Rogue Command (The Kalahari Series)

by A J Marshall

  Paul scratched the stubble on his chin. “The attack we sustained near the sensor mast five days ago and Martine’s death . . . it all makes sense. But what about the laws that are applicable to robots? Shouldn’t their programming contain dynamic overlays to prevent them from harming humans? Not in any way should they attack a person or be openly aggressive!”

  “Unscrupulous men will be behind this – the big corporations. They are blind to the plight of others; for them it’s all about control.” The Commander sighed heavily. “Why didn’t we think of this earlier?” he continued, shaking his head. “Listen, first we need to find out how many of these things there are, and then what they are doing here.” He leaned across the console and pressed the radio transmit button again. “Dan! Commander Race here! Stay in the buggy and keep your eyes open! Lee, you take a look inside the module and count how many seats or manoeuvre stations. If we are dealing with Humatron HU40’s or even worse, an upgraded model, then we are in serious trouble. Dan, Lee, any sign of a robot and you high tail it – understand? I want an immediate Mayday call: no heroics and no reasoning. You get the hell out of there. We’ll be with you in two minutes!”

  Moon Base Andromeda – simultaneous

  “Would the Security Officer and the Chief Operations Officer please report to the Operation’s Room immediately. Security Officer and Chief Operations Officer to the Ops room please,” came a female voice over Andromeda One’s entire PA network.

  Dimitri Nurevski, a former Major in the Russian Space Programme, was the first to arrive in the large operations room in the upper central district; an area affectionately called Cyber City. It was a brightly lit room, filled with computer consoles. There were various models: some old, some state-of-the-art. The central system had a large transparent display screen, viewable from both sides. The image on the screen showed the Earth and the Moon in space and a system of flight corridors between them. There were white dots in the corridors that indicated space vessels in transit.

  The consoles were being manned by men and women, mainly in their twenties and thirties, and of all nationalities. There was a small gathering in an alcove to the right and somebody in that group called: “Dimitri! Dimitri, over here please . . . quickly.” The voice emanated from the Lunar Security Control Centre, a group of consoles detached from the main area. Dimitri Nurevski turned and promptly walked over to the group as Eddie Lieven, the Chief Operations Officer strode through the main doors on the other side of the room. Dimitri raised a hand, attracted his attention and indicated where he was going.

  The gathering parted as Dimitri arrived and allowed him access to the primary console. “What is it? What’s the problem?” he asked, with a heavy East European intonation.

  The group centred on a mature-looking woman, perhaps in her early thirties. She had Asian features with black hair that was tied back in a tight bun and wore a pale blue trouser suit of synthetic cotton. A badge over her right breast pocket, consisting of three narrow platinum-coloured bands overlaying the letters ‘LSD’, signified her status as a senior operative in the Lunar Security Directorate.

  “It’s the dark side sensors, and something sent to me by Herbie Smith in the Freight Control Centre. He drew my attention to it and it is very irregular.” She pointed at her screen.

  At that moment Eddie Lieven arrived. He was short and stocky and, hailing from Brussels, spoke English with a French lisp. His face was flushed. “I was in a meeting with the Council of Senators . . . What the hell is it?” He scowled.

  The Asian woman looked apologetic. “I’m sorry, sir,” she said, “but this definitely warrants a Code One.”

  “Well!”

  “It’s the dark side sensor array. The extended essential maintenance period was completed at 04:00 hours. The engineers completed a normal power up at 04:06 hours, but thirty-three seconds later the entire system crashed . . . total loss. I’ve had the Duty Engineering Officer on the line; he can’t understand it, Sir. He says it was caused by an electrical overload that amounted to more than the actual system demands when operating at maximum capacity. He says a current spike of such magnitude could not have happened accidentally. He says it’s impossible. And he says that there’s substantial damage to the receiver network . . . the system could be down for a month. It’s burnt out, sir!”

  “Where is the DEO now?”

  “In the transport department, I think, trying to get the service vehicles loaded and the spare parts chain in place.”

  “I need to speak to him,” barked Lieven. “Put out a call on the PA.”

  The woman looked across at a colleague who sat at another console, nodded her approval, and then looked up at the two men again. “There’s something else, sir. You had better take a look at this.” With that she made a selection on her keyboard and pointed to her monitor. The image on the screen made several people in the group gasp. Both the Security Officer and the Chief Operations Officer bent forwards and peered at the screen. Dimitri Nurevski’s mouth dropped open.

  The Plain of Elysium – simultaneous

  Paul Carr sat in the observer’s seat alongside Lesley Oakley as she slowly drew the PTSV to a halt about twenty metres from the unidentified landing module. As the trailing cloud of red dust and debris blew over them, visibility dropped to just a few metres and that, combined with the scattered light from the low but brilliant sun, temporarily obscured all forward vision.

  The buggy was parked on the other side, but Paul had briefly seen Dan Winton sitting in the left-hand seat of the nimble, open-topped vehicle as they had approached and this was as expected. What he could not account for, however, was the lack of movement outside and the total loss of two-way communications between them.

  By way of a pistol-shaped lever that protruded from the central console to his right, Paul directed the barrel of the Magnetic Pulse Cannon until it pointed directly at the spacecraft. Commander Tom Race stood between the cockpit seats and scrutinised the craft’s construction through the five, wide-view, polyspec glass panels as visibility slowly improved.

  The front end of the PTSV’s tube structure was slightly convex and this, combined with the large side windows, allowed, under normal conditions, a good outside panorama. The Cyan Magnetic Pulse Cannon was primarily a close-quarter self-defence system. Its three-metre long barrel protruded from a squat, circular turret that swivelled on a mounting on top of the vehicle and slightly aft of the cockpit. The system was accurate to five kilometres and worked by disrupting the atomic structure of a target. At close range it would certainly leave a gaping hole in the landing module.

  “Keep calling them, Paul,” ordered Commander Race, as the dust finally settled outside, “and don’t get any closer. I’m going to take a look for myself. I’ll take control of the airlock and rear portal from the local panel. Anna and Veronica will stay inside. Paul, I’d appreciate it if you keep me covered.”

  “Will do, Commander, but be careful; there’s still no sign of Lee.”

  Tom nodded and walked aft into the environmental chamber where the suits and other surface equipment were stored. Well-practised, it took only a few minutes to dress and pressurise his suit and helmet. “Paul, I’m opening the portal now,” he informed, his words filling the PTSV’s working area by way of the open intercom system.

  “Copied, Commander, I am waiting for you . . . still neither sight nor sound from the guys.”

  The outer door opened with a dry, gritty racketing. Initially, this was accompanied by the whoosh of escaping gas, which around the lower portion caused dust and fine grit to recirculate again. Tom allowed the circular door to motor to its fullest extent – a position slightly higher than the horizontal – before stepping out. He had considerable experience of ‘outside’ operations but on this occasion he felt his pulse rate quicken and the hairs on the back of his neck stiffen as he stepped onto the rusty-coloured Martian surface. His boots made a zigzagged line of near-perfect treaded prints in the wind-blown sediment as he walked past the row
of six enormous bubble tyres, the tops of which were an arm’s length higher than his head.

  When at the front of the vehicle he turned, looked up at the cockpit windows and gave a thumbs-up sign. From outside the glass appeared a deep, tinted blue colour and the backlight made them look eerie and insect-like. He felt for his thigh holster and glanced down at the tiny, glowing green light on the static baton that indicated a full charge of 20,000 Volts; this was his only weapon and he would need to be in close proximity to use it – a thought he did not relish. He thought of his last tangle with a Humatron – back in 2050 on the Enigma and how he nearly froze to death.

  Walking alongside the landing module brought the buggy into full view. Tom saw Dan Winton slumped awkwardly in the left-hand seat and knew immediately. “We have a problem!” he cried over the radio and quickened his pace.

  At the buggy, and peering through Dan Winton’s visor, it was clear that he was unconscious, but there were no obvious signs of injury. Tom scanned the area for Lee Tanner, but he was nowhere to be seen, although judging by footprints, scuffs and furrows in the sand close to the module, and particularly at the base of the steps, there had previously been a good deal of activity – perhaps even a struggle? Tom ran his eye line up the steps to the personnel hatch. It was firmly closed and all was still, although he had the unnerving feeling that he was being watched. Condensation inside Dan’s helmet indicated a lack of ventilation and Tom instinctively checked the life support control panel on Dan’s left forearm. To his shock he saw that the panel was scorched and burned and was completely out of action.

  “Dan’s life support is down!” he shouted. “He’s running on the oxygen inside his helmet. There’s no sign of Lee; I’ve the goddamn feeling that he’s inside. I’m going to bring Dan back now!”

  “Standing by,” was the reply.

  Tom Race moved quickly to the other side of the buggy. He leapt into the right-hand seat and floored the accelerator pedal. The wheels spun wildly and the fat tyres kicked up debris as he pulled away. He tugged on the upper half-circle-shaped steering wheel in order to turn a tight one hundred and eighty degrees and then headed off at breakneck speed back towards the PTSV. Thirty seconds later he skidded to a halt close to the airlock, and within a minute was pulling Winton from his seat and dragging him up the shallow incline towards the chamber. He panted with the effort and moisture condensed on the inside of his visor. Stepping inside, he lashed out and thumped the large red button on the control panel with the base of his fist and the portal began to close. A flashing amber light and an intermittent buzzer warned of the danger of powerful hydraulics.

  “I’m in! We need oxygen!” he yelled.

  “Anna and Veronica are ready in the environmental chamber,” Paul replied over the intercom, but his last words were drowned by the sound of incoming gas.

  The moment that the green light on the adjacent bulkhead illuminated, signifying an equal gas pressure, the door to the environmental chamber opened. Tom was already releasing the clips that secured Dan’s helmet to his suit’s metal neck ring as the two women stepped inside. They pulled the limp body into the inner chamber together.

  As Tom shuffled the helmet clear, Anna smothered Dan’s face with an oxygen mask and mixed the supplied gas with a low percentage of adrenomorph. Meanwhile Veronica unfastened a glove and taped a vital signs probe to Dan’s palm. The monitor indicated a heartbeat, but shallow breathing.

  Anna increased the gas pressure to inflate Dan’s lungs; he responded immediately.

  “You have him,” said Tom. “I’m going back to get Tanner.” And with that he leapt up, turned and disappeared into the airlock, again closing the door behind him.

  Two minutes later and from the right-hand seat of the buggy Tom repeated his thumbs-up signal to the cockpit windows, and then he described a large arc and drove back warily towards the landing module. His white spacesuit had acquired a covering of dust that turned it a uniform pale orange colour, except for under his arms and between his legs. He cleaned his visor with his glove.

  The sun was higher in the sky by now and bathed the module in a warm reddish light, but strangely the special black surface seemed to absorb the light and reflected nothing back. Tom drove a full circle around it and noted the ten or so steps up to the square hatch and a metal tube as a basic balustrade. There were four undercarriage struts and, at their ends, large, pivoted pads prevented the craft sinking into the sand by more than a few centimetres.

  The planet surface was beginning to heat in the morning sunshine and this thermal activity caused air currents; as Tom climbed from the buggy and stood at the base of the steps studying the hatch, a sudden gust of wind peppered him with sand. He turned his back to it and, when it had passed, he made a better job of dusting the residue from his visor – this time sweeping with the back of his glove so as to give unrestricted peripheral vision. He was about to step onto the first rung and grasp the balustrade when Paul shouted over the radio.

  “Don’t touch the craft . . . ! Keep off it!”

  Tom instinctively took a pace back. “What the hell?”

  “It’s electrified!”

  “Goddamn it!”

  “Commander, Dan has told me that Tanner was trying to release the hatch mechanism when it suddenly swung open. He was pulled inside by a bloody robot! A hell of a thing! Dan went to his aid but as he stepped up and grabbed the support he received a massive shock that shorted his life support controller. He managed to stagger back to the buggy but became dizzy and fainted.”

  Tom took a few more paces backwards and assessed the situation: he scanned the craft for other openings and opportunities. “What do we do? It’s stalemate!” he exclaimed.

  “Dan says he only saw one machine and that it looked very aggressive.”

  “We will have to make the robot open up from inside. Drive him out.”

  “I agree, sir, but how do we do that?” replied Paul, peering through the cockpit windows.

  “How good a shot are you, Paul . . . ? With the pulse cannon I mean?”

  “Good!”

  “Good enough to take out an undercarriage strut?”

  “I’d say so.”

  “Then take your pick. I’m coming back – to take cover behind the PTSV.”

  Tom climbed into the buggy and drove into a position directly behind the PTSV. “I’m clear,” he called.

  Paul Carr, sitting in the observer’s seat in the PTSV cockpit, refined his aim by making minute adjustments to the controller in his right hand.

  “Three, two, one . . . now,” he said, and squeezed the trigger.

  The PTSV instantly shuddered with the recoil of the long barrel and then a fuzzy blue light preceded an explosion that was centred on the nearest right hand strut of the landing module. When the dust settled the strut had disappeared, leaving only torn and jagged metal protrusions. Blue sparks and white ionised streaks, like miniature lightning forks, played on that part of the module’s structure, but the craft stood firm on the three other supports.

  Tom peered at the module from around the rear right-hand corner of the PTSV. He could see the damage. “Any sign of movement?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” responded Paul.

  “Then take out the other one on the same side – and be ready. I’ve a feeling it’s going to come out angry.”

  “Got it,” replied Paul, and he prepared another charge. This time it would be a more difficult shot because the undercarriage strut on the far side was almost obscured. He took careful aim; he would hit it low, near the base pad. “Three, two, one . . . now,” he called.

  Another shuddering recoil rocked the personnel vehicle, to be followed a split second later by a loud explosion at the module. Paul had increased the weight of charge and in a dazzling blue flurry of sizzling electrical static, suddenly, the strut collapsed, bending outwards. In a catastrophic contortion of groaning metal, the craft fell backwards and then crashed onto the ground.

  The calamity raised a dens
e cloud of dust and sand that at first circulated just above the surface and was then lifted high into the sky by a sharp gust of wind.

  Tom was quickly in the buggy and scooting around the PTSV towards the module. He could see that the personnel hatch now faced the sky at an angle of approximately forty-five degrees.

  Tom skidded to a halt about twenty metres from the wreckage and stared. At first there was nothing – no movement and no response – and so he climbed from the buggy and took a few paces forward. The visibility slowly improved, aided by a prolonged squall that swirled and whistled eerily around the structure and then fled across the plain, taking the dust with it. It was like a parched desert wind blowing through the stripped bones of a long dead animal.

  Tom turned towards the PTSV and focused on its seemingly luminescent cockpit windows. He could see shadows moving inside and spread his arms, with hands upwards, as if to say, “And what do we do now?” He finally tapped his chronometer and held up five fingers. “We give it more time,” he said restlessly over the radio.

  “I don’t think we need to wait, Commander . . . something’s moving,” was Paul’s ominous reply.

  Tom looked back and at that precise moment the metal hatch was flung open, as if it had been rammed from the inside by a raging bull. This might not be the best place to be, Tom considered, and that would be an understatement. He instinctively took a few paces backwards. Nervously, he reached down for the handle of his static baton. And then, staring wide-eyed, a machine began to emerge from inside the spacecraft. He recognised it immediately: the extending neck, the glowering red, almond-shaped eyes; the heavy structure and the wide shoulders. He gulped at the sight of it. There was no doubt in his mind – it was the worst-case scenario – it was a Humatron!

  With one easy movement the robot lifted itself clear of the square opening and then crawled over the black surface of the module, looking for a way to get down. It selected one of the two remaining undercarriage struts and, on all fours, slithered, leaping the final metre or so onto the ground with the grace of a large gorilla.