The Technics were determined to crush all potential opposition and assert their natural superiority. As long as the Family existed, the people had a source of inspiration and encouragement. If the Family fell, so would the hopes and aspirations of thousands, making the conquest of America easier. The Freedom Federation would become demoralized if the Family perished, and they might even disband without the Family’s unifying persuasiveness to guide them.
As she stood near A Block, watching Rikki-Tikki-Tavi and Yama spar, Lieutenant Farrow reviewed the Minister’s plan and marveled at his brilliance. The Family could be wiped out with a small force, the Minister had stated, his black eyes blazing at her from his elevated dais in the Technic throne room. The first step would be to gain their trust. The second to lure several of the Warriors and the SEAL away from the Home.
And the final step would take place when the signal was given for the demolition team to level the Home, a demolition team of four commandos waiting in the forest outside the walls.
A signal Lieutenant Farrow had to give.
Farrow observed the flowing swirl of motion as Rikki and Yama engaged again, their arms and legs whirling, their martial-arts techniques honed to perfection.
Despite his diminutive stature, Rikki was more than holding his own.
His black form pranced around the big man in blue, flicking hand and foot blows with precise control. For his part, Yama was hard-pressed to prevent any of Rikki’s bone-shattering strikes from connecting. After several minutes of sustained mock combat, Rikki abruptly stepped back and bowed to his opponent, a grin creasing his face.
“You are improving,” Rikki said.
Yama bowed and smiled. “Coming from you, that’s a real compliment.”
“Same time tomorrow?” Rikki asked, wiping his right palm across his perspiring brow.
“Fine by me,” Yama replied.
Kikki glanced toward the Technic officer, ten yards away, his brown eyes narrowing. “She follows you everywhere, doesn’t she?”
Yama nodded. “I’ve been appointed as her official Family liaison.”
“I’m sure that’s the reason she sticks by your side,” Rikki remarked, his white teeth flashing.
“Are you trying to imply something?” Yama inquired. He ran his left hand through his fine, silver hair and stroked his drooping silver mustache.
“Not me,” Rikki responded innocently. “But you should thank the Spirit Hickok isn’t here.”
“Why?”
“You know Hickok,” Rikki said, still grinning. “He likes to tease everyone.”
“But you don’t?” Yama asked.
Rikki chuckled. “Of course not. A disciplined martial artist does not demean himself by exhibiting crude humor.”
Yama laughed. “If you ask me, you’ve been hanging around Geronimo too much.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because you’re starting to sling as much bull as he does,” Yama said, and the two Warriors laughed together.
Lieutenant Farrow moved toward them. “May I compliment both of you on your skill?”
Rikki bowed slightly. “Thank you.”
“Are all of the Warriors as proficient as you?” Farrow inquired.
“All of the Warriors are skilled,” Rikki answered.
“He’s too modest,” Yama interjected. “Rikki is the best martial artist in the Family.”
“From what I saw,” Lieutenant Farrow said, “you’re as good as he is.”
Rikki grinned at Yama. “I have duties to attend to. I’ll see you later.”
His katana was leaning against a maple tree ten feet away to their right, next to Yama’s usual arsenal. He walked over and reclaimed his sword, slid it through his belt, and headed toward B Block.
“Did I offend him?” Lieutenant Farrow asked, her brown eyes probing Yama’s blue.
“No,” Yama told her. “He thought we might like to be alone.”
“Why in the world would he think that?” Farrow demanded defensively.
Yama shrugged and walked to the maple tree. He replaced the Browning Hi-Power 9-millimeter Automatic Pistol under his right arm, and slid the Smith and Wesson Model 586 Distinguished Combat Magnum into his left shoulder holster. The 15-inch survival knife was returned to its sheath on his right hip, and the gleaming scimitar took its customary position on his left hip. Finally, he picked the Wilkinson Carbine up from the green grass, wiped the barrel, and slung the gun over his left shoulder.
“Do you always pack so much hardware?” Farrow asked.
“Always,” Yama replied.
“Why?” she wanted to know.
“The more diverse my arms, the more effective I can be,” Yama explained.
“I get the impression you’re very, very effective,” I arrow said.
Yama was about to reply when a terrified scream rent the air.
“What was that?” Farrow questioned him, looking around.
Yama was already moving, heading in the direction of the drawbridge at a rapid clip.
Lieutenant Farrow hurried after him. “What is it?” she cried.
Yama didn’t bother to respond. He ran faster as a second scream wafted over the compound, coming from the west, from the field beyond the west wall. The drawbridge was down, and he knew several Family members were in the field, working at removing a cluster of weeds growing about 40 yards from the wall. Normally a tedious routine, the clearing detail could be fraught with danger because of the proximity to the forest. Once a week three Tillers went outside the walls to attend to the clearing, guarded by the Warriors on the ramparts. Seldom did the Tillers encounter trouble so close to the Home, and never had the Warriors failed to protect them.
This day was different.
As Yama reached the bridge over the moat he glanced up and spotted Ares on the rampart directly above. At six feet, three inches in height, lean and all muscle, Ares was a formidable Warrior, but he accented his fierceness by shaving the hair on both sides of his head and leaving a trimmed, red crest from his forehead to his spine. He wore dark brown leather breeches, a matching shirt, and sandals, and carried a short sword on his left hip. Yama saw Ares furiously tugging on the magazine in his automatic rifle.
Ares saw Yama crossing the bridge. “The damn thing’s jammed!” he yelled in frustration. “Hurry!”
Other Family members were hastening toward the bridge.
Yama was the first across the drawbridge. He took in the tableau before him and darted toward the Tillers.
They desperately needed help.
Any help.
One of the Tillers, an elderly man, was already down, his chest torn to bloody ribbons. Two other Tillers, a youth and an attractive blonde woman, both wearing green overalls, were eight feet off, both seemingly riveted in place, frozen by the sight of their attackers.
Because there were two of them.
Once they might have been called gray wolves. Now they were deformed mutations, their very genes corrupted and transformed by the poisons in the environment. Born disfigured, these two had survived their infancy and struck off together to rear more mutations like themselves.