EarthRise (47 page)

Alerted by Kell, Ji-Hoon fired as well, empty casings arcing away to plop into the water below. One of the Kan did a half somersault and smashed his head onto the causeway. A second screamed, managed to land upright, but died with two bullets through his thorax.

Perhaps it was the gunfire, or a previously unknown reservoir of strength, but whatever the reason, Tog discovered he could move again. The prelate looked up, saw the blur of falling bodies, and drew the specially designed weapon. Then, for reasons Tog wouldn’t have been able to articulate, the cleric pushed Rul off the causeway.

The other Ra ‘Na was still falling, still breaking the surface of the water, when the third Kan landed. As luck would have it his big flat feet hit metal almost directly in front of the Grand Vizier’s position. Tog pointed the weapon, squeezed the trigger, and was rewarded with a loud bang. The slug punched a hole through the Sauron’s throat. It was difficult to say who was the more surprised, Tog, or the warrior himself. Blood sprayed front and back. The Kan collapsed.

Astounded by the enormity of what he had done, Tog dropped the gun and turned as the fourth Kan landed on the platform. He tried to explain. “It was an accident! I didn’t meant to shoot but the . . .”

Lim-Tam put a dart through the slave’s head, swung his weapon to the left, and staggered under the impact of three .9mm slugs. The Kan ordered his pincer to squeeze, couldn’t get the message through, and fell backward into the water below. There was a splash as both bodyguards slammed fresh magazines into their respective weapons. “Is that all of them?” Kell asked, scanning the structures above.

“Looks like it,” Ji-Hoon said, nudging a body with her boot. “If there were more, we would have heard from them by now.”

“Probably,” Kell agreed, “but I see no reason to linger. I’ll grab the padre—you scout ahead.”

Ji-Hoon headed for the other end of the causeway as Kell pulled Dro Rul out of the bloodstained water. The prelate shook himself like a dog, and water flew in every direction. “Thank you.”

Kell shrugged. “You’re welcome. Come on, let’s get out of here before the reinforcements arrive.”

“Yes,” Rul agreed, “that makes sense . . . There’s something I must do first, however.” So saying, Dro Rul walked over to the place where Dro Tog had fallen and knelt next to his body. Then, forcing himself to ignore the fear that urged him to run, the prelate recited the same death toth he had so recently administered to hundreds of others.

Finally, coming to his feet, the cleric uttered the only eulogy Tog was likely to receive. “Glutton, liar, and collaborator. Brother Tog was those and more . . . But finally, in spite of his many failings, Tog was a patriot. May his soul find everlasting peace.” Then, still clad in his soaking-wet robes, Rul left the platform. The day was only half-over, and he had work to do.

7

DEATH DAY MINUS 7

SATURDAY, JULY 25, 2020

Freedom suppressed and again regained bites with keener fangs than freedom never endangered.

—MARCUS TULLIUS CICERO
De Officiis
, 44 B.C.

ABOARD THE SAURON SUPPLY SHIP
AK TA BE
,
(WORLD LIFTER)

The birth chamber would have been an exact duplicate of those on the planet below had it not been for the fact that the walls were completely transparent—providing a clear view of the Fon who squatted within. His name was Nis-All, and unlike most early changers, certain substances had been administered to the functionary to not only jump-start the birth process, but produce an entirely new result. One that could not only rescue the Sauron race from at least some of the difficulties it faced—but vault Ott-Mar and his entire line into a position of prominence. All subject to Hak-Bin’s approval of course.

Rather than locate his laboratory on one of the larger, more important vessels, where it was likely to attract unwanted attention, Ott-Mar had chosen to place the facility on a humble supply ship. Not only that, but by way of further ensuring the laboratory’s continued security the Zin had even gone so far as to insist that the ship be crewed almost entirely by Saurons. That being the case, it had been a simple matter to eliminate all five of his Ra ‘Na technicians immediately after the start of the rebellion, thereby ensuring that no word of his highly sensitive experiments leaked to the resistance. But now, with the experiment nearly complete, it was time to share his findings with others. Assuming that Hak-Bin honored his promise to come. That’s why Ott-Mar felt a profound sense of relief when the Fon spoke over the intercom. “Lord Hak-Bin has arrived . . . and is on his way to the laboratory.”

For his part the subject of Ott-Mar’s concerns felt anything but relieved as he followed a slightly swollen Fon down the supply ship’s main corridor. No matter how carefully Hak-Bin’s plans were conceived, no matter how well they were executed it seemed that all of them turned to dra. Recent examples included the manner in which the catalyst factory had been destroyed—and the botched assassination attempt. Not only would the surviving factory be unable to meet demand, but the rebellious Dro Rul had consolidated his power and was using it to launch raids against Sauron assets.

Now, just as Hak-Bin was preparing to shift his head-quarters from orbit down to the southern citadel, Ott-Mar had requested that he stop off on one of the fleet’s least distinguished vessels. In fact, had the request originated with anyone other than the birthmaster Hak-Bin would have ignored it. But Ott-Mar knew him, knew the kind of pressure he was under, and was unlikely to waste his time. Or so Hak-Bin assumed as the servile Fon opened a hatch labeled, “Storeroom, Saurons Only,” and ushered the Zin inside.

The lights were extremely bright, and Hak-Bin blinked as he looked around. He saw pumps, ventilators, and life-support modules, tubes that ran every which way, and there, at the very center of the tangle, a transparent box. However, before Hak-Bin could examine the misshapen mass that squatted within, Ott-Mar was there to greet him. “Welcome, my lord, thank you for coming.” The scientist looked a bit bloated—and had clearly entered the change.

“I can’t say that it’s a pleasure,” Hak-Bin replied, “not with all the problems I have, but my presence speaks volumes. You asked that I come, and here I am.”

“And I’m grateful,” Ott-Mar said sincerely. “Very grateful . . . Now, knowing how busy you are, I’ll come straight to the point.”

“I’d be grateful if you would,” Hak-Bin replied, peering into the experimental birth chamber. “Who, or what, is
that
?”

“His name is Nis-All,” Ott-Mar answered carefully, “and he’s about to give birth.”

“Any idiot could see that,” Hak-Bin said impatiently, “but so what?”

“No offense,” Ott-Mar responded, “but thousands of our brethren have been murdered by the slaves, and now, with only one catalyst factory still on-line, hundreds of thousands will die without successfully giving birth. In fact, based on my projections, it appears as though up to fifty percent of the race is at risk.”

“So?” Hak-Bin demanded harshly. “What is,
is
.”

“True,” Ott-Mar agreed diplomatically, “but unusual situations call for unusual solutions. If you would be so kind as to wait one moment, I will demonstrate what I mean.” So saying, Ott-Mar stepped over to a jury-rigged control panel, released a carefully calibrated dose of birth catalyst, and watched the liquid surge through a length of plastic tubing.

Hak-Bin saw the creature that had been Nis-All jerk in response to the sudden influx of chemicals, heard the functionary’s chitin crack as it gave under pressure, and watched the dark glistening birth sac billow out onto the floor.

Nis All screamed, a long mournful sound that served to remind Hak-Bin of the pain
he
had experienced prior to the recent operation. He turned to Ott-Mar. “Is there something you can do for him? He’s in pain.”

“Not anymore,” the other Zin replied. “Nis-All has gone to be with his ancestors. Now, watch the birth sac. This should be interesting.”

Hak-Bin forced himself to look even though the sight of it made him feel dizzy. Fluid continued to pulse through the braided umbilicals as Nis-All’s body transferred what remained of his life force to the next generation. The podlike sac shivered, parted as razor-sharp teeth sliced through the translucent tissue, then shivered
again
. Hak-Bin watched in amazement as not one, not two, but
three
new Saurons entered the world. He turned to Ott-Mar. His voice was filled with awe. “Will each be different?”

“Each nymph is an exact replica of its parent,” Ott-Mar answered proudly, “but, thanks to variations in experience, will develop separate personalities.”

“So, you can apply this process now? To
our
generation?”

“I can apply it to those who have access to birth catalyst,” the other Zin answered carefully, “thereby increasing the number of Saurons who are born. As for those who lack the catalyst—I’m afraid their lines will come to an end.”

All three of the nymphs were visible by then, busily consuming what remained of the nutrient-rich birth sac, and occasionally pausing to nudge each other.

Hak-Bin took a moment to consider Ott-Mar’s words. Thousands of lines would come to an end. That was unfortunate, but thousands would be strengthened as well. The main thing was that the race would not only survive but prosper. He offered a gesture of respect. “You did all of the research yourself?”

“Not entirely,” Ott-Mar admitted modestly. “Some of the knowledge I needed was resident in the Ra ‘Na archives . . . and the rest came from the humans. The
application
of their theories . . . that was mine.”

“The race owes you a considerable debt of gratitude,” Hak-Bin said sincerely. “I will instruct my staff to provide whatever materials you may require. Given that the second citadel continues to be more secure than the first, I suggest that you start your efforts there.”

Ott-Mar bowed. “It shall be as you say, excellency.”

Hak-Bin started to leave, paused, and turned back. “And
my
nymph? How many will there be?”

“One, my lord, since your nymph was nearly mature when you made the decision to intervene.”

Hak-Bin took note of the manner in which responsibility had been assigned to him, knew it was fair, and nodded. “And yours?”

“There will be three Ott-Mars, excellency . . . assuming you approve.”

Conscious of the fact that there was very little he could do to stop the scientist, not given the present situation, Hak-Bin could do little but agree. “The more Ott-Mars the better,” he heard himself say, but couldn’t help but wonder. How much power was he ceding to the scientist anyway? And how would his nymph keep three such minds in check?

Ah well, the Zin concluded as he shuffled down the hall, I had
my
problems,
you
must deal with yours. The nymph, well on the way toward recovery by then, answered with a jab from his elbow. Hak-Bin grunted, boarded the shuttle, and waited for the vessel to depart.

Meanwhile, a machine no larger than the dot over an “i,” crawled down off the Zin’s shoulder, made it to the deck, and scurried away. It would take a while to reach the shuttle’s cockpit and the tiny docking station hidden there, but the effort would be worth it. Once ensconced in the bay, the robot would purge its memory banks, absorb some much-needed power, and go to standby. As for what happened to the data so recently gathered, well, that was for some other entity to worry about. Its function had been fulfilled—and that was all any machine could reasonably ask for.

ABOARD THE SAURON DESTROYER
NA GA
,
(THE RAVAGER)

The
Ravager
had been under Sauron control when, during the height of the Ra ‘Na mutiny, she was erroneously attacked by a Sauron dreadnought and two cruisers. Such was the weight of the incoming fire that by the time the mistake was rectified, and the attack was terminated, the smaller vessel was little more than an orbiting wreck. That being the case, and having received no communications to the contrary, the Saurons assumed that the entire crew was dead and wrote the vessel off.

But the entire crew
wasn’t
dead. Had anyone cared to investigate, they would have discovered that while injured, the ship’s Ra ‘Na pilot still clung to life. Something of a miracle considering the fact that the rest of the individuals in the control room had been killed when a missile opened a thirty-unit gash in the side of the hull and thereby released most of the ship’s atmosphere into the surrounding vacuum.

Strangely enough, Kas owed her continued existence to the ship’s commanding officer, a Zin named Bri-Mor, who had just ordered the pilot to suit up and inspect the repairs made to the forward heat deflector two units earlier. That’s why she was dressed in space armor when the attack began—and why she was the only individual to survive the explosion.

The impact hurled the diminutive Ra ‘Na across the control room, where she smashed a rack packed with electronics. Then, as if the fates were determined to find and kill her, the external vacuum tried to suck the pilot out through the crack in the hull. The gash was too narrow however—and her suit refused to pass through it.

Finally, as if tired of playing with her, the pressures equalized and Kas was left to drift in circles. The pilot awoke from time to time, or thought she did, but wasn’t completely sure. It was hard to tell where dreams ended and reality began. Still, the one thing both states had in common was the pain in her head and the taste of blood in her mouth. It was the pain, plus the incessant beep, beep, beep in her helmet, that finally brought Kas around. The pilot was horrified by what she saw. Bodies, some of which belonged to friends, drifted through constellations of blood droplets. Others remained strapped into their chairs.