So, in an effort to ensure that his warriors would not only suffer as few casualties as possible, but would know that the odds were stacked in their favor, the Centum insisted on what amounted to an overwhelming force augmented by the impact of an aerial bombardment and the element of surprise. Each of the circular battle platforms could carry twenty Kan for a distance of twenty human miles at anything up to a hundred feet off the ground. Then, emptied of all but two pilots, and the gunner located in the weapons blister just beneath their feet, the combat disk would provide close-in fire support.

  Now, as the compound came under fire from orbit, and dozens of battle platforms swept in over the surrounding treetops, Ivory felt something horrible slither into the pit of his stomach as the Kan infantry dropped and bounced up into the air. They shimmered, went out of focus, and came back again. Gunfire lashed up to meet them, a few turned somersaults as slugs hammered their chitin, but most survived. Though trained to fight an enemy who could leap into the air, the Hammer Skins weren’t prepared to deal with something like this, and there was only one person Ivory could blame: himself.

  And so it was that the Saurons fell on the humans like a plague of locusts, their t-guns firing with the regularity of well-strung firecrackers while heavier weapons yammered and a hailstorm of armor-piercing slugs tore buildings apart, blasted through concrete walls, and penetrated bunkers.

  Faced with an enemy that was a great deal more mobile than they were, and unable to reinforce each other without coming under a withering fire, the racialists had little choice but to hunker down and fight a hundred Alamos.

  Though forced to withdraw into the entrance to the mine, Ivory could still see some of what was happening and monitor the rest by CB radio. There was nothing he could do as clusters of Aryan warriors, most of whom were oriented to the lake, found themselves surrounded, were hosed with automatic weapons fire, and blown to bloody rags by the Sauron equivalent of rocket-propelled grenades.

  Oh, there were victories all right, like the SLM that struck one of platforms, exploded, and sent the burning disk into the tinder-dry forest where an entire grove of trees burst into flame. But moments such as that were few and far between. Many of the Hammer Skins ran, or tried to, but were cut down in heaps. The eventual outcome was clear to see. Ivory thought about his family, felt a pang of regret, but was glad that Ella and the unborn baby were safe.

  The racialist turned to a grim-faced aide, issued a set of orders, and turned back in the direction of the compound. An explosion shook the ground as an ammo bunker blew. Tracer fire stuttered upwards as a .E0-caliber machine gun found one of the battle platforms and punched holes through its hull. Flames appeared, the disk tilted, and slid into the ground below. Earth rose in a wave. There were no explosions just a crash and the shriek of tortured metal. Then, like so many airborne sharks, additional battle platforms were drawn to the scene. They formed the corners of a rectangle, put coordinated fire onto the pit from which the .E0-caliber continued to fire, and tore the crew to shreds.

  Ivory wanted to run, knew that the earlier more cynical version of himself would have run, but somewhere along the line he had come truly to believe in the cause and now stood ready to die for it.

  The racialist heard a disturbance and turned to discover that an outraged Dent had been deposited at his feet. The Lion of the Airwaves had been strapped onto his stretcher and was accompanied by four heavily armed Hammer Skins. Dent’s face was so suffused with blood that it had a purplish hue. His eyes darted from side to side, clawlike hands tugged at the belt strapped across his bony chest, and spittle flew from his lips as he spoke. “How dare you! Release me immediately! You’ll pay for this!”

  “Some of the geeks who work for him were trying to take his highness out through the escape tunnel along with the women and children,” a Hammer Skin said disgustedly. “The chicken-shit bastard.”

  “And the geeks?”

  “Dead.”

  Ivory nodded. “Well done.”

  The fighting was closer by then, so close that slugs had started to ricochet off the rock face that surrounded the mine’s entrance, and they could hear the screams as members of the Home Guard were cut down. “Lift my stretcher!” Dent commanded. “Carry me away! We must live to fight again!”

  Ivory shook his head sadly. “That would never do. A legend will soon be born. A legend that tells how the leaders of the White Rose died to defend Racehome. A legend that will live long after we are dead. Give the coward a weapon.”

  Someone dropped a .9mm handgun onto the broadcaster’s chest. Dent brushed the pistol aside.

  Ivory sighed, bent to retrieve the weapon from the dirt, and released the safety. “Okay, asshole, have it your way,” he said, and shot Dent twice in the chest.

  “Now,” the racialist said, turning to the Hammer Skins, “let’s buy some time for the women and children. Once that’s over, well, heaven wouldn’t be heaven without beer, and I’m buying.”

  The skins laughed, turned toward the Kan, and vanished, as an energy bolt struck the entrance to the mine. Rock fell, sealed the tunnel, and gave the noncombatants an opportunity to escape.

  Meanwhile, in a cabin not far away, a baby waited to be born. She would be white, like the rose for which she would be named, and a vessel ready to be filled.

  6

  DEATH DAY MINUS 20

  SUNDAY, JULY 12, 2020

  Behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him.

  —Holy Bible

  Book of Revelation 6:8

  ABOARD THE RA ‘NA VESSEL LIBERTY, (FORMERLY THE HOK NOR AH)

  Having just entered the crisp cold waters of Puget Sound, Pol was about to propel himself out over a richly populated clam bed, when the biosupport tech shook his shoulder. “Fra Pol… it’s time to wake up.”

  Suddenly snatched from the Ra ‘Na equivalent of heaven Pol found himself back aboard the Liberty with only a blanket between his body and the hard cold deck. The U-shaped passageway located just aft of the ship’s bridge made a convenient if somewhat unlikely dormitory. There were other quarters, but none so close, and Pol wanted to stay nearby. Two technicians, both asleep, lay to the initiate’s right. The lights had been dimmed to make the space more comfortable.

  Pol checked the chron strapped to his wrist, confirmed that Umar was correct, and rubbed his eyes. Two units of sleep, that’s what the initiate had allowed himself, and it wasn’t enough. There was no time for self-pity, however, not with a partially liberated starship to command, assuming he could actually command it, which remained in doubt. Pol sat up, stretched, and accepted a mug of tea. “Status?”

  Having taken orders from Saurons all of his life, Umar struggled to accept the new reality. Taking direction from a Ra ‘Na initiate, especially a disreputable individual such as Pol, was a novelty indeed. “Things are pretty much the same… The Kan control the Launch Deck and the starboard propulsion pod, but the rest of the ship is ours.”

  Pol took another sip of tea. It was piping hot and served to lubricate his thoughts. “You haven’t heard from the Kan in Propulsion Pod One yet? That’s a surprise… The bugs tend to allocate two units for nearly everything they do. Patch the hull, mop the deck, it makes no difference. So, given the fact that it has been two hours since our last attempt to break in, they should have reacted by now.”

  Umar was about to say no, that he hadn’t heard from the Saurons and doubted they were quite that predictable, when a com tech named Spon spoke over the intercom. “Commanding officer to the bridge please… The Saurons in Pod One would like to speak with him.”

  Umar watched in wonder as Pol finished his tea, put the mug aside, and came to his feet. “Tell Spon to put them on hold. I need to pee.”

  Umar watched the initiate waddle away. Not only had Pol correctly predicted what the Saurons would do next… he had put the master race on hold! Here was a cool customer indeed—and one which the biosupport tech was increasingly willing to follow.

  Pol fancied he could feel Umar’s eyes on the center of his back as he made his way down the corridor, past the lavatories set aside for the Zin, Kan, and Fon, to the hatch marked “slaves.”

  Once inside, the initiate checked to ensure that he was alone and heaved a sigh of relief. The truth was that he did need to pee, but more than that to integrate who he was with who he was supposed to be, the steely-eyed commander of an extremely powerful warship. Lacking any Ra ‘Na military leaders on which to model himself, Pol hoped to emulate Dro Rul’s self-possessed surety and the casual, sometimes humorous style demonstrated by humans like Deac Smith and “Popcorn” Farley.

  That’s the persona Pol hoped to present anyway, although the outcome was anything but certain. Would he be able to enter eyeball-to-eyeball negotiations with a Sauron and hold his own? Or would he be reduced to little more than a puddle of subservient slave slime? Because in spite of the initiate’s iconoclastic ways, and the acts of defiance for which he was now famous, the Saurons scared the shit out of him.

  That was the real reason he had gone down the hall, not only to relieve the pressure on his bladder, but to summon the courage necessary to face a member of the master race. Associated as they were with so much pain and suffering, the words “master race” caused a sudden surge of anger. Pol recognized the emotion for what it was, managed to seize control of it, and used the feeling to cement his resolve.

  The Ra ‘Na washed his hands, left the lavatory, and strolled down the corridor. A female passed, and Pol nodded politely. She, like most of her peers on the Liberty, knew who the rumpled initiate was and hurried to tell her friends.

  Com tech Spon was waiting when Pol entered the control room, claimed one of the recently installed chairs, and offered a smile. “Sorry about that, but like the humans say, ‘when you gotta go, you gotta go.’ What’s up?”

  “It’s the Kan in Propulsion Pod One, sir, they want to parley.”

  Pol heard the “sir,” wondered if such an honorific was seemly, and decided that it was. Most of Deac Smith’s subordinates called him “sir,” and none of them were slaves. “Military courtesy,” that’s what Farley called it, and insisted it was necessary. “Okay,” Pol responded, “put the bug on.”

  Spon, who had never been to the planet’s surface and had no idea what a “bug” was, said “Yes, sir,” and made the necessary connection.

  Lit-Waa, the ranking Sauron in Pod One, heard the com tone and took one last look at his surroundings. The attempt to seize control of the starboard propulsion pod had failed, but only barely. Suddenly, with no warning, Ra ‘Na slaves had boiled up out of a heretofore innocuous access panel, opened fire with miniature weapons, and killed three of his brethren in less time than it would take to hop from one foot to the other.

  In fact, had it not been for the fact that one of the intruders died as the result of friendly fire, and fell backward into the hatch, the two surviving members of his file would have been killed as well. However, thanks to the temporary blockage, the Kan had time to draw their weapons and slaughter the rest of the rebels as they fought their way up past the corpse. Once that was accomplished, it was a simple matter to seal the maintenance hatches and call for reinforcements. The only problem was that no reinforcements had been forthcoming, and Lit-Waa was reasonably sure that they never would.

  That being the case, the Kan had little choice but to take the situation into his own graspers and try to escape. The dead Saurons had been piled out of camera range over in a corner, while the Ra ‘Na bodies had been bound with tape and arranged to make it appear as though they were still alive. Would the fur balls fall for it? Yes, the Kan thought that they would. There was no way to be sure, however— and a small but persistent emptiness claimed the bottom of the Sauron’s stomach.

  Now, as Lit-Waa turned his snout toward the camera, the real test began. Regardless of which slave the fur balls sent to negotiate with him, he or she would be frightened. The key was to use that fear, to seize the initiative, and get what he wanted. Careful to look as intimidating as possible, the Kan opened the circuit. “Yes? What do you want?”

  Pol saw a tough-looking Kan, some damaged equipment, and a row of Ra ‘Na laid facedown on the deck beyond. They had been bound hand and foot, and it appeared as though the entire assault team had been taken alive. Good news and bad news all at the same time. Good because they were alive—and bad because the Saurons would try to use the captives for leverage. First things first, however—which meant putting the Kan in his place. “You’re wasting my time, bug face… Umar, pump the atmosphere out of Pod One.” So saying, Pol broke the connection, and the screen went to black.

  Startled by Pol’s order, and unsure of what to do, Umar looked up from his console. The entire bridge crew, some twelve individuals in all, looked on as well. “There were at least eight Ra ‘Na laid out on the deck,” Umar said. “Surely you don’t mean to…”

  “I mean what I said,” Pol answered firmly, “and please make note of the fact that as commanding officer of this vessel, I require unquestioning obedience. Should we have to take this ship into battle, the Saurons are unlikely to offer time for debate. Now, execute my order.”

  Umar, his ears laid back against his skull, touched a series of controls. Elsewhere, at the opposite end of the ship, a pump started. Moments later air, one of the few things that Saurons and Ra ‘Na had in common, was sucked out of Pod One and stored against future need.

  Lit-Waa was still trying to deal with the slave’s unexpectedly confrontational response, still trying to settle on a course of action, when a subordinate pointed toward a console. “Look! Our air! They’re pumping it out.”

  Lit-Waa confirmed that the warrior was correct and had little choice but to reevaluate his approach. The fur balls were willing to sacrifice the hostages. That was a surprise. He reopened the link. The same Ra ‘Na he’d seen before appeared again. “Yes?”

  “You made your point. Restore the atmosphere.”

  “Say, ‘please.’”

  The entire bridge crew watched in amazement as the Kan was forced to swallow his pride. “Please restore the atmosphere.”

  Pol nodded. “Umar, you heard the bug, please restore the atmosphere.”

  The rest of bridge crew laughed, but more than that, learned something about their new relationship with the Saurons. A relationship in which they gave orders—and the so-called master race had to obey them.

  Lit-Waa heard the hiss of air as it entered the compartment.

  So, Pol said lazily, what can I do for you?

  “My brothers and I wish to leave the ship,” Lit-Waa responded. “Send a shuttle or similar craft to the Pod One airlock.”

  “And the hostages?”

  “The slaves will remain unharmed,” Lit-Waa lied, “which you can monitor via this com link.”

  The offer had much to recommend it. Not only would Pol regain full use of Propulsion Pod One, and restore the ship’s full maneuverability, he would free the resistance fighters. Yes, three Kan would escape, but so what? Three bugs wouldn’t make any difference one way or the other. So, why hesitate? What, if anything, was wrong? Then it occurred to him… During the time the com link had been open, not one of the hostages had moved. Were they truly alive?

  The initiate’s first impulse was to ask Lit-Waa—but a second possibility came to mind. Still on the com, and still in eye contact with Sauron, Pol issued an order. “Umar, the bug assures us that our friends remain unharmed. Let’s see if that claim is true… Analyze the environment in Pod One to see if oxygen consumption is consistent with the number of individuals visible on the screen.”

  The biosupport technician was mystified, but said, “Yes, sir,” and went to work.

  Meanwhile, in Propulsion Pod One, Lit-Waa cursed the slave technologies and wondered why his race was so much less capable. Had they performed all of the work themselves, had all of the castes been taught to read, perhaps…

  Umar looked at the readings, checked to make sure he was correct, and felt a sudden wave of sorrow. “Oxygen consumption rates are consistent with what three Saurons would require. Slightly elevated due to stress… but otherwise normal.”

  The finding was the one Pol expected to be given—but the realization brought him no pleasure. His voice was hard and cold. “I hereby call upon you and your companions to surrender.”

  Lit-Waa, embarrassed by the way in which a mere slave had been able to best him, and furious at the consistently disrespectful manner in which he had been addressed, spit defiance at the screen. “Come and get us, slave! Or do you lack the courage?”

  Pol touched a button. The screen faded to black. His voice seemed to echo between the control room walls. “Remove the atmosphere from Pod One, wait fifteen units, and pump it back in. Send a burial crew, a damage-assessment team, and some propulsion techs. I want both engines back on-line as soon as possible.”

  Umar complied, readings began to fall, and the com started to chime. The sound continued until Spon killed it. No one answered the call.

  ABOARD THE SAURON DREADNOUGHT IB SE MA

  Hak-Bin stood in front of an enormous expanse of armored plastic and looked at the planet below. In spite of the fact that Hak-Bin had spent a significant part of his life aboard Ra ‘Na ships, and in close contact with the Ra ‘Na, he knew he would never fully understand them. The propulsion system, yes, that was necessary, as were controls, life-support systems, all manner of other mechanisms.

  But why, given all the effort involved, had the Ra ‘Na decorated so many bulkheads with bas-relief artwork? Or set aside spaces for non-food-related plants? Or constructed blisters like the one he now stood in for the sole purpose of simply looking outside?

  Ah well, the Sauron thought to himself as he turned back toward his desk, if the slaves were logical, they wouldn’t be slaves.

  Denied the comforts of the Hok Nor Ah, the Zin had been forced to find new quarters, and the observation dome had been converted to his use. Much to his own surprise, Hak-Bin discovered he didn’t miss the things left behind. Was that because he had already accepted a noncorporeal existence? Yes, the Zin mused, that would explain it.