Doomsday Warrior 17 - America’s Sword (15 page)

“Name’s Simpkins. Assistant Internal Security, Sub-Secretarial.” He grinned like a country boy eating ice cream. “These here,” he went on, pointing around at his fellow guards, or whatever the hell they were, “are Sub-Junior-Underassistants. But Handelman is a Facilitator. Everything is broken down into ranks here. It makes life so much easier when everyone knows just who and what they and their functions are. Don’t you agree?”

“Oh, no question about that, no question at all! Tell me,” the Doomsday Warrior went on slowly, not bringing attention to the fact that he didn’t know what the hell was going on. He didn’t want any of these straw-hatters to know that. “We were, of course, given a certain amount of information back in Colorado—but what exactly is happening here these days? My information is years old. Can you, er—fill me in?”

“Well, I’ll be glad to do that!” As the others looked fairly bored, returning to the chairs, Simpkins spoke pridefully to Rock: “This is the Great Caucus Dome—and we, of course, are the Caucus people. You’ll see in a minute when you’re given the tour. This here is the Republam Convention. We have delegates from around this whole section of the country. Think we’re up to almost three thousand Caucus people, in all. Few stragglers still a’comin’.”

“But what exactly do you all do?” Rock went on, trying to act nonchalant. “I mean, what’s the function here?”

“Well, you know that it goes back to before the war. Our ancestors were holding an Annual Republam Party convention to pick choices for state political office—you know all that! We had rented this huge dome for two weeks—and then the war. Somehow this immense dome survived the holocaust,” Simpkins went on, “though according to our notes and compu-secretarials which survived from back there, a huge radioactive cloud virtually covered the place. Our great-great-grandparents managed to survive, by shutting all the vents and water supply off for a month. And that was enough. And we’ve been here ever since, carrying out our orders. Which is why we’re so popular. You know that.”

The man looked suspicious now. “Everyone does his bit!”

“And those bits are?” Rockson asked, a little nervously, knowing that was something he should know, having ridden a thousand miles to get here.

“Rules, votes, caucuses, many important functions,” Simpkins went on, with pride, and also the beginnings of a little more than just mild suspicion toward Rockson, who seemed to know very little about what was going on. “Why, today is the beginning of our annual Rules Committee elections. Nearly a hundred posts to fill! I find it one of the more exciting times of the year. You all are privileged to be here right now. And then, next week, is the election of Caucus Captains. It’s a busy time of year.” The man pulled back on his red suspenders which Rock saw that he had on inside the jacket.

“Sounds thrilling,” Rock said, glancing around to make sure his own men weren’t drifting off. This Caucus fellow seemed to be a fool in a way, but the Doomsday Warrior could see that within that happy-go-lucky fool’s exterior he had a brain that was quite observant. But then, if the man were descended from former politicians, that wasn’t too much of a surprise. The one thing that Rockson wasn’t even beginning to understand was just what the hell these people did. Vote for whom? Caucus for what? He didn’t get into that right now. He could see that Simpkins was getting a little more curious about the Freefighters, and had some questions himself.

“Who’s that big old country boy?” Simpkins asked, as he took in Archer, seated on the last hybrid.

Archer was looking up and around at the huge Caucus Dome like a kid’s first time in the big city. It was so big and round. And now that he saw that it wasn’t about to snap them up like some sort of immense venus flytrap, he wanted to go inside and see just what it was. He’d let Rock handle the rest.

“Oh, a—bodyguard,” Rockson hesitated, knowing he didn’t want to get into detail about any of them. For Simpkins would quickly see that they had nothing to do with the Caucus people.

“And you have a Chinese and a black with you as well. You don’t see too many of them around here. Thought most of them had been blown up. Well, don’t you worry. We ain’t got no problems with that stuff here. In fact, I think we got a few of our own, somewhere around the place.”

“That’s mighty open of you,” the Doomsday Warrior replied with a smile. Chen and Detroit did the same.

“Anyway,” Simpkins went on, sliding back down into his chair as if all this standing around was starting to tire him out, “that’s it.” Rock noticed that the guards were all fat as well as old. Where the hell did they get enough food to feed them? And if there were thousands more inside—? This whole place was becoming more of a mystery every minute.

“Handelman,” Simpkins said to the man who was sitting at the chair next to the talkative Caucus officer. “You’re a Facilitator 2nd Class. Take this crew inside, show them around a little and get them settled into the Junior Delegates commissary. I assume these fellows are hungry,” Simpkins said, patting his wide stomach. “Get ’em some chow.”

“Ah, do I have to?” asked Handelman, who had a wide handlebar mustache going all across his plump face. It was almost the plaintive whine of a child. This one didn’t seem like an Einstein, Rock could see that instantly. “I was just getting some notes together for the kick-off ceremonies tomorrow afternoon.”

“You’ll do them later,” Simpkins replied, with a certain cool demeanor that clearly showed that you didn’t want to go against the man, or have him as an enemy.

“All right, Mr. Rockson.” Handelman got up from his seat, and scratching his head beneath his straw hat, led them through the main gate. He walked pretty slowly considering he wanted to get back to his notes. “Better get down from your animals here. There’s plenty of side tunnels and light fixtures—and all kinds of stuff in here; they could get—”

“TUNNNNEELL,” Archer groaned out as the wide corridor stretched on ahead for what looked like miles.

“What’s wrong with him?” the Caucuser asked Rockson.

“Oh, he just has a thing about tunnels. You know how it is. He got stuck in one when a child. Also, he was hit in the head a few years ago and—” Rockson shrugged.

The answer seemed to satisfy Handelman, who led them down the long concrete corridor and then took them to the right. They came into a large square room with hay on the floor and the smell of manure thick in the air. There were stables all over the place, maybe a hundred of them with all kinds of breeds eating hay, drinking from buckets of water.

“Here you go, fellows,” Handelman said, leading them to the far end where a bunch of stalls were empty. The place looked clean, well cared-for. The smell of horse dung was almost painfully strong toward the back. The other steeds all looked up as the four new hybrids were led in. They hardly noticed, being more interested in their food. Like all living creatures, intellectual curiosity came second to stomach-growl quenchings.

“Stableboy!” Handelman exclaimed, clapping his hands with loud, smacking sounds so that Archer looked over, startled, reaching for his chair-sized crossbow behind his shoulder. A youth in his mid-teens jumped down from a storage loft with a magazine in his hands. The magazine was all faded and yellowed, Rock noted.

“Yes, sir,” the stable lad said as his eyes quickly rested on the Freefighters’ mounts. He whistled as he walked over and patted Snorter on the nose. Rock’s ’brid usually didn’t like strangers a hell of a lot, especially those who touched it when it didn’t necessarily feel like being touched. But the mutant horse didn’t seem to mind at all with this kid, and nuzzled his face.

“You’re pretty good with these fellows,” Rockson commented, smiling at the youth.

“Been around them my whole life,” the lad went on as he took Rock’s and then Chen’s mounts and led them into the open stalls.

“Now, give them some prime oats today,” Handelman said, almost scolding the lad although he hadn’t done anything wrong.

“What about our supplies that we have all battened down on our animals?” Rockson asked as he patted Snorter on the wide rump as the animal passed by and looked around at its stall a little edgily, making some low whinnying sounds to show its nervous displeasure.

“Easy, boy, you and me going to be good pals,” the stableboy said softly in the animal’s ear, rubbing his hand down the side of its face. The ’brid quieted down instantly.

“We’ll send some porters down here to get it all, once you’re settled in,” Handelman replied.

Rockson didn’t mention their weapons. He wasn’t in the mood to give them up. They had only been in the place a few minutes, but already the Doomsday Warrior was feeling a sense of foreboding. There was a strange aura to the place.

“I’ll take care of ’em all,” the bucktoothed youth said, taking Archer’s and Detroit’s animals as well and leading them to the next two stalls. Archer gave him a suspicious look, until the kid grinned back innocently. The huge Freefighter relaxed with that and he smiled back his own innocent look. The giant functioned at a fairly primitive level, but he could tell who was okay and who wasn’t. The kid was all right. “TAAAKKEEE CAARRRE HORRSIE,” Archer said, looking sternly at the lad.

“Don’t worry about that!” the stableboy exclaimed. “I love ’brids of all kinds. These are all beauties!” He looked around at the other steeds eating away like threshing machines in the private stalls and then turned toward Rockson, whispering conspiratorially with his hand over his mouth. “Most of these other hybrids ain’t the best,” the stableboy went on. “They’re overweight, ain’t been ridden enough, energy level is low. Why even their teeth is bad in a lot of ’em. Sort of like some of the people you’ll be meeting. Your animals are tough, look like combat animals from some of these scars. Their muscle tone’s real good. Naw, tell your pal here I’m going to make these ’brids feel right at home. Give ’em a real vacation.”

“Sounds good,” Rockson said, taking out a gold coin from a small packet on his utility belt. “I don’t know if these are worth anything,” the Doomsday Warrior said, slipping it into the boy’s palm so Handelman couldn’t see. For all he knew the man would take it away otherwise.

“Thanks,” the stableboy said in an excited whisper. “Your animals is going to shine like new, before I gets through with them.”

“We must get moving,” Handelman said, yawning and rubbing his large stomach which was evidently feeling empty. “There’s a lot to show you. This place is huge and has enough nooks and crannies to get lost in. Why there’s a legend around here about a new delegate back in ’82 who had to take a leak in the middle of the night. He’d only been here a day. He left his room and apparently took a wrong turn. Never been seen again.”

The Freefighters all chuckled. Even Archer, who found the idea of one’s demise occurring during a search for a good piss spot to be quite amusing!

But Rock had the missing men on his mind. “Listen, Handelman, we are looking for a group of friends from Colorado. Lost them in a sandstorm.”

“They might be inside, might not,” the man retorted. “Only way to know is to look-see.”

Eighteen

“P
lease, let’s get a move-on,” Handelman said as he led them back out of the stables, which the Freefighters were happy about doing as the smell from the place had permeated their nostrils. He led them down one of the main tunnels that led into the stadium proper. They came to another doorway, then entered a small room off to the side. Inside was a bored, bureaucratic fellow reading a book entitled,
Manual of Retrospective Recordkeeping and the Caucus Rules.

“Handelman here, Assistant Junior Secretary Level Three. Have some weapons storage for you. Give ’em up, delegates. Rules!”

“Now wait a minute,” Rock exclaimed. “I thought you said we could keep our supplies. We’re not exactly the types who feel comfortable without them. I mean, where we live, every damn thing around, even flowers, are trying to do you in.”

“Sorry,” Handelman replied with a trace of humor on his face. “We’ve had too many assassination attempts—and successes—over the years here in the Caucus Dome. We just have to put them under lock and key. Politicians can get pretty excited from time to time. And when tempers and feuds because of different points of view and what not explode—well, if you have something strapped on, you just may use it. Oh, I’ve seen a few shootings in my time. Including what we call the Massacre of 2067, when factions from the left and the right were voting on something that was incredibly important to both wings of the aisle—I can’t even remember just what it was right now. But two or three of the Right-wing faction pulled out some firearms and opened up. Well, the left hadn’t come unprepared either, and pulled out their own deathdealers. There were bullets flying everywhere. When it was over, twenty-five people were dead, chairs ripped apart, even managed to rip a hole in the plastic ceiling. Since then—no weapons. It ain’t just you.”

“Sounds like a fun place,” Detroit muttered.

They surrendered their firepower to the bureaucrat, who took out forms and passed them out to each of them. “I’d like you to please read and then fill these out. Name, place of origin, type of weapon—you’ll see, it’s all there.”

Rockson took an ancient, half-melted ballpoint which still barely functioned, and began laboriously filling in the thing. It could hardly be read, although the forms in triplicate beneath it still were inked enough that they picked up the information. The other Freefighters looked as unhappy about it as he did, and Archer looked positively forlorn, as he wasn’t exactly the literate type.

Rock walked over a few feet to Archer, once he himself was done, and began helping him with his form.

“Hey, you can’t do that,” the form taker suddenly said sharply. He bounded up from his crumbling, spring-popping office chair and looked harshly at the two men. “Everything is done by rules and regulations around here. Otherwise there would be total anarchy. Now, you can see, on that sign up on the wall,” the bureaucrat said, as if it were the crime of the century he was witnessing, “ ‘ONLY ACTUAL OWNERS OF WEAPONS CAN FILL OUT FORM 167B’ ”