EarthRise (25 page)

Hak-Bin felt a tremendous sense of relief as zero-gee conditions were restored, waited while Ott-Mar freed his body from the table’s surface, and sought an upright position. Then, floating in what were now familiar conditions, the Zin moved to restore what he saw as the correct interpersonal relationship. One in which it was
he
, not the birthmaster, who controlled the agenda. “So,” Hak-Bin said in what he hoped was a lighthearted fashion, “what do you think?”

Ott-Mar, for whom the matter was very serious indeed, made no attempt to respond in kind. “Time is short. We can wait no more . . . You must undergo the treatment within the next few rotations, surrender to the nymph, or accept the cessation of your line. The choice is up to you.”

There was silence for a moment as Hak-Bin accepted what he already knew: This was the final decision point. His voice was gruff. “There is no choice, not a
real
one, so let’s get on with it.”

Ott-Mar, who wasn’t sure whether he wanted to trial his theories or escape from them, felt both excitement and fear. But, rather than grant Hak-Bin more power than he already had, the physician sought to conceal his emotions. “Excellent. Appropriate facilities have been established at a place the humans call Nakabe, Guatemala.”

Hak-Bin offered the Sauron the equivalent of a frown. “What’s the point? I am comfortable here.”

“Certain unpleasantries must be dealt with,” Ott-Mar replied vaguely, “not to mention the issue of privacy. Besides, what your staff will describe as a planetary inspection tour will help quiet the rumors.”

Hak-Bin liked both the idea and the timing. The transfer of slaves from what the humans referred to as Hell Hill, to other locations would serve not only to rip their underground society apart, it would keep his subordinates busy while he underwent the necessary treatments. “It shall be as you say, Ott-Mar. My life, and that of my nymph, depend on you.”

The ghosts of birthmasters long dead gibbered in Ott-Mar’s ears. “No!” they insisted. “Stop this madness!” But it was too late. The leap had been made, and only the landing remained.

HELL HILL

The sun threw rays of pink light up over the Cascade Mountains as Sauron horns began to groan, searchlights stabbed the streets, and Fon functionaries moved in among the stacks. Some carried Ra ‘Na technicians high on their backs while others led packs of human overseers. Their whips cracked, and their heavily amplified voices echoed back and forth among the cubes as they rousted the first shift out of their beds.

Not the
entire
shift, since there had been rumors, and some of the slaves were already up. Not only
up
, but packed and ready to go. It was a gamble, they knew that, since hardly a day went by that some sort of fanciful bullshit didn’t make the rounds. “A woman saw Jesus . . . we’ll get a day off . . . the Saurons are going to die soon.”

There were dozens of rumors a day, and most of them were false. That’s why thousands of people ignored the scuttlebutt warning of a major relocation and went off to bed. But others, especially those with an analytical bent, noticed some unusual activity. It seemed as though an unusual number of subtasks had been completed within the last few days, more Kan were evident, and the overseers had been to a lot of meetings lately. That’s why some of the slaves put two and two together, came up with four, and were ready to go when the Saurons arrived. They didn’t have much, but what they had was precious, and filled their makeshift packs.

Others, those who weren’t prepared, were forced to leave without their meager belongings. Some raised their voices in protest, or tried to return home, and were used as examples. The steady pop, pop, pop of t-guns was reminiscent of the Fourth of July, and Franklin, who stood practically nose to nose with a Kan officer, felt as if each dart had ripped through
him
. The first sign that something unusual was about to occur took place when Manning’s sentries reported that four files of Kan had taken up positions around the Presidential Complex and sealed it off.

Then, while efforts were under way to make contact with various members of the Sauron command structure, the evictions started. Now, in an effort to be with what he saw as his constituents, Franklin tried to bully his way out. “How dare you block my path! Hak-Bin will hear of this!”

“Hak-Bin gave the orders,” the officer replied mildly. “Now return to your quarters. Or would you like me to shoot half a dozen slaves to prove that I’m serious?”

“I could grease him,” Manning offered conversationally, his voice pitched intentionally low. “I think we can drop most of the bastards before they know what hit them.” The security officer and his team had been on high alert for hours by that time, and all of them were heavily armed. Just one of the reasons why the Kan made no attempt actually to enter the complex.

For one brief moment Franklin toyed with the idea of a balls-to-the-wall breakout. But what then? Once they broke free of the complex additional Kan would be summoned, Manning and his team would almost certainly be killed, and the protest would soon be over. Even worse was the fact that the resistance might very well come apart, the slaves would be slaughtered, and the nymphs would be born. No, he must hold his temper and wait for the right moment to rebel.

Having rejected force, the politician tried another tack. “No, there’s no need for additional violence. In fact there’s no need for any violence whatsoever . . . Please allow me to talk with the slaves. I’ll convince them to cooperate.”

“They
will
cooperate,” the Kan replied, “or they will die. Now, return to your quarters and take the other slaves with you. Resist, and I will call on air support. A single bomb would be more than sufficient to destroy your pathetic pile of crates.”

Asad’s 12-gauge made a clacking sound as the operative pumped a shell into the chamber. Franklin waved the agent back. His teeth were clenched so tightly the words barely escaped. “You heard what he said . . . Everybody back off.”

The Kan watched impassively as the humans withdrew, waited until they were inside, and turned away. The cordon of warriors remained where they were.

Once inside the residence Franklin hurried up to the heavily fortified roof, where he could look out over the surrounding stacks. Manning followed, and the two men stood side by side as thousands of slaves were forced out of their shelters and into the streets. Dust rose to thicken the air, whips cracked, and people wailed.

Then, like percussion in a symphony from hell, buildings began to explode. Manning counted five such explosions spread out over an extremely wide area, watched the columns of debris fly upward, and wondered what the Saurons were up to. Franklin thought he knew. “Look! Isn’t that where Sister Andromeda’s first church was established? And over there—didn’t she have a chapel there?”

Manning thought so but wasn’t sure.

Meanwhile bodies, some bearing packs, many having little more than the clothes on their backs, continued to trickle out of alleyways and join the stream.

The fleshy flood moved quickly at first, but each additional human body added to the congestion, and friction slowed the river to a crawl. That’s when black overseers armed with whips and electric cattle prods waded into the crowd. Was that intentional? Yes, Franklin felt very sure that it was, and cursed Hak-Bin with every swear word he knew.

The crowd swirled wherever the African-Americans appeared as they sought to evade the slash of the whips and cried for mercy. Franklin watched a woman stumble, saw her baby fall, and the crowd surge forward. Seconds later, as an opening appeared, he saw the pathetic bundle of rags lying in their wake. “When?” The politician asked himself, unaware that he had spoken out loud. “When will it end?”

“When we kill the bastards,” Manning answered grimly. “When every single one of them is dead.”

ABOARD THE SAURON DREADNOUGHT
HOK NOR AH

The lights in the compartment were low, so low that its sole occupant couldn’t make out more than the general shape of his furnishings and the occasional bright spot where what little bit of light there was reflected off a memento or two.

But then he didn’t need to see to know what his surroundings looked like. Dro, no
Grand Vizier
Tog, had occupied the same quarters for many years. Essentially happy years that looked all the more so when viewed from the perspective of the present.

Fa splashed into the goblet as Tog decided to grant himself a refill.

Not that I haven’t been successful, the prelate thought, lifting the wine to his lips. How many Grand Viziers are there?
One
, that’s how many, and I am him. Or is it “he”? No, I mustn’t allow myself to become distracted. Important matters are at hand,
very
important matters, to which I must attend.

But, even as the Ra ‘Na turned his attention to those matters, a more cynical aspect of his persona continued to express doubts. You’re on a treadmill, it insisted, and the faster you walk, the faster the belt turns. No sooner did you conceive of and deliver the cocaine concept to Hak-Bin than he demanded more. How long can the process continue before something goes wrong?

Exactly fifty days from now, the Ra ‘Na told himself. That’s when Hak-Bin will die, and I will come into my own. Yes, his nymph will take some getting used to, but I deal with the parent, so why not the child?

First you must arrive at that happy moment, the other part of his mind countered, which brings us to the matter at hand. Someone has to die . . . Whom will you choose?

No!
the other part of Tog responded vehemently. I have no choice but to obey Hak-Bin’s orders. The situation is unfortunate, but this way, with one such as myself making the decisions, the most deserving will live.

The argument
felt
right, and the prelate was quick to reward himself with another sip of wine. Many would have to be sacrificed before the whole thing was over, he knew that, but not yet. No, the immediate problem centered around only four of the many lives entrusted to him. Whom should he choose? Certain skills were required, Ott-Mar had been clear about that, and the choices narrowed accordingly.

Tog touched a button, and the screen near his right hand came to sudden life. Four names glowed there, four profiles sifted out of the thousands that he could call upon. What was the word the birthmaster used? Expendable? Yes, with the possible exception of Fra Pol, the prelate couldn’t conceive of individuals more “expendable” than the names on that list.

Two were closely associated with Dro Rul, and therefore corrupt, one had been friends with the traitorous Med Tech Shu, and the fourth had bested Tog in a debate some thirty-two years before. A humiliating moment about to be avenged.

The knowledge of that, the surety of it, should have lifted his spirits. Why did the victory feel so hollow then? And why did the fa, a perfectly good vintage acquired during the siege of Deeth, taste so foul?

The screen glowed, shadows anchored the gloom, and the victor considered his spoils.

NORTH OF HELL HILL

Thanks to the red tag that dangled from her ear, Sister Andromeda had a certain amount of personal freedom, and that being the case, was familiar with Bellingham’s waterfront. The once-busy marina had been destroyed early on, and the extent of the devastation could still be seen in the number of masts that poked up through the oily waves. Most of the larger piers had been preserved, however, or even extended the better to meet the Saurons’ requirements. Most of the docks were served by long metal ramps that sloped down to floating platforms.

Now, as a steady breeze sent whitecaps chasing each other across Bellingham Bay, Sister Andromeda along with the other members of the long, ragged line shuffled forward. Rather than the random manner in which most of the slaves had been treated, she and her acolytes had been rounded up and marched north to Bellingham, where they, plus a contingent of “blues,” were presently in queue.

Up ahead, next to a ramp labeled “(^),” two Ra ‘Na technicians could be seen. Both stood on white footstools and held what would have looked like pistols except that black tubes led from the “pistols” to a pair of gray canisters. The devices made a steady ka-thunk, ka-thunk, ka-thunk sound as the slaves passed between them. The question was why? Some sort of inoculation? Andromeda didn’t think so. Medical care was not something the Saurons paid much attention to. No, there had to be another more sinister explanation.

In the meantime, and of equal concern, was the mass relocation itself. Thousands of people had been marched toward I-5 while the rest were funneled toward the water. About a 3:1 ratio judging from what Andromeda had seen.

That suggested more than one destination—and more than one fate. What if the date for slave slaughter had been moved up? Andromeda pulled a quick 360 but saw little more than grim resignation on the faces around her. Understandable, since she was one of the few people who knew the truth about the Sauron birth cycle—and the alien plan to kill most of the slaves before the nymphs could emerge. Lacking that critical piece of information, there was little reason for the others to become agitated.

Of course, maybe, just maybe, her worries were for nothing. Many of the people ahead and behind her were members of the Star Com. Did that imply that Hak-Bin was honoring their agreement? And sheltering her organization from whatever fate the other group had been slated for? Yes, she thought, that would explain it.

The line jerked forward. Andromeda found herself standing next to a Ra ‘Na technician and felt the alien press the injector against the upper part of her right arm. The cult leader said, “What is that stuff?” The injector went ka-thunk, and a liquid was forced through both the weave of her robe
and
the pores of her skin. The shot hurt, which caused Andromeda to grimace and grab her biceps.

But the discomfort was soon replaced by a sense of euphoria followed by a flood of renewed energy. Andromeda was confused as first, as were the people around her. Then the truth started to dawn—and was soon confirmed by the word that flowed up the line. “Cocaine!” The bugs were shooting the slaves full of cocaine!