And then Ares was there. Perhaps it was his red hair, maybe his inherited temperament, but Ares was known as the most hotheaded Warrior. He had once escorted two Healers outside of the Home, protecting them while they searched for herbs. The Healers had stumbled across a large black bear, and the bear attacked. Ares came to their rescue. According to the Healers, the bear never stood a chance. Ares took it on with just his short sword and made mincemeat of the hapless predator. The Healers later stated Ares seemed to be enjoying himself as he fought. Too much. So whether justified or not, Ares was considered to be particularly bloodthirsty when his wrath was aroused.
And at the moment he was incensed beyond endurance.
Irritated by the jamming of his gun, inflamed by the death of the Tiller while under his guard, and racked by a tormenting sense of personal guilt, he had cleared his weapon and raced to aid Yama and Rikki. Now, his face contorted, his features livid, he raised his automatic rifle and fired at the first mutant, his slugs stitching across its heads and abdomen, and he fired as it stumbled and fell onto its knees, fired as it desperately tried to stand and lunge at him, and fired until both heads were a mass of shattered reddish pulp. Not content with the death of the first mutant, Ares advanced on the second. Although the wolf was limp, its eyes lifeless, its body flat on the ground, the Mohawk-topped Warrior slowly walked toward it, pumping round after round into the mutant, and only suspending his one-man barrage when the rifle lacked bullets to shoot.
Ares stood next to the decimated mutant, sweat coating his hawkish face, and kicked it.
“I think it’s dead,” Rikki remarked, standing.
Yama stood, helping Farrow to rise.
Ares gazed at the deceased Tiller. He turned to Rikki, his green eyes rimmed with moisture. “I killed him,” he said in a subdued tone.
“You did not kill him,” Rikki said, disputing Ares. “I was inside B Block when this began and I didn’t hear the initial screams. One of the others told me about them, and I saw you working with your gun as I was running toward the drawbridge. Guns jam. It’s a fact of life.”
“I killed him,” Ares asserted forlornly.
Rikki walked over to Ares and placed his right hand on Ares’s left arm.
“You did not kill him, my brother. Don’t blame yourself.”
Ares stared at the Tiller again. “Dear Spirit!” he said.
Other Warriors and Family members were emerging from the Home.
“We can talk about this later,” Rikki offered.
Ares looked down at Rikki. “I want a Review.”
“You what?” Rikki responded in surprise.
“I want an official Warrior Review Board to call a hearing and rule on my actions,” Ares stated.
Rikki glanced at Yama, who frowned. “This isn’t necessary,” he told Ares.
“It is for me,” Ares countered. “I demand a Review Board, and as a Warrior it’s my right to have one.”
“But Blade is absent,” Rikki said. “He usually heads the Review Boards.”
“Don’t stall,” Ares responded. “Blade doesn’t need to be here for a Review Board to be held. Besides, with Alpha Triad gone, you’re in charge of the Warriors. You can call a Review Board. All you have to do is pick two other Warriors to sit on it with you.”
Rikki sighed. “This really isn’t necessary,” he reiterated.
Ares gazed at the dead Tiller, his anguished eyes betraying his intense inner turmoil. He turned to Rikki. “Please, Rikki. For my own peace of mind.”
Rikki was surprised by the distress Ares was suffering. Everyone had always considered Ares to be callous, to be impervious to any emotional affliction. They were certainly wrong. “I will call a Review Board for tomorrow,” he said.
“Thank you,” Ares stated, relieved. “I am in your debt.”
Bertha, Spartacus, Teucer, and a score of Family members reached the scene of the tragedy and clustered around, everyone asking questions at once.
Yama took hold of Lieutenant Farrow’s right hand. “We must get you to the Healers.”
Farrow reluctantly allowed herself to be led toward the drawbridge. She examined the ragged tear in her left forearm. “It’s no big deal,” she said.
“Who are you kidding?” Yama retorted, weaving through the gathering crowd.
“You might be needed here,” Farrow said.
“Rikki will handle it,” Yama declared. He grinned at her. “What’s the matter? Are you afraid of seeing the Healers?”
“I’m not too fond of having needles stuck into me,” Farrow acknowledged.
“Our Healers don’t use needles,” Yama informed her.
“What kind of medicine do they use?” Farrow asked.
“Herbal remedies, primarily,” Yama answered. “They employ a varied assortment of natural medicines.”
“And they don’t jab you with needles?” Farrow inquired.
“No.”
“Then how do you take your medicine?” she queried.
“Orally,” Yama responded. “Usually their remedies are incorporated into a tea. Otherwise, they make Pills.”
“And these remedies work?” Farrow asked.
“Every time,” Yama said, “and without the adverse reactions people often suffered before the Big Blast to artificial chemicals and stimulants.”
“Our scientists maintain herbal medicine is quackery,” Farrow commented without real conviction.
“Let the Healers treat you,” Yama proposed, “then you be the judge.”
They reached the drawbridge and started across. More Family members were hastening to the field. Sherry, Hickok’s wife, approached.
“What happened?” Sherry asked as she came abreast of Yama.
Yama nodded at Farrow’s left arm. “See Rikki. We must reach the infirmary.”
“I understand,” Sherry said, and ran off.
“Your Family is really tight-knit,” Farrow mentioned as they hastened in the direction of C Block.
“We’re taught in childhood to love one another,” Yama told her.
“Love? Isn’t that strange talk coming from a Warrior?”
Yama shook his head. “Why should the quality of love be incompatible with being a Warrior?”
“Because your whole purpose in life is to kill,” Farrow said. “You’re like me. A trained fighter. Killing is all we know.”
Yama paused and looked into her eyes. “If all you know is killing, I feel sorry for you.”
“I don’t need your sympathy!” Farrow snapped, withdrawing her hand from his.
Yama continued toward the infirmary.
“How do you do it?” Farrow asked, staying on his heels.
“Do what?”
“Justifying killing, if you think so highly of love?” Farrow inquired.
“All of the Warriors learn to love before they learn to kill,” Yama revealed. “Our early years with our parents and in the Family school are devoted to learning about love. What it is, how—”
“What is love?” Farrow interrupted.
“You don’t know?” Yama rejoined.
“I’m serious. What is love? There are so many definitions,” Farrow observed.
“We define love as doing good for others,” Yama disclosed. “It’s our golden rule. Do for others as you conceive your actions to be guided by the Spirit. Every child in the Family memorizes this teaching by the time they’re seven.”
“But if you’re all taught so much about love,” Farrow said, “how is it the Warriors become so adept at killing?”
“The Family exalts the ideal of spiritual love,” Yama stated, recalling his philosophy classes under Plato’s instruction. “Unfortunately, the rest of this crazy world doesn’t see it our way. If the Family is to survive in an insane world where violence is supreme and hatred is rampant, then some members must be willing to do whatever is necessary to preserve our Home and our ideals. The Warriors are skilled killers, true, but we only kill because we love our Family and want to safeguard them from the degenerates out there.” He waved toward the west wall.