Buck Rogers in the 25th Century: Far Beyond the World
Part XII - Left in a Lurch
Halfway between Earth and the Moon, thirty minutes ago...
With a blast of reverse thrusters, the Hatchet-Fighter designated Marauder-88 came to a breaking halt, floating in the diamond-flecked black ether between worlds, and in the cockpit of the jaggedly-shaped craft it's pilot regarded the blue-green marble of the planet Earth directly ahead and dearly wished that was the fighter's current destination.
But it wasn't, Marauder-88 had a completely different directive, though not one officially approved of by the Draconian Dynasty. Or even unofficially approved of. Why? Because the being manning the rust-hulled ship's controls was not a Draconian. And they weren't actually 'manning' the controls, because the able-bodied warrior wasn't a man, it was a woman.
A woman named Wilma Deering.
How come we don't have a call sign? the auburn-haired Colonel wondered absently as she finished powering down the Marauder's engines and flicked off it's running lights. That tradition has long vanished back in the late 20th Century with the Nuclear Holocaust that happened just after Buck got frozen in space, but I don't think it should have. Speaking of Buck, look at him, that's not his actual name or even a nickname really: Lucky Buck. It's his handle, his call sign. It was given to him after he graduated from flight school, I'll wager, by other pilots who'd gotten their wings, who each had call signs of their own...
Wilma finished entering the final computations into her flight board and brought up the Cargo controls.
Zephyr, Fireball, Maverick, Wizard, those names were important, they created a sense of legend, a feeling of camaraderie, that has been long missing from the squadrons of starfighters that have protected our planet in the name of the Earth Defense Directorate, and I think we need that tradition to return...
She hit a switch on the board and with a hum of disengaging maglocks a hatch on the ventral side of the Marauder, directly beneath Deering's seat in fact, swung open, exposing it's contents to the dark vacuum of space. There wasn't much air in there, and what there was was instantly expelled in a spray of expanding white vapor that vanished into the nothingness like the ectoplasmic husk of a phantasm under the spreading sunlight of the rising dawn.
Wilma's nimble hands darted across the diamond-shaped Draconian keyboard mounted to the left of the amber-glowing Scanner display screen, feeding commands into her 'borrowed' vessel's cargo clamps.
In fact, I think that's what I'm going to do when I get back home to New Chicago and everything is put right once again. I'm a Colonel, right? That's right, I am. And with that rank comes some pull, and it's about time I gave it a yank. Her cheeks flushed beneath the flared side rims of the Draconian flight helmet.
Gave it a yank? Yeesh, that sounded like something Buck would say. Okay, I've been spending way too much time with him, I'm starting to think like him.
Or, I'm NOT spending enough time with him, and this is my mind's way of filling the lonely gap that always seems to be in my heart when he's not around. Especially when he's off on a dangerous mission risking life and limb, like he's doing right this second...
She closed her eyes and for a moment her gauntleted hand halted in it's administrations on the Marauder's controls. Wilma was no longer in the cockpit of the Draconian starfighter she and Hawk had salvaged from the lunar gorge he'd left it behind in, no, in her mind's eye she was back in Searcher's lift car rising toward the Bridge, and Buck held her in his strong arms, and she embraced him back, and their lips were pressed together, their mouths open and one organ, as their breath mingled and became one captured pocket of hot and moist gas that thrust back-and-forth between their pressed-together chests, and--and what am I doing?!
Wilma blinked back to reality and exhaled long and deep, dragged a hand down her perspiration flecked face.
"Get control of yourself, Colonel." she commanded softly but firmly in the cockpit and squared her shoulders under the flexible armor of the flightsuit that had once belonged to a Draconian Private that Hawk had defeated in honorable combat.
Don't know what came over me, I never lose control like that, she scowled as she finished imputing the last of the orders into her special cargo, then hit a key which released the cargo clamps and with a small thump that made the captured Marauder vibrate a silver cylinder drifted free. It spun slowly out into space, then a transmission grid lit-up on it's bullet-shaped front and began to pulsate blue-red, blue-red, over-and-over in one second increments of each color.
There we go, smiled Wilma wanly, the beacon is working, excellent! The transmission should take about ten minutes to reach Earth orbit and to the armada it will appear that a sixteenth Star Fortress is out here, badly damaged and under attack from an unknown but heavily-armed enemy fleet. And then in short order they will hopefully send every starfighter they have to assist, along with some of their own Star Fortresses. And that will hopefully give Buck's shuttle plenty of space to squeeze through their patrol net, as long as Crichton's Cloaking Field works as good as he claims it will...
Wilma scowled at the thought of Captain Rogers fate being in the hands of the arrogant upstart of a robot, but it was far too late to do anything about it, and besides, she needed to get out of here, and fast, because it wouldn't pay to be spotted by the Draconian rescue force when they arrived to assist their wounded Star Fortress. So she powered up the fighter and in a blast of thrusters rotated it around 180 degrees and prepared to head back to Searcher.
Or she would have, but her three sizes too big Draconian magnetic boot froze an inch above the plasma thrust pedal, thanks to her sharp eyes spotting the squadron of four Marauders rapidly approaching her position.
Okay, I really was off my game back there, as I forgot to turn the Scanner back on! And this is happening way too fast!
She stabbed the button and the display lit-up with a field of amber, in-which now glowed four emerald points of light: the enemy squadron.
Where in blazes did they come from?! he mind whirled as she gripped the control stick tightly and powered up her fighter's weaponry.
They must have come from the moon, and were just out of my range when I powered down to launch the beacon. Wonderful, just wonderful...
"Marauder-88! Marauder-88!" crackled the lead pilot in charge of the intercepting squadron, "Come in, Marauder-88!"
Wilma licked her lips and took a deep breath, then reached to her board and twisted a nob, lowering the power feeding into her comlink, forcing it to automatically compensate by increasing it's subfrequency feed. She lowered her tone as much as possible and replied.
"Marauder-88 here, over." she replied as husky as she could make it. Chauvinistic pigs, these Draconians, only having male pilots. Their backwards practices are going to get me killed, I just know it...
"Private Rohann?" the voice in her helmet was terse, "This is Lieutenant Nadav of Squardron-Omicron. Why are you all the way out here, and not back in your required patrol sector?"
"Ahhh...there was a, uh, malfunction in my navigational computer, sir." and she pressed her foot to the PT pedal, prepared to slam it to the floor of the cockpit.
"A Navicom error strayed you this far from guarding the Lunar Accelerator? How exactly is that possible? And what is wrong with your comlink?"
Lunar Accelerator? frowned Wilma, then see gripped the control stick tighter and got ready to unleash blasters on them. Starting with their nosy leader...
"I've got an overload in my power core as well, it's causing interference." she raised the prow of her Marauder a half degree and edged Lt. Nadav's fighter toward the center of her crosshairs. These Draconian controls are so sluggish, it's like trying to run while knee-deep in mud. No wonder we're almost always their superior in space combat-
"Private!" demanded the Lieutenant over the radio, "What are you doing!"
Spotted me, huh! Wilma's eyes narrowed and gave up the prowling pretence, jammed her aim the rest of the way and his Marauder centered on her aiming screen. Okay, that's the end of you!
She thumbed the trigger and slammed the thrust pedal to the floor, fully expecting to be shooting through the expanding fireball of Nadav's former starfighter. But neither of those things happened! Instead, the trigger stud just clicked blankly and her own Marauder didn't thrust forward one iota.
And then her flight board went dead.
What the heck?! Wilma twisted the stick and pounded on the console, but to no avail.
Her comlink was still working though, as she heard the Lieutenant laughing at her over the line, "I was sure you weren't Rohann, interference or no interference, he's an arrogant fool who never hesitates to lord his family connection to the Warlord at anybody within earshot. Hah! So I sent the Disable code through your 'malfunctioning' Navicom."
His cannons flashed and Wilma shut her eyes, prepared for oblivion, but the twin beams flashed over her Marauder without touching it and instead struck the beacon she'd deployed half a click away and blew it to bits.
So much for Buck's distraction, she moaned internally.
Lieutenant Nadav signalled to his wing-man, "Take him!"
One of the Marauders jetted forward toward Colonel Deering's fighter and snagged her with a glowing orange tractor beam, then set off across space toward Earth, hauling her after him like useless scrap metal.
All Wilma could do was shut her eyes...
To be continued...