EarthRise

by William C. Dietz

  But then he didn’t need to see to know what his surroundings looked like. Dro, no Grand Vizier Tog, had occupied the same quarters for many years. Essentially happy years that looked all the more so when viewed from the perspective of the present.

  Fa splashed into the goblet as Tog decided to grant himself a refill.

  Not that I haven’t been successful, the prelate thought, lifting the wine to his lips. How many Grand Viziers are there? One, that’s how many, and I am him. Or is it “he”? No, I mustn’t allow myself to become distracted. Important matters are at hand, very important matters, to which I must attend.

  But, even as the Ra ‘Na turned his attention to those matters, a more cynical aspect of his persona continued to express doubts. You’re on a treadmill, it insisted, and the faster you walk, the faster the belt turns. No sooner did you conceive of and deliver the cocaine concept to Hak-Bin than he demanded more. How long can the process continue before something goes wrong?

  Exactly fifty days from now, the Ra ‘Na told himself. That’s when Hak-Bin will die, and I will come into my own. Yes, his nymph will take some getting used to, but I deal with the parent, so why not the child?

  First you must arrive at that happy moment, the other part of his mind countered, which brings us to the matter at hand. Someone has to die . . . Whom will you choose?

  No! the other part of Tog responded vehemently. I have no choice but to obey Hak-Bin’s orders. The situation is unfortunate, but this way, with one such as myself making the decisions, the most deserving will live.

  The argument felt right, and the prelate was quick to reward himself with another sip of wine. Many would have to be sacrificed before the whole thing was over, he knew that, but not yet. No, the immediate problem centered around only four of the many lives entrusted to him. Whom should he choose? Certain skills were required, Ott-Mar had been clear about that, and the choices narrowed accordingly.

  Tog touched a button, and the screen near his right hand came to sudden life. Four names glowed there, four profiles sifted out of the thousands that he could call upon. What was the word the birthmaster used? Expendable? Yes, with the possible exception of Fra Pol, the prelate couldn’t conceive of individuals more “expendable” than the names on that list.

  Two were closely associated with Dro Rul, and therefore corrupt, one had been friends with the traitorous Med Tech Shu, and the fourth had bested Tog in a debate some thirty-two years before. A humiliating moment about to be avenged.

  The knowledge of that, the surety of it, should have lifted his spirits. Why did the victory feel so hollow then? And why did the fa, a perfectly good vintage acquired during the siege of Deeth, taste so foul?

  The screen glowed, shadows anchored the gloom, and the victor considered his spoils.

  NORTH OF HELL HILL

  Thanks to the red tag that dangled from her ear, Sister Andromeda had a certain amount of personal freedom, and that being the case, was familiar with Bellingham’s waterfront. The once-busy marina had been destroyed early on, and the extent of the devastation could still be seen in the number of masts that poked up through the oily waves. Most of the larger piers had been preserved, however, or even extended the better to meet the Saurons’ requirements. Most of the docks were served by long metal ramps that sloped down to floating platforms.

  Now, as a steady breeze sent whitecaps chasing each other across Bellingham Bay, Sister Andromeda along with the other members of the long, ragged line shuffled forward. Rather than the random manner in which most of the slaves had been treated, she and her acolytes had been rounded up and marched north to Bellingham, where they, plus a contingent of “blues,” were presently in queue.

  Up ahead, next to a ramp labeled “(^),” two Ra ‘Na technicians could be seen. Both stood on white footstools and held what would have looked like pistols except that black tubes led from the “pistols” to a pair of gray canisters. The devices made a steady ka-thunk, ka-thunk, ka-thunk sound as the slaves passed between them. The question was why? Some sort of inoculation? Andromeda didn’t think so. Medical care was not something the Saurons paid much attention to. No, there had to be another more sinister explanation.

  In the meantime, and of equal concern, was the mass relocation itself. Thousands of people had been marched toward I-5 while the rest were funneled toward the water. About a 3:1 ratio judging from what Andromeda had seen.

  That suggested more than one destination—and more than one fate. What if the date for slave slaughter had been moved up? Andromeda pulled a quick 360 but saw little more than grim resignation on the faces around her. Understandable, since she was one of the few people who knew the truth about the Sauron birth cycle—and the alien plan to kill most of the slaves before the nymphs could emerge. Lacking that critical piece of information, there was little reason for the others to become agitated.

  Of course, maybe, just maybe, her worries were for nothing. Many of the people ahead and behind her were members of the Star Com. Did that imply that Hak-Bin was honoring their agreement? And sheltering her organization from whatever fate the other group had been slated for? Yes, she thought, that would explain it.

  The line jerked forward. Andromeda found herself standing next to a Ra ‘Na technician and felt the alien press the injector against the upper part of her right arm. The cult leader said, “What is that stuff?” The injector went ka-thunk, and a liquid was forced through both the weave of her robe and the pores of her skin. The shot hurt, which caused Andromeda to grimace and grab her biceps.

  But the discomfort was soon replaced by a sense of euphoria followed by a flood of renewed energy. Andromeda was confused as first, as were the people around her. Then the truth started to dawn—and was soon confirmed by the word that flowed up the line. “Cocaine!” The bugs were shooting the slaves full of cocaine!

  The news struck Andromeda as funny. She was still laughing, still enjoying the joke, when she crossed a slippery gangplank onto a barge already half-loaded with people. They continued to laugh as a wave caused the hull to lurch upward and a woman fell down.

  Andromeda knew she should be worried but couldn’t quite pull it together. Still, her mind seemed unusually sharp, and thoughts flickered through her consciousness like a movie on fast forward. That’s when the insight came to her . . . There was a reason for the cocaine, some sort of purpose, and that implied that both she and those around her would be allowed to live! For a while at least. Andromeda gave a whoop of unadulterated joy, grabbed an acolyte, and danced him around.

  Meanwhile, watching from the pier above, Willy couldn’t help but grin. Business had never been better. The drug dealer jerked on the leash, brought Angela to her feet, and led the addict away. Time was money . . . and he had things to do.

  NEAR SEDRO-WOOLLEY, WASHINGTON

  It was late afternoon. The sun had started to set, shadows lay long on the ground, and darkness waited to move in. Nal-Uma stood high on the freeway overpass and looked out over the gray, somewhat tattered carpet of human slaves. It covered both the north- and southbound lanes of I-5 and the median in between them. Kan guarded the rear of the column and the flanks as well.

  The humans had been walking for the better part of two days, and all of them were tired. Most remained where they were, perched on packs, sitting on wrecked cars, or sprawled on the worn concrete. A few, the optimists among them, had taken possession of territory on the highly prized median strip. One such individual had even gone so far as to start a tiny cook fire. There was something presumptuous about that, and Nal-Uma resisted the urge to march the entire group half a unit down the highway. But he was tired, as were his warriors, and the satisfaction he would derive from the exercise didn’t justify the effort.

  The Kan glanced to his left, made eye contact with a Ra ‘Na technical, and knew the sound system was ready. A pair of powerful speakers faced out toward the crowd. Nal-Uma knew that his superiors considered the concept of talking to the slaves, of prepping them for what lay ahead, to
be a total waste of time. After all, what did slaves need to know?

  But it was Nal-Uma’s experience that humans were a good deal more biddable when they knew what to expect. So, why not take advantage of that fact? Especially if it made his job easier. Confident that he was correct, the Sauron held the microphone in front of the translator clipped to his harness.

  Meanwhile, down in the crowd, Sool stared up at the overpass. The Saurons were a capricious lot, which meant that they might be finished for the day or having a break. So, given the fact that neither she nor Dixie wanted to set the clinic up only to tear it down, it made sense to wait. She watched as the Kan shimmered sky-blue and began to speak. “You will camp here for the night. Rations will be distributed upon the conclusion of my comments.”

  “Then get to the point,” a man said crossly, but not loud enough for the Saurons to hear.

  Nal-Uma decided that he liked the sound of his much-amplified voice and continued his discourse. “The temple you were working on now nears completion. Once the final stone has been placed my brothers and I will return to space.”

  That stimulated a few cheers plus a whistle or two. Whips cracked, and discipline was soon restored. Nal-Uma continued unperturbed. “The food, water, and other materials required to sustain our feet have been stockpiled at a place called Everett. Once there it will be your job to load these supplies onto shuttles. That will be all.”

  At that point the humans were free to make camp. Rations were distributed, and the man with the cook fire grinned. Conversation buzzed as people speculated on what would happen next. Many wanted, no needed to believe that the Saurons would pull up stakes and leave, but, thanks to her relationships with Franklin and Manning, Sool knew better. The Saurons planned to leave all right—but only after the slaves had been slaughtered. Unless the resistance could stop them—which was far from certain. In the meantime, all Sool could do was keep as many people alive as she possibly could.

  Dixie interrupted the doctor’s thoughts. “Looks like we have customers.”

  Sool saw that the nurse was correct. People had already begun to line up adjacent to the medical carts that carried her supplies. She sighed. Her legs were tired, her feet hurt, and the workday had just begun. More than that the knowledge that she wouldn’t see Manning, not even from a distance, bothered the medic more than she thought it would. Somehow, there among hundreds of people, Sool felt unaccountably lonely. She forced a smile. “Okay, Dixie, open cart one. You take the blisters—I’ll screen the rest.”

  The nurse nodded. “Will do. So what are you smiling about?”

  “I’m smiling because no matter whom we see, and what treatment we decide on, their HMO can’t complain.”

  Both women laughed and Sool felt a little bit better.

  HELL HILL

  The president had turned the battery-powered light off to conserve the battery. His office was lit by three randomly placed candles. They flickered as the door swung open. “Why don’t you come on in?” Franklin asked sarcastically, and turned to see who it was.

  “Sorry,” Manning replied contritely. “I should have knocked.”

  “Yes, you should have,” Franklin agreed with a smile, “but no one else does, so why should you? Take a load off. How did it go?”

  Manning dropped into the plastic lawn chair, started to kick his boots up onto the chief executive officer’s tidy desk, then thought better of it. “No real problems, sir. The streets are crawling with bugs, and they put guards on every single one of your vehicles, but you can leave the Presidential Complex whenever you want.”

  “Sure,” Franklin replied dourly, “so long as I don’t actually go anywhere.”

  “Yes, sir,” Manning agreed reluctantly. “That’s the size of it.”

  “How ’bout the hill? How many people are left?”

  “About twenty-five percent give or take. It looks like most of the people were herded onto I-5 and marched south. The rest, maybe three hundred or so, boarded barges. They’re headed for Anacortes . . . that’s what one of the Ra ‘Na told me.”

  “That lines up with what Pas Pol and Skunk Works came up with,” Franklin said thoughtfully. “The chits need slaves to construct the new catalyst factory.”

  “Yeah,” Manning agreed soberly. “I guess they will. I’m waiting for confirmation, but it looks as though Sister Andromeda, and a significant number of her followers were on those barges, and may be in Anacortes by now.”

  Franklin raised an eyebrow. “They were targeted?”

  Manning nodded. “It appears that way. You remember the explosions we saw? Well, you were right. Every single one of the locations was being used by Andromeda’s group.”

  “Hak-Bin is on to us,” Franklin said soberly. “He knows who we are, what we hope to accomplish, and how we plan to do it. He plans to neutralize the resistance. First me . . . now Andromeda.”

  Manning stirred uncomfortably. Was Ji-Hoon correct? Was Amocar dirty? He cleared his throat. “No offense, sir, but that doesn’t seem to wash. Why leave you in place? Why not kill you and have done with it?”

  “Because the bastard is smarter than that,” Franklin replied glumly. “He has a better grip on our psychology than we have on his. By leaving some of the resistance leaders in place, but rendering them powerless, he ensures stability. If I were to be eliminated he fears that someone else would rise up to replace me. Remember, time is on his side. Each passing day brings Hak-Bin closer to his goal.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “Good question,” the politician answered. “The catalyst factories continue to be the key. Move too quickly and the bugs will build more. Move too slowly and it will be too late. In a few weeks this farce will end. That’s when I go underground, the resistance will launch an all-out attack, and the battle will be joined.”

  The fact that the resistance was about to attack, about to carry the battle to the Saurons, should have come as no surprise to Manning. But, thanks to the nature of his responsibilities, the security officer had a tendency to think defensively. That being the case he was caught off guard. The words spilled out of his mouth before he could fully consider them. “What about the slaves on I-5? What are we going to do about them?”

  Franklin searched the other man’s face for some sign of what he was thinking. “I don’t know . . . Why do you ask?”

  Manning shrugged. “Dr. Sool went with them. Voluntarily by all appearances . . . but there’s no way to be sure.”

  Franklin looked into the other man’s eyes, saw the concern there, and knew it ran deeper than mere friendship. Manning was in love with Sool and had been for some time. Why hadn’t he seen that before? Because Jina was dead. It was she who had reminded him of birthdays and tipped him off to relationships.

  But what about the two of them? What of Manning and Jina? A spark perhaps, but nothing more. Not that it made much difference since even on her worst day Jina had been a better person that he was now. The president produced a frown. “I’m sorry to hear that . . . Dr. Sool is the closet thing to a saint either one of us is likely to meet. Perhaps you should check to see what happened to her.”

  The words belied the expression on Manning’s face. “I don’t know, sir, it’s tempting, but my place is here with you.”

  Franklin could almost feel Jina’s hand nestled in his as he made his reply. “Under normal circumstances I would agree, but Hak-Bin has grounded me for the moment, and the rest of the team can look after my security requirements. Remember what I said though—the charade must end. Get back before it does.”

  Manning stood. He felt a tremendous sense of gratitude toward the man across from him plus a feeling of urgency. There was no telling what sort of conditions Sool might find herself in. “Thank you, sir, I’ll get right on it.”

  “Not by yourself,” Franklin cautioned. “Get some help from Deac Smith.”

  Manning nodded. “Yes, sir.” Then he was gone.

  The president watched the security chief go, felt a sense of
envy, and sent a thought toward his wife. That was for you, babe, wherever you may be.

  Moments later, well after the door had closed, the candles flickered and a gust of air kissed his cheek.

  A makeshift weight and exercise room had been established in a cube on the ground floor. Like all such places it smelled of sweat. The light such as it was came from more than a dozen candles. Half had been poured to look like Santas—the other half resembled jack-o’-lanterns.

  Though far from the sleek vinyl bags she had once been used to, the duct-tape-wrapped duffel bag made an acceptable substitute, and wobbled under Ji-Hoon’s repeated attacks. She struck a quick flurry of blows, landed two kicks, and danced backward. That was when she saw Manning. He stood with one boot resting on the wall behind him. He grinned. “Remind me to stay on your good side.”

  Ji-Hoon shrugged self-consciously. “Just trying to stay in shape.”

  Manning nodded. “Good idea . . . Listen, about what you said before, it looks like I owe you an apology.”

  The ex-FBI agent unwound the tape from her left hand. “You nailed him?”

  “Nope,” Manning replied, “nothing that clean. Let’s just say that I have reason to believe that someone sold us out—and he’s suspect number one. What I said earlier holds, however . . . we need more than we have so far.”

  “So?”

  “So, get him for me.”

  Ji-Hoon ripped the last piece of tape off. “I’ll do my best.”

  “Good,” Manning replied. “I’m counting on it.”

  NEAR THE MAYAN RUINS OF NAKABE, GUATEMALA

  Three Eye, as he was known within the tight-knit group of sobrevivientes (survivors), sat motionless next to the river. He’d been there for a couple of hours by then, hunched under the plastic poncho, staring into the darkness. The water gurgled, chuckled, and splashed. Each sound was like a word in a language he almost knew. The sobreviviente was afraid to listen too carefully, afraid that the river would pull his spirit out of his body, but there was nothing else to do. That’s why Three Eye prayed. To strengthen his bond with God, to suppress the sound of the river, and to hasten the coming of the new day. That’s when he could return to the agujero (hole), have some breakfast, and get some sleep. Simple pleasures for a simple man.