Buck Roger XXVC #01 Martian Wars #01 Rebellion 2456

by M S Murdock

“That’s what my transport voucher says.” He shook the paper in his hand, even though Jake couldn’t see it.

  “Maybe, but you’ve been rerouted. Came over the computer not five minutes ago,” Jake informed his friend.

  “Send it over.” Charlie’s voice was resigned. “I got nothin’ better to do than hop all over the system.”

  “What you got there, anyhow? Pretty big load to be covered like that.”

  “I never looked, just towed.”

  “Well, you know the rules. I need your cargo name, company, and shipping number before I can run fuel”

  “Sure, sure. Just a minute.” Charlie ran through his log, punching the keyboard of his records computer with total disregard for the sensibilities of electronics. “Here it is. Launchers for gyro-controlled missiles, out of Warhead International, bound for Hauberk. Number W-one-five-six-seven-one-four-three-oh-oh.”

  “Shipping codes confirmed. Lock your fuel line open. We’ll begin pumping in thirty seconds.”

  “Better fill ’er up, Jake,” said Charlie, consulting the new transport voucher. “It looks like I’m heading for the belt.”

  “I noticed. You’re already authorized for a fill. I wonder who out there in that asteroid jungle gets those launchers.”

  “That,” said Charlie sharply, “is something you don’t ask in this business. You take your pay and keep your mouth shut over who buys and who sells.”

  “Just askin’. Don’t get in a swivet.”

  “Don’t you get nosy,” Charlie said.

  “All right, all right. See ya.”

  Charlie watched his fuel gauge rise as the tank filled, heard the pump close and disengage when the tank registered full, and punched the code to seal the tank. Request clearance,” he said.

  “Barge Mule cleared for departure,” said Jake.

  “Thanks, Jake. Sorry if I got testy, but you can lose your job, not to mention your health, stickin’ your nose where it’s not wanted.”

  “Sure, Charlie. Good luck.”

  The Mule released its cables, then backed slowly away from the dock. As it cleared the arm of the dock, it turned, readjusting its course for the asteroid belt. Once on trajectory, it picked up speed, moving from snail’s pace to the road gait of a startled turtle. Barges weren’t fast, but they did the job. The Mule’s cargo followed docilely, a huge shapeless bundle netted together and covered by shield fabric.

  OOOOO

  Horst Sturm was pounding on his computer console. He was not being gentle, and his ministrations were not doing the equipment any favors. He did not care. “I want answers!” he bellowed.

  Sturm was a company man, in his late forties. He wore the business uniform of RAM Central, and his insignia bore the bars of a director. His dark hair was thick on the sides, but thinning on top. He had a heavy mustache that drooped dramatically to his chin and gave him a deceptively mournful expression. His dark eyes were keen, and one of them was cybernetic. A slanting scar ran through his left brow and down his cheek, a reminder of his younger, less suave days, when a knife fight was Saturday night recreation. He had lost his eye in such a fight, but his new one, with infrared capabilities, was much superior. He was not a man to be trifled with.

  “Yes, sir, I quite understand, sir.” The voice coming over the terminal belonged to Junior Supervisor Walt Hoffman, chief of supply for RAMway, a shipping broker that was one of RAM’s major subsidiaries.

  “Well, understand this!”

  Sturm’s face was turning a shade of dark red that made Hoffman’s skin crawl. His superior’s tantrums were legendary. At all costs, Hoffman tried to avoid them.

  Sturm continued, his fury unabated. “I want to know what happened to that shipment! It can’t have vanished from the system!”

  “Of course not, sir. I’m sure what we have here is a temporary glitch in operations.” Hoffman’s voice Game soothingly.

  “It had better be,” said Sturm grimly. “That shipment was headed for Hauberk. Hauberk! Did you happen to notice the security coding on the transport authorization?”

  “Of course, sir. And I made sure the shipment was given top priority.”

  “What shipper did you use?”

  “Happy Harold’s Trusty Trucking. They’re at the top of the list for security shipments.”

  “Hmm. They’re reliable.”

  “Absolutely,” said Hoffman, glad to have found something his superior didn’t criticize.

  “Look, Junior Supervisor, I want that shipment found. I want it found before you leave the office, if that takes the next ten years.”

  “I believe, sir, this is a computer error.”

  “What?” Sturm’s fury hiccupped.

  Hoffman nodded vigorously to his terminal. “Nothing’s confirmed, but the computer might have authorized several transport vouchers on its own.”

  “Well, find out! I want each one of those vouchers investigated. If the computer is playing around with Hauberk’s shipment, as heavy as the security is on it, there’s no telling what else it’s done.”

  “Security? Sir, I show a routine transport voucher on the Hauberk shipment.”

  “Of course, you idiot. That shipment was coded into the computer system with every safeguard we have, but do you think we were stupid enough to ship it under armed guard, as an advertisement to every pirate, Venusian operative, and NEO terrorist in the system? ‘Here they are! Get your major armaments here!” said Sturm sarcastically. “We sent it the safest way, the least-and the most-obvious way.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And you think it’s a computer error?”

  Hoffman gulped. He could not help it. “Yes, sir.”

  “This is the third computer problem we’ve had in the last month. I’m beginning to think our controls need an overhaul.”

  “I’ve been hearing some complaints about a virus in RAM main,” Hoffman volunteered. “Maybe that’s what’s causing the problems.”

  Sturm drew his heavy black brows together. He was fully aware of Hoffman’s tactic, rerouting the blame to another area. “At this moment, Hoffman, I really don’t care what happened. I want results. I want that shipment found and put back on course to Hauberk. You have until morning.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Hoffman’s face was a study in terror, and Sturm enjoyed it. He had taken flak from Warhead over the loss of Hauberk’s superfighters. It was a pleasure to see someone else on the chopping block. “I expect a report at oh-eight-hundred. Get to it!”

  “Yes, sir!” said Hoffman as Sturm cut the transmission. Sturm stared at his terminal. He was a man not to be trifled with, yet he had no fondness for the coming interview.

  He punched the keyboard. “Seaforian.”

  “Seaforian,” replied the terminal in a voice as deep as the seas of Venus. Seaforian was the chief of operations on Hauberk, the man wholly responsible for the station’s operation. He was Martian.

  “Horst Sturm,” replied Sturm.

  “I can see you, Sturm. To what do I owe the dubious pleasure of this transmission?”

  “I have bad news.”

  Seaforian didn’t move a muscle. “That is nothing new. Report.”

  “Shipment W-one-five-six-seven-one-four-three-oh-oh is temporarily delayed.”

  “What?” The deep voice was soft.

  Sturm flinched. “I am afraid, sir, the shipment is delayed.”

  “May I ask why? Or would that be presumptuous?”

  “There seems to be a computer error, sir.”

  “And when may I expect my shipment? I might add, Sturm, that this shipment is very important to me.”

  “Well, sir, I can’t give you an exact time as yet. My technicians are tracking down the circumstances of the delay, but I assure you that the shipment will be in your hands as soon as possible.”

  “It had better be. If it is not . . . I trust the good director has a supplementary means of income.”

  Sturm’s mouth tightened, but he replied steadily. “Yes, si
r.” Seaforian’s enemies had a habit of contracting chronic job insecurity. Sturm had no wish to join them. “I assure you we are doing everything possible at this end. May I add, sir, the fault does not seem to be human.” Sturm noted the contempt in Seaforian’s large Martian eyes, and cleared his throat. “As I said, it seems to be a computer malfunction, due to a viral infection.” Sturm was throwing out conjecture like handfuls of chaff.

  “I see.” Seaforian lowered his eyelids and looked down his long aquiline nose. “You know what was in that shipment?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you know its value on the black market. I suggest you investigate NEO.” Seaforian’s head loomed on Sturm’s terminal.

  “That thought has occurred to me. However, NEO has never attempted anything of this magnitude, and the computer virus has caused more than one problem in the last few weeks. Your shipment is not the only one delayed.”

  Seaforian raised an aristocratic eyebrow. “The choice, of course, is yours. I have only one interest: obtaining my shipment.”

  “And I assure you, sir, my only thought is to get it to you as quickly as possible.”

  “You will keep me posted, Sturm.”

  “Regularly.”

  Seaforian sighed. “I suppose I shall have to contact Warhead for a duplicate shipment. Personally, I think the company should triple the order as recompense for my inconvenience. There is no telling how long it will take to get here. This is a mess. I shall have to reschedule my training session, or pay the instructor twice. Do you realize what that would do to my budget? If I cannot cancel the session in time, you will receive a bill. I shall expect to be reimbursed.”

  “We will be happy to handle it, sir,” Sturm conceded.

  “I am sure you will, or lose the supply contract for Hauberk.”

  “I know we can handle it, sir.” The Hauberk supply contract accounted for fifteen percent of RAM Central’s immediate supply profits. “I will keep you informed of all developments. Our technician’s estimate a firm answer by tomorrow.”

  “I think, Sturm, that tomorrow’s news must be good.” He let the threat hang like a noose.

  “Let us hope so, sir,” replied the director.

  As Seaforian ended the transmission, he relaxed, pulling at his collar with an impatient index finger. Tension had turned his neck muscles to rock.

  He slumped into a nearby chair. His secretary, one of the better-looking gennies to his mind, slid a glass into his right hand. He swirled the liquid, making the ice clink against the sides of the glass, and regarded her. “On office time?” he questioned.

  “For medicinal purposes only,” she replied. “Doctor’s orders.”

  “Don’t remind me,” he said, sipping the mild liqueur. At that moment, he approved his choice of a gennie secretary. LuAnn was efficient window dressing, adept at service and without the argumentative ambition of her unaltered counterparts. “'To the virus,” he said, raising his glass. “May it save all our tails.”

  “Yes, sir,” answered LuAnn as she ran her fingers over her employer’s neck.

  Chapter 12

  The barge Mule approached the belt carefully. Its maneuverability was nil, and the pilot had no wish to pile up his ship or damage his cargo. He cut engines to docking speed.

  “Cap’n, you sure of these coordinates?” The mate’s concern was justified, for there did not seem to be a space dock within range of the barge’s sensors.

  “That’s what our transport voucher says, Highlander.”

  Charlie Farell glanced at his mate. Highlander was a gennie-a mutie, in his eyes-foisted off on Farell by a four-flusher who didn’t have the cash to pay his debts. Highlander was small, barely four feet high, and that was an advantage on board the Mule. His metabolism was altered so that he utilized ninety percent of his food, which made him cheap to maintain. He had enough mentality to be entrusted with maintenance tasks around the ship, and he was expendable in case of emergencies. All in all, Charlie figured he had come out well in the deal.

  “But, Cap’n, there’s nothin’ out there.”

  “Wrong, Highlander. The instruments show a space dock point five to starboard.” Charlie altered his course to rendezvous with the dock. He punched up the magnification on the screen, trying to get a visual. His sensors showed an asteroid half the size of the Mule. Extending into space was the lone arm of a prefab docking slip, with space for three moderate sized vessels. “Skipping Stone One, come in. This is the barge Mule. Request clearance for docking,” said Charlie.

  “Skipping Stone One here. State the nature of your business.” The voice was suspicious, and there was no visual.

  Charlie had no stomach for games. “Look, buddy, I’ve got a cargo here that’s marked for delivery to a Mr. D’Arc. My transport voucher gave me these coordinates. Either you let me in, or I dump the load right here. Your choice.”

  “Come on in,” replied the surly voice.

  “So nice of you to invite me,” answered Charlie sarcastically.

  “Tie up at slip one,” instructed the controller, ignoring Charlie’s levity. “Secure your load to the dock at slips two and three.”

  “Am I gonna get some help?”

  “Not this time.”

  “That’ll be on your bill. I need this voucher validated.”

  “That’s coming through channels now.”

  Charlie turned to his mate. “Highlander, you heard the man. Get out there and tie up the load. Do a good job of it. I don’t want cargo scattered all over the belt, because I, for one, am not goin’ to pick it up. Scat!”

  Highlander left the command module. Charlie sat back in his chair and watched as the gennie left the ship, a safety cable trailing behind him like a waving white tail. Highlander went to work on the load, securing it to the dock with grappling clips. Once the load was tied down to Charlie’s satisfaction, he called Highlander in. As he heard the hatch close behind him, Charlie called, “All secure?”

  “Aye, Cap’n, ” replied Highlander, pulling his helmet off his bald head.

  “We have delivered your cargo as contracted,” said Charlie formally. “I now have the validated voucher on file. Your bill will be sent to your home office. Request permission to depart.”

  “You have clearance,” came the controller’s voice.

  “Confirmed, Skipping Stone One.”

  The Mule dropped its cables and backed away from the dock, looking like a broken toy without its kilometers of cargo. It cleared the dock’s immediate area and turned for home, its boosters giving an extra kick. Charlie was glad to be quitting the area. The belt was home to too many thieves and pirates.

  Inside the Skipping Stone One, Baring Gould watched the barge go. He chuckled.

  “That,” said Hazen Strange, “was some clever twist.”

  Black Barney’s first mate laughed. “When the captain told me to rig that space dock on this thing, I thought he was crazy. Crazy like a fox!” He entered a communications code. “Free Enterprise, come in.”

  “Got it, mate?” Barney’s menacing voice asked.

  “Sure, Captain. Like floating in zero g.”

  “Hang on. We’ll pick you up in one hour.”

  “Affirmative. Captain, you sure called it on this one. I’ve never seen a sweeter operation.” “Yeah,” replied Barney. “Yes, Captain,” said Arak Konii, his saturnine features bland. “We must tell Captain Rogers how well his plan succeeded.”

  “Course four-three-seven, mark four,” said Barney.

  “We pick up the asteroid ship in one hour.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  OOOOO

  Ardala bent over the man, her dark hair sweeping his naked chest as her hands ran slowly over his sleeping face. His perfect features were not flattered by the harsh light of the lab, but they did not suffer. She ran a finger along his jaw, feeling the delicacy of the bone structure. Her lips curved in a private smile. “The best one yet,” she murmured, her dark eyes glowing softly. In any other woman
, the expression would have indicated love. For Ardala, it simply meant achievement.

  “Excuse me, ma’am.”

  “Yes, Icarus.” Ardala did not look up.

  Icarus watched her perusal of his genetic brother, a flicker of pain in the depths of his hazel eyes. “You asked to be informed of activity in the area.”

  “And can I assume you have some?” Her hands slithered over the gennie’s muscular chest.

  “Yes. I have a report of a major delivery tied up on one of the outlying asteroids.” Icarus’s broad shoulders squared.

  “Hmm. That is interesting. How long will it take to get to it.”

  “We have nothing within range. Six hours.”

  “Probably too long,” guessed Ardala. “Still, it’s worth the trip. Send a ship out. Do you have any idea what the cargo is?”

  “No, mistress, none.”

  Ardala looked up, catching Icarus’s eyes. She noted their flat expression. “See to it, Icarus,” she said blandly. “I must oversee the completion of this one. He is the most perfect to date. Don’t you agree?” Her lips curved in enjoyment at the stab of pain that flashed in his eyes.

  “You are most adept, mistress. I can find no fault with any of your creations.”

  “Loyal Icarus,” she said. “You don’t know how much I value you. Report when you have news. Now leave me with Raj. He and I have much to . . . discuss.”

  “As you wish.” Icarus backed away, but his eyes remained on Ardala. His aristocratic features revealed nothing, and he tried to veil his eyes, but there was pain in the set of his broad shoulders, and in the humility of his retreat. Raj meant the end of Ardala’s interest in him, and he knew it. “I obey, mistress,” he said, closing the door.

  Ardala smiled again, her cruelty masked by the sweep of her hair. She kept her hands on Raj, but her mind drifted to the mysterious shipment tied to an asteroid like a puppy to a fence. It was definitely clandestine. No open RAM business deal, the whole operation smacked of the black market. It would be interesting to see what shipments had gone astray in the last few days. It would almost be more interesting to find that there were no reports of losses. In that case, the shipment was top security. She reached over and flipped on the lab’s computer terminal. “Computer, check all reports of shipping errors over the last few days. I’m not interested in paper clips. This is a major shipment, Space bound, not on-planet.”