Doomsday Warrior 14 - American Death Orbit (10 page)

Vladymyr sat back in his thick leather chair and surveyed his large office, the picture window that looked out over the whole city, steel towers and concrete spires. He had done well, hadn’t he? Somehow the last few years had been at such a frantic pace, especially the last year when he had been moved into command here, he hadn’t taken a breather.

But now—he just sat back and exhaled and felt the sheer power of his position, the reward for so many sleepless nights working over his lab table, his bank of computers. Now it was all coming around. The new house, the highest on the banks of the Volga, his wife’s fur coats that she could wear to parties and mingle with the wives of some of the top officials in Russia. She was even sleeping with him again.

Vladymyr was Premier Vassily’s pet, he knew that. He knew how to butter ‘the Grandfather’ up, when he presented his reports each month. For Vassily wanted them directly from his mouth, his hands. The Premier-of-All-the-Russias knew, better than anyone perhaps, what getting important information stuck in the bureaucracy of Russian science apparatchiks would mean. Garbled information, lost notes, alterations in data for political reasons. The Premier wouldn’t know what the hell was going on. So he demanded the
truth
about the restoration of Sat-control from Vladymyr—and he rewarded it highly.

But even as Vladymyr’s eyes took in the prestige of his wood-paneled office, the wide desk with the most advanced computers the Reds still had working, he felt his guts start to tighten up again. It could all be lost as easily as a mule stumbling down the side of a too steep salt mine cliff. And he knew the cliffs were very steep all around him. Vassily wanted progress—and fast. Wanted the destroyed satellite-and-missile control center in Moscow, if not repaired, at least set up in basic function again, so that whatever remained up there in orbit still functioning—and controllable—would be taken control of.

The Premier was slightly mad, Vladymyr had no questions about that—for what he had proposed at their last meeting was nothing less than loony. Having a laser beam from one of the satellites shoot down from orbit and ignite a torch that would be held in the hand of a statue of him fifty-feet high that would be at the next Moscow May Day Military Parade! The Premier believed such a powerful show of high tech force would send out a message to all the world, to his enemies, both subjects and rebels—that Premier Vassily, in spite of his age and many infirmities, was still in iron control. And could kill from space if he chose to. It was a mad idea. Yet, if he did not carry it out, Vladymyr would lose everything.

Suddenly he forgot about appreciating his station—there wasn’t time for that now. Maybe there never would be. He stared hard back into the figures, rows of moving numbers, and diagrams of orbital flow that ran across his screen like green roaches.

He had managed to tap into two of the still functioning laser sats control centers. But getting the systems of remote control to work was turning out to be a bitch. After a century of bombardment with cosmic rays, none of the engines were quite functioning the way they should, not to mention all the electromagnetic junk that had been sent out when the nukes flew a century before. Vladymyr had to work everything ass-backwards, figuring out what commands made the sats perform which actions. He was slowly getting some responses—but whether or not he would make the May Day deadline was something he didn’t want to think too long about.

He glanced up at the calendar on the wall, as he had a hundred times that day, hoping each time that it would somehow have moved back a week or two. But this time his eyes caught something at the tinted picture window that spread out along the whole front of the office. The Siberian night was black outside, a vast mosaic of stars. The city’s lights were all turned off at night, as there wasn’t a hell of juice to go around. But something was glowing right outside his window, dropping down into view even as he watched. Which was
impossible,
as he was on the twelfth floor of a fifteen-story building.

And
it
was, as far as Vladymyr could make out—a monster. Which set his chest to thumping like it had bombs going off inside. For hovering right outside the window, as if just standing there on the air was some kind of hideous fish-headed and finned creature.

Was he losing his mind? It just hovered there, glowing all over like it was dipped in fluorescent paint. Shaking, he reached inside his desk drawer and grabbed for the pistol sitting there. But even as he got his hand around it, the Fishman raised his arm, and the entire glass window shattered into a million pieces, falling straight down to the ground far below where it slashed and splintered the two guards standing there into red burgers that dripped onto the sidewalk.

Vladymyr rose, so terrified he could hardly aim the pistol. But he did somehow and fired wildly. The monster Fishman came gliding right in through the shattered window, and though some of the slugs bounced off of it with little sparks, the thing didn’t stop for a second. Even as the scientist backed up to the wall and fired the last two rounds, he saw that another fish-thing was dropping into view and floating in behind the first. What the hell was going on? He’d only had a nip of vodka at dinner, not like some nights. The pressure, the pressure had driven him mad. He laughed, “Just hallucinating; just—”

But as the figure suddenly landed, coming down right in front of him on the carpeting, it spoke to him, Vladymyr knew he
wasn’t
going mad! He should be so lucky!

This thing was real. He could smell it, a plastic, electrical smell like the one that came from his computer when they were heated up as well. And even as he wondered if he was about to have a heart attack, so great did the constriction feel in his chest, the creature spoke.

“Dr. Kasinkovsk?” Its voice sounded muffled, like it was coming through a steel plate.

“Ye—yes,” Vladymyr answered, not even thinking of lying so blasted was his brain by the visitor.

“Good,” the fishface said almost pleasantly, and suddenly Vladymyr could see that there were human eyes moving inside the thing, that it wasn’t a real fish head, but a helmet of some kind. The whole greenish blue covering of the creature was a suit, not monster flesh! It reached out and grabbed him with a clawlike grip with it’s webbed glove around his shoulder.

“Come with us. You are wanted,” the voice said. And without another word it slammed a similar fish-headed helmet down over his head so that oxygen under pressure started coming out right away.

It turned, dragging the hapless Red scientist across the floor. As much as he struggled, Vladymyr couldn’t budge free, the grip, although not breaking bones, was as firm as if it were cemented to him. The thing walked to the window, then suddenly just lifted up off the floor, this time taking Vladymyr along with it. And if he had been frightened before, it was nothing compared to when he found himself floating straight up into the air at about five hundred miles an hour.

The whole city grew quickly smaller below, turning into a model train set, then an ant colony, Vladymyr knew for sure he was going to have a heart attack.

And he wasn’t the only Soviet scientist treated to a visit by fishmen from space. All over the Soviet Union, scientists needed up in the Nazi space wheel were being dragged screaming out windows, being lifted up into one or another Nazi space tugs!

Fourteen

I
f life can turn into a nightmare, then every one of the Freefighter strike force locked up inside the steel-walled refrigerator room was having one. It was one thing to go out fighting, or be struck by a bolt of lightning while traversing the Rocky Mountains—or many other possible ways of croaking. But
this
—this was something else entirely. Without a chance of final pride, of a feeling that one had done something good in this final moment of life. No, this was sick, foul, without the slightest trace of anything good to take into the next life.

“Rockson, we can’t die like this, we just can’t,” Detroit Green kept mumbling over and over. Not in fear, just infinite disgust. Some of the newer men in the team were whimpering, though no one said anything. The whiz kids, Rockson saw, were taking it all in stride. But then deep inside, they, more than anyone else believed that the Doomsday Warrior was going to get them out of this. Even if he didn’t believe it himself.

But it wasn’t Rock who was able to make the first real dent in the Vampyres imprisoning net-armor, though every man continued to struggle furiously within their sticky cocoons—it was Chen.

His Ultra-Vibration, Breath-of-the-Dragon breathing, after five hours, allowed him to at last get his arm and hand free of the entanglement as he was able to slide it fractions of an inch at a time up the side of his body and into his jacket. Here he was able to reach and grab hold of a small but razor-sharp blade secreted inside a lining. He felt an actual shudder of relief course through his whole body as his fingers touched the metal. It meant they might have a chance.

Still Chen didn’t say a word to the others, on the chance that he wouldn’t pull it off in time—and it was possible that the Vampyre women were somehow listening in on them. Though he didn’t think that was the case, as they had no reason to worry. As far as the blood drinkers were concerned, all the men here were already dead meat, cans of fresh red tomato juice up on the shelf ready to drink at the next meal.

Chen slid the knife into the cocoon netting as far around to the side as possible, so if someone came in they wouldn’t see him slicing. The net stuff wasn’t just sticky—it was tough. Tough as bark, probably from some sort of mutated plant covering nearby. The Chinese martial arts master had to give the vampire women credit for having used their environment to the hilt. He had to slice back and forth and had cut an opening about three feet long from shoulder to hip.

Then the door suddenly opened and two of the Vampyres walked in. And they wasted no time but walked straight over to none other than Chen. Of course, it always had to be like that. Never a break.

“This is him—#6,” one of them said, grabbing the tag around his neck and looking at it.

“Let us out, let us out,” a few of the strike force began to howl. Rockson felt no animosity toward them. They were new, many of them. This was no way to die. But then the ball game wasn’t over until the fat lady moved her adenoids, or something like that. Rock never could get that ancient colloquialism straight.

“Type O, R7 negative. Queenie’s favorite flavor,” one of them smirked to the other. Their lips pulled back, revealing the long sharp teeth at the edges of their mouths. They were like animals, not even able to control their bestial reactions at the sheer thought of drinking his blood. Even Chen, who had stared down giant land-roving octopi, felt fear from these yellow-eyed she-mutants. There was something so cold about them, reptilian almost, without a trace of the warmth that lies in the eyes of mammals. How the hell hadn’t he seen that under the make-up?

“You’re going to be our Queen’s Sacrificial Blood Drink. Your blood will be shared with the gods,” one of them said standing just inches in front of Chen, looking at him through the multistrands of webbing.

As the other one reached down and started to insert a hypo through the fibers, presumably to drug him for easy transport and control, like a cow being shipped to a Beefsteak Charlie’s, when there had been such places.

“I’m honored,” Chen said, as he sent out a sharp exhale of breath to prepare his whole body. It was now or never. With every bit of strength in his master’s flesh he ripped his leg up, pulling it free from the sticky substance that covered it. At the same time Chen slammed his arm out through the opening he had been able to cut. It was a tight squeeze, as both his right arm and leg pushed free, like antennas from a butterfly’s cocoon, sampling the air to see if it was time to come out yet.

Somehow, with incredible flexibility and skill, Chen was able to grab hold of the near Vampyre. He threw his arm around her neck while the martial arts expert’s leg snaked up and slammed around into the side of the second Vampyre, sending her and her hypo flying across the floor.

Some of the men started to cheer but Rock told them in an icy command to “Shut the fuck up.” or they might attract others.

The place went dead silent except for grunts of effort, as the life and death struggle continued before their eyes. With one arm Chen pulled the struggling and hissing Vampyre around so she was alongside him. She slammed her teeth into his arm and he let out with a muffled curse within the netting. He pulled his leg back, and holding her by the throat, slammed his knee up into the lower back. There was a sharp crunching sound like turkey bones being cracked, and when he pushed forward the she-creature dropped like a sack of potatoes, dead before she hit the ground.

But the second one was already getting up from the floor. The men around her, in their nets unable to move an inch, were frustrated beyond reason for they couldn’t do a fucking thing. And they watched with torn hearts for they knew that whatever happened in the next two or three seconds would determine the fate of every one of them.

Chen started trying to squeeze through the small opening but had only gotten halfway out when he saw the blood drinker coming at him. She was using the long hypo as a blade rushing at him like she was going to run it right through the center of his skull. Chen cursed in Chinese as he found himself stuck halfway in, halfway out of the nets, with one leg and one arm through the opening, but the rest of him still inside. Which was not exactly the best fighting position in the world to be in when facing a snarling vampire-mutant.

Still, he had trained all his life to fight with what he had, deal with each situation as it arose. That was what it was all about. He pulled back his arm and leg to get her suckered in closer to him. And it worked. Partially. For as she came charging in with the hypo, he threw the leg straight out again and caught her in mid-body. Still, she was fast like a cat, and managed to slam the needle right into the side of his calf as she started to spin out of the way.