He set his jaw and glared at Rione. “Stop calling her that. Nobody owns Desjani, especially not me.”
“Fine, if you care to believe that.” Rione matched his glare. “You need to remember that you’re doing nothing for personal gain. You don’t want wealth or power. So why the hell should you feel guilty about forestalling a military coup against the government of the Alliance?”
“Because no Alliance officer should have even thought of such a thing!” Geary yelled, the shame and anger bursting from him. “I never should have received such an offer and when I did my immediate refusal should have been the end of it!”
Rione watched him for a moment, then looked away herself, her face shadowed by emotion. “We’re not the people our ancestors were, John Geary. We’ll always let you down when you compare us to those you knew a century ago.”
Her unexpected and very unusual candor extinguished Geary’s rage. “It’s not your fault that you were all born into a war that was already ancient. It’s not your fault that you inherited the pain and distortions caused by decades of war. I can’t pretend that I’m better than you because I was spared that.”
“But you are better than us,” Rione insisted with bitterness in her voice. “You’re what we should have been, what our parents and our grandparents should have held on to, the belief that ideals must be honored. Do you think I can’t see that? If we had done our jobs as the situation demanded of us, then none of this would have happened. And, yes, I very much include the Alliance’s political leadership in that.”
“You inherited the war,” Geary repeated. “I can’t pretend to understand everything that happened in the last century, but there seems plenty of blame to go around and more than a few things that nobody could have helped.”
“I don’t believe in making excuses for failures, Captain Geary. Not mine and not anyone else’s. Just remember that the people you trust approve of what you did just now. If you don’t trust yourself, trust them.” She turned without another word and left.
SIX hours to the jump for Atalia. As much as Geary feared finding the Syndic reserve flotilla there, he also had a growing restlessness, a desire to see this to the end. One way or the other, the Alliance fleet’s long retreat would be over soon.
“Captain Geary.” Colonel Carabali’s expression revealed nothing. “Request permission for a private meeting prior to the jump for Atalia.”
“Of course, Colonel. I have no scheduled commitments for a couple of hours, so we can have that meeting whenever you’re ready.”
“Now would be fine with me, sir.”
“Okay.” Geary authorized Carabali’s image to appear in his stateroom, then waved her virtual presence to a seat. The colonel walked over to it and sat, her back straight, rigidly formal. “What’s this meeting about?”
“Consider it a reconnaissance mission, sir.” Colonel Carabali gave Geary a penetrating look. “What do you intend doing when this fleet reaches Alliance space, Captain Geary? I’ve heard various reports and wish to know the truth for certain.”
The loyalty of the Marines to the Alliance was legendary, but given all of the other changes he’d seen, Geary had been wondering for some time how the Marines now felt about political authorities in the Alliance and how they felt about the offers to Geary to become a dictator when the fleet made it back to Alliance space. But he’d never come up with a way to ask those questions without making it appear that he was sounding out the Marines for support, which was the last thing he wanted. Now Geary sat down opposite the colonel, holding his eyes on hers. “I intend following whatever orders are given to me. I will have suggestions and a proposal for an operation, but I have no way of knowing how those will be taken. Is that what you need to know?”
“For the most part.” Carabali studied Geary for a moment. “I won’t insult your intelligence by pretending both of us don’t know that you’re not just any fleet officer. You can choose to obey whatever orders are given you, but you do have other options.”
“And you want to know if I intend exercising those options?”
Carabali nodded, her face still impassive.
Geary shook his head. “No, Colonel, I do not intend exercising any options that would conflict with my oath to the Alliance. Is that clear enough?”
“From you, yes.” Carabali paused again. “There are some close-hold messages being passed around the fleet that indicate you intend doing more than just following orders.”
“People hear what they want to hear, Colonel. As long as it keeps them from actions that would be harmful to the Alliance, I’m okay with that.”
“ ‘Harmful to the Alliance’ meaning?” Carabali pressed.
Geary sat back and shook his head. “The Alliance’s greatest strength has never been its star systems or population or fleet. It’s the principles we believe in and practice. I don’t think the Syndics could ever hurt us as badly as we could hurt ourselves. I won’t stage a coup, Colonel, and I’ll do everything I can to keep one from being staged in my name.” He didn’t fear word of that getting back to any of his most misguided supporters. It was what he’d told Badaya, after all.
She studied him, then nodded. “Will you attempt to remain in command of this fleet?”
“Yes.”
“Even though you only took command in the Syndic home star system because you had to do so?”
“Yes.” Geary let a small smile show. “I didn’t know it was that obvious.”
“It wasn’t.” Carabali let her own tiny smile flicker on and off again. “I’m used to trying to figure out what’s beneath the surface of fleet officers. The lives of my Marines often depend on that.” Her expression went wooden once more. “Do you think you can end this war?”
He started to reply, then shot Carabali a questioning look. “You said ‘end,’ not ‘win.’ ”
“I asked the question I meant to ask, sir.”
“I need to be certain of that.” Geary leaned forward slightly, searching her expression but seeing nothing but the professional mask. “There’s a lot I’m still learning about what this war has done, about how the fleet and the Alliance feel about it.”
Carabali raised one hand to her chin and rubbed it for a moment as if contemplating the question. “I’ll fight as long as I have to fight to protect the Alliance. Beyond that . . . I’m tired of making decisions about who lives and who dies, Captain Geary. A little of that goes a long way.”
“I know. Believe me.”
“Yes, you do, but not in the same manner. The fleet offers certain luxuries that ground fighting doesn’t, and your own personal history is different from ours. You grew up at peace, and you spent your fleet career at peace until Grendel.” Carabali looked away, her eyes seeming to focus on something far away. “May I tell you some history? There was a lieutenant who’d grown up with the war and joined to follow in the footsteps of her grandmother and her father. On one of her first ground-combat missions she and her Marine platoon were cut off from the rest of their unit. The atmosphere around them was toxic with Syndic defensive chem agents. The power on their battle armor was running low, and if it went too low for life support, the lieutenant and her platoon would die.”
Geary watched the colonel’s face, which still revealed little. “An ugly situation no matter how experienced an officer.”
“Yes. I didn’t mention that the lieutenant’s platoon had captured a breached Syndic bunker along with a number of Syndic self-defense-force personnel. The Syndics all had suits with plenty of power reserves, and the lieutenant’s leading noncommissioned officer informed her that it would be possible to jury-rig a means of draining the Syndic suits to recharge our own power cells.”
The colonel paused again while Geary put himself there and tried not to shudder. “But if the Syndic suits were drained, the prisoners would die.”
“Or they’d have to be killed to keep them from attacking the Marines once they realized they were going to die,” Carabali agreed. “The lieutenant knew there was only one decision possible, but she also knew it would be a decision that would haunt her forever.”
“What did the lieutenant do?”
“The lieutenant hesitated,” Carabali stated in a voice as collected as if she were providing a routine report, “and her leading noncommissioned officer, as ruthless a bastard as any sergeant has ever been, suggested that the lieutenant leave the bunker for a little while to see if she could reestablish communications with the rest of the Alliance forces from the outside. The lieutenant grasped at the suggestion, knowing what she was really agreeing to, and left the bunker, standing outside until the sergeant appeared with enough charged power cells to keep her battle armor going. The entire platoon, it seemed, had enough power to try to regain Alliance lines. The lieutenant led the way, and she and her platoon made it back that evening. No one asked how the platoon’s power supplies had held out so long. The lieutenant received a medal for saving her entire platoon under such difficult circumstances.”
Without even thinking, Geary’s eyes went to the left breast of Carabali’s uniform, searching for the combat-award ribbon that might mark the event.
But the colonel kept speaking, her voice flat. “The lieutenant never wears that medal or its ribbon.”
“Did the lieutenant ever go back into the bunker?”
“The lieutenant didn’t have to. The lieutenant knew what was inside.” Carabali nodded toward the star display. “Somewhere, right now, another Alliance lieutenant is facing that same kind of decision, Captain Geary. Somewhere, a damned Syndic officer is making a similar decision, because it’s the only decision to be made. Too many of those decisions have already been made.”
“I understand.”
“What decision will you make, sir?” Carabali looked back at him. “Can you end this war on acceptable terms?”
“I don’t know.” It was Geary’s turn to point to the stars. “What I propose depends in part on what happens between here and Alliance space, but at this point . . . Colonel, I’ll have to ask that you not repeat this outside this meeting.”
“Of course, sir.”
“At this point it appears I may have to propose seriously hazarding this fleet again, right after I get it to safety. I’m not sure how that will sit with the leaders of the Alliance, or with the personnel in this fleet for that matter.”
Carabali frowned slightly. “If that proposal were made by another officer, it wouldn’t sit well. But you have built up a tremendous reserve of trust, sir.”
“Even though we’ve lost a lot of ships?”
“Your concept of a lot still differs from that of people who have grown up in this war, sir.” Carabali reached one finger up to touch her rank insignia. “These were my grandmother’s, and then my father’s. Both of them died in combat before they were able personally to hand down these insignia to one of their children. I had hoped to break that family curse, but, Captain Geary,” the colonel stated with her eyes locked on his, “if my death in combat were to ensure my children didn’t have to wear these because the war had ended in a way the people of the Alliance could live with, then I would willingly make that sacrifice. That’s the crux of the matter here, sir. We’ve been willing to die for a long time, but that willingness has been colored by despair that our sacrifices will accomplish little. We trust you to make our deaths count, if it comes to that.”
Geary nodded, feeling a heaviness filling him. “I promise to do my best.”
“You always have, sir. And if you hold to your promise not to violate your oath to the Alliance, the Marines in this fleet will do their best by you as well.”
This time Geary frowned, thinking through the words. “That’s an uncharacteristically ambiguous statement, Colonel.”
“Then I’ll state clearly that if you give orders to act against the Alliance government, I and my officers will do all we can to ensure the Marines do not obey such orders.”
“That won’t be a problem because I won’t give such orders.”
“Then we understand each other.” Carabali looked away for a moment, her eyes hooded in thought. “But if we receive orders to arrest you . . . that’s when it gets hard. It should be simple. Obey lawful orders. But it won’t be if you haven’t violated your own oath. A long time ago a wise man said that everything in war is simple, but all of the simple things are complicated. Like this. Is it lawful to arrest an officer, one with an unblemished record, because of what he
might
do? Military and civilian lawyers could argue that point for a long time. As you said, the Alliance is about the principles we hold dear, and one of those has always been the rights of our people.”
“That’s true, Colonel.” Geary stood up. “I swear that I will do everything I can to avoid such a conflict between orders and principles. We’re on the same side and, frankly, I like it that way.”
“Me, too, sir.” Carabali rose as well. “You’re not bad for a space squid.”
“Thank you, Colonel. You’re not half-bad yourself.” Carabali flicked another smile, then came to attention and saluted. As she moved to break the connection, Geary spoke again. “Colonel. There’s no other decision that lieutenant could have made.”
Carabali nodded back to him. “The lieutenant has always known that, sir, but she’s also always hated the decision she had to make. By your leave, sir.” The Marine colonel saluted again, then her image vanished.
Geary sat down again slowly. He felt like he was juggling a hundred balls at once, and if he dropped one then the Alliance would shatter.
He went up to the bridge an hour before the jump for Atalia. The Alliance fleet was arranged into a battle formation consisting of a main body and a supporting formation to either side, ready in case the Syndic reserve flotilla was waiting to fight right outside the jump exit. Geary reviewed the fleet, reviewed its logistics status, wincing at the low levels of fuel cells and expendable weaponry, then called his ship captains. “Be ready for anything when we leave jump. If the Syndics are right there within range, all ships are to engage targets of opportunity with every available weapon. More likely they’ll be at least a short distance from the jump point, and we’ll be able to maneuver into a favorable position before attacking. We’ll see you at Atalia, and after that Varandal.”