“Tenth Light Cruiser Squadron and Third Destroyer Squadron report all ships reaching fuel-cell exhaustion. Heavy cruiser Camail reports fuel-cell exhaustion.”
Desjani began laughing, and Geary looked at her in amazement.
She was pointing to her ship’s fuel-cell reserve status, which was fluctuating between 1 and 2 percent. Abruptly Desjani stopped laughing and made an abortive lunge toward him, then caught herself, made a fist, and swung a punch onto Geary’s shoulder. “You did it! By the grace of the living stars you did it!”
“We did it,” Geary corrected, rubbing his shoulder and suddenly feeling on the verge of hysterical laughter himself. “Everyone in this fleet.” He became aware of cheers resonating through Dauntless’s hull. The crew celebrating.
For a moment Geary felt his memories of Merlon’s last moments crowding in again. He hadn’t been able to save his heavy cruiser, he hadn’t been able to get her crew home. No matter what anyone else said of the battle at Grendel, long ago for them and all too recent for him, he had always felt that he had failed. Failed his ship. Failed his crew. But not this time.
“Sir?” Desjani asked, still grinning but now puzzled as she looked at him. “Is something wrong?”
He smiled back. “No, Tanya. I was just remembering something.” Somehow he knew that even if the flashbacks to Merlon’s last moments came again, they would never hold the same pain.
“Captain?” the operations watch reported. “There are three fast transports towing some construction platforms on their way toward the hypernet gate.”
Desjani sobered, taking a deep breath. “Captain Cresida’s safe-fail system. They’re getting it installed. May your ancestors welcome you with the honor you deserve, Jaylen. Say hello to Roge for me.”
“Her husband?” Geary asked, trying to control his voice. The stress and emotions of the moment, good and bad, felt almost overwhelming.
“Yeah. Ever since he died she’d always been sure he’d be waiting for her.” Desjani wiped one eye with a rough gesture and turned to her watch-standers. “Initiate maximum energy conservation measures until we get more fuel cells aboard.”
Stung into remembering more critical tasks left to do immediately, Geary hit his controls. “All units in the Alliance fleet, brake down velocity as much as possible without going below one percent fuel reserves.”
He called up another circuit. “All Alliance assets within Varandal Star System, this is Captain John Geary, acting commander of the Alliance fleet. The fleet’s ships are extremely low on fuel cells. Some of our ships have already been forced to shut down their power cores. Request all available assets assist in providing fuel cells to the fleet’s ships on a maximum-priority basis. To the honor of our ancestors. Geary out.”
Another message. “Dreadnaught, shadow the retreating Syndics with your task force.” Dreadnaught wouldn’t be able to catch the Syndics with the lead the fleeing enemy had, but it wouldn’t hurt to keep the Syndics under a little pressure.
One more. “Captain Badaya, the Syndics are fleeing toward the Atalia jump point. They may try to sweep you up on their way out. Avoid contact with them. We’ll get them all another day, and I want the ships with you along with the fleet when we do.”
Rione had been sitting still, staring blankly before her, but she finally came out of her daze, looking at Geary as if not sure what she was seeing. “Congratulations. The fight’s not over, but you’ve already done the impossible.”
The war wasn’t over, but the Lost Fleet was home.
GEARY stood in his stateroom, facing the display now centered on Varandal, the ships of the fleet orbiting in a swarm about the star. For the first time since he’d assumed command of the fleet, it was in friendly territory with no immediate threat to its existence. The planets and cities and facilities he saw would help the fleet, not pose a danger to it.
Twenty-four hours had made a big difference. Two hours ago the retreating Syndics had jumped out of Varandal, still running as if the demon from inside a black hole was pursuing them. While the Syndics still fled, in the wake of Geary’s message for assistance, spacecraft of all types had swarmed out from Varandal’s worlds, colonies, and orbital facilities hauling whatever fuel cells they could carry. Now none of his ships were in danger of running out of fuel cells, and those that had run out were powered up again. The most badly damaged warships were already reaching the extensive space docks and repair facilities Varandal boasted.
He felt a heaviness inside thinking about the warships and sailors who had died on the very threshold of home. Furious hadn’t been the only loss, though it had struck him most deeply. The heavy cruisers Kaidate and Quillion had sustained too much damage to be saved, the light cruisers Estocade, Disarm, and Cavalier had been blown apart during the battle cruisers’ firing passes against the Syndics, and the destroyers Serpentine, Basilisk, Bowie, Guidon, and Sten had either been shattered or exploded during the engagement. Those had just been the ships attached to the fleet, not counting those that had died in the earlier defensive battles at Varandal and alongside Dreadnaught. And it didn’t include the sailors killed or wounded on ships that had “only” been damaged during the battle. Numerous other warships would only be saved because they had been so badly hurt in friendly space. But the fleet was home. Not exactly safe, and too many ships, men, and women had been lost along the way, but it was home.
There’d been a time when he’d imagined this moment and seen himself gratefully relinquishing command of the fleet. Exactly what he would have done then had always been vague. Aside from a wistful desire to see the planet Kosatka again, Geary hadn’t had any idea where he might find any peace or refuge from the legend of Black Jack.
That had changed. He’d seen where duty led, where honor required him to go, and he’d sworn an oath to someone who mattered a great deal to him. He could still try to walk away from it, try to leave behind his concepts of honor and duty, cast aside his promise. But if he did, the killing would surely go on, the war would continue as it had for decade upon decade, and he would lose the one thing, the one person, whose presence made this hard and violent future a place where he nonetheless wanted to be. Looked at that way, the decision wasn’t all that hard. Perhaps he was being delusional, suffering from the Geary Syndrome doctors had defined in decades past, believing only he could save the Alliance. But people he trusted told him he was the only one with a chance to end the war. He believed them in everything else. He had no choice but to believe them in this.
So he looked on the fleet and wondered if he could retain command of it and convince his superiors of what needed to be done.
“It was worse than I feared,” Rione was saying. “My contacts here say that in the last few months, as the Syndics broadcast claims that they’d destroyed the fleet and word leaked out that the fleet actually was presumed lost in enemy territory, civil disobedience and demonstrations erupted in a great many star systems. The people of the Alliance are losing hope.” She paused. “They were losing hope. If Varandal is any measure, your return with the fleet is generating tremendous optimism.”