David Robbins - New Orleans Run

Finally he moved, raising his arms to stretch as he inhaled the cool October air. His eyes strayed to the aircraft parked in the middle of the field beyond. The Hurricane, a jet endowed with vertical-takeoff-or-landing capability, was one of two such craft possessed by the California military. The VTOLs were the lifeblood of the Federation.

They were utilized as a monthly courier service, carrying messages from one Federation faction to another. They transported Federation heads to summit meetings. They carried the Force on assignments. And, as with the one in the field, they conveyed the giant to and from the Home on a regular basis. Two days ago the Hurricane before him had brought him from L. A. The pilot had decided to stay over an extra day to conduct minor maintenance, and it was well he did. Because now the giant intended to have the VTOL fly him to New Orleans so he could investigate the call they had received.

Along with the three hybrids.

He saw someone step into view from behind the Hurricane, the Warrior guarding the aircraft, and he smiled and waved.

The sentry, a wiry man wearing forest-green clothing that contrasted with his blond hair and jutting blond beard, carried a compound bow.

Strapped to his back was a large quiver of arrows. “Yo, Blade!” he called out, and waved back.

“Teucer!” Blade replied, lowering his arm.

The bowman continued in a slow circuit of the jet, alertly scanning the treeline farther to the west.

A good man, Blade thought to himself, and placed his hands on the hilts of his Bowies. All of the Warriors were good men or women or—

“What the dickens are you doing up here all by your lonesome, pard?”

The familiar voice brought a grin to the giant’s face, and he pivoted to see his two fellow members of Alpha Triad ascending the wooden stairs to the rampart.

In the lead, wearing buckskins, came another blond man, only this one was leaner than Teucer and sported a mustache but no beard. In a holster on either hip rode a Colt Python revolver. He had his thumbs hooked in his gunbelt and a typical nonchalant smile creasing his countenance.

When he spoke again, he did so in his customary Old West fashion. “Are you expectin’ a passel of mangy owlhoots to attack the Home?”

“Not hardly, Hickok,” Blade replied.

The gunfighter stepped onto the rampart and strolled casually over to the giant. “We stopped by your homestead and your missus told us you’d moseyed this way.”

“One of these days this dummy will speak normal English and put the rest of us in total shock,” commented the second man, a stocky Indian who favored green clothing and who had tucked a genuine tomahawk under his brown leather belt. Both his eyes and his hair were dark. His heritage was Blackfoot.

“Don’t you know it,” Blade agreed, chuckling.

Hickok glanced at their Indian companion. “Hardy-har-har. Who died and made you a language expert, Geronimo?”

“It doesn’t take an expert to know you’re ninety-nine bricks shy of a hundred-brick load.”

“I didn’t know you could count that high without takin’ off your socks and shoes,” Hickok quipped.

Geronimo stopped and stared idly at the Hurricane. “At least it doesn’t take me ten minutes to tie my moccasin laces in the morning.”

Blade, who knew their banter could continue for hours if not checked, decided to interrupt the two best friends he’d had since childhood. “To what do I owe this dubious honor?”

“Dubious?” Hickok repeated. “Our comin’ up here to palaver had nothin’ to do with makin’ knights.”

Blade had to think about that one for a few seconds before he understood. He grimaced and scrutinized both men. “Then why are you up here?”

“Do you want to tell him or should I?” Hickok asked Geronimo.

“Be my guest.”

“Fine,” the gunman said. He faced the giant squarely and adopted a slightly miffed expression. “What’s this we hear about you not takin’ us to New Orleans?”

“You heard correctly,” Blade answered.

“But we’re a Triad, dag nab it! We’re supposed to work as a team.

We’ve been on more runs together than any of the other Warriors.”

“Which is precisely the reason I want to take others with me,” Blade mentioned. “You know we have to give the rest of the Warriors a chance to see the outside world while honing their combat skills.”

“Maybe so,” Hickok acknowledged, “but you seem to be going a mite overboard with this business. You didn’t take us to Boston, you didn’t take us to Green Bay, and now you’re waltzin’ off to New Orleans without us.”

“Boston?” Blade said. “You can’t be serious, I was kidnapped and taken there against my will. How can you blame me for that?”

The gunfighter pursed his lips. “Okay. Maybe you had a legitimate excuse. But what about Green Bay?”

“The Technics were involved. I hoped to give Yama a chance to come to grips with his hatred for them.”

“If you ask me, pard, Yama hates those coyotes even more,” Hickok noted.

“I agree, “Geronimo chimed in. “The other day he asked me if I believed a single man could assault Technic City and survive.”

Blade tensed. “He what?”

“That’s right,” Geronimo confirmed. “I told him the idea was crazy.”

“How did he react?”

“Yama gave me this funny sort of smile,” Geronimo disclosed.

“Uh-oh,” Hickok said.

Blade shifted and surveyed the compound, searching for a sign of the Warrior in blue, the man universally regarded as the living equal of the Hindu King of Death from whom Yama had taken his name. As with every other Family member, Yama had gone through a special Naming ceremony on the occasion of his sixteenth birthday and selected the unusual appellation for his very own. There was no sign of the gray haired Warrior anywhere near the west wall. “I’ll have to have a long talk with him after I get back.”

“Do you want us to keep our peepers on him while you’re gone?” Hickok offered.

“Yes, “Blade said. “Make certain he doesn’t do anything foolish.”

“We’ll try our best,” Geronimo stated. “But if that guy decides to leave without authorization, it’ll take more than the two of us to stop him.”

“Bull,” Hickok declared. “It’ll be a piece of cake.”

“How do you figure?” Geronimo rejoined. “Yama is almost as big and strong as Blade. He’s as competent a martial artist as Rikki-Tikki-Tavi. He can shoot a revolver nearly as expertly as you. In fact, he’s an expert with every weapon in our armory, unlike the rest of us, who have specialized in only one or two. How will you stop him?”

“Easy.” Hickok snickered. “We’ll use my secret weapon.”

“Your breath?”

“No, rocks-for-brains. I happen to have heard from a reliable source that Yama has a weakness no one knows about.”

“Who’s your source?”

“Yama’s niece,” Hickok revealed.

Geronimo glanced at Blade, who shrugged to indicate he had no idea what the gunman was talking about, then back at Hickok. “What could Marian possibly know that the rest of us don’t?”

The gunfighter made a show of scanning their immediate vicinity, verifying no one was eavesdropping. Then he leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially. “Yama is ticklish.”

A look of utter astonishment froze Geronimo’s features.

“See? I knew you’d be impressed.” Hickok gloated.

“Only by your stupidity.”

“Did you know he’s ticklish?”

“That’s not the point, mush-mind.”

“Then what is?” Hickok asked.

Geronimo rolled his eyes skyward, then became serious. “Let me put it to you this way. Do you really expect to best Yama by tickling him?”