Boston Run

by David Robbins

  He remembered!

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Warrior sensed another presence.

  He sat in the lotus position on a knoll in the pristine eastern section of the Home, the portion preserved in its natural state, and meditated on the path of the perfected swordmaster. His brown eyes were closed, his hands on his knees. In his lap was his prized katana. His shirt, pants, and shoes, sewn together by the Family Weavers and patterned after martial arts uniforms he'd seen in books in the Family Library, were black.

  Yes, he decided after several seconds, keeping his eyes closed so as not to alert whoever—or whatever—was watching him, there definitely was another presence nearby. But how could it be? Few were the creatures that could get close to him undetected. As a perfected swordsman, he had diligently sharpened his physical senses to a superlative degree. In addition, his sixth sense, the instinctive faculty every Warrior possessed to a greater or lesser degree, invariably flared if danger threatened.

  What could possibly elude detection?

  Ever so slowly the Warrior inched his right hand to the hilt of his katana.

  "Whoa, there, chuckles! Don't do anything I'll regret!"

  The diminutive Warrior opened his eyes and smiled at the hybrid standing six feet away. "To what do I owe this honor. Lynx?"

  The cat-man advanced and sat down in front of the swordsman. "Sorry to interrupt your thinkin', but I wanted to talk to you, Rikki."

  Rikki-Tikki-Tavi released the katana and eyed the mutation speculatively. "Obviously."

  Lynx gazed up at the sky, then at the east wall of the Home visible through the trees rimming the knoll. "Nice spot. Do you come here often?"

  "On a daily basis when feasible," Rikki said. "This is my favorite spot for communing with the Spirit."

  Lynx coughed. "Yeah, well, I never did put much stock in all that spirit jazz. I was created in a test tube. What do I do? Worship glass?"

  Rikki grinned. "Each of us must find our own path."

  "Have you found yours?"

  "Yes. I'm a Warrior."

  "So am I. Which is what I'd like to talk about. I've got a gripe."

  "Then you should wait until Blade returns and lodge your complaint with him," Rikki advised.

  " If he returns, I will," Lynx said. "But before I do, I want to get you on my side."

  "I thought we're all on the same side."

  "Don't go gettin' philosophical with me. I looked you up because I figured you could help us with our problem."

  "Us?"

  "Gremlin, Ferret, and me."

  "Do they share your complaint?" Rikki asked.

  "You bet," Lynx assured him. "They're with me one hundred percent."

  "Where are they now? I thought the three of you were inseparable,"

  Rikki commented.

  "We are. But we, uh, decided that just one of us should talk to you, and here I am."

  "What's bothering you?"

  Lynx pointed at the katana. "You get to use your toothpick a lot, don't you?"

  Rikki placed his right hand on the smooth scabbard. "I practice daily.

  As a Warrior I can't permit my skills to atrophy. My life, and the lives of those for whom I care, depend on my expertise."

  "That wasn't quite what I meant. Sure, you practice a lot, but you also get to use your sword, your skills, in combat. You've been on a lot or runs with Blade and the others."

  "What's your point?"

  Lynx looked down at the grass and grinned slyly, then stared at the Family's consummate martial artist with a straight face. "My point is that your skills don't atrophy because you have the chance to use them.

  Practice is fine, but all the practice in the world ain't about to replace the real thing. There's no substitute for actual combat. We're Warriors. We kick butt for a livin'. And if we're not given the chance, we can get sloppy."

  "True," Rikki said, and smiled. "I had no idea the spirit of the samurai animates your soul."

  "Huh?"

  "I had no idea you were so devoted to our craft."

  "Yeah, well, I've got all kinds of devotion. Just because I'm covered with fur and have pointy teeth and claws doesn't mean I'm not a person. I have feelings, too, you know."

  "I meant no insult," Rikki said.

  "None taken, pal. Now will you help us out or not?"

  "You still haven't told me how I can be of service," Rikki reminded the cat-man.

  "Oh. Well, it's like this. Gremlin, Ferret, and me haven't seen much action lately. Hell, I haven't wasted any chumps since Houston. We're overdue," Lynx elaborated. "We need to get out in the field to keep ourselves in fighting trim."

  Rikki-Tikki-Tavi reflected for a moment. As a man who had spent most of his life honing his skills at dispensing death, he could relate to Lynx's complaint. For a Warrior inactivity was the bane of existence. Inactivity bred complacency, complacency bred boredom, and boredom bred diffidence. Such a state of affairs could well prove fatal to those who lived by the keenness of their wits and the quickness of their sinews. "You have a valid point. How may I help?"

  "You can talk to Blade for us."

  "In what respect?"

  "Gremlin, Ferret, and me want to go on the next run," Lynx stated.

  Rikki pursed his lips, then replied, "I don't know if I can be of any aid."

  "Why not?"

  "Blade decides who will go on the runs. He has the last, the only word on the matter. A few times he's drawn straws to determine who would go on particularly dangerous missions. I doubt whether I can convince him to take you," Rikki said.

  "I'm not askin' you to convince Blade. All I want you to do is put in a good word for us," Lynx clarified. "No problem."

  Lynx leaned forward excitedly. "All you have to do is point out that a few of the Warriors haven't been on runs yet. Gremlin, Ferret, and me ain't the only ones. It's only fair that we all should go, isn't it?"

  "I see no reason why you shouldn't," Rikki said.

  "Good. If I can ever do a favor for you, all you have to do is ask."

  "That won't be necessary."

  "I pay my debts," Lynx declared, then glanced around to ensure they were alone. "There is one more thing you could do, if you don't mind."

  Rikki's eyes narrowed. "What?"

  "When you bring up the subject to Blade, don't tell him I asked you to do it."

  "Why not?"

  Lynx gestured, bending his arms and holding his hands palms outward.

  "You know how the Big Dummy is. He's liable to accuse me of stickin' my big nose in where it doesn't belong."

  "Blade is a fair man. He'd understand your feelings."

  "Yeah. Maybe. But why rock the boat? Just casually mention your opinion that the Warriors who haven't been on runs should get to go and leave it at that."

  "As you wish."

  "Terrific!" Lynx said happily. He took hold of Rikki's right hand and pumped vigorously. "We can never thank you enough. Gremlin, Ferret, and me will pay you back, somehow."

  "There's no need," Rikki responded.

  "Hey, what are buddies for?" Lynx asked, and rose. "I'll let you go back to your thinkin'." He started to the west and gave a little wave of his left hand. "Thanks again."

  "Be seeing you."

  Lynx walked down the knoll and entered the woods below. The instant he was out of the martial artist's sight, he rubbed his hands together and snickered in triumph. His plan was working like a charm! Gremlin and Ferret were going to go on a mission with him whether they liked the idea or not. He intended to insure Blade got the message. Let's see, he mentally noted. So far he had talked to Yama, Bertha, and Sundance. Who should he make his pitch to next? He came to a clearing and glanced to the north, and far off he saw a powerfully built Warrior attired in a camouflage outfit walking along the northern rampart. The Warrior's brown hair fell to the small of his broad back.

  Lynx chuckled.

  Ahhhhhh, yes. Samson.

  Chapter Fifteen

  He remembered!<
br />
  He remembered his lovely wife, Jenny, and his energetic son, Gabe, and he was momentarily saddened by the thought of them being so many miles away. He remembered the joyous years of his childhood at the Home, and the many hours he spent playing with his constant companions, Hickok and Geronimo. He remembered the sorrow he'd experienced when his father had been slain by a mutation, and the abiding friendship he'd developed with his mentor, the Family Leader, Plato. He remembered the many missions he had been on in his capacity as the head Warrior, and especially the times he had fought the Russians.

  But most important of all, he remembered and concentrated on the Naming ceremony held on his sixteenth birthday.

  Kurt Carpenter had initiated the Naming ceremony. The Founder instituted the practice of formally christening every Family member at the age of 16 as a means of guaranteeing his followers and their descendants would never lose sight of their historical antecedents. Carpenter had worried that subsequent generations might lose sight of the reasons for the Family's existence. He was afraid they would forget their roots, that they would shun any reference to World War Three and prior eras and never learn the valuable lessons history could teach them. In an effort to spark an interest in history, in the causes and circumstances responsible for the decline of civilization. Carpenter prompted his followers to encourage their children to scour the history books and select the name of any historical figure they liked as their very own. In the decades since the war the practice had been expanded so that the 16-year-olds could pick a name from any source they desired. Family members weren't forced to choose a new name, but most did. A few kept the names bestowed on them by their parents. Even fewer opted for renaming themselves with an original name they preferred.

  Carpenter had also advocated abolishing surnames. In his estimation last names created a false civility and fabricated respect. Every Family member was entitled to one name only. Thus 16-year-old Nathan, a virtuoso with revolvers and an ardent admirer of the Old West, chose the name of the man he considered to be the greatest gunman of all time, a gent called Hickok. Sixteen-year-old Lone Elk selected the name of the historical figure he esteemed the highest, Geronimo. And a youth known as Michael picked an entirely new name based on the affinity for edged weapons, particularly his fondness for Bowie knives, and called himself…

  Blade.

  "My name is Blade," the giant said softly, more to himself than the scientist, and a peculiar constriction formed in his throat. "My name is Blade. "

  "Now you know," Milton remarked nervously. "I suspected those knives might trigger your memory, so I kept them handy."

  Blade placed the Bowies on the desk and stripped off his belt. "Where's Malenkov?"

  Milton tensed and blinked a few times. "What?"

  "You heard me," Blade said. He threaded the belt through the loops on his fatigue pants, aligning a sheath on each hip, and then fastened the buckle.

  "Why… why do you want to know?" Milton stammered.

  The Warrior rested his hands on the Bowie hilts and walked around the desk to stand next to the chair. "Where is General Malenkov?" he demanded coldly.

  "Washington! He's in Washington, D.C."

  Blade leaned down, his eyes on a level with Milton's. "Why don't I believe you?"

  "I'm telling the truth! You must know that he's prominent in the North American Central Committee. He's responsible for administering the occupation forces in America."

  "Do tell."

  "Surely you know the general operates out of Washington? You were there once and escaped from his clutches."

  Blade shook his head. "A friend of mine named Hickok was the one who got away from the general." He paused meaningfully. "I'll take your word that Malenkov isn't in Boston."

  Milton exhaled loudly. "Thank you."

  "And now I have to escape from Russian territory," Blade said slowly.

  "But what do I do with you first?"

  "Leave me here. Bind me and stick a gag in my mouth. Stuff me in the closet. Do anything you want. Just don't harm me," Milton pleaded.

  The giant frowned and straightened.

  "I won't try to get loose. I promise," Milton babbled on. "I'll wait for them to find me, and I won't divulge which way you've gone."

  "You won't know which way I've gone," Blade said, his tone tinged with contempt.

  "I'll throw them off the track if you want," Milton proposed. "I'll lie to them, tell them you're going south or west or north or whatever you want.

  I'll make them—"

  Blade held up his right hand for silence, cutting the man off. "Enough."

  "Please," Milton begged, and tears welled in the corners of his eyes.

  "Don't kill me."

  "How many innocent lives have you taken, Doctor?"

  "I told you. I'm a scientist, not a soldier."

  Blade slanted his body so the doctor couldn't see his left side. "You're evading the question. How many people have you killed while conducting your medical research?"

  "I never personally killed anyone," Milton said.

  Blade tightened his left hand on the left Bowie. "You're still evading the question. How many people have been killed by your research? How many have died to further your quest for knowledge?"

  "There are always sacrifices to be made on the altar of progress. Every great stride in science has been attended by the unfortunate deaths of those who contributed their lives to the cause," Milton stated defensively.

  "How many did your research kill?"

  Milton hesitated, torn between his fear of the giant and his resentment of the Warrior's indictment of his professional ethics. He knew the smart thing to do was lie, but he also knew Blade wouldn't accept his lies and might become angry. "A few unfortunates have perished during the course of scientific programs I've headed."

  "How many?"

  Milton fidgeted, then shrugged. "I don't recall the exact number."

  "Ten?"

  "I don't know."

  "Fifty?"

  "I don't know," Milton snapped, forgetting himself.

  "Eighty?"

  "Certainly not that many," Milton replied.

  "How many died before you perfected the Memroxin? How many totally lost their minds? How many were turned into vegetables?" Blade asked, his left arm poised.

  "No more than two dozen, I assure you," Milton said shamelessly. "I always strive to keep the losses at a minimum."

  "Damn decent of you," Blade declared, and swept the left Bowie out and around, spinning in a tight arc. He buried the knife in the center of Milton's chest and held on fast.

  The scientist stiffened and grunted, then gazed with unblinking eyes at the Warrior's hand and the hilt, stunned. "Why?" he blurted out in a whisper.

  "I could cite several reasons, Doctor. Because of what you did to me.

  Because of what you've done to so many others. Because you're murdering scum who uses the cloak of science to justify his actions. But mainly because you're a coward who inflicts torment on others without feeling the slightest degree of guilt," Blade detailed, and looked into Milton's eyes. He saw the man was fading rapidly. "You were talking about imbeciles earlier, Doctor. Do you remember? I want you to die seeing yourself as you truly are, bastard."

  Milton's eyelids fluttered and blood trickled from the right corner of his mouth.

  "You're the worst kind of imbecile there is, Doctor," Blade said. "You are a moral imbecile." With that, he wrenched the Bowie free and stood back.

  A crimson gusher flowed from Milton's chest, and he gulped for air as if he was a fish out of water. His eyes alighted on the Warrior and his expression became comically quizzical. "I—" he managed to squeak. Then his features hardened into a death mask and he slowly sank forward until his chin rested on his legs.

  "Now to get out of here," Blade said to himself. He began to wipe the Bowie clean on Milton's smock.

  "You're not going anywhere, you son of a bitch!" snarled a gruff female voice behind him.

  Bl
ade started to turn, but a hard object rammed him in the spine and he froze.

  "Go ahead!" Nancy Krittenbauer stated. "Give me an excuse to put a hole in you. You deserve to die for what you did to poor Milton and for what you did to me."

  The Warrior held the left Bowie close to his waist. Annoyance at his stupidity made him scowl. He'd forgotten all about the KGB agent, and the carelessness could cost him his newfound liberty if he didn't come up with a brainstorm, and quickly.

  "Drop your knife," Krittenbauer ordered.

  Blade let the Bowie fall.

  "Now put your hands on your head."

  Again the Warrior complied.

  "Walk to the door," Krittenbauer instructed him. "And don't try anything stupid."

  Exasperated, Blade took a stride. In the back of his mind he wondered why the KGB agent hadn't made him toss the other Bowie aside. He assumed she wanted to turn him over to the guard and have her injuries tended to promptly. Even so, a professional wouldn't ordinarily permit an enemy to retain a weapon. She probably figured she didn't need to worry because she had him covered.

  Or did she?

  A thought struck him and he almost halted in surprise. What if Krittenbauer wasn't armed? If she really had a gun, why didn't she pull it when he emerged from the closet? Why had she attempted to alert the guard instead?

  What if Krittenbauer was bluffing?

  Blade took another step, his mind racing. Once she enlisted the assistance of the guard, escape would become much more difficult. If he was going to make a move, then logic dictated he had to do it before they reached the door. But what if he was wrong? The odds were fifty-fifty that she had a gun. If he miscalculated, he'd wind up with a hole in his back the size of a cantaloupe.

  Krittenbauer coughed several times, apparently clearing her throat to shout for the guard.

  It was now or never.

  The Warrior took one more pace, tensing his arms and legs, then surged into action, taking a step to the left even as he lashed his right fist around. A gun boomed and a bullet tugged at the bottom of his vest, but he ignored the retort and concentrated on completing his turn. He glimpsed Krittenbauer's startled, battered visage, and then his right fist caught her full in the face and catapulted her backwards, her arms swinging wildly.