“What will we do?” Geronimo asked.
“We’ll go back the same way we came,” Blade stated. “We’ll bypass Technic City.” His fists clenched on the steering wheel. “And when we reach the Home, we’ll call a Freedom Federation Council and urge them to declare war on the Technics.”
“And what if they won’t go along with us?”
“Then we’ll do it alone,” Blade vowed.
“The Family against the Technics? Won’t we be a bit outnumbered?”
Geronimo queried.
“We’ll do it ourselves!” Blade promised vehemently. “We’ll make them pay for their deceit! Their treachery must not go unpunished!” He glanced at Geronimo. “Besides, Hickok would want us to avenge him.”
Geronimo shook his head. “I agree with you, but I can’t accept the idea of Hickok being dead.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. It’s hard to define. But Hickok has more dumb luck than any ten people I know. If there’s a way out of Technic City,” Geronimo predicted, “Hickok will find it.”
“I don’t see how.”
Chapter Eighteen
The guard stationed at tower number four on the west side of Technic City turned to his three companions. “Who brought the cards?”
“We’d best hold off,” one of the other soldiers said.
“Why?” the first one rejoined. “The captain made his rounds an hour ago. It’s almost midnight. No one is going to bother us this late at night.”
“I know,” the other agreed. “But we’re still on alert. They haven’t found that Warrior yet, and they might conduct a surprise inspection.”
“Yeah,” chimed in a third trooper. “We’d better wait.”
The first guard sighed. “Okay. Whatever you guys want. But I think you’re making a mistake. You know how boring third shift can be.”
“Better safe than sorry,” opined the second soldier.
The first man shrugged and stared at the darkened city to the east.
Curfew was at ten, and lights out in individual domiciles was set at eleven.
Public buildings could stay lit until midnight. He could see the Central Core on the horizon, brilliantly illuminated by hundreds of lights, the heart of the city, a beacon in the night. He reflected on the day’s news: the escape of the Warrior known as Hickok from the Core. He marveled at the Warrior’s ingenuity. No one had ever busted out of the Central Core before. And he ruminated on the rumors spreading like wildfire through the city, rumors asserting the Minister and his First Secretary were dead.
The paper, radio, and tube hadn’t mentioned the deaths, and the guard doubted they were true. He knew how readily gossip could circulate.
A sharp noise reached the tower, coming from the surrounding darkness, from the vicinity of the mine field.
“Did you hear something?” the first guard asked. “Nothing,” the second responded. “You’re hearing things,” said the third. “Probably,” the first trooper grudgingly conceded. He gazed at the mine field, deliberately blackened to complicate escape attempts. Anyone would think twice before venturing across a mine field at night, never knowing when they might accidentally tread on a mine and be obliterated by a gigantic explosion.
Another sound became audible, the muted rumbling of a motor.
“Do you hear it now?” the first guard demanded. He was young and wanted to impress the others with his superior senses.
“Sounds like a trike,” remarked one of the others.
“But who would be out with a trike at this time of night?” queried the young trooper. “The captain would be in his jeep.”
They moved to the east side of the tower, listening. The trike motor abruptly revved louder.
“It must be the Warrior!” the second soldier exclaimed. “He’s going to try and break through the gate!”
A beam of light abruptly appeared on the far side of the mine field.
“Here he comes!” cried the second soldier.
“No he’s not!” disputed the third. “Look! He’s going to try and make it across the mine field!”
Sure enough, the light zoomed toward the mine field, streaking for the far side.
“The fool will never make it,” said the young trooper.
The trike was bobbing and bouncing as it raced across the field. It swerved from side to side in a weaving pattern.
“He’ll never make it,” reiterated the young guard, cradling his Dakon II in his arms.
A sparkling blast rent the air as the trike struck one of the mines. A ball of flame and smoke coalesced for several seconds, then dispersed.
“What a jerk,” the young trooper said.
“You stay here,” directed the second soldier. “We’ll take the flashlights and the mine map and go have a look. Call HQ and tell them what happened.”
“Right away,” the youthful guard replied.
The young guard walked to the Communications Console while his three friends hastened down the tower steps. He picked up the headset and pressed the appropriate buttons. “Private Casey here,” he said when the sergeant at the ComCenter in the Central Core answered. “Inform Captain Zorn we have a Priority Two. Repeat. Priority Two.” He listened for a moment. “Yes, sir. On their way now.” He glanced at his watch. “ETA five minutes? Yes, sir. Over and out.” He replaced the headset and walked to the east side of the tower, watching through the window as his three companions moved across the field toward the smoldering wreckage of the trike. Their flashlights were proceeding very slowly, as they cautiously advanced while consulting the minefield map to insure they didn’t step on a mine and wind up the way the driver of the trike had.
“Freeze!”
Private Casey tensed at the barked command. He started to turn his head.
“I said freeze!” the harsh voice warned. “One more twitch and you’ll be feedin’ the worms instead of vice versa!”
“Who are you? What do you want?” Casey asked.
“I’ll do the talkin’, pipsqueak! Set your piece on the floor, real easy like!”
Private Casey hesitated. He knew his duty. He should whirl and confront this stranger. But there was something about the man’s deep voice, a steely vibrancy, a “Don’t mess with me or else!” quality he found unnerving. He intuitively sensed he would die instantly if he disobeyed this man, and Casey didn’t want to die. He laid the Dakon II on the floor.
“That’s real sensible for a Technic,” the stranger said.
Casey waited, expecting to hear the man cross the tower. Instead, something hard was jammed into his spine.
“Turn around!” the voice commanded.
Private Casey complied, discovering a lean blond man in buckskins with a rifle over each shoulder, a revolver under his left arm, and two more revolvers, both pearl-handled silver jobs, in his hands.
“Where’s the key to the gate?” the blond man demanded.
“I can’t give it to you,” Casey mustered the courage to say.
The gunman sighed. “I’m tired, pipsqueak. Real tired. And I don’t have the time to play games.” He cocked the right revolver. “If you don’t tell me where they keep the key to the gate, I’m gonna shoot you in the nuts.”
Casey swallowed, and a prickly sensation erupted over his balls.
“I ain’t got all night!” the gunman snapped.
Casey pointed at a desk in the northwest corner. “It’s in the top drawer on the right.”
“Thanks.” The gunman sidled to the desk and opened the drawer.
“You’re Hickok, aren’t you?” Casey asked.
The gunman nodded as he withdrew a large key on a metal ring.
“I knew it!” Casey said. He didn’t know what to do or say, and he was too excited to remain silent. “Did you really kill the Minister?” he blurted.