Buck Roger XXVC #00.5 Arrival
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It was impossible to be too careful anywhere, but particularly in the belt. Vic knew his was the best-stocked post of its kind anywhere in the outer fringes. But treachery and thievery were the norm here on the edge of civilization. Vic had worked too hard and suffered too much to be robbed blind by some renegade member of the Rogues’ Guild, whose coffers he lined with protection money, or some other malcontent.
“Prepare to ambush our visitor if he comes any closer without I.D.,” Vic told the spacer.
Gwill nodded his silvery aluminum head. He knew what to do. His assignment was not unusual, for such distractions were a daily occurrence on Trader Vic’s Trading Post. Without a word the spacer stepped into the ejection chamber in the cluttered station, strapped on a rocket belt, and cocked back the bolt of his hand-held laser cannon. Inside the post, Vic pressed a button and Gwill was ejected into the blackness of space.
The trader thought about the asterover’s motives, but he was not overly concerned. Victor Fritzell, once a pirate in the Rogues’ Guild under Black Barney himself, had survived more global intrigue than most men even read about, with a bionic leg to show for it. He hoped one day to grow a new limb in the reconstruction tanks on Mars, but that would mean a long journey. He could neither spare the time nor trust anyone to man the post. Everyone he knew was either too greedy or too stupid.
Known for making fair deals, Vic was not a greedy man by solar system standards. But he was no fool, and, like a bartender, his customers often told him interesting bits of information that other people were willing to pay for. He was not averse to making a Dola or two off someone else’s stupidity. Life was hard, and then you were downloaded. . He squinted into a monitor that covered the cargo bay door and the tunnel of junk beyond that hid the entrance from view. Spotting Gwill at the ready in the tunnel, Vic flicked on his ship-to-ship again.
“Asterover 19102, identify yourself and state your business, or I will convert your ship to component parts.”
“There’s no need for hostility,” an old, indignant voice responded at last. “I haven’t talked to anyone since I left Mars and it took me a moment to find the communicator switch.”
Vic frowned. This was not what he had expected. “State your business,” he repeated.
“My name is Dr. Merrill Andresen, and I am from the RAM Archaeological Society. I am in need of fuel, food, and friendship.” The voice from the asterover chortled strangely. Vic could not see the humor.
“Do you have viewing?” Vic asked abruptly.
“If you mean, do I have a visual monitor, then, no, I do not; my ship is a no-frills, second-rate asterover. Will you give me clearance?”
Vic frowned again. Either this guy was the greatest con man in the fringes, or he truly was a fool. The trader bit a fingernail; he wished he could see him.
Suddenly Gwill signed to him in the other monitor
“I have a lock on the target.
“No,” Vic grumbled, forgetting in his haste to switch off the channel to the asterover.
“No?” asked the pilot, surprised
Vic had an idea. “What I mean is, not immediately please answer a few routine questions for me.”
Vic began a stream of mundane queries. Calling up his data base, he quickly keyed 1n the name Dr. Merrill Andresen and the serial number of the RAM asterover.
“How long was your journey from-” Trader Vic’s mouth finished the question while his mind scanned the incoming data.
Name: Andresen, Dr. Merrill
Occupation: None
Previous employment: Professor of anthropology, Martian University. Denied tenure.
Vic read the data again, for there was one point he found fascinating. The old man had been denied tenure recently. Why? Vic keyed the question into the data base.
Response: That information is classified.
Vic was both angered and titillated by the roadblock. He loved a mystery, and he was burning to know the answer to this one.
“Do I have permission to dock?” Andresen’s irritated voice penetrated Vic’s thoughts. “I am running dangerously low on fuel, I didn’t know trading posts in the asteroids were so far apart.
Victor Fritzell’s smile of anticipation grew. “Of course, Dr. Andresen. One of the natives will lead you to our entrance and see you safely through the mine field. Welcome to Trader Vic’s.”
OOOOO
Andresen looked through his monitor for the guide the trader had promised, taking in the station. Circa 2257, he guessed. Actually, it was no guess at all, until recently it had been his job to know such things. The thought instantly brought him close to depression, which would rob him of his enjoyment of experiencing a new environment. He shook the thought away and concentrated on the space station on his monitor.
Andresen was lonely after thirteen days alone in space. He was certain he was now experiencing the same kind of excitement his ancient predecessors, African explorers, must have felt approaching a native trading post after long periods of isolation. Though this post was not made of wood and thatch, it was equally primitive by twenty-fifth century standards. Verifying his earlier estimate, Andresen saw that the nucleus of the post was a twenty-third century prefab space station most commonly used at the time by small corporations. Packed to its sides like lumps of clay, the hulls of derelict ships were grafted one on top of the other, giving the effect of a sizable garbage mound. In fact, Andresen had thought it just that until Fritzell had radioed him, fortunately reminding him that the asterover was low on fuel.
Andresen caught the glowing flash of a rocket pack in the monitor and spotted a bright green guidance light. Refining his visual image, he saw his first spacer outside the pages of a textbook. Looking as much like a silvery seal as a man, he was protected from the cold by a layer of blubber and a suit that was so well integrated with his body that it was difficult to deter mine where one began and the other ended. He had large, glassy eyes, a small slash for a mouth, and no nose. A black patch, a heat retainer, Andresen remembered, was off-center where his nose should have been. Andresen was repulsed by the gennie’s strange appearance: he looked like an oversized black frog.
Using his green guidance light, the spacer waved Andresen toward a well disguised, junk-strewn tunnel. Following the beam, Andresen docked against the mouth of the tunnel and waited as an umbilical tube was connected to the hatch side of the asterover. Hearing the decisive clicks of locks in place and seeing the exit clearance light come on, Andresen opened the hatch and stepped into the bouncy tube, floating gently into the official entry to Trader Vic’s Trading Post, complete with crooked, laser-etched sign and all.
The main door swung out into the tube. Opening it, Andresen danced a quick jig (which was made quicker than even he thought by the unexpected three quarter g’s in the station), to avoid stepping on the head of an old, blond dog with huge, obviously genetically altered ears. The dog’s head never left its paws, but his large, sad eyes clung to Andresen like tacks’ on a magnet. The scientist smiled, despite his clumsy entrance; gravity was a nice touch of home.
Andresen looked around the cluttered, cylindrical station, and his jaw dropped in unabashed surprise. He might as well have entered a museum. No object that could be oiled, hammered, or soldered into working order was too old or obsolete to be sold here. Equipment ranging from twenty-second century life-support suits, with their primitive, rounded edges, to sleek, modern day RAM gyrojet pistols was on sale. The space suits bore scratches and dents from previous owners, and Andresen would not have been surprised to learn that most of them had been stripped from unfortunate corpses, for the nameplates were all blank.
If this had been any other research trip, he would have arranged to stay for a time and delve into the history represented. But he had no time to spare; a “package” waited for him farther out in the belt. His reputation-everything he had ever worked for-depended on his recovering it as quickly as possible. He would show all his detractors that his research had been flawless!
“Need a vid screen?”
Andresen spun around to locate the voice. Behind an old-fashioned glass display case was a middle-aged human with thinning hair, a heavily scarred face, and a once-muscled body gone heavy, soft, and dimpled. Over this he wore a coarse brown smart clothes coverall, obviously climate-controlled, since he seemed perfectly ' comfortable in the cool trading post. A brilliant ethnologist, Andresen placed him as a Lunarian from the hint of an old accent in his voice.
The astroarchaeologist hurried over to the counter. “You’re Victor Fritzell, of course. Dr. Merrill Andresen.” He extended his hand. “Pardon my rudeness, but I’m fascinated by your establishment.”
“Thanks,” the trader said, making no effort to meet Andresen’s grip. Poison nails were too common and always deadly. Vic made no secret of scrutinizing his visitor. Andresen looked like the stereotypic academic: long white, frazzled hair, thin, muscle less, round shouldered body; and red-rimmed eyes constantly straining to focus. His hands were weathered from exposure to harsh chemicals, as was his nose, whose owner obviously liked his liquor. Andresen pulled back his hand uncomfortably.
“What do you need?” Vic asked bluntly. Andresen handed him his printed list of foodstuffs. “How you going to pay?”
“RAM credit?”
“No credit out here.”
“Cash?” Andresen pulled a small bag of coins, the last of his money, from a pocket inside his lab suit.
Though highly valuable elsewhere, Vic had no need for money. “Nothing to trade?”
“Nothing of value that I don’t need myself.”
Vic shrugged. “It’ll do.” He set about collecting Andresen’s goods. The trader noticed that Gwill had returned, but had wisely chosen to hang back out of sight. Spacers tended to frighten people.
Vic came back shortly, setting two tall stacks of prepackaged dinners on the, counter before Andresen with a groan “Sixty micromeals. That’s a lot of proto-meat for one guy to eat in the two weeks it takes to get to Fortune.”
“Oh, I’m not going to Fortune,” Andresen said absently, counting his order. “At least I hope I don’t have to go that far.”
“No?” Vic said, adding a pound of coffee to Andresen’s supplies. “On the house,” he assured him. “That far for what? Some RAM job, I’ll bet.”
“Not exactly, but it will certainly set my colleagues back at Martian University on their ears!” Andresen couldn’t help add a wild Chortle of Satisfaction at the thought.
“Gee, it sounds really important,” the trader said artlessly, pressing a recorder button on the floor with his toe.
“Vic, my only friend, this is the most important thing I’ve ever done. This may be the most important find in the history of archaeological research!” Andresen’s eyes took on a wild look that encouraged Vic to press on.
“What is it?”
He was bursting to tell someone-anyone-and Fritzell fit that description. “I have pinpointed the location of a twentieth century space hero named Buck Rogers, here in the Juno-Vesta arc. I’m searching for his body, and I’m going to find it!”
Vic Fritzell didn’t know whether to laugh or-well, he didn’t know how to react. He was no scientist, but five hundred years was a very long time. . . .
“I’ve said too much,” Andresen mumbled abruptly. “Loneliness loosens the tongue, as they say.” He laid the small bag of coins on the counter between them. “That should more than cover it.” Hastily pouring his supplies into two containers for ease of transportation through the tube, he thanked Vic for his time and conversation, stepped over the dog at the door, and left the confines of the trading post.
“It is I who should thank you,” Trader Vic said aloud after Andresen had gone, snidely imitating the man’s tone. He saw Gwill strap back on his rocket pack to release the tube from the asterover.
“Someone somewhere will buy this information, valid or not. Who would be willing to pay more for even a dead ancient hero, NEO or RAM?” He thought about Andresen, chugging toward his find, oblivious to betrayal. Fools deserved what they got, Vic resolved, reaching for his long-distance communicator. He had settled on NEO, because as a terrorist group trying to overthrow the powerful RAM Corporation, it was hungry and quick, not wallowing in corporate lethargy, like RAM.
“NEO.” He said the word aloud as he tried to remember the name of his contact there. He was a new one, a disinherited Mercurian prince-Gavilan, that was his name. He’d dealt with him only once. Head bent to the task, Vic punched the access code into his data base.
It was the last thing Victor Fritzell ever did.
A heat-seeking bullet from Gwill’s rocket pistol caught the human in the lower chest, splattering him like an over microwaved egg. His job here was done. In no time he readied his own ship, left in storage in one of Vic’s grafted-on hangars, and was on his way to his home asteroid of Thule to collect his pay from RAM.
Though he did not understand the implications, Gwill had known something Vic had not: RAM had known for some time of Andresen’s progress and didn’t want it disturbed, or NEO informed, just yet.
But neither he, nor Andresen, nor even RAM, knew that NEO was already aware of the situation and taking its own steps.
Even NEO did not know that still others coveted the body of Buck Rogers.
ll: Judgment Day
His stomach rumbled. Merrill Andresen’s red-rimmed eyes did not leave the computer board before him as he reached into the asterover’s food locker, stocked some six days before at the trading post near Juno. Still without looking, he popped a small, rectangular, prepackaged meal into the microwave and punched the same coordinates needed for every meal he ate: Salisbury steak and vegetables almondine. He knew that the meat was named after a city on ancient Earth, though he knew not what the city had to do with gray, sauce-covered food. Still, it was filling, nutritious-if the ingredients on the label were to be trusted-and not too objectionable to his aged, delicate constitution. Andresen did not have the time to think about what he ate.
The microwave bell rang. Andresen opened the steaming container and inhaled. He added a few spices of his own, a luxury acquired from his mother that he would not give up no matter how primitive his surroundings.
And they were decidedly primitive, here in the Asteroid Belt, the far reaches of the “civilize” world. Andresen gave a humorless, ironic chuckle at his own choice of words. He no longer knew any civilized beings besides himself in the cold, suspicious, self-interested world in which he had been born. Andresen winced at a recent, painful memory and angrily stuffed too large a bite of Salisbury steak into his mouth, unaware of the sauce that ran down his chin as his mind traveled back.
He had been a professor of anthropology at Martian University, a civilized place near the bridge known as the Pavonis Space Elevator. . . .
“Order! Quickly, now!” Prof. Girard Warch, president of Martian University, held his long white hairpiece in place with his left hand, his right hand banging a metal gavel up and down with the regularity of a bouncing ball, his meaty jowls jiggling to the beat. “Ladies and gentlemen, we must quickly proceed with this week’s professorial tribunal.”
Warch resolved to cut the proceedings short; as he had left a certain leggy teaching assistant back in his office and he had to meet his wife at Chez Petite in Coprates Metroplex for dinner in just three hours.
Abruptly, the doors to the balconies closed, where university T.A.s, secretaries, and other interested but unimportant visitors sat. On the ground floor, the remaining professors gathered up their multicolored ceremonial robes, which represented the colleges of their graduate study, and hurried to their computer console seats in the
Crystal Cathedral.
The cathedral served as a formal meeting hall for invocations and professorial tribunals. As its name implied, the Crystal Cathedral was an enormous, cold, entirely crystal structure with arched and vaulted ceilings and an accompanying echo, all of which aided the pomp and pageantry of the ceremony. The cathedral was so large that the audience, though present, watched the proceedings via individual, closed-circuit video monitors.
Warch, wearing a black, extra-large judge’s robe over his massive girth, sat behind the tall adjudication bench made of intricately chiseled Martian slate. The day’s bailiff, Prof. Rajiv Alwu, sat on Warch’s left. The plaintiff, Dr. Glynn Georges.dos, as all “.dos” characters were, was a computer-generated persona, highly regarded by his colleagues. Their esteem had grown tenfold recently after Georges.dos’s research located the remains of four ancient cosmonauts. Georges.dos’s holographic form-a thin man with small, dark eyes and a hawk noses-was on Warch’s right.
Georges.dos had come to the president’s office one afternoon for his usual round of complaining and had stumbled upon the president and his teaching assistant engaged in “research” of their own. Warch hourly chided himself for his clumsiness. Today’s hearing against Andresen was the easiest of Georges.dos’s demands to meet. What was one professor, more or less?
When the last attendee took his seat, Alwu rose to his feet. The flawless olive skin above Alwu’s genetically engineered Adam’s apple bobbed once as he cleared his throat. Warch disliked gennies, and felt uncomfortable sitting so close to Alwu.
“Will the accused please stand?” announced the bailiff.
Seated in the middle of the cavernous hall, his left side to his peers, his right to the bench, Dr. Merrill Andresen stood hesitantly, his ornate art provo chair noisily scraping the crystal floor in the echoing silence of the hall. Squinting, he tried to focus his watery eyes on something other than a computer screen--the distant form of the man behind the gavel. He raised a fluttering hand and tried awkwardly to impose some semblance of order on his willful, scraggly, salt-and-pepper hair.