EarthRise (14 page)

There had been four guards, all of whom had been killed by a single sniper less than twenty-four hours earlier. Since that time two had been butchered and eaten while the rest of the meat had been salted and prepared for the journey home. The flesh was a good if a bit chewy—and welcome during a time when protein was hard to come by.

“Butchered” was a deceptive term, however, since the Saurons had been cleaned with almost surgical care, stuffed by a skilled taxidermist, and posed in and around the fuel station, where they gave the appearance of normalcy. A deception that wouldn’t hold up for very long—but should be sufficient to lure the unsuspecting road train deep within the carefully established kill zone.

And so it was that Ella, along with her band of white warriors, settled in to wait for what might be days. A not-altogether-unpleasant prospect since it would provide the racialist with an opportunity to read, something for which there was very little time of late. So there she was, curled up with the American Institute of Theology (AIT) study guide, reviewing Seedline doctrine, when the Motorola Talkabout 250 walkie-talkie squawked in her pocket. Ella frowned, removed the device, and pushed the “send” button. “This is One . . . say again. Over.”

The voice belonged to a promising skin named Hampton, who went by the name Too, after the many racialist tattoos that decorated his body. That being the case, it seemed natural to honor his request for the call sign Two.

“This is Two . . . The convoy is in sight. I see one tractor, six trailers, and no guards in sight. ETA ten minutes. Over.”

Ella looked up at the evergreen-covered hill where she knew Too to be hiding. “Any sign of air cover? Over.”

“Nope. Not so much as a crow. Over.”

“Good. Stay where you are and keep a sharp lookout. I don’t want any surprises. Over.”

“Understood,” Too replied, “and one more thing . . .”

“Yes?”

“The chits strapped some guy to the front of their tractor. Like a trophy . . . or a hostage. Over.”

“Is he white? Over.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Then don’t anybody shoot him. All right, take your places, and remember . . . Nobody fires until I do. Over.”

There was a chorus of clicks as the rest of the team acknowledged Ella’s order, released their safeties, and prepared to fire.

Meanwhile, less than a mile away, a Kan named Doo-Naa engaged in the Sauron equivalent of a frown, and clicked through the a series of radio frequencies. He had heard something, the warrior was certain of that, but what? Feral slaves were a loquacious lot, and even though there weren’t all that many of them, it seemed their numbers were larger because of the fact that they babbled day and night. And, making a difficult situation worse, was the fact that the transmissions might be coming from nearly anywhere. Still, better safe than sorry, which was why Doo-Naa reported his observations to the NCO in charge, a relatively competent individual named Cis-Nor.

Cis-Nor took the warning seriously, ordered the driver to reduce speed, and placed his entire squad on the highest level of alert.

It was then, as the noncom scanned the screens racked against the front bulkhead, that he noticed the first sentry. The warrior stood on a slight rise—ready to respond should there be an attack.

Cis-Nor allowed himself to relax a little as the train turned off the main highway and growled into the small state park. The fact that the fuel bladder was where it should be, floating untouched at the center of the lake, made the noncom feel even better.

The shore-based pump station was equipped with a twenty-unit-long heavily armored hose. That forced the driver to swing the tractor out toward the water, over a patch of recently disturbed dirt, and into the same general area where convoys always stopped. Ivory ran his tongue over dry, cracked lips, saw the lake, and tugged at the straps. “Water . . . I need water.”

The word was little more than a croak, but the movement caught Ella’s eye, and she took a look through a small pair of binoculars. That’s when Ivory’s face came into focus, when she knew who he was, and when the road train ground to a halt.

It was Jonathan! He was alive! Just as Mother said he would be. She had never seen him without the goatee but recognized her husband nonetheless. A sense of fierce pride welled up to fill the racialist’s breast as the tractor burped compressed air, hatches whined up out of the way, and ramps slid down to meet the sandy soil. You must concentrate, Ella instructed herself, and wait for the aliens to leave the protection of the tractor and trailers.

The racialist aimed at the tractor’s ramp, applied additional pressure to the submachine gun’s trigger, and waited for one of the Kan to appear. Nothing happened.

Meanwhile, still confined within trailer three, and eager to go outside, Rol-Baa made use of his radio. “What’s the delay?” the warrior wanted to know. “I’m tired of sitting in this metal box.”

“Really?” the noncom inquired sarcastically. “Well, maybe you’re tired of living. Take a look at those guards and tell me what’s wrong with them.”

Goaded by the other Sauron’s tone, Rol-Baa took a second look. He could see two of the guards—neither one of whom had moved since the first time he had looked at them. Then, before the warrior could remark on how strange that was, Cis-Nor used one of the train’s turret-mounted auto throwers to put a burst of darts into the ground less than one unit from a sentry’s foot. There was no reaction. “It’s a trap!” Cis-Nor roared. “Seal the hatches and get the train out of here!”

But it was too late. Though hopeful that the Saurons would come out where the skins could shoot them, Ella had a backup plan, and was quick to make use of it. The racialist thumbed a button, the explosives buried under the road train went off with a loud whomp! And trailer two was nearly torn in half. Rol-Baa was killed in the explosion, along with a another warrior assigned to the same car.

The driver, a quick-witted sort named Sus-Naa, hit the switch that would uncouple the tractor from the train and twisted the throttle. The vehicle lurched forward.

Outside Ella heard a sharp crack as a smaller charge was detonated, a seventy-foot pine tree swayed, and started to fall.

Ella held her breath as the tractor came up to speed, spewed gravel, and tried to escape even as warriors still trapped within the surviving trailers implored Cis-Nor to save them. Would the tree, falling as if in slow motion, hit the ground in time?

The racialist didn’t think so at first, but then the tree seemed to fall more quickly, and smacked the ground directly in front of the tractor’s blunt nose. Ivory felt the tip of a branch brush across his chest, wondered what caused the explosions, and felt very exposed.

Sus-Maa slammed the brakes on, managed to stop short of the tree trunk, and put the tractor into reverse. The Kan was backing away, looking for an escape route, when a skin named Boot fired the tripod-mounted launcher he and his companions had captured along with the fuel station. The foot-long missile slammed into the tractor’s side, blew a hole in the vehicle’s armor, and detonated inside the engine compartment. The subsequent explosion destroyed the main accumulator and put the vehicle out of commission.

That was when Cis-Nor radioed for air support, or tried to, only to discover that both his primary and backup frequencies had been jammed. Furious, the noncom took an assault weapon down from a rack, ordered Sus-Maa to do likewise, and came out shooting.

Ella squeezed her trigger, felt the submachine gun leap in her hands, and heard other weapons join in.

Most of the Kan died quickly, but Cis-Nor made it into the air, and was able to kill two white slaves before the enemy bullets found him. Some of the projectiles flattened themselves against his body armor, but others found his unprotected legs and another struck the side of his head. Killed instantly—the noncom crashed to the ground.

Ella knew that even if the effort to jam the Sauron transmission had been successful, and there was no way to be sure that it had, the activity itself was likely to draw the wrong kind of attention.

That being the case, the racialist knew there was no time to gloat. “This is One . . . Blow the fuel bladder and check the trailers for things we can use. I want the dead and wounded on stretchers. Nobody gets left. Quickly now, before all hell breaks loose. Over.”

Each skin knew what he would be held responsible for and went to work. There was a dull thump as the fuel bladder blew, black liquid stained the previously crystal-clear lake, and trout started to die.

Boot, who had been assigned to deal with hostages and/or prisoners, was already in the process of cutting Ivory down when Ella arrived at the front of the tractor. “Look at what the bugs did to this poor bastard!” the skin said sympathetically. “He looks like hell warmed over.”

Ivory heard the male voice and tried to focus. The face appeared as a white blob. The female voice was familiar somehow. “That ‘poor bastard’ happens to be my husband,” Ella said coolly, “so please pay him the respect he deserves.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Boot said respectfully. “I’ll take good care of him.”

“See that you do,” Ella said, and kissed her husband’s sunburned cheek.

And it was then, as the skin hoisted Ivory up onto his shoulder, that the racialist got a good look at his race wife. She smiled—and Ivory knew he was home.

Meanwhile, up in orbit, a battery of ship-mounted weapons fired. A quick succession of six energy bolts, all targeted to the same patch of ground, ripped through the atmosphere. Ella heard what sounded like a runaway freight train, felt a ground-shaking thump, and saw an entire cluster of trees explode into a million splinters. They whirred as they slashed through the air, rattled across some of the trailers, and plowed furrows in the fuel-polluted lake.

One of them struck a skin between the shoulders, threw him down, and nailed him to the ground. Ella, with Boot at her side, started to run. Another freight train arrived, and another, until the entire world erupted in flame.

ABOARD THE SAURON DREADNOUGHT
HOK NOR AH

A platform complete with a table and chairs had been erected in the otherwise empty compartment. Below the platform, positioned so it could be seen through the transparent tabletop and clear plastic floor, sat a large tank. And there, visible through the grillwork designed to keep him from climbing out, a Fon could be seen. The liquid in which he was immersed was active, like water put on to boil, except that the motion was generated by a chemical reaction rather than heat. The acid, diluted so the process would take longer, ate at the Sauron’s chitin. Eventually, after most of his hard exoskeleton had been dissolved, the acid would bite into his internal organs. Then, while still experiencing the agony caused by that, and no longer able to hold his head up, the Fon would collapse in on himself and sink to the bottom of the tank. Knowing that, and hoping for some crumb of mercy, Kol-Hee stared up through the transparent floor in a futile attempt to make eye contact with Gon-Dra, the Zin who had been his supervisor, and was in all truth responsible for the disaster aboard the factory ship,
La Ma Gor
.

But, having successfully blamed Kol-Hee for the explosions, and the subsequent shortage of birth catalyst, Gon-Dra was not about to demonstrate what might be interpreted as signs of sympathy for the unfortunate Fon.

Still hopeful of attracting the attention of the beings seated above him, Kol-Hee used his nose to push against the gridwork that held him in place, but with no success. His snout was wrapped with tape, his pincers had been secured with plastic ties, and only his feet remained unbound. The Fon could lift one foot then the other—but that was the extent of his freedom. None of which seemed to be of interest to Hak-Bin, Gon-Dra, Dro Tog, and a Zin named Len-Dar, all of whom were gathered to discuss the shortage of birth catalyst.

Hak-Bin, who had seen fit to restore gravity to the chamber to accommodate the requirements of the acid bath rather than his guests, was swathed in folds of black fabric. The extent to which his body had become swollen, and the odor that emanated from it, were factors the others sought to ignore.

“So,” the Sauron leader said gratingly, “I believe all of you understand the nature of the situation. Every drog of birth catalyst lost through Kol-Hee’s incompetence must be replaced. The facility on the
La Ma Gor
will be repaired, a new factory will be constructed on the planet’s surface, and the time schedule will be adhered to.”

The Zin turned toward the single Ra ‘Na. “It will be the Grand Vizier’s responsibility to mobilize the resources necessary to make these things happen and keep the slaves at the highest possible level of productivity. Do I make myself clear, Vizier Tog?”

Tog struggled to control his hard-pressed digestive system as the acrid odor of dissolved chitin found its way into his nostrils and threatened to summon his lunch. “Yes, eminence, you do.”

Meanwhile, just below their feet, Kol-Hee tried to scream as the acid found its way through thinner sections of chitin and burned his flesh. That was impossible at first, thanks to the tape that secured his snout, but when the stronger sections of his exoskeleton suddenly transformed themselves into white paste, and the acid rushed in, such was the Fon’s agony that he broke the tape and emptied his quickly melting lungs. The resulting sound made Tog’s fur stand on end, pushed his ears back along his skull, and caused his hands to shake.

Hak-Bin glanced down in time to see the functionary’s now-unsupported head vanish beneath the surface of the acid bath even as the sound was cut in half. The Zin looked back up. “You heard Kol-Hee—need I say more?”

Those in attendance agreed that he didn’t—and were quick to leave. There was work to do, a great deal of it, and every reason to hurry.

ABOARD THE SAURON DREADNOUGHT
HOK NOR AH

Lock ^<>* had been designated for use by slaves and was heavily used. That being the case, the metal bulkheads along either side of the passageway were shiny up to the level of the average Ra Na’s head but dark and grimy above that. And, because normal maintenance programs had been suspended in order to put the maximum number of slaves to work on citadel-related projects, many little things had started to slide. Lights had burned out, a layer of trash littered the deck, and Ra ‘Na graffiti had started to appear on the once-immaculate walls. Some of it was openly rebellious—a sure sign of how thinly the Saurons were stretched.