EarthRise (23 page)

Based on previous observations, the social scientist knew that there were no elevators or stairs within the building, just jump platforms that protruded from the interior walls and provided the Saurons with a place to pause prior to the next leap.

The single exception was a spiral ramp located within each tower and presumably placed there so that any Sauron who was unable to jump could shuffle his way to whichever level he chose.

There were many floors, all pretty much alike, except for the fact that the cubicles on the topmost level were slightly larger than the rest. Why? Only the chits knew for sure. But all of that was subsumed as the door opened, a contingent of Kan burst through the opening, and Jones ran for her life.

Dart guns banged, Blackley heard a projectile whir past his head, and realized his body would shield the woman ahead. Was the screening effect intentional? Had Jones
planned
it that way? The academic was more intelligent than he was, the ex-businessman knew that, so anything was possible. Of course he’d been smart enough to align himself with a winner—so he deserved some credit as well.

Jones listened for the sound of an involuntary grunt, the sudden exhalation of air that would signal Blackley’s death, didn’t hear anything, and was somewhat surprised when she rounded a corner, entered the cul-de-sac, and discovered that her companion was still alive.

“What now?” Blackley panted, looking all around. “Those bastards are two, maybe three jumps away. Where’s the exit?”

“Right
there
,” Jones replied, pointing to a partially assembled jumble of plumbing.

Blackley followed her finger, saw that one of the pipes stuck straight up out of the floor and was larger than all the rest. A single glance was sufficient to confirm what some part of him already knew. There was no way that he would fit.

Jones was small,
very
small, which was one of the things that he liked about her. Small women were more feminine somehow, or so it seemed to Blackley, and that turned him on. So, while the mouth of the pipe was sufficiently large to accept her tiny frame, it was too small for him, something she must have known from the beginning. He looked from the opening back to her. “You rotten bitch.”

There was a double slap as two Kan feet landed nearby. Jones nodded as if in agreement, stepped up onto the pipe, and straddled the hole. She looked him in the eye as she crossed her arms. “Sorry, Kevin, but life sucks.”

Then, bringing her heels together, the anthropologist was gone.

Blackley discovered that he still had time to turn, still had time to raise his hands in a futile attempt to ward off the darts, and still had time to object. “No! It isn’t fair!”

And it
wasn’t
fair, but the Kan fired the t-gun anyway, and something hit Blackley’s chest. The human felt his back smack into the wall, wondered where the bright light was coming from, and was suddenly gone.

The Kan, one of Wen-Opp’s longtime messmates, took a long slow look around. One slave was dead—where was the other? More warriors arrived, and a noncom stared into the tube. It was pitch-black inside and too small for someone like Blackley. He looked up. “Spread out! Search every level! The soft skin must be found.”

Meanwhile, far below the Sauron’s flat feet, Jones continued to fall. Unfortunately, the inside of the drainage pipe was not entirely smooth. Ridges marked the places where sections of tubing were imperfectly joined, dents pushed their way in, feeder lines poked into the pipe. The flaws ripped the woman’s skin, slammed her back and forth, and threatened permanent injury.

Then, just when Jones became convinced that the torture would never end, it did. The anthropologist fell free of the pipe and had just enough time to recognize the large cavern for what it was before her feet hit the surface of the water. There was an almighty splash followed by the cool wet embrace of the water. The alien lichen, if that’s what it was, had been carried down through the temple’s storm drains and into the river over which the structure had been constructed. Now, having already colonized the rocky walls, the light-emitting material lit the areas below and above the surface of the water with the same greenish glow.

Jones, welcomed the illumination and kicked with her legs. Her head broke the surface, she sucked warm wet air into her lungs, and looked up. The pipe hung like a long accusatory finger pointed straight at her. There were no signs of pursuit, not that she expected there to be, not given the tube’s diameter.

Blackley was dead by then, Jones was sure of that, and felt sorry for him. Sorry, but less than contrite. The truth was that the horny bastard would have died anyway, if not because of her, then for some other woman. That’s what Jones told herself at any rate—and heard no objections.

Now, safe for the moment at least, the academic allowed the relatively gentle current to carry her downriver. She saw the point where the water flowed out under the temple’s foundation and kicked to center herself on the opening.

Rainwater, some of which had been channeled by the partially completed drainage system, and some of which had found its own way down through natural cracks and crevices, dripped, poured, and gushed from above. It made a splattering noise, thumped the top of her head, and churned the water’s surface as Jones passed below.

Then, as she pushed out into the rain, Jones experienced a sudden sense of joy. There was no way to know what lay ahead, but here, now, she was free.

Lightning strobed the horizon, thunder rolled across the land, and the river flowed toward the sea.

4

DEATH DAY MINUS 54

MONDAY, JUNE 8, 2020

Is life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? Forbid it Almighty God!—I know not what course others may take, but as for me, give me liberty, or give me death!

—PATRICK HENRY
Speech to the Virginia Convention
, March 23, 1775

HELL HILL

Sex was important to José Amocar,
very
important, which was why he spent so much time preparing for it. First came the period of anticipation, at least three or four days, during which he would intentionally think about sex and abstain. No easy task for someone who liked to masturbate at least once a day—and often took advantage of the cheap blow jobs available in Hell Hill’s many alleyways.

Having maximized his desire Amocar would visit one of the hill’s many brothels. His favorite, an establishment called the G-Spot, catered to heterosexuals. The person who ran the place, a woman named Flo, knew what Amocar liked: No conversation, no foreplay, and no deviation from his script.

Various women had served the agent—and all reported the same thing. They would be positioned on hands and knees facing the head of the bed. Amocar would enter the cubicle, approach the prostitute from behind, and drop his trousers. Then, already aroused, he would enter them. Vaginally in some cases—but anally in most.

Occasionally Amocar would lean forward to fondle the woman’s breasts, but more often than not the agent was content to knead their buttocks and grunt obscenities.

Most of the prostitutes were happy to follow instructions, but a few simply forgot or sought to pleasure themselves. Deviations of that sort were always met with anger, a slap on the ass, and an admonition to “knock it off.”

Flo had a theory about that, about Amocar’s need for control, but knew it didn’t matter. Not so long as the creep behaved himself and paid his bill.

So that’s where Amocar was, just emerging from a session at the G-Spot, when a clutch of five heavily armed Kan dropped off a neighboring roof. The agent saw them, tried to get out of the way, but was quickly hemmed in. The noncom in charge, an individual named Dor-Oll, spoke via translator. “Lord Hak-Bin will speak with you now . . . Come with us.”

There were people all around. Some stared openly while others pretended not to see. Would word of the encounter get back to HQ? Yes, of course it would. Amocar pitched his voice low. “Hit me. Do it now.”

By the standards of his kind Dor-Oll looked surprised. “Strike you? Whatever for?”

“So the other slaves will believe that you forced me to come,” Amocar growled. “Now hit me.”

Dor-Oll couldn’t grin, not really, yet Amocar would have sworn that the Sauron’s lips curved upward at the corners. The back-graspered blow came with unexpected speed. The clublike extremity slammed into the side of the security agent’s head and sent him reeling. Amocar stumbled, nearly fell, and barely managed to maintain his footing. He brought a hand up to the side of his face. It came away red with blood. He thought about the .9mm stuck in the waistband of his pants but knew better than to reach for it.
“You bastard.”

There was no way to know exactly how the words were translated, but there was no mistaking the warrior’s reaction. The second blow struck the opposite side of Amocar’s face, knocked him off his feet, and dumped him to the ground.

Now, as the security agent picked himself up, there was little doubt as to what Manning would hear. The bugs stopped Amocar, shoved him around, and took him into custody. One entire side of his face was swollen, and he had a black eye. That being the case, and with no desire to suffer further, the agent allowed his head to hang while they marched him away.

One brave soul yelled, “God bless you!” but other than that Amocar’s journey from the brothel to the nearest observation tower went unremarked.

There was one bystander who watched the byplay with little or no sympathy whatsoever. A woman who, except for her unusual stature, looked like hundreds even thousands of female slaves. She wore a dirty gray scarf over her head, a much-washed dress, and carried a bundle of firewood. She offered it to everyone who passed, hoping that none of them would accept. Her name was Jill Ji-Hoon, ex-F.B.I. Agent Jill Ji-Hoon, and Amocar was her hobby. Besides the fact that the bastard was a misogynist, he was dirty. Not dirt dirty, which he certainly was, but on the take. All she had to do was prove it. Now, as the pathetic piece of crap urged the Saurons to hit him, Ji-Hoon knew she was onto something. Something good. The Kan led Amocar away and she followed.

One of the Taggers had scored the observation tower during the night, and a slave had been assigned to cover the graffiti. The woman liked the assignment and was determined to make it last. The paintbrush made a slapping sound as it hit the concrete.

The entryway, which was curved to match the tower’s wall, opened as the party approached. The Kan paused long enough to allow a Fon-mounted Ra ‘Na technician to exit and gestured for Amocar to enter. The human felt rather than saw the door close behind him. Meanwhile, unable to follow Amocar inside, Ji-Hoon found a place on the opposite side of the street. Assuming Amocar was dirty, he’d be back.

Amocar had never been inside one of the alien structures before and immediately noticed that the interior light level was lower than he would have preferred. The warriors morphed from tan to gray as they shuffled onto the semicircular platform. A buzzer buzzed, the platform seemed to leap up the shaft, and Amocar felt his knees buckle. It seemed as if the Kan had been waiting for that because they made sounds that might have been equivalent to laughter.

The shaft was little more than a vertiginous blur as the lift carried them upward. The human had barely recovered from the sudden acceleration when the platform coasted to a stop. Amocar knew without being told that he had arrived within the bulbous structure at the top of the tower.

Fear trickled into the pit of the security agent’s stomach as he thought about the impending meeting. Not because he’d done anything wrong, but because Hak-Bin was a crazy bastard, and there was no way to know what the geek might do.

Still, the meeting was at
his
suggestion, and that should count for something. Especially given the fact that he was ready to feed the bug some heavy-duty shit. The warriors escorted the human along one of the spokelike corridors that connected the tower’s core with the outside observation platform.

Amocar’s escort, now reduced to only two warriors, ordered him to make a sharp right hand turn. He did so, stepped through an open door, and found himself in a long triangular room. The Kan stayed out in the hallway.

What looked like a Barcalounger occupied the center of the space. A woman of Asian decent stood next to it. She was attractive in a clean-scrubbed sort of way, and Amocar visualized her naked. Her voice was flat and neutral. “Have you been here before? No? Then do as I say. Sit in the chair. Good . . . Now, wait while I place the hood over your head, and slip your hands into the gauntlets.”

Amocar recognized the setup as some sort of virtual-reality (VR) rig similar to those in many people’s homes. Judging from the cables that snaked back and forth across the floor, the fur balls had found a way to hook the human equipment in with their own. Amocar backed into the chair and sat down. “So, baby, how would you like to sit on my face?”

“About as much as I would like to ram a red-hot poker through my right eye,” the woman replied calmly. “Now shut up or I’ll wire this backward. The feedback would fry your brain.”

Amocar didn’t know if such a thing was possible but didn’t care to find out. Hak-Bin wasn’t planning to meet with him in person, that much was obvious, so the link would be critical. No point in getting his ass in a wringer over a piece of tail.

It took less than a minute for the woman to connect Amocar, check her work, and back out of the room. Amocar lifted the hood, took a quick peek, and discovered he was alone. The agent was about to point out that nothing was happening when darkness rolled over him. The experience was unlike anything the security agent had ever experienced before.