EarthRise

by William C. Dietz

  Still, the medical information stored in the wrist chip was valuable, and the medic soon knew everything there was to know about the wiper named Toth. He had suffered a broken leg three years before, was allergic to a commonly used antibiotic, and had been labeled as a borderline sociopath. In fact, as Shu skimmed Toth’s voluminous disciplinary record, she was reminded of a friend, a certain somewhat disreputable cleric named Pas Pol. Some claimed he’d been killed—while others insisted that the initiate was alive and well.

  Either way Shu’s patient was a handful and clearly wanted to tell her something. Toth reached out to grab the medic’s arm. “Listen to me . . . I got a look at their files, and the Saurons know that by now. When they come for me you must tell them I never spoke anything other than gibberish.”

  Shu assumed her patient was delusional and nodded agreeably. “Just lie back and relax. You’ll be up and around in no time. Please release my arm so I can go to work.”

  “No!” Toth said emphatically, his grip tightening even more. “Everything that I’m telling you is true. Later, when it’s safe, find those with the courage to fight back. Tell them that the entire Sauron race will die in approximately seventy-three days—and that a new generation will be born. The few days in between represent the only chance our people have to achieve their freedom. They must seize the opportunity or all is lost.”

  Shu was about to reply, about to say something soothing, when a lab tech stepped into the compartment. “Sorry to interrupt, but a pair of Kan are headed this way. They want a patient named Toth.”

  “You see?” Toth demanded fiercely, “it’s just as I told you . . . Now listen carefully—The material manufactured aboard the La Ma Gor is some sort of birth catalyst, a substance the Saurons require in order to quicken their young. Destroy it and you destroy them. Do you understand?”

  Shu wanted to say “yes,” that she did, but the Kan chose that particular moment to enter the compartment, and the wiper appeared to convulse. Toth arched his back, made choking sounds, and thrashed from side to side. The effect was quite convincing, but the senior Sauron, a noncom named Dru-Laa, appeared unmoved. “Is this the slave named Toth?”

  “Yes,” Shu replied quickly, “but it won’t be possible to speak with him.”

  “We don’t want to speak with him,” Dru-Laa said emotionlessly, and shot Toth in the head. The dart blew the top half of Toth’s skull off, and sprayed blood, bone, and brain tissue across a bank of metal cabinets.

  The t-gun swiveled in Shu’s direction. “What did he say to you?” the warrior demanded, his voice devoid of intonation.

  “Nothing,” Shu replied, as she backed away, “you saw him. He was completely incoherent.”

  There was a long hard silence as death stared at her through huge saucer-shaped eyes. Then, based on who knew what criteria, Dru-Laa holstered his weapon and gestured to his companion. Together they left the compartment.

  Shu, overcome by grief, collapsed in tears.

  It was evening, the real sun had just started to set, and it was too early for the orbital reflector to cast its ghostly glow over the land. Dozens of cook fires sent smoke spiraling up from makeshift chimneys to be caught by the wind and sent off toward the east. Snatches of conversation could be heard, along with the sound of an improvised string instrument and the distant clang of tools.

  Even as Manning’s feet carried him through the streets and toward the clinic, he wondered if he should go there. Yes, the cut was real enough, sustained while working on the defenses that protected the Presidential Complex. But did the injury require stitches? Or was the laceration little more than an excuse to see Dr. Sool? And if it was an excuse, why would he need one? Because of Jina’s death? Even though his relationship with the president’s wife had never extended beyond a single kiss? Did any of his maunderings make sense? No, the security chief concluded, they didn’t.

  But his feet continued on their journey, and soon, as if drawn there by some invisible force, Manning found himself standing outside Dr. Sool’s clinic. There was a line, albeit a relatively short one, and the security chief was debating whether he should join it when Sool, coffee cup in hand, wandered out through the door. The doctor wore light blue scrubs, scrounged by some admirer, and bisected with dots of dried blood.

  Sool’s face lit up when she saw him, and she made her way over. “Jack! This is an unexpected pleasure . . . Is the president okay?”

  Manning grinned sheepishly. “Yeah, he’s grumpy, but otherwise fine. I cut my arm . . . but I’m not sure if it needs stitches.”

  “Come on in,” Sool said, gesturing to the makeshift clinic. “I’ll take a look.”

  “I’ll get in line,” Manning replied. “Those folks were waiting when I arrived.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Sool said, loud enough so her patients could hear, “even I get to take a break once in a while. Dixie has to see them first anyway. We don’t charge for our services, but we try to keep some records. It makes the job easier if you know their histories.”

  Manning followed the doctor inside, said hello to Dixie, and stepped into the so-called examining room, which was actually no more than an area that could be curtained off from the rest of the cargo container. “Sit on the stool and let’s see what you did to yourself,” Sool said as she plucked a pair of disposable gloves out of a box and pulled them on.

  Manning knew that as with so many of the supplies used by the clinic, the gloves had been brought there by Jina Franklin. Where would such things come from now, he wondered? The security chief made a note to speak to his team.

  The doctor’s hands were gentle as they removed the dressing to reveal a two-inch cut. “It turns out that you do need stitches,” Sool said sternly, “so stay right there while I set things up.”

  Given the fact that the clinic lacked an autoclave, as well as the power required to run one, instruments were boiled. That included needles as well. Having dipped a pair of tongs into antibacterial solution, Sool used them to reach into a pan of slowly boiling water and grab a pair of needle holders. The instrument looked like a large hemostat except that it had a blunt nose and short jaws. With the needle holders in hand, the doctor pushed a selection of curved cutting needles around the bottom of the pot until she found one that met her needs.

  Then, with the needle firmly clamped in the instrument’s jaws, it was a simple matter to feed some suture material through the needle’s eye and secure it by pulling the nylon back through the slot at the end of the holder’s slightly parted tip. Though far from sterile, the procedure was the best she could do.

  Knowing how few supplies Sool had to work with, and mindful of the horrendous injuries she dealt with on a daily basis, Manning refused a topical anesthetic and focused on her rather than the pain. As the doctor fought to push the much-dulled needle through the security chief ’s leathery epidermis he saw the very tip of a tiny pink tongue emerge from the corner of her mouth. The sight was endearing somehow, and Manning found himself transported back in time to a vision of a little girl seated with legs crossed, as she worked on a puzzle. “So?” Sool inquired gently. “Do I get an answer or not?”

  Manning realized he had missed something, and apologized. “Sorry, I was distracted.”

  “By the pain?”

  “No, by you.”

  Sool looked up into his eyes, liked what she saw there, and felt her heart jump. It was silly, not to mention unforgivably juvenile, but real nonetheless. A fact which made her next words all the more perverse. “What about Jina?”

  It was a stupid thing to say, motivated by jealousy more than anything else, and Sool regretted the words the moment that she said them.

  Manning flinched, as if reacting to the needle, and pain clouded his eyes. Sool felt him pull back and cursed her own stupidity. He had been there, trying to reach out, only to have her slap him down.

  The security chief smiled gamely. “It was that obvious? Look, I was out of line, it won’t happen again.”

  A voice
inside Sool screamed, “Please, I want it to happen again!” But it was too late. There was an uncomfortable silence as Sool placed a dressing over the stitches, Manning thanked her, and pulled the curtain aside. Seconds later he was gone.

  There were no interior walls, which meant that Dixie, working only a few feet away, had been a witness to the entire conversation. The clinic was momentarily empty, and she stood, hands on hips. “You know, for such a smart doctor, you are one stupid lady.”

  Sool nodded sadly. “Yup, that pretty much sums it up. I’ll find time to cry about it later tonight . . . In the meantime, patients are waiting. Okay, who’s next?”

  SOUTHEAST OF HELL HILL

  The horse nickered, and shook its head back and forth, as it continued to pick its way down the trail. The Ra ‘Na, who had been strapped into a car seat intended for human juveniles, was himself facing backward. Though not especially cold, the night was pitch-black, and without benefit of the light-intensification goggles that the human wore Pol could see very little beyond Hell Hill’s distant glow, the occasional glint of a star, and for one brief moment, the steady blink, blink, blink of running lights as a shuttle descended toward the water off to the west.

  Could the Saurons “see” them? Using the infrared detection equipment the Ra ‘Na had designed for them? Yes, without a doubt. The combined body heat generated by a human, a Ra ‘Na, and a horse would show up as a ghostly green blob meandering across the countryside below. Visible, but not worth pursuing given the number of deer, elk, and large farm animals now free to roam the countryside. Or so the humans claimed, although Pol, who knew the Saurons a good deal better than they did, knew that a sufficiently large blob of heat was almost certain to attract a fighter if not a barrage from space.

  Still, uncomfortable though the horseback trip was, it certainly beat trying to keep up with the long-legged humans on some sort of cross-country hike. So, having nothing in particular to do, Pol fell asleep and remained that way till the sound of voices and a sudden wash of white light served to wake him up.

  The Ra ‘Na initiate blinked as he straightened up to look around. The room was huge. It had a high ceiling, electric lights, and featured gray concrete walls. Most were lined with shelving, a lot of it, all loaded with carefully arranged equipment. Not human equipment, as Pol might have expected, but Ra ‘Na, which was to say Sauron equipment, salvaged from who knew where. Judging from the smell, and the sounds that came from nearby, horses were quartered there as well.

  A black-skinned human appeared, smiled, and introduced himself. He had short-cropped black hair, even features, and wore rimless glasses. The human had long slender fingers and they made quick work of the fasteners that held Pol in place. “Hello there, welcome to the skunk works. My name is Jared Kenyata . . . I hear we have a lot in common.”

  “We do?” Pol asked, allowing himself to be lifted down onto the cement floor. “Such as what?”

  “Well,” Kenyata said, grinning widely, “we both have trouble dealing with authority figures, we enjoy electronics, and we hate the fucking Saurons.”

  Pol’s translator rendered the last part of the human’s sentence as “intercoursing Saurons” which called for an immediate correction. “It’s a pleasure to meet you Jared . . . but it’s important to understand that the Saurons don’t have intercourse.”

  Kenyata’s grin grew even wider. “Yeah, the poor bastards don’t know what they’re missing, do they?”

  Pol decided to ignore the fact that it was impossible for a Sauron to be a “bastard” in the technical sense . . . and went with what he now knew to be the human (male) version of humor. “Nope, them fuckers ain’t got a clue.”

  The human laughed and gestured to the room. “So? What do you think?”

  The horse had been led away. Pol saw that there were some additional humans, three in all, one of whom was seated at long workbench. “Where are we?”

  “This is the basement of a church,” Kenyata replied. “It looks like the building caught fire at some point, and collapsed, but the heavy-duty concrete floor held everything up. The wreckage provides the place with camouflage and helps to block radiated heat.”

  Pol eyed the steel crossbeams and the concrete floor above. “No offense, friend Jared, but the layers of concrete and wreckage won’t be sufficient to protect us.”

  The human nodded agreeably. “You’re absolutely correct. Listen, can you hear that humming sound?”

  Pol’s ears rotated to either side, and he agreed that he could.

  “We have a generator,” Kenyata explained, “which not only powers the lights, and the wall outlets, but a water pump as well. We use a portion of the well water for drinking . . . but the vast majority passes through half a mile of tubing woven into the wreckage. The constant drip, drip, drip of water helps keep the site nice and cool.”

  “Very clever,” Pol said, happy to learn that his new friends were appropriately cautious. “So, where do the skunks come in? Do you ride them like horses? And what do they look like?”

  Kenyata remembered the comment made earlier and laughed. “No, there aren’t any skunks. Not real ones. The term ‘skunk works’ refers to a place where people work on some sort of project . . . often outside of the way that things are normally done.”

  “Ah,” Pol replied, “now I understand. This is where we will work to how do you say it? Throw a monkey into the works?”

  “A monkey wrench,” Kenyata replied, “but yes, with your help we hope to do a much better job of tapping into Sauron communications, and then, if all goes well, we’ll use their system against them.”

  Pol eyed the heavily loaded shelves. “Good. I like the way humans think. What’s the fur dryer for?”

  Kenyata followed the pointed finger to a small device with a flexible hose attachment. “That’s a fur dryer? You could have fooled me . . . Is any of this stuff any good?”

  Pol nodded. “Have no fear, friend Jared . . . we can make lots of monkeys. But first we must eat. Do you have any seafood?”

  The human frowned. “Nothing fresh . . . Is canned tuna okay?”

  “Tuna? What is ‘tuna’?”

  “It’s a fish.”

  Pol nodded. “First we eat . . . then we work the dogs.”

  “Like dogs.”

  “Whatever . . .” Pol replied, his nose sampling the air. “Take me to the tuna.”

  SOUTHEAST WASHINGTON STATE

  The road train was traveling at a steady thirty-five miles per hour. Not especially fast but consistent with the tractor’s gearing, which had been set up with off-road conditions in mind.

  There was no need for that, however, not with such a well-developed system of roads already in place, which explained why the Sauron convoy was eastbound on a secondary highway.

  Ivory had been clinging to the roof of the trailer for hours by then, cursing the fact that he didn’t have enough water, but reluctant to abandon his ride. He was half-conscious much of the time, not truly awake, but not really asleep either.

  Perhaps, had Ivory had been less fatigued, and therefore more alert, he would have noticed the fact that the train had started to slow and prepared himself for what occurred next. But he wasn’t and didn’t.

  The convoy jerked to a halt, doors banged open, and ramps touched the ground. Though not especially vigilant up to that point, orders were orders, and the Kan were supposed to check the entire train twice each day. The main purpose of the inspection was to look for maintenance problems, but security was an issue as well. Some of the feral slaves possessed projectile weapons, and liked nothing better than to take potshots at the road train from high in the hills.

  One such individual had even managed to bag a Kan who had been riding atop one of the trailers. Subsequent analysis indicated that the warrior had been killed by a single .50-caliber bullet fired from twelve hundred yards away. That’s why none of the warriors were willing to ride topside anymore, not unless an officer was present, which thankfully there wasn’t.


  The inspection was a routine and therefore boring chore—one which the Saurons had performed many times before without any results. That being the case, Rol-Baa could hardly believe his eyes when he made the necessary leap, felt his feet thump down on the trailer’s metal roof, and saw the human lying prostrate two cars away.

  The slave was still in the process of trying to sit up when Rol-Baa landed with one foot on the human’s chest. The impact cracked two of Ivory’s ribs and knocked the wind out of him. The racialist was still fighting for breath when the Kan aimed the t-gun at his head and uttered a series of incomprehensible noises.

  There were no humans aboard the train, or hadn’t been, so there was no reason for the warrior to wear a translator. He did need to communicate with the noncom in charge of the convoy, however, and proceeded to do so, using what Ivory thought of as “click speech” since that’s the way the unmediated language sounded to him.

  Rol-Baa listened to the reply via the radio attached to his combat harness, sent an acknowledgment, and jerked Ivory to his feet. Once the human was in motion a quick series of pokes, jabs, and shoves were sufficient to herd the unfortunate slave to the edge of the roof, where he was forced to sit, swing his legs over the side, and drop to the ground. There were no ladders attached to the road train for the simple reason that the Saurons didn’t need them.

  As the impact hit his ribs, the racialist screamed, clutched his side, and nearly fell.

  Guided by another series of jabs, Ivory was forced to make his way to the very front of the tractor, where he was “encouraged” to mount the massive front bumper.

  That was the moment when the human noticed the dimples that bullets had made in the vehicle’s armor, a patch of dried blood, and four strategically placed Velcro-like straps.

  The Kan were already in the process of securing him in place when Ivory realized that other slaves had been bound to the front of the vehicle before him, and, judging from the evidence, been killed by their own kind. By accident? Or as an act of mercy? There was no way to know.