Pol snapped one last component into place, heard a “click” as a connection was made, and touched a tiny button. The image of a fierce-looking Kan blossomed in front of the Harley poster tacked over the grease-stained bench. The Sauron started to speak. The dialogue sounded like a long series of clicks and squeaks.
Smith stepped in to get a closer look. “Who the hell is that?”
“Sector Commander Muu-Dak,” Pol said calmly. “Briefing his troops.”
“About what?” Farley asked, equally fascinated.
“Boring stuff,” Pol said offhandedly. “You know, troop movements, logistics, that sort of thing.”
The ex-Rangers looked at each other in amazement. What the ratty-looking Ra ‘Na had been able to do in a matter of a few minutes was more than their best tech heads had been able to accomplish during the last month.
Darby, who had a pretty good idea what the two men were thinking, gestured in Pol’s direction. “Deac Smith, George Farley, meet Fra Pol. He would like to join the resistance movement.”
Smith, one boot still held in his hand, limped to the workbench. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Fra Pol. We have more equipment like that . . . stuff we captured. A lot of it needs work. Would you be willing to look at it?”
“Certainly,” Pol said, watching his hand disappear inside Smith’s sizable paw. “I will assist in any way that I can.”
“Then welcome to the resistance, son,” Farley said. “The pay sucks, you’ll probably get killed, but it beats a hitch in the United States Navy.”
Darby gave the ex-Ranger a one-fingered salute, and the humans laughed.
The joke was lost on Pol, who, for reasons he wasn’t quite sure of, and contrary to all common sense, felt like this was home.
SOUTHEAST OF HELL HILL
The main problem with Jonathan Ivory’s plan, beyond the fact that it was crazy, had to do with the amount of patience required. However, assuming he wanted to hitch a ride on a Sauron road train, which he did, and assuming he wanted to trim weeks off the journey to Racehome, the racialist had very little choice. All he could do was camp out on the concrete overpass, wait for enough time to pass, and hope he wasn’t fast asleep at the critical moment.
Ivory had dreams about that, nightmares so vivid that on one occasion he awoke to find himself standing at the guard-rail, screaming as the phantom convoy pulled away.
Not that wakefulness was much better. More than once he thought he heard the growl of engines, and gathered his meager belongings, only to discover that his mind was playing tricks on him. The freeway was empty, there was no line of vehicles approaching from the north, and the wait continued.
Worst of all, however, was the time when the growl of engines brought the racialist out of the woods to the west, and the Sauron road train was real, but headed in the wrong direction. Did that mean that another convoy, one headed toward the south, would be along soon? Or did it mean just the opposite? There was no way to know.
Strangely, when the moment finally came, it was the vibration rather than the noise that awoke Ivory from a fitful sleep and sent him scurrying toward the walls that ran along both sides of the overpass. The entire structure started to shake, as if in the grip of a low-intensity earthquake, and left little doubt that something heavy was on the way.
The racialist peeked over the edge, saw the tractorlike vehicle at the head of the Sauron convoy, checked to see if roof guards had been posted, was relieved to see that none were visible. That being the case, he ducked down again.
There would be Kan within the armor-clad vehicles, plenty of them, all heavily armed. All it would require was one curious warrior, a single fifty-foot jump, and Ivory would be history.
The bridge vibrated even more as the Sauron road train approached and the human scrambled to gather what few belongings he had.
Then, as the tractorlike lead vehicle passed under the concrete span, Ivory climbed to the top of the rail, where he stood like a windblown scarecrow and watched as dull, bird-splattered metal passed beneath his feet. Some sort of hieroglyph appeared, an ID number that would allow Sauron aircraft to identify the convoy from the air, then it disappeared as well. Ivory wanted to land on the last of the cars, theorizing that it was less likely to have any Kan lurking within, and wondered if the impact would be heard. “No” meant he would survive for a little bit longer, “yes” was equivalent to a death sentence.
“No, yes, no, yes.” Who could tell? The last car in the train drew near, Ivory took a long deep breath, put his faith in Yahweh, and jumped. There was a solid thump as his boots hit, less than two seconds in which to fall flat, and “feel” the bridge deck pass not more than a foot overhead. Then, lying prostrate on his stomach, the racialist began to count. “One, and two, and three, and four, and five, and six . . .”
When the total hit 120, or the equivalent of two minutes, Ivory stopped. There had been no sounds of alarm, no change in the car’s back and forth sway, no reason for alarm.
Relieved, and suddenly very tired, the racialist rolled over onto his back. The sun inched higher in the sky, warmed the metal roof, and made him drowsy. Ivory threw a forearm across his eyes, wondered if there was something more he should do, and fell asleep.
ABOARD THE SAURON DREADNOUGHT HOK NOR AH
Unlike most of the Ra ‘Na-sized passageways aboard the Hok Nor Ah, corridor [*] had been constructed to allow various kinds of utility vehicles to transport equipment from one end of the ship to the other. That meant there was sufficient headroom to allow low-level jumps. Something that made the passageway a favorite with the Saurons. A fact which Dro Tog was coming to regret.
His escort, which consisted of two bored Kan, stood at the intersection and peered back over their shoulders. They shimmered like spirits only half-seen. The prelate, whose short, stumpy legs were already pumping at what he considered to be an excessive rate of speed, sensed their impatience and did his best to waddle even faster.
That was sufficient to make his heart quicken, but what really caused his pulse to pound was the nature of the summons itself. The great Hak-Bin had sent for him! A signal honor—but one which the cleric would rather have done without.
Or was it an honor? What if he had done something wrong? And the Saurons were about to crucify him? No, the condemned were treated in a much different manner. So what in the six blue devils was going on? All he could do was wait and see.
Tog caught up with the Kan who jumped and landed fifty standard units up corridor. The prelate had little choice but to hoist his robe, scurry forward, and hope that the torture would soon end.
And, as if the Great One had decided to answer Tog’s prayers, it wasn’t long before the Kan turned down one of the many side passageways that intersected the ship’s axis and were forced to resume their usual shipboard slip-slide shuffle. That allowed the prelate to settle his robes and resume something akin to a dignified pace.
Now, as passersby stared, Tog felt a moment of pride. And why not? He not only occupied one of the highest ranks his race was permitted to have, but had been summoned by no less a personage than Hak-Bin himself. And whatever the matter was it must be important. Otherwise why the summons? How many of those passing to the right and left could say the same? None, not a single one.
And so it was that Tog, oblivious to the subtle looks of disgust directed at him from every side, followed the Kan under an arch and was ushered into what looked like an airlock. Fear stabbed the cleric’s belly. Were they going to blow him out into space? No, while his knowledge of the ship was far from perfect, the prelate knew he was nowhere near the outside surface of the hull. Where then? And why?
Conscious of the fact that the Kan were watching him, Tog drew himself up, stepped through the hatch, and did his best to remain as expressionless as possible while the chamber was sealed. Nothing happened at first—which made him nervous. Then the inner hatch cycled open, Tog moved toward it, and something strange started to take place. The prelate felt lighter, much lighter,
and was just starting to absorb the implications of that when his sandals left the deck. He had entered one of the ship’s null-gee zones—areas where certain kinds of work and medical therapies could take place free of gravity. Like all of the fleet’s Ra ‘Na slaves, Tog had been raised in space, and once freed from the weight of his obese body became suddenly graceful.
Tog flipped upside down, used his feet to push off the overhead, and dove through the hatch. His trajectory was perfect. His hands touched the deck beyond with just the right amount of force, he performed a somersault, and emerged in perfect position. Head “up,” to the extent that there was such a thing in zero gee, and feet “down.”
There was a clacking noise, and Tog turned in the direction of the sound. What he saw surprised him. Hak-Bin, his body swathed in multiple layers of what looked like flimsy black gauze, floated not twenty units away. Globe-shaped lights, both equipped with air jets, floated above and to either side. Another globe, this one positioned to provide the Sauron with a back light, hung above and behind. The rest of the chamber was dark and therefore mysterious. Beyond what Tog could see, there was what he could smell, and the Ra ‘Na’s supersensitive nostrils detected a not altogether pleasant odor. An amalgamation of smells, as if one scent had been used to hide another, and none too successfully.
The clacking stopped. “Nicely done,” Hak-Bin said in a patronizing manner. “I have long admired the grace with which your kind can move in zero gee. Even my most athletic warriors are clumsy by comparison.”
Here was the great Hak-Bin, addressing him personally, and saying something nice! How could this be? Fear rose to block Tog’s airway. It was difficult to speak. “Thank you, eminence, but you are too kind. Even the least of your warriors is much more graceful than I.”
Hak-Bin, who was used to such lies, and expected nothing less, waved a pincer. “Thank you for agreeing to come.”
Had the Kan warriors extended some sort of invitation? No, Tog couldn’t remember any . . . But maybe they were supposed to and forgot. “Thank you for the invitation, eminence. It was my pleasure.”
Hak-Bin nodded as if the answer was completely believable. “I’m sorry we won’t be able to spend much time on the ceremonial aspect of your investiture—but these are pressing times. Construction has slowed, the temples have fallen behind schedule, and every unit counts.”
Tog was mystified and mustered the courage to probe. “Investiture? Would your eminence be so kind as to explain?”
“Sorry about that,” Hak-Bin replied with wave of a pincer, “I assumed my staff had briefed you . . . It seems rumors have started to fly, nonsense for the most part, but fire sufficient darts and one will hit something eventually. According to one such story the entire Sauron race will die and give birth at the same time. Have you heard anything of that nature?”
The fact was that Tog had heard of something like that, from the scalawag Fra Pol no less, and refused to believe it. Until now that is . . . and his audience with Hak-Bin. Tog was a lot of things, many of which were less than admirable, but he wasn’t stupid. Suddenly, armed as he was with the information that Pol had overheard, plus the evidence in front of his eyes, the cleric knew the undeniable truth: The Saurons were not only going to die, just as Pol claimed they would, but Hak-Bin had already started to change. That’s why the Zin was living in zero gee, that’s why his body was swathed in fabric, and that’s why he smelled. The thoughts raced through his mind at incredible speed, and the prelate would have sworn that his face was expressionless, but he must have been wrong. Hak-Bin clacked a pincer. “Ah, so you have heard the rumors?”
Tog considered his options. A “yes,” would indicate that he had heard things which should have been reported. A “no,” would come across as a challenge. The cleric decided to gamble. “Yes, eminence. I heard the rumors and did everything in my power to quash them.”
“Yes,” Hak-Bin said easily, “you did. Which has everything to do with your presence in my chamber. Even after hours of what the painmaster describes as a most rigorous regimen of torture, your subordinate, one P’ere Has, continued to speak of your devotion. A most remarkable session indeed. Perhaps you would care to thank him.”
There was a sudden gust of colder air, the sound of sequenced air jets, and a small stretcher floated out of the darkness. Retros fired, and it coasted to a stop. Has, his features slack, lay as if dead. One ear had been burned almost beyond recognition, the other was badly singed, and who knew what lay beneath the crudely applied bandages.
The prelate shivered. To suffer yet remain loyal to a superior . . . Not only was Has stupid—he was crazy as well . . . Something for which Tog was extremely grateful. But what to say? That it was kind of the Saurons to let the cleric live? That they never should have tortured him in the first place? That they were scum? No, none of those alternatives would go over very well, and that being the case, Tog attempted something neutral. “Yes, well I am most grateful for the manner in which Has sustained the truth.”
Hak-Bin stomped a foot in approval, remembered where he was, and clacked a pincer instead. “Yes, it’s important to show loyalty to those who are loyal in return. Especially when one occupies an extremely important position.”
The words brought Tog’s ears up and forward. “Position? What position?”
Hak-Bin savored the slave’s eagerness and raw lust for power. The whole thing was so easy—almost too easy. “Why the position of Grand Vizier, what else?”
Tog had no idea what the title meant, but knew no one else had it, not even Dro Rul. “Why thank you, eminence. May I inquire as to the exact nature of my responsibilities?”
“Of course,” Hak-Bin replied affably. “As I indicated earlier there is at least some truth in the rumors that are floating around. My brethren and I will die on or around what the humans call July 31. Some seventy-three days from now.”
Tog, who wasn’t exactly sure of how to react, bowed his head. “Eminence, I am truly sorry to hear that.”
Hak-Bin waved a pincer. “Thank you, but there is no need for regret. Each of us will live on in the memories of successors. Just one of the many ways in which our race is superior to yours. Once born, our descendants will require the services of loyal servants such as yourself. Not the entire Ra ‘Na race, mind you, since there are those who might try to take unfair advantage of our momentary weakness, but a strong nucleus from which the subclass can soon be bred.
“In fact, plans have already been laid to ensure that three out of four of the surviving Ra ‘Na will be female, so that individuals such as yourself will have ample opportunity to pass their genetic materials along to the future.”
Tog felt his emotions lurch from horror to lust. Thousands upon thousands would be put to death . . . but what could he do? Nothing . . . nothing at all. To align himself with the resistance would be madness. The survivors would require experienced leadership, a sort of benign dictator capable of managing their affairs, literally planting the seeds required to grow the race. Tog felt himself start to harden and pushed the sensation away. The time for fantasies would come later—after he escaped from the chamber. “And in the meantime, eminence?”
“And in the meantime you will do all in your power to ensure that the citadels are completed, that members of the Ra ‘Na resistance movement are identified and eliminated, and the fleet is fully provisioned and ready for departure when the next generation of Saurons has need of it.”
“So, the journey will continue?”
Hak-Bin looked as surprised as a member of his race was capable of looking. “Of course . . . Our people shall be bound together until we find the planet called Paradise.”
“And then?” Tog asked, astounded by his own audacity.
“And then we will all live in harmony,” Hak-Bin lied smoothly, “equals in the eyes of the great creator.”
Tog recognized the line for it was, an excellent way to give the surviving Ra ‘Na something to pin their hopes on, and stored the nugget away. “Thank
you, lord, I will do my very best.”
Hak-Bin fought a sudden cramp and sought to bring the conversation to a close. “I’m sure you will. Members of my staff will contact you. You may leave now.”
Tog looked at P’ere Has and felt a sudden surge of unexpected tenderness. “May I take P’ere Has with me?”
“Of course,” the Zin said dismissively. “You are the Grand Vizier . . . the entire Ra ‘Na race is yours to command.”
And so it was that Has survived, the Saurons forged a new weapon, and another day came off the clock.
ABOARD THE SAURON DREADNOUGHT HOK NOR AH
The compartment was darkened—lit only by the glow of a red light. It began to flash on and off. Shu awoke as she often did to the persistent buzz of the alarm and the knowledge that something horrible had occurred. The injured Ra ‘Na came in all shapes and sizes with medical emergencies as varied as they were. Lacerations, burns, fractures, infections, and more. She saw them all.
Of course that was what she had been trained to do, and was happy to do, except that as the Saurons pushed the slaves harder there were more casualties.
Shu rolled out of bed, slipped her feet into a pair of sandals, and joined other medical personnel who were rushing to their stations.
Shu entered the emergency receiving station, nodded to a bleary-eyed assistant, and waited while the attendants wheeled the patient into the compartment. He was conscious and clearly agitated. Attendants transferred the male to the examining table, strapped him down, and left.
Shu removed a stylus from a tray, placed the tip on a black dot that had been inked into the fur-free inner surface of her patient’s left arm, and looked up at the wall screen. Though spared the indignity of ear tags such as the humans were forced to wear, the Ra ‘Na were subjected to something that Shu considered to be even worse: an implant that contained information regarding who they were, the kind of training they had, and a complete record of disciplinary problems if any.
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