Doomsday Warrior 12 - Death American Style (7 page)

But Rath was already gone. It was a stupid question, anyway. He was tired, that was all. In his better days he had even had his moments at repartee. But right now he felt like grunting at anything anyone asked him. His brain felt like it was screwed on backwards. Maybe he was getting some dreaded radiation fever. Or maybe he was just getting old. Yeah, right, peaked before he hit his mid-30’s. No, he wasn’t getting old. But the constant fight against darkness, the ceaseless struggle that he and the others carried on, the conclusion of which he probably wouldn’t even be around to see—sometimes, sometimes . . . was wearying.

But after his third cup of coffee, in one of the quick-serve breakfast bars that was open on the twelve-to-eight shift, he felt less crabby. Although he didn’t want to admit it, Rockson began feeling just a little bit better. Coffee—thank God for it. Half the other Freefighting cities didn’t have it. But, as usual, Shecter and his hydroponics boys—now taking up an entire level and reaching out for more—had recreated the brew. Actually, coffee had been grown in primitive troughs, under heat lamps and such, even when Rockson had arrived as a tough-as-nails mountain child who had made his way across the state of Colorado on his own. But with Dr. Shecter’s advances over the last few decades, the farming situation had improved dramatically. Now there were five kinds of coffee beans, not to mention ten fresh vegetables and four fruits. The bio-techs were feeding the entire city everything except basic protein needs. And even that—he had heard they were working on some sort of Nutra-paste, a by-product of the cellulose waste of the plants—that could take care of 90 percent of the body’s protein needs.

He would take a pass on that. He had tasted one of the bio boy’s concoctions—grapefruit husk pulp mixed with ground citrus seeds, or some damned thing like that. Had tasted like— Well, he hadn’t wanted to hurt anyone’s feelings so he hadn’t said. But he hadn’t drunk it, either.

“Ah, Rockson,” a voice said. Rock turned to see Dr. “Shaky” Shecter himself, coming down the aisle between a few of the plasti-tables, heading straight for him. Since his accident of several years before, the doc had had to have his legs amputated. But his medical-prosthetics team had been doing intensive research anyway—to help many of the wounded Freefighters who in their battles with the Reds and the carnivores of the mountains and plains had suffered many lost limbs. Thus, they had been ready. And the top boss himself had volunteered to try the new “smart” breed of prostheses they had come up with. He had artificial bionic legs. Shaky, but effective.

Rockson had to admit the damned things worked pretty good—considering. The tall, lanky doctor, smoking his omnipresent pipe, walked at a good speed. Only the slightest wobbling of the top of the body, as the hips shifted slightly above the fractionally unbalanced joint system, betrayed the fact: Below the thighs, the doctor was all alumni-glass and wires, microprocessors and tiny argonium batteries, which could power all systems for months at a time without a recharge. He had been the guinea pig—now the device was being used on a number of wounded and being shipped out to other parts of the U.S. Dr. Shecter had spoken of his hope that someday it would surpass Liberator rifles as C.C.’s main export.

“Speak of the devil,” Rock said with a lopsided grin, reaching for another cup of steaming brew. “I was just wondering how many of those prosthethes you’ve been selling. Looks like yours works pretty damned good.”

“Good?” Shecter laughed out of one corner of his mouth, keeping the pipe firmly lodged in the other. “Why, I’m the envy of half the teenagers in the place.” He did a little gyration with his hips and then hopped up and down rapidly on alternate feet as if he were skipping. A few of the early morning risers laughed from other tables as they tried to wake up. The head of all scientific operations in the city was a well-known ham—and with the addition of his bionic legs, it took little to get him into a song and dance. He stopped after about fifteen seconds, looking a little pale, and sat down with a thump on the chair opposite Rock, across a synthetic-formica table.

“You okay, Doc?” Rockson asked with concern as he took the coffee cup away from his lips.

“Yeah, yeah,” Shecter waved back, annoyed. “The legs are fine—it’s my damned heart that could use some rewiring. But I’m afraid we’re not equipped for that kind of operation—yet . . .” He had a twinkle in his eye as he reached for the filled and ready autopot.

“So what do you think, Doc?” Rockson asked, looking the aging man in his clear crystal eyes. The man’s eyes never failed to amaze Rockson. Like his own they were impenetrable, filled with a burning power.

“Think about what?” Shecter asked, taking a sip and burning his tongue so that he pulled back sharply. Rockson could see that the man was growing older. How long could he go on? The whole senior group of the city—soon they would all be gone. The younger ones would take over. Mostly mutants like himself. It would be a new world. He didn’t know if it would be a better one.

“Come on—the Reds—the peace offering—the olive branch of love,” Rock said. “What do you think? Are the Reds serious?”

“You know I don’t mix in politics, Rock,” Shecter said with a thin grin, taking a puff on the cherry-flavored tobacco so that the air was filled with a sweet fruity odor that made Rock’s stomach turn just a little. “I just play with my test tubes and try to wheedle as much funds and manpower as I can out of the Council to push on with my work. There’s so much to do, Rock, so—”

“Yeah, sure, spare me the Einsteinian objectivity please,” the Doomsday Warrior said poker-faced. “You’re involved in every decision that’s made in this place.”

“All right—but for your ears only. I’ve got a big appropriations meeting coming up for expansion of the hydroponics—and I can’t afford to have any enemies on the committee.”

“My ears only,” Rock said, covering his mouth for a second like the dumb monkey.

“I think—go for it,” Shecter said. “I’m a scientist, and we must always be willing to change—to allow new ideas to take hold, to germinate within us. A scientist must follow many routes, be bold, always, always risk the new, even the terrifying. I’m not saying the Reds have mellowed any—because we know basically they haven’t. But perhaps Vassily really is serious. The man is growing old. We know he’ll die soon. And—with Colonel Killov gone—he can afford to relax for a moment and look around him at what he’s wrought. Basically he sees a world still in mortal conflict. Especially here in the U.S.”

Shecter paused, took a long puff on his pipe and looked at Rock so that he could feel the scientist’s will like a tangible object. “Yes—go, Rock. Take the chance. I know the macho side of the Council will scream that it’s just another Red trick—a chance to capture you and the top leadership of the U.S. But you know me—always the optimist. Can’t find the worm—unless you turn over the stone.”

“Only problem is, if you’re the worm you get eaten by the crows. And I think I’m the worm on this fishing expedition,” Rock said, gulping down the last of the java.

The man with streaked gray-brown hair said, “The meeting will come to order. Please, please, ladies and gentlemen. We have a vitally important problem to discuss.”

No one quieted down. The speaker raised his voice.

“If you don’t act with more decorum, I will have to call in the Council Guard and have you ejected. Please, please!” William Fabres, the acting chairperson of the Council screamed now. “Shut the hell
up!"
He banged his gavel on the speaker’s podium again and again, slamming it down as if he were tenderizing meat with a sledge hammer.

The council chambers of Century City, where all decisions were made, was either a paradigm of American democracy at work in its most active and participatory form—or was the living proof that the system could never work, and degenerated, as usual, into anarchy, cursing and occasional fisticuffs. Council meetings were either famous or notorious at other Freefighting cities throughout the west. Delegates and visitors from the other hidden cities were always aghast that one of the most powerful and certainly influential rebel cities in the country was so—so insane.

In the large semicircular chamber, where the elected representatives of the city’s inhabitants carried out their ordained duties, were now stuffed not just all fifty of them, but another five hundred or so citizens. And hundreds more were trying to get through the doors, to voice their opinions. People yelled, screamed, threatened. Fistfights broke out like ripples on a pond here and there—though they were just as quickly stopped by those around them. In fact, for all the noise and clamor, no one actually seemed to get hurt—other than an occasional busted nose from a punch that landed too cleanly. A mess, yes—but not a man, woman or child of them (for children were represented on the council as well) would have had it any other way. They believed in the full and enthusiastic vocal expression of their beliefs and desires. What were they fighting for, if not that? What had all the spilled blood and the pain been for—if not to let the whole damned place know just what the hell you believed in?

Rockson’s presence often cooled them out, at least momentarily—either due to their tremendous respect for him, or the fear that he would lose his own temper amidst the screaming and leap like a panther at them and start banging heads together!

Rockson walked in now, down the aisle and up toward the raised stage where he could see some of the other parties already represented; those around seemed to cool down a little, looking sheepishly at their hands around each other’s throats, and pulling them free. Rock walked through the crowd like Moses through a Red Sea of flesh. By the time he reached the stage, the place had almost quieted down.

“That’s much better, much better,” Fabres said with the slightest of smiles flickering across one side of his face for a second. Maybe he would actually get control of the damned place—and get the meeting going.

“Now, you’re all welcome to have your say. After the official debate—by these gentlemen here,” Fabres turned to Rockson, Intel Chief Rath, and Thayers and Bertel, the two reps from what were basically C.C.’s opposing parties. There were actually a number of special-interest groups, as there must always be in a community of men. But in general there were more “right wingers” in the community—favoring increased strikes against the Russian cities and increased attacks on Soviet troops around the country to drive them out. Versus the “left wingers”—those who believed that perhaps for the first time in the century since the Russians had occupied America there
was
a real chance for peace, for a gradual if not immediate withdrawal of troops. They sat—as the English Parliament had done—on the right and left sides of the chamber, which enabled them to scream their heads off at one another without having to engage physically.

“Now, the question of the day is, what part if any should Century City play in the Peace Conference being called by Premier Vassily and Zhabnov in Washington? And what should be our recommendations to the other Free Cities, as we all know that our decisions here often have great affect on the voting of the smaller towns and villages in the territory. I’ll begin with you Rath. But, please—just your
information,
no politicking right now.”

“I wouldn’t think of it,” Rath said, rising from his folding wooden chair on which the four men sat side by side, none really looking at the others. “Honored colleagues, ladies and gentlemen,” Rath said—at his most charming, which was not much, but more than he usually doled out. “I’m here to report to you tonight of yet another
plot
on the part of the Russians to—”

Voices began rising angrily from the left side of the chamber at Rath’s obviously slanted viewpoint. But with a cough he seemed to drop the bull and just proceeded with the basic facts. “Our radio units have picked up the fact that the Russians are transmitting to every part of the country—not just the Rockies. So, for those who suggested it is just a ploy to get Rockson—that doesn’t seem too likely. Secondly, we have confirmed that Russian troops
do
seem to be pulling back into their fortresses. That virtually all search-and-destroy and slave-labor-gathering operations have been ceased. For the moment . . . Finally, against our advice, a number of Free Cities have contacted one another through radio transmissions. If the Reds are putting much energy into tracking these signals, they may have just discovered half the hidden cities in America without firing a bullet. But we shall see.” Rath went on, telling them everything he knew, and then sat down.

Then it was the right wing that got to speak first, since it was the majority party at the moment, having won in the last elections. The articulate, mocking, Hans Thayers told the other reps why they had to vote
not
to send Rockson or any peace delegation to D.C. He said they should recommend increased attack on the Reds, since this peace proposal only proved the fact that they were hurting, weakening—that the time was right for all-out war.

Then the minority spokesman gave his version of the truth. Bertel was a mellower type, with a country lawyer kind of style about him, pausing for long sips of water, pulling on his suspenders, addressing the other reps with jokes and gossip as if he were addressing a jury. Bertel spoke of the need to respond to the olive branch—whatever the outcome. “The reality is,” he concluded after nearly half an hour of speaking, “that we have nothing to lose. Things are already terrible, half the country’s a wasteland, we’ve been fighting the Reds for a century. Maybe a breather wouldn’t hurt. Just to see what the hell is going on out there. Just to
see.
Give peace a chance, I say.”

Then it was Rockson’s turn. He had always favored the Gary Cooper approach. That is, he said his piece, and then they could all decide on just what the hell they wanted to do with that information. Rock wasn’t the type to argue anyone into anything. That wasn’t how he operated. So he just told them very simply how he felt.

“As far as I can see—I say
go.
As head of combat operations for Century City, I’ve seen the death out there. As have many of you. It’s no glorious fantasy to die, or have your guts strewn out on a serving board of dirt. So as a man who has been responsible for the deaths of many men—and will doubtless be responsible for many more—I say it’s worth a try. Peace with freedom. Even down to your last breath. Peace is what we’re all fighting for. If it’s worth dying for, it’s worth traveling a few miles for.” With that, Rockson sat back down and folded his arms.