EarthRise

by William C. Dietz

  The security team applauded and Franklin nodded in agreement. “What was it my daddy used to say? ‘It ain’t over till it’s over’? I think that pretty much sums it up.”

  Those close enough to hear chuckled, Manning waved the group forward, and the government of the United States of America melted into the forest.

  NEAR THE MAYAN RUINS OF NAKABE, GUATEMALA

  The storage room was large, very large, which was the reason why Ott-Mar had chosen it for use as his makeshift surgery. The walls were lined with floor-to-ceiling metal-faced drawers. There were thousands of them, and each was large enough to hold a few personal effects. Later, as each nymph emerged from his cell, inherited memories would push themselves forward and each newly born Sauron would visit the storage room to collect his particular inheritance.

  The nature of such bequeathments would vary. Some would consist of ancient artifacts, brought from the home world and carried through space. Others would include items looted from conquered worlds, tools peculiar to that particular line’s area of expertise, and, though somewhat rare, scholarly works authored by two or even three generations of progenitors.

  Now, filled as it was with the harsh glare of stand-mounted work lights, the specially constructed operating table on which Hak-Bin lay, banks of life-support equipment, backups for the life-support equipment, a back table loaded with surgical instruments, a console dedicated to anesthesia, and three strange-looking suspension frames, the room seemed a little smaller.

  Or that’s the way it seemed to Grand Vizier Tog, who, contrary to what he imagined to be good medical practice, not to mention his own personal preferences, had been ordered to be in attendance. The reason for this travesty was too apparent. Hak-Bin, who remained conscious and lucid in spite of the heavy-duty preoperative medications administered by Ott-Mar, wanted all those having shared responsibility for his physical well-being to be present during the operation so that it would be easier to kill them if anything went wrong.

  That’s why Hak-Bin’s chief of security, the murderous Kat-Duu, stood on the far side of the room. He wore two perfectly matched t-guns in black thorax holsters and seemed to be enjoying himself.

  It was a horrible situation, the worst Tog had ever managed to get himself into, which accounted for the sudden flurry of prayers. There hadn’t been much to ask for, not since Tog’s elevation to the Droma, but the present circumstances provided sufficient motivation.

  Would the Great One respond? There was no way to be sure, of course, but not having requested anything in quite a long time, the prelate imagined that his request might go to the head of the line, where it would be acted on with a degree of urgency consistent with his lofty rank.

  In the meantime Ott-Mar sent for the donors. The Fon, each selected because of a near-perfect health record, and surreptitiously tested to ensure that they were free of all the chemicals, hormones, and enzymes associated with the change, had been summoned to the temple under false pretenses. The functionaries had no idea what awaited them until the moment when they entered the operating room and were seized by specially trained Kan. Understandably surprised, not to mention frightened, the unsuspecting Fon kicked and squealed as they were transported from one side of the room to the other, locked into metal frames, and gagged.

  The Kan were still in the process of wrapping tape around their snouts when Hak-Bin addressed them from his place on the operating table. “Please allow me to apologize to you and your respective lines. Like warriors in a battle, it is now necessary to sacrifice your lives so that the race can live. I now add your names to those that shall be passed to my nymph and from him down through eternity. Thank you.”

  If the Fon were impressed by the signal honor thus bestowed upon them, there was no sign of it in the way that their eyes bulged, their limbs strained to break free, or their excrement soiled the floor.

  Like outsiders caught in the midst of a family dispute, all four of the Ra ‘Na technicians assigned to assist Ott-Mar did the best they could to ignore the manner in which the “donors” had been treated, little suspecting the fate already in wait for them.

  But Tog knew, and not only knew, but had chosen them with that reality in mind. It wasn’t something the prelate liked to focus on, however—so he forced his mind away.

  Satisfied that he had done the right thing where the Fon were concerned, Hak-Bin gestured to Ott-Mar and surrendered himself to the fates.

  Well aware of the operation’s purpose, and the way it would impact him, Hak-Bin’s nymph went on a rampage, only to discover that certain medications had been used to limit the extent of his movements. The reality of that made the nymph furious. In spite of the fact that Ott-Mar would escape into death, Hak-Bin’s nymph swore that the physician’s offspring would suffer in his place, and do so for a long, long time.

  Now, as both the Sauron and his nymph lost consciousness, the operation began in earnest. A saw whirred and fine black dust was sucked away as Ott-Mar removed sections of Hak-Bin’s badly distorted chitin. Drills whined as the Ra ‘Na medical technicians bored holes through donor exoskeletons, gained access to key blood vessels, and inserted the necessary catheters. Pumps came on-line, were tested, and hooked to lengths of clear plastic tubing.

  Eventually, as the initial preparations were completed, Tog lost track of which tube led where, but understood the basic architecture of Ott-Mar’s plan. Once the tubes were connected, and certain medications had been administered, Ott-Mar planned to remove every single drop of Hak-Bin’s enzyme-polluted blood, replace it with fluids obtained from one or more of the donors, and thereby stabilize his patient long enough to get through the next thirty-five days.

  Assuming things went well, and they would have to if the birthmaster wanted to live long enough to die properly, the high-nymph would continue to develop albeit much more slowly, and Hak-Bin, made a good deal more presentable as a result of cosmetic surgery, would be free to coordinate the final days. Unless something went wrong, in which case everyone, with the possible exception of Kat-Duu, would die almost immediately.

  And so it was that Tog, along with others in the room, watched the green fluid surge through the clear plastic tubes and hoped that the procedure would prove successful. The process took time, however, and it was more than a full unit later before Ott-Mar announced that he was pleased with the results and ordered that the single surviving donor be put to death. Then, as the anesthesia was terminated, and Ott-Mar waited for his patient to awake, came the moment that Tog had been dreading.

  Suddenly, at a nod from Kat-Duu, the Ra ‘Na med techs were seized and shackled together. Tog tried to merge Kanlike with the background, but it didn’t work. Kat-Duu wore something similar to an evil grin as he grabbed the prelate and dragged him out into the adjoining courtyard. The condemned were already in place—their backs to freshly dug graves. A group of humans, shovels in their hands, cowered against the back wall. “How do you want them killed?” the Kan demanded. “A dart in the head? Slit their throats? Slow strangulation?”

  The med tech named Isk sought Tog’s eyes. The prelate saw the anger there and turned away. “You knew?” Isk demanded. “You knew they would kill us?”

  “Don’t be silly,” Kat-Duu interjected. “Of course the Grand Vizier knew . . . Now, where were we? Ah, yes, the question of methodology. So, your furry eminence, what will it be?”

  “Darts,” Tog replied, his eyes on the floor.

  “What did you say?” the Kan demanded. “Louder please . . . I couldn’t hear you.”

  “Darts,” the prelate reiterated, praying that the misery would end.

  “Oh, darts,” Kat-Duu responded agreeably. “That’s very generous of you. Much less painful . . . Well, come on then, I’m sure you’ll want to be present, and there’s no point in waiting around.” That being said, the Kan walked down the line and shot each slave in the head. Isk was last, and no matter how long he managed to live, Tog knew he would never forget the contempt in the technician’s space-black ey
es.

  Then the eyes were gone as Isk’s body toppled backward into the grave. That was the moment when Kat-Duu turned, aimed the t-gun between Tog’s eyes, and produced something akin to a grin. The prelate, sure that Hak-Bin had forsaken him, wet himself.

  Kat-Duu laughed, restored the weapon to its holster, and waved a pincer at the humans. “Fill the hole with dirt or jump in yourselves. It makes no difference to me.”

  The humans rushed forward, hurried to do the Sauron’s bidding, and soon melted away.

  Finally, after everyone else had left, Tog remained. The prelate felt an overwhelming sense of loss, grief, and shame. Regardless of the fact that the limestone was damp with his own urine, Tog dropped to knees. And it was then, after more than forty years of self-concerned twaddle, that the Great One finally heard a genuine prayer.

  SALMON NATIONAL FOREST, IDAHO

  The gravel road wound along the side of the gently rounded hill like a snake squeezing its prey. Ella’s pregnancy was more visible by then, and Ivory took it slow, easing the old pickup through the potholes.

  The trip to the top of the hill was something of a luxury, both in terms of the fuel that it would consume and time stolen from other activities. But it was important, so important that Ivory was willing to risk a daylight journey, and to hell with the consequences. Besides, for reasons the racialist could only guess at, Sauron activity had been rather light lately, almost as if the aliens were busy elsewhere.

  Though not identified as such on maps of the area, the wide spot had long been used as a scenic outlook, a place for lovers to park, and a pull-out for local hunters. Proof of that could still be seen in the broken glass that crunched under Ivory’s boots, the shell casings that littered the ground, and the old picnic table someone had left.

  Ella was waiting when Ivory rounded the front of the truck, allowed herself to be lifted down to the ground, and turned her face up for a kiss. “This was a nice idea, Jonathan . . . Who would have guessed that you would be such a romantic?”

  Ivory kissed her, drank in the soap-clean smell of his wife’s hair, and took her hand. “Come on, I want you to see the view.”

  Together the couple walked over to the badly weathered picnic table, sat on the top, and placed their boots on the sole surviving bench.

  Ella had been there on previous occasions, but not for a couple of years, and had forgotten how beautiful the view actually was. There were trees, thousands of acres of second-or third-generation forest, all of it gold with buttery sunlight. And there, not far beyond, lay Howther Lake. The water was so clear she could see logs lying at the bottom, and, had they been down closer, might have seen trout swimming near the banks. The lake had belonged to her grandfather at one time, but that was before the federal government forced him to sell it, and added one more grievance to an already long list. Still, the lake was beautiful, and Ella said as much.

  “Yes,” Ivory agreed, as if waiting for that very comment. “The lake is beautiful—and very, very dangerous. That’s where the Saurons will land, right where your grandfather liked to go fishing, not two miles from Racehome.

  “Then,” he said, pointing to the northwest, “the chits will follow the old trail up toward the complex, break through the perimeter, and enter the mine. The rest won’t be very pretty.”

  Ella started to say something, but Ivory raised a hand. “Don’t get me wrong, we’ll kill some of the bastards, hell, we’ll kill a lot of them, but not enough. The simple fact is that they have aircraft, and we don’t, which means we’re going to lose.”

  Ella searched her husband’s face. “That’s what you brought me all the way up here for? To tell me we’re going to lose? Why now, Jonathan? Why didn’t you say these things before?”

  Ivory could feel her pulling back, could feel the growing anger, but bulled ahead. “Because we weren’t advertising our presence before . . . Every time Dent goes on-air it’s like a poke in the eye. The Saurons won’t put up with that forever.”

  “The transmitters are located a long ways off,” Ella said levelly, “you know that. This is about Dent isn’t it? You’re jealous.”

  “No,” Ivory lied, “this isn’t about Dent. It’s about my wife and baby. Racehome isn’t safe. There’s no way I can make it safe. Please allow me to move you, your mother, and your personal staff to a better location. I’ll stay here and do everything I can to protect both Dent and Racehome.”

  The expression on Ella’s face seemed to soften. “Your concern means a great deal to me, Jonathan . . . but I could never agree to that. What about those who stay? It would appear as though we were ready to sacrifice them.”

  I am ready to sacrifice them, Ivory thought to himself, but knew better than to say it out loud. “I figured you would say something like that.”

  Ella raised a carefully plucked eyebrow. “So?”

  Ivory shrugged. “So, I’m going to insist.”

  Ella heard the crunch of gravel and turned in time to see four members of Ivory’s elite Hammer-Skin unit emerge from the surrounding brush. They wore camouflage and full combat gear. There were women as well, a physician’s assistant, and an LPN. Neither women was willing to meet her gaze. Ella turned to her husband. Her eyes were narrowed to slits, and her mouth made a hard, straight line. “You’ll pay for this.”

  Ivory sighed. “Yes, I suspect I will.”

  ABOARD THE SAURON DREADNOUGHT HOK NOR AH

  It was dark inside the passageway, very dark, and packed with small furry bodies. Their leader, none other than the now-legendary Fra Pol, checked the device on his wrist. Another five units, that’s how long he and thousands of others would have to wait. It was important for every group to attack at exactly the same moment.

  Dro Rul, acting in the role of general, had gone to great lengths in order to emphasize that. “First comes the advantage of surprise . . . Though powerful, this weapon fires but a single shot, so it should be used to maximum effect. Then we must divide them,” the Droma continued, “and thereby reduce their strength. Should one of our teams attack prematurely, and go down to defeat, the Kan thus freed will rush to defend other parts of the fleet.

  “Finally,” Rul cautioned, “there is the matter of our allies. Even as we attack the Saurons in space, the humans will do likewise down on the surface.”

  It made sense, Pol knew that, but the waiting was hard. Somebody began to pray. Not too surprising since most of the officers and noncoms were members of the clergy. Would the Saurons hear? Probably not, but it was best to take no chances. The initiate called for “silence” and such was his credibility that not one of the often querulous Ra ‘Na took exception to the order.

  One of the commandos grinned. “So, Fra Pol,” he whispered, “are you glad to be back?”

  “Thrilled,” Pol responded, remembering the furtive manner in which he had been smuggled aboard. “I left in a garbage disposal unit—and returned in a grain bin. It would be nice to ride in a seat for a change.” The commando chuckled, as did others close enough to hear, and the seconds ticked away.

  Will the revolt work? Pol wondered. And how many of us are about to die? Not that it makes much difference since every single one of us is slated to die in any case.

  Pol looked at his wrist chron, confirmed that only one unit of time remained, and checked his weapon. After experimenting with a variety of human-manufactured guns, and determining that most were too large for the average Ra ‘Na, and produced excessive recoil, the research and development team worked to produce small but serviceable .22-caliber submachine guns. The only problem was that the relatively low-velocity slugs had a tendency to bounce off simulated chitin.

  This issue was resolved by upgrading the ammo to .22 Magnum, substituting specially hardened “bug killer” rounds in place of the soft lead slugs, and equipping the “grease guns” to fire three-shot bursts. The fact that the .22 ammo fell well short of the velocity required to punch holes through hull metal was an added bonus.

  One last look confirmed wh
at Pol already knew—it was time to attack. This particular maintenance way, one of many that the Ra ‘Na had managed to delete from the vessel’s memory banks over the years, passed directly over the ship’s bridge. There was very little doubt that the Saurons would be surprised when furry bodies began to tumble into the control room, but could they get a sufficient number of bodies through the hatch before the bugs were able to respond? To do so was critical, which was the reason why Pol had drilled his team in secret.

  Pol made contact with his second-in-command, a female name Lin Mok, and saw the way her ears were laid back against her skull. He nodded, and having already checked to make sure the hatch was unlocked, Mok jerked it up and out of the way. She was the first one through—immediately followed by Pol.

  Strangely enough the bridge of a Sauron starship was one of the few places where all three castes worked together. In keeping with a requirement for literacy, not to mention political control, commanding officers were drawn from the ranks of the Zin. War officers, those in charge of the vessel’s weapons systems were Kan, and systems officers, those responsible for everything from life support to garbage disposal, were Fon functionaries.

  Or course the real work, not to mention technical savvy, was supplied by Ra ‘Na slaves, some of whom were aligned with the resistance and some of whom were not. Even sympathetic technicians had intentionally been left in the dark lest they inadvertently give warning.

  Son-Das, the Zin who had the misfortune to be on duty at that particular time, was resting in the command sling, scanning the latest readiness reports, when Ra ‘Na resistance fighters began to pour out of a hole not five units from his head. There was barely enough time to recognize one of the intruders as Lin-Mok, a female assigned to no less a personage than Lord Hak-Bin, when the formerly respectful slave raised some sort of weapon and fired a burst at his head.