Buck Rogers 2 - That Man on Beta

by Addison E. Steele

  “I guess we can’t fool you,” Buck conceded as he stepped over the unmoving form of the guardsman. They continued through the interlocking corridors of the artificial wedge that was the city of Villus Beta, threading their way through a maze until they had reached the giant crossbar that comprised the planetoid’s spaceport.

  A pair of heavy metallic doors sealed off the port from the rest of the city. Wilma set the laser-pistol on a maximum-power needle-beam, cut an opening for them through the doors.

  Suddenly two guards shouted a warning from behind them: “Stop, you!”

  Slowly Buck turned to face the guards, hands raised in the air. “You win,” he surrendered. “Don’t shoot.” He inclined his head toward Wilma Deering. “She knows, anyway.”

  “She knows what?” a guard asked.

  “It’s no use, friend. We can’t fool her. She knows we’re all earthlings. Our trick fizzled.”

  The two guards looked at each other in puzzlement. Then one of them addressed Wilma. “Better hand over the weapon, ma’am.” He held out his hand for the laser. The other guard moved toward Wilma.

  With a lightning movement, Buck knocked aside the gun-arms of the two guards. He couldn’t disarm them, could only spoil their aim for a split second. But that was all the time that Wilma needed to squeeze off two quick blasts of her own pistol, sending both guards crumpling to the floor.

  Then she looked at Buck, puzzlement in her face. “What did you do that for?” she asked. “You betrayed your fellow earthmen into my hands.”

  “I dunno,” Buck shrugged. “Just got confused, I guess.”

  “Well, I know what I’m doing anyway,” Wilma retorted. “Go on!”

  They passed through the double doors into the spaceport. With a shock they realized that it was night on the tiny world—or on this side of it, at least. They had been so long in the artificially controlled environment of the Villus Beta urban area that they had lost all track of night and day.

  A fleet of Draconian fighter craft stood at the ready, along with various other types of spacecraft obtained by combat or trade with other planets. Buck’s eyes gleamed at the sight of an earthly starfighter of the type used in the defense squadron. His hands itched to take the controls of the rocket.

  Through the opening at the end of the spaceport they could see the sky above Villus. Three more planetoids danced in a fantastic saraband, like a triplicated moon, as the tiny worlds made their way in a path around Villus’ sun.

  Wilma prodded Buck silently with the muzzle of her laser-pistol. She pointed toward the starfighter, urged him with a gesture to move toward the rocket. With a secret smile, Buck complied.

  They moved from shadow to shadow across the spaceport. When they halted at last in the shadow of a Citsymian gyrocopter Wilma said, in a low voice, “No tricks now. We’ll have to make a run for it, these last few yards. And remember, if those Earth troopers of yours in their phony Draconian uniforms try to stop us, I’ll zap you first and deal with them later.”

  Buck nodded. “Here we go,” he whispered. He crouched, ready to make the last sprint to the starfighter, but as he cast a last glance at Wilma he saw her holding her head in one hand. She staggered once, nearly fell, then lifted her head again with a startled, somehow puzzled, look on her face.

  “What’s the matter, Wilma?” Buck asked.

  “I don’t know,” she answered. “I feel so—just not right.” She squeezed her eyes shut, gave her head a shake as if throwing off an evil spell. When she opened her eyes again and looked at Buck, her expression was clear. “But”—she said—“but you’re Buck Rogers. What am I doing?”

  “You’re getting yourself back together,” he grinned.

  Wilma looked down at the laser-pistol she’d been pointing at Buck. “This is silly,” she said. She slipped the pistol back into her belt. “I’m so sorry, Buck, I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  “Just what Von Norbert drugged you into thinking,” Buck said. “But you had a good time anyhow. Let’s get out of here.”

  They started to sprint across the last few yards of darkness. They were only feet from the starfighter when night turned into day! The entire spaceport was suddenly illuminated. Runway lights, overhead worklamps, landing beams, every form of light flashed on. Sirens wailed. Trucks and landcars swarmed over the runways.

  And Draconian troops—not squads or even platoons but whole companies of them, hundreds of grim-visaged, combat-outfitted troops advanced in solid ranks, converging on the starfighter and the two spotlighted Earth people.

  The hatch of the starfighter swung open and a massive, oily-countenanced figure emerged. “Good evening, Rogers. Good evening, Deering,” the figure oozed, his voice as thick and smooth as cough syrup. “I’ve had quite a wait here for you.”

  “Kane!” Wilma exclaimed.

  “At your service, Colonel.” The Draconian courtier bowed. “And may I ask what our two star guests were doing at the spaceport?”

  “We were out for a midnight stroll,” Buck spat bitterly.

  “Enjoy the night air,” Kane sneered in reply. “It’s the last you’ll breathe of it for a long time, Rogers. In fact, I’d say for some years—if ever! Your little escapade—which I must say, I anticipated to the last detail—should convince Professor Von Norbert that he’ll have to do things my way from now on!”

  “You mean—no more Mr. Nice Guy, hey, Kane?”

  Kane smiled his oiliest smile. “Precisely,” he lipped, bowing with ironic exaggeration.

  A few hours later, as the weird dawn of Villus Beta sent its eerie light onto the planetoid, Wilma Deering sat disconsolately on the edge of her bed. She could move, but not far—a chain held one ankle to the leg of the bed.

  The door ground open and two guards entered, one bearing a metal tray of greasy, unpleasant looking food; the other carrying a primed laser-pistol, ready to fire at a moment’s warning. The two guards were followed by the massive form of Kane.

  “Breakfast time, Colonel Deering,” Kane said cheerily.

  Wilma raised tear-reddened eyes to the courtier. “Not hungry, thanks.”

  “But you must eat,” Kane coaxed mockingly, “you have to keep up your strength.”

  She ignored the tray and Kane’s comment equally. “What have you done with Captain Rogers?” she demanded.

  “Oh, he’s all right. Just undergoing a few routine tests today.”

  “What routine tests? What are you after?”

  “We’re after his antibodies. His genetic makeup could strengthen the Draconian race. Or the earthly one, for that matter. But I’m afraid we’re going to keep him too busy here for that to have any chance of happening. He’s going to father a generation of stormtroopers and fine breeding women for Draconia.”

  Wilma’s mouth dropped. “Is that why you captured Buck? To use him as a—a one-man stud farm?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Kane chuckled.

  Wilma looked down at the metal links that held her to her place. “I suppose you have him chained to a bed too!”

  Kane burst into laughter. “Very good, Deering! Don’t let us rob you of your sense of humor. Well,” he started to move toward the door, “I’ll have your guard leave this food here. If you don’t find it appetizing while it’s fresh and hot, wait till it’s sat for a couple of days. We’ll let you see Rogers later on—when we’re through with him.”

  He left, followed by the guards.

  While Kane was mocking the captive Wilma Deering, Buck Rogers was in Professor Von Norbert’s laboratory. For once Kane had told the truth—Von Norbert was running Buck through a series of fitness tests before he embarked on his service in behalf of the Draconian eugenics program.

  At the moment Buck was running on a stationary track, its treadmill-like base hooked to a dial that registered total distance run, present speed, average speed, and—via wires connected to monitors taped onto Buck’s nearly naked body—such vital data as respiration, blood pressure, and heart action.

&n
bsp; “Seven miles in an hour!” Professor Von Norbert exclaimed as he examined a readout indicator. “Superb, Captain Rogers! I’m sure you’ll have all the stamina you’ll need for our purposes. Well, enough of this!” He reached to a master switch and cut off the moving track.

  Buck took a few extra strides. They carried him off the treadmill and he stood on the laboratory floor, facing Von Norbert and catching his breath. “Well, why don’t you pull on some clothing while you cool off, and come along with me.”

  He led Buck past a clothing rack, where the earthman took a superthermal running suit and pulled it on. Then they continued from the lab and into the grand hall where Buck’s earlier interview with Kane had taken place.

  Kane was again ensconced on the throne. Nearby Wilma stood defiantly between two guards, the chain that had held her to her bed at least temporarily removed. When Buck saw Wilma his grim countenance lighted perceptibly and he managed a low greeting.

  Wilma looked at him angrily. “You seem tired,” she said bitterly. “I wonder why.”

  Von Norbert smiled wickedly. “Captain Rogers has had quite a workout, Colonel Deering. I can tell you that his test grades are very high. Most gratifying of all was his mark for—stamina.”

  “I’ll bet it was,” Wilma said.

  “All right,” Kane broke in, “enough social chat. Professor, I want to know—did he meet our requirements?”

  “I’ve wondered about that,” Wilma interjected.

  “Surpassed them,” Von Norbert consulted his clipboard.

  Wilma said, “I’ll bet!”

  “A little more specific,” Kane demanded.

  “Do I have to be here for this?” Wilma asked.

  The others ignored her. Von Norbert consulted his clipboard again. “Seven,” he said. “Seven in one hour.”

  “Excellent,” Kane commented.

  Wilma stared at Buck, an appraising element added to a combination of wonderment, jealousy, and something close to awe that she felt for him.

  T W E L V E

  Life on Earth continued as usual. In the endless wilds of Anarchia, of course, no one either knew or cared about the doings of the Inner City. To the wild humans and mutants who roved the rubble-strewn wastes, there was no difference whether Draconia conquered Earth or Earth conquered Draconia; their struggle was the daily one of survival, the life-or-death battle which everyone must eventually lose, but which everyone wants to win first as long as he can.

  Within the Inner City, matters were very different. Technicians, food-plant crews, bureaucrats pursued their daily chores. The defense squadron, under the temporary command of Colonel Deering’s second-in-command, stood on twenty-four-hour alert, and the normally stringent security rules that applied at the Inner City’s Intelligence and Scanning Center had been tripled.

  Dr. Huer entered the Intelligence and Scanning Center, striding through security stations as if they didn’t exist. He walked up to the chief supervisor and demanded a report.

  The supervisor nodded to a senior technician and a star map was thrown upon the main projection screen. “This is where our line-beam scanners lost track of the D-III ship,” Latner said. “Were starting to wonder if it merely passed behind a dark sun after all. At this range, we might have been mistaken.”

  “How?” Huer demanded succinctly.

  “We think now,” Latner told the savant, “that it might not have been merely a dark star, but a black hole. And the D-III might not have passed behind it, but rather plunged into it!”

  “And in that case,” Huer said, “if the ship re-emerged at all—which it might not have—it could come out in a different portion of the galaxy altogether. Or even in another galaxy!”

  “I’m afraid so,” Latner conceded. “But we’ve been calculating possible trajectories, known or suspected re-emergence points for black-hole travel. Of course there’s so little experimental data . . .”

  “I’m not interested in excuses, Latner!” Huer snapped.

  “I’m sorry.” The supervisor consulted a computer printout. “Considering the size and weight of a D-III, its speed and trajectory as indicated by Captain Rogers’ line-beam at the moment of entry into the hole, our large-scale processing array yielded a set of possible re-emergence vectors in declining order of probability.

  “Here,” Latner pointed at the screen as a geometric pattern of variously colored lines were superimposed on the star map. “These are the probable vectors remaining after we eliminated those with a probability more than two standard deviations from the max.”

  “Very well,” Huer snapped. “And now what?”

  “Next,” Latner continued, “we traced the pathways of the remaining course vectors and did a computer-scan comparison of them with known and suspected Draconian presence. Where there was no Draconian presence, we discounted that probability.”

  Latner waved a hand at the board-tech and the glowing vector lines faded from the screen one by one. Finally only three remained . . . then two . . . finally one.

  “Of course, we cannot be absolutely certain,” Latner said, “but I can offer you a very high level of confidence, Dr. Huer, that that”—and Latner waved a hand forcefully at the map—“will tell us the point of re-emergence and the course followed upon re-emergence by the Draconian D-III!”

  Huer shook his head in admiration. “I’d never have thought it of you, Latner,” he beamed. “That’s the best piece of work the ISC has come up with in months. If not years. How did you ever work that out?”

  Latner stood silently, red-faced with embarrassment. Then, after a long pause, the supervisor said, “Actually, Doctor, I didn’t work that out. It was, ah, Ellis 14 who did.”

  Huer turned to the robot armorer. “Well, well, Ellis. And tell me, where did the trace indicate they were headed?”

  “Villus Beta, sir,” the robot replied. “I’m quite certain that Colonel Deering and Captain Rogers are on Villus Beta. Probably Dr. Theopolis, too!”

  Huer nodded thoughtfully. “We’d better scramble a long-range squadron for Villus Beta, then.” He looked at Ellis 14 again, then at Supervisor Latner. “How sure are you of this?”

  “Very sure,” Ellis 14 said calmly.

  “It’s our only lead,” Latner stated.

  “Very well,” Huer closed the conversation, “we have no alternative but to try Villus Beta.”

  Outside the great hall of Villus Beta, a strange quartet strolled through lush gardens, accompanied at a discreet but very safe distance by a squad of tough, ready-for-action Draconian guardsmen. The quartet was made up of two couples: in front, Buck Rogers and Wilma Deering; a few yards behind them, Kane and Professor Von Norbert.

  Buck spoke softly, so only Wilma could hear. “Honest, I was just jogging. It was a fitness test, Wilma.”

  “I don’t see what difference it makes to me,” the earthwoman snapped.

  “That seven in an hour—that was how many miles I could run on a treadmill.”

  “I really don’t care, Captain!”

  “Then it won’t matter to you. But it’s the truth.”

  Behind them, speaking in an equally low voice so that only his own companion could hear, Von Norbert observed, “They do seem to have an attachment for one another.”

  “But that doesn’t help us create a generation of Draconians with Rogers’ antibodies,” Kane answered.

  “Still, we need to mate him to someone, to be absolutely sure that the antibody chromosome breeds true after five centuries in stasis. We might as well use the earthwoman as one of our own females. Rogers will be happier, and we don’t have to use up one of our own specimens for the final test sequence.”

  “All right then, Von Norbert, we’ll go ahead.” Kane increased his pace so he caught up with Buck and Wilma within a few strides. They halted and the four stood confronting one another.

  “Buck, Wilma,” Kane said in an unusually friendly tone, “we have formulated a plan. A peace offering, you might say. We will let the two of you mate with eac
h other.”

  Buck and Wilma stared at Kane, then at each other.

  Shortly they were in new quarters—Wilma’s cell-like room and Buck’s more homespun surroundings had both been cleared for other uses, and the two Earth people were alone in a specially prepared setting. It was a fine example of the Betan penchant for combining indoor and outdoor elements in the same setting.

  There were ferns, moss, and exotic succulents growing, and a stream wandered through the room, coming to a miniature waterfall that splashed into a glistening pond. Music wafted through the air, coming from unseen speakers, and perfumes floated on warm breezes. There were platters of tempting foods, pitchers of wine, even the occasional flash of silver as a fish leaped in the pond below the waterfall, or the flapping of a fantastically colored bird overhead.

  Buck and Wilma stood flabbergasted until they heard the door slam shut behind them. It was like being locked into the Garden of Eden. Who would want to leave?

  Hand in hand they wandered through the artificial paradise. Buck stopped beside a bowl of fruit, examined several of the tempting items it contained, and remarked, “They’re very big on fruit around here.” He took a bite of a sort of plum-papaya, commented favorably on its flavor and poured two glasses of wine. “Say, this stuff is really fine. Have a glass.”

  “Better go slow,” Wilma replied. “This might be drugged.”

  A look of alarm appeared on Buck’s face. He put down the glasses of wine. “Well, let’s try something else.”

  He found a sylvan bower, tested it with his fingertip and grinned. “Hey, Wilma, dig this!”

  She came over and knelt beside him. “Well I’ll be,” she exclaimed, “a concealed vibra-aqua-mattress floating bed.” She prodded the seeming ground around the edges of the moss-simulating mattress, found a toggle switch, and clicked it to a new position.

  Directly over the floating bed an image screen glowed into being. “Look at this, Buck. You either have to be lying in the bed, or somehow crouch with your head turned around a hundred-eighty degrees to see the show. But it’s pretty good!”