Alarm of War

“They disobeyed a direct order during combat, that’s what I mean,” roared Captain Wicklow. “I gave them a direct order to come back to Atlas and rejoin the Home Fleet and they disobeyed. They deserted, I tell you, deserted! And their ring leader is that wet-behind-the-ears lieutenant, Tuttle, who acts above her station and presumes authority she does not have! I want orders for their arrest.”

Douthat eyed him warily. Captain Wicklow was a personal friend of Queen Beatrice’s brother, Harold. He was a mediocre tactician with little sense of strategy, but he knew politics and played it well.

“Captain, I’m sure there is some misunderstanding here. We’ve received a report from the New Zealand that they were attacking the Dominion supply ships-”

“Oh, we attacked, all right!” Wicklow interrupted. “Did that report tell you that Captain Grey recklessly led us directly into an ambush? That because of her negligence we suffered severe damage and loss of life. She used poor judgment, Admiral, very poor judgment.”

Now Admiral Douthat eyed him skeptically. “Captain Grey successfully destroyed the first set of Dominion supply ships and then led the attack to destroy the second group. Are you-”

“Captain Grey was injured, killed or has been displaced by her subordinates,” Wicklow said flatly. “All I know is that she was not in charge at the time we encountered a Dominion force of at least forty ships.” He eyed her through hooded lids. How much did she know? How much could he push this?

“I suspect that her lieutenant, Tuttle, has something to do with this. When I gave her a direct order, she had the audacity to put targeting sensors on my ship and threatened to shoot!” Wicklow raged, while meanwhile a part of him coolly assessed the impact all of this was having on Admiral Douthat. “This is treason, treason in the face of the enemy! I want her arrested, Admiral. I want her arrested and punished!”

Douthat sighed. There was no time for this. Atlas was only a day away from the wormhole to Refuge. There was so much to do. But she ignored Wicklow at her peril.

“Captain Wicklow, I want your full written report on the matter on my desk in an hour. Meanwhile, provision your ship and prepare for orders. We expect to be attacked in force very soon and I will want you ready. Do you understand?”

“My ship will be ready, Admiral. You can count on us.”

You self-righteous little toad, Douthat thought. “Do you have any idea where the rest of the Coldstream Guard was going?”

Wicklow hesitated, thinking it was probably not helpful to tell the Admiral that Tuttle intended to lead yet another attack on the Dominion supply ships. “I cannot say, Admiral. We had a superior force bearing down on us and I knew it was imperative to save as many of our fighting ships as possible. I gave the order to pull back so as to preserve our capacity to take the fight to the enemy on another day.”

Admiral Douthat raised one skeptical eyebrow. “We still have no word on the fate of the remaining Coldstream Guards. File your report, Captain. Attach the ship’s log to it. And make it quick, the Dominion will be here soon.”

Wicklow turned away, suppressing a flutter of concern. He’d forgotten about the ship’s logs. Well, he was sure that a little judicious editing would help them to fully support his story.

Chapter 60

In Victorian Space on the H.M.S. New Zealand

Searching for the Space Station Atlas

Twice the Coldstream Guards saw distant DUC patrols on their sensors, but they were far off and posed no threat. Once they saw a formation of drones, but they couldn’t determine whether they were Victorian or Dominion, and so they coasted on under full stealth, except for the New Zealand. Emily had decided to use the New Zealand as the staked goat. If there were any DUC ships lurking about in stealth mode, she wanted them to see the New Zealand and focus on it, allowing the other ships in the Coldstream Guards a chance to pounce. It was a calculated risk…and it left her edgy and anxious, with sweaty palms and a sour stomach.

Space station Atlas was nowhere to be seen. They had been hunting now for twenty hours and had found not a trace.

“We’ve got to find it,” Chief Freidman said anxiously from the weapons console. “We’ve got to. We’re out of missiles and chaff. We’ve got wounded.” He wrung his hands nervously. “We’ve got to find her. We’ve got to,” he repeated plaintively.

Emily frowned. She had a decision to make, and she had already put it off too long. Chief Freidman was their chief weapons officer. If they bumped into a Dominion patrol now, she didn’t think he’d hold up very long. But who to replace him with? His assistant was killed in the initial fighting, when they’d stumbled into the ambush. Sighing, she glanced at Chief Gibson and shook her head very slightly. Grim faced, Gibson slipped out of his chair and went to his friend of twenty years.

“Hey, Tommy, it’s okay. We got it, Tommy, we got it. But, Tommy, I need you to go see Naama Denker. Okay? She’ll help you out, Tommy.”

Chief Freidman stood up abruptly, looking at the bridge crew with hollow eyes and sunken cheeks. He rubbed his face and shook his head violently. “No, George, I can’t…not like this. George…”

Emily stood up and crossed the room. She would send her crew to their death if she had to, but it broke her heart to see one of them in disgrace. She took Chief Freidman by the arm and led him to the doorway, where one of the Marine sentries waited uncomfortably.

“Chief,” she said softly. “You are one of my best. Never forget that. I want you to see Naama. I want you to see her and get some rest and come back to us. We need you here, Chief.” Then she wheeled furiously on the Marine guard. “This man is Chief Warrant Officer Thomas Freidman. He was a Master Chief and the best damned weapon’s officer in the Fleet when you were still in diapers,” she snapped at the hapless guard. “You will treat him with the respect he has earned and deliver him safely to Sick Bay and Lieutenant Denker, is that clear?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” the Marine sputtered, desperately trying to figure out what he had done to put himself in the dog house. He took Freidman gently by the arm. “This way, Chief, just follow me.”

Emily sat down and thumbed the com for Sick Bay. “Naama?”

“Yes, Captain?”

“I’m sending one of my crew down to you with battle fatigue.”

“Gods of Our Mothers, another one?” Naama exclaimed.

“Help him as best you can, Naama,” Emily told her.

She turned to Chief Gibson. “I’m sorry about Mr. Freidman, Chief, I really am.”

Chief Gibson ran a rough hand over his mouth. “You did good, Captain, treated him with respect. Go back a long time, him and me, long time.” He shook his head. “God only knows, everybody’s got their limits.”

“Chief, suggestions for a replacement?”

Gibson nodded. “Yeah, I’ve been thinking about that. Why don’t I take Weapons and let Mr. Partridge take Sensors? I cross trained on Weapons and I’ve been working with Partridge on the Sensors consol.”

Emily glanced at Partridge, who was quivering with excitement. How old is he, anyway? she wondered. “Very well. Mr. Partridge, you are now the Assistant Sensors’ Officer. Please remember that Chief Friedman will be back.” They didn’t have enough crew to lose him permanently if Naama could fix him up. “And now,” she said with forced confidence, “we’ve got a space station to find.”

• • • • •

On board the Space Station Atlas, Hiram poured through the data on the Dominion attack force. No matter how many times he looked at it, the answer was always the same: The Dominions couldn’t have as many ships as they did. He rubbed his eyes wearily and slumped back in his chair. All the Victorian intelligence showed the Dominion as having about one hundred war ships. Those ships had been built at the Might of the People Space Works (known by the Victorian Intelligence as the “Mop Works”) in orbit around Timor, the DUC home planet. But Victorian spy ships carefully monitored the Mop Works, and the last war ship had been built just over a year ago. And anyway, Victorian stealth frigates tagged along behind the Dominion fleets when they were on maneuvers, so