Ivory awoke with a start, managed to remember where he was, and wished his mouth tasted better. Strange though it seemed, the racialist had grown a little bit soft during his stay on Hell Hill. A fact which became all too apparent when he struggled to extricate himself from the curtain and realized how sore his muscles were. The burns were better, however, a miracle considering the possibility of infection and the fact that he had no antibiotics.
And it was later that morning, while tromping through a previously looted Ramada Inn, that Ivory discovered an unbroken mirror. That’s when he saw the heavy growth of beard, the grimy skin, and the crusted-over burns. None were infected, not so far as he could tell, which was something to give thanks for. The great Yahweh had work for him to do, that was for sure, because nothing else could explain such extremely good fortune.
There wasn’t any hot water, not with the power being out, but there was plenty of cold. The racialist used gallons of the stuff, not to mention three bars of individually wrapped soap and four previously white towels before he felt clean. The goatee came off, as did a month’s worth of hair, leaving a gaunt, tight-skinned face.
Then, rather than don the filthy clothes that lay puddled on the floor, Ivory wrapped himself in an undersized terry-cloth robe and stalked the halls until he found a room strewn with male clothing. The racialist appropriated some clean boxers, tried on a pair of nicely pressed jeans, and was pleased to discover they were only one size too large. A brown belt with a cheap Western buckle took care of the size discrepancy, a blue T-shirt went up top, and a nondescript sweatshirt added warmth.
Then, having recovered his boots, not to mention his canvas booty bag, Ivory made the best discovery of all: an undisturbed storage room complete with a fully loaded maid’s cart, which not only yielded six rolls of toilet paper, and some more clean towels, but a plastic bucket filled with foil-wrapped chocolate hearts!
The racialist filled his pockets with the tasty tidbits, crammed three into his mouth, and experienced something better than sex. Had anyone chosen to follow Ivory that morning, the trail of gold foil would have provided them with the means. Of course, no one did. On that particular day, in that particular place, Ivory was blessed.
ABOARD THE SAURON DREADNOUGHT HOK NOR AH, (PRIDE OF THE PEOPLE)
P’ere Has was eating a bowl of gruel when the Kan came to take him away. Not because other more flavorsome fare wasn’t available, but because he felt the discipline involved would strengthen his soul and help keep temptation at bay.
Never mind the fact that Dro Tog, his immediate superior, placed himself under no such strictures. Has believed it was the responsibility of each person to define the precise nature of their relationship with the Great One and to conduct themselves in accordance with that belief. Success or failure was their affair.
So, having given his particular God a somewhat stern and unyielding demeanor, Has felt it necessary to find ways through which to demonstrate the extent of his devotion. That’s why the priest had just scooped the last spoonful of tasteless porridge into his mouth, and was just about to scour the inside of his unadorned bowl with a crust of pan bread, when the hatch flew open.
The Kan, all members of the special security unit assigned to eliminate members of the Ra ‘Na resistance movement, wasted no time on niceties. A pair of warriors grabbed the diminutive cleric, jerked him out into the corridor, and searched his body for weapons.
In the meantime, with no rules, regulations, or laws to stop them, other members of the security team ransacked the small, sparsely furnished compartment. They found a combination computer-vid player, a collection of what purported to be religious cubes, and a carefully maintained robe used for religious services. The warriors also discovered an extra pair of sandals, a stash of closely scribbled notes, and a preslavery comb inherited from his now-deceased mother.
The lead Kan, who harbored fantasies regarding a stash of weapons, seditious writings, and a computer file containing a complete roster of the Ra ‘Na resistance movement, gave a grunt of disappointment. The compartment concealed nothing more dangerous than the comb, no obviously seditious materials, and, if the roster was there, it was disguised in the form of code. Perhaps the scraps of parchment—or the computer’s memory cache—would yield something. A possibility the specialists would no doubt look into. “All right then,” the Kan said, shuffling out into the corridor, “take him away. The painmaster is not known for his patience.”
Like all his kind Has was fluent in the language of his masters and the very mention of the painmaster was sufficient to loosen his bowels. One of the warriors swore, another laughed, and the noncom offered the Sauron equivalent of a frown. “Perhaps the slave isn’t the only one in need of the master’s attentions.”
The noncom lacked the authority necessary to exact such a punishment, but there were other possibilities—and the warriors were well aware of them. The Kan hurried to obey. Has felt the Saurons lift his feet clear of the deck as he struggled to understand why he had been singled out for such treatment, and was hustled away.
The trip through the ship’s crowded corridors was like some sort of nightmare—the kind the cleric experienced in the wake of Tog’s unreasonable demands. Except the painmaster was sure to administer something a good deal more unpleasant than a mere tongue-lashing. The certainty of that loosened the cleric’s bowels once again.
There was a rational Has, however, a sort of overbeing who managed to remain detached in spite of the mewlings generated by its lesser self. It was that part of the Ra ‘Na’s personality that took note of the way in which passersby reacted to his presence. Not the Saurons, who were universally uninterested in his predicament, but fellow Ra ‘Na, who could be expected to care.
Except that they didn’t care, or didn’t appear to, since to demonstrate any sign of sympathy could be interpreted as a sign of support for whatever crime the unfortunate cleric had obviously been found guilty of.
So, even as the Kan hauled Has away, the Ra ‘Na remembered other times, occasions on which it was he who had averted his eyes, he who allowed the already condemned to be carried away without so much as a comforting look. In fact, Has was so lost in his own contemplations that it seemed as if little more than seconds had passed before the Kan whisked him through the checkpoint beyond which members of the slave races were not normally allowed to pass and didn’t want to pass.
Then, after a quick series of left and right turns, Has was half-carried, half-dragged through an unmarked hatch and into the painmaster’s dark domain. The decor, if that was the correct word, was consistent with instructions set forth in the Book of Cycles, which, ironically enough, dedicated most of its considerable pages to the subject of death.
Though served by a contingent of specially trained Kan, the painmaster was Zin, and therefore black. Thanks to knowledge inherited from his predecessors, the painmaster understood how important psychology could be when it came to wringing information out of recalcitrant slaves. He stood with crossed arms and was lit from below. The effect, which made his already intimidating countenance all the more terrifying, was often sufficient to elicit confessions in and of itself. A positive thing for the most part, unless the goal was to learn the truth, when fear could actually get in the way. Those who were susceptible to intimidation, or simply hoped to avoid torture, had an unfortunate tendency to confess to anything and everything regardless of whether they were actually guilty. A subtlety that his superiors, beings like Hak-Bin, often missed. But that was the way of it, and just one of the reasons why the ancient ones had seen fit to formally invest his particular line.
None of which was apparent to Has as the toes of his sandals skipped over the surface of the metal deck and fear seized his body. Confronted with the Sauron’s carefully lit visage, the sight of rods heating in the forge, and the stink of previously singed fur, the Ra ‘Na would have loosed his bowels yet again except for the fact that there was nothing left to give. All he could do was make a strange yammering sou
nd as the Kan carried him over to a vacant spot on one of the bulkheads, strapped him into place, and backed away. A Kan moved to cut the subject’s clothes away and soon left him naked.
It was then that Has realized that he wasn’t alone. Bodies other than his decorated the walls. The compartment was dim, lit by little more than the forge and a scattering of deck-mounted lights, but the newly arrived prisoner could make out half a dozen Ra ‘Na, two humans, and a ghostly white Fon—all suspended by straps similar to his. None of them seemed to be aware of the newcomer’s presence, or if they were, chose to conceal that fact. Some knew from harsh experience that to demonstrate awareness was to invite more pain—something none sought to do.
Now, his entire weight suspended by the bloodstained straps, Has watched in horrified fascination as the painmaster withdrew one of the glowing rods from his forge and shuffled across the deck. Having interrogated countless slaves, and knowing their areas of weakness, the Zin entered his regular routine. The first step was to provide the subject with a sample of that which could be. A quick flick of the wrist was sufficient to the task. Has flinched as the glowing tip of the red-hot implement touched the tip of his left ear. The resulting scream emptied his lungs.
The painmaster, who expected nothing less, started the slow methodical questioning. The answers, all of which were recorded, would be evaluated by others. “What is your name?”
“Has . . . P’ere Has.”
“And your identification number?”
“RS47602.”
“Good,” the painmaster allowed deliberately. “You have been truthful so far. There are more difficult questions, however, much more difficult, as those around you can attest. Now, consider carefully . . . How long have you been a member of the Ra ‘Na resistance movement?”
Has stared at the rod’s slowly yellowing eye as the instrument wove intricate patterns in front of his face. He could feel the perspiration working its way out through his pores, trickling down along individual hair follicles, and wetting the outer surface of his fur. It was a trick question, he knew that, and clung to the truth. “I am not a member of the resistance.”
Has actually heard his flesh sizzle as the rod touched his ear. The scream was louder than the one before.
The painmaster clacked a pincer in what seemed like annoyance. “Come now . . . surely you are wrong. The Kan brought you here, correct?”
Has wanted to touch his badly burned ear, to see what it looked like, but knew he couldn’t. Where was this line of questioning headed? There was no way to tell. “Yes, the Kan brought me, but I don’t see . . .”
“Of course you don’t see,” the Zin interrupted, “inferior beings rarely do. The Kan are Saurons, true? And Saurons are infallible, are they not? All of which attests to the fact that you are guilty.”
The truth, Has instructed himself, you must stick to the truth. The cleric braced himself against the pain about to come. “No, your eminence, I am not guilty. Not of crimes against the master race.”
The painmaster started to bring the rod down onto the heretofore untouched ear but stopped short. The last answer intrigued him. “Ah, so you are guilty of something, what is it?”
“I am guilty of sloth,” Has answered truthfully, “and of pride, envy, and occasional doubt.”
The painmaster ran the still-cooling rod down the inside surface of the Ra ‘Na’s left arm, paused at the nearly bare axillary, and pulled the instrument away.
Though less intense than the injuries that preceded it, the burn made a river of pain, and Has jerked in the opposite direction.
“Don’t toy with me, slave,” the Zin warned ominously. “You won’t enjoy the results.”
“Yes, your eminence,” Has gasped, “I am innocent, ask Dro Tog.”
The painmaster examined the rod’s tip, decided in favor of a touch-up, and shuffled toward the forge. “Who is Dro Tog? And why should I believe what he tells me?”
“Dro Tog is a prelate,” Has answered earnestly, “and one of the most important leaders the Ra ‘Na have.”
The last part was not exactly true, given the fact than many of Tog’s peers viewed him with something akin to contempt, but Has saw no reason to mention that. He was a subordinate after all—a relationship that mandated respect.
Having equipped himself with a fresh rod, the Zin returned from the forge. “So, which group does this paragon of virtue favor?” the Sauron inquired patiently. “The resistance? Or those who remain loyal?”
“Those who remain loyal,” Has answered honestly. “ ‘Order is superior to chaos, the Saurons provide order, so why change?’ That’s what Dro Tog likes to say.”
“How very perceptive of him,” the painmaster replied. “This rod is extremely hot . . . Where would you least like to receive it?”
Has was tempted to lie, to name a part of his anatomy where the pain might be less intense, but managed to resist temptation. The truth—that was his only hope. “My genitals, eminence. I would least like to have the rod touch me there.”
It was this simple statement more than anything else that convinced the painmaster of the slave’s veracity and thereby brought the session to an end. Still, it was always best to leave subjects with something to remember, so the Zin brought the rod upward. Has heard his genitals start to sizzle, screamed the Great One’s secret name, and fell into darkness.
ABOARD THE SAURON FACTORY SHIP LA MA GOR (SOURCE OF PLENTY)
The La Ma Gor’s interior, once the very definition of well-defined order, had been literally transformed into a nightmarish maze of vats, tanks, and pipes, all dedicated to the manufacture of pink glop.
That’s what the humans called it anyway, although their Ra ‘Na counterparts, slaves like Toth, had another name for the substance. Loosely translated, the word meant “shit.” However, regardless of what the viscous material was called, it refused to be constrained by the plumbing designed to contain it and continued to weep, ooze, and dribble from the countless joints that the archaic plans called for. Plans, which if rumor could be believed, came straight from the Book of Cycles.
What wasn’t known, however, and was the subject of much speculation by Toth and his pals, was the glop’s purpose. It wasn’t food, they were sure of that, since not even Saurons could stomach something that looked like the glop did, nor was the substance medicinal, since no one had seen a member of the so-called master race rub, slather, or dab the stuff on.
All of which explained why Toth, having little else with which to occupy his rather active mind, had decided to solve the apparent mystery. An impulse completely in line with his history as a petty thief, slacker, and all-around miscreant.
The answer, if one was to be found, almost certainly resided in Kol-Hee’s office, a space definitely off-limits to the likes of Toth. A fact which made the task of digging it out that much more interesting. But the Fon was no fool and literally wielded the power of life and death over his subjects, which suggested that a good deal of caution was in order.
That being the case, Toth made no attempt to tackle his objective directly, but chose a more roundabout method. A strategy that involved actually doing some work—an aberration that should have resulted in some healthy skepticism.
But, like the vast majority of his peers, Kol-Hee knew next to nothing about the slaves who worked for him, finding it far more convenient to assign them a single overall personality. One which characterized them as sub-Sauron, and in this case sub-Fon, which meant lazy, incompetent, and stupid. All of which was absurd, since the very fleet from which the Saurons took their power had been constructed by ancestors of those very same slaves. But Kol-Hee was blind to that, hadn’t bothered to study Toth’s rather extensive rap sheet, and was therefore vulnerable.
So, determined to solve the mystery of the glop, and discover why an entire ship had been converted to the production thereof, Toth went about his work. His title, like that of more than two dozen others, was “wiper.” And, unlike the honorifics that some Ra ‘Na had gra
nted themselves, the name actually described what Toth did.
His job was to work his way through the maze of pipes that carried the glop from one containment to the next, find the places where joints leaked, and wipe them clean. A rather time-consuming chore that could have been eliminated via design changes and preventive maintenance. Something that any number of wipers had suggested.
But the Saurons, who normally listened to such input, especially where technical matters were concerned, had turned a deaf ear. Some saw this as one more example of their overweening arrogance, but Toth had a different theory. He believed only a finite amount of the glop was required and, once available, production would cease. A possibility that would account for the Saurons’ otherwise inexplicable lack of interest in refining the process.
Most of Toth’s fellow wipers had developed routines—patterns that carried them along and helped make the job easier. Toth had resisted that temptation as it would serve to limit his movements and thereby hinder his self-assigned mission. An apparent quirk that annoyed his turf-conscious contemporaries. “Go along and get along,” that was their motto, and one which had served the slaves well. That’s why the human named Gretchen growled at the Ra ‘Na as he worked his way through her territory on a roundabout course calculated to terminate within Kol-Hee’s office.
The Fon, who was a creature of habit, had exited his cage-like command post at roughly the same time during the last three shifts, and, assuming that the Sauron did so again, Toth planned to take full advantage of Kol-Hee’s absence.
Meanwhile, as the wipers wiped and worried about their various prerogatives, Kol-Hee monitored a rack of jury-rigged readouts, compared the readings to the list he had been given, and noticed that all of them were higher than they should be. Much higher. As they had been for the last three shifts.
It seemed as if the Zin who was in charge of the factory, an overzealous type named Gon-Dra, was determined not only to meet the daily quota, but exceed it. Regardless of the potential consequences. Would the idiot finally listen to reason? No, probably not, but Kol-Hee felt it was his duty to try.
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