The Lost Fleet – Dauntless

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.

He wondered how officers like Captains Numos and Faresa had stayed alive while so many others had died. Granted he’d only seen them briefly, but he hadn’t gained the impression that either of them were especially skilled. He suspected they were like some officers he’d once known, the ones who somehow managed to always let someone else take the risks, who worked hard at maintaining their image while avoiding actions that might hazard them or their image. But he had no proof of that, so for the time being at least all he could do was watch Numos and Faresa in the hope of either confirming or refuting his suspicions.

Having stalled as long as he could, Geary steeled himself and called up the record of Commander Michael Geary. As he’d guessed, and as had been apparent from the way he’d fought his ship, his grandnephew had been one of the experienced and skilled survivors. Not because he’d held back in action, either. Michael Geary had indeed spent a lifetime trying to live up to the heroic standards of Black Jack Geary. He’d finally achieved that goal by dying in battle.