That being the case, the Fon backed out of the sling chair, shuffled out onto the catwalk, and headed for the bank of lift tubes.
No sooner had lift tube’s door whispered closed than Toth dropped his glop-soaked rag, climbed up onto the catwalk, and hurried toward the office. Gretchen hollered, “Hey, fur ball, what are you doing? Trying to get us killed?”
But the Ra ‘Na ignored the question, knowing as he did that while his peers were rule-following wimps, they weren’t likely to tell on him, and that’s all that mattered.
Toth entered the cage, ignored the mysterious readouts, and went for the computer terminal. A pincer-friendly joystick and clicker had been installed for use by Saurons—but when the wiper touched a small out-of-the-way button, a tiny keyboard extruded itself from the machine’s casing. Like most of his kind, the Ra ‘Na had a natural affinity for machinery, and more than that, knew that back doors had been established for every computer system aboard every ship his people had designed. Which was to say the entire fleet! Knowledge he had used to get himself into trouble on more than one occasion.
So, having brought up a menu that Kol-Hee didn’t even know existed, it wasn’t long before Toth found what he was looking for. A heavily encrypted file which the not-too-tech-savvy Zin believed to be completely inaccessible but which the petty criminal hacked into within a matter of minutes. And that’s where he was, reading about something called birth-death day, and a substance called the birth catalyst, when a Klaxon went off, vat number 12 exploded, and four of his fellow wipers were killed by flying shrapnel.
The force of the blast hurled Toth into a bulkhead, bounced his head off the metal hull, and left him unconscious.
Ironically enough it was the big rawboned woman named Gretchen who scooped the Ra ‘Na into her arms, ran the length of the catwalk, and made it through the opening before hatch 17 slammed shut. No fewer than three surveillance cameras captured the human’s escape.
That’s when vats 10 and 11 blew, the rest of the slaves in that part of the ship were killed, and Kol-Hee won his ongoing dispute with Gon-Dra. The pressures were too high . . . and someone would have to pay.
HELL HILL
Ironically enough mornings were typically cold on Hell Hill, even spring mornings, and Manning held his hands out toward the wood-burning stove. The first step in preparing his frigid fingers to work on the week’s duty roster. A much-dreaded chore.
That being the case, Manning felt a distinct sense of relief when Kell entered the duty room and flashed a characteristic grin. “Got a minute?”
“Absolutely . . . especially if it’s something that would prevent me from working on the duty roster.”
“Your wish is my command,” the ex-Ranger said solemnly. “Remember the woman who saved Hak-Bin’s pointy butt?”
“Yeah,” Manning replied. “Who could forget?”
“Well, you sent for her, and she’s waiting outside.”
“Name?”
“Jill Ji-Hoon. Ex-FBI agent.”
“Really? Sounds promising. Lord knows we’re under strength. Send her in. And Vilo . . .”
“Yeah?”
“Tell Amocar to write up the duty roster. Maybe he can get that right.”
Kell grinned. “Roger that.”
Based on a recommendation from Hak-Bin, and over Manning’s objections, Franklin had appointed the somewhat mysterious candidate to the number two slot. Manning had been forced to keep him. That in spite of the fact that Amocar had a tendency to fade when bullets started to fly, liked to linger outside closed doors, and couldn’t follow procedure much less teach it. A problem the security chief would solve one day.
Kell turned, pulled the olive drab USMC blanket to one side, and motioned the woman in. “The boss will see you now . . . step on in.”
Ji-Hoon nodded, passed through the door, and found herself in a sparsely furnished steel cargo container. Some of the cubes were smooth on the inside, even shiny, but not this one. Judging from all the scrapes, scratches, and dents something heavy had broken loose in transit and played merry hell with the interior prior to being unloaded.
Beyond the heavily blackened stove, and the tall rangy man who stood in front of it, the compartment contained some mismatched chairs, a beat-up black leather couch, a scattering of boots, jackets, and one pair of plaid boxers, a hand-lettered sign that said “SAFE YOUR WEAPONS.” A none-too-clean deck and a rack of assault weapons completed the decor. Not a very imposing room.
The man turned to offer his hand. “Agent Ji-Hoon . . . welcome to the Hilton. I’m Jack Manning.”
Ji-Hoon had long been a believer in first impressions, and there was something about this man that she liked. The hand was big and warm. “Thanks, I think.”
Ji-Hoon was tall, so tall that Manning could look straight into her eyes, and he liked what he saw there. A wary sort of centeredness, as if the ex-agent knew exactly who she was, including both the good and the bad. Small feathers had been added to the red ear tag, thereby transforming it into something similar to jewelry. The security chief pointed with his chin. “The tag . . . a present from Hak-Bin?”
Ji-Hoon nodded. “I was surprised to say the least.”
“He’s unpredictable that way,” Manning responded, “a fact that makes him all the more dangerous. Take a load off . . . You know why I sent for you?”
Ji-Hoon took a chair. “No one said . . . but I have a theory. You’re looking for foot soldiers.”
Manning hooked a chair with a boot, dragged it into position, and sat facing the back. “In a word, yes, although I need something a cut above foot soldiers. I need people who believe in what they’re doing, who think before they shoot, and who can play both offense and defense.”
The agent raised an eyebrow. “Let’s start with the first item you mentioned. What exactly would you expect me to believe in? The need to protect collaborators?”
Manning nodded. “Fair question. I could sign up fifty self-styled gunslingers by noon tomorrow. People who understandably want to escape their present job assignment, hope to obtain more food, or simply like to shoot things.
“Believers believe that in spite of the shitty situation we find ourselves in, and the role Franklin has been forced to play, he’s the best leader available.”
Ji-Hoon started to say something, but Manning held his hand up. “Hear me out . . . Yes, I know he was a bit slow coming around to the role of patriot, and yes, he made some mistakes. But that’s in the past. Maybe you’ve heard rumors about how various resistance groups are coming together . . . Well, trust me, that’s because of Franklin, not in spite of him. He’s the best hope we have to destroy the Saurons, set our people free, and reclaim Earth.”
Ji-Hoon searched Manning’s face for any indication of insincerity, cynicism, or guile. She found none. “That last part—about destroying the Saurons. Are you serious? Or just trying to suck me in?”
“I’m serious,” Manning replied. “Very serious. The opportunity will come less than eighty days from now.”
“How?”
“Join and I’ll tell you.”
“And if I don’t?”
Manning shrugged. “I’m only authorized to have fifteen people. You walk, and I keep looking.”
The opportunity felt right and beat the hell out of wandering aimlessly around Hell Hill watching everyone else work. “All right then—count me in.”
“Good,” the security chief replied enthusiastically, “we’re lucky to have you. Just one thing though . . .”
“What’s that?”
“Next time someone tries to kill Hak-Bin . . . get the hell out of the way.”
HELL HILL
It was a crisp spring morning, the kind that offers a promise of the summer to come, and puts winter firmly in the past. Most of the denizens of Hell Hill society were well into the first shift’s routines by the time the small group of Kan and humans came together near the bottom of “blood run,” the very foot of the path over which so many blocks h
ad been carried.
The limestone slab weighed upwards of five hundred pounds, and except for the fact that one edge had been rounded over, making it appropriate for use as a capstone, this particular chunk of rock was no different from thousands of others already carried to the summit of Hell Hill. No, what made the tableau different was not the nature of the burden itself, but the group assigned to carry it.
Dressed as they were in crisp, white, ankle-length robes, and absent the filth that typified most mule teams, this group looked like angels somehow fallen to Earth. Sister Andromeda, the Star Com’s founder, stood in what she hoped would be interpreted as a position of dignified outrage.
Early on, during the first stage of the Sauron invasion, she had mistakenly believed that the aliens were a gift from God, and their depredations were a necessary evil, a cleansing meant to clear the way so the human race could take the next step on the ladder of spiritual evolution. A belief which explained why Andromeda had been willing to help the Saurons, and why they, desirous of a biddable workforce, had allowed, no encouraged her group to grow so long as the cult continued to be what Hak-Bin referred to as “a positive influence.”
But now, as she, along with five of her most senior acolytes waited for the order to proceed, the cult leader understood the nature of her error. Rather than the paragons of wisdom she had supposed them to be, the Saurons were by way of a test. Before humans could ascend to a higher level of consciousness a sifting process must necessarily take place. A process during which the wheat would be sorted from the chaff. Then, once the Saurons left, she and her followers would found a new society based on precepts provided by her. In the meantime she had been forced to provide the Fon Brotherhood with a limited amount of support.
Did Hak-Bin know that? Or believe that he knew? If so, that might explain why the Kan had been ordered to provide Andromeda and her followers with an object lesson. There was no way to tell . . . Although if the Sauron was certain, really certain, it seemed logical to believe that she’d be hanging upside down from one of the crosses up on the hill. All she and her followers could do was acquiesce, haul the limestone block to the top of Hell Hill, and hope for the best.
Like some of the other Kan who had spent a significant amount of time on and around Hell Hill, Lik-Maa had developed a sort of grudging respect for the humans and their overall resiliency.
Not this group, however, who, like the upper echelons of the Ra ‘Na hierarchy, had discovered means by which to avoid the really hard work by supporting rather than opposing the system imposed by his race. Understandable? Yes, but far from admirable.
So, feeling as he did, Lik-Maa was determined to make sure that the human who called herself Sister Andromeda and her acolytes came away from the experience with a very real appreciation of what their less fortunate peers experienced on a daily basis. The Kan clacked his pincers. His voice boomed through the translator strapped to his chest armor. “Pay attention. Rather than the four people normally assigned to move a block of stone up the hill—you have been allowed six. A decision that takes into account the fact that you lead sedentary lives while the rest of your kind perform hard physical work every day.”
Andromeda took note of the criticism, was surprised to learn that individuals like Lik-Maa even considered such matters, and made room for the new data in her overall view of what Saurons were like. The Kan seemed to shimmer as his chitin tried to imitate the water off to the west. “Now,” the Sauron continued, “bend over, grasp the wooden crosspieces, and lift.”
The humans obeyed. The block wobbled as the weaker members of the team struggled to support it. The stone tipped dangerously, but came right as a couple of fairly well built men managed to get their shoulders under it, then steadied as the entire group shared the weight.
Andromeda, one of two women in the center position, was surprised by how light the burden was until she realized that the men, all of whom were taller than she was, bore most of the load. Something she was secretly glad of.
“So,” Lik-Maa said sarcastically, “the hard part is over. Now all you have to do is reach the top of the hill.”
Andromeda had been through many hardships during her life. She had been two years old when her father abandoned his family, twenty-seven when her husband did much the same thing, and thirty-one when her only child was killed in an automobile accident.
Nevertheless, the next hour and a half were the most difficult of her life. The block of limestone not only grew heavier with each passing minute, but became more and more central to her existence. Though little more than an abstraction at first, the block took on additional weight as the men started to tire—and the cultist fought to keep her footing. More than that she could smell the raw earth that still clung to the bottom of the object she carried, she could feel the cold texture of it, and she could taste a layering of sea salt. Or was it her own sweat?
Then, as if passing through some sort of permeable barrier, the limestone block was suddenly within her, redefining who she was, restating Andromeda’s purpose. Not long after that, about a third of the way up the hill, Sister Andromeda started to think of the burden as a living being, and of herself as little more than two of its many legs.
The acolyte named Mandy fell at roughly the halfway point, was whipped back into position, and started to cry. Not a wailing sound, there was too little oxygen for that, but sobs that sounded like gulps. Tears tracked down across her grime-covered cheeks, and Andromeda wanted to offer the other woman some sympathy, but couldn’t muster the energy. The rock was in charge and refused to share her with anyone else.
What happened next was well under way before Andromeda knew it was taking place. A man, one of the hundreds who occasionally sought solace within one of the Star Com’s steel “temples,” saw the white robes, knew who these particular humans were, and shouted to a friend. Together they pushed their way in, brought fresh muscle to the task, and the rock surged forward.
It wasn’t long before onlookers started to pace the rock, more volunteers joined the group, and still more, until Lik-Maa watched in astonishment as the lesson was transformed into a processional, and the limestone rock seemed to float over the crowd. Even more amazing, to the Kan at least, was the fact that white humans, brown humans, and even elite black humans took part. The caste mixing, though distasteful, was also inspiring, though he couldn’t say why.
And so it was that Saurons, humans, and Ra ‘Na alike turned to look as the momentarily ebullient slaves swept onto the top of Hell Hill, dropped the block into its assigned slot, and cheered like victorious football fans.
That was the moment when Lik-Maa realized that the humans were crazy—and felt the first tendrils of fear enter his belly.
SOUTH OF HELL HILL NEAR SAMISH BAY
The room was small and grimy, in keeping with the carefully blacked-out building to which it belonged. Some ancient file cabinets occupied a grungy corner, where they continued to guard files that belonged to Ed’s Plumbing, and a man sat on the edge of the metal-framed military-style bed where Ed himself had occasionally snatched a nap. His face was too strong to be classically handsome, his hair was peppered with gray, and his eyes were unremittingly serious.
Deac Smith was tired, extremely tired, which made sense given not only the extent of his responsibilities, but the energy with which he tried to fulfill them. Just back from a long and somewhat painful midnight horseback ride, the resistance fighter was about to turn in when he heard a knock on the door. Smith made a face. “Who is it?”
“It’s me,” a gruff-sounding male voice responded. “Who were you expecting? The tooth fairy? Come to tuck you in?”
There was only one man who dared speak to Smith like that, the same man who had served at his side in the Rangers and spent the same amount of time in the saddle that he had. None other than George Farley, U.S. Army staff sergeant, retired, and Smith’s second-in-command. The resistance leader grinned in spite of himself. “The tooth fairy couldn’t possibly be that ugly
. . . So come in then get the hell out. I need some shut-eye.”
The door squeaked as it opened. Farley, also known as Popcorn to his friends, stuck his head in. He had chocolate-colored skin, quick, intelligent eyes, and needed a shave. Hair, which had been almost entirely black just months before, was shot with gray. “You have visitors.”
Smith pulled a combat boot off, noticed the hole in his wool sock, and sighed. “I don’t want any visitors—especially at this time of night. Tell them to come back in the morning.”
“One of them is a young petty officer named Darby,” Farley said dispassionately. “The same Darby who took part in the attack on five Sauron spaceships and destroyed every damned one of them.”
“Darby?” Smith demanded incredulously. “Darby? I figured she was dead. Why didn’t you say so? That woman deserves the frigging Medal of Honor!”
Farley smiled and stood to one side as the single-booted ex-Ranger limped out through the door. A battery-powered lantern hung from a hook in the ceiling. Darby stood in the cone of light thrown down onto the dirty linoleum floor. She saw Smith appear and the way his face lit up. He hobbled across the room to give the ex-petty officer a very unsoldierlike hug. “You’re alive! That’s the best news I’ve had all week. Where the hell have you been?”
Darby, who was both surprised and pleased by the warmth of the greeting, smiled to the extent that the scar tissue would allow her to do so. “I went fishing . . . and here’s what I caught.”
Darby stepped to one side and turned to discover that Pol had climbed up onto a human-sized stool, turned his back to the room, and was busy sorting through the parts that littered Ed’s plywood workbench. She sighed. “Pol . . . this is the man I brought you here to meet.”
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