Doomsday Warrior 19 - America’s Final Defense (19 page)

Rockson let it happen; he let the million tiny tentacles enter him.

Slowly . . . almost painlessly . . . the world disappeared.

“I don’t like it. Rock looks
dead,”
insisted Chen.

“He’s not dead,” Detroit said, feeling the pulse in the neck of the pale man who lay in the statue’s lap. There were a thousand or more tiny pinpricks all over the Doomsday Warrior’s face and skull. Some bled slightly. But he breathed; breathed beneath the mass of throbbing slimy threads that had entered his head.

It had been an hour since Rockson had been led away by Pruzac. Rockson had been attached to the Neuro-dancer—some sort of machine or computer inside the huge statue. This much Detroit knew because Pruzac had told him so before she disappeared. But what would happen now? Detroit wasn’t at all sure. Had Rockson found out the secret of mankind’s survival? Would he now understand what had to be done to save the earth? Could he articulate that secret? Would he
survive?

The Doomsday Warrior was coming around. He twitched violently in the lap-seat of the stone pharaoh. Then his eyes opened.

“Rockson, are you okay?” Archer asked, a simple enough question.

To Rockson, it was an absurd one. He’d been in another reality, a place where “okay” and “not okay” were meaningless concepts. He’d undergone a consciousness expansion wider than any that could have been induced by drugs or any other means. This experience had been even more powerful than his communion with Pruzac back in the Glowers’ tent. He was now a million times smarter than before; his memory went back a billion years. Rockson came to know all this in short flashes, flashes of understanding that stunned him, yet were easy to accept. He heard the voice of Archer again and laughed. “Yes! I am
fine.
But the world is sick! Earth is
sick!”

He took a deep breath and stood up unsteadily. His friends helped him down from the statue. He asked to be helped outside the pyramid.

Only when he and his remaining men were out on the pink-tinted surface did he speak. His words were strange.

“Here
is the knowledge,” he said.
“Here
is the message that could, if anyone listened, save the earth.” Rockson said, “Mankind has gained victory over medieval superstitions; science has cast away natural philosophy and refused to use the way of thinking based on any embracing vision. The deductive method gave way to the inductive method of gathering facts and formulating theories. In this way, Earth’s people have denied vision-based methods and concepts and all considerations of purpose, or right, or beauty. Because thought lacked a scientific basis, religious and ethical ideals were undermined. Science triumphantly progressed from success to greater success: steam, electricity, radio, lasers, nukes, rockets, genetic engineering. By the twenty-first century, it was clear that this development was fraught with unpleasant consequences. The unimpeded progress of science became a threat to mankind’s survival. Scientific knowledge brought about a loss of orientation. It explained ‘what’ and ‘how,’ but it did not explain ‘why’ and ‘for what purpose.’ It claimed these questions weren’t scientific. The continuing accumulation of knowledge without purpose leaves vital aspirations unfulfilled: the profound need to know who we are, to know our origin, fulfillment, and the nature of reality. That is the crisis.

“We must bring science’s logic and methodology into accord with layers of reality lying so deep that they cannot be contacted by the ordinary senses. We must attempt to restore well-forgotten concepts such as purpose, wholeness, aliveness, and the hidden order of the universe.” As his men stood and gaped, he went on.

“There is a way to do this: One of the characteristics of thought is its power. This power draws us, holding us captive. The aim of the Neuro-dancer is to open the world of thoughts. When I directly experienced the field, the energy, and the content of thoughts and I opened all these aspects, I was no longer blindly participating in the world of the mind. This is real freedom and strength, for I know now that we are not bound to suffering and trapped by emotionality. We can overcome; don’t you see?

“Opening the world of thought does not depend on a Neuro-dancer, but on direct experience. If I can communicate with my own mind, I can open thoughts, through thoughts. The starting point is to see that we are not free, that we are trapped in the field of emotions and thoughts! The more deeply I understand this, the more easily I can cut through the bonds that restrict. The easier this cutting through becomes, the deeper my understanding grows. Eventually I can directly touch the meaning of knowledge, finding the source of it, and true meaning and value. I will explain this all mathematically to Schecter and to other great thinkers.”

Sighing, Rock said, “Now I want you to watch with me. Watch and exult as the earth moves by this world safely.”

They all stood outside the pyramid, looking up.

Rock squinted up into the bright, alien sky, and pointed. “See? See?”

Above them the ever-enlarging blue-white orb of Earth filled half the sky. It was not heading directly at them. It was moving to the west, even as they watched. The collision would not take place, that was becoming obvious.

“I could sure use a cigarette,” Scheransky said, “and I don’t smoke.” The blond man turned to his commander. “I didn’t understand a
word
you said, but I
want
to. We
all
want to understand.”

“And you will.” Rock smiled knowingly. But there was a blackness in his stare, and the pinprick incisions on his forehead oozed blood. He didn’t look well.

He looked like a man who’d seen far too much.

Twenty

A
t that instant, on the other side of the asteroid, Killov and his Japanese manservant Tekkamaki were making the final approach for a crash landing. Killov had partial power on the reverse thrusters and some altitudinal control. He exclaimed, “This is it Tekkamaki. Pray to the Dark One to protect us.” He pulled the lever that shot the last of the power to slow them.

The speed indicator dropped from 700 km per hour to just over 70 km per hour. Then the torn-up wreck of a rocket went silent.

This was the best they could do.

“Impact in twenty seconds,” the KGB commander said. He stared out at the rapidly approaching desert surface. Killov listened to the howl of the Karrakan atmosphere tearing at the rocket’s rent skin. It sounded like the voice of death. The whole ship began vibrating wildly, as if it was falling apart. The winds howled.

Perhaps he would not make it this time, Killov admitted to himself. Perhaps the ship would break up upon impact. But . . . that would mean that Rockson wins.

“No!
That won’t be.
It
just won’t be!”
Killov screamed.

Closer! Now Killov could see individual boulders directly below. Not even a sandy surface to cushion the crash.
This was it.

Killov screamed out, “Curse you, Rockson! Curse you to hell!”

Three, two, one—impact!
They landed hard, but the ship didn’t break apart, nor did the straps they’d rigged up to hold them in their seats.

The rocket missed the boulders and hit the top of a sandy hillock, coming in at a steep angle. It bounded wildly through the dune and through several more sandy hillocks. Each time it hit a dune it lost speed. Finally, it came to rest nose-down, and made Killov instantly sick to his stomach.

“Quickly, Tekkamaki, I smell fire. We must get out!” Killov madly fumbled with the straps to untie them, but he was unable to do so.

His servant rushed out of his seat and helped, exclaiming, “Master, you are the greatest pilot in the universe.”

“Yes, I am,” Killov said, “but hurry. Get me out of here.
Now!”

In a matter of moments, they were clambering up the sand dune that was spilling into the wreckage of the burning spacecraft. They scrambled across the surface until they were well away from the wreck. Then it exploded, a ball of orange-red fire.

Killov took a deep breath. “Hmmm, nice air,” he exclaimed. “Just like the ancient records promised. Tekkamaki, smell the air. How
sweet
it is to be alive. We have done it, we live.
I
live, to destroy Rockson.”

Killov got a faraway look in his eye, “I see my destiny now,” he said. “It is plotted out before me. The Dark One has answered me. I will use the weapons on this asteroid to blast Earth to bits. Somehow, by some trick, Rockson has diverted this world from the collision course. But you and I, Tekkamaki, you and I will destroy Earth. We will be the last human beings alive in the whole solar system. Isn’t that wonderful?”

“Yes, master,” Tekkamaki said glumly.

Twenty-One

K
illov pulled a singed map out of his pocket, the map of the asteroid that had been found in the Incan records in Machu-Pichu. He and his Japanese manservant started walking overland toward the pyramid storehouse, the place the ancient records promised held all the powers of the universe . . . and all the weapons any man could dream of. The trek wasn’t arduous, for Killov was assisted by the drugs he’d shot into his veins. That and the low gravity. And Tekkamakki was an accomplished hiker. They would be there in ten minutes.

Unknown to Killov, Rockson and the surviving members of the American crew were at that moment moving in the opposite direction, leaving the pyramid to head back to their space saucer. Their paths were bound to cross.

But not yet. The Dark One had a present for his dear one, Killov.

“Rock? You all right?” Chen asked.

Rockson said, “Fine . . . there’s no time to waste; let’s get back into the saucer and make the return trip,” Yet the minute Rockson moved, he sagged. His legs were like rubber.

“Rock, are you sure you’re all right?” Scot demanded. “Do you want us to carry you?” He moved to support Rockson.

Rockson pushed Scot away. He looked strange. The Chinese-American Freefighter said, “I think we should set him down, Scot. Right in the sand. Maybe after a minute or two of rest . . . he’s been through a lot, you know.” But Chen’s eyes showed he was very worried.

McCaughlin and Chen eased Rockson to a sitting position on a mound of gravely sand as the others looked on with concern. Rockson mumbled something; it was difficult to hear, for his voice seemed to have little energy. Chen’s ears were sensitive, though, and he caught Rockson’s words: It was a poem of sorts:

Nothing to win,

Nothing to lose,

Nothing to practice,

Nothing to prove,

All is illusion,

Why grasp at illusion?

Then he started laughing to himself, and making growling sounds.

“Has he gone mad?” Scheransky worried. “What the hell do we do?”

Suddenly there was a glow in the sky, and that blue-white glow coalesced into a form. It was Pruzac again. She appeared over the. sands like an angel, semi-transparent, with the earth shining right through her.

Her angelic voice spoke out: “Let him rest. It is necessary that he step down mentally from the charge of knowledge he was subjected to in the Neuro-dancer. The Neuro-dancer has given him too much information. Rockson must spill out some of it. He’s absorbed too much for any earthman. Let him be, let him recover. He will remember what he needs to know to tell your people of Earth, after a rest.”

Detroit looked at the blue-white earth above. It wasn’t growing larger anymore; instead it was starting to move closer to the horizon. The asteroid they were standing on, propelled by the geyser of gas unleashed by the nuclear explosion, was now moving past the earth with ever-increasing velocity. They could be marooned.

“Pruzac!” Detroit exclaimed. “We must get going as soon as possible. Can’t we just get him to the ship and let this ‘spilling’ occur on the way back to Earth?”

“No. He would be unable to fly the saucer for at least the next hour. None of you understands how to fly it.”

Everyone looked to Chen, who shook his head. “Pruzac’s right. I never flew it, I just worked the power switches on the drive. We have to have Rock alert and capable in order to take off.”

“Walk him around slowly,” Pruzac suggested. “Keep Rockson moving. He will say things, some of which you might care to listen to and remember. Some of what he says will be gibberish to you all. When his speech slows down and the glassy-eyed look fades, Rockson will be well enough to pilot your spacecraft. Now I must go—back to the world of the dead.” And with those enigmatic words, she faded.

They did as the ghostly Pruzac had asked, started walking Rockson around, supporting him on their shoulders.

Chen said, “I don’t like this. When does Rock start all this dumping of knowledge? He’s silent as a—”

Just then he was interrupted by a flood of words from his commander’s lips, words spoken with a singsong cadence.

“What is all that, philosophy?” Scheransky asked. The Russian defector had a dislike of philosophy; it reminded him of the propaganda he’d been subjected to early in life in the Soviet Union.

“No,” McCaughlin said, “it’s religion, I think. Listen: he’s talking about some great religion.”

Indeed, their commander was spewing out a scripture of the religion of the asteroid dwellers. It sounded rather convoluted to Rock’s men—something about ‘mystery being all one can know.’ He went on and on, gesticulating wildly.

“Sort of confusing, isn’t it? Like a catechism lesson,” Scheransky uttered.

“Shut up,” Chen insisted. “Let him speak. Do you know how immensely important this is? This asteroid will soon be out of range of Earth. Humans may never get to tap its knowledge again. I’m lucky I have my pocket recorder. I have it on now. Just keep him walking, and keep quiet. I want to record his every word.”

Rockson was soon going on about some belief called Kroock, the religion of a world known as Talus Twelve. Only snatches of it were caught by Chen’s ears, but he had the cassette mike pinned near Rock’s lapel. The recorder would get it all.

Then came a burst of talk about the religion Tookil, an early Earth religion, dead long before the last ice age. It was a religion centered on bears, Chen would later remember.