The Song of Earth (Children of Earthrise Book 5)

by Daniel Arenson

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  "All right, Fill, we've got a new project to start."

  Rowan stood in the underground hangar, speaking into her minicom. She faced the charred, dented Copperhead. This was the machine Mairead had commandeered and flown here from New York. Mairead's blood had been cleaned from the fuselage, but Rowan still shuddered to think of how her friend had nearly died in here.

  "Oi, Row, how many projects you got ongoing already?" Fillister said, speaking through the minicom's speaker.

  She sighed. "Yes, yes, quite a few. I'm still refining the Talaria Project, working on a new algorithm to calibrate the azoth tunnel. And I've been working on the Babel Project to increase the reliability of our communication network. Oh, and of course, there's the Elysium Project, my attempt to learn the secrets of weaving. I'm already two books into the Weaver Writs! And of course, I've been helping out with Operation Rapid Expansion, to move more colonists to other areas, and Operation Snaketrap, to prevent the basilisks from fleeing the land, and—"

  "Row!" Fillister said. "A lot of projects. I get it. And you want to start another one?"

  She nodded. "I do! Multitasking, baby. But this is a real exciting one! I call it: Operation Troy." She grinned. "We get to play around with our very own basilisk starfighter. A real Copperhead, one of the newer models too! How awesome is that?"

  The minicom shuddered—it actually shuddered in her hands.

  "I hope you're not thinking of installing me into it," Fillister said.

  "I wish I could," Rowan said. "But its operating system is so alien you'd never work there." She snickered. "How would human code work on an alien computer? This isn't some Hollywood movie."

  "Well, what about installing me into a proper body?" Fillister said. "You promised, you did!"

  By now, Rowan could barely keep track of Fillister's copies. At first, he had lived contentedly inside a robotic dragonfly—until Jade had smashed him. Rowan had resurrected her friend from a backup, which had run aboard the HDFS Jerusalem for a while. Then the basilisks had destroyed the Jerusalem. After that, Fillister ran aboard the Byzantium, but that starship was now flying with the Exodus Fleet. Fillister now ran on Rowan's very own minicom. There were other backups of him, dormant, on other computers.

  Which one is the real Fillister? she wondered.

  She didn't know. In a sense, whenever she rebuilt him, she was creating a new being. A new life. True, Fillister preserved some of his memories from build to build. But not all of them. His database was still missing chunks of memory, the days between his destructions and resurrections.

  And what of the Fillister clones Rowan had made, those she had installed into fireships? Each had been a living Fillister—with memories, personality, consciousness. They had all died in the war. Rowan had sacrificed them, and she still mourned them. Each had been as true a Fillister as any.

  She no longer knew how to think of her friend. Was he merely lines of code, mimicking consciousness, a perfect illusion? Just a glorified app? Or was he a living individual, a self, that she moved from shell to shell like a ghost? Was he a living being, as much as she was, or merely software, no more alive than an arcade game character? Rowan didn't know.

  One day, when I get him a proper body, this will all be less confusing, she thought.

  "I know, buddy," Rowan said. "That's one of my upcoming projects. You know how busy I am! I promise you: Operation Fillister's Bangin' New Body is on my to do list." She sighed. "My ever-expanding to do list. Anyway, let's get to work! We've got alien code to learn."

  She put on some music—"Taking Care of Business" by BTO—and got to work.

  Aboveground, the war still raged. The Human Defense Force had expanded to a hundred thousand soldiers—all armed now, thanks to Bay and Luther's gunrunning. The troops were fighting around the globe, great battalions clashing in battle, warring for mountains, valleys, rivers, for every square centimeter of this world. But down here, deep underground, Rowan was in her own little world.

  She climbed into the Copperhead. The alien vessel felt oddly familiar. The tubular fuselage was no larger than the ducts back on Paradise Lost. For a moment, Rowan panicked. She felt like a girl again, trapped, alone. She took several deep breaths, calming herself.

  You're no longer that girl, she thought. You're a woman. An officer. And you're not here hiding. You're fighting a war.

  When her pulse was slower, she reached toward the controls. She flipped a few switches, turning on the alien computer.

  Thankfully, Rowan had some experience hacking alien code. Back in the ducts of Paradise Lost, she had spent years tinkering with alien technology. She had often visited the pawnshop near the exhaust vents—well, sneaked in after dark, to be honest. But she had once visited during the day, and the owner had beaten her with a stick, so she felt no qualms about breaking in. From the pawnshop, she had pilfered monitors, keyboards, and processors, then assembled them into an entertainment system. She had spent long hours coding an interface between the Earthstone's human protocol with the alien electronics.

  This was similar—though much harder. The basilisks didn't use transistors like most civilizations, including humanity. They didn't rely on binary electronics. Instead, their computers seemed to use quantum entanglement, an entirely different framework.

  This wouldn't be like translating English to Chinese. More like translating English into pheromones.

  Rowan sighed. "We won't be able to do any low-level programming here, Fill," she said. "Not unless we want to spend a year studying quantum engineering. But there might be an API we can tap into. Something higher level we can understand."

  "How are we gonna find it?" Fillister said.

  Rowan chewed her lip. "The Copperhead can broadcast on electromagnetic waves. It's how Mairead was able to contact us during her flight." She nodded. "If we can send radio signals, we can sniff those packets. We can analyze them."

  Yesterday, Mairead had spent a while explaining the controls. Rowan was able to switch on the communication system, to broadcast a signal.

  "Ahoyhoy!" Rowan said into the Copperhead's microphone. She looked at Fillister. "Did you pick that up?"

  "Sure did, Row," he said. "Got a nice packet of info coming in. Wireless, as you said. And good news—it doesn't just include your lovely voice. It also includes a snippet of alien code."

  "Excellent." Rowan steepled her fingers. "Now let me see if I can hack into the computer. I want to broadcast more data. Not just my voice but functions of local code. I'll send you everything I can. Hopefully enough for us to work with."

  She worked for hours, trying to hack into more code, to stream more and more packets over to Fillister. Her minicom soon filled, and Fillister began offloading data into a development computer Rowan had running in the hangar. It was slow work. And after ten hours, Rowan was exhausted.

  But they had begun to make progress. They had begun to assemble the alien computer's API, to understand its functions, its basic commands.

  When her limbs were cramping, Rowan exited the Copperhead, stretched, and sat on the hangar floor. She adjusted the goggles on her head, cracked open a bottle of juice, and began reviewing the data.

  "Soon we'll be able to dig deeper," Rowan said. "And then, Fill—then we'll create our weapon."

  "What weapon, Row?" Fillister said. "All this work, and you haven't shared its purpose."

  She chugged down the juice, wiped her mouth, and smiled. "Why, my friend, haven't you figured it out yet? We're going to code a virus." She grinned. "This Copperhead will become a fireship. But not one delivering a nuclear payload. This ship will deliver a virus. A virus that will infect Xerka's fleet. A virus that will make the Black Plague look like the common cold."

  "You're a psychopath," Fillister said. "I love it."

  The door opened.

  Footsteps sounded.

  "Rowan?"

  He walked around the Copperhead, approaching her.

  Rowan leaped to her feet.


  Her eyes nearly popped out of their sockets.

  "Bay!" she cried.

  He smiled. "I'm on shore leave. Hey, after weeks of gunrunning, I've earned it. My dad told me you're down here, and I figured I'd surprise you, and—"

  She leaped onto him, crushed him in her arms, and silenced him with a thousand kisses.

  "You're back! You're really back!"

  Bay laughed and lifted her in his arms, kissing her. "I'm back. For a day."

  She gasped. "Such a short time!" She squeezed him tighter. "I'm going to squeeze you and kiss you and love you the whole time."

  They kissed again, and all the fear, the horror of this war—for a moment, it all faded. And there was only him and her. Only joy.

  "Can you take a day off?" Bay said. "You've been working since the war began. Hell, I don't think you've taken a day off since you left Paradise Lost five years ago. Tonight, can you—"

  "Shut up!" she said. "Shut up and make love to me!"

  She began tugging at his clothes. He barely managed to carry her out of the hangar and into her small cabin. She shoved him onto her bed, ripped off the last of his clothes, and made mad love to him.

  Ten minutes later, they lay side by side, sweaty, breathing heavily.

  "Wow," Bay said.

  "Again," Rowan said. "You go on top this time." She bit her lip and grinned. "And after that, I'm making pancakes. You're going to need your strength for the next twenty-four hours." She pulled him onto her. "You're gonna be working harder than you've worked all this war."

  He kissed her. "I love you, Rowan Emery. I love you so mucking much."

  "Silence, slave! Less talk, more sex!" She winked. "I love you too, Pancake. You know it."

  As poor Fillister kept working on Operation Troy, Bay and Rowan spent the next twenty-four hours in their cabin. They curled up together, watching Simpsons episodes on the Earthstone—only between seasons three to nine, of course, the golden age. They made love again, then slept for an hour, embraced. Rowan left the bed only to make pancakes, and they had a food fight, tossing maple syrup and batter and laughing hysterically, then embracing and kissing for a long time.

  They put on old musicals—Miss Saigon and Phantom of the Opera—and Rowan was dozing off in his arms, and he was stroking her hair over and over again.

  "Rowan," he finally said, voice soft.

  "Bay?" she mumbled, half asleep.

  He kissed the top of her head. "When this war is over, will you marry me?"

  She woke up at once.

  She looked up at him.

  "Yes!" she said. "Of course! But …" She deflated. "You said when this war is over. Oh, Bay. What if it's never over? What if we lose?"

  He held her tightly. "I don't believe that. Not for a second. We've been through so much. We've faced so many enemies, so many nightmares. But we beat them. And we'll keep beating them. Together."

  She caressed his cheek and kissed his lips. "Of course I'll marry you, Bay Ben-Ari."

  He winced. "I don't have a ring. I'm sorry. With all the gunrunning and battles, I didn't—"

  She pressed a finger to his lips. "Wait."

  She pulled on Bay's shirt, covering her nakedness, and ran into the hangar. She returned a moment later.

  "Hold out your hand," she said.

  He did. She slipped a sprocket onto his finger. "Here's my ring for you."

  Bay grinned. He too ran into the hangar, then returned and slipped a sprocket onto her finger.

  "My ring for you."

  She twirled the sprocket on her finger.

  "It's a little big," she said. "How about we wear these sprockets on chains around our necks?"

  Soon they both wore their rings on chains. Rowan looked at him. At her fiance. She remembered meeting him five years ago—the lost boy, hiding his deformed hand, drowning in grog. He was a man now, wearing his prosthetic arm proudly, a blond beard defining a strong jaw. He was beautiful, and Rowan lowered her head, tears in her eyes.

  "Hobbit!" He held her. "What's wrong?"

  "We have only a couple of hours left," she said. "And then you'll be back to gunrunning with Luther. And it might be weeks, even months before we meet again. And I'll be so worried for you when you're away." She smiled shakily. "But hey, I'm being a downer now. Let's make the most of these last two hours." She pulled off her shirt. "Ready?"

  His eyes widened. "You're an insatiable beast!"

  She nodded. "Hey, you chose to marry me, so live with it!"

  "Gladly. Today and for the rest of our lives."

  "May they be long," Rowan said.

  When he flew back into space, Rowan stood aboveground, watching his shuttle rise through the Talaria wormhole. The ruins spread around her. On the outskirts of Port Addison, soldiers were still firing from trenches. Distant explosions rocked the horizon. Great battles were being fought there, the hosts of humanity clashing against the alien hordes.

  The world was ugly now. A desolation of ashes, shattered walls, death and despair. Smoke hid the sky. But Rowan knew that beyond that smoke were the stars. That they were still beautiful. That Bay was out there, fighting for her, for all humanity.

  We're going to win, she thought. Because we have to win. Because I have to marry you, Bay. Because everyone who still lives deserves happiness, because everyone who fell deserves memory.

  She placed her hand around her sprocket. It hung from her chain by her dog tags and the Earthstone.

  So I'm going to kill you, Xerka. I'm going to beat every enemy of Earth. This is our world. This is our love. This is our future. Earth will rise.

  She entered the hangar.

  She got back to work.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  It appeared ahead in the darkness: Menoria, a watery world, deep blue and glimmering. Homeworld of the Menorians, wise mollusks and ancient allies to humanity. A world halfway across the galaxy. A world that could bring Earth hope—or dash that hope like a raft against the rocks.

  Leona stood inside the Oceanborn, the geode starship that had been her home for the past few weeks. She gazed through the crystalline porthole at the planet rising ahead. From here, Menoria appeared in crescent form, waxing and brightening as the starship glided closer.

  "It's beautiful," Leona said softly. "Aurora, your world is so beautiful."

  Her friend extended several tentacles and pulled herself closer. Her body changed from yellow to the deep blue of her homeworld. Purple dots appeared across her skin. Leona's minicom picked up the color shift, translating the words.

  "Thank you, Leona," Aurora said. "I have not been home in many turns of the tide. I miss the blue oceans and silver islands of Menoria, world of peace and plenty."

  Yes, this trip had taken many turns of the tide. Normally, Leona might have found the journey peaceful. But she had spent the past few weeks pacing the starship, anxious, constantly worried about Earth. She had no way to contact home. No way to know if her loved ones were alive. The Menorians were semi-aquatic, and most of their ship was flooded. Leona kept to the few dry decks, a lioness in a cage, wanting to fight but trapped behind bars.

  It'll be worthwhile, she told herself, if I can buy starships here. If I can fly home with a fleet. Just hang on, Earth. Hang on a little longer.

  "You are worried," said Aurora, reaching with a tentacle. "I can see it in the color of your cheeks. Your kind too communicates with color, though you aren't always aware of it."

  Leona smiled thinly. "Humans mostly communicate with body language, not words. I suppose color is a part of that. Yes, I'm worried, Aurora. What if the Menorian elders reject me?"

  "The elders are wise," said Aurora. "They have seen many tides rise and fall, many coral reefs grow, and have even seen islands born and drown. You will speak well on behalf of humanity. They will listen."

  Leona sighed. "That's what I told myself when speaking to the Galactic Council. And they tossed me out."

  Aurora flashed an angry red. "The Galactic Council? A group of barracudas
and spiky urchins that leak venom! Foul, broken, sharp rocks that litter the seabed! They are bottom feeders and worms who burrow in sand. We Menorians are wiser and kinder. Three hearts beat inside each Menorian's body. And they are hearts of compassion."

  Leona smiled at her friend. "Aurora, we humans and Menorians could not look more different. We are bipedal vertebrates, mammals who live only a few decades. You are mollusks, wise beings who live for thousands of years. But I think that we, among all the species of the galaxy, are the most similar. We both have kind hearts."

  Aurora turned a deep grayish blue. "Our hearts were not always kind. In our past, we Menorians often fought one another. We tainted our oceans with blood."

  "We humans were the same," said Leona. "Perhaps all intelligent species must go through a violent adolescence before reaching wise adulthood." She thought for a moment. "No, that's wrong. Most species in the galaxy, even the most advanced ones, are still cruel, still violent. Maybe that's the nature of evolution. The cruel survive. The cruel rise in their own worlds, clawing their way to the top of their food chain, slaying the weak. They then spread to the stars and compete there—with the same viciousness. Maybe we humans and Menorians are rare in the galaxy. Maybe even unique. We started out cruel—then among the stars, we found redemption." Leona sighed. "Maybe we humans needed two thousand years in exile. Maybe it was our Noah's Ark. Maybe in our long suffering, we became kinder, nobler, more deserving of Earth. Maybe our exile was our curse, our banishment from Eden for our sins."

  "Noah's Ark?" said Aurora.

  Leona smiled thinly. "An old story from Earth. The last human family survived a great flood. A dove brought them hope."

  "Then I hope that we are your doves," said Aurora.

  They entered orbit around Menoria. The planet was among the fairest Leona had seen in all her travels. It was mostly water, glimmering in all the shades of blue. Thousands of silvery islands shone like jewels. Several moons, pale as pearls, shone above.