The Lost Fleet: Relentless (The Lost Fleet: Beyond the Frontier, Band 5) - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

“Jack Campbell” is the pen name of John G. Hemry, a retired naval officer who graduated from the U.S. Naval Academy in Annapolis before serving with the surface fleet and in a variety of other assignments. He is the New York Times bestselling author of The Lost Fleet series and The Lost Stars series, as well as the Stark’s War, Paul Sinclair, and Pillars of Reality series. He lives with his indomitable wife and three children in Maryland.

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ONE

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, trap 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...