EarthRise (17 page)

As for the Free Tagger named Cyan, he had been seated at the foot of the plywood surface, where he had already produced a fistful of Magic Markers and was drawing a mural on the tabletop.

Now that the resistance leaders were in place Franklin was eager to start the meeting. Something he couldn’t do without a green light from Manning. He turned to Amocar, who, along with a heavily armed agent named Lucky Lu and the newly inducted Jill Ji-Hoon, had been assigned to guard the president. “Call your boss . . . ask him what we’re waiting for.”

Amocar, who liked nothing better than to see friction between Franklin and his chief of security, already had his thumb on the “transmit” button when Manning spoke in his ear. “Snake One to Snake Two . . . Bring him down.”

Though disappointed, there was little Amocar could do beyond acknowledge the order and lead Franklin down the stairs. Something he did with considerable drama.

Lu rolled his eyes, and Ji-Hoon smiled, as they followed Amocar and Franklin down to the main floor.

Deac Smith watched Franklin and his bodyguards emerge from the heavily shadowed aisle with something akin to relief. Franklin had obviously been brought in first, probably by horseback, and stashed on-site. Now, with the conference already under way, Smith would have been willing to bet his pension that the chief executive’s helicopters were waiting somewhere nearby, and would be used to extract Franklin and his guests should that be necessary.

Of more immediate concern, to Smith’s mind at any rate, was the fact that all of the guests were presumably armed. Something both Manning and he had argued against but Franklin had allowed. “After all,” he said, “we’re asking them to come onto our turf, without so much as a single bodyguard. If you take their personal weapons, I doubt they’ll come. I know I wouldn’t.”

Security was the last thing on Franklin’s mind at that particular moment, however. He missed his wife more than ever now as he followed Amocar out into the makeshift conference area, saw the participants turn to look, and realized that she wasn’t there, seated in the back, her eyes filled with pride.

Suddenly it took every bit of courage the politician could muster to produce the professional smile, greet each individual by name, and take his place at the head of the table. He chose to stand rather than sit. A none-too-subtle trick that put him in control. Franklin chose his words with care. “Thank you for coming. There is a great deal to discuss—and not a lot of time in which to discuss it. By the time the sun rises in the morning the fate of our various peoples will be sealed. It’s assumed that your presence here indicates at least some interest in a unified resistance movement—and that will be our first topic of discussion.”

Franklin made eye contact with the only Sauron in the room and inclined his head. “With the single exception of Doo-Nol, who will die and give birth on or around July 31, the rest of us have a choice . . . That brief moment in time, those few days when the Sauron race is vulnerable, represents our only chance to survive, and for the Fon to gain their freedom.

“That’s why the first thing on the agenda is the question of leadership. Not just political leadership—but military leadership as well. I hold the title of president thanks to the enemy rather than a vote of the American people. That being the case, I will step down if that’s your will.

“Ideally, according to the traditions and laws of our country we would hold an election, one in which every individual would cast their vote, but that is one of many freedoms denied us. Because of that you will act in place of the Electoral College—and vote on behalf of the people you represent.

“In keeping with guidelines distributed prior to this meeting, each one of you will be given five minutes in which to state your group’s position, and, should you wish to do so, to nominate yourself or some other member of this group as the coalition’s leader.

“After each individual has been afforded an opportunity to speak there will be half an hour of general discussion followed by a forced vote. The person receiving the most votes will lead the coalition.

“Anyone who no longer wishes to participate can leave now. By doing so those who remain agree to bind themselves
and
the organizations they represent to the coalition, as well as the goals, strategies, and tactics that it may subsequently adopt. Once conditions return to something resembling normal, the coalition will dedicate itself to the restoration of the United States government. Are there any questions?”

There was no sound other than the rhythmic squeak, squeak, squeak of Cyan’s marker as Franklin looked from one face to the next. “All right then,” the politician said, soberly, directing his next comment to Vosser. “Let the record show that all present agreed to the process as described—and agreed to honor whatever decisions the majority of the group may arrive at.

“Let’s begin by hearing from Clan Leader Storm. She represents a group that calls itself the Sasquatch Nation. Ms. Storm?”

Storm had a long, serious face. Her eyes, which were dark and shiny, smoldered with passion. Her voice had the sing-song quality of someone reciting frequently uttered cant. “The Sasquatch Nation was meeting near Concrete, Washington, the day before the virus attacked Mother Earth. Some of the attendees fled, and were presumably killed, but the vast majority of the group, some four hundred in all, took their camping gear and retreated farther into the woods. It was difficult at first, but, thanks to the Great Mother’s bounty, we managed to survive. Now, like antibodies in her global bloodstream, we stand ready to attack the alien virus and thereby destroy it.

“In fact, given the terrible damage done to the Great Mother we find it hard to understand why one of the alien viruses has been allowed to sit at this very table, and hereby request permission to kill it.”

So saying, Storm produced a well-oiled .357 Magnum, turned to her left, and pressed the barrel against the side of Doo-Nol’s elongated head. The hammer made a loud click as it went to full cock.

Manning, who had stationed himself between Franklin and the door, pulled his weapon and aimed it at the woman’s head. Not in an effort to save the Sauron, but to protect Franklin, should Storm’s weapon swing in the president’s direction. Amocar, Ji-Hoon, and Asad were careful to keep their attention focused on the other participants, the doors, and each other.
If
someone fired,
if
bullets started to fly, it was important to avoid hitting Franklin or one of their teammates.

The president held up his hand. “Hold it right there, Ms. Storm. Like his white brothers, Doo-Nol is a member of a persecuted minority with goals that are compatible with ours. What better way to help the Great Mother than to turn virus against virus?”

If Doo-Nol thought the human’s words were somewhat cynical, he showed no signs of it but continued to stare straight ahead.

The silence stretched long and thin as Storm considered the politician’s words, eased the hammer down, and made the handgun disappear.

Boyer Blue, one of the few individuals in the room who had arrived unarmed, allowed himself to release a pent-up breath. Franklin, the man he had once dismissed as a collaborator, had done it again. In spite of a not-altogether-healthy love of power, and an all-too-pragmatic approach to obtaining and keeping it, the politician had an almost magical ability to span what appeared to be unbridgeable gaps.

Franklin nodded. “Thank you . . . I urge the rest of the delegates to keep their weapons holstered for the balance of our discussions. Now, given Ms. Storm’s statements, it seems only fair that Doo-Nol be given an opportunity to speak.”

Doo-Nol looked from left to right. The Sauron didn’t know whom he disliked the most, the Zin, for the manner in which they treated members of his caste, the humans, for trying to capitalize on the brotherhood’s suffering, or himself, for the way in which he had betrayed the master race. Or were the eternally arrogant black and brown Saurons members of the same race to which he and his brothers belonged? No, not judging from the way he and his kind were treated, all of which justified his otherwise inexcusable perfidy. Now, if only he could convince the resistance to practice what amounted to selective murder, the humiliation of dealing with lesser beings would be worth it.

In spite of the fact that most of the aliens didn’t consider slave talk worth learning, the aliens actually had a natural facility where foreign languages were concerned, and Doo-Nol, like Hak-Bin himself, had gone to the trouble to learn the dominant tongue. That being the case, his words carried a good deal of the passion which the Ra ‘Na-designed translators had a tendency to remove. “Earlier, when slave Franklin spoke of the few days during which my race will be vulnerable, he addressed not only
your
opportunity but
ours
as well.”

The Sauron scanned the faces around him. “I know what most if not all of you are thinking . . . Why should we care about the Fon? Like slave Storm, you can’t wait for all of us to die. Yet it was slave Blue who conspired with juveniles like slave Cyan to teach my caste to read, and it was slave Andromeda who arranged for her followers to assassinate the Zin named Xat-Hey, to protect our nascent movement.

“Nor has the relationship been one-way . . . Later, after brother Bal-Lok formed his ill-advised alliance with the ones you call racialists, and failed in his attempt to kill slave Franklin, the surviving members of our brotherhood sought to temper the reprisals that followed. So now, as you plan your assault on my race, I ask that you spare the Fon. Allow our nymphs to live, help them board their ships, and they will leave your planet forever.”

Dro Rul, silent till then, pulled himself up to stand on the high chair’s padded seat. He might have looked absurd, like an otter on two legs, but somehow didn’t. His ears lay back against his head, his teeth were bared, his body rigid with outrage. The prelate’s anger was clear in spite of the translator’s tendency to leach the emotion out of the words it processed. “Human Storm is correct . . . Your species
is
like a plague, a disease that lays waste to entire planets and kills without compunction. There can be
no
forgiveness for your crimes, there can be
no
mercy for your kind, and not a single nymph can be allowed to escape. Even now, here among us, you think and refer to us as ‘slaves.’ You and your brothers must die, not as a punishment, but to prevent the spread of a contagion.”

There was a moment of silence as Storm nodded, Cyan drew, and Franklin waited to see what would happen. The Sauron’s voice was hard and flat. “Call us what you will . . . but face the truth. Even if you bide your time, attack the citadel on Hell Hill, and kill each Sauron who takes shelter within, my race will
still
survive. What you fail to realize is that a
second
citadel was constructed elsewhere on your planet.”

“
Yes
,” the Fon continued, directing himself to a visibly shaken Dro Rul. “You didn’t know that, did you? Just because you believe yourselves to be more intelligent than we are doesn’t mean you actually are. So you invented spaceships? So what? Which race was enslaved? Yours? Or mine?

“So,” Doo-Nol insisted, “
if
you want to know where the other citadel is, you will comply with my demands . . . More than that you will ensure the survival of
my
kind . . . in return for the survival of
yours
.”

Franklin felt his stomach sink. Here, like a bolt of lightning out of the blue, was a whole new threat. Even if the resistance attacked the citadel on Hell Hill, and even if the attack was successful, the Saurons would still survive. The meeting disintegrated into chaos.

ABOARD THE SAURON DREADNOUGHT
HOK NOR AH

Too unhappy to jump, and in no particular hurry to reach his destination, Mon-Oro shuffled along one of the ship’s bustling corridors and used the time to contemplate his fate. Most Zin, Mon-Oro included, had at least some ambition and tried to live their lives in a manner that would generate respect from their peers. Respect, which, when layered onto the accomplishments of those who preceded them, would eventually elevate the entire line to a primary position within the ruling caste. A gradual process that could take thousands of years. That was the manner in which Hak-Bin’s line had risen to ascendancy—and that was the way that Mon-Oro and his ancestors hoped to accomplish the same thing.

Before any such elevation could take place, however, there were challenges to be met. Some were enjoyable, and some were not. And today, with the all important birth-death day looming ahead, Mon-Oro found himself burdened with the most unpleasant task of his extremely long life.

The Zin, the vast majority at any rate, wanted to send a message to Hak-Bin, and Mon-Oro had been selected for the task. A distasteful and somewhat dangerous errand that would require the not-altogether-willing messenger to tell the highest-ranking individual in Sauron society numerous things he didn’t want to hear.

Mon-Oro turned a corner, passed one of his brethren, but was so lost in his own contemplations that the other Zin’s greeting failed to register on his consciousness.

Among the issues Mon-Oro had been instructed to raise was the extent to which the construction of the birthing chambers was running behind schedule, the so-called catalyst crises, and the basic question of fairness. After all, the rank-and-file Zin wondered, given the fact that more than a score of early changers had already been put to death rather than allow the slaves to learn about birth-death day, then why should Hak-Bin and his nymph be somehow exempt?

Perhaps, many of them thought, a new leader should be chosen, and
his
line elevated to the very apex of Sauron society. It was a legitimate question, or so it seemed to Mon-Oro, although he had no desire to ask it. Especially since Hak-Bin was known to be cranky of late, and, if sufficiently incensed, could have his visitor shot.