“Mistakes were made . . . I admit that and assume full responsibility,” Hal-Bin replied, his eyes roaming the chamber. “But there is no need to panic. In fact, corrective measures are already under way. Thanks to information obtained by Grand Vizier Tog, and subsequently passed on to me, the radio broadcasts Mal-Hiz referred to are about to end. By the time you return to your respective quarters, the humans responsible for them will be dead.”
Tog was careful to stare straight ahead as some of the Zin looked in his direction. The fact that he was there, privy to their private deliberations, was both a sign of how far he had come and how vulnerable he was. The latest coup, made possible by information from an anonymous source, further cemented his relationship with Hak-Bin. Something he now wanted to downplay in case the rebels won.
“So,” Hak-Bin continued lightly, “all that remains is to retake the vessels now under Ra ‘Na control, put the troublemakers to death, seal the ships for use by our nymphs, and begin an orderly withdrawal. Does anyone have any questions or comments?”
Some of the council members had clearly been swayed by Hak-Bin’s decidedly upbeat message. Others, individuals like Mal-Hiz, were a good deal less sanguine, but found themselves with a limited number of options. They could call for a vote of no confidence and hope to force a change of leadership, but what if they lost? Now, as birth-death day loomed ever closer, Hak-Bin had the power to grant some very important favors. Which clans would be transported to the surface first? Which citadels would they be assigned to? And which levels would they occupy?
Thanks to memories inherited from their ancestors, the Zin knew that such seemingly trivial matters could have a material effect on nymph mortality, especially now, and were therefore hesitant to give offense.
Besides, there was the question of how the Fon and Kan would react to a change in leadership. Rumors were rampant, literacy had continued to spread, and it was difficult to gauge how much support each Zin could command. That being the case, opposition was limited to muttered comments, hostile stares, and negative pheromones that leaked into the air.
Hak-Bin understood the quandary that the council members found themselves in and, more than that, had counted on it. All that remained was to close the meeting and return to his new quarters. “Given the fact that there are no questions or comments, I suggest that we return to our various ships, continue to work through the issues that confront us and prepare for the great day.”
The Zin left after that . . . but Tog remained. He had been assigned quarters so nice they had formerly been occupied by a Fon. Females were his to command. Food, no matter how exotic, was a com call away. So why did he feel so lost? So extremely empty? So dead inside? There was no one left to ask.
SALMON NATIONAL FOREST, IDAHO
By the time the bugs finally came and launched their attack on Racehome, Jonathan Ivory no longer thought they would. After all, the broadcasts had been taking place for a while now, with no reaction.
It was a gray day, the kind that threatens rain, but never seems to deliver. That in spite of the fact that the fire danger was high, and the more religious members of the community had prayed for precipitation. Ivory wasn’t among them, however, since the whole notion of an all-knowing, all-seeing, all-powerful God, even a white one, made him feel nervous.
Besides, there were plenty of things to claim his attention, not the least of which was the urgent need to deal with the steady stream of people brought in via Dent’s radio broadcasts. Much as he hated to do so, Ivory was forced to admit that the self-proclaimed Lion of the Airwaves had recruited a lot of new members to the cause.
By including semicoded directions in his broadcasts, messages like “men and women who wish to join us should gather in the city of Smith on such and such a day,” the on-air personality brought all manner of survivalists, racialists, and just plain whackos out their hidey-holes and out into the open. Then, once assembled at an appropriate location, Ivory’s “shepherds” would appear, sort the wheat from the chaff, and march the “anointed” to Racehome.
In spite of the fact that the steady stream of newcomers had a tendency to look to Dent for inspirational leadership, all the able-bodied men were automatically inducted into Ivory’s Hammer-Skins, which meant there wasn’t much that the Lion could do without Ivory’s buy-in.
The result was a de facto alliance, which, in the absence of interference from the Saurons, had actually started to prosper. So much so that by the time the bugs launched their attack Ivory had concluded that Ella had been correct where the broadcaster was concerned and, had the baby been born, might have moved her back to Racehome.
The first indication that an attack was under way came when the orbital bombardment began. Thunder rolled as energy weapons fired, blew two-ton divots out of the surrounding forest, and a hand-cranked siren began to wail.
The command bunker was located just outside the entrance to the mine. Ivory felt the earth shake, knew instinctively what the cause was, and rose from his chair. Conscious of how his demeanor could affect those around him, the racialist walked outside, accepted a pair of binoculars from one of the sentries, and scanned the area in front of him. All over Racehome well-drilled men, women, and children ran for their preassigned battle stations. There were plenty of weapons—and everyone over the age of ten had one.
Farther out, beyond the central compound, gigantic explosions marched across the land. First came a sound similar to the roar of a freight train, then the earth-shaking whump as the energy was released, quickly followed by the pistol-shot-like crack of shattered trees, the clatter of falling rock, and the rainlike patter of loose soil.
Ivory watched a fountain of dirt and rock soar upward, saw a seventy-foot fir tree launch itself skyward, and spoke from the corner of his mouth. “Order all units to hold their fire. This is the preliminary bombardment. Judging from the way the explosions march back and forth, the weapons are computer-controlled. The real attack will begin when this one ends. The bugs will land on Howther Lake. Order the units there to wait until at least two shuttles have landed before launching the SLMs.”
Ivory’s orders were relayed to racialist forces via a network of CB radios. Weapons were readied, children under the age of ten were herded down into the mine, and Racehome was ready for war. Or thought it was, and would have been, except for one critical miscalculation.
Rather than land on Howther Lake as Ivory had assumed they would, the Saurons employed a different kind of airborne attack. The battle platforms, which the Saurons had stolen from the Arnth more than a hundred Earth-years before, had a tendency to be temperamental but were otherwise perfect for the occasion. Or such was the opinion of Centum Commander Dor-Une, a no-nonsense veteran and the Kan in charge.
There were rumors, persistent rumors, that the current generation was about to die, giving way to another. This was secret, or had been secret, due to the endlessly arrogant Zin belief that the lower castes would panic if faced with their own mortality.
Contrary to their opinions, however, was the fact that not only Dor-Une but thousands of other Kan and Fon not only believed in the rumors, but found a sort of solace in them. And why not? They had lived long eventful lives, each would produce a near replica of himself, and the ancestors awaited.
The only problem, and one which Dor-Une had been careful to take into account, was the fact that no one who had heard the rumors and decided to believe them would want to die before his nymph could be born. One of the real reasons why the Zin decided to withhold the reproductive information? Yes, quite possibly.
So, in an effort to ensure that his warriors would not only suffer as few casualties as possible, but would know that the odds were stacked in their favor, the Centum insisted on what amounted to an overwhelming force augmented by the impact of an aerial bombardment and the element of surprise. Each of the circular battle platforms could carry twenty Kan for a distance of twenty human miles at anything up to a hundred feet off the ground. Then, emptied of all but two
pilots, and the gunner located in the weapons blister just beneath their feet, the combat disk would provide close-in fire support.
Now, as the compound came under fire from orbit, and dozens of battle platforms swept in over the surrounding treetops, Ivory felt something horrible slither into the pit of his stomach as the Kan infantry dropped and bounced up into the air. They shimmered, went out of focus, and came back again. Gunfire lashed up to meet them, a few turned somersaults as slugs hammered their chitin, but most survived. Though trained to fight an enemy who could leap into the air, the Hammer Skins weren’t prepared to deal with something like this, and there was only one person Ivory could blame: himself.
And so it was that the Saurons fell on the humans like a plague of locusts, their t-guns firing with the regularity of well-strung firecrackers while heavier weapons yammered and a hailstorm of armor-piercing slugs tore buildings apart, blasted through concrete walls, and penetrated bunkers.
Faced with an enemy that was a great deal more mobile than they were, and unable to reinforce each other without coming under a withering fire, the racialists had little choice but to hunker down and fight a hundred Alamos.
Though forced to withdraw into the entrance to the mine, Ivory could still see some of what was happening and monitor the rest by CB radio. There was nothing he could do as clusters of Aryan warriors, most of whom were oriented to the lake, found themselves surrounded, were hosed with automatic weapons fire, and blown to bloody rags by the Sauron equivalent of rocket-propelled grenades.
Oh, there were victories all right, like the SLM that struck one of platforms, exploded, and sent the burning disk into the tinder-dry forest where an entire grove of trees burst into flame. But moments such as that were few and far between. Many of the Hammer Skins ran, or tried to, but were cut down in heaps. The eventual outcome was clear to see. Ivory thought about his family, felt a pang of regret, but was glad that Ella and the unborn baby were safe.
The racialist turned to a grim-faced aide, issued a set of orders, and turned back in the direction of the compound. An explosion shook the ground as an ammo bunker blew. Tracer fire stuttered upwards as a .50-caliber machine gun found one of the battle platforms and punched holes through its hull. Flames appeared, the disk tilted, and slid into the ground below. Earth rose in a wave. There were no explosions just a crash and the shriek of tortured metal. Then, like so many airborne sharks, additional battle platforms were drawn to the scene. They formed the corners of a rectangle, put coordinated fire onto the pit from which the .50-caliber continued to fire, and tore the crew to shreds.
Ivory wanted to run, knew that the earlier more cynical version of himself would have run, but somewhere along the line he had come truly to believe in the cause and now stood ready to die for it.
The racialist heard a disturbance and turned to discover that an outraged Dent had been deposited at his feet. The Lion of the Airwaves had been strapped onto his stretcher and was accompanied by four heavily armed Hammer Skins. Dent’s face was so suffused with blood that it had a purplish hue. His eyes darted from side to side, clawlike hands tugged at the belt strapped across his bony chest, and spittle flew from his lips as he spoke. “How dare you! Release me immediately! You’ll pay for this!”
“Some of the geeks who work for him were trying to take his highness out through the escape tunnel along with the women and children,” a Hammer Skin said disgustedly. “The chicken-shit bastard.”
“And the geeks?”
“Dead.”
Ivory nodded. “Well done.”
The fighting was closer by then, so close that slugs had started to ricochet off the rock face that surrounded the mine’s entrance, and they could hear the screams as members of the Home Guard were cut down. “Lift my stretcher!” Dent commanded. “Carry me away! We must live to fight again!”
Ivory shook his head sadly. “That would never do. A legend will soon be born. A legend that tells how the leaders of the White Rose died to defend Racehome. A legend that will live long after we are dead. Give the coward a weapon.”
Someone dropped a .9mm handgun onto the broadcaster’s chest. Dent brushed the pistol aside.
Ivory sighed, bent to retrieve the weapon from the dirt, and released the safety. “Okay, asshole, have it your way,” he said, and shot Dent twice in the chest.
“Now,” the racialist said, turning to the Hammer Skins, “let’s buy some time for the women and children. Once that’s over, well, heaven wouldn’t be heaven without beer, and I’m buying.”
The skins laughed, turned toward the Kan, and vanished, as an energy bolt struck the entrance to the mine. Rock fell, sealed the tunnel, and gave the noncombatants an opportunity to escape.
Meanwhile, in a cabin not far away, a baby waited to be born. She would be white, like the rose for which she would be named, and a vessel ready to be filled.
6
DEATH DAY MINUS 20
SUNDAY, JULY 12, 2020
Behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him.
—HOLY BIBLE
Book of Revelation 6:8
ABOARD THE RA ‘NA VESSEL LIBERTY, (FORMERLY THE HOK NOR AH )
Having just entered the crisp cold waters of Puget Sound, Pol was about to propel himself out over a richly populated clam bed, when the biosupport tech shook his shoulder. “Fra Pol . . . it’s time to wake up.”
Suddenly snatched from the Ra ‘Na equivalent of heaven Pol found himself back aboard the Liberty with only a blanket between his body and the hard cold deck. The U-shaped passageway located just aft of the ship’s bridge made a convenient if somewhat unlikely dormitory. There were other quarters, but none so close, and Pol wanted to stay nearby. Two technicians, both asleep, lay to the initiate’s right. The lights had been dimmed to make the space more comfortable.
Pol checked the chron strapped to his wrist, confirmed that Umar was correct, and rubbed his eyes. Two units of sleep, that’s what the initiate had allowed himself, and it wasn’t enough. There was no time for self-pity, however, not with a partially liberated starship to command, assuming he could actually command it, which remained in doubt. Pol sat up, stretched, and accepted a mug of tea. “Status?”
Having taken orders from Saurons all of his life, Umar struggled to accept the new reality. Taking direction from a Ra ‘Na initiate, especially a disreputable individual such as Pol, was a novelty indeed. “Things are pretty much the same . . . The Kan control the Launch Deck and the starboard propulsion pod, but the rest of the ship is ours.”
Pol took another sip of tea. It was piping hot and served to lubricate his thoughts. “You haven’t heard from the Kan in Propulsion Pod One yet? That’s a surprise . . . The bugs tend to allocate two units for nearly everything they do. Patch the hull, mop the deck, it makes no difference. So, given the fact that it has been two hours since our last attempt to break in, they should have reacted by now.”
Umar was about to say no, that he hadn’t heard from the Saurons and doubted they were quite that predictable, when a com tech named Spon spoke over the intercom. “Commanding officer to the bridge please . . . The Saurons in Pod One would like to speak with him.”
Umar watched in wonder as Pol finished his tea, put the mug aside, and came to his feet. “Tell Spon to put them on hold. I need to pee.”
Umar watched the initiate waddle away. Not only had Pol correctly predicted what the Saurons would do next . . . he had put the master race on hold! Here was a cool customer indeed—and one which the biosupport tech was increasingly willing to follow.
Pol fancied he could feel Umar’s eyes on the center of his back as he made his way down the corridor, past the lavatories set aside for the Zin, Kan, and Fon, to the hatch marked “slaves.”
Once inside, the initiate checked to ensure that he was alone and heaved a sigh of relief. The truth was that he did need to pee, but more than that to integrate who he was with who he was supposed to be, the steely-eyed commander of an extr
emely powerful warship. Lacking any Ra ‘Na military leaders on which to model himself, Pol hoped to emulate Dro Rul’s self-possessed surety and the casual, sometimes humorous style demonstrated by humans like Deac Smith and “Popcorn” Farley.
That’s the persona Pol hoped to present anyway, although the outcome was anything but certain. Would he be able to enter eyeball-to-eyeball negotiations with a Sauron and hold his own? Or would he be reduced to little more than a puddle of subservient slave slime? Because in spite of the initiate’s iconoclastic ways, and the acts of defiance for which he was now famous, the Saurons scared the shit out of him.
That was the real reason he had gone down the hall, not only to relieve the pressure on his bladder, but to summon the courage necessary to face a member of the master race. Associated as they were with so much pain and suffering, the words “master race” caused a sudden surge of anger. Pol recognized the emotion for what it was, managed to seize control of it, and used the feeling to cement his resolve.
The Ra ‘Na washed his hands, left the lavatory, and strolled down the corridor. A female passed, and Pol nodded politely. She, like most of her peers on the Liberty, knew who the rumpled initiate was and hurried to tell her friends.
Com tech Spon was waiting when Pol entered the control room, claimed one of the recently installed chairs, and offered a smile. “Sorry about that, but like the humans say, ‘when you gotta go, you gotta go.’ What’s up?”
“It’s the Kan in Propulsion Pod One, sir, they want to parley.”
Pol heard the “sir,” wondered if such an honorific was seemly, and decided that it was. Most of Deac Smith’s subordinates called him “sir,” and none of them were slaves. “Military courtesy,” that’s what Farley called it, and insisted it was necessary. “Okay,” Pol responded, “put the bug on.”
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