Buck Roger XXVC #01 Martian Wars #01 Rebellion 2456

by M S Murdock

  “Negative,” replied the commander of B Flight. “I can’t get away!”

  “Break off!” commanded Hauptman. “On Seaforian’s orders.”

  “Tell the string bean to do it himself!” replied the commander in a totally uncharacteristic challenge to the director’s authority. “I’m surrounded! I-”

  The transmission broke, and Hauptman turned his attention back to Seaforian. “I am sorry, sir,” he replied, “but B Flight has been destroyed. It was the last full flight out there.”

  Horror began to dawn in Seaforian’s eyes. It had its roots in the knowledge that he had believed a lie. Hauberk was not invulnerable. Its wing of fighter aces were falling before a relic from the past. Seaforian sank into the nearest chair, trying to assimilate the situation.

  Hauptman cut into his reverie. “The shields over section six are buckling. Just a two-meter hole, but enough to do considerable damage when those lasers hit. Read-out on section six indicates the program for the station’s shields occupies its own autonomous computer there.”

  “You mean,” said Seaforian, “if that particular computer is destroyed, Hauberk will lose all shield?”

  “Affirmative, sir.”

  “No matter if we have power?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Supervisor, the lasers have gone through!” cried another technician. “They’ve scored a direct hit!”

  Hauptman looked across the control center at Jacobson. “Shields?”

  Jacobson watched a red power indicator drop like a stone. “Gone, sir.”

  Seaforian slumped in his chair, unbelieving.

  Chapter 26

  Hauptman viewed Seaforian’s dejected figure with disgust. Hauberk was no longer invulnerable, but the station was not defenseless. The surface was dotted with artillery of various shapes and sizes, all of it capable of inflicting unspeakable damage. Most of the weapons were controlled by computer. With the destruction of the station’s shields, the computer automatically activated the artillery program. Each weapon’s placement had its own sensor eye, which scanned its sector for enemies. The sensors distinguished between friend and foe by means of a beeper installed in all RAM ships.

  Its particular frequency was changed on a computer designed schedule that rotated at irregular intervals. Hauberk was still a formidable weapon.

  “Orders, sir?” asked Hauptman.

  Seaforian raised his leonine head. “Get me an open channel to RAM Central.”

  “At once, sir.” Hauptman tried to keep the satisfaction from his voice.

  “This is RAM Central, Martin Drang.” Drang’s solemn face appeared on Seaforian’s viewer. His light blue eyes were bored.

  “This is Seaforian, director of Hauberk station.” Seaforian took a deep breath. The next words were not easy for him. “I wish to request assistance.”

  “Assistance?” Drang’s bored expression vanished.

  Seaforian continued doggedly. “We are under attack by NEO. We have lost our shields.”

  “What? Specify the assault force.” Drang’s manner became clipped, professional.

  “We are under immediate attack by fourteen fighters and one reconditioned third-rater. However, the station’s auxiliary satellites have ceased to function, and it is therefore entirely possible more ships are involved.”

  “You will receive immediate assistance, Director. Warhead has tripled our original order for Hauberk, and we found eighteen pilots for the ships. They left some time ago. I will contact them immediately and tell them to prepare for an engagement.”

  Seaforian relaxed a trifle. “That is good news. However, I also request support from the larger class vessels.”

  “You shall have it. There are three third-raters off Mars. I will authorize their immediate departure, but they will be some time behind the fighters. In the meantime, I will put together a second strike force to reinforce our counterattack.”

  “Thank you, Director Drang. Who commands the fighter wing? I shall want to contact him once he is within range.”

  “You are in luck, Seaforian. It’s Kane.” Drang matched Seaforian’s expression change with some internal amusement. Seaforian was particularly annoyed by Kane’s brash manner, and his first reaction showed his irritation. Hard on its heels followed a relief so comical that Drang had to struggle not to smile. Kane was the best, and, in spite of his animosity, Seaforian knew it.

  Drang poked at the keyboard in front of him, cutting the link with Hauberk and opening one within RAM Central. “Central Communications, this is Drang. I want a closed channel to the commander of the last flight to leave Phobos. Make sure-entirely sure-the transmission is reversed and scrambled this is top-security.”

  “At once, Director,” replied the disembodied voice of a comlink operator.

  Drang waited, knowing it would take a minimum of sixty seconds to establish communications.

  “Your transmission is clear, sir,” came the voice.

  “Kane, this is Martin Drang, RAM Central. I have heard you enjoy combat. You may prepare for some.”

  “Oh?” Kane’s tone came mockingly over the channel before a picture appeared.

  “There seems to be an altercation developing at your destination.”

  “Oh?”

  Kane’s comment was beginning to irritate Drang. “You do not have much time to prepare. I suggest you do not waste it with banter.”

  “Then I suggest you do not beat around the proverbial bush. What are you talking about?” Kane asked.

  “Hauberk station is under attack.”

  “Oh!” This time the laughter had gone out of Kane’s voice. “And you want me to lend a supporting arm, or wing?”

  Drang recognized the phrasing immediately. He had dealt with Kane, or his type, before. “How much?” he asked dryly.

  “How much is it worth to you?” Kane countered. “Remember, I’m not the only one to get a fee out of this. Every man in the wing is working for pay. You can’t expect them to ask the same for combat as for a job ferrying some cargo.”

  Drang’s lips compressed. He was going to have to pay through the nose. He knew it, but he did not have to like it. “Twenty percent increase,” he said.

  Kane considered the offer; mulled it over, and had to admit it was fair. He might have pushed the percentage if he were an altruistic man, but he was not. “And for me?”

  “The same.”

  Kane shook his head in his newly acquired Krait’s cockpit. “I think not.”

  “I could always turn command over to another pilot.”

  “You might try. However, I do not think, when they discover we are now going into a combat situation, you will have any takers. I am the best,” said Kane immodestly, “and they know it.”

  “Thirty percent.”

  “That’s more like it, but still not enough for risking my hide and coming up with a game plan. Thirty-five.”

  Drang ground his teeth, but gave in. “Done,” he said.

  “What are we up against?” asked Kane, with genuine interest.

  “NEO. Hauberk has lost her shields. She still has the station-based artillery. Her fighters are engaged. NEO has fourteen fighters, apparently those originally destined for Hauberk, so you will have no advantage over them technically. They also are supported by a third-rater."

  “You expect me to go up against a third-rater alone?”

  “No. I’ve sent three of ours out after you, but you’ll have to hold the station until they arrive.” “Wonderful. I should have held out for forty, considering the odds and my special knowledge of the NEO Mindset.”

  “Quit bellyaching!” snapped Drang. “You made a bargain."

  “I did indeed. And I will keep it. It’s worth the cut just for the pleasure of wiping up space with NEO.”

  “I don’t think I have to tell you of the security sun rounding this action.”

  Kane smiled, and Drang wanted to hit him. “Not very good public relations for the company, is it? Its super satellite dis
armed and all.”

  “This is top-secret, Kane. Even your pilots can’t know the full extent of the situation. “If a word of this escapes, you all will be docked twenty percent. Keep that in mind.”

  Some of the laughter in Kane’s eyes sparked. “Oh! I will.”

  Drang regarded that dangerous glint silently. He had made an enemy, perhaps not a wise one. Still, the odds were, despite his expertise, that Kane would die in the fight for Hauberk. In that case, Drang would have nothing to worry about. If Kane survived, he would deal with his animosity later.

  00000

  Deep within the bowels of Hauberk’s computer system lurked a roiling knot of static. Ulianov was in a panic. It had two main directives: preserve its own existence and find Buck Rogers. It had identified Rogers’s voiceprint from a recorded transmission between the twentieth century pilot and Seaforian. That knowledge elated Ulianov, boosting its energy output in sheer excitement, but Hauberk itself was under attack. With the destruction of the shields, the station’s computers had flipped into overdrive, activating systems usually dormant. Ulianov viewed the activity with alarm, realizing the programs it detected were listed under the heading “EMERGENCY DEFENSE.”

  If Hauberk’s computer felt its survival was in danger, then Ulianov, entirely dependent upon its host, was in equal danger. It vacillated wildly between absolute success and absolute failure, and the two extremes were causing electronic chaos. In any other situation, the chaos would have meant detection, but with the station under attack, Hauberk had more to worry about than a viral infection.

  Ulianov considered the possibilities. It could stay where it was, holding position in the hopes Hauberk would repel the attack and they both would survive. Ulianov did not have complete faith in its host. Hauberk was reacting efficiently to the attack, but there was confusion in its programming. Ulianov could retreat to Masterlink, its job half complete. This alternative Ulianov found entirely distasteful. At the forefront of its consciousness was the knowledge Masterlink was responsible for its existence. It might as easily be responsible for its destruction, and Ulianov wished to survive. Finally, it could search for another host, a safer one, preferably one that would take it closer to its quarry.

  This solution appealed to Ulianov. It assured continued existence and carried out its mission in one swoop. It knew Buck Rogers was close, closer than it had been to Masterlink since he tried to blast Ulianov’s creator out of existence. A pulse of hatred pumped through Ulianov at the thought. Rogers was a threat to it as well. He had to be. If he once tried to destroy Ulianov’s creator, then it followed that he would wish to destroy Ulianov.

  Ulianov’s purpose firmed. It would survive to seek out and destroy Capt. Buck Rogers. No obstacle would stand in its way. Ulianov puffed up with virtue until it recalled that if it could not find security, its proximity to Rogers was meaningless.

  Once it decided on a course of action, its chaotic power fluctuations ceased. Ulianov was reduced to an insignificant disturbance in Hauberk’s innards, one the station did not at present have time to deal with. Ulianov altered its position, carefully cutting in to the station’s schematic library. One by one it thumbed through the entries, searching for a safe hiding place.

  Hauberk took no notice of the intruder. It had other things to worry about. The loss of its shields was as unthinkable to the station’s computers as it had been to Seaforian. It was reacting with a frantic activation of every weapons system at its disposal. The auto mated artillery it commanded immediately, but the station also was equipped with six manual weapons, installed at the beginning of its armament and never altered or replaced. Hauberk frantically searched the personnel rosters for individuals authorized to handle those weapons. The search seemed fruitless, for the manual laser cannons were so outmoded they no longer appeared on the station’s armament check list. It scanned two hundred personnel files before it found one man qualified to fire the cannons.

  It searched on, every circuit bent on protecting itself through the most remote means.

  Chapter 27

  Master Pirate Black Barney swung the Free Enterprise’s nose away from Hauberk’s naked bulk.

  “Course?” asked Baring-Gould.

  “Point two-six. Get me the captain.”

  “Hi there, Thunderhead. All secure?” Buck Rogers’s voice was loud in the confined space of the third-rater’s bridge.

  “Mission accomplished,” replied Barney.

  “Let’s clean up the mess on this side of the station,” Buck said.

  “Acknowledged,” Replied Barney.

  “Bring Thunderhead around the station at point five-three. We’ll try to herd the stragglers into your arms.”

  “How many?” Barney asked.

  “Thirteen left. An Unlucky number.”

  “We’ll cut that down,” Barney growled.

  “Sounds good to me. Estimated time of arrival will be two minutes. Rebel One out.”

  Buck Rogers sent his ship outbound from Hauberk, two enemy craft glued to his tail. “Got ’em lined up for you, Eagle Three. Anytime!”

  Doolittle, Buck’s Wingman, dove on the trailing fighter, his guns Spitting short bursts of laser fire, The RAM ship turned on Doolittle immediately. The two rocked across the broad reaches of space, exchanging fire, leaving Buck free to engage the other ship. He dove, taking the enemy with him. “Come on, Watchdog,” he said. “Try to catch me.”

  “I’ve already done that,” replied the enemy pilot.

  He sent another blast of his lasers into Buck’s rear shields.

  “Try again,” said Buck, hitting his port thrusters and sending his ship off at a dramatic angle.

  The enemy pilot was not prepared for such a sharp move, and he overflew Buck’s turn by twenty kilometers. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to shake him off Buck’s tail. Buck built on his advantage. He dove again, cutting a one-hundred-eighty-degree are against the blackness of space. Once the ship leveled off, he hit the throttle and it leaped ahead like a horse from the starting gate. He was now hugging the enemy’s tail.

  “Surprise,” he commented.

  “You may be able to outrun me,” returned the pilot, “but I’m not convinced you can outfly me.” He cut his engines.

  The enemy ship drifted in space, momentum drawing it forward at a much reduced speed. For a moment, Buck did not realize what the pilot had done, and the moment almost cost him his life. His speed was terrific, for he was still trying to close on the fighter. The derelict grew in his viewscreen like a conjurer’s trick. The ship was a deadly barricade.

  Buck realized the pilot intended to take him down if he had to die doing it. He shoved the stick to the right and felt the Krait respond to his hand. He missed the enemy fighter by a hair. “Good try,” he said.

  “I’m not finished,” came the RAM pilot’s response.

  “I think you are,” said Buck, his laser’s pounding into the fighter’s shields.

  “Think again,” said the pilot, hitting his launch thrusters. He was too late. The ship shot forward, but it could not escape Buck’s guns. The shields dissolved, the lasers sank into the power block, and the ship blew, blinding Buck with a flash of light.

  “Eagle Three, where are you?” asked Buck.

  “Playing hopscotch with my buddy here. I could use some help, Rebel One.”

  “Affirmative, Eagle Three. I’m on my way.”

  Buck’s computer pinpointed Doolittle’s position from his transmission, and the ship changed trajectory to intersect with him. As he neared the intersection point, Buck saw his wingman nose to nose with the enemy ship he had decayed. “This is Rebel One. I’m spreading my wings. Look on.”

  “I copy, Rebel One. Give me ten seconds.” Doolittle let his ship flip up until its belly was parallel to his enemy’s fuselage.

  “Leave the chick alone,” Buck told the RAM pilot, diving on him with forward lasers on full.

  His lasers hit the enemy vessel amidships. He felt its shields wave
r, and knew its power reserves were draining. His spirits rose.

  “Of course, Rebel One." The enemy pilot made the code name drip with sarcasm. He transferred his attention to Buck.

  “Now!” said Buck.

  Doolittle dropped his shields and sent a gyro shell after the RAM ship. Buck continued to pummel his shields with lasers, forcing the pilot to use the last of his reserves. Doolittle reactivated shields and righted his ship as the gyro shell hit the fighter. The assault was too much, and the fighter’s shields crumbled. Buck’s lasers sank into its unprotected hull, and Doolittle hit its cockpit. The ship broke in two, the force of its explosion rocking the NEO ships. But they were not yet free of opposition.

  Two more RAM fighters descended on them. Buck’s wing had lost two men in the fight, Crabbe and Hugh Trenchard-Eagles Five and Six. The odds were evening.

  “Bandits at three o’clock,” said Doolittle.

  “I see them. Maintain heading.”

  “But, sir, they’re targeting us!”

  “Not soon enough,” said Buck. He flew into a gaggle of engaged vessels, scattering them as he went. Enemy ships that could break free joined the pack that pursued him. “Eagle Two, come in.”

  “Eagle Two here,” answered Earhart.

  “Drop what you’re doing and tail this bunch.”

  “I never turn down an invitation to a party,” she said. “I’ll save you a dance,” replied Buck.

  “I’ll hold you to that.” Earhart rolled again, this time free of her attacker. “You heard the man,” she told Lindbergh-Eagle Four.

  “I’m with you, Rebel One. I plan to fight Eagle Two for that dance.” “Count me in, too,” said Wright-Eagle One.

  “Then get a move on!” called Buck.

  He drove toward the edge of Hauberk, half the RAM fleet on his tail, the other half strung out behind him like swarming bees. At the rear of the pack flew Earhart, driving the stragglers on. As they neared Hauberk, Buck altered course dramatically. Krait was a much handier ship than anything in Hauberk’s wing. His pursuers could not follow. They slammed into the invisible wall of the Free Enterprise’s shields. Barney’s ship, hidden behind its star field cloak, rounded the station precisely on time. Buck’s fancy flying sent most of the enemy vessels to their end, either from the initial impact with the third-rater’s shields or in subsequent collisions.