David Robbins - Chicago Run

The ride took less than two minutes, and only because the vehicles traveled at the sedate speed of 25 or 30, perhaps to convserve fuel.

Yama stared eastward and saw the 15-foot-high mesh fench stretching north and south for as far as the eye could see. Four strands of razor-sharp barbed wire capped the barrier. When they were closer, and before the angle prevented him from seeing the fence at all, he distinguished the peculiar metal globes imbedded in the mesh at ten-yard intervals, and remembered Blade telling him those globes were precision voltage regulators used to control the one million volts of electricity pulsing through the fence. If a person were to merely tap his finger on the fine metal strands, he would be fried to a charred crisp in seconds.

The head Warrior had told Yama about another barrior just inside the fence. A green belt 250 yards wide contained lush grass and beautiful flowers, deceptively concealing the thousands of sensitive mines buried inches under the surface.

Those Technics never missed a trick.

Both vehicles drew closer to the gate, and Yama suddenly discovered a flaw in his improvised strategy. Blade had informed him there was a guard tower inside the fence on the left side of the road, but his friend had said nothing about the tower being 30 feet in height. Any of the four guards typically manning the tower would readily spot him. He frowned, studying the large, clear plastic windows rimming the top. Only one trooper was visible, working at computer terminal. If the man didn’t look up, Yama would be all right.

The truck slowed, evidently following the example of the jeep.

“Open the gate!” the officer yelled.

Yama heard voices, and then the truck lurched to a complete stop.

“Is that you, Major Crompton?” someone asked.

“Of course it’s me, Kurt, you idiot. Now open the damn gate.”

“Yes, sir.”

Hinges squeaked as the order was obeyed.

“We’re in a hurry so we’ll dispense with procedure,” Major Crompton declared.

Yama had his eyes glued to the tower. The soldier at the terminal was engrossed in his work. Good. Then he heard the gate guard speak again and his pulses quickened.

“Sorry, sir, but you know the rules. We have to check every vehicle that enters from top to bottom.”

“It would have been nice to sleep in a bed for a change,” Hickok remarked. “The ground gets real old after a while.”

Geronimo snorted and looked over his shoulder at the gunfighter.

“You’re becoming soft in your old age, Nathan.”

“Who you callin’ old, you mangy Injun,” Hickok said. “I’m only thirty, the same as the Big Guy and you.”

“True. But we look much younger, while your face bears a definite resemblance to a moldy prune.”

“Have you ever tried to breathe with a gun barrel shoved up your nose?”

Still looking back, Geronimo had opened his mouth to offer a witty rejoinder when he inadvertently bumped into something as hard as iron, forcing him to halt. He faced forward.

Blade’s gray eyes were narrowed in silent reproach and his brawny hands were on his hips. “Having fun?”

“What?” Geronimo blurted out.

“Are the two of you enjoying our little jaunt through the Outlands?” the giant said.

A sheepish grin curled Geronimo’s mouth. “Am I to understand that you’re ticked off at us again?”

“What do I have to be ticked off about?” Blade replied, and gestured at the forest bordering both sides of the narrow trail they were on. “Is it because you two morons insist on babbling like three-year-olds when we’re out in the middle of nowhere and your voices could draw wild animals or mutations like manure draws flies?”

“Your comparison leaves a little to be desired,” Geronimo protested.

“Yeah,” Hickok said. “Our voices don’t draw flies.”

“Will you shut up while we’re behind?” Geronimo asked.

Frowning, Blade wheeled and resumed their trek. “I can’t recall exactly when, but the two of you definitely lost it a while back. I think it was after our trip to Houston.”

“Lost what, pard?”

“Your sense of discipline. Belive it or not, at one time both of you were regarded as superbly disciplined Warriors.”

“We still are,” the gunfighter declared.

“Only in your dreams. Oh, sure, in a pinch you perform exceptionally well, and there’s no denying you’re two of the best Warriors in the Family, but you just don’t know when to clam up. And frankly, your nonstop chatter can get on a person’s nerves.”

“We don’t go overboard and you know it,” Geronimo said. “Why don’t you admit the real reason you’re so uptight.”

“Which is?”

“Yama.”

Blade stared at the ground, his wide shoulders slumping. In his heart he knew his friend had hit the proverbial nail on the head. Yama’s unauthorized desertion of duty had caused Blade many a sleepless night, had troubled him to the very depths of his soul. Initially he kept asking the same question over and over again: “How could you?”

In the 106-year history of the Warrior class, there had been few who’d betrayed their trust in any respect. Hickok’s own AWOL incident had been different, not as severe, because the gunfighter had gone to save a reckless youth from certain death and had left a note explaining his departure and promising to return. Everyone had known Hickok would leave, even the Elders who had cautioned him to remain at the Home. Everyone knew there was no stopping the gunman once he made up his mind about something.

Yama, however, had not bothered to leave a letter of explanation. He’d not told a living soul that he intended to depart. He’d simply failed to show up for guard duty when the Warrior Triad to which he belonged was scheduled for a shift.

The moment Blade had been informed of Yama’s absence, he’d known where the errant Warrior had gone. Technic City. He’d chided himself for not seeing it coming, for not taking Yama aside and discussing the torment that had been eating at the man’s insides ever since Alicia Farrow’s death.

Maybe I’m partly to blame, Blade reflected. As head Warrior it was his job to monitor the others, to be there when they needed him. The organizational structure of the Warrior class had been designed with simplicity in mind, allowing for an efficient chain of command and the ready detection of personal problems, so he couldn’t fault the system. The eighteen preeminent fighters were divided into six equal Triads; it couldn’t be any simpler. And although he didn’t work with other Triads on a daily basis except in a crisis, they attended briefings every morning when he was at the Home, and they frequently trained together under his supervision. He should have been sensitive to Yama’s turmoil and been there when the man needed him the most.

The way Blade saw it, he’d failed. In a way he was as much at fault for the stain on the Warrior’s record as Yama. Any honored position of leadership entailed certain obligations to those being led. A helping hand at a critical time was just one of them. He clenched his fists in annoyance at himself, and felt relieved when the gunfighter made a comment that curtailed his reverie.

“It’ll be dark soon, pard. How long before we make camp for the night?”

“Soft, soft, soft,” Geronimo muttered.

Blade gazed at the trail ahead. It stretched far into the distance on a southeasterly bearing. “As soon as we find a suitable spot,” he answered.

“Which one of us bags supper?” Hickok asked.

“I believe it’s your turn,” Blade noted.

“And try to do better than a few measly chipmunks this time,” Geronimo stated.

“I’ve never blown away sweet little chipmunks,” Hickok declared indignantly.