Citadel Run

Chapter Fifteen

Yama was all set to cut the approaching trooper in two when a funny thing happened.

The soldier suddenly stiffened, snapped to attention, and saluted. “Sir! Sorry, sir!” He looked over his left shoulder at the four troopers standing behind the supply truck. “An officer!” he exclaimed, sounding petrified.

“It’s an officer!”

The four other soldiers immediately straightened, their arms held at their sides.

“I didn’t see you were an officer,” the one with the M-16 explained, “until I was right on top of you, sir. I wouldn’t have called you a smart-ass had I known, sir.”

Yama opted to bluff his way past these men.

“I certainly hope not,” the Warrior said stiffly, “or you know where you’d end up, don’t you?”

The trooper with the M-16 swallowed, his throat bobbing. “Yes, sir.”

“What is your name?” Yama demanded.

“Corporal Gardner, sir!”

“Who did you think I was?” Yama pressed him.

“Just one of us, sir! A grunt like us! I thought I could get you to help us finish loading this truck so we could get out of here faster. I didn’t see your bars until it was too late, sir.”

Yama simulated making a momentous decision; he bit his lower lip and used his left hand to scratch his chin. “Well, Corporal Gardner, I’ll let you go this time, but only because we both have a lot to do before we depart for South Dakota. Consider yourself lucky. I won’t press charges for insubordination.”

Corporal Gardner exhaled noisily. “Thank you, sir! It won’t happen again, sir!”

“It had better not,” Yama advised him, about to leave, when he noticed several large crates in the supply truck. “What is it you’re loading up anyway?”

“Explosives, sir,” Gardner respectfully revealed. “This is our last truck and we can take some time off. So far, we’ve loaded four trucks full of all kinds of stuff. Grenades, nitro, dynamite, mines, even a few of those rare tactical units, the small jobs that can lob a thermo about a mile or more.”

Yama, puzzled by the references to “tactical unit” and to “thermo,” wanted to ask more. He refrained for fear of displaying an ignorance inconsistent with his status as an officer.

“Anything else, sir?” Corporal Gardner asked, evidently eager to return to work and remove himself from the officer’s presence.

“No. Carry on,” Yama directed. He continued on his way toward the Biological Center, staying in the shadows of the vehicles to reduce the prospect of detection. Fortunately, he did not bump into any more late workers, and before he knew it he was there, at the edge of a wide sidewalk below the towering edifice. To one accustomed to the sedate pace of life at the Home, it was as if he had walked into a madhouse.

People were everywhere, great crowds of them, going every which way, pressing against one another in their haste to reach their destinations.

Men, women, and children; civilians and military types; some in fine clothes, some in rags; a compact commingling of humanity surging to and fro, intent on their own lives to the exclusion of all else.

Yama stared at the spectacle in bewilderment. Why was everyone in such a hurry? He looked down at his boots, then at the sidewalk not four feet away, confused. He gazed around at the parking lot, nearly deserted except for the vehicles and a few straggling soldiers, then at the sidewalk again.

He didn’t get it.

Why were they all staying on the sidewalk, crammed together, when they could simply spread out and use part of the parking lot? It didn’t make any…

Hold it!

Yama sensed he was being watched, and casually twisted, studying the passers-by, holding the Wilkinson close to his right side. Was he imagining things or…?

There.

A tall man wearing a blue uniform and carrying a night stick was standing on a small, circular white platform, about three feet high, twenty yards north of the Warrior’s position. The platform was located in the center of the sidewalk, forcing the pedestrains to bypass it on either side.

The man was keeping an eagle eye on the crowd below his perch.

Yama knew the man in blue—weren’t they called policemen?—was watching him closely and he wondered if he’d made a mistake or was about to make one. He couldn’t afford a mishap, not when he was so close to his destination! Should he simply barge onto the sidewalk and trust he could lose the policeman in the throng? What if the policeman sounded an alarm?

Yama’s predicament was unexpectedly resolved.

Another soldier appeared, walking from the parking lot toward the sidewalk.

Yama caught sight of the trooper out of the corner of his left eye and he followed the soldier’s movement as inconspicuously as he could.

The newcomer on the scene didn’t hesitate; he walked up to the sidewalk and stopped, directly across from the policeman on the white platform. At that particular point, Yama observed, the sidewalk tapered outward and formed a triangular-shaped section of cement. The soldier stood in the center of the triangle, patiently waiting, watching the lines of passing people. Suddenly, an opening presented itself and the trooper darted into the lane and was off, moving with the pedestrian traffic flow.

Yama detected a method to this madness. Those on the far side of the sidewalk were all moving to his left, toward the north. The people on the nearest half of the sidewalk were all walking toward the south, to his right.

They were traveling in distinct patterns, although the initial impression had belied the fact.

The Warrior abruptly realized something else.

The shouting he’d heard earlier was still assaulting the ears. He’d been listening to it for so long, he must have subconsciously blocked out the words. Now they were crystal clear, and their source was self-evident.

Thirty yards to the south was a metal pole, twenty feet in height, with a loudspeaker attached at the top.

“…arrested for littering,” the speaker was broadcasting, “Citizen Alfred E. Bradbury. Arrested for jaywalking, Citizen Norma T. Putz. Arrested for smoking. Citizens T.S. Doyle, Mary B. Martin, and Warren O. Sanderson. That concludes this edition of ‘Criminal Corner.’ The next report will be in thirty minutes. Ever remember: In Samuel We Trust.”

Yama casually strolled toward the triangle, his mind utterly confounded by the sights and sounds around him.

“…time for the hourly Civilized Zone Update,” the loudspeaker was squawking, “and here with your news is Walter Carruthers, direct from Denver.” There was a second of static, followed by a deep, resonant voice speaking in clipped sentences. “My fellow Citizens, good evening. This is a day to remember, a day that will go down in history. In his exalted wisdom, Samuel has decided to reabsorb the barbarians in the former state of South Dakota. As you are already aware, since you have been following these reports as required, a renegade band known as the Cavalry must be reabsorbed to save them from themselves. All of the Civilized Zone is behind our glorious leader in this enterprise; peace and stability will only come after what was once ours is ours again! However, because of the additional drain on our supplies, certain food and other items will face increased rationing during the course of the military campaign. Effective immediately, all Citizens will be permitted one ounce of chocolate every three months instead of every two. Movie credits will now be accrued at the rate of one credit for every eighty hours of satisfactory work performance, instead of every seventy-five hours…” Yama reached the triangle and stopped, striving to derive some logical meaning from the broadcasts. “…here with the latest Flashlines is Diane Evans.” The policeman wasn’t taking his eyes off the Warrior. “…comes word from Topeka, Kansas, this evening of a despicable crime! The Morals Police report they have arrested nine parties, all involved in an anti-abortion ring known as The Breath of Life. These nine, five men and four women, have already confessed to terrifying activities against the State, against the Civilized Zone itself. These criminal offenses include distributing anti-abortion literature anonymously to pregnant women; spraying anarchist slogans on public buildings and other property; and inciting and perpetuating criminal insanity by distributing religious tracts randomly through the public mail. The prosecutor in this case says he is confident that all nine guilty parties will receive the death penalty. Elsewhere, in Tulsa, Oklahoma, four children will jointly receive the Citizenship of the Month Award from that city for outstanding service to their Government and fellow Citizens. The four, ranging in age from six to fourteen, collectively contacted the Crimestoppers Program and reported their parents for persistently saying grace at meals, a Class Nine Felony. All four children will receive an equal share of the two-thousand-credit reward in this instance. Congratulations to the Lancaster children of Tulsa, children with the courage to live the Golden Rule. Remember: Crimestopping Begins in the Home!”

Yama ceased listening, at a complete loss to explain any of the babble.

Morals Police? Turning in your own parents? It was utterly alien to his experience, as if he’d landed on another planet. He couldn’t afford to waste precious time when he had a bigger problem to solve.

Namely, the staring policeman.

Yama knew he couldn’t delay much longer; he had to enter the sidewalk soon or the policeman would come over to investigate his unseemly delay.

He took a deep breath and girded himself, waiting for an opening.

The policeman was leaning forward, intently scrutinizing the man with the silver hair.

The loudspeaker suddenly went dead, absolutely devoid of all sound, even static.

Yama felt, rather than saw, a perceptible change in the crowd, an ambiguous change in attitude and alertness.

A raucous blast abruptly shrieked from the loudspeaker.

Twice.

Three times in all.

The reaction on the sidewalk was instantaneous and inexplicable. The people stopped and packed into two masses on either side of the lofty steps leading up to the Biological Center, clearing a path from the glass doors down to the parking lot.

Yama gazed up at the large doors, tinted black like the rest of the seven-story structure, as they swung outward, disgorging a veritable menagerie, a nightmarish collection of genetic deviates walking in double file, marching down the steps in synchronized precision. Ten. Twenty.

Thirty. Yama stopped counting. They reached the sidewalk and turned to the left, their route miraculously clear of all other traffic.

How did the Doktor do it?

Yama knew Gremlin well, even considered the creature a friend. But the Warrior couldn’t become accustomed to the results of genetic engineering, especially when those results could talk to you or eat with you.

Or eat you.

All of the creatures in the Doktor’s Genetic Research Division were bipeds; beyond that, any similarity was strictly coincidental. There were tall ones and short ones, hairy ones and scaly ones, many more bestial than human, some with exaggerated ears or extended fangs, others with fiery red eyes or claws for fingers. Each of them wore a leather loincloth and was fitted with a metal collar around its neck, the collar the Doktor reportedly utilized to monitor their activities and to electrocute them for disobedience if necessary. Every one of them was endowed with keen animal senses and exceptional strength. According to the intelligence provided by Gremlin, the defector residing with the Family, there were fifteen hundred creations in the Genetic Research Division.

Fifteen hundred!

There was a murmur among the people on the sidewalk.

An imposing figure stood at the top of the stairs, a lean man looming head and shoulders over everyone, and everything, else. He wore a flowing white robe, the fabric covering him from his neck to his feet. His eyes were deeply set in their sockets and seemed to glow with an inner light. He grinned as he walked down the steps, exposing a mouth full of tiny, curiously pointed teeth. His hair was a dark black mane upon his sloping head.

Without being told, Yama intuitively knew this was the nefarious Doktor.

A young woman walked at the Doktor’s side, attired in a brown robe.

Her lovely features were serpentine, her skin yellow, and her narrow eyes a shade of lavender.

The Doktor and his consort descended the stairs and walked to the left, followed by as many genetically spawned creatures as had preceded them.

Forty soldiers, armed with M-16’s and automatic pistols, brought up the rear of the procession.

The loudspeaker blasted three times as the last of the soldiers disappeared around a bend in the sidewalk.

Yama saw his chance.

The pedestrians were returning to the sidewalk, milling about in a disorganized fashion.

Yama quickly shoved his way through the throng and reached the bottom of the steps. He tightened his grip on the Wilkinson, feeling his scimitar rub against his back, as he ascended the stairs and made for the doors.

“Hold up, Citizen!” someone shouted behind him.

Yama slowly turned.

The policeman was walking up the steps, swinging his night stick in his right hand.

How would an Army officer address a policeman? Certainly not as a superior.

“May I help you?” Yama asked as the policeman reached the step below him.

The policeman’s blue hat was pulled down to his ears, his graying sideburns flaring below his cheeks. His eyes were brown and attentive, his jaw rounded.

“Yes, sir,” the policeman said. “I couldn’t help but notice you back there. You looked like you weren’t quite with it. Anything wrong?”

Yama mentally chided himself for his lack of self-control. “Nothing’s wrong. Just feeling a bit ill, is all. My stomach.”

“You’d better see the medics, then,” the policeman advised.

“I intend to,” Yama replied. “Thanks.”

The officer nodded, smiling, and started to walk off.

Yama faced the doors.

“Say, Citizen,” the officer inquired over his shoulder, “what unit are you with?”

Unit? How were the Army units designated? Yama recalled a comment Seth had made concerning the patrol at his ranch. “I’m attached as an auxiliary with the Genetic Research Division.” He paused and glared at the policeman. “Why all these stupid questions? I have business inside and you are detaining me!”

Yama could read the policeman’s features. The man was suspicious of the Warrior, but he couldn’t put his finger on why. The policeman was racking his brain, trying to figure out what it was about Yama he didn’t like, but he couldn’t.

“I’m sorry,” the policeman stated.

Yama nodded imperiously, walked to the doors, and stepped inside the sinister Biological Center.