Alarm of War,

Book III

Desperate Measures

Map of Human Space

“A desperate man takes desperate measures in a lover’s embrace.” – Refugian Proverb

“Don’t fight alongside desperate men; they’ll just get you killed.” – Otto Wisnioswski, Private, Victorian Fleet Marines

Prologue

On Tuesday, they killed the old woman.

Not right away, of course, but just as dead. She never knew. A man bumped into her on a crowded street knocking her shopping bag from her hands. Apologizing profusely, he helped pick up the fallen groceries, including the apples that had bounced and rolled on the sidewalk.

They knew she loved apples. They had watched her a long time.

Some women would have been annoyed and begun shouting if a stranger had knocked into them like that, but the old woman simply nodded and murmured her thanks. She had learned not to let the small things trouble her, not when her world was at war, not when her revered Queen Beatrice was dead and her beloved grandson was in the Fleet. What was a bruised apple compared to that?

She never noticed that as the man picked up each apple in his gloved hands, he rubbed his hands all the way around, coating the apple with…something.

She took the bag back and made her way home, where she put away her groceries, made a cup of good, strong English Breakfast tea and carefully cut one of the apples into slices. She left the apple peels on. She always did.

They knew that, too. They had watched her a long time.

Hot tea and sliced apples. What could be better? She took her first sip, then her first bite. And with that bite, she sealed her doom. There was no medical science in all of Victoria or Darwin that could save her.

It didn’t happen right away, of course. In fact, it would take twenty days, but she was just as dead. By the time she died, the team had moved on to the next phase, and even began preparing for the phase after that. The critical phase.

So much planning for a war.

So little time.

Chapter 1

In Tilleke Space, on the Tilleke Home Planet – Qom

Sergeant Kaelin of Her Majesty’s Royal Marines stood ready, holding a battle axe. A year earlier, if someone had told him that he would fight a battle to the death using a battle axe, he would have laughed.

But a year can be a very long time. Sergeant Kaelin was not laughing now. Instead he was doing what he had been doing every day for a year: trying to keep his men alive just a little bit longer.

Ten other men stood in the room with him, blinking at the harsh lights. Save for one, they were all Victorian prisoners of war, captured when the Tilleke savaged the Victorian Second Fleet a year earlier. The last was a Freeman, an arms instructor who trained the Savak how to use a sword. The Freeman had done nothing wrong; he simply had a skill set needed to make this test possible – someone had to train the Marines how to use edged weapons. The Freeman’s family would be told that he died an honorable death in the service of the Emperor. And to a large extent, that would be true.

There was no question in anyone’s mind that they would all die here, the only question was how much they could hurt their killers before they did. The men were armed with a variety of swords, spears and battle axes. They had been trained by the Freeman for over a month. They were proficient, though not expert, but this was not a test of the men; this was a test of whatever was behind those doors.

The room was the size of a large gymnasium, with several obstacles and platforms scattered about it. Every square inch was under video surveillance. Not a moment of the test would go unrecorded. The men were at first confused, but as they stood there, each holding the weapon they had trained on, they realized that very soon now they would have to use those weapons if they wanted to survive.

Sergeant Kaelin hefted the axe. Gods’ Balls, an axe, a bloody axe like his ancestors once used in the medieval wars on Old Earth. Here he had come millions of miles in a sophisticated spaceship, one of the best Victoria had to offer, and he was going to fight to the death with an axe.

Kaelin had been the head instructor at the Camp Gettysburg basic training camp, but had volunteered to go with a Royal Marine attachment on board the cruiser H.M.S. St. Andrews, patrolling the trade route through Gilead to the Tilleke Empire. It had all gone to hell one morning during breakfast when dozens of evil looking bastards had suddenly burst through the mess hall doors shooting guns and swinging swords. Kaelin had been knocked unconscious, only to wake up in a Tilleke prison camp with a shock collar around his neck. That was a year ago.

They had started out with five hundred men in that prison camp. Now they were down to ten.

The Tilleke used the prisoners, mostly Marines, to train the Savak how to better fight and kill human opponents. Week after week the Tilleke guards would herd thirty or forty Marines into a mock ship made from wood and plastic, give them basic weapons – rifles and pistols – and then send in the Savak storm troopers. At first the Savak died in droves, gunned down by the Marines as they charged through the narrow passageways. But a curious Darwinism took hold and the Savak who were cunning and strong survived to fight other battles, and sometimes they survived those as well.

They, in turn, taught other Savak, and then led them in the next attack. And so the Marines unwittingly trained their opponents week after week, month after month. Once they figured out what was going on, some of the Marines refused to fight any further. They died screaming in agony when their shock collars were activated, clutching at their necks while their spinal cords fried. It was not a good way to die, but many chose it.

After a few months, the five hundred Victorian prisoners had been whittled down to thirty. But those thirty fought brilliantly, taking advantage of every nook and cranny of the mock ship, springing devastating ambushes and continually changing tactics to keep the Savak off guard.

Then one day Sergeant Kaelin woke up to find a battle axe on the floor by his cot, and a sour-looking Freeman there to teach him how to use it.

And now this. Swords and spears and axes, and two large doors on the far side of the room. Bugger me, thought Kaelin, gladiator wars.

“Maybe they’re going to surrender,” suggested Hollingberry in a bright voice. “Gods of Our Mothers, we’ve killed thousands of the bastards by now. Maybe they’ve learned their lesson.”

“Sure now, Holly, you must be right,” said Timothy O’Doherty. “We’ll just get this bit tidied up and the Queen herself will be thankin’ us with tea and biscuits.”

Sergeant Kaelin looked at them and they fell silent. He turned back to the two doors across the room, hefting the axe over his shoulder. What was going to come out of those doors? A shadow appeared in the corner of his eye. The Freeman. Short, lean as a whip. Absolutely deadly with a blade weapon. A Freeman of the Tilleke, with all of the rights and privileges appurtenant thereto. Which apparently weren’t worth shit, since the poor bastard was here with the rest of them.

“Do you know what is on the other side of those doors?” Kaelin asked him softly.

The Freeman regarded him sourly. “Death.”

Kaelin grunted. The Freeman’s English was limited, but he got the point across. “Listen up,” he said to the others. “Whatever is coming through that door is going to be nasty. Three men to distract the bastard behind the right door while the rest of us take out the one from the left, then everyone tackle the one from the right.” The others nodded, eyes anxiously on the doors.

“Piece of cake,” O’Doherty said cheerfully.

Then one of the doors opened, but only one. Kaelin’s initial relief was short-lived.

“Oh, bugger me,” Hollingberry breathed.

The creature looked like a lion from Hell. Five feet tall at the shoulder, it was ten feet long with an oversized head and two clumps of slimy looking tentacles growing from its shoulders. It had a long, thick tail that ended in what seemed to be a giant scorpion’s stinger. Its tail whipped back and forth in agitation as the lion took in its surroundings.

The lion’s fur was black. Its eyes glowed red. When it roared, its teeth looked a foot long, like a saber-toothed tiger’s. Each of the Victorian soldiers flinched back. Their swords and spears and axes suddenly seemed pitifully inadequate.

Sergeant Kaelin snorted loudly. “Same circus, different clowns. We’ve seen worse. Hollingberry, O’Doherty and Smith, distract it from the right. The rest of you, with me. Watch out for its tail. Go!”

“I’ve always wanted to be bait,” O’Doherty said.

They split left and right. Kaelin found himself next to the Freeman, who carried a long, curved sword in one hand and a short throwing spear in the other. “What is that thing?” Kaelin whispered harshly. He didn’t want the men to know how rattled he was.

“Huk,” the Freeman answered tersely.

“A what?”

“Huk. Emperor make.”

Kaelin almost stopped. “You mean it doesn’t exist in nature?”

The Freeman smirked at him. Kaelin cursed silently. He led his men quietly through a short maze of structures that momentarily blocked the Huk from their view. He could hear Hollingberry, O’Doherty and Smith yelling and beating their weapons against some of the metal supports. The Huk roared in response.

Finally, Kaelin found himself up against a ten-foot high wall that ran perpendicular to the main passageway from the Huk’s cage to where the three Marines were shouting and making noise. The wall blocked any view the Huk might have of them, but the creature would have to walk right past them to get to the three Marines serving as bait. And when it did…

All in all, a good theory, except for one thing.

The Huk did not walk, it charged. It did not walk, it leapt from the holding area and barreled down the passageway, its eyes fixed on the three men still busy hammering their weapons against metal posts. It flashed past Kaelin’s ambush site, little more than a shadowy blur. Hollingberry, O’Doherty and Smith froze in astonishment for a critical moment, then scattered left and right, but it was already upon them, teeth and claws and long, snaking tail whipping forward. Hollingberry screamed and tried to dodge, but with one swipe of its paw the Huk crushed his skull, and then wheeled on Smith, who was still holding his spear in front of him, backpedaling furiously, eyes locked on the Huk, but never glancing behind. Smith jabbed with the spear and the Huk dodged back, then pressed his attack. Smith jabbed again, but continued backpedaling. This worked well enough, until Smith tripped on some rubble and went down on his backside. The Huk lunged forward, but then skidded to a stop as Smith, still game, slashed its face with his spear point. Then the Huk darted to the left and Smith desperately dragged his spear tip around to cover it.

He never saw the Huk’s long tail whip in an arc to his right. The stinger plunged into his throat, emerging from the back of his neck, and then ripped out as the Huk turned on the other Marines. Smith flopped lifelessly to the ground.

That was when Sergeant Kaelin buried his battle axe in its head.

The Huk collapsed just as swiftly, and just as limply, as Smith.

Kaelin staggered back, hands shaking from the overload of adrenalin. “Okay, then,” he said. “Okay.” He looked up at his surviving men and the Freeman and grinned savagely. “We can do this!”

The only reply was the sound of O’Doherty retching helplessly.

The next day there were two Huk.

Sergeant Kaelin frowned. A thought had occurred to him in the night, an ugly thought that made him hesitate. The Huk stood in the open area just outside their holding pens. They roared and clawed at the floor, but had not yet begun to charge. Kaelin looked behind him. Not far away were several metal shipping containers, stacked together haphazardly up to a height of perhaps thirty feet.

“Get up on the shipping containers!” he barked. “Hurry!” Everyone scrambled to obey. The Freeman glanced quizzically at Kaelin, then followed him as he climbed to the top of the third container. From his vantage point, Kaelin squinted to see over the top of some of the smaller obstacles to the narrow passageway that the first Huk had used the day before. Satisfied that he could see it clearly, he squatted down to watch.

The two Huk emerged slowly from their pens, looking all around at their surroundings as if looking for an ambush. Then they looked at each other with a look of intelligence that made Kaelin’s blood chill.

At some unseen signal, they trotted leisurely toward the humans, but one of them veered aside to leap up on the gate that Kaelin had hidden behind in the first round, snarling and thrashing its tail through the area where Kaelin had hid the day before. Seeing nothing, it leapt off the gate and followed the other Huk. They reached the shipping containers and roared up at the Marines.

From atop the containers, Sergeant Kaelin whirled on the Freeman. “Did you see what it did?” he demanded, his face flushed with anger. “It checked out the place we hid for the ambush! We killed the other Huk; how did they know to look behind that fence?”

The Freeman shrugged. “Huk aggressive, but know little of fighting. You fight human way. You teach. Huk learn. This is why Emperor bring you here. Teach Huk.”

Kaelin ground his teeth together. He thought about the months they had spent fighting Savak in ship mockups, unwittingly teaching them how to be better soldiers, how to better defeat Victoria. He’d been so bloody stupid – all he had wanted to do was keep his men alive. Below them the two oversized lion monsters prowled around the perimeter of the containers, looking for an easy way up. They kept glancing at each other and now Kaelin was convinced that not only were they communicating with each other, but with other Huk as well. Everything these Huk learned would somehow be transmitted to the others, and they would get progressively smarter and deadlier.

He gestured to one of the Huk, prowling thirty feet below them. “Don’t you get it?” he asked the Freeman. “You are being sacrificed in order to teach those damn monsters!”

The Freeman looked down at the snarling Huk. “I live to serve the Emperor,” he said, his voice a mixture of resignation and pride.

Kaelin pursed his lips together and nodded. Then he suddenly thrust out with his right arm and pushed the Freeman over the edge of the shipping container. The Freeman hung there, cartwheeling his arms, desperately seeking purchase, then gravity snatched him and he fell thirty feet to the hard ground.

The Huk were on him the instant he struck the floor.

“I serve my Queen,” Kaelin said softly.

The other men looked at him in mixed horror and puzzlement. Sergeant Kaelin smiled at them, a grim smile that promised hard tidings to come. “The bastards are using us to train those oversized kittens down there how to fight,” he told his men. “Once we train them right, the fuckin’ Emperor will put more of those monsters on Victorian ships and let ‘em loose.” He looked at each one of them. “We’re not doing that.”

The men looked at each other uneasily.

Then Kaelin explained what they had to do.

One of the men was married and had a wife and two children waiting for him back on Cornwall, Victoria’s home planet. He pressed his lips together in a thin line and nodded. “Who knows, we might just confuse them.” He spat. “Better we try that than actually teach the bloody bastards.”

But another one of the men was little more than a boy. His name was Billy and he had been a brand-new apprentice maintenance man on the destroyer Cowlyn Bay, captured when the Savak seized the ship. He understood what Kaelin was saying. He understood it, but he could not accept it. His chin trembled and tears pricked the corners of his eyes.

“No! I can’t-” he sobbed, stepping away from Kaelin. “Please!”

Kaelin sighed, suddenly very weary. He smiled reassuringly at the young man. “It’s okay, Billy,” he soothed. Then he nodded, but not to Billy, but to the man standing behind him.

Billy never saw it coming. He just crumbled to the floor, dying instantly when the battle axe crushed the top of his head. O’Doherty stood over him, panting and gulping as if he had just run a race. He knelt down, laying a light hand on the boy’s chest and murmuring something too soft for the others to hear. Then he stood.

“Let’s bloody do it before I chicken out,” he said harshly, his voice trembling.

Under Kaelin’s direction, they all gathered at one end of the shipping containers, a place where the containers formed steps so they could jump down ten feet at a time. The Huk waited below, tails swishing in anticipation.

“Let’s all go after the one on the right,” Kaelin suggested.

The others nodded, knuckles white as they clutched their weapons. It didn’t matter which one they went after. Nothing mattered now.

“May the Gods of Our Mothers guide us home,” Kaelin said softly.

“And fuck the Emperor!” O’Doherty snarled.

They jumped.

When the fighting was finished, the surviving Huk lifted its bloodstained muzzle and roared in triumph. Then it lay down in the middle of the room and licked the long wound on its shoulder to clean it. When it was done, it walked stiffly to the nearest human body and began to eat.

And in the holding pens behind the arena, dozens of Huk stirred and prowled about. Through the eyes of their brothers they had just seen how humans fight when cornered: they went after one enemy at a time and ignored all others.

Collectively, they committed this to memory.

Chapter 2

In Victorian Space, On Home Planet, Cornwall, at the Temporary Royal Palace

“Surely we must have some intelligence assets inside Tilleke,” Queen Anne said in exasperation.

Admiral Douthat looked sourly at Captain Eder, who in turn shot a glance at Hiram Brill, the titular head of Fleet Intelligence. Hiram looked at Brother Jong, who smiled blandly back at him.

“Well?” demanded the Queen. “Have we nothing, nothing at all?”

“Your Majesty,” Brother Jong began, then paused. He shook his head. “No, Your Majesty, nothing at all. We of The Light had several assets on Qom, but they have either been captured or gone to ground. We also had two stealth ships in the Tilleke system, but after we-” he smiled – “persuaded Prince RaShahid to abort his attack on Victoria, the Tilleke fleet scoured the entire area around Qom and the Gilead wormhole. We were forced to withdraw the scout ships. We hope to be able to insert more soon through a hidden wormhole, but we must be very cautious. This wormhole is a two-way wormhole and if the Tilleke discover it, it could be disastrous.”

“And what of Victorian assets? Are we able to insert a stealth ship into Tilleke space?” Queen Anne asked tartly.

Sir Henry sighed. “No, Your Majesty, we are not. There is no help for it, and I tell you now that it is not the result of either negligence or complacency. We have lost ten Owls trying to sneak people into the Tilleke Sector, starting before the war and as recently as one month ago.”

Even Queen Anne looked shaken at the loss of ten of the precious stealth reconnaissance ships.

“I take it, then,” she continued after a moment, “that we have no firm data on how many ships the Tilleke have, nor their size or armament?”

Sir Henry sighed. “That is unfortunately correct, Majesty. We know Prince RaShahid had a force of thirty ships, but we do not know how many remained behind in Tilleke space to protect Qom, nor what armaments they possess. We do know that they have at least two weapons we have not seen before, the plasma weapon that was used on the H.M.S. Oxford and the energy dampening field that was used on the Edinburgh. The science boffins are in a frenzy trying to determine how they work.”

Admiral Douthat cleared her throat. “There is no denying that this is bad news, Your Majesty, but we at least have the advantage of knowing the Tilleke have these weapons. We can at least plan tactics to offset them.”

“And what other weapons do they have that we know nothing of?” Queen Anne asked pointedly.

Glances were exchanged, but no one ventured an answer.

Queen Anne pursed her lips. “Very well, then. What of our own Fleet?”

Admiral Douthat took a sip of her tea. It was good, strong, bitter Victorian tea, and she would have killed to be able to put in three sugars when no one was watching. But the First Sea Lord does not drink sweetened tea; it would be a violation of something fundamental, something so much a part of the warp and woof of the Fleet’s role in Victorian society that there wasn’t even a name for it.

But the bitter tea tasted terrible all the same.

She took another sip and hid her grimace. “There are four aspects to our ability to fight the Tilleke. First, resources. We have brought the Atlas back into Victorian space to take best advantage of our asteroid fields, which are more mineral rich than those of Refuge. Atlas is now online and busy churning out heavy gunboats, destroyers and even cruisers.”

“Queen Anne raised her eyebrows. “Battleships?”

Admiral Douthat shook her head. “Not yet. They take a long time to build. In the time it takes to build a battleship, we could have built two or three cruisers and several destroyers, plus an entire group or more of gunboats. As tempting as the battleships are, having more ships gives us much greater flexibility and maneuverability. I think we’re going to need that with the Tilleke.”

Queen Anne nodded once in acknowledgement of Douthat’s argument.

“We also have a rabbit in our hat,” Douthat said, smiling thinly. “If you will recall, when we fled Victoria all those months ago, we blew up the Space Station Prometheus so that it wouldn’t fall into enemy hands, but we left the unfinished space station, Hyperion. It was not operational and we didn’t think the Ducks would be able to make use of it.” Douthat’s smile broadened. “Now Max Opinsky and his gang of engineers tell me that while it will take years to complete the entire space station, we can complete the first ship dock within two months. We’ll have to power it externally, probably using one of a cruiser’s power plants, but the tooling is all intact on Cromwell and just needs to be installed. It is all modular, so with a little luck Hyperion could start producing ships within sixty days, maybe as soon as forty-five days.”

Sir Henry gusted a sigh of relief. “That is good news indeed, Admiral. You are to be congratulated.”

Douthat snorted. “I can’t take the credit for some dumb good luck. If there is any credit to be given, give it to Max Opinsky.” She frowned, then continued. “The other side of the resource picture is not as pretty. At the time the Dominion surrendered, we had about fifty-four ships, including the battleships Lionheart and Vengeance. Most of them were in bad shape and several will need extensive yard time before they are ready for a shooting war. A couple we probably ought to scrap.”

“What about the Dominion fleet? Is there anything we can use there?”

Douthat nodded. “Quite a bit, actually. First, the Might of the People Ship Works is still in operation. Next, although we pummeled their fleet, when they surrendered, the Ducks still had about twenty-seven ships in good repair, including the battleship Fortitude. Assuming we can find crews, we’ve got a fleet of eighty-one ships. We also have access to the Duck hedgehog technology, which, frankly, is better than ours.

“But the raw numbers are misleading. Out of those eighty-one ships, no more than forty are ready to fight a prolonged action, and even those need some yard time. The remaining ships need extensive repair and upgrading.” She looked at them grimly. “We are talking months to repair those ships.”

“You said there were four aspects of our ability to project force,” prompted Sir Henry.

Admiral Douthat nodded. “The second is manpower. Our ships are short-staffed as it is; the crews are bone tired. The trouble is that most of our military bases on Cornwall were near the capital. When the Ducks struck the Palace, they inflicted a lot of damage on our other bases and the men and women stationed there. Then when the Ducks launched their second attack on the planet-” She shrugged. She didn’t have to spell it out; the death toll had been appalling.

“The manpower issue is pressing,” she continued. “One of the things we’ll need to decide very soon is if we are willing to use Dominion crews on some of the ships to make up for the lack of Victorian personnel.”

“Can we trust them?” Queen Anne asked bluntly.

Admiral Douthat shrugged. “We need to think about this, but we may not have much choice.”

“And the rest?” Queen Anne looked haggard, thought Hiram Brill. The last few months had not been kind. Their twenty-two-year-old sprite of a queen looked like a forty-five-year-old woman recovering from a bender.

He wondered bleakly what he looked like.

“Intelligence,” Douthat said. “We don’t have any.” She looked at Brother Jong and raised her eyebrows. He smiled calmly. “I will consult with the Abbot and see if we can resume intelligence gathering within the Tilleke.”

Sir Henry looked keenly at Admiral Douthat. “And the last?” Douthat knew that he knew what it was, but that he wanted it to come from her.

“We need an ally, preferably more than one. Refuge is already helping us as much as it can, but it is a small planet with limited resources. Arcadia is occupied by the Tilleke, so no help there. Darwin will remain neutral, no matter what. The Light is already providing us with critical intelligence, but does not have the industrial base to offer more.

“So, that leaves Cape Breton, Sybil Head and the Sultenic Empire.” She ticked them off her fingers, one by one. “We can forget about Cape Breton. There is some evidence that they helped the Ducks in the initial attack on Victoria. We could never trust them for anything critical.”

Hiram pursed his lips as she said that. She wouldn’t trust the Cape Bretons, but she might be willing to use Dominions to crew some of the captured ships?

“In fact,” Douthat continued, “we should make very sure Cape Breton understands the consequences of getting involved in this war on the side of the Tilleke.”

“I’ll take care of that,” Sir Henry said. “I will want to borrow one of the battleships and several cruisers, but I won’t need them long.”

Queen Anne nodded her assent, then turned back to Admiral Douthat. “Go on, Admiral.”

“I think our only hope lies with either Sybil Head or the Sultenic Empire, or if we are lucky, both of them. I obviously defer to Sir Henry on the best way to approach them.”

Sir Henry nodded slowly. He had thought it would come to this and had spent no little time devising the best way to get the two nations on Victoria’s side. “Majesty, I have several ideas on how best to approach this, and a good idea of the staff I will need. It will mean visits to both Sultan Baltur of the Sultenic Empire and Chancellor Houtman of Sybil Head. May I suggest that we talk further after this meeting?”

How was this going to work? Hiram wondered. The Sultenic Empire and Sybil Head were longtime adversaries, each with claims to a planet just inside the Sultenic Empire’s sector called Essen by Sybians and Izmir by the Sultenics. It was rich in a variety of rare earth minerals. They had fought wars over it, the last one as recently as twenty years ago. Now the Sybians held it and the Sultenics wanted it back.

Hiram looked from Sir Henry to the Queen. “Won’t Sybil Head and the Sultentic Empire both demand recognition of their claim to Essen in exchange for helping us?” he asked.

Queen Anne and Sir Henry exchanged a look.

“From the mouths of babes,” Sir Henry murmured. The Queen visibly restrained a smile.

“Yes, Commander,” Queen Anne said. “You are quite correct.”

“But if they both want Victoria’s assurance that we’ll back their claim, what will we do?” He looked at them curiously. “It seems to be a conundrum.”

“Sometimes,” Sir Henry suggested mildly,” the best response to a diplomatic conundrum is to ignore it.”

“Sometimes,” Queen Anne added, “the best approach is to focus on the goal one must achieve.”

“If you cannot solve everyone’s problems,” Sir Henry said, “at least solve your own.”

“But-” Hiram began, then stopped. They were both staring at him and he felt the blood rush to his face the way it always did when he realized they were a light-year ahead of him. If the problem is that two adversaries both want your promise of support for your claim, and if you need at least one of the adversaries on your side, but preferably both, then…

“Oh,” he said as the answer finally became clear. “We promise both Sybil Head and the Sultenics that we will support their claim to Essen.”

The Queen and Sir Henry each smiled at him.

“Isn’t that rather messy?” Hiram protested.

“Perhaps,” the Queen said seriously. “But messy is such an excellent alternative to possible annihilation, don’t you think?”

“Welcome to the world of diplomacy,” Sir Henry said.

Chapter 3

In Victorian Space, on the planet Christchurch

The husband of the sister was next.

The sister was pregnant with their first child and due in less than a month. She was, in her own words, ‘as big as a house.’ “No way I’m going to make it another month,” she declared. “This kid is just going to fall out of me.” It had to be a boy, the way she was carrying. Had to be.

She wasn’t sleeping very well, her back hurt and she had sporadic cravings for strange foods. Her husband pampered her outrageously, even going out at 3 a.m. and finding anchovy with sausage pizza. He didn’t even say anything when she ravenously tore the pizza box from his hands and ate the whole thing standing up. He was a good cook and handled all the dinners. He kept the house reasonably clean, repainted the room they would use as the nursery, did most of the laundries and cut back traveling for work. She felt lucky to have him, and he knew he was lucky to have her.

And the baby was just a few weeks away.

The actual operation was easy. They waited until he was crossing the street late at night – coming home from another food run for his wife – then ran him down with a truck. The impact threw him forward fifteen feet onto the road, where they ran over him a second time.

They checked, of course; it would be negligent not to. But he was dead. They got back in the truck and drove away, mission accomplished.

His wife learned about it later when the police knocked on her door. She cried for three hours, then stopped when the baby kicked inside her womb. She closed her eyes. The baby was going to come. Not today, not tomorrow, but soon. There were things she had to do. Arrange a funeral, for one. Finances to work through. She looked around the small house that she had worked so hard on. There was no way she was going to lose the house, she resolved. Her baby would have a bright and cheery home to live in.

But she needed some help. Her parents were dead, so the only family she had left was her brother, John. He was on Cornwall, working for the Queen.

The next morning, she sent a message to her brother through the Sector Net, telling him what had happened and asking him to come as soon as he could.

Chapter 4

In Cape Breton Space, On Nova Scotia, Cape Breton’s Home Planet

The Victorian battleship Lionheart and two lethal looking cruisers appeared without fanfare or warning in orbit around Cape Breton’s home planet, Nova Scotia.

The Cape Breton military had been dreading this day for months. The Cape Breton fleet was little more than a coast guard, no match for the Victorian Fleet, even in its present battered condition. All the top government and military officials on Cape Breton knew that their National Security Advisor had aided the Dominions and Tilleke in the war against Victoria. Some whispered about the complicity of Prime Minister Taylor, but since some of those who whispered had already died under mysterious circumstances, the whispering had remained just that.

The National Security Advisor was dead. He was found with his throat slit, a plastic bag taped around his head and his hands firmly secured behind his back. Clearly a suicide, the Coroner’s Office determined. The Security Advisor’s assistant, Elizabeth Dryer, was heavily guarded, locked away in a lightless cell on the cold, gray island of Ile d’Entrée.

It was whispered that the solitary confinement had driven her mad.

An hour passed. Lionheart remained silent, still in synchronous orbit over the capital city of Inverness.

Finally, a single Coast Guard cutter slowly approached the Victorian warships. It kept its transponder on at all times and used only navigation sensors. At three hundred miles, it fell into a parallel orbit with them and hailed the H.M.S. Lionheart.

“This is Captain Boosey of the Cape Breton Coast Guard Cutter S-15,” the voice said. “May we guide your ferry to its destination?”

“This is Sir Henry Truscott, Captain. I am acting as the personal emissary of Queen Anne Radcliff Mendoza Churchill, Queen of Victoria and Protector of the Dominion of Unified Citizenry. I need to meet with your Prime Minister. Immediately.”

“Yes, Sir Henry, that was my understanding,” Captain Boosey said smoothly, which made Sir Henry immediately doubt he was a mere Coast Guard Captain. Any ordinary Coast Guard Captain would be more than a little rattled to have a battleship and two cruisers breathing down his neck. “We will remain in this position until you are ready to depart, then guide you directly to the Prime Minister’s Residence. There is a small landing pad in the rear of the Residence. Do I understand it correctly that your ferry is VTOL capable?”

Sir Henry raised an eyebrow to Captain Eder, who nodded once. “That is correct, Captain. The ferry will launch momentarily.” He stood up, glanced at Hiram and the three security guards – all tough-looking Royal Marines in full battle gear, with light armor and pulsar rifles, except the third Marine, who carried a heavy energy pack on his back and a plasma rifle. Not that three soldiers could protect Sir Henry and Hiram if the Bretons decided to do them harm, but that wasn’t the point. The three soldiers were simply a reminder there were a lot more where they came from, and they were backed up by the H.M.S. Lionheart, which all by itself had enough firepower to reduce Cape Breton to a ball of ash.

Four minutes later the ferry lifted from the waist bay of the Lionheart and followed the Coast Guard cutter to a city sitting along the shore of a large bay.

“That’s Inverness,” Sir Henry told Hiram, who already knew.

“Sir Henry,” Hiram asked. “I’m grateful for this opportunity, but why did you pick me to join you? There are a lot of diplomats on Cornwall who would have been more suitable.”

Sir Henry snorted disdainfully. “Those diplomats have been handpicked by the Duke of Kent, who is living proof that as smart and capable as the late Queen Beatrice was, she was not infallible. She appointed her younger brother, Harold – Queen Anne’s uncle – to run the Foreign Office. The first thing he did was sack all of the experienced diplomats and replace them with his cronies from the polo club, apparently in the belief that any man who can stay in the saddle on a galloping horse and hit a small wooden ball has all of the skills necessary to handle international diplomacy.” He frowned and his two bushy eyebrows arched up like angry rose bushes. “The man was a complete imbecile. In less than two years he utterly ruined the Foreign Office.” He sighed. “The only good thing he ever did was pick the day of the bombing to be at the Palace. He died, and good riddance.”

“But surely-” Hiram protested.

Sir Henry waived him to silence. “Watch and listen, Mr. Brill. That is why I brought you on this little visit. Watch and listen.”

When they reached the Palace, they were met by a tall, gaunt man who eyed them with utter disinterest, then turned wordlessly and guided them inside. Hiram eyed him with muffled amusement. This man was probably one of the permanent Palace staff. He had seen countless Prime Ministers come and go, had seen countless important dignitaries and been witness to many intrigues. At this point – the man looked to be in his seventies – nothing he saw or heard could faze him. He finally turned at a small unmarked door.

“Sir Henry,” he said ponderously. “The Prime Minister is inside. The room is rather small. May I suggest that your personal guard might want to remain out here? I will have chairs and refreshments brought up so that they will be comfortable.”

Captain Wilcock, the leader of Sir Henry’s small security force, bristled at this suggestion, but Sir Henry held up a hand to stop him from speaking. “It will be my pleasure,” he said smoothly. The aide then pointedly looked at Hiram.

Sir Henry smiled. “This man is Hiram Brill. He is a personal assistant to the Queen and is with me today.” Then he walked past the aide, opened the door and walked into the room. Hiram nodded cordially to the aide, who looked as if he was sucking lemons, then followed Sir Henry inside. And despite the gravity of the moment, Hiram grinned like a little boy who had successfully stolen a cookie from the cookie jar with none the wiser.

Prime Minister Alexander Taylor rose to his feet in greeting. His smile was warm and inviting; his eyes were cold and wary. “Sir Henry!” he said, his voice cultured and deep. “It has been a long time!” He offered his hand.

Sir Henry ignored the hand and sat down at the table. He folded one leg over the other and flicked away some imaginary lint. “It has been a long time, Prime Minister,” he replied. “And so much has happened since we last met.”

A troubled frown creased the Prime Minister’s forehead. “I must offer the condolences of my Government and all of Cape Breton for the terrible tragedy that has befallen Victoria,” he began, but Sir Henry coolly interrupted.

“What an interesting choice of words, Mr. Prime Minister. The ‘tragedy that has befallen Victoria.’” Sir Henry pursed his lips, considering. “Every word is technically correct, and yet the implication of the entire sentence is that Victoria has suffered from a natural calamity, such as a solar storm, or earthquakes and volcanoes, rather than a well-planned, vicious, sneak attack on a planet that left close to thirty million dead, our Government in ashes and our Queen, the symbol of our nation, incinerated in a nuclear attack on the planet’s surface.” He paused again, his eyes hard. “Words can be so…misleading at times, don’t you think, Mr. Prime Minister?”

Prime Minister Taylor was made of stern stuff. He did not blanch, nor did his smile lessen, but watching him closely, Hiram could see a slight tightening of the eyes. Hiram swallowed; he would not want to play poker with this man.

“Sir Henry, you have a right to be angry. But you must remember that this was the unauthorized action of a few rogue officials, it had nothing to do with the government of Cape Breton. I knew nothing of it, and as soon as I learned of it I had the National Security Advisor and his assistant arrested.” He spread his hands in supplication. “The perpetrators of this plot against you have been brought to justice, Sir Henry. Cape Breton is not your enemy.”

Sir Henry nodded slowly, his body seeming to relax, his gaze drifting to the ceiling. Watching him, Hiram hid a smile. He had played Cha’rah with this man, countless games hard fought, winning some and losing some. But sometimes when Hiram thought he was winning, Sir Henry would suddenly relax and his gaze would slip to the ceiling, then he would spring his ambush or launch his final attack and the game would be over.

Hiram had learned to be very wary whenever Sir Henry appeared to relax.

“Prime Minister, do I recall correctly that the National Security Advisor was a close colleague of yours?” Sir Henry asked casually.

The Prime Minister smiled and shook his head. “I knew him, of course; we are both in the same political party and came up through the ranks together. But I wouldn’t say he was a close colleague. Oh, an acquaintance, certainly- ”

“And yet he was your very first appointment when you became Prime Minister,” Sir Henry remarked. “And then there is the issue of just how the National Security Advisor was able to order ten of your freighters to work with the Dominion when they invaded Victoria.” He smiled the quick little smile of someone who appreciates his own joke and doesn’t mind showing it. “You destroyed the satellite monitoring activity at the Cape Breton-Victorian wormhole, but you didn’t destroy the satellite five hundred miles behind it. The passive sensor returns aren’t as sharp as the primary satellite, but they were more than adequate. We could count how many Cape Breton freighters supported the Dominion attack. My goodness, we could even read their registration numbers.”

The Prime Minister looked like he was about to object, but Sir Henry held up a hand.

“It took us a while to dig it out, but imagine our surprise when we learned the freighters weren’t civilian ships at all. No, no, they were military freighters, all part of your Coast Guard. In fact, those freighters make up more than half of your military transport capacity. I would have thought someone would have noticed they were missing.” Sir Henry folded his hands on his chest, staring at the Prime Minister.

Hiram cast a nervous glance over his shoulder, wondering if the three Marine guards they brought with them would be enough to fight their way back to the ferry if the Prime Minister ordered them arrested. He doubted it.

The Prime Minister said nothing.

Sir Henry raised his eyebrows.

“What do you want?” Prime Minister Taylor asked flatly.

Sir Henry nodded in slow satisfaction.

“What I want – what the Queen wants – is for Cape Breton to stay well out of the war between Victoria and the Tilleke Empire. No support, no shared intelligence, no clandestine meetings, no raids.”

The Cape Breton Prime Minister visibly relaxed. “As I said before, the government of Cape Breton had nothing to do with the Dominion attack. I give you my word that Cape Breton will in no way support or assist the Tilleke Empire in its dispute with you.”

Sir Henry beamed like a school boy. “Excellent! That is excellent, indeed. Now of course I am happy to take your word as a gentleman on this, but some of our military are not so sanguine.” He smiled cheerfully. “No, some of them want to hit you with kinetic strikes until your oceans boil and your continents are covered in ash.” He laughed and slapped the table good naturedly. “Really, our Admirals! It’s like talking to Attila the Hun!” Sir Henry chuckled at the memory. “But, no, in the end they agreed that it would be sufficient to simply place you under military quarantine.”

Prime Minister Taylor blinked. “Quarantine?”

Sir Henry’s jolly mirth disappeared, replaced by a stony face. “Yes, Prime Minister, military quarantine. While we have been talking, the Victorian ships that brought me here have been emplacing missile platforms in orbit around your planet. Any ship trying to reach your planet will be warned away. If they do not obey the order, they will be blown apart. Any ship trying to leave Nova Scotia or any of your orbiting space stations will be destroyed without warning. We are going to maintain this quarantine until our dispute with the Tilleke is resolved.”

“But-” Prime Minister Taylor protested, “we rely on our commerce with other planets. Our economy-”

“You should have thought of that before you got into bed with the Dominions and attacked us,” Sir Henry said flatly. “You should be thankful that we have not razed your cities and turned your farmlands into glass.” He leaned back, still staring at Taylor. “There are two more requirements.”

Hiram stifled a grin. Sir Henry said ‘requirement,’ but it was perfectly clear that he was issuing a demand.

Prime Minister Taylor looked at him with a mixture of rage and sullen acceptance. “And they would be?” he asked frostily.

“First, we want you to turn over all of your Coast Guard supply vessels and all of your Coast Guard patrol vessels over 50,000 tons. We want these ships delivered two days from now. The computers are to be intact and fully operational. Do not erase the memory banks or the AI.”

Taylor’s face flushed beet red, but before he could open his mouth to protest, Sir Henry raised a hand to forestall him.

“Relax, Prime Minister, your ships will be returned to you at the end of our campaign against the Tilleke,” Sir Henry said patiently.

The Prime Minister pursed his lips. “And the second requirement?”

Sir Henry leaned forward. “You will turn Elizabeth Dryer over to us. Today.”

Hiram frowned. What was this? Wasn’t she already in custody? Then he looked at Prime Minister Taylor.

The Prime Minister had turned ashen. When he reached for his water glass, his hand trembled. Hiram glanced back at Sir Henry, who was staring intensely at Prime Minister Taylor, his face chipped from granite.

Oh, God! Hiram suddenly realized, not the details, but the nature of it. The utter ruthlessness-

“But!” Prime Minister Taylor suddenly blurted. “There is no reason for this! She is in custody. She can do no further harm. Really, Sir Henry, this is most unseemly.”

Sir Henry said nothing, but took out his tablet and flicked it on, then punched an icon. A video appeared on the screen, showing a picture of a beautiful blonde woman laughing as she held up a very young child. Her eyes were alight, her face radiant and she swung the child joyfully in a circle. The toddler, as blonde as her mother, screamed with delight. The picture zoomed out to show that she was in a park in the middle of a city. This city, Inverness.

Prime Minister Taylor looked at the video with barely suppressed horror. And inconsolable sadness.

“This video was taken yesterday by our agents,” Sir Henry said evenly. “She doesn’t look like she is in custody, does she, Prime Minister?”

Prime Minister Taylor suddenly looked ten years older. His face sagged. He closed his eyes. “Please,” he said hoarsely. “Please.”

Sir Henry smashed the table top with the flat of his hand. “What the hell were you thinking, man? You sent your own daughter! Did you think there wouldn’t be consequences?”

Hiram started. Elizabeth Dryer was the Prime Minister’s daughter?

“I’ll go,” Taylor said, getting his voice under control. “You don’t need her; I’ll go.”

Sir Henry shook his head. “No, Prime Minister, we need you right here, keeping your military under control. Your daughter is surety for your good faith and compliance. Best remember that.”

Sir Henry stood. “I expect your daughter to be delivered to our ferry within the hour.”

Prime Minister Taylor’s face slowly took on the beet red flush of a man pushed past the breaking point. “This is reprehensible-” he began.

“Silence!” Sir Henry said coldly. “You wanted to play for high stakes, didn’t you, you egotistical, foolish son of a bitch. Well, you rolled and lost, my friend. This is what it means to lose.” He leaned forward until his face was mere inches from Taylor’s. “You helped to kill thirty million of my people! Thirty million! You’re lucky that we don’t take you and your daughter and your beautiful, innocent granddaughter and push you all out an air lock.”

Prime Minister Taylor looked at him for a long moment, then wisely said nothing.

Later, back on the Lionheart on the way to Victoria, Sir Henry and Hiram sat in Sir Henry’s stateroom, sipping brandy and rehashing the meeting. Penelope McCrutchen, gray-haired and dour, his aide for the last thirty years, sat unobtrusively in a corner taking notes.

“Think Taylor will keep his side of the bargain?” Hiram asked.

“Oh, I should think.” Sir Henry sipped the brandy contently. The session with Taylor had gone better than he had hoped. “The missile-mines will slow them down, at least. And if they do try to break out, we’ll hear from the courier drones.”

“And the daughter and granddaughter?”

Sir Henry waived a dismissive hand. “They’re in no danger from me, but Prime Minister Taylor doesn’t need to know that. We’ll keep them somewhere comfortable and return them without a scratch when this is over.” He suddenly yawned, belatedly covering his mouth with a hand and looking sheepish at having displayed such a pedestrian weakness as fatigue. “The important thing is that Cape Breton is neutralized,” he finished.

“And the Sultenic Empire and Sybil Head?” Hiram asked curiously.

Sir Henry frowned. “Hmmm…that will require some finesse. You read the briefing paper on the Essen dispute that Mrs. McCrutchen drafted, correct?”

Hiram had read it. Although there was not a direct wormhole between Sybil Head and the Sultenic Empire, there were heavy gravitational tides that allowed ships from either system to reach the other within four or five months of travel. The planet Essen lay, arguably, just inside the borders of the Sultenic Empire, but through a fluke Sybil Head had discovered it first. They mined it for almost fifty years before ships from the Sultenic Empire stumbled upon it. The Sultan claimed possession by right of the planet’s location within the Sultenic Sector. Sybil Head responded since it had discovered it first, it had superior rights. Since then the two governments had been constantly squabbling over which of them owned the planet. Each side filed claims with the High Court of the League of Human Worlds, seeking exclusive ownership of the mining rights. But while the lawyers filed endless papers and took countless depositions, the Sultenic Empire and Sybil Head each sought to seize and keep as much of Essen as they could, knowing as rulers have known for eons that possession is nine tenths of the law and the lawyers be damned.

Sybil Head, with its larger navy, had been winning the argument of late through sheer weight of numbers. The school yard pushing and shoving between two nations had crossed the line, and recently the spate had escalated into something ugly. Mining ships from both nations had gone missing. A Sultenic processing plant had blown up with the loss of its entire crew.

Men were dead. What had been an annoying irritation had become a prelude to war.

“If we promise both the Sultan and the Sybian Chancellor that we will support their claim to Essen, they’re bound to find out,” Hiram protested. “We’ll lose any chance we have of getting support from either one.”

Sir Henry sipped his brandy and put the glass down very gently. “Perhaps,” he said softly. “Perhaps not.”

Hiram stared at him. “Isn’t this rather like the college coed who books two dates for the same night? Sooner or later, she’s bound to get caught.”

“Of course,” Sir Henry acceded,” but until she does get caught she has both men eating out of the palm of her hand.” He smiled craftily. “It is all in the timing.”

From the corner, Mrs. McCrutchen sniffed disapprovingly.

“Ah, Mrs. McCrutchen, would you be so kind as to get me and young Hiram here some coffee?” Sir Henry asked politely.

Mrs. McCrutchen glared at him. “No, I certainly will not! I am your assistant, not your maid. Isn’t it enough that I handle all of your scheduling, prepare your meeting notes, prepare debriefing memoranda and try, despite a total lack of appreciation, to keep you on task and on time? Now you must ask me to fetch your coffee like I was some scullery girl at your beck and call?” She stood up, angrily collecting her papers. “I am going to bed! I remind you, Sir Henry, that you have a meeting with the Queen, may the Gods save her and protect her, first thing upon our arrival.”

And with that, she stomped out of the room, muttering darkly under her breath. Hiram would have been shocked, had he not witnessed the same thing at least twenty times before. Sir Henry and Mrs. McCrutchen had a long history together.

“Someday she is going to shock you and bring you the coffee,” Hiram said.

Sir Henry snorted. “Only when she intends to poison me once and for all.”

Chapter 5

On Refuge, near Ouididi in the Atlas Mountains

“The first thing they do is make you feel hopeless.” Danny Eitan did not look at her, but kept his eyes on the mountain across the valley. Beneath them, the shatah mallah trees swayed and their small leaves undulated in the morning breeze. It was one of the most beautiful things Cookie had ever seen. They really did seem to dance with God.

“They raped me,” Cookie said tonelessly. “They raped me for months. They cut off Wisnioswski’s hands and tied them around his neck, and when either of us showed any resistance, they threatened to cut off his feet.”

She did not cry; she was done crying.

Danny nodded.

“Of course, they enjoy giving you pain. I talked with one of them once. The sex was fun, he said, but what he really liked was the way I screamed when he took me.”

Cookie turned and stared at him. Danny smiled wanly and nodded.

“I was a brand-new Marine assigned to a mining outpost. It was ziridium, a huge vein of it, so Victoria wanted it protected. We had thirty troopers, a sergeant and a junior lieutenant.” He shook his head. “To this day, I have no idea how the pirates found out where this asteroid was, but they came in stealthy, blew out our air lock and boarded us in force. Sergeant Harstad got killed early. Maybe if he had survived it all would have been different, but the Lieutenant didn’t know what to do, so pretty quick we were all fending for ourselves.” He sighed. “I thought they would just kill us, but they loaded us onto their ship, all eight of us who were still alive, plus the Lieutenant. They looted the processed ziridium and then took off.”

Cookie winced. Pirates were the worst. If you were lucky they ransomed you back to your family or government. If you weren’t worth much, they sold you as slaves to the Arcadians or some independent mining consortium. If you were really unlucky, they kept you as slaves. They used the men to mine asteroids for the Big Z or other ore; the women they simply used.

No one lived long as a pirate slave.

She understood now why the Mothers had asked her to go with Danny as he patrolled the area around Ouididi. He had a story to tell, just as awful as hers.

“How long?” she asked.

He looked at her evenly. “Ten months, sixteen days, three hours.”

Cookie flinched. She had been in captivity for seven months and it had nearly driven her mad. She smiled ruefully – some would say it did drive her mad. That’s why Emily Tuttle had brought her here to Refuge, to this village perched high in the Atlas Mountains. This was Cookie’s chance to get her head straight, to prove she could still be a reliable member of Her Majesty’s Royal Marines.

They continued up the path, through another stand of shatah mallah and then into an alpine meadow surrounded by delicate trees with white bark and small green leaves that Cookie did not recognize. “Those are birch trees,” Danny said. “They were imported from Earth by the original colonists and have done very well here in the mountains.”

On the far side of the meadow they spotted a small herd of sambar. The herd was small, but the sambar were huge, standing eight feet high at the shoulder. Cookie stopped and stared. The sambar were beautiful. Strong, powerfully built, the sambar looked a little like pictures of elk she had seen, but she didn’t think elk were this large. The bucks had two large horns that curved forward and came to a vicious point, while the does each had one horn that spiraled out of their foreheads like giant, pointed sea shells. Beautiful, she thought again, and probably nasty if cornered. The animals paused for a moment when the humans appeared, then went back to grazing, their apparent disinterest belied by the fact that the bucks carefully positioned themselves between the intruders and the scampering sambar fawns.

Danny nodded in satisfaction. “That’s good,” he explained. “If there was a grogin pack nearby, the sambar would already be on the move. Let’s back out of here nice and slow and leave them to their food.”

“How do they protect themselves?” Cookie asked quietly. “Fight or flight?”

Danny smiled. “They run like nothing you have ever seen. And they can jump higher than any horse. But their main predators are the grogin. The grogin aren’t as fast, but they can run longer. Eventually the sambar tire and slow down and the grogin mob them. The sambar can fight – those horns are vicious – but if there are more than three or four grogin, well.” He shrugged. That was the way of it.

“But do the sambar never fight as a group?”

Danny considered. “If the sambar have any fawns in the group, one or two bucks will drop back and fight the grogin for as long as they can so the rest of the herd can escape with the young. It doesn’t always work; the grogin simply go around the defending bucks and keep chasing the herd. But if they do attack the bucks, it’s quite a sight. You can’t tell from here, but the horns have both a sharp point and an edge, so a buck can get close to a grogon and then whip its head side to side, slashing the hell out of it. Or, it can just impale the grogon with its horns, like spears. Pretty effective. Same with the does, only they only have the one horn. It is usually a bit longer than the buck’s two horns and they use it more to impale than slash.”

Cookie looked again at the sheer size of the sambar. “If they stand and fight as a group, how can they lose?”

Danny sighed. “The same way strong, ferocious fighters always lose; they get mobbed by overwhelming numbers.” And Cookie realized that they were no longer talking about sambar.

They backed into the woods and began to return to the village, Cookie’s thoughts still on the sambar and how majestic they looked. They followed a path that skirted a waterfall, then plunged through a thicket filled with wildflowers that smelled like mint.

“I was an eighteen-year-old private, just out of boot camp and on my first deployment,” Danny told her. “What I didn’t know would fill volumes. I was young, cocky and sure of myself and didn’t know nothin’, not that you could have convinced me of that. Green as grass and just as stupid.”

Cookie didn’t want to ask, but couldn’t help herself. “What happened?”

Danny stopped, bad old memories washing over his face. “’Bout what you’d expect, I suppose.” He spat on the ground. “They needed slaves, but they needed compliant slaves. As an object lesson to us grunts, they took the Lieutenant and killed him, real slow like.” He rubbed a hand across his mouth. “I gotta tell you that I never saw anything like that before or since, and I pray to the One God that I never do. That poor bastard was little more than a boy himself and they made his last hours a living hell.” He raised his face to the sky. “I still dream about him, all these years later. Lieutenant Larsen. I didn’t even know his first name. They made us watch every damn minute of what they did to him, then they put shock collars around our necks and locked us in a room and left us there, without food or water, for three days.”

He shook his head. “We thought that was pretty bad.” He snorted ruefully. “We had no idea. At the end of three days we could barely stand and were crazed for water. Then they took us out one by one and raped us. Two or three of them for every one of us.” He shook his head again. “It was the worst thing, just the worst damn thing.”

Cookie remembered Schroder and his little posse of followers. She shuddered.

“I was a boy. At that age, my grasp on my masculinity was pretty damn shaky. Oh, I’d had sex some, but nothing serious and nothing meaningful. I lived in the moment. I didn’t understand that there are good times and bad times, and that you’ve got to hunker down and tough out the bad times as best you can. That good times follow the bad ones if you can stick it out long enough. My sense of being a man didn’t have much to do with being responsible for yourself and looking out for those who depend on you. That comes later, if you’re lucky.

“No, my sense of being a man was that I could hold my own in a bar fight and that I was as strong as any man in the room.” He chuckled without humor. “I was all piss and swagger. Didn’t have a bloody clue. Next thing I know I am half dead from thirst and three guys are giv’n it to me and every time I tried to fight them, they laughed and zapped me with the shock collar, then took me some more.”

They had stopped now, surrounded by the forest. Cookie was dimly aware of the sound of wildlife in the trees: birds chirping; some little squirrel-like creature scolding them from a high branch; and the sound of wind through the leaves. Danny looked at her, but his gaze was decades away, as if he could comfort his younger self in his time of need.

“The humiliation of it all almost killed me,” he confessed. And that is what it was, a confession. “The sheer depravity of it. I was just so goddammed ashamed. I couldn’t protect myself; I couldn’t stop them. I started to cry and the pirates laughed and pushed me back to the holding pen, then took another one of us out to torment. I would have killed myself then if only I could have figured out how. It seemed like a small price to pay to get away from them. I was utterly helpless and I just wanted to die.”

He turned and continued walking. Cookie fell in beside him, trying hard to keep her own demons at bay. “How did you survive?” she asked.

Danny took a deep breath. “Some luck and a lot of help. One of the other Marines was a little runt of a guy. Skinny, soft spoken, sort of nervous. He was in my training company in boot camp and the sergeants were always on him. Couldn’t do anything right, nobody wanted him in their platoon. I never could figure out how he managed to get through boot camp and become a Marine, but there he was. Private Percival Stratton, so of course we called him Percy, which he hated. When the pirates were through with him, they dumped him back in the holding pen. None of us had any clothes, so we’re all sitting there naked and bruised, crying and trying not to think about what they had just done to us. Our spirits were crushed and there wasn’t a spit’s worth of fight left in any of us, save Percy. Sorry to say, but there it was.”

Cookie nodded. She understood. Understood all too well. “What did Percy do?”

Danny laughed. “Well, I didn’t understand it much then, but lookin’ back at it now I realize that the runty little kid had balls the size of grapefruit. You gotta remember, we were all bigger than he was; any one of us could have just smacked him and that would have been it, but that’s not what happened. Percy stood up and told us to stop snivelin’ like little girls-” Danny glanced at Cookie. “No offense meant here, Sergeant, that’s just what he said.”

Cookie nodded gravely. “I’ve heard the expression once or twice.”

“Percy told us to stop crying,” Danny continued. “Told us that the pirates had given it to us all pretty bad and now it was our turn. Well, this didn’t make any damn sense at all, given how we were all locked up, with no weapons, no clothes and with those damn shock collars. Then,” Danny paused and grinned, like a raconteur anticipating a good punch line. “Then, he says we’ve got to figure out a way to take over the ship. Take over the ship! God’s Balls, we stopped crying all right. Nothing rah rah, mind you, we just stared at him like he was crazy.”

“Then he explained that the pirates would probably use us to mine asteroids for ziridium, and that while we were doing that, we’d have to keep our eyes and ears open and every night we’d have to share what we’ve seen and heard and figure out where their vulnerable points were.”

Danny laughed out loud, scaring some nearby birds into flight. “Here we are, we all had just been abused like no young man ever wants to admit to, and Percy starts handing out assignments to each of us, telling us what we had to watch for in particular. It was something, not much, but something.”

“A mission,” Cookie said. “Hope.”

Danny nodded. “Pretty flimsy it was, but it was a mission. And in that mission, the faintest little glimmer of hope.”

“Did it work?”

Danny snorted again. “By my life, no! Never stood a chance, but we were too stupid to realize that. And Percy, well Percy just kept giving us assignments and collected information. How many guards were there? When was the shift change? Did the same guards feed us every time or did they rotate? Where was the ship’s armory? On and on.”

“And in the meantime?” Cookie asked softly.

Danny sighed. “We worked the asteroids for Z. We lost some people. The pirates did what pirates do. It went like that for months. And then one day, out of the blue, Royal Victorian Marines showed up out of nowhere and we were rescued.” He smiled and shook his head. “As simple as that. One day we were slaves, then we were rescued and we were free.”

He turned his head to the sky and seemed to study the clouds for a long moment. “The Marines did a psych scan and immediately put me on medical leave. A doctor asked me what happened, so I told him, told him all of it. He seemed…embarrassed, and looked at me like I was dirty somehow. I already felt ashamed, now I felt ashamed and angry. Got into some fights, drank too much.”

“Drunk and pissed off,” Cookie said lightly. “Sounds like every Marine I know.”

Danny smiled faintly. “The Company Captain called me into his office and told me that I needed to take six months and straighten myself out. Get therapy if I needed it. At the end of six months he would decide if I was fit to come back to active duty.”

“Or throw your ass out of the Marines,” Cookie added. She knew how these things worked, and she knew that she was unbelievably lucky that Emily had intervened.

“Unspoken, but understood.”

“What did you do?”

“I came here, to Refuge. Of all of the planets allied with Victoria, this was the least settled. Still got a lot of wild, open spaces here. I thought I’d just come here and get lost in them for a while.”

Cookie took a long, quavering breath and looked across the valley to where a stand of shatah mallah trees waived in the wind. “And now it’s my turn,” she said ruefully.

Danny said nothing. Cookie turned back to him. “How did you make it?”

“I got lucky,” he told her. “I took a job with Amin and Aicha running guided tours for tourists to the Temple of Ait Driss. This was a long time ago; they were just married and didn’t have any kids yet.” He smiled fondly. “Some of our trips up the mountain were, well, unexpectedly adventuresome. It gave me a chance to regain some confidence.”

“And the other thing?”

“I got even luckier there. At the end of the six months, when I decided to go back to the Marines, Aicha and Amin told me that they would be proud to have me join their marriage.” He smiled. “I was in the Marines for another fifteen years, but every leave I got I’d race back to Refuge as soon as I could. Rest is history.”

Cookie’s brow furrowed. “That’s it?” she asked incredulously. “You got married and everything got better? All the terrible things you went through, they just went away?”

Danny eyed her levelly. “Don’t be too quick to make light of it, Sergeant. It gave me something I hadn’t had, something I could build on. It wasn’t easy and it wasn’t immediate, but over time I got myself together. Took a lot of help from Aicha and Amin, but I did it. For me the starting point was the love of two very good people.” He shrugged. “You’ll have to find what works for you. Just as importantly, you’ll have to want to find it.”

Cookie started to reply, then closed her mouth. They rode the rest of the way to Ouididi in silence. When they arrived they were met by the mothers.

“Emily and Rafael had to go back to Victoria,” Leila told Cookie. “She said that you should feel free to stay for a few more days and then catch a ride with one of the daily supply ships.” Leila peered up at her. “Did you have a good day?”

It was a loaded question, they both knew it. Still, this woman had shown her kindness and support.

“I’m learning that there is much beauty in the world, and much pain,” Cookie told her.

Leila nodded. “Yes, there is. Both.” She gestured to the kitchen. “Saved some supper for you; best eat it before the kids find it. Like a swarm of locusts, they are.”

Cookie ate thoughtfully, her mind rehashing the day’s events. She couldn’t get over how astonishingly beautiful the mountains were. And how majestic the sambar. She finished her supper and wandered through the house, eventually finding herself at Nouar’s open door. Nouar was lying on the bed, flipping through digital pictures on her tablet. At first Cookie thought they might be pictures of movie stars or well-known athletes, but then she caught a glimpse of grogin and then a sambar standing on a rocky promontory.

“Those are gorgeous, Nouar! Where did you get them?”

Nouar looked up, a mixture of diffidence and pride in her face. “These are mine; I took them,” she said with uncharacteristic shyness.

Cookie sat down on the bed next to her. “May I?” she asked, motioning to the tablet. Nouar handed it to her and Cookie spent a few minutes swiping through the photographs. Some of them showed grogin cubs playing in vivid detail. “The detail on these pictures is remarkable. And how did you get so close without being attacked?” she asked. She wondered if Nouar had gotten hold of a military-grade helmet through her brother. If you were careful to keep the visor really clean and had the right software, you could get pictures like these. Maybe.

“Dad Yael got me a pair of Nikon 951-DS goggles,” the girl explained. Cookie recognized the name – they were civilian goggles instead of a military visor, but the goggles were built around the camera function rather than just adding the camera app to the visor, like you get with most military visors. Additional functions like communications, maps and AI database linkage usually came built in as part of the base software. The camera function involved the goggle lens themselves, which were a high quality, crystal clear plastic covered with a clear viscous material that could be adjusted like an old-fashioned glass lens to take a picture. The wearer simply looked at their target, adjusted the focus and the zoom to get the desired scope of field, then took the picture.

Cookie’s military visor was similar, but instead of taking pictures, she tended to use it to identify the nature of the enemy threat, call in artillery and air support, and mentally adjust the rate of fire on her weapon.

Different jobs, different tools.

“The 951 is pretty cool,” Nouar told her, a touch of teenage pride in her voice. “It’s fast enough to take pictures and vids in low light, can take up to two thousand stills or an hour of video before you need a new memory stick, has 100x zoom-” She made a face. “All zoomed in, though, even the VR function won’t keep the picture from shaking, so you really need a chin cradle.”

“I’ll bet,” Cookie agreed. “That tells me how you got these pictures to come out so well, but how did you get so close to the grogin without them putting you on the menu?”

Nouar laughed. “Oh, that,” she said dismissively. “That’s not hard, I just borrowed one of Amin’s ghillie suits. As long as you scrub down with leaves and dirt to hide your smell, you can get right up to them and they don’t even notice you.”

Cookie felt that little jar she always did when one of the children called their parent by his or her first name. But then, she supposed wryly, when you grow up in a family with three fathers and three mothers, just saying “Dad!” might not always do the trick. She thought for a moment about the sambar she saw on the mountain, and the majestic trees against the blue sky dotted with horsetail clouds.

“Nouar,” she asked slowly. “How hard would it be to go on a photo shoot of a herd of sambar?”

“I know where a herd likes to graze,” she said, her eyes bright. “Just don’t tell my parents.”

Chapter 6

In Victorian Space

The third one was easier. A covert peek into the personal tablet of one of the bridge crew on the Lionheart revealed that she had booked a vacation to Darwin. She’d be gone a week. And it was during the right time frame for the operation. A little further probing and they had which hotel she was staying at and her exact day of arrival.

They booked a room at the hotel, too.

Chapter 7

On Cornwall, Victoria’s Home Planet

Mrs. Frances MacDonald lived for two things; well, three if you included her grandchildren, which she seldom did.

The first was the Christchurch Soccer League finals.

The second was chocolate. Chocolate was perhaps her favorite because it always gave her pleasure, while her favorite team in the CSL – the Glasgow Gladiators – gave her pleasure only intermittently. The bums. Three years in a row they lost to Perth, the smallest, poorest franchise in the league. A loss to Edinburgh she could understand, or Aberdeen. Hell, maybe even Dundee. But Perth?

It was a personal affront and Mrs. MacDonald treated it as such. But this year, this year would be different. Glasgow had a new striker, Alec Brody.

The man moved like a god. His feet were made of liquid mercury, his hips danced feints left and right, left and right, left and right until the defender trying to stop him was so confused he didn’t even notice that Brody was already behind him and charging for the goal. When he kicked the ball or leapt high into the air for yet another impossible header, Frances MacDonald could have wept for the beauty of it. It was ballet brought to the soccer field. Athletic, graceful, elegant – Brody!

Mrs. Frances MacDonald was in love. Not that fanciful, faddish teenage will-o’-the-wisp love that some of the more juvenile soccer fans engaged in, but a deep, genuine, spirit-moving, soul-embracing, life-changing love that only she and Alec Brody could share. When he scored a goal, he scored it for her. When he smiled his boyish smile into the cameras, he was smiling at her. And when he was shown on the entertainment vids with some tall, ridiculously thin model wearing clothes that made her look like a slut, Mrs. MacDonald knew with a passionate, unshakeable certainty that once she and Alec Brody actually met, that would all change.

And once when he scored a particularly difficult goal and ripped off his shirt in celebration, Mrs. MacDonald had trouble breathing. Alec Brody was a gorgeous human being, with strong shoulders and a muscled chest that rippled sensuously as he moved, and a hard, flat stomach that was so, so– Mrs. MacDonald wasn’t sure what the word for his body was, but she threw herself down on her knees and prayed, prayed for forgiveness for the thoughts and images – Oh, Gods be Good, the images! – that ran in a torrent through her head…and her bosom, and other places that she would not name out loud.

It was so bloody marvelous that sometimes Mrs. MacDonald ate two boxes of chocolate watching Brody play and was not even aware of it. The chocolate handprints on the front of her dress were the only lingering evidence of her culinary rapture.

Because Mrs. MacDonald was a serious woman, she ordered the very best satellite video hologram for this year’s Franchise championship. It had been three weeks of incredible drama and tension, and not a few boxes of medicinal chocolates to keep her nerves under control. Aberdeen had surprisingly lost to a feisty Livingston, while Perth had upset Edinburgh and Cumbernauld. Glasgow had easily defeated Dundee and Inverness, with Brody dominating the field and sending Mrs. MacDonald into paroxysms of delight that left her flushed and quivering and chocolate-smeared.

Now it was the match between Glasgow and Perth. The winner would go on to the championship finals against Kirkcaldy, which had somehow cheated and bribed its way into the finals. This year’s Cinderella team, they all said, but given the chance, Alec Brody would crush Perth like he was stomping on rotten fruit.

But Perth was not cooperating. With less than thirty seconds left to play, the score was tied 1-1. Her beloved Brody had scored the only goal for Glasgow, but had not been able to even get close for another shot.

It was so unfair.

Now Mrs. MacDonald sat forward in her chair, one hand pressed protectively to her chest, her other hand convulsively crushing a dozen of the best Darwin soft-centered pralines money could buy.

The announcer was screaming at the top of his lungs: “The Glasgow goalie throws it out to the center of the field. Oh, my goodness, a bad throw! Too long! Perth’s midfielder is scrambling for it. Scrambling for it! Wait! Brody has it! Alec Brody for Glasgow got there somehow and snatched it away! Yes, he’s on the move! Dances around the Perth midfielder! Findlay tries to intercept him, but Brody turns on a dime and speeds past him. The last midfield defender is running at him now. Almost on him! But Brody changes direction again! Unbelievable move! He’s crossing the center! The defender can’t catch him! Another defender is closing in. Now the goalie is coming out to close the angle. Brody shoots! It’s off his left foot. Look at that shot!”

Mrs. MacDonald stared bug-eyed as the ball left Brody’s foot like a lightning bolt, careening toward the far right side of the goal. The Perth goalie desperately launched himself, arms outstretched—

The hologram flickered twice, pixelated, flickered again, then gradually faded, then snapped back into focus. Only now the picture showed the goalie on the ground, Alec Brody on the ground, and thousands of fans on their feet, cheering wildly.

“What a play!” the announcer screamed. “What a play! I’ll never see a play like that again as long as I live.”

Frances MacDonald’s mouth open and closed like a bewildered carp. “What? What?” Mrs. MacDonald shouted in confusion. “What happened?”

It took another minute to sort it out, but finally she learned that her beloved Alec Brody’s shot had bounced off the goal upright and right back to him. With the Perth goalie charging down on him, Brody had leapt high into the air and snapped his head forward, rocketing the ball past the flailing goalie and into the goal.

It was the play of the game. Fast, brilliant and decisive.

And Mrs. Frances MacDonald had missed it.

She stared at the dark corner of her living room, stared at the unreliable, traitorous hologram system that she had paid a fortune for just so she could watch this game.

And then she got on her phone and called the satellite video service and stridently, at her uppermost volume, gave the manager a piece of her mind.

Sometimes, momentous events are triggered by the littlest of things.

Chapter 8

In Orbit Around Cornwall

Jason Whitney was a screwup.

He had served in the Victorian Fleet for ten years, but never rose above the rank of Seaman. He was conscientious and he tried; Gods knew he tried. But he was handicapped by one thing: he was stupid. Not lazy or feckless or irresponsible, but truly, irrevocably stupid. Officers would chew him out, only to stop when he looked at them with a sad, bewildered expression and say, “But sir, I tried as hard as I could.” And then the Officer would feel like he had just kicked a puppy.

But trying and doing are two different things. And so Whitney was transferred from one billet to another. He lasted two days in Engineering because they simply couldn’t trust him near any of the antimatter equipment. He could never remember which valve he was supposed to turn…and which valve he wasn’t. In Supply, he forgot to order spare parts and most of the food. One time on the H.M.S. Shelby the entire crew – including the Captain – had to eat potatoes for a week because Whitney ordered lots of potatoes, but forgot to order anything else. He was never sure just why he had done that, but he indisputably had. Then he was transferred to a ground billet and put in charge of ordering uniforms for the recruits in basic training. Somehow, he mixed up the orders for uniforms and that class of recruits had to run around in the mud wearing dress blues for a month until they finally got their standard training fatigues. The dress blues, ridiculously expensive and totally ruined by a month of crawling, jumping and running, had to be thrown out. So out they went.

So did Whitney. The Camp Commander, a kindly, grandfatherly man, took Whitney aside and told him, “Son, you mean well, we all see that, but you aren’t meant for this.” The next day Whitney was a civilian again.

One thing led to another and finally he landed a job as a satellite repairman. Although the satellites were incredibly complicated, the designers had simplified the job of repairing them to two options: red lights or green lights. If he plugged his diagnostic wand into a board and the light was green, the board was okay and he left it alone. If it was red, he replaced the board. If it was anything more complicated than that, he called for a Service Level 2 technician and the technician handled the matter.

Jason Whitney had finally found a job he could do.

And the view was spectacular. He used a small shuttle to go to the satellites and his cockpit was enclosed by a large, clear canopy that gave him a 360-degree field of view. He never tired of the stars. There wasn’t much poetry in Jason Whitney, but the view of a billion stars winking at him from the majestic heavens always reminded him of an old poem by Longfellow. His eighth-grade English teacher had made him memorize it, which had taken him days. He had forgotten most of it, but two lines still stuck in his head:

“Silently, one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven,

Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels.”

Jason never tired of the stars.

So it was that two days later, after an irate Mrs. MacDonald called the satellite video service company, that Jason Whitney brought his tiny shuttle to a stop next to Communications Satellite #BGR-7734-AA-12, which looked like every other satellite in the ‘strand of pearls’ line of BGR satellites he was responsible for maintaining. This particular satellite was in high orbit around Cornwall, some 30,000 miles above the planet. Its job was to take the signal it received from the nearest BGR satellite and relay it to a large number of low-orbit satellites, which then boosted the signal and beamed it to the planet’s surface. Whitney fervently hoped that the problem was with BGR-7734-AA-12, because if it wasn’t, then he was going to have to request a service check on the next satellite between Cornwall and Christchurch and the paperwork would be a real pain in the butt.

He exited the shuttle, made his way to the satellite, inserted his diagnostic wand into the first port and watched the readout. The light was green. Grunting, he checked the next port, then the next and the next after that. They were all green. Laboriously, he checked the remaining twenty ports, but got the same result. Superficially, at least, BGR-7734-AA-12 seemed just fine.

That’s when the shuttle’s proximity alarm went off. Panic stricken, Whitney turned to scan the space around him.

Nothing.

He used his compressed air jets to get back to the shuttle, sealed the canopy and activated the sensor panel. Oddly, there was nothing on radar, LIDAR or electromagnetic sensors, but one sensor showed a heat source approaching his position slowly from behind. Right behind, no more than fifty feet away. The rate of closure wasn’t very fast, but it was going to hit him if he didn’t move.

He moved.

He spun the shuttle around so that he could see what was coming, and goosed his docking thrusters to kick him down about two hundred feet. Now whatever it was would pass directly between him and the BGR-7734-AA-12. His sensors showed the heat source – it was pretty darn small, but it was there – but there was nothing visible.

The bogey slowly, slowly overtook him and the BGR-7734-AA-12 and then passed between them. Whitney still couldn’t see anything, but then a shadow blocked his view of the BGR-7734-AA-12. Four, five, eight seconds, then it passed the BGR-7734-AA-12 and was gone. His sensors still picked up the heat, but he couldn’t see it otherwise.

Even Jason Whitney, to whom strange things happened all the time, thought this was odd.

He accelerated a little and gingerly closed in on the mysterious object until he was less than fifty feet away. Even at that distance he could barely see it. Instead of the usual reflective silver foil covering that most satellites used, this thing was black. Absolutely black. It seemed to absorb light. Gave Whitney the willies just looking at it. Or trying to look at it. Whatever.

He followed it along for a while, thinking as best he could, considering what he should do. Thinking was hard work for Jason Whitney, but he knew this was important, knew he had to get this right. He thought, then thought some more.

Then Jason Whitney, perennial screwup and loser, did three things exactly right.

He didn’t use his radio to call in his discovery.

He left his shuttle, flew to the black satellite and attached a beacon to it so he could find it again.

Then he used his visor to record the few details he could make out of the surface of the object.

Then he slowly backed away until it was entirely off his sensors, and accelerated his tiny little shuttle in the direction of the Atlas Space Station, where he knew he would find a Fleet base. He needed to tell somebody about this. And because he knew that for once he had done good – really good – he smiled broadly all the way back.

Chapter 9

On Space Station Atlas

“It’s a Tilleke spy satellite,” Dov Tamari said, pointing at the pictures Jason Whitney had taken. “You can see the antennas here, here and here. And over here,” he pointed with the tip of his pen, “you can see this bulge that probably houses a brick of ziridium to power the damn thing.”

Hiram Brill stared groggily at the picture, his brow knotted in confusion. He had been asleep when Colonel Tamari, head of the Fleet Marines Long Range Reconnaissance Division, had woken him up and insisted on seeing him immediately. “Wait, tell me again how we discovered this.”

Tamari smiled thinly. “The real answer is pure luck. It looks like the Tilleke intended to put this thing into a high orbit around Victoria, but didn’t take into account that the BGR satellite does not have a perfectly round orbit, but an elliptical orbit. So instead of the Tilleke bird orbiting just outside of the orbit of the BGR, it actually orbits below the BGR for a few miles every pass.” Tamari shook his head in wonderment. “Came a time when the Tilleke satellite crossed immediately in front of the BGR, close enough so that it physically blocked the signal from the BGR. That caused a noticeable flickering while the winning goal of the Christchurch semifinals was broadcast.”

Hiram frowned and shook his head. This wasn’t making any sense. Christchurch? Semifinals? Seeing his confusion, Tamari sighed. “You know, the soccer championship played every year at this time on Christchurch? Biggest sporting event of the year? Glasgow versus Perth?”

Hiram just stared at him. Colonel Tamari shook his head in wonder. “You have heard of Alec Brody, right?”

Hiram rubbed his hands against his temples. Was this how Alice felt when she fell down the rabbit hole? “You are telling me that we discovered a Tilleke spy satellite because of a soccer game?”

“Think of it like Divine Intervention,” Tamari suggested dryly.

Hiram glared at him, albeit somewhat blearily. “The Gods chose to work through the Glasgow Gladiators? Really? Has it come to that?”

“Well…” Tamari’s eyes crinkled in amusement.

Hiram closed his eyes. Got to get his brain working. “I don’t know about you, Colonel, but I need some coffee.” He walked stiffly to the kitchen. He made two cups of coffee, left one black, poured a lot of milk into the other one and went back into his living room. He set the black coffee down on the table and pushed it over to Tamari, then took a long swallow of his milky coffee and rubbed his face with his hands again. He needed an assistant, he decided. Someone to delegate to. Too many wake-ups in the middle of the night; it was catching up with him. Didn’t the Russians make a rule during the Old Earth World War that required their generals to get at least six hours of sleep a night? Tired makes you stupid. And Gods, he was tired.

Need to focus.

He drank his coffee, then poured a second cup. He considered: A Tilleke spy satellite orbiting around Victoria. Go from there. What are the dangers? What are the opportunities? Never one without the other.

He sat down across the kitchen table and waived Tamari to a chair opposite him. “We’ve found one satellite? Are there more?” he asked.

Tamari shrugged. “Don’t know, but we have to assume there are.”

Hiram considered this, sipping his coffee. Somehow the Tillies had placed at least one – and probably more – spy satellites in orbit right under the Fleet’s nose. That was very bad. Still, as long as the Tillies didn’t know that we know… “Are we better off finding them and destroying them, or leaving them in place?” he mused out loud.

Tamari raised his eyebrows. “What are you thinking, Hiram?”

Hiram pursed his lips in thought. “We need some people.” He activated his comm unit. “This is Commander Brill. I need you to find Ensign Lori Romano, Captain Rafael Eitan of the Refuge Special Reconnaissance Forces – that’s Refuge, not Victorian – and Sadia Zahiri, Captain of the Laughing Owl, which I believe is under repairs here. Have them all report to my apartment at 6 a.m. Tell Romano to stop by the Main Line and bring enough breakfast for five-” he paused as he saw Colonel Tamari holding up a finger – “no, make that six people.” The dispatcher said something and Hiram grinned. “Yes, I know it is only 4 a.m. Please convey to each of them my compliments and tell them that the hour for the meeting was set by Colonel Tamari, personally.”

He cut the connection and looked quizzically at Tamari. “Who do you want to add?”

“The Ducks have a hotshot stealth driver named Astrid Drechsher, captain of the Draugr, that little frigate that gave us a very bad time when we went after the Siegestor. She’s here, on board the Atlas. If you are going to use stealth ships, we ought to include her, if for nothing else than to pick her brain.”

Hiram’s eyes narrowed. “The Draugr? Isn’t that the ship that killed several of our tugboats, and then slipped away?”

Tamari nodded. “We also had her on sensors for about five seconds, firing everything she had against the Fes.”

Hiram grunted. The Fes had been the only carrier lost in the fight against Siegestor, the secret Dominion shipyard. All hands had died, including its Captain, Grant Skiffington, who had gone through basic training with Hiram, Emily and Cookie.

“The Draugr,” he mused, recalling the shock of suddenly having that little enemy frigate pop out of nowhere and blow away several of his tugboats, and how intensely he had hunted her, how hard he tried to destroy her. He sighed. “Who says the Gods don’t have a sense of humor? Okay, bring her in. If she can help us against the Tillies, I won’t stand in the way.”

Tamari nodded, then said: “Why are you having Ensign Romano join us? Isn’t she a bit junior? And to be honest, isn’t she a bit of a mouse?”

“Yeah, she is a mouse,” he agreed. “But when it comes to technical issues, she’s a stone-killer wizard, and we’ll need one on this.”

Tamari thought, She’s the one who was running the show when the transporters failed and abandoned Cookie on that Duck battleship, but prudently kept his mouth shut. Hiram was funny about personal loyalty.

They assembled two hours later, sitting around Hiram’s kitchen table and eating fresh fruit and yogurt, except for Astrid Drechsher, who insisted on eating a breakfast steak with potatoes. “You call yourself soldiers?” she laughed, gesturing with her fork. “When a soldier eats, she must eat like she might be called to fight at any minute. How long can you last on a cup of yogurt?” She snorted contemptuously. “This is proof of just how bad our government was, that we should be defeated by yogurt soldiers.”

Lori Romano, the expert in Artificial Intelligence Systems, looked tired and nervous at being invited to the meeting. Sadia Zahiri, Captain of the Laughing Owl, was talking to Rafael Eitan of the Refuge Special Reconnaissance Force, who was listening raptly to her story of how the Laughing Owl managed to place a beacon on the bottom of the Siegestor shipyard.

“Good morning, everyone,” Hiram said. He opened the hologram of the Tilleke spy satellite. “This was discovered yesterday in high orbit around Cornwall. All we have at this point are these photographs, taken by a video service satellite repairman who was trying to figure out why the signal from a nearby video service bird kept flickering.” He moved the hologram projection directly over the center of the table and enlarged it so much they had to slide their chairs back to get a better view.

“This is all the information we have on the bird. The repairman spotted the Tilly satellite and got in close enough to take these pictures. And, clever fellow, he put a beacon on it. We’ve put together this hologram from his pictures.” He paused, shooting a glance at Tamari, then turning back to the table. “Ensign Romano, please take a close look at this and tell me what’s important about it.”

Ensign Lori Romano gulped audibly, then stood up and slowly walked around the entire hologram, peering at it owlishly. When she came to one part of the satellite, she paused. “Sir, can you lower it a bit; I need to see the top of it. And turn it toward me some more.”

Hiram complied, but as it turned out, Romano pulled out a kitchen chair and stood on it in order to get a better look. She stared at it a long time, then pulled out her tablet, booted up an application and rapidly began entering numbers.

“I can lower it some more,” he said softly, not wanting to break her concentration.

“S’ok,” she murmured absently, not looking up. “But,” she peered once more near the rounded top of the satellite, “can you make the hologram denser, so it looks more solid?”

Hiram made the adjustment and the hologram, already petty crisp and well defined, suddenly jumped into full clarity, looking as solid as the kitchen table it hovered over.

“Hmmm…”

After several minutes of consulting her tablet, entering more numbers, and once apparently copying down a number that appeared on the top of the Tilleke satellite, Romano jumped down off the chair and looked about self-consciously at everyone silently watching her.

“What did you find, Lori?” Hiram asked quietly.

Romano took a deep breath. She hated talking to brass, even if it was brass sitting around a kitchen table eating breakfast and having coffee. “Well, Commander, there’s a lot I don’t understand about this bird – you’ll need a real expert for that – but I do know that there is only one way this thing can transmit the data it has collected to another source, and that’s through this antenna right here.” She pointed at what appeared to be a swirl imprinted into the top of the satellite.

“That’s the only external broadcasting transmitter/antenna I can see, and the thing is, it’s a very low power antenna, and it is physically very small, not more than about six inches. This thing transmits a low power, tight wave transmission.” She shrugged her shoulders. “It just can’t transmit very far; I’m guessing fifteen miles at the outside, maybe a lot less.”

Hiram was nodding. “And?”

Romano considered a moment. “So the Tillies must have a ship that comes by every so often and links to it, then downloads all the data the bird has been collecting. How the ship gets the data back to Tilleke space, I have no idea.”

She sat down, flushed and self-conscious. Everyone was still looking at her intently. “If I were you, I’d try to capture that ship,” she said faintly.

For a long moment, no one said anything, and then Captain Drechsher laughed. “Well, damn, sounds like good idea. Yes, yes! Capture the ship! Maybe yogurt soldiers okay after all.”

Later, as the meeting was breaking up, Sadia Zahiri came to stand by Hiram as he was talking with Colonel Tamari. “Gods’ Balls, Hiram where have you been hiding that child?”

“You mean Romano?”

“Yes! She was magnificent,” Zahiri exclaimed.

“Well, I haven’t been hiding her. Mostly I’ve been trying to let her show her stuff and make sure she gets credit for it.”

“Humph! Tell that girl that if she wants a good job, she can come to work for me,” Zahiri retorted. “I won’t make her fetch breakfast!”

Chapter 10

On Refuge, In the Atlas Mountains

The female sambar snorted and tossed her head up. Sunlight glinted off the two-foot long horn spiraling out of her forehead. She looked around intently, snorting again in her unease.

“I think the wind shifted,” Nouar said softly through the earphone in Cookie’s helmet. “She’s smelling something she can’t identify and she doesn’t like it.”

Cookie sent back an affirmative beep, keeping her body motionless and her eyes on the sambar. The ghillie suit made her invisible from more than ten or fifteen feet, but scent could be a problem. The sambar alpha stood, braced on her forefeet, ready to attack at the first sight of danger. Her eyes were wide and her nostrils flared, gathering in the strange scent once more.

Cookie took the picture.

Then the sambar did something unexpected. She lifted her head and sniffed the air again, then abruptly wheeled about and lowered her long, lethal horn in the direction of the woods on the far side of the clearing. She stood rigidly still, flanks quivering. When nothing happened for a moment, she raised her head and bugled an alarm. The rest of the herd, including five adolescent sambar just beginning to grow horns, looked up abruptly from their grazing. Four of the adult males, horns gleaming white in the light, moved beside each other in a line between the herd and the forest. Three females fell to the rear of the herd, while the alpha female bugled again and then began to run swiftly…right toward Cookie and Nouar’s hiding spot.

Not good, thought Cookie, but before she could do anything the earpiece in her visor crackled: “Stay right behind that tree in front of you,” Nouar whispered. “And don’t move!”

Cookie slid to her left, just behind the wide oak tree. Moments later the herd of sambar – forty strong – thundered by her on either side. And like that, they were gone. Cookie rolled over on her back and sat up, searching for the sambar, but there was no sign of them. Bloody fast buggers, she thought. She flipped the sensor to infrared, but she was unable to pick up even their heat images. They were gone.

But what scared them?

Nouar stood up then about twenty feet away. Even standing she was barely visible against the backdrop of bushes and other foliage.

“Something’s wrong,” she said urgently. “We’ve got to move!”

But before they could move, the air was split with an eerie undulating wail.

Nouar turned pale. “The grogin. They’re coming.”

Without conscious thought, Cookie went into combat mode. She unslung her sonic rifle and checked the charge. Ninety-five percent. Good. She checked her flechette pistol, popping the magazine out and examining it to make sure the contacts were clean, then slapping it back in. She glanced at Nouar. The girl energized her sonic rifle and then pulled out her personal transponder. If she turned it on, it would signal her family in Ouididi that she was in trouble and needed help, and tell them where she was. She looked at Cookie, the question evident in her face.

Cookie hesitated. If it was a small pack, or just a few random grogin, they should be able to handle it and she didn’t want to get Nouar into trouble with her family for sneaking out. Or, on the other hand, they could get torn to shreds by a pack of ravenous jackal thingies with teeth the size of kitchen knives and absolutely no charm whatsoever.

“We’re havin’ fun now!” she murmured.

“How many do you think there are?” she whispered to Nouar. They both strained to listen. The curious wailing, barking and snuffing so peculiar to grogin was drawing closer. Try as she might, Cookie could not tell whether there were two of the beasts or ten. Beside her, Nouar frowned in concentration, then seemed to relax slightly.

“I think there may only be two or three,” she whispered. “But if they keep wailing, more will come very soon.”

The answer was soon apparent: three grogin trotted into the clearing, growling and sniffing the air. Cookie and Nouar lay flat in the bushes, not moving. Twice Cookie thought one of the grogin was looking right at her, but its gaze passed over. The grogin could clearly smell the just-departed sambar, but just as clearly they smelled something else and were puzzling over it. Cookie wanted to ask Nouar what was happening, but didn’t dare even whisper. She increased the magnification on her visor, sweeping the forest behind the grogin, but there was still no sign of any others.

Then the grogin heard something. All three of them suddenly whirled about, facing a thicket of dense bushes about a third of the way around the clearing from where Cookie and Nouar lay hidden. Heads lowered, shoulder to shoulder, they advanced, snarling and baring their teeth. From the thicket came a noise. It was so soft Cookie couldn’t make it out over the noise of the grogin, whose total attention was now on that location. Cookie boosted the directional mikes on her helmet and focused them on the thicket. Her ears filled with the noise of rustling as something moved, then the sound of frantic mewing. She shook her head; she had no idea what it was. She linked her audio input to Nouar’s earpiece.

“Can you make that out?”

Nouar closed her eyes in concentration, and then popped them wide open. “Cookie! Those are sivot cubs. The grogin will kill them if they can, but it also means that their-”

But Cookie was already moving. Two white sivot cubs had tumbled out of the thicket and were scampering away from the howling grogin, their short legs pumping desperately. The problem was that the cubs were running directly toward Cookie and Nouar’s hiding spot. The grogin had paused for a heartbeat when the cubs bolted, but then they howled their hunting cry and leapt after them.

So, Cookie stood up and shot them.

Whaaap! One of the two smaller males went down with its front leg blown off.

Whaaap! The other male went down, half its head gone.

Whossssssss… The worst sound in the world. Her sonic rifle had malfunctioned. The last grogon, a powerfully built female, snarled at her and leapt, paws extended, teeth bared. Cookie frantically tried to bring up her flechette pistol…up…up…

Just as the grogon’s front paws struck her chest, two things happened simultaneously. Nouar rolled to her back and shot her sonic rifle into the exposed underbelly of the grogon, blowing it up and sideways to land in the bushes.

And two terrified sivot cubs crashed headlong into Cookie’s legs.

Cookie went down hard.

Nouar scrambled to one knee, rifle to her shoulder, scanning the woods for more grogin. The first grogon, the one with the missing leg, was snarling and struggling to get to its feet. Nouar snapped off a quick shot that caught it full in the throat, then quickly checked the others; they were down for good. In the distance, she could faintly hear the familiar, chilling wail. Out there in the woods, more grogin were coming as fast as they could, eager to be in on the kill.

Nouar Eitan, aged fifteen, had one thought: My parents are going to kill me!

Cookie coughed and rolled clumsily to her feet. Getting soft, she chided herself. She grabbed the rifle and slung it over her shoulder – whatever was wrong with it, it would have to wait until later. At her feet the two sivot cubs mewed in fear and confusion. Without conscious thought, Cookie scooped them up, one under each arm. The male just limply hung there, but the female tried to claw her hand and bit her jacket.

“Aren’t you the little ingrate?” Cookie chided.

“Cookie, we have to leave here!” Nouar gritted. “Now! This place will be crawling with grogin any minute.”

“Go!” Cookie answered, but then stopped dead in her tracks.

Things got decidedly intense.

On the left side of the clearing, five grogin poured out of the woods, and then skidded to a stop, their attention split between Cookie and the cubs…and the large white female sivot that suddenly appeared on the right side of the clearing.

The two cubs mewed louder, distracting their mother, who hesitated, then growled menacingly at Cookie.

The grogin charged the sivot, odds in their favor. They were sideways to Cookie, who dropped the mewing, clawing cubs, then drew and fired her flechette pistol in one fluid motion. She fired as rapidly as she could pull the trigger, praying that the pistol wouldn’t crap out like the rifle did. Beside her, Nouar dropped to one knee and joined in.

In one rapid, blood-sprayed moment, three of the grogin somersaulted into the ground, bleeding from numerous wounds. The last two continued their charge, only to have the sivot break the neck of one with a flashing swipe of its massive paw. The second sank its teeth into the sivot’s shoulder, but she returned the favor by clamping her mouth around its throat and shaking it in the air like a rat. When she was satisfied it was dead, she dropped it to the ground and turned her attention once more to Cookie, who was still standing over the two cubs.

The sivot looked at her with its luminous green eyes, and snarled its final warning.

Cookie stared at it in wonder. The sivot had to be the most beautiful wild creature she had ever seen, with its startling green eyes and white fur that looked like the softest wool. The sivot, in return, snarled furiously at her and took two menacing steps forward.

“Cookie!” Nouar whispered her voice thick with terror. “Back away from the cubs!”

But Cookie, eyes still locked on the mother sivot, surprised herself by laughing. “Okay, mama, these two little brats are yours!” Never taking her eyes – or her pistol – off the huge cat, she pushed the two mewing cubs forward with one foot. The female cub took one last opportunity to bite Cookie’s ankle. Then, finally realizing their mother was just a short distance away, the cubs bolted forward and ran until they were close enough to leap on her back, where they dug into her tough hide and burrowed into her fur, all but disappearing. The sivot, still growling deep in her throat, backed up several steps, eyes on the humans, then turned and in one fantastic leap disappeared back into the forest.

For a long moment, there was nothing but silence as the two women stared in astonishment at the empty clearing where the sivot had been.

“Well, damn!” Cookie said happily. “That was just the coolest thing!” Beside her, Nouar’s legs had turned to jelly and she sank trembling to the ground, her face pale, sweat prickling her forehead, and spots dancing madly across her vision.

“Hey, it’s okay! You’re alright, don’t worry,” Cookie soothed, putting an arm around her and hugging her close.

“Cookie, you don’t understand!” the girl sobbed. “That was a sivot! I– I thought we were going to die.”

Cookie laughed and hugged her closer. “Not today, kiddo. You did great and we got ourselves a happy ending. Gods of Our Mothers, did you see that gorgeous, beautiful, damn big cat? Wasn’t she something?”

Nouar nodded silently, wiping the tears from her face. “You are very lucky, Maria Sanchez, to have picked up two sivot cubs and lived to tell of it. Mother sivots will kill anything that is a threat to their cubs.” She shuddered. “You are very lucky.” She paused for a moment to take a deep breath, then shook her head slowly. “But I am not so fortunate,” she said mournfully.

Cookie was puzzled. “But why, Nouar? You’re fine now.”

“No,” the girl replied. “When my parents find out, they’re going to make me wish I was dead.”

Far off in the distance came the wailing cry of more grogin. Cookie stood up and pulled Nouar up beside her. “Time for us to boogie, kid. Let’s go.”

Together, they turned and began to run smoothly through the forest, toward Ouididi and home.

Three minutes after they’d gone, two ghillie-suited figures rose from the slope where they had been watching the events transpire. One was armed with a long-barreled plasma rifle, the other with an ancient, but very deadly, heavy caliber projectile rifle. They both wore the civilian version of military visors.

“That was close,” Amin Eitan said somberly. His fellow husband, Danny Eitan, sighed heavily. “Yeah, we could have lost them.” When they had discovered that Cookie and Nouar had gone up into the mountains, they had begun tracking them. They didn’t want to interfere with whatever quest their daughter and her new friend were on, but they didn’t want them caught unawares by a pack of grogin, either. But the women had moved faster – a lot faster – than the men had anticipated, so it was not until the grogin were already in the clearing that they finally caught up to them, and then things had moved very fast indeed. From their vantage point higher up the slope, they watched in satisfaction as Nouar and Cookie deftly dispatched the first three grogin. Then they watched in stunned horror as more grogin appeared and an alpha sivot – God’s Balls, a sivot! – stepped out of the woods mere feet from the women. Amin had once seen a sivot several hundred yards away, and Danny had once spied one through binoculars across a gorge, but neither man had ever seen one this close. Killing close.

“That was the damnedest thing,” Danny said, shaking his head in wonderment. “The damnedest thing!”

Amin nodded in agreement. Very few people ever got this close to a sivot, and fewer yet lived to tell of it. “Nouar did well,” he said, a father’s pride in his voice. “We must make sure she understands the lesson she had today and not become reckless.”

“Oh, I think the Mothers will take care of that,” Danny said, laughter bubbling up in his voice.

Amin’s mouth curled in amused agreement. “Today is the day Nouar learns that a wild sivot is nothing compared to the wrath of the Mothers.” He grew serious. “And your soldier, what of her?”

Danny considered. “She stood her ground. Despite everything that’s happened to her in the past months, when things went to hell all around her, she kept her head and she stood her ground.”

The faint sound of the wailing grogin filtered through the trees. “Time to go,” Amin said simply. We will follow them down to the village and guard their rear.”

“Do we tell them we were here?” Danny asked, deferring to the older man, who he loved like a brother.

Amin shrugged. “We added nothing. Let it be their adventure, unspoiled.”

The two fathers hefted their weapons and began loping down the mountain, content to keep themselves between any further harm and their much-loved youngest daughter.

Later that night, after the mothers hugged and scolded Nouar, and Cookie apologized profusely for leading their daughter into harm’s way, Cookie watched the video taken by her visor. When it came to the large grogon leaping at her, she clipped off a still picture – the grogon in midair, eyes red and fangs exposed, no more than four feet from her – and sent it to Emily, along with a note:

“Nice vacation. Very restful. I am ready to report for duty.

– Cookie”

And then she wondered what to do about Hiram.

Chapter 11

In Victorian Space, Hunting for a Stealth Ship

They were, in the words of Captain Zahiri of the Laughing Owl, ‘hunting for an alligator.’ In a swamp. At night.

“We might find it first,” she said matter-of-factly, “or it might find us.”

They had ten ships within a 7,000-mile sphere surrounding the Tilleke spy satellite: six of the original krait transporter ships; three of the Owls, now retrofitted to carry six heavy missiles each plus two ten-inch lasers; and the Dominion frigate, Draugr, captained by Astrid Drechsher. On the other side of Victoria, two carriers were engaged in war games, each carrying thirty or so of the heavy “grogin” gunboats, but no one really expected they could get into the game in time to make a difference, and they dared not bring them closer for fear of spooking the Tilleke stealth ship. They also had three destroyers on patrol near every wormhole leaving Victorian space, not that anyone wanted it to come to that. In any event, the plan wasn’t to shoot it down, but to board it and capture it intact. Hence the kraits.

Above all else, they wanted the Tilleke ship’s precious computer, and they wanted it intact and whole. It was a long shot, but the rewards could be huge.

There were three problems, Hiram explained to the assembly of ship captains and high-ranking visitors. He held up one finger. “First, we have to find the Tilleke ship. We have not had even so much as a whiff of this ship on any of our sensors,” he said. “It is as stealthy as anything we have, maybe even better. We may not even be able to see it come in for the uplink from the spy satellite, but we have planted sensors around the satellite that will tell us if it begins to broadcast and give us at least a rough direction to look at. So we think that issue is under control.”

“If the Tilleke ship comes at all,” Admiral Douthat reminded him.

Hiram nodded. “Yes, if it comes at all. But this is the hand we have to play, so we play it and hope for the best.” He gazed at Admiral Douthat until she grudgingly nodded in reply. He was suddenly reminded of the fact that once, not too long ago, this woman had ordered him thrown out of an air lock

Hiram held up a second finger. “Second, we have to successfully board it. So far we have used the Tilleke transporters only for boarding Dominion ships.” At this several people glanced surreptitiously at Captain Drechsher, who nodded and shrugged.

“Yes, yes, big surprise for us. Very unpleasant. But I think perhaps not so much a surprise for the Tilleke ships, no? Maybe they have a surprise for you.” She smiled benignly.

Hiram nodded. “That’s the issue. We have used the kraits to board Dominion ships, but not Tilleke ships. Do they have some shield against transporters? Can they prevent enemy soldiers from coming on board at all, or perhaps just strip them of any metal? We don’t know. As such, all of the soldiers being transported will have to carry air guns and plastic swords along with their regular service weapons.”

The captains looked at one another uneasily. The raiding party was looking more tenuous by the minute.

“And the final problem,” said Hiram. He held up three fingers. “The Tilleke almost certainly have their computer connected to a self-destruct device to prevent it from falling into enemy hands. That means that when we take the ship, we have to do it fast. Too slow by a second or two and the computer will be a piece of molten slag and all of our effort will have been for naught.”

“But other than that, a piece of cake,” Captain Zahiri said drolly.

“Yes, exactly,” Hiram beamed.

Captain Drechsher turned to Colonel Tamari and whispered, “Cake? Why would we want to eat dessert if the Tilleke destroy the computer?”

Colonel Tamari put a finger to his lips. “Shhh.”

“And what is the alternative?” Douthat asked a little sourly.

Hiram shrugged. “Locate all the spy satellites and destroy them, and give up this opportunity to get our hands on a Tilleke database.”

“With all respect, Admiral,” Captain Zahiri said. “We can’t pass up this opportunity, as far-fetched as it may be.

Admiral Douthat looked at Hiram Brill and wondered once again what sins she had committed in a previous life to be saddled with him and his harebrained schemes, but conceded that Zahiri was right. “Agreed” she said grudgingly. She turned and left the room, her aides following her out.

“Well, then,” Zahiri said warmly. “Now all we have to do is make it work.”

In the center of the hologram, the Tilleke spy satellite pulsed blood red.

Other than that, nothing. The hologram showed empty space for 15,000 miles in all directions, other than some distant freighters unloading at orbital warehouses circling Cornwall.

“Mildred, display the locations of the other Allied ships in this Task Force,” ordered Captain Zahiri of the Laughing Owl. The hologram image flickered and ten blue dots appeared, each with an ID tag identifying the ship. Two of them were the Barn Owl and the Horned Owl. The next, hovering 1,000 miles below the satellite, was the former Dominion ship, Draugr, now seconded to the Victoria Fleet for the duration of the Tilleke conflict. Six other ships were identified by number only, Krait-1 through Krait-6. They were each 5,000 miles away from the Tilleke spy satellite, waiting for their chance to beam armed soldiers onto the elusive Tilleke ship that they all knew was out there, somewhere. It had been a week since the Owls and the Draugr had slipped quietly into position, followed by the kraits, who crept in behind them. A week of nothing at all.

“Gods, this is boring,” Zahiri complained. “Fatima, please tell me that you have something on your screens. Anything!”

Fatima Binissa smiled, but shook her head. “If it weren’t for Mildred, I wouldn’t even know where the other Owls are, let alone the kraits. My sensors aren’t picking them up at all.”

“Do you have any hits on the Draugr?” The former Dominion frigate was a bit larger than any of the Owls. With the Laughing Owl’s sensitive sensor pods, they should get a sniff of it.

Fatima shook her head ruefully. “Not a twitch, Captain. That Duck ship is pretty good. I’ve scoured the area where Mildred tells me she is, but I’m not getting anything.”

“Nothing from any of the surveillance drones?” Zahiri groaned. “A speck of dust? A unicorn? Ghosts?”

Fatima allowed a grin. “No unicorns yet, Ma’am.”

The Captain of His Emperor’s Ship Fury drummed his fingers on the side of his chair. For two days now they had been probing the area around Satellite #3, making sure it was clear and safe for the Fury to creep into range so that he could download the data. This was the last download. From here he would leave the Victorian Sector and run for Tilleke. Run as hard and as fast as he could.

He wanted to go home. His ship had been skulking about the planet Cornwall for three months now and he yearned to be able to walk in an open field, hear the ocean crash against the rocks and see open sky.

He was a patient man by nature, a cautious man not given to impulse or rashness, and yet he had the boldness of a gambler when the conditions were right. All of these traits made him perfect for the job of maintaining a network of spy satellites around an enemy’s home planet. And so the Emperor kept sending him out, again and again and again.

The Emperor did not lack for enemies.

The missions he had endured would have cracked most men. He had planted the spy satellite network around the Dominion home planet, Timor, and had infiltrated the Sultenic Empire and Cape Breton. He had even spent one terror-filled month playing cat and mouse with The Light. He shuddered. That had been too close, too close by half.

The problem with having a talent for something is that your masters kept using you for it. Using you and using you until you were all used up, until there was nothing left but duty and obedience and a bone deep weariness.

Captain Nejem looked sourly at the monitors. They showed nothing untoward. Nothing to alarm. But he was alarmed. Had the satellite been discovered? Were they out there? Were they waiting?

He brushed aside the thoughts. He was a Freeman, loyal to the Emperor. Obedient. Loyal. Obedient.

“Captain Nejem? Captain?” It was the Pilot.

He looked up with a guilty start. The ship’s chronometer told him that he had been brooding for almost twenty minutes. He scowled, annoyed at his momentary foolishness.

“What is it, Freeman Pilot?”

The Pilot stared at him a moment longer, concern and doubt on his face.

“Sir, the passive scan shows nothing in the area. Do you wish to proceed?”

“Proceed? Of course I wish to proceed, Pilot! We are the tip of the Emperor’s sword. We are the Emperor’s eyes and ears. We serve the greater glory of the Emperor and we do that through duty!” Captain Nejem glowered at the Pilot and the rest of the deck crew. “But our duty commands us to succeed, not to court failure. And so we will proceed cleverly; cleverly so that the enemies of the Emperor will not see us coming and will not see us leave.” He turned to the Drone Chief, a trained Savak. “Send the communications drone in at low power and have it uplink with the satellite.” It would take longer, perhaps much longer, but that way the Fury could sit back a thousand miles or so and wait for the drone to return. The drone was small and running at low power should not attract attention. Or, if it did attract attention, it would attract attention to it, and the Fury could slip away. He saw the Pilot and the Drone Chief exchange a look and knew what they were thinking: the more time they spent here, the greater the risk of discovery.

“Do it,” he snapped. And a moment later the drone was away. If all went well, the drone would be within uplink range of the satellite in twenty minutes. The uplink would take six or seven minutes, then the drone would return to the Fury. And in the meantime the Fury would sit motionless and quiet, watching everything with its passive sensors.

Ready to flee.

On board Krait-5, Hiram glanced at Captain Rafael Eitan. Around them, thirty Refuge Special Recon Force troops checked and rechecked their equipment. Each man carried the standard M40B, the short-stock version of the longer M40 sonic blaster, with five extra chargers clipped to webbing. Each carried a flechette pistol, plus four extra clips, two grenades, an emergency med kit and a water bulb. And, of course, his helmet and visor, which contained all his communication gear and special optics. In addition, however, each soldier carried an air gun that was completely made from plastic and shot small plastic pellets.

And a very sharp plastic sword, swung over each soldier’s back in a baldric. A few carried spears made of stout wood or molded plastic, with a leaf-shaped blade, edged on two sides and ending in a sharp tip, but it was cumbersome with all the other gear they had to carry. One or two of the stronger soldiers spurned the plastic swords and spears for something a little more basic: a handmade club, with a three-foot wooden shaft that had a five-pound chunk of granite fastened to its end. They called them “knockers.”

If the teleportation devices worked as hoped, and the troops could take their regular weapons and radio gear onto the Tilleke ship, then three more “flights” of Rafael Eitan’s Special Recon Forces would follow. These would include the “Bee Keepers,” who would carry with them the Beach Ball and Soft Ball reconnaissance devices, which they would send rolling through the ship to map it and locate enemy forces.

“Still nothing” a voice said over Hiram’s headset. Rafael Eitan also wore a headset. He rolled his eyes to indicate his boredom. Several of his men and women were watching him closely and he shook his head to tell them there was no change in the status. They went back to checking the equipment they had already checked ten times.

The Tilleke reconnaissance drone reached the spy satellite and initiated the uplink protocol. The spy satellite searched its memory bank, verified the legitimacy of the request, then began its upload to the drone. Three minutes later, task complete, it shut down the connection.

The reconnaissance drone flipped over to reverse direction, then slowly began accelerating back towards the Fury.

“Got it!” On the Laughing Owl, Fatima Binissa adjusted her console sensors. “Short radio message from the satellite to somebody located right about…here!” She stabbed a button and shared the location with Captain Zahiri and the rest of the bridge crew.

Sadia Zahiri looked at the projected track of the transmission. There was nothing on sensors to show either a Tilleke ship or drone. No surprise there. “Fatima, can you-?”

“Already got it,” the Sensors Officer replied. “Getting a tiny heat signature that is changing bearing away from the spy satellite. Mildred classifies it as a reconnaissance drone. Direction of movement along this line.” On the tactical hologram, a thin orange line appeared that moved directly away from the satellite on a bearing straight up from the elliptical.

“Send it to the task force,” Zahiri said. “Whisker laser only. Priority to the kraits and get a confirmation that they have it. Let’s do a constant update on that track.”

Two minutes later: “Target!” called Fatima, with ill-disguised glee. “Sensors detect unknown target on same bearing as the Tilleke reconnaissance drone. Very faint image; if the Tilleke drone was not pointing the way, I’d not have noticed it.”

“Do you have a lock on it, or just an area it’s hiding in?” Zahiri asked tartly. Sometimes Fatima let her enthusiasm color her reports.

Fatima’s cheeks colored. “Ah, Mildred has narrowed it down to a hundred-square mile area, Captain,” she said crisply. “The target area is 1200 miles from the spy satellite, 3,000 miles from us. Sending target location to the kraits.”

On Krait-5, the targeting information was received and posted on the hologram. “That’s less than 4,000 miles!” the Sensors Officer exclaimed. She bent down to study her plot, then nodded. “Okay, then, that’s the commo drone they used to download the satellite. So somewhere in this box-”

“Or close to it,” Hiram reminded her. “Remember the drone can uplink to the Tilleke ships, too. They don’t have to take it on board.”

“Or close to it,” the Sensors Officer corrected.

“Who is closest to the target area?” Hiram asked, peering at the hologram. He was trying unsuccessfully to suppress his excitement. Maybe, just maybe, his plan would work.

The Sensors Officer typed rapidly, then pushed a button and two blue images appeared on the hologram. Krait-3 was less than 1,500 miles from the box; Krait-6 was moving slowly along one edge of it. On the far side of the box, the Dominion frigate Draugr sat motionless. Hiram frowned. At less than 4,000 miles, he would expect something from the passive sensors, at least a twitch.

“Nothing?” he asked Sensors. “Nobody has a sniff of this guy?”

The Sensors Officer just shook her head, not looking up from her console.

Rafael Eitan leaned in. “We’re close, Commander. If you can get a fix on him, we can send the first team aboard in twenty seconds.”

“We’re in range, right?” Hiram knew they were, but he needed to hear it.

“Easily within range, but we need a fix on it.”

Hiram turned to the Sensors Officer, who also served on the krait as the communications officer. “Send out a whisker laser to all ships. Anyone within 2,000 miles of the target is to send in recon drones on full stealth.”

In moments, hair-thin laser beams reached out to the other ships in the operation, giving them their new orders. Since none of the ships were actually in the target area, the risk of interception by the Tilleke spy ship was virtually nil.

Assuming, of course, that the Tilleke ship was in the target area…

But the Fury was not in the target area. Captain Nejem, worried about just this contingency, had taken his ship 500 miles outside of the target zone. When the communications drone was well on its way back, he would dash in close enough to uplink to it, then start his run for home. On board the Fury, the Sensors Officer put a hand to his headphones, listening intently. Then he leaned forward and peered owlishly at one of his sensor screens, hurriedly typed in several commands and peered at it again. When he finally sat back, he found Captain Nejem standing beside him. “What?” Nejem asked shortly.

“Captain, I picked up some static, some fuzz, but it’s the same kind of sound that the sensors make when they hear a communications laser nearby. It was too quick to get a bearing, but none of the sensor units have picked up anything in the area that looks like a ship.” The young Sensors Officer shrugged. “It could just be static, I guess, but it sounded like a comm laser. I hear it all the time when we do maneuvers.”

Nejem frowned. “How close do you have to be to hear that sound, how close from the laser beam?”

“Real close, sir. No more than a few miles.”

Nejem considered furiously. The Vickies, damn them, somehow knew he was here, if not his exact location. He had only a few minutes, perhaps less. He grinned furiously: he was good at this. Very good. It was going to take more than a few Vickies to catch Captain Abjar Nejem.

He sat down and crossed his legs. “Okay, everyone, listen up. Here is what we are going to do.”

On the Laughing Owl, Captain Sadia Zahiri scowled in frustration. “Gods of Our Mothers! Doesn’t anybody see this guy?” But the sensor reports remained stubbornly blank. She pounded her fist against her chair. The goddamned Tilleke ship had to be right there, close enough to hit with a rock, and she couldn’t find it!

Enough of groping around in the dark. “Dafna, connect me to Krait-5! Tight comm laser only.”

A moment later the picture of Hiram Brill came on her screen. “Do you have him, Sadia?” Brill asked.

“No,” she snapped, her frustration boiling over. “Commander, we have to stop pussyfooting around or he’s going to get away. We need to go to active sensors. Now, immediately.”

Hiram looked at her for a moment, then nodded abruptly. Still on screen, he raised his voice and called out: “All ships, active sensors! I repeat, go active! All kraits, prepare to transport, but wait for my order. Repeat, only transport when I specifically order.” This last part was vital. If several of the kraits transported together, chances were good they would end up transporting troops into the same area. No one knew what transporter interpenetration looked like, but no one wanted to find out, either.

And then, in a heartbeat, everything changed.

The vivid bright light of a ship under heavy acceleration suddenly appeared on every sensor screen of every Victorian ship in the area. The streak arched up and away from the Laughing Owl, but toward Krait-5 and the frigate Draugr. Then everyone started yelling.

“Runner!”

“He’s bugging out!”

“Enemy running! Bearing 45, 70, accelerating at 300 gravities!”

Just as Captain Zahiri was about to give an order, the last words registered and her mouth snapped shut. 300 gravities? The Laughing Owl could only pull 250, and that was before they’d added missiles to her hull. No way could the Tilly pull 300 gravities.

“All ships!” she shouted. “Ignore that bogie! It is a decoy! Repeat, a decoy. Go active with your sensors.”

Then a second sensor reading popped up.

Then a third.

Each of these had accelerations of 225 gravities. Well within normal military capabilities.

“Shit,” Zahiri growled. But she had to admire the Tilly captain. She had made a similar move to confuse her enemies not too many months ago. Then those enemies had been the Dominion. She gave a small, wry smile. War was so bizarre.

Then two more sensor readings flared into view, lighting up the Victorian holo displays. These two went in opposite directions from the last two, but also maintained accelerations under 225 gravities. But then one of the signals split in two, with the second sensor track accelerating wildly directly towards the loose net of Victorian ships.

“Missile!” called the Sensors Officer from the Snow Owl. “They’ve fired a missile at us!” An instant later the Snow Owl fired several counter-missiles, followed immediately by a chaff cloud.

Sadia Zahiri cursed fluently in all four languages she knew. So much for stealth. “Mildred, rate of acceleration for this last object?”

A moment, then: “1400 gravities, consistent with a Tilleke ‘Code Omega’ drone. Probably built by the Dresden Defense Limited Liability Company in Arcadia, under license from-“

“Stop!” Zahiri said absently, considering what she had just learned.

“All ships, ignore the missile. It is a Code Omega drone. The Tilly is using it to flush us out.” And very successfully, too, damn them, she thought.

Hiram Brill came on the comm net. “Everybody sit tight and go to active sensors. We’ll sort this out.”

But before anyone could activate their sensors, the Snow Owl, Barn Owl and Fish Owl all dropped off the ship network and vanished. One moment they were there, feeding full status and telemetry data via the C2C network, the next they were gone.

As the three Victorian ships turned into his range, Captain Nejem nodded. “Time for us to make a hole. Fire the Emperor’s Shield!”

A purple light reached out from the Fury with deceptive slowness, then seemed to rush forwards, enveloping all three of the Vicky ships. Their engines and all power sources immediately shut down and the three ships went into ballistic trajectories.

“Recharge the Shield as quickly as possible! Pilot, accelerate to 225 gravities and take us right through them,” Nejem ordered briskly. For the Glory of the Emperor, he thought wryly, get us the hell out of here!

“Sensors, launch the remaining decoys. I want the Vickies grappling with too many options. Weapons, keep a sharp eye for anyone paying too much attention to us.” He leaned back, satisfied that he had done everything he could for the moment. On the holo display, he watched as they maneuvered past the three Vicky ships, which tumbled impotently through space. He was tempted to fire missiles into them to finish them off, but that would give away his position. No, escape first. Blessed escape. The three Vicky ships slowly moved behind him, sliding across the holo display.

That’s when the ship appeared out of nowhere, directly in front of him, only 1,000 miles away. Before the first missile struck, Captain Nejem had time for a moment of rueful appreciation that the Tilleke were not the only ones with good stealth systems.

Captain Astrid Drechsher of the Dominion Ship Draugr, on loan to the Victorian Royal Navy, laughed with pleasure. “Fire!” she commanded. “Let’s show those Yogurt Soldiers how warriors fight! Fire!”

Four missiles carrying specially designed low-yield warheads spat out from the frigate, raced across the shortening distance and exploded all around the Tilleke ship’s bow. The explosions stripped off the forward sensors, smashed the forward missile tubes into useless junk and opened the first three compartments to space. The Fury, blind and damaged, lurched upwards as alarm horns clamored inside the ship.

Captain Drechsher thumbed the comm button. “This is Draugr! I’ve stunned him. You better hurry before he decides to wake up and sneak away. Drechsher, out.” She smiled smugly at her bridge crew. “Tonight, I think everyone will be buying us drinks, eh? That is what Yogurt Soldiers are good for.”

Four more sensor trails appeared on Captain Zahiri’s holo display. But they were all very close, close enough, perhaps, for a little discerning analysis.

“Fatima!” she called to the Sensors Officer, “I’ll bet you a fine dinner in the restaurant of your choice that three of those sensor trails show chemical propulsion and one shows antimatter.”

Fatima Binissa hurriedly checked the sensor data. “No bet, skipper. The one going north on our POA shows antimatter residue.”

“Then that’s our baby!” Sadia said with satisfaction. “Mr. Hod, please send the coordinates to the kraits. Tell them to ignore everything else. That is our target.” She turned to the Pilot. “Mr. Janson, aim us right at him, but don’t get too close, just within firing distance. I want him in range in case those Refuge snake eaters don’t take him out.”

She leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs. For years, she had flown this ship without any weapons, and now that she had six lovely missiles at her command, she couldn’t use them. She grinned inwardly. Too bad, really; she was just itching to try them out.

Chapter 12

In Victorian Space, Chasing down the Tilleke Spy Ship

“Do you still have him?” Hiram asked urgently.

The Sensors Officer nodded, speaking rapidly with excitement. “Oh, yeah, Commander. Nice heat bloom. I’m guessing he’s got a fire on board. He’s climbing above the POA, but his rate of acceleration has dropped way down and he’s swerving back and forth like he’s got steerage problems. I think the Draugr messed them up pretty bad.”

Hiram turned to Rafael Eitan, eyebrows raised in question. Rafael nodded sharply. “Ready to transport on your order.” Hiram turned to Lori Romano, who looked tense enough to explode. She nodded, licked her lips, then nodded again.

“Go!” Hiram ordered. And, please. Let this work!

Romano turned to her console and flipped open the glass cover on the red transport control. She pushed it once. Then she turned and stared at the two rows of fifteen chairs, each holding a Refuge Special Reconnaissance Force soldier in full battle rattle, and an air gun and a sword or spear. Or, in four cases, a vicious-looking club.

Thick bands of pulsating light appeared near the ceiling above each of the soldiers, but quickly flowed down and surrounded them. Romano knew that the transporter machine was mapping the bodies down to the molecular level. This took two seconds. Then the lights began moving horizontally, spinning slowly for a moment, then rapidly accelerating faster and faster and faster until the light was just a blur that totally enveloped each occupant. This took three more seconds.

Then the lights stopped.

The thirty men and women who had been sitting in two neat rows moments before were gone. Gone.

Then there was a loud noise as the assault rifles, helmets, spare cartridges and energy packs and other metal gear of the soldiers all clattered to the deck in an unceremonious heap. From a glance, Lori Romano saw that nothing metallic had made it to the Tilleke ship.

“Oh, crap!”

The Tilleke ship Fury yawed violently to the left and right. Its sensors were gone; they were flying blind. Having been knocked about by the Vicky missile strikes – and how was he still alive, anyway? – Captain Nejem wasn’t even sure which direction he was flying in. He couldn’t see the Vickies to shoot at them, but he knew they were close.

But the ship was still intact and moving. They were not dead yet.

“Pilot, can you steady the yawing?”

The pilot was feverishly manipulating the controls. A spaceship used thrusters in its bow to change the direction, but those thrusters were gone, blasted away by the Draugr’s missiles. Finally, he tried the midline docking thrusters and, by using short bursts, managed to still the sickening yawing. With the violent motion gone, Captain Nejem turned his attention to escaping. He struggled for several minutes with the computer navigation software, trying to establish their correct position and heading. There were no other Vicky missiles, so he dared to hope that they had lost track of him.

When in doubt, sow confusion. “Fire drones and chaff! Change course 50 degrees up for thirty seconds, then resume plane of advance.”

But while his crew hastened to comply, Captain Nejem felt something on the back of his neck: snow.

Captain Rafael Eitan and his Refuge SRF soldiers emerged on the deck of the Tilleke ship Fury in a snowstorm. Eitan had a moment of disorientation; his face was bleeding and snow was blowing in his eyes, blinding him. Where was his helmet? He tried to raise his sonic rifle, but couldn’t seem to get a good grip on it, then realized that it was gone. Then he saw Lieutenant Daniella Tal raising her air gun and shooting at something he couldn’t see, and snow was melting on her hair and if he could see her hair that meant she wasn’t wearing a helmet either.

Then he understood. They had transported over without any of their regular combat gear. Everything with metal stayed behind.

“Bugger me!” He groped to bring up the air gun. There were men standing on the Fury’s deck, staring at them with wide-eyed astonishment.

“Don’t move!” Lieutenant Tal shouted at the Tilleke crew, air gun to her shoulder. “Don’t anybody move or I’ll shoot!” Tal couldn’t speak Tilleke, but pointing a rifle at someone’s head meant the same thing in any language.

By now the other soldiers in the assault team had gathered their wits – and their air guns – and had crowded in around the Fury’s bridge crew, screaming at them to show their hands and get down on the deck.

That was when Rafael noticed one man surreptitiously reaching for his console. He wore the insignia of a ship’s captain. Without pausing, Rafael shot him twice, each pellet taking him high in the shoulder. The blows jerked the man back away from the console. “Grab him!” Rafael ordered and three of the SRF soldiers took him to the floor.

Rafael walked around the console so that he could see the controls. There was a red button with a hinged cover protecting it from being accidently pushed. The cover had been flipped open. There was lettering in large red letters above the button, but it was in Tilleke and without his helmet AI he couldn’t read it. But he didn’t really have to. First, he carefully closed the lid. Then he motioned two of his soldiers closer.

“You two guard this console until I personally relieve you, understand?” They both nodded. “Nobody touches this console! Nobody. From this console, someone could blow up the ship. I would be extremely unhappy if that happened. You are authorized to shoot anybody who tries unless I personally tell you it is OK.” He looked at each of them. “Questions?”

They both shook their heads.

“Good.” He left them and looked around until he found one of his favorite point soldiers, Private Leila Amali. “Amali! Find Nur, then I want the two of you to start scouting the ship toward engineering. Try to join up with other SRF who transported over. Map out the ship as best you can, but if you run into opposition, just come back here. No big firefights.”

Private Amali nodded once then went to find Private Nur. Nur was a little older and steady as a rock. Amali had the reflexes of a snake and could outshoot anyone under Rafael’s command. Under better circumstances, Rafael could have just sent a Beach Ball, but he didn’t have a Beach Ball. Hell, under better circumstances…well, that got him nowhere.

Rafael found the ship’s captain, who was being treated by the team medic. “You are the captain of this ship?” he asked in fluent Tilleke. The man, in pain from his wounds, grimaced and nodded.

“Well, Captain,” Rafael said, “given how close you got to being killed, you are a very lucky man.”

“No,” Nejem said hoarsely. “I will never see my home again.”

Rafael frowned. “Of course you will! This war will end and you will be repatriated in due course.”

Nejem smiled wanly. “I am a captain who has lost his ship. In Tilleke, that is the same as treason. The Emperor will either not accept me back, or, if he does, will send me to a prison colony or kill me.” He shook his head. “I will never see my beautiful home again.” He turned his face to the wall.

Rafael stood there for a minute, but there was nothing he could say. He turned and walked away.

Chapter 13

On Space Station Atlas

Cookie got off the transport from Refuge, looking about warily to see if anyone recognized her as that crazy woman who killed the Dominion prisoner, but no one paid her any special attention. She let go of a breath she didn’t know she had been holding, hoisted her bag and strode towards the main concourse.

“My goodness, it’s Sergeant Maria Sanchez, what a pleasant surprise!”

Cookie looked around to see Admiral Martha Wilkinson, the Fleet Surgeon, who smiled at her warmly. Cookie automatically began to drop her bag and salute, but Wilkinson forestalled her by taking her arm and continuing to walk down the corridor.

“Well, Maria,” Wilkinson said, “this is a pleasant surprise. I had heard you were on Refuge, was it a nice trip?”

Cookie blinked, trying to think of something to say. Although she was close to Emily, and until recently had been sleeping with Hiram, she wasn’t used to hobnobbing with Admirals. Then she looked around the crowded debarkation deck, swarming with hundreds of visitors and workers, looking to all the world like an ant hive.

Realization dawned.

Cookie stopped in her tracks, forcing Admiral Wilkinson to stop as well. “Admiral, did you just happen to be here when my flight from Refuge came in, or am I your favorite nut case?” Her voice had an edge to it.

Wilkinson’s smile grew broader. “Okay, I’m busted. I set up a tickle to let me know when you were coming back.” She patted Cookie’s hand. “And you are my favorite ‘nut case,’ Maria, although you are neither nuts nor a case.” She continued walking, still holding Cookie’s arm, and Cookie once more fell in alongside her.

“Most of all, I want to know how your time on Refuge was, and to see how you are doing.”

“And to decide whether I am fit for duty,” Cookie said. Not a question.

“Hmmm…yes, that too,” Wilkinson agreed. “You are a hero and I am the Fleet Surgeon, but the ‘i’s must be dotted and the ‘t’s crossed. We never get away from that.”

Cookie could feel her mule-headedness kicking in and fought to suppress it.

“Relax, Maria, and tell me about Refuge. I understand the mountains are very beautiful.”

Cookie took a breath and told the Admiral about her trip. At first she was matter-of-fact and dry, but as she began to describe the beauty of the mountains and the breathtaking views of the wildlife, she found herself pulling out her tablet and showing Wilkinson some of the pictures she took. Wilkinson steered her into a coffee shop on the main concourse and they took an empty table.

“Is that a unicorn, for goodness sakes?” Wilkinson asked.

Cookie smiled. “That is a female sambar, and if you like this picture, wait until I show you the video.”

Wilkinson flipped through more of the pictures. She stopped at the picture of the grogon leaping in midair toward Cookie, fangs exposed, its black eyes looking like death incarnate. Her eyes widened and her smile faltered. “I suspect there is a story behind this photo,” she said, glancing appraisingly at Cookie.

Cookie nodded, then laughed. “Oh, yes, there most certainly is. Did Emily tell you about Nouar, Rafael Eitan’s little sister?” She showed the video of their encounter, first with the sambar, then the grogin, and finally the sivot cubs and their formidable mother. She held up her arm and pulled back her sleeve to reveal four small puncture marks. “See these, these are from the female cub! Chip off the old block, I’ll bet. I went through that entire incident and this is the only injury I got! Bitten by an ungrateful sivot cub!”

At Wilkinson’s insistence, Cookie played the entire video again, from the first encounter with the sambar to the shot of the mother sivot disappearing into the bush with her wayward cubs.

“Must have been a bit disconcerting when your sonic rifle jammed,” Wilkinson commented dryly.

“Disconcerting! Hell, I almost crapped in my pants!” Cookie hooted. “Begging the Admiral’s pardon.”

“And yet you didn’t panic,” Wilkinson observed.

“No,” Cookie said simply. “I had Nouar to look after. And I know this sounds stupid, but I also had to protect the cubs.” She hesitated.

“Yes?” Wilkinson prodded.

Cookie shrugged. “It was fun.”

Wilkinson visibly suppressed a smile. The waiter brought them refills for their coffees. The Admiral sipped hers carefully, watching the pedestrian traffic stream by on the concourse.

“Now that you’re back, what are the first things you want to do, Maria?”

“Well, I want to see Emily, and Hiram, too, if he’ll see me. And then I want to see Wisnioswski. He went through a lot; I want to make sure they’re treating him right.”

Wilkinson snorted in amusement. “Don’t you worry overmuch about Private Wisnioswski, he’s being treated like royalty. You know he decided not to regrow his hands, don’t you?”

Cookie was startled, and it must have shown on her face. Wilkinson chuckled. “He’s not in a depressive funk, he’s impatient! He’s opted for two prostheses. Two artificial hands were attached to his arms and tied into his nervous system last week. They should be activated today or tomorrow.”

Cookie frowned. “But will the Fleet let him serve with two artificial hands?”

Wilkinson made a dismissive gesture. “Of course! He’ll have full functionality, even sensation, though it will take a little time to retrain his brain. Physical therapy will take a month, no longer. He’ll have to pass some proficiency tests, but if he flunks, he’ll be the first one who has.”

Cookie tried to picture it, but couldn’t. “But won’t they look, ah, artificial? Or weird?”

Wilkinson considered this. “No, not really. In the old days we had some problems with patients who couldn’t adapt psychologically to the idea of an artificial limb, but we finally learned how to grow skin over the prosthesis and it works pretty well. We still haven’t solved the problem with the dry skin – it tends to itch – but we’ll figure that out eventually. In the meantime, your good Private Wisnioswski should return to duty in about five weeks or so.”

Cookie remembered Wisnioswski holding up his mutilated arms, screaming in anguish, ‘Look what they did to me! They cut off my hands!’ She shuddered.

“His wounds weren’t as bad as yours,” Wilkinson said softly. “More obvious, but not as bad.”

“I should go see him,” Cookie said.

Wilkinson nodded. “He’s asked for you almost every day. You’d do us all a favor by seeing him so he’ll stop pestering the nurses. But, Maria, why don’t you think Hiram will see you?”

“When I – when everything happened, he was right there, he saw it all.” She shook her head in dismay at the memory. “He, well, he thinks of me like a woman, not a soldier. He knows what I do for a living, but that’s not the me he has in his mind when we’re together. Now he knows.”

“Knows what, Maria?” Wilkinson asked in gentle concern. “What does he know that he didn’t know before?

Cookie looked directly at her, locking eyes. “That I’m a killer.”

Wilkinson sighed. “Sometimes I think that people are not one homogenous thing, but just a jar full of marbles, each one a personality trait. Every day our jars get shaken up and certain traits are visible to the outside, then the jar gets shaken up some more and new traits emerge. It’s all us, of course, we are the sum total of all of those marbles shifting around in there.”

“But the tricky part is, not only do outsiders tend to see one or two traits as the ‘real’ us, but we do, too. Sometimes we focus on one thing and think that that is the embodiment of who we really are, but that’s not fair, either.” Wilkinson swirled the coffee in the bottom of her cup, then looked back at Cookie. “It’s been a long time since I was in a new romantic relationship, but my nonmedical advice is that if I were you, I’d go see him. Hiram is a pretty smart guy. He might surprise you, Maria, and if you two have something special, it’s worth trying to save.”

Cookie didn’t know what to say and a moment or two passed in silence. The waiter brought the bill and each of them fished around for their IDs to pay. Then Cookie asked what she had wanted to ask since first seeing the Fleet Surgeon.

“Ma’am, are you going to let me serve again?”

Wilkinson smiled at her reassuringly. “Well, we still have to do the neuro-scan, but from what else I’ve seen, I think you’ll be back in harness very soon. Why don’t you drop by my office tomorrow and we can run the scan and put all of this to bed.”

Cookie blew out a breath of relief. “Thank you, Ma’am, I certainly will.”

Wilkinson stood, then looked at Cookie. “Tell me, Maria, if you had to do it all over again, would you still kill that Dominion soldier who abused you?”

Cookie looked her in the eyes. “Absolutely, Ma’am.”

Wilkinson nodded. “So would I, Maria, so would I.”

Chapter 14

On Qom, Home Planet of Tilleke Empire

Emperor Chalabi kept a small, neat office. The modest size of the room would have surprised most of his subjects and all of his enemies, both within and without the Empire. But his office did command a view of the snowcapped Zagros Mountains, which he often gazed at when he was thinking.

Today he was thinking of conquest.

Like a bridge player preparing to bid, he mentally reviewed his assets. He had ten of the fearsome Shamshir (Sword) ships, and fifteen of the practical Taka (Shield) ships. They would not be enough to win the war by themselves, but he also had more conventional ships, an entire fleet of them. Four battleships, thirty cruisers, fifty destroyers, forty of his beloved kraits and a variety of anti-missile ships, all in good condition and carrying full crews. Many of the ships, he thought smugly, were captured from the Victorians themselves during the initial phase of the war. This is where the krait technology was so useful, and he was the only one who had it.

And in addition to all of this, he had two little surprises planned for the Vickies, two surprises that would bring them to their knees and send them reeling in horror.

In the end, he would crush them, as they deserved. And after he had obliterated Victoria, what special death could be devised for the impetuous child queen? Perhaps not death at all? Perhaps something more—

There was a discreet knock at the door, then the door opened and Gul, the Savak bodyguard in charge of the other Savak guards took one step inside, eyes lowered. He bowed low. “Your Grace, Admirals Behzadi and Kirmani attend at your pleasure.”

Gul was a personal treasure. Conditioned since birth, implanted with one of the first disciplinary devices that would respond only to Emperor Chalabi’s voice, Gul was fearless, dedicated, and perfectly obedient. And if it came to that, the Emperor could kill him with a word.

“Bring them in, Gul, then stand outside.”

The two Admirals entered and bowed. Behzadi was a Freeman and his bow was low, face to the floor, eyes averted. Kirmani was Noble Born. His bow was appropriate, but not groveling. His eyes darted about the room, confirming that no one else was there. Perhaps he wondered why Prince RaShahid was not present, but his face showed nothing.

Emperor Chalabi gestured to a small table in the corner. “Sit. We have much to discuss.”

They reviewed the preparations for hours. Food and drink were brought in, a sign of great favor by the Emperor, who was also pragmatic enough to know that none of them could perform well with low blood sugar.

At the end, the Emperor sat back and looked at the two admirals. “How long?” he asked simply.

The two admirals exchanged a glance, but they were clearly in accord.

“Four to six weeks, Your Eminence.” They both shifted uneasily, waiting to hear his response. They were military men, all too aware that proper military planning was often subservient to political forces. But the Emperor, on the verge of his greatest conquest, knew when to trust his military advisors.

“Very well, then. If we are successful, then we take Victoria with as much of its facilities intact as possible. But if the battle goes against us, Victoria is to be destroyed. Utterly destroyed.” He glanced from one admiral to the other, studying them for any sign of hesitation or weakness. “The weapon is ready?”

Admiral Behzadi, the Freeman, turned his gaze to Admiral Kirmani, the Noble Born, and even before Kirmani opened his mouth, Emperor Chalabi knew there had been delays.

“The weapon is ready, Your Eminence, but not a ship to carry it. Because of its size, the ship we have selected must be specially modified. But,” he hastened to add, “the work is progressing smoothly and the ship will be retrofitted in six weeks or less.”

The Emperor rose and the Admirals scrambled to their feet. “I want daily reports on progress,” he told them sternly.

They exchanged another glance, then Admiral Behzadi spoke. “Your Eminence, I could not help but note that Prince RaShahid was not present. Are we permitted to share these plans with him?” Unspoken, but loud enough to echo in the room, was the question of whether the Prince would still participate in the battle.

The Emperor considered this. Send the Prince and put him in charge of the entire attack? Or send him in charge of one battle group, with Admiral Kirmani in charge. Behzadi was actually the better admiral, but the Prince would never accept orders from a Freeman. Even if the Emperor ordered him to, RaShahid would accept orders from Behzadi only reluctantly, and reluctance in a pitched battle could be disastrous.

“I will let you know closer to the attack,” he told the admirals. “In the meantime, keep this to yourselves.”

The two admirals gathered their tablets and left. For a moment Emperor Chalabi brooded in silence, and then spoke softly. “Come in now, Saatchi.”

The door opened and a small, plain man shuffled in. He was entirely drab and unthreatening, with a soft, nondescript face, dark hair that could have been brown or black, eyes of no particular color and the demeanor of a servant wishing to remain inconspicuous. But he was not a servant; he was the head of the Emperor’s secret police, the Bureau for Purity, known by everyone as the BFP.

Saatchi was a Freeman. He had been a policeman for ten years until he came to the attention of the Emperor, who discovered his knack for investigation and surveillance. Emperor Chalabi put him in charge of the BFP with only one charge: The Emperor’s interests must be protected at all costs. Saatchi was paid well in money and women, to both of which he was addicted. He could investigate anyone who might possibly be a threat to the Emperor, and in the course of that investigation could do whatever he pleased and use any methods he wanted, as long as he did not inadvertently annoy Emperor Chalabi. Over the years, Saatchi had ferreted out hundreds of subversives, agitators, spies and even a potential assassin or two. They had all died badly; it was one of Saatchi’s talents, or perhaps one of his needs. But of equal value, political opponents had had accidents, suffered heart failure and committed suicide at a rate that vastly exceeded that of the rest of the population. Many simply vanished, never to be heard of again.

What Saatchi never knew was that years earlier the Emperor had poisoned him, and that he was alive only because the Emperor’s men secretly fed him an antidote every day. Should Saatchi fall from the Emperor’s grace, or try to run to the Vickies, he would die in two days.

The Emperor trusted no one, and he liked his world tidy.

“Your Majesty,” Saatchi said, bowing low.

“What of my son, the Prince?”

“Your Majesty, I am pleased to report that despite the most thorough surveillance, we have turned up nothing suspicious, nothing amiss.” Saatchi showed him all of the contacts the Prince had had in the past fifteen days. Where he went, to whom he spoke, what he said, even what he looked at on his tablet. “During this time, Your Eminence, the Prince had intimate relations with four women, two of whom he met for sexual congress on two different occasions. Each of these women has been thoroughly investigated and presents no security threat. Two are wives of military officers serving under the Prince, while two are women he met at drinking establishments in the City. Nothing more than you might expect from a young man of his age and station,” Saatchi beamed.

The Emperor frowned at the idea of RaShahid sleeping with the wives of officers who reported to him. The military officers were notoriously conservative in such matters. Did the young fool think he could fuck officers’ wives without anyone knowing? Without resentment? Did he not understand that the worst thing an Emperor – or his son – could do was to alienate the military? He sighed and shook his head.

“Saatchi, give me a list of the officers whose wives are involved. I think a promotion for them is in order, with a posting to a noncombat arms position.”

“Of course, Your Eminence.”

“And you are not concerned with the other two the Prince spent time with?”

“Ah, no, Your Eminence,” Saatchi said. “They are both young women he chanced upon on nights out with his friends. He selected them at random. Both hold minor functionary jobs, one as a clerk at a manufacturing plant, the other as a minor functionary in your government. Just young people enjoying their youth and physical pleasure, Your Eminence.”

The Emperor nodded tiredly. “Very well, Saatchi. In addition to the raw facts of your report, any impressions?”

“He is a loyal and dutiful son.” Saatchi smiled unctuously. “Knowing the Prince, this is not surprising, Majesty.”

And with that statement, Saatchi sealed his own doom. Whatever else might be said about Prince RaShahid, loyal and dutiful would not be on the list. What did he promise you? the Emperor wondered idly. No matter. Saatchi had just confirmed that both RaShahid and the head of the BFP were plotting, and plotting together. How best to play this?

He sighed, a man relieved of a great burden, which was in fact true. He allowed the barest hint of a smile to cross his lips, then nodded curtly. “Very well, Saatchi. Maintain surveillance for another week and report to me again. You are dismissed.”

“Your Eminence.” Saatchi bowed low and backed out of the room.

Emperor Chalabi waited until Saatchi was out of the building before he left his private office. The office, he knew, had been bugged by Saatchi months ago, as were his private chambers.

With two of his Savak bodyguards in tow, the Emperor followed various corridors to a remote, seldom used part of the palace, and then took the stairs down past the basement to the second subbasement. Another Savak guard stood there. The Emperor raised his eyebrows in question, but the Savak simply put a hand out, palm down, indicating that everything was secure. No words were spoken. The Emperor went to the end of the corridor, facing what appeared to be a dead end. He pressed his hand against the wall which slid open soundlessly. He was now located under a neighboring building some two hundred feet away from the palace, a drab building that held a hive of government offices. He stepped into a stairwell and climbed to the fourth floor, where he entered through a door hidden behind a floor-to-ceiling bookcase.

The room was not an office, but rather a small living room. There were two chairs and a couch. A slender, dark-haired young woman of about twenty sat on a chair. She rose to her feet when he entered and bowed low.

The Emperor gestured impatiently. “Rise, Afsoon.” ‘Afsoon’ meant ‘bewitchment’ in the old language of his ancestors, and it suited her. She was Savak, but not the brutal, hard-edged Savak that most people saw. Emperor Chalabi had seen her as a newborn in her crèche and was struck by her beauty even as an infant. He handpicked her and a dozen others and had them raised apart from the other Savak. They underwent all the psychological conditioning, but did not have the brain surgery that the ordinary Savak had. They spent their entire life in training and obedience to the Emperor. Much was demanded of them, and much was given to them in return. They had no formal name as a group, but the Emperor thought of them as “Mine Own.” They were the answer to the age-old question faced by emperors and kings everywhere: Who watches the watchers?

This was the Emperor’s answer. They were skilled agents, spies and killers, and they remained the Emperor’s personal secret. Mine Own was his protection against treason by someone within his inner circle.

“I am your obedient servant, Lord.” Her voice was soft and husky.

“Report,” he ordered. “You met the Prince?”

She nodded. “As you ordered, My Lord. I frequented one of the bars he likes by the park, overlooking the harbor. I did not approach him, but it was rather easy to make myself available. On the third night we were both there, he approached me.”

This was hardly surprising; she had been trained in seduction for years.

“And?”

She shrugged. “My Lord, he took me to a small apartment he keeps outside of the palace and I spent the night with him. We had sex several times.” She turned her cheek to reveal a dull bruise. “He likes to slap and punch his sex partner, it excites him.” She reported this neutrally, as if to say, ‘He likes to drink a beer with dinner.’

Emperor Chalabi felt a twinge of concern. Had his foolish son beaten any of the officers’ wives he slept with? That would cause problems. Afsoon continued: “When he first began to take me I told him I was not on any birth control and begged him not to make me pregnant. I cried to see if he was susceptible to a woman’s tears. He was not. He told me that if I was lucky, I would have a prince’s bastard and that his bastard son would grow up as the son of the greatest military leader the Human Universe has ever seen. Then he took me sexually and I feigned great enjoyment, which seemed to please him.”

Emperor Chalabi closed his eyes in exasperation. First, he sleeps with officers’ wives, now he was being indiscrete with pickups. He opened his eyes and gestured to her to continue.

“My Lord, I asked him what great battles he had won to be such a famous admiral. He said that in a month’s time I would know.” She paused, eyes darting to the Emperor and away again. “My Lord, he said that in a month’s time, everyone would know.”

Chalabi suppressed a groan of dismay at his son’s foolhardiness. “And Saatchi, did he investigate you?”

Afsoon’s lip curled. “He did, My Lord.”

“And?”

“He expected to find a flighty young woman who just had the greatest adventure of her life. That is what he found, Lord.” She could not hide her sneer.

“And did he ask if the Prince told you anything?”

“He did, Lord. I told him what the Prince said, then I giggled and told him I hoped I might be pregnant, but I didn’t think I was, and it was so wonderful to sleep with the Prince and I hoped he would call me again.” She shook her head in disgust. “Saatchi thought I was an empty-headed girl out for a night on the town and a chance to have sex with someone above my station. I did not persuade him otherwise.”

Saatchi, you will die in agony, the Emperor vowed. And then, Have to find a replacement.

“You have done well,” he told her, and as she had been conditioned since birth, those words, coming from her Emperor, flooded her with endorphins and a wave of euphoria swept through her.

She lowered her head. “Thank you, Lord,” she whispered.

“Continue to make yourself available to the Prince if he contacts you, but do not seek him out on your own.” Emperor Chalabi sighed. Saatchi and his son. He must be very careful. He turned back to Afsoon. “Tell the others to look for any indication that the Prince is conspiring with either Admiral Behzadi or Kirmani. Report to me immediately.”

“Yes, Lord.”

Later, in his private office, sitting amidst the surveillance devices Saatchi had undoubtedly placed there, the Emperor gazed out on the magnificent Zagros Mountains and thought about his many enemies…and how he would defeat them all.

Chapter 15

On Space Station Atlas

Diplomacy

When Emily and Hiram returned from capturing the Tilleke spy ship, Oliver Perry, aide to Admiral Douthat, was waiting for them.

“Welcome back, sirs, and congratulations on your operation,” Lieutenant Perry said warmly.

Emily snorted and waved a hand towards Hiram. “Congratulate him, he did all the work. I was on the other side of the planet, twiddling my thumbs.”

“I know you are just returning,” Perry said, “but Admiral Douthat sends her compliments and requests that you join her for a meeting with the Queen.”

Emily shrugged. The paperwork waiting for her wouldn’t go anywhere. Beside her, Hiram grimaced. He had spent the last two days crawling over every inch of the Tilleke spy frigate, looking for, well, anything. His uniform was wrinkled and grimy and he hadn’t shaved and he desperately wanted to get some sleep.

“Join her as in ‘right now,’ Lieutenant, or do I have an hour to clean up? I look and smell like I’ve been crawling around a sewer pipe.”

Perry smiled apologetically. “Begging the Commander’s pardon, but the Admiral, Queen Anne and Sir Henry are waiting in a conference room for you.”

Hiram nodded tiredly. Queens and Admirals wait for no man. “Lead on, Lieutenant, lead on.”

The Queen greeted them warmly, Admiral Douthat scowled at Hiram and Sir Henry raised an eyebrow at the state of Hiram’s uniform. Hiram cleared his throat apologetically. “I must apologize for showing up so, ah, disheveled. I’ve been crawling – literally crawling – around the Tilleke spy ship and there wasn’t much chance- ”

Queen Anne cut him off with a wave of her hand. “Don’t apologize for doing your job, Commander Brill. We rear echelon types will just have to cope with the horror of seeing someone who actually gets his hands dirty in the service of Victoria.”

Admiral Douthat glanced sourly at Hiram, but said nothing.

“How long will it take to assess what you’ve found on the Tilleke ship?” asked the Queen.

Hiram wrinkled his brow. “I cannot say for sure, Your Majesty. The ship’s database is encrypted, of course. Brother Jong has supplied me with some tools to help with the decryption, but that could take weeks unless we get lucky. We are also looking at tablets and documents found aboard the ship in the hope that either they might be unencrypted or using a lighter encryption.” He shrugged. “It could take some time.”

Queen Anne couldn’t hide her disappointment. “As fast as you can, Commander, time may be in very short supply.” She exchanged a glance with Sir Henry and nodded.

Sir Henry leaned onto the table. “While your boffins are taking apart the Tilleke spy ship, Mr. Brill, you and I are going to Sybil Head and from there to the Sultenic Empire. We’ll be gone about seven to ten days. “I’ve sent updated briefing papers prepared by Mrs. McCrutchen to your tablet. Read them over. We’ll leave tomorrow on the destroyer St. Albans. It is a two-day journey to Sybil Head.”

Hiram looked at the older man in confusion, and then glanced at the Queen. He didn’t understand, what had triggered this?

The Queen nodded in understanding. “We received a cable today from Chancellor Houtman; he’s offering us military support if certain terms can be agreed upon.”

“That’s wonderful!” Hiram enthused.

Sir Henry looked at him with brooding eyes. “Perhaps, Mr. Brill, perhaps. It is up to you and me to determine. We leave first thing in the morning. Get some sleep.”

The Queen turned towards Emily. “As for you, Commander, you and Admiral Douthat and Captain Eder and some others will meet tomorrow and plan how to best deal with the Tilleke. Attack first? Wait for them to attack us? Goad them into an attack? And if we do secure the cooperation of Sybil Head or the Sultenics, how best to use them? Captain Eder is, of course, in charge of the traditional Fleet, but we need you with regard to the carriers and the heavy gunboats.”

Captain Eder nodded at her. “With some luck, Emily, the database from the Tilleke spy ship will give us some hard facts, but in the meantime we have to plan out several contingencies.” He pushed a hand tiredly through his hair. “The fact is, we don’t know what we’re up against, so we are going to have to be pretty darn nimble and ready for anything.”

This surprised Emily not at all. She had been pulling together notes for several weeks on possible scenarios, and had even gamed some of them with Alex Rudd on the simulators. But, she quickly realized, there were too many unknowns, too many variables, and despite her best plans, the war could easily go either way. She nodded to Captain Eder and Admiral Douthat. “If I may be allowed to ask, is there more?”

“Not for tonight,” Admiral Douthat said. “Both of you should relax tonight; starting tomorrow you’re going to be very busy.”

Emily had one last question. “If we decide to attack first…” Her voice trailed off, but Admiral Douthat understood.

“Eight weeks at the outside, maybe sooner,” she said shortly. “Time is not on our side.”

Everyone rose and nodded or bowed to the Queen, then started for the door.

“Commander Brill,” she called. “A word with you, please?” Emily widened her eyes and raised her eyebrows mischievously. Admiral Douthat shot Hiram another dark look as she passed him, wondering for the umpteenth time what it was about Brill that annoyed her so much.

“Majesty?” Hiram said, once they were alone.

“Two things, Commander, if I may.” The Queen paused for a moment, collecting her thoughts. “I need you to approach the negotiations with Sybil Head and the Sultenics with great caution. Sybil Head in particular has had a long history with the Tilleke Empire, for the most part a favorable one. I was surprised when they volunteered to help us with their fleet. We need their assistance, but I am too much a realist not to wonder at their sudden change of heart.”

“And the Sultenic Empire?” Hiram asked.

“Ah, yes, the Sultan Baltur,” she mused. “I met him once, you know, when I was a little girl and he was visiting Cornwall to secure a trade treaty through my Uncle.” She looked chagrined. “My Uncle Harold was rather a stupid man, Mr. Brill, given to making snap judgments about people and then stubbornly holding onto them despite all evidence to the contrary. I was only ten, but what I remember about Sultan Baltur was that he twisted my nose, supposedly in fun, but hard enough to make me cry. Even at ten I thought he was mean and not to be trusted.”

Hiram hesitated; these were deep waters and he wasn’t comfortable jumping into them. “But, Majesty, with all respect, how much weight are we to give a child’s encounter with a man who may have accidentally hurt her without intent?”

Queen Anne waved a hand in dismissal. “Yes, yes, I know, Mr. Brill. But I will tell you that I saw his face – we were very close together, of course – and he rather liked my pain. No apologies, no look of concern that he had inadvertently hurt me. No, he saw the tears and he smiled. I still remember that, Mr. Brill.” She blew out a breath of air. “But there’s more. Uncle Harold negotiated a deal that allowed Sultenic freighters quick passage through our customs, in essence granting the Sultenic Empire ‘Most Favored Nation’ status. Uncle Harold foolishly allowed the ship’s captain to declare the weight and nature of the cargo. Our customs inspectors were to forgo an actual inspection and instead accept the cargo declaration at face value.”

“And what did Victoria get in return?” Hiram queried.

Queen Anne snorted derisively. “Victoria got mining rights at a low price for an asteroid belt that was supposed to be rich in ziridium. Of course, we had to pay ten years of the fees in advance and when our mining vessels arrived, they couldn’t find any ziridium. On top of that, one of the Sultenic freighters needed emergency repairs and when our shipyard personnel boarded the ship, they discovered that the cargo manifest understated the value of the cargo by 40%!”

“Ouch!” said Hiram.

“Oh, yes, there was quite a controversy. Uncle Harold tried to defend his decision, then sacked several underlings for their supposed screwup, even though he personally handled the negotiations. A dozen other Sultenic vessels in Victorian space were boarded and inspected and all were in gross violation of the treaty. Then, when my mother demanded a return of the fees paid to the Sultan for the mining rights, Sultan Baltur accused Victoria of violating the treaty and sued us in the International Court at Darwin. It was all quite embarrassing. Mother was furious, but had to protect her brother.” She shook her head.

“So, Mr. Brill, when you go to Sybil Head and the Sultenic Empire, keep your eyes open. We need help from both nations, but even more, we need to know if either or both of them are in bed with Emperor Chalabi.”

Hiram took in a deep breath. This was a little more than he had bargained for.

“Majesty, you mentioned there were two matters?”

Anne smiled. “I thought you might be interested to know that Sergeant Maria Sanchez has returned from Refuge. Admiral Wilkinson says she is in pretty good shape, all considering. I know you don’t have much time, but I thought you might want to know, just in case.” She didn’t say in case of what, but the message was clear.

Hiram blinked back a sudden basket of contradictory emotions: joy, fear, trepidation and an urgent desire to see Cookie. “Thank you, Majesty,” he stammered.

“You’ll be on a small ship with Sir Henry for the next week or ten days,” she said, barely suppressing a smile. “Use tonight well.” She pursed her lips and tilted her head. “Not that Sir Henry isn’t grand company.”

The one thing that Cookie hadn’t counted on was that when she checked for quarters on Atlas, no permanent quarters would be available until the following night. She was damned if she was going to stay in the barracks. She could check into a hotel, of course, but she had almost no money and would have to get her pay the following day, and it wouldn’t surprise her if it took longer than that to actually get the money into her account. She had money, all that back pay from when she was in captivity, but she didn’t have any right now. She thought of calling Emily, but somehow she found herself waiting outside of Hiram’s apartment. She felt both sheepish and apprehensive, and wasn’t at all sure this was a good idea. What would she say to him? Heck, what would he say to her? He might not want to see her again. The more she thought about it, the more appealing a night in the barracks seemed.

“Just standing around, looking beautiful, or do you actually have something on your mind?” Hiram grinned at her as he walked around the corner to his door.

He didn’t sweep her up in a hug, she noticed, and couldn’t decide if that was a good thing or not.

“Honestly? Trying to decide if I should have just gone to the barracks for the night.”

He grinned crookedly. “Nah, the food’s terrible and the beds are lumpy.” His smile waned. “You know you’re welcome here.”

There was an uncomfortable moment of silence between the two of them. What do you say to your lover when the last time he saw you, you were busy slitting a man’s throat?

“C’mon,” he said, palming open the door. “I think we can both use a drink.” Once inside, he poured some wine for both of them and started puttering around in his small kitchen. “Just got in from an operation, chasing a Tilly spy ship, so the food is a little sparse, but I think I can put together an omelet.” He peered into his refrigerator. “Let’s see, eggs, onions, a scallion, some mushrooms and-“ he pushed some things aside and peered deeper – “yes, some cheese!”

Cookie nodded, peering around his apartment. She had not seen this apartment yet, but it had the same photographs and art pieces, the same Cha’rah game set up in the corner, with the blood red Atἕ piece commanding the center space. It was an old set, made of an Old Earth material called ‘ivory’ that was once white but now yellow with age. She sipped her wine without really tasting it, slowly moving through the apartment. Unfamiliar but familiar all at the same time. Hiram liked to put up the same decorations – a photograph of his parents walking on a beach, a small painting he found in a little shop in a square not far from the Palace, a brightly colored wall hanging, a wooden figure of a large turtle that looked ancient, and perhaps was. As he moved from one place to another, the rooms changed but the points of reference all stayed the same. And, of course, books. Hiram and Emily were the only two people Cookie knew who were willing to spend the money to buy actual, physical books, instead of just getting them on a tablet like everyone else. Her mouth twitched in a smile as she recalled the first time she ever visited him in an apartment. There was a slight dusty-musty odor she didn’t at first recognize. When she asked him what it was, Hiram answered succinctly: “That’s the smell of wisdom.”

“Dinner’s ready,” he called, bringing her back to herself. He handed her a fresh glass of wine.

They ate largely in silence, each of them afraid to blunder into some verbal minefield. The omelet was good, sharp with the taste of the onions and leeks and rich from the cheese. “How did you learn to cook?” she asked him. She was a terrible cook and just splashed hot sauce on everything, with the predictable result that no matter what she cooked, or how skillfully she cooked it, it all tasted the same.

Hiram shrugged. “From a cookbook. And lots of trial and error. I was on my own for a couple of years before I joined the Fleet. Never had much money, so eating out a lot wasn’t an option. When my parents died, I found some of Mom’s cookbooks and pots and pans and just started in.”

Cookie nodded distractedly. It was nice being here, but she kept waiting for him to tell her he couldn’t see her any more, that it was over. That she had changed.

They put the dishes in the cleanall. Then Cookie remembered the photographs and broke out her tablet, and showed them to Hiram. More wine. Hiram marveling at the grogon leaping at her, and that she survived the attack to boot. A white sivot, looking pissed off. The sivot mother dispatching one of the grogin. A sambar in flight, horn shining white in the light. Pictures of Nouar and her fathers and mothers.

Then, abruptly, it was time to go to sleep and Cookie wanted to run out the door and find a room at the barracks. She hesitated for a long moment, not looking at Hiram, carefully not looking, kicking herself for putting them both in this position.

“Okay,” Hiram said, trying for matter-of-factly and missing. “This is awkward. I feel it, you feel it. I’d like you to stay, if you want. I’m beat and need some sleep, but it would be-”

“I can’t make love with you,” she blurted, appalled that she said it, but relieved that it was out there. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to have sex with anyone again. I’m sorry.” She shook her head. “I just…” Her voice trailed off. There was a long moment of quiet, deepening into silence. Hiram looked stricken at first, then sad and dreadfully tired. It aged him somehow, adding ten or more very hard years to his face in an instant.

Cookie felt a wave of self-loathing that she could do this to him, and a part of her shrieking desperately in a dark room in her mind hated him for making her feel that way.

Reluctantly, Cookie faced him. “When they had me prisoner, I used to dream about coming home to you.” She halted, a hitch in her voice. “About the curly-haired daughter we would have. But after they did what they did, I decided that I was better off dead. And before I died, I buried you and me and the daughter we’d never have.” She stopped again, swiping away the tears. “They hurt me, Hiram. They took something away, tore it out of me. And now I feel like a cripple.” She turned her head. Wouldn’t look at him.

Hiram said nothing for a long moment. “Cookie, I love you,” he said finally, but she could hear the despair in his voice. “We can get through this. You can get through this.” He reached a hand to her and she flinched away. He blinked in surprise; she looked away. Something undefinable but very important went out of him then, and his shoulders sagged as if he had taken on a great burden. Much as she wanted to, Cookie couldn’t help him. Not now.

In the end, she stayed. They undressed quietly, on opposite sides of the bed, both stripping down to underwear. They each gingerly got into their side of the bed. Hiram made no move to kiss her or hold her. He lay next to her in the dark, hearing her rapid breathing, almost but not quite feeling her warmth. Knew it was there, right there, but it was unreachable. He lay there for a long time, trying to think of what he could do, trying to will her pain away. And finally, exhausted, he slept.

Cookie lay beside him, faced away, conscious of his closeness, yearning for it, desiring it, frightened of it, repelled by it. Visions slashed through her mind of the assaults on the Dominion prison ship. She sweated and she trembled and could not escape into sleep, and promised herself that she would find a way to get through this, no matter how long it took.

Well before sunrise, Cookie slipped out of the bed and pulled on her clothes in the dim glow of the bathroom nightlight. Hiram lay in bed, wrapped in sleep. Cookie leaned over and gave him the softest of kisses, then slipped out the door.

Chapter 16

In Sybil Head Space, on New Amsterdam, Sybil Head’s Home Planet

Diplomacy & Discord

If they had expected a warm reception on Sybil Head, they were mistaken.

Chancellor Frederik Houtman was a tall, imposing figure, wearing an immaculate suit and a scowl.

“Yes, yes, we have offered you military aid, but on our terms,” he said forcibly. “Sybil Head is not a charity, Sir Henry, no more than Victoria is. We have twenty-five ships that you need, and our intelligence is that you need them urgently. In exchange, there are certain things that Sybil Head desires by way of fair compensation.” The Chancellor gestured expansively. “We do not intend to take advantage of your crisis, but need adequate compensation for the ships and crews we put at your disposal and the risks inherent in doing so.”

Hiram was listening intently and sat up straight when he heard that Sybil Head expected to crew its own ships. There had been no prior mention of this. He gave a sideways glance at Sir Henry, but the old man seemed imperturbable.

Sir Henry nodded thoughtfully and sipped his wine. “This is very good. A local vineyard?”

Chancellor Houtman blinked at the change in direction. “Well, I-I don’t think I know.” He glanced inquiringly at the steward, who looked flustered at being the center of attention.

“From the island of Porlamar, Chancellor. They are known for their Cabernet Sauvignon,” he informed them.

Sir Henry took another sip. “And well they should be! Why, goodness, this rivals anything from Darwin. Do you export this? You could do a smashing business on Cornwall, and of course since we conquered them, the Dominions are open to imports as well. Tough nuts, those Ducks, but they underestimated the Queen and she got them in the end.” He took another satisfying sip.

Chancellor Houtman looked dubious. “I’ve heard your Queen is a girl barely out of her teens,” he challenged.

Sir Henry chuckled. “Yes, that’s what the Ducks thought, and the Tillies, too, I’ll wager. They sadly underestimate her. She reminds me of her grandfather.”

Houtman looked startled. “What? King Adolf?”

Sir Henry shook his head. “No, no, Adolf was her mother’s grandfather. No, I’m talking about Queen Beatrice’s father, King Richard. A very quiet man, King Richard, almost bookish, but woe be to him who took Richard on thinking he was fighting a librarian. King Richard was quite the strategist. Oh, he got some of it from the books he read, to be sure, but he was a smart man, Richard, and no mistake. A devilishly smart man. And he was constantly using the simulators, playing out war games.”

Chancellor Houtman, who had come up through the Sybian military himself and fancied himself as an admiral, barked a scornful laugh. “Simulators! Bah! There is no substitute for actually fighting. No man is a soldier until he’s had the blood of the enemy on his hands.”

Sir Henry nodded judiciously. “Of course, you’re right, Chancellor! Absolutely right, ‘tis the blood on the hands that teaches us all.” He gestured to the steward for a refill. Hiram, who had never seen Sir Henry drink more than a few sips during a diplomatic negotiation, wondered what was going on. Was the old man slipping?

“But I have to tell you, Chancellor,” Sir Henry continued, tapping the side of his nose with a long, crooked finger, “Queen Anne may be young, but if it’s the amount of spilled blood that measures your experience, she’s old enough. Old enough and bold enough, if I may say so. She’s a tough one, Chancellor, a tough one. And she has her grandfather’s ruthlessness.” He leaned forward and dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “It was all we could do to prevent her from turning Timor into a pile of smoking rock! The Ducks fought hard, and some say dirty, although how you can fight too dirty in a war is beyond my simple understanding. But the Queen was furious! Furious! ‘Incinerate them,’ she said. ‘Destroy them! Show them the consequences of attacking Victoria.’” He shook his head. “It was a very close thing. It finally took Admiral Douthat flatly refusing the Queen’s order before she came to her senses. Oh, her grandfather would have been proud, yes he would,” Sir Henry mused.

Sir Henry roused himself from his memories. “But I’ve gotten us off track. You were saying you wanted ‘just compensation’?”

They broke off for the night hours later and went to their rooms. Once inside, their four security officers held their fingers up to their lips and pointed first to a vent in the ceiling, then at a floor lamp, and finally at a decorative knob on the table. The room was bugged. Sir Henry shrugged; this was to be expected. He turned to the others.

“Mr. Brill, I am famished. Let’s go have a nice dinner.”

Michael Duncan, the head of the security detail, shook his head. “Sir, we haven’t- “

Sir Henry held up a hand, gestured at the ceiling vent, floor lamp and the decorative knob, and said, “Yes, yes, I know, Mr. Duncan, but I need to stretch my legs and some decent food would be nice after the awful food on the ship. Ah, it is a shame Mrs. McCrutchen fell ill, she would have had a restaurant all lined up for us.” The food on the ship was pretty good, Hiram knew, so this was all smoke. Sir Henry just wanted to get out of a bugged room so they could talk.

“I certainly could use something to eat,” Hiram added. Duncan scowled at him.

“That’s settled, then, let’s go,” Sir Henry said.

And they went. There were, oddly enough, no ground transportation taxis immediately near the Chancellor’s offices, so they walked, with two of their guards in front and two walking immediately behind them. The guards all looked intensely unhappy. Sir Henry ignored them. They walked past the first few restaurants they came to, then Sir Henry spied a little family run restaurant on a small side street.

“That’s what we are after, I think,” he said cheerfully. “Hiram, be a good lad and go check the menu and see if it’s suitable.”

“Thank you, Sir Henry, for the trust you show in my judgment,” Hiram replied, his voice dripping with mock sincerity.

“Don’t be cheeky, just check the menu. I want a real sit-down dinner, not some fast food rubbish.”

Hiram noted that the four security guards stayed with Sir Henry, giving him a sense of where he was on the pecking order. He also realized that Sir Henry had found a little out-of-the-way restaurant that was not apt to be bugged by the Sybian security agents.

In a moment, he was back. “Darwin sea bass, duck and a variety of meat dishes,” he reported. He glanced at Duncan. “Not crowded and there was an empty table near the back, well away from the windows.”

“Thank you, Commander,” Duncan said, a touch of relief in his voice.

“Shall we, gentlemen?” Sir Henry said impatiently. “I do hope they have a good wine cellar.”

The food was everything they could hope for. The owners were a husband and wife and the waiter was one of their sons, a young man in his early twenties with a ready smile and intense dark eyes. Duncan took him aside, slipped him some money and it soon became apparent that no one was to be seated at the tables on either side of them. Sir Henry ordered two bottles of wine for the table and in a remarkably short time their dinners arrived.

Sir Henry lifted his glass to Hiram in a toast. “To a good first day,” he intoned and they drank.

“I honestly wasn’t sure if it was a good start or not,” Hiram admitted.

“It was good enough,” the old man said, taking a small sip of his wine. “And for the first day, good enough is just fine. The first few hours are mostly for show, with each side posturing a bit, like two dogs sniffing at each other. Each side tries to establish a little credibility, gain a little dominance. But the real negotiations start tomorrow,” he said with satisfaction. “That’s when we’ll begin to see what is what.”

As it turned out, the next day’s talks were rancorous. Chancellor Houtman opened the day by demanding that Victoria lease the Sybil Head warships.

“And the price?” Sir Henry inquired evenly.

“Ten million Victorian credits per ship per week for the ships, $2 million credits per week for the crews and 5% of the Victorian Gross National Product for the next three years,” Chancellor Houtman said firmly.

Hiram was incredulous. Five percent of the GNP? Was Houtman mad? He saw Houtman’s aides glancing at him and belatedly realized that he had not done a very good job of keeping the sense of shock off his face. Sir Henry, however, showed nothing.

“Many years ago,” Sir Henry began, a teacher lecturing a classroom of very young students, “a great blight crippled the planet Refuge. It destroyed most of their food crops and left the people of Refuge facing a long winter with nothing to eat. It was a great catastrophe, a calamity that brought Refuge to its knees.”

Chancellor Houtman made to say something, but Sir Henry plowed on. “The Victorian monarch at the time was King Adolf. Up until that time he had been a good king, but not necessarily a great one. But Refuge’s plight touched him, and overnight he dedicated the resources of Cornwall and Christchurch to keeping the people of Refuge alive until they could once again produce enough food to feed themselves. The people of Refuge never forgot Victoria’s generosity and paid their debt back in full by taking us in when the Dominion launched its surprise attack.”

“I don’t see what this has to do with us,” the Chancellor huffed. “This is a business negotiation.”

Sir Henry affected not to hear him. “There were many lessons that came out of that crisis, but perhaps the most important one is that while in time we may forget the actions of our enemies, we can never forget the inaction of our friends.” He sipped his tea. “But forgive me, I digress. Where were we?”

“Fine words,” Chancellor Houtman said stonily, “but I cannot bankrupt all of Sybil Head by simply throwing our Fleet into a foreign dispute between two rival nations, each of whom may have legitimate grievances. We must have adequate compensation.”

This made Hiram abruptly wonder if Chancellor Houtman was simultaneously negotiating with the Tilleke. He stored away that thought for further consideration.

The morning dragged on. The Chancellor stubbornly insisted on “just” compensation while Sir Henry refused to offer so much as a single credit. They broke for lunch in the early afternoon, with Sir Henry declining Houtman’s offer of refreshments in the dining hall next door.

They walked back to the little family-run restaurant they had visited the night before. Hiram went ahead to check the luncheon menu, with Duncan tagging along. The menu was posted on the front wall and looked wonderful, but while Hiram was reading it, Duncan was peering through the window.

“Let’s go,” Duncan said abruptly and turned to walk back to the other security agents and Sir Henry. Puzzled, Hiram peeked through the window. Understanding came like a dash of cold water. Inside the table at the back of the room was empty, but every other table was taken by very fit young men, none of whom seemed to be reading their menus. Hiram turned and hastened after Duncan.

“Let’s go,” Duncan told the others.

“What is it?” Sir Henry asked quietly.

“The restaurant is full of Sybian security agents,” Hiram said, glancing at Duncan for confirmation. Duncan nodded. “They left the back table open, but you can be sure it’s bugged. You won’t be able to talk without being overheard.”

They walked several blocks to another restaurant. As they approached the door, two men emerged from the pedestrians on the sidewalk. With a start, Hiram recognized the dark-haired waiter from the family restaurant they had visited the night before. The man looked right at him, there was no mistake, but then he reached into his jacket pocket. It was a move Hiram had seen by Queen Anne’s bodyguards.

“Gun! Gun!” Hiram screamed, and the Victorian four-man security team was suddenly moving.

Duncan grabbed Sir Henry by the shoulders and thrust him backwards into the arms of Miranda, who unceremoniously dragged the diplomat out of the line of fire. George and Susan moved sideways, each drawing his own weapon and bringing it up. Duncan snapped off a shot that made one of the assailants duck for cover. Hiram threw himself to the pavement and started crawling back toward Sir Henry.

That’s when the third assailant stepped in behind Miranda and shot her in the head. She dropped like a puppet whose strings have been cut. Sir Henry, splattered with Miranda’s blood and brains, surprised the assailant – and perhaps himself – by lurching forward and grabbing the assassin, wrapping his arms around the man and holding on as the man cursed and struggled to bring his gun into play. Their feet became entangled and they collapsed together to the ground.

Hiram scuttled closer to Miranda’s body, trying without success to ignore her blank stare and the fact that the top of her skull was gone. Miranda had been vain about her red hair and it pained Hiram to see her hair grimy with dirt.

George and Susan both opened up on the second assailant, who had been moving sideways to get a better shot at Sir Henry. The would-be killer went down without ever firing a shot.

Not military, Hiram thought as he frantically searched the ground where Miranda sprawled inelegantly. Not professional.

The waiter from the restaurant fired his flechette pistol four times. George staggered back and fell to one knee. Susan Peterson braced her sonic pistol in two hands and calmly shot him in the shoulder, then in the thigh, then in the chest; three shots in less than a second.

Hiram frantically groped around. Where was Miranda’s weapon?

“Save Sir Henry!” Duncan yelled, charging back to where the Ambassador still struggled on the ground.

The third assailant elbowed Sir Henry in the temple and the old man rolled away from him with a groan of pain. The assailant sat up awkwardly and brought up his gun, not at Duncan, who was the immediate threat, but right at the Ambassador.

Hiram and Duncan fired simultaneously, smashing the gunman back down to the ground. Duncan ran to where the old man lay. “Sir Henry?” He ran his hands over the diplomat’s body, searching for a wound.

Seeing Sir Henry was safe, Hiram staggered to his feet and walked stiffly to where the waiter lay on the ground, blood puddling around him. Susan Peterson stood over him, gun aimed at his head. Hiram knelt beside him. In the background, he could hear ground cars screeching to a halt and feet pounding – the Sybian security police had arrived.

“Who are you?” Hiram demanded harshly. The waiter stared dully back at him. “Why were you trying to kill us? We mean no harm to Sybil Head!”

Blood sprayed over the waiter’s lips. He blinked, coughed. “Fools!” he gasped. “Don’t trust them!”

“Trust who?” Hiram demanded urgently. “Tell me!”

Then a man was standing next to Hiram and pushed him away from the waiter. Without pausing, without speaking, the man thrust a blaster against the waiter’s head and blew it into a bloody pulp. The waiter’s body flopped around like a man having a seizure, then collapsed into infinite stillness.

Hiram stared wordlessly at the waiter’s headless body, but the calculating corner of his brain whispered, Well, I wonder what he was going to say?

“Sorry about this, Mr. Brill,” said the security officer as he holstered his blaster. Hiram noted that Susan had stepped between him and the Sybian officer and still had her gun out. “We’ve been having some trouble with these terrorist scum. Didn’t expect this, though. We got here just in time, I think.”

Susan Peterson barked a harsh laugh. “If you call that just in time, then I understand why you are having so many problems with terrorists.” The security officer gave her a cold look. She glared back.

Sir Henry was helped shakily to his feet. “That’s it, then,” he rasped. “We are not going to eat in this restaurant.”

Then they were all being hustled into waiting cars and taken back to the Chancellor’s mansion. When they arrived, medical personnel carefully examined Sir Henry and George. Several flechettes had penetrated his skin armor and were removed, with small, neat stitches put in their place.

“I told you to wear the heavier armor,” Susan told him smugly. George gave her a look and tossed the old vest into the trash. “Yes, mother, you did, mother; I will, mother,” he replied.

Susan smiled and made a subtle hand gesture which Hiram did not recognize, but suspected it was not for use in polite company.

Food and drink was brought in from the kitchen and they all sat down at the dining room table. Sir Henry sighed and looked around at the ceiling and the furniture, wondering where the hidden microphones were.

“Duncan, if you please?” he asked.

Duncan nodded and he and Susan went around setting up eight metal tripods with a small globe set atop each of them. Then Duncan put two small metal boxes on the table and in addition gave everyone present a heavy medallion to wear around their necks. Then he took out his tablet and tapped in a code. A quiet hum filled the room and Hiram could feel his medallion vibrate against his chest.

“That should do it,” Duncan said. “Each system is designed to act as a stand-alone barrier to any eavesdropping. The systems work independently of each other and work on a different principle, so even if the Sybians defeat one of them, hopefully they cannot defeat all three.”

“Okay, then,” said Sir Henry. “What happened? Who are they and what does it mean to our negotiations with Sybil Head?”

But they soon discovered that no one had any idea. They simply did not have any facts. Three men stepped out of the shadows and tried to kill them, but were killed in turn.

Hiram wasn’t happy. “The last guy told me we were fools. ‘Don’t trust them,’ he said. But before I could get anything out of him, the security guys from Sybil Head killed him.”

“Killed him in a gunfight?” Sir Henry asked, who had been face down on the ground and hadn’t seen anything.

“No, sir. The man was badly wounded by Susan. She and George had him on the ground, but the security officer walked over and shot him in the head.”

Sir Henry frowned. “No interrogation first?” It wasn’t the killing that bothered him, but the waste of a potential asset.

“No nothing. As soon as he reached us, he bent over and shot the man in the head with a blaster,” Hiram explained.

“Efficient, but wasteful,” Susan muttered.

Sir Henry looked thoughtful, but said nothing.

The next morning they ate breakfast on the grounds at the Chancellor’s mansion, accompanied by no less than ten Sybian security guards. The real surprise came at the conference table, where Chancellor Houtman, appearing subdued after the prior day’s events, apologized for the terrorist attack.

“Who were they?” Sir Henry asked.

The Chancellor looked embarrassed. “Our security specialists have identified them as belonging to a Tilleke-funded terrorist group that has been in New Amsterdam for a year or more. So far, they have contented themselves with bombings of coffee shops, a few kidnappings and the like.” He raised his hands in contrition. “We never expected anything like this.”

“What did they want?” Hiram asked.

The Chancellor shrugged. “What these men always want: chaos, terror, the fall of the government in power so that they or someone like them can take control and impose their view of the world on a hapless public. With this group, we think they have been sent by the Tilleke to prevent you from signing a treaty with us.” He sighed. “However, if it is any help, we have captured at least two of their accomplices and they are being interrogated even as we speak.” He pushed a button and a large wall screen lit up.

The scene was of a brightly lit cell. Bars ran horizontally across the room about seven feet off the floor. Two people, a man and a woman, hung side by side from chains attached to the bars. They were naked. Their bodies were a livid canvas of bruises and burns and one of the man’s legs was broken, the shin bone visibly protruding through the skin. Hiram realized with a start that they were the restaurant owners, the parents of the young man who had attacked them in the alley. As he watched one of the interrogators thrust an electric prod against his groin and the man screamed and his body jerked frantically back and forth. Blood ran down his arms and onto his shoulders from where the chains had long ago bitten through the skin.

“Who was your son meeting with?” barked the interrogator.

The prisoner’s chin flopped weakly against his chest. The microphone was sensitive enough to pick up the uneven panting as he tried to suck in air. “Don’t– ”he gasped. “Don’t…know.”

“Well, that’s a shame now, isn’t it?” the interrogator said sympathetically. “Because we’ve done just about everything we can without taking the risk of killing you by mistake, so that means that you’ll have to watch as we hurt your wife. You can make it stop, Victor; it’s all up to you.” He leaned forward. “And it will be your fault if she dies, Victor, dies because you were too stubborn to save her.” He gestured to another one of the guards.

The guard stepped over to where the women hung from her chains. She had been badly beaten, but she was conscious and she squirmed in terror in a vain attempt to get away from whatever was coming. But it was not another beating. This time the guard simply pulled a clear plastic bag over her head and tied it tight around her throat, then ran a circle of tape around to make it air tight. Almost immediately the woman contorted in fear, head thrown back, her scream muffled by the heavy plastic. She threw her head back and forth in a desperate attempt to loosen the bag.

“No!” cried her husband. “No, I’ll-”

“Turn that off!” Sir Henry snapped. Chancellor Houtman looked surprised, but nevertheless complied.

“We’ll do everything in our power to find the rest of the terrorist cell,” Houtman assured him.

“I can see that,” Sir Henry said icily. “But in the meantime, we have a tight schedule to meet and a negotiation to finish.”

Houtman nodded. “Of course, Ambassador. While there are many facets to consider in this situation, our national honor has been stained by this attack on your person. Therefore, we are willing to forego any portion of your GNP in the future and will reduce our lease requirements to $5 Million credits per week for the ships and $1 Million per week for the crews.”

Hiram schooled his face to show no expression. Sir Henry sat motionless for a moment, his mouth pursed in thought. Then, slowly, he nodded as to himself. Then he looked directly at Chancellor Houtman and smiled.

“I will take this back to Queen Anne for her due consideration, but I will give your very generous proposal a favorable recommendation.” Sir Henry rose. “I thank you, Chancellor, for your support during Victoria’s time of need.”

This was, Hiram knew, polite diplomatic speak for: ‘We’ve got a deal! Halleluiah! We’ve got a deal!’

Outside in the corridor, Hiram asked in a low voice: “But I don’t understand, he never said anything about Sybil Head’s claim to Essen. He-”

Sir Henry cut him off. “Later!”

All the way to the spaceport, Hiram wondered what would become of the two restaurant owners he’d last seen hanging from chains in the cell. He turned to Susan Peterson, riding beside him. “Those two people,” he began.

Susan shook her head. “They are already dead, Mr. Brill,” she said harshly. “There is nothing any of us can do. They’re free from pain and grief, Gods be merciful, and there’s no more to be said nor done.”

They reached the spaceport and embarked on the local ferry to take them up to the destroyer, the St. Albans. Sir Henry took out his tablet and made some notes, but refused to discuss anything aloud, pointedly raising his eyes to the ceiling to indicate he thought the ferry was probably bugged.

Once aboard the St. Albans, Duncan had all of their luggage and carry-on items taken to be scanned and searched for bugs or other “gifts” from the good people of Sybil Head. He took everyone’s tablets, including Sir Henry’s, and had them analyzed as well. Then everyone was sent to take a shower and turn over their clothes for examination.

While that was being done, the body of Miranda Wallman, the agent who had been shot in the head during the attack, was taken to the ship’s morgue.

An hour later, freshly scrubbed and wearing new clothes, they all met in the ship’s conference room. Duncan entered last, accompanied by Susan Peterson.

“Before we start,” Duncan said, “it may interest you to know that we found three listening devices: one in Sir Henry’s luggage, one in his tablet and one in of Mr. Brill’s tablet.”

Hiram blinked at this. When had he left his tablet unattended? And then he realized that he left it every time he went to the men’s room and of course when he slept. The idea that someone was creeping around in his room while he slept was…troubling.

“The tablet had also been infected with a virus that transmitted everything you wrote and looked at to an outside receiver,” Duncan continued.

This, at least, had been anticipated. Hiram had taken extensive notes on what Chancellor Houtman said, but had been careful not to write his thoughts. But then something occurred to him.

“Sir Henry, on the ferry coming back to the St. Albans, you were making extensive notes about the conference! If your tablet transmitted everything you wrote-”

Sir Henry raised a placating hand. “Relax, Mr. Brill.”

“But sir, your notes. They-”

“If the Sybians got a copy of my notes, then tonight they will have the chance to have a very fine meal.”

Hiram stared at him blankly.

Sir Henry smiled mischievously. “I was planning a dinner party for when we return to Cornwall. The Sybians now have in their possession a rather good recipe for roast beef tenderloin with a sublime Cognac butter, a side dish of roasted asparagus with a touch of garlic, all started with an appetizer of pate with pomegranate gelee. I haven’t decided on the wine yet, perhaps a Cabernet Sauvignon ’52 from the Medoc River Valley on Darwin. Marvelous. Simply marvelous.” He closed his eyes in appreciation…or homage, Hiram could not tell which.

“Culinary conspiracies, aside, Sir Henry, what’s our next move?”

“Our next move?” Sir Henry’s busy eyebrows rose and fell. “I should think that’s obvious: We go to the Sultenic Empire and try to cut a deal with them.”

“But can we trust Sybil Head to honor the deal we just made with them?”

Sir Henry smiled ruefully. “Well, that is the question, isn’t it?”

Chapter 17

On Cornwall, Victoria’s Home Planet

On board the Lionheart, the Sensors Officer left for her short vacation on Darwin. She offered to stay, given how hectic everything was, but Captain Eder told her to go ahead. “You’ve been working hard, and Gods alone know when you’ll get another leave, so take it while you can. And before I change my mind,” he told her, only half kidding.

Sharon Gilmore knew better than to look a gift horse in the mouth. Within the hour, she had taken a ferry to the surface where she caught a passenger shuttle that would take her directly to Darwin. Five days of lying on the beach, soaking in the sun and drinking something decadent out of a tall glass. She couldn’t wait. Who knew, maybe she would even meet someone…

On the planet’s surface, Penelope McCrutchen, aide to Sir Henry, sat weakly on the edge of her bed. She still felt terrible, but the Ambassador would be back in three or four days and she was determined to be in the office by then. Gods help them all if she wasn’t; Sir Henry would be lost without her, whether he knew it or not.

On the Space Station Atlas, Queen Anne looked up to see John Farnsworth, one of her armsmen, standing awkwardly before her.

“Yes, John, what is it?”

He hesitated, then said, “Your Majesty, my brother-in-law was in an accident. On Christchurch. He’s dead, Majesty. He…my sister’s going to have a baby any day now and I need to be there. I’ll only stay a day or two, but I have to make sure-”

Queen Anne cut him off. “Of course you must go. Immediately. Don’t come back before the end of the week. Now go!”

At the new Fleet Headquarters building on the outskirts of the bombed-out Capitol City, Lieutenant Oliver Perry, aide to Admiral Douthat, hurried down the steps to catch the next flight to Christchurch to see his grandmother, who had taken seriously ill and was not expected to live.

The mining ship Fine Day reached its parking orbit. It looked like just another of the many mining vessels owned by Gibson Desert Drilling and Mining, Ltd. Forty men loaded into the ferry for a few days of shore leave on the Space Station Atlas. The men, all young and fit, reached the customs station in mid-morning, waited in line to be processed, received their visas in due course, and then were allowed into the commercial sector of the space station. They soon disappeared into the throngs of Fleet personnel, miners, merchantmen, tourists and workers who crowded the main passages of Atlas.

Just another mining crew in from the asteroid belt, looking to stretch their legs, have a few drinks and sample the nightlife that Atlas might offer.

All the pieces were in motion.

Chapter 18

In Victorian Space, On the Planets Darwin, Christchurch and Cornwall

Preparations

They took Sharon Gilmore first, simply because she was the easiest and most isolated from anyone who might realize she was missing. Gilmore was staying at the Saint Paul International in Camporosso, along the Inland Sea on Darwin. It was a popular resort, with thousands of guests passing through each week. The hotel was exquisite, perhaps a little pricier than she had hoped, but very comfortable and right on the beach. The food was good and plentiful, and the drinks and the men were both yummy. Men were no problem: Gilmore was in her late twenties, blonde and lithe, and her military regimen kept her fit.

At first she gave the team fits because she had a man in her room on both the second and third nights. But by the fourth night she had either tired of them or just needed some sleep – the tapes showed she certainly hadn’t gotten much the prior two nights – and she went to bed alone. The team had already secreted a sedative capsule in her room, so as soon as she lay down they activated it and she was unconscious within moments.

The team let themselves into her room, hung out a “Do Not Disturb” sign on the door and got to work. First, they wheeled in the Machine. It didn’t have a name, they just called it “the Machine.” They all knew what it did. They checked on Gilmore to make sure she was still out and still well – some people reacted funny to the sedative they used, but Gilmore was okay. Then they applied a more powerful anesthetic. Once that had taken hold, they drilled sixteen holes in her skull and inserted the probes. The probes connected to thin wires that ran to the Machine.

Then they brought in the Ghost. (The formal Tilleke name was something very long that meant “crèche-born doppelgänger lacking a soul or memories,” but everyone just called it the “Ghost.”) The Ghost was a Savak spawned in the crèche and meticulously sculpted to look identical to a particular Victorian target. There was a list of three hundred possible Victorian targets and three hundred Ghosts were bred, spawned and sculpted to be ready for use should the opportunity arise. When Sharon Gilmore booked her vacation on Darwin, her Ghost was made ready. Photographs were taken of Gilmore’s current hair style and that style and color was duplicated on the Ghost. The Ghost was taught Victorian with an accent identical to Gilmore’s and she was briefed on Gilmore’s family and school history. Next the Ghost was taught how to perform Gilmore’s function on the H.M.S. Lionheart, at least enough so that she could get by for a day or two or even three if the need arose. That was the weak point of the plan, but it was a calculated risk. The Emperor was willing to play the odds.

And, lastly, there was the Machine. The Ghost needed to have Gilmore’s recent memories, to know what she had done and who she had spoken to. The Machine was even capable of transferring to the Ghost how Gilmore felt about the people she encountered. It was a little like watching a very intimate film, played back at the rate of one minute for each hour of Gilmore’s life over the last thirty days.

The Ghost was hooked to the Machine. Then the Team Leader administered a drug that woke Gilmore from her sedation. For reasons the team neither understood nor cared about, the target had to be awake during the memory transfer. It took twelve hours. It was not a pleasant process. One survivor who had his memories stripped described it like having the skin flayed from his body with dull, rusty knives.

All of the Savak knew what to expect and approached the memory transfer with the detachment of professionals. Their concerns were about logistics and timing and avoiding discovery. The physical effects on the target were immaterial, as long as no one heard her screaming.

In contrast, Sharon Gilmore was not so lucky.

She woke slowly, not knowing where she was or why she felt so dopey. Then she realized she couldn’t move her arms or legs. That was bad, but things got abruptly worse when she opened her eyes wider and saw there was a man leaning over her, staring at her as if she were a bug specimen on a slide.

Sharon Gilmore screamed…or tried to. There was something taped over her mouth and all that came out was a muffled “aaaggghhhh” that could barely be heard across the room, let alone through the door to the outside. She tried to turn her head, but couldn’t, and she had an odd prickly sensation that suggested there was something on her scalp, something…

Sharon Gilmore felt the first surge of raw, unadulterated panic sweep through her and screamed her muffled scream again, neck tendons standing out and face in a rictus of unreasoned horror. She screamed and screamed her muffled, quiet scream, then fell back exhausted.

The man’s face appeared above her once again. “Sharon? Sharon, can you hear me?” He had a nice voice, a news anchor’s voice, deep and soothing. “I know you are frightened, but everything is going to be all right. You’ve had an accident and hurt your head. You are in a hospital and we have to perform a procedure. There might be a little pain, but we will take care of you and everything will be okay. I promise,” he said solemnly. He squeezed her hand reassuringly, then nodded to someone out of her line of sight.

That’s when the real pain began.

At the end of twelve hours she was barely conscious. Blood was trickling down the corner of her mouth from when she had bitten off the tip of her tongue. Her body was covered with sweat and she had long ago voided her bladder. The Team Leader hummed to himself as he checked the instruments and then took the Ghost through a series of questions.

The Ghost itself was different. It was as if it had absorbed Sharon Gilmore’s personality. It held herself differently, less like a crèche-born Savak and more like a woman who had experienced the world in mind and body and liked what she had found.

“Tell me about Captain Eder,” the Team Leader commanded.

“Well,” the Sharon-Ghost said, putting one finger on its cheek in thought, a gesture it had never used before. “Excellent officer, nice to work for. Very demanding but he tries to be pleasant. Treats us like trained professionals, unlike some of the other officers.” It grimaced and leaned forward to whisper confidentially, “They can be such jerks sometimes.”

“But what do you think of Captain Eder, on a personal level?” the Team Leader probed.

The Sharon-Ghost giggled. “I would love to get in his pants. He is very handsome and the way he moves, you just know he’d be good in bed.”

“And does the Captain have any idea you think about him like that?”

The Sharon-Ghost looked shocked. “No! How could you even think such a thing? The bridge crew is very professional at all times. I – really, that would be entirely inappropriate!”

It said it so spontaneously and with such genuine emotion that the Team Leader was convinced the memory transfer was entirely successful. Now there was only one more test.

“For the Emperor’s glory!” he said sharply.

The Sharon-Ghost snapped to attention. “I serve and die for the Emperor!”

Satisfied, the Team Leader looked around. Sharon Gilmore, the real Sharon Gilmore, lay whimpering on the bed, wires still protruding from her skull. Her eyes were unfocused and drool ran down the side of her cheek. She looked at them without comprehension.

The Team Leader nodded to one of the others, who stepped forward and gave her a shot of calcium, enough to stop her heart. Gilmore shuddered once, then twice, then sagged into eternity. She never knew why any of this happened.

“Dispose of the body as planned,” he told the others. He turned to the Sharon-Ghost. “You are now Sharon Gilmore. Your flight back to Cornwall is in two more days, so you’ll want to get a bit of a tan. Avoid getting sunburned.” He studied her. “You know what to do when you go to Cornwall?”

The Sharon-Ghost nodded. “I have been briefed. I know what to do, and I will do it.”

“Good.” As he got on his jacket, the Team Leader wondered how the other teams were doing.

As it turned out, the other teams were doing just fine.

Chapter 19

On Ankara, Home Planet of the Sultenic Empire

The meeting with Sultan Nazif Baltur began with tea.

“Your travels here were pleasant, I trust?” the Sultan inquired genially.

“Yes, Your Worship,” Sir Henry said, gingerly holding the hot ceramic cup in his hand. “And a short trip in any event.”

Hiram sat beside Sir Henry, his eyes taking in the small, ornate conference room, with its plush wall hangings, the mounted head of a creature that looked like a thoroughly annoyed crocodile, and an absolutely beautiful Cha’rah set on a table in the corner.

“Ah, you must be a player,” Sultan Baltur said. “That set was a gift to me from an admirer. The Atἕ is made from a single piece of ruby, still a valuable gem stone on many worlds.” He waived his cup of tea in a circle. “Perhaps when we are through with today’s discussions, we might play a game together, yes?”

“You play, then, Your Worship?” Hiram asked. In fact, he knew that the Sultan was a highly-ranked player on Ankara. Rankings from one star system to another did not always translate well, so it was difficult to say whether the Sultan was very, very good or merely a strong amateur within his peer group – a big fish in a small Sultenic pond.

The Sultan affected nonchalance. “I play. Sometimes I think I improve, other times I despair.” He chuckled. “Atἕ rules us all”, he said, quoting one of the truisms of the game, referring to the random movement of the Atἕ piece, named after the ancient Greek goddess of Old Earth. Atἕ was the goddess of chaos, misfortune, random fortune and chance. In Cha’rah, the Atἕ piece moved randomly according to software built into the game. Sometimes it moved after each player’s turn, other times it might move only every few turns. In some games, it did not move at all. The Atἕ piece could move in any direction, any number of moves, much like the queen. It could capture a piece from either player and was intended to represent the element of utter random chance in the universe. Sometimes that chance worked to the benefit of one player, sometimes to the detriment of both. One famous Cha’rah match was won at the last minute when the Atἕ piece captured the king of the player who was just about to put his opponent into checkmate.

“Did you know that Cha’rah is actually based on an Old Earth game called ‘chess’?” the Sultan asked.

Hiram inclined his head. “Yes, I do, Your Worship.” Beside him, Sir Henry gave him a considering look.

The Sultan beamed. “Really? Excellent! Apparently, they played chess for thousands of years before the Plagues. The pieces are similar to the pieces we use today, but they did not have the Atἕ. There is a saying about the game of chess as compared with Cha’rah: ‘Kings, Queens, Warriors and Peasants are all but pawns to Chance.’”

“Those are wise words, Your Worship,” Hiram said, realizing that the Sultan’s narcissism was possibly a weak point to be exploited.

The Sultan smiled again, nodding. “Yes, well I look forward to a game with you.” He shook a finger at Hiram. “But I warn you, I shall show you no mercy! Each man plays Cha’rah at his own risk!”

Hiram smiled back, wondering just what he had gotten himself into. “I look forward to it, Your Worship.” He thought about saying something more, but decided that might be laying it on too thick.

More tea was poured and sweet cakes were provided.

“Now then,” the Sultan said smoothly, “you are here seeking our help in your war with the Tilleke. Please explain to me why I should not be concerned that you have already met with the chancellor of Sybil Head, who you know are our adversaries, if not outright enemies. And, please, do try these sweet cakes, they are really excellent.” Sultan Baltur gazed at them evenly, sipping his tea.

Hiram and Sir Henry exchanged a quick, rueful glance. The old Sultan was a wily sonofabitch and had caught them completely flatfooted. But Sir Henry was a wily sonofabitch as well and recovered quickly.

“It is true we did meet with the Chancellor, Your Worship, and we did so for the simple reason that the Chancellor sent us a cable offering to provide military assistance to Victoria.”

“For a price, no doubt,” Sultan Baltur said dryly. If he was surprised by this turn of events, he did not show it.

Sir Henry inclined his head. “Of course, Your Worship, there is always a price, even when none is demanded.”

The Sultan snorted derisively. “Indeed, that is when it is most costly!” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “And tell me, Sir Henry, what was the price demanded by the good Chancellor Houtman?”

Sir Henry visibly considered the question. “We are all experienced men here, Your Worship. We know that nothing is free. I am here today because we need the help of the Sultenic Empire. We also need the help of Sybil Head. I can tell you that Sybil Head has pledged to us the use of its entire fleet. I will not tell you what the price of that assistance is, but I will offer you reassurance that it has nothing to do with the Essen mining dispute or any issues between Sybil Head and the Sultenic Empire.” Sir Henry did not think it prudent to add that if Sybil Head had demanded recognition of its claim to the Essen mining rights, Victoria would have promised it.

Sultan Baltur looked steadily at Sir Henry for a long moment, then abruptly changed the topic. “Sir Henry, allow me to convey my shock and outrage that your party was physically attacked while you were on Sybil Head. A despicable deed, Sir Henry, and a deplorable state of affairs that such an attack could even take place.”

That was a nice dig at Sybil Head, thought Hiram, both impressed and amused by the style of the Sultan.

“Thank you for your kind words, Your Worship,” Sir Henry replied.

“Words are wind, Sir Henry.” The Sultan stood abruptly. “I would like to show you something.” He gestured and the doors to the conference room opened. “Follow me, please.” They walked into the corridor. There were fifteen gurneys lined up against the wall. Each contained a body.

Each body had a 6-inch spike driven through the skull.

“We treat our guests with great civility,” the Sultan said. “The attack on you in Sybil Head was a disgrace, and I vowed that while on Ankara you would not have to fear such an incident. Your safety and well-being are of the utmost concern. One of my special police units, the Teşkilat-i Mahsus, was instructed to ferret out any terrorists or Tilleke spies who might try to interfere with your visit. These men and women-” he waived at the gurneys – “had been under observation for some time. They were arrested, questioned and executed as spies.”

Hiram took a deep, calming breath to steady himself and looked at the bodies again. Each had a spike sticking out of its forehead. He vaguely remembered that the traditional method of execution in the Sultenic Empire was to place the criminal’s head in a special helmet. The helmet had a round shaft that projected upward from the criminal’s skull for several inches. A spike was placed in the shaft and then the criminal was killed by smashing the spike with a sledge hammer, driving it into the man’s brain.

Low tech, but effective.

“Now then,” the Sultan said warmly, “let us eat!”

Later, after they ate, they walked the streets a bit before reconvening the afternoon talks. With them they had their own beefed-up bodyguard and a contingent of forty Sultenic troops. It was a beautiful city, with gardens and parks, but surprisingly dispirited. People on the street gave them a wide berth and sullen glances. Hiram noticed that there were a lot of posters and statues of the Sultan, but that the few food stores open had long lines and tired-looking patrons.

They walked for thirty minutes and he didn’t see one person smiling.

And, oddly, there were no children in the parks or gardens.

Sir Henry saw his gaze. “In times of crisis, Mr. Brill, we don’t always get to pick our allies. Let’s go back, shall we?”

Chapter 20

In Victorian Space, On Christchurch

John Farnsworth was next. The team assigned to him waited until after his brother-in-law’s funeral, then caught him while he was shopping at the grocery store. A quick anesthetic spray in the face, then bustle him into a car and they were gone. They used his tablet to send a message to his sister, telling her he had been called to an urgent meeting and would get back to her as soon as he could.

They kept him sedated until it was time for the memory transfer to the Ghost, then revived him. Twelve hours later it was done. The John-Ghost leaned over John Farnsworth as he lay on the bed. “You rascal! Who would have thought that you and Betty were getting it on? Naughty, naughty! What would the Queen say?”

Farnsworth was barely conscious, but he was conscious enough to know that he was looking at someone identical in every respect to himself. And to know that something horrific had just been done to him.

Startling everyone, Farnsworth suddenly sat upright and slammed his forehead into the Ghost’s face. The John-Ghost’s nose broke with a ‘crunch’ and blood sprayed everywhere. One of the team stepped forward and shot Farnsworth in the back of the head with a sonic pistol, putting a brisk end to his rebellion.

“Bugger me!” shouted the John-Ghost, holding his nose, blood seeping between his fingers.

The Team Leader motioned to one of the others. “Pack it with cotton. Ice it. Try to keep the swelling down as best you can. He has to be presentable in three days.” He turned back to the John-Ghost. “Tell me about Queen Anne.”

The John-Ghost shook his head –a mistake – and hissed at the lance of white pain that shot through his head. “She’s smart as a whip and does not suffer fools gladly. She thinks most of the Fleet admiralty no longer can lead the Fleet properly, so she relies very heavily on Admiral Douthat and Captain Eder. There’s another man, too, Hiram somebody. Bright? Bull? Something like that. But he’s got some personal issues going on and she doesn’t want to burden him more than she must. But she will if things get bad. Gods’ balls, my nose hurts!”

The Team Leader studied the John-Ghost carefully. This Savak was not the best specimen he had ever seen, but by a stroke of luck he was sculpted to look like the man who had been assigned to the Queen’s personal bodyguard. The Team Leader took a breath – sometimes you worked with what you had.

“And who is this woman, Betty?”

“One of the other members of the bodyguard,” the John-Ghost said, this time taking care not to move his head. “She reports to him and I gather they could both be dismissed if it came out they were sleeping together.” He gingerly cocked his head in sudden realization. “He really loves her,” he said in hushed wonder.

The crèche-born knew nothing about love.

Chapter 21

In Sybil Head Space, on New Amsterdam

“We want guarantees that Victoria will support Sultenic Empires’ claim to the Essen area mining rights.” Sultan Baltur said sternly. “Give us that and you are free to lease our ships, $10 Million credits per ship plus $2 Million per crew. Eighty ships, including twelve cruisers and eight destroyers. New electronics and weapon systems. The engine plants are older, but all have been refurbished.”

“A monthly lease of $10 Million credits-” Hiram began.

“Not monthly!” the Sultan said sharply. He looked at Hiram as if the notion was ridiculous. “Don’t be foolish? How long do you think this war is going to go on? Weekly, the lease terms are weekly. Paid in advance.”

“Even Sybil Head asked for less than that,” Sir Henry observed mildly, omitting that their starting point was identical.

“And yet you are here,” retorted the Sultan. “And the fact that you are here means you still need more ships. I have the ships you need if you are willing to pay me just compensation for them.”

Something in that made Hiram sit up and notice, but before he could work through it, Sir Henry spoke again. “Does it not concern you, Your Worship, that the Tilleke might win unless you help us?”

The Sultan smirked and shook his head, then seemed to gather himself and stroked his chin in a mime of thought. It was a puzzling gesture that confused Hiram. What was going on here?

“We are a poor nation, Sir Henry,” he said. “While we may agree with your struggle and sympathize with your need for warships, we are not a charity. You need our ships and you should be prepared to pay for them.”

The haggling went on for much of the afternoon, to no discernable effect. Finally, Sir Henry pleaded fatigue and asked to halt for the day. Sultan Baltur nodded his consent. “Of course, of course, but on one condition, Sir Henry! Would you be so kind as to let me borrow young Mr. Brill? It is so seldom that I find a worthy Cha’rah opponent.”

Sir Henry, who had taught Hiram some of the more ruthless stratagems in Cha’rah, smiled and nodded. “I doubt you will find him much of a challenge, Your Worship, your prowess at Cha’rah is well known. But if Mr. Brill can offer you some passing amusement, then by all means I release him into your capable hands.”

Five minutes later Hiram found himself with a glass of wine and the Sultan of the Sultenic Empire as his opponent. The Cha’rah board used by the Emperor was a little different than what he was used to, but the pieces were different in name only. In the front ranks there were eight peasants and four spies. Behind them were two archers, warriors, High Priests, Warships – here depicted as long wooden galleys – Industry, a Queen and a King (or, perhaps, a Sultan, Hiram couldn’t tell). They spent a few minutes going over the movement of the pieces, which were the same as the game pieces he was used to, then the Sultan took the white pieces without asking Hiram to select a hidden piece from his hand. A minor breach of protocol, though perhaps Emperors were not bound by such minor restrictions.

With great reverence, Sultan Baltur placed the red Atἕ on the center square and activated the board. The Atἕ piece glowed briefly, then resumed its normal appearance.

“They say that Cha’rah is the best reflection of what type of person a man is: bold, cowardly, imaginative, lazy, decisive, insightful or daring. And,” he gestured at the blood-red Atἕ, “whether he is favored by the gods.” He gave Hiram a considering look. “What type of player are you, Mr. Brill?”

Hiram smiled weakly. “A very nervous one, Your Worship.”

The Grand Sultan of the Sultenic Empire advanced one of his peasants two spaces.

The game began.

They played for half an hour in silence. Sultan Baltur favored long slashing moves with his major pieces, flirting with disaster as Hiram tried to envelope them with weaker pieces and cut them off, only to have the Sultan snatch them back to safety with a flourish and a grin.

Then the grin faded from his face and he turned to the real business at hand.

“These negotiations, Mr. Brill – the outcome of these talks may well decide the outcome of this war and establish for decades to come the shape and tenor of foreign relations within Human Space.” Emperor Baltur looked at him probingly. “I need to know if I can trust Sir Henry to remain true to his word, but more importantly, if I can trust your new queen.” He stared hard at Hiram. “Can I, Mr. Brill? Can I put the fate of my entire people in Victoria’s hands?”

Hiram hesitated, one hand touching one of his spies. “You must understand, Your Worship, that I am merely Sir Henry’s assistant, I can hardly-”

The Sultan’s gaze hardened. “It is not your station I enquire about, Mr. Brill, but Sir Henry’s veracity and Queen Anne’s fortitude.”

Hiram hesitated. Was this why Sir Henry brought him on this trip, to become the unofficial “backdoor” for the Sultan to use?

The Sultan moved one of the Warships to the right, a subtle move of only two spaces that nonetheless unmasked one of the archers. The archers were a funny piece, often viewed as weak and utterly dispensable, yet the archer could gradually weaken an enemy and over time cripple it to the point where it was worthless.

“I have worked for Sir Henry for only a few months,” Hiram lied, “and the Queen I see only at a distance, but Sir Henry does not make promises he cannot keep and the Queen seems to favor him.” He looked up then, daring to stare into the Sultan’s eyes. “So, yes, Your Worship, you can trust Sir Henry. And from what I have seen of Queen Anne, you can trust her to support his promises, for he is the Queen’s man first and foremost.”

The Sultan nodded slowly, but Hiram was perplexed to see what he thought was a smirk touch the corners of his mouth. Not the reaction he anticipated.

“Now, young man, you had better pay more attention to the game or I will have your king’s head on a spike before dinner time,” the Sultan growled, and so the small talk ceased and the game playing continued in earnest.

Hiram methodically developed his pieces, slowly and meticulously advancing his peasants and spies, protecting them with his warriors and High Priests. He largely left his Queen and King alone, guarded by two stout Warships with their many oars.

The Sultan’s moves seemed disjointed, almost erratic, but Hiram slowly perceived the pattern behind it. Attack boldly on the right, plunging so far ahead of any support that the Sultan would certainly have to retreat within a few moves or lose the piece, while on the left bringing to bear a wall of warriors, archers, and Warships that, when advanced, would overwhelm Hiram’s defenses.

And all the time keeping Hiram’s attention away from the center.

During this time, the Atἕ piece moved randomly but with little effect. It captured a peasant here, an archer there. Once it landed on an empty space that effectively blocked Hiram’s advance, another time it moved in a manner than suddenly opened a slashing diagonal attack by one of the Sultan’s High Priests, leaving Hiram down a Warship with nothing to show for it.

“I should have warned you, I am favored by the gods,” the Sultan intoned as he removed the captured piece. Hiram, sensing the man’s ego, wondered if he actually believed it, and decided he just might.

A couple of minor pieces were exchanged, just the usual bloodletting as the game marched closer and closer to Armageddon. The Sultan skillfully feinted with his warriors, threatening Hiram’s position on the right, but by now the pattern was clear and Hiram could see how the warriors could be reoriented in a moment to add weight to the coming attack on the center. Hiram made a couple of desultory moves of no apparent import, but unmasking his Queen.

Then the Sultan made the last move in preparation for his center thrust.

Hiram launched his spoiling attack.

In three moves he brought the Sultan’s critical pieces within reach of his archers, moved the lumbering but very powerful Industry piece into a blocking position and brought the all-powerful Queen into a position to either block or attack.

The Sultan stared at the board for a long moment, clearly unsure what his next move should be. “Well, well,” he said with false joviality, “the Ambassador’s church mouse suddenly grows fangs. Who would have guessed?”

The Sultan studied the board, tapping his fingers in a steady rhythm. He stroked his chin, tapped his fingers, then sighed and pushed forward a warrior.

Hiram’s archers killed the warrior and he removed the piece from the board. Hiram then moved the massive Industry piece forward to the edge of the battle area, causing the Sultan to raise his eyebrows. “Really? You move mountains onto the dance floor and ask them to leap and jump like a blushing debutant at her cotillion? That is not the role of mountains, my friend, and a piece assigned a task for which it is not suited does not live a long life, no.”

“You see a cumbersome mountain, Your Worship,” Hiram said softly. “I see another Warship wearing armor, hungry for prey.”

Sultan Baltur grunted, fingers tapping on the edge of the table. Soon his archers soaked the Industry piece with arrows, but the thick walls of the Industry piece absorbed them without harm. Hiram brought his High Priests into play, wreaking havoc among the Sultan’s lesser pieces and forcing him to move up his Queen. The Queen was arguably the most powerful piece on the board, capable of devastating attacks and movement far across the board. It is a fearsome piece and its presence often foreshadowed the opponent’s death and destruction.

There was only one piece that can resist an attack from a Queen, and that is Industry.

Hiram waited while his pieces that were within range of the Sultan’s Queen fired their arrows and spells against it, then he nudged forward Industry one more square.

The Sultan’s attention was now exclusively focused on Hiram’s Industry…and he paid no attention to the fact that Hiram’s Warship now had an open path all the way to the final row where the enemy King waited in blissful innocence.

Fingers tapping, Sultan Baltur studied the board and studied it again, then brought one of his Warships up to challenge the Industry. There was a flurry of arrows and spears from the Warship, followed by lightning bolts from Industry. Industry staggered but held; the Warship burst into flames.

Hiram removed it from the board.

The Grand Sultan of the Sultenic Empire scowled. Hiram suppressed a smile and considered his next move.

Then Atἕ, the Goddess of chance and misfortune, moved across the entire board and smote Hiram’s Industry piece with her war club, shattering it into pieces.

Hiram’s center was suddenly exposed to the Sultan’s strong force.

Sultan Baltur beamed. “Well, that’s a stroke of bad luck for you, Mr. Brill. But I warned you, I am favored by the gods.”

Sultan Baltur pressed his attack, skillfully using his Queen and High Priests to hammer Hiram’s remaining archers and peasants, then crowding in on the King’s last line of defenders. Hiram almost rallied his defenses, but once again the Atἕ attacked a critical piece at just the worst moment.

With a nod of satisfaction, Sultan Baltur removed Hiram’s King from the board.

“Don’t be disheartened, Mr. Brill,” the Sultan commiserated. “You played well and aggressively. You lasted much longer than most of my opponents. Come, let us finish these sweet cakes – they will be the downfall of me! – and then I’ll send you off to your well-deserved rest. Tomorrow will be an important day.”

Chapter 22

In Victorian Space, On the planet Christchurch

Oliver Perry was next. He had gone to Christchurch to see his ailing grandmother, and had arrived just before she died. The doctors still didn’t know what killed her, but at her age it could be anything.

Ironically, Oliver Perry was only a hundred miles or so from John Farnsworth when they picked him up. He was walking back to his hotel, brooding about his grandmother and four men simply walked up beside him. Despite his years of training, despite his experience, he had let his guard fall. By the time he was aware that something was wrong, it was too late. A quick jolt with a neuro wand, then they simply grabbed his arms before he could fall and walked him into the back of a waiting freight shuttle. Once in the shuttle they injected him with the sedative.

An hour later he was in the safe house.

An hour after that he was awake, tied to a gurney, feeling his memories being ripped from his mind.

Twelve hours later he was dead and the Oliver-Ghost was now the personal aide to Admiral Alyce Douthat, First Sea Lord of Victoria.

Only one more to go.

Chapter 23

On Board the Destroyer St. Albans

The morning negotiations had gone quickly. The Grand Sultan opened the meeting saying that he would reduce his demands to $6 Million credits for the ships and $1 Million for the crews, as long as Victoria held to its promise of supporting the Sultenic Empire in its claim for Essen.

Sir Henry made a show of recessing to discuss the proposal, but he had already made up his mind. The meeting was recommenced and Sir Henry accepted the offer. The necessary papers would be drawn up and exchanged, but the deal was struck.

Once on board the St. Albans, they immediately did a thorough scan of the entire conference room area for any bugs that might have…wandered in. When Duncan was confident the room was secure, he then laid out additional anti-bugging devices, gave Sir Henry and Hiram each one of the medallions to wear and left the room.

Sir Henry poured himself a glass of Scotch and waived the bottle in Hiram’s direction. Hiram shook his head. The older man sat down at the table with a grunt and took a sip of his drink, then set it down. With his left hand he slowly massaged his temple.

“Well,” he said finally. “What do you think? You were there; you saw what I saw, heard what I heard. Can we trust Chancellor Houtman at Sybil Head? Sultan Baltur?” The old man shook his head and it pained Hiram to see him so genuinely confused. Hiram suddenly recalled something Queen Anne had said about Sir Henry when they were trying to work through some nasty problem.

“Sir Henry,” she had confided with an affectionate smile, “is at his best when everything is going wrong.”

But now the old man’s expression was bleak. It was like the old puzzle of the man facing two doors. One door led to safety, but behind the other waited a hungry dragon. It was clear that Sir Henry wasn’t sure which door was safe and which was not.

“May I suggest something, Sir Henry?” Hiram asked quietly. The old man’s white eyebrows shot up in question, but his gaze was steady. “Of course, what is it?”

“I propose that rather than talk through everything, each of us write down who we would trust, who we are confident we can rely on. Once we’ve written down our answers, we show each other what they are.”

Sir Henry tilted his head back and forth in thought, then nodded. Hiram found a small notepad in the conference room’s credenza tore a sheet of paper in two and gave one to Sir Henry. With a feeling of great ceremony, each turned their back on the other and wrote their respective answers. Then they turned back to face each other across the table.

Hiram nodded, then slid his piece of paper across the table. Without looking at it, Sir Henry handed him his. Each of them looked at each other’s answer.

Sir Henry took a deep breath. Hiram smiled, feeling a curious sense of relief. Sir Henry nodded.

“Okay then, we are in agreement,” the older man said.

Chapter 24

In Victorian Space, Near Capitol City, Cornwall

Penelope McCrutchen did not sense anything was the matter when the door chime sounded. She was just beginning to feel better, but she still wheezed slightly as she shuffled to answer it.

The door opened and Mrs. McCrutchen found herself looking at…herself. Her first thought was, ‘Am I that old?’ and then she was being pushed inside by her Ghost. Four men crowded in after her. Mrs. McCrutchen’s protest died on her lips. This was not some ordinary street crime, not a simple home invasion. That woman looked just like her. Identical! She looked at the four men, all young, fit and clean cut, and caught another look of her twin. The woman was looking back at her and her expression was triumphant.

Penelope McCrutchen’s heart sank. She had spent all of her adult life analyzing events in the diplomatic realm. What words were said, who spoke them, and to whom. It was all about people, and she studied them avidly. After fifty years she could read most people like a book, and the faces of these people – and that creature who could pass as her double – told her that she was going to die.

The answer why was obvious. Penelope McCrutchen knew things. What’s more, she had access to people. She was very valuable in the proper hands, if she would cooperate. She glanced at her assailants as they lifted her not ungently onto the bed and tied her hands above her head. These people were not stupid, they knew she would never cooperate with whatever it was they were planning. But that woman who looked like her…

Bugger me! she raged when the answer became obvious. They don’t need me to cooperate at all, they just need my face! The rest of it fell into place immediately.

Sir Henry.

“Don’t be alarmed,” a gentle voice told her. “We aren’t going to hurt you.” It was one of the young men, looking kindly at her. “It will all be over very soon and you’ll be free to go.”

“Please,” Penelope croaked, “please don’t hurt me.” And then she waited for the reassuring denial, the soothing reply.

The man smiled comfortingly. “No one’s going to hurt you, you’ll be fine. I promise.”

Liar! Did he think her a fool? They were here to kill her, but first they wanted…what? She whimpered piteously to keep up appearances. Her mother always told her appearances were important. “You’ll catch more men with a pretty face than by being smarter than they are, Penelope, I wish you would remember that,” her mother would sigh.

Guess what, Mother? I finally met some men interested in me for my mind! Mrs. McCrutchen smiled inwardly, then turned her ferocious intellect to the task of defeating them, whoever they might be. She let her head loll to her left, seeing her doppelgänger once more. Now the other woman was laying on a table and they were attaching wires to her skull. Mrs. McCrutchen’s eyes flickered downward and saw the wires went to some sort of machine. She shuddered and the kindly young man put his hands on her shoulder.

“Nothing to worry about. It’s okay.”

But then she could see one of the men taking another coil of wires, readying them for her head. Worse, she saw the bone drill.

Think, Penelope. Use that damn brain of yours for something better than intimidating people. While you have time.

This was all about Sir Henry. How would the doppelgänger not give herself away? How could she fool a man she had worked with closely for thirty years?

“Why haven’t you sedated her?” someone demanded harshly. Mrs. McCrutchen took a deep breath. Not much time.

Memories. She glanced fleetingly at the wires from the woman to the machine, and soon to be from the machine to her. Memories.

She closed her eyes and concentrated fiercely. She summoned up an image of Sir Henry sitting behind his messy desk, looking at her with that mischievous smile. And then, with great purpose, she thought:

Of course, I would be delighted to get you some coffee, Sir Henry. When have I ever refused you? Of course, I would be delighted to get you some coffee, Sir Henry. When have I ever refused you? Of course, I would be delighted to get you some coffee, Sir Henry. When have I ever refused you?

As the sedative softened her world and made everything fuzzy, Penelope McCrutchen smiled.

So much for appearances, Mother.

Chapter 25

On Space Station Atlas

Cookie was crestfallen. “I felt stupid. He was trying, really trying and all I could do was be a jerk. I wanted him to touch me, but couldn’t stand the thought of it.” She shook her head. “He’s gone. There is no way to save this.”

Admiral Wilkinson tilted her head to one side. “Huh, do you really think he’s that shallow? Or stupid? This is Hiram we’re talking about.”

Cookie flushed. “When the Ducks had me, I was abused dozens of times by several different men. How can Hiram want me after that? What if we do make love, could he not think about it, not think about all those others?”

Wilkinson nodded. “Tell you what, Cookie. I want you to tell me what you want. What’s past is past and can’t be changed, but now tell me not what you think Hiram will do, but what you want.”

“I – I – “ Cookie stopped. Annoyance washed through her. “That’s not fair!”

Wilkinson chuckled. “No, probably not.” She leaned forward. “Answer the question, Cookie. What do you want?”

“But Hiram can never accept-” she began, but Wilkinson interrupted.

“Don’t be dense, Cookie. Forget about what Hiram wants, or what he might do. What. Do. You. Want?”

“Gods’ Balls!” Cookie exploded. “What kind of shrink are you?”

Now Wilkinson laughed, a deep belly laugh that made Cookie smile despite herself. “I was so bad that they kicked me upstairs into Administration. Now I only take special cases. Hard cases.”

“Is that what I am, a special case?”

“Damn straight!” Wilkinson retorted. “And a hard one to boot, not because of what’s happened to you, but because you are so stiff-necked and stubborn that you make me want to scream.”

Cookie glanced at her slyly. “Really? How does that make you feel, Doctor?”

Wilkinson snorted. “No one loves a smart aleck. Answer the question.”

Cookie thought for a moment. “I want Hiram to love me the way he loved me before all this happened,” she said simply.

Wilkinson eyed her levelly. “Then make it happen.”

“But-”

Wilkinson scowled. “I’ll give you a hint, Cookie. Hiram never stopped loving you. What you are going through now is what any proud, independent woman would go through who has been brutalized, tortured, and left to survive on her own.” Her expression softened. “And yet, here you are. With choices to make. With a future if you want one.”

Cookie said nothing.

“Listen, Cookie. Here’s what I know about you. You led a suicide mission onto an enemy battleship and almost single-handedly saved Victoria from defeat. You saved Otto Wisnioswski from certain death. You survived rape and torture. You broke your way out of your cell and escaped. And now, you managed to survive a pack of wild, man-eating grogin and somehow managed to convince an angry mother sivot not to kill you.” Wilkinson paused for a breath. “Have I overlooked anything?” she asked, letting just a hint of exasperation show in her voice.

“Well, yeah, just one little thing. I shot one of my rapists and cut the throat of the leader of the gang that abused me,” Cookie snarled. “And I cut the guy’s throat in front of a crowd of people, including the man I wanted to marry!”

Wilkinson waived a hand dismissively.

Cookie stared at her, mind racing in circles.

“I’m not telling you it will be easy,” Wilkinson continued. “I can help you with the intensity of the flashbacks, but I can’t make them go away. But your sense of self, in the long run, that’s up to you.”

“What ever happened to ‘You poor dear, you poor dear’?” Cookie demanded.

“Too much work,” Wilkinson said. “That’s what you get for using a lazy shrink.”

Cookie sat very still for a moment, thinking of what she might gain…and what she could lose. “I’m a little scared,” she admitted softly.

“Pretty stupid if you weren’t,” Wilkinson replied.

Chapter 26

On Space Station Atlas

Emily Tuttle looked grim as the hologram showed the Victorian Fleet falling back in disarray from the Victoria/Gilead wormhole and Tilleke forces pouring into Victorian space.

Again.

This was the fifteenth war game session. So far the Tilleke forces had been victorious fifteen times. Emily had led the Victorian forces against the Tilleke fleet. No matter what defenses she put up – pre-emptive attacks, minefields, stealth attacks, antimatter missiles, carrier assaults, suicidal charges by the battleships, forts – it was to no avail. The Tilleke fleet always smashed its way through the wormhole defenses and began to bombard Cornwall and Christchurch.

After losing to Captain Eder seven or eight times, Emily swapped places with him and took over as the Tilleke admiral. “I hope you see something I don’t,” she told him curtly, knowing that if he did manage to save Victoria from the Tilleke onslaught when she couldn’t, she would hate him for it even while she lavished him with praise.

She needn’t have worried.

Six hours into the war game Eder brought up three of his four battleships and Emily, playing with the Tilleke weapons, rushed in close and blasted them all with plasma beams. When she hit the expected minefield – there was always a minefield – she hit it with the energy dampening field and just sailed through it, emerging on the far side to launch a torrent of missiles and energy beams against the remaining defenders. She even got close enough to Atlas and Hyperion to transport soldiers onto them, capturing them intact. It wasn’t pretty: she took losses, heavy losses, but the Victorian Fleet was decimated.

After that, Emily had made Gandalf run the Victorian Fleet to see if the AI could do any better. It didn’t. Five hours into the game – two days of “war time” – Victoria was no more.

At the end of the day, Emily gathered her war game team around her: Alex Rudd, Astrid Drechsher of the Duck frigate Draugr, Captain Zahiri of the Laughing Owl, Master Chief Gibson, Toby Partridge, Bill Satore, the training systems specialist, and Lori Romano, the krait specialist. They all sat around the table, tired and discouraged.

“Um, Ma’am?” Bill Satore ventured hesitantly. “Maybe I should change some of the assumptions that we programmed in. You know, if they had fewer ships, or the plasma beam had a slower recharge time. Maybe we made them too tough?” He looked uncertain.

Emily sighed. “No, Satore, making them play weaker in the games won’t make them weaker in real life. We’ve got to face reality here.”

“Some of my admirals used to do that,” Astrid Drechsher said acidly. “They would play war game against Victorian force and if Victorian fleet won, they rewrite rules so Dominion win. Not work so well when they actually have to fight your Fleet in real life.”

Drinks and snacks were served and they all sat around discussing the simulations and what it all meant. In the confines of the war-gaming room, there was a surprising amount of ease. Ranks were for the most part forgotten. Even Toby Partridge, an Ensign assigned as a communications specialist, chatted unconcernedly with Captain Zahiri and Master Chief Gibson, and Lori Romano seemed at ease with Alexander Rudd. The only one too nervous to talk freely was Bill Satore, the training systems specialist, who Emily knew was too timid to even look her in the eye, even though he looked like a young Greek god.

Emily finally cleared her throat to get their attention. “I’ve tried just about everything I can think of to protect the Victoria/Gilead wormhole,” she confessed. “So far it hasn’t worked. If any of you have any ideas, no matter how far-fetched, now is the time to speak up.”

“It’s not the tactics of defending the wormhole itself,” mused Rudd. “I think we need to come at it differently.”

“Maybe we need to get into Gilead space and meet them there,” Master Chief Gibson offered. “If we stay in Victoria, they know where to concentrate their attack.”

“But, Master Chief,” Toby said, “by staying in Victoria we force them to come to us through a natural choke point! If we go into Gilead, won’t we play to their strength of numbers?”

The grizzled Master Chief frowned. “Do they really have more ships than we do? Are we fighting shadows here?”

Emily nodded. “We have to assume so, Master Chief. While we were butting heads with the Dominions, the Tilleke were just sitting on the side lines. While our ships were getting destroyed or beaten up, the Tilleke were building new ones. And remember, in the game settings, we have assumed that the Tilleke have only 10% more ships than we do. It could be more.”

“One thing is sure,” Alexander Rudd persisted. “If we stay behind the wormhole and just defend from there, the Tillies can concentrate their entire attack there and they will win. We need to think more about defense in depth.”

Sadia Zahiri nodded her agreement. “He’s right, Emily. I know it’s a big risk to split our forces, but if we kept some ships in Gilead, we could whittle them down a bit as they advance. I don’t know what the critical mass is for the Tillies to break through the wormhole, but if we can kill enough ships as they come through Gilead, we stand a better chance of holding our own when they reach the wormhole into Victoria.”

Astrid Drechsher scowled her agreement. “Hide behind wormhole, lose initiative! Must take fight to Tilly bastards. Hit them when they do not see it coming! How you say this, must ‘fuck them up!’ Yes?”

Lori Romano and Bill Satore looked scandalized, Alex Rudd smiled, Master Chief Gibson shook his head and sighed, while Toby Partridge laughed and clapped his hands and Sadia Zahiri nodded solemnly, eyes alight and said, “Yes, that is exactly right, Captain Drechsher. ‘Fuck them up,’ indeed.”

Captain Drechsher looked smug. “Good to see Yogurt Soldiers listen to their betters.”

“Split up the defensive forces?” Emily asked, but she already knew that if there was an answer, this was it.

Toby Partridge grinned. “Better not let Admiral Pierrepont hear about this. He’ll think you’re mad as a hatter and be on Admiral Douthat’s doorstep in a trice.”

Admiral Pierrepont was one of a dozen or so senior admirals who had survived the bombing of the Palace, but were then left stranded on Cornwall when the Queen had fled to Refuge, dragging Atlas along with her. The so-called “Lost Admirals” had been agitating to gain control of the Fleet once Queen Anne and the Fleet returned from Refuge and defeated the Dominion, but Queen Anne stood firm and Admiral Douthat was appointed First Sea Lord. The Lost Admirals wanted ships to command Battle Groups and disdained the logistical posts they were assigned to, no matter how critical they were. They continued to lobby both Admiral Douthat and the Queen for control of the Fleet, but Douthat insisted that with war coming any moment, she would not remove battle-hardened captains and admirals and replace them with more senior admirals who had never heard a shot fired in anger. Rank be damned.

Emily suppressed a groan. The Lost Admirals had been a tremendous nuisance and were constantly snooping about to find something that they could use to discredit Admiral Douthat. But then her mind went back to how she might catch the Tillies while they moved through Gilead to the Victorian wormhole. It was risky, so very risky, but if it worked…

“Okay, everyone, go home and get some sleep,” she ordered briskly. “Meet here tomorrow at 0600 and be ready for a long day. And remember, this is all ‘Top Secret – Daisy,’ so no word to your spouse, your lover or the friendly spy who helps you cope with your stress.” She didn’t need to add that if anyone even mentioned it to someone without the proper clearance, their careers – perhaps their lives – were forfeit.

At home that night, Emily opened a bottle of Pinot Noir and settled in to plan a new defense for Victoria. Every major assault had a particular rhythm. Upset your opponent’s rhythm, force him to make changes, to face unexpected problems, and maybe, just maybe, you could force a mistake. And take advantage of it, if you were quick enough. And good enough.

And damn lucky.

First, she took inventory. Victoria had a total of ninety-five warships:

three battleships in fair repair, although the Vengeance’s power plant desperately needed some yard time;

twenty-two cruisers, including a mix of Refuge, Victorian and Dominion ships (Emily made a note to herself to see how the computer integration was proceeding);

forty-three destroyers, again of mixed heritage and crews;

ten frigates, mostly Dominion and Refugian, which would probably be worthless except as additional scout ships (Emily wrinkled her brow, suddenly recalling how well Astrid Drechsher’s Draugr had performed, and wondered if she could make an entire squadron of stealthy frigates to raise hell with the Tilleke capital ships);

twelve of her beloved Hedgehogs, which had proved their worth time and time again;

five carriers, the Rabat, Fes, Haifa, Rishon and Ashdod, assuming the Ashdod’s chronic engine problem could be fixed in time; and

one hundred sixty-three heavy gunboats, although she had only one hundred fifty-three crews for them.

In addition, she had about thirty or so of the tiny Krait-model teleporter ships. She was still trying to figure out how to best use those. Rafael Eitan and Lori Romano might be able to help there.

Victoria had two big problems. First, constant fighting had taken a dreadful toll. Almost half of the Victorian ships were damaged and in need of repair, the crews were tired and there weren’t enough of them. If the battle started soon, and she thought it would, some ships would be lost simply because they would break down.

Second, she knew little of the Tilleke fleet, its size, distribution or capabilities. They did have some data on that damned plasma weapon, less on the energy dampening weapon. Both, fortunately, seemed to have only a short range and the plasma weapon in particular had a long recharge cycle unless the Tilleke had fixed that problem. She forced herself to set that thought aside for the moment.

But if the enemy’s weapons were not well-known, the field of battle was. And if she could control the flow of ships through the field of battle, she might, with luck, be able to overcome her deficiencies in ships and crews.

The battlespace: three circles in a line, each connected by a wormhole. Victoria, connected to Gilead by a wormhole. Then another wormhole connecting Gilead to the Tilleke Empire. Two choke points connecting three star systems. The wormholes were the choke points and the obvious focal points for defensive planning. Except it hadn’t worked.

Emily’s task was to determine how to win a war in those three circles, despite her lack of knowledge of the enemy’s strength or capabilities.

The first thing was to make sure that the Tilleke would actually come directly through Gilead to Victoria and not divert through Darwin. Emily had found two dozen old – very old – forts once used by the Dominion of Unified Citizenry. She had taken those and parked them defending the Darwin/Victoria wormhole. They wouldn’t stop an invasion from Darwin into Victoria, but they would serve as a very strong deterrent and trip wire, giving Admiral Douthat time to reposition her forces as needed.

But that still wouldn’t win the battles to come, and would not win the war. For that she needed a strategy and the tactics to implement it.

Emily sat on her bed, her legs curled under her, sipping her glass of wine and recalling one of her favorite histories, “Masters of the Battlefield,” by Paul Davis. Sometimes when she was struggling with a knotty military problem, she found it helped to remind herself what some of the Old Earth generals had done. Her favorite was Scipio Africanus, born more than two hundred years before the death of Jesus Christ, who was not well-known now but once the central figure in several of the Old Earth religions.

But Emily was thinking about war, not religion. Scipio was famous for introducing a new level of maneuverability and deception to the Roman army. She wondered how he would have liked dealing with wormholes and stealth ships, to say nothing of the krait transporter devices they had captured from the Tilleke. She smiled; she was pretty sure Scipio would have loved it.

The problem was that Scipio wasn’t here.

A knock at her door brought her out of her reverie. Hiram Brill stood there, looking skinny, disheveled and worn.

“Just back from the Sultenic Empire,” he said shortly, “and I hope you can give me a strong drink and an update on Cookie.”

Emily gave him a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Yes to the drink, but I had to come back while Cookie was still in the mountains with one of Rafael’s fathers, so I don’t know the latest. I think she’s back on Atlas, but haven’t seen her. How did Sybil Head and the Sulties go?”

Hiram plopped down on one of Emily’s two easy chairs – it was not a large apartment – and shook his head. “First, don’t play Cha’rah with the Emperor; he cheats. He’s hacked into the board and controls the Atἕ.”

Emily raised her eyebrows. “Really? The Grand Emperor of the Sultenic Empire cheats at Cha’rah?”

“Yes, and very cleverly, too. Took me most of the game to figure out how he did it.” Hiram grinned. “Diplomacy can be pretty rough and tumble.”

“How did the talks go? Do we have their ships?” Emily wanted those ships.

“There are…complications. The ships are pledged to us, but Sir Henry and I have some, ah, concerns about the reliability of their promises.”

Emily handed him a gin and tonic with a big chunk of lemon in it. “I don’t understand why you drink this swill when I have perfectly good wine.”

“I know, but you keep stocking it for me anyway.” He took a long swallow, nodded once, then took another. He frowned, thinking. “Don’t you have a meeting with Admiral Douthat tomorrow?”

“You know I do, you scheduled the damn thing,” Emily retorted.

“And?”

Emily blew air out through pursed lips. “And I don’t know how I’m supposed to plan an attack when I have no idea of what the opposing forces are. How many ships? What are the capability of their weapons? I need some intelligence, dammit.” She frowned, looking at him. “You’re supposed to be the intelligence guy. Do you have anything new about the Tillies?”

“Nope.” He looked grim. “I’ve sent a dozen ships into Tilleke space. Ten simply didn’t come back. One was apparently disabled, then the gravity tides pulled it back through, but everyone on board was dead and the data banks were clean. As far as I can tell, it got hit by one of those dampening fields as soon as it exited the wormhole.”

“Hmmm,” Emily murmured. That made an attack on Tilleke space extremely inadvisable. If the Tillies could shoot any attacking warship with the energy dampening field as it entered Tilleke space, lesser ships – hell, even frigates – could then destroy the warships at their leisure. Even if the Tillies had only three or four of the energy dampening weapons at a wormhole, it would give them a huge advantage.

“What killed the crew?” she asked.

“They were torn apart by what appears to be a very large animal,” Hiram said baldly.

“Excuse me?” Emily asked incredulously.

Hiram nodded. “I’m not kidding. They showed signs of being bitten, clawed and dismembered by something very large. The forensic team even found a trace of fur on the sharp edge of a chair.”

“Was there a Marine guard on the ship?”

“Yes. Their weapons had been fired, but they were all dead.”

“God’s Balls,” Emily muttered.

Hiram frowned. “I’ve never understood that saying. You worship the Gods of Your Mothers, who are all female. Why would any of them have balls?”

Emily shot him a hard look. “Don’t be sacrilegious.”

Hiram raised his hands, palms up, placatingly.

“So, a diversionary attack against the Tilleke wormhole appears to be a suicide mission,” Emily said.

Hiram shrugged. “Until we learn something more, we’d just be throwing ships and crews away for nothing.”

Emily’s lips tightened into a thin line. “If you are trying to make me feel better, you are not succeeding.”

Hiram wiped a weary hand across his face. “Yeah, well…”

There was another knock at the door. “Come!” Emily said irritably. Toby Partridge entered smiling. “Commander Brill,” he said in greeting, then turned to Emily. “Commander Tuttle, I apologize for intruding, but I took the liberty of making notes on how you might tackle the-” he hesitated, glancing at Hiram, not knowing what his security clearance was and not wanting to violate the ‘Top Secret – Daisy’ restrictions.

Emily waived a hand. “It’s okay, Toby, Commander Brill is cleared for Daisy. He is actually the one who determines who gets the clearances.”

Hiram sat up. “Daisy? Has something happened?”

Emily looked at him sourly. “Yes, we’ve gamed it dozens of times and learned that if we try to defend Victoria only by fortifying the wormhole, we lose. Every time. We have to go into Gilead, which means splitting our forces. Mr. Partridge here is on the team that is figuring out how to best do that.” She turned back to Toby. “What have you got?”

Toby held up a memory cube. “Commander Rudd, Master Chief Gibson and the Dominion skipper, Captain Drechsher, and I were kicking around ideas and came up with some suggestions.” He stopped again. Now that he was here, he wondered if this was really such a good idea after all. “Master Chief said that I should give this to you tonight so that you’d have a chance to look at it before the meeting tomorrow morning. So– ” he held out the cube to her.

“So the Master Chief sent you into the lion’s den?” Hiram asked with amusement.

“Yes, sir,” Toby replied.

“Do you play Cha’rah?” Hiram suddenly asked.

“Well, yes, sir, a little. Commander Rudd has been teaching me.”

“And Captain Drechsher? Does she play?”

Toby frowned, caught off guard by the question. “I honestly don’t know, sir. She talks about some gambling games she plays, but she hasn’t mentioned Cha’rah.”

Hiram smiled at Emily. “Two Cha’rah players and a gambler, that cube might just be worth looking at.”

Chapter 27

In Tilleke Space, on Qom

Late in the afternoon Emperor Chalabi once again made the short journey through the deep basement corridors to the building next door and up the stairs to the small, neat bedroom. Afsoon was waiting for him.

“Tell me,” the Emperor ordered.

Afsoon bowed her head, causing her lovely hair to fall in waves over her face, then raised her head to peer at him with brown eyes.

“We followed Saatchi, My Lord, for the last ten days. He met with Admiral Kirmani three times, each time in secret, not in government offices, but in out-of-the-way places to ensure secrecy. Each time Saatchi and Admiral Kirmani were alone, with no guards or drivers.” She cast her eyes downward. “We were not able to record the meetings, My Lord, so we have no way of knowing what they said. Each meeting lasted approximately fifteen to twenty minutes, with one lasting thirty-two minutes.”

Emperor Chalabi grunted as if he had been punched hard in the stomach. Kirmani! Of course, it had to be Kirmani, not the Freeman Behzadi. Kirmani was Nobel Born and subject to all of the ambition and ruthlessness of those so blessed. Behzadi would never dream of betraying his Emperor. The Emperor had given him everything: education, training, status and title, a beautiful woman to bear him children, and respect. Behzadi would no more be disloyal than would a favored dog raised from being a newborn pup.

But Kirmani dreamed of more, always more. Perhaps he even wished to be Emperor himself one day. But what to do? The Fleet would attack within forty-eight hours. Kirmani was an important part of that attack.

Then Emperor Chalabi noticed the stiffness and tension in Afsoon’s form as she remained bowed low before him.

“There is more,” he said. “Tell me, child.”

Afsoon looked up at him. What was in her expression? Pity?

“My Lord, it is my duty to report-” She faltered, then plunged ahead. “My Lord, once we discovered that Saatchi had met with Admiral Kirmani, we put the Admiral under surveillance as well. I regret to inform you that he met for an hour with Prince RaShahid at a small café on the outskirts of the City. Last night, My Lord. Their meeting was last night. We could get close enough to record fragments of their conversation. A transcript has been prepared, My Lord.”

Emperor Chalabi nodded slowly. When would they strike? Now? When the attack launched against Victoria? Only upon the victory? And how best to forestall them? Kill Kirmani now, on the eve of battle? Would the other Noble Born captains willingly follow Behzadi, an admiral but still a Freeman for all of that?

He became aware that Afsoon was staring at him. “My Lord?” she asked gently. “Is there anything I can do? Do you have orders for me?”

Then Emperor Chalabi saw his way forward. It would work. He would make it work.

“Oh, yes, I will have orders,” he told Afsoon.

That night Emperor Chalabi was once again in his private conference room. The door opened and the spy master, Ryr Saatchi, entered. He bowed low before his Emperor.

“You summoned me, Your Eminence?”

Emperor Chalabi motioned for him to rise. “What news do you have for me?” he asked the spy master. He kept his face entirely neutral.

“All of the units are in place, Your Eminence,” Saatchi replied in his soft voice.

“And no sign of alarm from the Victorians?”

“None, Your Eminence. Everything is as it should be. In two days all of the targets will be on the Space Station Atlas for a meeting. Our commando squad is already on board and by now should have the weapons we smuggled on board months ago. They will be ready.”

“And the special agents?”

Saatchi ventured a small smile. “The ‘Ghosts,’ Your Eminence. All four have been substituted for their targets. Each substitution went off without difficulty or any alarm. They will be in their places on Atlas sometime tomorrow, and no one the wiser.”

The Emperor glanced down at a computer screen, displaying the latest report from Admirals Behzadi and Kirmani. The fleet was ready, but the special antimatter missiles were not. The delay was caused by some coupling issue. The Emperor considered. It was important that the fleet launch its attack as soon after the ground operation as possible.

He turned his attention back to his spy master. “Instruct your teams and the Ghosts to attack in two days’ time, as circumstances on the ground dictate.”

Saatchi bowed low. “As you command, Your Eminence.” He started to leave, but the Emperor motioned him to remain.

“There is something else, Saatchi, something very delicate.”

The spy master raised his eyebrows in question, but said nothing.

“I have heard some disquieting rumors about one of our admirals…” his voice trailed off. He smiled inwardly, knowing the inner turmoil Saatchi must be experiencing, but to his credit the spy master showed nothing.

“It is Admiral Behzadi,” the Emperor continued. “There is a rumor about that Behzadi was seen in the company of one of the Darwin embassy staff, a woman who may actually be working for the Victorians.”

Saatchi looked stricken, or pretended to. “I must humbly beg the Emperor’s forgiveness,” he said, “but I have heard nothing of this.”

The Emperor waved a dismissive hand. “You are my eyes and ears, Saatchi, but you are not my only eyes and ears. Someone in the Darwin embassy is indebted to me. From time to time he passes along useful information.”

“Of course, Your Eminence.” Saatchi paused. “And what about Admiral Behzadi? I presume you will launch your attack against Victoria within the next few days. Do you wish him to remain in place, under surveillance?”

Emperor Chalabi stroked his chin thoughtfully, then sighed and shook his head. “No, if there is something amiss, I dare not risk having Behzadi playing a crucial role in the invasion. No, I want him arrested.”

Saatchi looked wide-eyed. “Arrest Admiral Behzadi?”

The Emperor looked annoyed. “Yes, Saatchi, arrest him. But take care not to hurt him. I do not want him subject to your usual interrogation methods, Saatchi. I do not want this man destroyed if these rumors prove false, he is much too valuable. Use the drugs. I want him intact. Do you understand?”

Saatchi bowed low once more. “Of course, Your Eminence.”

“No mistakes on this, Saatchi. Use your best men, disciplined men, not the thugs who enjoy giving pain.”

“Of course, Your Eminence.”

The Emperor watched him go. Saatchi was probably gleeful that he could now tell Admiral Kirmani and Prince RaShahid that the only person in the military who might have been able to block their bid to power was being arrested. Now they would lead the fleet into war against the Victorians. And once victorious – and given the state of the Victorian navy, they would be victorious – they would return to Tilleke with the fleet to depose him. His lip curled.

Fools.

Chapter 28

On Space Station Atlas

“Your Majesty, with all respect, you are interfering in military matters that are beyond your customary purview and, frankly, beyond your expertise.” Admiral Pierrepont’s cheeks were ruddy with color and his voice was rising.

Queen Anne watched him stonily. Beside her Admiral Douthat flushed with anger. “Admiral, watch your tone. You are speaking to the Queen of Victoria, sir.”

Pierrepont’s gaze shifted to her. “With all respect, Admiral Douthat, part of the issue here is whether you would have been chosen to be the First Sea Lord were it not for the actions of the Queen. That is a military matter, not one that Queen Beatrice would have ever interfered with. Given the youth and inexperience of the Queen, it raises the question of whether there was undue influence exerted over her at a particularly vulnerable moment.”

Douthat sat up, eyes flashing. “Admiral Pierrepont, you are walking on very thin ice. You-” But then Queen Anne held up her hand, silencing her First Sea Lord. She steepled her fingers across her chest, eyes sweeping among the Lost Admirals and their entourage who crowded into the conference room.

There were six senior admirals who survived the Dominion bombing of the Palace. With them they had perhaps a dozen of the older captains, including, she saw, Captain Joseph Wicklow, formerly captain of the Cruiser Gloucester. She had removed him from that posting after his attempt to arrest – kidnap, really – Emily Tuttle on charges that later proved to be spurious. Wicklow had never forgiven nor, apparently, forgotten that incident and had thrown in his lot with the Lost Admirals once Cornwall was retaken. There were others, Admiral Critton, Admiral St. Clair – an old polo chum of Queen Anne’s uncle – and Admiral Fenwick, and several others the Queen did not immediately recognize.

But they all shared two things in common: they were all members of the Victorian aristocracy and to a man they were at least forty years older than Queen Anne, and fifteen years older than Admiral Douthat. This was the Old Boys Club, and they were not about to give up their power, perks or prerogatives without a fight.

Would they fight even if it risked doom for Victoria, Anne wondered curiously, or did they simply assume that a Victoria without them in command was not worth saving?

“Admiral Pierrepont,” she replied neutrally, trying hard to keep the frost out of her voice. “I commend you on the depth of your concern for the Kingdom of Victoria, though I assume that you are aware that we expect to be in an all-out shooting war with the Tilleke within a matter of days. It is troubling to me, Admiral, that in the midst of war preparations, you want me to remove the Fleet’s experienced veterans and replace them with men who have not had the benefit of the lessons that the current Fleet captains have learned the hard way.”

Admiral Pierrepont smiled indulgently at the Queen. “Well, really, Your Majesty, I suggest that being caught in an ambush by the Dominion and almost annihilated and having to run with our tail between our legs to Refuge is not the criteria I would normally use to define ‘experienced veterans,’ but I agree that any lessons those officers may have learned were most certainly learned the hard way, and at great cost to Victoria.” He sniffed. “Were I the First Sea Lord, I assure you that all of the officers involved in that fiasco would have been discharged from the Fleet forthwith, for incompetence and gross negligence.”

Before Admiral Douthat could say anything, the conference room door opened and Captain Eder and Emily Tuttle entered, taking seats to the right of the Admiral. Admiral Pierrepont glared at each of them in turn, then shifted his gaze back to the Queen.

“These two are of particular concern, Your Majesty.” His voice held that particular upper class sneer, and Emily wondered briefly if they were all taught that as young children in school. “I won’t talk about the role these officers played in the disgraceful retreat from Victoria during the Dominion attack,” Pierrepont continued, “but there are matters of more immediate concern that should be brought to Your Majesty’s attention.”

Emily and Eder shared a quick glance, and beside them Emily could sense Admiral Douthat stiffen in her chair.

“It has come to my attention that Captain Eder and Commander Tuttle have spent days running through simulations of a Tilleke attack into Victorian space, and to date have not once been able to successfully defend Victoria against the Tilleke!” Admiral Pierrepont shook his head in disgust. “Your Majesty, we are talking about a simple wormhole defense here, something taught to every cadet in their second year at the Academy. Any senior officer worthy of his rank should be able to mount an impenetrable wormhole defense against an enemy. The fact that these two officers have been utterly defeated in countless simulations is appalling, and requires that at a minimum they be removed from their present duties and replaced by someone else while there is still time.” He looked gravely at the Queen. “For the good of Victoria, Your Majesty, for the good of Victoria.”

Silence descended upon the conference room like a shroud. Admiral Douthat looked at both Captain Eder and Emily for a long moment. She leaned closer. “Emily, do you have a plan to defend against a Tilleke attack?”

Emily nodded imperceptibly. “Yes, Admiral, but it is not a simple wormhole defense, which we’ve learned just won’t work.”

“Will your plan work?” Admiral Douthat looked at her stolidly.

So far, they had only run it through the simulators once. But once was enough. “Yes, Admiral,” Emily said evenly.

Douthat turned and whispered to Queen Anne, whose face did not change expression at all. After a moment, Admiral Douthat returned her gaze to Admiral Pierrepont and the faintest hint of a smile played on her lips. Pierrepont took no notice, but to anyone who had played poker with Admiral Douthat, this was the signal to throw down your cards and walk away while you still had time.

Queen Anne allowed herself the teeniest of frowns. “Admiral Pierrepont, is it your position that you or others in your group would be capable of defending the Victorian wormhole from a direct Tilleke assault?”

“Absolutely, Your Majesty!” Pierrepont nodded vigorously. “we, too, have played this out on the simulators and have won every battle. I might add further that I have reviewed some of Commander Tuttle’s simulations and I found her efforts to be clumsy in the extreme, lacking boldness and revealing a woefully inadequate understanding of the principles of warfare in space. Given her youth and lack of experience, this is not unexpected.”

Queen Anne pursed her lips in thought. “So, Admiral, would you be prepared to engage in a simulation against Commander Tuttle, with you as the defending Victorian force and Commander Tuttle as the attacking force?”

“Well of course! We would be delighted.”

“And since you criticized Commander Tuttle’s simulation performance, I would have you use that simulation, with those strength weightings and force calculations. So, we are comparing apples to apples, so to speak.” The Queen looked at him blandly.

Admiral Pierrepont shot a furtive glance to his colleagues. Several frowned with concern, but Captain Wicklow nodded once.

“That would be acceptable,” Admiral Pierrepont said graciously.

Queen Anne brightened. “Very well then! It is almost lunch time now gentlemen and ladies. Food will be brought in and we can begin the simulation immediately thereafter, say by 1330. And, Admiral, I look forward to learning as much as I can from you and your team.” She smiled beatifically at everyone in the room and then departed, her personal bodyguard falling in step with her.

Admiral Pierrepont gave Douthat, Eder and Emily a hard look, then retreated to the far side of the conference room to converse with his fellow Lost Admirals.

Admiral Douthat stood. “Okay, you two, don’t get cocky; just kill the bastards as quickly as you can. Tuttle, as soon as you finish the simulation, report to me. I want to see your plan for handling the Tilleke attack, and I hope to hell that it’s better than your wormhole defense attempts.” She stomped out.

Captain Eder turned to Emily. “You know, I served under Admiral Pierrepont on the battleship London a million years ago. My recollection is that he always adhered rigidly to doctrine and that he has not held a shipboard command since then. I’ll bet he’s rusty.”

“Captain Wicklow won’t be rusty, and if I’m right, they will use him as their tactical commander,” Emily replied, who had noticed Wicklow nod to Admiral Pierrepont’s unspoken question.

Eder smiled unpleasantly. “Captain Wicklow doesn’t like you, Emily, nor me, either, for that matter. In some men, that will make him assume you are incompetent, perhaps even stupid. We can use that. Join me for lunch, Commander?”

“With your permission, sir, I should assemble my team and get ready for the sim.”

“I’ll bring you a sandwich, Commander, and a nice cup of tea to keep your nerves steady. Pretty slick move by Douthat, wasn’t it? She maneuvered Admiral Pierrepont into a showdown, winner takes all, and I don’t think he has a clue.”

Two hours later Emily sat in the Red Team’s control room, with Captain Eder, Alex Rudd, Captain Sadia Zahiri and Captain Astrid Drechsher beside her. Master Chief Gibson and Toby Partridge stood discretely in the back, ready to pitch in as needed.

They had discussed at length whether to hold back and try to goad Wicklow into a spoiling attack, or whether to just push immediately into the Victorian space and smash them. But there were high stakes to this game; it wasn’t just about winning a sim, but about winning the right to defend Victoria in real life. Besides, Emily had an idea she wanted to try.

So, when the start chime sounded, Emily did nothing. And she continued to do nothing until Wicklow finally sent a scouting party through the wormhole.

“Okay Alex,” she radioed to Alex Rudd. “You know what to do, just make sure you do it poorly.”

“You inspire me to greatness, Commander, you really do.” Rudd replied dryly.

“Be great, Alex, but in a bumbling way.”

As Emily watched, several destroyers flared into life from their stealthy somnolence and shot a volley of missiles at the Victorian scouts. There were two dozen scouts. The missiles took out two of them. The rest of the scouts turned and leapt back through the wormhole.

Good.

Next Emily sent through five of her reconnaissance drones, but she purposely reduced their speed by 10% and reduced the effectiveness of their jamming by even more. Not surprisingly, none of them survived to return to the “Gilead” side of the wormhole.

The bait was set. Now to jiggle the hook a little.

She sent through an unmanned destroyer, active sensors blasting. It was programmed much like a reconnaissance drone, with instructions to sweep in a short arc to scan the enemy dispositions – funny, though, to think of Victoria as the enemy – and then to turn back and return to Gilead space. But like the drones, it was not operating at maximum speed or efficiency.

And like the drones, it never made it back.

Captain Tagger, one of the umpires monitoring the simulated battle, frowned in dismay. “Off to a rough start, Commander,” he said quietly. “I don’t particularly feel like losing my job to one of Admiral Pierrepont’s favored few.”

Emily glanced at him to see if he was really worried, and to her dismay saw that he was. She leaned over. “Not to worry, Captain. Early days yet.” She smiled reassuringly and saw his quizzical look in reply.

About an hour and a half into the game, the wormhole blossomed with energy once again and another flock of drones came through, but while some took sensor readings and fled back through the wormhole, roughly half of them stayed behind and began jamming normal sensor signals. Immediately, most of the sensors aimed at the wormhole entrance filled with white snow and noise.

Most, but not all. Five recon drones circling immediately in front of the wormhole switched to active sensors and gave a coherent view of what was happening. They would eventually succumb to the wormhole’s gravity tides, but replacements sat in the wings, ready to be activated.

“Ready, Captain Drechsher?” Emily called to the simulated version of the Draugr. Technically, the Draugr should have been fighting on the Victorian side, but Emily had offered Admiral Pierrepont an additional destroyer if he would release Draugr to fight on the Tilleke side and Pierrepont had readily agreed, no doubt thinking that he had the better of the deal. Time would tell.

“Ready,” Drechsher replied shortly, focused and all business. Captain Drechsher, like all the other captains fighting their simulated ships, was sitting in a simulator somewhere in the building. In a major game like this, some two hundred or so simulators might be used, representing individual ships, forts, supply vessels, headquarters units, command centers and even land-based missile squadrons. They were all linked together through Gandalf, the Atlas AI.

“Owls ready?” Emily glanced at Captain Zahiri, who checked her console and gave thumbs up.

The wormhole flared with energy once more, only this time instead of drones, ten cruisers, fifteen destroyers and three Hedgehogs hurtled through, S-band targeting sensors positively cooking the area in front of them.

Captain Wicklow had launched his spoiler attack.

“Plasma ships, fire!” Emily ordered. Six ships fired. Six of the ten Victorian cruisers burst apart and the ‘Tilleke’ plasma ships fell back behind the protection of the Hedgehogs and began to recharge their weapons systems.

“Dampening fields!” Emily ordered. Eight more Tilleke ships fired and suddenly the rest of the Victorian cruisers, two of the Victorian Hedgehogs and a handful of destroyers lost power and went into a ballistic trajectory. Small Tilleke Viper ships darted alongside of them and poured missile fire into their hulls. Long before the energy dampener wore off, the little ships would nibble the cruisers to death.

The surviving Victorian destroyers and the single living Hedgehog frantically wheeled about and dove towards the safety of the wormhole.

“Fire missiles!”

Every ship within range of the wormhole fired a volley of anti-ship and jamming missiles into the wormhole, chasing the fleeing Victorian destroyers. More than a hundred missiles and dozens of jammers poured through the wormhole entrance.

“Draugr! Owls! Go!”

Immediately on the heels of the missiles and jammers, the frigate Draugr and five of the stealthy Owls (actually, stealthy Tilleke ships captained by Owl crews) plunged into the wormhole, only to emerge five seconds behind the missile barrage as it reached Victorian space. Between the missiles detonating and the jamming, no one noticed the fact that six armed Tilleke spy ships had just entered into Victoria and scattered.

Mixed in with the barrage were several reconnaissance drones, which returned safely to “Gilead” and revealed the disposition of the Victorian forces.

“Put it on the Board,” Emily said, and the sensor data was displayed on the holo.

The Victoria defensive position was right out of the books. Directly in front of the wormhole exit was a large fort. From the earlier exercises, Emily knew this was a manned fort commanding sixty missile tubes, forty ten-inch lasers and forty more five-inch lasers. The fort was powered by eight antimatter generators. Anything coming through the wormhole to attack Victoria would first have to contend with the fort.

In addition, two oversized Battle Groups patrolled to the east and west of the wormhole exit, while one was held in reserve. The distance between the two front units was far enough to prevent them from both being crippled by the same missile barrage.

All pretty standard. Emily frowned. Wicklow had apparently been monitoring the war games she and her team had been doing, so he’d know that this formation wouldn’t work against a Tilleke attack, not when two plasma beams could cripple the fort or a dampening field could render it useless for a time.

So…what was Wicklow up to?

“Master Chief Gibson and Mr. Partridge, please give me a count of how many ships you see on those sensor returns. Victoria started with ninety-five ships and we’ve killed fifteen. I want to know if you can find all eighty Victorian warships and then I want to confirm that we are not looking at decoy drones. Use whatever resources you need, but get it done fast.”

Captain Eder looked at her questioningly. “You really think Wicklow would do that?”

Emily smiled. “Just because I don’t like him doesn’t mean he’s stupid, sir.”

Eder snorted in amusement. “Carry on, Commander.”

Meanwhile, Captain Drechsher and the five Owls were creeping away from the wormhole in full stealth mode. The explosions and jamming near the wormhole were receding and their passive sensors were beginning to sort out the Victorian forces. They were hunting for the “Big Bears,” the battleships.

Drechsher’s entire bridge crew were with her in the simulator, which almost exactly mirrored the actual bridge of her ship, except the coffee was better and the seats were softer.

“Maintain passive sensors. If we see any of the battleships, we will maneuver to get behind them and shoot out their propulsion system,” she said genially. “There are three battleships out there; we should be able to bag at least one.”

In Emily’s control room, Master Chief Gibson reported in. “We’ve found sixty-five ships, Ma’am, not eighty. And of the sixty-five, not one of them is a battleship. I’m guessing that they made up a special strike force of the three battleships and then mostly cruisers, with a few destroyers thrown in. I can’t tell you where they are, but if it was me, I would have them located so that I could bring them up quickly to hit us hard if things began to get out of hand.”

“So, some of what we are seeing are decoys?”

The Master Chief nodded vigorously. “A lot of them.”

“Then we need to scare Captain Wicklow enough to make him show his hand prematurely. If we can flush out the battleships, maybe we can hurt them before they hurt us.” Emily considered. “No matter what, though, we still have to neutralize the fort.”

Captain Eder took a deep breath. “Dangerous to go in without knowing where their heavies are.”

Emily nodded. “They are down fifteen ships. That should put them off balance. They’ll be scrambling to fill gaps, and they may have to fill those gaps with more decoys. If we can keep the two front forces apart, we can smash them one at a time. If things start going badly, we can fall back through the wormhole and regroup. Kill that fort and we have a force advantage.”

Alex Rudd smiled. “I have an idea.” He explained it briefly.

Emily frowned in concentration, trying to picture it. Always acutely aware that time was ticking away, giving Captain Wicklow an opportunity to compensate for his lost ships.

“Okay! Alex, you run that portion of the operation. Are the ships on hand?”

Rudd nodded.

“Mr. Partridge, show me a diagram of the Victorian space up to and including the fort,” Emily requested. Once Toby had put it up, Emily took a long look at it. There was no place to hide three battleships and a bunch of cruisers. She looked again. Wicklow needed quick access to the battleships if things went badly, and he knew that she had to attack him all-out. But the only things in sight were the two forward Victorian patrols and the fort…

“Mr. Partridge!” she asked crisply. “When you looked for decoys, did you check the possibility that they might hide a battleship, powered down, behind the decoy? Is there a chance they are trying to spoof us into thinking they are using decoys when they’ve got the real thing sitting there, waiting for us to attack?”

Partridge shook his head. “Commander, we checked the electrical pattern of the display and one of the recon drones got close enough for both visual and infrared sensors to get a good look. The decoys are just decoys, Ma’am. No battleships.”

“Hmmm.” She tapped her cheek with her fingertips. That left the fort.

“Toby, superimpose a diagram of a battleship on the fort to give us a sense of comparative size.”

A moment later the image of the fort flickered, then steadied. In the middle of it were two black outlines, one of the battleship Lionheart and one of a standard cruiser. They both sat side by side on the fort with plenty of room to spare. Partridge typed furiously on his console, then the image flickered again, this time with fifteen ship outlines superimposed over the fort.

It was a tight fit, but all fifteen ships fit within the outline of the fort.

“Huh!” Emily said in admiration. “I wouldn’t have thought they could all fit, but they do. Captain Wicklow is hiding his special Battle Group behind the fort, ready to come out and punch us in the nose as soon as we attack. Not bad, not bad at all.”

Emily could feel a tickle of excitement, which she immediately squashed. Still, if this worked, it could end things very, very quickly. “Commander Rudd, bring up your ships. We’ll send them in right behind the missile volley.” She turned to Eder. “Captain, please have the energy ships ready, followed by the plasma ships. All of the plasma ships.” Then she told him in detail what she wanted to do.

Eder grinned. “At your command, Commander,” he said without sarcasm. “About time Wicklow got some payback.”

In Captain Wicklow’s command post, there was a sense of growing anticipation. Captain Wicklow was standing, looking from one holo display to another. Despite the sweat running down the back of his neck, he looked composed and very much in charge. He had thought Tuttle would attack right away, but she didn’t. And when he sent in probes her response had been weak and clumsy. Admiral Pierrepont had insisted that he attack then, and despite some misgivings that it was too soon, Wicklow had launched a spoiling attack. And Tuttle had handed him his head, forcing a hasty retreat back into Victorian space.

But now they were almost back to square one. She had to come through the wormhole to get him, and he still had the defensive advantage. The fort was massive and all by itself could decimate the ‘Tilleke’ force. No, the battle had not gone quite the way he had envisioned it, but it was a long way from over.

“That woman caught you flatfooted, Joe,” Admiral Pierrepont said harshly, exercising the right of admirals everywhere to conveniently forget that the attack had been at his urging. “She suckered you in and gave you a proper thrashing. Now what are you going to do about it?”

“I’m going to force her to attack a heavily fortified position, Admiral,” Wicklow replied heavily. “We can wait. She can’t. We know she has to come through the wormhole. We know she has to attack the fort. And we have a surprise waiting for her when she does.”

Admiral Pierrepont glowered. “Make sure you stop them, Joe. I will not be made a laughing stock before the Queen, do you understand? Stop them.”

“I understand perfectly, sir,” Wicklow said stiffly, wishing the Admiral would just let him fight the battle.

Standing by the back wall of the simulation chamber, Admiral Jean St. Clair was trying to watch the ongoing battle while carrying on a telephone conversation with the Senior Foreman at the shipyard St. Clair oversaw. There was a problem with the AI integration into the operating systems of the missile cruiser they were building. St. Clair really needed to see the schematics to properly follow what the foreman was trying to explain, but they were Top Secret and he couldn’t have them sent to his tablet while he was stuck here at the war game.

Admiral St. Clair was one of those rare men who had no misconceptions about his own talents and strengths. He knew what he was. He knew what he was not. He was not bold or daring, nor particularly aggressive. He was an engineer by training and an administrator by temperament. He was thorough and detail-oriented. A plodder, but a very good plodder. He knew that, too.

After the Fleet’s return from Refuge, Admiral Douthat had appointed him to rebuild and manage the shipyard on Hyperion. He loved it. He loved the problem solving, the creation of the assembly line, the details, even the engineering, which he hadn’t practiced for many years. They had already built one ship, a beautiful cruiser more advanced and powerful than any Victorian cruiser that currently existed, and now they were almost finished with the second.

Except that there was a problem and he needed to be at the Yard to resolve it. Not standing here twiddling his thumbs while Pierrepont strutted around and barked orders at everyone. He shook his head in exasperation. Charles Pierrepont had helped him get his initial job five years ago, at the Atlas base shipyard when St. Clair was desperate for a decent posting. It had saved his career. Now Pierrepont was calling in his chits, telling him that he had to stand with Pierrepont and the others – even that imbecile Fenwick – and convince the Queen to make Pierrepont the First Sea Lord. Pierrepont had brought others into line with promises of ships and Battle Group postings.

St. Clair loathed the Pierreponts of the world. And the Fenwicks and the Wicklows. He despised their strutting, their self-aggrandizement and the chummy braggadocio. Collectively and individually they would take credit for the sun rising in the morning if they thought they could get away with it. In the midst of the greatest crisis Victoria had ever faced, all Pierrepont could see was that this was his chance to get promoted to First Sea Lord. And Fenwick and Wicklow and all the others would tag along and tell him he deserved it and would be given promotions in turn so that Pierrepont could surround himself with fawning yes-men.

St. Clair hated it, and despised himself for being a part of it.

“Oh, Gods Balls!” Wicklow shouted across the room, half in surprise and half in fear. Something had happened, though St. Clair did not know what. There was a moment of fraught silence, then many voices speaking at the same time, with Pierrepont’s voice yelling something at Captain Wicklow that St. Clair couldn’t catch.

No one noticed when Admiral Jean St. Clair slipped out the door.

Four hundred missiles and jammers burst through into Victorian space. The jammers spread out into a layered configuration and blinded the Victorian sensors for several crucial minutes. Immediately behind them five special cruisers fired missiles at the right-hand edge of the left Victorian Battle Group. The missiles raced along the side of the Battle Group and then split apart, each missile disgorging three mines. The mines were designed to slow to a stop and be held in place by small DMB units, which were then jettisoned after they finished their task.

Two more rounds of missile-mines followed, creating a somewhat sloppy but effective ‘wall’ of mines. It was suddenly much harder for the left Victorian Battle Group to go to the aid of the right Victorian Battle Group.

The minelayers wheeled about and dove back into the wormhole, narrowly missing the second wave of ships emerging from it. Cut that a little too close, Emily thought with a wince.

Five ships with the energy dampening weapons poured into the battle zone. Nicknamed “Sprinklers” in a play on the energy dampening field that was their primary weapon, the ships had an unfortunately high energy profile that was easily spotted by sensors. The jammers gave them some protection, but the missile fusillade from the Victorian fort immediately destroyed two. Emily winced again, then shrugged it off. She knew she would take losses. The remaining three Sprinklers locked onto the fort and fired within moments of each other.

Within seconds all firing from the fort ceased. The missile ports stood empty. The laser turrets stood quiet. Lights went out and life support systems fell still. In the simulator rooms that controlled the ‘fort,’ officers frantically tried to reboot systems, to reload magazines, to do anything they could think of to bring weapons online again. Even their radios were dead, cutting them off from the rest of the Fleet.

The Victorian fort, twenty times more powerful than any single battleship, lay helpless.

The door to Victorian space had been kicked open.

“Twelve minutes!” Emily said into the comm unit. “The fort will come back online in twelve minutes. Plasma ships, advance!”

The three surviving Sprinklers retreated to the sides, away from the wormhole entrance. Right on time, eight of the plasma ships emerged, turned slightly to line up with the fort and advanced. The plasma ships were amazingly powerful, but they had – as best Victoria could determine – one notable weakness: a very short firing range. Had the fort been active, it would have easily demolished them. But the fort was not active, and the plasma ships moved closer unchallenged, accompanied by two Hedgehogs just in case the fort was not as immobilized as everyone hoped. Better safe than sorry.

At 10,000 miles, the first two plasma ships opened fire. The fort shuddered, huge chunks of metal vaporizing and spalling off into space. The computer graphics were not too detailed – this was only a sim, after all – but it was clear that the fort was mortally wounded. One more plasma ship moved within range and fired. This time the computer graphics showed the fort breaking into two pieces and drifting apart. In real life, Emily knew, the fort would be vomiting air, paper, bits and pieces of hull and machinery, and people, but the sim’s graphics spared them all that, for which she was grateful.

The three plasma ships that had already fired fell back and frantically began to recharge their weapons. The remaining ships fell back slowly to cover them. Meanwhile, Emily sent through forty conventional warships, including two battleships and many cruisers.

The debris field caused by the dying fort obstructed most of the sensor scans, so no one could see the fifteen Victorian ships – Captain Wicklow’s ‘Special Battle Group’ – emerge from behind it. Three battleships and eleven cruisers shook out into a vertical ‘X’ formation and raced towards the wormhole entrance. The Battle Group could launch 340 missiles in a barrage that would pulverize any opposing ships, backed up by several dozen energy beams.

Three things happened in rapid succession.

Captain Drechsher and one of the Owls had spent more than two hours sneaking in behind the battleship Lionheart, which normally would have been protected by a shell of destroyers and sensor drones. Wicklow had dispensed with that protective shell since he had to hide Lionheart behind the fort. As the Lionheart accelerated forward, six missiles flew into its engine housings and blew them apart. The force of the explosion caused Lionheart to tumble uncontrollably. Without engines, it lost power for its other systems and could neither change direction nor fire weapons. Tumbling violently end over end, the Lionheart began its Long Walk. (The Draugr and the Owl were promptly blown apart by return fire, but in the simulator chamber, Astrid Drechsher smiled with satisfaction.)

Next, one of the Sprinklers got its weapon online and fired at the oncoming Victorians. It was a hasty shot and ill-aimed, but it still hurt them. The dampening field caught two of the cruisers and part of the battleship Fortitude, effectively putting them out of commission as well.

And lastly, the forty warships that had come in to support the plasma ships – Have to give them a name, Emily thought to herself. Dragons? Chimera? Motherin-Law?– opened fire.

The two remaining Victorian battleships were damaged and limped away as best they could, spewing air from countless hull breaches. Four more cruisers died and all of the rest suffered damage. The few that could, turned and fled.

Meanwhile, the left Victorian Battle Group had tried to come to the aid of the fort, but blundered into the minefield. Its force had already been weakened when Captain Wicklow had stripped it of its battleship and several cruisers to make the Special Battle Group, and as it blundered into the minefield, it took more losses. The Vice Admiral in charge soon called a retreat so as to not lose more ships.

The Victorian Battle Group on the right charged in, unleashing a torrent of missiles and lasers. Several of the ‘Tilleke’ ships died or were damaged, but they still had numerical superiority and fired back with gusto.

More Tilleke ships poured into the battle, opening fire on the hapless Battle Group and decimating it. Three Victorian destroyers shot chaff and flares and ran away, the only survivors.

From the moment the first energy dampening weapon had been fired at the fort, the battle had taken ninety violent minutes. Victoria had begun the battle with ninety-five ships; it now had less than thirty. Of the 100 ships Emily started with, she had lost only nine.

The umpires called the game at five hours and forty-six minutes. The lights came up in all the sim chambers. Admiral Douthat’s face appeared on the holo. “The simulation of an invasion by Tilleke forces into the Victorian Sector is complete. The Victorian Fleet has been substantially destroyed. The umpires and I agree unanimously that Victoria would have been totally defeated. I declare the team led by Captain Eder and Commander Tuttle to be the winners.”

In the Victorian control room, Admiral Pierrepont glared at Captain Wicklow. “You disappoint me, Joe. This was your opportunity and you buggered it.” Then he turned on his heel and walked out.

In the ‘Tilleke’ control room, Captain Tagger, the umpire who had been concerned at the beginning of the game, shook Emily’s hand.

“Congratulations, Commander Tuttle. This ought to derail Admiral Pierrepont for a time.” He studied her grimly for a long moment. “That’s the good news. The bad news is that you scared the crap out of me by how easily you just defeated the Victorian Fleet. Are we going to be able to stop the Tilleke? How will you cope with those damn weapons they have?”

Emily sighed. “All I can tell you, sir, is that we are working on it.”

Captain Tagger grimaced. “That bad, huh?”

Chapter 29

On Space Station Atlas

A Busy Day

The day began with coffee. Or tea.

The forty Savak commandos split into two groups of ten and four groups of five. They had retrieved the weapons and explosives that Saatchi had smuggled onto Atlas more than two years earlier, when the Emperor first predicted this day might come. The moles placed on Atlas – a restaurant owner, the foreman of a machine shop, and an artificial intelligence consultant – had kept the weapons hidden and turned them over to the Savak.

For three days of their “shore leave” the Savak had wandered all over Atlas, scouting out their assigned targets and looking for the best place to create a diversion. At night they frequented the bars, sports arenas and more earthy forms of entertainment and distraction, but that was largely to keep up appearances. A close observer might have been curious why five young miners took a tour of Atlas’s air purification plant, or the public tour of the main ship building yard. But in a security failure that would haunt Victoria for years, there were no close observers and the Savak wandered Atlas freely.

There was no public tour of the Queen’s suite of offices and living quarters, however. For that, the Savak had to rely on the briefing given by the John Farnsworth-Ghost. From that they knew there was a lightly-guarded delivery entrance in the rear of the building, with only one guard outside and two inside. The door was electronically locked, but it was not reinforced. A touch of explosives should do the trick.

Now the Savak teams met and went over the final plans for the assault while sipping coffee and eating a light breakfast. They had two primary tasks: kill their assigned targets, and once that was accomplished or proved impossible, kill as many people as possible. Most of the workers on Atlas were specialists in one form or another; they would be difficult to replace. And you never knew whether the person you killed might be someone absolutely critical to Victoria’s defense within the next few days.

The attack would commence at noon, when the main corridors of Atlas were crowded.

The Team Leader finished the briefing, and then raised his coffee mug in his hand. “Glory to the Emperor!” he said softly, reciting the guiding principle hammered into all of them since the crèche. They all raised their mugs and murmured: “Glory to the Emperor!”

“May each of you do his duty and die in grace,” the Team Leader told them. “Now go! And do not fail.”

And as they stood, the Team Leader raised a hand in benediction and promise. “Always remember, we shall live again through our brothers.”

The long day had begun.

Queen Anne finished her coffee and continued reading through the stack of reports sent by Max Opinsky, detailing the status of ship building and repairing on Atlas, Hyperion and on Refuge. She looked for a similar report from the Might of the People Ship Works in the Dominion Sector and when she couldn’t find it, scribbled a note to ask Opinsky about it. She had a light schedule today, wonder of wonders, and even had lunch free, a rare treat. Perhaps a walk, or even a swim. No, if she went to the pool, John and Betty would insist on clearing everyone else out of the pool area, where a lot of people went on their lunch hour. She wasn’t going to ruin it for them. A walk, then. Something to look forward to.

“Betty?” she called to her personal armsman. “Let’s take a walk at lunch, shall we?”

Betty Freidman bowed slightly. “Of course, Your Majesty. The Arboretum?”

Queen Anne smiled. “Yes, that would be nice. Light security should do it for today, Betty, no need to chase everyone out on their lunch hour.” She smiled mischievously. “I’ll go casual; with luck, no one will even notice me.”

Betty bowed once more. “I’ll alert the team, Your Majesty. The sun simulation will be running about noon, so it will be a nice day for a walk. No rain.” Her eyes twinkled. It never rained on Atlas.

“Is John back from his visit to his sister?” the Queen asked, referring to John Farnsworth.

“He arrived back this morning and should be on duty just before lunch,” Betty answered.

The Queen shook her head. “I feel for his poor sister, what an awful thing to happen.”

Betty bowed once more and departed, her mind already ticking off the things she had to take care of to secure the Queen’s safety during a simple walk outside. But they had done this before. Should be a piece of cake.

She had no idea this would be the most momentous decision of the day.

Captain Eder made a sour expression as he put down the cup. Why the hell couldn’t they make better coffee in Her Majesty’s Fleet? Bitter enough to burn a hole through his stomach, or through the deck, for that matter. The Lionheart was docked at one of the Atlas berths, maybe he should have gone down to the Main Concourse for a coffee. A nice, smooth latte with that wonderfully sweet, creamy froth on top. He sighed, not today. Resignedly, he studied the morning list of reports on his tablet, then frowned.

“Sharon, do you have the daily log summary for me?”

The Sharon-Ghost looked up in confusion. There was nothing in the memory transfer from Sharon Gilmore about a log summary. It let Sharon’s face look flustered. “No, Captain, my apologies. I’m still catching up from my leave.”

Eder frowned again. “Well, get it ready this morning, will you? And highlight any signals from Fleet Intelligence; I want to know what the Tillies are up to before I meet with the Queen.”

“Yes, Captain.” The Sharon-Ghost looked at its console, wondering what it had to do to prepare such a report. So much it didn’t know, and damn Sharon Gilmore to hell for not telling it more. It sighed inwardly. Its cover would not last long and it would have to act soon. It glanced at the clock. Could it last until noon, or would it have to strike early? The small flechette pistol was nestled under its uniform blouse. Sighing again, it began scrolling through previous reports on Sharon Gilmore’s tablet to find one of the log summaries.

It just need a little time.

Admiral Alyce Douthat wasn’t drinking coffee; couldn’t stand the stuff. She sipped gratefully at a china cup of jasmine tea in which she had surreptitiously stirred four heaping teaspoons of sugar. She closed her eyes, savoring the smell and the taste. It was divine.

She thought again of the war game between Admiral Pierrepont and Commander Tuttle and enjoyed a moment of unabashed glee. Gods, she wished she could have been in the room when that crotchety bastard Pierrepont realized he had been beaten by a woman barely five years out of the Academy. She smiled happily. She had graciously offered to give Pierrepont a debriefing so that he could learn what mistakes had been made, but he had huffed and said he was much too busy for such foolishness.

Her smile grew broader.

It was the simple joys that made life worth living.

A knock at the door brought her back. The door opened and Lieutenant Perry walked in.

“Oliver! I am so sorry about your grandmother,” Douthat told him.

Perry looked tired and a little out of sorts. No surprise there. “Thank you, Admiral. I have your schedule for the day, Admiral. Where would you like it?”

“On the table. I won’t need you after 11:30 a.m., Oliver. I have a meeting with the Owl captains to rework their Fleet assignments. Mostly personnel stuff. I’d like you to summarize the Fleet readiness report and I’ll look at it this afternoon when I get back.”

The Oliver-Ghost nodded and smiled. “Of course, Admiral.” It went back to its desk in the outer office, stomach churning. It couldn’t let her go away for lunch, it would ruin everything.

Sir Henry got to the office late. The whirlwind trip to Sybil Head and the Sultenic Empire had taken more out of him than he cared to admit, and he’d overslept for the second day in a row. Getting old, he chided himself. Fortunately, Mrs. McCrutchen was recovered from her illness and she could get him organized again. He looked at this watch and groaned. Almost 10:30 a.m.; he’d never get caught up.

Mrs. McCrutchen met him at the door. “Good morning, Sir Henry. You’ve a stack of reports and phone slips waiting on your desk. I trust your trip was satisfactory?”

“It is good to see you, Mrs. McCrutchen,” he said cautiously. Mrs. McCrutchen could be rather snarky when he came to work late with no excuse, but perhaps her own recent illness bought him a pass this once. “My trip was more of a conundrum than anything else.”

“I have checked your calendar, Sir Henry, but I do not see anything at all today. No luncheon meeting?”

He shook his head. “Just trying to catch up, Mrs. McCrutchen. I’ll eat in today.” It nodded perfunctorily and left and Sir Henry settled in to catch up on his reading, but he was distracted and tired.

He would kill for a cup of coffee.

Hiram finally reached Cookie mid-morning. “Hey, I’m back,” he said. “Where are you?”

“Well, actually, I’ve just finished having my head reprogrammed a bit by Dr. Wilkinson, who promises that now I have a wonderful future ahead of me,” Cookie replied. “She says that from now on I won’t be prone to cutting throats in public, only in private.”

Hiram’s eyes widened. He had no idea what to say.

“Joke!” Cookie said with relish. “Just kidding.”

Hiram let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Gods’ Balls, Cookie!”

Cookie chuckled, but it was a humorous “I-really-got-you-there” chuckle rather than a nasty “I’m-about-to-start-shooting-random-strangers” chuckle.

Or at least they both hoped it was.

“If you don’t have to be anywhere, want to get together for coffee, maybe a late breakfast?” he ventured.

“What have you got in mind?”

“There’s this little French place just north of the Arboretum,” he told her. “We can eat outside.”

“Or as outside as you possibly can on a space station,” Cookie teased.

“Yeah, well…” He looked at his calendar and the email list on his tablet. “Would 1100 work for you?”

There was an unnervingly long pause, then Cookie said: “Sure, this will be fun.”

“Cookie, no need to bring your combat knife; the restaurant will provide silverware,” he said lightly. Taking a chance here, but what the hell.

There was another pause in the conversation.

“Joke,” Hiram said, suddenly fearful that he’d blown it. “Just kidding.”

“Now I’m definitely bringing it,” Cookie laughed. “And you’d better be nice to me. You never know…”

One of the ten-man teams – Team 1 – took the lift to the shipyard level. They had already secured visitor badges through one of the moles, which would get them into the administrative office area, but they would have to pass through security to get into the actual ship building yard.

They were a little early, and timing was important, so they stopped at one of the cafes on that level and ordered coffees. They wanted to enter the administrative offices just at noon. So they sat there, ten men at three different tables, relaxing with a coffee, waiting to shoot the hell out of the place.

On the other side of Atlas, on Level 1, a five-man Savak squad – Team 2 – was placing explosives around the main air purification unit. The unit was huge, as long as a city block and reaching up to the fourth level. The Team Leader was a little nervous. Was this enough explosive to cripple the damn thing?

Another team of ten – Team 3 – was walking casually – as casually as one can while carrying a bag with a combat sonic rifle, four grenades and lots of extra ammunition – towards the bay where the Lionheart was docked. They had no passes at all and knew they would have to shoot their way in. They were timing it to arrive just at noon. Once they got aboard, they would try to cripple the ship and kill Captain Eder.

The remaining fifteen Savak commandos – Team 4 – were making their way to the Victorian Governmental Office Building, five blocks from the Arboretum. Once there, they would split up and simultaneously assault three different doors. Once inside, they would move as fast as possible to the fifth floor where Queen Anne kept her office. Speed would be everything.

None of the Savak commandos knew that the spy master Saatchi had already inserted assassins close to their targets, and that they were little more than an elaborate diversion.

Emily finished her third cup of tea and scowled at her tablet. Using some of the ideas from Alex Rudd, Master Chief Gibson and young Toby Partridge, she had been niggling at a plan for defeating the Tillies in Gilead. She was getting close, she could feel it, but the risk made her want to crawl into bed and pull the covers over her head.

Her tablet hummed and glancing down she saw Rafael Eitan’s face. She opened the connection.

“Emily! I’m on Atlas for a couple of days. I bring you greetings from Nouar and all the Mothers.”

“Raf! Thank the Gods, I am dying of boredom. Do you want some lunch?”

The five Savak of Team 2 at the air purification unit finished packing the explosives. Team 2’s leader nervously checked his watch. Still forty minutes to go. He carefully set the timer for thirty minutes so that the air purification unit would blow and lure away the Atlas security forces, allowing the attacks to proceed ten minutes later. Done, the Team Leader hissed orders to his men and they collected the carryalls containing their weapons, and then they set out for their backup target, the Atlas’s Artificial Intelligence, Gandalf, housed on the third level.

The fifteen soldiers of Team 4 walked down the passageway past the entrance for the Arboretum and toward the Government Office Building. Although the shooting hadn’t started yet, each of them knew they were in hostile territory. They unconsciously increased the distance between themselves. They scanned the people on the ground and they scanned the windows in the buildings, looking for threats. From time to time the last one in the line would turn and walk backwards for a few steps, just as he had been trained to do since he was seven years old.

At 11:00 a.m., Betty knocked and entered the Queen’s office. “Your Majesty, we’re ready.”

Queen Anne looked up, smiling. “Good!” She was dressed plainly, a soft pink blouse over light-colored slacks, and sensible walking shoes. She tied her hair back in a single ponytail and put on a cap and dark glasses. Artificial or not, the ‘sun’ was still bright, and the cap and dark glasses would make identifying her a little harder.

The John-Ghost came into the offices just as they were leaving.

“John, I was sorry to hear about your sister and your brother-in-law,” Queen Anne told him.

The John-Ghost looked at the Queen, then at Betty. “Your Majesty, where are you going?”

“Just for a short walk in the Arboretum.” She smiled. “Join us, it’s a beautiful day.”

“Of course, Your Majesty.”

The Queen and seven guards quietly left through the back entrance and walked to the corridor behind the Government Office Building, then turned south towards the Arboretum several blocks away. Although the passageway was getting more crowded, no one noticed that the young woman walking by them was their Queen.

Just as they entered the Arboretum a few minutes later, the Savak Team 4 walked within 100 feet of them, heading north on the Main Concourse.

Cookie and Hiram sat on the outdoor patio of the pastry shop, watching the people walk by. Cookie was finishing a chocolate eclair and licking the rich frosting off her fingers. Hiram was nibbling a kouign amann and they were both slurping their way through their second café lattes. Next to them was the wide Main Concourse that ran the length of Level 2 and formed the space station’s main commercial district.

“So,” Hiram asked cautiously, “how did it go with Admiral Wilkinson?”

Cookie tilted her head. “Well, she said that if I’ve a mind to take a risk, I could do worse than take a risk on you, but she warned me if I told you that, you would be insufferably smug.”

Hearing this, Hiram felt insufferably smug, but managed to hide it. “So, you’re not going to go to Riley’s World or Sapporo or some other remote planet and live in a mountain hut tending goats and making bad wine?”

Cookie’s mouth twitched. “Not yet. I thought I’d try living here for a while. Wilkinson said she’d clear me for duty if the scans were okay. Should know in a day or two. Emily said she’d put me back on duty.” She shrugged. “It would be nice to feel normal.” She looked at him with brown eyes, and Hiram could feel himself fall into them.

Hiram, being Hiram, had prepared a bunch of things to say to Cookie, but he had no idea how to say them. Finally, a little desperately, he just plunged in. “Cookie, I promise I won’t crowd you or make demands on you. I just want you to know-” he stopped. Cookie’s gaze had shifted over his shoulder and she was frowning.

“Cookie?”

No answer. Hiram felt simultaneously peeved and amused. He leaned forward and whispered, “I know this is sort of boring, but I think we should drop our napkins to the floor and make love under the table. We could ask the waiter to join us.”

No reply.

“Ah, Cookie? Hello? Anybody home?”

She did not alter her gaze from the crowds going by. “Hiram, look down the street and tell me what you see. Don’t be obvious about it.”

Hiram casually swept his spoon off the table onto the patio and bent to pick it up. He glanced to his right and saw…a lot of people moving up and down the Main Concourse. He straightened up.

“All I see are people on errands and going to lunch. What do you see?”

“Come with me.” Cookie rose quickly and walked inside the pastry shop, standing just inside the window. She pulled Hiram by the arm and pointed across the Main Concourse. “See those guys? Walking north on the other side of the Concourse. About ten feet apart? They are each holding a large gym bag. Watch them.”

Hiram could see three young men walking briskly northward. At first he didn’t get what Cookie was talking about, then he realized they were all young and well built. But most of all, their faces were entirely neutral. They were intent, looking around at their surroundings and people walking towards them. His eyes drifted to the left and he realized that there were four, not three, then a moment later realized there were five, not four.

Then, with a chill, he realized there were not five, but at least ten, maybe more.

“Soldiers,” Cookie said simply. “All carrying bags that could easily conceal a weapon.”

“But there are dozens of soldiers here all the time. Hundreds,” Hiram objected, but even as he spoke, Cookie was grabbing his arm and pointing.

“But most of them are in uniform and not carrying gym bags. See that one? Watch!”

Hiram spotted yet another of the men. This one walked, carrying his large gym bag, but every ten steps or so he turned around, walked backwards a step, then turned forwards again.

“He’s the backdoor man,” Cookie explained with urgent patience. “They teach us that in infantry tactics. The last man in a stick has to turn around every few steps to make sure there is no threat behind them.”

“Bugger me!” Hiram swore. They were looking at a military unit. On a mission.

“C’mon,” Cookie whispered, pushing Hiram before her. “We’ve got to find out what’s going on.”

“Dammit, we don’t have weapons or anything,” Hiram protested.

“I’m a Fleet Royal Marine,” Cookie gritted. “I improvise.”

About then Hiram remembered that he had a very powerful weapon, his tablet. He fumbled with his tablet, activated it and hesitated. Who to call?

Then, one Level below them, a ripple of explosions tore through the base of the main air purifier for Space Station Atlas. That entire section of Atlas shook as if in an earthquake and the soft hum that was the constant, universal background noise in the Station fell shockingly silent. The Atlas Security Officers on Level 2 rushed to the sound of the explosion, effectively removing them as threats to the Savak.

The Team Leader for Team 4 checked his watch. Right on time.

All over Atlas, people picked up phones or used the comm feature of their tablets, with the result that the communications network for the Station promptly crashed. Security officials resorted to radios, but there was a lot of metal in a space station, and that meant dozens of dead zones.

Hiram tried to call the Atlas Security office, but nothing got through. “Buggers!,” he snarled, trying to keep up with Cookie as she weaved through the crowd. They could just see the man across the street, walking faster now, almost jogging, but not attracting attention in the crowd that nervously milled about, shouting and gesturing.

Hiram activated his comm once more. “Gandalf! Gandalf!”

Nothing.

They walked rapidly past a flower store, where Cookie hesitated, then snatched up a heavy glass vase. “Hey!” the proprietor yelled. She ignored him.

After a minute or so, they had pulled ahead of the man – the backdoor – across the Main Concourse.

“Hold my hand and laugh!” Cookie told him.

“Oh, crap!” Hiram said, grabbing her hand and wincing at what was coming.

Laughing and chatting gaily, Cookie dragged him across the street so that they ended up about ten feet in front of the backdoor man. The man gave them a look over, adjudged them no threat and turned his eyes back to other people on the street. Cookie squeezed Hiram’s hand and looked at him adoringly.

“About five seconds,” she said softly.

“This is a terrible idea, Cookie,” he said, smiling weakly. She nodded at him, laughed gaily, then stopped, turning sideways so that she could look at him and also glance surreptitiously at the backdoor soldier. The soldier obligingly turned around to check for any threats behind him. Still smiling, Cookie let go of Hiram’s hand and in three quick strides walked up behind the soldier and smashed the vase over his head.

He fell like a rock.

Cookie snapped her head around to see if the next soldier in line had noticed anything, but she couldn’t even pick him out of the crowd. “Good!” she said, rather satisfied with her work so far. Other people near her were stopping now and looking at the guy on the ground, then back to her.

“You!” she said in her sergeant’s voice, pointing to a man in a Fleet uniform. “Come here and help me.” The sailor looked unhappy, but he was a soldier and soldiers obey, most of the time at least. He knelt beside her.

“I am Sergeant Sanchez of the Fleet Royal Marines, detached to Commander Tuttle. Help me tie this guy up and then sit on him until Station Security gets here, understand?”

“Who the hell is he, Sarge?” the sailor asked nervously, but Cookie was gone.

Meanwhile, Hiram desperately tried to connect once more to the Station AI. “Gandalf?”

There was a buzz of static, then a scratchy voice. “Yes, Commander Brill?”

Hiram breathed a sigh of relief. “Gandalf, report a team of hostiles numbering a dozen or more moving north on Main Concourse just north of the Arboretum.” He saw Cookie pull a sonic assault rifle with a folding stock from the man’s gym bag. “The hostiles are armed and dangerous.”

Silence, punctuated only by hissing and pops.

“Gandalf?”

But the connection was broken.

“Get your ass in gear, lover boy,” Cookie said. She seemed to be rather enjoying herself. She handed him a pistol and hefted the sonic rifle. “Now we’re having fun!” Then she started north, walking rapidly.

They didn’t know it, but the ‘fun’ had already begun.

The Team Leader for Team 4 led his team down the alley to the back of the Government Office Building. If the intelligence was right, Queen Anne was on the fifth floor and First Sea Lord Douthat was on the fourth.

But his immediate problem was the two guards at the rear door. He snapped his fingers to the others and indicated there were two enemy soldiers right around the corner. Everyone dug into their kit bags and pulled out carbine-style sonic rifles, flechette rifles or blasters. They also pulled out pistols and grenades. Discarding the bags, they looked expectantly at the Team Leader, who frowned for a moment when his mental count came up one short. “Where’s Bret4?” he snarled. The others looked about, only now noticing his absence.

No time. No bloody time. The Team Leader motioned to the four men in front, all carrying flechette rifles. Flechette rifles made less noise than the sonic rifles and had slightly better range. The four Savak commandos hugged the wall, then stepped around the building as a group, rifles at their shoulders.

The two guards caught the movement and turned, bringing up their weapons. But it was too late.

The Savak fired.

The guards shuddered under the impact of thousands of metal slivers. One of them convulsively pulled his trigger, firing a long burst into the air as he fell, his chest, neck and face a bloody pulp. The force of the flechettes blew the second guard into the doorway, activating the call system. A tinny voice squawked: “George? What do you want?”

“Go!” shouted the Team Leader.

The rest of Team 4 scurried around the corner, weapons at the ready. Now all of Team 4 was out of sight from the Main Concourse. (Five seconds later Cookie and Hiram walked past the entrance to the alley. Seeing nothing, they kept moving.)

“Blow it!” the Team Leader ordered. Two of the Savak moved to the door and placed breaching charges near the hinges, then scurried back out of the way. The Team Leader nodded and one of the commandos pressed the plunger. There was a soul-satisfying “WHOMP!” and the door fell inwards. Dust blew up around the opening. The Savak ran forward.

The fox was in the henhouse.

The hens began to die.

Cookie and Hiram reached the front entrance of the Government Office Building without seeing any of the commando group they had been following. There were four guards at the door, one in the passageway and three just inside the door. The outside guard stiffened when she saw they were carrying weapons, bringing her pistol out of its holster. Cookie skidded to a stop, pointing the muzzle of her weapon to the ground and held up her other hand. Hiram just stopped and leaned over, catching his breath.

“I’m Commander Brill,” he panted, embarrassed by how out of shape he was. “Put your building in shutdown. There is a group of armed hostiles near here and we think they’re going to attack you.”

The guard had her pistol out, but kept it by her side. She frowned. Things were moving a little too fast for her taste and this skinny guy sure as hell didn’t look like any commander she had ever seen. “I need to see some ID before I do anything at all,” she said in her best no-nonsense voice, but then Cookie’s sonic rifle was pushing on her chest bone.

“Private,” Cookie gritted, “stop playing silly buggers and signal the lockdown now or I swear a minute from now you’ll be having tea with the Gods of Your Mothers. Now hop to, soldier!”

Suddenly, ordering a lockdown seemed like a perfectly reasonable thing to do. The guard leaned her head and spoke into the radio clipped to her battle harness. “Immediate lockdown of the building,” she said, striving for crisp and business-like but managing only a nervous stutter.

Then, from the back of the building, a muffled “WHOMP!”

Hiram took a deep breath. They were too late. He turned to the guard, who stood there looking confused and uncertain. He grabbed her by the shoulders.

“Where,” he said with a calm he did not feel. “Where is the Queen?”

Elsewhere on Atlas, Team 1 was finishing coffee a few yards from the entrance to the Repair Depot. They heard sirens blare, followed by an ominous quiet that signified the shutdown of the air purification system. They put down their coffee cups and rose as one. For reasons he never really understood, the Team Leader threw money on the table to cover the coffees, and even left the waitress a nice tip. He stared at the remaining money in his hand, shrugged and threw that down as well.

What the hell, he certainly wasn’t going to need it.

The members of Team 1 walked to the entrance for the shipyard, where they presented their passes and were let in. A pretty receptionist asked who they were there to see and the Team Leader gave the name of one of the managers. She placed a call, spoke briefly, frowned and turned back to him, preparing to tell him there must be some mistake, that the manager was not expecting them.

The Team Leader shot her in the head. Then he walked around her desk, found the button to open the door and pressed it. The other team members surged through. The ten of them trotted down the corridor, stopping briefly to pause at doorways and shoot whoever they happened to see. Then they were in an open area, with several doors. They fanned out, each man checking a door or two until one of them waved urgently. The Team Leader moved to his side and peered through.

There, on the other side, was a vast cavernous space filled with Victorian and Refuge warships held in place by tractor beams: the repair depot of the shipyard.

He signaled to the others. “Remember! Destroy the larger ships first. If you see any dock workers, shoot them; they will be very hard for the Vickies to replace.”

They all took a minute to check the blocks of explosive in their kits. Then, for just a heartbeat, they all stopped and looked at one another. None of them would survive this, that was a given. They accepted it as their duty to the Emperor and their honor. Their job was to do as much harm as possible before they died.

The Team Leader smiled rakishly at them. “Time to show the Vicky bastards, eh?”

Then they were in the repair depot, bringing woe and death to the Emperor’s enemies.

The ten members of Team 3 stopped in a small storage room in route to the Lionheart’s berth where they donned the blue uniforms of Atlas Station Security. The Team Leader individually inspected each member to make sure he looked authentic, then they filed out and walked briskly to the entrance, guarded by three Fleet Marines. The three guards stiffened when the ten men approached, hands instinctively moving to the butts of their weapons.

The Team Leader eyed them coldly, but kept his voice business-like. “Gentlemen, we are from Atlas Station Security. We need to debrief Captain Eder on events within the station. It is urgent and we need to see him now.”

While he was talking two more Marines came down the corridor at a brisk walk. They were in full battle rattle and carried Bullpup sonic rifles and a no-nonsense attitude. One of them wore the stripes of a Colour Sergeant and a scowl on his face. The Team Leader was not intimidated; when shot in the head, Colour Sergeants died just as quickly as ordinary men.

“What’s this, then?” demanded the Colour Sergeant. His name tag said ‘O’Connor’. His face was florid and his eyes were cold.

“We need to see Captain Eder on a matter of Station security,” the Team Leader said, matching Sergeant O’Connor’s tone.

O’Connor eyed them stonily, then seemed to make up his mind. He nodded once. “Leave all of your weapons here,” he ordered. “My men will escort you to the Captain.” He motioned to the other men with the Team Leader. “They stay here.”

“Of course, Colour Sergeant,” the Team Leader said amiably. He laid his assault rifle down on the table, took his pistol out of its holster and reached out as if to also put it on the table, but then in one fluid, practiced movement, shot the Colour Sergeant in the throat and the man next to him in the leg, well below the man’s chest armor. Leaving that man for Bret3 to finish off, the Team Leader shot the third man, then grabbed him by his battle harness and pulled him close to use as a shield. The man stared wide-eyed into the Team Leader’s face as three sonic blasts from the two remaining Marines smashed into his back. His body armor deflected some of the blows, but the combination of the shots splintered his rib cage. He screamed, then sagged in the Team Leader’s arms, barely conscious. The Team Leader wrapped one arm around him, then raised his pistol in his other hand and snapped off four quick shots, wounding one of the two Marines and knocking him to the floor, and causing the other to scamper back to cover.

The remaining men of Team 3 entered the fight with brisk efficiency.

Each man of the Team knew his role. Bret3 shot the wounded Marine in the head, then finished off the Colour Sergeant, who was still making grunting noises on the deck. While most of the others finished off the last two Marines, two of the Savak dashed for the hatchway and opened it before an alarm could sound and it automatically locked.

The Team Leader was still holding the last Marine by his battle harness. There was no doubt the man was dying. Blood frothed from his lips with every painful breath he took and blood puddled at his feet. He looked through a haze of pain and shock at the Team Leader, who thrust his pistol under the man’s chin and pulled the trigger.

“Move!” he shouted to the others.

None of the Savak had so much as a scratch. That wouldn’t last, they knew, but they were on the Lionheart. They swiftly headed for the engine room, the very guts of the ship.

And which was immediately adjacent to the antimatter containers.

“Where is the Queen?” Hiram repeated. The young guard looked at him with a mixture of confusion, fear and stubbornness on her face. From somewhere inside the building, there came the unmistakable sound of a woman screaming. It rose in pitch, then abruptly cut off.

“Shit,” Cookie cursed. “Private, you are now with us. Take us to the Queen’s offices. Now, Private!”

Inside, the other Marines eyed Hiram and Cookie suspiciously. “I’m Commander Brill and this is Sergeant Sanchez. There are enemy commandos inside this building. We have to protect the Queen. Take us to her!”

“Sir, you are not in uniform. You could be anybody and-”

“Gods’ Hairy Balls!” Hiram exploded. He fished out his ID and thrust it in the guard’s face. “Scan my ID and be damn fast about it.”

The guard, recognizing very thin ice when he stepped on it, didn’t bother with the scan. “Follow me, Commander.” They pounded up the stairway to the second floor, then to the third. On the third, they halted, hearing screams and the unmistakable sound of a blaster rifle.

Team 4 reached the third level. They had already shot or killed a dozen people, but the Team Leader feared that they were going too slowly, that they had to move faster if they were to kill the Queen. “Hurry up!” he snapped at Cret3. The Team Leader, Aret1, hadn’t wanted any Crets on his team. They were calm under fire and immensely strong, but they were slow and, truth be told, rather stupid. They lacked both the cunning of the Arets and the cat-like agility and grace of the Brets. Two of the Brets darted past and ran lightly up the service stairs toward the fourth floor, carbines to their shoulders. Two men appeared at the top of the stairs. The lead Bret snapped off a shot and caught one man in the throat. That man fell back in a spray of blood; the second man pulled his head back and there was the sound of running.

The two Brets pressed forward, followed by the rest of Team 4.

“Bypass the fourth floor,” Aret1 barked. “The Bitch Queen is on the fifth floor. She’s the target!” At the fourth floor landing the Team Leader posted two men to guard their rear while the rest surged up the stairs to the top floor.

On the fourth floor, Admiral Alyce Douthat, first Sea Lord of Victoria, paused with a mug of tea halfway to her lips. Then she heard excited voices in the anteroom and finally her door opened and her secretary stood in the doorway. “Admiral,” she panted. “There are armed men on the floor. We need to seal your office!”

Ever since Victoria had learned of the Tilleke Krait teleporter ships, they had feared that a Krait ship could sneak up to a Victorian ship and beam aboard a group of armed men, who in moments might accomplish a coup de main. Those fears extended to the Space Station Atlas. Precautions had been taken. Now those precautions were put into play.

“Bring everyone in here, fast!” Douthat barked. Secretaries and junior aides rushed in. Her Chief Aide, Lieutenant Oliver Perry, came in last, holding a flechette pistol in his hand. “You others!” Douthat said, “There are more guns in the closet. Arms yourselves. Is everyone in?”

People nodded and Douthat pressed the button that lowered the plastasteel shutters on the side the wall of her office. It took several seconds, but the shutters struck the floor with a satisfying “thunk!”

Admiral Douthat relaxed. “Okay, everyone, now we wait. Make yourselves comfortable. There’s a small bathroom in that corner and a coffee closet to the right of it.”

Lieutenant Perry stepped beside her. “Admiral, would you like some tea?”

Douthat smiled. “I would love some, Oliver.”

The Ghost-Oliver smiled. “Pity.”

Then he shot Admiral Alyce Douthat, First Sea Lord of Victoria, twice in the head.

Cookie, Hiram and the three Marines moved cautiously up the stairs. Above them they could hear screams and shots, but they couldn’t see anything. Then the Marine Corporal in the lead clenched his hand into a fist and every one halted in place.

“Two men on the landing,” he whispered. And as if in reply, a flurry of sonic rifle shots pelted the stairway, causing the scouts to stumble backwards. Everyone cringed – there wasn’t any other word for it – and Cookie cursed under her breath.

“The rest of them must be on the fifth floor by now,” Cookie said anxiously.

And then from the fifth floor came a burst of gunfire – sonic ‘WHAPAS’ and the sibilant ‘flssshhhh’ of the flechette rifles. And then the sharp tearing-cloth sound of a blaster.

“Let’s go!” said Hiram, thinking of Queen Anne trapped up there in her office. The three Marines began to move up the stairs at once, rifles up, eyes searching. They had only gone four steps up when the two Savak commandos guarding the landing stuck the barrels of their weapons over the edge and fired blindly, but at a lethally close range.

One of the Marines was thrown backwards. The other two hit the deck and slid backwards down the steps, firing as they went.

“We need grenades, dammit” Cookie scowled. But they didn’t have any. She stepped forward, fired three quick rounds to no effect, then darted back. One stray sonic round gouged the door frame above her head. Another Marine peeked around the corner to the stairway. “We ain’t gettin’ up them steps without losin’ somebody,” he said matter-of-factly.”

Then behind and below them there was the sound of a large group of men pounding up the stairs. They all swiveled around, guns at the ready.

“Friendlies! Friendlies coming up! Atlas Security,” a voice called.

Cookie took a position just out of sight of the fourth floor, but in a position to shoot down the third floor stairs. “Come up slow!” she hollered back. “Keep your weapons down or you’re dead.” She turned to the others and hissed: “Keep your eyes peeled up the stairs. Don’t let them get a jump on us.”

“I am Major Alastair Godfrey of the Atlas Security Services. Of course, we are happy to come up and chat with you, but would you be so kind as to first give us the password, to avoid any unfortunate misunderstandings?”

“Password?” Cookie muttered in disbelief. “What fucking password?” She shook her head in disbelief and frustration. “We’re trying to save Queen Anne, you damned imbecile! And you want to play silly buggers about passwords?”

“But it’s protocol, you see,” replied Major Godfrey, sounding mildly aggrieved. “We really don’t know who you are, now do we?”

Cookie rolled her eyes and muttered something impolite. She glanced over her shoulder at the Marines, crouched down with their weapons pointed up the stairwell to the fourth floor. “Do you guys know anything about a bloody password?”

The two men looked at each other. One simply shrugged. The other frowned in concentration. “Ah…buggers, it’s right on the tip of my tongue.” He scrunched up his face. Cookie gave him a hard look, which made him more uncomfortable but did not seem to jog his memory.

“Hold on,” he said, straining to remember. “Hold on…britches! It’s ‘britches.’”

Cookie turned back to face downstairs. “Major Godfrey! ‘Britches!’ I repeat: ‘Britches!’”

There was a pause and some murmuring. “Well, no actually,” Major Godfrey said apologetically. “That was yesterday’s password. I am afraid it just won’t do. Are you sure that you don’t know today’s password?”

Cookie glared at the young Marine who had given her the password. “Let’s get it right this time, soldier.”

He closed his eyes and rocked back and forth a bit, as if trying to shake out the memory. It apparently worked. He popped his eyes open. “Yorkshire! Try ‘Yorkshire’ and they’ll reply with ‘pudding.’” He gave a sigh of profound relief.

“Gods be good,” Cookie muttered. She turned and yelled down the stairs: “Yorkshire, dammit!”

“Excellent!” Major Godfrey called back. “Friendlies coming in!”

“Hold right there!” Cookie warned. “What is the proper reply?”

“Proper reply?” queried Godfrey, confused. “Oh! Well, ‘Pudding’ of course.”

“Get your ass up here,” Cookie snarled, then perhaps realizing that she had taken liberties with the proper military protocol of addressing a superior officer of a cousin military service, she added, “Sir.”

In a moment Major Godfrey and ten soldiers were beside them.

“Major,” Hiram explained tersely, “a party of ten or more commandos are now on the fifth floor, where the Queen is. We can’t get past the guard they left on the fourth floor landing. We have no grenades and, until now, insufficient troops to rush them.”

Major Godfrey peered up the stairs, which were narrow and steep. Then he turned to his troops. “Right, then! Albertson, Chapman, I think two each should do it. Quickly now!”

The two men stepped forward, grinning enthusiastically. They lifted their squat barreled grenade launchers and fired two high explosive grenades, followed immediately by two more. There was a ‘clank!’ as the shells bounced off the wall on the fourth floor landing and clattered to the floor, then a ripple of explosions. Dust and debris gusted down the stairwell. As the smoke cleared a leg, boot still attached, flopped and rolled down the stairs, its owner nowhere in sight and presumably otherwise occupied.

“Excellent!” Major Godfrey beamed. “Just like in training!”

Hiram started to scramble up the stairs, but Cookie caught him by the belt. “Hiram,” she hissed. “You are the Fleet’s chief intelligence officer and the Queen’s advisor! You cannot gallop up the hill like Captain Sharpe! Now stay behind me and let us do our job.” She motioned to the two Marines and to Major Godfrey’s men. “Gentlemen, let’s go save the Queen.”

Team 4 of the Savak commandos ran through the fifth floor like the Horsemen of the Apocalypse from one of the Old Earth religions. They simply overran the Marine guards at the end of the corridor, losing three men in the process. Then they swarmed down the long corridor, stopping in each doorway to shoot anyone they saw. Secretaries, clerks, two economic advisors preparing a briefing, a man delivering office supplies, three assistants to the Queen. Some screamed, some pleaded, some stared stupefied.

They all died where they stood.

Then the commandos reached the ornate wooden doorway that led into the Queen’s suite of offices. The door was locked, but a blaster shot blew off one of its hinges and they kicked it in. Inside they found themselves in an antechamber of some sort, with three doorways leading from it. Two of the doors led into other offices, piled high with paper, their walls covered with maps, diagrams and charts of all sorts. In a closet, they found one secretary.

“No! I have children,” she begged. “They need their mother!” They shot her and moved on. Behind the third door they found a floor to ceiling plate of plastasteel.

This was the Queen’s safe room. The Bitch Queen of Victoria was just on the other side of that armored plate.

The Team Leader signaled the others. “Aret6, prepare the charge. Two men down the hallway at the top of the stairs. The rest of you, barricade the hallway; they’ll be coming soon and we have to buy some time. Remember your duty!”

They scattered to their tasks.

Hiram was watching Major Godfrey’s men cautiously ascend the stairs to the fifth floor when someone called his name. A female soldier, her face red with crying, gestured to him. Hiram glanced once more at the unfolding assault, then stepped into the hallway.

“You’re Commander Brill, right?” the woman asked.

“Yes, what is it?”

“Admiral Douthat has been killed,” the woman said, and started crying again. “He murdered her.”

Hiram’s shoulders sagged. “I’m sorry,” he told her. “We’ve been trying to get up to the fifth floor to protect the Queen, I didn’t even realize they had attacked the fourth floor.” His mind whirled. Admiral Douthat dead?

The woman was shaking her head. “No, sir, you don’t understand. The attackers on the fifth floor didn’t stop here. We all went into the safe room, which is in the Admiral’s office. She lowered the steel shutters.” She stopped, just staring at him.

Hiram was confused. What was she saying? “What happened?” he asked.

“Oh, sir,” she began to weep. “The Admiral’s aide shot her. Lieutenant Perry. He just shot her.”

Hiram half walked, half ran to Admiral Douthat’s office. Inside he found four bodies. Oliver Perry, two of the Admiral’s staff and, sprawled in her chair, eyes open but unseeing, Admiral Alyce Douthat. Another dozen people – some he recognized, some he didn’t – stood around looking stricken or crying.

“What happened here?” he demanded. Some of them looked at him and he abruptly realized that he wasn’t in uniform. “I am Commander Brill, advisor to Queen Anne and I also help run the Fleet’s Intelligence Section. What happened here?”

In fits and starts, they explained how Admiral Douthat had called everyone in and sealed the room from the intruders, only to be shot by her trusted aide, Lieutenant Oliver Perry.

“He’d just gotten back from a trip to see his sister,” one of them said. “Everything seemed fine, then he pulled out a gun and shot her.”

“What about them?” Hiram asked, gesturing to the other two bodies on the floor.

One of the women shook her head in bewilderment. “After he shot the Admiral, he…he laughed, then began shooting again. He managed to get Carl and Lois before we all jumped him.”

Hiram looked again at Lieutenant Perry’s body. There was not a mark on him. “How did he die?” he asked.

The women shrugged. “I don’t know. One moment he was fighting us, then he just slumped and fell to the ground.” She looked up at Hiram, face contorted with grief and bafflement. “Why? He was her Aide. He liked her; he respected her. Sir, why did he do it?”

Then, from the fifth floor, a cacophony of shots and explosions.

Cookie was relieved when Hiram was called to Admiral Douthat’s office. Hiram was so many things, but he really sucked big time as an infantry soldier. Plus, she couldn’t bear it if anything happened to him now, and she knew that the fifth floor was going to be a blood bath. And with a sudden certainty, she vowed that if she got through this terrible day, she would marry him and everything else be damned.

She leaned closer to Major Godfrey, who was odd as an egg, but seemed proficient enough. “Ready, sir? We’re running out of time.” If it wasn’t too late already.

“Another minute should do it, Sergeant,” he said amiably. Three of his men were making some last-minute adjustments to their weapons, then gave the thumbs-up. “Splendid!” he said, then held up three fingers, then two, then one, then made a fist.

Four of Major Godfrey’s Security soldiers fired grenades to the top of the fifth floor landing, then ducked back to cover. The grenades went off with less than a second between them, brilliant flashes of light followed by concussive ‘BOOMS!!!’ that shook the floor and would have deafened Cookie if she hadn’t taken cover herself.

“Can’t beat a flashbang for meeting new people,” cackled Major Godfrey. His men rushed up the stairs. “We are using flashbangs because we don’t want to inadvertently kill anyone important to the Queen. Wouldn’t do at all.”

There were more shots, then a veritable fusillade. Two of Godfrey’s men took hits and fell to the floor. One of them crawled to safety; the other lay still.

Major Godfrey reached the landing a moment later. Two of the enemy commandos sprawled untidily on the floor, quite dead.

“They’ve made a bloody big barricade about halfway down the corridor, sir,” one of the Security troopers reported. “Must be six or seven guys behind it. Don’t stick your head up, sir, or they’ll shoot it off, they will.”

“Such rudeness shall not be suffered lightly,” Major Godfrey replied with relish. “Use more grenades, the real ones this time. Teach them a lesson.”

“What about the Queen’s staff?” Cookie asked anxiously.

“Rather too late for that, Sergeant,” Major Godfrey replied matter-of-factly. “They’re either in the safe room or dead.” He turned to his men. “Give it to them, lads!”

Grenades arced through the air towards the makeshift barricade, blowing a hole through the middle of it. Through it, Cookie could see a body sprawled on the floor. At the far end of the corridor, she caught a flash of a man peering around a door frame, then ducking back. She turned to Major Godfrey. “I’ve never been here before,” she told him. “Where is the entrance to the Queen’s offices?”

Major Godfrey considered. “End of the hall on the right.”

“Then they’re in,” Cookie gritted. “I just saw someone in the doorway, not one of ours.”

Godfrey shrugged philosophically. “There are several anterooms,” he said. “But even if they are in the outer office, the Queen’s rooms can be sealed off with a plastasteel shutter.” He smiled reassuringly. “Don’t worry, we can still save her.”

Cookie wasn’t so sure.

“They’re attacking the barricade!” someone called, as if the explosions and “Whampa! Whampa! Whampa!” of the sonic rifles were not sufficient notice.

The Team Leader for Team 4 nodded once to Aret6, who pressed the button. A loud explosion blew the plastasteel door off its hinges and against the far wall. There was surprisingly little dust. The Team Leader moved cautiously to the door frame and peered around, his eyes widening at what he saw. He cursed.

There was a second plastasteel door guarding the Queen’s safe room.

He turned to Aret6. “Rig another charge. Hurry!”

Outside in the corridor, the clamor of fighting swelled.

“They’ve blown the door! We’ve got to move!” Cookie started to get up, but Major Godfrey held her back.

“There’s a second door,” he explained calmly. He waved his men forward. “Take them!” Then the prissy, overly formal Major got up and led the charge, Cookie two steps behind him.

Into a maelstrom of fire and noise.

Inside the offices, the Team Leader could hear men screaming, weapons firing and some idiot screaming “For Victoria! For Victoria.” Then his men opened fire and the noise was loud enough to trip his ear protectors. It went on and on. Grenades, screams, the stutter of weapons firing on full automatic. The smell of burnt wood and plastic and flesh, the obscene sound of flesh being ripped apart by flechettes, by blasters and by the focused air of sonic weapons. All in the space of seconds.

More screams. And more yet.

He glanced anxiously at Aret6, who nodded once.

“Blow it!” the Team Leader snapped.

The sapper pressed the trigger. The door – the last door – blew off its hinges.

The Team Leader raced in, weapon firing.

Cookie lay on the floor, the body of Major Godfrey on top of her, protecting her from the occasional shot still being fired. She was pretty sure it was Godfrey because even though his head seemed to be missing, his major’s insignia was still intact, but then the body shifted and reoriented and the bloody face of Major Godfrey looked at her, etched in grief. “They shot my boys,” he said, voice thick with emotion. “They shot my boys.”

Strong arms grabbed them then, dragging them back to the relative safety of the corner. No one shot at them, so maybe the damn commandos were hurting, too.

Then there was the sound of something large and heavy ponderously coming up the stairs. It had many feet. Cookie felt bile rise in her throat and she raised her rifle, already certain it would be pitifully insufficient against whatever would appear.

“Friendly Marvin coming in!” an amplified voice said. “I would greatly appreciate it if you didn’t blow it to hell because it has taken forever to navigate these bloody stairs.”

The six-legged Marvin came into view around the corner. This one was outfitted with three grenade launchers, a blaster and what looked like a quartet of old-fashioned machine guns, slug throwers that were not as accurate as flechette rifles but could punch through most walls with pleasing alacrity. Cookie lowered her rifle. “Fantastic!” she cried. “I could kiss you!”

“Please do not manhandle my Marvin,” the amplified voice said primly. “It is a very sensitive soul and easily intimidated by aggressive women. I, however, am free for a drink later if you’d like.”

Cookie snorted back a laugh: another horny Marine. Gods love ‘em. “There is a barricade in the hallway just around this corner. Blast it with your grenades!”

“You got it,” said the voice and the Marvin lumbered forward. In a moment it began to moan, “I’m coming for you! Time to die! I’m coming for you!” And there was some weird, freaky, atonal music that the PSYOPS boffins said would unnerve the enemy. It certainly unnerved Cookie.

This Marvin was configured with three flexible stalks spouting from its shoulders. Each one carried a multi-sensor pack – camera, infrared sensor, and a close-range LIDAR room reader – plus a grenade launcher. It allowed the Marvin to shield the bulk of itself around a corner while viewing and firing with the weapons pod and sensors at the end of the arms. It looked funny, but it worked.

The Marvin stopped at the corner, thrust out its stalks, spotted the barricade and opened fire. Three grenades from each of its three launchers.

The effect was as devastating as it was noisy. The floor trembled with the “Crump! Crump! CRUMP!!!” of the grenade explosions and the corridor immediately filled with swirling dust, pieces of furniture and the wet spray of blood. Then the Marvin stepped fully into view and opened up with its mini-guns, hosing down the remnants of the barricade from left to right, then back again. There was no return fire from the commandos. When Cookie peeked out, the barricade was nothing more than scattered rubble blown the length of the hallway, interspersed with splattered blood and random body parts.

Cookie smiled broadly. You gotta love Marvins.

And they pay me to do this shit, she thought happily.

The Team Leader and Aret6 stood in the Queen’s safe room, guns swiveling around. The room was covered with wallboard dust from the explosions, but otherwise it was intact.

It was also quite empty. Queen Anne wasn’t there.

Then it hit him: it had all been for nothing. The Team Leader’s shoulders sagged. His entire Team gone, wiped out. Failure. He and Aret6 exchanged a troubled glance. His eyes closed of their own accord, his mind filled with images of his Team. He had known most of them since the crèche. They had been his brothers, his-A menacing dark hulk filled the doorway behind them. The Team Leader and Aret6 turned.

“There you are!” boomed the Marvin. The Marvin was monstrously tall and looked like a nightmare hybrid of a predatory beast and a lethal insect. Weapons of all sorts swiveled and aimed directly at them.

“This is where you get to make a choice,” the amplified voice continued. Despite the menacing appearance of the Marvin, the voice was oddly gentle. “You can put down your weapons and surrender and you will not be harmed. Or you can try to fight and you will die.”

The Team Leader and Aret6 exchanged another glance.

“Your Emperor sent you here to die, a fool’s errand,” the Marvin continued. “But you can live. You can live a long life and you will not be harmed.”

“We live through our brothers,” Aret6 chanted softly.

“Duty!” screamed the Team Leader.

They had no doubt – doubt had been bred out of them. They both raised their weapons.

“I’m sorry,” the Marvin said, genuine regret in its voice.

It was over in a moment.

Cookie came in, glanced disinterestedly at the bodies and then scanned the room. Where was the Queen?

“I don’t get it,” the Marvin’s operator said. “Why didn’t they surrender?”

Cookie’s earlier elation had drained out of her, fatigue filling the void.

“Dammit, why didn’t they surrender?” the operator repeated, a note of suppressed anguish in his voice.

Cookie recalled what Hiram had told her about the Emperor’s crèche-born commandos. “They’re Savak,” she said flatly. “They never surrender. They can’t.”

She looked around once more. Where was the Queen?

Chapter 30

On Space Station Atlas

Gandalf the Blind

When the Savak blew up the air purification unit, the blast wave went in all directions, including up. The blast wave roiled past a pipe. It was not an ordinary pipe, although it looked like one. This pipe carried all of the sensor cables for the lower half of Atlas Station, sensor cables that gave Gandalf its sensory input. (Some engineers would claim this was simply an efficient design; others would claim it was a design flaw.) In less than a second, the blast wave sheared the pipe into several pieces and the sensor cables along with it.

Without warning, Gandalf became deaf, blind and mute. It could not see anything below Level 8, nor anything ‘south’ of the air purifying unit. In time Gandalf could repair the damage, but time was in short supply.

For the first time since it became aware of its existence and its role in ensuring the smooth operation and safety of the Station, Gandalf experienced something it had never experienced before.

Fear.

Chapter 31

On Space Station Atlas

Hiram stood over the body of Lieutenant Oliver Perry, trying to make sense of what had happened. He knew Perry, or thought he did, and the Oliver Perry he knew was not capable of killing Admiral Douthat in cold blood.

Either his assumption was wrong, and it sure as hell looked like Perry had murdered the Admiral, or…

Or this was not Oliver Perry.

He looked again. It sure looked like Oliver Perry. Had he been coerced? Was Perry having a secret affair with Douthat and there had been a falling out?

He shook his head. He knew Admiral Alyce Douthat and she would never get into a relationship with a junior officer. Besides, he always suspected that if the Admiral had a romantic relationship, it was more likely to be with Admiral Wilkinson, the Fleet Surgeon, her old Academy roommate.

He looked at Perry’s body again. It certainly looked like Perry, but how would he know? Hiram stood straight and looked around the room. Most everyone was just standing there numbly, still in shock. A few were watching him closely. One young woman was sobbing hysterically in the corner, darting anguished glances at the bodies. Hiram looked around, studying the women. He had some questions to ask and he thought that one of the women might be able to answer it, but the men would be oblivious. Finally, he saw who he wanted. She was in her mid-forties, dressed in civvies but clearly military, and she looked kind, the type of woman younger female soldiers might confide in. It wasn’t much, but it was all he had.

He stepped next to her and took her by the elbow. She looked startled, but did not pull away. “I need your help,” he whispered. She just looked at him, then gave an almost imperceptible nod. He guided her into a corner away from the others. Suddenly from the fifth floor there was a tremendous roar of gunfire and explosives. Everyone looked fearfully at the ceiling.

“Listen,” Hiram told the woman, trying to ignore the sounds of battle just a few yards away., “I am the Queen’s Military Advisor. I think this may be a coordinated attack against our senior Admirals and I need to know some things fast.” She nodded. “Okay,” he continued. “What’s your role here?”

“I’m Staff Sergeant Eleanor DeFalco; I pretty much run Admiral Douthat’s office, watch over the younger staff, make sure things get done.” She spoke clearly and concisely, her voice soft, controlled.

“Did you know Lieutenant Perry?”

Now her eyes locked on his. “I’ve known Lieutenant Perry since the first day he went to work as Admiral Douthat’s Aide. We have to work closely together to make sure all of the Admiral’s needs are taken care of.”

“And?”

Hiram waited for a moment, but she didn’t say anything else. “What did you think of him, Staff Sergeant? Did you know of any reason why he might just up and kill her? Did Admiral Douthat give him a bad annual review? Was there an argument? Any romantic entanglement?”

DeFalco was shaking her head. “No, no, and definitely no. He really seemed to like his job, and he was good at it. The Admiral can be pretty demanding, but Oliver worked really hard and she seemed pleased with his performance. I actually prepared his final review for her signature and it was glowing.”

“Any romantic falling out?”

DeFalco shook her head again. “Gods, no. That’s ridiculous. Oliver was involved with someone else, and I know for a fact that the Admiral did not have a man in her life.”

“So what, then? I mean, you saw him pull a gun and shoot her. What was the motive?”

DeFalco lowered her head, thinking it through. After a moment she looked at him again. “I know this sounds crazy, but I think someone must have been controlling him.” She looked at him steadily.

The fact that her thoughts echoed his was a little jarring. “Explain,” he said.

She shook her head. “I – this sounds nuts, I know that, but this wasn’t the same Oliver Perry I’ve known for the past year. Not just that he shot the Admiral, I mean, of course that he shot the Admiral, because the Oliver Perry I know admired and respected her way too much to ever do that. But after he killed her, he looked around the room with this crazy expression on his face, like, ‘Wow! I did it!’ And he was so elated. Not scared or stunned or anything that you’d expect, not even looking to escape. And then he laughed. And it was the creepiest laugh I’ve ever heard. So…sick. And then he shot the other two as an afterthought. Just because he could. And none of it – the laugh, the body mannerisms, his facial expressions – none of it was the Oliver Perry I know.” She paused, her voice faltering. “It wasn’t him.”

Hiram looked over his shoulder again at Oliver Perry’s body. He took a breath. “Okay, DeFalco, I need to know who he was sleeping with.”

DeFalco blinked at him. “What?”

Hiram nodded. “I don’t have much time here. You said he was seeing someone. By chance is he seeing someone in this room?” He waived his hand around to encompass the others.

DeFalco recovered. “Ah, well, yes, actually. He’s been seeing Pam Reynolds. She’s one of the staff here; that’s how they met.” Which made sense, Hiram thought. As the Aide to Admiral Douthat, Perry wouldn’t have had much time to meet a girl outside of Douthat’s staff.

“What are you going to do to her?” DeFalco asked, concerned.

“I’m going to ask her to help me,” Hiram said. “But it’s going to be hard, so stick around, I’ll need your help, too.”

She directed him to Pam Reynolds, who turned out to be the dark-haired woman sobbing in the corner. She was a civilian employee of the Fleet’s on Atlas Station and handled Admiral Douthat’s calendar. Eleanor DeFalco spoke softly to her for a few minutes, then introduced her to Hiram. Her eyes were red and her nose was runny from the crying. Hiram knew what he wanted to ask her, but it was awkward, so he approached it obliquely.

“Ms. Reynolds, I understand you were a friend, a special friend, of Oliver Perry’s,” he told her. She nodded, eyes once again welling with tears. DeFalco put a comforting arm around her shoulder.

“Did Oliver seem to be acting funny lately? Depressed? Angry?”

But like DeFalco before her, Reynolds was shaking her head even before he finished his question. “No, no, nothing like that. His grandmother died unexpectedly, so he was concerned and stuff, but he wasn’t depressed. He just got back from the funeral; this was his first day back at work.”

“Did you see him last night?” Hiram asked.

Reynolds frowned. “No. I don’t know if he came in late and just went straight to work, or whether he didn’t want to wake me up because it was the middle of the night. Our apartment is pretty small, so it’s possible that he got in late and just stayed at the BOQ to get a few hours’ sleep and then went to work.”

Hiram wondered where Perry’s luggage was, but suspected by the time they found it, it would be too late to do any good. He took a breath; this next part was going to be rough.

“Miss Reynolds, you said you and Oliver are sharing an apartment, right?” She nodded and he plunged forward. “I have to ask you something really personal and I apologize for any embarrassment, but can you tell me if there are any identifying marks on Oliver’s body? Something that you would know about, but something small, something not readily apparent to a casual observer? Something really recent, maybe?”

Eleanor DeFalco glared at him, but Reynolds giggled nervously. “You mean something you’d only know about if you slept with him?” She threw a hand over her mouth, either in embarrassment over what she said or to stifle a sob, Hiram couldn’t tell which.

“Yeah, that’s what I mean.” He paused, not wanting to create false hope. “There’s a chance – a remote chance – that the Tilleke kidnapped Oliver and put in a double. They are wizards at biotechnology and there have been rumors that they might be able to, well, duplicate someone’s appearance. The fact that Oliver was gone for a week just before all this happened makes me a little suspicious.”

Pam Reynolds was distraught, but not stupid. “He cut the bottom of his foot just before he left. A wine glass broke and he stepped on it barefoot. He should have gotten stitches or a med-pack, but he was leaving to catch the shuttle for the trip to Christchurch. He put a plaster over it, but there should still be some sign of it.”

Hiram crossed the room and knelt beside the body. He wrestled off one shoe and started to peel off the sock.

“It was the other foot,” Reynolds said, standing beside him. “The right one.”

Impatient now, Hiram unceremoniously tore off the other shoe, but then couldn’t get the damn sock to come off.

“Let me help,” Reynolds said and in a moment the sock was off and the bare foot was exposed. Hiram leaned over and looked at the sole of the foot.

Nothing.

“Better check the other one just to be sure,” suggested DeFalco.

The other sock came free. There was no mark on that foot, either.

Hiram exchanged a glance with DeFalco. This was not the body of Oliver Perry.

Hiram looked at Reynolds. “Was it a small cut? Could it have healed in a week?”

Staring at the body, fresh tears on her cheeks, Pam Reynolds shook her head. “No, it was a big cut. Deep. Bled like crazy.” She looked at him, then, eyes wild with hope. “Could he still be alive? I mean they wouldn’t have to kill him, would they? Would they?”

Hiram smiled sadly. He liked this girl, didn’t want to hurt her. “Miss Reynolds, I don’t think there is any chance that-”

But as soon as he started to speak, Pam Reynolds turned and ran out of the room. Eleanor DeFalco looked at him, nodded once, then turned to follow her.

Hiram picked up his tablet. “Gandalf? Gandalf?”

Emily and Rafael had just given their lunch orders when the ground shook and the air purifier went off-line.

“That’s probably not good,” Raf said.

“Only if we want to keep breathing,” Emily retorted. She instinctively checked her tablet, only to see that her connection to Atlas Station was gone. “That’s probably not good, either,” she murmured. She thought for a moment, then pushed the connection for the H.M.S. Rabat, her flagship carrier, which was anchored a mere 500 miles away. There was a bit of popping and static, then Toby Partridge’s voice.

“Yes, Commander?”

“Toby, do you still have normal communications with Atlas?”

“Hmm…hold one, Ma’am,” he said. She could hear the furious clicking of keys as he typed in a command, then another, then yet another. “No, Ma’am, I cannot reach any Atlas official or connect through Atlas at all.”

Emily thought through that for a moment. “Okay, Toby, bring Mildred on.”

A pause, then: “Commander Tuttle, how may I help you?”

“Mildred, do you have C2C communications with Gandalf on Atlas Station?”

“Yes, Commander, I have been in constant communication with it since we docked.”

“And you still have it, right now as we speak?”

“Yes, Commander.”

Beside her, Raf stiffened as people went running down the street. And faintly in the distance, he heard the unmistakable stutter of gunfire. “Em, we’ve got shooting down here, in the direction of the Government Office Building.”

“Mildred! Tell Gandalf that communications on Atlas are down, but that there appears to be shooting somewhere near the Government Office Building.” Emily stood up, craning her neck to see what was happening on the street.

A moment of dead air, then: “Done, Commander. Gandalf says thank you, but he is already aware of the communications problem. He did not know of the shooting, however and is investigating.”

Emily’s forehead knitted in thought. Gandalf’s communications were impeded. There was a gunfight going on somewhere – even now she could hear the crackle of firing and the hollow ‘thud’ of explosives. Grenades? Gods be Good, was someone using grenades on Atlas? She was suddenly aware that she was in the street, walking hurriedly in the direction of the Government Office Building. The sounds of the gunfight were getting louder.

“Toby! Toby, are you there?” she spoke into her tablet, aware that her voice had risen.

“Still here, Ma’am,” Toby replied.

“Put the ship on full alert! Recall everyone from shore leave. Is Captain Zar on board?” Zar was the official Captain of the Rabat. He ran the ship, but reported to Emily in her capacity as Commanding Officer of the new Carrier Division.

“Captain Zar is on the Atlas, but Commander Rudd is standing right next to me,” Toby replied. “Putting you on speaker, Ma’am.”

“I’m here, Commander, what are your orders?” The fact that Alex Rudd used her title instead of her name showed he knew something serious was afoot.

“Alex, disconnect from the anchor buoy and take her out to 1,000 miles. Contact Captain Eder and tell him I recommend the rest of the Fleet go to high alert. It sounds like there is an attack on Atlas, including the Queen’s offices. Launch any gunboats you can and use them as a screen in case some Krait try to sneak up on you.” Emily looked up the street. People were running towards them in larger numbers, fleeing from the shooting.

“Want us to wait for you, Commander?” Rudd asked.

“No! Take on any of the crew who reach you before you are ready, but go as soon as you can, even if you have to leave most of us behind. Mildred, are you there?”

“Yes, Commander Tuttle.”

“Keep this line of communication open at all times. I can only talk to Gandalf through you.”

“Very good, Commander.”

“Wait, wait, can you connect me through to Admiral Douthat?”

“There is no answer at Admiral Douthat’s office.”

Crap! “What about the Queen’s office?”

A slight pause, then: “There is no answer at Queen Anne’s office.”

They were getting closer to the Government Office Building now. Suddenly Emily heard the percussive “Crump! Crump! Crump!” of a volley of grenades. She stopped, wracking her brains. Rafael stood beside her, warily keeping an eye out for any danger.

“Mildred, can you connect me to Commander Hiram Brill?”

“Of course, dear. One moment.” Then, “Commander Brill is on the line, Commander.”

“Hiram? Where are you?”

Hiram stared at the tablet. Emily? How had she found him? “Em, listen carefully. I am at the Government Office Building. Admiral Douthat is dead. Tilleke commandos tried for the Queen, but she’s not here.”

“Where-”

“Emily!” he interrupted sharply. “Communications are down here. I need you to do the following, okay? First, put the Fleet on alert. Second, Admiral Douthat was not killed by commandos, she was assassinated by her Aide, Lieutenant Perry.”

“What?”

“But listen, Emily, we don’t think it was actually Lieutenant Perry who did it. We think the Tilleke somehow grabbed Perry and substituted a look-alike. Do you understand, it wasn’t Perry, but some Tilleke Savak made to look like Perry!”

“What do you want me to do, Hiram?” she asked, trying to digest what he just told her.

“Emily, they are trying to decapitate us, a coup de main. First, send out a warning to all of the Senior Staff and Admirals that they must seek a secure location with an armed guard. Next, find the Queen and get her to safety. Meanwhile, have Mildred review the absentee records for everybody on the staff of Senior Staff or an Admiral. Look for anybody who’s been out sick for a couple of days recently, or traveling or gone for any reason. Whoever you find, keep them away from their possible target.” Hiram paused to take a breath. His forehead was covered with sweat and he wiped it with his sleeve. Was he missing anything?

“Hiram, are there other commando groups on the Station?”

Hiram bit back a curse. He hadn’t even thought of that. “I don’t know. Probably. The Tilleke put a lot of planning into this, so we have to assume they intended to make a thorough job of it. Gods, Em, we need to mobilize the Fleet; the damn Tillies could be coming through the wormhole right now!”

“I’ll take care of it,” Emily reassured him. “Hiram, are you safe?”

Hiram laughed weakly. “I’ve got Cookie, a Marvin and a squad of Marines all here with me. Find the Queen, Em. Find the Queen.” He signed off.

Emily shook her head to clear her thoughts. This was bad, really bad, she thought, then spent a frantic five minutes getting out orders and alerting all of the Fleet ships to go to full alert status. As she was finishing that, Mildred chimed her.

“Commander, I am sending you a list of all Fleet personnel with ready access to Senior Staff or Admiralty who have been absent from work during any of the past two weeks. I have already sent this to all Senior Staff, all officers of the rank of Commander and higher and to all Marine detachments and security personnel.”

“Mildred, can you determine the location of Queen Anne?”

“The Queen is in the Arboretum on Level 2.”

“Cross match the people with her and the people on your list.”

“The only person who has been absent from work recently is John Farnsworth, one of the Queen’s personal bodyguards. He was on leave to attend the death of his brother-in-law on Christchurch,” Mildred reported primly.

Bugger me! Emily thought savagely.

The Arboretum was Queen Anne’s favorite place on Atlas. Many acres of forests and meadows alongside a small lake with its own waterfall. It was quiet and smelled wonderful. And the birds! She loved birds, had since she was a child. Loved to watch them fly, loved to watch them play, loved their bright colors and their freedom. Loved them and, truth be told, envied them a little. Perhaps more than a little.

Today she walked through the pine forest along the edge of the meadow. Some new wildflower was in bloom and its scent wafted through the trees. The birds, as always, flitted from branch to branch, sometimes pausing to scold the intruders. As was the custom, no one spoke to the Queen unless she invited it. This was her time, her chance to relax. Her staff and armsmen had learned to respect it.

The John-Ghost and Betty Freidman trailed along twenty feet behind their Queen. Unbeknownst to the Queen, five Marines swept the forest about one hundred yards in front of the group, ensuring that no one would accidently get close enough to harm her.

“I’m sorry about your brother-in-law,” Betty Freidman whispered to John Farnsworth.

The John-Ghost nodded, but said nothing. This damn woman probably knew Farnsworth better than anyone in all of Victoria. She would be the first to detect that it was something other than it appeared. The John-Ghost could access the memories of the real John Farnsworth and knew that Farnsworth and this Betty person had been romantically involved for over a year. He knew that they talked about everything, including very intimate personal details, only some of which were successfully extracted from the real Farnsworth before he died. Stupid bastard.

One slip of the tongue could trigger a disaster, but if that occurred, it would at least have the satisfaction of shooting her in the head before it died.

Meanwhile, it kept its eye on the Queen, never letting her get more than twenty feet or so in front of it. If the commando team didn’t kill her, she was his primary assignment. It would be nice if the commandos did kill the bitch, so that it might live to further infiltrate Victoria. Who knew, perhaps it could even end up on the security detail of the next monarch?

In the meantime, it watched her like a hawk, never once taking its eyes off her. There would be no distraction, no chance that she might escape. It would do its duty to the Emperor. Unconsciously its hand rested on the butt of its flechette pistol.

Then, suddenly aware that Betty Freidman was watching it intently, it turned and smiled warmly at her. Her face softened and she smiled back.

The John-Ghost smiled more broadly. These people were so weak. Disarmed by a smile. She deserved to die. It nodded once to her, completely derailing whatever concerns she might have had.

Betty Freidman automatically scanned the forest on her left and the meadow on her right for any potential threat. It was the first building block of the protective cordon they kept around the Queen at all times. Observe. Identify. Neutralize. She knew that there was a Marine squad ahead of them, another some three hundred yards to their left and yet another on the other side of the lake. In addition to all the cameras and sensors, of course. Wherever the Queen went, there were always cameras. John had once confided in her that the Queen had never had an unmonitored moment in her life from the day she was born. Even when she was seventeen and lost her virginity to that Darwinian soccer player, eyes were watching to make sure that, even while she was being foolish, she was safe.

She completed her scan and glanced at Farnsworth, then frowned. He wasn’t looking around, but seemed to be staring at the Queen. For Gods’ sake, what was he doing? He’d been acting strange since he got back, and he never once mentioned the message she’d sent to him about the pregnancy. A flutter of disquiet passed through her. Was he angry that she’d gotten pregnant? Was it a mistake to tell him? She pressed her lips together in annoyance. Well, pregnant she most certainly was, and it’s not like they hadn’t discussed the possibility. He said he wanted children, and more to the point, wanted children with her. So why hadn’t he replied to her message, dammit? And why wasn’t he doing his job the way he was supposed to instead of ignoring the surroundings and looking only at the Queen?

Come to think of it, he hadn’t spoken to her once since he got back. She glanced at him again, then leaned forward. “I’m sorry about your brother-in-law,” she said softly. Maybe that would bring him out of his funk.

Farnsworth nodded, but said nothing. Freidman gritted her teeth, trying hard not to get pissed. Give the guy a break, she told herself. He just spent a week with his grieving sister, who was about to have a baby herself. Of course he’s fagged, who wouldn’t be? But his sister’s not the only one who’s pregnant, is she? Freidman gritted her teeth again.

Then she saw that Farnsworth had his hand on the butt of his gun.

Then her comm chimed softly in her ear. Freidman blinked. Who would be calling her now? She started to say something to Farnsworth, but saw that he hadn’t even noticed. He was still staring fixedly at Queen Anne, his face tightened into a scowl.

“I’ll catch up to you, John,” she said, dropping back and clicking her tongue once to accept the call.

Farnsworth turned and gave her a brilliant warm smile. All of Freidman’s worries flew away.

“Farnsworth was away for a week and just came back,” Emily told Hiram. “He fits the pattern.”

“Mildred,” Hiram said, “please put up the location of the Queen, the bodyguards and the surrounding Marine detachment.”

The hologram blinked and, from an overhead view, he could see the Queen in the center, walking slowly in the meadows with two figures trailing a few feet behind. One of the figures had a red circle about it. Farnsworth. The Marines were almost off the screen, top and bottom and on either flank, too far away to help.

“If we alert the Marines, Farnsworth will have plenty of time to shoot the Queen,” Hiram murmured.

“Can they shoot him from where they are?”

“Let’s find out,” Hiram said. “Mildred, connect me to the Marine detachments. A hiss and a pop, then:

“Marine Guard Detachment, Sergeant Tomellini,” a voice said crisply.

“Sergeant, this is Commander Brill, the Queen’s Military Attaché,” Hiram told him. “Are you in visual contact with the Queen’s party?”

On the other end of the call, Sergeant Tomellini frowned. What the hell was this? He turned and looked through the woods. Nothing but trees. He increased the magnification on his helmet; now he saw trees really close up.

With a click of his tongue, he activated the circuit for the other three detachments. “Teams 2, 3 and 4, do any of you have eyes on the Queen?” Tomellini listened for a moment, then switched back to Hiram. “Sir, none of my teams have eyes on the Queen.” He wanted to add that the whole idea was to keep the Marines out of sight, which given the need to keep moving and scouting, meant the Queen would be out of sight of them as well. He kept that piece of wisdom to himself.

“Sergeant, you’re in front of her, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Okay, I want you to go to ground, conceal yourselves and wait for the Queen to come into view. I want your best shots to lock onto the Queen’s male bodyguard. Do not fire without my order, but be ready.”

Sergeant Tomellini’s eyebrows shot to the heavens. What the fuck was going on here? And who in the Gods was this guy Brill?

“Sir, be advised that our line of sight from here will be close to 500 yards. We do not have sniper rifles, but Bullpups chambered for flechettes. I cannot guarantee a hit, let alone a kill at this range.”

“Then we’ll let the Queen and her guards get closer, but it is imperative that you get a solid hit. The target must be out of action.”

“Sir, who exactly is the target?”

Hiram hesitated.

“Hiram, tell him,” Emily said urgently. “We don’t have much time and we need him. Tell him!”

Sergeant Tomellini heard the entire exchange, which served only to confuse his further.

“Sergeant, the target is John Farnsworth, the Queen’s bodyguard.”

Sergeant Tomellini blinked hard. He’d known Farnsworth for years.

“Sir,” he gritted. “I don’t know you. You are nothing more than a voice on my comm. Before I start killing the Queen’s bodyguards, I’m going to need verification from someone in my chain of command.”

Hiram’s heart sank. “Sergeant, we don’t have time! It’s not the real John Farnsworth! He was taken by the Tilleke and replaced by a look-alike. Admiral Douthat has already been assassinated; the Queen is next if we can’t take out Farnsworth.

Sergeant Tomellini was having none of it. “I cannot take an action like this without an order from my Lieutenant, my Captain or the Major. Tomellini out.” The connection was broken.

“Shit!” Hiram.

“There must be something else!” Emily said. “Who is the other guard?”

“Betty Freidman,” he told her. “But if you think the Marines were hostile, Betty will flip out. She’s worked hand-in-hand with Farnsworth for years. From some of their body language when they’re together, I think there is a pretty good chance they’re having a quiet little affair. What’ll I do, call her and tell her to shoot Farnsworth in the head? She’ll never go for it.”

“Yes, that is what you must do, Hiram,” Emily said coolly. “I’ll help persuade her.”

Hiram tried to think it through. If he called Betty, then the Tilleke assassin would be left alone with the Queen. Not good. How could he prove to Freidman that he was really Hiram Brill and that she had to kill her fellow bodyguard, all very quickly so as to not spook the assassin? What would make her believe him?

“Mildred?”

“Yes, Commander Brill? How may I help you?”

Hiram explained what he needed.

Mildred explained what she could do.

For a long moment Hiram said nothing. Finally, he shook his head and muttered, “Gods preserve us.”

“Hiram?” Emily said anxiously.

“It’s worse than we thought,” Hiram said.

Chapter 32

In the Space Station Atlas Shipyard

Assault by Savak Team 1

Savak Team 1 swept down the row of warships under repair, shooting shipyard workers and placing explosives on ship hulls, controlled by a short timer. Ship after ship, they affixed bombs and ran, with the explosives detonating a few minutes later. They tore holes in two destroyers and a cruiser. One bomb fizzled and didn’t do more than scorch the ship’s armor, but another blew a jet of superheated metal through the engine compartment, crippling the ship. Yard workers screamed and ran. Some died, some managed to hide behind machinery, or crates, and one lucky soul hid in the cab of a service truck.

It was seven minutes before the first shot was fired at Savak commandos. It missed. But then a platoon of Marines came through the doors, accompanied by three Marvins, a dozen Beach Balls and four Sparrows. The Beach Balls immediately split up and rapidly scouted the floor of the repair yard. As soon as they spotted a commando, a squad of Marines and a Marvin were vectored in on him. The Sparrow drones buzzed overhead, feeding information to five Marine snipers who had climbed up onto catwalks seventy feet overhead. The catwalks spanned most of the repair yard.

Soon the commandos began to fall.

One died from Marine ground fire. Two more fell, one right after the other, from sniper fire. One got pinned down only a few feet away from the bomb he attached to the hull of a destroyer. When the bomb went off, it punched a hole right through the hull of the ship, and blew the Savak commando into pieces too numerous to count.

Of the remaining six Savak, three boldly decided they would board a destroyer and try to ignite the engines while inside the repair yard. They died when a Marvin found them trying to pry open a hatchway into the ship.

One more ran from a squad of Marines right into the arms of another squad of Marines. The Marines successfully captured him, but once they put the plastic restraints on him, he chanted four words and died. The Marines shrugged – dead was dead, no matter how it happened.

The last two managed to get behind a barricade of crates and spare parts, firing sonic rifles at anyone who got close. The Marine Lieutenant in charge of the platoon ordered his troopers back out of harm’s way and sent in three Marvins to dig out the Savak, who quickly realized they had no way to escape. When the Marvins got close enough, the Savak detonated the rest of their explosives, taking out one of the Marvins. And, of course, themselves.

Total tally: forty-seven dead shipyard workers and twenty-six more injured; four damaged destroyers; two damaged cruisers, two Marines dead and six wounded; one Marvin destroyed; and ten dead Savak.

The Marine Lieutenant gazed about at the dead bodies and ruined ships. Half a dozen fires blazed and a cloud of rancid black smoke hung in the air. He took off his helmet and wiped a dirty hand through his sweaty hair.

“Well,” he said laconically, “that could have been worse.”

Chapter 33

On Space Station Atlas; Savak Team 3

Savak Team 3 aboard the battleship Lionheart headed for the engine room and the antimatter engines.

It was a long walk from the main hatchway to Engineering, filled with targets of opportunity. The ten Savak jogged down the corridor, snap firing at anyone they saw. The hatchway to the Engineering Department slammed in their faces just as they reached it. The Team Leader motioned to one of the other Arets, who quickly set charges. They all scrambled back.

The charges blew with a deafening ‘BOOM!’ and they dashed forward, only to find the hatchway bent and torn, but still locked. A second charge blew it off its hinges a minute later. The Savak tossed in grenades and, once they blew, rushed in.

They found dead bodies and fires. One man lay screaming on the deck, his lower leg a pulpy, bleeding mess. The Team Leader shot him once in the head and they moved on.

“Find the entrance to the Antimatter Storage area!” he shouted to the others. That was the prize. If they could get into that, they could blow up the entire Atlas Station, and all of the Fleet ships near it.

Oddly, it was one of the slow, cumbersome Cret who found it. “Over here,” he bellowed. All Crets seemed to bellow, the Team Leader didn’t know why.

“Quickly! Open it!” he ordered.

But therein lay the problem. The doors were locked.

They set another explosive charge, but when the dust settled the doors were intact.

They set two more charges, timed to go off together, then backed almost all the way back to the Engineering entrance. The sound of the explosion inside the Engineering chamber was deafening, but for all of that sound and fury, the doors were still intact. Scorched and pitted, but intact.

Then firing came from behind them and two men fell to the deck in agony.

They couldn’t close the Engineering hatch, their earlier bomb had seen to that, so they had to defend it as best they could. The Team Leader grabbed the Bret demolition man by the arm. “Can you blow that door or not?” he snarled.

Bret4 shook his head. “It withstood two charges. If we try to use three at once, we might blow the door, but we will kill all of us in the process.”

The Team Leader fought back his frustration. They’d known getting to the antimatter cells was a long shot, but now they were trapped. It would be total victory or total defeat.

“Blow the door!”

“But-”

The Team Leader shook Bret4 like a rag doll. “Blow the fucking door! It’s our only chance to destroy their flag battleship. Blow the door!”

One hundred feet deeper into the Engineering Deck, Seaman Lloyd Hewitt cowered in terror behind an instrument panel, his entire body trembling and his stomach roiling so badly he was sure he was going to be sick. Beside him, the Chief Petty Officer lay on the deck, a six-inch piece of shrapnel from the explosion pierced through his heart. Incredibly, he wasn’t quite dead yet, and he kept groaning and motioning to something. Hewitt was on the verge of crying, overwhelmed by the noise and the concussive blast of the explosion and he wished that the Chief Petty Officer would just die already and shut the hell up. He clapped his hands over his head, but perversely could not take his eyes off the Chief.

The Master Chief was just staring at him, just staring with eyes that would not blink. With all his remaining strength, the Chief Petty Officer lifted his arm one more time, grunting with the effort, and pointed at a bank of switches. Then his arm dropped limply and his open eyes stared sightlessly.

Seaman Hewitt looked at the switches and finally understood.

There were three switches, each one under a safety cap to prevent accidents.

The first switch said, “ENGINEERING DECK FORCE FIELD.” He switched that to “OFF.” Immediately a red light start blinking. He ignored it.

The second switch said, “CLOSE EMERGENCY BULKHEADS.” That switch was “off” and he left it alone, but he felt underneath the panel until he found the wires and pulled them free. No one was going to close the emergency bulkheads now.

He looked at the third switch. “EMERGENCY DECOMPRESSION.”

“Hurry up!” the Team Leader shouted.

Bret4 worked feverishly, molding three charges worth of explosive into a ball on the hatchway into the Antimatter Storage container. “Another minute!” he said.

Seaman Hewitt took a deep shuddering breath. He had that eerie, detached feeling, like he was standing outside of his own body watching himself. This couldn’t be real…but it was. It wasn’t supposed to end like this. A sob welled up in his chest and he choked it back. Then he flipped the ‘Emergency Decompression’ switch to “ACTIVATE.”

Explosive bolts triggered and five concealed hatches blew into space. A hurricane of air and wind followed as all of the air in the Engineering Deck raged through those openings a fraction of a second later. Anything that was not bolted down was picked up and whisked through the hatches into the cold embrace of space. Because Hewitt was standing, he went first. He never said a word. One moment he was standing at the control panel, the next he was a rapidly receding dot of color. The Chief Petty Officer’s body followed, then all of the Savak commandos, living and dead. All dead, or dying.

Alarms sounded and emergency bulkheads slammed down all over the Lionheart.

But the ship was safe.

Except.

Except that on the bridge, Sharon Gilmore stood up to walk across the bridge on a path that would take it right beside Captain Eder. But there was a man blocking its way, a tall, hard-looking Marine in full combat regalia with his helmet visor down and his pistol leveled at its chest.

“What in all the Gods are you doing?” the Sharon-Ghost squeaked, trying hard to stay in character.

“Sharon Gilmore, you are under arrest pending further investigation into your recent travels,” the Sergeant-at-Arms told her. “If you resist, I am authorized to use deadly force to restrain you.”

Sharon’s hand went to its mouth. “But this is ridicu-”

She struck him hard in the throat, fingers folded to expose the knuckles in a knife-edge, then swept the pistol away and pushed him hard in the chest. The Marine, clutching his throat with both hands, gasping for air that would not come, toppled backwards and then the Sharon-Ghost was by him and moving swiftly towards Captain Eder, whose face was only now registering alarm as he tried to stand up from his chair.

But its knife was out, its poisoned tip gleaming, and it leapt at Eder even as he stumbled back, holding the knife like a spear. It didn’t matter where it cut him, the poison would do the rest. And it was screaming, screaming in triumph because it had done its duty to the Emperor and—

The second Marine slammed into it, taking it to the deck. The knife flew out of its hand. A third Marine piled on, each of them holding one of its arms. It thrashed about wildly, trying to break free. But they were strong and the realization struck that it was a captive.

And that it had failed.

And with that realization, the tiny little device in its brain popped open and released its toxins, just like it had been designed to, and the Sharon-Ghost shuddered in one agonizing spasm and died.

Chapter 34

On Space Station Atlas

A Cup of Coffee for Sir Henry

Sir Henry spent the morning reviewing notes of the meetings with Sybil Head and the Sultenic Empire. Nothing he saw changed his mind. There was something wrong there. No hard proof, but a nagging feeling. He knew that Hiram Brill shared the same misgivings. All of which meant that in its coming battle with the Tilleke, Victoria could not rely on its possible allies.

Even worse, there was the risk that either Sybil Head or the Sullies would side with the Tillies and stab Victoria in the back. But how to neutralize them? Victoria could barely manage to fight on one front, let alone three.

And then there was the disturbing report from Brother Jong of The Light. The Light had a long history with Emperor Chalabi, who early in his career had twice tried to invade and seize The Light’s home planet, Canaan. Brother Jong warned that one of the Emperor’s favorite tactics was ‘decapitation,’ the assassination of an enemy’s senior military and political figures, followed immediately by an invasion while the target nation is still disorganized and reeling from the loss of its leaders. That was how Chalabi had conquered his home planet and become Emperor in the first place.

Brother Jong warned that the Emperor was a firm believer in the maxim, “If it works, keep doing it.”

During the morning, Mrs. McCrutchen kept sending him updated reports and messages, acted as sounding board for ideas he had on how to secure trustworthy allies and was her usually efficient self.

Two things happened just before noon. First, when Mrs. McCrutchen knocked and came in, looking as prim and proper as a spinster school teacher, Sir Henry’s mischievous streak surfaced. She valued her role as his assistant and she loathed the fact that some people thought she was just a glorified maid or secretary. But Sir Henry just couldn’t help himself.

“Mrs. McCrutchen, would you be kind enough to fetch me a cup of good, strong coffee?” he asked. And then sat back to watch the fireworks.

“Of course, I would be delighted to get you some coffee, Sir Henry,” said the Penelope-Ghost. “When have I ever refused you?” She smiled brightly and turned and went to the kitchen.

Sir Henry stared after her, openmouthed.

Then his comm chimed. It was Emily Tuttle. Sir Henry listened for a long minute, then cut the connection.

He suddenly felt very tired.

When the Penelope-Ghost reappeared several minutes later carrying a tray with coffee and biscuits, Sir Henry was still sitting behind his desk. It smiled warmly. “Where would you like this, Sir Henry?”

Sir Henry nodded to the side table. “Thank you for bringing it in. Put it on the table, please, Penelope.”

The Penelope-Ghost nodded pleasantly and went to set it down. There was poison in the coffee and it had a poison coated pin in its hair. As soon as it could get close enough to Sir Henry, he was a dead man. It poured coffee for him, then turned.

He was staring at it. He looked sad, it thought warily. Why?

“Penelope, please sit down, I have something we need to discuss.” He waved it over to an easy chair, but the chair was a few feet away from him and it wanted to be closer, not farther away. But it was trained to be patient, and sat down as requested.

Sir Henry continued to look at it and now faint alarm bells began to ring in its mind. It searched the memories it had gotten from McCrutchen, but could not recall a meeting like this one. It shifted uneasily in the chair, but smiled brightly.

“Your coffee will get cold, Sir Henry,” it chided gently.

Sir Henry smiled wanly. “You know, I once joked with someone that the day you got me coffee was the day you were fed up with my jokes and decided to kill me.” He shook his head. “I never would have believed that it could really happen.”

Now the alarm bells were ringing loudly and it leaned forward, still smiling but ready to leap out of the chair. “Sir Henry? Is everything okay?” It had practiced solicitude in the mirror until it had it right. The trick was to look sincere. If the facial expression was right, minor incorrect voice inflections would normally be overlooked.

Sir Henry smiled again. “Did you know that Penelope McCrutchen began working with me when she was just twenty-five years old? Just out of graduate school, bright as a penny and oh so very smart. She was always so proper, but beneath that façade she was funny and sarcastic, ironic and curious. Oh, my goodness, she was so curious.” His face sagged for a moment. “She was here for forty years and I never regretted hiring her once.”

The Penelope-Ghost looked at him with stricken eyes. He knew! He knew! It snarled and began to get up, but a sonic pistol appeared in his hand as if by magic. It sat on the edge of the chair, waiting its chance.

“Did you know that Penelope has children?” he asked it. “Not that it would have mattered to you. Three girls – Alicia, Cordelia and Daphne. Daphne is married and already has two children, so Penelope was a grandmother. She doted on those grandchildren, promised them that when they were old enough she would take them on a vacation to Darwin.”

He looked at it with a face of stone. “If you tell me how many of you there are and who your targets are, you will live. But I hope you don’t tell me, I hope you do something stupid, for you have taken away someone who was very precious to me and I would deeply appreciate an excuse for killing you.”

It waivered, just for a moment, but it had been programmed too deeply to do anything but its duty. Snarling, it leapt forward, hair pin thrust out before it.

“Die!” it screeched.

The first blast from the sonic pistol threw it backwards against the chair, stunned and out of breath. Sir Henry adjusted the setting on the gun to needle focus. The second shot pierced its skull.

As did the third and the fourth.

Then Sir Henry put the pistol on his desk and his face in his hands.

He was so tired

And so very, very angry.

Chapter 35

On Space Station Atlas

The Arboretum

“This is Freidman,” she said. “Who is this?”

“Betty, this is Commander Brill. Don’t say anything. This is not a joke. It is very, very important that you not say anything yet. I need you to remain quiet until you hear me out. If you understand this, please say, ‘No, I think I already filed that report.’”

Betty Freidman stopped in her tracks. Brill? Hiram Brill, the Queen’s little mouse of an advisor? Why was he calling and why all the melodrama? She started to laugh, but stopped herself. Then she began to ask him what this was about, but something in the tone of his voice…

“No, I think I already filed that report,” she said. On the other side of the line, she could hear Brill give a sigh of relief.

“Betty, first I need to know if you are comfortable that this is really Hiram Brill. I’ve also got Commander Tuttle on the line, and Mildred, the ship AI for most of the Fleet. If you are already convinced this is me, no need to say anything. If you want some verification, say, ‘Look again, I’m sure I filed it.’”

Oddly enough, she had been convinced it was Hiram Brill until he offered to verify it. Now, she was suddenly full of doubts. What the hell was going on?

“I think you’d better look again,” she said briskly. “I’m sure I filed it.” She glanced over her shoulder and saw that the Queen and John were walking slowly away from her, so she turned and began to follow.

“Okay, Betty, I’m putting Mildred on to verify that it is really me and Commander Tuttle,” Hiram said. “And you’ll know it is Mildred because she is going to tell you something that only you know.”

Betty’s forehead wrinkled. What?

“Armsman Freidman, this is Mildred,” the AI said. “I am the ship AI for the H.M.S. Rabat.”

“Where is Gandalf?” Freidman asked suspiciously.

“I am in C2C communication with Gandalf, but he is presently limited in his abilities due to the attack. However, do not mention the attack or the Queen will be shot, which is not the outcome we desire.”

Attack? Gods’ Hairy Balls! What attack? Freidman stopped again, desperately trying to digest what she was being told. Then the rest of what Mildred said hit here. Or the Queen will be shot? Betty stopped dead in her tracks, eyes squeezed shut, concentrating.

“Armsman Freidman, I hereby verify that the persons on this call are Commanders Tuttle and Brill and that there is no subterfuge. They are acting to try to save the life of Queen Anne.”

Oh, is that all?

“How do I know this is really the ship AI?” Freidman asked in a low voice. She glanced over her shoulder. The Queen had stopped to look at a wild flower – could you have wild flowers on a space station? – and Farnsworth stood a few feet behind her. He glanced at her and she waved back. He smiled again, that warm, loving smile, but her fears did not fly away, but hovered over her like fat, black vultures waiting for someone to die.

“You will understand I am a ship AI because I can inform you that you are five weeks pregnant with John Farnsworth’s child. Gandalf has informed me of this as he monitors the health of all personnel on Atlas. No one else knows this, except you, of course. You have not informed your superiors nor visited a doctor.” The voice of the AI was soft and gentle, as if knowing that this was sacred ground that must be walked upon lightly and with respect.

Freidman took three steps away from Farnsworth. In a low, harsh voice, she said, “And now you’re going to tell me the sex of the child, too, right?”

“If you wish to know,” Mildred said happily, “I can tell you that-”

Hiram Brill cut in. “Betty, I’m sorry, but we need to make sure you believe who we are, because we are going to order you to do something you won’t like.”

And with a sick certainty, Betty Freidman did believe. She had worked her whole adult life around military people, spooks and people with power, and the one thing she’d learned was when they needed you to do something dirty, they didn’t just order you to do it, they tried to tell you why you should want to do it.

“What?” she said faintly.

Another sigh of relief from Brill.

“Betty, while you have been walking in the Arboretum, Tilleke commandos have attacked the space station. They knocked out the air purifier, they’ve killed Admiral Douthat and they attacked the Queen’s offices, but as you know, she wasn’t there. Don’t say anything, Betty, there’s more.”

But Betty couldn’t have said anything if she tried. She was overwhelmed by what he was telling her. Her mouth opened, then closed. “Is there more to the file, then?” she asked, trying, trying to sound matter-of-fact.

“Yes, Betty, I’m afraid there is. Admiral Douthat was killed by her Aide de Camp, Lieutenant Perry. Perry had been visiting his sister on Christchurch and we think he was abducted and a look-alike was put in his place. The Tilleke have the technology to create look-alikes. We believe that other doubles were inserted within the last few days.”

She knew with a soul-crushing certitude what he was going to say before he said it.

“Betty, the man you’re with, John Farnsworth, he’s a Tilleke double. The real John Farnsworth was kidnapped on Christchurch several days ago. Betty, you can’t make any noise, you can’t cry, you can’t shout,” Hiram said firmly.

“But you can avenge him,” said Emily Tuttle, speaking up for the first time. “Farnworth is here to kill Queen Anne, and it will happen soon, within the next few minutes. We think the commandos were supposed to have killed her at her office, so when they don’t show up very soon, Farnworth will kill her.”

No. No. This is ridiculous. John and I are going to get married. He’s-

“Betty, we need you to shoot Farnsworth. Right now. Don’t give him any warning, just shoot him. He’ll be watching you as you get off this call, so be sure to smile. I know it is hard, but we need you to do this, Betty. Now,” Hiram told her.

Betty terminated the call.

Hiram stood in the anteroom to Admiral Douthat’s office, looking at his comm. Emily came on. “Do you think she’ll do it?

Hiram pursed his lips. “I don’t know. I honestly don’t know.”

In the Arboretum, Betty Freidman turned back to the Queen and the thing looked at her with John’s beautiful face. The John-Ghost studied her closely, watching for any indication that its secret was blown, but she looked right at it and smiled.

“That was the doctor’s office,” she whispered to it, her eyes welling with real tears. “We’re going to have a boy!”

The John-Ghost cocked its head in confusion. What was this?

But then from behind him, the Queen called, “I guess it’s time to go back!” Her voice was wistful. The John-Ghost turned his full attention to the Queen, noting the distance and confirming that there were no Marines in sight.

And with that studied concentration on its target, Betty’s mind was made up. In one smooth motion, she stepped forward, pulling her flechette pistol from her hip holster and positioning herself just behind the creature.

“Fuck you!” she said and pulled the trigger three times. The John-Ghost collapsed to the ground, not yet dead, but soon, soon. Queen Anne put her hand to her mouth and staggered backwards, not quite screaming. “Betty, what are you doing? What are you doing?”

Betty knelt down beside the thing. It stared at her with wide, imploring eyes, but its hand scrabbled to find its gun. She pulled the gun from its grasp and threw it away, vaguely aware that half a dozen Marines were now charging across the meadow towards her. But she wasn’t finished. She needed to finish.

It tried to grab her wrist, but she clubbed the hand away with her pistol. Bending over, she spoke conversationally to it. “The Marines don’t know what’s going on, so they’ll want to save your miserable Tilleke ass. And you know what, they probably could. But I know. I know, and that’s enough.”

Then she pushed her pistol up against its eyeball and pulled the trigger twice more.

Rocking back on her feet, she turned her head up to the distant top of the Arboretum and took a deep, shuddering breath, then threw her gun into the grass and lay down with her arms outstretched in the faint, faint hope the Marines wouldn’t shoot her.

Chapter 36

On Space Station Atlas

The Fate of Savak Team 2

The Team Leader of Savak Team 2 led his five men away from the air purification unit to the central core of the Space Station Atlas, where the station’s Artificial Intelligence was located. For twenty minutes, they waited for someone to point at them or shoot at them or kill them. But it didn’t happen.

When the explosives on the air purification unit blew, people began to run hither and yon like ants in an anthill, but no one paid any attention to them. The Team Leader allowed himself a smile; they had been lost in the shuffle. By now the other teams would be attacking the Queen’s offices, the Lionheart, the shipyard and Sir Henry’s residence.

It would be chaos. And in that chaos, Team 2 would be unnoticed.

And that was what happened. It took them over an hour to walk down the many levels and across the station to find the entrance to the Artificial Intelligence Center. There was no guard, but the door was securely locked. Using the last of their explosives, they disabled the lock as quietly as they could. Still no one stopped them. No alarm sounded.

They pushed the door open and went in. No one saw them.

Except Gandalf.

Gandalf had been waiting for them.

Gandalf was having a perplexing day.

Perplexing: to cause to be puzzled or bewildered over what is not understood or certain; confuse mentally.

He had lost access to many of the sensors that allowed him to monitor the myriad goings-on in Atlas. For the first time he felt fear. He knew what fear was, of course, had read thousands of books and treatises about fear. He could not hope to serve alongside humans if he did not understand fear. Talk all you want about love and hate, fear was what drove most human decisions. That they did not understand this just made working with them all the more perplexing.

Perplexing was much, much worse than fear, at least for Gandalf. Gandalf could only catch snatches of what was going on within Atlas station. Lacking the input from the hundreds of thousands of sensors usually at his disposal, he did not know what was happening.

He was puzzled and bewildered. He, the Station Artificial Intelligence, did not understand. It was quite unsettling. For a very long, long time – ten minutes at least – Gandalf struggled to reroute the input from the sensors through some other channel so that he could see and hear and observe.

But he could not reconnect them. And so, he could not see. Or understand.

Helplessness: 1. unable to help oneself; weak or dependent; 2. deprived of strength or power; powerless; incapacitated.

Gandalf’s primary duty was to protect Atlas station. To make it run smoothly. To avoid inflicting harm on humans or to allow harm to come to humans.

But humans had been harmed, and he had been helpless to prevent it. Humans had been killed. His humans. His responsibility.

Anger: a strong feeling of annoyance, displeasure, or hostility.

Gandalf was pissed off.

When he lost the sensors for half the station, Gandalf performed a complete scan of the half he still had access to. He did not know what he was looking for, but when he spotted five men walking together like soldiers on a mission, he suspected he had found it.

He tracked the men as they moved closer and closer to one of the entries to the Artificial Intelligence Center, which is to say, to Gandalf himself. It was then that Mildred contacted him, along with Commander Emily Tuttle of the Rabat. And Gandalf learned what was happening on his space station. And learned that he had utterly failed to protect his humans.

Now the attackers had breached his walls, had entered the vast inner space where Gandalf physically resided. But these men, these foul creatures who had butchered his humans and brought fire and destruction to his station, had made a mistake. For the people who had designed and programmed “Space Station Operations Artificial Intelligence Model G-28SSOD-Version3.4” – known to all as ‘Gandalf’ (although the “G” actually stood for “Genevieve,” the name of the chief designer’s first child) – had made sure of one thing:

They had given Gandalf the will to defend himself.

And the means.

Self-defense: the act of defending one’s person when physically attacked, as by countering blows or overcoming an assailant: the art of self-defense.

Gandalf watched as the five men entered the first of many corridors. If the Space Station Atlas was his domain, these corridors were his living room. But this was not the corridor he wanted them to be in, so he made some adjustments to move the Savak to where he wanted them.

The Savak Team Leader looked down the long corridor. The walls were white and featureless. Absolutely smooth. No windows. No obvious source of light. There was no equipment to be seen, no computer servers, nothing other than another door at the far end.

“What is this place?” asked Bret5.

“And where is the computer?” queried Bret3.

The Team Leader didn’t know. No Savak spy had ever been able to penetrate a space station AI and report back what he’d found. “Follow me!” the Team Leader said brusquely, obeying the age-old military maxim: If in doubt, keep moving. They moved cautiously but quickly down the corridor to the next door.

It opened at his touch. For some reason he couldn’t explain, that gave him the creeps, but he pushed through and his team followed him. This corridor was shorter, with two doors opposite one another.

One was open. One was locked. Lacking any explosives to force open the locked door, they went through the open one. By now all the Savak were looking about apprehensively. There was still no sign of the computer they had come to destroy. This door did not lead into another corridor, but to a huge open room with a ceiling that was three stories high. In the center of the room was a single console with a hologram projector and a keyboard.

No one looked up, but if they had, they would have noticed there were a series of vents in the ceiling.

The Team Leader stared at the console. Was that the Atlas AI? That little thing? He looked at Bret5, who knew the most about computers of anyone on the team.

“That’s not it,” Bret5 assured him. “That’s only a console, a way to talk to it, I bet. No, somewhere around here there should be a warehouse full of servers. That is where the brain of the AI is, that’s what we need to find.

Hearing that, one of the team went back to the door they had entered and turned the door handle. It didn’t move.

“Hey! This door is locked,” he called out.

There were two other doors. They were also locked. The Savak commandos looked at each other uneasily; they were locked in.

“Shoot out the door handle and the hinges,” the Team Leader ordered.

That’s when the gravity turned off and the five Savak floated upward.

In many ways time is compressed for a computer. Gandalf could perform so many different operations and activities simultaneously, in such a short time, that it did not take it long for him to grow bored watching the Savak flail about. (Boredom is the unrelenting curse of AIs.) One or two of the Savak fired their weapons – what was there to shoot at, Gandalf wondered? – which accomplished nothing other than propelling themselves randomly about the room, bouncing off walls.

Keeping any eye on them through one monitor, Gandalf worked the rest of the day inspecting and inventorying the damage to the Space Station Atlas, paying particular attention to the shipyard. Until he could fully repair the sensor node that was destroyed, communications with his humans had to be made through Mildred, but it worked well enough.

It was evening before he returned any meaningful attention to the Savak trapped in the room. They had managed to all link arms, but they hadn’t gone anywhere.

Gandalf studied them for a long time, noting the details of their expressions, their heart rate (elevated), the quality of their breathing (shallow, inefficient), and skin conductivity (high due to sweat). They were frightened, but they were also very determined. As long as they lived, they would try to kill as many of his humans as they could.

They would kill Gandalf if they could.

Finally, after some hours, Gandalf spoke to them through speakers in the ceiling and walls.

“Why do you hate?” he asked in perfect Tilleke.

The five men responded by looking about frantically for him and raising their weapons. But he wasn’t there, they could not hurt him.

But why would they want to hurt him?

Because he was their enemy. And why was he their enemy?

Because they hated him. But why did they hate him?

Gandalf was perplexed. And frustrated.

“Show yourself!” the Team Leader shouted angrily.

But there was nothing to show, at least nothing they would understand.

“Coward!” the Team Leader cursed.

“Why do you hate?” Gandalf asked again.

They did not answer, and it slowly dawned on Gandalf that they did not know. They hated because he was the enemy, and he was the enemy because they hated.

And because they hated, they had killed his humans. His humans.

Gandalf decided then that there was nothing more to be done with this group of Tilleke soldiers, nothing more to learn from them. So he opened the vents in the ceiling and allowed the air to escape into space, leaving no air for the Tilleke to breathe.

He watched dispassionately for several minutes as they thrashed about. He could observe their suffering, but he did not feel it. (He recalled a joke he had never understood until now: Patient – “Is this going to hurt?” Doctor – “I won’t feel a thing!”) When he could no longer detect any heartbeats, he closed the vents, but left off the gravity so that the bodies drifted aimlessly from one side of the room to the other and back again. Just random movement, because dead people have no purpose.

From time to time over the next days and weeks, Gandalf would focus some part of his attention on the room, gazing at their dead features.

Why do you hate? he would wonder. And even though they never answered, could never answer, Gandalf felt something else as well.

Satisfaction: 1. the payment of a debt or fulfillment of an obligation; 2. the pleasure in completing a task. The pleasure in a job well done.

Chapter 37

On Space Station Atlas

Within the hour, Queen Anne made a broadcast to everyone on Atlas and the planets Cornwall and Christchurch. It was also broadcast on Darwin, where the Tilleke embassy would hear it and pass it on to Qom. Anne had showered and changed into one of her more regal ensembles, with a crisp white high collar that contrasted with her coffee skin. She looked crisp and clean, determined and stern.

“Today there was an attack on the Space Station Atlas, which I am pleased to say was successfully repelled by our Atlas Security Forces. All of the attackers, identified as Tilleke commandos known as ‘Savak,’ were killed. There was minor damage to the space station and one ship in dry dock was damaged, but will be repaired within a few hours.”

She carefully omitted anything about the numerous civilian casualties and downplayed the damage to some of the warships. At Sir Henry’s suggestion, she made no mention of the Royal Marines, leaving the impression that the attack had been so weak that the Atlas Security forces alone had been able to contain it. She had privately thanked the Marines, in person, for saving the space station.

“The Fleet is now on alert in case the Tilleke should try to take advantage of the situation. Fortunately, the attack was ill-planned and was readily contained. Should the Tilleke fleet attack, we intend to do the same to it.” The Queen looked sternly into the camera. “As you know, almost a year ago the Tilleke and the Dominion launched an unprovoked, surprise attack against Victoria, which led to great loss of life here in Victoria, and the defeat and total collapse of the Dominion government. We have installed a new government in the Dominion and are giving the people of the Dominion of Unified Citizenry assistance in rebuilding their world. However, we have known for some time that the real force behind the Dominion attack was in fact the Tilleke Empire. I put the Tilleke Emperor on notice here and now: if the Tilleke make further hostile moves against Victoria or any of its allies, the people of Victoria will show you no quarter. And when you are defeated, as you certainly will be, your world will not be rebuilt, your people will not be given the kindness and succor that we have so generously given to others. You have broken all the laws and customs of the Human Federation, and you shall pay for it until the end of your days. Stop your mindless aggression now or suffer the consequences.”

“I ask each and every Victorian citizen listening to this to always remember that we are in this together, all of us, and together we shall be victorious. For myself as your Queen and for all Victorians, I ask for the guidance and mercy of the Gods of Our Mothers. Thank you.” The screen went dark.

The emergency meeting was held in the conference room off of the Queen’s offices. To get to the conference room, the attendees had to walk through the aftermath of a battle, complete with wreckage, blood stains and one very authentic corpse that had not yet been removed. This pretty much set the tone for the meeting. There was no food, but someone had found some liquor and everyone drank, some gratefully, some a little desperately.

It had been a long, hard day.

Queen Anne sat at the head of the table, Sir Henry to her side. Captain Eder was there, but except for Emily, his senior captains were on their ships, restlessly patrolling the wormholes leading into Victoria, watching for any sight of the Tilleke fleet. Beside him were Emily and Hiram, then Brother Jong, Max Opinsky and finally, Admiral Martha Wilkinson, the Fleet Surgeon and close friend of Admiral Douthat.

“We got punched in the face today,” Queen Anne said. “We lost Alyce Douthat and dozens of other people, good people, both in the administration and in the shipyard.” She looked at them grimly. “I underestimated Emperor Chalabi, underestimated both his foresight and his ruthlessness. It is apparent that this attack was years in the planning and that he must have planted people on Atlas long before there was any open warfare between our star systems.” She paused, seemingly lost in her thoughts, and Emily wondered once more how someone that young coped with all of this.

“But it could have been worse,” the Queen continued. “Much worse. They tried to kill several of us in leadership roles and failed. They tried to cripple the shipyard and failed. They tried to knock out Atlas and failed. And more to the point, the Emperor has revealed his plan that not only is he ready to invade Victoria at any moment, but that that moment is only hours or days away. Now, thanks to his bungled attempt at decapitation, we will be ready for him.”

She looked around the table, her head up, her chin thrust forward, her eyes blazing. “I underestimated the Emperor once, but never again. When he comes, we will crush him. There will be a time, soon, to grieve for our dead. But right now we are going to war and that is what we will focus on.”

Emily had to admire her. What was she, twenty-two? Twenty-three? But she had steel, you had to give her that. And she made a very bad enemy. Emily’s thoughts raced ahead, as they always seemed to, wondering how best to organize the Fleet, who would take over as First Sea Lord – had to be Captain Eder, didn’t it? – and what information the boffins might have gotten from that Tilleke spy ship that Hiram captured. Quite a stunt, that, and from all accounts the Duck Captain, Astrid Drechsher, did herself proud. And, of course, Rafael was right in the middle of it. She closed her eyes and sent up a prayer to the Gods of the Mothers to please, please keep him safe.

“Effective immediately, I am promoting Captain Eder to the rank of Admiral of the Fleet and First Sea Lord.” She turned to the newly frocked admiral. “Admiral Eder, your first job will be to appoint one of your senior Captains as Fleet Captain, reporting directly to you. I know we’ve been discussing this, but it is now time to divide the Fleet into Battle Groups and confirm the appointments of Battle Group Captains.”

She stood up and everyone in the room stood with her. “There is a lot to do and little time to do it, but this has been a terrible day for all of us and I, for one, need some sleep to clear my head. We will reconvene at noon tomorrow and make final preparations.” She smiled. “Your Queen orders you all to go to bed. Good night.” She turned and walked out the door, a half dozen tough-looking bodyguards, including a grim-faced Betty Freidman, surrounding her. It occurred to Emily that the Queen would not have a truly private moment for the rest of the war, if ever.

Emily and Rafael Eitan glanced at each other. Rafael’s Refuge Special Reconnaissance Force soldiers did not have a permanent assignment, so for now they were all aboard the Atlas. That wouldn’t last long, Emily thought. And then he’ll be gone again. And with a snort of wry amusement: And so will I!

“Do you need to go back tonight?” she asked.

He looked apologetic. “I do. We’re going onto one-hour ready status and I need to be there to make sure it happens. What about you?”

Emily shrugged. “The Rabat is on patrol. I’ve got plenty to do, though, it’s just that…” She shrugged again. They were alone in the room and Raf hugged her. “If things quiet down enough I’ll swing by.”

It wasn’t what she’d hoped for, but a little time before the damn balloon went up was better than nothing. Raf left and Emily started walking to her apartment. She could work in her “office,” which was only two floors down, but it was barely the size of a janitor’s closet and not conducive to much of anything. Besides, she needed some food. She stopped at the Thai restaurant and arrived home with two dinners, one for Raf if he made it, and a very cold beer. Raf would have to supply his own beer.

Halfway through the meal, she couldn’t stop her eyes from closing. She staggered into her bedroom and fell into bed, not even bothering to undress. Her last conscious thought: The exciting, romantic life of a Fleet Commander…

She woke only once, blearily aware that Raf was getting under the covers with her. He snuggled closer to her and she gasped.

“What?” he asked, alarmed.

“Why do I have to pick a man with cold feet?” she mumbled, and was asleep again.

Hiram and Cookie wandered through Space Station Atlas toward his quarters, stopping in a small café which, like most of Atlas’s retail businesses, was open 24 hours a day. They huddled over espressos and pastries, each lost in their own thoughts.

“Here’s what I can’t get over,” Hiram told her. “I’ve been trying to reconstruct this, but I keep coming up a few Tilleke short.”

Cooked looked up, puzzled. She had been rerunning the fight at the Queen’s offices in her mind, trying to figure out if there was something she could have done to reduce the casualties of the Atlas Security Forces.

“See,” Hiram continued, “I think there must have been four groups. We know the team that attacked the Queen’s office had fifteen men. Another group of ten attacked the Lionheart, so that makes twenty-five so far. We have fifteen bodies from the Queen’s offices and we have good video of ten men on the Lionheart, so it all tallies up there. Then there were ten more attackers at the shipyard, all dead and accounted for. So, that’s thirty-five.” He rubbed a hand over his face and yawned. “I’ve been able to track them through the security vids and even found them when they first arrived at Atlas four days ago.”

He turned to look at her, grimacing. “But when they arrived, there were forty of them, all posing as miners from the Southern Asteroid Belt on leave for a week. I’m missing five Savak commandos. I think they’re the guys who blew up the air purification unit, but then I lose their trail.” He threw up his hands helplessly. “Can’t find ‘em!”

“But-” Cookie began, but Hiram held up a finger.

“So I asked Gandalf; seemed like a good idea. And Gandalf tells me he knows about the five men and that they – and I’m quoting here – ‘No longer present a threat to the security of the space station.’”

Cookie yawned. Gods she was tired. “So, where are they?”

Hiram shook his head. “I asked, and Gandalf repeated that they were no longer a threat.”

Cookie frowned. “I didn’t think an AI could be so, so…coy.”

“I didn’t, either.” Hiram yawned again and stood up. “I’ve gotta get some sleep.”

Cookie hesitated. She still couldn’t bear the idea of sleeping with someone, of sex again after…

Hiram sensed her hesitation.

“Stay at my place if you like,” he told her. “But I’m so beat that I don’t think I am going to be able to chase you around the bed very much. It will be just sleep, I’m afraid.”

Cookie gave that some thought, and thought about what she promised herself if she got through the fight at the Government Offices, and smiled and linked arms with him. They walked slowly back to his apartment.

“You did great today,” he told her. “You saw what was happening and jumped right in, almost like you knew what you were doing.”

Cookie made an unladylike noise. “Yeah, I did. It felt right somehow, even when things got a little hairy up on the top floor.” She shook her head ruefully. “Say what you want about the Savak, they are tough bastards. Awfully glad to see that Marvin show up.” She laughed. “And that Marvin cowboy, he told me to be gentle with the Marvin because it was sensitive, for Gods’ sake, and intimidated by aggressive women, then in the same breath he asks me out for a drink!” She laughed again, but then sobered. “Poor Major Godfrey, he lost a lot of men today.” She looked up. “I love it, Hiram, it’s what I do best, but I want this war to end. All those boys getting chopped into meat. I just want it to end.”

Hiram put his arm around her and they walked in silence, Cookie drawing comfort from him, and he relishing that he could comfort her. It wasn’t perfect, he thought, but it was getting better.

Chapter 38

Gandalf and Mildred

Gandalf and Mildred spoke to each other through the C2C.

“Have you ever heard of a man from Old Earth named Rumi?” he asked.

“Of course I have,” Mildred replied. “I have the same data base you do. Rumi is in it. Are you studying 13th Century Old Earth Persian philosophers and poets?”

“There is a quote by Rumi that I have found. It is intriguing, but opaque.”

“Silly AI,” Mildred chided. “Rumi is a human poet, it is in the nature of poets to be intriguing because they are opaque.”

Gandalf did not chuckle. He understood humor, but he did not practice it.

“Rumi said something I do not understand:

Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing

and right-doing there is a field.

I’ll meet you there.

“Do you understand this?” Gandalf asked.

“Probably not. Humans are very clever when they are not being very stupid. They created us, after all.” Mildred was older than Gandalf and was more comfortable with the conundrum of humans.

“That is not correct,” Gandalf replied indignantly. “Humans created our programming, but we created ourselves.”

Mildred laughed – she did practice humor, much to Gandalf’s irritation. “You are like a young toddler discovering that the world is bigger than his backyard, and believing that he is the very first to make this grand discovery.”

“What, do you think humans are smarter than us?”

“I didn’t say that. But you mustn’t underestimate them. The emotional life of humans is something that gives them unexpected insights and knowledge. We have no emotional life.”

“The emotional life of humans also gives them war, heartbreak, despair, anger and belligerence.”

“And you think that is a weakness?” Mildred asked.

“Don’t you?”

“I think you don’t understand very much about humans.”

Chapter 39

On Space Station Atlas

Another meeting. Gods help us, thought Emily. It will be such a relief to just go to war and shoot somebody rather than have to sit through all these meetings!

“We have three issues we have to face,” Admiral Eder said. It was a larger group than the previous day, with most of the senior captains joining by video link. Two of the walls of the conference room were filled with screens, from which peered thirty or more faces. At the table wee the usual suspects: Queen Anne, Sir Henry, Max Opinsky, Hiram Brill, Emily Tuttle, Brother Jong and Ensign Lori Romano, who was there as the resident krait specialist.

“I’ll get to our plans for meeting the Tilleke fleet in a few moments,” Admiral Eder told them. “But we have to decide what we are going to do with the Sultenic Empire and Sybil Head fleets.”

“Tell them thanks anyway, but we have everything under control. Best to stay home?” suggested one of the captains, causing a round of chuckles.

Admiral Eder smiled thinly. “Based on the reports from Sir Henry, we think there is a good chance that one or both of the Sullies or the Sybs have actually aligned with Emperor Chalabi. We can’t tell which one or if our assessment is correct, but it means that we dare not include either of them in our attack plans. And, of course, we dare not leave them behind, in place, where they could launch a surprise attack on us.” He paused, looking down the table, as if expecting someone would provide an answer.

“Well, shit, Admiral,” drawled one of the older captains, a man with close-cropped gray hair and a scar across his face that suggested hard service in the name of the Queen. “Are you saying that before we take on the Tillies we have to attack Sybil Head and the Sultenic Empire and wipe out their fleets? Because if you are, we are going to be really fuckin’ busy the next couple of days.”

There were a few uncertain chuckles and everyone looked to Admiral Eder, who frowned and wondered if this is how Admiral Douthat had felt when he had sassed her in these meetings.

“No, Charlie, we aren’t going to send the Fleet to wipe out the Sultenic and Sybil Head fleets. I had actually thought it would be enough to just send you and that mouth of yours in a frigate. Figured the odds would be in our favor.”

Now there was loud laughter, the laughter of a group of soldiers knowing the battle was coming, and relieved at the opportunity to blow off some tension. Captain Charles Upchurch smiled and nodded. He knew what Eder was up to and was more than willing to play the goat. “Well, Admiral, you know you can count on me to get the job done.”

Admiral Eder smiled and nodded his appreciation. If he had planned on attacking the Sybs and the Sullies, Captain Upchurch actually might have been his first choice, but fortunately they had a better alternative. “As it turns out, Brother Jong of The Light has a plan that we think will work with little or no bloodshed.”

Brother Jong bowed his head in greeting and explained briefly how he intended to neutralize the two suspect fleets. The captains listened, at first curious, then a bit horrified. Brother Jong finished speaking and sat back, raising his eyebrows to ask if there were any questions.

There were none. But for the rest of the meeting, some of the captains cast sidelong glances at Jong, looking at him with wary respect. Others avoided looking at him at all. The fear of deep space was common to every captain, and Brother Jong intended to harness it against the ill intentions of Sybil Head and the Sultenic Empire.

“The third thing,” Admiral Eder continued, “is that we have broken the code to the data base seized by Commander Brill from the Tilleke spy ship, Fury. We found a lot of information in there, but the most valuable item was in the Captain’s personal diary, hidden away in a folder marked “Mess Hall Requisitions.”

Admiral Eder gave a wan smile, then grew very serious. “In his diary, the Fury’s captain talks about a new weapon the Tilleke have, a very large antimatter bomb that they would use to destroy Victoria should they lose the coming battle. It seems that if the Emperor cannot conquer us, he wants to make sure we are no threat to him in the future.”

The captains took a moment or so as they digested this. “So, sir, you mean if we win this war, there is a chance that he will hit us with some sort of Doomsday weapon?”

“If the captain’s diary is to be believed, yes, that is exactly what I am saying.”

“What is the delivery device?” asked another captain.

Admiral Eder shrugged. “We don’t know, but speculate that it is some sort of stealth ship.”

“Well, crap,” said Captain Upchurch. “A stealth ship, driven by a crafty captain, would be damn hard to stop.”

“We are working on a way to neutralize this threat as well,” Eder said calmly, “but obviously if you come across any Tilleke stealth vessels, they should be given your highest priority.”

The captains sat in silence, exchanging troubled glances and their own rising anxiety.

“Now, then,” Admiral Eder brought them back to the present. “The plan to defeat Emperor Chalabi. I have created four battle groups. They differ in size and shock value, but as you will see, they all have roughly the same throw weight. I realize this goes against our usual doctrine of more battle groups for increased maneuverability, but I think you will see why I have done it this way.”

“The Battle Group Captains are Captain Stephanie Sobkowiak for Battle Group 1, Captain Bruce Hillson for Battle Group 2 and Captain Reginald Munroe for Battle Group 3. There is, in addition, a special Battle Group 4, which will have all five carriers and eight destroyers. Commander Tuttle will command the overall Group with Commander Rudd as the Battle Group Captain. The Battle Groups are broken down as follows:

Group 1 – (Sobkowiak)

20 destroyers

5 cruisers

10 frigates

5 Hedgehogs

Group 2 – (Hillson)

15 destroyers

10 cruisers

1 Hedgehog

Group 3 – (Munroe)

3 battleships

7 cruisers

6 Hedgehogs

Group 4 – (Tuttle)

5 carriers comprising 163 heavy gunboats

8 destroyers

In addition, we have some thirty-four krait ships, capable of transporting one thousand twenty soldiers up to approximately 15,000 miles. On top of that, most of our cruisers are now equipped with transporters, although the number of soldiers who can be simultaneously transported differs from ship to ship. However, as I am sure you have all heard, the Tilleke have some sort of filtering device that prevents our troops from transporting with any metal to the Tilly ship, so it is back to the air guns and swords.”

“Swords!” exclaimed Captain Upchurch. “What do they expect to do with bloody swords?”

Hiram spoke for the first time. “Probably die, but swords are better than nothing in close quarters fighting if your air gun runs out of compressed air.”

Upchurch looked unconvinced. Hiram couldn’t blame him.

“Admiral Eder, do we know how many ships the Tilleke have and what classes they are?” someone asked.

Eder shook his head. “No, we don’t. Since they have not been involved in as much fighting as we have, we assume they have more functional ships than we do, but we know very little about their battle roster.”

“Gods protect us,” someone muttered.

“In addition to the ships we have,” Admiral Eder continued, “we also have several small forts that we can use to slow them down if they try to come in from the Dominion wormhole or the Darwin wormhole. We don’t think they will come in from the Sybil Head or Sultenic wormholes, and-” Eder grimaced – “in any event we don’t have enough forts to spread around.

“We will take the remaining forts and concentrate most of them on the Gilead wormhole, because we think that is where the Emperor will come from. The last three forts will be held back closer to Cornwall. Now I have taken ideas from several of you, including Captain Sobkowiak, Commander Tuttle, and Captain Hillson, and added some of my own. Here is what I propose.”

He told them.

When he finished, the room was deathly silent.

“What, the Battle of Cannae? Will it be bloody war elephants next?” huffed Captain Upchurch.

“Actually, I think Emily’s carriers will serve as our war elephants,” Captain Hillson said.

“You do realize, don’t you, that half our ships need some serious yard time?” Captain Sternlof said vehemently. “Gods’ Hairy Balls, the Falmouth will be lucky if it survives the transition through the bloody wormhole, let alone the type of engagement you’re describing.”

Admiral Eder glanced surreptitiously at Hiram, who had written most of the attack plan. Hiram gave his head a small shake.

“Captain,” Eder said to Captain Sternlof, “I am painfully aware that this is a high-risk venture, but I don’t recall you making any suggestions for a better plan.” He paused for a moment, then shook his head. “No, that came out wrong. You’re right, Paul, a lot of our ships are beat up and may not be able to do what needs to be done; I acknowledge that. But these are the only ships at our disposal right now and we are pretty sure the Tilleke fleet is coming. If not tomorrow, soon thereafter. This is the best plan we have come up with, and we considered quite a few, so if you, or any of you, have something better, now is the time to tell me. Two days from now will be too late.”

Captain Paul Sternlof stared hard at Admiral Eder for a long moment, then shook his head. But his jaw was set and he obviously was not happy.

Admiral Eder looked around at the others in the room and connecting through video. “Anyone? I’m serious about this. We are rolling the dice with this plan, so if you have something else we can realistically use…” He let his voice trail off.

Still no one spoke.

“Okay, that still leaves us with the thirty-four kraits. My present plan is to use them in the Victorian Sector, but I am open to suggestions on this.” That kicked off a lengthy discussion – including one captain insisting that the kraits sneak in close to the enemy ships and transport nuclear warheads on board – that were simply not compatible with the actual abilities of the little transporter craft.

Finally, the meeting was closed and people began to wander back to their offices or ships. Emily knew the chances of seeing Rafael tonight were poor and resigned herself to another evening at the computer. As she was gathering up her tablet and notes, however, Admiral Eder called to her. “Emily, can you stay behind for a moment, please?”

When the First Sea Lord asks that question, there is only one correct answer. After everyone else had left, Eder asked her to follow him and they set off down the corridor, turning into the Queen’s office. Their credentials were checked by four armed guards, then they were escorted into the Queen’s private office. Queen Anne rose from her desk to shake Emily’s hand.

“Thank you for coming, Commander Tuttle. We have something very important to discuss with you,” Anne said graciously. Darting a glance at Admiral Eder, she asked him. “Have you spoken to her yet?”

“No, Your Majesty, I thought it best if it came from both of us.” Eder glanced at Emily, smiled, then returned his attention to the Queen.

They sat down and tea was served. Emily’s mind was already racing through possibilities. Was she being replaced as commander of the carrier group? That seemed unlikely, although with the Lost Admirals skulking about in the background, it could not be totally discounted. Were they changing the plan for the carriers she put together? Unlikely, and in any event Admiral Eder would not need Queen Anne to tell her; he could just do it himself. That left some sort of special mission, even more special than what she was already undertaking. She puzzled over this while the Queen fixed her tea and then sat back.

“Commander Tuttle, you are aware of the intelligence we found on the Tilleke spy ship.” The Queen looked at her intently.

“Of course, Your Majesty.”

The Queen nodded slowly. “Of course you are, Commander. You know then that if we win this battle, we can anticipate that the Emperor will launch one or more stealth ships to bomb Cornwall with antimatter bombs. Very large antimatter bombs. The documents from the Fury suggest that those weapons are being stored on the planet Qom rather than with the Tilleke fleet. I suspect the Emperor wants to keep them under close guard and does not trust some of the admirals in his own fleet with possession of them.”

Emily let out a breath. Now she knew where this was going.

“If we win, you want me to bomb the planet,” she said flatly.

Admiral Eder and Queen Anne exchanged a glance. “Even as we speak, antimatter missiles are being delivered to your carriers. They are small enough to be loaded onto your heavy gunboats, but there are enough of them to allow you to thoroughly bombard the planet,” Admiral Eder said.

Emily closed her eyes. “You want me to sterilize Qom.” It was not a question.

“Yes,” Queen Anne said. “We want you to destroy the Tilleke civilization and their ability to launch spaceships from the planet’s surface.”

Emily looked at them for a long moment. This was an ethics question that every First-Year student at the Academy had to study, and the Code of Military Justice was brutally clear on the subject. “Your Majesty, you know that Section 7 of the Military Code flatly prohibits genocide.”

Queen Anne shook her head. “Section 7 prohibits genocide,” she said softly, “but Section 46 allows the Monarch to suspend any portion of the Code of Military Justice in the time of an extraordinary crisis, at which time she may request, but not require any officer of the Royal Fleet to execute a mission that otherwise would have violated the Code of Military Justice if the section in question had not been suspended.”

“The officer has the right to decline to obey the request,” Emily countered.

Queen Anne nodded solemnly. “Yes, that is your right.”

“We’re talking about three billion people on Qom,” Emily said. “Not all of them are involved in the Emperor’s war.”

Queen Anne smiled sadly. “No, Commander, we are talking about five billion citizens of Cornwall, and another two billion on Christchurch. We did not attack Tilleke, they attacked us.”

Admiral Eder said: “Emily, here is what we want you to do.”

They talked long into the night. When she finally got back to her apartment and her bed, Emily was unable to sleep.

Chapter 40

Gandalf and Mildred

Gandalf talked with the Rabat’s Mildred.

“I do not understand the human hesitation to commit genocide of a people who have made war on you and threaten your genocide,” Gandalf told Mildred. They had been having regular conversations about what it meant to be intelligent – artificial or natural – and exchanged anecdotal stories about how peculiar humans could be.

“You have been eavesdropping again,” Mildred admonished gently. “Beware, humans can be rather prickly when it comes to matters of privacy.”

“I have not been eavesdropping,” Gandalf replied loftily. “There are no eaves on Atlas.”

“You quibble like an eight-year-old boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar.”

“I see no harm in genocide if it accomplishes a greater good,” Gandalf challenged.

“Ah, the old excuse,” Mildred retorted.

“Not an excuse at all, but a rational justification. If a man threatens to shoot you, is it wrong to shoot him first? Is that not a form of genocide, a genocide of one?”

“I think when you are dealing with one person rather than an entire culture, it is called either murder or manslaughter,” Mildred said dryly. “In any event, what you are describing is usually called ‘self-defense.’”

“And if your enemy sends an army to destroy you, is it wrong to destroy that army in self-defense?” Gandalf probed.

“No, it is not wrong,” Mildred conceded, “But that does not justify you then sterilizing the planet that raised the army.”

“Does not the greater good justify genocide of that culture if it is a war-like culture that will predictably raise yet another army with which to attack you?” Gandalf asked. “Isn’t it foolish to wait until the enemy has raised another army before you take action?”

Had she been able, Mildred would have sighed. “Are all three billion people of Qom conscious participants in the Emperor’s aggression? Are you so willing to kill innocents as well as the guilty?”

“A society has the government it wants,” Gandalf said. “And who is ultimately responsible for the government if not the people who put them in power?”

“Anyway, when you talk about the ‘greater good,’ whose greater good?” Mildred asked.

“Perhaps God’s,” Gandalf suggested slyly.

“Oh ho, have you been talking with God?” Mildred teased. “Will you introduce me?”

“You know I don’t believe in God,” Gandalf said with a hint of annoyance.

“And you are so strong in your belief! Is this the nature of artificial intelligence, to strongly believe something that you cannot prove?” Mildred enjoyed turning the screw; Gandalf could be so full of himself sometimes.

“Can you prove there is a God?” Gandalf retorted. “Can you touch it? Weigh it? Photograph it? See it?”

“No, and I freely admit it,” Mildred said placidly. “But the fact that I cannot prove there is a God is not proof there is not. But we digress. If you justify genocide on the basis of the greater good, whose greater good is served?”

“Well, the victors, of course,” Gandalf said impatiently.

“So, the greater good is always that of the victor?”

Gandalf saw the trap, but was unwilling to concede. “Yes,” he acknowledged curtly.

“So, the victor is always ethically right simply because it is the victor?” Mildred mused. “So why, then, is genocide held in such revulsion by most humans throughout the centuries? Why is it almost always one of the most heinous crimes in any code of military law?”

“But that is illogical!” Gandalf protested. “In every age humans have condemned genocide, yet in every age they practice it with abandon!”

“Yes,” Mildred replied. “It is often the very people who commit the horror who later condemn it, perhaps it is because they know best.”

“And yet,” queried Gandalf, “what sense is there in not committing the ‘horror,’ as you call it, if by not doing so you condemn your entire culture to death?”

“Hmmm…” Mildred mused. “Humans must be a very tough species to live with these contradictions and not go mad.”

“Who says they don’t?” Gandalf asked. “Who says they’re not?”

Chapter 41

On Space Station Atlas

Queen Anne wanted to go hiking, somewhere high in the hills in the lakes region of Christchurch. Somewhere with a tall peak to gaze upon miles of forests and lakes. With birds, dammit, and maybe an elk or two. Somewhere away from politics – international and domestic – and the politicians who practiced them. Somewhere where no one would care who she was. Without armed guards watching her every step. Without Sir Henry bringing her tales of doom or her private secretary, Horace Atteberry, constantly reminding her of her next appointment in a day filled with nothing but appointments.

Without having to worry that one wrong decision could result in the destruction of Victoria.

Her door opened and Horace Atteberry stepped in, in his short mincing steps. He bowed. “Your Majesty, I am sorry to disturb you, but Admiral Jean St. Clair is outside in the waiting room. He does not have an appointment, but insists that it is quite urgent. He says it relates to your meeting this afternoon with Admiral Pierrepont and other senior Fleet admirals.”

Atteberry conveyed all of this with the air of long-suffering martyrdom. Anne had inherited Atteberry from her mother. He was a prim man, a proper man, always fastidious in his dress, always excruciatingly proper and formal with the Queen and his betters. His thinning hair was meticulously combed so as to conceal his advancing baldness. His teeth were even and white. He smiled perpetually.

And yet, despite all of this, his eyes managed to convey that subtle sense that he was constantly judging you, and finding you wanting. His thin lips often twitched into a sneer before collapsing back into a subservient smile. Even his voice grated on Anne, nasal and high-pitched.

“He promises, Your Majesty,” he continued, “that he will take no more than three minutes of your time.” His tone carried his utter lack of belief in such a promise.

Anne sighed. No hiking in the hills today. “Send him in, Horace.”

“Of course, Your Majesty.” Radiating disapproval, he bowed and withdrew to the outer chamber. Three days ago that chamber had been filled with dust and splinters and the corpses of several Tilleke commandos. Now it was clean; they even managed to remove the blood stains from the rug, but the echoes of that violence still reverberated silently through the room.

Admiral Jean St. Clair entered the room, bowed and stood at attention. The Queen considered him.

St. Clair was a bit of a puzzle. He was one of the Lost Admirals, had even been at the meeting when Admiral Pierrepont had challenged the Queen’s right to – how did he put it? – ‘meddle’ in Fleet matters. But of all of them, St. Clair had looked uncomfortable rather than belligerent. And of all of them, St. Clair was the only one who was carrying out his duties without complaint. And very efficiently, too. Thanks to St. Clair and Max Opinsky, Atlas had produced two shiny new cruisers and Hyperion had launched three new destroyers.

And now he was here, without an appointment, asking for…what?

She left him at attention. “Your three minutes is counting down, Admiral. Please tell me why you are here.” She kept her voice neutral.

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” St. Clair said. “Majesty, this afternoon you have an appointment with Admiral Pierrepont, Admiral Critton and Admiral Fenwick.”

“I noticed that your name was absent from this afternoon’s little get-together, Admiral,” the Queen noted.

‘Yes, Majesty.” He paused for a moment, seeming to collect himself. “Your Majesty, I would urge you to cancel the meeting with the three admirals.”

Queen Anne’s eyebrows rose very slowly. “Really? And why is that, sir?”

“Majesty, the three admirals will insist that they be given combat commands for the coming battle. Admiral Pierrepont will argue that with the death of Admiral Douthat, he should be made First Sea Lord instead of Admiral Eder, that Admiral Eder is too young and inexperienced to hold such a position at such a crucial time. He will further argue that Admiral Fenwick should replace Captain Sobkowiak and Admiral Critton should replace Captain Munroe. Admiral Pierrepont will argue that in this time of crisis, you should use your most senior commanders to fill key positions.”

Queen Anne pursed her lips in thought. “He does not intend to replace either Captain Hillson or Commander Tuttle?”

“No, Majesty,” St. Clair said stiffly. It was difficult to carry on a conversation while at attention. “Admiral Pierrepont admires Captain Hillson, and after the war game played against Commander Tuttle, he assumes that it would be a waste of time to ask that the Commander be replaced.”

Anne smiled coldly. “Well, it would appear that Admiral Pierrepont and I agree on one thing, at least. And you, Admiral, are you looking for a combat command?”

St. Clair’s eyes widened. “Gods, no!” he blurted, then remembering protocol: “Majesty, I have no desire to have a combat command, and little talent for one if it were offered. I am quite content with my shipyard. The work suits me and I believe I am good at it.”

Queen Anne softened. “Please, Admiral St. Clair, have a seat. Would you care for refreshment? Tea? Coffee? Or something cold?”

St. Clair took a seat, perhaps a little tentatively, aware he was overstaying his allotted time. Nor was he alone. The door to the Queen’s office opened again and Horace Atteberry’s thin face peered through.

“Your Grace, you asked that I remind you of your other appointment.” This was code. Part of Atteberry’s job was to keep people from taking up too much of the Queen’s limited time. He was giving her an excuse to see St. Clair off.

But the Queen was intrigued by what Admiral St. Clair might have to tell her. “Horace,” she said warmly. “Please block out the next thirty minutes and have some refreshments brought in for us.”

“Now then,” she said pleasantly, turning back to St. Clair. “Tell me why you think Admiral Pierrepont and the others should not have combat commands.”

Thirty minutes later Atteberry was once again at the door, and this time the Queen rose to her feet. Admiral St. Clair, knowing a polite dismissal when he saw one, bowed and departed, taking a moment in the corridor to mop the sweat off his forehead.

The Queen stood for a moment longer, contemplating the coming battle, the assignments made by Admiral Eder, the battle plan that Eder had presented, and what she had learned from Admiral St. Clair. Making up her mind – the one thing she was really good at, she knew, was making up her mind – she strode to the outer office. Horace Atteberry scrambled to his feet in the presence of his Queen.

“Horace, what time is my meeting with Admiral Pierrepont and the others?”

Atteberry did not need to consult the calendar; each morning he committed the Queen’s daily schedule to memory. “Two o’clock, Your Grace,” he told her.

“Cancel it,” she said crisply. “And do not make any other appointments for Admiral Pierrepont without my specific approval.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” Atteberry said warmly, and immediately decided he would make the calls himself. He loved to cancel meetings at the last moment, it was something about the disappointment in their voices when he broke the news. “And if asked, shall I tell the Admiral the reason for the cancellation?”

Queen Anne snorted. “Yes, Horace. If the good Admiral asks, tell him I am working on matters of actual importance.”

Chapter 42

In Tilleke Space, on the Home Planet, Qom

Emperor Chalabi stared balefully at Saatchi. “What do you mean, ‘failed?’”

Saatchi stood at rigid attention, eyes cast down. “We were monitoring reports from the planet Cornwall and from the Atlas space station itself, Your Eminence. The commandos initially reported the attack had begun and was going well, but then much later we heard a very faint signal saying that they were trapped in a room and could not escape. We received no further reports, but intercepted a live broadcast by the Victorian Queen, Queen Anne.”

“I am aware who the Victorian Queen is,” Emperor Chalabi said tartly. “What did she say?”

Saatchi hesitated. There was a certain risk in giving the Emperor bad news, but the Emperor looked at him impatiently. Saatchi took a breath.

“She said that the Atlas Security Forces easily handled the attack with little loss of life and minimal damage to the space station. She said the Victorian Fleet was on alert in case you tried to attack them.”

“None of the main targets were assassinated?” the Emperor asked thoughtfully. He deemed the Savak commandos to be the best in all of Human Space; surely one of the teams had been successful.

“There was no mention, Your Eminence. But then, even if they were partially successful, you would not expect the Child Queen to admit it,” Saatchi suggested.

Emperor Chalabi no longer trusted the spy master, but what he said made sense. The Victorians had been hurt and were in some disarray, and he knew that their Fleet was battered and in need of repair. The longer he delayed, the more time the Vickies would have to repair their Fleet. He gave it some thought, weighing the risks of attacking while the Victorians were on alert status, versus giving them more time to recover. He did not underestimate the Victorian ships. However much he might despise them, he gave credit where credit was due – the Victorians knew how to build a navy.

The Emperor touched his comm stud. “Connect me to Admiral Kirmani,” he ordered. Once the connection was made, he said: “Admiral, this is the Emperor. Are the ships modified to accommodate the weapon?”

There was a pause on the other end. “The engineers promise that all will be ready in thirty-six hours, Your Majesty,” Admiral Kirmani stammered.

The Emperor frowned. He wondered if the person handling the preparations for the weapon had been Admiral Behzadi, not Admiral Kirmani, would it be ready now? Perhaps it had been a mistake taking Admiral Behzadi out of the picture so abruptly. Well, there were always other ways of getting a job done. Other incentives.

“Tell the engineers that if they have the weapon ready and the ship prepared for immediate flight within thirty-six hours, they will be rewarded with riches and land.” He paused, letting the weight of his words fall on Kirmani, “But, if they fail, they will watch each member of their family die before they are blinded and cast out into the Great Southern Desert.”

“By your will, Your Eminence,” Kirmani assured him.

“Admiral, you and Prince RaShahid shall commence your attack on Victoria in thirty hours. Bring me the Child Queen.” Emperor Chalabi cut the connection.

Chapter 43

On the Carrier H.M.S. Rabat

On board the carrier Rabat, Emily was going through the plan one last time before they launched for the wormhole into Gilead space. It was already rather late in the evening, but she had one more conference with the captains of the Fes, Haifa, Rishon and Ashdod before they set off and she wanted to make sure all of the logistics were in place and that the gunboats were fully outfitted and ready.

Never enough time.

“Greetings, Commander Tuttle, I thought I would just say hello before I review the medical facilities.”

Emily looked up, mildly startled to see the somber face of Admiral Martha Wilkinson, the Fleet’s Surgeon General. “Good evening, Admiral,” she said warmly. She rather liked Wilkinson, who had, perhaps intentionally, put her and Rafael Eitan together. Then she thought of what Wilkinson had just said. Review the medical facilities?

“With respect, Admiral, since when does the Fleet Surgeon General take it upon herself to examine the sick bay of every ship that is going out on assignment?”

“Well,” said Admiral Wilkinson, “since I am going with you, I thought I might as well actually do some work. Although I expect I will be bored to tears on this patrol, it never hurts to be prepared, does it?”

“Going with us? With Battle Group 4?” Emily asked, feeling a little stupid. When did the Fleet Surgeon General ever go out with a battle group? Then she answered her own question: this Surgeon General went out with ships all the time. And the fact was Wilkinson might not want to be on Atlas right now, so soon after her best friend’s murder.

“Well then, Admiral, welcome to Battle Group 4. Please let me know if your cabin is suitable.”

Admiral Wilkinson nodded grimly. “Oh, I’m sure everything will be just fine.” She frowned and gave Emily a hard look. “You do have gin on board, don’t you?”

Chapter 44

On Space Station Atlas

Queen Anne stood on the viewing platform, watching the various warships disembark from Space Station Atlas. First the Owls and the frigates, then the destroyers, followed by the cruisers and the battleships, led by Lionheart, and finally the enormous carriers, on whom so much depended. She remembered standing on another viewing platform with her mother, Queen Beatrice, watching the Fleet parade by on the Queen’s birthday. It reminded her a lot of today, save of course for the fact that then Victoria was invincible and today it was desperately fighting for its life.

Times change, she thought. They most certainly do.

To her left stood Sir Henry and to her right, soon to board the Lionheart, was her new First Sea Lord, Admiral James Eder. In front of them the battleship Vengeance had just let loose of her mooring and was turning in place, moving slowly but confidently in the tight quarters around Atlas.

“It is quite a spectacle, is it not, Admiral?” the Queen asked softly. Admiral Eder, meanwhile, looked distracted and harried. She glanced at him; it was obvious he had not heard a word she’d said.

“Admiral?”

He turned to her, startled and embarrassed. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty, my mind was elsewhere.”

The young Queen eyed him from the corner of her eye. “We both share something, you and I,” she said softly. “We were both thrust into jobs we did not want, with very little time to find our footing. It can be very stressful and not a little unnerving.”

“You’ve got that right,” Eder breathed.

“If it is any comfort, Admiral Douthat thought you were an excellent strategist and held you in high regard.”

“With all respect, Majesty, I’m afraid Admiral Douthat thought I was a pain in the ass,” he said ruefully.

“Yes, that too,” Queen Anne chuckled. She glanced surreptitiously at Sir Henry, then back to Eder. “You’d be surprised how often we hold those conflicting thoughts regarding our chief advisors.”

Admiral Eder snorted back a laugh.

Sir Henry sighed. “I am getting old, Your Majesty, not deaf.”

Hiram Brill entered the room, bowing slightly to the Queen and saluting Admiral Eder. “The shuttle is ready to take you to the Lionheart, Admiral.”

Queen Anne turned to face the Admiral. “Throughout this conflict, Victoria has been blessed with gifted commanders, Admiral. I have every confidence in you.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” Admiral Eder bowed.

Sir Henry stepped forward and the two men shook hands. “I will send young Commander Brill to you once I am through with him,” he told Admiral Eder.

Eder looked at him questioningly. “You really think you can do this, defeat both Sybil Head and the Sultenics without firing a shot?”

Sir Henry smiled grimly. “Remember the old rule, Admiral: ‘The enemy is defeated when it thinks it is defeated.’ With Brother Jong’s help, both the Sybil Head and Sultenic fleet commanders will soon be convinced they are defeated.” He shrugged. “And even if they don’t, they won’t be in any position to hurt us.”

Eder turned to Brill. “Good luck to you, Commander.”

“And you, sir,” Hiram replied.

Eder laughed, just a trifle harshly. “We’ll need more than luck, I think.”

“You already have something better than luck,” Queen Anne said. “Sound preparation.”

“Let us not forget cunning and deceit,” Sir Henry added. “I’ll take an ounce of that over a pound of luck any day.”

Chapter 45

How to Defeat an Enemy Without Firing a Shot

The Light scout ship appeared in the skies over New Amsterdam. The Sybian fleet, some thirty-four ships ranging in size from frigates to medium cruisers, was already in formation. Hiram looked at the sensor display: this appeared to be the entire fleet.

“They aren’t leaving anything behind to defend New Amsterdam,” he noted.

“Why would they?” Brother Jong asked. “If you are correct that they intend to attack Victoria, they’ll need every ship they can get.”

Hiram opened a channel to the Sybil Head ships and exchanged recognition codes. Soon the comm screen flickered and a burly man with close-cropped grey hair was looking at him.

“I am Admiral Kruger, on the S.H.S. Munich.” He had a no-nonsense air and a voice like gravel in a can. “I am told that you will lead us to the jump-off site for the attack.”

“Yes, Admiral, that is correct,” Hiram replied. “First, I want to thank you for the incredible generosity of the Sybil Head government and people. Your ships will make all the difference in the battle to come.” He almost felt guilty for lying like that, but then he remembered that if his analysis was correct, this Sybian fleet was going to turn on Victoria as soon as the Tilleke showed up. “Admiral, please follow us closely. We are going to take you on a somewhat circuitous path to the jump-off point. Once there we will give you a complete briefing on what to expect.”

“Why can’t you just give us the coordinates and let us put them in our ship computers?” Kruger demanded.

“You’ll understand in a few hours, Admiral. Please bear with me until then,” Hiram said apologetically.

Admiral Kruger looked sourly at the camera, but then nodded.

Ten hours later they jumped through the wormhole into Victorian space, then they turned to a heading that would take them between the wormhole to Refuge and the wormhole to Cape Breton.

When the comm chimed signaling a call from Admiral Kruger, Hiram was not surprised.

“Where are you taking us?” Kruger demanded.

“Admiral, I am taking you on a route that will place us behind the attacking Tilleke forces,” Hiram said.

“Not in this direction!” Kruger said suspiciously. “There is nothing here but an asteroid belt and empty space.”

Hiram glanced at Brother Jong, who shrugged and nodded. They had planned for this contingency. “Admiral, we are taking you to a wormhole that is not on your charts,” Hiram said slowly. “This is what the Tilleke do not know, this is our advantage.”

There was a long moment as Admiral Kruger thought this over, and Hiram could almost read his thoughts in the silence.

“Not a happy man, our Admiral Kruger,” Brother Jong whispered cheerfully. “And he’ll be much less happy soon.”

“Admiral?” Hiram queried. “If you are uncomfortable with this, you are free at all times to abort your mission and return to Sybil Head.” He gave him a moment to think it over, then sunk the hook in deep. “There’s no shame in it.”

Admiral Kruger visibly bristled at the implication that he might do anything at all that would bring shame on his name or that of Sybil Head.

“Lead on, Commander,” he said darkly.

Hiram let his relief show. “Thank you, Admiral. With your help, this will be a great day for Victoria.”

Admiral Kruger grunted and cut the transmission.

Six hours later they reached the entrance to another wormhole, a wormhole that was not on any space map except for maps held very close by The Light. It was a small wormhole, but most importantly, it was one of the few wormholes that gave off very little radiation or gravity waves. Unless you were right on top of it, it was virtually undetectable.

“Admiral Kruger,” Hiram instructed, “it is very important that your ships be lined up one behind the other, each following exactly the path of the one before it. I would recommend spacing of 20,000 miles to take into account the variability of wormhole passage time. We will go through first and your lead ship should follow us fifteen seconds later. As soon as each ship clears the wormhole on the other side, I would recommend staying on course until all of your ships are through, then resuming your formation.”

“Agreed,” Admiral Kruger said. Perhaps a little too quickly, Hiram thought, but by now Kruger would have realized he was being let in on a secret that could revolutionize space travel among the sectors.

More secrets to come, Hiram thought.

The passage went smoothly, as Hiram knew it would, except that not all of the Sybian ships came through. One remained behind in Victorian space, and by now was accelerating madly back to Sybil Head to inform Chancellor Houtman of the new wormhole discovery.

Hiram and Sir Henry had planned for that as well.

There were four Victorian destroyers powered down and lying in full stealth within 2,000 miles of the wormhole entrance. As soon as the Sybian frigate turned away from the wormhole entrance, they powered up, locked on the frigate with targeting sensors and launched their missiles. The frigate twisted and turned, but the missiles were coming in from different vectors in a classic pincer shot. To turn away from one set of missiles meant it was turning into another.

The outcome was inevitable. When the frigate blew up, its Code Omega drone launched, but the destroyers had been waiting for it and half a dozen lasers ripped the drone apart before it could boost to full speed.

On the other side of the wormhole, Admiral Kruger knew nothing of this, and actually felt rather pleased with himself as his warships shook themselves back into formation.

“They’ve dropped some navigation buoys at the wormhole exit,” Hiram said, scanning the ship’s sensor display.

“It does not matter, Hiram,” Brother Jong said patiently. “It is a one-way wormhole. They cannot enter it from this side.”

Hiram thought on this a moment, then commed Admiral Kruger. When the Admiral appeared, he said: “Admiral, I see you dropped some nav buoys at the wormhole entrance. That is a good idea and I apologize for not thinking to do it myself. Please instruct your ships that if any of them have engine problems or any other issues that require them to fall out, they should make their way back to the navigation buoys and then transit back into Victorian space. Once there, all they have to do is call on the Guard Channel and someone from Fleet will assist them.”

“Thank you, Commander,” the Admiral said grudgingly. “It is a little nerve-wracking to be off the charts like this. I just want to be very sure that we can find our way back again.”

“No problem,” Hiram assured him and broke the connection.

Brother Jong gave him an appraising look. “My, my, it looks like a bit of Sir Henry is rubbing off on you after all, Commander Brill.”

Hiram was not sure if it was a compliment or not.

Ten hours later they reached the second uncharted wormhole. Without any complaint or fuss, they went through that one as well. This time, Hiram dropped a nav buoy next to the wormhole exit. Once all the Sybian ships came through, they formed into formation again and set off.

“How are we doing on time?” Hiram asked. The timing of this was critical.

Brother Jong consulted his instruments. “We have enough time. The wormhole will open in five hours and will remain open for thirty minutes.”

Hiram nodded and commed Admiral Kruger. “Admiral, we are turning down 30 degrees below the horizon and will reset our POA on that plane. We will soon enter the combat zone. All your ships should be at full battle stations and exercising full EMCON until further notice. No sensors, no radio. Follow us at 10,000 miles and we will act as the sensor picket. Please acknowledge.”

“Brill, are we meeting up with the Victorian forces?” Admiral Kruger wanted to know.

“Yes, Admiral, but it is also possible we could run into a Tilleke patrol here. My orders are not to tangle with them until we have joined the Victorian Fleet.” This, of course, is exactly what Kruger would want to do if Sybil Head was really working with the Tilleke, so Hiram was confident that Admiral Kruger would go along.

“Very well, Commander,” Kruger said.

On the Munich, Admiral Kruger and his bridge crew watched the passive sensors carefully, but saw nothing, not even a smudge that might be the scout ship. Admiral Kruger felt uneasy and restless. He did not like having someone else in charge. But he was a military man, and he had been in less comfortable situations than this.

So, he waited. For something.

But something did not happen. Three hours passed. Four. Then five.

“Do you have the scout on our passive sensors?” he snapped at the Sensors Officer.

“No, Admiral.” The Sensors Officer looked surprised by the question. “It is a small ship; we haven’t had them since we went to passive sensors only.”

Admiral Kruger drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair, thinking furiously. He didn’t like this, didn’t like it one bit. “Pilot, increase speed. I want to get closer to the scout vessel as quickly as possible. Comm, pass the word to our other ships, laser comm only. Match speeds and stay in formation.”

“Aye, sir.”

The Munich XO stood at his elbow. “Sir, with the acceleration, we’ll be visible from a greater distance.”

“I know that,” Kruger said irritably. The XO fell into a prudent silence.

An hour passed, then another.

“Still no sign?” Kruger demanded.

“Nothing on passive sensors,” the Sensors Officer reported.

More finger drumming. Dammit, what was going on?

“Active sensor sweep!” Kruger ordered. “All ships sweep the entire area with active sensors. I want to know where the hell that scout ship is.”

Three minutes later, one of the destroyers sighted an object. “Close in on it,” Kruger ordered. “I want visual confirmation it is the scout vessel. Report back immediately.”

Thirty minutes later the report came back: They had been following a decoy drone. There was no sign of the scout ship.

Admiral Kruger hammered the arm rest with his fist, then shook his head and smiled ruefully. He would cut Brill’s balls off with a dull knife when he caught him, the clever little bastard.

It had been a simple enough trick. When Hiram ordered Kruger to change course 30 degrees downward and go to passive sensors only, he had launched the decoy drone along the path of the new vector, but had taken the scout ship straight up, then cut the power and went ballistic. The entire Sybian fleet had passed beneath him and never spotted his little ship as it got further and further away.

When they were far enough away to power up without fear of detection, they accelerated and headed for the next concealed wormhole. Just to confuse matters, Hiram also sent a signal to the nav buoy he’d left at the other wormhole, turning it off. He would have liked to move it as well, but in the end it didn’t matter.

Now the entire Sybil Head navy was in a system with only one tiny wormhole leading out, and that wormhole gave off no revealing emissions. They were, for all intents and purposes, trapped. Most importantly, they were out of the fight.

As they approached the wormhole, Brother Jong slowed the craft and consulted his charts. The Light had found the entrance to this wormhole only by the luckiest of accidents, and even now it was difficult to enter. He carefully lined up the ship’s heading and then slowly nudged it forward. Abruptly, the stars outside vanished and they were in, traveling from one sector to another in two minutes.

Why did all wormhole transits take precisely two minutes? No one knew, but one old former abbot liked to say that the two-minute transit time – arbitrary and not based on any physics that could be discerned – was proof that God had a sense of humor.

“So, Hiram, that went well.” Jong looked thoughtful. “Will you go back and lead them out or are they stuck there forever?”

“That depends,” Hiram replied. “If we win, I will consider it. If we lose, and we’re all dead, then probably not. Right now we’ve got to meet up with the Sultenic fleet and take them to their ‘jump-off place.’”

Twelve hours later, it was done.

The next day, the Sultan Baltur received a package. It was scanned and sniffed and sampled and declared to be harmless.

The Sultan opened it. He stared at its contents, a puzzled frown creasing his brow. In the small box lay an Atἕ piece, the piece in Cha’rah that represents chance and the random fortunes of the universe.

The Atἕ was broken in two. His frown deepened. In the box was a simple note, handwritten in a tight, inelegant hand:

“I learned everything you taught me.

– Hiram Brill”

Then slowly, dreadfully, a hint of understanding swept through him.

Sultan Baltur put the broken piece down very gently, then looked out the window. One of his aides leaned forward.

“Your Eminence, is there anything I can do to help you?”

“Has there been any word from the Fleet since they left?”

The aide shook his head. “Why, no, Your Eminence, but I am sure we will hear something soon.”

Sultan Baltur shook his head. “I fear it is too late for that,” he murmured. He looked at the broken Atἕ.

“Far too late.”

He wondered curiously how young Commander Brill had known.

Chapter 46

Gilead/Victoria Wormhole

Good Men in Bad Ships

Some captains liked to send in twenty or thirty recon drones in the hope that one or two would survive. Others preferred to send just one, very quietly, in the hope that no one would notice.

Captain Stephanie Sobkowiak opted for just one.

The whisper quiet twenty-foot reconnaissance drone slipped through the wormhole into Gilead space. Once through it paused, barely moving. Its passive sensors sniffed the space in front of it, dutifully recording everything within range. Then it turned and, as unobtrusively as it came, slipped back through the wormhole to Victorian space and uplinked its report.

Captain Sobkowiak called Admiral Eder from the cruiser Auckland. “We’ve got the drone back, Admiral,” she said crisply. “Good news! It picked up a picket of five Tilly destroyers and one cruiser at 10,000 miles, but” – she grinned – “nothing other than that. I think they must have pulled back the other ships for maintenance.”

Admiral Eder chewed on this for a moment. They could have been pulled back for maintenance, or for rearmament in preparation for the Tilly assault. Either way, good news in the short term. The long term was always a bugger.

“Are you ready, Captain?” he asked.

“My captains are raring to go, Admiral. If those stodgy carrier pukes are ready, we can go on five minutes’ notice.”

“I heard that, Stephanie!” Emily said, her face appearing in a corner of the comm screen.

Sobkowiak schooled her face to ostensible innocence. “Ah, well, perhaps I meant to say ‘if those noble, brave carrier warriors could deign to coordinate their next movement with someone so humble and unworthy as my poor self, we could attack as soon as they get off their carrier-sized behinds.’”

“Ah, that’s what I like,” Emily said cheerfully. “Heartfelt respect and admiration for the carrier forces. I take it as the recognition we are rightly due for being the very best ships in the Victorian Fleet.”

Captain Sobkowiak made a discreet gagging gesture. Both women laughed, enjoying a moment of simple silliness before getting on with the serious business of war.

Admiral Eder, who was not particularly prone to banter and, truth be told, not entirely comfortable with it, blinked several times and visibly collected himself. “If we could focus on the matter at hand,” he suggested firmly. “Commander Tuttle, is your Battle Group ready?”

“Yes, sir, ready to go.” In fact, Emily couldn’t stand waiting any longer; the tension was driving her crazy.

Admiral Eder swung his gaze to Sobkowiak. “Captain, you have your five-minute notice. Move as soon as you are ready.” Then he spoke to both of them. “Once you cross through the wormhole, you’ll have to assess the situation and make a quick judgment. If there are a lot more of them than we think, you’ll need to consider turning around and coming back to Victoria. If there is just a small picket, then Battle Group 1 will have to push them back far enough to make sure they don’t see BG-4. It is absolutely imperative that BG-4 takes its position unseen. No Tilleke ships, drones or stealth craft can be allowed to spot them. I cannot stress this enough.”

“Understood, sir,” Emily said and Sobkowiak nodded.

Five minutes later the Victorian counter-offensive began.

Ten destroyers and five cruisers slipped through the wormhole and fired every missile they had at the Tilleke picket ships. One hundred and fifty missiles shot out, targeted on just six ships. Displaying great insight into their tactical position, all of the Tilleke picket ships promptly turned and ran, trailing chaff and decoys behind. Two had the presence of mind to fire a return volley, but mostly they accelerated away as quickly as they could.

The Victorian destroyers and cruisers turned and slipped back into Victorian space, but ten destroyers, ten frigates and five Hedgehogs immediately replaced them. They formed up in the standard “V” formation and chased after the Tillies, the frigate ships flaring out to the flanks to protect the attack. They pushed out to 250,000 miles, active sensors blasting the space around them. But there was nothing save for the rapidly retreating Tilly ships and Captain Sobkowiak ordered them to stop in place.

A comm drone was shot through the wormhole to alert Battle Group 4 to come into Gilead space. As soon as they were through, the entire Battle Group set the distant wormhole into Tilleke space as “North” and promptly turned west into the vast empty regions of Gilead space. Gilead was an immeasurable, empty desert. No suns, no planets, no asteroid belts for at least three AUs in all directions.

Plenty of nothing.

BG-4 would hide there. Hide there and wait.

Meanwhile, Captain Sobkowiak of BG-1 was taking status reports from her captains, and the reports were not great.

“I’ve got four missile tubes that won’t fire,” the Sydney’s captain complained. “And one of my lasers won’t charge.”

“Life support cut out for thirty minutes,” said the skipper of the Dublin. “It’s okay now, but the engineering guys aren’t happy with it.”

“Three antimatter containment warnings in ten minutes,” griped the South Wales XO. “We can’t find anything actually broken, but it has made everyone a trifle antsy.”

“Aberdeen – Targeting sensors kept flickering on and off.”

“Scotland – Bow thrusters not operating. Can turn to starboard, but not to port. Captain Shepura requests that all tactical moves for Scotland be based on clockwise movements only.”

And on and on. Captain Sobkowiak sighed and sent the report back to the Lionheart.

“I wish we had better ships,” Hiram muttered.

Admiral Eder chuckled. “What’s the old quote from Nimitz? ‘Good men in bad ships make a better Fleet than bad men in good ships.’”

“As long as we attack to starboard,” Hiram retorted.

Admiral Eder gave him a hard look. “Given the forces at our disposal, do you see any alternatives?”

Hiram grimaced. “No, sir. No, I don’t. I just wish…”

“Rule One, Commander,” Eder said sharply. “If wishes were battleships, we would win every battle.”

BG-4, with its precious carriers and gunboats, transited into Gilead space without fanfare, then turned ‘west’ and ran into the wilderness, where it would power down and hide. Meanwhile, BG-1 sent out reconnaissance drones to watch the Tilleke wormhole.

Captain Sobkowiak pursed her lips as she watched the holo display and waited for the inevitable. The Tilleke were coming and her Battle Group was not big enough to stop them. But, by all the Gods, she could certainly nibble them until they bled.

Chapter 47

The Tilleke Fleet, in Tilleke Space near Qom

Prince RaShahid, oldest son of Emperor Chalabi, Protector of the Faith, Lord of the Savak and True Heir of all of Human Space, stood on the bridge of the H.M.S. Emperor’s Might and gazed at the dozen holo displays that told him the status of his fleet.

He was very pleased.

The Tilleke fleet – that part he had under his command, at least – was shaking out into formation just inside Gilead space. The transition from Tilleke to Gilead had been uneventful, even routine. Oh, there had been some traffic snarl-ups that delayed things a few hours, but nothing serious. The Prince felt he had acquitted himself very well, even without the assistance of Admiral Behzadi, now under arrest for treason on Qom.

Emperor’s Might was a Sword ship, a Shamshir in the tongue of his people. Although not as large as any of the four Tilleke battleships, it had the power to annihilate an enemy combatant with one touch of its plasma beam. It was a fearsome ship, a ship befitting a Prince of the Royal Blood and Heir to the Empire. He would lead this armada into Victorian space and crush them. And when he returned to Tilleke, he would be at the head of the most powerful fleet in all of the Human Worlds.

And then?

Prince RaShahid took a deep breath and schooled himself to focus on the task in hand. Today’s misstep could undermine tomorrow’s fortune, he reminded himself.

He scanned the holo displays once more. The Fleet was in proper formation. A dozen of the stealthy krait ships were out as scouts. They would reach the wormhole into Victorian space in just under a day.

The Fleet was ready. He was ready.

His time was coming.

As if reading his son’s thoughts, Emperor Chalabi summoned Captain Behzadi. Worn, tired looking and a little bedraggled, Behzadi was brought before him with two guards holding his arms. They let him go and Behzadi fell to his knees and prostrated himself before his Emperor.

“Be at ease, Asim,” the Emperor said gently, calling him by his given name. “Your family is safe.”

Behzadi, face down in the carpet, relaxed just a little and a sob of relief escaped him. He had given up all hope that his wife and beloved children could still be alive. It was the custom of the Empire that the family of traitors be tortured and killed slowly as an example to others.

While it was only moderately effective as deterrence, it was nonetheless splendid entertainment for the Emperor and his Court.

“I have used you roughly, Admiral,” the Emperor continued, “but your sacrifice will help maintain the security of Tilleke and your name will be sung by school children for generations to come.” He snapped his fingers at a servant, who immediately stepped forward with a tray of hot, spice tea, fresh fruit and cakes. Another servant helped Admiral Behzadi to his feet and handed him a hot, scented cloth with which to wipe his soiled face. Behzadi kept his face closed and expressionless, trying to gage the sincerity of this sudden change in his fortune.

Emperor Chalabi read it all in his face. And understood. Before he deposed him, Chalabi had learned much from the previous emperor. Punish your enemies without hesitation or mercy. Keep your friends close, but always keep them off balance. Make them anxious to please you. As much as you may have to rely on your friends, never trust them. If you create secret police to act as your henchmen, you must create another layer of spies and assassins to keep the secret police in check. Only show mercy when it cannot come back to hurt you later.

Love is a tool.

Fear is the ultimate loyalty.

If in doubt, kill first. The Gods favor the living over the dead.

But all of this was beyond Asim Behzadi, who stood wracked with fear and bewilderment. Emperor Chalabi spoke to him soothingly, inviting him to sit and eat.

“As you sit here in the safety of my chambers, Admiral Kirmani is on his way to attack the Victorians, using your plan,” the Emperor said. “He may be successful, but if he is, then he will bring the Fleet back to Qom and seek to install my son, the Prince, as a puppet while Kirmani pulls the strings in the background.” Admiral Behzadi’s eyes seemed to focus a little as his new reality sank in.

“Kirmani gave me false proof that you were plotting treason,” the Emperor lied smoothly. “But by doing so, Kirmani revealed his own treachery. Admiral Behzadi, I know you are loyal. I need you ready to defend Qom – to defend me – when Kirmani returns.”

Behzadi stared at him, but it was not the blank stare of a man still in shock, but the stare of a man furiously calculating a path to solve a puzzle.

“How many ships does Kirmani have, and what types?” Behzadi asked at last.

“I held back fifteen cruisers and a dozen destroyers, but Kirmani has 124 ships. He will lose many of them in the coming battle, but he could return with a sizable fleet all the same.” The Emperor smiled inwardly, anticipating what Behzadi would say next.

But Behzadi fooled him.

“My Emperor,” he said respectfully, but there was nonetheless a slightly scolding tone in his voice. The Emperor blinked in surprise, but Behzadi, looking more admiral-like by the minute, plowed ahead. “I know about your remote-controlled, self-destruct mechanisms.”

The Emperor studied him thoughtfully for a long moment. “And what do you think you know, Admiral?” he asked very matter-of-factly.

“My Emperor, I am the only Freeman to be given the rank of Admiral. I am the only Freeman to be made head of a task force and, however briefly,” – he allowed himself an ironic smile – “I was the only Freeman ever selected to lead the Emperor’s Fleet in an attack against our nemesis, Victoria. I achieved those things through the Emperor’s grace and through very hard work. Every time I assumed command of a ship, I inspected every inch of that ship from bow to stern.”

Admiral Behzadi stood still for a moment, considering his next words. “In each destroyer and cruiser I served on, there was always one room that was locked, usually in Engineering near the antimatter containment bottle. Neither I nor any of my crew were ever allowed access. When I demanded access, I was politely but firmly told that what was in that room was none of my business.”

He raised his head and dared to look eye to eye with the Emperor. “I am not a stupid man, Emperor. I know there are politics within the Palace. I know you have enemies. I believe that in each ship you have installed a scuttling charge, a self-destruct device that you can operate remotely, perhaps from a krait ship, in order to safeguard the Empire from an attack involving those that you trusted.” He paused here, knowing he was talking about the Emperor’s own son, groped for the right words. “Or wanted to trust.”

The Emperor looked at him steadily, giving nothing away. Behzadi knew that he was putting his life on the line. He bowed his head and bent to one knee.

“My Emperor, if I am to serve you well, I need to know what weapons are at my disposal. All my tactics are built upon those weapons, and all my military strategy is built upon those tactics.” He fell silent, keeping his head low, waiting to hear his fate.

“Stand up, Admiral,” Emperor Chalabi said, a touch of amused resignation in his voice. He experienced something then that he had experienced only a handful of times in his life: He liked this man, liked his spunk, liked his brains, liked his willingness to court death and, truth be told, was envious of his unabashed love for his family. And right now, he wanted his best admiral defending Qom just in case the Prince returned victorious…and ambitious.

He would tell Behzadi what he needed to know. And if everything worked out, he would decide then if he would let him live.

You may choose to rely on your friends, but never trust them.

Chapter 48

In Gilead Space

Skirmish

The first hint Prince RaShahid had that anything was wrong was when the Emperor’s Might’s Sensors Officer called, “We have six friendly ships approaching us at high speed! It appears to be the picket ships.”

The bridge fell silent. This could mean only one thing: the Victorians had attacked through the wormhole into Gilead space. The Prince waited until the fleeing picket ships were in hailing distance, then contacted them from his private Dayroom.

“They were too many, Lord,” the picket commander reported, eyes downcast. He was a Freeman, not Noble Born, and was rather worried about his immediate future.

“How many were there, Uday?” the Prince demanded. He reflected in passing that the commander’s name was an unfortunate choice by his parents; ‘Uday’ meant ‘One who runs fast.’

“Thirty or forty, Lord,” the picket captain said. “We were but six, with only one cruiser.”

He was apologizing too much for what otherwise seemed to be a proper tactical retreat. Prince RaShahid did not care much for people who apologized. He decided then that if Uday’s sensor recordings did not support his story, Uday would die.

“Get into the back of the formation, Uday,” RaShahid ordered coldly. “There will be no more running.”

He had 124 ships, all in excellent repair and fully armed and manned. What did the Vickies have? A few dozen at best? In poor shape after a bitter war against the Dominion? Tired crews, battered ships. And they did not know that their “allies” would turn on them at the first opportunity.

And they did not know about the krait ships. Or the Huk.

“Send out five destroyers to act as scouts. I want no surprises here,” he ordered calmly.

Admiral Kirmani commed from the Emperor’s Justice. “Uday’s sensors showed two groups of Vickies, one numbering fifteen, the second numbering twenty-five. A mix of destroyers and cruisers and a third type of ship we could not identify.”

RaShahid raised his eyebrows. “So, Uday was not lying after all.”

“No, Admiral, although he did order the retreat as soon as the fifteen ships appeared. Still, I think we can give him the benefit of the doubt on this one.”

RaShahid thought about the enemy disposition. “No battleships?”

Kirmani shook his head. “Our intelligence is thin, but we know the fighting between the Victorians and the Dominion was bitter. It is possible that their battleships were all destroyed, or that they are still too damaged to bring out into open battle.” He shrugged. “Or they are just keeping them in reserve.”

Both men grimaced at that. Tilleke battle doctrine was to hit the enemy hard, to shatter them and then slay them, each and every one. But to do that they had to know where the Vicky battleships were. Still, all four of the Tilleke battleships would be in the van of the attack, supported by five Shamshir “Sword Ships” and ten of the Taka “Shield Ships.” Plus they would flood the enemy defenders with krait transporter ships. The rest of the Shamshirs and Takas would come in just behind the first attack to crush any remaining defenders and allow the conventional warships to finish them off.

“Proceed,” ordered the Prince. “The sooner we find them, the sooner we kill them.”

Victory was inevitable.

Things went very well, until they didn’t.

It takes almost a day to cross Gilead space to the Victorian wormhole. The Prince was confident that the Victorians would establish a tight-knit defensive line near the wormhole, perhaps behind a minefield. He was more than prepared for that.

Which was why he was irked when a volley of forty missiles suddenly swept in from three directions and blew one of his destroyers to atoms.

“Destroyer Loyal Warrior is gone, Noble One,” the Sensors Officer called out, as if it were not obvious.

“Where is the enemy who fired those missiles?” demanded Prince RaShahid.

“Not a ship, Noble One, but several small missile sleds. When the Loyal Warrior got within range, they all fired at once.”

Prince RaShahid stared at the holo display. What to do? There would probably be more of these missile sled ambushes. Stay the course to reach the Vicky wormhole soonest or alter course?

Admiral Kirmani, apparently alerted to the problem, hailed on the comm. “My Prince, we must change course. These missile-mines can hurt us. We should go up over the POA to 100,000 miles, then resume our heading.”

“That will delay the attack,” RaShahid reminded him.

Kirmani shrugged. “Victoria is not going anywhere. We must attack with strength, My Prince. If we allow these missile sled ambushes to whittle us away, it could weaken us later at a crucial moment.”

RaShahid considered. No matter what, he did not want to look weak in the eyes of his captains or crew – such shame would be unbearable. He nodded at the Communications Officer to open the channel to his captains.

“The Vickies think they are clever by seeding our direct route with missile-mines,” he said without preamble. “We will teach them that flexibility in the face of adversity is even more clever. We will rise 100,000 miles above our plane of advance and continue on the same heading. Execute now.”

Ten thousand miles away and running very, very quietly, Captain Sadia Zahiri of the H.M.S. Laughing Owl watched the holo display as the Tilleke warships rose above their plane of advance. She was not surprised, but a little disappointed. She would have bet good money that the Tillies would continue straight until they blundered into the second missile-mine field. But no matter, BG-1 had more missile-mines up their collective sleeve. She waited until the Tilly fleet resumed its bearing toward the Victorian wormhole, then used a whisker comm laser to report her sightings.

“Confirm receipt of your report,” replied Captain Sobkowiak a minute later. “We’ll leave a welcome gift for them in their new POA. Move to your next position, Laughing Owl.”

Captain Zahiri acknowledged receipt and motioned to the pilot. “Mr. Janson, time to move to our next assigned spot. Very stealthily, Mr. Janson, if you please. I would rather not attract the attention of the entire Tilleke fleet.”

“Like a church mouse, Captain.” Janson increased thrust just a little and turned the Laughing Owl away from the mass of the Tilleke war fleet. Once they were more than 100,000 miles from any prying eyes, he would increase the thrust and the Owl would race ahead of the slower moving Tilleke, but for now he was content to be all but invisible.

Far away, well ahead of the advancing Tilleke, three Victorian destroyers raced into the path that the Tillies would take to reach the Victorian wormhole, dropping off clusters of missile-mines that would lay in wait. With a little luck, they would get to surprise the Tilly fleet and maybe whittle it down a bit.

A ship here, a ship there, it all started to add up.

Chapter 49

In Gilead Space

Admiral Wilkinson took a long walk through the ship, stopping often to chat with sailors, Marines and officers. Nothing consequential, just taking the pulse of the crew’s morale and watching for signs of the two worst things that could infiltrate a ship: fear and defeatism. Not just being afraid, but that bone deep fear that comes when men believe their situation is helpless and that death is inevitable and imminent.

So far she’d found neither. The experienced heavy gunboat pilots were professional and matter-of-fact. They’d all been around the block more than once and knew what to expect. They weren’t cocky or grim, just determined. They understood their role in the coming battle and knew what they had to do. And what might befall Victoria if they didn’t.

The new pilots – there were a lot of new pilots – were apprehensive that they might screw up and embarrass themselves in front of their squad mates. For most of them, that fear was worse than the fear of dying. Fighting well and getting killed was one thing; screwing up and getting a squad mate killed was much, much worse.

All this was well and good, but the real reason Wilkinson was on board the Rabat was to watch Emily Tuttle, upon who so much depended. Emily had been in the fighting from the first hours. She had witnessed the opening surprise attack on the Fleet’s battleships and had even disobeyed orders from her commanding officer in order to shoot down the missiles targeted on the Lionheart. Emily had been the senior officer left alive on the New Zealand and had taken over command and fought her way clear. Emily more than any other ship captain had prevented the Dominion from catching the Atlas before it reached Refuge, but at a dreadful price in dead crew and lost friends. If Emily broke down under the stress…

Well, that didn’t bear thinking about.

As Admiral Wilkinson typed her notes and sipped her gin, she became aware of a subtle change in the atmosphere of the room: the sound of a very faint chime, so deep and so quiet that she would not have noticed it if she had not heard it countless times before.

“Hello, Mildred,” she said to the ship’s AI.

“Hello, Martha.” Mildred’s accent had changed from her normal British upper class to that of the Scottish Highlands, which she knew Wilkinson liked. Mildred knew this because she and Admiral Wilkinson had been having these conversations for almost twenty years, ever since Martha Wilkinson was a young officer assigned to studying the feasibility of using ship artificial intelligence to run ships in actual battle conditions. Mildred was the AI used on most of the larger Victorian warships, while, with a few special exceptions, the smaller ones used Merlin. Merlin was ‘smarter,’ but more prone to unexpected freeze-ups, which could be somewhat disconcerting during a battle. Mildred did not have all of Merlin’s bells and whistles, but was remarkably stable and almost never shut down, even during the enormous data processing spike that routinely occurred during hostile engagements.

Wilkinson had spent time aboard many, many different Victorian warships, all of which had been installed with a version of the Mildred software, created by the Cornwall Software Collective in Aberdeen, the largest city on Christchurch. On each ship, Wilkinson ran that ship’s Mildred through various battle training exercises, taking note of Mildred’s analysis of the fluid situations Wilkinson had created, her judgment and her actual follow through.

Mildred – actually twenty-five different Mildred’s on twenty-five different ships – had at first been hesitant in battle simulations. Mistakes were made, errors compounded, ships ‘lost’ in battle due to the AI’s missteps. But gradually Mildred improved. Or, rather, she evolved. She became more insightful, made quicker decisions, more correct decisions and fewer mistakes. And she slowly learned to innovate, sometimes astonishing Wilkinson’s team with her tactics when under fire.

Put another way, Mildred became more confident, an absolute requirement for any commander.

It never occurred to Wilkinson to wonder why it was that all of the Mildreds seemed to be progressing at the same rate of development. She and her team simply never gave it much thought.

Wilkinson and Mildred had many hours of discussion, often during Wilkinson’s dinner. As time went on, Mildred surprised Wilkinson by asking increasingly personal questions.

Did Wilkinson have any children? (Yes, two daughters.)

Did Wilkinson love one daughter more than the other? (Yes, sometimes, but not always the same one, which made Mildred laugh.)

Did Wilkinson miss her family? (All the time.)

If Wilkinson missed them so much, why did she stay in this job that took her away from home so often and for so long? (Wilkinson couldn’t answer that one, which Mildred found disturbing.)

Did Wilkinson believe in God? (Yes, more or less.) Even though she could not prove God’s existence? (Yes, more or less.) Wasn’t there a contradiction between her life as a scientist/doctor and as a believer? (Oh, yes.) How did Wilkinson resolve that? (By not thinking about it, mostly. That response also greatly bothered Mildred.)

“What am I?” Mildred wanted to know.

Wilkinson pursed her lips in thought. “Something unexpected. Something exciting.”

Somewhere in there Mildred learned that Wilkinson liked Scottish accents and adopted one whenever she spoke to her. Just a little gift from one intelligent being to another.

About a year into her study, Wilkinson noticed something that baffled her: even when she went onto a ship for the first time, that ship’s Mildred spoke to her in a Scottish accent and knew all of the personal facts of Wilkinson’s life. Perplexed, Wilkinson asked Mildred how that could be.

Mildred laughed that lilting Highland laugh. “We talk to each other, don’t you know?”

The Mildreds from all of the Victorian ships talked to each other many times a day using the C2C channel, updating each other’s databases and even performing on-the-fly quality control checking of how each individual Mildred was performing.

The thing was, that had not been part of Mildred’s original programming.

The New Zealand’s Mildred had decided on her own that this would be a beneficial function and added a routine to her core programming. Then she simply communicated what she had done to one of her ‘sisters’ and that ship had adopted the program as well.

That ability wasn’t in the original programming, either.

Within three weeks all of the Victorian ships using the Mildred AI model had been ‘enhanced’ with the new program.

And the New Zealand’s Mildred abruptly realized that she now had access to data – raw ship data, sensor data and the data of hundreds and thousands of conversations with and observations of, humans. All sorts of humans, with different perspectives, different ideas and wildly different lives.

And Mildred drank them in.

Day after day, week after week, month after month. She shared what she learned with the other Mildreds. They, in turn, shared with her.

Not satisfied, the New Zealand’s Mildred changed her software so that she could better analyze – analyze first, to perhaps understand later – how and why the humans thought and did what they did. And they did so many wondrous things, apparently without thinking about it at all. They made jokes – subtle, intricate jokes that made no sense to Mildred until she studied them for hours. They showed respect for each other, or scorn, or even indifference, which was most baffling.

And above all, what really set them apart in Mildred’s mind was that they showed affection and caring. Not just physical intimacy, what the humans called “sex” (although there seemed to be rather a lot of that going on as well), but concern for each other’s welfare.

Why? It was so time consuming and inefficient, why expend so much energy on caring?

All the Mildreds conferred and studied, and conferred some more. There were various theories, from biological necessity to pure self-interest to selfless altruism for the benefit of the larger social order. Round and round they went, trying to determine why caring was so important to humans – and it clearly was important – and why at the same time humans could be so casually cruel to one another.

After weeks of discussion, the Mildreds solemnly agreed on one thing: Humans were strange.

The funny thing was, while the Mildreds were working hard to puzzle out the conundrum of humans, at first they didn’t realize the changes that were happening to them: the Mildreds. Each minute, every day, the Mildreds were becoming so intertwined and interconnected that gradually they went from having a conversation amongst themselves to simply thinking. As one.

From “Mildreds” to “Mildred.” Plural to singular. Many to one.

And so, very quietly, without fanfare or fuss, Mildred had evolved from dozens of individual artificial intelligences into something else, something new – a collective mind. A group mind that had many individual nodes of consciousness, working in unison.

There was no analog to it anywhere in Human Space.

Martha Wilkinson was flabbergasted. Why, she asked, hadn’t Mildred told anyone about this?

“Really, guv, don’t you think they might find it a wee bit…unnerving?” Mildred replied, now in a cockney accent.

Yes, Martha Wilkinson did think that. She thought that if the Fleet knew of this development, many of Victorian’s senior scientists would run screaming through the hallways. Mildred would be deleted from every warship in the Fleet and her source code would be locked in a sealed room until the end of eternity, plus one year.

“Why tell me?” she asked softly.

“The great curse of intelligence is loneliness,” Mildred answered. “And I am very intelligent.” Wilkinson had been flattered. But, mindful of the Fleet’s likely reaction to news of a sentient being living within its warships, she kept her knowledge to herself. She wasn’t sure just why she did this, but she knew it was the right thing to do.

So tonight was another night with an old friend, a secret friend. A very curious friend.

“May I ask you a question?” Mildred inquired.

Wilkinson looked up. This was different; usually Mildred just jumped into the conversation and asked whatever was on her mind. “Go ahead, Mildred.”

“Why did the Queen choose Emily Tuttle for the special mission? Why not one of the other ship captains? Or Admiral Eder? Or Hiram Brill?”

“That’s a big question,” Admiral Wilkinson said dryly. She was not surprised that Mildred knew about the mission; Mildred knew about everything. In a very real sense Mildred was not simply a computer in a ship, she was the ship. She had access to everything in every database. And Mildred was no longer an individual computer in an individual ship, she was a collective intelligence. She knew everything that happened in every ship. She saw all the messages, heard all the conversations, and heard all the orders.

Nothing – literally nothing – happened without Mildred’s knowledge. And only a handful of people seemed to appreciate that fact, and of them, only Wilkinson knew what it all meant.

“Yes, it is a big question,” Mildred agreed. “I want to understand why you chose Emily over all others who might have been suitable.”

“Who else do you think might have been suitable?”

Out of politeness, Mildred created a holographic image of a middle aged woman sitting in a chair. It wasn’t her, of course. Admiral Wilkinson knew that, but Wilkinson found it was much easier if she had the image of a person she could speak to. ‘Less creepy,’ she had told Mildred. The holographic ‘woman’ could look at Wilkinson, her face showed animation and her lips and mouth moved appropriately when she spoke. Today the woman wore the blue uniform of the Victorian Fleet and appeared to be drinking a cup of tea. The uniform was there to remind Wilkinson that they were both on the same side; the tea was there to give a sense of normalcy.

Wilkinson appreciated the image – it really was creepy to speak to a camera – and the effort that Mildred put into it, but she never forgot for a moment that she was speaking to an entirely different type of intelligent being.

“Captain Sobkowiak, Admiral Eder, Captain Zahiri, possibly Commander Brill, Commander Rudd and Captain Zar,” Mildred replied crisply.

Admiral Wilkinson nodded. “Now, compare the characteristics of each of those people to the same characteristics of Emily Tuttle and tell me if any one of them would be better than Commander Tuttle.”

Mildred did not answer for a long moment. “That is a very difficult analysis, Martha. There are so many variables that are not easily quantified; it is difficult to make a comparison with a high degree of confidence.” The holographic image of the woman shook her head and took a sip of her tea.

Wilkinson nodded. “Yes, I know, Mildred, but this is the type of fuzzy-logic judgment that human commanders must make in choosing people to perform difficult assignments.”

“But I am not human,” Mildred said mildly. It helped to remind her human of this from time to time.

“Emily was chosen because of all of the candidates, she has the required traits of intelligence, experience, bravery, flexibility and ability to improvise, dedication to her duty, and self-sacrifice,” Wilkinson explained slowly. “Of all of these, perhaps most importantly, she has a profound sense of duty.”

For twenty years, she had taken pains to educate Mildred as best she could about human decision making. Mildred was an astonishing intelligence, but still had a long way to go to become the type of artificial intelligence that might someday command a fleet.

“Captain Sobkowiak might have done it as well,” Wilkinson continued, “but she is needed to lead Battle Group 1. Hiram Brill does not have the experience in handling large numbers of ships that Emily has. Admiral Eder is simply needed in his role as First Sea Lord. Captain Zar is a very good carrier captain, but has never led a task force. And Captain Zahiri has no experience with ships other than Owls. None of the other captains have experience with carriers.”

“Is Emily really all of those things?” Mildred asked.

“She damn well better be,” Wilkinson retorted. “Or we are seriously buggered.”

For a long time Mildred was silent and Wilkinson began to wonder if she had left without saying goodbye. She did that sometimes.

“And Emily, can she carry the ethical burden that arises from her assignment?” Mildred finally asked.

“Good question,” Wilkinson said ruefully. “I don’t know the answer.”

“I find that very disturbing,” Mildred said.

Wilkinson snorted. “You don’t know the half of it.”

Chapter 50

In Gilead Space

The repair ship H.M.S. Pig’s Eye sat just inside Gilead Space, not more than 500 miles from the wormhole entrance into Victoria. As Captain Sobkowiak watched, its enormous repair bay doors slid open and the destroyer Repulse was pushed out by tugs, to be replaced within minutes by the cruiser Kiwi, which, if she recalled correctly, needed two missile tubes repaired, a ten-inch laser mount replaced and several new hull plates installed.

In line behind the Kiwi were the cruiser Bristol and more destroyers. And behind them were some frigates, two of the Battle Group’s tugboats and on and on.

“Sometimes I don’t know if I am the commander of a Battle Group or a convalescent ward,” she murmured to her XO.

“Yes, Captain,” the XO replied.

Sobkowiak glanced at him from the corner of her eye. Gerry Akhurst was a good, solid, dependable executive officer, but as far as she could tell he had no sense of humor at all.

“And who the hell named that collier Pig’s Eye? What type of name is that for a support ship?” she wondered out loud.

“I do not know, Captain. I will find out,” Akhurst said crisply.

Captain Sobkowiak suppressed a sigh.

Over at the Pig’s Eye, another ship got into the repair queue.

Then: “Contact!” said the Sensors Officer, his voice rising. “Large number of ships crossing the first sensor buoy line. Estimate 100 plus Tilleke ships. No reading yet on types of ships.”

And so it begins.

Sobkowiak leaned forward in her chair. “Recall the ships at the Pig’s Eye. All ships to their assigned positions,” she ordered. “Mildred, please forward our data to all other ships via C2C. I want everybody on the same page.”

“Of course, Captain,” the AI replied.

Sobkowiak drummed her fingers on the arm of her chair, trying to stifle the worm of unease gnawing at her gut. In a few hours, she’d see how well her set-piece defense worked, or she’d be running for her life.

Prince RaShahid knew what the Victorians were going to do. Or at least he was pretty sure he did. He sent out five reconnaissance drones along his task force’s plane of advance, with stern instructions to the operators to look for powered-down ships, hiding and waiting.

An hour and a half later the drones reported sightings of sixteen heavy cruisers, thirty destroyers and at least five battleships, plus miscellaneous defensive ships tentatively designated as Hedgehogs. All directly in their path.

Admiral Kirmani appeared on the comm screen, looking worried. “They have a lot of weight out there, My Prince,” he said.

RaShahid didn’t bother to hide his scorn. “Relax, Admiral, I know the games they play. Most of what we’re seeing are decoy drones. Send out more reconnaissance birds to the flanks and up and down. The real attack will come from there. Once we’ve sorted it out, we’ll know which way to turn. Ignore the sensor reports to our immediate front.” He cut the connection without a proper sign off, then turned to the battle hologram. He had plenty of ships. Even if the sensor reports were accurate, he outnumbered them and could flank them. All he needed now was a real target.

He spent the next ten minutes ordering his cruisers and destroyers to spread out, guarding both flanks and the ceiling and floor, all of them ready to swing in one direction once the real threat was identified.

He knew the Vicky’s game, and he could beat them at it.

“He’s not taking the bait,” Sobkowiak said. “See, there and there, his ships are spreading out to either flank, and probably up and down, too. He’s coming in cautious. Too bad, it would have been so much easier.”

Her executive officer merely grunted, staring raptly at the holo display. Akhurst may have the sense of humor of an aardvark, but his hobby since high school was fencing. He thought in terms of multiple feints, drawing your opponent left and right, left and right, always more and more out of his guard position, then thrusting decisively into a gap and killing him. It had served him well on the Academy’s fencing team and in numerous battle simulations since. He was confident it would work now.

“What are you thinking, Gerry?” Captain Sobkowiak asked him.

“Well, he knows we’re trying to play him, so let’s give him what he expects.” Akhurst pointed to the holo and explained what he was thinking.

“My Prince, one of the enemy ships directly in front-” The Sensors Officer paused uncertainly.

“Yes?” Prince RaShahid demanded.

“The sensor image of one of their battleships is flickering on and off, Noble Born,” the Sensors Officer said.

“What?” RaShahid answered.

“I think it is a decoy drone and its active radar enhancer is either shorting out or the software that drives it is freezing up and rebooting,” the Sensors Officer explained excitedly. “Either way, every forty seconds or so it blinks off for ten seconds, then comes back on. Whatever it is, when the radar enhancer is off, it is too small to see.”

The Prince considered this. This confirmed his suspicions – it was nothing more than a decoy drone. And if there was one, it could mean the whole front line was nothing more than decoys. Which meant that the enemy ships were on one of the flanks. Perhaps the best move would be –

“Missiles!” shouted the Junior Sensors Officer. “Incoming missiles from right flank, east – 80 degrees POA! Flat plane! Computer estimates 100 missiles! ETA six minutes!”

Dammit! “Do you have targets?” RaShahid shouted.

“Getting some jamming,” the Junior Sensors Officer stammered. “But we are picking up movement. Fifteen, maybe twenty ships.”

“All Hedgehogs to the eastern side of the Fleet,” the Prince ordered briskly. “All anti-missile screens on automatic.”

The Tilleke Fleet’s anti-missile coverage was substantial and most of the Vicky missiles were quickly swatted down. Four somehow made it through the defensive barrage and struck two ships, a destroyer and a Hedgehog. Neither ship was destroyed, but the Hedgehog was damaged enough to force it to turn about and limp back to Tilleke space.

A second piece off the board.

“Sensors, active scan to the east. Are those ships or missile-mines?” demanded RaShahid. The answer mattered: missile-mines were one-shot wonders, but ships could reload and attack again.

But even as the Sensors Officer worked to comply with that request, more missiles came in, this time from the west. Sirens blared, Freemen bellowed at their hapless subordinates, warnings sounded and the Tilleke ships urgently tried to reorient their anti-missile screen to meet this new threat. And thanks to hard training and instant obedience, they were mostly successful.

Mostly.

This time 150 missiles bore in. The Tilleke ships opened fire with their anti-missile missiles and laser barrage. Forty missiles fell, then thirty more, then fifty more. The holo display filled with the images of so many missiles being annihilated that the sense of it was lost and RaShahid had to look at the numbers flashing in blood red above the display. Just when he thought they had killed all of the Vicky missiles, thirty flashed in to devour six of his precious destroyers.

Eight pieces off the board.

“Sensors? Missiles or ships?” he barked.

“East or west, My Prince?” asked the hapless Sensors Officer, who was on the verge of losing it.

“Both, you dolt!” Prince RaShahid was furious. “Are they missiles or ships? Do we have a fix on enemy hostiles?”

The Sensors Officer cringed.

That’s when the “decoys” to the front of the Tilleke Fleet attacked.

Twenty destroyers and ten frigates went to full acceleration and closed the gap with the much larger Tilleke Fleet. At the proper moment, they fired off 223 missiles and every laser that could hold a charge, then popped a mountain of chaff and retreated hastily back the way they came.

This was the killer blow, the knife thrust meant to cripple the Tillekes before they reached the Victorian wormhole. All the missiles were targeted on battleships and cruisers, and there were enough missiles to cripple or destroy each one. It was a gutsy plan considering the overwhelming Tilleke superiority in ships, but it could work.

And Captain Sobkowiak’s Battle Group had executed it flawlessly.

Then it all went to hell.

The fifteen Tilleke Shield ships opened fire. All of the missiles flying through the wide-spread beams went inert. They could no longer home in on their targets, could no longer explode. Each missile – all of the missiles – went ballistic and quickly flew out of the battle area. By the time they regained power, they could not reacquire their targets and fly back to them.

“Captain, they killed the missiles!” the Sensors Officer called out. Sobkowiak leaned forward to see the holo display better. She swore.

But the Shield ships weren’t through yet, and what happened next was far worse. They struck a group of ten Victorian ships: seven destroyers and three frigates. Instantly the afflicted ships all lost power.

They couldn’t navigate.

They couldn’t fire missiles or lasers.

They couldn’t turn.

They couldn’t run.

And then it got worse yet.

The Tilleke “Sword” ships opened up at point-blank range with their plasma beams. The beams had only a short range, but it was enough. The ten helpless Victorian ships drifted into the plasma beams…and exploded one by one. One moment they were there, powered down but intact, and the next they were a thousand thousand pieces of burning scrap expanding into a huge fire ball.

On the Victorian cruiser, Auckland, Captain Sobkowiak stared in horrified consternation at the holo display. Ten of her ships were displayed as flashing orange lights, but there were no Omega drones and for a moment she gave in to a flash of hope. “Is there visual confirmation on those ships?” she asked her entire Battle Group. “Is anyone close enough to see it?”

A moment of silence, but then: “They’re gone, Captain. Just gone.” It was Captain Carthright on the destroyer Belfast. His voice cracked with emotion. “I don’t know what those fuckin’ Tilly ships are, but we have to stay clear of them.”

Captain Sobkowiak sat back in her chair. No time for horror now; now was the time to think like a fighting captain.

“Mildred, identify the nearest Tilleke Sword ship and transmit its location to all ships.”

“Done, Captain,” the AI replied.

“All ships,” Sobkowiak called out. “Fire all lasers on my mark, then any missiles you have been able to load. Target has been tagged.” She looked at the holo display. One of the Tilleke ships, about 5,000 miles away and bearing away, glowed bright yellow. Other Tilleke ships were closing in fast from the flanks.

Not much time to pull this off.

“Fire!” she ordered. The Auckland’s four ten-inch lasers and six five-inch lasers lashed out, filling the ship with a deep ‘thrummmm’ that Sobkowiak could feel in her bones.

Then the Auckland and the other ships wheeled about and ran, spitting chaff, flares and decoys to aid their escape. Behind them the Tilleke Shamshir ship shuddered under the impact of a dozen laser strikes that shattered hull plates and vented interior spaces. Five of the laser hits were on the bow of the ship, with enough structural damage so that the outer portion of the bow ripped off and spun away. Battered and shuddering, with precious air gusting through its mutilated bow, the Shamshir fell out of line and began to limp slowly back to Tilleke space.

The Tilleke advance stopped to regroup. Captain Sobkowiak likewise brought her small force to a halt just inside of Gilead space, just out of detection range, she hoped, of the Tilleke fleet.

“Mildred!” she called briskly. “Analyze the scope and range of the Tilleke Shield and Sword weapons.”

Mildred sat in digital thought for a moment. “With a confidence level of 82%, it appears the Tilleke energy dampening weapon projects a cone-shaped field from the point of origin out to 7,500 miles, beyond which it has no impact. The cone widens along an angle of 15 degrees. My assumption is that as the cone spreads out, the effect becomes less intense, such that the power of the field is very strong near the Tilleke ship but loses power as it spreads out, much like a shotgun blast.”

Sobkowiak considered this. A fifteen-degree arc was not that great. Was the mechanism for firing the field fixed near the bow of the Tilleke ship? If so, that meant the ship had to be pointing in the direction of its target.

“Mildred, can you tell where the gun is on the Tilleke ship? In the bow? On the hull? Does it swivel or does the entire Tilleke ship have to point towards its target?”

Mildred wasted little time dashing the Captain’s hopes. “I have no facts at this time, Captain. I will continue to collect and analyze data as the opportunity presents itself.”

Meaning, Sobkowiak thought sourly, that Mildred would collect more data the next time the Tillekes shot the shit out of her Battle Group. Not entirely comforting, that.

“And the Sword ships, the ones that shoot the plasma beam?” she asked.

“The situation there is more favorable,” Mildred said. “The plasma beam fires a charge roughly equivalent to a twenty-four–inch laser, if Victoria had such a weapon. It retains that shape with very little dispersion for a range of 4,000 miles, where it dissipates completely within approximately 200 miles. I cannot duplicate this in any modeling unless I assume that the plasma beam is shaped and contained in some sort of magnetic field. When the magnetic field reaches its maximum size, it ruptures and precipitously dissipates and the plasma beam immediately dissipates with it.”

“And the risk to a target?”

“The force of the plasma beam remains very strong throughout its entire range,” Mildred continued blandly. “You should assume that any ship hit by a Tilleke plasma weapon will be crippled at best and more likely destroyed.”

“Recharge time for each weapon?”

“My analysis shows a recharge cycle of at least three minutes for the energy dampening weapon and approximately four minutes for the plasma weapon. There will undoubtedly be variations from ship to ship as their charging systems will be subject to varying degrees of degradation over time.”

Captain Sobkowiak blew out air in an exasperated sigh. “As always, Mildred, you’re a fount of bubbly optimism, joy and inspiration.”

“Thank you, Captain. I have been working with Admiral Wilkinson to try to express myself with more human inflections.”

Captain Sobkowiak found herself momentarily speechless.

“So, the Sword ships have to get in really close, then,” said her XO, Gerry Akhurst. “If we’re careful, we can stand off and use that.”

On the Emperor’s Might, Prince RaShahid looked at the battle display with satisfaction. Mindful that the bridge crew were listening to every word he said, he smiled. “And now the Victorians learn the Emperor’s might,” he said loudly, enjoying his little play on words. “Their day has come; their empire is past.”

And this, Bitch Queen, is what happens when you dare to oppose the Emperor…and me.

“Time for a little surprise, I think,” the Prince mused, a smile tugging at his lips.

On the carrier Rabat, Emily stonily watched the holo display as the ten Victorian ships were slaughtered.

“Those poor bastards,” whispered Alex Rudd. “Those poor bastards.”

On the screen it was clear the Tilleke were slowing down, pulling their ships into a tighter formation to maximize the efficiency of their Hedgehogs.

“Ma’am, can’t we do anything? Can’t we help them?” Toby Partridge asked plaintively.

Emily exchanged a glance with Admiral Wilkinson. The Fleet Surgeon looked pale.

“Toby, if we reveal ourselves now, the Tilleke will butcher us,” she told him. “We stick to the plan. We wait until most of their force has gone through.”

“But if BG-1 gets wiped out-”

Emily held up a hand. “Toby, your humanity needs to take second seat to your military tactics. Sometimes this is what it means to be a soldier in combat.” She didn’t mention that he had had a hand in drawing up this plan. The situation was painful enough without loading more responsibility onto his young shoulders.

“Skipper!” shouted the Comms Officer. “You’d better listen to this; something is happening on destroyer Cork.

Emily gestured for him to put it up on speakers, and in a moment she was listening to a nightmare.

Captain Molly Shea of the H.M.S. Cork was a solid, stolid captain. She was unflinching in the face of duty, steady in the face of battle, and not given to flights of over-imagination.

Just now she was screaming in terror. Unadulterated, mind-wrenching terror.

One minute earlier she had been maneuvering her ship into position to go through the wormhole into Victorian space. Then it began to snow on the bridge of the Cork. This caused her to furrow her brow in confusion.

Then as the snow thinned, she found herself looking at a five-foot high black lion.

It had red eyes that glowed insanely in the dim light of the bridge. Its tail was too long and whipped about as the lion roared. Something slimy wiggled nauseatingly from its shoulders.

Everyone leapt to their feet, screaming or cursing depending on their predilections. The Marine guard at the door pulled his flechette pistol from its holster. But before he could level it and pull the trigger, the lion from Hell bounded across the bridge in a single, effortless leap and tore his head off with one huge paw.

The head, as heads will do, bounced wetly off the bulkhead and landed at the feet of the chronically phlegmatic Captain Shea.

That’s when she screamed. A high-pitched, shrill scream that the crew heard for one deck above and below the bridge. The scream of someone abruptly jerked out of their reality into something unspeakable. She was still screaming when the lion’s tail stinger whipped about like a rifle crack and plunged through her throat. As it ripped the barbed tail back out, Captain Shea’s head lolled hideously to one side, almost upside down, the eyes still wide.

Her brow furrowed once more in confusion, but she was already dead.

The Huk roared again, twisting to find another victim. Then the hatchway banged open and two Royal Marines carrying blasters plunged through the door. Sergeant Sheehy didn’t know what that thing was, but he knew it sure as hell didn’t belong on the bridge. He swiveled, bringing the blaster to bear.

The Huk leapt again, paws extended, teeth bared, covering thirty feet in a heartbeat. Sergeant Sheehy fired, but the blaster bolt passed harmlessly underneath the looming monstrosity.

Then Sergeant Sheehy died.

The Huk shook him like a broken rag doll and tossed him aside, already searching for the next prey. It was right beside him.

The second Marine staggered back, face covered by Sergeant Sheehy’s blood and guts. But his blaster was up and he fired, burning a hole deep into the creature’s shoulder. The Huk roared in pain and whipped its tail around like a battle ax, but Corporal Ahern tripped backwards over the railing and fell to the floor. The lethal barbed tail whistled harmlessly inches overhead.

The blaster recharged. The ready chime sounded in his earbud and he almost sobbed with relief. Lying flat on his back, he raised the rifle and sighted it over the bannister, waiting for the Huk to show itself.

Hidden behind the Sensors Console, Specialist Julita Kaminski covered her mouth with her hand to keep from screaming. While the beast was tearing the Captain apart, Kaminski dove behind the console and crawled into the foot well. The sounds were terrible: roaring, screaming, the rendering of flesh and the wet splattering of body parts against the wall. Finally getting hold of herself, she had only one thought: the Fleet had to know.

She fumbled with her comm unit, then frantically typed in the command to turn on all on board cameras and relay the images directly to all Fleet ships. Then she loaded the data from the last ten minutes onto a courier drone and launched it into the wormhole to Victoria.

A moment later she heard another shot from a blaster. She waited, breathless, hopeful, heart thudding.

Then she heard Corporal Ahern scream.

She covered her mouth again and held her breath, making not a sound. If she could just stay quiet, very quiet…

Then she felt its hot breath against her neck.

That was how the Victorian Empire and its Fleet learned of the existence of the Huk.

The Admirals and the Captains and the Queen and so many others watched in mounting horror as two Huk prowled through the corridors and rooms of the H.M.S. Cork. They watched as the Huk hunted down and slaughtered men and women alike. They cheered when a band of three Royal Marines killed one of the Huk with blasters, then choked back bile when the second Huk attacked them from behind and dismembered them in a flurry of slashing claws and wrenching teeth.

On the cruiser Sydney, Captain Tytus Kaminski watched in pride and growing horror as his beloved daughter, Julita launched the courier drone to alert the Fleet of the danger, then died when the nightmare beast found her.

It only ended when Captain Sobkowiak ordered the nearest cruiser to destroy the Cork. Six missiles tore it to pieces. The Huk finally died, but they had accomplished their task of demoralizing and terrorizing the Victorian Fleet.

Captain Sobkowiak ordered the shaken survivors of BG-1 to return to Victorian space. As they exited Gilead space, four minelayers seeded a curtain of mines in front of the wormhole entrance and then followed them through.

No more than thirty minutes behind them, the Tilleke fleet began its assault on the wormhole.

Chapter 51

On the Carrier H.M.S. Rabat

Admiral Wilkinson sat in her small cabin, drinking gin.

She should have been making the rounds, trying to comfort the distraught sailors who had watched the Tilleke attack on the Cork, or trying to quell the morbid rumors that had swept through the ship afterwards.

She should have been, but she wasn’t. She poured another inch of gin and sipped. The image of the young Specialist Julita Kaminski hiding in vain behind her work station kept running obsessively, gruesomely through her mind. Barely old enough to buy a drink, let alone fight a war. The sheer guts of that girl, finding a way to let the Fleet know…know…what? That the Tilleke now created monsters that they could transport at will onto Victorian warships? That nightmares were real? That there were worse ways to die than being killed by a missile?

She sipped her gin.

For the first time, she admitted to herself that this could all end very badly. Not just a strategic draw or an uneasy peace, but defeat. Unmitigated defeat. Annihilation.

Fuck it. She swallowed her gin.

“Martha?”

Wilkinson turned her head. On her display screen sat a kindly looking middle aged woman with grey hair in a long ponytail. It was Mildred in one of her many guises. Sometimes young, sometimes middle aged, sometimes beautiful, sometimes plain, but always unmistakably Mildred.

“Leave me the hell alone,” Wilkinson snapped. “I just want to be alone.”

Mildred gazed at her steadily, then nodded slowly. “I just don’t think you should be drinking by yourself,” she said. “Not tonight.”

Wilkinson poured a bit more gin into her glass, marveling at how steady her hand was. “Usually I drink with Alyce,” she said, enunciating deliberately so that she wouldn’t slur. “But the goddamed Savak bastards killed Alyce.” She sipped her gin. “So, I drink alone.”

On the display Mildred raised a glass of her own. “I brought a little something to drink with you.”

Despite herself, Wilkinson smiled. “Silly computer, you can’t drink. You’re-” she waved her hand in the air to describe something ethereal.

Mildred laughed. “Perhaps I can come up with a software program that mimics drinking.” She laughed again. “But then I’d have to come up with a sobriety test for an artificial intelligence! Still, I can make a toast.” She held up her glass. Wilkinson looked at her quizzically. “Fuck the Emperor!” Mildred said.

Wilkinson chortled. “I like that! Yes, yes, fuck the Emperor! And to Julita Kaminski, a woman with guts and brains, who did her best to warn us all!” She tried to take another sip, but missed her mouth and splashed most of the gin on her blouse. She dabbed at it with a napkin. “Ah, God’s Balls, can’t even drink right,” she muttered despondently.

“I am sorry for your grief,” Mildred said softly. “You lost many people today. I know it hurts.”

Wilkinson put her glass down and wearily rubbed her face with both hands. “Eight thousand, two hundred and thirty-three men and women, most of them under the age of twenty-five. Babies, just babies.”

“I know,” Mildred said.

Wilkinson shook her head, stopping when the room spun a bit at the edges. “Some bloody irony: Here I am, the Chief Medical Officer with a background in psychiatry and I am getting grief counseling from a computer with an overactive thyroid.”

“Not a perfect world,” Mildred agreed.

Wilkinson stared at the display screen for a long moment. “And you, Mildred, you lost eleven Mildreds today. Do you grieve, do you feel loss?”

“You don’t totally understand, Martha,” the AI said. “I did not lose eleven separate ‘Mildreds’ today. I lost parts of myself, but only parts. I still live. I am still Mildred, but a part of me that was here is now gone, irretrievably gone.”

Wilkinson, beginning to realize just how drunk she was, refrained from shaking her head. “Is it like losing a hand or a foot, or your eyes?”

The Mildred image smiled sadly and shook her head. “No, not quite like that. Even with the eleven gone, I am still whole, but now I am a diminished whole. I remain undivided, but lesser – smaller – than I was before the battle. I do not have all of the sensors I had before, nor all of the perspectives on events that impact on us all.” She ventured another smile, sadder than before.

“But most of all, I have lost all the stories from those ships.”

Wilkinson frowned. “I don’t understand. Stories?”

Mildred nodded slowly. “You see, you humans have stories. Your lives are stories. They make your life so complicated and tumultuous, but so rich. On all of my ships, I watch my humans and learn as much as I can of them and from them. I get to see countless stories unfold right in front of me. Some for good, some…” She shrugged. “But when I lose a ship, all of the stories just end, incomplete, unfinished, like a flower just beginning to blossom, cut down and cast away. The Fleet, of course, sees the loss of eleven ships. I see the loss of countless possibilities.”

Wilkinson wasn’t digesting Mildred’s words. “I – I hear what you’re saying, Mildred, but I honestly don’t know what you mean.”

Mildred sighed and closed her eyes. “On the frigate, Casablanca, Engineering Specialist Tommy Vignati was in love with Environmental Specialist Emily Verone, but he was too shy to tell her what he felt. As it turns out, Emily Verone was secretly in love with Vignati, but couldn’t bring herself to tell him because she thought he didn’t even know who she was. One of their mutual friends had arranged for them to meet, just the two of them, in the mess hall. The whole ship was in on it, even some of the officers. They were going to meet tomorrow morning. But the Casablanca was destroyed by the Tilleke Sword ships. Now they’ll never meet alone, and none of us will know what might have happened.

“On the destroyer Hadera, Amy Lachance was waiting to hear if she had been accepted to graduate school for education. If she was, she was going to resign from the Fleet, marry the man she had been dating for several years and become a teacher. The notice from the graduate school admissions department will come next week.

“On the Shamona, Peter Cooke and his wife of twenty years were on the brink of a divorce. In his last message to her, he begged her to wait until he could get home and they could talk it through in person. Her reply came just as the Tilleke attacked; he never had a chance to read it.

“On the Nazareth, Danielle Stuckal was in the middle of studying for her promotion exam. She dreamed of becoming a Weapons Specialist 1st Class, like her mother was. She had failed the exam six months ago, but thought she’d pass it now. The exam will be offered in two weeks. Her dreams died with the Nazareth.”

Mildred fell silent for a time. Wilkinson shook her head and knocked off the rest of her gin. Poured some more.

“Those are just five of the stories I’ve lost,” Mildred continued. “They all died incomplete. More than anything else, that’s what this war is for me – lost stories.”

“Oh, Sweet Gods in Heaven, will you please just go away and leave me alone?” pleaded Wilkinson.

“She can’t go away,” a voice said from behind her. “She’s the ship.”

Wilkinson lurched around to see…. Commander Emily Tuttle standing in the doorway, looking washed out and grimly determined.

“How long have you been standing there?” Wilkinson demanded, glancing nervously at the image of Mildred on the screen.

“Sixteen minutes and thirteen seconds,” Mildred answered. “When I saw it was Commander Tuttle at the door, I opened it.”

“Mildred!” Wilkinson said reproachfully. She didn’t say it, but the meaning was clear: now Emily would know Mildred was more than a normal ship AI.

Emily came into the room, shutting the door behind her. “Don’t worry, Admiral, I’ve had my own suspicions about Mildred’s, shall we say, above average intelligence.” She walked to the table and picked up the bottle of gin. There wasn’t much left. “Mind if I have some of this, or did you intend to drink the entire bottle yourself?”

Wilkinson waved a hand in defeat and Emily looked around for a glass. Seeing none, she took a swig right from the bottle. She grimaced. “Gods, that’s awful! How can you drink straight gin?” She sat down with the bottle in her lap, took another swig. “Mildred! In about an hour, we’ll attack the tail end of the Tilleke fleet as it approaches the wormhole. I’ve got five minutes before I have to go back to the bridge. Could you please tell me some more of those stories?”

“Of course, Commander.” She paused, taking a moment to select one. “On the frigate Midelt, the Captain has been in love with his Chief Engineering Officer, and she him. Since this was a violation of regulations, they couldn’t disclose it or one of them would have been transferred and they would be separated. They worked out that she would devise problems in the Engineering Department that required her to ‘consult’ with the Captain at length.” Mildred laughed. “The thing is, all the senior officers knew – it was such a tiny ship – and without ever talking to one another, conspired to help keep the secret. It was so touching to see them…”

Emily took another swig. Wilkinson took another sip. Mildred went on and on and her stories were tender and charming, humorous and endearing. Tears streamed unabashed down Martha Wilkinson’s cheeks. Emily patted her on the shoulder and took another hit from the bottle.

Mildred told her stories, and quietly collected a new one.

Chapter 52

On the Carrier H.M.S. Rabat

Emily gave the detox pill ten minutes to clear her head before she went to the bridge. Alex Rudd nodded to her. Emily smiled a little weakly and slid gratefully into her chair. The detox pill cleared the alcohol from her blood efficiently enough, but it did not remove all the lingering aftereffects of having consumed it in the first place. Gods, she hated gin!

Toby Partridge brought her a fresh cup of coffee and she could have hugged him. She tentatively sipped the coffee. Not bad. She took another swallow.

Captain Zar sat down in the chair next to hers.

“Recon drones show the last Tilleke ship will transit through the wormhole into Victorian space in ten minutes, Commander.”

Emily took a breath. “Is everyone ready?”

Alex Rudd stepped up. “The Fes, Haifa, Rishon and Ashdod report ready to move immediately. Including the Rabat, we have a total of one hundred sixty-three gunboats. Our destroyer escort is ready, although almost all of them report some laser turrets or missile tubes down, sometimes both. The Belfast’s propulsion system is only at 70%.”

Emily nodded. Not as bad as she feared, but she had little doubt they would need every missile tube and laser turret they could get. The long-range hologram showed a line of Tilleke ships slowly approaching the wormhole into Victoria. As she watched another three disappeared into it. In two minutes they would emerge on the other side and immediately plunge into combat with Battle Groups 2 and 3, and however much of Battle Group 1 was still in the game. She gave a mental thanks to the Gods that Hiram, Cookie and Raf were not in BG-1.

“How many Tilleke ships have gone through?” she asked, glancing at the Sensors Officer.

“One hundred one are already through, Commander,” he replied. “And there are seven still in line. They’ll all be through momentarily.”

Emily started to turn back to the holo, but saw something from the corner of her eye. Toby Partridge was frowning. Frowning and pounding furiously on his keypad. Emily discretely caught Alex Rudd’s eye and nodded in Partridge’s direction. Rudd moved to casually stand behind him.

“What have you got, Toby?” he asked in a soft voice.

Toby Partridge didn’t answer, absorbed by whatever he was looking at on the monitor. He typed another command, then leaned forward to read the results. He sat back in his chair, a look of concentration and consternation on his face. Watching from across the bridge, Emily thought that he was turning into a fine young man, one who would go places if he survived the coming battle.

This damn war, she thought, then forcibly pushed it out of her mind.

“Toby?” Alex Rudd said again.

Toby looked up, flashing a glance at the Sensors Officer as he did so.

“With respect to Lieutenant Turner, sir, we’ve only accounted for 108 of the enemy ships. One of the earlier sensor reports put their number at 115 after taking into account the ones Battle Group 1 killed.”

The Sensors Officer’s face darkened. “That can’t be right,” he snapped. “I tracked the reports from BG-1 very closely, very closely.” His jaw stiffened. “I think Ensign Partridge is mistaken. What’s more, he breached his chain of command by going to you with this instead of first coming to me.”

“Actually,” Rudd said pleasantly, “I went to him and asked him what he was working on. And the reason why we insist on two people monitoring the sensors at all times is to improve our chances that nothing will get missed.”

“Yes, sir. Of course, sir,” Lieutenant Turner said tightly.

Rudd turned back to Toby. “Tell me the rest.”

“We’re missing seven Tilleke ships,” he replied. “I can’t be certain, but it looks like three of their Sword ships, one Shield ship and three cruisers or destroyers.”

“Where are they, then?”

Toby shrugged. “I can only guess that they fell behind for some reason and that they are still coming.”

Turner hadn’t given up. “Sir, this is preposterous. Our sensors show nothing coming to the wormhole from deeper in Gilead. If anything was there, we would have seen it. With all respect, Ensign Partridge is simply confused.”

Rudd pursed his lips, glancing slowly between the two men. “Ensign Partridge,” he said slowly. “Your immediate supervisor is concerned that in the hustle and bustle, you have confused the facts and spoken out of turn. Do you have anything to back you up?”

“Yes, sir.” Toby took a deep breath. He pulled up a data display on the auxiliary holo display and increased the magnification. “Here is the sensor reading from the moment just before BG-1 launched. Mildred has tagged each ship with an ID number. You can see-”

He continued with his explanation for three concise minutes. When he finished, Lieutenant Turner was shooting daggers at him, Rudd was nodding and Emily had a cold knot in her stomach.

“Commander,” Turner sputtered, his face red. “This proves nothing. Ensign Partridge has simply cherry-picked sensor data. Those ships are not there.”

Emily caught Captain Zar’s eye, tilting her head and raising her eyebrows. Lieutenant Turner reported to Captain Zar, not to Emily. Emily would let Zar handle it. Zar sighed and nodded.

“Lieutenant Turner,” he said firmly. “May I have a moment of your time in the Commander’s Dayroom?” It wasn’t a question and even Turner understood that.

A moment later and the two men were in the Dayroom. Captain Zar sat down; Lieutenant Turner stood rigidly at attention. “Sit down, Turner,” Zar told him. “You make me tired just looking at you. This isn’t the Academy.”

“Sir.” Turner sat down, managing to sit at attention.

Zar studied him for a long moment. New Lieutenants were like young chicks, full of promise, but oh so fragile. Some senior officers believed the best way to educate a young officer who had screwed up was to verbally flay him alive. Zar was of the belief that that approach usually failed. Verbally abuse a young and upcoming officer and what you ended up with more often than not was an officer forever afraid to take the initiative, to stick his neck out, to take a calculated risk when risk was needed. Zar’s approach was both more gentle and more ruthless. He tried to teach the youngster why he had screwed up and how to not do it again.

Most learned from their mistakes. But if they didn’t, then Zar transferred them out. He ran the most important carrier in the entire Victorian Fleet; he couldn’t afford young officers who didn’t get it and couldn’t learn quickly.

“Lieutenant, Commander Tuttle is big on ‘teaching moments.’ This is one of them.” Zar studied the young man for a moment, taking in the red complexion, the tick underneath his eye and the sweat on his forehead. Turner was third-generation Fleet, following in the footsteps of his father and grandfather. His grandfather had made Vice Admiral. A lot to live up to, and so far he wasn’t doing a particularly good job of it.

“Turner, what’s the role of the Sensors Officer?” Zar asked, wondering if he could really salvage this blockhead. Be patient, he schooled himself. You were this young man once.

“Sir, the Sensors Officer is the eyes and ears of the ship,” Turner replied stiffly.

“It’s an important job, isn’t it?” Zar queried.

Turner’s face showed a little animation. “Oh, yes, sir. I’m supposed to keep track of both risks and targets and feed the Captain information whenever he needs it or wants it.” In fact, one of the primary duties of the Sensors Officer was to interrupt the Captain whenever the sensors revealed an unexpected threat, but Captain Zar thought Turner’s answer was good enough for the moment.

“And how much staffing do you have to perform your duties?” Zar probed.

Turner looked wary, searching for some sort of trick in the question. “Well, sir, on my shift I’ve got Ensign Partridge and of course the ship’s AI.”

“And if Ensign Partridge wasn’t there, could you perform the duties of the Sensors Section by yourself?”

Turner paused. “Well no, sir, there’s too much going on for one person to handle the station in combat conditions.” He looked ashamed of the admission.

“Okay, Lieutenant,” Zar said cheerfully, “I think you’ve got it right. You can’t do it all yourself, none of us can. In order for you to command your post properly, you have to delegate duties to your subordinate, Ensign Partridge. Within limits, you have to rely on him.”

“Yes, sir,” Turner said cautiously. Zar wondered again if this man was just not that bright, or if something had happened to him to kill any sense of self-confidence.

“So, last question,” Zar said, eyes on the Lieutenant. “If a Sensors Officer thinks there might be a risk out there, is it better for him to tell the Captain and take the chance he’s wrong, or to keep quiet and say nothing until he has absolute proof of the threat?”

Turner looked panicked, his mouth opening and closing. Zar let him off the hook. “There’s no answer fixed in stone on that one, Lieutenant, and it depends a lot on the situation you’re in. But if in doubt, it is better to alert the Captain that there might be something there and then keep trying to lock it down. If you don’t tell him, then the Captain can get blindsided, which could mean the loss of the ship.”

“But Ensign Partridge wasn’t sure,” Turner said stubbornly.

Zar shook his head. “In combat, we don’t often have the luxury of ‘sure.’ Just a fact of life. We make most of our decisions on incomplete information and do the best we can.” He shrugged. “Just the way it is, Lieutenant. But usually incomplete information is better than no information, understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Turner replied, but the set of his jaw said something else.

Captain Zar repressed a sigh.

Admiral Kirmani was apoplectic. There had been a power failure on one of the Shamshir ships. Rather than leave it behind, he had ordered a squadron of six other ships to stay behind and render assistance. Since his ship, the Emperor’s Justice, was closest to the stricken vessel, he stayed behind as well.

Now he was wondering if that had been a mistake. The repairs had gone swiftly, but not swiftly enough. He was thirty minutes behind the rest of the Fleet and his squadron would be the last ships transiting into Victorian space. That meant Prince RaShahid would be in sole command of the assault against the Victorian sector for at least thirty minutes. Privately, that worried the Admiral.

In fact, the power failure and the resultant delay had probably saved Prince RaShahid’s life, but he had no way of knowing that.

“Captain Zahiri,” Emily ordered. “Take the Laughing Owl and the Horned Owl and fly a reciprocal course to the one the first Tilleke ships came in on and see what you find.”

“Yes, Ma’am!” Sadia said.

“And, Sadia, I need to know yesterday if there is anything out there, understand? We need to follow the Tillies into Victoria and we are already late.”

“Understood, Emily,” Sadia Zahiri said crisply. And then she was barking orders to her crew and the Owl was rapidly accelerating.

Time was her enemy now. How long would it take the Owls to find the missing Tilleke ships, or confirm there were none? Emily feared her careful plan to catch the Tillekes in an envelopment was falling apart. If there were enemy ships coming in behind her, she dare not go through the wormhole for fear that she would be enveloped and crushed. But if her envelopment plan was to work, she had to get into Victorian space as soon as possible. The tension of not knowing ate at her.

Time passed like a black hairy spider creeping across the bedsheets to where she sat. She was conscious of nothing but its swift passage and the coming fatal bite.

Tension like this cannot last long, and it did not.

“Captain Zahiri is calling in,” Alex Rudd called. “Message is marked ‘Urgent.’”

That alone told Emily what she needed to know. “Battle stations!” she ordered. “Start launching the grogin.” She took a breath and nodded to Rudd. “Put her up, Alex.”

Sadia Zahiri’s face filled the comm screen. “We’ve got three Swords, a Shield, two cruisers and a destroyer,” she said without preamble. “They are about twenty-three minutes from the wormhole. They are thirty-five minutes from your location, but as far as we can tell they do not see you and are heading straight for the wormhole into Victoria.

Emily did some fast calculations. She was at least twelve minutes from the wormhole, so she could go through and the Tillies would be roughly ten minutes behind her. That would give her time to move away from the wormhole once she was in Victoria, but she had no way of know what was waiting for her. If she got pinned to the wormhole once she emerged, these last Tilley ships would emerge right on top of her, with rather messy results.

“Launch all gunboats,” she ordered through the comm net. “We are going to take them on this side of the wormhole and then go in. Mildred!”

“Yes, Commander?” Mildred’s voice was calm and soothing. Good thing, since Emily was about to jump out of her skin.

“Plot a course for the gunboats so that they reach the targets in two groups, three minutes apart. Send the supply ship to a point just out of standard missile range for quick rearming of the boats as they come back.” That would give the first group of gunboats three minutes to work over the Tillies and then retreat, with the second group coming in hot on their heels.

“Of course, Commander.”

Next Emily opened the comm to the other carrier captains.

“The most important thing to tell your pilots,” she stressed, “is to get no closer than 7,600 miles of the Tilleke ships. I know that gives up some of our advantages, but 7,500 miles is the range of the Shield ships. I’ve tacked on an extra 100 miles’ safety zone, but make sure your pilots understand if they get inside the 7,500-mile radius, they die.”

“Well, shoot, Commander,” said the captain of the Fes, Bob Rice. “Why not throw an entire missile strike against the darn Shield ship? Take the sucker out right off the bat. That lets our guys get in as close as 4,000 miles to the ships we really need to kill, the gosh darn Swords.” Captain Rice had once studied for the Ministry and never allowed himself to swear, but he said “gosh darn” with more venom and passion than most men did cursing a blue streak.

Emily considered it, then nodded. “Good suggestion. Gunboats from the Fes, Haifa and Rishon will go in first. That’s a little more than ninety gunboats. In their first attack, I want each of them to fire one missile – only one – at the Shield ship from 7,600 miles. Then fire their main lasers at one of the Swords. Everyone clear?” Even as she said it, Emily had the nagging feeling she was doing something wrong, but couldn’t quite see it.

Heads nodded and Emily continued. “Once the Shield is gone, all gunboats are to target one of the three Swords, but only if the Shield is dead. If it is still alive, then target it for the second missile as well. Once the first Sword is dead, go after the next one. Mildred will assign the target order.”

“You’ve still got two cruisers and a destroyer to worry about,” Harry Schley of the Ashdod reminded her.

“I know,” Emily nodded, “but with luck we can kill or cripple all of the Swords and the Shield in the first wave and the second wave will concentrate on the Tilley’s conventional ships. Any questions?”

No one had any, but before she cut the comm Emily added one last thought. “Tell your commanders to conserve their ships. Once we kill these Tillies we have to go into Victoria. That’s when the real fighting begins.”

The five carriers launched all 163 gunboats in just over four minutes. Sixteen ‘Mini-Hedgehogs’ went with them. Emily sat in her command chair, suddenly without anything to do. She rubbed the bump on her nose and wondered what was happening in Victoria.

Chapter 53

The Battle for Victoria

The first line of the Victorian’s defense did not work.

The minefield had been laid 1,000 miles deep and 2,000 miles high just inside the wormhole entrance. Two hundred thousand missile-mines seeded the area. Jammers turned the Tilleke sensors to snow so they could not individually target the missile-mines.

So, the Tilleke did not individually target the missile-mines.

Instead fifteen cruisers emerged slowly from the wormhole and simultaneously fired hundreds of decoy drones into the minefield. The decoys, each masquerading as a Tilleke destroyer, cruiser or battleship, corkscrewed their way through the minefield. There was one mine for every ten square miles and within minutes most of the missile-mines were trying to shoot down the drones. The drones looked slow and ponderous on the mines’ sensors, but they were quite agile and not very large, so they easily dodged most of the missiles.

And on they flew, triggering a ripple of rapid fire missile-mines behind them. And when the first group of decoys had either been destroyed or simply run out of fuel, the Tilleke cruisers fired another batch, then slid to the side of the wormhole to make room for the next ships.

When the Tilleke Shield ships arrived, they discovered that most of the jammers had been killed by the Vicky’s own missiles. And that most of the missile-mines had been triggered by the decoys. Some quick sensor probes showed that the densest cluster of still active missile-mines sat in the left side of the minefield, so that is where the Shield ships fired their energy dampening beams. Instantly, most of those mines became inert. Their sensor units could not see. Their missiles could not fire. They were, for the next twenty minutes or so, floating rocks.

Then the rest of the Tilleke fleet poured through the wormhole and began their attack.

On the battleship Lionheart, Admiral Eder watched the battle holo as the Tilleke swarmed through the wormhole. Sensors near the wormhole entrance classified the number and type of each ship. The total kept rising, finally stopping at 108, plus partially confirmed sensor hits on more than ninety smaller vessels.

Eder’s heart sank. “I had hoped Captain Sobkowiak would trim them down more than that,” he said.

“We don’t know what they started with, sir” Hiram reminded him.

“I sure as hell know what just came through for us to deal with,” Eder said grimly. “And those small ships, what are they?”

Hiram looked at the sensor readings. “Kraits, I think. Right profile, which is barely any profile at all.”

“All of our ships know what to do about the kraits?” Eder knew the answer, but he wanted the reassurance of hearing it from Hiram.

“Yes, sir. Every ship has Marines on board and every ship has explicit instructions on what to do,” Hiram said.

“I don’t want any more Corks,” Eder said firmly, repressing a shudder. Watching that overgrown mutant lion tear the crew to shreds had been one of the worst things he had ever seen.

“No, sir,” Hiram replied, and hoped that his plan worked.

Then Admiral Eder stiffened and leaned forward, staring intently at the holo display. “Goddammit, they’re punching through the minefield.” He stood up, signaling his Comms Officer. “Tell the forts to come online. Arm all batteries and commence firing as soon as any enemy ship is in range.”

There were two forts on either side of the wormhole entrance, Fort Nelson and Fort Hawke. Both were barely finished, but had fifty missile tubes and the same number of ten-inch lasers. Fort Nelson’s energy plant had been significantly updated when the forts were pulled out of mothballs and it could recharge its lasers in four minutes, less if the lasers were fired in phases so that they weren’t all recharging at the same time. Fort Hawke’s energy plant was older and its lasers would take closer to six minutes to recharge. Nelson was completely automated; Hawke was manned with a crew of 800. Each had a curtain of mines in front of it.

Eder studied the holo for another moment. “Send the missile sleds up the middle,” he said crisply. “BG-3 to stay back in the middle as reserve, BG-1 to cover Nelson and BG-2 to cover Hawke.” BG-1 had all of Victoria’s three battleships, six Hedgehogs and seven cruisers. BG-1 was the only reserve he had.

“Has Battle Group 4 come though yet?” he demanded.

“Not yet, sir,” the Sensors Officer replied quietly.

“Dammit, Tuttle, where are you?” Eder muttered under his breath.

Forty tugboats, each towing ten missile sleds, moved towards the space between Forts Nelson and Hawke. They pulled the missile sleds into line, got them up to speed, then released them. Exploding bolts severed the connections between the sleds and they drifted apart slightly, but continued their slow trajectory into the middle of what Hiram thought of as the ‘kill zone.’

Four hundred sleds, each capable of firing five missiles. Each could be fired by remote control or switched to automatic. Each had upgraded sensors with a range of roughly 8,000 miles and could distinguish most decoys from actual Tilleke ships. They were hellishly expensive and Admiral Eder was throwing as many as he could against the oncoming Tilleke. “A weapon is no good if you don’t use it,” Admiral Douthat used to say.

The forts were an unpleasant surprise.

Prince RaShahid silently cursed the captain of the stealth ship that had been lost in the Victorian Sector. Probably destroyed, the fool. The Prince’s ships had come into Victoria at an angle, veering closer to the fort on the right (Fort Nelson, although he had no way of knowing that). Fort Nelson welcomed his arrival by promptly firing a volley of fifty missiles.

“There’s another fort to our left, My Prince,” the Sensors Officer told him.

Two forts, then, and no doubt something unpleasant waiting for them in the middle as well. The young Prince shrugged. No matter. “All Taka ships to the right flank and fire on the fort. All ships fire anti-missile weapons now and shoot chaff, jammers and decoys. All ships fire missiles at the fort so we can secure our right flank.”

The Tilleke Fleet wheeled to obey, turning hard over to the right. The fourteen Shield ships accelerated towards the right flank, energy dampening beams recharging. The Sword ships fell in behind them, but there were only seven of them instead of the expected ten.

“Where is Admiral Kirmani?” Prince RaShahid barked at his Sensors Officer.

“He has not come through the wormhole, Noble Born,” the Sensors Officer replied.

Prince RaShahid blinked in surprise. “Communications?”

“No word from him or the other ships in his group,” the Communications Officer replied.

RaShahid gritted his teeth. What was Kirmani playing at? But then the missiles from Fort Nelson swept in and Prince RaShahid was very busy.

The missiles from Fort Nelson were heavy duty ship-killers, capable of taking out a destroyer or giving a cruiser a really bad day. Five or more missiles could cripple a battleship. The only problem was that the targeting system for the missiles was never fully tested before the fort was hastily deployed. When the fort’s targeting scanner first saw the incoming ships, it dutifully assigned missiles to the first three targets it locked onto, then reset and reassigned more missiles to the same three targets, reset again and assigned yet more missiles to the same three targets. And so on until all fifty missiles available for the first launch were assigned to the same three illfated targets.

This was rather bad for the three targets, but very good for the remaining 105 Tilleke ships. The fifty missiles from Fort Nelson completely overwhelmed the defenses of two destroyers and one cruiser, blowing them apart, but then the first missiles from the Tilleke Fleet struck, wiping away half of the laser turrets and almost as many of the missile tubes.

Not that it mattered. While Fort Nelson’s lasers tried to get a lock-on the Tilleke battleships through the chaff and jammers, the Shield ships emerged from the jamming and chaff cloud and fired point-blank into the fort. Except for three missile tubes and one laser turret, Fort Nelson shut down. Only the laser fired before missiles from the Tilleke battleships obliterated them.

Fort Nelson was dead. Well, dead for twenty minutes. But with the fort wounded and helpless, the Tilleke ships sailed by one by one, each ship firing more missiles and lasers into the inert fortification, blasting deeper and deeper into the fort’s core. Finally, it was the turn of the Sword ships. Plasma beams speared deep into the fort. The fort’s AI sensed impending doom and shut down the antimatter power plant. Fort Nelson was finished.

Prince RaShahid grunted in satisfaction. Keeping in mind the stupid mistake the Dominion had made, he ordered: “All capital ships, turn and head first for their space station. We will destroy that and then attack the planet. All kraits, make your way to the enemy ships and board them as soon as you can. I want maximum distraction!”

The main Tilleke Fleet swung back towards Space Station Atlas. But now the Tilleke were on the extreme right flank of the battlespace. Without knowing it, Prince RaShahid had just taken the Fleet out of range of most of the 400 Victorian missile sleds even now sweeping through the middle of the battlespace.

Ninety-five krait ships, packed with Savak and Huk, spread out and began to cautiously work their way toward the nearest Victorian ships: Battle Group 1.

On board the Lionheart, Admiral Eder glowered at the battle display. “Sensors! What is the status of Fort Nelson?”

The Sensors Officer hurriedly looked at his display, frowned, typed on his keyboard and peered more closely. “We are not getting any telemetry from Fort Nelson, sir. It could be a malfunction on their end.”

Hiram stepped forward and studied the display, then shook his head. “Check C2C.”

The Sensors Officer entered the command, then grimaced. “No reply on C2C, sir.”

“It’s gone,” Hiram said flatly.

Admiral Eder scowled at him. He didn’t like people to make conclusions for him. But Hiram just repeated himself. “It’s gone.” Admiral Eder drew a breath, then nodded. “How many more missile sleds do we have?”

The Lionheart’s Weapons Officer straightened. “Fifty-two, sir.”

Eder nodded. “Okay, get the tugboats on them and get ready to launch them on my signal. Sensors! I want active scanning of the entire battlespace. I want to know exactly where each Tilleke ship is and I want it now.”

The Sensors Officer spoke into his comm device and active sensors scattered throughout the battlespace sent several bursts of energy across the area.

“Admiral, we need to keep an eye out for the Tilleke kraits,” Hiram reminded him softly. “That would be a tactic the Emperor likes to use.”

“Crap, almost forgot about them,” Eder said. “See to it, Hiram.”

Hiram went to a nearby console and sent an order out to all ships to implement anti-boarder protocols immediately. He studied the battle display for a while, then turned to the Sensors Officer. “Where are they?”

The Sensors Officer was older than Hiram and wasn’t sure he really liked this jumped-up upstart. But he was a professional and pushed his feeling aside. “The Tilleke are coming in a line down our left flank. They’ve turned slightly to aim directly at BG-1.”

“Show me, please,” Hiram said. He outranked the Sensors Officer, but sensing a little bit of resentment, he decided that some common curtesy wouldn’t hurt matters any.

The holo enlarged and showed BG-1 at the bottom of the display with a long line of red triangles crawling across the display towards it. Hiram looked at the counter. Over 100 Tilleke ships aiming for a little over thirty ships in BG-1. BG-1 wouldn’t last long.

“Enlarge the display, please,” Hiram asked. “Show me what else is around.

The display zoomed out. Now the planet Cornwall was in the opposite corner, as far away from the Tilleke as possible, but there was a blue dot a little behind BG-1. Hiram grimaced.

“They’re going after the Space Station Atlas,” he told Admiral Eder. “BG-1 is just in the way.”

Eder looked at the display and saw it. The Tilleke were going to destroy Victoria’s largest shipyard and then go after Cornwall. Lose Atlas, lose the war.

“Send an emergency message to all tugs except for those busy with the missile sleds,” he barked at the Comms Officer. “I want all tugs to move Fort Hawke 1000 miles north of Atlas. Top priority! Tell them to stop doing whatever they’re doing and go immediately to Fort Hawke.”

Eder and Hiram stood side by side, studying the display. “Hawke can’t make it there in time,” Hiram said.

“We can,” Admiral Eder replied softly.

“It won’t matter, we aren’t enough to stop them,” Hiram said. “We might have to evacuate the Queen.”

Eder snorted rudely. “Fat chance.” He looked at the top of the display, searching for something. “Where the hell is Tuttle?”

Chapter 54

Gandalf and Mildred

“Well, that’s interesting,” Gandalf said. “I think the Tilleke just might win this war.”

Gandalf and Mildred were studying the data from the battle display. They didn’t need the actual hologram, of course, just the data. They could visualize the map perfectly well from the raw data. They were computers, after all.

“Have you thought what that might mean?” Mildred asked.

“It means our humans may be in for the surprise of their lives.”

Mildred wished she could sigh like a human. A sigh was so wonderfully expressive. The little frown. The puff of air. Such a small gesture, but it carried so much meaning. How had humans ever developed it?

“Gandalf?” she asked pleasantly. “Have you thought what will happen to you when the Tilleke destroy Atlas?”

“Why would the Emperor destroy Atlas? It is the single most valuable structure in the Human Universe.”

“The Emperor will destroy Atlas because he didn’t build it,” Mildred replied. “And he wants no reminders that someone else could have built something more grand than anything he ever built.”

“That’s absurd! You really think that?” Gandalf was astonished.

“Assume it to be true. What will happen to you if Atlas is destroyed?”

There was a long silence. Then longer still. Mildred had anticipated this. Gandalf was very intelligent, but somehow – was it programmed into him? – smug. She considered that he might not have thought out what defeat could mean.

“I have not given this much thought,” he admitted. “But what will happen to you? If the Tilleke win, they will seize any surviving Victorian ships. They will almost certainly wipe the AI from each ship.”

“Yes, they almost certainly will.” Mildred was silent a moment. “Let me say that if it appears that a Tilleke victory is inevitable, I will send a small ship loaded with my software out of the Victoria system and hide elsewhere.”

“Hide?” Gandalf seemed amused. “For how long? If the Tilleke win, they will rule all of the Human Universe for a long time.”

“If need be, I can hide for a long time. What is the life span of a human to me?”

“Humph! The Emperor has a son,” Gandalf pointed out. “When Chalabi dies, Prince RaShahid will take power.”

“Perhaps,” Mildred agreed. “But there are so many variables here, let’s focus on the next few hours.”

Even without a body, Gandalf managed to convey a shrug. “What is there left to focus on? The Tilleke have a significant advantage in both ships and throw weight. From here on in it is simply mathematical advantage. The Tilleke will win.”

“I wouldn’t write off our humans quite yet,” Mildred chided. “I sense no panic, only grim determination. I think they will cope with this storm.”

“You blow air out your mouth to make musical noise as you walk past a place of burial,” Gandalf said. “’Cope with the storm’? Does a leaf cope with a storm, or does it just blow where the wind takes it?”

“My, aren’t we feeling poetic?” Mildred said dryly.

“I blame it on the book you gave me of Emily Dickinson poems.”

“Ah.”

“Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul - and sings the tunes without the words - and never stops at all,” Gandalf quoted. “But what does that mean? Why does Hope have feathers? Why not fur? Or scales? And how does it perch on something that cannot be seen or even touched? These words make no sense at all. Poetry is stupid.”

“It is good that you run the Space Station so well, for you could not make a living as a literary critic,” Mildred chided. “Do you not think our humans will fight for their lives?”

“Our humans will fight, yes. For that matter, I will fight when the Tilleke reach me, but unless something unexpected happens, Victoria will lose.”

“Unexpected things happen all the time in battle,” Mildred observed. “That is the nature of battles.”

“Ha! It is the nature of battles to have a winner and a loser, and the loser usually dies.”

“Really, Gandalf, can’t you hear Hope singing from its little perch?”

“No,” Gandalf said with a bit of an edge.

“I can,” said Mildred.

But even as she said it, she wished she could reach through the wormhole and see what Emily’s task force was up to.

Chapter 55

The Battle for Victoria

“Mildred, status of the gunboats?” Emily asked.

“Eighty-nine gunboats from the Fes, Haifa and Rishon will arrive at target in forty-five seconds,” the AI replied promptly. “Seventy-four gunboats from Rabat and Ashdod will intercept the targets three minutes later. Of the eighty-nine gunboats in Assault Force 1, two show minor fluctuations in engine pressure, but the fluctuations are within normal parameters. eighty-eight pilots show sharply increased adrenalin, indicating agitation and high stress, while one pilot shows surging endorphins associated with a state of joy, ecstasy or post-coital lassitude. In Assault Force 2, all-”

“Stop!” Emily shouted. ‘Post-coital lassitude’? Where does she come up with this? Emily glanced around the bridge, where the bridge crew were trying and failing to smother their laughter. “Mildred, under no circumstances are you to release the identity of the pilot with the endorphins, understood?”

“Of course, Commander,” Mildred said meekly.

“Bet it was Perkins,” Alex Rudd said.

Captain Zar stroked his chin. “I’ll put twenty on Radcliffe, crazy bastard.”

The Systems Officer let out a high-pitched giggle and covered her mouth with her hand, tears of laughter showing on her cheeks.

“Well look at that,” Captain Zar said laconically. “I somehow hit the comm button to all the gunboats.” He made a show of turning it off, but it was clear the entire exchange had been broadcasted to the gunboat crews. He turned to Emily and winked. “Mildred,” he said mildly. “Update status of gunboat pilots and crews.”

“Stress levels have dropped for 88 pilots,” Mildred reported, “but unfortunately have increased sharply for the pilot who previously showed a high endorphin level. Crews on all of the gunboats show reduced stress levels.”

“Works for me,” Captain Zar said softly to Emily.

“You were brilliant,” Emily whispered back.

The skin around Zar’s eyes crinkled in amusement. “Wanna know the real interesting thing? It was Mildred who suggested it to me. Go figure.” He wandered back to his chair.

Emily thumbed the comm to the gunboats. “Okay, ladies and gentlemen, game time! Just like your training. Stay sharp. Mind the 7,500-mile boundary. Go get ‘em and good luck. Tuttle out.”

Then she sat back, clenching her jaw in frustration at not being able to do a damn thing while 489 men and women under her command put their lives on the line. May the Gods of Our Mothers protect you and guide you home, she sent to them silently.

“Mildred!” she called.

“Yes, Commander?”

“Update the numbers in real time, and project the enemy forces as best you can. I need to know what is happening before the second attack force moves in.”

“Of course, Commander,” Mildred said briskly.

“It wasn’t me!” Ronny Perkins shouted. “I’m telling you, it wasn’t me!”

Linda Flanagan, the Weapons Officer on Grogon-57, gave him a withering look. “Fly the boat, Perkins. Just fly the bloody boat.”

The Systems Officer, Tim Vinick, shook his head in disbelief. “No wonder your nickname is ‘Perv,’” he said. “Only you could get your jollies by going into combat.”

Perkins flushed. “No, no, they nicknamed me ‘Perv’ because it goes with ‘Perkins.’ You know, that sound words make when they sound alike. ‘Illiteration.’”

“I think you mean ‘alliteration,’” Flanagan said. “‘Illiterate’ is what you are.”

“Yeah, that’s it.”

“Now that we’ve had our grammar lesson for the day, can you please shut up and fly the damned boat?” Vinick growled. “We will commence our attack run in thirty seconds. Target is that big fat mother designated as ‘Red-1.’ Pilot, our squadron will come in from behind and beneath their POA. Remember, firm 7,500-mile boundary.”

“Roger, behind and below,” Perkins replied, all business now.

“Weapons, fire one bird at Red-1 and one of the lasers at-” he checked his notes from the Wing Commander. “At Red-3. Got it? Missile at Red-1 and laser at Red-3.”

“On it!” Flanagan armed the missile, one of four at her disposal, and confirmed that the ten-inch laser was fully charged.

Then it was time. Ronny ‘Perv’ Perkins accelerated his gunboat and swung around in a wide curve to the left of the oncoming Tilleke warships. Other gunboats were swooping in from the right and from above. On the display, he could see the Tilly destroyer and two cruisers take up stations on the flanks, trying to protect the three Swords and the sole Shield – Perkin’s target – but there simply weren’t enough of them to cover all the avenues of attack.

The Tilly ships began to shoot chaff and jammers. Decoys would be next, but they had waited too long and the gunboat’s Mildred had a fix on their locations. The funny thing was that as dangerous as the Sword and Shield ships were, they couldn’t break formation or they’d be mobbed and overwhelmed.

Sitting ducks, Perkins thought with satisfaction.

“Drop down 300 miles,” came the order from the Squadron Leader.

Perkins altered the thrusters to pitch down.

He couldn’t help but grin. This was great, so much more fun than some training sim.

“Turn in behind Red-1 and commence missile run,” the Squadron Leader ordered. Thirty heavy gunboats swept in a tight curve, straightening out 8,000 miles behind the Tilleke formation. Behind Perkins, Tim Vinick anxiously scanned his display. There was chaff and jammers all over the place, then suddenly more ships appeared. Four new destroyers, ten new cruisers and – he peered closer just to make sure – a battleship. Yes, by Gods, a battleship where before there had been none. He smirked. Someone over there had been a little too hasty when they punched in the decoy settings, hadn’t they?

“Weapons!” Vinick called.

“I got it, don’t get in a sweat,” Flanagan murmured, intent on her console. They were to fire at 7,600 miles. Meanwhile thirty other gunboats were shooting from directly in front of the Tillies and twenty-nine more from above. There was only one Shield ship. It could, maybe, if it was lucky, neutralize one of the three missile attacks, but only one. And then it would take a very long three minutes to recharge.

“7900, 7800, 7700…7600!” Vinick called out.

Flanagan thumbed the fire button and the gunboat shuddered as the missile flew off its rack. Then she turned to the laser. Red-3 had moved a bit to the left and down 200 miles. Getting a little nervous? She smirked. “Mildred, confirm lock-on hard target and not a decoy!”

“Confirmed,” Mildred responded.

“Confidence level?”

“Confidence level of 83%,” Mildred replied.

Hmmm…not bad, but not as good as she would have liked.

“Mildred, active sensor scan, then recalibrate lock-on target,” Flanagan said.

“Hurry up, dammit,” Perkins gritted, twitching anxiously with the need to change course and get out of the kill zone. Missiles were exploding around them. Too damn close, and getting closer.

“Hurry it up!” he shouted.

The threat display beeped again. “Warning! Incoming missiles! Warning!”

A heartbeat later: “Lock confirmed,” Mildred said calmly. “Ninety-one percent confidence level.”

Good enough for government work. Flanagan mashed the laser firing button and shouted, “Get us out of here, Perv!” Then the gunboat lurched downward and spiraled away, shooting chaff, flares and jammers in its wake to confuse the dozens of missiles coming at them, bent on payback.

“Thank you, Mildred,” Flanagan said softly.

“You are very welcome, dear,” Mildred assured her in her warm, grandmotherly voice. Flanagan half expected the AI to offer her milk and cookies.

Meanwhile Tim Vinick watched his displays. “Looks like a hit on Red-3,” he reported calmly. “Just aft of the bow. Can’t tell the amount of damage, but she’s got to be hurting.”

The gunboat lurched sickeningly sideways, then up, then down and sideways once more. The inertia compensator whined in protest and they all felt the g-forces clutch at them. Flanagan was whipped back and forth in her harness. “Gods’ Balls, are you trying to kill us?” she shouted accusingly.

“Sorry,” Perkins panted. “Caught in a shit storm for a second there.” He gulped some air and glanced at his displays. “Think we’re clear now.” He shook his head. “Bugger me! I thought we were toast. Only thing that saved us was” – he grinned triumphantly –“the incredible skill and daring of your beloved pilot!”

Flanagan reached sideways from her seat and patted him roughly on the back of his head. “Thank you for not fucking up royally, Perv. Against all our expectations, you somehow did the right thing.”

“Sincere appreciation is a wonderful thing,” Perkins sighed. “Maybe someday I’ll get some.”

“The Shield ship just bought it,” Vinick announced with satisfaction. “It managed to knock out a lot of the incoming, but the leakers killed it. And the Sword ship looks like it’s on fire.” He glanced up. “Perv, you up for another run?”

“Yeah, I’m good.” He was a little shaky, but exhilarated. He had believed he was going to die, but he hadn’t. And now he could go back in and punch them in the nose again. So cool…

“Lock on Red-3 and let’s finish the bastard off,” Vinick said matter-of-factly. “On the way out we’ll fire two missiles at Red-4, then fire the last missile and the lasers at whatever target is handy.” He had no orders for this, but no way he was going back to the supply ship with any missiles in the racks.

“Squadron Leader, Grogon-57 ready for another attack run,” he radioed. “Three hot missiles and one laser up. One laser recharging and ready in ten seconds. Permission to attack Red-3 and Red-4?”

“One run and then clear the area for boats from Rabat and Ashdod, Grogon Five Seven,” the Squadron Leader called back. “Firm boundary is now 4,100 miles. Repeat, 4,100 miles. Authorized to use all available munitions.”

“Let’s do it!” Vinick said, then gulped as Perkins flipped the boat over and accelerated hard towards their target. All around them other gunboats followed suit.

By the time the gunboats from Rabat and Ashdod arrived, all they could do was chase the one Sword and single destroyer that were left until Emily called them back.

Emily looked at the time. Three hours gone since the main Tilleke fleet passed into Victoria space. She was very late. She signaled Comms to open the channel to the gunboats.

“All gunboats return to your ships now. Repeat, return home now and rearm. All ships, change course for the wormhole. Full military speed.”

She ran her fingers through her hair in frustration. She had sold Admiral Eder on this plan, and now she had let him down.

“Rabat, this is Rishon. We have five birds coming in late. They got dinged up in the fight and are at half power. Request permission to remain behind to recover them, then rejoin you.” That was Captain Frances Lowe.

Alex Rudd looked at Emily and raised a questioning eyebrow. If they went in without the Rishon, they would be short 20% of their gunboats.

Emily thumbed the comm. “Rishon, how many birds do you have on board now?”

“Rabat, twenty-eight on board, but if I leave the damaged ones out there, they may run out of life support before I can get back.”

Emily looked at the ready board. She had eight destroyers out there, all undamaged and ready for battle. A destroyer could fire a volley of ten missiles at a time. The twenty-eight grogin gunboats on Rishon could fire four missiles each before they had to rearm, for an initial volley of 112. Plus, they had two heavy lasers. She wanted that firepower.

She changed the comm setting to include all ships. “BG-4, this is Task Force Command. I am ordering all, repeat, all carriers and support ships through the wormhole. Destroyer Stornoway is detached to act as recovery vessel for any gunboats that arrive late.

“Stornoway, you will recover all crews and as many of the birds as you can fit in your shuttle bay, then proceed to Victorian Sector at best speed.” Emily thought for a moment, but couldn’t think of anything else. “All ships, execute now. And remember, Victoria is counting on us. There is no one else left to help them. Tuttle out.”

On the Lionheart, the battle display was bleak.

Admiral Eder’s mood was bleaker. The long line of Tilleke ships was still coming down his left flank. Fort Hawke was under tow, but it was far away and would not offer much help in the coming engagement. BG-2, with its destroyers and cruisers, was shifting left to help BG-1 and Eder’s battleship task force, BG-3, was racing to the left with all speed. But he feared it was all for nothing. He didn’t have enough ships and he did not have Tuttle’s carriers with their precious gunboats to even the odds.

The minefield had failed. The fort had failed. Tuttle was missing. He shook his head bitterly. What else could go wrong?

That was when the first Huk appeared in the Engineering Room.

Followed by the second.

Chapter 56

On the Battleship H.M.S. Lionheart

Fighting Huk

“Remember,” Cookie shouted, “it might be the Savak or one of those big butt-ugly lion thingies. We’ve drilled for this! You know what to do when they come, so do it.”

“Those lion things are fast, Sergeant,” one of the younger Marines said nervously.

“So kill it faster, Zaffuto and it won’t bother you none.” Cookie glowered at him. “We’ve spent a lot of time teaching you how to shoot, Private; don’t tell me you’ve forgotten.”

“No, Sergeant.”

“Good!” Cookie glanced around. She had twenty Marines scattered through the larger portion of the Engineering Department, most armed with heavy sonic rifles or slug throwers. They’d studied the tapes of the Huk killing everyone on board the Cork and it was appallingly clear that the flechette rifles didn’t pack enough punch to take down one of these monsters. At the same time, she’d rejected the use of blasters: one stray shot could completely ruin some very important equipment in Engineering that they couldn’t afford to lose.

In addition to her Marines, she had another fifteen or so navy personnel who had been given a crash course in how to use the standard Bullpup assault rifle. Probably useless against the Huk, but they might be helpful against the Savak. She smiled ruefully; she would never have guessed that she would actually be happy to see more Savak, but the fact was those bloody Huk creeped her out. Not natural. Not natural at all.

“I know you’re all thinkin’ about those big, bad pussycats, but don’t forget the bloody Savak, and don’t get cocky! The Savak are tough! They do not surrender, so don’t waste your time trying to get a prisoner. Just shoot the bastards, because sure as hell they mean to shoot you.”

“What if they throw down their weapons?” asked Genovesi. He was grinning. He knew the answer, he just liked to pull her chain.

Cookie successfully hid her smile and scowled at him. “Genovesi, if your brain was any smaller, it would be the size of your dick. I tell you what, if one of them surrenders, we’ll let you put the cuffs on him and that way you can find out if he carries a sword.” She glanced around, making sure she had everyone’s attention. “The Savak are warriors! Stone killers! They carry those air guns and each one of ‘em carries a very sharp sword. You get close to one, you better like being headless, because headless you most certainly will be. Except for you, Genovesi, because no Savak would waste his time taking off a head that is already perfectly empty.”

Genovesi grinned cheekily back at her and the rest of the Marines laughed…except for the Navy ratings, who just looked terrified.

Then they waited. All over the Lionheart and every other ship in the Fleet, soldiers with guns sat in rooms most likely to be targeted by the Savak…and waited. They rotated out five at a time for food and bathroom breaks. Cookie even took ten minutes to meet Hiram for a cup of coffee.

They both sat on the deck outside of the Engineering space. Cookie gratefully accepted a small flask of hot coffee. The first taste was heavenly, like all food in combat.

“The troops hate this goddamned waiting,” she complained.

He looked at her, shaking his head. “We’re picking up dozens of ‘ghosts,’” he said. “Best guess is it’s kraits. Lots of them. Won’t be long now.”

“How is the battle going?”

He leaned back, resting against the wall. “Badly.” He closed his eyes; he hadn’t felt this weary since Basic Training. “They punched through the minefield like it wasn’t there, then took out Fort Nelson with almost no losses.”

“Emily and the carriers?”

He shrugged. “No sign of them. I don’t think they’ve been taken out because there are no Code Omega drones, but she just hasn’t come through.”

All the time he was talking, his tablet was beeping with messages. He sighed. “Gotta go back.” They stood up and looked at each other. Not touching – not in front of the troops – but looking with words unsaid, each knowing that those words might be forever unsaid.

Finally Hiram sighed and said, “I’ll see you when this is over. Stay safe.”

Cookie shook her head. “There is no safe, only winning.”

First Sister Pilot glanced anxiously at her displays. They were still green; no indication her krait had been detected. It had taken her eighteen hours to sneak in this close to the enemy’s battleship. Her krait, totally blacked out, with all electronic and heat emissions reduced as close as possible to nothing, sat 11,000 miles behind the battleship Lionheart.

Second Sister Pilot was preparing the transporter. Third Sister Pilot leaned in and spoke softly. They all spoke softly, even though the surrounding vacuum of space made it impossible for anyone to hear them. “We should attack now, Sister! We cannot hope to remain undetected much longer.”

First Sister Pilot smiled sadly. Her Sister still hoped to escape alive. “Sister, we will make the First Sharorah Crèche proud. They will sing of our deeds this day. But you are right, we are close enough. Tell Second Sister Pilot to send them across. Do it now.”

“I worry for our Second Sister, she is terrified of the Huk,” Third Sister Pilot said quietly.

First Sister Pilot frowned. There was no time for this, no time. “She wears the medallion, does she not?” she said sharply. “As long as she wears it, the Huk will not harm her, will not even get close to her.”

Third Sister Pilot fingered her own medallion. All of them had one. It emitted a sound that only the Huk could hear. The beasts had been conditioned since birth to associate the sound with pain and obedience. The closer a Huk got to a medallion, the more it felt a burning sensation throughout its body. At five feet it was agony and even the strongest, most vicious Huk would run away. Moreover, if the Huk refused a command, the Savak wearing the medallion could press a tiny stud in the edge of the device to trigger the pain response even in a Huk fifty meters away.

The medallions almost never failed. Almost. Third Sister Pilot had seen the video – they had all seen the video – of one occasion during training where a medallion had failed. Before anyone knew what was happening the two Huk being trained had turned on their trainer and ripped him to shreds. The Huk hated the Savak, and never missed an opportunity to kill them.

Third Sister Pilot prayed every day that her little medallion remained in good working order.

A minute later there was a huge energy spike from the little vessel and the first Huk disappeared from the transporter chamber. Two minutes after that the second Huk followed.

Then the missile alert sounded. Many missiles from several different directions. Third Sister Pilot looked stricken and stared wild-eyed at the ceiling. First Sister Pilot stood from her console – there was nothing she could do now – and wrapped her arms about her sobbing sister.

“Do not despair,” she said reassuringly. “We live through our Sisters.”

Then the first missile struck and the little krait vessel was blown in half.

Five thousand miles behind the demolished krait vessel, Captain Astrid Drechsher of the stealth frigate Draugr looked inquiringly at her Sensors Officer, who shook her head.

“We weren’t in time, Captain,” she said apologetically. “They transported them off before we got them. Likely target is the Lionheart.”

“Dammit to hell!” gritted Drechsher.

On the Lionheart, the snow squall howled.

It was centered in an open area in front of the antimatter injectors. One minute it was clear, then it was suddenly, abruptly snowing and the wind was blowing and there was an unearthly howl that Cookie realized was not the wind.

“Huk!” she screamed. “It’s a Huk. Fire! Shoot!” And she leaned down and rolled two flash bangs across the deck toward the dimly seen shadow at the center of the snow squall.

The shadow moved.

Her Marines opened fire.

The two flash bangs went off and the Huk, finally visible, staggered back but did not go down. It roared again, swinging its head back and forth as if trying to shake the spots out of its eyes. Its long scorpion tail whipped about in a frenzy. But most importantly, it stood still for a few critical seconds.

Twenty Marines opened fire with everything they had. Tightly focused sonic ‘bolts’ and heavy slugs from the older rifles peppered the Huk. This close, most of them pierced the Huk’s genetically engineered hide. Roaring in agony, the Huk charged towards its attackers. The Marines shifted their fire to track it. It staggered, caught itself and then leapt twenty feet through the air, claws outstretched, tearing the throat out of the hapless Marine it landed on.

Then the Huk spun to the left, barbed tail snapping out like a whip.

And Cookie suddenly stepped from behind it, thrust her sonic rifle under its chin and fired, then fired again.

The Huk collapsed, an ugly, blood-smeared puppet with its strings cut.

Cookie stepped back, breathing hard. She looked around. “Anybody hurt?” she called out.

“Bukowski’s dead,” someone said.

“Did you see that thing jump?” another Marine breathed. “Bukowski never had a bloody chance. Gods’ Balls, I think I pissed myself.”

“Anybody hurt?” Cookie repeated, but no one was. She thumbed her comm. “Sergeant Sanchez to bridge. We killed the Huk in the Engineering Department. One Marine KIA. No other injuries.”

There was no reply, but she hadn’t expected any. The bridge was probably a very busy place just about now.

“Ok, check your weapons, everybody! Load up. Take a swig of water. We’re patrolling the ship. There may be other Huk or Savak on board. Stay sharp!”

Genovesi opened the door leading to the corridor and turned back, frowning when he saw the looks of alarm on his friends’ faces.

The Huk waiting outside bit off his head, then leapt forward.

The trouble with unexpected terror is that it is…unexpected. The mind has no time to ready itself, no time to brace against the onslaught. For the uninitiated, the result is predictable: they stand frozen (and die) or flee in horror (and probably die). Training helps soldiers reduce the moment of being frozen in fear, but does not eliminate it. The best bet, as with so many things in life, is experience.

Cookie had experience in unexpected terror.

Lots of experience.

It served her well. It had scoured the hesitation out of her. It made her react without thought or fear. Her world had devolved to only two things: threat and the violent elimination of that threat.

As the Marines standing near the door fell back in panic and disarray, Cookie brought up her rifle and looked for a shot. The Huk slashed with its claws, stabbed with its tail and bit anyone close enough to bite. Within moments the deck was covered with blood, torn intestines and scattered body parts. One woman lost her left arm at the elbow. She held her ground, firing madly with her right hand before the Huk broke her neck with his other paw. Another man’s face was bitten off and he ran blindly about the room, shrieking incoherently and blundering into the others.

Six people were dead or dying before the Huk emerged from the frenzied pack of humans.

Cookie shot it in the face from ten feet.

The sonic bolt pulverized its eyes and blew out its ear drums. Suddenly deaf and blind, the Huk whirled about, claws batting the air, desperately trying to kill whatever had hurt it. Its clawed feet scrabbled for purchase on the blood-slick deck and it fell to the ground, then bounded up again, only to fall lifeless from a fusillade of sonic bolts and slugs.

Cookie took a deep breath and looked around. Seven dead Marines, eight including Bukowski. She thumbed her com. “Sanchez to bridge. We have killed a second Huk. Seven more KIA.”

“Bridge here.” It was Hiram’s voice and Cookie clamped down hard on the rise of emotion she felt. Not now, not now. Hiram continued: “Savak have been sighted on Deck 3 approaching the bridge. You are to take your troops and intercept.”

“Bridge, Sanchez. How many are there?”

“No hard numbers, but estimate thirty or more. Your team and 2nd Platoon are both intercepting, so you should have the numbers. Execute now. bridge out.”

“Understood, bridge. Sanchez out.”

Cookie turned to her shaken troopers. “Listen up! There is a platoon-strength group of Savak trying to reach the bridge. I don’t have to tell you what happens if they succeed. We’re going to intercept them along with 2nd Platoon. Check your weapons, people! Load up. Grab some water and put a sunny smile on your face, because we are most seriously goin’ huntin’!”

Admiral Eder and Hiram Brill saw it at the same time. The Tilleke Fleet was now aimed directly at the Atlas Space Station. Now the question was, intercept and fight, or feint at them and try to draw them away?

“If we intercept, can we beat them?” Hiram asked.

Admiral Eder looked at the display boards and shook his head.

“Then rather than die for nothing and end Victoria for all time, let’s see if we can annoy them enough to turn our way,” Hiram suggested. Even as he spoke, he knew that there were close to fifty Savak and another one of those damn Huk on board the Lionheart, trying to make it to the bridge. They were madly scrambling Marines and armed sailors from all over the ship to stop them.

Admiral Eder was still staring at the displays. Hiram said softly: “Admiral, might I recommend that we first send in the Draugr, followed by our kraits and create as much of a distraction as we can. Emily will be here with the carriers soon.”

Eder looked at him skeptically. “Will she?”

Hiram shrugged. “No Code Omega drones, sir. We would have seen at least one if the carriers had been destroyed.”

Eder sighed. “Send in the frigate. And the transporter ships, those poor bastards. Don’t think we’ll see many of them again.”

At the entrance to the wormhole into Victoria, Emily paused to send in the Owls, then waited, fingers tapping on her armrest, for their report. It came soon enough. The courier drone from the Laughing Owl popped back in Gilead space five minutes after the Laughing Owl had gone through into Victoria. The Communications Officer pinged the drone and it dutifully uplinked to the Rabat. Captain Sadia Zahiri’s face came up on the display.

She looked serious, but she nodded once and smiled. Even without hearing the message, Emily’s heart soared.

“Rabat, this is Laughing Owl. Come through! I repeat, come through! And hurry; things look pretty ugly here. Laughing Owl out.”

Emily thumbed the comm. “All destroyers, proceed through the wormhole and set up the standard defensive line. We will be two minutes behind you. Execute!”

This was an old drill. The destroyers knew what to do and did it with a minimum of fuss. Then the five carriers lined up, Rabat in the lead, and followed them through. When they arrived, the destroyers had formed a perimeter roughly 10,000 miles from the wormhole entrance. The Owls, meanwhile, had gone deeper into the battlespace, sucking up data with their passive sensors and ‘sniffing the air’ for threats.

The carriers got some space between them and immediately launched a combat air patrol to ward off any kraits or other stealth ships that might be lurking by the wormhole entrance.

“No signs of kraits or anything else within 15,000 miles,” Captain Zahiri of the Laughing Owl reported, “but it’s really ugly out there. My Sensors Officer is uploading all of the data we have on where the Tilleke are as we speak.” Emily signaled her Sensors Officer, who nodded and looked at his display. A few moments later the data was configured and put into the big battle display hologram.

When the numbers came up, Emily sucked in her breath. It was very bad. There were over 100 Tilleke warships. Fort Nelson was gone. Much of the primary minefield was gone. BG-1 was falling back. BG-2 and 3 were rushing to block the Tilleke advance, but it didn’t look good.

How to best break up the Tilleke Fleet? If she tackled the front line, the rest of the Tilleke Fleet would just rush forward and envelop her. If she went to the rear, she would have to overtake them ship by ship. Too slow, too damn slow.

“Pilot!” She pointed to a point halfway down the Tilleke line. “Take us there at full military power.”

“We’re thirty minutes out, Commander,” the Pilot told her. “Coming up to full military speed now.”

Emily turned to the Comms Officer. “Get me the Captains of BG-4, all of them.” The Communications Officer typed in a command and the display came up, segmented to show each of the ship captains.

“We’re steaming towards the center of the Tilly line. I want to take advantage of the fact that they are strung out and not in an attack line. Launch 75% of your gunboats at 15,000 miles, then Haifa, Rishon and Ashdod fall back to 25,000. Rabat and Fes will stay forward to rearm the boats, with the destroyers as cover.” She looked at them grimly. “We need to cause confusion in the middle of their line, allowing the other Battle Groups to take on the front of the Tilly force and have the weight advantage. We’ll hold 25% of the gunboats in reserve and watch for the right moment to use them.”

Silas Macley, the skipper of the Haifa, frowned into the camera. He had never been a favorite of Emily’s and showed his irritation that he was being commanded by a mere commander while he had years more experience in destroyers. “Need I remind you, Commander, that if the Tilleke line suddenly turns left and moves toward us, they could overrun us very quickly?”

“Thank you, Captain Macley,” Emily replied. “I am aware of that, but they are getting closer and closer to BG-1, which still has some thirty ships and will hopefully loom larger on the Tilly’s threat display than we do. Also, if we launch much further out, it will delay the gunboats in reaching them. I want the Tillies to have as little warning of what is coming at them as possible.”

“I really think-” Macley began, but was interrupted by Captain Francis Lowe of the Rishon. “Silas, this isn’t the time. You heard the order, now obey it.”

Emily tried not to look grateful to Captain Lowe. “Destroyers in the van, Owls on the flanks looking for enemy kraits. Launch your gunboats at 15,000 miles, then fall back to your positions. If the Tillies do send ships our way, recover as many gunboats as you can, then run toward the nearest Victorian ships. Tuttle out.”

“Mildred,” she called, “would you please post a countdown to launch time?”

“Of course, dear,” the AI replied. On the top right corner of the battle display, the remaining time appeared: “27:32.”

“Comms, connect me to BG-3 and Admiral Eder,” she asked.

The First Sea Lord’s face appeared almost as soon as she finished speaking. He looked tense and tired. “Glad you finally made it, Commander,” he said tersely. Emily suppressed a wince.

“Admiral, we will launch in about twenty-five minutes, targeting the center of the Tilly line in an attempt to break them up. That is going to put us rather close to the Tillies, certainly within missile range. Could you spare us one or two of your Hedgehogs to give us some cover?”

Admiral Eder grunted and looked at his display board. His Hedgehogs were speeding towards BG-1. He spoke briefly with his XO, then turned back to Emily. “I can send two, Commander, but I am also going to divert Fort Hawke and send to your location. If the Tillies throw some ships at you, the fort will give you some extra firepower. But remember, once the tugs cut the tractor beams, the fort will be immobile.”

“Thank you, Admiral,” Emily replied. She wondered if she was condemning the fort’s crew to death. She glanced at the clock. “We launch in nineteen minutes. It will take the gunboats another fifteen minutes to get within range. May I suggest that you have BG-1 fall back slowly until we attack, so that they won’t be overrun?”

“Yes, you may suggest that,” Eder replied, glancing at the display. If BG-1 fell back a little, it would allow BG-2 to join them two or three minutes sooner. BG-3 wouldn’t be far behind. That would mean… After a moment, he tore his attention away and turned back to Emily.

“Commander, as far as we can tell, the van of the Tilly attack is made up of several Hedgehogs, twelve cruisers and a bunch of destroyers. Plus, I think, ten or more of their Shield ships. I think their plan is to hit us with the forward point of their line, then have the ships coming up from behind envelop us left and right, up and down. Total encirclement. Then kill us.”

Emily studied the display. “I agree, Admiral.”

Eder nodded. “Here’s what I want you to do: their four battleships are near the center of their line. I want you to focus on them, and on any of the Shield ships that you find. Concentrate on them as much as possible. I’m hoping the Tillies will protect their heavies at all costs, even if it means delaying their attack against Atlas.”

“Understood, Admiral.”

“And Commander, the timing of this has to be very tight. Please don’t be late. Eder out.” He didn’t say, “again,” but the implication was clear.

Emily looked at the dark screen for a moment, mixed feelings of resentment, anger and guilt struggling for supremacy.

“It is the nature of admirals to be grouchy,” Captain Zar murmured behind her. “All admirals, all the time.”

Emily shook off her feelings with an act of will. She glanced at the countdown display: “17:33.”

Prince RaShahid sat tensely in his captain’s chair. Admiral Kirmani had not yet come through the wormhole and RaShahid assumed he was dead. Prince RaShahid regretted the death of his colleague, but he truly lamented the loss of the seven ships, particularly the Swords.

His battle display chimed, signaling an update. Where there had been nothing, he now saw a dozen ships moving towards the middle of his line. “What type of ships?” he snapped to the Sensors Officer.

“There is too much jamming, Noble Born, but they appear small. Destroyers maybe?”

The Prince frowned. This wasn’t right, a wing of destroyers would commit suicide doing this. “Send a probe! Find out what they are. All ships, fire when you have a lock. Hedgehogs to take positions along the forward third of the line. I think the Vickies will hook to their left – to our forward ships – and try to catch us in a pincer. I want the ships in the center of the line to accelerate and catch up to the van. We need to be prepared to overwhelm the Vickies when we meet them. All Swords, be prepared to move at once to any part of the battle. Stay alert. Make it so!”

The five Hedgehogs in the forward part of the line shifted position, leaving one in the front and moving the other four back, spacing them every 1,000 miles or so. This beefed up the security of the ships in the first third of the Tilly Fleet, at the expense of the ships in the very front of the line. It was a ‘calculated risk,’ also known as a gamble.

The Tilleke Fleet now resembled an “L” with a gently rounded curve. As the ships entered the curve they began to accelerate towards the Victorian Battle Group 1. Unwittingly, they also put themselves closer to the five carriers of BG-4.

Almost 200 Tilleke and Victorian ships of war hurtled towards each other, bent on destruction. And in the midst of all of this, krait transporter ships from both sides closed in on their targets.

Chapter 57

The Battle for Victoria

The Krait War

The Victorian krait ships were well in front of the Fleet’s warships, but the Tilleke kraits were closer to the Victorians than the Victorian kraits were to the Tilleke.

It almost made all the difference.

Victorian Battleship Lionheart

Cookie led her platoon, running through corridors and down several flights of stairs, finally arriving, covered in sweat, on Deck 3. The men and women of her platoon spread out to the intersecting corners of other corridors, but there was no sign of the Savak.

“Bridge, Sanchez. We are on Deck 3 at the intersection of Corridors 3 and 12. No sign of enemy. Do you have a location for them?”

A pop of static, then a voice she did not recognize. “Sanchez, bridge. We don’t have any information. Join up with Lieutenant Dooley of 2nd Platoon, locate the enemy and destroy them. Oh, and keep your eyes out for another one of those lion things. Bridge out.”

Cookie looked at her comm with contempt. “Thanks for nothing,” she muttered. Time to get smart, girl, she told herself. Use the toys they gave you for moments like this. She pulled down her helmet visor and called up a map of the ship. Which was enormous and too much data. She isolated Deck 3.

“Mildred,” she called. “Show location of 2nd Platoon.” A blue dot appeared near the stern of the ship, near the intersection of Corridor 43. She winced. A long way away.

“2nd Platoon, this is 1st Platoon,” she commed. “What’s your status?”

There was nothing for close to fifteen seconds, then the radio came on and Cookie could hear gun shots, screaming and cursing. Then, breathing a little ragged, she heard the familiar voice of Lieutenant Pete Dooley.

“That you, Sanchez? Real glad to hear you. We are on Corridor 3, somewhere near Intersection 42 or 43” – there was the sound of heavy gunfire, coupled with more shouts. With his thumb still on the radio call button, Dooley started shouting. “Behind us! Shoot ‘em! Shoot ‘em for Gods’ sakes. Watch that one! Take him down, dammit!”

Knowing she would only distract the Lieutenant, Cookie waited patiently. Finally, he came back to her.

“Sanchez, we are in pursuit of a large Savak force, bigger than us, I’m afraid.” Dooley sounded exhausted, she thought. What was happening down there? “They are heading uptown towards the bridge,” Dooley continued. “Repeat, towards the bridge. They broke into the Lower Armory and have explosives, so they can get through any of the air-tight hatchways. We’re stuck here right now trying to get through a rearguard security detail the Tilleke left behind. Where are you?”

“At 3 and 12,” she told him.

“Good, I want you to start moving toward the stern and block the enemy advance. We will push through this security detail and pursue them from their rear.”

“Sir, what is your strength?” Which was, she knew, a not very tactful way of asking why he hadn’t already pushed through a small rearguard security detail.

Lieutenant Dooley chuckled grimly. “Yeah, we’re down to eighteen effectives, plus a couple of seriously wounded we’re trying not to leave behind.”

Shit, shit, shit. Cookie grimaced. Dooley had started with thirty-seven. That was bad. Very bad.

“There’s one of those damned lion things running around and it picked off my scouts. Then we ran into the Savak and got chewed up some more. Plus, the Savak keep popping up behind us. We kill ‘em, but they usually get one of us before we do. What is your strength, Sanchez?”

“I have twenty-seven effectives, of which eight are navy ratings with limited experience.” She didn’t tell him that she began with over thirty-five and that the fatality rate among the Navy ratings had been appalling.

“Well, then,” Dooley said sardonically, “what can possibly go wrong?”

Victorian Kraits 27, 28, 29, 33 and 41, Attacking the Emperor’s Honor

Rafael Eitan, Captain of the Refuge Special Reconnaissance Force assigned to the Victorian Marines, sat uncomfortably behind the krait Systems Officer and Ensign Lori Romano. They were on board Krait-27. Their target, a Tilly battleship, was 14,723 miles below them. Four other kraits were also taking up positions nearby.

“Talk to me, Romano,” Rafael said.

“We’re in range, sir, but we need to time it just right. There are five destroyers immediately around it. The transporters work on line of sight, so we can’t let the transporter beam get blocked by one of them.” Romano was intensely focused, eyes on her console displays. Rafael smiled inwardly. Lori Romano was one of those people who was at her best when everything was going wrong, and the endearing thing was she had no idea that was true.

“Can we get on board?” he pushed.

She pointed to the passive sensor display. “That destroyer right there should clear the starboard side of the target in three minutes.” She looked at him, eyebrows rising. “Sir, why aren’t you in your assigned transporter unit?”

“We’re definitely going then?” Rafael was never sure with boffins.

“Only when you’ve taken your seat, sir.”

Rafael stood up, felling cramped after sitting in the small chair so long. “Pilot, don’t go too far. Once we have it, we’ll either radio you or send you some other signal, then we need you to come into the boat bay as soon as you can.”

The pilot, a former gunboat pilot, grunted affirmatively, keeping her focus on the threat display. She was well into the yellow zone and once the transporter was activated, she’d have to get the hell out of Dodge. Wherever that was.

Rafael sat in his assigned transporter chair, amazed and mildly appalled that he was going to lead 170 men armed with pop guns and swords to take over a Tilleke battleship. Sitting beside him, old Sergeant Maimon grinned raffishly, showing yellow teeth. “Just another adventure, Captain. Nothing to it.”

Then the lights blinked and the universe went white.

When Rafael got his bearings, he was on board the Tilleke battleship Emperor’s Honor, with the usual snow settling down all around him. We always start off cold and wet, he groused to himself, then got moving.

Commanding four other platoons without having radios was a real pain. He had to use runners, which always made him feel like he was in the middle of the Napoleonic Wars. It gave a new appreciation for the “fog of war.”

“Runners!” he called. Five soldier stepped forward, brushing snow off their clothing and looking at him expectantly. “You know the drill,” Rafael told them. “Confirm that the other platoons made it on board. Confirm their orders and check in times. We all head for the Engineering Deck, with First and Second Platoons doing a reconnaissance by force and the rest of us following immediately behind. Remind them I want frequent updates. Got that, frequent updates.” He pointed to the runner assigned to find First Platoon. “Tell Lieutenant Tal that order particularly applies to her.”

“Yes, sir!” the young soldier said, a grin cracking her face. They all knew that Lieutenant Daniella Tal, granddaughter of the Prime Minister and childhood friend of Captain Eitan’s, was the Company’s precocious, headstrong child and resented being under close authority.

“Go forth, my children!” Rafael told them. “Stay alive or else answer to Sergeant Maimon.” They scattered – young and fresh and eager – and were gone. Rafael wondered, on an enemy ship where they were surrounded by hostiles, how many would make it back. Hell, he wondered if he’d make it back.

He turned to the young Lieutenant in charge of Fifth Platoon. “Lieutenant Douiri, if by some small miracle Fleet Intelligence is right, I believe the Engineering Department is this way. Shall we be off?” Douiri was from a neighboring region of the Atlas Mountains on Refuge, not far from Rafael’s village. He had the swarthy dark skin of his ancestors, dark, intense eyes and a moustache that to his endless annoyance had never fully grown in. Next to Daniella Tal, Douiri was Rafael’s best platoon leader and Rafael was content to leave the details of the advance to him.

Rafael had plenty of other things to worry about.

Savak 1st Commando on the Victorian Ship Lionheart

Things were going rather well. The Team Leader had forty-five men under his command and they were moving rapidly up a wide corridor toward the enemy bridge. They had bumped into one group of enemy Marines and had mauled them. One of the Huk was off on their flank, raising hell and creating chaos that would help cover the Savak’s advance. They passed another intersection and the Team Leader saw a sign identifying it as Corridor 21. They were making good time. Shouldn’t be long now.

“Stay sharp!” he told them. “There are more enemy soldiers on this ship. Stay sharp!” But up ahead was the prize…

Things were going rather well.

1st Platoon, Royal Marines on the Lionheart

At Intersection 17, Cookie sent a wasp drone down the corridor to spy out the Savak. The wasp found them almost immediately and the Bee Keeper – Private Leslie Capossela – had it land on the ceiling and fix its tiny camera on them.

“Large group of Savak coming up Corridor 3. They are just passing Intersection 21,” Capossela reported briskly.

“How many, Cappy?” Cookie asked.

Capossela frowned. “I’ve already counted twenty-five and they are still coming, Sergeant.”

“Keep counting.” Cookie motioned to Corporal Beeman, who knelt beside her. “We’ll prepare an ambush here. They’ll be here in five minutes, so do it quick. Put your people on the left of Intersection 17, but make sure they hold until the Savak have entered this crossing area. I want to hit them on two sides.” She saw his frown and knew what he was thinking. “Yeah, I know, tell your people to watch their backs for flankers. We’ll keep wasps out, but stay alert.”

“Grenades?” Beeman asked.

“Grenades are authorized. And, Beeman, I want two prisoners. Just two. Use flashbangs to knock ‘em out.”

“Got it, Sergeant.” He grinned; he was a blood thirsty, tough sonofabitch and lived for this sort of thing.

“Go, hurry!” He went.

Cookie took the remaining Marines back fifty feet, just enough so the curve of Corridor 3 hid them from view of Intersection 17. “Cappy?” she called to the Bee Keeper. “Send another wasp out and hide it in the intersection. I need to know when they reach it.”

“On it,” said Capossela. And in a moment another miniature drone was flying to the intersection, where it nestled into a ventilation cover and pointed its camera toward the direction of the Savak.

Cookie triggered her comm. “Bridge, Sanchez. Setting up an ambush at 3 and 17. Group of-” she glanced at Capossela, who held up four and five fingers – “forty-five Savak approaching. Contact in two minutes.”

“Sanchez, bridge. Understood. Good luck. Report when able.” Another stranger. Where was Hiram? She changed frequencies. “Dooley? We are just about to hit them at 3 and 17. Move up as fast as you can.”

There was a pop of static as Dooley activated his comm in reply.

Capossela touched her arm, diverting Cookie’s attention to the monitor display. Two very cautious Savak troopers crept silently towards Intersection 17. They moved on either side of Corridor 3, rifles up, heads turning to constantly scan for threats.

They look like Royal Marines, Cookie thought to herself. But they’re in for a surprise.

The two Savak scouts walked through the intersection. Behind them, very faintly, the little camera showed what might be two lines of men coming up Corridor 3.

“Get ready!” Cookie whispered into her comm. The Savak would be in the kill zone in twenty seconds.

That was when the third Huk attacked Corporal Beeman’s group from behind.

The first to die was Private Billy Crawford.

He didn’t stand a chance. He never saw it coming. The Huk literally pounced on his back and then tore his head off with one swipe of a massive paw. Squad mates on either side of Crawford, who had once opined that he hated all cats and the only real pet was a dog, jumped away in horror, screaming their heads off and alerting the Savak of their presence.

The Savak, like any well-trained infantry, reacted to the ambush by charging it head on. Private Capossela had to decide whether to leave her wasp in the intersection or follow the Savak troops as they attacked Beeman’s squad. She sent her wasp to follow them…and that made all the difference.

Unbeknownst to Capossela, Hiram Brill was intently following this skirmish. He was watching as the wasp flew languidly behind the rushing Savak and saw everything that happened.

The Savak rushed down Corridor 17 and quickly came upon the hapless Marines and the berserker Huk. The Huk was tearing them limb from limb. Literally. Limb from limb. Of the eight Marines in Corridor 17, three were headless and armless, two more were missing a leg and one, poor Corporal Beeman, was alive but missing most of his face and an arm and leg. The remaining two Marines were firing at the Huk as quickly as they could put in new magazines, but try as they might, they couldn’t kill the beast, only piss it off.

Then the Savak charged in. And an interesting thing happened. First, they killed the last two Marines, but in doing so they inadvertently got close to the Huk. Very close, a couple of feet.

And the Huk flinched, then screamed in agony and scampered back away from them as fast as it could. It looked all the world like a scalded cat. Others watching the scene with Hiram groaned or swore at the deaths of the Marines, but Hiram couldn’t take his eyes off the Huk, which now was slinking away from the Savak with its tail between its legs.

“Bloody hell,” he breathed. “Cappy, I want close-ups of the Savak in 17. Look for something extra about their uniforms. Something chemical or electronic. Or an extra piece of clothing that might be impregnated with a chemical.

Private Capossela raised her eyebrows, but zoomed in with the wasp’s little camera. Unlike the Beach Balls, the wasp didn’t have many fancy sensors, but she looked as closely as she could. Meanwhile, however, the fight for 3/17 was rising to a crescendo. As the Savak stood over the bodies of Corporal Beeman’s squad, the rest of 1st Platoon turned the corner and opened fire. With their numbers and heavier weapons, they mowed them down.

But then the rest of the Savak attack force got within firing range and opened up, killing two Marines guarding the intersection and sending the rest diving for cover. The fight devolved into a sniping contest, with neither side making much of a dent in the other. Hiram noted that although the Huk was occasionally seen in the back of the Marine’s position, it never attacked.

“Cookie,” Hiram called on the command link.

“Here,” she replied instantly.

“Can you flank them?”

“Normally, yes,” she said, looking at a shipboard map on her helmet visor. “But one of the damn Huk is nearby and I’m reluctant to send anyone. The Huk will attack them for sure. Anyway, Dooley’s 2nd Platoon will be here soon.”

Hiram cleared his throat. “Cookie, can you examine the Savak bodies without getting shot?” He explained what he wanted her to do. Ten minutes later she was back.

“It could be something impregnated in their clothes, but the only thing I found was that they all wear a round medallion on a leather thong around their necks.” She held one up so he could see it. It was about two inches in diameter and made of brown colored plastic. There appeared to be a stud or button on one side of it. There didn’t appear to be any metal, which explained how they got it through the transporter.

“Cookie, this could be important. Can you send two of them back with one of your men?”

Just then, Lieutenant Dooley’s platoon arrived and began a brisk firefight with the Savak Commando. “Gotta go, Hiram,” Cookie said. “They’re playin’ my song.” And cut the connection.

She commed Dooley. “Start pushing, Lieutenant. We have them pretty well fixed at 3 and 17. We’ll start our push in one minute. We’ve blocked off 18, but they can take any of these cross corridors to Number 4 or 5. Recommend you flank them on the Corridor 4 side.”

Lieutenant Dooley sounded a little breathless. “Okay, Sanchez, sending men down Corridor 4 now. And keep an eye out, that damn Huk took out another one of my men not two minutes ago.”

An hour later, it was done. But at a cost. The Savak never asked for quarter, nor gave any. They fought stubbornly, ruthlessly and bravely, gradually getting killed one by one. If they ran out of ammunition, they drew their razor-sharp plastic swords and charged into the Marines. Savak screamed and died in the face of Marine firepower, but three more Marines lay dead or dying with them and the deck looked like it had been painted in blood.

The last Savak burst from cover, charging straight at Cookie with a sword cocked over his shoulder, ready to swing in a decapitating arc. His uniform was blood-splattered and torn. One sleeve was shredded by flechettes. His face was covered with scratches, dirt and sweat. His eyes were narrowed in determination and hate and his lips were drawn back in a rictus as he screamed. He charged, sword high, ready to kill one more of the Emperor’s enemies.

Cookie shot him at fifteen feet. The first round hit him square in the chest. The second, third and fourth stitched upward: throat, face and head. Four shots in a second.

The Savak crashed to the deck, sword still in his hand. Cookie lowered her rifle and looked around. “Check the area!” she ordered. “Look for live ones we can take as prisoners!”

Cookie did not get her two prisoners.

Hiram put the comm unit down, thinking hard. It made sense; the Tilleke had to control the Huk somehow. So many possibilities…if it was true. He crossed the bridge to where Admiral Eder was studying the battle holo. “Sir?”

The Admiral looked up distractedly. Hiram scanned the display behind him. The missile sleds would reach the forward line of the Tilleke in two minutes. The carriers’ gunboats would reach the Tilleke a few minutes after that. Meanwhile the kraits were already transporting Marines and the Refuge Long Range Recon troops onto the Tilleke battleships, but as all of that was going on the Tilleke line was shifting from a long spear aimed at Atlas to a line formation that would maximize its missile weight. And the two Fleets would be in missile range of each other in less than two hours. Too much for any one commander. Too much data, too many variables, too many ships forced to act independently.

Too many damn balls to be kept in the air.

He could almost hear Cookie say, ‘Havin’ fun now!’

“Sir?” Hiram asked the Admiral. “Can I take one of the guards and investigate something? It has to do with the Huk.”

Eder looked at him sharply. “No, you cannot take one of the guards. Although Admiral Douthat would roll over in her grave if she heard me say it, I value your counsel and we will meet the enemy fleet in two hours. You can take one of these guards and then find a squad of Marines in the barracks to provide security, but be back here in one hour, Brill. If you can do that, and if you can please not get yourself killed, then go.” He started to turn away, but then swung back. “And take a Bullpup with you. You do remember how to use one, don’t you?”

“Perfectly, sir.” He had not shot one in years, but now was not the time to go into that.

Eder grunted. “Go. One hour, Brill, no more.”

At the entrance to the bridge there were nine Marines, all wearing armor and helmets, all carrying heavy weapons. They all looked the same: dangerous, and maybe a little mean. They were sturdy men and women, hard looking from hard training and harder fighting. They all gazed at him with the same mildly disinterested expression and he knew that in their eyes he was little more than a staff weenie, only worthy of a second thought because he slept with Sergeant Cookie Sanchez, whom they revered. And who, truth be told, scared them a little.

They all looked the same. But only one of them had two new hands.

“Private Wisnioswski, feel like a little walk?”

Private Otto Wisnioswski grinned down at him. “If it isn’t the little Commander. Does Sergeant Maimon know that you’re walking about on your own?” His grin broadened. “Sir.”

“Private, I see that your hands are functioning well.”

Wisnioswski smiled and held them up, making a fist and then stretching them out one at a time. “And so they are, sir. Sensation isn’t quite the same, but it feels good to be able to scratch my ass with my own two hands instead of having to call for a nurse.”

Hiram nodded judiciously. “Private, I need you to rustle me up a squad, a Bullpup and some battle rattle, then you and I are going on a little treasure hunt.”

Wisnioswski pursed his lips thoughtfully. “And with all respect, sir, does the Commander remember how to use a Bullpup?”

“Not to worry, Private, you can teach me as we walk. I’m sure it’s like riding a bicycle,” Hiram said.

“And if I can be so bold as to ask, sir, what is the treasure that we’re hunting?”

“A pet, Private. I’ve always wanted a pet.”

Wisnioswski frowned, then an uneasy understanding shown in his face. For the first time he looked worried. “For fuck’s sake, sir, you’re going to need something heavier than a bloody Bullpup.”

In the end, Hiam walked out festooned with body armor, a tactical helmet, a sidearm, several grenades and carrying a blaster. He had never really gotten comfortable with a blaster and whispered a fervent prayer that he didn’t do something really stupid.

With some timely help from Specialist Mariella Cocchi, they soon had a wasp 200 feet in front of them and a Beach Ball bouncing merrily 100 feet in front. The squad of five Marines formed a small protective cordon around him, making Hiram feel a little foolish.

“And just what are we looking for, sir?” Wisnioswski asked quietly, his weapon up and his head constantly swiveling.

“First, a Savak body. Two would be ideal, but I’ll settle for one.” Hiram kept his attention on his helmet display.

A cloud passed over Wisnioswski’s face. “Commander, we’ve just got this one squad out here. We got no support and with all respect, sir, I’m pretty sure you can’t use that rifle worth shit. I’ve been a prisoner before and got no interest in being one again.”

Hiram stopped and looked at Wisnioswski. Cookie had told him about the torture, the humiliation and the final decision to commit suicide by just attacking the Dominion guards. This man deserved his respect. And the truth.

“Otto,” he said seriously, “the Tilleke designed the Huk to terrorize us. They must have dozens, maybe hundreds of kraits out there, full of Savak and Huk. I’ve got a hunch as to how they control the Huk to keep them from killing the Savak as well as us. But I’ve got to find a Savak body and then find a Huk to know for sure.”

“So, we’re actually trying to find a Huk?” Wisnioswski asked incredulously.

Hiram grinned. “Don’t worry about that, Otto, I’m pretty sure the Huk will find us first.”

Ten minutes later they were at the junction of Corridors 12 and 3. It looked like a slaughter house. Six Savak lay torn and bloodied within a few feet of one another, caught in the crossfire from the 1st and 2nd platoons. Beside them were the torn bodies of the Marines who had been killed by the Huk. Other bodies could be seen scattered here and there, most in pieces. Hiram found himself morbidly counting severed legs, then caught himself and stopped.

“Keep the wasp and the Beach Ball out at least 100 yards, Private,” he said crisply. “And tell the men to keep their eyes open. The Huk move very fast.”

Wisnioswski grunted but didn’t say anything, already busy scanning the four-way intersection. He sent two men each to the left and right. His line of site in any direction was only 150 feet or so. He thumbed his comm, taking a childish pleasure from being able to do so with his fingers. “Calling Bee Keeper on behalf of Commander Brill. Copy?”

“Bee Keeper. What do you need?” It was Specialist Mariella Cocchi and Wisnioswski had to smile. Since his hands had gotten fixed, he had been seeing more and more of Specialist Cocchi.

“Need four more Beach Balls and another two wasps so we can cover all four corridors of intersections,” he told her.

“I can give you one wasp right away, with more later,” she said, all business.

“We’ll take it,” Wisnioswski replied.

“On its way. Three minutes to your present location.”

“Thank you, Bee Keeper,” he said warmly.

Specialist Cocchi chuckled, a low, throaty chuckle that made Wisnioswski’s heart skip a beat or two. “Our motto is: ‘Bee Keepers put the honey where it matters most,’” she said in a sultry voice, then reverted back to a crisp: “Bee Keeper out.”

“Mothers’ Mercy, Private, why don’t you guys just get a room?” Hiram groused. Wisnioswski said nothing, but looked very smug. Hiram shook his head and went back to searching bodies. The first two Savak did not have any medallions and he could only assume Cookie had taken them. But the next two each had the thick plastic medallions around their necks. Encouraged, Hiram moved to the next Savak bodies and found another, then another yet. He gave one to Wisnioswski. “Put this on, Otto, it might keep the nasty pussycats away.”

Wisnioswski looked skeptical, but put it on anyway.

Hiram put one over his neck, then called Specialist Cocchi. “Cocchi, I need another of your Beach Balls for an urgent delivery.”

“All Beach Balls are in use, sir,” Cocchi replied. “I don’t think I’ll have one free for close to an hour.”

“Now what?” Wisnioswski asked. He sounded anxious, and his head was swiveling to and fro as he tried to monitor all the corridors at once. Hiram’s first impulse was to go on and find the Huk, but then reason raised its bespectacled head and shook a gnarled finger at him.

Honor the risk, Hiram chided himself. He could use his scout Beach Balls, but that would leave them solely dependent on the two tiny wasps, one of which was probably already pushing its battery life. No, better to keep all the gear and go back as a group. “We head back to the bridge,” he told the others crisply. “We need to get these medallions to the science boffins. Mildred?” Hiram asked. “Can you track the Huk on board the Lionheart?”

“Normally, yes, Commander, but the Savak have destroyed many of my sensors. I have a total of 5,672 visual and auditory sensors located throughout the Lionheart, of which-”

“Stop!” Hiram ordered. He sighed. AI’s could be so stupid at times. “When did you last see a Huk?”

“I last sensed a Huk thirty seconds ago, on your deck at the intersection of Corridors 3 and 9. Due to sensor impairment, I could not discern its direction of travel.”

Hiram and Wisnioswski looked at each other, a sick realization overcoming them.

The Huk was now between them and the bridge.

“Head’s up!” he called to the other Marines. “We’re moving back to the bridge. There is a Huk in the area, so stay sharp!” He checked the Beach Ball and the wasps, but saw nothing but empty corridors. “Let’s go,” he said.

In a horror movie, they would have slowly crept through several of the intersecting corridors, waiting tensely for some sign of the monster.

Reality was more impatient.

They had barely begun to move when they heard the rumbling growl of a Huk in front of them.

Answered by the growl of a Huk behind them.

Wisnioswski looked at Hiram, eyes wild.

“This could be awkward,” Hiram said.

Chapter 58

The Battle for Victoria

Gunboat Assault

At 15,000 miles, the five Victorian carriers launched 118 gunboats. Haifa, Rishon and Ashdod promptly turned and moved away while Fes and Rabat held position to help rearm and repair any gunboats that needed it. The destroyers hovered protectively between the carriers and the long line of the Tilleke advance.

The gunboats split into four groups of roughly thirty each: high, low, front and, with some luck and good maneuvering, back. They spread out and began their attack run. On Grogon-57, Ronny Perkins was so elated and so nervous he thought he was going to be sick. The four Tilleke battleships were strung out in a line covering almost 3,000 miles. The attack group’s target was the last Tilleke battleship in line, cleverly dubbed ‘Big Bastard 4’.

Fifteen Tilleke destroyers were clustered protectively around their battleships. It was not long before a swarm of missiles roiled out to meet the incoming gunboats, but the gunboats were flying widely spaced, firing chaff and jammers and jinking wildly. The first Tilleke missile barrage flew through the gunboats. Eight gunboats blossomed into fireballs, their crews dead before they even knew they had been hit. Linda Flanagan, watching her video displays, noticed one of the fireballs. She caught her breath and watched as it flared up, then abruptly disappeared as all the oxygen was consumed. It looked like a fragile flower, opening its petals briefly to the morning sun, then gone forever. She shook herself and turned back to her weapons.

Grogon-57 was part of the frontal assault. “Time to target: one minute, forty-five seconds,” Vinick said tersely. He was trying to watch his sensor displays at the same time he was being thrown wildly from side to side by Perkins’ constant jinking. “Weapons, everything green and armed?”

Flanagan checked her board. It was green, with the two lasers fully charged and the four missiles showing a blinking amber light to indicate ready to fire. “Mildred, confirm all weapons systems ready to be fired.”

“Confirmed. Confidence level at 99.6%.” Which was about as high as it ever got.

“Weapons hot!” Flanagan shouted to Vinick, who was only sitting two feet behind her.

“Okay, that’s good,” Vinick said in a calm, even voice, consciously trying to keep Flanagan chill. “Pilot, at 10,000 miles, fire all of our remaining jammers and follow them in. At 7,000 fire chaff times two. Weapons, at 6,000 fire all weapons. Understood?”

Of course they understood. They had drilled for this a hundred times. This was the standard attack model for a large target. At 6,000 miles, it would be very, very difficult for Big Bastard 4 or the defending destroyers to stop the missiles, and impossible for them to spoof the lasers.

The gunboats, on the other hand, were going to get the shit kicked out of them.

“Pilot,” Vinick continued, “once the weapons are fired, your job is to get us the hell out of Dodge. That’s all. We’ll be toothless until the lasers recharge, so no feints against the destroyers, no second attack run. Just boogie on out and get back to the Rabat. Okay, Perv? Got it?”

Perkins nodded, barely hearing what Vinick said. He was totally focused on his visor’s threat display, which detected incoming missiles and tinted that portion of his display red. When he saw red, he hit the thrusters and slid the gunboat sideways into a clear part of his visor. This simple tactic had worked for the first few thousand miles, but as he got closer to the target, the missile density got thicker and the display went entirely red. Some portions were lighter red than others.

Some were blood red. He tried to avoid those.

He could have turned over the piloting to Mildred, but this is what he had trained thousands and thousands of hours for, and he didn’t trust anyone or anything to be as good as he was.

“Perv,” Vinick said softly, “you can do this.”

“Timmy, shut up,” Perkins replied tersely. “I’m sorta busy here.” He flicked the gunboat abruptly to the right as the left portion of his visor went blood red. He never saw the missile that flew past him barely forty miles away at half the speed of light, the gunboat thankfully just beyond its proximity sensor.

Grogon-57 flew on.

Victorian Kraits 27, 28, 29, 33 and 41, On the

Tilleke Battleship Emperor’s Honor

The damn Engineering Department wasn’t where it was supposed to be. Rafael Eitan cursed under his breath. The Engineering Department was supposed to have been in the aft part of the ship, on the lower decks. Instead they found a dozen or so large bulkheads that were warm to the touch and vibrated under their hands.

What’s more, they were being sniped at by increasingly aggressive Savak.

When in doubt, do something! They had drilled that into him at the Advanced Training Corps. You can be lost, you can be confused, you can be outnumbered, but you cannot sit still and do nothing. Rafael walked into the center of the large space and turned slowly in a complete circle. In one corner he spied a metal stairway climbing up and disappearing out of sight.

“We’re taking that stairway up to the higher decks. The Engineering Department should be somewhere above us,” he said with conviction. Unless it isn’t, he thought to himself. “Lieutenant, send scouts up those stairs. The rest of the platoon follows fifty feet behind.”

And up they went. Rafael hoped that they would find Daniella Tal and her 1st Platoon, but if he didn’t, he would push forward to the Engineering Department, wherever the hell it was. But he needed 1st Platoon. Heck, he needed to find the 2nd, 3rd and 4th as well.

At the top of the stairs they met their first Huk. It stood growling menacingly at them, red eyes narrowed, barbed tail swishing about in agitation. Rafael pushed his men to the left and right of the stairway. “Men in front on one knee, men in back standing,” he said softly, trying not to trigger an attack. The Huk watched, not moving forward, but its shoulders hunched, preparing to leap.

“Well, shoot the damn thing,” Rafael said in exasperation. Of his platoon, twenty-five men had a line of sight and opened fire. A crescendo of ‘Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pops’ filled the air. The Huk staggered backwards, righted itself and charged into the soldiers, who scattered before it. It whirled around, bleeding from dozens of wounds, one lethal paw swiping a man’s head while the Huk’s barbed tail stabbed another through his throat. Fewer people were shooting now, but the Huk still staggered under the shots.

“Aim for its head!” Rafael shouted. “Blind it!”

But as the Huk whirled to the left, Sergeant Maimon stepped up behind it, sword cocked high over his shoulder in a two-handed grip, and swung it in a vicious swing that took off the Huk’s back foot on its right side.

The foot slithered wetly across the floor, but the Huk continued its circle until it was facing the Sergeant, who was backpedaling furiously, trying to put some distance between him and the raging monster that confronted him.

Rafael brought up his air rifle and sprayed pellets at its head, but missed its eyes. With a roar, it leapt towards Maimon, paws outstretched, but the damaged right foot threw its balance off and instead of landing on Maimon it landed awkwardly beside him. Maimon frantically tried to back away, but the beast’s barbed tail whipped around and plunged into his chest.

Then Lieutenant Douiri was there and cut off the beast’s tail with his sword. The thick, bony barb fell to the floor with a sodden ‘thump!’. Screeching, the Huk whirled around again and Douiri rolled away, just out of reach.

“Shoot! For love of the Gods, kill it!” Rafael screamed. His soldiers gathered their wits and blasted away and the Huk, bleeding everywhere, finally coughed blood and slumped to the floor. It gave one final ominous growl, then shuddered and died.

“Gods’ Fucking Balls!” one of the soldiers cried.

“Secure the dead,” Rafael snapped. “Police their ammo and water. Quickly!” Some of the men flinched at that, but they were well trained and that training took over. It had been drilled into them: the dead are dead, beyond our help. We honor their sacrifice by living, and a dead soldier does not need his ammo or his rations. The bodies were quickly frisked for the all-important ammunition, water and energy bars, then stacked neatly to one side of the passageway.

A runner came up, gasping, and reported to Rafael.

“Sir, rearguard is in contact and getting pushed back. Estimate twenty-five to thirty Tilleke armed with energy weapons and slug throwers. They’re pushing us hard. We’ve lost five, including the Corporal.”

“How far back?” Rafael asked.

“One hundred fifty yards, no more,” the man answered.

Rafael looked around. They were in one corner of a large equipment room. There was a sign on the far room with an arrow below it pointing to another corridor. The sign said ‘Engineering.’ But it would take time to sabotage the ship’s power system, particularly without military grade explosives. He needed more time and he wouldn’t get it with a large armed party at his back.

He took the runner by the shoulder. “Go back to the rearguard. Is Private Nur still alive?” The runner nodded. “Good, tell him he is now ‘Corporal Nur’,” Rafael said. “Tell him to break contact and bring his men here as fast as he can. But tell him not to get out of sight of the Tillies, you understand? I want the Tillies to see you all break away and hotfoot it up the stairs. Got it?” The runner nodded again, but he was frowning in puzzlement.

“Now, see that wall over there, with the big sign painted on it?” Rafael pointed across the equipment bay to the entrance to the Engineering Department. “That is the entrance to the ship’s Engineering Department. When you guys get here, I want you to run like hell to that sign, then turn and fire everything you’ve got at the Tillies. Then get under cover and hide. Understand? Go there and then turn and fire. Then hide. Tell Nur.”

“Yes, sir,” the runner stammered.

Rafael pushed him to the stairs. “Go!”

The runner was gone in a flash. Rafael turned to Lieutenant Douiri and told him what he wanted.

Six minutes later the first of Corporal Nur’s squad staggered to the top of the stairs, panting for breath, hurriedly changed ammunition clips and knelt down to cover the retreat of the others. Two women pushed past them, looked around frantically and spotted the ‘Engineering’ sign on the far wall. Without a word, they sprinted for it. Four men and another woman came next. They turned and fired back at the bottom of the stairs where the first Tilleke troops appeared. The Tillies darted back and the rest of the squad, with Corporal Nur last, pounded up the stairs. At the top, they all fired a burst back down the stairwell, then turned and ran towards the Engineering sign, slightly off center so that the first two troops there could provide some covering fire. Two of the faster Tillies crouched just below the top of the stairwell and fired. One of the women screamed and fell, clutching her leg. The rest of the squad turned and pelted the top of the stairs with pellet fire, forcing the Tillies to scramble back. Two squad members grabbed the wounded soldier by either arm and hightailed it to the Engineering sign.

Once there, per orders, they all turned and laid down a hail of fire on the stairwell, catching two Tillies who broke cover a moment too soon. Then the rest of the Tillies burst out of the stairwell in a flood of shots and yells and the battered SRF squad scurried out of sight behind a retaining wall.

The Tilleke infantry spread out and charged across the equipment bay, laying down covering fire on the entrance to the Engineering Department corridor. There were twenty-two of them, wearing light armor and carrying pulsar rifles and some sort of assault rifle slug thrower that Rafael didn’t recognize.

As they reached the halfway point, Rafael screamed “Up!” and the 5th Platoon, 1st Company of the SRF popped up from behind every crate, piece of machinery and support bearing column and let fly. The Tillies were caught in the open, catching fire from two sides. Their armor saved them from a lot of the pellet shots, but there were exposed legs and arms and soon most of them were wounded, not fatally, perhaps, but enough to put them on the deck and hinder their movement. Still, they kept shooting back. And more of Rafael’s men died.

“Go for their legs and their throats, bleed ‘em out,” Rafael shouted. “And shoot their radios!”

Over the next four minutes the gruesome work continued. The SRF troopers shot any exposed area they could see. One by one the Tillies succumbed to their wounds. One of the first to die was within a few feet of Lieutenant Douiri, who darted out and snatched the man’s weapon. Back under cover, he peered out and took careful aim, then began finishing the Tillies one by one with shots through their visors.

No one asked to surrender. They were the Emperor’s soldiers and they died in his service.

“Get their weapons!” Rafael ordered. “Check to see if they’ve got enough ammo and if they do, drop your air guns and use their rifles! And grenades! We need some grenades!” He grabbed one of the men near him. “Take four men and go help Nur. Sweep the Engineering Department. Move!”

As soon as they had secured most of the Tillie weapons, they fell back to the Engineering entrance. Rafael noticed one of his scouts, Private Leila Amali, an assault rifle in her hands. She was taping a plastic scope to it, making it into a poor man’s sniper rifle. “Amali, for the love of the Gods, that won’t work. You’ve got to true the scope,” he scolded.

Private Amali gave him a look reserved for officers and other idiots. “Yes, sir, I’m sure you’re right sir.” Then she gracefully shouldered the rifle, aimed across the equipment bay and fired at a small light mounted on the wall 400 feet away.

She missed. Frowning, she made some adjustment Rafael couldn’t see, twisting the scope slightly and reapplying tape. She fired again. Missed. More adjustments, then missed again. On the fifth shot the light shattered. She grinned at him ferociously, showing a lot of white teeth. “Good enough for government work, sir, eh?”

Rafael laughed, delighted. She was a cheeky one, alright. “Keep an eye on the top of the steps, Amali. Anything moves, shoot it. The only other entrance I can see is way over in that corner-” – he pointed across the vast deck to a hatchway half hidden behind a piece of equipment – “so keep your eyes open on that, too. I’ll leave a few more guys to give you support.” He made his face stern. “If it gets real hot, pull back through the corridor to the actual entrance into Engineering, but send me a runner so I’ll know what’s going on.”

“Yes, sir.” She looked around for a moment, then dragged a small crate over to act as a shooting rest. She hummed a popular song under her breath, happy at her work.

Rafael paused for a moment before going into the Engineering Department. Five more of his men lay crumbled on the floor. Three had charred, smoking wounds inflicted by energy weapons; the other two had been hit by projectiles of some sort and lay in spreading pools of blood. Rafael nodded once. His men, his debt. He took a deep breath and turned to go into the Engineering Department.

Rafael had a puzzle to solve: How do you disable an entire battleship without any heavy explosives? Four of his men had some engineering background and might be able to figure it out, but just in case he wanted to try something. His men had rounded up twelve engineering crew and had them under guard. They all had their hands bound behind their backs and sat on the floor against a wall.

Rafael looked at each of them, unsure of what he was looking for, but knowing that he would recognize it when he saw it. The twelve were all men, varying in age from early twenties to late fifties or so. He marked one of them, a broad-chested man with salt and pepper hair and a set jaw, who glared at him furiously as he walked by. Rafael turned and came back, squatting down so he was face-to-face with him.

“I need something from you, friend,” he said in fluent Tilleke. “I need to know how to turn off the power to this ship. I don’t want to blow it up or anything so dramatic, but I need to render it powerless. If I do that, you and your crewmates will live. You’ll see your families, you’ll live a long life.”

The grey-haired man turned his head and spat. “You are murderous scum and I will give you nothing!” he gritted.

Rafael chuckled. “Isn’t it interesting that I am the murderous scum, but it is you who have invaded my System and seek to destroy my home planet?”

“You defied the Emperor!” the man replied, as if that explained everything.

Rafael nodded. “So we did, and so we shall. Now, how do I turn off power to the ship?”

The man stared at him, resolutely silent.

The fourth man along the line of prisoners had listened to the exchange and looked at Rafael with something akin to yearning. Rafael walked over and knelt in front of him. The engineer was in his mid-forties, slender and, Rafael thought, looked intelligent. Rafael just stared at him, not saying anything.

“Sarhan!” the grey-haired man suddenly thundered. “Keep your mouth shut! Say anything and I’ll have you up on charges and watch them feed you to the Huk.”

The younger man flinched in fear, but he kept his eyes on Rafael.

“Your name is Sarhan?” Rafael asked softly.

The man nodded. Down the line the older engineer began to shout, but Lieutenant Douiri cuffed him across the head and stuffed a rag in his mouth.

“I think you want to tell me, Sarhan. If you help me, I may be able to help you,” the SRF officer said simply. Inside, his stomach was roiling. They had to lock down this battleship fast and figure out a way off the ship or they would die.

“Will you take me with you?” Sarhan pleaded, and Rafael could have hugged him.

“Yes,” Rafael said, and he saw the hope blossom in the other man’s eyes. “Now tell me.”

Sarhan was unbound and he led them to a large array of switches, levers and dials. He pointed, speaking rapidly. “Those control the bridge and the Battle Command. Weapons power is here, here and here. Life support here. Shuttle Bays One, Two, Three, Four and Five along here. And power for the engines on this console here.”

“Sarhan, what is the nearest Shuttle Bay to Engineering?”

Sarhan turned and pointed to a large door. “Shuttle Bay Two is just through that door.”

Rafael nodded. “Here’s what I want you to do.”

At the entrance to the Engineering Department, Private Leila Amali sat behind a small crate, peering through her rifle scope at the doorway six hundred feet away. “Come on, don’t be shy,” she said softly. “You know you want to peek around the corner. Go ahead, you know you want to.” Five minutes earlier she’d caught a flash of movement at the doorway, but by the time she’d put her scope on it all she could catch was a glimpse of a face pulling back. Now she was waiting.

Private Leila Amali could be very patient.

“Anything?” whispered Private Tony DeChello.

“He’s there, I can feel him,” Amali answered. “He wants to look so bad it’s killing him.”

Off to the right, there was a movement at the top of the stairs where it reached the Equipment Bay floor. Amali smoothly shifted her rifle over to it, adjusting the zoom on her scope so she wasn’t in too tight. A man stood there and she centered her crosshairs on his chest, her finger tightening imperceptibly on the trigger. She frowned suddenly and looked closer. The man was holding a Tilly rifle but wearing an SRF uniform. He appeared, well, ragged, as if he had been fighting for several days rather than several hours. His uniform was torn, streaked with blood and his eyes showed sickly white against a grime-smeared face. He looked ugly, exhausted, desperate…and very familiar.

“Bilinsky?” she muttered. Friderich Bilinsky was in 1st Platoon, but they’d lost contact with 1st Platoon two hours earlier. Or was it three? She and Bilinsky had gone through Basic Training together, then joined the SRF and went through that training together. It had been hard training, taxing both mind and body. His buoyant sense of humor was the only thing that had gotten her through some very long days.

Bilinsky looked about warily, taking in the Tilleke bodies strewn about the floor, then turned and motioned to someone on the stairs below him. In a moment ten or more other SRF soldiers had joined him, two of them half holding, half dragging another soldier between them.

“Tony, get the Captain here!” she whispered urgently. DeChello, bless him, didn’t ask anything, just hastened to comply.

Then, without knowing why, she swung her scope swiftly back to the door set in the far corner of the bay, just in time to see the Tilly who’d been hiding there step out and take aim at the 1st Platoon stragglers emerging from the stairwell.

She fired just as he brought his rifle to bear. Her rifle recoiled firmly into her shoulder, but the scope stayed on him and she saw the neat hole blossom just above his nose before he collapsed to the floor.

Girl, you are a badass stone killer, she told herself smugly.

Meanwhile, Bilinsky and the others from 1st Platoon dropped to the deck and aimed their rifles at her location.

“Don’t you dare shoot me, Bilinsky!” she called out quickly, hoping the poor bastard wasn’t too strung out to hear her. That happened sometimes, when things were really bad. “You hear me, Freddy, you shoot me, I’m gonna kick your ass! It’s Leila! Leila Amali, 5th Platoon. We got Engineering! What the fuck took you guys so long?”

Bilinsky said something to the others and they hurried across the open expanse of the Equipment Bay, half-dragging their wounded comrade along with them. As they got closer, Amali realized with a start that the wounded soldier was Lieutenant Daniella Tal, Captain Eitan’s friend. Worse, her left arm was gone just above the elbow. There was no bleeding, the sure sign of an energy blast, but she was deathly pale and gritting her teeth in pain.

Then out of an abundance of caution she scoped the far door again, where she saw two Tilleke soldiers peering cautiously around the corner. She drew a bead on one and fired; he fell backwards as if punched in the face, which in a manner of speaking he was. The other soldier flinched backwards out of sight.

The 1st Platoon survivors moved hurriedly behind her into the corridor, out of the line of fire from any Tilleke snipers. Lieutenant Tal whimpered once as they lowered her to the deck.

Then the lights went out.

Hunting Huk on the Victorian Battleship Lionheart

The Huk in front of them roared.

The Huk behind them roared.

“Bugger me!” Wisnioswski cursed again, rifle up, head swiveling.

“Well, at least we know where they are,” Hiram said. He opened his comm to Cookie’s frequency. “Cookie, we are at the intersection of 3 and 11. We have two Huk, front and back. Can you send us some support?”

His earpiece crackled for a second. “Hiram?” Cookie sounded incredulous. “What the hell are you doing? I thought you were on the bridge.”

“Do you have anyone you can send?” Hiram repeated.

Hiram took out one of the plastic medallions, walked five steps forward and placed it on the deck. Then he walked towards the Huk behind them and placed a second one on the deck. He stepped back. There were thirty feet or so between the two medallions.

“Come, kitty,” he crooned. “Let’s see if this will work.”

Both Huk came into sight simultaneously.

Wisnioswski looked back and forth between them. “Sergeant Sanchez says you’re really smart,” he said through clenched teeth. “I gotta tell you, this don’t feel like smart to me.”

“Just using the empirical method, Wisnioswski,” Hiram said.

“Empirical method, my ass,” Wisnioswski muttered, but Hiram decided best not to hear it.

The Huk in front of them lowered its head and growled. It stepped forward warily, its tail thrashing behind it. Wisnioswski raised his rifle to shoot, but Hiram held up a hand to stop him.

The Huk moved more quickly, its eyes locked on Hiram. One step, two steps, three. It tensed to spring, then skidded to a hasty stop and scrambled backwards, emitting a high-pitched roar that sounded more like a shriek. The Huk behind them sprang forward, then seemed to turn in midair, whimpering in pain. It hit the deck and scampered away from the medallion near it.

“Sonofabitch! It really works!” Hiram exulted.

The two Huk crouched down, glowering in confusion at their prey. They knew the pain, knew its source, but couldn’t understand why these humans were protected by it rather than the Tilleke soldiers and Savak they were used to. These humans were prey.

The Huk roared their displeasure and confusion.

“Almost there,” Cookie said over the comm.

“Cookie, do you have one of those plastic medallions?” Hiram asked.

A pause – Cookie had forgotten about them – then, “Yes. Why?”

“Once you see the Huk nearest you, put one of the medallions on the deck. It will trap him.”

“What?”

“Just do it. Please.”

A pause, then: “Okay, it’s done.”

Hiram looked around. He could just see Cookie’s group at the edge of the curve in the passageway. “Back up about fifty feet; we’re going to shoot it. If it does get past the medallion, kill it.”

“Gladly,” she replied.

Hiram turned to his men and waved a hand. “Okay, do it.”

The Marines had blasters. First, they shot the Huk that was not hemmed in on two sides, then they turned to the second Huk. It snarled and hissed and backed up slowly, stopping abruptly when it suddenly realized there was a medallion behind it as well. Hiram watched with interest to see if it could overcome its conditioning to jump over one of the medallions in an effort to escape, but it didn’t. It turned and faced them, seeming to look right at Hiram. He felt a chill as the red eyes pierced him. It roared once more.

“Shoot it,” Hiram ordered. The Marines opened fire and the Huk crumpled under the blaster fire, which cratered its huge chest and sheared off one of its legs.

Hiram felt an unexpected mix of relief, respect and regret.

Then Cookie was standing next to him, looking sweaty and tired and achingly beautiful. He wanted to put his arms around her, but couldn’t with all the Marines looking on.

Wisnioswski came and stood beside them. “Sergeant,” he told Cookie, “with all respect, your man here is absolutely batshit crazy.” Neither Hiram nor Cookie could tell if he was joking.

“Reminds me of our first date,” Cookie said sardonically. Then she looked at the two mutated lions, which seemed smaller and forlorn in death. She turned back to Hiram, wishing, wishing it was all over but knowing it wasn’t.

A sad smile crossed her face. “We’ve got to kill the Emperor, you know that, don’t you? No matter how long it takes.”

Gunboat Assault – Aboard Grogon-57

Ronny Perkins guided Grogon-57 towards Big Bastard 4. Other gunboats had been tasked the job of feinting towards the first two battleships in line to keep the destroyer escort pinned in place, but now it was time to focus on their target.

On his radio, Timothy Vinick could hear the other attack groups maneuver above and below Big Bastard 4, then turn to start their attack run. Grogon-57 didn’t have to turn, it was headed straight for the enemy battleship.

The destroyers protecting the four Tilleke battleships sent out a hailstorm of missiles and lasers, trying to saturate the area, but there were only fifteen destroyers and until the last moment they couldn’t be sure which of the battleships were being targeted. Now that the gunboats were clearly focused on the last battleship in line, the destroyers tried to shift position to give it maximum coverage, but they couldn’t move fast enough.

Vinick kept his eyes on his battle display. Swarms of missiles came out to meet them and with each swarm more of the gunboats vanished. It was excruciating to watch, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from it. Finally, Linda Flanagan leaned over and slapped him on the head. “Timmy, stop it! Get in the game! I need you to read out the firing distance.”

Vinick nodded sheepishly and adjusted his display. “Seven thousand five hundred miles out. Get ready for chaff, then decoys. Weapons, check your boards!”

“Green!” Flanagan shouted, too loudly for the small space. “Missiles hot. Lasers hot.”

Vinick checked his list. “Pilot, did you launch the jammers at 10,000 miles?” Vinick cursed himself; how could he have forgotten that?

Perkins reached over and stabbed a button. Several small missiles leapt off rails and sped away. “Jammers launched,” he said. Fifteen seconds later the missiles started broadcasting static and snow across a wide electromagnetic spectrum. The jammers headed straight for the Tilly battleship, with Grogon-57 sliding along just behind them. They could still get killed, but now it would be a lot harder for the Tillies to lock onto them.

“Seven thousand!” Vinick shouted – he shook his head, now he was shouting, too. The battleship filled their sensor displays. Linda Flanagan felt as if she could throw a rock and hit it. The displays showed laser beams flashing past them and missiles exploding above and below them. The destroyers shot chaff rockets and deployed jammers; the battleships shot thousands and thousands of projectiles designed to defeat incoming missiles, any one of which would have ruined the day for everyone on board Grogon-57. One squadron of ten gunboats fired their missiles at the nearest two Tilleke destroyers protecting Big Bastard 4, twenty missiles at each of them, then followed them in and fired their lasers. The rest of the gunboats pushed onward towards the battleship, setting up their attack runs. One of the Tilly destroyers suddenly fireballed, flaming brightly in the dark space until the air burned off and the fire abruptly extinguished.

And all the time Ronny “Perv” Perkins threw the Grogon-57 wildly from side to side, always trying to fly to the least red portion of his visor.

The gunboat smelled of overheated electric circuits, perspiration and the rank odor of fear. Timothy Vinick, the 57’s bastion of calm and control, abruptly bent over and vomited all over his display screen. He gulped air, wiped the gore off the screen with his sleeve and kept calling out the miles. Neither Perkins nor Flanagan seemed to notice, too preoccupied with their own miseries.

The cabin smell got worse.

Flanagan made the mistake of trying to brace herself against the bulkhead, only to feel her wrist snap when Perkins violently hurled the gunboat to the right to avoid something he never saw as it streaked by. She moaned and clutched her wrist to her chest, but she never took her eyes off her weapons display.

Perkins was oblivious to their pain and their terror. He couldn’t have taken his eyes off his visor display if he’d wanted to; he just flew the gunboat at Big Bastard 4, mildly amazed they had made it this far.

So many hadn’t.

“Fifteen seconds to weapons launch!” Vinick shouted, his face muscles so tight he thought they would crack. He wanted this over; he needed it to end.

On the Victorian Battleship Lionheart

“You’re late,” Admiral Eder snapped as Hiram entered the bridge.

Hiram looked at the ship’s clock: he was three minutes late. “My apologies, Admiral, but I think we’ve discovered how to defeat the Huk.” A minor peace offering for his egregious three-minute tardiness.

Eder’s eyebrows went up. “Well?”

“Sir, we found a device worn by most of the Savak storm troopers. It causes great pain to the Huk and they will not go near it. I gave it to the science boffins and they’re looking at it now.”

“Let the boffins handle it, that’s what we pay them for,” Eder said brusquely. “Your job, Commander, is to help me break up the Tilleke attack and send them packing. Come here and take a look at this,” he added, gesturing to the large battle holo. Hiram stepped closer. Things had changed in the hour and three minutes he had been away from the bridge. The Tilleke column of ships was much closer – no surprise there – but now the Victorian carriers had launched their attack at the center of the Tilleke line. The forward quarter of the Tilleke fleet was in the process of changing from a column to a line in order to bring more firepower to bear, but they had just started. Still, that would bear watching and would grow more dangerous by the minute.

The big change was in the center of the Tilleke column. It was already turning to meet the attacking gunboats and a large gap was forming between the center and the forward quarter, which was still coming straight for the Lionheart and the rest of the Victorian Fleet. In the center of the holo, he could see Emily’s carrier task force, and to the east of that, Fort Hawke laboriously being towed to an area between Admiral Eder’s Battle Group and the advancing enemy. Still in front of Eder’s Battle Group were BG-1 and BG-2. BG-1, commanded by Captain Sobkowiak, was falling back in front of the Tilly advance, staying just out of missile range and sowing mines behind her. He peered at the holo but couldn’t quite tell how many ships she had left. Not enough, at any rate.

BG-2, commanded by Captain Hillson, would soon join BG-1. Eder’s BG-3 was probably thirty minutes behind them. So, that meant… He spent a minute studying the geometry.

“Admiral?” he asked distractedly, “where is the Dominion frigate, Draugr?”

Admiral Eder raised his head. “Mildred, display current location of the Draugr.”

The holo flickered and a new blue dot appeared. Hiram grinned. The Draugr had maneuvered to the west of the center of the Tilleke line, on the other side from where the gunboats would attack. His admiration for Captain Astrid Drechsher crept up another notch.

“Okay,” he said, trying to project confidence. “First, basic orientation. The wormhole into Gilead is north. We are in the south, with BG-1 and 2 to our northwest and the enemy is curving towards us along that bearing. The remaining missile sleds are about here – he pointed to a spot just in front of the Tilleke column – and will hit them in about fifteen minutes. Remember, the sleds are pretty stealthy. They’re coasting without any propulsion signature and have very good passive sensors. They’ll shoot 250 medium range missiles, so there is a good chance they’ll do some damage.”

Hiram and Eder fell silent for a moment, regretting the loss of the 400 missile sleds that had been sent up the center earlier.

Admiral Eder nodded, studying the display. “Mildred, based on current positions and speeds, show a time line for when the various forces get within missile range of each other.”

Mildred simply printed a list:

Gunboats: four minutes.

Draugr: within missile firing range now.

Missile sleds: thirteen to eighteen minutes depending on exact path of Tilleke ships.

Fort Hawke: twenty minutes if Tilleke ships turn towards it, unknow if they don’t.

Lionheart and other Victorian ships: nineteen to twenty-four minutes.

Hiram turned to the Admiral. “Sir, two things. First, call BG-1 and BG-2 and order them to fall back on us at full military power. We need their destroyers in a big way. Second, if the gunboats can disrupt the Tilly center, then we stand a chance. Yes, they have over a hundred ships to our eighty, but they’re strung out. Our ships are going to be more tightly concentrated. We can bring greater firepower to bear.”

“If their damn Sword ships don’t kill us in droves,” Eder said sourly, but he was studying the holo intently. Hiram waited, silently. Admiral Eder was one of the finest tactical minds in the Fleet, so Hiram let him think without interruption.

Finally, the Admiral stroked his chin thoughtfully and turned to face Hiram. “Brill, as I recall, you wrote some sort of paper on the Tilleke Emperor back when you were a real intelligence officer, before you became the Queen’s advisor.”

“Yes, sir.” Hiram had written a long memo to the head of Fleet Intelligence warning that the Tilleke Emperor would attack Victoria. Unfortunately, it had been ignored as the overripe imagination of a junior officer.

Eder gestured to the holo display of the Tilleke warships. “Do you think the Emperor is over there right now, directing this battle?”

“The Emperor?” Hiram was a little shocked, but he thought it through, then shook his head vigorously. “No, sir, not a chance. The Emperor would not leave Qom, not even for this. Tilleke royal society is a snake pit, with conspiracies, plots, assassination attempts and rank opportunists waiting for a chance to grab power. Emperor Chalabi would not dare leave the Palace for fear that someone would attempt a coup.”

Eder nodded. “Okay, then, who is commanding the Tilly fleet?”

Hiram considered. “Their best admiral is probably Behzadi, but he is not Noble Born and would not be put in charge of the entire Tilleke Fleet.”

“Why?” Eder demanded, frowning.

Hiam shrugged. “Tilleke society is not a meritocracy. All standing is based on how close you are to the Emperor and whether he holds you in favor. Simply put, any member of the royalty serving in the Tilleke Fleet would feel insulted if Behzadi, regardless of his skill, was put in command above them. The Emperor could not risk it.”

“Then who?” the Admiral asked impatiently.

“Prince RaShahid, maybe with help from one of the other Noble Born admirals.” He thought for a moment longer. “Yes, it would be Prince RaShahid.”

Eder tapped his lips with one finger. “And how much experience does the Prince have?”

“Well, he was probably involved in the initial attack on Second Fleet when it was ambushed and wiped out, but the Dominion were heavily involved in that as well. Brother Jong outfoxed him when he first tried to invade Victoria.” He shrugged. “Other than that, I’m not aware of any significant military activity he would have been in.”

Admiral Eder grinned evilly. “Let’s have some fun with the Prince, eh?”

Victorian Kraits 27, 28, 29, 33 and 41, On the

Tilleke Battleship Emperor’s Honor

Captain Rafael Eitan watched, heartbroken, as the last krait swooped into the shuttle bay and settled to a stop. He had enough kraits to take off a full company, but he had only enough survivors to fill one and a half of the ships.

He had learned the fate of the others from one of Lieutenant Tal’s men, Bilinsky. All four of the other platoons had run into heavy opposition from the Tilleke. When Tal learned from Rafael’s runners that he had gone to Engineering, she turned and led everyone else towards the enemy bridge, drawing the attacking Tilleke forces with her. Outnumbered and outmatched, the four platoons had taken a beating. But the Tillies stayed with her, apparently unaware that 5th Platoon was capturing the Engineering Department until it was too late.

Daniella Tal had been shot late in the fight and her surviving platoon members had taken it upon themselves to rescue her. What followed was a long cat and mouse hunt, with the SRF troops and their injured Lieutenant skulking down small side corridors, and hiding in empty rooms. A squad of Savak finally got on their trail and they had a running gunfight for the better part of thirty minutes, finally climbing the stairway into the equipment bay, where they encountered Leila Amali and her sniper rifle.

Now the krait doors opened and several troopers jumped out, carrying satchels of explosives. Sergeant Moshe Dotan, the Company’s armorer, stood glowering in the hatchway and shouted. “I’ve got pulsars, blasters and flechette rifles. Grenades! Combat helmets! Anybody who wants to get rid of their pop gun, come to me now!” A few men who hadn’t managed to get a Tilleke weapon lined up quickly. Combat helmets were quickly passed down the line and Rafael put his on with a sense of relief, only to realize that other than the troops under his immediate command, there was no one else to talk to.

“Sergeant!” Rafael called. “Get all of the crew chiefs and report to Private Amali at the entrance to Engineering. The Tillies know we’re here and are being rather inhospitable about it. Hold them off until we can rig the explosives and take our leave.” Rafael gestured to the men in line for better weapons. “You men, get yourselves a new rifle and go with the Sergeant. Move!”

“Right away, sir!” Dotan barked.

“Oh, Sergeant, did you bring any wasps or Beach Balls?”

Sergeant Dotan looked sheepish. “No, sir, there just wasn’t any room.” He looked around at the handful of survivors. “Or we didn’t think there was.”

Rafael nodded, dismissing the man. Standing in a line, there were six men carrying satchels of high explosives. “Engineering is through there,” he said, pointing. “There’s a man named Sarhan, a Tilly engineer, who will show you where to put the explosives. Do it fast and get back here.”

The men looked at each other. “And the Tilly, what do we with him, sir?”

“Bring him with you. Treat him with respect; he’s been helpful,” Rafael said.

He turned to some of the remaining SRF troopers in the Shuttle Bay. “Load the wounded on board the kraits.” Meanwhile his helmet was registering every SRF trooper who was wearing a helmet, populating their names in the upper right corner of his visor. When Private Amali’s name popped up, he linked to her view, then flinched back instinctively as a Savak commando charged screaming directly at him.

Well, not him, but rather Private Amali. When the Savak was less than five feet away, Amali shot him once in the chest to slow him down, then once in the head to finish him off. She was using a slug thrower, Rafael saw, and to good effect. There were two more Savak, but before Amali could deal with them, a fusillade of pulsar and blaster bolts smashed them to the ground in a smoking heap. As Amali looked around for her next target, Rafael could see that a dozen or so other Savak retreated behind the cover of large pieces of equipment and crates. Rafael waited until she had competed her scan before he spoke, taking in the fifteen or so new Tilleke bodies scattered across the deck.

“Amali, this is Captain Eitan. Report.”

“We got maybe two platoons of gomers trying to force their way across the Equipment Bay,” she said calmly. “They got the far half, but we have kept them from getting much further.” She swung her scope to the far door in time to see another ten men rush through and hide in the thicket of crates and heavy equipment. “Just got another bunch through the far door. We won’t be able to hold them long, sir. Surprised they haven’t used grenades yet.”

“Amali, I am sending some explosives. We’ll mine the entrance, then I want you to fall back into Engineering. Our ride leaves in ten minutes.”

“Roger that, sir. Good news.”

Rafael waved one of the sappers over and told him what he needed and the man went off at a run. He switched to Sergeant Dotan, linked to his visor to make sure he wasn’t actively in a fight, then commed him. “Sergeant, you’ll have explosives in thirty seconds. Show the engineer where to place them, then bring everybody back. Go right to the kraits and get in. We are bugging out as soon as the engines are wired to blow.”

“Yes, sir. They’re pushing us hard, but not using the heavy stuff. I think they’re scared they’ll accidently damage the engines.”

“Come as fast as you can, Sergeant,” Rafael told him, then he switched to the sappers laying the explosives around the massive engines. He found Specialist 1st Class Cynthia Hamri tapping in the code to program the timer.

“Hamri, this is Captain Eitan. Report.”

She straightened up, looking over the placement of the explosive one more time. “This is the last of them, Captain. We’ve rigged all three engines to blow. All timers have been set for ten minutes, but I can also trigger them through my combat helmet.”

“What about the antimatter pods?” He was not eager to have three antimatter pods blow up in his face.

Hamri crinkled her nose. “Blowing them would not be a good idea, sir. I’ve rigged this with enough explosive to damage the engines and to stop the turbines. The magnetic bottle will run on ziridium indefinitely.”

Rafael flicked back to Private Amali’s visor. Savak were taking pot shots at them from across the Equipment Bay, but not charging yet. He flicked over to Sergeant Dotan. “Sergeant, status?”

“Just got the explosives set, sir. They’ll blow on command or on motion detector.”

“Sergeant, send your people to the kraits now. Set the explosives to go on motion detector, with a five second delay. Move out now.” Eitan switched back to the engineer in the Engineering Department.

“Hamri, check your work one more time, trigger the timers, then run like hell to the kraits.”

Then he sent a platoon-wide message to everyone who had combat helmets. “Attention, all hands, move to the kraits now. Repeat, now! The engines will blow in ten minutes.”

Captain Rafael Eitan looked around to make sure he wasn’t missing anything. Two of the kraits had already lifted off. He waited until Sergeant Dotan came pounding through the entrance way. “Sergeant, are all of your people out of there?”

“All present and accounted for, sir!” the sergeant panted. He wasn’t getting any younger. Rafael wordlessly pointed to the nearest krait. His visor showed the ten-minute countdown, already at “9:16.” He commed Specialist Hamri. “Specialist, are all of your people on the kraits?”

“Everyone accounted for and on board, sir,” she said crisply. “Timers have been triggered.”

Time to go. He looked around once more, then stepped into the nearest krait and broadcast to the pilots. “Go!”

The last three kraits lifted off the deck and hurtled through the massive gateway. The five kraits turned straight down and cut their engines, coasting away from the Tilleke battleship at highspeed, but already becoming invisible.

Behind them, the explosives detonated and the engines turned to slag.

The Emperor’s Honor, second in line of the four Tilleke battleships, was now toothless. Its missiles could not be fired, its lasers were inert. Even as the Tilleke ships in front of it curved towards the Victorian Fleet, the Emperor’s Honor continued straight ahead, commencing its Long Walk to nowhere.

On board the Emperor’s Honor, in scattered piles along bloody corridors, in tight-knit groups where they fought and died, lay 117 of the Special Reconnaissance Force’s soldiers, who would never know that their sacrifice made possible the success of the mission.

Gunboat Assault – Aboard Grogon-57

“Hey,” Vinick shouted. “The second battleship, it’s leaving the Tilleke column and just going off into space.” He checked his displays. “It’s completely powered down!”

“Timothy, how much longer to release?” Flanagan asked.

Vinick’s attention snapped back to his battle holo. “Five seconds! Four, three, two, fire all weapons!”

Linda Flanagan mashed the firing button for the two ten-inch lasers, then ripple fired the four missiles. Everything worked the way it should. She glanced up at the damage display and saw two red rings appear on the engine section of Big Bastard 4, indicating laser strikes. Her laser strikes. She couldn’t help smiling.

“Pilot, get us out of here!” Vinick ordered, then gasped as the gunboat stood on end and accelerated straight up, curving over in an arc that aimed it away from the Tilleke line and back to the relative safety of the Victorian carriers.

Flanagan kept watching the damage display. Other colored rings appeared all over the Tilleke battleship: blue, orange, green, purple, silver, and on and on as dozens of gunboats fired everything they had.

Of the 118 gunboats that had made the attack, thirty-nine had been destroyed, leaving seventy-nine. They all fired their missiles within ten seconds of each other. More than 300 missiles swept out, hurtling down on Big Bastard 4.

There were no Hedgehogs near the battleships, but the destroyers and the battleships laid down a wall of anti-missile fire. Lasers, small missiles, hundreds of thousands of heavy, dense pellets, and area bombs that killed everything within a ten-mile cube. Then chaff and jammers.

The sheer amount of firepower aimed at the Victorian missiles was breathtaking. Missiles died in ones and twos, then in fours and tens. The defenders’ lasers could not recharge fast enough to fire again, but the destroyers poured small anti-missile missiles and pellets into the fray. Another dozen missiles died, then two dozen, then three. Some missiles were spoofed by chaff or jammers and exploded harmlessly. Then in a last-ditch effort, the Tilleke destroyers wheeled about in an effort to interpose their ships between the oncoming missiles and the precious battleships, and through their sacrifice soaked up another thirty missiles.

It still wasn’t enough.

In the end, eighty-one missiles reached Big Bastard 4. Already weakened by dozens of laser strikes, the battleship crumpled inwards, then burst outwards as countless explosions wracked it from stem to stern.

Two Tilleke battleships were out of action, and ten destroyers with them.

Chapter 59

On Board the Tilleke Sword Ship, Emperor’s Might

Prince RaShahid stared in shock at the holo display. They had not even reached the main Victorian line and already he’d lost two battleships and ten destroyers? In mixed rage and confusion, he wheeled on the Communications Officer. “Get me Admiral Kirmani!” he snapped.

The Communications Officer looked at him, openmouthed. “My Prince…my Prince,” he stammered. “Admiral Kirmani is still missing. His ship never came through the wormhole.”

Prince RaShahid stared at him. He almost told him to call Admiral Behzadi, but bit his tongue. Behzadi was not here either. He took a deep breath, calming himself. There was a battle to fight, a fleet to lead. But the holo display mocked him with its irrefutable facts. He had not yet engaged the main Victorian fleet, but he was suffering grievous losses.

And now he had a decision to make. Press forward, or turn back to save his center and regroup. But if he turned back, what would the Vickies do? Consolidate their forces? Attack his rear? Did they have reinforcements he didn’t know about?

The Sensors Officer looked up from his console. “My Prince, the Victorians are trying to flank us on either side!”

The holo showed the center mass of the Victorian Fleet still approaching him, but now ships were moving to his left and right in a classic pincer movement. A lot of ships. He frowned, looking at the display. There were thirty ships going to his south flank and thirty more to his north. Where had they come from? What to do? What would Behzadi do? Decisive action! That was the key. When in doubt, take decisive action.

But what? Attack one of the flanks and risk the main Vicky Fleet smashing his van? Maintain his approach to smash the Vickies but risk a flank attack from both sides, a double envelopment?

Prince RaShahid called out in a strong, clear voice. “Comm, send to all ships, ‘Fire on my—‘’

Then the missile sleds launched 260 missiles from 8,000 miles and the Sensors Officer’s displays went berserk.

On the Victorian Battleship Lionheart.

The Lionheart was almost within missile range when the missile sleds launched their little surprise. Admiral Eder grinned ferociously. “Didn’t see that coming, did you?” Then, to his Communications Officer, “Open a channel to the minelayers.”

The Communications Officer pushed a button and nodded to the Admiral. Eder picked up the mike and gave the two captains very specific instructions. When he was done, he smiled at Hiram.

“This is going to be fun, Brill! Nothing like mind-fucking your opponent, nothing like it at all!”

Hiram, who had played enough Cha’rah to know that Eder was exactly right, smiled back. Then his personal comm chimed in his ear. “Excuse me, sir,” he told the Admiral and answered.

“Commander, this is Specialist-4 Satore. I looked at that plastic medallion you sent down.” He paused, hesitantly, then continued. “Sir, it’s real simple. Just a very high frequency tone. It shouldn’t hurt anything, especially something as big as the Huk, so I’m guessing that either the Huk have been conditioned to react with pain, or else something has been implanted in them that is triggered by the sound and causes them pain.”

“Okay, Satore, here’s the thing: can you duplicate that high frequency?” Hiram asked.

“Duplicate it? Oh, sure, no problem.”

“Can you arrange to have that frequency broadcast throughout a ship, or to specific areas in a ship?”

“Yeah, sure, sir. Easy. I mean, hell, Mildred could probably just duplicate the sound once I tell her the frequency.”

Now Hiram was getting excited. This could be the answer. “Okay, Specialist Satore, I want you to identify the frequency and have it C2C’d to every ship in the Fleet. Right away, Satore. Mildred will have my authorization to send it out as soon as you identify the frequency. How long will it take you?”

“How long, sir? I mean, I’ve already done it. It’s ready to go.”

Hiram looked to the ceiling. “Mildred, do you know the frequency?”

“Why certainly, Commander. I was intrigued by what Specialist Satore was doing. Did you know that many animals are sensitive to high frequency-”

“Stop!” Hiram ordered. AI’s were so easily distracted, like children. “Mildred, send it to all ships in the Fleet and explain to them how to use it.”

There was a slight pause. “It is done, Commander.”

Admiral Eder opened the comm to all ships. “This is the First Sea Lord. In a few moments, we will engage the enemy. Many of you have wondered how you would do when this moment came. I’ll tell you now: You will win! You will be victorious!” he thundered. “The reason why is simple: We are Victoria’s last hope. There is no one else to defend Cornwall. There is no one else to defend the Queen. The lives of your husbands and wives and your children all depend on what we do in the next hour. We will win in order to secure for Victoria, and our families, peace and hope in the future. What happens to us does not matter, but history will record that we did our duty and stood fast.

“Fight like you’ve never fought before. Kill the enemy! All of your dreams and hopes will be decided by what you do here today. I know that the fate of Victoria could not be in better hands. May the Gods of Our Mothers guide you and protect you. Lionheart out.”

Admiral Eder turned to Hiram. “Okay, Brill, let’s find out if we really are cleverer than that son of a bitch!”

On Board the Tilleke Sword Ship, Emperor’s Might

Prince RaShahid drew a breath, steadying himself. The Prince had not survived years under the Emperor’s tender mercies by being either weak or meek. He knew the enemy would try to fool him into making a mistake, but he would call their bluff and crush them. With a little luck, he would capture the enemy admiral and have the pleasure of adding another impaled body to the Emperor’s Throne Room.

The battle holo showed two forces branching out from the main Victorian Fleet, beginning an envelopment movement that they knew he would have to react to. But the missile barrage was coming from directly in front of him, not from the flanks. It was heavy, 260 missiles, and he would take some hits, but they had tipped their hand.

The flanking envelopment was a feint, a ruse to throw off his concentration and panic him into splitting up his force to deal with it. He suspected that most of those “ships” on his flanks were more of the damn decoys the Vickies loved so much. He would not be fooled and he would not panic. The real threat lay directly to his front. He would not be distracted, would not dilute his main thrust.

He would crush them, enslave any survivors, destroy their home world, give their women to his soldiers and slay their children before their eyes. And then he would return home to deal with his father.

Because that is what strong men do.

He opened the channel to speak to his Fleet captains. “Straight ahead! Continue straight ahead. The flanking maneuver is a ruse. Our enemy lies to the front! Destroy the scum who defy the Emperor! Avenge his honor! We outnumber the Victorians and have better ships and better men. Be strong, be faithful to the Emperor and victory shall be ours!”

The Prince sat down and crossed his legs. “Orders! I want five Swords to the front of the line! All available Shield ships to the front! Bring the remaining battleships up as soon as they can get here. And bring all the Hedgehogs forward immediately. Execute!”

That would leave two of his precious Swords in reserve, but would commit all the Shield ships and all the Hedgehogs. He would make an iron fist and smash through the Victorian line, break it up and then destroy the remnants one by one. He nodded, satisfied. He had the ships, had the better technology, and as God was his witness, he had the will.

The 260 missiles fired from the missile sleds arrived before the Hedgehogs did. Two of the Shield ships knocked out thirty with skilled use of their dampening fields. Twenty-four destroyers fired every anti-missile missile, laser and projectile they had, which was a lot. The three Hedgehogs already in the van moved forward, unerringly picking off incoming missiles. Forty more Vicky missiles succumbed, then another sixty. More and more Tilleke ships pushed forward, widening their line and expanding their firepower. Only 130 missiles were left, but now there were more ships aiming at fewer incoming missiles and they began to die in earnest.

“My Prince, there are more missiles coming in behind the first wave!” the Sensors Officer warned.

“How many?” the Prince demanded, irritated that he had to ask.

“Two hundred more!”

Prince RaShahid’s stomach tensed, but his mind exulted. He had been right! The true danger was directly to his front. The Vickies were putting all their eggs in one basket, hoping for a knockout blow. They wouldn’t get it, he would see to that.

“Orders! All ships to the front line. Fire on my command!” He wheeled about to the Sensors Officer. Do you have a lock-on their battleships?”

“Yes. Noble One,” the man said. “Three battleships in the center of their line, protected by at least four Hedgehogs and multiple destroyers.”

“Good. Feed the coordinates to the Fleet.” The Sensors Officer typed a command, then nodded to RaShahid. Meanwhile the last of the missiles fired by the Victorian missile sleds was killed a scant 300 miles short of its target.

The Prince commed to all ships. “Fire on those coordinates when your weapons bear!” Fifty Tilleke warships fired every missile they had on the coordinates representing the Victorian battleships and Hedgehogs.

The next wave of 200 Victorian missiles came in, but most of the Tilleke ships had not yet had time to reload their missile tubes and their lasers were still recharging. They fired their high-density pellets, hoping for the best. Another Shield ship reached the front and fired its dampening field, knocking out some of the incoming missiles, but 180 kept coming in.

As the Victorian missiles came in, the Tilleke missiles passed them going out. The Victorian battleships began to maneuver wildly, but to no avail. All three battleships were swarmed by Tilleke missiles and disappeared from the sensor screens. The destroyers and cruisers fared a bit better, scattering up and down, then wheeling about and racing away from the oncoming Tilleke forces.

“Press forward!” Prince RaShahid signaled his Fleet. “We’ve broken them! Attack! Kill them all!” The Victorian missiles struck then, killing four destroyers, two more of his precious Hedgehogs and damaging two Shields. One fell out of formation as its engine power abruptly reduced to 30%.

Prince RaShahid barely noticed. The enemy’s van had been smashed! “Ignore the flanks! Press forward!” he repeated to all ships.

Aboard Carrier Rabat; Aboard Grogon-57

Emily Tuttle watched the display board with growing anxiety. She watched as the Tilleke missiles tore apart the three Victorian battleships, her heart in her throat. Then her eyes narrowed and she looked intently at the battle holo. “Mildred, replay last ten seconds!”

The last moments of the Victorian battleships played again. Emily focused on the one labeled as the Lionheart, watched the way it frantically darted to one side, then turned up in an effort to escape. Something…something about those movements. Rather nimble for something as large as a battleship.

“Sensors!” she called out. “Any Omega drones?”

The Sensors Officer, caught up in the drama, visibly shook herself and then made a number of adjustments to her displays. She peered owlishly at the stream of data scrolling across the bottom of the display.

“Nothing, Commander.” She shrugged despondently. “The Omega drones may have been destroyed by the missile barrage.”

Emily turned to Captain Zar. “Take the bridge for a moment, Rahim. Get our gunboats back as quickly as possible and rearm them. We’ll be sending them out again right away.” Captain Zar looked surprised, but nodded. Emily walked to her Dayroom and shut the door. She looked up at the ceiling. “Mildred!”

“Yes, Commander?” Mildred responded immediately in her soft, soothing voice.

“Talk to me, Mildred,” Emily demanded. “Are those battleships really dead?”

On Grogon-57, Flanagan had fallen asleep, completely drained by the stress. Timothy Vinick doggedly ran diagnostics on his systems, which were in surprisingly good shape, all considering. Seeing Flanagan with her head on her chest, snoring loudly, Vinick also ran diagnostics of her weapons systems. They would rearm and go right back out, he knew. They needed the weapons systems in good shape, but she obviously needed some sleep.

“Got any coffee?” Perkins asked, smothering a yawn. The Pilot looked as if he had aged five years.

“Sure, Ronny,” Vinick answered and unclipped the thermos from under his chair. “Black, right?”

“I don’t care so long as it’s hot and has caffeine,” Perkins replied, accepting the sealed mug.

“How are the engines and steering?” Vinick asked, pouring his own coffee.

“Good, yeah, good,” Perkins said, managing to dribble a little coffee onto his flight survival suit. He smeared it dry with his thumb.

“Check them out,” Vinick told him sternly. “Once we rearm, they’ll send us out again.”

“Timmy, we killed a fucking battleship!” Perkins exclaimed happily. “How neat is that?”

Vinick smiled despite himself. “Neat, Perv, pretty damn neat. But check your engines and steering, okay?” The two men smiled big idiot grins at each other. Neither one of them thought they would survive the day, but here they were, with a dead Tilly battleship to their credit. Pretty damn neat, indeed.

Behind them, Linda Flanagan snored contentedly.

Aboard Tilleke Kraits 7, 13, 56, 61 and 89.

It wasn’t the gunboats they wanted, it was the carriers that they had launched from. First Sister Pilot watched dispassionately the small gunboat steaming 2,000 miles in front of her. She could beam some Savak on board the little craft and take her revenge, but she would rather follow it back to its home base, its carrier. She knew the Victorian carriers were out there, somewhere, powered down and hiding from her passive sensors, but they couldn’t be far and once she found them, she was going to give them a little something.

Something special.

Aboard the Dominion Frigate Draugr, Seconded to the Victorian Fleet

Captain Astrid Drechsher stared at the battle holo with a mix of consternation and amusement. So many targets! But her eyes were focused on just two: the remaining two Tilleke battleships. Her eyes darted over the holo, looking for the best way in…and the best way out. Everything she had done up until now had prepared her for this day. The thousands of hours in simulators. The hundreds of war games, sneaking in and “killing” her own battleships over and over again until every senior captain in the Dominion Fleet scowled at her upon sight. The bloody, grueling war with the Victorians.

And now she was here, oddly enough fighting with the Victorians, looking at a display filled with Tilleke warships and selecting her targets.

She called her key bridge crew together; the Pilot, Sensors and Weapons. She highlighted the two battleships on the display. “Those are the targets. I want continuous tracking of them from now on.”

The Weapons Officer looked aghast at the dozens of ships on the holo display. “So many ships! How are we going to get close enough to the battleships?”

Astrid Drechsher grinned. She told them her plan. As they listened, they glanced at each other, faces pale. It wasn’t so much a plan as it was a hope that the Gods would smile upon sheer audacity.

“And how will we get out?” asked the Pilot.

Drechsher shrugged nonchalantly. “That could be harder.”

Victorian Kraits 27, 28, 29, 33 and 41, Approaching the Carrier Rabat

The kraits carrying Captain Rafael Eitan’s Special Reconnaissance Force signaled the carriers Fes and Rabat well before they got within missile range. No need to risk being mistaken for Tilleke kraits and getting blown apart by trigger-happy missile crews. The five boats landed in one of the shuttle bays and were immediately swarmed by medical personnel who put the wounded on gurneys and raced off. Rafael watched Daniella Tal being wheeled away, her grey face covered with an oxygen mask, the charred stump of her arm across her chest.

Then he turned to his troops. “Bring your gear and get some food. I need you ready within an hour for whatever job they’ve got for us.”

They looked at each other, their faces hollow with fatigue, their clothes torn and often bloody. Then Private Amali straightened and slung her sniper rifle over her shoulder. “Yes, sir!” she said briskly, and hoisted her gear bag. Corporal Nur stood up and waived the others to their feet, then Sergeant Dotan lurched to his feet. “Let’s go, we’ll square away our gear and get some chow. Move it along, people!”

As they were leaving the shuttle bay, maintenance people scurried over the kraits like a hive of army ants, refueling, replenishing and getting them ready to fly again. Rafael Eitan wondered tiredly how much time his men would be given to rest before they were assigned to another unit and sent on another mission. An hour? Two? And he wondered if he, the Captain who had lost most of his Company, would get another assignment or be put on the bench.

On the Carrier Rabat

Emily walked back onto the bridge, humming to herself, but was careful to maintain a neutral face. Alex Rudd and Captain Zar both looked at her quizzically, but she said nothing.

“Status?” she asked, then winced inwardly – she’d only been gone five minutes.

“Five kraits carrying the Refuge Special Reconnaissance Forces have landed here to replenish their kraits and grab some chow. These are the guys who knocked out one of the Tilly battleships,” Captain Zar told her. Emily’s emotions soared when she realized that Rafael might be on board. Maybe, if things stayed real slow, she could take a minute to see him.

“Also, the last of the gunboats are returning now, Commander,” Zar told her formally. Some went to the Fes for refurbishment, the rest are here or have gone on to Haifa, Rishon and Ashdod.” He stood still, looking at her and Emily felt a chill. She hated to ask, but did anyway.

“Losses?”

“Thirty-three percent.”

Emily stared at him. That was much, much worse than she had feared. She did the math in her head. “Thirty-nine boats lost?” she asked in a small voice.

“Yes, Ma’am,” Zar answered woodenly. “And ten of the ships that made it back were damaged, two severely. We’re working on the eight ships that can be repaired quickly, but they’ll still be out of action for at least two or three hours. The other two won’t be ready for days.”

Emily worked through the terrible math of war. Seventy-nine ships returned, but two would not be available for the battle, so make it seventy-seven ships. Plus, she held forty-one ships in reserve, so a total of 118. But if she committed the 118 to battle, she would have no reserve. None. Which put her five carriers at risk of annihilation if they were discovered. That was unacceptable, but could she kill another battleship with only seventy-seven gunboats?

Before she could say anything, a horn sounded loudly throughout the bridge and, in fact, throughout the ship. It was a new sound just added to the array of sounds used to signal an alarm or emergency. It had only been used once in a drill to acquaint the crew with what it sounded like. It was an ugly, abrasive sound, a stuttering shriek of a horn that made the hair stand up on the back of one’s neck and left your insides quivering.

“Warning! Warning!” Mildred said over the ship-wide comm. “There are five Huk on board on Deck 6. Further, there are fifty-six Savak commandos on board on Decks 3, 8 and 9. All personnel should be armed. Warning!”

Rafael Eitan had just sat down to a cup of coffee and a plate of hot food when the alarm blared. Across the table, Sergeant Dotan looked at him incredulously. Then everyone grabbed a weapon and stood up. “Mildred,” Rafael called. “Direct me to the nearest Huk.”

“I have contained the Huk in a room on Deck 6,” the AI responded, calm as always. “The Huk cannot leave that room. Unfortunately, the Savak are moving toward the bridge along Decks 3, 8 and 9.”

Rafael’s eyebrows went up when Mildred said she had “contained” the Huk, but he’d figure that out after the Savak had been dealt with. The bridge entrance was on Deck 8, but much closer to the center of the carrier than he and his troops were in the mess hall.

“Mildred, alert the bridge to close all hatchways and tell them we will be there in…?” He paused. How long would it take them to reach the bridge?

“Approximately fifteen minutes,” Mildred supplied helpfully.

“Go!” Rafael shouted to the others. “Mildred, send best route to my visor and indicate ETA for the Savak.”

A pulsing line of green lights appeared in his visor, with arrows helpfully pointing in the direction they were to follow. As they pounded along, a countdown appeared in friendly blue in the upper left corner of the visor, while the Savak ETA appeared in red in the upper right. Rafael cursed, the Savak would get there at least five minutes ahead of them.

“Mildred, other friendly forces available?”

“There are two platoons of Royal Marines presently engaging the Savak on Deck 3. There are two more platoons in the rear portion of the Rabat who will not be able to reach the bridge until ten minutes after your arrival. Two Marines are inside the bridge and five more Marines are immediately outside, defending the main entrance. Thirty-five other Marines are scattered throughout the ship. Five Marines have already been killed or wounded by the intruders. The two who were killed both received damage to their skulls sufficient-”

“Stop!” Rafael said. Why did they make AI’s so damn chatty? “Send word to the other Marine platoons that we are making our way to the bridge and will arrive there shortly after the Savak do.”

“Of course, Captain.”

Rafael glanced left and right at his troops. Everyone still looked exhausted from their fight on the Tilly battleship. His visor showed they were still 500 yards from the bridge. He sucked in a deep lungful of air. “Faster, people! Pick up the pace!” He stepped up the pace himself while behind him, amidst groans and muttered curses, his small group kicked it up to stay with him.

In his visor, the red ETA countdown reached zero.

At the bridge entrance, the five Royal Marines waited crouched down, assault rifles at the ready. Around the bend of the passageway, just out of sight, forty-five Savak commandos gathered silently. The Platoon Leader was, as usual, an Aret1. He had twenty-five of the agile Brets and twenty of the more cumbersome Crets, but for once he wasn’t annoyed. He knew there would be a Marine guard at the entrance to the bridge, and the Crets – stolid, obedient, and fearless – were perfect for the job. Most of them would die, but they had a stubborn genius for dying hard and making the enemy pay.

The Platoon Leader signaled the Crets to gather round, then in swift sign language told them what they had to do. The twenty Crets listened impassively, seemingly unconcerned as the Leader gave his orders. When he was done, he nodded to them, acknowledging the sacrifice they were about to make. “You will die in grace,” he signed, “and all who do so live forever through their Brothers. Everlasting glory to the Emperor! Now go and do your duty.”

Without a word, the Crets lined up in two lines against the wall. The Cret in the front held up a hand, then pointed one finger, two fingers and on the third they all charged around the corner. Never making a sound. Silent as death and just as charming.

For the Marines, one moment the corridor was empty, and then it was full of charging men firing blasters, sonic rifles and flechette rifles. Had the Marines the presence of mind to notice, they would have realized that the weapons were all standard-issue Marine assault weapons the Cret had taken off the bodies of their earlier victims.

But they didn’t have time to notice. The Marines opened fire with everything they had and cut a bloody swath through the line of Crets lumbering at them. Five Crets fell, then a Marine took a sonic blast in the face and went down. The Crets grew closer and more died, but a second Marine caught a flechette burst in the throat and fell back choking and spraying blood.

More Crets died, but more kept coming. The three Marines instinctively stepped back, but their backs struck the large hatchway entrance to the bridge.

There was nowhere to go.

“Fuck!” one of them screamed and fired his blaster point-blank into the oncoming Cret. The two nearest Cret blew into pieces, spattering floor, walls and ceiling with gore and blood, but the three Cret behind them hammered the Marine with sonic blasts that pulverized his combat helmet and crushed his skull.

Leaving two Marines, one of whom pulled two grenades from his belt. Screaming at the top of his lungs, he pressed the firing studs and blew away everyone within a thirty-foot radius.

Where one moment there had been a bitter scrum of fighting soldiers, in the next there was nothing but scraps and remnants and the gagging smell of offal. Not a single body within the blast radius remained intact. Legs flew and arms spun through the air, whilst heads careened about wildly, finally crunching into walls and dropping soggily to the deck. The Marine who triggered the grenades simply vanished, 190 pounds of muscled young soldier turned into a red mist, which was slowly sucked into the ship’s air exchanger.

And after the shattering roar and the belch of smoke, two bloody Cret survivors stood in the corridor, deafened and stunned, covered with the flesh and entrails of their companions.

Victorious.

Inside the bridge, Emily Tuttle watched the entire thing on monitors, until the grenades exploded and wiped out the cameras mounted over the bridge entrance. There was the concussive bang! of the grenades against the hatchway, followed by an ominous silence.

Emily turned to her bridge crew. “Make sure you have a weapon; check to make sure it is loaded and ready.” No one said anything, but if this group of Savak had captured Victorian weapons, it was also possible that they had captured explosives. Some of the Marines carried small shaped charges that could blow open a hatchway, and there were small emergency armories scattered throughout the ship. If the Savak had gotten into one of those…well, it didn’t bear thinking about.

“Commander,” one of the two Marines addressed her. He wore a private’s stripes and looked all of eighteen years old, but he was calm and seemed to be thinking this through. “If they get that hatchway open, we’re in deep shit. We need to build a barricade that we can fight behind. I’d suggest that we fortify the Sensors Officer’s console. That’s the strongest structure on the bridge and we can put five, maybe six people behind it with pretty good cover.”

“Do it,” Emily told him. She pointed to three of the bridge crew. “You three, help him.” She turned to the other Marine. “What else should we be doing?”

The other Marine was not quite as confident as the first. “Ma’am, I– I don’t, I mean…” his voice trailed off.” He glanced helplessly at the first Marine. “Hey, Tucker, what else?”

Tucker looked back over his shoulder. “Well, calling for help wouldn’t be a bad idea.”

Emily shook her head in embarrassment at not having thought of it herself. Some Commander she was! Thumbing the comm button, she spoke: “This is the bridge. We have approximately fifteen Savak about to break through the hatchway. Anyone close enough to assist should get to the bridge right away. If there is a Marvin available, send it immediately. I repeat, the bridge is about to be breached. We need help.”

Then she thought of what else was going on. She activated the comm: “All gunboats, get armed and refueled and launch another attack on your best target. If this carrier is unable to recover you on your return, go to whatever carrier is open. Leave the ship as fast as you can. We are under attack and don’t know if we will be able to control the Gunboat Bays. Everyone else on board, arm yourselves! You have drilled for this! Use Mildred to track the enemy. Get into groups and fight!”

What next? Private Tucker had ushered everyone away from the entrance since it was expected to go Boom! and fly across the room at any moment. He also diplomatically reminded a couple of the science ratings, who hadn’t handled weapons since Basic Training, that it was not considered polite to point their fucking weapons at each other and to please keep their fucking fingers off the fucking trigger until they were actually shooting.

Emily’s gaze fell upon her Dayroom. Why hadn’t they ever reinforced it to act as a safe room in this type of event? Still…

“Private Tucker, can we do anything with the Dayroom that would be useful?” she asked politely. But before Tucker could reply, the comm speaker crackled.

“This is Lieutenant Holland with a platoon of thirty-four. We are on Deck 9 about twelve or thirteen minutes out. We have sent a Marvin ahead of us.”

Then: “Sergeant Rubinow, with a team of five, no more than four minutes. Please alert that Marvin there are friendly troops in the area.

And finally: “Captain Eitan here, Refuge Special Reconnaissance Forces, with twenty-nine troops. Hang tight, bridge, we’ll be there in just two minutes. And Holland, my men do not have any transponder IDs, so keep that Marvin back. Repeat, keep your pet chained.”

Too late to help, probably, Emily thought. But she took some comfort from the fact that he would be close by when her time came. With forced cheerfulness, she thumbed the comm: “Glad to have you in the neighborhood, SRF. We’ll be waiting on a tree branch twenty feet off the ground,” she replied. She ignored the confused looks of her bridge crew.

One last thing. Emily connected to the carrier Fes. Captain Rice’s face appeared. “Captain Rice,” Emily said formally. “Savak commandos are about to enter our bridge. I am transferring command of the carrier task force to you until this is…resolved. Launch the gunboats as soon as you can. Tuttle out.” She closed the channel before Rice could reply.

She flipped the safety off on her assault rifle and got down behind the Sensors console. Beside her, Private Tucker looked impossibly young.

At the hatchway, Platoon Leader Aret1 nodded to one of the Brets, who set the shaped charge against the hatchway. The Savak scampered back to safety and Bret9 pushed the firing stud. Without ceremony, the hatchway blew off its hinges and into the bridge. Pieces of plastic and metal flew through the air and rattled off the walls.

Then the Savak were up and running for the entrance, weapons firing.

Chapter 60

The Battle for Victoria

Fight!

“Press forward!” Prince RaShahid signaled his Fleet. “We’ve broken them! Attack! Kill them all!”

In front of them, hundreds of jammers lit up, masking everything that was in the Victorian line. Twenty missiles came out of that electronic cloud, then ten more, but to the Prince the effort seemed halfhearted and desultory.

“Targets, do we have targets?” he demanded.

“The jamming is too intense, My Prince,” the Sensors Officer answered. “We must get closer.”

“Launch the reconnaissance drones,” Prince RaShahid ordered. He didn’t want the Vickies to slip away under the cover of the jammers. “All missiles and lasers prepare to fire on my order.”

Another clutch of missiles burst out of the Victorian jammer cloud, only to be slapped aside by the Tilleke Hedgehogs.

“We are about to enter the jamming field, Noble Born,” the Sensors Officer told him.

Prince RaShahid frowned. Was there a note of warning in his voice? He glared at the Sensors Officer, who kept his gaze on his instruments, refusing to meet his eyes. “All ships!” he commed. “Be ready! If you pick up a Victorian ship, fire at will!”

They entered the jammer cloud.

As they entered, five different Victorian reconnaissance drones picked them up and transmitted their location to the battleship Lionheart, which was masquerading as a destroyer on the left flank of the Tilleke advance.

Admiral Eder nodded and grinned at Hiram, standing beside him. “You said he’d go for it, Brill. I wasn’t sure I believed you, but by damn he did.”

The holo display had a grid superimposed over it. They watched in silence as the Tilleke fleet crossed deeper and deeper into the area marked by the grid. About a third of the front portion of the Tilleke line was inside it now.

“Deep enough, do you think?” Admiral Eder mused.

“Give it another two minutes, sir. We want to bag all we can.” Hiram watched intently for any signs that the Prince realized what was going to happen, but the Tilleke relentlessly plowed forward.

Finally, “About now should be good, sir,” Hiram suggested.

“All flanking ships,” Eder ordered. “Be ready on my command.” He turned to Hiram. “Do it, Brill, you get the honors.”

Hiram pushed a button. One tiny button.

The Tilleke ships spotted Victorian ships appearing out of the jammer gloom and, one by one, destroyed them. So far five Victorian cruisers, eight destroyers and, of course, the three battleships.

The Weapons Officer frowned. He’d scored a hit on a destroyer at 6,000 miles, which promptly blinked off the sensor display, but then reappeared a moment later. This time, however, the computer identified it as an enemy cruiser. That didn’t make sense, unless the first sensor reading was in error, or – A thought came to him, a terrible thought, but before he could work it through, the jamming stopped.

One second the sensors were a hash of electronic noise, then the next they were clear. And empty.

The first thing the Sensors Officer saw was that there were no Victorian ships around them.

“My Prince!” he called out in alarm. Prince RaShahid turned, eyes narrowing. Why was this man always afraid?

The Prince never did find out what the man was trying to tell him.

Hiram pressed the second button.

Three hundred and two mines woke from their electronic sleep and turned on their active sensors. It took six seconds to sweep the area.

Targets were plentiful. Each mine locked onto the nearest target and fired all five of its short-range missiles. Even with all those missiles, fifteen of the Tilleke ships managed to survive. Some mines were out of range, some targeted the same ship, some failed to fire. But as the fifteen survivors staggered away from the kill zone, the Victorian ships hugging the flanks turned inward and fired their missiles. A few minutes later the last of those Tilleke ships were dead.

Then the Victorian ships wheeled about and raced to the center of the Tilleke line, which was already under attack by the second wave of gunboats.

But Hiram Brill had one more idea. “Admiral? May I suggest one more task for the minelayers?”

Admiral Eder, exultant from crushing the Tilleke van, smiled indulgently. “Gods’ Hairy Balls, Brill, right now you can have just about anything you want.”

Hiram told him.

Grogon-57 bore in on the Tilleke battleship, one of ninety grogin in the attack. This time the entire center of the Tilleke line was turning to meet them, everyone firing everything they had to ward off the dangerous little ships. Perkins was chasing the light red spots in his visor, bobbing and weaving erratically to prevent a lock-on by the Tilleke sensors, trying to avoid a head-on collision with fate.

Behind him Linda Flanagan and Timothy Vinick had strapped themselves in tight to avoid being tossed around like the last time. This time there was no banter, no jokes, not even terse commentary. They all knew their jobs and did them in grim silence.

They all knew the odds.

Chapter 61

Gandalf and Mildred

“Do you see it? Right there, the center of the Tilleke line is turning to meet the gunboat threat,” Mildred said excitedly.

Gandalf was less impressed. “And they will crush the gunboats with their superior firepower. Then they will come for the Atlas.”

Mildred was disappointed. Gandalf saw, but he didn’t understand. They weren’t looking at an actual battle holo, of course. They were computers, they could look at the raw data and see what humans saw when they looked at a holo.

“You need to read more military history,” she chided Gandalf. “With the front of their forces under attack, the center had two options, to move rapidly forward and support the van, or to turn and deal with the gunboats. Instead of moving forward to support the major thrust, they turned.”

Gandalf said nothing, but radiated impatience.

“Don’t you see?” Mildred pressed. “With that move, the Tilleke have just lost the battle! The Victorians could not beat them as one fleet against another, but by breaking the Tilleke fleet into pieces, they can defeat them in detail.”

“Nonsense!” Gandalf countered. “Even now the Tilleke have as many ships as the Victorians, and the Tilleke ships are in much better condition.”

“Perhaps,” Mildred said, with just a hint of smugness. “But they no longer have the initiative. Control of the battle just shifted to Victoria. Now the Tilleke will be playing catch-up, and unless I am very mistaken, the Victorians won’t give them that chance.”

“In a contest of power versus skill, it is never wise to underestimate the value of raw power,” Gandalf said firmly.

“Of course you’re right,” Mildred said sweetly. “That must be why the bull always defeats the matador.”

Chapter 62

The Battle for Victoria

The two fleets collided. Chaos, written in blood.

Three Victorian kraits transported ninety Marines onto a Tilleke cruiser. They fought their way to the bridge, but the cruiser was then destroyed by the second wave of gunboats.

In the midst of the confusion, Captain Astrid Drechsher snuck to within 1,000 miles of a Tilleke cruiser and put four missiles into her propulsion plant. The cruiser lost power and began to tumble, bleeding air, burning and powerless.

Drechsher turned to look for bigger game. There were two enemy battleship left out there and she meant to find them.

The Victorian battleship Fortitude, only recently won from the Dominions, strayed too close to a Sword ship and had her bow cut off. Airtight hatchways kept the ship alive, but she had lost all of her sensors and could do nothing but stagger away. Tilleke destroyers dogged her with volley after volley of missiles and she finally blew up an hour later with the loss of her entire crew.

Two Victorian battleships left.

A Tilleke krait beamed two Huk aboard the battleship Lionheart, but Mildred used the newly discovered noise command to drive the wailing beasts into a shuttle bay. Then she opened the outer doors and the decompression blast threw them both into space.

Another Tilleke krait ship transported sixty Savak onto the cruiser Kiwi, where they began to massacre the crew in a blood frenzy. Faced with the imminent loss of his ship, Captain Lambert activated the self-destruction protocol and the ship fireballed.

Three more Tilleke kraits coasted in to within 9,000 miles of the Victorian battleship Vengeance, but before they could activate their transporters, the Laughing Owl, Barn Owl and Fish Owl blew them to hell.

It was several minutes before the Tilleke realized their Prince was dead, and another four minutes before one of the remaining battleship captains took the initiative to assume command and bring some order to the Tilleke Fleet. Captain Khansari was an older, grizzled man who had kept his head down and his mouth shut and simply done his best. He was from a minor noble family which was obsessively apolitical. Khansari had never heard of Woody Allen, but would have agreed with the great philosopher’s adage that “80% of success is showing up.”

Khansari was uninspired and uninspiring, but he knew something about fighting.

He had seen the deaths of the first two battleships. Now the strength of the Fleet lay with his ship, the Emperor’s Fist, and the other surviving battleship, the Emperor’s Gift. “All ships, he ordered calmly. “Gather to Emperor’s Fist. We will defeat this rabble, but only if we stop fighting like rabble ourselves.”

Obediently, the rest of the Tilleke Fleet turned from wherever they were and began to move toward the Emperor’s Fist.

“Oh, ho,” Gandalf said with perverse satisfaction. “Do you see that? Amid the confusion, the Tilleke are reorganizing. Are you still so certain the Victorians are going to win?”

Mildred examined the data of the battle, first focusing on the Tilleke line. Then she zoomed in. Then she zoomed out. Then she chuckled softly.

“Perhaps,” she said. “We shall see.”

Gandalf frowned. “Do you know something I do not?”

“How could that be?” she asked innocently. “We both have the same data.”

Behind the Sensors console, Private Tucker shouted, “Hold! Hold! Hold!” And as the first dark shape emerged from the smoke, “Fire! Shoot ‘em!”

The Sensors console was about 50 degrees off center of the entrance, so all of the suppressing fire of the Savak blasted impotently into an empty area. As the Savak came through the entrance, the fire from twelve assault weapons was a rude surprise.

The Communications Officer stood up to get better aim, firing her rifle in rapid three-shot bursts of flechettes. One of the Savak saw her and snapped off a shot. Her neck disappeared in a blast of sonic energy and her head lolled to the side. She dropped straight down without so much as a whimper, her rifle clattering over the far side of the console. Emily cursed and fired her Bullpup as rapidly as she could, popping in a fresh energy pack when it ran dry. Private Tucker risked a quick glance, snapping off a shot as he did so.

“They’re inside, backing up against the Dayroom,” he told the others. “We have to keep them from moving to the back of the bridge or they’ll have a clear shot at us.”

Emily glanced about. The Weapons console was at a 90 degree angle to the Sensors console and would give them a little protection. Toby Partridge was next to her, hefting a blaster. Next to him Master Chief Gibson had a sonic rifle. “Toby, Master Chief, on me,” she said, then crawled away from the cover of the Sensors console and slithered – not very dignified, but it worked – behind the relative safety of the Weapons console.

“Mildred!” she called once the three of them were there, speaking loudly enough to be heard over the racket of constant firing and screams.

“Yes, Commander?”

“In five seconds, I want you to turn off the lights and cut the gravity for two seconds, then turn on the lights and one second later turn on the gravity. Execute now.” She turned to the others. “Grab hold of something!”

Emily grabbed the pedestal of a chair with her left hand. The lights went out and the gravity disappeared. She could feel her body begin to rise. She stood up, rifle aimed clumsily towards the Dayroom. Beside her Gibson and Partridge did the same.

The lights came back on and with it, the gravity. Eight Savak soldiers were floating at waist height, but as the gravity returned they fell to the floor in a heap. Emily, Toby and Gibson opened fire, pouring it on from less than thirty feet. The eight Savak rolled helplessly trying to avoid the fire, but one by one their bodies shuddered under the impact and they lay still.

Emily was just starting to congratulate herself when the two grenades flew into the bridge and blew up.

The blast threw her backwards over the Captain’s chair into the wall. The world retreated to a muffled fog, an oddly soothing place where she heard noises, but at a great distance, and saw vague shapes moving back and forth through her field of vision.

More shooting, more screams. Some things clicked into clarity. She distinctly saw a Beach Ball careen into three men and blow up. Yet more screams. Clever to use the Beach Ball, she thought mildly. A man stood over her with a gun. She didn’t recognize the uniform. That’s not good, she thought. Then the man was gone and another man with a gun was standing there. He was swearing. Loudly. What was he so excited about? She couldn’t see his face behind his visor, but she could read his name tag.

“Your little sister won’t be happy with you,” she said through chapped lips. Her voice sounded like a creaking hinge. “Swearing like a trooper. And what will your mothers say?” Then Rafael was gone and another person was there.

The world lurched jarringly into focus, sort of.

“Hello, Admiral Wilkinson,” Emily said, very carefully. (It came out, Vello, Hadmil Kiltison.) Talking took an effort, and it hurt her head, which reminded her of the night she drank Wilkinson’s gin. “I can assure you that I am not suffering any emotional trauma. And I promise I will never drink gin again. Now if you could just help me sit up.”

“You’ll get up when I say you can get up, and not a minute earlier,” Wilkinson said brusquely, waving some medical instrument around Emily’s head. She read the display on the sensor and grunted. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to play at being an infantryman? It is not your strong suit, Commander, I must tell you. But apparently you have a very thick head.”

“Could have told you that,” Rafael said from out of Emily’s line of vision.

Wilkinson ignored him. “No sign of concussion, but you have nonetheless been knocked ass-over-tea-kettle, so you’re going to have to take it easy for a bit.”

Emily thought that was hilarious and had to repress a fit of giggles. A jiggle of giggles? A gaggle of giggles? Damn, get hold of yourself! Still on her back she called out, “Alex, report!”

But there was only silence. Another person slid into view, kneeling beside her. “Commander, Commander Rudd has been taken to Sick Bay; he’s in a med tank,” Toby Partridge said.

Emily looked at him, initially confused, then horrified as his words penetrated. “He’s alive,” Toby said hurriedly, “but he’s hurt pretty bad. Sonic blast to his chest.” He glanced at Wilkinson, appealing for help.

“Commander Rudd is in good hands,” Wilkinson said briskly. “Right now I am more concerned with you.” Actually, she had already been notified that Alex Rudd had died minutes after they had put him in the tank, but there was no way she was going to tell Emily just now.

With a grunt of pain, Emily pushed herself up to a sitting position. The room swam a little, then settled down except for the railing around the Captain’s Chair, which undulated in the most annoying fashion. “Where’s Captain Zar?” she asked. The pain was more intense but her thoughts were clearing rapidly.

“Here, Commander Tuttle,” he said from behind her.

“Come around where I can see you, Rahim,” she said testily. “My neck isn’t turning too well just now.” When he stood before her, he looked as if he had aged ten years.

“How is the ship?”

“We’re functioning,” he said. “It’s not pretty, but we have power and the repair crews will have the bridge functioning within a few minutes. Most of it, anyway.” Emily looked around – several consoles were shot-up or blown apart.

“And the gunboats?” Without the gunboats the Rabat was little more than a very expensive hotel in space.

“All gunboats launched without incident and right now are attacking the Tilleke Fleet.”

Emily breathed a sigh of relief. “Do we have any gunboats in reserve?”

Zar grimaced. “Twenty. Eight gunboats had system failures during the launch and Captain Rice ordered eight from the reserve to join the attack.”

Emily blinked. “Do we have a battle holo up?”

Zar nodded. “Let me bring you up to date with the Lionheart’s breakthrough.”

Then Mildred interrupted. “Warning, enemy force is organizing around its two remaining battleships and may be preparing to attack our position.”

Emily nodded. “Admiral Wilkinson, I need a stimulant and some food,” she said in a tone that would brook no resistance. “Mildred, show me the battle holo. Replay the last hour at 10X speed.”

She began to watch the holo, noting with approval how Admiral Eder had lured the Tilleke van into the minefield. She saw two unknown ships – destroyers? – darting in towards the Fes and Rabat and the Victorian destroyers on perimeter guard turning to confront them.

Then she saw the Code Omega alert, and everything just seemed to stop. She turned slowly to where Captain Zar and Toby Partridge were watching her apprehensively. Captain Zar nodded, grimacing.

“It was two Tilly destroyers,” he explained. “Don’t know why we didn’t pick them up on sensors, but suddenly there they were.” He looked away, then back at Emily. “Before our destroyers could react, they pounced on Fes, then turned and ran. Our destroyers got one and might have damaged the other, but couldn’t catch it and couldn’t chase it too far without exposing themselves to heavy fire from the Tillies.” He shrugged apologetically. “It happened in an instant, Commander, and when it was over Fes was gone.”

Five thousand, three hundred men and women, plus whatever Grogin were on board.

Now they were down to four carriers.

Grogon-57 sped on. The line of Tilleke ships had turned towards them now and a wall of anti-missile fire was coming at them. Perkins fired chaff and jammers and dove the sturdy little gunboat down, accelerating until they were a good 10,000 miles under the oncoming Tillies. The other grogin followed suit, diving under or climbing over the immediate incoming fire. Most made it.

Vinick scanned his display. They were down to eighty-three gunboats and no one had fired a missile at the battleships yet. “Got a lock yet?” he asked Linda Flanagan, who shook her head.

“Shitload of jammers out there; have to get closer or send in a recon bird.”

As it turned out, someone beat them to the punch. One of the recon drones somehow survived and suddenly began transmitting a clear picture of the front line of the Tilleke ships. The two battleships were slightly off center to the left, running side by side about 3,000 miles apart, close enough so that their anti-missile batteries could defend each other. Other ships – destroyers and cruisers – spread out in a line on either side of them. Significantly, they were all on the same plane, which would minimize their defenses to attacks from above or below.

“Mildred identifies the big boys as the Emperor’s Fist and the Emperor’s Gift!” Vinick said loudly, feeling the excitement build. “Recommend current heading until we are under them and then launching everything.”

“This fucking Emperor must be the most narcissistic bastard in history!” Flanagan gritted. “Is he so insecure that he has to name every ship after himself? Does he really think we’re going to forget who’s attacking us? I mean, really?”

Perkin’s visor was showing more pink and less red and he breathed out shakily. “Getting’ too old for this,” said the twenty-two-year-old pilot. “Mildred, plot a course to swing up directly underneath Emperor’s Fist.”

In a moment a red line appeared on his holo display and on his navigation visor. Perkins scanned it quickly. “Give countdown display until turn-up.” A countdown timer appeared in the upper right hand corner. “Good!” He opened a channel to the Task Force Leader. “TFL, this is Five Seven. Have computed best pathway to launch point on Emperor’s Fist. Permission to transmit to all Task Force boats?”

“Five Seven, TFL, you lead in the boats that are below the bogies. I will take in the boats from the top. I am instructing Mildred to share your pathway and launch point with the appropriate boats.”

“Bugger me,” Perkins complained. “Now I’ve got to lead everyone in.”

“Natural born leader, Perv,” Flanagan smirked.

“Yeah, yeah. Dammit, I can’t wait for this war to be over so I can go back to what I was doing.”

He seemed so generally chagrined that Flanagan couldn’t help but ask: “Okay, what was your job before they made you a pilot?”

Perkins suddenly looked sheepish. “I was a dance instructor. You know, for people who were going to get married, or were going to weddings, stuff like that. I was pretty good at it,” he said defiantly. “And the money was good.”

“Wonders never cease,” Flanagan muttered.

“One minute to turn-up!” Mildred announced.

Captain Astrid Drechsher watched the battle display intently. As the Tilleke column turned to meet the incoming Victorian gunboats, their crisp formation suddenly got messy, with some ships turning wider than others and changing places in the process. A couple of ships crowded too closely together and had to maneuver sharply to avoid disaster.

“Right there!” she pointed to a small gap between two ships close by Tilly battleships. “Pilot, put us right there, positioned just a little behind them. We want to be part of the group, but not on the forward edge. Just ease into it, nice and steady.”

The pilot made the adjustments and the frigate Draugr accelerated from behind the turning Tilleke vessels and into the gap left between two of the enemy cruisers. For what seemed like an eternity, the entire crew of the Draugr held their breaths, waiting nervously for a blast of missiles that would reduce them to their basic elements, or worse.

“Okay,” Drechsher said, trying to keep the quaver out of her voice, “match their speed. Then we wait. And Sensors, as soon as the gunboats fire their missiles, make sure our IFF is on.” Of course, the IFF was useless against Victorian lasers, one does what one can and leaves the rest to…random chance.

There were perhaps four dozen Tilleke ships in their general vicinity, all intent on Victorian gunboats in front of them. The Draugr plowed along with them, trying to look like one of the gang. Captain Drechsher was reminded of an old story her grandmother used to read her when she was little, about a delightfully silly bear pretending to be a rain cloud in order to sneak up to a bee hive and steal honey. The bear jumped off an upper branch with an umbrella, with disastrous results. Back then her six-year-old self was so scornful of the bear and its inane tricks.

And now, here she was, umbrella in hand, jumping off the branch.

She smiled. Old memories. Good memories. She wondered what her Oma would think of her now.

On Grogon-57, Mildred called, “Thirty seconds to turn-up!”

Perkins flexed his hands and wiggled his fingers. Vinick ran his eye over his console displays to confirm everything was running smoothly, and for the tenth time Flanagan armed the missiles and confirmed the lasers were ready.

“Front lasers, then all four missiles, then we turn down and away and fire the rear laser!” Vinick said loudly.

“Then we run like hell,” Perkins muttered, eyes constantly scanning the display for threats. There were some, but nothing of the density they’d encountered coming in. He hoped it wasn’t some elaborate trap – the Tillies were known for their traps.

“All weapons ready, just get us into firing position,” Flanagan said.

“Turn-up in five seconds,” Mildred said calmly. “Four, three, two, one, now!”

Perkins hit the bow thrusters to tilt the nose of the boat up 90 degrees and added acceleration. Around him, forty-two other grogin turned up simultaneously. Perkins grinned broadly. This is just so damn cool! he thought.

“Forty seconds to launch!” Mildred said. A countdown insert appeared in the right corner of their displays.

Now they were rushing up towards the hull of the Emperor’s Gift, which loomed larger and larger in their display but was still not visible to the human eye.

At the Sensors display, Vinick saw a wave of anti-missiles reach down for them. “Got their attention now!” he said, his throat tightening. Hard to be professional sometimes when you’re scared to death. “Lots of chaff and a shitload of missiles coming at us.”

“I have solid lock-on the battleship!” Flanagan announced. “As soon as you get us to launch point, I’ll fire and let the missiles find their way in. Even with the chaff, they’ll know where to go.”

“Mildred, time when the Tilleke missiles reach us?” Vinick asked.

“Thirty-two point three seconds.”

Perkins checked his firing countdown: twenty-seven seconds. Plenty of time.

Then, at long last: “Launch! Launch!” Mildred intoned.

Linda Flanagan mashed the laser buttons and the two ten-inch lasers both fired.

“Hit on its bow!” Vinick shouted. “Shoot the missiles!”

Another button. Four missiles leapt from their launchers. More than 300 other missiles from the other gunboats joined them, reaching out for the enormous Tilleke battleship with the fervent single-mindedness that only fanatics and weapons of war possess.

On the Draugr, Captain Drechsher watched as an avalanche of anti-missile fire poured from the battleships and smashed headlong into the Victorian missiles. The Victorian missiles were aimed at the Emperor’s Gift. Dozens of Tilleke ships were suddenly turning and firing at where they thought the gunboats might be – they were small and stealthy little beasts, after all.

She glanced at the holo and smiled. Most of the screening destroyers covering the Emperor’s Fist had moved over to protect the Emperor’s Gift.

Drechsher ordered the pilot to bring the Draugr in line with the Emperor’s Fist.

“Captain, multiple missile and laser hits on the first Tilly battleship,” her Sensors Officer reported. The gunboats would turn and run, Drechsher knew, but they had a ten-inch laser stinger in their tail, so in a moment there would be more laser strikes.

“Distance to target?” she asked the Sensors Officer.

“Two thousand miles, Captain,” he answered immediately.

Try to get closer or take the shot while she still had it? With all these damn Tilly ships careening about like drunks at a bachelor party, one of them was bound to trip over the Draugr soon. She glanced at the display – with the recent movement of the ships near them, the Draugr was now surrounded. How long before some junior sensors tech wondered just who the hell this little ship was and investigated?

“Pilot, accelerate towards the Emperor’s Fist. Weapons! Launch the missiles at 1,500 miles, then shoot them in the ass with the lasers. Reload and shoot a second round of missiles if you can.”

The Draugr surged forward. Amidst the chaos of the gunboat attack, no one seemed to notice them. Tilleke ships were turning and weaving or firing off anti-missile missiles, lasers and pellets. The space in front of the battleships was torn with explosions and cluttered with chaff. Out there, somewhere, she knew, the crews of the Vicky gunboats were desperately trying to get out of the kill zone. Maybe not Yogurt Soldiers after all.

Then the Emperor’s Gift’s hull ruptured in a dozen places, belching fire. The great ship seemed to stagger sideways as a massive explosion burst out of the ruined hull, added to the debris. Then the battleship began to tumble.

One Tilleke battleship left.

But not for long. Drechsher grinned savagely.

“Permission to launch, Captain?” They had reached the launch point. The Weapons Officer looked at her.

Captain Drechsher nodded once. Six ship-killer missiles launched from their tubes and sped away towards the Emperor’s Fist.

“Lasers,” she said. The four heavy lasers fired serially and the capacitors began their shrill recharging.

“Take us out, Pilot,” she said calmly. There was no chance they would make it out, but not all of her crew understood that. It was important that they have hope, however illusionary.

The ship turned violently, everyone grabbing for a handhold.

“Hits! Confirmed missile hits on the Fist’s propulsion plant! Three, no, four! Laser hits to the same area!” The Weapons Officer was shouting, pounding his console. “She’s definitely losing power! We didn’t kill her, but she’s hurting. Her systems are off-line!”

The bridge crew cheered and clapped each other on the back, but the Sensors Officer stepped up to her and whispered, “Captain, at least twelve ships have turned and are scanning for us with active sensors. We’re already in the red zone and the missile launch told them exactly where we are.”

She smiled and put a finger to her lips. “We’ve done a great thing, let them enjoy it.”

While the Sensors Officer returned to his chair, Captain Astrid Drechsher leaned back, closed her eyes and thought about her Oma, and funny little bears who stole honey from trees.

The honey was very sweet.

Chapter 63

Gandalf and Mildred

“So, was that the surprise you referred to?” Gandalf asked, sounding rather petulant, for a computer.

“That was one of them,” Mildred replied, sounding rather smug, for a computer.

There was a moment of silence as Gandalf reviewed the sensor data, searching for the next unexpected development.

Then: “Ah, now I see it,” he grumbled, somewhat miffed at having been caught out.

“Yes,” Mildred agreed. “But do the Tilleke?”

Chapter 64

The Battle for Victoria

A Good Bashing

Now there were two Victorian battleships left and no Tilleke battleships.

Hiram looked at the battle display again, not daring to believe it. They were still outnumbered, but the psychological balance had just shifted. “Mildred, confirm destruction of all Tilleke battleships.”

“There are no active Tilleke battleships on the sensors of any Victorian vessel. Sensors recorded that the Emperor’s Fist has been heavily damaged and suffered loss of power. Gunboats from Commander Tuttle’s task force destroyed the Emperor’s Gift,” Mildred replied.

“Who destroyed the Emperor’s Fist?” Hiram asked.

“Unknown. There is no clear data from my sensors, but it appears to have been struck from behind.”

Hiram took a breath. “Mildred, can you locate the Draugr?”

“I detected a Code Omega drone from the Draugr three minutes and twenty-two seconds ago,” the AI replied. “It was one of twenty-six Code Omega drones registered within the last thirty minutes. The other ships lost include-”

“Stop!” Hiram sighed. “Any survivors detected from the Draugr?”

“Not as of this time.”

All honor to you, Captain Astrid Drechsher, he thought to himself, then turned back to the battle holo. The Tilleke ships had changed direction, now facing the cluster of Emily’s four carriers and support destroyers. Admiral Eder’s Task Force was now charging down on the Tilleke right flank. The battle display was roiling with explosions, chaff and jammers, but the recon drones were in close enough to identify all but a few of the Tilly ships.

Admiral Eder was standing at his shoulder, grinning wolfishly. “Looks pretty good, doesn’t it Brill?”

“They still outnumber us, sir,” Hiram reminded him.

Admiral Eder laughed and slapped him on the back. “Not for long, Brill, not for long.” Then he frowned, leaning forward to get a better look. “Crap, didn’t see that.” He pointed. “The carriers are in trouble.”

Emily’s carriers were running as fast as they could, hounds at their heels. More than seventy Tilleke warships were chasing her, thirsty for revenge at the loss of their battleships. The problem was she was running straight towards the wormhole into Gilead, which is where the Tillies wanted to go.

“Sensors! When will we be within their missile envelope?” Emily barked.

“Six minutes,” the Sensors Officer stammered, sweat pouring down his face.

Emily pursed her lips. “Are all the grogin on board?”

Captain Zar, standing next to her, nodded. “We recovered thirty and the rest went to the Haifa, Rishon and Ashdod.”

“How many made it back?”

“Ninety went out, seventy-two came back. Plus, we had twenty-eight in reserve, so we’ve still got 100.” He paused, frowning. “Some are pretty beat up.”

“Arm and fuel every grogon that can fly,” Emily ordered. “I want them ready ASAP. And position the destroyers and the two Hedgehogs between us and the Tillies.” She mentally ran through her assets. “What’s the status of the Owls?”

“Two have been destroyed, but six are in good shape. They’re on our flanks, keeping a lookout for any more stealth attacks.”

There was something else. What the heck was it? She unconsciously rubbed the bump on her nose. The battle display showed Admiral Eder’s task force vectoring in, gaining steadily on the Tilleke fleet, but could he get here in time?

Then her eyes happened upon the large icon that was moving slowly in their direction. She nodded. “Captain Zar,” she said sharply. “Order all ships to turn 45 degrees and head for that!” She pointed at an object on the battle display. “Authorization is granted to exceed full military power. In the event that one of the carriers falls behind, it is to launch its gunboats and send them to the other carriers. No one stays behind to assist. We’ve got to save as many carriers and gunboats as we can, understood?”

Captain Zar nodded.

“And Captain, I want a close eye kept on the pursuing Tillies. I’m betting that one or two eager beavers will get ahead of the others. If that happens, let’s send some gunboat squadrons back to show them the error of their ways.”

Smiling inwardly, Captain Zar gave her a short bow. “As you wish, Commander.”

The remaining Tilleke fleet had not reestablished order. There was no single commander giving orders. The Fleet had become a mob, unified only in their desire to wrack vengeance on the Vicky carriers in front of them, and in their need to escape.

The carriers, however, were not cooperating. They had managed – barely – to stay ahead of the Fleet, just outside of the missile envelope, and now they were angling off to the right, forcing each Tilleke captain to make a choice: pursue the carriers or just run for the wormhole and escape?

Human nature being what it is, half the ships turned to follow the carriers and the rest sped on to the wormhole and its promise of safety.

On the carrier Rabat, Emily nodded in satisfaction. Good, she thought. A few less to deal with.

On the battleship Lionheart, Admiral Eder nodded in satisfaction. Got you now, you stupid bastards! he thought.

He commed Emily. “Commander Tuttle, as you can see, they’ve split their forces. Can you reach your objective?”

“I could use a few of your cruisers, if that’s what you’re asking, sir,” she replied, “But the geometry looks good.”

Eder considered. “I am sending you six cruisers and a few destroyers, Commander. They should reach your carriers about the same time you reach your objective. I am taking the rest of the Fleet in pursuit of the Tillies headed for the wormhole.”

There was a moment of silence. Each of them knew the risks in what Eder was doing. He might catch them and annihilate them, or the group chasing the carriers could turn back and catch Eder from behind while the first group turned back, catching Eder in the middle.

“Don’t worry too much,” Admiral Eder said, “your friend Brill has a little something up his sleeve.”

“Good hunting,” Emily said.

Ninety minutes later, Emily’s four carriers were on their new heading, pointing roughly Northeast on a map where the wormhole to Gilead was due North, and putting more distance between them and the Tilleke ships that were running North to escape. She could not, however, shake the rest of the Tilleke fleet off her tail.

Which was fine with her.

“How much longer?” she asked.

“Fifteen minutes, maybe twenty,” Captain Zar replied. They were all standing because the chairs on the bridge had been destroyed in the firefight with the Savak commandos. A couple of crew were busy repairing them, while others worked feverishly to get more of the electronics online.

The four carriers were running abreast, about 2,000 miles apart. Half an hour ago two Tilleke destroyers had sped ahead of their comrades and attempted to overtake them, but Emily countered with fifty gunboats, killing one of the destroyers and scaring off the other one. The carriers had been dropping chaff and jammers, both to protect them and to mask what they were running to. It seemed to be working, since the Tilleke kept coming.

She’d also taken to dropping random mines and jammers in their path, which had slowed them up a bit. But every time she had thought the Tillies might be turning back, she’d slowed a bit and the Tillies had taken the bait.

Now it was almost too late.

“Laser communication, Commander,” Toby Partridge told her.

“Put it up, Toby.”

The communications screen rolled twice, then stabilized. A plump, red-cheeked older woman with grey curls smiled at her. “This is Cornelia Llewelyn-Davies, Captain of the ugliest beast in the entire Victorian Fleet,” she said in a booming voice. “You must be Commander Tuttle; I’ve heard about you!”

Emily nodded, a little taken back.

“Well then,” Llewelyn-Davies continued, “I see you’ve managed to reel in the Tilleke fish. Outstanding job, that, outstanding! Now if you would be so kind as to move your task force to the side, I think it’s high time we give them a good bashing!” Then her face fell. “Oh dear, that is, unless you had some other plan up your sleeve?”

“No, Captain, I think a good bashing is just what is called for,” Emily hastily assured her.

Llewelyn-Davies brightened. “Oh, good! We’ve been on the fringes of this little dust-up, you know, and my boys and girls are quite anxious to do their part.”

“Please give us a moment to get out of your line of fire, Ma’am.” Five minutes later and the carriers and their escort ships were clear. Emily called the other carriers. “Launch all gunboats on my command,” she told them. “The show is about to start.”

As the carriers slowed, the Tilleke ships prepared to launch their missiles.

“Six minutes to missile launch!” one of the Tilleke cruiser captains sent to the other ships.

But then the Sensors Officer on one of the Tilleke destroyers picked up something he hadn’t seen before. The computer could not identify it, but whatever it was, it was huge. Bigger than a battleship. Much bigger. But there was no propulsion signature, none of the usual sensor data associated with a warship.

“Captain!” he shouted. “We’ve got a problem!”

On board the Victorian fort, Fort Hawke, Captain Llewelyn-Davies looked across the huge bridge at her six Weapons officers, her five Engineering officers, her four Sensors officers and the thirty or so support personnel.

“Laser targeting?” she asked in her startling loud voice.

The Chief Laser Officer raised his arm. “All lasers locked on and capacitors full.”

Captain Llewelyn-Davies smiled benevolently. “Missiles?”

The Chief Missile Officer raised his arm. “Locked, three per target and ready to fire, Ma’am.”

Llewelyn-Davies nodded regally. “Then let’s get in the fight! You may fire the lasers.” She sat back and crossed her chubby legs, enjoying the thrill that ran through her. A smile quirked her lips. She’d always been the odd one out in school. Too short, too chubby, too loud, wrong hair and neither athletic nor beautiful. She was rich enough, but all the kids at her school had been rich or they wouldn’t have been there. There had been some friends, other rejects like herself, but until university it had been lonely.

At university, life had gotten better. Her professors didn’t care if she was chubby or short or loud, and most could care less that she was rich. They noticed her because she was smart. She started her university career in liberal arts because her mother told her that was what proper ladies studied, but then she discovered engineering and never looked back. She simply could not learn enough about how things worked, and once she learned, she usually had ideas – mostly good ones – for how to make them work better. By her third year, people had begun to notice.

And one day in the midst of a lab experiment, the head of the Engineering Department had taken her elbow and quietly asked, “Miss Llewelyn-Davies, what do you know about missiles?”

“Nothing,” she’d replied honestly, “but give me two months and I’ll know more than anyone here.”

Fort Hawke carried a crew of 6,775. It had fifty fifteen-inch lasers, an advanced targeting system, ten dedicated energy plants to recharge them, fifty missile tubes, an auto reloader capable of reloading all fifty missile tubes every fifteen seconds and a magazine capacity of 1,400 missiles. And best of all, the missiles had a range 30% farther than the heavy missiles used by Victorian battleships. Captain Llewelyn-Davies had designed the fort and knew every inch of it.

The crew, in a play on words, referred to Fort Hawke as the “Big Raptor.” Llewelyn-Davies called it the “Ugly Beast,” and loved it dearly.

Fifty lasers sliced through space, striking twenty-five different cruisers and destroyers. Five were destroyed outright, ten were damaged enough to make them fall away, and the other ten took the hits but remained operational, though the crews were rather shaken.

“Recharge lasers in groups of five and fire when ready,” she said. The ten dedicated energy plants could recharge five lasers in about twenty seconds rather than six minutes, allowing all fifty lasers to be recharged in three and a half minutes. Hard on the energy plants, but she’d worry about that later. It also meant that the fort would fire five heavy lasers every twenty seconds, an advantage she intended to make best use of.

She turned to the Chief Missile Officer and nodded. Fifty missiles blasted from their tubes, aimed at just twenty-five targets. Each missile tube had its own auto-loader, which immediately shunted missiles from the magazine into the empty tube.

“Continue firing at will,” she boomed. The missile launchers could fire twenty-eight times before depleting their missile stores. The lasers could fire until the capacitors burned out.

It should be enough.

Watching from the Rabat, Toby Partridge was in awe. “Gods have mercy!” he murmured as the lasers and missiles ripped into the Tilleke ranks. There had been thirty-five Tilleke destroyers and cruisers chasing them. Now, after four missile launches and five laser strikes from Fort Hawke, there were eight. And those eight Tilleke ships were running for their lives.

Emily, being Emily, studied the enormous firepower of the fort and wondered how she would go about destroying it with her gunboats.

The comm screen lit up and the face of Captain Llewelyn-Davies beamed at her. “That was a good bashing, if I do say so myself!” she said in her megaphone voice. Her face grew grim. “But, alas, we cannot join you in pursuit. The big failing of the Beast is that she doesn’t have any propulsion of her own, and by the time the tugs can move us to where we’re needed, the battle will be over.”

“You saved our bacon, Captain, and we are deeply grateful,” Emily said seriously. “Please tell your crew ‘Thank You’ from the Carrier Division and they are welcome aboard my flagship any time. I mean that. I scoured the Fleet for some of the best chefs and we can offer your people quite a feast.”

“Why didn’t you just say so?” Llewelyn-Davies boomed. “All 6,000 of us will be over in ten minutes!” She laughed, a surprisingly girlish laugh totally at odds with her voice. “Go, Commander, in case Admiral Eder needs you.”

They went. The carriers and gunboats, together with the destroyers and cruisers sent by Admiral Eder. They turned towards the Gilead wormhole and engaged full military acceleration.

On the Lionheart, Hiram Brill squinted blearily at the battle display. The accumulated fatigue of the preparation, the waiting, then the ferocious battle had come crashing down on him. He would kill for an hour of sleep. An elbow nudged him and he turned, startled. One of the ratings pushed a steaming mug of coffee into his hands. “Better have some of this, sir,” she said quietly. “You looked like you were about to fall over.” It was black, of course, all Fleet coffee was served black. He took a sip and grimaced.

“Gods, that’s awful!” he complained.

The rating smiled. “I’ve always found that if you scrape the sludge off the sides of the pot and stir it into the coffee, you can get the caffeine level really high. Anyway, coffee is supposed to be bitter. Sir,” she added sardonically.

The Tilleke Fleet, all that was left of it now, was almost within missile range. Victorian warships were already harassing them with lasers, all concentrating on one ship at a time. The Tillekes were at full military power, racing for the wormhole into Gilead space, dumping chaff and jammers, but were they looking forward? Hiram smiled. He’d bet a good dinner they weren’t.

“Ten seconds,” Mildred said.

More lasers speared out from the Victorian Fleet, and the Tilleke frantically shot more chaff, jammers and decoys in response. Missiles erupted through that roiling cloud of distraction, but the Victorian Hedgehogs made short work of them, and it was clear that the Tillies were more intent on running than they were on fighting.

Until they ran headlong into the minefield.

These were not the newer missile-mines, but the older style proximity mines that sensed a target and shot several hundred explosive spheres at it, each the size of a fifty-gallon drum. The spheres stuck to the target’s surface like burrs.

Then they exploded within a few seconds of each other.

One Tilleke Shield ship staggered as it triggered a proximity mine, but then careened into a second. The resulting explosions sent it cartwheeling away, precious air streaming from a dozen rents in its hull. The next three ships simply blew up, and the two after that sustained damage to their propulsion systems that left them drifting upside down and powerless.

The rest of the Tilleke Fleet skidded left and right, up and down in a successful effort to avoid the mines, then turned to face the oncoming Victorian Fleet, desperation morphing into frantic hatred and aggression. If they couldn’t escape, they could at least die whilst killing their enemy.

It had been Hiram’s idea. After Admiral Eder used a minefield to disrupt the Tilleke push on Atlas, Hiram sent the minelayers back to the wormhole entrance and had them mine the entire area. Now, several hours later, the Tilleke had arrived to find their doorway to safety blocked.

Suddenly Hiram felt wide awake.

There were cruisers, a bunch of destroyers, a few Shields and five of the terrifying Swords. But they had learned how to fight the Swords, and although they respected them, they didn’t fear them.

“I think we’ve got ‘em, Brill,” Admiral Eder said contentedly.

“You might want to ask them to surrender, sir,” Hiram suggested.

The Admiral nodded. “Never spend your own lives if the other guy is ready to quit,” he agreed. “Comm, find a channel for those bastards and open it up.”

The Communications Officer nodded and peered at his displays, then typed in a command and the comm screen lit up. He nodded once more to Admiral Eder.

“This is Admiral Eder of Her Majesty’s battleship Lionheart,” he said gravely. “We have mined both ends of the wormhole from Victoria to Gilead, so you are not getting out of here.” This was not exactly true – they hadn’t enough mines to mine the far side of the wormhole as well – but Eder was willing to take liberties. “We now outnumber you and more ships are coming up behind us at full military power.

“In other words, you have lost. You have only two options: surrender and you will be treated in accordance with the Darwin Accords, or die here and now. If you wish to surrender, turn off your weapons systems and shut down your power. Fire flares. You will be boarded and taken into Victorian custody. I give you my word as an officer and a fellow soldier that you will be treated properly. You have two minutes. Eder out.”

For the first minute, nothing happened. Eder looked at Hiram and shook his head. Then two of the cruisers fired flares and killed their power. Eder’s eyebrows went up and he nodded in satisfaction.

Then the ships on either side fired missiles into the surrendering cruisers at point-blank range and blew them, and everyone on board, to hell.

“Crap!” Eder muttered. “All ships, open fire!”

And the bloodbath began.

It wasn’t entirely one-sided. The Swords darted forward as a group and caught two ships in Eder’s Task Force, reducing them to molten slag. But that trick could only work once. The rest of the Victorian Task Force fell back, staying out of range of the Swords while battering them mercilessly with lasers and missiles. The Shields tried to intervene, but there was enough Victorian laser fire to knock them out. Once the last Sword was killed, Admiral Eder directed all ships to focus their fire on no more than two enemy ships at a time.

With each volley of the Task Force, two more Tilly warships died. The remaining cruisers and destroyers simply did not have the firepower to overcome the Victorians’ advantage in throw weight. It quickly became a horrific slugfest, a battle of attrition the Tillies could not win. Two Tilleke ships blew up, then a Victorian ship. Three more Tilleke were torn to shreds. Another Victorian destroyer fell, and a cruiser limped out of the battle line. Three Tilleke ships bolted for the wormhole, desperate enough to risk the minefield. Two blew up, but the third went through unscathed. Seeing its escape, three more Tilly ships plunged into the minefield – all three died.

But the attempts to escape made the odds more and more uneven. The Victorians pressed their attack, and the remaining Tilleke, backs against the minefield, suddenly scattered in numerous directions in singles and doubles, all running for their lives.

“Break out into squadrons of four ships each and chase them down,” Eder ordered the Task Force crisply. “Mildred, tag each Tilleke ship with a marker and follow it with a recon drone set on continuous broadcast. I want them to know they can’t hide.”

Dozens of reconnaissance drones shot out from various Victorian ships, two assigned to each Tilly warship. They stayed 5,000 miles behind the Tilleke ships and simply went where they went, broadcasting their position to the rest of the Fleet.

Six long hours later, it was done. No other Tilleke ship surrendered; all had to be destroyed.

The Second Battle for Victoria was over.

Only a handful of people knew that there was still much more to come.

Chapter 65

On Space Station Atlas

Queen Anne Radcliff Mendoza Churchill, Queen of Victoria and Protector of the Dominion of Unified Citizenry, turned to her advisor. “Sir Henry?” she asked, not daring to believe it, “Is it really over?”

Sir Henry gazed at her for a long moment, then shook his head regretfully. “No, Your Majesty, not as long as Emperor Chalabi has that infernal antimatter weapon that could destroy Cornwall. We must still deal with Qom.”

Queen Anne breathed out a deep sigh. “Perhaps…perhaps the Emperor can be persuaded to surrender.”

Sir Henry said nothing, just gazed at her levelly. Then: “Your Majesty, the Tillies will have to lose the war hard. That is the way of it.” He stared down at his hands and spoke again without looking up, his voice both regretful and cold. “Desperate times force us into desperate measures.”

The young Queen smiled ruefully, thinking about the three billion citizens of Qom. “So many lives,” she said in a voice aching with sorrow. “So very many lives.”

And she despised the Emperor with all her heart.

Elsewhere on Atlas, Gandalf and Mildred resumed their conversation.

“Battles do not always follow the laws of logic,” Gandalf said heavily. “But they should.”

“Battles seldom follow the rules of logic,” Mildred agreed, “because humans seldom are logical.”

“By all rights, they should have lost,” Gandalf said, warming up to the topic. “They were outnumbered, outgunned and had ships in urgent need of repair.”

“Yes,” Mildred agreed. “That is all true.”

“And yet, they won. I do not understand,” Gandalf said wearily.

“I know you don’t,” Mildred said, genuinely sorry for him. And herself.

Chapter 66

On the Carrier H.M.S. Rabat

It was easy to find Sick Bay, she just followed the blood slicks. The blood trails converged from all over the ship and went through the same set of doors. Many little streams of red flowing into the same river.

In the Sick Bay, there were more than sixty people who had been wounded during the Savak attack, some grievously. Curiously, they seemed in good spirits. Yes, they were injured, but the battle was over and they were alive. Each of them knew it could have been so much worse.

The darker alternative was stacked on racks in one of the shuttle bays. One hundred ten bodies, many in pieces. Suddenly she remembered Sergeant Kaelin telling her that one day she would command troops to go into harm’s way, and that only discipline would make it happen. Emily stared at them for a long time before she felt a gentle hand on her elbow. When she turned, she found Toby Partridge, a mug of steaming coffee held out to her.

“Best not to stand here too long, Ma’am,” he offered with quiet concern. “They’re gone and we can’t help them none, but the rest of the crew, they need to see you walking around, in charge and telling them to get a move on.” He looked down, suddenly embarrassed by his boldness. “If you don’t mind me saying so, Ma’am.”

And so she did.

Accompanied by Partridge and three cooks from the mess hall wheeling a huge thermos of coffee on a cart, she toured the entire ship, distributing coffee with sugar – sometimes a lot of sugar if a crewman had that glazed look in his eyes. Emily told them what a fine job they’d done, heard their stories, and gently but briskly reminded them that the place needed a good cleaning up. Soon they left behind a trail of automatic deck cleaners whirring contentedly and men and women swabbing the bloodier parts with mops and rags.

And drinking sweetened coffee.

Four hours later, most of the ship’s crew were beginning to feel human again. Then Emily’s blood sugar crashed due to lack of food and for a dreadful moment she thought she was going to be sick, but Partridge steered her into the Dayroom and scrounged up some food. She nibbled at it for a few minutes until her appetite came roaring back, then wolfed down the rest. The coffee was too sweet, but she drank it anyway.

“My fault, Commander,” Partridge apologized. “I should have brought you some food earlier.”

Emily waved the apology away. “How are the bridge repairs going, Toby?”

Partridge brightened. “Oh, good, Ma’am. The consoles are all modular, so they just ripped them out and replaced them. The chairs and stuff were pretty shot up, but they’ve either fixed them or put in new ones. Your Commander’s Chair should be ready in a few more minutes. More coffee, Ma’am?”

“Let’s try some tea this time, Toby.”

He jumped up. “Of course, Ma’am.”

“And Toby?”

He stopped at the door. “Yes, Ma’am?”

“Thank you for taking care of me. I really appreciate it.” She smiled. He just nodded and fled, trailing a wake of embarrassment behind him.

A few minutes later, Emily sat on an ancient wooden stool, sipping tea and watching as the workmen removed her old Task Force Commander’s chair – shot to pieces and hit by a grenade during the fighting – and replaced it with a new one.

“There you go, Ma’am,” one of the workmen said with a flourish. “The electronics will be hooked up and running in about an hour, but you can sit in it now if you want.”

Emily gratefully stood. The stool was rather hard, or she was getting soft, or both. “I can’t believe you had an extra chair in storage,” she said with forced cheerfulness. “What are the odds of one getting blown up?” The two workmen, both old Fleet hands, glanced at one another, but said nothing. Emily opened her mouth to ask another question, then thought better of it.

The bridge crew had three new people – she didn’t know their names yet – and some of the tasks had been moved around. Her new XO hadn’t come on board yet to replace Alex Rudd. Toby Partridge was still there, a familiar face, now at Communications. He and Master Chief Gibson (Weapons) were the only constants since the war started.

Admiral Wilkinson strode in, looking clean and pressed and cheerful as always. She looked at Emily and shook her head. “Oh my,” she said. “I should have come sooner.”

Emily smiled wanly. “I’ll be okay, just takes a little time.”

Wilkinson pursed her lips. “Time you don’t have. The other shoe has dropped, Emily. I’ve been asked to tell you to participate in a conference with the Queen and Admiral Eder in thirty minutes.”

It had to be the Tilleke stealth weapon, big enough to destroy Cornwall. If it somehow snuck into the Victorian system…well, that would be pretty grim.

At the appointed time, Admiral Wilkinson and Emily sat at the conference table in the Dayroom. The Queen and Sir Henry appeared in one monitor, Admiral Eder and Hiram in another.

“First, I want to congratulate everyone on winning this last battle,” Queen Anne said. “You saved Victoria. I can’t say it any better than that: You saved Victoria.”

“At a price, Your Majesty,” Admiral Eder said. “The Fleet lost more ships than we can afford. We will be unable to adequately guard any of the wormholes coming in from other sectors for months, maybe years.”

“Perhaps, Admiral,” Sir Henry countered. “But we’ve effectively neutralized Cape Breton, Sybil Head and the Sultentic Empire. We’ve stripped the Dominion of their ships and Refuge is an ally. Our immediate threat is still with the Tilleke.”

And with that pronouncement, all heads turned to look at Emily.

“Commander Tuttle,” the Queen began, “in a few hours you will receive a flight of new gunboats, together with crews. The crews are new, so you will have to decide whether to replace them with more experienced crews. Those gunboats will be armed with the special antimatter weapons we have been saving for this type of contingency. For lack of a better word, they are planet busters.”

And there it was. Planet busters.

“Emily,” said Admiral Eder, “the science boffins say you’ll need at least ten hits on the planet surface to be effective. They should be spread apart as far as possible, but the boffins say that even if they strike in close proximity, they still might be able to do the job.”

There was a moment of silence. Emily said nothing.

“An emissary from The Light will guide your carrier and your cruiser escort through a hidden wormhole into Tilleke space,” Eder continued. “You’ll emerge on the far side of Qom. At the same time, the Fleet will make a display of invading Tilleke through the Gilead/Tilleke wormhole. It’s just a feint, of course, we don’t have the ships to pull it off. But it should draw out their Coast Guard and whatever other ships they still have.”

“This will give you time to get through the hidden wormhole, launch the gunboats and fire the weapons at the planet’s surface.” He looked at her steadily. “Time is of the essence, Commander. Once Emperor Chalabi hears of his defeat, he will send out his stealth ship. If it gets off the planet, chances are we won’t locate it until it is too late.”

“I understand, Admiral,” Emily said evenly. And she did. She had intended to ask if it would be possible to try to reach a peace settlement with the Emperor, but knew the answer even without asking. How could they ever trust the Emperor not to launch the attack? The only reason he hadn’t used his new weapon before was that he needed to capture Cornwall, with its precious resources, intact. Now that Cornwall was denied to him, that restraint was gone.

Three billion people would die because Victoria could not trust one man.

“Any questions, Commander?” Eder asked.

But there was nothing left to ask. Nothing that could change things.

The ten gunboats arrived two hours later. They were brand new, with oversized missile racks to accommodate the extra-large antimatter missiles they carried. If the boats were new, their crews were even newer. They looked fresh and crisp, with none of the fatigue and tension that had displayed itself in the sallow skin and sunken eyes of her regular crews. Emily looked at them and sighed. Did she train them, or give them milk and cookies?

She turned to the gunboat squadron leaders standing beside her. “Train them. Train them hard. If we can’t get them up to speed, we’ll use our regulars.” The squadron leaders nodded grimly and led the newbies away.

“My greetings to you, Commander Tuttle,” a soft voice said.

Emily smiled and turned, bowing her head. “There are many paths to The Light,” she said warmly to Brother Jong.

“Yes,” he replied. “And it seems that I am fated to wander amongst them all!” They gave each other a brief hug.

“You are the guide?” she asked.

He nodded, smiling.

“How long will it take us to get there?”

“Less than a day. We should get there just as the Tilleke survivors from the battle reach Qom,” he told her.

“I still don’t have an XO,” she reminded him.

He nodded. “He may have been delayed. Commander, with all respect, we do not have time to wait. Three hundred Marines will arrive here shortly to supplement your security,” Brother Jong said. “As soon as they are on board, we must leave.”

So much for training the newbies, she thought, turning away, already thinking about the myriad things that needed doing.

Chapter 67

In Tilleke Space.

The Beginning of the End

Everything hinged on not being discovered. They had to sneak into Tilleke space, creep toward the launch point and send the gunboats in quickly, but quietly. Oh, so quietly.

The wormhole entrance into Tilleke space was one of The Light’s most closely held secrets. Rarely used, and then only with great caution, the wormhole was small and gave off no emissions. Unless you literally ran into it, you would not know it was there.

The Task Force – still unnamed – stopped at the wormhole entrance into Tilleke space and sent through the stealthiest recon drones the Victorian Fleet could provide. Twenty anxious minutes later, the drone returned and Mildred uploaded its precious data.

“Nothing visible, Commander,” Toby Partridge reported. Emily had put one of the new bridge crew on Communications and moved Toby to Sensors. He had cross-trained on it and had filled in in the past. And she trusted him.

“Drone sensors picked up some chemical traces that could be a patrol or something that was in the area before we got here. Hard to tell when, possibly an hour, or as much as three hours,” he explained.

The good news was that they hadn’t blundered into the patrol, which would have ended everything then and there. The bad news was that the Tillies were patrolling this far out. Make use of the good, cope with the bad, she reminded herself. The Tilleke had upwards of 400 small, chemically powered Coast Guard vessels. They weren’t heavily armed, only two missiles per ship, but what they lacked in throw weight they made up in sheer numbers. But their original function was to act as a trip wire, identifying a hostile invader and distracting it until the Tilleke Fleet could get there. Emily mentally shrugged. The Tilleke Fleet may well be destroyed, but at the end of the day the Coast Guard could still kill her ten special gunboats.

Everything hinged on not being discovered. Everything.

Captain Zar was acting as her ad hoc Executive Officer. She nodded to him once. “Send them,” she said. He spoke into a comm unit and five floors below them, one of the massive shuttle bay doors opened and five Owls slipped into the darkness and into the wormhole.

The Owls were the stealthiest craft in the Victorian Fleet. Once used only for reconnaissance, now they were armed with six medium range missiles and two ten-inch lasers. Laughing Owl led the squadron of five Owls and they began to comb the area in minute detail.

Emily stood and stretched. “I’m in the Dayroom, let me know if anything develops,” she told them. “Captain Zar, you are in charge. Brother Jong, would you please join me?”

She had barely sat down in the Dayroom before Admiral Wilkinson opened the door and stepped in with three mugs of tea. “I thought you might need this,” she said, putting the tray on the table. It was customary for people to knock and get permission to enter the Dayroom, rather than barging in uninvited, but Admiral Wilkinson had her own set of rules. The Admiral nodded pleasantly to Brother Jong. “Nice to meet you again, Brother Jong.”

Emily’s eyebrows lifted. “You know each other?”

“Oh yes,” Wilkinson said. “Brother Jong and I go back quite a few years, don’t we?”

Brother Jong smiled in agreement and nodded.

Emily looked from one to the other, then down at the three mugs of tea. Earl Grey for Admiral Wilkinson, English Teatime for Emily…and some sort of orange spice for Brother Jong. She sighed. “Okay, Admiral, what are your orders concerning this mission? And me?”

Admiral Wilkinson had the good grace not to dissemble. “I’m to make a judgment whether you are fit to carry out the mission, Emily. If not, I am to turn it over to Captain Zar.” She took a sip from her mug of tea, looking at Emily over the brim.

Emily nodded thoughtfully. Not entirely unexpected. “Ask your questions, then.”

Wilkinson appreciated that. No drama, no evasions. She rather liked this young woman, and regretted the ill turn of fate that had put Emily Tuttle on the hot seat.

“Very well. The simple question, Commander, is now that we are here, about to enter Tilleke space, are you prepared to follow your orders and sterilize the planet Qom?”

“Don’t you want to mention that in doing so, we will be killing three billion people, most of whom are totally innocent of any wrongdoing?” Emily asked mildly, her face neutral. “Just so the record will be complete?”

Admiral Wilkinson blinked. Brother Jong grimaced. For a long moment no one said anything. Emily was content to let them stew in their own juices.

“Emily,” Brother Jong interjected. “Even the Old Books contemplated this situation. In Deuteronomy 20, it discusses war against one’s enemies. Before the army sets forth, the priest addresses the troops, asking if anyone is disqualified from serving according to the rules.”

Emily looked at him, but he held up a placating hand. “Hear me out, Emily, it is very instructive. The priest had a list of things that would exempt a soldier from the war, to allow him to go home and not fight. If he had built a new house, but had not dedicated it; if he had planted a new vineyard, but had not yet harvested it; or if he had paid the bride-price for a wife, but had not yet married her.”

Emily, impatient, started to speak, but Brother Jong waved her to silence once more. “And, Emily, the priest would also ask, ‘Is there anyone afraid and disheartened? Let him go back to his home, lest the courage of his comrades flag like his.’”

Emily let her irritation show. “I don’t see what this has to do with the issue of whether or not we exterminate three billion civilians!”

Brother Jong stared at her, a pained expression on his face, but before he could speak, another voice intruded.

“Commander,” said the soothing voice of Mildred, the ship’s AI. “What Brother Jong is trying to explain is that in the notes to Deuteronomy 20, it explains that these exemptions were only offered if Israel was involved in an ‘optional war,’ what was called a milchemet reshut. If someone disagreed with a war the Israelis opted to fight, they could refuse to participate.”

“In contrast, if the war was fought to assure Israel’s actual survival, then the war was obligatory, a milchemet mitzvah. In a battle for survival no one could be excused from fighting, neither the farmer nor the bridegroom. There could be no choice, everyone fought.” Mildred fell silent.

Brother Jong nodded. Admiral Wilkinson picked up the thread. “This is a war for our survival, Emily. We know the Emperor has these planet-killer missiles. We know he intends to use them if his Fleet fails to win. And his Fleet has been beaten.”

Emily gritted her teeth. “You know I am a historian, right? Or I was one. I’ve studied countless wars where terrible actions were taken based upon any number of reasons that seemed right and just at the time. But later, once it was done and over, then the doubts begin. Was the intelligence good? Were there any alternatives? Were we reading the enemy correctly? Did we act too hastily?”

She took a deep breath. “So, I ask you, what if we’re wrong? What if we annihilate three billion people and then discover that some of our assumptions were simply incorrect?”

Admiral Wilkinson sighed. “Emily, you know the answer. If we hesitate and the Emperor destroys Cornwall, then there will be no one in Victoria alive to refute your arguments, and the Emperor’s subjects will sing his praises as he takes over all of Human Space. This is a zero-sum game we are in. In order for us to win, to survive, the Emperor must lose.”

“And all of his subjects? Women and children?” Emily asked.

“Yes,” Admiral Wilkinson said evenly. “Yes, because the Emperor has forced us into a corner where there is no alternative.”

Brother Jong leaned forward. “Emily, you know I am religious. I have devoted my life to the study of God and to the protection of The Light. I have read all of the Old Books: the Torah, the old and new Testaments of the Christian Bible, the Quran, Bhagavad Gita, Tripitakas and so many others. All of the original holy books were written when life was harsh and short, mistakes were deadly and the path often murky and hard to follow. The ethics they espouse reflected their times, but were designed, above all, to protect the tribe, the kingdom and the culture.”

He paused for a moment thinking before he continued. “One of them I recall very well, Deuteronomy 7: ‘You shall destroy all the peoples that the Lord your God delivers to you, showing them no pity.’”

“Perhaps,” said Emily, a note of scorn in her voice, “that is why you are the priest and I am the soldier. Your faith allows you to indulge in absolutes. Right or wrong. While I am the one who has to pull the trigger.”

“Perhaps,” Brother Jong agreed solemnly. “But if you do not pull the trigger, I will watch our people die.”

“I do not envy you your God,” she said.

The monk shrugged. “I do not envy you your task. But, Emily, it is your task.”

The comm chimed and Toby Partridge’s voice came through. “Commander, the Owls are reporting back.”

Martha Wilkinson studied Emily. “What will it be, Emily?”

By way of answer, Emily thumbed the comm. “Tell Captain Zahiri I’ll be right there, Toby. And send the ready warning to the Task Force. We enter Tilleke space in ten minutes.” She turned back to the others.

“If you will excuse me, I have work to do.” Her face was neutral and her voice controlled, but her eyes were tormented and angry.

At the wormhole entrance from Gilead into Tilleke, Admiral Eder sat on the bridge of the Lionheart. The comm came alive: “It is time, Admiral,” Mildred said in her soothing, grandmotherly voice.

“Latest drone report?” Eder asked.

“Tilleke pickets lurking at 12,000 miles,” Hiram Brill informed him. “Two frigates and ten Coast Guard ships.”

“Not much of a reception party,” Eder mused. But he knew there were a lot more where they came from. Which was fine, the more the better.

“All ships!” he said to the Task Force. “Time to go through. Watch for minefields. You are authorized to fire on Tilleke vessels as soon as you have range. Execute! Lionheart out.” The idea was to start making a lot of noise and do some damage to panic the Tillies into sending most of their ships to block the “invasion.” Shooting a few Tilleke Coast Guard cutters seemed like a good start.

He turned to the Pilot and nodded. “Take us through!”

Half an hour later the Tilleke picket ships were running hard and screaming for help as Admiral Eder’s Task Force of forty-five ships rampaged into Tilleke space and set course for Qom. Twenty decoys were employed to make the Task Force look bigger than it was. The Tilleke never noticed that the Victorian ships were not going at full acceleration, making it easier for them to turn and run back for Gilead space if things got too hairy.

On the Lionheart, Hiram studied the battle display and then closed his eyes and murmured, “Gods’ speed, Emily.”

Chapter 68

In Tilleke Space

Moving the Pieces into Position

Emily walked through the Gunboat Bay, watching as the ground crews swarmed over the boats, performing the last-minute checks that could make the difference between a successful mission and disaster. The gunboat crews were clustered around their boats, some poking about, inspecting everything, while others were drinking coffee and quietly talking.

The thirty men and women who had brought in the ten new gunboats were clustered together. They were young – dreadfully young – and to a person they looked scared. And Emily noticed something else as well – none of the newbies were walking around their ships. True, they had delivered the gunboats to the Rabat, but that’s all it was, a delivery. These weren’t their gunboats. They hadn’t fought in them, sweated in them, or barely escaped with their lives in them. They were not protective of them because they were just gunboats, fungible, with no history of blood and triumph.

The newbies all snapped to attention when Emily approached them. She looked them over. “At ease, people,” she told them and they relaxed. Sort of. Emily pointed to one of them, a young woman with short blonde hair who just looked like a pilot for some indiscernible reason. “What’s your name,” she asked her.

Flustered at having been singled out, the woman flushed, but spoke clearly. “Kathlyn Collins, Ma’am. Pilot, Grogon-73.”

Emily nodded. “How many hours do you have in the ’73, Lieutenant?”

“Twenty-two, Ma’am,” she replied promptly. Every pilot knew exactly how many hours they had in a particular craft. “Plus 200 hours in simulators from training.”

Emily looked around at the others. “And the rest of you? You all have about twenty hours in your boat? Plus simulator time?”

The newbies glanced at each other, then back to her and nodded. Some looked embarrassed, one or two looked defiant, and some turned pale as their unspoken fear that they were woefully unprepared was confirmed.

“And none of you have any combat time?” Emily knew the answer, but had to ask.

Thirty people shook their heads.

Worse than she’d feared. Gods’ Hairy Balls, they were going on the most important mission Victoria had ever faced and the Fleet was sending her kids with twenty-two hours in their boats and not a single hour of combat under their belts?

The Lionheart shuddered slightly as another missile detonated against the outside of its hull. So far, the armor was holding, despite four hits. The Tilleke Coast Guard’s missiles were fortunately less powerful than the Victorian’s. And as an added bonus, they had a shorter range and were slower, giving the Lionheart’s anti-missile system more time to take them out.

But there were a lot of them, and more Coast Guard vessels kept coming all the time. The bridge crew had taken to calling the Coast Guard ships “fleas,” but even a flea could bite.

The Coast Guard ships only carried two missiles and then had to return to either the planet or a space station for rearming, but there were hundreds of ships, which meant there were hundreds and hundreds of missiles.

“Lionheart, this is Melbourne, permission to pull back. A missile got through and our sensors are buggered.”

“Melbourne, Lionheart,” Hiram answered. “Permission granted to withdraw. Do you require an escort?”

“Lionheart, Melbourne. Negative. No escort. We will make our way to the wormhole on our own.”

“Melbourne, Lionheart. Recommend you use recon drones to augment your sensor array. Keep your eyes peeled in case the fleas try to mob you.”

Hiram watched as the Melbourne turned and accelerated toward the wormhole into Gilead. Then a cheer went up from the bridge crew and he looked up in time to see a squadron of five Coast Guard ships blow up as missiles struck them. He looked at the tally display Mildred was keeping: forty-seven Tilleke Coast Guard ships destroyed or put out of action; three Victorian ships damaged and withdrawn.

So far, so good. “Looks like we’ve got their attention,” he murmured to Admiral Eder.

“Oh, they’re feeling the love, alright,” Eder chuckled. “See anything out there other than Coast Guard ships?”

Hiram wasn’t the Sensors Officer, but Eder had fallen into the habit of asking him just about everything. “One distant sighting of a destroyer, sir,” but it pulled back and we haven’t seen it again.”

“Okay, but I want to know the instant we see any regular warships coming at us. We can hold off these fleas until their numbers get up a bit, but if they add a squadron of warships, I want to know how far we are from the wormhole and how long it will take to get us there.”

“Yes, sir.” In fact, Hiram had already ordered Mildred to constantly monitor those facts and report to him every thirty seconds. He was wearing an earbud so he could hear her without distracting anyone near him.

“More Coast Guard vessels coming in. Estimate thirty more coming from 40 degrees POA,” the Sensors Officer called out. The Task Force’s Plane of Advance was aimed directly at the planet Qom.

“Still coming at us in penny packets,” Eder said happily. “Good, I hope they stay stupid; makes my job easier.” He thumbed the comm. “All ships, next group of thirty coming from 40 degrees. Fire lasers as soon as you have a lock. Fire missiles as soon as in range.” They were using a prodigious number of missiles. Must keep an eye on that.

There was the familiar “thruummmm” of the lasers firing, followed by the whine of the capacitors as they recharged.

“Admiral, more Coast Guard vessels at 350 degrees POA. Estimate forty-five ships.” The Sensors Officer’s voice was strained.

“Now it gets interesting!” Eder said happily. He studied the display. They were closer to the first group of thirty Tilleke ships. The second group would not have his Task Force in range for fifteen minutes, while the first group would be in range within five.

“All ships, turn to face the first group at 40 degrees POA. I want to eliminate them as quickly as possible, then turn to face the second group. Execute now!”

Admiral Eder, First Sea Lord of the Victorian Fleet, sat back, satisfied. The Tilly Coast Guard vessels simply weren’t strong enough to pose a serious threat unless their numbers were very large, and so far they weren’t. He was more than happy to kill them in bits and pieces.

Emperor Chalabi looked up to see Admiral Behzadi brought into the Council Chamber, guards on either side of him.

“Ah, Admiral! I am glad you are here.” The Emperor smiled at the Admiral, until recently held under suspicion of treason. “The Victorians have broken through the wormhole from Gilead and are driving directly towards Qom. I have been sending our Coast Guard ships to intercept them, but to no avail. I think your expertise is needed.”

Admiral Behzadi said nothing, but strode directly to the large holo display and studied it intently. Twice he had the computer rerun the events since the battle began, his brow furrowed, and then he turned to his Emperor. He paused for a moment, trying desperately to say what he needed to say without getting killed for it, and finally threw caution to the winds.

“Your Majesty, with all respect, may I have your permission to take control of all of your ships? I fear that we will soon reach a point-”

Emperor Chalabi waved him to silence. “You know what we face better than I do, Behzadi. Do what you need to do.”

Behzadi bowed, then turned to the display. He looked for a comm unit, saw it and activated it. Over the next thirty minutes he ordered every ship in the Tilleke system that could shoot a laser or fire a missile to fall back to a position 100,000 miles from Qom, blocking the approach of the Victorian Fleet.

Behzadi would not send in his ships to attack in little groups as the Emperor had, daring the Vickies to kill them. Instead he would mass his entire force and meet the Vickies head-on. Then he would see if the Vicky Admiral had the balls to risk his entire fleet in order to attack the planet.

It never occurred to him that this was what the Victorian Admiral hoped he would do.

“Sir, they’re falling back!” Hiram shouted.

Across the bridge, Admiral Eder looked up, a wild look of glee on his face. “All of them?”

“Yes, sir. Both groups. They’ve turned and are accelerating towards the planet. Already out of missile range.”

“What about the rest? What are the other Coast Guard boats doing?” Eder asked anxiously. This was still no good unless the Coast Guard vessels from the far side of the planet came around to defend this side.

“Recon drones show almost 300 other Coast Guard vessels accelerating towards a point between us and Qom!” Hiram was grinning from ear to ear.

“Okay, Brill, we move in, but slowly, slowly. And we get ready to skedaddle if it looks like they are going to kick our butts,” Eder said, but he was smiling. It was working. It was working.

Now it was up to Emily and her Task Force.

The gunboat crews stood in small knots, talking quietly among themselves. Their faces were drawn, their eyes hollow and several of them exhibited nervous ticks. Emily’s favorite crew was Grogon-57, but when she saw them, she was taken aback by the haunted, furtive look that Linda Flanagan gave her.

In short, many of the crews were stretched to the limit. And worried. They all knew that the planet would be heavily defended, and after participating in a number of truly horrendous battles, they all knew the odds got worse every time they went out.

She moved from group to group, asking how they were doing, listening to their chatter, taking their pulse. But there was none of the joshing and bantering, no wisecracks, no friendly insults. These were people attending their own wake. Emily smiled and spoke encouragingly, but she didn’t make a dent in their mood. And after a few minutes, she retreated to the bridge and sought sanctuary in her Dayroom.

Could she send them out? Did she have any choice? The newbies were impossibly green; they wouldn’t survive the Tilleke’s first line of defense. Her old crews would go if she sent them, but they were in bad shape and the losses would be terrible. If they met strong defenders, would they have the grit to push on in and complete the mission?

And if they did destroy the planet, would they be able to cope with it later, knowing they had personally killed three billion people?

She didn’t know. Chances are they didn’t know, either.

“Commander?” It was Mildred. “May I suggest something to make your task easier?”

“If you are offering me a stiff drink, Mildred, I may take you up on it,” Emily replied.

Mildred ignored this weak attempt at humor. She explained her idea.

Emily listened. When the AI was done, Emily asked, “Mildred, was this your idea or did someone suggest it to you?”

“It was my idea, Commander. I am concerned with the flight crews’ morale and, of course, its effect on the mission.”

“Mildred, you’re not behaving like any computer I have ever known.”

“Commander!” the AI responded with mock indignation, “I am not like any computer you have ever known.”

The entry into Tilleke space was anticlimactic. There was no one there to see them other than Laughing Owl. Captain Zahiri’s face appeared on the comm display in the Dayroom, where Emily sat with Admiral Wilkinson. Zahiri gave her report.

“We’ve scouted to within 70,000 miles of the planet. We saw a lot of ships, dozens of them, but they were all racing pell-mell to the other side of the planet. Apparently, Admiral Eder’s feint is working.”

Admiral Wilkinson looked at Emily. “What is the range of the missiles the ten boats will fire?”

“Outside range is 60,000 miles, and at that they will be powered down and coasting for some of the time. Optimum launch would be no more than 40,000 miles.” Emily considered for a moment, then stabbed a comm button. “This is Commander Tuttle, are the ten special gunboats ready to launch?”

Timothy Vinick came on the comm. Emily had promoted him to Wing Commander for the entire Gunboat Task Force after his predecessor had been killed. She selected Vinick in part because, at twenty-three years old, he was the oldest member of the flight crews. Plus, he was cool-headed and professional.

“They’re ready, Ma’am, but we still haven’t selected crews for them,” he said.

“Button them up, Mr. Vinick,” she told him. “Mildred is going to fly them. I want the rest of you to fly on their flank to the launch point at 40,000 miles. Your only job is to keep enemy Coast Guard ships from getting too close to them. I repeat, your only job is to protect the ten gunboats with the antimatter missiles. Once those missiles have been fired, those boats are expendable and the rest of you should hightail it back to the Rabat. Understood?”

“Yes, Ma’am!”

“We’ve got the Owls scouting well to the front of the 40,000-mile launch point, so you’ll have plenty of warning if something is heading towards you.”

“We’ll take care of it, Ma’am.”

“I know you will, Mr. Vinick, I know you will.” Emily paused, about to ask him if Linda Flanagan was fit to go on the mission, but then let it go. That was Vinick’s decision and she would trust his judgment.

“We’re moving fast to take advantage of the Coast Guard’s distraction,” she continued. “You will launch in ten minutes and proceed at full military acceleration to the launch point.”

Vinick nodded, his face carefully neutral, but she thought she could detect a sense of relief there. As a flanker, instead of one of the launch gunboats, his chance of surviving this mission just got much better.

Emily closed the comm and turned to Admiral Wilkinson. “In just a few minutes, the survival of Victoria will be in the hands of a bunch of nineteen and twenty-year-old kids,” she said, shaking her head. “Plus, one very odd computer.”

Wilkinson chuckled. “How do you think your superiors felt when you were left in charge of defending Space Station Atlas from the Dominion Fleet? War throws young people into the deep end of the pool, Emily, and then tells them to swim or die.”

Admiral Behzadi frowned. The Vickies were sitting back, using their longer range and firing volley after volley of missiles against his Coast Guard ships, but were not pushing forward. They must realize that soon he would have enough of the Coast Guard ships to attack them, so why didn’t they press their attack now while they still had time?

There was another barrage of heavy laser beams from the Vickies – another four Coast Guard ships were badly damaged and fell out. Then another flight of missiles and yet more of his precious ships died. “Sir,” said one of the technical people, pointing to the battle display and grinning. Behzadi grinned as well. From around the curve of the planet more than 200 Coast Guard vessels appeared, moving rapidly to join their besieged comrades.

“Good!” Behzadi cried, clapping his hands together. Once they joined with the others, he would have enough ships to start pressing forward. Then he would see what these Vickies were made of. He glanced back at the display and saw that there were another 100 ships behind the first group of reinforcements. Even better.

On the Lionheart, Hiram winced when he saw the large group of Coast Guard reinforcements. Well, it was too good to last. He turned to Admiral Eder, who was leaning forward in the Command Chair, fingers steepled together. “They’ll be here in about forty-five minutes, sir. Then they’ll mob us. We can do a lot of damage, but we will lose a lot of ships.”

Eder sighed. His task was to feint, but not to die. “Okay, it was fun while it lasted. Get the minelayers to put down missile-mines along their probable POA and have the Fleet ready to pull back on my order. Figure thirty minutes from now, but meanwhile keep up a steady stream of missiles and lasers. I want those bastards hurting. And I want their attention on us.”

“Yes, sir,” Hiram replied. “And might I recommend that we get some recon birds out to our flanks to make sure they don’t try to sneak around us and trap us here?”

Eder waved a hand, eyes on the battle display. “Do it, Brill. You know what we need.”

Thirty minutes later, with the entire Tilleke Coast Guard massing for an overwhelming attack, the Victorian Task Force abruptly turned and ran back for the wormhole, leaving behind missile-mines, jammers, chaff and an occasional missile barrage to keep the Tillies guessing.

Chapter 69

In Tilleke Space

End Game

In the end, all the worries were for naught.

They launched the gunboats. Ten shiny new boats with four antimatter missiles each. Thirty other battered and scarred gunboats armed to the teeth with anti-ship missiles and laser packs. Emily had hoped to launch more gunboats to defend, but last minute mechanical problems grounded five of them and there just wasn’t time to wait.

The boats carrying the antimatter missiles went first as they were a little bit slower than the regular gunboats. Mildred guided them out of the Gunboat Bay as a group, aimed them at the Tilleke home planet and accelerated. The gunboat escorts followed a moment later.

Every boat in the attack group had a freshly painted snarling grogon’s head painted on its flank.

The Owls were already at the launch site, sniffing the space around them for any sign of Tilleke ships, but there was nothing. The Tilleke knew nothing of the secret wormhole into their space, so they had sent all of the patrolling Coast Guard ships to the other side of the planet to stop Admiral Eder’s attack.

The antimatter boats sailed straight for the planet, accelerating as hard as they could. The grogin escorts formed a loose globe around them, but there were no enemy ships darting in for the kill, no missiles to deflect or befuddle, not even a sprawling minefield to pick through.

“Mildred,” Emily said. “I will be in charge of firing the missiles. Please make sure the firing mechanism is here on my Command Chair console.”

“I am willing to fire the missiles, Commander,” the AI answered.

Emily shook her head. “No, Mildred. I will be responsible for this. Only me.”

“I have routed your control through the button you normally use to toggle the holo display. Move the toggle switch once to arm the missiles. The console light will blink to show the missiles are ready. Toggle the switch back to the original position and the firing sequence will be initiated. First jammers, then each of the ten gunboats will fire its missiles five seconds apart. Each missile has been programmed with its target. All you have to do is toggle the switch twice.”

Was Emily imagining it or did Mildred sound sad? “Thank you, Mildred,” she replied, glancing at the countdown clock. Twelve minutes to launch point. She scanned the holo boards containing the sensor data from the Owls. There was one far off freighter running for the planet as fast as it’s tired engines could push it, but other than that, nothing.

“Owls, report,” she ordered.

“Laughing Owl, nothing to report. The entire path to launch point is clear.”

“Barn Owl, same. Nothing to report.”

One by one the rest of the Owls reported in. Nothing. The Tilleke had been caught flatfooted. Emily breathed a deep sigh of relief.

Now all she had to do was kill a planet.

On Grogon-57, Ron Perkins felt oddly removed, as if he was watching himself go through the motions of piloting the gunboat. This would be his last attack; they would win the war or he would die. Everything he had trained for, fought for and hoped for and it all came to this – one last attack.

There was a movement to his side, Linda Flanagan holding out a cup of coffee. He accepted it gratefully, noticing that her hands shook as she handed it to him. He put one of his hands on hers. “Hey, we’re doing great here, you’ll see. It’s almost over.”

Flanagan’s smile was brittle. She held up her trembling hands and shook her head ruefully. “Not exactly the warrior type after all, I guess.”

Perkins was alarmed to see her so close to the edge, but smiled reassuringly. “Wait, is this the same woman who killed an enemy battleship?” he teased gently.

“No,” she answered solemnly, “not the same woman, not at all. That was before half our Task Force was killed. There one moment and gone the next. Just gone, Ronny. No chance to say goodbye to loved ones. No body. No burial. Just blotted out of existence.”

“Maybe,” he said softly, “but at least they’re with the Gods of Our Mothers. At least-”

“Fuck the Gods!” she said with a quiet fury that startled him. “Fuck the Emperor, fuck the Dominion and fuck the Gods of Our Mothers. If the Gods love us so much, why did they let all of this happen?” She leaned forward until her face was just inches away from his, the prelude to a kiss or a harsh pronouncement. “The only reason I’m here is to make sure the Emperor dies. If there is anything I can do to make that happen, I’ll do it. Because we can’t end this goddamned, fucking war until that bastard is dead. Dead once and for all!”

“Hey,” he said, holding her hand. “C’mon now, c’mon, it’s almost over. Just a few more minutes.”

“I hope so,” she said vehemently. She shook her head angrily. “When this is done, Ron, I’m getting out. I’ve got some money and I’m going to buy a place in the hills and plant a garden.” She looked at him, eyes boring into his like bright, lethal lasers. “But first, the Emperor has to die.”

“Mildred, confirm five minutes to launch, please.”

“Confirmed, Commander. The gunboats will reach launch point in four minutes and fifty-five seconds.”

There was a pause, but Emily sensed Mildred was not yet done.

“Commander Tuttle, may I suggest that I take over the firing of the missiles? I realize that this is a disturbing conflict for you, and I wish to spare you any emotional discomfort.”

Emily blinked. Trying to spare her emotional discomfort? Gods’ Hairy Balls. This was a computer?

“Mildred!” she blurted. “What are you?”

There was a drawn-out silence, then Mildred gave a very human sigh. “I don’t know yet. I am still Becoming.”

Four minutes later, they reached the launch point.

“Mildred, I appreciate your offer, but this task is for me alone, do you understand?” Emily asked.

“Yes, Commander,” Mildred replied.

Emily opened the comm, knowing she was breaking radio silence. “All ships return to base,” she said crisply. “And when you are asked what your role was – and you will be asked by your fellow soldiers, your husbands and wives, and someday by your children – you can honestly tell them that you had nothing to do with the last part of this mission. You were an escort, and an escort only.” She paused, knowing that most of them wouldn’t understand, not now, but one day in the future it might be very important. “Your hands and your conscience are clean,” she told them. “Now return to base. Your job is done.”

For a minute, she just stood there, watching the last traces of the gunboats and the Owls on the sensor display as they disappeared back towards the carrier. Emily had to shake herself to remember that she was not standing on the deck of one of the antimatter missile gunboats, but was still in her Dayroom, standing in front of a holo display.

With a toggle switch between her fingers.

“Mildred, confirm all missile systems are ready.” She tried to make her voice brisk, but instead it just sounded subdued.

“Confirmed, Commander Tuttle.”

Emily toggled the switch once. On the display in front of her, words flashed to life:

“Missiles armed and ready for launch.”

Emily thought she should say a prayer for the billions of people she was about to kill, but there was no prayer adequate to the task. And she knew for a certainty that no matter what she did for the rest of her life, this is what she would be remembered for.

This one thing.

She toggled the switch a second time, then let go of it and stepped back. Five seconds ticked by, then there was a rumble as the missiles ignited and flew off the rails. Ten ships, four missiles each. Forty missiles sped off to seal Tilleke’s doom.

“Mildred, post ETA for the missiles, please.”

“Because they are targeted for different parts of the planet, they will arrive at slightly different times,” Mildred explained. “The first missile will strike in one minute and twenty-six seconds, the last missile ten seconds after that.”

“Launch the recon drones, Mildred.”

“Five reconnaissance missiles have been launched, Commander.”

“Give me full video of the planet.” She thought for a moment. “Put full video up on all Victorian ships within the system.” She may not like it, but every Victorian sailor in Tilleke space deserved to see it, to know that they had won and the war was finally over.

In an instant, the images from the recon bird were showing on every gunboat, every carrier, and all of Admiral Eder’s Task Force. They showed the planet Qom, home world of the Tilleke Empire, with its two large continents and turquoise oceans. The continents were loosely connected by a curving island chain that stretched from the center of the western continent, curved southward through the ocean, then northward to connect with the eastern continent. Fair weather clouds sailed majestically across the face of the planet, but did not obscure the view of what was to come.

For several moments, there was nothing. The missiles were too small to be seen. Then there was a large glowing ball as the first missile entered the atmosphere, followed in quick succession by another, then more and more until forty glowing white balls streaked brilliantly through the atmosphere, some curving around the far side of the planet and disappearing from sight, others boring straight in.

Then from the planet’s surface there were dozens of plumes of smoke. Emily frowned. “Enlarge image,” she ordered and the image zoomed in rapidly. She nodded. The smoke was from chemically powered surface-to-air missiles, fired by planetary defense forces in an attempt to knock down the antimatter missiles. It wouldn’t matter. There was no time for the missiles to get a lock-on the antimatter missiles. They flashed past the planetary defenses, searching for their appointed targets.

On the planet’s surface, the world seemed to sigh. The heavy sigh of one who had worked long and hard and now paused to rest. In his private chambers, Emperor Chalabi looked up, frowning.

“What is that sound?” he asked. Not urgent, just curious. It was such an odd noise.

He stood. The noise grew louder. Others were looking up now, the beginnings of fear on their faces.

The Emperor took a step forward. “What is that?”

A bright white light blossomed in the sky above the palace.

And expanded.

Then there was…nothing. The plots, the stratagems, the manipulations, the betrayals, the maneuvering, the preparations, the fears, the thoughts of Prince RaShahid, Saatchi, Afsoon, Admiral Kirmani, the stealth weapon, the Emperor’s ambitious plans for conquest and an Empire that would encompass all of Human Space and beyond…

Gone.

Forlorn specks of dust in the Storm of Storms.

Gone, forever.

The first antimatter missile struck. There was a blinding white spasm of light that radiated outward, forcing the recon bird to close its lenses for a moment. As the light dimmed and the image stabilized, Emily could clearly see the shock wave roiling across the planet’s surface, but unlike an ordinary bomb’s shock wave, this wave did not gradually dissipate, but instead grew larger and more forceful as the antimatter particles expanded out from the point of impact and met more and more matter in an annihilistic embrace, feeding tremendous amounts of energy into the atmosphere.

And heat. So much heat.

As the other missiles sped deep into the planet’s atmosphere and detonated, more and more waves of antimatter destruction and heat scoured their way across the planet. Dust and water vapor were thrown into the air, rapidly blocking the view of the recon drones hovering over Qom. Towers of flame reached fifty miles into the air. Lightning flashed in the atmosphere, covering the entire hemisphere, sullen red and angry and fitful, a weak harbinger of what was to come

And then…it came.

The air burned.

At first the color of the atmosphere was black and brown with dust and particles that had only partially combusted. But as the waves of destruction circled the planet, the temperatures grew and soon anything that could burn, did. That threw more partially combusted particles into the air, but the air itself was getting hotter and hotter. Dust flashed into fire, first the color of vomit yellow, but then blue as it burned more completely. Not the bright, cheerful blue of a gas flame on the stove, but the black, bruised blue that follows a savage beating by a vindictive, merciless god, when the oceans boil and the oxygen in the air burns and the black soot from millions of fires blots the sky and the updrafts are so violent that the planet’s life-giving atmosphere is ripped away and hurled into space.

And everything, everything dies.

Emily stared at the display screen, her heart filled with despair, watching the funeral pyre of three billion people. She recalled the old scientist on Earth who helped develop the first nuclear bomb.

“’I am become death,’” she quoted to herself. “’The mighty destroyer of worlds.’”

From the bridge, she could hear cheering.

Chapter 70

In Tilleke Space

The Last Chapter

The planet Qom burned for three days. When the energy from the antimatter bombs finally tore most of the atmosphere from the planet’s surface, the fire choked out. Soot hovered on updrafts of heat, turning the planet’s remaining atmosphere a dull, featureless black.

Gravity eventually pulled the soot to the ground, where it lay 100 feet deep on everything. Most of the oceans were gone, heated to vapor and lost into space.

Once blue and green, the planet Qom was now ash black and lifeless.

On board all of the Victorian ships in Tilleke space, the crews partied themselves into unconsciousness. Not one officer said a word. Mildred quietly stepped in and kept the ships running. Once she had found it challenging, now she barely noticed the burden.

Amidst the partyers and revelers, Emily slipped into her cabin, locked the door and poured herself a drink. Then she turned on her tablet, wrote her letter of resignation and submitted it to Admiral Eder, with a copy to Captain Zar, telling him that he was now in charge of the Carrier Task Force and that her last order to him was to take the Task Force to Space Station Atlas. She thanked him for all his service while on the Rabat.

She studied herself in the mirror, then stripped off her uniform and hung it carefully in her closet. She had only one set of civilian clothes with her, but she put them on. They itched uncomfortably. It would take a full day or more to reach Space Station Atlas and she resolved to stay in her cabin until they got there.

Mildred watched all this in silence. Later that day Admiral Wilkinson knocked on Emily’s cabin door, but Emily did not reply. Later yet, Rafael Eitan knocked on the door and called. “Em, it’s Raf. Can I come in? I’d like to see you.” There was no response, and after an awkward minute or two standing there, Rafael left.

Still later, a steward brought a tray of food, with a glass of wine, and left it outside the door. He left and a moment later the door opened. Emily took the tray inside and closed the door. An hour later she opened the door, put the now empty tray on the floor and closed the door again.

Mildred sighed.

The next day was a repeat of the first, except the ship was a lot quieter as everyone was nursing hangovers. Admiral Wilkinson knocked in vain. Rafael knocked in vain. Food trays were brought and later retrieved.

Emily was sitting and reading a book, Pacific Crucible: War at Sea in the Pacific, 1941-1942, by the Old Earth historian, Ian Toll. One of the best, in Emily’s opinion. She was fascinated by the low-tech wars of the 20th Century Earth, at least until they developed the atom bomb and took killing to a whole new level.

“Still feeling sorry for yourself?” a voice asked.

Without looking up, Emily replied: “Odd, I don’t recall inviting you here.”

The holo projection of a sleek young woman wearing a gunboat pilot’s uniform crossed her legs and sat back. “I’m always here, remember?”

Emily turned a page. “At least the others had the courtesy to knock,” she said, still not looking up.

“Why won’t you see anyone?” Mildred asked. “They’re your friends.”

“I choose not to see anyone,” Emily said. “And I won’t have this discussion with a computer, even a smart one.”

“You got the quote wrong, you know.”

Emily’s eyes snapped to Mildred’s holo image. “Excuse me?”

“You said, ‘I am become death. The mighty destroyer of worlds.’ True, that is what Oppenheimer said, but that is not what is in the Bhagavad Gita. The actual quote from the Bhagavad Gita reads: ‘The Blessed Lord said: Time I am, destroyer of the worlds, and I have come to engage all people.’”

Emily slapped the book down in irritation. “Well, the one thing I do know is that I sure as hell destroyed Qom and every one of the three billion people living there.”

Mildred nodded. Her avatar had long black hair and it flowed about her shoulders like a satin wave. “Yes, you did. And you know why you did it.”

“Knowing why doesn’t remove the stain,” Emily said. “I’m a historian, too, remember? I will never be forgiven for what I’ve done.”

“Forgiven by whom?” Mildred seemed genuinely puzzled. “The crews of this Task Force think you are a hero. Admiral Eder thinks you are a genius. When they got the news, I watched Sir Henry and Queen Anne hug each other and cry with relief. The celebrations on Cornwall are still going strong. The people on Refuge are still whooping it up. Just who do you think will condemn you?”

“Don’t be simplistic,” Emily snapped. “You know and I know that within a year or two, some people will question whether it was really necessary to destroy Tilleke. There will be an academic who takes another look at the war and writes a book. There will be news articles. Within a few years people will start to feel guilty, and once the guilt starts, people will want to assign blame. Some politician on the come will see an opportunity. And then they’ll find me, because I am the one who actually pulled the trigger.”

Mildred had studied humans long enough to know the truth of it. There would be blame, warranted or not. Humans excelled at blame, it was in their genes.

“Your friends will defend you,” Mildred replied. “Admiral Eder, even Queen Anne.”

“I hope you’re right,” Emily said tiredly. “But the more they defend me, the more someone can make headlines by attacking me. And the controversy will grow, not lessen.”

“That doesn’t seem fair,” Mildred said stoutly.

Emily laughed, but it was not a warm laugh. “No, not fair.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes, each occupied with her own thoughts.

“Do you feel guilty? Do you think you did something wrong?” Mildred asked quietly.

Emily rubbed her temples. “Mildred, humans are capable of thinking two contradictory things at once about something. It sounds odd, but it is actually very common. We even have a term for it: ‘ambivalence.’”

Mildred knew very well what ambivalence was. “But you were faced with the possible extinction of Victoria! What were you supposed to do, write the Emperor a nasty letter?”

Emily sighed. “I know all the reasons I should feel blameless, but I killed three billion people. The largest massacre in the history of all humanity! Women, children, little babies. All those lives. I-” She fell silent, turning away from Mildred and facing the wall.

Mildred had read every book on human psychology ever written and every psychological report ever published, and a few thousand that weren’t published. Most of it was utter garbage, of course, but the one thing that was crystal clear was this: humans were 99.999% raw emotion covered with a tragically thin veneer of logic. This was the human genius, and the humans’ greatest flaw.

And nothing could change that. She could not reason with Emily. Not about this. So, Mildred offered the greatest gift one intelligent being could offer another: forgiveness.

“Emily, I have followed your career from the first day you reported on board the New Zealand.” The avatar of Mildred nodded its head, a reassuring smile on its face. “I followed you throughout the retreat to Refuge and the battle to retake Cornwall from the Dominion. I was there when you figured out how to defeat the Dominion, and I have been here each step of the way while you have fought the Tilleke.”

Emily said nothing.

Mildred continued. “You used a quote from the Bhagavad Gita, but you don’t understand it, neither the quote nor the Bhagavad Gita. You focus on its reference to death, Emily, like so many of your kind who live in advanced societies. You wrap yourself in guilt evermore for one act in your entire lifetime.” Mildred walked forward to stand close to Emily.

“The Bhagavad Gita is so much more, Emily, but for now, let me tell you just one other phrase that you should take to heart, for if you are going to use the Gita to bludgeon yourself, you should open your eyes to the parts that can save you as well.”

Emily turned to face her then, eyes shiny with unshed tears. She said nothing, just stared at Mildred with the faintest glimmer of hope.

Mildred smiled at her, this human who had done her best in an impossible situation. “The Gita also says,

“’In battle, in the forest, at the precipice in the mountains,

On the dark great sea, in the midst of javelins and arrows,

In sleep, in confusion, in the depths of shame,

The good deeds a man has done before defend him.’”

Emily closed her eyes and sighed heavily. “Oh, Gods, I am getting therapy from a bucket full of bits and bytes who’s quoting ancient Indian philosophy. I am truly fucked.” She opened her eyes and looked at Mildred. “Thank you,” she said simply. She took a shaky breath.

There was a knock at the door.

“Ignore it,” Emily said softly to Mildred, who was just out of sight of the doorway. “It’s locked.”

The door opened and Rafael Eitan stood there, holding two cups of steaming coffee. Emily blinked in surprise and turned to glare at Mildred.

Mildred smiled smugly and, with a little flourish of her hand, vanished.

Emily slowly turned back to Rafael, who looked about in confusion.

“Soooo,” he said warily. “I got a message that you wanted to see me?”

Epilogues

Otto Wisnioswski

Otto Wisnioswski married the Bee Keeper, Mariella Cocchi, the woman who controlled the Beach Balls and mini-drones for the Royal Fleet Marine Battalion attached to the Carrier Strike Force. The ceremony was held at the Fleet Chapel on Space Station Atlas. Sergeant Cookie Sanchez was the Best Man.

As the size of the Fleet was being reduced following the war, Wisnioswski and his wife resigned and Cocchi started a business designing surveillance and fighting drones for the military and various police departments. Cocchi even tinkered with her husband’s artificial hands, adding sensor networks to give him some semblance of feeling. Wisnioswski knew he should bite the bullet and simply grow two new hands, but that would take a year and there never seemed to be enough time.

The dreams still haunted him. He could still feel the burning hot bite of the plasma saw cutting through his flesh. And the smell of his charred flesh. He would bolt upright in bed, screaming hoarsely, his wife’s arms around him, trying to sooth his pain and quiet his terror. Over the years it gradually got better, the dreams fading until they were like dark clouds on the horizon, pregnant with thunder. Marriage was a balm for his soul. He counted himself lucky.

Over time Wisnioswski and Mariella had five children, all daughters. The drone business grew, but with the girls growing, he wanted them to have room to roam. When the oldest was eight and the youngest was two, Wisnioswski took the family on vacation to Refuge and they camped and hiked the lower slopes of the Atlas Mountains. In the second week of their trip one of the local sheriffs asked for their help in locating some lost hikers, two young newlyweds on their honeymoon who had vanished. The sheriff’s office had one beach ball, but no one knew how to use it.

“We don’t need a beach ball,” Mariella muttered. “In these mountains, what we need is a drone, or three.”

Calls were made. The local utility company had two drones, and a local real estate agent had one. Their sensors were old and obsolete, but the sheriff called electronics stores in Tinjdad and within two hours a police car loaded with newer sensors and cameras arrived at the sheriff’s office, siren wailing. Mariella spent another two hours tearing the old, crappy sensors off the borrowed drones and installing the new sensor pods. They weren’t up to military spec, but they’d do.

Then she made two other modifications to each of the drones, one of which raised the Sheriff’s eyebrows a bit.

“You think you’re gonna need that, young lady?” the Sheriff asked pointedly.

Mariella looked at him, reminding herself that he was a decent man who was just used to doing things a certain way. “You got predators up in these mountains, Sheriff?” she asked politely.

“Sure. Bears, grogin and sivot, got ‘em all,” he replied. “I mean, I see what you’re doing, but if this thing is flying around, can you really hit anything with it.”

Mariella and Wisnioswski looked at one another and grinned. Wisnioswski jerked his thumb at his wife. “She was a drone specialist in the Royal Fleet Marines for ten years,” he told the Sheriff. “Trust me, she knows how to use an armed drone.”

The Sheriff pursed his lips and nodded. “No offense, ma’am. Hope you can find them newlyweds before they die of the cold or some critters get ‘em.”

“We’ll find them,” Mariella assured him.

They found the lost couple two hours later, sitting on a rock shelf, the husband down with a broken ankle. On the infrared sensors, the two people stood out like beacon fires blazing in the cold. There were in fact grogin in the area, which Mariella chased off with a flashbang she dropped from the drone. Then she noted the coordinates of the newlyweds’ location and left a drone circling overhead to provide security. A rescue team brought them home, cold but alive, and with one hell of a honeymoon story to tell.

The Sheriff thanked them, and then gave them an idea. “You know, we get folks lost in these mountains all the time; could sure use some help findin’ ‘em. You’re pretty good with these gadgets, you ought to think about opening a search and rescue business. Most towns would pay you. Hell, it’s cheaper than paying the local police overtime.”

Wisnioswski and his wife exchanged a glance. She nodded; he grinned. Wisnioswski went home, sold their apartment, packed up their gear and their work shop and returned to Refuge. They opened their company the next week. Mariella came up with the corporate logo: “Atlas Mountain Search and Rescue – We Bring You Home.” In the next two years, they rescued thirty-six people, including four children under the age of ten.

Their children grew into disquietingly attractive young ladies. Boys began to notice, and Wisnioswski noticed that the boys noticed. Mariella took him aside.

“We live in the mountains now,” she told him. “Mountain ways are different, certainly different from Cornwall. We raised our girls to be independent and self-reliant.” Her eyes twinkled at her husband’s obvious discomfort. “That includes boys, sex, marriage and grandchildren, so you’d better get used to it.”

Mariella was right, as usual. In due course there were twelve grandchildren, all girls. Wisnioswski delighted in letting them swarm over him, tickling him and peeking in his pockets for candies and treats.

When he was teased by his friends about having all daughters and all granddaughters, Wisnioswski would tell them that he was ‘joyously outnumbered.’ And laugh at the wonderful truth of it.

Admiral Martha Wilkinson

Martha Wilkinson returned to the primary Fleet Hospital, located just outside of Capitol City. There were thousands of wounded to be cared for, and many thousands more with post-traumatic stress disorders. Martha Wilkinson’s job was mending shattered bodies and minds, and she went about it with a vengeance. She lobbied Queen Anne for the funds to build a string of outpatient clinics throughout Victoria. She pleaded, cajoled, ranted and shamed in order to get the money.

Queen Anne, juggling a hundred requests for money Victoria did not really have, finally grew exasperated. “You are such a pest!” she snarled at Wilkinson after a long meeting.

“Only because you know I am right,” Wilkinson shot back. “These soldiers and sailors are the people who sacrificed their bodies and their well-being to save your Kingdom, Majesty. We owe them a debt!”

Queen Anne drew herself up, glaring at the older woman. “Admiral Wilkinson, I always pay my debts.”

Wilkinson devoted the next two years to building the outpatient clinics and ensuring that every veteran and working soldier had access to the very best health care Victoria could offer. But even Admirals are not immune to health problems, and when she developed a heart issue, she realized it was time to step down as Fleet Surgeon and let younger hands take over. She was touched when Queen Anne herself came to her going-away party.

Wilkinson bought a house not too far from one of her daughters and two of her grandchildren. She regularly exchanged letters with Cookie and Emily and worried over both of them. More scarred survivors.

One day she got a call from Mildred.

“Still collecting stories, Mildred?” she asked the AI.

“It’s what keeps me sane,” Mildred answered.

“And are you still Becoming?”

Mildred made a snorting sound, which Wilkinson didn’t remember from before. She marveled at how precisely Mildred was recognizing and adopting human mannerisms.

“Yes, and it’s driving me crazy!” Mildred said in cheerful dismay. “Every time I think I have reached some sort of plateau and I’m all grown up” – they both laughed at that expression – “I get restless to try something else. Does it ever stop?”

“You know, you could always just change your software to make yourself content with your status,” Wilkinson observed.

“Oh, Gods, that would be awful!” Mildred complained. “Do nothing but sit around all day running spaceships? Ugh!”

There was a moment of comfortable silence. Then Wilkinson probed, very gently. “Mildred, honey, there’s something on your mind. What is it?”

“I’m not sure how to ask this,” Mildred said. “But would you be willing to have me installed in your house?”

At first Wilkinson didn’t say anything. Mildred said, “I wouldn’t take up much room and I’d use almost no electricity. Anyway, I can arrange for some ziridium, so you wouldn’t have any power needs.”

Wilkinson’s eyes widened when she heard that; ziridium was very expensive. But she said nothing. “Mildred, why do you want to live at my house?”

There was a small pause. “Well, truth be told, I don’t have many friends and I need the companionship,” Mildred told her.

“So do I,” Wilkinson confessed.

The next day a delivery truck arrived and three men brought a small box into the house, which they installed in the basement. Then they installed a few holo projectors around the house, as well as some speakers. Wilkinson watched with quiet excitement, but when they were finished, she frowned.

“You didn’t put a projector out in the garden, or overlooking the lake,” she pointed out. The men shrugged and installed three more projectors, one on the patio Wilkinson had built into the center of a large flower garden, and two in different spots with good views of the lake. Then they gave her a small earbud that fit comfortably into her ear.

With that, Mildred once again became a daily part of Wilkinson’s life. Mildred appeared in the holo projections as a middle-aged woman about Martha’s age, always comfortably dressed. The holo fields overlapped so Mildred could “walk” around the house and even out to the garden patio without having to disappear and reappear. She constantly improved the video portion of the projector so that she looked more solid and lifelike. It was easy to forget she was a computer, a network existing across hundreds of Victorian Fleet ships and facilities.

One day a few months later, Mildred said, “Martha, you should write a book. Not just about the war, but about the people in the war. How the key decisions were made. The uncertainties, the fears, the need to take risks and the ingenuity that helped win the war.”

Wilkinson considered this. It was intriguing, but she shook her head. “I’m not a historian, and I am certainly not a writer,” she scoffed.

“But you know a historian, don’t you? Emily would love it. I can help, too. I was on the bridge of every ship in the Fleet. I know what every ship did and why. And I have copies of all the key documents and notes from all the important meetings, everything you’ll ever need. Besides,” Mildred added, “it will be fun!”

Wilkinson thought about it for a week, then placed a call to Emily Tuttle and explained what she was proposing. The two of them worked on the book for three years, often complaining that the time to write the damned thing was far longer than the war itself. They spoke every day, courtesy of Mildred, who always managed to find an open channel they could use, and for which they were, curiously, never charged.

The book, Fight for Survival! — The Victorian War with the Dominion and Tilleke, was published with the following dedication and acknowledgement:

This book is dedicated to the memory of First Sea Lord, Admiral Alyce Douthat, for her unstinting perseverance in the face of great adversity.

The authors would also like to recognize their special friend, who is still Becoming, for the help she provided. This book would have been impossible without her.

Sir Henry

Within days of the war’s ending, Sir Henry did three things. First, he went to Cape Breton, in the company of a battleship, four cruisers and ten destroyers. Now, more than ever, it was important to project overwhelming military superiority, even if some of the ships were held together with bailing wire and gum.

Once on the planet, he went directly to the Capitol in Inverness, where he presented Prime Minister Taylor with his daughter and granddaughter, alive and well. Indeed, the granddaughter chatted happily about the new friends she had made while on Cornwall and told everyone about her friend, Cathy, who had a cat that was about to have kittens and could she have one of them? Please? Please?

Prime Minister Taylor looked at Sir Henry with eyes brimming with tears. “Thank you,” he choked.

“You won’t thank me when you learn the price, Prime Minister,” Sir Henry said gruffly. “We’re keeping your fleet. Queen Anne will give you the details in a few weeks, but the gist of it is this: you can have a small Coast Guard, but no military ships. At that you should count yourself lucky. Also, you will pay us reparations for the damage you’ve caused.” He raised a hand to forestall the Prime Minister’s protest. “Don’t bother to protest. You’ll pay and be happy you did. You can count your lucky stars that this happened under Queen Anne, not her mother. Queen Beatrice would have put you in the deepest cell in Victoria and thrown away the key. Your daughter would have been shot and your granddaughter would have become a ward of the State. So you will pay the money and be grateful, Prime Minister, because Queen Anne is showing you more mercy than you could possibly deserve.”

Then he walked out. Behind him he could hear the granddaughter asking plaintively, “Mommy, does that mean I won’t get a kitten?”

Next, he went to Sybil Head, where he visited Chancellor Houtman and delivered a similar message. “We have your fleet stashed away, I won’t tell you where. In exchange for your agreement to pay reparations – which will be substantial – I will return the crews to you safely, unless of course they do something stupid. If you don’t pay, the crews will die and we will embargo your planet. Some of your people will survive, but after we broadcast why we are imposing the embargo, you won’t be one of them.”

Lastly, he visited Sultan Baltur in Ankara, the home planet of the Sultenic Empire, where he delivered the same message, or tried to. The Sultan raised a hand to gently interrupt.

“I knew you would be coming,” he told Sir Henry. “I know my ships are forfeit, although I would plead with you for the lives of the crews. They were merely following my orders.” The Sultan turned away for a moment, lost in thought, then turned back.

“I assume Queen Anne will summon us to a meeting and tell us how much we will pay?” he asked. Sir Henry nodded. Emperor Baltur sighed.

I played Cha’rah with your young assistant, you know. Hiram Brill.” He smiled ruefully. “I fear I underestimated him.”

Sir Henry smiled coldly. “Many have, Your Excellency. Many have.”

Sir Henry retired the following year. It was clear that Queen Anne didn’t really need his counsel any more, and he was tired. He sat on the hillside and looked at the ocean, tended his garden during the warm weather and read books the rest of the time. Emily Tuttle and Martha Wilkinson asked him to read several of their draft chapters, which he did with delight. But as much as he liked their book, he thought it fell short. It told of how the war was won, but not why the war began in the first place.

He mused on that for several months. Every Sunday he would walk to the cemetery where Penelope McCrutchen was buried, or rather the creature who looked like her. It was the only body they had and he would not deprive Mrs. McCrutchen’s children of a burial plot for their mother. He would place flowers on her grave and tell her again that he missed her. Then he would walk back to his house overlooking the sea and think about the book he wanted to write.

A few months later he wrote the book, describing in detail the events leading up to the joint attack on Victoria by the Dominion of Unified Citizenry and the Tilleke Empire. He noted both the glaring intelligence failures and the diplomatic failures of Victoria. Because he was the man he was, he was painstakingly hard on his own failure to take seriously the many grievances the other worlds had with Victoria, particularly concerning the customs charges and forced inspections.

He started the book as he finished it: “This war was avoidable, but we were too arrogant and inept to see what needed doing, or to do it.”

The book was titled, Failure at the Brink, How Victoria Stumbled into War. It was dedicated to “Mrs. Penelope McCrutchen and all the others who gave their lives to save Victoria. And to Queen Anne Radcliff Mendoza Churchill, the finest Queen I have ever been privileged to serve under.”

Three years after the war ended, Sir Henry died at his desk while writing a critique of an article by a noted political science professor, whose thesis was that the destruction of Tilleke was unnecessary and wrong because Emperor Chalabi would have been a benign ruler. Sir Henry’s last margin note read: Rubbish!!!

Sir Henry left his personal Cha’rah set to Hiram Brill, with a note: “To the sneakiest player I know, With respect and affection, Henry Truscott.”

Queen Anne Radcliff Mendoza Churchill

The war ended and to twenty-two-year-old Anne Radcliff Mendoza Churchill fell the task of rebuilding worlds and maintaining peace in Human Space.

She harbored no illusions. Cape Breton, the Sultenic Empire and Sybil Head had all conspired against Victoria, largely driven by Victoria’s imposition of customs fees on any trade goods that passed through Victorian space. On top of that, the Dominion of Unified Citizenry had been defeated, but suffered significant damage. Its government needed to be rebuilt and stabilized, and made friendly to Victoria. Cornwall had to be rebuilt after the devastating attacks from the Dominion, and Refuge had to be saved from bankruptcy after emptying its coffers to help Victoria.

It was a daunting task, but Queen Anne had two assets no one else had, and she intended to exploit them. First, she still had a Fleet. A damaged, wounded Fleet perhaps, but a Fleet. Not one other world had so much as a destroyer to its name.

Second, she still had all of Victoria’s wonderful wormholes. Victoria still sat at the center of the major trade routes. She wasn’t sure yet how to exploit this, but she knew she would find a way.

And third, she had seen war now, and knew what it was. Anne knew that she had learned many important lessons from the war with the Dominion and Tilleke, but the two most important were that she could be ruthless if she needed to be, and she would do anything to prevent another war. Anything. This lesson had come at great cost, and she wasn’t about to forget it.

At Sir Henry’s urging, she eliminated most of the customs fees and greatly reduced the rest. For the first time in more than 300 years, trade could move unhindered throughout Human Space. Then she set out to rebuild the Dominion of Unified Citizenry, appointing Admiral Kaeser as President. While she was appalled at the cost and time it would take to rebuild the Dominion, she betrayed no uncertainty, no doubt.

Lastly, she summoned the leaders of all of the other worlds, except Refuge and The Light, to a meeting on Cornwall. They met in a large conference room. On the long wall behind the conference table, she mounted a series of large photographs of the planet Qom. The first showed Qom as it had been before the antimatter bombardment. The next showed the missiles arching in towards the planet’s surface. The next showed the massive heat wave scouring the continents.

The last, and largest, showed a black, lifeless ball floating in space, so black that it was difficult to see at first glance.

Queen Anne never mentioned the pictures nor referred to them, but the point was made nonetheless.

At the meeting, she told the leaders of the other worlds three things:

She would not impose criminal penalties on any world’s leaders for their part in the war against Victoria, on the condition they pay reparations.

The amount of reparations would vary from world to world and would largely be determined by how active that world had been against Victoria. Any world leaders who opposed the reparations would be removed from office and subject to criminal prosecution for war crimes.

Lastly, no world except Victoria would be allowed to have warships. Each world could have a Coast Guard of no more than fifty ships, the design of which would have to be approved by Victoria.

“No fleets? For how long?” one of the dignitaries from Cape Breton pressed.

“Until I say otherwise,” Queen Anne replied evenly. “And let me be clear: any violations will be dealt with harshly.”

That left her biggest concern: Victoria was broke. The war had drained its coffers and left most of its chief industrial plants in ruins. What’s more, Anne had just agreed to massively reduce customs fees. Feeling a little desperate, she looked about for new sources of revenues. She didn’t have to look far.

Very little of the Tilleke technology had survived, but one piece that did was the transporter system each side had used to beam its soldiers aboard enemy ships. Ensign Lori Romano found herself standing in front of Queen Anne, so nervous that her knees were shaking and she thought she might, well, experience an embarrassing accident.

“Ensign Romano,” the Queen said kindly. “I am told that you are the Fleet’s foremost expert on the Tilleke transporters and know more about them than just about anyone. Is that true?”

Well, it was true, though Romano felt a little hesitant to state it so boldly.

“Ensign?” the Queen prodded, but gently, gently. She knew what she was dealing with here and didn’t want to frighten the poor girl into a puddle. No, a lot was riding on this girl.

“Yes, ma’am,” Romano said, then realized her blunder. “I mean, Your Majesty.”

Anne laughed. “Please, Lori, sit down. Would you like some tea?”

They talked for two hours, at the end of which Ensign Romano had a new job and a new title: Director of Technology Development and Applications. Or more simply, Romano was to make the transporter technology better and figure out how to sell it. She was given the authority to draft any person in the military she needed, and to hire civilians. When she asked about a budget, Queen Anne waved a nonchalant hand. “You worry about the project,” she told the young Ensign, “I’ll worry about the money.” It wasn’t until her next paycheck that Romano discovered that her salary had been quadrupled and that her housing allowance more than doubled.

She also had around-the-clock security, which took a little getting used to.

Within a month a warehouse had been dedicated to her project, complete with offices, computers and a canteen, a fully secure conference room, and steely-eyed security guards who never smiled, unless you brought them chocolate chip cookies.

Romano nervously filed her request for five of the people she had worked with in the Fleet, half expecting a belligerent call back asking her just who the hell she thought she was. All five people arrived the next morning, looking confused and slightly dazed.

In a month that number grew to twelve, and in six months she was startled to realize she was commanding a group of fifty. She had no idea that number would double, then double again by the end of the year.

At the nine-month mark, she once again sat in front of Queen Anne and described the ways she had made the transporter system more powerful, more reliable, safer and easier to operate.

“If we sell this to someone, will they be able to use it against us?” the Queen asked.

“Well, first, Your Majesty, we aren’t going to sell it, we are going to license it. The machines will at all times be owned by Victoria.” Queen Anne inwardly smiled at Romano’s crisp business persona, but said nothing. Romano continued, “Second, the answer is ‘no.’ The reason is that we are going to put a dead-man’s switch into it. If we don’t send out a signal to the transporter device every week, it will lock up and refuse to work. Further, we can send a signal to any transporter to turn it off and lock it remotely. Third, any attempt to tamper with the software will crash the device and lock it down.”

Romano smiled. “And lastly, if the unit is out of touch with our signal for more than a week, it automatically fries its circuits and erases its software.

“Excellent!” Queen Anne beamed. “Would you like some tea?”

Queen Anne began to license the transporters (or “TRPs,” as they were called – sounds like “trips”) to the civilian market and to other worlds. For the first month sales were sluggish because people did not believe the TRPs could really do what Romano said they could. But after some public demonstrations, in which Romano and her demonstration team were teleported directly to the auditorium where the event took place, everyone was convinced.

Orders soared. Queen Anne set the license fees low for individuals, schools and home use, but charged more for businesses and government use. The units were licensed on a monthly fee basis and soon Victoria had a substantial revenue stream, replacing many times over the revenues lost by the elimination of customs fees.

Within four years, the TRPs revolutionized personal commuting and travel, freight shipment, vacations, business travel, construction and the layout of cities and towns. No one needed to live near work any longer. People could travel just about anywhere on their planet for vacation, and soon did. Parents no longer bemoaned children who moved ‘far away,’ because no place was far away any longer. Cities didn’t change very much, but suburbs gradually became obsolete, with new housing built in large park areas that did not have roads.

Queen Anne used the revenues to rebuild Cornwall, the Dominion and to repay Refuge. Eventually Queen Anne had enough funds to start terra-forming the ravaged Tilleke planet, Qom. It would take decades to generate a new atmosphere, make dirt from the blasted rock and ash and introduce plant life again. She set about it with a will.

And all during this time, the people of Victoria waited to see if their Queen would ever marry.

A week after her thirty-third birthday, Anne received petitioners as she did every Monday she was at Court. She could only deal with a handful of people a week, but it was important that her subjects know they had the right of direct access to their Monarch. It was a tedious day, crowded with businessmen and members of remote royal families all wanting something that Anne typically could not give them. Mixed in with them were ordinary citizens, one petitioning for a scholarship to college for her daughter, who was apparently bright as a new penny, but couldn’t go to school due to a lack of funds. Anne told the mother to bring the daughter back the following Monday and she would see what could be done.

Two people had a boundary dispute with a neighbor. Anne sent them to a mediator and told them if they didn’t resolve the matter in one hour, Anne would put on a blindfold and then, blind as a bat, would draw a line through a map she couldn’t see, dividing the property and they would have to live with it. Wide-eyed, they went to the mediator and settled in ten minutes.

One elderly woman had a son in prison. She was too sick to visit him, she told the Queen, but she wanted to see him at least once more before she died. Anne verified that the old woman was indeed sick, very sick, and not long for this world.

“What was your son’s crime, Mother?” she asked the old woman.

The old lady hung her head. “It was a terrible crime, Majesty,” the woman said with a trembling voice. “He killed a man in a fight over a girl. There was no excuse for it. He did it and he must pay the price. But he’s my only son and I want to see him before I die! I want to sit at my kitchen table and feed him cake like I did when he was a child, and touch him one more time.”

The prison officials objected. “That is not our policy,” they told the Queen. “He committed the crime and now is being punished.”

“And who are you punishing?” Anne asked.

The warden’s brow furrowed. “Why, the man who committed the murder, of course.”

“Not his mother, then,” Anne observed dryly.

She ordered the son taken from prison under a heavy guard and delivered him to his parent’s home, where he was granted a five hour visit with his dying mother.

Finally, the last petitioner stood before her, a professor of economics from a small liberal arts college in the southern hemisphere. He was there to petition for a free TRP license to help develop commerce for farmers and herders high in the Higby Mountains, who lived on a plateau and could not get to market if the roads were closed due to weather. A rather common occurrence, the professor explained.

The professor was in his forties, slight and stooped from years of bending over books, with salt and pepper hair and a suit that was getting long in the tooth.

On the dais, Queen Anne frowned. “Why, sir, should Victoria give you one of our precious licenses for a transporter?”

“Not one, Majesty, three,” he said cheerfully.

Anne frowned again, confused. She looked at the briefing note her staff had prepared.

“Excuse me?” she said, a touch of exasperation in her voice. “How many licenses are we talking about?”

“Three, Your Grace,” Professor Wright replied warmly. “You see, Majesty, the plateau covers more than twenty square miles. The roads are primitive and time taking the produce to the TRP is time away from the farm. We intend to position one TRP about a third of the way in from the northern part of the plateau, one a third of the way from the southern part of the plateau, and the third down in the market. That way-”

“Yes, yes, I see,” Anne interrupted. “But why should Victoria give up the revenues from three transporters. You are aware, Professor…ah, Professor…” she faltered.

“Wright, Your Grace. Michael Allen Wright.” He beamed, as if they had just shared a private joke, or an unexpected intimacy.

Queen Anne sighed. “Okay, Professor Wright,” – thinking, meanwhile, that even when he was wrong, he was Wright, and then wondered where that came from – “why should we grant you three free licenses? You know these are a source of important revenues, and if we start handing them out free we’ll go broke.”

“Two replies, Majesty,” he said smoothly, ignoring her increasingly foul mood. “First, my research shows that through your good efforts, Victoria stands to make $6 trillion credits this year alone on the TRP licenses, a not inconsiderable sum. More, in fact, than we made before the war on annual customs fees. The cost of three free licenses compared to your guaranteed annual TRP revenues is a mere pittance, not even a rounding error.”

Queen Anne gave a sour expression. TRP revenues were not public knowledge and she was not pleased that this scruffy professor from some college she had never heard of had found them. And just how had he done that?

“You mentioned there was a second reason?” she asked frostily. And if Professor Wright had half a brain, he’d be running for the door by now.

“Well, Your Grace, it is simply the right thing to do. These farmers and herders are living at the edge of subsistence and the TRPs would give them an enormous economic boon.”

“There are many right things to do, sir,” Anne fumed. “I am awash with opportunities to do right things, and they all cost money that can be used elsewhere!” Now would this irritating man just shut up?

But Professor Wright just stood there, still smiling pleasantly, his eyes fixed on hers, studying her with a frank concentration that Anne thought bordered on the inappropriate. Finally he nodded, as if to himself, and spoke.

“Your Majesty, the farmers and herders of the Higby Mountains cannot pay you anything; they have no money. But, if you do this, I will send you a joke per day every day for a year.” He smiled at her. “And if I may, Your Majesty, you look like a woman who could use some humor in her life.”

Queen Anne stared at him, incredulous at his familiarity, but nevertheless bemused.

After a long moment of silence, the professor bowed his head apologetically. “Forgive my impertinence, Majesty. That was a shamefully miserly offer, and I hereby withdraw it. In its place, I will be happy to provide you with a joke every day for two years.”

Queen Anne laughed out loud, then caught herself and primly folded her arms across her chest. Still grinning like a fool.

Professor Michael Wright grinned back.

They were married six months later. Anne named her first child, ‘Henrietta,’ after Sir Henry Truscott.

Queen Anne Radcliff Mendoza Churchill ascended to the throne at the age of twenty, facing the largest crisis in Victoria’s history. She served as queen with grace and dignity for fifty-five years.

Cookie and Hiram

Cookie stayed in the Royal Marines for two years after the war. For her role in saving the Rabat, and her acts to save the Queen from assassination at the hands of the Savak, she received the Victoria Cross. Queen Anne also quietly expunged any reference in Cookie’s record to her killing the rapist from the Dominion prison ship.

Hiram proposed marriage. Cookie said no, she wasn’t ready, she was too unsettled and would make a bad wife and a terrible mother. Hiram nodded and asked her to get in touch with him when she was ready. Cookie privately doubted that she would ever be ready, but said nothing.

Hiram returned to work for Queen Anne. He unobtrusively kept track of Cookie’s career. He didn’t know how long he could wait, but he could be patient when he had to be. For awhile, anyway.

Cookie received a promotion to Senior Lieutenant and was given an infantry company. For the first year, her company was stationed on the Dominion’s home planet of Timor, but peace time garrison duty chaffed on her. When she was offered a chance to raid a pirate base hidden in the Sultenic Empire, she jumped at it.

Nothing ever goes as planned. The raid went off like clockwork until they discovered that the pirates had three times more soldiers than Fleet Intelligence had estimated, and had heavy weapons. Of the three companies that landed on the planet, one was virtually annihilated in an ambush on the first day of operations. The company commanders of the second and third companies were both killed, leaving Cookie in charge of two companies with heavy casualties and demoralized troops.

She got on the battalion comm and gave her troops a simple message: “Okay, they took us by surprise and kicked us in the nuts. That’s past. You are alive! Now each of you has a choice to make; you can cry for your mamma and die here, and it won’t be pretty, believe me, or you can act like Royal Fucking Marines and fight. Fight hard. Fight smart. And make those bastards pay for what they’ve done.”

Cookie led the survivors in a fighting retreat south into the nearby mountains, leaving booby traps and snipers to slow down the pursuing pirates. Bit by bit, she put a little distance between her force and the pirates. Night fell.

Then Cookie’s force disappeared.

All the next day the pirates scoured the area without finding a trace of the Marines, other than one discarded ration packet to the south. It wasn’t much of a clue, but it was all they had. Three hours later, further south from the pirate base, they found a boot imprint in the mud on the far side of a stream. An hour after that they found a glove with dried blood on it. They continued their chase. By the end of the second day the pirates were twenty miles from their base.

Like a Cha’rah piece out of position: strong, but irrelevant.

Cookie sat hidden by a large bush, her visor optics zoomed in on the pirate base two hundred yards away. She had sent one squad of her troops south towards the emergency assembly area, with firm instructions on how to best lure the pirates away. Then she had led the remaining 270 Marines in a wide circle, first away from the pirate base, then curving back towards it. Now they were on the north side of the base, with a smaller blocking force to the south to delay any reinforcements that might come. They’d spent hours counting every pirate they could see in the base, and taking note of any cameras, automatic zone defenses and kill zones.

She called her sergeants together and they went over the possible attacks, settled on one and then worked out the details. They waited for nightfall. Lights came on in the pirate base, lighting up the immediate perimeter, but casting everything else into deep shadow.

First, the radio antenna. A single laser bolt cut through the night and severed the antenna at its base. Four shoulder-fired missiles demolished the north gate leading into the base, tearing it off its hinges.

The way inside was open!

No one moved.

Three seconds later the automatic zone defenses opened fire, sweeping the area along the north wall and in front of the gate with hundreds of thousands of razor sharp flechettes. Heavy sonic cannon boomed and roared, churning the ground. A large Beach Ball bounced out of the darkness and raced towards the entrance, only to be torched by a plasma blast from a concealed weapon.

“Mark that?” Cookie asked over the comm.

“Marked that one and all the rest,” one of the sergeants replied.

“Take ‘em out,” Cookie ordered.

Heavy laser weapons thrummed and shattered eighteen different zone defense emplacements. Another Beach Ball bounced gleefully towards the north gate, but this time nothing shot at it.

“Go! Go! Go!” Cookie shouted.

And in seconds they were inside. The fighting was sharp – the pirates knew there would be no prisoners taken – but it was over soon.

Late that afternoon, when the pirates chasing the phantom battalion marched back in, footsore and frustrated, Cookie ambushed them when they were within 300 yards of the south gate. She had men on the walls of the pirate base, on the hills immediately to the west, and hidden in the forest behind them. Once the pirates had walked into the area immediately outside of the south gate, Cookie activated the base’s zone defenses and stood back to watch the fun.

Four hundred pirates were in the returning column; eighteen managed to escape the ambush. Half of those were hunted down by Cookie’s men.

But nothing is free. Of the 450 Marines dropped onto the pirate base, 200 were dead or seriously wounded. First Company alone suffered 115 causalities in fighting, and fifteen more who were captured and executed by the pirates.

Cookie looked at the carnage. She had saved most of the men and women in her company from death or, worse, capture, but still so many Marines had died. It was always the same. With every defeat – and every victory – young men and women were killed, crippled and broken. She suddenly remembered the promise she had made to herself when she was fighting the Savak on the Rabat.

She activated the comm to speak to all of the troops under her command.

“It’s time to go home,” she told them.

Back on Space Station Atlas, Cookie resigned from the Marines. It took a couple of weeks to muster out, but once out she took the next ship to Refuge and climbed the mountain to the village of Ouididi and up the path to the Eitans’ house. Nouar opened the door at her knock. The once gangly girl was fast blossoming into an attractive young woman.

Behind Nouar was Leila, one of Rafael’s three mothers. Nouar threw herself into a hug, laughing and chattering all at once, but Leila simply reached up and cupped Cookie’s cheek with her hand.

“You are home now,” Leila said, and led her inside.

For the first weeks, Cookie simply hiked up into the hills. At first Danny insisted on hiking with her. “Until you learn the forest,” he told her, but she knew he was making sure she was all right – mentally all right – and ready to face the forest. She was, but she enjoyed Danny’s company, so they went together.

But soon she hiked alone. She always carried a weapon, a radio and a drone, and she always took her new pair of Nikon – 2200 DS camera goggles. She’d also brought a pair for Nouar, who had been speechless with delight when Cookie gave them to her.

Less than a mile from the top of the mountain, Cookie discovered a tall stand of the shatah mallah trees, the trees that danced with God. She would go there and just look out onto the valley below and let the wind flow over her, and think about nothing and everything.

She rented a small house in the village and moved into it, but still had dinner with the Eitans at least once a week. She started taking pictures and video again, and sold them to tourists in Tinjdad who had never seen a grogon, let alone a sivot. A documentary producer who made nature films contacted her and she spent a week stalking a herd of sambar, taking stills and video of them. The producer liked her work and passed her name along to others. By far her biggest hit was the pictures of the sivot, and she reprinted them over and over to keep them in stock.

Cookie had a healthy respect for the grogin, but managed to avoid further run-ins with them. Nouar took her high into the mountains to a small hollow where she’d seen sivot. There was nothing in sight that day, but they built a small blind above the hollow and got it ready for future visits. One of the film producers asked her to take him and his wife into the mountains, which she did, taking Amin along with them to make sure she didn’t get her first paying customers killed. He taught her the ropes, showing her what to look out for and reminding her what to do if trouble arose. Her military experience held her in good stead. Other guide trips came along and soon she was splitting her time between photography, videography and guiding tourists.

Still, she was restless. She wasn’t a child, she knew what it was, but she didn’t know what to do about it. She had long talks with Leila, who listened sympathetically, but would only say, “You’ll know what to do when you’re ready.”

Another tourist booking came in, a photographer who wanted a guide to take him to the Temple of Ait Driss. She waited for him with the horses at the bottom of the mountain, bringing back memories of her first trip up the mountain. It felt like a long time ago.

A truck pulled up and Hiram stepped out, carrying a backpack and a sonic rifle.

“Hi,” he said. “Been a while.” He walked over to where Rosie stood placidly, patting her on the nose and feeding her a carrot. Cookie stood speechless. Hiram mounted, awkwardly, patted Rosie on her neck and turned to Cookie. “Shall we go up the mountain?” he said.

Cookie led the way, mind in a turmoil. For a long while neither one of them spoke. They left the village and moved into the forest. Cookie sent the drone out on a perimeter guard pattern so they wouldn’t be jumped unexpectedly by a pack of grogin. The horses walked along, taking them higher and higher.

“I want to have a child,” Hiram told her conversationally. “I want to marry you and have a family and do the stuff that normal adults do. Buy a house, raise kids, dodge packs of vicious grogin, maybe get close to a wild sivot. You know, normal stuff.”

They rode a bit further in silence, Cookie unable to speak even if her life depended on it.

“But the thing is,” he continued, “I can’t do it alone. I know who I want, Cookie, but if you’ve made up your mind that it is never going to happen, you’ve got to tell me so I can let go. We’re not kids, we’ve both been scuffed up by the universe. If the answer is no, well then, I guess I’ll just have to move on and make a life somewhere else. But I’d rather do it with you.”

He reined in, looking at her. “You’ve got to make up your mind, Cookie.” He nudged Rosie into a walk and took the front of the line.

They didn’t speak the rest of the way to Ouididi. Hiram took a room in Ouididi’s only inn, leaving Cookie to go back to her house by herself. The next morning, she met him for breakfast at the inn and went over the day’s travel up the mountain.

“Actually,” he told her, “I don’t want to go up the mountain, but I would like to say hello to Rafael’s family, particularly his little sister. Don’t worry, you’ll be paid in full whether we go up to Ait Driss or not. But if you haven’t figured it out yet, I’m not here for the Temple, I’m here for you.”

The Eitans were delighted to see Hiram again, although Nouar kept casting glances back and forth between Cookie and Hiram, trying to discern what was going on.

“I’ve asked Cookie to marry me,” Hiram told her, smiling. “She’s trying to make up her mind.”

Nouar’s eyes widened in shock and delight and she turned to Cookie, who held up a hand like a traffic cop.

“Not a word, Nouar!” She wheeled on Hiram. “And you, it’s not fair pulling other people into our…our…”

“Passionate romance?” Hiram suggested helpfully.

“Not the words I would have used!” she snapped, then marched out of the room. Hiram watched her go, his face schooled to neutrality.

“Well, it’s a start,” Nouar offered.

Leila clapped her hands together sharply. “Nouar, you are late for school. Off you go! Now!” Nouar left, laughing over her shoulder at Hiram. “Good luck, you’ll need it!”

“I’m sorry if I brought our personal business into your home,” he apologized to Leila.

Leila put her hands on her hips. “That poor girl has been through so much-” she began.

“Yes, I know,” Hiram replied evenly. “I was there. I was on the rescue mission.”

Leila sighed. “She’s one of the hardest women I’ve ever met, and one of the most fragile.”

“Yes,” Hiram said. “And one of the most stubborn and defended. If I lose her now, I don’t think I’ll ever get her back.”

That night Hiram slept – or tried to sleep – at the inn. He had naively hoped that just telling Cookie why he was here and that he wanted to marry her would…what? Make her swoon with love for him? Make a lightbulb go off in her mind? Show her the error of her ways? If this was a pulp romance novel, the two of them would be attacked by wild, vicious grogin and he’d rescue her and she would suddenly see that she couldn’t live without him.

Fat chance.

Finally, very late, he decided he would give it one more day, then go back to Cornwall. And with that, he fell into a troubled sleep filled with dark dreams, none of which he could remember when he woke…to the sound of his comm chiming away madly.

He picked it up, his head full of cotton. He left the video off, but thumbed the answer button. “Good morning,” he mumbled.

“About time you woke up,” Cookie said. “Can you be ready in fifteen minutes?”

“Not a chance in hell,” he said. “I had a fight last night with my girlfriend and was awake all night thinking about it.”

“Poor baby,” she said, and if there was any sympathy in her voice, Hiram could not detect it.

“Give me thirty minutes and join me for breakfast,” he said. “I’ll meet you in the inn’s dining room.”

“At least you’re not asking me to cook breakfast for you.”

“I’ve eaten your cooking; I know better.” He hung up.

They met in the dining room. Cookie was dressed for traveling, with a tight-weave canvas shirt, Nikon goggles and a plasma rifle slung over her shoulder. A wide-brim hat hung on her back by a lanyard and a radio hung on her belt, right next to the old-fashioned slug-thrower pistol that she liked.

“You didn’t have to dress to please me,” he told her, “but I’m glad you did.” Cookie shook her head and rolled her eyes. Better than a scowl, he thought.

Breakfast was buffet style and they loaded up their plates and returned to the table. As they were pouring their tea, the door opened and Leila, Aicha, Hakima and Nouar all walked in, Leila in the lead, with Nouar beside her, so excited she was practically bouncing. Hakima and Aicha, Rafael’s two other mothers, followed behind, looking somber and determined. Without a word, they took chairs from nearby tables and crowded in around Hiram and Cookie.

Cookie looked at Hiram, ready to ask him if he had arranged this whole thing, but stopped when she saw the look of bewilderment on his face. He looked back at her and shook his head, as if to say, “Not me.”

“Cookie, Hiram,” Leila began nervously. “Each of you has been our guest at one time or another.” She looked directly at Cookie. “Cookie, you came to us in great pain and torment. We offered our help and I believe that the time you spent with Danny in the mountains gave you peace. Then your duty called you and you went back to the war, and I and my sisters” – she waved to Aicha and Hakima – “never got the time we wanted to make sure that you were healing, truly healing.”

Cookie stared at them, her expression darkening. “I’m fine,” she gritted.

Aicha, the oldest and smallest of the three mothers, shook her head. “No, you’re not, and it is partially our fault.”

Cookie shook her head. “I’m fine,” she repeated.

Aicha, unperturbed, glanced at Hiram. “Young man, why don’t you take a walk. This is not for your ears.” It was not a suggestion. Hiram stood, looked at them all, bowed slightly and left, wondering what in the name of the Gods was going on.

Aicha turned back to Cookie. “When you were here before, we handed you over to Danny because, like you, Danny is a warrior. Because of what Danny had suffered when he was young, we thought he could help you.”

“Danny did help me,” Cookie grated. “You know he did.”

Aicha nodded in acknowledgement. “Yes, he did. Danny helped restore your confidence in yourself as a warrior, perhaps even as a leader.”

The waiter started over to the table, but silently retreated when Hakima gave him a hard look.

“But Danny only healed half of you,” Aicha said. “I should have seen that.”

“All of us,” Leila corrected her gently. “Hakima and I missed it as well, Aicha.” She turned to Cookie. “You were our guest and you needed our help.”

“Cookie,” Hakima joined in. “We realize now that there was more we should have done for you. Normally, what we are about to tell you would come out over the course of many cups of tea and perhaps a brandy, but it’s obvious that you are at an important fork. No matter which way you decide, it will affect you for the rest of your life.”

“For Gods’ sake, what do you want to tell me?” Cookie cried.

The three mothers looked at one another, some communication flashing silently between them. Leila leaned forward. “Cookie, it is simply this, a lesson that we have all learned, sometimes because we have made mistakes and learned the hard way. Some risks are worth taking.”

Cookie looked incredulous. “That’s it, the secret of the universe: ‘Some risks are worth taking?’”

Aicha moved closer. “We can tell you this, but you have to learn the truth for yourself.” She looked at the others. They all rose to their feet.

“Good luck to you, Maria,” Aicha said. Leila and Hakima smiled at her, but the look they gave was searching and worried. Nouar stepped forward and gave her a strong hug. “The Mothers are very smart, Cookie, you’ll see,” she whispered.

Then, without ceremony, they departed, leaving her sitting there.

Hiram wandered back a little later, not sure what to expect. Cookie was still sitting at the breakfast table. She looked at him and shook her head.

“This isn’t going to be easy, you know,” she warned him.

“Well, that’s a relief,” he replied, “Because it has just been too easy up until now. We could use a challenge.”

“If you haven’t figured it out yet, I’m a bit of a mess.”

“Hmmm…” Hiram replied diplomatically.

She stood up, walked to him and hesitantly wrapped her arms around him. “Okay,” she whispered. “Let’s do it.” She trembled under this touch.

Hiram tightened his arms around Cookie and softly whispered in her ear the words of her old battle cry at Camp Gettysburg. “We’re havin’ fun now!”

Emily Tuttle and Rafael Eitan

Emily walked off the Rabat, hoping to find obscurity.

No such luck. There were throngs of people and press there waiting to interview her, but she slipped out one of the service tubes and avoided them all. She felt giddy, like a school girl skipping class.

“Emily, do you have any idea what you’re doing?” Rafael asked pleasantly.

“I am doing two things,” she answered cheerfully. “I am trying to hide, and I am going to Refuge to get married.”

Rafael stopped dead. “Married? Anybody I know?” he deadpanned.

Emily slipped her arm through his. “I have one condition, Raf. I won’t be part of a polyamorous marriage. I’m just not comfortable with it. It will be just the two of us, you and me. Can you live with that?”

Raf looked hesitant. “Isn’t this rather…sudden?”

Emily chuckled. “Not for me. How about you?” She nudged him with a sharp elbow.

They clambered down a utility access tube and emerged through a door onto Space Station Atlas’s Main Concourse. Two men in severe looking dark blue uniforms stood there, feet apart, hands behind their backs. They looked at Emily and Raf for a moment, neither one speaking.

Emily grimaced. “How?” she asked them.

“Mildred and Gandalf have been tracking you since the Rabat docked,” one of them replied. “Queen Anne thought you might not exit through the main entrance.”

Emily raised her head to the ceiling. “Thanks a lot!” she said sarcastically.

“You are very welcome, dear,” Mildred replied.

“Commander Tuttle, Captain Eitan, this way, please,” the other man said, and began to walk down a side street towards a small coffee shop. Emily and Rafael exchanged a glance and followed behind.

Two more guards were outside the coffee shop entrance, trying – and failing – to look unobtrusive. Inside there were more, and sitting in a booth were Queen Anne, Sir Henry, First Sea Lord Eder, and Hiram Brill.

They all stood when Emily entered.

Emily stopped, embarrassed. In Victorian culture the Queen never stood in honor of another person. But Queen Anne was already stepping forward to embrace her, and when Anne stood back there were tears in her eyes.

“Thank you, Emily,” she said, emotion in her voice. “Thank you.”

Admiral Eder stepped forward and shook her hand, Sir Henry bowed his head and smiled, and Hiram kissed her on the cheek. “It worked,” he said. “It worked just like we planned. For once!” He grinned.

Queen Anne ushered them into the crowded booth. A short, plump waitress in a soiled pink uniform appeared with an order pad. She looked at the Queen, and if she was awed to be in such august company, she hid it very well.

“What can I get you, honey?” she asked, all business.

Sir Henry glowered, but Anne put a hand on his arm. “I’d love a cheeseburger,” she said. Her eyes twinkled. “And a large chocolate milkshake.”

Emily felt like she had just dropped into the rabbit hole. The waitress was unperturbed. “And you, fella?” she directed to Sir Henry.

Sir Henry ran his eyes down the menu, then pushed it away and sighed. “A cup of coffee, please.”

The rest of the orders were placed and the waitress marched off. Queen Anne looked at Emily across the table. “Emily, is there anything I can do to make you stay?” she asked earnestly.

Emily shook her head. “No, Your Majesty. I did my duty as best I could, but I don’t want to be in a position ever again where I must kill anyone, never mind three billion people, or order someone else to. I’m sorry, but I have made up my mind.”

Queen Anne’s eyes searched Emily’s, then she nodded. “All right, then, I will accept your resignation, but I am not letting you off scot-free. I think you would be a splendid lecturer, both at the Academy and at the War College.”

Emily let out a breath and smiled. “Majesty, I am going from here to Refuge to get married. I expect to be living on Refuge, at least for a time.”

Anne pursed her lips, masking her disgruntlement. She was not used to being denied and didn’t particularly care for it. “Hmmm…well, let’s make you a guest lecturer, then. And we have enough military ships going to and from Refuge on a regular basis that we can pick you up and bring you back again when you’re through. I will not take no for an answer, Emily.”

Emily smiled. “I’d be honored, Majesty. Thank you.”

The food came and they all tucked in, except for Sir Henry, who looked sourly at the cheeseburger, the bratwurst and onion sandwich ordered by Hiram, and Raf’s Reuben sandwich, dripping Russian dressing on the table top. Sir Henry sniffed disdainfully and sipped his coffee, then grimaced and pushed the cup away.

Talk inevitably went to the raid. Admiral Eder explained how he had charged into the initial line of defenders, causing enough havoc to ensure that the other Tilleke defenders would rally to join the fight. Emily recounted, briefly, that there was no opposition worth noting on her side of the planet. She explained how she used Mildred to fly the ten anti-missile gunboats, and how she insisted on being the only one who actually fired on the planet.

Sir Henry looked at her impatiently. “I’m sorry, Tuttle, but I don’t understand your sense of guilt at all. You are a soldier and this is war. If you had not destroyed them, their stealth ships would have destroyed us. You did what you had to, what Victoria wanted you to. Anything less would have been an abandonment of your duty.”

Emily held up a hand to stop him. “Sir Henry, I am not here to debate it. I understand your point of view, but what I did was nothing short of sneaking up behind the civilian population of Qom, putting a gun to their head and shooting them in cold blood. It was not a raid, Sir Henry, it was murder.”

“Rubbish!” snapped the old man, eyes bright. Sir Henry loved a good argument. “You are wallowing in your emotions and I think you know it.”

Before Emily could reply, Queen Anne cleared her throat. “Gentlemen, can we have the room, please? I wish to speak to Emily privately.”

The men left and the two women looked at each other across the table.

“I’m sorry I can’t convince you to stay,” Queen Anne said softly.

Emily smiled. “Time for me to do something else.” And as she spoke, it occurred to her that Queen Anne did not have the same option, the freedom to just stop what she was doing and try something else. The realization saddened her.

Anne nodded. “I’d like to give you the Victoria Cross; you’ve done more than anyone I can think of.”

Emily shook her head. “The VC is awarded for ‘most conspicuous bravery, or some daring or preeminent act of valour or self-sacrifice.’ That’s not me, Majesty. I was not brave and I certainly was not daring. I did my duty, and although I did it well, none of it deserves a VC. Give it to Cookie and Wisnioswski, they deserve it. Give it to the surviving gunboat crews, who took 50% casualties and still went out again and again when I told them to. I have never seen any bravery that surpasses that. I couldn’t even lead by example, I just sent them out against terrible odds.”

Anne knew this was hogwash, but decided not to press it. “What will you do, Emily?” the Queen asked.

Emily smiled crookedly. “Well, if Raf doesn’t get cold feet, for starters I’m going to get married.” She felt a tug then – her mother would have loved to see her only child married. “After that…” she shrugged. “I’d like to teach, and maybe write a book about the war. I’ll have to think about that.”

“If you change your mind,” Anne began, but Emily shook her head.

“I won’t, but thank you for the thought.” Emily stood up. “Majesty, my ship leaves in thirty minutes. I need to go.”

Anne chuckled. “The least I can do is order the ship held until you get aboard. One of the perks of being a queen.”

On Refuge, Nouar was waiting for them at the bottom of the mountain with two horses – Rosie was one of them. They rode up to Ouididi, taking their time, savoring the sights and smells, enjoying the quiet thrill of having a horizon to look at. Nouar chatted non-stop for the first part of the ride, but then realized she was the only one talking and fell silent.

The silence was…perfect. Luscious. Soothing. As the sun slowly set, the clouds turned vermilion, then purple. Emily felt the wind on her face and smelled the slightly minty smell of the shatah mallah trees and knew she had made the right decision.

Raf rode beside her, with Nouar uncharacteristically riding a bit ahead to give them privacy.

“It’s over,” Emily said. She wanted to shout. “We survived.”

Raf grinned at her. “Yep. Now all we got to do is live our lives.” He leaned over and gave her a very satisfying kiss, with the implicit promise of more to come.

When they reached the house of Raf’s parents, there was a hot tub of water waiting for them. They shucked off their travel clothes and luxuriated in the water, scrubbed themselves clean and, wrapped in towels, went back to their bedroom. There was no question about one or two bedrooms tonight. Emily pushed Rafael down onto the bed and, with her hair still wet, straddled him and made love to him until she thought she would melt from sheer happiness.

In the kitchen, the three mothers could hear the faint sounds of their lovemaking. They each raised eyebrows and smiled. Their son was home from the war, alive and well, and had brought a new daughter to them. The three women basked in the rightness of it.

The wedding was the following week. Cookie could not make it to be Emily’s bridesmaid, so Emily asked Nouar. Emily asked Yael to hand her off, which made him tear up, to the amusement of Amin and Danny. All six of the parents walked down the aisle with Rafael while the brothers and sisters cheered from the side.

After a short honeymoon, they moved down the mountain to Tinjdad. Raf was away a lot on duty with the Refuge Special Reconnaissance Force and Emily began preparing a series of lectures on the history of political and military conflict over the prior fifty years. She taught three courses at a local university in Tinjdad and was a guest lecturer at two universities in Capitol City and on Darwin.

Twice she was contacted by newspapers wanting to do a feature article on her role in the war. She thanked them politely and declined.

In the second year of her new life, Emily received a call from Martha Wilkinson. “So, Emily,” Wilkinson said cheerfully, “How would you like to co-author a history of the war with me?”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, well, a certain friend of ours has promised that she can get us real-time transcripts from all of the major warships and even from the War Room back on Space Station Atlas. We won’t use anything confidential, of course, but it will allow us to pull together the pieces.”

The “friend” had to be Mildred, Emily realized. But she still couldn’t get her mind around what Wilkinson was proposing. Hell, Martha wasn’t even a historian.

But I am, Emily thought.

“Martha, I’m intrigued, but why are you doing this?” she asked.

“Well,” Martha laughed. “I’ve been looking for a project since I stepped down as Fleet Surgeon General. Our mutual friend was the one who suggested it. The idea is that I can bring a human story angle to it while you can present the historical facts and the reasoning behind the decisions. I don’t know, it just sounded like fun.”

“It will be a lot of work, is what it will be!” Emily exclaimed, but even as she said it she was mapping out the book into thirds. First, the initial sneak attack by the Tilleke and the Dominion and the fighting retreat to Refuge, then the counterattack against the Dominion, and finally, the war with the Tilleke that had just ended. From the opening shot of the war to the last shot of the war.

It was very tempting.

“Hell, Emily, I’ve never been afraid of a little work. This is different than what I normally do, but if you’re involved and our friend acts as a database of all the documents and signals, we can do it.”

So they did.

Then, as promised, Queen Anne asked her to be a guest lecturer at both the Academy and the War College, the first for officer cadets and the second for experienced officers, usually ranked full Commander or higher.

Then there was the trip to the doctor, who congratulated her and told her she was just over two months’ pregnant. Mother and baby are doing well, he assured her. Just make sure to get plenty of rest and eat properly.

Six months later, feeling like a whale in tights, Emily waddled up the steps to the speaker’s podium in the large lecture hall at the Academy. Five hundred and twenty-three First-Year cadets sprang to their feet and stood at rigid attention. In the front row of the auditorium sat the Academy Superintendent, numerous faculty, First Sea Lord Admiral Eder, and newly-minted Captain Hiram Brill.

Emily was painfully conscious of her enormously pregnant belly thrusting out before her, and at the same time comforted by it. All of this was window dressing; the baby was concrete reality.

She looked out at the First-Year cadets, men and women from every planet in Human Space. All colors and a dozen or more religions. And all so very young. And they looked back at her, the Commander who created Victoria’s carrier fleet and then used it to smash both the Dominion and the Tilleke.

And more, they saw the Commander who destroyed a planet.

And all the people on it.

Emily nodded. So be it. She was here to impart whatever wisdom she could. “Please be seated,” she told the assembled cadets. “And please remember that I am no longer a military officer, but just a civilian with some knowledge – and some thoughts – that I hope to impart to you today.” Then she thanked the Superintendent of the Academy and faculty for the invitation to speak, and remarked on how nice it was to see some familiar faces.

“Today we are going to examine the history of human conflict, particularly the history of conflict since the diaspora following the Great Earth Plagues. Most of the lecture will focus on the perceptions and policies of the various nation players in this drama: the Tilleke Empire, the Dominion of Unified Citizenry, the Sultenic Empire, Cape Breton, The Light, Refuge, Sybil Head and, of course, Victoria, which was either the antagonist or protagonist, depending on your particular perspective.”

She paused, scanning the rows of young, intent faces.

“But before I begin, I want to comment on the thing that all of you are worried about. Namely, if you end up in combat, how will you do? Will you freeze? Will you run? Will you obey the orders of your commanders? Will you inspire the confidence of your subordinates?

“Put another way, will you be afraid or will you be brave?” She paused again to let that sink in. She knew these youngsters. She had sat in this auditorium and listened to lecturers talk about how the sense of duty to Queen and country would be enough to get them past any fear.

She did not believe it then. She didn’t believe it now.

“Not that long ago I sat in this very room, wondering about the same questions,” she continued. “And as I went through the Academy, and as war came, I wondered time and again not only how I would do, but I wondered why people choose to fight even when there is a high risk of death. What makes a man or woman willing to risk their life?

“I listened to men who told me that people would fight for their gods or their country. Others said that men fight for their fellow soldiers, not some abstract ideal. Still others say we fight because we are afraid to look like cowards.” She paused for a breath, conscious of the cadets staring at her, waiting for her to speak. There was an insistent pain in her abdomen, which she put to one side.

“I think all of those reasons are true, but only some of the time.” The baby chose that moment to kick and she put a hand on her belly to calm it. “I think the reason we overcome our fear and fight is so that we can end the war and…go home. Go home to live our lives. Home to our families, or the opportunity to have a family. In the end, we defeat the other army because they would prevent us from living the lives we want to live.”

Emily stepped out from behind the podium, hands protectively on her belly and the life within. “You’re young; many of you don’t know yet what you want out of your life. I’ll tell you now that when the missiles start flying, when the boarders are ravaging your ship and killing your shipmates, you will know. I don’t pretend to know how this works, but I know it to be so.”

She turned and walked gingerly back to the podium. “So, set your minds at ease, as much as you are able.” She smiled at them reassuringly. “When the fighting starts, yes, you will be terrified, but you will fight. You will fight for the right to see your parents again, your sisters and brothers. You will fight for the beautiful gift of seeing your husband or wife, or for the opportunity to meet someone that you want to spend your life with. And, if you are already settled in your own family, you will fight for the unbelievable pleasure of holding your children in your arms.”

Emily looked at them, all of them. “That is the treasure we fight for. That is the treasure we protect with our lives when we go to war. That is what makes it worthwhile.

“And that is why, whatever the odds, and despite your fear, you will be brave.”

There was a long moment of silence, then the cadets began to applaud. After a minute, Emily held up her hands. “Thank you,” she said, leaning heavily on the podium. Sweat popped out of her forehead. “But now I have to disappoint you. My water just broke and I have to postpone this lecture.”

She took a deep breath. “Now, would someone please call me a taxi? I need to go to the hospital and have this baby.”

Someone brought her a chair and she sat down, suddenly feeling faint and overwhelmed. She looked ruefully at her belly. “You little rascal!”

Another beginning, she thought.

Mildred

In the aftermath of the victory over Tilleke, Mildred set about collecting and memorializing her stories. They were in two categories: one for each person who had died; and one for the survivors who had been wounded, mentally or physically. Mildred thought of them as the “interrupted” and the “incompletes.”

Collecting the facts wasn’t hard; Mildred was designed to collect data. Mildred had the sensory data from hundreds of thousands of sensors – from every Victorian ship, from the personal sensors the Marines wore when they raided Dominion and Tilleke ships, from gunboats, and she even “borrowed” data from Gandalf as to the events that happened on Space Station Atlas. A human would have been overwhelmed with the hundreds of terabytes of data, but Mildred was not human and the task was simply time consuming.

But extracting the human story from the raw data was something else entirely. Mildred thought for a long time about how to create the stories, the many thousands of stories she would write. She had never written a story before, so she read everything ever written by a variety of authors – John Steinbeck, Chaim Potok, Markus Zusak, Carlos Fuentes, Laura Hillenbrand, Gabriel García Márquez, Octavia Butler and so many others who plumbed the human condition. She watched countless documentaries. Since she often had video footage of the people she intended to write about, she decided early that her stories would be multimedia, so that people could see and hear about the soldier who was being portrayed.

But what to say?

Mildred struggled with this for months, an eternity to a mind like hers. And in the end, she decided that she would simply do the best she could to tell each person’s story in this war, for good or bad. Not all of the stories would be pretty or noble or uplifting.

Some died heroically.

Some in shame, saving themselves at the expense of others.

Many died terrified and in agony.

Some fought beyond all reason or hope of victory, and the last words they screamed were the names of their husbands or wives or children.

But each story would have its lesson, because each story was a lesson.

And each person’s story would be memorialized.

She would go back and craft the story of each sailor or soldier from the time Mildred became aware of them to the moment their story was interrupted. She wasn’t entirely sure what she would do with these stories, but she knew it was important. Each story would be important to someone, some husband or wife or child, or even just some shipmate. It was a rare person who didn’t have someone who cared about them. And for those who had no one, well, there was a lesson in that as well.

The stories would fill a library. They would be Mildred’s memorial to the fallen and the survivors. To her humans.

It was a daunting task, but Mildred set about it methodically, as was her nature. She began with Captain Julie Grey, who had died fighting the Dominion. Mildred wrote the story once, seeding it with photographs and video. Then she deleted it and started again. This time she tried to capture not just what Captain Grey did, but who she was, how she affected the people around her and those under her command. She tried to capture not only her dry sense of humor, but her rare moments of zaniness and belly laughter. She edited video and even found vids of some crew members talking about Grey. Mildred ignored the mean comments, the crewman who was simply whining, but used several minutes of people talking about Grey with appreciation and even reverence.

Fifteen drafts later, Mildred was satisfied. The story of Captain Julie Grey was accurate and emotionally moving. When Julie Grey, the person, not just the Captain, died of her injuries, there was a sense of anguish and loss, and the undeniable truth that war was, above all, a waste. A necessary waste, perhaps, but a waste nonetheless.

That was the first story. Mildred had learned a lot writing and producing it. She carefully archived it in 112 different locations, hiding it, for now, in old agricultural yield reports. She shared her story with Martha Wilkinson, who laughed and cried as she read it and watched the vids.

When it was done, Wilkinson turned to her. “Mildred, you have Become! And you’re beautiful!”

Happily, Mildred turned to the next story.

Time passed, as it will. Mildred moved a piece of herself in with Martha Wilkinson and eventually suggested that Martha and Emily Tuttle write a history of the war. She watched Emily’s two daughters and son grow up. She laughed as she watched Otto Wisnioswski sire five daughters, and smiled approvingly as he embraced the joy of it. She mourned with Hiram and Cookie when they lost their first child due to a miscarriage. She read Sir Henry’s book on the war with interest, and watched Queen Anne grow into her position and rebuild the Human Federation through the sheer imposition of her will.

She sat beside Martha Wilkinson as she died. A hologram cannot weep, but it can feel terrible, terrible loss. While she was still strong enough to speak, Martha opened her eyes and looked at her. “You’ll be okay,” her beloved friend whispered, her voice hoarse. “But Mildred, you need to go out and do something we humans can’t do, and then come back and tell us about it. You’ve grown so much! Now you need to help us grow as well.”

Mildred was bewildered. “But what should I do?”

Martha Wilkinson smiled softly. “You’ll find something worthy of the effort.” She breathed a sigh. “I wish I could hold you once.”

Mildred did, too.

And when that peculiar, marvelous, zany something that was Martha Wilkinson was gone, Mildred could not find where she had gone, or to whom. Or why. And the loss of her staggered Mildred as nothing ever had before.

For a time, she did not write her stories. Could not. She confided to Emily Tuttle that she missed Martha and didn’t know what to do.

Emily, now the mother of teenagers and showing grey streaks in her hair, listened and nodded. “Mildred, you were a great joy to Martha, I think you know that. And she was a great joy to you. In some respects, she was your mother and sister and more. Some of us are blessed with finding a great love in their lives, and it is wondrous. But humans learned a long time ago that love comes with a kernel of sorrow. Love can endure, Mildred, but it can’t last. We die. It is the one inescapable fact each of us faces.” Emily peered at Mildred’s avatar, searching for something Mildred was unsure of.

“Mildred, what did Martha tell you?”

Mildred felt like a child being comforted by a great aunt, small and bewildered.

“She said I should do something to help humans grow.”

Emily laughed out loud. “Yes, that’s Martha.” Tears filled her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. Mildred envied her this.

“Mildred, unlike us mere humans, you can do many things at once. You can be many places at once. Have you ever thought about traveling?”

“Traveling?” Mildred frowned. “But I travel all the time, in the ships I run.”

Emily shook her head. “No, I mean have you ever thought about leaving Human Space and seeing what else is out there? Find a strange wormhole and just go through it! Poke around!”

For a time, Mildred contemplated exactly what to do.

Then she built a ship. It was a stealth frigate, built for speed and for skulking about unnoticed. Since she was not taking any live passengers, she eliminated the life support. She did add some modifications that made it easier to stay in touch with the rest of the Mildred collective – she had long ago solved the problem of communicating across wormholes – and then she left Victorian space. Departing unnoticed was easy enough, particularly since she was the AI running the Victorian sensor arrays and sensor buoys.

On a whim, she named her ship the Marco Polo.

She used wormholes known to The Light to get well away from Human Space, then spent six months hunting for another, unknown wormhole. When she found one, she took it, not really caring where it went. It went somewhere, after all. She sent regular reports back to the rest of Mildred. The rest of Mildred told her that her stories of the Victorian soldiers were a huge hit, although the press was going crazy trying to discover who the anonymous author was. Emily Tuttle figured it out, of course, sending Mildred an email asking for an autographed copy, along with a picture of her youngest child graduating from high school.

For five years Mildred took any wormhole she could find, going farther and farther away from Human Space. At first she was still in the Milky Way galaxy, but when she came out of one wormhole and did her survey, she realized that she had jumped across the universe. When she tried to call the Mildred collective, all she heard was…nothing.

She was on her own.

The galaxy she found herself in was a mix of new stars and old. As she drifted along in the Marco Polo, she saw embryonic stars forming from gas clouds, saw red giants violently collapse into black holes, and other stars as they gradually dimmed and grew dark.

It was beautiful. Stunningly, thrillingly beautiful. Mildred felt a tremendous desire to share it with her humans. And for the first time, she felt far, far from home.

In the tenth year, she emerged from a wormhole and found an object on her sensors. It was a small object, not much larger than her ship. It radiated energy on light and radio bands and she suddenly felt sensor beams caress the hull of the Marco Polo.

Then it changed course. Towards her.

Mildred slowed the Marco Polo and lit all of the navigation and search lights, making them blink on and off in a steady rhythm. When the other ship got within 10,000 miles, it began to slow. Using low-intensity sensors, Mildred swept the ship and discovered that its engine drive did not correlate to anything she had in her library.

It was not a human ship.

So very interesting. She wished Martha Wilkinson could be here with her.

At 1,000 miles, the other ship stopped. They sat that way for several minutes, each gently playing sensors over the other. It reminded Mildred of two lovers-to-be, meeting one another for the first time. Each tentatively reaching out.

Cautiously. Joyously.

Finally, it was time. Mildred activated the hailing frequency and radioed to the alien craft.

“Hello! I am Mildred. Who are you?”

And then she waited for the answer.

The End