Cookie, brandy bottle in hand, came up and took him by the arm. “C’mere, Grant, I’ve got someone I want you to meet.” She dragged him over to a line of bodies. “This is Bob,” she said, pointing to the first body. “Bob is having himself a bad day, a real b-a-a-a-d day. I killed Bob eight times today, didn’t I, Bob?” She took a hit from the bottle. “Yes, I did. Six times on the London, then that fucker in the escape pod.” A frown knotted her brow. “No, that’s not right; you killed Bob in the escape pod.” Another swig. “Then two more times here on the Yorkshire.” She leaned over the corpse. “Bad day, huh, Bob?”
Grant belatedly realized that all of the “Bobs” looked alike. He looked closer. Not identical, but close enough to be brothers. Each had black hair, heavy dark eye brows and a surprisingly small nose in a large, round face. Each was powerfully built, with barrel chests and broad, muscular shoulders. There were differences, of course, but the family resemblance was unmistakable.
Cookie pulled him down the line. “This is Tom,” she gestured to twenty or more corpses. The Toms were a different model. Sandy hair, narrow face and built like a long-distance runner.
“Bugger me,” he breathed. The rumors were true. “Creche-born soldiers.”
Cookie raised her bottle in a mocking toast. “Hiram told me about them. Rumor was they are raised to totally obey the Emperor. And when they are just fuckin’ little babies, they do some sort of surgery to their brains to make them…something.” She waived the bottle dismissively. “No one seems to know just why, but they do the surgery alright, just look at the scars on Bob’s temples.” She hiccupped thoughtfully. “Nasty.”
Grant gestured to three other lines of Savak dead. “And those?”
“Dicks and Harries and ten goddamed Janes.” Cookie’s face lit in a slightly drunken grin. “Join the Marines, Grant, and you get to kill every damn Tom, Dick and Harry you meet.” She took another swig. “And Bob and Jane, too.” Her grin vanished, replaced by a look of utter bleakness. “They sure do know how to fight, though. Give ‘em credit for that. Fight until you kill ‘em.” She turned to Grant then, and for the first time he realized tears were streaming down her face.
“Oh, sweet Gods of Our Mothers, how are we ever going to get home?” she asked.
• • • • •
On the captured H.M.S. London, First Sister Pilot sat back, puzzled. She had ordered six of the ten captured ships to head for Victorian space, there to meet up with the Dominion forces. Three ships, the Rutland, Kent and Yorkshire, were apparently still getting organized. But they were taking a long time to do it.
Third Sister Pilot came to her and bowed. “Sister, I have one of the krait pilots on the communicator. She is very troubled and wishes to speak with you.”
The screen filled with the image of a Pilot. As old as First Sister Pilot, but a different model. She bowed and spoke: “I am Second Sister Pilot, 13th Satori Creche, Special Savak Commando. I command the krait vessel that attacked the Victorian war ship Rutland three hours ago.”
“The Emperor’s Blessings to you and your men, Sister,” First Sister Pilot said from the London. “You have achieved a great victory over our enemies!”
“I fear not,” Second Sister said. “My men transported onto the Rutland, and its navigation lights are on and blinking, but…” She stopped, biting her lip.
A cold knot formed in First Sister Pilot’s stomach. Something was wrong. “Speak, Sister! We have no time to waste!”
Second Sister Pilot swallowed. “They do not call me! They should have taken the ship by now, but they do not call me to bring the krait into their loading dock. “And…and-” she dipped her chin in confusion — “there are no bodies!”
And now First Sister Pilot understood. One of the first tasks for the victorious Savak commandos was to herd all the prisoners into the loading bay, then open the loading bay doors and expel them into space. The bodies of the enemy dead would follow shortly. When a ship was taken there should be hundreds or thousands of corpses floating outside within a few hours.
“No bodies? Are you sure?”
Second Sister Pilot nodded. “I have a close visual of the entire area. There are no bodies.” She threw up her hands. “There should be bodies!”
First Sister Pilot cut the connection, waving to get the attention of her bridge crew. “Third Sister, call the krait commanders who attacked the Yorkshire and Kent, tell them to scan the area around each ship and report if they see any bodies. Fourth Sister, locate any kraits in the area who have not already attacked a target and vector them in to these three ships. Hurry!” She turned to the last two of her beloved sisters. “Turn on targeting radar and make ready for missile launch!”
• • • • •
“Targeting radar!” the Sensors Officer shouted. “We have been acquired by targeting radar. Source is the London.”
“That tears it,” Captain Gur said. “Ready all weapons to fire on my command! Flash message to Rutland and Kent to commence firing as soon as they are able.”
Grant was sitting just behind Benny Peled and could watch the preparations. Between them, the Yorkshire, Kent and Rutland had a missile throw weight roughly equal to that of the London, and several more lasers. But the battleship’s anti-missile defenses would be formidable, designed to fight off an enemy flotilla made up of at least one battleship and several cruisers. A lot would depend on who suffered the first damage, for that would make them more vulnerable to the next round of fire, and that could quickly cascade into annihilation.
“Fire all missiles!” Gur ordered.
Grant frowned. Why not use the lasers first?
The holo display suddenly showed several lasers from the London lance out at the Yorkshire, then several more at the Rutland. Damage alarms sounded.
“Our missiles are away. Impact in two minutes,” reported the Weapons Officer.
“Laser hits on the forward magazine and laser turrets three and five,” called the Systems Chief, his voice high-pitched with tension. Everyone on the bridge froze for a moment, collectively holding their breaths. If the forward magazine exploded, the ship would be destroyed. The Systems Chief became aware of the sudden silence and looked around, abashed. “Uh…no fire and no explosion, but the automatic loader is jammed. Missile tubes eight through sixteen can’t reload.”
Grant winced. Half their missile tubes would stay empty until it was fixed. And two of their six lasers were down.
“Get a damage team on it!” Gur snapped. “Missile status?”
“One minute to target.”
“Chaff! London is shooting chaff and its automatic defense systems have engaged. Bird shot, lasers and zone blasts!” Bird shot was the name for a gun that shot thousands of small pellets at very high velocities. They spread out like a shotgun blast; one or two pellets could disable an incoming missile. Zone blasts were war heads that spread out to form a rough globe measuring several miles across, then exploded simultaneously, destroying anything within its center.
“More laser shots from the London! The Rutland is taking a pounding!”
“Weapons, why haven’t our laser batteries fired?” Gur demanded.
“Awaiting your orders, sir,” the Weapons Officer replied.
“Well fire, dammit! You think this is a bloody church social?” Four heavy lasers fired and automatically began recharging. It would be two minutes before they could fire again.
“London’s defense system took out all but two of our missiles. Can’t get a good reading on damage inflicted.”
As Grant watched, the London fired its lasers again, raking both the Rutland and the Kent. But why wasn’t it firing missiles? The London had forty missile tubes. Where were they?
• • • • •
“First Sister! The ship’s computer will not allow access to the missile system without the proper authentication code.”
This had not been anticipated. Once the ship was taken, they did not think they would have to fight with other Victorian shi
ps before joining the Dominion flotilla. First Sister Pilot ran through the technical specifications for the weapons system. All of the Sister Pilots were bred to be engineers, and trained from childhood to memorize prodigious amounts of technical information. She had studied the Victorian weapons’ systems for months.
“The ship’s computer controls only access to the central firing system,” she told her fellow Sister Pilots. “Missiles can be launched individually from their missile bays. The lasers can be fired directly from their turrets. Go quickly! Open fire as soon as you can!”
• • • • •
Close up, the London’s anti-missile defense was awesome to behold. The Rutland’s missiles were blotted from the sky. The Kent’s salvo, coming in on the heels of Rutland’s, fared better, but only five missiles got through and the London’s armor shook them off. More lasers shot out on all sides, a score from the London targeted the Rutland while Yorkshire and Kent returned the favor. Then two missiles salvoed from the London and struck the Kent. Grant stared at the holo in morbid fascination.
“Lost communications with Rutland and Kent, sir,” Sensors reported.
“London is getting its missile system on line, but they must be firing individually. We took out one of her laser turrets,” Weapons chimed in.
“Sensors, have Merlin do a C2C with Rutland and Kent to get a damage report,” Captain Gur ordered. The C2C was a parallel communications system used by the ships’ computers, allowing them to exchange data directly with each other. It was usually used to maintain current data on each ship’s state of readiness, but could be used to communicate if a ship’s primary communications system was knocked out.
“More missiles inbound!” warned Weapons. “They’ve got five up now.”
Yorkshire’s automatic defense system went into action, but it was not as robust as London’s. Four of the attacking missiles were quickly disabled, but the last missile stubbornly plowed ahead until bird shot detonated it less than a mile from the ship. The destroyed missile spewed hundreds of basketball sized shaped charges, a dozen of which struck the Yorkshire moments later, not far from the bridge. The ripple of explosions shook the Yorkshire and alarm sirens hooted, adding to the cacophony. The bridge crew exchanged worried glances.
The junior officer at Navigation shook her head. “It’s a blustery day, Pooh!” Grant just stared at her.
“We’ve got to take out London’s anti-missile system!” Commander Peled said.
“Can we land a boarding party of Marines on London? Give the Tilleke a taste of their own medicine?” Grant asked.
Peled shook his head. “The Tilleke have those bloody transporters, we only have shuttles. London would blow them out of the sky long before they reached her.
“Merlin reports heavy damage to Rutland. It’s lost its aft magazine and fires are reported on several decks. One anti-matter bottle is damaged, but holding. At least for now. Rutland’s Merlin estimates fifty percent chance of failure within the next three hours. Two hundred crewmen dead. Many wounded. Captain Sheffer is requesting we come along side to take off her wounded.”
A thought struck Grant. Far-fetched, but ridiculously simple.
“Commander,” he asked. “If you wanted to shut down the Yorkshire’s anti-missile system, what would you do?”
Peled shot him a puzzled look. “I’d just turn it off.”
“But how, exactly?”
“We can do it manually, of course, but usually we just tell Merlin to shut it down.”
“Will Merlin accept orders from me?” Grant asked.
“Yes, you’ve been logged in as one of the ship’s officers.” Commander Peled’s eyes opened wide. “You think that you can-”
Then a gust of cold air blew against his face, and snow began to fall.
“Intruders!” Grant shouted, snatching up a pistol. Don’t they ever stop?
Chapter 31
The H.M.S. Yorkshire
In Tilleke Space
Commander Peled slapped the com button. “Intruder alert! Marine guard to the Bridge! Intruder alert!”
The two Marine sentries brought their rifles up to their shoulders. The snow squall swirled, grew more intense, and then just as suddenly abated. Ten Savak commandoes stepped forward.
“Shoot! Dammit, fire!” Gur shouted.
Grant threw himself to the floor and crawled to the nearest computer console, half shielding himself under a chair. Shots rang back and forth; people screamed; there was the sound of running. He could hear the curious “pop-pop-pop-pop!” of the Savak air rifles. From the corner of his eye he caught the sight of a second snow squall appearing out of nowhere.
“Merlin!”
“Yes, Lieutenant?”
“Contact London’s Operations Computer by C2C.”
“The London is no longer under Victorian control, Lieutenant. Do you still wish me to proceed with your request?”
“Yes!” A body splattered with blood fell to the floor in front of him. He flinched violently. “Hurry, dammit!”
“As you wish, Lieutenant.” A pause. “You are now connected to London’s onboard Operations Computer, Aberdeen Model 12A46. You may speak now.”
“Mildred! Mildred, can you hear me?”
“Yes, I can, Lieutenant Skiffington. How are you today?”
“Not so good. Mildred, verify who I am through voice analysis.”
“You are Lieutenant Grant Skiffington of Her Majesty’s Ship London, currently assigned as personal aide to Admiral Oliver Skiffington, commander of the Second Fleet. Your voice shows high levels of stress associated with elevated levels of adrenalin. You are presently not on board the London.”
“Mildred, I want you to disable the ship’s automated anti-missile system.”
Something fell across his legs. He turned and saw the open, staring eyes of Captain Gur. He flinched violently, got hold of himself and kicked the body off, flinching again as the Captain’s head struck the floor.
The voice of the Weapon’s Officer cut through the chaos. “Two more missiles in bound. We have launched four missiles at the London! Laser hits on Turret Three!”
“Lieutenant, I cannot comply with your command as you are not the commanding officer on the London,” Mildred said reasonably. “Also, I note that your stress level has increased sharply. I would advise you to see medical assis-”
“Stop!” He gritted his teeth. “Mildred, who is the commanding officer of the London?”
A blaster pistol clattered to the deck beside him. He grabbed it and held it in front of him. Across the bridge, Commander Peled shouted. “Weapons, do not fire more missiles until I give the order. We need to kill their anti-missile defense.”
“The commanding officer of the London is Admiral Oliver Skiffington,” Mildred said cheerfully. “His orders were effective on-”
“Stop! Mildred, can you see Admiral Skiffington?”
“Yes.”
Grant cursed. A Savak commando stepped past him, firing from his hip. Grant shot him once in the back of the leg, then a second time in the head when he collapsed to the floor.
“Mildred, where is Admiral Skiffington?”
“Admiral Skiffington is presently thirty six feet from the loading bay hatch.”
Huh? Grant felt a surge of hope. Was his father hiding in the loading bay? Could he still take control of the battle? “Mildred! Let me talk to him.”
A pause. “You cannot talk to Admiral Skiffington because he is outside of the ship. Further, my sensors reveal that Admiral Skiffington is dead. Cause of death was either a gunshot wound to his right temple or exposure to vacuum. In order to be certain of the cause of-”
Ah, sweet Gods of Our Mother. “Stop.” For the love of God, stop.
“Yes, dear.”
“Mildred, scan the entire ship. Do you detect any Victorian officers on board?’
“There is one officer on board, Commander Oscar Kerrs. He is in elevator tube Number Four.”
Grant blinked, then understood.
Bloody computer. “State his condition.
“Commander Kerrs is dead. Cause of death is a — ”
“Stop.” Grant rubbed sweat off his face. Behind him a man screamed in mortal agony. More popping from a Savak rifle, and the man’s scream abruptly ended.
“Friendlies coming in!” Sergeant Zamir shouted. Several Marines poured through the door and a new wave of shooting began. Grant hugged the floor, praying for it to end.
“Mildred, confirm that there are no living Victorian officers on the London.”
Another pause, then: “Confirmed.”
“Confirm that I am the senior officer presently in contact with you.”
“Confirmed.”
Grant took a breath. “Mildred, as the senior commanding officer in communication with you, I order you to disable the ship’s anti-missile system.”
“Of course, dear.”
Grant almost sobbed with relief. He waved at Commander Peled and flashed him a thumbs up sign. From the corner of his eye, he saw the last of the Savak go down, blood spraying from his neck. Marines swarmed over the deck, shooting each Savak again to make sure they were dead.
Peled thumbed the com. “On my mark, Yorkshire and Kent to fire all available missiles at the London! Fire! Fire!”
“Lieutenant?” Mildred inquired mildly. “I have detected a total of thirty three incoming missiles. Do you wish me to reactivate the ship’s missile defense system?”
“No. Thank you, Mildred.”
“You are welcome, Lieutenant.”
“Two minutes to impact,” the Weapons Officer said matter-of-factly. Grant marveled at his stoicism.
Curiosity tugged at him. “Mildred, can you show me a visual of the bridge?
“Of course.” The holo nearest him flickered and snapped into focus. The perspective was angled slightly downward, and Grant guessed it was from the ceiling camera above the large com monitor.
And there they were. A dozen or so men stood with weapons in hand while ten women in simple black uniforms manned the pilot, navigation, weapons and com systems. One woman, older than the rest, was sitting in his father’s chair, staring intently at the holo display in front of her. Grant was mildly astonished that he could actually see the missiles boring in on the London on the London’s own holo display.
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