The two constables sprinted onto Threadneedle Street, heading for Moorgate. Dunning stumbled and nearly sprawled on his face in a filthy gutter as he and his companion collided with a pair of utterly terrified dogs racing in the opposite direction, off into the night.

"Bleedin' ratbags! Whats gotten into 'em?" said Dunning.

Then again perhaps the mutts had the right idea.

Like a factory-made demon, a giant, armor- plated machine careened around — and through — a corner of the narrow street, demolishing everything in it's path.

"Good Christ!" Dunnings companion skittered to a halt, eyes wide. His truncheon drooped in his grip, laughably insignificant compared to the mechanized titan lurching toward them with a roar of engines and a belch of oily exhaust smoke.

It was a tank vehicle plated with thick iron sheets, riveted into place on a body that rode on implacably paired tracks. Glaring headlamps shone forward like the baleful gaze of a dragon. It's reinforced bow slammed like a battering ram through the wall, knocking it down without pause. The heavy treads crushed fallen bricks into powder. Dunning couldn't even guess how many tons the vehicle weighed.

Three other constables converged from their own beats, stopped in their tracks. "Its an infernal Juggernaught!"

"Run!" Dunning's tone was urgent as he backed away. Not cowardly — just sensible. There would be no real protection against a mechanized leviathan that could plow through solid walls.

While three of the policemen staggered backward, Dunning's companion took an unexpected initiative. Swallowing hard, he raised his truncheon, stepped into the middle of the street, and blew his whistle again for good measure. He stood his ground in the glare of the behemoths headlights, raised his hand, and said, "Halt! In the name of the Queen!"