In Victorian Space
Eight hours after the Dominion freighters attacked and destroyed two of the Home Fleets battleships, the last tug boat slipped into place above Space Station Atlas. Its towing beam was slaved to the master controller on board the Son of Dublin. Max Opinsky, sitting next to Peter Murphy, gave the display one last look over. “She’s ready, Murphy. Don’t fuck this up.”
Peter Murphy thumbed his radio, connecting him to the two hundred and twelve tugs that had arrived in time to join in. “All tugs! This is a tale you’ll tell your grandchildren, and they won’t believe a word of it! On my mark, accelerate at two percent of standard.”
He flipped the safety shield off, exposing the dial that would activate all two hundred and twelve tractor beams. “Jesus, Joseph and Mary,” he muttered, invoking the old religion, “let this work!” Beside him, Opinsky snorted in amusement, but his hands were clenched white.
Peter Murphy twisted the dial to ten percent power, glancing anxiously at the visual display of Atlas’s outer ring. Tentatively, he brought the power up to twenty five percent, then fifty, then one hundred. His face dripped with sweat.
“All ahead at two percent standard on my mark. Three! Two! One! Mark!”