Buck Rogers- A Life in the Future Page 7
Dr. Jonathan Pickett, his spade beard bristling as he spoke to the technicians aligned with him before the medical levitator, nodded slowly as he voiced his judgment of the human disaster known to them only as Anthony Rogers. "Wilma got through as I had hoped. And she is correct. Despite all the physical damage and shock, he is fully functional in the cerebral sense. That means we can proceed, and I recommend we do so immediately." Pickett's heavy British accent came clearly through the hum and soft whine of electronic machines feeding power to the levitator that suspended Buck Rogers in the healing chamber. Gone was the air suspension system that had kept his torn body from
Buck Rogers
contact with the laser cylinder before he was dematerialized from cells and flesh and liquids and bone into photons suspended in time.
Oxygen saturated his body, soaked into his skin, fed the human form struggling to survive and then begin the precarious process of healing. Intravenous fluids fed into his inner system, speeding high-intensity nourishment to organs and vital systems. Newly-created hormones coursed throughout his body. Vital minerals and enzymes flowed to where their life-serving energy was most needed. Buck Rogers knew none of this. He was in deep electrohypnotic sleep, his mind at rest, even his subconscious subdued to the lowest possible safe level. Nourishment, protection, and regrowth promised to keep him alive and gaining strength.
Caressed and suspended in the mag-grav coils of the levita-tor, he remained unaware of the medical teams already detailing the long road to survival and regeneration.
He experienced the first tendrils of conscious recovery. A superfine wire fed into his brain, terminating in the dream center, where it evoked memories, calm, serene, and most welcome to his severely strained psyche. Buck could not know, but for a long time his mind had been on the verge of shutting itself down to all external stimulation. He was surviving on instinct alone. His body continued to survive because his mind had reverted to primeval status, almost like the security of the womb.
Until Dr. Pickett directed his staff to allow those first waves and electric charges of pain to course through his body and into his mind. Pickett had assembled the best people he could find in all of Amerigo—a nation of which Buck Rogers was not even faintly aware. It didn't matter—yet.
But there was an imperative to saving and rebuilding this man. The program had been ordered by one of the most powerful men in all of Amerigo—a man respected and feared even by many of his closest associates. This man was known as Killer Kane. To his fellow officers and subordinates, he was Commodore-General Kevin Napoleon Kane, the leader of deep space operations of all Amerigo forces.
Although no one ever called him Killer to his face, Kane's appearance reinforced the image of his nickname. Stocky, his body covered with a brush of thick, curly hair, he resembled what
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the old history books often called the missing link between Neanderthal and Cro-Magnon Man. His brutish appearance effectively concealed his brilliance as a deep-space strategist and a master of tactical combat.
Kane had appeared before the High Council of Amerigo on Rogers's behalf From the moment they had discovered the laser cylinder, still functioning perfectly beneath a mountain of rubble, protected by the armored shielding of the fusion reactor, Kane knew he wanted this man kept alive. On the exterior of the laser cylinder, along with operating instructions for the machinery that had kept Rogers alive for so long, he discovered a sealed container with the man's full biographical background, medical records, and special skills. Immediately Kane exercised his power as an advisor to the council, electing not to wait for the legally required vote to expend a small fortune for the program to bring Rogers "back to snuff," as Kane put it bluntly.
The council had called Commodore-General Kane on the carpet for taking matters into his own hands. Although he well knew the council had the power of life or death for anyone who violated its orders, Kane took the daring approach of demanding noninterference and full backing.
Now President Grenvil Logan looked down from his council seat at the grim visage of Kane. "We have many matters before us, Commodore-General. You know that. We will not waste time on amenities. Agreed?"
"Damn right," Kane growled. "Because if we're going to bring this man back, we have no time to lose. It's that simple."
Logan glanced at Vice-President Charlotte Hasafi, daughter of an English mother and a Saudi father, whose influence carried through much of the world. She appreciated the breach of etiquette and form visited upon them by Kevin Kane. Kane was an embodiment of his middle name, Napoleonic in nature, ego, and drive. In these brief moments, Vice-President Hasafi knew it would be she and President Logan who would pass final judgment. They would make the remainder of the council agree with their decision with no delays, no protracted debate.
In this issue, Hasafi knew, Logan was best suited to judge Kane's rash decision. Logan would know if circumstances dictated such drastic action. Logan was a politician, but like some before him, he was also a melding of ethnic and racial groups
Buck Rogers
that made him distinctly individual. A combination of American-European white, African black, Jamaican, and Spanish heritage, Logan had a remarkable sensitivity to such issues. He had the brilliance and master chess-player thinking needed by a man of great power. He had years of experience in various combat zones throughout the world, and he was a born leader of men, mused Hasafi, despite the fact that he practiced ancient rites he was convinced gave him his special mental powers. Hasafi smiled to herself; there was enough superstition in this fractured world for such a practice to gain respect when it was backed up by success.
She returned the gaze of the president and nodded slightly, lowering and then raising her eyes to lock his gaze. It was a clear signal to all the council that these two had made their decision. Logan would judge and the others would support his judgment. .
President Logan leaned forward, his ceremonial robe rubbing with a silky sound as he clasped his fingers and rested his hands on the table before him. "You may rest easy on your breach of procedure, Commodore."
Kane nodded; he saw no need to waste words to express his gratitude. Besides, he didn't give a fig for diplomatic procedure. Had they not been in council chambers, Logan would never have bothered with such a prissy pronouncement. Kane knew the president had to play by the rules of the game.
"Considering the highly unusual nature of this hearing. Commodore, please tell us why you chose to take matters into your own hands." Logan raised one hand to forestall an immediate reply; he wasn't finished lining up the other council members yet. "I am aware. Commodore, that you would never have acted in such a manner if you had not believed that timing was critical and that the results will justify the means. Proceed."
It was time to offer coins to Caesar, judged Kane. Give the devil his due. Logan's got to play the game. But by the looks of the rest of this crowd, I'm bloody glad I'm in full uniform. I hope these blasted medals give them eyestrain.
"This man," Killer Kane began slowly, "is more than just some freak survivor of an experiment from long ago. Most of the old records are gone. But the people who ran that laser experiment, which to us is old hat, did us a great favor. They included a complete dossier on Anthony Rogers. That's the man we're sav-
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ing right now. He lived a double, or perhaps even a triple life."
"Explain, please," came a quiet interruption from Icarus, the Mediterranean councilman.
"As Anthony Rogers," Kane went on, "he had an illustrious career. He was a pilot, but that wasn't enough for him. He was an airline captain, which meant he flew machines with as many as six hundred people aboard. And he flew those machines, including much smaller aircraft, to every part of the world, which is vital to us now because he's been to places where we can't go. Before becoming an airline captain, Rogers was a military pilot. He flew anything with wings or rotors, with almost every kind of propulsion system. He was w
hat I call a missions specialist, what in the old days they called a jack-of-all-trades for the military. The old government sent him time and time again into trouble spots throughout the world. He became a veteran of operations in jungles, deserts, mountains, ocean areas— anywhere his talents were needed. He flew old planes, but he also flew the best machines of his day and age. He flew in a manner we not only may have forgotten, but that we never really knew. Those kinds of skills, his unique experience, and above all his mind-set are exactly what I need for our air and space combat forces. Anthony Rogers—those who knew him called him Buck," he added with obvious feeling, "could be just the catalyst we need to change the attitudes of many of our pilots and combat teams."
Kane took a deep breath, pausing deliberately to let his words sink in.
"But it's more than that," Kane went on finally. "It's what we don't know about him that could prove even more valuable. He was, among other things, a world-renowned aerobatic pilot. He won international competitions for years. He was—is—a highly experienced aeronautical engineer. This man, for a hobby, mind you, designed, built, and flew his own aircraft."
Kane looked from one council member to another. He seemed to have ignited the imaginations of all seven. "Rogers is a great unknown, but he has the potential to be invaluable to us." Kane drew himself up ramrod straight.
"I want him. We need him. As soon as possible." Then he stood silently.
As he'd hoped, the other council members looked for their
Buck Rogers
decision to Logan and Hasafi. The woman gave a barely perceptible nod. Logan's expression showed that he had already made his decision. The others would follow their lead.
Logan gestured for attention, looking directly at Kane. "Do what you must, Commodore-General."
"Done!" Kane answered.
^ ^ ^ ;); :(;
Killer Kane left the council chambers immediately. Behind him were five council members of the president's inner cabinet who, as far as Kane was concerned, were deaf, dumb, and blind to the realities of the present world. What was left of the United States of America was a nation disembodied, splintered, and divided into hopelessly squabbling factions.
It was impossible to escape from the circle of history. When the original America was still largely a wilderness, Mongolian hordes under Temujin—Genghis Khan himself—had smashed through the great civilizations of both Asia and Europe and conquered fully a third of the known world. In the end, it was only sloth and lack of new challenges that finally stopped the Mongol tide. Eventually they returned to the great steppes of Russia and the rich, remote stretches of Siberia, their once seemingly unquenchable drive to conquer all but forgotten.
Only two of the council members. President Logan and Vice-President Hasafi, knew just how grim Amerigo's present-day prospects were. The confrontation in the council chambers had been a charade. Prior to the council session, Kane had met secretly with the two top leaders of Amerigo. In that private session, they had faced up to reality and had assured Kane of their full support and cooperation. It was a pity things had to be done in such a deceitful way, but it was important to preserve the image of the unity of its leadership to the citizens of Amerigo.
Kane shook his head to clear his thoughts. This man from a time so long ago, this ancient warrior, could make all the difference and return Amerigo to its former world leadership and power.
But first they had to virtually rebuild the man. Kane had a thousand questions to ask Buck Rogers. If he was the man Kane thought he was, what had been lost to Amerigo could be regained
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through Rogers's aggressive drive, his memories, his ability to infuse the mihtary with new hope.
The key to making this a reahty lay beyond all the experience and skills of doctors. Although Buck could not possibly be aware of it, he would survive only if something more than medicine came to his aid.
His future rested almost entirely in the skills and talents of Wilma Deering. The young woman—athletic, an experienced jet pilot, and a master gunner—was a contradiction in terms. She combined the tenderness of a woman with a no-nonsense instinct to go for the jugular when she engaged the enemy. She had earned the rank of major in the Space Corps and had fought both outside invaders and rebels in their own land. Her battleground was the sky above and the vacuum of space beyond. There were few who could match her skills in combat, but those skills would be of little help to Buck Rogers.
Kane knew it was vital that Wilma gain Buck's complete trust. He must learn to trust in her care and, even more, trust that she spoke from experience and knowledge rather than merely parroting what others told her.
Above all, she must be a woman to the mutilated man from the past. Wilma must replace the woman Rogers loved and left behind forever in the dusty pages of history. If anyone could make that happen, judged Kane, it was Wilma. The combination of being a lovely woman as well as a psychologist was more than one could hope for, but then, there were very few women like Wilma Deering. He had seen her walk slowly through a hospital ward and with no more than a gentle touch of her hand transform a desperately wounded, despondent patient into one with a renewed will to live.
Lastly, Kane knew that Wilma was something else they never mentioned openly: a sensitive. She was keenly attuned to the emotions of others as they broadcast, unknowingly, their thoughts and feelings and needs.
Such persons were to be found throughout the history of the human race under different names, including witches and magicians. Wilma was neither of those, but she was an empath, and she knew better than Buck himself what he needed to recover from his wounds and injuries, whether physical or emotional. If anyone could bring Buck Rogers back from the physical torture
Buck Rogers
he had gone through, Wilma was that person.
Kane walked swiftly from the council chambers of Niagara, the huge capitol of Amerigo, also known as the Lead Orgzone— the strange political district in which the top organization and headquarters of Amerigo maintained its leadership, protected by a mag-grav shield of enormous power. Trying to pierce this shield, powered by banks of dynamos fed by thermonuclear turbines, was like throwing rocks at a thick fortress wall.
But Kane's business, for the immediate present, lay elsewhere. He needed none of the towering alloy skyscrapers, the banks of electronics, or even the suites of luxurious accommodations befitting a man of his stature. Near the center of Niagara, he went through a series of identilocks and personal security screens. An elevator dropped him six hundred feet beneath the surface of the Niagara River and the metropolitan city that lay sprawled across what had once been parts of both America and Canada.
At the deepest level of the vertical shafts, he entered another security checkpoint. This checkpoint, he knew, was armed by automated guns and laser flashrays that would fire instantly should he fail to pass every security screening. These elevators were the Achilles' heel of the Federated Orgzones since they were a key entry point into the city he had just departed.
He went down a curving tunnel and emerged into a long high-domed structure—Station Number One of the subterranean vacuum-tube train system that allowed rapid transport through the hostile territory that separated the strong points and cities of Amerigo. A single car, armored and surrounded with an eletrograv mag shield, waited for him with its door open, flanked by two armed guards. They saluted as he entered the car, eased into the front seat, attached his eight-point restraint harness, and began his prejourney checklist, including the emer-gencyoxy system that could keep him breathing for a week if there were a tunnel collapse or some other dire emergency.
Finally all was ready. He punched the button that slid the door closed, which in turn built up interior pressure and turned on the lights and communications systems. The long tunnel awaiting him held fiber-optic transceivers for its entire length, enabling Kane to remain in contact with his security teams.
The car shuddered slightly as the guards exited the station<
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and sealed the massive pressure door behind them. A chime sounded softly, and a woman's voice came through the computer system.
"The tunnel is clear of obstacles. You may initiate your journey when ready. Please confirm by retinal scan."
Kane stared into an optical sensor; it flashed so quickly he couldn't even detect the green laser that examined his eye, identifying him by his personal biological code and the implants in the soft, fleshy area on the side of his neck.
"You are clear for your journey. Godspeed." Kane grunted with distaste. Some wag in their transport shop had added that last bit at the end of the computer message. He shrugged. They still had worshipers and dreamers in a world that made a mockery of God granting speed, safe passage, or an3dhing else.
He pressed an amber button. The car swayed briefly as it levitated in the direct center of the tube, suspended by the maglev generators in six layers. Now he looked down the beginning of a long tunnel devoid of air and friction.
He pushed back against the headrest behind him and stabbed the third button. Instantly the car shot forward, reaching its cruise speed of a hundred miles an hour in seconds. Impatient, Kane hit the overdrive command panel.
At five hundred miles an hour, he sped silently and swiftly beneath the earth. To Kane, the journey seemed interminably long. No need to waste time just sitting. He popped a Number Thirty pill beneath his tongue. Moments later he was fast asleep, untroubled by his enormous underground speed. The hypnomed pill would keep him asleep for precisely thirty minutes, a nap from which he would awaken refreshed and alert.
Seven minutes after he emerged from his sleep, the car decelerated to the subterranean station of Wyoming, Pennsylvania, a huge underground medical center deep beneath forested hills and rivers.
He rode the elevator to Sublevel Nine, then strode through the corridors and security doors until he reached a section with the glowing letters above its entrance reading, "RECOVERY."