Alarm of War (23 page)

“We can do it manually, of course, but usually we just tell Merlin to shut it down.”

“Will Merlin accept orders from me?” Grant asked.

“Yes, you’ve been logged in as one of the ship’s officers.” Commander Peled’s eyes opened wide. “You think that you can-”

Then a gust of cold air blew against his face, and snow began to fall.

“Intruders!” Grant shouted, snatching up a pistol.
Don’t they ever stop?

C
ommander Peled slapped the com button. “Intruder alert! Marine guard to the Bridge! Intruder alert!”

The two Marine sentries brought their rifles up to their shoulders. The snow squall swirled, grew more intense, and then just as suddenly abated. Ten Savak commandoes stepped forward.

“Shoot! Dammit, fire!” Gur shouted.

Grant threw himself to the floor and crawled to the nearest computer console, half shielding himself under a chair. Shots rang back and forth; people screamed; there was the sound of running. He could hear the curious “pop-pop-pop-pop!” of the Savak air rifles. From the corner of his eye he caught the sight of a second snow squall appearing out of nowhere.

“Merlin!”

“Yes, Lieutenant?”

“Contact
London’s
Operations Computer by C2C.”

“The
London
is no longer under Victorian control, Lieutenant. Do you still wish me to proceed with your request?”

“Yes!” A body splattered with blood fell to the floor in front of him. He flinched violently. “Hurry, dammit!”

“As you wish, Lieutenant.” A pause. “You are now connected to
London’s
onboard Operations Computer, Aberdeen Model 12A46. You may speak now.”

“Mildred! Mildred, can you hear me?”

“Yes, I can, Lieutenant Skiffington. How are you today?”

“Not so good. Mildred, verify who I am through voice analysis.”

“You are Lieutenant Grant Skiffington of Her Majesty’s Ship
London
, currently assigned as personal aide to Admiral Oliver Skiffington, commander of the Second Fleet. Your voice shows high levels of stress associated with elevated levels of adrenalin. You are presently not on board the
London
.”

“Mildred, I want you to disable the ship’s automated anti-missile system.”

Something fell across his legs. He turned and saw the open, staring eyes of Captain Gur. He flinched violently, got hold of himself and kicked the body off, flinching again as the Captain’s head struck the floor.

The voice of the Weapon’s Officer cut through the chaos. “Two more missiles in bound. We have launched four missiles at the
London
! Laser hits on Turret Three!”

“Lieutenant, I cannot comply with your command as you are not the commanding officer on the
London
,” Mildred said reasonably. “Also, I note that your stress level has increased sharply. I would advise you to see medical assis-”

“Stop!” He gritted his teeth. “Mildred, who is the commanding officer of the
London
?”

A blaster pistol clattered to the deck beside him. He grabbed it and held it in front of him. Across the bridge, Commander Peled shouted. “Weapons, do not fire more missiles until I give the order. We need to kill their anti-missile defense.”

“The commanding officer of the
London
is Admiral Oliver Skiffington,” Mildred said cheerfully. “His orders were effective on-”

“Stop! Mildred, can you see Admiral Skiffington?”

“Yes.”

Grant cursed. A Savak commando stepped past him, firing from his hip. Grant shot him once in the back of the leg, then a second time in the head when he collapsed to the floor.

“Mildred, where is Admiral Skiffington?”

“Admiral Skiffington is presently thirty six feet from the loading bay hatch.”

Huh? Grant felt a surge of hope. Was his father hiding in the loading bay? Could he still take control of the battle? “Mildred! Let me talk to him.”

A pause. “You cannot talk to Admiral Skiffington because he is outside of the ship. Further, my sensors reveal that Admiral Skiffington is dead. Cause of death was either a gunshot wound to his right temple or exposure to vacuum. In order to be certain of the cause of-”

Ah, sweet Gods of Our Mother.
“Stop.”
For the love of God, stop.

“Yes, dear.”

“Mildred, scan the entire ship. Do you detect any Victorian officers on board?’

“There is one officer on board, Commander Oscar Kerrs. He is in elevator tube Number Four.”

Grant blinked, then understood.
Bloody computer.
“State his condition.

“Commander Kerrs is dead. Cause of death is a –”

“Stop.” Grant rubbed sweat off his face. Behind him a man screamed in mortal agony. More popping from a Savak rifle, and the man’s scream abruptly ended.

“Friendlies coming in!” Sergeant Zamir shouted. Several Marines poured through the door and a new wave of shooting began. Grant hugged the floor, praying for it to end.

“Mildred, confirm that there are no living Victorian officers on the
London
.”

Another pause, then: “Confirmed.”

“Confirm that I am the senior officer presently in contact with you.”

“Confirmed.”

Grant took a breath. “Mildred, as the senior
commanding
officer in communication with you, I order you to disable the ship’s anti-missile system.”

“Of course, dear.”

Grant almost sobbed with relief. He waved at Commander Peled and flashed him a thumbs up sign. From the corner of his eye, he saw the last of the Savak go down, blood spraying from his neck. Marines swarmed over the deck, shooting each Savak again to make sure they were dead.

Peled thumbed the com. “On my mark,
Yorkshire
and
Kent
to fire all available missiles at the
London
! Fire! Fire!”

“Lieutenant?” Mildred inquired mildly. “I have detected a total of thirty three incoming missiles. Do you wish me to reactivate the ship’s missile defense system?”

“No. Thank you, Mildred.”

“You are welcome, Lieutenant.”

“Two minutes to impact,” the Weapons Officer said matter-of-factly. Grant marveled at his stoicism.

Curiosity tugged at him. “Mildred, can you show me a visual of the bridge?

“Of course.” The holo nearest him flickered and snapped into focus. The perspective was angled slightly downward, and Grant guessed it was from the ceiling camera above the large com monitor.

And there they were. A dozen or so men stood with weapons in hand while ten women in simple black uniforms manned the pilot, navigation, weapons and com systems. One woman, older than the rest, was sitting in his father’s chair, staring intently at the holo display in front of her. Grant was mildly astonished that he could actually
see
the missiles boring in on the
London
on the
London’s
own holo display.

“Mildred, can you patch me through so that I can talk to the Tilleke on the bridge?”

“Yes, Lieutenant Skiffington, and I can translate your words into Tilleke. I am capable of reproducing six hundred and thirteen different languages and have the capability to learn a new language with-”

“Stop.” He gazed at the display, studying the Tilleke ranking officer on the bridge of the London. Did she know? “Put me though, Mildred.”

A slight burst of static, then Grant suddenly could hear everything on the bridge of the London. “-anti-missile defense should fire in just a moment,” one of the Savak was saying.

“I am Lieutenant Grant Skiffington,” he said, hearing the simultaneous translation by Mildred. “I am the commanding officer of Her Majesty’s Ship
London.
” On the screen, First Sister Pilot’s head jerked up in shock.

“In a few moments, you are going to die,” Grant said pleasantly. “I just want you to know that I am the man who killed you.”

First Sister Pilot’s eyes darted to the ceiling speaker, then to the holo display where the Victorian missiles relentlessly bore in. Her shoulders sagged.

The missiles bore in.

First Sister Pilot sat back in her chair and crossed her legs. She said something to the others in a low voice that Grant couldn’t hear. The women cast stricken looks at the holo, then stood behind the First Sister Pilot, crowding together with bowed heads, touching each other for comfort. Some were crying. Grant felt not a shred of pity.

“You killed my father,” he told her. “I hope you burn in hell.”

First Sister Pilot stared back defiantly. “Fool! I live through my Sisters.”

“Cut transmission, Mildred,” Grant ordered, not quite sure who had gotten the best of that exchange.

The holo display collapsed.

“Twenty seconds,” said the Weapons Officer.

“Goodbye, Mildred.”

“Goodbye, Lieutenant. I hope you have a pleasant day.”

Twenty seconds later the missiles reached the
London
unimpeded.

Commander Peled walked shakily to where Grant sat on the floor. There were splashes of blood on his face and he was holding one arm. There were splashes of blood on his face and uniform, but he seemed uninjured, if thoroughly shaken. “They hit us pretty hard, Skiffington,” he said. “You and I are the only officers left.” He looked around the shambles of the bridge, the deck covered with wreckage, bodies and blood. “I think it’s time to clean up this bloody mess and go home.”

Grant shook his head. “One more thing to do, sir. We can’t go back empty handed.”

Then the air turned cold and more snow began to fall across the blood stained deck.

“T
hey’re still gaining on us, Captain!” The Sensors Officer’s voice cracked with tension.

Captain Michael Zizka yawned and scratched his ample stomach. His bridge crew was strained almost to the breaking point; even his XO was showing the signs. Well, he could hardly blame them. They were kids, the oldest of them barely twenty five, and what they had seen had shocked them to their core. But he needed them to keep it together for a little longer, just a little longer.

He consciously yawned again, aware of the eyes on him, then stretched and frowned irritably at the holo display. Unconsciously he fingered the cigar he kept in his breast pocket, the one he’d been saving ever since the Fleet doctor forced him to stop smoking years earlier.

“Goddammit, Helen,” he said mildly. “You know how to give a proper status report. I want information I can use, not prattle! Of course the bastards are gaining on us! They’ve been gaining on us for ten hours, now haven’t they? So what I want to know, Helen my dearest, is when the fucking traitorous sons of bitches are going to have us in missile range. And when we can expect to reach the wormhole entrance to Gilead? That’s what I need to know, Helen darling. Now can you please help a broken down old freighter captain and give me that information? Can you now?”

The bridge crew exchanged glances; the helmsman covered her mouth to hide a smile. Helen Fletcher, his brand new Sensors Officer, barely twenty one years old, took a deep breath.

“Merlin estimates the first two Dominion ships will have us in missile range within thirty two minutes. At current speed, we will reach the Gilead wormhole entrance in thirty four minutes.”

Two bloody minutes short!
he thought savagely. He put on his brightest smile. “There now, a fine report, Helen! Short and to the point.” She managed a weak smile back at him. He glanced at his Executive Officer, Francis Pyne, but he wasn’t smiling. His jaw was set, his eyes were too bright.

He
knew
. He knew what Zizka had known from the first hour of their flight out of Tilleke space: The
Bawdy Bertha
was fat and slow and running for her life.

But she was losing the race.

Despite red-lining their engines and stressing the inertia compensator, the Dominion destroyers were going to catch them. The only question was
when
.

Resupply and Maintenance Vessel #313 – his beloved
Bawdy Bertha,
named after his third wife - was one of four colliers assigned to the Second Fleet. She had taken up station fifty thousand miles behind the Second Fleet’s line of advance. They had expected they would wait there out of harm’s way, then move forward to replenish the Fleet’s missile stocks and perishables like chaff and decoys, and perform minor repairs as needed. There was never any question that the Second Fleet would win the battle. Of
course
it would win.

But ten hours earlier the first Code Omega drones had come to them, blaring their message of disaster and ruin. They downloaded what they could, then watched grimly as the report showed ship after ship blown apart or tumbling aimlessly through space. Second Fleet had started out with 120 war ships; at least 70 had been destroyed outright, and many more were lying dead in space, not moving. Others were missing, either running for their lives, or on their own Long Walk to hell.

Captain Zizka had wasted no time. He turned and ran, ran for the wormhole to Gilead at maximum military speed. He had no missile launchers and only four two-inch laser turrets, next to useless in a stand-up brawl. He didn’t doubt that the Dominion or Tilleke would chase him, and if they chased him they would catch him. But
Bertha
was the only ship in a position to warn Victoria that more than half of her entire Navy had been destroyed.

And to do that, they had to reach Gilead. If
Bertha
was destroyed, its Code Omega drones would launch automatically and fly toward Victoria. But the drones were notoriously fragile. They could make it through the gravity tides of one wormhole, but would not survive a second. For its drones to reach Victoria,
Bertha
had to be in Gilead space, so the drones would have to transit only one wormhole to reach Victoria.

And to reach Gilead space, Zizka had to delay his pursuers for two minutes. He didn’t have missiles to shoot at them, but he had a cargo hold full of spare parts, fifteen anti-matter bottles, decoys and mountains of chaff, so he was going to do what any self-respecting freighter captain would do: he was going to throw things at them.