Geary nodded and swung his own finger along a line of stars. “It was part of a standard transit route. That’s why my convoy was heading through the area.”
“Yes. But it was also close to Syndic space, which is why the convoy had a routine escort. Right?” Geary nodded as Desjani’s hand waved to indicate the stars beyond. “They could jump straight into Grendel’s system. Which they did when they attacked you.” She sat silent for a moment. “Afterward, well, my understanding is the system was swept, but there were Syndic forces jumping in and out constantly, hoping to catch more shipping. Everything had to be done under combat conditions, the accumulated battles left more and more wreckage and flotsam drifting through the system, and eventually Grendel was effectively abandoned except for some automated early-warning systems to let us know if the Syndics were coming through. It just made more sense to jump safely through Beowulf, Caderock, and Rescat than run the gauntlet through Grendel.” Another shrug. “And once the hypernet was set up, nobody even needed to do that.”
Geary gazed at the display, cold seeming to seep in through the walls around him as he thought of the decades his survival pod had spent tumbling through space in a system empty of everything except the wreckage of war. “But you went through there.”
“Yes. We needed to jump into a Syndic system where one of their hypernet gates existed, and Grendel offered a perfect jumping off point. Isolated, quiet, empty.” She swung one finger slowly through the representation of the lonely star. “Our sensors are better, more sensitive, than they used to be. They picked up the power being used in your survival pod and the tiny amount of heat that it was generating. It might’ve been power leakage from a Syndic spy drone, so we investigated.” Desjani pursed her lips. “The fleet physicians estimated you had only a few more years of survival time left, at best, before power in the pod was exhausted.”
The cold bored into him, threatening to freeze his breath in his throat. “I hadn’t heard that.”
“They’re not supposed to keep anyone alive that long, you know. The only reason it kept going all that time is because you were the only one aboard. If there’d been even just two survivors drawing down power to sustain hibernation…”
“Lucky me.”
Desjani had her eyes locked on him again. “Many believe it wasn’t a matter of luck, Captain Geary. An awful lot of things had to work out just right for you to end up alive on this warship just when the Alliance needed you. Just when we needed you.”
Great. More proof to the believers that I’ve been sent by the living stars to … do what? Are they “only” expecting me to somehow lead this fleet to safety, or is that just the start of their dreams?
How do I tell them otherwise? And what happens when they learn I’m just a very fallible man upon whom fate played a lot of nasty tricks?
Geary realized she was watching him with concern. “What? Is something wrong?”
“No! It’s just … you were silent a long time, not looking at anything. I did get a bit worried.”
The last batch of meds must’ve started wearing off, or recent events had just overwhelmed even what the meds could do. “I guess I need to rest some.”
“There’s no reason not to now. It’s three weeks transit time to Corvus in jump space. Plenty of time to recover.” Desjani looked briefly guilty. “The fleet physicians want to see you again as soon as possible. I’m supposed to tell you that.”
I bet they do. Am I better off avoiding them or seeking them out? “Thanks. And thanks for everything else, Tanya. I’m glad I’m on Dauntless.”
It was amazing how a smile could transform Captain Desjani’s face. “As am I, Captain Geary.”
He sat for a few minutes after she’d left, unable to work up the mental or physical energy to do anything else. Three weeks to Corvus. Not so long, but an eternity of time for a fleet of ships whose futures had once seemed confined to the space of a hour.
The bedding had been changed at some point, saving Geary the dilemma of either asking for help getting new bedding or sleeping in Admiral Bloch’s sheets. He slept for a long time, his sleep restless with vivid dreams that he couldn’t recall at all during brief periods of waking.
Eventually he got up, unable to sleep through the muffled sounds of the working-day life of the Dauntless that came to him even inside the well-insulated stateroom. Grateful to find himself feeling stronger, he rummaged in compartments, trying to ignore anything that looked like a personal possession of the late Admiral Bloch, and found some unopened ration bars that, for all he could tell, were as chronologically as old as he was.
It wasn’t like he felt like enjoying food, though, so the ration bars sufficed for a small breakfast.
Now what? Now he had the luxury of time. The Alliance fleet would be in jump space for weeks. He could actually find out a little bit more about what had happened since he’d entered that survival pod and started his long sleep. From what he’d heard and seen already, much of recent history wouldn’t make pleasant reading, but he had to know it if he wanted to understand these strangers he’d been thrust into commanding.
As it turned out, the modern version of the Sailor’s Manual contained what appeared to be a decent condensed history of events since his “last stand.”
Geary skipped hastily over the account of what had once been his final battle. He’d never been comfortable hearing even routine praise for himself, so the idea of reading a worshipful account of his actions made him feel almost ill. Especially when even levelheaded and experienced officers like Captain Desjani seemed to think he’d been sent back by the living stars to somehow save the Alliance.
But as he started to read past the story of “Black Jack Geary’s Last Stand” he stopped to stare at the date. Almost one hundred years ago. To me, it all happened less than two weeks past. I remember it so clearly. I remember that battle and those people in my crew and getting into that survival pod with my ship being ripped apart around me and Death riding on my shoulder. It was only two weeks ago. To me.
They’re all dead. The ones who died on my ship and the ones who got away safe. All the same now. And even the children of those who survived are dead, too. All that’s left is me.
He put his head down and couldn’t think of anything but grief for a long time.
Eventually, Geary made it through the history, finding it to be a relentlessly positive account of battles lost and won, making even what sounded to Geary like defeats seem like they’d somehow been part of a master plan. But that was an official history for you. What Captain Desjani had told him, of a stalemate lasting for decade after decade, was obvious when he read between the lines. As the history drew close to the present day, it seemed to become almost shrill in its patriotic exhortations, a sure sign to Geary’s way of thinking that morale was perceived as shaky.
The Sailor’s Manual had always been intended to teach the basics, so its contents couldn’t confirm Geary’s belief that the officers and sailors of the Alliance fleet were, on average, young and minimally trained. But as fleet commander he could access any personnel files he wanted, and those he checked at random all told the same story. Most of the personnel in the fleet had painfully little experience. A few had survived through luck or innate skill long enough to really know what they were doing, but they were a small minority. Each of the great victories celebrated in the history Geary had read had obviously taken a serious toll. Even though the official history didn’t admit to any defeats, Geary figured those had cost plenty as well.