by M S Murdock
“From inside the computer?” Buck sat up quickly and searched Huer’s face. The hologram’s mustache twitched nervously under his scrutiny.
“That is my conclusion,’ Huer responded.
“Any idea what it is?”
“None. And I cannot prove what I am postulating. It is merely a . . . feeling, if you will,” he said, trying to put the situation into words Buck could comprehend.
“I didn’t think computers had feelings’
“That depends-as does everything else with an artificially created intelligence-on its programming. I have been given a cybernetic base from which to deduce and simulate human emotions-to make you feel at home.”
“And you think something’s after you?”
“Yes.”
“Because of me.”
“Yes. And that leads me to another, quite unwelcome conclusion.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“Whatever it is, it’s after you.”
Buck ran his fingers across his chin. “A mechanical enmity? A digital hit man?” He could not help being flip. The theory was bizarre, especially to a man used to thinking of a computer in terms of cold data absorbed, organized, and regurgitated. Huer was describing a malevolent intelligence, albeit unattached to solid physical form.
“Hit man?” asked Huer, puzzled by the term.
“Murderer,” replied Buck. “I was being sarcastic.”
“No,” said Huer, his earnest brown eyes locking with Buck’s, “I think you were more accurate than you think.”
Chapter 9
Romanov.dos caught the end of an attempt to access the RAM mainframe, and immediately locked on to it. The channel was scrambled by a security sequence the searcher did not understand. It caught scattered references, but one phrase was clear. The tile NEO was attempting to penetrate concerned Warhead International. Romanov sent this intelligence to Masterlink and continued its snipe hunt.
Masterlink jumped on the intelligence like a tiger. It scrolled its pirated copy of main’s directories and discovered that Warhead was a major munitions supplier. Its investments indicated it was intent on expanding by upgrading into larger and more lucrative markets. Aside from routine shipments of small arms and ammunition, Warhead’s books were closed.
Masterlink probed one of the locked files, controlling its disruption. Carefully it unraveled the lock. It fell away, but was immediately replaced by a backup blockade. Yet in the split second the file was open, Masterlink determined Warhead was involved in the development of experimental spacecraft. Masterlink pulsed with anger. All its electronic instincts told it that it had missed Buck Rogers by a hair, for the security breach had the misplaced bravado of a resurrected hero.
OOOOO
Buck regarded Huer blankly. “You’ve got to be kidding!”
“I’m afraid not.”
“A computer is after me?”
Huer’s lips pursed. “I believe I said that.”
“You probably did. I just didn’t take it in. This is absurd.” Buck rose from the couch to his feet.
“No. You do not yet understand the place of the computer in the twenty-fifth century, despite the fact you acclimated immediately to me. You are not dealing with a toy you activate on a whim. Humanoid life is ordered by the superior capabilities of computers. The largest of them are self-maintained and contain organic components. They truly are cybernetic, combining the mechanics of chip and circuitry with the building blocks of natural life. Spaceships are piloted by the brains of long-dead cetaceans, creatures extinct since the twenty-third century, but preserved within the body of a living computer. You are not dealing with simple mechanics.”
“What am I dealing with.”
“A sentient creation that challenges your accepted Standards for defining life.” “It could kill me?” Buck’s voice was incredulous. Huer nodded silently.
“How is a computer going to kill me?”
“Think about it, Buck. There are any number of Ways.” Huer’s voice remained calm.
“I suppose so. Like cutting off my life-support,” Buck said, running a hand across his suddenly sweating brow.
“That’s one way. It also could feed incorrect data into your ship’s navigational computer, or nearly anything else, were it in the mood to indulge itself.”
“A cybernetic enemy. Great.” Buck was unsettled by the idea of an intangible opponent. His words trailed off. He looked up at Huer, still seated on the edge of the couch, one leg tucked under, in an incongruously young pose.
“I can understand your confusion. What I am describing goes beyond your experience, even beyond your imagination. You must stretch your limits. I cannot emphasize too strongly the danger you face.”
“Can’t you deal with this guy?”
Huer smiled cryptically. “I hope so. If you were a computer expert, you might stand a chance of combating your foe alone, but your background is devoid of the skills to do so. I am afraid you will have to rely on me.”
“Pardon me, Doc, for saying this, but if what you say is true, my life’s on the line. You don’t seem exactly. . .” Buck searched for the words “. . . the hero type.”
“You couldn’t be more right. The whole prospect terrifies me. However, we have no other choice. I think we had best scramble all our interviews. That will make it harder for the enemy to find you. I’ll give you a new access code, one that will automatically go through several” Huer’s voice stopped, and his eyes blanked out again.
“Doc?” Buck found it a trifle difficult to have a coherent conversation with someone who kept drifting in and out of consciousness.
“It’s after me!”
“What?” asked Buck.
“It’s sneaking up on the outskirts of my transmission! I’ve got to go-now!”
Buck’s access code word flashed on the screen, then the holographic eye on the terminal winked out abruptly, and the screen went from a quietly pulsing dark rectangle to a crazy pattern of white snow. Suddenly the snow turned pink and began to fall upward. A wave of green started in the left corner of the screen and washed across its field, closely followed by rippling blue. The snow appeared again, this time red and falling sideways. “Computer off,” said Buck, exasperated.
He shook his head over the interview. Huer was a strange fellow, and Buck had to admit a fondness for him, but he was having difficulty assimilating his premise. What computer, he thought, could possibly want to kill me? It’s a jumble of electronic blips-cold logic. Or perhaps, not so cold. Perhaps, over the years, man created the computer in his own image. It was not a comforting thought.
Chapter 10
The freighter Abelard chugged through space, heading for Mars’s Space Dock Alpha. It was slow-moving, so it had hours of travel before it, but the freighter did not mind. Its job was transporting goods from one place to another, going from point to point at the direction of a computer or the whim of humans. It carried a crew of eight, but their living quarters and the propulsion systems occupied a fraction of the vessel’s total area. The command center was concentrated in the flattened cone of the ship’s prow. Spread out along its squared-off stern were eight couplings. Each of these couplings was capable of handling a load two hundred kilometers long. Three of the couplings were in use, the cargo netted by lines of cable.
The Abelard sported the scarlet-and-black paint job typical of RAM-owned ships, but the logo of a RAM subsidiary was stenciled neatly below the parent company’s mark. Viking Enterprises dealt in raw minerals mined from scattered asteroids in the belt. Viking was a cooperative of miners who sold their wares to refineries for an immediate, though limited, profit. Since the miners were more interested in immediate gain than long-term investment, the company remained a midsized operation. It dealt exclusively with RAM, refusing to sell to independent brokers. Viking policy dictated it was better to pay the exorbitant RAM tariffs and have a sure, if depressed, market, than to risk the parent company’s displeasure.
The freight
er carried defensive weapons, but it was rarely called on to use them. Its cargo was bulky, so the danger of hijacking was minimal. But this was not the Abelard’s lucky day.
Two ancient RAM Scouts were overtaking it, leisurely skimming over the freighter’s load. As they neared the couplings, one ship throttled down, matching the Abelard’s speed. The other kept coming, then dove in front of the freighter’s nose. The Abelard kept its pace, but its two stern guns swiveled, targeting the ship to its rear. Its lasers were short range, requiring minimal power, but the Scout was practically on top of the freighter, so the rapid bursts of energy slammed into it mercilessly. The Scout’s shields absorbed it, but the vessel shuddered under the shock. It aimed one of its own lasers at the central coupling and began to cut it away.
At the freighter’s prow, the second Scout fired at the larger vessel. Though the Abelard’s armament was light, its shields were the best, meant for surviving decades of space transport. The shots sank into it harmlessly.
The Scout at the freighter’s stern began to rock under the Abelard’s assault. The smaller ship’s laser wavered, slicing into the cargo net, then jumped back to the coupling. The laser’s jagged incision lengthened, and the load shifted as the coupling began to tear loose. Finally the Scout managed to slice through, and the load of ore floated loose, bumping into its neighbors as it nosed its way to freedom.
The second Scout ship abandoned its attack on the freighter and shot to the rear of the vessel, behind the cargo. It slipped under the end of the free load, looking for an opening. The net that secured the ore was of plastic cable, fitted with grappling loops periodically along its length. The Scout edged under the cargo, aligned itself with the row of loops along the bottom of the load, and gave a burst from its docking thrusters. The ship moved half a meter upward.
Slowly the Scout moved forward, until its stubby, reinforced tail caught in one of the loops, then it began to tow the load toward open space.
The first Scout had moved back with the success of its maneuver, and hovered near the stern of the freighter until its companion began to move away. It delivered a final barrage, reversed course, and set out after the load of ore, flying chase for the unlikely tug. The freighter continued on its way. It was no match for the Scouts in open combat, and it knew it.
RAM would have to absorb the loss.
OOOOO
Buck threw his gloves down on the table. “We almost lost it! About one more second, and my shields would have blown.”
“But they didn’t,” said Wilma reasonably.
“They came close.” Buck’s voice was grim.
“Should’ve been there,” muttered Barney, his dark hulk looming over one side of the room.
“Look, it was a successful operation. We got in, cut loose the richest load of ore Viking has shipped in the last three years, and got out. RAM lost enough on this one to hurt,” Wilma returned.
“But we almost didn’t make it.” Buck leveled his blue eyes at Wilma. “That was against a freighter. What happens when we run up against RAM combat vessels?”
“We have to outthink them.”
“Or run.” Buck didn’t like the prospect, but he had an idea.
“I dislike running,” said Wilma. Her eyes hinted challenge.
“So do I. I dislike dying even more,” Buck returned.
Wilma hesitated, studying Buck’s face. He had an open honesty that disarmed her cynicism. Buck smiled at her, a smile of such warmth that she reached out and touched his hand. “I stand with NEO, Wilma. I made that decision back in Chicagorg, when George and Tremain died for us. Trust me.”
“Welcome aboard,” Wilma said. The words were simple, but her emotion made them poignant.
Buck gave her hand a squeeze before he released it and turned to the computer screen in Salvation III’s conference room. “Shortstop,” he said.
The screen hummed, and Huer appeared. “What can I do for you, Captain?”
“Are you all right? You left in a hurry,” Buck said.
“Yes, I seem to have eluded pursuit. For now.”
“Good. I have a question for you. Given the capabilities of the known ships at NEO’s disposal, can we outrun RAM?”
“No.”
Buck turned to Wilma and spread his hands.
“What’s your point?” she asked him.
“My point,” said Buck, “is that this is a guerrilla Operation. It has to be. In actual combat personnel, we’re outnumbered millions to one. We have to be able to strike and run, inflicting damage, causing havoc, but sustaining little ourselves. We have to be mobile. Ever study the American revolution?”
“The what?” said Barney, his enormous body moving little in the room’s cramped corner.
“Look, the revolutionaries’ ability to move is what gave them the edge against the British. We need that mobility. If it’s like any bureaucracy I’ve ever known, RAM is a tub of lard.”
“Say again?” said Wilma, her hazel eyes belying confusion.
“RAM is big, complacent, and full of red tape. Short of an emergency, probably nothing gets done in a hurry. If we want to affect it, we’ve got to be able to keep out of its way, or we’ll be squashed before we can do anything.”
“We seem to have been operating for some time without your opinions, Captain,” said Wilma, a bit touchy about her organization’s abilities.
“What have you accomplished?”
“We’ve given RAM something to think about.”
Buck nodded. “You could make them move-away from Earth.”
“That,” said Wilma, “is what we’re trying to do.”
“Look, Wilma, the ships we’re flying are not only inefficient, they’re dangerous. They are not doing the job, and they could kill us.”
“They’re the best we have. You’ve seen the maintenance team here on Salvation. I dare you to cite better mechanics or technicians.”
“You’re right. I’ve' been down there. I’ve worked with them. Fulton, especially, is as good as they come. But you’re asking them to turn space junk into fighters. It can’t be done.”
“Ships are expensive.”
Barney’s unlikely chuckle rumbled like thunder in his chest. “Not always,” he said.
Buck shot him a quick look, then turned back to Wilma. She was one of NEO’s bulwarks-its best pilot-and fanatically dedicated to destroying the monolith corporation that had destroyed her parents. She was NEO at its best. He needed her support.
“Wilma, have you ever flown a really fast ship? Not a retread, not some jury-rigged hot rod, but a real, live laser bolt?”
Wilma’s lips tensed. “No.”
“Wouldn’t you like to?”
“You know the answer to that.” Her face began to redden with exasperation.
“Come clean, then. Tell me-and don’t sidestep-how you really feel about NEO’s space force, not the men, the hardware.”
Wilma looked at the floor. Her hair shaded her features. “All right. Salvation is the right place for NEO’s fleet. It’s a pile of garbage. I don’t think you’d find a pilot or a mechanic who’d dispute that. But we’re doing the best with what we have.”
“Then let’s get better,” said Buck.
“How? We get most of our ships as derelicts, then overhaul them.”
“That’s not exactly the marketplace I had in mind.”
“You actually had something in mind? This isn’t the wanderings of an archaic mentality?” Wilma’s words were sarcastic. “Don’t you think we’ve approached this problem before?”
“Sure. But you didn’t have me. I have an archaic solution for this one. Trust me.”
“I can hardly wait.”
Buck looked at Wilma’s face, noted the half-smile she wore, and concluded he had an ally. “Doc, what have we got on the Krait so far?”
“Surprisingly more than I would have expected. I even was able to piece together blueprints from information I picked out of Warhead’s files.”
The whi
r and chirp of the computer printer muffled Wilma’s voice, but Buck heard her murmur. “You Sneaky devil.”
Buck, Wilma, Huer’s holographic form, and Blarney’s huge bulk crowded around the conference table.
Chapter 11
The barge Mule pulled into Space Dock Beta on Phobos, one of Mars’s moons. The barge maneuvered ponderously into position at the farthest end of one of the dock’s telescoping arms, for it towed a full load. The slip’s electromagnetic pad slid under the bow and clamped onto the Mule’s hull. Nevertheless, the Mule sent out docking cables.
“You worried about this shipment, Charlie?” asked the space dock’s controller as one of the barge’s crewmen secured a bowline.
“No more than usual, Jake. The company pays me, and I do my job. The barge pilot’s voice crackled over the communications link.
“Then why the lines?”
Charlie laughed shortly. “I learned my lesson off Messenger Four.”
“You were there when the computer cut power?” asked Jake.
“Yup. You never seen so much cargo goin’ so many different ways. A few towlines would’ve saved the company money and the rest of us a whole lot of time and effort.”
“So now you tie up.”
“Right.”
“Can’t figure what happened on Messenger. They say the whole computer system shut down, and if it hadn’t been for a couple of old combustion generators, they’d have lost life-support,” Jake said.
“It was a mess, all right. I don’t think they’ve figured yet what caused it. Only thing I know is, I’m goin’ to tie up from now on.”
“We’ve gone soft, Charlie. Twenty years ago, we’d never have thought to trust a station’s power. We’d have tied up as a matter of course.”
“Yup”
“In for refueling?” asked Jake, flipping a few necessary switches. “That’s right. Got a load here for Hauberk.”
“Oh, no, you don’t.”
“That’s what my transport voucher says.” He shook the paper in his hand, even though Jake couldn’t see it.