Doomsday Warrior 11 - American Eden

by Ryder Stacy

  “Halt, and don’t move for your weapons,” he said, rising and pointing his disintegrator forward. His soldiers, scattered about the reeds up to their knees in the waters, did likewise. Twenty disintegrators leveled on the seven strangely garbed intruders—before they could raise their odd weapons.

  The intruders, a strange lot, stood there in the waist-deep waters. Danik was among them, but these others—they were not the dissenters he had expected to catch. They were bizzarely appareled men of strong physique not unlike his own. And there was a tall woman among them, a woman who put the women of Eden to shame in her strong beauty.

  “Stafford’s elite guard,” Danik exclaimed, a note of hopelessness in his strained voice. He was soon cringing behind the Rockson. “We have come so far and now we are doomed, Rockson. Those are disintegrators they are brandishing.”

  “We are not dead yet,” Rockson snapped, and in the Anasazi language, he muttered to Detroit Green, who stood nearest to the Doomsday Warrior. “Well that saves us the trouble of finding Stafford—as I hoped.”

  Detroit nodded slightly.

  They made no move for their weapons. Bdos sent some men wading to disarm them while the rest kept watch, their disintegrators poised. Bdos kept a careful eye on the one with the white streak through his dark mane of hair. He stood so straight, he had bearing. The bearing of a warrior. He wondered if the man would surrender his odd weapon—a long-barreled ancient-style pistol. If not, Bdos Err would take the man’s holster off with his bullwhip.

  Once they were disarmed, the commander of the guard ordered that they be tied by their elbows behind their backs.

  While this was done, Nunchaku-man came up alongside his leader in the barge and whispered. “Are they surface people? They look somewhat like us.”

  “Maybe looks are deceiving,” said Bdos. “Maybe they look like us but are monsters underneath.” That comment brought a grin to the tall multi-scarred face next to him. “Maybe they can take more torture than our citizens—maybe they will last longer. Their eyes are strange . . . especially that one with the white streak through his hair. And that woman—have you ever seen such a tall woman—of such coloring? Maybe they are humanoid, but they are not human.

  “Keep your weapons accurately aimed, men,” Bdos ordered as the prisoners were helped aboard the barge.

  Twenty-Three

  The barge motor was turned on and the flat wide boat that had lain hidden in the reeds slowly moved out low in the water, carrying its prisoners back to Eden City. Rockson and the tall muscled bald man who was the leader of the Civil Guard, the man they called Bdos Err, had a sort of staring contest. Rockson sensed the man was not like his two henchmen. No, this Bdos Err had some sort of nobility. What was it? A sense of purpose? What purpose could an intelligent man have in serving a mad dictator? No, it wasn’t purpose he saw in the burly man wearing the metal armor. It was—duty. Yes, duty propelled this man. Not avarice, or cunning, but simply duty. The perfect soldier—obeys orders. Obeys anyone in authority, even the mad. Even to commit atrocities if so ordered.

  Rockson spent less time on the two henchmen. The one they called Nunchaku-man was of an estimable height, and like his boss, the man appeared well muscled and alert. But that half-grin he wore, the curl of those lips under that long twisted black moustache . . . Sadism, pure and simple. He was in his position because he was terror incarnate. Men who would not fear Bdos, despite the man’s power and his blind obedience, feared the wrath of Nunchaku-man.

  And at the stubby bow of the barge, his face to the warm foul wind, stood Dedman. Dedman—what an apt name for the gray-faced expressionless killer with the sword stuck jauntily into his scabbard. He held that long metal spear of his—Rock noted the bit of dried red on its tip—as if it were a part of his physique. He had a rigid posture; his eyes were like that of an automaton.

  Danik whispered information about the three Civil Guards. They were raised in an abnormal way—the result of genetic experiments, they had been created in vitro, in petri dish fertilization. They had been kept by machines, fed intravenously for ten years, fed a special vitamin formula that made them stronger than all the others of Eden. All the others in the experiment had died but these three. They’d been taught the arts of death by an old man, the last of his warrior class, some dozen years ago.

  Rockson paid scant attention to the rest of the thin crew that had disarmed and bound him and his friends. They would be nothing without their disintegrator sidearms. And probably not very good with the weapons, either. The three leaders showed their disdain for the lower ranks by not carrying any modern weapons. If there was a showdown, the coiled bullwhip of Bdos Err and the nunchaku and the sword and spear of his henchmen would be the difficulty.

  The water vessel approached the docks now. Before Rockson, in a chemical-brown smog of stale air, stood the oddest city Rockson had ever encountered in all his journeys. It was so damned squalid. Sooty five- or six-story buildings, totally devoid of adornment; featureless, storeless streets perfectly perpendicular to one another.

  The gray-brown buildings seemed to eat up the faint artificial sunlight that poured down from above. No building, as far as Rock could see from the barge, had any design or style except the geometric—cubes, triangles, pentagons. The building blocks must have been cut from gray basalt or like volcanic rock. And built according to some simple, unimaginative, functional formula.

  No, that wasn’t quite true . . . Rockson saw, at the far side of the cavern-city about five hundred yards down the broad main avenue, a taller building. A seven-story job. The other buildings in the city had no glass; this one seemed to be made entirely of black glass. It glimmered bleakly in the eternal sunlight.

  The broad avenue leading to it filled with activity. From the hidden side streets poured a crowd of squat, pale, listless people. They headed toward the docks, not with excitement, which would be the expected response, but with a measured, almost parade-like cadence. When they reached the concrete abutment bordering the landing area, they stood about looking at the strange doings with almost-glassed colorless eyes. Most were of the short variety, the common mold of Edenites, Rockson saw. But some were tall and ungainly slender, with pink eyes like Danik’s. This was a dismal group.

  They were summarily unloaded, their captors herding them soundlessly up the ramp. The crowd of onlookers parted to allow them to be marched down the broad avenue toward what, Rockson supposed, was Stafford’s Government Building. The edifice at the end of the avenue.

  As they approached Stafford’s headquarters, Rock felt that this particular building seemed to exude evil from its volcanic-glass bricks. Its stolid structure glinted ominously, absorbing and bending the unhealthy “sun’s” light.

  The leader of the Freefighters could see himself and the others twisting and turning grotesquely in the poorly cut glassy stone walls of the building. They were paraded around to the rear, and up to the wide staircase entrance. The stairs were high. and entered the building halfway up. An odd thing, Rockson thought. Perhaps it was done to intimidate. This structure was intimidating.

  They were urged along with the disintegrators at their backs, told to ascend the long staircase. Each Freefighter had his own guard holding him.

  There was no bannister, and by the time one reached the open doorway it was a bone-breaking drop on both sides of the stairs. Rockson considered that he could easily shove his particular guard off the precipitous topmost step and manage to land upon him, but what would that avail him? More Civil Guards stood below with their disintegrators leveled. The city was an armed camp. No, best to wait—for a better time to make a move. Though he didn’t know how he would manage, with the elbows-together, awkward way he was bound. It hurt. His circulation was being cut off. Plus, he still favored one leg.

  Into the circular chamber of the black cube building strode the captors and their charges. A crowd of gray-robed short men—dressed somewhat, Rockson thought, like Roman senators—were milling about the large chamber. Th
ey noted the new arrivals well, and then reset their eyes upon the center of the room.

  Bdos Err pushed himself through the crowd of “senators”, who were truly eager to give the metal-wearing giant the right of way.

  The milling robed crowd became hushed. Rockson could see the man seated in a black onyx glass chair at the center of the room now. Stafford. He wore a big gray-jewel ring on each of his fat fingers, his hair was short and sparse and combed forward—a bit like Nero. He was flabby under that blue tunic, Rockson guessed. At first Rockson thought he was old, but then he realized it was just the thinning hair color and his grayish pallor. The man could be just in his thirties, judging by the smooth skin of his flaccid, unwrinkled face. An unhealthy man. And sick men in power do sick things. His gray eyes were unfocused.

  “Sir,” Bdos Err reported, saluting smartly, his left hand crossing his chest of metal. “We have apprehended Danik’s party as they came into our paradise.”

  Stafford smiled. “Wonderful. Wonderful. Bring them forth.”

  Bdos snapped out rapid orders, and the Freefighters, with Danik in front, were brought before the chair and lined up so that Stafford could view them. “What’s this?” Stafford said, rising from his black chair in surprise. “Who are these people? They are most strange . . .” He rubbed his chin, stepping over to Danik. Stafford put his face near the tall albino and said, “Danik, what manner of beings have you brought back with you from the surface? Some sort of radiation mutations, no doubt. Eh?”

  “These are my friends,” Danik said. “And they are proof that the surface world is livable. And not only livable, a paradise of light and color and fresh air.”

  “Heresy,” someone muttered, and then a chant went up among the senators, “Heresy, heresy, heresy . . .”

  Stafford waved his hand in the air, and the chant subsided.

  “Well, well. Friends, you say? Let me look these odd mutants over for a moment.” Stafford walked slowly down the line as if he were reviewing an honor guard, as if he were going to say, “Tighten that collar, mister; straighten your posture, recruit.”

  But he paused an extra long time when he reached Rona. He looked her up and down. Not with sexual desire, but with curiosity.

  “A woman of the surface? Indeed, she is too well built for a woman. She is definitely a mutant.”

  Then Stafford came to Rockson. “Mismatched eyes, huh.” Stafford commented. “And a white streak in your hair. My, my, another mutant.” He lifted his flaccid many-ringed hand and pressed a finger to Rockson’s chin. Rockson twisted his face to the side. Stafford smiled. “And a spunky mutant at that, eh?”

  Stafford went to his chair, and climbed up on one broad flat arm of it. “Edenites,” Stafford shouted, his voice echoing in the chamber, “Danik has returned and brought us some curious surface dwellers. What shall we do with the traitor and his friends from the dark realms above?”

  “Kill . . . torture . . . burn . . .” came the assortment of replies from the floor.

  The situation didn’t look good.

  Twenty-Four

  Stafford waved his hand for the assemblage to be quiet. “In a while. In a while . . .” he promised.

  Stafford walked back down the line to Danik.

  “Why so dour,” Stafford taunted, “on such a joyous occasion? By the way, what happened to Run Dutil and the others of your traitorous party?”

  “They perished, but not because of radiation or mutant animals attacking. But because we, as underground dwellers all our lives, were unprepared for the vast distances, the cold temperatures of this season. They perished from exhaustion, exposure, lack of food. All of this is no reason to remain underground here in this tomb you so ironically call a paradise.”

  “Perished, huh,” Stafford said. “Well, I told you, I told all the dissenters, that the surface was dangerous. Now the remaining dissenters will give up their mad desires to reach the outer world.”

  Danik shouted, “No, you must not heed this madman. Stafford is wrong, dead wrong. The surface isn’t as he says. Sure, it is dangerous—but only because we don’t know how to deal with it. But we can learn, learn from the great Americans who live and fight and triumph up there in God’s nature. You should see it, you should feel it. I was hungry, and cold, and tired, and I fully expected to die—and so did the others. Yet not one of us, once we had been outside for more than a few minutes, once we had seen the sunrise, the clouds, once we had smelled God’s good air, tasted fresh water and drank of the infinitely good sunlight, would have ever returned to our dismal lives here. Eden is not beautiful, not a paradise, it is a drab hell.”

  Stafford yawned. “This is tiring, really, Danik.” He went to sit down on his black throne. Evidently, Rockson noted, a bit of walking is all the man can endure as exercise. He’s even in worse shape than I imagined.

  Stafford opened up a compartment in the arm of the chair and extracted a sharp instrument. He started picking at his manicured nails. The epitome of cool, that’s what he wants to appear before his minions, Rock knew. He had seen that act before, that posed nonchalance. All the sick leaders of the world wanted to appear above it all.

  “Ah yes, the surface has its dangers,” Stafford muttered, smiling up at Bdos Err, who stood at rigid attention to his right. “Why leave paradise? I told them—but they wouldn’t listen. I only want to save my people from death, and the likes of Danik tries to lead them to it.” He pointed to Danik with the nail file. “Well now, Danik, you know the penalty for treason. So what I do with you is simple. But what about these others? What do I do with this bearded monster with the crystals growing out of his head? What do I do with the one with the white streak in his hair, the masculine woman, the others from the surface hell?”

  Rockson spoke up, having observed Stafford’s behavior for a sufficient time to develop a psychological strategy.

  Rockson now saw that there was no talking to the little man-who-would-be-God. His megalomania allowed no rational discourse. And with that realization, Rockson developed another strategy. The man was proud, vain. A little god. And with such men, there was only one course, until you could overpower them through cunning. Rockson would play up to Stafford. He would feed the man’s ego.

  “I am the leader of my group,” said Rockson, “I am a mutant, that is true, but I can appreciate true leadership and knowledge. I never dreamed that Eden could be so beautiful and clean. Had I known what wonders there were here, I would never have believed Danik’s madness. This is paradise. The surface is hell. If I die, I will die happy to have seen the beauty here, happy to have witnessed true leadership.”

  Stafford eyed him up and down, and finally said, “You are wiser than you look. Though you are a mutation. I might have a use for you—but not for the others . . .”

  Stafford ordered the rest of the Freefighters and Danik held in the detention cells until suitable arrangements for their public humiliation and then execution could commence.

  And Stafford ordered the senators to leave also. He told Bdos and his two henchmen and a contingent of six guards to remain behind. And bade Rockson stay and talk for a while.

  Once the prisoners had been escorted from the chamber, and the senators, gossiping and gesturing to one another, had left, Stafford clapped his hands and said, “Mannerly, have the doctor come and treat our friend’s leg—it obviously needs help.”

  The servant returned with a squat silent man, who opened a bag and took out some salve that he applied to Rock’s wound. It worked wonders.

  Rockson sat, tasting hors d’oeuvres and what looked like cheese but tasted like shit from the tray Mannerly brought. He took a little wine, which wasn’t as bad, because he was thirsty.

  Pouring on the flattery. Rock ingratiated himself to the dictator for more than an hour. Finally, Stafford said, “Perhaps you would like to see more of our wondrous city.”

  “I would be honored,” Rockson replied. Now this was more like it. Perhaps he could find some way out—maybe if they got careless
he could still instigate his original plan. Seize Stafford, and order the patrols to lay down their arms.

  But Stafford was a cunning sort, well used to intrigues and treachery. When he and the Doomsday Warrior set out on their brief tour of Eden, they were accompanied by ten guards. And Rockson was not unbound. However, his elbow bindings were removed to make him more comfortable, though his wrists were still held in check behind his waist. Ah well, some progress is better than no progress.

  The two-bit “king” started pointing out the “grand” sites.

  Always the watchful phalanx of Civil Guards with drawn weapons kept a close eye on them.

  “First, Rockson, I will show you the new sources of food. I realized that we were exhausting the canned and preserved foods provided in abundance over a hundred years ago. I have instituted bold new measures to produce more food. We do not need the poisonous surface soil to raise food.”

  “What is your new means of production, King Charles? Is it hydroponic gardening? If you intend to do that you need grow lights. Your sun is not sufficiently full-spectrum,” Rockson stopped and smiled broadly. “Of course, I am being foolish. You have some completely new revolutionary method of food production in mind. Am I right?”

  “Yes,” the king said. “We will have no need for water and minerals and grow lights. There is an easier way than hydroponics . . . Come along, I will show you.”

  Soon they had passed through a blasted-away rock wall into the most foul-smelling place Rockson had ever encountered. Machines similar to big Soviet bulldozers were moving around piles of fecal matter and garbage. The air—if it could be called that—was filled with little gnats that insisted on buzzing his face. What was all this mad activity about? The cacophony of grinding gears, the smell of the fecal rot was hardly endurable to the Doomsday Warrior. But evidently the Edenites, including the king, had less sensitive sensory apparatus.