Earth Valor (Earthrise Book 6)

by Daniel Arenson

  He sat with slumped shoulders and heaved a sigh. "Nothing much." He placed down his cards. "Just a straight flush." He leaped up, suddenly grinning, and did a little dance. "Read 'em and weep!"

  Addy leaped up too. She roared and lunged forward, knocking over the table, and slammed into Steve.

  "You son of a bitch!" She punched him. "I said no bluffing!"

  "You said no cheating." Steve laughed, trying to hold back her kicks. "Ow, ow! Stop biting me!"

  "My Cubans!" she said. "My precious Cubans! You stole them! I only got to smoke one . . ." She sighed and lifted the cigar, which had fallen into the mud. "You really are a stinker, Steve. Way worse than Pinky."

  Pinky pulled the table back up. "All right, all right, come on! Another round. My deal. We're playing Texas Hold 'Em. That's real poker."

  They sat down for another round. It was late, but nobody wanted to sleep. Nobody wanted to face the nightmares.

  "I'm winning back my Cubans," Addy said.

  Steve snorted. "You wish! I'll be smoking them in your face all month."

  "If we live that long!" Addy said. "Tomorrow we'll probably all be dead." She bit her lip. "Sorry. I shouldn't have said that. That was fucked."

  They were all silent for a long moment, staring at the table.

  "You're right," Pinky finally said, voice low. "Tomorrow might be the end. Tomorrow we're hitting the marauders' greatest base on Earth. We won't all make it out."

  "We might," Steve said, but he didn't sound optimistic.

  They were all silent again.

  Addy lowered her head. She didn't think she could bear losing Steve. Losing anyone else. She had already lost almost everyone—her parents, nearly all her friends. She reached under the table and clasped his hand.

  I can't lose you too, Steve.

  "If you could be anywhere in the world tonight," Pinky said, "where would you be? For your last night on Earth."

  Addy raised her eyebrow. "You mean, playing poker with you isn't the best night in the world? I'm shocked."

  "Very funny, Canada," he said.

  Addy chewed her lip. "I suppose I'd be at a Leafs game. Of course. And I'd have a nice cold beer, not this warm stuff. And three hot dogs topped with jalapenos and cheese and spicy mustard. And the Leafs would win the Stanley Cup. And Marco would be there." Suddenly her eyes were damp. "And Kemi too. And Lailani. And Ben-Ari, though she'd probably hate it. And I'd even let this big dumb galoot Steve come with us." She wiped her eyes. "Fuck, that would be a good last night." She turned to Steve. "What would be your best last night? And you better give the same answer!"

  Steve leaned back in his seat. "Well, I'd be in Hawaii, hanging out on the beach outside the bar I own. And a bunch of bikini babes would be feeding me grapes, while—"

  Addy punched him. "I'm going to feed you my fist!"

  "Ow, ow!" He cringed. "Fine! Just one bikini babe. You."

  "Better." She nodded. "But you better be wearing a Speedo. A tiny one."

  "Babe, a tiny one won't fit," Steve said.

  Addy scoffed. She turned to Pinky. "What about you, pipsqueak? What would your perfect last night look like?"

  "You mean smelling your stinky feet isn't the best night in the world?" Pinky said, then ducked as she threw an empty beer can at him. "Well, I'd spend my last night with my wife and kids."

  Addy's jaw unhinged. She stared at Pinky and rubbed her eyes.

  "You're kidding me." She frowned. "You have a wife and kids? You? Human ones or some pillows you drew faces on?"

  He rolled his eyes. "Very funny, Canada." He pulled out his wallet, flipped it open, and showed them a photograph.

  Addy couldn't believe it. In the photo, Pinky—the same damn Pinky who had made their lives hell at boot camp—had his arms wrapped around a woman and two children, a little boy and girl.

  "Fucking hell," she said. "You look . . . normal. You're smiling, for God's sake. It's a smile that could break mirrors, but it looks honest."

  He put his wallet back into his pocket. "Yeah, they make me smile. Tamed me a bit." He barked a laugh. "An army of shrinks and doctors and juvy counselors couldn't do that. Took the love of a good woman and a couple of little kiddos." He sighed. "Wish I were with them now. I miss them. I love them. That's why I'm here, you know. Fighting. For them, to bring the world back for them."

  And suddenly, Pinky—the Pinky who had raised hell at Fort Djemila, who had been their worst nightmare for weeks in the desert—was crying.

  "Pinky, man!" Addy moved her seat closer to him. "Dude, here." She handed him a tissue.

  Pinky looked away. "Fuck. I didn't want you to see me like this." He growled at her. "Not a word to the poet."

  "Not a word." Addy patted his shoulder. "It's all right, little dude. I cry almost every night. Steve does too."

  "Only because you keep kicking me in the shin in your sleep!" Steve said.

  She kicked him again. "I'll show you kicks! Admit it. You cry because you're scared too. Because you're hurt. We're all terrified. We're all homesick. We're all fucked up and miserable here." And now her own eyes were damp. "This war. This place. This whole fucking situation. It was never meant to be like this. We were supposed to beat the scum and live happily ever after. But . . . maybe life's like that. You leap from the frying pan to the fire. But you gotta keep jumping, all right? You got to keep fighting. You got to keep living."

  "I intend to keep living for as long as I can," Steve said. "I plan to grow old with you, babe."

  Pinky nodded. "I plan to grow old with my family. Fuck those marauders. I ain't dying tomorrow. I'm going to live to see my kids grow up. To walk my daughter down the aisle when she gets married. To play with my grandkids." He wiped his eyes. "We're all going to make it tomorrow."

  Addy grabbed the box of Cubans from Steve. "Cigars for everyone, boys!" She passed them around.

  "Hey, those are mine!" Steve said, then winced when she kicked him.

  They lit their cigars, filling the tent with smoke. Pinky dealt the cards. They played on through the night, waiting for a red dawn.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Captain Julian Bryan stared into the mirror, terrified of the man he saw.

  "I'm not him," he whispered. "I will be better than him."

  Across the world, they knew his grandfather's face. Evan Bryan—the great hero of humanity. The pilot who, fifty-eight years ago, had nuked the scum's homeworld, killing millions of centipedes and ending the Cataclysm. For decades, that roguish face had adorned cereal boxes, winked from posters, growled while blasting aliens in video games, and inspired generations of soldiers.

  Then, only eight years ago, it all changed.

  Then that face became hated.

  Then that face became shameful.

  Now, as Julian stared at his reflection, he saw the same face. His grandfather's face.

  He tightened his fists. That young face, perhaps handsome by any other name, twisted into a snarl.

  "I am not him. I am not a warmonger. I am not a murderer."

  He turned away from the mirror, jaw clenched. That damn, square jaw, a jaw that another man would be proud of, that only reminded Julian of his grandfather.

  His grandfather who had ignored the scum's overtures of peace.

  Who antagonized the enemy for decades.

  Who extended the war for fifty years longer than it should have lasted.

  Who caused the death of millions.

  Who Marco Emery and his friends had finally killed.

  "I am not him," Julian said again. "I will fight my war differently."

  One of his three bunkmates moaned and stirred on his cot. "Just fight it quietly." He tossed a pillow. "We're trying to sleep here."

  Julian left his bunk, leaving his fellow pilots to sleep. There wasn't much room here aboard the Minotaur. Even Firebird pilots shared bunks. At least Julian only shared his quarters with three others; the poor marines, and there were thousands aboard this ship, had to share rooms with their entire plat
oons.

  The corridors were crowded, even this late at night. There was never true night aboard the Minotaur. At any given hour, a hundred pilots were on high alert, hundreds of marines wore battle armor and were ready to deploy, and an army of specialists were bustling across the starfighter carrier, keeping the massive starship flying and battle-ready. The size of a skyscraper, the Minotaur was home to six thousand officers and enlisted soldiers who served aboard her, not to mention a host of androids and robots big and small.

  The last starship, Julian thought as he wormed his way through the crowd, moving down the cluttered corridors. The last hope of humankind.

  It was hard to believe that Earth had once commanded a hundred thousand vessels. Now this was all that remained.

  Julian smiled grimly.

  Then again, Grandpa defeated the scum with a single Firebird.

  He finally reached the officer's lounge, a small chamber above the engine room, functioning as a bar, rec room, boardroom, and library. The floor vibrated as the engines hummed below, and pipes and cables ran along the walls. Several faux-leather couches filled the room, arranged around low tables. As Julian entered the room, two heads rose from behind a couch: a young man and woman, privates by the looks of them, gunners by their tattoos, both very naked. The couple grabbed their clothes and made a beeline to the door.

  "Sorry, sir, sorry, sir," they mumbled as they hurried by.

  Julian stifled a smile. He didn't mind the enlisted using the officer's lounge; it was the only semi-private place on the ship. And they were all scared for tomorrow.

  Tomorrow was May Ninth.

  Tomorrow they flew to their final stand.

  Tomorrow, it was likely that they would all die.

  Julian went to the bar to grab a drink, reached for a bottle, and his hand froze.

  Somebody had pinned a photograph of Evan Bryan to the bar. That same old famous photo, smiling at the camera. The most famous photograph in the world, showing twenty-one year old Lieutenant Evan Bryan returning from nuking Abaddon.

  On the photo, somebody had scribbled with a marker: Clear his name! Bryan was a hero! Earth Power!

  Beneath the words, they had drawn a swastika.

  Julian's fists trembled. He grabbed the photograph and ripped it apart.

  "If I find who did this, I will kill them," he swore. "I will kill them myself. I will strangle them dead. I—"

  A voice spoke behind him, deep and raspy.

  "I hope you're talking about the marauders, Captain."

  Julian turned around.

  His heart burst into a gallop.

  James Petty himself, commander of the Minotaur, entered the lounge.

  Muted with shock, Julian stood at attention and saluted. Even after a year aboard the Minotaur, he had rarely seen the general. Petty mostly kept to his quarters and the bridge, rarely mingling with his soldiers.

  "Sir!" Julian finally managed to say, chin raised, heels pressed together. "Looking forward to killing marauders, sir!"

  Petty returned the salute, the hint of a smile on his lips, and approached the bar.

  "Care for a drink, Captain?" he said, reaching for a bottle. "What's your poison?"

  Julian blinked. To share a drink—with a general?

  "Uhm . . . rye, sir," he managed.

  Petty nodded. "Excellent. How about Gold Creek?"

  "Yes, sir!"

  Petty turned toward him. He gave the slightest roll of his eyes. "I'm asking what drink you'd like, Captain. You don't have to agree with my first offer."

  Julian allowed himself a small, relieved smile. "I've always been more of a Moose Jaw man, sir."

  "Very good. Strong, solid rye." He poured two glasses—one of Gold Creek for himself, another of Moose Jaw for Julian. "Cheers."

  They clinked their glasses. They drank. The rye was strong and rich with hints of oak.

  For a moment, they sat in silence. A monitor showed a rerun of a soccer game. A rerun from last year. From before the world had fallen. They watched the game in silence. Santos scored a goal.

  Finally Julian managed to find his voice again. "Sir, I'm sorry for my outburst earlier. It was unbecoming of a pilot. I found . . . a disturbing message. About my grandfather." Maybe it was the drink that was bringing those words to his lips. "A moment of weakness. I would never harm another soldier, only the enemy."

  Petty took another sip of his drink. He made a small noise of satisfaction and placed his cup down. "Captain, did you know my daughter?"

  "I know of her, sir," he said. "Captain Coleen Petty was a company commander in the Erebus Brigade. Very brave. A soldier who fought honorably at Corpus, who gave her life for the Human Defense Force."

  Petty nodded. "Yes. And she was a huge pain in the ass."

  Julian couldn't help but gasp. "Sir?"

  "Oh, I loved her. I loved my Coleen with all my heart. I still do. I would give my own life ten thousand times to bring her back. I miss her every day. But she was headstrong. Rude. Arrogant. And yes, a huge pain in the ass." He gave a small laugh. "She had a good heart, but Lord above, she was prickly on the outside." He looked at Julian. "We don't have to be like our family, Captain. We're our own men."

  Julian took another sip. "Some men cast long shadows, sir."

  "So we shine a light," said Petty. "We cast the shadow back."

  Julian stared into his cup. He looked at his commander. "Sir, do you really think we can do it? Defeat the enemy? Win this war? Or should we have gone with the other ships into exile?" He winced. "I'm sorry, sir. It doesn't behoove me to question orders. Forgive me, sir."

  Petty placed a hand on his shoulder. The general's hair was graying, his face lined, and dark sacks hung under his eyes, but those eyes were iron.

  "There is hope, son. There is always hope for us. For our war, our lives, and our legacy."

  Julian nodded. "Thank you, sir. I vow to you: I will fly well tomorrow."

  "You always do, Captain. Now go get some sleep. Dawn comes early on the Minotaur. And with it comes war."

  "Yes, sir!"

  He saluted and left the lounge. As he passed by the trash bin, Julian stopped, was about to toss in the crumpled photo of his grandfather. Instead, he carefully ripped off the bottom half, where the words were scrawled. He folded the upper half, showing his grandfather's eyes, and placed it into his pocket. He would not forget where he had come from, the shadow that loomed over him. He would shine his own light.

  * * * * *

  Petty remained in the lounge, sitting at the bar, staring at his drink.

  "Hope," he muttered. "Yes, I gave the boy hope, maybe."

  He took a sip.

  But did I lie to him?

  Tomorrow, they would reach Earth.

  Tomorrow, the final battle for their homeworld would begin.

  How many of my young pilots am I sending to death? Petty thought. Did I make the wrong choice? Should I have taken Julian and five thousand other young soldiers into exile, to begin a new life on a new world? Am I leading them into fire for a planet that is already lost?

  He thought again of the message from Addy. The hope of the Resistance. Yet how could they hope to defeat the marauders, this enemy that had torn through their fleet, that had conquered star after star?

  Hope. Yes, Petty still had hope. In the courage of his warriors. In Ben-Ari returning to him. In humanity. Yet what was hope but a fool's drink, offering courage where prudence failed?

  He shoved his drink aside.

  He rose to his feet.

  He stood, watching the monitor. The old football game. Families in their seats, waving flags, cheering, laughing. The sun shining. A mascot dancing. Earth. Life. Joy.

  All those things lost.

  All those things he fought to reclaim.

  "I can still turn away," he said softly. "I can still join the other ships in exile. I can save their lives. Save Julian and the others."

  He turned toward another monitor, a small screen showing the view outside. He c
ould just see it in the distance—the pale blue dot. Earth. A world wrapped in darkness. A world where Addy and her Resistance were still fighting, still dying.

  Petty thought of the great heroes of his family, those who had fought the scum, fought even older monsters on Earth. He thought of brave men and women who had marched into the fires of war.

  He spoke softly to the empty room. "True heroes are given a choice. They have a path to safety yet choose the path of thorns. We must keep going." He closed his fist around his daughter's dog tags. "We must fight. We must win. We will not abandon Earth. Even if we die. Even if I watch them all die and their blood is on my hands. They are all my children too, Coleen. Julian and all the others. And I will lose some of them too, maybe all of them." His voice shook. "But I will keep going."

  The Minotaur glided on in the darkness, approaching home.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  They pushed north through the rain, their cannons heralding their coming.

  They marched along the Appalachian Trail and the coast. They flowed across the northwestern plains. Their ships traveled down the Saint Lawrence River. From across the continent, the divisions of the Resistance moved toward Toronto. Toward Lord Malphas. Toward defeat or victory.

  The generals of the Resistance—officers from what remained of the Human Defense Force—wanted Addy to travel in armored vehicles, hidden among the troops, protected. She was the face of the Resistance, after all, too precious to lose. She was the heroine who had saved Earth from the scum, who had escaped from marauder captivity, who had raised North America in rebellion. Addy wondered if her looks—she was still young, tall, and not the ugliest soldier in the army—added to her appeal.

  But she had refused the generals. She couldn't stand traveling hidden in an armored truck, even with the constant marauder attacks. She rode at the head of the army on her motorcycle, the wind ruffling her short blond hair, her rifle slung across her back. Patches of body armor covered her, and she bore her ivory sword at her side. She rode onward, a Joan of Arc of grease and diesel and gunpowder. Thus she would return home. Not in hiding but riding at the vanguard, proud and free, the wind in her hair.