Alarm of War

Dominion’s. It also had a set of sensors specially designed to monitor worm holes, and other special equipment as well.

“You’re sure?” Jong asked the Singer, a petit, dark haired woman named Lin.

“Yes, Brother. It has spoken most clearly.”

Jong could not suppress a groan. Why now, of all times?

“When will it start?”

“It has already started, Brother. The Victorians do not have sensors such as we do, otherwise they would have seen it already.”

“But when they see it, they will see it move to their left as they approach?”

“Yes, Brother.”

Jong wanted to weep. The Victorians would see the worm hole begin to slide to the left and would frantically turn to the left to keep on target. But then…

“And you are sure that it will turn and then go to the right, go past its starting point and continue.”

Lin looked at him with a hint of reproach. Jong sighed. Of course she was sure. This wormhole was her life’s work. She had studied it since she was a child and knew it better than any other in The Light.

“Perhaps we could-” he began, but Lin was shaking her head.

“It is very young, Brother Jong.” She spoke of it protectively, as if a mother of her rambunctious but much loved child. “I think this is how it plays.”

All God’s creatures are beautiful to Him, Jong reminded himself. He sighed.

“If we cannot change its path, then we must change the Victorian’s,” he said, and was rewarded with a hint of a smile from Lin.

But would the Victorians believe him?

Onboard the Atlas, the flow of radio messages was so great that it had been divided into two streams. All the tug boat messages coordinating the movement of the Atlas went to the commercial traffic controllers. All of the military traffic went to the First Fleet communications center, which had been moved to Atlas from the Lionheart and was now housed in a large room immediately next to the Fleet Intelligence Center run by Hiram Brill. Hiram had an open circuit to the Fleet communications center so that he could loosely monitor the general traffic, or lock into any one conversation.

One of the ratings monitoring traffic suddenly stiffened in his chair, then slapped the red button on his desk to summon a supervisor.

“What is it, Catino?” the supervisor asked.

“Just in, Lieutenant,” he said, handing her a slip of paper. “Message header says it is for Queen Anne and for Lieutenant Hiram Brill.” His forehead wrinkled. “Who is Brill?”

The supervisor scanned the message, the blood draining from her face. “Gods of Our Mothers,” she muttered, then reached for the comm.

Admiral Mello nodded in satisfaction; Kaeser’s Second Attack Fleet had finally caught up. The battles with the damn Vickies had been hugely more expensive than he could have imagined. Of his original eighty five ships, Mello had only forty seven left fit to fight, but with Kaeser’s ships finally on line, he now had one hundred and seventeen, more than enough to overwhelm the battered Victorian defenses.

He gave the orders to reposition the Fleet in preparation for the final attack. It would take some time to put into place, but once in place they would be unstoppable. And for the Vickies, there would be a little surprise.

“Captain, we are being hailed by a picket ship,” Partridge reported.

“Put it up, Toby.” Emily had finally learned his first name and was using it to make sure she didn’t forget again.

“Unknown ships, activate your beacons and identify yourselves.” The voice was clipped and brusque; Emily could almost see the unknown captain’s hand in the air, ready to order their laser batteries to fire.

“Who are they, Chief?” she asked Chief Gibson.

“Merlin reads them as several destroyers from the Queen’s Own. Cape Town, Oxford, Southampton and Coventry. The communication came from the Cape Town, captained by Captain Melissa Wyman.

Emily glanced at Rudd. He smiled and nodded: Atlas was nearby. Emily breathed a sigh of relief. “Tell the other ships to activate their beacons, and open a channel to the Cape Town.

“Cape Town, this is Emily Tuttle, Acting Captain of the New Zealand. We are returning from a raid on enemy supply ships. I have seven ships of the Coldstream Guards and three stragglers from Second Fleet, the Yorkshire, Kent and Galway. We have many wounded on board and request emergency docking at Atlas.”

“Where is Captain Grey?” A hint of suspicion there.

Emily hesitated. “Captain Grey died five hours ago from injuries sustained when we attacked the first supply ships.”

There was a long moment of silence, then: “Stand down all weapons systems and slow to two hundred KPM. Deactivate computer security and prepare for C2C communication.” Which meant that they were to go dead slow and open up their computer for a full scan from the Queen’s Own ships. Standard precautions for verifying someone’s identity if there was any suspicion they might be a Trojan horse.

“Understood, Cape Town and we will comply, but please hurry. Also, be advised that we’ve seen Dominion ships moving in a wide arc toward the Refuge wormhole. I think they are running around your flanks to get to the wormhole first and take up blocking positions.”

“Could you tell how many, New Zealand?”

Alex Rudd tapped his tablet and put it in front of Emily. “Cape Town, they were at the edge of our passive sensor range, but we put it at fifteen destroyers, thirty ships of cruiser size, some twenty smaller ships, frigate size or smaller, plus one very large ship of unknown type. We did not — repeat, did not — see any Hedgehogs or anything that looked to be a supply ship.”

“Understood, New Zealand, prepare to receive our boarding party.”

Five hours later, the battered remnants of the Coldstream Guards docked at Atlas. After the medics had hurriedly removed the wounded and the remains of the dead, and Emily had talked to the yard dogs about the list of needed repairs, she joined Alex Rudd and Chief Gibson and walked into the main concourse. Standing there, smiling broadly, was Hiram Brill. Emily blinked once when she saw his insignia of rank, then smiled. She stood to attention and saluted. “Lieutenant Tuttle reporting, Commander Brill.”

Hiram laughed and stepped forward, looking like he was going to give her a hug, but shook her hand instead. “Sweet Gods, Emily, we all thought you were dead, or at best, captured.” He shook his head. “The last word we had from you was when you were under attack. It sounded, well, hopeless.”

“It was pretty grim,” she admitted. “Hiram, you’re a Commander! Did they skip you over Lieutenant Commander? Gods of Our Mothers, I’m gone for two days and they make you a Commander!”

Then a voice behind her said: “Are you Lieutenant Emily Tuttle?”

Emily turned to see five Military Police standing in a semi-circle around her, led by a weather beaten, no- nonsense Major. They all carried nerve induction batons and side arms. They looked very serious. Alex Rudd took a step closer to her on one side, and Chief Gibson on the other. Suddenly it seemed as if the entire concourse had gone silent as everyone stopped and watched. And in that moment, Emily knew what it was.

“Yes, I am Lieutenant Tuttle of the New Zealand. What can I do for you, sir?”

“Lieutenant Tuttle, I am Major Patrick Donaldson, Home Fleet Military Police. I have orders to arrest you and take you immediately to detention pending further proceedings.”

That weasel, Wicklow! Emily struggled to keep her voice calm. “And the charges?” she asked.

“You are charged with refusal to obey a lawful order of a superior officer, cowardness in the face of the enemy, treason and inciting treason,” Major Donaldson replied. He motioned abruptly to the other MPs and two of them stepped forward to take Emily by either arm. Rudd and Gibson stepped forward reflexively. In a moment the