CHAPTER EIGHT
Yama placed his right hand on the Smith and Wesson and steeled himself for the inevitable. If the guard climbed up to survey the canvas top, he’d have to fight his way in.
The voice of Major Crompton cracked like a whip. “We’re in a hurry. This man is to be taken directly to the Central Core for a meeting with the Minister. If you want to go by the book and delay us, then go right ahead.”
“The Minister?” the guard repeated in abject awe. “I didn’t know.”
There was a shuffling sound.
“I don’t see anything underneath the truck,” the guard declared, “and there’s no way an animal or mutant could climb on top. So go ahead. We’ll skip the thorough search this time around.”
“Wise decision,” the major said.
Relaxing, Yama listened to the jeep pull forward, and then the convoy truck did likewise. Several of the men in the bed were laughing. He slowly rolled onto his stomach and inched to the edge. Phase Two had been successful! Now came Phase Three.
On both sides of the truck was the deceptively serene green belt.
Flowers were in full bloom and the grass a picture-perfect carpet of lush green.
Flowers in January? Yama was puzzled until he recalled Atmospheric Control Stations maintained mild climatic conditions in Technic City 12 months of the year.
The green belt soon gave way to a residential sector. Unlike traditional homes that were made of brick or wood, these in Technic City were composed of a unique synthetic substance. Marked by a wide diversity of bright colors and shapes, they were each one story high. Even the windows were tinted in different shades. Small lawns at the front and back of each house were meticulously maintained.
Yama saw only a few residents outside and wondered where the rest were.
The truck passed a checkpoint consisting of four soldiers and kept going. After a mile of practically deserted homes, an intersection appeared manned by more guards. Beyond them was a scene out of a madman’s nightmare.
In three directions the roads were crammed with vehicles, primarily thousands upon thousands of three-wheeled motorcyles, trikes painted every color in the rainbow: red, yellow, purple, blue, brown, and more.
There were also some four-wheelers, jeeps, trucks, and even a sprinkling of large sedans. They formed a raucous, flowing river of mechanized motion.
Yama marveled at the sight. The description he had heard didn’t begin to do the bedlam justice. The sight jarred his memory, and he remembered Blade informing him that the Technics relied so extensively on trikes because their access to natural resources was limited and they couldn’t afford to mass-produce full-sized or even compact cars.
The jeep and the truck went straight, making for the heart of the city.
That was when Yama spied it, far in the distance, gleaming in the golden glow from the setting sun.
Where once had been Logan Square, there now reared the headquarters of the autocratic elitists who were bound and determined to spread their tyrannical influence over the rest of the U.S. Appropriately named the Central Core, the governmental center was an architectural wonder. Ten stories high, it resembled an ancient Egyptian pyramid. It was two acres wide at the base and rising to a tapered point, and its sides consisted of scintillating crystal that sparkled as brightly as its gold-trimmed doors and windows. The whole effect dazzled the senses.
Yama’s attention was diverted as the troop transport passed through the industrial and manufacturing sector. Also constructed from the special synethetic, the factories were all four stories high and either white, gray, or black. In contrast to prewar industries, these were sparkling clean, quiet, and environmentally safe.
A new danger presented itself. Yama realized that anyone standing at an upper-floor window would easily spot him and probably notify the authorities. His position was no longer tenable. But what could he do until the truck stopped? If he leaped down now he’d land in the midst of the bustling trikes.
He resigned himself to staying where he was and hoped luck would be on his side. On top of one of the buildings on his right appeared a billboard, and he read the advertisement displayed with interest.
Yama had eaten worms once on a survival test. Every Warrior who wanted to graduate from the training program and advance to the status of active duty had to first pass the endurance trial. Escorted miles from the Home by an Elder, they were left with just their weapons and given a limited amount of time to safely reach the compound. The survival tests were invariably conducted in the hottest summer months, adding to the difficulty. On his, which he had completed in near-record time, he’d subsisted on grubs and worms for snacks. He could have easily slain a deer or other animal, but the delay would have cost him an hour or more each time he ate and he’d wanted to surpass the man who held the record: Blade.
The thought made him frown. His fellow Warriors were bound to be extremely upset over his departure, none more so than his good friend.
The Elders must have been appalled at the news. If he returned, he undoubtedly faced the prospect of being stripped of his rank and possibly exiled from the Family. What a high price to pay for revenge!
Yama shook his head, dispelling the morbid introspection. He glanced at the billboard again, recalling the intelligence previously uncovered concerning the Technics’ bizarre taste in food. With millions of people cramming the metropolis, the early leaders of Technic City had been hard pressed to keep everyone fed, until one of the top administrators hit on the original idea of using a plentiful food source that existed right under their noses, so to speak. Perhaps, Yama reflected, he’d try some if he had the opportunity.
Another billboard emphasized the cultural acceptance of the unusual dish:
The Warrior twisted his head, listening to the strident din of the congested traffic. Both the jeep and the truck were creeping along at little better than 20 miles an hour. He poked his head out and saw trikes and four-wheelers packed close together.
One of the four-wheelers was riding abreast of the truck’s rear wheel.
The driver, a hefty man in his early twenties dressed in a brown uniform, yawned and consulted a watch on his left wrist.
Inspiration struck, and Yama made sure the Wilkinson hung snugly over his shoulder before he clutched the rim of the canvas and braced himself. Other drivers were bound to see his next maneuver, but it couldn’t be helped. If all went well, he’d be down a side street and lost in the maze of buildings before the police arrived to check.
The four-wheeler slowly pulled forward, the driver engrossed in maintaining a straight course and never once looking up.
Yama gazed ahead. A block away was an intersection dominated by a traffic light suspended over the center of the junction. He’d seen such devices fn the Civilized Zone and knew they regulated the traffic flow.