David Robbins - Chicago Run

“Death to the Minister!” someone yelled.

“Down with the butchers!” added another.

Roy smiled sheepishly at the man in blue. “What we lack in expertise we more than make up in determination. Sooner or later the Movement will triumph. It’s inevitable. Just like when the early American colonies were oppressed by England and when the countries of Eastern Europe were under the iron heel of Communism, the people of Technic City have been denied their freedom.” He paused. “Freedom is more than an inalienable right. It’s a fundamental condition necessary for human happiness. No amount of government regulation and oppression can eliminate such a basic urge. Trying to suppress it is like trying to cap a volcano. Eventually that volcano will erupt and destroy those who tried to deny Nature.”

Falcone laughed lightly. “You must forgive Roy, Yama. He’s a political-science instructor at a university and tends to become long-winded. Maybe that’s the reason they pay him such an exorbitant salary so he can afford this nice home.”

Some of the rebels chuckled.

“What do you do?” the Warrior asked.

“I run a bookstore,” Falcone said, and gestured at the seated rebels.

“Everyone here has a different occupation, but we’re all united in our common cause.”

“Don’t worry about them,” Roy interjected. “They’ll do their part admirably.” He looked into the big man’s unnerving eyes. “But what about you? Do you really think it can be done?”

“If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have proposed the idea,” Yama said. “Your rulers made a mistake when they placed all their eggs in one basket, so to speak.

By concentrating all of their administrative agencies and military command centers in one edifice they centralized the government, but in the process they made that edifice their Achilles heel.”

Falcone slowly shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said uncertainly. “If your plan works it’ll be a miracle.”

“Do any of you have a better idea?” Yama asked, and no one replied.

“At the rate you’ve been going, it will be another ten or twenty years before your Movement even makes a dent. If I can succeed in creating chaos tomorrow, your units shouldn’t encounter much opposition. Blowing up the military barracks and two-thirds of the police stations will drastically reduce the forces that can be thrown at you. And by taking over key communications facilities, you can broadcast your message of revolution to the entire city. From then on it will be up to the people. If they want freedom, they’ll fight for it.”

“And you?” Roy said. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“You’re committing suicide.”

“Let me worry about that,” Yama declared firmly, and looked at a clock on the wall. “It’s now one a.m. Since we’ve already decided daylight would be too early and not give you time to get your units in place, at eight tomorrow morning I’ll attack the Central Core.”

Falcone drove the trike himself, and delivered the Warrior to the west edge of the spacious parking lot surrounding the Central Core at ten minutes to eight. The magnificent structure sparkled in the bright morning sunshine. Since the typical workday for the majority of personnel employed at the Core began at seven a.m., the lot contained hundreds of trikes and four-wheelers as well as a few jeeps, trucks, and cars.

Yama wore a green trench coat to conceal his weapons. The Wilkinson and two Dakon II’s were in a large red garment bag given to him by Roy.

He had the bag draped across his thighs and one hand on Falcone’s shoulder as the trike pulled up to the curb.

“End of the line,” the rebel leader declared, looking over his shoulder.

Dismounting, Yama cradled the heavy bag in his left arm, and tugged at the wide-brimmed purple hat tendered by another member of the Movement to cover his distinctive hair and screen his face.

On the street beside them swarmed the usual heavy traffic.

“Let’s synchronize watches,” Falcone suggested. He wore an orange trench coat and a yellow polka-dot cap.

The warrior pulled back his left sleeve to expose the watch given to him by his newfound friend. A digital, and the very latest in Technic technology, it boasted 41 functions in addition to telling the time. Falcone had claimed the device could even monitor a person’s blood pressure and pulse rate. “I have nine minutes until eight.”

“Same here.”

“Then we’re all set,” Yama said, hefting the garment bag.

“In more ways than one,” Falcone stated. “My people are all in position.

At eight sharp we begin.”

“May the Spirit guide your every move.”

Falcone twisted and gazed up at the tip of the glistening Core. “I don’t see how you can possibly do it, and I don’t understand why I believe you can.”

“The Movement will have the hour it needs,” Yama promised, and started to leave.

“Yama?”

“Yes?” the Warrior responded, pausing.

“Take care,” Falcone said, and revved the engine. In seconds he’d blended into the traffic flow and was racing to the north.

Yama faced the edifice and walked across a narrow strip of grass to the lot. There were few people abroad, and none paid him the slightest attention. Threading a path among the parked vehicles, he soon came within 15 yards of the gold doors lining the Core’s base.

There were two guards, soldiers with Dakon II’s slung over their shoulders. They stood near the middle of the row of doors, conversing idly.

Neither paid much attention to the Warrior until he was almost upon them. Then the shorter of the duo looked around in surprise and declared, “Hold it, citizen. Where do you think you’re going?”

Yama casually unbuttoned the trench coat and halted six feet from them. “Sorry to bother you, but do you have the time?”

“Why don’t you go find a phone and call Dial-the-Time?” the trooper suggested. “The number is 282-5000.”

“Give him a break, Nick,” said the other soldier, who checked his wristwatch. “It’s three minutes till eight.”

The Warrior eased his right hand under the trench coat. “Then I’ll start early.”

“Start what, citizen?” the short soldier asked, his brown eyes narrowing.

“Are either of you married?” Yama inquired.

Surprised by the unexpected query, the troopers looked at one another.

The tall courteous one snickered and said, “No, citizen. Neither of us have tied the knot yet. Why do you want to know?”

“It’s for the best,” Yama said, and drew the Browning. A single shot bored a slug through the shorter man’s brain, and the Technic spun and dropped. Yama shifted, aiming at the soldier who had given him the time, who was now gawking at him in horror.

“Don’t,” the man said.

“Drop your weapon and flee.”

Stupefied by the order, the soldier nonetheless promptly let his Dakon II slide to the cement walk and took off to the south. He never bothered to glance back.

Yama stared at the gold-plated doors for a moment, half expecting reinforcements to appear immediately. When none did, he placed the garment bag on the asphalt, crouched, and quickly unfastened the zipper.

Shrugging out of the trench coat and tossing it aside, he replaced the Browning, slung the Wilkinson over his right arm, a Dakon II over his left, and gripped the second Dakon II in both hands. His pockets bulged with ammo, clips, and magazines, and attached to his belt were six fragmentation grenades courtesy of the rebels. Rising, he strode up to the doors and spied a slender panel between two of them. As he’d been told would be the case, there were several buttons arranged vertically down the panel. He pressed one.