Doomsday Warrior 18 - American Dream Machine Page 11

“Even if they want the messages you send it may take a number of months until the audi-writing can be delivered. Our rockets don’t make many trips in that direction.”

  “Am I being told I can’t have some means to write letters?”

  “No,” Dovine said. “People of influence have given you a great many privileges, I wish that was not the case. However, you will soon face the Zrano, and then,” he gleefully slapped the swagger stick on the door frame, “you’ll be crushed like a bug!”

  Dovine left without formal farewell, his usual habit. Several tiny gray audi-writing squares were brought in shortly afterwards. With the door locked behind him, Rockson pushed the lower toggle of one cube to the left, named the address of his family—the last address he had for them. The material began being printed on the micro-face of the gray square as he began to speak: “This is Rockson here. I may be dead by the time this gets to you.” He touched the base of the blue moon lucky medallion at his throat. “Unless a miracle saves me. I won’t have died in war, but on account of a retroactive law against playboyism! It’s a shame my life should have been so short and that I’ll have lost it when I’ve just started to really enjoy so many wo—er—things. But I can’t complain too much. I’ve had some very good times and given back a lot of enjoyment to others. I’ve eaten, drunk, made women happy, and taken the big and small pleasures without hurting anyone—not even myself. That isn’t a bad thing to say about somebody who’s likely to be dead very soon. Don’t think of me the way I’ll be when you get this, but the way you knew me. Bless you all.” It was short but sweet. Now, if only—

  A soft knock came at the door just as he was finishing. He turned as the door was opening on a young girl; his “date” for tonight. She was the best one of all. Still, he was missing Kimetta, traitor and baffler that she was! Kimetta, who had arranged for all sorts of privileges for Rockson.

  Rock didn’t get any sleep at all.

  At daybreak he and the other prisoners were taken out of the building and walked to a jet car that would take them to a special, new arena. This was the day!

  Sixteen

  The wide, smooth-running surface vehicle took them past artificial pines and miniplastic hills on the flat asteroid, on toward a huge dome. They were led into the new stadium itself, then down a badly lighted hall to a fair-sized assembly room. Four guards were waiting for them and a door opened on Dovine, as soon as the men had sat down on the marblelike benches.

  The sadistic officer started to talk immediately. “I think that all of you are as well prepared as you can be. Except,” he smirked, “for Mr. Important. (He meant Rockson.) Whatever could be done by indoctrination and training has been accomplished. You have your chances. May your skills be equal to the great task.”

  The mournful prisoners’ faces didn’t change. They all looked at their punishment bracelets with disgust.

  Dovine wasn’t finished yet. “A message for Rockson has been sent by my co-worker, Kimetta Langdon.”

  Rock smiled. So the independent-minded young miss who’d helped finger him and bring him here against his will hadn’t forgotten his problem after all. “Is it a pardon?”

  “The message is simply this: ‘May the end come quickly,’ ” Dovine sneered. “That’s all.”

  Rock nodded. “Thank her for me. I’m touched.”

  Dovine said, “I will; but I personally hope that the end comes slowly for all of you.”

  Those were his farewell words.

  Silence followed his departure, lasting until Skinny Jones said bitterly, “I wonder if we should find some way to chop off our right wrists, and try to escape.”

  They were now in a holding area. One of the rather fancy dressed Praetorian honor guards said briskly, “You will soon pick up your weapons, which have been chosen by lot for you. All that remains to be done immediately is for you to choose the order by which you enter the ring.” The guard swooped down toward a drawer in the table and reached for a quintet of club-shaped sticks that bulged at one end. Carefully he put them down. “Each will pick one. A cluster of dashes appears on the other side of every stick, and the numerical total will determine the order in which you go into the arena. These ceremonial sticks have been used at every Zrano game for the last thirty years. They’re sacred objects.”

  “Yeah, they’re sacred,” Horse-face repeated caustically, “and life ain’t.”

  “When each man chooses a stick he will hold it and not look at the bottom side until the signal is given to do so. That’s the rule.”

  Skinny Jones asked grimly, “And what’ll you do if we look right away? Will you punish us by imprisonment until the next games?” No answer.

  Horse-face, the first prisoner in line, was directed to reach for a stick, and as he did, he promptly looked at the opposite side.

  “Two.”

  The guard was irritated. “You have broken a tradition.” He pressed a button on his metal breast armor and the disobeyer writhed in pain, tearing at his punishment bracelet. After ten seconds, the pain ceased. “Any other wise guys?” sneered the guard.

  There were none. After they all got their sticks, they were told to turn them over and count the dashes.

  Reelk was staring at the opposite side of his club. “Number four.”

  Skinny Jones told him eagerly, “That’s the worst spot because the monster is warmed up. I’m five.”

  Now Jansen looked at his club. “Three. I’m in the middle.”

  Rock shrugged and checked his. To his surprise, he too counted three dashes.

  “I must have brought a wrong stick,” the guard said grabbing it. He went off and started hunting in a side cabinet drawer. “Nothing like it ever happened before,” he muttered. He kept shaking his head in disbelief. “It’s all cut and dried. How could this have happened?” He finally handed Rockson a number one. “Here, shithead. Wipe off that grin!”

  Rock did so.

  “First man,” the speaker shouted. “You are to leave now for the floor of the arena.”

  The mournful-looking Reelk turned toward Rock and drew out a hand. “I never told you my first name. I’m Birki. It was a pleasure knowing a playboy. Best kind of crime if you ask me! I was a plumber. Declared retroactively illegal in—I’m sure you’ll be all right!”

  “Thank you for your confidence,” Rock said.

  They shook hands firmly. “Where’s my weapon?” Rock asked.

  The guard opened a wide drawer in another synth-oak rolling-cabinet and smirked as he handed Rockson a small tomahawk, the kind you get as a souvenir when you go to a “Wild West” show.

  Rock didn’t blink as he took it. He had expected this move.

  The tall guard that had shocked Horse-face opened the door. A pair of guards in the doorway gestured for Rock to follow. The tall guard closed the door behind him and firmly put his back against it. They were on the floor of the arena, in the glare of TV lights.

  There was a big audience. Maybe 100,000 onlookers, all healthy looking, mostly couples. Rockson was expecting a roar of approval or boos from the arena crowd. He heard nothing at all until someone in the first row shouted, “Good luck, sucker.”

  Prisoner Jansen paced back and forth. “What do you think is happening? It’s been nearly twenty minutes. Could he still be alive? And what happens if he stays alive? Do we all get to go free?”

  “It’s been twenty minutes since he left,” Reelk exclaimed. “I know it’s been twenty minutes! He made it, I tell you! That playboy lucky-assed bastard made it! And that does mean we go free! It’s the rules!”

  “Shut up, fool,” Skinny Jones said. “He’s been gone one lousy minute!”

  The walk to the center of the wide dirt floor of the arena took about a minute. A huge clock’s sweep second hand—on Rock’s right—halfway up in the seats—was counting off the seconds. Rock walked very slowly, but when he took more than a minute to get there, his pain-bracelet started egging him on. He moved faster and then stood there with his silly tomahawk. He concentrated fi
ercely on the huge, closed gate of the Zrano. It didn’t come out. Two minutes. What was happening?

  At the four-minute mark, the huge death-gate was still shut. The guards who’d been near him suddenly ran away to join the other guards inside the impact-plastic-covered gate he had entered by.

  “Walk forward,” the speaker shouted. “Face your death bravely.”

  Seventeen

  Probably the voice was Warden Langdon’s. But Rock didn’t know or care whose voice that was. He wasn’t avid with curiosity to see the Zrano. His skin crawled at the idea, as a matter of fact. The echoing speaker-voice called for him to make the proper salute. He did not raise his arm at first but as pain, like a tearing buzz saw, came through his wristband, he did as requested, raising his tiny tomahawk and saying, “Those of us about to die salute you.” He spat up at the warden, who smiled back. The warden was in the first row of the stands, behind plexiglass. Beyond him were seated row after row of shiny-skinned men and women, eager young couples watching his every movement. Two children in the fourth row were open-mouthed.

  The wide and sturdy gate at the northeast end of the stadium was still shut, but a sound of pawing came out from behind the gate. Its grooved hasps were held in place by remote control electronic gears, no doubt. What was a Zrano like? Rock found he was interested. A curious reaction. He was dead calm, too. Oddly enough, though he should have felt fear now, he felt heroic. And somewhere inside him a tiny voice came: “You are the Doomsday Warrior. You can conquer this dream. Wake up. Wake up!” What did the voice mean? Was he going mad?

  To his own surprise he was glaring at the dark, woodenlike substance that made up the body of the gate facing him. He heard a series of rhythmic sounds and recognized music, heroic strains. He realized that the audience had risen and was standing rigidly, most of them with their shiny hands flat at their sides. A look out of the corners of his eyes convinced him he was receiving silent respect from the audience. He wasn’t whining, retreating, or pissing in his boots, like so many others had! They’d never seen that, evidently.

  There was a noise that reminded him of nothing he had ever heard before, a slurping and scratchy sound as unlike a human’s—or an animal’s—as seemed possible. That was when he knew the gate was being raised: when he could hear it.

  A turn in that direction showed the gate indeed was rising slowly. The huge dark shape moved forward as the crowd held its breath. He stood and watched as the eighteen-foot-high mass came out into the light. It was surely an extraordinary beast! Three sturdy legs, a thick, chunky body in a most natural tan color—almost like a tree trunk. Six rows of teeth, three facing sets, the middle row like a jagged plank. Three eyes, all red and glowering. The forehead had a single short horn two feet long. It had no hair, not a tuft of hair to be seen—just a few wrinkles on its tan hide. It moved very slowly, forked tongue flicking out as it came clear of the gate. The beast didn’t rush out, as it had on the visi-screen in the spacecraft. Probably the Zrano was a little tired of chewing human beings by now. One could hope! But its red orb eyes gleamed wickedly. The lust for blood, for death, remained strong in the beast coming toward him. Rockson could sense that.

  Rock didn’t move. Behind the protective plasti-screen, the audience applauded. Was it for his so-called bravery? For sticking his ground? Or were they urging the beast to come at this new prey more quickly? The audience was as fearsome in its way as the Zrano. It seemed if every one would have joined the hunt against him in the arena, with clubs and fists and boots, as if they had been allowed. They loved this, Rock realized. Loved to watch this ritual of death. So much the better if he was brave.

  The sportsmen kept up their applause as the beast now moved forward, paws outstretched, clawed thumb and two clawed fingers on each of three hands. Apparently the thing would grab him—first.

  A voice shouted, “Kill! Kill!”

  Rock didn’t budge. Now the asteroid-beast wasn’t more than ten feet from the tall, muscular warrior. Rockson waited with his own hands far apart. He hadn’t moved backwards or looked left or right. It was amazing the crowd. The shouts for blood died out. Even the Zrano hesitated, sensing strength.

  The beast’s steps in his direction were slowed by his opponent’s unexpected behavior. Rockson surprised himself by recollecting that he’d never fought anybody in his playboy’s easy life. Was he fearless now because the medallion he wore was supposed to keep him safe from all harm? Had it been a joke, and nothing more? Kimetta’s little last joke against him, another indignity for a man who was going to die? He brought a hand to his shirt-front, pulled out the blue medallion. The monster focused all its red orbs on the object, froze in place, and seemed to gasp. If such a big thing could gasp.

  Rockson noticed the medallion’s blue gleam catching the lights high above. The beast let out an insane, ear-blasting scream and twisted its head back and forth. It screeched out a long second howl, a wail to make everyone’s hair stand on end. The vibration rattled Rockson’s rib cage.

  He stepped back, unable to stand the sound. There was for a moment an insane temptation in Rockson to let himself be ripped to shreds by the six rows of teeth. And there was also the desire to hold his ears and shut his eyes so that at least he wouldn’t hear and see what happened next. To feel would be more than enough. Yet he did nothing, neither retreated nor closed his eyes, nor moved forward to attack with his puny weapon. Perhaps, he thought, he just wasn’t able to bring himself to miss any part of the last experience he’d ever know. At the sight of what happened next, his eyes widened in disbelief.

  The beast didn’t move forward to eat its helpless prey. Rather, the beast stayed in one place, its body swaying back and forth, trembling. Was there an expression of fear in those previously hate-crazed eyes? If that was true, such a switch didn’t resemble anything Rock had ever seen or imagined.

  Somebody high up in the audience shouted, “What’s wrong?”

  Rock made it a point to hold the monster’s eyes with his own, not sure why it should suddenly be of such great importance. But somehow, he knew it was: a warriors instinct.

  The beast just stood there and gave out pained, hair-raising wails, like a dying elk. It couldn’t move at all, it seemed; just its mouth moved. The anguished sounds coming from it went on and on. He was close enough to get the residue of that foul and fearful breath, close enough to wish that the twenty minutes were already finished, one way or the other.

  “Get it over,” somebody called. “What’s going on?”

  The creature now began to shake and actually whimper, and kept walking backward, away from him, in the direction of the gate.

  The crowd’s roar became confused, and as Rockson stamped his feet and walked after the beast, threatening it with his silly toy axe, they all erupted into applause. It was homage to the brave, tall Earthman who moved forward confidently while the Zrano stumbled away, homage to a playboy turned warrior.

  The clock rang out twenty minutes. It was over. The Zrano went into its gate, the gate shut back. Rockson’s life had been spared. He wished he knew how it had happened. He had an idea it was the medallion. He bowed and raised his hand in the V-for-victory salute. The warden took off his laurel-wreath hat and threw it over the plexiglass and into the arena. Rockson put it on.

  A nightmare had turned into a pleasant dream!

  Eighteen

  After Rockson made many, many bows, the same blond guard who had taken care of him before took Rock, via a circuitous route, out to a small grav-car. The guard drove him “home,” back to the room he had been given. On the way, the guard said, “Maybe the others think you’re a hero. But I know you’re not. I know how you did it!”

  “How?”

  The guard explained it. Rockson was amazed at what had caused his good fortune.

  There was a knock, much later. Before Rock said anything, the door opened, revealing Dovine. The officer’s perpetually disapproving look seemed frozen on that immobile, flaccid face. He wasn’t happy. That was an und
erstatement. “You are only the third survivor in the history of the games! You are to be congratulated. How did you pull it off? You can tell me. There is an immutable law that you must not die now. Unfortunately, you will have to be released.”

  “How soon can I get away from this asteroid?”

  Dovine smiled. “You will be released on this asteroid, not off That’s all! You will never leave this tiny world. You live, that is all. There is only one condition to your claiming this “freedom”: You must tell me how you did it—how you defeated the Zrano. I am recording your answer now, on an audi-cube, for review of the council. Tell them!”

  “OK,” Rock sighed. “The medallion I wear had a picture of the Zrano’s mother on it, in a spectrum we humans can’t see. It got all shook up—guilty, if you will. I freaked it out.”

  “Really? I doubt that anyone had ever thought that a picture of its mother would make a Zrano back down. How did you know that Rockson?”

  “It’s the last of its kind. It hasn’t seen its mother since it was a little thing just out of its egg. It is usual that a child, especially an only child, remembers and misses its dead mother. I was taking a guess, but my guess was right.”

  “Where did you get the medallion? What traitor gave it to you?”

  Rock lied, not wanting to implicate Kimetta. “I found it jammed in a crevice in a rock formation near the spaceport. When we landed.”

  Dovine seemed partly satisfied. He pondered for a time and said, “Yes. I see . . . contestants have been allowed to take harmless-looking fetishes into the ring with them, good luck charms. I have heard of these old souvenir medallions, like yours. Cheap holograms of the first Zranos. The people here don’t have any superstitious toys now, not being able to spare the time from work to indulge in pernicious nonsense. They surely threw away many such trinkets from the old days. Thank you Rockson. Thank you for reinstating my belief in your cowardice! Never again will a contestant be allowed to carry anything into the arena except his lot-weapon!”