Earth Valor (Earthrise Book 6)

by Daniel Arenson

  "You'll be fine," Kemi said. "You look like one of them. You're European. Lailani, Ben-Ari, and I would be burned at the stake. Burn the witches!" She sighed. "We better find some food here in the forest then."

  They kept walking, hunger growing. Days of crackers and jam left them weary, and they hadn't even had any of that in hours. If they couldn't find food soon, their quest would end—not by arrows or marauders but simple hunger. Marco found himself thinking of boot camp. He remembered being hungry there too. He had fought Pinky once for a Spam sandwich. A memory tickled him—that day in Greece, when they had sneaked into the old lady's yard to pee, and she had fed them bell peppers stuffed with rice, tomatoes, and beef.

  The best day of my life, Lailani had called it.

  Marco lowered his head. That had been seven years ago now, almost eight, but he had never forgotten that romance with Lailani. How he had fallen madly in love with the tomboyish, fierce little soldier, with her tattoos, scars, buzz cut, and broken kindness. How he had asked her to marry him. How he had wanted to be with her forever.

  But you broke my heart, Lailani. You chose Sofia.

  He let out a bitter laugh. What had he expected? He had seen the rainbow tattoo on Lailani's arm, had known she didn't date boys.

  But I thought I was different, that you'd wait for me, that you could love me like I love you. That we'd be happy and in love forever.

  Kemi was watching him, as if she could read his mind. Marco looked at her. She gave him a small, sad smile. He smiled back and held her hand.

  After another hour of walking, and still no sign of fruit or game, Kemi pointed.

  "Look!"

  Marco looked. A mountain rose ahead, still several kilometers away. On its crest loomed a dark castle—the one they had seen from the sky. Marco couldn't help but shudder. The castle perched like a vulture, seeming to tilt toward them, to watch them.

  "There's a bad air coming from that castle," Kemi said. "It looks like a vampire's home."

  "Maybe it's Count Chocula," Marco said. "And he'll give us some cereal. I'd kill for some cereal now."

  "Marco." Kemi frowned, staring up at the castle. "Back in medieval times, the lord always lived in the castle, right? Whoever lives there might be able to explain all this. Where we are. How we got here. I'm still not convinced this is Earth."

  Marco inhaled sharply and clutched her hand. "Me neither. Look!"

  Kemi spun around. They both stared.

  It stood on a hill between birches, caught in a beam of sunlight. It regarded them, regal, silent, the light dappling its ivory fur and whorled horn.

  "Is that . . .?" Kemi whispered.

  Marco nodded. "A unicorn."

  The animal stood still, eyes golden. One hoof was raised, shining like polished amber, as if caught in mid-walk. It was a female, Marco thought, graceful and whispering of ancient magic, a fay risen into the world. No larger than a deer, inquisitive yet timid. Standing before the unicorn, covered in dirt and wearing a tattered uniform, Marco felt coarse and slow like a goblin risen from a burrow.

  "How can this be?" Kemi said.

  Marco took a deep breath. "I don't know. I don't know how we ended up here. I don't know if this is Earth. I don't know why a creature of mythology stands before us. I don't know if this is real or just some illusion, some trick, some virtual reality devised by an intelligence we cannot see. But one thing I know." He raised his rifle. "My crew is hungry. Maybe starving. And my crew comes first."

  The unicorn burst into a run.

  Marco fired.

  The unicorn screamed.

  "No!" Kemi shouted, pulling his gun down, but it was too late.

  They both ran onto the hill. A trail of blood stretched across the forest floor. They followed it, and they found the unicorn curled up beneath an oak, still alive but bleeding profusely. The animal looked up at Marco, met his eyes, and wept. Around her gathered her cubs, mewling and burrowing for milk.

  "What did you do?" Kemi whispered, turning toward Marco. "Why?"

  Marco trembled. "I'm sorry. I . . . I didn't know she was a mother, I . . ."

  Kemi knelt by the unicorn, pulled out her medical kit, and tried to heal the unicorn. But the animal was growing weaker, fading away. One of her legs had broken during the flight, the bone protruding, and the bullet was deep in her belly.

  "Kemi, come." Marco gently pulled her back. "I have to do this."

  "No!" She wept. "Don't. Please."

  But she buried her face in her palms, and Marco did the deed. A bullet into the unicorn's head. He stared at the carcass with searing, dry eyes, and his chest shook, and he loathed himself.

  "It's the same as a deer," he said, voice shaking. "Same as a rabbit. It's just an animal, Kemi, and we're hungry. We have to eat or we'll die."

  But she wouldn't reply, wouldn't meet his eyes.

  "I had to do it," Marco whispered. "I had to."

  Several other unicorns approached, staring from the hilltop, and the animals shed tears. The cubs ran to them.

  We must sacrifice the few to save the many, Marco reminded himself. But those words he had spoken to Kemi felt hollow.

  He slung the dead unicorn across his shoulders. He and Kemi walked back in silence.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Brigadier-General James Petty, bedecked with service ribbons and pins, sat alone in his quarters, head lowered, and took another sip of scotch. As the stars streamed outside the porthole, he caressed the framed photo of his daughter.

  "I want to make you proud today, Coleen," he rasped. His throat was too dry. He took another sip. "It's all I ever wanted."

  The photo showed Coleen as a young woman graduating from Julius Military Academy. She beamed as she tossed her white cap into the air. It had been a glorious day, Petty remembered. The sun had shone, and Admiral Evan Bryan himself, the legendary war hero, had returned their salutes. Sixteen years ago. By God, it felt like yesterday.

  Coleen Petty had not been the easiest officer to serve under. He, as her father, knew how headstrong she could be. Many of her soldiers had feared her; some had loathed her. Ben-Ari herself had suffered some of Coleen's legendary wrath. James Petty knew that. He had seen it in Ben-Ari's eyes when the lieutenant had told him of Coleen's death.

  But nobody realized how difficult it had been for Coleen. The year she had spent in the hospital as a child. Losing her mother soon after her discharge. Flunking out of flight school—the first Petty in four generations not to earn her wings. So much fury had filled Coleen when she had joined the infantry—but pride too. Determination to excel. And she had excelled. She had made it into the Erebus Brigade, the most prestigious brigade in the infantry, had risen to command an entire company. That was thanks to her last name, some soldiers whispered, and perhaps there was some truth to that. But he, her father, had also seen her courage, her dedication, her love of the military and Earth.

  "Like me, you lived for Earth," he said hoarsely to that old photograph. He took another sip of booze. "You loved Earth more than any living person on it. More than me, perhaps. You lived to defend our homeworld. And you died defending it." His voice dropped. "And maybe in this war I will join you."

  No.

  He gritted his teeth.

  Do not fall again into that hole.

  He pushed his glass aside.

  He had fallen into that pit twice before. After his wife had died. Again after he had lost Coleen. He would not surrender again to the booze, the despair, the blackness that ever clawed at him. He was a general now. He was the commander of humanity's last fleet, even if that fleet comprised of only several warships and Firebird squadrons. He would remain strong for his warriors, for his species, and for the memory of all those who had fallen.

  He took his glass into the bathroom and poured the amber liquid down the sink. He raised his eyes and stared at his reflection. He was old. He was in his sixties, and after his heart attack two years ago, he finally looked it. Sacks hung under his eyes, and his wrinkles had dee
pened. His face was haggard, but it was still strong. The jaw wide. The eyebrows heavy and black. The eyes like steel. It was the face of a warrior who had seen too many battles—but who was ready to swing his axe until the bastards cut him down.

  On his lapel, his communicator beeped.

  "Sir," came the voice of Osiris, the Minotaur's android, a piece of hardware the price of ten Firebirds. "We're approaching the graveyard. ETA ten minutes."

  Petty spoke into the device. "I'm heading to the bridge, Osiris. Commence shutdown of our azoth engines and have the fleet form a defensive one-two-one formation. I want a hundred Firebirds flying around us constantly."

  "Yes, sir. But first, sir, would you like to hear a joke? I—"

  "No." He hung up.

  Petty stared back into the mirror, at that craggy face.

  "Into death, to find life," he said.

  He left his quarters.

  He walked through his ship. The Minotaur was not the largest carrier ever built, but she was a big girl, all cavernous halls and winding corridors. She wasn't slick, elegant, or as pretty as the later generation ships, vessels like the Sagan or Terra. No. The Minotaur was a ship of a different breed. She wasn't built for beauty, not to impress shareholders and ministers and the viewers at home. The Minotaur, the first carrier to emerge from the inferno of the Cataclysm, had been built for one purpose: War.

  Every last centimeter of her served her purpose. Her bulkheads were thick metal, made to resist alien cannons. Her corridors were narrow and her rooms wide, built to house as many marines as possible; a full five thousand now served here, the entire Erebus Brigade, ready to deploy wherever Petty would command. Her starfighter bays relied not on gadgetry but the steely judgment and quick instincts of the crew. Her fighter pilots too were of a different breed. Petty saw them racing to their stations, pausing only to stand at attention and salute as he walked by. The men had begun to wear thick, coiling mustaches, mimicking the old human pilots of the Golden Age of Aerial Battles. As Petty walked the halls of the Minotaur, he returned their salutes. Many of these pilots, he knew, would not survive.

  He reached the bridge as the fleet emerged from warp. They quickly arranged themselves in defensive position: the Minotaur in front, the Chimera and Cyclops behind her, and the Medusa guarding the cargo ships in the rear. A hundred Firebirds circled the formation in constant patrol.

  The ravagers will be on us soon, Petty thought. We don't have much time.

  He stared through the front viewport. He saw it ahead: The Starship Graveyard.

  A thousand human starships, once the pride of the fleet, hovered here in the darkness beyond Jupiter's orbit. Cut open. Dead. Fallen in the first great marauder assault.

  Dozens of warships. Three starfighter carriers. Hundreds of smaller vessels. Among them, the husks of thousands of dead ravagers. All had fallen that horrible day. That day Ben-Ari had tried to warn humanity about, ending up in a prison cell for her words.

  "The day the marauders arrived," Petty said softly. "A day that will live forever in infamy. Here are its echoes. Here, a thousand dead starships face us in accusation. They fell that day. But they might still save humanity." He turned toward his officers. "Are the salvage teams ready?"

  Osiris nodded, her platinum bob cut swaying. "Yes, sir. We've outfitted a hundred shuttles for the job, and they're all staffed by our best technicians. Firebirds will provide cover."

  Petty nodded. "Good. We need to move fast. We might only have a few hours before the enemy figures out we're here. Keep all communicator broadcasts at a minimum. I don't want to broadcast our presence. This might get violent—but we will succeed. We must." He turned back toward the viewport, gazing at the dead starships. "There are many warp-capable starships floating here, their crew members dead. They have azoth crystals inside them. We will retrieve them."

  "Yes, sir!" said Osiris. "Commencing salvage operation."

  From the bridge, they watched as a hundred shuttles emerged from the hangars of the Minotaur and her three companions, the Chimera, Cyclops, and Medusa. In the fleet, only those four ships—along with the three largest cargo vessels—carried azoth engines, capable of warp flight. The smaller ships, such as the shuttles and the Firebirds, had to fly within the larger ships' hangars.

  If Petty stood a chance of defeating the ravagers, of liberating Mars, he needed more azoth crystals.

  Here in these dead starships lay his hope. His secret plan. A plan his scientists and engineers thought was crazy, but which Petty knew would work.

  "The Ben-Ari Maneuver," he said softly.

  The young captain, it was said, had used the trick when escaping from prison. Petty himself had used the maneuver during his last battle—the only reason he still stood here today. Missiles, bullets, shells—the ravagers could take a lot of their punishment. But warped spacetime tore the alien vessels apart. If Petty could fit azoth engines onto Firebirds, could let the small vessels move close to the ravagers, then bend spacetime . . .

  He stood on the bridge, watching as the salvage shuttles flew toward the ruined warships, and hope began to rise in him.

  We can tear those bastards apart. He clenched his fist. We can still beat them. We can still win this war. We can—

  And from the shadows ahead, they emerged.

  Hundreds of dark, small ships, jagged and winged and spurting out sparks.

  Klaxons blared.

  "Ravagers!" shouted Major Hennessy, the bridge's security officer, a tall man with thinning blond hair.

  Petty ground his teeth.

  "No," he muttered, his chest aching. "Space scavengers. Harpies."

  Hennessy shuddered. "I thought we drove those bastards out of the galaxy years ago."

  "They're back," Petty said, then spoke into his comm. "Firebirds, engage them! Scatter those harpy ships."

  Harpies. Petty stared at them in disgust. Their vessels were shaped like vultures, forged from scrap metal and stolen tech. The harpies, a species of low intelligence but extreme cunning, were the scavengers of the galaxy. They had no homeworld that anyone knew of. Like with the marauders, their origin was a mystery. In the old days, the harpies would hover around space battles, waiting for the violence to end, then swoop in. Like vultures over carrion, they pecked at dead starships, stealing anything they could carry: bulkheads, computers, engines, fuel, even corpses to consume. If old battles on Earth attracted crows, battles in space attracted the harpies.

  The Minotaur's shuttles kept flying closer to the wreckage, tasked with retrieving the azoth crystals. As they drew closer, the harpies attacked.

  The scrap-metal ships opened their beaks, revealing an assortment of stolen weapons: cannons, railguns, plasma blasters, photon guns, laser guns, and more.

  All those weapons fired.

  Shells, plasma, lasers, bullets—they slammed into the human shuttles.

  The small craft—built for technical operations, not battle—tore apart.

  "Firebirds, damn it, engage them!" Petty said into his comm. "Squadrons seven though forty, join the assault!"

  Across space, the Firebirds stormed forth. The starfighters fired their arsenals. Heat-seeking missiles flew and slammed into harpy ships. Beaks, wings, and jagged hulls shattered and flew across space. But more and more of the scavengers kept emerging from the dead warships like flies from a rotting corpse. There were thousands, and the humans had disturbed their meal.

  Damn it! They didn't have time or resources for this. Any moment now, the ravagers might arrive. They needed those crystals—now. They needed to get to Mars and liberate the colonists before the marauders figured out their plan.

  "Photon gun turrets!" Petty said. "Aim at those harpies and fire at will!"

  Across the Minotaur, the guns fired. Blasts of photons flew and slammed into enemy vessels. Harpy ships collapsed. The battle raged, hundreds of Firebirds spinning, rising, swooping, firing their guns, thousands of harpy ships coiling between them. Flames and explosions and light filled space. Ships
spun out of control, slamming into dead warships, knocking vessels into one another. The husks of warships careened into the depths. One by one, the salvage shuttles vanished like fading stars.

  Petty stared from the bridge. He inhaled sharply. His fingers tingled.

  They're destroying our shuttles. His eyes burned. When we should be fighting marauders, it's goddamn harpies tearing us apart.

  "Damn it, keep those cannons firing!" he shouted.

  "The battle is too crowded, sir!" said Osiris. "We can't risk hitting our own Firebirds."

  Petty pointed. "Full speed ahead. Carve a path through the harpies. We need to let those salvage shuttles reach the dead ships."

  The android turned toward him, her lavender eyes widening. "Sir, to fly through the battle would—"

  "Do it," Petty said. "That's an order."

  "Aye aye, sir." Osiris returned to her control board. "Taking the Minotaur straight ahead, sir."

  The massive carrier, its hangars emptied of Firebirds, charged directly into the battle.

  Normally, carriers—warships the size of skyscrapers—blasted their cannons from afar, never engaging the enemy directly. Their Firebirds, tiny vessels in comparison, were those that fought in close quarters. Now the Minotaur plowed through the battle like a bull charging through a swarm of bees.

  Firebirds and harpy ships fled from their advance. A few were too slow. Harpy ships shattered against the Minotaur's prow like insects against a car's windshield. The carrier shook with every impact, its hull denting, but they kept moving forward—clearing a path toward those dead warships.

  "Side cannons, fire!" Petty ordered. "All Firebirds, clear our starboard and port!"

  Around the ship, Firebirds rose and fell. From the Minotaur's sides, cannons extended. Shells blasted out, ripping into the harpy ships.

  This is what the younger commanders never learn, Petty thought. You can fly a carrier into battle if you've got the balls for it. And none can match it in pure brutality.