Rebellion 2456_Martian Wars Trilogy Book 1

by M S Murdock

  Buck reached the door and wrenched it open. “Come on!” he called to the other two, and saw the knife strike. He leaped back to help Wilma, sliding a powerful arm around her waist as he dragged her toward safety.

  The rifleman saw their predicament. He sent another shell deliberately into the wall. Having no human target, it paused, then detonated, and another cloud of dust rose. Two Terrines used the cloud to their advantage. They flung themselves forward under its cover and trained their weapons on the rifleman. Two streams of laser pulses converged, and the gyro rifle somersaulted from his lifeless hands.

  Immediately one of the Terrines rolled over, sighting on the three NEOs.

  Buck, Wilma sagging against him, reached the door as the man tired. Tremain saw the guard’s movement, stepped in front of Buck and Wilma, and took the full brunt of the blast. Two more Terrines added their fire, and Tremain was lost in a blaze of light. As the boy’s body dropped, Buck gave a mighty heave and he and Wilma were through the door. He dragged it home, and the look clicked, an amusing deterrent to the enemy’s lasers.

  “This way!” Wilma gasped and staggered down the corridor, Buck supporting her.

  The Terrine knife was still embedded in her shoulder, but the Wound should not have made her so weak. Buck frowned as he helped her. They moved like runners in a dream, their flight a suspended slow motion, but they reached a second door before the Terrines broke through. Wilma hit a red button beside it, and fell through as the metal doors parted “Close them!” she said. “There! On the left!”

  Buck hit a twin button and the doors crashed shut. Wilma lay where she had fallen. Suddenly an explosion rocked the escape tunnel, and debris fell with a vengeance Buck bent over Wilma, shielding her from the solid rain. Refuse bounced off his broad back, and he closed his eyes to protect them. When the dust settled, he blinked, but the veil of fine dust on his eyelashes made his eyes water. Wilma’s slender, pale face, framed by her auburn hair, swam before him. Her full mouth was half-open, her eyes half-closed. He blinked again, and rolled away, sitting down beside her. “What was that?”

  “Tunnel cave-in,” she muttered. “Flooded, too. They’ll, never get through.” Her voice was groggy.

  Buck was examining the knife in her shoulder.

  “This will have to come out. It’ll hurt.”

  “No!” Wilma managed.

  Buck looked quizzical. He would not have judged Wilma afraid of necessary pain.

  “It’s drugged,” she said. “That’s why it’s affecting me so badly. Sedative first. Then, when you try to remove it, poison Sedative wears off. Be all right in a while. . .”

  Her voice trailed off and her eyes closed. Buck looked around. They were in a dirt tunnel two meters high. It was roughly shored with bits of wood and metal. The only light came from a single luminary guttering above the doorway. Buck settled back against the tunnel wall, wondering how long he would have to wait for Wilma to regain consciousness. There was nothing to do but close his eyes and try not to remember the grisly remains. A deep anger burned inside him. Now that the action was over, he shook with rage. The memory of Tremain’s death would not be denied. The flare of laser light pulsed behind Buck’s closed lids. Each pulse was a throbbing blow, feeding his anger like an opponent’s fists. The boy had died to protect him, sacrificing his life without a thought. Buck vowed justice for Tremain. He vowed justice for all the innocent of Earth. He had nothing left of the life he was born into, nothing but the planet he was born on. RAM was an infectious evil riddling his homeland, raping Earth’s resources, and destroying the helpless in its quest for wealth and power.

  The huge RAM bureaucracy, with its supercilious and dominating air, grated on his sense of individualism. The man who had sent him into space five hundred years before had been just such a politico. Buck would never forget the overbearing General Barker or his kind.

  But from what he had learned in the few months he’d been awake, NEO freedom fighters still were independent, underdogs scrapping with a bear. They did little more than nip at RAM s heels, however, and needed direction. He sensed NEO’s impotence.

  He looked again at Wilma’s wound, then at her face. The color had drained from it, and her jaw hung slack. She scarcely breathed under the diabolical RAM dagger’s depressant. Hatred gripped Buck, making his hands tremble. “Enough,” he murmured. “Enough!”

  Chapter 4

  Philip Zonin accepted a salute from the supervisor of Terrine Guard Unit 10437, Chicagorg. A simple handshake would have done, but the Terrines clung to such outmoded military trappings with tenacity. Zonin stifled his irritation. It was easier to overlook their archaic customs than to risk mutiny. The Terrines were a powerful bargaining force within the body of RAM. Their organization and military training, not to mention a stockpile of weapons, gave them a formidable voice.

  “Supervisor K-forty-seven, reporting, sir.”

  Zonin waved his hand. “Yes, Zelinsky, go on.”

  “We have successfully completed our sweep.”

  Zonin masked a sigh of exasperation with a yawn. The man’s words were as stark as his plain scarlet suit. Zelinsky held a taciturnity that was a continual challenge to his superior’s temper. Prying information out of the Terrine was like extracting the teeth of a particularly unwilling viper. “I need details Zelinsky The director will want them.”

  Faced with the prospect of the director, Zelinsky elaborated. ”I took a dredge and two squads into the area. We penetrated the NEO base at oh-one thirty encountered the enemy, and neutralized him. Then we destroyed the base.”

  “You have the tape?”

  Zelinsky handed him a slim red cassette. Zonin fingered the tape, then slipped it into his breast pocket. “The bodies?”

  “Sent to RAM Medical, as always, sir.”

  “And Rogers?”

  Zelinsky shrugged. “He could have been there Sometimes there wasn’t much left.”

  Zonin inclined his head in agreement. Lasers did not provide pretty Corpses, but RAM was punctilious about processing the remains of all enemies to the corporate structure, however fragmentary the remains might be. Even the chemical breakdown of the fillings in their teeth was recorded. Such precise statistics allowed RAM to create, spectacularly accurate profiles of the insurrectionists-their diet, physical condition, stress tolerance. Anything and everything was of interest to the executive branch. Its yearly report on NEO activities was a thick printout, complete with graphs and flow charts.

  Captain Rogers had been pinpointed in the Chicagorg area, and Zonin was under considerable pressure from the executive quarter to produce Rogers or his earthly remains. He pressed Zelinsky. “Did you find evidence to suggest Rogers’s presence?”

  For the first time in their conversation, an expression cracked Zelinsky’s sterile features. “That is an answer I can give. I was personally shot at by a man with an antique pistol. It had a report like a cannon.” Zelinsky slid a hand into his breast pocket and extracted an object. He held it up between thumb and forefinger

  “A bullet?” Zonin’s annoyance vanished.

  “Yes. After the engagement was over, I looked for it. Ballistics can determine the caliber.” Zonin held out his hand. Zelinsky dropped the bullet into it. “Buck Rogers indeed,” said Zonin, a smile sliding across his mouth. “I believe we’ll find it to be forty-five caliber.”

  “That was my thought.”

  “But you say you do not know if Rogers was killed in the raid?”

  “Affirmative,” said the Terrine.

  “I am afraid I must ask you to elaborate.”

  Zelinsky shrugged again, and the gesture sent a ripple of annoyance over Zonin. “I caught sight of the man once, as he shot at me. He was unremarkable. Human-pure human, I should say-and a mature man. He had no outstanding features, no scars or marks that caught my eye in that brief moment. I did not identify him in the bodies recovered, but, as I said, I could not be sure.”

  “You recovered all the dead?” “All
but two. A man and a woman reached an escape tunnel, but it caved in. There were tons of rock in that tunnel. Nothing could have survived.”

  “But you didn’t dig the bodies out?”

  “No. They were secure. Regulation section seven, subparagraph eight-three-five-six states: ‘The dead must be recovered if possible. However, should a body be secure from disturbance and discovery-if it is not reasonably accessible-it may be left as is, provided a Chart of its whereabouts is furnished to RAM.’ I believe such a report is on your desk, sir.”

  Zonin was not pleased. Zelinksy was right, but he wanted no loose ends some vindictive superior could turn against him. “You’re sure there was no ruse?”

  “Positive, sir. The cave-in happened moments after the two entered the tunnel. They could not have escaped.”

  “And what caused this cave in?” asked Zonin.

  Zelinsky lifted his shoulders. “We were concentrating the fire of several laser rifles on that door. I judged the tunnel to be roughly shored, and our shots brought the supports down.”

  “Then I will take it as your final report that there were no survivors. You are to' be commended, Zelinsky, for your handling of this matter. I shouldn’t wonder if there will be a bonus in it for you.”

  Zelinsky did not like the implications of his superior’s praise. It left him ripe for sacrifice. However, there was nothing he could do. He saluted.

  Zonin returned his salute with a bored wave of his hand. “You are dismissed. But keep me updated on NEO’s reaction to this disciplinary action.”

  His words were punctuated by a deafening explosion. The walls of Zonin’s office trembled and creaked. Deep within the heart of chicagorg’s RAM operations headquarters, his room was protected from exterior attack by the insulation of hundreds of other offices, yet the walls trembled. Zonin hit the communications code on his computer terminal “Security! What was that? Security!”

  The terminal screen buzzed with lines of static.

  “Security!” roared Zonin. “Report!”

  The screen crackled, and a security officer appeared, his image broken by interference. “Sorry, sir! We’ve had an incident, but it’s nothing to worry about The Terrines are on their way.”

  Zelinsky slipped quietly out of Zonin’s office and headed for the northwest corner of the complex, where the board behind the security officer pinpointed the explosion.

  Zonin did not even see him go “Nothing to worry about? My office is shaking, and there’s enough static on this screen to fry my files. As security liaison, I expect to be kept informed. Report!”

  “Yes, sir. It seems terrorists planted a bomb in the northwest garbage bin. It created a sizable explosion, knocking out two tiers of supply rooms. What wasn’t outright destroyed, is---” the man searched for words to describe the scene “---something of a mess, sir.”

  “Clean it up!” snapped Zelinsky. He was shaken by the strike so close to home. NEO usually preferred to hit RAM around the periphery, engaging the Terrines in perennial games of combat. They were likely to hit any transported supplies, favoring weapons and computer components, but they didn’t often brave the central complex. The massive pyramid that was RAM’s central Chicagorg complex was heavily protected by gennie and mechanical security.

  Suddenly Zonin smiled. The raid on NEO’s headquarters was an unqualified success. This was proof. NEO was angry and desperate, or it would not have risked hitting the Chicagorg complex. The thought gave him heart for his upcoming report.

  Allester Chernenko controlled Earth. As regent of the American Region, he was nominally in control of a portion of the planet. As a silent stockholder in numerous corporations, he actually controlled it. Financially, the Legion of Solar Entities, for all its pretensions at governing the planet, was his tool. Zonin dreaded an interview with Chernenko, even as he cherished the thought of what the man’s favor could do for him. He knew Chernenko would receive word of the raid through the Terrines’ commander, Kelth Smirnoff, and he weighed the advantages of getting in the first licks, or countering Smirnoff’s possible insinuations of outside interference. He put in a call to Chernenko.

  Chernenko’s computer security block, Elizabit.dos, appeared on the screen. Elizabit was a computer generated persona whose sole function was to keep her owner secure from electronic attack. She was the triumph of RAMbit Technologies, which pointed to her complex abilities with pride as it sold its services to other executives. She could even change her appearance at her owner’s whim. Today she was a luscious blonde with dark eyes and a full, pouting pink mouth. “The regent would like to know your business, Zonin. His schedule, as always, is full,” she said.

  Zonin replied to the ritual automatically. “I understand, but I have a report for him concerning the action he requested.”

  “I will see if he is free,” responded Elizabit, her low voice caressing the words. Chernenko’s response ran through her program, and Elizabit replied, “The regent will speak with you.”

  “I have been waiting to hear from you, Zonin.” Chemenko’s deep voice sent a shiver up Zonin’s back.

  The man’s aquiline face, with its long white hair and impassive silver eyes disturbed Zonin’s composure. He ran his tongue nervously over his lips and avoided meeting the regent’s eyes. Instead he concentrated on the elaborate plaits of the man’s hair, twisted into a tail low on the regent’s neck, and made his report. When he finished, Chernenko let him sit in uncomfortable silence before commenting.

  “You failed to confirm the death or effect the capture of Buck Rogers.”

  “We failed to get absolute proof, sir. The computer analysis states there is a ninety-seven percent probability that the man is dead. Once the bodies are processed, we may have complete confirmation?

  “Or you may not.”

  “Sir, the raid was carried out in exact accordance with corporate directives. I am forwarding the tape to you via security channels. If there were breaches in the plan. they were at an individual level, and that is in the Terrines’ hands."

  “Smirnoff will make his own report!” said the regent.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Keep me updated on the medical reports.”

  “Yes, sir. I--”

  Chernenko cut Zonin off before he could manufacture excuses, and settled back in his chair, his six-foot, six-inch Martian frame supported by the artificial gravity of his personal office and living quarters. Chernenko made his home on Earth in the city of Galveston, in what once had been the great state of Texas. If allowed, his whimsy would have moved him to the derelict Alamo and restructured it to conform to Martian taste, but common sense kept him firmly in the district RAM had constructed for its executives. The slick, clean lines of the tetrahedral complexes, with their thousands of offices and apartments, were much less vulnerable to outside interference. Chernenko had no desire to court danger, except, perhaps, in the investment market.

  “Diamond!” he snapped.

  His assistant, originating from a holographic projector, materialized at his elbow. Her thick, black hair was cut in a severe Cleopatra style, bangs sheared across her forehead and the rest clipped evenly to just above shoulder level. It made her slanting dark eyes big. She wore black armor that followed the athletic curves of her figure with an anatomical precision that was deceptively alluring, for Diamond.dos was supremely dangerous and without mercy. She rubbed the side of her nose. Her name sake glittered under her fingers, a one-carat brilliant-cut diamond set into her nose where the pad met the curve of her cheek. “Sir?” she inquired.

  “Get Smirnoff’s report. Personally.”

  “Yes, sir.” Diamond vanished in eerie silence. “Elizabit!”

  The holographic eye on Chernenko’s computer blipped, and Elizabit materialized, perched on the edge of the console. Her voluptuous figure was poured into a belted red tunic with a V-neck. She crossed her shapely legs to reveal as much of them as possible under her short red skirt. One of her blond curls slipped seductively into her clea
vage as she leaned forward and licked a holographic pencil.

  “Run that tape Zonin is sending through every computer check you can think of. I want intelligence on Rogers! I want him before anyone else can get their hands on him. He’s worth enough to buy this world twice over, and I am going to be the one to harness his resources. For the benefit of the corporation.”

  “Copy, sir,’ ’said the blonde.

  “And keep an eye on Diamond I Want her conversation with Smirnoff on file.”

  “I am always informed concerning Diamond, sir.” Chernenko was feeling the possible loss of a prime propaganda tool, which, alive or dead could net him a substantial profit. But, in spite of the seriousness of the situation, he smiled. He found Elizabit’s jealousy refreshing-as the program meant he should.

  “Anything else, sir?” she asked, slithering to her feet.

  “See if you can get a readout on the Chicagorg NEO headquarters Blueprints. I want to know about that tunnel. It sounds like a back door, not a deathtrap.”

  “That should be on the incoming tape” Elizabit chewed on the end of her pencil, her full mouth like a pink strawberry. “However, the treasure hunters have probably descended on it by now. They may have something.”

  “I don’t care where you get it or what you have to pay for it, I want to know if that tunnel contain bodies And, Elizabit, one more thing.”

  “Sir?” she asked softly.

  “Get me Kane.”

  Chapter 5

  Cornelius Kane lunged. His opponent leaped back, his arms raised in defense. Kane pressed his advantage, striking at his adversary with hands that moved so quickly they were a blur of motion. He landed repeated blows, slashing under the man’s guard and pummeling his ribs. His adversary grunted, hunched over his midriff, and threw his shoulder into Kane’s attack. Kane anticipated the maneuver and rocked back. The man lost his balance, and Kane completed the fall by knocking the man’s feet out from under him. He hit the thick red mat with a grunt. “You’re too good by half,” he said.