EarthRise (11 page)

“It’s me,” a gruff-sounding male voice responded. “Who were you expecting? The tooth fairy? Come to tuck you in?”

There was only one man who dared speak to Smith like that, the same man who had served at his side in the Rangers and spent the same amount of time in the saddle that he had. None other than George Farley, U.S. Army staff sergeant, retired, and Smith’s second-in-command. The resistance leader grinned in spite of himself. “The tooth fairy couldn’t possibly be that ugly . . . So come in then get the hell out. I need some shut-eye.”

The door squeaked as it opened. Farley, also known as Popcorn to his friends, stuck his head in. He had chocolate-colored skin, quick, intelligent eyes, and needed a shave. Hair, which had been almost entirely black just months before, was shot with gray. “You have visitors.”

Smith pulled a combat boot off, noticed the hole in his wool sock, and sighed. “I don’t want any visitors—especially at this time of night. Tell them to come back in the morning.”

“One of them is a young petty officer named Darby,” Farley said dispassionately. “The same Darby who took part in the attack on five Sauron spaceships and destroyed every damned one of them.”

“Darby?”
Smith demanded incredulously. “Darby? I figured she was dead. Why didn’t you say so? That woman deserves the frigging Medal of Honor!”

Farley smiled and stood to one side as the single-booted ex-Ranger limped out through the door. A battery-powered lantern hung from a hook in the ceiling. Darby stood in the cone of light thrown down onto the dirty linoleum floor. She saw Smith appear and the way his face lit up. He hobbled across the room to give the ex-petty officer a very unsoldierlike hug. “You’re alive! That’s the best news I’ve had all week. Where the hell have you been?”

Darby, who was both surprised and pleased by the warmth of the greeting, smiled to the extent that the scar tissue would allow her to do so. “I went fishing . . . and here’s what I caught.”

Darby stepped to one side and turned to discover that Pol had climbed up onto a human-sized stool, turned his back to the room, and was busy sorting through the parts that littered Ed’s plywood workbench. She sighed. “Pol . . . this is the man I brought you here to meet.”

Pol snapped one last component into place, heard a “click” as a connection was made, and touched a tiny button. The image of a fierce-looking Kan blossomed in front of the Harley poster tacked over the grease-stained bench. The Sauron started to speak. The dialogue sounded like a long series of clicks and squeaks.

Smith stepped in to get a closer look. “Who the hell is that?”

“Sector Commander Muu-Dak,” Pol said calmly. “Briefing his troops.”

“About what?” Farley asked, equally fascinated.

“Boring stuff,” Pol said offhandedly. “You know, troop movements, logistics, that sort of thing.”

The ex-Rangers looked at each other in amazement. What the ratty-looking Ra ‘Na had been able to do in a matter of a few minutes was more than their best tech heads had been able to accomplish during the last month.

Darby, who had a pretty good idea what the two men were thinking, gestured in Pol’s direction. “Deac Smith, George Farley, meet Fra Pol. He would like to join the resistance movement.”

Smith, one boot still held in his hand, limped to the workbench. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Fra Pol. We have more equipment like that . . . stuff we captured. A lot of it needs work. Would you be willing to look at it?”

“Certainly,” Pol said, watching his hand disappear inside Smith’s sizable paw. “I will assist in any way that I can.”

“Then welcome to the resistance, son,” Farley said. “The pay sucks, you’ll probably get killed, but it beats a hitch in the United States Navy.”

Darby gave the ex-Ranger a one-fingered salute, and the humans laughed.

The joke was lost on Pol, who, for reasons he wasn’t quite sure of, and contrary to all common sense, felt like this was home.

SOUTHEAST OF HELL HILL

The main problem with Jonathan Ivory’s plan, beyond the fact that it was crazy, had to do with the amount of patience required. However, assuming he wanted to hitch a ride on a Sauron road train, which he did, and assuming he wanted to trim weeks off the journey to Racehome, the racialist had very little choice. All he could do was camp out on the concrete overpass, wait for enough time to pass, and hope he wasn’t fast asleep at the critical moment.

Ivory had dreams about that, nightmares so vivid that on one occasion he awoke to find himself standing at the guard-rail, screaming as the phantom convoy pulled away.

Not that wakefulness was much better. More than once he thought he heard the growl of engines, and gathered his meager belongings, only to discover that his mind was playing tricks on him. The freeway was empty, there was no line of vehicles approaching from the north, and the wait continued.

Worst of all, however, was the time when the growl of engines brought the racialist out of the woods to the west, and the Sauron road train was
real
, but headed in the wrong direction. Did that mean that another convoy, one headed toward the south, would be along soon? Or did it mean just the opposite? There was no way to know.

Strangely, when the moment finally came, it was the vibration rather than the noise that awoke Ivory from a fitful sleep and sent him scurrying toward the walls that ran along both sides of the overpass. The entire structure started to shake, as if in the grip of a low-intensity earthquake, and left little doubt that something heavy was on the way.

The racialist peeked over the edge, saw the tractorlike vehicle at the head of the Sauron convoy, checked to see if roof guards had been posted, was relieved to see that none were visible. That being the case, he ducked down again.

There would be Kan within the armor-clad vehicles, plenty of them, all heavily armed. All it would require was one curious warrior, a single fifty-foot jump, and Ivory would be history.

The bridge vibrated even more as the Sauron road train approached and the human scrambled to gather what few belongings he had.

Then, as the tractorlike lead vehicle passed under the concrete span, Ivory climbed to the top of the rail, where he stood like a windblown scarecrow and watched as dull, bird-splattered metal passed beneath his feet. Some sort of hieroglyph appeared, an ID number that would allow Sauron aircraft to identify the convoy from the air, then it disappeared as well. Ivory wanted to land on the last of the cars, theorizing that it was less likely to have any Kan lurking within, and wondered if the impact would be heard. “No” meant he would survive for a little bit longer, “yes” was equivalent to a death sentence.

“No, yes, no, yes.” Who could tell? The last car in the train drew near, Ivory took a long deep breath, put his faith in Yahweh, and jumped. There was a solid thump as his boots hit, less than two seconds in which to fall flat, and “feel” the bridge deck pass not more than a foot overhead. Then, lying prostrate on his stomach, the racialist began to count. “One, and two, and three, and four, and five, and six . . .”

When the total hit 120, or the equivalent of two minutes, Ivory stopped. There had been no sounds of alarm, no change in the car’s back and forth sway, no reason for alarm.

Relieved, and suddenly very tired, the racialist rolled over onto his back. The sun inched higher in the sky, warmed the metal roof, and made him drowsy. Ivory threw a forearm across his eyes, wondered if there was something more he should do, and fell asleep.

ABOARD THE SAURON DREADNOUGHT
HOK NOR AH

Unlike most of the Ra ‘Na-sized passageways aboard the
Hok Nor Ah
, corridor [*] had been constructed to allow various kinds of utility vehicles to transport equipment from one end of the ship to the other. That meant there was sufficient headroom to allow low-level jumps. Something that made the passageway a favorite with the Saurons. A fact which Dro Tog was coming to regret.

His escort, which consisted of two bored Kan, stood at the intersection and peered back over their shoulders. They shimmered like spirits only half-seen. The prelate, whose short, stumpy legs were already pumping at what he considered to be an excessive rate of speed, sensed their impatience and did his best to waddle even faster.

That was sufficient to make his heart quicken, but what really caused his pulse to pound was the nature of the summons itself. The great Hak-Bin had sent for him! A signal honor—but one which the cleric would rather have done without.

Or was it an honor? What if he had done something wrong? And the Saurons were about to crucify him? No, the condemned were treated in a much different manner. So what in the six blue devils was going on? All he could do was wait and see.

Tog caught up with the Kan who jumped and landed fifty standard units up corridor. The prelate had little choice but to hoist his robe, scurry forward, and hope that the torture would soon end.

And, as if the Great One had decided to answer Tog’s prayers, it wasn’t long before the Kan turned down one of the many side passageways that intersected the ship’s axis and were forced to resume their usual shipboard slip-slide shuffle. That allowed the prelate to settle his robes and resume something akin to a dignified pace.

Now, as passersby stared, Tog felt a moment of pride. And why not? He not only occupied one of the highest ranks his race was permitted to have, but had been summoned by no less a personage than Hak-Bin himself. And whatever the matter was it must be important. Otherwise why the summons? How many of those passing to the right and left could say the same? None, not a single one.

And so it was that Tog, oblivious to the subtle looks of disgust directed at him from every side, followed the Kan under an arch and was ushered into what looked like an airlock. Fear stabbed the cleric’s belly. Were they going to blow him out into space? No, while his knowledge of the ship was far from perfect, the prelate knew he was nowhere near the outside surface of the hull. Where then? And why?

Conscious of the fact that the Kan were watching him, Tog drew himself up, stepped through the hatch, and did his best to remain as expressionless as possible while the chamber was sealed. Nothing happened at first—which made him nervous. Then the inner hatch cycled open, Tog moved toward it, and something strange started to take place. The prelate felt lighter,
much
lighter, and was just starting to absorb the implications of that when his sandals left the deck. He had entered one of the ship’s null-gee zones—areas where certain kinds of work and medical therapies could take place free of gravity. Like all of the fleet’s Ra ‘Na slaves, Tog had been raised in space, and once freed from the weight of his obese body became suddenly graceful.

Tog flipped upside down, used his feet to push off the overhead, and dove through the hatch. His trajectory was perfect. His hands touched the deck beyond with just the right amount of force, he performed a somersault, and emerged in perfect position. Head “up,” to the extent that there was such a thing in zero gee, and feet “down.”

There was a clacking noise, and Tog turned in the direction of the sound. What he saw surprised him. Hak-Bin, his body swathed in multiple layers of what looked like flimsy black gauze, floated not twenty units away. Globe-shaped lights, both equipped with air jets, floated above and to either side. Another globe, this one positioned to provide the Sauron with a back light, hung above and behind. The rest of the chamber was dark and therefore mysterious. Beyond what Tog could see, there was what he could smell, and the Ra ‘Na’s supersensitive nostrils detected a not altogether pleasant odor. An amalgamation of smells, as if one scent had been used to hide another, and none too successfully.

The clacking stopped. “Nicely done,” Hak-Bin said in a patronizing manner. “I have long admired the grace with which your kind can move in zero gee. Even my most athletic warriors are clumsy by comparison.”

Here was the great Hak-Bin, addressing him personally, and saying something nice! How could this be? Fear rose to block Tog’s airway. It was difficult to speak. “Thank you, eminence, but you are too kind. Even the least of your warriors is much more graceful than I.”

Hak-Bin, who was used to such lies, and expected nothing less, waved a pincer. “Thank you for agreeing to come.”

Had the Kan warriors extended some sort of invitation? No, Tog couldn’t remember any . . . But maybe they were supposed to and forgot. “Thank you for the invitation, eminence. It was my pleasure.”

Hak-Bin nodded as if the answer was completely believable. “I’m sorry we won’t be able to spend much time on the ceremonial aspect of your investiture—but these are pressing times. Construction has slowed, the temples have fallen behind schedule, and every unit counts.”

Tog was mystified and mustered the courage to probe. “Investiture? Would your eminence be so kind as to explain?”

“Sorry about that,” Hak-Bin replied with wave of a pincer, “I assumed my staff had briefed you . . . It seems rumors have started to fly, nonsense for the most part, but fire sufficient darts and one will hit something eventually. According to one such story the entire Sauron race will die and give birth at the same time. Have you heard anything of that nature?”

The fact was that Tog
had
heard of something like that, from the scalawag Fra Pol no less, and refused to believe it. Until now that is . . . and his audience with Hak-Bin. Tog was a lot of things, many of which were less than admirable, but he wasn’t stupid. Suddenly, armed as he was with the information that Pol had overheard, plus the evidence in front of his eyes, the cleric knew the undeniable truth: The Saurons were not only going to die, just as Pol claimed they would, but Hak-Bin had already started to change. That’s why the Zin was living in zero gee, that’s why his body was swathed in fabric, and that’s why he smelled. The thoughts raced through his mind at incredible speed, and the prelate would have sworn that his face was expressionless, but he must have been wrong. Hak-Bin clacked a pincer. “Ah, so you
have
heard the rumors?”