Buck Rogers 1 - Buck Rogers in the 25th Century (23 page)

“There’s no time to discuss it now, Colonel! You’ve got to scramble the Intercept Squadron—right now, at once!”

“Yes, doctor, of course you’re right. Good luck to you!” Colonel Deering clicked off the patched transmission and punched buttons on her personal communicator control panel. As soon as the new commo linkage was established she spoke breathlessly into her minimike. “Dr. Huer—Permission to scramble fighter craft! I was right about Buck Rogers—that traitor! The Draconians are about to launch an attack!”

She was entirely right, as the scene aboard the
Draconia
’s command bridge gave testimony. Kane was in full command, military chief of the ship under imperial authority from the Princess Ardala. From his command post he addressed the entire ship via electronic linkage. “Battle stations! Marauders prepare to launch! Stand by at my countdown. Five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . .
attack!”

The tiger-striped marauder craft shot forward from the flagship, each menacing shape jolting into the vacuum as its catapult launcher delivered it the initial thrust that would start it into space with the velocity required to start its rocket engines. At one side of the
Draconia
’s launching deck Buck Rogers, still arrayed in imperial uniform, smiled a grim, expectant smile.

In the
Draconia
’s commo center Theopolis remained where Twiki had placed him. The console operator’s earphones were now affixed incongruously to the audio pickup circuits of the computer-brain.

His lights flashing with grim urgency and dedication, Dr. Theopolis whispered to his quad associate, relaying messages as they arrived through his earphones. “War is declared, Twiki,” Theopolis said huskily. The drone nodded solemnly, indicating that he understood the gravity of the situation.

In the deeps of space two forces of sleek fighting craft sped on collision course. One was the Intercept Squadron, launched from Earth’s Inner City and rocketing at top speed for the
Draconia
and its deadly parasites. The other was the lurid red and black striped pirate marauders launched by the
Draconia
’s catapults.

With imperial discipline the marauder pilots simultaneously clicked on their rocket-fuel feed-lines and tapped their engine-starter controls.

In the command ship of the Intercept Squadron, Colonel Wilma Deering radioed her pilots. “This is Blue Flight Leader. Attack bombers as they launch. Then well go after the mother ship.”

She received a startling reply from her forward observer pilot. “There are no fighters to attack, Leader. Take a look in your distance scope!”

“That doesn’t make sense!” Wilma exclaimed. But she followed her eff-oh’s recommendation and snapped on her distance scope, just in time to see the greatest fireworks display in the history of explosives.

In perfect unison and in perfect formation, the entire fleet of Draconian attack bombers disguised as pirate marauder craft, blossomed into a precision array of orange and black puff-balls, silently filling space with their vaporized metal while shooting off showers of white-hot fragments that were too massive and were blown away from the bombers too rapidly to have time to vaporize.

“They’re dying of their own deceit,” Wilma whispered. “I don’t see how, but somehow their entire force of bombers has blown itself to smithereens! All right!” Suddenly she was no longer the wondering observer but the crisply effective military commander. “All Starfighters regroup,” she spoke over her radio link, “form attack arrays and prepare to finish off the Draconian mother ship!”

The
Draconia,
gigantic though she was, had endured considerable damage from the force of the exploding marauders and the impact of a sizable number of heavy, high-velocity fragments that acted exactly like shrapnel when they impacted. The launching deck itself was the most heavily effected area. On it the forms of dead, wounded, or simply trapped Draconian personnel lay pinned in the wreckage of the catapults and service cranes.

One of the bodies was not that of a Draconian, although it wore Draconian garb. It was Buck Rogers. Buck moved a little, moaned once, then was still.

In the communications center, the console operator had failed to return to his station, sidetracked by the violence and surprise of the destruction of Draco’s pirate marauder squadron. Instead of the regular operator, Twiki and Theopolis continued to man the console. Theopolis was saying to the drone, “Did you hear Wilma, Twiki? She’ll kill Captain Rogers. We’ve got to stop her! Come in, Colonel Deering, come in!”

He heard the pop of her line opening to receive his call. “You can’t attack, Colonel,” Theopolis pleaded. “You’ll kill Captain Rogers!”

“That would be no great loss, doctor!” Wilma swung her Starfighter into a surging, swooping bank. The remainder of her Intercept Squadron maintaining careful formation, Wilma swept into a devastating laser run against the great, lumbering hulk of the
Draconia.

Aboard the giant starship Princess Ardala of the Draconian Realm stood before the portal of her stateroom, gaping in shock at the ravening fury of the explosions outside as her fleet of attack bombers, painted in their pirate ship disguises, were utterly destroyed. The door of the stateroom swung open before the furiously booted kick of Kane.

“This is your doing, Ardala!” Kane snarled angrily. “I ought to leave you on the
Draconia
to be blown up by those cursed Starfighters, but I’m going to keep you alive and drag you before your father so he’ll know who is responsible for this disaster! I have an emergency escape pod ready to launch. It can carry us far enough for your father’s ships to find us.”

“Never!” the princess gasped, white-faced with shock.

“Oh, no! You’re not going to escape your medicine! For once I’m going to enjoy this,” Kane growled. In long, eager strides he crossed the room and smashed the princess across the face with his fat, open-palmed hand. She staggered beneath the force of the brutal attack. He grabbed her by her long, glossy tresses and dragged her, shrieking in helpless fury, from the room.

Meanwhile the attack on the
Draconia
was proceeding with all the unleashed deadliness of the Intercept Squadron’s Starfighters. Buck Rogers had recovered consciousness and struggled from beneath the rubble on the launch deck. Realizing that the
Draconia
was doomed, he began to run, searching frantically for Twiki and Dr. Theopolis.

An ammunition storage bunker on the flight deck exploded into a thunderous cloud of smoke and flame. Buck was knocked flat, again unconscious. Flight deck technicians scattered frantically; a damage control officer clicked into the ship’s loudspeaker system and cried, “Clear flight deck immediately! Burning bunker fire threatens to spread to main ship’s magazine!”

Klaxons blared, sirens screamed, the few surviving Draconians fled frantically up and down the circular ramp, hoping to get away from the main ammo dump before it went up.

Kane entered the main command bridge of the
Draconia,
still dragging the Princess Ardala, by now limp and almost unconscious, behind him. Kane pulled himself together enough to demand a situation report from the duty officer of the bridge.

“I—I don’t know what’s happening, sir,” the officer stammered. “Our ships—they launched perfectly—everything was going according to plan. Then suddenly—all at once—I don’t know what happened, sir. They all just—exploded. All of them!”

“That’s impossible,” Kane grumbled in the face of the evidence. “All right, we’ll look into that later. Right now, we’ve got to fight with what we have left. Direct all batteries to engage those Starfighters in direct anti-spacecraft fire.” Kane turned and headed for the command seat.

Before he could reach it a form materialized in the seat, the functional shape of the furniture transforming itself into an ornate imperial throne. The figure was that of the Emperor Draco, and he was already in mid-bellow and full, red-faced wrath when he appeared. “What in the name of the realm is going on?” he demanded. He raved and smashed his fists against the arms of the throne. “I’m still five thousand miles away and you’ve initiated the attack! I want to know why!”

Kane stood trembling before the emperor. “I—I—” he stammered. Then, in the midst of his confusion, an inspiration struck that might yet get him off the hook and shift the blame for the day’s debacle onto another. “I was just following orders, your majesty,” he purred in sudden self-composure.

“You
were following orders, Kane?” The emperor roared.
“You?
I thought you were in charge of that ship. Top military administrator. Now, whose orders do you think you were following—the Earth Directorate’s?”

“No, your worship. I was following the orders of the imperial crown representative on this ship, the Princess Ardala.”

“The princess?” Draco bellowed. “And did she order you to have all of my ships disintegrate before they could even get into the battle? Do you know what a marauder costs, Kane?”

“Your Majesty, I—that is, sire—” Kane broke down, unable longer to face the wrath of Draco.

“I’ll tell you something, Kane. Yes, Killer,” Draco hissed, and somehow his hiss was more terrifying than his shout. “Yes, I know they call you Killer. Well, you’re going to get a taste of your own medicine, Kane. If either you or the Princess Ardala survive this debacle, I want you before me, scourged and in chains, within twenty-four hours. Then we’ll find out what fun really is!”

And, roaring with bitter, raging laughter, Draco faded slowly from the bridge of the flagship.

Wilma Deering’s Intercept Squadron had settled by now into a steady pattern, circling the
Draconia,
blasting at the giant hulk that quivered, now, without resistance, then banking away, zeroing in, and making another pass at the
Draconia.
Wilma herself led the attack, and from the cockpit of her Starfighter she saw a trail of flaming debris streaming from the battered starship.

Then there was a sudden opening where none had been before, a black cavity in the side of the
Draconia,
a puff of launching material, and an emergency pod streaked away from the battered hulk of the spaceship. Two tiny figures, far too small for Colonel Deering to make out from her Starfighter, huddled in the pod, in mortal fear that they might never be picked up by the minions of Draco and in equal fear that they might be found by those very forces.

On the ruined launch deck of the starship Buck Rogers regained consciousness a second time. His uniform was shredded, his skin bruised and bloodied, every muscle in his body seemed to be in agony and every bone was bruised if not worse. But he was alive, aware, and mobile. He struggled to shove aside the wreckage that kept him from escaping the flight deck.

Wilma Deering turned back to the
Draconia;
the escape pod was too small, too fast, and too far gone to warrant pursuit. But the main target was still at hand.

“The ship’s about ready to blow,” a Starfighter pilot murmured through the intercom, reaching Wilma and all the others in their ships.

“Withdraw from combat area, all ships. I’m going in to try and find Twiki and Dr. Theopolis.”

From the burning hulk a voice reached Wilma’s radiophones. Even through the roaring and the electronic crackle of space, Dr. Theopolis’ rich, mellow voice remained distinctive. “Forget us,” Theopolis urged, “we’re just machines anyhow. Try and find Buck!”

“Buck!” Wilma exclaimed. “After his treason to earth, let him die with his true friends, the Draconians!”

“Wilma, he was no traitor to earth!” Theopolis pleaded. “Buck was a double, a triple agent. He was the one who sabotaged the pirate marauders! He single-handedly won this battle for Earth! And he was the one who sent us to warn you, earlier!”

Wilma’s face was anguished. “Theopolis—why didn’t you tell me! I’m coming in onto the launch deck. Somehow I’ll get in, I don’t know how! But I’ll make it. Get Twiki to bring you and meet me there.” To the rest of her squadron Wilma directed, “Remain in parking orbits near
Draconia.
I’m going in to attempt a rescue operation!”

Twiki lifted Theopolis from the commo console and placed him around his neck. He scuttled for the circular ramp and headed at top speed from the communications bridge to the launch deck. He came scuttering off the ramp and onto the deck, maneuvering with astonishing skill through the heaps of smouldering rubble. As he passed each pile of wreckage he gave it a quick optical scan. Finally he found the pile that held Buck Rogers pinned.

“Buck!” Theopolis exclaimed from Twiki’s chest. “Buck, old fellow, so pleased to find you alive and reasonably well.” .

“Never mind that,” Buck shouted. “The magazine’s going to blow any minute now!”

“Don’t worry, Buck, help is on the way.” Twiki halted in his tracks and began peeling girders and plates away from the place where Buck was trapped.

From his side, Buck pitched in, too, heaving and hauling at wreckage to get it out of the way. “What do you mean,” he gasped between exertions, “what help is on the way?”

“Wilma’s going to bring her Starfighter in here and take us all out of here.”

“But she can’t!” Buck exclaimed. “Look at this deck! She’ll never land safely. She’ll be killed.”

There was a low rumble and the entire hulk of the
Draconia
lurched and trembled.

“It’s going now!” Buck shouted.

Twiki clamped his metal hands on the last girder imprisoning Buck and hurled it aside with his superhuman strength. Little clouds of smoke curled from beneath his shell at the exertion he had made, but—Buck Rogers was free!

The three of them began to run at top speed through the smoke.

Wilma Deering brought her sleek Starfighter to the
Draconia,
jockeying it through alleyways and openings hardly wider than its metal wingspan. There was only one way that that miraculous landing could have been made. No computer-controlled ship could have done it, no preprogrammed procedure could have brought the Starfighter to its perilous berth aboard
Draconia.
The only way it could have been done was the way it had been done: Wilma Deering had switched off her Auto-Flite computer and piloted the Starfighter to its landing, flying, to use an old aviator’s expression, by the seat of her pants.