David Robbins - Armageddon Run

“What could we possibly have to talk about?” the Doktor said arrogantly.

“Peace.”

The Doktor’s eyes seemed to blaze fire. “Do you take me for a buffoon, boy? Would you have me believe you traveled all this distance merely to converse with me concerning peace?”

“Yes.”

The Doktor fell silent, his features inscrutable.

No one else moved or spoke.

“I believe you, Joshua,” the Doktor said at last. “Very well. You shall be granted your opportunity to present your case.” He draped his right arm over Joshua’s slim shoulders and led him away from the others. When they were 20 feet from Clarissa and the rest, he stopped and crossed his arms, a slight grin tugging at the corners of his thin mouth. “Proceed.”

“Right here?” Joshua objected. “I was hoping we could relax, break bread together, and get to know one another.”

“Regrettably, Joshua, I am pressed for time. I must complete my business in Catlow promptly and travel to Denver to oversee the construction of my new headquarters.” The Doktor paused. “I assume you’re aware of what Lynx did in Cheyenne?”

“I know he destroyed your headquarters,” Joshua admitted. “It was called the Biological Center, wasn’t it?”

The Doktor frowned. “Yes. My life’s work. All of my equipment and notes. The labor of a century, gone.” He snapped his fingers. “Just like that! All thanks to Lynx and…” He stopped, as if he couldn’t recall the name he wanted.

“Yama,” Joshua finished for him.

“Yama, yes.” The Doktor grinned. “Thank you.”

“But you don’t need to continue on to Catlow,” Joshua mentioned.

“I don’t?”

“No. Turn back, now, before it’s too late. We can establish a truce, right here and now, and end all of this bloodshed and violence. Don’t you see?”

Joshua said, gesturing with enthusiasm. “The future is in your hands! War or peace, it’s all up to you. Armageddon or a millennium of tranquility.

Why should we continue to fight, when we could work together in harmony toward the betterment of both our peoples?”

“Tell me, Joshua,” the Doktor urged, “does Plato know you’re here?”

“No one does,” Joshua divulged. “I told you, I came alone.”

“Remarkable.”

“Plato wouldn’t have let me come,” Joshua said. “His paranoia would have gotten the better of him.”

“Plato isn’t too fond of me, is he?” the Doktor inquired.

“Plato believes you are his enemy,” Joshua elaborated. “He thinks the only way to deal with you is with brute force.”

“And what do you think of me?”

“I think of you the same as I do of all men and women,” Joshua stated.

“All of us are children of the Divine Creator. We are all brothers and sisters, in a spiritual sense. We must learn to love one another, or our world is doomed. Didn’t World War Three teach us anything? Here we are, on the verge of another war! When will we learn our lesson? How long must violence be the norm instead of brotherhood? Why can’t humankind see the light?”

The Doktor was staring off into space. “Do you really believe peace on earth is possible?”

“Of course!” Joshua exclaimed, excited, sensing victory. “All it takes is two people, two sides, two nations, whatever, reaching out in friendship, extending a helping hand to one another in place of mistrust and animosity.” He paused. “We could do it! The Family and the Civilized Zone! We could sign a peace treaty and end all this needless suffering and misery. Don’t you agree?”

The Doktor didn’t respond.

“Don’t you agree?” Joshua goaded him.

“No.” The Doktor sighed, a protracted, peculiarly sad sound, and faced Joshua. When he spoke his voice was softer, tinged with regret. “No, I don’t. While I admire your youthful idealism, and I honestly do, I find considerable fault with your wisdom. You see, Joshua, I was an idealist once. Decades ago. Over one hundred years ago, to be precise. I took a long, hard look at this paltry planet of ours, and I came to many of the same conclusions you did. I saw a world embroiled in petty conflicts, where hatred was the rule and greed the motivating factor in civilization—”

“We can change all that—” Joshua began.

The Doktor held up his left hand for silence. “I thought the same thing at your age. I wanted the nations of the world to desist with their foolish notions of national sovereignty. This is one planet and we all one people.

But I knew the various Governments would never willingly unite. So I reached one of the major decisions in my life. I decided to devote my recognized intellect to insuring that one nation could dominate all the others, thereby ending the ceaseless bickerings and wars for all time. My scientific genius was responsible for the regenerating chemical clouds and resultant mutates, as you call them. I—“

“What?” Joshua interrupted, astonished. “You’re responsible for the mutates?”

“Unintentionally,” the Doktor replied. “I was developing a new form of chemical warfare, a gaseous mixture capable of dissolving human tissue and bone. The acidic agents are specifically attracted to the human metabolism. Mutates result because the complicated chemical elements in the clouds do not leech successfully on animal metabolisms. Their physiology goes haywire instead. I never intended to use the gas in this country. Samuel the First insisted on doing so after the war, as a means of further disrupting outlying communities and distracting them from the business of restablishing a new Government.”

“You… unleashed… the clouds?”

“One of the least of my accomplishments,” the Doktor stated. “My masterpiece is my work in genetic engineering. I, and I alone, discovered the technique for editing the genetic instructions encoded in the chemical structure of molecules of DNA. My original purpose was to produce a master race of perfect humans.” He glanced behind him at the clustered creatures. “Obviously, I haven’t quite attained my goal, but I am close. At least, I was, until my laboratories were destroyed.” His features clouded.

Joshua could only gawk, stupefied.

“Nothing ever works out quite the way we expect it to, does it?” the Doktor went on. “Did I tell you I constructed the very first thermo? A potent, portable thermonuclear device. I was certain they would guarantee that we won the war. I was wrong.”

Joshua felt a chill creep into his body.

The Doktor looked at Joshua. “Do you have any idea how old I am?”

“Plato told me you are one hundred and twenty-seven years old,” Joshua answered.

“How does he know that?” the Doktor inquired in surprise.

“It’s all in your notebooks,” Joshua explained.

The Doktor’s eyes narrowed and his arms dropped to his sides. “Plato… has… my… notebooks?”

Joshua’s mouth suddenly went dry.

“A delightful bonus! I’ll have them back soon,” the Doktor cryptically stated. “Yes. I am one hundred and twenty-seven years old, thanks to my rejuvenation process. And do you know what my years of experience have taught me?”

Joshua shook his head.

“There is no God—”

“But there is!” Joshua protested.

The Doktor’s right hand lashed out and slapped Joshua across the face.

“Don’t interrupt me again!

God does not exist! Where are your brains, boy? Look around you. How could a loving God allow all the anguish and distress in this world to persist? How could a compassionate God permit us to know pain?”

“But God isn’t responsible—” Joshua began.

The Doktor backhanded him on the mouth. “I warned you! You mindless jackass! How can any sane person propose a brotherhood of humankind? Humans are cattle, boy! Nothing more, nothing less than dimwitted cattle. How can they see the light when the only motivation they appreciate is the crack of a sturdy whip? Why do you think I wanted one nation, our nation, to dominate the globe? Because I knew I would then be the one cracking the whip, or controlling those who did! Why do you think I influenced the leaders of our military-industrial complex to provoke the Soviets into initiating the war?”