“Your workers are exposed.”
“That’s nothing compared to what they’re going to soak up in the next few days. But you’re going to see that firsthand.”
“I know the technology,” he insisted desperately. “You know I know the technology. I can help you maximize your efforts.”
“How? You’re nothing but a puffed-up bureaucrat.”
“That’s not what your father thought.”
“You don’t know what my father thought. He always said you were easy to manipulate because you were so vain. That’s why he kept you on a leash all those years. Your techno skills are useless to me here. What I need is slaves.”
Huth couldn’t help himself. The words leaped from his throat: “Do you know how many degrees I have?”
“I’m sure they’ll help you dig more ore,” Dredda told him. “Now, it’s time to start walking. I don’t need to warn you about those manacles. Step off the road and you won’t be stepping anywhere ever again.”
With that, she roughly pushed him toward the other captives, who rose from the ground en masse at a signal from their guards. The mob of Deathlanders immediately surrounded him.
“So you’re the one to thank for bringing these mutie bastards here?” somebody growled.
The “thanks” that was dispensed was a blow over the right kidney that dropped Huth to his knees. As he gasped for air, the others began kicking and punching him, fighting one another to get in a good lick. Falling to his side, Huth rolled up in a ball and covered his head with his arms.
The beating was quickly broken up by troopers, who used the butts of their laser rifles.
“Start moving,” Dredda ordered the lot of them. “You’ve got eight miles to cover before dark. Any stragglers will lose a hand. As you can imagine, it’s very hard to make your ore quota with one hand. No quota, no water. Fall down en route and the ore wags will drive over you. There’s only one way to stay alive, and that’s to keep walking.”
The ore wags started up and began pushing the crowd toward the beginning of the road. A double row of pulse rifle armed troopers kept them packed together nice and tight. As the others moved ahead, Huth hung back intentionally. He brought up the rear of the long file of humanity, not wanting to turn his back on his fellow slaves.
At the summit of the road’s first low rise, a blare of familiar words and music made him turn and look over his shoulder. On the roof of the psychedelic bus stood Mike the Drunkard and his three lewd friends. The big man waved goodbye with his prosthetic hand, and the sluts blew extravagant kisses.
Chapter Eight
An instant before the cave’s ceiling dropped, J.B. twisted on his knees and lunged, throwing a shoulder into Ryan’s midsection, driving them both through the archway and into the alcove beyond. Ryan hit the sand on his back as the roof collapsed with a bass roar. The resulting rush of wind extinguished the torch, plunging the companions into a darkness filled with choking clouds of grit. The yelling stopped at once, replaced by groaning and coughing. As their eyes adjusted to the reduced light, the superheated rear wall glowed hellishly through the swirls of settling dust.
“Somebody find the torch,” Mildred croaked.
Fumbling around on the sandy floor, Jak located it and passed it over to J.B., who once again sparked it ablaze. Over their heads, the ceiling of the second chamber had held. The front gallery, on the other hand, had caved in completely; where the archway had once stood was a solid floor to ceiling wall of tightly fitting boulders.
For the moment, they were safe.
In the flickering torchlight, Ryan searched the shadows for the face of his son. His forehead and chin powdered with red dirt, Dean blinked backed at him and abruptly sneezed. The others seemed to be okay, too.
“We got one,” Jak said, moving to the barricade of rock. Grunting, he tipped some blocks away from the foot of the wall, where a helmeted head and battlesuited arms and shoulders poked out. The trooper lay face up, two-thirds buried under the fallen ceiling.