Read Online Doomsday Warrior 12 - Death American Style by Ryder Stacy - Free Book Online
Authors: Ryder Stacy
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what?” Shecter asked, taking a sip and burning his tongue so that he pulled back sharply. Rockson could see that the man was growing older. How long could he go on? The whole senior group of the city—soon they would all be gone. The younger ones would take over. Mostly mutants like himself. It would be a new world. He didn’t know if it would be a better one.
“Come on—the Reds—the peace offering—the olive branch of love,” Rock said. “What do you think? Are the Reds serious?”
“You know I don’t mix in politics, Rock,” Shecter said with a thin grin, taking a puff on the cherry-flavored tobacco so that the air was filled with a sweet fruity odor that made Rock’s stomach turn just a little. “I just play with my test tubes and try to wheedle as much funds and manpower as I can out of the Council to push on with my work. There’s so much to do, Rock, so—”
“Yeah, sure, spare me the Einsteinian objectivity please,” the Doomsday Warrior said poker-faced. “You’re involved in every decision that’s made in this place.”
“All right—but for your ears only. I’ve got a big appropriations meeting coming up for expansion of the hydroponics—and I can’t afford to have any enemies on the committee.”
“My ears only,” Rock said, covering his mouth for a second like the dumb monkey.
“I think—go for it,” Shecter said. “I’m a scientist, and we must always be willing to change—to allow new ideas to take hold, to germinate within us. A scientist must follow many routes, be bold, always, always risk the new, even the terrifying. I’m not saying the Reds have mellowed any—because we know basically they haven’t. But perhaps Vassily really is serious. The man is growing old. We know he’ll die soon. And—with Colonel Killov gone—he can afford to relax for a moment and look around him at what he’s wrought. Basically he sees a world still in mortal conflict. Especially here in the U.S.”
Shecter paused, took a long puff on his pipe and looked at Rock so that he could feel the scientist’s will like a tangible object. “Yes—go, Rock. Take the chance. I know the macho side of the Council will scream that it’s just another Red trick—a chance to capture you and the top leadership of the U.S. But you know me—always the optimist. Can’t find the worm—unless you turn over the stone.”
“Only problem is, if you’re the worm you get eaten by the crows. And I think I’m the worm on this fishing expedition,” Rock said, gulping down the last of the java.
The man with streaked gray-brown hair said, “The meeting will come to order. Please, please, ladies and gentlemen. We have a vitally important problem to discuss.”
No one quieted down. The speaker raised his voice.
“If you don’t act with more decorum, I will have to call in the Council Guard and have you ejected. Please, please!” William Fabres, the acting chairperson of the Council screamed now. “Shut the hell up!" He banged his gavel on the speaker’s podium again and again, slamming it down as if he were tenderizing meat with a sledge hammer.
The council chambers of Century City, where all decisions were made, was either a paradigm of American democracy at work in its most active and participatory form—or was the living proof that the system could never work, and degenerated, as usual, into anarchy, cursing and occasional fisticuffs. Council meetings were either famous or notorious at other Freefighting cities throughout the west. Delegates and visitors from the other hidden cities were always aghast that one of the most powerful and certainly influential rebel cities in the country was so—so insane.
In the large semicircular chamber, where the elected representatives of the city’s inhabitants carried out their ordained duties, were now stuffed not just all fifty of them, but another five hundred or so citizens. And hundreds more were trying to get through the doors, to voice their
“Come on—the Reds—the peace offering—the olive branch of love,” Rock said. “What do you think? Are the Reds serious?”
“You know I don’t mix in politics, Rock,” Shecter said with a thin grin, taking a puff on the cherry-flavored tobacco so that the air was filled with a sweet fruity odor that made Rock’s stomach turn just a little. “I just play with my test tubes and try to wheedle as much funds and manpower as I can out of the Council to push on with my work. There’s so much to do, Rock, so—”
“Yeah, sure, spare me the Einsteinian objectivity please,” the Doomsday Warrior said poker-faced. “You’re involved in every decision that’s made in this place.”
“All right—but for your ears only. I’ve got a big appropriations meeting coming up for expansion of the hydroponics—and I can’t afford to have any enemies on the committee.”
“My ears only,” Rock said, covering his mouth for a second like the dumb monkey.
“I think—go for it,” Shecter said. “I’m a scientist, and we must always be willing to change—to allow new ideas to take hold, to germinate within us. A scientist must follow many routes, be bold, always, always risk the new, even the terrifying. I’m not saying the Reds have mellowed any—because we know basically they haven’t. But perhaps Vassily really is serious. The man is growing old. We know he’ll die soon. And—with Colonel Killov gone—he can afford to relax for a moment and look around him at what he’s wrought. Basically he sees a world still in mortal conflict. Especially here in the U.S.”
Shecter paused, took a long puff on his pipe and looked at Rock so that he could feel the scientist’s will like a tangible object. “Yes—go, Rock. Take the chance. I know the macho side of the Council will scream that it’s just another Red trick—a chance to capture you and the top leadership of the U.S. But you know me—always the optimist. Can’t find the worm—unless you turn over the stone.”
“Only problem is, if you’re the worm you get eaten by the crows. And I think I’m the worm on this fishing expedition,” Rock said, gulping down the last of the java.
The man with streaked gray-brown hair said, “The meeting will come to order. Please, please, ladies and gentlemen. We have a vitally important problem to discuss.”
No one quieted down. The speaker raised his voice.
“If you don’t act with more decorum, I will have to call in the Council Guard and have you ejected. Please, please!” William Fabres, the acting chairperson of the Council screamed now. “Shut the hell up!" He banged his gavel on the speaker’s podium again and again, slamming it down as if he were tenderizing meat with a sledge hammer.
The council chambers of Century City, where all decisions were made, was either a paradigm of American democracy at work in its most active and participatory form—or was the living proof that the system could never work, and degenerated, as usual, into anarchy, cursing and occasional fisticuffs. Council meetings were either famous or notorious at other Freefighting cities throughout the west. Delegates and visitors from the other hidden cities were always aghast that one of the most powerful and certainly influential rebel cities in the country was so—so insane.
In the large semicircular chamber, where the elected representatives of the city’s inhabitants carried out their ordained duties, were now stuffed not just all fifty of them, but another five hundred or so citizens. And hundreds more were trying to get through the doors, to voice their
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