EarthRise (24 page)

First came a horrible fall into nothingness, like death, or what death might be. Then, just as Amocar thought he was about to throw up, something snapped. Now he was somewhere else. Or
someone
was somewhere else, since he felt a distinct sense of displacement, and the sensory feedback was wrong. Things
looked
different,
smelled
different, and
felt
different. His body was weightless. His vision, which seemed to consist of two slightly overlapping views of the same scene, made him dizzy.

There were lights, two of them, which floated like suns in the blackness of space. Hovering below them, and bathed in blue-green luminescence, floated a badly misshapen mass. Whatever it was spoke, and it was only then, when Amocar heard the voice that he recognized it as belonging to Hak-Bin. “So, human, you wanted to speak with me. Here I am. You look good as a Fon.”

Amocar looked down and realized that the virtual him had been rendered as a functionary and knew why everything felt so strange. The aliens had used the modified VR system to momentarily transform him into a bug! He struggled to sound coherent. “Thank you, excellency.”

The dark mass waved something that might have been a pincer. “Enough of what you would call ‘small talk.’ Make your report.”

Amocar swallowed, didn’t like the way it felt, and launched into a carefully rehearsed account of the sawmill summit. He listed each of the participants, summarized the meeting’s contents, and covered the ad hoc election. Franklin had betrayed
his
race . . . and the master race as well.

Hak-Bin listened with a steadily growing sense of anger. His first thought was to round the slaves up, put all of them to death, and complete the citadels without their help.

But as emotionally satisfying as that might be, he knew better than actually to do it. First, because the Fon would never be able to complete the structures in time; second, because any humans who managed to survive would pose a threat to the nymphs; and, third, because something of that sort would signal weakness.

No, brute force was out of the question. What then? The answers, because a number of possibilities presented themselves, were delightfully subtle. They also played into and were consistent with certain plans already in motion. Careful to conceal the extent of his concern from the human spy, Hak-Bin adopted a conspiratorial tone. “This is valuable intelligence. You were correct to bring it to my attention. A female will be delivered to the usual location. Do with her as you will.

“In the meantime, be advised that certain disruptions will occur. A significant number of slaves will be moved from the area where you are located to work on projects nearby. Franklin, and retainers such as yourself, will stay.

“For reasons of no concern to you, the need for individuals such as Franklin will be greatly reduced. Because of that, not to mention the extent of his treachery, you may go ahead and kill him.”

Amocar, his mind very much on the woman, licked chitinous lips. They were hard and dry. “No problem, excellency. I’ll wait till he goes to sleep, slit his throat, and slip out the back.”

“No,”
Hak-Bin replied emphatically, “you won’t. Such a death could be concealed. Others might continue to act in Franklin’s name for weeks or even months to come. He must die in public, where hundreds if not thousands can see. Word will spread, and the slaves will do as they are told. Meanwhile, with no one to hold the various factions together, the resistance will fall apart.”

“Of course,” Amocar agreed lamely, “that’s what I meant.”

“Good,” the Sauron replied. “In the meantime there are other matters to attend to. Start by killing the one called Clan Leader Storm. That should intimidate her peers and cause them to reconsider their flirtation with the so-called resistance movement.”

Amocar felt ice water flow into the Fon-body’s veins. Locating the eco-nut, and getting close enough to kill her, would be a lot more difficult than offing Franklin. He couldn’t say that, however, not to a bug, and specially not to
this
bug. “Yes, eminence, I will do my best. And the other leaders?”

“The others will remain untouched,” Hak-Bin replied, “for the moment. Later, after you deal with Franklin, the situation may change. The only thing worse than having resistance leaders is
not
knowing who they are. Do you understand?”

Amocar didn’t have the foggiest idea what the chit was talking about, but nodded anyway. “Yes, excellency.”

“I’m gratified to hear it,” Hak-Bin finished. “You have your orders—now carry them out.”

Amocar was about to produce another, “Yes, your eminence,” when the connection was severed, his stomach lurched, and he found himself back in his own body. The attendant appeared and disconnected the snakelike black leads. “And a good time was had by all?”

“It couldn’t have been better,” Amocar lied. “Was it good for you?”

“Not really,” the woman replied, “not while you’re alive.”

Amocar stood, and was about to backhand the woman across the mouth, when a Kan shuffled into the room. She smiled defiantly. “Yes? Was there something else?”

The security agent made a face and followed the warrior outside. The Kan delivered Amocar to ground level and turned him loose.

Still hiding in plain sight, but without the bundle of firewood she had been forced to sell fifteen minutes earlier, Jill Ji-Hoon watched her fellow agent emerge from the tower, blink in the bright sunlight, and hurry away. The fact that Amocar had left under his own power, without so much as a Kan escort, spoke volumes. The question was not
if
he had been spying for the Saurons, but for how long? From the beginning most likely—which meant the bugs knew about the resistance and its plans. Well, there was nothing Ji-Hoon could do about that, but she could sure as hell let them know about Amocar.

Her mind made up, the tall rangy woman left her spot opposite the tower, faded into the crowd, and seemed to disappear.

HELL HILL

Ever since the day on which Sool had come to the Sauron warrior’s aid, even going so far as to protect him from the human crowd, things had been just a little bit easier. Not much . . . but a little.

Evidence of the high esteem in which the Saurons held the doctor could be seen not only in the red ear tag that freed her from digging ditches, but in the fact that none of the patients outside her clinic had been rousted since that day and none had been shot at from the observation towers. In fact, a wary sort of friendship had developed between Sool and the Kan who ruled that particular sector of Hell Hill. His name was Nee-Pal, and when Dixie told Sool that the officer was waiting outside, the doctor interrupted an examination to go out and speak with him.

The ever-present queue had migrated as far from Nee-Pal as possible. They watched as the doctor emerged from the clinic, spotted the Sauron, and went to meet him. The alien turned as the Sool approached. “Slave Sool.”

Though not exactly collegial—the greeting was polite. Sool inclined her head. “File Leader Nee-Pal.”

The bug was all business—and the translation sounded flat. “Be advised that approximately seventy-five percent of the slaves working on this temple will be marched to new locations tomorrow morning. You can remain or go. The choice is yours.”

The Sauron waved a pincer toward the clinic. “
If
you decide to go, there is a need to pack your equipment. That is all.” So saying, the chit turned, took a forty-foot jump, and was gone.

Moments later, back in the clinic, Dixie reacted to the news. “So, what are we going to do?”

“
We?
”

“Do you need me?”

“Yes, desperately.”

Dixie grinned. “That’s what I thought. So, ‘we.’ ”

Sool gave the nurse a hug. “Thanks, Dixie, you’re the best. We go where our patients go . . . That’s the way I see it. Better start packing. I’ll put the word out. Perhaps some of our ex-patients will lend us a hand.”

The nurse nodded. “How ’bout friends? There’s no way to know who’s going and who’s staying.”

Sool raised an eyebrow. “Is that your way of telling me to throw myself at Jack Manning’s feet?”

Dixie laughed. “In a word, ‘yes.’ ”

Sool sighed. “I screwed up, I admit that, but what’s the point? He has Franklin to take care of—and I have my patients.”

Dixie decided to let the matter drop. Perhaps later, after she had time to think about it, Sool would reconsider. In the meantime there was packing to do. Lots of it. The women went to work.

HELL HILL

Even though he was a slave, and working under what he considered to be primitive conditions, Manning still had paperwork to do. That’s why he was all too happy to put the current duty roster aside and welcome Jill Ji-Hoon into his shabby work space. He pointed across the messy desk. “Kick those boots out of the way, dump yesterday’s lunch into the trash can, and turn that bucket upside down. It makes a passable stool.”

The ex-FBI agent eyed the container in question, knew her knees would stick up in front of her face, and shook her head. “I’ll stand if it’s all the same to you, sir.”

“Suit yourself,” Manning replied, leaning back in the government surplus chair, “but forget the ‘sir’ stuff. What’s on your mind?”

“It’s Amocar, sir. I have reason to suspect that he’s working for the bugs.”

In spite of the fact that Manning had little to no use for Amocar and would have been delighted to get rid of the slimy slob, alarm bells began to ring. Did Ji-Hoon have the goods on Amocar? The
real
goods? Or was this about the endless shit details
El Segundo
liked to pass her way? Something the security chief had monitored but didn’t want to mess with unless he absolutely had to. If she had something solid, then good, Amocar would go down. But, unit cohesion was important,
very
important, and there was no room for vendettas. Manning leaned forward and the chair squeaked. His eyes narrowed. “That’s a serious charge, Agent Ji-Hoon—a
very
serious charge. If you have proof, let’s hear it. If not, then get back to work.”

Ji-Hoon swallowed and stood a little taller. “I followed Agent Amocar to a place called the G-Spot. As he left a group of Kan arrived and escorted him away.”

“Escorted?”
Manning inquired softly, “As in ‘let’s go have a beer?’ Or escorted as in ‘come with us or we’ll blow your head off?’ ”

The ex-FBI agent shrugged. “The interaction was friendly at first. Then, realizing the need for a cover story, Amocar instructed the Kan to hit him. They complied.”

“Yeah,” Manning replied, “I guess they did. I saw the poor bastard about twenty minutes ago and sent him to see Dr. Sool.”

Ji-Hoon felt her stomach sink. Trust the little weasel to see Manning first! This was an uphill battle, that much was obvious, but all she could do was see it through. “They got a bit carried away—but the fact remains: He asked for it.”

Manning looked her in the eye. “You were close enough to hear that?”

“Well, no,” Ji-Hoon answered reluctantly, “but I could read his lips and see his gestures. Amocar
told
the bugs to hit him.”

“So, you can read lips?”

“Yes,” Ji-Hoon said defiantly,
“I can.”

“Fabulous,” Manning said sarcastically. “Well, go on . . . Let’s hear the rest.”

Well aware that the security chief had already made up his mind, but unable to extricate herself from the situation, Ji-Hoon could do little but continue. The rest of the report sounded more lame than the first.

“That’s it?” Manning inquired. “You saw him enter the tower then leave?”

“Yes, sir,” Ji-Hoon said stolidly. “I saw him enter the tower, stay long enough to spill his guts,
and leave of his own volition
.”

“So noted,” Manning said. “With all due respect to your background, training, and obvious sincerity, I can’t hang my number two out to dry on a single person’s unsubstantiated testimony. I know Amocar is a jerk. But we’re stuck with the creep until we can hang something substantial around his neck. Do you read me?”

Ji-Hoon read him all right. She ground the words between clenched teeth. “Sir, yes, sir.” The agent did a military-style about-face and left the office.

Plan A had failed and failed miserably. Well, that’s what Plan B is for Ji-Hoon told herself. The boss man needs evidence, so I’ll go find him some evidence.

Manning felt mixed emotions as the woman left. Her story was interesting but lacked substantiation. He’d been right to blow her off. Or had he? Something, he wasn’t sure what, wiggled in the pit of his stomach.

ABOARD THE SAURON DREADNOUGHT
HOK NOR AH

Pinned to the carefully stabilized metal surface by the floating lights, his swollen body laid bare for the other Sauron to examine, Hak-Bin was forced to remain silent while the other Zin poked, probed, and prodded.

His name was Ott-Mar, his title was that of birthmaster, and upon his narrow shoulders rested responsibility for the biological aspects of the great birthing. A role for which he had prepared himself since his own birth hundreds of years before.

It was during those many years of study, those long periods of time when individuals like Hak-Bin had been free to practice their disciplines, that Ott-Mar had nudged the boundaries of racial knowledge and eventually pushed some of them back. All without the knowledge of the egotistical Ra ‘Na.

Now, armed with the results of painstaking experimentation, and hoping to advance his line, the Zin had allowed himself to be drawn into the dark netherworld of Sauron politics. A place where once entangled it was almost impossible to escape.

But thoughts such as those were like dangerous gusts of wind—variables that could wreck an otherwise perfect jump. That’s why Ott-Mar pushed the errant thoughts away and pulled the black shroudlike garment back into place. Then, with his patient’s dignity partially restored, the birthmaster coughed three words into a microphone.