Doomsday Warrior 18 - American Dream Machine

by Ryder Stacy

  After they rode for another hour, a rolling mist, scented with something that must have been decayed carcasses, came at them.

  “Just a warm front,” Zydeco called over to Rockson. “These Guam rails can see in fog; we don’t have to slow down.” Rock nodded but he felt that queer warning prickle on the nape of his neck that meant danger. This time it was definite.

  They rode on at breakneck speed into the whiteout-solid mists. Rock hoped whatever the danger his sixth sense was detecting would be quickly skirted.

  Not so.

  Suddenly, the mist thickened and became dark as obsidian. They slowed down all of a sudden. Even the birds’ keen infrared detecting eyes couldn’t make things out in all this denseness. The birds seemed to shiver, as if they were cold. Or afraid. Zydeco clicked out some commands to the mounts. The shivering stopped.

  Then the sounds came echoing in the darkness. Sounds like a thousand castanets being shaken. Rockson knew that sound. Snakes! Big rattlers made that sound. They were very near; a whole nest of them! But with all the echoes in the mist, it was hard to tell where the snakes were.

  “Hey, do these birds fly?” Rockson asked hopefully.

  Zydeco’s reply was, “I wish.”

  Rockson quickly had his shotpistol out, and was pointing it at his best guess of where the rattlers were. A wind stirred the mists and the view before him turned from utterly black to dark gray. And he saw them. A hundred writhing diamond back sidewinders, sliding their angry way over the hard-packed soil. Rockson was about to fire—he had reloaded the shotpistol with the last of his ammo back at the bowling center. Archer too had his weapon out—the good old shotgun. Somehow, it didn’t seem like enough.

  “Put the guns away,” Zydeco said. “And hold on tight, very tight to your saddles and the reins.” He whispered out some bird-command words, and the Guam rails leapt suddenly into the air. They didn’t fly, but they sure the hell could jump! Rockson realized that Zydeco was trying to have the birds hop right over the snakes, bound out of the area of danger. He jammed his boots into the stirrups and wrapped the reins triple around his hands, doing his best to keep from sailing off the mount.

  But it didn’t work. When the megabirds came down, they were right in the middle of a circle of writhing, ten-foot-long, pissed-off snakes. Out of the frying pan into the fire!

  The Guam rails panicked and started shivering and shaking. The birds made whiny sounds, as if they were scared shitless. And all that shaking shook off clouds of itchy, twitchy feathers. Rockson got one jammed into his nostrils and he did what he had been told not to do—he sneezed!

  That sneeze triggered a sudden insanity in the birds, just as Zydeco had cautioned it would. The birds lost their fear and squawked and jumped around as if someone had put a branding iron to the voluminous asses. Their fear was gone, replaced by a manic rage. The birds’ talons dug into snake bodies, they jumped and kicked and pecked at the snakes, oblivious to the many venomous strikes against them. They also tried to throw their riders. More feathers flew, and Rockson, and Archer too, gave out terrible AAACHHOOOOSS! That kept the birds crazy.

  Rock was glad for wearing his boots, as several sharp rattler-jabs hit his toes. The frenzied action went on for a minute or more, the riders holding on like rodeo riders in a rodeo of death. The snakes, suddenly, were the ones in danger. They were being torn into mincemeat by the furious birds. It was all Rockson could do to hold onto his seat.

  Then it was over, over as fast as it had begun. There were nothing but torn-open snakes below the birds’ bloody toes, and the rest of the rattlers were sliding away into the mists. The birds simmered down. Rockson tried and succeeded in not repeating his sneezing fit, although fluff was everywhere in the misty air. Rockson took a deep breath. He wasn’t sure he had even breathed the whole time the incredible thing was happening.

  “Anyone hurt?” Rockson asked. But he could see no one was hurt. Archer was still in the saddle; the giant mountain man hadn’t even let go of his twenty-gallon leather hat. And Zydeco was still atop Mumu. The elf-man was pallid, but otherwise looked all right. God knows they’d have been dead a thousand times over if they had fallen off their kill-mad mounts. At Rock’s urgent suggestion, Zydeco gave a set of commands to the birds, who turned and started to run in the direction opposite the remaining snakes. Soon they were out of the near-opaque mists, and once again into bright sunlight. Rock rode alongside his companions neck and neck. It was as if the birds were running for the finish line in a strange Kentucky Derby.

  “We must be going one eighty!” Rock shouted.

  Both Zydeco and Archer laughed. Zydeco’s laugh was a high-pitched, tinny, elf laugh, a strange mad cackle that increased in volume as he took the lead.

  Six

  The bird-riders were dusty and worn by the time they came upon the great cliff of caves at dusk. The orange beams of low sunlight illuminated a deep darkness in one of the rock faces immediately before them. “That’s Cavetown—up there.” Zydeco announced. “Come on, I’m sure they have seen us approach. Let me go ahead first, so the guards don’t ray us down. They don’t expect me to come back on top of a Guam rail bird. We Techno-survivors have had trouble with renegade bands of Russians once in a while. The Red deserters roam as bandit marauders in this area of Utah.”

  “Russians?” Rock unclipped his shotpistol holster. All the Russian soldiers were supposed to be off American soil, but the Sov government had lost contact with some of its far-flung Special Forces. The bastards were worse than sidewinders.

  Zydeco saw Rock move toward his pistol and said, “Don’t worry! The Reds haven’t bothered us this year at all. Let’s get inside and have some sustenance!”

  “I’m for that—and a nice cold beer, right Arch?” Rock added. “Bring on the Blatz!”

  Archer just shook his head up and down emphatically. Rockson thought the big man’s bird was looking a little the worse for wear. He felt sorry for anyone that had to carry the megapound moose-man on his back.

  Their strange mounts plunged on after Zydeco, up a dusty ramp and into the darkness of a huge cavern. Inside they saw no one for a while. Then, from a hundred hiding places pairs of tiny yellow and green eyes appeared. As the eyes moved forward, huge banks of lights came on in the high ceiling.

  Rock gasped. It was a vast chamber filled with equipment, populated by several scores of men and women much like his elfish companion. The Techno-survivors were dressed in tunics, the women—cute, little long-haired pixies with pointy noses and red cheeks—wearing also short skirts. Some of their outfits were red, some orange, some yellow or green. It probably denoted rank, or job specialty, Rock decided. They were chittering away to one another as the riders moved along into the center of the cavern and dismounted. All around Rock and his friends, bizarre plastic and metallic shapes loomed, machines of incomprehensible scientific functions.

  After they dismounted, a man in a white tunic—the only one in a white tunic—came over to Zydeco and raised a hand, palm forward. “Greetings and undeserved happiness, Zydeco-citizen,” he said.

  Zydeco bowed slightly and said, “And I, noble surgeon Escadrille, am giving you the same.”

  The noble surgeon, who had silver gray locks, turned to look at Zydeco’s towering companions and asked Zydeco, “Have either of these outlanders dissed you?”

  “No, they are honorable,” Zydeco replied.

  Only then did the chief surgeon smile at Rockson and give him and Archer fond greetings, which Rockson returned as best he could. He wondered if the little ray gun hanging on the surgeon’s side would have been drawn on him if Zydeco had told the elder that Rockson had “dissed” anyone. Rockson had no doubt that a ray from that tiny gun could do bad things to a man! The level of science indicated by the machines in this cavern betokened great power—to harm or to help. No dissing allowed!

  Together with Escadrille, they went over to a long plasti-wood conference table. Archer was seated at one end, and Rock at the other, as honored guests. A
long line of little people paraded by, the pixie-women curtsying to the visitors, the men shaking their hands. Some of the awed populace asked for Rock’s autograph, and he obliged, borrowing a funny soft-tip pen.

  They were served some green, odd-shaped but tasty fruit, some dry but peppery bread, and some vintage wine. Then came a main course, sizzling hot meat buns—probably deer meat. The buns were very small and Archer liked them very much. He gobbled them down with swigs of the wine. The server-girls brought more whenever Archer finished a pile. They were piled so high at one point that Rock couldn’t see Archer behind the buns! But that was only for a short time. Archer quickly ingested the pile. A tremendous burp issued from the mountain man’s lips, and as he turned red, all those within earshot—and that was most of the populace—laughed. Archer laughed too, an echoing rumble like an earthquake.

  Once they finished the vast repast, business began: the business of accepting an unwanted, if interesting, gift. Rock was told he was free to examine the “Dream Machine” any time he wanted.

  “How about now?” Rockson was more curious than a cat.

  Zydeco and the chief surgeon walked over to the south side of the cavern, which was the point farthest from the entrance. A rectangular object lay on the rock-tiles there. It was waist high and about seven feet long by three feet wide. It was covered by a tarpaulin. “My invention,” Escadrille said, proudly.

  Zydeco pulled the cover off and Rockson and Archer got a look-see. The device that had prompted the long, grueling ride across the wastelands looked very much, Rockson thought, like a so-called iron lung of the bad old twentieth century—a leftover of the awful polio epidemic days. In short, it was a little scary looking. Rockson had seen some cryogenic tanks in Century City’s science labs that had a not dissimilar appearance as well. The tanks were used to freeze-dry live animal and plant lab specimens for later awakening and study.

  The surgeon described the principles of the dream machine thusly: “The body in question lies down in the device, and then the electromechanical servo-systems slow that body’s functions all down. The low rate of pulse and nutrient feeding necessary to maintain a body in stasis—alive and well, in perfect balance—is maintained automatically. Attachments to the brain are effected, tiny connectors that keep the brain on a normal level of alertness. But all stimuli come not from the outside, but from programmed-in experience modules. Understand?”

  “A bit,” Rock said, while Archer just looked blank.

  The surgeon frowned, and opened the full-length lid of the device. Inside was like the inside of a coffin, nice and comfy and silken. Rock had no desire to lie in there.

  As if reading Rockson’s thoughts, Zydeco said, “It is best to demonstrate the device. Why don’t you get inside, Rock, and take it for a spin? Have a nice dream—for just a short period.”

  Rockson must have looked dubious, for the surgeon added, “It is perfectly safe, let me assure you. Don’t diss me, stranger.”

  “I’m sure it is safe,” Rock said, “but how do you set it? What kind of dream will it be set on? How long will I be in there? I want to make the trip as short as possible.”

  “Ah, good questions,” the surgeon said, smiling. He pointed out a mass of dials and lights on the side of the box. “As for how the device is set: these controls are microchip circuits. We improvised many circuits out of old missile guidance systems, and added some new things. You can look at the blueprints later. As for your second question, you will have a very pleasant dream, as the device is set to plumb your own mind for imagery and dream-personnel. It will probably be a rather—er—sensual dream—if you wish. Of course, we can also create dreams for you from scratch. We have a list of generic off-the-shelf dreams. You know: playboy, soldier in victorious action, all that sort of stuff.

  “The dream will seem to take an hour, but you will only be inside the device for five minutes. Hardly a waste of your precious time!” The surgeon glared at Rockson. “You’re not dissing me, are you? You like the present, don’t you?”

  He hoped he wouldn’t have to put up with this “diss” stuff much longer! Rockson nodded, mumbling, “Love it. Can’t wait to haul it home!” But he thought other, less happy thoughts. He didn’t like having gifts crammed down his throat.

  “Me try nice dream too?” Archer asked. “Make me dream of women. Very long, very nice dream!”

  Zydeco frowned. “Sorry, Archer. We don’t have a box big enough for you—yet. We’ll work on it,” Zydeco laughed. “Now, how about it, Rockson?”

  He was a little wary, so Rock whispered to Archer, “If anything seems wrong, get me outta there.” Then Rockson got into the “coffin” and the lid closed over him with an ominous hiss. Zydeco leaned over the face plate and told Rock, “We’ll set it on a five-minute ride, pleasure sequence.”

  Rock nodded and closed his eyes, though he wasn’t sure that was necessary. Small suction cups on the ends of copper wires crawled out of the sides of the device and attached to his forehead with a mild thump.

  “Bon voyage, Rockson,” the chief surgeon smiled through the suddenly foggy face plate.

  Rockson found himself suddenly spinning around, as if going underwater, or into a dream. He was soon seeing a different place entirely than the Techno-survivor’s cavern. He was lying in a magnificent bed, inside a palatial apartment in old New York City. The bed was next to a floor-to-ceiling window. Below him, glittering with starlike lamp lights, was a darkened Central Park.

  And suddenly he didn’t know that he was dreaming. He was aware that he had awakened from a dream, however. Something of an odd dream about a cave . . . but that dream faded away rapidly. He was Niles Rockson, famous playboy, and this was his apartment. And he was not alone in the silken sheets of his luxurious, heart-shaped bed!

  He was lying next to a beautiful woman. Her name was Kimetta, and she was the beautiful, strawberry blond daughter of a delegate to the United Nations. Rockson had wined and dined the lusty beauty the night before. And now she moaned, turned over, and wrapped her arms around him. Kimetta wanted to make love again, and he was more than ready.

  As Rock dreamed on, there was a sudden commotion in the cavern. Rays of blue fire shot out from several guardposts near the cavern entrance. Fire returned fivefold by the attacking forces of Soviet irregulars! Archer raced to the table where he had left his shotgun, and raised it, intending to go and help out the guards, who had raised a general alarm. Then he hesitated, and instead ran back to the box wherein his friend lay sleeping. Zydeco and the surgeon had rushed away. And Archer didn’t know what to do. He was supposed to rouse Rockson if something bad happened. But how did you get the box open?

  He looked for a hinge or a knob and found none. Blue rays that seemed to melt walls of granite and flesh just as easily flashed overhead. And bullets flew also. The screams increased in intensity, mad high-pitched screams of Techno-survivors being hit by the intense fire. The defenders were losing, dying like flies.

  As Archer fumbled with the coffinlike container, trying to get Rockson out, the Soviets came into his immediate area. Hundreds of grim-faced commandos poured from every direction, several training their guns upon Archer. He dropped the insignificant shotgun. He had to surrender, for he feared wild shots would hit the dream machine! He raised his hands.

  Then the Sov’s rotund, filthy-uniformed commander, General Mikael Zhabnov, stepped forward. Zhabnov! One of Archer’s old enemies. Archer, unable to contain himself, lunged at him, but was hit instantly with a blue ray. It didn’t kill him, it was just a low energy stun blast. After the mountain man toppled, the general approached, turned over Archer’s inert form with a big boot, and smiled. “I know this man!”

  The general couldn’t have been more pleased. His men had been on a slave-hunting expedition when they had found the interesting cavern. The devices in here looked very interesting. The little people must be very smart. Zhabnov’s renegades could use some very smart slaves. After all, Zhabnov had a fortress to build, a world to win
. That’s why he had instructed his troops, once the upper hand was achieved, to reduce the level of charge in their ray weapons, to stun rather than kill. They needed slaves for labor. This wretched-smelling mountain man would be a very strong slave! And he would be treated very badly, for Zhabnov hated the man. Nearly as much as he hated Archer’s famous boss—the Doomsday Warrior. He looked around, nervous that another of the famed Freefighters might be lying in hiding nearby.

  He saw a box that looked like a coffin, only made of metal. “See what that is,” he told one of his lieutenants, Zimski. Zimski ran over and peered down into a small window on the box. “A body inside,” he said. “Guy is blue—and not breathing.”

  “Well, then he won’t bother us. Come back here and start supervising the rounding up of new slaves. Tie them all up well before they awaken. Be especially careful not to bruise the pretty little women!” Zhabnov’s jowls twitched in pleasure as he added, “Tie this giant up, too, before he awakes and kills some of you.” Then the puffy-lipped general strode triumphantly to a high platform. He stepped over the inert forms of severed red tunic-clad elves lying on the stairs as he ascended to the top of the platform. He faced forward, jaw jutting out like Mussolini’s, and announced to the few Techno-survivors left standing disarmed before his troops, “This place is now the property of the New Soviet World State.” (This was the general’s rather vainglorious misnomer for his tiny separatist movement.) “Where is Rockson? Where are the other Freefighters? The giant known as Archer cannot be alone here! Speak up and you shall be rewarded.”

  No one answered. Zhabnov rubbed his bushy black eyebrows, a habit he had developed that signified he was about to have a brilliant thought. As a matter of fact, he seemed to have a light bulb burst in his mind. Rockson . . . he was always with Archer . . .

  The Coffin! Who was in the coffin? Had he interrupted some sort of funeral? Was the blue-faced man in the box his nemesis, Rockson?