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DEATH DAY MINUS 79

THURSDAY, MAY 14, 2020

Tyranny, like hell, is not easily conquered, yet we have this consolation with us, that the harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph. What we obtain too cheap, we esteem too lightly: it is dearness only that gives everything its value.

—Thomas Paine

The American Crisis, no. 1, December 23, 1776

PUGET SOUND

It was nighttime, or would have been, except for the ghostly glow provided by the asteroid-mounted reflecting mirror the Ra ‘Na had constructed on behalf of the Saurons and referred to as “the bounce.”

Authorized by the now deceased stonemaster, and focused on Hell Hill so the humans could work around the clock, the intensity of the light started to fade a few miles to the south, where a group known as the Crips had established a temporary camp.

It was a pathetic affair, consisting of little more than a secluded cove, a jumble of weather-whitened logs, and a cluster of carefully camouflaged huts, none of which provided more than twelve square feet of usable living space. Veritable hovels by the standards of the indigents forced to dwell in them—but objects of delight to the wayward alien who floated belly up not fifty feet from the rock-strewn beach.

His name was Pas Pol, Fra Pol, the prefix Fra indicating his status as a member of the Ra ‘Na clergy albeit the lowest rung thereof.

Not that Pol, who was or had been part of Dro Tog’s diocese, had ever spent much time worrying about the needs of the religious bureaucracy. A fact that not only prevented his ascension to the next highest level of the hierarchy but kept him in perpetual trouble. A situation made worse when the wayward cleric surreptitiously witnessed a meeting in which Hak-Bin addressed his fellow Zin regarding the heretofore secret birth-death day.

Bishop Tog sat on the information at first, fearful that it might stimulate a revolt and thereby threaten the rather comfortable status quo. But the attempt to bottle the information up failed. Dro Rul learned of the secret, and the Ra `Na resistance movement was born. An effort to which Fra Pol had dedicated both heart and soul.

There were dangers attendant to such movements, however—and the initiate had been forced to flee. Yes, the manner of his departure from the dreadnought Hok Nor Ah had been something less than dignified, but Pol not only managed to survive the experience, but wound up in a veritable Ra ‘Na paradise thanks to the fact that the waters of Puget Sound were home to a natural buffet of bivalves, any number of which had already found their way into the initiate's well-rounded tummy. And into other tummies too, since the Crips not only lived off the abundant seafood themselves, but used the watery harvest to buy the medications that many of them required.

Not that such matters claimed much of the Ra ‘Na’s attention since his mind was mostly occupied with the sensory feedback attendant upon the act of swimming. An activity mostly denied his race during their long captivity and one for which their lithe, fur-covered bodies had expressly been designed. The sensation had something in common with weightlessness but managed to be better somehow. Pol loved the resistance offered by the water, not to mention its cool embrace and the way the unseen currents tugged at him. Surely Balwur, the Ra ‘Na people's fabled home world, had been like this, only better if such a thing could be imagined.

The realities of the larger context couldn't be ignored, however, and much as the more sybaritic part of the cleric's personality would have liked nothing more than to extend his responsibility-free lifestyle for as long as possible, there wouldn’t be a future if the Saurons had their way. Each time the sun disappeared in the west the great slaughter drew one day closer. A fact which meant that everyone who could do something should do something, and sooner rather than later.

Pol's thoughts were delightfully interrupted when a clanging noise was heard, and the camp began to stir. What the humans referred to as dinnertime had finally arrived. It was the best moment of the day except for breakfast, lunch, and the snacks that came in between.

Suddenly energized, the Ra ‘Na rolled over and dove. The water was deliciously cold. Barnacle-encrusted rocks gave way to gravel that sloped up to a sandy beach. Pol stood the moment the water was shallow enough, waddled across the seaweed-strewn tide line, and shook himself like a water-soaked dog.

A depression surrounded by artfully stacked driftwood served to screen the fire pit from the water, but the top of the cook’s head could still be seen. His name was Cecil. He was black like the Zin and a fine cook, or as Pol thought of him, a “flavorist.” An important distinction since the humans had a not altogether healthy tendency to fry, broil, bake, and otherwise cook food that should have been dunked in flavor pots and served raw. Hence the term “flavorist,” since the skill lay in the preparation of the condiments rather than the application of heat. In any case, Cecil, who liked his brood to arrive on time, shouted, “Come and get it!” which Pol hurried to do. Other members of the small, tight-knit community responded with an equal sense of urgency.

There was the ex-navy petty officer named Darby, her face scarred by a shipboard fire; Wily, who though paralyzed below the waist, insisted on dragging himself across the sand; Chu, one sleeve flapping in the breeze; Nakambe, whose left leg was two inches shorter than the right; Nok, who had lost one leg to cancer, but still made good time on a prosthesis; Slo-mo, who had the body of a full-grown man but the mind of a ten-year-old, and a black Lab named Whitey, who liked to play in the water almost as much as Pol did.

All of them, with Whitey dashing from one person to the next, converged on Cecil’s carefully arranged fire pit. Baked salmon, which had been wrapped in seaweed and buried under hot coals, steamed on a freshly scrubbed plank. Clam chowder, thick with chunks of meat and canned potato, burbled in a well-blackened pot.

And, thanks to the nice collection of wine, which Darby had stumbled across in an isolated waterfront home, there were three bottles of St. Michelle Riesling, which stood like soldiers on a driftwood plank. Though lavish by the standards of Hell Hill, the Crips had grown used to such meals, and were quick to tuck in.

Cecil, hands on hips, smiled approvingly as slices of fish were transferred to plastic plates, bowls were filled to the brim with chowder, and Pol, his food having been prepared sushi style, started to vacuum oysters out of their shells. A somewhat noisy process that was accompanied by grunts of satisfaction.

No one took offense, however, since all the Crips were hearty eaters and not much given to the finer points of etiquette. That being the case, the first fifteen or twenty minutes of the meal passed with only a modicum of conversation. Then, once the worst of the hunger pangs had been assuaged, and those who wanted seconds had obtained them, the conversations began.

The nature of these interactions was usually the same. Chu would complain about the way in which she had been treated that day, Nakambe would tell her to shut up, Wily would attempt to make peace, and Darby, who not only steered the group's boat, but functioned as de facto group mother, would remain silent, partially eaten food resting on her lap, eyes focused on something the others weren’t able to see.

Pol, having inhaled more than a dozen shellfish, and being in need of a rest prior to the second course, came to his feet, loosened the cinch of his loincloth,...