EarthRise (6 page)

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.

Mal-Dak, still hanging upside down from his cross, had never thought about crucifixion before and never contemplated how terrible it could be. Rather than simply dying, as by other forms of execution, victims lingered for days until they succumbed to exposure. A long, horrible process that stretched forever.

The fact that the cursed black birds had already been stymied by the thickness of his chitin, and would soon attack his eyes, made the process even worse.

Now, only hours into his own personal hell, the Fon was thirsty. Not just a little thirsty, but
very
thirsty, to a degree he had never experienced before. A fact that seemed especially ironic since he, like his brothers, had suffered through endless days of rain. Rain that fell as a mist, rain that blew in sideways off the water, and rain that fell in torrents from an eternally gray sky. The very thought of it made his throat feel parched. And it was
that
thirst,
that
need, which was foremost in the Sauron’s mind when Hak-Bin’s procession drew into his upside-down world. Not that Mal-Dak
knew
the procession had anything to do with Hak-Bin, but surmised it from the noise, color, and movement.

Of one thing there was no doubt, however, and that was the fact that his misery, combined with the unjust manner in which he had been treated, combined to make him the very thing for which he was being punished: a rebel. A rebel who, more by luck than anything else, was about to generate an incident that would inspire
real
rebels, most of whom were standing around trying to look busy.

The moment occurred just as Ji-Hoon and her team, sweating heavily after the long hard climb, bore the sedan chair past Mal-Dak’s cross. That’s when the Fon, having struggled to muster the necessary saliva, moistened his mouth, and shouted a phrase which previously had no meaning to him. “Long live the Fon Brotherhood!”

That’s the way the English-language version came out anyway—although the original was somewhat different. The translation was picked up by the Ra ‘Na PA system and relayed to the mostly human crowd. The words were meaningless to most who continued to stare at the ground.

But even if the vast majority of the humans remained unmoved—the challenge had an electrifying effect on at least one individual. The great Hak-Bin sat up straight, rapped the side of the sedan chair, and said, “Stop!”

Ji-Hoon heard the command, as did the rest of the team, and they came to a halt. Hak-Bin slid backward out of the sedan chair, found the ground with his feet, and scanned the area. The citadel loomed above, crosses cut the sky into odd geometric shapes, and humans carpeted one side of the hill. The vast unwashed stink assailed the olfactory sensors located on the inside of each wrist, and the Zin pulled elastic bands down to cover them.

All of it was the way Hak-Bin had visualized it, had arranged it, except for the offensive slogan. The voice belonged to a Fon, he knew that, partly because of the words themselves and partly because of the manner in which they had been said. Like most inferior beings, this one spoke the dialect typical of his caste. Hak-Bin eyed the surrounding thicket of crosses. “Which one?”

A Kan pointed at Mal-Dak, and the Sauron turned to look. The first thing he noticed was that this particular creature was nothing special to look at. A rather pathetic specimen he couldn’t remember seeing before, though truth be told, the Zin had a hard time telling functionaries apart. He gestured with a pincer. “T-gun.”

Reluctantly, because no warrior worth his chi parts with his weapon willingly, the nearest Kan surrendered his sidearm.

Hak-Bin accepted the weapon, made his way over to where Mal-Dak hung, and allowed the t-gun to dangle at his side. “You and your entire line are about to die.”

Unlike a growing number of his caste, some of whom stood not twenty paces away, Mal-Dak knew nothing about the coming change. All he wanted to do was strike back, and words were the only weapon he had. He said the first thing that came to his mind. “All of us are going to die . . . and
you
sooner than some.”