by that time. The torches they held shivered as a gust of wind attacked them, but they continued to burn and sent tendrils of smoke up into the cold air. Voss pulled Odin to a halt and took a look at his Rolex self-winding watch. Then, as the final seconds ticked away, he raised a gloved hand. As it came down, heavily burdened men and women were still scurrying for the highway with children, dogs, and farm animals in tow. Later, when they entered the induction center, their pets would be taken away to be slaughtered, and the goats, pigs, and chickens would be quarantined. Then, after being inspected for disease, they would go into the food supply. But there was no point in telling the squatters that ahead of time.
At Voss’s signal, the riders spurred their horses into the maze. As they passed each dwelling, they leaned in to touch it, like priests blessing the homes, but with fire rather than holy water. Most went up in flames.
Not all the huts surrendered so easily, however. Some were stubborn and refused to catch fire. Whenever that occurred, a mercenary would light a firebomb and toss it through an opening, resulting in a splash of fire. It rarely took two.
Confident that the reclamation project was on track, Voss led his bodyguards north past the long line of people who were about to become his responsibility. Was this the way it felt to be a nobleman back in the Middle Ages? Yes, Voss thought it was, and remembered the saying “What’s old is new again.” Not only new, but to his mind exhilarating, because while much had been lost in the wake of the war, a great deal had been gained, primary among which was personal freedom. Voss smiled, urged Odin to a gallop, and took pleasure in the feel of it. The year was 2066. But it could have been 1266. And that was fine with him.
The fortified manor house sat atop a hill and could be seen from the highway. That was no accident. Hills were easier to defend, and each passerby would not only see it, but also think of him. A twisting, turning road led up through beautifully landscaped slopes past artfully disguised machine-gun emplacements to a carefully groomed courtyard where uniformed slaves were waiting to receive him.
It was important to maintain the right mix of workers and slaves. The advantage to using hired help was that they had a reason to guard the status quo, to think of ways to improve things, and to come up with innovations. But slaves could produce food for less and, so long as they existed, gave the workers a reason to feel superior, all of which contributed to social stability and therefore to profits.
Voss slid to the ground and gave the reins to a slave boy, knowing that the horse would be well taken care of. Spurs rattled as Voss crossed the well-packed gravel to the house. It consisted of a conical watchtower sited next to a two-story house with a multiplicity of chimneys and staggered roofs. The two-foot-thick walls were made of stone. They were pierced by windows and rifle slits, which were currently plugged against the cold.
A massive metal-strapped door swung open before Voss could touch it. Once inside the huge entry hall, Voss went to sit on one of two throne-like chairs that were positioned to either side of a welcoming fireplace. A house slave hurried to remove his filthy boots while a second gave him a mug of coffee—a fantastically expensive brew derived from Mexican beans brought north by caravan. It was hot, slightly sweetened with sugar made from his own sugar beets, and diluted with a dollop of cream produced by a Voss-owned dairy farm.
No sooner was the ritual completed than a small formally dressed man appeared. He had slicked-down hair, a pair of thick glasses, and a stern demeanor. His name was Elmer Trenton and he was many things, including Voss’s personal secretary, confidant, and adviser. “There you are,” Trenton said, exhibiting none of the deference that most people did. “Charlie Winthrop is waiting in your
At Voss’s signal, the riders spurred their horses into the maze. As they passed each dwelling, they leaned in to touch it, like priests blessing the homes, but with fire rather than holy water. Most went up in flames.
Not all the huts surrendered so easily, however. Some were stubborn and refused to catch fire. Whenever that occurred, a mercenary would light a firebomb and toss it through an opening, resulting in a splash of fire. It rarely took two.
Confident that the reclamation project was on track, Voss led his bodyguards north past the long line of people who were about to become his responsibility. Was this the way it felt to be a nobleman back in the Middle Ages? Yes, Voss thought it was, and remembered the saying “What’s old is new again.” Not only new, but to his mind exhilarating, because while much had been lost in the wake of the war, a great deal had been gained, primary among which was personal freedom. Voss smiled, urged Odin to a gallop, and took pleasure in the feel of it. The year was 2066. But it could have been 1266. And that was fine with him.
The fortified manor house sat atop a hill and could be seen from the highway. That was no accident. Hills were easier to defend, and each passerby would not only see it, but also think of him. A twisting, turning road led up through beautifully landscaped slopes past artfully disguised machine-gun emplacements to a carefully groomed courtyard where uniformed slaves were waiting to receive him.
It was important to maintain the right mix of workers and slaves. The advantage to using hired help was that they had a reason to guard the status quo, to think of ways to improve things, and to come up with innovations. But slaves could produce food for less and, so long as they existed, gave the workers a reason to feel superior, all of which contributed to social stability and therefore to profits.
Voss slid to the ground and gave the reins to a slave boy, knowing that the horse would be well taken care of. Spurs rattled as Voss crossed the well-packed gravel to the house. It consisted of a conical watchtower sited next to a two-story house with a multiplicity of chimneys and staggered roofs. The two-foot-thick walls were made of stone. They were pierced by windows and rifle slits, which were currently plugged against the cold.
A massive metal-strapped door swung open before Voss could touch it. Once inside the huge entry hall, Voss went to sit on one of two throne-like chairs that were positioned to either side of a welcoming fireplace. A house slave hurried to remove his filthy boots while a second gave him a mug of coffee—a fantastically expensive brew derived from Mexican beans brought north by caravan. It was hot, slightly sweetened with sugar made from his own sugar beets, and diluted with a dollop of cream produced by a Voss-owned dairy farm.
No sooner was the ritual completed than a small formally dressed man appeared. He had slicked-down hair, a pair of thick glasses, and a stern demeanor. His name was Elmer Trenton and he was many things, including Voss’s personal secretary, confidant, and adviser. “There you are,” Trenton said, exhibiting none of the deference that most people did. “Charlie Winthrop is waiting in your
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