The Marine looked back, his face expressionless but his eyes both hostile and puzzled. Then the hostility cleared a small amount, and the Marine nodded to acknowledge the words.
No more than that, but it was something.
Rogero walked quickly up the ramp and onto the shuttle, hearing the hatches sealing behind him.
“Strap down fast!” the pilot called over the intercom. “I’ve got direct orders from the admiral to blast out of here!”
He had barely gotten into a seat before acceleration pressed Rogero back hard enough to drive the breath from him. He managed to get the straps fastened as the shuttle swung wildly from side to side and up and down as if following a roller-coaster track through space. Pilots. They’re all crazy. This one is probably enjoying tearing out from the station and whipping through all of the traffic around us even though we’re probably avoiding swift death by only centimeters at times.
Bradamont had been right. The ground forces here had attempted to intervene, had doubtless aimed to detain him. Perhaps the intelligence service of the Alliance had prompted that, recognizing Rogero with certainty when he had recited his full name for the turnover ceremony. But Bradamont had also been right that Timbale was to be trusted.
I was protected by Alliance Marines, Rogero realized. They defended me. No one will believe it.
I’m not sure I believe it myself, and I was there.
Rogero looked toward the display positioned near his seat, wondering if he was allowed to touch it. All it showed now was an outside view, stars and other bright objects glittering against the black of space, the dots of light blurring into streaks as the shuttle spun onto new vectors. The shuttle rolled again, and the small disc of a not-too-distant planet spun across the display, bottom to top before vanishing again.
“There’s a lot of shuttles out,” the pilot suddenly said, startling Rogero. “From the markers on them, they’re loaded with personnel. Must be your guys.”
Once again, Admiral Timbale is true to his word. He did order the movement of the prisoners begun while I was still on the way to the station to see him.
What exactly happened on the station? Why would Alliance military personnel refuse to obey the orders of a senior officer, even if he was of the fleet and they of the ground forces? No Syndicate worker would have defied orders from a CEO because the CEO was not their assigned supervisor.
But if a snake CEO had ordered an action, other CEOs would have had a hard time stopping it.
There’s a stench of political maneuvering here. I didn’t expect it in the Alliance. Despite what Honore has told me, I thought they would be fanatically pure in their dedication to only military issues. Not like us, riddled with politics. Most of the Syndicate, or now former Syndicate, officials that I know felt like that. Strange that we should have believed our foes to be superior to us in such a way. I feel strangely disappointed. If we had to lose, why couldn’t the enemy who beat us have been superhuman?
“Thank you,” he said to the pilot. “How long until we reach my ship?”
No response came, the pilot perhaps already regretting volunteering information. Or perhaps the pilot had suddenly remembered who his passenger was.
Any thrill that came from the wild ride had long since subsided by the time the shuttle began braking hard. Fortunately, the rough-and-tumble shuttle trip had also eased off as they got farther from Ambaru. Rogero gripped the armrests tightly as the braking maneuver went on and on, then abruptly ceased. A few moments later, a gentle bump announced their arrival at the air lock of the freighter. A fast approach, one long burn, and a gentle arrival with no last-minute thrust adjustments. The pilot was showing off, even under these conditions. Rogero grinned, heady with relief. “Well done!” he called to the pilot. “You’re good.”
As he headed for the air lock, the pilot offered a single word in reply. “Thanks.”
Rogero had no sooner left the lock and stepped onto the freighter than he felt the shuttle disconnect.
Lieutenant Foster, the commander of the platoon of Rogero’s soldiers aboard this freighter, was standing by with several of his troops. “We were told the first load of prisoners would be here within minutes, sir,” he explained.
“Get them in and moved away from the air lock,” Rogero ordered, trying to adjust emotionally to the rapid transition from being surrounded by the Alliance to now being back among his own soldiers. “Fast, clean, no holdups. Any questions?”
“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.