Grozny’s eyes grow harsh. “Let him without sin cast the first stone. The Cold War is dead, yet the United States, by virtue of strong economy and military might, continues to police the world, deciding whether the policies of another nation are morally sound. Like the school bully, America balls its fist, threatening violence, all in the name of peace. As the most powerful hypocrite in the world, the United States arms the oppressed, until they become the oppressors. Israel, South Korea, Vietnam, Iraq, Bosnia, Kosovo, Taiwan—how many more must die before the United States realizes that the threat of violence only leads to more violence, that tyranny, disguised by the best of intentions, is still tyranny?”

The eyes soften. “And now the world bears witness to a new type of threat. Possessing the most sophisticated fighting force in history is not enough. The domination of space is not enough. The implementation of their Missile Defense Shield is not enough. Now, the capitalists have a new weapon, one that changes the rules of nuclear stalemate. Why does the United States continue to test these weapons and deny responsibility? Does the American president take us all for fools? Do his excuses soothe the frail nerves of the Australian and Malaysian people? Where will the next detonation occur? China? The Russian Federation? Or perhaps the Middle East, where three American aircraft carriers and their fleets are poised to strike, all in the name of justice.”

“The Russian Federation joins China and the rest of the world in condemning these new threats of violence. Today, we state this warning, and let me be perfectly clear, lest our own morality be judged. We will not live in fear. We will no longer buckle to the bully tactics of the West. The next pure-fusion detonation shall be the last, for we will interpret this as a declaration of nuclear war!”

The assembly erupts in pandemonium, the protests of the United States delegates going unheard as Victor Grozny’s security guards rush him out of the building.

Town of Piste
(2 km. West of Chichén Itza) Yucatan Peninsula

Dominique Vazquez opens her eyes to the sound of clucking chickens. Morning light filters in between rotting wooden slats above her head, revealing a ballet of airborne particles dancing in the air. She stretches in her sleeping bag, then rolls over.

Mick is already up, leaning against a haystack, studying his father’s journal. The Sun’s rays illuminate the angular lines of his face. He looks up, the black eyes twinkling at her.

“Good morning.”

She slides out of the sleeping bag. “What time is it?”

“About eleven. Are you hungry? The Formas left breakfast for you in the kitchen.” He points outside the open barn door to the pink stucco house. “Go ahead, help yourself. I ate earlier.”

Barefoot, she walks across the straw and soil-infested floor and sits down next to him. “What are you working on?”