coffee.”
Though presented in a lighthearted manner Pol knew the pain was real. Especially where her face was concerned. “I don’t know what apple pie is, but I’m fairly sure our medical personnel could repair the damage done to your face.”
Hope flared in Darby’s eyes, held for a moment, then faded away. “The Saurons would never allow something like that.”
“No,” the initiate agreed, “they wouldn’t. Which is just one of the reasons why we need to rise up and defeat them.”
The human shook her head. “Fighting the Saurons is a waste of time. I took part in an attack that destroyed five Sauron spaceships. It didn’t even slow the bastards down.”
“Understood,” the Ra ‘Na replied, “but there’s something you don’t know. Something important.”
Darby looked quizzical. “Such as what?”
Pol smiled and rows of tiny white teeth appeared. “Such as the fact that all of the Saurons will die while giving birth to the next generation—which means the slave races have a chance. If we work together, if we have courage, if we strike at the correct moment.”
Darby had questions, lots of them, but the first was the one Pol was waiting to hear. “So what can I do to help?”
“ We ,” the alien replied, “what we can do to help. The answer is out there . . . and our job is to find it.”
IN THE FOOTHILLS OF THE CASCADE MOUNTAINS
Half-crazed by the pain from his burns, and fully expecting to be shot in the back, the newly risen racialist had blundered through the thick underbrush for more than a mile before coming to the conclusion that he was at least momentarily safe.
Then, desperate to find shelter and something for his burns, Ivory wandered for hours. In spite of the fact that most humans had been murdered, and the rest forced into slavery, a scattering remained free. That being the case, the racialist discovered that most homes had already been broken into and robbed of anything useful.
Ivory always went about it the same way. He would approach the prospective house, circle it, and pause to listen. Then, assuming everything looked good, he would sidle up to the often shattered door, push it open, and wait for some sort of reaction. A bird flew out once, nearly causing him to shit his pants, but that was unusual. A brooding silence was more common, broken only by the crunch of glass beneath the soles of his boots and the creak of interior doors.
There was stuff, tons of it, all scattered hither and yon where the looters had left it. Clothes, lots of clothes, intermixed with useless radios, CD players, clocks, irons, hair dryers, lamps, books, records, and on and on.
What he didn’t find but desperately wanted were medical supplies, guns, knives, axes, sleeping bags, cookware, toilet paper, matches, backpacks, or any of the other things that the foragers could use, trade, or hoard.
There were a few victories, however, albeit minor ones, like an overlooked Teflon-coated frying pan, a fifty-foot length of clothesline, and a roll of paper towels. All the newfound treasures went into a canvas bag that the racialist carried Santa style over one shoulder.
Most valuable, however, especially where the burns on his torso were concerned, were some unopened packages of V-neck white undershirts. They were large enough to allow free movement, and the clean cotton felt wonderful against his skin.
Ivory spent the first night wrapped in a cocoon made from floor-length, fully lined, floral curtains, listening to the sounds the house made and the howl of a distant dog. There were a lot of dogs, all feral by then, and very dangerous. They couldn’t open doors, though—which was one reason why the human chose to sleep indoors.
The room, which had previously been occupied by a teenage girl, smelled of spilled perfume. It seemed like a strangely inappropriate odor, hearkening as it did to a much happier time and what now seemed like unimaginable luxuries.
Finally, after what seemed like
Though presented in a lighthearted manner Pol knew the pain was real. Especially where her face was concerned. “I don’t know what apple pie is, but I’m fairly sure our medical personnel could repair the damage done to your face.”
Hope flared in Darby’s eyes, held for a moment, then faded away. “The Saurons would never allow something like that.”
“No,” the initiate agreed, “they wouldn’t. Which is just one of the reasons why we need to rise up and defeat them.”
The human shook her head. “Fighting the Saurons is a waste of time. I took part in an attack that destroyed five Sauron spaceships. It didn’t even slow the bastards down.”
“Understood,” the Ra ‘Na replied, “but there’s something you don’t know. Something important.”
Darby looked quizzical. “Such as what?”
Pol smiled and rows of tiny white teeth appeared. “Such as the fact that all of the Saurons will die while giving birth to the next generation—which means the slave races have a chance. If we work together, if we have courage, if we strike at the correct moment.”
Darby had questions, lots of them, but the first was the one Pol was waiting to hear. “So what can I do to help?”
“ We ,” the alien replied, “what we can do to help. The answer is out there . . . and our job is to find it.”
IN THE FOOTHILLS OF THE CASCADE MOUNTAINS
Half-crazed by the pain from his burns, and fully expecting to be shot in the back, the newly risen racialist had blundered through the thick underbrush for more than a mile before coming to the conclusion that he was at least momentarily safe.
Then, desperate to find shelter and something for his burns, Ivory wandered for hours. In spite of the fact that most humans had been murdered, and the rest forced into slavery, a scattering remained free. That being the case, the racialist discovered that most homes had already been broken into and robbed of anything useful.
Ivory always went about it the same way. He would approach the prospective house, circle it, and pause to listen. Then, assuming everything looked good, he would sidle up to the often shattered door, push it open, and wait for some sort of reaction. A bird flew out once, nearly causing him to shit his pants, but that was unusual. A brooding silence was more common, broken only by the crunch of glass beneath the soles of his boots and the creak of interior doors.
There was stuff, tons of it, all scattered hither and yon where the looters had left it. Clothes, lots of clothes, intermixed with useless radios, CD players, clocks, irons, hair dryers, lamps, books, records, and on and on.
What he didn’t find but desperately wanted were medical supplies, guns, knives, axes, sleeping bags, cookware, toilet paper, matches, backpacks, or any of the other things that the foragers could use, trade, or hoard.
There were a few victories, however, albeit minor ones, like an overlooked Teflon-coated frying pan, a fifty-foot length of clothesline, and a roll of paper towels. All the newfound treasures went into a canvas bag that the racialist carried Santa style over one shoulder.
Most valuable, however, especially where the burns on his torso were concerned, were some unopened packages of V-neck white undershirts. They were large enough to allow free movement, and the clean cotton felt wonderful against his skin.
Ivory spent the first night wrapped in a cocoon made from floor-length, fully lined, floral curtains, listening to the sounds the house made and the howl of a distant dog. There were a lot of dogs, all feral by then, and very dangerous. They couldn’t open doors, though—which was one reason why the human chose to sleep indoors.
The room, which had previously been occupied by a teenage girl, smelled of spilled perfume. It seemed like a strangely inappropriate odor, hearkening as it did to a much happier time and what now seemed like unimaginable luxuries.
Finally, after what seemed like
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