EarthRise (43 page)

Hak-Bin paused there, waiting for the words to sink in, ready should the Fon, or even members of the Kan, react in a negative manner.

But no one moved or broke the ensuing silence. Unsure of whether that was good or bad, Hak-Bin had little choice but to go on. “Yes, the time has come for the present generation to move on, through the veil of death, and into the next world. That’s where our ancestors, the same beings who have watched over us throughout our long lives, wait to greet us. Unlike slaves, who live in eternal fear wondering whether there is some existence after the change called death, each of us has been in communion with our forefathers since birth, and
knows
that life goes on. Once we enter the next world our victories will be enumerated, our lives will be celebrated, and we shall live in peace.

“But first, before we can claim that reward, the next generation must enter
this
plane of existence. The moment when the vast majority of our descendants will arrive is only nineteen days away, and many of you, myself included, have already felt the beginning of the change. Do not fear such sensations, but welcome them, knowing that a new version of yourself is about to be born.”

There was a reaction this time as the crowd stirred, comments were exchanged, and perimeter guards went to the highest level of alert. They had been briefed six units before—and those who found the situation hard to accept had been relieved of duty. But the stir had more to do with a sense of relief than one of anger, as hundreds of Saurons learned that the symptoms they had experienced of late had a legitimate cause.

“Yes,” Hak-Bin said understandingly, “there can be some discomfort. However, thanks to a substance that will be made available to you in the very near future, the transitional process will be made easier.

“Now, here’s how it will work . . . Each one of you has been assigned to a citadel. The
true
purpose of these citadels is to protect you and your nymph during the birth process. Over the next nineteen days, those of you not already on the surface will be transported there. Those of you who are on the surface will withdraw to the citadels. Shortly after your arrival you will be shown into a preassigned birth chamber, provided with appropriate medications, and left to make the journey in peace.

“The fleet, meanwhile, plus a cadre of carefully selected breeder slaves, will await the arrival of your progeny. Once they have emerged and had a chance to acclimate themselves, the journey to Paradise will continue.”

“What about the prisoners held aboard rebel ships?” a Fon yelled. “And what’s to keep the humans from killing us while we give birth?”

The Fon would have said more, as would others scattered throughout the crowd, but a single shot from a Kan assault rifle served to silence them. The dart, fired by a warrior stationed in the girders above, punched a hole through the top of the functionary’s head and traveled down through his brain, into his throat, and from there to his left lung. He fell in a heap. No one moved.

“You have questions,” Hak-Bin said calmly. “I understand that. And your questions will be answered. Not here, but in smaller groups, where members of the Zin can respond to specific concerns.” And eject you from a lock, the Zin thought to himself, should you threaten the rest of the race.

“So,” the Zin concluded, “please return to your duties secure in the knowledge that the situation is under control, that your new lives will soon begin, and your nymphs will inherit all the knowledge, wisdom, and experience gleaned during your long productive lives. That is all.”

There were no cheers, just the shuffle of feet and a heaviness of spirit as the Saurons left the Launch Deck.

Finally, after everyone else was gone, only one Sauron remained. His name was Aut-Tuu—and he was dead.

ANACORTES, WASHINGTON

Centum Commander Dor-Une stood on the foundation of a razed building and looked out over the ruins of what had been Anacortes, Washington. It was evening, the sun had smeared the western horizon with reddish orange light, and another day was about to end. Not just
any
day, but one of only a few that remained to him, spent as most of them had been, doing his duty. Or so the Kan assumed.

Sadly, especially now, Dor-Une could remember no more than two standard years back, and could do little but speculate as to prior events. It wasn’t fair, not to his mind at any rate, though many of his peers seemed to pay little if any attention to the matter. Their lack of introspection, especially in the wake of Hak-Bin’s announcement, was nothing short of amazing.

Yes, some of them had expected something of the sort, thereby lessening the shock, and yes, they were in constant if somewhat unclear contact with their progenitors, but the overall level of acceptance seemed to hint at something deeper, a preprogrammed response that enabled his brethren to prepare for the next generation’s imminent arrival without regard for their own departure from the physical world.

There might have been more such thoughts had Sub-Centum Ome-Tur not chosen that particular moment to intrude. Like the rest of Dor-Une’s command, he was exactly the same age as his superior officer and had the same amount of experience. Their perceptions were different, however, since where Dor-Une saw the sunset, and the manner in which it served to symbolize the ever-dwindling number of days available to him, his second-in-command saw little beyond the mechanics of purpose. “It will be dark in a few units.”

Dor-Une gestured agreement. “Yes. The humans will attack at night, if not this one, then the next, or the one after that. Odds are that they will arrive by boat. Remind the pickets of the plan . . . Fire, fall back, and fire again. Then,” the commander said, opening a pincer by way of illustration, “we will close the trap.”

The pincer made a clacking sound as it closed—and Ome-Tur made a note to use the same device when passing the orders along.

Meanwhile, some sixty miles to the east, three helicopters sat in the center of a small field, their engines roaring as rotors started to turn. George “Popcorn” Farley stood in the door of Dragon One while Deac Smith yelled up at him. “Watch your six, George . . . the bugs can be tricky.”

“Roger that,” the ex-Ranger responded. “It shouldn’t be difficult since my six is a lot larger than it used to be!”

Smith laughed, waved, and backed away. Engines roared even louder as the Vertol CH-48 Chinook helicopters lifted off and nosed toward the ragged strip of orange light that still served to split day from night.

Up front, in Dragon One’s cockpit, Vera Veen handled the controls while her copilot, John Wu, eyed the jury-rigged screens that some Ra ‘Na technicians had wired into the already cluttered instrument panel. The original plan had been to attack the catalyst factory from the sea, but then, after giving the matter some additional thought, Farley had changed his mind. Given that the humans had not launched any sort of airborne assault in the past, the ex-Ranger reasoned that doing so would provide his team with the element of surprise. Assuming the Chinooks managed to reach the LZ unharmed, that is . . . which was where the Ra ‘Na came in.

On orders from Fra Pol, four flights of three fighters each had been launched from the newly liberated
Liberty
just prior to the moment when that vessel broke orbit. Then, taking advantage of the ensuing confusion, the rebel fighters landed on a body of water known as Lake Washington, where they scooted under the high-rise portion of the I-90 floating bridge, and immediately powered down. Now, thanks to the newly installed com gear ranked in front of him, Wu could communicate with the fighters, and the
Liberty
, should that be necessary.

The copilot checked to ensure that the Ra ‘Na fighters were aloft, verified that they were, and gave a sigh of relief. Sauron fighters, that’s what he feared most, and it was up to the Ra ‘Na to keep them at bay. Could the fur balls do it? What with their lack of experience and all? Maybe, and maybe not. But what they could do was buy the choppers some time. And it was Farley’s hope that the fighter cover, plus the relatively short flight time, would enable the pilots to put the assault team on the ground
before
the orbital bugs were able to intervene. Then, with the humans right on top of their objective, the Saurons would be forced to put a hold on the heavy stuff or risk destroying the factory themselves.

“How are we doin’?” Veen inquired, her face lit from below, and nearly obscured by the night-vision rig.

“We’re cooler than a hog in a wallow,” Wu answered, adopting what he fancied to be a hillbilly accent, “and ready to raise some serious hell.”

“Roger that,” Veen acknowledged cheerfully, “watch out, bugs, ’cause here we come!”

The warning from orbit and the sound of primitive aircraft engines reached Centum Commander Dor-Une within units of each other. He cursed his brethren for their negligence, cursed himself for assuming the humans would attack from the sea, and cursed the stomach cramps that threatened to distract him. Damn the nymph anyway! Even a warrior unborn should know better than to interfere at a moment such as this.

But, like the professional he was, Dor-Une managed to push all of those concerns aside and focus his attention on the enemy. He activated his radio. There was no time to pass orders down through the chain of command, so he took advantage of the command override built into the Ra ‘Na-designed com system. “This is Dor-Une . . . Prepare for an airborne assault. It’s impossible to say where the ferals will land, so be attentive. Once they touch down report the location and concentrate your fire on their aircraft. I repeat, concentrate your fire on their aircraft—
not
on their troops.

“Then, once their means of escape has been snatched away, you will herd them into the killing zone established as part of the original plan. The rest will be easy. Dor-Une out.”

Farley stood toward the front of the chopper and looked back at the combat-equipped truck drivers, insurance salesmen, schoolteachers, sushi chefs, business executives, and construction workers who comprised his forty-eight-person platoon. It was a mixed group all right, but every one of them had fought the bugs before and knew what to expect. None were planning to stay—so each member of the team carried a full combat load consisting of an assault weapon or light machine gun, a handgun, combat knife, at least fifteen magazines of ammo, 40mm grenades, plus water, flares, body armor, com equipment, and med kits. Once on the ground, Farley’s team, plus an identical unit led by a retired gunnery sergeant named Waller, would attack the factory.

The third platoon, which included the SAMs, mortars, and heavy machine guns, would set up as quickly as they could and provide fire support.

It was a hairy mission, probably the worst Farley had participated in, and the knowledge weighed on his gut. He was getting too old for this sort of bullshit and should have been home sitting on the porch. That was when Wu came on the intercom, announced that they were “one minute out,” and welcomed his passengers to “bug city.”

Farley ordered his team to release their seat belts, reminded them to check their weapons, and braced himself against the impact. There hadn’t been much AA fire, not that he could see, and that boded well. Maybe, just maybe, the bugs were napping.

There was a distinct thump as the gear touched down, and Farley jumped to the ground. Confident that his troops would follow, the ex-Ranger raced across the onetime parking lot and took cover behind a burned-out van. Others joined him one by one. That’s when the Saurons opened fire—and armor-piercing darts stitched holes along the Chinook’s fuselage.

Veen bit her lip as the platoon deassed the chopper, chanted, “Come on, come on, come on,” and felt the ship shudder as alien projectiles ripped through it. Helicopters have a lot of moving parts—which means there are plenty of things that go can wrong even under normal circumstances. Now, with enemy fire pounding the Chinook, the situation was anything but normal. Finally, the last soldier was off, her crew chief yelled, “Go!” and Veen resumed her mantra as she fed fuel to the twin turbine engines. “Come on, come on, baby, you can do it.”

And the helicopter
did
do it, lurching into the air just as a Sauron SLM flashed through the space just vacated, and Dragon Two settled into the LZ. The second ship wasn’t so lucky. Men and women were still spilling out of the helicopter’s belly when a second SLM struck the aircraft’s tail, destroyed both engines, and ignited the onboard fuel. The resulting fireball lit the night.

Farley watched the assault team bail out, gave thanks for the fact that most of them appeared to have made it, and got on the radio. “Red Dog One to Dragon Three . . . The LZ has been zeroed . . . repeat zeroed. Break it off and back around. We could use some fire support. Over.”

Dragon Three, under the control of an ex-army pilot by the name of Dawkins, who gave thanks for the reprieve, banked to starboard. The turn, and the resulting tilt, provided the door gunner with the chance she’d been waiting for. Her name was Izu, and though only five feet tall, she was all warrior. The 7.62mm minigun whined as if eager to begin its task, began to roar, and spit thousands of rounds per minute at the enemy below.

Dor-Une, still gloating over the manner in which the slaves had rushed into his trap, felt a sudden sense of alarm as the helicopter was transformed from a troop delivery system into a platform for an extremely nasty offensive weapon. Guided by Izu’s gentle hand, the 7.62mm slugs found the Kan and ripped them to pieces. The Centum Commander screamed into the com. “Destroy that aircraft! Do it now!”

The Sauron warriors were nothing if not obedient. Half a dozen SLMs lanced upwards, sought heat, and locked in. Some went for the flares that Dawkins triggered, but some didn’t. The interval between the warning tone and the sound of the first explosion was so short that one blended into the next. Dawkins, Izu, and the rest of the heavy weapons platoon were gone in a flash of light.

The debris from Dragon Three was still falling when Farley waved the first and second platoons forward. “Red Dog One to Red Dog Team . . . Are you people paid by the hour? Let’s get a move on.”