Table Of ContentTABLE OF CONTENTS
Armageddon 1995
Flint Dille_____8
The Homecoming
Robert Sheckley_42
Triple Cross
Abigail Irvine_92
Tryst of Fate
M.S. Murdock_120
Two Barneys
Ulrike O'Reilly_166
The Relic
Flint Dille_216
The Adversary
Jerry Oltion_250
ARMAGEDDON 1995
Flint Dille
Rogers, I don't have to tell you how important this mission is. There's never been
one like it in the history of the world." General Barker's crisp voice cut through
the darkness of his office, which was lit only by a thin shaft of light that made its
way through the back of a black-out curtain. "Do you understand what it is you'll
be doing?"
Captain Buck Rogers, a solid giant of a man in clean, full duty uniform, cleared
his throat. "Yes, sir. I'll be starting World War III-"
"Wrong! We're sending you up to prevent it, and you will, understand? No hot
shot screwing around on this one, got it? A thousand pilots would give their eye
teeth for this mission, and if I could, I'd send one of them. But you're the best we
have. Both you and this mission are too important for any screw-ups. So just
follow orders!"
Buck stared at the rotund, balding general behind his stacks of papers and
reports, behind his coffee cup and his pencils and his nameplate on the desk. The
general's buttons strained at the fabric of his too-small uniform, and his tie was
spotted with that day's lunch. There's nothing worse than a desk jockey leading
his troops into battle, thought Buck.
Unless that desk jockey also is keeping you from seeing his daughter.
"I'll do my best, sir," Buck said, knowing that neither of them would accept
anything less.
"Of course. Now, as I'm sure you know, the Soviets' Masterlink satellite is the
nerve center for their Space Attack Network. It is capable of shooting down our
nuclear missiles when they're barely off the ground. Our own Strategic Defense
Initiative program is months behind schedule, and we need you to put us ahead.
The United States will not tolerate Soviet nuclear superiority. Period.
"As we are not at war, yet, and because this mission involves inordinate risk, I
must tell you that your cooperation is purely voluntary. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir. If I succeed, I'll be a national hero."
"No. If you succeed, maybe you'll get promoted. But because this mission is
classified, the press will hear nothing of it. Quite unlike the attention you
received after your Gulf mission. But if you fail, don't bother coming back down.
There won't be anything to come back to. World War III will begin."
"I understand, sir," Buck said, inwardly fuming at the lack of confidence his
superior was showing for the ace pilot.
"Do you accept this mission, knowing full well the extreme risks involved?"
"Yes, sir, but only with one request."
"What is it, Captain?" the general asked, cocking his head to better hear the
wisecrack that might be coming.
"That after the mission you allow me one date with your daughter."
Barker could not believe the irreverent cheek at so crucial a moment. "Forget it,"
he said through clenched teeth. The general's face turned crimson, and he held
the edge of his desk in a viselike grip.
"Report to Space Tac Wing immediately for your final briefing!"
Buck stood, stiffly saluted the general, and made his way to the door. Upon
opening it, he turned and said with false courtesy, "Have a nice day, General."
The normally twenty-minute drive from Barker's office to the secret Space Tac
air base took much longer than usual. Knowing that once he climbed into his
souped-up jet fighter he might never return, Buck decided to spend what might
be his last few hours on Earth by diverting both his vehicle and his attention onto
a few detours.
Cruising down a lonely desert highway in his black Mustang convertible, Buck
fished out of his glove compartment a hand-held tape recorder and switched it to
record. "Hi, Randy. Buck Rogers here. No, we're not friends. Far from it. But I
think you have something that few people in this world have: integrity. That's
why I'm sending you this tape. I've got a story to tell. . . ."
Buck punched the accelerator to the floor and raced down a long stretch of desert
road, talking to his absent passenger as he went. At a familiar road junction,
