Now, as Shu approached the checkpoint, she questioned her own logic. The whole thing was absurd . . . Rather than perform surgery on herself, and assume another identity, why not share her knowledge with someone in authority. Dro Tog perhaps . . . or Dro Rul. Surely they would know what to do.
But whom to trust? Many believed that Tog was a collaborator, especially since his controversial decision to accept the title “Grand Vizier,” and Rul was something of a mystery. Some claimed he was hip deep in the resistance movement; others said not.
So, to whom could she turn? The answer was Fra Pol, assuming he was alive, and somewhere on the planet below. But first she had to get there, something that now seemed next to impossible as the male directly in front of her was cleared through the checkpoint and allowed to board the waiting shuttle.
Shu extended her hand, watched Kan wave his wand over the chip, and eyed the nearby screen. Though similar in age, and overall body mass, the two females were otherwise quite different. Mas was prettier for one thing, having the small, even features that males preferred, and fine golden fur. Shu on the other hand was a good deal more plain, having a nose that was a tiny bit too long, and mottled brown fur. It seemed to the Ra ‘Na that no one, not even a Sauron, could mistake one for the other.
The med tech winced as the other female’s image appeared, forced herself to remain motionless, and awaited the inevitable confrontation. It never came. Most Saurons, Kan included, saw their slaves as interchangeable work units and believed that the Ra ‘Na looked alike. Small, furry, and weak. What more did one need to know? That being the case, the warriors glanced at the image, saw what they expected to see, and waved Shu through.
Thirty minutes later the shuttle bucked its way down through Earth’s atmosphere, emerged from the cloud cover, and headed west. The broad glittering expanse of the Atlantic Ocean could be seen beyond the armored view port, and Shu felt an unfamiliar lightness of being. The sensation took her by surprise, and it took a moment to realize what it was. Freedom . . . the feeling was freedom . . . and the reality of it filled her heart with joy.
HELL HILL
Though originally quartered with other members of the security team, José Amocar had snored, farted, and barfed all the others out of the cargo cube, thereby creating what amounted to a private compartment for himself. Having colonized the entire space, his previously untidy habits had mysteriously disappeared.
The clothes that had once littered the floor had been hung on a pole suspended from the ceiling, tops together, all facing the same way, pants in a row, boots arranged below.
The food, which he had been known to leave out until maggots hatched within, was sealed within matching pieces of Tupperware and were stored in a scrupulously clean cooler.
The five-gallon bucket, once full to overflowing with the results of Amocar’s infamous bowel movements, was now nearly empty and decorated with no less than three self-adhesive deodorizer disks, all acquired during trips with President Franklin.
So, while primitive by pre-Sauron standards, Amocar’s apartment, plus its location four levels above the stench of the street, amounted to a penthouse within the context of Hell Hill’s endless misery.
That’s why the security agent actually enjoyed the moment when the windup alarm clock went off, when he swung his feet out onto the carefully placed throw rug, and retrieved the .9mm from its place under his pillow. He had thick black hair, a round moon-shaped face, and a barrel-shaped torso. Each day was an opportunity, and he paused to consider the one that lay ahead.
Not only was the knowledge that Amocar was better off than the vast majority of those around him well worth getting up for, there was the knowledge that the next twelve to sixteen hours would almost inevitably produce an opportunity for personal profit and the aggregation of personal wealth. Wealth as measured by what Amocar thought of as the three P’s: possessions, pleasures, and privileges.
Amocar grinned. Not that the three categories were mutually exclusive. Take Agent Jill Ji-Hoon for example . . . Would fucking her in the ass constitute a pleasure or a privilege? And once fucked would she qualify as a possession? A long, tall piece of extremely personal ass? Yes, the security agent decided, she would. Something to be enjoyed, humiliated, and eventually discarded. And there were a number of ways to rid oneself of surplus women . . . some of which were quite pleasurable in and of themselves.
Amocar stood, produced what he was sure qualified as a world-class fart, and followed his erection toward the red plastic basin. Life, the kind he wanted to live, was as good as it could possibly get.
Jill Ji-Hoon had taken a quarter cube in a stack just down the road from the Presidential Complex. It was a crowded, noisy, but not altogether unpleasant co-op-style complex established by a pair of women, both of whom had been crushed by a runaway stone block a couple of months before.
A crude memorial consisting of small limestone blocks surmounted by a Star of David, a ceramic vase, and two pairs of well-worn work boots sat just outside the front door. A handful of wildflowers had been placed in the vase, and Ji-Hoon wondered where they had come from as she left what the residents jokingly referred to as the Hell Hill Hilton, and stepped out onto the street.
Improvements had been made, especially where flow was concerned, but there was no way to make the open sewer seem like something that it wasn’t. Not given the brown color, sluggish current, and horrible smell.
However, like many of the hill’s residents, Ji-Hoon had mastered the ability to step over the ditch, confront the stench, and still keep her breakfast down. The walk to work served as a reminder of just how fortunate she was. At a time of day when most slaves were already on the job, risking their lives to construct the Sauron citadel, she had risen only an hour earlier. Even better was the fact that with the exception of Amocar, the ex-FBI agent liked the people she worked with and rarely took shit from the Saurons.
Not only that, but she was armed, which meant that unlike the dozen or so people who hung themselves each night, Ji-Hoon could always shoot herself, a normally dubious privilege that she now took comfort from.
Yet, in spite of all the misery, signs of hope could be seen in the increasing number of babies, a window box in which colorful primroses had been planted, and the occasional patch of bright black-market paint.
Thus buoyed, the agent passed through the heavily guarded main gate, nodded to the agents posted there, and followed a path that cut left along the stack’s rocket-scarred façade and passed into a canyon of shadow, for it was there, in a half cube well removed from the office occupied by Manning, that Amocar maintained his personal lair.
Ji-Hoon paused, checked the Timex Ironman watch that had been issued to her along with the rest of her gear, and saw that she was right on time. Always a good thing, especially when reporting to a new boss. Even if it was Amocar.
The ex-agent rounded the corner, followed the path, and found the crudely cut hatch. A white marker had been used to print the words “The office of El Segundo, Nock Before Entering,” across the metal, and, judging from the manner in which “knock” had been misspelled, Ji-Hoon had a feeling that Amocar had lettered the sign himself. Ji-Hoon put on what she thought of as her game face, rapped on the door, and heard the low-pitched reply. “Come.”
Hinges squealed as she pulled the hatch open and stepped inside. The first thing the ex-agent noticed about the interior was how tidy the space was—something that seemed to be in conflict with the stories she’d heard.
The second thing she noticed was that the beat-up metal desk, salvaged from Lord knew where, had been placed on top of a crudely constructed platform. A stratagem that put Amocar above those who sat in front of him, or would have, had Ji-Hoon been shorter.
The third thing the newly recruited female agent noticed was the fact that a heavily veined dildo had been placed on the single guest chair. That meant she could pick the object up, sit on top of it, or continue to stand. She chose the last option.
Amocar gri
nned. The expression, plus the rounded shape of the man’s head, reminded Ji-Hoon of a flesh-colored jack-o’-lantern. He gestured toward the dildo. “Hey, no offense. Just a little present . . . Okay, a big present, but you’re a big girl.
“In fact, rather than allow ourselves to get bogged down in all that job assignment stuff, let’s see if that hummer fits.”
Ji-Hoon knew it was a no-win situation. If she was shocked, and allowed it to show, Amocar would take pleasure from that. If she wasn’t, and complied with his request, that was a win as well. The ex-FBI agent kept her voice flat and level. “Does Manning know about this?”
The grin grew even wider. “Why no, sweet buns, I don’t think he does. Not that it matters a whole lot, since Franklin himself appointed me to the team and ain’t about to let me go. Not if he knows what’s good for him . . . Besides, it would be my word against yours. So, unless you would like every shit-ass detail this organization has to offer, I suggest that you drop those pants, grab the edge of my desk, and get ready to play. Who knows? You might even like it.”
One aspect of Ji-Hoon’s mind took note of the fact that Amocar had a hold on Franklin, or believed that he did, and wondered if that was true. Another met force with force. Her grin was as big as his and mocking as well. “I’ll tell you what . . . You want a piece of this, how ’bout you come and take it? Or you can go for that .9mm and we’ll see who’s fastest. Whaddya say, pin dick? Let’s rock ’n roll.”
Amocar pulled his hand away from the gun butt and forced a smile. “Okay, shit for brains, have it your way . . . You want all the shit details? They’re yours. Franklin’s heading uphill this morning to give some sort of rah-rah speech. Manning wants a bullet catcher running next to both sides of the car. You’re elected.”
Ji-Hoon nodded as she backed toward the door. “I’d keep that dildo if I were you—just in case something happens to the real thing.”
Amocar struggled for a suitable rejoinder, and thought he had one, but the hatch had closed by then. The words caught in his throat and made it difficult to breathe. Somehow, in ways he didn’t fully understand, Amocar had been bested. He didn’t like that, not one little bit, and a price would have to be paid. Not just any price, but the highest price, the penalty called death.
3
DEATH DAY MINUS 65
THURSDAY, MAY 28, 2020
When those states which have become accustomed to live in freedom under their own laws are acquired, there are three ways of trying to keep them. The first is to destroy them, the second to go and live therein, and the third to allow them to continue to live under their own laws, taking a tribute from them and creating within them a new government of a few which will keep the state friendly to you. For since such a government is the creature of the prince it will know that it cannot exist without his friendship and authority . . .
—NICCOLO MACHIAVELLI
The Prince, 1513
SOUTHWEST OF HELL HILL
Shadow slipped on shadow as Manning followed Smith deeper into the woods. The sun had set long before, which was why both men wore night-vision goggles salvaged from the ruins of Fort Lewis.
The security chief had made use of such devices before, but only on training exercises, and didn’t care for the unicorn-like lens that stuck straight out in front of his face, what amounted to tunnel vision, and the need to cope with a surreal landscape.
Thanks to the ambient light provided by the moon, the orbital mirror, and the stars, Manning could theoretically see out to approximately seventy-five yards, but that was out in the open rather than deep in fifth- or sixth-generation evergreen forest. A forest that seemed determined to whack Manning with moisture-laden branches, toss him over half-rotted logs, and dump him into half-seen gullies.
None of which seemed to apply to Deac Smith, who slid through the trees with the surety of an elemental spirit, paused to listen every now and then, and waved the security chief forward. Manning swore under his breath, followed the greenish white blob through a swiftly flowing creek and up the opposite slope.
Both men paused there while the ex-Ranger checked the riverbank for footprints, found nothing remarkable, and continued on their way. Manning looked left and right, confirmed that other blobs were crossing the creek to the east and west of them, and knew they were members of Deacon’s Demons. A paramilitary group that consisted of veterans, historical reenactors, and hard-core survivalists. The kind of people who still knew how to hunt, fish, and survive in the wild. More than that, the kind of people who didn’t sort people out according to the color of their skin, the way they worshiped God, or who they slept with so long as they loved freedom and were willing to fight for it.
The trail, which was little more than a deer path, led them deeper into the trees, and Manning felt the forest close in around him. It wasn’t the sort of place where the Kan were likely to lie in ambush since they preferred open areas where they could jump. But the forest was perfect for humans. Racialists, like the group his sister had been part of, bandits, more interested in loot than freedom, and religious groups, all on multiple missions from God.
Though not necessarily out to get Franklin specifically, any group strong enough to survive was heavily armed and often unpredictable. A factor that made an already difficult situation even worse.
The trees began to thin, the light level increased, and so did the clarity of the images that Manning could see. There was an open area ahead, what he knew to be stacks of logs off to the right, three ghostly loaders, rows of neatly stacked lumber, and a building that glowed as if lit from within. It had been a sawmill once, a relatively small one, but large enough for this new purpose.
Smith paused, spoke on a channel other than the one Manning had been told to monitor, and waved the security chief forward. “The area is secure,” the ex-Ranger said confidently, “all except for the interior of the building, and that falls to you.”
Manning nodded. “Thanks! Your people did one helluva job. Let’s turn them inside out.”
Smith knew what Manning meant. Having swept the surrounding area and secured the perimeter, it was time for the Demons to take up defensive positions within the clearing. Positions prepared over the last few days and strong enough to withstand an infantry-style assault launched from the edge of the forest or an orbital bombardment. Not for a sustained period of time—but long enough to evacuate the resistance leaders. A subject on which Manning had been somewhat vague.
Smith, who had seen what the Saurons could do to people, understood the concern. He didn’t absolutely need to know how that part of the plan would work, so he didn’t. “Yes, sir. My people are taking up their defensive positions now. We’ll be ready in five minutes.”
“Good,” Manning said approvingly. “Don’t forget that one of the people I’m supposed to protect is you—so get your butt inside as soon as you can.”
Smith smiled. “Sir, yes, sir.”
“And you know where you can shove the ‘sir,’ stuff,” Manning said with a wave. “Right where the orbital mirror don’t shine.”
Smith grinned and watched the blob jog toward the sawmill. What method would Manning use to bring the president in? the resistance leader wondered. The noise generated by a helicopter would alert everyone for miles around, produce one hell of a heat signature, and point a big red arrow right at the sawmill. But Manning wasn’t stupid . . . or was he? The ex-Ranger had a tendency to be somewhat cynical where civilians were concerned—even ones he liked.
Manning was about twenty yards from the building by then. He removed the goggles, clipped them to his harness, and flipped a switch. The wire-thin mike curved down in front of his mouth. “Snake One to Snake Two . . . Over.”
There was the sort of delay that Manning had learned to expect from Amocar followed by the flat wary sound of his voice. “This is Two—go. Over.”
“Status? Over.”
“Everything is A-OK. Over.”
“Good. Hold where you are . . . over.”
; “That’s a roger,” Amocar confirmed. “Out.”
There was a click as Amocar went off-air, and Manning wished for the thousandth time that Kell, not Amocar, was his second-in-command. There wasn’t much he could do about it, however—not so long as Franklin continued his sponsorship. Not because the chief executive thought Amocar was especially outstanding, but as a check on Manning, a man originally chosen by Hak-Bin himself, and forced into his present position. Yes, the relationship had evolved since then, but not to the point where Franklin was willing to reverse himself on the subject of Amocar and potentially lose face in the process.
The security chief crossed the invisible line of demarcation that served to separate security zone two from security zone one, and was immediately challenged. “Hold it, bucko . . . and keep those hands in sight. If you know the word then cough it up.”
Like all of Manning’s agents, the African-American female had been chosen because of her intelligence, attitude, and experience. Unlike most of the security types, Manning knew Garly Mol had a preference for cold steel, as evidenced by the knives stashed on various parts of her anatomy. Not that the ex-Border Patrol agent was averse to using firearms—as the ugly little Heckler & Koch 9 mm MP7 submachine gun made perfectly clear.
“Save it for the bad guys,” Manning replied lightly. “The password is: ‘rhino.’ ”
Mol grinned and jerked the barrel of her weapon up toward the sky. “Nice to see you, boss . . . How was the stroll through the woods?”
“It sucked. Smith and his people are crazy . . . but what else is new? How ’bout our guests? Have any arrived?”
“Only one so far,” Mol replied, a smile stealing over her face.
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