EarthRise (54 page)

Qwas was only units from the top when the warrior looked down into the pipe. Both beings froze—but the marine reacted first. It was impossible to miss as he tilted the submachine gun upward and squeezed the trigger. A steady stream of slugs ripped the warrior’s head apart. The Ra ‘Na felt something warm splatter against his facial fur, watched the Kan fall back out of sight, and reached for the rim. His arms pulled, his legs pushed him up, and he was up and out. Terrified that even more Saurons would suddenly appear, Qwas took a moment to check his surroundings.

The birth chamber was crowded. The carcass of a dead Fon lay to his left, its abdomen split nearly in two, hoses leading this way and that. The Kan’s headless corpse lay next to him, gore leaking out of its neck, while the nymphs continued to peck at it.

Qwas gulped. “I made it . . . but ran into a spot of trouble . . . so please hurry.”

Twan needed no urging—nor did Pol. He had caught up, thanks to the momentary delay, and felt reenergized. As before, hands reached down to pull him up. The scene that waited to greet him was gruesome beyond belief. “By all the blue devils,” Twan said in wonderment, “would you look at that!”

“It’s hard not to,” Pol said dryly. “Please note the Kan’s condition. I see no signs of swelling. There could be more like that, so keep an eye out. Remember, it’s the hatch we’re after, so focus on that.”

Then, having switched to a second frequency, Pol sent a message. “Ra ‘Na One to Bone One . . . Objective one is ours . . . Repeat, objective one is ours.”

The return message came quickly, so quickly that it seemed as if Smith had been waiting for it, which he definitely had. “Good work, One. We’ll see you at objective two.”

Pol clicked twice, just as Farley had taught him to do, and gestured toward the entry. “Qwas, you take the point. Twan, you walk drag.”

Both marines nodded. The file leader edged his way around the still-agitated nymphs and stuck his head out into the hallway. The screams were less frequent now, but the stench was incredible, and a layer of slime covered the floor. Qwas looked both ways, stepped outside, and looked up. Gallery after gallery of birth chambers climbed until the highest levels were hidden by darkness. Good, that meant he was on the ground floor, which put him on the same level as the all-important door. Then, with his back to the wet, lichen-covered walls and his weapon at the ready, the marine edged sideways down the corridor. The others followed.

Meanwhile, not far away, and still making his rounds, Centum Commander Nis-Sta rounded a curve and looked for Tze-Gas. Seeing no sign of the warrior, Nis-Sta stuck his head into a series of birth chambers and repeatedly called the Kan’s name. “Tze-Gas? Tze-Gas? Come on out.”

There was no reply. Finally, having entered an especially noisome cubicle, the Centum nearly tripped over the body. It took the officer less than a unit to compute the most likely scenario and trigger his com set. “A slave murdered Tze-Gas! Find the interloper and kill him!”

Ninety-eight Kan heard the orders via their radios, pulled their t-guns, and joined the hunt. Many, bored by guard duty and unnerved by the din, were glad of something to do.

Qwas had just rounded a curve and spotted the gigantic door, when a Kan spotted him from above. A t-gun barked, limestone chips hit the side of the marine’s face, and he yelled to the others. “Run! Run for the door! I’ll cover you.”

Then, tilting the submachine gun upward, Qwas fired. The first Kan stepped off his perch, fell through a virtual hail of .22-caliber bullets, and was dead by the time he hit the floor. But others had heard and jumped from above. The marine counted three, four, five, more than he could keep up with, and tried to back toward the door. The gun clicked empty, and the file leader had just reached for a new magazine, when something brushed his shoulder. That’s when the pincer closed around the Ra ‘Na’s throat, his spine snapped, and his mind floated free.

Twan was halfway to the door by then, with Pol screaming through his earplugs. “Concentrate on the door! I’ll keep them off you.”

The marine wanted to turn, wanted to defend himself, but resisted the urge to do so. The grenades made a cracking sound as Pol underhanded them down the corridor. A Kan squealed loudly but fell silent when the cleric opened fire. Though not a true prayer, the toth was heartfelt nonetheless. “May my grenades rip you apart! May my bullets pierce your flesh! May the Great One curse you and your entire race!”

Meanwhile, Twan, hands shaking, opened the access panel. The lock was controlled by a key pad identical to its shipboard counterparts. The firing was closer now, so close he could hear empty casings tinkle as they hit the deck, soon followed by Pol’s yelling. “Open the damned thing! I can’t hold them any longer!”

A dart exploded against hull metal. The marine knew he lacked the time required to connect the computer leads and run the thousands of combinations required to do the job right. So, heart in his mouth, Twan decided to take a guess. The Zin were comfortable with numbers, but other castes were less so and had a tendency to forget things. So, that being the case, which digits would a Fon choose?

Twan took a deep breath, stabbed the numbers 1, 2, 3, and 4, and was rewarded with a groan as the door started to open. That’s when the marine gave the Ra ‘Na equivalent of a war whoop, and used the submachine gun’s grip to smash the key pad. Then, turning toward his right, the tech prepared to fire.

The Kan’s automatic weapon made a sound similar to ripping cloth as it sent a stream of darts into Twan’s chest. He staggered, fell onto his back, and felt sunlight hit his face. The clouds! They had disappeared! Then he was gone.

Pol, still firing three-round bursts, heard some sort of yell, realized it was human, and knew help was on the way. That was when the sledgehammer hit, the impact threw him up into the air, and he fell into the water-filled moat. There was a splash, and he disappeared.

“Follow me!” Smith yelled, and ran onto the bridge. Franklin was there, with the .9mm clutched in his hand and Manning at his side. So were the rest of the bodyguards, all trying to protect him, but caught in the mad charge.

The first rank of humans fired, as did the Saurons, and members of both sides went down. Then, as the two came together, the
real
fighting began. Manning heard rather than saw Franklin fire his weapon and struggled to maintain his position. “Keep it tight!” he urged the team. “Don’t let the bastards in!”

Kell, who was stationed on the chief executive’s left side, knew what Manning meant. “In” referred to the protective bubble in which the president floated. He saw a Kan fire his t-gun, put two .9mm bullets through the alien’s skull, and kept on going.

Forward of the president, right behind Smith and the lead elements of the assault force, Garly Mol and Jill Ji-Hoon struggled to make a hole and keep the Saurons from coming straight back. Both agents had emptied their weapons by then, and with no time to reload, were using their backups.

For Mol that meant knives, one in each hand, both of which were used like ice picks. Her arms moved like pistons as each blow punched a hole through enemy chitin.

Ji-Hoon, who preferred an old-fashioned nightstick, hit anything that morphed. Those around her could hear the solid whack as the baton made contact with chitin, often followed by a loud craack as it shattered, and a subsequent squeal of pain.

But the contest was hardly one-sided. Unlike the humans, who could do little more than press forward, the Kan could jump and used that ability to considerable advantage. Manning first became aware of the threat when the sky seemed to shimmer and warriors fell on the mob
behind
him.

The crowd seemed to expand as people backed away, shuddered when the Saurons fired, and closed as the Kan ran out of ammo.

Now, thorax to torso with the humans, and unable to reload their t-guns, the Kan employed their graspers like clubs. Humans fell as the rock-hard extremities crushed their skulls and broke limbs.

Not to be outdone, some of the ex-slaves swung their assault weapons like battle-axes, while others produced big ball peen hammers, and gave as good as they got.

Meanwhile, still protected by his bodyguards, Franklin had the opportunity to reload his weapon. That’s why he had a fresh magazine in place when one of the warriors fell short and landed right in front of him. The president could
hear
the grunt of expelled air,
smell
the alien’s breath, and
see
the hatred in his eyes.

The t-gun fired first but the dart missed by an inch. Gozen Asad never felt a thing. One moment he was there, guarding, the Big Dog’s six, the next moment he was gone.

Franklin struggled to drag the handgun up and into position. It seemed to weigh a ton. Then, having squeezed the trigger, he followed the Kan down. It was only when he heard Manning yell, “He’s dead, Mr. President,” that the politician realized that his weapon was empty and took his finger off the trigger.

The Kan had been forced to give ground by then, so, rather than give the aliens an opportunity to regroup, Smith led a second charge. “All right, people! We have the bastards on the run! Let’s finish this thing!” So saying, the deacon and his demons thundered across the bridge and poured through the door. But Nis-Sta was waiting, and no sooner had the humans entered, than thirty Kan fell from above.

Manning felt something heavy land on his shoulders, was thrown facedown onto the limestone floor, and knew he was about to die. But that’s when he heard a roar of outrage, felt the weight disappear, and rolled onto his back.

The Kan struggled as Jonathan Wimba lifted the warrior up—only to throw him down. There was a thud as the body hit limestone, and the Sauron lay dead. The battle had moved on by that time which meant there was a momentary respite as Manning got to his feet. “Thanks, Jonathan. Not bad for a sociologist. Where’s the Big Dog?”

“I saw him go thataway,” Mol responded, as she pointed toward a ramp, “with Kell in hot pursuit.”

Manning said, “Shit!” slammed a new magazine into the butt of his weapon, and ran for the ramp. The sounds of battle grew more distant as the others followed. Now, as they climbed, the humans could hear intermittent screams, waves of the staticlike clicks and pops, and the sound of their own footsteps.

Many of the nymphs were active by then, already peeking from their birth chambers or venturing out to explore a bit. One of the juveniles, a Kan by the look of him, leaped at the humans as they passed by. Ji-Hoon fired without breaking stride. The .9mm slug caught the nymphling in the side of the head and threw him into a wall. Both of his brothers pulled back.

Manning paused as he arrived on yet another level and took a look around. “Damn Franklin anyway . . . Does anyone have a clue as to where he was headed?”

“I heard him say something about Hak-Bin,” Wimba volunteered.

Hak-Bin! Of course! The bastard was
here
! Ra ‘Na intelligence had verified that . . . but where? Then it came to him. Knowing the Sauron social structure as he did, Franklin would naturally head for the top gallery. “Come on!” Manning shouted. “He’s on the top level!” Boots pounded as the security team continued to climb.

Meanwhile, a few levels higher, Franklin ran out of ramp. This was it, the highest gallery there was, and the place where Hak-Bin was certain to be. But in which chamber? Now, all alone, the politician regretted the haste with which he had sped to the top. Still, that’s where he was, and it was best to keep moving. That’s what he told himself anyway as he turned to the left. Slowly, the .9mm held straight out in front of him, the president eased his way down the corridor. There was less noise on the top level—as if the Zin nymphs had less to say. But they were aware of him, as he checked their cubicles, and he could feel their animosity.

Then, as if alerted by some sixth sense, Franklin knew he was close. He could
feel
it, or thought he could, and tried to extend his senses. That’s when Kat-Duu slipped out of a shadow, took one step forward, and wrapped a chitinous arm around the politician’s throat. The other grasper sought the gun, locked onto it, and jerked the weapon free. The .9mm went off, a bullet bounced off the opposite wall, and the gun fell. Kell heard the gunshot and ran toward the sound.

Franklin felt the arm tighten, rammed the Kan with his elbow, and hit the alien’s rock-hard exoskeleton. Desperate by then, the politician stomped on one of the Sauron’s podlike feet, felt the grip loosen, and stomped again. Then, sensing some give, the human threw himself forward as Kat-Duu attempted to pull the foot back. The hold broke, Franklin fell forward, and dived for the gun. There were two reports . . . quickly followed by a third.

The politician waited for the darts to strike, wondered how the Kan had missed, and flipped himself over. “Got the bastard,” Kell said happily. “That’s one less to worry about.”

Franklin was about to agree, about to thank Kell for saving his life, when the automatic weapon started to chatter. It belonged to Kat-Duu, and the jet-black nymph could barely control it. Struck from behind, the agent jerked like a puppet on a string as darts tore at his legs.

The politician did a desperate backstroke as he felt for the pistol, found it, and brought the weapon forward. He fired two shots. One missed entirely and the other blew one of the Sauron’s arms off. The nymph screeched pitifully, tried to jump, but fell as the last bullet took it in the head. Franklin fumbled for a fresh magazine, realized he was out, and let the wall support his shoulders.

Manning heard the rattle of automatic fire followed by the steady bang, bang, bang of a .9mm as he topped the ramp and made the turn. Mol knelt next to Kell as the security chief extended a hand to Franklin. “Not bad for a politician, sir, but the security team would appreciate it if you’d let us do some of the shooting.”

“Sorry,” Franklin said contritely, “I got carried away. This is where Hak-Bin should be—and I want to nail the bastard.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Manning said understandingly. “But it might help if we were a little more systematic. All we need to do is find the largest chamber—that’s where the bastard will be.”