As long as I'm dreaming, Adam thought, looking longingly at the dhow, what dream gets me in command of that boat, with the crew doing my bidding, to get the hell out of here?
Bribe the crew? Even assuming I can get aboard, they're none too likely to accept me as someone whose family could pay the price. Force the crew? With what? He looked over at the guards. They'd kick my ass, if I tried to grab a rifle, even if they wouldn't just shoot me out of hand. Kill the crew? Even if I had the skills and strength for that, which I don't, I couldn't run the boat. And I've got no teacher to pass on the skills, even if . . . hmmm. No, I suppose not . . .
Dhuudo, Ophir, D-74
Most likely the slave market of Suakin never would reopen, despite the fervent hopes of some of the people who lived nearby. This didn't mean there was no trade in slaves; there was. In fact, the trade had become quite impressive again across the world. By some estimates there were more slaves on Earth, in absolute numbers, than there had ever been before. To a large extent, those estimates depended for their size upon definitions of slavery that were perhaps a bit too expansive for accuracy's sake. Nonetheless, there were perhaps millions, certainly hundreds of thousands, of slaves kept and used, bought and sold, around the globe that would have met Cato the Elder's definition of a slave: A tool that speaks. Most of these were female, and if they could speak it was not for that ability that their owners valued their mouths.
Still, although female slaves had values that males did not, for most buyers and owners, there was still a market in healthy males.
What's mah bid fo' this fahn, healthy, young buck niggah? Buckwheat Fulton mentally sneered as the bidding opened on a boy of perhaps fourteen or fifteen. Manacled, the boy was black, as was Fulton himself, and had features, like the retired master sergeant, more negroid than the locals who tended to resemble very dark Arabs. On the other hand, in contrast to Fulton, the boy looked absolutely terrified.
Bidding was fierce, unintentionally egged on by a group of whites seated on benches near the low stand on which the auctioneer displayed the wares.
"What the hell are they up to?" Buckwheat asked of Wahab, a flick of his chin indicating that he meant the whites.
Wahab shrugged, as if with indifference. If the genital mutilation of the girl in Rako had been an embarrassment, how much moreso this barbarism?
"Some anti-slavery society or other?" he said with a shrug. "A church group? No telling. They collect money then come here to ‘ransom' the slaves, which has the side effect of driving the price up, hence making it more profitable to raid for slaves and increasing the number who are taken. Of course . . . what was that?" he asked, after Fulton muttered something or other.
"I said," Buckwheat replied, "'thank God my multi-great grandpappy got dragged onto that boat.'"
"Oh. Well, anyway, as I was about to say: Of course, given a choice between paying to ransom slaves, thus ensuring more are captured, or using the money to buy arms for the tribes that are the usual victims of the raiders, naturally you western types prefer the least violent and least effective-really, the most counter-productive-approach."
"I suppose they do," Fulton answered. If Wahab understood that Buckwheat had just said that he was not among those who preferred nonviolent and ineffective solutions, the African gave no sign. He did, however, think, And when I pinned general's insignia on you, if I could, I wonder if you might lead us in a war to free the slaves? That would be something. Or to create a country from scraps? It always takes a foreigner to do that, someone not part of or beholden to a clan. When this is all over, you, and I, and Khalid, are going to have a long, long talk.
With a clap of hands, the auctioneer indicated that bidding was over. He pointed toward the group of whites who had been successful in outbidding the poor locals and shoved the slave lightly in their direction. The whites made a great show of huddling around the boy, in the guise of protection, and a greater one of striking off his manacles. One of their number took pictures for posterity's sake or, more likely, to feature in pamphlets designed to raise money. As the whites led the boy off, another slave, female this time and considerably younger than the boy, was mounted on the auction block.
"Come on," Fulton said, standing up. "If I don't get away from here, I'm going to kill somebody."
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
It is very reassuring, when confronted by an
approaching enemy tank, to know that across one's
shoulder is the most modern shoulder fired rocket
in existence; or that the man a yard or two
away is diligently tracking the tank through the sight
of a MILAN or TOW missile . . . But there are
times when none of these comforts are within reach,
and one has to do the best one can with what is
available, and that may not be much.
-Ian Hogg, "Tank Killing"
D-73, Assembly Area Alpha-Base Camp, Amazonia, Brazil
FitzMarcach's face said "doom." First Sergeant George shook his head, doubtfully, as Reilly's finger traced across the map. "They'll murder us, boss," George said. "There's no cover, either getting there or once we are there. We'd be- "
At Lana's knock on the tent pole, Reilly, his exec, and his first shirt both looked up from the map they'd been studying. The diffuse jungle light was still bright enough, in comparison to the tent, to strain the eyes. This caused the Israeli woman to appear more of an outline than a person. Not that it isn't a nice outline, Reilly thought, then mentally added, After the mission, asshole. There'll be time, opportunity, and rightness, then.
There were other outlines, much less distinct, behind Mendes. Reilly thought they were the two South Africans, standing behind her. He repressed the distaste he felt about those two, primarily because they were reasonably discreet about their status and were, in fact, pretty damned good armored car mechanics. Good troops, as a matter of fact. Not their fault, what they are. Then again, not my fault if it makes my skin crawl, either. And if being together helps them push away the solitary nature of life, who am I to criticize?
"Come on in," he said, flattening the map down on the field table between himself and George. "Have a seat . . . err . . . seats," he amended, when his eyes had adjusted well enough to make out Viljoen and Dumisani in detail. Behind them, he saw, were the German, Nagy. and the two Brits, Trim and Babcock.
Aha, the foreigners' union, Reilly thought. Well, why not? They're a better mirror than most.
Mendes went right to the point. "We've been talking it up to your men. But it's not working."
"That's not exactly right, baas," Dumisani corrected. "It's working with about two thirds of them, some, anyway. Others are neutral. But there's a smaller number, maybe half a dozen, who are listening to one of them-"
"Adkinson," Viljoen said. "I've seen the type before; chip on his shoulder, big head, tiny brain. Not competent to be in charge of anything big and resentful as hell of someone who is. Nasty toxic bastard. He's even starting to infect your infantry and most of those guys are devoted to you personally. Why the hell did you take him on, anyway? Leave aside that he loathes Dumi and me because we're gay . . . or maybe because we're foreign . . . or maybe both. You never should have hired him."