Atlas Station, Fleet Intelligence Center
“My God, they nuked the Palace!” the Communications Officer shouted.
The entire FIC fell silent. Hiram leaned forward. “Nina, check for reports about the Queen.” She raced to comply, her fingers dancing over the console.
“Many confirming reports,” she said. “At least two nuclear warheads…the Fleet attache is reporting that the Queen was at a meeting with all of the senior admirals and their staff.” Her shoulders slumped. “The Palace was totally destroyed, everyone inside is dead.” She looked up, tears streaking her cheeks. “Queen Beatrice is dead, along with the senior admirals of Home Fleet and Fleet Administration.”
Part of him wanted to cry, but part of him had to stifle a laugh of rueful appreciation. Sweet Gods, somebody on the other side of this had balls and brains! It was a classic coup de main. Kill the leadership, then sweep in and attack amidst the confusion and chaos. But the timing was a little off, the attack on the Palace was a little too soon. The two fleets were still a day away. He wondered idly whether the arrival of the courier drones from the Bawdy Bertha had forced them to spring their attack early.
The sound of hysterical sobbing brought him back to the present. Got to focus, Hiram. And then: The odds are more than two to one. We’re beaten.
Then: Only if they catch us!
He remembered one of his old high school history teachers, talking about the decision to flee Old Earth during the Third Plague. “Sometimes,” he had told the bored class, “the right decision at the right time is the difference between salvation and utter catastrophe.” Then he had peered at them through his rheumy eyes. “Most of you will never be faced with making such a decision, and for that you will be fortunate. But if you are, pray to God you get it right.”
Gods of Our Mothers, help me now, he thought.
“Nina! Do we have a line into the Port Authority?”
She looked at him, barely able to understand his question in the midst of her grief.
“Nina,” he said softly but firmly. “I need you. We don’t have much time, so pull yourself together.” She nodded gamely, wiped at a tear and hiccupped. He raised his voice so everyone in the room could hear. “Everybody listen up. We’ve got a lot to do and damn little time to do it, so shake it off and pay attention!”
He turned back to his Communications Officer. “Get me a line to the Port Authority. Tell them — ” he hesitated. “Tell them that you have a message from Admiral Douthat of the highest urgency.” Nina blinked at him, then turned to her console.
Next he called up the holograph display of the entire Victoria Sector. “Gandalf, label this fleet-” he touched the fleet of 80 ships from Cape Breton — “as ‘Bogey One” and this fleet — ” he touched the 70-ship fleet from the Dominion — “as ‘Bogey Two.” He turned to two warrant officers. “You two, find two Navy ships, one that’s close to Bogey One and the other as close as you can get to Bogey Two. If you can find a scout vessel or a frigate, all the better, but find something that can move fast. Tell them to vector in on the Bogeys, assess their ship types and report back by laser com or courier drone ASAP. Then-” he paused, “then tell them to run like hell.”
Now what? he wondered. In twenty four hours, one hundred and fifty enemy ships would reach Cornwall. Second Fleet and most of Third Fleet were gone. The Queen was gone; all of the senior Fleet admirals were dead. Home Fleet had just lost two of its three battleships. All Victoria had left to meet the enemy fleets were fifty eight war ships and a bunch of tugs. Hell, the two space stations weren’t even armed. What they desperately need was time, time to rebuild their fleet and even up the odds.
He waived at the room to get everyone’s attention. They stared at him from hollow eyes. “Quickly, who is Victoria’s best ally?”
“Arcadia,” someone muttered.
“Not a chance!” another retorted. “Arcadia would sell us down the river for a gold coin and a promise of trade if they had the chance.”
Not that it mattered, Hiram thought. With Second Fleet gone, Arcadia would be nothing more than a Tilleke province.
“Who else?” he shouted.
“Refuge,” Nina said. “We saved them from the plague and helped them get settled. “The Am HaAretz have long memories, they’ll help us.” The others nodded in silent agreement.
“Gandalf, find me a ship that is close to Refuge, but it has to be fast. A courier ships if you can find one, otherwise a frigate or destroyer.”
“Processing your request.” In a moment the comm screen flickered and a sturdy young woman gazed at him curiously. “This is Captain Neuwirth of the Frigate Matterhorn. What is this about?”
“Is your ship fueled and provisioned, Captain?” he asked her.
She nodded. “We just topped off before leaving Christchurch.”
Hiram took a breath. “Is she fast, the Matterhorn? Very fast?”
Neuwirth’s brow wrinkled into a line, then she grinned like a little girl. “She’s a refitted Clipper class frigate with four new Royce anti-matter injectors. She is one very fast bitch, Lieutenant.”
Hiram quickly filled her in on the Dominion attack. “I have been instructed by Admiral Douthat to give you the following orders,” he lied calmly. Then he told her what he wanted her to do.”
She stared at him. “That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard.”
Hiram nodded. “We’re hoping the Dominion will think so, too.” He glanced at the clock. “We have no time, Captain. I need you to leave now if this is to stand a chance of working.”
Neuwirth stared for a moment, then shrugged and nodded. “Matterhorn out.” The screen went dark.
Next, he called Peter Murphy, the tug boat captain of Son of Dublin. When Murphy appeared, Hiram told him tersely what he wanted him to do. Murphy looked thunderstruck.
“You’re bloody daft, you know that, don’t you?” Murphy gasped.
“How many tugs can you get? Two hundred? Three hundred? Would that be enough?”
Murphy stroked his chin, straining to get his mind around the problem. “Well, we’ve probably got a hundred right around the station. Another hundred within five or six hours if they red-line it, and another three hundred that I’d have to call in from all over Victoria.” He shrugged. “They could join us within the first day or so, depending on the vector.”
“But can you do it?” Hiram asked anxiously. “If you got two hundred tugs here, could they pull it?”
Murphy dithered for a moment, then nodded reluctantly. “Oh, aye, they can do it. Each tug has a battleship-strength tractor, but you’re just as like to pull it apart as you are to tow it! Bloody hell, man, they’re not made to be towed!” But he rubbed his chin again, and Hiram could see he was already working on the problem.
“Call your ships, Captain Murphy,” he told him. “Call them now, every single one of them.”
Murphy shook his head. “You owe me a pint of the best for this, boyo, and no mistake. Dublin out!”
One last call to put things in motion. Hiram took a deep breath and grinned shakily at the FIC crew who stood watching him, open mouthed.
The comm flickered on to show a man in an admiral’s uniform sitting before rows and rows of consoles and displays. He looked impatiently at Hiram under busy eyebrows and a thatch of white hair. “This is Prometheus Station Master, Admiral Sullivan.”
“Admiral, I am Lieutenant Brill, special adjutant to Admiral Douthat. Admiral Douthat has instructed me to order you to immediately evacuate Prometheus and to destroy your central computer.” He hurriedly explained about the Dominion attack and the two enemy fleets soon to arrive.
Admiral Sullivan bit back a reply and pursed his lips. “Tell you what, Brill. You get Admiral Douthat on the comm personally. I want to see her myself if I’m going to obey an order like this. And if you don’t get her, I’m going to see you court martialled. Prometheus out!” The display went blank.
For a long moment Hiram sat still; he didn’t know what to do. They had to clear Prometheus and-
“Who the hell are you and what the fuck do you think you’re doing?” a voice suddenly said. Hiram whirled around and found himself facing a very angry looking Admiral Alyce Douthat, admiral of the Home Fleet. Behind her was a squad of Royal Marines in full battle gear, looking blood stained and grim, and behind them stood Captain Grey of the New Zealand.
Sweat broke out on his face; his stomach rolled and he felt faint. “I…I” he stammered helplessly.
Douthat looked at him in disgust. “You’re under arrest for treason.” She gestured to the Marines. “Take him-”
“NO!” he shouted.
Admiral Douthat stared at him with hard eyes. “Don’t “No” me, you traitorous son of a bitch. As of twenty minutes ago, we’re in a shooting war. What I should do instead of locking you up is just push you out the nearest airlock.”
Hiram was having trouble controlling his breathing. Try as he might, he couldn’t seem to take a full breath. Black spots swarmed before his eyes.
“Dominion fleet is coming,” he gasped.
Douthat’s eyes narrowed. “What?” she asked, her voice full of menace.
“Coup de main,” he croaked. “Queen is dead. Two Dominion fleets will be here is twenty four hours.”
“The Queen is dead, and I think you had something to do with it,” Douthat snarled. “I just caught you red-handed ordering the evacuation of one of our most important space stations, using my name! You know, on second thought, I am just going to push you out an airlock-”
“The Queen is not dead!” a voice interrupted.
Four men in the blue livery of the royal armsmen crowded into the room, looking at everyone with hard eyes. Each carried a sonic blaster, held ready to fire. For a moment, everyone froze, then as one looked to the figure in the doorway.
“You are mistaken, Admiral,” said Anne Radcliff Mendoza Churchill, eldest daughter of the late Queen Beatrice. Beside her stood a grim-faced Sir Henry Truscott. Anne’s eyes were red-rimmed, but dry. She had grieved privately for her mother’s death; now her weeping was done.
“Your queen is alive and standing before you. With the death of my mother, I am now Queen of Victoria.”