EARTH LOST
EARTHRISE, BOOK 2
by
Daniel Arenson
Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
AFTERWORD
NOVELS BY DANIEL ARENSON
KEEP IN TOUCH
Illustration © Tom Edwards - TomEdwardsDesign.com
CHAPTER ONE
There's something in the darkness. There's something after me.
Kara walked down the streets of Corpus City as the sky bled. The sky was always bleeding here. The sky always reeked of death. Corpus, this desolate moon, orbited a gas giant that blocked the stars, that consumed the firmaments, that swirled, gurgled, belched. It was a painting all in red and dripping black and globs of yellow. It seemed to crush her. Whenever Kara gazed above between the iron towers, the refinery domes, and the pumping chimneys, she seemed to gaze upon the festering, ulcerous stomach lining of some beast that had consumed her.
"Mommy," her son whispered. "Mommy, I hear it. Behind us. In the shadows." The boy pointed. "I see it."
Kara looked to the alley. Shadows loomed between the pipes and sooty walls of the refineries—elongated, watching, twisting.
"Only the shadows, darling," Kara said. "Only your imagination."
But she felt it. She heard it too. A clattering. Clicking. Hissing of low breath. Only old banging pipes, she knew. Only steam from the bowels of the city, of the mines that delved deep into this world, the engines that forever rumbled there, the drills that always dug deeper.
Kara kept walking, holding her children's hands. To her right, her son, seven years old, brave and somber. To her left, her daughter, only three, barely old enough to keep up. And in her belly, her third child, still so small, a child that filled her with nausea, with guilt. How could Kara bring another child into this world, into Corpus, this wretched mining colony so many light-years from Earth? How could she bring life into a world where the sky bled, where shadows always loomed, where you never saw the stars or the sun?
Kara had not wanted to move here. She missed Earth. She could barely remember trees or waves or blue sky, but she missed them. Her husband had brought them here, a miner by trade. He was a hard man, a man burdened with memories of poverty, a man who believed that his greed served only his family, never himself. He believed that if only he dug deep enough, mined enough of the azoth—this precious material found here in the darkness—they could find enough wealth to return home. To retire on Earth. To be eternally happy. But Kara didn't care for wealth. She would live in a cave if only she could look outside and see the stars, breathe air that didn't stink of fumes, hold a husband who wasn't covered in grime and cinder.
And yet I came here with him, Kara thought, walking through the labyrinthine mining colony. I came here to keep our family together, but I'm falling apart.
"Mommy," said her daughter. "Mommy, it's getting closer."
"There is nothing there!" Kara said, speaking too loudly, too harshly.
The girl started to cry. But Kara dared not pause to comfort her. She kept walking, faster now, gripping her children's hands, pulling them deeper through the city. The lights flickered around her, then went dark. Streetlamps, windows, neon signs—all died. The world plunged into blackness. The gas giant above turned a deeper red, spilling its bloody glow across the colony. The city seemed to shrink, the crimson canopy to swallow it.
"Mommy," her son whimpered.
"Just another power outage," she said, walking onward. "Like last week."
It seemed like every week now, the power flickered and died across Corpus. Kara had mentioned to her husband the irony of it, that miners of azoth, the most precious energy source in the cosmos, should suffer so many blackouts. He had laughed and said that the cobbler's children were always last to get shoes. He would not laugh when she saw him next. She would demand they leave, fly home to Earth, forget about this moon, this rock, this hell where lights died, where the sky bled, where things scurried in shadows.
"Mommy, it's behind us!" Her daughter gripped her hand tighter. "Mommy, it's looking at me."
"There is no—" Kara began, turning around, and fell silent.
In the shadows on the road behind her. Two eyes. White. Watching her. Then vanishing into shadows.
A creature in the dark.
Kara shook her head wildly, banishing those stories, those tales the miners told their wives in the night.
Watching us. Following us. Studying us.
And in the shadows—a hissing. A patter. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Kara turned away. She walked stiffly, holding her children. They walked silently with her, and they quickened their steps, and behind them that tapping. Scraping. The sound of many feet scratching against stone, and a hiss, and Kara dared not look around, dared not run, dared not let the creature know she saw it.
It's stalking us.
No. Nonsense! No such thing. Legends. Ghost stories.
But Kara could smell it. God, the stink of it. This wasn't the stink of soot or ash or smoke. It was organic, rancid, worms after rain and dripping pus.
"I want to go home," her daughter whispered. "Please."
But where was home? Kara was lost here. She had been on this distant world for three years now, but still she didn't know the maze of alleys, and in the darkness she was lost. She walked faster. She sought a familiar path, a landmark, but the buildings were all jagged black blades, all the same, and she saw nobody. A city of twenty thousand souls, but they were only shadows in the distance, wrapped in cloaks, hiding indoors, waiting for the power, the heat, the light to come back. For their music. Their electronic distractions. The colors and sounds that held back the terror.
Kara began to run. The clattering was louder behind her, and she saw the eyes—above her, watching from a rooftop, vanishing again, and pattering closer. She couldn't breathe. She pounded at a door, begging whoever hid within the black house to let her in, but there was no answer. She ran onward, but she was in the neighborhood of the migrant workers, those who had come here with no families, and they were all underground now, digging for the azoth, digging too deep, awakening whatever lurked there.
She ran and it followed. It leaped from building to building. A strand of blackness in the crimson night. Claws digging into metal and stone, scraping, scuttling, its eyes white, gazing, hissing, dripping saliva, calling to her.
Come to me, Kara.
Come to me like you came to him.
Be with us.
Be us.
Give us.
Kara ran, tears in her eyes, pulling her children with her, and she knew that this dark god wanted them, wanted a sacrifice as the god of Earth had wanted Isaac upon the mountain. But she would not appease this older god, this deity of the mines. She would resist him. She would flee him. She pounded on another door, begging entrance, hearing no reply. She ran toward a man in the shadows, but he fled. All was darkness. All was the labyrinth, the twisting alleyways, pipes above her, dripping water, dripping blood, and the sky kept roil
ing, vast, drowning her, a sanguine maelstrom above her, and the creature laughed like rusty drills grinding through stone.
Grinding. Stone. Darkness.
They were all underground. Her husband. The men of this place. The few other women who had been foolish enough to come here. All in the deep darkness far from this sky, seeking the material, the dirt, the dust, the precious blue crystals with a thousand names, the treasure that had let humanity venture to the stars. Yet there were no stars here. They should never have come to this place, this hive of iron and reek and things that hunted in the night.
Underground.
Hissing.
Scraping.
Kara . . .
"Mommy!"
"Underground," she whispered.
She saw an archway ahead, leading to a tunnel, leading to the mines, leading to the miners, leading deep into this rocky planet under a blood-red giant. Kara ran, holding her children, and plunged into the darkness. She heard the shadow behind, the many legs pattering, the claws scraping across stone, the hissing growing louder, the stench growing stronger. Only a few scattered lights flickered in the tunnel, running on backup generators, blinking and buzzing like clouds of insects. Pipes coiled overhead, and tracks ran below. Kara ran with her children, and here too she found a labyrinth, narrower, darker, so cold. It was so cold underground.
"Hello!" she cried, and her voice echoed through the tunnels, bounced back toward her, mocking her, laughing, and a thousand hissing voices answered. They were everywhere. They were everywhere here.
Kara spun around, and she saw it. Moving closer in the tunnel. The creature. Elongated. Rising up like a cobra about to strike. Lined with claws. Speaking in her mind.
Kara. Kara . . . Give them to us . . . Praise us . . . Sacrifice them to our glory . . .
She turned and ran onward, seeking her husband. The tunnel branched, and she chose one path at random, then another, and the corridors all twisted, becoming so narrow she could barely move. She clung to her children's hands, and both were weeping as they ran with her. Lost. Lost in darkness. Trapped. These were no paths for miners. She had made a wrong turn. She had made a mistake. She should never have come here—to this mine, to this moon, to this nightmare, and tears burned down her cheeks. She cried out again, for help, for mercy, but her echo only mocked her with deep laughter, and Kara fell to her knees.
Her children clung to her.
Pipes, machines, and engines rose all around her. She had entered an engine room, a city underground, its towers coiling and rising toward stone, great stalagmites of metal, belching steam and sulfur, and cauldrons bubbled, casting out sickly golden light. Here was a towering, cluttered hall like the tomb of some ancient king in the bowels of a mountain. Her own tomb.
Through the shadows it advanced, claws—so many claws, rows and rows of them—reaching out, and Kara pushed herself backward, clutching her weeping children.
"Kara?"
A shadow and light approached.
Kara blinked, gasped, exhaled in relief.
"Tom!"
Her husband stepped toward her, frowning, light shining from a flashlight strapped to his helmet. Soot covered his wide face and rough hands. He hurried toward her, his light casting back the shadows.
Kara looked back to the creature.
It was gone.
She exhaled in relief.
"Just a dream," she mumbled. "Just my imagination."
Her husband stared at her, brow furrowed. "Kara, are you all right? What's wrong?"
As she rose to her feet, her son pulled free from her grip. The little boy ran toward his father.
"Daddy!" The boy leaped onto the miner. "There was a monster."
Tom smiled and held his son in his powerful arms. "Your dad's here now. Your dad banished the monster. Your—"
The claw tore through Tom's chest with a sickening crack.
Kara screamed.
The boy fell from his father's grip, and the claws reached out, grabbed the tiny child, and ripped him apart, pulled meat off the bones, cracked the chest open, dragged father and son into the darkness to devour them, and the engines burst into life as the power returned, clanging, ringing, belching fumes, churning metal and crushing stone.
"Daddy!" their daughter screamed, reaching out, and Kara grabbed the girl, muffled her cries in her palm, and ran.
They're dead. She wept. They're dead. They're dead. But my daughter is alive. The child in my belly is alive. I am alive. We must live. We must live.
As the creature fed, Kara pulled her daughter past pipes and behind an engine, and there she pressed herself against a wall, shivering, weeping, her son gone, such coldness in her, her son ripped away, torn apart, her husband gone, shattered, consumed. She could still hear it—ripping flesh, cracking bones, slurping. She could still smell it. She could still see it again and again before her. Her husband. Her son. Gone. Gone. Shattered. Taken from her. And this couldn't be real. This had to be a nightmare, just one of those nightmares where she was lost in a labyrinth, lost in her life, seeking a way out. Soon she would wake up in her bed, her sheets soaked with sweat, feeling so hot even though the room was so cold, desperate for air. Soon she would roll over, find her husband at her side, and her son would leap into their bed.
The claws scraped again.
She heard it approach. Dripping. Snorting. Licking. Clacking. Shadows danced.
"Ka . . . ra . . ."
She wasn't sure if it spoke in her mind, spoke at all, or if her imagination was playing tricks on her. She pressed herself against the wall, hiding behind the pipes and pumping engines. Still she heard its breath. Heard it sniff. Smell for her.
"Ka . . . ra . . ."
Getting closer. Closer. Dripping blood. And she could see its legs beneath the pipes, pair after pair of legs, moving in unison, a great centipede, an alien, a god, and she knew him. The one they called scolopendra titania. The one they called the scum. One of a swarm, those who had devastated the earth fifty years ago, those who lurked in shadows, who demanded the flesh of humanity to consume, who had taken her husband. Who had taken her son.
"Momm—" her daughter began, and the creature spun toward them, and Kara slammed her palm over her daughter's mouth, silencing the words, holding her close, nearly crushing her.
The creature moved closer. Sniffing. Leaning low. Feelers like wires stretched under pipes, touching, smelling. She could hear it. She could hear it in her mind.
Where are you, Kara? Where are you, my sweet meat?
She cowered. Her daughter wriggled, then writhed, screaming into Kara's palm, but Kara held the girl firmly, keeping her mouth shut, stifling her, smothering her, keeping her silent. Don't scream. Don't scream. Don't breathe. Don't make a sound. Don't cry. Don't whimper. Don't even breathe. Don't scream.
The creature began moving away, exploring another engine, and Kara shuddered, but still she held her daughter close, held her palm over the girl's mouth.
Be silent. Don't scream. Don't whimper. Don't make a sound.
It moved away, leaving a trail of her son's blood.
Her daughter kicked wildly, struggling to free herself.
Don't scream.
Don't make a sound.
Don't even breathe.
Slowly her daughter's kicks weakened. Slowly the girl ceased struggling, grew limp, and still Kara held her so closely, covering her mouth, keeping her silent.
The creature left.
The darkness breathed around them.
The power vanished again, and the light faded, and the engines stilled. Only a single flicker of light in the dark chasm—her husband's discarded flashlight, a single star in the night.
Kara laid her daughter down. Still. Silent. Sacrificed.
"Daughter?" she whispered. She shook her. The girl would not move, only stared, eyes wide, betrayed, gazing into darkness.
And Kara howled.
It was a howl that filled the chasm with her grief. A howl that echoed through the mine, th
at all could hear in the darkness, that would never end.
The creature spun around at once, raced toward her on its clawed legs, leaped forward. It reared ahead of her, twice her height, a massive black centipede, thirty-six legs tipped with claws, dripping venom. A god. It lashed down, so fast she barely saw it move. It grabbed her daughter, sucked the body into its gullet, gorging itself, its body shivering with delight.
Sacrificed.
Silenced.
Howl. Howl. Don't scream. Don't even breathe.
Kara cowered against the wall, ready to join them, to fill the belly of the beast as a child filled her own belly. She placed her hands on her stomach, felt the boy kicking inside her. Tears flowed down her cheeks.
The alien approached and leaned its head toward that swollen belly. Its feelers poked her like needles seeking amniotic fluid. Its mandibles opened and closed. It seemed to smell, to inhale deeply, its head larger than hers, tilted, eyeless, thinking. Always thinking.
It looked up at her.
Ka . . . ra . . . you . . . will . . . be . . . us . . .
It slithered around her, circling, coiling, wrapping around her like a python. Its claws did not stab her. It was gentle. It took her into its embrace, carrying her away from this place of reeking death, deeper into the labyrinth, deeper into its domain. It carried her into darkness. It carried her home.
CHAPTER TWO
Earth was a blue sphere behind them, barely larger than a marble, when the clunky rocket turned toward the slick, silvery starship ahead.
"Now that," Addy said, "is a starship." She nodded and thumped her boots against the floor. "Not like this bucket of bolts."
"Well, this isn't a starship at all," Marco said. "We're sitting in a Y67-class solar transport rocket, used for traveling within our solar system. It'll take you to the moon, even Mars, not much farther. A starship is a far more sophisticated vehicle, equipped with an azoth-powered warp engine, capable of traveling the vast interstellar distances between star systems." He pointed out the window at the other vessel. "Like that."
"Nerd," Addy said.
Earth Lost (Earthrise Book 2) Page 1