Sir Henry looked pained. “I would prefer, Majesty, that you get on a fast destroyer and go directly to Refuge. Atlas will be the target of every Dominion ship out there. We cannot guarantee your safety.”
Queen Anne smiled coolly. “I think not, Sir Henry. If we lose Atlas, we lose everything. If I must run from the Dominion and abandon Cornwall and Christchurch, I must have Atlas.”
“I must protest, Majesty. Exposing yourself to this danger is reckless in the extreme.”
“So noted,” Anne said. She turned back to Brill, who was still trying to digest the news that he was now part of the Queen’s personal staff. “I assume you had some plans for the second space station, Prometheus?”
“We don’t have the tugs to tow it, but we can’t leave it behind,” he replied. “It has to be destroyed.”
The Queen’s eyes narrowed. “Destroy it? Destroy the second largest industrial space station in all of Human Space?”
Hiram refused to back down. “We don’t have enough tugs to tow both of them. If Prometheus is left behind, it will fall into enemy hands and they’ll have the benefit of its capacity to turn out a frigate every day, a destroyer every week, a cruiser every month or a battleship every three months.”
“That space station cost five trillion credits, young man,” Sir Henry huffed.
Admiral Douthat returned then, and to his surprise, she supported Hiram. “It is a military decision, Your Majesty, not a political one. We simply can’t leave this significant an asset to fall into Dominion hands.
They argued the point for an hour, then the Queen grudgingly gave her permission for Prometheus to be sacrificed.
“You don’t seem terribly upset by this loss, Mr. Brill,” Queen Anne observed tartly.
Hiram shrugged. “When your good options are taken from you, Your Majesty, the choices you have left are simple. Terrible, perhaps, but simple.”
Anne smiled thinly. “For such a mild mannered man, Lieutenant, you can be very cold. I think you and Sir Henry will get along famously.” Hiram and Sir Henry gave each other a considering glance.
The Queen, her bodyguards and Sir Henry swept from the room. Hiram collapsed shakily into the nearest chair, his mind whirling. He gradually became aware that Captain Grey was smiling at him.
“Relax, Brill,” she said dryly. “An hour ago you were about to be arrested for high treason…and now you have the favor of the Queen. You’re doing just fine.”
He blinked in confusion. “Captain, I thought you were on board the New Zealand. I mean, I thought you were the one who shot down the Dominion freighter that tried to take out Lionheart.”
Grey’s eyes widened. “New Zealand shot the freighter? My ship?”
“Yes, Ma-am, I thought you knew. Heck, I assumed it was you who did it.”
The New Zealand was still at full battle stations, but as Emily watched the holo display it was becoming increasingly clear that whoever the bad guys were, they were dead. Indeed, just about every Dominion ship in sensor range had either been destroyed outright or boarded and seized.
“Coffee, Lieutenant?” Chief Gibson asked.
“Oh, Sweet Gods, I would kill for a cup of coffee.” She accepted it greedily. The adrenalin letdown after they’d destroyed the Blue Swan had been brutal. She sipped; it was sweet. She raised an eyebrow at Chief Gibson, who shrugged. “I noticed that you like a couple of sugars, Lieutenant, so I made sure they made it right.” Emily was touched.
“Thank you, Chief…and thank you for your support earlier. I know things were moving pretty fast. And…well, thanks.”
Gibson pursed his lips and nodded. “Yeah, it was a little wild and woolly, wasn’t it?” He leaned closer and dropped his voice. “But Lieutenant, what I don’t understand…well, the thing is, when you arrested Mr. Bishop, which was the right thing to do, I understand that, but when you did, you cited Article 13.27(a) of the Fleet Code of Justice.”
Emily looked at him expressionlessly.
“Well, I got curious, you see, so when things had calmed down a little, I asked Merlin for a copy of Article 13.27(a), and the thing is, Lieutenant, the thing is that all it talks about is housing allowances for junior grade officers, not dereliction of duty or treason or any of that stuff.”
Emily leaned forward. “Chief?”
Gibson looked at her expectantly. She put a finger to her lips.
“Shhssh!”
Chapter 46
In Victorian Space
Eight hours after the Dominion freighters attacked and destroyed two of the Home Fleets battleships, the last tug boat slipped into place above Space Station Atlas. Its towing beam was slaved to the master controller on board the Son of Dublin. Max Opinsky, sitting next to Peter Murphy, gave the display one last look over. “She’s ready, Murphy. Don’t fuck this up.”
Peter Murphy thumbed his radio, connecting him to the two hundred and twelve tugs that had arrived in time to join in. “All tugs! This is a tale you’ll tell your grandchildren, and they won’t believe a word of it! On my mark, accelerate at two percent of standard.”
He flipped the safety shield off, exposing the dial that would activate all two hundred and twelve tractor beams. “Jesus, Joseph and Mary,” he muttered, invoking the old religion, “let this work!” Beside him, Opinsky snorted in amusement, but his hands were clenched white.
Peter Murphy twisted the dial to ten percent power, glancing anxiously at the visual display of Atlas’s outer ring. Tentatively, he brought the power up to twenty five percent, then fifty, then one hundred. His face dripped with sweat.
“All ahead at two percent standard on my mark. Three! Two! One! Mark!”
Chapter 47
On Board H.M.S. Yorkshire,
In the Gilead Sector
There had been three more krait attacks. The crew of the Yorkshire had fought them off, but at a price paid in blood. The last of the Savak corpses had been jettisoned into space. In the midst of one of the attacks, the destroyer Rutland had lost way and staggered off on a Long Walk, leaving behind a dozen escape pods. By the time they had realized Rutland was missing, she was nowhere in sight. The Kent was still there, twenty miles off the port bow, but it had suffered as well.
Grant Skiffington sat on his bunk, drinking from a bottle of brandy he took from one of the Marines. His face was bloodstained, his clothing torn and dirty. He was now the only functioning officer on the Yorkshire. Commander Peled was in the sick bay, where the ship’s medic had put him into a medically induced coma until they could reach a hospital and remove the pellet lodged in his skull.
They had probed the entire area around them with active sensors and were as sure as they could be that there were no more Tilleke transporter craft near them. Now it was time to mend their wounds and make the perilous journey home to Victoria.
But first Grant intended to get drunk.
He was just taking another swig when his door opened and Cookie came in. She was dressed in filthy fatigue pants and a torn T-shirt that clung to her body. She was sweat-stained and dirty and there was a red splotch of blood on her neck. She looked earthy and sensual in a way Grant couldn’t define, but felt deep in his groin.
Without speaking, she crossed the little room and straddled him, sitting across the tops of his thighs and facing him. Her face was inches from his, her beasts softly pressed against his chest. Without conscious thought, he dropped the bottle and reached up to caress her.