“No,” Captain Yost said. “Every school child in Atlanta is taught about social values. That’s a saying we memorize.”
“So you… dispose of unproductive members of your society for the good of all the rest?” Blade inquired.
Captain Yost nodded. “Now you’ve got it.”
“How do you determine who is productive and who isn’t?”
“The Euthanasia Directorate determines the value of every person.”
Blade gazed at the seven monoliths, edifices now imbued with a sinister aura. “What about the other Directorates?”
“The Civil Directorate codifies and administers our Civil Rights,” Yost revealed. “The Ethics Directorate regulates morality and sex—”
“How do they regulate morality?” Blade interrupted.
“You know,” Captain Yost said. “They insure one group doesn’t try to force its morality on others.”
“Give me an example.”
“Back in the old days there were those who objected to sex between consenting adults of the same gender,” Yost detailed. “But today, anything goes. The personal rights of sexual partners are protected by the Ethics Directorate.”
“You place a lot of importance on your rights,” Blade noted.
“Civil Rights are everything to a civilized society,” Yost said. “Our rights define our freedom.”
“I didn’t think freedom required defining,” Blade observed.
“If you’d attended our schools, you would understand,” Captain Yost stated. He nodded at the monoliths. “The Community Directorate operates our mandatory daycare and schools. Abortions and birth control are under the jurisdiction of the Life Directorate. The Progress Directorate is devoted to science. And the Orientation Directorate makes sure everyone’s head is on straight.”
“They what?”
“They test everyone to guarantee each person has the right values,” Captain Yost replied. “The right outlook on life.”
“Who decides which values are the right ones?”
“The pyschologists at Orientation, of course.”
“Of course,” Blade said.
“Yes, sir,” Captain Yost declared happily. “I’m very fortunate to be living here. You might consider doing the same.”
“Outsiders are allowed to live in Atlanta?” Blade asked.
Captain Yost nodded. “After a three-month indoctrination course, you’d fit right in.”
“Where would I take this course?”
“At Orientation. Actually, you’d live there the whole three months.
When they got through with you, you’d be a new person.”
“I bet I would,” Blade concurred. The more he discovered, the more alarmed he became. The citizens of Atlanta were manipulated like puppets, brainwashed into accepting a social philosophy and compelled to live their lives subject to the Directorates. The seven heads of the Directorates, the Peers, wielded total power over the populace. He had encountered dictatorships before, but never a system like Atlanta’s. The dictator wasn’t a single person; the tyrant was a system of rights stipulated by a select few.
“One day, our government will serve as the model for the government of the world,” Captain Yost boasted.
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope,” Yost responded. “Other cities will naturally follow our example once the word gets around.”
Blade almost laughed. There was a mind-boggling thought! “How did all of this come about?”
“I’m a bit rusty on my history,” Captain Yost said. “But I know it started a few years after the war. The federal and state governments had collapsed. There was a shortage of food, clothing, and fuel. The people were desperate. That’s when Dewey appeared.”
“Who was he?”
“An intellectual. Before the war he was a professor at a university. He organized the survivors and wrote Atlanta’s constitution. He was responsible for overseeing the construction of the wall to protect the citizens from the looters and the mutants.” Captain Yost paused. “Dewey was the greatest man who ever lived.”
“Did he set up the Directorates?” Blade probed.
“Yeah.”
They were entering a commercial district. The pedestrian traffic was much heavier, and light vehicle traffic had materialized.
“There aren’t a lot of cars and trucks on the road,” Blade pointed out.
“Cars and trucks are a luxury very few can afford,” Captain Yost said.
“Most are operated by government employees.”
“Do you manufacture everything the city needs?” Blade asked.
“Most of it,” Yost disclosed. “We mint our money, grow most of our food, and produce the clothes on our backs. We’ve established trade relations with several other cities.”
“Which ones?”
Captain Yost ignored the query. He turned left, heading along a narrow street.
Blade looked back. Glisson was walking between two of the troopers, his features downcast. The pedestrians all studiously minded their own business; not one gave the patrol any attention.
“So who are you searching for in Atlanta?” Captain Yost inquired.
“I was told that a cousin of mine, Llewellyn Snow, lives here,” Blade lied. “I hoped I can find her.”
“You don’t know her address?”
“No,” Blade said.
“The Central Directory in the Civil Directorate should be able to help you,” Captain Yost commented. “Your Escort will assist you in using the Directory.”
Blade heard the sound of an engine coming from above him and to the left. He glanced skyward and spotted another plane, a different model than the one the Warriors had seen previously. “Does Atlanta have an airport?”
“Sure does,” Yost confirmed. “The Peers and other executive types use them on a regular basis.”
“Where do they fly?”
“Oh, here and there.”
Blade received the distinct impression the officer was being evasive when it came to the subject of possible trade and diplomatic contacts.
Again, why? Was the information a secret?
The first monolith towered over the structures directly ahead. The seven Directorates were arranged in a line from north to south along a broad boulevard.
“That’s the Community Directorate,” Captain Yost divulged. “Then comes Euthanasia and Civil.”
Blade gazed at the nearest structure. People were coming and going through a half-dozen glass doors, bustling about their business.
Ninety-eight percent of the citizens wore jumpsuits. The rest were either police or men and women in red suits. “Why does almost everyone wear jumpsuits?” he asked.
“For identification purposes,” Captain Yost replied.
“How do you mean?”
“The practice was started after the war when there was a shortage of clothing,” Yost detailed. “Each person was allotted a few uniforms and that was it. Dewey instituted the custom of having the uniforms color coded according to trade or profession. For instance, anyone wearing a brown uniform is in a manual-labor field. Green uniforms denote lower-level Admin types, like file clerks or accountants or secretaries.
Light blue is for middle-management positions.”
“What about the red suits?” Blade inquired.
“Upper echelon.”
“How convenient,” Blade remarked. “I even saw children wearing jumpsuits.”
“Everyone must wear the color of their class,” Captain Yost said. “It’s illegal to do otherwise.”
“The people don’t mind?”
Yost seemed surprised by the question. “Why should they mind? Our system is logical and effective. Everyone knows their place, and there’s a place for everyone.”
They passed the first monolith, headed for the second.
“Give me a break, Yost,” Glisson spoke up. “Why don’t you let me go?
I’ll never return to Atlanta. My word on it.”
Captain Yost lau
ghed. “Do you think I’m an idiot? I wouldn’t trust you as far as I could throw you.”
“Please. Let me go.”
“I can’t,” Captain Yost said. “You know that. You’ve made your bed.
Now lie in it.”
“I don’t want to die!” Glisson cried.
“Everyone dies sooner or later,” Captain Yost philosophized. “Death is inevitable.”
“Can’t you spare him?” Blade interjected.
Captain Yost shook his head. “I have my responsibility to the citizens of Atlanta. And the Civil Council has made it clear that social parasites must be eradicated.”
Blade stared at the glass doors to the Euthanasia Directorate, not more than 40 yards off. What should he do? Allow the police to stick Glisson in a Sleeper Chamber? If he intervened on the hobo’s behalf, what would the police do? Finding Llewellyn Snow was his main priority. Trying to rescue Glisson would only jeopardize his task and his life.
But what other choice did he have?
“How many travelers have you disposed of this way?” Blade queried, calculating the distance to the doors and studying his surroundings.
“I thought you understood,” Captain Yost said. “We only dispose of bums like Glisson.”
Blade looked at the officer and smiled. “Thank you.”
Captain Yost paused. “For what?”
“For making my mind up for me,” Blade said, and struck.
Chapter Eight
“Where the blazes are those cow chips?”
“What’s a cow chip?”
Hickok glanced at Chastity. “Never you mind, missy.” He faced the metropolis, surveying the highway. A stand of trees and brush obstructed his view of Blade. He’d seen his friend reach the road and head for the city, and he’d expected Rikki to intercept Blade before the giant had gone very far. But Blade had proceeded for hundreds of yards, with Hickok keeping his eyes glued to his sidekick every step of the way until the vegetation blocked his view. “Rikki should have caught up with Blade by now,” he commented.
“He didn’t,” Chastity said.
“How do you know?”
“Because there’s Blade,” Chastity stated, pointing at the wall.
Hickok swiveled, recognizing, even at such a distance, Blade’s unmistakable form near a gate. Figures in blue were visible. “Blast!”
“What’s wrong?” Chastity inquired.
“Rikki was supposed to stop Blade,” Hickok said. “What went wrong?”
“I don’t know. What do we do now?”
The gunman looked at the child, then at the city. Blade was entering Atlanta, escorted by troopers!
“Do we stay here?” Chastity questioned.
“I need to chew this over a bit,” Hickok said.
Chastity’s forehead creased and she gazed at his hands. “I don’t see any food.”
“I didn’t mean food.”
“Do you have candy?” Chastity asked hopefully.
“Nope.”
“Then what are you going to chew?”
Hickok sighed and patted her head. “You’re lucky that you weren’t born a cat.”
“Why?”
“Never mind.”
“Do you know something?” Chastity queried.
“What?”
“Sometimes you say the weirdest things.”
“Hush,” Hickok told her. “I’m tryin’ to think.” He scratched his chin and stroked his mustache, debating his options. His initial impulse was to go into Atlanta after Blade, but he would need to tote the girl, risking her capture or worse. He could stay put until Blade and Rikki returned, but he didn’t cotton to the notion of twiddling his thumbs when his buddies might be in trouble. Or he could search for Rikki. He decided the third course was best. “Come on,” he directed, rising.
Chastity stood. “Where are you taking me?”
“We need to find Rikki,” Hickok said.
“Is he lost?”
“Either that or taking a nature break.”
Chastity cocked her head to the left. “What’s a nature break?”
“Never mind.”
“You sure say that a lot.”
“Walk right behind me,” Hickok instructed her. “Be as quiet as you can.”
“Like a little mouse?”
Hickok nodded, grinning. “Like a mouse.” He slung Blade’s M-16 over his right shoulder, insured the Uzi was snug under his left arm, and loosened the Pythons in their holsters.
“I can carry one of your guns,” Chastity offered.
“No thanks.”
“Aren’t they heavy?”
“No.”
“Then why can’t I carry one?”
“Because I don’t want you shootin’ yourself in the foot,” Hickok said.
“I won’t shoot it. I promise.”
“No.”
“You’re no fun,” Chastity declared.
“My missus says the same thing.” Hickok walked into the undergrowth, alert for anything out of the ordinary. Rikki’s absence confounded him.
The Family’s supreme martial artist was capable of handling any foe,and taking Rikki unawares was next to impossible. So where the dickens was he?
“Where is your family?” Chastity inquired.
“Hush up.”
“You’re not being nice.”
Hickok halted and looked back. “We can’t make any noise, Chastity.
There are a lot of bad things in the forest. We must be very careful.”
Her eyes widened as he gazed at high weeds to the right. “Do you mean more icky things?”
Hickok nodded.
“I’ll be quiet,” Chastity promised.
The Warrior turned and resumed his hunt, his hands resting on his Colts. There wasn’t a clear path in sight, and he had no way of knowing the exact direction Rikki had taken toward the highway. He skirted a tree and threaded through a cluster of bushes, constantly checking on Chastity.
Her fright was transparent, and she repeatedly bumped into his legs as she tried to stick close to him.
Birds were chirping in a tree to the left.
Hickok became increasingly annoyed the farther they traveled. The forest had swallowed Rikki-Tikki-Tavi without a trace. He reached a clearing and stopped, his blue eyes narrowing as his gaze fixed on the great hole in the center.
“What’s that?” Chastity whispered anxiously.
“A trap,” Hickok answered, then advanced. He moved to the rim of the pit and examined the caved-in covering. Someone had done a dandy job of camouflaging the affair. With Rikki in a hurry to reach Blade, the martial artist might not have noticed until too late.
“Did Rikki fall in?”
“Maybe,” Hickok replied, stepping around the pit, inspecting the ground. He found scuff marks on the far side and partial footprints leading to the east. The bottom of the pit did not contain spikes or stakes, and there was no evidence of blood. Rikki must still be alive!
“Hickok.”
“Not now.”
“It’s important.”
The gunman stared at the girl. “What could be so danged important?”
“I have to tinkle.”
“What?”
“I have to tinkle.”
“You have to go to the bathroom?”
Chastity nodded sheepishly.
“Now?”
“I’m sorry,” Chastity said.
“Don’t be sorry,” Hickok declared. “When you have to go, you have to go. So go.”
“Will you watch me?”
Hickok motioned at the trees. “A lady doesn’t let a man watch her tinkle.”
Chastity looked at the woods. “An icky thing could get me.”
“I’ll stand guard,” Hickok offered. “You can go behind one of the trees.”
“You won’t let an icky thing get me?”
“I said I’d stand guard,” Hickok reiterated, leading her to the trees to the south. “Now get to it.”
Chastity nervously wa
lked around the wide trunk of a lofty maple tree.
Hickok leaned against the trunk and impatiently waited for her to finish. He watched the tops of the trees rustle and saw a flock of sparrows winging to the west.
Several minutes elasped.
“Are you done?” Hickok demanded.
Chastity did not respond.
The Warrior straightened and turned. “Are you done, little one?”
“Yes,” she replied, but whispering so softly the word was barely audible.
“Speak up,” Hickok said.
“I can’t,” Chastity whispered.
“Why not?”
“The thing might get mad.”
“What thing?” Hickok asked, hastening to her aid, taking four strides and freezing in midstep, his hands on his Pythons, his skin prickling.
“Don’t move!”
“I won’t,” Chastity said softly.
And well she shouldn’t. The slightest move could cause the creature ten feet away to launch itself at her. The thing was a mutant, a hideous beast with a squat torso and long, thin arms and legs. Shaggy brown hair covered its form. An oversized head rested on sloping shoulders. Above a slit of a mouth and a flat nose were baleful black eyes, fixed on the girl.
Hickok had never seen anything like it. The creature somewhat resembled photographs of apes in the Family library, but he was at a loss to explain the presence of apes in Georgia—unless several had escaped a zoo or circus during the Big Blast and their progeny had survived. The thing vaguely reminded him of a chimpanzee, but a monstrous, deformed caricature of the breed.
The beast growled, its lips stretching to reveal nasty, tapered teeth.
“Hickok,” Chastity said, sounding extremely scared.
“Don’t move!” Hickok advised.
But she did.
The creature growled again and took a lumbering pace forward, its arms reaching out.
Chastity screamed and bolted, dashing past the Warrior, fleeing into the clearing.
With a feral snarl, the mutant gave chase, astoundingly swift for such an ungainly animal. Relishing the prospect of a fresh meal, slavering at the mouth, the thing was not inclined to tolerate any interlopers.
Hickok’s Pythons were sweeping free of their holsters when the mutant slammed into him.
Chapter Nine
“I won’t ask twice,” said the man with the red hair when Rikki balked at releasing his sword. “I saw how you took care of Big John and Dale, so I know you’re skillful. One of the best I’ve ever seen. But you’re no match for thirty-seven archers, and killing you would be a waste. Why don’t you put your sword down and we’ll talk?”
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