by Ryder Stacy
Schecter shook his head. “There is one spacecraft. We have one rocket that can reach Karrak. The old MILIS—Maximum Inertial Lift-Intensive System. It is out in a NASA storage area in the desert some miles from here. It has been maintained over the years by some Americans interested in the task of—er—preserving history. It is in excellent shape. Rath’s intelligence unit assures me of this.”
Smart again raised her hand, and as Schecter drew breath into his red face, the Chairman recognized her. “I say no to this nonsense,” Mary Smart continued, “and I think you delegates all agree. The good Lord would never destroy the earth! Why, this presentation just reflects the scientific community’s disbelief in God and in our Savior. To even think that such a thing could happen! As far as this MILIS rocket is concerned,” she smirked, “it’s a pure fabrication. An attempt, possibly, to expropriate a mass of our money for some hairbrained science project. Schecter simply wants our money to renew space travel!—that’s what this is about,” she said, a touch of paranoia in her voice.
Schecter responded by asking that the lights again be lowered. He quickly projected several pictures in a row. “These,” he said, “were taken by an Intel Team. It shows the spacecraft in question lying on its well-maintained launch rails in an underground hangar.” There were several oddly dressed women shown in the picture; perhaps they were, Rock thought, technicians servicing the craft. Then the scientist said, “Like it or not, Mary, it’s real. And as for God, well, He has given us the chance to save ourselves—if we’re not stupid. It is a fact that Earth will be destroyed in less than three weeks unless we act tonight to stop it. Listen to reason! It doesn’t have to be the end of the world—we have the ability to travel up into space; we have Commander Rockson to fly the spacecraft; we have—”
“Poppycock,” Mary interjected as the lights went up again. There was heavy applause at her remark.
“Do any of you have any brains you can loan Miss Clark?” Schecter fumed. That closed the bitch’s trap for a moment at least, Rock mused. She reddened quite a bit. Schecter, in conclusion, said, “I propose that we turn these proceedings over to Ted Rockson, whom you all know.”
“Very well,” said the Chairman. “Why not get this nonsense over with!”
There was scattered applause as Rock rose and strode to the podium. Schecter handed him the mike and Rockson, a man of few words, scanned the audience with his mismatched blue eyes, pushed his long hair off his forehead, and got right to the point. “I want,” he intoned grimly, “a blanket authorization to appropriate all materials I need for the space flight. I want blanket authority to use the MILIS, for it might be a violation of our arms treaty to launch a rocket without notifying the Russians. There just isn’t time to have debate with the Russians. And I want a nuclear device, a bomb. Besides my volunteer space team, I need a team of scientists and technicians to go with me to the rocket, reset the systems on it, and help launch it. Every second counts. We have to save the earth. Do the responsible thing: give me what I need, and I promise you I will not fail.”
There was a stunned silence—until Mary Smart was recognized.
“Aren’t you being just a bit overdramatic?” Miss Smart said, smiling like a cat with a bird in its paws. “Are you the savior? Have you, Rockson, become such a megalomaniac?”
“Here, here,” someone shouted, and applause erupted. Rockson rolled his eyes up as she continued. “All these theatrics aside, we do know how Mister Rockson likes to be the center of attention.” She smiled patronizingly at the Doomsday Warrior. “And,” she added, “his absurd proposal to launch a huge missile to God-knows-what purpose could mean war for the United States. Oh, I’m willing to allow that the rocket might fly. And that there might be some danger from some—space object. But I suggest we appoint a committee, a task force of experts, to study the alleged problem. They could, say, report back in a month—”
One man had been out of his seat and pacing up and down the main aisle, his hands knotted behind his back, as she spoke. It was as if he was being tortured by every word Mary Smart said. Now he burst out, “Shut up, you old bat!”
Rock looked over and saw that the skinny man was C.J., the Kennel’s main technician. C.J. was the expert responsible for the fine breed of horses that Century City’s warriors rode. The delegates of all the cities throughout the RSA knew of C.J.’s great work, of his great love of animals—and people. Generally he was mild mannered—but not now. “We don’t have a fucking month, you silly cunt! Now sit down and let Rockson talk!”
A set of hisses in response to C.J.’s curses came largely from the women delegates in the ultra-feminist contingent.
The gavel banged and banged. The Chairman said, “That’s enough from you, C.J. You’re out of order.”
“You’re damned right I am,” C.J. fumed. “But so’s Mary’s brain.” But C.J. took his seat, when Bing-Ling’s Ninja guards pushed him down into it.
Mary glared over at C.J. Rock smiled as C.J. stared Mary Smart down.
“Let’s hear the rest of Rockson’s nonsense,” the Chairman yawned, “so that we can all vote and get back to bed.”
Rockson ignored the biting tone and said, “In order to get my men and material quickly out to the storage hangar, I need one of the big C-98 transport jets. Of course, I need a letter of authorization from the council to use the rocket. Though I doubt the persons maintaining it will refuse to relinquish it to my use. If they do deny me use of the rocket, despite the order from the council, I reserve the right to seize the rocket.”
“Force?” Reverend Casters shouted out. “Now he wants to kill loyal Americans as well as destroy himself in some old rocket. This man is mad, I tell you!”
The auditorium was roaring with hisses and boos as Rockson vehemently said, “We must use any means necessary.” The video screens around the walls of the chamber were roaring out support however. The present-by-video delegates made comments like, “Give Rockson a chance!” and “Rock is a hero—don’t criticize his motives!”
Rockson realized that the far-flung cities represented on the video screens had at least as many votes as Century City’s chamber did. He decided he had a rising sympathy vote going for him out in the ’burbs. With a wily grin, Rock said, “I can see that anything I tell you here is just taken as a wildman’s joke. The hell with you who won’t see the truth. Come on. Let’s have a vote now. The rest of the country won’t stand for sniveling cowardice. God bless America. God bless men who would take action when action is necessary. I speak of the brave, loyal delegates in the other free cities . . . people who aren’t spoiled by luxury living!”
“Hold it! Hold it!” the chairman said, slamming down the gavel. “First, we have to have a motion that is recognized by the chair. By me. There are parliamentary procedures. You’re calling a vote out of order! A speaker can’t make a motion—only someone recognized for that purpose. And then only if the motion is seconded. Well, how would you know much about Roberts’ Rules of Order, or democratic procedure? You are a blunt-headed military type, Rockson—the exact opposite of a calm, democratic person.”
Rock looked to the video screens. The sound was turned low, but you could see all those rough and ready rural-delegates storming and fuming at the criticism of the military, which they adored. Rock had their outer city votes now.
“Cowards like you, McGrugle, can sit and laugh at soldiers and airmen,” Rock sneered, “but it’s a fact that you’re alive and able to speak your silly words because of us military men. The military is responsible for the very existence of Century City,” Rock snapped.
There were more roars of support from the videoscreen delegates. Rock had pulled the chestnuts of civilians out of the fire more than once. “Screw the rules,” Rock said emphatically, “the damned world can’t wait for niceties like Roberts’ Rules!” He smiled slyly, “Anyway, the emergency rules say I can call for end of debate. The hour is up. Let’s vote . . . now!”
He had the chairman there. Quickly there was a chorus of beeps fro
m the walls. The lights indicating the vote by the rural communities and far-flung cities calling for approval of Rockson’s proposal was largely blue for yes. Rock’s motion was supported by a majority of the video-screen delegates.
The chairman paled and banged his gavel. “I’m sad to say, debate is ended,” he admitted. “We too must vote.”
Someone, not realizing the tide was already against the anti-Rockson forces, said, “When we win this vote, let’s throw Rockson and Schecter out of Century City! Let’s exile them and their anti-democratic friends.”
The chairman said, “I call the vote.”
“I second,” Bing-Ling chuckled out, knowing the truth.
The chairman said, “You all should press the yes or no buttons on your consoles. But let me warn you all to vote against—”
Detroit pulled the pin out of a grenade and held it up. He pretended to toss it at the chairman, who winced and ducked. Mary Smart shrieked. When McGrugle saw the grenade hadn’t actually been let fly, he muttered a few curse words. Detroit said between clenched teeth, “Call the vote properly.” He again waved the grenade. The chairman sputtered, “All in favor of giving Rockson his stuff and his blank check, press blue; those opposed to Rockson press red, for no.”
Rockson winked over at Detroit, who put his grenade back in his bandolier, and then sat down and pressed the blue button. The tally from Century City was going up on the board, and it was mostly red. Century City, according to the Re-United States of America’s lopsided constitution, had nearly as many votes as all the other free cities combined. This would be a close one.
“Mrs. Chen, would you count the dots?” Detroit asked.
It was an amazing fact that only a visual count was made of votes in the council. No one trusted computer tallys, not after the famous vote scam of ’96.
Bing-Ling started mumbling out a count, but Rock counted faster. His shoulders sagged He could see that he’d lost by the great majority in the Century City Chamber, though he’d carried most of the outlying cities by a large margin. That margin was not enough to swing the vote to his side because of a number of abstentions.
“The mad proposal by Rockson is defeated,” the chairman laughed. “I expressly forbid, by executive order, that Rockson leave the city for one month. Nor do I allow Schecter to enter his science labs, nor experiment with any nuclear materials for a month.” He banged the gavel. “Council is dismissed.”
“Is that legal?” Chen whispered.
Rock shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. I’m gonna do what I have to do.”
As the meeting broke up, the Ninja guards prevented any serious injuries when the “Pro-Rockson Three”—the owls—were attacked by several of the naysayers.
As the victorious “Slime-Faction” delegates (that’s what Rock called those who opposed him) slapped each other on the back in happiness, the Rock Team took the exit behind the dais. This exit was also being used by Mary Smart and her friend Chairman McGrugle.
Rockson brushed hard against the chairman as he passed him, and McGrugle lost his balance. The Chairman fell on his butt. Mary Smart rushed to help him up, saying, “Oh! Is my honey bunny hurt? Did that bad, bad man—”
Rock snickered along with McCaughlin, Detroit, and the others as they shuffled by their enemies. “Rockson, you shouldn’t have done that,” Chen admonished. But he also half-laughed.
Archer slammed Rockson’s back with his ham-hock-sized palm and said, “Meee like that!”
Six
Schecter was out in the corridor already, for he was determined to speak to Rockson and had come around the long way.
“How the hell did you get here so fast?” Rock asked.
“My high-speed artificial legs! I can go forty miles per hour.” Schecter’s legs had been blown off years ago in a Soviet attack. The scientist had created unique artificial limbs to compensate. They were, he claimed, better than the originals. “Listen Rock, normally I abide by council decisions. But not this time.” He drew Rockson aside from his men and leaned over to whisper in Rock’s ears, “Be at the southwest gate of the city at 9 A.M. with your men and some good weapons. I’ll bring—well, you’ll see. The less you know now, the better. If we succeed in saving the earth, I want to be the only one who is shot for treason. If we don’t save it, there’s no problem about that. I’ll try to arrange for the plane, but there will be difficulties. Bring seven days’ trek gear. You and your team might have to walk to the rocket.”
Rock raised his eyebrows. “You want us to walk to the MILIS? Impossible.”
“C.J. will bring the ’brids, if he can,” Schecter said. “I’ll tell him how important it is to bring Snorter, your horse. But well all be watched tonight—especially you, Rock. So you do nothing until 8 A.M. I’ll create a diversion then and you can gather your equipment then.”
“Will you get me the nuke device?” Rock asked. “They’ll surely guard the nuke materials in the storage depot with redoubled force, expecting a try at them.”
“Don’t worry,” Schecter smiled knowingly.
Rock went back to his men and told them something was up. He gave a few instructions as to what supplies to gather. Then Rockson told them to get some shut-eye. He instinctively started walking toward his room. Would Rona still be there? No . . . she was working the graveyard shift in the chem analysis department. They were working overtime, trying for a way to defeat a stubborn problem with the water recycling units.
He fingered the apartment key in his pocket. Charity’s key. Hmmm. The earth was three weeks from destruction . . . this was no time to sleep alone. Besides, it would be easier to go about his business in the morning if they didn’t know where he was tonight. Besides, Charity’s looks gave him a real hard-on, that was for sure. Rock decided to head for her room.
He knocked lightly on Nurse Charity’s blue door and got no answer. Then he used the key. As he entered, she switched on a dim lamp near the bed and sat up so the sheets slipped off her large, firm breasts. Her pink nipples looked succulent.
“It’s a little late,” Rock admitted. “So if you want, I could leave and—”
“No! Don’t leave. Come here. I’m glad you decided to see me,” she insisted. He noticed she had red silk sheets.
“Are you naked?” Rock pulled off the covers entirely and saw that she slept with nothing on but her gold jewelry. She also had a few tattoos, the ones she’d teased him about having. There were many, and they were very patriotic. Imagine: tattoos depicting the faces of all presidents! He kissed each of forty-six faces over ten minutes as she moaned. Then he was told in moaning tones to “search my body for the first seven.”
Rock found five easily, the sixth with some difficulty. But it was very hard to find the seventh. George Washington’s location was a real surprise. Rockson vowed that he’d never tel! anyone where he’d found Honest George!
Charity’s action belied her moaned-out claim to being a virgin. She must have been a long time without a boyfriend, Rock decided, for they went at it fast and furious, after his search for the presidents warmed her up. It was an exhausting but wonderful ride into America’s past!
Rockson felt he’d hardly been asleep for an hour when his watch alarm went off. “Gotta go, hon,” he mumbled, getting out of the sheets groggily.
“Where?” Charity demanded. She turned on the light, and saw it was nearly 8 A.M. The light suddenly went off. Rock checked its switch. It wasn’t the bulb, either. All over the city there were shouts. Rock opened the door of the dark room and saw that the corridor was lit only by greenish emergency lights.
“What’s happening?” she asked.
“I don’t know.” Rock grabbed a coveralled technician running by. “What’s up?”
“Don’t know,” the man gasped, “the power is cut all over the city. Got to go!”
Rock came back into the nurse’s room and stood in the glow of the flashlight she was shining at him. “Hon, it’s all right . . . it’s just a power outage. The usual snafu.” But Ro
ckson suspected it wasn’t. This was Schecter’s doing. His distraction. The city was run mainly on nuclear power. Now Rockson knew where Schecter was going to get the nuclear bomb. The wily old man was stealing the city’s reactor core. He could convert it into a weapon, if anyone could. What a fox Schecter was!
Rock slipped into his rumpled pants and shirt. “I gotta go, hon. See you—soon.”
“Where you going? To help restore power?”
“Don’t count on power going back on for a long while, honey. I’m going—up there.” Rock pointed toward the ceiling. “Way, way up there.”
“Come back anytime,” she said. “And I mean it.”
It was also morning in Peru. Killov’s chief scientist, Petrin Kraznov, led the KGB leader through a dank corridor of the secret chamber that his men had found far below the main Machu Pichu Pyramid, farther down than any archaeologist had even previously thought of digging. The tunnel had been spotted by earth sensor equipment much more sensitive than the crude twentieth-century detection devices. Killov had been quick to realize that somewhere in these hidden chambers might lie the secret of how the ancients had lifted the immense stones to build the city of Machu Pichu. Some of those stones weighed a hundred tons, yet they were raised to the top of the mountain to build the temple and walls. Killov’s hunch had proved correct. Last week, the digging teams had reached these dank, tomblike rooms and found records on ancient tablets of gold, records untarnished by time. Some were in a strange language, others in the ancient Inca dialect. His scientists had since been hard at work translating the tablets. Already they had produced results. The tablets had been about how to operate heavy-looking machines that lay dormant in the corners of the ancient storehouse. The so-called stone-moving equipment, it turned out, were anti-gravity devices.
Killov was anxious to have the rest of the records translated. What other secrets of immense power did the Incas have? Where did they get these fantastic-looking machines all around them? Krasnov pointed out a dozen dusty dull gray anti-gravity machines in his flashlight. “No ancient people built those.”
