“Stop it! I don’t want to find out, and neither do you!”
FIFTEEN
EVEN sixteen days could seem like a long time.
The regulations and procedures for entering Sol Star System had been dug out of the archives to be reviewed by all officers. Reading them in his stateroom, Geary was struck by two odd sensations. The first was a feeling of dusting off old records even though digital files never actually accumulated dust. The second was a dawning realization that he had read through these procedures once before.
When was it? I was an ensign, I think. At some point, I called up these procedures and read them, daydreaming that someday my ship would be the one chosen at the ten-year point for the visit to Old Earth. That feels so long ago.
How many ensigns have there been in the fleet since then? How many of those ensigns died during the century-long war? I’m sure none of them daydreamed about visiting Old Earth. They just hoped to survive, and maybe to be the heroes that young men and women dream of being before they become old enough and experienced enough to realize that real glory never comes to those who seek it.
They dreamed of being like Black Jack. It wasn’t my fault they did that. The government and the fleet needed a hero, and I guess I was plausible enough to be built into one even though I’m nothing like the legend they created. But they died wanting to be like me.
I don’t know what Black Jack could do to help the Alliance with the mess it is in. I don’t know what I can do. But I have to keep trying because people believed in who they thought I was. This trip isn’t going to solve anything, but once we get back, I have to think of something. Maybe something I see at Sol will give me some ideas.
There was a link near the procedures for entering Sol that also tickled Geary’s memory. He read it, a smile growing. One more thing that had been forgotten, but there was no reason it could not be revived.
His hatch alert chimed. Instead of Tanya, or Rione or anyone else whom Geary might have expected, Senator Sakai had come to see him.
For over a minute, Senator Sakai sat without speaking in the seat that Geary offered, just watching Geary with his usual enigmatic expression. Finally, Sakai spoke in a quiet voice that nonetheless commanded attention. “Admiral, you are a rare specimen. An anachronism.”
“You don’t need to point that out,” Geary said, wondering what Sakai was driving at.
“Someone from a hundred years in the past. It has served you well in command of the fleet,” Sakai observed, as if Geary had not spoken. “It has served the Alliance well. At least, so far. But this is not the past. We are not the people you knew. This is not the Alliance you knew.” Sakai sounded neither happy nor sad about that. He simply said the words as if discussing a fact distant in time and place. “Admiral, where do you believe my loyalties lie?”
“I think, Senator,” Geary said, once more choosing his words with care, “that you are loyal to the Alliance.”
“Interesting. Do you believe that makes me unusual, or typical among the politicians who lead the Alliance in this time?”
That was an explosive question, and one he might have had a great deal of trouble answering if not for his long experience with Victoria Rione. “I believe that most, if not all, of the politicians in charge of the government believe that they are loyal to the Alliance.”
“Again, an interesting choice of words, Admiral.”
“Do you disagree with me?” Geary asked.
“Your answer was incomplete,” Sakai replied obliquely. The senator frowned slightly, looking off into the distance. “Not all of us who are loyal, who believe we are loyal, believe in the Alliance anymore. Some of us look at the Alliance and wonder not if it will perish, but when.” He focused on Geary with an intent gaze. “And we wonder whether you, with your antiquated ideals born of another time, will contrive to hold together a little longer that which is coming apart, or if your presence and your ideals will only accelerate the collapse of the Alliance.”
Geary took a long moment to reply. “I would not do anything to harm the Alliance. I have made every effort to act as necessary to protect and preserve the Alliance.”
“Admiral, you believe you will not do anything to harm the Alliance. You believe your every effort has been for the good of the Alliance.” Sakai shook his head. “Perhaps I am too jaded, too bitter from watching destruction become a virtue. Perhaps you are the hero the Alliance needs. But I do not believe it.”
“Why would you say that to me?”
“Perhaps because you are one of the few left who would not seek to use my words against me. Perhaps because truth is spoken so rarely these days that I wanted the feel of it in my words at least once more.” This time, one corner of Sakai’s mouth bent very slightly upward in the barest of smiles. “I am a politician, Admiral. Do you know what happens to politicians who tell the truth? They get voted out of office. We must lie to the voters. Tell them the truth, and they punish us. Lie, and they reward us. Like the dogs in the ancient experiment we learn to do what brings rewards. Somehow the system stumbles onward, the Alliance survives, but the pressure on it builds with every refusal by its leaders and its people to face unpleasant truths.”
Sakai again sat without speaking for several seconds, his eyes hooded in thought. “We politicians lie for the best of reasons, for the best of causes,” he finally said in a monotone. “For the good of the Alliance. For the good of our people. Only by lying can we serve them. Do you believe me?”
“I do,” Geary said, bringing what might have been a glimmer of surprise to life in Sakai’s eyes. “Isn’t that the problem? Just about everyone thinks they are doing the right thing. Or they’ve convinced themselves that they’re doing the right thing, and that others must be both wrong and self-serving.”
Sakai regarded Geary again. “You have been speaking with Victoria Rione, I see. Are you aware of how much effort some politicians put into ensuring she was once more placed upon your flagship for your mission into enigma space?”
“I’ve guessed.”
“I am one of those politicians who backed such an effort.” A tiny smile once more bent Sakai’s mouth. “Though not, perhaps, for the same reasons as others.”
What did that admission mean? “Will you tell me your reasons?”
“In part. Emissary Rione—excuse me, Envoy Rione is, shall we say, not the sort of weapon which merely follows the path set for it by others. She is what you in the military would call a smart weapon, one that thinks for itself. Such a weapon may not act as those who unleash it expect.” Sakai shook his head. “Envoy Rione believes in the Alliance, too. She is willing to do any number of things that our ancestors would never have agreed to in order to preserve it.”
“But what did you expect her to do?” Geary pressed.
“Admiral.” Sakai paused again, then looked at Geary with another searching gaze. “The legend that grew around Black Jack said that he would return to save the Alliance. Everyone assumed that meant Black Jack would defeat the Syndics. But saving the Alliance is not simply a matter of ending the war. That has become very, painfully, clear to all of us. And now the people of the Alliance increasingly ask themselves whether Black Jack’s ultimate mission is not a military one, not aimed against any external foe, but is instead to save the Alliance from the inner forces that threaten to destroy it.”
Geary had to bite back an immediate, instinctive denial. Instead, he shook his head and spoke with care once more. “I wouldn’t know how to do that. I have never believed in the legend. I do not believe that I am destined or chosen or whatever term you want to use. I’m just trying to do my job, my duty, the best that I can.”
“Does what you believe matter?” Sakai asked in a low voice. “Belief is a very powerful force, Admiral, for good or for ill. Belief can destroy that which appears unshakable, and belief can accomplish what knowledge tells us must be impossible. I cannot save the Alliance, Admiral. If I believed that I could, I would be one with the fools who think that they alo
ne know wisdom, that they alone know what must be right. But people look at you, Admiral, and do not see a fallible human. They see Black Jack. Do not deny it. I accompanied your fleet on the final campaign against the Syndics so I could see you and so I could see how others acted toward you. Even those who hate you, who wish to see you fail, see Black Jack. And Black Jack can do those things that those who believe in him think he can do. Perhaps even things I believe to be impossible.”
“Or that belief in me could be the last straw that breaks the back of the Alliance,” Geary said, not trying to hide his bitterness.
“Yes.” Sakai inclined his head slightly toward Geary. “An interesting dilemma.”
“Can you tell me whether you will help me hold things together?” Geary demanded. “Not as some mythical Black Jack but just doing what I can. Will you help?”
“Why do you ask me this?” Sakai said, this time smiling more openly. “I have already told you that I lie. It is my profession. It is what my people demand of me. You could not believe whatever answer I gave you.”
Geary sat back, watching Sakai. From somewhere, words came to him. “One way to avoid lying is to avoid actually answering the question, isn’t it? Give an evasive response, and let the listener read whatever meaning they want into it.”
Sakai’s smile vanished, replaced by an intrigued expression. “You have spent much time around Envoy Rione. I should have guessed how much you would learn from her. And so I will finally answer that question you asked. What did I expect Envoy Rione to do aboard your flagship? I believed that Envoy Rione would find creative ways to forestall any plans aimed at you. That is why I supported placing her on your ship. This in turn gave me access to some other . . . consultations to which I might otherwise have been barred.”
“Senator, that sounds suspiciously like you were trying to help me,” Geary said.
“Not you. The Alliance. Because whatever you do, however mistaken or correct your actions based on your prewar sense of right and wrong, you are not a fool. Unlike some of those pursuing other means to save the Alliance.” Sakai held up a single forefinger to forestall Geary from interrupting. “Admiral, you have been told that construction of new warships has been halted. In fact, a new fleet of sufficient strength to rival your own is being built, and I use the term ‘rival your own’ because that is a great part of its intended purpose.”
Geary did his best to feign surprise followed by outrage. “Why would the government mislead me like that?” He could think of any number of reasons but wanted to see which ones Sakai offered up.
“The government is not misleading you. Certain powerful individuals within the government are misleading you. Others do not ask questions whose answers might prove too difficult. Others delude themselves that destructive means will serve creative ends. Here is what you must know. A decision has been made to give command of this fleet to an officer who will, depending upon whom you ask, safeguard the Alliance, or actively counter the threat posed by a certain hero to whom the existing fleet is extremely loyal, or act as a passive counterbalance to the threat posed to the Alliance by you.” Sakai paused again. “The reasons all come down to one broad strategy. A majority of the grand council have been convinced that the way to fight fire is with fire. If they fear an ambitious high-ranking military officer with a fleet firmly at his back, the solution is to create another.”
“That’s insane. Are they trying to create a civil war?”
“They believe,” Sakai said, “that they are saving the Alliance. That saving the Alliance requires creating the means to destroy it and giving that means to a man whose desires will destroy it. You said it is insane? You are right. They see only what they wish to see.”
Geary stood up and paced slowly back and forth before Sakai, unable to sit still any longer. “If the government persists in actions that are likely to destroy the Alliance, what the hell can I do to save it?”
“I do not know. Perhaps nothing. Perhaps your best efforts will only precipitate the civil war you spoke of.”
“Then why are you even helping me this much by telling me about what the government is doing and why?” Geary demanded.
Sakai let out a slow sigh. “Because, Admiral, your most powerful weapon, the belief of others in you, might enable you to save an Alliance I believe to be doomed. Might, I say. It is something. Something small. Yet preferable to surrendering to despair and watching others oh-so-cleverly and oh-so-cunningly bring about the loss of all we and they hold dear.”
“Who is getting the command of that new fleet?”
“Admiral Bloch.”
That answer had come directly, with no evasion or delay. Why? “Even though the grand council must know that Bloch intended to stage a military coup if his attack on the Syndic home star system at Prime had succeeded?”
“Even though.” Sakai looked off into the distance again as if he could see something there that was invisible to Geary. “I wonder why I still try. Then I think of my children and their children. What might happen to them if the Alliance falls apart? I think of my ancestors. When the day comes that I face them, what will I say I had done with the life granted me? How will they judge me and my actions?” He shrugged. “My wish is to be able to face them and say I did not quit. Perhaps my efforts are doomed to failure, but that will not be because I ceased trying.”
“You don’t really believe that it is hopeless,” Geary suggested.
Senator Sakai stood up to leave, his expression unreadable once more. “Say rather, Admiral, that I am afraid to admit that it is hopeless.”
After Sakai had left, Geary found his gaze returning to the link he had opened about returning to Sol Star System. Anachronism, am I? Fine. Traditions hold us together, but a lot of those traditions faded under the pressure of the war. Maybe it’s time for this anachronistic admiral to introduce a few more anachronisms.
—
“WE’RE going to cross the line,” Geary said.
Tanya, called to his stateroom, gave him a puzzled look. “What line?”
“The line.”
“That helps. Not.”
“The boundary of Sol Star System,” Geary explained patiently.
“Star systems don’t have boundaries.” She tapped in some queries, then waited for the results to pop up. “Oh. You mean the heliosphere. The region around the star that defines the boundaries of a star system. I never heard of that before.”
That news should have been astounding coming from a battle cruiser commander whose career had taken her across hundreds of light-years and scores of stars. But it wasn’t. “That’s because the heliosphere of any star is well beyond the places where jump points are found or hypernet gates are constructed,” Geary explained. “The heliosphere of any star is well out in the dark between stars, in the places where human ships never go. Or rather, where they long since stopped going.”
“All right. Why does it matter now?”
“The heliosphere of Sol sets the limit for Sol Star System,” Geary said. “That’s the region where Sol’s solar wind predominates.”
“Yes,” Desjani said with exaggerated patience as she read the results of her query. “In the case of Sol, the heliosphere extends out about twelve light-hours,” she quoted. “Or about one hundred astronomical units. What the hell is an astronomical unit?”
“A very old way of measuring distance. You know, like a parsec.”
“A what?”
“Never mind,” Geary said.
“Fine,” she replied. “This is the line you were talking about? The edge of the bubble that defines the heliosphere for Sol? But it’s way past anything. Nobody goes that far from a star in real space. Why would they? There’s nothing there but dead, wandering rocks.”
“Tanya, once upon a time, people couldn’t use hypernet gates or jump points to travel to other stars. The missions to the first stars reached by our ancestors had to cross that line, physically cross it in real space. It meant something very important. It meant humanit
y had left the star that had given birth to us and humanity was now reaching into the universe.”
“It was important to our ancestors?” Tanya regarded the display over Geary’s desk with new respect. “Yes. Of course it was. That marked the point where a ship and the people on it left Sol.”
“Exactly. They had a celebration. And even after we discovered jump technology and no longer had to physically leave and enter the heliosphere, ships still used to mark when they crossed that line. Any other star’s heliosphere didn’t matter. But Sol’s did. It was a very big deal to say you’re a Voyager.”
“A . . . Voyager?”
“Once you’ve crossed the line, you can call yourself a Voyager,” Geary said. “That’s the tradition.”
“Our ancestors did this?”
“Yes.”
Desjani nodded. “Then we should. How did you happen to remember this? I can’t recall anyone ever saying anything about it.”
“The fleet used to send a ship back to Sol every ten years,” Geary said. “To commemorate the anniversary of the launch of the first interstellar mission from Old Earth’s orbit. We only sent a ship at decade intervals because it was a long haul without hypernet capability. I never went, but I talked to some people who did, and at that time the whole crossing-the-line ceremony was still a big deal.”
“But during the war, we couldn’t afford to send any ships,” Desjani said. “I get it. Those early years were desperate. We couldn’t have spared a ship for that long in those days.”
Geary nodded. “The next ship was supposed to be sent less than a year after the initial Syndic attacks hit. I remember that everyone was wondering who would be selected. It seems strange to think about it now, but wondering which ship would get to make the trip was one of the biggest topics of conversation in the fleet before the fight at Grendel.”
Tanya looked back at him blankly. “That was your biggest concern?”
He felt a flush of shame. Tanya, like all of the officers and crew in the fleet, had spent her career, had spent her entire life, worried about the war with the Syndics, worried about life and death and the lives and deaths of those she knew and loved. How can she imagine a universe where the biggest concern in the fleet was which ship would get to go on a joyride to Sol? How can I ever feel superior to those whose lives have been consumed by issues far more grave than the little things I once had the luxury of being concerned with?
The Lost Fleet: Beyond the Frontier: Guardian Page 35