EarthRise (15 page)

A line of approximately thirty rather bored Ra ‘Na technicals shuffled forward as a pair of equally bored Kan waved scanners over their wrist chips, verified that they had the necessary authorizations, and allowed the slaves to the enter the shuttle’s lock.

Med tech Shu, her pulse pounding in her ears, tried to look as blasé as those around her, but discovered that was difficult to do. Especially since the chip implanted in her wrist rightfully belonged to a recently deceased com tech named Mas. Did the Kan know Mas was dead? Killed when the shuttle she had been riding in smacked into a large chunk of orbital debris? Just one of thousands if not millions of such obstacles the Saurons had allowed to accumulate around the planet below? No, there was no way that they could. No one had been present when Shu switched
her
chip with the one removed from the other female’s body and closed the incision.

It was a brilliant plan, or that’s what Shu thought at the time, but now she wasn’t so sure. Once they saw her arm, the Saurons were almost sure to notice the tiny incision on the inside surface of her wrist and the makeup that had been applied in an attempt to conceal it.

Or, failing that, how could the warriors miss the fact that the picture that would show up on their screens didn’t match her face? They couldn’t, which was why her entire body started to shake, and the med tech worried that she might faint.

Now, as Shu approached the checkpoint, she questioned her own logic. The whole thing was absurd . . . Rather than perform surgery on herself, and assume another identity, why not share her knowledge with someone in authority. Dro Tog perhaps . . . or Dro Rul. Surely they would know what to do.

But whom to trust? Many believed that Tog was a collaborator, especially since his controversial decision to accept the title “Grand Vizier,” and Rul was something of a mystery. Some claimed he was hip deep in the resistance movement; others said not.

So, to whom could she turn? The answer was Fra Pol, assuming he was alive, and somewhere on the planet below. But first she had to get there, something that now seemed next to impossible as the male directly in front of her was cleared through the checkpoint and allowed to board the waiting shuttle.

Shu extended her hand, watched Kan wave his wand over the chip, and eyed the nearby screen. Though similar in age, and overall body mass, the two females were otherwise quite different. Mas was prettier for one thing, having the small, even features that males preferred, and fine golden fur. Shu on the other hand was a good deal more plain, having a nose that was a tiny bit too long, and mottled brown fur. It seemed to the Ra ‘Na that no one, not even a Sauron, could mistake one for the other.

The med tech winced as the other female’s image appeared, forced herself to remain motionless, and awaited the inevitable confrontation. It never came. Most Saurons, Kan included, saw their slaves as interchangeable work units and believed that the Ra ‘Na looked alike. Small, furry, and weak. What more did one need to know? That being the case, the warriors glanced at the image, saw what they expected to see, and waved Shu through.

Thirty minutes later the shuttle bucked its way down through Earth’s atmosphere, emerged from the cloud cover, and headed west. The broad glittering expanse of the Atlantic Ocean could be seen beyond the armored view port, and Shu felt an unfamiliar lightness of being. The sensation took her by surprise, and it took a moment to realize what it was. Freedom . . . the feeling was
freedom
. . . and the reality of it filled her heart with joy.

HELL HILL

Though originally quartered with other members of the security team, José Amocar had snored, farted, and barfed all the others out of the cargo cube, thereby creating what amounted to a private compartment for himself. Having colonized the entire space, his previously untidy habits had mysteriously disappeared.

The clothes that had once littered the floor had been hung on a pole suspended from the ceiling, tops together, all facing the same way, pants in a row, boots arranged below.

The food, which he had been known to leave out until maggots hatched within, was sealed within matching pieces of Tupperware and were stored in a scrupulously clean cooler.

The five-gallon bucket, once full to overflowing with the results of Amocar’s infamous bowel movements, was now nearly empty and decorated with no less than three self-adhesive deodorizer disks, all acquired during trips with President Franklin.

So, while primitive by pre-Sauron standards, Amocar’s apartment, plus its location four levels above the stench of the street, amounted to a penthouse within the context of Hell Hill’s endless misery.

That’s why the security agent actually enjoyed the moment when the windup alarm clock went off, when he swung his feet out onto the carefully placed throw rug, and retrieved the .9mm from its place under his pillow. He had thick black hair, a round moon-shaped face, and a barrel-shaped torso. Each day was an opportunity, and he paused to consider the one that lay ahead.

Not only was the knowledge that Amocar was better off than the vast majority of those around him well worth getting up for, there was the knowledge that the next twelve to sixteen hours would almost inevitably produce an opportunity for personal profit and the aggregation of personal wealth. Wealth as measured by what Amocar thought of as the three P’s: possessions, pleasures, and privileges.

Amocar grinned. Not that the three categories were mutually exclusive. Take Agent Jill Ji-Hoon for example . . . Would fucking her in the ass constitute a pleasure or a privilege? And once fucked would she qualify as a possession? A long, tall piece of extremely personal ass? Yes, the security agent decided, she would. Something to be enjoyed, humiliated, and eventually discarded. And there were a number of ways to rid oneself of surplus women . . . some of which were quite pleasurable in and of themselves.

Amocar stood, produced what he was sure qualified as a world-class fart, and followed his erection toward the red plastic basin. Life, the kind
he
wanted to live, was as good as it could possibly get.

Jill Ji-Hoon had taken a quarter cube in a stack just down the road from the Presidential Complex. It was a crowded, noisy, but not altogether unpleasant co-op-style complex established by a pair of women, both of whom had been crushed by a runaway stone block a couple of months before.

A crude memorial consisting of small limestone blocks surmounted by a Star of David, a ceramic vase, and two pairs of well-worn work boots sat just outside the front door. A handful of wildflowers had been placed in the vase, and Ji-Hoon wondered where they had come from as she left what the residents jokingly referred to as the Hell Hill Hilton, and stepped out onto the street.

Improvements had been made, especially where flow was concerned, but there was no way to make the open sewer seem like something that it wasn’t. Not given the brown color, sluggish current, and horrible smell.

However, like many of the hill’s residents, Ji-Hoon had mastered the ability to step over the ditch, confront the stench, and still keep her breakfast down. The walk to work served as a reminder of just how fortunate she was. At a time of day when most slaves were already on the job, risking their lives to construct the Sauron citadel, she had risen only an hour earlier. Even better was the fact that with the exception of Amocar, the ex-FBI agent liked the people she worked with and rarely took shit from the Saurons.

Not only that, but she was armed, which meant that unlike the dozen or so people who hung themselves each night, Ji-Hoon could always shoot herself, a normally dubious privilege that she now took comfort from.

Yet, in spite of all the misery, signs of hope could be seen in the increasing number of babies, a window box in which colorful primroses had been planted, and the occasional patch of bright black-market paint.

Thus buoyed, the agent passed through the heavily guarded main gate, nodded to the agents posted there, and followed a path that cut left along the stack’s rocket-scarred façade and passed into a canyon of shadow, for it was there, in a half cube well removed from the office occupied by Manning, that Amocar maintained his personal lair.

Ji-Hoon paused, checked the Timex Ironman watch that had been issued to her along with the rest of her gear, and saw that she was right on time. Always a good thing, especially when reporting to a new boss. Even if it was Amocar.

The ex-agent rounded the corner, followed the path, and found the crudely cut hatch. A white marker had been used to print the words “The office of El Segundo, Nock Before Entering,” across the metal, and, judging from the manner in which “knock” had been misspelled, Ji-Hoon had a feeling that Amocar had lettered the sign himself. Ji-Hoon put on what she thought of as her game face, rapped on the door, and heard the low-pitched reply. “Come.”

Hinges squealed as she pulled the hatch open and stepped inside. The first thing the ex-agent noticed about the interior was how tidy the space was—something that seemed to be in conflict with the stories she’d heard.

The second thing she noticed was that the beat-up metal desk, salvaged from Lord knew where, had been placed on top of a crudely constructed platform. A stratagem that put Amocar above those who sat in front of him, or would have, had Ji-Hoon been shorter.

The third thing the newly recruited female agent noticed was the fact that a heavily veined dildo had been placed on the single guest chair. That meant she could pick the object up, sit on top of it, or continue to stand. She chose the last option.

Amocar grinned. The expression, plus the rounded shape of the man’s head, reminded Ji-Hoon of a flesh-colored jack-o’-lantern. He gestured toward the dildo. “Hey, no offense. Just a little present . . . Okay, a
big
present, but you’re a big girl.

“In fact, rather than allow ourselves to get bogged down in all that job assignment stuff, let’s see if that hummer fits.”

Ji-Hoon knew it was a no-win situation. If she was shocked, and allowed it to show, Amocar would take pleasure from that. If she wasn’t, and complied with his request, that was a win as well. The ex-FBI agent kept her voice flat and level. “Does Manning know about this?”

The grin grew even wider. “Why no, sweet buns, I don’t think he does. Not that it matters a whole lot, since Franklin himself appointed me to the team and ain’t about to let me go. Not if he knows what’s good for him . . . Besides, it would be my word against yours. So, unless you would like every shit-ass detail this organization has to offer, I suggest that you drop those pants, grab the edge of my desk, and get ready to play. Who knows? You might even like it.”

One aspect of Ji-Hoon’s mind took note of the fact that Amocar had a hold on Franklin, or believed that he did, and wondered if that was true. Another met force with force. Her grin was as big as his and mocking as well. “I’ll tell you what . . . You want a piece of this, how ’bout you come and take it? Or you can go for that .9mm and we’ll see who’s fastest. Whaddya say, pin dick? Let’s rock ’n roll.”

Amocar pulled his hand away from the gun butt and forced a smile. “Okay, shit for brains, have it your way . . . You want all the shit details? They’re yours. Franklin’s heading uphill this morning to give some sort of rah-rah speech. Manning wants a bullet catcher running next to both sides of the car. You’re elected.”

Ji-Hoon nodded as she backed toward the door. “I’d keep that dildo if I were you—just in case something happens to the real thing.”

Amocar struggled for a suitable rejoinder, and thought he had one, but the hatch had closed by then. The words caught in his throat and made it difficult to breathe. Somehow, in ways he didn’t fully understand, Amocar had been bested. He didn’t like that, not one little bit, and a price would have to be paid. Not just any price, but the
highest
price, the penalty called death.

3

DEATH DAY MINUS 65

THURSDAY, MAY 28, 2020

When those states which have become accustomed to live in freedom under their own laws are acquired, there are three ways of trying to keep them. The first is to destroy them, the second to go and live therein, and the third to allow them to continue to live under their own laws, taking a tribute from them and creating within them a new government of a few which will keep the state friendly to you. For since such a government is the creature of the prince it will know that it cannot exist without his friendship and authority . . .

—NICCOLO MACHIAVELLI
The Prince,
1513

SOUTHWEST OF HELL HILL

Shadow slipped on shadow as Manning followed Smith deeper into the woods. The sun had set long before, which was why both men wore night-vision goggles salvaged from the ruins of Fort Lewis.