EarthRise (49 page)

It was difficult to concentrate, and each movement brought pain, but finally, after what seemed like a heroic effort, the Sauron managed to grasp the remote, squeeze the side grips, and activate the alien machine. Originally employed by a race called the Lopathians, thousands of such machines had battled the Kan some 157 years earlier and been destroyed.

Now, having discovered a score of such mechanisms moldering away within one of the fleet’s asteroids, and having very little faith in Hak-Bin’s ability to carry out his duties, the Zin forced a Ra ‘Na computer technician to re-program one of the robots and subsequently put the slave to death.

Metal clawed on metal as the long-dormant eight-legged robot came back to life, took its place between the Sauron and the hatch, and waited for something to kill.

The fleet watched as Pol checked to ensure that the entire thirty-six person team was in place and properly oriented. Then, taking advantage of the fact that all of them were familiar with the
Ib Se Ma
’s layout, the Ra ‘Na boarders turned toward the core of the ship. A single Ra ‘Na took what humans often referred to as “the point,” followed by Pol, two fire teams armed with automatic weapons, a group of technical specialists, more marines, the team’s second-in-command, and the individual assigned to the drag position. It was his task to ensure that nobody was able to slip up behind the group—a responsibility that forced him to walk backward half the time.

There were places where, judging from the pockmarked bulkheads and bloodstained decks, intense battles had been fought. Battles which the Ra ‘Na had lost. Pol felt as if the ghostly crew members were there, looking over his shoulder as he padded down the corridor, waiting for their revenge. Not a pleasant sensation and one he rid himself of by focusing his mind on the task at hand.

The team’s first stop was in front of a seemingly innocuous access panel. One of the boarding party’s specialists, an enviro tech named Slas, used a special key to open the box, punched a code into the key pad, and watched a three-dimensional diagram populate the screen. Apparently satisfied with what he saw, Slas tapped more keys, watched the visual morph slightly, and pointed to a series of bright green dots. Thanks to the camera mounted on his body armor, thousands of enviro techs could listen in. “We have five hits, sir, four of which are consistent with Sauron physiology.”

Pol frowned. “And the fifth?”

“That’s one of ours, sir. He or she is on the move, with blip three in hot pursuit.”

All over the fleet ears went back as the audience imagined how that would feel. To be the only one of your kind, on a nearly deserted ship, pursued by a murderous foe. Many of them shivered.

Conscious of the fact that everything he did was being broadcast, Pol thought rather than said some of the swear words he had learned on Earth. It was tempting to intervene—but was that the right thing to do? He had the mission to consider—not to mention the boarding party itself. Mind racing, the cleric eyed the screen. Outside of Three, who was clearly intent on following Five down a corridor two grids over, One, Two, and Four remained stationary. An icon flashed on and off beside blip one. Pol pointed to it. “What’s that?”

Slas shrugged. “It’s hard to say, sir. The icon signifies that electromechanical activity is taking place within that compartment but doesn’t specify what kind. It could be anything ranging from a robo sweeper to some sort of malfunction.”

Pol nodded. “How many of the Saurons can be handled from the bridge?”

Slas looked. “Two and Four. Three is on the move, and it appears as if One either knew how to enter a command override or forced someone to do it for him. See the delta-shaped symbol here? That means the environmental controls for that particular compartment are locked. No password, no access. You won’t be able to pump that one from the bridge.”

“Sounds like a Zin,” Pol said thoughtfully. “Some of them actually know a thing or two.”

Slas, mindful of the life-and-death scenario being acted out not far away, cleared his throat. “Sir? What about blip
Five
?”

Pol looked, saw that Five had lost some of his or her lead, and started to issue orders. “Hars, take three triads, plus the techs, and secure the control room. Once that’s accomplished lock Two and Four into their compartments and pump the air out. The rest of the team and I will go after blips Three and One in that order . . . Any questions?”

All over the Ra ‘Na held fleet, newly minted officers and noncoms took note of the brisk, efficient manner Pol used to brief his troops and made plans to do likewise.

Shu, her eyes locked on a shot of Pol provided by the camera labeled “Slas,” bit her lower lip. Why couldn’t Pol lead the team headed for the bridge? Where a person of his rank belonged? Well away from whatever dangers still lurked in the
Ib Se Ma
’s darkened passageways? But she knew the answer . . . Pol was determined to go where the greatest danger lay because that was his nature—and because that’s the way he believed leaders should lead.

“All right,” Pol said, “there’s a Sauron on the loose. Let’s find the misbegotten sinner and send him to his ancestors.”

Aware as he was that the somewhat wayward cleric had never been one to worry about rules, religious or otherwise, Dro Rul smiled and gave thanks for sinners.

With the possible exception of Pol himself—the rest of the boarding party was extremely fit. Bare feet padded on metal decking as they cut from one corridor to the next, turned toward the bow, and ran full out.

Unaware that he was being pursued, and intent on catching his prey, the Kan named Bla-Mas shuffled forward. He was different, very different, in that rather than change early the way it was rumored that some of his peers had, it seemed that
his
body was determined to change late if at all. That being the case, Bla-Mas saw no point in being herded into one of the citadels and hooked to a bunch of tubes.

So, taking advantage of the considerable confusion that surrounded the ship’s evacuation, the Kan hid. Then, having emerged, it wasn’t long before the Sauron discovered that rather than being alone, at least one other being roamed the same corridors that he did. A Ra ‘Na who, judging from its size, remained a juvenile and had somehow managed to survive the recent slave slaughter. Well, not for long, Bla-Mas told himself, not for long.

Nom paused to listen, thought that she could hear the soft shuffle-step-shuffle made by the pursuing Kan, cursed herself for a fool, and ran as best she could. The leg, which had been broken in a fall, slowed her down. Worse yet, assuming she could gain access to the secret passageways that crisscrossed the ship, the fully inflated splint was likely to impede her progress. The passageways were her best hope, however—which was why Nom was headed for one of the access points her parents had shown her.

The very thought of them brought tears to Nom’s eyes, and she sniffled as she limped down the corridor. They had known, had seen what would happen, and hidden her away. “Stay here,” her father ordered, “stay here until
all
of the food and water is gone.”

But there was lots of food and water, her mother had seen to that, and the hidey-hole was boring.
Very
boring, which was why she had ventured out too early and was presently running for her life.

Nom limped around a corner, glanced around, and realized she had taken a wrong turn. This was a dead end, and in order to correct her mistake, the teenager would have to return the way she had come. Nom turned, heart thumping in her chest, and limped toward the main corridor. The leg had started to ache by that time and the youngster whimpered as she turned the corner.

Bla-Mas saw the slave up ahead, uttered a shout of triumph, and drew his t-gun. That’s when Pol shouted, “Hit the deck!” and hoped the teenager would obey.

Nom processed the words, heard a loud bang, and threw herself forward.

Though surprised to hear a voice coming from the rear, Bla-Mas was a warrior and reacted swiftly. He turned, the t-gun coughed, and a dart plucked a marine off his feet. The boarding party opened fire, and the audience watched as a swarm of .22-caliber bullets devoured their target.

“Hold your fire!” Pol yelled. “Hold your fire!” as what remained of Bla-Mas collapsed in a heap. The staccato bark of the small submachine guns ended as fingers came off triggers.

“All right.” Pol said, “someone grab the youngster and let’s . . .”

Neither the boarding party nor the fleetwide audience ever got to hear whatever it was that Pol planned to say next. A hatch whirred open, the Lopathian battle bot emerged, and the boarding party started to die. Energy bolts, each of which seemed to know exactly what path to follow, found their targets.

Shu heard herself utter an audible yelp as the camera labeled “Argo” swiveled in the direction of the noise, jerked uncontrollably, and toppled over backward.

Pol cursed himself for getting caught up in the chase, turned toward the machine, and opened fire. Sparks flew as the small .22-caliber slugs bounced off the machine’s armor, struck bulkheads, and buzzed away.

That was when a marine named Foth ran forward, launched himself toward the robot, and slid along the deck. Thousands watched via Pol’s camera as the brave Ra ‘Na arrived under the robot’s curved belly, triggered the demo pack, and blew the construct three units up into the air. It crashed on top of Foth’s remains, showered the area with sparks, and finally went limp.

Having been opened from within, it was a simple matter for a triad to enter the compartment where Sel-Nam lay hidden and do what needed to be done.

Then, with the situation back under control, Pol turned his attention to the Ra ‘Na bodies. There were six of them, laid out side by side, as if at attention. His head bowed, and tears streaked his fur. Shu, who better than anyone knew what Pol felt, wished that she could hold him.

THE MAYAN RUINS OF NAKABE, GUATEMALA

Dr. Maria Sanchez-Jones had a front-row seat as the final days elapsed. The fact that she was there, standing at the cavern’s
ventana
(window), was no accident. Shuttles had been arriving for days. At first they belly-flopped onto the surface of the artificial lake, disgorged orderly files of Zin, Kan, or Fon and took off again.

The initial groups of newcomers were met with organized jubilation. Drums pounded, banners waved, and the newcomers were marched toward the waiting citadel. Well, not
marched
, since many moved with considerable difficulty, but shuffled as best they could.

Then, as time wore on, the tenor of the arrival process seemed to change. In place of the orderly groups already down, the shuttles started to disgorge what appeared to be a random assortment of individuals from every caste. Not only that, but many of what Jones thought of as “the second wave” seemed to be in worse physical condition than those who had arrived earlier. Some were carried into the citadel on slings.

Finally, after what seemed like endless around-the-clock landings and departures, the flow started to slow. As much as an hour would pass during which there were no arrivals, followed by a flurry of activity as a half a dozen aircraft circled, and took turns crashing into the already crowded lake. Many of the latecomers sank, but some survived, as shuttles piled on shuttles.

Jones hated the Saurons with a passion, but even she felt something approaching sympathy as sickly Zin, Kan, and Fon pulled themselves out of the wrecks, hopped from ship to ship, and finally made it to shore. Some lacked the strength to continue and collapsed at the side of the road, while others shuffled on past. The question was
why
? Why build the fortress to begin with? Why were so many of them ill? And why slaughter the slaves?

The anthropologist had a theory, but theories must be tested, and she laid plans to do so. Three Eye, whom Jones wanted to recruit as her assistant, was something less than enthusiastic. “Please,
senorita,
consider what you ask. . . . To go down there, to examine one of the sky creatures, such an idea is madness.”

But somehow, in spite of all the hard work and the damage that the sun had inflicted on her skin, Jones continued to be attractive. A great deal more attractive than the other female
sobrevivientes
were, and that, combined with the fact that Three Eyes was a man, combined to seal his fate.

And so it was that the two of them waited till night, left the relative safety of the
agujero
(hole), and made their way down to the area adjacent to the lake. Reasonably confident that the Saurons who had fallen next to the roadside didn’t represent much of a threat, Jones made liberal use of a carefully hoarded flashlight. Three Eye, who regarded the expenditure of such a valuable asset to be something approaching a
pecado
(sin), was beside himself with angst.

But Jones, a rag held to her nose in a futile attempt to mitigate some of the stench, barely heard the steady stream of complaints. Nearly her entire attention was focused on the bodies that lay scattered about and the fact that, based on the noises she heard, at least some of the Savrons were alive!

Careful, lest she enter some kind of trap, the anthropologist approached what had once been a Fon. Now, well into the change, but without any birth catalyst, the Sauron resembled nothing so much as a pile of putrid meat. Still, there was a sort of rasping sound, as if something was attempting to breathe, and the gurgle of fluids as they traveled from one organ to the next. The anthropologist held out her hand. “Give me the spear.”

Three Eye, who had worked long and hard to mate the sliver of metal to the aluminum shaft, hesitated. First the
professora
led him here, to the place of the
muerto
, now she wanted the most valuable tool he owned. Was there no end to the woman’s insanity?

“The spear,” Jones insisted. “Give it here.”

Slowly, reluctantly, Three Eye parted with the spear.

Careful to put as much of the shaft as possible between the corpse and herself—Jones poked one of the bodies. There was no reaction.