Houston Run

Chapter Seventeen

Hickok’s hands were flashing blurs as he brought up the Gaskell Lasers in his hands and squeezed the triggers.

The lead android was hit in the head, twin beams of light boring through his eyes and out the rear of his cranium. He tumbled to the floor.

The gunfighter pivoted, going for the charging storm troopers, mowing them down, littering the hallway with mutant and human bodies contorted in the throes of death. Armed with only their steel batons, the troopers were no match for the gunman. And when Blade added his Gaskells to the fray, the onrushing black tide was decimated. Twenty-one troopers were on the floor, dead or dying, when the rest broke, retreating through the same door they had used to enter the corridor.

Hickok shot one last trooper in the back of the head, then straightened, listening to the moaning and groaning coming from several of the prone troopers. “I don’t get it,” he commented quizzically. “Why’d they try to take us? All they had were those stupid batons.”

“Primator demands total obedience,” Blade noted. “Even if it costs them their lives.”

“Pitiful. Just pitiful,” Hickok remarked. “Dyin’ for a bucket of bolts is about as dumb as you can get!”

“Let’s get out of here,” Blade urged.

“I’m with you.”

The two Warriors dashed to the stairwell door. While Hickok covered the corridor, Blade checked the stairwell, confirming it was empty. They took the stairs two at a stride, descending to the landing below the lobby without encountering more troopers or Superiors. As they reached the landing, the Intelligence Building filled with the grating howl of klaxons.

“Took ’em long enough,” Hickok stated.

Blade cautiously opened the stairwell door. No Superiors. No troopers.

He moved forward. “Where do we find our weapons?”

“There should be a Weapons Room about halfway down,” Hickok disclosed.

There was, with the door bearing a large sign printed in green letters.

Blade tried the knob. “It’s locked,” he informed the gunman.

Hickok was keeping his eyes on both ends of the hallway. “Where are all the blasted Superiors? How come we haven’t seen anybody?”

Blade bent over, examining the lock. “This detour of ours could be working in our favor. They probably expect us to make a break for it, to exit the building as quickly as we can. So they’re undoubtedly covering all the exits and converging on the lobby like they did before. They don’t know we know about this room, so there’s no reason for them to have guards posted here.”

“Will the lock pose a problem?” Hickok queried.

“Not at all,” Blade replied, stepping back and drawing his right knee up to his waist. He twisted and kicked, his foot striking the door next to the knob. There was a rending crash and the door flew inward.

“Piece of cake,” Hickok said.

The Warriors entered the Weapons Room, Blade flicking on the light.

“Will you look at this!” Hickok exclaimed, marveling.

Blade scanned the room, surveying rack after rack of varied weaponry.

There were hundreds of weapons in all: rifles, shotguns, revolvers, pistols, bows, knives, swords and more. The metal racks were arranged in neat aisles.

Hickok started down the nearest aisle, eagerly searching the racks.

Blade took the next aisle. He was a third of the way along it when Hickok gave a shout.

“Bingo!”

“Did you find your Pythons?” Blade inquired.

“Nope. I found your pig-stickers, pard,” Hickok replied.

Blade quickly retraced his path and hurried down the first aisle, Hickok was standing in front of a large rack of knives and swords.

“These are yours, aren’t they?” he asked.

Blade stopped, a smile creasing his rugged features. “They sure are.”

The Bowies were in their sheaths, and the sheaths were affixed to hooks on the square rack.

“Now where the blazes is my hardware?” Hickok muttered, moving off, resuming his hunt.

Blade placed the three Gaskell Lasers he carried on the floor, then removed his belt. He proceeded to rethread the belt through the loops on his green fatigue pants, aligning the first Bowie on his left hip and the second on his right. As he was securing the belt buckle, Hickok began cackling like crazy. Blade grinned. He could guess why. Stooping, he retrieved the Lasers, slanting one under his belt and keeping the other two in his hands. He headed for the door, idly scrutinizing the weapons on the racks. At the end of the aisle he paused, noticing a big, gray metal box in the corner to his right. He walked to the box and lifted the lid, curious as to its contents.

Hand grenades.

Dozens and dozens of hand grenades.

“Whoa!” Blade exclaimed, then raised his voice. “Hickok!”

“Right behind you,” responded the gunfighter.

Blade glanced over his right shoulder.

Hickok’s cherished Pythons were strapped around his waist, and he held a Gaskell Laser in each hand. “I found my Colts,” he said.

“I gathered as much,” Blade mentioned. “But why are you still packing those Lasers? I thought you’d prefer your Colts over anything.”

“I do, pard,” Hickok confirmed. “But I’m not no idiot. I tried usin’ my Pythons on one of those silver coyotes before, and even head-shootin’ the mangy cuss didn’t seem to faze him much. But these popguns,” he said, wagging the Gaskells, “do the trick real well. Near as I can figure, those androids are almost invulnerable. You can stop one if you bust its legs or crack its skull wide open, but a bullet doesn’t do much damage unless you hit the right spot. These Lasers, on the other hand, seem to fry their brains, or whatever they’ve got in their noggins. I’ll stick with these popguns until we split this place.”

“I may have found something that will help us,” Blade divulged, moving aside so the gunman could see the contents of the metal box.

Hickok stepped up to the box, whistling in appreciation. “Will you look at all those! And it isn’t even my birthday!”

Blade knelt and placed the Gaskells by his side. He removed one of the grenades. “Now the odds are more even.”

“Yep. All we have to do is find Lynx, Gremlin, and Ferret, then fight our way out of the city past hordes of androids and troopers, and travel hundred and hundreds of miles over hostile territory until we reach the Home,” Hickok quipped. “We could do it in our sleep.”

“I’ve been thinking about that,” Blade said, cramming grenades into his pants pockets.

“About what?” Hickok asked, resting his Gaskells on the floor and following Blade’s example.

“About getting to our Home,” Blade said.

“What about it?”

“It won’t be as difficult to reach as you think,” Blade stated.

“How do you figure?” Hickok inquired.

“The Civilized Zone is our ally, right?” Blade mentioned.

“Yep. So?”

“And which former States are now included in the Civilized Zone’s territory?” Blade prompted.

Hickok pondered for a moment. “Let me see. Wyoming. Kansas and Nebraska. Colorado, New Mexico, Oklahoma, and part of Arizona,” he added.

“You missed one.” Blade said.

“Oh. Yeah.” And Hickok suddenly grinned. “Northern Texas!”

“That’s right,” Blade affirmed. “And if Androxia was once called Houston, then we know we’re in southern Texas. So reaching freedom isn’t a matter of traveling over a thousand miles through enemy country. All we have to do is head north and find the Civilized Zone’s lines, and I’m positive they’ll help us reach the Home. At the most, we should only have several hundred miles to travel.”

“We can do it,” Hickok asserted. “But first we’ve got to find those three feebleminded mutants.”

Blade, his pockets laden with hand grenades, rose. “I hope we can.” He scooped up the Lasers.

Hickok picked up his Gaskells and stood. “I’m not leavin’ without those misfits, pard.”

“We may not have any option,” Blade said somberly. “Androxia is immense, and we don’t have the foggiest idea where to begin looking for them.”

Hickok shook his head. “I’m not leavin’ without ’em.”

Their budding argument was terminated by the sound of a voice in the corridor.

“Go from room to room! Check each one!”

The two Warriors sidled to the doorway. Blade peeked out, then drew his head back.

“What have we got?” Hickok asked.

“Superiors and troopers,” Blade stated. “To the left, coming this way, going door to door.”

“Then we skedaddle to the right,” Hickok suggested.

Blade nodded. “But first we need a distraction.” He eased the Gaskells under his belt, then extracted a grenade from his right front pocket. “This should do the trick.”

They waited, listening, gauging the approach of their pursuers. They could hear boots pounding, doors slamming closed, and muted conversations.

Hickok was grinning in anticipation.

Blade fingered the grenade, his thumb touching the pin.

“You four!” bellowed someone in the corridor. “Check the Weapons Room!”

Blade darted into the corridor, pulling the pin.

Ten yards distant were four troopers, two mutants and two humans, and looming to their rear was a Superior. Visible behind the Superior were additional troopers and several more androids.

Blade tossed the grenade overhand, lobbing it over the heads of the startled quartet of troopers, tossing the grenade at the Superior.

The Superior and the four troopers all saw the Warrior emerge from the Weapons Room, and the Superior was opening his mouth to shout a command when the hand grenade detonated a centimeter from his face.

Blade was already diving for the floor.

The entire hallway shook with the thunderous explosion. The overhead lights flickered, several blinking out.

Blade felt wet drops splatter his arms, and then debris and dust and body parts were raining down, pelting him. A severed thumb struck him on the left cheek and dropped to the floor. He heaved erect, drawing his Gaskell Lasers.

Hickok burst from the Weapons Room, Gaskells in hand, moving between Blade and their foes. “Go!” he cried. “I’ll cover you!”

Blade turned and ran toward the far end of the corridor.

Hickok backpedaled, probing the dust cloud for movement.

A bloody trooper, doubled over, coughing, stumbled into sight.

Hickok shot him through the head.

A Superior appeared. The android spotted the Warrior and raised the Laser in its right hand.

Hickok took the android out with two shots through the cranium. He glanced over his right shoulder.

Blade was still sprinting for the door at the end of the hall.

Hickok continued to retreat.

A grainy gray cloud filled the other half of the corridor. Orders were being shouted, and one of the maimed troopers was screaming in agony.

Hickok halted, detecting shadowy motion in the cloud.

Two troopers rushed into view, their steel batons upraised.

Hickok killed them both, then wheeled and raced after Blade, who was waiting for him next to the door. The gunman weaved as he jogged, repeatedly looking over his shoulder, wary of being blasted in the back.

“Come on!” Blade goaded him.

Hickok covered the final 15 yards in a mad dash.

“I don’t think I’m the only one who should go on a diet,” Blade cracked as the gunman reached his side.

“Very funny,” Hickok muttered, huffing.

Blade shoved the door open, and together they exited the corridor.

“Another stairwell!” Hickok exclaimed.

Blade bounded up the steps, keeping near the inner railing.

“Wait for me!” Hickok said, struggling to match his lanky stride to Blade’s giant gait.

Blade slowed so the gunman could catch up.

“Where are we headin’?” Hickok asked. “The lobby again?”

“No,” Blade said. “There has to be another way out of here, a side door nobody uses.”

A beam of light abruptly struck the railing next to Blade’s right hand, and an acute burning sensation lanced his whole arm as he was peppered with scorching metal. He twisted, looking upward.

A Superior and two troopers were on the landing above, the landing at lobby level, evidently posted as guards in the east stairwell. The android was sighting for another shot with his Gaskell Laser.

Blade threw himself to the left as another shaft of deadly light hissed over his head.

Hickok crouched, firing his Lasers three times, each shot on target. The first bored through the Superior’s forehead. The second caught one of the troopers in the mouth. And the third seared into the last trooper’s right eye and out his left car. All three dropped from sight.

Blade was up and running as the gunfighter fired his third shot, taking the stairs three at a time. He reached the next landing, finding all three of their adversaries twitching and thrashing in the throes of death. He also discovered two doors, one to each side of the landing.

“That was close, pard,” Hickok commented as he reached the landing.

Blade stepped over one of the expiring troopers and crossed to the door to the right. He carefully eased it open a fraction. As expected, there was the large lobby, packed with milling Superiors and troopers. The Superiors appeared to be engaged in organizing the troopers for a complete sweep of the Intelligence Building. He also saw the familiar glass doors on the north side of the lobby, the long corridor over by the west wall, and, after craning his neck and pressing his eyes to the opening, he could see the row of elevators not more than 12 feet away.

“Psssst!” Hickok whispered.

Blade closed the door to the lobby and turned.

Hickok was crouched alongside the dead android, waving a key chain in his right hand.

Blade slid his left Gaskell under his belt and took the keys. He moved to the other stairwell door and tried the knob. It was locked.

“Hurry it up!” Hickok advised. “I hear somebody comin’ down the stairwell.”

Blade inserted the first key on the chain, the first of seven.

No luck.

“I heard footsteps down below too,” the gunman stated.

Blade attempted to unlock the door with the second key.

No go.

“I wonder if this is how David Crockett felt at the Alamo?” Hickok queried.

Blade inserted the third key and turned the knob.

The door swung wide open, allowing sunlight to shine inside.

The Warriors quickly exited the Intelligence Building. The door provided access to a narrow alley, bordered on the opposite side by a five-story structure. Blade removed the key before closing the door, then locked the exit from the outside.

“Which way?” Hickok asked.

Blade placed the key in his left rear pocket, debating. If they went to the left, the alley would take them to the front of the Intelligence Building.

“We go right,” he said.

The two Warriors ran toward the rear of Intelligence.

“They’ll find those three on the landing any second now,” Hickok remarked.

“I know,” Blade said. “But the locked door may throw them off. They may think we went up or down. And even if they suspect we used the exit, I have the key. They may need to find another one before they can come after us.”

“And the tooth fairy may show up and save our hides,” Hickok joked, “but I wouldn’t count on it.”

They slowed as they neared the end of the alley. Blade took the lead, flattening against the wall and advancing until he could peer around the corner.

A parking lot filled with dozens upon dozens of vehicles was located behind the Intelligence Building. Perhaps ten people, four of them troopers in black uniforms, were either walking from the parking lot to Intelligence or moving from the building toward one of the parked vehicles. To the south of the parking lot was a circular concrete landing pad, and resting on the concrete was a sleek white helicopter with the words ANDROXIA AIR EXPRESS painted on its tail section.

“What do you see?” Hickok inquired.

“Have a look,” Blade recommended.

The gunman edged to the corner and surveyed the parking lot. “I don’t see any Superiors,” he observed.

“Do you see that copter?” Blade asked.

“Yep. And I see two guys in blue uniforms right beside it,” Hickok said.

“Stay close,” Blade directed, and boldly strolled around the corner.

Hickok alertly scanned the parking lot as he hastened after his companion. “Mind tellin’ me what we’re up to?”

“Head for the copter,” Blade stated.

“Are you thinkin’ of takin’ flying lessons?” Hickok responded.

“I’m thinking of paying Primator a visit,” Blade disclosed.

“Are you loco?” Hickok questioned in surprise.

“This may be the smartest move we’ve made so far,” Blade said.

“How do you figure?”

“Think about it,” Blade said. “Ever since we arrived in Androxia, we’ve been running around like chickens with our heads chopped off. Half the time, we’ve had no idea where we were or what was happening. Initially, we didn’t even know the identities of our enemies. We didn’t know why we were brought here. We didn’t know if we were coming or going.”

“I’m used to that,” Hickok remarked. “I’m married. You should be used to it too.”

“Now we know who our enemies are,” Blade continued. “One of them, Clarissa, is history. The androids are little more than puppets. They’re just doing what Primator tells them to do.”

“Primator is the head honcho,” Hickok noted.

“Exactly,” Blade concurred. “And if we can destroy Primator, maybe we can escape from Androxia in one piece.”

“Destroy that know-it-all contraption? How?”

Blade patted the front pockets on his fatigue pants.

“And how are we goin’…” Hickok began, then stopped, staring at the helicopter.

“Still think I’m loco?” Blade asked.

Hickok grinned. “I’m with you all the way, pard.”

They skirted the parking lot, staying to the left of the parked vehicles as they moved toward the copter. The two men in blue uniforms were busy unloading boxes from the helicopter and depositing them in orderly piles at the edge of the four-foot-high concrete pad.

“I just thought of something,” Hickok said. “We don’t have those disks on our foreheads.”

“We’re too far from the cars for anyone to notice,” Blade said. “And the two up ahead won’t care if we have disks or not,” he added ominously.

The two in blue were concentrating on their job. Once, the heavier of the pair glanced at the approaching Warriors. He resumed his work without displaying any apprehension.

Blade held the Gaskell Lasers alongside his legs as he walked up to the landing pad. He halted, smiling.

The heavyset man in blue looked over as he was setting a box on the edge of the concrete. “May I help you?”

“Are you the pilot?” Blade politely inquired.

“We’re both qualified pilots. Why?” the heavyset man replied.

“You can both fly this helicopter?” Blade reiterated.

The leaner of the pair, in the act of carrying another box to the rim of the concrete, gazed down at the giant and the blond in buckskins. “Who are you? Is there a problem?”

“My problem is I only need one of you,” Blade answered. “Sorry.” He extended his right arm and fired, frying the brains of the heavier flyer, who collapsed behind the boxes with a protracted gasp. Blade leaped onto the concrete, his Laser aimed at the thin man. He moved between two stacks of boxes and tapped the Gaskell’s barrel on the skinny pilot’s nose.

“I’m only going to say this once. If you don’t do exactly what I say, when I say it, I will add another nostril to your face. Do you understand?”

The thin man nodded vigorously, his wide brown eyes on his dead associate.

Hickok climbed onto the concrete. He surreptitiously scrutinized the parking lot. None of the pedestrians appeared to have noticed the heavy pilot’s demise.

Blade lowered the Laser. “Put down the box,” he ordered.

The lean man immediately obeyed. “What do you want?” he blurted out.

“We want to take a tour of Androxia,” Blade answered.

“But this isn’t a charter copter,” the pilot said. “This is a mail and cargo carrier. I…” he began, and abruptly froze, his mouth gaping. “You’re not wearing an O.D.!” he exclaimed. “Neither of you!”

“I took mine off,” Hickok commented. “It wasn’t doin’ a thing for my complexion.”

“Into your copter,” Blade directed. “You’re taking us for a ride.”

The man in blue turned and walked to the sliding door on the cargo section of the craft. “You must be insane.”

“My missus would agree with you,” Hickok mentioned.

“Move it!” Blade barked.

The pilot stepped onto the cargo section. Blade shadowing him. The cargo section consisted of a square area behind the only seats in the craft, one for the pilot and one for a copilot, both of which were positioned at the front, facing the instrument panel and other controls. Half of the cargo section contained stacked boxes.

Hickok was the last to board. He casually inspected the interior of the helicopter. “I’ve seen copters before,” he commented. “Soviet copters. This one is kind of dinky compared to theirs.”

The lean man in blue slid into the pilot’s seat, watching Blade as the huge Warrior took the other one. “I told you this is a small carrier,” the pilot said. “It’s a Michael Model 611121. It’s not designed to transport a lot of weight. It’s built for speed.”

“You carry mail and cargo?” Blade questioned.

The pilot nodded. “Androxia Air Express is a courier service, mainly. A lot of mail and small boxes need to be delivered from one building to another on a rush basis, and using a copter is the quickest way of getting from one skyscraper to another.”

Blade digested the news, contemplating. “Does every skyscraper have a landing pad like the one we’re on?”

“Most do,” the pilot replied. “Usually there are two landing pads. There’s a helipad at ground level, and there’s a heliport on each roof for deliveries to the upper floors.”

Blade smiled and winked at Hickok.

The gun fighter closed the door to the cargo section. “Ready when you are, pard,” he declared.

“Take off,” Blade commanded.

The pilot hesitated. “I don’t know who you are or what you’ve up to, but you’ll never get away with it.”

“What’s your name?” Blade inquired.

“Roger 196726,” the pilot responded.

“Well, Roger,” Blade said sternly, “I won’t warn you again. When I give an order, you comply. Don’t give me any back talk.”

Roger applied himself to adjusting the copter’s controls preparing to taking off. “Listen, mister,” he said as he worked, “I don’t want to die. I’ll do whatever you say. I promise. But I’m advising you, for your own good, to give this up.”

“Get us airborne,” Blade directed.

Roger flicked several switches, his practiced fingers expertly ranging over the instrument panel.

Blade heard a loud whine. He looked out the tinted canopy and saw the main rotor beginning to rotate.

“As soon as we’re off the ground,” Roger remarked, “we’re in trouble.”

“Why?” Blade asked.

“Every Express copter must adhere to a fixed route, to a set flight path,” Roger revealed. “If we deviate from the schedule, the Superiors will come after us.”

“Do the Superiors fly copters like this one?”

Roger shook his head. “The copters the Superiors fly, the police choppers anyway, are armed. They’ll blow us out of the sky.”

“I’m surprised the Superiors even allow lowly humans to fly any helicopters at all,” Blade mentioned.

“Courier copters are the only ones we can operate,” Roger said. “I love flying, and this is the only kind they let humans do. All of the police and military craft are operated by Superiors.”

“You don’t sound too happy about it, bucko,” Hickok interjected.

“The Superiors only do what is best for Androxia,” Roger said, but his voice lacked conviction.

“Are you hitched, Rog?” Hickok queried.

“Do you mean married?” Roger responded.

“One and the same,” Hickok stated.

“No, I’m not married,” Roger disclosed. “The Superiors would not approve my marriage application.” He barely suppressed a frown.

Hickok, standing in the center of the cargo section, glanced at Blade, “Sounds to me like Roger could use a change in scenery.”

Blade studied the pilot. Roger was not more than twenty-five, with angular features and curly brown hair. At such an age, enforced loneliness would be a bitter situation to tolerate. Perhaps the Superiors had evaluated Roger as a borderline Malcontent, and that was the reason his marriage petition had been denied. Blade looked up at the rotor, noting it had attained a terrific speed. “Let’s go.”

Roger took hold of the stick, and the next moment the helicopter rose from the helipad, rapidly ascending. He leveled the craft off at a thousand feet. “Okay. Where am I taking you?”

“The Prime Complex,” Blade stated.

Roger did a double take. “The Prime Complex? Now I know you’re insane!”

Blade hefted the Gaskell in his right hand. “Move it.”

Roger eased the stick to the right, and the copter responded smoothly.

Hickok, leaning on a stack of boxes for support, gazed out the canopy at the sprawling metropolis, fascinated. He could see dozens of other aircraft flying over Androxia. “We should get us one of these,” he said to Blade. “I’d love to take one for a spin now and then.”

“I don’t know if that’s a wise idea,” Blade commented.

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Your driving is bad enough,” Blade said. “I don’t know if I’d want to go flying with you at the controls.”

“May I ask a question?” Roger interrupted.

“What?” Blade said.

“Why are we going to the Prime Complex?”

“To destroy Primator,” Blade divulged.

Roger gaped at the giant in stark astonishment. “Destroy Primator?” he exclaimed. “That’s impossible!”

“Why? Doesn’t the Prime Complex have a heliport?” Blade inquired.

“Of course it does,” Roger responded. “But you must have a special security clearance to land there. Otherwise, you’ll be shot down.”

“Have you ever landed there?” Blade asked.

“Dozens of times,” Roger admitted. “But I always had a clearance.”

“So just pretend you have one this time,” Blade advised.

Roger shook his head. “It will never work.”

“Give me the layout of the roof,” Blade ordered. “I know Primator is on the Sturgeon Level, the top floor. How does one get from the roof to Primator’s floor?”

“The heliport is in the middle of the roof,” Roger said. “It’s a bear to land on sometimes because of the winds. The Complex is two hundred ninety-nine stories high.”

“I know,” Blade said.

“At that height, you have updrafts and crosscurrents and wind sheer to contend with. I hate landing there,” Roger mentioned.

“You don’t have any choice,” Blade noted.

“And what are you going to do if I don’t?” Roger queried. “Shoot me?

The copter would crash, and you’d die too.”

“I wouldn’t shoot you while we’re in the air,” Blade stated. “I’d wait until you landed, and then I’d add that extra nostril.”

Roger frowned. “There’s no way I can get out of this, is there?”

“No,” Blade averred. “Your best chance to survive this alive is to cooperate with us fully. Now tell me more about the roof on the Prime Complex. You said the heliport is in the middle. How do you reach the Sturgeon Level from the roof?”

“By going down,” Roger revealed. “There’s a flight of stairs on the east side of the roof, and you have to go through a door to reach the stairs.

That door is always locked. It has to be opened from the inside.”

“How many guards?” Blade asked.

“None.”

“None?” Blade repeated skeptically.

“Who needs guards two hundred ninety-nine stories up?” Roger rejoined. “Besides, they have something better than guards.”

“Like what?” Blade questioned.

“Like four defensive emplacements, one on each corner of the roof.”

Roger disclosed. “They function automatically once activated.”

“What type of defensive emplacements?” Blade inquired.

“Lasers at the northeast and southwest corners, and heat-seeking missile-launchers at the southeast and the northwest,” Roger informed them.

Blade stared at the bustling city below. “Are there any other conduits between the roof and Primator’s floor? An air shaft, anything like that?”

“There’s the mail drop,” Roger said. “A big metal chute.”

“Tell me about it.”

“It’s a chute for depositing mail in,” Roger explained. “It’s used primarily for classified rush communiques, for urgent messages and dispatches which can’t be sent through the postal service, relayed over the phone, or supplied through a computer.”

Blade recalled the instructions Primator had given to the Superior in the audience chamber. “INSTRUCT INTELLIGENCE TO INTERROGATE THEM THOROUGHLY. I WANT THE DATA OBTAINED RELAYED TO ME IMMEDIATELY.” Would Primator want such data delivered by a courier copter instead of through normal channels? “And this mail chute connects directly to Primator’s floor?”

“As far as I know,” Roger said. “It’s right next to the heliport.”

“There’s no other shaft of any kind?” Blade quieried.

“Not that I know of,” Roger responded.

The mail chute sounded promising. Blade hoped the chute was linked to Primator’s internal circuitry somehow, although he considered it to be unlikely. How could a computer, even a thinking computer, read its own mail? Still, he shouldn’t put anything past Primator.

“Is that what I think it is?” Hickok inquired, moving between the two chairs and pointing straight ahead.

Blade glanced up.

There was no mistaking the Prime Complex. As the highest structure in Androxia, the grand edifice reared above the rest like a mountain over a cluster of molehills. In the bright sunlight, its golden radiance was enhanced. The Complex was undeniably magnificent, awe-inspiring, splendid beyond measure.

A small black speaker in the center of the instrument panel suddenly crackled to life. “Androxia Express Number Three, this is the Central Air Traffic Control Tower. You are deviating from your delivery schedule, and you are not conforming to your prescribed flight path. You are also about to enter restricted air space. Explain immediately.”

“I told you so,” Roger commented, grabbing a headset lying on top of the instrument panel. He hastily aligned the headset over his ears and mouth. “What do I say?”

“Tell them you are under orders to deliver an urgent message to Primator,” Blade directed.

Roger reached out and flicked a silver toggle on the instrument panel.

“Air Traffic Control, this is Androxia Express Number Three. What’s the problem? I am under orders to deliver an urgent message to Primator.”

“Negative,” the speaker cracked. “We have no record of any security authorization for you to land on the Prime Complex. You will abort and return to Central Field immediately.”

Roger flicked off the toggle. “Now what, mastermind?”

“Tell them you received your security authorization at the Intelligence Building,” Blade instructed. “Say you’re carrying the results of the interrogation of the Warriors.”

Roger’s forehead creased in perplexity, his O.D. gleaming. He turned on the silver toggle. “Air Traffic Control, I don’t understasnd any of this. I was handed my security clearance at Intelligence. I was told this must reach Primator promptly, and I was the only one on the helipad at the time. I overheard something about the interrogation results of some Warriors, if that makes any sense. But if you want me to abort, I will do so right away.

Please check and confirm.”

There was a slight pause.

“One moment,” Air Traffic Control said.

Roger switched off the toggle.

“If those jokers check with Intelligence and learn we busted out,” Hickok mentioned, “the jig is up.”

Blade looked at Roger. “Those missiles and lasers on the roof. Will they be activated if we try to land?”

“I don’t know,” Roger said. “It depends on whether they believed my story. They might hold off while they’re checking.”

“Then land! Now!” Blade commanded.

Roger grit his teeth and pulled on the stick, sending the copter into a steep climb, zooming toward the top of the Prime Complex.

“Wheeee!” Hickok cried in delight.

Blade’s muscles tensed as the helicopter swooped upward, closing on the roof. They were approaching from the southwest, and he could see a bulky cannonlike affair, obviously one of the large lasers, perched on the southwest corner. Even as he watched, the barrel of the laser began to shift, to move in their direction.

Hickok had also noticed. “They’re gettin’ our range.”

“Faster!” Blade urged.

Roger pushed the helicopter to its limit, angling even higher. “If we can reach the heliport, we might be safe temporarily,” he remarked. “I don’t think they’ll fire at us while we’re on the roof. There’s too great a risk of an explosion. They’ll probably wait until we lift off again.”

“An explosion from what?” Blade asked. “This copter? I doubt it would put much of a dent in the roof if it’s as sturdy as the rest of the Complex.”

“Not from the copter,” Roger elaborated. “From the refueling tank.”

Blade leaned toward the pilot. “What refueling tank? You didn’t tell us about any refueling tank.”

“Every heliport has a refueling tank nearby,” Roger told them. “Fighting these thermal drafts can make a chopper use up its fuel real fast. The refueling tanks at each heliport are for emergency refueling.”

The courier copter was almost to the roof of the Prime Complex.

Blade’s gaze was glued to the laser. The weapon was continuing to swivel, slanting lower, its barrel resembling a gigantic, elongated tube, tracking the path of the chopper.

“Androxia Express Number Three!” the speaker barked. “You will abort immediately and return to Central Field!”

“Up yours!” Roger muttered.

The chopper swept over the rim of the roof, streaking past the laser on the southwest corner, diving for the heliport.

“We made it!” Roger shouted excitedly.

The helicopter alighted on the heliport.

Blade handed his Gaskells to Hickok, then rose and ran to the sliding door. He yanked the door open and leaped from the chopper, landing on his hands and knees on the concrete heliport. The wind from the main rotor tousled his hair. He saw the metal mail chute to his left. In front of him, about 30 yards from the heliport, was the large oval refueling tank.

To the east, to his right, was the steel door to the stairs.

Move! his mind shrieked.

Blade scrambled to the northern edge of the heliport and dropped to the roof. He circled to the left, to the metal chute. The mail chute was square, about five feet in height, not more than ten inches by ten inches. It was labeled with the word MAIL. He grabbed a small handle near the top, and the door to the chute swiveled open. Moving swiftly, he removed two hand grenades from his right front pocket. He hooked the little finger of his left hand in the door handle to keep the chute door from closing, then quickly pulled the pins and deposited the grenades in the mail chute.

Move!

Blade released the door and whirled, racing toward the refueling tank, mentally ticking off the numbers.

Ten-nine-eight.

Blade pulled another grenade from his pocket as he ran.

Seven-six-five.

He halted, wrenching the pin loose.

Four-three-two.

Blade hurled the grenade with all of his prodigious strength at the fuel tank, then spun toward the chopper.

There was the retort of a muffled explosion from under the roof, and the entire top of the Prime Complex seemed to sway, the roof vibrating violently as smoke billowed from the mail chute.

Blade nearly lost his footings, but he forced his pumping legs to respond, to keep going, racing for the helicopter. He vaulted onto the concrete landing pad, making for the inviting open door. He was only seven feet from his goal when the oval fuel tank detonated. Blade felt an invisible wave of force slam into his back, and he was lifted from his feet and hurled against the copter, sprawling over the lip of the cargo door. He caught a glimpse of a flaming ball spiraling heavenward, and then strong hands gripped his shoulders and he was abruptly hauled into the helicopter as the chopper rose several feet and sped toward the south side of the Prime Complex.

Another tremendous blast rocked the roof.

Blade, on his left side on the floor, saw Roger struggling with the stick as the craft bounced and shook. A brilliant streak of light flashed past the cargo door, and he realized one of the roof lasers had opened up.

The helicopter suddenly banked to the left and dived, plummeting over the south rim of the edifice.

Blade could still see a portion of the roof, and he saw a sheet of red and orange erupt skyward as yet another explosion shattered the southern rim.

Roger was laughing inanely. The chopper leveled off, swinging wide to the west of the Complex.

Blade slowly stood. The top of the Complex was engulfed in flames.

Hickok was lying on the floor near the boxes, several of which had fallen on him when the copter descended. He pushed the boxes from him and rose. “I knew it’d be a piece of cake.”

Blade closed the cargo door, then moved to the front and sat down across from the pilot.

Roger glanced at the hulking figure in the black vest and the fatigue pants. “Thanks.”

“For what?” Blade asked.

“I wouldn’t admit it to myself,” Roger stated, “but I’ve wanted to pay them back for a long time! Telling me I couldn’t get married! The sons of bitches!”

Hickok came up behind Blade’s seat. “How would you like to live somewhere else, somewhere you could marry any woman who’d say yes?”

Roger looked at the gunman. “Are you putting me on?”

“Nope,” Hickok assured the pilot. “We’ll take you there if you’ll help us get out of Androxia.”

“I can help,” Roger said. “If I stay as close to the ground as possible, radar won’t be able to pick us up. They might not find us.”

“What about your blasted disk?” Hickok questioned.

“They can track me with that, all right,” Roger said.

Blade rose, drawing his right Bowie. “Don’t move.”

“What are you doing?” Roger inquired nervously.

Blade leaned over the pilot, examining the edge of the Orwell Disk. He found a minute crack between the disk and the flesh on the right side and gingerly inserted the tip of his Bowie. “Brace yourself.”

Roger, his knuckles white as his fingers clutched the stick, blanched.

Blade’s right arm bulged.

Roger flinched, his mouth contorting in torment.

There was a loud, squishy popping noise, and the Orwell Disk plopped from Roger’s forehead into Blade’s left palm. A trickle of blood seeped from the circular identation left in Roger’s forehead.

“Did you remove the damn thing?” Roger asked hopefully.

Blade held the disk out for Roger to see.

Hickok uttered a derisive snort. “If the blamed things are that easy to pry off, why didn’t you take it off yourself?”

“The penalty for removing an O.D. is death,” Roger replied.

Blade handed the Orwell Disk to the gunman. “You know what to do with it.”

Hickok nodded. Seconds later, the disk was sailing out a narrow opening in the cargo door.

“I’m in your debt for this,” Roger said to Blade. “I’ll do my best to get us out of here.”

“First things first,” Blade remarked.

“What do you mean?”

Blade peered out the canopy at the buildings zipping past. “Where would the Superiors take a mutant to be neutered?”