Buck Roger XXVC #00.5 Arrival

by M S Murdock

  Malat returned to his coffee and flipped through his mail. He’d never received a used junk mail envelope before, and ripped it open. Inside he found only the cassette, which made him only more curious. Fascinated with the mysterious, unmarked object, he lit a cigarette and fumbled around his desk for his portable stereo. He found it between a fast-food bag and an encyclopedia volume, slipped the tape inside, and jabbed the Play button. A familiar voice snapped him out of his morning stupor.

  “Hi, Randy. Buck Rogers here. No, we’re not friends. Far from it. But I think you have something that few people in this world have: integrity. That’s why I’m sending you this tape. I’ve got an interesting story to tell. . . .”

  Malat pressed the Pause button, unconsciously lit a second cigarette, and grabbed a legal pad to make some notes. He’d railed at Rogers ever since the pilot’s heroics in the gulf conflict a few months before. He’d heard Rogers sound tough, cocky, and even kind. But he’d never sounded like this before. There was a grit and foreboding in his voice. It sounded a lot like dread, and ace pilots weren’t supposed to dread. They weren’t supposed to care or think too much. Introspection was an occupational hazard to be avoided, and Buck Rogers wasn’t the type to spend too much time with his personal feelings. Malat pressed the Play button again.

  “Let me start by saying that I’m probably going to die today, and I want the world to know why. I’m being sent on a mission that might prevent World War III. If you’re still alive and America isn’t part of the Soviet Union when this comes, you know I’ve done my job. And if I’ve done my job, that means it’s time for you to start doing yours, because we might not be so lucky next time. . . .”

  HOMECOMING Robert Sheckle

  Chapter 1

  The John Carter Military Academy of New South Mars had its own river, The Red, modeled after a stretch of the Red River in Virginia on the planet Earth. The Red was less than half a kilometer long, a recirculating stream framed by large weeping willows. Prince Kemal Gavilan liked to walk down to it after the evening meal. It gave him a chance to be alone.

  The attackers had hidden behind the big willows. There were two of them, and they came at him hard and fast, wearing faded rose-and-sand-colored jump suits that blended into the Martian lighting and conferred a moment of near-invisibility. It was a textbook assault, one coming high, the other low. Yet something had signaled Kemal, some subclue too subtle to classify. The instructors called it combat sense, and it came with hard training. The privileged young men of the academy who wished to live long lives worked hard to acquire it.

  As they came at him, Kemal fell back in a defensive martial arts stance. Then he attacked, delivering two blows almost simultaneously: a kick to one attacker’s groin, a hammer-hand to the other’s temple. He rolled past them, taking a stiff elbow in the kidneys and a kick along the shin. Then he was on his feet, ready to attack again.

  But the two had put their hands down, palms open in a gesture of peace. The fight was over.

  Kemal, adrenaline hammering in his head, gene-teched nerves ready to explode into violence, managed to bring himself under control.

  His attackers saluted. “Nicely done, sir,” one of them said. They were both underclassmen, trained by the Survival skills instructors to perform surprise attacks on highly trained upperclassmen, like Kemal. It was part of the training. Of course, what made it interesting was that one could never tell if an attack was the real thing or not.

  “Hope I didn’t hurt you,” Kemal said, noticing that one of them was holding his ribs. Actually, he was pleased with himself about that hit.

  “Not at all, air,” the man said. “I hope we weren’t unnecessarily rough with you.”

  “Are you kidding?” Kemal said. “You guys barely made contact. But your attack was well done. ”

  “Thank you, sir,” one of the underclassmen said. “The commandant asked me to tell you that you have a visitor”

  “Whom did he say it was?”

  “He gave no further information, sir.”

  “Describe him to me.”

  “I didn’t see him myself, sir.”

  “Thank you. ”Kemal returned their salute. “Dismissed.”

  As the youths left, Kemal gingerly moved to the water’s edge, taking care to walk naturally, even though his kidneys hurt badly and he knew he was going to have a painful bruise on his shin.

  Slowly, the small hazel eyes set into his bronze face surveyed the river’s artificial beauty. As he leaned over the water, he could see his own reflection that of a Mercurian prince locked within the formal magenta uniform of the Martian academy.

  Chapter 2

  Kernel walked down the central promenade to the commons, where guests were received. He wondered who the visitor could be. He had no real friends on Mars.

  Reaching the Commons. Kernel straightened his uniform. Checked to see that his tie was properly bloused, and went in.

  The man sitting in the armchair near the Open window was in his fifties, Kemal guessed, of medium height, bearded, stout and high-colored, with a receding hairline that showed a tanned forehead and skull. He wore the insignia of a prince of a ruling family. His expensive, brocaded longcoat was cut in the latest Metroplex style.

  The visitor was Garrick, one of his uncles. Garrick had the same look of compact strength that all three Gavilan brothers had shared, although he was the smallest and youngest of the three.

  “Hello, Uncle,” Kernel said as civilly as possible, taking his own seat instead of accepting the man’s outstretched hand. He found it hard to keep an edge of surliness out of his voice and manner.

  “Good afternoon, Kernel. How’ve you been?” his uncle replied simply.

  Kemal managed to avoid directly insulting his kin, or blaming him for contributing to Kemal’s current predicament. The two of them labored at small talk for a few minutes Garrick was visibly ill at ease and trying to hide it by smiling frequently and bantering about the discomforts of the Mercury-Mars run.

  “Well, Nephew, I imagine you’re wondering why this visit, eh? I won’t keep you in suspense any longer. I’ve come on your Uncle Gordon’s instructions. He wants you home, Kernel!”

  If Garrick had expected a delighted response from Kernel, he was disappointed. Kemal’s expression, tight-lipped, impassive, cynical, never changed. “Home?” Kemal said. “You’re referring to Mercury?” “Of course! That’s where you’re from, isn’t it? He wants you back as soon as possible.”

  “What’s Uncle Gordon’s rush, after sixteen years?”

  “He has his reasons, Kemal, and he’ll tell you himself when you get there. He sends his affectionate greetings, as does the whole family.”

  “That is kind of them,” Kemal said. “It seems I will get to thank everyone in person for their attentions over the years. Especially Uncle Gordon.”

  Garrick frowned. “Now, Kemal,” he said, “don’t go to Mercury Prime with an attitude problem. The duties of a Sun King of Mercury are neither light nor simple. As you will see.” “No doubt,” said Kemal. He stood and moved to the ’Commons’ large window, overlooking the academy’s wooded front lawn. A small bird flitted by, and Kemal imagined it was him, finally leaving the “nest” imposed upon him, flying to a more beautiful, if more dangerous, side of the fence. “Are you accompanying me?” he asked Garrick, not out of fear, but of the knowledge that safety lay in numbers, and that when facing his Uncle Gordon he would need all the allies he could muster.

  “Unfortunately, I will not have that pleasure,” Garrick said, standing, seeming to know that he was again abandoning Kemal to his own devices. “Gordon has sent me to inspect the RAM Academy installations on Deimos, with a View to modernizing our own equipment. After that, I will be touring other military installations in the inner solar system.”

  Although Kemal had been taught little about galactic political history, everyone in the solar system knew of RAM, the Russo-American Mercantile, the mega-corporation based on Mars. In fact, it was hard not to
notice that RAM was involved in every political situation that it could be. Nearly all the academy’s materials were requisitioned straight from RAM, and Mars had been terraformed exclusively under RAM’s direction. So it was no news to Kemal when Garrick’s statement implied a connection between the ever-growing corporation and ever powerful Sun King regime.

  Garrick’s presence on Mars, delivering this message in person, Kemal feared, followed by the unnecessary tour of military bases, seemed to mean just one thing. It was a one-way trip: Garrick was meant to stay away. But why?

  “I wish you a pleasant stay, Uncle,” Kemal said. “I’ll go make my travel arrangements at once.”

  Chapter 3

  Commandant James Middleberry, director of the John Carter Military Academy, lived in a good-sized bungalow just outside the military school grounds. Kemal walked there, rather than take one of the small, open monorail cars that were always available. He strolled past tall, dark green poplars, their branches just stirring in the evening breeze under a sunset sky of golden-rose, stained with the indigo of dusk. The Martian weather was as finely crafted as everything else on the planet, thanks to RAM. After terraforming, plant and animal species from Earth had been introduced. Even the insects were of Terran origin.

  Kemal reached Middleberry’s cottage and knocked on the door.

  Middleberry answered it. Normally clad in one of his spit-and-polish commanders’ uniforms, he now had on a light dressing gown over faded khakis.

  “Cadet Gavilan! Come in! It seems that we are to lose you.” “News travels fast, sir,” Kemal said. “I just heard it myself.”

  “Your uncle reported the decision to me first, as was proper. I have already signed your transit papers, and they are on the mantel by the door. Stand at ease, Mr. Gavilan. May I give you a glass of sherry?"

  “Thank you, sir.” Transit papers in order, thought Kemal. Someone had probably booked his flight for him, too. They didn’t waste much time getting you out once you had your orders.

  Middleberry went to the sideboard and came back carrying two amber drinks. He was a small man in his fifties, with cold blue eyes, a thin mouth, and a silly, bristly little moustache. The moustache had been brown when Kemal had entered the academy, and now was sprinkled with gray.

  A graduate of the legendary, resurrected, and now Martian West Point Military Academy, Middleberry had served in a number of RAM-organized military battles throughout the solar system, none of which he ever disclosed. Finally, when RAM gained hegemony over all the Martian independent states, Middleberry accepted an appointment as commandant of the John Carter Military Academy in the free principality of New South Mars. His long-standing support of RAM made him a preferred candidate, in the eyes of the NSM council.

  “Well, Mr. Gavilan,” Middleberry said, standing very erect with his hands clasped behind his back, “you’ve been with us for ten years.

  “Your scholastic marks have always been acceptable, though your instructors have often pointed out your ability for greater achievement, if you only put your mind to it. In survival skills, you rank among the top ten in your class. That is valuable indeed for a prince of a ruling family.”

  “Our boys here are from the power elite of the solar system, the men in command of trade, government, and armed forces. Your position exposes you to great dangers, but carries with it high privilege. You are a Gavilan. You could become an important figure in the high councils of your planet. Not inconceivably, you could come to a position of rulership yourself one day. Whether that happens or not, I hope you will never forget the principles we tried to inculcate in you here at John Carter.”

  “No, sir, I’ll never forget.” Kemal heard the tininess with which the commandant recited this speech. He had heard the tone at every graduation ceremony he had attended at John Carter-mane of which were his own, but which were required attendance for all cadets if they hoped to get out themselves.

  “We expect great things of our people, Kemal. Go out there and show them what a John Carter boy can do.”

  “Yes, sir!” Kemal saluted.

  “Dismissed. By the way, your travel itinerary and trip vouchers are in the folder with your papers.”

  “Thank you, sir. I thought they might be.”

  Chapter 4

  Kemal Gavilan was the son of Ossip, the second Sun King of Mercury. His father had died when he was four. Ossip’s brother, Gordon, took the throne and sent Kemal away to be educated in a series of boys’ schools on Mars.

  Kemal found a kind of home in this society of boys who came from different societies, different races, and different planets. Red Crest, on the planet’s other hemisphere, was a good school, and Kemal would have liked to stay on into the higher grades. He wanted to learn more about the delicate science that shapes planets to humans and humans to planets, ever seeking a balance between what can be manipulated and what must be left alone. But orders from Gordon had eventually sent him from Red Crest to the John Carter Military Academy, where he began at the age of ten.

  John Carter was a very different experience. There were no exotic experiments in education here. This was a military academy and it was run conservatively. Students were taught the importance of team play, l’esprit de corps, and tradition. They received a sound military education in the principal arts and techniques of present-day warfare. The long, low barracks like building where Kemal lived was on the far corner of the quadrangle. It didn’t take Kemal long to pack. One of his roommates, Kin Vestry, from Aurora in the Asteroid Belt, was away on pass in Coprates, Mars’s southern capital. His other roommate, Mtabele Khan, returned as he finished packing. As soon as Mtabele saw Kemal’s packed bags, and his maps and photographs down from the walls, he knew what was happening. There was a well-prescribed code for saying good-bye to a roommate.

  “Leaving, are you?” Mtabele asked.

  “Yes,” Kemal said, “actually, I am.”

  “Thought so,” Mtabele said. He hung up his dress tunic. “Going far?” he asked over his shoulder.

  “Mercury,” Kemal said.

  “Ah,” said Mtabele. “Hottish sort of place, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Kemal said. “Quite near the sun, you know.”

  They nodded sagely at each other. Then both broke into laughter.

  Slapping one’s friend on the back in a gruff, soldierly manner was permitted. Even a brief hug was not unseemly. Mtabele did both, then went to his drawer and lit two outdated and outlawed Earth cigarettes. He gave one to Kemal.

  They took ceremonial puffs, careful not to inhale the smoke, then put the cigarettes out. Cadets liked to keep cigarettes, because they were forbidden and dangerous. But, of course, none of them was fool enough to inhale them. You could get lung cancer that way.

  "Well, your leaving is a bother," Mtabele said.

  “They’ll probably move in some lout who snares. Kin won’t like it at all."

  “'tell Kin. I apologize for my discourtesy”

  “lie absolves you in advance. Take care of yourself, Kemal. Don’t let the bastards get you down.”

  It was delicate of Mtabele to not mention who the bastards were.

  But Kemal knew.

  OOOOO

  Gordon Gavilan was not a happy man. Wealthy, yes. Powerful, indubitably. But happy, no. The second of three heirs to the Sun King monarchy, Gordon had held the throne for sixteen years, following his older brother’s untimely death. But try as he might to solidify his position, Gordon still felt that his throne teetered on the precipice of revolution. His rule was increasingly being challenged.

  Shortly after coming to power, Gordon was forced by Mercury’s various arcologies to either relinquish social control to a ruling council on the planet, or face a long and costly war. Because he had not yet firmed his military structure, and didn’t yet know where his subjects’ loyalties lay, he had no choice but to agree. Luckily for him, the arcology representatives were benevolent (stupid?) enough to allow him continued control of the planet’s energy and min
eral resources.

  Since then, he had made the Gavilan clan one of the wealthiest in the solar system, surpassed only by a few families directly tied into the vast RAM fortunes on Mars. These, though, were his latest threat.

  RAM supplied Mercury (via the Sun King) with everything it needed, except solar energy and mineral ores, which it produced in abundance itself. Mercury reciprocated with its own resources, as well as with enormous regular payments. Despite frequent polite communiques to the contrary, RAM began edging up its prices for its goods and cutting back on its purchases from Mercury. This left Gordon Gavilan, Sun King of Mercury, few choices. Thus he came to his current quandary.

  “Computer, what is to be done about our current financial situation?” asked the larger and older at the remaining Gavilan brothers.

  “Taking into account the most significant profit and debit sources, the Gavilan Monetary Fund must either increase its accruals by 105.0246 percent in the next eight days, or reduce its expenditures by 327.54278 percent in the same period to maintain its current balance,” expounded the Gavilan computer generated accountant.

  Gordon’s face, usually his family’s distinctive bronze color, began to redden slightly as he resisted the urge to strike the accountant’s holographic image with his bare hand.

  “Calculate the remaining accrual percentage, taking into account agreements with the Warren communities, adding them to the merchandisers’ cooperative,” said Gordon, suddenly having a thought.

  “Adding the standard tax payments by both Kallag and Vitesse into my previous calculation, the Monetary Fund must still increase its accruals by 39.0918 percent to maintain its current balance,” stated the computer. “Still insufficient.”

  “But it’s a place to start,” rumbled Gordon. As much as he hated the menial task of bookkeeping, anything that could help him maintain his political control always caught his eye. The deep cleft in his brow softened, and he was glad the computer had validated his scheme concerning his nephew, Kernel. Though the impudent little boy had never before held any value for the current Sun King, he now might be the answer to all Gordon’s problems.