The team’s first stop was in front of a seemingly innocuous access panel. One of the boarding party’s specialists, an enviro tech named Slas, used a special key to open the box, punched a code into the key pad, and watched a three-dimensional diagram populate the screen. Apparently satisfied with what he saw, Slas tapped more keys, watched the visual morph slightly, and pointed to a series of bright green dots. Thanks to the camera mounted on his body armor, thousands of enviro techs could listen in. “We have five hits, sir, four of which are consistent with Sauron physiology.”
Pol frowned. “And the fifth?”
“That’s one of ours, sir. He or she is on the move, with blip three in hot pursuit.”
All over the fleet ears went back as the audience imagined how that would feel. To be the only one of your kind, on a nearly deserted ship, pursued by a murderous foe. Many of them shivered.
Conscious of the fact that everything he did was being broadcast, Pol thought rather than said some of the swear words he had learned on Earth. It was tempting to intervene—but was that the right thing to do? He had the mission to consider—not to mention the boarding party itself. Mind racing, the cleric eyed the screen. Outside of Three, who was clearly intent on following Five down a corridor two grids over, One, Two, and Four remained stationary. An icon flashed on and off beside blip one. Pol pointed to it. “What’s that?”
Slas shrugged. “It’s hard to say, sir. The icon signifies that electromechanical activity is taking place within that compartment but doesn’t specify what kind. It could be anything ranging from a robo sweeper to some sort of malfunction.”
Pol nodded. “How many of the Saurons can be handled from the bridge?”
Slas looked. “Two and Four. Three is on the move, and it appears as if One either knew how to enter a command override or forced someone to do it for him. See the delta-shaped symbol here? That means the environmental controls for that particular compartment are locked. No password, no access. You won’t be able to pump that one from the bridge.”
“Sounds like a Zin,” Pol said thoughtfully. “Some of them actually know a thing or two.”
Slas, mindful of the life-and-death scenario being acted out not far away, cleared his throat. “Sir? What about blip Five?”
Pol looked, saw that Five had lost some of his or her lead, and started to issue orders. “Hars, take three triads, plus the techs, and secure the control room. Once that’s accomplished lock Two and Four into their compartments and pump the air out. The rest of the team and I will go after blips Three and One in that order . . . Any questions?”
All over the Ra ‘Na held fleet, newly minted officers and noncoms took note of the brisk, efficient manner Pol used to brief his troops and made plans to do likewise.
Shu, her eyes locked on a shot of Pol provided by the camera labeled “Slas,” bit her lower lip. Why couldn’t Pol lead the team headed for the bridge? Where a person of his rank belonged? Well away from whatever dangers still lurked in the Ib Se Ma’s darkened passageways? But she knew the answer . . . Pol was determined to go where the greatest danger lay because that was his nature—and because that’s the way he believed leaders should lead.
“All right,” Pol said, “there’s a Sauron on the loose. Let’s find the misbegotten sinner and send him to his ancestors.”
Aware as he was that the somewhat wayward cleric had never been one to worry about rules, religious or otherwise, Dro Rul smiled and gave thanks for sinners.
With the possible exception of Pol himself—the rest of the boarding party was extremely fit. Bare feet padded on metal decking as they cut from one corridor to the next, turned toward the bow, and ran full out.
Unaware that he was being pursued, and intent on catching his prey, the Kan named Bla-Mas shuffled forward. He was different, very different, in that rather than change early the way it was rumored that some of his peers had, it seemed that his body was determined to change late if at all. That being the case, Bla-Mas saw no point in being herded into one of the citadels and hooked to a bunch of tubes.
So, taking advantage of the considerable confusion that surrounded the ship’s evacuation, the Kan hid. Then, having emerged, it wasn’t long before the Sauron discovered that rather than being alone, at least one other being roamed the same corridors that he did. A Ra ‘Na who, judging from its size, remained a juvenile and had somehow managed to survive the recent slave slaughter. Well, not for long, Bla-Mas told himself, not for long.
Nom paused to listen, thought that she could hear the soft shuffle-step-shuffle made by the pursuing Kan, cursed herself for a fool, and ran as best she could. The leg, which had been broken in a fall, slowed her down. Worse yet, assuming she could gain access to the secret passageways that crisscrossed the ship, the fully inflated splint was likely to impede her progress. The passageways were her best hope, however—which was why Nom was headed for one of the access points her parents had shown her.
The very thought of them brought tears to Nom’s eyes, and she sniffled as she limped down the corridor. They had known, had seen what would happen, and hidden her away. “Stay here,” her father ordered, “stay here until all of the food and water is gone.”
But there was lots of food and water, her mother had seen to that, and the hidey-hole was boring. Very boring, which was why she had ventured out too early and was presently running for her life.
Nom limped around a corner, glanced around, and realized she had taken a wrong turn. This was a dead end, and in order to correct her mistake, the teenager would have to return the way she had come. Nom turned, heart thumping in her chest, and limped toward the main corridor. The leg had started to ache by that time and the youngster whimpered as she turned the corner.
Bla-Mas saw the slave up ahead, uttered a shout of triumph, and drew his t-gun. That’s when Pol shouted, “Hit the deck!” and hoped the teenager would obey.
Nom processed the words, heard a loud bang, and threw herself forward.
Though surprised to hear a voice coming from the rear, Bla-Mas was a warrior and reacted swiftly. He turned, the t-gun coughed, and a dart plucked a marine off his feet. The boarding party opened fire, and the audience watched as a swarm of .22-caliber bullets devoured their target.
“Hold your fire!” Pol yelled. “Hold your fire!” as what remained of Bla-Mas collapsed in a heap. The staccato bark of the small submachine guns ended as fingers came off triggers.
“All right.” Pol said, “someone grab the youngster and let’s . . .”
Neither the boarding party nor the fleetwide audience ever got to hear whatever it was that Pol planned to say next. A hatch whirred open, the Lopathian battle bot emerged, and the boarding party started to die. Energy bolts, each of which seemed to know exactly what path to follow, found their targets.
Shu heard herself utter an audible yelp as the camera labeled “Argo” swiveled in the direction of the noise, jerked uncontrollably, and toppled over backward.
Pol cursed himself for getting caught up in the chase, turned toward the machine, and opened fire. Sparks flew as the small .22-caliber slugs bounced off the machine’s armor, struck bulkheads, and buzzed away.
That was when a marine named Foth ran forward, launched himself toward the robot, and slid along the deck. Thousands watched via Pol’s camera as the brave Ra ‘Na arrived under the robot’s curved belly, triggered the demo pack, and blew the construct three units up into the air. It crashed on top of Foth’s remains, showered the area with sparks, and finally went limp.
Having been opened from within, it was a simple matter for a triad to enter the compartment where Sel-Nam lay hidden and do what needed to be done.
Then, with the situation back under control, Pol turned his attention to the Ra ‘Na bodies. There were six of them, laid out side by side, as if at attention. His head bowed, and tears streaked his fur. Shu, who better than anyone knew what Pol felt, wished that she could hold him.
THE MAYAN RUINS OF NAKABE, GUATEMALA
; Dr. Maria Sanchez-Jones had a front-row seat as the final days elapsed. The fact that she was there, standing at the cavern’s ventana (window), was no accident. Shuttles had been arriving for days. At first they belly-flopped onto the surface of the artificial lake, disgorged orderly files of Zin, Kan, or Fon and took off again.
The initial groups of newcomers were met with organized jubilation. Drums pounded, banners waved, and the newcomers were marched toward the waiting citadel. Well, not marched, since many moved with considerable difficulty, but shuffled as best they could.
Then, as time wore on, the tenor of the arrival process seemed to change. In place of the orderly groups already down, the shuttles started to disgorge what appeared to be a random assortment of individuals from every caste. Not only that, but many of what Jones thought of as “the second wave” seemed to be in worse physical condition than those who had arrived earlier. Some were carried into the citadel on slings.
Finally, after what seemed like endless around-the-clock landings and departures, the flow started to slow. As much as an hour would pass during which there were no arrivals, followed by a flurry of activity as a half a dozen aircraft circled, and took turns crashing into the already crowded lake. Many of the latecomers sank, but some survived, as shuttles piled on shuttles.
Jones hated the Saurons with a passion, but even she felt something approaching sympathy as sickly Zin, Kan, and Fon pulled themselves out of the wrecks, hopped from ship to ship, and finally made it to shore. Some lacked the strength to continue and collapsed at the side of the road, while others shuffled on past. The question was why? Why build the fortress to begin with? Why were so many of them ill? And why slaughter the slaves?
The anthropologist had a theory, but theories must be tested, and she laid plans to do so. Three Eye, whom Jones wanted to recruit as her assistant, was something less than enthusiastic. “Please, senorita, consider what you ask. . . . To go down there, to examine one of the sky creatures, such an idea is madness.”
But somehow, in spite of all the hard work and the damage that the sun had inflicted on her skin, Jones continued to be attractive. A great deal more attractive than the other female sobrevivientes were, and that, combined with the fact that Three Eyes was a man, combined to seal his fate.
And so it was that the two of them waited till night, left the relative safety of the agujero (hole), and made their way down to the area adjacent to the lake. Reasonably confident that the Saurons who had fallen next to the roadside didn’t represent much of a threat, Jones made liberal use of a carefully hoarded flashlight. Three Eye, who regarded the expenditure of such a valuable asset to be something approaching a pecado (sin), was beside himself with angst.
But Jones, a rag held to her nose in a futile attempt to mitigate some of the stench, barely heard the steady stream of complaints. Nearly her entire attention was focused on the bodies that lay scattered about and the fact that, based on the noises she heard, at least some of the Savrons were alive!
Careful, lest she enter some kind of trap, the anthropologist approached what had once been a Fon. Now, well into the change, but without any birth catalyst, the Sauron resembled nothing so much as a pile of putrid meat. Still, there was a sort of rasping sound, as if something was attempting to breathe, and the gurgle of fluids as they traveled from one organ to the next. The anthropologist held out her hand. “Give me the spear.”
Three Eye, who had worked long and hard to mate the sliver of metal to the aluminum shaft, hesitated. First the professora led him here, to the place of the muerto, now she wanted the most valuable tool he owned. Was there no end to the woman’s insanity?
“The spear,” Jones insisted. “Give it here.”
Slowly, reluctantly, Three Eye parted with the spear.
Careful to put as much of the shaft as possible between the corpse and herself—Jones poked one of the bodies. There was no reaction.
Slightly more confident, the academic moved closer. Now, thanks to the splash of oval light, Jones could make out the sort of details not visible from high above. Based on the manner in which the alien’s chitin had separated down the center of its thorax, some sort of suture line existed there. What amounted to a seam that had parted under pressure exerted from within. Fascinated by what she had seen, Jones moved even closer. There, within a translucent sac, something continued to pulsate. Was that the source of the rasping noise? Yes, she thought that it was. Now, bending over, the anthropologist directed the light directly into the sac. Something burst through the tissue and teeth snapped just shy of her face as Three Eye jerked Jones back and out of the way.
Then, snatching the spear out of her hand, the sobreviviente stabbed the nymph. It made a horrible screeching sound, gave up a fountain of green blood, and collapsed.
“So,” the peasant said, stepping back from his handiwork, “what do you think now, professora? Was Three Eye correct?”
“Yes,” Jones said, her eyes drifting toward the place where the citadel acted to block out the stars, “Three Eye was correct. But we learned something, mi amigo, something important.”
Three Eye looked quizzical. “We did?”
“Yes, we did. The sky creatures are about to give birth.”
Three Eye frowned. “All of them?”
“Yes,” Jones replied, “I’m afraid so.”
“Shit.”
“Yes,” the academic agreed, “that pretty well sums it up.”
ABOARD THE RA ‘NA SHUTTLE NOMATH, (SEABIRD)
It was a bright sunny day, and the shuttle threw a vaguely delta-shaped shadow over the land below. It seemed to undulate as the aircraft followed the Columbia River downstream past Umatilla, Oregon, the Dalles, and along I-84 into Portland. “You see what I mean?” Boyer Blue demanded, pointing to the river below. “There they are!”
The shuttle banked to port and started to circle. The president of the United States had to scrunch down in order to peer out through the Ra ‘Na-designed view port. Sure enough, three Sauron shuttles were moored to the same pier. They looked strange in such close proximity to the few pleasure craft that remained afloat. More evidence that the Ra ‘Na were correct. Those Saurons fortunate enough still to be in transit prior to the destruction of Hell Hill had to go somewhere, and now, as the change claimed their bodies, spacecraft had started to land on any body of water the pilots could find.
Some, based on images captured from orbit, seemed to be carrying red gasoline cans, clear plastic jugs, and anything else they could use to transport some sort of liquid. Were such containers filled with birth catalyst? Collected from the orbital factory? Yes, there was a good chance that they were.
Now, over Manning’s strenuous objections, both the president and vice president were in the same aircraft over what the security chief considered to be enemy-held territory. He couldn’t stop them, but he could sure as hell intervene, which he didn’t hesitate to do from the rear of the aircraft, where he, along with four members of his team, was seated. The pilots, both of whom were Ra ‘Na, had grown used to the human by then, and were far from surprised when his voice came over the intercom.
“Hey, Lam, how many times do you intend to circle left? There’s all sorts of folks down there, many of whom are armed, and can’t tell the difference between a shuttle piloted by Ra ‘Na and Kan. Hell, there’s plenty of them who don’t even know there’s a difference. That being the case, let’s turn to starboard, zigzag, or do something to throw the bastards off.”
Lam, who had rather taken to the breezy informality typical of human interactions, was about to give the security chief what humans referred to as some “lip,” when an SLM zigzagged into the air, and he was forced to take evasive action. The Ra ‘Na pilot fired flares, rolled, and climbed. The maneuvers were ultimately successful, and Franklin, thankful still to be in possession of his lunch, attempted to restart the previous discussion. “So, the Saurons are going to ground. What should we do?”
“If we had the whole thing to do all over again
, I would recommend that we allow the Saurons to enter Hell Hill’s citadel, then attack it,” Blue responded. “By doing so we could have kept all of the bastards in once place. However, thanks to the fact that a good Samaritan leveled the hill, I suggest we work with the Ra ‘Na to locate the Sauron aircraft, put hunter-killer teams down at those locations, and root the bastards out of their hiding places. Once on the ground many of those teams will run into locals who may or may not be friendly to the cause. Political liaison officers will accompany each combat group in an attempt to bring such groups into the fold.”
Blue, in his role as interim vice president, had been assigned to survey as much of the United States as possible, contact any groups that he might encounter, and start the long, laborious process of reconstruction.
Though not very far into the process the ex-history professor had already encountered four putative presidents, none of whom had qualifications that even began to approach Franklin’s, a couple of would-be dictators, one theocracy, a group of racialists similar to those calling themselves the White Rose, and any number of experimental governments, many of which espoused philosophies similar to that of the Sasquatch Nation.
Some had refused to acknowledge Franklin as president, but most, impressed by the fact that he was an ex-governor, and by his accomplishments so far, were quick to sign aboard. Especially when assured that an election would be held three months after the Saurons were defeated.
Franklin considered the vice president’s proposal. The process the ex-history professor laid out made sense but would be damned hard to implement. What if some of the more recalcitrant groups refused to cooperate? And inadvertently provided the Saurons with an opportunity to reproduce? Or, worse yet, actually sided with the Saurons the way Sister Andromeda had in the past? How long would it be before a fresh generation of Kan warriors swarmed up out basements, sewers, and subways in an attempt to retake the planet? The prospect made his head ache. Franklin rubbed his temples. “Okay, Boyer, what you say makes sense. Let’s get on it . . . But what about the other citadel? The one down in Guatemala?”
EarthRise Page 37