Earth Valor (Earthrise Book 6)

by Daniel Arenson

  Lailani, who was outside in her spacesuit, spoke through the speakers. "Are you seeing this, Captain? Lieutenant?"

  "We're seeing it all right," Ben-Ari said. "It's beautiful."

  Lailani's voice was awed. "The souls of the dead are rising."

  Ben-Ari smiled wryly. "I've been all over the galaxy, Sergeant, and I've never seen any evidence of an afterlife."

  "Until now." Lailani hovered outside in her spacesuit, wrench in hand. "They're returning home. To the surviving soulships. To their forests. To their trees of souls."

  They all watched in silence as the glowing strands floated from the dead.

  Souls? Ben-Ari had never believed in souls. To her, consciousness had always been an illusion, just a byproduct of the physical brain. And perhaps it was for humans. But who was she to understand these mysteries of the cosmos? There were more wonders in the galaxy than poets and artists had ever imagined on Earth.

  "There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy," she whispered. A quote Marco had once used. Words that returned to her time after time on her journey.

  This is why my father traveled, she realized.

  Her crystal came to life.

  Eldest spoke from it.

  "The council of the Old Ones is convening in our forest. Send forth your elder, Captain Einav Ben-Ari."

  If she bristled a bit at being called an elder—she was only twenty-eight!—she swallowed her pride.

  She returned into the large soulship, the one that had first swallowed the Marilyn. She walked through the forest, following a trail of lights, until she found a henge of stones engraved with runes. By every stone stood a yurei, these ancient beings with tattered gowns and flowing hair, with wooden masks hiding their ravaged faces. In their claws, they held their tools of divination: crystals and feathers and leaves and strings of beads.

  "Captain Einav Ben-Ari of Earth," said Eldest. "The council mourns the loss of many of our sisters. All the yurei grieve. For many eras, we lived in peace, remembering our home, living among the light of memories and souls. We have joined you on your quest, but we have suffered too much loss. The council has decided. The yurei will return to the Deep Sky, our home in the cosmos beyond. We have lost our war."

  Ben-Ari stared.

  Horror pulsed through her.

  "You won!" she blurted out. "You beat the enemy! You destroyed the ravagers! You can't go back now. We're only halfway to Earth!" She trembled. "We still need you! The cosmos needs you."

  The yurei all turned their masks toward her.

  Slowly, they removed those masks, revealing their scarred faces.

  "We fought for this cosmos long ago," Eldest said, speaking through the ruin of her mouth. "We suffered. We suffer still. We were wrong to come back. Wrong to think we could fight again." The yurei lowered her head. "Now so many have fallen."

  Ben-Ari nodded. She spoke softly. "I lost many too. I lost many of my soldiers. I lost many of my friends. I lost millions of my kind." She raised her chin, tears in her eyes. "I understand. If you go back to hiding, to living in memory, I understand. This cosmos is full of pain and loss. And why should you suffer the slings and arrows when you can build a wall around yourselves, when you can live eternally in the memories of your crystal trees?"

  The yurei looked at one another, then back at her.

  "You do not approve," Eldest said.

  Ben-Ari shrugged. "It's not for me to judge you. If I were in your place, maybe I'd do the same thing. So what if species are going extinct? So what if your old universe—the one you come from, that you fought for, suffered for, lost so many friends for—falls to the enemy? You have a safe space. You can live there forever. Hiding. Remembering the old days. Living in the past. Why not, if the future is so grim?"

  Anger filled the yurei's eyes.

  "We are not some cowards who would hide in a cave while the forest burns!" said one. "You cannot understand our kind. You cannot understand our wisdom."

  "Oh, very true," said Ben-Ari. "Many times on my own planet, we had civilizations like yours. That I could not understand. That were far too wise. That looked away while my people were being slaughtered and burned in ovens. That turned a blind eye to poverty and despair. That built walls and fences while their neighbors cried out in anguish, dying, desperate for aid."

  "We did not abandon the cosmos!" said Eldest. "We fought!"

  "And now you would retreat!" Ben-Ari said. "Tell me, yurei. Why did you test us with ethical dilemmas? Why did you force Marco to sacrifice his life to save two of his comrades? You told me it's to see if we're worthy of aid. If we're moral. If we're willing to sacrifice the few to save the many, even to sacrifice ourselves. Well, now you face the same test!" She panted, rage now pounding through her. "You stand where Marco stood. Above a pit of monsters, and the only way to save your friends is to jump in. My soldier passed that test. You failed." She turned her back to them. "I'm returning to my ship. To my war. Good day."

  She began walking away.

  A hand held her shoulder—a hand with three wide fingers, each tipped with a claw.

  Eldest's voice was soft. "Einav. Wait, child."

  Ben-Ari turned back toward the yurei. She waited. The aliens donned their masks again, and they huddled together in the henge, speaking in their language. The runes engraved in the stones glowed, and the trees rustled around them.

  Finally, when Ben-Ari's feet were sore and her bladder was full to bursting, Eldest turned back toward her.

  "The council has considered your words, and we cannot agree amongst ourselves," the yurei said. "Therefore, each sister shall take her own path. Some of us will return home. To our cosmos beyond the cosmos. To our memories. The others will continue with you."

  Ben-Ari took a shuddering breath. Relief flowed through her.

  "How many will come?" she said.

  "Three soulships will continue with you," said Eldest. "The largest ships that carry our forests. With them will fly three thousand seedships, the small fighters we fly in battle. The rest return home."

  Ben-Ari gasped. "That's it? But . . . there are tens of thousands of ships here! Even after the battle, there are—"

  "The rest will return home," Eldest repeated. "They will try to forget."

  Dejected, Ben-Ari returned to the Marilyn.

  The fleet flew on.

  From a hundred thousand, they were down to a handful.

  Three large soulships, forests inside them.

  Three thousand smaller disks, the single-pilot starfighters of the yurei.

  And one dented, limping human starship, four souls trapped inside her—four who had agreed to be three. Four grieving. Four scared. Four lost in darkness, hope only a flicker ahead.

  The darkness stretched out before them, and they headed to Earth.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The signal came from Earth.

  A human signal.

  A message from home.

  General Petty stood in the Minotaur's war room, a chamber deep inside the ship. If the bridge was the central hub of command, managing all aspects of the ship, the war room was a place for deep thinking, for strategizing, for scrutinizing. The ship was floating in the asteroid belt, hidden from the marauders, waiting in the darkness far from home.

  Perhaps, Petty dared to hope, the message was an invitation to come back.

  The message repeated over the communicator. Petty and his officers frowned.

  "We've unscrambled it," said his communication officer. "That's all we've got."

  Petty scratched his chin. "What language is that?"

  "We're not sure, sir," said the officer. "It's not in any of our translation services. It sounds like an obscure language, probably chosen in case the marauders grabbed translation software from Earth."

  Petty turned toward Osiris. The android stood at his side, the only one not frowning, a smile on her synthetic face.

  "Do you recognize this language, Osiris?"

&
nbsp; The android's smile widened. "No, sir! I am programmed with over two hundred languages, sir, including rare tongues such as Aramaic and Gaelic, but this one doesn't exist in my memory banks. Would you perhaps like me to recite some Mongolian poetry, sir?"

  He groaned. "No. But I want you to interface with our PA system, and to broadcast snippets of this recording—just the first sentence—across the ship. On my cue."

  She nodded. "Happy to comply!"

  Petty grabbed a communicator and broadcast his voice through every speaker on the Minotaur.

  "This is Brigadier-General James Petty speaking. We are seeking a translator. If anyone can translate this following message, please report at once to your commanding officer."

  He nodded at Osiris, and the android streamed the first sentence of the message into the speakers.

  They waited in the war room. There were over five thousand officers and enlisted soldiers aboard, a diverse crew from across Earth. Petty just hoped somebody spoke that language.

  He didn't have to wait long.

  Within only moments, the door opened, and an officer escorted a young private into the war room. The lad gulped, looked around with wide eyes, and seemed ready to faint at the sight of so many senior officers. The boy—he couldn't have been older than eighteen—managed a trembling salute.

  "Uhm, Private Doyle, Computer Programming and Engineering, reporting for duty, sirs," he squeaked. Sweat beaded on his brow, and his legs shook.

  Petty struggled to stifle a smile. He remembered himself at that age, a green cadet; he had trembled the first time he reported to a Master Sergeant, and a war room full of generals would have probably made him faint.

  "Are you cold, Private?" he asked, trying to hide his amusement.

  Doyle nodded. "Yes, sir! I mean, no, sir. I'm very comfortable aboard the Minotaur, sir. Very honored to serve here."

  "You seem nervous," Osiris said, peeking over Petty's shoulder. "Would you like to hear a joke to ease the tension?"

  Petty groaned inwardly. "Not now, Osiris." He turned back toward Doyle. "Did you understand the message we broadcast on the speakers?"

  "Yes, sir!" Doyle said. "My grandfather insisted on teaching me, sir. Said it's our duty to keep a dying language alive. I can speak Cree fluently, sir. Well, almost fluently."

  "Cree," Petty said. "So that's the language."

  Doyle nodded. "Yes, sir! I'm a quarter Cree myself. A quarter Russian, and the rest is English, sir. Well, there's also some Scottish in there too. My family immigrated to America back in the nineteenth century, though, so it's been a while. Well, not the Cree part of the family, obviously, but—"

  Petty cleared his throat. "Can you translate this message for us, Private?"

  "Yes, sir! Well, I think so, sir." He was trembling again. "There are many Cree dialects. But I can try, sir. If, uhm, I have security clearance, sir?"

  "You just got it," Petty said. "Of course, after this meeting, we'll have to wipe your memories clear."

  Private Doyle wobbled. He looked ready to pass out. He gulped and managed to squeak, "Of course, sir, but if you could just leave me some memories—maybe the good ones, like of my grandfather, and that time Betty Adams and I—"

  Petty sighed. "Sit down, Private. And start translating."

  The private seemed thankful for the seat. For a long time, he worked, listening, frowning, rewinding and scribbling on a piece of paper. It was a different dialect than his, but slowly the message came together.

  "Here, sir." Doyle handed him the paper. "It's the best I could do, sir." He loosened his collar. "Now, sir, if you could just be gentle with that memory wiping machine . . ."

  Petty sighed inwardly. "We already used it, Private. Did you forget?"

  Doyle's jaw unhinged. He nodded vigorously, saluted, and stumbled out of the room.

  Petty read the message again. He read it aloud for the group. With every word, his heart beat faster, and his fingers tingled.

  To any human ships who hear!

  This is a message from the Human Resistance of Earth. Throughout fall, spring, and winter, we have been fighting the enemy. We fight him in the hills. We fight him on the beaches. We fight him in the ruins of our cities. We have suffered many casualties, but we fight him still.

  After a year of war, the time has come to strike the snake's head! On the Ninth of May, known across much of our globe as Victory Day, we will launch our largest offensive yet. We will assault the city of Toronto, once fair, now overrun by the enemy. Within those ruins he lurks, he who calls himself Lord Malphas, commander of the marauders. We will fight until he is captured or slain!

  On the Ninth of May, the ending begins. The enemy is strong, determined, and will fight well. But we will not be cowed. We will fight until the end. Until total victory. Until Earth is free again.

  If you receive this message, join our fight! Return to Earth. Join us in our assault on the enemy's stronghold in the ruins of Toronto. Together we are strong. Together we will be victorious.

  For humanity and for Earth!

  With pride,

  Addy Linden

  The Resistance

  In the war room, there was a long silence.

  "Addy Linden," Petty repeated.

  "A figurehead," said one of his officers. "Probably just a myth."

  Petty shook his head. "No." His voice was soft. "It's really her. The same Addy from the Scum War. One of Ben-Ari's soldiers." He looked out the porthole. "And where are you, Ben-Ari?"

  Another officer cleared his throat. "May Ninth is only a few days away, sir. We can't possibly attack Earth alone, not without Ben-Ari and her Ghost Fleet—if such a fleet even exists. There are thousands of ravagers orbiting our homeworld."

  Petty gazed outside into the darkness. For a long moment, he was silent. Then he turned back toward his officers.

  "No, we can't wait for Ben-Ari," he said. "Not any longer."

  His officers all stared at him. He knew that they would follow him on whatever path he chose.

  He reached into his pocket and touched his daughter's dog tags.

  "Years ago, Earth faced the scum menace," Petty said. "Earth stood alone. Yet we emerged the victors. Once more, Earth stands alone. Once more, it seems, no help will come to us from elsewhere. It is up to us. And Earth will fight! The Minotaur is the last ship in a once-mighty fleet. And she will give a mighty, final roar! May Ninth. On that day, we make our final stand. On that day, we liberate Earth or die in her sky. For Earth."

  "For Earth!" they repeated.

  Only a few days. A few days to complete repairs on the ship. To prepare the soldiers. To draw up battle plans.

  To finally, after so long in exile, go home.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  "All right, boys, ante up." Addy took a puff on her cigar. "Five-card stud and suicide kings are wild."

  "Get yer stinkin' feet off the poker table." Pinky shoved her boots. "You're crushing the cigs!"

  Addy blew smoke in his face. "You're just jealous cuz I have feet, Bladerunner."

  Pinky scowled. "I'm the one who has to smell your stinkin' kickers." He placed a cigarette on the table. "Ante up. I'm in. And no cheating this time, Bigfoot."

  Sitting across from them, Steve stared morosely at his stash—he had lost most of his cigarettes, candy bars, and other valuables in the previous rounds.

  "Come on, lover boy," Addy said to him. "I ain't sleeping with no chicken. Show us you got a pair and ante up!"

  Steve groaned. "I hate playing poker with you." He added a candy bar to the pile. "Fine! I'm in."

  Addy slapped down a bar of soap—her own ante—and shuffled the cards. They sat in a tent fifty kilometers south of Toronto, close enough to smell the stink of the city when the wind was right. Tomorrow was May Ninth. Tomorrow the assault on the city—her home—began.

  Tonight she wanted to forget.

  She took a swig of beer and dealt the cards.

  "All right, boys." She puffed on her cigar. "No cheating, an
d if you bluff, I'll kick you in the balls."

  Pinky glared at the pot. "You put down a bar of soap. A bar of soap ain't a proper ante."

  "It is when you stink like you do, pipsqueak." Addy blew more smoke at him.

  She was winning the game. A pile of cigarettes, candies, soap, razorblades, toilet paper rolls, buttons, and other valuables piled up at her end of the table. She had even won the cigar she was smoking. She took a swig of beer.

  Let me drink and smoke and fuck and live and laugh tonight, she thought. Tomorrow we all might die. Like Jethro died. Like Caveman. Like Elvis. Like—

  "Come on, your bet!" she growled at Pinky. She wanted to get this game going. She didn't want to think. To remember. To fear tomorrow.

  Pinky nodded. "All right, I'm down for another cigarette." He added it to the pile.

  Steve stared at his cards, his face glum. "God damn," he muttered.

  "Stevie-boy, you in or out?" Addy said.

  Steve winced. "I guess . . . in." He pulled off his wristwatch and added it to the pile. "Cheap knockoff."

  Addy's eyes widened. "Dude, that's a Rolex. That's gold."

  Steve harrumphed. "I wish! My dad bought it in Thailand for a couple bucks. Doesn't even work. Well, it works twice a day."

  Addy stared at her cards. She had a pair of queens and a suicide king. A good three of a kind. Even if Steve was bluffing, it should be enough to beat his ass.

  "Fuck it, I'm putting down these Cubans." She added an entire box of cigars to the table.

  Pinky slammed his cards face-down. "Too rich for my blood."

  Addy clucked like a chicken, ignoring Pinky's withering glare.

  They swapped no more cards and made no more bets. Addy blew smoke at Steve.

  "All right, lover boy, what have you got?"