Doomsday Warrior 17 - America’s Sword

by Ryder Stacy

  “Okay,” Rockson agreed, “but later on we’re talking about my missing men. I want to find them and get the hell out of here. We’ve got our own work to complete.”

  “Absolutely,” Handelman said with that dumb grin. The lights dropped completely and the screen lit up. They saw the stadium from the air as a film narrator went on and on about the sacred duties and obligations of Republam members. About how it was such a privilege to be in a world of total order, rules and regulations. He extolled their system of doing everything in triplicate, extolled the lunch rooms, where a man always could find food. Raved about how it was far better than the outside world with its myriad dangers.

  Rockson listened to all the meaningless crap with smiles as the camera entered the stadium. He watched blank-eyed workers performing all kinds of stupid tasks, or making speeches. Music began swelling from all around the room and the sound in the movie went up. It was like being in a sensurround Tri-D performance, only much more pleasant.

  The narrator had a deep, vibrant voice and the music seemed to drone louder, going through his spine. Rock smelled that strange gas that he had gotten such a whiff of back in the generating plant. As he sniffed harder he noticed the growing mist in the air. His eyes sleepily made a circuit of the room. Yes! On each side of the seats was an almost inaudible hiss of gas, which only his mutant senses could pick up.

  He tried to rise, realizing they were being poisoned by the gas. But he couldn’t move, not even an inch! Rock’s arms and legs felt as if they were cast in concrete. The music grew more intense, swelling angel choirs were telling him how bright and wonderful life could be under the Sword of Nixon, the all-loving, all-embracing Sword of Nixon, or some crazy thing like that.

  Then he was falling into a kaleidoscope of images. Everything swirled around: flags and political slogans, fat-faced delegates.

  Slowly, his mind flooded with the Republam spirit, until the Dome became his world.

  Twenty-Two

  Rockson dimly remembered loving the movie, and then, while he mumbled appreciation for the beautiful sound track, being helped back to the dormitory.

  That night Rockson had some of the strangest, and most unpleasant dreams he had ever experienced in his life. He kept tossing and turning around in his bed like a rolling pin floating around the void. Then he was in a nightmarish interrogation session with four of the Caucus people. They sat around on stools in that horror-dream looking at him with contempt. They asked him stupid and totally confusing things:

  “Who are the top elected leaders of the Republam Party?” one asked—a delegate with a scar on his forehead as if he’d had a lobotomy.

  “Dr. Harrod, Radall, Questel, Harris, Smythe,” Rock droned out. He felt as if there was a balloon around his head when he spoke. “And of course the Great Nominee, blessed-be-His-Name!”

  “What are the main rules of behavior?” a fat, jowly delegate asked, spinning Rockson’s chair to face the light.

  “To adhere to the Laws of Nixon,” Rock droned back.

  In the dream everything was slow motion, the physical sensation almost rubbery. It was hard to describe.

  “What are the laws?”

  “To follow all Caucus rules. To read the rules all the time. To never be late for debate . . .”

  “What are . . .”

  The questions went on and on and on. Finally Rock turned over so hard in his bunk that he fell out and woke up on the floor. The pain of his fall jolted him to his senses. What an ordeal!

  How did he know all the junk he had spoken in the dream? What the hell was going on? Must have been a nightmare! Clarity and fuzziness alternated in his brain. His head began to spin again.

  He saw a big, bearded man rise from a collapsed bed, yawning. He wished the hell he could remember that giant’s name!

  Rock heard a commotion of bells. The other men were rising up all around him. Rising en masse, scratching and burping. It must be time for exercise or food. The fuzziness drifted back into his mind. He couldn’t quite remember what this was all about, but what did it matter? Only being happy counted.

  Bells continued to ring, and the lights went on and off all over the huge barracks. The awakened men all reached for their striped Republam jackets and straw hats.

  Right. Time to get dressed, Rockson thought. He saw that he had an outfit too. It was folded neatly at the foot of his bed. He put on his jacket and hat.

  He couldn’t quite remember his name. He was— Rockhead? Boulder? Something like that . . . Close enough!

  Around him he could hear the thousands of others, standing up unsteadily, trying to get the blood which had flowed down into their feet back into their minds. They mumbled things to themselves. “Do the form in triplicate.” One man said slowly, as if it were extremely important, “Caucus rules allow the Speaker of the Floor to supersede the President of the Chamber on the second day of—”

  The recitations went on everywhere, a veritable Tower of Babel as the awakened men recited their canons over like monks in a monastery.

  Yes, there were things he was supposed to remember. What? To his right now stood men he should know. One looked Chinese. Another was black. One was an immense giant with a beard. Who were they? Now, he felt totally confused. He felt he should know who these men were. He looked into the black man’s eyes. They were blank, almost dead like a zombie’s. He didn’t have an expression.

  “Good morning, Delegate,” the black man intoned with the deadest of waves. “I hope this day is productive for you.”

  Rockson replied with similar words as the man stood there, waiting.

  Rock glanced at the Chinese, who was standing in a weird position. His body looked much steadier than everyone else’s. They were all stumbling. The Chinese had the same dead eyes, although Rockson could see a spark that none of the others had. A spark that couldn’t quite break through. And then the huge man gave him a huge, twisted, dumb smile. This man seemed to be enjoying life, so why shouldn’t he?

  He was here and he wasn’t. It was a strange sensation, like being inside a balloon that could stretch out anywhere you went, but made everything fuzzy, without oxygen. He didn’t remember his past at all. But it didn’t matter much, either.

  Suddenly Handelman came through the door and clapped his hands at him and the closest three men. The other Caucus People stumbled out all around them, heading off to their various chores. The four of them awaited instructions.

  “Hey, boys, had a good night’s sleep?” Handelman asked and smiled. “Well, let’s move along,” the man said with a quick little clap. “We’ve got breakfast to catch, then more films. You all will be anxious to get out into the complex and get to work. Get your hands going, really feel like a part of this whole team.”

  The big, bearded guy seemed to be in a totally good mood, stretching, making little cooing sounds as he put on his striped jacket—size 96—and straw hat—size 18.

  “Mornin’, Mr. Archer,” Handelman said, tipping his hat as the rest of the men half-stumbled around dressing. Rockson glanced up when he saw a vent from which some yellow mist was emanating. He somehow realized briefly that it was a stupor-gas. That they were taking it in against their will. Alarm bells went off in his head. He should do—something.

  Then the thought disappeared again, down a low screaming steel slide, until even the memory of having a thought disappeared in a mist.

  “Come on, Mr. Archer, and you others, too,” Handelman said with a nervous expression. The mountain man opened one suspicious eye wide, then another and focused hard on the Facilitator. But then he heard his favorite word.

  “Breakfast!” Handelman coaxed. “As much as you want. If you just would be a little more relaxed about the whole event—then everything would be—”

  “BREEEAAAKKKFFAAAASSSSSTTTT!” Archer yowled out enthusiastically. Handelman saw that he had at last made contact with the man. He noticed with some concern that Archer didn’t seem to have a total effective response to the stupor-gas or even to the
heavily drugged food. He marched them all off, the Freefighters sort of bouncing along the corridor.

  None of his friends said, “Good morning,” Archer realized. And they were not walking quite right. He was used to seeing Rock and Detroit, and especially Chen, who could balance on a piece of cord, walking firmly and resolutely. It was a little disconcerting to see none of that animal grace-of-motion. But his mind was not bothered by such things for more than a few seconds. He felt his heart beating fast as he approached the smells of the kitchen.

  They spent about half an hour at breakfast. Then Handelman led them on to the movie. They were seated, all nice and comfy. Then Handelman pressed the button, winking at Archer. The screen lit up and they all sat through another hour of “How Wonderful the Caucus Dome Is for Everyone.” A film about how choosing to live and work there was the greatest thing a man could do, how this place contained the meaning of all things— Order. It made little sense to Archer. But he had a pleasant feeling. His friends seemed to like it a lot, though. They even cheered when they saw the statue of Nixon.

  They watched images of men working happily in vote-counting rooms, men making posters or leaflets. They watched men carrying huge books entitled Rules of Voting and Governmental Procedure.

  “There men are all carrying out some of the myriad tasks of the Caucus Dome,” the Narrator said. “They have a place. You have a place now too—with us.” Archer smiled. They all smiled.

  Then the images were going faster and faster.

  Rock thought he smelled some extra flavoring in the air. More gas to feel good, like a baby wrapped in a blanket as Mama rocked him over and over. He liked the gas. And the movie.

  After what seemed like a pleasant eternity, Rockson didn’t particularly want to come out. There was a loud siren though it only lasted for a second. Rock looked up. The movie screen had rolled into the ceiling. Sitting behind where it had been was an immense, old-fashioned office chair, containing a big and ugly man.

  “Welcome to our society,” the old gray-haired man said, staring hard at them. Rockson felt his pleased feeling fade. He could hardly bear to look at him, as the huge decayed body was fat and pasty with a greenish tinge, like rotting bread. The seated man must have weighed more than eight hundred pounds.

  But it was the tiny ears that were somehow the most striking things on his head. Oh, they were there, but sunk way back like flat gray flaps somewhere lost in his hair. He wasn’t human somehow, more like a thing.

  The fat man wore a long robe of striped red, white, and blue material.

  “I am the Great Nominee,” the obese man grunted. “The power behind the power. The chief deliverer of rules and punishment for transgressors, as mandated by Nixon long ago. I welcome all new delegates into our world of loving sameness. Never again will there be fears, lack of food, or no bed in which to lie. You are free, like you’ve never been.” He pushed his hands together and then let them dangle like huge blimps at the sides of his chair.

  Somewhere inside, Rock felt rage, pure animal, murderous rage. He knew something awful was happening, but it was a thought far away, perception without thought.

  “Say, ‘Thank you, Great Nominee,’ ” the enormous man ordered, holding his hands to the skies.

  “Thank you, Great Nominee,” the Freefighters replied—all except for the mountain man, who said, “THANKSS.” For athletic, powerful men, they spoke as if they were half-zombies. Their gesture of raised hands was weak. But it pleased the Nominee.

  “You are fortunate to have arrived at such an auspicious time,” the Nominee said, letting his hands pull back under the robe. “It is the meeting of our annual Caucus, to fill new positions, change some outmoded regulations. Handleman will assign you to your tasks.”

  The Nominee looked them over again as if checking out the new additions. “I’m so happy to have met you. I have pressing business to conduct, so I must leave, however. Remember, the Bureaucratic Process is the pathway to Salvation!”

  “I second that,” Handelman shouted. Handelman turned to the audience. Then, like a cheerleader leading a pep rally, he shouted, “Everybody! The Bureaucratic Process is the pathway to Salvation!”

  Rock and the other Freefighters joined in. “The Bureaucratic Process is the pathway to Salvation! The Bureaucratic Process is the pathway to Salvation!” While the men were working up to fever pitch, Handelman led them out of the auditorium.

  They were taken to “Job Placement”—an aptitude center more than anything, tested, and then given jobs. The jobs were mindless, to say the least. Rock didn’t have to be bright to put a sheet of paper in an ancient typewriter and pound out copies of a leaflet for hours.

  Detroit and Chen were assigned to squeeze a lube can of oil down in the generating plant. They had to walk around each of the immense steel poles upon which the huge turbines spun, and squeeze off some oil. The turbines worked so hard and fast that they really burned the stuff up. The oil was old and not very viscous. It was a boring task, but they weren’t really aware of that. They themselves worked like well-oiled machines, without a thought.

  Rock was very happy typing. As the Nominee had said, they had good food and a bed. What else did a man need?

  Twenty-Three

  Over the next two days, as he tended to his duties, the Doomsday Warrior felt himself falling deeper and deeper into a mental and physical abyss. It was a strange feeling, for somewhere he could sense that it was all madness. But he felt like a tadpole at the bottom of a swamp covered over by ten thousand tons of mud. He wasn’t going the hell anywhere.

  He worked, had to work, had no other choice. The Caucus people were everywhere, supervising, running around, making sure Rockson and the other typists did their best. He didn’t mind, really. There was something nice about being a typist. He knew exactly what to do, and there was a perfect place for him in this world. He had no worries, no worries at all.

  It was midnight the second day on the job when Rockson took a big fall. He was coming down a set of metal stairs on one side of the dormitory, about to go to bed. Somehow, because he wasn’t holding the bannister, his right foot caught on one of the steel steps and he went flying forward. He really didn’t know how to stop falling.

  But his body knew better than he did, having worked out, and having been attacked so many times. His body responded because he was a mutant with a few extra action-cards thrown in there for moments just like this. He managed to arch his body halfway down the stairs. There was a sharp pain in his right chest as he banged against the bannister. Rock rolled down the last fifteen or twenty stairs and cracked into the concrete floor like an artillery shell. He rolled over a few times and somehow wedged himself beneath a bed.

  He could move, but only a bit. He was near-unconscious, a faint groan issuing from his parted lips. Rockson, the sleepy typist, had managed to put a couple of nice bruises on his skull. The way he was wedged, his head was against an air vent. And as he lay there, as still as a corpse, the entire group of men from his section trundled to their beds, and fell asleep, as if nothing had happened at all.

  Someone eventually counted heads and noticed that Rockson was missing after a few hours. Men were sent around to see just what the hell had happened to him. But the way he had fallen, beneath a guy’s bed, hid him from view.

  Upstairs the work for the big meeting-to-come was accelerating. All the chairs surrounding the platform got another cleaning. Checks were made on the microphones. The speakers that would boom out the Great Nominee’s sacred words were adjusted. The prep-workers stayed up all night and into the next day to make sure.

  As they worked, Rockson lay with his face pressed against the venting system. After a long time, he began to regain control of his mind. It began with a headache like a sledge hammer. He opened his eyes slowly. He knew he’d been in and out of consciousness for maybe twelve hours. Everything hurt. But suddenly he knew the pain was worth it. He realized just what had been going on. He wasn’t a typist in a typing pool—he was the Dooms
day Warrior once again.

  When he’d fallen he’d jammed his head into an oxygen vent, rather than a hypno-gas vent.

  Of course. They’d have to mix in some fresh air with all that yellow gas they were feeding to the whole damned place to zonk everyone out, to control their minds.

  He leaned forward and took some huge whiffs of the invisible stuff. Hmmm, it tasted good. Real good. And it cleared his mind. Shit! He’d really been careless, hadn’t realized how he had been losing his mind the whole time he’d been in the dome. But now he was okay—or nearly so. Now what?

  When he felt he had been sufficiently revived, Rockson crawled out from under the bed. His mind filled with a deep revulsion for the Caucus people. They were not just dull, they were a horror beyond belief. A horde of robots. The Nominee, whoever or whatever he was, kept them like mindless ants, scurrying around. Well, Rockson was out of their control now. He took another deep breath at the vent and then moved into action.

  He was very unsteady on his feet and had to throw out his arms like a tightrope walker to take steps at first, to keep himself balanced. But he was okay.

  First things first; he made himself plan, although it actually hurt his skull to begin analyzing things. First thing was to shut off the hypno-gas. He had to get them all off the stuff. Especially his men.

  Rock walked around the vast sleeping-room and saw what he hadn’t noticed at first. That there were secondary venting system openings alongside all the gas ducts. More oxygen. They fed a careful balance of stuff up through the dome. It must have taken a long time to get just the right mixture. They had built many vents. Some were devoid of air currents or gas.

  It took the Doomsday Warrior a little while to figure out the whole damn duct system, but he did. He crawled down through a dead vent to the power-plant area, and slunk around, checking it out, then found the valves to cut off the gas. They hadn’t been closed for a century, but with his mutant strength he managed to shut them off.