Alarm of War

supply ships. In the northwest, now partially obscured by chaff, were the Dominion reinforcements. But if the war ships were obscured, the avalanche of missiles coming towards the Coldstream Guard was not. They had killed some, but there were still three hundred and fifty homing in on just twelve ships. On the holo display they looked like a tidal wave.

And try as she might, she couldn’t think of a way to stop them. Their anti-missile stores

were almost depleted, they were out of zone explosives and even getting low on decoys.

And now they were running out of time.

“Approaching point to launch attack against the supply ships,” Merlin informed her.

“How long before the Dominion missiles reach us, Merlin?”

“Seven minutes, four seconds.”

“Status of anti-missile stores?” she asked.

“Of the ten operational ships under command, four have no anti-missile capability beyond short range Bofor and laser fire. The remaining four have thirty anti-missile rockets among them.”

Across the bridge, Alex Rudd looked at her and shook his head. Emily felt a bubble of anger and desperation. She hadn’t come all this way just to lose her ship and the rest of the Coldstream Guard. There must be something.

But she couldn’t think of it.

“I’m open to suggestions,” she told Rudd and the bridge crew.

“Lieutenant!” Chief Gibson called.

“Sixty seconds to launch,” Merlin said.

“What is it, Chief?” Emily replied.

“The Dominion ships that are chasing us — they’re turning away!” He shook his head in wonderment. “They’re leaving! Looks like they’re going back to Bogey One. So are the six escort ships that were guarding the colliers. They’re all bugging out, and really pouring on the acceleration.”

Emily smiled tiredly. Admiral Douthat must have counter-attacked. Not that it mattered. The Dominion’s missiles would finish the job, whether the Dominion war ships were there or not.

“Um…Ma’am?” It was Seaman Partridge. Emily searched for his first name, couldn’t find it.

“Mr. Partridge?”

“Forty five seconds to launch,” Merlin said.

“Well, Ma’am, we’re close to the supply ships. Really close. Why don’t we hide next to them? I mean, they must be scared of the missiles, too. They’ll have their ‘friend-or-foe’ transponders on, won’t they? I mean they don’t want to get hit by their own missiles. So if we got right up close to them, maybe shoot some chaff around, then the missiles couldn’t tell us from them and they’ll shut down. Wouldn’t they?”

“Thirty seconds.”

Emily was flabbergasted. It seemed preposterous. Hide next to the supply ships? Could this really work? She looked questioningly at Rudd. He smiled. “Oh, I like it,” he said. “I really like it.”

“Twenty seconds to attack,” Merlin reminded her.

Time to make the decision. “Merlin, abort attack.”

A pause. “Attack mission on supply ships aborted. Is there anything you would like me to do, Lieutenant Tuttle?” Merlin asked mildly.

“Relinquish flight control to ships’ captains,” Emily ordered. They were going to have to thread a needle with these war ships, and she wanted human pilots for that. “Mr. Bahawalanzai — ” Rahim Bahawalanzai was recognized as the best pilot on the New Zealand — “you have the Pilot’s seat. I’ll pick the Dominion supply ship we want to cozy up to, but the details of how we do it are going to be up to you.”

“And if you screw it up, Rahim,” Rudd chimed in, “the New Zealand is going to end up as a spot of soot on the hull of one of those big mother supply ships.”

“I will endeavor to avoid such an ignominious fate, Sir,” Bahawalanzai dead panned.

Emily turned to Communications. “Betty, open a channel to the other ships.” Betty worked her control panel, then nodded. “New Zealand to all Coldstream Guards. We’re going to try something a little unusual,” she explained.

Five minutes later, the last of the Coldstream Guard ships slid next to the Dominion supply ships and slowed to match speeds. The supply vessels were accelerating as fast as they could, no doubt red-lining their inertia compensators, but in the end they were still supply ships and the Victorian war ships had little trouble catching up to them. The four Dominion ships were separated by ten miles or so; but even with that spacing, it was a delicate task for the Victorians to insert themselves between them, followed by the white-knuckles job of painstakingly maneuvering the war ships until they were no more than one hundred yards from the nearest Dominion supply ship. In peace time, a stunt like this would mean a certain court martial for the captain who ordered it; now it looked like their best chance.

The supply ship next to the New Zealand was huge. Emily gaped like a tourist. She had never once seen another ship in space without the assistance of video cameras. Now she thought she could reach out and touch the supply ship — the Togo, the name was clearly visible on its hull. Emily tried to imagine the consternation the Dominion ships must have felt when they realized the Victorian ships were sailing alongside them.

“Betty, hail the Togo.”

The Togo’s captain came on immediately, obviously waiting for her call. “Captain, this is the H.M.S. New Zealand. You are instructed to not make any radio transmissions or to launch any courier drones. Kill your engines. You and your crew have ten minutes to evacuate your ship. You will not be harmed as long as you comply.”

The Captain was an attractive woman in her forties. She looked at Emily shrewdly. “I am Captain Hantman. Since you don’t want any radio transmissions, I assume you want me to turn off my “friend-or-foe” transponder?” she asked innocently.

Emily smiled at having been caught out so quickly. “No, you can leave that on.”

“I thought as much,” Hantman replied. “You are playing a very close game here, Captain. Very close.” She paused. “There is a much better alternative here, Captain: Surrender to me. There is no shame in it. We outnumber you. We’ve captured your home world, and there is little doubt we will overtake your space station and capture it or destroy it.”

Emily blinked in surprise. “You are asking me to surrender?”

“Consider your position, Captain.” Hantman said the word “Captain” with a slight question in it. “The loss of these supply ships will cause us some temporary discomfort, but we have other supply trains, and more war ships entering your Sector with each hour. You have lost this war; now the only question is whether you will die in it.”

“Dominion missiles will arrive in two minutes,” Merlin said.

“Evacuate in ten minutes, Captain,” Emily said harshly, “Or the loss of your crew is on your head.”

Captain Hantman bowed her head slightly. “You are making a mistake, but for the moment it is yours to make. Togo out.” The com screen went blank.

“Ninety seconds,” Merlin said.

Now or never, Emily thought. “All ships, fire off remaining decoys, then go stealthy. Good luck.”

Three hundred and fifty missiles bore down on them. Everyone watched the holo display, unable to turn away. Betty McCann quietly wept. Alex Rudd swallowed convulsively. Chief Gibson stared fixedly at the holo display, as if force of will could make the missiles go away. Seaman Partridge kept nodding, as if everything was going according to plan. Other crew members crossed themselves or fingered religious talismans.

Emily was suddenly seized by terrible doubt. It had seemed such a good idea when Partridge suggested it, but now she watched with growing horror as the missiles relentlessly homed in. She was putting them all, her crew, the entire Coldstream Guards, in terrible jeopardy. Her mistake would kill them.

Emily closed her eyes and said a prayer.

“Sixty seconds.”

Then Chief Freidman swore viciously. “Sweet Gods! The Ducks are running for it!”

The four Dominion supply ships had abruptly turned and accelerated, each of them heading in a different