Doomsday Warrior 01 Page 10

  “Hello, Rockson,” chief scientist, head of hydroponics, Kraft said, shaking hands profusely with the warrior. “Good to see you’re back safe from another expedition.”

  “Good for us, not the Russians.”

  “Of course, of course,” the overweight, constantly fidgeting Kraft replied. He was one of the miracle workers, along with Dr. Shecter, of Century City. Kraft seemed able to do absolutely anything with seeds. He had crossbred countless forms of vegetation, making them useful again. Fruits like apricots, pears and strawberries, vegetables such as corn, red onions and asparagus, which had all nearly disappeared from the American continent, being highly vulnerable to radioactivity, he had resurrected and bred back until they were genetically strong enough to withstand the rads and countless new diseases that seemed to mutate and spring up daily.

  “How are the plants?” Rockson asked with a concerned look. “There was some sort of fungus attacking everything just before I left.”

  “Oh fine, Rock, fine.” Kraft smiled, waving his hand in the air as if it had all been nothing. “You know, actually that was quite an interesting case. We were losing about a twentieth of the wheat and barley crops a day and were looking for vegetation fungus—bacteria—as the culprit. The usual—microscopic analysis, then petrie dishes, cultures—would have taken months. Suddenly I had a thought. The way the one fungal sample we had been able to isolate looked reminded me of something from an old textbook. I checked it out. Can you believe it, Rock, it was a mutated form of hoof-and-mouth disease—something that only used to hit animals! We treated it with the drug that had been prescribed and, presto, no more damaged crops. We’re working on breeding a resistance into all the grain products now, so there won’t be any more such outbreaks.”

  He and Rockson walked the rows of plantlife that stretched for acres under the luminous heat lights. The hydroponic gardens consisted of long metal troughs, nearly fifty feet in length and three feet wide, filled with a liquid chemical solution. The plants were grown, floating in the mixture, in row after row with specially designed ultraviolet heat lamps shining down from above, placed about five feet apart. The entire operation consisted of over twenty acres of vegetation, using every available inch in the chambers, with rows of plants on top of one another. The gardens easily fed the populace their foodstuff needs, but that was only half the hydroponic’s goal. It was also the experimentation, the constant strengthening of grains and fruits and newly arrived seedlings, and the production of millions of plantable seeds that were shipped out to other cities, along with Liberator rifles.

  “You might want to take a look at this,” Rockson said, pulling out a tiny, shriveled body. It was one of the phosphorescent wormlike creatures he and his men had seen in the giant luminous pond as they returned from their Strike Force expedition. Rockson had spotted the dead insect by the side of the pond and carefully placed it in his utility belt. He told Kraft of the creatures and the scientist seemed fascinated as he gingerly took the two-inch-long sea-horse-shaped body from Rock with the pair of tweezers he always carried in his long, white smock pockets.

  “From what you describe, Rock, this could well be a successful new life form. We’ve heard stories of things like this coming in from all over the country, but we rarely get to actually examine them.”

  “Successful?” Rock asked skeptically.

  “Well, there are many mutations these days. We estimate that fifty to seventy-five percent of all animal and fauna reproduction results in mutation. Most die immediately or within days. Nature doesn’t hold much with things out of the ordinary. Only the very adaptable can survive. But new species that are suited to the environment are growing and taking root. The world will be populated by a vastly different group of creatures over the next few centuries. It could well be that this is one of them.”

  “Let’s just hope it doesn’t eat us,” Rock cracked, describing how the deer had been sucked down into the living pond.

  “Really, how intriguing. A symbiotic life-support colony is very rare—bees, of course, and ants. I do wish we had a live specimen to work with. If you—”

  “Sure, Doc, sure,” Rockson said with a smile. He left the scientist to play with his newest exotica and headed out of the subterranean gardens, moving into the series of interconnecting tunnels that led to the large gymnasium of Century City, built in the last ten years. If there was any spot on Earth that truly made him feel at home it was in the Century City Gymnasium, where he had spent years working his body and reflexes until they were razor-sharp. He felt a warm feeling in his gut as he held his hand up to the sensor on the stone wall at the end of a long, dimly lit corridor. The door slid quickly open and Rock walked in.

  Ten

  The large chamber was quite beautiful with muted light coming from overhanging rocks giving the illusion of being outdoors and palm trees ringing the sides. It was a large, circular space, almost two hundred feet in diameter and fifty feet high, chopped out of the solid rock of the mountain. The gymnasium was fully equipped with squash courts, a swimming pool, weight-lifting and gymnastics equipment and two large mats for sparring and martial arts.

  As Rock walked in, he could hear the sharp intake of breath and the slapping of flesh against flesh that meant that two people were sparring. He couldn’t help but chuckle as he sauntered over to the biggest of the thick tatami mats and saw Rona Wallender and Al Chen engaged in an energetic testing of skills. Rona was probably the toughest woman in Century City and was also in love with Rock, which he pretended to ignore. She was a gymnast, acrobat and fighter, a great-great-granddaughter of the famous Wallendas of prewar days, who had been world famous for their expertise in tightrope walking. But as skilled as Rona was in karate and jujitsu—and there was many a man, friend or foe, she could best within seconds—she was no match for the martial arts chief instructor of Century City, Al Chen.

  Rock watched from behind a pillar, unnoticed, as the two circled each other slowly, carefully placing one foot down, letting the weight drop fully, then slowly shifting the other foot. They moved like cats. Their hands were held out in front of them, prepared to attack or parry. Rona held her hands straight out, the fingers curled back in tight, hard fists. Chen’s hands were more relaxed, as was his whole fighting style—fluid and loose. Chen wore an amused smile beneath the thin, black mustache which covered his upper lip and hung down the sides of his mouth, Fu Manchu style.

  Rona attacked suddenly, leaping forward with five blurred punches, followed by a roundhouse kick to the head of Chen. But where she struck there was only air. The master of five of the fighting arts—Sing I, Goju, Tai Chi, Aikido and Wing Chun—was quicker than the wind. He didn’t even need to block but merely turned his body, timing his motions perfectly so that the attacking woman flew by and landed in a heap on the floor. Rona was tall, five-ten, and beautiful. A striking figure with her brilliant red hair and her full-bodied voluptuous figure. Half the men in Century City would have given a month’s R&R to sleep with her, but she only wanted Ted Rockson.

  “You miserable bastard,” she yelled, only half kidding, at Chen who continued to circle around her, making her come after him. She rose from the mat, brushing back her flowing hair which momentarily covered her alabaster-complexioned face. She moved forward again. With a loud “kaii” she shot from the mat in a lightning bolt of power and speed and directed a flying drop kick at Chen’s groin. He stepped back and lightly slapped her leg as it flew by. The extra energy of the block took her another six feet through the air where she landed again on the mat, rolling over in a perfect forward somersault and rising instantly to her feet, red-faced and fuming.

  “Good kick, but you’re too angry, my sweet warrior,” Chen said, letting his hands drop to his sides and shaking them to show how to relax. “When force meets force, the stronger force wins. The purpose of martial arts is to use the stronger force against itself. If I were to let you hit me with one of your blows I’d probably be knocked out. But I don’t, you see. You could be one
of the best, Rona, but you still have too much anger at the world, maybe at men?” he added, mocking her slightly.

  “Come on, Rona, you can get him,” Rockson said from the back of the mat where he had watched unnoticed.

  “Rock!” Rona exclaimed, her face suddenly brightening, her mouth opening in a wide grin.

  “Hey, Rock,” Al Chen smiled. “Good to see you. It’s been months since we worked together.”

  As Chen turned to greet Rockson, Rona saw her opportunity and leaped at the slim but well-muscled Chinese fighter. She grabbed him around the throat with both arms, applying a judo choke hold which could drop a man unconscious in three seconds. But Chen didn’t give her three seconds. Even as he felt the hold go on, he slid his chin to the right, creating a space between her forearm and his throat, to keep his breathing open. He quickly grabbed her around the elbow and pulled her up over his shoulder. As they both fell forward, Chen turned his body completely around, so that they faced each other. As they hit the mat he slid his foot into her abdomen at the same time pulling her forward by the arm. She flew from the grip of the martial arts expert, her choke hold instantly broken, and soared almost ten feet through the air, right into the deep end of the six-lane swimming pool. Waves of flickering, green crystalline water splashed in every direction as she broke the surface.

  Both Rock and Chen couldn’t help but laugh as the beautiful redhead pulled herself from the pool, her hair flat and wet against her long straight back. She sputtered angrily.

  “Oh, you bastard, I’ll—I’ll—”

  “Come now, Rona,” Rock said, walking over to her and helping her all the way back up onto the rubber-padded walkway around the pool. “That’s not the sporting way. If you were just a touch more relaxed about it all, you’d be a one-hundred-times-better fighter.”

  “Oh, you too, Rockson. Sometimes you men make me so mad. Just trying to show me up.” She seemed angry, but was already beginning to smile, realizing that it all did look rather funny. And she had attacked Chen when his back was turned. She could hardly blame him for tossing her into the pool. “I’d like to see you try,” she said to Rock, suddenly relaxing and pushing against his tall, strong body. “Try me, that is,” she added coyly, her lips fleshing slightly.

  “I’d love to take you up on the offer, Rona,” Rock said, his mouth twisting up at the right-hand corner, a gesture which Rona found fascinating. There was so much about this man that she loved, was drawn to. If only he would give himself to her the way she wanted to give herself to him.

  “But first,” Rock continued, taking off his white civilian shirt, and bending down to untie his rubber-padded indoor shoes. “Al and I need a good workout. If I’m going to keep my reflexes sharp, I’ve got to work with the best. And Al,” he said, his purple and blue eyes twinkling as he stepped onto the mat and bowed to Chen, “is the best.”

  “I’m flattered, my friend,” Chen replied, bowing back. “But as to who is the best, only the gods know that.”

  The two men began slowly, circling each other like two jungle cats, graceful, fluid, their motions a perfect mirror for one another. Rona watched in fascination. Chen, in his kungfu shoes and black, loose-fitting Ninja sparring suit, was a good six inches shorter than the muscular, six-three Rockson, whose deeply tanned chest and arms bulged with the steel muscles of a lifetime of sweat and survival. They circled for almost thirty seconds, watching for a moment’s advantage. Each was wary. Chen crouched low in his scissor-leg Ba Gua stance, the knees close together, the feet kicking out like levers at every step. Rockson just circled. He had studied countless systems, read books on all the fighting styles, but mostly he had experienced it. He had fought enemies beyond number and had won. Death was his teacher. The death of all the Reds who had attacked him and paid with their lives. He let his muscles untense, let his mind become blank, waiting, waiting for the opponent’s motion, watching the eyes for the flicker of energy that meant attack.

  Chen suddenly sprang and released a windmill of punches, one after another, ten of them within a second and a half. Rockson stepped back with the motion and deflected them easily, his hands lightly slapping the punches to the side as fast as they came.

  “Good, very good!” Chen said, stepping back again and continuing to circle. He had scarcely gotten the last word out when he attacked again. This time, Chen feinted to the right and at the last second, as Rockson began a counter, the Chinese expert dove to the left and dropped Rock with a scissors leg. Rockson saw the move an instant before it came. It was too late to resist so he went with it, rolling to the mat, snapping his leg free from the hold with the momentum, so that Chen couldn’t pin him, and then rolling and rising again, all in one smooth motion. As Chen leaped up to the mat, he found Rockson’s powerful leg coming at him with a circular roundhouse kick to the head. Chen blocked with his forearm and gripped Rock’s ankle, turning it to the side, trying to throw him to the mat. This time, Rock let the master fighter hold the foot and came up with the other leg, landing solidly on Chen’s stomach. At the same time Rock fell backwards to the mat, so that his motion pulled Chen, still holding the ankle, forward and over his head. They both rolled and came up, facing one another. Chen smiled. “Excellent, Rock. You’re getting better all the time.”

  “Thanks for the kudos,” Rock replied, laughing. “But none of my blows are connecting.”

  “Nor mine,” Chen said softly. “Mexican standoff.”

  They continued for a good ten minutes. Neither was really able to get the upper hand. An occasional punch or kick would slide through the other’s defense, but their reflexes and speed were so quick that they would merely twist their bodies to go with the blow and take any sting out of it. They had both built up quite a sweat, drops of salty spray flew from their whipping hands and legs.

  Suddenly, Chen stopped. “I think we are both at that stage of martial arts development where there is such an equalness of skill that it is like fighting one’s own self. We know what the other is thinking even as he strikes. As my own master, Lieu, once said to me, ‘When you meet a man you cannot best nor can he best you, that man is your brother in the spirit of Chi.’ Rock, you and I have reached that harmony. You, Ted Rockson, are my brother in the Chi life force.” He bowed deeply forward, his hands clenched in fists.

  Rock was touched. Chen was rarely emotional. Yet he could see that there was something deeply in common between the two men—a certain spirit, the energy of the Warrior. Chen showed Rock some of the new weapons’ techniques he had been working on. They worked out with nunchukas, knives and staffs for a good hour, Rockson quickly absorbing each move as Chen showed him the exact motion and angle of attack. Chen was a master at a number of weapons and even Rockson would have a hard time against the Chinese with these. But he was learning. And Chen was happy to show him everything he knew.

  At last Chen bowed again. “Ah, Rock, I don’t know where you get the strength. I’m beginning to feel tired. And, of course, I can’t admit that. But I do have a training class coming up in twenty minutes, and I must do my Chi Kung meditation before training. So, if you will excuse me, my friend.” Chen walked off to the showers and then to his private meditation chamber, bare, covered in white cloth with only a single silk pillow for sitting in the center.

  Rockson walked over to Rona who lay sprawled on her back, relaxing, in the center of the second tatami mat.

  “You’re something else, Rock,” she said, looking seductively up, water glistening on her skin. “Anyone else in Century City would be out cold in about two seconds with Master Chen, yet you stand your ground.”

  “Oh, he’s a better fighter than I am, Rona. He holds back with me so that the sparring can give him a workout,” Rock said self-depreciatingly.

  “Bull!” Rona spat out. “If anything, you could beat him. Or at least it would be a hell of a fight.”

  “Such a fight will never occur,” Rockson said seriously. “I fight only my enemies to kill. The fighting that Chen and I do is the fighting
of friends, of teaching one another.”

  “Oh, I know, I know,” Rona said, chuckling. “No need to be so heavy-handed philosophical all the time.” She put her hand around his taut-muscled thigh. “I want you!” she said directly. “I’ve missed you a lot.” She pulled him on top of her, kissing him full on the lips, crushing her body against his with all of her strength. They embraced for several minutes, hands stroking warm flesh. Then Rock lifted her off of him and silently jumped to his feet. Taking her by the hand, he led her to one of the massage rooms at the far end of the gymnasium and locked the door behind him. Soon they were locked in the oldest embrace of man and woman. And the most pleasurable.

  Eleven

  Commandant Kuzminski got the orders. There had been one too many incidents in Little U.S.A.—the section of Stalinville where the filthy American children ran in packs, where the bagmen and garbage ladies snarled at the Red troops when they passed, where thousands of rat holes were crowded with hostile thieves and work resisters. The place was rampant with secret cells of teachers, Americans who taught the forbidden skills of reading, writing and the grammar of the English language to the waifs who stole everything that wasn’t nailed down off of the convoys of trucks that rumbled through. Sometimes trucks would even be ransacked and shipments of foodstuffs, clothing or even weapons would be carted off by the antlike swarms of violent youths. And now the final blow: an elite officer of the KGB brutally murdered by a bagman while carrying out his duties in Little U.S.A. There had to be drastic action.