EarthRise

by William C. Dietz

  Blue had worked with the Taggers before and thought that he understood. “Give the young man a chance. Say we agree . . . What would you paint on him?”

  “First a base coat,” the graffiti artist said thoughtfully, “then some slogans. ‘All power to the Fon,’ . . . stuff like that.”

  Doo-Nol’s eyes popped open. “The Zin would kill me!”

  “Precisely,” Franklin agreed coolly. “Which is why you’ll want to keep a very low profile until the paint wears off.”

  The chief executive officer turned to the Tagger. “Good suggestion, Cyan . . . Better use some heavy-duty paint, or he’ll scrub it off.”

  Cyan nodded thoughtfully, selected some cans from his bandoleer, and pointed to a spot some ten feet from the table. “Put him over there . . . I’ll work on him while the meeting continues.”

  Doo-Nol had little choice but to cooperate, and Franklin turned to Vosser. “Where were we?”

  Vosser, apparently unmoved by anything that had occurred so far, delivered an editorial sniff. “Thanks to the excessive amount of time devoted to Mr. Doo-Nol and his issues, we are running some twenty minutes behind schedule. Both Ms. Storm and Mr. Doo-Nol had their opportunity to speak. I assume Ms. Andromeda would go next. No nominations have been tendered so far.”

  A can hissed as Cyan sprayed a white base coat onto the Sauron’s already white chitin. “Okay,” Franklin said, “let’s move on . . . Sister Andromeda? It’s your turn to speak.”

  SALMON NATIONAL FOREST, IDAHO

  Jonathan Ivory awoke from a deep, nearly comalike, sleep and almost panicked when his eyelids refused to open. It was as if someone had glued them shut, and the racialist was pawing at them when he heard a stir, followed by a high-pitched girlish voice. “Mrs. Ivory! Mrs. Ivory! He’s awake! Come see.”

  One eyelid popped open soon, followed by the other. It was still difficult to see as the gummy substance continued to impede his vision. Hands gripped his wrists, and a familiar voice said, “Janey will clean the gunk out of your eyes, and everything will be fine.”

  Ivory allowed the hands to restrain him, knew they belonged to Ella, and felt a sudden flood of emotion. There was relief, gratitude, and something else. They had been thrown together by circumstance and more or less forced into a union consistent with the needs of the white race but not based on much else. But now, in spite of the way the union had come about, the racialist realized that he had come to have feelings for her. Feelings that extended beyond the politics of race, beyond his sexual requirements, and into what he regarded as new territory.

  “There,” Ella said softly, “you can open your eyes.”

  Ivory took his race wife at her word, opened his eyes, and found himself looking up into her hard but handsome face. It softened slightly. “You look like hell.”

  “And you look like heaven,” Ivory croaked. “Where am I?”

  Ella took note of Ivory’s response, as well as her response to his response, and decided that there was nothing incorrect about the pleasure she felt. “You’re at Racehome . . . in our bedroom.”

  Ivory struggled to sit up. His entire body was sore. A plain-faced girl rushed to shove pillows behind his back. It was an honor to do so. There had been a contest to see which of the preteens would be allowed to serve Ivory, and she had been chosen.

  The chamber was just as the racialist remembered it. The room had been hewed from solid rock. No one could be sure, but, judging from the rails that passed through the arched entryway and terminated somewhere beneath Ella’s queen-size bed, there was reason to believe that the alcove had once served as a siding, a place where her great-great-grandfather could remove one ore car from the line and push another into place.

  Now, thanks to an enormous armoire, plus some colorful hangings, the space had been transformed into a bedroom. That’s when Ivory noticed that a change had been made to the mural that occupied the wall opposite the bed. The wreath normally associated with the German Knight’s Cross had previously been used to frame a symbolically faceless warrior. The kind of man who could be anyone, anywhere, hidden within society. Now, staring sternly out into the room, Ivory gazed on his own likeness. The sight of it sent a chill down his spine. He turned to look at his wife.

  Then, as Ivory’s eyes met Ella’s, he realized something else. Her face was a little fuller, her breasts seemed larger, and the once-flat stomach displayed a slight bulge. A weight gain? No, his wife was pregnant!

  Ella, who had been waiting for that exact moment, monitoring her husband’s face to see what sort of emotions might appear there, was pleased with results. There was no mistaking the look of pleasure followed by manly pride.

  That was the moment when Ivory remembered the Sauron road train, the manner in which the chits had secured him to the front of the tractor, and the subsequent attack. He frowned. “You were there . . . in the middle of a firefight. What about the baby?”

  Ella raised an eyebrow but was secretly pleased. “We’re short of good leaders. So many of the men who come our way are either too strong or too weak. It’s good to have you back.”

  “It’s good to be back,” Ivory replied. “There’s a lot of catching up to do.”

  “Yes,” Ella agreed. “There certainly is. Do you feel up to a walk?”

  Ivory swung his feet over the side of the bed and groaned. “Everything hurts. Is there any aspirin around?”

  Ella looked at the plain-faced girl, who immediately scurried away. She took her husband’s arm. “Here, let me help. Once you have a shave, a shower, and some breakfast you’ll be good as new.”

  Ivory doubted that, but enjoyed the process, especially when his wife stripped her clothes off, helped him into the shower, and used a bar of Ivory soap to lather his entire body.

  Then, when he was almost impossibly hard, Ella threw her arms around Ivory’s neck, kissed his throat as he lifted her up off the floor, and made little mewing sounds as she welcomed him into her warmth. Ivory, who was used to the Ella of old, braced himself for what promised to be a nearly violent mating.

  But this was a different woman, or that’s the way it seemed, as Ella appeared to savor the moment and took her time. Finally, after both were drained both physically and emotionally, it was his turn to bathe her. He did so slowly, reverently, taking a moment to kiss the curve of her swollen stomach.

  Then it was back to bed, to rest, and catch up. He told her about his travels, about life on Hell Hill, the attempt on Franklin’s life, the way so many Hammer Skins had been killed, and his journey home.

  Later, after an enormous breakfast, Ella took the recently returned racialist on a tour of the onetime gold mine, which her father, commonly referred to as “Old Man Howther,” had inherited from his father, and now served as the very heart of the area which the white supremacists called Racehome.

  In spite of the fact that Mrs. Howther, her daughter and a hard-core cadre had already moved into the mine prior to Ivory’s departure for Hell Hill, a great many improvements had been made. Not only that, but the facility was home to more people, a lot more, many of whom wore what looked like white nightshirts.

  Everyone seemed to know who Ivory was—and most addressed him as “sir.” Ella sought to explain. “Incredible as it may seem, word of your exploits found its way out of the camp on Hell Hill—but people would respect you even if it hadn’t. The fact that you went there and fought for the race puts you on a par with our greatest heroes.”

  The words were all Ivory had ever hoped to hear and more. That meant he should have been happy, very happy, but he discovered that he wasn’t. Recognition was nice, but recognition without actual power didn’t mean much, and the purposeful way in which the skins went about their daily activities suggested that someone else was calling the shots. Ella? Maybe, but for some reason he didn’t think so.

  Ivory’s thoughts were interrupted by the tinkle of multiple bells. He looked in the direction of the sound and saw four men in white jerkins round a corner farther down the shaf
t. They bore a stretcher, and Ivory was still wondering why people were in such a hurry to get out of the way when Ella pulled him aside. Some of the bystanders, his wife included, brought their hands together as if in prayer.

  Bells jingled, and the stretcher swayed as it passed them by. The racialist caught a glimpse of bright blue eyes, an explosion of age-wrinkled skin, and a puddle of wool blankets before the conveyance was gone. “Who, or what was that?”

  For the first time since his return Ivory saw Ella frown. “You may recall that my father prophesied that during the time of troubles the great Yahweh would send three people to help us. A leader, an assassin, and a saint. You are the leader, the woman named Marta Manning was the assassin, and Reverend Dent is the saint.”

  Now Ivory understood. He thought the prophecies were nonsense, but the Howthers believed in them, and he had gone along. Especially given the fact that the first prediction worked in his favor. But now, with some guy named Dent horning in, things looked different. And who was Dent anyway? The name had a familiar ring . . .

  Then he had it! Of course, the man on the stretcher was none other than the controversial minister, and sometime-radio-talk show host named Raymond Dent. A self-confessed Racial Conservative, who was known for his right-wing politics, and the frequent target of attacks by the Zionist Occupational Government or ZOG.

  The Jews, the muds, and all the other servants of the devil claimed Dent was racist, something he never publicly owned up to but was nevertheless. The question was why? Because certain radio stations would drop his broadcasts? Thereby silencing one of the few voices who spoke the truth? Or because he made a good living telling racialists what they wanted to hear?

  Not that it mattered because Ivory had already decided that he didn’t approve of Dent and wanted to get rid of him. Something he couldn’t tell Ella or anyone else for that matter. That being the case, the racialist was careful to keep his voice neutral. “Raymond Dent? The talk-show host?”

  “That’s right,” Ella said proudly. “He was on the air in Missoula when the Saurons attacked. He told the people who believed in Yahweh, the people who understood the need for a great cleansing, to meet him at the radio station’s transmission tower.

  “The station went off the air shortly after that, he jumped in his car, and headed toward the tower. He was almost there when a chit fighter appeared out of nowhere, slagged the front of his Lincoln, and injured both of his legs. People, his people, pulled Dent out of the wreckage and carried him away. It was a miracle.”

  Not for the first time, Ivory wondered how his race wife could be so smart and so stupid, all at the same time. Dent had been lucky, that’s all, and Yahweh had nothing to do with it. The racialist was careful to hide his true feelings while he probed for more information. “So, how did Reverend Dent wind up here?”

  “My father appeared on Reverend Dent’s show years ago. Later, once the broadcast was over, they talked for a long, long time. Daddy told him about Racehome, about his vision for the future, and the Reverend never forgot. That’s why he told his followers to bring him here, where he could preach the word of Yahweh, and the race could be reborn.”

  And the miserable bastard could take advantage of the supplies the Howther family had stashed in their mine, Ivory thought cynically. “That’s an amazing story,” Ivory said truthfully, “so the folks in the white shirts carried him all the way from Missoula?”

  “That’s right,” Ella confirmed, “and it wasn’t easy. They had to break up into small groups, travel only at night, and maintain contact via radio. Approximately half the flock were killed en route, but the other half made it. Thanks to them, and their knowledge, we now have an underground farm. Plus a radio station! Later, when the time is right, the saint will resume his broadcasts. Come on, I’ll show you.”

  As Ivory followed his wife down the main shaft, then off into side tunnels and their associated galleries, there was little he could do but be impressed.

  It seemed as if Dent’s followers were a cut above the motivated but often dysfunctional riffraff so often attracted to the racialist movement. People like the men who had accompanied Ivory on the trip from Denver. Death on muds, and filled with the lord’s spirit, but poorly educated. Certainly not capable of putting together extensive underground farms fed by miles of black irrigation tubing and supplemented by a rich combination of human waste and bat guano.

  Add grow lights, powered by a diesel generator dedicated to that purpose, plus some natural sunlight, brought down via carefully arranged mirrors, and the people of Racehome had fresh vegetables. Not sufficient to live off of, but a healthy, vitamin-rich supplement to the military MREs and canned goods that made up the bulk of their diets.

  Not that underground life was easy. No, it took work, hard work to bring more than a thousand wheelbarrows of topsoil down from the surface, to mix it with fertilizer, and fill the wood-framed trays. It also required labor to plant, weed, and harvest, all activities that the white-shirted “Dent heads” seemed to somehow glory in.

  Ella introduced Ivory to a man named Tracks, a former marijuana grower, who possessed considerable expertise where underground crops were concerned and seemed typical of the newcomers. He had long, lank hair, a narrow face, and beady brown eyes. They blinked every few seconds, in time with some neurological tic, and were linked to the manner in which he spoke. The words came in codelike bursts. “Glad to meet you. Heard plenty . . . Welcome back. Yeah, we’re doing okay. In two years, maybe three, we’ll be self-sufficient.”

  Ivory raised his eyebrows in surprise. “You’re planning to live down here long-term? What about the holy war? Why not drive the Saurons off planet, harness the muds to your plows, and live on the surface?”

  Tracks blinked in surprise. “You’re kidding, right? How you gonna do it? With two or three hundred skins? I don’t think so.”

  Ella pulled him away after that, to see the underground pen in which four pigs and a pathetic-looking Fon were waiting to be slaughtered, but Ivory’s mind lagged behind. Still another danger had made itself known, not elements of the much-hated ZOG, but an enemy that lurked within.

  NEAR THE MAYAN RUINS OF NAKABE, GUATEMALA

  A bolt of lightning zigzagged across the sky, sent thunder rolling across the land, and announced the coming of the rain. It pinged the metal roof as if experimenting with a new instrument, found the surface to its liking, and beat it like a drum. There were holes, tiny for the most part, but each produced its own miniature waterfall. Some of the slaves turned their faces upward, and allowed the cool wetness to splatter against their faces, while others moved, seeking the dry spots, thereby sending ripples out through the crowd of roughly three hundred men and women. Some, so tired that their sleep verged on a state of unconsciousness, remained right where they were as the water fell from above. Sleep was a boon, the only medicine they were likely to get, and therefore precious.

  The weak, flickering light came from a scattering of battered kerosene lamps, all of which were protected by homemade umbrellas and regarded as community property.

  The dry season, which ran from late December through mid-April, had ended, or so Jones believed, although she had no longer had the access to the cell phone, PDA, and belt comp through which the complexities of life had once been managed. Those had been taken away from her the day after the Saurons landed and took possession of the surrounding area.

  In fact, with the exception of a stainless-steel Gator pocketknife, discovered where some tourist had lost it, a Bic lighter stolen from another slave, a cheap Timex, and some ragged clothes, Dr. Maria Sanchez-Jones had nothing beyond life itself. Something she planned to hang on to for as long as possible.

  That’s why she paid close attention when a Kan unlocked the doors and pulled them open. The air was warm and humid. Not that much better than the fetid stuff trapped within the shed. Not just any shed, but her shed, the one that she and other anthropologists had once used to clean, sort, and classify bits of material removed
from the Mayan ruins. But there had been fans back then, big fans that had been flown in from Mexico City, and ran 24/7. Not anymore, though, not without power, and not for the comfort of slaves.

  The Kan shimmered as his chitin sought to match the jungle behind him and waved a pincer at a group of approximately thirty humans. His voice was flat and hard. “You will exit the building.”

  Jones was automatically suspicious since the Kan were creatures of habit and nearly always did everything the same way day after boring day. When they didn’t, when patterns were broken, it meant something unpleasant was about to happen. Now, as the slaves were ushered out of the shed a full two hours before their shift was scheduled to start, she knew it was bad. The only question was how bad.

  Had she been seated toward the rear of the group, Jones might have done what she thought of as “a fade,” kind of hanging back and melding with those who were slated to stay. Something often made easier by her relatively small stature. At five-two and 105 pounds it was relatively easy to hide.

  But that wasn’t going to work this time, not so close to the doors, which left the anthropologist with little choice but to obey. She got to her feet, followed the others outside, and felt the raindrops explode against her brown skin. Skin which, thanks to the regard that the aliens had for pigmentation, had sometimes served to shield her from the often horrible jobs reserved for los blancos. But not this one, whatever it was, since the people around her were a mix of Hispanics and gringos. No blacks, however, since they were housed in quarters reserved for overseers.

  It was dark, without so much as a hint of light in the eastern sky, and only the glow of distant work lights to guide them. Thunder rumbled, the rain fell more heavily, and soon soaked her clothes. Jones felt her nipples harden, knew they would be visible through the thin fabric of her T-shirt, and crossed her arms in front of her chest.

  Kevin Blackley, a blanco who had the misfortune to be on-site visiting the ruins when the Saurons landed, raised his eyebrows and ran his tongue over his lips. He was actually kind of good-looking in a smarmy sort of way—and buff, thanks to the hard physical labor. Previously prominent love handles had disappeared, his upper body was much more muscular, and he looked good with a two-day growth of beard. None of which was sufficient to counter the fact that he had an IQ only slightly above that of a Chihuahua. Ever since Blackley had been assigned to her work team roughly a month before, and become aware of the fact that Jones had represented Mexico in the Miss Universe pageant five years earlier, he had dedicated himself to getting into her pants. Something that wasn’t about to happen.