Jack Campbell - Perilous Shield

An officer just behind Timbale stepped up next to him and offered a data pad. Timbale took the pad, looked over the screen, then offered it in turn to Rogero.

Rogero read the screen carefully even though it appeared to contain the same wording as the agreement previously sent to him. He touched the record tab, activating the pad. “I, Colonel Donal Hideki Rogero, as an authorized and appointed representative of Gwen Iceni, President of the Midway Star System, accept full custody of the former prisoners from Syndicate Worlds’ military forces held by the government of the Alliance in the Varandal Star System, and agree to abide by the terms of the agreement set forth here.”

Timbale took back the data pad, passing it to his aide, who stepped back again, then looked Rogero over once more. “A hundred years of hate,” Timbale said in a low voice, “is not easily overcome.”

“Yet we must,” Rogero said, “so that the next generation has a chance to live without that hate.”

“True enough, but if you still wore a Syndic uniform, I’d be hard-pressed to believe you meant it.” Timbale nodded toward the crowd. “They’ve been told that Admiral Geary supports your government, so they’re willing to listen. Tell your leaders not to blow that chance. The people of the Alliance may not listen a second time if they get betrayed again.”

“I understand.” Rogero saluted once more. “For the people.” Remembering Bradamont’s comments, he made the words sound as if they really did mean something, which drew a skeptical look from Timbale.

“To the honor of our ancestors,” Timbale replied, returning the salute again. “Perhaps—” he began.

A bustle of noise and activity drew their attention. Rogero saw a large number of Alliance soldiers in uniforms he recognized. Elite commandos. They were coming this way as fast as they could push through the crowds.

Timbale spun to face the Marine officer. “Get him back to his shuttle. Now. Make sure he gets aboard and the boarding hatch is sealed. Block anyone from reaching him.”

The Marine hastily saluted, then he and the other Marines began quickly herding Rogero back to the dock entry. Rogero felt a curious reluctance to retreat like this. Part of him wanted to turn and face those commandos. Face them down, fight them, as he had more than once.

But that would be foolish, and senseless. He couldn’t win. It would imperil his mission.

And if he were captured by those commandos, he did not doubt that Honore would live up to her promise to come after him, no matter the cost to her. That decided him.

The Marines formed a solid wall in the passageway behind Rogero as he reached the dock. Their armor alone made a formidable barrier, in addition to which most of the Marines were facing outward, weapons held at a port arms position in a nonthreatening but obvious way. He could hear Admiral Timbale ordering the commandos to stop, orders that were being repeated, which meant they likely were not being obeyed. There was no telling how much time he had, or what the Alliance Marines would do when the commandos reached them. But Rogero still paused long enough to look into the eyes of the Alliance Marine officer, one professional to another, one veteran to another. “Thank you.”

The Marine looked back, his face expressionless but his eyes both hostile and puzzled. Then the hostility cleared a small amount, and the Marine nodded to acknowledge the words.

No more than that, but it was something.

Rogero walked quickly up the ramp and onto the shuttle, hearing the hatches sealing behind him.

“Strap down fast!” the pilot called over the intercom. “I’ve got direct orders from the admiral to blast out of here!”

He had barely gotten into a seat before acceleration pressed Rogero back hard enough to drive the breath from him. He managed to get the straps fastened as the shuttle swung wildly from side to side and up and down as if following a roller-coaster track through space. Pilots. They’re all crazy. This one is probably enjoying tearing out from the station and whipping through all of the traffic around us even though we’re probably avoiding swift death by only centimeters at times.

Bradamont had been right. The ground forces here had attempted to intervene, had doubtless aimed to detain him. Perhaps the intelligence service of the Alliance had prompted that, recognizing Rogero with certainty when he had recited his full name for the turnover ceremony. But Bradamont had also been right that Timbale was to be trusted.

I was protected by Alliance Marines, Rogero realized. They defended me. No one will believe it.

I’m not sure I believe it myself, and I was there.

Rogero looked toward the display positioned near his seat, wondering if he was allowed to touch it. All it showed now was an outside view, stars and other bright objects glittering against the black of space, the dots of light blurring into streaks as the shuttle spun onto new vectors. The shuttle rolled again, and the small disc of a not-too-distant planet spun across the display, bottom to top before vanishing again.

“There’s a lot of shuttles out,” the pilot suddenly said, startling Rogero. “From the markers on them, they’re loaded with personnel. Must be your guys.”

Once again, Admiral Timbale is true to his word. He did order the movement of the prisoners begun while I was still on the way to the station to see him.

What exactly happened on the station? Why would Alliance military personnel refuse to obey the orders of a senior officer, even if he was of the fleet and they of the ground forces? No Syndicate worker would have defied orders from a CEO because the CEO was not their assigned supervisor.

But if a snake CEO had ordered an action, other CEOs would have had a hard time stopping it.

There’s a stench of political maneuvering here. I didn’t expect it in the Alliance. Despite what Honore has told me, I thought they would be fanatically pure in their dedication to only military issues. Not like us, riddled with politics. Most of the Syndicate, or now former Syndicate, officials that I know felt like that. Strange that we should have believed our foes to be superior to us in such a way. I feel strangely disappointed. If we had to lose, why couldn’t the enemy who beat us have been superhuman?

“Thank you,” he said to the pilot. “How long until we reach my ship?”

No response came, the pilot perhaps already regretting volunteering information. Or perhaps the pilot had suddenly remembered who his passenger was.

Any thrill that came from the wild ride had long since subsided by the time the shuttle began braking hard. Fortunately, the rough-and-tumble shuttle trip had also eased off as they got farther from Ambaru. Rogero gripped the armrests tightly as the braking maneuver went on and on, then abruptly ceased. A few moments later, a gentle bump announced their arrival at the air lock of the freighter. A fast approach, one long burn, and a gentle arrival with no last-minute thrust adjustments. The pilot was showing off, even under these conditions. Rogero grinned, heady with relief. “Well done!” he called to the pilot. “You’re good.”

As he headed for the air lock, the pilot offered a single word in reply. “Thanks.”

Rogero had no sooner left the lock and stepped onto the freighter than he felt the shuttle disconnect.

Lieutenant Foster, the commander of the platoon of Rogero’s soldiers aboard this freighter, was standing by with several of his troops. “We were told the first load of prisoners would be here within minutes, sir,” he explained.

“Get them in and moved away from the air lock,” Rogero ordered, trying to adjust emotionally to the rapid transition from being surrounded by the Alliance to now being back among his own soldiers. “Fast, clean, no holdups. Any questions?”