Jack Campbell: Imperfect Sword

“Just in the specifics.” Rogero frowned outward toward the rest of the city as he thought. “They fall into three broad categories. One set argues that you and President Iceni are only doing what you are in order to stay in control of this star system, that you remain Syndicate CEOs in all but name. That one isn’t gaining much traction since our men and women know you by your actions and know that President Iceni has banned labor camps. The second set of rumors is that you and the president intend betraying this star system and the people in it by using it as a base to establish your own Syndicate successor empire. I’ll be frank in saying that the soldiers are worrying about that more than I’m comfortable with. And the third set of rumors are variations on claims that President Iceni is planning on assassinating you and wiping out your ground forces to ensure her own place as ruler of this star system.”

Drakon laughed sharply. “How is Iceni supposed to accomplish that? With planetary militia?”

“No, sir. That’s one of the devious things about that set of rumors. It claims that some of our own ground forces, whole units or just officers, will betray the rest and help Iceni.” Rogero twisted his lips in a crooked grin. “So the rumors foster distrust of President Iceni and of their fellow soldiers.”

“Clever,” Drakon admitted. “I don’t believe for a moment that President Iceni is plotting that, but it’s a well-crafted set of rumors to generate fear and suspicion.”

Rogero inhaled deeply, blew out again, then fixed a keen look on Drakon. “You are certain the president will not try to kill you? There have been some attempts on you and on me.”

“I know.” It was Drakon’s turn to smile without humor. “But if President Iceni were really the one plotting to kill me, we wouldn’t hear any rumors of it. I’d just be dead whenever she gave the order. She’s that good. Besides, I know I can trust you and that you’d spot any real plotting by some of the soldiers in your brigade.”

“Thank you, General,” Rogero said. “You know you can trust Colonel Gaiene as well. He may not keep track of affairs inside his brigade as closely as he should, but his executive officer is making up for that.”

“And Colonel Kai has always been loyal,” Drakon noted.

Rogero grinned hugely. “You can count on Kai, sir. For him to betray you would require Kai to act quickly and recklessly. When has Kai ever been quick or reckless?”

This time Drakon laughed. “He’s like a rock, for better and for worse. No one’s going to move him. Try to counter the rumors, keep me informed of them, and see if your senior specialists can trace the rumors to any sources. I would really like to speak to whoever is introducing those rumors into the ranks.”

“Yes, sir. So would I.”

“And, Donal, if anyone can handle that Syndicate attack force on the way, it’s Captain Bradamont and that Kommodor.”

It was easy to tell that Rogero forced his answering smile. “Yes, sir. If anyone can.”

This time, the alert resounding through Manticore ’s bridge did not warn of anything as easy to handle as a courier ship.

“One battleship,” the senior watch specialist announced. “Three heavy cruisers. Five light cruisers. Ten Hunter-Killers. All are broadcasting Syndicate identification. They are arranged in Standard Box Formation One.”

Kommodor Marphissa nodded, keeping her eyes on her display. Standard Box Formation One was as frequently used by Syndicate mobile forces as its name implied. The battleship occupied the center of a box formed by the smaller units with it, the three heavy cruisers holding three of the front corners along with one light cruiser at the fourth, while the other light cruisers held the back four corners and the small, expendable Hunter-Killers were evenly arrayed in the region between the cruisers and the battleship. “Is it the same battleship that was here last time?”

“Yes, Kommodor,” the watch specialist said. “It is broadcasting BB-57E unit identification code, the same unit as was in the last Syndicate flotilla.”

Kapitan Diaz turned a disapproving eye on the specialist. “Just because it is broadcasting that code does not mean it is the real code for that ship. See if you can spot the hull features that will confirm the battleship’s identity.”

“Yes, Kapitan,” the specialist said, looking worried at his mistake. Things had changed on these warships since the revolt against the Syndicate, but no one could forget the experiences they had under the old system. Not answering a supervisor’s question accurately, even for the best of reasons, often produced tongue-lashings or worse punishment.

But, having been on the receiving end of plenty of those tongue-lashings herself, Marphissa had vowed to reserve them for real, serious screwups. All she did was grimace, wondering what tricks the Syndicate flotilla might have up its sleeve. “At least the information from CEO Boyens was mostly correct. Let us see who is in command of this flotilla.”

Kapitan Diaz glanced over at her. “Do you want me to—”

“No maneuvers, yet, Kapitan. They’re ten light-minutes away. I want to watch what they do before I decide what we should do.”

Captain Honore Bradamont came onto the bridge, moving fast. “It’s them?”

The spectacle of an Alliance officer on the bridge of a former Syndicate warship was strange enough. Even stranger was that the specialists and officers on the bridge greeted her arrival with relieved smiles. Bradamont might be an officer of the hated Alliance, but she was also one of Black Jack’s officers, and one who had played a critical role in ensuring the success of some recent operations by Marphissa’s warships. To the crew of Manticore , she was no longer an enemy officer but one of theirs.

“It’s them,” Marphissa confirmed, turning a brief smile of her own on Bradamont. “They’ve got a battleship, all right.”

“Damn.” Bradamont came up next to her seat and squinted at Marphissa’s display. “Where’s Pele ?”

“Still twenty light-minutes away.” The battle cruiser had been charging toward the hypernet gate for the last several hours, accompanied by the heavy cruisers Basilisk and Gryphon . Far behind them, lumbering along its orbit as it had for countless years, was the gas giant planet near which Midway’s main ship-repair facility hung in space, looking oddly forlorn now that Pele , the heavy cruisers, and the battleship Midway had left it.

Unlike the battle cruiser, though, Midway was slowly heading away from the other warships. Her projected path formed a huge arc through space, finally merging with the orbit of the main inhabited world where most of the humans in this star system lived and worked. At the sluggish rate she was accelerating, it would take Midway a week to cover the distance to that world.

Bradamont bent close to Marphissa’s ear. “Is Pele really that ready for battle? Her shields and weaponry look in great shape.”

“Kontos wouldn’t fake the readiness of that ship,” Marphissa said. “Not to us. I’ve known many an executive and CEO who would, to curry temporary favor, but not Kontos. He’s too honest.” She smiled again, bitterly this time. “He wouldn’t have lasted another year under the Syndicate. Speaking truth to CEOs is a deadly habit.”

“He’s not being too honest about the status of Midway ,” Bradamont noted, nodding toward the depiction of the battleship on Marphissa’s display. “It looks like the ship has suffered a recent major propulsion casualty rather than having full capability as it really does.”

“That’s some impressive camouflage, isn’t it?” Marphissa said. “It looks just like more than half of the main propulsion units blew up. But that’s misleading the enemy, not his own superiors. I’m perfectly fine with that. If Midway looks like a bird with a broken wing, the Syndicate flotilla should leave her alone and plan to nail her after they’ve gained control of the star system.”