The racialist aimed at the tractor’s ramp, applied additional pressure to the submachine gun’s trigger, and waited for one of the Kan to appear. Nothing happened.

  Meanwhile, still confined within trailer three, and eager to go outside, Rol-Baa made use of his radio. “What’s the delay?” the warrior wanted to know. “I’m tired of sitting in this metal box.”

  “Really?” the noncom inquired sarcastically. “Well, maybe you’re tired of living. Take a look at those guards and tell me what’s wrong with them.”

  Goaded by the other Sauron’s tone, Rol-Baa took a second look. He could see two of the guards—neither one of whom had moved since the first time he had looked at them. Then, before the warrior could remark on how strange that was, Cis-Nor used one of the train’s turret-mounted auto throwers to put a burst of darts into the ground less than one unit from a sentry’s foot. There was no reaction. “It’s a trap!” Cis-Nor roared. “Seal the hatches and get the train out of here!”

  But it was too late. Though hopeful that the Saurons would come out where the skins could shoot them, Ella had a backup plan, and was quick to make use of it. The racialist thumbed a button, the explosives buried under the road train went off with a loud whomp! And trailer two was nearly torn in half. Rol-Baa was killed in the explosion, along with a another warrior assigned to the same car.

  The driver, a quick-witted sort named Sus-Naa, hit the switch that would uncouple the tractor from the train and twisted the throttle. The vehicle lurched forward.

  Outside Ella heard a sharp crack as a smaller charge was detonated, a seventy-foot pine tree swayed, and started to fall.

  Ella held her breath as the tractor came up to speed, spewed gravel, and tried to escape even as warriors still trapped within the surviving trailers implored Cis-Nor to save them. Would the tree, falling as if in slow motion, hit the ground in time?

  The racialist didn’t think so at first, but then the tree seemed to fall more quickly, and smacked the ground directly in front of the tractor’s blunt nose. Ivory felt the tip of a branch brush across his chest, wondered what caused the explosions, and felt very exposed.

  Sus-Maa slammed the brakes on, managed to stop short of the tree trunk, and put the tractor into reverse. The Kan was backing away, looking for an escape route, when a skin named Boot fired the tripod-mounted launcher he and his companions had captured along with the fuel station. The foot-long missile slammed into the tractor’s side, blew a hole in the vehicle’s armor, and detonated inside the engine compartment. The subsequent explosion destroyed the main accumulator and put the vehicle out of commission.

  That was when Cis-Nor radioed for air support, or tried to, only to discover that both his primary and backup frequencies had been jammed. Furious, the noncom took an assault weapon down from a rack, ordered Sus-Maa to do likewise, and came out shooting.

  Ella squeezed her trigger, felt the submachine gun leap in her hands, and heard other weapons join in.

  Most of the Kan died quickly, but Cis-Nor made it into the air, and was able to kill two white slaves before the enemy bullets found him. Some of the projectiles flattened themselves against his body armor, but others found his unprotected legs and another struck the side of his head. Killed instantly—the noncom crashed to the ground.

  Ella knew that even if the effort to jam the Sauron transmission had been successful, and there was no way to be sure that it had, the activity itself was likely to draw the wrong kind of attention.

  That being the case, the racialist knew there was no time to gloat. “This is One… Blow the fuel bladder and check the trailers for things we can use. I want the dead and wounded on stretchers. Nobody gets left. Quickly now, before all hell breaks loose. Over.”

  Each skin knew what he would be held responsible for and went to work. There was a dull thump as the fuel bladder blew, black liquid stained the previously crystal-clear lake, and trout started to die.

  Boot, who had been assigned to deal with hostages andLα prisoners, was already in the process of cutting Ivory down when Ella arrived at the front of the tractor. “Look at what the bugs did to this poor bastard!” the skin said sympathetically. “He looks like hell warmed over.”

  Ivory heard the male voice and tried to focus. The face appeared as a white blob. The female voice was familiar somehow. “That ‘poor bastard’ happens to be my husband,” Ella said coolly, “so please pay him the respect he deserves.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Boot said respectfully. “I’ll take good care of him.”

  “See that you do,” Ella said, and kissed her husband’s sunburned cheek.

  And it was then, as the skin hoisted Ivory up onto his shoulder, that the racialist got a good look at his race wife. She smiled—and Ivory knew he was home.

  Meanwhile, up in orbit, a battery of ship-mounted weapons fired. A quick succession of six energy bolts, all targeted to the same patch of ground, ripped through the atmosphere. Ella heard what sounded like a runaway freight train, felt a ground-shaking thump, and saw an entire cluster of trees explode into a million splinters. They whirred as they slashed through the air, rattled across some of the trailers, and plowed furrows in the fuel-polluted lake.

  One of them struck a skin between the shoulders, threw him down, and nailed him to the ground. Ella, with Boot at her side, started to run. Another freight train arrived, and another, until the entire world erupted in flame.

  ABOARD THE SAURON DREADNOUGHT HOK NOR AH

  A platform complete with a table and chairs had been erected in the otherwise empty compartment. Below the platform, positioned so it could be seen through the transparent tabletop and clear plastic floor, sat a large tank. And there, visible through the grillwork designed to keep him from climbing out, a Fon could be seen. The liquid in which he was immersed was active, like water put on to boil, except that the motion was generated by a chemical reaction rather than heat. The acid, diluted so the process would take longer, ate at the Sauron’s chitin. Eventually, after most of his hard exoskeleton had been dissolved, the acid would bite into his internal organs. Then, while still experiencing the agony caused by that, and no longer able to hold his head up, the Fon would collapse in on himself and sink to the bottom of the tank. Knowing that, and hoping for some crumb of mercy, Kol-Hee stared up through the transparent floor in a futile attempt to make eye contact with Gon-Dra, the Zin who had been his supervisor, and was in all truth responsible for the disaster aboard the factory ship, La Ma Gor.

  But, having successfully blamed Kol-Hee for the explosions, and the subsequent shortage of birth catalyst, Gon-Dra was not about to demonstrate what might be interpreted as signs of sympathy for the unfortunate Fon.

  Still hopeful of attracting the attention of the beings seated above him, Kol-Hee used his nose to push against the gridwork that held him in place, but with no success. His snout was wrapped with tape, his pincers had been secured with plastic ties, and only his feet remained unbound. The Fon could lift one foot then the other—but that was the extent of his freedom. None of which seemed to be of interest to Hak-Bin, Gon-Dra, Dro Tog, and a Zin named Len-Dar, all of whom were gathered to discuss the shortage of birth catalyst.

  Hak-Bin, who had seen fit to restore gravity to the chamber to accommodate the requirements of the acid bath rather than his guests, was swathed in folds of black fabric. The extent to which his body had become swollen, and the odor that emanated from it, were factors the others sought to ignore.

  “So,” the Sauron leader said gratingly, “I believe all of you understand the nature of the situation. Every drog of birth catalyst lost through Kol-Hee’s incompetence must be replaced. The facility on the La Ma Gor will be repaired, a new factory will be constructed on the planet’s surface, and the time schedule will be adhered to.”

  The Zin turned toward the single Ra ‘Na. “It will be the Grand Vizier’s responsibility to mobilize the resources necessary to make these things happen and keep the slaves at the highest possible level of productivity. Do I make myself clear, Vizier Tog?”

  Tog struggled to control his hard-pressed digestive system as the acrid odor of dissolved chitin found its way into his nostrils and threatened to summon his lunch. “Yes, eminence, you do.”

  Meanwhile, just below their feet, Kol-Hee tried to scream as the acid found its way through thinner sections of chitin and burned his flesh. That was impossible at first, thanks to the tape that secured his snout, but when the stronger sections of his exoskeleton suddenly transformed themselves into white paste, and the acid rushed in, such was the Fon’s agony that he broke the tape and emptied his quickly melting lungs. The resulting sound made Tog’s fur stand on end, pushed his ears back along his skull, and caused his hands to shake.

  Hak-Bin glanced down in time to see the functionary’s now-unsupported head vanish beneath the surface of the acid bath even as the sound was cut in half. The Zin looked back up. “You heard Kol-Hee—need I say more?”

  Those in attendance agreed that he didn’t—and were quick to leave. There was work to do, a great deal of it, and every reason to hurry.

  ABOARD THE SAURON DREADNOUGHT HOK NOR AH

  Lock ^‘—2 had been designated for use by slaves and was heavily used. That being the case, the metal bulkheads along either side of the passageway were shiny up to the level of the average Ra Na’s head but dark and grimy above that. And, because normal maintenance programs had been suspended in order to put the maximum number of slaves to work on citadel-related projects, many little things had started to slide. Lights had burned out, a layer of trash littered the deck, and Ra ‘Na graffiti had started to appear on the once-immaculate walls. Some of it was openly rebellious—a sure sign of how thinly the Saurons were stretched.

  A line of approximately thirty rather bored Ra ‘Na technicals shuffled forward as a pair of equally bored Kan waved scanners over their wrist chips, verified that they had the necessary authorizations, and allowed the slaves to the enter the shuttle’s lock.

  Med tech Shu, her pulse pounding in her ears, tried to look as blasé as those around her, but discovered that was difficult to do. Especially since the chip implanted in her wrist rightfully belonged to a recently deceased com tech named Mas. Did the Kan know Mas was dead? Killed when the shuttle she had been riding in smacked into a large chunk of orbital debris? Just one of thousands if not millions of such obstacles the Saurons had allowed to accumulate around the planet below? No, there was no way that they could. No one had been present when Shu switched her chip with the one removed from the other female’s body and closed the incision.

  It was a brilliant plan, or that’s what Shu thought at the time, but now she wasn’t so sure. Once they saw her arm, the Saurons were almost sure to notice the tiny incision on the inside surface of her wrist and the makeup that had been applied in an attempt to conceal it.

  Or, failing that, how could the warriors miss the fact that the picture that would show up on their screens didn’t match her face? They couldn’t, which was why her entire body started to shake, and the med tech worried that she might faint.

  Now, as Shu approached the checkpoint, she questioned her own logic. The whole thing was absurd… Rather than perform surgery on herself, and assume another identity, why not share her knowledge with someone in authority. Dro Tog perhaps… or Dro Rul. Surely they would know what to do.

  But whom to trust? Many believed that Tog was a collaborator, especially since his controversial decision to accept the title “Grand Vizier,” and Rul was something of a mystery. Some claimed he was hip deep in the resistance movement Kothers said not.

  So, to whom could she turn? The answer was Fra Pol, assuming he was alive, and somewhere on the planet below. But first she had to get there, something that now seemed next to impossible as the male directly in front of her was cleared through the checkpoint and allowed to board the waiting shuttle.

  Shu extended her hand, watched Kan wave his wand over the chip, and eyed the nearby screen. Though similar in age, and overall body mass, the two females were otherwise quite different. Mas was prettier for one thing, having the small, even features that males preferred, and fine golden fur. Shu on the other hand was a good deal more plain, having a nose that was a tiny bit too long, and mottled brown fur. It seemed to the Ra ‘Na that no one, not even a Sauron, could mistake one for the other.

  The med tech winced as the other female’s image appeared, forced herself to remain motionless, and awaited the inevitable confrontation. It never came. Most Saurons, Kan included, saw their slaves as interchangeable work units and believed that the Ra ‘Na looked alike. Small, furry, and weak. What more did one need to know? That being the case, the warriors glanced at the image, saw what they expected to see, and waved Shu through.

  Thirty minutes later the shuttle bucked its way down through Earth’s atmosphere, emerged from the cloud cover, and headed west. The broad glittering expanse of the Atlantic Ocean could be seen beyond the armored view port, and Shu felt an unfamiliar lightness of being. The sensation took her by surprise, and it took a moment to realize what it was. Freedom… the feeling was freedom… and the reality of it filled her heart with joy.

  HELL HILL

  Though originally quartered with other members of the security team, Jose Amocar had snored, farted, and barfed all the others out of the cargo cube, thereby creating what amounted to a private compartment for himself. Having colonized the entire space, his previously untidy habits had mysteriously disappeared.

  The clothes that had once littered the floor had been hung on a pole suspended from the ceiling, tops together, all facing the same way, pants in a row, boots arranged below.

  The food, which he had been known to leave out until maggots hatched within, was sealed within matching pieces of Tupperware and were stored in a scrupulously clean cooler.

  The five-gallon bucket, once full to overflowing with the results of Amocar’s infamous bowel movements, was now nearly empty and decorated with no less than three self-adhesive deodorizer disks, all acquired during trips with President Franklin.

  So, while primitive by pre-Sauron standards, Amocar’s apartment, plus its location four levels above the stench of the street, amounted to a penthouse within the context of Hell Hill’s endless misery.

  That’s why the security agent actually enjoyed the moment when the windup alarm clock went off, when he swung his feet out onto the carefully placed throw rug, and retrieved the .9mm from its place under his pillow. He had thick black hair, a round moon-shaped face, and a barrel-shaped torso. Each day was an opportunity, and he paused to consider the one that lay ahead.

  Not only was the knowledge that Amocar was better off than the vast majority of those around him well worth getting up for, there was the knowledge that the next twelve to sixteen hours would almost inevitably produce an opportunity for personal profit and the aggregation of personal wealth. Wealth as measured by what Amocar thought of as the three P’s: possessions, pleasures, and privileges.

  Amocar grinned. Not that the three categories were mutually exclusive. Take Agent Jill Ji-Hoon for example… Would fucking her in the ass constitute a pleasure or a privilege? And once fucked would she qualify as a possession? A long, tall piece of extremely personal ass? Yes, the security agent decided, she would. Something to be enjoyed, humiliated, and eventually discarded. And there were a number of ways to rid oneself of surplus women… some of which were quite pleasurable in and of themselves.

  Amocar stood, produced what he was sure qualified as a world-class fart, and followed his erection toward the red plastic basin. Life, the kind he wanted to live, was as good as it could possibly get.

  • • •

  Jill Ji-Hoon had taken a quarter cube in a stack just down the road from the Presidential Complex. It was a crowded, noisy, but not altogether unpleasant co-op-style complex established by a pair of women, both of whom had been crushed by a runaway stone block a couple of months before.

  A crude memorial consisting of small limestone blocks surmounted by a Star of David, a ceramic vase, and two pairs of well-worn work boots sat just outside the front door. A handful of wildflowers had been placed in the vase, and Ji-Hoon wondered where they had come from as she left what the residents jokingly referred to as the Hell Hill Hilton, and stepped out onto the street.

  Improvements had been made, especially where flow was concerned, but there was no way to make the open sewer seem like something that it wasn’t. Not given the brown color, sluggish current, and horrible smell.

  However, like many of the hill’s residents, Ji-Hoon had mastered the ability to step over the ditch, confront the stench, and still keep her breakfast down. The walk to work served as a reminder of just how fortunate she was. At a time of day when most slaves were already on the job, risking their lives to construct the Sauron citadel, she had risen only an hour earlier. Even better was the fact that with the exception of Amocar, the ex-FBI agent liked the people she worked with and rarely took shit from the Saurons.

  Not only that, but she was armed, which meant that unlike the dozen or so people who hung themselves each night, Ji-Hoon could always shoot herself, a normally dubious privilege that she now took comfort from.

  Yet, in spite of all the misery, signs of hope could be seen in the increasing number of babies, a window box in which colorful primroses had been planted, and the occasional patch of bright black-market paint.

  Thus buoyed, the agent passed through the heavily guarded main gate, nodded to the agents posted there, and followed a path that cut left along the stack’s rocket-scarred façade and passed into a canyon of shadow, for it was there, in a half cube well removed from the office occupied by Manning, that Amocar maintained his personal lair.

  Ji-Hoon paused, checked the Timex Ironman watch that had been issued to her along with the rest of her gear, and saw that she was right on time. Always a good thing, especially when reporting to a new boss. Even if it was Amocar.