#76: Untold Tales of the Lair Legion World Tour: Market Forces, or Shaghaied to Marrakesh

The red African sun fell low over the fertile Haouz Plain, painting the fields and mountains blood red. Across the dusty fields beyond the red city of Marrakesh, out where the cool waters of the Wadi lapped against the wild olive and dwarf palm forests, the former redbrick colonial mansion brooded like a scarlet spider. The sun also glinted off watchtowers and gun emplacements. The mansion’s owner had a taste for security.
The Moustache poured himself a drink of absinthe and settled back into a leather couch. He picked up a remote control and flicked on a monitor.
“What is it?” asked the Minion at the other end of the video-link.
“Just an update on the story so far,” the lean cruel slavemaster answered. “The Lair Legion has left India. Well most of them anyway. They’ve turned up here in Morocco looking for a couple of their people who were sold to me by the rakshasas. They’re kicking up quite a fuss.”
“They are becoming quite a problem,” sighed the Minion. “If only they hadn’t got the idea for a blasted world tour just now…”
“Well they have, and they’re nipping at my heels here. The rakshasa connection has been closed down entirely. I killed the dragon for you in India, or at least I assume I did but Anvil Man hasn’t reported in yet. I hear you have dealt with Dark Knight at your end.”
“The master has gone to extreme lengths to ensure that nuisance won’t be bothering us ever again,” the Minion promised. “And despite all the distractions, the plan is proceeding pretty much on schedule. The Mutate Registration Act is law, Dr Moo’s gene-modification devices are in mass production, we have managed to replace the useless product distribution system we lost when the French Tourist Board went down, and you have provided us with enough radioactive materiel to make a good start on the main project. Within a matter of weeks the planet will belong to our master.”
“If the Lair Legion get near the radium mine I may have to use our special precautions,” the Moustache warned.
“That is why they were granted to you,” the Minion answered. “Don’t worry. We can always replace flunkies. Heroes are harder to find. Goodbye.”
The Moustache turned off the monitor. “I’d say they are an endangered species. Wouldn’t you, Ziles?” And he turned to where the invisible alien was eavesdropping on his conversation.
“What?” Ziles gasped. How had he seen her? How long has he known she was there?
“Ever since you slipped aboard my escape craft back in India, of course,” the Moustache answered. “You were so worried about the dragon that your thoughts were obvious.”
“You’re telepathic,” the Xnylonian realised, concentrating to raise her own mental shields.
“Not mere telepathy. Psionic mind control,” the Moustache noted. “A little trick I picked up back when I was an agent of the Nebulus. I’m freelance now, of course. Become visible.”
Ziles found herself shimmering into view.
“Not bad,” the Moustache decided, looking the silver-suited woman up and down. “A little skinny for my tastes, but I suppose you’ll do. Come to me.”
“You can tell what I’m thinking?” Ziles asked, horrified that her body was obeying the Moustache’s commands.
“Oh yes,” the slaver boasted. “You have no secrets from me.”
“In that case…” Ziles answered. She thought about the events which had led to her exile, the untranslatable crimes for which she was condemned.
“Aaagh!” the Moustache screamed, clutching at his head.
“Aaaaagh!” he cried again as Ziles kicked him between the legs.
Security was through the door in an instant, but Ziles was already out of the window.
“Find her,” the Moustache gasped to his guard force, limping to his feet and cupping his injured parts. “Bring her to me alive. Alive. I want to crucify the little slut.”

The cargo crate was one of the windowless metal container boxes used to transport livestock across national boundaries. Inside were a stack of four by six steel cages, and within one of those Sarah Shepherdson and Joseph Pepper were handcuffed to the bars.
“Wonder where we are?” ManMan frowned. After a period of time struggling with the nausea that comes from sea travel on a confined space there had been the sudden jerk and free movement of the container being hoisted by crane from a cargo vessel, and then the bumpier motion of travel by lorry over poorly maintained roads. The air was hot, dusty, and humid, and what little light did filter in through the ventilation grill on the top of the metal box was sunset red.
“Africa, he said,” Shep answered quietly. “He said he was sending us to Marrakesh. That’s in Morocco.”
“Hmm. Well, it feels like we’re nearly here. We’d better start planning our escape, I guess.”
Sarah said nothing.
“Dancer?” ManMan prompted. “Our escape?”
“What escape?” she asked. In the darkness Joe Pepper could just make out the huddled silhouette of his companion in captivity. “Those Rakshasas used their magic to take my probability powers from me, and your Knifey is encased in concrete and dropped in the sea on the other side of the world.”
“Aw c’mon,” Joe shrugged. “We’ll get out somehow. We always do. We’ve been in much tougher scrapes than this. What about that time on the Skree homeworld, when Paradopolis had been kidnapped and Galactivac was coming? You stood up to Dronon the Public Accoster, you teamed up with the Supreme Interference…”
“That wasn’t me,” Sarah shuddered. “That was Dancer.”
ManMan was starting to realise how absolutely terrified his companion really was. “But you are Dancer, Shep.”
“No. Dancer was… she’s not like me. She’s confident and clever, and things go right for her. She always knows what to do and what to say. She’s popular and powerful and unstoppable. I’m not. She was somebody I sometimes pretended to be, so I didn’t have to be Sarah, who is stupid and frightened and feeble and everybody’s patsy. But she’s gone…” Shep gulped back her tears. “She’s gone and it’s me in this mess. And I can’t handle it, Joe. I can’t.”
ManMan put his free arm around the shivering woman. “Sure you can,” he assured her. “Dancer was more than just the powers. She is you, just the you when the caterpillar becomes the butterfly. Same person, just spreading her wings a little.”
Sarah shook her head and tried to fold herself even smaller. “No, Joe. That’s not me. I’m the helpless victim who’s being taken off to the white slave market in Marrakesh, who can’t do anything to save herself, who is going to… who faces…”
Joe cast around for something to say that could help. He found himself missing Knifey’s cynical, wise advice more than he could speak. He too was powerless, chained, facing a terrible end. But he couldn’t allow himself to crumble. Who else was there for Sarah to cling on to?
“Listen, Sarah… Dancer… I need you to be strong. I need you to be yourself, okay. Being a hero is more than the powers. It’s… well it’s being frightened to death, facing impossible odds, and still doing the right thing. We’re in a bad spot, sure, but we have to get out of it and…”
“And what?” asked Sarah hopelessly. “I don’t think I have any courage left, Joe.”
Then the inspiration struck ManMan. “And help all the other people who are caught in this terrible trap,” he answered. “Think of them, Shep, huddled in cages like this one, terrified of the future, at the mercy of bastards like the Moustache. We can’t let them down can we?”
“They… they need help,” Sarah admitted. “We can’t help them.”
“Manny and Dancer could,” Joe suggested. “If we could just find them.”
And there was a tiny glint of determination sparked in Sarah Shepherdson’s eyes.

Determination also glowed in the multi-faceted draconic orbs of Fin Fang Foom. The great wyrm was wounded and bloody, too hurt to shift from his true shape but too stubborn to lie down and die. With great heavy wingbeats he pulled himself through the air as he had done all night. At first his flight had been so low that his wing-tips caught the tops of the great waves over the Arabian Sea. Now he was over land, and the seemingly-endless Sahara was pale and white in the crescent moonlight mere yards below him. But he did not stop.
The psionic link was a weak thing now, but he could sense the direction to go to take him to Ziles. And so he plunged on, all his concentration focussed on his journey, upon maintaining his failing body, upon surviving long enough to help out his comrade, upon bringing the villain to justice.
Like a force of nature, the last of the Makluans inexorably winged over the African continent on his mission of freedom.

Hatman peeled off his turban and the ability to speak Gudjerati left him. “Well,” he reported to Sorceress, “It’s not too hard to follow Finny’s trail this far. Old Foom was hardly being subtle.”
“Why would he want to be subtle with such as those child-abusing scum?” Sorceress asked, glaring at the state of the huddled former captives liberated by the dragon and Ziles. “So where did the trail take them.”
“Well that’s the problem,” Hatman answered. “The last sighting was at this Moustache guy’s hillside fortress, which has been pretty clearly dragoned, but it looks like there was a major war there. The whole landscape is churned up with explosions. Half the cliff is down. And there were traces of blood which is definitely Makluan.”
“I checked with HALLIE,” Sorceress reported, referring to the Lair Legion’s sometimes-computer. “Ziles checked the LL database for a villain with rusty orange and brown armour who could generate explosions.”
“Anvil Man!” Hatman recognised at once. “So the Moustache has hired muscle. Damn. No wonder Finny was hurt. Anvil Man is pretty near unstoppable.”
Sorceress was worried too. “So what do we do next? The trail led to that fortress, and now it’s gone cold.”
“I guess we join up with the folks on the interdimensional bus and see if they’ve found any leads to the Moustache in North Africa, looking for ManMan and Dancer. And we wait for the Dark Knight to turn up again to see if he can help. And we hope that Donar and co. get Troia back. Damn.”
“If only we knew where Anvil Man was now,” Sorceress frowned.

The armoured villain was actually not too far away; only twenty miles or so south and seven fathoms down, lodged in the sea-bed mud where Fin Fang Foom had dropped him. Caught by the weight of his armour he could not drag himself free of the foetid slime. His struggles embedded him deeper and deeper into the mire. Generating explosions merely shifted him further under the mud.
Of course he would not drown. He did not need air, or food for that matter. He could live here for a hundred, or a thousand, or ten thousand years. He might have to.
Then the giant robotic grapples seized him and hoisted him up like a toy. Within moments he was on the surface, being reeled onto a futuristic-looking hover-boat.
“See?” Huntmaster crowed. “I can find anybody, anywhere, and reel them in like a big fish. Are Anvil Men in season right now?”
“Quieten your prattle,” HuntingJustice Deathmarrow demanded. “It was I who used the Retrievo-Grips to bring this fool to the surface. This recruitment should be credited to me.”
“Be silent both of you,” Headcase commanded. “Anvil Man, you have just been rescued by the Purveyors of Peril. We have an exciting job opportunity for you in the expanding world of supervillain terrorism. It pays well and there is all the carnage you can handle. What do you say?”
Anvil Man wasn’t in a very good mood. “If it’s such a sweet operation, maybe I should be in charge of it,” he suggested, reaching out to seize Headcase in one armoured gauntlet.
Another, larger, armoured hand closed over Anvil Man’s wrist, holding it immobile with immeasurable strength. “And maybe not,” Onslaughter suggested in his deep, gravelly voice. “We already have a boss.”
“Onslaughter!” Anvil Man recognised the marauder who had once commanded all of Deathworld. “I didn’t know that this was your gig.”
“It isn’t,” the genetically-created killing machine answered. “We’re working for a major player called the Hooded Hood. He’s putting a little team together for a caper of his. We’ve got twenty or so members already and counting.”
“Welcome to the team,” smirked the Huntmaster.

“Welcome to the team,” VelcroVixen told De Brown Streak. “I’m sure you’ve made the right choice. Now if you’d care to come down to the main Declaiming Room you can meet the other newbies and hear the induction.” She leaned across and brushed herself against the sepia speedster’s ear. “The personal induction comes later, big boy.”
“I’ll be sure to take notes,” DBS grinned.
The svelte supervillainess led her new friend into the auditorium. DBS scowled at the chicken-suited Voodoo Vicar, paid little attention to the leather-coated guitarist, registered that the teenage boy didn’t look as if he wanted to be here, and devoted the rest of his time to admiring the attractive girl in the ballerina’s tutu.
VelcroVixen did the introductions. “This is Chronic, Dynamite Boy, and the Razor Ballerina. You already know Josiah M’Tumbe, of course.”
“Know him, kicked his ass,” DBS replied. “Good to meet the rest of you.”
“A mutie?” the Ballerina sneered. “Have we no standards?”
Joshua Clements decided she wasn’t so pretty after all.
“Is the gang all here now?” Chronic demanded. “Only I didn’t get much sleep last night.”
Dynamite Boy said nothing. He just remembered Hellfrasier’s threats against his family and friends if he didn’t co-operate. He wondered if he could manage a big enough explosion to take out the whole Purveyors of Peril when they were gathered in one place. Of course, a blast that large would blow away the surrounding state.
“It would be a futile gesture anyway,” the Hooded Hood said in the boy’s ear. DB jumped. “Instructions have been left elsewhere as to the treatment of your family should you prove unsatisfactory in the role we have prepared for you.”
“The Hooded Hood!” Chronic gasped. “Hey, this time I rescued your daughter Troia. You owe me”
Glowing green eyes turned upon him. “Indeed? Whom do you think suggested that Degenerus pursue her in the first place?”
Chronic’s jaw dropped. “You didn’t?”
“A hemigod hybrid would be a most acceptable and useful addition to the family,” the cowled crime-czar announced. “After suitable preparation has been done, of course.”
“Never mind the family chat,” DBS snorted. “My time is precious. I’m here because you said you could help me with my agenda of mutant liberation, Hood. So tell us what you have in mind.”
The cowled crime-czar told them.
After a while they remembered to breathe.

“I can’t breathe in here,” CrazySugarfreakBoy! complained. “How much longer do we have to wait inside this thing?”
“Please to being patient, Dreamingcatcher Foxingglove,” Yo advised. “Is to be foolproof method of getting into inside of Olympus-place. Is to be a trick Yo has seen.”
“I still doth say that I shouldst have reaved yon golden gates off their hinges and battled mine way hip-deep through Olympian dead to regainst the fair Troia carried to servitude by yon vile Degenerus,” Donar growled. “This stealth ploy sits not well with the hemigod of thunder.”
“But you’re sitting pretty well on me, big guy. Could you shift your weight a bit to the left?” CSFB! asked. “Okay, so we’re laying siege to Olympus. That’s pretty cool. But I didn’t expect it to be so boring. I’ve run out of comics.”
“Yo is thinking that it is being only a matter of time before cute-Olympians see us and are reacting,” Yo promised his/her companions. “They will look out of golden gates and be saying ‘From where is that big wooden horse be coming? Let us to be dragging it inside and examining it carefully.’ Is trick that always works.”
“I art not sure, doughty Yo,” Donar scowled. “It smacks of… we art moving.”
“We are! Oh this is great. They’ve gotta be moving us into the city now. This is going to rock!”
“Yo knew that Yo’s plan would work. Yo is pleased to have helped Yo’s friends get back cute Troia from uncute Degenerus.”
“Aye. But one thing. Canst anyone else smelleth smoke?”

“Now the problem is,” Trickshot explained carefully to the man whose chest he was standing on, “that I’m askin’ th’ whereabouts of a sleazebag called the Moustache an’ you’re hearing please blow smoke up my ass. But your problem is I ain’t going away an my other problem is this here bow I’m aimin’ at you has a hundred and fifty pound pull and my arm’s getting tired. So I ask you again, where kin we find this Moustache scumball?”
“I think my friend is angry,” Nats warned the man on the floor. “I don’t think I can restrain him for much longer. It’d probably be best if you told him what he wanted to know.”
“You can’t do this to me,” the little man under Trickshot’s foot protested. “I am the Grand Commissioner of Census and Parking Permits for the sovereign nation of Al Magrib!”
“That means it’ll be a really fancy state funeral then,” considered the irritating archer. “Arm’s cramping.”
“Tricky, you can’t shoot this guy just because he won’t tell us the Moustache’s places of residence,” protested Nats. “I mean, sure he took bribes to cover up the slave trade activities which that bit of dead meat known as the Moustache operates but that’s no reason to… aw, what the hell. Pop him.”
“What?” the horrified official gasped. “Wait! Wait! I… I think I remember something.”
“Thought you might,” smirked Trickshot as he pocketed the index cards from the official’s rolodex.
“The Minister of the Interior shall hear about this outrage!” the little bureaucrat warned.
“He already is, buddy,” Nats answered him.

“You think you can just walk into my country and do whatever you please?” the Minister of the Interior thundered, shouting directly into Cheryl’s face.
Visionary pushed him back quite hard, so that the surprised man toppled into his chair. Three burly security men lurched forward but Vizh turned on them. “You know all superheroes have incredible superhuman powers, right?” he asked them. “Back off or I’ll use everything I’ve got.”
The brief pause was long enough for Cheryl to deliver her threat to the Minister. “I don’t care how big the bribes were. We’re here to take the Moustache down. And if you interfere we shall base a branch of the Lair Legion here permanently. Space Ghost, CrazySugarFreakBoy! and Trickshot probably. So I expect your co-operation. Do I make myself absolutely clear?”

“I don’t think you should be here,” Exile suggested, keeping his protective arm firmly wrapped around Valeria of Carfax as the picked their way though the dim and smelly night club. On the bar counter a number of listless unclad girls bumped and ground to Moroccan instrumental versions of western hits. Occasionally money would pass over to the bartender and one of the dancers would disappear with a customer through a beaded curtain into one of the grubby little alcoves beyond.
“I’ve seen worse than this,” Valeria assured him. “when I was being trained to be your slave.”
Meggan Foxxx nodded agreement. “It’s true hon. We had a few gal-chats on this world tour and even I was surprised how thorough your little friend’s sexual instruction was. All theoretical, of course, an’ I always say there’s nothin’ like hands on experience, but all the same…”
Exile held Valeria closer. “Well you don’t have to be here now.”
“I think I do, Rick. We have to do something for these women. And Meggan needs our support as she finds out about the supply route that the girls come from.
“What do you want?” the bartender asked rudely as Meggan rapped on the counter. His eyes widened a little. “Wait a minute. I know you.”
“Sure you do, honey,” Meggan replied in a grim, deadly voice. “I’m your worst nightmare.”

The nightmare was only just beginning for the children huddled into cattle pens beneath the Moustache’s expensive mansion on the edge of the Haouz Plain overlooking the cool waters of the Wadi Tensift. In the crowded darkness there were tears and pleading and a universal despair at a future shorn of hope and truncated to be short and brutal.
“Hi,” Sarah smiled at the prisoners once she had been chained to the central pillar and left there. “I’m… I’m Dancer. I’m here to rescue you.”
The children looked on with surprised incomprehension.
“Oh sure, I know what you’re thinking,” Shep admitted. “She’s not got any super-powers and she’s shackled to a post and later on today she’s going to get hauled up on an auction block with the rest of us. And I must admit all of that is worrying me ever so slightly as well. Not to mention I don’t know where they took my ex-husband but it probably isn’t to a leisure centre.” She tossed her long black hair and managed a wicked grin. “But, on the other hand, we have right on our side, and we aren’t going to give in to these bastards, right?”
The slaves watched Sarah with troubled faces.
“Don’t be afraid. That’s what they want you to be. Don’t be helpless. That’s how they win.”
“Dancer?” a fair-haired girl from Gothametropolis recognised. “You’re a superhero. Are you really here to rescue us?”
“I am now kiddo,” Sarah promised. “But I’m not technically a superhero right now. But… but that doesn’t mean I can’t be a hero, right?” Sarah answered. “And I want you to be one too. You don’t need super-powers. Just spirit. We don’t give in, and we fight back, whatever happens, right? We do not give in.”

“Are you ready to give in yet?” the overseer asked Joe Pepper as he concluded his flogging. “I’m sure the other mine-workers here are eager to watch you lick my boots.”
“Go to hell,” ManMan gasped, trying to ignore the stinging pain on his back.
“I’m already there,” the overseer grinned, “and so are you. But I’m the devil and you’re the damned.” He gestured down into the red-lit radium mine below where emaciated men staggered under loads of ore and laughed.
“I met the devil,” ManMan snarled. “In fact I killed him. You’re not him. You’ll die much easier.”
The overseer left another gash on Joe’s back. “You have a big mouth. I’m going to teach you to keep it shut. When I’m finished you will be begging me for mercy.”
“One of us will be,” promised ManMan as the next flogging began.

Once they were human. As the Moustache triggered the genetic implants in the guards they twisted and swelled, becoming fiercer and more bestial. Claws and fangs grew and their senses sharpened. True, they would be dead in less than a day, but there were always more flunkies to be found.
In their atavistic state the creatures were turned loose to hunt for Ziles.
The invisible Xnylonian moved about the compound with purpose. She had considered various methods of escape, from the private railway out to the radium mines to the hidden escape tunnel from the Moustache’s bedroom, but she wasn’t ready to leave yet. The Moustache had hurt, possibly killed Finny. He was at the heart of an evil trade which had to be stopped. Ziles had a certain casual attitude to concepts of property but a highly developed view on the importance of freedom. As far as she was concerned, the Moustache was going down.
The hunters were good. On no less than four occasions the beasts had cornered her and she had had to take them out. Ziles had exhausted her tranquillisers and relaxor crème, and her stock of tricks and tools was getting low. The last attack had actually hurt her, and Ziles hoped that she wasn’t trickling blood after her as she placed the final explosive charge on the Moustache’s mansion.
“I don’t need blood to track you,” the Moustache told her, appearing round a corner to catch her in the library. “I can still hear your thoughts.”
Ziles considered the sneaking around that she had done since arriving here and then tried to suppress her thoughts.
“I know about the explosive charges you have been setting, little intruder,” the Moustache told her. “I only allowed it so you could show me where the holes in my security are. Foolish girl, did you really think you would ever be able to trigger those blasts?”
Ziles fumbled for the detonator but found her finger would not close on the trigger.
“Give the detonator to me,” the Moustache commanded, and Ziles was compelled to obey. “Very good.” He slipped the device into his pocket. “Now come here,” he told his captive with a nasty leer.
“I… don’t… think…so.” Ziles struggled, forcing herself to ignore the order.
“Psionic shielding,” the Moustache noted. “I bet you can’t maintain it while fending off a physical attack though.” He turned to his beast-men. “Shred her,” he told them.”
Ziles managed to fend off the first two or three, but then the Moustache was in her brain, tangling her reflexes and slowing her reactions. With a sick horror she realised that he was going to win.
Then the dragon roared and swooped.

The Pegasus flew down to meet the confounded heroes Hatman and Sorceress. On her back was Elsqueevio, Greek god of small waters. “Well met,” she bade them.
“Hey, hi,” Whitney Darkness smiled. “And nice to see you again too, Elqueevio.”
“You won’t think so when you hear what I’ve got to say,” the betoga-ed deity warned them. “You owe me a favour, as I recall.”
“For helping out with Degenerus and Chronic,” Hatman remembered. “Sure.”
“Well I’m calling it in. I want you to call back Donar, Yo, and CrazySugarFreakBoy! from Olympus.”
Hatman was surprised. “We can’t do that. Degenerus has carried Troia off to the realm of the gods. We have to…”
“That’s what I want you to do,” Elsqueevio demanded in a firm tone. “I mean it. You owe me.”
“We don’t owe you enough to abandon a comrade in her darkest hour,” Sorceress answered firmly. “Why would you even…?”
“None of your business,” the god of small waters snapped. “Well then, if you won’t honour your bargain, then I have another… request. And don’t blame me if this one leads to your horrible and painful deaths.”