Ji-Hoon searched Manning’s face for any indication of insincerity, cynicism, or guile. She found none. “That last part—about destroying the Saurons. Are you serious? Or just trying to suck me in?”

  “I’m serious,” Manning replied. “Very serious. The opportunity will come less than eighty days from now.”

  “How?”

  “Join and I’ll tell you.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  Manning shrugged. “I’m only authorized to have fifteen people. You walk, and I keep looking.”

  The opportunity felt right and beat the hell out of wandering aimlessly around Hell Hill watching everyone else work. “All right then—count me in.”

  “Good,” the security chief replied enthusiastically, “we’re lucky to have you. Just one thing though…”

  “What’s that?”

  “Next time someone tries to kill Hak-Bin… get the hell out of the way.”

  HELL HILL

  It was a crisp spring morning, the kind that offers a promise of the summer to come, and puts winter firmly in the past. Most of the denizens of Hell Hill society were well into the first shift’s routines by the time the small group of Kan and humans came together near the bottom of “blood run,” the very foot of the path over which so many blocks had been carried.

  The limestone slab weighed upwards of five hundred pounds, and except for the fact that one edge had been rounded over, making it appropriate for use as a capstone, this particular chunk of rock was no different from thousands of others already carried to the summit of Hell Hill. No, what made the tableau different was not the nature of the burden itself, but the group assigned to carry it.

  Dressed as they were in crisp, white, ankle-length robes, and absent the filth that typified most mule teams, this group looked like angels somehow fallen to Earth. Sister Andromeda, the Star Com’s founder, stood in what she hoped would be interpreted as a position of dignified outrage.

  Early on, during the first stage of the Sauron invasion, she had mistakenly believed that the aliens were a gift from God, and their depredations were a necessary evil, a cleansing meant to clear the way so the human race could take the next step on the ladder of spiritual evolution. A belief which explained why Andromeda had been willing to help the Saurons, and why they, desirous of a biddable workforce, had allowed, no encouraged her group to grow so long as the cult continued to be what Hak-Bin referred to as “a positive influence.”

  But now, as she, along with five of her most senior acolytes waited for the order to proceed, the cult leader understood the nature of her error. Rather than the paragons of wisdom she had supposed them to be, the Saurons were by way of a test. Before humans could ascend to a higher level of consciousness a sifting process must necessarily take place. A process during which the wheat would be sorted from the chaff. Then, once the Saurons left, she and her followers would found a new society based on precepts provided by her. In the meantime she had been forced to provide the Fon Brotherhood with a limited amount of support.

  Did Hak-Bin know that? Or believe that he knew? If so, that might explain why the Kan had been ordered to provide Andromeda and her followers with an object lesson. There was no way to tell… Although if the Sauron was certain, really certain, it seemed logical to believe that she’d be hanging upside down from one of the crosses up on the hill. All she and her followers could do was acquiesce, haul the limestone block to the top of Hell Hill, and hope for the best.

  Like some of the other Kan who had spent a significant amount of time on and around Hell Hill, Lik-Maa had developed a sort of grudging respect for the humans and their overall resiliency.

  Not this group, however, who, like the upper echelons of the Ra ‘Na hierarchy, had discovered means by which to avoid the really hard work by supporting rather than opposing the system imposed by his race. Understandable? Yes, but far from admirable.

  So, feeling as he did, Lik-Maa was determined to make sure that the human who called herself Sister Andromeda and her acolytes came away from the experience with a very real appreciation of what their less fortunate peers experienced on a daily basis. The Kan clacked his pincers. His voice boomed through the translator strapped to his chest armor. “Pay attention. Rather than the four people normally assigned to move a block of stone up the hill—you have been allowed six. A decision that takes into account the fact that you lead sedentary lives while the rest of your kind perform hard physical work every day.”

  Andromeda took note of the criticism, was surprised to learn that individuals like Lik-Maa even considered such matters, and made room for the new data in her overall view of what Saurons were like. The Kan seemed to shimmer as his chitin tried to imitate the water off to the west. “Now,” the Sauron continued, “bend over, grasp the wooden cross-pieces, and lift.”

  The humans obeyed. The block wobbled as the weaker members of the team struggled to support it. The stone tipped dangerously, but came right as a couple of fairly well built men managed to get their shoulders under it, then steadied as the entire group shared the weight.

  Andromeda, one of two women in the center position, was surprised by how light the burden was until she realized that the men, all of whom were taller than she was, bore most of the load. Something she was secretly glad of.

  “So,” Lik-Maa said sarcastically, “the hard part is over. Now all you have to do is reach the top of the hill.”

  Andromeda had been through many hardships during her life. She had been two years old when her father abandoned his family, twenty-seven when her husband did much the same thing, and thirty-one when her only child was killed in an automobile accident.

  Nevertheless, the next hour and a half were the most difficult of her life. The block of limestone not only grew heavier with each passing minute, but became more and more central to her existence. Though little more than an abstraction at first, the block took on additional weight as the men started to tire—and the cultist fought to keep her footing. More than that she could smell the raw earth that still clung to the bottom of the object she carried, she could feel the cold texture of it, and she could taste a layering of sea salt. Or was it her own sweat?

  Then, as if passing through some sort of permeable barrier, the limestone block was suddenly within her, redefining who she was, restating Andromeda’s purpose. Not long after that, about a third of the way up the hill, Sister Andromeda started to think of the burden as a living being, and of herself as little more than two of its many legs.

  The acolyte named Mandy fell at roughly the halfway point, was whipped back into position, and started to cry. Not a wailing sound, there was too little oxygen for that, but sobs that sounded like gulps. Tears tracked down across her grime-covered cheeks, and Andromeda wanted to offer the other woman some sympathy, but couldn’t muster the energy. The rock was in charge and refused to share her with anyone else.

  What happened next was well under way before Andromeda knew it was taking place. A man, one of the hundreds who occasionally sought solace within one of the Star Corn’s steel “temples,” saw the white robes, knew who these particular humans were, and shouted to a friend. Together they pushed their way in, brought fresh muscle to the task, and the rock surged forward.

  It wasn’t long before onlookers started to pace the rock, more volunteers joined the group, and still more, until Lik-Maa watched in astonishment as the lesson was transformed into a processional, and the limestone rock seemed to float over the crowd. Even more amazing, to the Kan at least, was the fact that white humans, brown humans, and even elite black humans took part. The caste mixing, though distasteful, was also inspiring, though he couldn’t say why.

  And so it was that Saurons, humans, and Ra ‘Na alike turned to look as the momentarily ebullient slaves swept onto the top of Hell Hill, dropped the block into its assigned slot, and cheered like victorious football fans.

  That was the moment when Lik-Maa realized that the humans were crazy—and felt the first tendrils of fear enter his belly.

  SOUTH OF HELL HILL NEAR SAMISH BAY

  The room was small and grimy, in keeping with the carefully blacked-out building to which it belonged. Some ancient file cabinets occupied a grungy corner, where they continued to guard files that belonged to Ed’s Plumbing, and a man sat on the edge of the metal-framed military-style bed where Ed himself had occasionally snatched a nap. His face was too strong to be classically handsome, his hair was peppered with gray, and his eyes were unremittingly serious.

  Deac Smith was tired, extremely tired, which made sense given not only the extent of his responsibilities, but the energy with which he tried to fulfill them. Just back from a long and somewhat painful midnight horseback ride, the resistance fighter was about to turn in when he heard a knock on the door. Smith made a face. “Who is it?”

  “It’s me,” a gruff-sounding male voice responded. “Who were you expecting? The tooth fairy? Come to tuck you in?”

  There was only one man who dared speak to Smith like that, the same man who had served at his side in the Rangers and spent the same amount of time in the saddle that he had. None other than George Farley, U.S. Army staff sergeant, retired, and Smith’s second-in-command. The resistance leader grinned in spite of himself. “The tooth fairy couldn’t possibly be that ugly… So come in then get the hell out. I need some shut-eye.”

  The door squeaked as it opened. Farley, also known as Popcorn to his friends, stuck his head in. He had chocolate-colored skin, quick, intelligent eyes, and needed a shave. Hair, which had been almost entirely black just months before, was shot with gray. “You have visitors.”

  Smith pulled a combat boot off, noticed the hole in his wool sock, and sighed. “I don’t want any visitors—especially at this time of night. Tell them to come back in the morning.”

  “One of them is a young petty officer named Darby,” Farley said dispassionately. “The same Darby who took part in the attack on five Sauron spaceships and destroyed every damned one of them.”

  “Darby?” Smith demanded incredulously. “Darby? I figured she was dead. Why didn’t you say so? That woman deserves the frigging Medal of Honor!”

  Farley smiled and stood to one side as the single-booted ex-Ranger limped out through the door. A battery-powered lantern hung from a hook in the ceiling. Darby stood in the cone of light thrown down onto the dirty linoleum floor. She saw Smith appear and the way his face lit up. He hobbled across the room to give the ex–petty officer a very unsoldierlike hug. “You’re alive! That’s the best news I’ve had all week. Where the hell have you been?”

  Darby, who was both surprised and pleased by the warmth of the greeting, smiled to the extent that the scar tissue would allow her to do so. “I went fishing… and here’s what I caught.”

  Darby stepped to one side and turned to discover that Pol had climbed up onto a human-sized stool, turned his back to the room, and was busy sorting through the parts that littered Ed’s plywood workbench. She sighed. “Pol… this is the man I brought you here to meet.”

  Pol snapped one last component into place, heard a “click” as a connection was made, and touched a tiny button. The image of a fierce-looking Kan blossomed in front of the Harley poster tacked over the grease-stained bench. The Sauron started to speak. The dialogue sounded like a long series of clicks and squeaks.

  Smith stepped in to get a closer look. “Who the hell is that?”

  “Sector Commander Muu-Dak,” Pol said calmly. “Briefing his troops.”

  “About what?” Farley asked, equally fascinated.

  “Boring stuff,” Pol said offhandedly. “You know, troop movements, logistics, that sort of thing.”

  The ex-Rangers looked at each other in amazement. What the ratty-looking Ra ‘Na had been able to do in a matter of a few minutes was more than their best tech heads had been able to accomplish during the last month.

  Darby, who had a pretty good idea what the two men were thinking, gestured in Pol’s direction. “Deac Smith, George Farley, meet Fra Pol. He would like to join the resistance movement.”

  Smith, one boot still held in his hand, limped to the workbench. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Fra Pol. We have more equipment like that… stuff we captured. A lot of it needs work. Would you be willing to look at it?”

  “Certainly,” Pol said, watching his hand disappear inside Smith’s sizable paw. “I will assist in any way that I can.”

  “Then welcome to the resistance, son,” Farley said. “The pay sucks, you’ll probably get killed, but it beats a hitch in the United States Navy.”

  Darby gave the ex-Ranger a one-fingered salute, and the humans laughed.

  The joke was lost on Pol, who, for reasons he wasn’t quite sure of, and contrary to all common sense, felt like this was home.

  SOUTHEAST OF HELL HILL

  The main problem with Jonathan Ivory’s plan, beyond the fact that it was crazy, had to do with the amount of patience required. However, assuming he wanted to hitch a ride on a Sauron road train, which he did, and assuming he wanted to trim weeks off the journey to Racehome, the racialist had very little choice. All he could do was camp out on the concrete overpass, wait for enough time to pass, and hope he wasn’t fast asleep at the critical moment.

  Ivory had dreams about that, nightmares so vivid that on one occasion he awoke to find himself standing at the guardrail, screaming as the phantom convoy pulled away.

  Not that wakefulness was much better. More than once he thought he heard the growl of engines, and gathered his meager belongings, only to discover that his mind was playing tricks on him. The freeway was empty, there was no line of vehicles approaching from the north, and the wait continued.

  Worst of all, however, was the time when the growl of engines brought the racialist out of the woods to the west, and the Sauron road train was real, but headed in the wrong direction. Did that mean that another convoy, one headed toward the south, would be along soon? Or did it mean just the opposite? There was no way to know.

  Strangely, when the moment finally came, it was the vibration rather than the noise that awoke Ivory from a fitful sleep and sent him scurrying toward the walls that ran along both sides of the overpass. The entire structure started to shake, as if in the grip of a low-intensity earthquake, and left little doubt that something heavy was on the way.

  The racialist peeked over the edge, saw the tractorlike vehicle at the head of the Sauron convoy, checked to see if roof guards had been posted, was relieved to see that none were visible. That being the case, he ducked down again.

  There would be Kan within the armor-clad vehicles, plenty of them, all heavily armed. All it would require was one curious warrior, a single fifty-foot jump, and Ivory would be history.

  The bridge vibrated even more as the Sauron road train approached and the human scrambled to gather what few belongings he had.

  Then, as the tractorlike lead vehicle passed under the concrete span, Ivory climbed to the top of the rail, where he stood like a windblown scarecrow and watched as dull, bird-splattered metal passed beneath his feet. Some sort of hieroglyph appeared, an ID number that would allow Sauron aircraft to identify the convoy from the air, then it disappeared as well. Ivory wanted to land on the last of the cars, theorizing that it was less likely to have any Kan lurking within, and wondered if the impact would be heard. “No” meant he would survive for a little bit longer, “yes” was equivalent to a death sentence.

  “No, yes, no, yes.” Who could tell? The last car in the train drew near, Ivory took a long deep breath, put his faith in Yahweh, and jumped. There was a solid thump as his boots hit, less than two seconds in which to fall flat, and “feel” the bridge deck pass not more than a foot overhead. Then, lying prostrate on his stomach, the racialist began to count. “One, and two, and three, and four, and five, and six…”

  When the total hit 120, or the equivalent of two minutes, Ivory stopped. There had been no sounds of alarm, no change in the car’s back and forth sway, no reason for alarm.

  Relieved, and suddenly very tired, the racialist rolled over onto his back. The sun inched higher in the sky, warmed the metal roof, and made him drowsy. Ivory threw a forearm across his eyes, wondered if there was something more he should do, and fell asleep.

  ABOARD THE SAURON DREADNOUGHT HOK NOR AH

  Unlike most of the Ra ‘Na-sized passageways aboard the Hok Nor Ah, corridor [2] had been constructed to allow various kinds of utility vehicles to transport equipment from one end of the ship to the other. That meant there was sufficient headroom to allow low-level jumps. Something that made the passageway a favorite with the Saurons. A fact which Dro Tog was coming to regret.

  His escort, which consisted of two bored Kan, stood at the intersection and peered back over their shoulders. They shimmered like spirits only half-seen. The prelate, whose short, stumpy legs were already pumping at what he considered to be an excessive rate of speed, sensed their impatience and did his best to waddle even faster.

  That was sufficient to make his heart quicken, but what really caused his pulse to pound was the nature of the summons itself. The great Hak-Bin had sent for him! A signal honor—but one which the cleric would rather have done without.

  Or was it an honor? What if he had done something wrong? And the Saurons were about to crucify him? No, the condemned were treated in a much different manner. So what in the six blue devils was going on? All he could do was wait and see.

  Tog caught up with the Kan who jumped and landed fifty standard units up corridor. The prelate had little choice but to hoist his robe, scurry forward, and hope that the torture would soon end.

  And, as if the Great One had decided to answer Tog’s prayers, it wasn’t long before the Kan turned down one of the many side passageways that intersected the ship’s axis and were forced to resume their usual shipboard slip-slide shuffle. That allowed the prelate to settle his robes and resume something akin to a dignified pace.