Doomsday Warrior 01 (28 page)

“The paste, the paste,” several of the Technicians moaned softly, their hunger taking away all but animal need. Even their minds, their intellects, so used to pure thought, to ideal states and intra-infinitudes. Those Technicians, who had dreamed only of formulas, of new fluid mechanics and laser optics, of particle expansion and light dissection. Even they could only think now of food, as their starving bodies growled aloud, stomach acids eating away at what little flesh and muscle remained on them. Digestive fluids filled their hollow stomachs, churning, boiling.

“Yes, the paste,” Ullman replied, almost in tears as he saw the hungry faces of his fellow Technicians and how far and fast they were falling.

Twenty-Four

W
illis, the Century City Council president, brought the session to order as the raucous Council members continued to argue and debate this or that issue with high-decibel vigor. Never noted for quiet, the Chamber of decision-making in Century City seemed unusually boisterous as of late, as if the members were anticipating some great, wonderful or disastrous event to befall them and were preparing themselves for the greatest decision of their lives.

“Order, please, ladies and gentlemen of the Council chamber. We have an important issue before us that must be decided posthaste!” He banged his wooden gavel several times and at last the democratic roar of the chamber dulled to an occasional whisper-broken silence. Willis put his right hand across his heart and turned toward the flag that hung on the wall behind him. The American flag. The real American flag—not the Red version with a hammer and sickle where the stars should be. The flag, hurt but not forgotten and still the symbol behind which the Freefighters of Century City and all the hidden cities rallied around.

“We pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America and to the past glory and the ideals for which it stands, fifty Free Cities, under God, for liberty and justice for all true Americans.”

“Amen,” Councilman Chalmer said, the only priest on the council and a staunch supporter of prayer and religious studies both as a link with the past and, of course, God, and as a means of countering the Reds’ anti-religious, atheistic babble.

Rockson stood off to one side, a lopsided grin on his dark, rugged face. Willis glanced over at the white-haired mutant, his one aquamarine and one violet eye twinkling with amusement as they always did when he entered the Council chamber. Rock apparently found something humorous in the goings-on of Century City’s political apparatus. Willis himself had to admit that the amount of hot air outweighed the true decision making by a hundred to one. Still, when the votes were cast, somehow things came out right. Free Americans exercising their right to choose, to decide for themselves, through their elected representatives. The collective mind. Not the mind in the collective as the Russians liked to implement it. That was the difference and the saving grace.

“As you all know,” Willis said, addressing the restless Council reps, “Walt Brady returned recently from Expedition Five to the Northwest and had an amazing story to recount—which those of you who were present two days ago had the pleasure of hearing. His discoveries include the BlackBeam pistol, or Particle Beam as Dr. Shecter calls it, a weapon which could give us a tremendous advantage over the Reds. Now Rockson has volunteered to lead a second expedition back. Rock?”

Rock rose and walked to the Council stage, a place he had grown familiar, if never comfortable, with over the years.

“Thanks, speaker Willis,” Rock said, resting his dark-veined hands on the walnut podium. “I’ll need nine men and supplies, including ten riding and ten pack hybrids, weapons and ammunition, and food supplies for at least two months.”

“That’s a lot of material you’re asking for, Rockson,” McGuire, one of Rock’s bitter opponents from way back, said. One of the “soft liners” on the council, McGuire challenged all the military expenditures of the city, saying the money should be plowed back into peaceful activities.

“And,” Rock continued, ignoring the dig, “some special supplies that Dr. Shecter has cooked up for us.”

“What special supplies might that be?” McGuire cracked from the back of the room. “Your own mobile .150mm cannon?” He looked around as he laughed but no one joined in.

“Supplies that are still experimental,” Rock said calmly. He had been through too much to lose his temper at one misguided councilman. “I think Dr. Shecter would have to say anything about them. They’re all under his supervision.” Shecter sat silently at the far side of the front row of the chamber, taking it all in, remaining cold as a stone, as was his wont.

Willis broke in between the two before a real argument could get going. “Now tell us, Rock, why you think this trip justifies this output of supplies—at a time when supplies are in fact quite low because of the large number of Attack and Expedition Forces over the last six months.”

“Chamber members,” Rock said, putting on his best political smile. Why wouldn’t they just let him get out and do his thing: fighting for and strengthening Century City and America. He was a warrior, not a damn manipulator of the media, currying everyone’s favor with all that ass-kissing and kowtowing. Rock just couldn’t get into the spirit. “We must go because of the potential power of the weapons that Brady has brought back. As I see it, the only thing that’s ever going to make the Reds leave the United States is a confrontation with a force that’s more powerful than they are. They sure as hell ain’t waiting for any petitions. Force, blood, blasted fortresses, downed planes, tanks filling the plains like rusting cans in a dump—that’s what the Red leaders understand.”

“Thank you, Rock,” Willis said as the Ultimate American stepped back from the podium and down onto the chamber floor. “Now, Dr. Shecter, could you come up here please and describe this new weapon that Rockson has mentioned. Tell us your evaluation of its military potential.”

Dr. Shecter rose slowly and walked to the front of the filled semicircular chamber. A hush fell over the members—Dr. Shecter was the most revered man in all Century City. Single-handedly his inventions had transformed the Free City from a primitive village to a bustling modern city with every comfort. Shecter’s arctic eyes took in every face, every friendly or malevolent glance, as he walked slowly, his arthritic leg acting up, to the platform and then up the steps to the podium. He faced the Council members. He didn’t have to call for quiet. You could hear a pin drop.

“Good day, Council people. I haven’t been here for a while but somehow I’m sure I haven’t been forgotten.” Several members chuckled at the memory of his last visit when he had engaged in an extremely heated argument for hours over the need for increased manufacture of the Liberator rifle so it could be shipped off to other cities. Shecter saw himself and his work as being bigger than just the needs of Century City and therefore often found himself in disagreement with the councilmen who were looking out just for the city’s interests.

“My technical team and I have been working feverishly trying to uncover the secrets of the Particle Beam pistol. And frankly, I’ll be damned if we’ve gotten anywhere.” The aging scientist, dark spots and moles covering his long, narrow face, looked perplexed. He wasn’t used to not being able to decipher scientific mystery. The doors of science and technology had always opened wide for his piercing analytic mind. “But, we do know that it’s a particle-beam technology. I’ve read notes on the experimental work that was being done on them before the Great War. Apparently both the Reds and our own R&D men had been making great strides in the military application of such energies, then the war and— The bitch of it is, gentlemen,” Shecter said, looking at his audience with fiery eyes, “we can’t get inside the damn thing. It’s made of a plastic synthmetal that’s virtually impenetrable, I could blast it open with a laser probe but that would surely fuse the insides. No, Council members, whoever made this weapon has a highly advanced technology. I’m impressed.”

“And what of the military applications, Dr. Shecter?” Willis asked respectfully from the side. “Are they worth justifying the expedition that Rockson proposes?”

Shecter was quiet for a moment as if trying to suppress great anger. Then he said simply, “Without question! If my intuitions about this weapon are correct it would make all conventional armaments instantly obsolete. The firing tests we’ve performed so far have produced astounding results. Range—up to five miles. Kill proportion: one hundred percent. Ammunition: none. The damn thing seems to have some sort of infinite energy source. That’s what I’d like to figure out.” His eyes lit up like shooting stars. “But, yes,” he went on impatiently, “give Rock what he wants, for Christ’s sake. We’ve got to get more of these and whatever else is out there and find out what makes them tick. If I had to make some damn fool statement to impress on all of you just what the power or worth of this pistol is, I’d say one Particle Beam Disintegrator is worth about, oh, say ten thousand Liberator rifles.” He turned without waiting to answer more questions and made his way on slightly unsteady feet back to his chair at the front of the large chamber.

Willis looked out on the thoughtful Council members, fingering his wispy white goatee absent-mindedly. “Well, I think Dr. Shecter has answered our questions. Now is there any more debate or can we vote?” Several members grumbled, knowing that Shecter’s forceful pronouncements meant unquestionable passage of the expedition. Willis called the vote. It was thirty-nine affirmative, eight opposed, three abstentions.

“Well, Rock, you have our full confidence,” Willis said, looking over from the podium at Century City’s top military commander, who leaned against the parchment-colored wall. “Good luck, Rock, and God be with you.”

By midnight, Rockson had already picked his team. The basic Rock Squad, of course—Detroit Green, Al Chen and McCaughlin—and Berger, the explosives man. He had gone through the central files, sitting at the computer for three hours. He wanted this expedition to be thoroughly documented—and he wanted to be prepared for anything. Perkins would come as the city’s most knowledgeable archaeologist. Rockson wanted someone who could decipher any of the artifacts they uncovered. Harris was one of the best trackers and climbers around and tough as nails. Slade was a sharpshooter and a linguist, which from Brady’s description of the strange man’s language might well be needed. And Rock picked Erickson, the Swede. They might be gone for months. And well, Erickson was one of the best cooks in the whole Rocky Mountains. What that man could do with cactus or rat’s feet was truly a miracle. And he was a good, battle-hardened fighter. A man Rock wouldn’t ever have to wonder about. Finally, he chose Lang, the kid. Tough, brash, somewhat of a troublemaker. He was only nineteen but Rock saw in him the makings of another Ted Rockson. The kid was a mutant like Rock—tall, with the star pattern on his back, dark blue eyes, like the seas in gale, dark skinned and strong as an ox. Someday he would be a leader—if he survived.

That was it. Rock signaled the End Search code and switched his monitor off. The computer fell to a dim hum as it rested its circuitry. Rock had his team. Now for the supplies and weapons.

At 5:00 the next morning, Rock and his nine-man team pulled up with their pack and riding hybrids in front of the back loading platform of Century City, a large concrete-walled warehouse from which Liberators were shipped out all over America. Shecter was standing there impatiently, his arms folded across his chest in that ever-present gesture of disgruntlement. Five of his weapons team had just finished loading the supplies in cartons and out onto one of the raised loading platforms.

“Howdy,” Rock said, tying his hybrids to a tethering post. “Hope we’re not up too early for you.”

“Please, Rockson, I’m always up at the crack of dawn. As you get older you need less and less sleep. At the age of seventy-four I find I must obtain only three to four hours a night to be sufficiently refreshed.”

“So what have you got for us this time?” Rock asked, smiling. Dr. Shecter was always coming up with strange new gadgets and weaponry that he wanted the Freefighters to test out for him.

“The usual mountain-climbing equipment, slip-on cleats, thousand-pound nylon test, pulley equipment. I think you’ll find them much more efficient now. Acid-rain tarps and this time, Rock, I’m giving you all an alumasynth reflective poncho which should keep both the sun and the high-rad ground soil off you. We’ve improved the reflective capability of gamma radiation by eighty-three percent and dropped the weight by nearly half.”

Rock remembered the old aluminum blankets Shecter had had them try once. The things were heavy, cumbersome and tended to wrap around arms and legs when riding. The men had just dumped the things without a word. If Shecter had really perfected the shields they would be able to travel through the day even in the desert. The other members of the Expedition Force stood along the landing bay loading the supplies that Shecter’s men handed them onto the ’brids. The backpacks were ingeniously devised to allow tremendous amounts of material to be stored in forty different pockets, twenty of them expandable. And the hybrids, at least half again as strong as the horses of old, could easily carry an additional 150 to 200 pounds of field equipment.

Men behind Dr. Shecter began bringing additional wooden boxes filled with exotic devices out from the inner laboratories. “Some things we’ve been playing with for some time, Rock,” he said with that odd grin he wore whenever attempting to get Rock to try his most recent creations. “And this expedition is the perfect time to try them out.

“First,” he said, reaching down with that long, bony arm of his into a large wooden crate and pulling out a cylindrical flashlight-sized metal object with air vents at both ends. “A solar-cell-driven condenser that collects humidity from the air and makes water. Depending on the moisture density in the air—anywhere from zero to a quart an hour.”

“I’ll give it a try first time we run out of water,” Rock said, hefting the device and loading it into one of the side pockets on the back of his pack hybrid. He had chosen the palomino for his riding steed, largest of the ’brids that were going on the expedition. Rock had used the strong animal in Bear Valley and it had acted calmly. It seemed a highly intelligent animal. The horse looked at Rock as he swung back around to face Dr. Shecter. Large and broad shouldered, it had the markings of the palominos of the Old West. Stark black spots on a flawless white hide. A trail of reddish hair hung just below the stomach—a trait of all the hybrids, as were its pinkish tipped ears, almost flesh colored. The hybrid moved constantly as if anxious to start the journey while Rock loaded one after another of Shecter’s supplies into the various packs he had cross-rigged over the back of both ’brids.