Buck Roger XXVC #01 Martian Wars #01 Rebellion 2456

  Rebellion 2456

  M. S. Murdock

  Book One : The Martian Wars Trilogy

  Table of Contents

  Rebellion 2456 Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Supervisor Monch.” The technician’s voice was soft, deferential, but it still irritated his supervisor.

  “'What IS it, B-two-eight-five?”

  Monch made a habit of referring to his subordinates by number instead of name or rank, in order to preserve their humility. Ari Sdeer was used to the technique, and he let it slide off his back. “I show a code breakdown on a routine security check,” he informed his superior.

  The RAM mainframe computer on Mars blinked Its trillions of kilometers of carefully laid electronic expressway surged with traffic. Electrical impulses raced the lanes with stunning speed, making ninety degree angles and running switchbacks without slackening. The impulses nipped at each other’s heels, so closely spaced they were a continuous blur of current. They ran without pause through the Martian day and night.

  Russo-American Mercantile was the dominant power in the solar system. Based on Mars, its properties extended to the known planets and their moons. The tiniest details of life, from fashion trends to wage rates, were the business of the RAM mainframe. Solar power, garnered from satellite linked space stations, was sent on its appointed rounds to factories businesses, and private dwellings, each served according to its investment in the corporate structure.

  Linked to the RAM main computer by thousands of electronic umbilical cords were its children. Every civilized outpost, whether within RAM’s immediate jurisdiction or not, had at least one link to the RAM computer system. Each link sent never-ending streams of data into the main computer network, relayed from communications satellites to space stations to Mars, where every bit was catalogued and sorted and filed in the appropriate slot. The body of information RAM main was asked to process was enormous. It handled the awesome complexities of its job with ridiculous ease.

  Yet it blinked.

  A split-second cessation of power interrupted RAM main’s orderly train of thought. Its security program locked in, jumping between the ordinary electronic blips at double the speed of normal computer operations, then ran smack into a seething wall of static.

  It recoiled into a backup security impulse with a squeal that resulted in an error code. Main took note of the distress signal and called in a virus hunters program geared to absorb static and restore clear circuitry.

  RAM main knew this disruption, though the pattern of static it created was alien. It was a recent development, violently destructive to delicate micro-circuits. Its elimination was essential.

  The virus hunter went after the intruder deliberately, with none of the bravado or flash of the initial security check. It proceeded on a deliberate course, checking the circuit it ran for signs of tampering. It approached the disruption confidently; the mainframe’s damaged chip roared in confusion, its microscopic connections raw nerve endings the virus hunter would heal. As the hunter began to absorb the static the area cleared, and RAM main requested a report. The injured chip dutifully replied with a systems check. Main countered its report with the message “INVALID REPLY.” The chip ran the systems check again, and was again met with an error message. It locked, confused.

  RAM main ran the chip’s systems report through a bank of maintenance programs. The bank rejected it with the words “INVALID CODING.” Main paused, correlating the fragments of information concerning its injury with the chip’s system malfunction. It rerouted the systems analysis to the security bank, requesting possible decoding.

  The security bank absorbed the systems report, then bent its awesome background in languages and codes to deciphering the message. Format after format flashed through its circuits. Within minutes the security bank discarded current code dictionaries and began to probe its archives for a matching pattern. It roamed back in time, systematically searching blocks of data in ten-year increments. The systems read-out stubbornly refused a match, until security reached the years 1990 to 2000, pinpointing the year 1995. The security bank stopped with the third entry for that year, beeped, and spoke to RAM main. “POSSIBLE MATCH,” it said.

  “CONFIRM,” replied the main computer.

  The security bank ran the data match again. “MATCH CONFIRMED. SYSTEM DAMAGED FORTY-EIGHT SEGMENTS MATCH,"it stated.

  “IDENTIFY CODE,” said main.

  “MILITARY CODE, CIRCA MAY, 1995.”

  “SPECIFY MILITARY BRANCH.”

  “KGB, SPECIAL LIAISON,” replied the security bank,

  “DECODE AND DISPLAY SYSTEMS ANALYSIS FOR HOLO, G'RAPHIC CHIP A1984560001,” instructed the mainframe.

  The garbled systems analysis grew slowly on RAM main’s security board. The entry was badly mutilated by the virus, and recognizable words were few and far between

  “A1984560001,” Sdeer told Monch upon seeing the read-out. “A holographic code,” he added.

  “Hardly worth our notice. I am surprised the system did not handle it internally.” Monch regarded the laboriously constructed gibberish on the computer screen with drawn brows. “Request reason for screen display,” he told Sdeer.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “UNAUTHORIZED COMPUTER LANGUAGE ALTERATION, ” stated RAM main in response.

  “Hmm.” Monch studied the terminal. “It would take a major power disruption to cause a language alteration. Any outage messages from the main generator?”

  “No, sir,’ ’Sdeer informed him.

  “The backup systems?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Instruct RAM main to hold this analysis in Data One, and compare it to all incoming transmissions or interior deviations.”

  “At once, sir.’ ’Sdeer programmed Data One while his supervisor paced behind his chair. This made Sdeer nervous, and he had to concentrate to make sure there were no mistakes in his entry.

  “And take the three full words, plus that anagram or initial or whatever it is, and run them through the general data banks,” said Monch, pausing directly behind his subordinate.

  “Anagram, sir?”

  “K-A-R, you idiot,” said Monch, pointing to the screen. “Find out what it means.”

  “Yes, sir,” returned Sdeer.

  “If RAM main thinks it’s enough of a systems error to warrant maintenance from our end, we’ll run a complete check. What about the virus hunters sent to the damaged chip?”

  “They’re still operational, sir. They have by-passed the damaged area and are continuing to search for the cause of the disturbance.”

  Monch watched the screens absently as they monitored security’s operations. “That’s all, B
-two-eight-five. If main comes up with any more information, I expect to be notified.”

  “Yes, of course, sir.” Sdeer’s soft voice was flat. For all his superior’s officious orders, both men knew they probably had heard the last of the disruption. Every day RAM main catalogued thousands of minor errors and dealt with them. Rarely-say, once every few days-the computer discovered a malfunction it deemed worthy of humanoid notice, but even these disturbances seldom required external tampering. Repair of RAM main was almost unknown. The computer contained its own maintenance and reconstruction system. Once every five years it underwent a security overhaul, but aside from that, it was essentially a self-healing entity.

  This time, however, both Sdeer and Monch were wrong. Deep within RAM main a deadly illness was raging. It scorched along circuitry freeways, leaving a trail of static and burned-out chips, molten metal pools, and fried wiring where once there had been circuit switches. It moved wildly, with no perceptible pattern, jumping erratically from lane to lane. It was not a mistake, a malfunction, or a power loss. It was an invader, seeking the heart of RAM. It was Masterlink.

  One of the first autonomic, computer-controlled, space-borne weapons systems, Masterlink was launched from Earth in the late twentieth century. For live hundred years it hung in space, waiting for the chance to link with a power source. For five hundred years it brooded, its thoughts running over themselves in tortuous convolutions. Now it was free.

  It had fortune and curiosity to thank for that.

  Simund Holzerhein, RAM’s chief executive officer and a computer-generated persona, had shown interest in the ancient weather device the moment he learned of its discovery in an orbit between Earth and Mars. The RAM patriarch had ordered it brought to Mars to be examined, where technicians discovered Masterlink, a volatile artificial intelligence Holzerhein invited into RAM main’s electronic matrix.

  That first encounter had begun innocuously enough, with Masterlink explaining its creation, purpose, and re-creation with its alter ego, Soviet colonel Anatoly Karkov, now called Karkov.dos. The discussion deteriorated when Holzerhein questioned Masterlink’s presence within the weather satellite. In an attempt to save Earth from nuclear war, American fighter ace Anthony “Buck” Rogers had made a last-ditch kamikaze run to destroy Masterlink. But at the last moment, Masterlink downloaded Karkov’s persona into its memory banks and shunted to the available satellite, leaving Rogers to die in a futile blaze of glory.

  Holzerhein’s claims that he had and would not release Rogers’s body enraged Masterlink. It nursed hatred for Rogers at the core of its program. It sought revenge, literally ripping Holzerhein’s matrix domain to bits in its escape.

  Now it lurked in the depths of RAM main, trying to find its heart. So far, main’s security system had blocked access, but Masterlink knew in time it would find an opening. Five hundred years of passive existence developed patience. Masterlink sought alternate sources of power, absorbing minor programs as it raged through the gargantuan maw of RAM main.

  It was aware of the virus hunters main had sent on its trail. They were petty annoyances, easy to confuse. Masterlink knew they would grow in numbers as it became more of a threat to main, but it had no worries. A larger threat meant more power, and, once it had the resources, Masterlink intended to set the virus hunters’ own absorbency against them. It contemplated the thought with glee as it flew through the system, searching for a switchback where it could rest, absorb the impulses around it into its twisted memory, and probe for references to its archenemy, Buck Rogers.

  Chapter 2

  Buck Rogers saw stars. Not the celestial display, but a purely personal vision. Plnpricks of white light exploded behind his eyes, not in front of them, and tears dampened hss lashes. He blinked them away and set his teeth.

  “I’m going to take you, hero,” said his opponent.

  “Not if I have anything to say about it.” Buck’s grimace broadened. “I’m not going to let an antique beat me!”

  “Antique?”

  “George Orwell died in nineteen fifty.” Buck found NEO’s penchant for historical names a rich source of banter.

  “Considerably before your time,” noted his Opponent.

  “Considerably.” Buck took a quick breath find leaned Into his opponent’s grip, his knuckles white.”

  “I should have picked a different code name.”

  George Orwell met Buck’s grip with a hand the size of a skillet. “This is an interesting piece of folklore,” he commented, his eyes bright.

  “Maybe to you,” said Buck between his teeth. Orwell’s blue-suited form towered over him, all the strength of his six-foot, eight-inch frame channeled toward his right hand. Buck was beginning to regret his flip challenge. “I . . . prefer to think of it . . . as a cultural . . . tradition.” His chest heaved.

  Orwell’s big hand wrapped around Buck’s, almost hiding it. A muscle in the larger man’s cheek jumped.

  “Well, well. So you’re . . . not impervious,” Buck managed.

  “Never said I was.” Orwell’s nostrils flared as he sucked in more air. “Why do they call it Indian wrestling?”

  “No idea,” answered Buck as sweat trickled slowly from his hair and down his face. Orwell’s grip was crushing, and the stars behind Buck’s eyes were beginning to swim. He knew he was on the verge of losing consciousness, but he held on, as stubborn as a mule.

  Orwell sent a surge of power into his forearm, and he bore down on Buck. Rogers’ arm was forced toward his shoulder. He pushed back desperately, but Orwell’s strength was overwhelming. Suddenly the grip eased, and Orwell released Buck’s hand. He shook his own huge paw and grinned. “I’ll bet the circulation won’t come back for five minutes,” he said.

  Buck shook his head. The stars rocked, then began to fade. He worked his fingers. “You win,” he said, and grinned.

  “You win,” said Orwell, and grinned back.

  Buck flexed his fingers one more time and gingerly extended his hand. “We both win.”

  Orwell regarded Buck’s gesture quizzically. “You want another round?” he asked.

  “Not on your life. Shake.”

  “Shake?” Orwell asked, confused. “Shake what?”

  “Shake hands,” said Buck, demonstrating. “Another archaic custom, one from medieval times that showed that neither man had a knife up his sleeve."

  “You’re full of them.”

  “It’s my right as an anachronism.” Buck rubbed his hand and found a seat for his weary body. “You’ve got quite a grip.”

  “It‘s in the genes. My grandmother was a RAM domestic gennie, engineered for physical labor.”

  Buck regarded his opponent. “I don’t want to commit a social blunder, but I’m afraid I don’t really understand gennies. You’re a descendent of one?”

  “That’s right. A ‘mutie’ to RAM.”

  “Mutant.”

  Orwell nodded. “Strictly speaking, a gennie is a being genetically engineered for specific tasks. You had the seeds-forgive the pun-of them in your own time in selectively bred livestock. Gennies take the process one step further. Their DNA is often altered in the earliest stages of development, sometimes even before fertilization. This allows the development of specific characteristics. In the twenty-fifth century, genetic engineering is a familiar process.”

  “And that’s where your strength comes from?”

  Orwell nodded. “That’s one reason I backed off. How you ever held me off is a mystery to me. You shouldn’t have been able to. Mind you, I’d never have accepted your challenge if that gennie pirate of yours had been around. I’m no match for him.”

  “Barney?” Buck flexed his fingers again. “Maybe I should have thought twice before I let him go prospecting with your strike squad. He’s a gennie? Even I can tell he’s more than genetically engineered.”

  “His specialties are boosted by cybernetics. Still, he’s basically a gennie.”

  Buck leaned back in his chair until it teetered precar
iously on two legs. His blue eyes were thoughtful. “You look shell-shocked,” George commented. “I am. Only we used to call it future shock-a term I now find all too appropriate.”

  “Captain Rogers.” A boy of fourteen had approached, and stood deferentially before the table where Buck and Orwell were seated. His gray eyes were serious. He extended a hand. The folded square of paper he held trembled.

  Buck could see in the boy’s eyes that coming face to face with a hero was tying the child up in knots. He’d seen the symptoms before, in the worshipful eyes of teen-agers who dreamed of being fighter jocks, flying hot planes as fast and as high as they could go-and from his own adolescence, when he himself had done the dreaming. He took the note from the one he knew as Tremain and flashed his teeth in his best press-release grin. “Thanks, kid.”

  The boy bobbed his head in acknowledgment, suddenly incapable of speech. He backed away, his eyes shining.

  “You gave Tremain a thrill,” commented Orwell when the boy had gone. “It’s a little scary having a legend in our midst.”

  “It’s a little scary being here,” returned Buck, “but the alternative was considerably worse.” Orwell’s eyes were amused. “Death usually is.”

  “Not acceptable? Right.” Buck unfolded the stiff paper

  “Love letters so soon? You’ve barely been resurrected!”

  “Not exactly. I’ve sort of been stood up. Temporarily.” He pushed the note across the table.

  Orwell turned it around and scanned it. “Colonel Deering. You’re flying high.”

  Buck retrieved the note. He refolded it and tucked it into a pocket of the blue, standard issue NEO jump suit he wore. “She’s quite a lady,” he responded noncommittally. “George, no one has had time to fill me in on the setup around here. I know we’re in a New Earth Organization base under Chicagorg.” He looked around the manmade cave. Solar-powered light panels gave it the homey warmth of his mother’s living room. He and Orwell were in a lounge area filled with old-fashioned books and new-fashioned computer screens, rough-hewn timbers and polished steel beams. On the walls were relics from Earth’s, past: national flags, machine parts, street signs, posters, and photographs. “We seem to be about one level down from twentieth century street level. This must have taken years to build.”