Buck Roger XXVC #01 Martian Wars #01 Rebellion 2456

by M S Murdock

  “Switch to back-ups.”

  “Sir, there are none.”

  “No back-ups? That’s ridiculous,” said Seaforian.

  “Yes, sir, but that’s the way it is. We’ve never had trouble before-mot in five centuries.”

  “You are absolutely sure this isn’t a malfunction?”

  “No. It could be, but given the fact both satellites are gone, I think it’s unlikely.”

  “Hauptman, I want you to find some way to get coverage of the far side of the planet. I don’t care how. Do it.”

  “Yes, Director.” Hauptman could think of no possible way to carry out his superior’s orders, but he was not about to say so. Seaforian returned to monitoring the battle outside Hauberk’s shields, and Hauptman ended the communication.

  OOOOO

  “Here they come, Rebel Two.”

  Two Krait fighters swooped around the derelict bulk of an abandoned commercial space dock, cutting their engines as they caught sight of Wilma and Bishop. They used their forward docking thrusters to brake, drifting up on their companions’ position with pinpoint accuracy.

  “This is Eagle Eight,” drawled Wilma’s communications link.

  “I copy, Captain. Give me a report,” she said.

  “We found our target, contacted and destroyed it, then came on in,” he said.

  “Any problems?”

  “We had a little discussion with a RAM freighter but he didn’t like our arguments.”

  “Let’s hope we’re giving Rebel One the time he needs. We have twenty-five minutes, gentlemen. I suggest we use them. Course two point eight-three.”

  “That should put us on the mark,” said Bishop. “That,” said Wilma, “is where we want to be.”

  OOOOO

  Huer was busy. He was running a literal round-house of information. He had open lines to all of NEO’s fighters, plus a monitor on Hauberk’s incoming and outgoing transmissions, shielded and unshielded. It was his job to anticipate the unexpected and warn it off. Or, failing that, to warn the individual who was threatened. He had a special channel to Buck, and was able to throw visuals on the lower half of his face screen, so Buck could monitor them as he flew.

  Huer was keyed up, handling the myriad fragments of information at record speed. What energy he wasn’t devoting to those duties he channeled to cracking Hauberk’s various codes. It was painstaking work, but at the moment, there was nothing else he could do. The knowledge was frustrating, but he kept at his task.

  OOOOO

  Romanov curled into a corner of NEO’s computer system, nursing its poison. Masterlink’s searcher program had not yet penetrated beyond the outskirts of NEO’s computer network. It admitted the complexity of the traps and blocks the NBC security program constructed to deter invasion. They were beyond the attacks of RAM’s virus hunters, and they were changed with diligent frequency. Nothing in the NEO system was static, and that made it a nightmare to crack. Romanov did not try.

  Instead, it hid like an adder under a rock, waiting for its prey to stumble by. It searched for references to Buck Rogers or the program Huer.dos. Romanov could smell Rogers’s electronic scent through Huer, but Huer was unpredictable. He surfaced at odd times and in odd places. Romanov noted them, trying to determine a pattern in the wayward ramblings. Occasion ally it moved, slithering after a momentary appearance or reference, its electronic senses flickering.

  With a searcher’s patience it waited. In due time, it caught the flutter of movement as Huer processed the NEO attack on Hauberk. The trail was scattered by the NEO computer’s wealth of safety locks, but Romanov began to move, slowly feeling its way toward the fragments of activity. It followed more than one false trail, went down more than one electronic dead end, then patiently retraced its pathway until it encountered yet another reference. As Huer worked, Romanov worked. It discarded unproductive data.

  Periodically, Romanov sent cryptic reports to Masterlink, advising its parent of the progress it was making. Masterlink filed the reports away, coding them under priority one, for Romanov was on a warm trail.

  Chapter 24

  Hauberk buzzed with activity. Underneath the veneer of metal and plastic, fiery currents blazed. Its electronic heart pulsed, its accelerated activity verging on overload. It faced opposition.

  Ulianov, wandering within Hauberk’ s orderly mind, saw it all The child of Masterlink viewed the organized chaos with awe, for it was unused to unbroken logic, and with even greater scorn, for Hauberk generated great activity and accomplished nothing. Its circuits ran around themselves, checking and rechecking systems not yet activated. Ulianov began to wonder if the attack it was registering real or feigned.

  Sorting through the data that whizzed by, Ulianov discovered the assault on Hauberk was centered around its fighter escort. It determined to monitor the action. By careful degrees it worked its way to Hauberk’s communications complex. As it eaves dropped on the conversations of Hauberk’s officers, its own energy level rose. This was the center of the action! The battle was joined outside Hauberk’s shields, but the pertinent details were recorded in the station’s log.

  Ulianov scanned Seaforian’s conversations, convinced the commander of the station would have information to interest Masterlink. It was about to turn away, disappointed, when the end of Seaforian’s conversation with his fighter wing flashed by. Ulianov froze. It scanned the transmission again, eliminating everything up to the final few sentences. When it encountered the enemy commander’s voice, it came to another abrupt stop.

  The voice touched Ulianov’s memory, stirring it to life. It ran through Buck Rogers’s vital statistics until it came upon his voiceprint. It called up the print and ran a match against the enemy commander’s voice. The voiceprint of the enemy commander matched the ancient data Masterlink had compiled on Buck Rogers to the last nuance.

  Ulianov’s energy level rose another notch. It had found the nemesis who jeopardized its creator’s existence! Part of its programming was now fulfilled. Its program jumped to the second phase of its main directive: destruction of the threat to Masterlink.

  OOOOO

  Anton Hauptman stared at his central viewscreen. The sounds of battle raged in his ears, and he dealt with it according to his training, patching communication lines by instinct. His efficiency was not impaired by what he saw, but he was transfixed by the two flights of spacecraft in pitched battle.

  It was not a sight he had grown to expect in his tour of duty on Hauberk. The station’s reputation was so awesome not even pirates ventured near its sphere of influence. But before him raged battle, real warfare, not games designed to test Hauberk’s efficiency in hypothetical conflicts. The ships fought beyond Hauberk’s shields. The station’s invulnerability was unchallenged, but Hauptman was nervous.

  Despite knowledge to the contrary, he felt his stomach turn at the prospect of danger. As communications supervisor, he was part of Seaforian’s advisory council. His instincts told him it was time for advice.

  “Sir! What are you doing?” asked one of Hauptman’s technicians.

  “Making some recommendations,” replied Hauptman to his assistant. “Mind your station.”

  Croncane subsided, but regarded his supervisor warily. Hauptman was risking his position, and he had no wish to share his supervisor’s gamble, so he moved discreetly out of sensor range.

  “Yes?” Seaforian’s voice was annoyed.

  “This is Hauptman, sir. Communications.”

  “Yes, Hauptman. What is it?”

  “I believe Hauberk is in danger.”

  “From that gaggle of rabble? You must be joking.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Our shields can withstand their weapons indefinitely. They can do no more than punch momentary holes in it,” Seaforian said royally.

  “I am aware of that, sir. Still, I recommend security measures.”

  Seaforian’s eyes narrowed on the screen. “Do I detect a quaver in your voice, Hauptman?”

 
“Perhaps, sir. I am not a brave man. Request permission to activate retreat procedures.”

  “I can see no circumstance in which I would retreat. Hauptman.”

  ”I submit, sir, if, by chance, the shields should be penetrated, we may be in trouble.”

  “And I repeat, Hauptman, that cannot happen. Surely your computer read-outs tell you that.”

  Hauptman was silent for a moment. “I wish to state for the record that I suggested security measures.”

  Seaforian barely concealed his sneer. “So noted,” he said.

  “I also request permission to inform RAM Central of our present situation.”

  “Have you any idea of the effect such information would have on the market? Hauberk’s stock would drop like a stone. If I believed the station were in danger, I would be the first to contact the company.”

  “Yes, sir.” Seaforian’s words did not inspire Hauptman. He was convinced that Seaforian did not see the situation for what it was.

  Hauptman winced as he signed off, knowing he had tarnished any pending evaluations, and the chances of promotion were halved. His ambition was daunted, but his instincts nursed a righteous indignation.

  OOOOO

  Seaforian allowed the sneer he had suppressed to spread across his thin lips. He had no use for cowardice, and he did not doubt Hauptman’s cowardice. The man might never have been in battle for all the steadiness he showed. Seaforian had concluded his own tours of duty in the outer reaches of the company’s shipping lanes without incident. He turned his attention to the battle.

  He was enjoying it. Safe in the seclusion of his armored office, he watched men try to kill each other, with the detached analytical attention of a man watching a chess match. He saw shot after shot strike both sides, but he had no conception of the shock of the blasts hitting a fighter’s shields, or the cold sweat that trickled between a pilot’s shoulder blades as he narrowly missed collision.

  Chapter 25

  A jolt like the impact of a meteorite rocked the station. Seaforian was catapulted from his chair into the opposite wall, the elegance of his long frame reduced to a ludicrous tangle of arms and legs. Hauberk swayed in its orbit.

  Seaforian pulled himself to his feet and, clutching my stable projection he could find, made his way to computer terminal. “Hauptman! Report!” he barked into it.

  Hauptman was clinging to his console. “We’re under attack, sir! Quadrant thirty-four section six!”

  “Of course we’re under attack, you idiot! Get me detail!”

  “Yes, sir. At once sir.” Hauptman’s words were a formality to the interference of a superior. Now that his instincts had borne fruit, his nervousness was gone. He was much too intent on his job to bother with Seaforian’s feelings.

  OOOOO

  Off section six 3 field of stars shimmered and wavered, then dissipated. Instead of innocent emptiness, a third-rater materialized, the ship’s class disguised by a dramatic paint job that made the cylindrical vessel with its upswept tail look like a behemoth of the deep, a shark of ancient Earth, or a killer whale.

  The ship was Black Barney’s Free Enterprise-code named Thunderhead-and it trained the full power of its forward lasers on its target, sending a heavy charge into Hauberk’s shields over section six. The lasers followed a DAN shell, literally a gyro bomb with a force equal to three megatons. Its impact had thrown Seaforian from his comfortable position. The lasers pounded into the shields. To the naked eye, it looked as if they were sinking into oblivion.

  Baring-Gould, Barney’s first mate, studied the weapons sensors.

  “Power levels?” asked Barney, his heavy black brows knitted.

  “Fluctuating slightly, sir, but still holding firm.”

  “Send in another shell.”

  “Aye, sir. Konii.”

  Arak Konii, his saturnine face clearly pleased with his occupation, pressed a button on the weapons console. “Number two away,” he said.

  “Cut lasers,” ordered Baring-Gould. The shell shot forward into space, missing the last of the laser pulses by seconds. “On target,” said Baring-Gould as the shell crashed into Hauberk’s shields and detonated, exploding in a sparkling puff of pink.

  “Levels now?” said Barney.

  Baring-Gould smiled. “Down by ten percent.”

  “Deploy lasers.” Barney watched as the lasers once again drilled into the shields, and chuckled, the sound an awesome rumble like distant thunder.

  “With her shields up, Hauberk can’t use that artillery she’s got scattered all over the surface,” he said.

  “She’s just got to sit here and take it.”

  Baring-Gould watched the indicators before him dip and lift as Hauberk poured more power into shield number six. “I’ve got fluctuation. Sir, power levels over shield six are dropping. We’re going to get through!”

  “Watch close. All we’ve got the power to do is punch a hole. If the plans are right, that’s all we’ll need. Lasers?”

  “Holding,” replied Konii. “We’ve got about eighty-five percent left, but I estimate by the time we get through, that will have dropped to half. We’re not going to have much for a scramble.”

  “The star field?”

  “We have power for that.” Hazen Strange, hovering over the main sensors, suddenly froze. “Bandits!” he exclaimed. “Off the port stern!”

  Barney muttered an unintelligible oath and Went to the sensor bank to see for himself.

  Rounding Hauberk, probably in response to a plea for assistance, were two RAM fighters. How they had broken away from the engagement on the other side of the station was a mystery, but they had. They closed on the Free Enterprise like carrion crows.

  “Range, point three,” said Konii, targeting the ships.

  “Keep the power on full to forward lasers!” Barney’s command stopped Konii as he reached to open up the stern guns.

  “I just hope,” commented Konii acidly, “that by the time we’ve accomplished our mission, we’re still alive.”

  Barney growled.

  “Here they come!” said Konii, and the two fighters charged on the third-rater, tiring as they came.

  The laser blasts from the RAM ships bounced harmlessly off the Free Enterprise’s shields, but they pulled precious power.

  “I’ve got to give those shields some support,” said Konii.

  “Quarter power,” said Barney through clenched teeth. “How close are we?”

  “I’m getting dramatic fluctuation now, sir. If we can hold on a few more minutes . . .”

  “Here they come again,” remarked Konii. “It’s a shame Captain Rogers can’t keep a bargain,” he said wickedly.

  “Maybe,” muttered Barney. The same thought had occurred to him, but he wasn’t about to admit it to his oily second mate.

  As the RAM fighters began their run, two NEO ships rounded Hauberk’s uneven bulk.

  “Here comes the cavalry!” Buck sang into the communications system. He charged the RAM craft, a deadly beam of energy spitting from his ship’s forward guns.

  The RAM ships broke off their strafing run and tried to turn, but Buck and his wingman were on them. They followed the RAM ships like shadows, never ceasing their fire. The flight space on this side of the station was open, and they chased the RAM ships back and forth in a tacking zigzag that made Strange, monitoring their movements, dizzy.

  “Now we can tend to business,” said Barney, his voice fat with the satisfaction of righteousness. His confidence in Buck was reinforced, and he sneaked a sly glance in Konii’s direction. The second mate’s mouth was pursed in annoyance.

  “Run like sheep,” muttered Buck, from his position behind the RAM ships.

  “They’re sure all over the place,” said Doolittle Eagle Three--off Buck’s left wing.

  Buck rammed his stick to the right as the RAM fighters changed course again, all the while letting his lasers slam into their tails. “How long does it take to burn one of these things, Eagle Three?” he ask
ed. “The briefing you all gave me said one minute of steady fire.”

  “Sometimes, Captain,” replied Doolittle grimly. “This is Hauberk. Those fighters may not be what we’re flying, but they’re RAM’s best up till now. Probably have reinforced shields.”

  As Doolittle spoke, his lasers seared through the shields on one of the fighters and hit the enemy’s rear burners. The ship went up like a skyrocket. Seconds later, Buck scored a direct hit on the other ship’s fuel chamber. It exploded in an even more dramatic display.

  “Thunderhead, this is Rebel One. We got ’em.”

  Barney heard Buck’s voice crackle over the communications link, and answered. “Obliged,” he managed.

  “Operation Jericho?” Buck asked.

  “On target,” replied Barney. The military formality of Buck’s communications always unsettled him so that he replied in monosyllables.

  “How much longer, Thunderhead?”

  Barney looked at Baring-Gould, and his first mate replied into the communications link, “I estimate about two minutes.” “We’ll hold them off,” said Buck. Barney could almost hear Buck’s grin. “We’ve cut the odds down. They’re almost even, but everything depends on your getting through.”

  “Just hope,” murmured Doolittle, “we get what we paid for.”

  OOOOO

  Inside Hauberk, Seaforian clung to his terminal. As he listened to the damage reports flooding Hauptman’s communications station, he began to doubt the truth of the publicity RAM had spread concerning Hauberk.

  Seaforian cut in to Hauptman’s transmission. “Report!” he barked.

  Hauptman, frustration adding to the tension on his face, replied shortly. “Section six still under attack. We are losing power.”

  “I want another flight sent to knock out that third-rater.”

  Hauptman shook his head. “I’ll order it, sir, but don’t think they can break off.” Hauptman’s response did not make any pretenses of respect. “B Flight,” he said into his link, “break off and engage the enemy over section six.”