Doom 2099UG #11

Mozambique, East South Africa
Member of the South African Cooperative Corporation (SACC)
M'tuto shanty town -- Official Designation: Division 6 West

Five Days Ago.

Bodo Dken ran through the dusty streets of M'tuto town clutching a clean scrap of paper torn from the bulletin board in front of the Garment Row industrial complex. It was just after dawn, and the sun was already drying the dew on the clapboard roofs of multicolored lean-to's that sheltered the lowest class of African workers. Thirteen-year-old Bodo paid little mind to the rickety hovels as he raced excitedly through the dirty street. His bare feet found firm footing in the red earth as he dodged empty carts and leapt over bodies still sleeping under thin blankets. He ignored the yells and curses that followed him, turning back only to flash a wide white grin that shined mischievously from his jet black face, but never once slowing his rapid pace. In an hour the late shift at the factory would be getting out, and already those destined for the next shift were rousing from their beds and moving toward the factory. Bodo wanted to be home before his mother returned. He stopped outside of his mother's shack for only a moment to watch the guards on the high wall in the distance that surrounded the worker's slum, the steam from their breath still visible in the clear, cool air.

Outside the walls that surrounded Div. 6W, the sounds of war were silent this early morning. The hidden land beyond the wall was the southern border of TKU country, and for twelve days the Messengers of the Prophet of Africa had waged a bloody and desperate battle for the reclamation of land that they claimed was holy. Land that was inside the border of the TKU. The SACC had not punished the Messengers for the violent uprising, but they also did not openly support it. Only one SACC Expeditionary Brigade fortified the Mozambique border, protecting against any possible incursion into their territory by the TKU troops. The two guards on the wall in this section walked slowly along the perimeter, their guns shouldered. They paid no attention to the lean black boy who disappeared into one of the hundreds of thousands of ramshackle hovels crammed shoulder to elbow inside a circle of twenty foot walls covering a space slightly greater than one square mile. Of course, the guards rarely noticed much of anything in Six West except the pervasive stench of uncounted thousands crammed together under the baking African sun.

Bodo stepped into his mother's house, and laid down the piece of paper on the small table by her bed. He fished under his own bed for a short piece of pencil. Returning to the table, he sat down to laboriously write a note to his mother, painstakingly forming each letter until he had written "I go join." Then he added four more letters to spell out his name, "Bodo." He left the paper on the table, where his mother would see it, and slipped silently out the door.

The torn bit of paper was a flyer, nicely printed in plain black letters with the SACC symbol on the corner. It said, "Volunteer! All boys over 15 welcome to fight for our country and our freedom!"

Less than twelve hours later, Bodo and a dozen other boys were walking with two of the tall, uniformed Messengers. Bodo was outside of the protective walls of his town for the first time in his life, and the vista before him was awe inspiring. He had seen the wide-open spaces of the TKU from the tall buildings of the township, a vast open tableau of unimaginable space. Occasionally, he had even seen small portions of the great herds that grazed on those green plains. But to actually stand there, outside of the walls and roofs that sheltered them, was at once overwhelming and frightening.

Dusk had fallen by the time the boys lined up with the hundred or so Messengers who waited patiently in a shallow trench twenty meters from the city walls. Bodo had lied about his age, but he was tall for thirteen, and well matched with the other boys. The Messengers were a varied group of stern faced black men, clean shaven with short cropped hair, modeled after the Prophet. They wore brilliant white shirts, and helmets and guns provided by the SACC in an uncharacteristic display of solidarity. If Bodo had looked closer, he would have seen that many of the men had no guns at all, but he was fascinated with the weaponry and hoped that he would get a gun also. So far, the boys were provided neither equipment nor weapons, and no uniform other than what little clothes they wore. Bodo watched closely as one of the men pulled a tall boy out of their group and led him out of the trench to a breach in the barbed wire fence that separated them from the lands of TKU. The Messengers in the trench looked away, and no one spoke. On the wall behind them, the SACC soldiers could be heard laughing at a joke someone had told.

Five minutes later there was a terrific explosion, a ground shaking boom that sent the group of boys diving instinctively to the ground. A machine gun fired somewhere in the distance, but the Messengers around the boys did nothing. Silence. Then the man who had pulled the first boy aside gave a sharp order, and two more boys were pulled out of the trench. Bodo was one of them.

Bodo felt his heart catch in his throat as he looked out upon the plain before him, seeing the war zone clearly for the first time. The wide valley before him was littered with dead and mutilated bodies, shallow craters beside them silent testimony to the reason for the slaughter. Land mines! One crater was still smoking a short distance away, and half of the boy that had gone before them lay in the red earth beside it. Bodo looked away, but the leader pulled him forward.

"Cross the field," he instructed the first boy, "the Prophet will guide you. He is out there, waiting for us to retake our land. Have no fear, and you will be safe!"

The boy looked wordlessly out at the deadly track before him, but Bodo could not see his eyes. He wondered if they were as full of fear as his own surely were.

"Go!" the soldier instructed, pushing the boy forward. Slowly, hesitantly, the boy began to inch forward through the soft dirt, eyes straining in the growing darkness. The soldier grabbed Bodo and instructed him harshly, "Follow in his footsteps, if he fails, step not that way. Understood?"

Bodo nodded yes.

"Then have no fear, and go with the Prophet! Go!"

Bodo watched the boy in front of him, then slowly, stepped in his steps, feeling the soft warm dirt beneath his bare feet. He thought of his mother, and felt the tears rising in his eyes. Then he fought them down. He would not be afraid, he vowed, he would believe that the Prophet would guide him. He moved his feet slowly but confidently in the tracks. The elder boy in front of him looked back once, and Bodo saw the whites of his eyes, and the tears that glistened there. He was a few meters ahead of him, just passing the remains of the boy that had gone first. Slowly, he stepped past the steaming corpse and inched forward into the darkness.

Bodo squinted into the gloom, and reached out with all his senses. There was a faint humming, seemingly coming from just below the surface of the earth, and there was a sharp odor too, acrid and pungent. Not at all like the smell from the earth and grasses. He approached the dead boy. The odor was stronger here, coming from the crater yes, but also from all around them. Bodo stopped, and crouched, touching the ground carefully with his fingers. There was something . . . moving.

The explosion caught him completely off guard, and he fell back over the corpse behind him, and covered his head with his arms. Dirt and other debris rained down onto him from the crater where the boy in front of him had stood an instant before. Bodo lay there for a long while as the smoke drifted lazily over him, too scared to move, the force of the blast still ringing in his ears. Finally he raised his head, and was immediately repulsed by the grisly corpse beside him, instinctively scrambling away. Then, horror struck, he realized he had lost the footsteps of the boy who had gone before, and Bodo sat on his butt in the middle of the field in the dark, and began to shake.

Until he caught a whiff of that odor again.

He froze instinctively, scanning the dirt with his eyes. The full moon was just beginning to rise, lending its light to the crushing darkness. Then he saw it, like a phantom just beyond the normal range of vision, moving under the sand. It approached him, and he held his breath. His eyes focused on where he was sure he had seen the movement, still not certain that he had seen what he thought he saw. He sat there silently for an eternity, his heart beating furiously. The thing didn't move. Someone shouted from the trenches, but he ignored it. Finally, with his free hand, Bodo felt for a rock in the sandy dirt beneath him. With a gentle flick of the wrist, Bodo threw the rock, as far as he could without moving, never taking his eyes off of the spot. The instant he heard the rock land in the darkness with a quiet thud, he saw the thing move. He saw it! It moved away into the night to where he could no longer see it, and with it, that bitter odor also left.

Slowly, Bodo stood up, his eyes and ears straining for any sign. He picked up another rock, and threw it as far as he could. Then he turned to face his goal, the gentle mound of hills that beckoned in the distance. He searched the ground for more rocks, picking them up without moving his feet, and placed them in his pockets. Then he began a gentle rhythmic pacing: step, stop, throw a rock. Step, stop, throw. Step, stop, throw. All the while he listened, waiting for that odor to return, watching the ground in front of him carefully. He felt a confidence, and a burgeoning feeling of accomplishment. He began to believe that the Prophet really was watching over him. Then, he ran out of rocks.

He had already gone much farther than the other boys, and the ground was less torn up here, with small clumps of grass pushing through the heavy red clay. He reached down with his hand, carefully feeling along the ground, but there were no rocks within reach. He felt a gnawing sense of fear return to the pit of his stomach. There was that humming again, louder now, uniquely dangerous in its pitch. He looked back the way he had come, but the safety of the town walls seemed light years away.

When he turned around again, it was to behold a wondrous site. Not more than thirty meters away, stood a lone impala. She was a beautiful tawny brown, with spindly legs and a graceful neck, and a distinctive white underbelly. She had appeared out of nowhere, and she stepped lightly across the deadly expanse of open plain with impunity. Delicately she reached down and pulled free a clump of grass, and began chewing it.

Bodo had never seen such an animal. He was taken aback by her simple beauty. He watched her, fascinated, as he stood perfectly still in the darkness. Her ears moved back and forth, searching the night for sounds of danger. Suddenly thoughts of dangers as menacing as the deadly smart mines began to flow into Bodo's consciousness. This was the wild Africa he had never known, but he knew that there were ferocious creatures here - lions, cheetah, and hyaena! He felt his breath sharply inhale.

The impala raised her head, and stared directly at him. Bodo looked back, marveling once again at her finely tuned senses. They locked eyes. Her big doe like orbs caught the light from the settlement in the distance, and glowed eerily. Then like a flash she bounded away, leaping high into the air in an instinctive defense mechanism designed to confuse predators. Bodo watched her leaping silhouette with curiosity and regret, as she faded from view like an angel.

An angel sent to guide him he thought, returning to his predicament. Why had the smart mines not destroyed the impala, he wondered? Perhaps if he were to move like the impala. Move like the impala. He gathered his breath and his courage once more, and tensed his cold and stiff leg muscles for one last try. He leaped into the air, as high and as far as he could imagine. The instant he landed he leaped again, gaining momentum as each leap brought him closer to his goal. He changed direction slightly, his movements purposefully erratic and unpredictable. Each time he landed safely, he said a prayer of thanks to the impala before leaping off again in the next direction. Finally, he reached a barbed wire fence three feet high at the edge of the plain, and with the last of his energy he leapt over it. He tripped as his foot brushed the wooden upright, and his spent legs gave way beneath him, sending him sprawling unto the hard ground in a cascade of red dirt.

Breathing heavily and still lying on his side, he looked back at the barbed wire fence, still too frightened to try to move. A sign was posted there, clearly warning of the danger of the mine field beyond. He realized at last that he had made it! He had crossed the field! He lay on the ground staring up at the moon, his breath ragged, but with enough left to scream in giddy triumph at the top of his voice! Laughter and relief and all of the tension that had built up inside him came out at once in a joyous whoop!

He turned over onto his stomach as he heard the click of weapons a short distance behind him. Then, like an idiot, he remembered that he was now in enemy territory. Three TKU soldiers faced him, weapons drawn. They were crouched low to the ground, inching toward him as they motioned for him to come forward. Behind them, he could see the bunker of earth that shielded at least another dozen guns pointed his way. He raised his hands in defeat, slowly rising to his knees.

"Don't stand up boy!" one of the soldiers shouted.

Too late.

A muffled gunshot in the distance heralded the approach of the bullet, which pierced his heart as Bodo stood with arms upraised. His body buckled as blackness engulfed him, and he fell face first into the ground.

The marksman on the wall surrounding Division 6 West lowered the rifle from his shoulder. Beside him, the Lieutenant verified the kill with his night vision scope.

"Well done," the Lieutenant stated coldly. "Wouldn't want the little darkie to fall into enemy hands," he added with a smirk.

"Or get too used to the wide-open spaces," the marksman added. "God knows it's bad enough having all these Messengers wandering around outside."

"They have their purpose though," the Lieutenant added casually. "It's not like there aren't enough of them to go around!"

With that the men laughed seditiously in the darkness, as they climbed down to make their report to the SACC Commander.

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Chenaya, capital city of Myridia.

Billy Sinclair paced nervously in the windowless waiting room. He was uncomfortable in the formal suit, and had readjusted the tie no less than seven times since his arrival at the Myridian Royal Palace. He glanced at the vid screen, and was distracted for a moment at some piece of skin, before bored, he again turned away. It had taken him no less than a week to gain an audience with the new King of Myridia, and he was anxious to get this over with and return to the wild plains of TKU. He had recently learned that the fighting with the Messengers was escalating, and he knew that his expertise was needed there now. Yet despite his appointment, Doom was making him wait well beyond it. His eyes found the time piece on the wall. Sixty- four minutes had passed. He missed his gun, and the empty space on his back where the rifle would usually rest felt cold and exposed. He sat down and thumbed through a magazine that he had grown tired of fifty-two minutes ago. The only other person in the room, the receptionist, smiled at him in a cold, official way. She continued to work via a c-space neural jack, her eyes tactfully avoiding his unspoken question. Facing a charging elephant would have been easier, Sinclair thought.

He looked at the clock again. Sixty-seven minutes. "Bureaucrats," he muttered disdainfully under his breath, and returned to his pacing.

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Doom was also pacing, slowly, as two men and a woman from his foreign relations cabinet were updating him on the situation in South Africa. His silver boots clicked steadily on the cold tile floor. Beside him, a solid wall of computer equipment fifteen feet high glowed with eerie green LED's and small flickering vid screens. Doom did not look at his servants as they spoke. His masked face was hidden within the deep green folds of his cloak.

"The rebels are led by a group that call themselves the Messengers of the Prophet," one man was saying. "They are a religious cult that has flourished in the impoverished regions of South Africa, despite attempts over the last 20 years by the SACC to eradicate their belief in the coming of the Prophet. This recent uprising was apparently sparked when one of the Messengers allegedly saw a vision of the Prophet, hovering over the hills just north of the M'tuto shanty town. The Messengers have declared the region "Holy Land," and are fighting to gain control of it."

"The SACC has not supported the attack on TKU by the rebels, but neither have they attempted to terminate the hostility," the woman reported. "Intelligence reports have one special brigade from SACC stationed at the border with only minor artillery. Despite their recent attacks against TKU, they have engaged only peripherally in the current fighting. Several intercepted communiques have reinforced the speculation that they are acting only to protect their own borders from any TKU counteroffensive."

"Our position remains neutral, with existing select economic sanctions against the Mozambique colony still in place due to their continuing racist policies." The third man spoke in a calm monotone. "In light of the suspicious nature of this conflict and our own fragile recovery status, I suggest that we concentrate our resources at home, rather than risk fiscal collapse by engaging in an unprofitable conflict abroad."

Doom turned to face him. The gentle sunlight from the large picture window behind him cast his cloaked face in shadow, but the red of his eyepieces glowed brightly within the veil of darkness. He paced slowly and deliberately toward the third man. The other two stepped discreetly away from their companion as he approached. Doom stopped, his armored chest inches from the shorter man's face. The silver of his mask gleamed in the pale light threateningly. "Do not presume to dictate Myridian policy, Mr. Ryan," Doom growled softly, yet loud enough for the others to hear. "Or you will find yourself the most highly overqualified worker in the marble quarry!"

"Yes, s- sir." Mr. Ryan backed away slightly, his face ashen.

"You are here to provide information only," Doom continued, his anger apparent. "My word is Law now, and I alone decide which direction Myridia will follow. You would be well advised to remember that . . ."

"Lord Doom?" An intercom interrupted his tirade.

"What is it?!" Doom answered, equally displeased at having his speech disrupted.

"Prime Minister Lange on the vid," the receptionist announced.

"Very well, put him through," Doom motioned to his audience to step out of view of the vid screen as he subtly adjusted his cloak so that it fell smoothly to the floor. On the vid screen before him, the image of a slightly heavy, older man emerged, seated behind a broad wooden desk. His face was well aged, but his hair was jet black, obviously dyed, fading to gray at the hairline. He wore a dark suit, and reading glasses which he vainly removed the moment Doom appeared before him. Behind him stood one of his governors, and the red and gold flag of the SACC.

"Lord Doom," the Prime Minister greeted him. "Thank you for returning my call."

"Prime Minister." Doom replied coldly, bowing slightly, but never taking his eyes off of the other leader. "I take it you are calling to request intervention in the recent unrest at your northern border."

The Prime Minister seemed slightly taken aback. "I had heard that you were direct," he commented. "I see that was an understatement."

"My time is valuable, Prime Minister," Doom stated smoothly, "And I have little patience for idle banter. What is it that you want?"

The Prime Minister coughed, as he successfully regained his composure. "As you are probably well aware, the rebels continue to press against the TKU, and we can spare neither troops nor supplies to hold them back. They are possessed of a religious fervor that denies all logic. Our factories are being taxed by the subsequent loss of productivity. We are a poor nation, Lord Doom, barely above the non-industrialized third world countries in GNP. We are struggling to put behind us decades of poverty and economic mismanagement. We ask neither for troops nor aid, but for relief from the economic sanctions which continue to leave us vulnerable to our more powerful neighbors." His words were clipped and precise, with little inflection or tone, as if reading from a script.

Doom turned his back to the vid screen in a moment of quiet contemplation. Over his shoulder he asked, "Has your desire to rise above third world status enlightened you toward rethinking your apartheid political and economic practices?"

"I see that you have been misinformed, Lord Doom," the Minister answered smoothly. "We are a free society. The blacks are welcome to own a business, or to participate in government. For the most part, they choose not to. They welcomed the guidance of the SACC when their country was in ruins. They had tried for decades to rule themselves, only to fail miserably. The early white settlers of Africa who were my ancestors recognized this also, not out of malice or contempt, but out of concern for the future welfare of the blacks. They are like children, you see, and I am their godfather. We do not make racist policies here, we only act upon the will of our people."

"So I see," Doom turned back to face the screen. "So the will of the blacks in your country has been to forfeit their native lands, to forgo any advanced education, to work for slave wages or indentured servitude, and to subjugate themselves to rule by the white minority because they see you as a . . . father figure?"

"Yes," Prime Minister Lange answered with a smile. "Much like the history books claim Doctor Doom ruled over yet was beloved by his people of Latveria in the latter half of the twentieth century."

Doom was silent as his eyes flashed brightly within the folds of his cloak. His cabinet members cringed visibly at the Prime Minister's off handed comparison, wondering what reaction that comment would elicit of their often short tempered ruler. Then, unexpectedly, Doom's head went back in a robust and unforced laugh. "An amusing if substantially inaccurate comparison, Prime Minister," Doom replied at last. "However I can appreciate how the elements of history may have been twisted by the, shall we say, misinterpretations of the liberal media. We are perhaps similar in that we have both been unfairly maligned."

"One can hardly expect someone from the outside to fully understand the complex vagaries of a singularly symbiotic social system," the Prime Minister added with a smug smile.

"Indeed." Doom was silent for a moment, then asked, "Tell me Prime Minister, were you to realize additional revenue from relief of existing economic sanctions, would those monies be invested in a military action against the TKU?"

The Prime Minister paused as the governor behind him whispered instructions to him via a com-link. "I assure you, we have no grand designs against the TKU, only that our people should be content in their lives. Given certain relief, we would be better able to initiate negotiations with the TKU leaders, to reach an amenable solution to this disruptive conflict."

"Negotiations, ah yes," Doom replied softly. "Very well, Prime Minister, you will have my answer within the hour." Doom gave a silent signal that cut off the transmission before the Prime Minister could reply.

Doom paced to the window overlooking the fair city of Chenaya, economic and spiritual heart of Myridia. Gleaming spires pierced the blue skies, and international commerce was steadily recovering on the heels of their recent data losses. But his advisor was correct, they were still too fragile to risk stretching resources in an unnecessary and destructive confrontation. He picked up the brilliant white bone that had been handed to him an hour earlier. Perhaps, there was still another way, he thought absently.

The woman behind him spoke up. "Shall we lift economic sanctions against the SACC during this crises?" she asked timidly.

"Crises?" Doom muttered absently, stepping away from the window to address his cabinet. "Tell me Miss Broderick, how many palaces does Prime Minister Lange have in his impoverished state of Mozambique?"

"Um, fourteen, I believe, Lord Doom," she answered.

"Fourteen, all his private residences," Doom mused slowly. "And how many yachts anchored at Beira?"

"Two," Mr. Ryan answered, "plus one at Maputo and two more in the South African provinces."

"And jets?"

"Dozens perhaps," Miss Broderick answered, still quizzically. "Some of those are military aircraft though, and others are used for official state functions."

"Yes, of course," Doom answered. He leaned on the console that overlooked the massive electronic world map covering the wall of the conference room. He still held onto the strange white bone with one hand. "And how many square feet do you suppose, is provided to each black worker as a place to live in the slums he dares to call residential divisions in each of the thousands of shanty towns surrounding his theoretically impoverished factories?"

The three cabinet members looked at each other quizzically and shrugged. Mr. Ryan answered. "I have heard that they average ten square feet, maybe less."

"Yes, hmm . . . ten by ten," Doom lowered his head for a moment, then turned to his cabinet members with a look of venomous outrage on his silver mask. He pointed the bone at them for emphasis, "The crises Mr. Lange refers to is a convenient lie, as are any intentions he may have of entering into peaceful negotiations with his northern neighbors! I refuse to be bullied by the corrupt economic machinations of a privileged class bent on exploiting the innocent with their archaic racist indifference! Doctor Doom was many things in the past, but my people were never left to want for food nor shelter! This malodorous despot has no such reservations, his true motives hide behind a veil of transparent lies and puerile pontificating! He squanders his time in luxurious settings while the blacks under his 'fatherly' care scrabble in the dirt! His goals are not the least bit altruistic, but are solely aimed at the economic gain of the ruling class!"

"Lift the economic sanctions?! No! Never! We will intensify our efforts! Increase the liens on imports, double the taxes on energy provisions! Discontinue all exports! I want you to squeeze his economic lifeline until his balls ache! There will be no mercy from Myridia for the heartless!" Doom ignored the nervous blush of Miss Broderick, and turned away, even as he dismissed them. "Now go!" he ordered brusquely. He faced the world board again. "No, Mr. Prime Minister," he said quietly to himself, "you and I are nothing alike!"

When his cabinet members were gone, he activated the intercom. "Send in Mr. Sinclair," he ordered the receptionist. By the time the hunter from TKU had entered the room, Doom had regained his composure and was quietly staring once again at the bone in his hands. In the hour that it had been in his possession, Doom had already done a preliminary analysis using his armor's computerized systems. He knew from simple observation that it was a human bone, the left femur, to be exact, but that it was much denser than normal human bone. Even more intriguing was the set of black markings, a bar code stamp one inch long, the only flaw on the entire surface. He had already deciphered that code, and he knew that the stamp read "DOOM 2080 - Pacific NA".

Billy Sinclair stepped eagerly into the room just behind the stone faced guard who led him in. Doom stood above him on the raised platform, standing alongside a wall of impressive electronic equipment. The armored monarch appeared to not have heard them enter the room, and stood without acknowledging them for several minutes. Sinclair fidgeted just a little, noticing with interest that Doom did indeed have the bone that he had been forced to relinquish in order to be granted this private audience.

Finally, Doom addressed the guard with a gruff order, speaking without looking in their direction. "Leave us."

The guard bowed once and marched out of the room.

Doom didn't look at Sinclair until the doors closed behind the guard. Finally, he turned and looked down upon on his visitor with an intimidating stare. "Mr. Sinclair," he started smoothly, "or should I say Lord William Winston Sinclair, III, Earl of Ellisland, fifth generation member of the House of Lords, and only son of William and Lia, joint conservators of the northern branch of the Icy Eye corporation?"

Sinclair grimaced imperceptibly, and bowed. "Your highness," he said slowly as he carefully raised his eyes toward Doom, "considering that we parted on poor terms, I suspect that my father, the Earl, has accepted that I am no longer entitled to his position or his title. That honor will no doubt be passed on to one of my more worthy cousins, if it hasn't already. Against his wishes and advice, I have made my own path in Africa, and hold no titles save my name."

"You might be surprised to know then, Mister Sinclair," Doom continued, "that your father still recognizes you as his sole heir. According to court documents I reviewed this morning."

Sinclair was silent, not prepared for this unexpected revelation. It was a little unnerving, the way this Doom seemed to know so much about him. Maybe that was the point. "You have gone to a lot of trouble to find out about me," he finally said. "But that is not why I came here."

"Yes, I know," Doom said. "You want Myridia to become allies with TKU in their little border squabble. It seems that I have been courting suitors all morning, and frankly it bores me. But you have thrown some spice into the soup. You brought me this," he gestured with the long bone. Doom stepped down the two wide steps and approached Sinclair menacingly, his green cloak floating gently behind him. "And a mystery that begs solving. It is all too convenient, Mr. Sinclair. Which is why I want to know, who are you really working for?"

"I've been at TKU for eight years," Sinclair protested. "I haven't been in contact with my family in all that time. I swear, that's the truth."

"You don't deny that your family has ties with the Icy Eye Corp?"

"No, why should I?"

"Because this, Mr. Sinclair," Doom pointed to the bone, "this is no ordinary bone, and my suspicions are that you are a spy. Perhaps this is meant to discredit me, to breed suspicion of my identity. Or is this supposed to lure me into joining your little war? I don't like traps, Mr. Sinclair, and I despise corporate spies even more."

"I am no corporate flunky," Sinclair denied emphatically.

"Then where did you get this," Doom demanded, "and where is the rest of the skeleton?!"
"That," Sinclair pointed, "believe it or not came from the den of a man-eating lion we captured. As for the rest of the skeleton, we weren't able to find any more pieces. But it didn't just fall from the sky. The rest of it has to be there too, somewhere."

Doom eyed him stoically, and Sinclair felt his heart pounding in his chest.

"Do you have any idea how preposterous that sounds?"

"It's the god's truth," Sinclair added quickly.

"Which god remains to be seen," Doom replied irreverently. "However, since I would suspect that my detractors would be able to concoct a more convincing lie blindfolded, I will take you at your word." He paused, and added with implicit threat, "For now." Then continued, "Where exactly is this lion's den?"

"It's on a kopje south west of Cavalier Warren," Sinclair replied easily. "I'll have to show you."

Doom glanced up at his map board briefly. "Naturally that is close to where the fighting is," he commented cynically.

Sinclair nodded. "When I left, they were still far to the south, but it appears that the rebels have made some advances," he said sadly. He sighed, and shifted his tie nervously. "I won't lie to you," he continued, "the TKU is not the unstoppable giant we were once thought to be. We have a small population and a tremendous amount of territory to cover, and to tell the truth we have been remiss in our military readiness of late. For fifty years or more, we've relied on the Perimeter Automated Defensive system designed by our founders. It guarded our borders and skies with amazing accuracy. But lately it seems that the systems are failing, deteriorating due to lack of proper care. We have some of the finest scientific minds in the world working for us, but they are primarily eco-scientists, geneticists, botanists, biologists and the like. They have been stumped by PAD's complex engineering, and we have been stifled in our efforts to repair it. In the interim, we have been forced to teach ourselves to fight in the conventional manner. The last time the TKU sent a mission across our border, frankly, we were just bloody lucky. This time around, I fear the odds are against us. Even if every man, woman, and child in the warrens were to arm themselves, we would be hopelessly outnumbered and under gunned."

"And you think that I will even the odds in your favor?" Doom stepped back up to the world board, and sat down in the control chair. He stared languidly back at Sinclair. "TKU has been historically elitist, exclusionary, and vocal in world affairs only through their staunch abstinence. There would be no likely repercussions should Myridia remain neutral in this affair."

Sinclair stepped up to the board and stared back at Doom. "The repercussions would be enormous," he protested, "should the TKU fall, the world would know a great loss that can never be replaced. Where else in the world are there wild territories as pristine and unspoiled? We have seen what other governments have done to Africa, what is to stop the same from happening to us should we fall? Nothing. Besides," he continued coolly, "in a matter of days the site where the remainder of those bones are hidden may be overrun with fighting. That bone is tougher than normal, but I doubt it would survive a plasma blast or subatomic mortar fire. Then how will you solve the mystery?"

"Have a care, Mr. Sinclair," Doom said angrily rising from the chair to approach him, "my labs are sufficiently sophisticated to analyze the origin of the skeleton from the sample you so conveniently provided. Furthermore, nothing is to prevent me from negotiating with the SACC to protect the lion's den and take control of it after the TKU has been forced out."

"You wouldn't . . ."

"What is to stop me?" Doom replied. "You want my help, but you offer me nothing in return. Nothing that is, that I don't already have," Doom added, laying a metal glove on the bright white bone. "Unless the TKU can offer something better?"

Sinclair suddenly felt like he was in way over his head. He stared up at that unreadable metal mask. Maybe he should just go home, he thought, send someone else to deal with Doom. All of this political maneuvering was beyond his expertise. But there was so little time. So little time, and Doom knew exactly what he was doing. Suddenly Sinclair wondered what his father would do in this situation, and that too surprised him. He hadn't thought of his father in years.

"I can't offer anything, officially," he started.

"Then you have wasted my time as well as yours," Doom turned his back to Sinclair.

"But I can promise to provide you full access to our research facilities, and the cooperation of our staff," Sinclair continued willingly.

Doom turned around slightly, and glowered back at him coldly. "And?", was all he said.

"And . . . and access to our secure data banks," Sinclair added with a slight nervous gulp.
Doom walked back to where Sinclair stood waiting, hands behind his back as he mulled over the offer. "Hmmm, yes," he said slowly, "well, that will do." He passed close by Sinclair, and paused ever so slightly next to him. "For a start," he added, and then continued his steady march towards the door. "Meet me at your transport in one hour."

Sinclair sighed heavily as Doom disappeared behind the door, but he wasn't sure if it was relief, or the beginning of something worse.

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Tanzania-Kenya-Uganda Environmental and Conservation Cooperative (TKU)
Cavalier Warren

Bodo Dken had been aware of lights and movement around him for what could have been days, or maybe only hours. He could even remember talking to someone once, and eating a little food. Mostly though he slept, and felt warm and comfortable on a soft bed with clean sheets, and air that smelled like flowers. There was a pain in his chest that came and went with his sleep, and once he wondered if he was dead, and he was frightened for a moment, until he realized that he didn't really care. He didn't have a care about anything.

Until the man came who shook him awake.

"Wake up, wake up," the alien voice told him. "Can you move, young mister?"

He was so comfortable, he thought, his eyes still closed. Why would he want to move?

"Please, it is very urgent. You must wake up."

Bodo opened his eyes and blinked sleepily. A man who was neither white nor black was standing over him. There was a bright light behind him, so that Bodo had to squint to see. "What? Who are you? What do you want?" His mouth was dry, and his throat felt raw.

"Ah, very good, that is a step," Musleh answered the boy, "but I am afraid that introductions will have to wait until another time. You must tell me if this hurts too much." With that Musleh wrapped the boy in the sheet and lifted him out of the bed. "We must hurry. The warren has been invaded."

Bodo let himself be lifted, feeling strange and light-headed still, his arms and legs dangling uselessly. He watched as the man took him out of the room into the hallway. The light was brighter here, and there were many people running about. Bodo could tell that they were afraid, but he was still too drugged to be alarmed.

"Are you a black man?" he asked lazily. "You don't look black, but you are not white either."

Musleh smiled as he worked his way through the jostling people, careful not to bang the boy's head anywhere. "I am from India," he answered. Then stopped to address another man, who looked to be a soldier. "Take two men and a stretcher," he ordered, "there are more patients in the east wing."

To Bodo's surprise, the white man saluted the dark man who carried him, and did as he was told, grabbing two other white soldiers and racing back the way they had come. He watched them retreating down the hallway over Musleh's shoulder in an amused sort of daze. He felt his senses returning slowly, and he was also beginning to feel a slight pain in his chest. This was a strange world, where dark men gave orders to white men, he thought. Then he asked suddenly, "Am I dead?"

Musleh laughed shortly. "No, young mister," he said, "we are not dead yet."

Bodo looked down the hall. Musleh was forced to slow down as the crush of people rushing through a doorway caused a temporary jam. "But I was shot . . ." he said finally, the memory returning vaguely, in the realm of deja vu. "In the chest." he placed his hand over his heart. There was a large bandage there, and it itched a little too. Now he was truly frightened, as fragmented memories of that night began to return.

"Not to worry," Musleh answered, calming the boy. "The doctors are very clever here. They grew you a new heart, and now you will be just fine."

"Oh," Bodo said as they stepped through the doorway into a large courtyard. There were streets and buildings and a fountain, and everything he would expect from a small town, except there was no sky. Only a high ceiling and a bank of brilliant lights shone down from above.

"Where is the sky?" he asked.

Musleh was looking around the courtyard for a nurse or someone to take care of Bodo, but there was no one left. "We are underground," he answered, as he walked briskly down the main street. "Many meters below the surface. The lights above are our sky here. Just like the sun, you see? You can tell the time of day, same as outside." Bodo could barely see the hidden tracks that the lights moved on, simulating the movement of the sun. But he could see clearly that it was almost midday. He wondered if it was almost midday outside, too.

Suddenly there was a piercing siren wail that filled the courtyard, and all the people left in the open courtyard hurried faster now, rushing down several side streets toward heavy doors in the distance. Musleh picked one street and ran quickly down it, jostling Bodo slightly as he moved so that the pain in his chest was more intense, but Bodo said nothing. They reached the circular doorway and slipped through, and Bodo watched as the heavy door closed behind them, cutting them off from the now empty courtyard with it's simulated sunlight.

Ahead of them, people were piling into a long train, and when it was full it whisked them away down a darkened tunnel, and another one moved in to take its place. There were more guards here, and high tech guns like he had never seen before. Bodo remembered the Messengers, and the old weapons that they had carried. But here there were white and black and every color in between, and so he knew that he was not in Mozambique anymore. He was a prisoner of the TKU. Musleh set him down on a seat of the next train, and sat down beside him. He heard the people around him talking of invaders, in the tunnels, and war. He was afraid again, in this strange place with strange people all around.

Musleh settled in and relaxed only when the train sped them off down the tunnel. "It is a sad day indeed," he muttered, "when those SACC raiders invade our homes." He turned to his young charge and extended his hand. "My name is Musleh Al-Hasid," he said, "fortune hunter, traveler, and sometimes a soldier. Pleased to be of service."

Bodo shook his hand cautiously, and finally said, "Bodo Dken. Am I . . . am I going to go to jail?" He suddenly thought of his mother and his home, and that he may never see it again, and he felt a lump rise in his throat, and tears came unbidden to his eyes.

Musleh sighed and smiled reassuringly at the boy. "No, generally we feed trespassers to the lions," he said with a wink.

Bodo gasped, then saw that Musleh was kidding. "What lions," he said incredulously.

"Well, that one for starters," Musleh answered. Bodo saw that the train had stopped, and in the tunnel where they were now disembarking there was a large black woman in a white coat. Beside her on a leash was the biggest animal Bodo had ever seen, a huge male lion with a thick black mane and paws as big as shovels. The animal seemed docile enough, but it yawned slightly, and all the people getting off the train gave it a wide berth. Bodo looked at those huge teeth and could see why.

"Do you think you can walk now, Master Dken," Musleh asked, "or shall I carry you?"

"I can walk," he said, and did so, painfully and slowly, as Musleh helped him off the train. The people around him disappeared out of the station, but the black woman and the lion seemed to be waiting for them. For a minute, Bodo wondered if Musleh hadn't been kidding.

"Where are we going to put all these people?" Lupe Norbitt was asking Musleh, as she watched the stream of refugees exit the train.

"Be thankful that only the east corridor was affected, Dr. Norbitt," Musleh said. "You may still be wanting to prepare your lab for evacuation if the invaders advance further!"

"Evacuate my lab? Never," Lupe declared stubbornly. "Who is this?"

Musleh introduced Bodo to Dr. Norbitt. Bodo was stunned speechless again, for he had never known of any black doctors.

"And this is our man-eater," Musleh said, patting the big lion on the head.

Bodo stepped back a little from the lion.

"Don't let him frighten you," Dr. Norbitt declared, shooting a withering glance at Musleh. "He has been completely reprogrammed and has sworn off of homo sapiens until such a time as we need to feed someone to him," she told him with a smile.

"Perhaps he would like to eat the invaders," Musleh said with an evil twinkle in his eye.

"Pfagh!" Lupe snorted derisively. "And give him indigestion?"

"Have you heard from Billy?" Musleh asked.

Lupe shook her head, "No, not since last night. Do you have a place in mind for Mr. Dken?" she asked, noticing the boy was hanging back from the woman and her lion. "You can touch him if you want, Bodo," she said encouragingly. "Really, he doesn't think people are food any more."

Bodo answered slowly, "I've never even seen a real lion before." Cautiously he approached the big cat and placed a hand slowly on the thick mane. The lion barely moved, looking lazily about the now deserted train terminal.

"I was praying that you might have room in the lab," Musleh answered Dr. Norbitt. "It is the most secure part of the west corridor, and young Mr. Dken is needing rest."

"Well, I think I can accommodate that," Lupe answered generously. "There's an extra cot in the back, it's not too comfortable, but it's safe and dry and I might even be able to rustle up some clothes."

Bodo was distracted with the lion, who was sniffing his hand, making great snorting noises. A pink tongue flicked slowly out, the raspy surface rough against his skin made Bodo laugh. "Does he have a name?" he asked the doctor.

"Yes," she answered, glad to see the boy getting along. "We call him Len, short for Leonard."

"Len?" Musleh asked with a smile. "Is not Leo the shortened name for Leonard?"

"Hush, now," Lupe scolded, "you'll only confuse him."

"Confuse who? The boy or the lion?"

"Leo is too cartoony," Lupe explained. "Besides, Len is a perfect name. I had an Uncle Len."

"I am still thinking that it is not a very ferocious name for a man-eater," Musleh goaded impishly.

"That's what you get for missing the naming ceremony," Lupe countered. "Now let's get back to the lab before we get run over by another train load."

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TKU - Over the Rift Valley

They were flying swiftly over the southeastern portion of TKU when Sinclair called in to the Lab. He had flown close to the fighting, hoping to get a sense of where the troops were located, but the few pot shots from ancient rifles were close enough to make him back off and turn for home. He was eager to be back on familiar ground once again. He had changed from the uncomfortable suit and tie into his well-worn safari gear, and he flew his light jet on the familiar path with practiced ease, letting the autopilot do most of the work.

"Hey, Lupe," Billy asked when Doctor Norbitt answered his call. "We're coming in now, I'll meet you at the east landing pad. Tell the General we have company."

"Billy, the east corridor has been invaded," Lupe answered anxiously.

"You'll have to use docking platform Chaucer Vector 1."

Billy made note of the code for the western terminal even as he said, "What do you mean invaded? That's impossible! We just flew over the Messenger's ground forces, they're still miles south of here!"

Musleh stuck his head into the vid screen, "It is sadly true," he told his friend. "We've evacuated the east corridor. Be careful, my friend, the enemy has proven to be remarkably resourceful."

"Christ almighty . . ." Sinclair thought for a moment. "All right then. Notify the General and Councilman Lee to meet us at CV1. Tell them that I've got Doom with me now."

"I will relay the message," Lupe said, "but the last I heard the General was topside with Colonel Moore and the fifth regiment." She paused quizzically, staring at the screen intently but looking past Billy. "Is that . . . Doom?" she asked.

Sinclair looked over his shoulder. Doom was studying vid maps and surveillance photos from their brief flyover at the navigator's chair to his right. He was probably just visible to Lupe on the vid screen. He should have heard the conversation, but Doom showed no interest in introducing himself, and was pointedly ignoring them. Billy shrugged and turned back to the screen. "Yeah," he answered. "He's not bringing any troops over, but he's going to lend us a hand . . . Dr. Norbitt? You okay?" Sinclair suddenly noticed that the woman had this glazed look in her eyes, an indescribable expression that he had never seen on the usually energetic chief of the genetics labs.

His answer to that question would have to wait, as without warning the little craft was bombarded from below!

"What the shock?!" Sinclair wrestled with the controls, banking hard out of the way of a flak burst dangerously close to the cockpit window. The vid screen went blank as the autopilot immediately released control and warning lights flashed like crazy all over the control panels.

Doom was instantly in the co-pilot's seat. "Anti-aircraft fire from five o'clock," he announced. "Just below that ridge."

"This is crazy," Sinclair told him, "we're too far north for the Messengers to be firing on us! What the bloody hell is going on here?!" Secretly he wondered if it could be friendly fire, and double checked his approach beacons.

"Those aren't Messengers," Doom replied dispassionately. "Fly, Mr. Sinclair, and leave the analysis for when we've reached safe air space. I'll take care of that gun." His voice was calm and confident, as if the bursting explosions were but a mere annoyance.

Sinclair watched out of the corner of his eye as Doom's hands hastened with precision over the controls of his craft. Sinclair was too busy to protest, as he set his flight path to evade the continued bombardment from below. Doom positioned the little jet's forward guns, and ignited a barrage of super heated plasma over the landscape. The plane dove and twisted as Sinclair dodged the incoming flak with equal parts instinct and skill. There was a sudden explosion from the ground below as the ship's guns connected with something big and volatile, but not before one of the midair detonations still managed to catch the plane on the left side. Sinclair felt a cold rush of air and a sudden burning in his arm, and he realized he'd been hit. He cried out reflexively and released the controls as he clutched his left side.

Silently still, Doom reached over and took control of the plane, taking it into a deep dive to avoid further flak bursts. The ship was badly crippled, and losing hydraulics, but he still managed to keep her airborne and upright. Sinclair felt sick and dizzy, and there was a warm wetness that was soaking his left side. He was afraid to look, but touched a hand on his left side. It came away bloody.

"Doom . . ." he started weakly. "She's pulling left, adjust . . . horizon, ugh, port stabilizers . . ."

Doom glanced over at him, but there was no expression in that steel mask. They were losing altitude fast. Sinclair was beginning to black out, but he felt the docking jets of the plane kick in, and he hoped that they were not too badly damaged to land safely. She was a tricky craft to land, even without being damaged. Still, Doom somehow managed to handle her with uncanny expertise. The nose of the plane lifted in the air as they continued to float downward, and Sinclair felt the gentle bump as they touched ground.

"Well done," he commended quietly, and then blacked out.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When Sinclair came to a short time later, he realized that Doom had somehow managed to set the plane down right in the middle of the field headquarters of TKU's Fifth Regiment, not more than forty meters from the field hospital. His wounds had been dressed and bandaged, and from the dull throbbing he realized he'd been given some pain medication. There were a couple other wounded soldiers in the big tent, and he sat up in his cot to look around. The nurse was at the other end of the tent, conferring with the doctor. Doom was nowhere to be seen.

He swung his legs over the side of the cot, fighting back the wave of dizziness that overcame him. He forced himself to stand up. His left arm and rib cage were tightly bandaged, but he wasn't going to let that stop him now. He grabbed his coat and headed slowly out the flap of the tent. He should have just stayed in the medical tent, he knew, but something about giving Doom free reign inside his country didn't sit well with him. Not like he could actually change anything, still, he felt responsible, having brought him here.

The camp outside the med tent was a bustle of activity, with soldiers and hover craft scurrying through the tall grass in a manic state of orchestrated chaos. There were several tents set up on the low hillside, protected from detection by straw-colored tarps. The same had been done to his plane, which Billy saw had been moved into a clutch of acacia trees. Already there was a repair detail working on it, he could see the welding flash as they patched the ugly gash in the cockpit. In the distance, Sinclair could hear the steady "thoom thoom" of plasma fire. He looked up into the clear blue sky nervously, but the rain of death did not reach the camp. The sound was a brutal reminder on this pleasant day that he was in the middle of a war zone.

Moving around helped clear his head a little, and it wasn't long before he found the Commander's tent. It was a neatly camouflaged open-sided cloth shelter, nondescript except that it was packed with electronic monitoring and communications equipment. Inside the shelter, General Nyirenda and several officers were consulting a field map. Doom stood over the group menacingly, his silver and blue armor and green cape conspicuously out of place among the subdued khaki uniforms of the TKU officers. Still, he seemed to effortlessly dominate the men whom Sinclair had always recognized as the most powerful men in his country.

There was barely enough room in the tent for all of the men and equipment, but Sinclair managed to squeeze through and get close enough to hear what was going on.

" . . . the rebels have infiltrated the eastern corridor, probably entering here at the supply docks for Cavalier Warren East," Colonel Moore was saying. "Their progress has been halted by the shield doors, but those will not hold forever."

"And now they've got access to the guns," Captain Skinner said angrily. "How could they have come so deep into our territory without us seeing them?!"

"They out flanked you," Doom replied, his silver mask as cold as ice.

General Nyirenda shook his head. "The Messengers are not that sophisticated," he answered with a quiet sigh. "All of our experience has them barely armed and launching a very primitive attack." The General was a tall, hefty black man with short, dense white curls covering his head. He was a gentle man, a botanist by trade, and a keen student of human nature. Yet nothing in his broad range of experience and technical expertise had prepared him for the task before him now. "The Messengers have limited their attacks to frontal assaults, and continue to engage Company C at the border even now."

"These were not the Messengers," Doom said and pointed to the map. "The Messengers have been a diversion all along. Know the enemy, gentlemen," he continued forcefully. "We are dealing with SACC special forces here."

"SACC?" Colonel Moore said incredulously. "But we've been in negotiations with them for days. They have no call to invade us now!"

"They lied, Colonel," Doom turned to face the Colonel, fire in his eyes. "They swept around your front line and found an all too convenient back door. Now they've captured your guns and use them against your own troops."

"He's right, General," Commander Gerard agreed. "The Messengers couldn't have launched such an attack. We have to disable those guns and cut off their supply route, and somehow flush them out of the warrens before they advance further into the complex."

"We are spread too thin," the General placed his hand thoughtfully on his chin. "If the SACC meant to have our troops dispersed across the countryside chasing ghosts, in that they have succeeded."

"Those cannons are cutting my men to pieces," Captain Skinner pointed out. "We can't get anywhere near the south tunnel."

"General?" one of the technicians from the row of monitor stations spoke up.

"What is it, Karl?" the General asked, approaching the table.

"We've got it sir," Karl replied eagerly, "successful triangulation of the foremost cannon array. Satcom verifies. I'm pulling it up on vid now."

"Prepare to target all lasers," Colonel Moore ordered another tech as he stepped in behind the General, then stopped dead in his tracks. "By the gods . . . !" he gasped as the picture before them cleared.

The General covered his eyes wearily and turned away from the screen. "Mother of God . . ." he sighed painfully.

Sinclair stepped closer and strained to see the screen. The remote cameras zeroed in on the image of the plasma cannon array that had been causing them so much grief over the last few hours. However it wasn't the cannons which shocked the TKU officers now, but what was around them. Hundreds of prisoners, some military, some obviously civilian, were tied and chained to the cannon support structures. Some were wounded, others might have been dead. Others still held their ears in painful contortions as the cannons boomed around them, spewing deadly liquid heat that simmered their skin. There were children screaming, their arms bound above their heads. Behind them, SACC troops operated the sophisticated weaponry with mechanical precision, contemptuously ignoring the prisoners gathered at their feet.

"Targeting computers locked on, Colonel," one of the techs announced. "Ready to fire at your command." She looked back nervously as Doom silently stepped in behind her chair.

"This is an outrage!" Colonel Moore blurted vehemently. "They can't do this, it goes against all the bylaws for the fair treatment of prisoners of war!"

"Contact Geneva," the General stated slowly. "And someone get Prime Minister Lange on the vid, asap!" he ordered. "I'm sure the Prime Minister would put a stop to this if he knew what was happening!"

Doom studied the readouts on the tech board and leaned discreetly over the laser fire control panel. Nonchalantly, he reached over and flipped up the covers that protected the firing pins.

"Sir?" the technician looked up at that steely mask, unsure of what she should do.

"Doom, no!" Sinclair was the first to notice Doom. His warning cry came too late, as Doom pressed the red button that brought the TKU's deadliest weapons to life. Hidden lasers rose out of the forest and beams of super-dense light waves rocketed silently through the air. On the screen where the cannons had been, there was a blinding flash as everything and everyone there was instantly obliterated under the merciless onslaught. When the light finally returned to normal, nothing remained there but black smoldering husks, and the distant booms from the battlefield were silent at last.

As silent as the group of officers and soldiers in the open sided tent, who stared incredulously at the armored monarch in their midst. Silent, except for Sinclair, who sputtered with cold contempt, "How could you? You just murdered those people!"

Doom turned to look at him, and his eyes narrowed behind red lenses. "Do not question me again, Sinclair," he growled threateningly. Then added stoically, "They were already dead."

He turned to the officers and paced calmly before them, effortlessly commanding their utmost attention. "Gentlemen," he said officiously, "it is time to put aside all notions of fairness, mercy, and humanitarianism. Your enemy has shown his teeth, now you must do the same. You must bare your claws in the face of your enemy, and be prepared to use them! No longer will you be afforded the luxury of battle from the security of the boardroom. This is not a game anymore. Now there will be blood on your hands. Get used to it! Because if you do not, then the enemy will cut through you like a plague of locusts!"

"This is War, gentlemen," he added, his words washing over them like a harsh winter rain. "There are no rules but one: only the strong will survive!"

To Be Continued . . .

        "This place is so quiet,
                    Sensing that storm."
                            Red Rain, by Peter Gabriel.

Next: WAR! And we finally find 'dem bones'! Barbecue anyone? And will we ever discover those secrets about Doom's mysterious past? Also, lions and tigers and bears! Oh MY! Don't miss "SINS OF THE FATHER, Part Two"!



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