Chicago Run

CHAPTER NINETEEN

As the twin Cy-Hounds bounded toward Yama he fired, sweeping the Dakon II in a semicircle to catch both brutes full in the chest. The biochemical marvels reacted instantaneously, moving almost too fast for the human eye to follow, one darting to the left, the other the right, lowering their squat bodies to the floor as they ran. The rounds passed over their rushing forms without so much as nicking their skin.

The four scientists were less fortunate. Standing as they were directly behind the Cy-Hounds and lacking their creations’ reflexes, the quartet took the brunt of the fragmentation bullets head-on. They were all hurled backwards, their torsos exploding, spraying gore all over the floor. Two of the men screamed horribly as they went down.

Seated in the chair, the Minister never exhibited a hint of emotion as the men died. He simply sat and watched the tableau unfold.

Yama swung to the left, tracking the one Cy-Hound, his shots ripping up the floor just behind it as it ran in a tight loop. Fleetingly engrossed in nailing the beast, he failed to stay aware of the second, and realized the gravity of his mistake a millisecond later when the equivalent of a convoy truck doing 60 miles an hour hit him squarely between the shoulder blades.

Knocked forward over eight feet by the impact, Yama crashed onto his elbows and knees, losing his grip on the Dakon II. The rifle skidded off to the left.

Behind him the Minister vented a sinister laugh.

The Cy-Hound executing the loop abruptly changed direction and came straight for the Warrior.

Yama barely rose to his knees and the dog was there, slamming into him, bearing both of them to the carpet. He wedged his left forearm under the beast’s mouth as they went down, preventing it from ripping his face off, and rolled to the right, striving to prevent it from gaining a purchase.

Its claws tore into his body, causing intense pain that he ignored.

The second canine came to its fellow construct’s aid, dashing in close and nipping at the big man’s legs.

Still rolling, Yama grimaced at the agony, his right hand dropping to the survival knife and whipping the blade clear. He drove it up and in, sinking the gleaming tip deep into the Cy-Hound’s left eye, burying the knife in the socket.

As if jolted by fifty thousand volts of electricity, the brute arched its spine and furiously tore away from the Warrior, scrambling several feet to the right and halting while shaking its head and appearing dazed.

The other Cy-Hound pounced.

Yama had his palms on the floor, about to shove upright, when the beast used its head as a battering ram and sent him flying rearward. He crashed into a chair, jarring his left shoulder, wincing in torment. Lunging to his feet, disoriented and bleeding from a dozen deep cuts, he tried to draw the Browning.

Again the other brute bore down, this time going for the big man’s left leg and sinking its teeth into his thigh. Its jaws locked on and held fast.

Tottering to the left, Yama rained a flurry of punches on the Cy-Hound’s head but couldn’t dislodge it. He went for the Browning, and detected movement to his right before he could clear leather. Belatedly he saw his second bestial adversary leaping at his throat, and threw his right arm up to ward off the canine’s fangs.

Even with the survival knife jutting from its ravaged socket, the Cy-Hound fought on. Out of the air it hurtled to bury its teeth in the Warrior’s arm.

Now Yama had a dog on his leg and one on his arm. They were working in concert, using their combined weight and savage might in an effort to pull him down where they could finish him off in seconds. Blood coursed from his forearm and thigh, streaking their lips and jaws red.

“A commendable try, Warrior,” the Minister said. “But you were doomed from the start. Technic superiority will prevail every time.”

Yama felt himself weakening. The Cy-Hound on his right arm ground its teeth onto his bone, and waves of sheer anguish racked his brain. He was losing! In moments he would be dead!

So what?

The thought shocked him, made him pause despite the shaking and tearing of the brutes clinging to his flesh. So what if he died? Hadn’t he learned that death was merely the rite of passage from one level of reality to another? Hadn’t he learned to embrace death as the inevitable end of earthly life and the beginning of eternity? Why was he letting his innate instinct for survival supplant his hard-earned wisdom?

How soon we forget!

To the Minister, viewing the struggle with concealed glee, certain of the Warrior’s demise, came a rude shock when he saw the man wearing the skull abruptly straighten and square those broad shoulders, those blue eyes suddenly blazing with an inner fire and steely resolve. He recoiled in his chair, stupefied.

Yama disregarded both Cy-Hounds, disregarded the loss of blood and the ragged tears in his limbs and body. He simply reached for the scimitar, hauling the brute attached to his right arm along, and grasped the familiar hilt. Then he planted his legs and refused to be budged an inch.

Marveling at the big man’s resistance, the Minister glanced at the front door to his office as shooting erupted outside. When he looked back at the Warrior, he was stunned to see him lifting the injured Cy-Hound off the floor with one arm.

Yama raised his right forearm level with his face and locked his eyes on the one good orb of the Cy-Hound. He reached over with his left hand, grabbed the survival knife, and twisted.

The brute let go and fell to the floor.

Bunching his shoulder muscles, Yama swung the scimitar in a downward stroke aimed at the artificial canine chewing on his thigh. The curved blade cleaved its spine behind the front shoulders and sank a good six inches into its body. Immediately the creature released its grip and fell, its rear legs no longer able to receive mental impulses from the computer chip in its cranium.

Yama took a step backward, lifted the scimitar on high, and swung again, this time going for the nape of the beast’s neck. In a glittering blur of light the blade severed its head from its body.

Gasping, the Minister rose, his hand to his throat.

The remaining Cy-Hound swung sideways to keep its intact eye on the Warrior. Coiling its legs, the brute twisted and vaulted at the human’s neck.

With a speed that made lightning seem slow by comparison, Yama employed the scimitar as only a master swordsman could hope to do. In a single immensely powerful stroke he decapitated the dog, and heard both the head and body plop to the floor. Then, rotating slowly, he faced the ruler of Technic City.

His eyes widening, the Minister retreated a step and extended his left hand. “Wait! Don’t do anything rash!”

Yama took a stride forward, his hands wrapped around the scimitar’s hilt, the blade angled toward the carpet. His adamantine visage, ripped uniform, and blood-splattered form lent him the aspect of Death Incarnate.

The Minister looked and recognized his own demise in the Warrior’s flaming eyes. He backpedaled a yard and cried, “You wanted to take me prisoner!”

“I’ve changed my mind,” Yama said, the words a guttural growl, as he kept advancing.

There were yells from beyond the door to the reception area, and suddenly it burst open. In ran Rainis, his expression haggard, to halt in amazement at the carnage before him. “Excellency!” he wailed. “The rebels are here!”

The Minister paused, his eyes on the apparition stalking him. He considered trying to dart past the Warrior to escape, but realized he didn’t stand a prayer. There was always the rear door to the stairwell, however.

“Where are my guards?”

“All dead, sir,” Ramis replied. “What do you want me to do?”

“Get help, fool!”

“Yes—” Ramis began, and ended his sentence in a strangled scream as a bullet from the doorway penetrated his head and felled him where he stood.

Yama ignored the shot. He moved inexorably nearer to the Minister, taking one slow stride after another. Ten feet separated them.

Into the chamber poured a dozen rebels. In their forefront was Falcone.

He stopped, flabbergasted, but recovered quickly. “Yama! Don’t!”

The Warrior halted and glanced at the leader of the Resistance.

“Don’t kill him,” Falcone stated. “We need him. We must put him on trial for all the people to see.”

Through the stairwell door pounded a mix of rebels and citizens. They checked their rush in bewilderment.

“Please!” Falcone said earnestly, alarmed by the Warrior’s countenance.

It sent a chill down his spine. “We can use the Minister for propaganda purposes. Once we publicly dispose of him, the old Technic order will be permanently eradicated.”

The Minister stiffened indignantly. “I’ll never consent to letting common rabble put me on trial!” He walked toward the man who seemed to be the rebel leader, the same one he’d seen on television earlier.

Yama hadn’t moved.

Falcone glared at the tyrant. “You don’t have a say in the matter. A citizens’ court will be convened and you’ll be duly tried for your heinous crimes. We’ll expose all the atrocities you’ve committed, all those perpetrated by the Technic system since the government was inaugurated, so all the people will know beyond a shadow of a doubt, so they’ll never forget the price of letting freedom slip away.”

Stopping, the Minister jabbed a bony finger at the rebel.

“Ignorant scum! What gives you the right to set yourselves up as my judge? You’re beneath my contempt. I demand that you treat me with the respect I deserve.”

Yama’s grip on the scimitar tightened. “If that’s what you want,” he said softly but firmly, the statement carrying to every corner of the room.

The Minister glanced at him and smirked. “You’re too late, Warrior.

The war is over.”

“Their war, maybe,” Yama said, nodding at the rebels. “Not mine.” He took a pace toward the ruler.

Aware of the implication, the Minister nervously looked at Falcone.

“Who’s in charge here, anyway?”

Yama took another step.

None of the rebels or citizens intervened. They were transfixed, intimidated by the Warrior and unwilling to incur his wrath, collectively certain that protest would prove futile.

Licking his lips, the Minister faced the big man and took a step rearward. “Why? Tell me why?”

“You already know.”

“For her?”

The Warrior nodded once.

“But this is insane! I wasn’t even the Minister at the time.”

Yama stood a yard away. He waited, his gaze boring into the Minister, his body poised, knowing the man would break at any moment. Then he saw rampant fear flare in the tyrant’s eyes, and the man attempted to run.

“For Alicia,” he said under his breath as he whipped the scimitar in a broad stroke.

Everyone in the chamber watched in perverse fascination as that glistening blade sliced the Minister’s neck neatly in half and the blond head sailed through the air trailing a crimson spray. It thumped onto the floor and bounced twice before rolling to a stop at Falcone’s feet.

“For Alicia,” Yama repeated, louder, his voice choked with emotion. No one bothered to ask what he meant.

One week later.

Yama stood at a window in the newly named Executive Office, staring wistfully out over the drastically changed metropolis, his hands clasped behind his back. The sidewalks were packed with happy throngs, among them members of the newly organized Citizens Militia who now served as the combined police force and military, the men and women who had enlisted proudly wearing their distinctive dark blue uniforms bearing ebony skulls on the backs.

His own uniform had been repaired by the grateful rebels. His body bore a score of bandages, and was sore but mending. Yet his soul was still in turmoil. He knew they’d arrived. How, he couldn’t say. But the night before, as he’d spent another sleepless eight hours in the apartment the rebels had graciously allotted him, he’d sensed their presence.

At the mahogony desk sat Falcone, working feverishly signing papers, answering phones, and conversing with a constant stream of humanity who all had business with the just-installed President of New Chicago. In the week since the revolution, elections had been held and a fresh name bestowed on the city to signify the rebirth of liberty and the triumph of the people.

Roy suddenly entered and dashed up to the desk. “There are three strangers here to see you, Falcone,” he reported anxiously.

“Outsiders?”

“Yes. They showed up at the west gate an hour ago. It appears they were all set to destroy the guard tower when they noticed the new blue uniforms on the guards and decided to talk instead of ambushing them,” Roy detailed, his excitement obvious. He glanced at Yama and lowered his voice. “They’re Warriors.”

Falcone straightened. “What? Show them right in.”

“We’re already here, Chuckles,” declared one of three men coming through the doorway.

Falcone stared at them in surprise, instantly recognizing the buckskin-clad form of Hickok from the stories he’d heard. The other two, though, a giant and an Indian, were unknown to him although he wondered if the giant might be the legendary Blade. He smiled and stood.

“I’m glad to meet you.”

Strangely, the trio paid no attention to him. Instead, they walked over and halted behind Yama, who hadn’t turned around although he had to know they were there.

The giant spoke in a quiet, almost gentle voice. “Time to go back and face the music, old friend.”