David Robbins - Chicago Run

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.”