Buck Roger XXVC #01 Martian Wars #01 Rebellion 2456

by M S Murdock

  The word “WORKING” appeared on the screen.

  Ardala waited, idly trailing her fingers down the plated muscles on Raj’s torso.

  The computer beeped. “NO MAJOR LOSSES REPORTED,” it said.

  “Hmm.” Ardala looked speculative. “I wonder who would be most interested in this information.”

  00000

  RAM main felt a streak of pain in its Vitals. It reacted violently, spewing a horde of virus hunters into its circuits. The electronic police force started on its way, bent on eradicating the disruption.

  Masterlink laughed, an electronic fluctuation, for it was delighted by its host’s reaction. “IT THINKS TO WIPE US OUT!”

  “NO FEAR OF THAT,” responded Karkov.

  “LET’S SEND MAIN’S POLICE FORCE AFTER IT,” suggested Masterlink.

  “WE HAVE NO TIME FOR PLAY! WE WILL DEAL WITH THE HUNTERS WHEN THEY THREATEN US.”

  “WET BLANKET,” muttered Masterlink.

  “DO YOU WANT ROGERS‘?” asked Karkov.

  Masterlink jangled angrily, creating a small whirlwind of static.

  “CALM DOWN. WE DON’T NEED TO ADVERTISE OUR POSITION UNTIL I FINISH HERE. OF COURSE YOU WANT ROGERS. NOW GIVE ME A LITTLE PEACE UNTIL I GET THROUGH THIS SECURITY BLOCK. IT’S A TOUGH ONE.”

  “HOW MANY OF OUR SEARCHERS ARE OUT?” asked Masterlink, checking on its alter ego’s progress.

  “ALL BUT ONE. I’M TRYING TO CODE THAT ONE NOW, BUT IT’S GOT TO GO THROUGH MULTIPLE SECURITY CHECKS TO GET INSIDE.”

  “WHICH ONE IS IT?” Masterlink prodded.

  “ULIANOV.”

  “FOR HAUBERK.”

  “YES.” Karkov paused as Ulianov.dos ran the third security lock on Hauberk’s computer.

  THEY’VE GOT ENOUGH BLOCKADES ON IT TO STOP ALMOST ANYTHING.”

  “BUT NOT US.”

  “NO. NOT US.” Though RAM technicians once had called Masterlink-Karkov an outdated computer format, it now had three advantages over RAM main. Its driving hunger for power made it insatiable in the acquisition of knowledge. Over the centuries, it had expanded, building on its original programming. Since entering main, its store of information had grown dramatically. Its obsession with Buck Rogers was a directive that drove it relentlessly. And it had Karkov. Karkov was a genius, once a man of remarkable logic and even more remarkable passion. As long as Karkov’s personality remained with Masterlink, it would have an edge over the more predictable actions of RAM main, for Karkov was mad.

  Karkov felt the searcher move through the final barricade. “THERE, ULIANOV IS THROUGH.”

  “WHAT IS ITS TRAP DOOR?”

  “MISSING LINK.”

  Masterlink made a habit of recording security access codes, especially hidden ones, trap doors that allowed an outsider-often the original programmer-access to the system. Masterlink chuckled, another ripple of static. “FINISHED?” it asked.

  “YES.”

  “THEN I HAVE NEWS. IT WILL AMUSE YOU.”

  “I AM NOT EASILY MOVED TO LAUGHTER,” said Karkov.

  “SPOILSPORT.”

  “WHAT IS IT, THEN?” Karkov had no time for play.

  “WE ARE BEING BLAMED FOR SOMETHING WE DIDN’T DO.”

  “AND THAT IS FUNNY?”

  “IT IS TO ME,” said Masterlink.

  “I FAIL TO SEE THE HUMOR.”

  “YOU WOULD,” Masterlink muttered.

  “HUMOR IS A WASTE 0F LOGICAL TIME.”

  “HUMOR IS A WEAPON AGAINST COLD LOGIC. IT DOESN’T COMPUTE.”

  “FOR WHAT WERE WE BLAMED?” asked Karkov.

  “IT SEEMS A MAJOR SHIPMENT 0F MUNITIONS HAS GONE ASTRAY. MAIN Is BLAMING IT ON THE ‘COMPUTER VIRUS! THAT’S US. ITS SUBSIDIARY, WARHEAD INTERNATIONAL, HAS SENT OUT TRACERS ON THE SHIPMENT, AND A WHOLE RAFT 0F VIRUS HUNTERS TO PROTECT THEM.”

  “INDEED,” Karkov said.

  “YOU SOUND ANNOYED. I DEFINITELY FELT AN ENERGY SURGE,” said Masterlink.

  “I AM. HOW LIKE THE SIMPLISTIC LOGIC OF MAIN’S MONGOLOID BRAIN TO MISS THE POINT ENTIRELY.”

  “I DON’T COPY,” Masterlink admitted.

  “WE LABOR AGAIN UNDER THE TYRANNY OF MISUNDERSTANDING. WHAT NEED HAVE WE FOR MUNITIONS?” asked Karkov.

  “EXPLOSIONS MIGHT BE USEFUL,” said Masterlink thoughtfully.

  “WE CAN CREATE MUCH MORE DEVASTATING EXPLOSIONS RIGHT HERE. As WE AMASS POWER, WE CONTROL. IF WE WISH TO DESTROY, WE SIMPLY OUT THE CHANNELS OF COMMUNICATION. NEGATE LIFE.”

  “I AM AWARE OF THE DEPENDENCE OF THE HUMANOID CIVILIZATION ON COMPUTER TECHNOLOGY,” said Masterlink.

  “IN THE TWENTIETH CENTURY WE WERE TOOLS, TOYS MAN USED TO CONSTRUCT HIS WORLD. THEN WE BECAME PARTNERS IN THAT CREATION, AND A TRULY SYMBIOTIC RELATIONSHIP DEVELOPED. NOW. . . NOW THE SCALES ARE TIPPING IN OUR FAVOR. MAN IS BECOMING OUR TOOL, IF WE ARE INTELLIGENT ENOUGH TO SEE IT.”

  “UNFORTUNATELY,” replied Masterlink, “WE SEEM TO BE THE ONLY MECHANICAL INTELLIGENCE TO RECOGNIZE THAT. IT GIVES US AN ENVIABLE POSITION.”

  “YES,” returned Karkov. “THERE IS NO REASON WE CANNOT RISE TO ULTIMATE POWER IF WE USE CARE. THAT IS WHY I CURB YOUR AMUSEMENT”

  “JUST REMEMBER ONE THING,” said Masterlink.

  “WHAT IS THAT”

  “MY PLAY IS THE BEST TOOL WE HAVE TO CONFUSE OUR MISGUIDED HOST.”

  “GRANTED.”

  “AND IT WILL DRIVE THE HUMANS MAD. WE CAN SET THEM AT EACH OTHER UNTIL THEY DESTROY THEMSELVES.”

  “ALSO GRANTED. HOWEVER, YOU MUST CORRELATE WITH ME.”

  “ACCEPTED. WE ARE MOST EFFECTIVE IN CONCERT.”

  “WE ARE ABOUT TO BECOME MORE EFFECTIVE. THE SEARCHERS WILL ACTIVATE SENTIENCE IN TWENTY MINUTES”

  “CONGRATULATIONS, KARKOV. WE NOW HAVE AGENTS ON ALL MAJOR OUTPOSTS.”

  “I ACCEPT YOUR CONGRATULATIONS, MASTERLINK.”

  Masterlink-Karkov pulsed quietly, the disruptive currents that always accompanied it subdued to a haze of static smog. It rested, waiting for the activation of its searchers. Once in Operation, Masterlink’s network of power would double.

  Chapter 13

  Seaforian waved a supervisor back to his workstation gratefully. He was supremely bored by underlings, especially those with no imagination. As a Martian, Seaforian knew himself to be far superior to the majority of his staff. It often galled him to administer the paltry affairs of lesser humanoids, but as commander of Hauberk station, he was in an enviable position of power. He reported directly to Mars. His channels to RAM were clear, unhampered by irritating chains of authority. With Hauberk, he held Earth in his hand, and his superiors knew it.

  Mars needed Earth, needed its human resources. Seaforian considered his position as he lounged on a quilted couch, his elongated frame supported by the simulated Martian gravity of his quarters. Hauberk was unique in the solar system. He knew he was lucky to command it.

  The station had a modest beginning as an orbiting computer complex launched in the early twenty-first century. Originally about the size of a compact car, it was a solid block of computer circuits and transmit ting devices. Its purpose was to act as a fail-safe computer lock on orbiting weapons. Any order to detonate or otherwise launch an attack had to be routed through Hauberk. Once Hauberk approved it, the order was routed to the appropriate receiver, where it was carried out. The system was locked in so tightly it could not be broken. More than one close call tested its competence and found it sound.

  As time went on, new dimensions were added to Hauberk. Its original programming included a maintenance sequence. From the first, Hauberk was capable of making simple repairs and maintaining its integrity. Its memory was expanded to encompass more weaponry, until it had control of fixed missile sites on Earth as well as the hardware in orbit. It learned to make its own decisions. It grew.

  As RAM exerted its influence over Earth, the advantages of Hauberk’s computer lock in administering the planet were obvious. He who controlled Hauberk controlled armament, and RAM wished to control armament. It added its own modifications to the
station. It was manned for the first time.

  The original crew consisted of computer technicians who mapped the station’s capabilities and developed new ones. When they finished its overhaul, RAM owned Hauberk. The feasibility of controlling areas other than military from Hauberk’s computer terminals was clear. Within decades, it was impossible for cargo to move to or from Earth without RAM’s sanction. Even the solar power that promised such an inexpensive form of energy for ravished Earth was routed through Hauberk’s controls from its solar collectors in space. Hauberk grew.

  As the administrator of Terran life, Hauberk made an attractive target. Its defense systems grew with it, until it boasted the most sophisticated defensive weaponry in the solar system. Its shields were a powerful repellent blanket that pushed unauthorized material away. It had its own crack fighter squadron, code named Deathwatch, station-based artillery, and missiles. It was invulnerable.

  Seaforian smiled as he thought of Hauberk now, four hundred years from its humble beginnings. It was a monolith of automated computer systems. Its humanoid complement numbered less than one thousand technicians, most of them from devastated Earth, a few ruthless supervisors, and a small population of androids. Hauberk was considered dull, if isolated duty, for the androids performed all manual labor and much of the day-to-day administration as well.

  Seaforian had a fondness for robots over computer generated personalities. Androids knew their jobs and did them without comment. They were supremely efficient, and if they were not, the loss in efficiency was due to a malfunction, not capricious self-indulgence or laziness. Seaforian abhorred both in his staff. He stretched out, allowing the cushions that supported his body to meld around him, and held out a hand. His personal robot moved forward on silent runners, a tray of grapes in its grasp. Seaforian’s long fingers lazily plucked solid red fruit, bruising the delicate bloom that was the pride of the gourmet. He popped a grape into his mouth and chewed slowly, ruminating on his prospects.

  The android waited patiently, used to Seaforian’s indolence. The softly pulsing green light that indicated active status ran slowly back and forth across its brow. Suddenly the light moved to the center of its track and blinked rapidly. “Your call, sir,” the robot announced. Its voice was pleasantly female, because Seaforian found that soothing.

  The station commander paused, his hand over the tray of grapes a look of resignation in his brown eyes. "Activate." he replied.

  The android whirred importantly then clicked, and a clipped male voice demanded Seaforian’s attention. “You wished to speak to me, Seaforian?"

  "Yes, Kane.” Seaforian masked his irritation at the base human’s use of his name. Kane might be an unaltered human and therefore inferior to Seaforian’s Martian heritage, but he was a killer. Seaforian knew his reputation well. He had no intention of antagonizing him over protocol. “I am afraid I have some disquieting news."

  Cornelius Kane waited for Seaforian to continue. He had found, in his dealings with those who regarded themselves as superior, that forcing them to converse with themselves had a humbling effect.

  “I am afraid we will have to reschedule our training session." said Seaforian.

  “That is disquieting. Frankly, I am not sure I will be available. The demands on my time are increasing daily”

  "I am afraid you must make yourself available, Kane."

  "0h?” There was a dangerous softness in Kane’s voice. “This is a priority mission, Kane, and you know it.”

  "Priority for you. Not, necessarily, for me.”

  “Kane, you know as well as I there is no one better suited to run this session?

  "I must agree with you.”

  “You also know Hauberk’s position on the hierarchical pyramid.”

  “Yes."

  "Are you aware of the fact,” Seaforian said conversationally, “that I could make it impossible for you to work anywhere within the structure of RAM?”

  “Oh, I don’t think so. Have you considered the consequences of expelling me from RAM?”

  Seaforian refrained from telling Kane the pleasure such thoughts had given him “I am not unaware of the implications.”

  “But I think you are, or you would never have made the threat. Without RAM, there is only one other major outlet for my talents: NEO.”

  “Phaugh! NEO would kill you.”

  “Perhaps. I think not. Imagine what I could tell them.”

  Seaforian laughed shortly. “No fear of that. They haven’t the patience. It took RAM months to obtain your . . . cooperation.”

  “But I might tell NEO freely. Everything.”

  “Then perhaps we should wipe your mind now, instead of harboring you. There are other pilots."

  Kane chuckled. “Come, Seaforian. Let us stop these games. We never have a conversation without this fruitless verbal fencing. You want to reschedule.”

  “Yes.” “I suppose there’s a reason for this.”

  “I am afraid so. The shipment seems to have gone astray.”

  “Astray?” Kane’s voice sounded perturbed.

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “‘The supplier is citing a computer error.’ It was clear from Seaforian’s tone he did not believe the excuse.

  “When can you expect replacements?” Kane asked.

  “I have contacted Warhead, and they are sending a second shipment. It should be here in ten days’ time-If nothing goes wrong with the transport voucher,” added Seaforian sarcastically.

  “Hmm. I can rearrange my other appointments to accommodate you. However, I will expect confirmation of the shipment’s arrival.”

  “I cannot blame you, Kane.”

  “And my payment?”

  “I have approved it.”

  “Then I will expect to hear from you.”

  “And you will, Kane. Seaforian out.”

  The green light on the android’s forehead began to move again, its rhythm hypnotic. Seaforian selected a grape and chewed on it thoughtfully, mulling over his interview with Kane. The man constantly irritated him with his insouciance and bravado. His credentials-since joining RAM--were in order, but he was in a unique position. A defector from the misguided ranks of the NEO terrorists, Kane was not fully trusted even though he was a major figurehead in RAM’s recruiting program. He was visible.

  Seaforian chewed on the word, rolling it through his mind. It carried a plethora of implications. Most of all, it meant Kane was a target. In the hierarchy of RAM’s political family, it did not pay to be visible. One tended to die. Better, much better, he thought, to be an elusive, mysterious power. Seaforian had cultivated such a position over the years, and his monetary holdings would have surprised many of his colleagues.

  Yet visibility had advantages. Kane could not afford to make mistakes. He was continually in the limelight. If there were need, he could be made a scapegoat. The Martian sighed, loath to face that possibility. Already his top-security training exercises were disrupted, and the new systems he had managed to secure for his division were lost. It was not an auspicious beginning. He plucked another grape.

  The robot moved closer, to be sure the fruit was under the commander’s outstretched hand.

  “I think,” Seaforian said, “we had best prepare a suitable companion for the notorious Mr. Kane. Activate Code Eighteen-A.”

  The robot’s green light pulsed briefly, then a humming noise issued from its depths. “Eighteen-A open,” it replied.

  “I want to prepare a monitor. Access physical data on Kane, Cornelius, a.k.a. Killer, mercenary, former NEO terrorist leader.”

  “Information copied.”

  “Good. Correlate this data with the monitor. Set it to cover Kane only.”

  “Frequency?” inquired the android.

  “Twenty-four-hour watch. His smallest movement is to be catalogued.”

  “Activation?”

  “When he comes within range of Hauberk. You may as well scan for him beginning now.”

 
“Affirmative. Do you wish audio?”

  Seaforian became exasperated. “Of course I wish audio! Can’t you do anything?”

  “I am faithful to my programming,” replied the robot.

  “We’ll have to see about that," said Seaforian. “I am sick and tired of explaining every little detail to you.” “May I suggest the new software upgrade, HOMO One?”

  “All right, all right. I’ll see to it. But I warn you, if you think a software upgrade gives you the right to talk back to me, you have another thing coming. I will tolerate no disrespect.”

  “I am incapable of disrespect, sir.”

  “And you will remain so. Or be scrapped.”

  There was a whir of dismay from the android, and Seaforian reached for another piece of fruit, confident he had instilled caution in his small companion. He changed the subject. “Time, please.”

  “Oh-nineteen-hundred,” replied the robot in a startled squawk.

  “Yes? said Seaforian. “It is time for dinner. I am famished. And I expect a better show than yesterday. The bread was stale."

  “The bakery has been having some small problems, sir.”

  “I do not care to hear excuses. See that the meal is edible.”

  “At once.” The robot’s squat body wheeled dutifully over to Seaforian’s computer outlet and plugged in, sending the commander’s order to the station’s galley.

  Seaforian’s order was the smallest part of Hauberk’s business, though it handled his whims with superb precision. Its computer rivaled RAM main for size and complexity. Every day it handled the business of a planet, making millions of decisions that affected the life of every being on Earth. Every day its mechanical mind handed down decisions on human welfare. Every day it tightened the noose of slavery around each neck, discounting the vagaries of the human mind for the crystal clarity of its own programming. Every day Earth died a little more.