you ought to know. And, per your chief's . . . request, I could hardly call you.'
'I appreciate that,' Labaan said, 'as I appreciate the trouble you took to bring us word. And I will increase security because of it. Even so, we are small change, here. I think whoever went after your ship was after the mujahadin, not us.'
'You're probably right,' Yusuf agreed, with good grace.
D-90, Suakin, Sudan
There were four guards, not counting Labaan, when Adam and Makeda were brought out for their evening walk. Labaan looked apologetic as he announced, 'I've received word of some strange happenings. The details don't matter. What does matter is I have to increase security on you. I'm sorry.'
Adam looked from guard to guard and answered, 'What difference, two or four. There's still no privacy.'
'It's more than that,' Labaan said. 'I won't . . . we can't . . . put the leg irons on you anymore, but . . . ' He signaled with a toss of his head at the guards. One of these produced a set of manacles, old things, a little rusty on the surface, and rough, but solid looking for all that.
Adam began to protest. 'Like a . . . ' He cut himself off. No sense in reminding Makeda of her official status.
'I'm sorry,' Labaan repeated. 'But turning the two of you into one package makes it that much harder for someone to take you away.'
And impossible to swim, Adam thought. Dammit. There goes that plan . . . if I can call it a plan . . . since I still had no good solution to the sharks.
Makeda took the wrist manacles in stride, or at least seemed to. Who knew what anger and hate burned inside the heart of a slave? Adam, on the other hand, felt a deep, burning sense of humiliation.
'It will only be when you're outside,' his captor assured Adam. 'And I really am sorry.' Labaan, feeling mildly dirty, turned and left. They could hear his footsteps scrunching on the coral gravel for some time after.
The sun setting to the west over the waters of the bay framed Makeda in bright orange as she walked the rubble strewn road circling the island. She had the swaying grace common among the woman of her people, that grace being partly driven by culture and example, and partly by the mere fact that they tended to be so tall and slender. Adam walked at her side, holding her hand. This was the easiest way, since the two were cuffed together at the wrist.
The guards hadn't said, 'Now try to swim in that position,' as they'd linked the two. At least their mouths had said nothing. Adam thought their faces betrayed the words even so. At least most of them had. One, Adam had thought, looked almost apologetic. He thought, too, that they seemed more alert than they'd been for some time.
'Before you were brought here,' Makeda said, 'before they put up the fence, we were allowed sometimes to associate with the locals.' Her chin indicated the surrounding waters. 'They said there used to be yachts that came here . . . often, even. And a ferry from Yemen that came almost every day, instead of the one that comes about once a week or ten days now.'
'Not anymore?' he asked.
She shook her head, a motion as graceful as her walk. 'Too dangerous now; pirates . . . slavers . . . kidnappers for ransom. They said they used to make a pretty good living from the yachts and the tourists. Some of them hoped they might restart the slave trade that used to run through here . . . but most were skeptical that they could.'
'I hope they can't,' Adam replied. He exhaled, despairingly. 'My father had slaves, too, though we didn't call them that. Still, that's what they were. I never thought about it back then. About where they'd come from, who missed them at home. Some of them, too, had been with our clan for generations. Those were like family.'
Her eyes flashed. 'Not pieces of meat like me, you mean?'
'I didn't mean that. What I meant was that the whole thing is wrong. And it took meeting you for me to realize it.'
'And what can you or anyone do about it?' she asked.
He lifted both their hands, the ones that were manacled together, for illustration's sake and said, 'Now? There's nothing either of us can do now. Maybe someday.'
'It's a nice dream, anyway, isn't it?' she replied.
Their walk had taken them by the dock. The dhow was still there, thumping gently against the dock. The crewmen were busily scurrying about, preparing to leave. Their Arabic cries carried across land and water.
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.'
