by Ryder Stacy
“Very well,” the Freefighter said with a sigh, letting himself be led back behind the monstrous blue ice boulder from whence the man had come. Behind the boulder was a narrow entrance, and Rockson had to stoop to follow the short Ice Shaman into a large dimly lit room carved from ice. It was much like the king’s own throne room. There the Ice Shaman took a seat and bid Rockson sit facing him in the Ice City equivalent of a Morris wing chair. Tinglim sat on a stool between them and translated.
“What do you want of me?” asked Rockson. “I have much to do . . .” By the light of twelve candles, Rock explained his mission.
When he had finished, the Ice Shaman remained silent for a long time, and then said, “So what if Killov destroys the world? This would not be the first time such a thing has happened, Rockson. Many civilizations have existed on this earth. The last one to destroy itself with atomic weapons was Atlantis, over nine thousand years ago. They managed to sink their entire continent with the force of their nuclear bombs.”
“You say there really was an Atlantis?” Rockson asked. “We only know of the ancient Egyptian civilization. Everything that existed before that appears to have vanished, leaving no trace.”
“Not so, Rockson. You see, the survivors of the Atlantean civilization found their way into the hollow part of the earth—you can sometimes reach it through a tunnel that periodically opens at the exact location of the north pole. There, gravity bends and one can actually walk sideways quite a distance into the earth. The survivors of Atlantis, in order to flee radioactivity, which was much greater by far than that caused by World War Three, entered the underworld. There they stayed, living like cave bats for thousands of years, carefully maintaining much of their old knowledge. They emerged from the underworld to reclaim their planet, only to find that the devolved mutations of their war ruled the land they had once claimed as their own. These devolved beings are the Sasquatch.
“The Atlanteans, physically, were no match for them, having grown weak from their safety underground. The Atlanteans had destroyed all their old weapons in their long stay under the earth. They had become peaceful but weak. But the surface was a fierce place. In the struggle to survive, the Atlanteans lost much of their knowledge.
“Do you know that we, the human race—the Eskimo and the Indians of the north, the Russians and Americans—are all the great-great-grandchildren of those Atlanteans? And we have the same flaw—we are inventive. So inventive that we had another war, for we were inventive without being mentally at peace.” The shaman smiled. His teeth tinkled.
“Even if what you say is true, it’s all the more reason for stopping Killov. We’ve got to stop the use of any more weapons of mass destruction.”
The shaman smiled, and Rockson saw what appeared to be bluish icicles instead of teeth inside his blue-lipped mouth. It was very disturbing to look at. The shaman said, “As long as mankind is not mentally at peace, there will always arise another Killov or Drushkin or Hitler. My advice, Rockson, is to understand that there is a time and place for everything, and that everything happens at the right time. There are many examples in history,” he continued, pointing to the great row of books along the walls—real books, but placed on ice shelves.
“But that’s just it,” replied Rockson. “There is no time. As we speak, Killov is approaching his destination. Every precious second wasted brings us all closer to mass destruction.” Rock could see he was wasting his breath on the shaman. “I must leave,” he said, getting up from his chair.
“Before you leave, you must answer me this riddle,” the shaman said.
Rock was chafing at the bit now. He had to get out of there. “What riddle?” he asked impatiently.
The shaman spoke his riddle: “A man who collects compasses lives in a square-shaped green house. He has one and a half wives with four arms and two red faces. His two children are alive, but her child, though living, is not living. The house has five red chimneys and all four sides of the house face south. On a Tuesday in June, the man stares out of one of the house’s twenty-three windows and sees a bear walk by. What color is the bear?” The shaman got up from his chair and went to the bookshelf, turning his back on Rockson.
“I honestly don’t know or care,” said Rockson. “I’ve had it up to here!” Rockson whispered to Tinglim as he put the back of his hand under his chin. By the time the shaman had turned back from the shelf, the Doomsday Warrior was nowhere to be seen.
“He is a rash young man,” muttered the shaman.
“He doesn’t know our customs,” Tinglim replied.
“Nevertheless, he should be taught a lesson.” He smiled as he looked upon Tinglim’s worried face. “Know ye this. I’ll see him again before he leaves. Go. Catch up to him. He needs you.”
Rock checked in on Archer’s progress at the Crystal infirmary. The doctors said that though Archer’s healing powers were remarkable, it would be many days yet before it would be safe to remove him from the crystal accumulator, and weeks before he was fully recovered. Rock hated to leave him behind, but it was in Archer’s best interest. It was time to move on.
The extra supplies and sleds Rockson had requested were provided by the Ice King as arranged. Rockson, in the dim light of the winter sun, met the three new men that Tinglim had chosen to go along with them. The Nara chief said, “These men—Zebok, Ngaicook, and Dalmok—are expert hunters. When we run short of food, their harpoons will provide.”
Rockson nodded to the three men, who like Tinglim wore sealskin parkas. They were darker and shorter than Tinglim, barely five feet tall. The first one, Zebok, was the shortest and darkest of the three. His movements were quick and agile. Rock watched him move with interest. He hitched up his sled with great efficiency and speed.
The one called Ngaicook had very slanted eyes, like Chen’s and a scar ran the length of his face from the right of his forehead across his flat wide nose and down to the left of his chin. He stared impassively at Rockson, unmoving. The quiet type. Well, that’s okay, the Doomsday Warrior thought, as long as he’s a good hunter and sledsman.
The third one, Dalmok, was all smiles. His two top middle teeth were broken and yellow. This man appeared much older than the first, by about twenty years. His face was a mass of wrinkles like a sunbaked prune. His black eyes seemed merry and flitted about the group of Freefighters. When the man went to his sled and petted the lead dog, a big spitted gray-and-white husky, all the dogs wagged their tails and barked happily.
“Can they shoot too?” Rock asked. “Will they fire upon the enemies of their king, will they shoot at Killov’s troops?” Tinglim nodded.
Rockson made sure the antimatter detector was secure on its sled, and he was about to move the reinforced column out when over a dozen shaven-beaded acolytes toting spears came running up behind them, yelling and threatening.
Rockson put his hand on his shotpistol handle, but hesitated in drawing it out when he saw the Ice Shaman come up behind the spear holders. The throng parted to let the ice man through. “Why all the spears?” Rock asked.
The Ice Shaman said, “You have insulted me by leaving my presence without my permission. I cannot let you leave Ice City until you make amends.”
Rock eyed his Freefighters. They had spread out, and were ready to blast the spearmen and their ice guru to a bloody pulp. But Rockson didn’t want violence. “What kind of amends?” he asked, thin-lipped.
“Either,” smiled the Ice Shaman, “apologize by getting down on your knees and kissing my feet, or answer the impossible riddle.”
Rockson ruled out the former course of action. He hadn’t gotten down for Killov, or Vassily, who controlled two thirds of the world. He hadn’t knelt before the Ice King. He was not about to kneel to some two-bit icicle. “I’ll answer the riddle,” said Rockson decisively. “If you don’t mind repeating it.”
“Good!” answered the shaman, rubbing his hands with glee. “I’ll give you all the time you need.” He paused for effect and then repeated his riddle. “A man
who collects compasses lives in a square-shaped green house. He has one and a half wives with four arms and two red faces. His two children are alive, but her child, though living is not living. The house has five red chimneys and all four sides of the house face south. On a Tuesday in June, the man stares out of one of the house’s twenty-three windows and sees a bear walk by. What color is the bear?”
Rockson looked at the spear-toting acolytes. They were a mean-looking bunch who looked more like pirates than holy men. Shrunken heads hung from the center of their amber-bead necklaces. Still, they had only spears, and Rock’s men had their shotpistols strapped on as usual. Rockson gave the riddle some time, turning it around in his head.
“Give up?” laughed the shaman. “If so, get on your knees and apologize or you all die.” His men raised their spears.
Chen, who had moved close to Rockson, whispered, “We’re ready. Don’t bow down.”
Rock was about to give the order to fire, his hand tightened on his pistol’s handle, when the answer flashed across his mind. “The color of the bear is white!”
“Excellent!” said the shaman. “You are quite right! Now, it is time for me—and you—to go. May the gods be with you on your journey, Rockson.” With a wave of the Ice Shaman’s hand, the acolytes lowered their spears and gave way on the road. The Ice Shaman walked hurriedly away followed by his men. In a matter of moments they had all disapeared from view.
Later, when they were all on the trail heading north, Chen pulled his sled alongside Rock’s and shouted, “How the hell did you know the bear was white? That’s the most incredible thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Easy,” said Rock. “Any house having all four sides facing south must be at the north pole. And if the house is at the north pole, only a polar bear would be passing it.”
“And polar bears are white,” said Chen in amazement. “But what about the rest of the riddle? The one and a half wives? The child that is dead but isn’t—all that stuff?”
Rockson smiled. “I’m not sure all that wasn’t there to obscure the single relevant fact in the riddle.”
“But why did he ask the riddle, Rock?” asked Chen more puzzled than ever. “Why did he threaten us? Is the shaman mad?”
“No, he was stalling for time,” Rock explained. “I think he intended us to wait; he wouldn’t let us leave until the proper moment. If you think about it, the whole confrontation lasted only about five minutes. He wasn’t interested in fighting at all. He said something to me in the interview I had with him that sticks in my mind. His advice to me was to realize ‘there is a time and place for everything and that everything happens at the right time.’ He adjusted our place in space-time. He delayed us a few minutes for some reason.”
Nineteen
Chrome was sniffing the air with his enhanced olfactory circuits, circuits that analyzed every molecule. He could detect a herd of caribou to the south. He would pick one off, carry it, and eat it raw, a little each day. It would be all he needed to fuel his trek. He would range far and wide, off the road. Any pursuers of Killov would take advantage of the shortcut the uncharted area held. The clever pursuers would try to cut across the loop that the Alaska highway made. He would, Chrome thought. Rockson would. It would be the smart thing to do.
The metal man was human in only one way; he had but one emotion left in him that seethed through his brain: Revenge. Back from the grave he had come, back stronger than ever before. Back to kill the man who had blown him apart. Rockson. Rockson was as relentless as Chrome. If anyone was out there, trailing them, it was Rockson.
He let revenge seethe through his body now, encouraging the circuits linked to what remained of his blood and muscle systems to move more swiftly.
Like the wind itself, he ran across the hard, frozen tundra toward the caribou herd. He unslung his Dragunov rifle, and without slacking in speed ran the mile and a half to a ridge overlooking the herd of antlered creatures. He made the journey in three minutes and arrived not out of breath. He sighted the smaller of the herd just as they looked up in astonishment at his metal glinting in a patch of sunlight. They had smelled nothing. Nothing animal; nothing human. Yet something was there. Too late they started to run. The small calf to the side fell, its brain split by a Dragunov long-range bullet. Its blank eyes stared up at Chrome as he hefted it on his shoulder. Blood coating his arms and chest, he walked toward his goal, the mountain. Mount Draco.
Chrome, when he was but a human soldier for the empire, had been a skilled mountain climber. But that training in the German Alps hadn’t prepared him for the treacherous climb up the peak the map designated as Draco. Draco, at 10,000 meters in height, dwarfed the Alpine peaks he had been trained on. And always there had been a rope connecting him to other climbers for safety. But now the man who had been remade of steel and wiring was climbing alone. He wanted to achieve the height of the mountain for surveillance purposes. If he could spot any pursuers, he could perhaps pick them off with the rifle now slung over his shiny metal shoulders. If they were nowhere to be seen, then he could simply set the charges at the top of the mountain, and descend. The mountain had masses of snow that would fall on the slightest concussion from the time bomb he carried in his satchel.
If metal could smile, Chrome’s face would have been set in a grin as he climbed. Certainly the man who Chrome once was, the man called Gunter, the man who had been rebuilt from practically nothing, would have smiled. Chrome was sure Killov was right. Rockson somehow would be following. The history of the so-called Doomsday Warrior demanded such foolishly brave action.
Chrome looked around, searching for the right spot. The crevice his electronic scope vision detected halfway up the mountain would do, a small cavelike indentation, just big enough to set the ten liters of explosive in. He set down the carcass and rifle and began the climb using pinions only where needed, relying on the enormous strength of his servomechanism-driven arms to carry him from fingerhold to fingerhold. The lower slope, full of jagged bare-rock outcroppings, was made for a swift climb—at least by an expert such as he.
In an hour’s time his steel hands pulled him up and over into the small cave. It was deep enough for Chrome to roll his body into. He unpacked the explosive package and attached the sensing microphone and wires. He did this with speed and efficiency. He was hardly winded by the climb. Chrome exulted in this near-limitless endurance.
Nothing can stop me, nothing can kill me, nothing, he thought with a madman’s pride. He attached the end of the hundred and fifty foot rope of nylon braid with a piton he hit deep into the rock, using only his steel fist. He wanted to get down in a hurry, to continue his search-and-destroy mission. He pulled on the rope and made sure it would bear his weight, then he slid down it at a speed that would have burned another’s hand. He reached another toehold, steadied himself, and yanked the rope above loose with a tremendous pull. Then he gathered it, inserted another piton in the granite mountain, attached the rope again, and repeated the process. Doing this ten times he made the descent in a mere five minutes.
Satisfied that he had put the explosive at the best possible place along the tremendous icecap of the mountain, he retrieved his rifle and the carcass of the caribou. He would scout west next, and then south. He had his electron binoculars, some raw meat, and the Dragunov rifle. He could last out here for weeks. In a perverse way, he hoped the avalanche didn’t get them, for he wished to kill Rockson personally. He’d pick off the other Americans when he saw them, but would face Rockson with only his steel-crushing hands as weapons.
The metal slit of a mouth moved up and down. It was a laugh, without sound, without humor. He walked away from the mountain careful not to make a noise, for the charges were set to go off at the sound of a human voice, or a dog’s bark, or the tramping of feet.
Twenty
After leaving the Ice City, Rockson and his men pushed north into the forbidding area the Eskimos called the Devil’s Playground. It was a landscape of twisting canyons and smoking volcanic co
nes, some hundreds of feet in height. Only the guidance of the Ice City men enabled the party to choose the right path to take through the labyrinth of death. The temperature, by the fifth day out, had dropped to a constant minus forty-five degrees. They still managed to cover more than eighty miles a day, and by the lime they reached a frozen lake, Rockson’s sextant indicated they had crossed the 64th parallel.
When they reached the middle of the twenty-mile-wide lake there was a sudden piercing howl, a sound to chill the bones of the most hardened Fighter—then another.
A chorus of death filled the air. Rock knew the sound—a wolf pack was after them. The howls were carried by the wind, dozens of wolf voices.
“Quickly,” Rock shouted. “Cut right, to the bank of the lake, into those woods. If we’re lucky there will be dry wood there. We’ll build a fire to keep them away.”
The sleds turned as one on the frozen lake and raced in the moonlight toward the shoreline a mile away. Behind them now, dozens of wolves poured out of the night, their gray pelts glistening in the white-fire moonlight, their intended victims well visible to their night eyes. Like the fires of a predatory sun their hot-coal eyes burned. Thoughts of tender raw meat that they would soon savor in their sharp-toothed jaws made them salivate in streams. They needed food to carry to their young. The wolves were gaining on their prey.
Rockson whipped away at his team, flicking the whip tip against their moon-silhouetted ears. They yelped and pulled harder. He hated to treat them roughly—but they didn’t want to be eaten either, he was sure of that. If a shot to their ear tips was what it took to get them moving at top speed, so be it.
Yet the wolves cries grew louder. The Freefighters were losing ground. A glance over Rock’s shoulder showed the ghostly images of fast-approaching death on paws. They were less than fifty yards behind now. He unholstered his shotpistol and set it for wide dispersal. But the weapon was no good for such distance. And there was no way any of the men could get their rifles up and fire accurately at this pace.