The Lost Fleet: Fearless

The intelligence section rested behind some impressive security hatches. A slightly nervous lieutenant was waiting outside them and quickly led Geary though into the high-security area. For some reason it always felt hushed in there to Geary, even though to the eye it just seemed a regular office space with a few more pieces of equipment crammed onto desks and into odd corners. In keeping with ancient tradition, the intelligence section was a world unto itself, part of and yet also separate from the rest of the ship’s crew. The tighter security world in which they operated was matched by a somewhat looser working environment.

One of the desks actually had a plant on it, a small splash of living greenery. Geary cocked a questioning eyebrow at the lieutenant, who looked a little more nervous as he responded. “That’s Audrey, sir.”

Of course. If a spaceship had plants on board, one was usually called Audrey. The reason for that, if there was a reason, was lost in the mists of the past, but it made Geary feel a little better to see something that hadn’t changed from his time to now. Geary smiled reassuringly and followed the lieutenant toward the interrogation room.

The interrogation room followed a design that outwardly at least probably hadn’t changed for centuries. Geary looked through the one-way mirror into it and saw that a Syndic noncommissioned officer sat in a single chair, apparently unrestrained. She seemed dazed and scared but trying not to show it. “If she makes a move for you, we’ll drop her with a stun charge,” the lieutenant assured Geary.

“She doesn’t seem the suicide-charge type,” Geary remarked. He studied the instrument readouts before him. “These are all related to your interrogations?” He had been down in this area before, but there hadn’t been prisoners then.

“Yes, sir.” The lieutenant indicated the devices. “We can do remote scans of brain activity while asking questions. That way we can spot deception on things we need to know.”

“And what do you do then?”

“Confrontation sometimes works. Once they realize we know when they’re lying, some people crack. For the tough ones, the best process is the use of drugs to eliminate normal inhibitions. We ask, they talk.”

“That sounds more humane than beating them up,” Geary noted with another smile.

“Beating them up?” The lieutenant seemed startled by the suggestion. “Why would we do that, sir? It produces unreliable information.”

“Does it?”

“Yes, sir. Not as bad as outright torture, but still unreliable. Our job is to find out accurate information for you. Physical and mental abuse might get people talking, but it wouldn’t provide accurate information.”

Geary nodded, secretly relieved that in the case of intelligence collection simple pragmatism had avoided the atrocities he had seen elsewhere. If he had learned his intelligence people were depending on torture, it would have meant they were as dysfunctional as the fleet’s tactics had once been. “Okay, let me in.”

The Syndic sailor jerked her head to look as the heavy door opened. Geary walked in, the Syndic sailor staring at his rank insignia, and stopped near her. “Who are you?” he asked. The intelligence types could have told him, but it seemed a good way to start a conversation.

The woman spoke steadily enough. “General Service Sailor Rank Seven Gyal Barada, Syndicate Worlds Self-Defense Forces, Mobile Space Forces Directorate.”

Geary sat down in the other chair, grateful that he worked in a fleet rather than a “mobile space forces directorate.” “I’m Captain John Geary.” The woman blinked in confusion. “I used to be called Black Jack Geary. That’s probably how you’ve heard of me. I’m the commander of this fleet.”

Confusion changed to fear. “That’s how-” the Syndic sailor blurted, then choked off further words.

Geary kept his voice calming and conversational. “How what?”

She was staring at him in near terror. “I heard the officers talking before our ship was destroyed. The enemy fleet couldn’t be here, they said. It couldn’t have got here. But it was.”

Geary nodded. “I did have something to do with that.”

“They told us this fleet was destroyed. In the home system. And you died a century ago.” The Syndic sailor had gone so pale that Geary feared she would faint.

“Were you injured in the battle?” he asked.

She shook her rapidly. “No. I don’t think so.”

“Have you been treated in accordance with the laws of war since being made prisoner?”

Confusion had returned again. “I…yes.”

“Good. How’s the war going?”

She swallowed and spoke the way someone did when reciting something. “The Syndicate Worlds are going from triumph to triumph. Final victory is within our grasp.”