“The others will remain untouched,” Hak-Bin replied, “for the moment. Later, after you deal with Franklin, the situation may change. The only thing worse than having resistance leaders is not knowing who they are. Do you understand?”
Amocar didn’t have the foggiest idea what the chit was talking about, but nodded anyway. “Yes, excellency.”
“I’m gratified to hear it,” Hak-Bin finished. “You have your orders—now carry them out.”
Amocar was about to produce another, “Yes, your eminence,” when the connection was severed, his stomach lurched, and he found himself back in his own body. The attendant appeared and disconnected the snakelike black leads. “And a good time was had by all?”
“It couldn’t have been better,” Amocar lied. “Was it good for you?”
“Not really,” the woman replied, “not while you’re alive.”
Amocar stood, and was about to backhand the woman across the mouth, when a Kan shuffled into the room. She smiled defiantly. “Yes? Was there something else?”
The security agent made a face and followed the warrior outside. The Kan delivered Amocar to ground level and turned him loose.
Still hiding in plain sight, but without the bundle of firewood she had been forced to sell fifteen minutes earlier, Jill Ji-Hoon watched her fellow agent emerge from the tower, blink in the bright sunlight, and hurry away. The fact that Amocar had left under his own power, without so much as a Kan escort, spoke volumes. The question was not if he had been spying for the Saurons, but for how long? From the beginning most likely—which meant the bugs knew about the resistance and its plans. Well, there was nothing Ji-Hoon could do about that, but she could sure as hell let them know about Amocar.
Her mind made up, the tall rangy woman left her spot opposite the tower, faded into the crowd, and seemed to disappear.
HELL HILL
Ever since the day on which Sool had come to the Sauron warrior’s aid, even going so far as to protect him from the human crowd, things had been just a little bit easier. Not much . . . but a little.
Evidence of the high esteem in which the Saurons held the doctor could be seen not only in the red ear tag that freed her from digging ditches, but in the fact that none of the patients outside her clinic had been rousted since that day and none had been shot at from the observation towers. In fact, a wary sort of friendship had developed between Sool and the Kan who ruled that particular sector of Hell Hill. His name was Nee-Pal, and when Dixie told Sool that the officer was waiting outside, the doctor interrupted an examination to go out and speak with him.
The ever-present queue had migrated as far from Nee-Pal as possible. They watched as the doctor emerged from the clinic, spotted the Sauron, and went to meet him. The alien turned as the Sool approached. “Slave Sool.”
Though not exactly collegial—the greeting was polite. Sool inclined her head. “File Leader Nee-Pal.”
The bug was all business—and the translation sounded flat. “Be advised that approximately seventy-five percent of the slaves working on this temple will be marched to new locations tomorrow morning. You can remain or go. The choice is yours.”
The Sauron waved a pincer toward the clinic. “If you decide to go, there is a need to pack your equipment. That is all.” So saying, the chit turned, took a forty-foot jump, and was gone.
Moments later, back in the clinic, Dixie reacted to the news. “So, what are we going to do?”
“We?”
“Do you need me?”
“Yes, desperately.”
Dixie grinned. “That’s what I thought. So, ‘we.’ ”
Sool gave the nurse a hug. “Thanks, Dixie, you’re the best. We go where our patients go . . . That’s the way I see it. Better start packing. I’ll put the word out. Perhaps some of our ex-patients will lend us a hand.”
The nurse nodded. “How ’bout friends? There’s no way to know who’s going and who’s staying.”
Sool raised an eyebrow. “Is that your way of telling me to throw myself at Jack Manning’s feet?”
Dixie laughed. “In a word, ‘yes.’ ”
Sool sighed. “I screwed up, I admit that, but what’s the point? He has Franklin to take care of—and I have my patients.”
Dixie decided to let the matter drop. Perhaps later, after she had time to think about it, Sool would reconsider. In the meantime there was packing to do. Lots of it. The women went to work.
HELL HILL
Even though he was a slave, and working under what he considered to be primitive conditions, Manning still had paperwork to do. That’s why he was all too happy to put the current duty roster aside and welcome Jill Ji-Hoon into his shabby work space. He pointed across the messy desk. “Kick those boots out of the way, dump yesterday’s lunch into the trash can, and turn that bucket upside down. It makes a passable stool.”
The ex-FBI agent eyed the container in question, knew her knees would stick up in front of her face, and shook her head. “I’ll stand if it’s all the same to you, sir.”
“Suit yourself,” Manning replied, leaning back in the government surplus chair, “but forget the ‘sir’ stuff. What’s on your mind?”
“It’s Amocar, sir. I have reason to suspect that he’s working for the bugs.”
In spite of the fact that Manning had little to no use for Amocar and would have been delighted to get rid of the slimy slob, alarm bells began to ring. Did Ji-Hoon have the goods on Amocar? The real goods? Or was this about the endless shit details El Segundo liked to pass her way? Something the security chief had monitored but didn’t want to mess with unless he absolutely had to. If she had something solid, then good, Amocar would go down. But, unit cohesion was important, very important, and there was no room for vendettas. Manning leaned forward and the chair squeaked. His eyes narrowed. “That’s a serious charge, Agent Ji-Hoon—a very serious charge. If you have proof, let’s hear it. If not, then get back to work.”
Ji-Hoon swallowed and stood a little taller. “I followed Agent Amocar to a place called the G-Spot. As he left a group of Kan arrived and escorted him away.”
“Escorted?” Manning inquired softly, “As in ‘let’s go have a beer?’ Or escorted as in ‘come with us or we’ll blow your head off?’ ”
The ex-FBI agent shrugged. “The interaction was friendly at first. Then, realizing the need for a cover story, Amocar instructed the Kan to hit him. They complied.”
“Yeah,” Manning replied, “I guess they did. I saw the poor bastard about twenty minutes ago and sent him to see Dr. Sool.”
Ji-Hoon felt her stomach sink. Trust the little weasel to see Manning first! This was an uphill battle, that much was obvious, but all she could do was see it through. “They got a bit carried away—but the fact remains: He asked for it.”
Manning looked her in the eye. “You were close enough to hear that?”
“Well, no,” Ji-Hoon answered reluctantly, “but I could read his lips and see his gestures. Amocar told the bugs to hit him.”
“So, you can read lips?”
“Yes,” Ji-Hoon said defiantly, “I can.”
“Fabulous,” Manning said sarcastically. “Well, go on . . . Let’s hear the rest.”
Well aware that the security chief had already made up his mind, but unable to extricate herself from the situation, Ji-Hoon could do little but continue. The rest of the report sounded more lame than the first.
“That’s it?” Manning inquired. “You saw him enter the tower then leave?”
“Yes, sir,” Ji-Hoon said stolidly. “I saw him enter the tower, stay long enough to spill his guts, and leave of his own volition.”
“So noted,” Manning said. “With all due respect to your background, training, and obvious sincerity, I can’t hang my number two out to dry on a single person’s unsubstantiated testimony. I know Amocar is a jerk. But we’re stuck with the creep until we can hang something substantial around his neck. Do you read me?”
Ji-Hoon read him all right. She ground th
e words between clenched teeth. “Sir, yes, sir.” The agent did a military-style about-face and left the office.
Plan A had failed and failed miserably. Well, that’s what Plan B is for Ji-Hoon told herself. The boss man needs evidence, so I’ll go find him some evidence.
Manning felt mixed emotions as the woman left. Her story was interesting but lacked substantiation. He’d been right to blow her off. Or had he? Something, he wasn’t sure what, wiggled in the pit of his stomach.
ABOARD THE SAURON DREADNOUGHT HOK NOR AH
Pinned to the carefully stabilized metal surface by the floating lights, his swollen body laid bare for the other Sauron to examine, Hak-Bin was forced to remain silent while the other Zin poked, probed, and prodded.
His name was Ott-Mar, his title was that of birthmaster, and upon his narrow shoulders rested responsibility for the biological aspects of the great birthing. A role for which he had prepared himself since his own birth hundreds of years before.
It was during those many years of study, those long periods of time when individuals like Hak-Bin had been free to practice their disciplines, that Ott-Mar had nudged the boundaries of racial knowledge and eventually pushed some of them back. All without the knowledge of the egotistical Ra ‘Na.
Now, armed with the results of painstaking experimentation, and hoping to advance his line, the Zin had allowed himself to be drawn into the dark netherworld of Sauron politics. A place where once entangled it was almost impossible to escape.
But thoughts such as those were like dangerous gusts of wind—variables that could wreck an otherwise perfect jump. That’s why Ott-Mar pushed the errant thoughts away and pulled the black shroudlike garment back into place. Then, with his patient’s dignity partially restored, the birthmaster coughed three words into a microphone.
Hak-Bin felt a tremendous sense of relief as zero-gee conditions were restored, waited while Ott-Mar freed his body from the table’s surface, and sought an upright position. Then, floating in what were now familiar conditions, the Zin moved to restore what he saw as the correct interpersonal relationship. One in which it was he, not the birthmaster, who controlled the agenda. “So,” Hak-Bin said in what he hoped was a lighthearted fashion, “what do you think?”
Ott-Mar, for whom the matter was very serious indeed, made no attempt to respond in kind. “Time is short. We can wait no more . . . You must undergo the treatment within the next few rotations, surrender to the nymph, or accept the cessation of your line. The choice is up to you.”
There was silence for a moment as Hak-Bin accepted what he already knew: This was the final decision point. His voice was gruff. “There is no choice, not a real one, so let’s get on with it.”
Ott-Mar, who wasn’t sure whether he wanted to trial his theories or escape from them, felt both excitement and fear. But, rather than grant Hak-Bin more power than he already had, the physician sought to conceal his emotions. “Excellent. Appropriate facilities have been established at a place the humans call Nakabe, Guatemala.”
Hak-Bin offered the Sauron the equivalent of a frown. “What’s the point? I am comfortable here.”
“Certain unpleasantries must be dealt with,” Ott-Mar replied vaguely, “not to mention the issue of privacy. Besides, what your staff will describe as a planetary inspection tour will help quiet the rumors.”
Hak-Bin liked both the idea and the timing. The transfer of slaves from what the humans referred to as Hell Hill, to other locations would serve not only to rip their underground society apart, it would keep his subordinates busy while he underwent the necessary treatments. “It shall be as you say, Ott-Mar. My life, and that of my nymph, depend on you.”
The ghosts of birthmasters long dead gibbered in Ott-Mar’s ears. “No!” they insisted. “Stop this madness!” But it was too late. The leap had been made, and only the landing remained.
HELL HILL
The sun threw rays of pink light up over the Cascade Mountains as Sauron horns began to groan, searchlights stabbed the streets, and Fon functionaries moved in among the stacks. Some carried Ra ‘Na technicians high on their backs while others led packs of human overseers. Their whips cracked, and their heavily amplified voices echoed back and forth among the cubes as they rousted the first shift out of their beds.
Not the entire shift, since there had been rumors, and some of the slaves were already up. Not only up, but packed and ready to go. It was a gamble, they knew that, since hardly a day went by that some sort of fanciful bullshit didn’t make the rounds. “A woman saw Jesus . . . we’ll get a day off . . . the Saurons are going to die soon.”
There were dozens of rumors a day, and most of them were false. That’s why thousands of people ignored the scuttlebutt warning of a major relocation and went off to bed. But others, especially those with an analytical bent, noticed some unusual activity. It seemed as though an unusual number of subtasks had been completed within the last few days, more Kan were evident, and the overseers had been to a lot of meetings lately. That’s why some of the slaves put two and two together, came up with four, and were ready to go when the Saurons arrived. They didn’t have much, but what they had was precious, and filled their makeshift packs.
Others, those who weren’t prepared, were forced to leave without their meager belongings. Some raised their voices in protest, or tried to return home, and were used as examples. The steady pop, pop, pop of t-guns was reminiscent of the Fourth of July, and Franklin, who stood practically nose to nose with a Kan officer, felt as if each dart had ripped through him. The first sign that something unusual was about to occur took place when Manning’s sentries reported that four files of Kan had taken up positions around the Presidential Complex and sealed it off.
Then, while efforts were under way to make contact with various members of the Sauron command structure, the evictions started. Now, in an effort to be with what he saw as his constituents, Franklin tried to bully his way out. “How dare you block my path! Hak-Bin will hear of this!”
“Hak-Bin gave the orders,” the officer replied mildly. “Now return to your quarters. Or would you like me to shoot half a dozen slaves to prove that I’m serious?”
“I could grease him,” Manning offered conversationally, his voice pitched intentionally low. “I think we can drop most of the bastards before they know what hit them.” The security officer and his team had been on high alert for hours by that time, and all of them were heavily armed. Just one of the reasons why the Kan made no attempt actually to enter the complex.
For one brief moment Franklin toyed with the idea of a balls-to-the-wall breakout. But what then? Once they broke free of the complex additional Kan would be summoned, Manning and his team would almost certainly be killed, and the protest would soon be over. Even worse was the fact that the resistance might very well come apart, the slaves would be slaughtered, and the nymphs would be born. No, he must hold his temper and wait for the right moment to rebel.
Having rejected force, the politician tried another tack. “No, there’s no need for additional violence. In fact there’s no need for any violence whatsoever . . . Please allow me to talk with the slaves. I’ll convince them to cooperate.”
“They will cooperate,” the Kan replied, “or they will die. Now, return to your quarters and take the other slaves with you. Resist, and I will call on air support. A single bomb would be more than sufficient to destroy your pathetic pile of crates.”
Asad’s 12-gauge made a clacking sound as the operative pumped a shell into the chamber. Franklin waved the agent back. His teeth were clenched so tightly the words barely escaped. “You heard what he said . . . Everybody back off.”
The Kan watched impassively as the humans withdrew, waited until they were inside, and turned away. The cordon of warriors remained where they were.
Once inside the residence Franklin hurried up to the heavily fortified roof, where he could look out over the surrounding stacks. Manning followed, and the two men stood side by side as thousands of slaves we
re forced out of their shelters and into the streets. Dust rose to thicken the air, whips cracked, and people wailed.
Then, like percussion in a symphony from hell, buildings began to explode. Manning counted five such explosions spread out over an extremely wide area, watched the columns of debris fly upward, and wondered what the Saurons were up to. Franklin thought he knew. “Look! Isn’t that where Sister Andromeda’s first church was established? And over there—didn’t she have a chapel there?”
Manning thought so but wasn’t sure.
Meanwhile bodies, some bearing packs, many having little more than the clothes on their backs, continued to trickle out of alleyways and join the stream.
The fleshy flood moved quickly at first, but each additional human body added to the congestion, and friction slowed the river to a crawl. That’s when black overseers armed with whips and electric cattle prods waded into the crowd. Was that intentional? Yes, Franklin felt very sure that it was, and cursed Hak-Bin with every swear word he knew.
The crowd swirled wherever the African-Americans appeared as they sought to evade the slash of the whips and cried for mercy. Franklin watched a woman stumble, saw her baby fall, and the crowd surge forward. Seconds later, as an opening appeared, he saw the pathetic bundle of rags lying in their wake. “When?” The politician asked himself, unaware that he had spoken out loud. “When will it end?”
“When we kill the bastards,” Manning answered grimly. “When every single one of them is dead.”
ABOARD THE SAURON DREADNOUGHT HOK NOR AH
The lights in the compartment were low, so low that its sole occupant couldn’t make out more than the general shape of his furnishings and the occasional bright spot where what little bit of light there was reflected off a memento or two.
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