Jack Campbell - Perilous Shield

The alarms cut off as someone on the freighter’s bridge shut them down, the silence now filling the passageway holding an ominous quality as Rogero turned to confront the workers and low-level supervisors lining the bulkheads, all of them trying their best to be motionless but more than one quivering with terror.

Executive Ito came running down the passageway, her face contorted with anger. “Who did this? Who led this? Talk, you miserable low forms of life!”

Rogero stopped her with one raised hand. “Get the names of everyone here. Organize a working party to get the bodies packed up.” He looked down at the two still-living-but-wounded workers trying not to writhe in pain, both of them literally biting their lips to keep from moaning.

A few moments ago he would have killed them without hesitation. Now they were helpless. They might have information.

A half-dozen soldiers came dashing up, grim expressions taking in the scene. Lieutenant Foster saluted, his own face rigid. As immediate unit commander, he might also face the severest form of discipline for any failure of his soldiers to protect Bradamont.

But she was unharmed. How would I have reacted if she had been badly hurt or killed? Hopefully even then I would have recognized that punishment would serve no purpose when men and women had done their best.

Rogero jogged his head toward the two battered guards. “Your soldiers did their duty. See that they are looked after. Try to keep those two wounded workers alive. I want them able to talk.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Post half of your unit on guard here, four-hour shifts on and off, until Captain Bradamont leaves this ship.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Captain Bradamont, I recommend you remain in that armor until we can get you aboard a shuttle at Atalia.”

“Yes, Colonel,” Bradamont said, her own voice subdued but betraying no feelings. She looked outside, at the carnage wrought by the mob and by Rogero’s suppression of it, and he wondered what she was thinking.

She was seeing the Syndicate way. Cowering workers against the walls and deadly force against disruptions. He had never liked it even when it was necessary to prevent worse things. I know what Honore will think of it. What will she think of me?

Rogero walked back to his room, the pulse rifle radiating heat in a glow that reflected back from the cowed workers lining the passageway. Behind him, Ito was savaging the workers as other senior supervisors showed up to verbally lash the rioters, tossing in occasional physical blows to emphasize their points. The workers took it passively, as they knew they must.

He had become used to such things. But now he was imagining seeing them through the eyes of Honore Bradamont, and the ugliness of it all was hard to bear. We are changing things. We’ll change this, too. It will take time, but the day will come when I will not have to face down rioting workers with a combat weapon.

Close to two hours later, the freighter flashed back into normal space, the stars gazing down impassively on six ships full of humans who were finally accepting that they were free. Rogero, still depressed over the riot and his suppression of it, gazed morosely at those stars. I don’t want to do this anymore. But what else can I do? And if I don’t, who takes my place? General Drakon says he needs me.

The four light cruisers and six Hunter-Killers were still here. Far off, light-hours distant, the two heavy cruisers waited at the jump point for Kalixa.

A virtual window popped open near Rogero, the image of the commander of the light cruiser Harrier looking out at him. “Welcome back. We were taking bets on whether you would miss them.”

“Miss who?” Rogero asked.

“Black Jack’s fleet. They jumped for Varandal three days ago. You must have passed each other in jump space.”

Rogero used the special, secure comm equipment in the private compartment to send his report to Marphissa. “Kommodor, I have the pleasure to report that our mission was successful. We have over five thousand released prisoners on board, the vast majority from the Reserve Flotilla. In view of the strain on the freighters’ life support, and in light of recent events aboard this ship, I urge that we off-load here at Atalia those who do not wish to go to Midway.”

He provided a summary of events at Varandal, then described the riot a few hours ago. “I will keep Captain Bradamont safe, but the sooner she is transferred back to Manticore , the better. For the people, Rogero, out.”

Marphissa’s reply came back hours later. She didn’t look pleased.

“Colonel Rogero, I was distressed to hear of the threat to our liaison officer. I agree with you that we must get her back aboard Manticore . I am leaving Kraken at the jump point to maintain our blockade of the path back to Indras but will be bringing Manticore to join you. I do not want to delay here off-loading hundreds of people, but I don’t see any alternative. Even if there weren’t a security issue, the life-support readings on those freighters are not good. We need to reduce the load on them. I’m sending the ships with you a new vector to follow toward an orbiting facility that can take on the workers we’re going to be leaving behind. Have your soldiers on the freighters sort out who is leaving. We need that done before we get to the facility, so we can get the off-loud completed as quickly as possible.

“I am grateful you are all back safely. For the people, Marphissa, out.”

Traveling through space, Rogero decided, was like running in quicksand. You could put tremendous effort into it, but it still felt like you were running in place. Days after arriving at Atalia, he stood, disconsolate, outside the air lock, where a shuttle carrying Honore Bradamont had only just departed.

A bit of Bradamont remained with him, in a way. She had been forced to continue constantly wearing Rogero’s battle armor, with the result that she and it had stunk pretty bad by the time she had finally shed it outside the air lock. There had been witnesses, they couldn’t say much, but she had looked into his eyes, and the message there had been clear. Her feelings for him had not changed.

A large group approached, led by Sub-CEO Garadun, who smiled ruefully at Rogero. “I’m told the next ride is ours. You never promised we’d get to ride farther than Atalia.”

Rogero waved one hand in front of his face as if shoving aside the odors that had seemingly grown strong enough to see as the freighter’s overburdened life support kept up its losing battle. “I’d think you’d be glad to leave this.”

“No, Donal, I want to see those aliens! I’m going to get to Darus, somehow, but look for me after that.”

“I will.” Rogero clasped Garadun’s hand with real warmth. “At least you won’t have to go back with us through Kalixa.”

Garadun shook his head, glowering. “You see, Donal, that’s one of the reasons why we continue to hate the Alliance. Before our flotilla was destroyed, the CEOs showed us images of what happened there. Of what the Alliance did at Kalixa.”

“What?” Rogero gave Garadun a startled look. “Didn’t anybody tell you what really happened, Pers?”

“What do you mean? The Alliance collapsed the hypernet gate. That’s what killed Kalixa Star System.”

“No. It wasn’t the Alliance. It was the enigmas.”

Garadun stared at Rogero wordlessly.

“We found out the enigmas could send a signal that traveled faster than light,” Rogero explained, “a signal that could cause any hypernet gate to collapse and emit a huge burst of energy. All of the gates now have a special modification that prevents that from happening, but we didn’t learn it until too late to save Kalixa.”