“There’s worse,” the man named Hosker said somberly, “unless you think the stone mules actually enjoy what they do.”

  An entire lexicon of slang words and terms had evolved on and around Hell Hill. The term “mule team” referred to those slaves assigned to haul the quarter-ton blocks of limestone up the hill. A backbreaking job that could have been performed in a tenth of the time through the use of machinery. But the Sauron Book of Cycles dictated otherwise, that was the rumor anyway, and Ji-Hoon believed it. She had seen the stonemaster poring over what appeared to be a large volume of weatherproofed manuscripts and heard the overseers refer to it.

  The way Ji-Hoon understood the matter, the Book of Cycles, plus the memories that the stonemaster had inherited from his ancestors, laid out not only the plans for the temple itself, but the methods used to build it. Processes and procedures long outdated but still adhered to. A practice reminiscent of some human religions. All of which meant that Hosker was correct. There were worse things than setting stone.

  The slaves made their way down to the plaza below, were automatically berated for being too slow, and ordered to follow a path that switchbacked down to the beach. A large manta-shaped shuttle wallowed in the swells offshore, looking for all the world like some sort of prehistoric sea animal, its atmosphere-scarred skin slick with spray. It was difficult to walk, what with thousands trying to make their way upward, and the team was forced to halt.

  The Fon opened a passageway with his whip, and much to her surprise, Ji-Hoon noticed that many of the individuals thus punished directed dirty looks to her, as if she and her teammates were responsible for the alien’s actions. It didn’t make sense, but what did? The crowd parted, the work detail passed through, and wondered what awaited below.

  • • •

  The Ra ‘Na were a clever race, and like most shuttles of its tonnage, this particular craft had been designed to serve a multiplicity of purposes. The main compartment could be used to transport cargo or converted for passenger use. And, given the fact that there were various kinds of passengers, three different seating configurations had been devised. There were slings for the Saurons, large, oversize seats for the humans, and smaller, better-upholstered chairs for the Ra ‘Na, who, having been being forced to build them, saw no reason to compromise their own personal comfort.

  That being the case, Dro Tog, along with his many peers, could hardly complain about the size, fit, or comfort of their respective seats. As for the overall ambience, well, that was another matter. The cargo compartment, which had most recently been used to transport canisters of a liquid presently being brewed deep within the bowels of factory asteroid Λ-12, still stank of sulfur, and made Tog nauseous. Or was it the overly large lunch consumed just prior to departure? Or the nature of the outing itself? An exercise the entire College of Dromas had been ordered to take part in.

  “Please join Lord Hak-Bin in a lavish entertainment.” That’s what the so-called invitation read, although the prelate harbored the suspicion that the “lavish entertainment” wouldn’t be, not by his standards, which were the only ones that mattered. Conscious of the fact that his thoughts were less than politically correct, and fearful lest someone pluck them from the ethers, Tog eyed his peers.

  They were an eclectic group, some attired as he was, in finery intended to highlight their importance, while others, the dour Dro Rul foremost among them, modeled robes so plain they resembled little more than sacks cinched at the waist and secured with lengths of utility cord. A self-righteous crowd who loved to pontificate about concepts like freedom and considered themselves to be morally superior.

  Still, regardless of political affiliation, none of the prelates were especially cheerful, although some, Rul being an excellent example, were more dour than all the rest. Why? Because he took everything too seriously, because rather than accommodate the Saurons, as common sense dictated that he should, Rul was determined to fight them, a surefire recipe for disaster. Especially since he and the rest of his reckless ilk had already agreed to align themselves with the human resistance movement. If the poorly coordinated ragtag bunch could be characterized as a “movement.”

  Yes, Tog thought to himself, no wonder my stomach feels upset! Fools surround and beset me from every side. Tog’s musings were interrupted when a heavily armed Kan entered the room and stomped a big flat foot. The signal, which was the nonverbal equivalent of “Hey, stupid, pay attention!” reduced the compartment to shocked silence.

  Though slaves, the Ra ‘Na were privileged slaves, and the Dromas were most privileged of all. Too privileged, according to Dro Rul… who sensed something different in the air. Something ominous. When the Kan spoke the prelate paid close attention. Rather than the polite but slightly condescending manner in which the Saurons normally spoke to individuals of his rank, a more coarse form of address was being used. Was the Kan’s tone intentional? Or was this particular individual simply out of sorts? The answer would soon be apparent. “So,” the warrior began, his voice hard and flat, “we have arrived. Inferior beings will rise, move to the forward hatch, and make their way ashore.”

  Though the shuttle was not equipped with view ports, a large vid screen occupied most of the forward bulkhead. A single glance was sufficient to confirm that a significant stretch of water lay between the ship and the much-abused beach. No one moved.

  There was silence for a moment followed by the sound of a rather hesitant voice. It belonged to Dro Por, one of Tog’s sycophants, a prelate best known for his ability to recite honas rather than interpret them. “Excuse me, lord, but given the fact that the ship remains offshore, and I see no sign of the smaller craft required to ferry us to land, how should we proceed?”

  It quickly became apparent that the Kan had not only been waiting for some such comment—he had been counting on it. In spite of the hard inelastic nature of his mouth parts, the alien managed what amounted to an evil smile. The warrior smiled evilly. Por appeared to wilt under the weight of the Sauron’s stare. “In addition to the technological expertise of which you and your kind are so endlessly proud, it’s the great Hak-Bin’s understanding that the Ra ‘Na people love to frolic in the water, a pleasure long denied your inferior race during the journey through space. That being the case, you will no doubt enjoy the opportunity to swim ashore.”

  There was no doubt about the fact that the Ra ‘Na like to swim, more than that were designed to swim, as attested to by the webbing located between their fingers, not to mention the fact that their spacecraft were designed to lift off from and land on water. Something the land-loving Saurons continued to resent but lacked the technical expertise to change. No, Rul, along with every other Ra ‘Na in the compartment, knew that the order had nothing to do with their preferences and everything to do with Sauron domination.

  By forcing the Dromas to swim, an activity most were no longer adept at, the master race was not only asserting its power but sending a message as well: The church hierarchy serves at our pleasure, the church hierarchy has privileges, and the church hierarchy could lose those privileges. Stay in line, and keep the Ra ‘Na people in line, or suffer the consequences.

  All of those thoughts, those realities, were running through Rul’s mind as he stood, released the fastener on his unadorned robe, and allowed it to fall. Now, with the exception of a loincloth, and his soft brown fur, the prelate was naked. His voice rang loud and clear. “We accept the invitation… The last one ashore hosts the rest to dinner!”

  Some individuals, such as Tog, looked aghast. But the majority of his peers understood what Rul was up to and moved to support him. They stood, dropped their robes, and formed a furry line. The Kan watched in amazement as the Ra ‘Na pushed, shoved, and crowded their way into the lock. Appalling though it seemed, the slaves were actually enjoying themselves! The lesson went untaught. Would he be punished? Yes, quite possibly… And that in spite of the fact that he had done little more than follow orders.

  Tog, one of the last to emerge from the ship’s lock, was more than a little self-conscious about his large potbelly, and eyed the open water ahead. Unlike some of his peers, who were known to fritter away hours on self-indulgent exercise programs, it was his habit to put work first, remaining at his desk while other less responsible Dros frolicked in the gym. Individuals like Dro Rul, whose sleek, water-slicked head was already halfway to shore, closely followed by a coterie of less skilled but enthusiastic lackeys.

  Tog eyed the glassy-looking water at his feet. Would he make it? Or ignominiously drown while thrashing about? With the rest of Ra ‘Na in the water, and only one chubby specimen left to go, the Kan gave Tog a push.

  The prelate made a satisfying splash, remembered how to swim, and kicked for shore. The water was cold, the rest of the Dromas would reach shore long before he did, and demand a feast. If life could get worse, Tog couldn’t see how.

  That’s when a wave slapped him across the face, salt water flooded his open mouth, and a leg muscle began to cramp.

  • • •

  Most of the gaunt humans who trudged up the winding road had little if any knowledge regarding the true purpose of the structure they were being forced to build, the activities of the resistance movement, or the relationship between the Ra ‘Na and their masters. All they knew was how hungry their stomachs felt, how sore their feet were, and the highly corrosive manner in which the unending fear ate away at what remained of their humanity. For them the climb up the hill was one more act in a largely meaningless series of acts which they lacked the means to put into perspective.

  Consistent with standard practice, as well as a personal commitment to keep Franklin alive, Manning requested that the chief executive officer use his Sauron-authorized helicopter or one of the big black SUVs to reach the top of the hill.

  But, typical of what often seemed like the president’s contrary nature, Franklin refused. A decision that verged on suicidal since to travel on foot would make the chief executive officer vulnerable to racialist snipers, freelance assassins, and a mob of people who hated collaborators, and might very well turn on the CEO. And not only him, but those assigned to protect him as well.

  And, making a nearly impossible situation worse, was the fact that the security team had been ordered to leave any weapon that couldn’t be concealed beneath their clothing behind, a presidential imperative that would make the bodyguards seem less threatening, but limited them to handguns, sawed-off pump guns, and a pair of submachine guns.

  That being the case Manning, Kell, Amocar, Wimba, Mol, Orvin, and Asad had every reason to be concerned as they left the relative security of the presidential compound and eased their way into the crowd.

  In an effort to make up for the lack of heavy weapons, the security chief had no fewer than four .9mm handguns hidden under his long duster-style raincoat, two in shoulder holsters, and two stuck down into his waistband. His right hand hovered near one of the weapons as the people closed in from all sides.

  The trick was to create a protective bubble around the Big Dog, a layer of protective flesh that would absorb the incoming rounds and provide those who survived with time to throw the president down.

  Once the chief executive was on the ground, there was very little the surviving members of the team could do except throw the ballistic blanket over him and return fire.

  Then, depending on what mood the Kan were in, maybe they would help, although there was increasing evidence to suggest that Hak-Bin didn’t trust his human pet anymore, and might fail to intervene.

  The bubble held as the sour-smelling bodies closed in around the presidential party. Eyes stared from dark sockets, long, uncut hair hung down over bony shoulders, and foul breath fogged the air.

  Franklin’s face was fairly recognizable both because of his former position as governor of Washington State and because the Saurons had gone to considerable lengths to make it known via the heat-activated “talkies” they rained down from above. That being the case, people stared, muttered threats, and applied pressure on the bubble.

  Manning was just about to pull his weapon and attempt to force them back, when Franklin did something so right, so natural, that the effect was almost magical.

  There weren’t very many children on Hell Hill, or elderly people for that matter, most being considered too weak for heavy construction work. But thanks to a moment of laxity, or just plain luck, some parents had managed to bring a child with them, and in spite of the fact that many had been killed by the recent cholera epidemic, a few survived.

  One such, a scrawny little girl with a mop of blond hair had been forced to run in order to stay abreast of her mother, who—like many slaves—preferred to carry most of her meager belongings from place to place rather than risk leaving them behind. Bending at the waist, the politician scooped the child up, smiled reassuringly at the little girl’s mother, and walked at her side.

  Seeing the move, and the way that the youngster had started to play with Franklin’s red ear tag, the crowd fell back.

  It was one of those wonderful-horrible moments when Franklin demonstrated the full extent to which he could manipulate people and by doing so caused Manning to both respect and fear him. After all, what if he had been manipulated as well?

  A whip cracked, the crowd surged forward, and carried the security chief along with it.

  • • •

  Drawn from every part of Hell Hill, and literally whipped into motion, the humans snaked their way upward in trickles, rivulets, and streams, surging at times, until friction slowed them down. Like drops of water in a slow-motion flood, Dr. Sool and her nurse were pulled along.

  Crazy though it was, the doctor felt much the same way that a younger version of herself had felt during recess back in grade school. Freed from the demands of the classroom, or in this case the clinic, she experienced a certain lightness of being, a guilt-free joy, that flowed from what amounted to an enforced break in the seemingly endless rounds of work. That’s why the medic experienced a sense of disappointment when she heard something squeal, and the crowd jerked to a halt.

  Then, like ice exposed to heat, the people standing in front of Sool seemed to melt away. That’s when the view opened, and she saw the Kan. The alien shimmered as his highly specialized chitin sought to blend with the background. Judging from the manner in which the warrior lay there, using both graspers to clutch his right leg, it appeared as if the Sauron had crashed on landing. A rather unusual occurrence. The squealing sounds became more urgent.

  What the doctor did next came naturally, to her at least, although she would come to question her actions later on. Sool crossed the intervening space, knelt at the Kan’s side, and noticed that the Sauron was bleeding. The blood was a watery green color, as if possessed of less hemoglobin, but still recognizable for what it was. The human tried to sound authoritative. “Remove your pincers so I can examine your leg.”

  The alien’s eyes were like river-smoothed black stones. “No. Slaves, especially white slaves, must never touch one such as myself.”

  Sool could have told him that according to definitions used by some members of her race she was black, regardless of what her skin looked like, but knew it would be a waste of time. “A section of chitin fractured when you landed. You are bleeding. I’m willing to help.”

  “No,” the Sauron replied stubbornly. “My brethren will come to my assistance.”

  Sool looked around. A crowd was starting to form. Some of the humans looked angry. A man shouted, “Kill the bastard!” and others murmured their agreement.

  The doctor looked back to her patient. “None of your brethren are available at the moment. You can accept my help or bleed to death. The choice is yours.”

  The Kan attempted to sit, started to say something, and fainted. Sool motioned to her nurse. “Dixie, check the pouch on the left side of his harness. It might contain a first-aid kit.” The nurse did as instructed, discovered that it was a first-aid kit, and removed the contents.

  Now that Sool had unrestricted access to the wound she could see that her original diagnosis was correct. The warrior’s chitin had shattered—but not from the impact alone. No, based on a very superficial assessment it appeared as if the thin hairline cracks, or sutures, that normally divided one section of brown chitin from the next had been forced open from within. Not only that, but what should have been hard unyielding exoskeleton felt soft and nearly pliable. All of which was consistent with what Boyer Blue and his people had described as early manifestations of “the change.” They estimated only a tiny percentage of the Saurons would die and give birth early but here it seemed was one of them.

  Unknown to the Kan and those around him, a nymph had started to take shape within the warrior’s abdomen and had already started to grow. Within a week, two at the most, signs of the transformation would become so obvious that the warrior would be whisked away and quietly put to death. The only thing the ruling class could do if they wanted to keep the upcoming birth-death day secret from the lower castes who they feared might panic.

  “Here,” Dixie said, handing Sool a wad of what looked like green steel wool. “Stuff that in the wound. It’s a coagulant of some sort.”

  Sool eyed her assistant, who responded with a shrug. “Hey, I saw one of their medics take care of a cut. That’s what he did.”

  Sool pushed the coagulant-soaked wad into the wound, noticed that the color started to change, and saw the bleeding stop.

  “Spray this stuff on top,” Dixie instructed, handing Sool a small metal cylinder. “The goo will harden, apply pressure to the coagulant pack, and seal the hole.”

  The doctor grinned, followed the nurse’s instructions, and noticed the sealant was brown. Did the first-aid kits supplied to the Zin come with black sealant? And were the Fon kits equipped with white sealant? Yes, she suspected that they did. A rather sad commentary reminiscent of segregation in the American South.