Doomsday Warrior 18 - American Dream Machine (9 page)

Zhabnov smiled and said, “Good work, Tarlask! My compliments to the rest of your men. Make sure Rockson never comes out of that nightmare, can you do that?”

“Yes sir. We can have the nutrients and the other metabolic systems feed him inside that box for the next fifty years. He will grow old and die in that box, having an endless nightmare, just as you ordered.”

“Rockson deserves worse,” Zhabnov said in almost a hiss, “for all the trouble he has caused me. But, I am a compassionate man; this torture will do. Now finish your work and let us leave this unwholesome cave and its damp atmosphere with our bounty of new slaves. Make sure that giant mountain man is kept fully sedated, for I especially don’t want him to know what we did to his leader. I will try to find as awful a fate for Archer.”

Tarlask saluted and went back to his work.

And Zhabnov started eating meat buns again.

The surgeon’s hands and his forehead were slippery with perspiration, despite the cool dampness of the cavern. Surgeon Escadrille had joined the mad Russian general’s technicians in rewiring the dream-box. He had to do it. They not only tortured him, but his wife as well, and Zydeco’s head was still pressed between two spike-boards. Whenever the surgeon seemed to slow in his work, the bastards would tighten the compressor-boards around Zydeco’s head a bit more, and his friend would scream and scream.

The surgeon was in a desperate spot. He wanted to do something for the Doomsday Warrior, who lay blue-faced and shallowly breathing inside the dream machine-turned-torture device. But he had to make the printouts look
good
to the Soviets. Therefore the slight alterations Escadrille made in the reprogramming of the dream machine were minute. He hoped they would be enough to give Rockson a slim chance to get out of the nightmare, a slim chance to escape the endless hell they were preparing for him! But Escadrille wasn’t sure. Heaven help Rockson!

He worked under the constantly glaring eyes of the Soviet scientists. It was only possible to make the little changes he
had to
make, in order to save Rockson, because the Sovs didn’t always know what he was doing—his knowledge of his device far exceeded their abilities to understand.

The surgeon briefly obscured his hands with his body, and then made a slight change in the wires. Now, if he just moved this wire a bit over to
here,
and let this other wire feed into the primary circuit board via the second and not the first connector, so that there would be a loop in the current instead of a cross-circuit . . . There! Now there would be some faults in the program. Slight anomalies. Rockson might find that not
all
of his dream was a nightmare. He might find a door out!

Zhabnov yawned and glanced at his Tissot watch. His men had been rewiring Rockson’s coffin of nightmares for five hours. Wasn’t it completed yet? He got up, burped, and loosened his belt over his bulging stomach. He went over to Tarlask, who, with two other Soviet technical officers and the white-smocked little man, was leaning over the circuit of the dream machine. Zhabnov said, “Well, isn’t the job done yet?”

Tarlask stood up and said, “We’re just about to close up the panel board, excellency. The job is almost done.”

“Good. It is time to leave.” The general shouted out, “Get ready to move out. Make sure all the slaves are loaded on the transport truck. Take all the equipment we labeled to be removed. Don’t forget those weird, huge birds.”

His men started running around and packing up their spoils of war and Zhabnov watched the panel being screwed back into place on the nightmare coffin. He looked into the frosty face plate at Rockson’s blue face. Was that an expression of pain on his lips? Yes . . . Zhabnov was sure that expression was different. The nightmare was getting a bit rough no doubt. And it would get rougher. Lost in a reverie, Zhabnov thought, “I did it! I have killed Rockson—or rather I have set up a torture that will end in his wasting away in this box. I’m greater than Colonel Killov! I have succeeded where that bastard has failed. It is I, not Killov, who survived and destroyed Rockson. Again, that is another proof that it is my destiny to rule the world! I will build up my forces, invent new weaponry with the assistance of these tiny but brilliant Techno-survivors. I will soon oust that black usurper Rahallah from the Kremlin, personally roll the wheelchair containing my senile uncle Premier Vassily down that magnificent flight of stairs in the Winter Palace . . . Let’s see. Where shall I have
my
capital? Washington? Moscow? No! Someplace
warm,
someplace suitable for my old age. Maybe Mexico. Yes, I shall be the new Montezuma!

Zhabnov stood there above Rockson’s box and laughed softly for a long while. Tarlask, looking confused and worried, touched his master’s shoulder. “Sir? You alright, sir?”

“Eh?” Zhabnov pulled himself back to reality. “Yes. I was thinking, that’s all. It’s—nothing! Let’s get out of here!” And then Zhabnov smiled crookedly. “But first, Tarlask, go out to my vehicle and bring me one of the American Beauty roses in the freezer-compartment.”

“W-what color rose is that sir? There are so many types of wonderful roses that you have raised, as you know sir and—”

“Idiot! You call yourself a scientist? You don’t know a
thing
about roses, though, do you?”

“N-no sir!”

“Well, they are
red!
And large petaled! Oh, just ask the chauffeur. He will show you! Bring that rose back at once.”

The thin scientist ran off to comply with the order. Zhabnov just stared at Rockson’s tortured expression until the technical man returned with the long-stemmed rose. He took it from the lackey and placed it atop Rockson’s coffin, just below the face plate, and said, “This for you, Rockson. A parting gift. An American Beauty rose, just for you.” He turned and started to walk away from Rockson. Zhabnov was the last one in the cavern, he realized. No one was around. No one.

And Zhabnov had an impulse he couldn’t resist. He went back to the coffin, leaned over, and stared at Rockson’s face again. “You look so peaceful, like sleeping beauty,” Zhabnov whispered. And he planted a fat wet kiss on the glass.

A short time later, Zhabnov peered out of the periscope of his converted RV command vehicle. He was looking back at the cavern’s wide, dark opening and anticipating a wonderful sight. Zhabnov could hear the wails of the little people as they awakened in the large transport truck that rumbled along beside his vehicle. They wouldn’t like being slaves very much, but they would get used to it. Used to obeying orders. And the tiny women would soon find out what a
big
man Zhabnov was. Sexually speaking.

The APCs of Zhabnov’s soldiers too were all slowly moving away from the final resting place of the Doomsday Warrior, leaving America’s greatest hero behind—forever.

Zhabnov was sure they were clear of the cliff now. Clear of any danger. He clicked the intercom switch on the arm of his command chair and said, “Detonate.”

Zhabnov shouted in glee as the explosion shook the cliff behind him, and closed off the entrance to the cavern, sealing his old enemy in eternal darkness. The nuclear generators the little people had built would maintain power for Rockson’s metabolic-assist systems. The power would keep him alive—just barely—would keep Rockson in the hell of an endless nightmare!

Zhabnov watched the dust clear, to make sure the tumble of giant stones would completely seal the tomb. It did.

Nine

B
lackness . . . confusion.
Then light. Rockson opened his eyes slowly, with difficulty. It felt like they had been glued together. He saw everything through a thick and almost unyielding fog. Not until his mismatched blues were wide open did Rockson realize that he was in some sort of rocket. He had never seen this type of compartment before in his life, but he knew he was in some sort of space craft. And remembered. He remembered being stun-gunned while escaping.

He was in a cubicle that wasn’t more than ten by twenty and that was painted white. He was lying on one of several strap-in couches. There were no accessories in sight: no tables, no windows, not even a mirror. Rock felt light, the way you feel when a spaceship is in flight. That odd, container-in-motion feeling in his gut wasn’t different from what he had experienced during his flight months ago on the trip from Earth to Venus. On that trip, however, there had been a girl whose company he had been able to enjoy, and champagne—paid for by the last money of his failing stock portfolio.

Rock knew that the ship he was riding in wasn’t the same as the ship in which he had ridden out to swampy Venus. The passenger lines were more luxurious than this.

The officer had told Rock that he was to be “transported.” He must have been put into a spaceship, probably destined for a dismal prison-world. Transported without even the sham of a trial! For
retroactive
crimes!

It was most peculiar that Rock actually found himself looking
forward
to whatever was going to happen next. He didn’t resent a fresh experience, as long as he wasn’t killed or maimed in the course of it. After all, Venus hadn’t been any bargain.

He decided to get to his feet, and found out two other interesting points about his situation. First off, he was strapped down to the couch, which was gravestone shaped. When he tried to loosen the wide nylon belt that tied him in, it soon became apparent that it couldn’t be tinkered with. It had a locked snap that could not be unlocked without a key. He could see dark events ahead now. His mouth felt dry as dust.

It put his teeth on edge to be aware that he could have been unconscious for days. He hadn’t been at all in control of himself, able to feel what was happening to him, or to know who had been doing what to his body.

What had gone wrong with Kimetta? Why had he suddenly been branded a criminal? It seemed as if reality itself had changed. As if—as if this was a nightmare!

He strained at the straps, looking for an exit from this white-walled prison. No sign of a door was evident. Rock did see a black slash near the ceiling on one of the four walls, but not the accompanying longer slashes from that point to the floor. Could he have been put into a cubicle without any way to get in or out? Panic started rising. Then he controlled his emotions, understanding that he’d better
stay
calm, if he didn’t want to start shouting at the top of his lungs. They—whoever they were—might not know he was awake . . . He almost let out a hard breath, but suddenly stopped himself and clasped his lips tight. He mustn’t let them know he was awake.

That was when he heard another’s voice.

“Hey, you!” A man’s voice, harsh, gritty, as if its owner hadn’t spoken for a while. “Which of ’em are you?” the voice asked.

Rock waited, trying to locate the voice.

The voice continued, “I said, which of the prisoners are you?”

He couldn’t help asking the unseen man, “Prisoners? What are you talking about?”

“Off-world Prison, you damn fool! That’s where all of us are being taken!” The voice was surely from another compartment.

Rock had initially supposed that the man talking to him through the wall was one of the jailers. Now he let out a deep breath of relief at knowing that wasn’t true. “How many prisoners are there?” Rock asked, desperate for information.

“Five, I think,” the gruff voice replied. “One in each of the five strap-chambers .”

“Where are we bound?” Rock asked. “What planet?”

“You mean you don’t know about it?” A hoarse laugh. “Well, you’d better hold on to your grav-pipe, if you’ve got one! And it wouldn’t hurt you to write a will, either, I tell you that much. We’ve all been picked for—”

And then the man was still. The words simply stopped coming.

Rock was going to call out, but he heard a smooth hissing nearby and realized that his chamber’s wall was opening. A door. It opened from the bottom, toward the slit near the ceiling, like a garage door. He supposed the door had been built in that manner to save space. If he could understand how his captors thought, why they did certain things, it could be useful. He’d pay attention. He’d learn. And escape, somehow.

The sight of the fat policeman who had shot him, now coming into this cubicle, wasn’t a surprise, but he did feel a moment’s shock at seeing Kimetta behind the shiny-skinned man. He looked down at himself once more as if to make sure that the straps were still on, and then turned his eyes toward Kimetta.

“Why did you turn on me?” She didn’t answer. Then he demanded of the jowly man, “What do you mean by tying me down?”

Kimetta glanced at the officer, waiting for him to speak. It occurred to Rock that she couldn’t make any motion without being more attractive in his eyes. She wore a scanty, translucent, pale pink sunning suit, standard Venusian beach wear. The kind of clothes that were preferred for a spaceship’s constantly warm compartments. Her baby blues were as cute as ever, her strawberry blond hair radiant.

The corporal said, “For once in your life, you’ll be of some value to others. We’ll see to that!”

Rock asked, “What did I do?” He directed his question to Kimetta. And of course it was the officer who replied, “You’ve done nothing in your life for anyone else! It’s time you did, and perhaps then you will understand! You have been a playboy too long! You will work until—”

He might have added “until you
die”;
those words hung unspoken in the artificial air. Rock glared across at the man. The impassive officer didn’t seem either to be enjoying Rock’s discomfiture, or to be sorry about it. That aging, shiny, familiar-looking face hadn’t been programmed to show emotion.

“You’ll be well taken care of,” the officer said. His voice was calm and in one key. “During this trip, I mean.”

“But not afterwards, I suppose.” Rock frowned.

“A number of sanitary robot-tools have been set down near the lower apertures in your body, so that any functions you have to perform can be done. They will perform automatically.”

“And I’ll be tied up here until the ship lands—is that right?”