Bradamont responded with a questioning look. “Why did you say humanitarian like that?”
“Because it’s… a joke. No one ever says that and means it. Means what it actually is supposed to mean, whatever that is.”
“Oh.” Bradamont seemed briefly rattled, then refocused. “Then let’s say that, in practical terms, the Alliance fleet wants to be rid of those prisoners at Varandal.”
Marphissa sat her glass down carefully, aware of how her hand was shaking. “How many?” she whispered. “How many did you say?”
“I don’t know exactly. Roughly four thousand. That’s the number people kept throwing around.”
“Four thousand.” Out of how many? But so many times, when ships were destroyed, it happened in a flash, with no chance for survivors. For even four thousand to come out of that battle alive after their ships had been too badly crippled to fight reflected considerable luck. “We had no idea. Many of those men and women are our friends. They’re from here, or nearby star systems.”
“I’m sorry. I would have mentioned it right away if I’d realized—”
“That’s all right.” Marphissa sighed. “We just assumed they were all dead. We had to. That’s how it’s been.”
“I know.” Bradamont grimaced. “We assumed the same when forces were lost to Syndic hands.”
“I’ll need to get President Iceni’s approval for it. We can’t even think about doing this until the, uh, special operation to get rid of the Syndicate flotilla here succeeds. If that operation works, it will mean sending off a flotilla to escort those freighters, and they’ll be gone awhile. That might be a hard sell when we have so few units. To be honest, if it were anyone but President Iceni, it would be an impossible sell. I think our President will jump at the opportunity, but there will be advisers trying to convince her not to do it. Where’s the profit in it?” Marphissa added bitterly. “And General Drakon might be hard to sell on it as well.”
“From what I have heard of General Drakon, he’s not that bad. But he might still need a strong reason.” Bradamont gazed at her somberly, then gestured around them. “This battleship of yours is still being fitted out. Do you have a crew for it?”
“Just a skeleton crew,” Marphissa admitted. “Finding enough trained mobile forces personnel to fill out the crew of a battleship is proving to be a serious challenge, and there’s another under construction at Taroa that will eventually require a crew, too. Our ambitions and hardware exceed our available supply of skilled personnel.”
“Four thousand survivors of the Reserve Flotilla might help you out with that problem,” Bradamont noted.
“That’s right.” Marphissa looked around her at the unfinished compartment they were in, imagining it completed and filled with people she had never expected to see again. “They’re alive, they’re trained, a lot of them thought of Midway as home before they got yanked out of here, and with those reasons, I’ve got a good chance of convincing people in charge to let us go get them. Damn you, I think I do want to kiss you, you Alliance monster.”
Bradamont grinned. “Keep your filthy hands off me, you Syndic scum.”
“Your people also exchange insults to express friendship, Alliance demon?”
“We reserve those kinds of insults for the best of people, Syndic shrew.”
“Thank you for the compliment, Alliance fiend.”
“You’re welcome, Syndic savage.”
“No problem, Alliance ghoul.”
“Happy to oblige, Syndic devil.”
Marphissa paused, realizing that the booze had gone to her head and not caring except that it made concentrating more difficult. She hauled out her comm unit. “Excuse me while I look up some more words.”
“Is it all right if I have another drink while I wait?” Bradamont asked.
“Be my guest, you… Alliance… harpy.”
“Thank you.” Bradamont was checking her own personal unit. “We’re supposed to be getting to know each other, you Syndic… sleaze. I can keep it up as long as you can.”
When Kapitan-Leytenant Kontos, looking worried, finally checked up on them, the bottle was empty and they were leaning on each other, crying over the friends they had each lost.
Marphissa called Manticore to let them know her inspection of the Midway was taking longer than expected.
The next day, hangover controlled but not eliminated by a generous dose of painkillers, she transmitted a “report” of her inspection of the Midway that included the code phrase called for in her written orders (“everything can be done on schedule with proper support”), then led Captain Bradamont, her uniform hidden under standard-issue Syndicate-crew coveralls adorned with the insignia of a Midway Kapitan, to Manticore’s shuttle. Kontos joined her there, unhappy at leaving Midway but obedient to his own orders to also transfer temporarily to Manticore.
A couple of days after that, in company with the newly arrived cruiser, Manticore approached the jump point for the star Maui. Officially, Manticore would escort the cruiser all the way to the home star of most of its crew, Kiribati.
Only three people aboard Manticore knew that in fact she would leave the cruiser when it was most of the way to Kiribati. Kommodor Marphissa, Kapitan-Leytenant Kontos, and the mysterious VIP going by the name of Kapitan Bascare knew that Manticore would jog off to one side, heading for the star named Taniwah, where another hypernet gate could be found.
From the hypernet gate at Taniwah, Manticore would leap back to Midway.
To arrive nose to nose with the Syndicate flotilla commanded by CEO Boyens.
Chapter Seven
“Come to full-combat alert twenty minutes before we arrive at Midway,” Marphissa ordered.
Kapitan Toirac eyed her worriedly. They were in Marphissa’s stateroom, which was nothing luxurious on a heavy cruiser but large enough for two people without feeling claustrophobic. “We’re going to drop into the lap of the Syndicate flotilla, and we’ll be moving at only point zero two light speed in normal space.”
“That’s the idea. We want them to chase us. The moment we arrive at the gate, command of the Manticore will temporarily shift to Kapitan Bascare.”
“What? Asima— Excuse me, Kommodor, I don’t even know who this Bascare is.”
“You’ll find out.” Marphissa couldn’t yet tell Toirac that “Bascare” was actually Alliance Fleet Captain Bradamont, but she unbent enough to explain more. “Trust me. These are the orders of President Iceni, to carry out an operation planned by her. But we have to do our part.”
“I don’t know.” Toirac looked around, uncertainty written all over his expression and posture. It had become an all-too-familiar look for him, whether in private or on the bridge.
Marphissa licked her lips, trying to find the right words. “Ygor, we’ve known each other for a while. I recommended you for command of this ship.”
“You did? Why didn’t you—”
“Wait.” She fixed him with a hard look. “You’ve got the skills to run this ship, but you’re not demonstrating the strength to command it. You’re slow, you hesitate, you allow your specialists and junior officers to decide things that you should be deciding. It’s one thing to delegate some authority and responsibility. I believe in the wisdom of that, contrary to the teachings of the Syndicate. But you can go too far. Delegation is one thing. Effectively ceding command decisions to your subordinates is another.”
Kapitan Toirac scowled, looking away. “I’m doing my best. This is very difficult. I’m trying to avoid the mistakes of the Syndicate.”