And the helicopter did do it, lurching into the air just as a Sauron SLM flashed through the space just vacated, and Dragon Two settled into the LZ. The second ship wasn’t so lucky. Men and women were still spilling out of the helicopter’s belly when a second SLM struck the aircraft’s tail, destroyed both engines, and ignited the onboard fuel. The resulting fireball lit the night.
Farley watched the assault team bail out, gave thanks for the fact that most of them appeared to have made it, and got on the radio. “Red Dog One to Dragon Three . . . The LZ has been zeroed . . . repeat zeroed. Break it off and back around. We could use some fire support. Over.”
Dragon Three, under the control of an ex-army pilot by the name of Dawkins, who gave thanks for the reprieve, banked to starboard. The turn, and the resulting tilt, provided the door gunner with the chance she’d been waiting for. Her name was Izu, and though only five feet tall, she was all warrior. The 7.62mm minigun whined as if eager to begin its task, began to roar, and spit thousands of rounds per minute at the enemy below.
Dor-Une, still gloating over the manner in which the slaves had rushed into his trap, felt a sudden sense of alarm as the helicopter was transformed from a troop delivery system into a platform for an extremely nasty offensive weapon. Guided by Izu’s gentle hand, the 7.62mm slugs found the Kan and ripped them to pieces. The Centum Commander screamed into the com. “Destroy that aircraft! Do it now!”
The Sauron warriors were nothing if not obedient. Half a dozen SLMs lanced upwards, sought heat, and locked in. Some went for the flares that Dawkins triggered, but some didn’t. The interval between the warning tone and the sound of the first explosion was so short that one blended into the next. Dawkins, Izu, and the rest of the heavy weapons platoon were gone in a flash of light.
The debris from Dragon Three was still falling when Farley waved the first and second platoons forward. “Red Dog One to Red Dog Team . . . Are you people paid by the hour? Let’s get a move on.”
The Kan fell back into a series of prepared positions, fired just enough to maintain contact, and waited for the slaves to enter the kill zone.
The factory lay one city block to the west . . . and the defensive fire was lighter than Farley had expected. On the other hand, nothing was as he had expected. Either Darby had her head up her ass—or the place had been reinforced subsequent to her visit. Either way the outcome was the same. There were a lot more bugs than there were supposed to be, and if the Saurons were surprised, it was sure hard to tell.
Lead elements of the assault team came under fire from the Sauron equivalent of a light machine gun. The first platoon silenced the weapon with a volley of 40mm grenades and continued to push forward. The catalyst factory, which was inexplicably lit, appeared up ahead. Farley paused, scanned the facility with a pair of light-intensifying binoculars, and tried to make sense of what he saw. Either the bugs were stupid, a definite possibility, or they were smart and . . .
The ex-Ranger’s thought process was interrupted as Dor-Une ordered his mortars to fire. A series of explosions marched their way across the ground to Farley’s rear. The human knew he’d been boxed, knew he wouldn’t make it home, and gave the only order he could. “Assault team, advance!”
And the assault team did advance right into the carefully planned cross fire that Dor-Une had worked so hard to prepare for them. But even as alien tracer fire cut the night into slices of darkness, and his team members continued to fall, Farley made one last call. “Red Dog One to Dragon One . . . over.”
Vera Veen, still circling well clear of the firefight, was quick to reply. “This is Dragon One . . . go.”
“It was a trap . . . Execute Plan B. Red Dog out.”
Veen swore bitterly and turned to Wu. “You heard the man . . . make the call.”
“Are you sure?”
“That was an order goddamn it! Make the call!”
Wu made the call.
Twelve fighters circled thousands of feet above. The Ra ‘Na flight commander, an ex-shuttle pilot named Yad, swore as the transmission came in. Now, just as a swarm of Sauron fighters were making their way down through the atmosphere, the humans were in the mood to talk. He had no notion of human radio procedure and his voice was terse. “Yes? What do you want?”
Wu forced himself to ignore the other pilot’s tone. “Execute Plan B. Over.”
Yad checked one of the screens arrayed in front of him. Each member of Farley’s team had been provided with an electronic locator beacon. Each individual appeared as a green dot. There were surprisingly few of them, and they were clustered within the very area he had just been ordered to attack. “Have you lost your mind? If we attack the factory, your ground forces will be slaughtered.”
Wu heard his own voice as if it came from a long distance away. “Roger that Strike One . . . but they’re going to die anyway. You have your orders . . . carry them out. Over.”
Yad felt something hard settle into the bottom of his stomach. He said, “I understand,” and opened a link with the rest of his command. “Flights two and three will engage the Saurons. Flight one will follow me down. Arm bombs and missiles. This target is critical. We can’t afford to miss.”
There were a variety of replies, all affirmative, and the battle was joined. As flight one dove—flights two and three started to climb. Some envied flight one. At least they wouldn’t have to face Kan pilots one-on-one. Not yet anyway.
Meanwhile, down on the ground, Farley was down to ten effectives. They lay on their backs feet together, weapons aimed upward. “All right,” the ex-noncom said, “let’s make the bastards pay.”
The Kan jumped after that, their momentarily gray bodies nearly invisible against the night sky, weapons winking red. Counterfire lashed up to meet them, alien bodies turned somersaults in the air, and blood fell like warm rain.
But more Kan jumped, and more, until the sky was full of them. And each time they jumped the warriors met less resistance until there was hardly any at all. And finally, just as the Ra ‘Na fighters made their first run, the last member of the assault team died. His name was George “Popcorn” Farley, he’d been a Ranger once, and now, by all accounts, he still was.
Dor-Une felt the ground tremble as the incoming fighters started to unload their ordnance. It didn’t seem fair. He’d done his part . . . but the half-wits in the air arm had failed to do theirs. Still, there was hope, especially in light of the low-quality forces that opposed him. Not one of the Ra ‘Na pilots had ever dropped a bomb before, so it wasn’t too surprising that none of them were able to hit the intended target.
Yad, who was no better than the rest, swore when he saw that his last bomb was hung up. He started to toggle the emergency release, thought better of it, and banked to the left. “All right, slaves—the master race awaits! Put all of your missiles on the factory.”
Like most of the slaves assigned to the day shift, Sister Andromeda was well clear of the factory by the time the assault began. But she had seen the influx of Kan, knew a trap had been laid, and hurried to warn someone. The assault force moved quickly however, and by the time Andromeda had traversed a section of burned-out ruins and arrived on the scene of the fighting, the battle was mostly over. The Saurons launched flares. They soared into the air, went pop, and drifted downward. The harsh green light cast an eerie glow over the ravaged landscape.
The cult leader stepped over an eviscerated Kan and into the circle of death. The humans lay like the petals of a dead flower—their weapons clutched in lifeless hands, or inches from dead fingertips. Andromeda felt a terrible sense of grief bubble up from deep within. Sobs racked her body, and she made no attempt to control them. The Ra ‘Na fighters passed over her head, made a long slow turn, and began their second run.
Andromeda recognized Farley and knelt beside his body. The Ranger’s hand was sticky but warm. She clasped it to her chest. Now, as she waited for the final release, the words that came to the onetime cultist’s lips were from a religion that predated hers. �
�The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: He leadeth me beside still waters . . .”
Yad lined his fighter up on the catalyst factory, caught the explosion from the corner of his eye, and knew his wing-man was dead. Although the pilot did not regard himself as especially religious, the hona seemed to chant itself. “From the ocean we came . . . and to the ocean we shall return. For I am but a drop in the sea of life, carried by currents unknown, and cast up where the Great One will have me.”
Sister Andromeda heard the rhythmic pom, pom, pom of the Kan AA batteries, the shriek of outgoing SLMs, but never looked up. “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for Thou art with me . . .”
Yad fired his final pair of missiles, toggled the emergency bomb release, and felt his fighter rise as the thousand-unit bomb fell away. There was just enough time to get off a burst from his nose cannon prior to pulling up and out of the dive. Moments later he was climbing, thrilled to be alive, and amazed to find that he and his wingmates owned the sky.
A missile hit the ground not ten feet from where Andromeda knelt, exploded, and set her free. There was light, a feeling of weightlessness, and an enormous sense of relief.
Dor-Une never saw the bomb, it was too dark for that, but somehow knew that death was on the way. Death for not only him but the nymph within. He met it the same way he had encountered life: head up, eyes open, feet planted firmly on the ground.
The bomb struck, the catalyst factory exploded, and 204 slaves were killed. However, 416 Saurons died in the same blast, not to mention those who would die because they lacked birth catalyst, and those who would never be born.
Vera Veen knew that, knew she was lucky to be alive, but somehow wished that she wasn’t. Officers weren’t supposed to cry, not in front of subordinates, but the pilot didn’t care. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she turned the helicopter toward the east. The engines droned, and the survivors, all three of them, were carried home.
NORTH OF MOUNT VERNON, WASHINGTON
Franklin looked upward. The skies were clear, and, without the glare produced by the cities of the past, the stars twinkled like diamonds. Points of light in what appeared to be an otherwise dark galaxy.
Yes, there was beauty, if you had a telescope powerful enough to see it, but there was horror as well. Not in the stars themselves—but in the life forms they could produce. Why would an all-seeing, all-knowing, all-powerful god produce a race like the Saurons? Yet what, come to think of it, had the aliens done that humans had not? Bomb cities into rubble? You bet, plenty of them. Enslave thousands of sentient beings? Been there, done that. Practice genocide on a massive scale? Sure, and there were ovens to prove it. So, it came down to a matter of free choice, and what sentients did with it.
There was the rustle of clothing, and a familiar voice said, “I thought I might find you out here.”
Franklin turned to greet Dr. Sool. Light spilled from an open door. It lit the left side of her face. It was beautiful, and her skin reminded him of Jina’s. The medic offered the politician a cup of coffee. He took it. “Jack sent you.”
Sool smiled. “And what if he did? He cares about you . . . We all do.”
“Not those who are dead,” Franklin said bitterly. “Not Popcorn Farley, not Sister Andromeda, not the rest of them.”
Sool took a sip of tea. “All of us are going to die, Mr. President, the only question is when. Thanks to the sacrifice made by people like Farley, the Saurons lost fifty percent of their birth catalyst plus the capacity to make more. That’s equivalent to killing half their nymphs in a single blow. No small accomplishment. The job needed to be done. They agreed to do it. End of story.”
Franklin tried the coffee. It was hot and warmed the pit of his stomach. “So you have a degree in psychiatry as well.”
Sool shook her head. “No, the truth is so obvious anyone could see it . . . Anyone but you.”
“So, do you think we can win?”
The medic shrugged. “Maybe, though it’s far from certain. I know one thing, however . . .”
“What’s that?”
“We have the right leader.”
Franklin raised his mug. “Thanks, Doc. Perhaps you aren’t a shrink . . . but you’re the next best thing.”
Sool grinned. “Don’t speak too soon . . . Wait till you see my bill!”
ABOARD THE RA ‘NA CRUISER BALWUR
Until very recently the compartment had been used as a sort of lounge by the Fon. Now, by virtue of the fact that all of the vessel’s previous owners had either been wounded, killed, or locked away in one of the ship’s holds, it had been transformed into an assembly hall. As such it was packed to overflowing with small, furry bodies. Contravening voices filled the air, ears lay flat against sleek skulls, and arms flailed wildly as a multiplicity of debates raged throughout the room.
Rul sat on a bench off to one side and watched in wonder. Slavery was horrible, but the chaos before him was nearly unbearable, especially to one who admired order in the way that he did. Yet, based on secret documents handed down through the Ra ‘Na priesthood, the dro knew that such settos had been a common occurrence back during pre-Sauron days, and were in fact a hallmark of democracy.
True to the time-honored institutions of the past, the new government would include a secular chief executive officer, an upper house comprised of senior members of the clergy, and a much larger lower house in which the various guilds would attempt to build coalitions, block each others’ initiatives, and ram their agendas through. The very process taking place in front of him . . . except that debate centered on a single issue.
Now that the Ra ‘Na dominated ships had withdrawn into space and were free to do as they pleased, some of the newly freed slaves wanted to depart for the now nearly mythical planet of Balwur.
Others, Rul among them, felt that to leave would amount to cowardice, and an unforgivable betrayal of both the Ra ‘Na who remained on Sauron-controlled ships and the humans on the planet below.
“Nonsense,” the runners responded, insisting as they did that most if not all of the Ra ‘Na who remained on Sauron vessels did so voluntarily, and that the humans could take care of themselves. Some even went so far as to refer to the humans as clath, or “furless ones,” a racial slur that reflected the extent to which they had been influenced by Sauron society.
All of which was necessary if not especially attractive, since public debate had been silenced since the fall of Balwur and must necessarily resume. The only problem was that the Saurons were about to reproduce, lives were being lost, and time was running out. That being the case, Rul signaled P’ere Dee . . . and came to his feet. As with so many other things, Dee had anticipated the moment and equipped himself with the Ra ‘Na equivalent of a bullhorn. “Silence!”
Hundreds of standard units earlier, prior to the fall of Balwur, such an order would have been greeted with insults, rude noises, and outright rebellion, since no one but the chief executive could issue such an order, and then only in the most dire of circumstances. But all of those present had been slaves and were used to following orders. The silence was total. Rul took control by simply moving to the front of the compartment, scanning the assembly with his laser-like gaze, and projecting his considerable personality.
“Debate is a necessary and time-honored component of democracy. Later, when the present crisis has been resolved and the Sauron menace has been forever put aside, there will be ample opportunity for talk. But here, now, deeds must substitute for words.
“Some say that we have suffered enough, that we should run, and leave the collaborators behind. I say they are wrong. With perhaps the exception of a few rebels, brave souls such as Fra Pol, every single one of us functioned as a collaborator in one way or another. Whom should we leave? By what test will you sort them out? And who is so innocent that they qualify to make such judgments?
“Some say that the humans should be left to fight their own bat
tles. I say they are wrong. Who struck the first blows? Who destroyed the first Sauron ships? Who showed us the way?
“Some believe that we are somehow superior to both humans and Saurons because of our technological know-how. Well, I am here to tell you the Great One cares not for technology, nor the nature of the material that covers our bodies, but for the quality of the being within. Choose wisely my friends . . . or take the first steps down the same path that the Saurons followed so long ago.”
There was silence after that as the vast majority of those present stared down at their feet and looked embarrassed. Finally, Sel San, leader of the Power Tech Guild, cleared his throat. “I would like to thank Dro Rul on behalf of the Power Tech Guild—and move that we call for a simultaneous vote by both houses. All those in favor of staying say ‘aye.’ ”
The response reverberated like thunder. “AYE!”
“And those opposed?”
Silence.
San turned toward Rul, delivered an old-fashioned bow, and smiled. “I know it’s hard to believe—but it seems the entire assembly is in agreement.”
There was laughter—and the Ra ‘Na were truly free.
NEAR THE MAYAN RUINS OF NAKABE, GUATEMALA
It was night, and moonlight made a path across the river as it rushed, gurgled, and splashed its way toward the sea. Three Eye claimed that it spoke to him, or tried to, but either the river had no interest in Jones or she lacked the necessary talent because all she heard was the sound of water rushing by.
The donada was ill—and the anthropologist had volunteered to replace her on the second net. Partly because their little community was so dependent on the tidbits that the Saurons dumped into the river—and partly because she was bored.
Though relatively safe, the subterranean cavern where the sobrevivientes lived was more than a little stultifying. There was no Internet connection, no books, and no one with whom Jones could have a truly intellectual conversation.
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