The War for Earth (Children of Earthrise Book 4)

by Daniel Arenson

  But most importantly, the workers prepared for the great war ahead. For the possibility that Earth would lose the vote. That the full wrath of the basilisk military would hit them.

  They dug. They dug trenches and filled them with supplies and weapons. They dug bunkers for civilians to hide in. They built sturdier towers—these of stone. They collected cannons from fallen starships and they converted them into anti-aircraft weapons. They hooked up computers, working to bypass the basilisk jamming signals and contact the human fleet.

  Emet rarely slept during these days and nights. He was no longer young, but he had never felt such energy, such vigor, even with the horrors surrounding them. He had spent decades fighting in space. But this battle felt new and sacred. For the first time, he was defending his home soil.

  "Emet, you need to sleep," Cindy said.

  He was digging a trench, working under the hot noonday sun. Heat and sweat bathed him, and insects bustled around him. Emet had abandoned the blue coat he had worn as an admiral. Now he wore a simple white buttoned shirt, the sleeves rolled up, and sturdy trousers. He had kept the cowboy hat; it was worth its weight in gold here on a sunny world.

  He grunted at Cindy. "I'll sleep when I'm dead."

  The nurse placed her hands on her hips. "At this rate, that's not far off! Emet." Her voice softened, and she placed a hand on his shoulder. "How long have you been awake for?"

  Emet didn't know. "I slept last night," he said. "I think. Or was that two nights ago?"

  Cindy crossed her arms. "President Emet Ben-Ari! I am your nurse. And your friend. Get to bed."

  "The war does not sleep," Emet grumbled.

  "But men do." She grabbed him by the ear. "Don't make me drag you!"

  With a sigh, Emet relented, surrendering his shovel to another man. He followed Cindy through the camp. The colonists bustled around them. A woman stood by a well, handing cups—made from the casings of artillery shells—to thirsty workers and soldiers. An engineer was struggling to kick-start a generator. A woman was giving birth in a nearby tent to one of the first babies born on Earth. Another woman sat in a garden, reading to a group of toddlers, a generation that might not even remember the exile. Soldiers marched in an unpaved square, training with weapons—some had been starving refugees only days ago, yet they were already moving with precision.

  It warmed Emet's heart to see. Because though life was hard here, there was pride in this life. There was honor in this labor. They were fighting and toiling under the sun, not seeking a distant star. Already, a new generation was rising here. A new kind of human.

  There were even dogs in the colony. Emet had never seen a dog until landing on Earth, yet the animals had managed to survive for thousands of years on their own, feral in the wilderness. A handful had made it into the camp, instantly reconnecting with their long-lost masters. Emet paused to pat a cur.

  Yes, he was exhausted. He was afraid. He was worried every day about the battles ahead, about his children who were fighting in space.

  But yes, there was happiness here too. Deep inside him. Almost crushed by this war. But it was there. For the first time in his life, Emet felt it. Not joy, because joy was something more radiant and colorful. But happiness. Yes, happiness would do.

  Cindy accompanied him to his tent. The colony had begun to build a few concrete buildings, but Emet had not taken residence in one. He vowed to remain in a tent until every last colonist had a proper roof over his head. The summer was hot, but the tent was cool, and Emet gratefully lay down on his cot. He groaned and reached for his cup of water.

  "You should eat something too," Cindy said.

  "By Ra, woman, will you let me catch my breath?" Emet said, but there was no true anger in his voice.

  He approached his basin of water. Leona had founded a colony along a river, but the basilisks had been dumping corpses into the water, polluting it. Several wells supplied the camp now, and Ramses and Mairead had been flying shuttles to the mountaintops and back, ferrying ice and snow. Even so, they were all on water rations. When even drinking water was rationed, bathing was a luxury. Emet allowed his soldiers to wash only on Sundays, each using a single bucket, and smell be damned.

  Emet pulled off his shirt, groaning, and slowly washed himself for the first time in a week. His muscles ached, and his body stung with old wounds. He was fifty-nine, but his chest was still wide, his muscles strong. The years of war had left him hardened.

  Cindy took the sponge from him. "Let me help."

  "For Ra's sake, Cindy! Can I have a little privacy?"

  She snorted. "Emet, I've been your nurse for years. I've seen you naked many times. And you can't even reach your damn back. Now give me that."

  She snatched the sponge from him, and she helped him wash. Emet groaned, rolled his eyes, but had to admit—it helped.

  "Am I so old?" he said, suddenly sounding weary. "That I need help washing?"

  Cindy rolled her eyes. "Please. You're not even sixty."

  A sigh rolled through him. "So yes, I am old. This world belongs to the young."

  She glowered at him. "Well, I'm almost sixty too, so I refuse to believe that's old."

  "You're not even fifty yet!" he snapped.

  Cindy nodded. "True. But the years go by quickly. Now lie down in bed!"

  Emet glowered at her. "Now I'm a child?"

  "I certainly hope not!" Cindy crossed her arms again. "Because I'm about to have sex with you."

  "What?" Emet sputtered. "Are you out of your mind?"

  She frowned. "Most certainly not! Emet, when is the last time you had sex?"

  "That is none of your business!"

  She placed her hands on his shoulders. Her voice softened. "It's been years, hasn't it?"

  Emet refused to answer. But he knew she saw the answer in his eyes.

  "I'm fighting a war," he said. "I'm too busy for such things."

  "Not anymore," Cindy said. "Not tonight. We are on Earth tonight. Tomorrow we might all be dead. And I need this just as much as you. So kiss me, you idiot. I've been waiting for you to kiss me for ages."

  Emet thought about his wife. About the beautiful and brave Alexis.

  But yes, that had been a long time ago.

  Alexis had been gone for years.

  And Cindy was here before him—a woman who had fought at Emet's side throughout these difficult years. Who tended to him. Spoke to him as an equal. Who, he now realized, loved him. She was not a combat soldier, but she was every inch the warrior. And he realized that he loved her too. And he kissed her. And he took her into his bed.

  They made love as the sound of the camp—falling hammers, marching boots, barking dogs, and a thousand other sounds—filled the tent. They made love with heat and passion until sweat drenched him again. And after she fell asleep in his arms, Emet stroked her hair and savored the warmth of her body against his. Yes, there was pain here in the colony. There was danger and fear and endless hardship. But there was happiness too. Tomorrow he would fight again. Here, tonight, with Cindy in his arms, he was happy.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  They rode their snowmobiles across the frozen plains, roaring, firing their guns.

  "Kill them all!" Rowan shouted, steering with one hand, firing Lullaby with the other. "Kill every last damn snake!"

  The basilisks reared before them, screeching. They leaped onto the snowmobiles, slamming into soldiers, shattering their bones. Rowan flew through the air, landed in the snow, and rose with her gun firing. A basilisk tore apart before her, and the hot blood splattered the snow. The Firebirds roared above, strafing the enemy trenches, raising clouds of vapor and basilisk scales.

  "To the camp!" Rowan cried, racing across the snow. "Kill them all!"

  They stormed over the hill, and they saw the internment camp below. This one was outdoors. The bastards wanted the humans to suffer in the cold.

  Barbed wire surrounded the camp. Guard towers loomed, filled with snakes. Behind the fences, the humans were huddlin
g together, freezing, crying out for aid. Their only crime? Surviving the gulocks. Their only dream? To return home.

  Rowan was here to make that dream come true.

  "Kill the snakes!" she shouted, her snowmobile leading the charge.

  The other marines rode with her, howling for war, firing their guns. And the basilisks fell before them. Rowan reached the fence first and tore through it, flying into the camp on a cloud of snow.

  She fought.

  She killed.

  The shuttles rose, carrying thousands of humans.

  Before they flew away, Rowan nuked the damn camp from orbit. She stared down at the mushroom cloud, fists clenched.

  She spun away. She would never look at that world again. She stared at Coral.

  "Open a portal," Rowan said. "Take us back to Earth."

  The weaver sat in her chair, wrapped in a blanket, eyes sunken. She nodded weakly.

  Bay stepped forward. "Row, why don't we give her a moment? Coral could use a few more hours to recover. Tomorrow morning we can—"

  "No." Rowan shook her head. "Now. Do it, Coral. Take us home. These ships are packed with refugees. And we have many more to save."

  Coral looked at her, thin and weary, and nodded.

  The weaver rose to her feet. Her eyes glowed. And a portal to Earth opened.

  They flew home.

  They fought in orbit.

  Under heavy fire, they evacuated the refugees to Earth, lost two shuttles, lost a hundred lives. And they flew out again. Ships empty. Ready to save more. Operation Exodus continued.

  The fleet stormed toward the Rattlers, pounding the enemy warships with shell after shell. Rowan fired a nuclear weapon, and it exploded among the enemy formation, tearing Rattlers apart, blazing like a collapsing star. She led her fleet through enemy fire toward an asteroid, a hunk of stone the size of Manhattan. She flew sorties around it, pounding the basilisk gun stations, leaving holes where their bases had been.

  "Kill every snake in your way!" she cried, running down the tunnels, delving into the bowels of the asteroid.

  They fought in the darkness. The tunnels twisted and turned, and the snakes were everywhere. But Rowan had become good at killing them. At hitting their eyes. They hurt her often. They cut her, bit her, crushed her bones. And the Harmonians inside her glowed and healed her. And she fought on. And she fought them every night in her dreams.

  "Now, Coral," Rowan said. "Another wormhole."

  "Rowan, she—" Bay began.

  "Now."

  They stormed through a jungle world, riding mechanical quadrupeds like horses of steel. The basilisks leaped from the trees. Rowan and the marines fought them. Burned them. Burned down swaths of forest until they reached the hidden camp. And they took the refugees home.

  And another wormhole shone.

  And Coral became thinner, weaker. She now slept all the time unless she was weaving.

  The Exodus Fleet flew toward a group of massive alien tankers, vessels filled with refugees. The basilisk fleet had surrounded them, had quarantined the tankers around a derelict space station. That basilisk fleet shattered under Rowan's fire.

  The colony on Earth swelled. It rose to a hundred thousand strong. Then a quarter million. And Rowan fought onward.

  Soon she was no longer finding mere human prisoners, mere refugee camps. She was finding death camps. The basilisks had grown weary of interning refugees. They had begun to slaughter.

  And Rowan fought harder.

  She fought day and night.

  To save whoever she could.

  "Another wormhole!" she ordered.

  Coral gazed at her wearily. So thin. Skeletal. She was barely eating, and they had her hooked up to feeding rubes. But the weaver opened the portal home.

  They fought on moons and planets. In space stations and around black holes. They stole ships from the basilisks they killed. They lost hundreds of fighters. And they fought on.

  And the colony grew.

  And Coral withered.

  And Rowan found no sleep. No rest. No redemption for her soul. And even Bay began to fear what she was becoming.

  "Rowan," he said gently one night. "Maybe you should sit the next one out. Go down to Earth. Spend a month with Emet and the others. I'll carry on the mission."

  They were in their cabin aboard the Byzantium. Both nursing wounds. Together they had liberated another internment camp that morning, were already flying to another.

  "I have to keep going." Rowan stood by the porthole, staring outside at the stars. "There are still so many out there. Refugees who need us."

  "Rowan." Bay walked up to her, embraced her from behind. "You can't do this to yourself."

  "What?" She reeled toward him, placed her hands on her hips. "Complete my mission? Save lives? Kill the enemy?"

  "Not at the cost of your life!" Bay said. "Of your sanity!"

  She barked a laugh. "I'm still alive; it's humanity that's dying. I'm still sane; it's the cosmos that's gone crazy."

  "Rowan, I worry about you." Bay reached up to stroke her cheek. "You and Coral, you're both—"

  She shoved his hand away. "I don't want to hear about Coral."

  Pain filled his eyes. "She can't keep going at this rate either. If Coral dies, the mission is doomed."

  Rowan stared at him, head tilted. And she saw something in his eyes. Saw the truth.

  "You love her," Rowan whispered. As soon as the words left her mouth, she realized how petty they sounded. But she had not slept in days. She was so tired, so scared. So the words were out. The suspicion that had haunted her for so long.

  "I love you," Bay said. "You know that, Rowan."

  She scrutinized him. "But I see guilt in your eyes. Did you sleep with her, Bay? On your mission with her to find the Godblade. Did you sleep with Coral?"

  "Rowan!" Bay barked a laugh. "That was over a year ago!"

  She kept staring into his eyes. She saw the answer. And she felt the tear roll down her cheek.

  "I thought so," she whispered.

  "Rowan, please." Bay reached out to her. "Are we really going to do this now? Be jealous? Fight over another woman? Rowan, whatever happened in our past lives, before we were a couple—that's in the past. I love you, Rowan. I love you with all my heart, as cheesy as that sounds. I love as you as much as hobbits love second breakfast."

  He smiled at her, trying to alleviate the tension with a joke, a reference she normally would laugh at. But she remained somber.

  "I don't know who you are," she whispered. "And I don't know who I am. Who am I, Bay?"

  He held her hands. "You are Major Rowan Ben-Ari. A soldier of Earth."

  She blinked at him. "Am I? A soldier? Is that all?" She gazed at the shadows. "I was once the girl in the ducts. Once a dreamer. Once the girl who posed for you while you drew her. Who wrote a movie script for Dinosaur Island. Who was happy. Who was young and innocent. But she died, Bay. That girl died somewhere in a death camp we liberated, or a tunnel we fought in, among the piles of dead—the dead humans, or the aliens I killed. And I still see them, Bay. Every one of their faces. Human and alien. Every one who died. They come to me in my dreams. Every night, Bay. Every night. And they stare into my eyes. And they won't go away." She was shaking, and her voice cracked, and her tears would not stop. "I just want them to go away, to be who I was. I'm so scared."

  Bay pulled her into his arms. She sobbed against his chest.

  "I don't know what to say," he whispered. "I don't know how to help you. How to make them go away. But I can hold you. I can keep you warm. I can be with you as you fight them. Every step of the way. Does that help?"

  She nodded, sniffing. "That helps."

  She slept in his embrace. And he remained with her all night, fighting the demons, keeping her warm.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Leona stood in the yard surrounded by scrap metal, pieces of paper, charcoal pencils, and fifty eager ants.

  Welp, she thought, we have a year to build a spac
eship.

  She cleared her throat. "Good morning class! My name is Miss Ben-Ari. I'll be your science teacher."

  She paused, waiting for an enthusiastic "Good morning, Miss Ben-Ari!" from a hundred voices. The Oridians merely stared, silent.

  Leona loosened her collar. "I'm here to exchange knowledge with your species. We humans have much to learn from you—and much to teach you. We have technology that enables us to explore the stars. I will teach you how to build a spaceship!"

  "What's a spaceship?" asked an ant.

  Leona pointed at the sky, where a wooden airplane was flying by, propellers whirring. "It's like a great airplane, but one that can travel between the stars. With these spaceships, you'll join a league of advanced spacefaring civilizations."

  One ant wiggled an antennae. "Are there many seeds on other planets?"

  A second ant emitted a breathy sound and bobbed his head, perhaps laughing. "You only care about your abdomen, Hetakran."

  Hetakran clattered his mandibles. "I think of our queen! I am a gatherer of food, not a builder like you. Foraging is in my blood."

  Another ant stepped closer, a burlier one with plate armor. "And I am a warrior! I care not for finding food in the darkness. I care for weapons! Will these spaceships of yours be able to fight? We know that there are many enemies in space. Many predatory species. We must build mighty weapons to protect ourselves."

  "You two only think of eating and killing!" said another ant, a slender being with wings and a reedy voice. "But I care about territory. I may become a queen someday. Will there be many plains of soil and leaves in space, with many rocks to build walls and towers? I will build myself a hive! A hive to rival all hives!"

  A few younger females, their wings shorter, gathered around their larger sister. They chittered enthusiastically.

  "A hive, a hive! Yes, a hive! We will tend to your eggs, great mother."

  "I only care about trees," barked another ant, this one with particularly long legs, the tips fuzzy. "I am an aphid farmer. My task is to milk the honeydew. Our aphid flocks have faced challenges here, with many caterpillars consuming them. With these spaceships, can we find new groves?"