“Gandalf, find me a ship that is close to Refuge, but it has to be fast. A courier ships if you can find one, otherwise a frigate or destroyer.”
“Processing your request.” In a moment the comm screen flickered and a sturdy young woman gazed at him curiously. “This is Captain Neuwirth of the Frigate Matterhorn. What is this about?”
“Is your ship fueled and provisioned, Captain?” he asked her.
She nodded. “We just topped off before leaving Christchurch.”
Hiram took a breath. “Is she fast, the Matterhorn? Very fast?”
Neuwirth’s brow wrinkled into a line, then she grinned like a little girl. “She’s a refitted Clipper class frigate with four new Royce anti-matter injectors. She is one very fast bitch, Lieutenant.”
Hiram quickly filled her in on the Dominion attack. “I have been instructed by Admiral Douthat to give you the following orders,” he lied calmly. Then he told her what he wanted her to do.”
She stared at him. “That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard.”
Hiram nodded. “We’re hoping the Dominion will think so, too.” He glanced at the clock. “We have no time, Captain. I need you to leave now if this is to stand a chance of working.”
Neuwirth stared for a moment, then shrugged and nodded. “Matterhorn out.” The screen went dark.
Next, he called Peter Murphy, the tug boat captain of Son of Dublin. When Murphy appeared, Hiram told him tersely what he wanted him to do. Murphy looked thunderstruck.
“You’re bloody daft, you know that, don’t you?” Murphy gasped.
“How many tugs can you get? Two hundred? Three hundred? Would that be enough?”
Murphy stroked his chin, straining to get his mind around the problem. “Well, we’ve probably got a hundred right around the station. Another hundred within five or six hours if they red-line it, and another three hundred that I’d have to call in from all over Victoria.” He shrugged. “They could join us within the first day or so, depending on the vector.”
“But can you do it?” Hiram asked anxiously. “If you got two hundred tugs here, could they pull it?”
Murphy dithered for a moment, then nodded reluctantly. “Oh, aye, they can do it. Each tug has a battleship-strength tractor, but you’re just as like to pull it apart as you are to tow it! Bloody hell, man, they’re not made to be towed!” But he rubbed his chin again, and Hiram could see he was already working on the problem.
“Call your ships, Captain Murphy,” he told him. “Call them now, every single one of them.”
Murphy shook his head. “You owe me a pint of the best for this, boyo, and no mistake. Dublin out!”
One last call to put things in motion. Hiram took a deep breath and grinned shakily at the FIC crew who stood watching him, open mouthed.
The comm flickered on to show a man in an admiral’s uniform sitting before rows and rows of consoles and displays. He looked impatiently at Hiram under busy eyebrows and a thatch of white hair. “This is Prometheus Station Master, Admiral Sullivan.”
“Admiral, I am Lieutenant Brill, special adjutant to Admiral Douthat. Admiral Douthat has instructed me to order you to immediately evacuate Prometheus and to destroy your central computer.” He hurriedly explained about the Dominion attack and the two enemy fleets soon to arrive.
Admiral Sullivan bit back a reply and pursed his lips. “Tell you what, Brill. You get Admiral Douthat on the comm personally. I want to see her myself if I’m going to obey an order like this. And if you don’t get her, I’m going to see you court martialled. Prometheus out!” The display went blank.
For a long moment Hiram sat still; he didn’t know what to do. They had to clear Prometheus and-
“Who the hell are you and what the fuck do you think you’re doing?” a voice suddenly said. Hiram whirled around and found himself facing a very angry looking Admiral Alyce Douthat, admiral of the Home Fleet. Behind her was a squad of Royal Marines in full battle gear, looking blood stained and grim, and behind them stood Captain Grey of the New Zealand.
Sweat broke out on his face; his stomach rolled and he felt faint. “I…I” he stammered helplessly.
Douthat looked at him in disgust. “You’re under arrest for treason.” She gestured to the Marines. “Take him-”
“NO!” he shouted.
Admiral Douthat stared at him with hard eyes. “Don’t “No” me, you traitorous son of a bitch. As of twenty minutes ago, we’re in a shooting war. What I should do instead of locking you up is just push you out the nearest airlock.”
Hiram was having trouble controlling his breathing. Try as he might, he couldn’t seem to take a full breath. Black spots swarmed before his eyes.
“Dominion fleet is coming,” he gasped.
Douthat’s eyes narrowed. “What?” she asked, her voice full of menace.
“Coup de main,” he croaked. “Queen is dead. Two Dominion fleets will be here is twenty four hours.”
“The Queen is dead, and I think you had something to do with it,” Douthat snarled. “I just caught you red-handed ordering the evacuation of one of our most important space stations, using my name! You know, on second thought, I am just going to push you out an airlock-”
“The Queen is not dead!” a voice interrupted.
Four men in the blue livery of the royal armsmen crowded into the room, looking at everyone with hard eyes. Each carried a sonic blaster, held ready to fire. For a moment, everyone froze, then as one looked to the figure in the doorway.
“You are mistaken, Admiral,” said Anne Radcliff Mendoza Churchill, eldest daughter of the late Queen Beatrice. Beside her stood a grim-faced Sir Henry Truscott. Anne’s eyes were red-rimmed, but dry. She had grieved privately for her mother’s death; now her weeping was done.
“Your queen is alive and standing before you. With the death of my mother, I am now Queen of Victoria.”
Chapter 42
Space Station Atlas
“Admiral, we have been most grievously attacked. You are the senior surviving admiral of the Fleet. Why are you wasting your time here instead of coordinating the defense of Victoria?” Queen Anne asked sternly.
Admiral Douthat struggled to recover her composure. “Princess…Your Highness,” she managed. “This man just attempted to evacuate the Prometheus Space Station, using my name as authority. This implicates him in the attack that just destroyed two of our battleships.”
The new Queen turned and studied Hiram Brill, who was gasping for breath and struggling not to be violently sick to his stomach.
“What is your name?” she demanded.
“Lieutenant Hiram Brill, Fleet Intelligence,” he gasped. “I am an aide to Rear Admiral Teehan.”
“Rear Admiral Teehan is dead,” Queen Anne said evenly, “killed in the attack on the Palace.” Then her brows furrowed as she searched her memory. “Brill…you wrote the report predicting an attack by the Tilleke on Arcadian shipping.”
Hiram nodded, astonished that she would even know of the report, let alone the fact that he wrote it.
Queen Anne turned on Admiral Douthat. “Had we paid proper attention to this man’s report months ago, perhaps we would not be here today, Admiral. Do you really want to arrest one of your more insightful intelligence officers, or would you be willing to listen to what he has to say before you…” she pursued her lips, “…push him out of the nearest airlock?”
You don’t get to be an admiral without learning about political realities. Admiral Douthat’s political reality was staring her in the face in the form of the twenty year old Queen, who would be the major figure in Victorian government for the rest of Admiral Douthat’s career. With a conscious effort, she let the anger drain out of her, saving enough to give Brill a very hard look. “Make it good, Brill.”