Chapter 27
“IN CONCLUSION,” SAID President McManus, “rest assured that the government of the United States is still quite functional, here in our secure underground facility.”
The camera widened out to show a cluster of very important-looking men and women in business suits, plus a couple of guys in military uniforms.
“The Speaker of the House, the vice president, the secretaries of state and defense, the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and the Supreme Court agree that it is in our nation’s best interest for all of you to surrender peaceably and seek safety in the vast network of shelters our conquerors have established underground.”
“Number 2 is a slaver,” blurted Emma.
“Maybe that’s why there haven’t been any casualties,” added Agent Judge.
“Right,” said Mel. “He doesn’t want to kill humans; he wants to sell them into slavery!”
“He probably sails around the galaxy, enslaving entire planets,” said Dana. “When he has a fresh load of laborers, he holds an interstellar auction and ships the slaves off to the highest bidder!”
Yes, sick as it may sound, there are still some planets—particularly mining colonies and farming worlds—where slavery not only exists but thrives as it did on this planet from the time of Hammurabi’s Code (around 1760 BC) until 1981, when the country of Mauritania became the last nation on Earth to finally outlaw the twisted system.
And, for the record, intergalactic slaves fare no better than those formerly oppressed on Earth. They are forced to do hard labor against their will; their children become their master’s property the instant they’re born, and can be sold or traded at his whim; and if a slave tries to escape, he or she can be killed.
Number 2 most likely had a fleet of interstellar slaving ships orbiting Earth, waiting for his cargo. Once he rounded up as many humans as he could trap in his subterranean holding pens, he’d sell them to the land barons and mining moguls up on Cordood Three, Drangovan, Bresbilzon, and a dozen other bleak planets where the workers toil from sunup to sundown (which, on Cordood Three, can last seventy-nine hours).
“Remember,” said President McManus, “to paraphrase the poet Shakespeare, ‘Discretion is the better part of valor.’ ”
“Everybody always quotes that line,” said Mel, “but they leave out the fact that Shakespeare had a big fat coward named Falstaff say it!”
“Not to mention the fact that he’s quoting it backward,” added Emma. “It’s ‘the better part of valor is discretion.’ ”
“It is far better to be prudent,” the president continued, “than merely courageous. Caution is preferable to rash bravery. Slavery is preferable to death.”
Willy shook his head. “So much for the land of the free and the home of the brave.”
“He doesn’t speak for all of us,” said Agent Judge.
“We’re not surrendering, right, Dad?” said Mel.
“Well,” said Agent Judge, “to quote another Brit, Sir Winston Churchill: ‘Never give in, never, never, never, never.’ ”
“Too bad this Churchill guy isn’t president,” said Willy.
“He’s dead,” said Dana.
“So? Even dead, he’d be better than this white-haired yellow belly.”
Now the camera swung off President McManus to frame the hideous image of Number 2 himself, standing in the wings.
The massive beast wasn’t wearing his custom-tailored Savile Row business suit or smiling newscaster face anymore. He was back in terrifying demon mode, his red eyes burning brightly.
“Good citizens,” Number 2 said calmly, “I urge you to hurry. We don’t have room down below for everybody. When my shelters are full, we will be forced to barricade the entryways and eradicate any stragglers. Oh. One more thing. President McManus?”
The camera swung back to the politician who used to be the most powerful man on Earth.
“Yes, thank you. Our new Lord and Master has advised me that there is one resident of the United States that he is particularly interested in meeting down below. In fact, if this young man will do the right thing, well, Number 2 has given me his word that he will be more inclined to show mercy to those of us currently under his protection.”
Every eye in the van was staring at me.
The president leaned forward.
“Daniel?” he said. “If you’re out there, son, do the right thing. Turn yourself in. Surrender!”
I guess Number 2 had cut a deal with America’s ruling elite: give me Daniel X, and you guys get off easy. Maybe he promised them indoor work on Cordood Three.
Now the president’s image was replaced by my pimply yearbook mug shot, the same one Number 2 had shown to his minions down in that sweltering cavern.
According to the text scrolling across the bottom of the screen, I was an “illegal alien” and my capture would earn the captor “Special Work Condition Consideration.”
Great.
Now Number 2 had turned the entire nation into bounty hunters!