control, and the KGB had recently even tried to assassinate the premier. Doctors working for the Blackshirt commander had tried to poison the Grandfather, but somehow the plot had been discovered in time—as the premier lingered on his deathbed. Vassily had formed mass execution squads in Moscow to kill the plotters in the KGB and among the power structure. He had purged the capital of the world, at least for the moment, of his enemies.
“Now, it’s up to me,” Zhabnov muttered to himself, tapping his fingers on the cherrywoood desk with the presidential seal inlaid on the top. “I must protect myself and my legitimate power as authorized by the Politboro, from those power-mad maniacs in the KGB. I must launch small attacks against Killov, until the Grandfather is strong enough to send more supplies and troops.”
Civil War—worldwide—within the Empire. It was happening. Unbelievable! At a time when the Empire was in grave danger—attacked by rebels everywhere. It was not the time to war among themselves. The entire planet seemed to be ready to die. It was as if all the subject peoples of the world were in touch with each other—which was, of course, impossible—and were planning their attacks in unison. In India the Sikh warriors with their long, curved swords were rioting again. They seemed to have no regard for their lives, attacking armored Red columns with hand weapons. Still, they made the Russian forces pay an ongoing price. In South China a warlord was creating a frenzy among his people—eighteen thousand fanatical Moslem followers of the Muabir, the flame of Allah. They had done serious damage to the occupying forces, armed as they were with only rifles and small explosives. They would sweep into Red encampments on horseback, screaming, unafraid to die, and decapitate every Russian they could lay their hands on. Zhabnov had seen secret papers and photographs of what they had done. It wasn’t a pretty sight.
It seemed to be that way everywhere now. The Zulu chief, Mobogutu, had managed to organize a ragtag but dangerous army of a number of different tribes; the British, the French, the Spanish—all growing stronger and bolder with every passing day. South America, passive for nearly a century, was now becoming a deathtrap for Red soldiers, who couldn’t walk down the peasant streets at night without getting their throats slit. And here in the U.S.S.A, a land that had been totally subdued for generations, Zhabnov was hearing disquieting reports about the increasing strength of the freefighters. This Ted Rockson of theirs had somehow become a national hero to the peoples of the hidden cities, and even the workers in the Russian Fortresses. Such a man was more dangerous than a whole army. He gave hope to the slaves, made cowards unafraid, gave unity to a land that had been nothing but isolated hamlets for many, many years. Times were changing, even Zhabnov could see that. He knew he was not as smart as Killov or Premier Vassily, but he could see the proverbial writing on the wall. He had tried to be a just conqueror. He made sure that the workers were fed, that, as much as possible, more nuclear weapons were not used—in the fight against the rebels. But . . . that would have to change now. If he was to survive, he must make himself as ruthless and bold as Killov.
He rose from the immense desk and walked around it to the nearly ten-foot-high mirror that sat between the portraits of Lincoln and Washington. He looked at himself—not bad for a man nearing fifty-five. He was very broad and meaty, with a typical Russian physique, big-boned, strong, and quite heavy. His face had a squarish bulldog kind of look, with thick black eyebrows and puffy hedonistic lips. Not bad at all, he thought. Not as fearsome-looking perhaps, as Killov, with his high cheekbones and piercing eyes and the scar along his cheek that according to Zhabnov’s spies had been placed there by none other than Ted Rockson. He lifted his
“Now, it’s up to me,” Zhabnov muttered to himself, tapping his fingers on the cherrywoood desk with the presidential seal inlaid on the top. “I must protect myself and my legitimate power as authorized by the Politboro, from those power-mad maniacs in the KGB. I must launch small attacks against Killov, until the Grandfather is strong enough to send more supplies and troops.”
Civil War—worldwide—within the Empire. It was happening. Unbelievable! At a time when the Empire was in grave danger—attacked by rebels everywhere. It was not the time to war among themselves. The entire planet seemed to be ready to die. It was as if all the subject peoples of the world were in touch with each other—which was, of course, impossible—and were planning their attacks in unison. In India the Sikh warriors with their long, curved swords were rioting again. They seemed to have no regard for their lives, attacking armored Red columns with hand weapons. Still, they made the Russian forces pay an ongoing price. In South China a warlord was creating a frenzy among his people—eighteen thousand fanatical Moslem followers of the Muabir, the flame of Allah. They had done serious damage to the occupying forces, armed as they were with only rifles and small explosives. They would sweep into Red encampments on horseback, screaming, unafraid to die, and decapitate every Russian they could lay their hands on. Zhabnov had seen secret papers and photographs of what they had done. It wasn’t a pretty sight.
It seemed to be that way everywhere now. The Zulu chief, Mobogutu, had managed to organize a ragtag but dangerous army of a number of different tribes; the British, the French, the Spanish—all growing stronger and bolder with every passing day. South America, passive for nearly a century, was now becoming a deathtrap for Red soldiers, who couldn’t walk down the peasant streets at night without getting their throats slit. And here in the U.S.S.A, a land that had been totally subdued for generations, Zhabnov was hearing disquieting reports about the increasing strength of the freefighters. This Ted Rockson of theirs had somehow become a national hero to the peoples of the hidden cities, and even the workers in the Russian Fortresses. Such a man was more dangerous than a whole army. He gave hope to the slaves, made cowards unafraid, gave unity to a land that had been nothing but isolated hamlets for many, many years. Times were changing, even Zhabnov could see that. He knew he was not as smart as Killov or Premier Vassily, but he could see the proverbial writing on the wall. He had tried to be a just conqueror. He made sure that the workers were fed, that, as much as possible, more nuclear weapons were not used—in the fight against the rebels. But . . . that would have to change now. If he was to survive, he must make himself as ruthless and bold as Killov.
He rose from the immense desk and walked around it to the nearly ten-foot-high mirror that sat between the portraits of Lincoln and Washington. He looked at himself—not bad for a man nearing fifty-five. He was very broad and meaty, with a typical Russian physique, big-boned, strong, and quite heavy. His face had a squarish bulldog kind of look, with thick black eyebrows and puffy hedonistic lips. Not bad at all, he thought. Not as fearsome-looking perhaps, as Killov, with his high cheekbones and piercing eyes and the scar along his cheek that according to Zhabnov’s spies had been placed there by none other than Ted Rockson. He lifted his
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