Manning, who stood at the back of the room, winced. Not only had he been in love with the president’s wife, but his sister had been an enthusiastic member of the organization under discussion and directly responsible for Jina’s death.
“An excellent point,” Smith commented softly. “Were the FBI and Secret Service still functional, they’d go after the scumbags full force.”
There was silence for a moment. When Patience spoke his voice was hesitant—as if unsure of how his words would be received. “No offense, Mr. President, them having killed your wife and all, but is this the right time to go after them? We don’t have a lot of resources as it is . . . Can the resistance fight on two fronts and win?”
It was a practical question and deserved a practical answer. Franklin raised his estimation of the self-described drywall hanger by a full notch. “Patience makes a good point. I can’t even pretend to be objective. What do the rest of you think? Should we go after the White Rose? Can we afford to do so? And where are they anyway?”
P’ere Nec cleared his throat self-consciously. “Their head-quarters are located in the area you call Idaho. Our technicians noticed the facility sometime ago, but, as with so many other things, they forgot to report it to the Saurons.”
There were chuckles all around. Blue was first to speak. “Yes, I think we should go after them, but no, we can’t afford to do so. Not in the conventional sense anyway.”
Franklin leaned back in his chair. It made a creaking sound. “Your comment seems to suggest that a nonconventional means might exist. Do you have something specific in mind?”
“Yes,” Blue replied carefully, “I do. It’s kind of Machiavellian, however—and wouldn’t look very nice in the history books.”
“Screw the history books,” Franklin said pragmatically. “Unless we manage to win, there won’t be any history books. What’s your idea?”
“Well,” Blue began, his delivery unconsciously shifting to cadences once used in the classroom, “thanks to our Ra ‘Na allies we know where these people live. That being the case, we could feed the information to the bugs and let them handle the problem.”
Franklin gave a long low whistle. “That is Machiavellian. But I like it . . . How ’bout the children? What happens to them?”
Blue was amazed to discover that he hadn’t thought about the possibility of children. Had he changed? Become hardened by months of ruthless occupation? Yes, it seemed that he had. Horrible though it was, he was willing to condemn children to death in order to achieve what he saw as the greater good. Just like so many of the historical figures he had once lectured about. When Blue spoke it was as if the voice belonged to a stranger. “I wish there was some way to protect them, Mr. President, but I don’t see how.”
The room was silent for a moment, and Franklin bowed his head. “No, I suppose there isn’t. You were correct, Boyer, this won’t look very pretty in the history books, but I feel we have very little choice. We need to put everything we have into fighting the Saurons. So, how would it work? Why would the Saurons listen to us?”
P’ere Nec spoke with downcast eyes. “I am ashamed to say that not all of my kind support the resistance. They have been slaves for such a long period of time that some identify themselves with the Saurons. One, a collaborator named Dro Tog, would be happy to convey the news to his masters.”
Franklin allowed the front legs of his chair to hit the hardwood floor with a loud thump. “Brilliant! Let’s make it happen . . .”
The resistance leaders moved on to the next agenda item after that, but Boyer Blue, who had seen his own daughter die on a live television broadcast, soon lost the thread. More children would die—and the responsibility was his.
DARK SIDE OF THE MOON
Three fighters, all of which had been liberated from the ship Nu Mor Ga (Memory of Ancestors), during the revolt, and now belonged to the newly formed Ra ‘Na navy, lurked just off the dark side of Earth’s moon. They were undetected so far, and the Great One willing, would remain so long enough for Tra and his two companions to complete their mission. Lord Hak-Bin had vanished from sight for a period of time, but now, judging from the com traffic that raced back and forth between the citadel near Nakabe, Guatemala, and the dreadnought Ib Se Ma (Taker of Worlds), the big bug was about to reappear.
It could be something else, of course, since the Sauron transmissions had been encrypted using code generators developed by the Ra ‘Na themselves, but the pattern looked promising. There was quite a bit of evidence that Hak-Bin had been holed up in the citadel at Nakabe . . . and the Ib Se Ma was one of the few major warships not sabotaged, damaged, or somehow compromised during the revolt.
So, assuming that Ra ‘Na intelligence was correct, and Hak-Bin was about to lift off, the mission was relatively simple: intercept the Sauron shuttle and destroy it.
There were problems, however, not the least of which was the fact that neither Tra nor his fellow pilots had been trained to fly anything other than shuttles and other unarmed craft. Yes, Ra ‘Na pilots had flown combat missions in the distant past—the fact that interceptors even existed was proof of that fact—but unlike his Kan counterparts, who were born with inherited skills, Tra had none of his ancestor’s skills to guide him.
Not only that, but given the fact that only a handful of interceptors had been converted for use by Ra ‘Na pilots, there was every likelihood that the three-person attack force would be outnumbered as well. The knowledge of that weighed heavily as the newly minted fighter pilot sat in the recently converted seat, his face plate retracted, trying to ignore the coppery smell of Kan body odor that still permeated the cockpit. He was frightened, very frightened, but happy to be where he was. If they could pull the mission off, if they could kill Hak-Bin, the odds would be greatly improved. Momentarily leaderless, the Saurons would squabble amongst themselves, and Dro Rul would capitalize on that.
Tra checked the hastily converted control board, wished the waiting was over, and stared out into the blackness of space. Perhaps someday his people would return home. Where was the much-storied Balwur anyway? Straight ahead? Somewhere astern? If the stars knew, they refused to answer.
ABOARD THE SAURON SHUTTLE OR SU, (USEFUL)
The shuttle had cleared Earth’s atmosphere and was on course to land aboard the Ib Se Ma, when the warning arrived. The pilots received it, checked to make sure the fighter escorts had as well, and sent word to Hak-Bin via a Fon named Ath-Dee. He shuffled down the aisle, bowed, and delivered the news in the slow, ponderous style he considered appropriate for intercourse with members of the Zin caste.
“I’m sorry to disturb your eminence, but it seems that the slaves seized some of our fighters, three of which are positioned on the far side of the moon. Based on their location, and the fact that they have already started to accelerate, there is a strong possibility that they intend to attack this shuttle. The pilots believe that we can outrun them. Please check to ensure that your safety harness is secured . . . and notify me if there’s anything else I can do.”
Hak-Bin occupied a thronelike passenger sling that took up a disproportionate amount of the cabin. Ott-Mar rested within a standard sling toward the front of the compartment, and Tog, who wished he was somewhere else, occupied a bolt-down seat on the far side of the main aisle. Hak-Bin looked up from a swing-out data screen and regarded the Fon with the Sauron equivalent of a frown. “We have a fighter escort?”
“Yes, your lordship. Five of them.”
“Who is in command of this shuttle?”
“Pilot, Hol-Zee, your lordship.”
“Go forward. Tell Hol-Zee that Saurons don’t run from slaves and to reduce his speed by twenty-five percent. The slaves will attack, our escorts will slaughter them, and the fur balls will learn a lesson. Understood?”
Ath-Dee swallowed hard. Hol-Zee wasn’t going to like the message and might very well take it out on him. Why couldn’t the two of them communicate via the intercom? But the functionary, who was secretly teaching
himself to read, already knew the answer. Because by forcing him to carry their messages back and forth they formalized the caste system and kept themselves in power. Ath-Dee said, “Yes, eminence, right away, your eminence,” and shuffled toward the cockpit.
Meanwhile, sitting where he could hear the entire interchange, Tog felt his bowels begin to loosen. There had been rumors on the ground but nothing he could put a finger on. Now it seemed apparent that Dro Rul and his cadre of fanatics had gone so far as to stage a revolt of some sort! More than that, they were intent on killing Hak-Bin himself! Not to mention the poor souls who might be with him. The essential unfairness of that made the prelate angry—and thoughtful. What if the lunatics actually managed to win? What then?
Tog remembered the murders, the mass grave, and felt a sudden sense of panic. Maybe, just maybe, he could change Hak-Bin’s mind. Tog cleared his throat. “Excuse me, eminence—but I couldn’t help but overhear . . . Might I offer a comment?”
Hak-Bin looked up from the screen just as the shuttle started to slow. The Sauron had little but contempt for most of the Ra ‘Na race, but Tog was consistently useful. The occasional indulgence would cause no great harm. “Yes, Grand Vizier?”
Tog had come to dislike the title, especially in light of the revolt, but didn’t dare say so. “The plan you outlined made perfect sense . . . But what if something were to go wrong? How would the Sauron race, not to mention humble servants such as myself, fare in the event of your premature death? I urge you to reconsider.”
“Yes,” Ott-Mar put in, “I certainly didn’t operate on you only to have the results of my efforts destroyed by rebellious slaves.”
Such was the extent of Hak-Bin’s ego that he actually believed both individuals cared about his safety. “Your concern for the well-being of the race does both of you credit,” Hak-Bin replied gravely. “However, please consider the larger context. Assuming that the threat assessment is accurate, and the slaves are gunning for me, eyes on both sides of the conflict are waiting to see what we will do. Should we run, that sends one kind of message—if we don’t, that sends another.
“Besides,” Hak-Bin said confidently, “once the slaves come within range our escorts will annihilate them. So sit back, relax, and the entire matter will soon be settled.”
Tog wasn’t so sure. In spite of the fact that the Ra ‘Na pilots were not only gullible enough to be swayed by Dro Rul, they were Ra ‘Na, which meant that their technical savvy was superior to that possessed by their opponents. He couldn’t say that, of course, so the prelate offered a bow and was forced to await his fate.
Triggered by an order from the Ra ‘Na-controlled Nu Mor Ga, and guided by tracking data supplied by the Fire Control Center aboard the very same ship, the fighters emerged from cover and began the long run in toward their intended target. Tra frowned as the target vessel slowed. Why would it do that? Shouldn’t they apply power rather than reduce it? Not if they wanted the Ra ‘Na to attack. That’s when the Ra ‘Na saw that three of the five delta-shaped symbols on his display had turned to fight. Now it was clear that two of the interceptors had been assigned to remain with the shuttle—presenting still another screen of protection through which he and his companions would have to pass. It was a smart move and proof that the Kan knew what they were doing.
Tra scanned the control board, released his safeties, and touched the center of his chest for luck. The amulet his mate had sewn for him formed a lump under the fabric of his flight suit. Then, ears laid back under his helmet, teeth bared in an unconscious snarl, Tra pressed the attack. There were three things the Ra ‘Na had promised himself he wouldn’t do: He wouldn’t break off, he wouldn’t fire early, and he wouldn’t shit in his flight suit. That’s why Tra held the little ship steady, watched the oncoming fighters grow larger, and bore down on his sphincter. One of them, the interceptor in the center, was his.
The oncoming Kan fully expected the middle fighter to turn and run. After all, what fur ball in his or her right mind would face a Kan? That, plus the fact that a stern chase would make his job that much easier, caused the Sauron to withhold his fire.
But the incoming interceptor didn’t turn . . . and the Kan felt his heart start to pump a little bit faster as he directed a message to his left pincer. It never arrived.
Lacking the confidence to use his weapons in a selective manner Tra fired all of them at once. All manner of offensive electronics came on, missiles lanced out from beneath stubby wings, and nose-mounted energy cannons burped coherent light.
The totality of the onslaught, plus the Kan’s failure to act quickly, produced catastrophic results. The Sauron fighter exploded. A new sun appeared, was snuffed from existence, and took its place at the center of its own solar system.
Tra’s fighter had already passed through the debris field, and emerged from the other side, by the time the truth dawned on him. He’d gone one-on-one with a Kan and won! A war whoop formed itself in the back of the fighter pilot’s throat, but died as Tra eyed his screens. The Kan had destroyed the other two ships, turned back toward Hak-Bin’s shuttle, and were hot on his trail.
Now, with two Saurons in pursuit and two waiting up ahead, Tra knew his fate. He was going to die. The only question was how many Kan would die with him. More confident now, and determined to make his death count, the Ra ‘Na bored in.
Ing-Ort, the senior of the two pilots left to guard the shuttle, was disappointed by his brother’s untimely death, but not entirely surprised. The planetary attack had been a one-way affair—and pilots like Gon-Por had grown somewhat complacent. He had warned them against such a possibility, but they knew better, or thought they did, and the results were plain to see. Slowly, almost casually, Ing-Ort brought his onboard electronic countermeasure equipment on-line, released his safeties, and applied power.
Tra was still a good distance away when the pursuing ships peeled off to either side, and suddenly he knew why. They had been herding him! Withholding their fire lest they inadvertently hit the shuttle!
Ing-Ort fired a pair of missiles, made an adjustment, and fired two more.
Tra saw the first set of tracks appear on his heads-up display, turned to avoid them, and placed himself right in front of missiles three and four. That’s when the Ra ‘Na realized that the opposing pilot had intentionally launched the first missiles at less than maximum speed—a possibility that never even occurred to him. It was a lesson learned, and a lesson lost, as the second pair of missiles struck their target and Tra was killed.
Seconds later, aboard the shuttle Tra had tried so hard to destroy, the Fon named Ath-Dee delivered the good news. He saw no reason to mention the loss of a fighter escort and therefore neglected to do so. “The rebel fighters were destroyed eminence—and full power has been restored. We should arrive aboard the Ib Se Ma eighteen units from now.”
Hak-Bin looked up, said, “Of course,” and returned to his screen.
Ott-Mar felt relieved—and Tog gave a prayer of thanks. The deaths were unfortunate, but all too predictable, and the result of Rul’s folly.
Meanwhile, in a last desperate attempt to hit the shuttle and kill its passengers, the Nu Mor Ga opened fire. But Sauron-controlled vessels responded in kind, other ships joined in, and the shuttle was able to escape.
Dro Rul, watching the battle from afar, bowed his head in prayer. The ship shuddered as its defensive screens neutralized most of the incoming fire but passed a little of the energy along. It seemed liberty had a price—and the price was very, very high.
ANACORTES, WASHINGTON
It was late evening, almost nighttime, as the small outboard pushed the boat in toward land. There was some chop as the wind blew waves in from the Strait of Juan De Fuca. The whitecaps hit the Sunshine’s metal hull, threw a smattering of spray up over the bow, and reluctantly gave way as the boat cut them in two.
Darby, worried lest the sound of the 20 hp motor give them away, gestured at the figure huddled in the stern. Though frequently contentious, and mor
e than a little annoying, Chu was the only Crip that Darby had brought along. Though missing an arm, the young woman was otherwise intact and capable of returning on her own should that become necessary. “Back off the power a bit . . . the last thing I need is a reception committee.”
“Yes, Admiral, whatever you say, Admiral,” Chu responded sarcastically, but too low for the ex-petty officer to hear. The Shine moved sluggishly through the water as the twosome rounded Cap Sante and made their way toward the west. Thanks to orbital photos supplied by the Ra ‘Na resistance movement, Darby knew the catalyst factory was located in what had been Volunteer Park, at Fourteenth Street and H Avenue.
But knowing where the facility was, and knowing what kind of conditions prevailed, were two different things. What about security? How many Kan had been stationed there? Where were the slaves quartered? How would the catalyst be stored?
Deac Smith needed answers to those questions and needed them badly if he and his forces were to launch an attack on the facility. That’s why he had approached the Crips—in hopes they could obtain the information he needed.
Darby, who was, to the best of her knowledge, all that remained of the United States Navy, felt she had no choice but to agree. Especially now that Franklin had cut his ties to the Saurons—and irrevocably committed himself to the role of president.
The bow smacked a wave, the Shine bucked, and Darby pointed toward the city. Lights had appeared, Sauron lights, marking the factory’s location for anyone who cared to see. And why not? The aliens were in charge—and had yet to take the resistance seriously. Chu nodded, angled the bow in toward the land, and applied a touch more power. The waves were hitting the starboard side of the boat by then—and threatening to spill over the top.
EarthRise Page 27
