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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