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  Then, depending on what mood the Kan were in, maybe they would help, although there was increasing evidence to suggest that Hak-Bin didn’t trust his human pet anymore, and might fail to intervene.

  The bubble held as the sour-smelling bodies closed in around the presidential party. Eyes stared from dark sockets, long, uncut hair hung down over bony shoulders, and foul breath fogged the air.

  Franklin’s face was fairly recognizable both because of his former position as governor of Washington State and because the Saurons had gone to considerable lengths to make it known via the heat-activated “talkies” they rained down from above. That being the case, people stared, muttered threats, and applied pressure on the bubble.

  Manning was just about to pull his weapon and attempt to force them back, when Franklin did something so right, so natural, that the effect was almost magical.

  There weren’t very many children on Hell Hill, or elderly people for that matter, most being considered too weak for heavy construction work. But thanks to a moment of laxity, or just plain luck, some parents had managed to bring a child with them, and in spite of the fact that many had been killed by the recent cholera epidemic, a few survived.

  One such, a scrawny little girl with a mop of blond hair had been forced to run in order to stay abreast of her mother, who—like many slaves—preferred to carry most of her meager belongings from place to place rather than risk leaving them behind. Bending at the waist, the politician scooped the child up, smiled reassuringly at the little girl’s mother, and walked at her side.

  Seeing the move, and the way that the youngster had started to play with Franklin’s red ear tag, the crowd fell back.

  It was one of those wonderful-horrible moments when Franklin demonstrated the full extent to which he could manipulate people and by doing so caused Manning to both respect and fear him. After all, what if he had been manipulated as well?

  A whip cracked, the crowd surged forward, and carried the security chief along with it.

  Drawn from every part of Hell Hill, and literally whipped into motion, the humans snaked their way upward in trickles, rivulets, and streams, surging at times, until friction slowed them down. Like drops of water in a slow-motion flood, Dr. Sool and her nurse were pulled along.

  Crazy though it was, the doctor felt much the same way that a younger version of herself had felt during recess back in grade school. Freed from the demands of the classroom, or in this case the clinic, she experienced a certain lightness of being, a guilt-free joy, that flowed from what amounted to an enforced break in the seemingly endless rounds of work. That’s why the medic experienced a sense of disappointment when she heard something squeal, and the crowd jerked to a halt.

  Then, like ice exposed to heat, the people standing in front of Sool seemed to melt away. That’s when the view opened, and she saw the Kan. The alien shimmered as his highly specialized chitin sought to blend with the background. Judging from the manner in which the warrior lay there, using both graspers to clutch his right leg, it appeared as if the Sauron had crashed on landing. A rather unusual occurrence. The squealing sounds became more urgent.

  What the doctor did next came naturally, to her at least, although she would come to question her actions later on. Sool crossed the intervening space, knelt at the Kan’s side, and noticed that the Sauron was bleeding. The blood was a watery green color, as if possessed of less hemoglobin, but still recognizable for what it was. The human tried to sound authoritative. “Remove your pincers so I can examine your leg.”

  The alien’s eyes were like river-smoothed black stones. “No. Slaves, especially white slaves, must never touch one such as myself.”

  Sool could have told him that according to definitions used by some members of her race she was black, regardless of what her skin looked like, but knew it would be a waste of time. “A section of chitin fractured when you landed. You are bleeding. I’m willing to help.”

  “No,” the Sauron replied stubbornly. “My brethren will come to my assistance.”

  Sool looked around. A crowd was starting to form. Some of the humans looked angry. A man shouted, “Kill the bastard!” and others murmured their agreement.

  The doctor looked back to her patient. “None of your brethren are available at the moment. You can accept my help or bleed to death. The choice is yours.”

  The Kan attempted to sit, started to say something, and fainted. Sool motioned to her nurse. “Dixie, check the pouch on the left side of his harness. It might contain a first-aid kit.” The nurse did as instructed, discovered that it was a first-aid kit, and removed the contents.

  Now that Sool had unrestricted access to the wound she could see that her original diagnosis was correct. The warrior’s chitin had shattered—but not from the impact alone. No, based on a very superficial assessment it appeared as if the thin hairline cracks, or sutures, that normally divided one section of brown chitin from the next had been forced open from within. Not only that, but what should have been hard unyielding exoskeleton felt soft and nearly pliable. All of which was consistent with what Boyer Blue and his people had described as early manifestations of “the change.” They estimated only a tiny percentage of the Saurons would die and give birth early but here it seemed was one of them.

  Unknown to the Kan and those around him, a nymph had started to take shape within the warrior’s abdomen and had already started to grow. Within a week, two at the most, signs of the transformation would become so obvious that the warrior would be whisked away and quietly put to death. The only thing the ruling class could do if they wanted to keep the upcoming birth-death day secret from the lower castes who they feared might panic.

  “Here,” Dixie said, handing Sool a wad of what looked like green steel wool. “Stuff that in the wound. It’s a coagulant of some sort.”

  Sool eyed her assistant, who responded with a shrug. “Hey, I saw one of their medics take care of a cut. That’s what he did.”

  Sool pushed the coagulant-soaked wad into the wound, noticed that the color started to change, and saw the bleeding stop.

  “Spray this stuff on top,” Dixie instructed, handing Sool a small metal cylinder. “The goo will harden, apply pressure to the coagulant pack, and seal the hole.”

  The doctor grinned, followed the nurse’s instructions, and noticed the sealant was brown. Did the first-aid kits supplied to the Zin come with black sealant? And were the Fon kits equipped with white sealant? Yes, she suspected that they did. A rather sad commentary reminiscent of segregation in the American South.

  That’s when a rock hit the Kan’s head, another struck Dixie’s back, and more clattered all around.

  With a vehemence that surprised even her, the doctor shouted “No!” tugged the alien’s t-gun free from the belt clip, and pointed it toward the crowd. That’s when she felt for a trigger and realized there was none. The medic was still examining the weapon, still trying to understand how it worked, when two of the rock throwers were hurled from their feet.

  The high-velocity darts, which had been fired from the top of a nearby observation tower, expanded on impact and blew chunks of meat out through their spines. The rest of the crowd scattered as a party of whip-wielding Fon arrived on the scene. The rescue party paused, watched silently as Sool laid the t-gun down at its owner’s side, then shuffled forward.

  Having been alerted by the observers high atop the minaret-like tower, the Fon came equipped with the Sauron equivalent of a stretcher. It consisted of two alloy poles connected by a network of adjustable straps. It took two of the functionaries less than three minutes to lay the device next to the injured Kan, lift him into place, and detail four humans to carry the warrior away.

  That was when an overseer with a blood-encrusted whip approached Sool, ordered the medic to turn her head, and did something to her right ear. The doctor felt a tug, knew it had something to do with her ear tag, and heard a click.

  Task completed, the Sauron shuffled away.

  It was only af
ter the functionary was gone that Dixie, her face a study in conflict, delivered the news. “I don’t know how to tell you this . . . but he turned you into a red . . . No more double shifts for you!”

  Sool took that in. For months she had been working nights for the Saurons, digging ditches for the most part, prior to grabbing a few hours’ sleep, and opening the clinic. Now, thanks to the work exemption that went with the red ear tag, the medic could focus all her attention on patients. Would they assume she was a collaborator? Yes, most likely, but there wasn’t a damned thing the doctor could do about it. The crowd surged forward and swept both women away.

  At the top of the hill, near the plaza where a black canopy had been erected, those who had been crucified waited to die. The worst of the pain had passed by then . . . leaving Mal-Dak’s extremities almost entirely numb. Though not much given to introspection, the process of being executed caused the Fon to look back on his life and wish that he could remember more of it.

  All of which begged an important question: Why had the Zin been gifted with the capacity to recall everything that transpired while the Kan and Fon could look back no farther than two local years? Was that unfair? Or simply proof of what the ruling caste had long claimed: Beings having lighter chitin were inferior. No answer came to him.

  Perhaps the Sauron’s newfound interest in the whys and wherefores of life stemmed from the blood that rushed to his head or the sudden upside-down perspective which the cross provided. Whatever the reason, the Fon found himself making eye contact with an equally inverted human who hung not ten paces away. The slave was younger rather than older, had fur growing on his face, and piercing blue eyes.

  “So,” the man said stoically, “it looks like the old saying is correct . . . What goes around comes around.”

  The words were translated by the device still strapped to the Sauron’s chest. Suddenly, and much to his surprise, Mal-Dak felt a strange kinship with the human. “What offense did you commit?”

  The human grinned. “I told a Kan to take his t-gun and shove it up his ass.”

  “He must have been very angry.”

  “Yeah,” the man said with evident satisfaction, “he was. How ’bout you?”

  “The Zin needed to punish someone,” Mal-Dak said simply. “I was chosen.”

  “That’s a tough break,” the human allowed sympathetically. “Or would be if it weren’t for the fact that you deserve it.”

  Mal-Dak thought about all the slaves he had whipped, many for no reason at all, and realized that the same thing was happening to him. “Yes, I guess I do.”

  “Big of you to admit it,” the man said dryly. “So, do Saurons believe in life after death?”

  “Of course,” Mal-Dak replied with certainty. “My ancestors speak to me when I sleep. They watch over me now.”

  The human seemed to consider the matter. “What about humans? Would that apply to us as well?”

  Mal-Dak had never considered the issue before, but the answer popped into his head. “Of course. Just as Saurons need slaves in this life, we need slaves in the afterlife as well.”

  The man laughed. “You are one crazy bastard . . . You know that?”

  Mal-Dak, who wasn’t sure how to respond, chose to remain silent. Horns sounded, drums began to beat, and the sun speared the Sauron’s eyes.

  In spite of the great meeting about to be held, and the fact that construction work had temporarily been halted, there were some functions that not only had to continue, but were actually made easier by the momentarily empty streets. The never-ending process of body disposal was one such process.

  The meat wagon, as it was generally known, consisted of a stripped-down pickup truck. It had been black once, but sections of paint had peeled, leaving patches of rust. A Fon named Hol-Nok sat high in the cab, a human called Cappy sat in the now empty engine compartment, and a team of eight slaves pulled the vehicle along.

  The bodies, which were stacked in the back, were mourned by a flock of somber-looking crows. They rose like a black cloud whenever the truck bounced over an obstacle, and then, reluctant to part with such a fine feast, settled again.

  Each day was pretty much like the one before, something that Cappy, who abhorred change, was glad of. He would get up, don his clothes, eat some gruel, wake the slaves, allow them to eat some gruel, put them in harness, collect Hol-Nok, and proceed to the top of Hell Hill. Usually before the artificial sun—or was it a moon?—had set and the real one rose.

  It was important to accomplish that prior to loading any bodies since the pickup chassis was heavy, and there was no way the team would be able to pull the meat wagon up the hill while fully loaded.

  Had he been asked, Cappy would have sworn that he hated his job, that the horror of it kept him awake at night, but that wasn’t entirely true. No, the truth was that he was grateful for his job, one that required little more than a loud voice and a heavy foot on the brake. The fact that he identified himself as African American, and the slaves pulling the pickup were white, amounted to a bonus. Finally, after hundreds of years, the bastards were getting theirs. Black aliens, who would have thought?

  Once the slaves halted the meat wagon at the top of the hill, and removed the latest crop of corpses from the crosses, it was time to wind their way down. It was a gentle journey during which the wagon stopped at all the usual pickup points, and the load continued to grow larger. Not a pleasant task, but better than letting them rot, which could lead to disease.

  And it was that, the possibility of an epidemic, which accounted for the fact that Cappy and his subordinates had been excused from the day’s festivities and ordered to work. Now, his chores having been accomplished in half the usual time, the human shouted words of encouragement to his team, waved to the guards on the gate, and guided the grisly conveyance out beyond the protective wall. From there it was a relatively short pull to the ravine where the bodies were routinely dumped and burned.

  Cappy, his body swaying to the motion of the truck’s side-to-side rhythm, took pleasure in the fact that the shift would end early, slapped the slaves with the reins, and urged them forward.

  The Fon, who rode in the cab above and had yet to utter a single word during more than a month of meat wagon duty, continued to doze.

  Meanwhile, in the pile behind him, a body started to stir. Jonathan Ivory sensed motion, gagged on the horrible stench, and felt a crushing weight. Not only that but his head hurt, really hurt, worse than anything he had experienced before.

  The racialist rediscovered his arms, ordered them to push the weight off his chest, and discovered that they were far too weak. What was the oppressive weight anyway?

  Ivory tried to open his eyes, discovered that they were glued shut, and struggled even harder. Suddenly, after persistent effort, they flew open. There wasn’t much light down toward the middle of the stack, only what leaked in around the loosely packed bodies, but enough to see by. That’s when Ivory found himself staring up into Tripod’s blue-tinged countenance and knew what the weight was. Not only was the skinhead’s corpse resting on his . . . there were more bodies all around.

  Ivory tried to scream, realized that screaming requires oxygen, and settled for a sob instead. That was the moment that the subtle but persistent motion ceased, the racialist heard voices, and forced himself to think. Should he yell? In hopes of attracting attention? Or lie as he was? And continue to play dead?

  The latter seemed safest, for the moment at least, and Ivory forced himself to lie perfectly still. He watched through slitted eyes as bodies above and to either side were lifted away. Then it was his turn, and pain lanced through the racialist’s head as slaves grabbed hold of his extremities and lifted him free of the truck.

  Cappy watched impassively as four members of the now unharnessed team counted to three, swung the body back and forth, and let it fly.

  The corpse hit the top of the pile with an audible thump, made some sort of noise, and went limp.

  Cappy heard the sound, and
might have gone to investigate, except for the fact that bodies make a lot of noises. Farts mostly—which he had no desire to chase.

  Ivory, eyes closed, regretted the groan. Would anyone investigate? No, it didn’t sound as if anyone had noticed. All he had to do was wait for the slaves to depart and come back to life.

  Something light landed on the racialist’s chest, strutted up toward his face, and took a bite out of his cheek. A crow! It hurt like hell, and Ivory allowed himself to move subtly. The crow cawed, and the weight disappeared.

  Metal clanged on metal, mostly unintelligible words were exchanged, and there was a moment of silence. Then, with no warning whatsoever, someone doused the racialist with what felt like cold water. Except that it wasn’t cold water, it was gasoline, which the characteristic stench made clear.

  Cappy had already struck the old-fashioned kitchen-style match, and it was already falling toward the pile of fuel-soaked corpses, when one of the bodies screamed “No!” came to its feet, and tried to run. The problem was that bodies, even dead ones, make a poor running surface. Not to mention the fact that they were sitting on many layers of gray ash, which gave under Ivory’s weight.

  That being the case the racialist was still on the pile, still high-stepping toward safety, when the fumes were ignited. Ivory heard the whoosh of suddenly consumed oxygen, felt warmth wash across his body, and knew he was on fire.

  Cappy, his eyebrows raised in amazement, watched the fiery apparition dive off the pile, hit the ground, and roll. Just like they teach children to do in grade school.

  The flames were out, and the pain had just begun, when Ivory regained his feet and started to run. The ravine led toward the east, so that’s where he went. No one attempted to follow.

  Gravel crunched as the Kan, who rarely left the comfort of the meat wagon’s cab, shuffled up from behind. Cappy turned and was there to hear the only words the Sauron had uttered during their time on the job. “A dead human comes back to life, catches fire, and runs away. Now that’s funny.”