EarthRise

by William C. Dietz

  The stonemaster, who, only hours before, had been the second or third most powerful being on Earth, now dangled beneath the lifter at the end of a long black cable. It swayed alarmingly as the lifter lost forward motion and hovered above the citadel. “Remember what you are about to witness,” Hak-Bin said gravely. “Remember as you watch over the slaves, remember as you haul stone, and remember when you dream.”

  Then, by means of a prearranged signal, an order was given. The lifter’s copilot touched a switch, a coupling snapped open, and the stonemaster, still struggling to accept his fate, fell free of the cable. Strangely, or perhaps not so strangely, he never screamed. True to his calling, true to the knowledge inherited from his predecessors, and true to his own nature, the master architect spent the last few seconds of his life admiring what he had built, wondering why he had never thought to view it from that particular perspective before, and hoping his assistants would have the strength to deal with the political pressure from above, would refuse to compromise the citadel’s structural integrity in the name of speed, and would hew to the instructions laid down in the Book of Cycles.

  And that was when the Sauron’s legs shattered against a partially completed dome, when shards of exoskeleton punctured his abdominal cavity, and light exploded before his eyes. The sight of the Sauron’s death affected different beings in different ways.

  Sool winced and closed her eyes.

  Franklin thought about how desperate Hak-Bin must be.

  Dro Tog felt frightened.

  Manning smiled coldly.

  Ji-Hoon frowned.

  And the man named Brian Banes finally snapped. A fact which wasn’t all that surprising in and of itself, especially given the fact that the Saurons had murdered most of the other patients in the mental hospital, sparing Banes because he was big and strong. Very big and very strong.

  Propelled by emotions rather than concrete thoughts, Banes pushed his way through the crowd, sucker punched one of the Kan warriors, and broke through the security cordon. The ex-mental patient pulled the long heavily serrated kitchen knife out of its homemade sheath, held it up over his head, and charged up the hill. The roar of primal outrage turned many heads.

  Strangely enough it was Hak-Bin who first noticed the would-be assassin. His first thought was to escape, to jump out of danger, but he refused to let instinct rule. No, appearances were important, especially then, with so much at stake.

  That being the case, the Sauron resolved to stand his ground, to place himself in the hands of fate, and wait for one of his seemingly dim-witted warriors to kill the oncoming slave.

  The truth was that in spite of the Zin’s doubts regarding their capabilities, no less than three of the shimmery aliens had turned uphill and raised their weapons only to discover that if they fired and even one of their darts flew wide, there was a high likelihood that it would hit Hak-Bin or one of the Zin dignitaries seated to either side of him. A definite no-no. They were still contemplating, still trying to decide, when Jill Ji-Hoon took action. Though some would question the ex-FBI agent’s judgment later on—it was training rather than political correctness that put her body in motion.

  Ji-Hoon, who, along with the other members of the team had been standing just downhill from Hak-Bin, waiting for the event to end, stepped out to block the madman’s way. He saw her, roared some sort of challenge, and ran even faster. His legs pumped, his breath came in short gasps, and only one thing stood in his way. A tall woman with a look of determination on her face.

  Though not responsible for Hak-Bin’s safety, Manning and his team were responsible for Franklin, and the sight of the knife was more than sufficient cause. Coats were whipped aside, heavy weapons appeared, and they stood ready to fire. That was when Ji-Hoon decided to intervene, and the security chief raised his hand. Fingers came off triggers as everyone waited to see what would happen. Ji-Hoon waited for the would-be assassin to get a little closer, shifted all her weight to her left foot, and kicked with her right. The lower part of her leg slammed into Bane’s midriff.

  He seemed to hesitate, stutter-stepped in an effort to achieve more traction, and swiped at Ji-Hoon with the knife.

  The ex-FBI agent jerked her head back, let the blade pass, and kicked her assailant in the right knee.

  Banes felt something give, knew he was falling, and managed to recover.

  Now, dragging one foot behind him, knife still in his hand, the ex-mental patient drove himself upward. Darts, fired from the top of the nearest observation tower half a mile away, blew divots out of the ground behind him, and those close enough to see what was taking place dove for the ground.

  Ji-Hoon, who stood ready to hit her adversary again, was close enough to feel the warm spray as one of Hak-Bin’s ceremonial guards finally blew the madman’s head off. Blood spouted, the corpse toppled, and Banes was free.

  Hak-Bin, who still stood frozen in place, allowed himself to relax. Though dramatic, the assassination attempt made a poor conclusion to an otherwise powerful presentation. But that couldn’t be helped, so the Zin looked out over the crowd, marveled at how quiet the scene was, and felt the first signs of the much-dreaded symptoms.

  He would need privacy in which to wait them out, in which to scream unheard, in which to wish he were dead. That being the case, Hak-Bin kept his closing comments short and to the point. “You know what I require of you . . . You know the price of failure . . . You know what to do. Work hard, build well, and you will survive.”

  The last sentence was a lie, for his kind as well as theirs, but such were the words all of them needed to hear. They required hope . . . and the gift was his to give.

  The multitude watched in silence as the great Hak-Bin summoned the sedan chair, slid into place, and was carried away. That’s when a crow cawed, the slaves were released, and work resumed.

  2

  DEATH DAY MINUS 79

  THURSDAY, MAY 14, 2020

  Tyranny, like hell, is not easily conquered, yet we have this consolation with us, that the harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph. What we obtain too cheap, we esteem too lightly: it is dearness only that gives everything its value.

  —THOMAS PAINE

  The American Crisis, no. 1, December 23, 1776

  PUGET SOUND

  It was nighttime, or would have been, except for the ghostly glow provided by the asteroid-mounted reflecting mirror the Ra ‘Na had constructed on behalf of the Saurons and referred to as “the bounce.”

  Authorized by the now deceased stonemaster, and focused on Hell Hill so the humans could work around the clock, the intensity of the light started to fade a few miles to the south, where a group known as the Crips had established a temporary camp.

  It was a pathetic affair, consisting of little more than a secluded cove, a jumble of weather-whitened logs, and a cluster of carefully camouflaged huts, none of which provided more than twelve square feet of usable living space. Veritable hovels by the standards of the indigents forced to dwell in them—but objects of delight to the wayward alien who floated belly up not fifty feet from the rock-strewn beach.

  His name was Pas Pol, Fra Pol, the prefix Fra indicating his status as a member of the Ra ‘Na clergy albeit the lowest rung thereof.

  Not that Pol, who was or had been part of Dro Tog’s diocese, had ever spent much time worrying about the needs of the religious bureaucracy. A fact that not only prevented his ascension to the next highest level of the hierarchy but kept him in perpetual trouble. A situation made worse when the wayward cleric surreptitiously witnessed a meeting in which Hak-Bin addressed his fellow Zin regarding the heretofore secret birth-death day.

  Bishop Tog sat on the information at first, fearful that it might stimulate a revolt and thereby threaten the rather comfortable status quo. But the attempt to bottle the information up failed. Dro Rul learned of the secret, and the Ra ‘Na resistance movement was born. An effort to which Fra Pol had dedicated both heart and soul.

  There were dangers attendant t
o such movements, however—and the initiate had been forced to flee. Yes, the manner of his departure from the dreadnought Hok Nor Ah had been something less than dignified, but Pol not only managed to survive the experience, but wound up in a veritable Ra ‘Na paradise thanks to the fact that the waters of Puget Sound were home to a natural buffet of bivalves, any number of which had already found their way into the initiate’s well-rounded tummy. And into other tummies too, since the Crips not only lived off the abundant seafood themselves, but used the watery harvest to buy the medications that many of them required.

  Not that such matters claimed much of the Ra ‘Na’s attention since his mind was mostly occupied with the sensory feedback attendant upon the act of swimming. An activity mostly denied his race during their long captivity and one for which their lithe, fur-covered bodies had expressly been designed. The sensation had something in common with weightlessness but managed to be better somehow. Pol loved the resistance offered by the water, not to mention its cool embrace and the way the unseen currents tugged at him. Surely Balwur, the Ra ‘Na people’s fabled home world, had been like this, only better if such a thing could be imagined.

  The realities of the larger context couldn’t be ignored, however, and much as the more sybaritic part of the cleric’s personality would have liked nothing more than to extend his responsibility-free lifestyle for as long as possible, there wouldn’t be a future if the Saurons had their way. Each time the sun disappeared in the west the great slaughter drew one day closer. A fact which meant that everyone who could do something should do something, and sooner rather than later.

  Pol’s thoughts were delightfully interrupted when a clanging noise was heard, and the camp began to stir. What the humans referred to as dinnertime had finally arrived. It was the best moment of the day except for breakfast, lunch, and the snacks that came in between.

  Suddenly energized, the Ra ‘Na rolled over and dove. The water was deliciously cold. Barnacle-encrusted rocks gave way to gravel that sloped up to a sandy beach. Pol stood the moment the water was shallow enough, waddled across the seaweed-strewn tide line, and shook himself like a water-soaked dog.

  A depression surrounded by artfully stacked driftwood served to screen the fire pit from the water, but the top of the cook’s head could still be seen. His name was Cecil. He was black like the Zin and a fine cook, or as Pol thought of him, a “flavorist.” An important distinction since the humans had a not altogether healthy tendency to fry, broil, bake, and otherwise cook food that should have been dunked in flavor pots and served raw. Hence the term “flavorist,” since the skill lay in the preparation of the condiments rather than the application of heat. In any case, Cecil, who liked his brood to arrive on time, shouted, “Come and get it!” which Pol hurried to do. Other members of the small, tight-knit community responded with an equal sense of urgency.

  There was the ex-navy petty officer named Darby, her face scarred by a shipboard fire; Wily, who though paralyzed below the waist, insisted on dragging himself across the sand; Chu, one sleeve flapping in the breeze; Nakambe, whose left leg was two inches shorter than the right; Nok, who had lost one leg to cancer, but still made good time on a prosthesis; Slo-mo, who had the body of a full-grown man but the mind of a ten-year-old, and a black Lab named Whitey, who liked to play in the water almost as much as Pol did.

  All of them, with Whitey dashing from one person to the next, converged on Cecil’s carefully arranged fire pit. Baked salmon, which had been wrapped in seaweed and buried under hot coals, steamed on a freshly scrubbed plank. Clam chowder, thick with chunks of meat and canned potato, burbled in a well-blackened pot.

  And, thanks to the nice collection of wine, which Darby had stumbled across in an isolated waterfront home, there were three bottles of St. Michelle Riesling, which stood like soldiers on a driftwood plank. Though lavish by the standards of Hell Hill, the Crips had grown used to such meals, and were quick to tuck in.

  Cecil, hands on hips, smiled approvingly as slices of fish were transferred to plastic plates, bowls were filled to the brim with chowder, and Pol, his food having been prepared sushi style, started to vacuum oysters out of their shells. A somewhat noisy process that was accompanied by grunts of satisfaction.

  No one took offense, however, since all the Crips were hearty eaters and not much given to the finer points of etiquette. That being the case, the first fifteen or twenty minutes of the meal passed with only a modicum of conversation. Then, once the worst of the hunger pangs had been assuaged, and those who wanted seconds had obtained them, the conversations began.

  The nature of these interactions was usually the same. Chu would complain about the way in which she had been treated that day, Nakambe would tell her to shut up, Wily would attempt to make peace, and Darby, who not only steered the group’s boat, but functioned as de facto group mother, would remain silent, partially eaten food resting on her lap, eyes focused on something the others weren’t able to see.

  Pol, having inhaled more than a dozen shellfish, and being in need of a rest prior to the second course, came to his feet, loosened the cinch of his loincloth, and took a mug of freshly brewed coffee over to Darby.

  The sailor heard the crunch, crunch, crunch of the alien’s footsteps and looked up. She liked Pol and smiled. That’s what it was supposed to be anyway, except that the scar tissue refused to cooperate, and the expression resembled a grimace instead. She accepted the cup. “Thank you, Fra Pol, that was thoughtful . . . Have a seat.”

  The Ra ‘Na accepted the invitation, took his place on the log beside her, and, much to his own surprise, started to act like the cleric he had trained to be. “You seem troubled, Darby.... Is there something I can do to help?”

  Darby, who would have answered differently had Chu or Nakambe asked the same question, shrugged. “Not unless you can get rid of the Saurons, give me a new face, and bake some apple pie to go with this coffee.”

  Though presented in a lighthearted manner Pol knew the pain was real. Especially where her face was concerned. “I don’t know what apple pie is, but I’m fairly sure our medical personnel could repair the damage done to your face.”

  Hope flared in Darby’s eyes, held for a moment, then faded away. “The Saurons would never allow something like that.”

  “No,” the initiate agreed, “they wouldn’t. Which is just one of the reasons why we need to rise up and defeat them.”

  The human shook her head. “Fighting the Saurons is a waste of time. I took part in an attack that destroyed five Sauron spaceships. It didn’t even slow the bastards down.”

  “Understood,” the Ra ‘Na replied, “but there’s something you don’t know. Something important.”

  Darby looked quizzical. “Such as what?”

  Pol smiled and rows of tiny white teeth appeared. “Such as the fact that all of the Saurons will die while giving birth to the next generation—which means the slave races have a chance. If we work together, if we have courage, if we strike at the correct moment.”

  Darby had questions, lots of them, but the first was the one Pol was waiting to hear. “So what can I do to help?”

  “We,” the alien replied, “what we can do to help. The answer is out there . . . and our job is to find it.”

  IN THE FOOTHILLS OF THE CASCADE MOUNTAINS

  Half-crazed by the pain from his burns, and fully expecting to be shot in the back, the newly risen racialist had blundered through the thick underbrush for more than a mile before coming to the conclusion that he was at least momentarily safe.

  Then, desperate to find shelter and something for his burns, Ivory wandered for hours. In spite of the fact that most humans had been murdered, and the rest forced into slavery, a scattering remained free. That being the case, the racialist discovered that most homes had already been broken into and robbed of anything useful.

  Ivory always went about it the same way. He would approach the prospective house, circle it, and pause to listen. Then, assuming everything looked good, he
would sidle up to the often shattered door, push it open, and wait for some sort of reaction. A bird flew out once, nearly causing him to shit his pants, but that was unusual. A brooding silence was more common, broken only by the crunch of glass beneath the soles of his boots and the creak of interior doors.

  There was stuff, tons of it, all scattered hither and yon where the looters had left it. Clothes, lots of clothes, intermixed with useless radios, CD players, clocks, irons, hair dryers, lamps, books, records, and on and on.

  What he didn’t find but desperately wanted were medical supplies, guns, knives, axes, sleeping bags, cookware, toilet paper, matches, backpacks, or any of the other things that the foragers could use, trade, or hoard.

  There were a few victories, however, albeit minor ones, like an overlooked Teflon-coated frying pan, a fifty-foot length of clothesline, and a roll of paper towels. All the newfound treasures went into a canvas bag that the racialist carried Santa style over one shoulder.

  Most valuable, however, especially where the burns on his torso were concerned, were some unopened packages of V-neck white undershirts. They were large enough to allow free movement, and the clean cotton felt wonderful against his skin.

  Ivory spent the first night wrapped in a cocoon made from floor-length, fully lined, floral curtains, listening to the sounds the house made and the howl of a distant dog. There were a lot of dogs, all feral by then, and very dangerous. They couldn’t open doors, though—which was one reason why the human chose to sleep indoors.

  The room, which had previously been occupied by a teenage girl, smelled of spilled perfume. It seemed like a strangely inappropriate odor, hearkening as it did to a much happier time and what now seemed like unimaginable luxuries.

  Finally, after what seemed like hours, Ivory fell asleep.