Condemned to Slavery (3 page)

Chapter One

“This is your captain speaking. Due a minor problem in the cargo compartment, we will be making an unscheduled stop at the Guenerros airport. Passengers are advised not to leave the airport grounds as we hope to be underway again within the hour.”

After focusing her attention on the announcement, Lydia rolled her head aside to regard the view from the window. The fractured pane of white clouds opened to offer wispy glances of the land below. It was a sea of uneven lush green, the surface rising and falling drastically with the great peaks and valleys, but no matter how savagely the ground bucked it never succeeded in sloughing off the tropical forests riding upon its back.

With a premature landing imminent, she decided to assess and repair her appearance, her vanity overcoming the desire to simply lay back in her soft seat and watch the land drift by beneath her languid gaze.

Hauling the articulated door aside, she slipped into the cramped interior, the anemic light flickering into life with her entry. Checking herself in the mirror Lydia straightened her wreath of neck length black hair so that it fell neatly around her angular features. Flicking her fringe into a tidier row, she straightened the line it formed across her eyebrows, the plucked slender threads flicking up towards the end to grant her features the constant wicked glint that had so often been remarked upon. Her body was slender and shapely, her devotion to exercise granting her an athletically curvaceous form that many had found captivating, but which she maintained for her own self esteem as opposed to a desire to pander to anyone else’s vision of beauty.

Emerging from the toilet, she started to walk back down the aisle, only to have a stewardess emerge before her, the woman beaming with a permanent broad grin hat had been firmly in place since she boarded the flight.

“Miss, if you would take your seat and fasten your seatbelt,” she asked sweetly, indicating the vacant spot with both hands as though she were conducting a display of safety procedure.

“What’s wrong?” asked Lydia, settling in with a shuffle and accepting the belt as it was handed to her.

“An animal that was being shipped has gotten loose in the cargo hold and they want to land to secure it. After all, we wouldn’t want the little fellow nibbling through any hydraulics now would we, miss?” Said the woman, and walked off, leaving Lydia considerably less reassured.

Easing back into her seat, she turned her gaze once more back to the lofty vision. The scene seemed so tranquil and it was hard to envisage the bitter war that had raged there, though according to the news reports it was now reduced to little more than a few random skirmishes and isolated fire fights.

The flaring of yet another small war had gained the fleeting interest of the press who had meticulously studied the machinations within before their flitting enthusiasm for mayhem found a fresh middle east squabble to concentrate upon lest they risk boring their viewers by exceeding a whole fortnight of coverage. In a few weeks people would have forgotten about the topic and just assume it was all resolved.

The political feud between communist and capitalist had been infecting the entire region since the last world war, and was responsible for prompting the delivery of vast arsenals of weapons and the creating of whole armies of paranoid fanatics via propaganda. The men and women of this scheme were ready to kill and die for the causes their shadowy superpower paymasters had indoctrinated them into following. But when the economies of these mighty backers began to falter and domestic problems took precedence over foreign support, the idle warriors had to find new sources of animosity to quell their thirst for battle. In a repeating echo of so many other instances, a civil conflict broke out, fueled with the refuse of the Cold War. The fighting was fierce and relentless, as it always was when such sanguinary troops were guiding the beast of war. With no-one willing to dirty their hands or empty their pockets with intervention, and because the country had no valuable resources to attract the greedy eye of the mightier nations, the death toll was left to inflate as the world watched with insipid interest from its couches, bars, and office desks.

Two weeks ago the country of Guenerros had been born amidst fire and blood, gouging out its territory from the flesh of a larger and negligent parent. The foe were driven out and hunted down, the droves of unoccupied soldiers turned to policing duties, and to bear the cost of this massive military the citizenry were squeezed for everything they had.

The new regime was exceptionally cruel and paranoid, reporters and aid workers had been killed or imprisoned on trumped up charges, few of them ever being released because most met with ‘regrettable accidents’ while in the care of the police. No one knew the identity of the ruler of the country, or even if there was one. The generals were passing their orders to their troops as though it were they who were responsible for issuing them. The borders were closed and fortified, and all traffic vigorously scoured, while torture and execution were used to create the cloud of fear that helped keep such tyrants in power. The entire situation seemed no different to the other examples of such revolution, but there was something else to the story of Guenerros, a secret that hovered just out of the limelight. It could be sensed, lurking behind the stories, the reporters aware that a great secret existed, but it was one they were unable to locate or unearth.

The plane bathed briefly in the layer of curling clouds and broke through. The lights calling for the fastening of seat belts pulsed again and the intrigued chatter of the passengers was accompanied by soft peals of compliant metallic clicks. Slipping elegantly down towards the soil, the city began to whizz past as they cleared its perimeter. The houses zipped past underneath and were suddenly replaced with the wide expanse of the runway. With a soft jolt the jet brushed its wheels to the tarmac, sending a shudder through the interior as they slowed and started to maneuver along the wide roads towards the main building.

The airport was small and dilapidated, the runways encompassed by a tall mesh fence with barbed wire rolls laid atop it and watch towers rising up along the entire length. The troops manning them glared with a paranoid intensity at the streets beyond, their heavy machine guns following their stare.

Disturbing clusters of holes pockmarked the exhaust-tainted walls of the main building and small nests of sandbags cradled uniformed figures and tripod mounted machine guns or anti-aircraft batteries. There were few persons in the main structure, the quantity of troops easily outnumbering both staff and customers put together.

At a lethargic pace the massive jet wheeled and slotted itself amidst a selection of antique planes and grimy attendants with cigarettes drooping in their lips, flaunting the existence of the fuel trucks nearby. The sour faced lackeys brought forth flights of rust-flecked steps to permit exit, slamming them carelessly to the side of the plane and wandering off.

The hatches hissed and yawned, granting the passengers opportunity to stretch their legs as the sealed and carefully regulated environment was compromised. Instantly a wash of oppressively humid air rolled throughout the cool interior of the cabin. The tropical heat devoured the comfortable temperature and kindled a sudden sweat across every passenger. It was an ardent heat, the kind that could be detected with each inhale of air, which demanded complete inactivity and plenty of iced drinks in the shade.

Several guides awaited outside to escort the flow of unexpected visitors to the airport lounge and gift shop where they could be parted from their money for some worthless indigenous trinkets, the tensed fake smiles of the escorts worn like customary masks.

Donning her sunglasses, Lydia removed her jacket and braved the glaring eye of the day, quickly trotting across the open zone and into the welcome shade of the proffered hall. Parking herself directly beneath one of the overhead fans, she regarded her surroundings, intending to recall every detail so that when she returned home she could boast
I was in Guenerros
, a place currently regarded as a truly pernicious locale.

Customs officials waited at the gates leading on into the country itself, the will of the pedantic guardians being enforced by the armed soldiers arrayed randomly about the scene.

A little more accustomed to the heat, she wandered back outside, intending to gain a few pictures to back up her boasts of braving this nightmarish war-torn country, the images conjured by sensationalist headlines strong in her mind and quite contrary when placed against the tensed serenity about her.

Peeking down the lens she filled the rectangular frame with a watchtower and captured the vision. Inspired to regarding herself as some sort of courageous photojournalist she continued taking in the military sights, snapping off shots until her entire roll of film was exhausted.

With such evidence to back her claims she could gain attention and awe from those about her at work, and perhaps it would allow her to slot herself more easily into one of the social circles. Her feeble ability at conversation and interaction had left her fairly isolated throughout most of her life, and condemned her to craving attention and importance from afar. She didn’t mind being on her own, in fact she liked that sense of independence, but it would be nice to have people to talk to. Since changing jobs she had been an outsider at her new firm, ignored and spurned because of her timid quietness. These pictures would change all that, they would give her the opening she needed, to simply tell her story and show the shots, let people get to know her a little.

A hand clamped to her shoulder and spun her about, bringing her face to face with the enraged countenance of a soldier. Rambling loudly in his native tongue, Lydia was left startled and confused, unable to discern what he wanted.

When he made a grab for her camera she instinctively shied away. Trying again, he caught the flailing strap and in response she hauled at the instrument with a shout, determined not to give it up until she could explain what she had innocently been doing to someone who could actually understand her. For a few seconds they wrestled as she tried to keep her possession away from the soldier, while he sought to remove it from her grasp without employing the full brute force a male opponent could have expected.

A pair of troops entered the fray, having been drawn by the sight of struggle. Before Lydia noticed them they each snagged an arm and drew it back, forcing her into relinquishing her hold. The soldier yanked away the camera with an irritated snarl, slipped it over his shoulder and drew a pair of handcuffs. Lydia suddenly found fresh energy to fight her captors, seeing herself being arrested for no more than failing to speak the local language.

Images of all the horror stories she had ever heard about such imprisonment in fragile dictatorships flashed across her thoughts, prompting desperate flight and rash action.

The kick she swept up into her assailant’s groin was more nervous spasm than intended attack, though its effects were just as debilitating. With a croaking cry the soldier doubled up, clutching his traumatized genitalia and sinking down onto his knees. The pinioning troops increased the strength of their hold, seeking to subdue her resistant mood.

The pained soldier began to arise, a vindictive scowl playing across his curled lips. With a frantic lunge she attempted to fell him again but he was not to be fooled by the same mode of attack a second time. With a burst of speed he blocked her foot and swung the defending arm around in a wide arc, his backhand slap jerking her face aside and filling her cheek with throbbing heat.

With a swift motion he drew his side arm, cocked the pistol, and put the muzzle to her temple. Lydia squeaked in mortal shock and closed her eyes, bracing for execution, petrified by this sudden application of deadly jeopardy. As the click of the hammer being drawn back filled her ears, she was brought to an expectant and dread saturated silence, holding her breath, the only sound being her thumping heart beat as it through itself against her ribs.

The muzzle fell sharply away as a young man jumped onto the soldier’s back, causing the trooper to stagger aside under the added weight and imbalance. The firearm dropped from his grasp and rattled upon the ground, removing the threat.

Lydia recognized the heroic savior as being from the plane, a face she had seen in the crowd but never really noticed until now, at a time when he was bravely risking his own life to preserve hers. For a moment the two grappled, striving to defeat the other’s grip as Lydia sought to take advantage of her captor’s distraction and slip loose, fighting their clenched holds but unable to escape.

With an animal growl the soldier thrust his elbow back, catching the man’s ribs and winding him, causing his frame to slacken and thus be easily sloughed off against the wall with a stern shove. The passenger struck the grimy surface with a jarring crack and began to sink down, dazed. Airing a scowl of contempt, the soldier reached down and lifted the pistol in a loose grasp.

“NO!” shrieked Lydia, seeing what was to follow as she battled to get free.

The pistol spat a brief flare of light and a single cartridge that jumped free and chimed merrily upon the tarmac. A tiny group of warm spots touched her face and she froze in aghast horror, paralyzed as her attempted savior jerked back, the rear of his head opening amidst a plume of red and black that splashed across the walls in an abstract collage of gore. Twitching, the lifeless cadaver slumped down and fell onto its side, his face screwing up into a grimace before going slack. A pool of red began spreading swiftly out from the gaping exit wound and the neat hole that had been punched in his forehead.

The soldiers holding her addressed the killer in severe and worried tones, snapping him from his gloating and causing him to step towards Lydia. Thinking herself to be eliminated as a witness to this crime she screamed in manic calamity, bucking and whirling against the grapples. Her struggles escalated with every step the killer took towards her, leaving her unprepared as he suddenly pressed the pistol into her hand. Lydia gasped in alarm and tried to drop the smoking murder weapon, but they were holding her firmly and ensuring they kept the gun in her hand with their crushing fists.