"You've got to be kidding." Carl tossed the partially assembled weapon from one hand to the other. The unhealthy pallor of his skin, along with his sunken eyes, hinted at malnutrition and exposure to extreme weather conditions. The air in the dilapidated house smelled of rotten wood as he regarded his bulbous benefactor.

"I rescued you. You have to help me." Looking up at the human, Bibix pulled the stalks of his large eyes closer together to form a stern gaze. His one-meter tall, grey, hairless body couldn't possibly adopt any pose that would be threatening to the human, and he knew it. His eyes and the displeasure they conveyed were all he had.

"These weapons were old before I went into cryo. Where'd you get this? A museum?"

"Yes, Captain Tippet. That's where I work, so that's where I got them."

"Hah. I'm good, but I'm not that good. No way."

"But I read your service record. You're the best we had in storage," Bibix said, gesturing with all four spindly arms.

Tippet remained unmoved. "I'm grateful for being thawed out, I really am. It's quite the brave, new world you've got here. But, hey, I'm just one man. Do you know what my ten years of military service got me? A lungful of genetically engineered cancer, which your people deliberately used as a battlefield weapon. That and my fabulous war record are why they put me in the freezer, you know?"

Bibix knew he couldn't appeal to the man's compassion, though patriotism might still work. "The decision to use bioweapons is still being talked about by my kind. I'm sorry my ancestors invaded your world. I know you don't believe me, but it truly was an accident. I was still in the egg when it happened.

"Your own people are in this, too. Even if you don't want to help my kind, help your own. Those troops you saw in the city? Ha. You don't know the half of it. Those aren't just police, or peacekeepers, or whatever you'd like to call them. They're meat inspectors."

Tippet put the broken gun on the table and shook his head. The recollection was fuzzy. "I get it. Okay? I get it. I've heard every word, you little freak."

"There's no need for that."

"I've paid close attention to everything you gave me to read. Even if wanted to help you, which I don't, it wouldn't make a whit of difference. I saw their weapons and armor. Those guys have their act together and, in case you didn't notice, they're friggin' huge."

Bibix ignored Carl's hot rhetoric. "The NorCons aren't anything like us. They kill for fun. They eat anything with red blood cells, except us—most of the time. They think we taste terrible.

"Your technology almost defeated us, Captain. I've read more than a hundred accounts of our arrival. We weren't prepared for your exceptional tool use or your creativity under adverse conditions. It's been two hundred years since you were frozen, and our military never did absorb the lessons from the war. That's why the NorCons have done so well against us. We held out for less than three years. You and your skills you can help me defeat them."

Tippet held up his emaciated wrist to indicate the translator band. "You guys didn't have any problems coming up with this. If you can make a language translator, you can make your own damned weapons. You can learn how to use them, too." He paused. "You said you had the cure for my cancer. Either give it to me or put me back in the tube. Being on display in somebody's history annex is better than getting involved in this."

Bibix waggled a trio of fingers. "They've got to know you're out by now. If I take you back, they'll just eat you, like your kind used to devour aged cheese and wine. 'Hmmm, twenty-first century human.' They'll think you're yummy."

Tippet bent over in the semidarkness to rest his arms on the rickety table. "Give me the cure, then. I'll take my chances in the wilderness. You beat us. Now it's your turn. If your people hadn't been so quick to pounce, we might still be in this as allies."

"Can't you and I be friends and allies now?"

The question made Tippet laugh. "On the way out here, you kept going on about how the invasion wasn't really an invasion. Honestly, I don't care. Call yourselves refugees from a dying world if you like, but the facts speak for themselves. You gave no warning, made no effort to communicate. All ten billion of you fell out of the sky one day and—"

Bibix had heard enough. "I have told you a dozen times, we had no way of knowing how small this world was when we found it. Our telescopes still aren't as good as yours were. Our sun was failing, and we had to leave while we still could. Finding your planet was just too good to be true. It was our only chance, and we took it. Our ships and FTL drives were built in great haste. There simply wasn't time to construct them for anything beyond a one-way trip. Look, if you won't help, then show me how to use these things."

Tippet snorted. Looking down at the squishy little fellow, he tried to imagine the Lapropod decked out in combat gear. "Thirteen years, Bibix. That's how long we held out against you guys before I went into cryo. I don't know the exact figures, but I know we capped a lot of you little buggers."

"Over three billion," Bibix retorted. It was beginning to appear that the old wives' tale that said you couldn't bargain with humans was true.

Tippet remained unfazed. "My father used to tell me what life was like before the invasion. I was ten when it started, so I don't remember things ever being any different. Finding and killing you guys is all I know how to do. I've never done anything else. Even the cancer thing couldn't keep me off the battlefield. Not at first, anyway. Then one day I started coughing up blood, and... here I am. No, Bibs, it's your turn. Live and die by your own hand. We did. Now, give me the cure or I'll wring your scrawny neck."

"We don't have necks," Bibix replied, as if it were a great advantage over the human form.

Tippet's chair groaned under his weight as he leaned forward. "You're stubborn. Good. I'll show you how these things work, but it's just not that simple. Weapons are only part of what you need to have any hope of winning."

Bibix thought he understood. "Bullets? Power packs? We've got all that back at the museum. I've spent most of my adult life taking care of those exhibits. We've got enough in long-term storage to fight a dozen battles."

Tippet shook his head in frustration as he coughed. "Oh, yeah. There it is." He licked a drop of blood from his lower lip. "Weapons and supplies don't mean a thing without tactics and the understanding that what you're doing is taking life, pure and simple."

The observation sobered Bibix. "I've watched nearly two thousand hours of video—stuff your news crews and biographers left behind. I think I understand the taking of life. Tell me about tactics."

A gust of wind shook the old cottage. Tippet brushed falling plaster from his unkempt hair and looked down at his faded uniform.

"Books."

Bibix shuffled on all four pods. "Yes. Most of the libraries have been kept intact. There's a popular conspiracy theory going around that each of your nations hid or destroyed the really good stuff, before... you know. I suppose that explains the saying, 'Small world, small brain.' Ha."

Tippet let the unintended insult pass. "First you, and now the new conquerors. It seems like everybody's way ahead of us puny humans. Nah, my dad was right. We had our chance and we didn't make the cut. Look, Bibs, give me something to write with. I'm gonna clue you in to a few authors who can tell you all about tactics."

Rummaging through his day sack, Bibix gave Tippet a writing box and a stylus. "I'll never understand why my own people never had the good sense to form our own army. If we had—"

Tippet smirked as he wrote. "You might be where I am now."

"Point taken." Bibix waited quietly while the human wrote.

Out in the overgrown yard, birds chirped and flitted from tree to tree. Tippet tried not to think about how the sound of the wind reminded him of a woman crying in the distance.

"Before I give you this, I want the cure. If I'm going on the lam, I should at least be healthy."

Bibix didn't hesitate. "We've got a new deal, then? The cure in exchange for showing me how to use these things, and your notes."

"Agreed." Tippet handed over the writing box with a smile.

"My pen? Sorry to ask, but I'm always lending pens and never getting them back."

"Sure." Tippet let out a long, painful cough and handed the pen over.

Bibix went back to his sack and returned with a pair of large injectors. "I got this from a friend who works at one of the NorCon processing centers. I told him it was for one of my bosses who was buying humans off the black market. It's an updated formula based on something we brought with us. It must be good. They use it on fifty thousand humans a day."

Carl didn't ask about the black market or the processing plant. The prospect of relieving the pain in his chest was powerful enough to drive away his fear of gulags. In his misery, even the idea of being somebody else's food wasn't quite real.

Bibix read the instructions on the syringes. "Use the whole thing. You should only need one, but I brought two just to be sure. Here." Giving Tippet both items, he explained their use and moved out of the way.

Tippet rolled up his sleeve. "So. Where exactly are we?"

"The polar region. This town used to be called Anchorage."

"That sounds like Alaska. What city did we come from?"

Bibix waited for Tippet to inject himself. "It's not quite a city. The NorCons built it using forced labor gangs. We don't use human names. Very few of us read your words or speak your languages. When the NorCons came thirty years ago, they outlawed—"

"I get it. How long does this take to work?" Tippet grimaced as the drug set fire to his veins.

"For us, about ten minutes. For you, an hour, or maybe two. It's common for humans to be sleepless for a day or two after the drug kicks in. It's doctor stuff."

"How is it you work in a museum when the NorCons banned all things human?"

Bibix tittered to show what he thought of the idea. "They like their rewards. After they rounded up the humans, they put most of us to work building their settlements. We're not good laborers, so they didn't make us go underground. We gathered up all the human things we could find and they divvied them up amongst their invasion force commanders. Trophies—that's what they call all the stuff they keep in their museums."

Tippet examined the empty syringe and set it on the table. "Does anyone know you're out here? I know you must have thought this through, but I have to ask."

Bibix raised and lowered his eyes in a gesture signifying sneakiness. "I'm on vacation. I haven't taken a day off in five years. My boss practically ordered me to go once I made a few 'mistakes.' I snuck in after-hours and rolled you right out the back door when the night guard wasn't looking. Getting you into the back of my lev was harder, but as you say, here we are."

"I've never been stolen property before."

"Naturally, I'll be shocked when I go back to work—all for show, of course. The NorCons believe in private property but we have a more community-based outlook on such things."

Absorbing the being's words, Tippet's mind raced with new questions. "You did say thirty years, right? What are the NorCons like without their armor?"

Bibix paused to think about how to answer. "Nobody knows. Inside their administrative facilities, offices, and homes, our kind has to wear life support gear. Even then, the NorCons still don't take the armor off. They can't breathe this planet's air. Each NorCon carries a nitrogen pump. That seems to be their preferred gas to breathe. Popular gossip says they could be from a heavier gravity world. We speculate that this is a very hostile environment for them. Obviously, they are bipedal, like you, with fingers and opposable thumbs, and have an average height of three meters. They seem to be both sexes in the same body. We've never seen children or young adults. Their weapons are like yours—and they're not afraid to use them, like you. "

Tippet nodded. "Good observations."

"We may have surrendered sooner than your kind did, but we haven't forgotten how to keep our eyes open."

"How very French of you." Tippet leaned on one elbow, playing with the second syringe.

"That's a nationality. I'm not sure I understand the reference."

"Never mind. None of that matters now. It probably never will again."

Carl spent the next two hours going over the oddball collection of weapons that Bibix had plundered from the back rooms of his museum. As a people, the Lapropods had never developed the concept of weaponry. They had always confined their tool use to non-offensive endeavors. When threatened, they would fight. Their sheer numbers and determination would be used to overwhelm the threat, as Tippet knew all too well.

Tippet rearranged Bibix's arms to cradle a patched-together gauss repeater. "No, like this. Hold it up so you can look all the way down the barrel. For you, the most important thing about this weapon is its lack of recoil. Check your battery pack, then point and shoot. Once you learn how to use the sights, you'll do just fine. Take it out someplace remote and plink around."

Bibix looked from the gun to his teacher. "Excuse me? Plink? I'm not sure the translators are interpreting that word correctly. Did you just say p-l-i-n-k, plink?"

Tippet glanced as his wrist. "What? Did I say something rude?"

Bibix laughed when he realized the human hadn't meant what he thought. "Yes, very."

"What does it mean, when you hear it?"

"Roughly translated, it means that you have sex with your mother."

Carl smirked, then shrugged. "Sorry. It's my first alien swear word. Look, you need to take this stuff out where nobody can see or hear and practice with it. Shoot stuff. Get used to it. Then read those books I told you about—I mean, if you can."

Bibix put his weapon on safety and shuffled over to the table, where he put it down. "As a museum curator, I read English, Spanish, and German, all without electronic help. The hard part will be getting the books. If I can tie them in to a few of the exhibits, I should be able to read them on the job, right in front of my bosses."

Tippet sat down and took a long pull from a water bottle. "Don't get cocky. I don't care what that word means to you. Don't do anything out of the ordinary in front of the NorCons. Don't give them any reason to suspect you. If these guys are predators, they'll be looking for any sign of disloyalty."

Bibix thought about that, and nodded. "Deception. Hm. Yes."

Carl gestured at the gloomy interior of the house. "Do you own this place?"

"No. It's abandoned. The structures are still here, but anything worth taking is gone."

Tippet emptied his water bottle. "Sounds good. Don't take any of this home with you. Bury it, in multiple caches. If you take more loot from the museum, be sure to make it look like a robbery or a mistake in bookkeeping."

"An error in bookkeeping, then. The brutes who own these trophy halls fight over them. I'm told it's a common practice on their home world. They steal from each other all the time. It shames me to admit that my own people carry out most of these thefts. I won't have any trouble covering my tracks."

"If this is Alaska, it must be summer just now. Do they fight over their loot up here?"

Bibix had to think about that. "Three years ago, there was a fight at a place called Fairbanks. I forget the NorCon name for it. I didn't pay attention at the time. Now that you mention it, I think they were having it out over a trophy hall."

Tippet unwrapped a sandwich and started eating. He gagged. "What is this?"

"It's what they feed humans. The bread was my idea. How is it?"

"If you have to ask, you don't want to know." Tippet grunted and forced the food down.

Bibix watched with interest. "If it's that bad, why are you eating it?"

Carl finished wolfing down the sandwich and reached for a fresh water bottle. "My last meal before they put me in cryo was peanut butter on a stick. I don't expect you to understand. Food was pretty scarce in my day, thanks to you guys. I learned to eat anything I could get past my tongue."

Bibix nodded, feeling badly about his own extravagant eating habits. "I'm sorry. I didn't think. When we crowded you out, we really messed things up, even if there are some Earth foods that we can't eat. For what it's worth, my grandfather tells me that the food on Earth is much better than where we came from."

"So we taste good and we can cook. What a deal. I'm going outside. I need air."

Tippet stood and left the room, taking one of the plasma rifles with him. Bibix scooped up his gauss repeater and followed. They went through the wrecked home and out into the back yard.

Kicking loose gravel with the toes of his ruined combat boots, Tippet squinted at the afternoon sun. He spied an apple tree, slung his weapon, and walked over to it.

Bibix sat on a small marble bench nearby. "That fruit is poisonous to Lapropods."

"It has always been thus." Tippet picked a small, red apple. Raising it in a mock toast, he bit it in half. He chewed slowly, relishing the taste.

"That's a biblical reference. I didn't know you were so well-read."

"That's why they made me an officer—I read, I write. If the NorCons catch me, they'll sell me by the slice." Tippet finished his apple and reached for another.

"Just one more reason why you should help me," Bibix reproached.

Tippet shook his head as he chomped down another apple. "Nope. Come here. Let me show you how to change clips on that thing and we'll do some target practice."

With Tippet's expert guidance, Bibix learned how to shoot both the gauss repeater and the plasma rifle. The low recoil and relative quiet of each weapon appealed to him.

As dusk turned into night, they went back inside. The captain said, "The other stuff you brought takes bullets. You know, those tiny, copper-jacketed things? A little guy like you shouldn't waste your time with those."

"The principle is the same?" Bibix asked as they walked back inside.

"Pretty much." Tippet closed the door and walked into the tiny living room still carrying his weapon. The move was unsettling to Bibix.

"Captain?"

Tippet stopped in his tracks when he heard the gauss repeater's initiator click.

"Put your weapon down. I won't let you flout my authority," Bibix commanded, taking aim at the back of the human's head.

"Bibs, I didn't think you had it in you." Turning slowly, Tippet thumbed off the safety, raising the plasma rifle one-handed. At this range, he couldn't miss.

Bibix trembled at the sight of the weapon in Tippet's big hand. "I didn't think I had a lot of things in me until a few days ago. You can give up if you want, but I won't. In a way, I don't blame you. If our roles were reversed, I'm sure I'd feel just as put out, burned out, and used up as you do. The NorCons are despicable. They use your kind for food and mine for slaves. I'm sorry that's not enough for you. Now, drop that gun."

"You're getting what you deserve."

"You've already won that point, Captain. The conflict between our peoples is still fresh in your mind, as if it happened just yesterday. That was then. This is now. If you and I don't work together, here and now, there will be no humans or Lapropods, except in museums. The NorCons will see to that, and they'll enjoy doing it."

"That's pretty incisive for a guy who eats his own body weight three times a day."

Bibix raised his weapon, as he'd been taught. "You should take me seriously."

"I need time to think."

"Drop the weapon. Then start thinking."

Tippet shook his head and adjusted his aim. The drugs in his system were making him irritable. "It's not that simple. It's been two centuries since your people arrived. I know that, but I don't feel it."

Bibix tossed his gun to the floor. "Fine. Does that make you feel better? In spite of your experience to the contrary, my species does not get violent when it really matters—like now. That's why we fell to the NorCons so easily. You're aching to kill me for things that my ancestors did. I've seen the scars on your body. I can guess how you got them."

Tippet's heightened anger made him take a step forward. Bibix spread his four arms wide in a show of total surrender. "Your service file says you and the troops under your command killed one hundred and sixty of my people, mostly with your knives or bare hands. I can only assume that you were low on ammunition. The video we have in our vault suggests that you personally lived under terrible conditions. I've seen clips of you in action. Home movies, I think they're called. I haven't experienced starvation, but it looks terrible on the big screen."

"You have no idea." Tippet snorted and tightened his grip on the plasma rifle.

"Fundamentally, I do know what it means to lose my home. I keep hearing stories about a world that doesn't exist anymore, a whole culture that was dead when our last ship left orbit, a place my parents and elders still speak of fondly. It's something I'll never see outside of a NorCon museum. It doesn't compare to being forced out of your cities, being pushed off your farms, or picking through landfills while shivering in the rain so that your smallest children can have something to eat. I haven't experienced any of that, but I do get the point."

Tippet lowered his gun and sat on the moldy couch. The little shrimp was right. Never mind the drugs in his body. The ruins of the surrounding city stank of defeat, and it was preying on his war-weary mind. The odor reminded him of the fetid, sweaty reek of infected wounds. That combined with the transition from cryo served to weigh him down.

Even before the cancer had made him eligible for cold storage, he and the rest of his platoon knew they were fighting for a lost cause. Honor was dead, killed in the line of duty while defending Compassion.

As Carl bowed under the weight of his many miseries, Bibix retrieved his weapon. The sight of a crying human was almost too much to bear, but he forced himself to stay in the room. Climbing into a rotten chair, he picked off some of the moss and quietly nibbled as the man released his grief.

Once Tippet calmed down, Bibix handed him a blanket. The emotionally drained human slept soundly despite the nerve-rattling drugs coursing through his damaged body.

Aware that he was treading a fine line, Bibix resolved to stay awake to prevent his reluctant teacher from escaping. He roamed through the dark house, investigating all the nooks and crannies he could find with his natural night vision. Randomly checking on the snoring soldier, he also had time to think.

As the cold night wore on, his mind filled with unpleasant thoughts. The Lapropods, as a people, had institutionalized their guilt over the unintended destruction of Earth's many civilizations. The translator band on Tippet's wrist hadn't been invented until well after the collapse of human resistance. When communication finally became possible, most of the surviving humans surrendered in exchange for food, shelter, and other comforts. The rest were hunted down, a task that the Lapropods undertook with great reluctance and regret.

Even now, Bibix wondered if he'd done the right thing by reviving such a dangerous creature. This one man could rampage and kill dozens of his kind before the NorCons caught him—if they caught him. The irony left a sour taste in his mouth. "Hm. So, that's what they mean by a double-edged sword."

The very thought of sharp, cold steel made his smooth, grey skin crawl. He hadn't made the decision to become militant lightly. No self-respecting Lapropod would take a life unless forced. The humans had been forced into violence by accident. The historical record suggested that they might have welcomed the early landings with open arms, but that was just a speculation. Most documents from that period had been lost due to Lapropodian neglect or NorCon malice.

Emotional conflict was hard for Bibix to rationalize. His highly ordered academic mind was, by the standards of his society, an impregnable intellectual fortress. As he prowled around the neglected dwelling, fear began to challenge his inner defenses. Sitting alone in the kitchen, he ate, and ate, and ate. Even with a full stomach, his confidence suffered.

"I could just go home. It'll be like none of this ever happened. I could kill Tippet, or just let him live in the woods like he wants." He paused in his ruminations. "Ew. No. Absolutely not. No more guilt or indecision. I need him and he needs me. Huh. Will you listen to me? I'm a philosopher."

Checking his weapon, Bibix went back to the living room. Tippet slept fully clothed under the blanket, the plasma rifle curled to his chest in both arms. Bibix scanned the man's weather-beaten face, his night sight making it easy. Tippet's gaunt facial features indicated a lifetime of malnutrition. Uneven curls suggested infrequent, hasty haircuts. His stained teeth completed the picture of poor hygiene.

"You don't smell so good, either," Bibix mumbled as he went back to the mossy chair on the far side of the room. Hopping into it, he scrunched until he got comfortable. Sitting still, he was slowly overcome by the cool night air. Both eyes retracted sluggishly into his head. With a long, slow sigh, he slipped into a troubled slumber. The desire to fight or flee came and went many times as he mumbled incoherent protests.

With a start, Bibix fell out of the chair. Dawn's first light streamed in through a dirty window. He looked up from the leaf-encrusted floor, extending both eyes to scan for Tippet. The couch was empty. The human was gone. Bibix darted frantically from room to room searching the house until he remembered the apple tree in the back yard.

Going back for his gun, he charged it correctly and slowly probed into the back yard. Trees, grass, and weeds were all slick with dew. Increasing sunlight revealed that the tree had been picked clean of fruit. Sulking, Bibix realized he was alone.

A more determined search of the house and lev proved him right. Most of his food and water had been taken. The plasma rifle and its four remaining power packs were gone. The gunpowder weapons were also gone, along with all three boxes of bullets. Angry and embarrassed, he searched in vain for a farewell note. When he didn't find one, he sat in the living room and thought about his options.

Tippet didn't understand the NorCon threat because he didn't want to. He was stuck in the past. Shaking his head, Bibix had to admit that he'd overestimated the human. The shaky video that documented his exploits didn't speak of his inner pain or fragile state of mind.

When he'd first discovered them, those low-grade images had inspired Bibix. Alone in the museum's basement, behind a locked door, he watched them with the volume turned down low. The human warrior scared him at first. With a translator plugged in, Bibix cringed each time Tippet yelled at the camera operator. The pep talks he gave to the men and women under his command were brief and full of swearing.

After several months of exposure to the recordings, he'd gotten used to the profanity and violence. The fear went away. He no longer vomited when he saw the humans eviscerate Lapropods. They were doing what they had to, just as he knew he must.

Pulling himself together, Bibix set about the task of caching his weapons. Each of the precious devices was wrapped in slick plastiform and sealed against moisture. Going to his lev, he took a shovel from the trunk. He carefully buried his scavenged arms in three places. Taking his time, he packed up his things and collected the trash. Something in Tippet's demeanor suggested that humans would do this. It implied a sneakiness that appealed to Bibix.

Continuing his charade, he drove further south and booked into a coastal resort that catered to Lapropods. The formerly human facility had been adapted with the blessings of their NorCon masters. Prior to their arrival, the Lapropods had shunned most things human. Because the NorCons relished the spoils of war, it was easy for them to insist that their conquered serfs do the same.

The next day, Bibix went for an early morning swim. This allowed him to work off some stress while being seen by a number of witnesses. Afterwards, he made a TransCall to the museum. In keeping with his overly meticulous image, he pretended to be unable to enjoy himself unless he knew that all was well back in the archives.

"Somehow, I knew it would be you." Administrator Grillek, the NorCon supervisor, shook its helmeted head.

"I should never have left. What's wrong?" Gripping the edges of the panel, Bibix gave a good performance.

"One of the humans in cryo was stolen. Lubix has already investigated the matter. It's nothing you need to be concerned with."

"I've only been gone for two days!"

"I like your dedication, Bibix. For as long as I can remember, you've been the only 'Pod that really cares about our trophies. How would you like to be the Deputy Curator for this facility?"

The question shocked Bibix into silence. He had no trouble extending his eyes in a show of genuine surprise.

On the screen, the bulbous helmet jiggled with laughter as mighty jaws cracked open every so slightly. "The job is yours when you return."

"If I drive all night, I can—"

"No! I'm looking forward to having Lubix slow-roasted. It takes forever to make you people taste good. That reminds me, I need to have him arrested and cavity-scrubbed prior to spicing. Loyalty, Bibix. You're getting promoted because you're loyal. Never forget that, or I may have to invite you to dinner." Grilleck cut the connection.

Bibix starred at the blank screen for a long moment before going back to his room. Three days ago, he would have merely accepted the eating of Lubix. The old suck-up was a disgrace to his kind, always willing to send museum staff out to steal anything Grilleck demanded. In his newly liberated condition, Bibix found the idea barbaric and unclean. Nobody truly deserved to be eaten.

Five days later, Bibix was back on the job. Dense rain poured from the sky as slate grey clouds stalked across the horizon, powered by harsh winds. Thunder boomed. Lightning flashed. The chore of moving into his new office wasn't enough to prevent Bibix from watching the NorCons as they went about their daily routines.

They strutted around in their bulbous helmets and slab-like armor. The apparent state of the armor was deceptive. What looked to be poor upkeep was, in fact, a deliberate display of past battle damage. Any sort of damage that showed the wearer was a combat veteran was highly prized. Some NorCons' armor had colorful patterns emblazoned on the arms or legs, though chest and helmet surfaces remained mysteriously bare. The nitrogen pump that each wore was clamped to the armor in any of a number of different places. Placement of the pump seemed to depend on personal preference.

Grilleck and Veknar were having a heated discussion in their native tongue when Bibix returned to his office with yet another armload of disks, chips, and crayleon bundles.

"Bibix!" Grilleck challenged, standing in the way.

"Yes, Greatness?"

"There seems to be some doubt. Tell us about the human that was stolen."

Bibix ignored the snort that the translator imparted. Going to his desk, he picked up a single printed page. He held it up for Grilleck to read through its helmet enhancements.

"Tippet, Carl. Captain, Alaska National Guard. Serial number—"

"Guard?" Veknar looked to his superior.

"National Guard. Reserve troops," Grilleck explained.

Disappointed, Veknar handed over its wager, which Grilleck took in one large, four-fingered, mechanical claw. Bibix pretended not to notice the transaction.

"A captain? Whoever stole him must have had a tasty meal." Veknar's translator tried and failed to communicate its envy.

"I'd believe it," Grilleck chortled as the two left Bibix to his work.

Unwilling to think about Tippet, Bibix threw himself into his work. Lubix had been a poor leader and a worse administrator. Before Bibix could commit any further acts of rebellion, there was much to be done so that nobody would suspect him. The Bibix they'd always known had to be seen doing his job—calm Bibix; busy Bibix.

Trebix, the Senior Curator, had taken an immediate dislike to the younger Lapropod. Where Lubix had been easy to deal with, Bibix was not. Bibix's constant whining about accurate cataloging began to wear thin on the Senior Curator. When he couldn't stand it anymore, Trebix took his case to Grilleck. "It's all here, under one roof. How much more cataloging does it take?"

Grilleck put down its stylus. "Close the door, and let's talk about it."

Office gossip later claimed that Grilleck had eaten Trebix on the spot, unhinging the big jaws on its helmet and tearing the Lapropod into bite-sized chunks. The rumor didn't surprise Bibix, who had witnessed Grilleck's cruelty many times. Most NorCons couldn't stand the taste of Lapropodian flesh. Grilleck, it seemed, took his duties very seriously. Eating the unappetizing staff was just part of his thankless job.

When Veknar turned up to inform Bibix of his promotion to Senior Curator, Bibix wasn't surprised. The position held tremendous power. He, Grilleck, and Veknar would be the only ones who actually knew what was in the museum. Even so, if Bibix chose to omit things from the inventory, they'd never know. The very thought made him shiver in fear. That sudden rush of fear made him think of Carl Tippet.

Making careful use of his new authority, Bibix went from home to work, and back again, as predictably as he could. Nobody questioned his purchase of the books on Tippet's list as he made improvements to the exhibits. The multitude of small, simple purchases baffled Grilleck until it began to see how fleshed out its superior's holdings were becoming.

"Amazing, Bibix. The appraisers have increased the value of this collection. I didn't know that was possible. My master is very pleased."

"I live to serve, Greatness. I'm beginning to understand your concepts of value."

Grilleck held up a baseball, turning it over in one alloy claw. "Explain this."

Adjusting his breath mask, Bibix tried not to fret over how long he'd been in Grilleck's office. "It is a baseball, used in a game of the same name. Baseball is a team sport. The ball is thrown at a man holding a large wooden club. The object is to hit the ball over a tall fence. A successful hit allows the man, called a batter, to run for designated safe zones called bases. The winner of the game is determined by runs batted in—the total number of players who make it around all of the bases."

"Why do we have seven hundred of these in our inventory?"

"The game was very popular, Greatness. A common practice involved autographing the ball after a successful game. Only the successful players had this right. All seven hundred of our baseballs are autographed, which enhances their value."

Grilleck regarded his Senior Curator. "I would have liked to do battle with these humans."

Something in Grilleck's attitude and body language put Bibix on guard. "How so?"

"I miss the days of challenge. I'd like to think that, if we'd gotten here first, the humans would have given us a good fight."

"We tried, Greatness."

Grilleck put the ball down. "Don't patronize me."

"No, Greatness. I would never think of it."

"No, I don't suppose you would."

Grilleck's contempt inspired Bibix to start reading the books that Tippet had recommended. The concepts of strategy and tactics turned out to be easily grasped. The deceptions and applications of force they described ran counter to Lapropodian instinct. The term "pacifist" hurt, once he understood it. Words like "appeasement," once translated, proved to be most enlightening.

Six months into his tenure as Senior Curator, Bibix was working late when he found a small, unlabelled, water-damaged fiberboard box. It contained a stack of very abused optical disks. The logo on each disk indicated that they had once been the property of a television network. According to the receipt, this box had been acquired one hundred and fifty-three years before. He recognized the name of the Senior Curator from that period.

Excited, Bibix made sure that he was the only one in the museum. Then he went to the A.V. lab and worked to clean up each disk. They weren't numbered. Only one had a hand-written notation—"Arrival, Day 50." The prospect was intriguing. Sliding the disk into a composite reader, he keyed the conversion system and waited.

A one-hundred-centimeter display lit. Bibix pulled up a chair, and waited as the network logo played. The camera's point of view jiggled frantically as the operator tried to keep up with a disheveled woman scrabbling through a muddy trench. Her long, blonde hair hung in thick, dirty locks. Her light body armor and trendy clothes were caked in the muck she crawled through. Bibix recognized the wireless headset mike she wore as something that had been common during the period.

"We are live on the perimeter of Kulis Air Base, where the creatures are attacking in force. Before we lost the national news feed, I was talking to Dr. Milo Hopkins from the University of Alaska. He was telling me about the latest failed attempt to communicate with the invaders. Come on, Bucky. Keep up"

Bibix flinched when the camera's eye peered over the lip of the trench. A hundred meters away, thousands of Lapropods were rushing a staggered line of human infantry. Hunkered down in a trench, the trained soldiers aimed and fired a variety of automatic weapons. Gas-operated gunpowder systems banged away in rapid succession. Gauss repeaters thumped like rapid heartbeats as plasma-boosted flamethrowers belched out long, red streams of unquenchable fire. The muzzle flashes and explosive coronas reflected off the low cloud cover.

Despite this terrible slaughter, the wave of Lapropods advanced over the partially frozen ground without losing speed. Bibix imagined that the cold weather was forcing his people to fight their way to shelter. On the big screen, the human troops fell under the weight of sheer numbers.

The reporter looked at the camera and spoke her final words as a massive starship thundered over her head. "I can see four more of their ships coming down now—one, maybe two, miles away. They're everywhere. I don't know what made us think we could welcome them. They won't talk to us; they just keep coming. If anyone's watching this, fight back. For the sake of us all, fight back—"

The camera angle changed radically as a dozen Lapropodian hands reached for the reporter. The screen went blank as she started kicking and screaming. The two-minute clip made Bibix shiver out of fear and revulsion. Seeing his people under those conditions gave him a greater appreciation for Tippet's mindset. Their conversation played back in his mind.

"I'll never understand why my own people never had the good sense to form our own army. If we had—"

"You might be where I am now."

The revelation was chilling. Shaken, Bibix worriedly eyed the remaining disks. Tippet's show of apathy had been a lie. His breakdown may have been due to post-combat stress, but his hate for the "creatures" who'd oppressed him was very real. Were Lapropods really that easy to control? One look at the NorCon fixtures around the room gave him his answer.

"Does it work both ways? They manipulate us. Can we do it to them?"

Bibix took all the disks and the cardboard box home with him. He was already conflicted over the prospect of violence. He didn't need anything else to cloud his view. In time, when he was ready, he could explore what was on the other disks. For now, he had a rebellion to start.

According to the author Clausewitz, violence was just another form of politics. Alone in his bathroom, Bibix pondered this while performing his normal bodily functions. The NorCon political view was much like that attributed to Genghis Khan. The strong preyed upon the weak. Possession was ownership. If somebody had a thing that you wanted, you took it. These very disturbing notions gave him nightmares when he tried to sleep.

Three days later, under cover of darkness, Bibix slipped into a rival museum. Moving silently on just two pods, he avoided the roaming night guard and rifled the Deputy Curator's files. He held a tiny flashlight in his two front teeth. If this Deputy Curator were anything like Trebix had been, the intrusion would go unreported for fear of being eaten by his NorCon supervisor.

Finding what he wanted, Bibix paused just long enough to read from the official master inventory list before covering his tracks.

He deliberately tripped the alarm as he fled. His reading of Machiavelli turned out to be correct that night. The NorCons thought so poorly of the enslaved Lapropods that they did very little to guard against them.

Stopping to hide his weapon, as if he were Ché Guevara, he raced home only to spend yet another sleepless night in contemplation. The next day, Grilleck called him on it.

"Bibix, you look like poop. What's the matter?"

"I've been checking up on the other museums in this region," Bibix replied, starting the lie just as he'd practiced.

Grilleck had its own concerns. "Can you believe humans used to pay to get into these places? Now we keep everyone out except our masters. I'm starting to think we might be missing out on something."

"I, too, think we are missing something," Bibix replied, despite his roiling stomach.

"How so? Has somebody found another cache of hidden human loot?"

"The museum over in what used to be called Eagle River has a collection of papers that once belonged to the human army General H. Norman Schwarzkopf. I was thinking that, since we had his uniforms and medals, we should also have his collected wisdom."

The chance to fight over something caught Grilleck's attention. "That's very interesting. Are you sure about this?"

"My source does not lie, Greatness," Bibix responded, doing his very best to appear humble.

"I'll bring it up to my master. If they choose to trade, what can we offer?"

Bibix tried not to swallow his tongues. "Why should we give them anything? We know the papers are there. Why not just... take them?"

"What? That's very... very... That would involve a raid... a fight. A..." Grilleck looked down at Bibix, seeing him in a whole new light.

"Challenge?" Bibix offered meekly.

Grilleck's nitrogen pump worked overtime for several seconds as he considered what he could tell his master. "Why not? I know the administrator for that dump. We could kill the entire staff. Ha! While we're at it, we'll take everything they have—if my master approves."

Thinking of the staff, Bibix dared to speak up. "Greatness, if I may. It will be a lot of work to integrate their holdings into our own. It would be helpful if we could use the staff."

Grilleck trained all his attention on Bibix. Was it possible that one of these vile, tasteless creatures was finally starting to learn something useful? There was only one way to find out.

"Suppose my master allows a few of them to live. Suppose, for the sake of argument, I let them become a part of your work force. How does this benefit me?"

The challenge inherent in the question made Bibix sweat. "Actually, Greatness, it does not benefit you. Most of them will not be able to measure up to our high standards. When we finish adding their trophies to our inventory, you may have to eat many of them to make the point."

"Which would be?"

"You tolerate so very little, Greatness. I have come to respect and admire this drive for excellence. We are doing more than just cataloging the spoils of war. We are pleasing your master. I can think of no higher calling."

Grilleck's translator approximated laughter. "Stop! Enough! Bibix, you amaze me. Fine. If my master approves the attack, I'll bring you the 'Pod survivors. I make no guarantees, mind you. If any of the little nuggets survive, you can put them to work."

Bibix tried not to flee when he was dismissed. He stayed in his office well past quitting time, waiting for Grilleck to come and eat him for being so foolish. In his desk drawer, he had a small hand-held bomb, a "grenade." He didn't know if it still worked, but he was willing to give it a try if things went that far. When the night guard came by his office for the third time, Bibix gave up his deathwatch and went home.

That night, he read about human politics. Most of it seemed easily relatable to the NorCons. Eating as he read, he tried to relate the concepts to himself and his people. More to the point, he wondered why the Lapropods had never developed many of the traits he read about. "How do you take advantage of something if you can't relate to it?"

Some of the books he read had detailed bibliographies, listing other titles on similar subjects. Clearly, more research was needed before he could rebel any further. "Hm. I'm probably going to end up writing my own book, just to make sense of it all."

Ten days later, he was back at the ruined house where he'd cached the weapons. In the rain, he dug up the gauss repeater, and took it inside. Taking the weapon apart as he'd been shown, he cleaned it with supplies he had brought from home. Amazingly, the roof of this abandoned building had few leaks. In the low light, he could almost imagine the comings and goings of the humans who might have lived here.

"Freeze," Tippet's voice said softly as the cold metal of a gun barrel touched Bibix in the center of his back.

Bibix put down his rag and raised all four hands. "I didn't think I'd see you again."

"I said I needed time to think, remember?"

"And? How did that go for you?"

Tippet holstered his gun and moved around to sit facing Bibix. "I owe you an apology. This whole screwed up situation was a lot to take in all at once. I've been places, seen things. I get it now."

"That's why you're back?" Bibix surprised himself with his show of doubt.

"Yeah." Tippet scratched the shaggy beard on his face. Somehow, he'd scavenged a change of clothes.

Bibix marveled at what he knew were synthetic flannel and faux denim. Both were rare commodities.

"I don't remember who said it, but, 'Welcome to the revolution.'"

"Thanks, Bibs. That means a lot, coming from you."

"Where did you get the clothes?" Bibix gestured at the Carl's dirty shirt.

"When you said the NorCons didn't make your slave gangs work underground, I started looking for basements. Alaska is a cold place. I got lucky; Anchorage has a lot of basements. Spent most of the last winter in a basement. I found some pretty disturbing stuff, too."

Bibix could see that Carl didn't like what he'd discovered. "I can only imagine."

"Look, Bibs, I've got something to tell you. You're not going to like it. I was in the ruins a few months back, dodging a NorCon patrol, when I found what's left of a TV station. They had stuff on disk. I found a civil defense power generator, and I got it working."

"I know what you found." Bibix motioned for the human to follow him into the better-lit living room.

"How do you know?" Tippet checked the fit of his wrist translator as he sat on the couch.

With some hesitation, Bibix told him about the disks he'd found in the museum. "They must have been copies of copies. Look, Carl, as much as I feel shame about what I saw, I can't turn my back on what's happening now. Not any more. Please, help me save both the humans and the Lapropods. Working together to Defeat the NorCons is the only we can make things right between our two species."

Carl raised both hands in submission. "You'll get no argument from me, Bibs. There's a human processing plant out in a valley. It took me ten days just to walk out there. Now that I've seen it, I'm a believer. The NorCons have got to go."

The passion in his words drove Bibix to sit up straight. "Great. Where do we start?"

"I've already been contributing to the war effort. What have you been up to?"

Bibix explained his opening moves, careful to relate them in terms of the books he'd read. Carl stopped him after five minutes of animated monologue.

"I haven't seen you in nearly seven months, and all you've done is plant half an idea in your boss's brain bucket?"

Bibix was hurt. "I suppose you've done better."

"Oh, yeah," Carl huffed and walked out of the house. Bibix followed.

Tippet pointed to a larger house down the block. "Come on. I have something you're gonna want to see."

Ignoring the rain, the two entered another house and went to the dining room. Bibix stuttered in disbelief when he saw a NorCon helmet squatting in the center of a long, simulated oak table. Along one wall, an assortment of rusty weapons leaned against mildewed sheetrock—shotguns, light machine guns, and a NorCon particle projector.

"You killed one?"

Carl swung into a chair, and then turned to face Bibix. "Two, actually. They must have been on patrol. Some kind of punishment detail, maybe. I waited for one them to take a leak. While he was busy, I dropped his buddy with a plasma shot through the chest. Man, they really don't like our air. Breach that suit, and they're toast. That reminds me, forget that gauss gun you've been practicing with. It'll just make 'em mad."

Bibix thought about his disassembled weapon. "I see. Is their armor really that strong?"

"I had to use plasma on both of them. I cracked 'em open, too, just to have a look under the hood. That's what I wanted to show you. Let's go out back."

Bibix followed Tippet into the overgrown back yard. Inside a tool shed, packed in a sealed bucket, Carl showed off a stinking mass of more than a hundred small, mossy green bodies.

"This is about half of what's in one of those suits," he explained as Bibix backed away.

Ignoring the rain dribbling down his back, Bibix pulled himself together. "That's incredible. They're community organisms."

"What?"

"We had these on our home world. Nothing this sophisticated, but something like it."

Carl put the lid down, and then sat on the bucket. "For those of us who haven't been there, please spell it out in simple Human."

Bibix stepped into the shed to avoid the rain. "You and I are made up of many parts. Each of our parts is made up of many cells. Community organisms are creatures of the same species that function together for a common purpose. Individually, they can't do much. In large numbers, they can perform complicated tasks."

"Is this a common thing where you come from?"

Bibix nodded. "Many thousands of years ago, we Lapropods were community organisms. That's part of why I know about them, even though I'm not a biologist. We got this stuff in what you'd call grade school."

Tippet smirked. "Aren't you lucky. My schoolroom education stopped at the fifth grade."

"I don't hold it against you. Anyway, I've seen examples of high-end academic material that dates back to before we came here—essays and math that 'prove' the utter impossibility of bipedal life. Like you, we assumed we were alone in the universe."

Tippet smirked again, thumping the bucket with the heel of his boot. "So here we are, sitting on a bucket full of community killers, being lectured by a reformed community pacifist."

"With one big difference." Bibix raised all four index fingers to ward off the insult.

"Come on." Carl rose and headed for the house.

Bibix followed, turning several times to look back at the shed. Alone in the rain, he could feel his worldview change, as if it where a thing crawling inside his brain. The NorCons were... not so scary, not any more. Now that he knew they were a lower lifeform augmented by technology, he could summon the courage to plot against them more proactively. Trotting into the house, he didn't stop to consider that Lapropodian science was responsible for his prejudice.

In the living room, Carl was stoking the fireplace. "I tested all the weapons I could scrounge on their armor. Blew it to pieces. If you can get the shot, I think the nitrogen pump is their biggest weakness."

Bibix sat near the fire and grumbled out loud, "Food in a can. That's what they are."

Carl jammed more twigs and branches into the growing fire. "Remember what I said about getting cocky? Don't underestimate them. You've already overestimated them, so don't waste your time thinking about how damned superior you are. It didn't work for us and it won't work for you."

Shamed, Bibix got up and went to the dining room. He struggled to reach the NorCon helmet and picked it up. Turning the scarred headgear over in his hands, he marveled at the interior mechanisms. Hundreds of tiny switches, connectors, and displays competed for space inside the cavity where a large head should go. The idea of several dozen NorCons swimming about in the confines of this device was nauseating.

"It does kind of smell bad," he admitted, taking the helmet back into the living room.

"You don't know the half of it." Carl offered Bibix a long strip of moss as he sat down.

Bibix took the moss and looked at Carl. "How did you know?"

"I had a nervous breakdown, remember. That doesn't mean I'm stupid. I can go nuts and still pay attention."

Carl's food came from a silver packet, to which he added water. Bibix ate his moss and watched with interest as the human used an extruded synthetic spoon to eat the resultant grey mush.

"That must taste terrible."

"Don't care," Carl said with his mouth full.

"What is it?"

"Don't care." Carl tossed the empty pouch into the fire and reached for another.

As darkness came, Bibix found himself enjoying the fire. Something about the light and heat provided by the flames appealed to him in a way that he couldn't define.

Walking back to his lev to get more food, he thought about his reaction to the NorCons. Something in one of Tippet's books now made more sense. "Prejudice." Collecting his food, he hurried back to Carl.

Tippet's clarifications were painful at times, but simply shocking at others. "We've all got 'em, Bibs. I guess it doesn't matter which planet you come from. Shucks, every time we had a war back in the old days, we'd dehumanize the other guy. It's easy to knock people off when you think they're inferior—or food. The hardest thing we ever did, before you guys showed up, was to get along with each other."

"But you did do it?"

"No, not really. We tried. We had lots of little wars, instead of one really big one. I suppose the only reason we tried to be nice to you guys at first was because you weren't like us. It obviously didn't do us any good."

Once again, Bibix found himself shamed into silence. Humans and Lapropods had both made so many mistakes. Knowing the secret of the NorCons didn't seem to provide much hope for the continuation of either species. "Unless..."

"What?" Carl stopped poking the fire.

"Common cause. I forget which author said it, but it's coming back to me now. Something about friends and enemies."

"'The enemy of my enemy is my friend,'" Carl replied, quoting Sun Tzu.

Bibix nodded. "That's the one. Humans will be food and Lapropods will be slaves until we stop the NorCons. After that, we can make peace with each other."

Carl snorted. "We can try."

Pleased with himself, Bibix got up and brushed the dirt from his body. "I'd better get home. I can tell anyone who asks that I was out with a lady friend. I'll come back in three days. It might be too dangerous to return sooner. Will you be okay?"

"If I'm the only human outside of captivity, I kind of have to be."

"I'm glad we could get this worked out between us."

Carl looked at Bibix for a long moment. "Three days."

Halfway through the following day, Bibix was summoned to Grilleck's office. Donning a breath mask, he entered after knocking.

"Bibix, come in. Close the door."

"Is there a problem, Greatness?"

"Close the door."

"I'd rather not."

"This isn't that kind of meeting. Close the door."

Reluctantly, Bibix closed the door and took a seat.

"My master has approved my attack plan. If all goes well, we will attack other trophy halls in this region. My initiative will be rewarded if we prevail. Fresh troops are being brought in from the home world. It should be a good fight."

The news wiped away Bibix's fatigue. Tippet would be pleased to hear that the NorCons would soon be killing each other over meaningless artifacts that they did not understand. Sitting across from Grilleck, Bibix was revolted at the thought of hundreds of...things...swimming around inside the mechanized suit.

"I am pleased that you are pleased, Greatness."

"As much as I look forward to this, there are other matters. That is why I called you in here. I've seen a recon photo of the Eagle River site. Once we have its contents, we won't be able to fit it all under this roof."

Bibix bowed his head. "I hadn't thought of that, Greatness."

Grilleck smacked a fist on its desk. "Of course you didn't. You are, without a doubt, the smartest 'Pod I've ever met. You do a lot of good work around here. My master seems to think well of you. These are great accomplishments for something like you. If I could find a female with your potential, I would make the two of you breed. No, Bibix, the problem of storage is mine. I only wish I knew where we should relocate to."

"How much time to do I have to pack?"

"What?"

"I've given most of my adult life to this facility. I won't stand by while the exhibits are—"

"Be ready to move the contents of this building in ten days. That's all I can say."

Bibix remembered to probe for more information. "You're looking forward to battle?"

Grilleck thumped its chest, which made Bibix shudder at the thought of what must be going on inside that armor. "I am. NorCons will be brought in from many parts of this region when the fighting starts. If the trophy hall isn't destroyed, we will all have a good time."

Bibix realized that his translator might not be giving him an accurate account of what Grilleck just said. Regardless, NorCons would be fighting NorCons, and that was all that mattered.

"I wish you well, Greatness."

"You'd better. If I get killed, Veknar will be in charge."

Bibix didn't know what to say to that. He patiently waited to be dismissed. As he trundled back to his office, he tried to avoid looking happy. If all the NorCons in this region were eager for a fight, they might not be paying attention to other things—like the human processing center Tippet had seen.

The next two days passed slowly for Bibix, but he made the most of them. Using pen and paper he brought from home, he drew a map. He plotted the position of the processing center and took some time to read up on guerilla tactics. The idea forming in the back of his mind was bolder than any he would have considered just a few days before. Reaching an understanding with Tippet had opened up new pathways in his mind.

When it came time to rendezvous with Carl, he took both extra food and extra precautions. He liberated some more weaponry and ammunition from the museum's undocumented inventory, as well as several pieces of military equipment that looked like they would be either useful or dangerous.

Carl had moved his lair to another house. He showed Bibix into the shrub-enshrouded building, and then went through the new supplies as the nervous curator talked.

"That's great news, Bibs. If they're going to be busy, we can bust into that processing center. I don't know what we're going to find, but it's one sure way of getting more troops on our side."

Bibix ate while he spoke. "That's what I thought. Humans are naturally violent. No offense."

Carl held up an olive-drab military issue bra, eyeing Bibix strangely. "None taken... I think."

"Mm. I don't know what that is, but I hope you can use it."

"Let's hope not," Carl replied, tossing the garment aside.

Planning the raid turned out to be easier than Bibix had first thought. With his hand-drawn map, they worked out a travel route and timetable for their attack.

"You've got the car, Bibs. I'll hide in the back and you drive us out there. The entire facility seems to be under one roof. If they're pulling troops out for the museum fight, we shouldn't be facing much more than a handful of unhappy guards."

"Unhappy?"

"Bullies don't like missing out on fixed fights."

"Oh." Bibix didn't know what that meant, but he was sure it must be true.

"Hey!" Carl picked up the pieces of a newer plasma rifle.

"I thought you might like that." Bibix grinned.

"You should go home. It'll take me two days to walk to the pickup point we agreed on. We should never come back here. Win or lose, our attack is going to make the NorCons very unhappy. You might not be able to go back to your job."

Bibix put down his eating cup. "I've considered that."

"And?"

"I'm okay with it. I've stolen as much as I can get away with. We may never have a chance like this again. If we wait, one of us could get caught. By all accounts, most human revolts have failed. Many were unsuccessful due to lack of participation. My people have never rebelled against anything except the NorCons. I won't be responsible for our second failure. I'm with you all the way."

Much to Bibix's surprise, the next seven days were very busy—busier than usual. Time and time again, he was called upon to resolve quarrels among the staff. Packing for the big move wasn't going well. Lapropods didn't like to pack, much less doing so with proper documentation.

"Don't make me take this to Grilleck," Bibix finally shouted.

His loss of temper took them all by surprise. They called him harsh names behind his back. In the end, they feared Grilleck more than they feared Bibix. The pace of work sped up, slightly, and the quarrels became a little less frequent.

Two days before the deadline, Grilleck called Bibix into his office. "The trophy hall will be closed tomorrow. We will have extra guards on duty, and you won't need to be here. Tell everyone to stay home."

"W-we're not done packing," Bibix protested very mildly through his breath mask.

"Don't start with me. My master has moved up the date for the attack. That's all I know. Troops are lined up on both sides from all across this hemisphere. For my initiative, they've given me a front line command." Grilleck thumped its chest with real pleasure.

"It sounds glorious." Bibix tried not to squirm over what he'd started.

Grilleck laughed until it overloaded its translator. "Glorious? Ha! It'll be gnarfing fantastic! Bibix, I called you in here because I want to use a human weapon in this battle. Pick something suitably lethal and bring it to me. Now."

Recalling what Tippet had said about ballistic weapons, Bibix pulled off his breath mask and hurried to comply. With the aid of six junior archivists, he brought back a very large machine gun.

"What is that?" the NorCon demanded when he saw the weapon being wheeled into his office on a hand-trolley.

Bibix shooed the other staff members away and hurried to explain. "A heavy machine gun, Greatness, built by a human named Browning. It fires twelve-point-seven-millimeter projectiles at a rate of more than six hundred per minute."

Grilleck clearly liked the size of the weapon, though the being's expression remained dubious. "What about their energy weapons? This is old. I wanted something with more punch."

"We have more than ten thousand pages of literature that feature this weapon. It's a classic," Bibix offered querulously.

Grilleck paused, considering. "Hm. I have seen this weapon depicted in human video dramas. The little human with big muscles and no shirt."

"We have many such dramas, Greatness. But this weapon is bigger than what you refer to," Bibix replied softly, as if it were a secret.

Grilleck took the weapon in both mechanized hands. Bibix watched it raise the weapon and sweep it around the room. A small aperture on the helmet adjusted as if it were squinting down the length of the barrel.

"Where did this come from?"

"The Fort Wainwright infantry armory, Greatness."

"Hm. I'll bet it's noisy."

"Extremely, Greatness. A weapon of such power would have to be quite loud."

Grilleck dropped the weapon back on to the trolley. "Bah. Its ballistics will not penetrate NorCon armor. Will it?"

Bibix was ready for the test. "I wouldn't know, Greatness. We have seven hundred rounds of ammunition for this weapon. All of it is labeled as 'Armor Piercing'. I merely presumed that's what you were looking for in a human weapon."

Grilleck snorted and went back to its desk. "I'll take it. Have the ammunition brought to me at once. Once I clear it with my master, I will practice with it. After the battle, if I like it, I may ask to keep it."

Bibix said nothing as he fled the scene. With any luck, Grilleck and all the unseen organisms of which it was comprised would die in battle. If it could be fooled into carrying an inferior weapon, it and all its community deserved that fate. With this ember glowing in the back of his mind, Bibix told the staff about their unscheduled day off.

As he worked to complete his chores, Bibix overheard Veknar bragging.

"The battle will last for at least a week. When it's over, there will be room for promotions."

The news gave Bibix more hope. A week-long battle would mean even fewer NorCon survivors. It also meant he and Carl could stick to their plan.

When darkness fell, Bibix made a show of being forced out by the night guard. Knowing the museum might be closed for more than just a single day, he protested accordingly.

Fear made his skin crawl as he went home. In the safety of his apartment, he ate slowly and waited for midnight. He looked around, considering the very real possibility that he might never come back to this domicile. Memories competed with gnawing fear as he tried to sort it all out.

As midnight approached, he packed a few precious keepsakes. The many shelves of books he'd collected over the years stared at him accusingly. More than a thousand books would be left behind if he never came back. "I'll just have to find a way to return here."

With the inside of his lev packed uncomfortably tight, Bibix forced himself to drive sedately out of NorCon-controlled territory. Making limited use of the vehicle's navigation lighting, he drove aimlessly for an hour before going to meet Carl. He sweated all the way.

Carl was at the place wherre they had agreed to meet. The human signaled with a wave of his hands to prevent Bibix from running him down. Working together, they hid the lev and its contents in separate locations.

Carl offered Bibix a light military jacket. "Here, take this. You look cold. You've just got to love synthetic fibers. Stand the test of time, they do."

Bibix gratefully put on the camouflage coat, which was a near perfect fit. "Honestly, I don't know how you survived through the winter. If it's this cold now, I don't want to know what it'll be like in three months."

"If this doesn't work, you're going to find out," Carl quipped as he unloaded Bibix's gear.

They had no trouble hiding the supplies using a pair of shovels that the Lapropod had brought with him. As they worked by the light of a wind-up lantern, Carl explained what he'd been up to over the last week.

"Anchorage must have been a big city. I've been finding basements in half the places I look. I found clothes made out of synthetic fibers that look brand new. I don't know what they did to preserve their food, but it's incredible. Open the package, pour in water, and there it is. If you heat it—wow!"

"I thought those things were common before the collapse," Bibix said, continuing to work.

Carl put down his shovel and gave Bibix a hard look. "Not in my part of the world."

"Sorry." Bibix grinned sheepishly and kept digging.

"I'm just guessing, Bibs. I've never seen a winter like the one I just lived through. If it's this cold all the time, I suspect your people didn't last too long up here. That could explain all the stuff I found."

Bibix nodded as he pushed a duffel bag into the ground and covered it. "As I learned it in school, we fled the northern zones as fast as we could. It was too cold. Our homeworld was slightly closer to its sun than this one is. Even now, most of us live in the more temperate regions."

"How did you get so lucky?"

"Me? The NorCons singled me out for my organizational skills when I was still in grade school. I went to what you think of as 'college' because they told me to. If I hadn't gone, well, let's just say you and I wouldn't be having this conversation. I never asked to be sent anywhere else, so here I am. Lapropods are not known for their outdoor skills."

"Here." Carl handed Bibix a small ammo can and helped him bury it.

"Are you nervous?" Bibix asked when they were done.

Carl turned off the lamp and moved to sit on the ground with his back to the lev. "Sure. Why wouldn't I be? In a few hours, I'm gonna go shoot it out with who-knows-how-many canned space invaders."

"You don't show it," Bibix observed, jamming his shovel into the ground.

"I've been out of cryo for slightly less than a year. Everything that still makes me mad happened two hundred years ago. I'm living off what I can scavenge, and I'm on the run from something I don't know if I can beat. Stand and fight, or curl up and die—there are no other choices."

"This is the most complicated relationship I've ever been in."

Carl watched Bibix in the dark for a long moment. "We are a pair, ain't we?"

"We need each other. Nobody deserves to be eaten."

Carl slept on the ground under a piece of tarp. Bibix lounged in the front seat of his lev, unable to actually sleep. Lurid speculations of what was to come made him alternately shake with fear and shiver with revulsion as the night passed. In the pale first light of the new day, the two rebels ate in near silence. Their breath made tiny, white puffs in the pre-dawn air.

With Carl armed and hidden in the back of his lev, Bibix drove to a point within two miles of the Eagle River trophy hall. Extending his eyes, Bibix described what he saw. "Flashes of light on the horizon. Smoke. Red and blue lines going up into the sky at random intervals. I can hear a slight rumbling, too."

"Not our party. Keep driving," Carl mumbled from under a blanket.

The huge human processing complex was located near the ruins of what had once been the town of Wasilla. Massive landing pads and loading docks made it quite clear to Bibix how the "product" was being moved in and out. Choosing his words carefully, Bibix explained as much as he could to Tippet.

"I didn't come nearly this close," Carl admitted as they watched the plant from less than a kilometer away. The midmorning sun raised the area temperature into a more bearable range.

Using a set of antique glass-lensed binoculars, Tippet surveyed the scene. "No cars. No trucks. No roaming guards. Do they have automatic defenses?"

"I wouldn't know. Before the collapse, one human with his finger on an alarm button could watch a place like this all by himself."

Carl thought about that. "Security cameras. Electronic locks. Sure, I can see that. How many people you figure they have in a place that size?"

"Humans? Sixty, maybe seventy, thousand. Why?"

"Before you guys showed up, my uncle Rosco earned his pay by being a night guard. I never once heard him say anything good about the job. Boring, boring, boring. Seventy thousand humans could only be boring if they were tranked out of their minds or under lock and key."

Bibix thought abut the night guard at his museum. Then he thought about what he had seen while sneaking into the Eagle River trophy hall. Finally, he thought of his deputy curator. "Bored people make sloppy mistakes."

"And how. See? We're close enough. They should be looking at us right now with the surveillance gear, but they aren't." Carl put his binoculars away.

"You have a plan?" Bibix conjectured as his heart raced.

Carl pointed at the facility. "I do. The unlucky parasites guarding that place are missing out on a fight they know is going on just back thataway. The easiest way to get them to open up is to give them a piece of the action."

"I don't understand."

"Do you know who owns that museum they're fighting over?"

"Yes."

"Great. Here's how it goes. This is his... her... its territory. It's going to send those loyal guards a little snack. My uncle Ivan used to deliver pizza, so I know how this will go down."

"What is pizza?"

"If we live through this, I'll make you one. I found all the freeze-dried ingredients we'll need in a place back in Anchor-town."

"What part do I play in all this?"

Carl explained as he changed clothes. Bibix was horrified to discover just how crucial he was to this deception. Despite his fear, he could not object to either the mechanics or the audacity of Carl's scheme. It was the sort of thing that only a human mind could conjure.

Thirty minutes later, Bibix drove his lev straight up to the official administrative entrance of the facility. The scent of industrial-grade cleaners gave the local air an unpleasant tang. Stopping just long enough to towel away some of his fear-induced sweat, Bibix got out of his vehicle. He had just enough time to open the rear hatch before the roaming guard challenged him via intercom.

"Who are you? What are you doing here? This facility is closed!"

Bibix stepped away from the rear hatch so the guard could see the limp human in his cargo space. "I have orders, Greatness. From Administrator Grilleck. Its master has ordered it to reward your vigilance."

Noting Bibix's open fear, the guard was still hard-pressed to believe its good fortune. Grilleck was not known for its acknowledgment of subordinates. "How goes the battle?"

"I-I wouldn't know, Greatness. Such matters are beyond me. I did hear talk that Grilleck's forces are on the run, though I don't know what that means, exactly."

Looking down at the shaking 'Pod, the guard was about to browbeat him some more when it noticed the human's clothing—worn and tattered military gear.

"What is that?"

Taking his cue, Bibix stepped further aside to gesture at Carl. "A cryogenic specimen, Greatness. A human warrior, dating back to—"

"I know what they date back to. Don't lecture!" Within seconds, the guard was out through the entrance and onto the parking apron.

"I was only told to bring the one, Greatness. If there are more of you inside, I could perhaps..."

Stepping closer, the guard eyed Tippet's body. "Ha! That won't be necessary."

"I thought so."

Carl sat up suddenly, pulling a chopped off plasma rifle from behind. In a single fluid move, he shot the NorCon through the helmet, then through the chest. Both plasma rounds burned through the composite armor quickly, letting in deadly oxygen.

Bibix bowled into the guard from behind, knocking it to the ground. Its many component organisms began to spill out through the breaches in the armor.

Down, but not out, the guard reacted with amazing speed. It rolled to one side and used its particle repeater in the same one-handed move Carl had used. It shot the human through the chest twice as Bibix took out his concealed weapon. Pulling the safety tab off his grenade, he depressed the timing plunger and forced in through the open gash in the NorCon's helmet. The old bomb went off just as Bibix pulled his hands away.

The concussion device was instantly lethal to the hundred or so members of the community left inside the armor. Carl was blown into the front seat of the lev. He broke a rib when he landed. Bibix was catapulted, screaming, over the nearby lawn. He struck the aluminum side of the building.

With blood streaming from his nose, Carl opened the driver's side door and crawled out of the lev. Bibix's eyes rolled wildly. He spat out several broken teeth and tried to regain control of his impaired nervous system. Staring at each other from opposite sides of the parking apron, he could not understand why Carl was laughing.

"I-I t-told you the writing on the bomb s-said thirty meters," Bibix chattered as he got to his pods and staggered to the lev.

"I broke a rib. I think I'm down to half a lung, too. I don't suppose you have something in your bag of tricks for that?"

"Not unless you think another grenade will help."

Leaning on the lev, Carl got to his feet. "Argh. We don't have time for this. Let's move."

Bibix put a hand on Carl's shoulder. "Tell me what to do."

"Help me tape these holes. Then we've got to release your troops."

"Mine? What do you mean?"

Carl looked at Bibix with a weak smile. "I've never been shot like this before. I can't feel my fingers. That has to be bad. Come on, help me out. I want to see the people I just rescued."

Bibix taped Carl's broken rib and chest wounds, using supplies he'd taken from an old kit in the museum. There was surprisingly little blood to be mopped up. As he worked, he wondered aloud why the dying NorCons never uttered even a single cry of agony.

"Fish don't scream," Carl guessed through gritted teeth.

"Fish don't talk." Bibix wondered if Carl wasn't out of his mind with pain.

"Maybe they can't, either. Not in the way you and I do."

"Done. Stand up. Try it."

Carl stood with only a minor wince. "A plus. Let's move. We won't stay lucky."

Bibix fell in beside Carl as they entered the processing plant. They each held a plasma rifle. Bibix could hear Carl wheeze as he walked. He wondered what it meant.

Carl relied on Bibix to read the signs, which were lettered in the NorCon language. These directed them to a massive control room.

"Welcome to Mission Control." Carl settled gently into a chair in the center of the room.

Bibix gaped at all the video monitors. "Nautical term, yes?"

"Nope."

Carl was clearly haunted by what he saw. Multiple banks of monitors gave a bird's-eye view of antiseptic holding pens, where thousands of pink-skinned humans were being housed and fed.

Bibix, who had never known humans under any other conditions, whistled in awe of the size and scope of this operation. "The documentaries don't do this justice. See? It looks like some nuclear family units are still allowed. I had no idea they were so well taken care of."

With murder in his eye, Carl did his best to ignore Bibix. "Open the gates."

"Sorry, I didn't catch that."

Carl swiveled to face Bibix. "This ends now. Open the gates. Let them out."

Bibix started walking around the large room, scanning the labels on each console. "I-I'm sure the controls for that sort of thing are here, someplace."

"Nobody deserves to be eaten. That's what you said, remember?"

Bibix turned to see Carl slumping in the big chair. "I remember."

Stopping at a console labeled "Transfer Bay Doors," Bibix began flipping switches at random. Using all four hands, he made quick work of it.

Carl's condition had deteriorated rapidly in the last few minutes. Bibix began to suspect the human was dying. In the harsh glare of the operations room, the man seemed to be wilting by the second.

The view on several screens around the room changed. Interior and exterior doors began to open. Sirens blared and lights flashed as the humans in their pens began to move about in nervous anticipation.

"Go, damn you." Carl's head lolled to one side as he croaked out his frustration.

Bibix walked back to where Carl slumped. Unblinking cameras watched the humans react to the sight of open sky and unfiltered daylight.

Bibix looked at Carl, who was clearly willing the domesticated survivors of his species to leave the building using the last of his fading consciousness. His glassy eyes refused to blink, not wanting to miss a single second of the liberation.

"Tell them about the basements. Hundreds of 'em. Lots to eat. Good places to hide."

Bibix choked. Seeing a human die on video didn't compare to this. It was enough to make him wish that Tippet's on-screen invincibility could somehow be transferred to the here-and-now.

"What do I tell them when they ask about you?" The question was deeply rooted in Lapropodian social tradition.

Closing his eyes, Carl struggled to breath. "Tell them I was here when it mattered. Tell them it's their turn. Tell them... tell them that nobody deserves to be eaten."

Bibix couldn't speak as he watched Carl take his final breaths. The screens perched around the big room showed the humans experimenting with their new freedom. Closely-shaven heads swiveled on bare shoulders as inquisitive eyes took in the paved expanse around the huge processor.

Looking down at one of his arms, Bibix fidgeted with his translator band. Tenderly, he peeled a similar unit from Carl's limp, scarred wrist. He softly told the corpse, "I'm just going to borrow this."

Picking up his weapon, Bibix took one last look around the room. Had he released all the humans, or just a few? He couldn't tell. The spare translator band in his hand felt hot. Unexpectedly, Carl's left hand flopped over, striking the armrest of his chair.

"I'm going." Bibix stooped to pick up Carl's discarded weapon. The urge to run from the place was almost too much. Gritting his teeth, Bibix ignored the pain where serrated enamel bit into exposed gum. He slung one chopped-down plasma rifle over each shoulder and walked quickly away, but did not run.

Going back to his lev, he drove around the massive complex to where the humans were gathering. Parking close enough to spook them, he got out and scrutinized the clean, plump humans for a full minute. He'd picked Tippet because of his obvious ferocity. None of these humans appeared fierce, angry, or even slightly militant. Looking at the translator band on the dashboard, his heart sank. What should he do?

"Look for a leader," Bibix prompted himself.

Snatching the translator, he walked slowly into the herd. Academically, Bibix knew these humans didn't fear him because they didn't know what he was or any of the history connecting their two species. Doing his best to mimic casual behavior, he tried to imagine how Carl might have handled this.

"Hi. How are you doing? Nice weather we're having."

Still uncertain of their situation, the humans were beginning to merge into small groups. Bibix suspected that separated family units were reforming. His ability to read English allowed him to successfully pick out one in three spoken words. The humans appeared to be considering their options. Turning, he could see a long line of humans leaving the processing center with loot.

"Proactive thinkers," he mumbled, and then went to meet them.

Near the head of this scavenging column, a tall, muscular, nude woman appeared to be giving directions. Intrigued, Bibix moved close enough to hear what she said. Close-cut blonde hair made her look like a male from behind. She was saying something about children and the nearby woods.

Bibix stiffened his resolve and approached her. "Hello."

Favoring him with a stern blue-eyed gaze, the woman stepped forward. "What went on?"

Bibix tried not to fidget. "What happened here? You've been rescued. The beings who made you stay here will come back. We must leave this place."

"Who you?" The tall woman paused only to keep the looters moving.

"Bibix. I am a friend. I want to help."

"What you?"

"Unfortunate." Bibix shrugged.

"What that?" The woman gestured at the translator band dangling limply in Bibix's hand.

"This? This is for you." Gesturing at his own wrist, Bibix pulled the translator band off, and then put it back on.

As she strapped device on, Bibix noticed her stance change. She became more alert, as if she would attack him at the smallest provocation. The idea was frightening.

"I don't understand." The woman turned her wrist over, examining her fingers closely.

Bibix took a deep breath before replying, "It's a translator. With it, you and I can understand each other."

"I very much doubt that." The woman looked at Bibix strangely, then turned to give more orders to her looters.

Bibix could feel his frustration rising. "We have to get away from this place."

"I know. We're taking all the food and clothing we can find. How much longer 'til the metal heads get back?"

"Any time now, I would think."

Bibix's observation made the woman jump with a start. Speaking louder, she barked new orders that made the crowd begin to run from the building.

"What's your name?" Bibix asked, feeling out of place in the sudden rush.

"What's yours?" the woman retorted.

"Bibix. My name is Bibix."

"I'm Hope."

"I'm glad to hear that."

Unfazed by Bibix's attempt at humor, Hope surveyed her surroundings with a critical eye.

"We don't have enough clothes for everyone. We need safe shelter. Where do we go?"

"That way." Bibix pointed in the direction of old Wasilla.

"Bibix, why do they do this to us?" Hope gestured angrily at the processing plant.

Recalling Carl's reaction, Bibix hesitated. "That will take some explaining."

"What did we do to deserve this?"

"I can explain all that once we're safely away from here."

Hope was clearly not satisfied with such a cryptic answer. "Why are you helping us? You can at least tell me that."

Bibix looked directly at her. "Nobody deserves to be eaten."