EarthRise

by William C. Dietz

  There was a moment of silence as Storm nodded, Cyan drew, and Franklin waited to see what would happen. The Sauron’s voice was hard and flat. “Call us what you will . . . but face the truth. Even if you bide your time, attack the citadel on Hell Hill, and kill each Sauron who takes shelter within, my race will still survive. What you fail to realize is that a second citadel was constructed elsewhere on your planet.”

  “Yes,” the Fon continued, directing himself to a visibly shaken Dro Rul. “You didn’t know that, did you? Just because you believe yourselves to be more intelligent than we are doesn’t mean you actually are. So you invented spaceships? So what? Which race was enslaved? Yours? Or mine?

  “So,” Doo-Nol insisted, “if you want to know where the other citadel is, you will comply with my demands . . . More than that you will ensure the survival of my kind . . . in return for the survival of yours.”

  Franklin felt his stomach sink. Here, like a bolt of lightning out of the blue, was a whole new threat. Even if the resistance attacked the citadel on Hell Hill, and even if the attack was successful, the Saurons would still survive. The meeting disintegrated into chaos.

  ABOARD THE SAURON DREADNOUGHT HOK NOR AH

  Too unhappy to jump, and in no particular hurry to reach his destination, Mon-Oro shuffled along one of the ship’s bustling corridors and used the time to contemplate his fate. Most Zin, Mon-Oro included, had at least some ambition and tried to live their lives in a manner that would generate respect from their peers. Respect, which, when layered onto the accomplishments of those who preceded them, would eventually elevate the entire line to a primary position within the ruling caste. A gradual process that could take thousands of years. That was the manner in which Hak-Bin’s line had risen to ascendancy—and that was the way that Mon-Oro and his ancestors hoped to accomplish the same thing.

  Before any such elevation could take place, however, there were challenges to be met. Some were enjoyable, and some were not. And today, with the all important birth-death day looming ahead, Mon-Oro found himself burdened with the most unpleasant task of his extremely long life.

  The Zin, the vast majority at any rate, wanted to send a message to Hak-Bin, and Mon-Oro had been selected for the task. A distasteful and somewhat dangerous errand that would require the not-altogether-willing messenger to tell the highest-ranking individual in Sauron society numerous things he didn’t want to hear.

  Mon-Oro turned a corner, passed one of his brethren, but was so lost in his own contemplations that the other Zin’s greeting failed to register on his consciousness.

  Among the issues Mon-Oro had been instructed to raise was the extent to which the construction of the birthing chambers was running behind schedule, the so-called catalyst crises, and the basic question of fairness. After all, the rank-and-file Zin wondered, given the fact that more than a score of early changers had already been put to death rather than allow the slaves to learn about birth-death day, then why should Hak-Bin and his nymph be somehow exempt?

  Perhaps, many of them thought, a new leader should be chosen, and his line elevated to the very apex of Sauron society. It was a legitimate question, or so it seemed to Mon-Oro, although he had no desire to ask it. Especially since Hak-Bin was known to be cranky of late, and, if sufficiently incensed, could have his visitor shot.

  Why me? Mon-Oro wondered pitifully, especially so near the end of a life successfully lived? The answer was obvious. Some of his peers worked to advance their lines via out-and-out aggression. Others, those who thought themselves clever, chose to wander the labyrinthine world of Zin politics, where they attempted to plot, scheme, and manipulate their way into power.

  Still others, a relative handful, chose to pursue the strategy adopted by Mon-Oro’s antecedents and now entrusted to him. They sought to be honest with their peers, to honor the promises they made, and to avoid the web of interlocking alliances, groupings, and cliques within which so many were trapped.

  Mon-Oro knew it was this perception, this reputation for neutrality, that explained why all the various factions within Zin society were willing to entrust him with such an important task. If he succeeded, and if he survived, the respect for his line would go up a full notch. A considerable achievement indeed.

  It was with that sobering thought that the Zin found himself standing outside the null-gee chamber in which Hak-Bin had chosen to closet himself while a Kan asked the same question again. “Greetings, lord, how may I assist you?”

  “My name is Mon-Oro . . . I’m here to see Hak-Bin.”

  The Kan tilted his body forward in the Sauron equivalent of a bow, servos whined, and the lock opened. The entryway yawned like a widely opened mouth and consumed the emissary whole.

  Meanwhile, waiting within, Hak-Bin hung weightless, suspended in space. Air jets hissed as the three globe lights sought to maintain positions relative to each other. The rest of the compartment fell into darkness.

  The Zin had been warned of Mon-Oro’s visit, and though not privy to the exact content of the messages the intermediary had been asked to carry, had a pretty good idea of what the topics would be. In fact, Hak-Bin knew full well that if the situation had been reversed, he would have been among the most vocal of critics.

  But the situation wasn’t reversed—which meant that he had to hang on. For himself, for his nymph, and for his line. A not-so-silent group of crotchety old has-beens who haunted his dreams.

  The inner hatch opened, a gust of cold air stirred the black tentlike garment intended to hide Hak-Bin’s extremely swollen body, and Mon-Oro entered the compartment. Though not as bad as some, the visitor’s movements were still clumsy compared to those of even the least capable slave, and Mon-Oro spent the better part of three units getting himself positioned before Hak-Bin. The senior Zin took advantage of the interlude to consider the individual with whom he was about to negotiate.

  Though reasonably well groomed, Mon-Oro’s chitin had not been oiled in some time, which left it flat and dull. Nothing to be especially ashamed of but consistent with a somewhat studious and externally focused personality. Though clearly apprehensive, Hak-Bin saw determination in the set of the other Zin’s shoulders, and knew that to be one of his adversary’s strengths.

  As for weaknesses, well, those who follow the path of accommodation are very often in love with compromise, a mutually deluded mentality in which the parties to a particular dispute manage to convince themselves that something is better than nothing, and therefore agree to half-witted, often unenforceable, nonsense.

  Yes, Hak-Bin thought to himself, a little bit of appeasement, followed by what looks like a compromise, should be sufficient to buy some time. Then, assuming that certain initiatives came off as planned, the whole matter would soon become moot. “So,” the Sauron said, careful to choose a casual form of address, “our brethren chose you to convey their concerns. Not an easy task . . . You have my sympathy.”

  Grateful for the manner in which Hak-Bin had both seized the initiative and broached a rather difficult subject, Mon-Oro was quick to follow up. “Thank you, lord. I wish the circumstances were different.”

  Hak-Bin gave a single up-and-down nod of his elongated head. “We have that wish in common . . . but such is not the case. That being said, please allow me to address the first of what I am sure is a long list of issues that you were asked to pursue. Yes, as everyone has no doubt figured out by now, my nymph has plans to enter the world a bit early. Something I oppose as strongly as my brethren do—since there is a great deal of work to be finished.

  “Yes, I could hand over the reins of power to a qualified candidate, someone like yourself for example, but hesitate to do so with birth-death day almost upon us . . . The manner in which the Sauron race traditionally invests absolute power in a single individual confers many benefits upon our people but entails some risk as well.

  “For example, who, outside of myself, understands the complexity that we now face? Who stands ready to step in, assume all the responsibilities at
tendant to my office, and would be able to do so without making mistakes? The birthing draws near—and with it comes the possibility of extreme peril. The truth is that we find ourselves in something of a conundrum . . . We need the slaves to construct the citadels that will protect us—yet the slaves are the greatest threat to our safety.

  “Sometimes, in my darker moments, I wonder if we should put every single one of the lesser beings to death early. But what if we fail? The humans are especially hard to kill—and at least some of them are likely to survive our efforts at sterilization.

  “And what then? Even if the subsequent birthing were to be successful, our nymphs would emerge to find themselves stranded on an alien planet, and, lacking the knowledge required to operate the fleet, would be forced to remain here, waiting for some other spacegoing race to land. An interlude that might last for thousands—or even hundreds of thousands of years.

  “No,” Hak-Bin said, doing his best to sound reluctant, “should I discover the means to delay the moment of birth, and thereby extend my life, however briefly, I have the clear obligation to do so. Not for myself, or my line, but for the benefit of the Sauron race.”

  Mon-Oro was impressed. Hak-Bin had been warned, that was to be expected, but the quality of his response was higher than anticipated. Especially with regard to the rationale behind why he should be allowed to live—in spite of the fact that others had been put to death. Well aware of the fact that his host could turn on him like a hunt-crazed harakna, the emissary was careful to proceed with caution.

  “Though impressed by the well-phrased manner in which your arguments were put forward, lord, I remain curious where the issue of life extension is concerned, and wonder if your eminence would be so kind as to elaborate? Is such a thing possible?”

  Fearful lest the full extent of his activities make him appear to be excessively calculating—Hak-Bin offered a partial truth. “Yes, I believe that it is, although research continues. If I’m correct, and if the process proves successful, all our brethren will benefit.”

  Mon-Oro could do little more than float there and admire the manner in which Hak-Bin had at least momentarily turned the tables. Not only had the ranking Zin made a fairly believable case for why the rest of the Saurons should let him live for as long as possible, he had raised the possibility that some sort of procedure could be used to the benefit of all the early changers, thereby benefiting not only the changers themselves but individuals such as Mon-Oro, who, like so many others had come to greet the least little ailment with something akin to horror. Was this it? Was the headache the first in a string of symptoms that would herald the change? The mere possibility was a form of torture. “Thank you, eminence, I will carry the news to our brethren. And the citadels? And the birth catalyst? What should I say regarding those matters?”

  Hak-Bin made note of Mon-Oro’s nearly subservient tone, knew he had triumphed, and was careful to hide it. “Tell the brethren that I share their concerns, that I will soon undertake dramatic steps to hasten the construction of the citadels, and that a new catalyst factory will soon come on-line.”

  Mon-Oro felt a strong desire to ask what steps, but sensed that to do so would be an error. Had Hak-Bin wanted to divulge such information, he would have—and nothing Mon-Oro could say was likely to make a difference. “Thank you, eminence, I will tell them.”

  “No, thank you,” Hak-Bin said with all the false humility he could summon. “The task given you was both difficult and demanding. The race owes you a debt of gratitude.”

  Mon-Oro left after that, and the nymph, as if intentionally quiescent for the duration of the interview, started to stir. Hak-Bin used the inside surface of his pincers to massage his badly swollen abdomen. “Were you listening, little one? And did you learn? I hope you did. Your time will come soon, very soon, but the interim will require patience.”

  It was possible that subsequent movement, and the pain that accompanied it, were a matter of coincidence. Hak-Bin doubted that, however—and was thankful that no one could hear him scream.

  SOUTHWEST OF HELL HILL, IN THE ABANDONED SAWMILL

  Though still in session, the realization that the resistance would have to deal with two citadels had sucked most of the energy out of the proceedings.

  “Mr. President . . .” The voice seemed to come from a long ways off. Franklin forced himself to focus.

  Dro Rul, who—for reasons not entirely clear—had either climbed onto, or been placed on top of, the conference table, stood not two feet away. Another Ra ‘Na, a female judging from the way she was dressed, stood at his side. Blue spoke, and Franklin realized that it was the historian who had summoned him back. “Mr. President, Dro Rul has something to tell you, something important.”

  Rul indicated the female at his side. “This is Med Tech Shu—she risked her life to visit the surface. George Farley brought her to me. I believe she has something important to share.”

  The story of how Shu had exited the Sauron shuttle, managed to escape into the woods, and subsequently been captured was a good deal more complicated than that, but the med tech knew it was neither the time nor the place to go into that.

  Now, with the entire group hanging on every word, Shu told the resistance leaders about the orbital factory set aside to manufacture birth catalyst and the manner in which it had been destroyed.

  Gradually, as the med tech told her story, Franklin felt the first stirrings of rekindled hope. Then, as the full ramifications of the newly revealed intelligence dawned on him, hope turned to outright excitement. “Let’s see if I understand . . . Insofar as we know every single one of the Saurons will require a quantity of this catalyst in order to reproduce successfully. Damn! If we could destroy the entire supply of catalyst—there would be no need to attack the citadels!”

  Doo-Nol, painfully conscious of the fact that the advantage had somehow been snatched away from him, struggled to understand. Birth catalyst? What birth catalyst? He’d never heard of such a thing . . . But the Zin loved their secrets—and this could be one of them. In fact, many of the functionaries had questioned the miles of plumbing that the recently deceased stonemaster had insisted on, and wondered what all the pipes were for. Now he knew. The slaves were staring at the Sauron by then, so Doo-Nol tried to appear nonchalant. “I swear I knew nothing of this substance . . . it’s one more reason why my brethren and I oppose the Zin and their endless machinations.”

  Smith looked cynical, as did some of the others, but Franklin saw no point in trying to counter the alien. No one in their right mind would trust Doo-Nol in any case. The important thing was to focus on the way in which the existence of the birth catalyst should impact their strategy.

  The president came to his feet. His eyes swept both sides of the table. Blue noted the energy there and marveled at the way things worked. Was this the way it had been during the early days of the American Revolution? Great men and not-so-great men lurching back and forth between hope and despair? Yes, the historian thought, it probably had, and the possibility made him feel better.

  “So,” Franklin began, his eyes flicking from face to face, “the situation continues to change. Time passes quickly, so let’s move forward. Based on this new intelligence I suggest that we dedicate our efforts to identifying the location of whatever infrastructure the Saurons will attempt to build, and having done so, destroy those facilities. No catalyst—no nymphs. It’s as simple as that.”

  Opposition came quickly and from a predictable source. Doo-Nol backed his way out of the sling chair, rose to his full height, and clacked his pincers. “This proposal goes too far! While my brethren and I can support violence directed to a more equitable sharing of power—we can never be party to what amounts to genocide. Unless each one of you agrees to withhold your support, the Fon Brotherhood will be forced to withdraw from the alliance.”

  Franklin looked at Blue, the historian looked at Dro Rul, the Ra ‘Na looked at Smith, the ex-Ranger looked at Cyan, the Tagger looked at Andromeda, and she look
ed Franklin in the eye. “This is our chance, perhaps our only chance, and we must take advantage of it.”

  “Hear, hear,” Storm put in. “The cult lady has it right.”

  The president nodded his agreement. “I’m sorry Doo-Nol . . . but we’re going to move ahead. That being the case, it would be best if you were to wait somewhere else while we complete our deliberations. You will be released when the meeting is over.”

  “Wait a minute,” Smith objected, leaning forward over the table. “What’s to prevent Doo-Nol from ratting us out? The chits think their secret is safe. Let’s keep it that way.”

  “Who can he tell?” Franklin asked reasonably, “without being crucified for doing so?”

  “It’s a problem,” Smith conceded, “but who knows what kind of story he might concoct? Hell, given enough time, the bastard might schmooze his way out of it. We’re at war,” Smith said grimly, “and there’s no room for mercy. Not where Saurons are concerned.”

  “Right on!” Storm put in. “Let’s roast the sucker . . . Rumor has it that the chits cook up pretty good.”

  Well aware that he should have been less forthright, and afraid that the slaves would kill him, the Sauron backed away. That’s when something hard touched the back of Doo-Nol’s skull, and the Fon knew it was a weapon. He closed his eyes and waited to die.

  Cyan looked up from his tabletop mural. “Shoot the geek if that’s what you want to do . . . but we could tag him.”

  The rest of the group was surprised to hear from the Tagger, and heads swiveled in his direction. “Okay,” Franklin said, “what do you have in mind?”

  “A really cool paint job,” Cyan said thoughtfully, “the kind that won’t come off for at least a month.”

  “I don’t get it,” Storm said critically. “What difference will that make?”