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 Victoria had hard data on where they were at all times. Admiral Teehan used to joke that he knew more about the whereabouts of the Duck fleet than he did that of his own teenaged children.
Still, he was looking at two conflicting facts. First, the Dominion only had one hundred war ships. Second, while all of those war ships were accounted for, Victoria was attacked by one hundred sixty additional DUC war ships.
There were only three options. Perhaps some other Sector had given the DUC the new war ships. Unlikely, since none of the other Sectors had much of a navy. Second, the clumsy, inefficient, bureaucratic Dominion had secretly built a second ship yard somewhere and had kept it hidden from the probing eyes of Victoria while they built a fleet to rival that of Victoria herself. Third…
Hiram turned to the figure working at the desk next to his. “Sir Henry?”
Sir Henry looked up in mild irritation.
“Sir Henry, am I dreaming?” Hiram asked.
“Lieutenant,” the older man said darkly. “I think the Fleet frowns on its officers drinking while on duty. I know I do.”
“The Dominion has one hundred and sixty ships more than we thought they did,” Hiram mused aloud. “Either I’m dreaming and this is the worst nightmare of my life, or the DUC somehow managed to build a very large space yard somewhere and then built an entire fleet without us even getting a sniff of it. Is that possible?”
Sir Henry smiled thinly and peered at Hiram over his half spectacles. “Young man, one of the many advantages the old have over the young is that we are no longer astonished when we see a cockup of monumental proportions. So, you ask: Could the bumbling, clownish Dominion have outsmarted our vaunted Fleet Intelligence? Damn straight they did. How did they do it? For the moment, that is immaterial. We have more pressing needs, such as surviving the next twenty four hours. I commend your attention and focus to those needs, Lieutenant, instead of indulging yourself in a goose chase.” He turned back to his computer screen.
“And if we do make it to Refuge, what then?” Hiram asked softly.
“Then, my young friend, we shall turn around and come out of Refuge as soon as we have repaired the Home Fleet.” His voice rose. “We will make the Dominion’s lives a torment. We shall probe and harass and annoy and when we are ready, we shall attack. We shall attack their outposts, attack their supply ships, attack their patrols and keep on attacking anywhere they are weak and we are strong. And when we are strong enough, we shall take the battle to their home world and kill them once and forever, so that for all time the name ‘Dominion’ will be nothing more than a foul curse to be muttered in the dark.” Sir Henry turned again to face Hiram squarely. “And once we’ve done that, no other Sector will ever dare to attack us again. And then, and only then, we shall rest and mourn our dead.”
Hiram was impressed, despite himself. “The Queen said you could be ruthless,” he said in real admiration.
Sir Henry snorted and turned back to his computer display. “Young man, you have no idea.”