EarthRise (21 page)

The commotion was a distraction, and Jones managed to push it aside. “What about guests? The motion detectors go off, three blobs of heat approach one of the entryways, and only one of them falls within acceptable parameters. What then?”

Blackley started to turn, started to look back at the Kan. Jones grabbed his arm. “Keep your eyes over here . . . Now answer my question.”

Blackley could see where the questions were headed and felt a lump form in the back of his throat. He thought he knew the answer, believed he was right, but there was no way to be sure. A system designed by humans would require each and every individual who entered the facility to provide some sort of positive ID, ranging from a simple PIN code to more exotic possibilities, like retinal prints, or a DNA match.

But the Saurons were different. It didn’t take a degree in xenopsychology to see how arrogant they were—especially where issues of control were concerned. Would the master beings allow the Ra ‘Na to design a system that would force them to symbolically submit? Or would they refuse? Blackley swallowed the lump.

“There’s no way to be sure of course . . . but it’s my guess that the system was programmed to assume that the Saurons are
always
in control, which means that a guest, a slave, or a chimp would be allowed to enter the temple so long as it was accompanied by a Zin, Kan, or Fon.”

“Bingo!” Jones said. “That’s my guess as well. Shall we bet our lives on it?”

“Okay,” Blackley said reluctantly, “but how . . .”

“We position ourselves in front of an entrance,” Jones interrupted, “call one of the Kan over, and kill him. Then, before his body can cool, we drag the bastard through the door.”

“
Kill
a Kan?” Blackley demanded incredulously. “Right in front of the bugs? Have you lost your mind?”

“Maybe,” Jones allowed, as she looked at her watch. “We have forty-six minutes left. Have you got a better idea? One we can execute in that amount of time?”

Blackley
didn’t
have a better idea, and now, with so much time off the clock, wasn’t likely to come up with one. Would the Saurons simply stand and watch while a member of their race was murdered? All in the interest of a security check? No, it didn’t seem likely, but he could take one of the bastards with him, and there was something to be said for that. “Okay,” Blackley said nervously, “I’m in.”

“Good,” Jones answered firmly. “I’ll call him over. You immobilize his arms—and I’ll kill him.”

Blackley glanced at the nearest Kan and back again. “Let me get this straight . . .
You’re
going to kill him?”

“That’s right,” Jones confirmed grimly, “assuming you shut the hell up so we can get on with it. Follow me.”

With her somewhat reluctant accomplice in tow, Jones made her way across the causeway that crossed a still-dry moat. The entranceway, surmounted by alien glyphs not to mention two sensor-controlled weapons pods, lay just beyond. Opposing rows of overarching lights brought the area into sharp relief. How close could she get before the dart throwers fired? There was no way to be sure, so Jones stopped halfway across the bridge, turned, and waved to the nearest Kan. “Hey, bug face! Get your ass over here!”

The warrior seemed to consider the request for a moment, leaped into the air, and was already falling when Jones yelled at Blackley. “Grab the bastard’s arms!”

The warrior, an individual named Wen-Opp, heard the words via the translator clipped to his combat harness, but hit the ground before he could react to them.

Water splashed away from the bug’s podlike extremities as Blackley threw himself forward. The Sauron staggered under the impact, wasted a fraction of a second wondering if the slave was suicidal, and tried to free the assault weapon clutched across his thorax.

Blackley, his once-flabby arms strengthened by months of forced labor, started to squeeze. The bug hug turned out to be surprisingly effective. So much so that the human heard the Kan’s chitin creak and wondered if he could make it break. That seemed like a good idea so he squeezed even harder.

Jones circled to the left, attempted to pull the knife free of her pocket, and discovered it was caught. She should have pulled it first, should have held the weapon blade out against her leg before yelling at the Kan, but that was water under the bridge. Now, as Blackley clasped the alien to this chest, and the Sauron struggled to free himself, the anthropologist managed to release the knife and open the blade.

Other warriors, alerted by the commotion, not to mention Wen-Opp’s cries for help, were quick to respond. Two were in midjump, and more than halfway to the causeway, when the stonemaster spoke via their radios. “Stop! Not a single grasper shall touch the slaves. Can the temple defend itself? That’s what we’re here to test.”

A noncom, the one to whom Wen-Opp had reported for the last twenty-five years, objected, but to no avail. Dun-Dar was determined to avoid the kind of mistakes made to the north. Better to lose a single Kan than an entire structure packed with vulnerable nymphs.

In spite of the fact that Jones didn’t know much if anything about entomology, it didn’t take a genius to realize that while the Saurons were equipped with what amounted to armor, there were seams where various plates came together, each one of which represented a point of vulnerability. The problem was to choose the right one, drive the blade into a constantly moving target, and cut something vital.

Wen-Opp felt a new source of strength as naturally produced chemicals entered his blood. He twisted his torso from side to side in an attempt to throw the human off. “Cut him!” Blackley yelled. “The bastard is getting stronger! I can’t hold him for much longer.”

Jones gritted her teeth, stepped in close, and managed to drive the stainless-steel blade into the spot where Wen-Opp’s short leathery neck disappeared into his heavily armored thorax. Then, hoping to cut a major blood vessel, nerve bundle, or other structure, she sawed back and forth.

The Kan squealed like a pig, squirted watery green blood, and tried to free his arms. Blackley managed to hang on, however, the knife cut through something important, and the bug went limp. That was the moment Jones had been waiting for, and she wasted no time. “That’s it! We killed the sonofabitch! Drag him to the door!”

Blackley obeyed, and with the woman’s help, towed the dead warrior across the causeway. Green goo smeared the walkway.

Dun-Dar and his retinue had moved in close by then and watched from the other side of the bridge. The Zin, his umbrella protecting him from the worst of the rain, stood like a judge at an old-fashioned hanging. Additional warriors, summoned by the commotion, shimmered as their chitin sought to match the gray-green jungle beyond.

Jones walked backward, her hands under Wen-Opp’s armpits, while Blackley gripped the alien behind his knees. “They’re watching,” the anthropologist said through gritted teeth, “to see if our plan will work.”

“And if it does?” Blackley grunted, lifting the carcass higher to clear a short flight of stairs, “what then?”

“Then we run like hell,” Jones replied honestly, “now hoist him higher . . . We’re almost there.”

And the slaves were almost there, a fact not lost on the stonemaster and his entourage, all of whom watched glumly as the humans towed Wen-Opp’s body into the kill zone without triggering the structure’s defenses.

And they were still watching as the servo-assisted hatch, the same kind used aboard the Ra ‘Na-designed ships, whirred up and out of the way. Dun-Dar has risked not only
his
life, but that of his nymph, and all nymphs to come by installing a modern door in place of the woody anachronisms specified in the Book of Cycles. Something of which his subordinates had no knowledge given the fact that they couldn’t read but would be apparent to someone like Hak-Bin.

But Hak-Bin had started to change, or so the rumors claimed, and was in no position to preach orthodoxy to subordinates like Dun-Dar. Not if he wanted to continue his questionable existence. Not if the metal hatch helped keep danger at bay. Except that it
hadn’t
kept danger at bay, not in combination with a flawed security system, which meant there was work to do.

The slaves passed through the entryway, there was a dull thud as the door dropped into place, and the Zin gave his order. “Discipline must be maintained. Enter the temple, find the humans, and kill them.”

SOUTHWEST OF HELL HILL

Ms. Vosser was waiting for Pas Pol when he approached the sawmill’s door. It was chilly, and she wanted to get back inside. “Are you Pas Pol? Excellent. Follow me.”

The Ra ‘Na followed the towering human into the light lock and from there out into a large room. His nose twitched as strong odors assailed his nostrils, but there was no time for analysis as Vosser took hold of the initiate’s arm and pulled him back into some shadows. Her whisper had the force of an order. “Wait here.”

Pol nodded and was glad of the opportunity to look around. It was a strange scene indeed. Over to his right a Fon stood dejectedly while a human sprayed sealer onto his brightly decorated chitin.

At the center of the room, the area just in front of him, a makeshift table had been established. Pol saw Dro Rul, was proud to see one of his own seated along with the resistance leaders, and felt a sudden surge of hope. Maybe, just maybe, there was a chance of success.

In the meantime Jared Kenyata, who had been chosen to rush the Ra ‘Na cleric to the meeting, bent to whisper in Blue’s ear. The historian nodded, whispered something in return, and turned back to the meeting. Sister Andromeda was in the process of wrapping up a long, mostly self-serving string of lies, and he couldn’t wait for her to finish. Here, at
this
meeting, history could be made. But only if the right information was made available at the right time . . . something that shouldn’t be left to chance.

Franklin was going to wind up as the coalition’s leader, there wasn’t much doubt about that, especially given the fact that Rul, Smith, and he had already committed themselves to the politician’s candidacy. Now, assuming that just one of the others did likewise, the question of leadership would be settled. So, looking ahead, what Franklin needed was a rallying point, something upon which everyone could agree, and Blue had it, or thought he did. The introduction of Med Tech Shu and the birth catalyst had set the table . . . now to serve the meal.

“And so,” Sister Andromeda said with what she hoped was the right amount of dramatic flair, “I wish to nominate Alexander Franklin to be the leader of our coalition!”

There was polite applause as Blue, Smith, and Dro Rul indicated their approval, and Storm joined in.

“I second Sister Andromeda’s nomination,” Blue said, “and move that we solicit other nominations.”

At that point the only other individual likely to make an alternative nomination was Doo-Nol, who, having been humiliated at the hands of slaves, no longer took the process seriously. So, with no other nominations to consider, Blue called for a voice vote and got one. “All those in favor of Alexander Franklin as president pro tem, subject to the laws of the United States of America and to the will of the people as made known through the will of their duly elected representatives, please say ‘aye.’ ”

Dro Rul could have made an objection, could have pointed out that he and his people weren’t citizens of the United States of America, but chose not to. There was a ragged chorus of “ayes,” followed by light applause.

Franklin, for whom power had long been something akin to a social aphrodisiac, waited for the rush. It never came. Not after so many deaths, not against such incredible odds, not without Jina at his side.

Blue watched the politician’s face, understood what he saw there, and felt a sense of rightness. Franklin had grown a great deal over the last few months. Who knew? Maybe the bastard could pull it off. The historian waited for the applause to fade and was quick to seize the moment. A leader had been chosen now for the focus. “If I could have your attention for a moment . . . Some of you know Pas Pol, the first being to discover the truth about the Sauron reproductive cycle and presently working with what Jared Kenyata refers to as the ‘skunk works.’ An intelligence organization dedicated to intercepting, translating, and analyzing Sauron communications. It seems there has been a rather interesting development, one which has relevance to earlier discussions and might suggest an area of focus. Fra Pol?”

Though not especially thrilled about the manner in which he had been rousted out of a warm bed, plopped onto the back of something Kenyata referred to as a dirt bike, and subjected to a fur-raising ride through the backwoods, only to be unceremoniously dumped next to a primitive road and forced to march through a swamp, the Ra ‘Na understood the importance of the part he was about to play.

What he didn’t understand, but was about to learn, was that Med Tech Shu was not only present, but standing in a shadow not fifty feet away. The diminutive Ra ‘Na stepped out into a pool of light, heard someone gasp, and staggered as Shu charged out of the darkness. She threw her arms around the cleric, knocked him off his feet, and fell on top of him.

There was a moment of confusion as Manning stepped in to help both individuals to their feet. Shu, thoroughly embarrassed by the scene she had caused, backed away, while Pol was lifted up onto the plywood table. Dro Rul cocked one ear forward in a sign of bemusement. “I’m sure we’re all glad to see Fra Pol—but suggest that we defer further demonstrations of affection until
after
his presentation.”

Confused and embarrassed, Pol stood frozen at the center of the table. Rul attempted to ease the way. “So, Fra Pol, tell us about your efforts to intercept Sauron communications.”

Pol’s robe had worked its way upward during the fracas, and he pulled it down. “Yes, eminence . . . Working with others, such as friend Jared, I sought to intercept messages that would help the resistance counter the Saurons.

“There have been numerous successes, but one of the most notable took place not sixteen hours ago. Thanks to a series of intercepted transmissions, we learned that a site near a place called Anacortes has been selected for some sort of new installation.