EarthRise

by William C. Dietz

  Smith held his breath. One of the Kan’s enormous flat feet was so close that he could have touched it. The radio clipped to the bug’s battle harness burped static followed by silence. Then, like an answer to the resistance leader’s prayers, the warrior was gone.

  Eager to escape any chance of another close encounter of the sort they had just experienced—Smith scuttled his way forward. Manning, who felt at least ten years older, followed.

  Then, having passed between the outermost fires, the infiltrators could finally stand. Both men wore blue ear tags and carried handguns beneath their raggedy clothing. The application of two wet wipes apiece was sufficient to remove the camo stick markings.

  So numerous were the slaves that they had little difficulty blending in. Most of the people were gathered around the bonfires, and it seemed natural to drift from one to the next. Smith paid close attention to what he heard. There was anger, which beat the heck out of passivity, and a lot of rumors. Some, like those that spoke of a coordinated resistance movement, were even true.

  Manning’s task was a good deal easier. All he had to do was ask the first person he ran into where Dr. Sool had established her clinic and was directed toward a distant fire. Hearing that, and knowing that Seeko was still alive, filled Manning with joy. Slowly, so as not to draw attention to themselves, the two men edged in that direction.

  Meanwhile, not far away, Sool sat on the back of a cart, accepted a cup of tea from an admirer, and nodded her thanks. The ceramic mug was hot, and it felt good to wrap her hands around its warmth. The closest fire, which was about fifteen feet away, crackled and threw a fountain of sparks up into the air.

  Strangely, or perhaps not so strangely, the number of people who showed up for sick call had been relatively light. The not-so-pleasant truth was that thousands of slaves had died of various diseases, been killed in construction accidents, or simply murdered by the Kan. Those who survived had a tendency to be young, resilient, and lucky. The net result was fewer people at sick call.

  “So,” a familiar voice said, “a penny for your thoughts.”

  Sool felt her heart leap, turned in the direction of the sound, and spilled hot tea on her thigh. She didn’t notice the pain. Manning laughed as the doctor dropped the mug, jumped off the cart, and threw her arms around his neck. Their lips met, Sool felt all the things she hoped she might feel, and heard the sound of applause. That’s when the kiss ended and the twosome turned to discover that Smith, Dixie, and more than a dozen blues were grinning appreciatively and clapping their hands.

  Sool blushed, Manning laughed, and took her hand.

  “That’s enough,” Dixie proclaimed, “let’s give them some space.”

  There were whistles, followed by a catcall or two, but the bystanders obeyed. Slowly, hand in hand, the twosome walked out to the point where firelight surrendered to darkness. “So,” Sool said, looking up into Manning’s face, “to what do I owe this visit? And how did you get here anyway?”

  The security chief shrugged. “I was worried about you, very worried, and Franklin allowed me to come. As for the how, well, let’s just say that I now know why they invented cars. Horses are a pain in the butt.”

  Sool laughed. “Now that you’re here—how will you get out?”

  Manning checked his watch. “You can expect some fireworks in about twenty minutes. That’s when the Deacon and I will slip away.”

  The security chief took her hands in his. They felt small and vulnerable. “Please, Seeko, come with us.”

  Sool liked the way he said her name . . . as if it were something special. “I’d like to, Jack, I really would, but my duty lies here.”

  Manning nodded. “I kind of figured you’d say something like that. Okay, how ’bout we break everyone out?”

  Sool frowned. “You could do that?”

  Manning shrugged. “Timing is important. That’s why Franklin put the resistance on hold. Move too early, and the bugs have the time to respond. Move too late, and everybody dies. So why not now?”

  “Wouldn’t Franklin be upset?”

  “Probably, but let’s do it anyway.”

  Sool shook her head. “No, Jack, not for me.”

  Manning looked back toward the fires. “I’m here because of you, I admit that, but it doesn’t change the facts. It would be a lot easier to free these people now rather than later.”

  “True,” Sool admitted, “but the Kan would hunt them down. Many would die.”

  “Many will die anyway,” Manning responded, “on the job, or during the slaughter.”

  Sool stared intently into Manning’s eyes. He was different from what she had always assumed she wanted, yet absolutely right. She raised one of his hands and kissed it. “You may be correct, but your motives are questionable. Put your case to the president. Get his agreement, and you’ll have mine.”

  Sool was correct, Manning knew that, and grinned. “You’re a pain in the ass . . . did anybody every tell you that?”

  “People remind me from time to time.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “Kiss me.”

  Manning kissed her, felt her lips give under the pressure of his, and was suddenly afraid. Now, there in the circle of his arms, he had something to lose. It made him weak and, therefore, vulnerable.

  Deac Smith cleared his throat. “Break it off, you two . . . There’s going to be one hellacious racket, and we need to be ready.”

  Manning kissed Sool on the forehead. “Take care of yourself, Doc, and keep your eyes peeled. If the prez green-lights some sort of raid, there will be a whole lot of confusion. Watch for me . . .’cause I’ll be there.”

  Sool smiled. Memories of fear, of gunfire, flickered through her mind. “Yes, I’m certain that you will. Please be careful.”

  Manning nodded, backed away, and was absorbed by the darkness. The rockets, firecrackers, and other displays went off three minutes later. At least six of the Kan bounced toward the source. No one was there.

  The blues cheered, whistled, and danced each other around. Sool watched with arms folded. Dixie seemed to materialize at her side. “Nice work, boss, you got it right this time.”

  “Thanks,” Sool replied. “Some things work better when you don’t have time to think about them.”

  “Amen to that,” the nurse said fervently.

  Then, as if to underline Dixie’s words, a rocket whistled high into the air, where it exploded and showered the slaves with light.

  ANACORTES, WASHINGTON

  The site for the facility had been chosen for purely pragmatic reasons. The factory would require fresh water and plenty of it. A sizable water main ran next to what had once been a rather pleasant park. By cutting the trees down, and leveling some small service buildings, the aliens freed sufficient ground for their purpose.

  The Sauron Book of Cycles didn’t include any strictures where the manufacture of birth catalyst was concerned, or that’s the way it seemed, as an engine revved, and a team of bright-eyed cokeheads used a crane to swing a pump from one side of the construction site to the other.

  Andromeda felt the pain before she heard the crack of the Fon’s harakna hide whip. The blow wasn’t much as such punishments went, only what the bugs referred to as a “starter,” but it would leave an angry weal nonetheless.

  Andromeda swore at herself for daydreaming, knew the lapse to be drug-related, and returned to work. She, along with three others, had been assigned to prepare valve assemblies for installation. The necessary parts had been laid out on a series of improvised worktables. Andromeda’s job was to snap an injector nozzle into the side of each fitting, grease the threads, and pass the assembly down the makeshift assembly line. Her peers worked in silence.

  It had rained earlier that morning, which meant that everything they touched was wet and cold. A fact that would normally generate a considerable number of complaints but didn’t.

  The simple fact was that the daily injection of cocaine had changed the way the slaves viewed the world.
Now, as their bodies grew increasingly dependent on the drug, it moved in toward the very center of their lives. Cocaine was more important than their loved ones, more important than food, and more important than anything but the worst sort of pain. Even more horrible was the fact that Andromeda knew what the Saurons were doing to her and was still powerless to stop it.

  Each day was the same. A restless night during which the hours seemed to crawl by. Then, as light appeared in the east, the anxiety would begin. Would the dose arrive on time? Would it be strong enough? Did the bugs have enough blow to supply the entire workforce?

  That’s when Andromeda’s hands would begin to shake, when some of her fellow slaves became dizzy, and others started to hallucinate.

  Then, after a breakfast which they were forced to eat, the slaves would rush to queue up. Everyone wanted to be first—especially since the chits had a consistent tendency to come up five doses short. Not every time, since that would introduce an element of predictability, but every third or fourth day, so as to keep the addicts on edge and at each other’s throats.

  Most of them understood that, understood the manner in which they were being manipulated, but found that the knowledge made no difference. The drug was in charge, and they were unable to intervene.

  So, thanks to the leverage provided by the cocaine, construction was actually ahead of schedule. Something which, thanks to her knowledge of Sauron plans, Andromeda knew could hasten the slave slaughter.

  In fact, throwing all caution to the winds, she had even gone so far as to tell others what she knew in hopes that she could garner some support. Some people believed her and others didn’t. It made no difference. Once hooked on cocaine only the most rebellious of souls had sufficient strength to fight back—and they were few and far between. That’s why Andromeda, in an effort to sabotage the facility, had been forced to act entirely on her own.

  Most of the parts were crudely made, a fact that made perfect sense to anyone who understood that while the processing plant had to function, it wouldn’t have to last for long. Clearly defective parts, like plugged injectors, were supposed to be identified by Fon inspectors prior to delivery. But a few made it through—and whenever Andromeda came across a clearly defective part, she was careful to install it.

  What was it that her mother used to say? “The devil is in the details?” Yes, that was it, and the phrase seemed to fit. Soon, very soon, the Saurons would crank up their processing plant only to discover that it didn’t work. All hell would break loose, the problem would eventually be fixed, but time would be lost in the interim. Precious time that could save lives.

  But what about her need for cocaine? If the plan worked, and the Saurons lost, she would go into withdrawal. That struck Andromeda as funny. She laughed out loud. No one even turned to look.

  NEAR THE MAYAN RUINS OF NAKABE, GUATEMALA

  The temple complex shimmered in the late-afternoon heat as the black manta-ray-shaped shuttle circled, began to lose altitude, and came in for a landing.

  The artificial lake had been constructed using slave labor. It was oval in shape and exactly the right length for medium-sized vessels to land on. The shuttle pancaked in, sent waves racing toward the opposite shore, and coasted toward a long finger-shaped jetty.

  The reception party, led by Dun-Dar himself, was already in place. Pendants hung limply from poles, and a horn groaned, as mooring lines were made fast. That’s when double rows of inspection-ready Kan snapped to the Sauron equivalent of attention and the main hatch whirred open. Two human slaves, attired in identical smocks, rushed to slide the metal gangplank into place as the first of the visiting dignitaries emerged from the ship’s lock.

  The hot, humid air hit Dro Tog like the breath of some horrible beast. It was heavy with the odor of rotting vegetation, the stench of untreated sewage, and the tang of ozone. It was not the sort of place where someone covered with fur would want to spend much time.

  The cleric blinked into the harsh afternoon sun, wondered how such a hellish environment could give rise to intelligent life, and stepped onto the gangplank. It gave slightly as the portly prelate made his way onto the pier.

  A Ra ‘Na technician was there to greet Tog. His name was Isk, and he looked considerably older than he had on the day when he bested the future Grand Vizier in a debate and unknowingly signed his own death warrant. Isk had orange fur flecked with white and matted by the heat. “Welcome, eminence. All is ready.”

  Tog took a long slow look around, assured himself that the specially constructed sedan chair met specifications, and nodded his head. “Good work, Isk. Rest assured that I will remember your many accomplishments.”

  Unaware of the irony involved, Isk bobbed his head in return. “Thank you, eminence.”

  Eager to get his charge ashore and retire to his air-conditioned quarters, Tog turned back to the shuttle. A Fon stood waiting. “Please inform his excellency that everything is as it should be.”

  As the functionary departed to convey the good news, Tog walked past the custom sedan chair to the point where Dun-Dar stood waiting. “Greetings, eminence. Lord Hak-Bin will come ashore within the next few minutes.”

  Dun-Dar regarded Tog with the contempt he felt for all such individuals. To his mind the entire notion of setting one slave over another was little more than an obscene farce. “Thank you for stating the obvious. Now get off my dock before I give you some real work to do!”

  Frightened, and more than a little taken aback, Tog hoisted his robe and waddled toward shore. The incident served to remind the Ra ‘Na of the extent to which he was reliant on Hak-Bin’s patronage and how important the Sauron’s good health continued to be. Until the nymph emerged and the existing relationship would continue. Or so the prelate hoped and assumed.

  There was a stir as Ott-Mar’s sedan chair arrived at the foot of the pier and the birthmaster backed his way out of the internal sling. He, at least, was glad to see Tog and greeted the prelate with the familiarity that one conspirator reserves for another. “Our patient? How is he?”

  “A little out of sorts,” Tog answered cautiously, “but otherwise normal.”

  “That bad, eh?” the Zin replied dryly. “Well, the surgical suite is ready, and we’ll soon have him on the table. The anesthetic should shut him up even if nothing else will.”

  Afraid to agree, Tog kept his mouth shut. The decision was validated when Hak-Bin’s heavily swathed body appeared in the hatch and Ott-Mar took to the air. He traveled the length of the dock in two well-calculated jumps.

  Unable to see how he could help, and worried lest he somehow get crosswise with Dun-Dar, Tog was left to watch as two sturdy-looking Fon functionaries assisted their master across ten units of open dock, helped him maneuver his badly swollen body into the reinforced sling, and ignored the nonstop abuse to which they were subjected.

  “Keep your incompetent graspers off me!” Hak-Bin ordered, as a Fon brushed an especially sensitive section of badly displaced chitin. “What are you trying to do? Kill me? Ott-Mar . . . where have you been? Did you see that? I want the idiot shot.”

  The functionary in question looked understandably concerned, but the physician waved him away. “I’m sorry, eminence,” the Zin said soothingly, “but the worst is over. You’re on the surface of Haven now, and the pain will soon be over.”

  “You’re sure?” Hak-Bin inquired eagerly. “The operation will succeed?”

  “Yes,” Ott-Mar lied, “I’m sure. Now settle in and try to relax while the slaves take you to surgery.”

  The words seemed to have the desired effect because the pain seemed to abate for a moment, and Hak-Bin looked nearly normal. “Yes, thank you. And one more thing . . .”

  Ott-Mar tried to conceal his impatience. “Yes, my lord?”

  “I would like to introduce File Leader Kat-Duu . . . He will accompany me into surgery.”

  Because of the large number of bodies crowded around the sedan chair, the physician had failed to take notice of the Kan unt
il then. Now, as the warrior stepped forward, Ott-Mar recognized him as the much-decorated veteran in charge of Hak-Bin’s bodyguards. A harakna hide eye patch concealed his left eye socket, whorls of metal “death” studs covered both his shoulders, and his battle harness was festooned with what seemed like an excessive amount of weaponry. The physician allowed himself the Sauron equivalent of a frown. “There’s a limited amount of space, my lord, and I have the required number of assistants.”

  Hak-Bin waved a pincer. “You fail to take my meaning, Ott-Mar. Rather than assist you, Kat-Duu has been assigned to kill you, should something go wrong. Isn’t that right, Kat-Duu?”

  The warrior made no reply, nor was there any need to. The hard implacable stare said it all. “Is the situation clear?” Hak-Bin demanded, his eyes fever-bright.

  “Yes, my lord,” Ott-Mar replied, as something heavy seeped into the pit of his stomach. “The situation is very, very, clear.”

  NEAR CONCRETE, WASHINGTON

  The helicopter generated a steady roar as it followed Highway 20 east toward the town of Concrete. Given the fact that a barricade had been placed across the road just beyond Lyman, plus an infestation of feral humans, the Saurons preferred to avoid the area. And why not? Especially since slavers could be dispatched to harvest workers, thereby reserving the hard-pressed Kan for other more important tasks.

  Human-manufactured aircraft were a rarity by then, so the sound of the Chinook’s rotors, plus the self-confident manner in which the big helicopter flew up the Skagit River valley was sure to attract some attention. Eyes peered up through a maze of evergreen branches, binoculars tracked the aircraft’s progress from a lookout station positioned high on a hillside, and the volume of CB radio traffic increased.

  The resistance leader named Storm was busy weeding her vegetable garden when word of the visitation arrived. The boy was ten, and true to the name he had taken for himself, ran like the wind. He cut across the assembly hall’s sod roof, leaped a swiftly flowing creek, and dashed across open ground. “It’s coming! The helicopter is coming!”