Relentless (2 page)

 

THIRTY-SEVEN SURVIVING HEAVY CRUISERS IN SEVEN DIVISIONS

 

 

minus

 

Invidious
(lost at Kaliban)
Cuirass
(lost at Sutrah)
Crest
,
War-Coat
,
Ram
, and
Citadel
(lost at Vidha)
Basinet
and
Sallet
(lost at Lakota)
Utap
,
Vambrace
, and
Fascine
(lost at Lakota II)
Armet
and
Gusoku
(lost at Cavalos)

 

SIXTY-TWO SURVIVING LIGHT CRUISERS IN TEN SQUADRONS

 

First Light Cruiser Squadron
Second Light Cruiser Squadron
Third Light Cruiser Squadron
Fifth Light Cruiser Squadron
Sixth Light Cruiser Squadron
Eighth Light Cruiser Squadron
Ninth Light Cruiser Squadron
Tenth Light Cruiser Squadron
Eleventh Light Cruiser Squadron
Fourteenth Light Cruiser Squadron
minus

 

Swift
(lost at Kaliban)
Pommel
,
Sling
,
Bolo
, and
Staff
(lost at Vidha)
Spur
,
Damascene
, and
Swept-Guard
(lost at Lakota)
Brigandine
,
Carte
, and
Ote
(lost at Lakota II)
Kote
and
Cercle
(lost at Cavalos)

 

ONE HUNDRED EIGHTY-THREE SURVIVING DESTROYERS IN TWENTY SQUADRONS

 

First Destroyer Squadron
Second Destroyer Squadron
Third Destroyer Squadron
Fourth Destroyer Squadron
Sixth Destroyer Squadron
Seventh Destroyer Squadron
Ninth Destroyer Squadron
Tenth Destroyer Squadron
Twelfth Destroyer Squadron
Fourteenth Destroyer Squadron
Sixteenth Destroyer Squadron
Seventeenth Destroyer Squadron
Twentieth Destroyer Squadron
Twenty-first Destroyer Squadron
Twenty-third Destroyer Squadron
Twenty-fifth Destroyer Squadron
Twenty-seventh Destroyer Squadron
Twenty-eighth Destroyer Squadron
Thirtieth Destroyer Squadron
Thirty-second Destroyer Squadron
minus

Dagger
and
Venom
(lost at Kaliban)
Anelace
,
Baselard
, and
Mace
(lost at Sutrah)
Celt
,
Akhu
,
Sickle
,
Leaf
,
Bolt
,
Sabot
,
Flint
,
Needle
,
Dart
,
Sting
,
Limpet
, and
Cudgel
(lost at Vidha)
Falcata
(lost at Ilion)
War-Hammer
,
Prasa
,
Talwar
, and
Xiphos
(lost at Lakota)
Armlet
,
Flanconade
,
Kukri
,
Hastarii
,
Petard
, and
Spiculum
(lost at Lakota II)
Flail
,
Ndziga
,
Tabar
,
Cestus
, and
Balta
(lost at Cavalos)

 

SECOND FLEET MARINE FORCE
Colonel Carabali commanding (acting)

 

Originally 1,560 Marines divided into detachments on battle cruisers and battleships. Approximately 1,200 surviving following losses in ground actions and on destroyed warships.

THE structure of the Alliance heavy cruiser
Merlon
shuddered again and again as hell lances fired by Syndicate Worlds warships ripped into and through her. Commander John Geary grabbed for support as a volley of Syndic grapeshot struck
Merlon
’s port side, the impacts of the solid metal balls vaporizing part of the hull. Wiping a hand across his eyes to clear away sweat, Geary blinked through the fumes the overloaded and failing life-support systems couldn’t clear out of the atmosphere left inside the ship. His first real combat action might also turn out to be his last.
Merlon
tumbled helplessly through space, unable to control her motion, and the final hell lance still working on the Alliance warship went silent as more enemy fire ripped into her.

There wasn’t anything else he could do. It was time to go.

Geary cursed as he got the emergency destruct panel open and punched in the authorization code. Another volley of hell lances sliced into
Merlon
, and more indicator lights on the bridge went out or shifted to blinking damage status. Geary pulled on his survival suit helmet, knowing that he had only ten minutes before the power core overloaded and
Merlon
exploded. But Geary paused before he left the bridge. He’d ordered the remaining members of the crew off once it was clear that he alone could handle the few operational weapons and the final act of self-destruction. He’d bought all the time he could for his crew to get clear.

But
Merlon
had been his ship, and he hated to leave her to her death.

Another rumble and
Merlon
’s out-of-control tumble rolled sideways and up as more Syndic grapeshot slammed into her, the passageways around Geary rotating dizzyingly, bulkheads thrusting suddenly toward him, then away, sometimes slamming painfully into him. His search became more desperate as he kept passing escape-pod berths either empty or with mangled remnants of their rescue craft still wedged in place.

He finally found one with a yellow status light, indicating damage, but he had no choice. Inside, seal the hatch, strap in, slap the eject control, feel the force of the acceleration pin him to the seat as the escape pod tore away from
Merlon
’s death throes.

The pod’s propulsion cut off, much earlier than it should have. No communications. No maneuvering controls. Environmental systems degraded. Geary’s seat reclined automatically as the pod prepared to put him into survival sleep, a frozen state where his body could rest safely until his escape pod was recovered. As Geary’s consciousness faded, his eyes on the blinking damage lights of the escape pod as they winked out into dormant status, he knew that someone would come looking for him. The Alliance fleet would repel the Syndic surprise attacks, reestablish control of the space around the star Grendel, and search for survivors from
Merlon
. He’d be picked up in no time.

He opened his eyes on a blur of lights and shapes, his body feeling as if it were filled with ice and his thoughts coming slowly and with difficulty. People were talking. He tried to make out the words as the blurry shapes began to resolve themselves into men and women in uniform. One man with a big, confident voice was speaking. “It’s really him? You’ve confirmed it?”

“DNA match with fleet records is perfect,” another voice said. “This
is
Captain Geary. He’s been badly physically stressed by the duration of his survival sleep. It’s a miracle he came through this well. It’s a miracle he came through at all.”

“Of course it was a miracle!” the big voice boomed. A face leaned close, and Geary blinked to focus, making out a uniform that was the color of the Alliance fleet but otherwise different in details. The man beaming at him bore the stars of an admiral, but Geary didn’t recognize him. “Captain Geary?”

“C . . . C . . . Com . . . man . . . der . . . Geary,” he finally managed to reply.

“
Captain
Geary!” the admiral insisted. “You were promoted!”

Promoted? Why? How long had he been out? Where was he?

“What . . . ship?” Geary gasped, looking around. From the size of the sick bay, this ship was much larger than
Merlon
.

The admiral smiled. “You’re aboard the battle cruiser
Dauntless
, flagship of the Alliance fleet!”

Nothing made sense. There wasn’t any battle cruiser in the Alliance fleet named
Dauntless
. “Crew . . . my . . . crew?” Geary managed to say.

The admiral frowned and stepped back, motioning forward a woman who wore captain’s insignia. Geary’s gaze left the woman’s face, unsettled by her expression of awe and distracted by the number of combat-action ribbons on the left breast of her uniform. Dozens of them, but that was ridiculous. Topping her rows of ribbons was the one for the Alliance Fleet Cross. He couldn’t even remember the last time one of those had been awarded. “I’m Captain Desjani,” the woman said, “commanding officer of
Dauntless
. I regret to inform you that the last surviving member of the crew of your heavy cruiser died about forty-five years ago.”

Geary stared. Forty-five years? “How . . . long?”

“Captain Geary, you were in survival sleep for ninety-nine years, eleven months, and twenty-three days. Only the fact that the pod had a single occupant enabled it to keep you alive so long.” She made a spiritual gesture he recognized. “By the grace of our ancestors and the mercy of the living stars you lived, and you have returned.”

One hundred years? A wave of shock rode through Geary’s slow-moving thoughts as he tried to absorb the news, not even trying to grasp why the woman had apparently seen some religious significance in his survival.

The bad news having been delivered by someone else, the admiral leaned forward again with another big smile. “Yes, Black Jack, you have returned!”

He’d never liked the Black Jack nickname. But if Geary managed to show his reaction, the admiral didn’t notice it, speaking as if he was giving a speech. “Black Jack Geary, back from the dead, just as predicted in the legends, to help the Alliance win its greatest victory and finally put an end to this war with the Syndics!”

Returned? Legends? The war was still going on after a century?

Everyone he had known must be dead.

Who were these people and who did they think he was?

 

 

JOHN Geary bolted awake in his stateroom aboard
Dauntless
, gazing up at the overhead, breathing heavily and sweating even though his insides felt a lingering memory of the ice that had once filled him. It had been a while since he’d had flashbacks to the last moments of
Merlon
and his awakening aboard
Dauntless
a century later. He sat up, kneading his forehead with one hand while he tried to calm his breathing. Around him loomed the darkened outlines of his stateroom.

The admiral with the big voice had died in the Syndicate Worlds’ home star system after his plan to win the war had turned out to be an ambush by the Syndics. A lot of other people and Alliance warships had died with him. The survivors had turned to the legendary Black Jack Geary to save them, and despite Geary’s abhorrence of the impossibly heroic figure that legends claimed Black Jack had been, he’d been forced to assume command of the fleet. After all, his commissioning date to captain had been almost a century earlier, and no other surviving officer in the fleet had anywhere near that much seniority. A number of them had doubted he could do it, doubted that he was truly the hero out of legend, but even though Geary privately shared those doubts, he’d known that he had to try.

And so far he’d done what seemed impossible. He’d brought the Alliance fleet back through Syndic space, a long, fighting retreat using every skill he’d learned a century ago, skills lost to the fleet in the decades of bloodbath the war had become after
Merlon
’s destruction.

His eyes went to the star display floating over the table in his stateroom. He’d left it active when he went to sleep, centered on the star Dilawa. Still inside Syndic space, but only three more jumps away from reaching safety in Alliance space. He was so close to saving those who had believed he could save them. But the fleet was still inside enemy territory, still had to fight its way past the Syndic flotilla that would surely be waiting at the end of one of those jumps, and the loss of the
Merlon
had come back to haunt him.

Geary exhaled wearily, then dug in a drawer for a ration bar. He eyed the bar dubiously. Like most of the food left in the fleet, the bar had come from Syndic stockpiles abandoned in place when marginal star systems had been deserted after the introduction of the hypernet. It was food even the Syndics didn’t think worth hauling away. While no doubt long past its expiration date, the bar and the other food they’d picked up had been frozen in airless vacuum since abandonment and technically remained edible.

The bar had a propaganda wrapper featuring impossibly heroic-looking Syndic ground troops marching from left to right. He tore the wrapper open, trying to avoid reading the ingredients, then started biting off and swallowing chunks of it. Despite his best efforts to avoid tasting the thing, he still ended up wincing at the flavor. Sailors in the Alliance fleet often complained about the food they got, but one of the few virtues of these Syndic supplies was that (aside from keeping you alive) they also made the Alliance rations taste wonderful by comparison.

And, as the ancient joke went, not only was the food terrible but there wasn’t enough of it. The bar sat like a lead ball in Geary’s stomach, but that wasn’t why he didn’t get another. A fleet cut off from resupply and trapped in enemy territory had to get by on short rations. He wouldn’t eat better than his sailors. Though considering the quality of the Syndic food, “better” probably wasn’t the right term.