“Then what will you do?”
A farmer named Patrick answered. “We’ll take our families into the woods and hide out until the bastards are gone. If we’re lucky they’ll be in a hurry to get elsewhere and they won’t burn Second Chance to the ground before they go.”
“Wishful thinking,” Blade said, his gray eyes sweeping over the crude buildings. He idly brushed at the comma of dark hair hanging over his right eye. “You know as well as I do that most raiding parties have a scorched-earth policy. What they don’t steal they destroy.”
Hickok stopped laughing and straightened. “Raiders are wimps.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” Ike said.
The giant placed his right hand on his hip and frowned. “We really can’t afford any delays, but we can’t leave you people in the lurch either.
How would you like our help?”
“What can the three of you do against so large a band?” Ike questioned.
“Our best,” Blade answered, scanning the crowd, noting the presence of the young boys and girls.
A woman in her twenties moved forward. “My name is Jennifer Shelly.
I’ve heard of you.” She paused. “You don’t have to risk your lives for us.
From what I hear you’ve all got families of your own.”
“Riskin’ our skins is what we do best,” Hickok said. “Besides, if there’s only twenty or thirty of these yahoos, we’ll hardly work up a sweat.”
“Speak for yourself,” the Indian stated.
“Come on, Geronimo,” Hickok declared. “We’ve faced worst odds.”
“And we’ve just managed to pull through by the skin of our teeth,” Geronimo mentioned. “I don’t know about you, but I like the idea of seeing my wife and son again.”
“And I don’t?”
Blade turned in a circle, studying Second Chance. “We’ll make our stand here. Get all of your people out of town and into the trees.”
“Yes, sir,” Ike said in transparent relief.
“You can run if you want,” Old Jerry said, “but I’m stayin’ and helpin’
the Warriors.”
The giant glanced at him, smiling kindly. “That won’t be necessary.”
“I’d never be able to live with myself if I turned tail.”
“I understand. But you’ll be doing us a favor if you go with the rest,” Blade said. “If we have to keep an eye on you, the distraction could cost us dearly.”
Old Jerry wiped the back of his left hand across his runny nose, his mouth curling downward. “Well, if you put it that way, I reckon I’ll skedaddle.”
Geronimo, oddly, groaned.
“What’s your name?” Hickok inquired, moving up to the prospector.
“Jerry. Folks call me Old Jerry.”
“I’m right pleased to meet you,” Hickok said. He extended his right hand.
Old Jerry shook, surprised by the controlled strength in the gunman’s fingers. “The honor is mine.”
The giant hefted his Commando and boomed out instructions. “Okay.
You’ve all heard our decision. Grab whatever food and clothing you want to take and seek shelter in the woods.”
“How will we know when it’s safe to come back?” a trapper inquired.
Blade’s eyes acquired a flinty tint. “You’ll know,” he told them, and emphasized the declaration solemnly. “You’ll know.”
CHAPTER TWO
The Minister of Technic City was not in a good mood. He stood on the tenth floor of the Central Core, his hands clasped behind his slender back, scarcely noticing his somber reflection in the tinted window. His shock of hair resembled a handful of soggy straw. His eyes were the hue of a stagnant pool. Both accented his pale complexion and the worry lines etching his face. By contrast, his brightly colored uniform would have been ideal for a performer in one of the prewar circuses. The pants and the shirt were bright, light blue, trimmed in gold fabric. Attached to each of the shirt lapels was a glittering gold insignia; a large T enclosed in a gold ring with a gold lightning bolt slashing through the center.
He gazed out over the metropolis, pondering his problem.
The former city of Chicago throbbed with vitality. Cramming the highways and byways were thousands of three-wheeled motorcycles—trikes, as they were commonly called—and a lesser number of four-wheelers, the only forms of motorized transportation citizens were permitted to own. There were also electric buses, military jeeps and trucks, and a few luxury limousines—one of the perks reserved for the elite in Technic society.
Although the streets were packed with vehicles, the sidewalks were virtually empty, the reason being that a law had been enacted shortly after the holocaust prohibiting citizens from using sidewalks unless they first obtained a written permit. The founders of Technic City, scientists at the Chicago Institute of Advanced Technology who had refused to evacuate during the war and later came to rule the city, decreed such a measure to prevent dissidents from gathering and inciting the rest of the populace into revolt.
The technocrats had done their job well. They’d planned their version of a Utopian society, and had proceeded to rebuild the Windy City from the ground up. Atmospheric Control Stations were erected to provide a constant equitable climate. Grimy factories and towering smokestacks were replaced by streamlined industrial edifices that produced no pollution. Every individual residence had been razed, and the homeowners housed in geometrically designed structures constructed using an impervious synthetic compound invented by the technocrats.
It had been only fitting that the new leaders elected to rename Chicago and christen their creation Technic City. Their brainchild had flourished, the citizenry strictly controlled by the Directors of the various administrative Divisions. The Directors, in turn, were accountable to the Minister. Trade relations were established with other city-states to acquire the few items Technic City couldn’t artificially reproduce.
For a century all had gone well.
A scowl reflected the Minister’s frame of mind as he contemplated the consquences of his predecessor’s misguided attempt to prematurely seize control of the country once called America. The previous Minister had concocted an elaborate plan that involved penetrating into a special vault located far under the ruins of New York City to obtain huge quantities of mind-control gas stored there since World War Three. Unfortunately, part of the plan had entailed duping the Warriors.
The Minister’s scowl deepened. The idiot! His inane predecessor should have known better than to tangle with Blade. The giant’s reputation was justifiably deserved, as the Technics had found out to their lasting regret.
Not only had the scheme to retrieve the gas been thwarted, but the previous Minister had wound up being terminated by the notorious gunfighter named Hickok.
Then there had been the business in Green Bay six months ago. The Director of the Science Division had set up a top-secret, heavily guarded research station there, and developed a means of controlling mass human behavior through radio waves. Once again the Warriors had intervened, slaying the Director and destroying the facility.
The damn, rotten Warriors.
Were they involved now? the Minister wondered. Given the facts, he tended to doubt their participation. Hit-and-run attacks were hardly their style. Who else, though, possessed the audacity to challenge the awesome might of Technic City? Who else would be so—
A door hissed open on the other side of the Executive Chamber.
Turning, the Minister discovered General Julian Schonfeld, the head of the Technic Armed Forces, walking toward the immense mahogany desk at which the Minister labored most of every day. The Minister took his seat and folded his arms on the top, predicting by the troubled expression on the general’s face that the news Schonfeld bore would not be good.