Though served by a contingent of specially trained Kan, the painmaster was Zin, and therefore black. Thanks to knowledge inherited from his predecessors, the painmaster understood how important psychology could be when it came to wringing information out of recalcitrant slaves. He stood with crossed arms and was lit from below. The effect, which made his already intimidating countenance all the more terrifying, was often sufficient to elicit confessions in and of itself. A positive thing for the most part, unless the goal was to learn the truth, when fear could actually get in the way. Those who were susceptible to intimidation, or simply hoped to avoid torture, had an unfortunate tendency to confess to anything and everything regardless of whether they were actually guilty. A subtlety that his superiors, beings like Hak-Bin, often missed. But that was the way of it, and just one of the reasons why the ancient ones had seen fit to formally invest his particular line.

  None of which was apparent to Has as the toes of his sandals skipped over the surface of the metal deck and fear seized his body. Confronted with the Sauron’s carefully lit visage, the sight of rods heating in the forge, and the stink of previously singed fur, the Ra ‘Na would have loosed his bowels yet again except for the fact that there was nothing left to give. All he could do was make a strange yammering sound as the Kan carried him over to a vacant spot on one of the bulkheads, strapped him into place, and backed away. A Kan moved to cut the subject’s clothes away and soon left him naked.

  It was then that Has realized that he wasn’t alone. Bodies other than his decorated the walls. The compartment was dim, lit by little more than the forge and a scattering of deck-mounted lights, but the newly arrived prisoner could make out half a dozen Ra ‘Na, two humans, and a ghostly white Fon—all suspended by straps similar to his. None of them seemed to be aware of the newcomer’s presence, or if they were, chose to conceal that fact. Some knew from harsh experience that to demonstrate awareness was to invite more pain—something none sought to do.

  Now, his entire weight suspended by the bloodstained straps, Has watched in horrified fascination as the painmaster withdrew one of the glowing rods from his forge and shuffled across the deck. Having interrogated countless slaves, and knowing their areas of weakness, the Zin entered his regular routine. The first step was to provide the subject with a sample of that which could be. A quick flick of the wrist was sufficient to the task. Has flinched as the glowing tip of the red-hot implement touched the tip of his left ear. The resulting scream emptied his lungs.

  The painmaster, who expected nothing less, started the slow methodical questioning. The answers, all of which were recorded, would be evaluated by others. “What is your name?”

  “Has… P’ere Has.”

  “And your identification number?”

  “RS4I602.”

  “Good,” the painmaster allowed deliberately. “You have been truthful so far. There are more difficult questions, however, much more difficult, as those around you can attest. Now, consider carefully… How long have you been a member of the Ra ‘Na resistance movement?”

  Has stared at the rod’s slowly yellowing eye as the instrument wove intricate patterns in front of his face. He could feel the perspiration working its way out through his pores, trickling down along individual hair follicles, and wetting the outer surface of his fur. It was a trick question, he knew that, and clung to the truth. “I am not a member of the resistance.”

  Has actually heard his flesh sizzle as the rod touched his ear. The scream was louder than the one before.

  The painmaster clacked a pincer in what seemed like annoyance. “Come now… surely you are wrong. The Kan brought you here, correct?”

  Has wanted to touch his badly burned ear, to see what it looked like, but knew he couldn’t. Where was this line of questioning headed? There was no way to tell. “Yes, the Kan brought me, but I don’t see…”

  “Of course you don’t see,” the Zin interrupted, “inferior beings rarely do. The Kan are Saurons, true? And Saurons are infallible, are they not? All of which attests to the fact that you are guilty.”

  The truth, Has instructed himself, you must stick to the truth. The cleric braced himself against the pain about to come. “No, your eminence, I am not guilty. Not of crimes against the master race.”

  The painmaster started to bring the rod down onto the heretofore untouched ear but stopped short. The last answer intrigued him. “Ah, so you are guilty of something, what is it?”

  “I am guilty of sloth,” Has answered truthfully, “and of pride, envy, and occasional doubt.”

  The painmaster ran the still-cooling rod down the inside surface of the Ra ‘Na’s left arm, paused at the nearly bare axillary, and pulled the instrument away.

  Though less intense than the injuries that preceded it, the burn made a river of pain, and Has jerked in the opposite direction.

  “Don’t toy with me, slave,” the Zin warned ominously. “You won’t enjoy the results.”

  “Yes, your eminence,” Has gasped, “I am innocent, ask Dro Tog.”

  The painmaster examined the rod’s tip, decided in favor of a touch-up, and shuffled toward the forge. “Who is Dro Tog? And why should I believe what he tells me?”

  “Dro Tog is a prelate,” Has answered earnestly, “and one of the most important leaders the Ra ‘Na have.”

  The last part was not exactly true, given the fact than many of Tog’s peers viewed him with something akin to contempt, but Has saw no reason to mention that. He was a subordinate after all—a relationship that mandated respect.

  Having equipped himself with a fresh rod, the Zin returned from the forge. “So, which group does this paragon of virtue favor?” the Sauron inquired patiently. “The resistance? Or those who remain loyal?”

  “Those who remain loyal,” Has answered honestly. “‘Order is superior to chaos, the Saurons provide order, so why change?’ That’s what Dro Tog likes to say.”

  “How very perceptive of him,” the painmaster replied. “This rod is extremely hot… Where would you least like to receive it?”

  Has was tempted to lie, to name a part of his anatomy where the pain might be less intense, but managed to resist temptation. The truth—that was his only hope. “My genitals, eminence. I would least like to have the rod touch me there.”

  It was this simple statement more than anything else that convinced the painmaster of the slave’s veracity and thereby brought the session to an end. Still, it was always best to leave subjects with something to remember, so the Zin brought the rod upward. Has heard his genitals start to sizzle, screamed the Great One’s secret name, and fell into darkness.

  ABOARD THE SAURON FACTORY SHIP LA MA GOR (SOURCE OF PLENTY)

  The La Ma Gor’s interior, once the very definition of well-defined order, had been literally transformed into a nightmarish maze of vats, tanks, and pipes, all dedicated to the manufacture of pink glop.

  That’s what the humans called it anyway, although their Ra ‘Na counterparts, slaves like Toth, had another name for the substance. Loosely translated, the word meant “shit.” However, regardless of what the viscous material was called, it refused to be constrained by the plumbing designed to contain it and continued to weep, ooze, and dribble from the countless joints that the archaic plans called for. Plans, which if rumor could be believed, came straight from the Book of Cycles.

  What wasn’t known, however, and was the subject of much speculation by Toth and his pals, was the glop’s purpose. It wasn’t food, they were sure of that, since not even Saurons could stomach something that looked like the glop did, nor was the substance medicinal, since no one had seen a member of the so-called master race rub, slather, or dab the stuff on.

  All of which explained why Toth, having little else with which to occupy his rather active mind, had decided to solve the apparent mystery. An impulse completely in line with his history as a petty thief, slacker, and all-around miscreant.

  The answer, if one was to be found, almost certainly resided in Kol-Hee’s office, a space definitely off-limits to the likes of Toth. A fact which made the task of digging it out that much more interesting. But the Fon was no fool and literally wielded the power of life and death over his subjects, which suggested that a good deal of caution was in order.

  That being the case, Toth made no attempt to tackle his objective directly, but chose a more roundabout method. A strategy that involved actually doing some work—an aberration that should have resulted in some healthy skepticism.

  But, like the vast majority of his peers, Kol-Hee knew next to nothing about the slaves who worked for him, finding it far more convenient to assign them a single overall personality. One which characterized them as sub-Sauron, and in this case sub-Fon, which meant lazy, incompetent, and stupid. All of which was absurd, since the very fleet from which the Saurons took their power had been constructed by ancestors of those very same slaves. But Kol-Hee was blind to that, hadn’t bothered to study Toth’s rather extensive rap sheet, and was therefore vulnerable.

  So, determined to solve the mystery of the glop, and discover why an entire ship had been converted to the production thereof, Toth went about his work. His title, like that of more than two dozen others, was “wiper.” And, unlike the honorifics that some Ra ‘Na had granted themselves, the name actually described what Toth did.

  His job was to work his way through the maze of pipes that carried the glop from one containment to the next, find the places where joints leaked, and wipe them clean. A rather time-consuming chore that could have been eliminated via design changes and preventive maintenance. Something that any number of wipers had suggested.

  But the Saurons, who normally listened to such input, especially where technical matters were concerned, had turned a deaf ear. Some saw this as one more example of their overweening arrogance, but Toth had a different theory. He believed only a finite amount of the glop was required and, once available, production would cease. A possibility that would account for the Saurons’ otherwise inexplicable lack of interest in refining the process.

  Most of Toth’s fellow wipers had developed routines—patterns that carried them along and helped make the job easier. Toth had resisted that temptation as it would serve to limit his movements and thereby hinder his self-assigned mission. An apparent quirk that annoyed his turf-conscious contemporaries. “Go along and get along,” that was their motto, and one which had served the slaves well. That’s why the human named Gretchen growled at the Ra ‘Na as he worked his way through her territory on a roundabout course calculated to terminate within Kol-Hee’s office.

  The Fon, who was a creature of habit, had exited his cage-like command post at roughly the same time during the last three shifts, and, assuming that the Sauron did so again, Toth planned to take full advantage of Kol-Hee’s absence.

  Meanwhile, as the wipers wiped and worried about their various prerogatives, Kol-Hee monitored a rack of jury-rigged readouts, compared the readings to the list he had been given, and noticed that all of them were higher than they should be. Much higher. As they had been for the last three shifts.

  It seemed as if the Zin who was in charge of the factory, an overzealous type named Gon-Dra, was determined not only to meet the daily quota, but exceed it. Regardless of the potential consequences. Would the idiot finally listen to reason? No, probably not, but Kol-Hee felt it was his duty to try.

  That being the case, the Fon backed out of the sling chair, shuffled out onto the catwalk, and headed for the bank of lift tubes.

  No sooner had lift tube’s door whispered closed than Toth dropped his glop-soaked rag, climbed up onto the catwalk, and hurried toward the office. Gretchen hollered, “Hey, fur ball, what are you doing? Trying to get us killed?”

  But the Ra ‘Na ignored the question, knowing as he did that while his peers were rule-following wimps, they weren’t likely to tell on him, and that’s all that mattered.

  Toth entered the cage, ignored the mysterious readouts, and went for the computer terminal. A pincer-friendly joystick and clicker had been installed for use by Saurons—but when the wiper touched a small out-of-the-way button, a tiny keyboard extruded itself from the machine’s casing. Like most of his kind, the Ra ‘Na had a natural affinity for machinery, and more than that, knew that back doors had been established for every computer system aboard every ship his people had designed. Which was to say the entire fleet! Knowledge he had used to get himself into trouble on more than one occasion.

  So, having brought up a menu that Kol-Hee didn’t even know existed, it wasn’t long before Toth found what he was looking for. A heavily encrypted file which the not-too-tech-savvy Zin believed to be completely inaccessible but which the petty criminal hacked into within a matter of minutes. And that’s where he was, reading about something called birth-death day, and a substance called the birth catalyst, when a Klaxon went off, vat number 12 exploded, and four of his fellow wipers were killed by flying shrapnel.

  The force of the blast hurled Toth into a bulkhead, bounced his head off the metal hull, and left him unconscious.

  Ironically enough it was the big rawboned woman named Gretchen who scooped the Ra ‘Na into her arms, ran the length of the catwalk, and made it through the opening before hatch 1I slammed shut. No fewer than three surveillance cameras captured the human’s escape.

  That’s when vats 10 and 11 blew, the rest of the slaves in that part of the ship were killed, and Kol-Hee won his ongoing dispute with Gon-Dra. The pressures were too high… and someone would have to pay.

  HELL HILL

  Ironically enough mornings were typically cold on Hell Hill, even spring mornings, and Manning held his hands out toward the wood-burning stove. The first step in preparing his frigid fingers to work on the week’s duty roster. A much-dreaded chore.

  That being the case, Manning felt a distinct sense of relief when Kell entered the duty room and flashed a characteristic grin. “Got a minute?”

  “Absolutely… especially if it’s something that would prevent me from working on the duty roster.”

  “Your wish is my command,” the ex-Ranger said solemnly. “Remember the woman who saved Hak-Bin’s pointy butt?”

  “Yeah,” Manning replied. “Who could forget?”

  “Well, you sent for her, and she’s waiting outside.”

  “Name?”

  “Jill Ji-Hoon. Ex—FBI agent.”

  “Really? Sounds promising. Lord knows we’re under strength. Send her in. And Vilo…”

  “Yeah?”

  “Tell Amocar to write up the duty roster. Maybe he can get that right.”

  Kell grinned. “Roger that.”

  Based on a recommendation from Hak-Bin, and over Manning’s objections, Franklin had appointed the somewhat mysterious candidate to the number two slot. Manning had been forced to keep him. That in spite of the fact that Amocar had a tendency to fade when bullets started to fly, liked to linger outside closed doors, and couldn’t follow procedure much less teach it. A problem the security chief would solve one day.

  Kell turned, pulled the olive drab USMC blanket to one side, and motioned the woman in. “The boss will see you now… step on in.”

  Ji-Hoon nodded, passed through the door, and found herself in a sparsely furnished steel cargo container. Some of the cubes were smooth on the inside, even shiny, but not this one. Judging from all the scrapes, scratches, and dents something heavy had broken loose in transit and played merry hell with the interior prior to being unloaded.

  Beyond the heavily blackened stove, and the tall rangy man who stood in front of it, the compartment contained some mismatched chairs, a beat-up black leather couch, a scattering of boots, jackets, and one pair of plaid boxers, a hand-lettered sign that said “SAFE YOUR WEAPONS.” A none-too-clean deck and a rack of assault weapons completed the decor. Not a very imposing room.

  The man turned to offer his hand. “Agent Ji-Hoon… welcome to the Hilton. I’m Jack Manning.”

  Ji-Hoon had long been a believer in first impressions, and there was something about this man that she liked. The hand was big and warm. “Thanks, I think.”

  Ji-Hoon was tall, so tall that Manning could look straight into her eyes, and he liked what he saw there. A wary sort of centeredness, as if the ex-agent knew exactly who she was, including both the good and the bad. Small feathers had been added to the red ear tag, thereby transforming it into something similar to jewelry. The security chief pointed with his chin. “The tag… a present from Hak-Bin?”

  Ji-Hoon nodded. “I was surprised to say the least.”

  “He’s unpredictable that way,” Manning responded, “a fact that makes him all the more dangerous. Take a load off… You know why I sent for you?”

  Ji-Hoon took a chair. “No one said… but I have a theory. You’re looking for foot soldiers.”

  Manning hooked a chair with a boot, dragged it into position, and sat facing the back. “In a word, yes, although I need something a cut above foot soldiers. I need people who believe in what they’re doing, who think before they shoot, and who can play both offense and defense.”

  The agent raised an eyebrow. “Let’s start with the first item you mentioned. What exactly would you expect me to believe in? The need to protect collaborators?”

  Manning nodded. “Fair question. I could sign up fifty self-styled gunslingers by noon tomorrow. People who understandably want to escape their present job assignment, hope to obtain more food, or simply like to shoot things.

  “Believers believe that in spite of the shitty situation we find ourselves in, and the role Franklin has been forced to play, he’s the best leader available.”

  Ji-Hoon started to say something, but Manning held his hand up. “Hear me out… Yes, I know he was a bit slow coming around to the role of patriot, and yes, he made some mistakes. But that’s in the past. Maybe you’ve heard rumors about how various resistance groups are coming together… Well, trust me, that’s because of Franklin, not in spite of him. He’s the best hope we have to destroy the Saurons, set our people free, and reclaim Earth.”