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bombarding their cities. It is time for us to launch the much larger occupation fleet. All those

ships and personnel will require a week to get to Earth. The victory is all but assured.”

“Nothing is ever assured, my son, until it has happened,” answered Altus Lorry, Jem’s

father. The old Authority Chief had a head that seemed too large to balance on the wattled

stalk of his neck. His hair was shaggy, giving him a leonine appearance. Altus Lorry was a

grandiose leader who had spent his lifetime playing politics among the most influential

tendrilless in Cimmerium. But he had no real understanding of the human enemy.

Jem struggled to keep his expression neutral. “I urge you to hear my recommendations,

Father. Have I not earned it? I lived for years among humans. I know all the systems we have

put in place.” He could not entirely hide his impatience. “It’s no surprise that after years of

living comfortably on Mars, you and the other Authority members have grown complacent.

You are afraid of things you need not fear and suspicious of that which poses no threat. You

give the humans far too much credit.”

Altus laughed without humor. “Better safe than sorry, my son, as you well know.”

“Actually, I don’t! You have always been safe here, but I have never been sorry for what I

did or accomplished.” Jem sensed an uneasiness among the Authority members, and it made

him angry. If they didn’t act soon, their swift advantage would begin to trickle away. “While

the first stage of the attack shatters the government and breaks their ability to resist, we must

launch the main occupation fleet. We need the big ships and our overwhelming ground forces

in place to consolidate our hold on Earth.”

Not long ago, Jem had watched as hundreds upon hundreds of sleek vanguard warships

launched from Mars, kicking up crumbled red dust, spewing clouds of steam and fuel exhaust.

They had risen to the sky and out into orbit, streaking across space like sharks scenting blood

in the water. The blood of normal humans.

And that was only the first wave of the attack.

The initial volley of devastating bombs would be dropping upon the main cities of Earth

right now. At last, Jem would feel vengeance for his people, who had been forced to run here

centuries ago and hide. The tendrilless would finally get what they were owed. So why delay

the occupation fleet?

“Patience, my son.” The old man was unintentionally condescending. “We intend to do so.

The occupation fleet will be on its way by tomorrow. Or the day after.”

Jem took a deep breath. The Tendrilless Authority had always been a roadblock to his

ambitions. Eventually, before he could accomplish anything worthwhile, he would need to

replace the old members with a more proactive group. Or, he mused, he might have to do

away with the Authority entirely. Who needed a seven-member council when one visionary

leader—a king, for lack of a better term—could do the job much more efficiently?

“Another factor makes our timing impeccable.” Jem had stopped thinking of himself as a

petitioner seeking permission. He fancied himself a great general, and the tendrilless armies

were under his control; he was simply delivering a report to the Authority. “Earth itself is in

turmoil. President Kier Gray has just been arrested and exposed as a true slan. Even I never

suspected it! The power vacuum weakens them even more. They will barely be able to mount a

defense, I guarantee it. But only if we move
now
.”

Jem’s resentment toward Kier Gray was personal rather than political. He had been in love

with Kathleen (or perhaps
lust
was a better term, though he used the words interchangeably).

He had made persuasive arguments to the President, claiming (falsely, as he well knew) that

interbreeding with slans would dilute their mutant traits and make their descendants into “real

people” again. Instead, Jem knew that slan genetics were dominant, and he intended to bring

Kathleen’s superior powers directly into the tendrilless breed.

“What about this man named John Petty, the leader of the secret police?” said Altus. “You

have described him as a powerful administrator. Perhaps he will rally the survivors.”

“He’s a thug with a tendency for brutality and excess. The people will never accept him as

their leader. After seeing what Petty does, the humans will welcome us with open arms. Ha! I

bet they’d prefer to be our slaves rather than live under his boot heel. Launch the occupation

fleet, Father, and I will take care of the rest.”

Without waiting to be dismissed by the ostensible leaders, Jem turned his back and

marched out of the vast, echoing chamber. The Martian sun streaming through the ceiling of

glass seemed very bright, very bright indeed.

«
^
»

Huddled in the rear of the ambulance, Anthea held the baby close and pulled a reflective

emergency blanket over herself. Poor, brave Davis! The infant stirred restlessly, as if he knew

he shouldn’t cry even though he felt his mother’s powerful emotions with his delicate tendrils.

Anthea propped him up and for the first time looked closely at the newborn’s face. His

bright hazel eyes were wide open, as if the child could see her clearly and recognize her as his

mother. Newborns weren’t supposed to be capable of that … but a normal husband and wife

shouldn’t have had a baby with slan tendrils, either.

With a curious sense of wonder, Anthea reached out to touch the tiny strands like long

threads of nerve fibers, antennae extending from the baby’s superior brain. When she stroked

the tendrils, they twitched and curled, making both her fingers and her mind tingle. How

could she and Davis have had such a potential within them without knowing it? Had her own

parents known they were different genetically? Had Davis’?

Anthea couldn’t help but feel herself bonding with the infant. He was a blank slate, full of

potential but without any experiences, knowledge, or personality. Given the right guidance and

inspiration, her son could become a great man. She made a promise to herself, and to the

memory of Davis, that she would do everything possible—give up her very life if necessary—to

protect this baby so he could grow up and meet his destiny.

She and her husband had never even decided on a name for their son. Anthea remembered

a candlelight dinner only a week ago, when they had both proposed names for the baby,

alternatives for a boy or a girl. If they had a son, Davis preferred Raymond or maybe William.

“How about Geoffrey with a ‘G’?” Anthea had suggested. “Or Elliott? Or Sam?”

“Could you live with Stefan?” Davis asked. “Or how about Leroy? It means ‘the king.’ ”

“No, definitely not Leroy.”

The more suggestions they made, the more impossible it seemed to find a name they could

both agree to. Finally, at the end of that dinner, Anthea and Davis had set aside the discussion,

deciding to wait until she had the baby. When they could actually hold it, look at it, and see its

face, they were sure they could choose the perfect name.

Now they would never have that chance. Anthea didn’t know how she could bear to

choose a name all by herself.

Suddenly, she was startled out of her reverie by shouts and running footsteps in the

hospital’s garage. “Have you checked everywhere? We can’t let the slans escape.”

“The one we killed didn’t even have tendrils.”

“Without tendrils, his head won’t make much of a trophy for John Petty’s wall. But if he

wasn’t a slan, then he was a traitor helping them.”

Anthea felt the burn of tears, but she drove them back, sitting up just enough so that she

could see the round side mirror on the door of the ambulance. In the reflection she could view

part of the underground parking garage.

Several uniformed security men spread out, searching, their revolvers drawn. The ominous

man with the secret police armband stood at the doorway, looking into the shadows, scanning

for any sign of her or the baby. “I will be very disappointed if you allow them to escape.”

The methodical security men began to look in the cars. Anthea huddled down, pulling the

blanket over her, sending out a desperate thought.
We’re not here. We’re not here
. The baby

seemed to pick up and amplify the message.

She heard footsteps moving along, reports shouted from one man to another. They were

going toward other cars nearer the exit ramp, away from her, without even checking the

ambulance. She wondered if her son had actually influenced the guards, or if it was just a

fortunate coincidence. Anthea held her breath.

Then the terrifying shrieks of air-raid sirens ratcheted up and down the streets, amplified

by broadcast systems in the hospital, drowning out even the normal security alarms. The

sounds of chaos outside greatly increased; she heard racing automobiles, squealing tires, then a

series of distant explosions.

The searchers in the hospital’s motor pool parking lot shouted to each other, then dashed

back inside the building. Air raid sirens continued to wail, but now they were blurred by the

drone of heavy jet engines. Unfamiliar flying craft cruised overhead approaching the heart of

Centropolis. The slan attack! Then came the percussive flurry of anti-aircraft fire, large

defensive guns that President Gray had installed on skyscraper roofs.

As the gunfire continued, she heard a thin whistle that grew louder and culminated in an

ear-shattering eruption. More bombs dropped from above, smashing into the streets, setting

buildings afire. Centuries ago, Earth’s greatest cities had been leveled in the Slan Wars. Anthea

hoped that the rebuilt skyscrapers had been reinforced to withstand an attack. Or had

humanity grown too complacent?

Yet another explosion echoed down the block from the hospital. She heard brisk footsteps

and more shouts as two men ran for the ambulance. Anthea cowered back down as two rescue

squad techs jumped inside and slammed the doors. The driver started the engine with a roar,

and the ambulance began to roll forward as soon as his partner threw himself into the seat.

Huddling in the back, she hoped they wouldn’t look behind them to see the emergency

blanket she had pulled down to cover her.

Its siren bawling, the medical vehicle shot out of the hospital’s parking bay and into the

chaos of the war-torn streets. The driver turned right and accelerated down the avenue into the

city. Explosions peppered the buildings around them; bricks and shattered glass rained down

onto the street. Traffic ground to a halt. Swerving cars smashed into each other, and the

ambulance zig-zagged past the wrecks without slowing.

A falling bomb struck a car limping along on a flat tire, and the fuel tank detonated so close

to the rushing ambulance that the side panels in the back rattled. Screaming pedestrians were

running everywhere, trying to flag down the medical vehicle. The driver just drove past the

flaming debris. Anthea wondered exactly which injured people the rescue squad intended to

save.

The driver slammed the brakes hard just as half of a building slid down into the street,

blocking their way. The violent lurch caused loose supplies to clatter forward from storage bins

in the back of the ambulance. Anthea nearly tumbled to the floor of the vehicle, and the infant

began to cry as the blankets slid off of her. Before she could shush him, before she could grab

the blankets to hide them again, both the driver and his fellow rescue squad tech turned

around, staring with saucer-like eyes.

“She’s the one the secret police were looking for! She killed Dr. Elton.”

With the ambulance blocked in the street, both men scrambled out of their seats and

lunged toward the back of the ambulance.

Anthea held the baby defensively against her. She should have been weak and exhausted,

barely able to move after giving birth only an hour ago. But her body had healed remarkably,

and energy sang through her muscles. The unexpected strength had always been there, but it

lay fallow. Now that Anthea knew what she was, now that she had a baby to protect, she could

feel it awakening.

“Don’t worry, she’s trapped in here,” said the driver. “There’s two of us. We can easily grab