by Ryder Stacy
The other Technicians awoke and were again fed huge, steaming portions of good American food. They took to it like beavers to trees and seemed to want to eat more and more, as if they would start growing before the Freefighters’ eyes. Already their pale, thin stalks of arms seemed to be filling out, their walk was steadier, their beads held higher.
“You mentioned medical equipment,” Rock said, looking at Ullman. “Two of my men were recently hurt and aren’t responding well to our treatment. What sort of medical devices are you equipped with?”
“Well, a side discovery, quite accidental, of the Particle Beam was made by one of my illustrious ancestors, Drior the Quantuum Mechanic. He noticed that cultures of bacteria placed under an extremely low level Particle Accelerator destroyed said culture in under twenty seconds. Much experimentation with this fact led to the development of what we call the Neutron Accelerator and Micro-Biological Extermination Unit. The MB, for abbreviation. It destroys all bacteria and viruses within an organism without harming the organism itself.”
Rock looked at Ullman intently. “Do you mean the thing destroys all germs?”
“Yes, I guess you could enumerate that,” Ullman replied. Rockson whistled.
“Then you never get sick?”
“No, never. We are given a dose of the ray once a year and none of us ever contracts sickness. But for genetic reasons our lifespan seems to be quite short. Few of us live over the age of forty-five, dying as if by command of some preprogrammed force. We know when we will die weeks ahead.”
“Can we use it on my injured men?” Rockson asked.
“Come,” Ullman said, jumping down from the chair he was sitting in. Rockson had several of the Freefighters help him carry Perkins and Lang up the two levels of ladder and into the medical section of the Technician research laboratories. Perkins was looking worse all the time, his breath coming in quick little gasps, his eyes hardly open. They had had to feed him by hand for two days. Lang acted in good spirits but his entire leg had turned bright purple and was threatening to evolve into gangrene. Ullman gave directions to the Freefighters in how to use the equipment. Both men were strapped down on long tables and three cylindrical, cone-shaped objects were placed over each of the bodies. Ullman told the Americans to step back behind the shielding at one end of the apparatus-cluttered medical chamber. He turned numerous dials on a large control board, clicked a Power On button and waited a moment for the black crystal diodes inside the cones to warm up.
“Just lay there and don’t move,” Ullman yelled to the two fully conscious Americans who lay flat on their backs in the center of the room on two high, plastic meditables. “It won’t hurt. You’ll just see a little bit of light, feel a hum go through your body and maybe a little bit of heat. But my people and I go through this each year on our birthdates.”
“Go to it,” both Americans said vigorously. Ullman pressed the Activation switch and the Americans were bathed in a shimmering black light. It seemed to dance across their bodies before entering them. The rays lasted for twenty seconds and then Ullman pressed the Disengage switch and turned the rest of the machinery off. The two wounded Freefighters were helped to their feet.
“Can’t say I feel much better,” Perkins said, smiling with the slightest lift of his pale lips.
“No, it’s not an anesthetic,” Ullman said. “Your pain will be with you for a little while longer anyway. But all the bacteria inside you that were causing the infections are dead. Now your own body can heal itself.” The other Freefighters helped the two somewhat-skeptical Americans back down the long rung ladder to the floor they were camped on.
After the men were set back to rest, Ullman came to Rock’s side. “Come with me, Rockson, and bring whoever you deem technologically comprehensive in relation to weapons mathematics,” Ullman said. Rock called for Green and Slade to accompany him.
“You men, straighten up around here, will you?” Rock yelled out to the others. The campsite was already looking filthy, littered with broken chairs that had collapsed under the Freefighters’ weight and plates of uneaten food from the previous night’s pig bash.
Ullman took the three Freefighters through long, winding corridors and down two levels by the ladders. They entered a large assembly plant, filled with machine tools, torches and plastic molding presses, all the equipment of what looked like an ultra-modern factory, covering the floors of the parking-lotsized weapons plant.
“This is where my people spent most of their lives over the last eighty years,” Ullman said, leading Rockson to a pile of what were clearly weapons, stacked neatly on steel racks along one of the center walls. “The correct enumeration is actually Particle Beam Dispersal Disintegrator,” Ullman said, lifting one of the plastic pistols. It was much like the one Brady had brought back to Century City only this model seemed slightly longer and narrower and came equipped with a long, green lens scope on top.
“The technology is simple, really, once you understand it,” Ullman said, handing the weapon to Rockson. “A question of Energy = Mass x atomic disintegration factor x constant .99998812 + the energy charge of the weapon squared. In this case the energy charge is solar-collected and battery-stored in the handle of the weapon. One charging of two hours’ duration will power the pistol for approximately one thousand firings.”
“And the capability of the weapons?” Rock asked.
“Of the small pistols like this, a range of about one hundred yards,” Ullman said, lifting another one and handing it to Detroit. “It can be kept in a tight beam, approximately one half inch in diameter, with the destructive force of D = Energy x mass x charge acceleration. One of these pistols would destroy any object with a steel-type density up to two tons. It actually knocks out the neutron/proton balance within the individual atoms and causes the solidity to implode.”
“And these?” Rock asked, lifting a much longer, rifle-sized weapon. Again, smooth, made from some sort of shiny black plastic with fibers of green embedded in it. It seemed absolutely impervious to scratches or damage of any kind just by the hardness of the material. Yet it was as light as a feather, as it would have to be for the Technicians to be able to lift it.
“These are the most powerful of the Particle Beam weaponry except for two much larger ones over there, which have the destructive capability of small atomic bombs.” The Freefighters glanced over at two cannon-sized weapons a good ten feet long.
“One of these is capable of sending a beam up into space. It is similar in design, we believe, to the Russian Particle Beams mounted on their satellites. Of course, to fire to that high a target—ten thousand miles up—requires extremely complex sighting gear which, I am slightly embarrassed to confess, my people have not yet perfected. It was one of the priority projects we were working on when things started going at an accelerating negative slope over a year ago.” Ullman turned back to the rifle that Rockson held in his hand.
“But to get back to the Long Beam rifle—it has an accuracy of ninety-three percent up to five miles. The beam can be adjusted from a half-inch kill beam to a wide-spectrum ray that spreads out ten feet per five hundred feet per second. The additional acceleration of the rifle enables it to—”
“Tell you what,” Rockson said, rubbing his head. “All these numbers and equations are making my brain do flips. The only way to really understand a weapon, I think, is to use it. Why don’t we go up top and try some out?”
“Up top?” Ullman gulped, growing pale again. His last journey up, when he had found Vorn or what was left of him, had been one of the most terrifying experiences of his life. Still, he couldn’t appear a coward in front of these fellow Americans. “Of course, yes, let’s go up. Why don’t you each take a smaller and a larger accelerator for testing.” Ullman handed them each a weapon from one of the many piles of the Particle Beams. The Technicians had been making the devices for so long that they had nearly run out of storage space. Pistols and rifles filled every recess, sat stacked on steel shelves from the floor to the twent
y-foot ceiling above, filled drawers and bureaus. A weapons plant with no one to use its product. Until now.
Rock, Green and Slade took one of each size weapon apiece and followed Ullman around to another ladder. “It’s a long climb,” he breathed out wearily before even taking a step.
“We’re ready, and after all that food last night,” Rock said, “I think you’ll be pretty strong.” Ullman started up the ladder which disappeared in the gathering darkness far above. He waited for his usual fatigue to set in after any exertion and was surprised to find that he suddenly felt quite strong. He found himself growing more and more confident of his body as he easily stepped up the three hundred-foot metal-runged ladder to the surface. Ullman pushed at the heavily oiled and filthy hatchway that opened up onto the surface. He grunted, pushed again with his shoulder and the hatch flew open. A pile of black dust flew into the air on the surface, creating a throat-sticking cloud around the exit. Ullman pulled himself up and put his feet on the ground, a place he had been only ten times in his life. Rock and the Freefighters followed right behind, grateful for a little light and air even if it was in the middle of this hideous terrain. They walked several hundred feet and then stopped. “There, that black rocklike formation over there,” Ullman said, pointing to a wall of almost coal-density atomic rock formation some three hundred feet away. “We’ve used that for testing a few times. It used to be about three times larger. Now watch,” he said, obviously pleased to be giving something to the Freefighters. “You flip the activation lever here on the right side and then just sight up your target. I’ll start with the lowest energy release. This dial, with the number 00 on the top, goes, as you can see if you look at your Particle Beam pistols, up to 10.00. This means from narrowest and most lethal beam to widest, most expansive ray but with the least power. Here, like this.”
He aimed the pistol, raising his small, slightly trembling hand, and sighted down the strangely-shaped, triangular tube on the top. Then he lightly pulled the trigger. A beam of black light shot out—silent, perfect. Three hundred feet away, a hole the size of a watermelon appeared in the wall of rock followed by a loud explosion as the surrounding rock blew out for another four feet in each direction. When the dust cleared, a hole had been sheared through five feet of solid rock that a man could walk through. Detroit whistled.
“And this is the lowest power of the smallest one. I want to see the big stuff.”
They all tried their pistols one after another, leaving the shiny black wall like a piece of Swiss cheese, smoking and filled with holes.
“Now, the rifle Particle Accelerator works much the same way but its range and destructive capabilities are greater,” Ullman said. He set one of the three-foot-long, smooth, plastic weapons down on a rock and pulled out a tripod of thin alumasynth legs from the front. “It’s important to stabilize this as a movement when it is activated could have disastrous results. Control! Absolute control is important with these weapons.”
He flipped up two sights on top of the rifle and said, “Look through your scopes, Freefighters. There is a tall, conelike structure forty feet high about two miles away.” They found it readily through their high-power scopes. Ullman lay down, getting his gray smock even blacker from the ground dust. He sighted up and again pulled the trigger every so slightly. The cone was there, then it was gone. The beam of blackness hung in the air like a wire the entire two miles to the object. The disintegration was total and instantaneous. The sound of a powerful explosion hit their ears some seven seconds later.
“Yes, there is quite a loud explosion,” Ullman explained, “but not from the conventional explosive power of dynamite or gunpowder. Here, the nuclei of the molecular structure, as they collapse, cause a roar as the atoms smash together.”
“The enemy has to know something hit him,” Rock said, fingering his rifle. He sighted up a similar natural formation about a mile and a half away and fired. Again, nothing. It was there, then it wasn’t. The Freefighters tested the weapons for over two hours, getting Ullman to explain every detail of firing, maintenance and repair. The Technician leader was proud to be of such service. The Technicians for so long had had no function. Now, their function could save America. He suddenly saw his people’s complete history so differently than he ever had before. What had seemed like a wasted century, a futile attempt at meaning in an absurd world by a dying, diseased race had suddenly become a unique act of heroism. He and his people were heroes. Dedicating their lives to a weapon that could defeat the Russian invader.
Finally, as a dark, crackling storm grew overhead, Rock, his men and Ullman headed back to the underground silos. Ullman’s gait was becoming strong, almost cocky. They again ate like hogs, talking and laughing with the Technicians, who were slowly and shyly opening up to the Americans. It felt both frightening and exhilarating to make contact with outsiders. As if they were speaking with aliens from outer space. They had had only their own faces to stare at.
Even Perkins and Lang seemed to be faring a little better.
“Look, Rock,” Lang said, as the commander of the Expedition Force strode by. “My leg. Can you believe it? In just four hours.”
He pulled open the split trouser leg. The leg, which had been swollen to double its normal size and purple as a rotting piece of meat, was now shrunken nearly back to normal. The discoloration had faded to a musky red.
“It’s amazing,” Rock said, looking down.
“I don’t feel feverish for the first time in days. It’s a goddamn miracle, Rock. I’ll be honest with you, I thought maybe—”
“I know, Lang, me too.” He walked over to Perkins lying six feet away on his blanket mattress.
“How’s it going, my man?” Rockson asked. Perkins’s eyes looked more alert than they had since the ambush.
“Rock, I can’t believe it but I think I’m actually starting to feel a little better. I can breathe slightly in my right lung now. And the pain is subsiding. We should get one of these for every damn Free City in America. It’s incredible—with these kinds of devices, man’s lifespan could be doubled, even—”
“He’s right, Rock,” Slade cut in, walking over to the two men. “How’s the patient coming?” he asked with a twinkle. “As if I had anything to do with it. It’s amazing Rock, five thousand years of medical evolution come to this—this ten-second ray. Push a button and, zap, no more illness. I can’t get over it. My mind keeps looking for the loophole.”
“If there’s a loophole, don’t tell my lung about it,” Perkins said, shifting himself to an upright sitting position.
“In many ways, Rock, I think this medical discovery of the Technicians could prove to be far more important than their weaponry.”
“Well, I respect your opinion, Slade, and I’m sure ultimately that will prove to be true, when we can throw away all these goddamn weapons once and for all. But until then, it’s these Black Beam weapons that are going to make the Reds sit up and take notice.”
Rock sat up against the concrete wall watching his men sleep on the hard floor. They snored and turned from time to time, mumbling unintelligible murmurings in their sleep. Finally Rock drifted off himself. Dreaming. Dreaming of every Free City supplied with the Particle Beam. Squads of Freefighters armed with them. He dreamed of the giant space cannons the Technicians had invented and what would happen if one were aimed at the side of a Russian military fortress. He dreamed on into the night—the most beautiful sights he had ever seen.
Thirty-Nine
The next day, Rock took Ullman aside. “I want you to pick four of your strongest men. Get some of those Particle Beam pistols and come with me. I think it’s time you learned how to live as free men.” Ullman gulped nervously, but he trusted Rockson enough to heed his words. Within an hour they were back up on the crusted black surface. With Rock in the lead and Ullman right beside him, the other four Technicians kept spinning around, expecting something to attack. They kept their hands on their holsters, ready to draw at any second.
“
If you are to survive, Ullman, you must learn to fend for yourselves. To hunt like men.”
“But Vorn was the hunter,” Ullman protested. “He had been trained to—”
“Vorn is dead. Soon my people and I will have to leave. We can leave you food but it will be gone before long. You must learn the ways of survival. When I was young I was forced to survive on my own. I know it’s not easy. But I learned then that only what each man does will keep him alive. We are born into this world alone and go out of it alone. No one can be counted on other than yourself.” Ullman listened to Rockson’s words, trying to digest it all. So much was changing so fast for him and his people.
“All right, Ted Rockson, we will learn from you. But don’t expect us to enjoy this knowledge acquisition.” Rock smiled.
“Of course not. You’re not supposed to. Now tell me. Where did Vorn go when he hunted?” Rock asked.
“He said he had gone north. About twenty miles—there was some sort of fairly untouched brushland that extended for a hundred miles.”
“North it is then,” Rock said. “Come on, let’s move out.” He kept a slow pace, knowing the Technicians couldn’t keep up with his long stride, but kept it going. He was going to work them as hard as he could. When he left they had to be able to survive on their own—both for their sakes and for America’s. Rock couldn’t afford to let anything happen to them. He led them for hours through the black land as it very slowly grew grayish. After about three hours they took a rest stop and Rock gave them each two sips of water. They waited five minutes, then moved out. Rock could feel their eyes burning into the back of his head, but he had discovered long ago that there was no man on earth who liked training missions.
