Everyone seemed to know who Ivory was—and most addressed him as “sir.” Ella sought to explain. “Incredible as it may seem, word of your exploits found its way out of the camp on Hell Hill—but people would respect you even if it hadn’t. The fact that you went there and fought for the race puts you on a par with our greatest heroes.”

  The words were all Ivory had ever hoped to hear and more. That meant he should have been happy, very happy, but he discovered that he wasn’t. Recognition was nice, but recognition without actual power didn’t mean much, and the purposeful way in which the skins went about their daily activities suggested that someone else was calling the shots. Ella? Maybe, but for some reason he didn’t think so.

  Ivory’s thoughts were interrupted by the tinkle of multiple bells. He looked in the direction of the sound and saw four men in white jerkins round a corner farther down the shaft. They bore a stretcher, and Ivory was still wondering why people were in such a hurry to get out of the way when Ella pulled him aside. Some of the bystanders, his wife included, brought their hands together as if in prayer.

  Bells jingled, and the stretcher swayed as it passed them by. The racialist caught a glimpse of bright blue eyes, an explosion of age-wrinkled skin, and a puddle of wool blankets before the conveyance was gone. “Who, or what was that?”

  For the first time since his return Ivory saw Ella frown. “You may recall that my father prophesied that during the time of troubles the great Yahweh would send three people to help us. A leader, an assassin, and a saint. You are the leader, the woman named Marta Manning was the assassin, and Reverend Dent is the saint.”

  Now Ivory understood. He thought the prophecies were nonsense, but the Howthers believed in them, and he had gone along. Especially given the fact that the first prediction worked in his favor. But now, with some guy named Dent horning in, things looked different. And who was Dent anyway? The name had a familiar ring…

  Then he had it! Of course, the man on the stretcher was none other than the controversial minister, and sometime-radio-talk show host named Raymond Dent. A self-confessed Racial Conservative, who was known for his right-wing politics, and the frequent target of attacks by the Zionist Occupational Government or ZOG.

  The Jews, the muds, and all the other servants of the devil claimed Dent was racist, something he never publicly owned up to but was nevertheless. The question was why? Because certain radio stations would drop his broadcasts? Thereby silencing one of the few voices who spoke the truth? Or because he made a good living telling racialists what they wanted to hear?

  Not that it mattered because Ivory had already decided that he didn’t approve of Dent and wanted to get rid of him. Something he couldn’t tell Ella or anyone else for that matter. That being the case, the racialist was careful to keep his voice neutral. “Raymond Dent? The talk-show host?”

  “That’s right,” Ella said proudly. “He was on the air in Missoula when the Saurons attacked. He told the people who believed in Yahweh, the people who understood the need for a great cleansing, to meet him at the radio station’s transmission tower.

  “The station went off the air shortly after that, he jumped in his car, and headed toward the tower. He was almost there when a chit fighter appeared out of nowhere, slagged the front of his Lincoln, and injured both of his legs. People, his people, pulled Dent out of the wreckage and carried him away. It was a miracle.”

  Not for the first time, Ivory wondered how his race wife could be so smart and so stupid, all at the same time. Dent had been lucky, that’s all, and Yahweh had nothing to do with it. The racialist was careful to hide his true feelings while he probed for more information. “So, how did Reverend Dent wind up here?”

  “My father appeared on Reverend Dent’s show years ago. Later, once the broadcast was over, they talked for a long, long time. Daddy told him about Racehome, about his vision for the future, and the Reverend never forgot. That’s why he told his followers to bring him here, where he could preach the word of Yahweh, and the race could be reborn.”

  And the miserable bastard could take advantage of the supplies the Howther family had stashed in their mine, Ivory thought cynically. “That’s an amazing story,” Ivory said truthfully, “so the folks in the white shirts carried him all the way from Missoula?”

  “That’s right,” Ella confirmed, “and it wasn’t easy. They had to break up into small groups, travel only at night, and maintain contact via radio. Approximately half the flock were killed en route, but the other half made it. Thanks to them, and their knowledge, we now have an underground farm. Plus a radio station! Later, when the time is right, the saint will resume his broadcasts. Come on, I’ll show you.”

  As Ivory followed his wife down the main shaft, then off into side tunnels and their associated galleries, there was little he could do but be impressed.

  It seemed as if Dent’s followers were a cut above the motivated but often dysfunctional riffraff so often attracted to the racialist movement. People like the men who had accompanied Ivory on the trip from Denver. Death on muds, and filled with the lord’s spirit, but poorly educated. Certainly not capable of putting together extensive underground farms fed by miles of black irrigation tubing and supplemented by a rich combination of human waste and bat guano.

  Add grow lights, powered by a diesel generator dedicated to that purpose, plus some natural sunlight, brought down via carefully arranged mirrors, and the people of Racehome had fresh vegetables. Not sufficient to live off of, but a healthy, vitamin-rich supplement to the military MREs and canned goods that made up the bulk of their diets.

  Not that underground life was easy. No, it took work, hard work to bring more than a thousand wheelbarrows of topsoil down from the surface, to mix it with fertilizer, and fill the wood-framed trays. It also required labor to plant, weed, and harvest, all activities that the white-shirted “Dent heads” seemed to somehow glory in.

  Ella introduced Ivory to a man named Tracks, a former marijuana grower, who possessed considerable expertise where underground crops were concerned and seemed typical of the newcomers. He had long, lank hair, a narrow face, and beady brown eyes. They blinked every few seconds, in time with some neurological tic, and were linked to the manner in which he spoke. The words came in codelike bursts. “Glad to meet you. Heard plenty… Welcome back. Yeah, we’re doing okay. In two years, maybe three, we’ll be self-sufficient.”

  Ivory raised his eyebrows in surprise. “You’re planning to live down here long-term? What about the holy war? Why not drive the Saurons off planet, harness the muds to your plows, and live on the surface?”

  Tracks blinked in surprise. “You’re kidding, right? How you gonna do it? With two or three hundred skins? I don’t think so.”

  Ella pulled him away after that, to see the underground pen in which four pigs and a pathetic-looking Fon were waiting to be slaughtered, but Ivory’s mind lagged behind. Still another danger had made itself known, not elements of the much-hated ZOG, but an enemy that lurked within.

  NEAR THE MAYAN RUINS OF NAKABE, GUATEMALA

  A bolt of lightning zigzagged across the sky, sent thunder rolling across the land, and announced the coming of the rain. It pinged the metal roof as if experimenting with a new instrument, found the surface to its liking, and beat it like a drum. There were holes, tiny for the most part, but each produced its own miniature waterfall. Some of the slaves turned their faces upward, and allowed the cool wetness to splatter against their faces, while others moved, seeking the dry spots, thereby sending ripples out through the crowd of roughly three hundred men and women. Some, so tired that their sleep verged on a state of unconsciousness, remained right where they were as the water fell from above. Sleep was a boon, the only medicine they were likely to get, and therefore precious.

  The weak, flickering light came from a scattering of battered kerosene lamps, all of which were protected by homemade umbrellas and regarded as community property.

  The dry season, which ran from late December through mid-April, had ended, or so Jones believed, although she had no longer had the access to the cell phone, PDA, and belt comp through which the complexities of life had once been managed. Those had been taken away from her the day after the Saurons landed and took possession of the surrounding area.

  In fact, with the exception of a stainless-steel Gator pocketknife, discovered where some tourist had lost it, a Bic lighter stolen from another slave, a cheap Timex, and some ragged clothes, Dr. Maria Sanchez-Jones had nothing beyond life itself. Something she planned to hang on to for as long as possible.

  That’s why she paid close attention when a Kan unlocked the doors and pulled them open. The air was warm and humid. Not that much better than the fetid stuff trapped within the shed. Not just any shed, but her shed, the one that she and other anthropologists had once used to clean, sort, and classify bits of material removed from the Mayan ruins. But there had been fans back then, big fans that had been flown in from Mexico City, and ran 24LI. Not anymore, though, not without power, and not for the comfort of slaves.

  The Kan shimmered as his chitin sought to match the jungle behind him and waved a pincer at a group of approximately thirty humans. His voice was flat and hard. “You will exit the building.”

  Jones was automatically suspicious since the Kan were creatures of habit and nearly always did everything the same way day after boring day. When they didn’t, when patterns were broken, it meant something unpleasant was about to happen. Now, as the slaves were ushered out of the shed a full two hours before their shift was scheduled to start, she knew it was bad. The only question was how bad.

  Had she been seated toward the rear of the group, Jones might have done what she thought of as “a fade,” kind of hanging back and melding with those who were slated to stay. Something often made easier by her relatively small stature. At five-two and 10E pounds it was relatively easy to hide.

  But that wasn’t going to work this time, not so close to the doors, which left the anthropologist with little choice but to obey. She got to her feet, followed the others outside, and felt the raindrops explode against her brown skin. Skin which, thanks to the regard that the aliens had for pigmentation, had sometimes served to shield her from the often horrible jobs reserved for los blancos. But not this one, whatever it was, since the people around her were a mix of Hispanics and gringos. No blacks, however, since they were housed in quarters reserved for overseers.

  It was dark, without so much as a hint of light in the eastern sky, and only the glow of distant work lights to guide them. Thunder rumbled, the rain fell more heavily, and soon soaked her clothes. Jones felt her nipples harden, knew they would be visible through the thin fabric of her T-shirt, and crossed her arms in front of her chest.

  Kevin Blackley, a blanco who had the misfortune to be on-site visiting the ruins when the Saurons landed, raised his eyebrows and ran his tongue over his lips. He was actually kind of good-looking in a smarmy sort of way—and buff, thanks to the hard physical labor. Previously prominent love handles had disappeared, his upper body was much more muscular, and he looked good with a two-day growth of beard. None of which was sufficient to counter the fact that he had an IQ only slightly above that of a Chihuahua. Ever since Blackley had been assigned to her work team roughly a month before, and become aware of the fact that Jones had represented Mexico in the Miss Universe pageant five years earlier, he had dedicated himself to getting into her pants. Something that wasn’t about to happen.

  Jones ignored the suggestive look, fell in behind a Guatemalan housewife named Irene Irigoyen, and followed her toward the temple beyond. Her fellow slaves referred to the structure as the iglesia de diablo, or “church of the devil,” and hated the structure with every atom of their beings. An emotion that Jones certainly shared, but was tempered to some extent by the dispassionate more academic aspect of her being, a persona that couldn’t help but draw parallels between her experiences and those of the ancient Mayans. They too had struggled through the heat and humidity to cut limestone blocks from the same quarries to which the Saurons had been attracted.

  They too had struggled to carry quarter-ton blocks of stone to the sites where their amazing temples had been constructed.

  And they too had stumbled, bled, and died during the process.

  The irony of that, the fact that Jones had been enslaved in order to build structures similar to those she sought to study never ceased to amuse her. But not now, not as the file of ragged-looking humans followed the alien warrior through the drenching downpour and toward the nearly completed temple. Now Jones focused her extremely sharp mind on the question of what was taking place and why.

  The temple crouched on a slight rise. In spite of the lights, which the Ra ‘Na had rigged so the humans could labor through the night, the structure was only half-visible through the veil of driving rain. It consisted of three towers connected by box-shaped galleries. There were doors, but no windows, skylights, or other apertures. In that regard the temple, if that was an accurate description, was reminiscent of the Egyptian pyramids. A fact the anthropologist found troubling.

  The pyramids basically had two functions. The first was to impress the hell out of anyone who saw them, a goal clearly met, and the second was to protect the mummy or mummies within, something they failed to accomplish.

  Egyptian temples on the other hand, like most such structures, were much more open. Yes, some were reserved for priests and or high-ranking members of society, but still featured large rooms or chambers where people could congregate.

  How to explain the Sauron temple then? With its maze of small, seemingly identical rooms? The complete absence of a nave, or similar space, and miles of seemingly useless plumbing?

  And, if the aliens were even half as religious as they claimed to be, and truly planned to leave once the temple was completed, where were the behaviors, rituals, and symbols normally attendant upon a religion?

  Such thinking was ethnocentric, of course, the anthropologist knew that, but given all the energy the Saurons had expended in order to construct the temples, it seemed as if such an important social construct should have an impact on daily life.

  Now, as the group neared the temple, Jones saw that the crudely made scaffolding that still cloaked the structure’s façade, along with the adjacent work areas, were empty of humans, and guessed that the second shift had been dismissed early and sent to the food troughs. Not only that, but one of the rarely seen Zin was present, complete with an entourage of Fon, Kan, and two of the Ra ‘Na technicals.

  A globe-shaped light, held aloft by some unseen force, floated above. With the exception of the furry aliens, who seemed to glory in the rain, the rest of the XTs huddled beneath black mushroom-shaped umbrellas.

  The humans were ordered to stop, which they did. Some stood heads down—waiting for whatever orders might come. Others, Jones included, scanned the area, on the lookout for something, anything, that might provide an advantage.

  The black Sauron rated an umbrella of his own. He was the local stonemaster, a rather harsh taskmaster named Dun-Dar, who, unlike his recently deceased counterpart to the north, had a passion for detail. An extremely wet Fon struggled to keep the protective device centered over his superior’s elongate head as the Zin paused to address the slaves. He waved a pincer at the towers behind him.

  “Our temple nears completion. Like all such structures, it must be protected from the ravages of time, weather, and those who might attempt an unauthorized entry.

  “A security system has been installed to counter such break-ins, and you have been selected to test it. I warn you that this activity should be carried out with the utmost caution lest you be injured or killed.”

  Even the most cowlike humans raised their heads, and the crowd seemed to sway as people looked for some way to escape. But a contingent of Kan had moved in to surround them, which left the slaves with nowhere to go.

  “The security system was designed to keep intruders out,” the Sauron continued. “That’s as much information as I can provide without compromising the integrity of our test. You are now free to approach the temple in any way that you choose and attempt an entry. Any slave who manages to get inside will be freed. Any slave who fails to find a way in will be killed by the security system, or by the Kan. The test will last for one-twenty-fourth of a planetary rotation. Let the exercise begin.”

  The slaves looked at each other, mumbled various swear words, and broke into groups of two or three. Friends mostly, people who looked out for one another, and mated pairs as well.

  Jones, consistent with her extremely independent personality, was going to tackle the problem alone until Blackley sidled up, treated her to one of his shit-eating grins, and said, “So, Doc, what’s the plan?”

  The anthropologist started to tell the American to fuck off, but, for reasons she wasn’t quite sure of, decided to let him stay. She even went so far as to produce smile number three, the one calculated to reduce most males to highly malleable mush, and allowed her arms to fall away from her clearly outlined breasts. “First we scope things out—then we make a plan.”

  “Works for me,” Blackley said amiably, “but it won’t be easy. The system the fur balls installed includes motion detectors and calibrated heat detectors.”

  Jones looked at her companion in surprise. “You seem to know quite a bit about security systems.”

  Blackley shrugged. “I own, no owned, an alarm company up in KC.”

  Jones didn’t know where “KC” was and didn’t care. “So give it to me in English. What does ‘calibrated’ mean? In this particular context?”

  “‘Calibrated’ means that our body heat will trigger the sensors, but theirs won’t.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we’re warm-blooded and they aren’t,” Blackley explained. “Not to mention the fact that their chitin may shield some of the heat they generate internally.”

  In spite of the fact that Jones had given considerable thought to the question of Sauron physiology, including the impact it might have on their behaviors, language, and tools, the whole heat thing had escaped her, and that made the anthropologist cross with herself. If an idiot like Blackley could figure it out, then she should have done so as well. Jones pushed the reaction away in order to deal with the situation at hand. One that might get her killed if she continued to waste valuable time. “Come on,” Jones said, “let’s scope this out.”