The Lost Stars (16 page)

The statement hadn't come out sounding like a boast, but it could have been. Marphissa came closer to Bradamont, eyeing her. “Why did you believe us when we told you the snakes were gone?”

“It's hard to miss the wreckage where the Internal Security installations used to be,” Bradamont said. “And someone in this star system whom I trusted confirmed the fact.”

“The Alliance had a spy in this star system?” Marphissa blurted
out.

“No. Not even remotely. He's . . . a friend.”

“A friend.” A spy she could accept. A friend? How could that
be?

A long pause followed as both seemed lost for anything to talk about. What did you say to the enemy? Even if she had ceased to be the enemy? Finally, Bradamont gestured vaguely around her. “I see that you've acquired a battleship.”

“Yes.” Marphissa said. “From Kane. We took it from the Syndicate orbital facility there.”

“I got to see the action report,” Bradamont said, startling Marphissa. “Your President sent it to me. That was some very good ship handling, Kommodor.”

Marphissa almost jerked in shock at the praise, then felt herself warming more, though warily.
This woman was one of Black Jack's battle cruiser commanders, and she thinks I did a good job at Kane? Well, I did. But I never expected to hear an Alliance officer say that. Is she trying to get on my good side, flatter me to get me off guard?
“Thank you . . . Captain.” Another uncomfortable pause. “Have you ever been on a battleship?” Marphissa asked.

“A Syndic battleship, you mean?” Bradamont asked. She tilted her head slightly in thought. “Just once. Leading a boarding party. That was at Ixchel.”

Apparently there were no safe topics. “I'm not familiar with that engagement.” There had been so many engagements. “I take it the Alliance
won.”

“If you define winning as being the last ones left alive, and not very many of you,” Bradamont replied. “Then we left, and we blew it
up.”

Common ground. Not too surprising, really. “You lost a lot of people capturing the battleship, then you left and blew it
up.”

“It sounds like you've been through the same sort of thing.”

“A few times.” Another awkward silence fell as Marphissa gestured toward the chairs around the nearest table. This compartment would be an officers' lounge when finished. Though still lacking in many features, it did have the furniture installed. “Have a seat. Please.”

“Thank you.” Bradamont sat, her eyes on Marphissa. “In case you're wondering, I feel uncomfortable,
too.”

“I could tell. Because a few months ago we would have been trying to kill each other?”

“And we've spent all of our adult lives trying to kill each other, as did our parents and grandparents.”

“But now we're, um . . .” Marphissa searched for the right word and failed. “What are
we?”

“On the same side, I guess. What do you think of the plan to deal with the Syndic flotilla?”

“Risky. But . . . if it works . .
.”

Bradamont smiled. “Right. If it works.” She reached into a duffel near the table, pretending not to notice Marphissa tensing up, and lifted out a bottle. “I brought a small gift. A token of . . . um . .
.”

“Greetings?” Marphissa asked, examining the label. “Whiskey? From Vernon? Do you know how much this is worth in Syndicate space? Nobody has been able to get this stuff except through the black market for . . . for a century.”

“We're not in Syndicate space, are we?” Bradamont asked.

Marphissa grinned despite her worries. “No. We're not. Not anymore. Do you mind if I open
it?”

“I was hoping you would.” Bradamont smiled back. “I'll take the first drink so you can be sure it's not drugged or poisoned.”

“You could have already taken an antidote,” Marphissa pointed out. “Or, you might just want a head start on drinking this.”

“You're pretty sharp for a—” Bradamont's smile faded. “Sorry.”

“Force of habit,” Marphissa said, pouring out two drinks. “I may call you something obscene without thinking about it. Try not to take it personally.”

“Deal.”

Marphissa took a cautious sip, marveling at the taste. “I admit to being baffled. How could you choose to put yourself in the hands of . .
.”

“People who were Syndics not long ago? It wasn't easy.” Emotion flashed through Bradamont's eyes. “I've been in a Syndic labor camp. I know what they're like.”

“There are no more labor camps. Not where President Iceni's authority holds.”

“So I was told.” Bradamont smiled again. “You sound proud of that.”

“I am. We . . . we are changing things here.” Marphissa smiled once more, too. “President Iceni will help us build a government that truly is for the people.”

Bradamont studied Marphissa for a long moment, then raised her own glass. “In that case, let us salute your President Iceni.”

Marphissa matched the gesture. “To our President.” She watched how much Bradamont drank, determined not to be more affected by the alcohol than the Alliance officer. But Bradamont had saluted Iceni . . . “You're just here to help with this operation?”

Bradamont shook her head. “I'm supposed to stay, when the fleet leaves. Liaison officer. To keep track of what's happening here and to provide any assistance I can that is consistent with Alliance interests.”

“Assistance?” Marphissa laughed at a wild thought. “Tactics? Can you show us how Black Jack fights?”

“Yes.”

Blessed ancestors!
Marphissa took a bigger drink. Amazement warred with a feeling of resentment. “That's . . . can I explain my feelings to you? Because I'm having a hard time resolving them. On the one hand, I'm thinking how great it would be to have someone teach us a few of Black Jack's tricks. And with the Alliance fleet having vastly superior power to anything in what used to be Syndicate space, having one of Black Jack's former officers among us can't be a bad thing. So, for that I want to kiss
you.”

Bradamont took another sip of her drink, raising an eyebrow at Marphissa. “I take it I shouldn't be freshening my lip gloss right now, though.”

“No, because on the other hand, your Black Jack humiliated us and annihilated our mobile forces, which were crewed by our comrades. That's bad enough. But now one of his own is descending from on high to show us how to fight. For that, I want to slug
you.”

“You don't usually have that sort of mix of emotions about people, Kommodor?” Bradamont asked.

“Not usually. Or at least not at the same time. What are your emotions, Captain?”

Bradamont looked around again, taking another slow drink. “I understand your feelings. Any professional is going to feel pride in their own work, in their own abilities. They're going to resent any hint of condescending assistance. But you don't need any help with the fundamentals. If what you did at Kane is any indication, you are
good
, Kommodor. As for me, it's strange. I've been on Syndic, excuse me, Syndicate Worlds' planets before. As a prisoner. Part of me is screaming
escape, you fool!
Another part of me looks at you in that uniform and tells me I should hate you for all the deaths and destruction of a very long and very senseless war.” She set down her glass and shook her head. “Parts of me are stuck in the past. The rest sees people who are trying to put the past behind them, to make something new, to throw off the bonds that have held them. And you are Colonel Rogero's people.”

“Colonel Rogero?” Marphissa had to concentrate to remember who that was. “One of General Drakon's brigade commanders.
He
is your friend?”

“Yes.”

The single word held more emotion than friends usually inspired. “Ah. All right. There must be an interesting story behind that.”

“There is.” Bradamont leaned back, draping one arm over the back of her chair. “The bottom line is that I knew, because of Colonel Rogero, that Syndics were human, too. That some of you were not just human but very fine humans. That couldn't change things during the war. I had to keep fighting all of you, and I had to do my best, because regardless of who each of you were as individuals, you were all fighting for something that I couldn't allow to
win.”

“I see.” Marphissa sighed heavily, looking at the unfinished top of the table. “I didn't want the Syndicate to win, but I was afraid of what might happen when the Alliance won. They showed us pictures of the planets that had been fought over, bombarded— Don't. I know. We did it, too. I wanted to protect my home. That was all. They taught us you started the war. Did you know that? As kids, they told us it was all the Alliance's fault. Once you got old enough and high enough in the executive ranks you could learn the truth, that the Syndicate chose to start the war. But, by then, what were you going to do with the knowledge? By then . . . there wasn't anything left to do but keep fighting because what else could you
do?”

Bradamont gazed back somberly. “You could have revolted while the war was still going
on.”

“Some did. Didn't you hear of those?” Marphissa shuddered and took a long drink, then refilled her glass. “When the Syndicate had mobile forces in abundance, they could deal with rebellion very easily. Traitors died,” she said bitterly. “The worlds of traitors were reduced to ruins, the families of traitors died or were left to struggle amid the rubble of their cities, and the snakes were everywhere. Breathe the wrong words, and you disappeared. Offend a CEO, and your husband or wife or children disappeared. We could have revolted? Dammit, don't you think we tried?”

“I'm sorry.” Bradamont sounded like she meant it. “In the Alliance fleet, we often complain about fighting our own government. But we've endured nothing like that. Nothing like that.”

“They call us traitors now, the Syndicate,” Marphissa continued. “But we're not. Do you know the funny thing? The entire Syndicate system encourages betrayal. Of your friends and your coworkers and even your spouse or your parents or your children. But then it says you must be loyal to the boss who has no loyalty to you. Damn them. Damn all of them.”
Why am I saying this to her? But I could never say it to anyone. Not for all my life.

Bradamont broke an uneasy silence. “But Iceni is different?”

“Yes.”

“What about Drakon?”

“General Drakon? He supports the President. That's all I need to know.”

“I thought he was a co-ruler,” Bradamont said.

“I suppose technically he is,” Marphissa conceded. “But I respond to orders from the President. What is Black Jack really like?”

“He's . . .” Bradamont frowned at her glass. “Not what anyone expected. Not less. More. He's real.”

“Is he—? They say he— I mean, there's talk that he is more than—”

“He's human,” Bradamont said.

“But was he sent? Is he an agent of more than the Alliance?” Marphissa demanded.

“He never claimed to be. I don't know. That's way above my pay grade.” Bradamont bent a questioning look on her. “I thought Syndics didn't believe in that sort of thing.”

“Religions? Faith? All of those have been officially discouraged. We were only supposed to believe in the Syndicate. But people hung on to the old beliefs.” Marphissa shrugged. “Sometimes that was all we had to hang on to. Some people believed in the Syndicate, like somebody else would believe in a divine power, but a lot of them here were shaken in that faith when the Syndicate abandoned us to the enigmas. Did you really see some of the enigmas?”

Bradamont nodded, not fazed by the change in topic. “We saw one. Part of one. We actually learned very little about them. Admiral Geary is convinced that the enigmas would commit racial suicide to keep us from learning more.”

That took a while to sink in. “A race even crazier than humanity? Wonderful.”

“To them,” Bradamont said, “it's not crazy. To the enigmas, what they're doing makes perfect sense. Kind of like how the war made sense to humanity.”

“No, there you're wrong,” Marphissa said, refilling her glass and Bradamont's as well. “We've all known the war was crazy. No one could figure out how to end it. Fighting a war because we couldn't figure out how to end it. I guess the enigmas aren't crazier than we are after all. What about the fast ships we saw? The beautiful ships. Can you tell me about the ones in those?”

“The Dancers?” Bradamont couldn't help smiling. “They're very, very ugly. And they seem to think in some different ways than us. But there's still a connection there. They helped
us.”

“They saved our primary planet.” Marphissa raised her glass in salute. “I couldn't believe it possible, actually managing to divert a launched bombardment. To the Dancers!”

“To the Dancers,” Bradamont echoed. “But they are really ugly. Here's an image.” She offered a data pad. “I'm going to deliver a report on them to your President.”

Marphissa gaped at the image. “Like a wolf and spider having offspring. Seriously? This is how they look? But they drive ships like the ships were part of them. Incredibly graceful. How do their maneuvering systems manage that?”

Bradamont rolled a drink around in her mouth before swallowing it. “We're pretty sure they drive their ships manually.”

Marphissa jerked in involuntary reaction. “Those kinds of maneuvers at those speeds? Done by manual control rather than automated systems? That's impossible.”

“It is for
us.”

“What can you tell me about the huge ship?” Marphissa pressed.

“The
Invincible
? We captured it from the Kicks.” Bradamont squinted as she studied the play of light in the amber liquid partially filling her glass. “They're cute. The Kicks. And crazy. Not
leave us alone
crazy like the enigmas.
Take over the universe if they could
crazy. And absolutely fanatical fighters. To the death. They're in the report for your President, too. Hopefully the Kicks will never make it to human space, but you need to know why you don't want to go to space controlled by the Kicks.”