by Ryder Stacy
He heard sounds all around him and opened his eyes again in a flash, rising up ready to meet attack. But it was just the slaves, all 157 of them, surrounding him, their eyes trying to fathom this strange newcomer. He felt like he was in a goddamned zoo.
“Fuck off,” he yelled, waving his arm. He made a fist and slammed it sideways against the wall which gave off a loud thud that echoed through the barracks. The slaves winced with fear and drew back, slowly settling into their own little sleeping squares. Within minutes all were asleep again in their own private hells.
Five
The Free Market, as it was called was a sprawling bazaar of large colorful tents a mile outside of Goerringrad. Those slaves not directly consigned to the labor crews were brought here to be sold to the highest bidder. Rona stared glumly down at her outfit as the flatbed truck tore down the last hill to the marketplace. Her hands were handcuffed behind her back and they had clothed her in a ridiculous pink semi-transparent harem skirt and a scanty bra that pushed her ample chest up and out. But it wasn’t even her own situation that bothered her—it was Rock. Not knowing if he was alive or dead—if he was being eaten by the wild dog packs out there, all alone—it tore her apart. And there wasn’t a goddamned thing she could do.
The wheezing truck came shooting down a winding lane, the driver blowing the horn to shoo dogs and children out of the way. As they came into the outer perimeter of the Bazaar, Rona looked around fascinated. Stalls selling every product imaginable were hawking their products—magic potions, candied lizards and snakes, furs, jewels, weapons, screaming out to all who passed by that “theirs” was the only place to shop. And between the stalls, magicians, dancers, snake charmers, men lying on beds of nails, or breathing fire. In spite of her captivity Rona watched in utter fascination. She had never seen anything quite like it.
They entered a main square where other slavers’ trucks were parked and she was hustled off with other women prisoners and put into a waiting pen next to a raised platform which was to be the auction block. Outside, a loud gong rang and within minutes a crowd had gathered to start the bidding. She heard the auctioneer calling out in a singsong drivel of prices and bids. On top of the circular platform which was being slowly pulled around by three men below with ropes, was a young angelic-looking blond haired boy. A group of men in one section were eyeing the sullen youth with great interest. The auctioneer opened the boy’s mouth and showed his teeth to the audience.
“See—good, strong. No disease.” A grotesquely fat man in the audience, wearing tight pink body armor bid a hundred rubles. No one else raised and the fat man smiled lewdly, quickly took the lad into a waiting Sandrover and drove off.
“Next,” yelled the bald headed, mustached auctioneer who seemed to speak 20 different languages at once as he engaged in super high-speed banter with the growing crowd of the rich, the powerful and the perverted. He pulled out three captured mountain women, strong featured, big-boned and muscled from their heavy work.
“Not the most beautiful slaves in the world, but good breeding stock. Very strong, work like ox.” The bidding began at 50 rubles and worked its way up to 75. Finally they were sold to a stern-eyed farmer who looked as if he just might be thinking of using them as oxen.
“And now the ‘pièce-de-résistance,’ ” the auctioneer smiled down at the crowd, rubbing his hands together. “A prime fillet of womanhood—a mutant beauty. Once a princess in a strange land to the West, once in the harem of Ben-ali-Schwartz, but untouched. A virgin—”
Rona was pushed up the stairs by one of the market guards. Virgin, my ass, she half-snickered to herself. Rock would have something to say about that. The harem shoes were hard to walk in with their huge high heels.
There was a rumble of excitement in the crowd which had now swelled to several hundred. She stared down at them with a flashing anger. Slaves—slaves in the twenty-first century. Thus had the Communist “liberation” freed America.
“Here she is gentlemen—and not-so-gentlemen,” the auctioneer snickered. Several Nazi officers and a KGB black-uniformed soldier nudged forward in the crowd. “Smile for our guests,” the auction man said, giving her a sharp glance. Rona spit right in his face.
“Ah,” he exclaimed wiping a dirty sleeve down his cheek, “a real tiger. Fit to be tamed by the most interesting methods. Do I hear the first bid? Let us start at 1,000 rubles.” There were gasps from the audience. Many of the less well-dressed men were looking disconsolate. Others rifled through their wallets, sorry now that they had bought lesser quality merchandise already.
From a large sedan chair, a long thin hand with painted purple nails moved aside the silk curtain to let a single green eye peer out.
“I bid 2,000 rubles,” a shrill voice croaked out.
“I hear 2,000—2,000—any better offers? Come now gentlemen—and ladies,” he added, addressing the sedan chair’s occupant. “This is as good as they get. This is—beauty.” A Nazi in high black boots stepped forward.
“Might I touch?” he asked.
“Be my guest,” the auctioneer replied, beaming. The Nazi walked up the stairs and opened Rona’s mouth. She was still a little dazed from her drugging, but tried to bite, and missed. There was laughter from below as the chastened Nazi stepped back.
“I do not like being made ridiculous,” he said coldly. “I will top that bid, and show this female what a man can do with a woman who defies him. Three thousand.” It’s going from bad to worse, Rona thought to herself. A fat man covered with golden necklaces and ruby bracelets pushed himself forward through the crowd. A jewel-encrusted dagger was stuck carelessly in the cumberbund of red silk.
“Please remove her bra,” the jewel-bedecked man requested. The auctioneer yanked it down before Rona could twist away. If only she had her hands free. There were gasps from some of the audience.
“She has the white nipples.”
“Bad luck,” a man shouted at the back of the crowd and ran off, not looking back. Others withdrew their bids.
“Does the lady in the sedan chair top my bid?” the Nazi smiled. The chair was lifted by two black servants and carried quickly away. The auctioneer turned and angrily whispered to his assistant, “You fool! I told you to have her nipples rouged. In these parts white nipples are a hex sign. Sign of the witch! Someone with ESP who can make mincemeat of a man’s will, of his sexual potency—”
He turned back to the Nazi officer, instantly smiling fully again. “She is yours, for the bid you made.”
“I am not superstitious,” the German said. “I would like to add this woman to my rather odd collection. When she dies we can put her in the formaldehyde display tanks in my museum—with the others who defied me.” Rona shuddered. A red stamp marked SOLD was inked on her forehead and the Nazi handed over his signature brand to the auctioneer who dipped it in acid and then pressed it against Rona’s left forearm. It didn’t hurt for a moment—and then the acid burned down below the epidermis. She screamed out in pain. When she could bear it, she looked down and read, “Property of Von Frueller,” with a small Nazi swastika below it.
“Take her,” the German said to two soldiers who accompanied him. They took Rona by her manacled arms and hustled her into a black Ziv limousine idling across the open center of the bazaar. They put a hood over her head. One way or another she seemed to be getting in the habit of falling into darkness.
Six
The after-effects of the Battle of Forrester Valley were being felt not just by Rona and Rockson and all the other captured Freefighters, but in Moscow as well. The full impact of the eradication of nearly two-thirds of the Nazi force he had sent over to destroy Century City and Ted Rockson, did not hit Premier Vassily, Ruler of All The World, until nearly three days later. Right in the middle of a reading by Rahallah, his irreplaceable servant and advisor, of Orwell’s 1984, the premier suddenly gagged and reached for his heart, unable to breathe and with a sharp pain ripping through his side.
Rahallah had expected it—a hea
rt attack. The pills couldn’t control his high blood pressure after the terrible defeat. The premier hadn’t slept all night, despite massive use of sleeping pills. He hadn’t even drunk his brandy that morning. The black African servant rose suddenly from his seat by the window as Vassily spasmed in his wheelchair, letting his heavy wool blanket spill onto the floor. His body arched up and he fell out toward the floor just as Rahallah got to him, catching the frail old body.
Rahallah pressed the intercom on the premier’s desk, shouting for his doctors to come, and a stretcher. Within two minutes the premier of the Soviet Empire was on a rolling stainless steel table, being pushed toward the emergency operating room in the basement of his Kremlin home. An IV unit was stuck in his withered arm, dripping life-giving fluids into his bloodstream. The doctors tried everything, but to no avail. He seemed just too far gone this time. They left the O.R. and nodded “no” to Rahallah who waited anxiously outside.
“Is he still alive?” the tall, ebony faced servant, descended from African princes, asked.
“Yes, but barely,” head surgeon, Mastrovich answered.
“Then I want all personnel to leave the operating room,” Rahallah demanded. “I wish to be alone with the premier.” The surgeon hesitated, but knew that as long as Vassily even clung to life, Rahallah’s power as his right-hand was unquestionable.
“Yes sir,” Mastrovich replied, feeling his lips almost tremble as he had to say it to a “nigger.” But such were the rules of power.
While the doctors and the palace guards in their medal-festooned uniforms milled about in the corridor outside, Ruanda Rahallah, Son-of-the-Plains-Lion, master of the magic of his tribe, moved the rolling operating table toward the window of the O.R. where he pulled the thick drapes open so that daylight came streaming through. He opened the burlap bag he had brought with him from his quarters and took out its contents—robes, feathered hats, body paints, potions . . . Within minutes he was dressed in full tribal regalia, bright red paint on his face, white zebra stripes running down his arms and legs. He walked to the window, looked up at the brilliant blue skies and called on the Gods of the Lion to help him—to hear his words. He rattled a snakeskin-covered gourd filled with lion’s teeth and chanted the incantations to Rukwanda, the Lion God of All Life.
“Oh Great Rukwanda, who roams the earth searching for souls to devour, hear my words. I, Son-of-the-Plains-Lion, rightful heir to the throne of my tribe, son of your strength and courage. Oh hear me, devouring master . . .”
He dropped a handful of dried snake flesh into a large brass bowl he had set next to the motionless, pale body of Vassily, lying naked on the table and lit it. A pungent, acrid smoke rose up, covering the premier’s face and chest. He walked around the dying man he had come to love and serve as his master and continued his chanting, shaking the gourd over Vassily, begging the Lion God to eat the evil spirits that had inhabited the premier.
The stainless steel door to the O.R. was open a crack, and from the spot that Czarina Alexandra had once stood, observing her husband’s infidelities, the officers of the Elite Imperial Guard stood, their jaws dropped, listening, to and watching the incredible sight. The premier, a sickly man who had suffered a stroke and was not expected to live an hour’s time—and the African was doing this!
All the Kremlin was in chaos, as the black Rahallah continued to mumble chants and light bowls of powder around the failing body—in the very capital of the world—right in the Kremlin. Yet who dared challenge him? As long as the premier survived the black must be left alone. For Rahallah was greatly feared due to his influence over Vassily—and his black magic that had saved the premier once before, during “The Doctor’s Plot.” Was the blackie a sorcerer? Could there be some ancient pagan power that this fearsome tall black man with his cool civilized demeanor had? Could the blackie himself be one of those demons which couldn’t be killed?
The guards, and those jockeying for power in the event of the premier’s death, watched as the primitive ritual continued. The premier should die. And when he did, this throwback, this black savage who dared flaunt his power in the very heart of the Russian empire, would die too, his head on a pole in front of the Supreme Soviet. Then the Politboro would doubtless be called into emergency session and unanimously elect Col. Killov, head of KGB in the U.S.S.A. as the new premier. Killov-the-Strong, Killov-the-Feared. Killov, the human skeleton with the power and the cruelty to rule the world.
Rahallah jabbed his forearm repeatedly with the spike-sharp lion’s tooth in his hand and let the wound drip down onto Vassily’s chest. “This man must not die, Oh Great Lion God,” he chanted in Swahili. “You must make him live, or my awful dream of evil will come true. The force of death—Col. Killov—will assume world power. And he will destroy the earth and all who inhabit it.” For Rahallah knew that that was Killov’s mission on earth—to end it all—to destroy the entire planet. Only then could his savage sexual lust for total power be satisfied. “O Lion hear me, grant my master’s life to him for even one more year.”
The next day, in the Kremlin building known as the Presidium, Vassily sat in his office, trembling—half drooling—in his wheelchair. Rahallah’s treatment had worked—but only partially. He sat shaking, every nerve in his body vibrating wildly—but he was alive. Only the next few days would tell his fate. The premier listened to Rahallah read, for he liked to hear the articulate soft voice of the ebony man—it soothed him. His servant could tell that the premier was responding by an occasional nod of his head, and the thinnest of trembling smiles. Rahallah read from Robert Burns poems of love and peace. And peace though it seemed further away than ever was all that he prayed for.
There was one difference in the usual scene of the room-of-power. Vassily’s wheelchair was not behind the marble-topped premier’s desk—it was alongside the desk. And behind it sat Ruwanda Rahallah, who had been declared deputy premier, with all the powers of the office for the period that Vassily would be indisposed. Days before, when the premier had sensed that darkness was near, he had signed an Imperial Order, “I am hereby appointing Rahallah as deputy premier with all my powers—as long as I’m indisposed.” Rahallah had objected but the premier had said, “They do not like you, but they fear me and they know you speak with the authority of my voice. They will obey you—or they will fear for their own hides.” Then he had added cryptically, “Trust no one.”
Now, the premier was little more than a vegetable, and a black man in a white tuxedo sat behind the same desk that Peter the Great had given orders from. The generals, Politboro members, the petitioners from the many Soviet provinces who came to see Vassily were amazed—horrified—to see the black man sitting there, giving orders. But not a soul dared question him—not as long as Vassily survived.
Rahallah signed paper after paper, forging the premier’s signature, which he had done many times in the past when Vassily’s hands had been so wracked by arthritic pain that he couldn’t move a finger. The next group in to see the premier was a contingent of military officials—from all the branches—whom Rahallah had ordered to join him in the premier’s office. But Rahallah knew that the brass would not listen to him alone, so he rigged a small electric stimulator into Vassily’s wheelchair. When he pressed a button hidden beneath the desk, the barely functioning premier would open his eyes, smile and nod yes. And Rahallah would need those signs of assent, for he was about to order a strike against KGB headquarters in his native country of Kenya. An all-out attack to wrest the province from the cruel rule of the KGB which had staked the country, and that of much of East Africa, for its own within years of the nuclear war a century earlier. Rahallah had tried for years to get the premier to agree to such a move. But the Grandfather would only tell him “someday Rahallah, someday—when our power is totally consolidated.” But Rahallah could wait no longer for such a promised day. The premier might never recover, and Rahallah knew that when he went, so would he himself be burned in the funeral pyre. It could mean his life—but he would gladl
y give it if it meant freeing his homeland from the tyranny of a century.
But when the knock came at the door and one of the palace guard opened it, instead of generals and admirals, it was secret police chief Bukunin and six armed plain clothes men.
“What is the meaning of this?” Rahallah shouted, standing up to his full 6' 6" height.
“Orders of the New Committee for Proper Succession,” Bikunin said smiling grimly. “You are removed from office on specific charges of—”
“Charges? What charges?” Rahallah asked, staring back at the usurper with cold dark eyes. “I occupy this office by virtue of the premier’s proclamation.”
“Ah yes, the proclamation, blackie. A proclamation acquired by the illegal use of sorcery! Sorcery is a crime against the state—it cannot exist under atheistic communism.” He turned to his men, their cutoff subs hidden just beneath their large dark trenchcoats. “Remove this man to section B at Lubykana Prison.” If Rahallah could pale he would have. Lubykana was nothing but an execution chamber—he would never return.
“Premier Vassily disapproves of this illegal interference of my carrying out his specific orders. Don’t you Grandfather?” the black servant asked. He pressed the button beneath the desk. The premier appeared to wake up, as the slight electric charge surged through his central nervous system. His mouth grimaced open in what appeared to be a smile and then his head bobbed up and down several times as the neck muscles were stimulated. Rahallah released the button and the premier appeared to slowly close his eyes and sink back into sleep.
