EarthRise

by William C. Dietz

  “See Kat-Duu on your way out. He has the bullets for your weapon.”

  Tog remembered the moment of temptation, swallowed the lump that formed in his throat, and bowed.

  Hak-Bin watched as the Ra ‘Na withdrew and the hatch closed. It felt good to laugh.

  A SHOPPING MALL NORTH OF MOUNT VERNON, WASHINGTON

  Darby heard the president of the United States before she actually saw him. The muffled thump, thump, thump of semiautomatic gunfire grew steadily louder as the resistance fighter followed Jill Ji-Hoon down the littered corridor toward the source of the noise. The mall had been looted more than once, repeatedly vandalized, and part of it burned. Half-dressed mannequins stared from shattered storefronts, a blackened barbecue, and a large pile of trash marked the spot where someone had lived for a while, and a momentary breeze sent a fifty-dollar bill skittering down the edge of the walkway. Neither woman sought to pick it up.

  Two heavily armed guards waited up ahead. Ji-Hoon paused to speak with them, laughed at something the male said, and turned to Darby. “So, how ’bout it? Are you packin’?”

  Darby nodded. “A .38 and a pocketknife.”

  “Please remove both items, place them on the table, and assume the position. No offense—but the pat-down is SOP.”

  Darby shrugged. “None taken.”

  Once the search was completed, Ji-Hoon led Darby through a large pair of double doors and into what proclaimed itself to be the Bon Marché. It was a big store, but a largely empty one, with little more than the odd scrap of clothing on the nearly empty racks, tables, and shelves. The gunfire had stopped by then, and as Darby followed Ji-Hoon back through menswear, she saw that a rough-and-ready firing range had been established on the far side of the store. Mannequins served as targets, and one of them, minus the left side of her face, had sustained multiple hits to her torso.

  In spite of the fact that Darby had never met Franklin face-to-face before, she had seen the “talkies” that the Saurons had dropped, and recognized him right away. Franklin saw her approach, holstered his weapon, and extended a hand. “Hi! My name is Alex, and this is Jack Manning. He’s my chief of security.”

  Manning gestured toward the mannequin. “You’ve seen him shoot . . . He needs all the security he can get.”

  Darby felt a sudden stab of pain, knew it meant she was smiling, and made note of the fact that neither one of the men had reacted to her face. Not visibly at any rate—which was all she could hope for. “It’s an honor, sir, my name is Darby.”

  Franklin nodded and released her hand. His voice was solemn. “I know . . . Thanks to you, and the other volunteers, five Sauron ships were destroyed in what future historians will refer to as the Battle of Bellingham. Assuming we beat the bugs, and assuming I’m alive, it will be my pleasure to hang the Medal of Honor around your neck.

  “In the meantime, in my capacity as chief of the armed forces, I hereby commission you a full lieutenant in the United States Navy. Come on, let’s have some coffee.”

  Manning grinned, and Darby, literally speechless as a result of the unexpected praise, followed the president over to a large display table. The clothing that had once been stacked there was gone, but a sign said “Sale!” in bright red letters, and harkened back to happier times. Deac Smith was there—and rose to give Darby a hug. Then, having been introduced to Boyer Blue, Patience, and the Ra ‘Na named P’ere Nec, the newly commissioned naval officer took her seat at the table. It was littered with maps, coffee cups, and other odds and ends.

  “So,” Franklin said deliberately, “I hear you took a little swim . . . At the rate you’re going we’ll run out of medals.”

  “Chu went with me . . . and the Kan never knew I was there,” Darby said modestly.

  “Still,” Franklin insisted, “based on the synopsis from Deac, I’d say what you did took a whole lot of guts. Let’s hear the full report.”

  Darby laid it out, starting with a description of her landing, the conversations with Borsky and Ellis, followed by the visit with Sister Andromeda. There had been rumors, but nothing solid, so the use of cocaine as a way to control the slave population came as something of a shock.

  Franklin, who had never been especially fond of Andromeda, was still saddened to hear about the deplorable state she was in. He shook his head sadly. “You have to give the bugs credit. They’ve done an excellent job of identifying our weaknesses and coming up with ways to exploit them.”

  “That’s for sure,” Blue said soberly. “So, what should we do? It sounds as if Andromeda wants an air strike . . . Is such a thing possible?”

  All heads swiveled toward Nec. The Ra ‘Na cleric sat on a tall stool. “Theoretically it is,” Nec replied, “or will be, as soon as the situation in orbit becomes clear. Many of our ships, which is to say those in which Ra ‘Na forces occupy the control room, remain infested with Saurons. Rooting them out involves compartment-to-compartment fighting. Soon, within a matter of days, I should be able to provide a better assessment of our offensive capabilities. Perhaps, if things go well, we will have an opportunity to attack the factory.”

  “Great,” Patience put in sarcastically. “In order to save our people, we plan to incinerate them from orbit. What could be better?”

  “I understand your point of view,” Franklin said carefully. “More than that, I sympathize with it. But this is the Sauron catalyst factory we’re talking about. Were we to leave the facility untouched, a new generation of Saurons will be born—and any humans who survive will do so as slaves. Besides, I’m no expert on things military, but doesn’t the orbital thing cut two ways? If the Ra ‘Na can fire on the area around the factory so can the Saurons.”

  “Which brings us to the possibility of an old-fashioned infantry assault,” Smith said pragmatically. “Based on the intelligence Darby brought back, it looks like the factory is only lightly defended. Given the element of surprise, we might be able to break through the defensive perimeter, set some demo charges, and amscray before the orbital weapons come into play . . . Especially if P’ere Nec and his folks can keep the Sauron fighters off our backs.”

  “We would certainly try,” the cleric responded. “Realizing our pilots lack combat experience.”

  “They’re gaining more with each passing day,” Franklin said grimly, “and something is better than nothing.”

  “Let’s say the attack is successful,” Blue said skeptically. “How would Deac and his troops deal with a bunch of cokeheads ? Imagine trying to move those people cross country while they enter withdrawal.”

  “The vice president has a point,” Patience admitted. “The assault force will need to carry some coke to tide the slaves over—and we’ll need a detox program at the other end.”

  Franklin sighed. In a situation where it was tough to provide free humans with enough to eat, the notion of a drug rehabilitation program seemed to verge on the ridiculous. Still, there didn’t seem to be much choice. “Okay, let’s go around the table . . . Boyer?”

  The ex-history professor nodded. “If Deac thinks he can pull it off, then I’m for it.”

  “Patience?”

  “An infantry assault beats the hell out of an orbital assault. My people will accept responsibility for the detox program.”

  “Excellent. Thank you. P’ere Nec?”

  “The Ra ‘Na will support you in every way that we can.”

  “And we appreciate that . . . Deac?”

  “Lord willing, we’ll pull it off.”

  Franklin nodded. “I hope he or she is paying close attention. We’ll need all the help we can get.”

  ABOARD THE BALWUR, (FORMERLY KNOWN AS THE NU MOR GA)

  The drop bay, originally intended as an area in which mines could be armed and launched from an area near the ship’s stern, was brightly lit. Too brightly lit for the task at hand. The coffins, each stamped with the occupant’s name, were lined up on a conveyer belt. Each was about four feet long, rectangular in shape, and made of gleaming metal. There were s
ixty-seven of them. Some had been sent to the Balwur from other ships, but many of the casualties had been suffered aboard the cruiser herself, during the final battle for control. And there were more casualties, thousands more, most of whom had been unceremoniously dumped from the ships that remained under Sauron control.

  Now, as the belt paused, then started up again, Dro Rul continued to pray. The prelate’s words, combined with those uttered by hundreds of relatives and friends, created a dirge so powerful that the ship’s fittings began to vibrate, as if the Balwur herself mourned the loss of those who had served her.

  The full hona consisted of more than a hundred stanzas, each of which would normally be sung by a member of the clergy, but this was war, and there was no time for such niceties. That’s why a toth, or shortened version of the prayer, was used instead.

  Each time the line of coffins paused, and a member of his flock was ejected into the cold blackness of space, a little bit of Rul’s heart went with it. Most of the possibilities the naysayers had warned him about had indeed come true. Thousands of Ra ‘Na lay dead, the majority of the fleet remained under Sauron control, and preparations for birth-death day continued. Some of the Ra ‘Na vessels had been freed, however, the Balwur among them, and that provided Rul with reason to hope.

  A Klaxon sounded as the last coffin was ejected from the dispersion tube, the toth came to an end, and the mourners started to leave. Rul wanted to follow them, to return to his quarters for some much-needed sleep, but that wasn’t to be. His aide, a hyperefficient cleric named P’ere Dee, seemed to materialize by his side. As usual, the younger Ra ‘Na’s attention was directed to the palm comp that linked him to computers throughout the liberated portion of the fleet. “Sorry to intrude, excellency, but if you still wish to attack the citadels prior to the strategic withdrawal, it will be necessary to do so soon.”

  Rul sighed. The so-called withdrawal was tantamount to a full-blown retreat. Not what he wanted—but there was very little choice. Most of the shipboard battles would end fairly soon. Based on the most recent reports, it appeared as though the majority of the fleet would remain under Sauron control until the change forced them into the citadels. That being the case, the master race would quite naturally attack any vessel known to be under Ra ‘Na control. Some of those attacks would be clumsy, especially those launched by vessels crewed solely by Saurons, but others, those having Ra ‘Na collaborators, would be quite effective.

  So, given the fact that the newly liberated ships were not only badly outnumbered, but lacked a reliable command and control structure, it seemed advisable to pull them out of orbit and regroup beyond the planet’s gravity well. Then, with a command structure in place, the “free” navy would be better prepared to fight.

  Would the Saurons follow? No, few of Rul’s advisers thought so. First, because there were only so many Ra ‘Na willing to help them; second, because the Saurons lacked the technical know-how required to operate the ships completely on their own; and, third, because too little time remained to them. Birth-death day was coming up fast, and thanks to efforts made by the humans, the master race was running behind schedule.

  That was the theory in any case, and emotions to the contrary notwithstanding, Rul had agreed to act on it. But not before one last act of defiance. An attack on the citadels that would not only bring additional hope to the humans, but force the Saurons to spend precious time and energy trying to make repairs. Rul, cognizant of the coffins now orbiting Earth, gave a nod. “Thank you, P’ere Dee. Notify the bridge . . . I’m on the way.”

  Elsewhere aboard the ship, down on the Launch Deck, a single cleric emerged from a shuttle, passed through the lock, and offered his credentials to a pair of heavily armed guards. A bandage concealed what remained of his left ear, another bandage protected the wound on his left arm, and he walked with a strange bowlegged gait. One of the sentries, an individual named Niss, examined the holo doc. “Your name is Has?”

  “Yes, P’ere Has, assistant to Grand Vizier Tog.”

  Nis growled deep at the back of his throat. “You work for ‘turd’ Tog? The collaborator? We should put a bullet through your head.”

  “The Grand Vizier is a true champion of the people,” Has answered defensively, “and sent a message to Dro Rul. I have that message in my possession and wish to deliver it.”

  “So, hand it over,” Niss replied. “I’ll pass it on.”

  “No,” Has replied stubbornly, “the message is for Dro Rul. Please notify him that I have arrived.”

  Niss made a face and turned to his companion. “Put a message in to P’ere Dee—he’ll know what to do. Meanwhile, let’s put the collaborator in holding tank two.”

  “I’m not a collaborator,” Has said indignantly, but it made no difference and they took him away.

  Meanwhile, in spite of efforts to restore the Balwur’s bridge to pre-Sauron conditions, the lighting was too low and many of the fittings were too large. Still, it was nice to see Ra ‘Na-style seats where slings had recently been, and to know that the Saurons who remained were under heavy guard.

  Rul, careful not to usurp the authority of the vessel’s newly named commanding officer, stood to one side as the ex-power tech prepared the ship for battle. Her voice was calm and steady. “Pods One and Two—both engines ahead one-third. Energy cannons two, four, six, and eight, stand by to fire on target one. Balwur to the fleet . . . may the Great One protect you . . . commence firing.”

  HELL HILL

  His name was Sko-Mor, and as chief overseer, and assistant to the resident stonemaster, it was his responsibility to see to the workforce, and ensure adherence to the work schedule. Had the Fon bothered to familiarize himself with the human system for tracking time, he might have known that it was exactly 6:00 P.M. when the shift ended and the slaves streamed down off the hill. A common occurrence witnessed many times before.

  What Sko-Mor failed to notice, however, not until it was too late, was the fact that as the slaves streamed down off the hill, the next shift failed to move up. Then, just as the discrepancy began to dawn on the overseer and the wheels had started to turn, artificial lightning flashed down out of the clear blue sky, struck Observation Tower ^-[], and cut the structure in two. The top half was still falling, still many feet from the ground when a loud crack was heard, and thunder rolled across the bay.

  Now the Fon understood. The slaves had been warned about the attack in advance . . . and that’s why they remained at the bottom of the hill! The humans would pay for that, and pay dearly, the moment the bombardment ended.

  Thanks to his position on the roof of the citadel’s north tower, Sko-Mor had an excellent position from which to view the ensuing destruction, or would have, if the next bolt of energy had been directed somewhere else. Unfortunately for the overseer, the next shot touched down not ten units away, incinerated his body in less than one one-hundredth of a unit, and damaged the tower’s roof.

  Meanwhile, many miles above, the crew of the Balwur gave a reedy cheer. Not for long, because the cruiser came under almost immediate fire from Sauron-controlled vessels all around them, but long enough. Blood had been drawn—and even the normally dour Rul was forced to release a satisfied smile. Then, with covering fire from Pol’s Liberty, the Balwur and the other ships of the newly reconstituted Ra ‘Na navy broke orbit and withdrew into space.

  Has had the holding cell all to himself. Like the rest of the Ra ‘Na the cleric had been born and raised in space. That being the case, he recognized the tremors that ran through the ship’s hull for what they were. The ship was under attack! And, judging from the way it felt, the Balwur was fighting back.

  Has felt the gentle tug as the ship powered its way out of orbit and escaped into space. The reality of that produced mixed emotions. On the one hand, Has was proud of what his people had been able to accomplish against seemingly impossible odds. But what about his mission. Would Rul agree to see him? And what if he didn’t? But there was nothing the cleric could do except worry
, and finally, once the battle-induced tremors had subsided, drift off to sleep. And that’s what Has was doing when the hatch hissed open, two members of the newly formed Ra ‘Na constabulary entered, and one nudged him with a boot. “P’ere Has? Get up. Dro Rul wants to see you.”

  Has rubbed his eyes, allowed the second constable to help him to his feet, and was herded out into the corridor. The cleric had served aboard the Balwur during his younger days and knew the vessel well. That being the case, he had a pretty good idea of where they were taking him and could direct most of his attention to the sights and sounds around him. Perhaps most noticeable was how happy members of the crew were as they shouted greetings to each other, and even went so far as to hold hands and dance in circles. And that in spite of the bandages many wore, the bulkheads splattered with Ra ‘Na blood, and the informal memorials that marked places where major battles had been fought. Also worth noting was the complete absence of Saurons—and the resulting absence of fear.

  It was heady stuff, wonderful stuff, so much so that by the time Has was shown into Rul’s ascetically barren chambers, the envoy had serious doubts regarding what Tog liked to refer to as “. . . the loyalist cause.” Loyal to what? The Sauron who had applied a red-hot iron to his genitals? To slavery? To fear? None of it made sense. Still, the fact that Tog sought to enter into some sort of dialogue raised the possibility of racial reconciliation, and that was good. Or so it seemed to Has.

  The compartment was already filled to near overflowing with all manner of individuals, both ecclesiastical and secular, all of whom wanted to obtain Rul’s advice, permission or an indulgence of some sort. But first it was necessary to get past P’ere Dee, better known to many as “the iron gate,” who, for better or worse, was empowered to decide who would be allowed to see Rul, and in what order.

  And so it was that Has was suddenly plucked from the obscurity of the outer waiting room and escorted into Dro Rul’s study. The cleric went to one knee, bowed his head, and was about to offer further obeisance when the prelate touched his shoulder. “I know you mean well, P’ere Has,” Rul said, “but the time has come to ask ourselves whence such traditions came? From the planet on which we originated? Or from the race that took it over. Do we kneel to the person? Or to the Great One whom that person represents? All of us must find time to meditate on such questions. So, until such time as we come up with answers, I would ask that you forgo such rituals and greet me as you would anyone else. Here . . . sit by my side . . . Now, P’ere Dee tells me that you were entrusted with a message.”