Grateful for the manner in which Hak-Bin had both seized the initiative and broached a rather difficult subject, Mon-Oro was quick to follow up. “Thank you, lord. I wish the circumstances were different.”

  Hak-Bin gave a single up-and-down nod of his elongated head. “We have that wish in common… but such is not the case. That being said, please allow me to address the first of what I am sure is a long list of issues that you were asked to pursue. Yes, as everyone has no doubt figured out by now, my nymph has plans to enter the world a bit early. Something I oppose as strongly as my brethren do—since there is a great deal of work to be finished.

  “Yes, I could hand over the reins of power to a qualified candidate, someone like yourself for example, but hesitate to do so with birth-death day almost upon us… The manner in which the Sauron race traditionally invests absolute power in a single individual confers many benefits upon our people but entails some risk as well.

  “For example, who, outside of myself, understands the complexity that we now face? Who stands ready to step in, assume all the responsibilities attendant to my office, and would be able to do so without making mistakes? The birthing draws near—and with it comes the possibility of extreme peril. The truth is that we find ourselves in something of a conundrum… We need the slaves to construct the citadels that will protect us—yet the slaves are the greatest threat to our safety.

  “Sometimes, in my darker moments, I wonder if we should put every single one of the lesser beings to death early. But what if we fail? The humans are especially hard to kill—and at least some of them are likely to survive our efforts at sterilization.

  “And what then? Even if the subsequent birthing were to be successful, our nymphs would emerge to find themselves stranded on an alien planet, and, lacking the knowledge required to operate the fleet, would be forced to remain here, waiting for some other spacegoing race to land. An interlude that might last for thousands—or even hundreds of thousands of years.

  “No,” Hak-Bin said, doing his best to sound reluctant, “should I discover the means to delay the moment of birth, and thereby extend my life, however briefly, I have the clear obligation to do so. Not for myself, or my line, but for the benefit of the Sauron race.”

  Mon-Oro was impressed. Hak-Bin had been warned, that was to be expected, but the quality of his response was higher than anticipated. Especially with regard to the rationale behind why he should be allowed to live—in spite of the fact that others had been put to death. Well aware of the fact that his host could turn on him like a hunt-crazed harakna, the emissary was careful to proceed with caution. “Though impressed by the well-phrased manner in which your arguments were put forward, lord, I remain curious where the issue of life extension is concerned, and wonder if your eminence would be so kind as to elaborate? Is such a thing possible?”

  Fearful lest the full extent of his activities make him appear to be excessively calculating—Hak-Bin offered a partial truth. “Yes, I believe that it is, although research continues. If I’m correct, and if the process proves successful, all our brethren will benefit.”

  Mon-Oro could do little more than float there and admire the manner in which Hak-Bin had at least momentarily turned the tables. Not only had the ranking Zin made a fairly believable case for why the rest of the Saurons should let him live for as long as possible, he had raised the possibility that some sort of procedure could be used to the benefit of all the early changers, thereby benefiting not only the changers themselves but individuals such as Mon-Oro, who, like so many others had come to greet the least little ailment with something akin to horror. Was this it? Was the headache the first in a string of symptoms that would herald the change? The mere possibility was a form of torture. “Thank you, eminence, I will carry the news to our brethren. And the citadels? And the birth catalyst? What should I say regarding those matters?”

  Hak-Bin made note of Mon-Oro’s nearly subservient tone, knew he had triumphed, and was careful to hide it. “Tell the brethren that I share their concerns, that I will soon undertake dramatic steps to hasten the construction of the citadels, and that a new catalyst factory will soon come on-line.”

  Mon-Oro felt a strong desire to ask what steps, but sensed that to do so would be an error. Had Hak-Bin wanted to divulge such information, he would have—and nothing Mon-Oro could say was likely to make a difference. “Thank you, eminence, I will tell them.”

  “No, thank you,” Hak-Bin said with all the false humility he could summon. “The task given you was both difficult and demanding. The race owes you a debt of gratitude.”

  Mon-Oro left after that, and the nymph, as if intentionally quiescent for the duration of the interview, started to stir. Hak-Bin used the inside surface of his pincers to massage his badly swollen abdomen. “Were you listening, little one? And did you learn? I hope you did. Your time will come soon, very soon, but the interim will require patience.”

  It was possible that subsequent movement, and the pain that accompanied it, were a matter of coincidence. Hak-Bin doubted that, however—and was thankful that no one could hear him scream.

  SOUTHWEST OF HELL HILL, IN THE ABANDONED SAWMILL

  Though still in session, the realization that the resistance would have to deal with two citadels had sucked most of the energy out of the proceedings.

  “Mr. President…” The voice seemed to come from a long ways off. Franklin forced himself to focus.

  Dro Rul, who—for reasons not entirely clear—had either climbed onto, or been placed on top of, the conference table, stood not two feet away. Another Ra ‘Na, a female judging from the way she was dressed, stood at his side. Blue spoke, and Franklin realized that it was the historian who had summoned him back. “Mr. President, Dro Rul has something to tell you, something important.”

  Rul indicated the female at his side. “This is Med Tech Shu—she risked her life to visit the surface. George Farley brought her to me. I believe she has something important to share.”

  The story of how Shu had exited the Sauron shuttle, managed to escape into the woods, and subsequently been captured was a good deal more complicated than that, but the med tech knew it was neither the time nor the place to go into that.

  Now, with the entire group hanging on every word, Shu told the resistance leaders about the orbital factory set aside to manufacture birth catalyst and the manner in which it had been destroyed.

  Gradually, as the med tech told her story, Franklin felt the first stirrings of rekindled hope. Then, as the full ramifications of the newly revealed intelligence dawned on him, hope turned to outright excitement. “Let’s see if I understand… Insofar as we know every single one of the Saurons will require a quantity of this catalyst in order to reproduce successfully. Damn! If we could destroy the entire supply of catalyst—there would be no need to attack the citadels!”

  Doo-Nol, painfully conscious of the fact that the advantage had somehow been snatched away from him, struggled to understand. Birth catalyst? What birth catalyst? He’d never heard of such a thing… But the Zin loved their secrets—and this could be one of them. In fact, many of the functionaries had questioned the miles of plumbing that the recently deceased stonemaster had insisted on, and wondered what all the pipes were for. Now he knew. The slaves were staring at the Sauron by then, so Doo-Nol tried to appear nonchalant. “I swear I knew nothing of this substance… it’s one more reason why my brethren and I oppose the Zin and their endless machinations.”

  Smith looked cynical, as did some of the others, but Franklin saw no point in trying to counter the alien. No one in their right mind would trust Doo-Nol in any case. The important thing was to focus on the way in which the existence of the birth catalyst should impact their strategy.

  The president came to his feet. His eyes swept both sides of the table. Blue noted the energy there and marveled at the way things worked. Was this the way it had been during the early days of the American Revolution? Great men and not-so-great men lurching back and forth between hope and despair? Yes, the historian thought, it probably had, and the possibility made him feel better.

  “So,” Franklin began, his eyes flicking from face to face, “the situation continues to change. Time passes quickly, so let’s move forward. Based on this new intelligence I suggest that we dedicate our efforts to identifying the location of whatever infrastructure the Saurons will attempt to build, and having done so, destroy those facilities. No catalyst—no nymphs. It’s as simple as that.”

  Opposition came quickly and from a predictable source. Doo-Nol backed his way out of the sling chair, rose to his full height, and clacked his pincers. “This proposal goes too far! While my brethren and I can support violence directed to a more equitable sharing of power—we can never be party to what amounts to genocide. Unless each one of you agrees to withhold your support, the Fon Brotherhood will be forced to withdraw from the alliance.”

  Franklin looked at Blue, the historian looked at Dro Rul, the Ra ‘Na looked at Smith, the ex-Ranger looked at Cyan, the Tagger looked at Andromeda, and she looked Franklin in the eye. “This is our chance, perhaps our only chance, and we must take advantage of it.”

  “Hear, hear,” Storm put in. “The cult lady has it right.”

  The president nodded his agreement. “I’m sorry Doo-Nol… but we’re going to move ahead. That being the case, it would be best if you were to wait somewhere else while we complete our deliberations. You will be released when the meeting is over.”

  “Wait a minute,” Smith objected, leaning forward over the table. “What’s to prevent Doo-Nol from ratting us out? The chits think their secret is safe. Let’s keep it that way.”

  “Who can he tell?” Franklin asked reasonably, “without being crucified for doing so?”

  “It’s a problem,” Smith conceded, “but who knows what kind of story he might concoct? Hell, given enough time, the bastard might schmooze his way out of it. We’re at war,” Smith said grimly, “and there’s no room for mercy. Not where Saurons are concerned.”

  “Right on!” Storm put in. “Let’s roast the sucker… Rumor has it that the chits cook up pretty good.”

  Well aware that he should have been less forthright, and afraid that the slaves would kill him, the Sauron backed away. That’s when something hard touched the back of Doo-Nol’s skull, and the Fon knew it was a weapon. He closed his eyes and waited to die.

  Cyan looked up from his tabletop mural. “Shoot the geek if that’s what you want to do… but we could tag him.”

  The rest of the group was surprised to hear from the Tagger, and heads swiveled in his direction. “Okay,” Franklin said, “what do you have in mind?”

  “A really cool paint job,” Cyan said thoughtfully, “the kind that won’t come off for at least a month.”

  “I don’t get it,” Storm said critically. “What difference will that make?”

  Blue had worked with the Taggers before and thought that he understood. “Give the young man a chance. Say we agree… What would you paint on him?”

  “First a base coat,” the graffiti artist said thoughtfully, “then some slogans. ‘All power to the Fon,’… stuff like that.”

  Doo-Nol’s eyes popped open. “The Zin would kill me!”

  “Precisely,” Franklin agreed coolly. “Which is why you’ll want to keep a very low profile until the paint wears off.”

  The chief executive officer turned to the Tagger. “Good suggestion, Cyan… Better use some heavy-duty paint, or he’ll scrub it off.”

  Cyan nodded thoughtfully, selected some cans from his bandoleer, and pointed to a spot some ten feet from the table. “Put him over there… I’ll work on him while the meeting continues.”

  Doo-Nol had little choice but to cooperate, and Franklin turned to Vosser. “Where were we?”

  Vosser, apparently unmoved by anything that had occurred so far, delivered an editorial sniff. “Thanks to the excessive amount of time devoted to Mr. Doo-Nol and his issues, we are running some twenty minutes behind schedule. Both Ms. Storm and Mr. Doo-Nol had their opportunity to speak. I assume Ms. Andromeda would go next. No nominations have been tendered so far.”

  A can hissed as Cyan sprayed a white base coat onto the Sauron’s already white chitin. “Okay,” Franklin said, “let’s move on… Sister Andromeda? It’s your turn to speak.”

  SALMON NATIONAL FOREST, IDAHO

  Jonathan Ivory awoke from a deep, nearly comalike, sleep and almost panicked when his eyelids refused to open. It was as if someone had glued them shut, and the racialist was pawing at them when he heard a stir, followed by a high-pitched girlish voice. “Mrs. Ivory! Mrs. Ivory! He’s awake! Come see.”

  One eyelid popped open soon, followed by the other. It was still difficult to see as the gummy substance continued to impede his vision. Hands gripped his wrists, and a familiar voice said, “Janey will clean the gunk out of your eyes, and everything will be fine.”

  Ivory allowed the hands to restrain him, knew they belonged to Ella, and felt a sudden flood of emotion. There was relief, gratitude, and something else. They had been thrown together by circumstance and more or less forced into a union consistent with the needs of the white race but not based on much else. But now, in spite of the way the union had come about, the racialist realized that he had come to have feelings for her. Feelings that extended beyond the politics of race, beyond his sexual requirements, and into what he regarded as new territory.

  “There,” Ella said softly, “you can open your eyes.”

  Ivory took his race wife at her word, opened his eyes, and found himself looking up into her hard but handsome face. It softened slightly. “You look like hell.”

  “And you look like heaven,” Ivory croaked. “Where am I?”

  Ella took note of Ivory’s response, as well as her response to his response, and decided that there was nothing incorrect about the pleasure she felt. “You’re at Racehome… in our bedroom.”

  Ivory struggled to sit up. His entire body was sore. A plain-faced girl rushed to shove pillows behind his back. It was an honor to do so. There had been a contest to see which of the preteens would be allowed to serve Ivory, and she had been chosen.

  The chamber was just as the racialist remembered it. The room had been hewed from solid rock. No one could be sure, but, judging from the rails that passed through the arched entryway and terminated somewhere beneath Ella’s queen-size bed, there was reason to believe that the alcove had once served as a siding, a place where her great-great-grandfather could remove one ore car from the line and push another into place.

  Now, thanks to an enormous armoire, plus some colorful hangings, the space had been transformed into a bedroom. That’s when Ivory noticed that a change had been made to the mural that occupied the wall opposite the bed. The wreath normally associated with the German Knight’s Cross had previously been used to frame a symbolically faceless warrior. The kind of man who could be anyone, anywhere, hidden within society. Now, staring sternly out into the room, Ivory gazed on his own likeness. The sight of it sent a chill down his spine. He turned to look at his wife.

  Then, as Ivory’s eyes met Ella’s, he realized something else. Her face was a little fuller, her breasts seemed larger, and the once-flat stomach displayed a slight bulge. A weight gain? No, his wife was pregnant!

  Ella, who had been waiting for that exact moment, monitoring her husband’s face to see what sort of emotions might appear there, was pleased with results. There was no mistaking the look of pleasure followed by manly pride.

  That was the moment when Ivory remembered the Sauron road train, the manner in which the chits had secured him to the front of the tractor, and the subsequent attack. He frowned. “You were there… in the middle of a firefight. What about the baby?”

  Ella raised an eyebrow but was secretly pleased. “We’re short of good leaders. So many of the men who come our way are either too strong or too weak. It’s good to have you back.”

  “It’s good to be back,” Ivory replied. “There’s a lot of catching up to do.”

  “Yes,” Ella agreed. “There certainly is. Do you feel up to a walk?”

  Ivory swung his feet over the side of the bed and groaned. “Everything hurts. Is there any aspirin around?”

  Ella looked at the plain-faced girl, who immediately scurried away. She took her husband’s arm. “Here, let me help. Once you have a shave, a shower, and some breakfast you’ll be good as new.”

  Ivory doubted that, but enjoyed the process, especially when his wife stripped her clothes off, helped him into the shower, and used a bar of Ivory soap to lather his entire body.

  Then, when he was almost impossibly hard, Ella threw her arms around Ivory’s neck, kissed his throat as he lifted her up off the floor, and made little mewing sounds as she welcomed him into her warmth. Ivory, who was used to the Ella of old, braced himself for what promised to be a nearly violent mating.

  But this was a different woman, or that’s the way it seemed, as Ella appeared to savor the moment and took her time. Finally, after both were drained both physically and emotionally, it was his turn to bathe her. He did so slowly, reverently, taking a moment to kiss the curve of her swollen stomach.

  Then it was back to bed, to rest, and catch up. He told her about his travels, about life on Hell Hill, the attempt on Franklin’s life, the way so many Hammer Skins had been killed, and his journey home.

  Later, after an enormous breakfast, Ella took the recently returned racialist on a tour of the onetime gold mine, which her father, commonly referred to as “Old Man Howther,” had inherited from his father, and now served as the very heart of the area which the white supremacists called Racehome.

  In spite of the fact that Mrs. Howther, her daughter and a hard-core cadre had already moved into the mine prior to Ivory’s departure for Hell Hill, a great many improvements had been made. Not only that, but the facility was home to more people, a lot more, many of whom wore what looked like white nightshirts.