H.M.S. Yorkshire, in Gilead Space,
Approaching the Victorian Wormhole
Grant Skiffington was collecting survivors, and doing his best to kill all the rest.
“We’ll be in close missile range in ten minutes, Captain,” the Sensors Officer announced. “Still no sign they’ve seen us.”
Grant Skiffington shook his head. They had started to call him “Captain” right after they lost Commander Peled, but it still jarred him to hear it. He smiled wryly. His father would have told him to shut up and enjoy the promotion.
“Thank you, Livy,” he told the rating at Sensors. The original Sensors Officer — Grant couldn’t remember his name — had been killed in the first attack by the Tilleke commandos.
This was the third Victorian ship they approached from dead astern, where a ship’s sensors are weakest. The Yorkshire was under full stealth. Their target, the destroyer H.M.S. Galway, had its navigation lights blinking and was cruising slowly toward the wormhole that would take it from Gilead to Victoria. But had the Galway been captured by the Tilleke? Or, like the Yorkshire, was it still in Victorian hands and playing possum in the hope of sneaking back to Victoria undetected?
Finding out was pretty damn tricky.
If they cruised up behind a ship and announced themselves as Victorians, and it turned out the ship was controlled by the Tillekes, Yorkshire had to be able to take them out very, very quickly or risk a close-encounter shooting match. On the other hand, they couldn’t just kill the ship without at least trying to discover if it was still controlled by friendlies.
The first three ships had not responded with the right answer to their hail, so Yorkshire and Kent had destroyed them. Only one had been able to get off any missiles, but Skiffington couldn’t count on always being so lucky.
He was still haunted by the fear that the ships had not responded just because of confusion, not because they were Tilleke, and that he had personally massacred thousands of Victorian sailors.
“Mr. Kauder, make sure everyone is at battle stations and open a link to the Kent. Whisker laser, if you please, Mr. Kauder. I want no radio transmissions.”
“Yes, sir.” The display screen changed from a map of all known ships to the face of Junior Lieutenant Lisa Stein. Stein was not the senior officer on the Kent, but was the only one still walking. One arm was in a sling and her wound was obviously uncomfortable, which did nothing to improve her mood. The Kent was a Cruiser (E), which meant she carried twelve heavy lasers, but only fifteen missile tubes instead of the usually twenty. The Kent needed the extra space for an additional power plant to charge the lasers. Four of the lasers were mounted in turrets, two on top of the Kent and two below. They could swivel 360 degrees, but required a crew of four to operate each turret. With half her crew dead, Stein had had to abandon one turret up and down in order to be able to man the rest. On top of that, four of her missile tubes were damaged and couldn’t be used.
“Are you ready, Lieutenant?” Skiffington asked.
“We’ve been ready for the last two hours,” she said irritably. “If you get any closer their engine exhaust is going to scorch your sensor nodes. Let’s get this done.”
Skiffington watched her closely. His medic had warned him that he could expect up to fifteen percent of his crew to show some signs of nervous exhaustion and stress disorders. After the last attack two of his deck crew had been medicated to keep them functioning and two more had been relieved of all duties. He needed Stein to be in top form for what they were about to do.
“You know the drill,” he said cheerfully. “As soon as you hear my radio transmission, I need you to take Kent out fifty miles off our beam. If the Galway fires on us, or if I fire, you are to fire all laser batteries that bear and follow it with missiles.”
“Gods of Our Mothers! We’ve already done this three times!” Stein snapped. “I know my job and my crew knows theirs. Let’s get this done.”
She was right. “Okay, Lieutenant, the fourth time’s the charm. I will commence in ten seconds. Skiffington out.”
He nodded to Kauder. “Hail the Galway.”
When Kauder signaled, Grant Skiffington spoke: “Calling the H.M.S. Galway! We have you locked in. You have ten seconds to answer this question or we’ll shoot you: Pretend you are a frigate captain. You spot game. What do you do and what was the name of the professor who told you? Ten seconds!”
Skiffington raised his hand, ready to give the order to fire lasers and missiles, and watched the clock. Five seconds…six…seven…
The radio squawked. “Go dark! Go dark and call home!” a voice screamed.
“Who was the professor?” Grant prodded.
“I have no fucking idea,” the voice replied angrily. “I’m a rating, I never went to the Academy, but Captain Reich used to tell us about his days on frigates and he said that was his first lesson. If you’re a scout frigate and you spot the enemy, you’re supposed to go into full stealth and send a courier drone to the nearest Fleet base first thing. He said it was the one thing that every Fleet cadet was taught the first week at the Academy.”
Skiffington grinned. That was why he picked this question. Tall, thin Rear Admiral Yavis taught the introductory class on Fleet History and Customs to incoming cadets. He admonished his class to remember that their role depended on the ship they were captaining. “A frigate is a scout,” he told them. “Your number one job is to report the presence of the enemy. When you spot enemy vessels, the first thing you do is go dark and call home. If you are a destroyer, your job is to support the cruisers. If you’re a cruiser, your job is to attack and destroy. And if you are ever so blessed in your career as to hold the lofty post of a battleship captain, your job is to lord it over everybody else.” Admiral Yavis’s class was the one memory every Fleet captain was sure to share.
Skiffington grinned to himself. “One more question: What’s the best bar on Atlas?”
There was a pause, then a chuckle. “If you’re an officer, you’d probably go to Max’s on the viewing deck, but the food’s lousy and overpriced…and the women have way too many scruples. If you’re a rating and you want a beer, you go to Steve’s Bar on Deck 12. If you want a beer and a girl, then you go to the Spiral Horn on Deck 30.”
Skiffington laughed. “Welcome to our little band of brothers, Galway. I’m Lieutenant Skiffington of the Yorkshire. We’ve got the Kent with us.”
The sigh of relief was audible. “I’m Chief Andy Richter, Lieutenant. I’m really glad to meet you.”
“Send your ship status to our Merlin and then fall in behind us, Chief Richter. Full stealth, and from here on no radio transmissions at all.”
“Lieutenant, one thing,” Richter said. “We have been picking up three ships at the outer limit of our sensors, heading towards the wormhole.”
Three more ships he would have to contend with. If they were enemy ships, he would have to take them all out, and he had only three damaged ships and their worn our crews to do it with.
Grant Skiffington looked around at his deck crew, taking in their covert glances and questioning looks. They were all wondering how the hell he was going to pull this off. Well, so was he. He grinned broadly.
He couldn’t have been happier.