The sudden emergence of the Fon Brotherhood, not to mention the attack on the Kan checkpoint only days before, had shaken Hak-Bin to his very core. So much so that the Sauron leader was willing to sacrifice some functionaries in the name of social discipline. An example not lost on the Kan or Zin either, for that matter. What with the clock ticking, and his entire race about to be reborn, the means would justify the end.

  A situation the human could easily understand since most of his race, those not actually murdered during the attacks, would be slaughtered the moment the fortress was complete. That was the plan at any rate—but one he and the rest of the resistance movement planned to counter. If they lived long enough to do so. Whips cracked as the crowd slowed, was forced to disperse, and ordered to face uphill.

  A tightly arched black awning had been established at the foot of the north tower, and, judging from the Zin assembled there, was the point from which Hak-Bin would address the multitude. Rows of crosses served as decorations, speakers had been mounted on poles, and rows of sling chairs stood ready to accommodate Zin dignitaries. A Kan waded through the crowd, pointed toward Franklin, and motioned upward. Never one to miss an opportunity, it seemed that Hak-Bin wanted his “ruka” or pet, up where the rest of the slaves could see and hate him.

  Franklin lifted the girl off his shoulders and placed her on the ground. She ran to her mother, who nodded and smiled. At least one convert had been made.

  Then, protected by Manning and his security team, the president wound his way up to where a group of Fon functionaries stood. A murmur ran through the crowd behind him, and someone hissed. Franklin, who half expected an attack of some sort, made it to the flat area and turned to face the crowd. He could feel the full weight of their animosity. The sun chose that particular moment to duck behind a cloud. A shadow fell on the hilltop, and Franklin shivered.

  • • •

  Wave after wave of slaves arrived, were ordered to wait, and had little choice but to obey. There were no sanitary facilities, no arrangements for water, and those who sat, or tried to, were whipped onto their feet.

  Sool, with Dixie at her side, was deposited directly in front of the awning where whatever was about to occur would most likely happen. A privilege she could have done without. There was one advantage, however, since the vantage point provided Sool with an unobstructed view of Jack Manning, who, completely unaware of her presence, scanned the crowd. The fact that the medic found the security officer interesting, even sexy, never ceased to amaze her. Logically, based on all things that made sense, there should be no attraction whatsoever.

  First, because his profession, which required Manning to shoot people from time to time, was completely at odds with her profession.

  Then there was the matter of his inner life, a mindscape which she assumed to be less intellectual than hers, although she knew him to be well educated. Manning had a master’s degree in geology no less… which might show a scientific bent.

  Why the attraction then? If it shouldn’t exist? Memories mostly, like the first time she had seen him, lurching in out of a rainstorm with an injured girl cradled in his arms. Or later, after the racialists abducted her, the manner in which he not only came to her rescue, but held her filth-encrusted hand.

  So which was he? Sool wondered. A violence-prone maniac? Or a man capable of great tenderness? And what difference did it make? Since the doctor knew the security chief had been in love with Franklin’s wife and crushed by her violent death.

  Manning, his eyes hidden by the dark glasses that he and the rest of his team wore, looked in her direction. Something, Sool wasn’t sure what, jumped the gap.

  Damn, the medic thought to herself, I’m an idiot.

  Manning smiled, and the sun came out.

  • • •

  Mal-Dak, still hanging upside down from his cross, had never thought about crucifixion before and never contemplated how terrible it could be. Rather than simply dying, as by other forms of execution, victims lingered for days until they succumbed to exposure. A long, horrible process that stretched forever.

  The fact that the cursed black birds had already been stymied by the thickness of his chitin, and would soon attack his eyes, made the process even worse.

  Now, only hours into his own personal hell, the Fon was thirsty. Not just a little thirsty, but very thirsty, to a degree he had never experienced before. A fact that seemed especially ironic since he, like his brothers, had suffered through endless days of rain. Rain that fell as a mist, rain that blew in sideways off the water, and rain that fell in torrents from an eternally gray sky. The very thought of it made his throat feel parched. And it was that thirst, that need, which was foremost in the Sauron’s mind when Hak-Bin’s procession drew into his upside-down world. Not that Mal-Dak knew the procession had anything to do with Hak-Bin, but surmised it from the noise, color, and movement.

  Of one thing there was no doubt, however, and that was the fact that his misery, combined with the unjust manner in which he had been treated, combined to make him the very thing for which he was being punished: a rebel. A rebel who, more by luck than anything else, was about to generate an incident that would inspire real rebels, most of whom were standing around trying to look busy.

  The moment occurred just as Ji-Hoon and her team, sweating heavily after the long hard climb, bore the sedan chair past Mal-Dak’s cross. That’s when the Fon, having struggled to muster the necessary saliva, moistened his mouth, and shouted a phrase which previously had no meaning to him. “Long live the Fon Brotherhood!”

  That’s the way the English-language version came out anyway—although the original was somewhat different. The translation was picked up by the Ra ‘Na PA system and relayed to the mostly human crowd. The words were meaningless to most who continued to stare at the ground.

  But even if the vast majority of the humans remained unmoved—the challenge had an electrifying effect on at least one individual. The great Hak-Bin sat up straight, rapped the side of the sedan chair, and said, “Stop!”

  Ji-Hoon heard the command, as did the rest of the team, and they came to a halt. Hak-Bin slid backward out of the sedan chair, found the ground with his feet, and scanned the area. The citadel loomed above, crosses cut the sky into odd geometric shapes, and humans carpeted one side of the hill. The vast unwashed stink assailed the olfactory sensors located on the inside of each wrist, and the Zin pulled elastic bands down to cover them.

  All of it was the way Hak-Bin had visualized it, had arranged it, except for the offensive slogan. The voice belonged to a Fon, he knew that, partly because of the words themselves and partly because of the manner in which they had been said. Like most inferior beings, this one spoke the dialect typical of his caste. Hak-Bin eyed the surrounding thicket of crosses. “Which one?”

  A Kan pointed at Mal-Dak, and the Sauron turned to look. The first thing he noticed was that this particular creature was nothing special to look at. A rather pathetic specimen he couldn’t remember seeing before, though truth be told, the Zin had a hard time telling functionaries apart. He gestured with a pincer. “T-gun.”

  Reluctantly, because no warrior worth his chi parts with his weapon willingly, the nearest Kan surrendered his sidearm.

  Hak-Bin accepted the weapon, made his way over to where Mal-Dak hung, and allowed the t-gun to dangle at his side. “You and your entire line are about to die.”

  Unlike a growing number of his caste, some of whom stood not twenty paces away, Mal-Dak knew nothing about the coming change. All he wanted to do was strike back, and words were the only weapon he had. He said the first thing that came to his mind. “All of us are going to die… and you sooner than some.”

  The words, which not only seemed to imply a knowledge of the great change, but the rather worrisome symptoms that plagued Hak-Bin of late, were far more effective than the Fon could have possibly imagined. The Zin felt sudden uncontrolled rage.

  Mal-Dak saw the t-gun come up, knew what it meant, and was glad. Others might hang for days, might have their eyes pecked out, but he would escape. He would…

  Hak-Bin squeezed the weapon’s handle, the weapon barked, and the dart punched a hole through the Fon’s thorax, hit the wood beyond, and blew the two-by-four in half. Like a tree falling in the forest, the cross toppled, and landed with a thump.

  Much to Franklin’s amusement the humans produced a scattering of applause, and the Sauron leader, who knew what the sound meant, felt a resurgence of anger. Had the entire universe gone insane? Would everyone, Sauron and human alike, be allowed to defy his authority?

  Enraged by the manner in which his own object lesson had been turned against him, Hak-Bin raised the t-gun, shot the blue-eyed man in the head, and proceeded down the line of crosses, killing humans until his weapon ran out of projectiles.

  Hak-Bin’s anger had run its course by then, and the rational part of his mind was back in control. It questioned the true cause of his runaway emotions while simultaneously looking for some way to cover up.

  Much to its owner’s horror Hak-Bin tossed the t-gun aside, allowed it to plop into a mud puddle, and shuffled toward the canopy-covered dais. His retinue, which included Ji-Hoon and the rest of her team, followed. Dro Rul, along with the rest of his peers, had arrived by then, and stood off to one side as the Sauron took his place before the enormous crowd.

  It was no coincidence that a flight of seven Sauron fighters chose that particular moment to roar over the slaves. People ducked and eyed the sky in fear.

  Hak-Bin took note of the fact that the humans appeared to be cowed—and made the decision to dispense with his opening remarks. He took his place behind the dais and eyed his audience. “You continue to live for one purpose, and one purpose only, and that is to work. Not just any work, such as you did prior to our arrival, but meaningful work. Look at the temple behind me, take pride in what you have accomplished, and continue to live.”

  Hak-Bin paused at that point, allowing time for the words to sink in. “Or, and the choice is yours, you can die. For death is the fate assigned to all miscreants regardless of who they may be. This reality applies to humans, Ra ‘Na, and Saurons as well. If you doubt me, turn your eyes to the sky.”

  Slowly, as if not quite sure they had heard correctly, the slaves looked up. Manning was no exception. The sky appeared to be clear—so the security chief was confused at first. Then he saw the black dot and heard the low-pitched hum. The lifter, just one of the many types of aircraft that the Saurons had stolen from the Ra ‘Na and adapted for their own use, came in from the north.

  It looked like a single blob at first, but that started to change. The single image morphed into an H-shaped aircraft with something that dangled below. A cargo module? No, it was too small for that. Whatever the thing was it twisted back and forth at the end of its tether and seemed invested with a life of its own.

  “As I said,” Hak-Bin intoned, his slightly stilted words booming out from the pole-mounted speakers, “no one is exempt from Sauron justice. Not even the stonemaster himself.”

  There was a muted gasp as the H-shaped shadow fell over the crowd, and whatever it was that kept the alien aircraft aloft roared, blasting the hill with jets of hot air. Grit flew, clothes flapped, and hair whipped from side to side. The object was clear to see by then—and it was the Saurons rather than the slaves who stared up in horror.

  The stonemaster, who, only hours before, had been the second or third most powerful being on Earth, now dangled beneath the lifter at the end of a long black cable. It swayed alarmingly as the lifter lost forward motion and hovered above the citadel. “Remember what you are about to witness,” Hak-Bin said gravely. “Remember as you watch over the slaves, remember as you haul stone, and remember when you dream.”

  Then, by means of a prearranged signal, an order was given. The lifter’s copilot touched a switch, a coupling snapped open, and the stonemaster, still struggling to accept his fate, fell free of the cable. Strangely, or perhaps not so strangely, he never screamed. True to his calling, true to the knowledge inherited from his predecessors, and true to his own nature, the master architect spent the last few seconds of his life admiring what he had built, wondering why he had never thought to view it from that particular perspective before, and hoping his assistants would have the strength to deal with the political pressure from above, would refuse to compromise the citadel’s structural integrity in the name of speed, and would hew to the instructions laid down in the Book of Cycles.

  And that was when the Sauron’s legs shattered against a partially completed dome, when shards of exoskeleton punctured his abdominal cavity, and light exploded before his eyes. The sight of the Sauron’s death affected different beings in different ways.

  Sool winced and closed her eyes.

  Franklin thought about how desperate Hak-Bin must be.

  Dro Tog felt frightened.

  Manning smiled coldly.

  Ji-Hoon frowned.

  And the man named Brian Banes finally snapped. A fact which wasn’t all that surprising in and of itself, especially given the fact that the Saurons had murdered most of the other patients in the mental hospital, sparing Banes because he was big and strong. Very big and very strong.

  Propelled by emotions rather than concrete thoughts, Banes pushed his way through the crowd, sucker punched one of the Kan warriors, and broke through the security cordon. The ex–mental patient pulled the long heavily serrated kitchen knife out of its homemade sheath, held it up over his head, and charged up the hill. The roar of primal outrage turned many heads.

  Strangely enough it was Hak-Bin who first noticed the would-be assassin. His first thought was to escape, to jump out of danger, but he refused to let instinct rule. No, appearances were important, especially then, with so much at stake.

  That being the case, the Sauron resolved to stand his ground, to place himself in the hands of fate, and wait for one of his seemingly dim-witted warriors to kill the oncoming slave.

  The truth was that in spite of the Zin’s doubts regarding their capabilities, no less than three of the shimmery aliens had turned uphill and raised their weapons only to discover that if they fired and even one of their darts flew wide, there was a high likelihood that it would hit Hak-Bin or one of the Zin dignitaries seated to either side of him. A definite no-no. They were still contemplating, still trying to decide, when Jill Ji-Hoon took action. Though some would question the ex–FBI agent’s judgment later on—it was training rather than political correctness that put her body in motion.

  Ji-Hoon, who, along with the other members of the team had been standing just downhill from Hak-Bin, waiting for the event to end, stepped out to block the madman’s way. He saw her, roared some sort of challenge, and ran even faster. His legs pumped, his breath came in short gasps, and only one thing stood in his way. A tall woman with a look of determination on her face.

  Though not responsible for Hak-Bin’s safety, Manning and his team were responsible for Franklin, and the sight of the knife was more than sufficient cause. Coats were whipped aside, heavy weapons appeared, and they stood ready to fire. That was when Ji-Hoon decided to intervene, and the security chief raised his hand. Fingers came off triggers as everyone waited to see what would happen. Ji-Hoon waited for the would-be assassin to get a little closer, shifted all her weight to her left foot, and kicked with her right. The lower part of her leg slammed into Bane’s midriff.

  He seemed to hesitate, stutter-stepped in an effort to achieve more traction, and swiped at Ji-Hoon with the knife.

  The ex-FBI agent jerked her head back, let the blade pass, and kicked her assailant in the right knee.

  Banes felt something give, knew he was falling, and managed to recover.

  Now, dragging one foot behind him, knife still in his hand, the ex–mental patient drove himself upward. Darts, fired from the top of the nearest observation tower half a mile away, blew divots out of the ground behind him, and those close enough to see what was taking place dove for the ground.

  Ji-Hoon, who stood ready to hit her adversary again, was close enough to feel the warm spray as one of Hak-Bin’s ceremonial guards finally blew the madman’s head off. Blood spouted, the corpse toppled, and Banes was free.

  Hak-Bin, who still stood frozen in place, allowed himself to relax. Though dramatic, the assassination attempt made a poor conclusion to an otherwise powerful presentation. But that couldn’t be helped, so the Zin looked out over the crowd, marveled at how quiet the scene was, and felt the first signs of the much-dreaded symptoms.

  He would need privacy in which to wait them out, in which to scream unheard, in which to wish he were dead. That being the case, Hak-Bin kept his closing comments short and to the point. “You know what I require of you… You know the price of failure… You know what to do. Work hard, build well, and you will survive.”

  The last sentence was a lie, for his kind as well as theirs, but such were the words all of them needed to hear. They required hope… and the gift was his to give.

  The multitude watched in silence as the great Hak-Bin summoned the sedan chair, slid into place, and was carried away. That’s when a crow cawed, the slaves were released, and work resumed.

  2

  DEATH DAY MINUS 79

  THURSDAY, MAY 14, 2020

  Tyranny, like hell, is not easily conquered, yet we have this consolation with us, that the harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph. What we obtain too cheap, we esteem too lightly: it is dearness only that gives everything its value.

  —Thomas Paine

  The American Crisis, no. 1, December 23, 1776

  PUGET SOUND

  It was nighttime, or would have been, except for the ghostly glow provided by the asteroid-mounted reflecting mirror the Ra ‘Na had constructed on behalf of the Saurons and referred to as “the bounce.”

  Authorized by the now deceased stonemaster, and focused on Hell Hill so the humans could work around the clock, the intensity of the light started to fade a few miles to the south, where a group known as the Crips had established a temporary camp.