The humans had been walking for the better part of two days, and all of them were tired. Most remained where they were, perched on packs, sitting on wrecked cars, or sprawled on the worn concrete. A few, the optimists among them, had taken possession of territory on the highly prized median strip. One such individual had even gone so far as to start a tiny cook fire. There was something presumptuous about that, and Nal-Uma resisted the urge to march the entire group half a unit down the highway. But he was tired, as were his warriors, and the satisfaction he would derive from the exercise didn’t justify the effort.

  The Kan glanced to his left, made eye contact with a Ra ‘Na technical, and knew the sound system was ready. A pair of powerful speakers faced out toward the crowd. Nal-Uma knew that his superiors considered the concept of talking to the slaves, of prepping them for what lay ahead, to be a total waste of time. After all, what did slaves need to know?

  But it was Nal-Uma’s experience that humans were a good deal more biddable when they knew what to expect. So, why not take advantage of that fact? Especially if it made his job easier. Confident that he was correct, the Sauron held the microphone in front of the translator clipped to his harness.

  Meanwhile, down in the crowd, Sool stared up at the overpass. The Saurons were a capricious lot, which meant that they might be finished for the day or having a break. So, given the fact that neither she nor Dixie wanted to set the clinic up only to tear it down, it made sense to wait. She watched as the Kan shimmered sky-blue and began to speak. “You will camp here for the night. Rations will be distributed upon the conclusion of my comments.”

  “Then get to the point,” a man said crossly, but not loud enough for the Saurons to hear.

  Nal-Uma decided that he liked the sound of his much-amplified voice and continued his discourse. “The temple you were working on now nears completion. Once the final stone has been placed my brothers and I will return to space.”

  That stimulated a few cheers plus a whistle or two. Whips cracked, and discipline was soon restored. Nal-Uma continued unperturbed. “The food, water, and other materials required to sustain our feet have been stockpiled at a place called Everett. Once there it will be your job to load these supplies onto shuttles. That will be all.”

  At that point the humans were free to make camp. Rations were distributed, and the man with the cook fire grinned. Conversation buzzed as people speculated on what would happen next. Many wanted, no needed to believe that the Saurons would pull up stakes and leave, but, thanks to her relationships with Franklin and Manning, Sool knew better. The Saurons planned to leave all right—but only after the slaves had been slaughtered. Unless the resistance could stop them—which was far from certain. In the meantime, all Sool could do was keep as many people alive as she possibly could.

  Dixie interrupted the doctor’s thoughts. “Looks like we have customers.”

  Sool saw that the nurse was correct. People had already begun to line up adjacent to the medical carts that carried her supplies. She sighed. Her legs were tired, her feet hurt, and the workday had just begun. More than that the knowledge that she wouldn’t see Manning, not even from a distance, bothered the medic more than she thought it would. Somehow, there among hundreds of people, Sool felt unaccountably lonely. She forced a smile. “Okay, Dixie, open cart one. You take the blisters—I’ll screen the rest.”

  The nurse nodded. “Will do. So what are you smiling about?”

  “I’m smiling because no matter whom we see, and what treatment we decide on, their HMO can’t complain.”

  Both women laughed and Sool felt a little bit better.

  HELL HILL

  The president had turned the battery-powered light off to conserve the battery. His office was lit by three randomly placed candles. They flickered as the door swung open. “Why don’t you come on in?” Franklin asked sarcastically, and turned to see who it was.

  “Sorry,” Manning replied contritely. “I should have knocked.”

  “Yes, you should have,” Franklin agreed with a smile, “but no one else does, so why should you? Take a load off. How did it go?”

  Manning dropped into the plastic lawn chair, started to kick his boots up onto the chief executive officer’s tidy desk, then thought better of it. “No real problems, sir. The streets are crawling with bugs, and they put guards on every single one of your vehicles, but you can leave the Presidential Complex whenever you want.”

  “Sure,” Franklin replied dourly, “so long as I don’t actually go anywhere.”

  “Yes, sir,” Manning agreed reluctantly. “That’s the size of it.”

  “How ‘bout the hill? How many people are left?”

  “About twenty-five percent give or take. It looks like most of the people were herded onto I-E and marched south. The rest, maybe three hundred or so, boarded barges. They’re headed for Anacortes… that’s what one of the Ra ‘Na told me.”

  “That lines up with what Pas Pol and Skunk Works came up with,” Franklin said thoughtfully. “The chits need slaves to construct the new catalyst factory.”

  “Yeah,” Manning agreed soberly. “I guess they will. I’m waiting for confirmation, but it looks as though Sister Andromeda, and a significant number of her followers were on those barges, and may be in Anacortes by now.”

  Franklin raised an eyebrow. “They were targeted?”

  Manning nodded. “It appears that way. You remember the explosions we saw? Well, you were right. Every single one of the locations was being used by Andromeda’s group.”

  “Hak-Bin is on to us,” Franklin said soberly. “He knows who we are, what we hope to accomplish, and how we plan to do it. He plans to neutralize the resistance. First me… now Andromeda.”

  Manning stirred uncomfortably. Was Ji-Hoon correct? Was Amocar dirty? He cleared his throat. “No offense, sir, but that doesn’t seem to wash. Why leave you in place? Why not kill you and have done with it?”

  “Because the bastard is smarter than that,” Franklin replied glumly. “He has a better grip on our psychology than we have on his. By leaving some of the resistance leaders in place, but rendering them powerless, he ensures stability. If I were to be eliminated he fears that someone else would rise up to replace me. Remember, time is on his side. Each passing day brings Hak-Bin closer to his goal.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “Good question,” the politician answered. “The catalyst factories continue to be the key. Move too quickly and the bugs will build more. Move too slowly and it will be too late. In a few weeks this farce will end. That’s when I go underground, the resistance will launch an all-out attack, and the battle will be joined.”

  The fact that the resistance was about to attack, about to carry the battle to the Saurons, should have come as no surprise to Manning. But, thanks to the nature of his responsibilities, the security officer had a tendency to think defensively. That being the case he was caught off guard. The words spilled out of his mouth before he could fully consider them. “What about the slaves on I-E? What are we going to do about them?”

  Franklin searched the other man’s face for some sign of what he was thinking. “I don’t know… Why do you ask?”

  Manning shrugged. “Dr. Sool went with them. Voluntarily by all appearances… but there’s no way to be sure.”

  Franklin looked into the other man’s eyes, saw the concern there, and knew it ran deeper than mere friendship. Manning was in love with Sool and had been for some time. Why hadn’t he seen that before? Because Jina was dead. It was she who had reminded him of birthdays and tipped him off to relationships.

  But what about the two of them? What of Manning and Jina? A spark perhaps, but nothing more. Not that it made much difference since even on her worst day Jina had been a better person that he was now. The president produced a frown. “I’m sorry to hear that… Dr. Sool is the closet thing to a saint either one of us is likely to meet. Perhaps you should check to see what happened to her.”

  The words belied the expression on Manning’s face. “I don’t know, sir, it’s tempting, but my place is here with you.”

  Franklin could almost feel Jina’s hand nestled in his as he made his reply. “Under normal circumstances I would agree, but Hak-Bin has grounded me for the moment, and the rest of the team can look after my security requirements. Remember what I said though—the charade must end. Get back before it does.”

  Manning stood. He felt a tremendous sense of gratitude toward the man across from him plus a feeling of urgency. There was no telling what sort of conditions Sool might find herself in. “Thank you, sir, I’ll get right on it.”

  “Not by yourself,” Franklin cautioned. “Get some help from Deac Smith.”

  Manning nodded. “Yes, sir.” Then he was gone.

  The president watched the security chief go, felt a sense of envy, and sent a thought toward his wife. That was for you, babe, wherever you may be.

  Moments later, well after the door had closed, the candles flickered and a gust of air kissed his cheek.

  • • •

  A makeshift weight and exercise room had been established in a cube on the ground floor. Like all such places it smelled of sweat. The light such as it was came from more than a dozen candles. Half had been poured to look like Santas—the other half resembled jack-o’-lanterns.

  Though far from the sleek vinyl bags she had once been used to, the duct-tape-wrapped duffel bag made an acceptable substitute, and wobbled under Ji-Hoon’s repeated attacks. She struck a quick flurry of blows, landed two kicks, and danced backward. That was when she saw Manning. He stood with one boot resting on the wall behind him. He grinned. “Remind me to stay on your good side.”

  Ji-Hoon shrugged self-consciously. “Just trying to stay in shape.”

  Manning nodded. “Good idea… Listen, about what you said before, it looks like I owe you an apology.”

  The ex-FBI agent unwound the tape from her left hand. “You nailed him?”

  “Nope,” Manning replied, “nothing that clean. Let’s just say that I have reason to believe that someone sold us out—and he’s suspect number one. What I said earlier holds, however… we need more than we have so far.”

  “So?”

  “So, get him for me.”

  Ji-Hoon ripped the last piece of tape off. “I’ll do my best.”

  “Good,” Manning replied. “I’m counting on it.”

  NEAR THE MAYAN RUINS OF NAKABE, GUATEMALA

  Three Eye, as he was known within the tight-knit group of sobrevivientes (survivors), sat motionless next to the river. He’d been there for a couple of hours by then, hunched under the plastic poncho, staring into the darkness. The water gurgled, chuckled, and splashed. Each sound was like a word in a language he almost knew. The sobreviviente was afraid to listen too carefully, afraid that the river would pull his spirit out of his body, but there was nothing else to do. That’s why Three Eye prayed. To strengthen his bond with God, to suppress the sound of the river, and to hasten the coming of the new day. That’s when he could return to the agujero (hole), have some breakfast, and get some sleep. Simple pleasures for a simple man.

  Three Eye’s work-thickened brown fingers had been resting on the vine-braided rope a long time by then. Through it he could feel the river’s pulse, the steady thump, thump, thump of its watery heart, and the occasional tug as something small struck the netting, found its way through the oversize holes, and continued downstream.

  Some of the things might be edible. If they were, a second net with a much tighter weave was waiting downstream. The donada Slay sisterChad responsibility for that one, and she was welcome to it. The river was cold, and she would be in and out of it at least ten times during the night. Three Eye’s job was to nab the larger items, a considerable number of which were tossed, dropped, or jettisoned into the river. Mostly by the aliens but by slaves as well.

  Just during the last couple of weeks Three Eye had snagged a well-sealed first-aid kit marked as the property of the “Navy de Mexico,” some soggy MREs from the United States, and, best of all, a semiconscious Fon who had been slaughtered, roasted, and consumed with great gusto. So, when the rope jumped and pulled suddenly tight, the sobreviviente knew it was a catch of some magnitude.

  The river was too wide to stretch the homemade net all the way across—plus it would have been difficult if not impossible to pull back in. That’s why the netting had been stretched over a tubular framework. One end had been anchored near the riverbank while the other was allowed to swing out into the current.

  Now, with something in the trap, all Three Eye had to do was pull on the anchor rope. It ran back into the jungle, through a tree-anchored block, and out to the net. It was hard work, but thanks to the leverage provided by the pulley, a single man could haul the trap in. The net resisted at first, as if determined to defy him, but gradually surrendered.

  Meanwhile, with the river pushing her against the net, Dr. Maria Sanchez-Jones struggled to free herself. But, just as her fingers found the aluminum frame, the entire structure swung inward, the current dropped away, and the anthropologist was swept into the shallows. Then, while the woman still floundered about, a light hit her in the eyes and a voice said, “You’re alive.” It sounded just a little disappointed.

  “Yes,” Jones replied, trying to see past the glare. “Just barely. I escaped from the slave camp.”

  “Me too,” the voice replied as the man placed the light down under his chin. “They shot me,” Three Eye said proudly, “but the dart was fired from a long ways off. It drilled a hole through my skull but didn’t touch my brain.”

  Jones wasn’t so sure about that but managed to nod agreeably. “You were very fortunate.”

  “As were you,” Three Eye responded agreeably. “Welcome to the sobrevivientes.”

  “Gracias,” Jones replied cautiously. “What do the sobrevivientes do?”

  “We survive,” Three Eye replied. “Isn’t that enough? Come, the sun is about to rise, and we must return to the agujero. The aliens avoid the jungle, but there’s no reason to tempt them.”

  Having nothing better to do with herself, and sensing that her companion was harmless if somewhat eccentric, Jones allowed him to lead her into the jungle’s humid embrace. After passing through more than a mile of wet triple-canopy forest, the trail started upward, passing through a labyrinth of rocks and crossing a swiftly flowing stream. But, rather than follow the trail, Three Eye turned to the left and waded upstream. From that point the twosome followed the stair-stepped watercourse upward to the point where it emerged from what looked like solid rock. It was light by then, and Three Eye pointed down at the point where the water issued from the side of the mountain. “You must duck under the ledge, push with your toes, and stand. There’s plenty of air on the other side.”

  The academic checked the man’s expression to see if he was serious, decided he was, and waded forward. Then, waist deep in the pool that marked the spot where the stream emerged into the open, Jones ran out of courage. After all she had been through, after all she had survived, another leap of faith was simply too much to take. That’s when Jones heard the whine of a Sauron shuttle, knew the aircraft was close, and took the plunge. The water was cold, her toes dug at the gravel, and darkness closed all around.

  Then, using her hands to feel for obstacles, the anthropologist pulled and pushed. Her eyes saw light, her head broke the surface of the water, and the ceiling of a cavern arched above. There were holes through which daylight streamed, and just as Jones found a purchase with her feet, she saw a pair of bats swoop into the cave. The night was over, their bellies were full, and it was time to sleep.

  Rainwater, still percolating down through the rock above, plopped into the pool around her. Opposite Jones, at the top of a steeply sloping gravel beach, an encampment could be seen. A roof made from leaves had been erected to protect the inhabitants from the interior “rain,” and from the bat guano that fell from above. That was the moment when the academic realized that the encampment had been used before, that here, hidden right under her nose, were Mayan ruins. She could see blocks of stone, carvings, and there, over to the right, a guano-obscured statue!

  Then, as Jones waded forward, she saw that all manner of boxes, baskets, and net bags had been stacked, placed, and in many cases hung under the thatched roof. None was larger than the underwater hole through which she had passed. A tendril of steam issued from the recently doused fire, and a group of clean if somewhat ragged-looking adult humans watched her approach, while three round-eyed children clung to their mothers’ skirts.

  That was when Three Eye surfaced in noisy fashion, waved at the people on the beach, and waded toward shore. “Come on! Meet the rest of the family! Then, once you are comfortable, we will look out the window.”

  Jones wondered what the man was referring to but never got the chance to ask as the sobrevivientes crowded in around her. They wanted to hear her story, pump her for news of their relatives, and brag about the agujero’s various amenities.

  It was only then, after Jones had heard them out, that Three Eye showed her what everyone referred to as the ventana or “window.” It consisted of a three-foot-long horizontal hole in the cavern’s east wall. A platform had been erected below the opening so that the sobrevivientes could stand and look out.

  Jones followed Three Eye up a short ladder and out onto the walkway. Bright sunlight spilled into the cavern, moisture-laden air hugged her shoulders, and the sobreviviente raised a cautionary hand. With the exception of the half-healed wound in his forehead, Three Eye was a good-looking if somewhat solemn man. His eyes were dark and intense. “There are rules where the ventana is concerned. You must never wear things that could reflect light, make sudden moves, or disturb the vegetation.”

  Jones nodded, stepped forward, and looked out through the window. Some naturally growing vines and plants helped screen the opening, but there were plenty of gaps. That was the moment when the anthropologist had her first overall look at the alien complex. Thanks to what looked like battlements, and the still dry moat, the temple had a castlelike aspect. To see it there, washed with the early-morning light, was a surprise. But so was how she felt. Much to her own amazement the anthropologist experienced a moment of fierce pride, not only for what she and the rest of the slaves had managed to endure, but for what they had accomplished as well.