EarthRise

by William C. Dietz

  Jones liked the man. She moved fractionally closer. “My friends call me Maria. That’s why I came—to help you get inside.”

  “I’m all ears,” Franklin responded. “Please proceed.”

  Jones hooked a thumb back over her shoulder. “As you know by now, the aliens forced us to construct the citadel over a river, which flows down under the towers and exits from the far side. They made use of the flow to fill the moat, create the artificial lake, and provide the slaves with drinking water. They also used it as a way to rid themselves of waste. Pipes stick straight down and empty into the river. In fact that’s how I escaped . . . I dropped through a pipe, fell into a pool, and the water carried me downstream.”

  Franklin listened with interest and respect. The woman had guts, that was for sure, and he felt a growing sense of respect. “So, what are you saying? That we could go downstream, work our way back up, and access one of those pipes?”

  “No,” Jones replied honestly, “you couldn’t. The pipes are way too small . . . but he could.”

  Both Franklin and Manning turned to see that the doctor was pointing at Pol. The Ra ‘Na, still standing in the rain, saw their eyes turn his way. “Who? Me?”

  “Yes,” the anthropologist answered emphatically, “assuming that you could devise a way to reach the pipes from the water below, then work your way up through them, it should be possible to cut your way out.”

  “All it would take would be a few of them,” Manning said thoughtfully, “and they could open the doors from the inside.”

  The entire group turned in response to the distant pop, pop, pop of automatic weapons fire. Orvin pressed the earphones in against his ears. “The advance party ran up against some automatic weapons emplacements, sir. They took casualties but continue to probe the Sauron defenses.”

  The mention of casualties caused Manning to look across the rainswept clearing to the point where an army-issue field hospital had been established. The self-erecting shelter bore a large red cross. Sool would be in there, along with Dixie and a team of Ra ‘Na med techs. He felt a sudden yearning but managed to push it away.

  “Damn!” Franklin said enthusiastically. “That sounds promising. What do you think, Fra Pol? Would such a climb be possible?”

  The cleric shuddered, hoped no one would notice, and imagined what such a venture would entail. The human hadn’t mentioned how far off the water the pipes were located—but there were ways to close that kind of gap. No, the real horror would begin the moment that some poor fool entered a pitch-black pipe, and painstakingly worked their way upwards. And eventually, once they made it to the top, what then? It would be necessary to cut their way out, sneak through darkened passageways, and access the front door. Not a pleasant prospect and one that scared the dra out of him. But there was only one answer that could be given, so he gave it. “Yes, sir, assuming that we find everything pretty much the way she described it.”

  All eyes returned to Jones, and she shrugged. “There’s no way to know . . . I haven’t been back.”

  “Okay,” Franklin said, “I think it’s worth a try . . . Orvin, get a message to Smith, explain what we’re up to, and tell him we’ll stay in touch.”

  The com tech nodded, and the message went out.

  Deac Smith ducked as another automatic weapon opened up. Darts stitched a line along the ground only one foot in front of his position, threw tiny fountains of water into the air, and exploded like firecrackers. Not big explosions, the kind a grenade would make, but smaller explosions that could still do damage. Someone screamed, and Smith uttered an uncharacteristic swear word as a trooper low-crawled in beside him. “I have Snake Three on the horn, sir . . . The Big Dog is on the move.”

  Activated by who knows what, hundreds of self-propelled mines surfaced from somewhere below the surface of the muck and started to move outward. A machine gun opened up, detonated half a dozen of the devices, and shrapnel whined through the air. A piece of it hit one of the troopers in the head. His head fell forward, and it appeared that he was asleep.

  “Damn the man,” Smith replied crossly. “The last thing we need is a politician running around loose! Tell the Big Dog that I would prefer that he remain where he is . . . Order Bone Three to put additional fire on those mines . . . What’s he waiting for? One to crawl up his leg?”

  The radioman spoke into his mike, and another machine gun opened up. It cut a swath through the army of oncoming explosives, but more continued to surface. That’s when someone shouted, “Look! They’re opening the door!” And a group of six Lopathian attack bots spidered out to join the fray. “I need mortars!” Smith yelled. “Hit those suckers before they can disperse! And put some rounds on those doors! Maybe we can jam one!”

  But the order came too late. The heavy metal doors closed without difficulty, and, by the time the 4.2-inch mortar shells started to fall, the machines had separated. Gouts of mud shot up into the air, one of the war bots exploded under a direct hit, but the rest opened fire. Bolts of bright blue energy stabbed the misty murk. A woman screamed as a hole the size of a saucer appeared at the center of her armored abdomen. There was barely enough time to take a look at it before she keeled over dead.

  “Fall back!” Smith ordered. “By the numbers!”

  The troopers obeyed, each platoon falling back through the ranks of the one stationed to the rear, until a good fifty yards separated them from the oncoming land mines. “Okay,” Smith shouted to his com specialist, “call the Ra ‘Na! Tell them I want artillery support! And it had better be accurate!”

  And it was accurate, since every single member of the assault team had been equipped with a beacon, and the Ra ‘Na knew exactly where each one of them was. Artificial lightning flashed as destruction rained down from the sky. Smith watched in satisfaction as an assault bot vanished, half-ton divots of rain-soaked mud flew high into the air, and entire sections of self-propelled mines were detonated.

  Finally, when the bombardment ended, a strange sort of silence settled over the area. Those mines not destroyed settled into the mud. The computer-controlled weapons emplacements went to standby. That’s when Smith realized that the advance team had mapped the boundary beyond which the citadel no longer felt a need to defend itself and were momentarily safe. He turned to the radioman. “Call the Big Dog . . . tell him I want to report.”

  The com specialist murmured something into his mike, looked surprised, and looked Smith in the eye. “Sorry, sir, but he’s unavailable.”

  “Unavailable? Where the hell is he?”

  The radioman spoke into his mike, shook his head in disbelief, and made eye contact with Smith. “It doesn’t make much sense sir, not given the situation, but Snake Three claims that the whole lot of them went swimming.”

  It was Three Eye who led the group out and around the citadel, down to the river, then upstream along its banks. It was swollen now, fat with the runoff from the tropical storm and loaded with debris. High water made it difficult to walk. More than once the heavily loaded party was forced back into the jungle. Rain cascaded from leaf to leaf, dripped from branches, and made their lives that much more miserable. It was dark under the canopy of foliage, but the river sang to their right, and Three Eye never failed to bring them back.

  At one point, where trail and river met, they saw where two shuttles had been both run up on a sandbar. Unable to land on the artificial lake, and with nowhere else to go, the pilots chose the river. But there were currents to contend with, not to mention some tight turns, and both attempts failed. Were they still in there? Strapped into their seats? Or had some of the passengers managed to escape? There was no time to stop and investigate.

  The river roared as it passed over the last of three falls. None was particularly high, but Jones remembered how it felt to be swept downstream, not knowing what lay ahead, and feel the bottom drop out from under her body. Then came the momentary feeling of relief as she fell into the first pool, only to be dragged over the next ledge, and the next, prior t
o being swept downstream. The experience had been terrifying. So why go back? When she could have remained hidden? Because there was no choice. The Saurons had to be stopped, and this was the only way she knew to help.

  Having assigned himself the drag position, Manning came to regret it as he attempted to walk backward, tripped over tree roots, and repeatedly fell down. Not that point was a walk in the park. Kell had to watch for booby traps, land mines, plus homicidal Saurons.

  The trail disappeared over a rise. The security chief took a run at it, lost traction, and swore. His boots slipped, he fell, and swore again. Then, having pulled himself up the slope with the assistance of a vine, he hurried to catch up.

  The easternmost tower loomed above as lead elements of the party topped another rise and got a glimpse of the point where the river emerged from a curtain of vegetation. The vertical wall was reminiscent of a castle. Automatic weapons opened up on them almost immediately. They pulled back, used laser pointers to mark the defensive positions, and called on the heavy artillery. Bolts of energy screamed down through the atmosphere, blew chunks of limestone out of the walls, and the eastern defenses were silenced.

  Now, free to approach, the allies followed the river up to the citadel itself. The water, so active below, oozed out from under the citadel, swirled as if to gather its strength, and swept over the first ledge. Pol felt a sense of relief. Earlier, while listening to Jones, he had feared that the river might gush out from under the fortress, making it difficult to travel upstream. There was no way to tell if the rest of the plan would work, but now, having seen it, there was very little doubt that his team could enter the cavern.

  The trail dipped after that, took a sharp turn to the right followed by a meandering left. Then, as hundreds of birds took to the air, and the party passed the lower pools, they saw that bodies littered the riverbank. Ra ‘Na mostly, since humans were too large to drop through the pipes; there was a pile of larger bodies as well. Men and women forced to jump from the tower above to land on the rocks below. Birds had picked the top layer of corpses clean, but more waited below, and the stench was incredible. Franklin swore, and someone gagged, and Pol murmured a prayer.

  The next half hour was spent sorting out the equipment the allies had brought with them. Most of it had been carried by the humans, who, as the small aliens knew, made excellent beasts of burden.

  Based on the description the human had provided, Pol estimated that the pipe through which Dr. Jones had fallen ended approximately fifteen units above the surface of the water. But that was low water, and this was high water, which, based on unofficial historical data provided by Three Eye, would cut the gap by as much as a third.

  That being the case, Pol’s marines believed it would be relatively easy to shoot a spike into the overhead, climb a line, and rig a platform below. Then, careful not to load themselves down with too much gear, a team comprised of three volunteers would wedge themselves into the tube, press their backs against one side, position their feet on the other, and push-slide toward the top. That was the relatively easy part. As for the rest, well, that would be more difficult.

  Now, as the gear was sorted, then loaded into inflatable rafts, an argument broke out. Franklin wanted to accompany the Ra ‘Na up into the cavern, Manning objected, and so did Pol. The Ra ‘Na had enough problems without one or more humans to care for.

  Finally, having no support for his position, the president was forced to back down. Therefore, there was little he could do but watch as the Ra ‘Na transported their rafts up to the highest pool, launched them into an eddy, and pushed their way through a curtain of rich green foliage. They disappeared after that, and the humans waited to make sure their allies had been successful.

  Jones’ offer to accompany the marines had been refused. Now, as she stood at the president’s side, she was struck by the extent of his presence. It was obvious from the way he watched the Ra ‘Na depart that Franklin not only cared about their mission, but about them. The anthropologist remembered the cold-hearted manner in which she left Kevin Blackley to die and felt a sudden sense of shame. Then, as if aware of her distress, Franklin took her hand. He smiled. “I guess there isn’t much we can do here . . . so it’s time to hike up into the landing area.”

  Jones looked up, nodded wordlessly, and felt sorry when the president let go.

  It was warm within the citadel—warm and humid. Partly because of the weather outside and partly because there were so many bodies packed into one place.

  Now, as each Sauron went through the same process, the demarcations of caste fell away. Kan warriors, some of whom had sustained terrible wounds during past campaigns, discovered pain worse than anything they had ever felt before. Zin intellectuals, their bodies bursting from within, screamed with the same fervor as Fon functionaries.

  Meanwhile, as more and more of the old generation died, new voices were heard. The nymphs, hundreds of which were only a few units old, clicked, popped, and snapped as they broke free of the sacs in which they had been imprisoned. The triplets, many of whom seemed more aggressive than the rest, were loudest of all.

  The screams, overlaid with the semimeaningless babble of newborn nymphs and punctuated with the occasional boom as rebellious slaves attacked the citadel, created a cacophony of sound which, when combined with the stench of dead bodies and the hot humid air, turned the interior of the fort into an unspeakable hell. A hell that Centum Commander Nis-Sta and his warriors had promised to defend.

  Now, as the officer patrolled the corridors and tried to ignore the horrors around him, morale was the Kan’s foremost concern. Rather than go out and engage the enemy directly, his warriors were under orders to remain inside and listen to the screams.

  And, making a bad situation worse, in spite of the fact that Nis-Sta and his warriors would escape the agonies of birth, their bodies were old, very old, and increasingly tired. That’s why the officer shuffled from post to post, engaged the troops in conversation, and tried to keep their spirits up. Most responded, which was amazing given the circumstances, and for which Nis-Sta was thankful. Old Saurons continued to die, new Saurons were born, and the warriors remained loyal to both.

  Alien lichen bathed the cavern in a sickly green glow. The water, which appeared black and glassy, eddied out toward the river below. Bats, resentful of the manner in which powerful lights had been aimed up at the ceiling, continued to swoop and soar. One of them swept past Pol’s head. The cleric flinched, the rope swayed, and the Ra ‘Na struggled to hold himself up. Both of his arms ached, the insides of his calves were raw, and he wanted to let go. Would have let go had he been alone—instead of on display for everyone to see.

  Finally, after another desperate heave, the platform came level with his head. Hands reached down, Pol was hoisted up, and the platform swayed dangerously as he grabbed a supporting line. “Good work, sir,” File Leader Quas said encouragingly. “Just hang on while we get things organized.”

  The other member of the team, a technician named Twan, nodded respectfully, and the two of them went to work. Pol couldn’t remember when he had decided to lead the team himself. All he knew was that when he called for volunteers he requested only two. Every single marine in his party had offered to take part, but these two, both in top physical condition, seemed like the best choice.

  Because Pol was the weakest link, and knew it, he assigned himself to the number three position. If he became stuck, or was otherwise unable to complete the climb, the others would continue unimpeded. The arrangement was questionable, since the size of the cleric’s waistline dictated that someone else should lead the effort, but Qwas and Twan lacked leadership experience, a shortfall that could prove critical.

  So, contrary to the dictates of common sense and in spite of the fear that claimed his belly, Pol prepared to do the very thing he would most likely fail at: climb a vertical pipe and enter an enemy-held fortress.

  “Okay,” Qwas said, helping the cleric into the specially adapted combat vest, “th
e pockets are loaded with the usual stuff, including extra ammo and a couple of grenades. Not much, though, or it would get in the way. A special nonslip surface has been glued to the back. Keep your assault weapon tight against your chest, place your back against the wall, and push with the rubber-soled boots. Once I get to the top I will cut my way out, deal with any Saurons who happen to be in the area, and give Twan a hand. You come next. Any questions?”

  The file leader made the whole thing sound so easy that Pol felt silly for having any doubts. The cleric shook his head, watched the marines duck under the pipe and soon disappear from sight. Then it was his turn. Pol stooped under the opening, then stood. Alien lichen had colonized the inside surface of the pipe, which when combined with their headlamps, would provide sufficient illumination. The cleric couldn’t see the upper reaches of the tube, not with two bodies in the way, but that was just as well. What he couldn’t see couldn’t scare him.

  A hand reached down, and Pol was grateful. Twan hoisted the initiate upward and waited while he wedged himself in place. Then, satisfied that his commanding officer was off to an acceptable start, the technician hunched his way upward. The light from his headlamp soon started to fade. Pol followed.

  It was difficult at first, very difficult, but the initiate made progress. He learned that his elbows could be useful, adding as they did to the downward push, especially where one length of pipe joined another. Because of the process used to manufacture them, each joint was marked by a small ridge, an imperfection for which Pol was thankful, since it provided extra purchase and a place where he could indulge in a moment of rest.