Damn. An obvious change in destination for that shuttle at this point would raise too many questions. “No. We’ll take them aboard here.”
Back to Desjani. “Dauntless will only get one shuttle. The others are going to Typhoon and Mistral.”
She eyed him curiously. “All right. We were planning on processing more than that, but it’s your fleet. Do Typhoon and Mistral know—”
“I’m calling them now!”
“Excuse me,” Desjani muttered just loud enough for him to hear, then raised her voice. “Lieutenant Mori, we’re only getting one shuttle. Inform everyone on the intake teams.”
Finishing informing the commanding officers of Typhoon and Mistral of the change, and wincing inside as he knew how much of a last-minute scramble those orders would cause on those ships, Geary turned to a stony-faced Desjani. “Sorry. It’s because they’re VIPs.”
“Who are VIPs?”
“The prisoners.”
“All of them?”
“Damn near.”
After a moment, Desjani asked another question. “Military VIPs?”
“Yeah. Like Falco.”
“What the hell?”
“My feelings exactly.”
With no opposition, the Marines on the ground were moving very quickly. “There were fewer than three hundred prisoners in this camp,” Carabali reported. “Most of the cells were unoccupied. We have all of the POWs in hand and are loading the last ones into shuttles now. I’ve already started lifting Marines out, too. Estimate fifteen minutes until the last Alliance personnel are off the surface.”
“Excellent.” It all went like clockwork, even as he waited for something to go wrong, some unexpected factor to suddenly throw a wrench into the smoothly working operation. But the last Marines dodged into the last shuttles, the last ramps rose, and the last shuttles leaped into the air, leaving ranks of disarmed Syndic prison guards standing around apparently uncertain of what to do next.
“Shuttle on final,” the maneuvering watch reported. “Estimated time to dock five minutes.”
“How long until the last shuttles are recovered?” Geary asked.
“Forty minutes, sir.”
Every Syndic on the planet seemed to have gone to cover. Nothing was moving in the sky or on the roads or in open country. “Looks like the Syndics here finally figured out what a bad idea it was to mess with this fleet,” Desjani commented, drawing grins from her watch-standers.
Geary stood up. “I’m going down to greet that shuttle, Captain Desjani. I’ll be back here within half an hour. I need to see some of these VIPs and talk to them.” Maybe then I can get some clue as to the reason we were sent here.
Desjani just nodded, her eyes on her display, her brow furrowed in thought.
He walked briskly, trying not to reveal any disquiet to the crew members he passed, who all seemed cheerful as a result of the one-sided fight and victory, word of which was already flashing through the fleet. Inside the shuttle dock, Geary paused to take in the sailors forming up to serve as a combined honor guard and intake force to get the newly liberated prisoners evaluated, assigned quarters, and given necessary treatment.
“We meet again,” Rione murmured as she came up beside him.
“What brings an emissary down here?” Geary asked.
“I may not be a senator anymore, but I still have an obligation to pay respects on behalf of the government to those who have been imprisoned.”
And you’re probably hoping to find someone who knows something about your husband. But he didn’t say that out loud, knowing that in her place, he would have done the same.
The shuttle swung in, easily visible behind the shield keeping atmosphere in this part of the dock, then came to a gentle landing as the outer doors sealed and the shield dropped. Geary waited as the ramp extended and the shuttle’s hatch opened, watching the men and women who came down the ramp. Despite their VIP status, they resembled the other prisoners of war liberated by the fleet in the last several months. A mix of ages, some of them captured so long ago they were now elderly. Threadbare uniforms mixed with articles of castoff Syndic clothing. Thin from hard work and just enough food. And looks of mingled disbelief and joy as if they feared this was a dream from which they would soon awake.
The only difference was the amount of rank present. As far as Geary could tell, there were only a few commanders or majors among them, everyone else being at least colonels or captains, and almost half wearing the tarnished insignia of admirals and generals. Iger hadn’t been exaggerating in the least.
He was gazing at the prisoners, searching for Captain Michael Geary even though he knew the odds of his great-nephew being alive and being here were very small, when a noise from Rione caught his attention. A wordless gasp, it somehow carried across the dock. Several of the former prisoners heard and turned to look, one man among them stumbling to a halt, then running toward her. “Vic! By the living stars, is it really you?”
Geary took a step away as they embraced, feeling embarrassed to be witnessing such raw emotion, actual tears flowing from Rione as she held him.
He started to look aside, then focused back on Rione’s face. Amid the wonder and happiness, did he also see horror? How could that be?
But then she noticed him and averted her own face for a moment. When he saw it again, Rione had only the natural emotions from such a reunion visible.
She broke the embrace, turning toward Geary, reestablishing the iron control Rione usually displayed. “Admiral, may I present Commander Paol Benan, my husband.”
Geary waited for a salute, which didn’t come, and he belatedly realized that, of course, these officers had been imprisoned when he had reintroduced saluting to the fleet.
Benan grinned broadly. “It’s really you. Well, damn, of course it is. The Marines told us Black Jack was in command. Who else could have brought the fleet this deep into Syndic space? You must have them on the run. We can beat them now, crush them so they never again pose a threat to the Alliance! Now that we’re off that planet, you can hit it with everything you’ve got!”
It took both Rione and Geary a moment to realize what he meant, that the Syndic authorities here had cruelly withheld news of the end of the war. “Paol,” she said, “the war is over. We already won.”
“What?” Benan looked completely lost for a moment. “When? How?”
“Admiral Geary. He wiped out the Syndic fleet and forced them to agree to peace.”
“Peace.” Benan said the word as if he had heard it for the very first time in his life and had no idea of its meaning. “That’s . . . but you attacked the planet. The Marines assaulted the camp.”
“The Syndic CEO here balked at his obligations under the peace agreement,” Geary explained. “We took necessary actions to liberate you and your fellow prisoners.”
“Yes.” Benan still seemed uncertain. “We can help with some targeting for your follow-up bombardments. There are some buried installations, well concealed, that we know the locations of.”
“There will be no more bombardment of that planet, Commander.”
“But . . . the manufacturing centers . . . population centers—”
Geary heard his voice hardening. “This fleet no longer wars on civilians, Commander. We attack military targets only, and those attacks now will come only as necessary to ensure that the Syndics abide by the peace treaty.”
Benan simply looked at Geary as if he had heard words in an unknown language.
Taking his arm in a gentle grasp, Rione spoke for them both. “My husband needs to be checked in and receive his medical evaluation, Admiral. I will have an opportunity to bring him up to date while that is under way. I hope you will forgive us now.”