EarthRise

by William C. Dietz

  Spon, who had never been to the planet’s surface and had no idea what a “bug” was, said “Yes, sir,” and made the necessary connection.

  Lit-Waa, the ranking Sauron in Pod One, heard the com tone and took one last look at his surroundings. The attempt to seize control of the starboard propulsion pod had failed, but only barely. Suddenly, with no warning, Ra ‘Na slaves had boiled up out of a heretofore innocuous access panel, opened fire with miniature weapons, and killed three of his brethren in less time than it would take to hop from one foot to the other.

  In fact, had it not been for the fact that one of the intruders died as the result of friendly fire, and fell backward into the hatch, the two surviving members of his file would have been killed as well. However, thanks to the temporary blockage, the Kan had time to draw their weapons and slaughter the rest of the rebels as they fought their way up past the corpse. Once that was accomplished, it was a simple matter to seal the maintenance hatches and call for reinforcements. The only problem was that no reinforcements had been forthcoming, and Lit-Waa was reasonably sure that they never would.

  That being the case, the Kan had little choice but to take the situation into his own graspers and try to escape. The dead Saurons had been piled out of camera range over in a corner, while the Ra ‘Na bodies had been bound with tape and arranged to make it appear as though they were still alive. Would the fur balls fall for it? Yes, the Kan thought that they would. There was no way to be sure, however— and a small but persistent emptiness claimed the bottom of the Sauron’s stomach.

  Now, as Lit-Waa turned his snout toward the camera, the real test began. Regardless of which slave the fur balls sent to negotiate with him, he or she would be frightened. The key was to use that fear, to seize the initiative, and get what he wanted. Careful to look as intimidating as possible, the Kan opened the circuit. “Yes? What do you want?”

  Pol saw a tough-looking Kan, some damaged equipment, and a row of Ra ‘Na laid facedown on the deck beyond. They had been bound hand and foot, and it appeared as though the entire assault team had been taken alive. Good news and bad news all at the same time. Good because they were alive—and bad because the Saurons would try to use the captives for leverage. First things first, however—which meant putting the Kan in his place. “You’re wasting my time, bug face . . . Umar, pump the atmosphere out of Pod One.” So saying, Pol broke the connection, and the screen went to black.

  Startled by Pol’s order, and unsure of what to do, Umar looked up from his console. The entire bridge crew, some twelve individuals in all, looked on as well. “There were at least eight Ra ‘Na laid out on the deck,” Umar said. “Surely you don’t mean to . . .”

  “I mean what I said,” Pol answered firmly, “and please make note of the fact that as commanding officer of this vessel, I require unquestioning obedience. Should we have to take this ship into battle, the Saurons are unlikely to offer time for debate. Now, execute my order.”

  Umar, his ears laid back against his skull, touched a series of controls. Elsewhere, at the opposite end of the ship, a pump started. Moments later air, one of the few things that Saurons and Ra ‘Na had in common, was sucked out of Pod One and stored against future need.

  Lit-Waa was still trying to deal with the slave’s unexpectedly confrontational response, still trying to settle on a course of action, when a subordinate pointed toward a console. “Look! Our air! They’re pumping it out.”

  Lit-Waa confirmed that the warrior was correct and had little choice but to reevaluate his approach. The fur balls were willing to sacrifice the hostages. That was a surprise. He reopened the link. The same Ra ‘Na he’d seen before appeared again. “Yes?”

  “You made your point. Restore the atmosphere.”

  “Say, ‘please.’ ”

  The entire bridge crew watched in amazement as the Kan was forced to swallow his pride. “Please restore the atmosphere.”

  Pol nodded. “Umar, you heard the bug, please restore the atmosphere.”

  The rest of bridge crew laughed, but more than that, learned something about their new relationship with the Saurons. A relationship in which they gave orders—and the so-called master race had to obey them.

  Lit-Waa heard the hiss of air as it entered the compartment.

  “So,” Pol said lazily, “what can I do for you?”

  “My brothers and I wish to leave the ship,” Lit-Waa responded. “Send a shuttle or similar craft to the Pod One airlock.”

  “And the hostages?”

  “The slaves will remain unharmed,” Lit-Waa lied, “which you can monitor via this com link.”

  The offer had much to recommend it. Not only would Pol regain full use of Propulsion Pod One, and restore the ship’s full maneuverability, he would free the resistance fighters. Yes, three Kan would escape, but so what? Three bugs wouldn’t make any difference one way or the other. So, why hesitate? What, if anything, was wrong? Then it occurred to him . . . During the time the com link had been open, not one of the hostages had moved. Were they truly alive?

  The initiate’s first impulse was to ask Lit-Waa—but a second possibility came to mind. Still on the com, and still in eye contact with Sauron, Pol issued an order. “Umar, the bug assures us that our friends remain unharmed. Let’s see if that claim is true . . . Analyze the environment in Pod One to see if oxygen consumption is consistent with the number of individuals visible on the screen.”

  The biosupport technician was mystified, but said, “Yes, sir,” and went to work.

  Meanwhile, in Propulsion Pod One, Lit-Waa cursed the slave technologies and wondered why his race was so much less capable. Had they performed all of the work themselves, had all of the castes been taught to read, perhaps . . .

  Umar looked at the readings, checked to make sure he was correct, and felt a sudden wave of sorrow. “Oxygen consumption rates are consistent with what three Saurons would require. Slightly elevated due to stress . . . but otherwise normal.”

  The finding was the one Pol expected to be given—but the realization brought him no pleasure. His voice was hard and cold. “I hereby call upon you and your companions to surrender.”

  Lit-Waa, embarrassed by the way in which a mere slave had been able to best him, and furious at the consistently disrespectful manner in which he had been addressed, spit defiance at the screen. “Come and get us, slave! Or do you lack the courage?”

  Pol touched a button. The screen faded to black. His voice seemed to echo between the control room walls. “Remove the atmosphere from Pod One, wait fifteen units, and pump it back in. Send a burial crew, a damage-assessment team, and some propulsion techs. I want both engines back on-line as soon as possible.”

  Umar complied, readings began to fall, and the com started to chime. The sound continued until Spon killed it. No one answered the call.

  ABOARD THE SAURON DREADNOUGHT IB SE MA

  Hak-Bin stood in front of an enormous expanse of armored plastic and looked at the planet below. In spite of the fact that Hak-Bin had spent a significant part of his life aboard Ra ‘Na ships, and in close contact with the Ra ‘Na, he knew he would never fully understand them. The propulsion system, yes, that was necessary, as were controls, life-support systems, all manner of other mechanisms.

  But why, given all the effort involved, had the Ra ‘Na decorated so many bulkheads with bas-relief artwork? Or set aside spaces for non-food-related plants? Or constructed blisters like the one he now stood in for the sole purpose of simply looking outside?

  Ah well, the Sauron thought to himself as he turned back toward his desk, if the slaves were logical, they wouldn’t be slaves.

  Denied the comforts of the Hok Nor Ah, the Zin had been forced to find new quarters, and the observation dome had been converted to his use. Much to his own surprise, Hak-Bin discovered he didn’t miss the things left behind. Was that because he had already accepted a noncorporeal existence? Yes, the Zin mused, that would explain it.

  And it was true, because even as
Hak-Bin entered the sling, and the U-shaped desk that seemed to embrace, he did so with a sense of joyful anticipation. He had problems to solve, resistance to overcome, and nothing was more pleasurable than that.

  A single glance at his desktop screen was sufficient to confirm that his first appointment of the day was with Centum Commander Dor-Une, a levelheaded sort who had distinguished himself by locating the feral complex from which the unauthorized radio broadcasts emanated and reducing it to ruble. A truly fine piece of work for which both the Kan and his line would be recognized.

  Hak-Bin touched a large pincer-sized button, saw the hatch open, and waited for the Kan to shuffle forward. Dor-Une was a warrior’s warrior. His chitin shimmered gray, his battle harness gleamed, and his posture radiated confidence. The Centum even smelled strong! Here at least was an individual the Zin could count on. “Centum Commander Dor-Une . . . Thank you for coming.”

  The Kan offered a stiff bow. “The pleasure is mine, eminence.”

  “Please,” Hak-Bin said, gesturing toward one of the sling chairs arrayed in front of his desk, “take a seat.”

  The officer accepted the invitation, slid his torso into one of the guest cradles, and wondered what sort of dra lay in store for him. There was a saying among the Kan: “Make a mistake and pay once. Win a battle and pay twice.”

  Now, with the supposedly secret birth-death day on the horizon and Hak-Bin up to his snout in problems, the Kan felt sure he would pay. The question was how.

  “First,” Hak-Bin said congenially, “please allow me to congratulate you regarding your recent victory. One of many I might add—stretching back more than a hundred units.”

  Dor-Une couldn’t remember the victories Hak-Bin referred to—but he could feel them. “Thank you, eminence,” the warrior replied cautiously. “My brethren fought bravely.”

  “Yes,” Hak-Bin agreed, “I’m sure they did. And now, as the ferals continue to make trouble, we have further need of their valor.”

  Here it comes, Dor-Une thought cynically, the well-sharpened stick. “Of course, eminence—we live to serve.”

  “Excellent,” Hak-bin said, “I think you’ll like this assignment. Rather than hunt the ferals down, as you were previously required to do, this group will come to you. The Fon are about to complete work on a factory, a very important factory, and it’s my belief that the so-called resistance will attempt to destroy it.

  “However, rather than destroy the factory, it is they who will suffer, since you and your brethren will be lying in wait.”

  “The factory will function as a trap then.”

  “Precisely.”

  “We have troops in place?”

  “Yes, but not very many. Highly addictive drugs have been administered to keep the slave population under control.”

  “I can call upon whatever resources I deem appropriate? Take whatever measures I think necessary?”

  “Of course,” Hak-bin said soothingly. “Give me a victory . . . the rest is up to you.”

  “Thank you, lord,” Dor-Une responded. “I will do my best. Is there anything else?”

  “No,” Hak-Bin replied, “just a sense of urgency. It’s my guess that the humans will attack soon.”

  “Understood, eminence,” the Kan replied as he backed out of the sling. “You can rely on the Kan.”

  “And I give thanks for it,” Hak-Bin said sincerely. “And one more thing . . .”

  “Lord?”

  “You’ll find a slave outside. Please send him in.”

  The Centum said, “Yes, excellency,” and backed away.

  Meanwhile, just beyond the metal hatch, Tog sat waiting. Waiting and sweating. Once again he had been summoned, once again he had no idea why, and once again he feared for his life. There was a good deal of irony in that, especially since he had cast his lot with the Saurons in order to avoid fear. He had survived so far, but a certain amount of that had been luck, and how long would the good fortune hold?

  Tog’s thoughts were interrupted as the hatch hissed open, a fierce-looking Kan emerged, and fired words like darts from a gun. “His eminence will see you now.”

  Tog mumbled his thanks, scurried through the opening, and heard the hatch close behind him. “Grand Vizier Tog!” Hak-Bin proclaimed expansively. “It’s good to see you! Please, take a seat.”

  Warmed by the Sauron’s greeting, and hopeful regarding the nature of the visit, Tog sat in the single Ra ‘Na chair. It was small, and the desk was large, which meant the Zin towered above him.

  “So,” Hak-Bin began, “how is morale among the slaves?”

  Tog, cognizant of how important it was to walk the line between the truth and politically expedient fiction, chose his words with care. “Locally, which is to say aboard the Ib Se Ma, morale is fairly good. Elsewhere, especially on other ships, it’s my understanding that problems persist.”

  Hak-Bin gestured his agreement. “Yes, I would agree, which has everything to do with our visit. You, more than any other slave, have proven your loyalty to the Sauron race. And now, much as I would like to see you sit back and relax, there is one more favor that I must ask.”

  Tog felt a series of conflicting emotions. Resentment where the word “slave” was concerned, pleasure in the unalloyed praise, and a growing sense of dread. What sort of “favor” did the Sauron have in mind? The anxiety continued to build. “Thank you, eminence. How can I be of service?”

  “Let’s talk about the ‘problems’ you referred to,” Hak-Bin began. “It seems that most, if not all the difficulties can be traced to a certain Dro Rul. The two of you know each other?”

  “Yes,” Tog replied hesitantly, “though not especially well. While both of us served in the College of Dromas—but there was very little on which we could agree.”

  “And a good thing,” Hak-Bin said sternly, “since this Rul person has been sentenced to death.”

  Tog, mind racing, felt ice water trickle into his bloodstream. “Death, my lord?”

  “Yes,” the Zin answered emphatically, “which would go a long way toward bringing this mutiny nonsense to a speedy conclusion.”

  “Of course,” Tog replied cautiously, “it’s unfortunate, but discipline must be maintained.”

  “Precisely,” Hak-Bin agreed. “Now, given the fact that we agree, the only question is how the execution should be carried out. And that my friend, is where you come in.”

  “Me, my lord?” Tog asked, as he fought to maintain his composure. “Pardon me for saying so—but I lack even the most basic of qualifications.”

  “Ah, but that’s where you are wrong,” the Sauron replied smugly. “In order to kill Rul, the would-be assassin must first get near to him—and who better than another Dro? The rest is simple . . . You aim the weapon, pull the trigger, and ‘bang!’ The troublemaker is dead.”

  “But Rul would refuse to see me,” Tog said desperately, “and I have no weapon.”

  “Oh, Rul will see you all right,” Hak-Bin said reassuringly, “especially if we give him reason to believe that the Grand Vizier is about to join the rebel cause. And, as for the weapon, well, I took the liberty of having one made. Here, take a look at this.”

  So saying, the Sauron reached into one of the desk’s many recesses, found what he was looking for, and removed a lacquered tray.

  Tog had little choice but to stand, move forward, and accept the offering. The object that lay on the tray looked as though it was sculpted from white clay. Though inert, it looked dangerous nevertheless.

  “Go ahead,” Hak-Bin said earnestly, “pick it up. Be careful where you point that thing though . . . We wouldn’t want any accidents.”

  Tog’s mind churned as he wrapped his fingers around the carefully contoured handle. What did the comment mean? That the gun was loaded? That he could shoot Hak-Bin in the head, leave the compartment, and make a run for it? The rebels would welcome him, and his safety would be assured.

  But what if the comment was some sort of test? What if he pointed the w
eapon at Hak-Bin, pulled the trigger, and nothing happened? The ensuing punishment would be long and painful. Tog turned the weapon so it was pointed at planet Earth. He was surprised by how natural it felt . . . like an extension of his hand.

  Hak-Bin nodded. “It feels good, doesn’t it? To hold death in the palm of your hand. As well it should. That weapon was made with your mission in mind. The entire mechanism was manufactured from an extremely strong ceramic material that can pass through metal detectors without setting them off. It contains two bullets, both of human manufacture, either of which will do the job. All you need to do is get into close physical proximity and fire both barrels. Then, minus their most important leader, the Ra ‘Na rebellion will collapse.”

  Tog turned the weapon over in his hands. His chest felt tight, and it was hard to breathe. “Yes, eminence, but what happens to me?”

  Hak-Bin made sounds which Tog knew to be laughter. “An excellent question! We will choose the meeting place with extreme care. A team of specially trained Kan will be in hiding nearby. Once the weapon has been fired you will use this to send them a signal.”

  Hak-Bin produced what looked like a short length of rod. It was made from the same material as the gun. Tog accepted the device and found that it was cool to the touch. “You’ll notice that one end is protected by a cap,” the Sauron added pragmatically. “The button is underneath. Don’t press it until the moment comes. A Kan named Lim-Tam is in charge. Call him prematurely, and he won’t be amused. My staff will help arrange the meeting—and handle your transportation requirements. Any questions?”

  Tog had questions, lots of them, but knew better than to ask. Hak-Bin had what he wanted, and the meeting was over. “No, eminence, I have no questions.”

  The Ra ‘Na had backed toward the hatch, and was just about to leave, when Hak-Bin called his name. “Grand Vizier Tog . . .”

  “Yes, eminence?”