by Ryder Stacy
“Sure, Excellency,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “I’m listening.”
“Oh, not now, not now,” Zhabnov exclaimed, throwing his plump hands into the air. “Come, come—you and your huge friend there. We shall talk tomorrow—tonight is a time for relaxing, food, a chance for us to become better acquainted.” The President was beside himself with a chance to show off the huge banquet hall, the many decorations, hangings, pictures, crystal chandeliers he had put up everywhere. He had spent weeks on the preparations, the feasting, supervising every aspect of it. And now he wanted to show it all off. Although the Premier had made him take down all the smile faces, he had gotten the Grandfather to allow him to put up two immense banners, which hung from either side of the room: an American and Russian shaking hands, and an American and Russian flag all meshed together as if they were one—with stars and stripes and hammers and sickles spread throughout the thing in a complex, interwoven pattern.
“Yes, Rockson,” the Premier echoed as Rahallah started to push him slowly after the obese Zhabnov. “It is the Russian way—first we must break bread face to face, share some wine like civilized men, then we shall talk.”
“Sounds okay to me, I guess,” Rock replied, wanting to mingle with the other delegates anyway and see just who the hell was here. Besides, from the look on Archer’s face after he had just spied a table full of appetizers, Rockson knew the huge near-mute wouldn’t be easily contained. The strange procession moved across the vast floor as the Russian officers and the American Freefighters moved out of the way. Rock took a quick look around the place as he always did when entering any structure—if only to see the quickest way out, if and when the shit hit the fan.
The Doomsday Warrior was introduced to some of the top Red brass—bull-chested men with rows of medals hanging across their uniforms like Christmas tree ornaments. But he made his way quickly over to some of his own as soon as he could make a decent exit. Rock hadn’t seen so many Freefighters since the Second Constitutional Convention of several years before. And a wild crew they were.
Since every free town and city had its own way of doing things—and of dressing—there were numerous outlandish and colorful outfits worn by the delegates. The cowboy get-ups of the Texans, the burlap bag suits of the Georgian delegates, the almost Robin Hood-type duds—feathered hat and all—of some of the Appalachian crew. There were men—and women—with everything from bearskin robes to silk gangster suits, from Scottish kilts to chain armor. It was hard to take it all in. But Rock appreciated it. In comparison to the military garb of the Russians, the eccentricity of his fellows made him proud in a way to be an American. For that was what they all fought for—the right to be different, even crazy.
“Rockson,” a voice said behind him and Rock turned. A large man, nearly as big as Archer himself—who, Rock noted from the corner of his eye, was grabbing up canapés and mousses with both hands from one of the silk-covered banquet tables. He stuffed them into his mouth like there was no tomorrow. The fellow was dressed in something approximating a pirate costume, with black vest, sword at his side, long mustache that drooped over his lips—even an eyepatch. Captain Turner. He was nearly as well-known around the country by Freefighters as Rock himself.
“Turner,” Rock said with a double-take. “I’d heard you were dead—killed in an engagement in the Louisiana bayous.”
“Don’t get your hopes up,” the scar-faced man answered with a grin. “Takes more than a few bullets to get rid of ol’ Cap’ Turner.” He lifted his vest, and then the pink silk shirt beneath it, to show three ugly purple scars that ran across his stomach. “Took ’em out myself—with only a shot of bourbon to guide my trembling hand.” He laughed, slapped himself hard on the healed holes to show they were watertight and let the shirt and vest fall back over his ample belly.
“Well, I’m glad to see you, pal,” Rock said. “With you here, at least I know that if there’s trouble we have a shot at fighting our way out.”
“What do you think, Rock?” the mustached mouth asked in a low whisper, so none of the Red officers who were standing nearby could hear. “What the hell’s going on, anyway? You think the bastards really mean any of what they say?”
“I checked out half of D.C.,” Rockson whispered back. “Seems okay . . . If you hear me start yelling—come running with that big sword of yours.”
“Right, man,” the Freefighting captain replied with a snort, like he was ready to kick ass right then and there. Their conversation was suddenly interrupted by a blare of horns, from the Minutemen-garbed Russian hornblowers who surrounded them on a balcony.
Zhabnov yelled out from the center of the vast floor, clapping hard and herding everyone into another, even larger banquet room. “Come on now—time to eat. You must all be famished from your long journeys. We’ve prepared a sumptuous feast for you. Now come—all of you.” He led them through the open oak doors into a banquet room with ten long tables, each covered with delicacies, steaming platters of every description and odor. The delegates’ stomachs started growling even as they filed in.
Black-tuxedoed waiters led them to their various tables, with Rockson of course sitting at the main table with Zhabnov on one side of him, the Premier on the other. Archer sat across from the trio and had not even slammed down in his chair when he reached out a baseball mitt of a hand. He grabbed hold of a pheasant leg, which he lifted, gravy dripping off of it, onto the finely embroidered tablecloth, and began gnawing at the thing like some sort of half-starved wild beast. Rock could see Vassily look aghast at the scene, but the Premier made no comment as he daintily lifted a small cup of white soup and took a single careful lick from a spoon.
Zhabnov restrained himself. Had not the Premier been here, he doubtless would have been tearing into the food in a fashion similar to the mute. But with his every move being watched, and wanting to make a good impression on his uncle, the President took slow, controlled bites from the plates of food in front of him—though inside he was dying not to be able to cram himself to the very gills as he usually did. And tonight—of all nights—when there were so many mouthwatering delicacies!
He had supervised the cooking staff for the last three days, standing over the chefs as they worked in the immense kitchens. Stirring, tasting—everything. There was hummingbird soup, fricasses of mountain elk, roast pig stuffed with wild mushrooms. There were catfish—a nice homey touch—that Zhabnov thought the Freefighters would appreciate, for he had read that in the olden days it was one of the favorite foods, though this particular bunch had been basted in thick French sauces. The fish cooked down to pulp; sponge-like things that bore little resemblance to any fish the Americans ever tasted; virtually inedible.
Still, it was a meal the likes of which most of the Freefighters—many of whom subsisted on roots and small crops of potatoes and squash in their impoverished towns and villages—had never even dreamed of, let alone been surrounded by. Thus they gobbled up every damned thing in sight, trying to smile at the Russian officers across from them—for Zhabnov had thought it would be the friendliest of seating arrangements for every rebel to sit across from a Russian brass. The delegates gulped the food down like pythons who hadn’t eaten for a year, while the Red officers took careful, slow bites, not wanting to create a bad impression in front of the Premier.
They ate and drank for what seemed an eternity, just stuffing every cell of their bodies with food. Every few minutes waiters would bring in yet another huge preparation—whole moose on spits, flaming bowls of souffle, trays with partridge heads, their mouths and eyes stuffed with tiny blue and golden quail eggs. If there were still a Gourmet magazine, which there hadn’t been for over a hundred years, this would have been the cover of its gala issue. For on the entire earth, none were feasting like the two hundred men in attendance. Even Rockson found it hard not to fall under the spell of the food—the meats and sauces, the vintage wines pulled up from Zhabnov’s personal wine cellars, bottles going back even to pre-war days.
&n
bsp; When they could hardly move, the entertainment began. Russian dancers and acrobats came flying out of every doorway, doing cartwheels, spins, breathtaking leaps into the air, caught by their colorfully attired comrades. They gyrated and leaped as the peasant-attired band sent out a loud and wild accompaniment that filled the hall with melody and thumping beat. Even the Freefighters, filled with food and wine now, loosened up. They had always hated the Russians. And yet men are men, and when they eat and drink and laugh together, ideologies—even hatreds—can lose their hold for a moment. So, many of the strong and acrobatic rebels joined in, doing their own versions of leaps, splits and catches, until the entire hall was alive with activity like some sort of drunken Olympics.
As Rock, the Premier and Zhabnov looked on in amazement, Archer seemed to go into some sort of mad dance, jumping up first on his chair and then the table. He kicked and jigged wildly, trying to imitate the other more accomplished dancers who were largely confining their antics to the carpeted floors in the center of the large room. Then, with a blazing look in his eyes, he leaped high in the air and came down stretching his legs apart, as if trying to do a split. He didn’t make the split—but the table did. For as he came down on one knee, the full weight of his huge body cracked the thick banquet table right in half. A long line appeared suddenly in the middle of the thing and it split down the center, sending food, dishes, glasses of wine flying off and covering everything and everyone.
Rockson frowned. Zhabnov turned pale as a ghost; the Premier merely watched it all as unflappable as a statue, showing no emotion. He had always basically believed that the Freefighters were hardly more than a bunch of savages. This merely confirmed his feelings. But he knew his like or dislike of them was hardly the issue—for in fact he liked only one other person on the whole damned planet, his manservant, Rahallah. Perhaps, in a strange way, Rockson himself. At least the man’s word was good. And he noted that the Doomsday Warrior, like himself, watched it all, detached, as if looking from some place a million miles away.
Nineteen
Suddenly Rahallah was at Rockson’s shoulder, leaning over and whispering in his ear.
“The Premier would like to see you privately in the library,” the black servant said, and Rock glanced over to see Vassily staring at him through tired eyes.
“Sure,” Rock said as he followed the black servant, who pushed the Premier-of-all-the-world in front of him. Zhabnov looked at them depart and suddenly felt terribly depressed. He had been left out again. When it came to real politics, to being in on the action, his uncle treated him like an imbecile. But not wanting to allow himself to get into a really bad mood—as he’d had so much fun until now, had been so proud of how his party turned out—he made himself turn back to the festivities. He ate yet another bowl of sweet turtle pudding—one of his favorites, he watched the Russians and Americans dancing furiously together and even mustered up the energy to bang his hand, but not too hard, on the cracked table before him.
Rahallah wheeled the aged Premier past the honor guards at every door who kept their eyes straight ahead, not moving an inch. Whatever the many presidential guards who had accompanied Vassily all the way from Moscow, who lined every entrance, every stairway, thought of all this—none was saying. But then it was not in their way of thinking to question what their leadership did. Such thoughts led to the noose, the firing squad.
“Ah, here,” Rahallah said, finding the door to the library that the Premier had taken over as his own the last few days as they had waited for Rockson to show up. The black servant pushed it open with one arm, while guiding the Premier in with the other. It was filled with books—leather-bound, gilded copies of all the world’s greatest classics, row after row that ran from floor to ceiling in the large, ornately furnished room, decorated with nineteenth-century antique chairs and tables. The Premier was never comfortable around men—just books. A great and avid reader of literature and history, he fancied himself one of the greatest minds who had ever lived. Great men had to know the lives of other great men to understand their own situations, the many problems that confronted them. Running an empire was a hard task. No one understood, no man. Except for those who had done it before—Alexander, Caesar, Hitler. It was these men he read when he needed escape, understanding.
“Please be seated,” the Premier said in a hoarse whisper and Rockson could see that the festivities had tired him greatly. He looked gray, like dirt at twilight. “I’m sorry I can’t give more of my energies to the festivities, but . . .” He shrugged one shoulder.
“I was kind of getting a headache myself,” Rock said, sitting back in a plush velvet loveseat that smelled of centuries past. Though he was the “guest,” Rock knew that the library, the books, the portrait of Lincoln staring down, were all his—more than the Russians’. They had stolen it. Someday he would take it back—all of it. Thus he eyed the room with an almost proprietary air—as if wanting to make sure that everything was in good condition, had not been harmed.
“Brandy?” Rahallah asked Rockson after he handed the Premier a small snifter of the golden beverage. “It is the best,” the black manservant went on, holding the silver flask in his hand. “From a private vintage that Napoleon himself had hidden away—before the Premier’s procurers found it. Please.” He held out the shimmering glassful and Rockson took it. The man had a way about him, an ingratiating, ultra-civilized attitude that made one relaxed, at ease. Rockson could see why the Premier valued him so.
“And you, too, faithful one,” the Premier said. “Please—take some yourself. There are only the three of us here—we need keep up no airs.” Rahallah poured himself some, but kept standing by the Premier’s side. Rockson noticed that he never sat—but always waited attentively, ready to aid the Grandfather in any way. Somehow it annoyed the Doomsday Warrior, this slavelike devotion. But he knew as well that Rahallah was an extremely intelligent and cunning man—who had his own hidden agenda.
“I—I just wanted us to have a few moments to chat, before I retire,” Vassily said, taking a second quick little sip of the brandy. “Aah,” he whispered. “So good, so good. A man my age has very few pleasures anymore. Really, it is quite sad. Women are of course out—my heart would explode at the first embrace,” he laughed lightly, and Rock couldn’t help but grin. “Food—I can barely touch anymore, but for specially prepared dishes that look like oatmeal and taste like cardboard. Thus,” he went on, starting to grow a little pale again, “this one little glass of brandy is all that I have to look forward to each night.” If the Premier was expecting Rockson to feel heartache for his predicament, he didn’t. But he did raise his glass slightly in toast:
“May the good will that you feel at your nightly brandy make you generous toward my people,” Rockson said softly, staring the ten feet or so that separated him from the Premier with burning eyes.
“A well-put thought,” the Premier said as if gaining suddenly in strength. “I want you to know that I want peace this time,” Vassily went on. “I am willing to make many concessions, many agreements with you. I ask only that you hear me out. Not tonight, of course; tomorrow we shall have our conference. Your delegates and my staff—aboard my ship docked just a few miles from here on the Potomac. There we shall have no distractions. But I wanted to just talk with you first, Rockson. Wanted to plant the seeds of peace in your thoughts, in your dreams. For I believe that inside you are a deeply civilized man—like myself.”
Both men stared at one another for a few long, hard seconds. They both realized that, in spite of their total adversarial relationship, they were actually quite similar. Both were powerful, with wills that could dominate those around them. Both had survived hardships, trials, conspiracies, attacks, that had destroyed those around them. They were the top of the line that the human species could produce. Men who could see straight ahead when others were blind. And perhaps in that instant they both saw that, had things been slightly different, they might be sitting in opposite chairs. It was a strange and, for a
moment, quite a disquieting thought for both of them.
“It’s not a question of being civilized,” Rock said softly, breaking the silence as both the Premier and Rahallah looked at him hard. “It’s a question of implementing that ‘civilization.’ While you talk of peace, Americans are enslaved everywhere, are dying at this very moment within the walls of the city of Washington. Words are one thing—the suffering of human flesh is another.”
“Rockson, I swear to you on my mother’s grave,” Vassily said with great intensity, “we are cleaning things up. I instructed President Zhabnov to halt all executions, torturings and other like manner of treatment of American citizenry here in Washington—just for this Peace Conference. To extend an olive branch to the Freefighters. I think if you went out there you would find already that things are different than they have been. Not wonderful, by any means, but at least less brutal-heading in a positive direction.”
“I wish that were true, Excellency,” Rockson said, staring into his brandy snifter in whose swirling golden liquid he could see the world on fire. “I wish it were—but I fear—”
“Peace, Rockson—we must have peace,” the Premier said loudly, seeming to grow agitated. “Don’t you understand that if I die and peace has not been worked out, the whole world will erupt in flames the likes of which hasn’t been seen since the Great War? That’s why I have come, that is—” He stopped suddenly in mid-sentence, and his brandy glass seemed to tremble in his hand. Rahallah rushed around to the front of the wheelchair and took the glass from the white-faced Grandfather. He checked his pulse and then turned to Rockson.
“You must leave now. The Premier tires easily. I’m afraid his enthusiasm over this meeting, over his hopes that you two will at last achieve peace, has overexerted him. Please—” He pointed to the door. Rockson quickly rose and walked toward the ornately framed portal. He turned and stared back for a moment, and it was a sorry sight. The man had turned white as chalk, his mouth trembling, a little bit of spittle drooling down onto his chin and chest. Rahallah looked angrily at Rockson and stood in the way of the Doomsday Warrior’s eyes—and the Premier. He would let no man see the Grandfather in such a state. It was too degrading—all men must see only his power, or there would be anarchy. Only he, of all people, could see the truth.
