon snapped.

“Yes, sir, I did,” Morgan said with an intensity that surprised him. “Nobody's going to kill you if I can stop it. And I got us a prisoner.”

“How many did you see?” Drakon asked, deciding not to further berate Morgan in public, not that his words seemed to be having any impact on her. He also knew that she was very likely right. If she hadn't drawn some of the fire aimed at him, he wouldn't have made it until the soldiers had arrived.

“Two,” Morgan said nonchalantly. “The other one at that spot is dead.”

Shaking his head, Drakon knelt to examine the man. “He's not military.”

“Nah. Civilian. He had a suicide belt on, but I left that with his buddy. I can't wait to see what this guy says under interrogation.”

“Me, too.” Drakon jerked back as the limp body suddenly jolted, then went slack in a different manner than before. In the near distance, two explosions resounded at nearly the same moment, the crashes so close together that they nearly merged into one blast that echoed from nearby walls.

Morgan scowled. “Someone set off those suicide belts.” She knelt as well, peeling back one eyelid on her former prisoner. “Looks like brain-bake nanos. The same someone who triggered the belts figured out we had this guy and activated a backup method of keeping him quiet.”

“Damn. We've still got two bodies.”

“One body, boss,” Morgan pointed out. “And parts of another.”

“All right. There should be enough parts left for some identification. Let's find out who they both are, so the police can go talk to their friends before the friends can go underground.” He stood up, grimacing at the sight of the dead bodyguards. “Somebody besides those two you took care of is going to pay a price for this.”

“Say the word and name the target,” Morgan said, her grin fully exposing her canines.

His comm unit buzzed in a particular pattern. Drakon pulled it out. “Here.”

“Artur?” Iceni sounded very worried. Most of him felt good about that, but part of him couldn't help wondering if it was because a plan of hers might have misfired. “Are you hurt?”

“I'm fine, but I lost three guards.”

“What happened? All I heard was a firefight. Someone tried to flood the media with reports you were dead.”

“Did they?” Drakon asked. “Can you trace those back to their source?”

“We're trying. Did you get any of them?”

“Two, at least. One was alive, but he had remote-suicide nanos in him. Somebody is definitely playing for keeps.”

A pause, then Iceni spoke again. “Is there anything you need from
me?”

“Just make sure the police and my troops don't knock heads. I have a feeling the attackers who took off have already vanished into the woodwork.”

“I'll do that. Take care of yourself.”

Drakon put away his comm unit, noticing that Morgan was looking down at the dead attacker with an inquiring gaze. “See something?” he asked.

“Who really wants you out of the way?” Morgan answered him with a question of her
own.

“Besides whatever snakes remain in this star system? You tell
me.”

“Madam President.” Morgan nodded toward the dead man. “Who has access to that kind of nano? And those kind of weapons?”

“The snakes,” Drakon said patiently.

“They're not the only ones.” She used her toe to push back one sleeve and expose the man's forearm. “See that?”

It was impossible to miss. “A labor-camp mark.”

“How many citizens who spent time in a labor camp are going to have anything to do with snakes?”

He didn't have any answer to that.

COLONEL
Malin had been extremely upset when he returned to headquarters, making up for his absence when Drakon was attacked with a whirlwind of activity. “The police have hauled in every known associate of the two dead men,” he told Drakon. They were in a secure conference room, along with Morgan.

Malin brought up an image on the display, showing every shot fired during the engagement. “From an analysis of the firing patterns, they initially aimed for your guards, General, then, after the first volley, shifted their attack to you and Colonel Morgan. That split in their targeting is what kept you from being hit, sir. For the first several seconds, only half the available weapons were firing at
you.”

Drakon glared at the image, then at Malin. “Colonel Morgan drew their fire deliberately.”

“Yes, sir,” Malin agreed, while Morgan smirked at him. “But there were a lot of shots being aimed at her before she did that, almost as many as were fired at
you.”

The implications of that were pretty obvious. “Colonel Morgan was a primary target, too?
Why?”

“I believe, sir, that the attackers targeted her in error.”

Morgan, leaning back in her seat with one foot on the table, her leg extended in a way guaranteed to draw the eye, grinned. “You're just jealous.”

“Not at all,” Malin said. “I'm certain they thought you were someone else.”

“Who else could she have been?” Drakon demanded.

“It was widely known that you met the new Alliance liaison officer on the main orbiting facility, and that she left in company with you and President Iceni. President Iceni's shuttle landed, and she was seen leaving it alone. Your shuttle landed in a secure area, but one visible to long-distance snooping that would have identified a woman leaving the shuttle with
you.”

“They thought I was walking Captain Bradamont around? Morgan doesn't look anything like Bradamont.”

Malin gestured toward Morgan. “A wig, a uniform change, some other cosmetics, and their physical builds are close enough that an observer could conclude that the Alliance officer was the one accompanying
you.”

“They thought I was that Alliance bitch?” Morgan asked. “Now I'm insulted.”

“Colonel Morgan . . .” Drakon began.

“Pardon me, sir,” Morgan replied. “I will endeavor to avoid using such language about our new friend and ally in the future.”

“We have IDs on the individuals Colonel Morgan took out,” Malin continued, bending his head briefly in Morgan's direction. “They both belong to an extreme group called The People's Word, which wants immediate, full democracy.”

Drakon scowled at that. “They want to elect all their leaders
now?”

“No, sir. They don't want any leaders. They want all decisions to be made by direct vote.”

Morgan's laughter echoed scornfully from the walls. “Oh, yeah, that'll work.”

“For once, I agree with Colonel Morgan,” Malin said. “However, the attackers' affiliation with The People's Word raises a big question. Their philosophy could explain their attack on you, General. It does not explain why they would target an Alliance officer.”

“They'd want that Alliance presence here, wouldn't they?” Drakon asked, rubbing his chin.

“At the very least, they would regard her as sympathetic to their own agenda,” Malin agreed.