Earth Eternal (Earthrise Book 9)

by Daniel Arenson

  Ben-Ari waited for somebody to speak. Nobody did.

  She took a deep breath.

  "Greetings!" she said, perhaps too loudly. Her voice echoed. "I am Captain Einav Ben-Ari, a human from Earth, and with me is—"

  "We know who you are," rasped an alien. He seemed ancient, covered with long white hair, complete with a shaggy beard. His skin—whatever was visible—was pink and wrinkly. Sharp teeth filled his mouth, and he blinked at her with four blue eyes. "We care not about your rank or name, only about your species."

  Ben-Ari stiffened.

  Very well, she thought. I've been chewed out by worse than cranky Ewoks.

  "We are a young species, but a curious one," she said. "We have only just taken our first steps into space. We know we are young. We know we have much to learn. We are eager to grow, to—"

  "Spare us your platitudes." The shaggy alien harrumphed. His voice made gravel sound soft. "Every damn species that comes in here, it's the same damn story. We are young. We are curious. We want to learn. Bah!" He spat into a bowl. "All of you are savages. All you care about is war. You all come here with the same ulterior motive—to use our fleets in your battles. Well, you can't have 'em." He barked a laugh. "How's that, missus?"

  Oh, be quiet, you sentient hairball, Ben-Ari thought, daring not voice the words.

  The professor stepped forward. "Dear council! I assure you, while it's true that our species has struggled with aggression, we've made great strides in science, in art, in humanitarian pursuits, and—"

  "Humanitarian pursuits?" The furry alien scoffed. "Still you are ethnocentric! Caring only about your own species, nothing about the galaxy." He turned toward his fellow aliens. "These humans are savages. Let's cast them out. Toss 'em out with the trash, I say! If you ask me, we should destroy their entire planet and be done with."

  Another alien spoke. She was a shimmering creature with glassy skin. On the inside, she was all flowing light.

  She looks like a living lava lamp, Ben-Ari thought.

  "Now now, Grumstaf," said the glowing alien. "Let's not be so quick to dismiss them. Yes, they are savages. But I see potential in them. They gazed upon our ceiling in awe for long moments. These are beings who love art and science."

  "Their brains are too small," said the shaggy Grumstaf. "Bah! Look at them. Their skulls are tiny. Did you see their ship? Primitive! My granddaughter could build it, and she hasn't even hatched yet."

  Another alien hovered up from his seat. He looked like a shrew with dragonfly wings. "Do you judge me by the size of my head, Grumstaf?" the tiny alien said. "Are my people not renowned as masters of science and art?"

  The furry old alien harrumphed again. "Your achievements speak for themselves, Shmet. Yet these humans. What have they achieved? We've all looked at the records on their ship. A barbaric world! War. Violence. Hatred." He scoffed. "They burn fuel and pollute their world, even two centuries after discovering solar power. They slay one another over imaginary gods or the color of their skin. What science have they achieved?"

  Ben-Ari turned from alien to alien. "We've achieved so much! In the past century alone, a single human lifespan, we've built warp engines. We've developed wormholes. We've built robots with true artificial intelligence and consciousness. We've colonized our solar system and even solar systems beyond ours. All this in a century! As for wars? In the past, yes, we fought one another based on race or religion. But the past few wars were forced upon us. Cruel aliens attacked us. We had to defend ourselves! We—"

  "Do you not still fight amongst one another?" said the shaggy alien. "We know of your world. We downloaded the history records from your ship. Even in the ruins following your latest war, your species fights amongst itself. Those you call fascists, communists, anarchists, theocrats—all still battle for scraps of your pathetic little world." Grumstaf leaned forward in his seat, eyes blazing. "Even your new war is simply a war against your own species. Those you call grays are human too, only slightly less barbaric. You have nothing to give us, yet you want to take so much. The Galactic Alliance exists to promote civilization. Not barbarism." He snorted. "Maybe we should accept the grays instead. At least their heads are large enough."

  Ben-Ari turned away from him. She looked at the other aliens. Scaled, feathered, large, small, aliens of stone and light and gas.

  "Will nobody else speak for us?" she said. "We are more than what Grumstaf says. We humans love science too. We love art. We love beauty. We love literature and poetry and music and—"

  A melodious chord sounded at her side. Ben-Ari turned toward the sound. One of the aliens had spoken. This alien was tall and the color of maple. Many strings stretched across her body. With long fingers, the alien plucked her strings, emitting another chord.

  "I don't understand," Ben-Ari said.

  A slimy alien peeked out from a spiky shell. "She speaks with music. She asks you to sing for her. She wants to judge your song."

  Ben-Ari blinked. Sing?

  She turned toward Isaac.

  "I'm not much of a singer," the professor whispered.

  Ben-Ari winced. Neither was she. She enjoyed listening to opera, but she had not sung a song since childhood. She had always felt too shy to sing.

  "Well?" said Grumstaf, leaning forward in his seat. "Do you disobey a request of the council?"

  Ben-Ari sighed. Cheeks burning, she began to sing the only song she had ever sung before. She would sing it with her father on Passover, a holiday lament about the trials of the ancient Israelites fleeing slavery in Egypt. She felt ridiculous singing this old keen. She wouldn't have minded if the Lotus Temple collapsed onto her, burying her for all eternity. The aliens all listened. She sang her song. A song from her childhood. A song of memory.

  And as she sang, those memories flowed back into her. Memories of her father. Of candles and light. Of her mother.

  She missed them. She missed her parents. She missed her home. She had almost forgotten this song. She had almost forgotten her mother's face.

  She ended her song and lowered her head.

  For a long moment, silence filled the hall. The professor held her hand.

  Grumstaf sniffed, peering at her. "What is that salty discharge from your eyes? Are you expelling waste, here in our temple?"

  "She is weeping, Grumstaf!" said the luminous alien. "She is overcome with memory. I see it around her, glowing softly. It is beautiful. Sad yet filled with such light."

  The musical alien, the one with strings on her body, plucked a bittersweet D minor.

  "It's a song of my home," Ben-Ari said softly. "I used to sing it with my father." She lowered her head. "He died only weeks ago. This song is all he left me."

  Grumstaf grunted. "It sounds like a religious song to me." He spat again into his bowl. "Do you still worship deities?" He turned toward the others. "You see? Primitive! Barbarians! The humans insult me with their very stench. Cast them out!" He turned back toward Ben-Ari, his eyes narrowed, and he bared his teeth. "You are unwanted."

  Around the table, other aliens nodded their agreements. A few began to leave the room. The shaggy Grumstaf began limping away, leaning on his cane. He looked surprisingly small outside of his seat, barely four feet tall and hunched over.

  Isaac sighed. He placed a hand on Ben-Ari's shoulder.

  "We tried, Einav," he said softly. "I'm sorry it didn't work out."

  She barely heard him.

  That last word kept echoing in her mind, over and over.

  Unwanted. Unwanted.

  Yes. She had always been unwanted. A motherless child neglected by her father. A child without a home. A warrior for a species lost in darkness, fighting alone. Unwanted.

  "Shame on you," she said softly.

  The shaggy alien looked over his shoulder at her. "What are you still blathering about?"

  Ben-Ari inhaled sharply. She clenched her fists.

  "Shame on you!" she shouted. Her voice echoed through the chamber.

  The aliens all turned towar
d her. A few scoffed. Others shook their heads sadly.

  Ben-Ari plowed on, her fury blazing. "I did not cross hundreds of light-years to be insulted. I did not pass through fire and rain to be dismissed like an errant child. I did not defeat alien invasions and rebuild my civilization to be called barbaric. You call yourselves enlightened? You call yourselves advanced? How quick you are to dismiss us at a glance! You hear a snippet of song, you steal a scrap of records from my ship, and you think you can judge us? You know nothing of humanity!"

  The aliens were all staring at her, somber.

  "Watch yourself, child—" began Grumstaf.

  "Silence!" Ben-Ari barked at him. "I've heard enough of your talk. Stick your slithering tongue back into your jaws. I came here, and I saw great wonder. I saw a sphere that engulfs a star. I saw marvels of technology that amaze me. But now I see your true heart, and it is rotten. You meet a species struggling to rise, to achieve nobility, a species that seeks wisdom and knowledge—and you cast us back into the mud! You would leave us to die because you judge us impure! You condemn us humans for fighting amongst one another. But we humans know compassion! We help the weak! We elevate those who climb! We would never turn away from a species seeking survival, never look down upon them for their simplicity, never deem them barbaric merely because they are weaker. That is what you've done here. You have shown me your true colors. You have shown me a civilization that is great in technology and poor in spirit. And I judge humanity superior! Good day to you all."

  She turned and began marching away.

  She was at the doorway when the voice rose behind her.

  "Human! Wait."

  She paused at the doorway. She turned back.

  One of the aliens hobbled toward her. He had huge flat feet with toenails the size of coasters. His body was bulky and coated with white fur, and he wore a blue robe embroidered with stars. His conical snout drooped over a white beard that flowed to the floor. He reminded Ben-Ari of a wizard from an old fantasy novel—at least if wizards had feet to shame elephants and snouts the size of baguettes.

  "Wait," the old alien said again, voice hoarse. "We had to test you, human. We had to present you with some adversity. To see how you defended yourself. You have performed . . ." He shuffled another step closer, robes rustling. " . . .wonderfully."

  Ben-Ari exhaled in relief.

  "Thank you," she said.

  "I am Eredel," said the old wizard, "head of the Admissions Council. I find you most fascinating." He looked at the professor. "According to the records we have studied, it is this human—Professor Noah Isaac—who figured out how to build a wormhole. Is that correct?"

  "I had help from many talented scientists," Isaac said. "I cannot claim all the credit. We humans are good team players."

  Eredel seemed to smile, though it was hard to tell with his massive beard and drooping mustache.

  "You are a young species, indeed," the alien said. "Mere babes taking your first steps. You have not yet learned to fulfill your energy needs with solar power, criteria we normally demand from members. And yet you have shown remarkable ingenuity, developing spacefaring technology within only two of your centuries. So young you are. You have so far to go. Therefore, while I am most impressed with your potential, I cannot yet grant you membership in the Galactic Alliance. Return here in a thousand years, and we will reconsider your request." He smiled. "I have a feeling that by then, you will be ready."

  Ben-Ari gasped. Her heart sank. "But . . . after all those compliments, you would still reject us? I . . ."

  Her head spun. It seemed impossible that she would be turned away. Earth needed this! She could not fail! Her mind raced.

  "I'm sorry, child," old Eredel said.

  Ben-Ari thought furiously. There was something on the edge of her mind, the tip of her tongue . . .

  "Junior membership!" she blurted out, remembering. "My pilot is a Menorian. Her species is a junior member of the Galactic Alliance. If we humans cannot become full-fledged members, grant us junior membership."

  The wizard-like alien seemed to consider. His mustache fluttered as he breathed. "Would your Menorian pilot vouch for you?"

  Ben-Ari nodded. "I'm sure she would."

  Shaggy old Grumstaf limped forward and pointed his cane at the wizard. "You know our laws! To become even junior members, young species require a full ten sponsors, all from different sentient species. This girl's pet Menorian would not be enough."

  "And if I find twenty sponsors?" Ben-Ari said. "You would grant Earth membership?"

  "Junior membership," said Grumstaf. He snorted.

  "Then I won't return in a thousand years," Ben-Ari said. "I'll return in weeks. Give me this time, and I promise you: I will find ten sponsors." She raised her chin. "And I will do more. I will prove humanity's worth."

  The Lodestar flew out into space, leaving Lemuria behind.

  They flew as fast as they could.

  They did not have a lot of time. And they had a lot of distance to cross.

  * * * * *

  "Captain," the professor said as they flew in the darkness, "where are we going?"

  Ben-Ari stood on the bridge, gazing at the stars, a small smile on her lips.

  "Twelve years ago, humanity had a hundred thousand starships," she said. "We flew them five hundred light-years into the scum empire, liberating besieged planets, uniting species against a common enemy. I think it's time to call in a favor."

  They flew to the ocean world of the Gurami, a species of intelligent fish that flew in starships full of water. Twelve years ago, Ben-Ari had found a world under scum siege, most of its cities gone. A handful of Gurami starships had joined the human fleet then, had helped defeat the centipedes.

  Today the Guramis would fly with her again.

  "Years ago, you gave us hope, Captain Ben-Ari," said the lord of the Guramis, an indigo fish with flowing purple fins. "We will vouch for you. We are forever in your debt."

  One of the Gurami ships, an elongated tube of water with delicate solar sails, rose to fly with the Lodestar.

  They flew onward. They reached the forested world of the Silvans, furry aliens with many arms that lived among their towering trees. A Silvan ship, made of wood and crystal, rose to fly with them.

  "We still tell tales of your courage, Captain Ben-Ari," the furry creatures told her. "Without you, we would still be living under the threat of the centipedes. You are forever a heroine in our world. We will fly with you. We will tell the Galactic Alliance that you are noble."

  World by world, they flew, their fleet growing. They flew to Altair, and they visited a world of tall, green humanoids with eight eyes. Ben-Ari had rescued their prince from the scum hives on Abaddon. Today he rose to fly with her. She flew to Alpha Pavonis, where a Klurian ambassador—a blobby, semiaquatic alien—joined her on the Lodestar, for the Klurians had still not developed ships of their own. They flew to Nandaka, the planet where her father had hidden away, and one of the natives—small aliens with four arms, mouths on their hands—joined her on the Lodestar. He was a relative of Keemaji, he said, the Nandaki who had helped Ben-Ari find the Ghost Fleet; he would be honored to serve humanity.

  For years, Ben-Ari had explored the galaxy, helping species weaker than humanity. For decades, her father had done the same.

  Today they rose to fly with her. Not the minimum ten but a full twenty-one alien civilizations. None were members of the Galactic Alliance. Some had only simple starships with no warp drives; they had to fly within the Lodestar's warp bubble. Others had no starships at all and hitched rides on the Lodestar.

  All would vouch for her.

  They flew through space, heading back toward Lemuria, a flotilla of united species.

  She and Professor Isaac stood in the Lodestar's lounge, gazing out at the ships flying with them. Round ships filled with water. Ships of crystal and light. Clunky cogs and elegant, spinning ships like dandelion seeds.

  "In a galaxy that has suffered so much evil, here is uni
ty," the professor said. "Here is nobility."

  Ben-Ari smiled thinly. "A part of me is cynical. A part of me thinks they simply want an ally in the Galactic Alliance so that we can vouch for them in the future. A vote from a member species is worth a lot."

  Isaac smiled too. "I've always been more of an optimist than a cynic." But his smile faded. "Optimism is often a luxury. I grew up in a loving home. When I was very young, my parents shielded me from the nightmarish war against the scum. I used to climb onto my roof as a child, to gaze up at the stars, to wonder. My parents taught me that the stars were filled with life, with adventure, with beauty. So yes, I'm an optimist. I have that luxury, a luxury most do not. I did not see battle as you did. I did not see evil face-to-face. I've always chosen, even in the darkness, to seek light."

  She leaned against him. "That's why I love you, Noah. You're purer than I am. I'm broken. I struggle to see light."

  He wrapped his arms around her. "No, Einav. You've gone through shadow and still seek the light. That is purity of courage. That is why I admire you."

  "I don't want you to admire me," she whispered, looking up into his eyes. "I want you to love me. Like I love you."

  She immediately regretted those words. She was not used to exposing her feelings this way. She had always hidden behind armor. She had always been the stern leader, daring to show no weakness or emotion to her troops. Yet Professor Noah Isaac had never felt like somebody under her command. He had always felt more like a mentor. A guiding light. A pillar of optimism. Yes, perhaps that was why she had fallen in love with him. Not merely because he was intelligent, kind, and wise. But because he showed her optimism. Her life had always been in shadows; he showed her light.

  And so she took him into her bed. It had been so long since she had made love. She had almost forgotten what it felt like—to feel desirable, to feel warm and safe, to feel loved. She was shy at first, worried that he would not like her body, or that her prosthetic arm would disgust him. But he held her and called her beautiful. And he told her that he loved her. And afterward, they lay in bed together, telling silly jokes and laughing, then talking for hours about many topics.