The ex-petty officer stared into the gloom. Had the Kan posted sentries all along the shoreline? Was she entering a trap? Or were they farther back? Wrapped around the factory? There was only one way to find out. Darby gestured again. “All right, this is far enough. Bring the bow into the waves. I’ll meet you in ten hours. In the event that I fail to show up, come back in two hours. If I still fail to show up get the hell out of here. Understood?”
Chu had heard it before. She nodded and did her best to steady the boat as Darby moved to port. Then, the ex-petty officer sat on the boat’s side, adjusted her face mask, and fell backward into the water.
Chu threw the motor into reverse and took a cupful of water in over the stern as she backed away. It was hard to tell where Darby was, and the last thing Chu wanted to do was cut her with the prop. Then, sure that she was clear, Chu motored away. There were piers, plenty of them, each with a nice dark cave below.
The water was cold, even with the wet suit, and the desire to escape it propelled Darby toward shore. The ex-petty officer kicked with her fins, took occasional bearings on the Sauron lights, and closed with the shore. Then, while still fifty feet off from the shoreline, Darby paused to check for sentries. In spite of the fact that it was difficult to see, what with the up-and-down motion of the waves and the water droplets that dotted the surface of her mask, it appeared as if the shoreline was deserted.
Careful to make as little noise as possible, Darby completed her swim. Given the debris and charred wood that littered the waterfront, it appeared that the Saurons had strafed the shoreline during the initial days of the attack.
Darby paralleled the shore for a time, located the place where the remains of an old dock tilted down into the water, and made her way in. A wave slammed Darby into a half-submerged beam and attempted to suck her out. She kicked with her fins and sought some sort of handhold. The wood was slick and didn’t offer much purchase. Then, having been pummeled for a second time, the resistance fighter managed to hook her fingers over a two-by-four cross-cleat, pulled herself up, and was free of the water.
Then, having removed the mesh-style pack, Darby traded her fins for a pair of canvas slip-ons, removed the .38 Magnum from the waterproof bag, and stuck it into the nylon shoulder holster already in place under her left arm. Darby knew the pistol wouldn’t offer much protection against a file of Kan, but she might be able to kill one or two, and there would be some satisfaction in that.
Moving carefully the ex-petty officer made her way up the ramplike surface, slipped between two half-burned buildings, and found herself on a street littered with all sorts of debris. A lamppost had fallen from one side of the thoroughfare to the other, a UPS truck had crashed into the side of a building, and dog-ravaged bones lay scattered about. Careful to keep to the heaviest shadows, and pausing frequently to listen, Darby worked her way toward the west. Lights appeared and disappeared as the resistance fighter made her way past what remained of once-proud houses.
Then, after a block or two, Darby came across a badly bent street sign and risked a quick hit from her penlight in order to read it. The sign said “H Avenue,” which, according to the briefing materials, should take her south toward the factory.
Now, moving with the utmost care, the ex-sailor eased her way along H Avenue, following it toward the lights. She hadn’t gone far, no more than a block, when the sound of voices acted to freeze her in place. The first belonged to a woman. “That’s mine! I found it.”
Now, as Darby came closer, she saw what looked like a Dumpster backlit by a fire.
“So?” a male voice demanded. “It ain’t no good. Not without electricity.”
“I don’t care,” the first voice responded. “I want to hold it. Give it here.”
Darby placed a hand on the .38 and continued to ease forward. None of it was the way she expected it to be. Where were the Kan? How could feral slaves gather around a fire without being discovered? And why would they do so?
Borsky made a face, handed the implement to his friend, and watched Ellis pretend to dry her long, scraggly hair. Her face had been attractive once, but that was before the effects of malnutrition, too much sun, and the cocaine had their way with her. Still, something about the dryer, and the way it connected Ellis to the past, seemed to restore a little of her former beauty. “You remember how it was?” she asked dreamily. “Back before the bugs? We had it good, real good, but didn’t know it. I used to worry about how I looked . . . Can you fucking believe that? Damn, I was stupid.”
Borsky was about to say something soothing when he heard the crunch of broken glass and spun to his left. The piece of rebar wasn’t much, just a space age club, but it was all he had. “I know you’re there . . . step out into the light.”
Darby obeyed. The .38 lay against the side of her right thigh. Borsky saw the ex-petty officer’s horribly disfigured face and took a step backward. “Who the hell are you?”
“A member of the resistance,” Darby answered truthfully. “The name’s Darby.”
“So, it’s true then,” Ellis said, the dryer still aimed at her temple. “The resistance movement actually exists.”
“Oh, it’s true all right,” Darby admitted, “and we need your help. What can you tell me about the factory? What happened to it?”
Borsky shrugged. “Nothing.” He hooked a thumb back over his shoulder. “It’s back where the lights are.”
“Right,” Darby said disbelievingly, “and I’m the tooth fairy. If the factory is there . . . how come you’re here?”
Borsky looked at Ellis. “She doesn’t know.”
Ellis lowered the dryer. “No, I guess she doesn’t. Look, honey,” Ellis said, shifting her gaze to Darby, “are you familiar with Hell Hill?”
Darby nodded. “Sure, I used to trade stuff with a woman who called herself Sister Andromeda.”
Borsky spit into the fire. The spittle made a hissing sound. “The bitch . . . this is her fault.”
“Maybe,” Ellis allowed, “but that’s beside the point. What I’m saying is that things are different here. The Kan guard the factory—but the slaves are free to come and go.”
“We ain’t free,” Borsky said bitterly, “not by a long shot.”
“He’s right about that,” Ellis admitted. “I didn’t mean ‘free’ as in really free, I meant ‘free’ as in able to leave the factory when our shift is over.”
“But we’ll be back in the morning,” Borsky added. “The bugs made sure of that.”
Darby, who didn’t relish the notion of hanging around the fire any longer than absolutely necessary, allowed her impatience to show. “No offense, but I don’t have a lot of time. Please get to the point.”
“Here’s the point,” Ellis replied, pulling a sleeve up. “They used to keep us inside the fence but discovered they didn’t have to. Not so long as we get our daily dose of cocaine.”
Darby peered at the dirty skin, saw the badly ulcerated sores, and suddenly understood. The bugs had a new way to force compliance. “I’m sorry.”
Ellis nodded. “Thanks. So are we. What would you like to know?”
“Sister Andromeda . . . Where can I find her?”
“Same place as always,” Borsky replied, “sitting around talking to the people stupid enough to listen to her bullshit.”
Ellis got to her feet. The dryer clattered against the pavement. “You’d better keep a low profile. There’s some who would turn you in for an extra hit of coke. Stay here, and I’ll bring her back.”
Darby raised an eyebrow. “How do I know I can trust you?”
“Tell you what,” the woman replied, “how ’bout I leave Borsky on deposit?”
Ellis thought her joke was funny, cackled gleefully, and was soon lost in the surrounding murk.
“No need to worry about Ellis,” Borsky put in. “She’ll keep her word, now if it was me, well, that might be different.”
“Thanks for the warning,” Darby said dryly, as she stepped back out of the light. “Stay
where you are . . . I’ll be watching.”
Borsky shrugged, added wood to the fire, and held his hands toward the warmth. “Whatever turns you on. It ain’t like I have anyplace to go.”
The next ten minutes took what seemed like an eternity to drag by. Borsky continued to crouch there, the firelight illuminating his face, while Darby lurked in the shadows. Her nerves were stretched wire tight. It was dangerous there—and the primal part of her knew it. “Run!” it shouted, “Hide!” but the petty officer refused to listen. Right or wrong, like it or not, Andromeda qualified as one of the resistance movement’s leaders. If she could make contact, if they could talk, the cult leader could theoretically provide a wealth of information regarding the factory and the situation in general. Finally, after what seemed like an hour, a rock clattered across the pavement. Borsky looked up from the fire. “It’s Ellis—she’s coming in.”
Darby lowered the .38, allowed herself to breathe, and heard the scrape of footsteps. Andromeda shuffled into the circle of light followed by Ellis. Darby was shocked to see the manner in which the formerly fastidious woman had been transformed into a dirty, disheveled, old hag. The resistance fighter took a moment to listen before stepping out into the light. Andromeda heard the movement and turned to see. “Darby? Is that you?”
“Yes,” the former petty officer replied, “it’s me all right. Who else would wear a face like this one?”
Andromeda’s eyes brimmed with tears. “It looks wonderful to me.” And with that the cult leader gave Darby a hug. It was unexpected, from Darby’s perspective at any rate, and she felt awkward. Especially when it was over. It was Ellis who broke the ensuing silence. “Come on, Borsky, they want to talk.”
“It’s our fire.”
“So, fucking what? There’s enough wood around her to start a thousand fires . . . Besides, I need some shut-eye. Let’s go.”
Borsky spit into the fire as if that might put it out. He came to his feet. His eyes locked with Darby’s. “She’s a lying bitch. Keep that in mind.”
Then, with Ellis leading the way, the two of them were gone.
Andromeda shook her head sadly. “He hates me, and I don’t blame him. I know it sounds stupid, but I actually believed the Saurons would lift humanity up. Even worse is the fact that I managed to convince people like him that it was true. Now look at us. We’re nothing but a bunch of coke addicts waiting for a fix.” Andromeda’s head fell, and her entire body seemed to radiate a sense of helplessness.
“We all made mistakes,” Darby said soothingly, “but that’s in the past. This is now. I was sent to learn everything I can about the factory. They told me you already know about the plans to attack it. What you might not be aware of is the fact that Franklin left Hell Hill and took the government underground. Right about the same time the Ra ‘Na rose up and took part of the fleet.”
Andromeda’s head came back up. Something like the old fire burned in her eyes. “The Ra ‘Na did what?”
Darby raised her eyebrows. “They took some of the fleet. About twenty-five percent if what I heard was true.”
“Don’t you see?” the other woman demanded. “There’s the answer! Tell Deac Smith that the actual complex is very well guarded. Tell him that the best thing to do is attack from the air. Some of those manta-shaped fighters could do the job—or an attack from orbit. Yes! That would be ideal.”
“But what about the slaves?” Darby inquired pragmatically. “At least some of them would be killed. Probably more.”
“The more the better,” Andromeda said, her eyes flashing. “Anything would be better than this misery. Just tell me where the first energy bolt will fall, and I’ll be there.”
“I understand,” Darby said gently, “but people like Borsky and Ellis might feel differently.”
“Only because they’re deluded,” Andromeda said sternly. “Even if we escape the Saurons, there’s no way to escape the cocaine. Death would be a blessing.”
“I’ll pass your opinions along,” Darby promised, “or maybe you’d like to come in person. There’s room in my boat.”
The passion seemed to leak out of Andromeda like air from a balloon. “No, much as I would like to, I lack the strength. I want the next hit more than I want my freedom.”
Darby nodded, fumbled for the notebook, and pulled it out of her pack. It was sealed in a Ziploc bag and the folks at S. C. Johnson & Son would have been proud of the fact that it was still bone dry. “Sorry to do this to you—but Deac gave me a list of questions.”
Andromeda said she understood, answered all the questions put to her, and gave Darby another hug. Then, alone with the fire, the cult leader considered what she had done, or not done, since the crime was one of omission rather than commission.
None of Darby’s questions addressed the possibility of sabotage—and Andromeda failed to mention the manner in which some of the injector assemblies had been plugged. The question was why? Because there was a good possibility that her efforts to disable the plant would be discovered? Or because she wanted fire to flash down from the sky? There was no way to know. Andromeda began to cry—but her sobs were lost in the crackle of the flames.
ABOARD THE SAURON CRUISER IB SE MA
Though not as large as the Hok Nor Ah, the Ib Se Ma was a formidable ship nonetheless. She was half a mile long, more than five hundred feet wide, and normally carried a crew of approximately ten thousand Saurons and their slaves.
But now, large though she was, the Sauron vessel was horribly crowded. Some Saurons had been captured by the mutinous slaves, and were still being held, but others, literally thousands, had managed to escape. The refugees came on shuttles, tugs, and in at least one case aboard a garbage scow. And the only things most brought with them were their appetites, unrealistic expectations regarding the manner in which they would be accommodated, and a deep-seated anger. Slaves attacking Kan? Ships under Ra ‘Na control? Humans running amok? The fleet frozen in place? Ships sniping at each other? Fon graffiti on bulkheads? The entire situation verged on madness.
And if the Fon were unhappy, and the Kan were angry, the Zin were absolutely furious. They knew about the change, how very few days remained, and how vulnerable the race would be should any of the preparations fail. More than that they knew, or believed they did, that Hak-Bin was a changeling, that he had taken unfair advantage of his position, and worst of all failed to execute his duties.
Now, as those who could filtered in from throughout the fleet, they found their sedan chairs trapped in fleshy traffic jams. Peeking out through closely drawn curtains, the Zin saw grim-looking Kan stationed at each intersection and Fon who had been forced to camp in the hallways. Such Ra ‘Na as there were had been chained to hastily welded U-bolts to prevent them from fleeing into the heretofore secret passageways that riddled the ship.
Now, as a phalanx of Fon struggled to make holes through which the sedan chairs could pass, some of the council members became even more angry, while others were frightened. Politician that he was Hak-Bin had not only anticipated the way his brethren would react to the experience, but stood ready to capitalize on it. Rather than wait for the council to arrive and settle into the relative comfort of their slings, Hak-Bin was there to greet each Zin as he entered the chamber. This was so unusual, and Hak-Bin was so respectful, that many of the clan leaders found it difficult to remain angry and were somewhat mollified by the time they entered their respective cradles.
Others, those less susceptible to flattery, continued to be angry. However, rather than use the time to rally others to their cause, they were forced to sit and glower as Hak-Bin saw to the needs of the council’s more malleable members, even going so far as to bring snacks to some of them.
There was some carefully modulated conversation, however, most of which centered on the fact that Hak-Bin looked a lot better than the rumors suggested he might, which left the real question unanswered. Had he started to change or not? Many wanted to ask Ott-Mar, who, along with Grand Vizier Tog and some o
ther retainers, stood at the rear of the compartment, but none dared do so.
Finally, after all of the council members had been seated, a series of three tones were sounded, and Hak-Bin opened the meeting. Something he wanted to do as quickly as he could. A series of images popped into existence. They seemed to hover in midair. Hak-Bin shuffled from one to the next. “These pictures are live . . . Here’s the citadel in the northern hemisphere . . . And here’s the citadel in the southern hemisphere. Please note that both are not only intact—but in the final stages of construction.
“Now, please direct your attention to this feed. Construction of the orbital catalyst factory is now complete, and, while the one on the surface is two days ahead. The point,” Hak-Bin continued, “is that in spite of the so-called revolt, none of the preparations for birth-death day have been compromised thus far.”
“Tell that to our dead brethren,” a Zin named Mal-Hiz said angrily. “Tell it to Mon-Oro. You told him everything would be fine, and the fur balls killed him while he slept in his sling. Take a look around this chamber, my lord . . . Five cradles are empty. Approximately one-third of the fleet has been lost, and more ships may fall. Many of the vessels that remain in our graspers have been damaged or neutralized because of our inability to repair or operate them. Meanwhile, down on the surface, the human resistance movement has grown so strong that the ferals make regular radio broadcasts ! How dare you come before this body and tell us that everything is fine?”
At least half the council stomped their feet in agreement.
It was an excellent summary, and Hak-Bin was actually grateful to Mal-Hiz for being so articulate. The accusations not only served to vent some of the pent-up anger, they set the stage for the rest of Hak-Bin’s presentation. A response which skillfully skirted the situation in orbit to focus on the surface below.
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