“Now, here’s how it will work… Each one of you has been assigned to a citadel. The true purpose of these citadels is to protect you and your nymph during the birth process. Over the next nineteen days, those of you not already on the surface will be transported there. Those of you who are on the surface will withdraw to the citadels. Shortly after your arrival you will be shown into a preassigned birth chamber, provided with appropriate medications, and left to make the journey in peace.

  “The fleet, meanwhile, plus a cadre of carefully selected breeder slaves, will await the arrival of your progeny. Once they have emerged and had a chance to acclimate themselves, the journey to Paradise will continue.”

  “What about the prisoners held aboard rebel ships?” a Fon yelled. “And what’s to keep the humans from killing us while we give birth?”

  The Fon would have said more, as would others scattered throughout the crowd, but a single shot from a Kan assault rifle served to silence them. The dart, fired by a warrior stationed in the girders above, punched a hole through the top of the functionary’s head and traveled down through his brain, into his throat, and from there to his left lung. He fell in a heap. No one moved.

  “You have questions,” Hak-Bin said calmly. “I understand that. And your questions will be answered. Not here, but in smaller groups, where members of the Zin can respond to specific concerns.” And eject you from a lock, the Zin thought to himself, should you threaten the rest of the race.

  “So,” the Zin concluded, “please return to your duties secure in the knowledge that the situation is under control, that your new lives will soon begin, and your nymphs will inherit all the knowledge, wisdom, and experience gleaned during your long productive lives. That is all.”

  There were no cheers, just the shuffle of feet and a heaviness of spirit as the Saurons left the Launch Deck.

  Finally, after everyone else was gone, only one Sauron remained. His name was Aut-Tuu—and he was dead.

  ANACORTES, WASHINGTON

  Centum Commander Dor-Une stood on the foundation of a razed building and looked out over the ruins of what had been Anacortes, Washington. It was evening, the sun had smeared the western horizon with reddish orange light, and another day was about to end. Not just any day, but one of only a few that remained to him, spent as most of them had been, doing his duty. Or so the Kan assumed.

  Sadly, especially now, Dor-Une could remember no more than two standard years back, and could do little but speculate as to prior events. It wasn’t fair, not to his mind at any rate, though many of his peers seemed to pay little if any attention to the matter. Their lack of introspection, especially in the wake of Hak-Bin’s announcement, was nothing short of amazing.

  Yes, some of them had expected something of the sort, thereby lessening the shock, and yes, they were in constant if somewhat unclear contact with their progenitors, but the overall level of acceptance seemed to hint at something deeper, a preprogrammed response that enabled his brethren to prepare for the next generation’s imminent arrival without regard for their own departure from the physical world.

  There might have been more such thoughts had Sub-Centum Ome-Tur not chosen that particular moment to intrude. Like the rest of Dor-Une’s command, he was exactly the same age as his superior officer and had the same amount of experience. Their perceptions were different, however, since where Dor-Une saw the sunset, and the manner in which it served to symbolize the ever-dwindling number of days available to him, his second-in-command saw little beyond the mechanics of purpose. “It will be dark in a few units.”

  Dor-Une gestured agreement. “Yes. The humans will attack at night, if not this one, then the next, or the one after that. Odds are that they will arrive by boat. Remind the pickets of the plan… Fire, fall back, and fire again. Then,” the commander said, opening a pincer by way of illustration, “we will close the trap.”

  The pincer made a clacking sound as it closed—and Ome-Tur made a note to use the same device when passing the orders along.

  Meanwhile, some sixty miles to the east, three helicopters sat in the center of a small field, their engines roaring as rotors started to turn. George “Popcorn” Farley stood in the door of Dragon One while Deac Smith yelled up at him. “Watch your six, George… the bugs can be tricky.”

  “Roger that,” the ex-Ranger responded. “It shouldn’t be difficult since my six is a lot larger than it used to be!”

  Smith laughed, waved, and backed away. Engines roared even louder as the Vertol CH-48 Chinook helicopters lifted off and nosed toward the ragged strip of orange light that still served to split day from night.

  Up front, in Dragon One’s cockpit, Vera Veen handled the controls while her copilot, John Wu, eyed the jury-rigged screens that some Ra ‘Na technicians had wired into the already cluttered instrument panel. The original plan had been to attack the catalyst factory from the sea, but then, after giving the matter some additional thought, Farley had changed his mind. Given that the humans had not launched any sort of airborne assault in the past, the ex-Ranger reasoned that doing so would provide his team with the element of surprise. Assuming the Chinooks managed to reach the LZ unharmed, that is… which was where the Ra ‘Na came in.

  On orders from Fra Pol, four flights of three fighters each had been launched from the newly liberated Liberty just prior to the moment when that vessel broke orbit. Then, taking advantage of the ensuing confusion, the rebel fighters landed on a body of water known as Lake Washington, where they scooted under the high-rise portion of the I-90 floating bridge, and immediately powered down. Now, thanks to the newly installed com gear ranked in front of him, Wu could communicate with the fighters, and the Liberty, should that be necessary.

  The copilot checked to ensure that the Ra ‘Na fighters were aloft, verified that they were, and gave a sigh of relief. Sauron fighters, that’s what he feared most, and it was up to the Ra ‘Na to keep them at bay. Could the fur balls do it? What with their lack of experience and all? Maybe, and maybe not. But what they could do was buy the choppers some time. And it was Farley’s hope that the fighter cover, plus the relatively short flight time, would enable the pilots to put the assault team on the ground before the orbital bugs were able to intervene. Then, with the humans right on top of their objective, the Saurons would be forced to put a hold on the heavy stuff or risk destroying the factory themselves.

  “How are we doin’?” Veen inquired, her face lit from below, and nearly obscured by the night-vision rig.

  “We’re cooler than a hog in a wallow,” Wu answered, adopting what he fancied to be a hillbilly accent, “and ready to raise some serious hell.”

  “Roger that,” Veen acknowledged cheerfully, “watch out, bugs, ‘cause here we come!”

  The warning from orbit and the sound of primitive aircraft engines reached Centum Commander Dor-Une within units of each other. He cursed his brethren for their negligence, cursed himself for assuming the humans would attack from the sea, and cursed the stomach cramps that threatened to distract him. Damn the nymph anyway! Even a warrior unborn should know better than to interfere at a moment such as this.

  But, like the professional he was, Dor-Une managed to push all of those concerns aside and focus his attention on the enemy. He activated his radio. There was no time to pass orders down through the chain of command, so he took advantage of the command override built into the Ra ‘Na-designed com system. “This is Dor-Une… Prepare for an airborne assault. It’s impossible to say where the ferals will land, so be attentive. Once they touch down report the location and concentrate your fire on their aircraft. I repeat, concentrate your fire on their aircraft—not on their troops.

  “Then, once their means of escape has been snatched away, you will herd them into the killing zone established as part of the original plan. The rest will be easy. Dor-Une out.”

  Farley stood toward the front of the chopper and looked back at the combat-equipped truck drivers, insurance salesmen, schoolteachers, sushi chefs, business executives, and construction workers who comprised his forty-eight-person platoon. It was a mixed group all right, but every one of them had fought the bugs before and knew what to expect. None were planning to stay—so each member of the team carried a full combat load consisting of an assault weapon or light machine gun, a handgun, combat knife, at least fifteen magazines of ammo, 40mm grenades, plus water, flares, body armor, com equipment, and med kits. Once on the ground, Farley’s team, plus an identical unit led by a retired gunnery sergeant named Waller, would attack the factory.

  The third platoon, which included the SAMs, mortars, and heavy machine guns, would set up as quickly as they could and provide fire support.

  It was a hairy mission, probably the worst Farley had participated in, and the knowledge weighed on his gut. He was getting too old for this sort of bullshit and should have been home sitting on the porch. That was when Wu came on the intercom, announced that they were “one minute out,” and welcomed his passengers to “bug city.”

  Farley ordered his team to release their seat belts, reminded them to check their weapons, and braced himself against the impact. There hadn’t been much AA fire, not that he could see, and that boded well. Maybe, just maybe, the bugs were napping.

  There was a distinct thump as the gear touched down, and Farley jumped to the ground. Confident that his troops would follow, the ex-Ranger raced across the onetime parking lot and took cover behind a burned-out van. Others joined him one by one. That’s when the Saurons opened fire—and armor-piercing darts stitched holes along the Chinook’s fuselage.

  Veen bit her lip as the platoon deassed the chopper, chanted, “Come on, come on, come on,” and felt the ship shudder as alien projectiles ripped through it. Helicopters have a lot of moving parts—which means there are plenty of things that go can wrong even under normal circumstances. Now, with enemy fire pounding the Chinook, the situation was anything but normal. Finally, the last soldier was off, her crew chief yelled, “Go!” and Veen resumed her mantra as she fed fuel to the twin turbine engines. “Come on, come on, baby, you can do it.”

  And the helicopter did do it, lurching into the air just as a Sauron SLM flashed through the space just vacated, and Dragon Two settled into the LZ. The second ship wasn’t so lucky. Men and women were still spilling out of the helicopter’s belly when a second SLM struck the aircraft’s tail, destroyed both engines, and ignited the onboard fuel. The resulting fireball lit the night.

  Farley watched the assault team bail out, gave thanks for the fact that most of them appeared to have made it, and got on the radio. “Red Dog One to Dragon Three… The LZ has been zeroed… repeat zeroed. Break it off and back around. We could use some fire support. Over.”

  Dragon Three, under the control of an ex-army pilot by the name of Dawkins, who gave thanks for the reprieve, banked to starboard. The turn, and the resulting tilt, provided the door gunner with the chance she’d been waiting for. Her name was Izu, and though only five feet tall, she was all warrior. The I.62mm minigun whined as if eager to begin its task, began to roar, and spit thousands of rounds per minute at the enemy below.

  Dor-Une, still gloating over the manner in which the slaves had rushed into his trap, felt a sudden sense of alarm as the helicopter was transformed from a troop delivery system into a platform for an extremely nasty offensive weapon. Guided by Izu’s gentle hand, the I.62mm slugs found the Kan and ripped them to pieces. The Centum Commander screamed into the com. “Destroy that aircraft! Do it now!”

  The Sauron warriors were nothing if not obedient. Half a dozen SLMs lanced upwards, sought heat, and locked in. Some went for the flares that Dawkins triggered, but some didn’t. The interval between the warning tone and the sound of the first explosion was so short that one blended into the next. Dawkins, Izu, and the rest of the heavy weapons platoon were gone in a flash of light.

  The debris from Dragon Three was still falling when Farley waved the first and second platoons forward. “Red Dog One to Red Dog Team… Are you people paid by the hour? Let’s get a move on.”

  The Kan fell back into a series of prepared positions, fired just enough to maintain contact, and waited for the slaves to enter the kill zone.

  The factory lay one city block to the west… and the defensive fire was lighter than Farley had expected. On the other hand, nothing was as he had expected. Either Darby had her head up her ass—or the place had been reinforced subsequent to her visit. Either way the outcome was the same. There were a lot more bugs than there were supposed to be, and if the Saurons were surprised, it was sure hard to tell.

  Lead elements of the assault team came under fire from the Sauron equivalent of a light machine gun. The first platoon silenced the weapon with a volley of 40mm grenades and continued to push forward. The catalyst factory, which was inexplicably lit, appeared up ahead. Farley paused, scanned the facility with a pair of light-intensifying binoculars, and tried to make sense of what he saw. Either the bugs were stupid, a definite possibility, or they were smart and…

  The ex-Ranger’s thought process was interrupted as Dor-Une ordered his mortars to fire. A series of explosions marched their way across the ground to Farley’s rear. The human knew he’d been boxed, knew he wouldn’t make it home, and gave the only order he could. “Assault team, advance!”

  And the assault team did advance right into the carefully planned cross fire that Dor-Une had worked so hard to prepare for them. But even as alien tracer fire cut the night into slices of darkness, and his team members continued to fall, Farley made one last call. “Red Dog One to Dragon One… over.”

  Vera Veen, still circling well clear of the firefight, was quick to reply. “This is Dragon One… go.”

  “It was a trap… Execute Plan B. Red Dog out.”

  Veen swore bitterly and turned to Wu. “You heard the man… make the call.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “That was an order goddamn it! Make the call!”

  Wu made the call.

  Twelve fighters circled thousands of feet above. The Ra ‘Na flight commander, an ex–shuttle pilot named Yad, swore as the transmission came in. Now, just as a swarm of Sauron fighters were making their way down through the atmosphere, the humans were in the mood to talk. He had no notion of human radio procedure and his voice was terse. “Yes? What do you want?”

  Wu forced himself to ignore the other pilot’s tone. “Execute Plan B. Over.”

  Yad checked one of the screens arrayed in front of him. Each member of Farley’s team had been provided with an electronic locator beacon. Each individual appeared as a green dot. There were surprisingly few of them, and they were clustered within the very area he had just been ordered to attack. “Have you lost your mind? If we attack the factory, your ground forces will be slaughtered.”

  Wu heard his own voice as if it came from a long distance away. “Roger that Strike One… but they’re going to die anyway. You have your orders… carry them out. Over.”

  Yad felt something hard settle into the bottom of his stomach. He said, “I understand,” and opened a link with the rest of his command. “Flights two and three will engage the Saurons. Flight one will follow me down. Arm bombs and missiles. This target is critical. We can’t afford to miss.”

  There were a variety of replies, all affirmative, and the battle was joined. As flight one dove—flights two and three started to climb. Some envied flight one. At least they wouldn’t have to face Kan pilots one-on-one. Not yet anyway.

  Meanwhile, down on the ground, Farley was down to ten effectives. They lay on their backs feet together, weapons aimed upward. “All right,” the ex-noncom said, “let’s make the bastards pay.”

  The Kan jumped after that, their momentarily gray bodies nearly invisible against the night sky, weapons winking red. Counterfire lashed up to meet them, alien bodies turned somersaults in the air, and blood fell like warm rain.

  But more Kan jumped, and more, until the sky was full of them. And each time they jumped the warriors met less resistance until there was hardly any at all. And finally, just as the Ra ‘Na fighters made their first run, the last member of the assault team died. His name was George “Popcorn” Farley, he’d been a Ranger once, and now, by all accounts, he still was.

  Dor-Une felt the ground tremble as the incoming fighters started to unload their ordnance. It didn’t seem fair. He’d done his part… but the half-wits in the air arm had failed to do theirs. Still, there was hope, especially in light of the low-quality forces that opposed him. Not one of the Ra ‘Na pilots had ever dropped a bomb before, so it wasn’t too surprising that none of them were able to hit the intended target.

  Yad, who was no better than the rest, swore when he saw that his last bomb was hung up. He started to toggle the emergency release, thought better of it, and banked to the left. “All right, slaves—the master race awaits! Put all of your missiles on the factory.”

  Like most of the slaves assigned to the day shift, Sister Andromeda was well clear of the factory by the time the assault began. But she had seen the influx of Kan, knew a trap had been laid, and hurried to warn someone. The assault force moved quickly however, and by the time Andromeda had traversed a section of burned-out ruins and arrived on the scene of the fighting, the battle was mostly over. The Saurons launched flares. They soared into the air, went pop, and drifted downward. The harsh green light cast an eerie glow over the ravaged landscape.

  The cult leader stepped over an eviscerated Kan and into the circle of death. The humans lay like the petals of a dead flower—their weapons clutched in lifeless hands, or inches from dead fingertips. Andromeda felt a terrible sense of grief bubble up from deep within. Sobs racked her body, and she made no attempt to control them. The Ra ‘Na fighters passed over her head, made a long slow turn, and began their second run.

  Andromeda recognized Farley and knelt beside his body. The Ranger’s hand was sticky but warm. She clasped it to her chest. Now, as she waited for the final release, the words that came to the onetime cultist’s lips were from a religion that predated hers. “The Lord is my shepherdKI shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: He leadeth me beside still waters…”