David Robbins - Boston Run

“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.

He remembered!

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.