RED FOR BLACK
By A.R.Yngve

"Red for black! Such was the bargain of my father, and his father, and thus shall it ever be. Break this bargain, and the black blood of the earth will cease to flow. The Great Metanolpah, Son of the Sun, has spoken." William Shell squirmed under the hot floodlights, and his knees hurt from kneeling against the steep stone stairway. He looked up toward the top of the steps where Metanolpah, the new emperor of all Peru, sat on his golden throne, wearing his feathered crown. Batteries of floodlights, strong enough to illuminate the Wimbledon courts, focused on them from the towering stone walls. The Incans liked to indulge in artificial lighting - they regarded it as a form of magic, that stole the Sun's energy. He's got to be sweating rivers on his throne, Shell thought, but the bastard won't show it - or he's actually enjoying it. The emperor wore a terrifying glare on his copper-toned face, the grimace of unrestrained cruelty that was required of an Incan ruler - he must never show weakness to his subjects, and certainly not to a foreign visitor. William Shell dared not look away from Metanolpah's ferocious glare, because on both sides of the throne stairs lay descending rows of polished human skulls. He thought they numbered in the thousands, and there were plenty more plastered on the pyramids outside the great throne room. Watching those skulls always made Shell's stomach turn. "Your Highness, Son of the Sun..." Shell intoned, clearing his throat. "May I draw your attention to your revered father's agreement with our Queen Helen of the Commonwealth, that the Incan empire agreed to limit the amount of sacrifices in the future? British astronomers have assured us that the Sun will continue to shine for at least a billion years..." Shell knew how Metanolpah (the name did sound ridiculous, but who dared to tell the ruler of twenty million cowering subjects that his name was an unsuccessful distortion of "methanol"?) would respond. "Your astrologers are inferior to ours!" thundered Metanolpah, shaking his scepter, that was topped by a skull beset with rubies. "For five hundred years, our imperial augurs have correctly predicted the movements of the Sun, the stars, and the planets. "For five hundred years, our sacrifices have guaranteed the Sun's continued orbit around the Earth. Would I, the Son of the Sun, now end that proud tradition and displease the source of all life? Do you take me for a fool, Englishman?" "No, of course not, Your Highness." Shell bumped his forehead into the stone steps a few times. "We shall have to discuss the agreement at some other occasion." He produced the papers. "Now, if you would please sign this year's trade contract..." Metanolpah grunted approval. He urged forth his secretary, a man with golden earrings, a diamond stud in his lower lip, and the artificially elongated head of the Incan aristocracy. He also carried a briefcase and inkpad. The secretary bowed formally to the Englishman, who bowed in return, and they signed the documents in three copies. Finally, the secretary brought the papers up to the emperor, who signed the dotted lines with a thumbprint - he couldn't write. William Shell went through the customary two minutes of thanks and praises, bows and rituals, descended the twenty-meter stairway to the ground - backward, so as not to turn his back on the emperor - and walked past double columns of armed guards, out to his waiting helicopter. He told the pilot to quickly take them back to the coast. The helicopter chugged into life and buzzed off the landing-pad, saluted by gunshots from the eight thousand riflemen in the emperor's bodyguard. As the vehicle passed over the emperor's city and its rows of steep pyramids covered by skulls, William Shell covered his eyes. The pilot, a Mexican, had seen the sight so many times it had ceased to impress him. On the top of each of the twenty pyramids, the daily sacrifices were being carried out by the high-priests of the Incan empire. The platforms at the top of each pyramid glistened a dark red in the setting sun. "Prime Minister... did the meeting go all right?" the pilot asked the sweating Englishman in the rumpled suit and bowtie. "Same procedure as last year. Five million barrels of finest Peruvian petroleum ship to Europe in the next year." "And the cost? Any inflation? I play on the stock market, see, and so does my brother, he's in shipping, so he always asks." "No. No inflation. Ten barrels for one." "Five hundred thousand again," the pilot said. "Won't you ever run out of people?" "There's always the American colonies. We haven't tapped into them just yet." The helicopter passed over the vast oil fields of the coast, where the pump towers stood thick as a forest for miles to see. What an act of cruel random fate, the Prime Minister thought, that the greatest subterranean oil deposits in the world had to be discovered right here, in the half-forgotten Incan Empire, and saved it from almost certain extinction. Metanolpah's great-grandfather had been a pauper by Western standards, clinging to a mountain remnant of his former empire, when the foreigners asked to drill for oil on his coastal property. His son used the oil revenue to build a new army for the reborn empire. Metanolpah's father had conquered the rest of South America, and died a billionaire in 1976. And Metanolpah himself, not yet thirty years old, was the richest man in the world. He used to torch a minor oil field - or an occupied city - each time he wanted to send a message to his Old World customers. William Shell read through the list for next year's quota. Five thousand from India, one thousand from Scandinavia, ten thousand from the Russian czar's vast supply of peasants, a thousand Australian convicts, one hundred thousand Chinese... The Chinese had had some oil of their own, but the Chinese Sea wells ran dry forty years ago. Too bad for them, but... they had the most people of all to spare, certainly more than the Commonwealth. The helicopter's engine sputtered a bit, and the Prime Minister started. "Anything the matter?" he asked the pilot. The pilot tapped the gauges on the control panel, and laughed: "I filled the tank before we took off. High-octane red. Only the best for my best passengers, Prime Minister. Did you know that benzine has almost no color at all? The refineries just color it for the sake of distinction." "I know." "Of course, red is the finest quality. The most expensive." "It always is." "Red for Black" (c)A.R.Yngve 2000, 2005. All rights reserved. May not be reproduced without permission. To MAIN INDEX To TITLES INDEX To ABOUT THE AUTHOR To LINKS DONATE if you like my writings! Secure payments through PayPal. (Click the button. Click the button now.)

DONATE if you like my writings! Secure payments through PayPal. (Click the button. Click the button now.)

Web Hosting · Blog · Guestbooks · Message Forums · Mailing Lists
Easiest Website Builder ever! · Build your own toolbar · Free Talking Character · Audio, Fonts, Clipart
powered by bravenet.com