Jack Campbell - Imperfect Sword

“Or the enigmas,” Drakon said. “I understand, Kommodor. Please inform Kapitan Mercia that the ground forces are extremely grateful for the support of her ship. Of course we’re also extremely grateful for the support your other units gave us. It’s no exaggeration to say that we probably would have been overwhelmed without that bombardment you tossed off at just the right time.”

Marphissa smiled. “We were happy to provide that support, General. I’m just glad that President Iceni shared that code phrase with you. If you hadn’t tacked that onto the end of the text message asking for assistance, I wouldn’t have known whom to target with the bombardment.”

“That code phrase.” Drakon looked at her, his expression suddenly guarded. “The one from President Iceni.”

“Yes,” Marphissa said, wondering at Drakon’s reaction.

“I’m glad the code phrase made a difference,” Drakon said.

Uncertain what was going on, she changed the topic. “Do you have an updated estimate when we can begin loading your ground forces onto our new troop transports?”

“They’re not exactly new, Kommodor,” Drakon said, appearing relaxed again. “More like previously owned. Not that I’m not happy to have them.”

“Considering that four of the freighters that brought you here were destroyed and six others kept running until they jumped for another star system, you ought to be extremely happy,” Marphissa said. “I’m not sure how we would have gotten your people home without the transports. We can load as many people on six troop transports as it took all twenty modified freighters to carry.”

“How confident are you about the crews of those transports?”

“We took off some from each transport and replaced them with some of ours. There are no grounds for worries there, General. So, that estimate?” Marphissa pressed, wondering why Drakon had avoided answering the question.

He made a face, then looked straight at her. “We promised to take any of the surrendered ground forces who wanted that back to a star system where they could find rides to Syndicate space.”

Oh. So that was it. “How many?” Marphissa asked.

“Four hundred sixty two. A lot less than expected, actually.”

“One transport can handle that.” Marphissa pondered the problem. “I am reluctant to send any ships on to Kiribati. That is entirely too likely to have some sort of ambush waiting in case some of us had tried to flee that way to escape the Syndicate flotilla. But if we bring that batch of Syndicate loyalists with us back to Midway, we can have the transport carrying them continue on to Iwa. From Iwa, they can find rides into Syndicate space. Not easily, but they can do it, which satisfies your promise to them without risking our ships in a trip to other Syndicate-controlled stars that we know less about than Iwa and that are farther away. I have no desire to stick my ships into a hornet’s nest in Syndicate space, General.”

“Iwa.” Drakon thought about it, rubbing his chin, then nodded. “That’s reasonable. We can start loading those guys as soon as you’re ready.”

“We acquired some extra shuttles along with the transports,” Marphissa pointed out.

“Major Barnes has already informed me of that and of her intentions to requisition a few of those shuttles to replace losses during our assault here. I’ll get the load plan finalized and start sending the loyalists up. Which transport?”

Marphissa frowned at her display. “HTTU 458.”

“Transport 458,” Drakon repeated. “Are you planning on giving the transports names, too?”

“That will be up to President Iceni, General.”

“I do have some input, you know,” Drakon said, a bit of an edge entering his voice again.

“Of course, General,” Marphissa said. She wasn’t about to get into the middle of a debate between Drakon and President Iceni. Especially when she was certain that Drakon was just the most senior of Iceni’s subordinates and not her equal, despite what courtesies the president had offered to him. Not that she had any problem with the general. Not after the way he had handled the crises that had erupted at Ulindi in space and on the ground. But that didn’t make him President Iceni’s other half, no matter what rumors said about their private relationship.

Nine days later, Drakon stood on the bridge of HTTU 322, watching as the entire flotilla left orbit about Ulindi’s inhabited world and accelerated toward the jump point for Midway. He felt a trace of guilt as he watched the planet receding behind them. Ulindi had the beginnings of ground forces in a unit cobbled together from reliable men and women who had once been part of Haris’s brigade or of the Syndicate division. It had no warships, though, and no government. The Syndicate was gone, Supreme CEO Haris and his snakes were gone, but what was to replace them was still up in the air, with vigorous debates under way on almost every street corner about how Ulindi should be run. Drakon felt his job was half-done.

But the brutality of the snakes in the last weeks of Haris’s rule and the mass deaths they had inflicted had served to cool the hottest tempers. There had been no sign in the street debates that the various groups were interested in taking up arms. Enough seemed to be the motto of Ulindi these days, and perhaps that was not a bad basis for forming a government.

Drakon kept his eyes on the planet, wishing that he or Malin had been able to locate any trace of Morgan. They had turned up plenty of reports of what she had been up to on the planet, along with a casualty list she had caused that would have been impressive for anyone less deadly than Morgan. As it was, Drakon had marveled at her restraint.

And wondered if she had indeed died in the snake alternate command center. It would take a lot more excavating and DNA sampling before the answer to that would be known, and he simply could not remain in Ulindi for that long.

Nor was Morgan the only soldier that he had lost at Ulindi. The new recruits from what had been the Syndicate division had more than filled out the losses, but there was a difference between adding personnel and replacing the individuals who were gone.

They were bringing Conner Gaiene’s remains back with them, but Conner’s mischievous grin would not be seen again.

The flotilla looked a lot bigger now, having gained eight troop transports. The Kommodor had described the troop transports as looking like whales to her, which was a fair description of their general size and shape. As Drakon watched the depiction of the flotilla on this ship’s display, the escorting warships resembled very large sharks and other predators swimming all around the whalelike transports.

The commanding officer of HTTU 322, a harried-appearing man named Mack, gave Drakon an appraising look. “How are your accommodations, honored—I mean, uh, General?”

“Comfortable,” Drakon replied. Transport executives were notorious for looking down on the ground forces they hauled from star to star, but once Drakon had reached sub-CEO, then CEO status, he had seen dramatic improvements in the way he was treated. These transport crews, who had only recently thrown off the Syndicate yoke, were still following those old patterns, and to them, Drakon was a CEO in all but name.

Mack leaned back in his seat, looking around the transport’s bridge, which was small for the size of the ship. “It feels different without them around. The snakes. The unit, every unit I served on, always felt like a prison, and they were the guards.” He glanced at Drakon as if trying to judge his reaction to the words. “I’ve got family still in Syndicate space, but when your mobile forces came swooping in, I knew it was act or die, and dead I couldn’t help my family.”