EarthRise

by William C. Dietz

  That’s when Pol would look upward, see the distant lights, and realize the extent to which the other two were ahead. Frustrated by his own weakness and anxious lest he fall even farther behind, the cleric would push off and try to make better time.

  There were obstacles, however, not the least of which was the fact that the pipe was a pipe, and placed there for a reason. The first downpour came when a holding tank filled, a relay closed, and a valve opened. The mixture of rainwater, birth catalyst, and waste matter entered the pipe below the point where Twan happened to be, fell unimpeded on Pol’s head and shoulders, and gushed down between his legs. It was warm, it stank, and the unexpected weight of the liquid nearly dislodged him. In fact, had it not been for the fact that the cleric happened to have one foot planted inside the opening to another pipe, he would have fallen.

  Pol threw his arms out to increase the amount of contact with the walls, had the presence of mind to hold his breath, and waited for the flood to pass. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, it did. Then, fighting for a purchase on the now-slippery walls, the journey continued.

  The rain had stopped, but the air remained heavy with moisture. Everything was wet, and a heavy mist floated just off the ground. In spite of the fact that the towers were intact, more than a dozen black splotches marked the points where heavily concentrated fire had succeeded in silencing most if not all of the computer-controlled weapons emplacements. Now, with those out of the way, or most of them out of the way, the allies were intent on entering the citadel itself. The main entryway seemed to sparkle as the latest volley of SLMs wasted themselves on the heavy hull metal. Finally, after no fewer than fifteen missiles had expended their combined energies on the now-blackened barrier, the attack ended.

  Franklin lowered the binoculars and handed them to Smith. “I see what you mean . . . that stuff is damned hard. How ’bout an attack from orbit? Maybe one of the ship-mounted weapons could do the job. They were pretty effective over on the east side of the citadel.”

  Smith sighed. Franklin meant well, he knew that, but the need to respond to his frequently naive suggestions was hard to take at times. Especially when he was tired, hungry, and generally pissed off. “We considered that, sir. But an orbital bombardment would destroy the bridge over the moat. That would force us to not only build another one, but to do so while taking fire, which would result in hundreds of casualties.”

  Franklin frowned. “Good point . . . I wonder why they left it there?”

  “So those spider-shaped robots could cross the moat,” the ex-Ranger explained patiently. “Plus, it may be rigged to blow. If so, we’ll probably lose it, but a guy can hope. Maybe Pol will succeed.”

  “How would you rate his chances?”

  Smith looked at the ground. “Not very good.”

  “And if he fails?”

  “We go to Plan B.”

  Franklin raised both eyebrows. “The spaceship idea?”

  “Why not? It worked on Hell Hill.”

  “Yeah, but most if not all of the slaves had escaped. There could be hundreds or even thousands of slaves locked inside those towers.”

  Franklin shrugged. “Dr. Jones doesn’t think so, but you’re right, there’s no way to know for sure. So what do we use for Plan B?”

  “A miracle,” Franklin said, slowly. “What we need is a miracle.”

  Qwas hunched his shoulders, pushed with his feet, and watched the blob of light slide upward. That was his marker, the measure of his worth, and the object that he lived to elevate. Earlier in the climb, back before his shoulders had started to ache and before he’d been drenched with a liquid so foul that there were no words to describe it adequately, the file leader had paused to look upward every now and then. Not anymore. Minimal though it was, that effort consumed too much energy.

  No, the best thing to do was remain in a sort of trance, put everything he had into the climb, and ignore all else. Push, hunch, push. That was the story of his life, the purpose for being, the . . . The top of Qwan’s head hit something solid, and he swore.

  Then, tilting his head back, he allowed the light to play across the surface above. There it was! The very thing he had been striving for . . . A valve assembly or something similar. Now, how to deal with the obstruction? Would a small quantity of explosives be best? Or should he use the power tool strapped to the front of his vest? The first option would be faster—but the second would cause less commotion. The file leader whispered into his mike. “Fra Pol? Can you hear me?”

  “Yes,” the cleric replied, “and so can anyone else who cares to monitor this frequency. No names, remember? So, what’s up?”

  “Sorry,” Qwas replied contritely. “I forgot. Objective one is now in sight.”

  “Excellent,” Pol replied. “Good work.”

  “So,” Qwas continued, careful lest he commit another gaffe, “which tool would you suggest?”

  Here was a decision that Pol dreaded. Either choice could be wrong. The explosives would make noise, no doubt about that, but the power tool would take a long time. He went with what the humans referred to as his “gut.” “Use the faster of the two alternatives—and be careful.”

  Qwas fumbled with one of his pockets, located the block of C-4, broke a chunk off, and rolled it between the palms of his hands. Then, once he had a “snake,” it was time to place it. As he leaned backward, the marine’s entire body shook from the resulting strain. The Ra ‘Na fed the plastic explosive into the recess around the valve, pressed it into place, and pushed the wireless detonator down into the charge. Some of the explosion’s force would be directed down, rather than up. The question was how much? Would the valve come loose? Or simply sit there? The file leader wasn’t sure.

  Then, shoulders aching, he forced himself to check his work. Satisfied that everything was as it should be, Qwas allowed himself to return to what he now considered to be a more natural position, and activated the radio. “I’m coming down. Prepare for falling debris.” Thus warned, both Twan and Pol did the best they could to lock themselves in place and protect their heads.

  Reluctant to descend too far, lest he have difficulty climbing back up, Qwas stopped. Then, careful not to drop it, the marine removed the remote from one of his pockets, prayed that everything would work, and pressed a button.

  The charge made a dull thump as it went off, sent the valve assembly up through the limestone floor, and showered Qwas with bits of debris. He waited, looked up, and saw a new source of light! Scared, but thankful to be alive, the marine hunched his way upward.

  Now, cleared of all obstructions, the pipe served to conduct sound. The marine heard long, bloodcurdling screams, waves of unintelligible click speech, and wondered if the explosion had gone unnoticed.

  But the sound of the C-4 had not gone unnoticed. As luck would have it a warrior named Tze-Gas was passing chamber 2,456 just as the charge went off, the valve assembly flew into the air, and fell on the triplets below. One of the nymphs died instantly and the others produced a storm of incomprehensible gibberish.

  Well aware of the fact that the citadel suffered from any number of design flaws, the Kan assumed that some sort of plumbing problem was responsible for the unfortunate incident and entered the cell to check.

  Effectively blinded by the section of natal tissue that still covered its head, but conscious of the intruder nonetheless, a nymph extended its neck. Jaws snapped just short of the Kan’s right leg, which forced him to back along the wall. Then, well clear of the twins, Tze-Gas bent to examine the hole.

  Qwas was only units from the top when the warrior looked down into the pipe. Both beings froze—but the marine reacted first. It was impossible to miss as he tilted the submachine gun upward and squeezed the trigger. A steady stream of slugs ripped the warrior’s head apart. The Ra ‘Na felt something warm splatter against his facial fur, watched the Kan fall back out of sight, and reached for the rim. His arms pulled, his legs pushed him up, and he was up and out. Terrified that even more Saur
ons would suddenly appear, Qwas took a moment to check his surroundings.

  The birth chamber was crowded. The carcass of a dead Fon lay to his left, its abdomen split nearly in two, hoses leading this way and that. The Kan’s headless corpse lay next to him, gore leaking out of its neck, while the nymphs continued to peck at it.

  Qwas gulped. “I made it . . . but ran into a spot of trouble . . . so please hurry.”

  Twan needed no urging—nor did Pol. He had caught up, thanks to the momentary delay, and felt reenergized. As before, hands reached down to pull him up. The scene that waited to greet him was gruesome beyond belief. “By all the blue devils,” Twan said in wonderment, “would you look at that!”

  “It’s hard not to,” Pol said dryly. “Please note the Kan’s condition. I see no signs of swelling. There could be more like that, so keep an eye out. Remember, it’s the hatch we’re after, so focus on that.”

  Then, having switched to a second frequency, Pol sent a message. “Ra ‘Na One to Bone One . . . Objective one is ours . . . Repeat, objective one is ours.”

  The return message came quickly, so quickly that it seemed as if Smith had been waiting for it, which he definitely had. “Good work, One. We’ll see you at objective two.”

  Pol clicked twice, just as Farley had taught him to do, and gestured toward the entry. “Qwas, you take the point. Twan, you walk drag.”

  Both marines nodded. The file leader edged his way around the still-agitated nymphs and stuck his head out into the hallway. The screams were less frequent now, but the stench was incredible, and a layer of slime covered the floor. Qwas looked both ways, stepped outside, and looked up. Gallery after gallery of birth chambers climbed until the highest levels were hidden by darkness. Good, that meant he was on the ground floor, which put him on the same level as the all-important door. Then, with his back to the wet, lichen-covered walls and his weapon at the ready, the marine edged sideways down the corridor. The others followed.

  Meanwhile, not far away, and still making his rounds, Centum Commander Nis-Sta rounded a curve and looked for Tze-Gas. Seeing no sign of the warrior, Nis-Sta stuck his head into a series of birth chambers and repeatedly called the Kan’s name. “Tze-Gas? Tze-Gas? Come on out.”

  There was no reply. Finally, having entered an especially noisome cubicle, the Centum nearly tripped over the body. It took the officer less than a unit to compute the most likely scenario and trigger his com set. “A slave murdered Tze-Gas! Find the interloper and kill him!”

  Ninety-eight Kan heard the orders via their radios, pulled their t-guns, and joined the hunt. Many, bored by guard duty and unnerved by the din, were glad of something to do.

  Qwas had just rounded a curve and spotted the gigantic door, when a Kan spotted him from above. A t-gun barked, limestone chips hit the side of the marine’s face, and he yelled to the others. “Run! Run for the door! I’ll cover you.”

  Then, tilting the submachine gun upward, Qwas fired. The first Kan stepped off his perch, fell through a virtual hail of .22-caliber bullets, and was dead by the time he hit the floor. But others had heard and jumped from above. The marine counted three, four, five, more than he could keep up with, and tried to back toward the door. The gun clicked empty, and the file leader had just reached for a new magazine, when something brushed his shoulder. That’s when the pincer closed around the Ra ‘Na’s throat, his spine snapped, and his mind floated free.

  Twan was halfway to the door by then, with Pol screaming through his earplugs. “Concentrate on the door! I’ll keep them off you.”

  The marine wanted to turn, wanted to defend himself, but resisted the urge to do so. The grenades made a cracking sound as Pol underhanded them down the corridor. A Kan squealed loudly but fell silent when the cleric opened fire. Though not a true prayer, the toth was heartfelt nonetheless. “May my grenades rip you apart! May my bullets pierce your flesh! May the Great One curse you and your entire race!”

  Meanwhile, Twan, hands shaking, opened the access panel. The lock was controlled by a key pad identical to its shipboard counterparts. The firing was closer now, so close he could hear empty casings tinkle as they hit the deck, soon followed by Pol’s yelling. “Open the damned thing! I can’t hold them any longer!”

  A dart exploded against hull metal. The marine knew he lacked the time required to connect the computer leads and run the thousands of combinations required to do the job right. So, heart in his mouth, Twan decided to take a guess. The Zin were comfortable with numbers, but other castes were less so and had a tendency to forget things. So, that being the case, which digits would a Fon choose?

  Twan took a deep breath, stabbed the numbers 1, 2, 3, and 4, and was rewarded with a groan as the door started to open. That’s when the marine gave the Ra ‘Na equivalent of a war whoop, and used the submachine gun’s grip to smash the key pad. Then, turning toward his right, the tech prepared to fire.

  The Kan’s automatic weapon made a sound similar to ripping cloth as it sent a stream of darts into Twan’s chest. He staggered, fell onto his back, and felt sunlight hit his face. The clouds! They had disappeared! Then he was gone.

  Pol, still firing three-round bursts, heard some sort of yell, realized it was human, and knew help was on the way. That was when the sledgehammer hit, the impact threw him up into the air, and he fell into the water-filled moat. There was a splash, and he disappeared.

  “Follow me!” Smith yelled, and ran onto the bridge. Franklin was there, with the .9mm clutched in his hand and Manning at his side. So were the rest of the bodyguards, all trying to protect him, but caught in the mad charge.

  The first rank of humans fired, as did the Saurons, and members of both sides went down. Then, as the two came together, the real fighting began. Manning heard rather than saw Franklin fire his weapon and struggled to maintain his position. “Keep it tight!” he urged the team. “Don’t let the bastards in!”

  Kell, who was stationed on the chief executive’s left side, knew what Manning meant. “In” referred to the protective bubble in which the president floated. He saw a Kan fire his t-gun, put two .9mm bullets through the alien’s skull, and kept on going.

  Forward of the president, right behind Smith and the lead elements of the assault force, Garly Mol and Jill Ji-Hoon struggled to make a hole and keep the Saurons from coming straight back. Both agents had emptied their weapons by then, and with no time to reload, were using their backups.

  For Mol that meant knives, one in each hand, both of which were used like ice picks. Her arms moved like pistons as each blow punched a hole through enemy chitin.

  Ji-Hoon, who preferred an old-fashioned nightstick, hit anything that morphed. Those around her could hear the solid whack as the baton made contact with chitin, often followed by a loud craack as it shattered, and a subsequent squeal of pain.

  But the contest was hardly one-sided. Unlike the humans, who could do little more than press forward, the Kan could jump and used that ability to considerable advantage. Manning first became aware of the threat when the sky seemed to shimmer and warriors fell on the mob behind him.

  The crowd seemed to expand as people backed away, shuddered when the Saurons fired, and closed as the Kan ran out of ammo.

  Now, thorax to torso with the humans, and unable to reload their t-guns, the Kan employed their graspers like clubs. Humans fell as the rock-hard extremities crushed their skulls and broke limbs.

  Not to be outdone, some of the ex-slaves swung their assault weapons like battle-axes, while others produced big ball peen hammers, and gave as good as they got.

  Meanwhile, still protected by his bodyguards, Franklin had the opportunity to reload his weapon. That’s why he had a fresh magazine in place when one of the warriors fell short and landed right in front of him. The president could hear the grunt of expelled air, smell the alien’s breath, and see the hatred in his eyes.

  The t-gun fired first but the dart missed by an inch. Gozen Asad never felt a thing. One moment he was there, guarding, th
e Big Dog’s six, the next moment he was gone.

  Franklin struggled to drag the handgun up and into position. It seemed to weigh a ton. Then, having squeezed the trigger, he followed the Kan down. It was only when he heard Manning yell, “He’s dead, Mr. President,” that the politician realized that his weapon was empty and took his finger off the trigger.

  The Kan had been forced to give ground by then, so, rather than give the aliens an opportunity to regroup, Smith led a second charge. “All right, people! We have the bastards on the run! Let’s finish this thing!” So saying, the deacon and his demons thundered across the bridge and poured through the door. But Nis-Sta was waiting, and no sooner had the humans entered, than thirty Kan fell from above.

  Manning felt something heavy land on his shoulders, was thrown facedown onto the limestone floor, and knew he was about to die. But that’s when he heard a roar of outrage, felt the weight disappear, and rolled onto his back.

  The Kan struggled as Jonathan Wimba lifted the warrior up—only to throw him down. There was a thud as the body hit limestone, and the Sauron lay dead. The battle had moved on by that time which meant there was a momentary respite as Manning got to his feet. “Thanks, Jonathan. Not bad for a sociologist. Where’s the Big Dog?”

  “I saw him go thataway,” Mol responded, as she pointed toward a ramp, “with Kell in hot pursuit.”

  Manning said, “Shit!” slammed a new magazine into the butt of his weapon, and ran for the ramp. The sounds of battle grew more distant as the others followed. Now, as they climbed, the humans could hear intermittent screams, waves of the staticlike clicks and pops, and the sound of their own footsteps.

  Many of the nymphs were active by then, already peeking from their birth chambers or venturing out to explore a bit. One of the juveniles, a Kan by the look of him, leaped at the humans as they passed by. Ji-Hoon fired without breaking stride. The .9mm slug caught the nymphling in the side of the head and threw him into a wall. Both of his brothers pulled back.