Buck Roger XXVC #00.5 Arrival

by M S Murdock

  It was really on behalf of his crew that Black Barney decided to stop at Barbarosa. Of course, the majority of them were gennies, or genetically modified humans, and strictly speaking, they did not have to relax or recreate; their enhanced senses and skills could keep them going far longer than normal humans, but they, too, had their limits. Black Barney knew all the signs, and knew that after the long trip they were restless. He was no Captain Bligh where his crew was concerned, and he knew that they would serve him better when they had certain things off their bioengineered minds.

  He presumed they were all now down in the Quick. Fix, being rowdy and obnoxious, and probably singing loudly off-key, as they chowed on fried cuttlefish and guzzled down corn beer. They left the more fancy fare to their commander-not that they would ever be invited to dine with Black Barney. He preferred to dine alone, always. Apart from this (and this was no small matter at the Club Noir), they also did not have the proper access credentials.

  Black Barney sighed. Oh, well. He could put up with three days on Barbarosa. It could be worse: It could be Earth.

  Necessarily, Black Barney operated with the strictest secrecy, and when he left Barbarosa, no one would even know he had been there-except Young Bimwilly. And, of course, no one would suspect where he was going. Black Barney did not even know himself. He would not make that decision until after lunch.

  OOOOO

  “Mr. Barney . . . sir?”

  “Yes, what is it now?” Black Barney looked up from his reverie, surprised to see Young Bimwilly’s face protruding into his cubicle again, and even more surprised to see the look of contortion on it.

  Suddenly, Young Bimwilly came flying into the room, arms and legs in a sprawl. Black Barney understood in a flash that someone had kicked him viciously from behind. Young Bimwilly fell into a heap. Before Black Barney could gain his feet, the offending party’s face appeared in the entryway and the space pirate was amazed to realize that it was-of all people-Quinta another Barney.

  One of the fourteen surviving Barneys, a killing machine with heightened intelligence, genetically modified and superior characteristics, a near-replica of Black Barney, but with loyalty to no one but himself.

  By now, Black Barney had reached his feet and assumed an aggressive martial-arts stance, awaiting the next astonishment. Young Bimwilly was bailed up in a corner, rubbing his elbow and blubbering with fear. Behind the intruder, the panel entrance slid noiselessly shut.

  Quinto stood inches from Black Barney, in the close proximity of the dining chamber, with his hands on his incredibly muscled torso, as if daring Black Barney to make the first move. His long hair was unruly, his face unshaven. Like Black Barney, he wore a half face protector made of metal and body armor that was, to all Barneys, as natural as a second skin. His visage was taut, and he said nothing. Neither, for several seconds-which to Young Bimwilly seemed to go on for minutes-did Black Barney.

  Young Bimwilly whimpering like a whipped kitten, peeked out at the tense drama from between the quivering fingers of his white-gloved hands. He was certain that his long, dutiful life was imminently drawing to an end.

  “Ho! Ho! Ho!” Quinto bent over in half, he suddenly was laughing so hard. The noise came out of a big hole in his face, prominent with silver teeth.

  A little petulantly, Black Barney lowered himself back to his cushion on the floor. He had to wait several minutes for Quinto to get over his joke at everyone’s expense. The powerful clone-creature was convulsed with merriment.

  Meanwhile, Black Barney sipped his cactus tea slowly, calmly, and with some perturbation. He tried to collect his thoughts, wondering what in the world Quinto could want with him, and what is more, thinking how highly unorthodox it was that Quinta should find him here in his private dining chamber on Barbarosa, without an appointment. It was entirely too much of a coincidence, and in Black Barney’s world there was no such thing as coincidence. There was planning, there was luck, there was fate, yes. But no coincidence.

  “Ho! Ho! Ho!” Quinto was laughing so hard that tears flowed from their ducts.

  Young Bimwilly looked from one Barney to the other, painfully bewildered. Since no one was paying him the least bit of attention, as usual, he scuttled across the floor, still rubbing his aches and pains. With a great expiration of relief, Young Bimwilly let himself out.

  Quinto’s laughter finally tapered off. “Joke’s on you, pilgrim!” he declared with satisfaction as he sank to a cushion opposite Black Barney and looked at his host expectantly.

  “Who invited you?” Black Barney asked unpleasantly.

  “Aw, where’s your sense of humor, pilgrim?” asked Quinto. He seemed genuinely hurt. “You should have seen your face. Ho! Ho! Ho! Always in a hurry to do or die, that’s what I like about you, Black Barney. What’s for lunch?”

  “Baby buffalo liver,” answered Black Barney, still terse and unsmiling.

  “Mmm. Good,” Quinto responded appreciatively. He reached over and helped himself to a meatstick, took a bite, and munched on it. “I hope it’s farm buffalo,” he muttered, half to himself, “cause there’s a travelers’ advisory out on terrestrial buffalo. Some nonsense about a chemical cloud.”

  As if on cue, the panel door slid upward and an exasperated-looking Young Bimwilly thrust his head back in. In his hand was a silver tray of edibles, but hovering behind Young Bimwilly was one of the vaunted, chrome-helmeted watchmen of the Rogues’ Guild, fingering a capacitor laser rifle. The watchmen were always at the ready.

  “Yes?" growled Black Barney.

  “Everything all right, Mr. Barney?” Young Bimwilly asked with emphasis.

  “Yes!,’

  “Will you vouch for this . . . gentleman?”

  “Of course!”

  His eyes locked on Quinta, Young Bimwilly brought the entree tray into the room. He set it in front of Black Barney, performed certain obligations with the arrangements, and then backed out of the room, sniffing with contempt. The chrome-helmeted watchman, who never uttered a word, but whose presence itself issued a warning, also vanished.

  Quinta chortled again.

  Black Barney sighed deeply. Quinta had a prank ish sense of humor and Black Barney had none, which was just one of the subtle differences between the clone-brothers. If Quinta had somehow tracked Black Barney to Barbarosa, there had to be a reason why. Sooner or later, Black Barney knew, Quinta would tire of his little amusement and come out with a proposition.

  “It’s been a long time, pilgrim,” said Quinta, almost warmly, as he seemed to relax, look around, and take notice of his surroundings for the first time. “Nice setup,” he added, respectfully. “Though not so very different from the plebeian quarters,” he said with a leer.

  “What did you expect?” asked Black Barney.

  “0h,” said Quinta, “for one of the big-shot ruling councilmen of the Rogues’ Guild, I expected amenities.”

  “This entire complex is an amenity,” countered Black Barney.

  Quinta chuckled. “So it is. Touche.”

  “And for your information, I’m not on any ruling council,” said Black Barney, gruffly, “I’m ad hoc. Honorary status. What the Rogues’ Guild does or doesn’t do, I couldn’t care less. They stay out of my Way and I stay out of theirs. That’s the deal.”

  Quinta chewed on his meatstick thoughtfully. He pointed the nub of it at Black Barney and wagged it teasingly. “But you can’t deny you are such a big Shot,” he said, with a jack-o’-lantern grin on his face, “The Black Barney I used to know!”

  “Get to the point,” said Black Barney sharply.

  Quinto spread his arms and looked offended. “The point?” he asked. His face was a perfect mask of innocence. Staring at Quinto, in the intervening silence, Black Barney realized, not for the first time, that he was looking at a near-twin image of himself. There were subtle differences, of course, things only other Barneys would note, such as temperament, reactions, humor, and exterior things, such as hair style and weight gain or loss. After all,
they were clone brothers, but had lived different lives for a long time.

  “I thought we just might catch up on old times,” said Quinto.

  “Old times,” Black Barney snorted.

  “To Quinto, old times could mean anything from those long-ago days on Dracolysk-and shared memories of the Dracolysk Uprising-to whatever Quinto had been up to since Black Barney had encountered him last, roughly four years ago, on one of the orbital colonies of Mercury. That rendezvous was not a coincidence, either, Black Barney recollected. It was strictly a business transaction, and Black Barney had to admit it had turned out to be an extremely profitable one for both of them.

  Black Barney knew what Quinto had been doing in the interim, of course: honing his reputation and mystique as one of the pre-eminent couriers in the solar system. More than just a messenger-a tracker of the lost and vanished, a communicator with the most deadly and treacherous, a go-between for interested parties who chose not to acknowledge each other’s existence-and when the situation called for it, a double or triple-informant, who sold updates to all sides. Black Barney knew that Quinta worked without prejudice for all the major powers in the system: RAM, NE0, the Rogues’ Guild, the Sun Kings, even the Ishtar Confederation. Quinta could be trusted to relay any message, and under the right circumstances he could be bought off for a higher price. Black Barney had no attitude about the ethics of that, one way or another. He rather liked Quinta, if he could be said to actually like anyone (and on principle, Black Barney distrusted anyone who didn’t have a higher price).

  "Remember Dracolysk?” asked Quinta.

  “Vividly.” Black Barney would never forget the ignominy of it all, how it felt to be created to exist for only one purpose: to serve the corporation. Memories of Dracolysk were never old. Old times were whatever happened yesterday. The rebellion, nearly twenty years in the past, played and replayed itself daily, constantly, in his mind. Crazy, fresh snapshots of wholesale chaos and destruction burned into his memory. Friends and enemies, dead.

  Every day, the memory pumped fury and venom into Black Barney’s veins. The important thing was that he had escaped, survived, and prospered. Black Barney and thirteen other Barneys were liberated. Dracolysk Corporation was gone forever, and now he belonged to no one. Black Barney existed for only one reason: himself.

  As did Quinta.

  “Remember Sattar Tabibi?”

  Black Barney frowned. Sattar Tabibi was another of the Barneys. Physically, a perfect specimen; a death-machine and ultimate warrior, but specially trained in cunning, stealth, treachery, and intrigue. Black Barney had not seen Sattar Tabibi for twenty years, since the Dracolysk Uprising. From what he heard, Sattar Tabibi was some kind of ranking operative under exclusive contract to RAM.

  “Yes.’, “I stay in touch with him. He throws me a little business now and then.”

  No reaction from Black Barney.

  “Nothing in particular. I whisper something in his ear, and he whispers something in mine. I sell him the odd contraband, and he gives me clearance for this or that naughty excursion. You know, it doesn’t hurt to have a clone-brother in high places.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” said Black Barney, who rarely worked with anyone, let alone one of his brothers. Black Barney had no interest in clone-brothers or high places. He had no interest in aligning himself with anybody or anything, and he was an outlaw in the eyes of RAM. That’s the way he preferred it.

  “So . . .” said Quinto, reaching across the table, picking an Ethiopian olive off Black Barney’s undersea salad, and popping it into his mouth. “Mmmm,” he murmured happily. There was an audible crunch as he bit down on it. “I like the pits,” he said, winking. “Good for the neurons.

  Black Barney didn’t crack an expression.

  “So . . . Sattar Tabibi gets in touch with me the other day and asks me if I would contact Black Barney for a job.” In spite of himself, Black Barney raised an eyebrow.

  “Why you?”

  “It’s what I do, dear fellow!” exclaimed Quinta.

  “Why me?”

  “It’s the nature of the task,” he said in a low voice, conspiratorially. He reached across the table again and plucked a mandarin orange slice off the tropical fruit plate, then sucked on it noisily.

  Black Barney folded his arms wearily and said,

  “Go on.”

  “It seems there is a certain package out in the Juno-Vesta are that RAM would like to have picked up and delivered.”

  Black Barney thought about that for a moment. “Why don’t they send their own people?” he asked more curious. “Very hush-hush. Internal politics. Any RAM detachment would show up in the big computer, and alarm bells would go off in all the wrong places.”

  “Why don’t you pick it up?”

  “Bit of danger involved. The people making the offer would like it to appear as if there has been a piracy involved, and then they can discreetly pick up the package on the black market. You are the foremost black marketeer. Ergo, you are the leading candidate for the job.”

  “You can handle a bit of danger.”

  “True enough.” Quinto seemed flattered. “But I prefer not to. Whereas it is your bread and butter, pilgrim. We both know that”

  “What’s in this package?”

  “Hush-hush, I said.”

  “Meaning?”

  “You receive final instructions when you radio proper coordinates.”

  “What are the proper coordinates?”

  “All in good time, pilgrim. All in good time.”

  Black Barney considered for a moment whether or not to believe Quinto. He could think of no reason to believe him, nor any not to believe him. “What is so valuable about this package?” he asked.

  “'To tell you the truth,” said Quinto, “that depends on what it is. I don’t know myself, and I don’t have the least curiosity. I’m being paid well for what I do, and that’s all I care about.”

  “If this package is so valuable, why won’t I just run was?

  “They are willing to take that risk,” Quinto replied. “I am told that the package would have absolutely no value to you. In any case, RAM will save you the trouble of putting the package out for bid by making you an offer, under the table, that no one else could possibly afford.”

  “I’m not accustomed to working for RAM. I don’t work on consignment. I do what I please, for my own reasons.”

  “Naturally, RAM understands that,” said Quinta, “That is why they are prepared to make you such a splendid offer.”

  Absently, Black Barney reached for his fork, but he said nothing and showed no emotion. He was waiting for Quinto’s punch line.

  “Twice your standing account, deposited in your safety box in Luna Geschaft GB on Tycho, upon certified receipt,” said Quinto dryly.

  A moment of prolonged silence, as Black Barney speared a slice of baby buffalo liver and stuffed it into his mouth. He chewed ponderously. If Quinto was waiting for a reaction, he would have to wait forever. Barney had nothing to show behind his eyes. It made sense that RAM would know the net of his secret, numbered account-they had their spies everywhere-but that was no cause for alarm. Tycho accounts were part of a long, inviolate banking tradition, and no one could access that account but Black Barney. It made sense, also, that only RAM would have the resources to double his accumulated wealth-albeit, only the Tycho deposit-at one shot. Black Barney had never been offered so much for apparently so little, but that was just part of what he didn’t like about the whole deal.

  “Suppose that isn’t enough?” asked Black Barney.

  “Ho! Ho! Ho!” Quinto burst into: another fit of laughing. He seemed to think that was genuinely hilarious. He held his sides and laughed and laughed, and laughed some more.

  Black Barney let that pass without comment. After all. Quinta was right. It was an extraordinary fee for whatever the errand.

  He waited until Quinto’s laughter had subsided. “What’s your out?” asked Black Barney, suspiciously.
>
  “Straight fee for making the contact,” said Quinta.

  “Which is?”

  “One hundred thousand Ks.” Quinta looked embarrassed. He lowered his eyes. “I tell you that,” Quinta said, “strictly in confidence, of course.”

  “Ain’t much,” sneered Black Barney.

  “It all adds up,” said Quinta cheerfully. He reached across the table with two fingers to help himself, daintily, to a slice of baby buffalo liver, while it was still warm.

  Black Barney brought his arm around in a lightning-swift windmill motion and stabbed his fork through Quinto’s right hand, pinning it to the table. Quinta did not so much as grimace, and war wriggling his hand a little bit, he made no further effort to free it. His smile had turned upside down, though.

  “I’ll give you my answer after lunch,” said Black Barney, “Now, get out!” He stared fiercely as he pulled the tines out of Quinto’s hand. “I’m dining alone,” he added, unnecessarily.

  Quinta lifted his hand from the table and rubbed its palm ruefully. Blood oozed from the puncture holes, but within seconds, the pores closed like tiny whirlpools, the blood dried, and the wound had healed itself. Without further ado, Quinta rose and headed

  toward the paneled door. “Testy, testy,” the clone-creature tossed over his shoulder, as he exited in good spirits.

  OOOOO

  Black Barney stormed into the control room of the Free Enterprise, with a rigid scowl on his face. “Juno-Vesta arc!” he barked to the only individual in the room, Baring-Gould, the warship’s astrogation officer, who was lounging at the console, drinking a paper cup of pepjuice.

  “What about it?” responded a startled Baring Gould. He checked his wristchrono and affirmed that it was just after 1300 hours. Black Barney was not expected back so early. Indeed, the warship was deserted, except for Baring-Gould. He was aboard, not for security purposes, but because he, alone among the genetically altered crew, was a bit of a spartan and puritan. He was totally devoted to his job and rarely left the ship for personal reasons. Black Barney liked that about Baring-Gould, if nothing else.