“You saw them carrying someone that far off?” Lynx chimed in. “I know we’ve got good eyesight, but—”

  Gremlin’s red eyes narrowed. “Gremlin saw them, yes! Don’t call Gremlin liar, no!”

  “I ain’t callin’ you a lair, you ding-a-ling!” Lynx said.

  “Find a spot to hide!” Hickok ordered. “And don’t nobody make a move unless I give the word.”

  “Can I wee-wee without permission?” Lynx cracked flippantly.

  Hickok ignored the cat-man and turned to a row of doors. He opened the first one. Inside was a closet containing a pile of boxes and a strange metal instrument, a square affair with a dozen switches and dials. There was plenty of space to the left of the pile, and he bolstered his Pythons and quickly eased inside. “Hurry!” he declared, then closed the door. Darkness enveloped him. He could hear the others scurrying to concealment. A door opened to his right, and he knew one of them was using the next closet to hide. He was about to ask who it was, when he heard a voice whispering.

  “Gremlin doesn’t like this, no! Not one bit, yes!”

  Hickok grinned. He lifted his right hand and rested it on his right Colt.

  There wasn’t much room to maneuver, but he was confident he could draw if necessary. He debated a course of action. Should he confront these jokers as soon as they returned? Or should he wait, bide his time, eavesdrop on them, and possibly learn what they were up to, why they were at the Home? He opted for the second plan.

  There was a muffled thump from the cockpit, from the direction of the computer, as if someone had bumped something.

  “Damn computer!” Lynx muttered.

  Hickok smiled. It served the runt right! Lynx was normally a feisty critter, but he’d never seen Lynx as touchy as tonight. He’d known something was bothering the feline for months, but Lynx hadn’t said a word to any of the Family about the cause. On numerous occasions he’d seen Lynx and the other two engaged in intense arguments. Lynx seemed to be taking one side, Ferret and Gremlin the other. Hickok had a notion why they were spatting, but he hadn’t wanted to…

  Somewhere, a door slammed.

  Hickok waited expectantly.

  There was an exchange of muted voices.

  Hickok fingered the trigger on his right Python.

  “…immediately. Primator will be pleased,” said a deep voice, the audibility increasing as the speaker neared the cockpit.

  “I was impressed,” said a second person. “He is quite formidable.”

  Hickok pressed his right ear to the door panel. Oddly enough, the two voices were almost, but not quite, identical.

  “I’m proof of that,” commented yet a third party.

  The unknown trio reached the cockpit, and there was a commotion as they went about their business.

  “How much coolant have you lost?” asked one of them.

  “Two quarts,” answered another.

  “Go to the Wells Repair Module,” instructed the first voice. “I will perform emergency crimping on your tubes. It will suffice until we reach Androxia.”

  “Thank you,” said the other one. “I will place my hand in the Boulle to prevent excessive dehydration.”

  What the blazes were they talking about? Hickok wondered.

  “If his knife had penetrated your Heinlein, you would require a major overhaul,” commented the third one. He paused. “Should Blade be placed in stasis?”

  Blade! They had Blade! Hickok felt a slight vibration under his feet as he gripped the latch and shoved. He leaped from the closet, his thumb on the hammer of his right Python. “Don’t move!” he shouted, whipping his right Colt up and out, then stopping, stupefied.

  There were three of them, each seven feet in height, each attired in a silver uniform. They all had blond hair, blue eyes, and pale skin. They looked enough alike to be triplets. One stood in front of the computer. The second one, with Blade’s unconscious form draped over his left shoulder, was standing five feet to the left of the gunman. The third giant was near the doorway, a ragged tear in his uniform in the center of his chest, a pale fluid seeping from the hole, holding his severed left hand in his right!

  The one near the computer glanced at the one holding Blade. “You were correct. You did observe someone near the Hoverjet.”

  “I’ll do the talkin’!” Hickok snapped. He wagged his Python at the one with Blade. “You! Set my pard on the floor! Nice and easy like!”

  To the gunman’s astonishment, his command was ignored. The one with Blade looked at the one near the computer. “This must be another Warrior. Should we dispose of him?”

  “I believe this is the organism called Hickok,” remarked the silver man near the door. “I’m familiar with primitive firearms, and those are Colt Pythons. He is an associate of Blade’s.”

  “Then we will transport him to Androxia,” the one by the computer stated.

  “You ain’t transportin’ me nowhere!” Hickok declared. “This contraption of yours is stayin’ right on the ground!”

  “That’s impossible,” the one near the computer stated.

  “Wanna bet?” Hickok rejoined, pointing his Python at the man’s head.

  “We do not gamble,” the silver man said. “And we can not stay on the ground when we are already in the air.” He motioned toward the canopy.

  Hickok risked a hasty glance upward. He could see the stars, and they were moving! With a start, he suddenly realized the stars weren’t really moving: the aircraft was! They were airborne!

  The silver man near the computer scrutinized the gunman’s expression.

  “We departed your Home over a minute ago. Our onboard navigational computer automatically implemented our takeoff. The Klinecraft is soundproofed, and motion fluctuation is minimal. There was no way you could have known.”

  “Turn this buggy around!” Hickok demanded. “You’re takin’ us back.”

  “No, we are not,” said the one by the computer, and he nodded at the silver man near the doorway.

  Hickok whirled.

  The one with the cut-off hand was already charging, his right arm upraised to deliver a crushing blow.

  Hickok’s right Python boomed, thundering in the confines of the cockpit. As he invariably did, Hickok went for the head. He was a staunch advocate of always going for the brain. If an opponent was hit anywhere else, they could keep coming. Even if a foe was shot in the heart, they could linger for several seconds or longer, enough time to squeeze a trigger or get in a final swipe. But snuff the brain, as Hickok liked to say, and nine times out of ten the enemy was instantly slain. Nine times out of ten.

  This time was the tenth.

  The silver man was struck in the left eye, the impact of the 158-grain hollow-point slug jerking his massive body to the left and stopping him in his tracks. He hesitated for just a fraction, then plunged forward, seemingly immune to pain and heedless of the gaping cavity where his left eye had just been.

  Hickok’s Python blasted again. And once more. Each shot was on target. The first one caught the silver man in the forehead, snapping his head backward and blowing the rear of his cranium outward, spraying the cockpit wall and carpeted floor with grisly pieces of flesh and hair and spattering everything with a colorless liquid. The silver man halted, shook his head once, then resumed his attack. Hickok’s next shot hit his assailant in the right eye.

  The silver man doubled over, clutching at his shattered face, a watery substance spewing onto the floor.

  Hickok was astounded. Never had he seen anyone take such punishment and still keep coming.

  But this one did.

  The silver man straightened, his arms extended. He had dropped his left hand, and the fingers on his right clawed at the air. His eyes were gone, yet he advanced, shuffling in the direction of the Warrior, his right arm swinging from side to side.

  How the hell did he do it? Hickok sent two more slugs into the silver man’s head.

  The man in silver abruptly stiffened. His mouth curved downwards, his lips trembling. He took a single halting step, then collapsed in a heap.

  Hickok couldn’t accept the testimony of his own eyes.

  Smoke was wafting from the dead man’s ruined eye sockets!

  The gunman’s superb instincts sensed danger, and his left hand streaked to his left Colt as he pivoted to face the other two silver men. He almost made it.

  The silver man near the computer had already sprung into action, executing a flying leap, his heavy form hurtling through the intervening space and crashing into the Warrior, slamming the gunman against the closet door, ramming the gunfighter’s head into the door. The panel split from the force of the blow, and the gunman slumped to the green carpet, his right Python slipping from his limp fingers.

  AS-1 rose to his full height and stared at the Warrior at his feet. “These Warriors are not to be taken lightly,” he commented. “I will inform Intelligence upon our return to Androxia.” He glanced at his crumpled companion. “OV-3’s Bradbury Chip was struck by one of Hickok’s shots,” he deduced.

  IM-97 transferred Blade from his left shoulder to his arms, then walked to the doorway. “I will place this one in stasis and return for Hickok.”

  AS-1 nodded. “I will transmit the status of our mission to Androxia.”

  IM-97 gazed at the body of OV-3. “How do you think Primator will react to the loss of a Superior?”

  AS-1 nudged OV-3 with the tip of his right toe. “The humans have an expression,” he remarked. “Apropos in this instance.”

  “What is it?” IM-97 inquired.

  “The shit will hit the fan.”

  Chapter Four

  She stood on the balcony on the top floor of the Huxley Tower, her lavender eyes sweeping the skyline of Androxia.

  Where were they?

  She gazed at the city lights far below, then up at the heavens, idly noting the position of the Big Dipper.

  They had to come!

  They had to succeed!

  Her flowing, oily black hair was whipped by the wind as she turned to the north. The wind felt cool on her scaly yellow skin. Her thin blue dress did little to protect her from the elements.

  That bastard had to pay!

  Had to reap his punishment for murdering the Doktor!

  Her beloved Doktor!

  She frowned at the recollection, the memories almost too agonizing to tolerate. She recalled the campaign the Doktor had waged against the accursed Family. She vividly remembered the final battle in Catlow, Wyoming. And tears welled in her eyes as she mentally reviewed the day after that last conflict, when she’d donned a grubby pair of jeans, an old brown shirt, and a tattered tan coat and, after stuffing her waist-length hair into a shabby cap, had ventured into Catlow at sunset, determined to learn the fate of her creator… and her lover.

  Somewhere in Androxia, a siren wailed.

  She’d viewed the battle from a nearby hill and watched, horrified, as the damned Warriors and their allies defeated the Doktor’s Genetic Research Division, utterly wiped them out. So far as she knew, she was the only one remaining. And she wouldn’t have survived, would have perished with the Doktor and the rest, if her darling mentor hadn’t ordered her to remain behind.

  She sobbed.

  The Doktor had felt uneasy about Catlow, had even speculated it was a trap. Was that the reason he’d left her behind? Was it because he’d wanted to spare her?

  And to think!

  She’d almost deserted him!

  A lump formed in her throat as the bitter remembrance of her flight from Catlow overwhelmed her. She’d wanted to reach Denver as fast as possible, to demand Samuel II lead a counter-strike against Catlow. She’d gone 20 miles before she’d braked her jeep and done a U-turn, heading back to Catlow. Her intuition had told her the Doktor was dead, but she’d needed to ascertain the truth with her own eyes, to actually see his corpse, before she could accept the reality of his demise. She’d doubled back, concealed the jeep, stolen the clothing she needed from a deserted ranch house, and bravely sallied into Catlow as darkness descended.

  And she’d found him.

  Tears cascaded down her round cheeks.

  The slime!

  The fucking slime!

  They’d hung the Doktor by his heels from a tree near the town square!

  And there they were, the inebriated residents of Catlow, celebrating their newfound independence, drinking and singing and mocking the Doktor.

  She’d walked among them, rage filling her being, and had listened to their banter, particularly to the conversation concerning the battle. And she’d learned what she’d needed.

  The name of the Doktor’s killer.

  Blade.

  Right then and there, she’d vowed to repay him, to revenge herself on the son of a bitch. A simple bullet was too good for the bastard. Her vengeance had to be special. Spectacular. She’d wanted Blade to suffer as no man had ever suffered before, and she still did.

  Oh, how he’d pay!

  She’d departed Catlow, returned to her jeep. And as she drove to the south, a new plan had formed in her devious mind. She’d realized Samuel II might not be equal to the task of destroying the Family, and subsequent events had confirmed her estimation. She’d known she couldn’t achieve her revenge by her lonesome. She’d perceived she needed a better ally than Samuel II, and what better one than the Doktor’s secret confederate in Androxia?

  Who better than Primator?

  She smiled, stifling the flow of tears, anticipating her impending triumph. It’d taken so long—so damn long—but she’d finally prevailed on Primator to assist her, had convinced him killing Blade was for the benefit of all Androxia.

  And the fool had fallen for her ploy!

  She thought of Blade writhing in torment as his body was lowered into a vat of molten steel, pleading for his life, and she cackled.

  Chapter Five

  Was it safe yet?

  Gremlin cautiously eased the closet door open and peeked outside. The cockpit was shrouded in silence, dimly lit with a greenish glow by the overhead lights. He craned his neck, examining every square inch, verifying the silver men were gone. Satisfied, he tentatively stepped from concealment, prepared to duck from sight at the slightest sound.

  “Pssst!”

  Gremlin involuntarily jumped, his red eyes widening in consternation.

  “Pssst! Gremlin!” whispered a voice from near the computer. “Don’t faint, you twit! It’s me! Lynx!” So saying, Lynx emerged from hiding around the right side of the large navigational console. “It was cramped as all get-out back there,” he complained.

  Gremlin glanced at the doorway. “Does Lynx think they left, yes? Would not want to run into them again, no!”

  Lynx crossed the cockpit and joined Gremlin. “Those morons are long gone.”

  “Where is Ferret, yes?” Gremlin asked.

  “I’m right here,” Ferret announced, coming through the doorway. “I hid in a compartment in the corridor. I saw them leave with Blade and Hickok.”

  “Poor Hickok, yes!” Gremlin exclaimed. “We should have helped him, no?”

  “No,” Lynx said.

  “What happened in here?” Ferret inquired. “I heard all the gunshots, and I peeped out and saw one of those big guys carrying Blade right past me. He came back and lugged Hickok away.”

  “They captured Hickok, yes!” Gremlin declared.

  Ferret stared at Lynx. “And you did nothing to help?”

  “Nope,” Lynx admitted. “Why should I have helped him? Hickok told us not to move unless he gave the word.” Lynx shrugged. “The dummy never gave the word.”

  “So you just sat there and did nothing?” Ferret asked accusingly.

  “Hey! Don’t look at me like that!” Lynx snapped. “I was following his orders! And I didn’t just sit there. I was lyin’ behind the computer.”

  Ferret shook his head in disapproval. “I can’t believe you! You let them take him!”

  “It all happened so fast, there wasn’t much I could do,” Lynx commented. “Besides, I didn’t see you two lend a hand.”

  “Gremlin was in closet, yes,” Gremlin remarked. “Gremlin didn’t see what happened.”

  “Nor did I,” Ferret said. “All I could see was a stretch of the hallway.”

  Lynx glanced at both of them. “What? Your ears ain’t workin’? You couldn’t tell Hickok was in trouble?”

  Neither Ferret or Gremlin responded.

  “Don’t be pointing no finger at me!” Lynx mentioned. “At least I crawled out when the shootin’ started. I saw them take him down.” He paused. “There’s something fishy about those characters. I don’t think they’re human. You should see the way they move. And Hickok’s bullets didn’t have much effect. So after they knocked him out, I crawled back behind the computer. I figured there wasn’t much I could do, not until I learn more about these clowns.”

  Gremlin gazed out the canopy. Several hundred feet overhead was a corrugated metal ceiling. Fluorescent lights were suspended from chains at 20-foot intervals. “Where are we, yes?”

  Ferret looked upward. “My guess would be in a hangar of some kind.

  But I wouldn’t have the slightest idea where the hangar is located. We were in the air for a couple of hours. We could be anywhere.”

  “Who cares where we are?” Lynx said. “This is our golden opportunity!”

  “Uh-oh,” Ferret declared. “I don’t like that gleam in your eyes.”

  “Don’t you see?” Lynx queried. “This is the chance we need to get what we want!”

  “Gremlin doesn’t understand, no,” Gremlin stated.

  “I think I do,” Ferret said. “And I’m not sure I like it.”

  Lynx leaned toward Gremlin, “Let me spell it out for you, pal. What were we talkin’ about tonight before Hickok showed up?”

  “The same old subject, yes,” Gremlin said. “What to do with our lives, no?”

  “Exactly,” Lynx concurred. “What to do with our lives? How can we fit in at the Home? And what’s the answer?”

  “Gremlin doesn’t know, yes,” Gremlin responded.

  “Well, I know,” Lynx claimed. “And I’ve been tryin’ to convince you dorks for months.”

 

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