EarthRise (4 page)

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.