Rogue Powers

by Roger MacBride Allen

  And there was work, a therapy that had always helped Joslyn. There was a lot to do aboard Impervious. The ship was a huge cylinder, a thousand feet long and three hundred fifty feet in diameter. Fifteen huge fusion engines were clustered on the aft end, and the circumference of the hull was a forest of detection gear, antennae, gunnery, hatches, and inspection ports. The bow of the ship was a flat disk. In its center was a large circular hole, a launch and recovery port. Even if the ship was under spin and under thrust, it was just about possible to bring in a fighter or other smaller vehicles there, and a system of elevators could then move the ships to the Imp's circumference. Every ninety degrees along the circumference of the bow end were launch tubes for the fighters, the Wombats and SuperWombats. The bow holes of the launch tubes led into tunnels that ran half the length of the ship. The launch tunnels were normally in vacuum, but the One and Three tubes were being worked on at the moment, and were sealed and under pressure. Inside the launch tunnels were great electric catapults—linear accelerators—that could take a fighter and fling it clear of the Imp without either ship firing its engines and damaging something. The launch tunnels could also be used to move ships much more slowly between the bow centerpoint launch and recovery port and the hangar decks.

  There were four hangar decks, one for each launch tunnel. These took up the entire circumference of the Imp amidships. Since the One launch tunnel was out of action, Hangar One had been done over for the reception. The ship was under spin at the moment, of course, and the hangars was under about three-quarters of an Earth gravity. The hangar was high-ceilinged and went through ninety degrees of the ship's circumference. It was disconcerting to see handsomely dressed ladies and gentlemen calmly strolling or sitting on a deck that was curved about halfway toward the vertical.

  The other side of the steel deck beneath the dance floor was the outer hull of the ship. There were great hangar doors, large enough to move a SuperWombat through, and Joslyn couldn’t help imagining some practical joker opening the doors beneath the wooden dance floor, and all those old stuffed shirts dropping straight through into space. . . . But even the most ghastly bore didn't deserve that fate. However, if the hangar decks were in vacuum, and the ship were under spin, the fighters could be simply dropped through the hangar doors. When so dropped, they would move away from the ship at the speed the ship had been spinning. If the ship weren't spinning, the fighters would use their own maneuvering jets to get on or off the ship.

  The Imp had been mothballed thirty years ago—left in a distant parking orbit of Britannica and more or less forgotten about, until the message torp had come in from the Finns with word of the Guardians. That had set off a panicky rearmarment program, not just on Britannica, but throughout the British Commonwealth—and the League. The Imp was Britannica's ship, though, and it was a Britannic decision to dust her off and get her battle-ready.

  It wasn't easy. Thirty years was a very long time in the art of shipbuilding. The words "obsolescent" and "obsolete" didn’t quite cover the situation. The Imp could more accurately be described as a fossil. She practically had to be stripped down to the hull. The computers had to go.

  The communications equipment was hopeless. The laser cannon and torpedo tubes had to be pulled out and replaced with modern equipment. And of course the power plant had to be radically upgraded. A modern fusion generator was half the size, was far more rugged, and could give twice the power as the old monster aboard the Imp. And the engines . . . good lord. From what Joslyn heard, dealing with the engine problem was more an historic epic than an engineering challenge. Modern engines of the size originally fitted on the Imp gave twice the power, but unfortunately they couldn't be used—the Impervious's hull and superstructure couldn't withstand the increased thrust stresses. But the old engines couldn't be trusted. They had too many hours on them, and were a plumber's nightmare besides. The only people who knew how to maintain them had retired ten years ago. And no current engine model had anything like the proper thrust ratings to be a direct replacement.

  But somehow it was all getting done. Joslyn was on the periphery of it all. Her direct concern was with the fighters that would be carried by the Impervious, and that was trouble enough. She was doing her part, making a real contribution. She had more actual experience directing fighters in real combat operations than anyone in the Britannic Navy. From time to time it struck her that the Office of Personnel had simply done its job and put her exactly where she could do the most good. She was certainly whipping the Imp's fighter wings into shape.

  The last of the guests filed through, and it was time for the dinner to begin. The ship's cooks had done themselves proud, as if eager to put the fie to the old saw that the British couldn't cook. The appetizer, the soup, a lime sherbert to cleanse the palate, the meat course, the dessert, coffee—all of it was delicious.

  Joslyn sat at the head table with Sir George at her left. At her right was a rather handsome young officer, a Captain Thorpe-Peron of the RBN. He seemed rather young for a captain, a short, almost pudgy sort of chap, with white-blond hair and brown eyes. He was slightly round-faced, and seemed soft all over, somehow.

  Thorpe-Peron was fascinated by anything to do with the Impervious. What did the pilots think of their fighters? How was the refitting going along? Were the flight-deck crews ready? How much training in pressure-suit work did they have?

  Joslyn never enjoyed talking shop during a social occasion, but she did her duty as a hostess and chatted cheerfully enough. She didn't notice at first that Admiral Whitmore had left his seat to whisper in Sir George's ear. Whatever it was Whitmore had to say seemed to upset Sir George terribly. After Whitmore left and returned to his seat, Joslyn was shocked to see Sir George call for a steward and have a decanter of port brought out, long before the guests were finished with their coffee. It wouldn't do, she decided. Better to get him away from table and fuss at him than let him get an early start on a drunk, tonight of all nights.

  "Captain Thomas?" she said to him, standing up. "I believe a tiny problem has come in the choice of dancing music. I wonder if you might come with me to have a word with the musicians." It wasn't much good as a lie, but it was all she could think of quickly and it was far better than having him pass out in a dead drunk two hours from now.

  "Beg pardon?" Sir George answered, his glass halfway to his lips. "Ehh? Oh, of course, of course." He rose, glass in hand, and followed her away from the table.

  Where could they talk privately? Not the galleys or the passageways. Too many people coming and going. Hangar Two, then. The hangar decks were separated by a single bulkhead. Joslyn led the way through one of the personnel airlocks. There wasn't any pressure difference between the two sides, so she didn't have to cycle the lock, but she was careful to dog both doors shut after they were through. Careless pilots didn't live long.

  Hangar Two was the twin of the deck now being used as a ballroom, but where on one side of the bulkhead were gaiety and music, on the other side were gloomy, echoing spaces and the machines of war. It was crowded in there— the fighters usually carried in One were in Two.

  Sir George looked around the space with a distracted look as he sipped at his port.

  "Uncle George, will you for God's sake put that stuff away!" Joslyn shouted at him, as she grabbed the glass and threw it across the deck. It smashed out of sight in the shadows. "You are the host at this party, and I will not let you get to be a fallen-down sodden drunk by the time the dancing starts! What host has ever had booze brought to his own table while the guests were taking coffee! How insufferably rude can you be! And manners like that from the captain of the ship, no less—"

  "I'm afraid I'm not the captain any more, my dear," Sir George said, very gently. "Though you are quite right to stop me drinking so soon. It wouldn't do at all."

  Something froze inside Joslyn's gut. "Not the captain?"

  "Oh, I suppose I still am, officially. But good old Joe Whitmore just let me know that it might be nice for me to make
a toast to my successor—lovely way to let a fellow know, isn't it?"

  "Oh my God," Joslyn said, all the anger washing out of her. "Oh, Uncle George, I'm so sorry. It's that doughy little man Thorpe-Peron, isn't it? I should have known why he was pumping me for all that information." She threw her arms around her great-uncle and hugged him. "Damn the bastards! It's just not fair!"

  "There, there, my dear. Commanders shouldn't hug captains, even under these circumstances." Joslyn smiled, and Sir George gave her a pat on the back. "Do settle down. I must admit that I am nowhere near as surprised as you. I've been waiting most of a year for them to put me out to pasture. You give a grand old girl like the Imp to an up-and-comer like Thorpe-Peron, not a broken-down old sod like me. Now, now! Don't say anything. And let me just tell you that your doughy-faced young captain is a fine officer—a fine, fine—"

  Sir George's voice broke, and he stepped away from Joslyn into the lurking shadows of the hangar deck. "Damn the luck?" he shouted into the echoing silence. "I've been little more than a caretaker all my life, a placeholder, keeping a chair warm until the other fellow wanted it. They got me out of England because of my drinking—and they thought that putting a man on the backside of nowhere was a way to take his mind off drink. I decided to make do, settled down permanently, put in for emigration— and got it. I watched Britannica grow into a worthwhile lace. And I joined up, got my commission—and this old hulk was my first command. I have taken care of this ship for ten long, lonely years since the old reserve captain cashed in his chips in his sleep. I did my job right. I checked over every inch of the old girl myself, learned what was too old, what was still good, what would be needed—and kept the whole thing up-to-date, once it was done. When they asked me what it would take to get her ready for battle, a year ago, I had the answers ready . . . right there under my arm, in detail. My staff—all eight of them—had wondered why I fussed so hard over a ship that no one would ever use—but by damn she's ready for a fight a year sooner than expected, because I did my homework!

  "And they're taking her away from me and giving her to some pasty-faced, public-school boy so he can punch his ticket with a major command on his well-charted way up to full admiral." Sir George's voice was bitter and angry. "And I'll be posted somewhere else where they think I can't do any harm. And everyone will watch, and wait for me to crawl deeper down inside the bottle—"

  "Captain to the Bridge," a disembodied voice boomed out. "Red Alert. All hands to battle stations. We are under attack. This is not a drill. Captain to the Bri—"

  The first impact was felt, more than heard—a booming, shaking roar that knocked them off their feet. The lights died and, through the bulkhead that led to Hangar One, they heard the horrible sound of air whistling away into space, of screams and cries and alarm bells dying off when the air that carried them had vanished into space.

  "Oh my God; they've hulled Hangar One," Sir George said, his voice deep with shock, echoing in the absolute darkness. "They're all dead in there. My God."

  Joslyn climbed to her feet—and then got back down on her hands and knees. No sense getting knocked down again, banging around in the dark, waiting for another hit. The gloomy red of the emergency lighting system flickered on, and she saw Sir George striding purposefully across the deck, toward the airlock at the aft end of the nearest way to the Bridge. Now that she could see, she got carefully to her feet and kicked off her high heels. She wasn't about to try that balancing act in a ship under fire.

  WHANG! A huge noise like the greatest-of-all bells being rung blared out, and the deck shivered. Joslyn fell again and got back up. Something, a missile that misfired, a piece of debris, had bounced off the hull beneath their feet. There came another rending crash, followed by the deep, roaring shout of air rushing out into space. The sound seemed to come from deep inside the ship.

  Alarms came on again, pilots and personnel came rushing into the hangar from the airlock. Voices began to shout and a mad tangle of frantic activity tried to sort itself out, as hangar crew and pilots readied for combat in the overcrowded space. Sir George was glad to see them get there fast. He was the one who had seen to it that pilots and hangar crews were billeted near their battle stations. It saved time—and they needed all they had.

  Joslyn's fighter, a command SuperWombat, was across the bay. Barefoot, in a ruined evening gown, her hair streaming behind her, she made her way through the confusion to her post.

  Sir George barely noticed her as he made his way through the growing press of bodies to an intercom post. He used the captain's override and punched up the Bridge.

  Nothing. The Bridge didn't respond. Damnation! He tried the Combat Information Center. Nothing. Was the intercom out? He tried another code, the Damage Control officer. The D.C. officer could be anywhere in the ship, but the intercom computer was supposed to track him or her at all times. The intercom squawked and answered. "Commander Higgins, at post in aft damage control center," a perfectly calm voice with an odd, rolling accent answered. "What is your report?"

  Thank God. Higgins was the man for a moment like this. "This is Captain Thomas. I am on Hangar Two. Hangar One has been hulled. I cannot raise the Bridge. I cannot raise the Combat Information Center. Can I get through the corridors to the Bridge?"

  "Captain. I am glad you are alive. I assumed you were in Hangar One. Sir, I lost all status reports on the Combat Information Center and the Bridge immediately after the first impact. I must assume they are out of commission. We were hulled twice and took some glancing hits. There seem to have been no explosions, however. I can't be certain yet, but I believe there is no corridor still under pressure that could lead you to the Bridge. I am sending runners in pressure suits to inspect."

  "Very well. What sort of outside communications do we have?"

  "None at the moment, Captain. Outside comm is normally channeled through the Bridge. We should get backups soon, routed through the auxiliary command station, which is functional but not yet manned."

  "Very well. Commander Higgins, for the moment I have no tactical information, I'm trapped on a hangar deck, and I have a battle to fight. Assume that the aux control crew cannot reach their posts, or are dead, and get some of your personnel there on the double. I will contact you soon, Commander."

  "Yes, sir."

  Normal lighting came back up. Crews were sorting themselves out, looking sharp, all things considered. Where should he be? Number Two Hangar Control. That was the spot, just across the deck. Sir George quick-marched to it, keeping well out of the way of the crews prepping the Wombats.

  The four Hangar Control stations were always manned, behind sealed airlocks. Thereby, in theory, their crews could get some birds launched at any time. Captain Thomas hoped the theory held up. He undogged the outer door to the Control station's lock, cycled through, and hurried up the gangway. Hangar Control was high up on the aftbulkhead of the hangar, with big quartz ports that overlooked the entire compartment and let the Hangar Boss see everything that happened.

  "Captain on the deck!" a rating called out.

  "As you were. Hangar Boss, report," Sir George said.

  "Sir. Our Forward Launch Tunnel is out. We are at Go for radial launch. We're ready to lift and drop Wombats through the hull doors as soon as we have the hangar in vacuum. Ready to button up in three minutes."

  "Very good. The other hangar decks and Central Launch and Recovery?"

  "Sir. CL&R does not respond. Four is at Go for radial or forward launch. Three was on standby, with no fighters in bay, with skeleton crews in Hangar Control. Fighters normally in Three shifted to Four. Likewise in One—and the crew in One says they are the only people still alive in the hangar. They were buttoned up, behind their airlock, when the deck was hulled."

  "Very well. God help us all." It was beginning to sink in that the entire Britannic fleet had been decapitated. All the fleet's captains had been at the ball, all the flag officers, all the visiting bigwigs. Dancing four minutes ago, all dead now. The fleet was
under attack and under command of junior officers. Sir George realized he might well be the senior officer left in the fleet. There was little time to think. "Can you patch comm with all the fighters through here?"

  "Yes sir."

  "Lieutenant, instruct Hangar Four to prepare for radial launch. The Imp has taken too much damage to trust the launch tunnels, whatever the readouts say. The Bridge is out for the moment, and might have been destroyed. I will command this ship from here. Hand over whatever operations you can to Hangar Three and clear some of your consoles for combat control. Advise Damage Control of the shift. In fact, give Damage Control a direct audio feed from here. Tell them I am here and that I expect a report as soon as aux control is manned and ready."

  “Sir."

  Sir George stepped back and let the lieutenant and her enlisted personnel do their jobs. There was no point in rattling off a string of commands to do this and that about the ship. The crew needed time to sort itself out and get to stations. He stared out at the hangar. Joslyn—Commander Larson—had earned her pay. That crew was sharper than it had any right to be.

  Six minutes had passed since the first explosion.

  Joslyn swore bitterly to herself and decided an evening gown made a rotten uniform after all. The damn thing was so tight across the hips she couldn't climb the boarding ladder. Finally, she said the hell with it, bent over, and ripped open the seam from hem to the waist. Let the hangar crew see a little leg, she had work to do. She scrambled through the hatch into the cockpit and started button-up, wishing there was time to get into a pressure suit. Just hope to hell the cabin pressure held.