It was a pathetic affair, consisting of little more than a secluded cove, a jumble of weather-whitened logs, and a cluster of carefully camouflaged huts, none of which provided more than twelve square feet of usable living space. Veritable hovels by the standards of the indigents forced to dwell in them—but objects of delight to the wayward alien who floated belly up not fifty feet from the rock-strewn beach.

  His name was Pas Pol, Fra Pol, the prefix Fra indicating his status as a member of the Ra ‘Na clergy albeit the lowest rung thereof.

  Not that Pol, who was or had been part of Dro Tog’s diocese, had ever spent much time worrying about the needs of the religious bureaucracy. A fact that not only prevented his ascension to the next highest level of the hierarchy but kept him in perpetual trouble. A situation made worse when the wayward cleric surreptitiously witnessed a meeting in which Hak-Bin addressed his fellow Zin regarding the heretofore secret birth-death day.

  Bishop Tog sat on the information at first, fearful that it might stimulate a revolt and thereby threaten the rather comfortable status quo. But the attempt to bottle the information up failed. Dro Rul learned of the secret, and the Ra ‘Na resistance movement was born. An effort to which Fra Pol had dedicated both heart and soul.

  There were dangers attendant to such movements, however—and the initiate had been forced to flee. Yes, the manner of his departure from the dreadnought Hok Nor Ah had been something less than dignified, but Pol not only managed to survive the experience, but wound up in a veritable Ra ‘Na paradise thanks to the fact that the waters of Puget Sound were home to a natural buffet of bivalves, any number of which had already found their way into the initiate’s well-rounded tummy. And into other tummies too, since the Crips not only lived off the abundant seafood themselves, but used the watery harvest to buy the medications that many of them required.

  Not that such matters claimed much of the Ra ‘Na’s attention since his mind was mostly occupied with the sensory feedback attendant upon the act of swimming. An activity mostly denied his race during their long captivity and one for which their lithe, fur-covered bodies had expressly been designed. The sensation had something in common with weightlessness but managed to be better somehow. Pol loved the resistance offered by the water, not to mention its cool embrace and the way the unseen currents tugged at him. Surely Balwur, the Ra ‘Na people’s fabled home world, had been like this, only better if such a thing could be imagined.

  The realities of the larger context couldn’t be ignored, however, and much as the more sybaritic part of the cleric’s personality would have liked nothing more than to extend his responsibility-free lifestyle for as long as possible, there wouldn’t be a future if the Saurons had their way. Each time the sun disappeared in the west the great slaughter drew one day closer. A fact which meant that everyone who could do something should do something, and sooner rather than later.

  Pol’s thoughts were delightfully interrupted when a clanging noise was heard, and the camp began to stir. What the humans referred to as dinnertime had finally arrived. It was the best moment of the day except for breakfast, lunch, and the snacks that came in between.

  Suddenly energized, the Ra ‘Na rolled over and dove. The water was deliciously cold. Barnacle-encrusted rocks gave way to gravel that sloped up to a sandy beach. Pol stood the moment the water was shallow enough, waddled across the seaweed-strewn tide line, and shook himself like a water-soaked dog.

  A depression surrounded by artfully stacked driftwood served to screen the fire pit from the water, but the top of the cook’s head could still be seen. His name was Cecil. He was black like the Zin and a fine cook, or as Pol thought of him, a “flavorist.” An important distinction since the humans had a not altogether healthy tendency to fry, broil, bake, and otherwise cook food that should have been dunked in flavor pots and served raw. Hence the term “flavorist,” since the skill lay in the preparation of the condiments rather than the application of heat. In any case, Cecil, who liked his brood to arrive on time, shouted, “Come and get it!” which Pol hurried to do. Other members of the small, tight-knit community responded with an equal sense of urgency.

  There was the ex–navy petty officer named Darby, her face scarred by a shipboard fire; Wily, who though paralyzed below the waist, insisted on dragging himself across the sand; Chu, one sleeve flapping in the breeze; Nakambe, whose left leg was two inches shorter than the right; Nok, who had lost one leg to cancer, but still made good time on a prosthesis; Slo-mo, who had the body of a full-grown man but the mind of a ten-year-old, and a black Lab named Whitey, who liked to play in the water almost as much as Pol did.

  All of them, with Whitey dashing from one person to the next, converged on Cecil’s carefully arranged fire pit. Baked salmon, which had been wrapped in seaweed and buried under hot coals, steamed on a freshly scrubbed plank. Clam chowder, thick with chunks of meat and canned potato, burbled in a well-blackened pot.

  And, thanks to the nice collection of wine, which Darby had stumbled across in an isolated waterfront home, there were three bottles of St. Michelle Riesling, which stood like soldiers on a driftwood plank. Though lavish by the standards of Hell Hill, the Crips had grown used to such meals, and were quick to tuck in.

  Cecil, hands on hips, smiled approvingly as slices of fish were transferred to plastic plates, bowls were filled to the brim with chowder, and Pol, his food having been prepared sushi style, started to vacuum oysters out of their shells. A somewhat noisy process that was accompanied by grunts of satisfaction.

  No one took offense, however, since all the Crips were hearty eaters and not much given to the finer points of etiquette. That being the case, the first fifteen or twenty minutes of the meal passed with only a modicum of conversation. Then, once the worst of the hunger pangs had been assuaged, and those who wanted seconds had obtained them, the conversations began.

  The nature of these interactions was usually the same. Chu would complain about the way in which she had been treated that day, Nakambe would tell her to shut up, Wily would attempt to make peace, and Darby, who not only steered the group’s boat, but functioned as de facto group mother, would remain silent, partially eaten food resting on her lap, eyes focused on something the others weren’t able to see.

  Pol, having inhaled more than a dozen shellfish, and being in need of a rest prior to the second course, came to his feet, loosened the cinch of his loincloth, and took a mug of freshly brewed coffee over to Darby.

  The sailor heard the crunch, crunch, crunch of the alien’s footsteps and looked up. She liked Pol and smiled. That’s what it was supposed to be anyway, except that the scar tissue refused to cooperate, and the expression resembled a grimace instead. She accepted the cup. “Thank you, Fra Pol, that was thoughtful… Have a seat.”

  The Ra ‘Na accepted the invitation, took his place on the log beside her, and, much to his own surprise, started to act like the cleric he had trained to be. “You seem troubled, Darby…. Is there something I can do to help?”

  Darby, who would have answered differently had Chu or Nakambe asked the same question, shrugged. “Not unless you can get rid of the Saurons, give me a new face, and bake some apple pie to go with this coffee.”

  Though presented in a lighthearted manner Pol knew the pain was real. Especially where her face was concerned. “I don’t know what apple pie is, but I’m fairly sure our medical personnel could repair the damage done to your face.”

  Hope flared in Darby’s eyes, held for a moment, then faded away. “The Saurons would never allow something like that.”

  “No,” the initiate agreed, “they wouldn’t. Which is just one of the reasons why we need to rise up and defeat them.”

  The human shook her head. “Fighting the Saurons is a waste of time. I took part in an attack that destroyed five Sauron spaceships. It didn’t even slow the bastards down.”

  “Understood,” the Ra ‘Na replied, “but there’s something you don’t know. Something important.”

  Darby looked quizzical. “Such as what?”

  Pol smiled and rows of tiny white teeth appeared. “Such as the fact that all of the Saurons will die while giving birth to the next generation—which means the slave races have a chance. If we work together, if we have courage, if we strike at the correct moment.”

  Darby had questions, lots of them, but the first was the one Pol was waiting to hear. “So what can I do to help?”

  “We,” the alien replied, “what we can do to help. The answer is out there… and our job is to find it.”

  IN THE FOOTHILLS OF THE CASCADE MOUNTAINS

  Half-crazed by the pain from his burns, and fully expecting to be shot in the back, the newly risen racialist had blundered through the thick underbrush for more than a mile before coming to the conclusion that he was at least momentarily safe.

  Then, desperate to find shelter and something for his burns, Ivory wandered for hours. In spite of the fact that most humans had been murdered, and the rest forced into slavery, a scattering remained free. That being the case, the racialist discovered that most homes had already been broken into and robbed of anything useful.

  Ivory always went about it the same way. He would approach the prospective house, circle it, and pause to listen. Then, assuming everything looked good, he would sidle up to the often shattered door, push it open, and wait for some sort of reaction. A bird flew out once, nearly causing him to shit his pants, but that was unusual. A brooding silence was more common, broken only by the crunch of glass beneath the soles of his boots and the creak of interior doors.

  There was stuff, tons of it, all scattered hither and yon where the looters had left it. Clothes, lots of clothes, intermixed with useless radios, CD players, clocks, irons, hair dryers, lamps, books, records, and on and on.

  What he didn’t find but desperately wanted were medical supplies, guns, knives, axes, sleeping bags, cookware, toilet paper, matches, backpacks, or any of the other things that the foragers could use, trade, or hoard.

  There were a few victories, however, albeit minor ones, like an overlooked Teflon-coated frying pan, a fifty-foot length of clothesline, and a roll of paper towels. All the newfound treasures went into a canvas bag that the racialist carried Santa style over one shoulder.

  Most valuable, however, especially where the burns on his torso were concerned, were some unopened packages of V-neck white undershirts. They were large enough to allow free movement, and the clean cotton felt wonderful against his skin.

  Ivory spent the first night wrapped in a cocoon made from floor-length, fully lined, floral curtains, listening to the sounds the house made and the howl of a distant dog. There were a lot of dogs, all feral by then, and very dangerous. They couldn’t open doors, though—which was one reason why the human chose to sleep indoors.

  The room, which had previously been occupied by a teenage girl, smelled of spilled perfume. It seemed like a strangely inappropriate odor, hearkening as it did to a much happier time and what now seemed like unimaginable luxuries.

  Finally, after what seemed like hours, Ivory fell asleep.

  Ivory awoke with a start, managed to remember where he was, and wished his mouth tasted better. Strange though it seemed, the racialist had grown a little bit soft during his stay on Hell Hill. A fact which became all too apparent when he struggled to extricate himself from the curtain and realized how sore his muscles were. The burns were better, however, a miracle considering the possibility of infection and the fact that he had no antibiotics.

  And it was later that morning, while tromping through a previously looted Ramada Inn, that Ivory discovered an unbroken mirror. That’s when he saw the heavy growth of beard, the grimy skin, and the crusted-over burns. None were infected, not so far as he could tell, which was something to give thanks for. The great Yahweh had work for him to do, that was for sure, because nothing else could explain such extremely good fortune.

  There wasn’t any hot water, not with the power being out, but there was plenty of cold. The racialist used gallons of the stuff, not to mention three bars of individually wrapped soap and four previously white towels before he felt clean. The goatee came off, as did a month’s worth of hair, leaving a gaunt, tight-skinned face.

  Then, rather than don the filthy clothes that lay puddled on the floor, Ivory wrapped himself in an undersized terrycloth robe and stalked the halls until he found a room strewn with male clothing. The racialist appropriated some clean boxers, tried on a pair of nicely pressed jeans, and was pleased to discover they were only one size too large. A brown belt with a cheap Western buckle took care of the size discrepancy, a blue T-shirt went up top, and a nondescript sweatshirt added warmth.

  Then, having recovered his boots, not to mention his canvas booty bag, Ivory made the best discovery of all: an undisturbed storage room complete with a fully loaded maid’s cart, which not only yielded six rolls of toilet paper, and some more clean towels, but a plastic bucket filled with foilwrapped chocolate hearts!

  The racialist filled his pockets with the tasty tidbits, crammed three into his mouth, and experienced something better than sex. Had anyone chosen to follow Ivory that morning, the trail of gold foil would have provided them with the means. Of course, no one did. On that particular day, in that particular place, Ivory was blessed.

  ABOARD THE SAURON DREADNOUGHT HOK NOR AH, (PRIDE OF THE PEOPLE)

  P’ere Has was eating a bowl of gruel when the Kan came to take him away. Not because other more flavorsome fare wasn’t available, but because he felt the discipline involved would strengthen his soul and help keep temptation at bay.

  Never mind the fact that Dro Tog, his immediate superior, placed himself under no such strictures. Has believed it was the responsibility of each person to define the precise nature of their relationship with the Great One and to conduct themselves in accordance with that belief. Success or failure was their affair.

  So, having given his particular God a somewhat stern and unyielding demeanor, Has felt it necessary to find ways through which to demonstrate the extent of his devotion. That’s why the priest had just scooped the last spoonful of tasteless porridge into his mouth, and was just about to scour the inside of his unadorned bowl with a crust of pan bread, when the hatch flew open.

  The Kan, all members of the special security unit assigned to eliminate members of the Ra ‘Na resistance movement, wasted no time on niceties. A pair of warriors grabbed the diminutive cleric, jerked him out into the corridor, and searched his body for weapons.

  In the meantime, with no rules, regulations, or laws to stop them, other members of the security team ransacked the small, sparsely furnished compartment. They found a combination computer–vid player, a collection of what purported to be religious cubes, and a carefully maintained robe used for religious services. The warriors also discovered an extra pair of sandals, a stash of closely scribbled notes, and a preslavery comb inherited from his now-deceased mother.

  The lead Kan, who harbored fantasies regarding a stash of weapons, seditious writings, and a computer file containing a complete roster of the Ra ‘Na resistance movement, gave a grunt of disappointment. The compartment concealed nothing more dangerous than the comb, no obviously seditious materials, and, if the roster was there, it was disguised in the form of code. Perhaps the scraps of parchment—or the computer’s memory cache—would yield something. A possibility the specialists would no doubt look into. “All right then,” the Kan said, shuffling out into the corridor, “take him away. The painmaster is not known for his patience.”

  Like all his kind Has was fluent in the language of his masters and the very mention of the painmaster was sufficient to loosen his bowels. One of the warriors swore, another laughed, and the noncom offered the Sauron equivalent of a frown. “Perhaps the slave isn’t the only one in need of the master’s attentions.”

  The noncom lacked the authority necessary to exact such a punishment, but there were other possibilities—and the warriors were well aware of them. The Kan hurried to obey. Has felt the Saurons lift his feet clear of the deck as he struggled to understand why he had been singled out for such treatment, and was hustled away.

  The trip through the ship’s crowded corridors was like some sort of nightmare—the kind the cleric experienced in the wake of Tog’s unreasonable demands. Except the painmaster was sure to administer something a good deal more unpleasant than a mere tongue-lashing. The certainty of that loosened the cleric’s bowels once again.

  There was a rational Has, however, a sort of overbeing who managed to remain detached in spite of the mewlings generated by its lesser self. It was that part of the Ra ‘Na’s personality that took note of the way in which passersby reacted to his presence. Not the Saurons, who were universally uninterested in his predicament, but fellow Ra ‘Na, who could be expected to care.

  Except that they didn’t care, or didn’t appear to, since to demonstrate any sign of sympathy could be interpreted as a sign of support for whatever crime the unfortunate cleric had obviously been found guilty of.

  So, even as the Kan hauled Has away, the Ra ‘Na remembered other times, occasions on which it was he who had averted his eyes, he who allowed the already condemned to be carried away without so much as a comforting look. In fact, Has was so lost in his own contemplations that it seemed as if little more than seconds had passed before the Kan whisked him through the checkpoint beyond which members of the slave races were not normally allowed to pass and didn’t want to pass.

  Then, after a quick series of left and right turns, Has was half-carried, half-dragged through an unmarked hatch and into the painmaster’s dark domain. The decor, if that was the correct word, was consistent with instructions set forth in the Book of Cycles, which, ironically enough, dedicated most of its considerable pages to the subject of death.