And it was true, because even as Hak-Bin entered the sling, and the U-shaped desk that seemed to embrace, he did so with a sense of joyful anticipation. He had problems to solve, resistance to overcome, and nothing was more pleasurable than that.

  A single glance at his desktop screen was sufficient to confirm that his first appointment of the day was with Centum Commander Dor-Une, a levelheaded sort who had distinguished himself by locating the feral complex from which the unauthorized radio broadcasts emanated and reducing it to ruble. A truly fine piece of work for which both the Kan and his line would be recognized.

  Hak-Bin touched a large pincer-sized button, saw the hatch open, and waited for the Kan to shuffle forward. Dor-Une was a warrior’s warrior. His chitin shimmered gray, his battle harness gleamed, and his posture radiated confidence. The Centum even smelled strong! Here at least was an individual the Zin could count on. “Centum Commander Dor-Une… Thank you for coming.”

  The Kan offered a stiff bow. “The pleasure is mine, eminence.”

  “Please,” Hak-Bin said, gesturing toward one of the sling chairs arrayed in front of his desk, “take a seat.”

  The officer accepted the invitation, slid his torso into one of the guest cradles, and wondered what sort of dra lay in store for him. There was a saying among the Kan: “Make a mistake and pay once. Win a battle and pay twice.”

  Now, with the supposedly secret birth-death day on the horizon and Hak-Bin up to his snout in problems, the Kan felt sure he would pay. The question was how.

  “First,” Hak-Bin said congenially, “please allow me to congratulate you regarding your recent victory. One of many I might add—stretching back more than a hundred units.”

  Dor-Une couldn’t remember the victories Hak-Bin referred to—but he could feel them. “Thank you, eminence,” the warrior replied cautiously. “My brethren fought bravely.”

  “Yes,” Hak-Bin agreed, “I’m sure they did. And now, as the ferals continue to make trouble, we have further need of their valor.”

  Here it comes, Dor-Une thought cynically, the well-sharpened stick. “Of course, eminence—we live to serve.”

  “Excellent,” Hak-bin said, “I think you’ll like this assignment. Rather than hunt the ferals down, as you were previously required to do, this group will come to you. The Fon are about to complete work on a factory, a very important factory, and it’s my belief that the so-called resistance will attempt to destroy it.

  “However, rather than destroy the factory, it is they who will suffer, since you and your brethren will be lying in wait.”

  “The factory will function as a trap then.”

  “Precisely.”

  “We have troops in place?”

  “Yes, but not very many. Highly addictive drugs have been administered to keep the slave population under control.”

  “I can call upon whatever resources I deem appropriate? Take whatever measures I think necessary?”

  “Of course,” Hak-bin said soothingly. “Give me a victory… the rest is up to you.”

  “Thank you, lord,” Dor-Une responded. “I will do my best. Is there anything else?”

  “No,” Hak-Bin replied, “just a sense of urgency. It’s my guess that the humans will attack soon.”

  “Understood, eminence,” the Kan replied as he backed out of the sling. “You can rely on the Kan.”

  “And I give thanks for it,” Hak-Bin said sincerely. “And one more thing…”

  “Lord?”

  “You’ll find a slave outside. Please send him in.”

  The Centum said, “Yes, excellency,” and backed away.

  Meanwhile, just beyond the metal hatch, Tog sat waiting. Waiting and sweating. Once again he had been summoned, once again he had no idea why, and once again he feared for his life. There was a good deal of irony in that, especially since he had cast his lot with the Saurons in order to avoid fear. He had survived so far, but a certain amount of that had been luck, and how long would the good fortune hold?

  Tog’s thoughts were interrupted as the hatch hissed open, a fierce-looking Kan emerged, and fired words like darts from a gun. “His eminence will see you now.”

  Tog mumbled his thanks, scurried through the opening, and heard the hatch close behind him. “Grand Vizier Tog!” Hak-Bin proclaimed expansively. “It’s good to see you! Please, take a seat.”

  Warmed by the Sauron’s greeting, and hopeful regarding the nature of the visit, Tog sat in the single Ra ‘Na chair. It was small, and the desk was large, which meant the Zin towered above him.

  “So,” Hak-Bin began, “how is morale among the slaves?”

  Tog, cognizant of how important it was to walk the line between the truth and politically expedient fiction, chose his words with care. “Locally, which is to say aboard the Ib Se Ma, morale is fairly good. Elsewhere, especially on other ships, it’s my understanding that problems persist.”

  Hak-Bin gestured his agreement. “Yes, I would agree, which has everything to do with our visit. You, more than any other slave, have proven your loyalty to the Sauron race. And now, much as I would like to see you sit back and relax, there is one more favor that I must ask.”

  Tog felt a series of conflicting emotions. Resentment where the word “slave” was concerned, pleasure in the unalloyed praise, and a growing sense of dread. What sort of “favor” did the Sauron have in mind? The anxiety continued to build. “Thank you, eminence. How can I be of service?”

  “Let’s talk about the ‘problems’ you referred to,” Hak-Bin began. “It seems that most, if not all the difficulties can be traced to a certain Dro Rul. The two of you know each other?”

  “Yes,” Tog replied hesitantly, “though not especially well. While both of us served in the College of Dromas—but there was very little on which we could agree.”

  “And a good thing,” Hak-Bin said sternly, “since this Rul person has been sentenced to death.”

  Tog, mind racing, felt ice water trickle into his bloodstream. “Death, my lord?”

  “Yes,” the Zin answered emphatically, “which would go a long way toward bringing this mutiny nonsense to a speedy conclusion.”

  “Of course,” Tog replied cautiously, “it’s unfortunate, but discipline must be maintained.”

  “Precisely,” Hak-Bin agreed. “Now, given the fact that we agree, the only question is how the execution should be carried out. And that my friend, is where you come in.”

  “Me, my lord?” Tog asked, as he fought to maintain his composure. “Pardon me for saying so—but I lack even the most basic of qualifications.”

  “Ah, but that’s where you are wrong,” the Sauron replied smugly. “In order to kill Rul, the would-be assassin must first get near to him—and who better than another Dro? The rest is simple… You aim the weapon, pull the trigger, and ‘bang!’ The troublemaker is dead.”

  “But Rul would refuse to see me,” Tog said desperately, “and I have no weapon.”

  “Oh, Rul will see you all right,” Hak-Bin said reassuringly, “especially if we give him reason to believe that the Grand Vizier is about to join the rebel cause. And, as for the weapon, well, I took the liberty of having one made. Here, take a look at this.”

  So saying, the Sauron reached into one of the desk’s many recesses, found what he was looking for, and removed a lacquered tray.

  Tog had little choice but to stand, move forward, and accept the offering. The object that lay on the tray looked as though it was sculpted from white clay. Though inert, it looked dangerous nevertheless.

  “Go ahead,” Hak-Bin said earnestly, “pick it up. Be careful where you point that thing though… We wouldn’t want any accidents.”

  Tog’s mind churned as he wrapped his fingers around the carefully contoured handle. What did the comment mean? That the gun was loaded? That he could shoot Hak-Bin in the head, leave the compartment, and make a run for it? The rebels would welcome him, and his safety would be assured.

  But what if the comment was some sort of test? What if he pointed the weapon at Hak-Bin, pulled the trigger, and nothing happened? The ensuing punishment would be long and painful. Tog turned the weapon so it was pointed at planet Earth. He was surprised by how natural it felt… like an extension of his hand.

  Hak-Bin nodded. “It feels good, doesn’t it? To hold death in the palm of your hand. As well it should. That weapon was made with your mission in mind. The entire mechanism was manufactured from an extremely strong ceramic material that can pass through metal detectors without setting them off. It contains two bullets, both of human manufacture, either of which will do the job. All you need to do is get into close physical proximity and fire both barrels. Then, minus their most important leader, the Ra ‘Na rebellion will collapse.”

  Tog turned the weapon over in his hands. His chest felt tight, and it was hard to breathe. “Yes, eminence, but what happens to me?”

  Hak-Bin made sounds which Tog knew to be laughter. “An excellent question! We will choose the meeting place with extreme care. A team of specially trained Kan will be in hiding nearby. Once the weapon has been fired you will use this to send them a signal.”

  Hak-Bin produced what looked like a short length of rod. It was made from the same material as the gun. Tog accepted the device and found that it was cool to the touch. “You’ll notice that one end is protected by a cap,” the Sauron added pragmatically. “The button is underneath. Don’t press it until the moment comes. A Kan named Lim-Tam is in charge. Call him prematurely, and he won’t be amused. My staff will help arrange the meeting—and handle your transportation requirements. Any questions?”

  Tog had questions, lots of them, but knew better than to ask. Hak-Bin had what he wanted, and the meeting was over. “No, eminence, I have no questions.”

  The Ra ‘Na had backed toward the hatch, and was just about to leave, when Hak-Bin called his name. “Grand Vizier Tog…”

  “Yes, eminence?”

  “See Kat-Duu on your way out. He has the bullets for your weapon.”

  Tog remembered the moment of temptation, swallowed the lump that formed in his throat, and bowed.

  Hak-Bin watched as the Ra ‘Na withdrew and the hatch closed. It felt good to laugh.

  A SHOPPING MALL NORTH OF MOUNT VERNON, WASHINGTON

  Darby heard the president of the United States before she actually saw him. The muffled thump, thump, thump of semiautomatic gunfire grew steadily louder as the resistance fighter followed Jill Ji-Hoon down the littered corridor toward the source of the noise. The mall had been looted more than once, repeatedly vandalized, and part of it burned. Half-dressed mannequins stared from shattered storefronts, a blackened barbecue, and a large pile of trash marked the spot where someone had lived for a while, and a momentary breeze sent a fifty-dollar bill skittering down the edge of the walkway. Neither woman sought to pick it up.

  Two heavily armed guards waited up ahead. Ji-Hoon paused to speak with them, laughed at something the male said, and turned to Darby. “So, how ‘bout it? Are you packin’?”

  Darby nodded. “A .38 and a pocketknife.”

  “Please remove both items, place them on the table, and assume the position. No offense—but the pat-down is SOP.”

  Darby shrugged. “None taken.”

  Once the search was completed, Ji-Hoon led Darby through a large pair of double doors and into what proclaimed itself to be the Bon Marché. It was a big store, but a largely empty one, with little more than the odd scrap of clothing on the nearly empty racks, tables, and shelves. The gunfire had stopped by then, and as Darby followed Ji-Hoon back through menswear, she saw that a rough-and-ready firing range had been established on the far side of the store. Mannequins served as targets, and one of them, minus the left side of her face, had sustained multiple hits to her torso.

  In spite of the fact that Darby had never met Franklin face-to-face before, she had seen the “talkies” that the Saurons had dropped, and recognized him right away. Franklin saw her approach, holstered his weapon, and extended a hand. “Hi! My name is Alex, and this is Jack Manning. He’s my chief of security.”

  Manning gestured toward the mannequin. “You’ve seen him shoot… He needs all the security he can get.”

  Darby felt a sudden stab of pain, knew it meant she was smiling, and made note of the fact that neither one of the men had reacted to her face. Not visibly at any rate—which was all she could hope for. “It’s an honor, sir, my name is Darby.”

  Franklin nodded and released her hand. His voice was solemn. “I know… Thanks to you, and the other volunteers, five Sauron ships were destroyed in what future historians will refer to as the Battle of Bellingham. Assuming we beat the bugs, and assuming I’m alive, it will be my pleasure to hang the Medal of Honor around your neck.

  “In the meantime, in my capacity as chief of the armed forces, I hereby commission you a full lieutenant in the United States Navy. Come on, let’s have some coffee.”

  Manning grinned, and Darby, literally speechless as a result of the unexpected praise, followed the president over to a large display table. The clothing that had once been stacked there was gone, but a sign said “Sale!” in bright red letters, and harkened back to happier times. Deac Smith was there—and rose to give Darby a hug. Then, having been introduced to Boyer Blue, Patience, and the Ra ‘Na named P’ere Nec, the newly commissioned naval officer took her seat at the table. It was littered with maps, coffee cups, and other odds and ends.

  “So,” Franklin said deliberately, “I hear you took a little swim… At the rate you’re going we’ll run out of medals.”

  “Chu went with me… and the Kan never knew I was there,” Darby said modestly.

  “Still,” Franklin insisted, “based on the synopsis from Deac, I’d say what you did took a whole lot of guts. Let’s hear the full report.”

  Darby laid it out, starting with a description of her landing, the conversations with Borsky and Ellis, followed by the visit with Sister Andromeda. There had been rumors, but nothing solid, so the use of cocaine as a way to control the slave population came as something of a shock.

  Franklin, who had never been especially fond of Andromeda, was still saddened to hear about the deplorable state she was in. He shook his head sadly. “You have to give the bugs credit. They’ve done an excellent job of identifying our weaknesses and coming up with ways to exploit them.”

  “That’s for sure,” Blue said soberly. “So, what should we do? It sounds as if Andromeda wants an air strike… Is such a thing possible?”

  All heads swiveled toward Nec. The Ra ‘Na cleric sat on a tall stool. “Theoretically it is,” Nec replied, “or will be, as soon as the situation in orbit becomes clear. Many of our ships, which is to say those in which Ra ‘Na forces occupy the control room, remain infested with Saurons. Rooting them out involves compartment-to-compartment fighting. Soon, within a matter of days, I should be able to provide a better assessment of our offensive capabilities. Perhaps, if things go well, we will have an opportunity to attack the factory.”

  “Great,” Patience put in sarcastically. “In order to save our people, we plan to incinerate them from orbit. What could be better?”

  “I understand your point of view,” Franklin said carefully. “More than that, I sympathize with it. But this is the Sauron catalyst factory we’re talking about. Were we to leave the facility untouched, a new generation of Saurons will be born—and any humans who survive will do so as slaves. Besides, I’m no expert on things military, but doesn’t the orbital thing cut two ways? If the Ra ‘Na can fire on the area around the factory so can the Saurons.”

  “Which brings us to the possibility of an old-fashioned infantry assault,” Smith said pragmatically. “Based on the intelligence Darby brought back, it looks like the factory is only lightly defended. Given the element of surprise, we might be able to break through the defensive perimeter, set some demo charges, and amscray before the orbital weapons come into play… Especially if P’ere Nec and his folks can keep the Sauron fighters off our backs.”

  “We would certainly try,” the cleric responded. “Realizing our pilots lack combat experience.”

  “They’re gaining more with each passing day,” Franklin said grimly, “and something is better than nothing.”

  “Let’s say the attack is successful,” Blue said skeptically. “How would Deac and his troops deal with a bunch of cokeheads? Imagine trying to move those people cross country while they enter withdrawal.”

  “The vice president has a point,” Patience admitted. “The assault force will need to carry some coke to tide the slaves over—and we’ll need a detox program at the other end.”

  Franklin sighed. In a situation where it was tough to provide free humans with enough to eat, the notion of a drug rehabilitation program seemed to verge on the ridiculous. Still, there didn’t seem to be much choice. “Okay, let’s go around the table… Boyer?”

  The ex–history professor nodded. “If Deac thinks he can pull it off, then I’m for it.”

  “Patience?”

  “An infantry assault beats the hell out of an orbital assault. My people will accept responsibility for the detox program.”

  “Excellent. Thank you. P’ere Nec?”

  “The Ra ‘Na will support you in every way that we can.”

  “And we appreciate that… Deac?”

  “Lord willing, we’ll pull it off.”

  Franklin nodded. “I hope he or she is paying close attention. We’ll need all the help we can get.”

  ABOARD THE BALWUR, (FORMERLY KNOWN AS THE NU MOR GA)

  The drop bay, originally intended as an area in which mines could be armed and launched from an area near the ship’s stern, was brightly lit. Too brightly lit for the task at hand. The coffins, each stamped with the occupant’s name, were lined up on a conveyer belt. Each was about four feet long, rectangular in shape, and made of gleaming metal. There were sixty-seven of them. Some had been sent to the Balwur from other ships, but many of the casualties had been suffered aboard the cruiser herself, during the final battle for control. And there were more casualties, thousands more, most of whom had been unceremoniously dumped from the ships that remained under Sauron control.