David Robbins - Chicago Run

Falcone stopped, flushed with enthusiasm, and held his right fist aloft in a symbolic gesture of hopeful victory. “Stay tuned for more details,” he added, and turned toward the host of Exercise with Marsha . “You may continue for the time being.”

“Thank you.”

Several rebels had already taken over the control booth, and Falcone now hurried up a short flight of stairs and joined them. “Has there been any reaction from the Central Core?”

A woman pointed at a special red telephone on the wall. “No, sir. Not a peep. I doubt they know we’ve taken over the building yet.”

“Good. Yama was right. The government made a blunder when it put all of its eggs in one basket. Permitting only a single TV station to exist will prove their undoing.”

A man came running in. “Falcone, we’ve started broadcasting on all radio channels. Roy is using the tapes he made.”

“Okay. Tell him to stay there until further notice.”

“Yes, sir.” The man whirled and dashed off.

Falcone smiled encouragement at the rebels in the booth. “So far, so good. If the rest of the units do their job equally as well, we’ll prevail.”

One of the freedom fighters stepped to a window and opened it. The sharp sounds of automatic weapon fire mingled with louder detonations.

There were screams and shouts and terrified wails.

“It sounds like the end of the world,” commented an awed rebel.

“Yes, doesn’t it?” Falcone said, and beamed.

The switchboard operators at the Central Core were doing the best they could, but the madhouse within and the bedlam without made their job impossible. Scores of calls came in from frantic police, military officers, and politicians requesting assistance or instructions. But the operators were unable to connect the calling parties with their administrative heads or superior officers because none were in their offices.

The majority of workers in the Central Core, from secretaries to high-ranking commanders, had joined the general exodus from the building after the alarm was sounded and a rumor spread that a rebel suicide squad had attacked the Core and planned to blow it up.

One man, however, adamantly refused to leave. He stood at a window, observing the dozens of columns of gray and black smoke arising from his city, seeing crowds of rampaging citizens in the streets far below, and listening to the muffled popping of firearms. A powerful explosion not two blocks away shook the pane as another police station went up in flames.

Ramis ran up and said crisply, “Except for your personal guard, everyone else on the ninth floor has gone down in the elevators, sir.”

The Minister turned. “You weren’t able to stop them?”

“No, sir. General Schonfeld gave the order several minutes ago. I was too late.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” the Minister stated. “Where is that incompetent Schonfeld now?”

“Still on the ninth floor. As I was talking to him there was a blast in the background and the line went dead.”

“Go inform him in person that I want to see him.”

“And if he won’t come?”

The Minister’s features hardened darkly. “Then he’ll face a court-martial after we’ve taught the rebels the folly of opposing their betters. Now go.”

“Yes, sir,” Ramis said dutifully, and hastened away.

Scowling, the Minister gazed out the window again. To the west a small group of soldiers were advancing in formation toward the Core. Suddenly, from out of every alley and side street in their vicinity poured a hoard of screeching citizens armed with baseball bats, rolling pins, kitchen knives, and anything else that had been handy. The soldiers halted and brought their Dakon II’s to bear with practiced precision, mowing down the foremost ranks of the howling mob. But the human wave couldn’t be halted by a few lead pebbles; it crashed into the troopers and engulfed them in a savage swirl of bloody fighting. Half a minute later not a soldier remained alive.

Pivoting, the Minister walked to a console on the left-hand wall and pressed a button. Instantly a television screen came to life above him, but instead of an approved program he saw an unfamiliar man in a blue rebel uniform exhorting the populace to rush from their homes and join the growing revolution.

Furious, the Minister smashed his fist down on the button and the screen went blank.

Behind him someone nervously cleared his throat.

Pivoting, the Minister regarded the four scientists in their white smocks and the pair of Cy-Hounds held on a tight leash by two of them.

He walked over, his face a tingle of crimson. “Did you see? Did you hear? Those rabble think they can defeat me! I’ll have every one of them tortured before they die.”

“Yes, sir,” the senior biochemical engineer replied. “They certainly deserve such a punishment.”

“They deserve far worse,” the Minister hissed, and focused on the Cy-Hounds. “Why hasn’t the third one returned yet?”

“I don’t know,” said the senior scientist.

“You assured me that it would find the intruders and terminate them. Yet it’s been five minutes since you sent it out the door.”

The man swallowed. “Begging your pardon, Excellency, but the Central Core is an enormous structure. There’s no telling on which floor the rebels might be. But you can rest assured that the Cy-Hound will find them. Its brain is actually a marvelous computer enabling it to identify criminal types not only by their behavior, but by their clothing, scent, heart rate, and other programmed factors. The Cy-Hound reacts to the composite total.”

“Elaborate.”

“Let’s say the Cy-Hound comes across a civilian holding a weapon. Since it’s programmed to know that only men and women dressed in proper police or military uniforms are permitted to carry a firearm, it will automatically attack.”

“Let’s hope these beasts are all you claim they are,” the Minister said gruffly. “If not, we might very well have rebels coming in that door.”

“Not to worry, sir,” the scientist stated confidently. “We still have this pair. If rebels come through that door, the Cy-Hounds will tear them to pieces.”

The thing was a dog.

Or was it?

Yama leveled the Dakon II as the creature halted abruptly on the steps above, its smooth, gray, hairless body rippling with distinctive sinews.

He’d never encountered a beast quite like it, and wondered if it might be a mutation.

Five feet high at the shoulders, the strange canine possessed a massive build and appeared to weigh close to two hundred pounds. The legs were short and stout, the body shaped like a barrel. Its face had a square profile. The nose was black, the lips thin. Most startling were the eyes.

They contained bizarre reddish pupils that had the transparency of clear plastic and glowed with a fiery inner light. Around its thick neck hung a wide black leather collar bearing inch-long silver studs.

The Warrior hoped the thing would keep on going. At any moment he expected irate soldiers to come piling through the door, and he didn’t care to be trapped between them and the dog.

Shouts arose in the corridor attended by the sound of troopers rushing toward the stairwell.

The strange brute cocked its head and sniffed loudly.

Yama went into action, removing another grenade and pulling the pin as he backpedaled to the door, keeping his eyes on the beast. He opened the door a foot and saw a dozen troopers charging straight at him. Quickly he hurled the grenade and slammed the door before they could open up, moving to the right as he did.

From his rear came the faint scratching of claws on the floor.

Spinning, Yama tried to bring the Dakon II into play.