David Robbins - Liberty Run

“To become a candidate for consideration by the Elders,” Lynx said, “doesn’t a person have to be nominated by a Warrior?”

“Uh-oh,” Ferret interjected.

Hickok glanced at Ferret, perplexed, then answered Lynx. “We call it being sponsored. A candidate for Warrior status must be sponsored by an active Warrior before the Elders will vote on admittin’ them to the Warrior ranks. Why?”

“Oh, just curious,” Lynx lied. “Tell me somethin’. How many candidates can a single Warrior sponsor?”

“I don’t follow you,” Hickok said.

“For instance,” Lynx detailed, “let’s pretend two people want to become Warriors. Could a single Warrior, like yourself for example, sponsor both of them?”

Hickok pondered for a moment. “It’s never been done that way before, but I reckon it would be okay.”

“And what about if three people wanted to become Warriors,” Lynx went on. “Could you sponsor all three?”

“I could give it a shot,” Hickok said. “And I could always talk Blade, Geronimo, or one of the others into sidin’ with me. Why?”

“No reason,” Lynx stated. “Like I said. I was just curious.”

“Are you thinkin’ of becoming a Warrior?” Hickok asked.

“No, he isn’t!” Ferret responded before Lynx could answer.

“Must excuse Lynx, yes?” Gremlin added. “Received bump on head yesterday, no?”

“I did not!” Lynx declared testily.

Hickok saw Shane racing from the east, his arms laden with the requested weapons. “I’ll be seein’ you,” he told them.

“I’d like to talk to you when you get back,” Lynx said.

“No, he wouldn’t,” Ferret remarked.

Hickok shook his head and ambled toward the drawbridge. Behind him, Lynx, Ferret, and Gremlin started up again in hushed tones.

“…idiots!” Lynx snapped.

“…not asking him!” Ferret responded.

Hickok could only distinguish a few more words as he moved away.

“…had a brain… be dangerous!” came from Lynx.

“…over my dead body!” came from Ferret.

“…be arranged!” was part of Lynx’s rejoinder.

And then Hickok was out of hearing range. He wondered if Lynx did, indeed, want to become a Warrior. Hickok favored the notion. He’d seen Lynx in action during the Battle of Armageddon, as the Family liked to call the fight in Callow, Wyoming, and he judged Lynx to be prime Warrior material. If the runt wanted sponsorin’, he’d be right proud to oblige.

“Here you go!” Shane exclaimed, out of breath, holding the guns in his arms.

Spartacus took his HK93.

Hickok grabbed his Henry.

Shane was left with a Winchester Model 94 and his Llama Comanche .357 Magnum on his right hip.

Blade was standing next to Spartacus. “What was that all about?” he asked Hickok, while nodding toward the trio still debating to the north.

“Beats me, pard,” Hickok admitted. “I think Lynx wants to become a Warrior, but Ferret and Gremlin don’t cotton to the idea.”

“Lynx a Warrior?” Blade said thoughtfully. “That’s a good idea. Come to think of it, all three of them would make great Warriors.”

“Maybe you should let them know,” Hickok suggested.

“I’ll talk to them when I get the chance,” Blade said. “Right now I must find Plato.” He surveyed their group. “Take care out there. May the Spirit be with you.” He departed.

Hickok waved his right arm toward the drawbridge. “Let’s move out!

Spartacus, take the point. Shane and Bertha—the rear. Stay in sight at all times!”

The Warriors assumed their formation, and their retrieval party departed the Home. Some of the Family members ceased their activities to watch the group leave.

“You said to the southeast, right?” Hickok asked Lysenko.

Lysenko nodded.

“Spartacus!” Hickok yelled. “Bear southeast. We’ll guide you with hand signals. Stay alert!”

Spartacus nodded, moving to a position 15 yards in front of Hickok, Geronimo, and Lysenko. Bertha and Shane were an equal distance behind them.

“I hope I can find the clearing again,” Lysenko commented as they crossed the field to the south of the compound.

Hickok wagged the Henry barrel in the Russian’s face. “You’d best find it, you four-flushin’ coyote!”

Lysenko glanced at Geronimo. “Excuse me. Is it permissible to ask you a few questions?”

“Why are you asking me?” Geronimo replied.

Lysenko motioned to Hickok. “I know he would not talk to me.”

“You’re not as dumb as you look,” Hickok stated crisply.

Geronimo nodded. “I guess it would be all right. Blade says you’ve been cooperating fully with us. What do you want to know?”

“Several things,” Lysenko said. “For starters, why does Hickok talk so strangely?”

Geronimo laughed. “Everybody asks the same thing. Have you ever heard of the Wild West?”

“The Old American West?” Lysenko said. “I read a little about it in one of my history classes. As you probably know, we are versed in both cultures. We study Russian and American history. And we become bilingual, speaking English and Russian fluently.”

“So Hickok told us after his visit to Washington,” Cieronimo stated.

“Hickok talks the way he does because he likes the Old West?” Lysenko queried.

“Because he admires a man who lived way back then,” Geronimo explained. “A man by the name of James Butler Hickok. The dummy in the buckskins talks the way he thinks the real Hickok would have talked.”

“Most peculiar,” Lysenko remarked.

“I’ve been saying that for years,” Geronimo quipped, and laughed.

Hickok ignored them. They reached the edge of the forest and entered the trees.

“Some other aspects of your Family puzzle me,” Lysenko said.

“Like what?” Geronimo responded.

“Your informal attitude, for one thing,” Lynsenko stated. “You are all so relaxed in your relations. Plato is your Leader, yet not once did I observe anyone accord him any special respect. And you Warriors! Blade is your chief, yet you talk to him like you would anyone else. There is no saluting, no drill, no regimentation in your Warrior organization. You don’t even wear uniforms!” he marveled.

“Why should we?” Geronimo replied.

“Regimentation promotes discipline,” Lysenko commented.

“No,” Geronimo corrected him, “regimentation promotes subservience.

We deliberately shun formality. Our Founder was a wise man. He saw what happened to the prewar society. Everyone was required to fit into a certain mold. Behave in an acceptable manner. Wear fashionable clothes.

Even trim their hair in faddish styles. If they didn’t, they were considered outcasts or weird. People were denied the opportunity to express themselves, to assert their individual personality. They were manipulated by the power-mongers at every turn.” He paused. “Carpenter wanted to discourage formality, so he instituted a policy allowing Family members one name, and one name only. No Mr. So-and-So. No Miss or Ms. or Mrs. He thought last names bred a sense of false civility. And he felt the same way about titles. Titles were used to make people inferior to the one with the title. There was ‘Mr. President,’ or ‘Your Honor,’ or ‘Your Majesty.’ Carpenter despised that practice, so he implemented a policy where each and every Family member receives a title. Whether it’s Tiller, Healer, Empath, Warrior, or whatever, we’re all equal socially. No one lords it over anyone else. And that’s the way we prefer it.”

“Amazing,” Lysenko mentioned.

Hickok abruptly stopped and glared at Geronimo.

“What’s wrong with you?” Geronimo asked.

“Why the blazes are you being so nice to this prick?” Hickok demanded.