Alarm of War

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.

Chapter 32

On Board the Collier H.M.S. Bawdy Bertha

In Tilleke Space, Approaching the Wormhole to Gilead

“They’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