by M S Murdock
The data broker paused for a second and looked up into Wilma Deering’s clear, guileless eyes. This tomboy doesn’t even realize what she’s asking for, she thought to herself and curled her hands into tight fists.
“If you leave now, you can see him as soon as you get back to Earth. I’ll provide you with RAM identification papers, but you’ll have to go alone.”
Wilma smiled and started out of the room. “Thank you, Ms. Valmar. After I’ve seen Kane, I’ll radio you to tell you of my decision and receive the rest of you instructions for the mission.”
“Wait just a minute,” Ardala said as she quickly stood, her hands still clenched. “You can’t keep me waiting like that. I’ve got other matters to attend to."
As Wilma reached the door to the boudoir, the NEO pilots right behind her, she turned and said, “Then you can busy yourself with these other matters while you wait for me to make my decision.” The NE0 colonel turned and left before Ardala had a chance to answer.
“Damn you!” Ardala screamed at the closed door and swiped her arm across the top of her desk, sending a myriad of baubles clattering across the floor. “You’re lucky I haven’t planted a bomb in those cruisers, you tomboy!”
Ardala calmed down after she’d shattered a few more priceless items. She knew that she had the advantage. She had no intention of letting Wilma go free once she had recovered Buck Rogers’s body. The data merchant did not consider the price on Wilma’s head significant, though that was another thing to be weighed on the scale against the NEO officer. Wilma’s fate was really decided in Ardala’s mind by her relationship with Killer Kane.
The Martian never exactly felt challenged by the Earth woman, at least not consciously, and Ardala knew that she was more beautiful than Wilma. There simply could be no doubt of that at all in Ardala’s mind. After all, Wilma hadn’t even had the genetic engineering that was standard in the Holzerhein family to ensure that she was as perfectly beautiful and strong as she was brilliant. Ardala had that and more.
What Ardala found so annoying about the tomboy rebel was that she was the only woman who had ever taken a man from her. She didn’t consider that a challenge. It was more of an insult. And while Killer Kane might not have been Ardala’s first choice--and she certainly could have had many other, more desirable men to cater to her whims-it galled the Martian to see Kane prefer Wilma. She had made Kane pay with his freedom, and now she planned to make Wilma pay with her life.
Reassured, Ardala sighed happily now. She had only to sit back and wait, which she found both exhilarating and frustrating: She loved to watch her plans fall into place, checking progress like a general back at camp. She knew she could never risk being on the battlefront herself But she had a marvelous feeling about this plan. She couldn’t help but succeed in at least one area: Either Neola Price or Wilma Deering would go down in flames, or she’d get the body, or she’d get a place on RAM’s executive board. She deserved it all.
But not even Ardala’s expert advisers, Tanny and Hatch, could predict the trouble that would befall their employer.
TRYST OF FATE M.S Murdock
I am not paying you to give mu shipments away.
Killer Kane stood before the director of Ferricom, Inc. in outraged silence. He balanced on the balls of his feet, his muscular frame taut, his chin lifted in defiance. He regarded Armand Zibroski’s overweight bulk behind the U-shaped desk with thinly disguised scorn.
“There were fifteen nets in that shipment of Ore!” sneered Zibroski. “The richest strike to come out of the Asteroid Belt in ten years, and you hand one of them over like a party favor!”
Kane said nothing, but his thin black moustache drew down at the corners as his lips compressed. His eyes narrowed. “The most dangerous man in the solar system!” Zibroski waved a finger at Kane. “I might as well have hired a teddy bear! Some piece of space scum flips a laser, and you cave in!”
Kane’s sea-green eyes sparked. “I never cave in,” he said
“Then explain to me why that shipment left the bolt with fifteen nets and arrived at Ferricom with fourteen,” snapped Zibroski
“You were too cheap to arm your barges as I directed.”
“Forget it, Kane! Those barges were fitted with a new set of gyro shells.”
“With a single round of ammunition! Your economy drive nearly cost lives. Did you expect my reputation to scare off a pirate? You’ve been in this business long enough to know nothing spooks those freaks and gennies.”
“So you handed them a load of choice grade iron as a present,” said Zibroski sarcastically.
“No. I dropped a load on top of their third-rater. She couldn’t use her rail guns without damaging the load. Then I covered the barges’ tails. We got the rest of the shipment out-no thanks to you!” Zibroski leaned forward, his fingers resting on the gleaming slab of polished wood that covered the top of his custom-made desk. “I am tired of excuses. You were paid to do a job. You failed.”
Hot anger blazed in Kane’s eyes. “I was sabotaged,” he said tightly.
“Are you accusing me of dishonesty?”
Kane lowered his dark head to hide the green flames in his eyes. “I am accusing you of nothing,” he responded evenly. “It merely occurs to me that economy might be served by cutting security expenses-expenses like my fee.”
Zibroski smiled. The expression was replete with evil.”
“Not this time,” said Kane. His words were accompanied by a move so fast it was a blur. He was behind Zibroski, his hands a flash of tan heading for the man’s neck. As fast as Kane was, Zibroski’s security system was faster. As Kane’s right hand sliced through the cold wall of rushing air, he recoiled-too late. Jets of brilliant purple steam erupted from the floor in front of the atmospheric wall. The smell of Sulphur made his stomach turn over. “Morpheum,” he muttered as his knees went out from under him.
Kane went down like a stone. Through the fading purple haze. Zibroski regarded Kane’s helpless athletic body, sprawled on the carpet. Protected from the drug’s effects by the security wall surrounding his desk, Zibroski could afford to enjoy Kane’s defeat. His saturnine smile spread across his face.
Satisfied that Kane was incapacitated, he sat down and activated his communications terminal. A viewscreen rose from the center of the desktop. Zibroski’s fat fingers moved with surprising speed as he fed numbers into the link. The computer blinked, and Ardala Valmar’s exquisite face appeared.
Zibroski moved his considerable bulk away from the screen, giving Ardala an unobstructed view of Kane’s unconscious body. Her full lips drew together in the center and turned up at the corners in a smile of unutterable sweetness.
“I assume this will satisfy you?” asked Zibroski.
“It is a beginning,” Ardala admitted. Her low voice rippled like water. “My uncle will be most grateful for your cooperation, Armand.”
The combined effects of his name spoken in those throaty tones and the intimation of favor from RAM’s chief executive, Simund Holzerhein, made Zibroski giddy. He puffed up with importance, looking more than ever like a startled toad. “Your humble servant Miss Valmar,” he responded gallantly Ardala’s long lashes fluttered as she covered her aversion. “You’ve arranged for safe quarters?”
Zibroski chuckled. “The finest accommodations, I assure you.”
“As long as they’re secure. He suspects nothing?”
“Your involvement is our little secret,” returned Zibroski, reflecting that Kane’s enmity was a small price to pay for Holzerhein’s favor.
“See that you keep it,” said Ardala, the threat behind her words unsoftened by her voluptuous voice. She cut the transmission and with it the vision of Zibroski’s self-satisfied face. She sank back into her chair and curled up like a panther cub. Her sultry eyes, half-lidded in satisfaction, glowed. Let the great Killer Kane rot in some dismal hole until it pleased her fancy to set him free. Let him languish in ignorance, cursing Zibroski for his misfortune.
Sh
e let her mind dissect Kane. Without doubt, he was the handsomest man she had ever met. The scars and small imperfections of his beautifully balanced body were infinitely more exciting than the unmarked perfection of her genetically altered creations. The memory of the fire behind his green eyes made her shiver. He was unruly, and that was part of her fascination of him. Her gennie lovers were created to kneel uncomplainingly at the altar of her beauty. Kane bent his stubborn knee to no one, no one except that red-haired hussy, Wilma Deering. Ardala’s anger flared at the thought of her rival. She hated the softening of Kane’s eyes when Wilma’s' name was mentioned. Ardala would bend his stubborn will if she had to keep him locked up for the rest of his life-but that would be such a waste. Fortunately, she knew hundreds of methods of persuasion, some of them infinitely pleasurable. She mused on the alternatives.
OOOOO
Heat rose from the pavement in shimmering waves, repelled by the plasticrete surface. It met the blazing intensity of the southern sun and wavered under the assault, to be driven back to the ground. The plasticrete reflected the sun’s rays in an escalating cycle, pushing the temperature to enervating heights, but the Dragonfly class heliplane was impervious to the heat. Its engines pulsed in a powerful whine as its rotor blades whipped lazily, creating a steaming whirlwind. It was parked in front of a plastifiber Quonset hangar: The words “Texarkana Org, Hangar 22” were stenciled across its curving white walls in plain black letters. A man and a woman wearing ambassador’s sashes over their conservative suits came out of the hangar and, went toward the plane, ducking under the rotors. The man reached the heliplane’s door and turned, extending a hand to the woman. She reached out, her copper hair whipped into a tangle by the wind. Their hands caught.
The hangar exploded in a ball of flame, consuming the aircraft and licking hungrily at the runway. The flames roiled high sending clouds of black smoke and the acrid smell of burning into the air. “Mama! Papa! No!” Wilma Deering heard herself screaming. The voice did not seem to belong to her but she knew it for her own. The screams went on and on, rising with the unchecked flames. The emergency siren was a poor second to her cries.
Wilma shook her head. “No” she murmured. “I, have never been here.” Screams reverberated inside her skull. She was confused, but tears joined the sweat streaming from her face The flames rolled toward her. She could see nothing but the wavering red-orange wall, feel nothing but the awful heat that made the scorching sun’s rays insignificant, hear nothing but the cries of agony that were her own, and strangely not her own. She was curiously abstracted from the scene, like a person watching home movies. The fire rolledover her, searing her senses to white blindness. “Mama,” she whispered as the whiteness faded to merciful, unconscious black.
The sea of darkness surged around her, making patterns of iridescence in the inky waters. Wilma stretched, sending miniature waves into the sea. She was dimly aware of floating on top of the ocean, cradled by it, yet untouched. She hovered on the edge of consciousness in the delicious comfort that was not quite sleep.
At the edges of her understanding she heard a steady pounding. She turned over and covered her ears. Pounding penetrated her pathetic defense shuddering through her body. She curled into a ball; but the blows continued in a steady rhythm. She heard a voice behind them, as demanding as the pounding.
“Open up! Come on, miss. We’re with the Terrine guards. Your parents are dead. We’ve got orders from the juvenile magistrate to pick you up. Can’t have unsupervised children wandering around.”
“No!” Wilma sat bolt upright. The sea made way for her, running away on all sides like a tide retreating. As it faded, her parents’ house grew around her, its center her room.
She was sitting in bed, the covers tangled in a sailor’s knot. It was morning, and her brother; Roberto, and sister, Sally, were asleep in their rooms. She was sixteen and they were children.
That fact somehow made an immense difference. She was sixteen. The Terrines were at the door; ready to take them to the Chicagorg Youth Hostel, where they would be separated according to age, trained to fit neatly into a prearranged slot in the vast organization that was Russo-American Mercantile, and indentured at the age of eighteen to repay the company for its investment. Wilma tore the covers off and threw them on the floor. “We aren’t dressed’ ” she called. “Please, give us some time!” She ripped a nondescript brown jumpsuit from her closet and began to crawl into it.
The pounding stopped. “All right,” responded the voice. “Fifteen minutes.”
“What is it, Wilma?” Buddy stood in her doorway, a small boy rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.
Wilma pounced on her brother and hugged him. “It’s the Terrines,” she said. “They’ve come to take us away. We have to run. Where’s Sally?”
“Right here.” Sally was ten years old, as slim and willowy as Wilma, but her hair was silver flax instead of crimson.
“Did you hear me?”
“Sure. Terrines.”
“Get dressed-fast.”
Sally left without a word, yielding to Wilma’s age and organization. Their parents had planned for this contingency, and the children were used to drills. Five minutes later the three were assembled, rucksacks clutched in their hands. Wilma strapped the smallest to her brother’s squirming, five-year-old back. “Hold still, Buddy. This time I can’t carry it for you. There!” She locked the last strap in place and took his hand.
“Hurry up in there!” shouted the Terrine.
“Just a few minutes!” Wilma called back. She dragged Buddy to the rear of the house, Sally on their heels. Stationed at the back door was another Terrine. It was clear the unit had experience dealing with unwilling children.
“We’ll never get past him,” Sally whispered.
“We’re not going to try,” said Wilma, opening the door to the cellar
“No!” Squeaked Buddy. “I don’t like it down there!”
“Me neither” said Wilma, “but we have to, Buddy. Come on. I’ll be with you.” She herded her brother and sister into the narrow stairway, leaving the lights one the shallow basement windows lifted the edge from the gloom. They had enough light to see their way, but no more. Buddy whimpered with fear.
Wilma pulled the cellar door and it shut with a click. “Come on” she whispered, “and not a sound.” With her brother and sister clutching her hands, she made her way down the stairs and across the dark cavern of the cellar’s main room. Its outside entrance had been blocked up, but Wilma’s parents, as active members of the reconstructionist movement, were acutely aware of the need for a back door in times of danger: They had extended the original shaft that was the cellar’s outside exit, running it well away from the house. Wilma and the two children crept along the passageway until they came to the short flight of steps terminating in the cracked planks of an ancient wooden door. From outside, the door looked like another piece of trash, indistinguishable from the litter that surrounded it. Carefully Wilma pushed the door up.
A line of bright sunlight glared through the crack, and she squinted, letting her eyes get used to the light. Behind her she could hear Buddy sniffling and Sally trying to quiet him. Her eyes adjusted to the sunlight, and she peeked through the crack, anxiously trying to locate the Terrines. Only one was within her view, and he had his back to them. It was no protection, but it was a momentary circumstance they could not afford to waste. She raised the door, holding it high above her head. “Run!” she said. “Go to Hildy’s!”
Sally dragged her brother through the doorway and began to run. Glad to be outside, Buddy trotted happily at her side. Wilma watched them round the corner; then followed, replacing the door. As she caught up with Buddy and Sally, she picked up her brother; swung him up to ride piggyback, nodded at Sally, and ran. In minutes they were at Hildy’s back door. It opened before they could knock, and they were in Hildy’s ample arms.
“Goodness, I’m glad to see you!” she cried. “The minute we heard about your parents, we
tried to get to you, but the Terrines were too quick for us. Then I remembered the tunnel, and I hoped you’d make it. I thought about watching the entrance, but I was afraid it might alert the Terrines.” Their mother’s best friend patted Wilma on the back.
“They are dead, then?” Wilma’s hazel eyes were huge with fear. Hildy nodded. “No doubt. They said it was a terrorist raid, but I don’t for a moment believe it. They were getting too noticeable. RAM dealt with them.” Safe in Hildy’s soft arms, Wilma burst into tears.
“This is too new."
The intrusive male voice was not part of the story, but Wilma knew he had been there.
“So give her another injection. Some Vermidox will jolt her memory.”
The first man eyed the screen where the image of Wilma in Hildy’s arms wavered. “I hate this stuff. How they can tell what’s real memory, reconstructed memory, or sheer hallucination I don’t know.” He adjusted a knob and the image stopped wavering. Wilma twisted in her shackles, but the sensory deprivation chamber in which she was suspended kept her from feeling them. “I’d rather use the old methods.”
“You don’t have to know. Leave that to the experts Were getting paid a nice bit of change.” The second man filled a syringe and inserted it into a robot arm that extended into the chamber. He manipulated controls and the arm reached toward Wilma, gently slipped the syringe into a vein, and expelled the drug Wilma jerked as the Vermidox took effect, then went slack. “That should speed things up,’ the second man said.
The images came faster, and Wilma rolled in her restraints. She would be a mass of bruises soon, but for the moment, between the drugs and the chamber, she felt no pain.
Blackness. She and Buddy and Sally, huddled together for an eternity in blackness as the Terrines footsteps echoed above their heads. Buddy and Sally clung to her their hearts beating like trip-hammers, too frightened even to whimper.
