Doomsday Warrior 11 - American Eden

by Ryder Stacy

  The King boasted, “Here, the fecal waste of four generations of Eden has lay wasted. We are in the so-called ‘disposal cave’,” Stafford said. “This precious resource has been lying here sealed off, wasted.

  “I have decided to use this precious resource. The excretions of the past can be processed into tasty replicas of all the necessary proteins, minerals, and fiber necessary to the human body. It can be shaped by machinery into what appears to be steaks, potatoes, and such. Coloring can be added. People would hardly know the difference. I venture to say that they won’t know the difference between this new food supply and their old canned and preserved real foods.”

  In his wildest nightmare Rockson couldn’t imagine this . . . People would be forced to eat—“Shit,” Rockson blurted out.

  “What?” asked Stafford.

  “I said I am awed. This is very interesting.” Rockson tried to turn his attention from the bulldozers moving the excrement piles to the metal hoppers, where a conveyor belt carried the matter through a wall—presumably a processing plant lay beyond that wall.

  The flies were getting to him; he wanted to leave. But Stafford wanted Rock’s attention on a set of fifty long slender poles hanging from high above. “Note that the flies are congregating, swarming around the poles?”

  “Yes,” Rockson said, brushing at his face, trying to keep the little gnats from his eyes at least. Indeed the flies were droning around the many hanging poles. The poles seemed to have a sticky surface on them. Flies were massed in some places inches deep on the stickiness.

  “I see you’re trying to do something about the fly problem,” Rockson said, not knowing what was expected of him.

  “Do something about them?” the king said, as if incredulous at the stupidity of the comment. “My dear fellow, we are collecting them, they will be the source of the flavoring of the new food.”

  Rockson was happy he had a strong stomach. Still, the remark was almost too much. He watched in mute horror as special “skimming” vehicles crawled up to the most fly-clogged poles and a cylindrical device slid up over the poles and sucked off the dead flies. The trucks, once this was accomplished, deposited their flies in a hopper next to the fecal conveyor belts.

  “See,” bragged the king, “we have no need of returning to the surface to make food. With these innovations, we will have enough food forever.”

  “Fascinating. King Charles . . .” muttered the Freefighter. “Now, could we perhaps see that park you mentioned? The one that doesn’t need maintenance?”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” the king said. They exited the abominable scene, and Rockson was never so glad to leave a place in his life.

  The “park,” which was two blocks from the fecal cavern, consisted of thirty brown-metal poles painted with barklike graphics. They were supposed to be the maintenance-free trees of Eden. Rockson leaned against one. It was cold and steely to the touch. The grass below their feet was the kind of matting they’d used to use in football stadiums—when the pollution of the 1980s made it impossible to maintain real grass fields.

  Several backless benches in the park, among the evenly distributed “trees,” were occupied by oldsters. The withered men and women, sacklike forms that drooled out on their tunics, were watching a group of painters repaint a peeling “tree.”

  “Nice park,” Rockson said. “I dont see any children playing, though.”

  “We have—reproductive problems,” Stafford admitted begrudgingly. “It’s our one negative. But I have teams of my best scientists working on the problem. Years ago we had some experiments in genetics that resulted in the three strong leaders of the Guard. I am hoping to reproduce those successes without the necessity of sexual intercourse, which is, of course, a filthy animal practice.”

  “Of course,” Rockson agreed. What else could he say? “Well, it’s a very nice park . . .” Rockson glanced up—the homogenously green painted boughs above had no individual leaves, just a mottled texture created by paint brushes. “I see there’s no troublesome leaves to rake up in the fall.”

  “Leaves? Fall?”

  “On the surface, parts of the trees—er—peel off at a certain time each year, and have to be raked up.”

  “We don’t have any such problems in Eden.”

  Onward they walked. Rockson never had a chance to seize a weapon from the eternally watchful guards.

  The king was tired, though the tour was less than a half-hour old.

  They went back to the Government Building.

  Stafford said, “Rockson. I have decided not to kill you surface people. You will be exhibited. I fancy that I will create a zoo. Danik will die, of course, and most painfully and publicly. You and your company of freaks will be well fed, with the best of the new food.”

  “That is kind of you.”

  “It is not kindness. The one thing that Danik has said that seemed to be right is the fact that our genes have suffered somehow from being underground. Sex is a dirty and primitive thing, but the race must go on. The need for fresh genetic material is obvious, and you surface men—and that buxom surface woman—must have some potency I will let my scientists use you for experiments. To our genetic problems, you surface beings present a possible solution both simple and practical.

  “I am not unfamiliar with the sciences. Do you realize that a single fertile woman of the past—who was, I suppose, of the type similar to the redhead surface woman—could produce ten, twenty ova a month? If removed surgically, each ova could be implanted in our barren women and fertilized by inserting genetic material derived from you surface men.”

  It was all Rockson could do to contain himself. Zoo exhibits, specimens for experiments, horrible operations on Rona—there wasn’t much time to act. He didn’t relish being a farm for genes to keep propagating these mole people. And Rockson gagged at the thought of Rona being a “donor,” confined to a hospital bed, constantly operated upon for removal of human egg cells. He nodded, though, as if it were a good deal, to eat all that great shit-food, to be alive.

  Twenty-Five

  The king excused himself to “tend to his toilet.” He ordered that Rockson be unbound and treated to some food and drink while he “freshened up”.

  This was more like it, Rock thought. His easy acquiescence to the abominable ideas of this madman finally had paid off. Rockson, unbound, rubbed his sorely aching wrists. He didn’t want to drink or eat anything offered to him, though he was powerfully hungry. The thought of the way they were making food here in this underground madhouse stayed his hunger.

  He sat for five minutes in the second chair in the audience room, but Stafford did not return. Instead Mannerly, the butler in the tux, came in and said. “The king wishes you to come to his study, for further conversation in a more comfortable environment.”

  The study, attached directly to the throne chamber, turned out to be an antiseptically bare room with computer disk cases lining the walls. Only two guards were left there to watch Rockson, apparently on the king’s order.

  Rockson had been looking around everywhere he had been taken for a sign of the old steel safe that Danik believed would be the location of the dreaded Factor Q germ-warfare canister. Rockson’s intense eyes perused the study, its shelves of computer disk boxes, its plain metal cabinets and—

  A bolt of adrenaline shot into his system, for in the corner of the study was a safe. An ancient type, with a combination lock. Could it be—yes.

  There was a warning painted on it. Caution. Do not approach safe. Automatic countermeasures fatal to humans are activated unless verbal disarm code is given.

  He smiled. The Doomsday Warrior knew what to do now, and if he was right, the code would be no problem. The king would supply it.

  He calmed himself, readied his well-muscled frame to respond instantly when the moment was most conducive to success. There might never be another chance like this. His plan, the one Danik thought to be sheer madness, had carried him to this juncture—to a position that all the fighting
in the world would not have accomplished. Here he sat in the recesses of the Government Building’s inner private room, inches away from his goal. Surrender as a way of attack. Only Chen understood the concept. Only Chen approved of this daring gamble. And now, it was close to paying off . . .

  Seconds counted. Where was the king? Rockson was sure that if Bdos Err came upon him sitting with only two soldiers guarding, he would immediately increase security. And the chance would slip away, forever.

  He waited for what seemed like eons.

  Finally, Stafford entered through the guarded portal and smiled. He wore a new greenish tunic, and his thin hair was combed back. He looked refreshed.

  Rockson stood up and made to go over and shake his hand, or something, saying with a broad grin, “You have a fabulous—” Then the Doomsday Warrior, moving like a flash, grabbed Stafford’s arm. He wrenched it behind him, put him into a hammer-hold. “One move for your weapons and I snap the king’s neck.” he snarled.

  The hapless Civil Guards, momentarily confused, turned their guns upon Mannerly, the manservant, who had just entered holding a tray of hors d’oeuvres. He fell with an agonized expression, his tux burned away to a depth of six inches, his midsection cremated by the twin beams of the disintegrator pistols.

  “Drop the weapons,” Rock said, making to strangle the king.

  “Please, please drop the weapons . . .” said the helpless man Rock held in a mighty grip.

  The soldiers’ weapons clattered to the floor. They were both staring at the smoking corpse of the butler with something like guilt on their stupid faces.

  Rockson twisted Stafford’s flaccid countenance half around, and demanded, “The code to deactivate the safe’s destruct mode—and then the combination. Quickly; tell me or die.”

  “I—I don’t know it—I—”

  “He doesn’t know it,” said a familiar voice from the portal. Rock looked over to see Stafford—another Stafford—standing there with three more soldiers, and with Bdos towering behind him. “He doesn’t know it because you are holding a double. I am the real Stafford. I never returned after I went to freshen up—instead my double was sent in. I have seen too much treachery in my magnificent life to be fooled, to be suckered.”

  Rockson played it out—he might just be really holding the correct man. Maybe the man in the doorway was the double.

  “I warn you, I will snap his neck if—”

  Bdos Err stepped forward, and, taking one of the disintegrators from a soldier, leveled it at the man who Rock held so tightly and shot him. It was a narrow beam of energy, aimed accurately directly at the man’s chest. It burned a hole six inches deep. The man gagged, and his eyes rolled up. He slumped in Rockson’s grip, and steaming blood and chunks of flesh-matter came bubbling out of his lips.

  Rockson sighed mightily, and dropped the body.

  “Now,” snarled Bdos, “you know which is which.”

  “I use a double on many occasions,” the real Stafford smirked out. “And there a dozen more where that one came from. I don’t like falsehood. I don’t like false friends. You will be treated to the same fate that the others will have. And I have decided—there will be no delay in your deaths. You are too dangerous. Too damned dangerous and cunning.

  “I have decided that the surface is even more dangerous a place than I imagined. I planned to send the probe up to the surface at some future date. The probe with the Factor Q canister in it, set to burst when it reaches the surface. Now I will accelerate the completion of the probe shaft. The release of Factor Q will take place as soon as possible, in a matter of hours.

  “I will eliminate the life-forms above—all humans and animals. There will be no threat from above, and the few dissenters will cease their clamoring to be allowed to leave Eden. There will be no habitable place on Earth except Eden.”

  Deep in the dungeon beneath the Government Building, a bloodied Rockson, thrown in with his companions, told his tale of almost-success.

  “You tried,” Detroit comforted. “You tried and almost succeeded. It just wasn’t in the cards.”

  Chen patted him on the shoulder. “We’ll get another chance. You have mutant’s luck, remember?”

  Rockson tried to smile. He didn’t feel very lucky. He buried his head in his hands and slumped on the cold iron bench.

  In a short while the cell door clanked open, and under heavy guard, the Freefighters and Danik, all of whom were not only chained elbows-behind-the-back, but also with ankle chains that made any long strides impossible, were ushered out to the streets of Eden.

  There was a timelessness about the place. It was still broad daylight. It was always broad daylight in Eden.

  They were all force-marched to the west edge of Eden City. The populace, gathered to watch them traverse, were encouraged to scourge them, and scourge them they did. Rocks, whipcords, feces, bombarded the prisoners. Finally, they reached the dome that Rockson immediately knew was that of a planetarium.

  He didn’t get it. Not until Stafford came along and told them, with a sly hidden meaning lingering in his words, that “certain modifications,” had been carried out on the planetarium. The king said, “Enjoy the show,” and left.

  They were pushed and kicked, forced inside the door of the building.

  They were strapped into the theaterlike seats, in the first row of the slanting auditorium, just in front of the darkened praying-mantis-shaped sky projector.

  Once secured, they were left. The doors were shut and they were immersed in total darkness. Then slowly the stars came out. A beautiful night. Clear, and bright. All the constellations, all the stars of the universe appeared, the planetarium’s huge projector moving and whirring to produce the beautiful effect.

  It seemed harmless. Beautiful, as a matter of fact. But Rockson’s mutant instinct sensed death—imminent death. How it would come, what form it would take, he didn’t know.

  But he knew they were about to die—and painfully.

  Twenty-Six

  “Quickly, everyone—we must free ourselves. Spare no effort,” Rockson implored.

  The Freefighters had seldom heard that tone of voice in their leader, and they immediately complied. Of all of them, Rona had the best chance of success. She had been, as a teenager, a roving circus performer, an acrobat with the entire Wallender family. The family had toured Red-held America, putting on shows and secretly gathering intelligence for the Freefighter cause. She was a contortionist, and the skill had served her well in the past.

  But these were no ordinary shackles that could be removed by forcing a shoulder out of socket, or by any such maneuvers.

  The sky began a subtle change. They appeared to be in a rocket, the planets slipping slowly by. The journey started out by ringed green Neptune and its companion moons. Then they slid majestically past Uranus, seventh planet, the one with its axis tilted completely askew to its orbit about the Sun.

  The Sun. The word set off something in Rockson’s sixth sense. Something about the Sun . . .

  And he gasped. He knew what Stafford had in mind, he knew what the modifications done to the planetarium were for.

  They were in a crematorium.

  Jupiter slid by; the orange globe spun serenely, the shadows of its dozen-plus moons moving across its turbulent lines of methane and ammonia clouds. The huge Red Spot came into view, the eternal megahurricane of its equatorial regions.

  They didn’t have much time left. Far off in the distance, a dim star—Sol, the earth’s sun—was getting brighter. They were plunging faster now, and faster, the gravity of the 865,000-mile-wide star that warmed all the planets of the solar system becoming a disk. A hot yellow disk.

  Mars and its irregular-shaped moons, the cratered lumpy Phobos and Deimos, slid by silently. The planetarium was no longer cool. Slowly, ever so slowly, the temperature had risen. And that was only the beginning.

  It was hard to ignore the beautiful space vista on the dome and concentrate on all one’s might, all one’s will, on the
bindings that held them in the death building.

  Earth loomed up; they passed the Moon, the beautiful companion world to the blue and white planet. The wrecked, abandoned space platforms of the Soviet Union and the United States swept by in a flash. The bodies of astronauts and cosmonauts eternally preserved in their punctured, scarred space-suits flickered in the imagination.

  It grew hotter. The others had now guessed what Rockson hadn’t expressed to them. They all knew that the imaginary journey through the solar system was not just a visual experience. They knew that the place was rigged to give the heat effect of their destination—the sun itself.

  “I’m making progress,” Rona shouted. “Just . . . a . . . little more . . .” She had painfully dislocated both her shoulders; her agony-wracked body was now able to slip down under the steel belt that held it in place on the death seat.

  “I’m out,” she said, and there were snapping noises and a terrible groan. She had refixed her shoulders in place. She hobbled along, still in her ankle chains, to the Doomsday Warrior.

  Venus, the planet named after the Goddess of Love herself, slipped rapturously by the unwilling voyagers. The heat of the burning, glaring disk of the Sun now was unbearable, but was briefly eclipsed by the crescent orb.

  “The projector, smash the projector,” Rock yelled.

  Rona jumped up and started beating on the metal monster with her fists, then kicked it with her best shot. Nothing. The show went on. She found some blinking lights and a panel—the controls. She bootheeled them with a vicious series of downward kicks. No result.

  Rockson had the impression that they couldn’t be broken. He shouted, “Tear a leg loose from that steel lectern table, Rona. Use it to pry my seat out of the damned floor. It’s bolted in.”

  She accomplished bashing a leg of the table loose and had started applying it as a pry-bar under Rockson when the Sun came out of eclipse. The planet of love sailed by, no longer able to stop the heat from rising again.