by M S Murdock
“I will need manpower.” Chernenko began shifting in his seat.
“I anticipated that,” said Holzerhein. “You are authorized to create twenty new Terrine units. The funding should come through within the next hour.”
“With Hauberk gone, I will need computer support. We cannot handle the distribution of solar power, much less the trade checks Hauberk managed.”
“We have taken care of that as well. A section of RAM main will be delegated to perform those tasks.”
“RAM main! That’s on Mars! You’re talking about a time lag.”
“It can’t be helped. You’re lucky the board agreed to it.” Holzerhein looked on the regent pitilessly.
“You realize this is going to be a nightmare.”
“I am confident you can handle the situation, Chernenko. If you need assistance, do not hesitate to call.”
“Oh, I won’t.”
“As I said before, this whole situation is top security, so use code and scramble procedures for any business related to the Hauberk mess.”
“Of course.”
“Good luck, Regent.”
“Thank you,” replied Chernenko as Holzerhein’s face faded from the viewer. The scowl that Chernenko had kept at bay during the interview returned in full force. He was in a fix. Because of circumstances entirely outside his control, he was being handed chaos. If he failed to make sense of it-if the chaos got out of hand-he would be the only one to suffer. His career balanced on the brink. He had to find a way to protect himself.
His best tool in the administration of RAM’s structure of justice was the Terrine guards. They enforced company regulations to the letter, and were equipped with the latest in weaponry. He relied upon the able administrative qualities of their leader, Kelth Smirnoff.
The thought of Smirnoff lifted the weight slightly from Cherenko’s shoulders. Smirnoff was in an equally insecure position. If the two of them consolidated their forces, they would dramatically increase their chances of success. He knew he had no choice but to maintain control over the planet. If it had to be done by a reign of terror, so be it. NEO had asked for the treatment it was about to receive.
Chernenko lifted hooded eyes. “Elizabit, this is a special project for you and you alone. No one is to have access to the program but me.”
“I copy,” responded the hologram, walking across the room with the willowy ease of an athlete. “Today she was a sultry brunette with long legs.
“I want you to prepare a plan of attack. You heard Holzerhein. Hauberk is no longer in operation. I want you to correlate all of the systems Hauberk administered. Figure out what it will take to lock in that kind of control here on Earth. Prepare a preliminary plan that deals with the priority problems, then a complete follow-up.”
“Do you wish hard copy?”
“No. This is to remain in your pretty electronic head.” Elizabit simpered.
“And do something about that dress. It does not become you.” Elizabit’s image rippled, and the dress changed subtly, going from brown to a deep turquoise. She shook her glossy, dark hair. “When do you need the information?” she asked.
“Yesterday,” responded Chernenko grimly.
OOOOO
Kelth Smirnoff regarded the map of major NEO encampments with narrowed eyes. He was planning his next attack. Cherenko’s cryptic message requesting his presence was the final piece in the puzzle he had been trying to solve. The Hauberk malfunction had thrown Earth into turmoil. In the first place, the solar energy it disseminated now went directly from solar collectors to the power companies on Earth. There was no way for RAM to administer the tariffs it imposed on power, so it had remedied the situation by simply shutting down the stations. Industry was at a standstill.
The lanes of commerce were clogged as well. Without Hauberk to administer the complex movement of spacecraft and cargo, each company was responsible for its own vessels. It also was responsible for figuring the RAM percentage on goods and services, deducting that money, and paying it directly to RAM.
The companies were standing the entire cost. They had to rely on extracting their own fees from the pilots and mercenaries they dealt with. The situation was draining their liquidity and causing many of them to shut down.
It was the same with myriad other facets of industry. Most frightening of all, the space borne weapons systems RAM had launched around Earth over the last three hundred years were now entirely dependent on their own programming and the RAM main computer. There was no real fail-safe. They were new subject to tampering and theft. Smirnoff had heard rumors that a surveillance satellite named WATCHDOG had been stolen. He suspected the rumors were premature, but nevertheless, the possibility now existed that RAM would not be able to keep track of its own weapons.
There was only one way Smirnoff could handle the crisis. He would keep NEO so busy it would not have time to plan or carry out another major action. It would not take long for the company to get matters in hand. Until then, all he had to do was stall for time.
Smirnoff thought fleetingly of his coming interview with Chernenko. It was obvious by the state of the planet that RAM was facing a crisis. He was curious to see what tack Chernenko would take, curious to find out the particulars of the disaster. He did not relish the time he would lose listening to the regent’s harangue, but he had no choice.
He bent his will to the map, concentrating on accomplishing as much as possible. With luck, he would have a preliminary plan worked out before the interview.
Chapter 36
Salvation III’s air lock doors clanged shut as the last of the fighters swept through them. The opening valves hissed like snoring dragons as the dock pressurized. The flashing red warning light went out, and the pilots shoved back the canopies on their ships. Before they could make a move, the dock was flooded with people-people shouting and patting each other on the back. After the silence of space, the noise was overwhelming, but no one minded the assault on their ears.
In fact, Black Barney probably knew what he was missing, thought Buck. Barney and his crew had shown some interest in “salvaging” parts of Hauberk station and offered to guard it until NEO could send replacements. Buck had agreed.
Washington, three slips down from Buck, grinned, his blue eyes twinkling, and made a thumbs-up gesture as old as the tradition of flight. Buck grinned back. He looked over at Wilma, her ship drawn beside his, and found her usually intense face alight. “We did it!” he managed.
Her smile flashed, a burst of charm that touched her hazel eyes with mischievous lights. She shook her head, knowing she could not make herself heard over the din, and her hair floated around her slightly drawn face like a halo of fire.
The look she gave him surprised Buck. It was full of pride-pride in his ability as a commander, and, somehow, in his quality as a man. It drew his heart. For the first time, he felt a part of the twenty-fifth century. He looked down at the riotous mass beneath his ship and considered the wisdom of remaining where he was, but Turabian had other ideas.
“Rogers! Rogers!” the man called.
“I’m here,” said Buck, shouting to be heard.
“You certainly are! When you first proposed this, I thought you were crazy. I was sure you were taking a suicidal risk. I was wrong.”
Buck grinned back. “Oh, no, you weren’t. It was a crazy chance-but it worked!”
“It’s the biggest thing we’ve ever accomplished! You should hear the airwaves. The entire planet is in turmoil. It will take RAM years to reconstruct its stranglehold.”
“No, it won’t!” said Buck.
“What?” asked Turabian, shouting over the crowd.
“I said, no, it won’t. We won’t let it.”
Turabian’s laugh was giddy. “I am beginning to believe you,” he said.
“Look, we’ve got to find a way to get out of this! I’m grateful for the welcome, but we’ve had a rough day.
The wing is exhausted."
‘I’m afraid you’l
l have to take your medicine, Captain! If you don’t want this kind of demonstration, don’t take out one of the biggest strategic targets RAM has!”
Buck couldn‘t seem to wipe the grin off his face. He nodded, knowing Turabian was right, and began to climb out of the spacecraft. He was halfway down the access ladder when the crowd grabbed him. Before he could take a deep breath, he was hoisted onto the burly shoulders of two mechanics. They started a victory round of the dock, the crowd streaming behind him. Buck waved, and looked up at Wilma as he was carried past. Her smile was amused, ironic, but around the corners of her mouth lurked an indefinable soft ness. As the crowd moved away from the ships, the other pilots were able to debark in relative safety, though not one escaped attention.
The roar of voices died to a low rumble, and Turabian hardly had to shout. “We have a little celebration planned,” he said, indicating a sumptuous display of food and drink.
“That looks like Paradise,” said Buck. “Give us ten minutes to get cleaned up.”
“All right,” said Turabian, “but hurry. I don’t know how long I can hold back the hordes.”
“I’ve been waiting to drink a toast to this crazy scheme of yours,” said Thomas Paine, actually clap ping Buck on the back.
“My pleasure,” said Buck, escaping from Salvation’s computer expert as gracefully as he could.
Half an hour later, clean, fed, and supplied with drink, Buck and Wilma stood apart from the company, next to a broad viewport. The window looked out into space, away from the familiar bulk of Earth. Occasionally a satellite drifted by, or a spacecraft, but for the most part, the view contained the quiet beauty of the stars. Buck looked meditatively into the darkness, with its tiny flickers of light.
“Penny for your thoughts, Captain? said Wilma.
“Now that’s an old expression? said Buck, looking down at his superior officer.
Wilma smiled up at him, the corners of her lips turning up. “And that’s hedging.”
Buck smiled back. “It certainly is.” He hesitated, then said, “I was thinking how much darkness there is in the universe, and how fragile and precious the sparks of light. ‘Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong; And the most ancient heavens, through Thee, are fresh and strong.
“Poetry, Captain?”
An ironic twist marred Buck’s smile. “Wordsworth,” he said.
Wilma put a hand on his arm. “I’m sorry,” she said.“I am so used to building walls for myself, I sometimes do it without thinking.”
“Walls can save you a lot of pain,” said Buck, “but that’s not all. They keep out the happy times, too.”
“I know,” said Wilma. “And, as I said, I’m sorry. Some happiness is worth the pain that goes along with it.”
Buck caught the flicker of softness in her hazel eyes and smiled. “I propose a toast,” he said. “To good old Terra Firma-may she begin to live again.”
Wilma lifted her glass. It touched Buck’s with a tinkling bell tone. “That’s a wish worth granting,” she said.
“You know, this is just the beginning.” The fatigue behind Buck’s happiness came out in the heaviness of his words. He thought about everyone who’d died in the Hauberk takeover.
“I know. I’m not a fledgling in this. RAM will hit us back with everything it has. We’ve started something we either win or die for.”
The twinkle slowly returned to Buck’s eyes. “I like risks,” he said.
Wilma laughed. “So do I,” she said, the words aimed at Buck. There was an intensity in her eyes that went beyond the words.
“Then we make a good team,” he drawled, his blue eyes sunny with appreciation for her beauty.
“I think so.”
Buck left the implication alone. “We’re going to have our work cut out for us,” he said.
“Given it any thought?” Wilma asked.
“Some. But I’m afraid my mentality is hopelessly twentieth century. There are aspects of your world forget to take into account, like gennies. Like a whole computer world that didn’t exist in my time, and now runs human affairs.”
“You seem to be doing fine.”
“Maybe it’s an illusion.”
Wilma nearly choked on her drink. “Is this an illusion?” she sputtered, waving at the crowd. “You’ve given these people the hope they have looked for all their lives.”
“Popularity? It is glory’s small change,” he quoted, “but I don’t much care for being responsible.”
“But you are,” Wilma said.
“I know. I always have been.”
Wilma looked at him sideways. His rugged profile was as solid as the mountains that divided North America. She raised her glass. “Time enough tomorrow for solemn planning. Tonight we celebrate our first real victory.”
“To Victory.” said Buck. “Whatever it may be.”
“To victory,” responded Wilma.
OOOOO
In the privacy of her plush office, Ardala Valmar received the special news of the destruction of Hauberk with an adrenaline rush. There were no particulars available, not even from her most powerful contacts, simply the news that Hauberk was destroyed. She thought of the plans to Hauberk’s shields she had sold to stuffy-but-provocative Heart, and her lips curved. The man had obviously pulled off a coup, despite lack of official explanation. Ardala had no doubt that the man was linked to NEO.
Instinct told her that NEO finally had managed a major action against RAM. She was fully aware of the implications of Hauberk’s destruction. She saw Earth as an expanding market for her services and talents. There would be war. RAM would move to crush NEO. The possibilities for monetary gain opening up on both sides made Ardala’s eyes into black stars of desire. She would stand outside the conflict, harvesting from both sides.
She scented change in the air, and her nose for profit twitched in NEO’s direction. Besides, she was bored, and Heart intrigued her. She slowed the rolling lists of merchandise-physical and otherwise-looking for some item that might interest the man. She had a mind to own Heart, and the best way to do that was to become indispensable to him. She scanned the lists with a genuine clutch of pleasure.
OOOOO
Deep in the heart of RAM main, Masterlink gnawed on the bones of Hauberk. It had come within centimeters of annihilating its archenemy, only to have its electronic teeth click shut on empty space. Its anger was not dying. Karkov had even lost all desire to calm the raw nerves of its more volatile counterpart. The aureole of jangling static that always surrounded it grew, burning everything with which it came in contact. At the center of the sound and fury was a single name, a name that shone white hot from the searing anger that surrounded it. The repetition of the name fueled Masterlink’s anger. It chanted the name in an illogical litany, until it almost became a mindless song. The name was Buck Rogers.
About the Author
M.S. Murdock lives on an acreage in the heart of America with too many dogs, too many cats, and too many horses. Her background includes twenty years’ experience in commercial art and typesetting, and an MA. In English. She has been writing science fiction for approximately ten years.