EarthRise

by William C. Dietz

  “What’s so funny?”

  The ex-agent shook her head. “I wouldn’t want to ruin the surprise. Go see for yourself.”

  Manning shrugged, admonished the agent to keep her eyes peeled, and walked toward the blacked-out building. It seemed to crouch there, anchored by the darkness. A generator purred somewhere nearby. A great deal of time and energy had been spent trying to disperse the engine’s heat. Would it work? Only time would tell.

  One of the shadows had more substance than all the rest, and the security chief was far from surprised when it took two steps forward and morphed into a rather formidable man. Jonathan Wimba was six and a half feet tall, weighed more than 250 pounds, and had belonged to ROTC while in college. It was later, while doing his time in the army, that the sociologist mastered the care and feeding of the M62 machine gun now leveled at Manning’s midsection.

  The weapon, a direct descendant of the classic M60, fired caseless ammo at the relatively poky rate of 550 rounds per minute. So slow that an artiste, a person like Wimba, could fire single shots if he chose to. “Pick an animal,” the security agent growled, “and keep those hands where I can see them.”

  “Rhino,” Manning replied, and was relieved when the machine gun went vertical. “How’s it hanging?”

  Wimba grinned. “Long and limp . . . How ’bout you?”

  “Short and shriveled. Maybe you army guys enjoy running through the boonies, but I’ll take a sidewalk every time.”

  Wimba laughed. A deep, rumbling sound reminiscent of distant thunder. “I’m with you, boss . . . especially at night.”

  Manning nodded his agreement, felt for the door handle, and pulled it open. “Keep ’em peeled, Jonathan—there’s a whole lot of strange shit out there.”

  “You can say that again,” the big man said, as a feral dog howled somewhere in the distance. “You can sure as hell say that again.”

  But Manning was inside the building by then. Heavy fabric had been draped over a makeshift frame to create an effective light lock. Manning felt for the opening, slipped through, and squinted into the electric lights.

  The interior of the building was two and a half stories high. It smelled of lubricants, sawdust, and freshly brewed coffee. Down at the far end, above some enormous doors, blank windows stared out over a maze of motionless machinery.

  Manning noted that some of the wood stored outside had been brought back in and hammered into a crude but serviceable conference table. And it was that, along with some mismatched chairs, that would provide a focal point for the upcoming meeting. If those who had been invited actually showed up, if they could put their differences aside, and if the Saurons left the humans alone for a while. It seemed like a whole lot of “ifs,” but not to Franklin, who was eternally optimistic. “People are basically good,” he liked to say. “The United States is proof of that, so give them a chance.”

  The words sounded good, almost too good, coming as they did from a man who had flirted with being, if not actually functioned as, a collaborator prior to finding the patriot within. Still, even though Manning harbored no illusions about Franklin or his past, he continued to take hope from the man’s words. Especially when he heard the chief executive talk about the United States of America. Even though the country lay in ruins, Franklin refused to give up on it. He truly believed that the Saurons were vulnerable, that alliances could be forged, and the nation brought back to life. And it was that, more than anything else, that made the man worth protecting.

  The security chief’s eyes had just come to terms with the light when Amy Vosser, Franklin’s newly named executive assistant, bustled over. She had gray bowl-cut hair, a face held together by worry lines, and the manner of a marine corps gunnery sergeant.

  “Mr. Manning—I’m glad you’re here . . . It’s 9:00 P.M. and the president’s guests have yet to arrive.”

  The words were delivered in an accusatory tone, as if the security chief was at fault somehow, and caused him to raise an eyebrow. “I’m in charge of the president’s security, Ms. Vosser . . . not the punctuality of his guests. Besides, one of them has arrived, or so I was told.”

  Vosser produced an audible sniff. “The guest, if he qualifies as such, is over there. Agent Asad was assigned to baby-sit him.”

  Manning, curious as to why this particular resistance leader had been found wanting by two people as diverse as Mol and Vosser, followed the woman’s blunt finger. There was a series of staccato hissing sounds as the security chief rounded a massive piece of equipment and entered the far aisle. Asad was there all right, along with a scraggly adolescent who sported a chain-mail shirt made out of what looked like aluminum beer tabs, a battered belt comp, and raggedy spray-cloth pants. They ended a good three inches above a pair of well-worn REI hiking boots. A fairly common look by pre-Sauron standards. Not so typical, and clearly homemade, was the bandoleer of spray cans that the youth wore bandit style across his scrawny chest.

  One such can hissed loudly as the teenager made one final pass over the highly stylized four-foot-by-six-foot sketch that decorated the wall, took two steps back, and paused to admire his work. It showed a Kan, one foot planted on a woman’s chest, ready to shoot her in the head. In spite of the fact that the Sauron wore a sneer, something the chitinous creatures simply weren’t capable of, the characterization worked. Though not especially realistic, it was supposed to evoke emotions, a goal which it certainly achieved.

  More than that, the security chief knew that the artist, an individual who went by the name Cyan, was the leader of a group that referred to itself as The Free Taggers, a sort of free-form tribe comprised mainly of children. Children who took enormous risks to post their anti-Sauron graffiti where slaves could see it, and sometimes paid with their lives. Manning had seen their little bodies crucified heads down with spray cans jammed between their teeth. Asad, who wasn’t all that much older than the graffiti artist beside him, nodded approvingly. “That’s rev, man, truly rev. Hey, I want you to meet my boss, Jack Manning.”

  The street artist turned, nodded in a perfunctory manner, and said “So where’s the prez? Let’s get this shit in gear.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you too,” the security chief answered dryly. “Now, if Agent Asad would be so kind as to escort you over to the conference area, we’ll see how many of your esteemed colleagues have arrived. Then, depending on the answer, maybe we can ‘get this shit in gear.’ ”

  The threesome arrived back in the conference area to discover that the rest of the resistance leaders had arrived and were being guided, instructed, and downright bullied into the chairs chosen by Ms. Vosser. Dro Rul, who had risked his life to visit the planet’s surface, was assigned to a child’s high chair located between Professor Boyer Blue and Deac Smith. The woman called Storm, clan leader for the Sasquatch Nation, and Doo-Nol, one of the few surviving members of the Fon Brotherhood, were placed on the same side of the table as Sister Andromeda, who, in the wake of the humiliating journey up Hell Hill, had decided to throw in with the resistance movement. Unless she didn’t like what they said, in which case she would pull out and go her own way.

  Franklin, who was watching from the windowed office located at the other end of the building smiled. Those who didn’t know any better would assume that the effort to tweak the seating was just one more manifestation of Vosser’s high-control personality. Others, who knew the players as he did, would note the way Rul had been placed between two utterly reliable humans, and the manner in which Sister Andromeda had been paired with the representative from the Fon Brotherhood. Organizations that had befriended each other in the past. Or would the word “used” be more accurate? Whatever the case, a relationship existed, and he would take what he could get. As for the heavily tattooed Storm, well, who knew? She and the clan she represented were something of an enigma, so one position seemed as good as the next.

  As for the Free Tagger named Cyan, he had been seated at the foot of the plywood surface, where he had already produced a f
istful 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.

&nb
sp; 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.”