EarthRise E-Book

William C. Dietz

• Herausgeber: JABberwocky Literary Agency, Inc.
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Serie: Sauron
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 647

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Beschreibung

After the vicious, insect-like aliens called the Saurons invaded Earth and killed billions, they enslaved the survivors, forcing them to build mysterious temples under brutal conditions. In an effort to control their human slaves, the Saurons install a puppet president to keep them under control. But President Alexander Franklin and Chief of Security Jack Manning aren't about to play along. Rebellion is in the air, and the fight for freedom is spreading far and wide, from the center of activity in Washington to the distant lands of Guatemala. A diverse group of rebels, including an ex-FBI agent, a doctor inside the heart of enemy territory, and the president will have to band together with a host of other insurgents from across war-torn Earth to overcome impossible odds if they're to save what's left of humankind. With non-stop action and a remarkable cast of characters, the epic conclusion to William C. Dietz's DeathDay is a thrilling tale of adversity, rebellion, strength and humanity in a futuristic world where the survival of the many lies in the hands of the brave few.  

Leseprobe

EARTHRISE

Copyright © 2002 by William C. Dietz.

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-625671-66-0

Cover design by Tiger Bright Studios, Inc.

Published as an eBook in 2016 by JABberwocky Literary Agency, Inc.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Also by William C. Dietz

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Epilogue

For Marjorie, with all my love.

1

DEATH DAY MINUS 80

WEDNESDAY, MAY 13, 2020

Man is born free: and everywhere he is in chains.—Jean-Jacques RousseauThe Social Contract, 1762

HELL HILL

The sun had risen, the early-morning air was crisp, and Manning could see his breath. From his vantage point, standing atop the vast stack of cargo modules known as “Big Pink,” he could also see a generous swath of the strange almost surreal landscape in which he and thousands of slaves had been forced to live during the last few months. Months that felt like years.

What he and everyone else referred to as “Hell Hill” was located on a finger of land once known as Governors’ Point, located just south of the once thriving city of Bellingham, Washington. A place that had once been home to a well-respected state college, a small but charming central business district, and a population willing to trade the hectic pace of a city like Seattle for the pleasures of kayaking on Puget Sound, snowboarding on Mount Baker, and hiking in the Cascades.

But that was prior to February 28, 2020, the day that the Saurons destroyed the cities of New York, Paris, Moscow, Madrid, Cairo, Beijing, Sydney, Lima, Rio de Janeiro, Johannesburg, Tehran, and New Delhi.

The worst damage was inflicted by powerful energy cannons mounted on Sauron spaceships. Dreadnoughts that measured almost a mile in length, were more than two thousand feet wide, and carried upward of twenty thousand aliens plus the slaves required to support them.

Though unable to descend through the atmosphere, the largest battleships had no difficulty firing their weapons from space itself. Earth’s atmosphere shrieked in protest each time a bolt of energy tore through the air. Those located within a half mile of the impact experienced a chest-thumping concussion, and if they were fortunate enough to survive, could watch skyscrapers topple, bridges collapse, and entire neighborhoods erupt into flame. The fires spread to suburbs, grasslands, forests, and jungles. Soon the entire planet was wrapped in a blanket of thick gray smoke.

But that was little more than the beginning. Confused by the nature of the attack, and uncertain as to who the instigators had been, the humans turned on each other. The cities of Bombay and Islamabad were consumed by mushroom-shaped clouds, while three neighboring countries launched subnuclear missiles at Israel.

All of this occurred not over a period of months, not over a period of weeks, but in a matter of three days. Nor was the attack over when the orbital shelling finally ended. That’s when the Saurons employed space-to-surface missiles against hardened military installations, when the systematic carpet bombing started, and when swarms of manta-shaped alien attack ships sought to clear the skies, roads, and freeways of human life.

With the exception of assets which their superiors had identified as potentially useful, the Sauron pilots destroyed anything that moved, including airplanes, trucks, cars, and the long ragged columns of refugees that snaked out of the cities searching for shelter.

More than 3 billion people died, enough to eliminate any immediate resistance, but not so many as to drive the human race to the edge of extinction.

No, the Saurons were careful to stop short of complete annihilation, not because they had a system of ethics, but because they needed the survivors. Needed slaves to construct the enormous citadel-like fortresses within which a new generation of Saurons would hatch, each killing its progenitor during the birth process, and each taking its place within the complex racial hierarchy upon which the alien culture had been built. A social structure in which each caste had a distinct function: The Zin governed, the Kan fought, and the Fon performed menial work, or would have performed menial work had it not been for the diminutive Ra ‘Na, a slave race upon which the aliens were heavily dependent.

A relationship which over hundreds of years had become so entrenched that something approaching a symbiotic relationship had evolved. A reality that helped explain why many of the whip-wielding Fon overseers carried Ra ‘Na technicians on their chitin-covered backs even as they forced thousands of humans to ascend Hell Hill.

The reason for this became apparent as one of the Fon flexed his deceptively slender legs, propelled himself high into the air, and landed some thirty feet away from the point where Jack Manning stood. The Ra ‘Na, a relatively small being with reddish fur, a short muzzle, and brown beady eyes absorbed the shock with slightly bent legs, and murmured into a handheld radio. The process of herding the secondary slave race to the top of the hill had to be coordinated, and he, like many of his peers, took pride in a job well done. His mount’s whip made a loud cracking sound as the neatly braided leather cut into a human back, and the victim fell face first into the heavily churned mud.

Manning winced. He knew, as did those around him, that the whipping, like the ceremony thousands of humans were about to participate in, was part of an elaborate effort to keep the slave population under control. A task made increasingly difficult, as word of the birthing leaked to the previously ignorant Fon, and to segments of the human population as well.

Even as the Zin called Hak-Bin strove to complete the great fortress at the top of Hell Hill—the resistance movement continued to gain strength. Especially now that the humans realized that the entire Sauron race would be momentarily vulnerable once the nearly simultaneous birthing process started.

All of which explained why the aliens had gone to such great lengths to find a hospitable planet, build their defensive citadels, and install the automated weapons systems designed to keep enemies at bay. Had they remained in space, had they undergone the change there, the entire race would have been vulnerable to the Ra ‘Na.

Manning’s thoughts were interrupted as Vilo Kell’s voice came over the security chief’s military-style headset. “Snake Three to Snake One… Over.”

Manning did a 360 and used the elevated vantage point to scan the surrounding rooftops, shacks, clotheslines, and stacks of firewood. Below, down in the heavily rutted streets, the Fon continued to jump from place to place. Their harakna hide whips popped like firecrackers. “This is One… go. Over.”

“We’re ready—or as ready as we’re likely to get. Over.”

“Roger, that. Stand by… The Big Dog is on his way. Over.”

Manning turned to the man who stood beside him. He had even features, quick intelligent eyes, and medium brown skin. “Time to go, Mr. President.”

Alexander Ajani Franklin, the onetime governor of Washington State, the politician the Saurons had chosen to head their puppet government, the individual many humans referred to as “Frankenstein,” and the man who Manning and hundreds of resistance fighters were counting on to lead them out of slavery, managed a wry smile. “Yes, it would be rude to keep Hak-Bin waiting.”

“Rude and dangerous,” Manning responded gravely. “I don’t know what the bastard has to say—but it must be important. Important enough to take thousands of slaves off the job and sacrifice six hours’ worth of production.”

Franklin lowered himself through the hatch and looked up into his security chief’s face. “I don’t care what Hak-Bin says… it’s what he might do that bothers me.”

Manning’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Such as?”

Franklin shrugged. “Such as a show designed to get our attention, scare the crap out of us, and reassert Sauron control all at the same time.”

“That’s an interesting idea,” Manning said slowly. “Did you pick up on a rumor of some sort?”

“Nope,” the president answered as he ducked out of sight. “But that’s what I would do if I were a Sauron. Let’s hope Hak-Bin is different.”

Manning hoped… but knew it was a waste of time.

• • •

Dr. Seeko Sool, University of Nebraska, class of 2011, was in the process of suturing a cut when she heard her nurse say, “You can’t go in there!” followed by a loud commotion and a clang as something hit the metal floor.

Little more than a makeshift curtain served to separate the surgery from the rest of the cargo-module-sized clinic. The walls were painted green and badly in need of washing. The Kan warrior jerked the flimsy divider aside, shuffled into the space within, and regarded Sool with a baleful gaze. Her patient, a man dressed in gray rags, seemed to shrink, as if trying to disappear.

Like all his kind, the Sauron had a sharklike snout, three backward-pointing skull plates, and large light-gathering eyes. His highly specialized chitin shifted to match the paint on the wall behind him. Sool blinked as her eyes attempted to focus on the miragelike image. The voice, as reproduced by the translator clipped to the Kan’s combat harness, was harsh and grating. “Slaves have been ordered to assemble on the top of the hill. You are a slave. You will depart now.”

Sool used the needle holder to gesture toward her patient’s foot. The wound was only partially closed. “We can’t leave yet… not until I finish suturing this cut.”

The patient, a skinny almost skeletal figure who had managed to survive almost three months of brutal slavery by doing exactly what he was told, jumped off the table, snatched a boot off the floor, and hopped toward the door. A thin strand of 4-0 nylon snaked after him. The Kan produced something like a predatory grin. “‘Now’ means now.”

Sool sighed, put the instrument on a Mayo stand, and removed her disposable gloves. Then, with her nurse in tow, she left the clinic. The crowd flowed upward as if determined to defy gravity.

• • •

Hell Hill’s original profile, as viewed from the opposite side of the ironically named Pleasant Bay, had been that of a gently rounded hill covered by mature evergreens.

Now, after months of work by thousands of slaves, the long-abandoned stone quarry at the base of the hill had been reopened, most of the trees had been cut down, terraces had been cut into the steep side slopes, and empty cargo modules had been stacked for use by the slaves. A sort of instant city that the humans had modified and expanded as they proceeded to create a sub-rosa economy.

Higher up, the hill wore a necklace of freshly built crosses. The lumber, all of which had been looted from a yard in nearby Vancouver, Canada, had a slightly greenish hue. Each piece wore a small white tag intended to reassure its new owner that it had been pressure treated and would last for the next twenty years, a fact the Fon named Mal-Dak was unaware of and unlikely to take much comfort from.

Like most of his lowly caste, Mal-Dak had been forced to queue up for any number of things over the years—but the opportunity to be crucified had not been one of them. Not until now, as the line shuffled slowly forward and the unfortunate Sauron had a moment to reflect.

The focus of his thoughts was the fact that insofar as he knew, based on the roughly two standard years’ worth of memory currently available to his mind, he had never joined or even commingled with the organization called the Fon Brotherhood and was therefore innocent of the charges lodged against him.

Had Mal-Dak been acquainted with the now notorious Bal-Lok? Who, along with some twelve members of the nascent organization, had been foolish enough to attack a Kan checkpoint? The answer was “yes,” but knowing someone and belonging to their organization were two different things. Something he had explained over and over but to no avail.

Assuming the Kan who arrested him had been truthful, and there was no reason to suspect otherwise, Hak-Bin had ordered his subordinates to identify and crucify “twenty guilty parties.” No less and no more. How could everyone ignore the obvious unfairness of that?

Mal-Dak’s thoughts were interrupted as a Kan shouted an order, a cross was raised into the upright position, and a Fon hung upside down with his arms stretched to either side. The Sauron made a pitiful bleating sound which ended abruptly when a Kan kicked him in the jaw. Though conscious, and in pain, the Fon no longer had the capacity to speak.

That’s when Mal-Dak felt graspers lock onto both of his arms, heard a Kan say, “Now it’s your turn,” and was wrestled onto a newly constructed cross.

“No!” Mal-Dak shouted. “It isn’t fair! I’m innocent!”

“That’s what they all say,” a warrior said unfeelingly. “Now mind the way you act—humans are watching. Here’s an opportunity to show them that even the lowliest and most insignificant members of the Sauron race can die without complaint.”

Mal-Dak was about to object when an order was given, his cross was raised, and the world turned upside down.

Then, his weight hanging from the plastic ties that secured his wrists and ankles, Mal-Dak was left for the crows. There were hundreds of the fat black birds—and they circled the morning’s feast.

• • •

The few surviving members of the Fon Brotherhood had learned a thing or two during their organization’s short but tumultuous life.

The first learning ran contrary to everything they had been taught since birth: Fon were as intelligent as the Kan and Zin… a fact many had proven by teaching themselves to read.

The second learning was that humans, especially white humans, who claimed to be part of something called the “brotherhood of the skin,” were completely untrustworthy.

The third learning was that even though the white humans had tricked Bal-Lok and sacrificed their brethren to the Kan as part of a complicated slave scheme, the Fon had proven their valor. Though dead, every one of their bodies had been found facing the enemy with a weapon at pincer.

Now, having learned those things, the Fon Brotherhood was in the mood to teach a lesson of their own: the meaning of respect.

Jonathan Kreider, a.k.a. Jonathan Ivory, a name he had chosen as a way to celebrate the lack of pigmentation in his skin, didn’t know he was being hunted until the trap had already closed.

Flushed out of hiding by the Kan, the racialists had been absorbed into the steadily growing crowd and pulled toward the top of the hill.

There were fewer of them now, after the disastrous assault on the Presidential Complex, and the loss of brave Hammer Skins like Parker, Boner, and Marta Manning, a hard-core racialist who, had it not been for the efforts of her brother Jack, would almost certainly have killed Alexander Franklin.

But six remained, which by either coincidence or divine intent was the exact number mentioned in Ezekiel 9:1-2: “… Then he called out in my hearing… ‘Let those who have charge over the city draw near, each with a deadly weapon in his hand.’ And… six men came…”

A skin nicknamed Tripod was the first skin to die as a Fon dropped off a roof and buried a six-inch blade between the unsuspecting human’s shoulder blades. Four of his companions died within seconds of each other. The last of them took a pipe to the side of his head, staggered through a complete circle, and collapsed.

Ivory, who caught the motion from the corner of his eye, started to turn. He never made it. His Fon, the one to whom the ancestors had given a mental likeness of the racialist’s features, struck the back of the human’s head with a length of two-by-two. It was a glancing blow, but sufficient to drop Ivory in his tracks. There was the jolt of the blow, followed by an explosion of pain, and the long fall into darkness.

The Fon, satisfied with his grasperwork, jumped to a nearby roof. A debt had been incurred… and a debt had been paid.

The racialists, their bodies left to rot, were but a small down payment on the long bloody day to follow.

• • •

Consistent with the fact that they had what amounted to a genderless society, the Saurons had a marked tendency to regard their slaves in much the same manner as earlier generations of humans viewed horses. The aliens placed a definite premium on size, strength, and, to a lesser extent, on color, favoring blacks over browns and browns over whites, in what observers like ex–FBI Agent Jill Ji-Hoon knew to be conscious racism.

So, given the fact that she had white skin, stood six-foot-two, and had the broad shoulders of a competitive swimmer, the onetime law enforcement officer was often chosen for tasks which the alien overseers considered to be physically demanding but appropriately menial. That’s why she was not especially surprised when a Kan leaned over the parapet above, ordered her team to meet him on the plaza below, and promptly disappeared.

The team, what the Saurons considered to be a matched set in terms of physical ability, consisted of Ji-Hoon and three reasonably well built men. Two had come on to her and failed. Only the third, a man named Escoloni, remained true to his wife. Something Ji-Hoon admired. Their eyes made contact as they maneuvered the five-hundred-pound block of limestone into place on top of a long, gently curving wall. It was the last oversize brick of that particular run and fell into the assigned gap with a gentle thud.

The six-foot-long steel pry bar clattered as Escoloni allowed it to fall on the stone pavers. “So,” the man everyone called Loni, said sarcastically, “what now? High tea?”

Ji-Hoon grinned and used a faded red bandanna to wipe the sweat off the back of her neck. “Don’t I wish… No, some kind of shit detail most likely.”

Loni looked doubtful and gestured to the dry set wall that circled the citadel’s third level. “Shit detail? What do you think this is?”

“There’s worse,” the man named Hosker said somberly, “unless you think the stone mules actually enjoy what they do.”

An entire lexicon of slang words and terms had evolved on and around Hell Hill. The term “mule team” referred to those slaves assigned to haul the quarter-ton blocks of limestone up the hill. A backbreaking job that could have been performed in a tenth of the time through the use of machinery. But the Sauron Book of Cycles dictated otherwise, that was the rumor anyway, and Ji-Hoon believed it. She had seen the stonemaster poring over what appeared to be a large volume of weatherproofed manuscripts and heard the overseers refer to it.

The way Ji-Hoon understood the matter, the Book of Cycles, plus the memories that the stonemaster had inherited from his ancestors, laid out not only the plans for the temple itself, but the methods used to build it. Processes and procedures long outdated but still adhered to. A practice reminiscent of some human religions. All of which meant that Hosker was correct. There were worse things than setting stone.

The slaves made their way down to the plaza below, were automatically berated for being too slow, and ordered to follow a path that switchbacked down to the beach. A large manta-shaped shuttle wallowed in the swells offshore, looking for all the world like some sort of prehistoric sea animal, its atmosphere-scarred skin slick with spray. It was difficult to walk, what with thousands trying to make their way upward, and the team was forced to halt.

The Fon opened a passageway with his whip, and much to her surprise, Ji-Hoon noticed that many of the individuals thus punished directed dirty looks to her, as if she and her teammates were responsible for the alien’s actions. It didn’t make sense, but what did? The crowd parted, the work detail passed through, and wondered what awaited below.

• • •

The Ra ‘Na were a clever race, and like most shuttles of its tonnage, this particular craft had been designed to serve a multiplicity of purposes. The main compartment could be used to transport cargo or converted for passenger use. And, given the fact that there were various kinds of passengers, three different seating configurations had been devised. There were slings for the Saurons, large, oversize seats for the humans, and smaller, better-upholstered chairs for the Ra ‘Na, who, having been being forced to build them, saw no reason to compromise their own personal comfort.

That being the case, Dro Tog, along with his many peers, could hardly complain about the size, fit, or comfort of their respective seats. As for the overall ambience, well, that was another matter. The cargo compartment, which had most recently been used to transport canisters of a liquid presently being brewed deep within the bowels of factory asteroid Λ-12, still stank of sulfur, and made Tog nauseous. Or was it the overly large lunch consumed just prior to departure? Or the nature of the outing itself? An exercise the entire College of Dromas had been ordered to take part in.

“Please join Lord Hak-Bin in a lavish entertainment.” That’s what the so-called invitation read, although the prelate harbored the suspicion that the “lavish entertainment” wouldn’t be, not by his standards, which were the only ones that mattered. Conscious of the fact that his thoughts were less than politically correct, and fearful lest someone pluck them from the ethers, Tog eyed his peers.

They were an eclectic group, some attired as he was, in finery intended to highlight their importance, while others, the dour Dro Rul foremost among them, modeled robes so plain they resembled little more than sacks cinched at the waist and secured with lengths of utility cord. A self-righteous crowd who loved to pontificate about concepts like freedom and considered themselves to be morally superior.

Still, regardless of political affiliation, none of the prelates were especially cheerful, although some, Rul being an excellent example, were more dour than all the rest. Why? Because he took everything too seriously, because rather than accommodate the Saurons, as common sense dictated that he should, Rul was determined to fight them, a surefire recipe for disaster. Especially since he and the rest of his reckless ilk had already agreed to align themselves with the human resistance movement. If the poorly coordinated ragtag bunch could be characterized as a “movement.”

Yes, Tog thought to himself, no wonder my stomach feels upset! Fools surround and beset me from every side. Tog’s musings were interrupted when a heavily armed Kan entered the room and stomped a big flat foot. The signal, which was the nonverbal equivalent of “Hey, stupid, pay attention!” reduced the compartment to shocked silence.

Though slaves, the Ra ‘Na were privileged slaves, and the Dromas were most privileged of all. Too privileged, according to Dro Rul… who sensed something different in the air. Something ominous. When the Kan spoke the prelate paid close attention. Rather than the polite but slightly condescending manner in which the Saurons normally spoke to individuals of his rank, a more coarse form of address was being used. Was the Kan’s tone intentional? Or was this particular individual simply out of sorts? The answer would soon be apparent. “So,” the warrior began, his voice hard and flat, “we have arrived. Inferior beings will rise, move to the forward hatch, and make their way ashore.”

Though the shuttle was not equipped with view ports, a large vid screen occupied most of the forward bulkhead. A single glance was sufficient to confirm that a significant stretch of water lay between the ship and the much-abused beach. No one moved.

There was silence for a moment followed by the sound of a rather hesitant voice. It belonged to Dro Por, one of Tog’s sycophants, a prelate best known for his ability to recite honas rather than interpret them. “Excuse me, lord, but given the fact that the ship remains offshore, and I see no sign of the smaller craft required to ferry us to land, how should we proceed?”

It quickly became apparent that the Kan had not only been waiting for some such comment—he had been counting on it. In spite of the hard inelastic nature of his mouth parts, the alien managed what amounted to an evil smile. The warrior smiled evilly. Por appeared to wilt under the weight of the Sauron’s stare. “In addition to the technological expertise of which you and your kind are so endlessly proud, it’s the great Hak-Bin’s understanding that the Ra ‘Na people love to frolic in the water, a pleasure long denied your inferior race during the journey through space. That being the case, you will no doubt enjoy the opportunity to swim ashore.”

There was no doubt about the fact that the Ra ‘Na like to swim, more than that were designed to swim, as attested to by the webbing located between their fingers, not to mention the fact that their spacecraft were designed to lift off from and land on water. Something the land-loving Saurons continued to resent but lacked the technical expertise to change. No, Rul, along with every other Ra ‘Na in the compartment, knew that the order had nothing to do with their preferences and everything to do with Sauron domination.

By forcing the Dromas to swim, an activity most were no longer adept at, the master race was not only asserting its power but sending a message as well: The church hierarchy serves at our pleasure, the church hierarchy has privileges, and the church hierarchy could lose those privileges. Stay in line, and keep the Ra ‘Na people in line, or suffer the consequences.

All of those thoughts, those realities, were running through Rul’s mind as he stood, released the fastener on his unadorned robe, and allowed it to fall. Now, with the exception of a loincloth, and his soft brown fur, the prelate was naked. His voice rang loud and clear. “We accept the invitation… The last one ashore hosts the rest to dinner!”

Some individuals, such as Tog, looked aghast. But the majority of his peers understood what Rul was up to and moved to support him. They stood, dropped their robes, and formed a furry line. The Kan watched in amazement as the Ra ‘Na pushed, shoved, and crowded their way into the lock. Appalling though it seemed, the slaves were actually enjoying themselves! The lesson went untaught. Would he be punished? Yes, quite possibly… And that in spite of the fact that he had done little more than follow orders.

Tog, one of the last to emerge from the ship’s lock, was more than a little self-conscious about his large potbelly, and eyed the open water ahead. Unlike some of his peers, who were known to fritter away hours on self-indulgent exercise programs, it was his habit to put work first, remaining at his desk while other less responsible Dros frolicked in the gym. Individuals like Dro Rul, whose sleek, water-slicked head was already halfway to shore, closely followed by a coterie of less skilled but enthusiastic lackeys.

Tog eyed the glassy-looking water at his feet. Would he make it? Or ignominiously drown while thrashing about? With the rest of Ra ‘Na in the water, and only one chubby specimen left to go, the Kan gave Tog a push.

The prelate made a satisfying splash, remembered how to swim, and kicked for shore. The water was cold, the rest of the Dromas would reach shore long before he did, and demand a feast. If life could get worse, Tog couldn’t see how.

That’s when a wave slapped him across the face, salt water flooded his open mouth, and a leg muscle began to cramp.

• • •

Most of the gaunt humans who trudged up the winding road had little if any knowledge regarding the true purpose of the structure they were being forced to build, the activities of the resistance movement, or the relationship between the Ra ‘Na and their masters. All they knew was how hungry their stomachs felt, how sore their feet were, and the highly corrosive manner in which the unending fear ate away at what remained of their humanity. For them the climb up the hill was one more act in a largely meaningless series of acts which they lacked the means to put into perspective.

Consistent with standard practice, as well as a personal commitment to keep Franklin alive, Manning requested that the chief executive officer use his Sauron-authorized helicopter or one of the big black SUVs to reach the top of the hill.

But, typical of what often seemed like the president’s contrary nature, Franklin refused. A decision that verged on suicidal since to travel on foot would make the chief executive officer vulnerable to racialist snipers, freelance assassins, and a mob of people who hated collaborators, and might very well turn on the CEO. And not only him, but those assigned to protect him as well.

And, making a nearly impossible situation worse, was the fact that the security team had been ordered to leave any weapon that couldn’t be concealed beneath their clothing behind, a presidential imperative that would make the bodyguards seem less threatening, but limited them to handguns, sawed-off pump guns, and a pair of submachine guns.

That being the case Manning, Kell, Amocar, Wimba, Mol, Orvin, and Asad had every reason to be concerned as they left the relative security of the presidential compound and eased their way into the crowd.

In an effort to make up for the lack of heavy weapons, the security chief had no fewer than four .9mm handguns hidden under his long duster-style raincoat, two in shoulder holsters, and two stuck down into his waistband. His right hand hovered near one of the weapons as the people closed in from all sides.

The trick was to create a protective bubble around the Big Dog, a layer of protective flesh that would absorb the incoming rounds and provide those who survived with time to throw the president down.

Once the chief executive was on the ground, there was very little the surviving members of the team could do except throw the ballistic blanket over him and return fire.

Then, depending on what mood the Kan were in, maybe they would help, although there was increasing evidence to suggest that Hak-Bin didn’t trust his human pet anymore, and might fail to intervene.

The bubble held as the sour-smelling bodies closed in around the presidential party. Eyes stared from dark sockets, long, uncut hair hung down over bony shoulders, and foul breath fogged the air.

Franklin’s face was fairly recognizable both because of his former position as governor of Washington State and because the Saurons had gone to considerable lengths to make it known via the heat-activated “talkies” they rained down from above. That being the case, people stared, muttered threats, and applied pressure on the bubble.

Manning was just about to pull his weapon and attempt to force them back, when Franklin did something so right, so natural, that the effect was almost magical.

There weren’t very many children on Hell Hill, or elderly people for that matter, most being considered too weak for heavy construction work. But thanks to a moment of laxity, or just plain luck, some parents had managed to bring a child with them, and in spite of the fact that many had been killed by the recent cholera epidemic, a few survived.

One such, a scrawny little girl with a mop of blond hair had been forced to run in order to stay abreast of her mother, who—like many slaves—preferred to carry most of her meager belongings from place to place rather than risk leaving them behind. Bending at the waist, the politician scooped the child up, smiled reassuringly at the little girl’s mother, and walked at her side.

Seeing the move, and the way that the youngster had started to play with Franklin’s red ear tag, the crowd fell back.

It was one of those wonderful-horrible moments when Franklin demonstrated the full extent to which he could manipulate people and by doing so caused Manning to both respect and fear him. After all, what if he had been manipulated as well?

A whip cracked, the crowd surged forward, and carried the security chief along with it.

• • •

Drawn from every part of Hell Hill, and literally whipped into motion, the humans snaked their way upward in trickles, rivulets, and streams, surging at times, until friction slowed them down. Like drops of water in a slow-motion flood, Dr. Sool and her nurse were pulled along.

Crazy though it was, the doctor felt much the same way that a younger version of herself had felt during recess back in grade school. Freed from the demands of the classroom, or in this case the clinic, she experienced a certain lightness of being, a guilt-free joy, that flowed from what amounted to an enforced break in the seemingly endless rounds of work. That’s why the medic experienced a sense of disappointment when she heard something squeal, and the crowd jerked to a halt.

Then, like ice exposed to heat, the people standing in front of Sool seemed to melt away. That’s when the view opened, and she saw the Kan. The alien shimmered as his highly specialized chitin sought to blend with the background. Judging from the manner in which the warrior lay there, using both graspers to clutch his right leg, it appeared as if the Sauron had crashed on landing. A rather unusual occurrence. The squealing sounds became more urgent.

What the doctor did next came naturally, to her at least, although she would come to question her actions later on. Sool crossed the intervening space, knelt at the Kan’s side, and noticed that the Sauron was bleeding. The blood was a watery green color, as if possessed of less hemoglobin, but still recognizable for what it was. The human tried to sound authoritative. “Remove your pincers so I can examine your leg.”

The alien’s eyes were like river-smoothed black stones. “No. Slaves, especially white slaves, must never touch one such as myself.”

Sool could have told him that according to definitions used by some members of her race she was black, regardless of what her skin looked like, but knew it would be a waste of time. “A section of chitin fractured when you landed. You are bleeding. I’m willing to help.”

“No,” the Sauron replied stubbornly. “My brethren will come to my assistance.”

Sool looked around. A crowd was starting to form. Some of the humans looked angry. A man shouted, “Kill the bastard!” and others murmured their agreement.

The doctor looked back to her patient. “None of your brethren are available at the moment. You can accept my help or bleed to death. The choice is yours.”

The Kan attempted to sit, started to say something, and fainted. Sool motioned to her nurse. “Dixie, check the pouch on the left side of his harness. It might contain a first-aid kit.” The nurse did as instructed, discovered that it was a first-aid kit, and removed the contents.

Now that Sool had unrestricted access to the wound she could see that her original diagnosis was correct. The warrior’s chitin had shattered—but not from the impact alone. No, based on a very superficial assessment it appeared as if the thin hairline cracks, or sutures, that normally divided one section of brown chitin from the next had been forced open from within. Not only that, but what should have been hard unyielding exoskeleton felt soft and nearly pliable. All of which was consistent with what Boyer Blue and his people had described as early manifestations of “the change.” They estimated only a tiny percentage of the Saurons would die and give birth early but here it seemed was one of them.

Unknown to the Kan and those around him, a nymph had started to take shape within the warrior’s abdomen and had already started to grow. Within a week, two at the most, signs of the transformation would become so obvious that the warrior would be whisked away and quietly put to death. The only thing the ruling class could do if they wanted to keep the upcoming birth-death day secret from the lower castes who they feared might panic.

“Here,” Dixie said, handing Sool a wad of what looked like green steel wool. “Stuff that in the wound. It’s a coagulant of some sort.”

Sool eyed her assistant, who responded with a shrug. “Hey, I saw one of their medics take care of a cut. That’s what he did.”

Sool pushed the coagulant-soaked wad into the wound, noticed that the color started to change, and saw the bleeding stop.

“Spray this stuff on top,” Dixie instructed, handing Sool a small metal cylinder. “The goo will harden, apply pressure to the coagulant pack, and seal the hole.”

The doctor grinned, followed the nurse’s instructions, and noticed the sealant was brown. Did the first-aid kits supplied to the Zin come with black sealant? And were the Fon kits equipped with white sealant? Yes, she suspected that they did. A rather sad commentary reminiscent of segregation in the American South.

That’s when a rock hit the Kan’s head, another struck Dixie’s back, and more clattered all around.

With a vehemence that surprised even her, the doctor shouted “No!” tugged the alien’s t-gun free from the belt clip, and pointed it toward the crowd. That’s when she felt for a trigger and realized there was none. The medic was still examining the weapon, still trying to understand how it worked, when two of the rock throwers were hurled from their feet.

The high-velocity darts, which had been fired from the top of a nearby observation tower, expanded on impact and blew chunks of meat out through their spines. The rest of the crowd scattered as a party of whip-wielding Fon arrived on the scene. The rescue party paused, watched silently as Sool laid the t-gun down at its owner’s side, then shuffled forward.

Having been alerted by the observers high atop the minaret-like tower, the Fon came equipped with the Sauron equivalent of a stretcher. It consisted of two alloy poles connected by a network of adjustable straps. It took two of the functionaries less than three minutes to lay the device next to the injured Kan, lift him into place, and detail four humans to carry the warrior away.

That was when an overseer with a blood-encrusted whip approached Sool, ordered the medic to turn her head, and did something to her right ear. The doctor felt a tug, knew it had something to do with her ear tag, and heard a click.

Task completed, the Sauron shuffled away.

It was only after the functionary was gone that Dixie, her face a study in conflict, delivered the news. “I don’t know how to tell you this… but he turned you into a red… No more double shifts for you!”

Sool took that in. For months she had been working nights for the Saurons, digging ditches for the most part, prior to grabbing a few hours’ sleep, and opening the clinic. Now, thanks to the work exemption that went with the red ear tag, the medic could focus all her attention on patients. Would they assume she was a collaborator? Yes, most likely, but there wasn’t a damned thing the doctor could do about it. The crowd surged forward and swept both women away.

• • •

At the top of the hill, near the plaza where a black canopy had been erected, those who had been crucified waited to die. The worst of the pain had passed by then… leaving Mal-Dak’s extremities almost entirely numb. Though not much given to introspection, the process of being executed caused the Fon to look back on his life and wish that he could remember more of it.

All of which begged an important question: Why had the Zin been gifted with the capacity to recall everything that transpired while the Kan and Fon could look back no farther than two local years? Was that unfair? Or simply proof of what the ruling caste had long claimed: Beings having lighter chitin were inferior. No answer came to him.

Perhaps the Sauron’s newfound interest in the whys and wherefores of life stemmed from the blood that rushed to his head or the sudden upside-down perspective which the cross provided. Whatever the reason, the Fon found himself making eye contact with an equally inverted human who hung not ten paces away. The slave was younger rather than older, had fur growing on his face, and piercing blue eyes. “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 fuelsoaked 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.

• • •

Dro Tog, who had been rescued by two of his peers and towed ashore like so much flotsam, stumbled up out of the shallows, shook himself in a manner that sent hundreds of water droplets flying in all directions, and sought to recapture at least some of his dignity. A task made somewhat easier by sycophants like Dro Por, who hurried to offer their sympathies.

Then, having been chivvied into a column of twos, the clergy were ordered to march up the road. Dro Rul, who led the procession, looked ahead. Hundreds of Ra ‘Na lined the sides of the road, where they could witness the manner in which he and the rest of the prelates had been humbled. A lesson the wily Hak-Bin hoped the technicals would share with their peers.

The prelate frowned, shot looks at his lieutenants, and started to sing. The hona, which had been written on their home world of Balwur, affirmed that no matter how hard the winds might blow, and no matter how high the waves might climb, all storms must eventually end, leaving tranquillity in their wake. First joined by those most loyal to him, and then by the rest, Rul walked with his head up, his chest out, and an expression of defiance on his face as the chant went out.

The crowd saw the loincloth-clad Dromas, the way that their ears were laid back, and knew something was amiss. Then, hearing the hona from which they had taken hope for so long, they were quick to join in.

Rul, who heard their voices, felt his heart swell with pride. Though poorly led at times, and susceptible to weakness, the Ra ‘Na people were essentially unbroken.

The knowledge of that, the certainty of it, carried him forward.

• • •

In spite of the fact that the Zin privately referred to it as “the citadel,” as if it was a single structure, the alien fortress actually consisted of three interlocking towers, a sort of three-leaf-clover configuration with each cylindrical structure being linked to all the rest via enclosed passageways and tunnels.

Now, as the tide of humanity carried Franklin and his security team to the top of the hill, the president was impressed by the vast size of it. Good or bad, right or wrong, here was an accomplishment on a par with the wonders of the ancient world. Especially when one considered the scant seventy-plus twenty-four-hour days in which the complex had been built.

Sheer windowless walls rose more than two hundred feet to crenellated towers, each topped with clusters of vents, ducts, and alien antennas.

And it was there, beneath long wind-whipped pennants, that specially trained Fon blew into their snout bags, forcing air through gigantic ground-resting horns to produce the deep foghornlike groans that announced the Great One’s arrival.

Around the cluster of towers, and laid out with admirable precision, were concentric rings of crosses. Some were empty, the meat wagon having taken the dead away earlier that morning, but most remained occupied.

A horrible sight, which should have shocked the human, and would have, had it not been for the fact that Franklin, like most of the people around him, had grown used to such displays. One thing was surprising, however—and that was the unprecedented number of Saurons who had been crucified alongside the slaves. The politician noticed that all of them were Fon and thought he knew why.

The sudden emergence of the Fon Brotherhood, not to mention the attack on the Kan checkpoint only days before, had shaken Hak-Bin to his very core. So much so that the Sauron leader was willing to sacrifice some functionaries in the name of social discipline. An example not lost on the Kan or Zin either, for that matter. What with the clock ticking, and his entire race about to be reborn, the means would justify the end.

A situation the human could easily understand since most of his race, those not actually murdered during the attacks, would be slaughtered the moment the fortress was complete. That was the plan at any rate—but one he and the rest of the resistance movement planned to counter. If they lived long enough to do so. Whips cracked as the crowd slowed, was forced to disperse, and ordered to face uphill.

A tightly arched black awning had been established at the foot of the north tower, and, judging from the Zin assembled there, was the point from which Hak-Bin would address the multitude. Rows of crosses served as decorations, speakers had been mounted on poles, and rows of sling chairs stood ready to accommodate Zin dignitaries. A Kan waded through the crowd, pointed toward Franklin, and motioned upward. Never one to miss an opportunity, it seemed that Hak-Bin wanted his “ruka” or pet, up where the rest of the slaves could see and hate him.

Franklin lifted the girl off his shoulders and placed her on the ground. She ran to her mother, who nodded and smiled. At least one convert had been made.

Then, protected by Manning and his security team, the president wound his way up to where a group of Fon functionaries stood. A murmur ran through the crowd behind him, and someone hissed. Franklin, who half expected an attack of some sort, made it to the flat area and turned to face the crowd. He could feel the full weight of their animosity. The sun chose that particular moment to duck behind a cloud. A shadow fell on the hilltop, and Franklin shivered.

• • •

Wave after wave of slaves arrived, were ordered to wait, and had little choice but to obey. There were no sanitary facilities, no arrangements for water, and those who sat, or tried to, were whipped onto their feet.

Sool, with Dixie at her side, was deposited directly in front of the awning where whatever was about to occur would most likely happen. A privilege she could have done without. There was one advantage, however, since the vantage point provided Sool with an unobstructed view of Jack Manning, who, completely unaware of her presence, scanned the crowd. The fact that the medic found the security officer interesting, even sexy, never ceased to amaze her. Logically, based on all things that made sense, there should be no attraction whatsoever.

First, because his profession, which required Manning to shoot people from time to time, was completely at odds with her profession.

Then there was the matter of his inner life, a mindscape which she assumed to be less intellectual than hers, although she knew him to be well educated. Manning had a master’s degree in geology no less… which might show a scientific bent.

Why the attraction then? If it shouldn’t exist? Memories mostly, like the first time she had seen him, lurching in out of a rainstorm with an injured girl cradled in his arms. Or later, after the racialists abducted her, the manner in which he not only came to her rescue, but held her filth-encrusted hand.

So which was he? Sool wondered. A violence-prone maniac? Or a man capable of great tenderness? And what difference did it make? Since the doctor knew the security chief had been in love with Franklin’s wife and crushed by her violent death.

Manning, his eyes hidden by the dark glasses that he and the rest of his team wore, looked in her direction. Something, Sool wasn’t sure what, jumped the gap.

Damn, the medic thought to herself, I’m an idiot.

Manning smiled, and the sun came out.

• • •