Jack Campbell - Perilous Shield

“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.”