President Gwen Iceni stood in her office with her arms crossed, looking steadily at the man about a meter in front of her. “Colonel Rogero, you have had more than one opportunity to kill me under circumstances that could have been labeled an accident. Instead, you have used those opportunities to save me.”
Rogero frowned. “Madam President—”
“I am not done.” Iceni studied him as she spoke. “You became emotionally involved with an Alliance officer, placing your loyalty to her above your own safety, and have since her arrival here not attempted to hide your relationship. Those are not the acts of a snake.”
“I should hope not,” Rogero said.
“And, Captain Bradamont, who seems to have an exceptionally good head on her shoulders, trusts you.” Iceni raised one hand to point at him. “As does General Drakon. I am going to tell you something, Colonel, something that no Syndicate CEO in her right mind would share with someone like you. I do not entirely trust my own closest staff. I do trust you. I also trust General Drakon, though I often find him frustrating.”
Rogero gazed at her silently for almost a full minute before replying. “Thank you for your trust, Madam President. Do you believe that your safety is endangered here?”
“I’m not sure how to answer that, Colonel Rogero, but I do want you to know that you have my confidence. If for some reason we cannot communicate, I will be certain that you are acting in the best interests of myself and General Drakon. Do not hesitate to take actions you consider vital even if you cannot contact me to receive authorization from me. You understand why I had to convey these instructions face-to-face.”
“Thank you, Madam President,” Rogero said, staggered inside at the enormity of such an order. Coming from anyone trained and experienced in the Syndicate system, it represented a tremendous placement of trust in him and a repudiation of much of that training and experience. Of course Iceni had no choice but to give such orders in person. If they had come over any sort of comm link, he (and anyone else) would have assumed a transmission with such instructions had been fabricated. And if anyone had intercepted such a transmission, they would have gained very valuable information about the extent of Rogero’s freedom to act. “I will not fail you.”
“I needed you to know that I believe you when you say that,” Iceni said, waving a dismissive hand and turning to face her virtual window, where the waves came and went heedless of human concerns. Still facing away from him, she asked a question. “What do you think General Drakon’s chances are?”
“I am… concerned,” Rogero said. “The Syndicate is playing the sort of underhanded game it knows very well. But, I am comforted by the fact that General Drakon is the one they are trying to trap. If anyone can frustrate their trap, it is General Drakon.”
“Are you whistling past the graveyard, Colonel?” Iceni asked.
“No, Madam President. General Drakon was exiled here because the snakes suspected him of frustrating one of their operations, but also because the Syndicate did not want him dead. They wanted him available if they needed him. They knew how good he was.”
Iceni lowered her head, speaking in a quieter voice. “If they know that, then they will have planned their trap accordingly, Colonel. Return to your headquarters and prepare for the worst.”
Fifteen minutes later, Rogero glared out the window of the government VIP limo carrying him back to the ground forces headquarters complex after the personal meeting with Iceni. He was not happy. Bad enough that Honore Bradamont had been sent off as part of a desperate rescue mission. Bad enough that, with General Drakon gone, he was senior ground forces officer in the entire Midway Star System, with all the extra responsibilities that role carried with it. Bad enough that President Iceni had made no secret of her worries that General Drakon might be facing very serious trouble at Ulindi, because people trained as Syndicate CEOs did not reveal worries like that unless the worries were extremely severe.
On top of that, his instructions from President Iceni were deeply disturbing. What level of concern would force a former CEO to grant a subordinate that much discretion to act?
He sat back, wishing the vehicle could get him to ground forces headquarters faster. Built to Syndicate standards, the VIP limo had equal measures of lavish comfort and hidden protection. Many armored fighting vehicles carried less protection than the limo. But it could not fly above the traffic in the streets, which, though clearing a path for the official vehicle, took time to do so in a crowded city.
In front of and behind him, two other limos moved as escorts, all three vehicles having been insisted upon by Iceni. Given what CEO Boyens had finally admitted knowing, it was understandable why Iceni was worried about Drakon’s safety, but why was the president so worried about security here as well? The rumors among the citizenry were still a concern, and the danger of individual assassins could never be discounted, but this kind of protection for Rogero, on top of her orders, implied that Iceni either knew of or suspected a much more serious threat currently out there on the streets of this city.
Rogero suppressed his annoyance with the flamboyant security measures and his anger that Iceni might know something important about dangers here that she was not sharing, and focused instead on the situation. He was a soldier, after all. He should be analyzing this situation to determine whether this security was being used effectively, and the best way to do that was to look at it from the perspective of an attacker. If he wanted to kill someone, and that someone was in a VIP limo escorted by two security limos, how would he go about it?
“Driver,” Rogero called, hitting the intercom control.
“Yes, sir?” the reply came almost instantly. The driver was concealed from Rogero’s direct view behind thick layers of internal armor that separated the driving seat area from the VIP compartment, but Rogero could see the driver’s image on the virtual window that covered the armor and projected a forward view as if nothing lay between them.
“What route are we taking back to the headquarters complex? Display it for me.”
“Yes, sir.”
A map appeared in the air before Rogero, showing a three-dimensional image of this part of the city, the limo they were riding in clearly indicated, a path snaking from it toward the ground forces headquarters.
The city had been designed so that the roads leading toward the ground forces headquarters, like those leading to other important locations such as the former snake headquarters and President Iceni’s offices, funneled down into a few wide boulevards that could be easily secured with security checkpoints. That made a great deal of sense if you were already inside the complex and worried about what might be coming your way, but if you were outside the complex and wanting to get in, it meant there were only a few paths you could take for the last stages of the trip. Even though VIP caravans routinely varied their routes to avoid providing predictable targets, there wasn’t much variation possible as the available roads necked down before reaching the complex.
Rogero looked at the map and realized what he was really unhappy about. If someone dangerous enough to warrant limo-procession-level security was out to get him, that someone would be dangerous enough to figure out how to get him despite the protection afforded by the limo. “Driver, alter our path. I want to turn right up ahead, proceed for half a kilometer, then follow the route I will show you. Tell the escort vehicles.”
“Sir, that will take us around the complex instead of toward it. President Iceni ordered that you be taken back to your headquarters. I am not authorized—”