“What is that thing?” Grant exclaimed.
Livy Wexler, his Sensors Officer, studied her passive sensors data. “Unless I miss my guess, skipper, they are assembling a fort.”
Grant thought about that for a minute. The depth of the planning behind the attack was unnerving, to say the least. The Dominions knew that at least some ships from the Second Fleet would survive the ambush, and this fort was intended to block their return from Tilleke space.
Then the other shoe dropped and he swore viciously. The Dominion were in Victorian space, assembling a fort at a major worm hole entrance, and there were no ships from the Home Fleet trying to stop them.
“Livy, are sensors picking up any Victorian war ships?”
Livy shook her head. “Only the ones that we have tagged as being taken by the Tilleke commandos.”
“And where are they heading?”
“For Cornwall, but still just poking along, not in any hurry.” She smiled at him then, a warm, intimate smile that triggered vivid memories of the night before. After that first time, Cookie had not slept with Grant again, and seemed to be avoiding him. He half hoped she had found someone else. The unbearable tension they all lived under had resulted in quick, intense pairings throughout the ship, as everyone sought comfort and release as best they could. Livy had simply knocked softly on his cabin door three nights earlier and, when he opened it, had walked in without a word. He could have told her to leave…but he didn’t.
He rubbed his chin, considering what to do next. Strung out in a long line in front of them were fifteen Victorian war ships manned by Tilleke commandos. Apparently their instructions were to assemble at Cornwall, and if that was the case it meant Cornwall was already in enemy hands. Could that be true? It seemed outlandish. But then he remembered the relative ease with which the Dominion and Tilleke forces had annihilated the Second and Third Fleets, and thought again about the planning and confidence behind the decision to assemble a fort at the Victorian-Gilead worm hole.
How could he find out what had happened to Cornwall? For a self-indulgent moment he wished desperately that Captain Gur had survived or that Benny Peled was not in a coma. He needed somebody to talk to. And then he remembered that he did have someone.
He connected to Lisa Stein on the Kent and Andy Richter on the Galway, and quickly explained what he wanted to do.
Richter was reluctant to express an opinion. “Christ, sir, this is way above my pay grade. I mean, I’m not a captain, I’m just a Chief who-”
“You are the Captain of Her Majesty’s Ship Galway,” Grant interrupted, “whether you like it or not. I asked for your opinion because I need it.”
“If you want an opinion,” Stein said from the Kent, “mine is that you are out of your bloody mind. All the evidence points to the Dominion having already conquered Cornwall, and you want to go in for a closer look? You said it yourself, the entire area around the planet will be crawling with enemy ships. Dozens of them, hundreds of them. We’ve only got three! And we’re short on people to properly man them. So I ask you again: Have you lost your bloody mind?”
Grant bit back an angry retort. Ask for an opinion, get an opinion, he thought ruefully. “We can’t just go off without knowing if Cornwall has fallen,” he said at last.
“What not?” Stein demanded. “Our only job now is to survive. I say we loop around and go to Darwin. It’s neutral and we can-”
“No, dammit!” Grant said, surprising himself with how strongly he felt. “We are soldiers! Our nation has been attacked. We need to find out what has happened and to try to find the Home Fleet-”
“Don’t you understand? Home Fleet is gone!” Stein cried. “If the Home Fleet were still intact, it would be attacking that fort the bloody Ducks are building. The Dominion took out Home Fleet just like it took out Second Fleet.”
“We don’t know that,” Grant began.
“Uh, sirs, can I make a suggestion here?” Richter asked.
“What?” Grant snapped.
“Well, before I ended up as acting captain, my job was to run the reconnaissance drones.” He spoke slowly and distinctly, in that voice senior chiefs reserved for particularly dim officers. “I’m thinking that we could send a drone straight in towards Cornwall while we go off on a tangent away from the planet. The ship’s computer can stay in laser communication with it and with a little luck we’ll see everything its sensors sees.” He shrugged. “It would only be passive sensors, but they’re still pretty good. If Cornwall is crawling with Dominions, we’ll know it.”
Grant thought about it, then nodded. He looked at Lisa Stein, who sourly nodded back.
Twenty hours later, they had their answer.
Emily Tuttle had a problem, and it wasn’t the Dominion. Moments after the last Dominion supply ship was destroyed, the New Zealand’s medic buzzed her from sick bay.
“Ma’am, I need you down here right now.” The medic was Naama Denker, a native of Refuge and usually unflappable. Now she sounded tense and brittle.
“Naama, we’re a little busy up here-” Emily began, but Naama cut her off.
“Lieutenant, it’s Captain Grey. She’s dying.”
Emily signaled Alex Rudd to take over and slid out of her chair. She half walked, half ran to sick bay, where to her surprise she found Captain Grey sitting up, conscious but pale. Grey had a little trouble focusing on her at first, then the expression of puzzlement was replaced by a scowl.
“Emily Tuttle, what have you done to my ship?” Grey gestured to the other sick bay beds, filled to capacity with wounded. Against one wall were ten dead crewmen in body bags that had not yet been moved to a freezer locker.
“What is our status, Lieutenant?” Grey’s voice was weak, but held undeniable authority. Then her eyes closed and she drifted off. Emily shot a concerned glance to Denker.
“She’s got internal bleeding and I can’t stop it,” Denker whispered urgently. “We need to get her to a surgical suite on the Sea Horse or back to the Atlas as soon as possible.”
Captain Grey’s eyes fluttered open. “What’s our status, Emily?”
Emily told her as succinctly as she could, but even then Grey drifted off twice before she finished. When Emily told her about the forty ships from the Dominion reinforcing the supply vessels, and the storm of missiles, Captain Grey weakly shook her head. “You have a singular talent for attracting mischief.” She took a long shuddering breath, causing Denker to look at her anxiously.
“Emily, did you get the supply ships?”
“Yes. Ma’am, all of them,” Emily replied softly.
“Okay then.” Grey coughed and struggled to catch her breath. Denker adjusted her oxygen flow. “Be careful of-” she breathed heavily, struggling for air — “Wicklow. “ She broke off in a fit of coughing.
Denker stepped in, frantically adjusting air flow and medicines. “Ms. Tuttle, you’ve got to get us to a proper medical facility or we’ll lose her!” she said fiercely. “I’ve got to put her into the medipod to get her stabilized, but the medipod won’t be able to stop the bleeding.”
Emily turned to go, but Captain Grey called her one more time. “Bogey Two?”
“They’re out there, Captain. I don’t know exactly where, but not very far.”
Captain Grey closed her eyes, and then was seized by another fit of racking coughs. “They’ll be trouble, Emily,” she finally gasped. There were spots of bright arterial blood on her lips and chin.
“That’s enough!” snapped Denker. “She’s not strong enough, you’ll kill her!” She pushed Emily aside and began to wheel Captain Grey’s bed toward the medipod tank.
On the bridge, Emily slumped back into her seat, oblivious to Rudd’s questioning look. “Chief Gibson, do we have a fix on the Atlas?”