Jack Campbell - Perilous Shield

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.