Not knowing what it was and unwilling to find out the hard way, he dived onto his stomach, firing in midair.
The scientist had just squeezed the trigger on the box when a neat pattern of red holes stitched across the front of the smock and he was flung onto his back, the device flying from his limp fingers.
Yama saw a thin red beam of light shoot from the gold ball even as the man fell, and heard a sizzling sound as it shot over his head. As quickly as the light appeared, it vanished. He rose and ran to the still, bleeding scientist. Slipping the grenade into a front pocket, he picked up the device. What in the world could it be? He’d never heard of such a bizarre weapon.
There were only two buttons on the black box. One was marked FIRE, the other RECHARGE.
Intriguing but useless, Yama decided, and tossed the unique weapon to the floor. He hastened onward. For his plan to succeed, for him to keep every administrator and military official in the Central Core preoccupied for the better part of an hour, he must reach the Minister.
The EXIT door was unlocked, and he moved through it onto a wide landing. Gazing over the railing he saw the bottom far below. From down there came yelling and the clumping of heavy boots.
Yama went up, taking the steps three at a stride. He reached the ninth floor landing and halted, recalling the intelligence information relayed by the rebels. On this floor were stationed 20 or 30 seasoned troops, the Minister’s personal guard unit. He went to the door, twisted the knob slowly, and opened it a crack.
Sure enough, there were several dozen soldiers congregated near the elevator shaft, spread out so four or five troopers covered each one. An officer stood to one side, issuing instructions.
Removing the genade from his pocket, Yama set the Dakon II down and pulled the pin. Holding the safety lever flush with the serrated body, he tugged the door wider, took a stride, and heaved.
Someone spotted him and shouted a warning.
Yama whirled and darted onto the landing, pressing the door closed with one hand as he scooped up the Dakon II with the other. He flattened a heartbeat before one or more of the troopers blistered the door at chest height.
With a loud whomp! the grenade went off.
That should delay them a bit, Yama reflected, shoving upright. He took several steps, making for the tenth floor, but he’d only covered half the landing when he saw the huge creature bounding down the stairwell toward him and he drew up short in amazement.
The thing was a dog.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Warriors of Alpha Triad and their captive had covered five miles by eight in the morning. Hickok took point, strolling along as if he didn’t have a care in the world, ten yards ahead of Blade and Geronimo, who were walking side by side and discussing the fate of Isabel Kauler.
“Why don’t we just let her go?” Geronimo suggested, keeping his voice down so she couldn’t hear him.
Blade glanced over his right shoulder at the woman, who trailed ten feet behind. Let her go? He’d like to, but he felt oddly responsible for her welfare. Her dejected posture hadn’t improved any since the night before; if anything, it had worsened. She hadn’t made any attempt to escape, which puzzled him. Perhaps it was because she had to squint against the light and tears were constantly in her eyes. “Hickok thinks we should kill her,” Blade’ mentioned. “He’s even volunteered to do the job.”
“Nice guy.”
“I can see his point,” Blade said. “She’s too dangerous to let go. She might kill someone, might eat them, and we would indirectly be responsible because we had the chance to eliminate her and didn’t.”
“Eliminate her,” Geronimo repeated distastefully. “You make it sound so clinical, like you’re performing a surgical operation.”
“In a sense it is.”
“Maybe so, but there is something else we could try.”
“What?” Blade asked.
“We could try to change her,” Geronimo proposed in all earnestness.
“Rehabilitate a cannibal?” Blade said skeptically. “I don’t know if it’s ever been done.”
“Is that any reason not to try? We could take her to the Home, let the Elders decide,” Geronimo said. He added wistfully, “If they vote for execution, then Hickok or Ares or Lynx will be more than willing to handle the chore and not have a qualm doing it.”
“You sound jealous.”
“I am,” Geronimo freely admitted. “Nathan and a few of the others can terminate anyone without a twinge of conscience. Me, I’m different. I’ll kill in the line of duty, but there are times when I’m lying in bed at night that I’ll see the faces of those I’ve slain in my mind’s eye. It bothers me a little.”
“We all go through the same thing at one time or another,” Blade said.
He pondered his friend’s idea. At first thought it was patently ridiculous, but the more he debated the pros and cons the more it appealed to him.
He had reservations, though, about taking Isabel to the Home. What if she harmed a Family member? There were dozens of young children there, including his own son Gabe.
Perhaps the issue boiled down to one thing: Did the woman deserve a second chance? The answer had to be yes, but only if she wanted to change. And as far as the Family was concerned, they’d shown a remarkable, commendable adaptability to admitting new members, even when those seeking permission to live at the Home were potentially dangerous. After all, Lynx had been a genetically engineered assassin created by the vile Doktor, a man who’d tried to destroy the Home and wipe out the Family, yet the cat-man had been welcomed and accepted with open arms.
“How do you deal with it?” Geronimo inquired.
Engrossed in reflection, Blade barely heard the question. He blinked and looked at him. “What?”
“How do you deal with the ghosts of those you’ve slain?” Geronimo elaborated.
“I try not to dwell on them,” Blade replied. “We’re Warriors. Killing is just part of our job, a grisly part that has often meant the difference between life and death for each of us and the Family. You have to put it behind you, file it in a part of your brain where it’ll remain buried, or the memories will eat at you and ruin your ability to get the job done right.”
“Easier said then done.”
Blade saw Hickok suddenly glance at them, wheel, and hurry back. “Did you see something?” he asked.
“I sure did, pard,” the gunfighter responded, and smirked.
“What’s so funny?” Geronimo wondered.
“You two clowns.”
“Meaning what?”
Hickok chuckled. “Meaning that while the two of you were gabbin’ like hens the cannibal flew the coop.”
Startled, Blade spun.
Sure enough, Isabel Kauler was gone.
At eight a.m. the first explosions rocked Technic City.
Four barracks housing several hundred soldiers were destroyed simultaneously, followed seconds later by ten strategic police stations that were scattered about the city.
The Technic Broadcasting Station, situated in a seven-story skyscraper a mile north of the Central Core, was going about its daily routine when dozens of blue-garbed rebels poured into the lobby, overwhelming the meager force of security guards without firing a shot.
Falcone led this detachment personally. While fifteen rebels remained downstairs, the rest took control of one floor after another. The stunned broadcasters and journalists offered no resistance.
Beaming out over the metropolis from Studio Five was the popular Exercise with Marsha show. Seductive, rapier-thin Marsha and her four leotard-clad assistants were demonstrating how to do tummy tucks when in burst the Resistance Movement. They froze in the act of tucking.