Alarm of War

Epilogue

Queen Anne sat with her chief advisors on the patio of a resort on Refuge. Across the table sat the Prime Minister and Foreign Minister of Refuge. The patio overlooked an emerald green lake framed by towering mountains. It was, the resort host assured her, one of the most beautiful vistas in all of Refuge.

She barely noticed it.

In the five days since they had arrived in Refuge, the Dominions had launched two attacks through the worm hole. Neither had succeeded in reaching the Atlas, now tucked away in an asteroid belt on the far side of Refuge, but they had destroyed one of the two forts guarding the worm hole entrance. Both sides had taken losses, but while Refuge could quickly build more of its gunboats, reconnaissance drones reported that no additional reinforcements seemed to be coming to bolster the Dominion forces. At least not yet. But while there were no further attacks, it was also clear that the Victorian forces were too small to go on the offensive any time soon.

“Refuge pays its debts,” said Aamir Fareed Khan, Refuge’s Foreign Minister. “We will do whatever we can to help you, but our industrial base is small and we have little experience in designing and building large war ships. As for our naval fleet-” he shrugged eloquently — “it is comprised of seven hundred gunboats. Until this week, they had never fired a shot in anger.”

“You have already repaid any debt you might have owed us,” Queen Anne said earnestly, ignoring Sir Henry’s wince. “You have protected us since the minute we arrived in your sector, and for that we are eternally grateful. We know how to build large warships, although I must tell you, Minister, that our admirals have been very impressed with your gunboats. What we need now more than anything is your protection and time, time to rebuild our Fleet so that we can take the attack to the Dominions, time to retake our home world back from them.” If they could retake Cornwall, they would have the population they needed to man the ships they intended to build.

“Majesty, we will support you as best we can, within the limits of our industrial base and resources,” said the Refuge Prime Minister, Yisrael Tal. “We are ever mindful of the fact that without the support from your grandfather, there would be no Refuge.” He looked at her through shrewd eyes, seeing a very young woman with very little experience trying to save her world from the brink of disaster. He wondered if she really understood how the odds were stacked against her.

“But, Your Majesty, you began this war with ten battle groups and now you have little more than one. We do not know how many ships the Dominion has, nor the Tilleke, for that matter. Nor do we know how the other nations will align themselves in this war. From what you have told us, we must assume that Cape Breton is in league with the Dominions. But what will Sybil Head and the Sultenic Empire do? What of Darwin? And is there any hope that Arcadia is now anything more than a vassal state of the Tilleke?” He leaned back, his face troubled. “We pledge you our support, Majesty. Our history demands nothing less. But Your Majesty, as I look at your situation and the forces at your disposal, I fail to see any reasonable hope. Is there anything that you know that we do not?”

Queen Anne glanced at her chief counselors, then back across the table to the Prime Minister. She smiled a chill predatory smile that reminded him of nothing less than a sivit, just before it tore its prey to pieces. The Prime Minister had not hunted sivit since he was a foolhardy young man, when he learned the hard way that often when you hunted sivit, the sivit hunted you.

His estimation of the young Queen underwent a rapid recalculation.

“There are many things I do not yet know, Prime Minister,” Queen Anne said evenly. “But I do know that the Dominions have already made one crucial mistake, one that will inevitably lead to their utter defeat.”

Puzzlement registered on the Prime Minister’s weathered face. “And that is?”

Queen Anne leaned forward, her eyes locked on his. “They tried to kill me, Prime Minister, and failed.”

Hiram finally found her in a small tavern on the outskirts of Meknes, the capital city of Refuge. She was sitting alone at a corner table, a bottle of Darwinian brandy before her. From the looks of it, she had been at it a long time. Without speaking, he slid into the chair opposite her and signaled the waitress for a drink of his own. The waitress brought him a tall glass of dark ale. Hiram reached across and clinked his glass against hers.

“To a victorious battle,” he said, sipping his ale.

Emily shook her head with the exaggerated slowness of someone who has been drinking hard. “No, no, to absent companions,” she said. She took a long pull on her glass, then shakily refilled it. Brandy splashed on the table, but she ignored it. “I’ve been here all afternoon, but I can’t get drunk.” She would not look at him. “I don’t think I’ve ever needed to be drunk so much in my life.”

Hiram did not say anything. Emily stared down into her glass, avoiding him. The moment dragged on.

“Emily,” he said gently. “I saw the tapes. I understand. I’m not blaming you, Em, I mean it.”

In a sudden frenzy, Emily swept the bottle of brandy against the wall. It fell to the floor with a hollow ‘clunk!’ and rolled crazily in a circle.

“No, you don’t understand!” she half shouted, half sobbed. The bar tender looked up in alarm.

“I sent her,” Emily said harshly. “I sent her with no chance of getting her back.” Tears streamed freely down her cheeks. “I sent her…I lost her.”

Hiram reached across the table and covered her shaking hands with both of his. “Then we’ll just have to find her, Emily. We’ll just have to find her and get her back.”