Alarm of War (29 page)

“Picking up Bogey Two, Captain,” the Sensors Officer said. “At least fifty ships, maybe more.”

Manforte frowned. Only fifty? The report from Atlas had identified as many as seventy. Had they split up, divided their force?

“Okay, boys and girls,” Manforte said breezily. “Let’s get closer and eyeball these bastards. Pilot, set course for convergence, then kill the engines and we’ll coast right by them.” He smiled wolfishly. “Close enough to tickle them as we go by.”

Two hours later the
Glasgow
was less than a thousand miles away, coming in from a wide angle so that it would cross under the Dominion fleet. Its passive sensors recorded everything.

On board the Dominion ship
Fortitude,
Admiral Kaeser watched the holo display with growing incredulity. He had a globe of twenty ships coasting in parallel with the rest of Attack Force Two, acting as a perimeter guard. They had picked up the Vicky destroyer twenty minutes ago and had been plotting its course since then. For a while Admiral Kaeser had hoped that by simply ignoring the destroyer, they could bluff their way though. The Dominion had notified the Victorian Port Authority that it was sending another fleet to reinforce its ships in Tilleke space, and Kaeser had hoped to hide in plain sight.

He sighed. The Vickies were either just curious or they were on to something. No matter.

“No radio emissions from the Vicky destroyer?”

“Nothing yet, Admiral. Still coming in silent.”

Kaeser nodded in satisfaction. The destroyer had not radioed a warning. No doubt the captain intended to fly right past the Dominion Attack Force and then report back to Victoria, covering himself in glory in the process. All balls and no brain, he thought — a common failing of Victorian Fleet captains.

“Very well, then. Execute Rabbit Snare on my command. Make sure the frigates and destroyers watch for the Omega drone; it must not escape. Execute!”

On command, twenty Dominion cruisers fired every laser battery they had at the hapless
Glasgow.
Dozens upon dozens of one inch, three inch and five inch laser beams smashed the hull of the Victorian destroyer, spearing deep into the inner compartments, blowing apart everything in their path. The
Glasgow
promptly disintegrated. Incredibly, two Omega drones burst from the growing cloud of debris, only to be shot down by the Dominion frigates and destroyers that had been waiting for them.

Admiral Kaeser looked at the clock. Twenty three more hours to go.

“Carry on,” he ordered.

T
he man stood in the doorway of the Fleet Intelligence Center, his way barred by the Queen’s bodyguards.

“And you are?” asked Admiral Douthat impatiently.

“I’m Opinsky, in charge of plant operations for Atlas,” he said, seemingly not fazed by the Admiral, the guards or the fact that a woman who looked suspiciously like Princess Anne was standing there with a bemused look on her face. He gestured toward Hiram Brill. “Hiram asked me to get up here right away.” He shrugged. “So I came.”

“It’s okay,” Hiram said hastily. “I asked him to come. We need him if we’re going to move Atlas. Max,” he said to Opinsky, “Peter Murphy is bringing in all the tugs he can get hold of, maybe two hundred. We’re going to move the Atlas station out of orbit and tow it to Refuge.” At that Admiral Douthat and Captain Grey both looked at him in astonishment. Queen Anne tilted her head, considering, and stole a glance to Sir Henry. Sir Henry frowned.

“Big job,” Opinsky said stolidly.

“Murphy says if we try to tow the space station, we’ll tear it apart.”

Opinsky glowered. “Murphy is a thick-headed Irishman whose idea of a big engineering job is opening a bottle of beer, and at that only if he can find the top of the bottle. He knows less than nothin’ about this station. This old girl’s got a series of strong points on each outer ring. If there is a major disaster, like a fire, or if one of them damn fool Navy drivers smacks a ring with a battleship, we can unhook the entire section and tow it out, then replace it with a pre-fab section. There’s like eighty or more strong points around the main ring, couple of dozen or more on the inner ring.”

“So we can tow Atlas?” Hiram asked.

“Course you can,” Opinsky said. “Slow, of course. I mean, she’s a
big
bitch and it won’t be easy, but you tie into the strong points and she’ll hold up just fine, ‘long as Murphy and his crew don’t fuck it up.”

Queen Anne coughed to cover a laugh. Her eyes were dancing. “Thank you, Mr. Opinsky.” Another short fit of coughing. “Um, how is it you know Lieutenant Brill?”

A hint of a smile creased Opinsky’s lips. “Hiram? He’s just a curious son-of-a-bitch, is all. Offered to buy me a drink and asked me all sorts of questions about how Atlas was built, what industries we have on board, ship building, the whole lot. But Sweet Gods, he can’t hold his liquor worth a damn.” He frowned suddenly, peering closer at the Queen. “You look very familiar…”

Queen Anne nodded emphatically. “People often say that, I don’t know why. Admiral, could you please use Mr. Opinsky to help coordinate the towing effort with Captain Murphy?” She looked around. “I think we are leaving for Refuge just as soon as we can.”

After they left, the Queen turned on Brill. “Lieutenant, do I understand that once you saw the incoming Dominion ships, you just decided on your own to take Atlas off to safe haven in Refuge, without consulting with the Admiral or any of your superiors?”

Hiram thought of trying to explain, but finally just nodded.

“Are you always this impulsive? Is that why you did all this?” And though her tone was light, her expression was serious.

Her question stung him. Impulsive? He was the least impulsive person he knew. It was his primary flaw. He dithered, poked, considered and was usually so indecisive that it drove him crazy. He
yearned
to be impulsive.

“Sometimes,” he said flatly, “I simply see things with great clarity.”

The Queen tilted her head again, then nodded slowly. “Okay, Lieutenant. I lost all of my personal staff on Cornwall when the Palace was destroyed. I can always use people who see things with ‘great clarity.’ You are now seconded as my Intelligence Adjutant. You will report directly to me.” She turned. “Sir Henry, we need a home. Atlas has room and the necessary communications nexus. And I suspect that Admiral Douthat will be delighted that we are not staying on one of her war ships.”

Sir Henry looked pained. “I would prefer, Majesty, that you get on a fast destroyer and go directly to Refuge. Atlas will be the target of every Dominion ship out there. We cannot guarantee your safety.”

Queen Anne smiled coolly. “I think not, Sir Henry. If we lose Atlas, we lose everything. If I must run from the Dominion and abandon Cornwall and Christchurch, I must have Atlas.”

“I must protest, Majesty. Exposing yourself to this danger is reckless in the extreme.”

“So noted,” Anne said. She turned back to Brill, who was still trying to digest the news that he was now part of the Queen’s personal staff. “I assume you had some plans for the second space station, Prometheus?”

“We don’t have the tugs to tow it, but we can’t leave it behind,” he replied. “It has to be destroyed.”

The Queen’s eyes narrowed. “Destroy it? Destroy the second largest industrial space station in all of Human Space?”

Hiram refused to back down. “We don’t have enough tugs to tow both of them. If Prometheus is left behind, it will fall into enemy hands and
they’ll
have the benefit of its capacity to turn out a frigate every day, a destroyer every week, a cruiser every month or a battleship every three months.”

“That space station cost five
trillion
credits, young man,” Sir Henry huffed.

Admiral Douthat returned then, and to his surprise, she supported Hiram. “It is a military decision, Your Majesty, not a political one. We simply can’t leave this significant an asset to fall into Dominion hands.

They argued the point for an hour, then the Queen grudgingly gave her permission for Prometheus to be sacrificed.

“You don’t seem terribly upset by this loss, Mr. Brill,” Queen Anne observed tartly.

Hiram shrugged. “When your good options are taken from you, Your Majesty, the choices you have left are simple. Terrible, perhaps, but simple.”

Anne smiled thinly. “For such a mild mannered man, Lieutenant, you can be very cold. I think you and Sir Henry will get along famously.” Hiram and Sir Henry gave each other a considering glance.

The Queen, her bodyguards and Sir Henry swept from the room. Hiram collapsed shakily into the nearest chair, his mind whirling. He gradually became aware that Captain Grey was smiling at him.

“Relax, Brill,” she said dryly. “An hour ago you were about to be arrested for high treason…and now you have the favor of the Queen. You’re doing just fine.”

He blinked in confusion. “Captain, I thought you were on board the
New Zealand.
I mean, I thought you were the one who shot down the Dominion freighter that tried to take out
Lionheart.
”

Grey’s eyes widened. “
New Zealand
shot the freighter? My ship?”

“Yes, Ma-am, I thought you knew. Heck, I assumed it was you who did it.”

The
New Zealand
was still at full battle stations, but as Emily watched the holo display it was becoming increasingly clear that whoever the bad guys were, they were dead. Indeed, just about every Dominion ship in sensor range had either been destroyed outright or boarded and seized.

“Coffee, Lieutenant?” Chief Gibson asked.

“Oh, Sweet Gods, I would
kill
for a cup of coffee.” She accepted it greedily. The adrenalin letdown after they’d destroyed the
Blue Swan
had been brutal. She sipped; it was sweet. She raised an eyebrow at Chief Gibson, who shrugged. “I noticed that you like a couple of sugars, Lieutenant, so I made sure they made it right.” Emily was touched.

“Thank you, Chief…and thank you for your support earlier. I know things were moving pretty fast. And…well, thanks.”

Gibson pursed his lips and nodded. “Yeah, it was a little wild and woolly, wasn’t it?” He leaned closer and dropped his voice. “But Lieutenant, what I don’t understand…well, the thing is, when you arrested Mr. Bishop, which was the right thing to do, I understand that, but when you did, you cited Article 13.27(a) of the Fleet Code of Justice.”

Emily looked at him expressionlessly.

“Well, I got curious, you see, so when things had calmed down a little, I asked Merlin for a copy of Article 13.27(a), and the thing is, Lieutenant, the thing is that all it talks about is housing allowances for junior grade officers, not dereliction of duty or treason or any of that stuff.”

Emily leaned forward. “Chief?”

Gibson looked at her expectantly. She put a finger to her lips.

“Shhssh!”

E
ight hours after the Dominion freighters attacked and destroyed two of the Home Fleets battleships, the last tug boat slipped into place above Space Station Atlas. Its towing beam was slaved to the master controller on board the
Son of Dublin.
Max Opinsky, sitting next to Peter Murphy, gave the display one last look over. “She’s ready, Murphy. Don’t fuck this up.”

Peter Murphy thumbed his radio, connecting him to the two hundred and twelve tugs that had arrived in time to join in. “All tugs! This is a tale you’ll tell your grandchildren, and they won’t believe a word of it! On my mark, accelerate at two percent of standard.”

He flipped the safety shield off, exposing the dial that would activate all two hundred and twelve tractor beams. “Jesus, Joseph and Mary,” he muttered, invoking the old religion, “let this work!” Beside him, Opinsky snorted in amusement, but his hands were clenched white.

Peter Murphy twisted the dial to ten percent power, glancing anxiously at the visual display of Atlas’s outer ring. Tentatively, he brought the power up to twenty five percent, then fifty, then one hundred. His face dripped with sweat.

“All ahead at two percent standard on my mark. Three! Two! One! Mark!”

T
here had been three more krait attacks. The crew of the
Yorkshire
had fought them off, but at a price paid in blood. The last of the Savak corpses had been jettisoned into space. In the midst of one of the attacks, the destroyer
Rutland
had lost way and staggered off on a Long Walk, leaving behind a dozen escape pods. By the time they had realized
Rutland
was missing, she was nowhere in sight. The
Kent
was still there, twenty miles off the port bow, but it had suffered as well.

Grant Skiffington sat on his bunk, drinking from a bottle of brandy he took from one of the Marines. His face was bloodstained, his clothing torn and dirty. He was now the only functioning officer on the Yorkshire. Commander Peled was in the sick bay, where the ship’s medic had put him into a medically induced coma until they could reach a hospital and remove the pellet lodged in his skull.

They had probed the entire area around them with active sensors and were as sure as they could be that there were no more Tilleke transporter craft near them. Now it was time to mend their wounds and make the perilous journey home to Victoria.

But first Grant intended to get drunk.

He was just taking another swig when his door opened and Cookie came in. She was dressed in filthy fatigue pants and a torn T-shirt that clung to her body. She was sweat-stained and dirty and there was a red splotch of blood on her neck. She looked earthy and sensual in a way Grant couldn’t define, but felt deep in his groin.

Without speaking, she crossed the little room and straddled him, sitting across the tops of his thighs and facing him. Her face was inches from his, her beasts softly pressed against his chest. Without conscious thought, he dropped the bottle and reached up to caress her.