Buck Roger XXVC #00.5 Arrival

by M S Murdock

  “Now scat,” said Miss Price, and the communications room dropped from her sight, to be replaced by the restricted view of Kane’s cell that the computer terminal offered. “Kane!”

  Neola Price’s sharp voice penetrated Kane’s uneasy sleep. He opened his eyes, fully awake, but unmoving until he identified the source of his interrupted nap.

  “Kane!”

  “Yes?” he answered lazily. He sat up and flexed his shoulders.

  “RAM has need of you.”

  Ironic amusement flitted across Kane’s face. “I am aware of that.”

  Miss Price’s rosebud mouth pureed in prim disapproval. “Respect for your betters is a virtue, young man.”

  “I should be happy to respect a superior. Unfortunately, I do not know one,” Kane responded smoothly.

  Miss Price found Kane obstreperous, but she ignored her feelings in the interest of business. “I assume,” she said tartly, “that you wish to escape your present confinement.”

  “It is somewhat of an inconvenience,” Kane admitted. “Miss . . . ?”

  “Neola Price.”

  “'To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

  “RAM has an assignment for you.”

  “What does it pay?” asked Kane.

  “I should think your freedom would be an adequate incentive.”

  Kane shook his head. He knew better than to let the corporate structure get the upper hand. “My present status is a temporary annoyance. I must assume that whatever task RAM wishes me to undertake is both dangerous and sensitive, or it would employ its own men. It is therefore worth a healthy stipend.”

  Price respected Kane’s ability to bargain, and her expression softened slightly. “I have been authorized to offer you an appointment to RAM’s executive board, and a fee of two hundred thousand credits deposited directly into your private account on Luna?

  “The fee is interesting. The commission I decline. I prefer to remain my own man. You may thank RAM for its offer.”

  “In the event you refused the appointment, I was authorized to offer you an additional fifty thousand credits.”

  “A price worth discussing. What is this assignment so dear to RAM’s heart?”

  Miss Price cleared her throat. “I am not authorized to disclose details at present, but you will be briefed in flight after you accept the mission.”

  Kane shook his dark head. “No details now, no mission."

  Neola Price sighed heavily. Kane drove a hard ban gain indeed. “All I can tell you now is that RAM is Very close to discovering the location of the remain of a five-hundred-year-old American astronaut. Politically, a very important one. NE0 would love to get its hands on our astronaut if it knew.”

  Kane whistled low through his teeth. “And you want me to find him? I’m no detective.”

  “I told you, RAM is close to finding him. We simply want you to recover the body.”

  Kane’s brows drew together in a frown. “Why me?”

  “You are expendable, and the political implications of a reformed NE0 handing over one of the organization’s most cherished heroes to RAM is a valuable tool.”

  “How flattering,” said Kane sarcastically.

  “We are not in business to feed your already healthy ego.”

  “What assurance do I have you will keep your end of the bargain?”

  “If you agree to the assignment, you will be released within the hour. One half of your payment will already be credited to your account. You are welcome to check it.”

  “Believe me, I shall.”

  Miss Price went on, unperturbed by Kane’s lack of trust. “The remaining amount will be paid upon delivery of the body.”

  “Then you may tell RAM I accept its offer.”

  “When you are released, report to RAM headquarters in Sydney. They will cooperate fully.”

  Kane gave Neola Price a casual salute as her image faded from the terminal screen.

  OOOOO

  The Ferricom shuttle out of Sydney flew a scant fife ty feet above the forest. It wallowed heavily, its rotors whipping madly to keep it aloft. Its passing sent an artificial wind through the leaves of the eucalyptus forest below, frightening the birds. A flock of cockatoos erupted from the trees, skimming over them in a white cloud. The elderly Class IV Dragonfly shuttle lumbered on, oblivious. Its heavy flight disguised a light load. It carried one passenger.

  A Ferricom supervisor, Maureen McFee, sat primly in the shuttle’s left passenger seat. Her suit was a conservative gray trimmed in black. The RAM red tie at her throat and the red plastic name badge clipped to her collar were the only splashes of color. Her face was a pale oval. Her eyes were hidden behind owlish, horn-rimmed glasses. Her red hair was drawn severely back from her face, not a rebellious wisp escaping the confines of the knot at the back of her head, though a brisk breeze blew through the aircraft. On her lap was a black briefcase. Her folded hands rested on it as she watched the flight of the startled birds.

  The captain of the shuttle leaned back and looked over his shoulder. “Ten minutes to Wollongong, miss,” he yelled over the noise of the engines and rotors. “We’ll be setting down on the Ferricom building, so you don’t have to worry about the natives.” “Thank you, Captain,” she yelled back. So far her masquerade had worked admirably. No one questioned her forged nameplate or travel orders. No one recognized in the plain Maureen the bane of RAM, the flamboyant NE0 pilot, Wilma Deering. Wilma’s access to the RAM installation was partial payment for a job the freedom fighter had agreed to do for Ardala Valmar, an information broker with familial and political ties to RAM. Ardala’s espionage network provided Wilma with her alias and the credentials to go along with it. Ardala had no compunctions about using Wilma to her own ends, but her contacts within RAM would not be so cavalier. They would view her compact with a notorious NEO rebel as a definite breach of faith. The RAM death order hanging over Wilma’s head gave Ardala no excuses for her alliance, so it was prudent to arrange Wilma’s interview with Kane under cover of a false identity. She sent Maureen McFee to Australia, secure in the knowledge of Wilma’s cooperation with the ruse. Australia. All the horror stories Wilma ever heard about Australia rushed through her mind with the flight of the frightened birds. They were remnants of childhood nightmares come to life. Like the rest of Earth, Australia was governed by a series of arcologies or reservations, each under its own regent who reported directly to the Solar Alliance Protectorate, the world government that administered the affairs of Earth under the watchful eye of RAM. In principle, the regencies were independent states, in practice, they, and SAP, were owned by RAM and completely under its domination. Australia, because of its isolation, had become a dumping ground for RAM’s mistakes. Chief among those were the unsuccessful results of its extensive program in genetics. Genetic engineering was a cornerstone of twenty-fifth century culture. Techniques of altering and cloning both human and animal life were common knowledge. Most companies used some type of specialized genetic life form, “gennies” for a part of their business transactions. Continual research and experimentation in genetics produced more and more refined types, but the experiments were not always successful, and many of them were not lucky enough to die. It was in Australia that RAM deposited these unfortunate mutations. Over the decades they scrabbled for existence in that ravaged land, breeding indiscriminately and magnifying their own deformities.

  The shuttle lifted above a particularly tall tree, and Wilma could see Wollongong Outpost in the distance. A typical RAM base, it was an island of order in the midst of anarchy. Surrounded by twelve-foot walls to deter the marauding populace, it rose in a tetrahedron of native brick, mimicking the slick structures of the larger cities. The top of this particular building was flat, undoubtedly a landing pad for the shuttle, safe from outside attack. As they neared the outpost, Wilma could see the refuse heap that comprised the rest of the settlement.

  The walls of the RAM base were surrounded by hovels built of found materials: slabs of m
etal siding propped against the wall and anchored by stakes, huts of mud and branches with canvas roofs, old pieces of machinery shoved against a wall and converted to living quarters. Foundations of decayed buildings were patched into service. It was a smaller, shoddier version of any Terran city. RAM and those employed by it lived within the central complex in relative comfort and security. Without, the populace clawed a living from a ruined world. Here at Wollongong, the ruin was living as well as structural, for the inhabitants of the Warren were the ruins of mankind. Victims of a civil conflict, they had been produced by man to serve man. The legal status of a gennie was unclear. Since they could be owned, like slaves, they were not considered human, yet humanoid they were. The debate over whether a gennie was man or beast raged periodically in the halls of political economy, but it was a question unresolved.

  The shuttle homed in on the flat top of the tetrahedron. As they came in for a landing, rotor blades thupping madly, Wilma could see the RAM insignia painted in the center of the square. She took a deep breath and clung to her persona. She was walking into the lion’s den in the guise of an overseer. She would and it amusing later. At the moment, panic was her main reaction. The shuttle settled heavily onto the landing pad, and the pilot cut his engines. “Watch the blades, miss,” he called over the slowing rotors.

  Wilma unclipped her restraints and rose, clutching her briefcase. The pilot slid the door of the shuttle hack, revealing the anxious faces of Emmerich and a companion. They had come to pay obsequious homage to the representative of the company. Their earnest expressions gave Wilma courage.

  Emmerich extended a hand. “Watch your step, Miss McFee,” he called. The air stirred by the shuttle’s blades had whipped his hair around his head in a tangle. Instead of a sober corporate executive, he looked like a clown trying to impersonate one.

  Wilma ignored his hand and descended the steps at the shuttle’s door with frigid dignity. She did not look at the magnificent view of the Australian country side that her vantage point allowed, but, like a true scion of business, at her watch. “The flight is six minutes behind schedule,” she said icily. “I shall have to make that up if I am to finish my reports by deadline. I will see the subject immediately.”

  Emmerich groveled, for Wilma’s scarlet name badge gave her a coprate rank he could not hope to achieve. Still, he did not abandon procedure. “Excuse me, Miss McFee, but I must ask your business with the subject. He was sent here under armed guard with the approval of the director himself.”

  “Quite right,” responded Wilma. She allowed approval to show in her face, and Emmerich straightened. “l am chief supervisor of Ferricom’s psychological development program. As per a recommendation from the Personnel Office, I am here to evaluate the subject and determine the counseling he requires." She handed Emmerich a sheaf of paper. “Here is my authorization.”

  Emmerich took the papers and glanced at them. “In order, of course,” he said. “Welcome to Wollongong, Miss McFee. If there is anything I can do to make your stay more pleasant, please let me know.”

  Wilma retrieved the papers. “Believe me, Emmerich, I shall,” she answered. Wilma took note of the idosyncracies of the structure as Emmerich escorted her into the RAM complex. “Ferricom is housed on the west side of the outpost,” Emmerich explained. “Our offices and maximum security are on the fifth level, near the top, living quarters beneath, on the fourth level. We have prepared a suite for you there. The third level comprises our warehouse. We have minimal detention facilities on second level, and, of course, first level is worker facilities.”

  Emmerich ushered Wilma into a lift, and they sank into the depths of the tetrahedron. The doors opened into a plain hallway, and Emmerich led her down it, opened a door marked “Communications,” and went in. “This is our communications complex,” he said. “As you can see by the monitors, we have only one triple-A detention cell. Our needs for prolonged incarceration are rare.”

  “I see four screens,” said Wilma. “Three are dark.”

  “Yes.” Emmerich’s voice was sheepish. “I am afraid the surveillance system malfunctioned, and we did not have replacement parts. They are on order, but as yet, they have not arrived. We have had to make do with the computer terminal screen. But I ask you, Miss McFee, what can the man possibly do?”

  He was speaking to deaf ears. Wilma was staring at the computer screen. It showed Kane stretched out on a cot, sound asleep. In sleep his defenses were removed, and his expression was remote, sad. She thought herself armed against the power of his physical attraction, but the knife-thrust of pain in her stomach told her she was wrong. She was as bewitched by the sight of him as she had been at their first encounter.

  “Miss McFee?” Emmerich’s importunate voice sounded at the edges of consciousness.

  “Yes, Emmerich.”

  “I asked if you wished to see the subject now.”

  “Pardon my abstraction. I find a moment of study before actually encountering the subject tends to put them in perspective for me. Yes, I would like to see him.”

  Emmerich leaned over the communications bank and pushed the lever under the active computer Screen up. “Kane,” he said pre-emptively. “Kane! You have a visitor.”

  Kane did not move. He opened one eye, cocked his head to get a better view of Emmerich’s face on his terminal, and said, “I’m sleeping.”

  “Not anymore,” said Emmerich.

  Kane yawned and sat up slowly, then swung his legs over the side of the cot. “Nothing but interruptions! Prison ought to be peaceful.” He sighed. “I can see you’re not going to give me any peace.”

  “You are to be evaluated by Personnel. You are to cooperate entirely with Miss McFee.”

  “Cut the terminal connection,” ordered Wilma. “This is a privileged communication. You do not have the security clearance for it.”

  “Miss McFee, I protest! Kane is under the strictest security. The director was most specific about” his voice dropped so that only Wilma could hear “Miss Valmar’s orders.”

  Kano was imprisoned on Ardala’s order. Wilma almost gasped, but covered her surprise by clearing her throat. She had wondered why RAM had imprisoned one of its freelancers. Ardala obviously had it in for Kane for some reason. “You will defer to my rank in this,” she said coldly. “Or I can contact Zibroski?’

  Without a word, Emmerich moved to a door at the left of the computers and hit a pressure panel beside it. The door opened, Wilma stepped through, and it closed behind her.

  Kane rose to his feet, his eyes lazy under his curling, dark lashes. “Pleased to make your acquaint me, Miss McFee,” he said.

  “I am sure you are,” Wilma responded severely. Her back was to the monitor, and she had no need to control her expression. Her hazel eyes blazed. In spite of the fact her loyalties lay irrevocably with NEO’s cause, in spite of the fact that Kane had abandoned that cause, his presence made the breath catch in her throat.

  “I understand you are here to evaluate me,” he said, making the statement entirely suggestive.

  Wilma responded icily, though her eyes danced with laughter. “You are correct, Mister Kane. According to the director’s report, you are a danger to yourself and those you work with. I am here to find out why.” “Good luck,” said Kane, his white teeth flashing. “I intend to have good luck, Mister Kane.” She could feel the electricity that had always existed between them crackling like Saint Elmo’s fire. Wilma turned to the computer screen. “Emmerich, thought I told you to turn that thing off!"

  The computer whined as Emmerich cut its power. The screen died.

  Kane was across the room in a stride, pulling her close. “I got the rest of the surveillance units in the first hour,” he said.

  “I know,” breathed Wilma.

  “How did you get here?” he asked.

  “You know NE0 has its ways of getting to people it wants.” Kane's lashes brushed her cheek sensuously. “So do you,” he murmured softly, his double meaning clear. Suddenly his
lips closed over hers, and the electricity between them caught fire, engulfing them both.

  Finally Wilma pulled away. “0h, Kane," she said breathlessly.

  Kane ran a possessive hand across her back and kissed her again. “Missed me?” he asked softly, his mouth close to hers.

  “More than I know how to say.” Her knees wen Weak. She grasped the collar of Kane’s gray suit to keep her balance. His hands roved over her. Her eye were big with questions. “Why did you leave NE0?” she asked. “I want to hear it from you.”

  “To save your life,” Kane answered, his finger tracing the creamy line of her neck.

  “But how?"

  “They offered me a choice: My freedom for your life. It seemed like a better bargain than most.”

  “Kane!” Wilma’s eyes were hazel stars. “I knew there was a reason!”

  He took her oval face between his hands. ‘There is no one else in the world for whom I would have done the same.”

  “But why did you stay, instead of returning to NEO?”

  “I have chosen power,” he said at last. “Power will accomplish miracles, Wilma.”

  The copper-haired woman looked around Kane’s cell skeptically. “You call this power?"

  “This is a result of a bit of bad judgment on my part. It will never happen again. In fact. I anticipate release within the hour; it appears I am going to the Asteroid Belt. RAM is willing to pay highly for my services."

  Wilma noted the comment with interest. She had just accepted an unusual job offer from Ardela Valmar, the information broker in RAM’s camp who had placed Kane here, in exchange for much-needed NEO ships; that job was in the Asteroid Belt as well. She said nothing.

  Suddenly there was a loud thump, and Wilma started in surprise. Kane whirled, placing her behind him. Clinging to the bars of Kane’s window were hands, or feet. It was hard to tell which. They sported six long digits each. The fingers, or toes, gripped the bars, the dozens of knuckles white. Above them hovered a tubby body. A death’s head skull on a long neck peered over the cluster of legs. The creature bobbed its head. It resembled a spider. Wilma had a horror of spiders, but there was something pathetic in its expression, a sort of idiotic expectation of goodwill.