David Brin - The Postman

“Powhatan,” Gordon gritted, unable to even imagine how or why the man was here. “Get the hell away, you fool! You haven’t a chance! He’s an augment!”

Phil Bokuto had been one of the best fighters Gordon had ever known. If he had barely managed to ambush the lesser of these devils, and had died in the process, what chance did this old man have?

Powhatan listened to Gordon’s revelation and frowned.

“So? You mean from those experiments in the early nineties? I had thought they were all normalized or killed off by the time the Slavic-Turkic War broke out. Fascinating. This does explain a lot about the last two decades.”

“You’d heard of us then,” Macklin grinned.

Powhatan nodded somberly. “I had heard, before the war. I also know why that particular experiment was discontinued — mostly because the worst kinds of men had been recruited as subjects.”

“So said the weak,” Macklin agreed. “For they made the error of accepting volunteers from among the strong.”

Powhatan shook his head. For all the world it seemed as if he were engaged in a polite argument over semantics. Only his heavy breathing seemed to give away any sign of emotion.

“They accepted warriors…” he emphasized, “…that divinely mad type that’s so valuable when needed, and such a problem when it’s not. The lesson was learned hard, back in the nineties. They had a lot of trouble with augments who came home still loving war.”

“Trouble is the word,” Macklin laughed. “Let me introduce you to Trouble, Powhatan.” He threw Gordon aside as if on an afterthought, and sheathed his knife before stepping toward his longtime foe.

Splashing into a ditch for the second time, Gordon could only lie in the muck and groan. His entire left side felt torn and burning — as if it were loaded with glowing coals. Consciousness flickered, and remained only because he absolutely refused to let go of it. When, at last, he was able to look up again through a pain-squinted tunnel, he saw the other two men circling each other just inside the lamp’s small oasis of light.

Of course Macklin was just toying with his adversary. Powhatan was impressive, for a man his age, but the monstrous things that bulged from Macklin’s neck, arms, and thighs made a normal man’s muscles look pathetic by comparison. Gordon remembered Macklin’s fireplace poker, tearing apart like shredding taffy.

George Powhatan inhaled in hard, shuddering gasps, and his face was flushed. In spite of the hopelessness of the situation, though, a deep part of Gordon was surprised to see such blatant signs of fear on the Squire’s face.

All legends must be based on lies, Gordon realized. We exaggerate, and even come to believe the tales, after a while.

Only in Powhatan’s voice did there seem to be a remnant of calm. In fact, he almost sounded detached. “There’s something I think you should consider, General,” he said between rapid breaths.

“Later,” Macklin growled. “Later we can discuss stock-raising and brewing, Squire. Right now I’m going to teach you a more practical art.”

Quick as a cat, Macklin lashed out. Powhatan leaped aside, barely in time. But Gordon felt a thrill as the taller man then whirled back with a kick that Macklin dodged only by inches.

Gordon began to hope. Perhaps Powhatan was a natural, whose speed — even in middle age — might almost equal Macklin’s. If so — and with that longer reach of his — he just might be able to keep out of his enemy’s terrible grasp…

The augment lunged again, getting a tearing grip on his opponent’s shirt. This time Powhatan escaped even more narrowly, shrugging out of the embroidered garment and dodging a flurry of blows any one of which might have killed a steer. He did nearly land a savage chop to Macklin’s kidneys as the smaller man rushed by. But then, in a blur, the Holnist swiveled and caught Powhatan’s passing wrist!

Daring fate, Powhatan stepped inside and managed to break free with a reverse.

But Macklin seemed to have expected the maneuver. The General rolled past his opponent, and when Powhatan whirled to follow, he grabbed quickly and seized the taller man’s other arm. Macklin grinned as Powhatan tried to slip out again, this time to no avail.

At arm’s length, the Camas Valley man pulled back and panted. In spite of the chill rain he seemed overheated.

That’s it, Gordon thought, disappointed. In spite of his past differences with Powhatan, Gordon tried to think of anything he could do to help. He looked around for something to throw at the monster augment, perhaps distracting Macklin long enough for the other man to get away.

But there was only mud, and a few soggy twigs. Gordon himself hardly had the strength even to crawl away from where he had been tossed. He could only lie there and watch the end, awaiting his own turn.

“Now,” Macklin told his new captive, “Now say what you have to say. But you better make it amusing. As I smile, you live.”

Powhatan grimaced as he tugged, testing Macklin’s iron-jawed grip. Even after a full minute he had not stopped breathing deeply. Now the expression on his face seemed distant, as if completely resigned. His voice was oddly rhythmic when he answered at last.

“I didn’t want this. I told them I couldn’t… too old… luck run out…” He inhaled deeply, and sighed. “I begged them not to make me. And now, to end it here… ?” The gray eyes flickered. “But it never ends… except death.”

He’s broken, Gordon thought. The man’s cracked. He did not want to witness this humiliation. And I left Dena to seek this famous hero…

“You’re not amusing me, Squire,” Macklin said, coldly. “Don’t bore me, not if you value your remaining moments.”

But Powhatan seemed distracted, as if he were actually thinking about something else, concentrating on remembering something, perhaps, and maintaining conversation out of courtesy alone.

“I only… thought you ought to know that things changed a bit… after you left the program.”

Macklin shook his head, his eyebrows knotting. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Powhatan blinked. A shiver ran up and down his body, making Macklin smile.

“I mean that… that they weren’t about to give up on anything so promising as augmentation… not just because there were flaws the first time.”

Macklin growled. “They were too scared to continue. Too scared of us!”

Powhatan’s eyelids fluttered. He was still inhaling hard, in great, silent breaths.

Gordon stared. Something was happening to the man. Perspiration glistened in oily speckles all across his shoulders and chest before being washed away in the scattered, heavy rain. His muscles twitched as if in the throes of cramps.

Gordon wondered. Was the man falling apart before his eyes?

Powhatan’s voice sounded remote, almost bemused. “…newer implants weren’t as large or as powerful… meant more to supplement training in certain eastern arts… in biofeedback…”

Macklin’s head rocked back and he laughed out loud. “Neohippy augments? Oh! Good, Powhatan. Good bluff! That is rich!”

Powhatan didn’t seem to be listening, though. He was concentrating, his lips moving as if reciting something long ago memorized.

Gordon stared, blinked away raindrops, and stared harder. Faint lines seemed to be radiating out along Powhatan’s arms and shoulders, crisscrossing his neck and chest. The man’s shivering had heightened to a steady rhythm that now seemed less chaotic than… purposeful.

“The process also takes a lot of air,” George Powhatan said mildly, conversationally. Still inhaling deeply, he began to straighten up.

By now Macklin had stopped laughing. The Holnist stared in frank disbelief.