"I have a message torpedo coming in," Louise Hypher said, her voice cool and professional. "Broadcasting Space Command Alarm code, A-Seven. Preparing to take datadump. Receiving."
Communications and Traffic Central for Antares Base was a large circular room deep in the core of the installation, with consoles all around the walls except for the entrance doors at the rear. More semicircular consoles covered the floor, converging on the officer of the watch at his desk near the center. The chamber was dimly lit, mostly by the blue glow of the holoscreens hovering above the consoles, and full of a murmur of voices.
The watch commander's head came up. Message torpedoes usually were sent by ships in distress for one cause or another. He moved over to stand by the petty officer's shoulder.
"Military codes, sir," Louise said.
Lieutenant Commander Bashki stood beside her and tapped his earplug until her station came up.
"zzzzt . . . CSS Dau . . . zzz . . . pursued by Mo . . . zzzt . . ."
"Can't you refine it any better than that?" the lieutenant commander snapped.
"No, sir," she said crisply. "It's too far out." And I can't change the laws of physics, sir, even when I want to.
"Where is it coming from?" he asked. His eyes searched her station for the answers he wanted.
"Transit point two, sir." Louise turned to look at the officer of the watch. "The one that leads to Mollie space."
Sector Commander Montgomery listened to the lieutenant commander's report gravely, going over in his mind who they had to send out.
"Captain Knott," he said nodding gravely to the man standing at parade rest before him. "The Dauntless is coming in from a raid on the Mollie processing plants, and she's got a full load of antihydrogen. They were being pursued by three Mollie destroyers and a Fibian light carrier. Dauntless lost all of her Speeds and has taken heavy battle damage. As things stand, they were so closely pursued at the time the message torpedo was sent that they didn't think they would shake off the enemy even in Transit. Though it wouldn't take a genius to figure out where they were headed. Ontario Base was practically the only place they could go.
"You see my dilemma, Captain Knott," he said.
"I'd suggest sending the Diefenbaker and the MacKenzie, Sector Commander," Knott said positively. "We are not up to strength as yet."
Montgomery lapsed into thought. They would need something heavier. Unfortunately, all the capital ships of the Antares Squadron were out responding to a possible Mollie attackprobably a feint, all things
consideredand the Invincible was the obvious choice. But her Speeds had been somewhat battered in the last engagement and she was still taking on supplies. . . .
"The obvious ship for this, sir, would be the Butterfingers," the lieutenant commander said without thinking. Then he froze as the color rose in the sector commander's face and his eyes began to blaze. Knott's face on the screen might have been carved steel.
"I will not tolerate that kind of levity in my command, Lieutenant Commander!" Montgomery bellowed, rising from his chair and moving swiftly around his desk. "I do not like name-calling or mockery, and if you insist on indulging in it, I will give you cause to change your ways. Am I clear, Lieutenant Commander?"
"Yes, sir." The lieutenant commander sought safety by snapping to attention, the military's behavioral equivalent of protective camouflage. I can't believe I said that! he thought.
"Captain Knott is one of the finest officers in the service, Lieutenant Commander. We are lucky to have him. And I will not tolerate some arrogant, junior officer who's never even been on the deck of a battleship, let alone in combat, making fun of him or his command. Is that clear, Lieutenant Commander?"
"Yes, sir!" came out louder than before.
"As it happens you are right. The Invincible," Montgomery paused to glare at the now totally humiliated lieutenant commander, "is the only ship to send. With apologies, Captain," he said to Knott. "There is no one else. See what you can do to expedite things for them," he barked at the unfortunate lieutenant commander. "Contact the Diefenbaker and the MacKenzie and brief them. Leave the Invincible," again the poisonous glare, "to me. You are dismissed."
"Thank you, sir." And never did a subordinate welcome dismissal more. The lieutenant commander saluted, pivoted, and marched out of the station commander's office with perfect military precision, glad to have survived rousing Montgomery's legendary temper.
"My apologies, Captain Knott," Montgomery said. "It's really not a job for a fast carrier. If I had a couple of cruisers, or better still a battlewagon . . ."
"But you don't, sir. And the Invincible will be glad to take on the job."
Knott had decided to save time by calling a comm conference. He'd briefed his officers on the situation and now he needed information back from them.
"Commander Raeder," he said, "what's our status on Main Deck?"
"We can fly twenty-five Speeds, sir. Four were destroyed fighting the Fibians, four we cannibalized because they were too damaged to repair, two are waiting for parts, and we have two pilots still in sick bay." He looked thoughtful. "We have enough fuel for this, sir. But we're short on parts. If something vital gets shot off, that could put another pilot out of action."
"Noted, Commander." Knott turned to Larkin. "Any way to expedite the parts situation?" he asked. "We only have three hours, but the station commander assured me that we would find Forward Supply unusually cooperative."
"I'll get right on it, sir, with your permission?" Larkin hovered expectantly.
"Do you know Commander Raeder's needs, Quartermaster?" the captain asked.
"There's a copy of my list on your computer, John," Raeder said. "And of course, Forward Supply should have a copy. My advice would be not to speak to them without that list in your hand."
"Don't worry, Commander, I know their tricks," Larkin said, a little stiffly.
Raeder concealed the wry twist of his lips with his hand. The quartermaster had been like this for two days now. This is so high school, he thought.
"Needless to say, people," Knott said after dismissing Larkin, "we're really going to have to scramble to get the Invincible ready for departure in the short time we have. So, I think we should get to it."
"Captain," Raeder said, raising a restraining hand. "Perhaps, since we're so short of our full complement of Speeds, there might be a small squadron going begging that would like to accompany us?"
"Excellent suggestion, Commander. How small are you looking for?"
"Main Deck has room for eight Speeds, Captain," Raeder said.
"However," the squadron leader put in, "we're down six pilots, so we're going to have to borrow two to fill out the squadron."
If you can find two pilots willing to fly an unfamiliar Speed on a combat mission under a leader they've never seen before, Peter thought. Then again, the Invincible was going to permanently need four pilots. Raeder cringed at the knowledge that his idea had brought about their deaths. Anyway, this could be considered a practical demonstration of their abilities prior to an interview. Ghoulish, but probably true. Pilots were a competitive bunch, and Invincible was a desirable assignment.
"I'll look into it," Knott said.
Raeder was relieved. It would be difficult; there would be turf fights between the pilots and even the squadron leaders. Right up to the time they go into combat, he thought. And then they'd unexpectedly turn into the smoothest war machine you ever saw. He'd seen it happen before.
Everybody would squabble so much you'd figure that this time the miracle wouldn't happen. But, so far, Raeder thought, tapping lightly on his block of wood, it always has.
"I see no reason why my people have to move their Speeds," Sutton complained, watching one of the big machines roll forward.
"They don't," Raeder said watching the signaler guide the Speed into its new berth. "The techs are moving them." Rather awkwardly, he thought, frowning.
Since they were squeezing the craft in as close together as they could, the computerized guides built into the floor of Main Deck were useless. Everyone learned the basics of doing things the old-fashioned way when they began their training, but since no one had ever expected to have to do this procedure manually things were going painfully slow.
Sutton made an impatient sound. "Don't be obtuse, Commander. Obviously what I mean is, why can't they take the empty berths?"
There are two things going on here, Sutton, Raeder thought. One, this is a turf thing. You're afraid of losing face before they even get here. But two is pure superstition. None of your squadron, you included, wants to take any of the "dead men's berths" because you're afraid of being jinxed. Well, I'm not going to pander to that crap. Though, to be fair, if he'd still been flying he might have felt very differently.
"Well, first of all, Squadron Leader, it's a matter of respect. I didn't think you would want strangers occupying those spaces." Raeder watched Sutton blink. The thought had obviously never occurred to him. One for me, Peter thought with satisfaction. "Second, we don't know what all we'll be getting. And some of the older models were somewhat larger. I figured we should be prepared for the worst. Also, we don't know how much experience these pilots will have at landing on a carrier." He shrugged. "We can sort it out on the way, if necessary, but we've got to be sure we've got the room now."
"Yes, of course," Sutton said thoughtfully. "I hadn't thought of it quite like that."
And Raeder knew he was talking about those four berths, rather than the relative size of different generations of Speeds or inexperienced pilots. I don't have time for this, he thought.
"Where are you going to put these people?" Raeder asked. The placement of the Speeds was his problem, but the pilots were all Sutton's.
"My God! I hadn't thought of that," Sutton exclaimed.
Raeder spared him a look that said, "You'd better." Looking back to the bustling deck, he snapped into his headset, "Watch your head, Sousa!"
The man guiding a Speed to its new berth ducked, narrowly missing the sidetip of the parked Speed beside him.
Raeder tuned his set to general broadcast. "Heads up out there, people. Nothing's where it used to be, so don't get complacent on me." He saw arap Moi physically direct two bewildered techs toward their lost Speed.
"Well," Sutton said, "I'd better go. I've a great deal to do."
You do? Raeder thought in mock astonishment. "Then you'd better not let me hold you," he said aloud. "Thank you for taking the time to talk to me, Squadron Leader."
"Not at all, Commander. Glad to. Carry on." And Sutton turned and trotted off to finish up his own tasks.
Raeder watched him go with a genuine grin. A conceit so thick that it hadn't even heard the irony in his remark only made the squadron leader more human. And therefore more likable. Peter turned and dove into the maelstrom on Main Deck, hoping he'd have it all sorted out before the new people showed up.
Peter, Cynthia, and arap Moi stood together at the window in Raeder's office wall, looking out over Main Deck. The outer doors were open and the voice of traffic control guided in the visiting squadron.
Raeder had insisted on deploying the magnetic grapples, knowing full well that the borrowed pilots would resent the implication. But better safe than sorry, he told himself.
The grapples were primarily used in training. They had the ability to fend off or grasp a Speed, bringing it in safely in spite of the pilot.
The first Speed to come in clearly had no need of such aid. It landed with a panache that even Raeder could envy. Particularly considering the antique he or she was flying.
"My God," arap Moi, said softly. "That's a Mark II."
"I didn't think they existed anymore outside of museums," Robbins breathed.
Raeder glanced at her and smiled at her expression. The young lieutenant positively glowed. It was obvious she couldn't wait to get her hands on one of them. They weren't actually out of service, but they were generally restricted to operating out of fixed bases and planetary-defense orbital forts these days.
"Remember," he said quietly, "they're just visiting."
"Yes, sir," she said. But it was clear she wasn't paying attention to what either of them had said.
The second, third, and fourth came in without the grace of the first but competently enough. Raeder turned away and started to go through parts reports. I insisted on getting them, I might as well review them.
"That's seven," arap Moi said. "Good thing we tightened up out there."
Cynthia grunted acknowledgment.
"Oh, my God!" the chief said.
Raeder was on his feet and looking out the window before he could draw breath to ask what was wrong.
The final borrowed Speed was approaching at an angle that was sure to crash it into the Invincible's side. Traffic control was aware of it and was trying to get the pilot to either lower the angle or to make a new approach.
"Your instruments are wrong," said traffic control. "Pull your nose down two points." There was a pause.
Raeder could see no difference in the pilot's approach.
"Abort your approach and come around again," traffic said.
But the pilot came stubbornly on. Either stubbornly, or frozen with terror and operating on autopilot.
"Good thing you had them activate the grapples," arap Moi said. His voice was quiet, but his posture was stiff.
"I ordered the crew to extend it to maximum reach," Robbins said.
"Good," Raeder told her. "I ordered them to act at the first sign of trouble."
"Abort your approach!" traffic said sternly, though by now it would take a miracle of piloting to do so.
Where any normal human being would be gibbering with panic, Peter thought, traffic controllers merely harden their voices. "We did tell traffic that we'd deployed the magnetic grapple, didn't we?" he asked.
Cynthia and the chief looked at one another, then at Raeder. They shook their heads.
Oops. The Speed was closer now. "I'm beginning to wonder if we told the grapple crew," Peter murmured.
Robbins and arap Moi slowly turned their heads to look at him, their eyes wide and horrified.
"I . . . thought you told them, sir," the chief said.
"So did I," Robbins managed to say in a choked voice.
"Well, I did," Raeder said gesturing at the oncoming Speed. "But look atah, that's got it."
The Speed had been coming in at its dangerous angle when suddenly it slowed, as if it had run into a soft wall. The pilot tried to turn, and slewed sideways, still trying to power its way out of the grapple's hold.
"What does he think he's doing?" Cynthia demanded, puzzled.
"I don't believe he's fighting it," arap Moi said, shaking his head.
I wonder if we can send him back and keep his Speed, Raeder thought, frowning. The Speed was still fighting to get loose, while the grapple drew it and turned sideways, toward Main Deck.
From the comm behind him Raeder heard something he'd never imagined hearing. "Turn your engines off!" bellowed traffic control.
All three of them turned to stare in wonder at the panel. When they turned back to Main Deck they saw that the pilot had complied and the grapple crew manipulated it neatly through the outer door and onto the deck. The door began to close. Without a word, all three of them turned, with identical looks of frozen fury on their faces, and marched toward Main Deck.
Peter was ready to chew his way through the doors by the time the air pressure equalized and they began to rise. They scooted under the rising door and made a beeline for the last ship in.
The pilot had powered open the cockpit's hood and was climbing down the side.
Lieutenant Robbins stopped dead in her tracks, her jaw on her chest.
Raeder kept going with the chief at his shoulder. By the time they reached the Speed, the pilot was on the deck, pulling off his helmet.
"Haven't you ever landed on a carrier before?" Raeder demanded furiously.
"Plenty of times," the small, slender man said, "Commander. In the simulator."
"That is one lousy simulator," arap Moi growled.
"Are you aware, Pilot Officer, that you almost crashed your craft into this ship?" Raeder asked levelly.
"No," the pilot said, "not until the very end there. I had no idea what had happened to my Speed when you grappled me and my instruments told me I was doing just fine."
"And you believed them? Even when traffic control told you to pull up and try your approach again?" Raeder asked in astonishment.
"Actually," the pilot said, looking embarrassed and a little harassed, "the closer I got to the Invincible the harder it got to understand them."
"But you cut your engines when they told you to," Raeder said.
"That's because they shouted. I had to ask them to repeat themselves about four times." The pilot frowned at Raeder. "This whole mess is actually the Invincible's fault," he said.
"Our fault?" Peter asked in disbelief. "Your lousy piloting is our fault?" He held back his rage with a great effort. "Would you care to explain that, Pilot Officer?" he asked with alarming calm.
"No one mentioned that you'd have your magnetic grapple deployed, Commander," the pilot said. "If they had I would have told them to turn it off. It screwed up all my instruments and the comm, too."
Raeder just looked at him, too astonished, for a moment, to speak. He adjusted his stance and finally managed to say, "Magnetic grapples can't effect instruments. The EMP shielding protects them.
"They could on the Mark I," Cynthia said.
Peter and arap Moi looked up slowly. Then they turned and looked at the Speed. It was about twenty percent larger than the Mark IVs the Invincible was flying. Experienced eyes darted to the placing of sensor arrays and weapons bays.
"I should have known that," the chief said. "They were the last ones where the pilot had to climb in and out like that."
"What is this thing doing outside of a museum?" Raeder asked in awe.
"Well, they keep promising us new ones," the pilot said cheerfully. "But you folks keep gobbling them up."
Peter blinked. Well, I suppose we do at that. He looked around to see Sutton bearing down on them, and a small group of the station's pilots gathered around them.
"This is Squadron Leader Sutton," Peter said loudly when he arrived. "He and his people will take care of you. Once you're settled I'll be glad to introduce you to your flight crews." He smiled broadly and generally, hoping they'd all troop off for a nice debriefing and give him and Robbins and arap Moi a chance to crawl around in these classics.
He'd always wanted to fly a Mark I.