EarthRise
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter 1 - DEATH DAY MINUS 80
Chapter 2 - DEATH DAY MINUS 79
Chapter 3 - DEATH DAY MINUS 65
Chapter 4 - DEATH DAY MINUS 54
Chapter 5 - DEATH DAY MINUS 41
Chapter 6 - DEATH DAY MINUS 20
Chapter 7 - DEATH DAY MINUS 7
EPILOG
Praise for
EARTHRISE
“An intriguing look at the psychological and sociological essences of two alien races as well as the human reaction to a first encounter. William Dietz also profiles humanity and shows us as a race worth surviving for many of us are willing to die in the name of freedom. An insightful . . . action-packed novel.”
—Midwest Book Review
“This concluding sequel to Dietz’s DeathDay contains the same wide cast of characters . . . balanced by their better-than-average depth of portrayal . . . [an] interesting speculation on the nature of race relations and class divisions. Build[s] an atmosphere of captivity, which aids considerably in reader identification with the plight of human characters.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Well-drawn, fast, intelligent action.”
—Booklist
“Independence Day with a twist. Dietz delivers a rousing finale to his apocalyptic vision of Earth’s invasion. His portrayal of ordinary people fighting for their lives and freedom is a touching tribute to the human spirit, demonstrating that life goes on and love doesn’t die.”
—Romantic Times
DEATHDAY
“Great reading for anyone who loved Independence Day or The War of the Worlds.”
—Kevin J. Anderson
“Dietz has taken a diverse—and surprising—cast of characters and woven an extremely intense story.”
—Rick Shelly, author of Holding the Line
“A fast-paced tale of survival and resistance.”
—Library Journal
“Breakneck pacing, good action scenes, and unexpectedly strong characterizations. Alien invasion buffs should enjoy, enjoy!”
—Booklist
“Dietz provides more than just an opening gambit of a military science fiction along the lines of V. He provides a deep social and psychological study of humanity . . . Leaves breathless readers waiting for [Earthrise].”
—BookBrowser
“When it comes to military science fiction,
William Dietz can run with the best.”
—Steve Perry
Don’t miss William C. Dietz’s
FOR MORE THAN GLORY
A Legion of the Damned novel
Now available from Ace Books
Praise for the
LEGION OF THE DAMNED
novels
“A tough, moving novel of future warfare.”
—David Drake
“Exciting and suspenseful . . . real punch.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Dietz’s expertise in matters of mayhem is second to none.”
—The Oregonian
“Unrelenting action.”
—KLIATT
“Lots of action, good characterization, a menacing enemy reminiscent of Fred Saberhagen’s Berserker series, and a rousing ending.”
—Science Fiction Chronicle
Ace Books by William C. Dietz
GALACTIC BOUNTY
FREEHOLD
PRISON PLANET
IMPERIAL BOUNTY
ALIEN BOUNTY
McCADE’S BOUNTY
DRIFTER
DRIFTER’S RUN
DRIFTER’S WAR
LEGION OF THE DAMNED
BODYGUARD
THE FINAL BATTLE
WHERE THE SHIPS DIE
STEELHEART
BY BLOOD ALONE
BY FORCE OF ARMS
DEATHDAY
EARTHRISE
FOR MORE THAN GLORY
FOR THOSE WHO FELL
RUNNER
LOGOS RUN
WHEN ALL SEEMS LOST
WHEN DUTY CALLS
AT EMPIRE’S EDGE
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
EARTHRISE
An Ace Book / published by arrangement with the author
Copyright © 2002 by William C. Dietz.
All rights reserved.
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eISBN : 978-1-101-50033-0
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For Marjorie, with all my love.
1
DEATH DAY MINUS 80
WEDNESDAY, MAY 13, 2020
Man is born free: and everywhere he is in chains.
—JEAN-JACQUES ROUSSEAU
The Social Contract, 1762
HELL HILL
The sun had risen, the early-morning air was crisp, and Manning could see his breath. From his vantage point, standing atop the vast stack of cargo modules known as “Big Pink,” he could also see a generous swath of the strange almost surreal landscape in which he and thousands of slaves had been forced to live during the last few months. Months that felt like years.
What he and everyone else referred to as “Hell Hill” was located on a finger of land once known as Governors’ Point, located just south of the once thriving city of Bellingham, Washington. A place that had once been home to a well-respected state college, a small but charming central business district, and a population willing to trade the hectic pace of a city like Seattle for the pleasures of kayaking on Puget Sound, snowboarding on Mount Baker, and hiking in the Cascades.
But that was prior to February 28, 2020, the da
y that the Saurons destroyed the cities of New York, Paris, Moscow, Madrid, Cairo, Beijing, Sydney, Lima, Rio de Janeiro, Johannesburg, Tehran, and New Delhi.
The worst damage was inflicted by powerful energy cannons mounted on Sauron spaceships. Dreadnoughts that measured almost a mile in length, were more than two thousand feet wide, and carried upward of twenty thousand aliens plus the slaves required to support them.
Though unable to descend through the atmosphere, the largest battleships had no difficulty firing their weapons from space itself. Earth’s atmosphere shrieked in protest each time a bolt of energy tore through the air. Those located within a half mile of the impact experienced a chest-thumping concussion, and if they were fortunate enough to survive, could watch skyscrapers topple, bridges collapse, and entire neighborhoods erupt into flame. The fires spread to suburbs, grasslands, forests, and jungles. Soon the entire planet was wrapped in a blanket of thick gray smoke.
But that was little more than the beginning. Confused by the nature of the attack, and uncertain as to who the instigators had been, the humans turned on each other. The cities of Bombay and Islamabad were consumed by mushroom-shaped clouds, while three neighboring countries launched subnuclear missiles at Israel.
All of this occurred not over a period of months, not over a period of weeks, but in a matter of three days. Nor was the attack over when the orbital shelling finally ended. That’s when the Saurons employed space-to-surface missiles against hardened military installations, when the systematic carpet bombing started, and when swarms of manta-shaped alien attack ships sought to clear the skies, roads, and freeways of human life.
With the exception of assets which their superiors had identified as potentially useful, the Sauron pilots destroyed anything that moved, including airplanes, trucks, cars, and the long ragged columns of refugees that snaked out of the cities searching for shelter.
More than 3 billion people died, enough to eliminate any immediate resistance, but not so many as to drive the human race to the edge of extinction.
No, the Saurons were careful to stop short of complete annihilation, not because they had a system of ethics, but because they needed the survivors. Needed slaves to construct the enormous citadel-like fortresses within which a new generation of Saurons would hatch, each killing its progenitor during the birth process, and each taking its place within the complex racial hierarchy upon which the alien culture had been built. A social structure in which each caste had a distinct function: The Zin governed, the Kan fought, and the Fon performed menial work, or would have performed menial work had it not been for the diminutive Ra ‘Na, a slave race upon which the aliens were heavily dependent.
A relationship which over hundreds of years had become so entrenched that something approaching a symbiotic relationship had evolved. A reality that helped explain why many of the whip-wielding Fon overseers carried Ra ‘Na technicians on their chitin-covered backs even as they forced thousands of humans to ascend Hell Hill.
The reason for this became apparent as one of the Fon flexed his deceptively slender legs, propelled himself high into the air, and landed some thirty feet away from the point where Jack Manning stood. The Ra ‘Na, a relatively small being with reddish fur, a short muzzle, and brown beady eyes absorbed the shock with slightly bent legs, and murmured into a handheld radio. The process of herding the secondary slave race to the top of the hill had to be coordinated, and he, like many of his peers, took pride in a job well done. His mount’s whip made a loud cracking sound as the neatly braided leather cut into a human back, and the victim fell face first into the heavily churned mud.
Manning winced. He knew, as did those around him, that the whipping, like the ceremony thousands of humans were about to participate in, was part of an elaborate effort to keep the slave population under control. A task made increasingly difficult, as word of the birthing leaked to the previously ignorant Fon, and to segments of the human population as well.
Even as the Zin called Hak-Bin strove to complete the great fortress at the top of Hell Hill—the resistance movement continued to gain strength. Especially now that the humans realized that the entire Sauron race would be momentarily vulnerable once the nearly simultaneous birthing process started.
All of which explained why the aliens had gone to such great lengths to find a hospitable planet, build their defensive citadels, and install the automated weapons systems designed to keep enemies at bay. Had they remained in space, had they undergone the change there, the entire race would have been vulnerable to the Ra ‘Na.
Manning’s thoughts were interrupted as Vilo Kell’s voice came over the security chief’s military-style headset. “Snake Three to Snake One . . . Over.”
Manning did a 360 and used the elevated vantage point to scan the surrounding rooftops, shacks, clotheslines, and stacks of firewood. Below, down in the heavily rutted streets, the Fon continued to jump from place to place. Their harakna hide whips popped like firecrackers. “This is One . . . go. Over.”
“We’re ready—or as ready as we’re likely to get. Over.”
“Roger, that. Stand by . . . The Big Dog is on his way. Over.”
Manning turned to the man who stood beside him. He had even features, quick intelligent eyes, and medium brown skin. “Time to go, Mr. President.”
Alexander Ajani Franklin, the onetime governor of Washington State, the politician the Saurons had chosen to head their puppet government, the individual many humans referred to as “Frankenstein,” and the man who Manning and hundreds of resistance fighters were counting on to lead them out of slavery, managed a wry smile. “Yes, it would be rude to keep Hak-Bin waiting.”
“Rude and dangerous,” Manning responded gravely. “I don’t know what the bastard has to say—but it must be important. Important enough to take thousands of slaves off the job and sacrifice six hours’ worth of production.”
Franklin lowered himself through the hatch and looked up into his security chief’s face. “I don’t care what Hak-Bin says . . . it’s what he might do that bothers me.”
Manning’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Such as?”
Franklin shrugged. “Such as a show designed to get our attention, scare the crap out of us, and reassert Sauron control all at the same time.”
“That’s an interesting idea,” Manning said slowly. “Did you pick up on a rumor of some sort?”
“Nope,” the president answered as he ducked out of sight. “But that’s what I would do if I were a Sauron. Let’s hope Hak-Bin is different.”
Manning hoped . . . but knew it was a waste of time.
Dr. Seeko Sool, University of Nebraska, class of 2011, was in the process of suturing a cut when she heard her nurse say, “You can’t go in there!” followed by a loud commotion and a clang as something hit the metal floor.
Little more than a makeshift curtain served to separate the surgery from the rest of the cargo-module-sized clinic. The walls were painted green and badly in need of washing. The Kan warrior jerked the flimsy divider aside, shuffled into the space within, and regarded Sool with a baleful gaze. Her patient, a man dressed in gray rags, seemed to shrink, as if trying to disappear.
Like all his kind, the Sauron had a sharklike snout, three backward-pointing skull plates, and large light-gathering eyes. His highly specialized chitin shifted to match the paint on the wall behind him. Sool blinked as her eyes attempted to focus on the miragelike image. The voice, as reproduced by the translator clipped to the Kan’s combat harness, was harsh and grating. “Slaves have been ordered to assemble on the top of the hill. You are a slave. You will depart now.”
Sool used the needle holder to gesture toward her patient’s foot. The wound was only partially closed. “We can’t leave yet . . . not until I finish suturing this cut.”
The patient, a skinny almost skeletal figure who had managed to survive almost three months of brutal slavery by doing exactly what he was told, jumped off the table, snatched a boot off the floor, and hopped toward the door.
A thin strand of 4-0 nylon snaked after him. The Kan produced something like a predatory grin. “ ‘Now’ means now.”
Sool sighed, put the instrument on a Mayo stand, and removed her disposable gloves. Then, with her nurse in tow, she left the clinic. The crowd flowed upward as if determined to defy gravity.
Hell Hill’s original profile, as viewed from the opposite side of the ironically named Pleasant Bay, had been that of a gently rounded hill covered by mature evergreens.
Now, after months of work by thousands of slaves, the long-abandoned stone quarry at the base of the hill had been reopened, most of the trees had been cut down, terraces had been cut into the steep side slopes, and empty cargo modules had been stacked for use by the slaves. A sort of instant city that the humans had modified and expanded as they proceeded to create a sub-rosa economy.
Higher up, the hill wore a necklace of freshly built crosses. The lumber, all of which had been looted from a yard in nearby Vancouver, Canada, had a slightly greenish hue. Each piece wore a small white tag intended to reassure its new owner that it had been pressure treated and would last for the next twenty years, a fact the Fon named Mal-Dak was unaware of and unlikely to take much comfort from.
Like most of his lowly caste, Mal-Dak had been forced to queue up for any number of things over the years—but the opportunity to be crucified had not been one of them. Not until now, as the line shuffled slowly forward and the unfortunate Sauron had a moment to reflect.