Transition

by Henry Charles Mishkoff

  Or, perhaps, into an entirely different century.

  The wide boulevards have degraded into unpaved lanes, dusty and narrow, curving and twisting for no apparent reason. The tidy new homes have dissolved into wooden shacks, filthy hovels, with dirty children who stop playing to stare at them with insouciantly wide eyes. The endless rows of busy shops have degenerated into clusters of squalid stalls that offer a variety of unidentifiable dry goods and foul-smelling foodstuffs.

  As in New Sataru, the streets of Old Sataru are crowded, bustling with activity. But the people in New Sataru were well-scrubbed and well-dressed, while the bulk of the population of Old Sataru seems to be dirty and disheveled, dressed in rags and tatters, and mostly shoeless. The crowds in the new village had been orderly and businesslike, but the people in the old village jostle and bump, shout and laugh raucously. Children, some of them naked, slither in and out of the crowd like snakes. And while everyone in New Sataru seemed to have had an automobile, the transportation of choice in Old Sataru is clearly the bicycle, scores of which weave through the crowd with remarkable dexterity.

  Now, the street widens, and the activity grows more intense. They seem to have entered some kind of public square, perhaps an open market.

  “Hey, Yankees!” A man calls from a nearby stall; Jillian turns to find him over the heads of the crowd. “You like chicken?” He holds a struggling, squawking bird by the neck. “I sell you cheap. I make you good price. Is fresh, see?” And as Jillian watches, he swings the unfortunate fowl with a deft, sharp jerk; with a final desperate squawk, its neck breaks and it goes limp.

  “You have dollar?” Before she has a chance to react, a group of children sporting filthy T-shirts and grimy faces surrounds the athletes, who have drawn closer together, perhaps as a defensive measure. “You give us dollar? Quarter? You have quarter?” they plead hopefully, as the athletes move quickly past. One of the street urchins shouts something at their retreating backs, and the others laugh derisively.

  “You buy! You buy!” a shopkeeper yells, holding up something that might have been a lamp. “This way! This way!” another calls. “Best price! This way!”

  An elderly woman riding a bicycle several feet from them runs into a small dog, which howls and limps off as woman and bicycle crash to the ground. The crowd surges around her, as if she’s not even there. After a few moments she picks herself up, dusts herself off, retrieves her bicycle, and disappears into the crowd.

  “This is disgusting,” Jillian says. She’s walking next to Sunshine, Olga and Marta are following close behind, they’re holding hands as if they want to make sure that they don’t lose each other. Jason and Karl are walking a few feet ahead, breaking a path through the crowd. “No wonder the guard didn’t want us to see this shit-hole. This is the most disgusting place I’ve ever seen in my life. How can people live like this? Don’t they have any pride?”

  “Oh, these poor, poor people,” Sunshine says. Her voice sounds strangely distant, as if she’s talking not to her companions but to herself. She sounds vaguely as though she’s going to cry. “These poor people,” she says again. “It must be so painful to live under these conditions. So much suffering. So much misery. There must be something that somebody could do to help them…”

  “Is terrible,” Olga announces, and she sounds angry. “Government build big buildings, new airport, big stadium for Olympics. But they let people be hungry, no clothes to wear, no good place to live. Government is selfish, greedy pigs.” She speaks a few terse words to Marta, who nods in glum agreement.

  Three small boys appear out of the crowd; one of them grabs Jillian by the wrist. “Hey, American, you come, you come,” he says, as he tugs on her arm. “You come, I show you something, you like, you come.”

  “Get away from me, you filthy beggar,” Jillian screams, and swats him flush in the face with the back of her hand. The boy’s head jerks back; he stumbles and falls in the street, raising a small puff of dust. His friends shriek with laughter.

  “Oh, Jill,” Sunshine says, horrified. “You hurt him.” She runs over to help the boy, but he leaps to his feet and vanishes into the crowd.

  “I hope I did,” Jillian sniffs. “The disgusting little brat. He deserved it.”

  “I wonder if your adoring fans will see it that way,” a voice says behind her.

  Jillian whirls. “You!”

  Leida Andersen laughs, straddling her motorbike, a small camcorder raised to one eye. “That’s good, Jill,” she says. “Don’t stop. Your expression says it all.”

  “Why, you despicable…”

  “I already got some really good stuff,” Leida teases. “‘Golden Girl Goes Berserk, Pummels Child, Reveals True Personality.’ It’ll make a great story, don’t you think? Pulitzer Prize, maybe?”

  “I ought to ram that fucking camera right down your throat, you bitch.”

  “You don’t have to shout, Jill,” Leida grins. “This thing may look like a toy, but the microphone is surprisingly sensitive. You can just threaten me in a normal, conversational tone, if you’d like.”

  Why didn’t I even hear that goddamn scooter coming up behind me? Jillian wonders, as she takes a deep breath and tries to regain her composure. I guess it’s just so confusing and noisy around here… But still, it’s not like there are any cars or anything like that, the sound of the motor should have caught my attention. Like over there – it sounds like there’s some kind of motor coming down the street, and I can certainly hear that one…

  And indeed, there does seem to be some kind of commotion rolling their way from one of the side streets that feed into the square. The sputtering whine of an engine grows louder, as do the angry shouts of people having to get out of the way. It’s too loud to be a scooter, Jillian thinks, it must be some kind of car… But in these tiny streets?

  It turns out to be an old, dirty van that careens recklessly into the small square as people and animals flee from its path. And with a screech of brakes and an enormous cloud of dust, it comes to a sudden stop not twenty feet from where the athletes stand.

  What the hell? Jillian thinks.

  The rear doors of the van spring open, and two men jump out. They’re dressed identically – red T-shirts, blue jeans, gray sneakers, red headbands, dark sunglasses – in what appears to be some kind of casual uniform. One of them has an ancient face, leathery skin with deep lines and creases that nearly enfold his eyes. The other one has a fresh, round face with wide eyes that dart furtively from side to side, as if he’s trying to get his bearings.

  It takes Jillian a few seconds to notice that the two men are holding identical-looking rifles, probably automatic or semi-automatic weapons of some kind.

  And it takes Jillian even a few seconds longer to realize that the older man is pointing his gun at Sunshine.

  But it takes only another fraction of a second for Jillian to realize that the younger man’s gun, cold and lethal, is pointed directly, unmistakably, unequivocally, at her.

  5.1.6: Old Sataru

  Suddenly, everything goes eerily, deathly silent.

  Most of the crowd has drawn back a healthy distance from the van and the gunmen, leaving a small open area in the center of the square. The people in the crowd do not seem to be especially concerned, they’re gawking and pointing, chattering among themselves like spectators in some kind of arena.

  As if in a daze, Jillian realizes that one of the men – the young one, the one pointing a gun at her – is talking to her, and has been for at least a few seconds. “Yellow hair,” he says, “into truck.” And then again, more insistent: “Yellow hair. Into truck!”

  And at the same time, she realizes, the other gunman is screaming a similar instruction at Sunshine: “Red Hair! Into Truck!”

  Jillian’s mind seems to have slipped out of gear. What’s going on? she wonders. What do these people want? And then: This can’t be happening. Not to me.

  “What should we do, Jill?” Sunshine, standing a few feet away, barely has to rais
e her voice. Except for the repetitive screaming of the two gunmen, it has grown remarkably quiet in the square.

  “Don’t do anything,” Jillian says, not even sure of why she’s saying it. “Don’t move. Don’t do anything at all.” If we stay very still, she thinks, everything will just swirl on around us, like a whirlpool, and we’ll be okay here in the center. If we just don’t move, it’ll all go away. But only if we stay very, very still.

  And then the gun that has been pointing at Jillian moves just slightly to one side. “No picture,” the young gunman says firmly. And, although she doesn’t turn to look (Be still! Be very, very still!), it dawns on Jillian that the gun must now be aimed at Leida. “No camera,” the gunman insists. “No picture.”

  But Leida doesn’t stop. “That’s great,” she says. “That’s really good, but you’ve got to move that gun away from your face, sweetheart. It completely blocks the view. How’s anyone going to know what a good-looking kid you are if they can’t see your face?”

  Oh my God, Jillian thinks, she’s going to get herself killed. And then she actually says it out loud, but so softly that no one could possibly hear her, barely moving her lips, like a ventriloquist: Leida? What are you doing? You’re going to get yourself killed.

  But after a long moment, during which Jillian is sure that he’s squeezing the trigger, the gunman slowly, hesitatingly, moves the gun to the side. “No picture,” he says again, but not very convincingly.

  “Oh, stop that,” Leida scolds, as she keeps recording. “Look, you have a statement to make, am I right? There’s some kind of message you’re trying to get across to the world. Well, how do you expect to do that if you don’t get any publicity? You’re just going to have to trust me on this one.”

  She’s crazy, Jillian thinks, as her mind begins to slow down to normal operating speed. I don’t think she’s got the slightest idea of what she’s doing.

  But it seems to be working.

  She just might save all our asses.

  “Okay,” Leida says, “now let me see what you look like with the gun across your chest. Across your chest,” she repeats to the confused gunman, motioning with the camera to demonstrate how she wants him to pose. And moving ever so slowly, the gunman swings the gun into the indicated position. “Oh, yes,” Leida coos. “Perfect. Just perfect. You’re very photogenic, has anybody ever told you that?”

  She begins to move around to the side to record him from a different angle. “No, don’t look at me,” she scolds. “Look straight ahead. Like you’re gazing off into the distance. No, you look too serious. I mean, I know you’re serious about this, but you look so glum. Look like you have some kind of vision, you know what I mean?”

  By this time, the older gunman has lowered his weapon, which he’s now holding loosely by his side as he stands and watches with obvious amusement. The two gunmen exchange a few words, and then the older gunman laughs. The young gunman blushes and raises the gun so that it’s back pointing at Leida. “No picture,” he says again, but it sounds more like a plea than a demand.

  “Oh, look, we’ve been through this before,” Leida says crossly. “Now, how about one with the two of you together? Maybe your arms around each other’s shoulders? You know, the comrades-in-arms look? Oh, that was a terrible pun, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it that way, really, but look…”

  “No picture!” the gunman screams frantically. “NO PICTURE!”

  He’s more scared of her than she is of him, Jillian realizes. His hands are shaking so badly that I don’t think could hit her even if he wanted to, even at this range. And I don’t think he really wants to shoot anybody. He’s just a kid. I doubt if he’s ever shot anybody in his life.

  The front door of the van swings open with a squeak of protesting hinges. One black boot strikes the ground with a dull thud, then another. The driver slowly steps out. He’s dressed similarly to the others, but he wears boots instead of sneakers, and he sports a red beret rather than a headband. And, unlike the others, he doesn’t appear to be armed.

  But just as Leida swings the camera over to capture this new figure, he reaches into the back pocket of his jeans and pulls out a small, snubnosed revolver. And in one fluid motion he swings it up and points it at Leida, almost casually, as if he were gesturing toward her rather than aiming at her.

  But when his hand jumps and the single shot rings out, it appears that he has been aiming after all.

  Leida’s camera clatters to the ground and rolls once. A blob of red begins to spread on her chest. She sinks to her knees, bowing her head, watching the sticky stain spread slowly over the front of her shirt. “I’ve been shot,” she says, to no one in particular; and it sounds like it’s a curiosity, as though she’s more surprised than hurt.

  She looks at Jillian, her eyes wide, her mouth open in astonishment. “I’ve been shot,” she repeats, and it’s almost a question, as if she were asking Jillian to explain some great mystery to her.

  And then her eyes roll back into her head, and she slumps noiselessly to the ground, stretched out on her back, her eyes staring sightlessly upward. The camera lies on its side just inches from her outstretched hand, as if any moment she’s going to grab it and jump to her feet and start barking orders again.

  It takes Jillian a few moments to realize that the gunman in the beret is now speaking to her, and he’s waving the gun in her direction. “Jill Kendal,” he says, “you will please get into the van now, yes? And you will tell your redheaded friend to come along as well. If you make no trouble, no one else will need to get hurt.”

  I know that voice she thinks. But that’s impossible. My mind’s just playing tricks on me. But I know that voice, I swear it…

  He smiles at her confusion. Reaching up with his free hand, he removes his sunglasses. “I told you that we would meet again,” he says evenly. “And I always speak the truth. You will come to understand that, Jill Kendal.”

  “Akaso?” Jillian whispers. And then barely louder: “Akaso Siko?” Is it possible?

  “At your service,” he says, with a flourish. “And now, you and your friend will please get into the back of the van. Right now. Do not make me ask you again.”

  “Akaso, what…”

  “You may climb into the van under your own power, if you wish,” Akaso Siko says, sternly. “Or, if you would like, we can carry you into the van.” He shrugs. “It makes no difference to me, Jill Kendal,” he says. “You can come with us alive. Or you can come with us in the manner of your friend there.”

  And he gestures casually with the barrel of his revolver to Leida Andersen, who lies where she fell in the dusty street.

  Very, very still.

  Very, very dead.

  5.1.7: Old Sataru

  “Там не будет больше стрельба сегодня,” Karl says. There will be no more shooting today.

  Advancing purposefully toward the older gunman, Karl Malenko is adamantly waving his arms back and forth in front of his chest, as if to indicate that some kind of event has been canceled.

  “No more shooting today,” he announces again, speaking forcefully and urgently in his native language. “Put away your weapons.” He now stands directly in front of the gunman, who holds his rifle across his chest and licks his lips nervously.

  “You are Russian?” the gunman asks, in Russian. He seems stunned.

  “Yes, certainly I am Russian,” Karl says. He speaks condescendingly, commandingly, as if he were the one cradling the weapon. “You have made a mistake. Put away your weapons. You must leave at once.”

  “You are not supposed to be here,” the gunman protests weakly. “We were not told that there would be Russians here.” He looks around quickly, as if for confirmation; the younger gunman stares back at him in amazement. “All we want are the American women,” he explains, but without much force. “Please. It would be best for you to leave now.”

  “I decide what is best for me,” Karl counters. He reaches out for the rifle, as if he’s re
claiming a dangerous toy from a child who really shouldn’t be playing with it…

  5.1.8: Old Sataru

  “Is she…” Jillian swallows, hard. “Is she… dead?” She hears her words as if she’s listening to someone else speaking.

  When Olga looks at Jillian, their eyes lock for a moment. There’s a terrifying helplessness in Olga’s eyes that sends a cold shiver down Jillian’s spine. Jesus, Jillian thinks, am I as terrified as she is?

  “I think she is dead,” Olga says. “But I am not… I never see dead person before, so I do not know.” There is a sense of wonder in Olga’s voice that Jillian finds especially chilling.

  “How does Karl know how to speak their language?” Jillian asks, to no one in particular. This is too weird, she thinks. I must be dreaming. But how do I go about waking up?

  “Karl speak in Russian,” Olga explains, as she moves cautiously to where Leida lies sprawled in the street. Marta already kneels by Leida’s inert form, but she seems uncertain about what to do next.

  “My God,” Jillian says. “You mean the guys with the guns are Russians?” Of course they’re Russians, she thinks, her brain desperately trying to generate a scenario that might make some sense of the situation. The Russians would stoop to anything to… to… to what? Why would they do this?

  Olga shakes her head. “They Red October,” she explains. “I think they Red October. Red October train for revolution in Soviet Union. They learn speak Russian there.”

  “But… “How did Karl know that?”

  Olga shrugs. “He not know,” she says. “He guess.”

  5.1.9: Old Sataru

  “Zolat, what is happening here?”

  Educated in Qen Phon and the United States, Akaso Siko speaks fluent Phonigi and excellent English, but not one word of Russian. And so he suddenly finds himself completely in the dark about what is transpiring. All he knows is that his plans seem to be unraveling right before his eyes.