EarthRise (5 page)

“So,” the man said stoically, “it looks like the old saying is correct . . . What goes around comes around.”

The words were translated by the device still strapped to the Sauron’s chest. Suddenly, and much to his surprise, Mal-Dak felt a strange kinship with the human. “What offense did you commit?”

The human grinned. “I told a Kan to take his t-gun and shove it up his ass.”

“He must have been very angry.”

“Yeah,” the man said with evident satisfaction, “he was. How ’bout you?”

“The Zin needed to punish someone,” Mal-Dak said simply. “I was chosen.”

“That’s a tough break,” the human allowed sympathetically. “Or would be if it weren’t for the fact that you deserve it.”

Mal-Dak thought about all the slaves he had whipped, many for no reason at all, and realized that the same thing was happening to him. “Yes, I guess I do.”

“Big of you to admit it,” the man said dryly. “So, do Saurons believe in life after death?”

“Of course,” Mal-Dak replied with certainty. “My ancestors speak to me when I sleep. They watch over me now.”

The human seemed to consider the matter. “What about humans? Would that apply to us as well?”

Mal-Dak had never considered the issue before, but the answer popped into his head. “Of course. Just as Saurons need slaves in
this
life, we need slaves in the afterlife as well.”

The man laughed. “You are one crazy bastard . . . You know that?”

Mal-Dak, who wasn’t sure how to respond, chose to remain silent. Horns sounded, drums began to beat, and the sun speared the Sauron’s eyes.

In spite of the great meeting about to be held, and the fact that construction work had temporarily been halted, there were some functions that not only had to continue, but were actually made easier by the momentarily empty streets. The never-ending process of body disposal was one such process.

The meat wagon, as it was generally known, consisted of a stripped-down pickup truck. It had been black once, but sections of paint had peeled, leaving patches of rust. A Fon named Hol-Nok sat high in the cab, a human called Cappy sat in the now empty engine compartment, and a team of eight slaves pulled the vehicle along.

The bodies, which were stacked in the back, were mourned by a flock of somber-looking crows. They rose like a black cloud whenever the truck bounced over an obstacle, and then, reluctant to part with such a fine feast, settled again.

Each day was pretty much like the one before, something that Cappy, who abhorred change, was glad of. He would get up, don his clothes, eat some gruel, wake the slaves, allow
them
to eat some gruel, put them in harness, collect Hol-Nok, and proceed to the top of Hell Hill. Usually before the artificial sun—or was it a moon?—had set and the real one rose.

It was important to accomplish that prior to loading any bodies since the pickup chassis was heavy, and there was no way the team would be able to pull the meat wagon up the hill while fully loaded.

Had he been asked, Cappy would have sworn that he hated his job, that the horror of it kept him awake at night, but that wasn’t entirely true. No, the truth was that he was grateful for his job, one that required little more than a loud voice and a heavy foot on the brake. The fact that he identified himself as African American, and the slaves pulling the pickup were white, amounted to a bonus. Finally, after hundreds of years, the bastards were getting theirs. Black aliens, who would have thought?

Once the slaves halted the meat wagon at the top of the hill, and removed the latest crop of corpses from the crosses, it was time to wind their way down. It was a gentle journey during which the wagon stopped at all the usual pickup points, and the load continued to grow larger. Not a pleasant task, but better than letting them rot, which could lead to disease.

And it was that, the possibility of an epidemic, which accounted for the fact that Cappy and his subordinates had been excused from the day’s festivities and ordered to work. Now, his chores having been accomplished in half the usual time, the human shouted words of encouragement to his team, waved to the guards on the gate, and guided the grisly conveyance out beyond the protective wall. From there it was a relatively short pull to the ravine where the bodies were routinely dumped and burned.

Cappy, his body swaying to the motion of the truck’s side-to-side rhythm, took pleasure in the fact that the shift would end early, slapped the slaves with the reins, and urged them forward.

The Fon, who rode in the cab above and had yet to utter a single word during more than a month of meat wagon duty, continued to doze.

Meanwhile, in the pile behind him, a body started to stir. Jonathan Ivory sensed motion, gagged on the horrible stench, and felt a crushing weight. Not only that but his head hurt,
really
hurt, worse than anything he had experienced before.

The racialist rediscovered his arms, ordered them to push the weight off his chest, and discovered that they were far too weak. What
was
the oppressive weight anyway?

Ivory tried to open his eyes, discovered that they were glued shut, and struggled even harder. Suddenly, after persistent effort, they flew open. There wasn’t much light down toward the middle of the stack, only what leaked in around the loosely packed bodies, but enough to see by. That’s when Ivory found himself staring up into Tripod’s blue-tinged countenance and knew what the weight was. Not only was the skinhead’s corpse resting on his . . . there were more bodies all around.

Ivory tried to scream, realized that screaming requires oxygen, and settled for a sob instead. That was the moment that the subtle but persistent motion ceased, the racialist heard voices, and forced himself to think. Should he yell? In hopes of attracting attention? Or lie as he was? And continue to play dead?

The latter seemed safest, for the moment at least, and Ivory forced himself to lie perfectly still. He watched through slitted eyes as bodies above and to either side were lifted away. Then it was his turn, and pain lanced through the racialist’s head as slaves grabbed hold of his extremities and lifted him free of the truck.

Cappy watched impassively as four members of the now unharnessed team counted to three, swung the body back and forth, and let it fly.

The corpse hit the top of the pile with an audible thump, made some sort of noise, and went limp.

Cappy heard the sound, and might have gone to investigate, except for the fact that bodies make a lot of noises. Farts mostly—which he had no desire to chase.

Ivory, eyes closed, regretted the groan. Would anyone investigate? No, it didn’t sound as if anyone had noticed. All he had to do was wait for the slaves to depart and come back to life.

Something light landed on the racialist’s chest, strutted up toward his face, and took a bite out of his cheek. A crow! It hurt like hell, and Ivory allowed himself to move subtly. The crow cawed, and the weight disappeared.

Metal clanged on metal, mostly unintelligible words were exchanged, and there was a moment of silence. Then, with no warning whatsoever, someone doused the racialist with what felt like cold water. Except that it
wasn’t
cold water, it was gasoline, which the characteristic stench made clear.

Cappy had already struck the old-fashioned kitchen-style match, and it was already falling toward the pile of fuel-soaked corpses, when one of the bodies screamed “No!” came to its feet, and tried to run. The problem was that bodies, even dead ones, make a poor running surface. Not to mention the fact that they were sitting on many layers of gray ash, which gave under Ivory’s weight.

That being the case the racialist was still on the pile, still high-stepping toward safety, when the fumes were ignited. Ivory heard the whoosh of suddenly consumed oxygen, felt warmth wash across his body, and knew he was on fire.

Cappy, his eyebrows raised in amazement, watched the fiery apparition dive off the pile, hit the ground, and roll. Just like they teach children to do in grade school.

The flames were out, and the pain had just begun, when Ivory regained his feet and started to run. The ravine led toward the east, so that’s where he went. No one attempted to follow.

Gravel crunched as the Kan, who rarely left the comfort of the meat wagon’s cab, shuffled up from behind. Cappy turned and was there to hear the only words the Sauron had uttered during their time on the job. “A dead human comes back to life, catches fire, and runs away. Now
that’s
funny.”

The team, with a Fon in the lead, had made its way down off the hill, through a cordon of heavily armed Kan, and into a sort of no-man’s-land where all the humans had been intentionally evacuated. To join the assembly at the top of the hill? Or for some other reason? There was no way to be sure.

Like most humans, Jill Ji-Hoon knew very little about the race that had enslaved her, especially their culture, which meant that the steady beat of unseen drums, plus the occasional groan of a horn came as something of a surprise.

Music, no matter how simple, implied emotion, to Ji-Hoon’s mind at least, and emotion suggested empathy, of which she had seen no evidence whatsoever. Why?

Be it right or wrong the ex-FBI agent had a theory . . . Perhaps the Saurons could feel empathy for each other, but, because they had been trained to perceive slaves in the same way a carpenter regards her tools, couldn’t empathize with what they saw as a screwdriver or a pair of pliers. Did that make it okay? Hell no, but if true, it helped her understand.

Now, as the team made its way down toward a recently completed wharf, Ji-Hoon suspected that whatever chore she and her teammates had been chosen to do, it had nothing to do with blocks of stone.

Her suspicions were almost immediately confirmed when they rounded a stack of newly arrived pastel-colored cargo modules and a group of formally attired Zin appeared. They were clustered around a richly decorated sedan chair—the very thing that Ji-Hoon and her companions had no doubt been summoned to carry. One of the ruling caste hurried forward to berate the Fon for being late—just as Ji-Hoon and her team had been berated not a half hour before.

Then, dominance having been reestablished, the slaves were ordered into position. Their Fon, frantic lest some detail go awry, circled the conveyance and peppered them with threats. The Zin, all of whom wore pleated skirts and leather harnesses, watched impassively.

The ex-agent was directed to take the front right corner of the sedan chair, a position she liked, since it would allow her to see the terrain ahead. A seemingly trivial detail that would make the journey slightly more bearable and lessen the chance of injury as well. A rather important strategy in an environment where those deemed unfit for work were routinely executed.

Then, on an order from their increasingly officious Fon, the humans lifted the sedan chair up into the air. Judging from the object’s weight, and consistent with the ex-FBI agent’s expectations, the passenger was already aboard. It was impossible to verify, of course, but judging from most of the Saurons Ji-Hoon had seen, the typical alien weighed a hundred, maybe a hundred and twenty pounds, which meant that the sedan chair was heavier than the individual it carried.

So, assuming the conveyance weighed in at a hundred and fifty pounds or so, the total load was just under three hundred pounds. Heavy, but lighter than a typical stone block, a fact for which Ji-Hoon was grateful. It was a long way to the top of the hill, which the slave felt certain, was their ultimate destination.

Hosker, who had long since designated himself as the team’s leader, called, “Your right, your right, left right,” just as they taught him in boot camp, and it worked. The slaves moved forward, and the Zin, none of whom were used to walking, shuffled along behind. It was uncomfortable, and they were unhappy. Somewhere, as if aware of their pain, a horn groaned in sympathy. Meanwhile, the sun, which cared nothing for the beings who consumed its energy, inched higher in the sky.