Jack Campbell - Perilous Shield

“Not all CEOs and sub-CEOs are like that,” Marphissa corrected. “Look at President Iceni. But, otherwise, you have a point. Qui may think that would work, especially since he will assume our ships are controlled by recently promoted executives and workers.”

“They are,” Diaz pointed out. “A lot of them, anyway.”

And, maybe, Diaz was right that not all of those new commanders would adhere to strict Syndicate discipline, lacking enough experience with higher rank under that system. Two of the Midway Hunter-Killers had commanders who had been vaulted up in rank even more rapidly than Marphissa had. “Thank you for bringing that up,” she said. “Both of you.”

After another moment’s thought, she tapped her comms again. “All warships in the Recovery Flotilla, you are to remain focused on the Syndicate warships you have been assigned as targets. You are not to attempt to engage or pursue any other Syndicate warship unless you receive orders from me to do so. I am confident that if you continue to perform as well as you have so far, we will defeat the Syndicate.”

She slumped back, keeping her eyes locked on her display. Why am I so tired? I feel like we’ve been fighting for hours.

Stars in the heavens. We have been.

As the Syndicate light cruisers and HuKs swung restlessly around the protective screen of Midway warships, Marphissa checked the path of the freighters, plodding along en route to the gate, where lay safety.

The transit to the gate would take another forty-one hours.

She stared at the time, disbelieving, then despairing for a moment. All they had to do was keep doing for another forty-one hours what they had been doing for the last few hours, each warship constantly alert to any motion by the Syndicate warship it was targeted on, and Marphissa watching every warship to ensure that none of the Syndicate warships threatened to make it through the defenders and none of the defenders wavered in their responsibilities. Yeah, that’s all we have to do. For another forty-one hours straight. Marphissa clenched her teeth, breathed in through them in a hiss, then spoke to the senior watch specialist on the bridge. “Contact the ship’s doctor. We need to have a good supply of up patches on the bridge.”

“Yes, Kommodor,” the specialist replied, followed a few seconds later by a question. “The doctor wants to know how many would be a good supply.”

“Enough to keep me awake and functioning for the next forty-one hours.”

“Kommodor, the doctor says—”

“ I know what the regulations say! Get those damned patches onto the bridge!”

“Yes, Kommodor,” the senior watch specialist said warily several seconds later.

Bradamont went to one knee beside Marphissa’s seat, her voice a low murmur. “What do the regulations say?”

“They say,” Marphissa growled in reply, “that use of up patches for any period in excess of thirty-six hours must be authorized by the senior commander. That’s me.”

“Will you be safe? I can take over for a while if you need to rest.”

Marphissa shook her head, her eyes not leaving her display. “You said it, Honore, and you were right. They won’t let you command them now that they know what you are. I have to do this.”

“Then make sure there are enough patches for both of us.”

“Three of us,” Diaz said.

Marphissa contemplated ordering either or both of them to take rest breaks, then changed her mind. If they can’t do it, I can’t do it. So we three will do it. “Make certain that the watch specialists and other crew members cycle through their watches and get rest,” she ordered Diaz.

“We’ll have to go modified on-watch/off-watch to make that work,” Diaz said. “Eight hours on, four hours off for the duration, with individual shifts staggered. We don’t have enough specialists on board to work the ship at combat status around the clock except by doing that.”

Damned Syndicate economizing on crew sizes. Don’t worry, they would say. If anything breaks, it will be fixed the next time you’re at a dockyard. Cold comfort when you’re fighting a battle! “I understand. I’ve been through that. We have to keep as close to peak combat capability as possible for the next forty-one hours because you can be sure that the Syndicate flotilla will not give us any rest breaks.”

“Incoming message from Colonel Rogero,” the comm specialist advised.

Any message was a distraction she didn’t need, but she couldn’t blow off Rogero. “Yes, Colonel?”

Rogero was on the bridge of the freighter carrying him, wearing his armor. “Kommodor, I wanted to advise you that you need have no fear of any of the freighters acting contrary to your orders. I have soldiers posted on the bridges of each freighter. I’ll keep at least one soldier there on each ship as long as we’re still in Indras, to ensure that none of your orders are misinterpreted, misheard, or misunderstood.”

She could read between the lines on that one. At least one of the freighter executives had thought to bolt or was wavering, only to be brought up short by armed soldiers determined to enforce Marphissa’s orders. “Thank you, Colonel. That does relieve a concern of mine.”

Rogero smiled grimly. “I won’t bother you again unless it is absolutely necessary, Kommodor. For the people. Out.”

“Any problems?” Diaz asked.

“No,” Marphissa replied. “Just some reinforcement for the spines of the freighter executives.”

“Oh. You know,” Diaz added, “they’re not military. The freighter executives and crews, I mean. No weapons, no defenses, they’re just sitting ducks. That can’t be easy.”

“Do you think what we’re doing is easy?”

He flinched at her tone of voice. “No, Kommodor.”

But she thought about it, thought about all of the men and women on those freighters, most of them unable to even see a display to know what was going on, with no means of defense, and nothing they could do but sit and wait to see if hell lances would punch holes in the ships carrying them, as well as holes in the people on those ships.

At least the warships carried what were in theory enough escape pods to carry their crews to safety if the ship was too badly damaged to save. Not their entire crews, of course, because the Syndicate had carefully calculated what percentage of damage on average would render a ship helpless and what percentage of crew members on average would be killed when that damage was sustained, then budgeted for just enough escape pods to save the average surviving percentage of the crew. It was all very scientific, including the calculations that offering escape to the surviving crew members cost less than what would be required to conscript, transport, and train new crew members to replace them.

But for all that, the crews of the warships were better off than those on the freighters. The only escape pod on each of the freighters was designed to handle the crew and perhaps a few passengers. “You are right,” she commented to Kapitan Diaz, “it cannot be easy on those freighters.”

“It’s not easy on you, either, is it?” he asked.

“No,” Marphissa admitted. “There’s a comfort in having someone higher in authority to turn to, having someone else who must make the decisions. Having been frustrated all of my time in the mobile forces by superiors who handled that role badly, I now have the freedom to make the decisions, to make the mistakes, all on my own. Hold on.”

The Syndicate warships had all swung in again simultaneously, veering onto vectors aiming for the freighters. Marphissa watched the entire situation with all of her concentration, trying to spot any place where any of her warships were being outmaneuvered by the Syndicate attackers. She was barely aware of Diaz maneuvering Manticore to engage the light cruiser that was Manticore ’s designated target, but Marphissa was fully alert to Manticore ’s track on her display, alert to any indication that Diaz might let the light cruiser get past him. She took in every one of her ships’ maneuvers that way, hoping that neither she nor one of her ship commanders would miss something.