EarthRise (53 page)

Alien lichen bathed the cavern in a sickly green glow. The water, which appeared black and glassy, eddied out toward the river below. Bats, resentful of the manner in which powerful lights had been aimed up at the ceiling, continued to swoop and soar. One of them swept past Pol’s head. The cleric flinched, the rope swayed, and the Ra ‘Na struggled to hold himself up. Both of his arms ached, the insides of his calves were raw, and he wanted to let go.
Would
have let go had he been alone—instead of on display for everyone to see.

Finally, after another desperate heave, the platform came level with his head. Hands reached down, Pol was hoisted up, and the platform swayed dangerously as he grabbed a supporting line. “Good work, sir,” File Leader Quas said encouragingly. “Just hang on while we get things organized.”

The other member of the team, a technician named Twan, nodded respectfully, and the two of them went to work. Pol couldn’t remember when he had decided to lead the team himself. All he knew was that when he called for volunteers he requested only two. Every single marine in his party had offered to take part, but these two, both in top physical condition, seemed like the best choice.

Because Pol was the weakest link, and knew it, he assigned himself to the number three position. If he became stuck, or was otherwise unable to complete the climb, the others would continue unimpeded. The arrangement was questionable, since the size of the cleric’s waistline dictated that someone else should lead the effort, but Qwas and Twan lacked leadership experience, a shortfall that could prove critical.

So, contrary to the dictates of common sense and in spite of the fear that claimed his belly, Pol prepared to do the very thing he would most likely fail at: climb a vertical pipe and enter an enemy-held fortress.

“Okay,” Qwas said, helping the cleric into the specially adapted combat vest, “the pockets are loaded with the usual stuff, including extra ammo and a couple of grenades. Not much, though, or it would get in the way. A special nonslip surface has been glued to the back. Keep your assault weapon tight against your chest, place your back against the wall, and push with the rubber-soled boots. Once I get to the top I will cut my way out, deal with any Saurons who happen to be in the area, and give Twan a hand. You come next. Any questions?”

The file leader made the whole thing sound so easy that Pol felt silly for having any doubts. The cleric shook his head, watched the marines duck under the pipe and soon disappear from sight. Then it was his turn. Pol stooped under the opening, then stood. Alien lichen had colonized the inside surface of the pipe, which when combined with their headlamps, would provide sufficient illumination. The cleric couldn’t see the upper reaches of the tube, not with two bodies in the way, but that was just as well. What he couldn’t see couldn’t scare him.

A hand reached down, and Pol was grateful. Twan hoisted the initiate upward and waited while he wedged himself in place. Then, satisfied that his commanding officer was off to an acceptable start, the technician hunched his way upward. The light from his headlamp soon started to fade. Pol followed.

It was difficult at first,
very
difficult, but the initiate made progress. He learned that his elbows could be useful, adding as they did to the downward push, especially where one length of pipe joined another. Because of the process used to manufacture them, each joint was marked by a small ridge, an imperfection for which Pol was thankful, since it provided extra purchase
and
a place where he could indulge in a moment of rest.

That’s when Pol would look upward, see the distant lights, and realize the extent to which the other two were ahead. Frustrated by his own weakness and anxious lest he fall even farther behind, the cleric would push off and try to make better time.

There were obstacles, however, not the least of which was the fact that the pipe was a
pipe
, and placed there for a reason. The first downpour came when a holding tank filled, a relay closed, and a valve opened. The mixture of rainwater, birth catalyst, and waste matter entered the pipe
below
the point where Twan happened to be, fell unimpeded on Pol’s head and shoulders, and gushed down between his legs. It was warm, it stank, and the unexpected weight of the liquid nearly dislodged him. In fact, had it not been for the fact that the cleric happened to have one foot planted inside the opening to
another
pipe, he would have fallen.

Pol threw his arms out to increase the amount of contact with the walls, had the presence of mind to hold his breath, and waited for the flood to pass. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, it did. Then, fighting for a purchase on the now-slippery walls, the journey continued.

The rain had stopped, but the air remained heavy with moisture. Everything was wet, and a heavy mist floated just off the ground. In spite of the fact that the towers were intact, more than a dozen black splotches marked the points where heavily concentrated fire had succeeded in silencing most if not all of the computer-controlled weapons emplacements. Now, with those out of the way, or most of them out of the way, the allies were intent on entering the citadel itself. The main entryway seemed to sparkle as the latest volley of SLMs wasted themselves on the heavy hull metal. Finally, after no fewer than fifteen missiles had expended their combined energies on the now-blackened barrier, the attack ended.

Franklin lowered the binoculars and handed them to Smith. “I see what you mean . . . that stuff is damned hard. How ’bout an attack from orbit? Maybe one of the ship-mounted weapons could do the job. They were pretty effective over on the east side of the citadel.”

Smith sighed. Franklin meant well, he knew that, but the need to respond to his frequently naive suggestions was hard to take at times. Especially when he was tired, hungry, and generally pissed off. “We considered that, sir. But an orbital bombardment would destroy the bridge over the moat. That would force us to not only build another one, but to do so while taking fire, which would result in hundreds of casualties.”

Franklin frowned. “Good point . . . I wonder why they left it there?”

“So those spider-shaped robots could cross the moat,” the ex-Ranger explained patiently. “Plus, it may be rigged to blow. If so, we’ll probably lose it, but a guy can hope. Maybe Pol will succeed.”

“How would you rate his chances?”

Smith looked at the ground. “Not very good.”

“And if he fails?”

“We go to Plan B.”

Franklin raised both eyebrows. “The spaceship idea?”

“Why not? It worked on Hell Hill.”

“Yeah, but most if not all of the slaves had escaped. There could be hundreds or even thousands of slaves locked inside those towers.”

Franklin shrugged. “Dr. Jones doesn’t think so, but you’re right, there’s no way to know for sure. So what do we use for Plan B?”

“A miracle,” Franklin said, slowly. “What we need is a miracle.”

Qwas hunched his shoulders, pushed with his feet, and watched the blob of light slide upward. That was his marker, the measure of his worth, and the object that he lived to elevate. Earlier in the climb, back before his shoulders had started to ache and before he’d been drenched with a liquid so foul that there were no words to describe it adequately, the file leader had paused to look upward every now and then. Not anymore. Minimal though it was, that effort consumed too much energy.

No, the best thing to do was remain in a sort of trance, put everything he had into the climb, and ignore all else. Push, hunch, push. That was the story of his life, the purpose for being, the . . . The top of Qwan’s head hit something solid, and he swore.

Then, tilting his head back, he allowed the light to play across the surface above. There it was! The very thing he had been striving for . . . A valve assembly or something similar. Now, how to deal with the obstruction? Would a small quantity of explosives be best? Or should he use the power tool strapped to the front of his vest? The first option would be faster—but the second would cause less commotion. The file leader whispered into his mike. “Fra Pol? Can you hear me?”

“Yes,” the cleric replied, “and so can anyone else who cares to monitor this frequency. No names, remember? So, what’s up?”

“Sorry,” Qwas replied contritely. “I forgot. Objective one is now in sight.”

“Excellent,” Pol replied. “Good work.”

“So,” Qwas continued, careful lest he commit another gaffe, “which
tool
would you suggest?”

Here was a decision that Pol dreaded. Either choice could be wrong. The explosives would make noise, no doubt about that, but the power tool would take a long time. He went with what the humans referred to as his “gut.” “Use the faster of the two alternatives—and be careful.”

Qwas fumbled with one of his pockets, located the block of C-4, broke a chunk off, and rolled it between the palms of his hands. Then, once he had a “snake,” it was time to place it. As he leaned backward, the marine’s entire body shook from the resulting strain. The Ra ‘Na fed the plastic explosive into the recess around the valve, pressed it into place, and pushed the wireless detonator down into the charge. Some of the explosion’s force would be directed down, rather than up. The question was how much? Would the valve come loose? Or simply sit there? The file leader wasn’t sure.

Then, shoulders aching, he forced himself to check his work. Satisfied that everything was as it should be, Qwas allowed himself to return to what he now considered to be a more natural position, and activated the radio. “I’m coming down. Prepare for falling debris.” Thus warned, both Twan and Pol did the best they could to lock themselves in place and protect their heads.

Reluctant to descend too far, lest he have difficulty climbing back up, Qwas stopped. Then, careful not to drop it, the marine removed the remote from one of his pockets, prayed that everything would work, and pressed a button.

The charge made a dull thump as it went off, sent the valve assembly up through the limestone floor, and showered Qwas with bits of debris. He waited, looked up, and saw a new source of light! Scared, but thankful to be alive, the marine hunched his way upward.

Now, cleared of all obstructions, the pipe served to conduct sound. The marine heard long, bloodcurdling screams, waves of unintelligible click speech, and wondered if the explosion had gone unnoticed.

But the sound of the C-4 had
not
gone unnoticed. As luck would have it a warrior named Tze-Gas was passing chamber 2,456 just as the charge went off, the valve assembly flew into the air, and fell on the triplets below. One of the nymphs died instantly and the others produced a storm of incomprehensible gibberish.

Well aware of the fact that the citadel suffered from any number of design flaws, the Kan assumed that some sort of plumbing problem was responsible for the unfortunate incident and entered the cell to check.

Effectively blinded by the section of natal tissue that still covered its head, but conscious of the intruder nonetheless, a nymph extended its neck. Jaws snapped just short of the Kan’s right leg, which forced him to back along the wall. Then, well clear of the twins, Tze-Gas bent to examine the hole.