Blade whipped his Bowies from their sheaths and backed up. “There’s one thing I don’t understand,” he said, stalling, biding time until he could devise a scheme to dispose of the android.
“Just one thing?” Parmalee rejoined.
“I didn’t know there were female androids,” Blade mentioned. “All I saw in Androxia were male androids.”
Parmalee smiled proudly. “I am the first of a new breed of Superior.
Not only are my external features female in aspect, but I have been endowed with a wider range of human characteristics than my predecessors. I make the perfect spy. And once I have proven myself in the field, Primator intends to manufacture thousands more like me.”
“But Primator was terminated,” Blade said.
Parmalee grinned. “Did you really believe Primator was slain by a lowly human?”
Blade straightened. “Primator is alive?”
“And he sends his regards,” Parmalee declared maliciously.
“Then the hiring of the Gild wasn’t merely to try and ruin the Freedom Federation,” Blade deduced. “It was personal. Primator wants revenge!”
Parmalee nodded. “Finally you see the light! Preventing California from joining the Freedom Federation was a secondary goal. Eliminating the leaders was also incidental. Primator wants retribution. Employing the Gild was a means to an end.” She paused. “I’m under orders not to jeopardize my clandestine status. But I was given definite instructions in case a situation like this should arise. If the opportunity arose to achieve Primator’s revenge without risk of apprehension, I was directed to use my personal discretion. And guess what?”
Blade’s fingers tightened on the Bowies. He expected the android to assail him and he wasn’t disappointed.
Parmalee executed a flying tackle, her shoulders driving into the giant’s midsection as her arms wrapped around his waist.
Blade was knocked backward, staggered by the android’s super-human might, stumbling and falling onto his back with her on top bestriding his chest.
Parmalee lunged, attempting to pin the Warrior’s arms to the floor.
Blade arced his right Bowie up and in, sinking the ten-inch blade into the android’s chest between the breasts.
Parmalee looked at the Bowie, then backhanded the Warrior across the mouth, stunning him and dislodging his right hand from the Bowie hilt.
She slowly stood and stepped backward. “We won’t be needing this anymore,” she announced, her right hand effortlessly pulling the Bowie from her body.
Blade rolled onto his feet, squatting, his leg muscles tensing for a spring.
Parmalee tossed the right Bowie aside.
Blade performed a tackle of his own, bearing the android to the floor, the tip of his left Bowie tearing into her abdomen. He clasped the hilt with both hands and surged, cleaving a six-inch gash in her belly and ripping her clothes.
Parmalee laughed, then rammed her right knee into the small of the Warrior’s broad back, propelling him forward where she could fasten her fingers onto his throat.
Blade rose unsteadily, hampered by the android clinging to his neck. He wrenched on the left Bowie, cutting her open some more, a colorless liquid spurting from her ruptured abdomen and covering his hands and forearms. And still Parmalee clung to him, her nails digging into his throat, beginning to constrict his breathing. He was forced to release the Bowie and hammer at her with his pile-driver fists, pounding her face again and again and again. Her nose was crushed by one of his blows, flattening into a pulpy mass. He battered her mouth and her chin, splitting her lips, but his onslaught was unavailing. She simply dug her fingers in deeper. It felt like his neck was being pried apart.
Parmalee tried to kick the Warrior in the crotch.
Blade twisted, avoiding her foot. He grabbed her wrists and endeavored to pull her hands from his throat, his massive muscles bulging with his herculean effort, the veins on his temples protruding. But the android clung to him like a leech, slowly but surely strangling him.
He had to do something!
The gleam of a metallic object on the floor drew his attention, something lying near Hickok’s leg.
One of the Pythons!
His breaths coming in ragged gasps, feeling as if his throat was about to be crushed at any second, in desperation he deliberately plowed into Parmalee and sent both of them toppling to the carpet with the android on the bottom. He had to act before Parmalee or the mutant guessed his intent! The android was smiling.
The Python was inches from his left hand.
Blade scooped up the Colt, jammed the barrel into Parmalee’s open mouth, all the way, and squeezed the trigger twice in succession.
The android’s eyes enlarged in bewilderment. Parmalee went rigid for an instant, and then shoved the Warrior from her. She sat up, vigorously shaking her head.
Blade was to the android’s right, on his hands and knees, the Python in his left hand. He saw fluid flowing from under her hair, spreading over her shoulders, and he raised the Colt for another shot.
There was a slight sound to the rear, and the Warrior was delivered a brutal smash to the rear of his head.
Blade collapsed, sagging to the floor, almost unconscious, releasing the Python from his numb fingers. He realized the mutant must have clobbered him with the rifle butt, and he expected to receive a shot to the brain to finish him off. Instead, a hand gripped his right shoulder and he was savagely flipped over onto his back.
The mutant was glaring at the Warrior. He slowly began to aim the Darter.
Blade understood. Nightshade wanted him to see his demise, wanted to instill terror in his victim. But the plan backfired. Instead of feeling fright, Blade became enraged. He thought of all the bodies he’d seen in the lobby, all the needless deaths the assassins had caused, all the misery the murderers had perpetrated to satisfy the retributive craving of a vile dictator, and his fury mounted, lending strength to his limbs and clarity to his vision.
Nightshade was sneering in triumph when the Warrior’s right boot lashed out and caught him in the left knee. There was a pop, and the mutant’s leg buckled. He snapped off a shot, but the explosive dart missed the Warrior’s head and detonated in the carpet several inches to the right.
Blade kicked with both boots, catching the mutant’s right leg below the knee, and Nightshade tottered backward and fell onto his back. Blade was up and bounding forward before the mutant could recover. Nightshade was just scrambling to his knees when the Warrior delivered a kick to the mutant’s chin, toppling Nightshade over and sending the rifle flying. Blade closed in, assuming the mutant was down for the count. But he underestimated his foe.
Nightshade, on his right side, his left leg out of commission with a busted kneecap, rolled to the left and struck at the Warrior with his right foot. Blade easily sidestepped, but in so doing he came within reach of Nightshade’s arms, and Nightshade reached out and seized the Warrior’s ankles and yanked.
Blade felt his feet slip out from under him, and then he was on the floor next to the mutant. The two of them exchanged a flurry of hand blows, neither very effective because of their awkward positions. Blade punched Nightshade on the jaw, rocking the mutant, but Nightshade immediately countered with an excruciating blow to Blade’s abdomen.
Nightshade tried to apply pressure to Blade’s throat, to finish the job Parmalee had started, but the Warrior knocked his arms aside.
Blade was rapidly tiring. The strain of the combat with the android and the rifle butt to the head were taking their toll. His reflexes became sluggish, and he was able to ward off fewer and fewer of the mutant’s strikes.
Nightshade sensed his advantage and pressed it, grappling with the Warrior and succeeding in butting his forehead into Blade’s chin. The Warrior was momentarily stunned, and Nightshade used those precious seconds to scramble erect on his good leg and hobble toward the Darter lying a few feet away.
“No you don’t, gruesome!”
Nightshade turned at t
he sound of the stern command, and there was the gunfighter, Hickok, with his revolvers in his hands and a fierce expression on his face. Nightshade froze.
“How’d you do it?” Hickok asked.
Nightshade had no idea what the Warrior was talking about.
“You took four shots to the chest at close range,” Hickok said. “How come you’re still alive?”
Nightshade glanced at the Darter, measuring the distance.
“Don’t even think it!” Hickok warned. “Now answer me! How come you’re still alive?”
Nightshade tapped his shirt.
“What?” Hickok queried.
The assassin unbuttoned two of his shirt buttons and tugged the fabric aside, exposing the garment underneath.
Hickok’s reaction was mystifying to the mutant. The gunman did a double take, then laughed. “A bulletproof vest! You were all wearing bulletproof vests!”
Nightshade nodded.
“Then that’s why that joker on the terminal roof didn’t go down!”
Hickok said, sounding relieved. “I didn’t miss!”
Nightshade, puzzled, remained immobile.
“Thanks,” Hickok declared. “I needed that.” He paused. “I’m not about to plug you when you’re unarmed. Unlike you, I don’t kill unless it’s necessary. I’ll give you the chance you never would have given me.”
To Nightshade’s amazement, the gunman bolstered his Colts.
“It’s your move,” Hickok said.
And move he did, with all the speed in his mutant frame. Nightshade dove for the Darter and whirled, stupefied to find the Warrior hadn’t even moved. The gunfighter’s hands were still by his sides!
But not for long. Hickok saw the look on Nightshade’s face, saw the mutant believed he’d won. His arms a blur, Hickok punctuated the assassin’s delusions with twin blasts from his Pythons.
Nightshade’s head jerked backward and he was thrown onto his back by the force of the slugs. He convulsed for a moment, then was still.
Blade was slowly rising to his feet. “Thanks,” he said. “I owe you.”
“You don’t owe me diddly,” Hickok responded. “What are friends for?”
A female voice tittered. “Friends are friends and mares are does and mastodons eat poison ivy!”
Hickok swiveled to the left.
Melissa Parmalee was sitting on the floor with a remarkably stupid expression on her wreck of a face.
“What the heck!” Hickok exclaimed.
“She’s an android,” Blade informed him.
“An android?” Hickok stepped up to her and leaned down, studying her features.
Parmalee giggled. “Two and two is nine, and fifty and four decades make a stitch in time.” She applauded her poetry.
“What the blazes is she babbling about?” Hickok asked.
“Her circuits are damaged,” Blade explained. “I shot her in the head.”
Parmalee beamed at Hickok. “Jack and Jill went up the hill to fetch a pail of water. Nine months later, wouldn’t you know, Jill had a daughter!”
She laughed uproariously.
“Shut her up,” Blade ordered.
Hickok pressed the Python barrels to her eyes and squeezed the triggers.
Epilogue
Blade stood on the sidewalk outside the front entrance to the hotel, enjoying the warmth of the afternoon sun on his body. He ached all over, and swallowing was an exercise in the finer art of torture. His mind reviewed the aftermath of the assassination attempt, and he frowned.
Forty-three deaths! The toll was staggering! He thought of the ones he’d known, of Lone Bear and Red Cloud, of the Mole and Brother Timothy.
And Hamlin! How could he forget Hamlin? All killed in the performance of their duty. All slain needlessly, casualties of humankind’s seemingly endless thirst for blood and destruction. How long would it take? he wondered. How many centuries of warfare? How many horrors would be unleashed before the people of the earth awoke to the insanity of it all?
How long before there really was peace on earth and goodwill in the hearts of all men and women?
At the rate the human race was going, maybe never!
There were footsteps behind him and he turned.
Plato intently scrutinized the Warrior as he approached. “How are you feeling?” he inquired.
“I’ll survive,” Blade said.
“You know why I’m here,” Plato stated.
Blade nodded. “They want to know my decision.”
“Have you decided?” Plato asked.
Blade sighed and gazed heavenward. They were on the west side of the hotel. Far off, winging in the direction of the Pacific Ocean, was a flock of white birds. Gulls?
“If you don’t want to do it, I will understand,” Plato commented. “I wouldn’t force you to do anything you disliked.”
“You’re not forcing me at all,” Blade said. “And until last night, until the assassins attacked, I was ready to tell the Federation leaders to take a high dive off a low cliff. Tactfully, of course.”
“Of course,” Plato grinned.
“But then I got to thinking about the attack,” Blade mentioned. “About all the lives lost. And I can’t seem to stop thinking about it.”
“You’ve seen death before,” Plato remarked.
“Many times,” Blade acknowledged. “But this was different.”
“How so?”
“This episode made me realize something,” Blade said. “It made me see a fact I’ve been avoiding for years. The Family Elders have taught us to strive for spiritual mastery in our lives. Whether we’re Warriors, or Tillers, or Weavers, or whatever, we’re inspired to aspire to ideals of truth and brotherhood. And within the limited confines of the Home this relative perfection is attainable. But once we’re outside the Home, forget it! It’s dog eat dog. The survival of the fittest. As head Warrior, my responsibility has been to make damn sure the violence outside hasn’t spread inside.”
“You have discharged your responsibility superbly,” Plato said, complimenting him.
“I guess,” Blade stated. “But I’ve overlooked an important fact.”
“Which is?”
Blade stared at Plato. “As long as there is violence outside the Home, as long as there are degenerates and defectives and killers of every stripe out there, we will constantly be confronted with violence inside the Home.”
“That should be obvious,” Plato remarked.
“It was and it wasn’t,” Blade said. “Every time the Home was in danger, or every time I went on a run to St. Louis, or New York City, or Philadelphia, or wherever, I kept telling myself that each incident, each trip, would be the last. I deluded myself into believing the Family would never be threatened again if I could eliminate the latest menace. I hated those runs, Plato. I hated being away from the Family, from my wife and son. I would always fool myself into believing each run was the final one.”
He laughed. “What an idiot!”
“You’re being too hard on yourself,” Plato opined.
“No, I’m not,” Blade said, disagreeing. “Oh, intellectually I might have seen the truth, but I never felt it in my heart. I would never admit there would always be violence. Always. Until all the power-mongers, the fanatics, and the psychopaths are eradicated from the entire planet, the Home will never be safe. The Family will face peril after peril.”
“How does this relate to your decision?” Plato queried.
“Maybe it’s time I took a look at the broader picture,” Blade replied.
“Maybe it’s time I stopped being so selfish, thinking only of the Home. As Melnick mentioned, there are threats within the Federation we must deal with. And there are a lot of people in the Outlands and elsewhere who need our help. This Freedom Force Melnick has proposed could mean the difference between life and death for those unable to protect themselves.”
“Does this mean what I think it means?” Plato asked.
Blade nodded. “I’ve decided to accept.
Let Melnick and the others know.
I will head the Freedom Force. I’ll persuade Jenny to move to L.A. But I want one thing clearly understood.”
“What?”
“I will run the Freedom Force my way,” Blade stated. “I will select the ones under me. And I will have veto power over every mission. If Melnick and the rest can’t accept my conditions, then they can forget it.”
“They will accept,” Plato said.
Blade glanced over Plato’s shoulder and saw Hickok emerge from the hotel and walk toward them.
Plato turned. “Ahhh. Nathan is coming. I will convey your decision to the Federation leaders.” He hurried off.
Blade saw Hickok and Plato exchange a few words, and then the gunman strolled over to him.
“Howdy, pard.”
“Did you find any trace of him?” Blade questioned.
“Nary a whisker,” Hickok answered. “Kraken has flown the coop. The Army is scourin’ the amusement park, but they won’t find him.”
“We’ll run into him again,” Blade said. “I feel it in my bones.”
“I reckon,” Hickok remarked in a melancholy manner.
“What’s wrong with you?” Blade asked.
Hickok looked into Blade’s eyes. “Plato told me you’ve decided to take Melnick up on his offer.”
Blade pursed his lips. “I’ve got to do it. You see that, don’t you?”
“The Home won’t be the same without you,” Hickok commented.
“I’ll only be gone for a year,” Blade said.
“Yeah. Just a year,” Hickok repeated, clearly depressed.
“I’ll come to visit periodically,” Blade stated. “It’s not like I’m leaving forever.”
Hickok averted his eyes and cleared his throat. “I hope Plato doesn’t get all bent out of shape over your leavin’. You know how blamed wishy-washy he can be.”
Blade grinned. “I know.”
Hickok casually surveyed their immediate vicinity, insuring no one was watching.
Blade was about to head for the hotel when the gunman suddenly stepped forward and embraced him in a fleeting bear hug, then just as quickly stepped back, his thumbs hooked in his gunbelt.
Anaheim Run Page 19
