EarthRise (33 page)

People swarmed around Franklin, doors slammed, and Taglio put the SUV in gear. The vehicle jerked forward, swerved to avoid some slaves, and took to the air as it cleared the top of the hill. The Suburban hit hard, bounced, and kept on going.

Slaves scattered as Taglio leaned on the horn, sent an empty tea stall spinning off a fender, and gave a whoop of unrestrained joy. The windows were open and a country-metal band pumped bass as the driver braked into a hairpin turn, applied power, and sent gravel spewing out the back. The Saurons were monitoring the SUV by then, tracking the vehicle’s progress from above, determined to punish Franklin for his perfidy. In fact, the only thing that prevented the Kan from destroying the vehicle right off the bat was a desire on the part of the local sector commander to cover his posterior.

Not really required, but advisable, especially when dealing with a Zin like Hak-Bin. The only problem was that the Kan had been unable to get in touch with the supreme one. It seemed no one could find him, not the stonemaster down in Nakabe, nor Hak-Bin’s staff on the
Hok Nor Ah
. So, with the humans clearly bent on escape, and no orders to the contrary, the sector commander was free to indulge his own wishes: “Destroy the human vehicle . . . Do it now.”

Taglio jerked the wheel to the right as an orbital cannon opened fire and blew an elephant-sized divot out of the road ahead. Dirt and gravel rained down on the Suburban’s roof as it sailed through the falling debris, skidded into a turn, and continued to roll. The windshield was cracked but remained intact.

Taglio figured the energy weapon was computer-controlled. Assuming that was correct then each shot would be calculated to allow for atmospheric conditions, the rotation of the planet, and her rate of speed. That’s why the driver stood on the brakes, counted to five, then stomped on the accelerator. The SUV took a nosedive, skidded, then took off again.

The next energy bolt missed by the equivalent of a city block. In the meantime Taglio knew the computer was analyzing random stops, searching the route ahead, trying to predict what she would do next. That’s why Taglio brought the vehicle to a stop, aligned the nose on the gate below, and hooked preanchored bungee cords onto the steering wheel. Once that was accomplished it was a relatively simple matter to put the Suburban in motion, activate the cruise control, and throw herself out through the door.

The SUV lurched forward, picked up speed, and was doing fifty miles per hour by the time it hit the main gate. That’s when the Kell’s homemade bomb went off, when the four-wheeler exploded into a thousand pieces, and the sentries were cut to shreds.

The debris was still falling, and black smoke had started to boil up into the sky, when the last energy bolt touched down. Taglio, who had paused to watch the results of her handiwork, never felt a thing. There was light, a strong desire for a cigarette, but none to be had.

Franklin heard the SUV roar away, felt hands pull at his clothes, and did the things they told him to do. Then, with the crowd still swirling around him, Manning suddenly materialized with Ji-Hoon at his side. “This is your whip, Mr. President . . . I suggest that you crack it occasionally and shout some orders. Agent Wimba will cover your six while the rest of us will force a hole in the crowd.”

Having already approved the escape plan, Franklin might have been insulted by the instructions but wasn’t. The truth was that he
needed
a reminder, a way to connect with the new reality, and nodded as he accepted the whip. “I’ve been waiting a long time for this.”

Manning grinned. “Yes, sir, I’m sure you have. Make it look good because plan B really sucks.”

Franklin laughed, knew it was the wrong expression, and adopted a frown. Then, herding his security detail in front of him, the president of the United States started down the side of the hill.

Chaos reigned all around as the whip-crack sound of the orbital bombardment began,
real
overseers tried to restore order, and Sauron fighters circled the hill. Sharpshooters, located high in the observation towers, added to the confusion. Each slave that they shot was like a raindrop hitting the surface of a pond. Concentric rings of fear rippled out through the crowd. People turned uphill in an effort to escape, only to encounter the slaves coming down. Fights erupted, people screamed, and a woman was crushed.

Kan, none of whom had been trained for what amounted to riot control, added to the confusion by jumping from point to point, issuing contradictory orders, and even arguing with each other. That’s when the SUV exploded, the watch commander mistakenly assumed that the hill was under attack from the surrounding forests, and ordered his troops to rally around Observation Tower ^-[]. This error in judgment proved to be a godsend for Franklin and his security team, who passed the crater where Taglio had died, down through the still-smoldering main gate, and out into the relative freedom beyond.

That’s when Franklin tossed the whip aside, turned, and looked back at Hell Hill. There were more fighters now—circling like flies above a dead corpse. The chief executive turned toward Manning. His voice was hard and cold. “Any word from Deac Smith? Is he ready?”

“Yes, sir. Ready and waiting.”

Franklin nodded. “Tell him to fire.”

Manning passed the order, twenty seconds passed, and fifteen man-portable FIM—92C Stingers leaped up out of the surrounding forests, located the heat they were searching for, and took off in hot pursuit. Alarms sounded within the alien fighters, but the pilots hadn’t encountered any resistance in a long time, and precious seconds were lost while they double-checked their systems.

Two of the heat-seekers suffered malfunctions and never connected with their targets. Three missiles chose the
same
target and blew it out of the sky. The rest of the Stingers went one-on-one with the manta-ray-shaped fighters, and with the exception of a single aircraft that managed to limp toward the east, the rest were destroyed.

The security team applauded and Franklin nodded in agreement. “What was it my daddy used to say? ‘It ain’t over till it’s over’? I think that pretty much sums it up.”

Those close enough to hear chuckled, Manning waved the group forward, and the government of the United States of America melted into the forest.

NEAR THE MAYAN RUINS OF NAKABE, GUATEMALA

The storage room was large,
very
large, which was the reason why Ott-Mar had chosen it for use as his makeshift surgery. The walls were lined with floor-to-ceiling metal-faced drawers. There were thousands of them, and each was large enough to hold a few personal effects. Later, as each nymph emerged from his cell, inherited memories would push themselves forward and each newly born Sauron would visit the storage room to collect his particular inheritance.

The nature of such bequeathments would vary. Some would consist of ancient artifacts, brought from the home world and carried through space. Others would include items looted from conquered worlds, tools peculiar to that particular line’s area of expertise, and, though somewhat rare, scholarly works authored by two or even three generations of progenitors.

Now, filled as it was with the harsh glare of stand-mounted work lights, the specially constructed operating table on which Hak-Bin lay, banks of life-support equipment, backups for the life-support equipment, a back table loaded with surgical instruments, a console dedicated to anesthesia, and three strange-looking suspension frames, the room seemed a little smaller.

Or that’s the way it seemed to Grand Vizier Tog, who, contrary to what he imagined to be good medical practice, not to mention his own personal preferences, had been ordered to be in attendance. The reason for this travesty was too apparent. Hak-Bin, who remained conscious and lucid in spite of the heavy-duty preoperative medications administered by Ott-Mar, wanted all those having shared responsibility for his physical well-being to be present during the operation so that it would be easier to kill them if anything went wrong.

That’s why Hak-Bin’s chief of security, the murderous Kat-Duu, stood on the far side of the room. He wore two perfectly matched t-guns in black thorax holsters and seemed to be enjoying himself.

It was a horrible situation, the worst Tog had ever managed to get himself into, which accounted for the sudden flurry of prayers. There hadn’t been much to ask for, not since Tog’s elevation to the Droma, but the present circumstances provided sufficient motivation.

Would the Great One respond? There was no way to be sure, of course, but not having requested anything in quite a long time, the prelate imagined that his request might go to the head of the line, where it would be acted on with a degree of urgency consistent with his lofty rank.

In the meantime Ott-Mar sent for the donors. The Fon, each selected because of a near-perfect health record, and surreptitiously tested to ensure that they were free of all the chemicals, hormones, and enzymes associated with the change, had been summoned to the temple under false pretenses. The functionaries had no idea what awaited them until the moment when they entered the operating room and were seized by specially trained Kan. Understandably surprised, not to mention frightened, the unsuspecting Fon kicked and squealed as they were transported from one side of the room to the other, locked into metal frames, and gagged.

The Kan were still in the process of wrapping tape around their snouts when Hak-Bin addressed them from his place on the operating table. “Please allow me to apologize to you and your respective lines. Like warriors in a battle, it is now necessary to sacrifice your lives so that the race can live. I now add your names to those that shall be passed to my nymph and from him down through eternity. Thank you.”

If the Fon were impressed by the signal honor thus bestowed upon them, there was no sign of it in the way that their eyes bulged, their limbs strained to break free, or their excrement soiled the floor.

Like outsiders caught in the midst of a family dispute, all four of the Ra ‘Na technicians assigned to assist Ott-Mar did the best they could to ignore the manner in which the “donors” had been treated, little suspecting the fate already in wait for them.

But Tog
knew
, and not only knew, but had chosen them with that reality in mind. It wasn’t something the prelate liked to focus on, however—so he forced his mind away.

Satisfied that he had done the right thing where the Fon were concerned, Hak-Bin gestured to Ott-Mar and surrendered himself to the fates.

Well aware of the operation’s purpose, and the way it would impact him, Hak-Bin’s nymph went on a rampage, only to discover that certain medications had been used to limit the extent of his movements. The reality of that made the nymph furious. In spite of the fact that Ott-Mar would escape into death, Hak-Bin’s nymph swore that the physician’s offspring would suffer in his place, and do so for a long, long time.

Now, as both the Sauron and his nymph lost consciousness, the operation began in earnest. A saw whirred and fine black dust was sucked away as Ott-Mar removed sections of Hak-Bin’s badly distorted chitin. Drills whined as the Ra ‘Na medical technicians bored holes through donor exoskeletons, gained access to key blood vessels, and inserted the necessary catheters. Pumps came on-line, were tested, and hooked to lengths of clear plastic tubing.

Eventually, as the initial preparations were completed, Tog lost track of which tube led where, but understood the basic architecture of Ott-Mar’s plan. Once the tubes were connected, and certain medications had been administered, Ott-Mar planned to remove every single drop of Hak-Bin’s enzyme-polluted blood, replace it with fluids obtained from one or more of the donors, and thereby stabilize his patient long enough to get through the next thirty-five days.

Assuming things went well, and they would have to if the birthmaster wanted to live long enough to die properly, the high-nymph would continue to develop albeit much more slowly, and Hak-Bin, made a good deal more presentable as a result of cosmetic surgery, would be free to coordinate the final days. Unless something went wrong, in which case everyone, with the possible exception of Kat-Duu, would die almost immediately.

And so it was that Tog, along with others in the room, watched the green fluid surge through the clear plastic tubes and hoped that the procedure would prove successful. The process took time, however, and it was more than a full unit later before Ott-Mar announced that he was pleased with the results and ordered that the single surviving donor be put to death. Then, as the anesthesia was terminated, and Ott-Mar waited for his patient to awake, came the moment that Tog had been dreading.

Suddenly, at a nod from Kat-Duu, the Ra ‘Na med techs were seized and shackled together. Tog tried to merge Kanlike with the background, but it didn’t work. Kat-Duu wore something similar to an evil grin as he grabbed the prelate and dragged him out into the adjoining courtyard. The condemned were already in place—their backs to freshly dug graves. A group of humans, shovels in their hands, cowered against the back wall. “How do you want them killed?” the Kan demanded. “A dart in the head? Slit their throats? Slow strangulation?”

The med tech named Isk sought Tog’s eyes. The prelate saw the anger there and turned away. “You knew?” Isk demanded. “You
knew
they would kill us?”

“Don’t be silly,” Kat-Duu interjected. “Of course the Grand Vizier knew . . . Now, where were we? Ah, yes, the question of methodology. So, your furry eminence, what will it be?”

“Darts,” Tog replied, his eyes on the floor.

“What did you say?” the Kan demanded. “Louder please . . . I couldn’t hear you.”

“Darts,”
the prelate reiterated, praying that the misery would end.

“Oh,
darts
,” Kat-Duu responded agreeably. “That’s very generous of you. Much less painful . . . Well, come on then, I’m sure you’ll want to be present, and there’s no point in waiting around.” That being said, the Kan walked down the line and shot each slave in the head. Isk was last, and no matter how long he managed to live, Tog knew he would never forget the contempt in the technician’s space-black eyes.