EarthRise

by William C. Dietz

  “There’s no need to yell,” Storm said gently. “The sound of your voice can carry a long ways.”

  Wind knew she was correct and did his best to look contrite. “Sorry, Storm. I got excited that’s all.”

  “No problem,” Storm replied, gathering her tools into a bucket. “We have to be careful . . . Especially in the forest. The habits we establish here will serve us there. Tell Strength that I’m on my way.”

  Full of his own importance, and eager to deliver the new message as quickly as possible, Wind nodded and ran back the way he had come.

  Five minutes later Storm entered the underground command center, dropped the galvanized bucket by the door, and established eye contact with her chief of staff. He was a wiry little man who had acquired his moniker by virtue of that which lay within rather than the size of his body. “So, it’s true? Franklin is on his way?”

  Strength shrugged and gestured toward the once-elegant dining room table. A variety of communications equipment covered its much-abused surface. A woman sat in front of the table, listened via earphones, and took notes as the reports filtered in. “Everyone’s telling Sparks the same thing . . . A Chinook helicopter is eastbound up the valley. The registration numbers match the one Franklin has used in the past. There’s no sign of Sauron activity down here . . . although we have no way to know what’s happening in orbit.”

  “The bastard has balls,” Storm replied, “you have to give him that. I wonder what sort of cock-and-bull story he told the bugs in order to justify the trip? Oh well, it hardly matters. Whatever it was worked. Come on—we’d better get going.”

  The old Honda Four Trax Foreman ES didn’t look like much, but it ran pretty well. Of even more importance to Storm and the rest of her community was the fact that the ATV could pull a trailer, produced a minimal heat signature, and was easy on gas. Storm preferred to drive, so it was she who swung a leg over the gas tank, and settled behind the controls. Strength hopped on behind.

  The 433cc engine roared as Storm advanced the throttle, spewed gravel out from under four knobby tires, and flew up the ramp. It felt good to enter the sunlight, to skid into the first turn, and accelerate away. A party of woodcutters waved as the twosome passed. Storm waved back. Then, having applied just the right amount of brake, the ATV burst out of the tree line, skittered onto the old two-lane highway, and accelerated toward the west.

  By prior arrangement the helicopter was supposed to land in the open area out front of the old Alpine Motel. Knowing that it pays to be paranoid, especially with the bugs in control, the Sasquatch warriors had been ordered to secure the entire area. Both of the group’s 120mm light mortars had been pre-registered on the LZ, heavy machine guns were sited in predug pits, and no fewer than forty members of the self-styled “eco-army” were hidden in the surrounding area.

  Now, as the ATV approached the rendezvous point, Storm heard the steady whup, whup, whup of the Chinook’s giant rotors over the sound of the Honda’s engine and steered for the center of the motel’s weed-infested parking lot.

  Both of them dismounted, and Storm shaded her eyes as the enormous helicopter banked and circled the old motel. “They’re checking us out,” Strength said levelly. “Looking for any sign of a trap.”

  “Makes sense,” Storm commented. “That’s what we would do. How ’bout those mortars? Any chance they could be misinterpreted?”

  “I don’t think so,” Strength replied, “especially considering the fact that we warned them we would have some fairly heavy stuff scattered around the area. Agent Amocar said he understood.”

  An artificial wind tugged at their clothing as the helicopter circled again. It was lower by then—only fifty feet off the ground. “Agent Amocar?” Storm yelled. “Who’s he?”

  “One of Manning’s people,” Strength replied. “The short guy who walks funny.”

  Storm had a vague memory of a man fitting that description preceding Franklin into the sawmill summit. She nodded. “Good . . . We wouldn’t want some sort of misunderstanding. Lord knows we have enough problems already.”

  Strength squinted into the swirling dust, wondered why the Chinook continued to hover toward the far side of the parking lot, and saw that something had been mounted at the center of the open hatch. It looked familiar, like something he’d seen during his hitch in the air force, although it was difficult to be sure. Still, even the remote possibility of such a thing was sufficient to cause Strength to turn and take a step in Storm’s direction.

  But 20mm slugs move quickly, and even though Strength was already in motion, they hit Storm before he could make contact.

  Not willing to entrust such an important task to a bug, or another human for that matter, Amocar had chosen to act as his own gunner. Careful to allow for the helicopter’s motion, he steered the metal hailstorm across the parking lot and onto the primary target.

  Storm was just starting to understand, just beginning to comprehend, when the first slug blew her right leg off, the second smashed her pelvis, and the third blew a grapefruit-sized hole through the center of her chest.

  Still diving, still determined to save Storm from the fate she had already suffered, Strength entered the line of fire. The slugs from the minigun ripped his body to shreds, drifted sideways as the Chinook started to pivot, and raked the front of the motel. Wood shattered, glass exploded, and the old-fashioned neon sign disintegrated as the 20mm slugs tore the place apart.

  Now, having recovered from the initial shock of seeing their most important leader murdered right in front of their eyes, the ecowarriors opened fire.

  Mortar rounds wasted themselves on the gore-splattered pavement, a .50-caliber machine gun chugged as the operator chased the helicopter, and small-arms fire came from every direction.

  Amocar fell over backward as the minigun cycled empty and the Chinook turned toward the west. Then, with slugs punching bright holes through the helicopter’s thin skin, Amocar yelled: “Go! Go! Go!” and the pilot applied full military power.

  His name was Hernandez, he had been brought in from the Sauron complex in Guatemala, and he didn’t give a shit why the helicopter’s original registration numbers had been changed, why Amocar wanted to grease one particular woman, or why the bichos (insects) were willing to go along with it.

  All he wanted to do was get out of the firefight alive, put the helicóptero back on the ground, and collect the etiqueta rojo (red tag).

  Meanwhile, to the rear of the otherwise empty chopper, Amocar listened to the sound of automatic weapons fire fade, nodded approvingly, and planted his butt in a fold-down seat. The mission had gone well, better than expected, and Hak-Bin would be pleased. So pleased that it might be possible to request a bonus of some sort. Two women perhaps? Yes, that would be fun, now wouldn’t it?

  And why not? Especially since he had not only eliminated the woman called Storm, but done so in a manner that would cast suspicion on Franklin, thereby weakening the entire resistance movement.

  Amocar fumbled under the seat, located the six-pack of Dos Equis, and popped the cap. It was warm, too warm, but wonderful nonetheless.

  The helicopter droned, the beer went down, and Amocar allowed himself to dream.

  NORTH OF EVERETT, WASHINGTON

  The sun had set, the fires had died down, and most of the humans were fast asleep. From Nal-Uma’s perspective, seen through the combat goggles that he wore, they looked like blobs of light scattered across the open field. In the distance, spaced evenly along the perimeter of the camp, other blobs jumped from point to point. Not only had his warriors had less sleep than the slaves—they had been on the bounce since the night before.

  The problem started with the fireworks set off during the previous dark cycle—and continued throughout the succeeding day.

  First came the messages spray painted across freeway overpasses. Though unable to read them himself, Nal-Uma knew the glyphs had significance from the way the humans reacted. Those near the front of the column read the words, exch
anged secretive glances, and sent a shiver back through the crowd.

  Being no fool, and curious as to what the ferals were trying to tell their more domesticated brethren, Nal-Uma forced one of the slaves to translate. The woman was frightened and had a tendency to stutter. “The wwwords say, ‘Fffreedom is at hhhand,’ master, but I didn’t write them.”

  “No,” the Kan replied thoughtfully, “you didn’t. Stay close . . . I may have need of you.”

  Then, addressing the column from the top of a half-slagged semi, Nal-Uma attempted to put the matter away. His voice was amplified, and Sool, who along with Dixie was standing toward the rear of the crowd, had no difficulty hearing it.

  “I will say this once and only once . . . Pay no attention to empty words written by pathetic creatures who live in the forest. Look around you . . . Is ‘freedom at hand’? No, I think not. Freedom, when it comes, will be granted after the temples have been completed. Remember that, and walk quickly, knowing that the sooner you arrive, the sooner you will finish. That is all.”

  The Kan’s words acted to quiet the crowd, for a while at least, but the psychological warfare continued.

  Nal-Uma put flankers out. The warriors had seen combat on other worlds, knew what it was to fight under strange circumstances, and weren’t easily shaken. Or so the file leader believed until the same warriors began to report a variety of strange phenomena and were clearly concerned about it. Ferals were sighted—but always in the distance. Horrible wailing sounds could be heard, which according to his human interpreter, came from something called bagpipes.

  Objects were left where both the Kan and the slaves would see them. A cluster of small red, white, and blue flags that fluttered in the breeze, a Sauron skull, mounted on a pole, and hundreds of Hershey bars scattered across I-5.

  The net result of all this activity was a tendency for the flankers to stay in close—and thereby cede everything else to the ferals. Not an especially good thing to do. Nal-Uma knew that, but lacking additional troops was powerless to do anything about it. So, knowing that his brethren were stretched thin, and that reinforcements were unlikely at best, he resolved to work with what he had.

  The column, which normally stretched out to occupy half a unit or so, was compressed into half that distance, overseers were encouraged to mete out punishment for even minor offenses, and orbital fire support was called on to police the areas just beyond Nal-Uma’s flanks.

  First came the pressure of suddenly displaced air, then the crack of what sounded like lightning, followed by the roll of artificial thunder. Yet in spite of the way the strikes served to bolster morale and keep the ferals at bay, the very fact that such a step was necessary served to keep Nal-Uma on edge.

  Now, after a long stressful day, the fall of darkness meant the possibility of more harassment. Or, and this was what the file leader hoped for, the ferals had called it quits. There had been absolutely no sign of them for the last couple of units, and that augured well.

  And so the day went, until night fell, and the Kan were forced to remain on high alert. To do so was consistent with the Sauron doctrine of dynamic defense, which stemmed from the mobility natural to Kan warriors. Because the Saurons remained in motion, rather than hunkering down behind static defenses, there were no strong points on which potential enemies could focus. To attack the Kan “was to attack the air,” or so the saying went, and Nal-Uma knew that it was true. Still, for reasons the Sauron couldn’t quite put his pincer on, he felt a sense of foreboding. An ancestor gibbered inside his head, and he tried to ignore it.

  Now, as the file leader kept watch, shadows began to shift as Deac Smith and his resistance fighters began to move in. Where the previous night had been about flash and psychological impact, this was the real thing. Nal-Uma had twenty-three warriors to call upon plus a cadre of human overseers. Four of the Kan lay dead before the file leader knew the battle had begun.

  Among the arsenal of weapons Deac’s Demons could call upon was the traditional Native American longbow, except that these bows were made out of high-tech laminates instead of wood, and were equipped with wheels, cams, cables, stabilizers, and light-intensifying 2X scopes.

  Tests had been conducted using a captive Sauron, and based on the results of that endeavor, Deac Smith knew that the black carbon arrows would not only fly straight and true, but the handmade “bug points” would shatter Kan chitin and drive deep within their bodies.

  The signal consisted of three clicks on his radio. There were six soft thumps as the bowstrings were released, four cracking noises as the arrows found their targets, and a bleating sound as a badly wounded warrior crashed to the ground.

  The dead sentries were all from the same quadrant of the defensive line, which opened a gap. Manning, along with fifteen of Deac’s Demons, had belly-crawled to within thirty feet of the Sauron perimeter. He came to his feet, brought the Mossberg 12-gauge to port arms, and charged the newly created breach.

  Then, on a signal from George Farley, who had command of that particular group, the infiltrators came together into an evolution so venerable that a Roman legionnaire would have instantly recognized the formation for what it was: the infantry square. And that’s where they were, all facing outward, when Nal-Uma did exactly what Deac Smith had predicted the Kan would do . . . he attacked.

  Manning, one of those assigned to the area within the center of the square, checked to ensure that his safety was off and closed his eyes. That was important, very important, as Popcorn Farley had emphasized more than once. “Keep’em shut,” he admonished, “or pay the price when the flares go off. ’Cause if you’re blinded when the bugs fall, we are ski-rewed. Do you read me?”

  Everybody read him, and most obeyed. But it was difficult, very difficult to close one’s eyes when the enemy was about to attack, which was the reason why Harv Bodine failed to do so. He watched all four of the flares go off, saw them bathe the landscape with harsh white light, and struggled to see.

  Then, as the initial intensity of the flares started to fade, and they drifted slowly toward the ground, Farley gave the order. “Open your eyes! Watch for silhouettes! The bastards are in the air by now!”

  And the Kan were in the air, as Nal-Uma could clearly see via his computer-assisted night goggles. He watched the color-coded blobs, his blobs, fall toward the red blobs, and felt a rising sense of excitement. Now, finally, the ferals would learn their lesson. And not just learn it, but learn it here, where the domesticated slaves could watch.

  Like Dixie, Sool was rolled up in a pair of blankets, lying beneath one of the medical carts. The “pop” of the flares, the sudden wash of white light, and unexpected wail of bagpipes was more than enough to wake her. She shook the nurse. “Dixie! Wake up! It’s them!”

  Subsequent to the nighttime visitation from Manning, the two women had prepared packs containing what few personal items they had, the set of surgical instruments that Sool had pieced together, and what few pharmaceuticals were on hand.

  Now, rolling out from under the cart, they were already dressed and ready to go. All they had to do was grab the packs, sling them on their backs, and figure out which direction to take. All the slaves were up by then, standing in confused clumps, unsure of what to do.

  That was when the gunfire erupted on the far side of the encampment and men and women dressed in buckskins and other outlandish attire seemed to materialize among the newly awoken slaves. “Follow me!” they yelled. “This way!” and proceeded to fade back into the darkness.

  Some of the slaves followed, but many, conditioned by months of captivity hesitated, afraid to enter the unknown. Sool waved them forward. “Come on! Do as they say! This is our chance!”

  And such was the doctor’s credibility, and such was her personal following, that the doubters followed. And other people followed them, and still others followed them, until a flood of humanity streamed off the field and vanished into the surrounding murk.

  The mass exodus was very visible to Nal-Uma, just as he
was very visible to Deac Smith, who had been stalking the Sauron for more than fifteen minutes by then.

  In fact the file leader had just begun to absorb the nature of the feral plan, and appreciate the manner in which all of his forces had been sucked toward a single spot, when a human-shaped blob stepped into the space before him and the file leader realized the extent to which his own personal security had been ignored. Not only had he remained stationary in order to assess the situation, but he had neglected to sweep the area behind him. The t-gun was not only holstered, but tabbed in, which meant the human had the advantage. He was alive, however, remarkably so, which suggested a desire to parley. Silly really, since there was nothing to discuss, but why not? Especially if he could seize some sort of advantage.

  Now, as Nal-Uma moved the goggles up and out of the way, the Sauron saw that the intruder had blackened his face, as if to imitate his betters, and held an ugly-looking submachine gun cradled in his hands.

  Smith’s voice was level and calm. Nal-Uma heard the words via his translator but couldn’t make sense of them. “ ‘He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.’ That’s from the Holy Bible, Psalms 23:3.” The words might not mean much, but there was no mistaking the subtle movement of the weapon’s barrel.

  The Sauron sent a message to the muscles located in his powerful hindquarters. They bunched just as they were supposed to, but at the very last second, just as the pent-up energy was about to be released, a burst of .9mm slugs tore his belly open, blew green gore out through Nal-Uma’s back, and silenced his line forever. Meanwhile, unaware of the sudden loss of leadership, the Kan pressed their attack.

  Still blinded by the flares, Harv Bodine heard weapons fire all around him, and fired his as well. The bullets missed an incoming warrior by a good three feet and were lost in the night sky.