A loud snap sounded, the Technic gasped and bent in half, and the last sensation he felt was the calloused edge of the Warrior’s right hand arcing into the back of his neck.
In the horse stance now, Yama stood ready to attack or counter, and surveyed the quartet. All four had been rendered temporarily or permanently insensate. Satisfied, he scanned the campus, expecting to hear a cry of alarm. None sounded, and he promptly stooped and began dragging the Technics to the side of the fence.
Footsteps pounded and Samson and Melissa appeared, the Nazarite bearing Yama’s arms.
“You were sensational!” Melissa breathed in awe. “How did you do that?”
“Ants in my pants,” Yama replied, lugging Yoder from the gate opening.
“You’ve got to teach me how to do that,” Melissa stated.
“Teach you the martial arts?”
“Is that what it’s called? Yeah. Teach me the arts.”
Yama almost made the blunder of erupting in laughter. Instead, he toted the lean trooper to one side. “Which one of the… arts… would you like to learn?”
“There are different ones?”
“All kinds of styles and disciplines.”
Melissa shrugged. “I don’t know. Teach me the deadliest art.”
Yama grabbed Ted and dragged the Technic off. “The dead-liest art, huh? That would be the Leonardo.”
“Yeah. Sounds great. When we get out of here, show me how to do the Leonardo.”
“You’ve got it,” Yama promised, keeping a straight face only with a monumental effort. He noticed that Samson had developed an inordinate interest in the darkening sky.
“So what do we do next?” Melissa asked eagerly.
“We?” Yama nodded at the Nazarite, who promptly returned his weapons.
“Well, you know what I mean.”
“I would suggest that Samson and you stay here and watch this gate while I go find Blade,” Yama recommended.
“Why should we be stuck at the dumb gate?” Melissa inquired.
“Because we will need an avenue of escape once Blade is free. Ensuring the Technics don’t block our retreat is critically important,” Yama noted.
“Oh. In that case, we’ll watch the gate. No one will take it from us,” Melissa vowed.
“Tell that to them,” Samson interjected, and nodded at the road bordering the south side of the university.
Yama glanced in the indicated direction, and despite his years of experience he felt a knot form in his stomach at the sight of the horde of walking dead who had, incredibly, reversed direction and were coming toward the southeast corner of the fence, toward the very gate through which they had departed and which now hung wide open.
Chapter Eighteen
“If you don’t lie down on the table now, I’ll have you shot,” Quinton Darmobray vowed.
Blade stared at the six Technic troopers, at the six Dakon II barrels pointed at his chest, then at the metal table in front of him. A thin sheet composed of a rubberlike substance covered the top. On the other side of the table, arranged in a neat row on a small stand, were surgical instruments.
“This is the last warning you’ll receive,” the Director said.
Reluctantly, fully aware the scientist meant every word, Blade complied and reclined on the table. His legs dangled over the bottom edge from his knees down.
Darmobray smiled and stepped alongside the small stand. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
“Get stuffed.”
“I would expect a more mature riposte from a man like you,” Darmobray stated. He reached under the edge of the rubber sheet, which hung several inches below the table’s rim, and pulled a leather restraint into view, drawing it higher. The other end was obviously attached to the metal table.
Blade blinked twice. “What’s that for?”
“Don’t be naive. What do you think it’s for? I told you a simple surgical procedure is used to insert the transistor, and I need you to lie perfectly still while I’m placing one in your brain stem.”
A flinty light seemed to animate Blade’s gray eyes as he coldly regarded the restraint. If he allowed his arms and legs to be fastened to the table, he’d be unable to prevent the Director from implanting the device that would transform him into an Automaton. But if he resisted, the six troopers would shoot him.
Or would they?
Blade looked at Darmobray, who stood on the right side of the table, then at the soldiers, who were all standing to the left and within two yards of his dangling legs. An idea occurred to him, a means of possibly thwarting the Director’s plans and regaining his freedom.
“Why do you think I went to so much trouble to explain my operation at you?” Darmobray was saying. “You’re an exceptional man, an adversary I can respect. I wanted you to fully appreciate the extent of my genius while you were still in possession of your faculties.” He paused, smiling expansively. “And imagine what a victory this will be for the Technic order when the mighty Blade is reduced to the status of a mindless slave!
The Minister will be delighted. I might even receive the Royal Order of Service, the highest award a Technic can receive, for this.”
Absently listening to the Director babble, the Warrior scanned the room, searching for possible weapons. The dimensions were 24 feet by 24 feet, with a ceiling ten feet high. Banks of computers and other electronic equipment lined three of the walls. The fourth, the west wall, contained the wide door. There were three other tables in the room, aligned to the right of the one on which he reclined. His was the nearest to the doorway.
The only window occupied the east wall.
“Besides, I want to test my device on someone of your stature,” Darmobray went on. “With your exceptional conditioning and steel willpower, you might even be able to resist for a few seconds once you awaken from the operation. I’m very curious to learn whether you will become an obedient Automaton or a renegade. Knowing you, I’d wager the renegade.”
“Thanks for the compliment.”
The Director grinned maliciously. “Think nothing of it. Now, if you would be so kind as to give me your hand?”
Blade did, but not in the manner which Darmobray expected. Having decided upon a course of action, he galvanized into motion with lightning rapidity. His right hand shot toward the Director and seized the front of the scientist’s silvery uniform. In the blinking of an eye he hauled Darmobray onto the table even as he gouged his left hand into the man’s throat.
Predictably, the six Technic troopers tried to bring their Dakon II’s to bear, but before any of them could snap off a shot the Warrior had interposed a thrashing shield. None of them were about to fire when they might hit the Director.
Blade clamped his left hand on Darmobray’s neck and held the gurgling, wildly swinging Technic at arm’s length. “Drop your weapons!”
he commanded, barely feeling the weak punches landing on his head and shoulders. His blow had dazed the Director and made the scientist red in the face, and it would take Darmobray at least a minute to fully recover.
Which was all the time he needed.
The soldiers hesitated, perhaps out of fear of the consequences if they relinquished their Dakon II’s on their own initiative.
“Do it or I’ll snap this bastard’s neck!” Blade snapped, and shook the Director for emphasis. Darmobray sputtered and tried to speak, but the best he could do was squeak.
With a resigned detachment, five of the troopers lowered their assault rifles. The sixth, though, a crafty devil with a sneer on his countenance, opted for fame and a surefire promotion if he could save the Director. He suddenly lunged forward, trying to step past the end of the table for a clear shot at the giant. But in his haste he made a mistake.