Chicago Run

CHAPTER TWO

The Minister of Technic City was not in a good mood. He stood on the tenth floor of the Central Core, his hands clasped behind his slender back, scarcely noticing his somber reflection in the tinted window. His shock of hair resembled a handful of soggy straw. His eyes were the hue of a stagnant pool. Both accented his pale complexion and the worry lines etching his face. By contrast, his brightly colored uniform would have been ideal for a performer in one of the prewar circuses. The pants and the shirt were bright, light blue, trimmed in gold fabric. Attached to each of the shirt lapels was a glittering gold insignia; a large T enclosed in a gold ring with a gold lightning bolt slashing through the center.

He gazed out over the metropolis, pondering his problem.

The former city of Chicago throbbed with vitality. Cramming the highways and byways were thousands of three-wheeled motorcycles—trikes, as they were commonly called—and a lesser number of four-wheelers, the only forms of motorized transportation citizens were permitted to own. There were also electric buses, military jeeps and trucks, and a few luxury limousines—one of the perks reserved for the elite in Technic society.

Although the streets were packed with vehicles, the sidewalks were virtually empty, the reason being that a law had been enacted shortly after the holocaust prohibiting citizens from using sidewalks unless they first obtained a written permit. The founders of Technic City, scientists at the Chicago Institute of Advanced Technology who had refused to evacuate during the war and later came to rule the city, decreed such a measure to prevent dissidents from gathering and inciting the rest of the populace into revolt.

The technocrats had done their job well. They’d planned their version of a Utopian society, and had proceeded to rebuild the Windy City from the ground up. Atmospheric Control Stations were erected to provide a constant equitable climate. Grimy factories and towering smokestacks were replaced by streamlined industrial edifices that produced no pollution. Every individual residence had been razed, and the homeowners housed in geometrically designed structures constructed using an impervious synthetic compound invented by the technocrats.

It had been only fitting that the new leaders elected to rename Chicago and christen their creation Technic City. Their brainchild had flourished, the citizenry strictly controlled by the Directors of the various administrative Divisions. The Directors, in turn, were accountable to the Minister. Trade relations were established with other city-states to acquire the few items Technic City couldn’t artificially reproduce.

For a century all had gone well.

A scowl reflected the Minister’s frame of mind as he contemplated the consquences of his predecessor’s misguided attempt to prematurely seize control of the country once called America. The previous Minister had concocted an elaborate plan that involved penetrating into a special vault located far under the ruins of New York City to obtain huge quantities of mind-control gas stored there since World War Three. Unfortunately, part of the plan had entailed duping the Warriors.

The Minister’s scowl deepened. The idiot! His inane predecessor should have known better than to tangle with Blade. The giant’s reputation was justifiably deserved, as the Technics had found out to their lasting regret.

Not only had the scheme to retrieve the gas been thwarted, but the previous Minister had wound up being terminated by the notorious gunfighter named Hickok.

Then there had been the business in Green Bay six months ago. The Director of the Science Division had set up a top-secret, heavily guarded research station there, and developed a means of controlling mass human behavior through radio waves. Once again the Warriors had intervened, slaying the Director and destroying the facility.

The damn, rotten Warriors.

Were they involved now? the Minister wondered. Given the facts, he tended to doubt their participation. Hit-and-run attacks were hardly their style. Who else, though, possessed the audacity to challenge the awesome might of Technic City? Who else would be so—

A door hissed open on the other side of the Executive Chamber.

Turning, the Minister discovered General Julian Schonfeld, the head of the Technic Armed Forces, walking toward the immense mahogany desk at which the Minister labored most of every day. The Minister took his seat and folded his arms on the top, predicting by the troubled expression on the general’s face that the news Schonfeld bore would not be good.

“Hello, Julian.”

“Sir,” Schonfeld responded, halting and giving a snappy salute. “I bring bad news.”

“Let me guess. It’s happened again.”

The general nodded. “Another patrol has been attacked. Five bodies were recovered, but there was no sign of the sixth patrol member, a Corporal Lyle Carson.”

“The Shadow again?”

“Yes, sir. Ballistics confirmed the same type of weapon was used, an antiquated firearm called a Wilkinson ‘Terry’ Carbine. There’s no doubt it was the Shadow.”

Sagging in his plush chair, the Minister idly rubbed his chin and said, “And am I to understand he took a prisoner this time?”

“It’s a possibility. But Carson might have survived the attack and fled into the forest. For all we know a mutation got him.”

“I doubt it,” the Minister stated. “Only one man has survived an attack to date, and Malovich was extremely lucky. From the evidence I suspect the Shadow deliberately left Malovich alive to inform us about his presence.”

“We’ve sent in three Elite Squads to scour the area. If anyone can find the Shadow, they can, sir.”

“They haven’t had any success yet,” the Minister noted dryly. He drummed the fingers of his left hand on the arm of his chair and bitterly went on, “One man and he ties Technic City in knots. We never know where he’ll appear next, which gives him a decided tactical advantage.

Trading parties, patrols, you name it, he goes after anyone departing or entering, leaving corpses as his calling card. We can’t allow this to go on much longer. Already rumors are spreading among the people.”

General Schonfeld smirked. “With all due respect, sir, who cares? Rumors are no threat.”

“On the contrary, Julian,” the Minister said softly, “the right rumor could spark widespread rebellion. With the Resistance Movement spreading its lies and deceptions to all corners of Technic City, the masses have become uncharacteristically restless. It wouldn’t take much to make them rise in revolt against us.”

“They know better,” Schonfeld declared bluntly. “The military would suppress any such treason.”

The Minister swiveled his chair to look out at the metropolis critically.

“What chance does a drop of water have of stopping a tidal wave?” he asked, his voice so low as to be inaudible.

“Sir?”

“Nothing. What else do you have to report?”

“The Science Division reports the Cy-Hounds will be ready by the day after tomorrow.”

His interest piqued, the Minister looked at the officer. “So soon?”

“The project was given a rush priority, remember? The bioengineers have been working on them for three weeks now.”

“Three weeks?” the Minister repeated in disbelief.

“Yes, sir. Time flies, doesn’t it? The Shadow first appeared thirty-four days ago, if you’ll recall. That’s the night he killed the Director of Intelligence.”

“Poor Morris.”

“A good man, sir. I agree,” Schonfeld said, moving closer and lowering his voice. “I thought for certain the Tracking Teams we sent after the son of a bitch would take care of our problem. Those German shepherds and their handlers are top-notch.”

“Were, you mean.”

“Well, yes, sir. The Shadow did wipe out all three Teams. Frankly, I’m beginning to suspect the guy might be part mutant.”

The comment brought the Minister out of his chair. “On what do you base this assumption?”

“The obvious, sir. No human is as good as this joker. Consider his tally so far. He’s eliminated the three Tracking Teams for a total of six prime dogs and six handlers, plus he’s slain fifty-eight of our troopers. No one man could do all that.”

“Blade could.”

General Schonfeld’s surprise showed. “The head of the Warriors? Do you suspect it’s him?”

“No, not really.”

“In the long run it doesn’t matter. The Cy-Hounds will fix his ass but good.”

“You place a lot of confidence in their performance?”

“I do, sir. I’ve seen several demonstrations of their capabilities, and there’s no stopping them. The technology incorporated into their biochemical forms is staggering. We’re talking infrared for night missions, enhanced hearing, computerized scent identification, the whole works.

They’ll track the Shadow down in no time and put an end to our little problem,” Schonfield said.

“Let’s hope they have more success than their natural counterparts,” the Minister remarked, turning to the window once more.

“Will that be all, sir?”

“Not quite.”

“Yes?”

“I want your honest opinion, Julian.”

“I’ve never lied to you.”

“I know. Which is why I’m relying on you to tell me the truth now and not simply tell me what you believe I want to hear, like so many of the lower bureaucratic sycophants do.”

“How can you compare me to them, Marcel?” the general asked, his tone conveying his annoyance.

The Minister turned toward him. “I meant no insult. You know that.”

“What is it you want?”

A profoundly thoughtful expression marked the Minister’s countenance as he gazed around the ornate chamber. “I want your assessment of the computer projection issued by the socialtechs.”

Schonfeld chuckled. “Which one, sir? They issue so damn many. Sometimes I think all those sociologist-types do is sit around on their butts devising farfetched reasons for the latest social trends.”

“You know which one I mean.”

The general pursed his lips and gazed at the polished tips of his black shoes. “I believe I do, yes. The Freedom Scenario.”

“And?”

“Computers make mistakes too. So although our newest and best model has predicted the majority of our citizens will rise in a great revolt and sweep all Technic administrators from power in seventeen-point-two years, I’m inclined to doubt it will ever happen. The masses are sheep, waiting to be led around by the collective hand by those with the wisdom to guide them properly.”

“I don’t share your cynicism.”

“Oh?”

“Except for the Romans of antiquity and a few other long-lost empires, name me one world power that has persisted for more than a few hundred years at most.”

Schonfeld’s brow knit. “I can’t offhand. But again, so what? Empires and world powers have crumpled for a variety of reasons. We won’t share a similar fate because we’re better than they could ever have hoped to be.

Our society is perfect.”

“Is it?”

“Most certainly. To think or say otherwise is a legal offense, the highest treason.”

“I know,” the Minister stated rather sadly. “Well, I was curious about your opinion. Thank you, Julian, for the update.”

Saluting again, General Schonfeld did an about-face and briskly departed.

The Minister gazed at the closed door for a full minute before he took his seat and pressed a button on the intercom. “Grade?”

“Yes, sir,” the secretary promptly answered.

“Contact the Bioengineering Depeartment and have them send up a complete disk on their Cy-Hound project.”

“Right away, sir.”

“And inform the head of the project that I want a personal demonstration tomorrow morning.”

“Yes, sir.”

“One more thing.”

“Yes?”

“Send in Ramis.”

“Immediately.”

Releasing the button, the Minister leaned to the right and opened the middle drawer of his desk. Inside was the microrecording machine, its tiny spools still turning slowly. He stabbed the off button and removed them.

A knock sounded, and a skinny man wearing a red uniform with silver trim came in. “You requested to see me, Minister?”

“Yes.” The ruler of Technic City held aloft the spools. “See what you can do with these.”

The skinny man crossed to the desk and took them. “May I ask who it is this time?”

“General Schonfeld, Ramis.”

Ramis whistled. “Isn’t this dangerous?”

“Are you questioning my judgment?”

“No, sir. Absolutely not.”

“Then tend to your work and return the spools and the new version within an hour.”

Bowing, Ramis wheeled and hurried off.

A particularly malevolent smile transformed the Minister’s face into a mask of sheer evil. He rose and walked to the window, admiring his city, his people, his domain. Soon, he reflected.

Very soon.