Rendezvous with corsair, p.1
Rendezvous with Corsair, page 1
Rendezvous with Corsair
Copyright © 2024 by John G. Hemry
First published as an ebook in 2024 by JABberwocky Literary Agency, Inc.
“Corsair” first published in Rendezvous with Corsair, JABberwocky Literary Agency, 2024
“Shore Patrol” first published in Infinite Stars, Titan Books, 2017
“Grendel” first published in So It Begins, Dark Quest Books, 2009
“Ishigaki” first published in Infinite Stars: Dark Frontiers, Titan Books, 2019
“Fleche” first published in Best Laid Plans, Dark Quest Books, 2013
Cover design © 2023 by Tara O’Shea
All rights reserved.
ISBN 978-1-625676-54-2 (ebook)
ISBN 978-1-625676-55-9 (print)
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
JABberwocky Literary Agency, Inc.
49 W. 45th Street, Suite #5N
New York, NY 10036
awfulagent.com/ebooks
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright
Table of Contents
Dedication
Corsair
Shore Patrol
Grendel
Ishigaki
Fleche
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Jack Campbell
To Katherine Law and William Law
Because the kids are alright.
“Look within; do not allow the special quality or worth of anything to pass you by.” (Marcus Aurelius, Meditations)
For S, as always.
Corsair
Chapter One
“Hold them off as long as you can…”
The fleet commander’s grim expression matched his tone of voice. He hated giving that order, Michael Geary realized. And not just because he was giving the order to his grandnephew. This wasn’t the Black Jack that Michael had been told all his life he had to revere, a flawless officer focused solely on victory regardless of the cost. Instead of launching a grand, heroic assault which would have surely wiped out the rest of the Alliance fleet, Black Jack had tried to save every surviving ship. But the plan wasn’t working exactly as it should and now a ship, Michael’s ship, and her crew would have to be sacrificed to try to save the rest. This was a commander with only one right choice—and who hated making that choice.
Maybe Michael had been wrong about Black Jack. Maybe everyone had been wrong about him.
Michael had spent his whole life fighting against Black Jack’s legacy. Being born a Geary, the endless war with the Syndicate Worlds devouring Alliance citizens and warships, meant your path was laid out for you. Join the fleet. Fight the Syndics. Try to act, try to fight, try to die, in a way that honored your great ancestor. Michael and his sister Jane had seen their aunts and uncles perish in battle, had lost their own parents the same way, and had known when the time came they would face similar fates.
Now it was Michael’s turn. His turn not just to be the “hero,” but to be the rear guard, making a last stand in the hope of saving others. Chance, or fate, had left Repulse not only closer to the Syndics, but also close to the fastest intercept trajectories for the nearest Syndic warships if they aimed for the slowest, most vulnerable, and critically important unit in the Alliance Fleet, the auxiliary Titan. To reach Titan as quickly as possible, those Syndics would have to pass through space close to Repulse.
Which meant, finally, with probably little time left to live, a few moments to grasp some of the reality of what his granduncle had faced a century ago.
“This isn’t easy, is it?” he said to the fleet commander, Black Jack, the mythical hero back from the dead. His great-uncle. “I understand a bit now. I truly didn’t want this. You do what you have to do, though, and it’s up to your ancestors how it all turns out.”
He exchanged only a few more words with his granduncle before he had to end the call. The enemy was too close, everyone else on the bridge of the battle cruiser Repulse waiting for him to tell them their fate.
“Engineering status,” Michael called out.
“Main propulsion is still at thirty percent, Captain,” Chief Petty Officer Sabit Taman replied.
“Any word on Lieutenant Nadu?”
“Still unconscious from injuries, Captain.”
Since Commander Boiko had died in the initial ambush, that made Chief Taman the senior engineering officer aboard. “What are our chances of getting more out of main propulsion, Chief?”
Taman shook his head. “We’re at maximum available for now. Estimated time for repairs is at least six hours.”
“We’re not even going to have one hour,” Michael said. The crew needed to know what was happening. “All hands, this is the captain. Repulse has been ordered to screen the rest of the fleet as it repositions.” The Alliance Fleet never retreated. It repositioned. “We will hold off the Syndics for as long as possible. To the honor of our ancestors!”
He looked at Chief Taman again. “Cut propulsion to zero. Make it look like our remaining main propulsion units failed under stress.”
“Yes, Captain.”
He made another call, to his executive officer, Commander Estrada. “I’m going to need every weapon back on line. Do whatever it takes.”
Thecla Estrada replied in a steady voice. “You’ll have them, Captain. We’ll override safeties where we have to. May the living stars light your path.”
She didn’t expect any of them to live through this. Neither did he.
Several Syndic Hunter-Killers, what the Alliance usually called HuKs, a bit smaller and a bit faster than Alliance destroyers, tried to race past the apparently crippled battle cruiser, aiming to intercept the track of the Fast Fleet Auxiliary Titan. If Titan didn’t get away, the Alliance Fleet’s already small chances would shrink a lot further. The HuKs could have safely avoided Repulse by swinging wider, but that would have increased the distance they needed to cover, and given Titan more time to flee.
Suddenly reengaging Repulse’s full remaining propulsion and maneuvering capability, Michael swung the ship about and tore apart the first two HuKs with a barrage of hell-lance particle beams and grapeshot. The third came close enough to hit with Repulse’s null field, a short-range weapon that dissolved atomic bonds on the target. Most of that HuK, and its crew, vanished into a cloud of loose atoms.
Two more HuKs tried to sweep past Repulse, their focus also on the wallowing Titan. Michael Geary let his automated weapons controls take them out with another barrage of hell lances and specter missiles, his crew cheering as the enemy ships and their crews were annihilated.
The enemy were Syndics. The people the Alliance had been fighting for a century, while the Syndicate Worlds’ rulers ordered atrocity after atrocity in hopes of forcing a victory. After all that, Syndics weren’t seen as other humans anymore. They were just Syndics, their deaths cause for celebration.
Another five HuKs tried to accelerate past, but Michael brought Repulse about again and managed to kill one of them while crippling three more. Not a clean sweep, but close enough. The last HuK would catch Titan, but Titan’s escorts could easily handle it.
“Well done, Repulse,” he called out to the crew.
The mass of the Syndic flotilla was beginning to reach Repulse. A swarm of more HuKs, augmented by light cruisers, each individually not much of a threat to a battle cruiser, but in numbers able to wear down shields with barrages of hell lances and missiles.
“Forward shields are at twenty percent,” Lieutenant Aiko reported from the weapons station. “Spot failures occurring in midships and stern shields.”
Syndic heavy cruisers were reaching Repulse, followed by battle cruisers.
Repulse trembled as shots started coming through the shields, tearing through the hull and any sailor unfortunate enough to be in their path.
“Forward shields have collapsed. All missiles expended. Hell-lance batteries 1A, 3A, and 4B are out of action. All grapeshot expended.”
Michael stared at his display, trying to judge whether the rest of the Alliance Fleet was far enough off to have escaped the Syndic trap. Not that it mattered as far as Repulse was concerned. There was no way out for this ship.
“Multiple hull breaches. Hell-lance batteries 2B and 6B are out of action.”
“Multiple hits in engineering,” Chief Taman called, his voice still steady. “The power core is becoming unstable.”
Enough, Michael thought. He’d done all he could. “All hands, this is Captain Geary. Abandon ship! I say again, abandon ship! Everyone get off!”
Repulse shuddered like a dying animal as more Syndic hits tore into her.
Michael unstrapped and stood up, gesturing at Lieutenant Aiko and Chief Taman and the rest of the crew on the bridge to get going and not wait for him.
* * *
He couldn’t remember anything after that.
He didn’t know how he got off the ship. He didn’t know how many of his crew had survived, or even how long he’d been a prisoner of the Syndics here…or even where “here” was.
His cell was as featureless as it could be. No window. He couldn’t even tell where the door was when it was closed. There was no way to measure time. Even the meal times and frequencies were deliberately staggered by the Syndics so t
He’d been taught techniques, mental and emotional, for surviving prolonged periods of solitary confinement. He had played the mind games and meditated and (so far at least) had held any emotional deterioration at bay.
What had happened to the Alliance Fleet? Had the legendary Black Jack, miraculously returned from the dead, been able to save it? Or had it been destroyed, along with the last hope of the Alliance? Had the Alliance finally lost the war, as his captors claimed?
Hundreds of star systems belonged to the Alliance, and hundreds more to the Syndicate Worlds. With those kinds of resources, a war could go on and on, decade after decade, the Alliance refusing to lose and the Syndics refusing to stop trying to win. But, after nearly a century, the strain had been showing. That was why the insanely risky attack on the Syndic home star system had been approved, out of desperation. Michael had argued against it, for one of the few times in his life trying to use his status as a Geary to make people listen to him. Having been proven right when the Alliance Fleet ran head on into a Syndic ambush didn’t bring him any joy.
He’d been interrogated quite a few times. The Syndic security agents always insisted the war was over, the Alliance having lost, but kept asking questions about John Geary. His great-uncle. Black Jack. He told them only things they’d already know. Yes, he was back. Michael didn’t tell the Syndics that instead of dying a century ago in Grendel Star System during a last stand against the initial Syndic attack, Black Jack had been frozen in survival sleep, his escape pod damaged and drifting unnoticed amid the wreckage orbiting that star.
The Syndics always demanded more information. What did Black Jack want? What was he going to do? Very odd questions given their claim that Black Jack was dead, the Alliance Fleet destroyed, the Alliance defeated. Michael didn’t have to feign ignorance, though. He had no idea what Black Jack would do. After only two brief conversations with the hero from the past, Michael had learned just enough to realize that the “legend” of his great-uncle wasn’t the truth. But that didn’t tell him what the truth really was.
And so Michael lay on the bunk in his cell, playing games in his mind to keep from going insane as who knew how many days went by, trying not to imagine a rescue that would probably never come.
Remembering growing up. Being told again and again that he had to do better. That a Geary had to be the best. Knowing that his path in life led straight to the fleet, and would end there somewhere in the endless war. Rebelling against that, refusing to serve, would have dishonored not only him, but also his parents, tarnishing them and the sacrifices they had made, and that was unthinkable. He and his sister Jane had promised each other they wouldn’t marry anyone, wouldn’t have children, so there wouldn’t be another generation bound by that curse.
Remembering how he’d broken that promise, keeping it secret from almost everyone, and hating himself for it. Wishing he could have seen Kahoku again, wondering how their children were doing, wondering how they’d react if they ever learned their father’s real name. No. He had to protect them from the Geary curse. And that meant never letting them know.
Not that he was likely to ever have the chance to tell them. Not anymore. Odds were he’d die here.
As if triggered by his thoughts, a low hum told Michael the door to the cell was opening, sections of the wall dissolving to reveal a woman. She had on a black skin suit designed to be worn under Syndic battle armor, revealing she was a Syndic soldier. In one hand, she held a pistol that stayed aimed at Michael as she walked into the cell. Her face bore scars from old wounds and a hard expression that held no hint of mercy.
Michael sat up and turned on the bunk, facing her, numb with the weariness of his long confinement. “If your masters have finally decided to get rid of me, go ahead and take your shot.”
Her expression didn’t change. “You want to die with your precious honor intact? Not this day. A Geary is too valuable.”
Michael shrugged. “The Syndics have gotten nothing from me. You’ll get nothing from me.”
“Are you Black Jack’s scion?”
He’d been expecting a shot that would end his life, not a question he couldn’t understand. “His what?”
“His heir,” she said, her words as hard as her expression. “Are you like Black Jack?”
Why did that question make him want to laugh? “Like him?” Michael shrugged again. “I’ve walked in his shadow my whole life. You try having a great-uncle with a superhuman legend, and we’ll see how your self-confidence fares.” He paused, thinking. “But a lot of things change when you get to meet the man behind the legend.”
Michael looked at her, thinking that he should be honest with himself for once. “So, yeah, I guess I am like him. More like him than I ever wanted to admit. What does that matter to you?”
She lowered the weapon a bit, her eyes still fixed on him. “Because if you’re like Black Jack, I have a deal for you.”
Michael shook his head. “I don’t make any deals with Syndics.”
Her weapon came up again, aimed at his face. “My name is Executive Destina Aragon, commander of the 1233rd Assault Regiment. The Syndicate doesn’t know about this deal. I want you to help me capture a mobile forces unit—and help me and my troops to get home.”
A revolt? Alliance intelligence had reported on occasional mutinies by Syndic soldiers, always mercilessly crushed. But they happened sometimes when the Syndics demanded too much of their own “workers.” “You’re revolting against the Syndicate Worlds? And you need me to fly a captured Syndic spaceship?”
She nodded once, her eyes intent. “Decide, now. We’ve only got a few more minutes before the snake surveillance systems might realize I’m here.”
“Snake?”
“Syndicate Internal Security Service. Snakes. My unit wants to get back to Anahuac Star System. No Syndicate. Just us. Will you deal?”
Michael stared at her, trying to judge Aragon’s sincerity. “Why would you trust an Alliance officer?”
“I don’t,” Aragon said. “I’m offering a deal. Only because you’re a Geary. Black Jack is for the people. Maybe you are, too.”
For the people? What did that mean? Did this Syndic soldier think Black Jack was somehow sympathetic or supportive to Syndics? Why? “What’s in it for me?”
“You get us home,” she said. “Then the mobile unit is yours. You can go anywhere you want.” Her eyes narrowed and she stepped closer, the muzzle of her pistol nearly touching his face. “But if you betray us, you’ll wish I’d killed you here and now.”
Was this some trick by the Syndics? But to what purpose? He wasn’t being asked to betray the Alliance. He could stop cooperating at any time. And if the deal being offered was sincere, if these soldiers really were revolting against the Syndicate Worlds, helping them would hurt the Syndics. “All right,” Michael said. “Why not?” There was a way to test this woman’s sincerity. “But I can’t drive a spaceship alone. I’ll need help. Are there other Alliance prisoners of war here?”
She nodded, stepping back and lowering her weapon. “Fine. We’ll free all of the Alliance Fleet prisoners here as well.”
How deliberate was her wording? “All of the Alliance prisoners of war here. Ground forces, too.”
It was her turn to shrug. “All of them. Agreed. But they don’t get weapons. Deal?”
“Deal.”
“Done. I’ll be back.” She turned to leave.
Michael stood up, suddenly realizing how much he wanted to know. “Wait! What happened? At least tell me what happened after my ship was destroyed!”
Aragon paused just outside the door of the cell, looking back at him with a slight, humorless smile. “They didn’t tell you? No, of course they wouldn’t.” She activated the door control, the wall between her and Michael beginning to solidify again. “The Alliance won. The Syndicate lost. And now we want to go home. Stay quiet. Act normal. I’ll be back.”
