Blade stayed out of the way along a side wall, watching but not really seeing. He was wrestling with the realization that if things didn’t go right, he’d die far from the Home, an invader in a strange land who had the temerity to challenge their inhuman puppet masters.
Presently, in strolled Hickok and Geronimo. They spotted him and made a beeline.
“We need to talk, pard,” Hickok declared.
“If it’s what I think it’s about,” Blade replied, “we’ve been through it enough already.”
“It’s not right,” Hickok said.
“Here we go again,” Blade said.
“We’re Alpha Triad, consarn it all,” Hickok said. “We belong together.”
Blade sighed. It had been the Founder, once again, who instituted the practice of dividing the Warriors into Triads who trained together, worked together, and fought together. Bands of brothers, as it were, who would gladly die for one another. Indeed, only death ever broke a Triad apart.
“This isn’t my idea, Blade,” Geronomo said. “I told him to let it drop but he won’t.”
“It’s not right,” Hickok repeated himself. “The only reason Geronimo is goin’ along with it is because he always does what you tell him.”
“Warriors follow orders,” Geronimo said.
Blade sought to nip their argument in the bud with, “I need someone in charge of the Warriors who I can trust while I’m gone. Geronimo will make a fine head Warrior.”
“So would Rikki-Tikki-Tavi or Spartacus or one or two others,” Hickok said. “That won’t wash.”
“I don’t mind staying behind,” Geronimo said. “I don’t like it, but I understand why.”
“It’s settled,” Blade said to the gunfighter. “Get used to it.”
“Well, hell,” Hickok said.
As fate would have it, the chamber door opened and in strode the cause of their contention.
“Speak of the devil,” Geronimo said.
“Or Death himself,” Hickok grumbled.
The newcomer’s name was Yama. His eyes were crystal blue, his hair and mustache a striking shade of silver. Although he was nearly as big as Blade, he carried himself like a panther, with a light tread and an unconscious grace to his movements. He wore a one-piece blue uniform of his own devising. Stitched on the back was a black skull.
To say Yama was armed to the teeth was an understatement. On his left hip was a scimitar. From his right hung a 15-inch survival knife. In a shoulder rig under his right arm was a Browning Hi-Power 9mm auto pistol; under his left arm a Smith & Wesson Model 586 Distinguished Combat Magnum. Slung across his chest was a sling to a Wilkinson ‘Terry’ Carbine which the Family Gunsmiths had converted to full auto. They’d also given him a 50-round magazine to replace the standard 30.
Yama regarded the hectic activity with interest, then spied them and came over. A rare smile touched his lips. “Are we still set to leave in the next day or two?”
“We were just yakkin’ about that,” Hickok said. “How would you like to stay and let Geronimo go in your place?”
Even rarer confusion marked Yama’s features. “I thought that was already decided.”
“It is,” Blade said. “Pay no attention to him.”
“Is there a problem?” Yama asked.
“Hickok would rather I go,” Geronimo said. “He needs someone to hold his hand and change his diapers."
“That’s understandable,” Yama said. “I’d feel the same way if I were him.”
“You would?” Hickok said.
“Of course. But you have to understand what this means to me.” Yama gestured at the cage. “In a couple of days we could be in southeast Asia, going up against the Lords of Kismet.”
“Tell me somethin’ I don’t know,” Hickok said.
“You heard the reptilian who infiltrated our Home,” Yama said. “One of those Lords is supposedly the real Yama. A god, so they say. The one I named myself after. I intend to track him down and confront him face-to-face.”
“You know what else folks say?” Hickok said. “Be careful what you wish for. It might come back to bite you on the butt.”
CHAPTER 13
There were some in the Family who believed that Yama didn’t have a sense of humor. Yama did, but he would be the first to admit that it was grimmer than most. But then, so was his general disposition. Not that it bothered him any. He knew he possessed what a Family Empath had called a ‘dark soul’. He knew why, too. At an early age, life had taught him a brutal lesson. A lesson most people were spared.
When he was eight, Yama’s father died. The kindest, gentlest man Yama ever knew was savagely torn to pieces by a ravening mutate. Yama witnessed the whole thing.
At the time they were outside the Home, picking blackberries at a rare patch that still produced them. Other Family members had been doing the same, with everyone having a good time, picking and joking and laughing.
A Warrior had been keeping watch for threats. Lionheart was his name. He was fond of the knights of yore, and to a broadsword and a Mossberg .12-gauge shotgun. Since the Family didn’t have a suit of armor, he’d dressed in tactical gear. His helmet, though, was unlike any ever worn by the military or SWAT personnel. He had the Family Blacksmith fashion one based on a painting of the original Richard the Lionheart during the Crusades.
On that particular day at the blackberry patch, Lionheart had stood leaning on his shotgun, his helmet tilted back to afford some relief from the heat.
Even at that early age, Yama had a keen interest in the Warriors. They were the Family’s protectors, and the fact they would willingly give their lives to safeguard everyone else made a tremendous impression.
Yama could vividly recall picking the berries and putting them in his pail. His father was saying what a wonderful treat it would be for the Family, when a woman screamed and pointed.
A mutate had lumbered out of the woods. Once a black bear, it had been transformed into a nearly hairless horror covered with blisters that oozed pus from open sores. Madness gleamed from its red eyes as
