Jack Campbell - Perilous Shield

“No, sir.”

More than five thousand to pack onto six freighters. They would be stacked in the passageways as well as the Spartan living quarters, and there wasn’t time to do an elegant job of the stacking.

The air lock opened again. Men and women began coming onto the deck of the freighter, all of them wearing faded Syndicate uniforms that bore the marks of amateur repairs of rips and tears as well as burn marks. They looked healthy enough, but their eyes bore the wariness and resignation of those who had spent their lives expecting nothing but worry and uncertainty. Rogero knew that look. Most workers under the Syndicate had it though they disguised it as best they could.

“Welcome,” Rogero said, using his voice of authority. “We are here to take you back to Midway. You are no longer prisoners of the Alliance.”

A woman in the dilapidated outfit of a senior line worker straightened and spoke to him in the tones expected of a worker. “Honored CEO—”

“I am not a CEO. I was a sub-CEO. Now I am a Colonel in the ground forces of the independent star system of Midway. You know us. Now, obey instructions. We must get everyone on board as quickly as possible.”

Looking more dazed than ever, murmuring among themselves, the freed prisoners followed one of the soldiers down the passageway.

Lieutenant Foster watched them come off the shuttle with growing amazement. “How many are on there?”

“As many as the Alliance could safely fit,” Rogero said. “They have little with them but the clothes on their backs. No luggage, no bulky garments or survival suits, so each individual doesn’t take up much room.”

The next hour was a blur as shuttle after shuttle docked, discharged its passengers, then pulled away to make room for the next, while Foster’s platoon labored to move the freed prisoners away from the air lock and get them packed in somewhere to make room for the next load. The sense of urgency from the Alliance shuttles was easy to pick up, but as load after load accumulated, the process began slowing down as people clogged the passageways on the freighter. Even though the freed workers were trained to unquestioning obedience, they were disoriented and confused, many looking around as if awaiting the moment when they would wake up from this dream.

“Move!” Rogero bellowed at one group that had unaccountably stopped dead, completely clogging a major intersection of passageways. As the workers bolted into motion like frightened deer, he heard his name being called.

“Donal!”

Colonel Rogero recognized the man and woman pushing their way toward him, but he had to search his memory for a moment to place them. Sub-CEO Garadun and Executive Ito. From… a battle cruiser. He couldn’t remember which one. They had met several times at official meetings and official social events related to those meetings. Not that social events were casual or that he had learned all that much about the other Syndicate officials he met there, including these two. Everyone at official social events assumed there would be covert snakes salted through the attendees, not to mention plenty of surveillance gear, all listening for any hint of disloyalty. Official Syndicate social gatherings did usually have unlimited, free drinks, but since that was aimed at getting people drunk enough to blurt out compromising statements, wise citizens limited their intake. It all made for “casual” gatherings that were extremely formal, everyone watching their actions and words, as well as the actions and words of those around them.

Garadun stopped before Rogero, his face split by a huge grin. “Then it’s true! You came for us! For once the ground forces have bailed out the mobile forces!”

“We’re from BC-77D,” Ito said, coming to a halt beside Garadun. “in case you don’t remember. A lot of our crew got off when the unit was destroyed, and they’re with us now.” She was smiling almost as widely as Garadun. “Is it true? The Syndicate government is gone?”

“Not gone,” Rogero advised. “It still exists on Prime. But we’ve thrown them out of Midway.”

“The snakes… ?”

“Dead. We took them down.” Rogero heard pride in his voice as he said that. Well, why not? It was true.

Garadun and Ito exchanged glances. “It’s obvious you’ve got ground forces. Do you have any mobile forces?” Garadun asked.

“Why do you think we’re here? We need trained crews.”

“How did you know to come here?” Ito asked. “How did you know any of us were alive?”

Rogero cleared his throat before speaking to buy a few seconds. “How much do you know? About what happened after . . .”

“After we were captured?” Garadun said. “Not much. The Alliance guards claim that the war is over, that they won. Maybe they did. We didn’t believe them, but we don’t know. Since you’re here to get us, maybe we won.”

“They won,” Rogero said. “Black Jack.”

Ito shook her head, her eyes dark. “He is not human. A demon. He has to be.”

“He saved us,” Rogero blurted out, seeing the shock on their faces. “After he broke the Syndicate government and forced an end to the war. He led his fleet to Midway and threw back an enigma attempt to take over the star system.”

“He beat the enigmas?” Garadun stared at Rogero.

“A demon,” Ito repeated.

It was not a good time to bring up the complicated events that had led the infamous Black Jack to be the savior of Midway Star System, Rogero thought. “Anyway, the Syndicate government failed. The Syndicate way of doing things failed. It all failed. President Iceni and General Drakon are running things at Midway now. We are free.” He saw the reactions to the word “free” and smiled again. “We’ve got an escort waiting at Atalia. Cruisers and destroyers loyal to us and commanded by Kommodor Marphissa—”

“Kommodor?” This time Garadun shook his head. “The name Marphissa isn’t familiar to me.”

“She was an executive on a heavy cruiser. Clearing out the Syndicate loyalists left some big gaps in the chain of command and improved promotion opportunities. Listen, we have very limited ability to screen all of you. What can you tell me about the physical condition of everyone? Most of those we’re picking up in seem to be in good health. I’m not spotting any old, untreated injuries.” He didn’t have to explain why he had looked for those. In a Syndicate labor camp, something like that was routine.

Garadun looked away, glowering.

Ito gave him a sympathetic glance, then nodded to Rogero. “The Alliance scum took good care of us, much as we hate to admit it. Nothing great. Bland food, but enough of it. Some cleanup duties at the camp where we were held, but no hard labor. Medical care when needed, though nothing but what was needed. They treated us as prisoners, but we weren’t abused.”

“It was Black Jack,” Garadun grumbled. “The guards talked about him. He crushed our flotilla, he killed so many of our friends, and yet we owed decent treatment to him. We’re fine, Donal. You shouldn’t find any serious health problems.” He focused on Rogero skeptically. “There are no CEOs? You said Iceni and Drakon are still running things.”

“Not as CEOs.” Rogero nodded to the personnel streaming past. “They sent us to get you. Very risky, very expensive, but they sent us to get you.”

That went home. The casual callousness of Syndicate leaders toward workers and junior executives was simply taken for granted. “I guess if they did that, they aren’t just CEOs with different titles,” Garadun remarked.

“What do you need us to do?” Ito asked.

“Help keep things under control. Keep people moving. We have to cram ten kilos of workers into a five-kilo bag. After that, we’ve got a long ways back. Sort out anyone who wants to stay loyal to the Syndicate. We’ll drop them off in a Syndicate-controlled star system. Are there any snakes among you?”