Alarm of War

In the Fleet Intelligence Center on the Atlas Space Station, Admiral Douthat stood behind Hiram Brill’s shoulder, looking intently at the holo display.

“You’re sure?” she asked for the second time.

“Yes, Ma-am, they are falling back. Not very far, but they are definitely falling back.”

“Why?” she mused. “Why not continue to press us?”

Hiram shook his head. He was tired, very tired, and he didn’t think so well when he was tired. “Not enough information, Admiral. It could be any number of things.”

Admiral Douthat tapped her finger thoughtfully against her upper lip. But it wasn’t any number of things, she thought, it was one of two. Either Admiral Mello had fallen back to rearm and coordinate a massive, overwhelming strike, or something had distracted him, something he had to take care of before he could continue the attack on Atlas. She needed to know which it was.

But before she could order a reconnaissance mission, Gandalf broke in. “A courier drone from Captain Grey of the New Zealand has entered communications range.”

“I’ve got it,” Hiram said, and a moment later the comm screen displayed the message. With a start, Hiram recognized Emily.

“This is Lieutenant Emily Tuttle of the New Zealand, temporarily in command of the Coldstream Guards. We’re down to ten ships. Gloucester and Canberra have detached and are returning to you. We have killed three Dominion supply ships, disabled two more and are in a final attack run on the remaining four. High probability of success. But the Dominions have sent at least thirty five and perhaps as many as forty — repeat, four zero — ships to protect the supply ships and they have just launched a missile volley at us. We will launch on the supply ships momentarily, then I intend to run for it. The forty ships came from the direction of Bogey One, so you might have an opportunity there. A list of other kills is attached to this message.”

On the screen Emily paused, seemingly unsure what to say next. “We are low on missiles and outnumbered here, so I don’t really think we’ll get out of this. Good luck to you. New Zealand out.”

Admiral Douthat leapt to her feet. Queen Anne, who had been silent until now, asked: “What is it? Will you try to rescue them?”

Douthat ignored her. “Gandalf! Orders to the Queen’s Own and Black Watch: Prepare to attack immediately! Each ship to tow as many missile pods as it can. Admiral’s flag shifting to Lionheart. And have a shuttle ready for me in Shuttle Bay Number One.” Then, without another word, she ran from the room, stubby arms and legs pumping, and her generous middle bouncing along in hasty rhythm. Her aides pelted behind her.

Queen Anne turned to Hiram in confusion. “What just happened? Are they going to rescue the Coldstream Guards?”

Still looking at the frozen image of Emily on the comm screen, Hiram answered slowly. “Admiral Douthat just ran the numbers. When Bogey One attacked, we counted eighty five ships. We think they lost ten when we blew up Prometheus, leaving seventy five. The Coldstream Guards killed three more and may have damaged a fourth, so that leaves seventy one. What’s more, the supply ships had an escort of another six ships, so that means that there were only sixty five ships actually on line against the Atlas.”

The Queen nodded slowly, comprehension dawning. “So-”

“Yes,” Hiram said. “If Emily’s report is correct, the Dominion have now pulled another forty ships off line in order to save their supply train.” He smiled grimly. “That leaves only twenty five ships actively pursuing us. Probably less, since we know we’ve killed or disabled a few.”

“So now we outnumber them,” Anne said.

“For a little while,” Hiram corrected. “The forty ships will come back, and somewhere out there Bogey Two is coming towards us, but this gives us a chance to go in and do some real damage.”

“But what if it’s a trap?” the Queen asked, her face furrowed in concern. “What if Bogey Two is already here, just waiting for us to make a mistake, then come in and grab Atlas while it’s unprotected?”

Hiram shrugged. “Admiral Douthat doesn’t mind a little gamble.”

“Gods of our Mothers.” Anne stared at him, emotions flickering across her face. “I thought space warfare was supposed to be like a game of chess, with calculated moves and intricate stratagems.”

“Yeah, that works when you’re winning. But when you’re losing, it looks more like poker…or bare knuckled brawling.”

“Gods of our Mothers,” she breathed again. “And the Coldstream Guards? Will Admiral Douthat be able to rescue the Coldstream Guards?”

Hiram just looked at her.

“I see,” she said after a moment.

She didn’t really have anything more to say. Out there, somewhere, an entire Battle Group had sacrificed itself in order to save Atlas. In order to save her. But though she may be a queen, she was still a young woman, with a young woman’s curiosity.

“I–I saw you when that message came through, from the junior officer onboard the New Zealand.” She hesitated, then plunged ahead. “Do you know her?

Hiram blew out a breath. “Emily Tuttle. I met her at training in Camp Gettysburg. She is a friend, a good friend, and someday she would have made a very good admiral.” He smiled ruefully. “I don’t make friends easily, Your Majesty. You may have noticed — I’m a bit odd.”

“Was she-” Anne faltered. “I mean, were you and she-”

“No,” Hiram said. “Emily is just a very good friend. The woman I care about, the woman I love, was with Second Fleet in Tilleke.”

Anne had no words for that, and after an awkward silence, turned and left the room.

Eight minutes later all of the Queen’s Own and Black Watch reversed course and began racing toward the diminished Dominion line.

Aboard the H.M.S. Yorkshire, Cookie wandered through the ship’s corridors, trying to create a plan for dealing with an attack by the Savak, should they have the misfortune to stumble into them again. She was carrying a Bull Pup, had a blaster pistol at her waist and was wearing one of the Marine’s combat suits, relying on its nano-enhanced mesh to stop any Savak pellets that might come her way. After the three bloody, hand-to-hand fights they had been through, she kept a weapon within reach at all times and never took the combat suit off except to shower and sleep, not that she was getting much of either.

And after the third battle, Cookie and the surviving Marines — all fifteen of them — wore a second blood tear tattooed on their cheek.

The third assault had been the worse, with Savak commandoes from two different kraits beaming onto the ship simultaneously. The Marines and Yorkshire’s crew had lost the Engineering Deck, taken it back, and then lost it again. Then the Savak started pushing out from Engineering and Cookie and Sergeant Zamir were unable to stop them. They fought a stubborn, grueling, bloody retreat, but it was a retreat and they were rapidly running out of time and space.

That was when Grant Skiffington gave orders to everyone to find a place to strap in and fast, then he ordered Gandalf to turn off the inertial compensator for exactly one half of a second and at the same time activate the Dark Matter Brake to reduce speed by ten percent.

The results had been spectacularly gruesome.

Six of the Yorkshire’s crew hadn’t tied themselves down properly and were lost, but the Savak were caught totally unprepared. Many of them died immediately as they were smashed into bulkheads. The survivors, save for two of the female Pilots, were shot. None of the Marines were inclined towards mercy.

Grant Skiffington. The memory of their love making flooded over her. What had she been thinking? She shook her head in exasperation. He had been surprisingly tender and gentle, but she still couldn’t believe that she made love with him, to him. God, she had needed it, but he wasn’t Hiram; he could never be Hiram. There was no guilt — well, there was not much guilt, but there was a deep,