EarthRise

by William C. Dietz

  Three of the .22-caliber slugs hit the target, punched holes through the Sauron’s skull, and blew brain tissue out through the back of his head. The others spanged off the bulkhead beyond, buzzed like enraged bees, and slammed into an equipment rack. Other guns chattered, the weapons officer collapsed, and the systems officer was wounded.

  Pol, who had intentionally withheld his fire in order to focus all of his attention on the responsibilities of command, shouted, “Hold your fire!” even as a ricochet whined past his right ear. The commandos obeyed and looked around the room in stupefied silence. Every single one of them had been exposed to violence since birth, but always directed toward them, never the other way around.

  Now, to see dead Saurons, killed by their own hands, was both wonderful and amazing at the same time. The fact that other Saurons had survived, and stood helpless before their guns, was equally wondrous. The Ra ‘Na were still absorbing that, still processing it, when Pol issued the next set of orders. “Mok, put the surviving Saurons in a corner and post a guard on them. That includes our people . . . Maybe they support us and maybe they don’t. We’ll sort that out later. The rest of you safe your weapons. We have enough problems without someone shooting themselves in the foot.

  “Da Dwa . . . Get on the com. I want to know how things went in the Fire Control Center, the Propulsion Pods, and down on the Launch Deck. Once that’s out of the way, put a call in to Dro Rul. He’ll want a report.”

  Dwa slipped into a recently vacated seat, touched some keys, and met with immediate success. Video appeared. A bloody bandage had been wrapped around the technician’s head and his voice was filled with pride and determination. “This is the Fire Control Center of the Ra ‘Na vessel Liberty. How can I assist you?”

  Dwa couldn’t help but smile in response to the manner in which the ship had already been renamed. “This is the bridge . . . please report.”

  The resistance fighter at the other end of the call nodded grimly, said “Thanks be to the Great One for your victory,” and plucked the camera out of the console in front of him. Then, holding the device at arm’s length, he panned the compartment. Pol, who had taken up a position that allowed him to look down over Dwa’s shoulder, saw what looked like utter devastation.

  Unlike the bridge, the Fire Control Center had been staffed by Kan. Even after no less than three human-manufactured flash grenades had been dropped into the compartment from a ventilation duct, quickly followed by a homemade gas bomb, the Kan still put up a fight. And, judging from the chaotic sprawl of both Sauron and Ra ‘Na bodies, had nearly won. In fact, judging from the video, no more than six of twenty-six Ra ‘Na commandos survived, and half of them were wounded. “Did you take any prisoners?” Pol inquired. “If so, what kind of shape are they in?”

  The commando restored the camera to the console in front of him. His features were hard and grim. “There are no prisoners,” he said flatly, “none whatsoever.”

  “No Ra ‘Na?” Pol persisted.

  “The collaborators died defending their masters,” the commando replied, his eyes daring Pol to take exception.

  Though opposed to what amounted to summary executions, the cleric understood. He nodded. “My name is Pol, Fra Pol, and I am in temporary command of this ship. Lock yourselves in, make repairs if that’s possible, and don’t allow anyone to fire the vessel’s weapons without my authorization. Is that understood?”

  The commando, who had been forced to memorize the name and face of every officer who might wind up in command, nodded. “Understood.”

  “Good,” Fra Pol concluded, “and there will be no more executions. We are Ra ‘Na—not Saurons. Pol out.”

  The attack on the Hok Nor Ah’s port propulsion pod was a fiasco from the start. P’ere Slas, the cleric in command, had little if any aptitude for things military, and, typical of the church services for which he had responsibility, launched his attack ten units after he was supposed to.

  As a consequence of that, and the fact that the Fon in charge of Propulsion Pod Two had been warned by that time, a dozen Kan were ready and waiting when the Ra ‘Na made their move. The slow-moving Slas was killed within seconds of emerging from the deck-level air duct. The second Ra ‘Na to enter the engineering space did manage to fire a single burst, however, and as luck would have it, hit a bulkhead-mounted fire extinguisher. It went off, fell to the deck, and spun like a top.

  The distraction provided just enough time for three additional Ra ‘Na to enter the compartment, two of whom used their weapons to good effect.

  A Kan warrior staggered under the unexpected onslaught, threw his pincers into the air, and died. But there were more Kan—and they wasted little time revenging their brother’s death.

  Given her status as a medic, Shu was one of the last commandos to emerge from the air duct and had little choice but to step on her leader’s dead body. Not counting a clutch of Fon functionaries, who watched in stunned silence, only two defenders remained. The first, a fearsome-looking Kan, lifted a struggling Ra ‘Na over his head and threw the resistance fighter down. There was a sickening thud as the little body smacked into the metal deck and lay motionless. Shu threw herself forward. The Kan staggered as the medic landed on his back, attempted to shake the Ra ‘Na off, and failed.

  The weapon, a small off-the-shelf Teckna survival knife, rose and fell. Thanks to illicit dissections Shu helped Pol perform on dead Saurons, the medic had a better-than-average understanding of their anatomy. She aimed the dagger-shaped blade for the crevice where the warrior’s neck armor came into contact with his thorax and rammed it home.

  Blood spurted, the Kan howled in pain, and fell as a damage control ax bit into the side of his right leg. The warrior’s most recent assailant, a normally mild-mannered brother named Yath, recited the death hona as he broke the blade free from the Kan’s exoskeleton and took a second swing. The ax cut all the way through this time and lopped the extremity off. Blood spurted, and Shu managed to jump clear just as the Sauron fell.

  Both Ra ‘Na were prepared to resume the attack, but the Kan grabbed his stump, said something incomprehensible, and departed to join his ancestors. That was when the med tech took a look around, heard the intercom go off, and heard a familiar voice. “Propulsion Pod Two? This is the bridge. Report.”

  She stepped over the body of a fallen comrade, made her way to the com console, and found Pol looking back at her. He saw the blood on her clothes and gave thanks for the fact that all of it was green. “Shu? Are you all right?”

  The medic nodded, thanked the Great One for keeping Pol alive, and made her report. “Yes, I’m fine, but most of the team weren’t so lucky. P’ere Slas launched the attack late—and the Kan were waiting for us.”

  Pol nodded his understanding. “Propulsion Pod One remains under Sauron control—as does the Launch Deck. Both attacks failed. Odds are that one of the two locations managed to warn the staff in Pod Two.”

  “And you took the bridge?”

  “Yes, we did, and the Fire Control Center as well.”

  “Which means?”

  “Which means we must hold,” Pol said thickly. “And hold, and hold, and hold. We don’t control the ship—but neither do the Saurons. So secure the hatches, disable the servos, and prepare for a counterattack.”

  Shu looked at Yath, and he nodded. “The hatches to Pod Two have been secured. How ’bout the rest of the fleet?”

  “Reports are still coming in, but it looks like at least twenty-five percent of the fleet is ours.”

  Shu placed a finger on the screen. Pol knew that anyone with access to a com screen could see—but decided he didn’t care. “I love you.”

  “And I,” the initiate replied, “love you.”

  Elsewhere aboard the Liberty, and dozens of other ships, the battle continued to rage. A blow had been struck—but the war raged on.

  NEAR THE MAYAN RUINS OF NAKABE, GUATEMALA

  Lord Hak-Bin had been moved from the makeshift operating room to more pleasa
nt quarters, where he could recover from the effects of the anesthesia and the operation itself. In fact, unlike the indigenous structures that most Saurons had little choice but to take advantage of, the lodge with the high-peaked roof, removable walls, and generous floor plan had been constructed with Sauron comforts in mind.

  The fact that the quarters had previously been occupied by Dun-Dar, who was now forced to wait in his own antechamber, added to that individual’s growing sense of frustration. News, all of it bad, continued to pour in. Not only had there been some sort of slave revolt at the citadel located north of the equator—the fleet was under attack as well. Was Hak-Bin aware of that? No. Why? Because Ott-Mar had given instructions that his patient should not be disturbed. So now, as Dun-Dar was forced to await admittance to his own lodge, the Lord high-idiot lolled within. Or so the stonemaster assumed.

  In that regard, however, Dun-Dar was wrong. Far from lolling about, Hak-Bin was not only up, and on his feet, but he stood admiring himself in a full-length mirror. In spite of the fact that his body was still somewhat swollen, and the manner in which stainless-steel sutures had been used to hold certain sections of chitin together, he looked much more presentable than before. So much so in fact that the Zin wouldn’t hesitate to appear in public. Not nude, of course, but swathed in one of his new custom-made black togas, and hung with the ornaments of office.

  Of far more importance than how he looked was how Hak-Bin felt. Not only had the transfusion cleansed his blood of change-related toxins, it effectively put the increasingly demanding nymph on hold and infused his body with energy. So much so that the Zin shuffled over to the door, threw it open, and was about to take a walk when he found himself snout-to-snout with a startled Dun-Dar. The stonemaster managed to recover his composure and gestured respect. “Lord Hak-Bin . . . Ott-Mar said your health was much improved. I’m pleased to see that his report was accurate.”

  Hak-Bin took note of the manner in which the word “health” had been used as a stand-in for his actual condition and gave the normally blunt stonemaster credit for some tact. “Thank you, Dun-Dar, I feel much better. My apologies for usurping your quarters. Please allow me to assure that I will withdraw by day’s end.”

  The mere mention of the manner in which he had been inconvenienced went a long way toward improving Dun-Dar’s mood. “It was nothing,” the stonemaster lied. “I’m sorry to bother you during your convalescence, but I have news to impart.”

  “None of which will be good,” Hak-Bin responded, catching a whiff of the pheromone the other Sauron had emitted and correctly assessing the stonemaster’s body language. “Well, come in, make yourself comfortable in your own quarters, and tell me the worst. I’m back now—and ready for most anything.”

  But Hak-Bin wasn’t ready, not for the news that Franklin had escaped a well-deserved death, that the human resistance fighters had gone so far as to attack Sauron fighters, that a group of ferals were making regular radio broadcasts, that a large number of formerly placid Ra ‘Na were in open revolt, that fully half of the Hok Nor Ah had come under their control, that more than a quarter of the fleet was now in their hands, and that a large number of Zin were after his head. It was a lot to absorb—but Hak-Bin managed to do so. Dun-Dar watched in wonder as the other Zin not only withstood the onslaught of negative news but seemed energized by it. If ever there had been evidence that Hak-Bin had been born to lead, here it was.

  “Disturbing though the situation is, it could be worse,” Hak-Bin allowed thoughtfully. “Based on your report it sounds as if the citadels are intact, both catalyst factories remain under construction, and seventy-five percent of the fleet is under Sauron control.”

  Dun-Dar could see the manner in which the other Zin was already at work weaving the facts into a story that the Council of Clans might accept—and was amazed by the other Sauron’s brazen effrontery. “Yes, lord, your points are well taken. How can I and those under my command be of service?”

  “Keep the slaves under control,” Hak-bin replied. “Finish the citadel, complete the necessary preparations for the great day, and save a cell for me. It will be an honor to die here with leaders such as yourself.”

  This was high praise indeed, and even though Dun-Dar suspected that the other Sauron was trying to manipulate him, he couldn’t help but feel flattered. “I will see to it myself, lord. My nymph is pledged to yours. May I ask where you will go from here?”

  Hak-Bin looked surprised. “Why, up into orbit . . . The fleet falls under my authority does it not?”

  Dun-Dar bowed formally. “Yes, eminence, I feel confident that it does.”

  NEAR BELLINGHAM, WASHINGTON

  The house had been rather nice at one time, but that was before the owners were forced into slavery, looters trashed the place, and the birds moved in. Now, with the exception of the single room in which the meeting was being held, the place was a mess.

  Still, while not as nice as it had been, a little cleanup work had been sufficient to restore the dining room to something like livability. The heavily scarred dining room table, which had once been the center of family dinners, was now laden with maps, binoculars, a pistol belt, and multiple cups of instant coffee. Professor Boyer Blue blew the steam off the black brew and raised the mug into air. “To the president of United States . . . A free man at last!”

  Franklin grinned. “Maybe not free . . . but out and about.”

  Deac Smith took a ceremonial sip of coffee. “We’ll take what we can get.”

  “I’ll second that,” the man called Patience added, “although the Sasquatch Nation regrets the fact that Sauron fighters were allowed to crash into the fragile waters of Puget Sound. Who knows what sort of pollutants have leaked out to poison the water?”

  Franklin would have been happy to see five hundred Sauron fighters dive into Puget Sound, but nodded dutifully and gave thanks for the fact that Blue had been able to bring the greens back to the table after Amocar assassinated their leader. The fact that the onetime bodyguard had been killed while trying to shoot the very man he was pledged to protect had gone a long way toward placating them. “Yes,” Franklin replied, “I’m sure we all look forward to the time when we can work on a global cleanup. In the meantime the battle continues—and I would like to introduce P’ere Nec who agreed to sit in on behalf of Dro Rul.”

  The Ra ‘Na sat level with everyone else with the aid of two telephone books. He had dark, nearly black fur, streaked with rust and gold. Like most of Dro Rul’s inner circle, the cleric had an ascetic bent and wore plain brown robes. His beady brown eyes darted from one face to the next. “Dro Rul sends both his regards and his apologies but knows you will understand. Our people launched their attack on the oppressors approximately twelve units ago. Dro Rul felt it was important that he be with our people.”

  Blue nodded. “Yes, of course. Thank you for making the long dangerous journey to the surface.”

  “There are dangers,” the cleric conceded, “but conditions continue to improve. I came here from a Ra ‘Na-controlled factory ship, on a Ra ‘Na shuttle, with two Ra ‘Na fighters for protection. A wondrous moment indeed.”

  “Absolutely,” Franklin agreed. “But while I have no wish to understate our joint accomplishments, it’s my duty to focus on the tasks that lie ahead. So, if no one objects, I would like to discuss item number two on the agenda.”

  Having heard no objections, the chief executive officer nodded. “This particular issue has more relevance to those of us who happen to be human—but would have an impact on our alliance with the Ra ‘Na should anything happen to me.”

  “Which it darned near did,” Smith said heavily.

  “Yes, there was something of a close call,” Franklin admitted reluctantly, “but, thanks to the folks on my security team, I’m still around. The next attempt could be successful, however, which is why we need a vice president. I believe that Professor Blue is an excellent candidate—and hereby nominate him.”

  Blue raised an eyebrow. �
��Regardless of his wishes?”

  “Yes,” Franklin answered decisively. “I can’t force you to accept my nomination—but I hope your conscience will. The requirements of the people, and of our alliance with the Ra ‘Na, leave little room for personal preference.”

  “Motion seconded,” Smith said firmly.

  Given the fact that only one potential candidate remained, all heads swiveled toward Patience. He was a big man with a round face and a bushy beard. He raised both hands palms outward. “Oh, no you don’t . . . I hang drywall with the best of them, play a little banjo, and sing in the choir. But a politician I’m not, and, assuming this thing goes our way, that’s what you’re going to need.”

  All eyes returned to Blue. The historian had already passed on the presidency—for what he thought were excellent reasons. But now, with no other takers, the academic couldn’t find it in his heart to refuse. “All right . . . if that’s what you want me to do. But only till proper elections can be held.”

  “Done,” Franklin replied. “The nomination has been made and seconded. No other nominations were put forward. All those in favor of Professor Boyer Blue for vice president of the United States say ‘aye.’ ”

  There was a chorus of “ayes.”

  Franklin nodded. “Let the record show that Professor Blue was named vice president by acclamation, to serve until regular elections can be held or until this body shall determine otherwise.”

  There were cheers, followed by another toast, and the historian made history. There had been other African-American presidents, but this was the first time that African Americans had held both of the country’s top political positions, and was something to be proud of if they lived long enough to celebrate.

  “Now,” Franklin said, “let’s tackle the next item on the agenda. While we attacked the Saurons—another group attacked us. I refer to the so-called Society of the White Rose—a group that seeks to spread hatred via regular radio broadcasts. If I’m not mistaken, this is the same group of so-called ‘racialists’ who murdered my wife. If we ignore the bastards, they could not only draw support away from our cause—they could use racism to destroy any chance of putting American society back together when this is over.”