Yad lined his fighter up on the catalyst factory, caught the explosion from the corner of his eye, and knew his wingman was dead. Although the pilot did not regard himself as especially religious, the hona seemed to chant itself. “From the ocean we came… and to the ocean we shall return. For I am but a drop in the sea of life, carried by currents unknown, and cast up where the Great One will have me.”

  Sister Andromeda heard the rhythmic pom, pom, pom of the Kan AA batteries, the shriek of outgoing SLMs, but never looked up. “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for Thou art with me…”

  Yad fired his final pair of missiles, toggled the emergency bomb release, and felt his fighter rise as the thousand-unit bomb fell away. There was just enough time to get off a burst from his nose cannon prior to pulling up and out of the dive. Moments later he was climbing, thrilled to be alive, and amazed to find that he and his wingmates owned the sky.

  A missile hit the ground not ten feet from where Andromeda knelt, exploded, and set her free. There was light, a feeling of weightlessness, and an enormous sense of relief.

  Dor-Une never saw the bomb, it was too dark for that, but somehow knew that death was on the way. Death for not only him but the nymph within. He met it the same way he had encountered life: head up, eyes open, feet planted firmly on the ground.

  The bomb struck, the catalyst factory exploded, and 204 slaves were killed. However, 416 Saurons died in the same blast, not to mention those who would die because they lacked birth catalyst, and those who would never be born.

  Vera Veen knew that, knew she was lucky to be alive, but somehow wished that she wasn’t. Officers weren’t supposed to cry, not in front of subordinates, but the pilot didn’t care. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she turned the helicopter toward the east. The engines droned, and the survivors, all three of them, were carried home.

  NORTH OF MOUNT VERNON, WASHINGTON

  Franklin looked upward. The skies were clear, and, without the glare produced by the cities of the past, the stars twinkled like diamonds. Points of light in what appeared to be an otherwise dark galaxy.

  Yes, there was beauty, if you had a telescope powerful enough to see it, but there was horror as well. Not in the stars themselves—but in the life forms they could produce. Why would an all-seeing, all-knowing, all-powerful god produce a race like the Saurons? Yet what, come to think of it, had the aliens done that humans had not? Bomb cities into rubble? You bet, plenty of them. Enslave thousands of sentient beings? Been there, done that. Practice genocide on a massive scale? Sure, and there were ovens to prove it. So, it came down to a matter of free choice, and what sentients did with it.

  There was the rustle of clothing, and a familiar voice said, “I thought I might find you out here.”

  Franklin turned to greet Dr. Sool. Light spilled from an open door. It lit the left side of her face. It was beautiful, and her skin reminded him of Jina’s. The medic offered the politician a cup of coffee. He took it. “Jack sent you.”

  Sool smiled. “And what if he did? He cares about you… We all do.”

  “Not those who are dead,” Franklin said bitterly. “Not Popcorn Farley, not Sister Andromeda, not the rest of them.”

  Sool took a sip of tea. “All of us are going to die, Mr. President, the only question is when. Thanks to the sacrifice made by people like Farley, the Saurons lost fifty percent of their birth catalyst plus the capacity to make more. That’s equivalent to killing half their nymphs in a single blow. No small accomplishment. The job needed to be done. They agreed to do it. End of story.”

  Franklin tried the coffee. It was hot and warmed the pit of his stomach. “So you have a degree in psychiatry as well.”

  Sool shook her head. “No, the truth is so obvious anyone could see it… Anyone but you.”

  “So, do you think we can win?”

  The medic shrugged. “Maybe, though it’s far from certain. I know one thing, however…”

  “What’s that?”

  “We have the right leader.”

  Franklin raised his mug. “Thanks, Doc. Perhaps you aren’t a shrink… but you’re the next best thing.”

  Sool grinned. “Don’t speak too soon… Wait till you see my bill!”

  ABOARD THE RA ‘NA CRUISER BALWUR

  Until very recently the compartment had been used as a sort of lounge by the Fon. Now, by virtue of the fact that all of the vessel’s previous owners had either been wounded, killed, or locked away in one of the ship’s holds, it had been transformed into an assembly hall. As such it was packed to overflowing with small, furry bodies. Contravening voices filled the air, ears lay flat against sleek skulls, and arms flailed wildly as a multiplicity of debates raged throughout the room.

  Rul sat on a bench off to one side and watched in wonder. Slavery was horrible, but the chaos before him was nearly unbearable, especially to one who admired order in the way that he did. Yet, based on secret documents handed down through the Ra ‘Na priesthood, the dro knew that such settos had been a common occurrence back during pre-Sauron days, and were in fact a hallmark of democracy.

  True to the time-honored institutions of the past, the new government would include a secular chief executive officer, an upper house comprised of senior members of the clergy, and a much larger lower house in which the various guilds would attempt to build coalitions, block each others’ initiatives, and ram their agendas through. The very process taking place in front of him… except that debate centered on a single issue.

  Now that the Ra ‘Na dominated ships had withdrawn into space and were free to do as they pleased, some of the newly freed slaves wanted to depart for the now nearly mythical planet of Balwur.

  Others, Rul among them, felt that to leave would amount to cowardice, and an unforgivable betrayal of both the Ra ‘Na who remained on Sauron-controlled ships and the humans on the planet below.

  “Nonsense,” the runners responded, insisting as they did that most if not all of the Ra ‘Na who remained on Sauron vessels did so voluntarily, and that the humans could take care of themselves. Some even went so far as to refer to the humans as clath, or “furless ones,” a racial slur that reflected the extent to which they had been influenced by Sauron society.

  All of which was necessary if not especially attractive, since public debate had been silenced since the fall of Balwur and must necessarily resume. The only problem was that the Saurons were about to reproduce, lives were being lost, and time was running out. That being the case, Rul signaled Pere Dee… and came to his feet. As with so many other things, Dee had anticipated the moment and equipped himself with the Ra ‘Na equivalent of a bullhorn. “Silence!”

  Hundreds of standard units earlier, prior to the fall of Balwur, such an order would have been greeted with insults, rude noises, and outright rebellion, since no one but the chief executive could issue such an order, and then only in the most dire of circumstances. But all of those present had been slaves and were used to following orders. The silence was total. Rul took control by simply moving to the front of the compartment, scanning the assembly with his laser-like gaze, and projecting his considerable personality.

  “Debate is a necessary and time-honored component of democracy. Later, when the present crisis has been resolved and the Sauron menace has been forever put aside, there will be ample opportunity for talk. But here, now, deeds must substitute for words.

  “Some say that we have suffered enough, that we should run, and leave the collaborators behind. I say they are wrong. With perhaps the exception of a few rebels, brave souls such as Fra Pol, every single one of us functioned as a collaborator in one way or another. Whom should we leave? By what test will you sort them out? And who is so innocent that they qualify to make such judgments?

  “Some say that the humans should be left to fight their own battles. I say they are wrong. Who struck the first blows? Who destroyed the first Sauron ships? Who showed us the way?

  “Some believe that we are somehow superior to both humans and Saurons because of our technological know-how. Well, I am here to tell you the Great One cares not for technology, nor the nature of the material that covers our bodies, but for the quality of the being within. Choose wisely my friends… or take the first steps down the same path that the Saurons followed so long ago.”

  There was silence after that as the vast majority of those present stared down at their feet and looked embarrassed. Finally, Sel San, leader of the Power Tech Guild, cleared his throat. “I would like to thank Dro Rul on behalf of the Power Tech Guild—and move that we call for a simultaneous vote by both houses. All those in favor of staying say ‘aye.’”

  The response reverberated like thunder. “AYE!”

  “And those opposed?”

  Silence.

  San turned toward Rul, delivered an old-fashioned bow, and smiled. “I know it’s hard to believe—but it seems the entire assembly is in agreement.”

  There was laughter—and the Ra ‘Na were truly free.

  NEAR THE MAYAN RUINS OF NAKABE, GUATEMALA

  It was night, and moonlight made a path across the river as it rushed, gurgled, and splashed its way toward the sea. Three Eye claimed that it spoke to him, or tried to, but either the river had no interest in Jones or she lacked the necessary talent because all she heard was the sound of water rushing by.

  The donada was ill—and the anthropologist had volunteered to replace her on the second net. Partly because their little community was so dependent on the tidbits that the Saurons dumped into the river—and partly because she was bored.

  Though relatively safe, the subterranean cavern where the sobrevivientes lived was more than a little stultifying. There was no Internet connection, no books, and no one with whom Jones could have a truly intellectual conversation.

  So, why am I still here? the academic asked herself for the thousandth time. Why haven’t I left? Made my way out of here? Surely there were others, people who evaded capture and managed to survive.

  But what sort of welcome would she receive? Men liked her—but that cut both ways. Men like Blackley would allow themselves to be used. But others, and there were plenty, would simply take what they wanted.

  Jones shivered. Was it the coolness of the night? Or the thought of winding up as some postapocalyptic alpha male’s sex toy? So that’s what it came down to… The cave was boring, but it was safe, and that’s why she stayed.

  Something hit the net, sent a shock through the hand rope, and broke the academic’s train of thought. She started to react, to pull the trap in, but felt another object hit the webbing, and another, until the combined weight exceeded what Jones could hold. That’s when she was forced to let go, the rope whipped through the block back among the trees, and was sucked into the river as the net released its load.

  Curious as to what she had caught, then immediately lost, the academic waded out into the river. There was an eddy there, a place where the current liked to park things, prior to snatching them away. The water was warm, blood warm, and caressed her knees. Something bumped into the anthropologist’s leg—then quickly disappeared. But there were more blobs, dark somethings that bobbed up and down while waiting for their turn.

  Jones waded out a little bit farther, managed to get her hands on one, and almost let it go. The object was soft, too soft, and wore some sort of clothes. That’s when she turned the body over, saw the Ra ‘Na’s dimly lit face, and knew the truth. The Saurons were murdering their slaves. Not just a few, as some sort of punishment, but, judging from the number of blobs, hundreds or even thousands.

  As if to corroborate the anthropologist’s theory another corpse spun into the eddy, paused for a moment, and was soon sucked away. More followed, became tangled up with each other, and started to form what amounted to a logjam. Jones backed away. Part of her felt sick, but the other part, the academic part of her personality, wanted to know why. Had the citadel been completed? And would the aliens actually leave? The river tried to tell her, but Jones couldn’t hear, and the bodies continued to accumulate. Whatever the answer, the academic knew one thing for sure… Something was going to happen.

  HELL HILL

  The president of the United States crouched among the burned-out remains of a half-million-dollar summer home and peered through his binoculars. Hell Hill, which lay to the south on the other side of Pleasant Bay, shimmered in the sun.

  Seen from a distance the citadel, which sat castlelike atop gradually rising tiers of pastel cargo modules, looked like a medieval town perched high above the Mediterranean. Only the observation tower, which lay where it had fallen, and the badly scorched citadel gave lie to the illusion.

  The politician gave an involuntary start as a Sauron shuttle whined over the partially collapsed house, circled, and landed out on the bay. Another had pulled away from one of the floating docks and was ready to take off. Thousands of Saurons had landed during the last two days, and there was no end in sight.

  Even now, while hundreds of slaves worked to repair the damage done to the citadel’s roof, a long column of Fon could be seen marching up the dirt road, past the rows of crow-picked crosses, and into the limestone complex where the birth chambers awaited them.

  The politician lowered his binoculars and turned to the soldier crouched at his side. Deac Smith had taken Popcorn Farley’s death especially hard—and deep circles underscored his eyes. But he was determined, not to mention angry, and Franklin knew it would go hard with any Sauron that Smith happened to encounter. “So, you still feel good about a daylight break?”

  Smith nodded. “Yes, I do. We’re going to take casualties no matter what we do… Once the demo charges go off, the slaves will start to run every which way. Directing them down through the wall will be hard enough during the day. At night, with no orbital mirror to provide extra illumination, the whole thing would be impossible. People would fall off cliffs, run the wrong way, and Lord knows what else. Besides, the last thing the bugs will expect is a daylight attack.”

  Franklin was familiar with the arguments, having formulated some of them himself, but felt reassured nonetheless. No one knew when the Saurons planned to kill their slaves—but there was little doubt that the day would come soon.

  Rather than wait for that day, and the slaughter that would follow, the resistance had resolved to engineer a massive breakout. A lot of slaves would die, there was no way to avoid that, but at least they’d have a chance. Franklin checked his watch. “Okay, Deac, make it happen.”

  The ex-Ranger nodded, waited for the last few seconds to tick away, and spoke into his radio. The first thing that happened was that the stripped-down pickup truck, better known to the residents of Hell Hill as Cappy’s Meat Wagon, blew up.

  Cappy wasn’t near the vehicle when it exploded, nor were the slaves assigned to pull it. They had been excused and sent elsewhere when the meat wagon’s rear axle failed earlier that morning, leaving the vehicle stranded by the main gate.

  Had the Kan assigned to guard the entrance been less preoccupied with the aches and pains that plagued them, and had one or more of them been willing to penetrate a virtual cloud of flies and look through the pile of bodies stacked in the back of Cappy’s truck, they would have discovered the massive demo charge and still had sufficient time to disarm it. But such was not the case, which meant that the guards, the bodies, and the main gate simply vanished as 2E0 pounds of military-grade C-4 was detonated from a position half a mile beyond the wall.

  The subsequent explosions were spaced along the entire length of the landward perimeter at points easily accessed from the hill’s eastern slope. Little bits of wood and stone were still raining down when Manning, closely followed by a group of volunteers, charged through break number three. The “moles,” as the sappers liked to refer to themselves, had spent days driving tunnels in under the base of the wall. Carefully shaped charges, detonated on cue, handled the rest.

  Now, as Manning waved his self-designated Pathfinders forward, and gave something analogous to a rebel yell, he questioned his own sanity. A lot of Smith’s best people had died during the Battle of Anacortes, which meant the resistance was short of officers. That was part of it, but there was more… Somewhere along the line the security officer had crossed the line from neutral professional to full-blown patriot. A transformation that came as more of a surprise to the security chief than those around him.

  But then, as an SLM slammed into one of the observation towers, and Kan swung into the action, the time for thinking was over. All over Hell Hill specially trained volunteers emerged from hiding, ran into the streets, and yelled the exact same words: “Leave everything behind! Run down the east side of the hill! Leave everything behind! Run down the east side of the hill!”

  Most of the slaves obeyed, running as if their lives depended on it, which they certainly did. A group of Fon overseers, backed by human collaborators, emerged from a side street and attempted to turn the would-be escapees. They shouted orders, cracked their whips, and blocked the path. Those at the front of the crowd hesitated, and some managed to stop, but only for a moment. More and more people arrived with each passing second, and those toward the rear pushed from behind. Unaware of the confrontation ahead, they pushed from behind. Suddenly, like a dam bursting under pressure, the mob rolled forward.

  Whips cracked, and some of those in the first few ranks fell under the lash, but most kept their feet. Those who went down were quickly trampled into red mush. A few of the Fon managed to jump clear, but the rest were overwhelmed and torn apart the moment the crowd came into contact with them. Human collaborators, or those perceived to be collaborators, fared no better. There were screams as they were subsumed by wave after wave of flesh.