“Darts,” Tog replied, his eyes on the floor.

  “What did you say?” the Kan demanded. “Louder please… I couldn’t hear you.”

  “Darts,” the prelate reiterated, praying that the misery would end.

  “Oh, darts,” Kat-Duu responded agreeably. “That’s very generous of you. Much less painful… Well, come on then, I’m sure you’ll want to be present, and there’s no point in waiting around.” That being said, the Kan walked down the line and shot each slave in the head. Isk was last, and no matter how long he managed to live, Tog knew he would never forget the contempt in the technician’s space-black eyes.

  Then the eyes were gone as Isk’s body toppled backward into the grave. That was the moment when Kat-Duu turned, aimed the t-gun between Tog’s eyes, and produced something akin to a grin. The prelate, sure that Hak-Bin had forsaken him, wet himself.

  Kat-Duu laughed, restored the weapon to its holster, and waved a pincer at the humans. “Fill the hole with dirt or jump in yourselves. It makes no difference to me.”

  The humans rushed forward, hurried to do the Sauron’s bidding, and soon melted away.

  Finally, after everyone else had left, Tog remained. The prelate felt an overwhelming sense of loss, grief, and shame. Regardless of the fact that the limestone was damp with his own urine, Tog dropped to knees. And it was then, after more than forty years of self-concerned twaddle, that the Great One finally heard a genuine prayer.

  SALMON NATIONAL FOREST, IDAHO

  The gravel road wound along the side of the gently rounded hill like a snake squeezing its prey. Ella’s pregnancy was more visible by then, and Ivory took it slow, easing the old pickup through the potholes.

  The trip to the top of the hill was something of a luxury, both in terms of the fuel that it would consume and time stolen from other activities. But it was important, so important that Ivory was willing to risk a daylight journey, and to hell with the consequences. Besides, for reasons the racialist could only guess at, Sauron activity had been rather light lately, almost as if the aliens were busy elsewhere.

  Though not identified as such on maps of the area, the wide spot had long been used as a scenic outlook, a place for lovers to park, and a pull-out for local hunters. Proof of that could still be seen in the broken glass that crunched under Ivory’s boots, the shell casings that littered the ground, and the old picnic table someone had left.

  Ella was waiting when Ivory rounded the front of the truck, allowed herself to be lifted down to the ground, and turned her face up for a kiss. “This was a nice idea, Jonathan… Who would have guessed that you would be such a romantic?”

  Ivory kissed her, drank in the soap-clean smell of his wife’s hair, and took her hand. “Come on, I want you to see the view.”

  Together the couple walked over to the badly weathered picnic table, sat on the top, and placed their boots on the sole surviving bench.

  Ella had been there on previous occasions, but not for a couple of years, and had forgotten how beautiful the view actually was. There were trees, thousands of acres of second-or third-generation forest, all of it gold with buttery sunlight. And there, not far beyond, lay Howther Lake. The water was so clear she could see logs lying at the bottom, and, had they been down closer, might have seen trout swimming near the banks. The lake had belonged to her grandfather at one time, but that was before the federal government forced him to sell it, and added one more grievance to an already long list. Still, the lake was beautiful, and Ella said as much.

  “Yes,” Ivory agreed, as if waiting for that very comment. “The lake is beautiful—and very, very dangerous. That’s where the Saurons will land, right where your grandfather liked to go fishing, not two miles from Racehome.

  “Then,” he said, pointing to the northwest, “the chits will follow the old trail up toward the complex, break through the perimeter, and enter the mine. The rest won’t be very pretty.”

  Ella started to say something, but Ivory raised a hand. “Don’t get me wrong, we’ll kill some of the bastards, hell, we’ll kill a lot of them, but not enough. The simple fact is that they have aircraft, and we don’t, which means we’re going to lose.”

  Ella searched her husband’s face. “That’s what you brought me all the way up here for? To tell me we’re going to lose? Why now, Jonathan? Why didn’t you say these things before?”

  Ivory could feel her pulling back, could feel the growing anger, but bulled ahead. “Because we weren’t advertising our presence before… Every time Dent goes on-air it’s like a poke in the eye. The Saurons won’t put up with that forever.”

  “The transmitters are located a long ways off,” Ella said levelly, “you know that. This is about Dent isn’t it? You’re jealous.”

  “No,” Ivory lied, “this isn’t about Dent. It’s about my wife and baby. Racehome isn’t safe. There’s no way I can make it safe. Please allow me to move you, your mother, and your personal staff to a better location. I’ll stay here and do everything I can to protect both Dent and Racehome.”

  The expression on Ella’s face seemed to soften. “Your concern means a great deal to me, Jonathan… but I could never agree to that. What about those who stay? It would appear as though we were ready to sacrifice them.”

  I am ready to sacrifice them, Ivory thought to himself, but knew better than to say it out loud. “I figured you would say something like that.”

  Ella raised a carefully plucked eyebrow. “So?”

  Ivory shrugged. “So, I’m going to insist.”

  Ella heard the crunch of gravel and turned in time to see four members of Ivory’s elite Hammer-Skin unit emerge from the surrounding brush. They wore camouflage and full combat gear. There were women as well, a physician’s assistant, and an LPN. Neither women was willing to meet her gaze. Ella turned to her husband. Her eyes were narrowed to slits, and her mouth made a hard, straight line. “You’ll pay for this.”

  Ivory sighed. “Yes, I suspect I will.”

  ABOARD THE SAURON DREADNOUGHT HOK NOR AH

  It was dark inside the passageway, very dark, and packed with small furry bodies. Their leader, none other than the now-legendary Fra Pol, checked the device on his wrist. Another five units, that’s how long he and thousands of others would have to wait. It was important for every group to attack at exactly the same moment.

  Dro Rul, acting in the role of general, had gone to great lengths in order to emphasize that. “First comes the advantage of surprise… Though powerful, this weapon fires but a single shot, so it should be used to maximum effect. Then we must divide them,” the Droma continued, “and thereby reduce their strength. Should one of our teams attack prematurely, and go down to defeat, the Kan thus freed will rush to defend other parts of the fleet.

  “Finally,” Rul cautioned, “there is the matter of our allies. Even as we attack the Saurons in space, the humans will do likewise down on the surface.”

  It made sense, Pol knew that, but the waiting was hard. Somebody began to pray. Not too surprising since most of the officers and noncoms were members of the clergy. Would the Saurons hear? Probably not, but it was best to take no chances. The initiate called for “silence” and such was his credibility that not one of the often querulous Ra ‘Na took exception to the order.

  One of the commandos grinned. “So, Fra Pol,” he whispered, “are you glad to be back?”

  “Thrilled,” Pol responded, remembering the furtive manner in which he had been smuggled aboard. “I left in a garbage disposal unit—and returned in a grain bin. It would be nice to ride in a seat for a change.” The commando chuckled, as did others close enough to hear, and the seconds ticked away.

  Will the revolt work? Pol wondered. And how many of us are about to die? Not that it makes much difference since every single one of us is slated to die in any case.

  Pol looked at his wrist chron, confirmed that only one unit of time remained, and checked his weapon. After experimenting with a variety of human-manufactured guns, and determining that most were too large for the average Ra ‘Na, and produced excessive recoil, the research and development team worked to produce small but serviceable .22-caliber submachine guns. The only problem was that the relatively low-velocity slugs had a tendency to bounce off simulated chitin.

  This issue was resolved by upgrading the ammo to .22 Magnum, substituting specially hardened “bug killer” rounds in place of the soft lead slugs, and equipping the “grease guns” to fire three-shot bursts. The fact that the .22 ammo fell well short of the velocity required to punch holes through hull metal was an added bonus.

  One last look confirmed what Pol already knew—it was time to attack. This particular maintenance way, one of many that the Ra ‘Na had managed to delete from the vessel’s memory banks over the years, passed directly over the ship’s bridge. There was very little doubt that the Saurons would be surprised when furry bodies began to tumble into the control room, but could they get a sufficient number of bodies through the hatch before the bugs were able to respond? To do so was critical, which was the reason why Pol had drilled his team in secret.

  Pol made contact with his second-in-command, a female name Lin Mok, and saw the way her ears were laid back against her skull. He nodded, and having already checked to make sure the hatch was unlocked, Mok jerked it up and out of the way. She was the first one through—immediately followed by Pol.

  Strangely enough the bridge of a Sauron starship was one of the few places where all three castes worked together. In keeping with a requirement for literacy, not to mention political control, commanding officers were drawn from the ranks of the Zin. War officers, those in charge of the vessel’s weapons systems were Kan, and systems officers, those responsible for everything from life support to garbage disposal, were Fon functionaries.

  Or course the real work, not to mention technical savvy, was supplied by Ra ‘Na slaves, some of whom were aligned with the resistance and some of whom were not. Even sympathetic technicians had intentionally been left in the dark lest they inadvertently give warning.

  Son-Das, the Zin who had the misfortune to be on duty at that particular time, was resting in the command sling, scanning the latest readiness reports, when Ra ‘Na resistance fighters began to pour out of a hole not five units from his head. There was barely enough time to recognize one of the intruders as Lin-Mok, a female assigned to no less a personage than Lord Hak-Bin, when the formerly respectful slave raised some sort of weapon and fired a burst at his head.

  Three of the .22-caliber slugs hit the target, punched holes through the Sauron’s skull, and blew brain tissue out through the back of his head. The others spanged off the bulkhead beyond, buzzed like enraged bees, and slammed into an equipment rack. Other guns chattered, the weapons officer collapsed, and the systems officer was wounded.

  Pol, who had intentionally withheld his fire in order to focus all of his attention on the responsibilities of command, shouted, “Hold your fire!” even as a ricochet whined past his right ear. The commandos obeyed and looked around the room in stupefied silence. Every single one of them had been exposed to violence since birth, but always directed toward them, never the other way around.

  Now, to see dead Saurons, killed by their own hands, was both wonderful and amazing at the same time. The fact that other Saurons had survived, and stood helpless before their guns, was equally wondrous. The Ra ‘Na were still absorbing that, still processing it, when Pol issued the next set of orders. “Mok, put the surviving Saurons in a corner and post a guard on them. That includes our people… Maybe they support us and maybe they don’t. We’ll sort that out later. The rest of you safe your weapons. We have enough problems without someone shooting themselves in the foot.

  “Da Dwa… Get on the com. I want to know how things went in the Fire Control Center, the Propulsion Pods, and down on the Launch Deck. Once that’s out of the way, put a call in to Dro Rul. He’ll want a report.”

  Dwa slipped into a recently vacated seat, touched some keys, and met with immediate success. Video appeared. A bloody bandage had been wrapped around the technician’s head and his voice was filled with pride and determination. “This is the Fire Control Center of the Ra ‘Na vessel Liberty. How can I assist you?”

  Dwa couldn’t help but smile in response to the manner in which the ship had already been renamed. “This is the bridge… please report.”

  The resistance fighter at the other end of the call nodded grimly, said “Thanks be to the Great One for your victory,” and plucked the camera out of the console in front of him. Then, holding the device at arm’s length, he panned the compartment. Pol, who had taken up a position that allowed him to look down over Dwa’s shoulder, saw what looked like utter devastation.

  Unlike the bridge, the Fire Control Center had been staffed by Kan. Even after no less than three human-manufactured flash grenades had been dropped into the compartment from a ventilation duct, quickly followed by a homemade gas bomb, the Kan still put up a fight. And, judging from the chaotic sprawl of both Sauron and Ra ‘Na bodies, had nearly won. In fact, judging from the video, no more than six of twenty-six Ra ‘Na commandos survived, and half of them were wounded. “Did you take any prisoners?” Pol inquired. “If so, what kind of shape are they in?”

  The commando restored the camera to the console in front of him. His features were hard and grim. “There are no prisoners,” he said flatly, “none whatsoever.”

  “No Ra ‘Na?” Pol persisted.

  “The collaborators died defending their masters,” the commando replied, his eyes daring Pol to take exception.

  Though opposed to what amounted to summary executions, the cleric understood. He nodded. “My name is Pol, Fra Pol, and I am in temporary command of this ship. Lock yourselves in, make repairs if that’s possible, and don’t allow anyone to fire the vessel’s weapons without my authorization. Is that understood?”

  The commando, who had been forced to memorize the name and face of every officer who might wind up in command, nodded. “Understood.”

  “Good,” Fra Pol concluded, “and there will be no more executions. We are Ra ‘Na—not Saurons. Pol out.”

  • • •

  The attack on the Hok Nor Ah’s port propulsion pod was a fiasco from the start. P’ere Slas, the cleric in command, had little if any aptitude for things military, and, typical of the church services for which he had responsibility, launched his attack ten units after he was supposed to.

  As a consequence of that, and the fact that the Fon in charge of Propulsion Pod Two had been warned by that time, a dozen Kan were ready and waiting when the Ra ‘Na made their move. The slow-moving Slas was killed within seconds of emerging from the deck-level air duct. The second Ra ‘Na to enter the engineering space did manage to fire a single burst, however, and as luck would have it, hit a bulkhead-mounted fire extinguisher. It went off, fell to the deck, and spun like a top.

  The distraction provided just enough time for three additional Ra ‘Na to enter the compartment, two of whom used their weapons to good effect.

  A Kan warrior staggered under the unexpected onslaught, threw his pincers into the air, and died. But there were more Kan—and they wasted little time revenging their brother’s death.

  Given her status as a medic, Shu was one of the last commandos to emerge from the air duct and had little choice but to step on her leader’s dead body. Not counting a clutch of Fon functionaries, who watched in stunned silence, only two defenders remained. The first, a fearsome-looking Kan, lifted a struggling Ra ‘Na over his head and threw the resistance fighter down. There was a sickening thud as the little body smacked into the metal deck and lay motionless. Shu threw herself forward. The Kan staggered as the medic landed on his back, attempted to shake the Ra ‘Na off, and failed.

  The weapon, a small off-the-shelf Teckna survival knife, rose and fell. Thanks to illicit dissections Shu helped Pol perform on dead Saurons, the medic had a better-than-average understanding of their anatomy. She aimed the dagger-shaped blade for the crevice where the warrior’s neck armor came into contact with his thorax and rammed it home.

  Blood spurted, the Kan howled in pain, and fell as a damage control ax bit into the side of his right leg. The warrior’s most recent assailant, a normally mild-mannered brother named Yath, recited the death hona as he broke the blade free from the Kan’s exoskeleton and took a second swing. The ax cut all the way through this time and lopped the extremity off. Blood spurted, and Shu managed to jump clear just as the Sauron fell.

  Both Ra ‘Na were prepared to resume the attack, but the Kan grabbed his stump, said something incomprehensible, and departed to join his ancestors. That was when the med tech took a look around, heard the intercom go off, and heard a familiar voice. “Propulsion Pod Two? This is the bridge. Report.”

  She stepped over the body of a fallen comrade, made her way to the com console, and found Pol looking back at her. He saw the blood on her clothes and gave thanks for the fact that all of it was green. “Shu? Are you all right?”

  The medic nodded, thanked the Great One for keeping Pol alive, and made her report. “Yes, I’m fine, but most of the team weren’t so lucky. P’ere Slas launched the attack late—and the Kan were waiting for us.”

  Pol nodded his understanding. “Propulsion Pod One remains under Sauron control—as does the Launch Deck. Both attacks failed. Odds are that one of the two locations managed to warn the staff in Pod Two.”

  “And you took the bridge?”

  “Yes, we did, and the Fire Control Center as well.”

  “Which means?”

  “Which means we must hold,” Pol said thickly. “And hold, and hold, and hold. We don’t control the ship—but neither do the Saurons. So secure the hatches, disable the servos, and prepare for a counterattack.”

  Shu looked at Yath, and he nodded. “The hatches to Pod Two have been secured. How ‘bout the rest of the fleet?”

  “Reports are still coming in, but it looks like at least twenty-five percent of the fleet is ours.”