Ten
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To anyone who looked, Latveria was a “picture-postcard” kingdom. A great golden castle sat proudly atop a high mountain peak. Small clusters of gaily colored wooden homes dotted the mountainside. Each small home had a pocket-sized garden for growing fruits and vegetables. At the base of the mountain there were several open-air markets where fresh produce and meats were sold.
There were no museums, no theaters, no sports arenas, and no churches, the latter being the only oddity that separated Latveria from the other vest-pocket countries that existed throughout southern Europe.
The humble Latverians were mostly farmers, tilling the great farm that bordered the golden castle. Wheat, corn, and barley were its principal products. Fifty percent of their gains were turned over to the castle’s lord; the other fifty percent they could sell in the marketplace.
To all intents, Latveria was just another nation, neither doing particularly well, nor starving, either. The people seemed contented, though they rarely smiled, the lot of the hard-working farmer, perhaps.
Those men over the age of twenty who were not working the farms were conscripted into the Latverian Army, where they would serve no less than a five-year term. At one other point in their lives, every Latverian male would serve at least four years. Their country was a small one; it could be gobbled up by any of the major powers at any time, or so their monarch had told them.
In truth, however, Latveria was better armed than any other European nation, as well armed as both the United States and the Soviet Union. Hidden within the mountain were missile launching sites. The great golden dome that perched atop the castle housed a massive laser cannon which could be controlled by satellites orbiting far above the Earth.
Patrolling the border were strange, silent guards. They were an army of grim, unforgiving, merciless robots who, when given a command, could turn a human body to pulp in less time than an ordinary man could eliminate a crawling ant.
The Monarch of Latveria was Dr. Doom, the cold tyrant who would brook no revolt, permit no freedoms, encourage no hopes. Yet, the Latverians, save a few rebels whom Doom would quickly eliminate as soon as their existence was discovered, didn’t hate Doom. Surprisingly few ever thought of revolution. After all, their standards of living had sharply risen once Doom took power. They now had food enough for their family, freedom enough for their paltry needs, and unless they raised their voices in protest, Doom left them pretty much alone. What more could these people want? Their last ruler gave them none of Doom’s benefits, and had kept their lives in constant fear.
Keep in line, be humble, do not complain. Things could be worse. These were the key words for a long life in Latveria, and most of the nation zealously observed those rules without complaint.
Old Boris greeted Doom at the small airfield to the south of the castle. “All is in readiness, sire. Living quarters have been provided for your guests.” Doom nodded, pleased to see the old one.
“You are well, Boris? The medicines I left for you have cured your cold?”
“Yes, sire, they have. I no longer ache. I thank you, sire.”
“Good.” Doom turned toward the men and women scrambling out of the massive jets. “This is my homeland. It will be totally open for your pleasure. Feel free to go anywhere. Ask my people whatever you wish. You will learn that Doom is benevolent to his subjects. But, first, you may wish to freshen up. Follow me to the castle.”
Several of the older men groaned as they saw the castle high above them. God, do we have to walk up there? But Doom stepped onto a slick, rubbery roadway and indicated for his guests to do the same. “We have many conveniences here in Latveria, some of which even you Americans have never seen. Observe!”
Doom touched a ring on his metallic glove, and a light flashed from the gemmed surface, striking a steel plate that was half-buried alongside the road. The rubbery surface vibrated for a moment, then began to move. “This is a mobile road. Within minutes it will whisk us up to my castle, without any expenditure of energy to you. Man was meant to spend his time in thought and contemplation, not in the needless waste of energy.”
Reed Richards was impressed but kept silent. An incredible people-mover, but the work force it took to build this must have been equally incredible. And for what? The people here were not permitted to leave the country. Doom had probably forced them to build this extravagance for his own private use.
As if sensing Reed’s thought, Doom spoke again. “It may interest you to know that my robot constructs built this roadway for me. My people are too valuable to have me waste their time. I do not demand their service to me, though I am their official Monarch.”
The crowd was buzzing with surprise. They had always heard Doom was a despot, that his reign in Latveria was tyrannical. Could all the news reports have been wrong?
The mobile road took them into the center of town, where vendors paused in their duties to salute their Monarch. “Welcome, sire. It is good to have you home again.”
A woman with a small child approached Von Doom. “Sire, I beg you to help me, to aid my son. His leg was crippled when our cart overturned. I—I cannot afford a doctor. Is there anything you can do for him, sire?”
The road slowed to a halt and Doom stepped off it. He lifted a heavy metal arm and placed it on the child’s chest. “Surely you know all medical treatments are free to the poor. Take him to my castle; demand to see my private physician. He will make your son whole once again. Doom promises that.”
The woman bowed and kissed Doom’s hand. Tears welled in her eyes. “Oh, thank you, sire. You are as good and kind as I have always heard. I will never forget this, sire. Thank you.”
The roadway moved on again, and the Americans saw Doom differently now from the way they had before. Perhaps he wore his frightening armor, but he seemed to be more of a man than they had ever suspected. He seemed to care for his people. What else mattered?
As they turned out of sight, the woman saw one of Doom’s personal guards approach. “Did I do well? I did as you demanded.” She was frightened as the guard raised his hand and struck her swiftly across the face.
“Silence, you stupid female. Now return to your hovel. We will release your husband from prison. Be happy Doom has granted you your wish. If you did not cooperate fully, your husband would now be dead. Go, and never speak of this to anyone. Do you understand?”
The frightened woman nodded and said nothing about her crippled son. I have been given my life, she thought. I dare not ask for anything more.
To anyone who looked, Latveria was a “picture-postcard” kingdom. The people seemed contented, though they rarely smiled.
There was a reason why.
To Be Continued...Tomorrow at Atomic Kommie Comics
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