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.
Blade merely swept his legs up and out, his combat boots slamming the man in the mouth, and sent the Technic sprawling onto the floor. In the same motion he slid off the table on the right side, his muscles bulging and rippling as he raised Darmobray overhead, all 250 pounds of him. He glimpsed the Technic’s startled expressions, then hurled the scientist with all of his might. Without waiting to observe the result, he whirled and dashed to the door.
Behind him arose a tremendous crash and the mingling of curses and exclamations.
His right hand grabbed the knob and twisted, and as he tugged on the door a Dakon II chattered and rounds smacked into the jamb on his right.
Another second saw him in the corridor, the door shut tight. He estimated he had all of ten seconds before they were after him, ten seconds in which to elude them. Four strides brought him to a closed door on the left.
Aware that every moment could mean the different between life and death, he opened the door and slipped into the inky interior, and not until the door was shutting did he abruptly perceive that he had entered a utility closet. His fingers tightened on the doorknob and he was about to continue his flight when he heard upraised voices.
Darmobray and the troopers!
“—skin you alive if he gets away!” barked the Director.
“What else could we do, sir? He would’ve killed you.”
“I don’t want to hear your lame excuses. Fan out! Find him!”
“Where could he have gone?” asked a trooper.
“Am I a mind reader?” Darmobray responded, his voice rising shrilly. “Find him!”
Blade tensed as boots tramped in the corridor. He held fast to the doorknob, and it was well he did because someone took hold of the other side and attempted to wrench it open.
“Hey! This door is locked! Maybe he’s in here!” called out one of the soldiers.
“That’s a closet, you idiot!” the Director snapped. “A man like Blade is not about to allow himself to be trapped in a utility closet. Check all the rooms, all the windows!”
“Yes, sir,” the Technic responded.
The pressure on the doorknob eased and Blade relaxed, listening to the troopers pound off in the direction of the entrance. Temporarily, at least, he had a respite, and he used the reprieve to plot his next move. Acquiring weapons was paramount, and the weapons he wanted the most were his Bowies and the Commando. According to Darmobray, they were in Colonel Hufford’s office in the dorm the Technics had converted to a barracks. But which building would it be? There were so many on campus it would take him an hour to go to every one.
The corridor had gone quiet.
Blade eased the door out a crack and peeked to his left, toward the exit at the far end. None of the troopers or the Director was in sight. Muffled voices came from several of the rooms as they conducted a thorough search. If he attempted to sneak past them, they were bound to spot him.
And eventually, Darmobray notwithstanding, they would get around to checking the utility closet.
Where was the one place they would least likely expect him to be?
The operating room.
Blade scanned the corridor again, then slipped from the closet, closed the door, and raced to the operating room, trying to avoid slapping his combat boots on the tile. He intensely disliked turn-ing his back to his enemies, but it couldn’t be helped, and now he had done it twice in as many minutes. His shoulder blades tingling, he came to the operating room, ducked within, and shut the door.
Whew!
The Warrior hurried to the window and inspected the sill, finding a latch which he promptly released. He raised the window enough for him to pass through, then leaned out and surveyed the lawn and the nearest structures. The encroaching darkness shrouded the landscape in benighted shadows. There were no troopers in sight, so he slid over the sill and dropped to the ground.
Which way?
Staying in the gloom at the base of the wall, he bore to the right, constantly alert for Technics. When he reached the corner he paused, then cautiously inched his eyes to the edge.
Thirty feet away, their weapons slung over their shoulders, conversing idly, slowly approaching the rear of the building, were two soldiers.
Blade retreated several yards into the blackest shadow and crouched, his brawny hands flat on the ground. He was surprised that the Director hadn’t sounded an alarm, and he wondered if the Technics simply hadn’t bothered with a security system because of the logistics involved. The huge size of the campus and the number of buildings would have entailed expending a lot of time and resources, and perhaps they had figured the fence and their patrols were sufficient.
The pair of troopers stepped into view at the corner.
Just as a siren cut loose with an ear-splitting whine.
So much for his bright ideas! Blade thought, and sprang from concealment. The Technics had spun and were staring back the way they had come, sitting ducks. He leaped behind them, took hold of each man by the scruff of the neck, and pounded their heads together before either of them knew what was happening. Both sagged, but neither was unconscious, and they tried to reach over their shoulders to grasp his arms. With a powerful sweep of his titanic sinews, he bashed them together once more. The trooper in his left hand slumped, but the one in the right still struggled.
The siren continued to wail.
Impatient to be off, Blade rammed the Technic in his right hand against the buildings, then let them both drop. He appropriated their Dakon II’s and ran to the west.
Shouts arose in different directions.
Go! Blade’s mind shrieked.
Go!
Go!
Go!
He flew to the front of the building, and as he bounded into the open he glanced to his right and saw his sparring partners from the operating room. His abrup
t advent took them un-awares, and five of the six merely gaped. The sixth, Old Crafty Face, exhibited astonishing reflexes, bringing his Dakon II up the instant he saw Blade.
But the Warrior was quicker.
Blade fired both Dakon II’s simultaneously, his initial rounds boring into crafty puss and flinging the trooper to the grass. He swept the assault rifles back and forth, mowing the five others down, their chests and heads exploding in miniature crimson geysers, and emptied the Dakon II’s into them. They died without screaming.
The Warrior dropped the assault rifles and headed to the southwest, in the direction of the gate through which he had entered the university. If he couldn’t locate the dorm soon, he intended to at least escape the Technic’s clutches.
“Over this way!” yelled a man off to the right.
“What’s going on?” demanded another.
Blade heard them clearly, and he suddenly realized the siren had ceased. Thankful for small blessings, he sprinted onward and spied a long two-story structure directly ahead. Through the double doors at the west end came four troopers, two in the act of donning their uniforms.
Was that the barracks?
The Warrior doubled over, minimizing his outline, and hoped they wouldn’t see him. They were glancing every which way, clearly perplexed, not knowing where the campus might be under attack. One of them said something and they all moved to the southwest.
How convenient.
Blade grinned and poured on the speed. When he was ten feet from the double doors another Technic emerged, this one buttoning his shirt.
The soldier heard the Warrior and looked up.
“Surprise!” Blade quipped, and delivered a devastating right to the man’s nose. The impact hurled the trooper into the doors, his nostrils crushed, his eyelids fluttering. A second right drove him to the ground.
A hasty scrutiny verified no other Technics were in the vicinity, so Blade went through the double doors into an office containing a desk and several chairs. Past the office, extending the length of the building, was a hall lined with a dozen doors on each side. He halted near the desk and looked at a closet in the left-hand corner, the only likely spot where his weapons might be stashed.
Blade darted to the closet and tried the knob, which turned readily, and a moment later he stared happily at the Commando, propped against the right side, and his Bowies and the Dan Wesson on the floor. He stooped to scoop up the knives, and as he did the double doors were flung outward and in came Colonel Hufford and Captain Perinn.
Chapter Nineteen
“Dear God!” Melissa exclaimed in horror. “What do we do now?”
“You shouldn’t take the name of the Lord in vain,” Samson said.
“More to the point,” Yama remarked, “why are the Automatons returning now? The guards weren’t expecting them back to soon.” He closed and locked the gate.
“Automatons?” Samson repeated quizzically.
“That’s what those things are called,” Yama disclosed. He stared at the legion of the dead, now 75 yards distant, and remembered the comment the Technic named Ted had made about the transmitter in the building to the north, the structure next to the strange spire. If the transmitter somehow controlled the Automatons, then perhaps the transmitter could be used to stop them.
“Let’s get the heck out of here!” Melissa proposed.
Yama glanced at the Nazarite. “Can you hold this gate?”
“Until Hell freezes over.”
“Hopefully, I won’t be gone quite that long,” Yama said. He pointed at the building housing the transmitter. “I have reason to believe I might be able to stop them from there.”
“Then go. And may our Lord guide your hand,” Samson stated sincerely.
“What about me?” Melissa blurted.
“You can help Samson hold the gate.”
“Against all of them?”
Samson caught Yama’s eye and shook his head just once, so that Melissa wouldn’t notice. “I’ll hold the gate by myself.”
“Are you sure?”
“Go. Time is wasting.”
The man in blue glanced at the Automatons, nodded grimly, and jogged to the north. “I won’t desert you. I promise.”
“I know,” Samson responded.
Yama held his Wilkinson at waist height and stayed close to the fence, scrutinizing the small structure. On the south side a solitary window, covered inside by a white shade, cast a diffuse ring of light around its rim.
“What do you want me to do?” Melissa whispered.
“Exactly as you’re told.”
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
The Warrior ignored the question, concentrating on a tree that had materialized approximately 30 feet from the transmitter building. He angled toward it, casting a quick look over his left shoulder.
Only 40 yards separated the Automatons from the gate.
Yama speculated on whether the transmitter operator might have seen him dispatch the guards and had ordered the walking dead to return to slay him. He crouched down as he neared the tree, and was gratified to observe Melissa do the same. The woman learned quickly. She had brains as well as beauty, and a feisty temperament to boot. What more could a man ask for?
What the hell was he doing?
Thinking about her at a time like this!
They came to the tree and knelt on the grass.
Yama gazed back at the gate and the road. The lead row of Automatons was just passing under one of the perimeter lights the Technics had positioned at 40-foot intervals along the fence. They were 30 yards from Samson.
“Look!” Melissa declared softly, and indicated the building.
The Warrior swung around and saw a door on the west side. Someone had left it hanging open about an inch. “Stay here,” he directed her, and hastened to the structure. He paused at the corner to survey the campus grounds for troopers, and once satisfied there were none nearby, he eased to the door and stood listening.
“—very dangerous, sir,” a man was saying.
“I don’t give a damn,” snapped a deep voice.
“With all due respect, Director, we’ve never attempted to work them into a killing frenzy before. Only the renegades have killed. If we drive all of the Automatons over the edge, they may go berserk and slay us as well,” stated yet another person.
A five-second silence ensued.
“Now you listen to me, you quislings,” the man with the deep voice declared. “You’ll do exactly as I say, or I will personally report this to the Minister and persuade him to ship you both to work at a worm farm.”
“We have your welfare in mind too, Director,” said the first man. “The procedure is extremely dangerous. What’s to stop the Automatons from killing you?”
“Are you hard of hearing?” the Director thundered. “I want you to increase the power, and I want you to do it now! As the Director of the Science Division, I command you to obey me!”
The Director of the Science Division? Yama peered into the building.
There was only one room. Occupying half of it, and situated against the opposite wall, stood a rectangular metal cabinet containing an array of dials, switches, and meters. Two men, both wearing green smocks, were busily manipulating the controls while a third man watched, an imposing white-haired figure attired in a white uniform, his back to the door.
“As soon as you have made the proper adjustments, we will join our soldiers who are grouping at the southwest gate,” the white-haired man said, and his voice identified him as the Director. “Colonel Hufford and his men will protect us. We’ll abandon the Research Facility until the job is done.”
One of the men in green glanced around. “And all this for just one man, sir?”
“Not just any man, Epson. We’re talking about the man who has become the greatest threat to the existence of our Technic order since Technic City was founded. One of his colleagues brutally murdered our previous Minister. And he has caused us no end of grief. Well,
it all stops here. Now we have him trapped, and I want him dead within the hour.”
Yama had tensed at the mention of the previous Minister. Since Hickok had been the Warrior, the Director must be refer-ring to Blade!
“We’ll draw the Automatons onto the campus,” the Director was saying.
“With the transmitter at full power, they’ll be impelled into a killing rage.
They’ll range all over the university, going from room to room, hunting for victims.” He paused and cackled. “And the only one left on campus will be Blade!”
Yama had overheard enough. He flung the door inward and stepped inside and to the left so he wouldn’t be framed in the doorway, the Wilkinson leveled at the man they called the Director. “Don’t touch that transmitter!”
All three men spun to face the Warrior.
“Who the hell are you?” the Director demanded.
“Raise your arms,” Yama directed, wagging the Wilkinson. The two technicians complied, but the Director simply glared.
“Who are you?”
“I’m the man who is going to put a hole between your eyes if you don’t do exactly as I tell you to do,” Yama warned, and took a bead on the center of the man’s forehead.
Glowering, the white-haired man obeyed. “Do you know who I am?”
“Ask me if I care.”
“I’m Quinton Darmobray, fool. The Director of the Technic Science Division. And you, if I’m not mistaken, must be another Warrior.”
“Yama.”
“Damn! You sons of bitches are crawling out of the wood-work.”
“Where’s Blade?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” Darmobray said. “Your giant friend escaped a short while ago.”
Yama looked past the trio at the transmitter, his gaze roving over the bewildering complexity of the controls. “How do you turn that thing off?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” the Director retorted.
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