The Lost Stars (43 page)

Marphissa managed to stand straight and look at the watch specialists. “I could not have done it without you,” she said. “We did this . . . I am going to rest now. You, too, Kapitan Diaz.”

“Yes, Kommodor. Senior Watch Specialist Lehmann, you are to . . . call Leytenant Pillai . . . to assume command of the bridge. Return the crew to . . . standard ship's routine.” Diaz staggered upright, grinning foolishly at his success in saying the orders coherently.

They walked off the bridge. Marphissa wondered if the ship's gravity was having problems. As she walked, the deck seemed to be going up and down under her feet like the deck of a ship on a planet's sea. She reached her stateroom and realized that Bradamont had dropped off along the way at her own stateroom.

Marphissa entered, sealed the hatch, and locked it out of habit, fell into the bunk, grabbed the crash patch the ship's doctor had laid out there almost two days earlier, slapped it on, then lay back, wide-open eyes staring at the overhead. Until the crash patch counteracted the drugs in the up patch, she wouldn't be able to sleep.

She didn't remember when that happened, didn't remember dropping into the deep sleep of utter exhaustion. But at some point dreams intruded, dreams of Syndicate warships conducting firing runs, getting past her defenses, blowing apart freighters. And she was asleep on the bridge, passed out, unable to wake up even though she was bending every effort—

Marphissa jolted awake, her eyes open, staring into the darkened stateroom.
I'm not on the bridge.
She fumbled for her display.
We're in the hypernet.

Tense nerves collapsed with relief, and sleep overcame her again.

HE
had been awake the entire fight, making sure the freighter executives didn't do anything they shouldn't, and had now slept for what felt like almost as long a time. Instincts honed by a life of combat had recovered enough that Rogero came awake instantly at the soft knock on his door, one hand already closing about his sidearm. “Who?”

“Seki Ito.” The door opened, revealing Executive Ito with her open hands held out from her sides. “No danger. I just thought you might like some company.”

“Company?” That could mean a lot of different things.

Ito's smile in response to his question made it obvious what company meant in this case. “I bet it's been a while for both of us. No strings. Unless you want that.”

It had been a while, and having Bradamont on the same ship but being unable to even touch her had not made things any easier. Nor was it unheard of for single (or married) personnel far from home to temporarily step outside of partnership commitments.

But as nice as Ito looked at the moment, and as much as he knew he would enjoy her “company,” Rogero did not want to cheat on his commitment to Bradamont. “Thanks, but . . .” He tried to leave it at that.

Ito gave him an inviting look. “Are you sure? With Pers Garadun gone, I could use another patron.”

Ouch. Maybe this is more about Ito's chances of getting a mobile forces command at Midway than it is about me. Perhaps I'm not that desirable after all. Fortunately, I'm old enough not to be devastated by that.
“I can already recommend you for assignments, but General Drakon has strict rules about seniors sleeping with subordinates.”

This time Ito raised both eyebrows at him skeptically. “There have always been strict rules against it everywhere in Syndicate space, and it happens all the time everywhere in Syndicate space.”

“Yes, but General Drakon actually enforces those rules.”

“That's boring. Well . . . if you're certain you're not lonely . . .” Ito changed her posture only slightly, but suddenly her body looked a lot more alluring to the male
eye.

How do women do that?
Rogero wondered. “No. Nothing personal.”

Ito sighed theatrically, spreading her hands in the ancient gesture meaning what-can-I
do?

“Ito?”

“Yes?” She smiled.

“I heard Pers Garadun tell you and Executive Jepsen to tell everyone about what really happened at Kalixa, but Jepsen told me when I saw him that you had directed him not to, that you would take care of it alone.”

“That's right,” Ito agreed.

“I told Jepsen to go ahead and tell everyone while we were transiting through Indras. There was no need for you to be the only one responsible. I wanted you to know that Jepsen didn't disregard your instructions.”

“Oh. All right. If that's what you want.” She gave him one more questioning look. “If that is
all
you want?”

“Yes.”

She left, closing the door behind
her.

Exhaling in relief, Rogero lay back and looked upward, feeling ridiculously proud of himself for having resisted temptation.
It is a triumph I will have to keep to myself, of course. Honore Bradamont is unlikely to be as impressed by my achievement. Though if I had given in to temptation and she had ever learned of it, the consequences would no doubt have been apocalyptic.

GWEN
Iceni was awakened by the urgent pulsing of the comm panel next to her bed. She had a weapon in her hand and was scanning her darkened bedroom before waking up enough to realize that it wasn't a warning of intrusion. “Iceni. What is
it?”

“They're back, Madam President!” the command center supervisor announced. “The Recovery Flotilla. They have arrived at the hypernet gate, and Kommodor Marphissa has sent a message saying they accomplished their mission. She is sending a more detailed report.”

A weight she had not been aware of carrying dropped from Iceni. “All of them? All of the ships we sent came back?”

“Yes, Madam President. They are all here.”

“I'll see the detailed report in the morning. If Kommodor Marphissa hasn't already begun doing so, tell her to bring the ships of the Recovery Flotilla to this planet and place them in orbit.”

There were plenty of weights left on her, and those Reserve Flotilla survivors would have to be screened to ensure they could each be trusted, but thousands of new, trained crew members for her warships would make every other concern a lot easier to bear.

Everything had worked
out.

Something was bound to go wrong very soon.

ICENI
ran one hand lightly over the display before her, causing virtual sheets of debriefing papers to ruffle past like the pages of a real book. “These supervisors and specialists from the Reserve Flotilla are a real gift.”

Togo caught the reserve in her voice, but then anyone could have. “You are concerned, Madam President?”

“I am concerned when things seem to be too good to be true.” She pressed one fist against her mouth as she thought. “We need to screen these people very carefully. I want to be sure they are who they say they are, I want to be sure they feel no allegiance toward the Syndicate, and I want to be sure they can be trusted to make up the majority of the crews of two extremely powerful warships.”

“This can be done,” Togo said. “But it will take time. That level of review will require use of facilities with limited capacities and use of skilled interrogation personnel who are in limited numbers.”

“Take the time.” Iceni glanced at her calendar. “How are the elections going?”

“There have been no reported problems. Many citizens are voting, believing your assurances that these elections will actually count their votes to decide the victors. A few troublesome candidates may win their posts, but we can easily manipulate the reported vote totals to ensure they lose.”

“Do we want to do that?” Iceni asked. “I've been thinking. If these people gain power, no matter how little we actually give them, they'll also gain responsibility. They'll either do their jobs well, in which case they may be worth listening to, or they'll fail, in which case their troublesome aspects can be used to justify their losses in subsequent elections. But we may not have to manipulate the vote totals if we hold these candidates' feet to the fire when it comes to their actual performance.”

Togo did not reply at first, undecipherable thoughts moving behind his eyes. “You would treat them as another class of workers?”

“Why not?” Iceni demanded. Malin had given her the idea in one of his covert communications, or suggested it anyway, and she had found the concept growing on her. “They are workers. They are working for me and for whoever voted for them. If they don't keep me happy, if they don't keep those who voted for them happy, then they will be held accountable. That's how even an extremely limited democracy is supposed to work. In theory, anyway.”

“Madam President, what if they keep the people who voted for them happy but make you unhappy?”

Iceni smiled. “That would be a dilemma, wouldn't it? But as someone whose judgment I respect remarked to me, the most difficult subordinates can be the most valuable. They make you take a second look at things you might take for granted, and they may see things you do
not.”

Togo, who rarely caused a ripple in the smoothness of her routine, hesitated before replying. “There are risks,” he finally said.

“Of course there are. I still have the option of playing with vote totals if necessary, don't
I?”

“Yes, Madam President.”

“These elected positions have very limited power. Let's see what the people do with that. The Syndicate system is based on the assumption that the people cannot be trusted and have to be led like sheep. Is that true? I want to know. Which requires giving them some freedom in this matter, so I can see how they
do.”

“Yes, Madam President.” If Togo still had reservations, he kept them to himself.

THE
official certification of winners in elections had been held on Syndicate planets as long as Iceni could remember, elaborate affairs in which the preselected victors were congratulated in their preordained victories and sent forth with lofty calls to serve the people. The fact that those calls were as phony as the rest of the ceremony had always made it necessary to order supervisors to bring in large crowds of workers and their families to applaud when mandatory and otherwise simply act as props in the entire charade.

Iceni could feel the difference this time, and not simply because the event planners had been extraordinarily upset at not knowing who the winners would be well in advance while planning the ceremony. They seemed to take it as a personal insult that their planning would be dependent on who actually got the most votes. She had finally sacked half of the planning supervisors to shut them up, discovering afterward that the efficiency of the process appeared to have improved dramatically.

There hadn't been any need to order in crowds for the occasion this time, either. They were here, they were there in all cities, in numbers and with enthusiasm that was very sobering.

“We've unleashed a monster,” Drakon observed. They were standing side by side on the stage from which the victors would be certified, their images being broadcast throughout the star system.

“A very large and demanding monster,” Iceni said. “But it was always there. The Syndicate just kept it suppressed. Unless we were willing to act as the Syndicate does, as the snakes do, we had to deal with that energy somehow. I am concerned about keeping it under control, though.”

“That may be very difficult,” Drakon agreed. “I've done some more exploration of my soldiers' attitudes, and it confirms the suspicions I passed on to you earlier. If I gave them orders to fire on citizens, discipline might crack.”

Iceni nodded, smiling toward the crowds as if she and Drakon were engaging in small talk. Their lip movements were blurred by security fields, of course, ensuring that no one could read words off them and know what was really being said. “If your ground forces are no longer reliable, the local ground forces can't be counted on for internal security missions at
all.”

“I thought that you would be more upset by the news.”

Her smile held an edge of self-mockery. “I can be as hypocritical as anyone, but not on this issue. I've known since we took over that the workers and officers on our warships would refuse to participate in bombardments of citizens. They wouldn't even cooperate in a threat to do so. Your soldiers were always our only means of enforcing control of the citizens.”

Drakon smiled, too. “We're riding a tiger.”

“Exactly. Try not to get thrown.”

“You won't throw me.” He made it a statement, not a question. “But the tiger might.”

“It will if we don't keep it fed by measures like these elections. And they were clean elections,” Iceni said. “Mostly. Isn't that a strange thing? We kept our words to the citizens.”

“Mostly,” Drakon agreed. “They're going to want more, though.”

“We'll feed them slowly,” Iceni said. “It will be difficult, but I like that. I'm tired of easy solutions.”

“Like ordering executions of anyone who gives us trouble?”

“Like that. I'm not a Syndicate CEO anymore.”
I can almost believe that when I say it. Almost believe that I never did anything on my climb to the top that can't be forgotten now. But I left victims behind me. We all
did.

The official results were released to the media, appearing everywhere simultaneously. Cheers erupted. Iceni and Drakon waved, generating more cheers, then, after a few minutes, left the stage. “Even the ones who lost were applauding,” Iceni commented.

“If they believe the game isn't rigged, they also believe that next time they might win,” Drakon pointed
out.

“Buy-in. Yes. We need that. It's something the Syndicate never appreciated the need for among citizens even though they obsessed about it among top-rank CEOs.” They walked to the two impressive vehicles awaiting them. “Would you ride with me?” Iceni asked.