Silas knew many of the secrets of the mat-trans system, and aside from controlling the jump destination, the man also knew where a lot of military equipment was stored, tons of materials and supplies that hadn’t been touched since he personally ordered Special Forces troops to place it there a hundred-odd years ago. Richard Overton had marveled at the AK-47 assault rifles and radios. But those were toys compared to the weapon Silas was working on now, a weapon that would burn the pollution from the Deathlands forever and give him absolute mastery of the world. It would mean an end to war! After the necessary bloodshed of retribution, of course. But then, nothing was free.
Parking near the door, Silas rose and placed a hand on a glowing pad on the wall. There was a hum, and the door disengaged, cycling open onto a small enclosure. Directly across the neatly mown grass was the laboratory, to the right the barracks, to the left a brand new wall of concertina wire, topped with crackling electric prods.
“Guards!” he called, stepping onto the neatly raked soil.
Several armed sec men in crisp blue shirts ran over immediately. “Sir!” a young corporal saluted.
Silas returned the salute, trying not to appear dismayed at the age of the trooper. Most of the replacement sec men were young, hastily recruited from distant villes after the slaughter of so many veterans by the rebelling slaves. The barbed wire was only one of many steps taken to make sure such a disaster was never allowed to happen again. He blamed himself for the slaughter. He had been too lenient last time. No more.
“Drive the forklift outside the enclosure and have some workers haul these components up the main ladder to the dish for assembly,” Silas commanded, walking stiffly and trying to hide his limp. “And make sure that nobody is to enter the warehouse for the next twenty minutes. No, make that an hour. Just to be safe.”
“Safe, Dr. Jamaisvous?” the sec man asked, nervously glancing at the thick door of veined steel.
The predark scientist scowled. “Your ape brain could never possibly understand the reasons why. Just do as you are ordered.”
“Yes, sir!” With exaggerated care, the sec man piloted the machine along a walkway and through the gate in the electric fence.
Chained slaves were waiting there, and each took a box from the stack and started shuffling toward the gigantic dish.
A teenager took a foam box and started for the ladder at the base of the bunker. His steps were hesitant, and almost immediately he tripped and dropped the container. The foam broke apart on the flagstones, and the computer module inside tumbled into view and shattered on the ground, pieces spraying for yards.
“Masters, I am sorry,” the slave said, going to his knees and hastily sweeping the bits into a pile with bare hands. “Forgive me!”
“Clumsy idiot!” an overseer cursed, and lashed the teen with a knotted bullwhip. The sweat-stained shirt split across the back, and blood welled from a deep slash. The slave cried out, and the laughing sec man coiled the whip for another strike.
“Hold!” Silas roared.
The overseer froze, confusion on his features. “Sir?”
Silas stared at the bleeding youth. The strapping young farmer was too tired to haul a small box a hundred feet. “Bleeding to death isn’t going to help this worker get more done today, is it?”
“I’ll make him work,” the overseer boasted, and the line of chained slaves cowered.
Hands clasped, Silas stared coldly at the fool. “Indeed. You are relieved of worker supervision and assigned to the wall,” he said, his voice rising in power. “We have no need of fools here. Go!”
Stunned, the overseer stumbled away, unable to comprehend what he had done wrong.
Looking about, Silas choose a sec man and pointed. “You there, Corporal!”
“Yes, Doctor?” the older man asked, saluting briskly.
“Congratulations. You are now an overseer. Feed these workers and give them a ten-minute rest every two hours. Finishing a job is much more important than trying to finish the job. Understand?”
The sec man saluted. “Yes, Doctor. Hail the New America!”