Now, as passersby stared, Tog felt a moment of pride. And why not? He not only occupied one of the highest ranks his race was permitted to have, but had been summoned by no less a personage than Hak-Bin himself. And whatever the matter was it must be important. Otherwise why the summons? How many of those passing to the right and left could say the same? None, not a single one.

  And so it was that Tog, oblivious to the subtle looks of disgust directed at him from every side, followed the Kan under an arch and was ushered into what looked like an airlock. Fear stabbed the cleric’s belly. Were they going to blow him out into space? No, while his knowledge of the ship was far from perfect, the prelate knew he was nowhere near the outside surface of the hull. Where then? And why?

  Conscious of the fact that the Kan were watching him, Tog drew himself up, stepped through the hatch, and did his best to remain as expressionless as possible while the chamber was sealed. Nothing happened at first—which made him nervous. Then the inner hatch cycled open, Tog moved toward it, and something strange started to take place. The prelate felt lighter, much lighter, and was just starting to absorb the implications of that when his sandals left the deck. He had entered one of the ship’s null-gee zones—areas where certain kinds of work and medical therapies could take place free of gravity. Like all of the fleet’s Ra ‘Na slaves, Tog had been raised in space, and once freed from the weight of his obese body became suddenly graceful.

  Tog flipped upside down, used his feet to push off the overhead, and dove through the hatch. His trajectory was perfect. His hands touched the deck beyond with just the right amount of force, he performed a somersault, and emerged in perfect position. Head “up,” to the extent that there was such a thing in zero gee, and feet “down.”

  There was a clacking noise, and Tog turned in the direction of the sound. What he saw surprised him. Hak-Bin, his body swathed in multiple layers of what looked like flimsy black gauze, floated not twenty units away. Globe-shaped lights, both equipped with air jets, floated above and to either side. Another globe, this one positioned to provide the Sauron with a back light, hung above and behind. The rest of the chamber was dark and therefore mysterious. Beyond what Tog could see, there was what he could smell, and the Ra ‘Na’s supersensitive nostrils detected a not altogether pleasant odor. An amalgamation of smells, as if one scent had been used to hide another, and none too successfully.

  The clacking stopped. “Nicely done,” Hak-Bin said in a patronizing manner. “I have long admired the grace with which your kind can move in zero gee. Even my most athletic warriors are clumsy by comparison.”

  Here was the great Hak-Bin, addressing him personally, and saying something nice! How could this be? Fear rose to block Tog’s airway. It was difficult to speak. “Thank you, eminence, but you are too kind. Even the least of your warriors is much more graceful than I.”

  Hak-Bin, who was used to such lies, and expected nothing less, waved a pincer. “Thank you for agreeing to come.”

  Had the Kan warriors extended some sort of invitation? No, Tog couldn’t remember any… But maybe they were supposed to and forgot. “Thank you for the invitation, eminence. It was my pleasure.”

  Hak-Bin nodded as if the answer was completely believable. “I’m sorry we won’t be able to spend much time on the ceremonial aspect of your investiture—but these are pressing times. Construction has slowed, the temples have fallen behind schedule, and every unit counts.”

  Tog was mystified and mustered the courage to probe. “Investiture? Would your eminence be so kind as to explain?”

  “Sorry about that,” Hak-Bin replied with wave of a pincer, “I assumed my staff had briefed you… It seems rumors have started to fly, nonsense for the most part, but fire sufficient darts and one will hit something eventually. According to one such story the entire Sauron race will die and give birth at the same time. Have you heard anything of that nature?”

  The fact was that Tog had heard of something like that, from the scalawag Fra Pol no less, and refused to believe it. Until now that is… and his audience with Hak-Bin. Tog was a lot of things, many of which were less than admirable, but he wasn’t stupid. Suddenly, armed as he was with the information that Pol had overheard, plus the evidence in front of his eyes, the cleric knew the undeniable truth: The Saurons were not only going to die, just as Pol claimed they would, but Hak-Bin had already started to change. That’s why the Zin was living in zero gee, that’s why his body was swathed in fabric, and that’s why he smelled. The thoughts raced through his mind at incredible speed, and the prelate would have sworn that his face was expressionless, but he must have been wrong. Hak-Bin clacked a pincer. “Ah, so you have heard the rumors?”

  Tog considered his options. A “yes,” would indicate that he had heard things which should have been reported. A “no,” would come across as a challenge. The cleric decided to gamble. “Yes, eminence. I heard the rumors and did everything in my power to quash them.”

  “Yes,” Hak-Bin said easily, “you did. Which has everything to do with your presence in my chamber. Even after hours of what the painmaster describes as a most rigorous regimen of torture, your subordinate, one P’ere Has, continued to speak of your devotion. A most remarkable session indeed. Perhaps you would care to thank him.”

  There was a sudden gust of colder air, the sound of sequenced air jets, and a small stretcher floated out of the darkness. Retros fired, and it coasted to a stop. Has, his features slack, lay as if dead. One ear had been burned almost beyond recognition, the other was badly singed, and who knew what lay beneath the crudely applied bandages.

  The prelate shivered. To suffer yet remain loyal to a superior… Not only was Has stupid—he was crazy as well… Something for which Tog was extremely grateful. But what to say? That it was kind of the Saurons to let the cleric live? That they never should have tortured him in the first place? That they were scum? No, none of those alternatives would go over very well, and that being the case, Tog attempted something neutral. “Yes, well I am most grateful for the manner in which Has sustained the truth.”

  Hak-Bin stomped a foot in approval, remembered where he was, and clacked a pincer instead. “Yes, it’s important to show loyalty to those who are loyal in return. Especially when one occupies an extremely important position.”

  The words brought Tog’s ears up and forward. “Position? What position?”

  Hak-Bin savored the slave’s eagerness and raw lust for power. The whole thing was so easy—almost too easy. “Why the position of Grand Vizier, what else?”

  Tog had no idea what the title meant, but knew no one else had it, not even Dro Rul. “Why thank you, eminence. May I inquire as to the exact nature of my responsibilities?”

  “Of course,” Hak-Bin replied affably. “As I indicated earlier there is at least some truth in the rumors that are floating around. My brethren and I will die on or around what the humans call July 31. Some seventy-three days from now.”

  Tog, who wasn’t exactly sure of how to react, bowed his head. “Eminence, I am truly sorry to hear that.”

  Hak-Bin waved a pincer. “Thank you, but there is no need for regret. Each of us will live on in the memories of successors. Just one of the many ways in which our race is superior to yours. Once born, our descendants will require the services of loyal servants such as yourself. Not the entire Ra ‘Na race, mind you, since there are those who might try to take unfair advantage of our momentary weakness, but a strong nucleus from which the subclass can soon be bred.

  “In fact, plans have already been laid to ensure that three out of four of the surviving Ra ‘Na will be female, so that individuals such as yourself will have ample opportunity to pass their genetic materials along to the future.”

  Tog felt his emotions lurch from horror to lust. Thousands upon thousands would be put to death… but what could he do? Nothing… nothing at all. To align himself with the resistance would be madness. The survivors would require experienced leadership, a sort of benign dictator capable of managing their affairs, literally planting the seeds required to grow the race. Tog felt himself start to harden and pushed the sensation away. The time for fantasies would come later—after he escaped from the chamber. “And in the meantime, eminence?”

  “And in the meantime you will do all in your power to ensure that the citadels are completed, that members of the Ra ‘Na resistance movement are identified and eliminated, and the fleet is fully provisioned and ready for departure when the next generation of Saurons has need of it.”

  “So, the journey will continue?”

  Hak-Bin looked as surprised as a member of his race was capable of looking. “Of course… Our people shall be bound together until we find the planet called Paradise.”

  “And then?” Tog asked, astounded by his own audacity.

  “And then we will all live in harmony,” Hak-Bin lied smoothly, “equals in the eyes of the great creator.”

  Tog recognized the line for it was, an excellent way to give the surviving Ra ‘Na something to pin their hopes on, and stored the nugget away. “Thank you, lord, I will do my very best.”

  Hak-Bin fought a sudden cramp and sought to bring the conversation to a close. “I’m sure you will. Members of my staff will contact you. You may leave now.”

  Tog looked at P’ere Has and felt a sudden surge of unexpected tenderness. “May I take P’ere Has with me?”

  “Of course,” the Zin said dismissively. “You are the Grand Vizier… the entire Ra ‘Na race is yours to command.”

  And so it was that Has survived, the Saurons forged a new weapon, and another day came off the clock.

  ABOARD THE SAURON DREADNOUGHT HOK NOR AH

  The compartment was darkened—lit only by the glow of a red light. It began to flash on and off. Shu awoke as she often did to the persistent buzz of the alarm and the knowledge that something horrible had occurred. The injured Ra ‘Na came in all shapes and sizes with medical emergencies as varied as they were. Lacerations, burns, fractures, infections, and more. She saw them all.

  Of course that was what she had been trained to do, and was happy to do, except that as the Saurons pushed the slaves harder there were more casualties.

  Shu rolled out of bed, slipped her feet into a pair of sandals, and joined other medical personnel who were rushing to their stations.

  Shu entered the emergency receiving station, nodded to a bleary-eyed assistant, and waited while the attendants wheeled the patient into the compartment. He was conscious and clearly agitated. Attendants transferred the male to the examining table, strapped him down, and left.

  Shu removed a stylus from a tray, placed the tip on a black dot that had been inked into the fur-free inner surface of her patient’s left arm, and looked up at the wall screen. Though spared the indignity of ear tags such as the humans were forced to wear, the Ra ‘Na were subjected to something that Shu considered to be even worse: an implant that contained information regarding who they were, the kind of training they had, and a complete record of disciplinary problems if any.

  Still, the medical information stored in the wrist chip was valuable, and the medic soon knew everything there was to know about the wiper named Toth. He had suffered a broken leg three years before, was allergic to a commonly used antibiotic, and had been labeled as a borderline sociopath. In fact, as Shu skimmed Toth’s voluminous disciplinary record, she was reminded of a friend, a certain somewhat disreputable cleric named Pas Pol. Some claimed he’d been killed—while others insisted that the initiate was alive and well.

  Either way Shu’s patient was a handful and clearly wanted to tell her something. Toth reached out to grab the medic’s arm. “Listen to me… I got a look at their files, and the Saurons know that by now. When they come for me you must tell them I never spoke anything other than gibberish.”

  Shu assumed her patient was delusional and nodded agreeably. “Just lie back and relax. You’ll be up and around in no time. Please release my arm so I can go to work.”

  “No!” Toth said emphatically, his grip tightening even more. “Everything that I’m telling you is true. Later, when it’s safe, find those with the courage to fight back. Tell them that the entire Sauron race will die in approximately seventy-three days—and that a new generation will be born. The few days in between represent the only chance our people have to achieve their freedom. They must seize the opportunity or all is lost.”

  Shu was about to reply, about to say something soothing, when a lab tech stepped into the compartment. “Sorry to interrupt, but a pair of Kan are headed this way. They want a patient named Toth.”

  “You see?” Toth demanded fiercely, “it’s just as I told you… Now listen carefully—The material manufactured aboard the La Ma Gor is some sort of birth catalyst, a substance the Saurons require in order to quicken their young. Destroy it and you destroy them. Do you understand?”

  Shu wanted to say “yes,” that she did, but the Kan chose that particular moment to enter the compartment, and the wiper appeared to convulse. Toth arched his back, made choking sounds, and thrashed from side to side. The effect was quite convincing, but the senior Sauron, a noncom named Dru-Laa, appeared unmoved. “Is this the slave named Toth?”

  “Yes,” Shu replied quickly, “but it won’t be possible to speak with him.”

  “We don’t want to speak with him,” Dru-Laa said emotionlessly, and shot Toth in the head. The dart blew the top half of Toth’s skull off, and sprayed blood, bone, and brain tissue across a bank of metal cabinets.

  The t-gun swiveled in Shu’s direction. “What did he say to you?” the warrior demanded, his voice devoid of intonation.

  “Nothing,” Shu replied, as she backed away, “you saw him. He was completely incoherent.”

  There was a long hard silence as death stared at her through huge saucer-shaped eyes. Then, based on who knew what criteria, Dru-Laa holstered his weapon and gestured to his companion. Together they left the compartment.

  Shu, overcome by grief, collapsed in tears.

  • • •

  It was evening, the real sun had just started to set, and it was too early for the orbital reflector to cast its ghostly glow over the land. Dozens of cook fires sent smoke spiraling up from makeshift chimneys to be caught by the wind and sent off toward the east. Snatches of conversation could be heard, along with the sound of an improvised string instrument and the distant clang of tools.

  Even as Manning’s feet carried him through the streets and toward the clinic, he wondered if he should go there. Yes, the cut was real enough, sustained while working on the defenses that protected the Presidential Complex. But did the injury require stitches? Or was the laceration little more than an excuse to see Dr. Sool? And if it was an excuse, why would he need one? Because of Jina’s death? Even though his relationship with the president’s wife had never extended beyond a single kiss? Did any of his maunderings make sense? No, the security chief concluded, they didn’t.

  But his feet continued on their journey, and soon, as if drawn there by some invisible force, Manning found himself standing outside Dr. Sool’s clinic. There was a line, albeit a relatively short one, and the security chief was debating whether he should join it when Sool, coffee cup in hand, wandered out through the door. The doctor wore light blue scrubs, scrounged by some admirer, and bisected with dots of dried blood.

  Sool’s face lit up when she saw him, and she made her way over. “Jack! This is an unexpected pleasure… Is the president okay?”

  Manning grinned sheepishly. “Yeah, he’s grumpy, but otherwise fine. I cut my arm… but I’m not sure if it needs stitches.”

  “Come on in,” Sool said, gesturing to the makeshift clinic. “I’ll take a look.”

  “I’ll get in line,” Manning replied. “Those folks were waiting when I arrived.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Sool said, loud enough so her patients could hear, “even I get to take a break once in a while. Dixie has to see them first anyway. We don’t charge for our services, but we try to keep some records. It makes the job easier if you know their histories.”

  Manning followed the doctor inside, said hello to Dixie, and stepped into the so-called examining room, which was actually no more than an area that could be curtained off from the rest of the cargo container. “Sit on the stool and let’s see what you did to yourself,” Sool said as she plucked a pair of disposable gloves out of a box and pulled them on.

  Manning knew that as with so many of the supplies used by the clinic, the gloves had been brought there by Jina Franklin. Where would such things come from now, he wondered? The security chief made a note to speak to his team.

  The doctor’s hands were gentle as they removed the dressing to reveal a two-inch cut. “It turns out that you do need stitches,” Sool said sternly, “so stay right there while I set things up.”

  Given the fact that the clinic lacked an autoclave, as well as the power required to run one, instruments were boiled. That included needles as well. Having dipped a pair of tongs into antibacterial solution, Sool used them to reach into a pan of slowly boiling water and grab a pair of needle holders. The instrument looked like a large hemostat except that it had a blunt nose and short jaws. With the needle holders in hand, the doctor pushed a selection of curved cutting needles around the bottom of the pot until she found one that met her needs.

  Then, with the needle firmly clamped in the instrument’s jaws, it was a simple matter to feed some suture material through the needle’s eye and secure it by pulling the nylon back through the slot at the end of the holder’s slightly parted tip. Though far from sterile, the procedure was the best she could do.

  Knowing how few supplies Sool had to work with, and mindful of the horrendous injuries she dealt with on a daily basis, Manning refused a topical anesthetic and focused on her rather than the pain. As the doctor fought to push the much-dulled needle through the security chief’s leathery epidermis he saw the very tip of a tiny pink tongue emerge from the corner of her mouth. The sight was endearing somehow, and Manning found himself transported back in time to a vision of a little girl seated with legs crossed, as she worked on a puzzle. “So?” Sool inquired gently. “Do I get an answer or not?”