David Robbins - Boston Run

“Is that a fact?” Berwin responded. He opened the top drawer on the left and found only papers.

“Why don’t you disarm the guard?” Milton queried nervously.

Berwin opened the second drawer on the left, which was crammed with pens, papers, and two paperback books: a dictionary and a volume of biological terminology.

“I don’t keep weapons in my desk,” Milton said, and laughed, a fake, brittle sound betraying his rising anxiety.

Why was the man so upset? Berwin asked himself. He inspected the final drawer on the left and discovered several pill bottles, a packet of tongue depressors, and a box of gauze.

“You wouldn’t lie to me, would you, Doctor?”

“Of course not,” Milton stated.

Berwin reached for the top drawer on the right.

“I’ll even lure the guard in here for you,” Milton proposed. “How about that?”

“Your kindness overwhelms me,” Berwin quipped, and yanked the drawer open.

Milton gasped.

There were two of them, a matched set, lying on top of a stack of medical forms, each still in a leather sheath, lying flat, side by side.

Bowie knives.

A tingle rippled along Berwin’s spine, as if he’d received an electric shock. “My name isn’t Berwin, is it, Doctor?” he asked.

“No,” Milton answered hoarsely.

“What is my real name?” the giant inquired. He grasped the Bowies, one in each hand, and raised them into the light. The moment he did, a veritable explosion of memories filled his mind. In the space of a heartbeat the blank slate was gone. In its place, flooding his consciousness with the irresistible force of a whirlpool, dazzling him with intensity and vividness, was his past.

He remembered!

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?”