That drew a laugh, and Franklin smiled. “Your offer has been duly noted. However, odds are that the very possibility of such a conversation will be sufficient to loosen Doo-Nol’s tongue and get us what we need to know.

  “In the meantime we need to wrap this session up, get the hell out of here, and prepare to fight. Because meetings like this one are extremely hazardous, Jared Kenyata, Fra Pol, and the other members of the skunk team will devise methods to solicit your views and keep you informed. In the meantime, remember this… As Lincoln once said, ‘United we stand… divided we fall.’ The future depends on you.”

  Outside, beyond the metal walls, the Cascade Mountains rose black against the pink dawn, and a new day began.

  ABOARD THE SAURON DREADNOUGHT HOK NOR AH

  Willy had never been on a spaceship before. Hell, truth be told, Willy had never been outside of LA before, except for the trip to Oregon when he was twelve, and that was a long time ago.

  So, when the bug named Cam-Hoh ordered him to leave the shuttle, Willy, who no longer feared death, not after surviving so many things he shouldn’t have, was happy to comply. He was in a spaceship! Damn! Who woulda believed it?

  The girl named Angela sat one seat away, arms wrapped around bony knees, rocking back and forth. She was singing, or moaning, it wasn’t clear which. Willy jerked her leash. The six-foot-long strap ended in a chromed choke chain. She struggled to breathe as the noose tightened around her throat. Grubby fingers worked to pull it loose. Willy tugged again. “Come on, bitch… it’s time to get off this tub and take a look around. Get your butt in gear before the bugs break out the whips.”

  Angela pulled some slack into the choke chain and managed to stand. Her eyes were red, her nose ran 24LI, and her muscles liked to quiver.

  Willy felt nothing but contempt for her. Angela was weak, Angela was stupid, and Angela had been put on Earth to use.

  She was pretty, or had been, and still knew how to work it. Her father would have recognized the pout had he been there to see it. “Please, Willy, please? Just one line? I’ll give you a blow job—whaddya say?”

  The bug named Cam-Hoh clacked his pincers impatiently, and Willy jerked on the leash. “What do I say? I say hell no! Are you crazy? We’re on a fucking spaceship for Christ’s sake. This ain’t no place for a blow job. Now come on before Mr. Hoh has a fucking heart attack. Jesus H. Christ, but you are one stupid fucking bitch.”

  With both hands on the choke chain, fighting to maintain some slack, Angela allowed herself to be pulled along, only peripherally aware of her surroundings. Only one thing mattered, and that was the white powder in the purple fanny pack belted around Willy’s waist. For that powder, and the state it could induce, Angela would do anything.

  Half a mile away, in a distant part of the ship, a pair of beings floated side by side. One, no less a being than Hak-Bin himself, was preoccupied by the fact that the nymph he thought of as “the little one” had been rather restless of late, something that caused a great deal of pain. Add the considerable demands of his office, the fact that things were not going particularly well, and there was little to take pleasure in.

  Dro Tog, now honored by a position at the Sauron’s side, fervently wished he were somewhere else. Especially given the fact that Hak-Bin had been increasingly irritable of late, had frequent bouts of flatulence, and smelled like rotting garbage.

  But it was his own fault, the prelate knew that, and cursed his own ambitious heart. Rather than the responsibility-free sinecure that the Ra ‘Na had originally imagined, it turned out that the position of Grand Vizier entailed actual work and the need to produce results. Not every day, thanks be to the Great One, but with a certain amount of frequency.

  Like most of Tog’s better ideas, this one had not originated with him but with one of his subordinates, a rather useful operative named Dio. It had been Dio who, in his capacity of technical adviser, happened to be present when a Kan raiding party stumbled across a colony of human addicts hiding in the ruins of Los Angeles and had the sense to grasp their potential.

  Later, in a brilliantly written thesis titled “A program of chemical incentives,” Dio had described a plan by which the subslave race could be motivated to willingly, even joyfully, bear the burdens for which they were so clearly intended.

  Yes, the title was rather lengthy, but useful nonetheless, since it provided Tog with nearly everything he needed to know without the tedious necessity of actually reading the report, something the prelate was reluctant to do. Especially if doing so would interfere with his afternoon nap. Now, as the critical moment approached, Tog wondered if it had been wise to put so much trust in Dio’s summary and whether there was anything else that he should know.

  But the lock opened, a pair of humans tumbled into the compartment, and it was too late for additional research. All the Ra ‘Na could do was try to appear confident and hope for the best.

  Willy, who had never experienced zero-gee conditions before, and had not been warned to expect them, felt the leash jerk tight as Angela performed an unintentional somersault, slammed into a metal bulkhead, and struggled to right herself.

  It took the better part of five minutes for the humans to discover that minimal movements worked best and position themselves in front of the ominous-looking Sauron. Angela, for whom the whole thing was more than a little surreal, wrinkled her nose. “Jeez… who cut the cheese? This place stinks!”

  Willy, grateful that the addict had not been equipped with a translator, told her to “shut the fuck up,” produced the same shit-eating grin that had worked on Miss Cooper in the seventh grade, and eyed the strange-looking twosome that floated in front of him. The black motherfucker was in charge, no doubt about that, and the furry fuck was number two. “Hi! My name is Willy. Which one of you studs goes by the handle of Tog?”

  “My name is Tog,” the Ra ‘Na said with every bit of dignity he could muster. “Grand Vizier Tog.”

  Willy, who had no idea what a Grand Vizier was, said, “Cool. Okay, this is Angela. She’s a cokehead.”

  “A cokehead?” Hak-Bin inquired. “What does that mean?”

  “It means she has a Jones for coke. You know, cocaine, crack, snow, flake, or blow. She loves the stuff and can’t function without it. So, if you want cooperative slaves, and the Dio dude told me that you do, then feed ’em coke.”

  It sounded good, like the very thing that could solve some of his problems, but Hak-Bin had been lied to before. “Claims are one thing… but reality speaks for itself. Look at your cokehead. She twitches like a being possessed. I need slaves who can work—not creatures such as this.”

  Ironically, the nymph chose that particular moment to stretch, and it was Hak-Bin rather than Angela who produced an involuntary twitch. Willy continued his pitch. “Angela is a bit strung out,” the dealer admitted cheerfully, “but that’s without her blow. Give her what she wants, what she needs, and everything will be different. Watch this.”

  So saying, Willy withdrew a packet of cocaine from the pouch at his waist. The dose was already sealed in plastic, which meant that by inserting one of the thin red cocktail straws that the dealer often provided to customers, and by sealing the opening with a rubber band, the pusher created a zero-gee delivery system.

  Thankful that the pain had started to fade, Hak-Bin watched in fascination as the very sight of the packet seemed to fill the previously despondent addict with newfound vitality. She literally begged. “Please, Willy, please. I’ll do anything you want.”

  “Sure,” the dealer said soothingly, “here take this. You’ll feel better soon.”

  Oblivious to the aliens who were watching her, Angela took the rig with shaking hands, stuck the straw up her nose, and made a loud snorting sound.

  Willy, who took pride in his knowledge of the products he sold, supplied the narration. “The short-term effects will appear in a matter of minutes… and last for minutes or hours. Taken in small amounts, say a hundred milligrams or so, the customer feels alert, energetic, and talkative. Then, assuming they receive the correct dose, many people can perform simple physical and intellectual tasks more quickly—which enables them to get by on less sleep.”

  And indeed, even as Willy spoke, Hak-Bin saw a look of pleasure steal across Angela’s face. Her eyelids fluttered, her color improved, and energy seemed to seep under her skin. Then, as if reborn, she smiled and took a look around. “Jeez, Willy, where the hell are we?”

  The Sauron was convinced. Here, at the tip of his pincers, was the solution for most of his problems. Once addicted, the slaves would not only do whatever they were told, they would do it better, faster, and with less rest. “Grand Vizier Tog, I am most impressed. I really must congratulate you on bringing this substance to light.”

  Tog had seen others promise more than they could deliver and ultimately pay the price. He felt a sudden stab of fear. Had he taken the time to read the entire report, he would have been better positioned to gauge the veracity of the human’s claims. He cleared his throat. “Thank you, eminence. This, ah, medication does show promise. Nothing is perfect, however—as slave Willy will attest.”

  The statement was a complete shot in the dark, an assumption based on Tog’s lifelong experience, but soon paid off.

  Willy shrugged. “Sure. Users can experience mood swings, bouts of paranoia, and weight loss, but who gives a shit? We’re talking about slaves here.”

  Hak-Bin was familiar with the cramps by then and knew when they were coming. He waved a pincer. “Slave Willy is correct. The trade-offs are acceptable. The proposal is hereby accepted. The audience is over.”

  The Sauron waited for the lesser beings to leave, felt the cramps begin, and soon wished he were dead.

  NEAR THE MAYAN RUINS OF NAKABE, GUATEMALA

  Dr. Maria Sanchez-Jones felt a momentary sense of relief as the heavy metal door closed and the resulting thud reverberated down the temple’s long narrow hallway.

  Having been a member of the day shift, and never having been inside the temple at night, Jones was unprepared for how spooky the inside of it could be. What light there was emanated from a lichenlike life form that Ra ‘Na technicians had sprayed onto the walls. It provided a green luminescent glow. How long would it be until the alien life form found its way outside the walls? And to what effect? Would other indigenous species be forced to fight for their lives as well?

  But there was no time for ecological considerations, not with a horde of homicidal Kan warriors to worry about, so Jones waved her companion forward. “Come on! The bugs will come through that door any minute now—and I want to be somewhere else.”

  Blackley followed. “But what about their promise? Dun-Dar said any slave who made it inside would go free.”

  “And your mother promised that the tooth fairy would come in the night,” Jones replied sarcastically. “We killed a Kan—what do you expect? A medal?”

  Kevin Blackley didn’t know what to expect as he followed the academic down the corridor. Jones was jogging, and he did likewise. Did the former beauty queen know what she was doing? He hoped so.

  Sheer walls rose to either side. Jones noticed that the “cells,” because that’s what they resembled, were completely featureless except for some unconnected pipes and what could only be described as a drainage channel that fed the trench located at the center of the main passageway. None of which seemed consistent with a temple, but the Saurons were aliens, so who the hell knew?

  Based on previous observations, the social scientist knew that there were no elevators or stairs within the building, just jump platforms that protruded from the interior walls and provided the Saurons with a place to pause prior to the next leap.

  The single exception was a spiral ramp located within each tower and presumably placed there so that any Sauron who was unable to jump could shuffle his way to whichever level he chose.

  There were many floors, all pretty much alike, except for the fact that the cubicles on the topmost level were slightly larger than the rest. Why? Only the chits knew for sure. But all of that was subsumed as the door opened, a contingent of Kan burst through the opening, and Jones ran for her life.

  Dart guns banged, Blackley heard a projectile whir past his head, and realized his body would shield the woman ahead. Was the screening effect intentional? Had Jones planned it that way? The academic was more intelligent than he was, the ex-businessman knew that, so anything was possible. Of course he’d been smart enough to align himself with a winner—so he deserved some credit as well.

  Jones listened for the sound of an involuntary grunt, the sudden exhalation of air that would signal Blackley’s death, didn’t hear anything, and was somewhat surprised when she rounded a corner, entered the cul-de-sac, and discovered that her companion was still alive.

  “What now?” Blackley panted, looking all around. “Those bastards are two, maybe three jumps away. Where’s the exit?”

  “Right there”, Jones replied, pointing to a partially assembled jumble of plumbing.

  Blackley followed her finger, saw that one of the pipes stuck straight up out of the floor and was larger than all the rest. A single glance was sufficient to confirm what some part of him already knew. There was no way that he would fit.

  Jones was small, very small, which was one of the things that he liked about her. Small women were more feminine somehow, or so it seemed to Blackley, and that turned him on. So, while the mouth of the pipe was sufficiently large to accept her tiny frame, it was too small for him, something she must have known from the beginning. He looked from the opening back to her. “You rotten bitch.”

  There was a double slap as two Kan feet landed nearby. Jones nodded as if in agreement, stepped up onto the pipe, and straddled the hole. She looked him in the eye as she crossed her arms. “Sorry, Kevin, but life sucks.”

  Then, bringing her heels together, the anthropologist was gone.

  Blackley discovered that he still had time to turn, still had time to raise his hands in a futile attempt to ward off the darts, and still had time to object. “No! It isn’t fair!”

  And it wasn’t fair, but the Kan fired the t-gun anyway, and something hit Blackley’s chest. The human felt his back smack into the wall, wondered where the bright light was coming from, and was suddenly gone.

  The Kan, one of Wen-Opp’s longtime messmates, took a long slow look around. One slave was dead—where was the other? More warriors arrived, and a noncom stared into the tube. It was pitch-black inside and too small for someone like Blackley. He looked up. “Spread out! Search every level! The soft skin must be found.”

  Meanwhile, far below the Sauron’s flat feet, Jones continued to fall. Unfortunately, the inside of the drainage pipe was not entirely smooth. Ridges marked the places where sections of tubing were imperfectly joined, dents pushed their way in, feeder lines poked into the pipe. The flaws ripped the woman’s skin, slammed her back and forth, and threatened permanent injury.

  Then, just when Jones became convinced that the torture would never end, it did. The anthropologist fell free of the pipe and had just enough time to recognize the large cavern for what it was before her feet hit the surface of the water. There was an almighty splash followed by the cool wet embrace of the water. The alien lichen, if that’s what it was, had been carried down through the temple’s storm drains and into the river over which the structure had been constructed. Now, having already colonized the rocky walls, the light-emitting material lit the areas below and above the surface of the water with the same greenish glow.

  Jones, welcomed the illumination and kicked with her legs. Her head broke the surface, she sucked warm wet air into her lungs, and looked up. The pipe hung like a long accusatory finger pointed straight at her. There were no signs of pursuit, not that she expected there to be, not given the tube’s diameter.

  Blackley was dead by then, Jones was sure of that, and felt sorry for him. Sorry, but less than contrite. The truth was that the horny bastard would have died anyway, if not because of her, then for some other woman. That’s what Jones told herself at any rate—and heard no objections.

  Now, safe for the moment at least, the academic allowed the relatively gentle current to carry her downriver. She saw the point where the water flowed out under the temple’s foundation and kicked to center herself on the opening.

  Rainwater, some of which had been channeled by the partially completed drainage system, and some of which had found its own way down through natural cracks and crevices, dripped, poured, and gushed from above. It made a splattering noise, thumped the top of her head, and churned the water’s surface as Jones passed below.

  Then, as she pushed out into the rain, Jones experienced a sudden sense of joy. There was no way to know what lay ahead, but here, now, she was free.

  Lightning strobed the horizon, thunder rolled across the land, and the river flowed toward the sea.

  4

  DEATH DAY MINUS 54

  MONDAY, JUNE 8, 2020

  Is life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? Forbid it Almighty God!—I know not what course others may take, but as for me, give me liberty, or give me death!

  —Patrick Henry

  Speech to the Virginia Convention, March 23, 1775

  HELL HILL

  Sex was important to José Amocar, very important, which was why he spent so much time preparing for it. First came the period of anticipation, at least three or four days, during which he would intentionally think about sex and abstain. No easy task for someone who liked to masturbate at least once a day—and often took advantage of the cheap blow jobs available in Hell Hill’s many alleyways.

  Having maximized his desire Amocar would visit one of the hill’s many brothels. His favorite, an establishment called the G-Spot, catered to heterosexuals. The person who ran the place, a woman named Flo, knew what Amocar liked: No conversation, no foreplay, and no deviation from his script.