Buck Roger XXVC #00.5 Arrival

by M S Murdock

  Growls from his stomach broke Andresen from his reverie as his Salisbury steak made its way south. His eyes blurry from the strain of constant search, he turned his thoughts to what he knew of Anthony “Buck” Rogers, and how he’d learned it.

  Months before his ill-fated article, Andresen had read of the discovery of the extremely primitive, but nevertheless fully evolved, cybernetic personality program, Masterlink, and the digitally encoded personality of a twentieth century Soviet military man now known as Karkovdos, inside a five-hundred-year-old weather satellite.

  RAM had retrieved many other satellites, and it found nothing particularly distinctive about this one. Actually, no one important enough had bothered to study it much. But Andresen found Masterlink fascinating.

  The composite Karkov-Masterlink program contained the personality, hopes, and aspirations of a man turned .dos who had spent the intervening five hundred years reliving and agonizing over the last moments of his mortal existence.

  A vicious battle of wits and weapons in A.D. 1995 between Rogers and the Soviet man and computer had postponed global war for a number of years, but had effectively ended in a draw for its direct participants, since life as they had known it ended for them.

  The battle was digitally etched into Masterlink’s mind through Karkov, every detail-speeds, impacts-everything. Karkov had watched in horror as Buck Rogers’s F-38 fighter streaked toward Masterlink’s original satellite, which housed the Soviet and his computer. In the moments before impact, Masterlink had taken over and downloaded Karkov’s mind into an onboard computer, then transmitted them both to a weather satellite far from the battle site. Karkov-Masterlink had remained hidden behind a flow of transmissions and wars for five hundred years, soaking up information and programs. Apparently the only time Masterlink had emerged was to vent its rage against anything American by altering hurricane reports to raise the death toll of United States citizens.

  Andresen had returned to Masterlink time and again, obsessed with the drama that was unfolding before him. Then, exactly three weeks ago, he had finished his lengthy, grueling calculations. Freezing the frame containing the fighter’s impact with the satellite, he saw Rogers eject from his fighter plane, strapped to his seat in a small, vaguely bullet-shaped protective dome. Andresen had keyed in relevant fac. tors: location of incident, speed of ejection, impact of different gravitational pulls, direction of ejection, particle drag, estimated weight, eclipses, comets, shooting stars, space battles-anything that he could think of that the capsule might have encountered in five hundred years. The computer juggled the variables, and Andresen knew approximately where to begin looking for the capsule containing his American astronaut, give or take a few hundred million miles.

  And he was now very, very close to reaching his goal. According to his calculations, the capsule containing the astronaut would be somewhere in the Juno-Vesta arc, which was about one week out from Trader Vic’s Trading Post near Juno; he was on day six.

  Realistically he knew that even if Anthony Rogers was in the Asteroid Belt, the area was so vast that he might never find him, or at least not anytime soon. But Merrill Andresen was a patient man. If he conserved his fuel, he would be able to search for another sixteen days or so without refueling. If RAM didn’t hang him for space piracy first. . . .

  The thought caught the archaeologist off guard. He had been so wrapped up in his search that he had never once truly entertained the possibility that he would not find the astronaut here, or considered the consequences of his trip from RAM. The price for stealing the asterover would be his life, unless he returned with the evidence. Strangely, he found that the thought did not disturb him much. Either way, his torment soon would be over.

  The asterover’s sensors had been on almost continuously since leaving the trading post, just in case Andresen’s calculations had been a little off. But there was so much junk floating around in the belt, from space battles and coprate waste dumping, that the sensor lights had been flashing continuously as well. Andresen had to check each lead, too, or risk missing the find of his--of any astro-archaeologist’s-life.

  “Anthony ‘Buck’ Rogers.” Andresen unconsciously let the words slip from his lips as he continued to scan the debris, his sensors programmed to look for a bullet-shaped container roughly the size of a ceremonial coffin-ceremonial because bodies were no longer buried.

  Andresen found himself wondering what the world had really been like. Not the textbook version, but the last time Buck Rogers had seen it. His last deeds had involved his battle with the Soviet, Karkov, and the artificial intelligence, Masterlink. Perhaps he’d been like any other human faced with death, and his last thoughts had been of friends and family.

  Andresen had neither anymore. He’d lost his father, also a scientist, in a terraforming experiment in Mars’s Boreal Sea. Some years before, his mother had had an old-fashioned heart attack, and they hadn’t the money for either microsurgery or downloading her into an artificial intelligence. There was no one else. He had never taken the time to marry.

  Andresen moved about in the crammed, technology strewn bridge to microwave an instapot of rich Venusian coffee, grown in the domed gardens on the mountaintops of the Ishtar Plateau. Venusian coffee was an expensive rarity anywhere; he wondered how Trader Vic had managed to keep a supply way out in the asteroids, and at so reasonable a price. Andresen resolved to stop at the trading post on his return trip.

  His dry eyes stared into the cold blue-black of space, and he struggled to stay awake. He knew he was pushing himself too hard, but his timetable could not be ignored. He took a long swallow of the rich, dark coffee and blinked. His sensors were scanning in the long shadow of nearby Vesta, and he was having a difficult time differentiating debris with his naked eyes. Though extended use gave him a headache, Andresen pressed his face into the ship’s sight-enhancing monitor for the duration of Vesta’s shadow. The asterover’s beams cut a dim swath through the darkness, falling on the usual assortment of twisted metal, styropod containers, and other artificial waste products.

  Suddenly the ship’s lights pierced the edge of the asterover’s shadow and Andresen’s eyes were drawn to a shiny silver flash. He squinted and redirected his lights. Unexplainably, his pulse quickened. Refining the focus in the sight-enhancer in the area of the flash, he had his explanation. Pure exhilaration made his fingertips tingle.

  “Oh, my god,” he breathed, raising a hand to his mouth.

  Half-tangled in metal debris from some space battle, a half-silver, half-Plexiglas capsule floated, emblazoned with the still crisply colorful red and white stripes and stars, the symbol of ancient Earth’s America. Andresen could scarcely believe his eyes. His throat felt dry. He’d believed in its existence, had believed his research to be as accurate as could be, but discovering the capsule had seemed like something that would happen in the future. That future was now.

  He stared at the beautiful, spiraling, metal-wrapped capsule for a long time, hearing in his head the mystical, atonal strains of his favorite Shaztikoff symphony. It seemed he had waited a lifetime for this moment. But, strangely, now that it was here, he felt more like a grave robber than a scientist. He shook the thought from his head. He was a scientist, after all, and he was acting purely in the interests of science.

  Andresen stepped into the long, narrow docking area of the small asterover, past the sleep chambers, scanning the floor-to-ceiling computer-lined walls. Locating a clothing locker, he donned a smart space suit as a precaution against exposure to the vacuum of space, leaving the visor in his headgear up. Operating the asterover from the mini-bridge there, he maneuvered the ship so that its space arms could reach the spiraling capsule outside. In minutes, he had secured the capsule and pulled it into an entry chamber, making the transition from space to the climate controlled asterover. He forced himself to wait five minutes before ejecting the capsule into the docking area.

  Still tangled in metal, the capsule scraped across the floor of the dock and came to
a stop. Anticipation and fear swallowed Andresen as he stepped to the capsule and ran loving hands over the gleaming hull, ice-cold from five hundred years in frigid space. There was too much metal surrounding the capsule to see inside, and dents dimpled the surface.

  Locating a laser knife in a storage locker, he cut at the bands of metal. Slowly they fell away. Releasing the catch on what was known as a canopy, Merrill Andresen got his first glimpse of a twentieth century man through the tinted Plexiglas hatch of his ancient fighter cockpit.

  Under the man’s primitive radio helmet, his handsome features looked as if they had been chiseled from marble and were the blue-white color of the stone itself: Rogers, organs and all, was frozen like a slab of baby buffalo liver. His bulky silver space suit covered an obviously lean, muscular body, his strong hands on the controls of the ancient cockpit, an odd assortment of gauges and L.E.D. digital displays, in which he sat.

  Andresen’s eyes traveled up the man’s hands to his arms. But he stopped, for something there caught his attention. He peered closer, not sure if what he saw there was real or imagined. Andresen gasped.

  A crude cryogenics system. It had to be! Why else would there be catheters in his arms? But that meant. . . . Andresen nearly staggered as incredible thoughts flooded his mind.

  That meant that-Buck Rogers might be brought back to life!

  “Oh, my god,” Andresen mumbled again. His hands shook as he fumbled around for the hatch’s release mechanism. The door sprang open. Andresen stopped abruptly, realizing the magnitude of his dilemma. He had no way to keep Rogers frozen without great risk and the astronaut could not simply thaw slowly. Thus Andresen had to revive him on the asterover.

  But how? His medical background told him that if he “heated” Rogers too quickly, he would bake; if too slowly, then cell, brain, and organ damage would result.

  “Think!” Andresen chided himself aloud, tearing at his own hair. He closed his eyes wearily and tried to channel his thoughts. “If only I could sleep for a few hours, I could think clearly again!” he cried. Sleep. Sleep chambers. Andresen’s eye’s flew open and locked on Plexiglas-domed medical beds in the asterover’s docking area.

  Sleep chambers were actually climate-controlled, life support cryogenic chambers used for ship personnel on long space journeys: all the body’s vital signs were drastically slowed and maintained, eliminating costly food and waste removal procedures, as well as the boredom of long space voyages. Widely used, they had become standard equipment on all ships, even asterovers not designed for lengthy trips.

  Andresen knew that, even if he could lift him, he could not risk removing the icy astronaut from his cock pit: Rogers was as fragile as glass. But if he could somehow “hot Wire” the cockpit, or even the astronaut’s enclosed space suit, he might just have a chance to bring Rogers back to life. It was worth a try.

  Quickly but carefully dismantling the computer control center of one of the sleep chambers, Andresen compared the wiring to the wiring on the controls of the astronaut’s cockpit. He thought of every combination possible, but the cockpit’s wiring was so primitive, there was no chance for even temporary compatibility.

  He had one more chance: The space suit. It looked more advanced than Andresen had expected or experience in his research much before the twenty third century. Someone had taken great care to use Rogers as a cryogenic guinea pig.

  Locating the central circuits, Andresen discovered that, with a great deal of modification, he might just be able make a connection. He knew what he was attempting was a long shot, but he did not stop to think or to fear. He stood back only when he heard the telltale soft whine of an engaged computer.

  Only then did he let himself sleep, slumped at the base of the artifact, like an ancient peasant before the icon of his god.

  In his slumber, Andresen was oblivious to the sensor lights that flashed on his control center, or the ships they represented. If he’d known, he could have identified the sleek, quick RAM scout following him from Juno, or the ratty but efficient converted RAM cruiser with the NEO insignia circling around from Vesta.

  But none of them could yet see the vast, dark ship farther out in the belt, from Barbarosa:

  Andresen woke with a start. Flinging his hair from his face, he looked up from his folded arms and tried to remember where he was. He saw the titanium cockpit above him and he knew. What he didn’t know was how long he’d been asleep. Rogers could take hours-days even weeks-to revive. If he ever did.

  Shaking the sleep from his limbs, Andresen stretched, stood, and looked into the cockpit. There appeared to be no change. Clenching his fists in frustration, Andresen turned away to compose himself and regroup. Had he been rash to try to wake the man without a full medical unit available? Had his revenge driven mind cost him his find-and possibly a man his life?

  Slowly he remembered that, dead or alive, Buck Rogers was quite a find. It was not what he had hoped for, but . . . A bank of lights on the docking bay door console lit up. Andresen ignored them-lights had been going off steadily for days, and he’d already found what he was looking for. A sudden noise from behind him nearly made him swallow his tongue.

  It was the sound of a Teflon-coated space suit rubbing against the confines of a cockpit.

  Andresen whirled around. Paler than snowy Martian mountain peaks, Anthony “Buck” Rogers was shifting slowly in the cockpit, still unconscious. Andresen could not believe his eyes, nor control the scream of joy that rose in his throat. “Welcome to the twenty-fifth century!” he croaked prematurely. Taking a great chance, he moved forward to lift the astronaut’s visor: Andresen wanted to hear everything the twentieth century man had to say the second he could speak. He looked forward with great relish to giving Rogers answers to all the questions he would inevitably ask.

  Suddenly, the small asterover bucked like a pack animal. Puzzled, Andresen scratched his recently turned white hair and looked toward the small console on the wall. “Probably just space debris.” Andresen did not want to be distracted-he wanted to be present the second the twentieth century man awoke.

  Suddenly he heard a noise he recognized. Someone was docking! Buck forgotten, he raced to the monitor and flipped it on. Two ships! A dark, much-patched cruiser, and a RAM scout. Fear clutched at the scientist’s heart. Why hadn’t he looked for signs of pursuit?

  Two long, cylindrical docking tubes connected the vessels to Andresen’s asterover. The archaeologist didn’t even have time to snatch up a weapon before two dark, space-suited bodies simultaneously flew into the docking bay. Both rolled with practiced dexterity to their feet, holding weapons on the befuddled, unarmed professor.

  “Wilma?”

  “Hello, Kane.” The more slender of the two flipped back her visor and smiled at the other, a tumble of red hair escaping the confines of her helmet and falling across her blue uniform. She was a pretty woman, but her mouth had a firm set to it. Andresen recognized on the left breast of her space suit the insignia of the New Earth Organization, the Earth-based terrorist group bent on overthrowing RAM.

  The one called Kane removed his helmet entirely, revealing him to be a dark-haired man with a trimmed moustache above a cruel-looking mouth. “What are you doing here? How did you know about Rogers?”

  “I think you know the answer to that: NEO,” she said. “But I should ask you the same question.”

  Kane looked momentarily flustered. A curl of hair bobbed in front of his eyes.

  “Don’t tell me, I already know. This job for those RAM bastards was your ticket out of Australia,” she said, not bothering to disguise her contempt and disappointment.

  “Don’t judge me too harshly, Wilma,” said Kane evenly. “I am a free agent. I don’t condemn you for staying with that dead-end group of NEO idealists.”

  The woman shook her head sadly. “We’ve gone through this before, Kane.”

  “Yes, we have,” the man agreed, turning his attention to the trembling, confused Andresen, his mind again on business. “I’
m going to take Rogers’s body now, old man.”

  “Over my dead body,” the woman said, stepping closer to the capsule, a laser knife in each hand, one directed toward Andresen, the other leveled at Kane.

  “That can be arranged,” Kane said, showing no fear. The silver-clad rogue stepped forward and readjusted his aim for Wilma. “What’s another body-pretty as it ifs-one way or another?” The two locked eyes in challenge.

  Andresen’s mind finally broke through the confusion. These two weren’t here to arrest him at all they were going to steal Buck Rogers from him! And they didn't even know he was alive! Outrage overcame his sense and he threw himself toward the nearest of the two, the Woman. “He’s mine! I’ve suffered to find him, and he mine!”

  “Shut up, and stay away from her!” Kane yelled, but Andresen was beyond reason. He reached out for Wilma. Usually as tough as nails, the woman could not bring herself to attack the unarmed, harmless old scientist. But Kane could. Two bullets tore through Merrill Andresen’s left side, and he crumpled, trailing blood, to the floor.

  “You didn’t have to kill him,” Wilma said, keeping her eye on Kane.

  “He was in my way.”

  “Well, if it isn’t my favorite couple in the solar systern,” came a menacing, rumbling voice from behind them.

  Kane and Wilma jumped in surprise at the familiar, unexpected voice. It belonged to Black Barney. The notorious pirate stood near the hatch door. He’d somehow entered the docking area as quietly as a mouse while Kane and Wilma had traded barbs and wistful glances. Both inwardly cursed for having let personal matters mar their professional performance. The odds for either of them retrieving Buck Rogers’s body had dropped dramatically.

  “Who are you working for this time?” Wilma asked Barney pointedly.

  “You should know, Wilma, that no matter who my employer is, I always work for myself.” Barney’s genetically enhanced eyes shone merrily above his protective faceplate as he watched their irritation. “I should thank you for cleaning things up for me, but, instead; I’ll just take my package and go.” He leveled his gaze at Wilma. “let’s call this an interest payment for bleaking you out of that torture chamber, Calypso.”