EarthRise

by William C. Dietz

  Jones ignored the suggestive look, fell in behind a Guatemalan housewife named Irene Irigoyen, and followed her toward the temple beyond. Her fellow slaves referred to the structure as the iglesia de diablo, or “church of the devil,” and hated the structure with every atom of their beings. An emotion that Jones certainly shared, but was tempered to some extent by the dispassionate more academic aspect of her being, a persona that couldn’t help but draw parallels between her experiences and those of the ancient Mayans. They too had struggled through the heat and humidity to cut limestone blocks from the same quarries to which the Saurons had been attracted.

  They too had struggled to carry quarter-ton blocks of stone to the sites where their amazing temples had been constructed.

  And they too had stumbled, bled, and died during the process.

  The irony of that, the fact that Jones had been enslaved in order to build structures similar to those she sought to study never ceased to amuse her. But not now, not as the file of ragged-looking humans followed the alien warrior through the drenching downpour and toward the nearly completed temple. Now Jones focused her extremely sharp mind on the question of what was taking place and why.

  The temple crouched on a slight rise. In spite of the lights, which the Ra ‘Na had rigged so the humans could labor through the night, the structure was only half-visible through the veil of driving rain. It consisted of three towers connected by box-shaped galleries. There were doors, but no windows, skylights, or other apertures. In that regard the temple, if that was an accurate description, was reminiscent of the Egyptian pyramids. A fact the anthropologist found troubling.

  The pyramids basically had two functions. The first was to impress the hell out of anyone who saw them, a goal clearly met, and the second was to protect the mummy or mummies within, something they failed to accomplish.

  Egyptian temples on the other hand, like most such structures, were much more open. Yes, some were reserved for priests and or high-ranking members of society, but still featured large rooms or chambers where people could congregate.

  How to explain the Sauron temple then? With its maze of small, seemingly identical rooms? The complete absence of a nave, or similar space, and miles of seemingly useless plumbing?

  And, if the aliens were even half as religious as they claimed to be, and truly planned to leave once the temple was completed, where were the behaviors, rituals, and symbols normally attendant upon a religion?

  Such thinking was ethnocentric, of course, the anthropologist knew that, but given all the energy the Saurons had expended in order to construct the temples, it seemed as if such an important social construct should have an impact on daily life.

  Now, as the group neared the temple, Jones saw that the crudely made scaffolding that still cloaked the structure’s façade, along with the adjacent work areas, were empty of humans, and guessed that the second shift had been dismissed early and sent to the food troughs. Not only that, but one of the rarely seen Zin was present, complete with an entourage of Fon, Kan, and two of the Ra ‘Na technicals.

  A globe-shaped light, held aloft by some unseen force, floated above. With the exception of the furry aliens, who seemed to glory in the rain, the rest of the XTs huddled beneath black mushroom-shaped umbrellas.

  The humans were ordered to stop, which they did. Some stood heads down—waiting for whatever orders might come. Others, Jones included, scanned the area, on the lookout for something, anything, that might provide an advantage.

  The black Sauron rated an umbrella of his own. He was the local stonemaster, a rather harsh taskmaster named Dun-Dar, who, unlike his recently deceased counterpart to the north, had a passion for detail. An extremely wet Fon struggled to keep the protective device centered over his superior’s elongate head as the Zin paused to address the slaves. He waved a pincer at the towers behind him.

  “Our temple nears completion. Like all such structures, it must be protected from the ravages of time, weather, and those who might attempt an unauthorized entry.

  “A security system has been installed to counter such break-ins, and you have been selected to test it. I warn you that this activity should be carried out with the utmost caution lest you be injured or killed.”

  Even the most cowlike humans raised their heads, and the crowd seemed to sway as people looked for some way to escape. But a contingent of Kan had moved in to surround them, which left the slaves with nowhere to go.

  “The security system was designed to keep intruders out,” the Sauron continued. “That’s as much information as I can provide without compromising the integrity of our test. You are now free to approach the temple in any way that you choose and attempt an entry. Any slave who manages to get inside will be freed. Any slave who fails to find a way in will be killed by the security system, or by the Kan. The test will last for one-twenty-fourth of a planetary rotation. Let the exercise begin.”

  The slaves looked at each other, mumbled various swear words, and broke into groups of two or three. Friends mostly, people who looked out for one another, and mated pairs as well.

  Jones, consistent with her extremely independent personality, was going to tackle the problem alone until Blackley sidled up, treated her to one of his shit-eating grins, and said, “So, Doc, what’s the plan?”

  The anthropologist started to tell the American to fuck off, but, for reasons she wasn’t quite sure of, decided to let him stay. She even went so far as to produce smile number three, the one calculated to reduce most males to highly malleable mush, and allowed her arms to fall away from her clearly outlined breasts. “First we scope things out—then we make a plan.”

  “Works for me,” Blackley said amiably, “but it won’t be easy. The system the fur balls installed includes motion detectors and calibrated heat detectors.”

  Jones looked at her companion in surprise. “You seem to know quite a bit about security systems.”

  Blackley shrugged. “I own, no owned, an alarm company up in KC.”

  Jones didn’t know where “KC” was and didn’t care. “So give it to me in English. What does ‘calibrated’ mean? In this particular context?”

  “ ‘Calibrated’ means that our body heat will trigger the sensors, but theirs won’t.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we’re warm-blooded and they aren’t,” Blackley explained. “Not to mention the fact that their chitin may shield some of the heat they generate internally.”

  In spite of the fact that Jones had given considerable thought to the question of Sauron physiology, including the impact it might have on their behaviors, language, and tools, the whole heat thing had escaped her, and that made the anthropologist cross with herself. If an idiot like Blackley could figure it out, then she should have done so as well. Jones pushed the reaction away in order to deal with the situation at hand. One that might get her killed if she continued to waste valuable time. “Come on,” Jones said, “let’s scope this out.”

  Blackley nodded and kept pace with the woman as she walked along the western wall. Rain trickled down over his cheeks, but he made no effort to wipe it away. A recently installed cluster of sensors tracked their movements. Six slaves jogged past. They had a large piece of timber and seemed hell-bent on some sort of plan. A Kan, clearly assigned to monitor their activities, hopped along behind. Blackley envied the other slaves their apparent certainty, wondered if he was aligned with the correct person, and knew it was too late to change.

  “So,” Jones said, her eyes scanning the battlements above, “if the motion detectors sense movement, and the heat reading is consistent with Sauron physiology, what happens then?”

  “It’s my guess that once the system registers an acceptable heat signature, the subject is allowed to enter.”

  There was a staccato bang, bang, bang as a semiauto t-gun fired off in the distance. There was an abbreviated scream followed by abrupt silence. The people who had the long length of timber or some other group? Both humans looked in the direction of
the sound, but the temple blocked their view. Still, the sounds spoke for themselves. One or more people believed they knew how to break in, had put their theory into practice, and paid the price.

  The commotion was a distraction, and Jones managed to push it aside. “What about guests? The motion detectors go off, three blobs of heat approach one of the entryways, and only one of them falls within acceptable parameters. What then?”

  Blackley started to turn, started to look back at the Kan. Jones grabbed his arm. “Keep your eyes over here . . . Now answer my question.”

  Blackley could see where the questions were headed and felt a lump form in the back of his throat. He thought he knew the answer, believed he was right, but there was no way to be sure. A system designed by humans would require each and every individual who entered the facility to provide some sort of positive ID, ranging from a simple PIN code to more exotic possibilities, like retinal prints, or a DNA match.

  But the Saurons were different. It didn’t take a degree in xenopsychology to see how arrogant they were—especially where issues of control were concerned. Would the master beings allow the Ra ‘Na to design a system that would force them to symbolically submit? Or would they refuse? Blackley swallowed the lump.

  “There’s no way to be sure of course . . . but it’s my guess that the system was programmed to assume that the Saurons are always in control, which means that a guest, a slave, or a chimp would be allowed to enter the temple so long as it was accompanied by a Zin, Kan, or Fon.”

  “Bingo!” Jones said. “That’s my guess as well. Shall we bet our lives on it?”

  “Okay,” Blackley said reluctantly, “but how . . .”

  “We position ourselves in front of an entrance,” Jones interrupted, “call one of the Kan over, and kill him. Then, before his body can cool, we drag the bastard through the door.”

  “Kill a Kan?” Blackley demanded incredulously. “Right in front of the bugs? Have you lost your mind?”

  “Maybe,” Jones allowed, as she looked at her watch. “We have forty-six minutes left. Have you got a better idea? One we can execute in that amount of time?”

  Blackley didn’t have a better idea, and now, with so much time off the clock, wasn’t likely to come up with one. Would the Saurons simply stand and watch while a member of their race was murdered? All in the interest of a security check? No, it didn’t seem likely, but he could take one of the bastards with him, and there was something to be said for that. “Okay,” Blackley said nervously, “I’m in.”

  “Good,” Jones answered firmly. “I’ll call him over. You immobilize his arms—and I’ll kill him.”

  Blackley glanced at the nearest Kan and back again. “Let me get this straight . . . You’re going to kill him?”

  “That’s right,” Jones confirmed grimly, “assuming you shut the hell up so we can get on with it. Follow me.”

  With her somewhat reluctant accomplice in tow, Jones made her way across the causeway that crossed a still-dry moat. The entranceway, surmounted by alien glyphs not to mention two sensor-controlled weapons pods, lay just beyond. Opposing rows of overarching lights brought the area into sharp relief. How close could she get before the dart throwers fired? There was no way to be sure, so Jones stopped halfway across the bridge, turned, and waved to the nearest Kan. “Hey, bug face! Get your ass over here!”

  The warrior seemed to consider the request for a moment, leaped into the air, and was already falling when Jones yelled at Blackley. “Grab the bastard’s arms!”

  The warrior, an individual named Wen-Opp, heard the words via the translator clipped to his combat harness, but hit the ground before he could react to them.

  Water splashed away from the bug’s podlike extremities as Blackley threw himself forward. The Sauron staggered under the impact, wasted a fraction of a second wondering if the slave was suicidal, and tried to free the assault weapon clutched across his thorax.

  Blackley, his once-flabby arms strengthened by months of forced labor, started to squeeze. The bug hug turned out to be surprisingly effective. So much so that the human heard the Kan’s chitin creak and wondered if he could make it break. That seemed like a good idea so he squeezed even harder.

  Jones circled to the left, attempted to pull the knife free of her pocket, and discovered it was caught. She should have pulled it first, should have held the weapon blade out against her leg before yelling at the Kan, but that was water under the bridge. Now, as Blackley clasped the alien to this chest, and the Sauron struggled to free himself, the anthropologist managed to release the knife and open the blade.

  Other warriors, alerted by the commotion, not to mention Wen-Opp’s cries for help, were quick to respond. Two were in midjump, and more than halfway to the causeway, when the stonemaster spoke via their radios. “Stop! Not a single grasper shall touch the slaves. Can the temple defend itself? That’s what we’re here to test.”

  A noncom, the one to whom Wen-Opp had reported for the last twenty-five years, objected, but to no avail. Dun-Dar was determined to avoid the kind of mistakes made to the north. Better to lose a single Kan than an entire structure packed with vulnerable nymphs.

  In spite of the fact that Jones didn’t know much if anything about entomology, it didn’t take a genius to realize that while the Saurons were equipped with what amounted to armor, there were seams where various plates came together, each one of which represented a point of vulnerability. The problem was to choose the right one, drive the blade into a constantly moving target, and cut something vital.

  Wen-Opp felt a new source of strength as naturally produced chemicals entered his blood. He twisted his torso from side to side in an attempt to throw the human off. “Cut him!” Blackley yelled. “The bastard is getting stronger! I can’t hold him for much longer.”

  Jones gritted her teeth, stepped in close, and managed to drive the stainless-steel blade into the spot where Wen-Opp’s short leathery neck disappeared into his heavily armored thorax. Then, hoping to cut a major blood vessel, nerve bundle, or other structure, she sawed back and forth.

  The Kan squealed like a pig, squirted watery green blood, and tried to free his arms. Blackley managed to hang on, however, the knife cut through something important, and the bug went limp. That was the moment Jones had been waiting for, and she wasted no time. “That’s it! We killed the sonofabitch! Drag him to the door!”

  Blackley obeyed, and with the woman’s help, towed the dead warrior across the causeway. Green goo smeared the walkway.

  Dun-Dar and his retinue had moved in close by then and watched from the other side of the bridge. The Zin, his umbrella protecting him from the worst of the rain, stood like a judge at an old-fashioned hanging. Additional warriors, summoned by the commotion, shimmered as their chitin sought to match the gray-green jungle beyond.

  Jones walked backward, her hands under Wen-Opp’s armpits, while Blackley gripped the alien behind his knees. “They’re watching,” the anthropologist said through gritted teeth, “to see if our plan will work.”

  “And if it does?” Blackley grunted, lifting the carcass higher to clear a short flight of stairs, “what then?”

  “Then we run like hell,” Jones replied honestly, “now hoist him higher . . . We’re almost there.”

  And the slaves were almost there, a fact not lost on the stonemaster and his entourage, all of whom watched glumly as the humans towed Wen-Opp’s body into the kill zone without triggering the structure’s defenses.

  And they were still watching as the servo-assisted hatch, the same kind used aboard the Ra ‘Na-designed ships, whirred up and out of the way. Dun-Dar has risked not only his life, but that of his nymph, and all nymphs to come by installing a modern door in place of the woody anachronisms specified in the Book of Cycles. Something of which his subordinates had no knowledge given the fact that they couldn’t read but would be apparent to someone like Hak-Bin.

  But Hak-Bin had started to change, or so the rumors claimed, and was in no position to
preach orthodoxy to subordinates like Dun-Dar. Not if he wanted to continue his questionable existence. Not if the metal hatch helped keep danger at bay. Except that it hadn’t kept danger at bay, not in combination with a flawed security system, which meant there was work to do.

  The slaves passed through the entryway, there was a dull thud as the door dropped into place, and the Zin gave his order. “Discipline must be maintained. Enter the temple, find the humans, and kill them.”

  SOUTHWEST OF HELL HILL

  Ms. Vosser was waiting for Pas Pol when he approached the sawmill’s door. It was chilly, and she wanted to get back inside. “Are you Pas Pol? Excellent. Follow me.”

  The Ra ‘Na followed the towering human into the light lock and from there out into a large room. His nose twitched as strong odors assailed his nostrils, but there was no time for analysis as Vosser took hold of the initiate’s arm and pulled him back into some shadows. Her whisper had the force of an order. “Wait here.”

  Pol nodded and was glad of the opportunity to look around. It was a strange scene indeed. Over to his right a Fon stood dejectedly while a human sprayed sealer onto his brightly decorated chitin.

  At the center of the room, the area just in front of him, a makeshift table had been established. Pol saw Dro Rul, was proud to see one of his own seated along with the resistance leaders, and felt a sudden surge of hope. Maybe, just maybe, there was a chance of success.