New York Run

Chapter Eight

Lieutenant Alicia Farrow was in a dire quandary.

What the hell was she supposed to do?

Farrow ran her right hand through her crewcut black hair, her dark eyes troubled.

What was she going to do?

Farrow was seated on the bank of the inner moat, 50 yards north of the drawbridge, her back leaning against the trunk of a tall maple tree. She stared at the slowly meandering water, dejected.

Her ass was grass!

She had deliberately violated her orders! The Minister would boil her in oil when he found out! Violating an order was an offense in the first degree, punishable by death.

Her death.

Farrow closed her eyes, deep in reflection. According to her instructions, she should have given the signal yesterday. Somewhere out there, lurking in the trees, waiting for her to activate her beeper, was the four-member demolition crew. What were their names? Sergeant Darden was one. And Private Rundle was another. There was a loudmouth named Johnson, and one other whose name eluded her. They would be wondering why she didn’t signal. How long before they sent someone to check on her?

How long before they discovered she was derelict in her duty?

But how could she do it?

How could she give the signal, knowing the compound would be demolished by a series of devastating explosions?

How could she give the signal, knowing what it would mean to her newfound friends?

Dammit!

Why did she have to go and become attached to these people? She’d never acted this way before! She was allowing raw emotionalism to pervert her higher purpose.

But she couldn’t help herself.

There was something intangible about the Family, some elusive quality supremely attractive in its simplicity. Maybe it was the way they all cared for one another. Really cared. Not the fake bullshit so common among the Technics, but authentic affection. She’d seen it. She’d experienced it. A peculiar sensation, new to her, alien in its profound impact on her mind and heart.

Was it—she balked at mentally framing the word—was it love? Real love? Not the artificial crap she’d known all her life. But sincere, unaffected, pure love?

Whatever it was, it scared the daylights out of her!

She felt it most when in Yama’s presence. Incredibly, she couldn’t get enough of him. She concocted excuses to be near him. Asked him questions to draw out their conversations, when she already knew the answers. She wanted to be near him every second of every day.

What the hell had happened to her?

F arrow opened her eyes and gazed at the moat. She had a decision to make, and she couldn’t afford to wait any longer. Either she sent the signal, or she told Yama about the demolition team.

One or the other.

But which?

“Mind some company?” asked a deep voice.

Farrow glanced up, and there he was, the morning sun to his rear, adding a preternatural glow to the outline of his muscular physique, his dark blue garment bulging with power, his silver hair and mustache neatly combed, freshly washed.

Farrow couldn’t force her mouth to function. She swallowed, nodding.

Yama sat down next to her, laying his Wilkinson on the grass. “I was searching all over for you. Is everything all right?”

Farrow averted her eyes. “Fine,” she responded huskily.

“Are you sure?” Yama insisted.

“I’m okay,” Farrow asserted. “Why do you ask?”

“Just a feeling I have,” Yama said. He scrutinized her features for a moment. “Are you homesick?”

“What?” Farrow replied in surprise.

“Are you homesick? Do you miss your fellow Technics? Is that why you’re upset?” Yama inquired.

“I’m not upset,” Farrow rejoined stiffly.

“Whatever you say,” Yama said.

Farrow nervously bit her lower lip, then glanced at him. “I don’t miss them,” she confided. “Truth to tell, I don’t even want to go back.”

“Then don’t.”

Farrow laughed bitterly. “Oh, yeah! Just like that!”

“Why not?” Yama asked.

“They might not like it,” Farrow said.

“So what? It’s your life. You can do whatever you want,” Yama declared.

“That’s easy for you to say,” Farrow stated. She decided to change the subject. “I’d like to hear some more about you.”

“Me? You already know more than anyone else,” Yama remarked.

“But I don’t know everything, and I want to know all about you,” Farrow blatantly told him. “For instance, how is it you Warriors are all so different? I mean, you all attended the same Family school. You all had the same teachers. Yet each of you is as different from the other as night from day.”

“It’s no great mystery,” Yama said, his left arm propped on the ground, relaxed. “No two people are alike. We’re as unique and individual as snowflakes. Different tastes, different likes and dislikes, different interests and talents. Some people have a talent for the soil and they become Tillers.

Others are tuned to psychic circuits and become Empaths. A few, like Joshua, attain harmony with the cosmos and become spiritual sages, dispensing truth to troubled souls. Then there are the Warriors. Our talent lies in the skillful manipulation of violence. Not much of a talent, when you compare it in the others. But it serves to safeguard our Home and our Family.” He paused, staring at the west wall. “Even similar talents can be diverse in their expression. Take the Warriors as an example. We might be termed masters of death, but each of us has perfected the mastery of a different technique in the execution of our duties, all consistent with our talents and personal preferences. Hickok is a revolver specialist. Rikki is unbeatable with a katana. Blade has his Bowies. Teucer his bow. True, we were all raised in the same environment and instructed by the same Elders, but the environment and the instructions affected us differently because we are individuals. Each of us has formed our own philosophy of life. We live according to our highest concepts of truth, beauty, and goodness. We answer to the Spirit and ourselves and no one else.” He stopped, bemused. “Why is it, whenever I’m near you, I can’t seem to stop talking?”

“Don’t stop on my account,” Farrow said.

“I’ve never had this happen,” Yama commented.

“I don’t mind if you don’t,” Farrow stated, grinning.

Yama stared into her eyes. “I’ll be honest with you, Alicia. I’ve come to care for you a great deal. I don’t want you to leave. Not just yet anyway. I’d like to get to know you better.”

Alicia turned her face away.

“I’m sorry,” Yama said. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“You don’t understand,” Farrow said huskily, refusing to let him see the torment twisting her features.

“Explain it to me,” Yama said.

“I can’t.”

“Why not?” Yama pressed her.

“Please. Leave it alone,” Farrow pleaded. She heard his clothes rustle as he rose.

“Whatever you want,” Yama declared. “But I’m always ready to listen when you decide you can trust me.” His footsteps receded to the southwest.

Farrow glanced over her right shoulder, her eyes misty.

Curse her stupidity!

Now she’d done it! Gone and driven him off! Maybe antagonized him!

There was no other choice! She must tell him about the Minister and the demolition crew! But how would he react? Despise her for being a part of the dastardly plot? Could she risk it?

Lieutenant Alicia Farrow drew her knees up to her chest and encircled her legs with her arms. She buried her face in the stiff fabric of her fatigue pants and silently weeped, torn to the core of her being.

To give the signal, and lose her new friends and probably Yama too, or to continue wavering and face execution?

To do her duty, or as her heart dictated?

That was the question.

But what the hell was the answer?